Chapter 1 
The 
Other 
Minister 



It 
was 
nearing 
midnight 
and 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
was 
sitting 
alone 
in 
his 
office, 
reading 
a 
long 
memo 
that 
was 
slipping 
through 
his 
brain 
without 
leaving 
the 
slightest 
trace 
of 
meaning 
behind. 
He 
was 
waiting 
for 
a 
call 
from 
the 
President 
of 
a 
far 
distant 
country, 
and 
between 
wondering 
when 
the 
wretched 
man 
would 
telephone, 
and 
trying 
to 
suppress 
unpleasant 
memories 
of 
what 
had 
been 
a 
very 
long, 
tiring, 
and 
difficult 
week, 
there 
was 
not 
much 
space 
in 
his 
head 
for 
anything 
else. 
The 
more 
he 
attempted 
to 
focus 
on 
the 
print 
on 
the 
page 
before 
him, 
the 
more 
clearly 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
could 
see 
the 
gloating 
face 
of 
one 
of 
his 
political 
opponents. 
This 
particular 
opponent 
had 
appeared 
on 
the 
news 
that 
very 
day, 
not 
only 
to 
enumerate 
all 
the 
terrible 
things 
that 
had 
happened 
in 
the 
last 
week 
(as 
though 
anyone 
needed 
reminding) 
but 
also 
to 
explain 
why 
each 
and 
every 
one 
of 
them 
was 
the 
government's fault. 


The 
Prime 
Minister's 
pulse 
quickened 
at 
the 
very 
thought 
of 
these 
accusations, 
for 
they 
were 
neither 
fair 
nor 
true. 
How 
on 
earth 
was 
his 
government 
supposed 
to 
have 
stopped 
that 
bridge 
collapsing? 
It 
was 
outrageous 
for 
anybody 
to 
suggest 
that 
they 
were 
not 
spending 
enough 
on 
bridges. 
The 
bridge 
was 
fewer 
than 
ten 
years 
old, 
and 
the 
best 
experts 
were 
at 
a 
loss 
to 
explain 
why 
it 
had 
snapped 
cleanly 
in 
two, 
sending 
a 
dozen 
cars 
into 
the 
watery 
depths 
of 
the 
river 
below. 
And 
how 
dare 
anyone 
suggest 
that 
it was lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very nasty and wellpublicized 
murders? Or that 
the 
government 
should 
have 
somehow 
foreseen 
the 
freak 
hurricane 
in 
the 
West 
Country 
that 
had 
caused 
so 
much 
damage 
to 
both 
people 
and 
property? 
And 
was 
it 
his 
fault 
that 
one 
of 
his 
Junior 
Ministers, 
Herbert 
Chorley, 
had 
chosen 
this 
week 
to 
act 
so 
peculiarly 
that 
he 
was 
now 
going 
to 
be 
spending a lot more time with his family? 


"A 
grim 
mood 
has 
gripped 
the 
country," 
the 
opponent 
had 
concluded, 
barely 
concealing 
his 
own 
broad 
grin. 


And 
unfortunately, 
this 
was 
perfectly 
true. 
The 
Prime 
Minister 
felt 
it 
himself; 
people 
really 
did 
seem 
more 
miserable 
than 
usual. 
Even 
the 
weather 
was 
dismal; 
all 
this 
chilly 
mist 
in 
the 
middle 
of 
July... 
It 
wasn't right, it wasn't normal... 


He 
turned 
over 
the 
second 
page 
of 
the 
memo, 
saw 
how 
much 
longer 
it 
went 
on, 
and 
gave 
it 
up 
as 
a 
bad 
job. 
Stretching 
his 
arms 
above 
his 
head 
he 
looked 
around 
his 
office 
mournfully. 
It 
was 
a 
handsome 
room, 
with 
a 
fine 
marble 
fireplace 
facing 
the 
long 
sash 
windows, 
firmly 
closed 
against 
the 
unseasonable 
chill. 
With 
a 
slight 
shiver, 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
got 
up 
and 
moved 
over 
to 
the 
window, 
looking 
out 
at 
the 
thin 
mist 
that 
was 
pressing 
itself 
against 
the 
glass. 
It 
was 
then, 
as 
he 
stood 
with 
his 
back to the room, that he heard a soft cough behind him. 


He 
froze, 
nose 
to 
nose 
with 
his 
own 
scaredlooking 
reflection 
in 
the 
dark 
glass. 
He 
knew 
that 
cough. 
He had heard it before. He turned very slowly to face the empty room. : 
¦ 


"Hello?" he said, trying to sound braver than he felt. 


For 
a 
brief 
moment 
he 
allowed 
himself 
the 
impossible 
hope 
that 
nobody 
would 
answer 
him. 
However, 
a 
voice 
responded 
at 
once, 
a 
crisp, 
decisive 
voice 
that 
sounded 
as 
though 
it 
were 
reading 
a 
prepared 
statement. 
It 
was 
coming 
as 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
had 
known 
at 
the 
first 
cough 
from 
the 
froglike 
little 
man 
wearing 
a 
long 
silver 
wig 
who 
was 
depicted 
in 
a 
small, 
dirty 
oil 
painting 
in 
the 
far 
corner 
of 



the room. 


"To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond immediately. Sincerely, Fudge." 


The man in the painting looked inquiringly at the Prime Minister. 


"Er," 
said 
the 
Prime 
Minister, 
"listen... 
Its 
not 
a 
very 
good 
time 
for 
me... 
I'm 
waiting 
for 
a 
telephone 
call, you see... from the President of" 


"That 
can 
be 
rearranged," 
said 
the 
portrait 
at 
once. 
The 
Prime 
Minister's 
heart 
sank. 
He 
had 
been 
afraid 
of that. 


"But I really was rather hoping to speak" 


"We 
shall 
arrange 
for 
the 
President 
to 
forget 
to 
call. 
He 
will 
telephone 
tomorrow 
night 
instead," 
said 
the little man. "Kindly respond immediately to Mr. Fudge." 


"I... oh ... very well," said the Prime Minister weakly. "Yes, I'll see Fudge." 


He 
hurried 
back 
to 
his 
desk, 
straightening 
his 
tie 
as 
he 
went. 
He 
had 
barely 
resumed 
his 
seat, 
and 
arranged 
his 
face 
into 
what 
he 
hoped 
was 
a 
relaxed 
and 
unfazed 
expression, 
when 
bright 
green 
flames 
burst 
into 
life 
in 
the 
empty 
grate 
beneath 
his 
marble 
mantelpiece. 
He 
watched, 
trying 
not 
to 
betray 
a 
flicker 
of 
surprise 
or 
alarm, 
as 
a 
portly 
man 
appeared 
within 
the 
flames, 
spinning 
as 
fast 
as 
a 
top. 
Seconds 
later, 
he 
had 
climbed 
out 
onto 
a 
rather 
fine 
antique 
rug, 
brushing 
ash 
from 
the 
sleeves 
of 
his 
long pinstriped 
cloak, a limegreen 
bowler hat in his hand. 


"Ah... 
Prime 
Minister," 
said 
Cornelius 
Fudge, 
striding 
forward 
with 
his 
hand 
outstretched. 
"Good 
to 
see you again." 


The 
Prime 
Minister 
could 
not 
honestly 
return 
this 
compliment, 
so 
said 
nothing 
at 
all. 
He 
was 
not 
remotely 
pleased 
to 
see 
Fudge, 
whose 
occasional 
appearances, 
apart 
from 
being 
downright 
alarming 
in 
themselves, 
generally 
meant 
that 
he 
was 
about 
to 
hear 
some 
very 
bad 
news. 
Furthermore, 
Fudge 
was 
looking 
distinctly 
careworn. 
He 
was 
thinner, 
balder, 
and 
grayer, 
and 
his 
face 
had 
a 
crumpled 
look. 
The 
Prime Minister had seen that kind of look in politicians before, and it never boded well. 


"How 
can 
I 
help 
you?" 
he 
said, 
shaking 
Fudge's 
hand 
very 
briefly 
and 
gesturing 
toward 
the 
hardest 
of 
the chairs in front of the desk. 


"Difficult 
to 
know 
where 
to 
begin," 
muttered 
Fudge, 
pulling 
up 
the 
chair, 
sitting 
down, 
and 
placing 
his 
green bowler upon his knees. "What a week, what a week..." 


"Had 
a 
bad 
one 
too, 
have 
you?" 
asked 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
stiffly, 
hoping 
to 
convey 
by 
this 
that 
he 
had 
quite enough on his plate already without any extra helpings from Fudge. 


"Yes, 
of 
course," 
said 
Fudge, 
rubbing 
his 
eyes 
wearily 
and 
looking 
morosely 
at 
the 
Prime 
Minister. 
"I've 
been 
having 
the 
same 
week 
you 
have, 
Prime 
Minister. 
The 
Brockdale 
Bridge... 
the 
Bones 
and 
Vance murders... not to mention the ruckus in the West Country..." 


"YoueryourI 
mean 
to 
say, 
some 
of 
your 
people 
werewere 
involved 
in 
thosethose 
things, 
were 
they?" 



Fudge 
fixed 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
with 
a 
rather 
stern 
look. 
"Of 
course 
they 
were," 
he 
said, 
"Surely 
you've 
realized what's going on?" 


"I..." hesitated the Prime Minister. 


It 
was 
precisely 
this 
sort 
of 
behavior 
that 
made 
him 
dislike 
Fudge's 
visits 
so 
much. 
He 
was, 
after 
all, 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
and did not 
appreciate 
being made 
to feel 
like 
an ignorant 
schoolboy. 
But 
of course, 
it 
had 
been 
like 
this 
from 
his 
very 
first 
meeting 
with 
Fudge 
on 
his 
very 
first 
evening 
as 
Prime 
Minister. 
He remembered it as though it were yesterday and knew it would haunt him until his dying day. 


He 
had been standing 
alone 
in this 
very office, savoring 
the 
triumph 
that 
was 
his 
after 
so 
many years 
of 
dreaming 
and 
scheming, 
when 
he 
had 
heard 
a 
cough 
behind 
him, 
just 
like 
tonight, 
and 
turned 
to 
find 
that 
ugly 
little 
portrait 
talking 
to 
him, 
announcing 
that 
the 
Minister 
of 
Magic 
was 
about 
to 
arrive 
and 
introduce himself 


Naturally, 
he 
had 
thought 
that 
the 
long 
campaign 
and 
the 
strain 
of 
the 
election 
had 
caused 
him 
to 
go 
mad. He 
had been utterly terrified to find 
a 
portrait 
talking 
to him, 
though 
this 
had been nothing 
to 
how 
he 
felt 
when 
a 
selfproclaimed 
wizard 
had 
bounced 
out 
of 
the 
fireplace 
and 
shaken 
his 
hand. 
He 
had 
remained 
speechless 
throughout 
Fudge's 
kindly 
explanation 
that 
there 
were 
witches 
and 
wizards 
still 
living 
in 
secret 
all 
over 
the 
world 
and 
his 
reassurances 
that 
he 
was 
not 
to 
bother 
his 
head 
about 
them 
as 
the 
Ministry 
of 
Magic 
took 
responsibility 
for 
the 
whole 
Wizarding 
community 
and 
prevented 
the 
nonmagical 
population 
from 
getting 
wind 
of 
them. 
It 
was, 
said 
Fudge, 
a 
difficult 
job 
that 
encompassed 
everything 
from 
regulations 
on 
responsible 
use 
of 
broomsticks 
to 
keeping 
the 
dragon 
population 
under 
control 
(the 
Prime 
Minister 
remembered 
clutching 
the 
desk 
for 
support 
at 
this 
point). 
Fudge 
had 
then 
patted the shoulder of the sLilldumbstruck 
Prime Minister in a fatherly sort of way. 


"Not 
to 
worry," 
he 
had 
said, 
"it's 
oddson 
you'll 
never 
see 
me 
again. 
I'll 
only 
bother 
you 
if 
there's 
something 
really 
serious 
going 
on 
our 
end, 
something 
that's 
likely 
to 
affect 
the 
Mugglesthe 
nonmagical 
population, 
I 
should 
say. 
Otherwise, 
it's 
live 
and 
let 
live. 
And 
I 
must 
say, 
you're 
taking 
it 
a 
lot 
better 
than 
your 
predecessor. 
He 
tried 
to 
throw 
me 
out 
the 
window, 
thought 
I 
was 
a 
hoax 
planned 
by 
the opposition." 


At this, the Prime Minister had found his voice at last. "You'reyou're 
not a hoax, then?" 


It had been his last, desperate hope. 


"No," said Fudge gently. "No, I'm afraid I'm not. Look." 


And he had turned the Prime Minister's teacup into a gerbil. 


"But," 
said 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
breathlessly, 
watching 
his 
teacup 
chewing 
on 
the 
corner 
of 
his 
next 
speech, "but whywhy 
has nobody told me?" 


"The 
Minister 
of 
Magic 
only 
reveals 
himor 
herself 
to 
the 
Muggle 
Prime 
Minister 
of 
the 
day," 
said 
Fudge, poking his wand back inside his jacket. "We find it the best way to maintain secrecy." 


"But then," bleated the Prime Minister, "why hasn't a former Prime Minister warned me?" 



At this, Fudge had actually laughed. 


"My dear Prime Minister, are you ever going to tell anybody?" 


Still 
chortling, 
Fudge 
had 
thrown 
some 
powder 
into 
the 
fireplace, 
stepped 
into 
the 
emerald 
flames, 
and 
vanished 
with 
a 
whooshing 
sound. 
The 
Prime 
Minister 
had 
stood 
there, 
quite 
motionless, 
and 
realized 
that 
he 
would 
never, 
as 
long 
as 
he 
lived, 
dare 
mention 
this 
encounter 
to 
a 
living 
soul, 
for 
who 
in 
the 
wide world would believe him? 


The 
shock 
had 
taken 
a 
little 
while 
to 
wear 
off. 
For 
a 
time, 
he 
had 
tried 
to 
convince 
himself 
that 
Fudge 
had 
indeed 
been 
a 
hallucination 
brought 
on 
by 
lack 
of 
sleep 
during 
his 
grueling 
election 
campaign. 
In 
a 
vain 
attempt 
to 
rid 
himself 
of 
all 
reminders 
of 
this 
uncomfortable 
encounter, 
he 
had 
given 
the 
gerbil 
to 
his 
delighted 
niece 
and 
instructed 
his 
private 
secretary 
to 
take 
down 
the 
portrait 
of 
the 
ugly 
little 
man 
who 
had 
announced 
Fudge's 
arrival. 
To 
the 
Prime 
Minister's 
dismay, 
however, 
the 
portrait 
had 
proved 
impossible 
to 
remove. 
When 
several 
carpenters, 
a 
builder 
or 
two, 
an 
art 
historian, 
and 
the 
Chancellor 
of 
the 
Exchequer 
had 
all 
tried 
unsuccessfully 
to 
prise 
it 
from 
the 
wall, 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
had 
abandoned 
the 
attempt 
and 
simply 
resolved 
to 
hope 
that 
the 
thing 
remained 
motionless 
and 
silent 
for 
the 
rest 
of 
his 
term 
in 
office. 
Occasionally 
he 
could 
have 
sworn 
he 
saw 
out 
of 
the 
corner 
of 
his 
eye 
the 
occupant 
of 
the 
painting 
yawning, 
or 
else 
scratching 
his 
nose; 
even, 
once 
or 
twice, 
simply 
walking 
out 
of 
his 
frame 
and 
leaving 
nothing 
but 
a 
stretch 
of 
muddybrown 
canvas 
behind. 
However, 
he 
had 
trained 
himself 
not 
to 
look 
at 
the 
picture 
very 
much, 
and 
always 
to 
tell 
himself 
firmly 
that 
his 
eyes 
were playing tricks on him when anything like this happened. 


Then, 
three 
years 
ago, 
on 
a 
night 
very 
like 
tonight, 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
had 
been 
alone 
in 
his 
office 
when 
the 
portrait 
had 
once 
again 
announced 
the 
imminent 
arrival 
of 
Fudge, 
who 
had 
burst 
out 
of 
the 
fireplace, sopping 
wet 
and in a 
state 
of considerable 
panic. Before 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
could ask 
why he 
was 
dripping 
all 
over 
the 
Axminster, 
Fudge 
had 
started 
ranting 
about 
a 
prison 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
had 
never 
heard 
of, 
a 
man 
named 
"Serious" 
Black, 
something 
that 
sounded 
like 
"Hogwarts," 
and 
a 
boy 
called Harry Potter, none of which made the remotest sense to the Prime Minister. 


"...I've 
just 
come 
from 
Azkaban," 
Fudge 
had 
panted, 
tipping 
a 
large 
amount 
of 
water 
out 
of 
the 
rim 
of 
his 
bowler 
hat 
into 
his 
pocket. 
"Middle 
of 
the 
North 
Sea, 
you 
know, 
nasty 
flight... 
the 
dementors 
are 
in 
uproar"he 
shuddered"
they've 
never 
had 
a 
breakout 
before. 
Anyway, 
I 
had 
to 
come 
to 
you, 
Prime 
Minister. 
Black's 
a 
known 
Muggle 
killer 
and 
may 
be 
planning 
to 
rejoin 
YouKnowWho.... 
But 
of 
course, 
you 
don't 
even 
know 
who 
YouKnowWho 
is!" 
He 
had 
gazed 
hopelessly 
at 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
for a moment, then said, "Well, sit down, sit down, I'd better fill you in... Have a whiskey..." 


The 
Prime 
Minister 
rather 
resented 
being 
told 
to 
sit 
down 
in 
his 
own 
office, 
let 
alone 
offered 
his 
own 
whiskey, 
but 
he 
sat 
nevertheless. 
Fudge 
pulled 
out 
his 
wand, 
conjured 
two 
large 
glasses 
full 
of 
amber 
liquid out of thin air, pushed one of them into the Prime Minister's hand, and drew up a chair. 


Fudge 
had 
talked 
for 
more 
than 
an 
hour. 
At 
one 
point, 
he 
had 
refused 
to 
say 
a 
certain 
name 
aloud 
and 
wrote 
it 
instead 
on 
a 
piece 
of 
parchment, 
which 
he 
had 
thrust 
into 
the 
Prime 
Minister's 
whiskeyfree 
hand. When at last Fudge had stood up to leave, the Prime Minister had stood up too. 



"So you think that..." He had squinted down at the name in his left hand. "Lord Vol" 


"HeWhoMustNotBeNamed!" 
snarled Fudge. 


"I'm sorry... You think that HeWhoMustNotBeNamed 
is still alive, then?" 


"Well, 
Dumbledore 
says 
he 
is," 
said 
Fudge, 
as 
he 
had 
fastened 
his 
pinstriped 
cloak 
under 
his 
chin, 
"but 
we've 
never 
found 
him. 
If 
you 
ask 
me, 
he's 
not 
dangerous 
unless 
he's 
got 
support, 
so 
it's 
Black 
we 
ought 
to 
be 
worrying 
about. 
You'll 
put 
out 
that 
warning, 
then? 
Excellent. 
Well, 
I 
hope 
we 
don't 
see 
each other again, Prime Minister! Good night." 


But 
they 
had 
seen 
each 
other 
again. 
Less 
than 
a 
year 
later 
a 
harassedlooking 
Fudge 
had 
appeared 
out 
of 
thin 
air 
in 
the 
cabinet 
room 
to 
inform 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
that 
there 
had 
been 
a 
spot 
of 
bother 
at 
the 
Kwidditch 
(or 
that 
was 
what 
it 
had 
sounded 
like) 
World 
Cup 
and 
that 
several 
Muggles 
had 
been 
"involved," 
but 
that 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
was 
not 
to 
worry, 
the 
fact 
that 
YouKnowWho's 
Mark 
had 
been 
seen 
again 
meant 
nothing; 
Fudge 
was 
sure 
it 
was 
an 
isolated 
incident, 
and 
the 
Muggle 
Liaison 
Office was dealing with all memory modifications as they spoke. 


"Oh, 
and 
I 
almost 
forgot," 
Fudge 
had 
added. 
"We're 
importing 
three 
foreign 
dragons 
and 
a 
sphinx 
for 
the 
Triwizard 
Tournament, 
quite 
routine, 
but 
the 
Department 
for 
the 
Regulation 
and 
Control 
of 
Magical 
Creatures 
tells 
me 
that 
its 
down 
in 
the 
rule 
book 
that 
we 
have 
to 
notify 
you 
if 
we're 
bringing 
highly dangerous creatures into the country." 


"Iwhatdragons?" 
spluttered the Prime Minister. 


"Yes, three," said Fudge. "And a sphinx. Well, good day to you." 


The 
Prime 
Minister 
had hoped beyond hope 
that 
dragons 
and sphinxes 
would 
be 
the 
worst 
of 
it, but 
no. 
Less 
than two years 
later, Fudge 
had erupted out 
of 
the 
fire 
yet 
again, this 
time 
with 
the 
news 
that 
there 
had been a mass breakout from Azkaban. 


"A mass breakout?" repeated the Prime Minister hoarsely. 


"No 
need 
to 
worry, 
no 
need 
to 
worry!" 
shouted 
Fudge, 
already 
with 
one 
foot 
in 
the 
flames. 
"We'll 
have 
them rounded up in no timejust 
thought you ought to know!" 


And 
before 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
could 
shout, 
"Now, 
wait 
just 
one 
moment!" 
Fudge 
had 
vanished 
in 
a 
shower of green sparks. 


Whatever 
the 
press 
and 
the 
opposition 
might 
say, 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
was 
not 
a 
foolish 
man. 
It 
had 
not 
escaped 
his 
notice 
that, 
despite 
Fudge's 
assurances 
at 
their 
first 
meeting, 
they 
were 
now 
seeing 
rather 
a 
lot 
of 
each other, 
nor 
that 
Fudge 
was 
becoming 
more 
flustered 
with 
each 
visit. 
Little 
though 
he 
liked 
to 
think 
about 
the 
Minister 
of 
Magic 
(or, 
as 
he 
always 
called 
Fudge 
in 
his 
head, 
the 
Other 
Minister), 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
could 
not 
help 
but 
fear 
that 
the 
next 
time 
Fudge 
appeared 
it 
would 
be 
with 
graver 
news 
still. 
The 
site, 
therefore, 
of 
Fudge 
stepping 
out 
of 
the 
fire 
once 
more, 
looking 
disheveled 
and 
fretful 
and 
sternly 
surprised 
that 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
did 
not 
know 
exactly 
why 
he 
was 
there, 
was 
about 
the 
worst thing that had happened in the course of this extremely gloomy week. 



"How 
should 
I 
know 
what's 
going 
on 
in 
theerWizarding 
community?" 
snapped 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
now. "I have a country to run and quite enough concerns at the moment without" 


"We 
have 
the 
same 
concerns," 
Fudge 
interrupted. 
"The 
Brockdale 
Bridge 
didn't 
wear 
out. 
That 
wasn't 
really 
a 
hurricane. 
Those 
murders 
were 
not 
the 
work 
of 
Muggles. 
And 
Herbert 
Chorley's 
family 
would 
be 
safer 
without 
him. 
We 
are 
currently 
making 
arrangements 
to 
have 
him 
transferred 
to 
St. 
Mungo's 
Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The move should be effected tonight." 


"What do you... I'm afraid I ... What?" blustered the Prime Minister. 


Fudge 
took 
a 
great, 
deep 
breath 
and 
said, 
"Prime 
Minister, 
I 
am 
very 
sorry 
to 
have 
to 
tell 
you 
that 
he's 
back. HeWhoMustNotBeNamed 
is back." 


"Back? When you say 'back'... he's alive? I mean" 


The 
Prime 
Minister 
groped 
in 
his 
memory 
for 
the 
details 
of 
that 
horrible 
conversation 
of 
three 
years 
previously, 
when 
Fudge 
had 
told 
him 
about 
the 
wizard 
who 
was 
feared 
above 
all 
others, 
the 
wizard 
who 
had 
committed 
a 
thousand 
terrible 
crimes 
before 
his 
mysterious 
disappearance 
fifteen 
years 
earlier. 


"Yes, 
alive," 
said 
Fudge. 
"That 
isI 
don't 
knowis 
a 
man 
alive 
if 
he 
can't 
be 
killed? 
I 
don't 
really 
understand 
it, 
and 
Dumbledore 
won't 
explain 
properlybut 
anyway, 
he's 
certainly 
got 
a 
body 
and 
is 
walking and talking and killing, so I suppose, for the purposes of our discussion, yes, he's alive." 


The 
Prime 
Minister 
did 
not 
know 
what 
to 
say 
to 
this, 
but 
a 
persistent 
habit 
of 
wishing 
to 
appear 
wellinformed 
on 
any 
subject 
that 
came 
up 
made 
him 
cast 
around 
for 
any 
details 
he 
could 
remember 
of 
their 
previous conversations. 


"Is Serious Black witherHeWhoMustNotBeNamed?" 


"Black? 
Black?" 
said 
Fudge 
distractedly, 
turning 
his 
bowler 
rapidly 
in 
his 
fingers. 
"Sirius 
Black, 
you 
mean? 
Merlin's 
beard, 
no. 
Black's 
dead. 
Turns 
out 
we 
wereermistaken 
about 
Black. 
He 
was 
innocent 
after 
all. 
And 
he 
wasn't 
in 
league 
with 
HeWhoMustNotBeNamed 
either. 
I 
mean," 
he 
added 
defensively, 
spinning 
the 
bowler 
hat 
still 
faster, 
"all 
the 
evidence 
pointedwe 
had 
more 
than 
fifty 
eyewitnessesbut 
anyway, 
as 
I 
say, 
he's 
dead. 
Murdered, 
as 
a 
matter 
of 
fact. 
On 
Ministry 
of 
Magic premises. There's going to be an inquiry, actually..." 


To 
his 
great 
surprise, 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
felt 
a 
fleeting 
stab 
of 
pity 
for 
Fudge 
at 
this 
point. 
It 
was, 
however, 
eclipsed 
almost 
immediately 
by 
a 
glow 
of 
smugness 
at 
the 
thought 
that, 
deficient 
though 
he 
himself 
might 
be 
in 
the 
area 
of 
materializing 
out 
of 
fireplaces, 
there 
had 
never 
been 
a 
murder 
in 
any 
of 
the government departments under his charge... Not yet, anyway... 


While 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
surreptitiously 
touched 
the 
wood 
of 
his 
desk, 
Fudge 
continued, 
"But 
Blacks 
bytheby 
now. The point is, we're at war, Prime Minister, and steps must be taken." 


"At war?" repeated the Prime Minister nervously. "Surely that's a little bit of an overstatement?" 


"HeWhoMustNotBeNamed 
has 
now 
been 
joined 
by 
those 
of 
his 
followers 
who 
broke 
out 
of 



Azkaban 
in 
January," 
said 
Fudge, 
speaking 
more 
and 
more 
rapidly 
and 
twirling 
his 
bowler 
so 
fast 
that 
it 
was 
a 
limegreen 
blur. 
"Since 
they 
have 
moved 
into 
the 
open, 
they 
have 
been 
wreaking 
havoc. 
The 
Brockdale 
Bridgehe 
did 
it, 
Prime 
Minister, 
he 
threatened 
a 
mass 
Muggle 
killing 
unless 
I 
stood 
aside 
for him and" 


"Good 
grief, 
so 
it's 
your 
fault 
those 
people 
were 
killed 
and 
I'm 
having 
to 
answer 
questions 
about 
rusted 
rigging and corroded expansion joints and I don't know what else!" said the Prime Minister furiously. 


"My fault!" said Fudge, coloring up. "Are you saying you would have caved in to blackmail like that?" 


"Maybe 
not," 
said 
the 
Prime 
Minister, 
standing 
up 
and 
striding 
about 
the 
room, 
"but 
I 
would 
have 
put 
all my efforts into catching the blackmailer before he committed any such atrocity!" 


"Do 
you 
really 
think 
I 
wasn't 
already 
making 
every 
effort?" 
demanded 
Fudge 
heatedly. 
"Every 
Auror 
in 
the 
Ministry 
wasand 
istrying 
to 
find 
him 
and 
round 
up 
his 
followers, 
but 
we 
happen 
to 
be 
talking 
about 
one 
of 
the 
most 
powerful 
wizards 
of 
all 
time, 
a 
wizard 
who 
has 
eluded 
capture 
for 
almost 
three 
decades!" 


"So 
I 
suppose 
you're 
going 
to 
tell 
me 
he 
caused 
the 
hurricane 
in 
the 
West 
Country 
too?" 
said 
the 
Prime 
Minister, 
his 
temper 
rising 
with 
every 
pace 
he 
took. 
It 
was 
infuriating 
to 
discover 
the 
reason 
for 
all 
these 
terrible 
disasters 
and 
not 
to 
be 
able 
to 
tell 
the 
public, 
almost 
worse 
than 
it 
being 
the 
government's 
fault after all. 


"That was no hurricane," said Fudge miserably. 


"Excuse 
me!" 
barked 
the 
Prime 
Minister, 
now 
positively 
stamping 
up 
and 
down. 
"Trees 
uprooted, 
roofs ripped off, lampposts bent, horrible injuries" 


"It 
was 
the 
Death 
Eaters," 
said 
Fudge. 
"HeWhoMustNotBeNamed's 
followers. 
And... 
and 
we 
suspect giant involvement." 


The Prime Minister stopped in his tracks as though he had hit an invisible wall. "What involvement?" 


Fudge 
grimaced. 
"He 
used 
giants 
last 
time, 
when 
he 
wanted 
to 
go 
for 
the 
grand 
effect," 
he 
said. 
"The 
Office 
of 
Misinformation 
has 
been 
working 
around 
the 
clock, 
we've 
had 
teams 
of 
Obliviators 
out 
trying 
to 
modify 
the 
memories 
of 
all 
the 
Muggles 
who 
saw 
what 
really 
happened, 
we've 
got 
most 
of 
the 
Department 
for 
the 
Regulation 
and 
Control 
of 
Magical 
Creatures 
running 
around 
Somerset, 
but 
we 
can't find the giantit's 
been a disaster." 


"You don't say!" said the Prime Minister furiously. 


"I 
won't 
deny 
that 
morale 
is 
pretty 
low 
at 
the 
Ministry," 
said 
Fudge. 
"What 
with 
all 
that, 
and 
then 
losing Amelia Bones." 


"Losing who?" 


"Amelia 
Bones. 
Head 
of 
the 
Department 
of 
Magical 
Law 
Enforcement. 
We 
think 
HeWhoMustNotBeNamed 
may 
have 
murdered 
her 
in 
person, 
because 
she 
was 
a 
very 
gifted 
witch 
andand 
all 
the 
evidence was that she put up a real fight." 



Fudge cleared his throat and, with an effort, it seemed, stopped spinning his bowler hat. 


"But 
that 
murder 
was 
in 
the 
newspapers," 
said 
the 
Prime 
Minister, 
momentarily 
diverted 
from 
his 
anger. 
"Our 
newspapers. 
Amelia 
Bones... 
it 
just 
said 
she 
was 
a 
middleaged 
woman 
who 
lived 
alone. 
It 
was aa 
nasty killing, wasn't it? It's had rather a lot of publicity. The police are baffled, you see." 


Fudge 
sighed. 
"Well, 
of 
course 
they 
are," 
he 
said. 
"Killed 
in 
a 
room 
that 
was 
locked 
from 
the 
inside, 
wasn't 
she? 
We, 
on 
the 
other 
hand, 
know 
exactly 
who 
did 
it, 
not 
that 
that 
gets 
us 
any 
further 
toward 
catching him. And then there was Emmeline Vance, maybe you didn't hear about that one" 


"Oh 
yes 
I 
did!" 
said 
the 
Prime 
Minister. 
"It 
happened 
just 
around 
the 
corner 
from 
here, 
as 
a 
matter 
of 
fact. 
The 
papers 
had 
a 
field 
day 
with 
it, 
'breakdown 
of 
law 
and 
order 
in 
the 
Prime 
Minister's 
backyard'" 


"And 
as 
if 
all 
that 
wasn't 
enough," 
said 
Fudge, 
barely 
listening 
to 
the 
Prime 
Minister, 
"we've 
got 
dementors swarming all over the place, attacking people left, right, and center..." 


Once 
upon 
a 
happier 
time 
this 
sentence 
would 
have 
been 
unintelligible 
to 
the 
Prime 
Minister, 
but 
he 
was wiser now. 


"I thought dementors guard the prisoners in Azkaban," he said cautiously. 


"They 
did," 
said 
Fudge 
wearily. 
"But 
not 
anymore. 
They've 
deserted 
the 
prison 
and 
joined 
HeWhoMustNotBeNamed. 
I won't pretend that wasn't a blow." 


"But," 
said 
the 
Prime 
Minister, 
with 
a 
sense 
of 
dawning 
horror, 
"didn't 
you 
tell 
me 
they're 
the 
creatures 
that drain hope and happiness out of people?" 


"That's right. And they're breeding. That's what's causing all this mist." 


The 
Prime 
Minister 
sank, 
weakkneed, 
into 
the 
nearest 
chair. 
The 
idea 
of 
invisible 
creatures 
swooping 
through 
the 
towns 
and 
countryside, 
spreading 
despair 
and 
hopelessness 
in 
his 
voters, 
made 
him 
feel 
quite faint. 


"Now see here, Fudgeyou've 
got to do something! It's your responsibility as Minister of Magic!" 


"My 
dear 
Prime 
Minister, 
you 
can't 
honestly 
think 
I'm 
still 
Minister 
of 
Magic 
after 
all 
this? 
I 
was 
sacked 
three 
days 
ago! 
The 
whole 
Wizarding 
community 
has 
been 
screaming 
for 
my 
resignation 
for 
a 
fortnight. 
I've 
never 
known 
them 
so 
united 
in 
my 
whole 
term 
of 
office!" 
said 
Fudge, 
with 
a 
brave 
attempt at a smile. 


The 
Prime 
Minister 
was 
momentarily 
lost 
for 
words. 
Despite 
his 
indignation 
at 
the 
position 
into 
which 
he had been placed, he still rather felt for the shrunkenlooking 
man sitting opposite him. 


"I'm very sorry," he said finally. "If there's anything I can do?" 


"It's 
very 
kind 
of 
you, 
Prime 
Minister, 
but 
there 
is 
nothing. 
I 
was 
sent 
here 
tonight 
to 
bring 
you 
up 
to 
date on recent events and to introduce you to my successor. I rather thought he'd be here by now, but of 
course, he's very busy at the moment, with so much going on." 



Fudge 
looked 
around 
at 
the 
portrait 
of 
the 
ugly 
little 
man 
wearing 
the 
long 
curly 
silver 
wig, 
who 
was 
digging 
in 
his 
ear 
with 
the 
point 
of 
a 
quill. 
Catching 
Fudge's 
eye, 
the 
portrait 
said, 
"He'll 
be 
here 
in 
a 
moment, he's just finishing a letter to Dumbledore." 


"I 
wish 
him 
luck," 
said 
Fudge, 
sounding 
bitter 
for 
the 
first 
time. 
"I've 
been 
writing 
to 
Dumbledore 
twice 
a 
day 
for 
the 
past 
fortnight, 
but 
he 
won't 
budge. 
If 
he'd 
just 
been 
prepared 
to 
persuade 
the 
boy, 
I 
might still be... Well, maybe Scrimgeour will have more success." 


Fudge 
subsided 
into 
what 
was 
clearly 
an 
aggrieved 
silence, 
but 
it 
was 
broken 
almost 
immediately 
by 
the portrait, which suddenly spoke in its crisp, official voice. 


"To the 
Prime 
Minister 
of 
Muggles. 
Requesting 
a 
meeting. 
Urgent. 
Kindly 
respond immediately. 
Rufus 
Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic." 


"Yes, 
yes, 
fine," 
said 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
distractedly, 
and 
he 
barely 
flinched 
as 
the 
flames 
in 
the 
grate 
turned 
emerald 
green 
again, 
rose 
up, 
and 
revealed 
a 
second 
spinning 
wizard 
in 
their 
heart, 
disgorging 
him moments later onto the antique rug. 


Fudge 
got 
to 
his 
feet 
and, 
after 
a 
moment's 
hesitation, 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
did 
the 
same, 
watching 
the 
new arrival straighten up, dust down his long black robes, and look around. 


The 
Prime 
Minister's 
first, 
foolish 
thought 
was 
that 
Rufus 
Scrimgeour 
looked 
rather 
like 
an 
old 
lion. 
There 
were 
streaks 
of 
gray 
in 
his 
mane 
of 
tawny 
hair 
and 
his 
bushy 
eyebrows; 
he 
had 
keen 
yellowish 
eyes 
behind 
a 
pair 
of 
wirerimmed 
spectacles 
and 
a 
certain 
rangy, 
loping 
grace 
even 
though 
he 
walked 
with 
a 
slight 
limp. 
There 
was 
an 
immediate 
impression 
of 
shrewdness 
and 
toughness; 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
thought 
he 
understood 
why 
the 
Wizarding 
community 
preferred 
Scrimgeour 
to 
Fudge 
as 
a 
leader in these dangerous times. 


"How do you do?" said the Prime Minister politely, holding out his hand. 


Scrimgeour 
grasped 
it 
briefly, 
his 
eyes 
scanning 
the 
room, 
then 
pulled 
out 
a 
wand 
from 
under 
his 
robes. 


"Fudge 
told 
you 
everything?" 
he 
asked, 
striding 
over 
to 
the 
door 
and 
tapping 
the 
keyhole 
with 
his 
wand. The Prime Minister heard the lock click. 


"Eryes," 
said the Prime Minister. "And if you don't mind, I'd rather that door remained unlocked." 


"I'd 
rather 
not 
be 
interrupted," 
said 
Scrimgeour 
shortly, 
"or 
watched," 
he 
added, 
pointing 
his 
wand 
at 
the 
windows, 
so 
that 
the 
curtains 
swept 
across 
them. 
"Right, 
well, 
I'm 
a 
busy 
man, 
so 
let's 
get 
down 
lo 
business. First of all, we need to discuss your security." 


The 
Prime 
Minister 
drew 
himself 
up 
to 
his 
fullest 
height 
and 
replied, 
"I 
am 
perfectly 
happy 
with 
the 
security I've already got, thank you very" 


"Well, 
we're 
not," 
Scrimgeour 
cut 
in. 
"It'll 
be 
a 
poor 
lookout 
for 
the 
Muggles 
if 
their 
Prime 
Minister 
gets put under the Imperius Curse. The new secretary in your outer office" 


"I'm 
not 
getting 
rid 
of 
Kingsley 
Shacklebolt, 
if 
that's 
what 
you're 
suggesting!" 
said 
the 
Prime 
Minister 



hotly. "He's highly efficient, gets through twice the work the rest of them" 


"That's 
because 
he's 
a 
wizard," 
said 
Scrimgeour, 
without 
a 
flicker 
of 
a 
smile. 
"A 
highly 
trained 
Auror, 
who has been assigned to you for your protection." 
"Now, 
wait 
a 
moment!" 
declared 
the 
Prime 
Minister. 
"You 
can't 
just 
put 
your 
people 
into 
my 
office, 
I 


decide who works for me" 
"I thought you were happy with Shacklebolt?" said Scrimgeour coldly. 
"I amthat's 
to say, I was" 
"Then there's no problem, is there?" said Scrimgeour. 
"I... 
well, 
as 
long 
as 
Shacklebolt's 
work 
continues 
to 
be... 
er... 
excellent," 
said 
the 
Prime 
Minister 


lamely, but Scrimgeour barely seemed to hear him. 


"Now, 
about 
Herbert 
Chorley, 
your 
Junior 
Minister," 
he 
continued. 
"The 
one 
who 
has 
been 
entertaining the public by impersonating a duck." 
"What about him?" asked the Prime Minister. 
"He 
has 
clearly 
reacted 
to 
a 
poorly 
performed 
Imperius 
Curse," 
said 
Scrimgeour. 
"It's 
addled 
his 


brains, but he could still be dangerous." 


"He's 
only 
quacking!" 
said 
the 
Prime 
Minister 
weakly. 
"Surely 
a 
bit 
of 
a 
rest... 
Maybe 
go 
easy 
on 
the 
drink..." 
"A 
team 
of 
Healers 
from 
St. 
Mungo's 
Hospital 
for 
Magical 
Maladies 
and 
Injuries 
are 
examining 
him 
as 


we 
speak. 
So 
far 
he 
has 
attempted 
to 
strangle 
three 
of 
them," 
said 
Scrimgeour. 
"I 
think 
it 
best 
that 
we 
remove him from Muggle society for a while." 
"I... well... He'll be all right, won't he?" said the Prime Minister anxiously. 


Scrimgeour merely shrugged, already moving back toward the fireplace. 
"Well, 
that's 
really 
all 
I 
had 
to 
say. 
I 
will 
keep 
you 
posted 
of 
developments, 
Prime 
Ministeror, 
at 
least, 
I 
shall 
probably 
be 
too 
busy 
to 
come 
personally, 
in 
which 
case 
I 
shall 
send 
Fudge 
here. 
He 
has 
consented to stay on in an advisory capacity." 


Fudge 
attempted 
to 
smile, 
but 
was 
unsuccessful; 
he 
merely 
looked 
as 
though 
he 
had 
a 
toothache. 
Scrimgeour 
was 
already 
rummaging 
in 
his 
pocket 
for 
the 
mysterious 
powder 
that 
turned 
the 
fire 
green. 
The 
Prime 
Minister 
gazed hopelessly 
at 
the 
pair 
of 
them 
for 
a 
moment, 
then the 
words 
he 
had fought 
to 
suppress all evening burst from him at last. 


"But for heaven's sakeyou're 
wizards! You can do magic! Surely you can sort outwellanything!" 
Scrimgeour 
turned 
slowly 
on 
the 
spot 
and 
exchanged 
an 
incredulous 
look 
with 
Fudge, 
who 
really 
did 


manage 
a 
smile 
this 
time 
as 
he 
said 
kindly, 
"The 
trouble 
is, 
the 
other 
side 
can 
do 
magic 
too, 
Prime 
Minister." 
And with that, the two wizards stepped one after the other into the bright green fire and vanished. 



Chapter 2 
Spinner's End 



Many 
miles 
away 
the 
chilly 
mist 
that 
had 
pressed 
against 
the 
Prime 
Minister's 
windows 
drifted 
over 
a 
dirty 
river 
that 
wound 
between 
overgrown, 
rubbishstrewn 
banks. 
An 
immense 
chimney, 
relic 
of 
a 
disused mill, reared up, shadowy and ominous. There was no sound apart from the whisper of the black 
water 
and 
no 
sign 
of 
life 
apart 
from 
a 
scrawny 
fox 
that 
had 
slunk 
down 
the 
bank 
to 
nose 
hopefully 
at 
some old fishandchip 
wrappings in the tall grass. 


But 
then, 
with 
a 
very 
faint 
pop, 
a 
slim, 
hooded 
figure 
appeared 
out 
of 
thin 
air 
on 
the 
edge 
of 
the 
river. 
The 
fox 
froze, 
wary 
eyes 
fixed 
upon 
this 
strange 
new 
phenomenon. 
The 
figure 
seemed 
to 
take 
its 
bearings for a few moments, then set off with light, quick strides, its long cloak rustling over the grass. 


With a second and louder pop, another hooded figure materialized. 
"Wait!" 
The 
harsh 
cry 
startled 
the 
fox, 
now 
crouching 
almost 
flat 
in 
the 
undergrowth. 
It 
leapt 
from 
its 
hiding 


place 
and 
up 
the 
bank. 
There 
was 
a 
flash 
of 
green 
light, 
a 
yelp, 
and 
the 
fox 
fell 
back 
to 
the 
ground, 
dead. 


The second figure turned over the animal with its toe. 
"Just 
a 
fox," 
said 
a 
woman's 
voice 
dismissively 
from 
under 
the 
hood. 
"I 
thought 
perhaps 
an 
AurorCissy, 
wait!" 


But 
her 
quarry, 
who 
had 
paused 
and 
looked 
back 
at 
the 
flash 
of 
light, 
was 
already 
scrambling 
up 
the 
bank the fox had just fallen down. 
"CissyNarcissalisten 
to me" 
The second woman caught the first and seized her arm, but the other wrenched it away. 
"Go back, Bella!" 
"You must listen to me!" 


"I've listened already. I've made my decision. Leave me alone!" 
The 
woman 
named 
Narcissa 
gained 
the 
top 
of 
the 
bank, 
where 
a 
line 
of 
old 
railings 
separated 
the 
river 
from 
a 
narrow, 
cobbled 
street. 
The 
other 
woman, 
Bella, 
followed 
at 
once. 
Side 
by 
side 
they 
stood 
looking 
across 
the 
road 
at 
the 
rows 
and 
rows 
of 
dilapidated 
brick 
houses, 
their 
windows 
dull 
and 
blind 
in the darkness. 


"He 
lives 
here?" 
asked 
Bella 
in 
a 
voice 
of 
contempt. 
"Here? 
In 
this 
Muggle 
dunghill? 
We 
must 
be 
the 


first of our kind ever to set foot" 
But 
Narcissa 
was 
not 
listening; 
she 
had 
slipped 
through 
a 
gap 
in 
the 
rusty 
railings 
and 
was 
already 
hurrying across the road. 


"Cissy, wait!" 
Bella 
followed, 
her 
cloak 
streaming 
behind, 
and 
saw 
Narcissa 
darting 
through 
an 
alley 
between 
the 
houses 
into 
a 
second, 
almost 
identical 
street. 
Some 
of 
the 
streetlamps 
were 
broken; 
the 
two 
women 



were 
running 
between 
patches 
of 
light 
and 
deep 
darkness. 
The 
pursuer 
caught 
up 
with 
her 
prey 
just 
as 
she 
turned another 
corner, this 
time 
succeeding 
in 
catching hold 
of 
her 
arm 
and swinging 
her 
around so 
that they faced each other. 


"Cissy, you must not do this, you can't trust him" 


"The Dark Lord trusts him, doesn't he?" 


"The 
Dark 
Lord 
is... 
I 
believe... 
mistaken," 
Bella 
panted, 
and 
her 
eyes 
gleamed 
momentarily 
under 
her 
hood 
as 
she 
looked 
around 
to 
check 
that 
they 
were 
indeed 
alone. 
"In 
any 
case, 
we 
were 
told 
not 
to 
speak of the plan to anyone. This is a betrayal of the Dark Lord's" 


"Let 
go, 
Bella!" 
snarled 
Narcissa, 
and 
she 
drew 
a 
wand 
from 
beneath 
her 
cloak, 
holding 
it 
threateningly in the other's face. Bella merely laughed. 


"Cissy, your own sister? You wouldn't" 


"There is nothing I wouldn't do anymore!" Narcissa breathed, a note of hysteria in her voice, and as she 
brought 
down 
the 
wand 
like 
a 
knife, 
there 
was 
another 
flash 
of 
light. 
Bella 
let 
go 
of 
her 
sister's 
arm 
as 
though burned. 


"Narcissa!" 


But 
Narcissa 
had 
rushed 
ahead. 
Rubbing 
her 
hand, 
her 
pursuer 
followed 
again, 
keeping 
her 
distance 
now, 
as 
they 
moved 
deeper 
into 
the 
deserted 
labyrinth 
of 
brick 
houses. 
At 
last, 
Narcissa 
hurried 
up 
a 
street 
named 
Spinner's 
End, 
over 
which 
the 
towering 
mill 
chimney 
seemed 
to 
hover 
like 
a 
giant 
admonitory 
finger. 
Her 
footsteps 
echoed 
on 
the 
cobbles 
as 
she 
passed 
boarded 
and 
broken 
windows, 
until 
she 
reached 
the 
very 
last 
house, 
where 
a 
dim 
light 
glimmered 
through 
the 
curtains 
in 
a 
downstairs 
room. 


She 
had 
knocked 
on 
the 
door 
before 
Bella, 
cursing 
under 
her 
breath, 
had 
caught 
up. 
Together 
they 
stood 
waiting, 
panting 
slightly, 
breathing 
in 
the 
smell 
of 
the 
dirty 
river 
that 
was 
carried 
to 
them 
on 
the 
night 
breeze. 
After 
a 
few 
seconds, 
they 
heard 
movement 
behind 
the 
door 
and 
it 
opened 
a 
crack. 
A 
sliver 
of a 
man 
could 
be 
seen 
looking 
out 
at 
them, 
a 
man 
with 
long 
black 
hair 
parted 
in 
curtains 
around 
a sallow face and black eyes. 


Narcissa 
threw 
back 
her 
hood. 
She 
was 
so 
pale 
that 
she 
seemed 
to 
shine 
in 
the 
darkness; 
the 
long 
blonde hair streaming down her back gave her the look of a drowned person. 


"Narcissa!" 
said 
the 
man, 
opening 
the 
door 
a 
little 
wider, 
so 
that 
the 
light 
fell 
upon 
her 
and 
her 
sister 
too. "What a pleasant surprise! 


"Severus," she said in a strained whisper. "May I speak to you? It's urgent." 


"But of course." 


He 
stood 
back 
to 
allow 
her 
to 
pass 
him 
into 
the 
house. 
Her 
stillhooded 
sister 
followed 
without 
invitation. 


"Snape," she said curtly as she passed him. 



"Bellatrix," 
he 
replied, 
his 
thin 
mouth 
curling 
into 
a 
slightly 
mocking 
smile 
as 
he 
closed 
the 
door 
with 


a snap behind them. 
They 
had 
stepped 
directly 
into 
a 
tiny 
sitting 
room, 
which 
had 
the 
feeling 
of 
a 
dark, 
padded 
cell. 
The 
walls 
were 
completely 
covered 
in 
books, 
most 
of 
them 
bound 
in 
old 
black 
or 
brown 
leather; 
a 
threadbare 
sofa, 
an 
old 
armchair, 
and 
a 
rickety 
table 
stood 
grouped 
together 
in 
a 
pool 
of 
dim 
light 
cast 
by 
a 
candlefilled 
lamp 
hung 
from 
the 
ceiling. 
The 
place 
had 
an 
air 
of 
neglect, 
as 
though 
it 
was 
not 
usually inhabited. 


Snape 
gestured 
Narcissa 
to 
the 
sofa. 
She 
threw 
off 
her 
cloak, 
cast 
it 
aside, 
and 
sat 
down, 
staring 
at 
her 
white 
and 
trembling 
hands 
clasped 
in 
her 
lap. 
Bellatrix 
lowered 
her 
hood 
more 
slowly. 
Dark 
as 
her 
sister 
was 
fair, 
with 
heavily 
lidded 
eyes 
and 
a 
strong 
jaw, 
she 
did 
not 
take 
her 
gaze 
from 
Snape 
as 
she 
moved to stand behind Narcissa. 


"So, what can I do for you?" Snape asked, settling himself in the armchair opposite the two sisters. 
"We... we are alone, aren't we?" Narcissa asked quietly. 
'Yes, of course. Well, Wormtail's here, but we're not counting vermin, are we?" 
He 
pointed 
his 
wand 
at 
the 
wall 
of 
books 
behind 
him 
and 
with 
a 
bang, 
a 
hidden 
door 
flew 
open, 


revealing a narrow staircase upon which a small man stood frozen. 
"As you have clearly realized, Wormtail, we have guests," said Snape lazily. 
The 
man 
crept, 
hunchbacked, 
down 
the 
last 
few 
steps 
and 
moved 
into 
the 
room. 
He 
had 
small, 
watery 


eyes, 
a 
pointed 
nose, 
and 
wore 
an 
unpleasant 
simper. 
His 
left 
hand 
was 
caressing 
his 
right, 
which 
looked as though it was encased in a bright silver glove. 
"Narcissa!" he said, in a squeaky voice. "And Bellatrix! How charming" 
"Wormtail will get us drinks, if you'd like them," said Snape. "And then he will return to his bedroom." 
Wormtail winced as though Snape had thrown something at him. 
"I am not your servant!" he squeaked, avoiding Snape's eye. 
"Really? I was under the impression that the Dark Lord placed you here to assist me." 


"To assist, yesbut 
not to make you drinks andand 
clean your house!" 
"I 
had 
no 
idea, 
Wormtail, 
that 
you 
were 
craving 
more 
dangerous 
assignments," 
said 
Snape 
silkily. 
"This can be easily arranged: I shall speak to the Dark Lord" 


"I can speak to him myself if I want to!" 


"Of 
course 
you 
can," 
said 
Snape, 
sneering. 
"But 
in 
the 
meantime, 
bring 
us 
drinks. 
Some 
of 
the 
elfmade 
wine will do." 
Wormtail 
hesitated 
for 
a 
moment, 
looking 
as 
though 
he 
might 
argue, 
but 
then 
turned 
and 
headed 


through 
a 
second 
hidden 
door. 
They 
heard 
banging 
and 
a 
clinking 
of 
glasses. 
Within 
seconds 
he 
was 
back, 
bearing 
a 
dusty 
bottle 
and 
three 
glasses 
upon 
a 
tray. 
He 
dropped 
these 
on 
the 
rickety 
table 
and 



scurried from their presence, slamming the bookcovered 
door behind him. 


Snape 
poured 
out 
three 
glasses 
of 
bloodred 
wine 
and 
handed 
two 
of 
them 
to 
the 
sisters. 
Narcissa 
murmured 
a 
word 
of 
thanks, 
whilst 
Bellatrix 
said 
nothing, 
but 
continued 
to 
glower 
at 
Snape. 
This 
did 
not seem to discompose him; on the contrary, he looked rather amused. 


"The Dark Lord," he said, raising his glass and draining it. 


The 
sisters 
copied 
him. 
Snape 
refilled 
their 
glasses. 
As 
Narcissa 
took 
her 
second 
drink 
she 
said 
in 
a 
rush, 
"Severus, 
I'm 
sorry 
to 
come 
here 
like 
this, 
but 
I 
had 
to 
see 
you. 
I 
think 
you 
are 
the 
only 
one 
who 
can help me" 


Snape 
held 
up 
a 
hand 
to 
stop 
her, 
then 
pointed 
his 
wand 
again 
at 
the 
concealed 
staircase 
door. 
There 
was a loud bang and a squeal, followed by the sound of Wormtail scurrying back up the stairs. 


"My 
apologies," 
said 
Snape. 
"He 
has 
lately 
taken 
to 
listening 
at 
doors, 
I 
don't 
know 
what 
he 
means 
by 
it... You were saying, Narcissa?" 


She took a great, shuddering breath and started again. 


"Severus, I know I ought not to be here, I have been told to say nothing to anyone, but" 


"Then you ought to hold your tongue!" snarled Bellatrix. "Particularly in present company!" 


'"Present company'?" repeated Snape sardonically. "And what urn I to understand by that, Bellatrix?" 


"That I don't trust you, Snape, as you very well know!" 


Narcissa 
let 
out 
a 
noise 
that 
might 
have 
been 
a 
dry 
sob 
and 
covered 
her 
face 
with 
her 
hands. 
Snape 
set 
his 
glass 
down 
upon 
the 
table 
and 
sat 
back 
again, 
his 
hands 
upon 
the 
arms 
of 
his 
chair, 
smiling 
into 
Bellatrix's glowering face. 


"Narcissa, 
I 
think 
we 
ought 
to 
hear 
what 
Bellatrix 
is 
bursting 
to 
say; 
it 
will 
save 
tedious 
interruptions. 
Well, continue, Bellatrix," said Snape. "Why is it that you do not trust me?" 


"A 
hundred 
reasons!" 
she 
said 
loudly, 
striding 
out 
from 
behind 
the 
sofa 
to 
slam 
her 
glass 
upon 
the 
table. "Where to start! Where were you when the Dark Lord fell? Why did you never make any attempt 
to 
find 
him 
when 
he 
vanished? 
What 
have 
you 
been 
doing 
all 
these 
years 
that 
you've 
lived 
in 
Dumbledore's 
pocket? 
Why 
did 
you 
stop 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
procuring 
the 
Sorcerer's 
Stone? 
Why 
did 
you 
not 
return 
at 
once 
when 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
was 
reborn? 
Where 
were 
you 
a 
few 
weeks 
ago 
when 
we 
battled 
to 
retrieve 
the 
prophecy 
for 
the 
Dark 
Lord? 
And 
why, 
Snape, 
is 
Harry 
Potter 
still 
alive, 
when 
you 
have 
had him at your mercy for five years?" 


She 
paused, 
her 
chest 
rising 
and 
falling 
rapidly, 
the 
color 
high 
in 
her 
cheeks. 
Behind 
her, 
Narcissa 
sat 
motionless, her face still hidden in her hands. 


Snape smiled. 


"Before 
I 
answer 
you 
— 
oh 
yes, 
Bellatrix, 
I 
am 
going 
to 
answer! 
You 
can 
carry 
my 
words 
back 
to 
the 
others 
who 
whisper 
behind 
my 
back, 
and 
carry 
false 
tales 
of 
my 
treachery 
to 
the 
Dark 
Lord! 
Before 
I 



answer 
you, 
I 
say, 
let 
me 
ask 
a 
question 
in 
turn. 
Do 
you 
really 
think 
that 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
has 
not 
asked 
me 
each 
and 
every 
one 
of 
those 
questions? 
And 
do 
you 
really 
think 
that, 
had 
I 
not 
been 
able 
to 
give 
satisfactory answers, I would be sitting here talking to you?" 


She hesitated. 


"I know he believes you, but. . ." 


"You 
think 
he 
is 
mistaken? 
Or 
that 
I 
have 
somehow 
hoodwinked 
him? 
Fooled 
the 
Dark 
Lord, 
the 
greatest wizard, the most accomplished Legilimens the world has ever seen?" 


Bellatrix 
said 
nothing, 
but 
looked, 
for 
the 
first 
time, 
a 
little 
discomfited. 
Snape 
did 
not 
press 
the 
point. 
He 
picked 
up 
his 
drink 
again, 
sipped 
it, 
and 
continued, 
"You 
ask 
where 
I 
was 
when 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
fell. 
I 
was 
where 
he 
had 
ordered 
me 
to 
be, 
at 
Hogwarts 
School 
of 
Witchcraft 
and 
Wizardry, 
because 
he 
wished me to spy upon Albus Dumbledore. You know, I presume, that it was on the Dark Lord's orders 
that I took up the post?" 


She nodded almost imperceptibly and then opened her mouth, but Snape forestalled her. 


"You ask why I did not attempt to find him when he vanished. For the same reason that Avery, Yaxley, 
the 
Carrows, 
Greyback, 
Lucius" 
— 
he 
inclined 
his 
head 
slightly 
to 
Narcissa 
— 
"and 
many 
others 
did 
not 
attempt 
to 
find 
him. 
I 
believed 
him 
finished. 
I 
am 
not 
proud 
of 
it, 
I 
was 
wrong, 
but 
there 
it 
is. 
... 
If 
he had not forgiven we who lost faith at that time, he would have very few followers left." 


"He'd have me!" said Bellatrix passionately. "I, who spent many years in Azkaban for him!" 


"Yes, indeed, most 
admirable," 
said 
Snape 
in 
a 
bored voice. "Of 
i 
nurse, you weren't 
a 
lot 
of 
use 
to 
him 
in prison, but the gesture was undoubtedly fine —" 


"Gesture!" 
she 
shrieked; 
in 
her 
fury 
she 
looked 
slightly 
mad. 
"While 
I 
endured 
the 
dementors, 
you 
remained at Hogwarts, comfortably playing Dumbledore's pet!" 


"Not 
quite," 
said 
Snape 
calmly. 
"He 
wouldn't 
give 
me 
the 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts 
job, 
you 
know. Seemed to think it might, ah, bring about a relapse , . . tempt me into my old ways." 


"This 
was 
your 
sacrifice 
for 
the 
Dark 
Lord, 
not 
to 
teach 
your 
favorite 
subject?" 
she 
jeered. 
"Why 
did 
you stay there all that time, Snape? Still spying on Dumbledore for a master you believed dead?" 


"Hardly," 
said 
Snape, 
"although 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
is 
pleased 
that 
I 
never 
deserted 
my 
post: 
I 
had 
sixteen 
years 
of 
information 
on 
Dumbledore 
to 
give 
him 
when 
he 
returned, 
a 
rather 
more 
useful 
welcomeback 
present than endless reminiscences of how unpleasant Azkaban is. . . ." 


"But you stayed —" 


"Yes, 
Bellatrix, 
I 
stayed," 
said 
Snape, 
betraying 
a 
hint 
of 
impatience 
for 
the 
first 
time. 
"I 
had 
a 
comfortable 
job 
that 
I 
preferred 
to 
a 
stint 
in 
Azkaban. 
They 
were 
rounding 
up 
the 
Death 
Eaters, 
you 
know. 
Dumbledore's 
protection 
kept 
me 
out 
of 
jail; 
it 
was 
most 
convenient 
and 
I 
used 
it. 
I 
repeat: 
The 
Dark Lord does not complain that I stayed, so I do not see why you do. 


"I 
think 
you 
next 
wanted 
to 
know," 
he 
pressed 
on 
a 
little 
more 
loudly, 
for 
Bellatrix 
showed 
every 
sign 



of 
interrupting, 
"why 
I 
stood 
between 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
and 
the 
Sorcerer's 
Stone. 
That 
is 
easily 
answered. 
He 
did 
not 
know 
whether 
he 
could 
trust 
me. 
He 
thought, 
like 
you, 
that 
I 
had 
turned 
from 
faithful 
Death 
Eater 
to 
Dumbledore's 
stooge. 
He 
was 
in 
a 
pitiable 
condition, 
very 
weak, 
sharing 
the 
body 
of 
a 
mediocre 
wizard. 
He 
did 
not 
dare 
reveal 
himself 
to 
a 
former 
ally 
if 
that 
ally 
might 
turn 
him 
over 
to 
Dumbledore 
or 
the 
Ministry. 
I 
deeply 
regret 
that 
he 
did 
not 
trust 
me. 
He 
would 
have 
returned 
to 
power 
three 
years 
sooner. 
As 
it 
was, 
I 
saw 
only 
greedy 
and 
unworthy 
Quirrell 
attempting 
to 
steal 
the 
stone 
and, I admit, I did all I could to thwart him." 


Bellatrix's mouth twisted as though she had taken an unpleasant dose of medicine. 


"But 
you 
didn't 
return 
when 
he 
came 
back, 
you 
didn't 
fly 
back 
to 
him 
at 
once 
when 
you 
felt 
the 
Dark 
Mark burn —" 


"Correct. I returned two hours later. I returned on Dumbledore's orders." 


"On Dumbledore's — ?" she began, in tones of outrage. 


"Think!" 
said 
Snape, 
impatient 
again. 
"Think! 
By 
waiting 
two 
hours, 
just 
two 
hours, 
I 
ensured 
that 
I 
could 
remain 
at 
Hogwarts 
as 
a 
spy! 
By 
allowing 
Dumbledore 
to 
think 
that 
I 
was 
only 
returning 
to 
the 
Dark Lord's side because I was ordered to, I have been able to pass information on Dumbledore and the 
Order 
of 
the 
Phoenix 
ever 
since! 
Consider, 
Bellatrix: 
The 
Dark 
Mark 
had 
been 
growing 
stronger 
for 
months. 
I 
knew 
he 
must 
be 
about 
to 
return, 
all 
the 
Death 
Eaters 
knew! 
I 
had 
plenty 
of 
time 
to 
think 
about what I wanted to do, to plan my next move, to escape like Karkaroff, didn't I? 


"The 
Dark 
Lord's 
initial 
displeasure 
at 
my 
lateness 
vanished 
entirely, 
1 
assure 
you, 
when 
I 
explained 
that 
1 
remained 
faithful, 
although 
Dumbledore 
thought 
I 
was 
his 
man. 
Yes, 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
thought 
that 
I had left him forever, but he was wrong." 


"But what use have you been?" sneered Bellatrix. "What useful information have we had from you?" 


"My 
information 
has 
been 
conveyed 
directly 
to 
the 
Dark 
Lord," 
said 
Snape. 
"If 
he 
chooses 
not 
to 
share 
it with you —" 


"He 
shares 
everything 
with 
me!" 
said 
Bellatrix, 
firing 
up 
at 
once. 
"He 
calls 
me 
his 
most 
loyal, 
his 
most 
faithful —" 


"Does 
he?" 
said 
Snape, 
his 
voice 
delicately 
inflected 
to 
suggest 
his 
disbelief. 
"Does 
he 
still, 
after 
the 
fiasco at the Ministry?" 


"That 
was 
not 
my 
fault!" 
said 
Bellatrix, 
flushing. 
"The 
Dark 
Lord 
has, 
in 
the 
past, 
entrusted 
me 
with 
his most precious — if Lucius hadn't —" 


"Don't 
you 
dare 
— 
don't 
you 
dare 
blame 
my 
husband!" 
said 
Narcissa, 
in 
a 
low 
and 
deadly 
voice, 
looking up at her sister. 


"There is no point apportioning blame," said Snape smoothly. "What is done, is done." 


"But 
not 
by 
you!" 
said 
Bellatrix 
furiously. 
"No, 
you 
were 
once 
again 
absent 
while 
the 
rest 
of 
us 
ran 
dangers, were you not, Snape?" 



"My 
orders 
were 
to 
remain 
behind," 
said 
Snape. 
"Perhaps 
you 
disagree 
with 
the 
Dark 
Lord, 
perhaps 
you 
think 
that 
Dumbledore 
would 
not 
have 
noticed 
if 
I 
had 
joined 
forces 
with 
the 
Death 
Eaters 
to 
fight 
the 
Order 
of 
the 
Phoenix? 
And 
— 
forgive 
me 
— 
you 
speak 
of 
dangers 
. 
. 
. 
you 
were 
facing 
six 
teenagers, were you not?" 


"They 
were 
joined, 
as 
you 
very 
well 
know, 
by 
half 
of 
the 
Order 
before 
long!" 
snarled 
Bellatrix. 
"And, 
while 
we 
are 
on 
the 
subject 
of 
the 
Order, 
you 
still 
claim 
you 
cannot 
reveal 
the 
whereabouts 
of 
their 
headquarters, don't you?" 


"I 
am 
not 
the 
SecretKeeper; 
I 
cannot 
speak 
the 
name 
of 
the 
place. 
You 
understand 
how 
the 
enchantment 
works, 
I 
think? 
The 
Dark 
Lord 
is 
satisfied 
with 
the 
information 
I 
have 
passed 
him 
on 
the 
Order. It led, as perhaps you have guessed, to the recent capture and murder of Emmeline Vance, and it 
certainly helped dispose of Sirius Black, though I give you full credit for finishing him off." 


He inclined his head and toasted her. Her expression did nor soften. 


"You 
are 
avoiding 
my 
last 
question, 
Snape. 
Harry 
Potter. 
You 
could 
have 
killed 
him 
at 
any 
point 
in 
the 
past five years. You have not done it. Why?" 


"Have you discussed this matter with the Dark Lord?" asked Snape. 


"He . . . lately, we ... I am asking you, Snape!" 


"If 
I 
had 
murdered 
Harry 
Potter, 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
could 
not 
have 
used 
his 
blood 
to 
regenerate, 
making 
him invincible —" 


"You claim you foresaw his use of the boy!" she jeered. 


"I 
do 
not 
claim 
it; 
I 
had 
no 
idea 
of 
his 
plans; 
I 
have 
already 
confessed 
that 
I 
thought 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
dead. 
I 
am 
merely 
trying 
to 
explain 
why 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
is 
not 
sorry 
that 
Potter 
survived, 
at 
least 
until 
a 
year ago. . . ." 


"But why did you keep him alive?" 


"Have 
you 
not 
understood 
me? 
It 
was 
only 
Dumbledore's 
protection 
that 
was 
keeping 
me 
out 
of 
Azkaban! 
Do 
you 
disagree 
that 
murdering 
his 
favorite 
student 
might 
have 
turned 
him 
against 
me? 
But 
there 
was 
more 
to 
it 
than 
that. 
I 
should 
remind 
you 
that 
when 
Potter 
first 
arrived 
at 
Hogwarts 
there 
were 
still 
many 
stories 
circulating 
about 
him, 
rumors 
that 
he 
himself 
was 
a 
great 
Dark 
wizard, 
which 
was 
how 
he 
had 
survived 
the 
Dark 
Lord's 
attack. 
Indeed, 
many 
of 
the 
Dark 
Lords 
old 
followers 
thought 
Potter 
might 
be 
a 
standard 
around 
which 
we 
could 
all 
rally 
once 
more. 
I 
was 
curious, 
1 
admit 
it, and not at all inclined to murder him the moment he set fool in the castle. 


"Of 
course, 
it 
became 
apparent 
to 
me 
very 
quickly 
that 
he 
had 
no 
extraordinary 
talent 
at 
all. 
He 
has 
fought 
his 
way 
out 
of 
a 
number 
of 
tight 
corners 
by 
a 
simple 
combination 
of 
sheer 
luck 
and 
more 
talented 
friends. 
He 
is 
mediocre 
to 
the 
last 
degree, 
though 
as 
obnoxious 
and 
selfsatisfied 
as 
was 
his 
father 
before 
him. 
I 
have 
done 
my 
utmost 
to 
have 
him 
thrown 
out 
of 
Hogwarts, 
where 
I 
believe 
he 
scarcely belongs, but kill him, or allow him to be killed in front of me? I would have been a fool to risk 
it with Dumbledore close at hand." 



"And 
through 
all 
this 
we 
are 
supposed 
to 
believe 
Dumbledore 
has 
never 
suspected 
you?" 
asked 
Bellatrix. "He has no idea of your true allegiance, he trusts you implicitly still?" 


"I 
have 
played 
my 
part 
well," 
said 
Snape. 
"And 
you 
overlook 
Dumbledore's 
greatest 
weakness: 
He 
has 
to 
believe 
the 
best 
of 
people. 
I 
spun 
him 
a 
tale 
of 
deepest 
remorse 
when 
I 
joined 
his 
staff, 
fresh 
from 
my 
Death 
Eater 
days, 
and 
he 
embraced 
me 
with 
open 
arms 
— 
though, 
as 
I 
say, 
never 
allowing 
me 
nearer 
the 
Dark 
Arts 
than 
he 
could 
help. 
Dumbledore 
has 
been 
a 
great 
wizard 
— 
oh 
yes, 
he 
has," 
(for 
Bellatrix 
had 
made 
a 
scathing 
noise), 
"the 
Dark 
Lord 
acknowledges 
it. 
I 
am 
pleased 
to 
say, 
however, 
that 
Dumbledore 
is 
growing 
old. 
The 
duel 
with 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
last 
month 
shook 
him. 
He 
has 
since 
sustained 
a 
serious 
injury 
because 
his 
reactions 
are 
slower 
than 
they 
once 
were. 
But 
through 
all 
these 
years, he has never stopped trusting Severus Snape, and therein lies my great value to the Dark Lord." 


Bellatrix 
still 
looked 
unhappy, 
though 
she 
appeared 
unsure 
how 
best 
to 
attack 
Snape 
next. 
Taking 
advantage of her silence, Snape turned to her sister. 


"Now . . . you came to ask me for help, Narcissa?" 


Narcissa looked up at him, her face eloquent with despair. 


"Yes, 
Severus. 
I 
— 
I 
think 
you 
are 
the 
only 
one 
who 
can 
help 
me, 
I 
have 
nowhere 
else 
to 
turn. 
Lucius 
is in jail and . . ." 


She closed her eyes and two large tears seeped from beneath her eyelids. 


"The 
Dark 
Lord 
has 
forbidden 
me 
to 
speak 
of 
it," 
Narcissa 
continued, 
her 
eyes 
still 
closed. 
"He 
wishes 
none to know of the plan. It is ... very secret. But —" 


"If he has forbidden it, you ought not to speak," said Snape at once. "The Dark Lord's word is law." 


Narcissa 
gasped 
as 
though 
he 
had 
doused 
her 
with 
cold 
water. 
Bellatrix 
looked 
satisfied 
for 
the 
first 
time since she had entered the house. 


"There!" 
she 
said 
triumphantly 
to 
her 
sister. 
"Even 
Snape 
says 
so: 
You 
were 
told 
not 
to 
talk, 
so 
hold 
your silence!" 


But 
Snape 
had 
gotten 
to 
his 
feet 
and 
strode 
to 
the 
small 
window, 
peered 
through 
the 
curtains 
at 
the 
deserted street, then closed them again with a jerk. He turned around to face Narcissa, frowning. 


"It 
so 
happens 
that 
I 
know 
of 
the 
plan," 
he 
said 
in 
a 
low 
voice. 
"I 
am 
one 
of 
the 
few 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
has 
told. 
Nevertheless, 
had 
I 
not 
been 
in 
on 
the 
secret, 
Narcissa, 
you 
would 
have 
been 
guilty 
of 
great 
treachery to the Dark Lord." 


"I 
thought 
you 
must 
know 
about 
it!" 
said 
Narcissa, 
breathing 
more 
freely. 
"He 
trusts 
you 
so, 
Severus. ..." 


"You 
know 
about 
the 
plan?" 
said 
Bellatrix, 
her 
fleeting 
expression 
of 
satisfaction 
replaced 
by 
a 
look 
of 
outrage. "You know?" 


"Certainly," 
said 
Snape. 
"But 
what 
help 
do 
you 
require, 
Narcissa? 
If 
you 
are 
imagining 
I 
can 
persuade 
the Dark Lord to change his mind, I am afraid there is no hope, none at all." 



"Severus," she whispered, tears sliding down her pale cheeks. "My son . . . my only son . . ." 


"Draco 
should 
be 
proud," 
said 
Bellatrix 
indifferently. 
"The 
Dark 
Lord 
is 
granting 
him 
a 
great 
honor. 
And I will say this for Draco: he isn't shrinking away from his duty, he seems glad of a chance to prove 
himself, excited at the prospect —" 


Narcissa began to cry in earnest, gazing beseechingly all the while at Snape. 


"That's 
because 
he 
is 
sixteen 
and 
has 
no 
idea 
what 
lies 
in 
store! 
Why, 
Severus? 
Why 
my 
son? 
It 
is 
too 
dangerous! This is vengeance lor Lucius's mistake, I know it!" 


Snape 
said 
nothing. 
He 
looked 
away 
from 
the 
sight 
of 
her 
tears 
as 
though 
they 
were 
indecent, 
but 
he 
could not pretend not to hear her. 


"That's why he's chosen Draco, isn't it?" she persisted. "To punish Lucius?" 


"If Draco succeeds," said Snape, still looking away from her, "he will be honored above all others." 


"But he won't succeed!" sobbed Narcissa. "How can he, when the Dark Lord himself— ?" 


Bellatrix gasped; Narcissa seemed to lose her nerve. 


"I 
only 
meant. 
. 
. 
that 
nobody 
has 
yet 
succeeded. 
. 
. 
. 
Severus 
. 
. 
. 
please 
. 
. 
. 
You 
are, 
you 
have 
always 
been, 
Draco's 
favorite 
teacher. 
. 
. 
. 
You 
are 
Lucius's 
old 
friend. 
... 
I 
beg 
you. 
.. 
. 
You 
are 
the 
Dark 
Lord's favorite, his most trusted advisor. . . . Will you speak to him, persuade him — ?" 


"The 
Dark 
Lord 
will 
not 
be 
persuaded, 
and 
I 
am 
not 
stupid 
enough 
to 
attempt 
it," 
said 
Snape 
flatly. 
"I 
cannot 
pretend 
that 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
is 
not 
angry 
with 
Lucius. 
Lucius 
was 
supposed 
to 
be 
in 
charge. 
He 
got 
himself 
captured, 
along 
with 
how 
many 
others, 
and 
failed 
to 
retrieve 
the 
prophecy 
into 
the 
bargain. 
Yes, the Dark Lord is angry, Narcissa, very angry indeed." 


"Then 
I 
am 
right, 
he 
has 
chosen 
Draco 
in 
revenge!" 
choked 
Narcissa. 
"He 
does 
not 
mean 
him 
to 
succeed, he wants him to be killed trying!" 


When 
Snape 
said 
nothing, 
Narcissa 
seemed 
to 
lose 
what 
little 
selfrestraint 
she 
still 
possessed. 
Standing 
up, 
she 
staggered 
to 
Snape 
and 
seized 
the 
front 
of 
his 
robes. 
Her 
face 
close 
to 
his, 
her 
tears 
falling 
onto 
his 
chest, 
she 
gasped, 
"You 
could 
do 
it. 
You 
could 
do 
it 
instead 
of 
Draco, 
Severus. 
You 
would succeed, of course you would, and he would reward you beyond all of us —" 


Snape 
caught 
hold 
of 
her 
wrists 
and 
removed 
her 
clutching 
hands. 
Looking 
down 
into 
her 
tearstained 
face, 
he 
said 
slowly, 
"He 
intends 
me 
to 
do 
it 
in 
the 
end, 
I 
think. 
But 
he 
is 
determined 
that 
Draco 
should 
try 
first. 
You 
see, 
in 
the 
unlikely 
event 
that 
Draco 
succeeds, 
I 
shall 
be 
able 
to 
remain 
at 
Hogwarts 
a 
little longer, fulfilling my useful role as spy." 


"In other words, it doesn't matter to him if Draco is killed!" 


"The 
Dark 
Lord 
is 
very 
angry," 
repeated 
Snape 
quietly. 
"He 
failed 
to 
hear 
the 
prophecy. 
You 
know 
as 
well as I do, Narcissa, that he does not forgive easily." 


She crumpled, falling at his feet, sobbing and moaning on the floor. 



"My only son . . . my only son . . ." 


"You 
should 
be 
proud!" 
said 
Bellatrix 
ruthlessly. 
"If 
I 
had 
sons, 
I 
would 
be 
glad 
to 
give 
them 
up 
to 
the 
service of the Dark Lord!" 
Narcissa 
gave 
a 
little 
scream 
of 
despair 
and 
clutched 
at 
her 
long 
blonde 
hair. 
Snape 
stooped, 
seized 
her 


by the arms, lifted her up, and steered her back onto the sofa. He then poured her more wine and forced 
the glass into her hand. 
"Narcissa, that's enough. Drink this. Listen to me." 
She quieted a little; slopping wine down herself, she took a shaky sip. 
"It might be possible ... for me to help Draco." 


She sat up, her face paperwhite, 
her eyes huge. 
"Severus 
— 
oh, 
Severus 
— 
you 
would 
help 
him? 
Would 
you 
look 
after 
him, 
see 
he 
comes 
to 
no 
harm?" 


"I can try." 


She 
flung 
away 
her 
glass; 
it 
skidded 
across 
the 
table 
as 
she 
slid 
off 
the 
sofa 
into 
a 
kneeling 
position 
at 
Snape's feet, seized his hand in both of hers, and pressed her lips to it. 
"If you are there to protect him . . . Severus, will you swear it? Will you make the Unbreakable Vow?" 
"The Unbreakable Vow?" 
Snape's expression was blank, unreadable. Bellatrix, however, let out a cackle of triumphant laughter. 
"Aren't 
you 
listening, 
Narcissa? 
Oh, 
he'll 
try, 
I'm 
sure. 
. 
. 
. 
The 
usual 
empty 
words, 
the 
usual 
slithering 


out of action . . . oh, on the Dark Lord's orders, of course!" 


Snape 
did 
not 
look 
at 
Bellatrix. 
His 
black 
eyes 
were 
fixed 
upon 
Narcissa's 
tearfilled 
blue 
ones 
as 
she 
continued to clutch his hand. 
"Certainly, 
Narcissa, 
I 
shall 
make 
the 
Unbreakable 
Vow," 
he 
said 
quietly. 
"Perhaps 
your 
sister 
will 


consent to be our Bonder." 


Bellatrix's 
mouth 
fell 
open. 
Snape 
lowered 
himself 
so 
that 
he 
was 
kneeling 
opposite 
Narcissa. 
Beneath 
Bellatrix's astonished gaze, they grasped right hands. 
"You will need your wand, Bellatrix," said Snape coldly. 
She drew it, still looking astonished. 
"And you will need to move a little closer," he said. 
She stepped forward so that she stood over them, and placed the tip of her wand on their linked hands. 
Narcissa spoke. 
"Will you, Severus, watch over my son, Draco, as he attempts to fulfill the Dark Lord's wishes?" 



"I will," said Snape. 


A 
thin 
tongue 
of 
brilliant 
flame 
issued 
from 
the 
wand 
and 
wound 
its 
way 
around 
their 
hands 
like 
a 
redhot 
wire. 
"And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?" 
"I will," said Snape. 
A 
second 
tongue 
of 
flame 
shot 
from 
the 
wand 
and 
interlinked 
with 
the 
first, 
making 
a 
fine, 
glowing 


chain. 
"And, 
should 
it 
prove 
necessary... 
if 
it 
seems 
Draco 
will 
fail. 
. 
." 
whispered 
Narcissa 
(Snape's 
hand 


twitched 
within 
hers, 
but 
he 
did 
not 
draw 
away), 
"will 
you 
carry 
out 
the 
deed 
that 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
has 
ordered Draco to perform?" 
There was a moment's silence. Bellatrix watched, her wand upon their clasped hands, her eyes wide. 
"I will," said Snape. 
Bellatrix's 
astounded 
face 
glowed 
red 
in 
the 
blaze 
of 
a 
third 
unique 
of 
flame, 
which 
shot 
from 
the 


wand, 
twisted 
with 
the 
others, 
and 
bound 
itself 
thickly 
around 
their 
clasped 
hands, 
like 
a 
rope, 
like 
a 
fiery snake. 



Chapter 3 
Will 
and Won't 



Harry Potter 
was 
snoring 
loudly. 
He 
had been sitting 
in a 
chair 
beside 
his 
bedroom 
window 
for 
the 
best 
part 
of 
four 
hours, 
staring 
out 
at 
the 
darkening 
street, 
and 
had 
finally 
fallen 
asleep 
with 
one 
side 
of 
his 
face 
pressed 
against 
the 
cold 
windowpane, 
his 
glasses 
askew 
and 
his 
mouth 
wide 
open. 
The 
misty 
fug 
his 
breath 
had 
left 
on 
the 
window 
sparkled 
in 
the 
orange 
glare 
of 
the 
streetlamp 
outside, 
and 
the 
artificial 
light 
drained 
his 
face 
of 
all 
color, 
so 
that 
he 
looked 
ghostly 
beneath 
his 
shock 
of 
untidy 
black 
hair. 


The 
room 
was 
strewn 
with 
various 
possessions 
and 
a 
good 
smattering 
of 
rubbish. 
Owl 
feathers, 
apple 
cores, 
and 
sweet 
wrappers 
littered 
the 
floor, 
a 
number 
of 
spellbooks 
lay 
higgledypiggledy 
among 
the 
tangled robes on his bed, and a mess of newspapers sat in a puddle of light on his desk. The headline of 
one blared: 


HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE? 


Rumors 
continue 
to 
fly 
about 
the 
mysterious 
recent 
disturbance 
at 
the 
Ministry 
of 
Magic, 
during 
which 
HeWhoMustNotBeNamed 
was sighted once more. 


"We're 
not 
allowed 
to 
talk 
about 
it, 
don't 
ask 
me 
anything" 
said 
one 
agitated 
Obliviator, 
who 
refused 
to 
give his name as he left the Ministry last night. 


Nevertheless, 
highly 
placed 
sources 
within 
the 
Ministry 
have 
confirmed 
that 
the 
disturbance 
centered 
on the fabled Hall of Prophecy. 


Though 
Ministry 
spokes 
wizards 
have 
hitherto 
refused 
even 
to 
confirm 
the 
existence 
of 
such 
a 
place, 
a 
growing 
number 
of 
the 
Wizarding 
community 
believe 
that 
the 
Death 
Eaters 
now 
serving 
sentences 
in 
Azkaban 
for 
trespass 
and 
attempted 
theft 
were 
attempting 
to 
steal 
a 
prophecy. 
The 
nature 
of 
that 
prophecy 
is 
unknown, 
although 
speculation 
is 
rife 
that 
it 
concerns 
Harry 
Potter, 
the 
only 
person 
ever 
known 
to 
have 
survived 
the 
Killing 
Curse, 
and 
who 
is 
also 
known 
to 
have 
been 
at 
the 
Ministry 
on 
the 
night 
in 
question. 
Some 
are 
going so 
far 
as 
to call 
Potter 
"the 
Chosen One," 
believing 
that 
the 
prophecy 
names him as the only one who will be able to rid us of HeWhoMustNo 
tBeNamed. 


The current whereabouts of the prophecy, if it exists, are unknown, although (ctd. page2, column 5) 


A second newspaper lay beside die first. This one bore die headline: 


SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDS FUDGE 


Most 
of 
this 
front 
page 
was 
taken 
up 
with 
a 
large 
blackandwhite 
picture 
of 
a 
man 
with 
a 
lionlike 
mane 
of 
thick 
hair 
and 
a 
rather 
ravaged 
face. 
The 
picture 
was 
moving 
— 
the 
man 
was 
waving 
at 
the 
ceiling. 


Rufus 
Scrimgeour, 
previously 
Head 
of 
the 
Auror 
office 
in 
the 
Department 
of 
Magical 
Law 
Enforcement, 
has 
succeeded 
Cornelius 
Fudge 
as 
Minister 
of 
Magic. 
The 
appointment 
has 
largely 
been 
greeted 
with 
enthusiasm 
by 
the 
Wizarding 
community, 
though 
rumors 
of 
a 
rift 
between 
the 
new 
Minister 
and 
Albus 
Dumbledore, 
newly 
reinstated 
Chief 
Warlock 
of 
the 
Wizengamot, 
surfaced 
within 
hours of Scrimgeour taking office. 


Scrimgeour’s 
representatives 
admitted 
that 
he 
had 
met 
with 
Dumbledore 
at 
once 
upon 
taking 



possession 
of 
the 
top 
job, 
but 
refused 
to 
comment 
on 
the 
topics 
under 
discussion. 
Albus 
Dumbledore 
is 
known to (ctd. page 3, column 2) 


To 
the 
left 
of 
this 
paper 
sat 
another, 
which 
had 
been 
folded 
so 
that 
a 
story 
bearing 
the 
title 
ministry 
guarantees students' sapety was visible. 


Newly 
appointed 
Minister 
of 
Magic, 
Rufus 
Scrimgeour, 
spoke 
today 
of 
the 
tough 
new 
measures 
taken 
by 
his 
Ministry 
to 
ensure 
the 
safety 
of 
students 
returning 
to 
Hogwarts 
School 
of 
Witchcraft 
and 
Wizardry this autumn. 


"For 
obvious 
reasons, 
the 
Ministry 
will 
not 
be 
going 
into 
detail 
about 
its 
stringent 
new 
security 
plans," 
said 
the 
Minister, 
although 
an 
insider 
confirmed 
that 
measures 
include 
defensive 
spells 
and 
charms, 
a 
complex 
array 
of 
countercurses, 
and 
a 
small 
task 
force 
of 
Aurors 
dedicated 
solely 
to 
the 
protection 
of 
Hogwarts School. 


Most 
seem 
reassured 
by 
the 
new 
Minister's 
tough 
stand 
on 
student 
safety. 
Said 
Mrs. 
Augusta 
Longbottom, 
"My 
grandson, 
Neville 
— 
a 
good 
friend 
of 
Harry 
Potter's, 
incidentally, 
who 
fought 
the 
Death Eaters alongside him at the Ministry in June and — 


But 
the 
rest 
of 
this 
story 
was 
obscured 
by 
the 
large 
birdcage 
.standing 
on 
top 
of 
it. 
Inside 
it 
was 
a 
magnificent 
snowy 
owl. 
Her 
amber 
eyes 
surveyed 
the 
room 
imperiously, 
her 
head 
swiveling 
occasionally 
to 
gaze 
at 
her 
snoring 
master. 
Once 
or 
twice 
she 
clicked 
her 
beak 
impatiently, 
but 
Harry 
was too deeply asleep to hear her. 


A 
large 
trunk 
stood 
in 
the 
very 
middle 
of 
the 
room. 
Its 
lid 
was 
open; 
it 
looked 
expectant; 
yet 
it 
was 
almost 
empty 
but 
for 
a 
residue 
of 
old 
underwear, 
sweets, 
empty 
ink 
bottles, 
and 
broken 
quills 
that 
coated the very bottom. Nearby, on the floor, lay a purple leaflet emblazoned with the words: 


ISSUED 
ON BEHALF OFThe 
Ministry of Magic 
PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK FORCES 


The 
Wizarding 
community 
is 
currently 
under 
threat 
from 
an 
organization 
calling 
itself 
the 
Death 
Eaters. 
Observing 
the 
following 
simple 
security 
guidelines 
will 
help 
protect 
you, 
your 
family, 
and 
your 
home from attack. 


1. You are advised not to leave the house alone. 
2. Particular care should be taken during the hours of darkness. Wherever possible, arrange to complete 
journeys before night has fallen. 
3. 
Review 
the 
security 
arrangements 
around 
your 
house, 
making 
sure 
that 
all 
family 
members 
are 
aware of emergency measures such as Shield and Disillusionment Charms, and, in the case of underage 
family members, SideAlongApparition. 
4. 
Agree 
on 
security 
questions 
with 
close 
friends 
and 
family 
so 
as 
to 
detect 
Death 
Eaters 
masquerading 
as others by use of the Polyjuice Potion (see page 2). 

5. 
Should 
you 
feel 
that 
a 
family 
member, 
colleague, 
friend, 
or 
neighbor 
is 
acting 
in 
a 
strange 
manner, 
contact 
the 
Magical 
Law 
Enforcement 
Squad 
at 
once. 
They 
may 
have 
been 
put 
under 
the 
Imperius 
Curse (see page 4). 
6. 
Should 
the 
Dark 
Mark 
appear 
over 
any 
dwelling 
place 
or 
other 
building, 
DO 
NOT 
ENTER, 
but 
contact the Auror office immediately. 
7. 
Unconfirmed 
sightings 
suggest 
that 
the 
Death 
Eaters 
may 
now 
be 
using 
Inferi 
(see 
page 
10). 
Any 
sighting of an Inferius, or encounter with same, should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY. 
Harry 
grunted 
in 
his 
sleep 
and 
his 
face 
slid 
down 
the 
window 
an 
inch 
or 
so, 
making 
his 
glasses 
still 
more 
lopsided, 
but 
he 
did 
not 
wake 
up. 
An 
alarm 
clock, 
repaired 
by 
Harry 
several 
years 
ago, 
ticked 
loudly 
on 
the 
sill, 
showing 
one 
minute 
to 
eleven. 
Beside 
it, 
held 
in 
place 
by 
Harry's 
relaxed 
hand, 
was 
a 
piece 
of 
parchment 
covered 
in 
thin, 
slanting 
writing. 
Harry 
had 
read 
this 
letter 
so 
often 
since 
its 
arrival three days ago that although it had been delivered in a tightly furled scroll, it now lay quite flat. 


Dear Harry, 


If 
it 
is 
convenient 
to 
you, 
I 
shall 
call 
at 
number 
four, 
Privet 
Drive 
this 
coming 
Friday 
at 
eleven 
p.m. 
to 
escort you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays. 


If 
you 
are 
agreeable, 
I 
should 
also 
be 
glad 
of 
your 
assistance 
in 
a 
matter 
to 
which 
I 
hope 
to 
attend 
on 
the way to the . Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you. 


Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday, 


I am, yours most sincerely, 


Albus Dumbledore 


Though 
he 
already 
knew 
it 
by 
heart, 
Harry 
had 
been 
stealing 
glances 
at 
this 
missive 
every 
few 
minutes 
since 
seven 
o'clock 
that 
evening, 
when 
he 
had 
first 
taken 
up 
his 
position 
beside 
his 
bedroom 
window, 
which 
had 
a 
reasonable 
view 
of 
both 
ends 
of 
Privet 
Drive. 
He 
knew 
it 
was 
pointless 
to 
keep 
rereading 
Dumbledore's 
words; 
Harry 
had 
sent 
back 
his 
"yes" 
with 
the 
delivering 
owl, 
as 
requested, 
and 
all 
he 
could do now was wait: Either Dumbledore was going to come, or he was not. 


But 
Harry 
had 
not 
packed. 
It 
just 
seemed 
too 
good 
to 
be 
true 
that 
he 
was 
going 
to 
be 
rescued 
from 
the 
Dursleys 
after 
a 
mere 
fortnight 
of 
their 
company. 
He 
could 
not 
shrug 
off 
the 
feeling 
that 
something 
was 
going 
to 
go 
wrong 
— 
his 
reply 
to 
Dumbledore's 
letter 
might 
have 
gone 
astray; 
Dumbledore 
could 
be prevented from collecting him; the letter might turn out not to be from Dumbledore at all, but a trick 
or 
joke 
or 
trap. 
Harry 
had 
not 
been 
able 
to 
face 
packing 
and 
then 
being 
let 
down 
and 
having 
to 
unpack 
again. The only gesture he had made to the possibility of a journey was to shut his snowy owl, Hedwig, 
safely in her cage. 


The 
minute 
hand 
on 
the 
alarm 
clock 
reached 
the 
number 
twelve 
and, 
at 
that 
precise 
moment, 
the 
streetlamp 
outside the window went out. 


Harry 
awoke 
as 
though 
the 
sudden 
darkness 
were 
an 
alarm. 
Hastily 
straightening 
his 
glasses 
and 



unsticking 
his 
cheek 
from 
the 
glass, 
he 
pressed 
his 
nose 
against 
the 
window 
instead 
and 
squinted 
down 
at the pavement. A tall figure in a long, billowing cloak was walking up the garden path. 


Harry 
jumped 
up 
as 
though 
he 
had 
received 
an 
electric 
shock, 
knocked 
over 
his 
chair, 
and 
started 
snatching 
anything 
and 
everything 
within 
reach 
from 
the 
floor 
and 
throwing 
it 
into 
the 
trunk. 
Even 
as 
he 
lobbed 
a 
set 
of 
robes, 
two 
spellbooks, 
and 
a 
packet 
of 
crisps 
across 
the 
room, 
the 
doorbell 
rang. 
Downstairs 
in 
the 
living 
room 
his 
Uncle 
Vernon 
shouted, 
"Who 
the 
blazes 
is 
calling 
at 
this 
lime 
of 
night?" 


Harry 
froze 
with 
a 
brass 
telescope 
in 
one 
hand 
and 
a 
pair 
of 
trainers 
in 
the 
other. 
He 
had 
completely 
forgotten 
to 
warn 
the 
Dursleys 
that 
Dumbledore 
might 
be 
coming. 
Feeling 
both 
panicky 
mid 
close 
to 
laughter, 
he 
clambered 
over 
the 
trunk 
and 
wrenched 
open 
his 
bedroom 
door 
in 
time 
to 
hear 
a 
deep 
voice 
say, 
"Good 
evening. 
You 
must 
be 
Mr. 
Dursley. 
I 
daresay 
Harry 
has 
told 
you 
I 
would 
be 
coming 
for him?" 


Harry ran down the stairs two at a time, coming to an abrupt halt several steps from the bottom, as long 
experience 
had 
taught 
him 
to 
remain 
out 
of 
arm's 
reach 
of 
his 
uncle 
whenever 
possible. 
There 
in 
the 
doorway 
stood 
a 
tall, 
thin 
man 
with 
waistlength 
silver 
hair 
and 
beard. 
Halfmoon 
spectacles 
were 
perched 
on 
his 
crooked 
nose, 
and 
he 
was 
wearing 
a 
long 
black 
traveling 
cloak 
and 
.1 
pointed 
hat. 
Vernon 
Dursley, 
whose 
mustache 
was 
quite 
as 
bushy 
as 
Dumbledore's, 
though 
black, 
and 
who 
was 
wearing a puce dressing gown, was staring at the visitor as though he could not believe his tiny eyes. 


"Judging 
by 
your 
look 
of 
stunned 
disbelief, 
Harry 
did 
not 
warn 
you 
that 
I 
was 
coming," 
said 
Dumbledore 
pleasantly. 
"However, 
let 
us 
assume 
that 
you 
have 
invited 
me 
warmly 
into 
your 
house. 
It 
is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times." 


He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the front door behind him. 


"It 
is 
a 
long 
time 
since 
my 
last 
visit," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
peering 
down 
his 
crooked 
nose 
at 
Uncle 
Vernon. "I must say, your agapanthus are flourishing." 


Vernon 
Dursley 
said 
nothing 
at 
all. 
Harry 
did 
not 
doubt 
that 
speech 
would 
return 
to 
him, 
and 
soon 
— 
the 
vein 
pulsing 
in 
his 
uncles 
temple 
was 
reaching 
danger 
point 
— 
but 
something 
about 
Dumbledore 
seemed 
to 
have 
robbed 
him 
temporarily 
of 
breath. 
It 
might 
have 
been 
the 
blatant 
wizardishness 
of 
his 
appearance, 
but 
it 
might, 
too, 
have 
been 
that 
even 
Uncle 
Vernon 
could 
sense 
that 
here 
was 
a 
man 
whom it would be very difficult to bully. 


"Ah, 
good 
evening 
Harry," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
looking 
up 
at 
him 
through 
his 
halfmoon 
glasses 
with 
a 
most satisfied expression. "Excellent, excellent." 


These 
words 
seemed 
to 
rouse 
Uncle 
Vernon. 
It 
was 
clear 
that 
as 
far 
as 
he 
was 
concerned, 
any 
man 
who 
could look at Harry and say "excellent" was a man with whom he could never see eye to eye. 


"I don't mean to be rude —" he began, in a tone that threatened rudeness in every syllable. 


"yet, 
sadly, 
accidental 
rudeness 
occurs 
alarmingly 
often," 
Dumbledore 
finished 
the 
sentence 
gravely. 
"Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah, and this must be Petunia." 



The 
kitchen 
door 
had 
opened, 
and 
there 
stood 
Harry's 
aunt, 
wearing 
rubber 
gloves 
and 
a 
housecoat 
over 
her 
nightdress, 
clearly 
halfway 
through 
her 
usual 
prebedtime 
wipedown 
of 
all 
the 
kitchen 
surfaces. Her rather horsey face registered nothing but shock. 


"Albus 
Dumbledore," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
when 
Uncle 
Vernon 
failed 
to 
effect 
an 
introduction. 
"We 
have 
corresponded, 
of 
course." 
Harry 
thought 
this 
an 
odd 
way 
of 
reminding 
Aunt 
Petunia 
that 
he 
had 
once 
sent 
her 
an 
exploding 
letter, 
but 
Aunt 
Petunia 
did 
not 
challenge 
the 
term. 
"And 
this 
must 
be 
your 
son, 
Dudley?" 


Dudley 
had 
that 
moment 
peered 
round 
the 
living 
room 
door. 
His 
large, 
blond 
head 
rising 
out 
of 
the 
stripy 
collar 
of 
his 
pajamas 
looked 
oddly 
disembodied, 
his 
mouth 
gaping 
in 
astonishment 
and 
I 
car. 
Dumbledore 
waited 
a 
moment 
or 
two, 
apparently 
to 
see 
whether 
any 
of 
the 
Dursleys 
were 
going 
to 
say 
anything, but as the •.ilcncc stretched on he smiled. 


"Shall we assume that you have invited me into your sitting room?" 


Dudley 
scrambled 
out 
of 
the 
way 
as 
Dumbledore 
passed 
him. 
Harry, 
still 
clutching 
the 
telescope 
and 
trainers, 
jumped 
the 
last 
few 
stairs 
and 
followed 
Dumbledore, 
who 
had 
settled 
himself 
in 
the 
armchair 
nearest 
the 
fire 
and 
was 
taking 
in 
the 
surroundings 
with 
an 
expression 
of 
benign 
interest. 
He 
looked 
quite extraordinarily out of place. 


"Aren't —aren't 
we leaving, sir?" Harry asked anxiously. 


"Yes, 
indeed 
we 
are, 
but 
there 
are 
a 
few 
matters 
we 
need 
to 
discuss 
first," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"And 
I 
would 
prefer 
not 
to 
do 
so 
in 
the 
open. 
We 
shall 
trespass 
upon 
your 
aunt 
and 
uncle's 
hospitality 
only 
a 
little longer." 


"You will, will you?" 


Vernon Dursley had entered the room, Petunia at his shoulder, and Dudley skulking behind them both. 


"Yes," said Dumbledore simply, "I shall." 


He 
drew 
his 
wand 
so 
rapidly 
that 
Harry 
barely 
saw 
it; 
with 
a 
casual 
flick, 
the 
sofa 
zoomed 
forward 
and 
knocked 
the 
knees 
out 
from 
under 
all 
three 
of 
the 
Dursleys 
so 
that 
they 
collapsed 
upon 
it 
in 
a 
heap. 
Another flick of the wand and the sofa zoomed back to its original position. 


"We may as well be comfortable," said Dumbledore pleasantly. 


As 
he 
replaced 
his 
wand 
in 
his 
pocket, 
Harry 
saw 
that 
his 
hand 
was 
blackened 
and 
shriveled; 
it 
looked 
as though his flesh had been burned away. 
"Sir — what happened to your — ?" 


"Later, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Please sit down." 


Harry 
took 
the 
remaining 
armchair, 
choosing 
not 
to 
look 
at 
the 
Dursleys, 
who 
seemed 
stunned 
into 
silence. 


"I 
would 
assume 
that 
you 
were 
going 
to 
offer 
me 
refreshment," 
Dumbledore 
said 
to 
Uncle 
Vernon, 
"but the evidence so far suggests that that would be optimistic to the point of foolishness." 



A 
third 
twitch 
of 
the 
wand, 
and 
a 
dusty 
bottle 
and 
five 
glasses 
appeared 
in 
midair. 
The 
bottle 
tipped 
and 
poured 
a 
generous 
measure 
of 
honeycolored 
liquid 
into 
each 
of 
the 
glasses, 
which 
then 
floated 
to 
each person in the room. 


"Madam 
Rosmerta’s 
finest 
oakmatured 
mead," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
raising 
his 
glass 
to 
Harry, 
who 
caught 
hold 
of 
his 
own 
and 
sipped. 
He 
had 
never 
tasted 
anything 
like 
it 
before, 
but 
enjoyed 
it 
immensely. 
The 
Dursleys, 
after 
quick, 
scared 
looks 
at 
one 
another, 
tried 
to 
ignore 
their 
glasses 
completely, 
a 
difficult 
feat, 
as 
they 
were 
nudging 
them 
gently 
on 
the 
sides 
of 
their 
heads. 
Harry 
could 
not suppress a suspicion that Dumbledore was rather enjoying himself. 


"Well, 
Harry," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
turning 
toward 
him, 
"a 
difficulty 
has 
arisen 
which 
I 
hope 
you 
will 
be 
able 
to 
solve 
for 
us. 
By 
us, 
I 
mean 
the 
Order 
of 
the 
Phoenix. 
But 
first 
of 
all 
I 
must 
tell 
you 
that 
Sirius's 
will was discovered a week ago and that he left you everything he owned." 


Over 
on 
the 
sofa, 
Uncle 
Vernon’s 
head 
turned, 
but 
Harry 
did 
not 
look 
at 
him, 
nor 
could 
he 
think 
of 
anything to say except, "Oh. Right." 


"This 
is, 
in 
the 
main, 
fairly 
straightforward," 
Dumbledore 
went 
on. 
"You 
add 
a 
reasonable 
amount 
of 
gold 
to 
your 
account 
at 
Gringotts, 
and 
you 
inherit 
all 
of 
Sirius's 
personal 
possessions. 
The 
slightly 
problematic part of the legacy —" 


"His 
godfather's 
dead?" 
said 
Uncle 
Vernon 
loudly 
from 
the 
sofa. 
Dumbledore 
and 
Harry 
both 
turned 
to 
look 
at 
him. 
The 
glass 
of 
mead 
was 
now 
knocking 
quite 
insistently 
on 
the 
side 
of 
Vernon’s 
head; 
he 
attempted to beat it away. "He's dead? His godfather?" 


"Yes," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
He 
did 
not 
ask 
Harry 
why 
he 
had 
not 
confided 
in 
the 
Dursleys. 
"Our 
problem," 
he 
continued 
to 
Harry, 
as 
if 
there 
had 
been 
no 
interruption, 
"is 
that 
Sirius 
also 
left 
you 
number twelve, Grimmauld Place." 


"He's 
been 
left 
a 
house?" 
said 
Uncle 
Vernon 
greedily, 
his 
small 
eyes 
narrowing, 
but 
nobody 
answered 
him. 


"You 
can 
keep 
using 
it 
as 
headquarters," 
said 
Harry. 
"I 
don't 
care. 
You 
can 
have 
it, 
I 
don't 
really 
want 
it." 
Harry 
never 
wanted 
to 
set 
foot 
in 
number 
twelve, 
Grimmauld 
Place 
again 
if 
he 
could 
help 
it. 
He 
thought 
he 
would 
be 
haunted 
forever 
by 
the 
memory 
of 
Sirius 
prowling 
its 
dark 
musty 
rooms 
alone, 
imprisoned within the place he had wanted so desperately to leave. 


"That is generous," said Dumbledore. "We have, however, vacated the building temporarily." 


"Why?" 


"Well," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
ignoring 
the 
mutterings 
of 
Uncle 
Vernon, 
who 
was 
now 
being 
rapped 
smartly 
over 
the 
head 
by 
the 
persistent 
glass 
of 
mead, 
"Black 
family 
tradition 
decreed 
that 
the 
house 
was 
handed 
down 
the 
direct 
line, 
to 
the 
next 
male 
with 
the 
name 
of 
'Black.' 
Sirius 
was 
the 
very 
last 
of 
the 
line 
as 
his 
younger 
brother, 
Regulus, 
predeceased 
him 
and 
both 
were 
childless. 
While 
his 
will 
makes 
it 
perfectly 
plain 
that 
he 
wants 
you 
to 
have 
the 
house, 
it 
is 
nevertheless 
possible 
that 
some 
spell 
or 
enchantment 
has 
been 
set 
upon 
the 
place 
to 
ensure 
that 
it 
cannot 
be 
owned 
by 
anyone 
other 
than 
a 



pureblood." 


A 
vivid 
image 
of 
the 
shrieking, 
spitting 
portrait 
of 
Sirius's 
mother 
that 
hung 
in 
the 
hall 
of 
number 
twelve, Grimmauld Place flashed into Harry's mind. "I bet there has," he said. 


"Quite," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"And 
if 
such 
an 
enchantment 
exists, 
then 
the 
ownership 
of 
the 
house 
is 
most 
likely 
to 
pass 
to 
the 
eldest 
of 
Sirius's 
living 
relatives, 
which 
would 
mean 
his 
cousin, 
Bellatrix 
Lestrange." 


Without 
realizing 
what 
he 
was 
doing, 
Harry 
sprang 
to 
his 
feet; 
the 
telescope 
and 
trainers 
in 
his 
lap 
rolled across the floor. Bellatrix Lestrange, Sirius's killer, inherit his house? 


"No," he said. 


"Well, 
obviously 
we 
would 
prefer 
that 
she 
didn't 
get 
it 
either," 
said 
Dumbledore 
calmly. 
"The 
situation 
is 
fraught 
with 
complications. 
We 
do 
not 
know 
whether 
the 
enchantments 
we 
ourselves 
have 
placed 
upon 
it, 
for 
example, 
making 
it 
Unplottable, 
will 
hold 
now 
that 
ownership 
has 
passed 
from 
Sirius's 
hands. 
It 
might 
be 
that 
Bellatrix 
will 
arrive 
on 
the 
doorstep 
at 
any 
moment. 
Naturally 
we 
had 
to 
move 
out until such time as we have clarified the position," 


"But how are you going to find out if I'm allowed to own it?" 


"Fortunately," said Dumbledore, "there is a simple test." 


He placed his empty glass on a small table beside his chair, but before he could do anything else, Uncle 
Vernon shouted, "Will you get these ruddy things off us?" 


Harry 
looked 
around; 
all 
three 
of 
the 
Dursleys 
were 
cowering 
with 
their 
arms 
over 
their 
heads 
as 
their 
glasses bounced up and down on their skulls, their contents flying everywhere. 


"Oh, 
I'm 
so 
sorry," 
said 
Dumbledore 
politely, 
and 
he 
raised 
his 
wand 
again. 
All 
three 
glasses 
vanished. "But it would have been better manners to drink it, you know." 


It 
looked 
as 
though 
Uncle 
Vernon 
was 
bursting 
with 
any 
number 
of 
unpleasant 
retorts, 
but 
he 
merely 
shrank 
back 
into 
the 
cushions 
with 
Aunt 
Petunia 
and 
Dudley 
and 
said 
nothing, 
keeping 
his 
small 
piggy 
eyes on Dumbledore's wand. 


"You 
see," 
Dumbledore 
said, 
turning 
back 
to 
Harry 
and 
again 
speaking 
as 
though 
Uncle 
Vernon 
had 
not uttered, "if you have indeed inherited the house, you have also inherited —" 


He 
flicked 
his 
wand 
for 
a 
fifth 
time. 
There 
was 
a 
loud 
crack, 
and 
a 
houseelf 
appeared, 
with 
a 
snout 
for 
a 
nose, 
giant 
bat's 
ears, 
and 
enormous 
bloodshot 
eyes, 
crouching 
on 
the 
Dursleys' 
shag 
carpet 
and 
covered 
in 
grimy 
rags. 
Aunt 
Petunia 
let 
out 
a 
hairraising 
shriek; 
nothing 
this 
filthy 
had 
entered 
her 
house 
in 
living 
memory. 
Dudley 
drew 
his 
large, 
bare, 
pink 
feet 
off 
the 
floor 
and 
sat 
with 
them 
raised 
almost 
above 
his 
head, 
as 
though 
he 
thought 
the 
creature 
might 
run 
up 
his 
pajama 
trousers, 
and 
Uncle 
Vernon bellowed, "What the hell is that?" 


"Kreacher," finished Dumbledore. 


"Kreacher 
wont, 
Kreacher 
won't, 
Kreacher 
wont!" 
croaked 
the 
houseelf, 
quite 
as 
loudly 
as 
Uncle 



Vernon, 
stamping 
his 
long, 
gnarled 
feet 
and 
pulling 
his 
ears. 
"K 
readier 
belongs 
to 
Miss 
Bellatrix, 
oh 
yes, 
Kreacher 
belongs 
to 
the 
Blacks, 
Kreacher 
wants 
his 
new 
mistress, 
Kreacher 
won't 
go 
to 
the 
Potter 
brat, Kreacher won't, won't, wont —" 


"As 
you 
can 
see, 
Harry," 
said 
Dumbledore 
loudly, 
over 
Kreacher's 
continued 
croaks 
of 
"wont, 
won't, 
won't," "Kreacher is showing a certain reluctance to pass into your ownership." 


"I 
don't 
care," 
said 
Harry 
again, 
looking 
with 
disgust 
at 
the 
writhing, 
stamping 
houseelf. 
"I 
don't 
want 
him." 


"Won't, won’t, won't, won't —" 


"You 
would 
prefer 
him 
to 
pass 
into 
the 
ownership 
of 
Bellatrix 
Lestrange? 
Bearing 
in 
mind 
that 
he 
has 
lived at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix for the past year?" 


"Won't, won't, won’t, won't —" 


Harry 
stared 
at 
Dumbledore. 
He 
knew 
that 
Kreacher 
could 
not 
be 
permitted 
to 
go 
and 
live 
with 
Bellatrix 
Lestrange, 
but 
the 
idea 
of 
owning 
him, 
of 
having 
responsibility 
for 
the 
creature 
that 
had 
betrayed Sirius, was repugnant. 


"Give 
him 
an 
order," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"If 
he 
has 
passed 
into 
your 
ownership, 
he 
will 
have 
to 
obey. 
If 
not, then we shall have to think of some other means of keeping him from his rightful mistress." 


"Won't, won't, won’t, WON'T!" 


Kreacher's 
voice 
had 
risen 
to 
a 
scream. 
Harry 
could 
think 
of 
nothing 
to 
say, 
except, 
"Kreacher, 
shut 
up!" 


It 
looked 
for 
a 
moment 
as 
though 
Kreacher 
was 
going 
to 
choke. 
He 
grabbed 
his 
throat, 
his 
mouth 
still 
working 
furiously, 
his 
eyes 
bulging. 
After 
a 
few 
seconds 
of 
frantic 
gulping, 
he 
threw 
himself 
face 
forward 
onto 
the 
carpet 
(Aunt 
Petunia 
whimpered) 
and 
beat 
the 
floor 
with 
his 
hands 
and 
feet, 
giving 
himself over to a violent, but entirely silent, tantrum. 


"Well, 
that 
simplifies 
matters," 
said 
Dumbledore 
cheerfully. 
"It 
seems 
that 
Sirius 
knew 
what 
he 
was 
doing. You are the rightful owner of number twelve, Grimmauld Place and of Kreacher." 


"Do I — do I have to keep him with me?" Harry asked, aghast, us Kreacher thrashed around at his feet. 


"Not 
if 
you 
don't 
want 
to," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"If 
I 
might 
make 
ii 
suggestion, 
you 
could 
send 
him 
to 
Hogwarts to work in the kitchen there. In that way, the other houseelves 
could keep an eye on him." 


"Yeah," 
said 
Harry 
in 
relief, 
"yeah, 
I'll 
do 
that. 
Er 
— 
Kreacher 
— 
I 
want 
you 
to 
go 
to 
Hogwarts 
and 
work in the kitchens there with the other houseelves." 


Kreacher, 
who 
was 
now 
lying 
flat 
on 
his 
back 
with 
his 
arms 
and 
legs 
in 
the 
air, 
gave 
Harry 
one 
upsidedown 
look of deepest loathing and, with another loud crack, vanished. 



"Good," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"There 
is 
also 
the 
matter 
of 
the 
hippogriff, 
Buckbeak. 
Hagrid 
has 
been 
looking 
after 
him 
since 
Sirius 
died, 
but 
Buckbeak 
is 
yours 
now, 
so 
if 
you 
would 
prefer 
to 
make 
different arrangements —" 


"No," said Harry at once, "he can stay with Hagrid. I think Buckbeak would prefer that." 
"Hagrid 
will 
be 
delighted," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
smiling. 
"He 
was 
thrilled 
to 
see 
Buckbeak 
again. 
Incidentally, 
we 
have 
decided, 
in 
the 
interests 
of 
Buckbeak's 
safety, 
to 
rechristen 
him 
'Witherwings' 
for 


the 
time 
being, 
though 
I 
doubt 
that 
the 
Ministry 
would 
ever 
guess 
he 
is 
the 
hippogriff 
they 
once 
sentenced to death. Now, Harry, is your trunk packed?" 
Erm . .. 
"Doubtful that I would turn up?" Dumbledore suggested shrewdly. 
"I'll 
just 
go 
and 
— 
er 
— 
finish 
off," 
said 
Harry 
hastily, 
hurrying 
to 
pick 
up 
his 
fallen 
telescope 
and 


trainers. 
It 
took 
him 
a 
little 
over 
ten 
minutes 
to 
track 
down 
everything 
he 
needed; 
at 
last 
he 
had 
managed 
to 
extract 
his 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
from 
under 
the 
bed, 
screwed 
the 
top 
back 
on 
his 
jar 
of 
colorchange 
ink, 


and 
forced 
the 
lid 
of 
his 
trunk 
shut 
on 
his 
cauldron. 
Then, 
heaving 
his 
trunk 
in 
one 
hand 
and 
holding 
Hedwig's cage in the other, he made his way back downstairs, 
He 
was 
disappointed 
to 
discover 
that 
Dumbledore 
was 
not 
waiting 
in 
the 
hall, 
which 
meant 
that 
he 
had 


to return to the living room. 
Nobody 
was 
talking. 
Dumbledore 
was 
humming 
quietly, 
apparently 
quite 
at 
his 
ease, 
but 
the 


atmosphere 
was 
thicker 
than 
cold 
custard, 
and 
Harry 
did 
not 
dare 
look 
at 
the 
Dursleys 
as 
he 
said, 
"Professor — I'm ready now." 
"Good," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"Just 
one 
last 
thing, 
then." 
And 
he 
turned 
to 
speak 
to 
the 
Dursleys 
once 


more. 
"As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in a years time —" 
"No," said Aunt Petunia, speaking for the first time since Dumbledore's arrival. 
"I'm sorry?" said Dumbledore politely. 
"No, 
he 
doesn't. 
He's 
a 
month 
younger 
than 
Dudley, 
and 
Dudders 
doesn't 
turn 
eighteen 
until 
the 
year 


after next." 
"Ah," said Dumbledore pleasantly, "but in the Wizarding world, we come of age at seventeen." 
Uncle Vernon muttered, "Preposterous," but Dumbledore ignored him, 



"Now, 
as 
you 
already 
know, 
the 
wizard 
called 
Lord 
Voldemort 
Was 
returned 
to 
this 
country. 
The 
Wizarding 
community 
is 
currently 
in 
a 
state 
of 
open 
warfare. 
Harry, 
whom 
Lord 
Voldemort 
has 
already 
attempted 
to 
kill 
on 
a 
number 
of 
occasions, 
is 
in 
even 
greater 
danger 
now 
than 
the 
day 
when 
I 
left 
him 
upon 
your 
doorstep 
fifteen 
years 
ago, 
with 
a 
letter 
explaining 
about 
his 
parents' 
murder 
and 
expressing the hope that you would care for him ;is though he were your own." 


Dumbledore 
paused, 
and 
although 
his 
voice 
remained 
light 
and 
calm, 
and 
he 
gave 
no 
obvious 
sign 
of 
anger, 
Harry 
felt 
a 
kind 
of 
chill 
emanating 
from 
him 
and 
noticed 
that 
the 
Dursleys 
drew 
very 
slightly 
closer together. 


"You 
did 
not 
do 
as 
I 
asked. 
You 
have 
never 
treated 
Harry 
as 
a 
son. 
He 
has 
known 
nothing 
but 
neglect 
and 
often 
cruelty 
at 
your 
hands. 
The 
best 
that 
can 
be 
said 
is 
that 
he 
has 
at 
least 
escaped 
the 
appalling 
damage you have inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting between you." 


Both 
Aunt 
Petunia 
and 
Uncle 
Vernon 
looked 
around 
instinctively, 
as 
though 
expecting 
to 
see 
someone 
other than Dudley squeezed between them. 


"Us 
— 
mistreat 
Dudders? 
What 
d'you 
— 
?" 
began 
Uncle 
Vernon 
furiously, 
but 
Dumbledore 
raised 
his 
ringer for silence, a silence which fell as though he had struck Uncle Vernon dumb. 


"The 
magic 
I 
evoked 
fifteen 
years 
ago 
means 
that 
Harry 
has 
powerful 
protection 
while 
he 
can 
still 
call 
this 
house 
'home.' 
However 
miserable 
he 
has 
been 
here, 
however 
unwelcome, 
however 
badly 
treated, 
you 
have 
at 
least, 
grudgingly, 
allowed 
him 
houseroom. 
This 
magic 
will 
cease 
to 
operate 
the 
moment 
that 
Harry 
turns 
seventeen; 
in 
other 
words, 
at 
the 
moment 
he 
becomes 
a 
man. 
I 
ask 
only 
this: 
that 
you 
allow 
Harry 
to 
return, 
once 
more, 
to 
this 
house, 
before 
his 
seventeenth 
birthday, 
which 
will 
ensure 
that 
the protection continues until that time." 


None 
of 
the 
Dursleys 
said 
anything. 
Dudley 
was 
frowning 
slightly, 
as 
though 
he 
was 
still 
trying 
to 
work out 
when he 
had ever 
been mistreated. Uncle 
Vernon looked as 
though he 
had something 
stuck in 
his throat; Aunt Petunia, however, was oddly flushed. 


"Well, 
Harry 
. 
. 
. 
time 
for 
us 
to 
be 
off," 
said 
Dumbledore 
at 
last, 
standing 
up 
and 
straightening 
his 
long 
black 
cloak. 
"Until 
we 
meet 
again," 
he 
said 
to 
the 
Dursleys, 
who 
looked 
as 
though 
that 
moment 
could 
wait forever as far as they were concerned, and after doffing his hat, he swept from the room. 


"Bye," 
said 
Harry 
hastily 
to 
the 
Dursleys, 
and 
followed 
Dumbledore, 
who 
paused 
beside 
Harry's 
trunk, 
upon which Hedwig's cage was perched. 


"We 
do 
not 
want 
to 
be 
encumbered 
by 
these 
just 
now," 
he 
said, 
pulling 
out 
his 
wand 
again. 
"I 
shall 
send 
them 
to 
the 
Burrow 
to 
await 
us 
there. 
However, 
I 
would 
like 
you 
to 
bring 
your 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
. 
. . just in case." 


Harry 
extracted 
his 
cloak 
from 
his 
trunk 
with 
some 
difficulty, 
trying 
not 
to 
show 
Dumbledore 
the 
mess 
within. 
When 
he 
had 
stuffed 
it 
into 
an 
inside 
pocket 
of 
his 
jacket, 
Dumbledore 
waved 
his 
wand 
and 
the 
trunk, 
cage, 
and 
Hedwig 
vanished. 
Dumbledore 
then 
waved 
his 
wand 
again, 
and 
the 
front 
door 
opened 
onto cool, misty darkness. 



"And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure." 


Chapter 4 
Horace Slughorn 



Despite 
the 
fact 
that 
he 
had 
spent 
every 
waking 
moment 
of 
the 
past 
few 
days 
hoping 
desperately 
that 
Dumbledore 
would 
indeed 
come 
to 
fetch 
him, 
Harry 
felt 
distinctly 
awkward 
as 
11 
uy 
set 
off 
down 
Privet 
Drive 
together. 
He 
had 
never 
had 
a 
proper 
conversation 
with 
the 
headmaster 
outside 
of 
Hogwarts 
before; 
there 
was 
usually 
a 
desk 
between 
them. 
The 
memory 
of 
their 
last 
facetoface 
encounter 
kept 
intruding 
too, 
and 
it 
rather 
heightened 
Harry's 
sense 
of 
embarrassment; 
he 
had 
shouted 
a 
lot 
on 
that 
occasion, 
not 
to 
mention 
done 
his 
best 
to 
smash 
several 
of 
Dumbledore's 
most 
prized 
possessions. 


Dumbledore, however, seemed completely relaxed. 
"Keep your wand at the ready, Harry," he said brightly. 
"But I thought I'm not allowed to use magic outside school, sir?" 
"If 
there 
is 
an 
attack," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
"I 
give 
you 
permission 
to 
use 
any 
counterjinx 
or 
curse 
that 


might occur to you. However, I do not think you need worry about being attacked tonight." 
"Why not, sir?" 
"You are with me," said Dumbledore simply. "This will do, Harry." 
He came to an abrupt halt at the end of Privet Drive. 
"You have not, of course, passed your Apparition Test," he said. 
"No," said Harry. "I thought you had to be seventeen?" 
"You 
do," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"So 
you 
will 
need 
to 
hold 
on 
to 
my 
arm 
very 
tightly. 
My 
left, 
if 
you 
don't 


mind — as you have noticed, my wand arm is a little fragile at the moment." 
Harry gripped Dumbledore’s proffered forearm. 
"Very good," said Dumbledore. "Well, here we go." 
Harry 
felt 
Dumbledore’s 
arm 
twist 
away 
from 
him 
and 
redoubled 
his 
grip; 
the 
next 
thing 
he 
knew, 


everything 
went 
black; 
he 
was 
being 
pressed 
very 
hard 
from 
all 
directions; 
he 
could 
not 
breathe, 
there 
were 
iron 
bands 
tightening 
around 
his 
chest; 
his 
eyeballs 
were 
being 
forced 
back 
into 
his 
head; 
his 
eardrums were being pushed deeper into his skull and then —


He 
gulped 
great 
lungfuls 
of 
cold 
night 
air 
and 
opened 
his 
streaming 
eyes. 
He 
felt 
as 
though 
he 
had 
just 
been 
forced 
through 
a 
very 
tight 
rubber 
tube. 
It 
was 
a 
few 
seconds 
before 
he 
realized 
that 
Privet 
Drive 
had vanished. 
He 
and Dumbledore 
were 
now 
standing 
in what 
appeared to 
be 
a 
deserted village 
square, 



in 
the 
center 
of 
which 
stood 
an 
old 
war 
memorial 
and 
a 
few 
benches. 
His 
comprehension 
catching 
up 


with his senses, Harry realized that he had just Apparated for the first time in his life. 
"Are 
you 
all 
right?" 
asked 
Dumbledore, 
looking 
down 
at 
him 
solicitously. 
"The 
sensation 
does 
take 
some getting used to." 


"I'm 
fine," 
said 
Harry, 
rubbing 
his 
ears, 
which 
felt 
as 
though 
they 
had 
left 
Privet 
Drive 
rather 


reluctantly. "But I think I might prefer brooms. . . ." 
Dumbledore 
smiled, 
drew 
his 
traveling 
cloak 
a 
little 
more 
lightly 
around 
his 
neck, 
and 
said, 
"This 
way." 


He 
set 
off 
at 
a 
brisk 
pace, 
past 
an 
empty 
inn 
and 
a 
few 
houses. 
According 
to 
a 
clock 
on 
a 
nearby 
church, it was almost midnight. 
"So tell me, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Your scar ... has it been hurting at all?" 


Harry raised a hand unconsciously to his forehead and rubbed i he lightningshaped 
mark. 
"No," 
he 
said, 
"and 
I've 
been 
wondering 
about 
that. 
I 
thought 
it 
would 
be 
burning 
all 
the 
time 
now 
Voldemort's getting so powerful again." 


He glanced up at Dumbledore and saw that he was wearing a satisfied expression. 
"I, 
on 
the 
other 
hand, 
thought 
otherwise," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"Lord 
Voldemort 
has 
finally 
realized 
the 


dangerous 
access 
to 
his 
thoughts 
and 
feelings 
you 
have 
been 
enjoying. 
It 
appears 
that 
he 
is 
now 
employing Occlumency against you." 
"Well, 
I'm 
not 
complaining," 
said 
Harry, 
who 
missed 
neither 
the 
disturbing 
dreams 
nor 
the 
startling 


flashes of insight into Voldemort's mind. 


They turned a 
corner, passing 
a 
telephone 
box and a 
bus 
shelter. Harry looked sideways 
at 
Dumbledore 
again. "Professor?" 
"Harry?" 
"Er — where exactly are we?" 
"This, Harry, is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton." 
"And what are we doing here?" 
"Ah 
yes, 
of 
course, 
I 
haven't 
told 
you," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"Well, 
I 
have 
lost 
count 
of 
the 
number 
of 


times 
I 
have 
said 
this 
in 
recent 
years, 
but 
we 
are, 
once 
again, 
one 
member 
of 
staff 
short. 
We 
are 
here 
to 
persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts." 
"How can I help with that, sir?" 
¦ 
"Oh, I think we'll find a use for you," said Dumbledore vaguely. "Left here, Harry." 



They 
proceeded 
up 
a 
steep, 
narrow 
street 
lined 
with 
houses. 
All 
the 
windows 
were 
dark. 
The 
odd 
chill 
that 
had 
lain 
over 
Privet 
Drive 
for 
two 
weeks 
persisted 
here 
too. 
Thinking 
of 
dementors, 
Harry 
cast 
a 
look over his shoulder and grasped his wand reassuringly in his pocket. 


"Professor, why couldn't we just Apparate directly into your old colleague's house?" 
"Because 
it 
would 
be 
quite 
as 
rude 
as 
kicking 
down 
the 
front 
door," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"Courtesy 


dictates 
that 
we 
offer 
fellow 
wizards 
the 
opportunity 
of 
denying 
us 
entry. 
In 
any 
case, 
most 
Wizarding 
dwellings are magically protected from unwanted Apparators. At Hogwarts, for instance —" 
"— 
you 
can't 
Apparate 
anywhere 
inside 
the 
buildings 
or 
grounds," 
said 
Harry 
quickly. 
"Hermione 


Granger told me." 
"And she is quite right. We turn left again." 
The 
church 
clock 
chimed 
midnight 
behind 
them. 
Harry 
wondered 
why 
Dumbledore 
did 
not 
consider 
it 


rude 
to 
call 
on 
his 
old 
colleague 
so 
late, 
but 
now 
that 
conversation 
had 
been 
established, 
he 
had 
more 
pressing questions to ask. 


"Sir, I saw in the Daily Prophet that Fudge has been sacked. . . ." 
"Correct," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
now 
turning 
up 
a 
steep 
side 
street. 
"He 
has 
been 
replaced, 
as 
I 
am 
sure 
you also saw, by Rufus Scrimgeour, who used to be Head of the Auror office." 


"Is he ... Do you think he's good?" asked Harry. 


"An 
interesting 
question," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"He 
is 
able, 
certainly. 
A 
more 
decisive 
and 
forceful 
personality than Cornelius." 
"Yes, but I meant —" 
"I 
know 
what 
you 
meant. 
Rufus 
is 
a 
man 
of 
action 
and, 
having 
fought 
Dark 
wizards 
for 
most 
of 
his 


working life, does not underestimate 
Lord Voldemort." 
Harry 
waited, 
but 
Dumbledore 
did 
not 
say 
anything 
about 
the 
disagreement 
with 
Scrimgeour 
that 
the 


Daily 
Prophet 
had 
reported, 
and 
he 
did 
not 
have 
the 
nerve 
to 
pursue 
the 
subject, 
so 
he 
changed 
ii. 
"And 
... sir ... I saw about Madam Bones." 
"Yes," said Dumbledore quietly. "A terrible loss. She was a great witch. Just up here, I think — ouch." 
He had pointed with his injured hand. 
"Professor, what happened to your — ?" 
"I have no time to explain now," said Dumbledore. "It is a thrilling tale, I wish to do it justice." 
He 
smiled 
at 
Harry, who understood 
that 
he 
was 
not 
being 
snubbed, and that 
he 
had permission 
to 
keep 


asking questions. 
"Sir 
— 
I 
got 
a 
Ministry 
of 
Magic 
leaflet 
by 
owl, 
about 
security 
measures 
we 
should 
all 
take 
against 
the 
Death Eaters. . . ." 



"Yes, I received one myself," said Dumbledore, still smiling. "Did you find it useful?" 


"Not really." 


"No, 
I 
thought 
not. 
You 
have 
not 
asked 
me, 
for 
instance, 
what 
is 
my 
favorite 
flavor 
of 
jam, 
to 
check 
that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore and not an impostor." 


"I didn't. . ." Harry began, not entirely sure whether he was being reprimanded or not. 


"For 
future 
reference, 
Harry, 
it 
is 
raspberry. 
. 
. 
although 
of 
course, 
if 
I 
were 
a 
Death 
Eater, 
I 
would 
have been sure to research my own jam preferences before impersonating myself." 


"Er. 
. 
. 
right," 
said 
Harry. 
"Well, 
on 
that 
leaflet, 
it 
said 
something 
about 
Inferi. 
What 
exactly 
are 
they? 
The leaflet wasn't very clear." 


"They 
are 
corpses," 
said 
Dumbledore 
calmly. 
"Dead 
bodies 
that 
have 
been 
bewitched 
to 
do 
a 
Dark 
wizard's 
bidding. 
Inferi 
have 
not 
been 
seen 
for 
a 
long 
time, 
however, 
not 
since 
Voldemort 
was 
last 
powerful. 
. 
. 
. 
He 
killed 
enough 
people 
to 
make 
an 
army 
of 
them, 
of 
course. 
This 
is 
the 
place, 
Harry, 
just here. . . ." 


They 
were 
nearing 
a 
small, 
neat 
stone 
house 
set 
in 
its 
own 
garden. 
Harry 
was 
too 
busy 
digesting 
the 
horrible 
idea 
of 
Inferi 
to 
have 
much 
attention 
left 
for 
anything 
else, 
but 
as 
they 
reached 
the 
front 
gate, 
Dumbledore stopped dead and Harry walked into him. 


"Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear." 


Harry 
followed 
his 
gaze 
up 
the 
carefully 
tended 
front 
path 
and 
felt 
his 
heart 
sink. 
The 
front 
door 
was 
hanging off its hinges. 


Dumbledore glanced up and down the street. It seemed quite deserted. 


"Wand out and follow me, Harry," he said quietly. 


He 
opened 
the 
gate 
and 
walked 
swiftly 
and 
silently 
up 
the 
garden 
path, 
Harry 
at 
his 
heels, 
then 
pushed 
the front door very slowly, his wand raised and at the ready. 


"Lumos." 


Dumbledore's 
wand 
tip 
ignited, 
casting 
its 
light 
up 
a 
narrow 
hallway. 
To 
the 
left, 
another 
door 
stood 
open. 
Holding 
his 
illuminated 
wand 
aloft, 
Dumbledore 
walked 
into 
the 
sitting 
room 
with 
Harry 
right 
behind him. 


A 
scene 
of 
total 
devastation 
met 
their 
eyes. 
A 
grandfather 
clock 
lay 
splintered 
at 
their 
feet, 
its 
face 
cracked, 
its 
pendulum 
lying 
a 
little 
farther 
away 
like 
a 
dropped 
sword. 
A 
piano 
was 
on 
its 
side, 
its 
keys 
strewn 
across 
the 
floor. 
The 
wreckage 
of 
a 
fallen 
chandelier 
flittered 
nearby. 
Cushions 
lay 
deflated, 
feathers 
oozing 
from 
slashes 
in 
their 
sides; 
fragments 
of 
glass 
and 
china 
lay 
like 
powder 
over 
everything. 
Dumbledore 
raised 
his 
wand 
even 
higher, 
so 
that 
its 
light 
was 
thrown 
upon 
the 
walls, 
where 
something 
darkly 
red 
and 
glutinous 
was 
spattered 
over 
the 
wallpaper. 
Harry's 
small 
intake 
of 
breath made Dumbledore look around. 



"Not pretty, is it?" he said heavily. "Yes, something horrible has happened here." 
Dumbledore 
moved 
carefully 
into 
the 
middle 
of 
the 
room, 
scrutinizing 
the 
wreckage 
at 
his 
feet. 
Harry 


followed, 
gazing 
around, 
halfscared 
of 
what 
he 
might 
see 
hidden 
behind 
the 
wreck 
of 
the 
piano 
or 
the 
overturned sofa, but there was no sign of a body. 
"Maybe 
there 
was 
a 
fight 
and 
— 
and 
they 
dragged 
him 
off, 
Professor?" 
Harry 
suggested, 
trying 
not 
to 


imagine 
how 
badly 
wounded 
a 
man 
would 
have 
to 
be 
to 
leave 
those 
stains 
spattered 
halfway 
up 
the 
walls. 
"I don't think so," said Dumbledore quietly, peering behind an overstuffed armchair lying on its side. 
"You mean he's — ?" 


"Still here somewhere? Yes." 
And 
without 
warning, 
Dumbledore 
swooped, 
plunging 
the 
tip 
of 
his 
wand 
into 
the 
seat 
of 
the 
overstuffed armchair, which yelled, "Ouch!" 


"Good evening, Horace," said Dumbledore, straightening up again. 
Harry’s 
jaw 
dropped. 
Where 
a 
split 
second 
before 
there 
had 
been 
an 
armchair, 
there 
now 
crouched 
an 


enormously 
fat, 
bald, 
old 
man 
who 
was 
massaging 
his 
lower 
belly 
and 
squinting 
up 
at 
Dumbledore 
with an aggrieved and watery eye. 
"There was no need to stick the wand in that hard," he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. "It hurt." 
The 
wandlight 
sparkled 
on 
his 
shiny 
pate, 
his 
prominent 
eyes, 
his 
enormous, 
silver, 
walruslike 


mustache, 
and 
the 
highly 
polished 
buttons 
on 
the 
maroon 
velvet 
jacket 
he 
was 
wearing 
over 
a 
pair 
of 


lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore's chin. 
"What 
gave 
it 
away?" 
he 
grunted 
as 
he 
staggered 
to 
his 
feet, 
still 
rubbing 
his 
lower 
belly. 
He 
seemed 
remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been discovered pretending to be an armchair. 


"My 
dear 
Horace," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
looking 
amused, 
"if 
the 
Death 
Eaters 
really 
had 
come 
to 
call, 
the 
Dark Mark would have been set over the house." 


The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast forehead. 
"The 
Dark 
Mark," 
he 
muttered. 
"Knew 
there 
was 
something 
... 
ah 
well. 
Wouldn't 
have 
had 
time 
anyway, I'd only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room." 


He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his mustache flutter. 
"Would you like my assistance clearing up?" asked Dumbledore politely. 
"Please," said the other. 
They 
stood 
back 
to 
back, 
the 
tall 
thin 
wizard 
and 
the 
short 
round 
one, 
and 
waved 
their 
wands 
in 
one 


identical sweeping motion. 
The 
furniture 
flew 
back to 
its 
original 
places; 
ornaments 
reformed in midair, feathers 
zoomed into 
their 



cushions; 
torn 
books 
repaired 
themselves 
as 
they 
landed 
upon 
their 
shelves; 
oil 
lanterns 
soared 
onto 
side 
tables 
and 
reignited; 
a 
vast 
collection 
of 
splintered 
silver 
picture 
frames 
flew 
glittering 
across 
the 
room 
and 
alighted, 
whole 
and 
untarnished, 
upon 
a 
desk; 
rips, 
cracks, 
and 
holes 
healed 
everywhere, 
and 
the walls wiped themselves clean. 


"What 
kind 
of 
blood 
was 
that, 
incidentally?" 
asked 
Dumbledore 
loudly 
over 
the 
chiming 
of 
the 
newly 
unsmashed grandfather flock. 


"On 
the 
walls? 
Dragon," 
shouted 
the 
wizard 
called 
Horace, 
as, 
with 
a 
deafening 
grinding 
and 
tinkling, 
the chandelier screwed itself back into the ceiling. 


There was a final plunk from the piano, and silence. 


"Yes, 
dragon," 
repeated 
the 
wizard 
conversationally. 
"My 
last 
bottle, 
and 
prices 
are 
skyhigh 
at 
the 
moment. Still, it might be reusable." 


He 
stumped 
over 
to 
a 
small 
crystal 
bottle 
standing 
on 
top 
of 
a 
sideboard 
and 
held 
it 
up 
to 
the 
light, 
examining the thick liquid within. 


"Hmm. Bit dusty." 


He set the bottle back on the sideboard and sighed. It was then that his gaze fell upon Harry. 


"Oho," 
he 
said, 
his 
large 
round 
eyes 
flying 
to 
Harry's 
forehead 
and 
the 
lightningshaped 
scar 
it 
bore. 
"Oho!" 


"This," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
moving 
forward 
to 
make 
the 
introduction, 
"is 
Harry 
Potter. 
Harry, 
this 
is 
an 
old Friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn." 


Slughorn 
turned 
on 
Dumbledore, 
his 
expression 
shrewd. 
"So 
that's 
how 
you 
thought 
you'd 
persuade 
me, is it? Well, the answer's no, Albus." 


He pushed past Harry, his face turned resolutely away with the air of a man trying to resist temptation. 


"I suppose we can have a drink, at least?" asked Dumbledore. "For old time's sake?" 


Slughorn hesitated. 


"All right then, one drink," he said ungraciously. 


Dumbledore 
smiled 
at 
Harry 
and 
directed 
him 
toward 
a 
chair 
not 
unlike 
the 
one 
that 
Slughorn 
had 
so 
recently 
impersonated, 
which 
stood 
right 
beside 
the 
newly 
burning 
fire 
and 
a 
brightly 
glowing 
oil 
lamp. 
Harry 
took 
the 
seat 
with 
the 
distinct 
impression 
that 
Dumbledore, 
for 
some 
reason, 
wanted 
to 
keep 
him 
as 
visible 
as 
possible. 
Certainly 
when 
Slughorn, 
who 
had 
been 
busy 
with 
decanters 
and 
glasses, turned to face the room again, his eyes fell immediately upon Harry. 


"Hmpf," 
he 
said, 
looking 
away 
quickly 
as 
though 
frightened 
of 
hurting 
his 
eyes. 
"Here 
—" 
He 
gave 
a 
drink 
to 
Dumbledore, 
who 
had 
sat 
down 
without 
invitation, 
thrust 
the 
tray 
at 
Harry, 
and 
then 
sank 
into 
the 
cushions 
of 
the 
repaired 
sofa 
and 
a 
disgruntled 
silence. 
His 
legs 
were 
so 
short 
they 
did 
not 
touch 
the floor. 



"Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?" Dumbledore asked. 


"Not 
so 
well," 
said 
Slughorn 
at 
once. 
"Weak 
chest. 
Wheezy. 
Rheumatism 
too. 
Can't 
move 
like 
I 
used 
to. Well, that's to be expected. Old age. Fatigue." 


"And 
yet 
you 
must 
have 
moved 
fairly 
quickly 
to 
prepare 
such 
a 
welcome 
for 
us 
at 
such 
short 
notice," 
said Dumbledore. "You can't have had more than three minutes' warning?" 


Slughorn 
said, 
half 
irritably, 
half 
proudly, 
"Two. 
Didn't 
hear 
my 
Intruder 
Charm 
go 
off, 
I 
was 
taking 
a 
bath. 
Still," 
he 
added 
sternly, 
seeming 
to 
pull 
himself 
back 
together 
again, 
"the 
fact 
remains 
that 
I'm 
an 
old man, Albus. A tired old man who's earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts." 


He 
certainly 
had 
those, 
thought 
Harry, 
looking 
around 
the 
room. 
It 
was 
stuffy 
and 
cluttered, 
yet 
nobody 
could 
say 
it 
was 
uncomfortable; 
there 
were 
soft 
chairs 
and 
footstools, 
drinks 
and 
books, 
boxes 
of chocolates and plump cushions. If Harry had not known who lived there, he would have guessed at a 
rich, fussy old lady. 


"You're not yet as old as I am, Horace," said Dumbledore. 


"Well, 
maybe 
you 
ought 
to 
think 
about 
retirement 
yourself," 
said 
Slughorn 
bluntly. 
His 
pale 
gooseberry eyes had found Dumbledore's injured hand. "Reactions not what they were, I see." 


"You're 
quite 
right," 
said 
Dumbledore 
serenely, 
shaking 
back 
his 
sleeve 
to 
reveal 
the 
tips 
of 
those 
burned 
and 
blackened 
ringers; 
the 
sight 
of 
them 
made 
the 
back 
of 
Harry's 
neck 
prickle 
unpleasantly. 
"1 
am undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other hand . . ." 


He 
shrugged 
and 
spread 
his 
hands 
wide, 
as 
though 
to 
say 
that 
age 
had 
its 
compensations, 
and 
Harry 
noticed 
a 
ring 
on 
his 
uninjured 
hand 
that 
he 
had 
never 
seen 
Dumbledore 
wear 
before: 
It 
was 
large, 
rather 
clumsily 
made 
of 
what 
looked 
like 
gold, 
and 
was 
set 
with 
a 
heavy 
black 
stone 
that 
had 
cracked 
down 
the 
middle. 
Slughorn's 
eyes 
lingered 
for 
a 
moment 
on 
the 
ring 
too, 
and 
Harry 
saw 
a 
tiny 
frown 
momentarily crease his wide forehead. 


"So, 
all 
these 
precautions 
against 
intruders, 
Horace 
... 
are 
they 
for 
the 
Death 
Eaters' 
benefit, 
or 
mine?" 
asked Dumbledore. 


"What 
would 
the 
Death 
Eaters 
want 
with 
a 
poor 
brokendown 
old 
buffer 
like 
me?" 
demanded 
Slughorn. 


"I 
imagine 
that 
they 
would 
want 
you 
to 
turn 
your 
considerable 
talents 
to 
coercion, 
torture, 
and 
murder," said Dumbledore. "Are you really telling me that they haven't come recruiting yet?" 


Slughorn 
eyed 
Dumbledore 
balefully 
for 
a 
moment, 
then 
muttered, 
"I 
haven't 
given 
them 
the 
chance. 
I've 
been 
on 
the 
move 
for 
a 
year. 
Never 
stay 
in 
one 
place 
more 
than 
a 
week. 
Move 
from 
Muggle 
house 
to 
Muggle 
house 
— 
the 
owners 
of 
this 
place 
are 
on 
holiday 
in 
the 
Canary 
Islands 
— 
it's 
been 
very 
pleasant, 
I'll 
be 
sorry 
to 
leave. 
It's 
quite 
easy 
once 
you 
know 
how, 
one 
simple 
Freezing 
Charm 
on 
these 
absurd 
burglar 
alarms 
they 
use 
instead 
of 
Sneakoscopes 
and 
make 
sure 
the 
neighbors 
don't 
spot 
you 
bringing in the piano." 



"Ingenious," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"But 
it 
sounds 
a 
rather 
tiring 
existence 
for 
a 
brokendown 
old 
buffer 
in 


search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts —" 
"If 
you're 
going 
to 
tell 
me 
my life 
would 
be 
more 
peaceful 
at 
that 
pestilential 
school, 
you can save 
your 
breath, 
Albus! 
I 
might 
have 
been 
in 
hiding, 
but 
some 
funny 
rumors 
have 
reached 
me 
since 
Dolores 
Umbridge left! If that's how you treat teachers these days —" 


"Professor 
Umbridge 
ran 
afoul 
of 
our 
centaur 
herd," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"I 
think 
you, 
Horace, 
would 
have known better than to stride into the forest and call a horde of angry centaurs 'filthy halfbreeds.'" 
"That's what she did, did she?" said Slughorn. "Idiotic woman. Never liked her." 
Harry chuckled and both Dumbledore and Slughorn looked round at him. 
"Sorry," Harry said hastily. "It's just — I didn't like her either." 
Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly. 
"Are you leaving?" asked Slughorn at once, looking hopeful. 
"No, I was wondering whether I might use your bathroom," said Dumbledore. 


"Oh," said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. "Second on the left down the hall." 
Dumbledore 
strode 
from 
the 
room. 
Once 
the 
door 
had 
closed 
behind 
him, 
there 
was 
silence. 
After 
a 
few 
moments, 
Slughorn 
got 
to 
his 
feet 
but 
seemed 
uncertain 
what 
to 
do 
with 
himself. 
He 
shot 
a 
furtive 
look at Harry, then crossed to the fire and turned his back on it, warming his wide behind. 


"Don't think I don't know why he's brought you," he said abruptly. 


Harry 
merely 
looked 
at 
Slughorn. 
Slughorn's 
watery 
eyes 
slid 
over 
Harry's 
scar, 
this 
time 
taking 
in 
the 
rest of his face. 
"You look very like your father." 
"Yeah, I've been told," said Harry. 
"Except for your eyes. You've got —" 
"My mother's eyes, yeah." Harry had heard it so often he found it a bit wearing. 
"Hmpf. 
Yes, 
well. 
You 
shouldn't 
have 
favorites 
as 
a 
teacher, 
of 
course, 
but 
she 
was 
one 
of 
mine. 
Your 


mother," 
Slughorn 
added, 
in 
answer 
to 
Harry’s 
questioning 
look. 
"Lily 
Evans. 
One 
of 
the 
brightest 
I 
ever 
taught. 
Vivacious, 
you 
know. 
Charming 
girl. 
I 
used 
to 
tell 
her 
she 
ought 
to 
have 
been 
in 
my 
House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too." < 


"Which was your House?" 
"I 
was 
Head 
of 
Slytherin," 
said 
Slughorn. 
"Oh, 
now," 
he 
went 
on 
quickly, 
seeing 
the 
expression 
on 
Harry's 
face 
and 
wagging 
a 
stubby 
ringer 
at 
him, 
"don't 
go 
holding 
that 
against 
me! 
You'll 
be 
Gryffindor 
like 
her, 
I 
suppose? 
Yes, 
it 
usually 
goes 
in 
families. 
Not 
always, 
though. 
Ever 
heard 
of 
Sirius 
Black? 
You 
must 
have 
done 
— 
been 
in 
the 
papers 
for 
the 
last 
couple 
of 
years 
— 
died 
a 
few 



weeks ago —" 


It was as though an invisible hand had twisted Harry's intestines and held them tight. 


"Well, 
anyway, 
he 
was 
a 
big 
pal 
of 
your 
father's 
at 
school. 
The 
whole 
Black 
family 
had 
been 
in 
my 
House, 
but 
Sirius 
ended 
up 
in 
Gryffindor! 
Shame 
— 
he 
was 
a 
talented 
boy. 
I 
got 
his 
brother, 
Regulus, 
when he came along, but I'd have liked the set." 


He 
sounded like 
an enthusiastic 
collector 
who had been outbid at 
auction. 
Apparently 
lost 
in 
memories, 
he gazed at the opposite wall, turning idly on the spot to ensure an even heat on his backside. 


"Your 
mother 
was 
Muggleborn, 
of 
course. 
Couldn't 
believe 
it 
when 
I 
found 
out. 
Thought 
she 
must 
have been pureblood, 
she was so good." 


"One of my best friends is Muggleborn," 
said Harry, "and she's the best in our year." 


"Funny how that sometimes happens, isn't it?" said Slughorn. 


"Not really," said Harry coldly. 


Slughorn 
looked 
down 
at 
him 
in 
surprise. 
"You 
mustn't 
think 
I'm 
prejudiced!" 
he 
said. 
"No, 
no, 
no! 
Haven't 
I 
just 
said 
your 
mother 
was 
one 
of 
my 
alltime 
favorite 
students? 
And 
there 
was 
Dirk 
Cresswell 
in 
the 
year 
after 
her 
too 
— 
now 
Head 
of 
the 
Goblin 
Liaison 
Office, 
of 
course 
— 
another 
Muggleborn, 
a 
very 
gifted 
student, 
and 
still 
gives 
me 
excellent 
inside 
information 
on 
the 
goingson 
at 
Gringotts!" 


He 
bounced 
up 
and 
down 
a 
little, 
smiling 
in 
a 
selfsatisfied 
way, 
and 
pointed 
at 
the 
many 
glittering 
photograph frames on the dresser, each peopled with tiny moving occupants. 


"All 
exstudents, 
all 
signed. 
You'll 
notice 
Barnabas 
Cuffe, 
editor 
of 
the 
Daily 
Prophet, 
he's 
always 
interested 
to 
hear 
my 
take 
on 
the 
day's 
news. 
And 
Ambrosius 
Flume, 
of 
Honeydukes 
— 
a 
hamper 
every 
birthday, 
and 
all 
because 
I 
was 
able 
to 
give 
him 
an 
introduction 
to 
Ciceron 
Harkisss 
who 
gave 
him 
his 
first 
job! 
And 
at 
the 
back 
— 
you'll 
see 
her 
if 
you 
just 
crane 
your 
neck 
— 
that's 
Gwenog 
Jones, 
who 
of 
course 
captains 
the 
Holyhead 
Harpies. 
. 
. 
. 
People 
are 
always 
astonished 
to 
hear 
I'm 
on 
firstname 
terms with the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!" 


This thought seemed to cheer him up enormously. 


"And 
all 
these 
people 
know 
where 
to 
find 
you, 
to 
send 
you 
stuff?" 
asked 
Harry, 
who 
could 
not 
help 
wondering 
why 
the 
Death 
Eaters 
had 
not 
yet 
tracked 
down 
Slughorn 
if 
hampers 
of 
sweets, 
Quidditch 
tickets, and visitors craving his advice and opinions could find him. 


The smile slid from Slughorn's face as quickly as the blood from his walls. 


"Of course not," he said, looking down at Harry. "I have been out of touch with everybody for a year." 


Harry 
had 
the 
impression 
that 
the 
words 
shocked 
Slughorn 
himself; 
he 
looked 
quite 
unsettled 
for 
a 
moment. Then he shrugged. 


"Still 
. 
. 
. 
the 
prudent 
wizard 
keeps 
his 
head 
down 
in 
such 
times. 
All 
very 
well 
for 
Dumbledore 
to 
talk, 



but 
taking 
up 
a 
post 
at 
Hogwarts 
just 
now 
would 
be 
tantamount 
to 
declaring 
my 
public 
allegiance 
to 
the 
Order 
of 
the 
Phoenix! 
And 
while 
I'm 
sure 
they're 
very 
admirable 
and 
brave 
and 
all 
the 
rest 
of 
it, 
I 
don't personally fancy the mortality rate —" 


"You don't 
have 
to join 
the 
Order 
to 
teach at 
Hogwarts," 
said Harry, who could 
not 
quite 
keep a 
note 
of 
derision 
out 
of 
his 
voice: 
It 
was 
hard 
to 
sympathize 
with 
Slughorn's 
cosseted 
existence 
when 
he 
remembered 
Sirius, 
crouching 
in 
a 
cave 
and 
living 
on 
rats. 
"Most 
of 
the 
teachers 
aren't 
in 
it, 
and 
none 
of 
them 
has 
ever 
been 
killed 
— 
well, 
unless 
you 
count 
Quirrell, 
and 
he 
got 
what 
he 
deserved 
seeing 
as 
he was working with Voldemort." 


Harry 
had 
been 
sure 
Slughorn 
would 
be 
one 
of 
those 
wizards 
who 
could 
not 
bear 
to 
hear 
Voldemort's 
name 
spoken 
aloud, 
and 
was 
not 
disappointed: 
Slughorn 
gave 
a 
shudder 
and 
a 
squawk 
of 
protest, 
which Harry ignored. 


"I 
reckon 
the 
staff 
are 
safer 
than 
most 
people 
while 
Dumbledore's 
headmaster; 
he's 
supposed 
to 
be 
the 
only one Voldemort ever feared, isn't he?" Harry went on. 


Slughorn gazed into space for a moment or two: He seemed to be thinking over Harry's words. 


"Well, 
yes, 
it 
is 
true 
that 
HeWhoMustNotBeNamed 
has 
never 
sought 
a 
fight 
with 
Dumbledore," 
he 
muttered 
grudgingly. 
"And 
I 
suppose 
one 
could 
argue 
that 
as 
I 
have 
not 
joined 
the 
Death 
Kilters, 
HeWhoMustNotBeNamed 
can 
hardly 
count 
me 
a 
friend 
. 
. 
. 
in 
which 
case, 
I 
might 
well 
be 
safer 
a 
little 
closer 
to 
Albus. 
. 
. 
. 
I 
cannot 
pretend 
that 
Amelia 
Bones's 
death 
did 
not 
shake 
me. 
. 
. 
. 
If 
she, 
with 
all 
her Ministry contacts and protection . . ." 


Dumbledore reentered the room and Slughorn jumped as though he had forgotten he was in the house. 


"Oh, there you are, Albus," he said. "You've been a very long lime. Upset stomach?" 


"No, 
I 
was 
merely 
reading 
the 
Muggle 
magazines," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"I 
do 
love 
knitting 
patterns. 
Well, Harry, we have trespassed upon Horace's hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to 
leave." 


Not at all reluctant to obey, Harry jumped to his feet. Slughorn sinned taken aback. 


"You're leaving?" 


"Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one." 


"Lost. . .?" 


Slughorn 
seemed 
agitated. 
He 
twiddled 
his 
fat 
thumbs 
and 
fidgeted 
as 
he 
watched 
Dumbledore 
fasten 
his traveling cloak, and Harry zip up his jacket. 


"Well, 
I'm 
sorry 
you 
don't 
want 
the 
job, 
Horace," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
raising 
his 
uninjured 
hand 
in 
a 
farewell 
salute. 
"Hogwarts 
would 
have 
been 
glad 
to 
see 
you 
back 
again. 
Our 
greatly 
increased 
security 
notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to." 


"Yes . . . well . . . very gracious ... as I say ..." 



"Goodbye, 
then." 
"Bye," said Harry. 
They were at the front door when there was a shout from behind them. 
"All right, all right, I'll do it!" 
Dumbledore turned to see Slughorn standing breathless in the doorway to the sitting room. 
"You will come out of retirement?" 
"Yes, yes," said Slughorn impatiently. "I must be mad, but yes." 
"Wonderful," said Dumbledore, beaming. "Then, Horace, we shall see you on the first of September." 
"Yes, I daresay you will," grunted Slughorn. 
As 
they 
set 
off 
down 
the 
garden 
path, 
Slughorn's 
voice 
floated 
after 
them, 
"I'll 
want 
a 
pay 
rise, 


Dumbledore!" 


Dumbledore 
chuckled. 
The 
garden 
gate 
swung 
shut 
behind 
them, 
and 
they 
set 
off 
back 
down 
the 
hill 
through the dark and the swirling mist. 
"Well done, Harry," said Dumbledore. 
"I didn't do anything," said Harry in surprise. 
"Oh 
yes 
you 
did. 
You 
showed 
Horace 
exactly 
how 
much 
he 
stands 
to 
gain 
by 
returning 
to 
Hogwarts. 


Did you like him?" 
"Er..." 
Harry 
wasn't 
sure 
whether 
he 
liked 
Slughorn 
or 
not. 
He 
supposed 
he 
had 
been 
pleasant 
in 
his 
way, 
but 


he 
had 
also 
seemed 
vain 
and, 
whatever 
he 
said 
to 
the 
contrary, 
much 
too 
surprised 
that 
a 
Muggleborn 


should make a good witch. 
"Horace," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
relieving 
Harry 
of 
the 
responsibility 
to 
say 
any 
of 
this, 
"likes 
his 
comfort. 
He 
also 
likes 
the 
company 
of 
the 
famous, 
the 
successful, 
and 
the 
powerful. 
He 
enjoys 
the 
feeling 
that 
he 
influences 
these 
people. 
He 
has 
never 
wanted 
to 
occupy 
the 
throne 
himself; 
he 
prefers 
the 
backseat 


— 
more 
room 
to 
spread 
out, 
you 
see. 
He 
used 
to 
handpick 
favorites 
at 
Hogwarts, 
somelimcs 
for 
their 
ambition 
or 
their 
brains, 
sometimes 
for 
their 
charm 
or 
their 
talent, 
and 
he 
had 
an 
uncanny 
knack 
for 
choosing 
those 
who 
would 
go 
on 
to 
become 
outstanding 
in 
their 
various 
fields. 
Horace 
formed 
a 
kind 
of 
club 
of 
his 
favorites 
with 
himself 
at 
the 
center, 
making 
introductions, 
forging 
useful 
contacts 
between 
members, 
and 
always 
reaping 
some 
kind 
of 
benefit 
in 
return, 
whether 
a 
free 
box 
of 
his 
favorite 
crystalized 
pineapple 
or 
the 
chance 
to 
recommend 
the 
next 
junior 
member 
of 
the 
Goblin 
liaison Office." 
Harry 
had 
a 
sudden 
and 
vivid 
mental 
image 
of 
a 
great 
swollen 
spider, 
spinning 
a 
web 
around 
it, 
twitching a thread here and there to bring its large and juicy flies a little closer. 


"I 
tell 
you 
all 
this," 
Dumbledore 
continued, 
"not 
to 
turn 
you 
against 
Horace 
— 
or, 
as 
we 
must 
now 
call 



him, 
Professor 
Slughorn 
— 
but 
to 
put 
you 
on 
your 
guard. 
He 
will 
undoubtedly 
try 
to 
collect 
you, 
Harry. You would be 
the 
jewel 
of 
his 
collection; 
'the 
Boy Who Lived' 
... or, as 
they call 
you these 
days, 
'the Chosen One.'" 


At 
these 
words, 
a 
chill 
that 
had 
nothing 
to 
do 
with 
the 
surrounding 
mist 
stole 
over 
Harry. 
He 
was 
reminded 
of 
words 
he 
had 
heard 
a 
few 
weeks 
ago, 
words 
that 
had 
a 
horrible 
and 
particular 
meaning 
to 
him: Neither can live while the other survives . . . 


Dumbledore had stopped walking, level with the church they had passed earlier. 


"This will do, Harry. If you will grasp my arm." 


Braced 
this 
time, 
Harry 
was 
ready 
for 
the 
Apparition, 
but 
still 
found 
it 
unpleasant. 
When 
the 
pressure 
disappeared 
and 
he 
found 
himself 
able 
to 
breathe 
again, 
he 
was 
standing 
in 
a 
country 
lane 
beside 
Dumbledore 
and 
looking 
ahead 
to 
the 
crooked 
silhouette 
of 
his 
second 
favorite 
building 
in 
the 
world: 
the 
Burrow. 
In 
spite 
of 
the 
feeling 
of 
dread 
that 
had 
just 
swept 
through 
him, 
his 
spirits 
could 
not 
help 
but 
lift 
at 
the 
sight 
of 
it. 
Ron 
was 
in 
there 
. 
. 
. 
and 
so 
was 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
who 
could 
cook 
better 
than 
anyone he knew. . . . 


"If 
you 
don't 
mind, 
Harry," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
as 
they 
passed 
through 
the 
gate, 
"I'd 
like 
a 
few 
words 
with you before we part. In private. Perhaps in here?" 


Dumbledore 
pointed 
toward 
a 
rundown 
stone 
outhouse 
where 
the 
Weasleys 
kept 
their 
broomsticks. 
A 
little 
puzzled, 
Harry 
followed 
Dumbledore 
through 
the 
creaking 
door 
into 
a 
space 
a 
little 
smaller 
than 
the 
average 
cupboard. 
Dumbledore 
illuminated 
the 
tip 
of 
his 
wand, 
so 
that 
it 
glowed 
like 
a 
torch, 
and 
smiled down at Harry. 


"I 
hope 
you 
will 
forgive 
me 
for 
mentioning 
it, 
Harry, 
but 
I 
am 
pleased 
and 
a 
little 
proud 
at 
how 
well 
you 
seem 
to 
be 
coping 
after 
everything 
that 
happened 
at 
the 
Ministry. 
Permit 
me 
to 
say 
that 
I 
think 
Sirius would have been proud of you." 


Harry 
swallowed; 
his 
voice 
seemed 
to 
have 
deserted 
him. 
He 
did 
not 
think 
he 
could 
stand 
to 
discuss 
Sirius; 
it 
had 
been 
painful 
enough 
to 
hear 
Uncle 
Vernon 
say 
"His 
godfather's 
dead?" 
and 
even 
worse 
to 
hear Sirius’s name thrown out casually by Slughorn. 


"It 
was 
cruel," 
said 
Dumbledore 
softly, 
"that 
you 
and 
Sirius 
had 
such 
a 
short 
time 
together. 
A 
brutal 
ending to what should have been a long and happy relationship." 


Harry 
nodded, 
his 
eyes 
fixed 
resolutely 
on 
the 
spider 
now 
climbing 
Dumbledore's 
hat. 
He 
could 
tell 
that 
Dumbledore 
understood, 
that 
he 
might 
even 
suspect 
that 
until 
his 
letter 
arrived, 
Harry 
had 
spent 
nearly 
all 
his 
time 
at 
the 
Dursleys' 
lying 
on 
his 
bed, 
refusing 
meals, 
and 
staring 
at 
the 
misted 
window, 
full of the chill emptiness i hat he had come to associate with dementors. 


"It's just hard," Harry said finally, in a low voice, "to realize he won't write to me again." 


His 
eyes 
burned 
suddenly 
and 
he 
blinked. 
He 
felt 
stupid 
for 
admitting 
it, 
but 
the 
fact 
that 
he 
had 
had 
someone 
outside 
Hogwarts 
who 
cared 
what 
happened 
to 
him, 
almost 
like 
a 
parent, 
had 
been 
one 
of 
the 
best 
things 
about 
discovering 
his 
godfather 
. 
. 
. 
and 
now 
the 
post 
owls 
would 
never 
bring 
him 
that 



comfort again. . . . 


"Sirius 
represented 
much 
to 
you 
that 
you 
had 
never 
known 
before," 
said 
Dumbledore 
gently. 
"Naturally, the loss is devastating. . . . 


"But 
while 
I 
was 
at 
the 
Dursleys' 
..." 
interrupted 
Harry, 
his 
voice 
growing 
stronger, 
"I 
realized 
I 
can’t 
shut 
myself 
away 
or 
— 
or 
crack 
up. 
Sirius 
wouldn't 
have 
wanted 
that, 
would 
he? 
And 
anyway, 
life's 
too 
short. 
. 
. 
. 
Look 
at 
Madam 
Bones, 
look 
at 
Emmeline 
Vance. 
... 
It 
could 
be 
me 
next, 
couldn't 
it? 
But 
if 
it 
is," 
he 
said 
fiercely, 
now 
looking 
straight 
into 
Dumbledore's 
blue 
eyes 
gleaming 
in 
the 
wandlight, 
"I'll make sure I take as many Death Eaters with me as I can, and Voldemort too if I can manage it." 


"Spoken 
both 
like 
your 
mother 
and 
father's 
son 
and 
Sirius's 
true 
godson!" 
said 
Dumbledore, 
with 
an 
approving 
pat 
on 
Harry's 
back. 
"I 
take 
my 
hat 
off 
to 
you 
— 
or 
I 
would, 
if 
I 
were 
not 
afraid 
of 
showering you in spiders. 


"And 
now, 
Harry, 
on 
a 
closely 
related 
subject... 
I 
gather 
that 
you 
have 
been 
taking 
the 
Daily 
Prophet 
over the last two weeks?" 


"Yes," said Harry, and his heart beat a little faster. 


"Then 
you 
will 
have 
seen 
that 
there 
have 
been 
not 
so 
much 
leaks 
as 
floods 
concerning 
your 
adventure 
in the Hall of Prophecy?" 


"Yes," said Harry again. "And now everyone knows that I'm the one — 


"No, 
they 
do 
not," 
interrupted 
Dumbledore. 
"There 
are 
only 
two 
people 
in 
the 
whole 
world 
who 
know 
the 
full 
contents 
of 
the 
prophecy 
made 
about 
you 
and 
Lord 
Voldemort, 
and 
they 
are 
both 
standing 
in 
this 
smelly, 
spidery 
broom 
shed. 
It 
is 
true, 
however, 
that 
many 
have 
guessed, 
correctly, 
that 
Voldemort 
sent his Death Eaters to steal a prophecy, and that the prophecy concerned you. 


"Now, 
I 
think 
I 
am 
correct 
in 
saying 
that 
you 
have 
not 
told 
anybody 
that 
you 
know 
what 
the 
prophecy 
said?" 


"No," said Harry. 


"A 
wise 
decision, 
on 
the 
whole," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"Although 
I 
think 
you 
ought 
to 
relax 
it 
in 
favor 
of 
your 
friends, 
Mr. 
Ronald 
Weasley 
and 
Miss 
Hermione 
Granger. 
Yes," 
he 
continued, 
when 
Harry 
looked 
startled, 
"I 
think 
they 
ought 
to 
know. 
You 
do 
them 
a 
disservice 
by 
not 
confiding 
something 
this 
important to them." 


"I didn't want —" 


"— 
to 
worry 
or 
frighten 
them?" 
said 
Dumbledore, 
surveying 
Harry 
over 
the 
top 
of 
his 
halfmoon 
spectacles. 
"Or 
perhaps, 
to 
confess 
that 
you 
yourself 
are 
worried 
and 
frightened? 
You 
need 
your 
friends, Harry. As you so rightly said, Sirius would not have wanted you to shut yourself away." 


Harry 
said 
nothing, 
but 
Dumbledore 
did 
not 
seem 
to 
require 
an 
answer. 
He 
continued, 
"On 
a 
different, 
though related, subject, it is my wish that you take private lessons with me this year." 


"Private — with you?" said Harry, surprised out of his preoccupied silence. 



"Yes. I think it is time that I took a greater hand in your education." 
What will you be teaching me, sir?" 
"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," said Dumbledore airily. 
Harry 
waited 
hopefully, 
but 
Dumbledore 
did 
not 
elaborate, 
so 
ho 
asked 
something 
else 
that 
had 
been 


bothering him slightly. 
"If I'm having lessons with you, I won't have to do Occlumency lessons with Snape, will I?" 
''Professor Snape, Harry — and no, you will not." 
"Good," said Harry in relief, "because they were a —" 
He stopped, careful not to say what he really thought. 
"I think the word 'fiasco' would be a good one here," said Dumbledore, nodding. 
Harry laughed. 
"Well, 
that 
means 
I 
won't 
see 
much 
of 
Professor 
Snape 
from 
now 
on," 
he 
said, 
"because 
he 
won't 
let 


me carry on Potions unless I get 'Outstanding' in my OWL., which I know I haven't." 


"Don't count your owls before they are delivered," said Dumbledore gravely. "Which, now I think of it, 


ought to be some time later today. Now, two more things, Harry, before we part. 


"Firstly, 
I 
wish 
you 
to 
keep 
your 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
with 
you 
at 
all 
times 
from 
this 
moment 
onward. 


Even within Hogwarts itself. Just in case, you understand me?" 
Harry nodded. 
"And 
lastly, 
while 
you 
stay 
here, 
the 
Burrow 
has 
been 
given 
the 
highest 
security 
the 
Ministry 
of 
Magic 


can 
provide. 
These 
measures 
have 
caused 
a 
certain 
amount 
of 
inconvenience 
to 
Arthur 
and 
Molly 
— 


all 
their 
post, 
for 
instance, 
is 
being 
searched 
at 
the 
Ministry 
before 
being 
sent 
on. 
They 
do 
not 
mind 
in 


the 
slightest, 
for 
their 
only 
concern 
is 
your 
safety. 
However, 
it 
would 
be 
poor 
repayment 
if 
you 
risked 


your neck while staying with them." 


"I understand," said Harry quickly. 
"Very 
well, 
then," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
pushing 
open 
the 
broom 
shed 
door 
and 
stepping 
out 
into 
the 
yard. 
"I 
see 
a 
light 
in 
the 
kitchen. 
Let 
us 
not 
deprive 
Molly 
any 
longer 
of 
the 
chance 
to 
deplore 
how 
thin 
you 
are." 



Chapter 5 
An Excess 
of Phlegm 



Harry and Dumbledore 
approached the 
back door 
of 
the 
Burrow, which was 
surrounded by the 
familiar 
litter 
of 
old 
Wellington 
boots 
and 
rusty 
cauldrons; 
Harry 
could 
hear 
the 
soft 
clucking 
of 
sleepy 
chickens 
coming 
from 
a 
distant 
shed. 
Dumbledore 
knocked 
three 
times 
and 
Harry 
saw 
sudden 
movement behind the kitchen window. 


"Who's there?" said a nervous voice he recognized as Mrs. Weasley's. "Declare yourself!" 
"It is I, Dumbledore, bringing Harry." 
The 
door 
opened 
at 
once. 
There 
stood 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
short, 
plump, 
and 
wearing 
an 
old 
green 
dressing 


gown. 
"Harry, dear! Gracious, Albus, you gave me a fright, you said not to expect you before morning!" 
"We 
were 
lucky," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
ushering 
Harry 
over 
the 
threshold. 
"Slughorn 
proved 
much 
more 


persuadable than I had expected. Harry's doing, of course. Ah, hello, Nymphadora!" 
Harry 
looked 
around 
and 
saw 
that 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
was 
not 
alone, 
despite 
the 
lateness 
of 
the 
hour. 
A 


young 
witch 
with 
a 
pale, 
heartshaped 
face 
and 
mousy 
brown 
hair 
was 
sitting 
at 
the 
table 
clutching 
a 
large mug between her hands. 
"Hello, Professor," she said. " Wotcher, Harry." 
"Hi, Tonks." 
Harry 
thought 
she 
looked 
drawn, 
even 
ill, 
and 
there 
was 
something 
forced 
in 
her 
smile. 
Certainly 
her 


appearance was less colorful than usual without her customary shade of bubblegumpink 
hair. 


"I'd 
better 
be 
off," 
she 
said 
quickly, 
standing 
up 
and 
pulling 
her 
cloak 
around 
her 
shoulders. 
"Thanks 
for the tea and sympathy, Molly" 
"Please 
don't 
leave 
on my 
account," 
said Dumbledore 
courteously, 
"I 
cannot 
stay, 
I have 
urgent 
matters 


to discuss with Rufus Scrimgeour." 
"No, no, I need to get going," said Tonks, not meeting Dumbledore's eyes. " 'Night —" 
"Dear, why not come to dinner at the weekend, Remus and MadEye 
are coming — ?" 
"No, really, Molly. . . thanks anyway. . . Good night, everyone. 



Tonks 
hurried 
past 
Dumbledore 
and 
Harry 
into 
the 
yard; 
a 
few 
paces 
beyond 
the 
doorstep, 
she 
turned 


on the spot and vanished into thin air. Harry noticed that Mrs. Weasley looked troubled. 
"Well, 
I 
shall 
see 
you 
at 
Hogwarts, 
Harry," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"Take 
care 
of 
yourself. 
Molly, 
your 
servant." 


He 
made 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
a 
bow 
and 
followed 
Tonks, 
vanishing 
at 
precisely 
the 
same 
spot. 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
closed 
the 
door 
on 
the 
empty 
yard 
and 
then 
steered 
Harry 
by 
the 
shoulders 
into 
the 
full 
glow 
of 
=
ilu* 
lantern on the table to examine his appearance. 


"You're 
like 
Ron," 
she 
sighed, 
looking 
him 
up 
and 
down. 
"Both 
of 
you 
look 
as 
though 
you've 
had 
Stretching 
jinxes 
put 
on 
you. 
=
I 
Nwcar 
Ron's 
grown 
four 
inches 
since 
I 
last 
bought 
him 
school 
robes. 
Are you hungry, Harry?" 


"Yeah, I am," said Harry, suddenly realizing just how hungry he was, 
"Sit down, dear, I'll knock something up." 
As 
Harry 
sat 
down, 
a 
furry 
ginger 
cat 
with 
a 
squashed 
face 
lumped 
onto 
his 
knees 
and 
settled 
there, 


purring. 
"So Hermione's here?" he asked happily as he tickled Crookshanks behind the ears. 
"Oh 
yes, 
she 
arrived 
the 
day 
before 
yesterday," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
rapping 
a 
large 
iron 
pot 
with 
her 


wand. 
It 
bounced 
onto 
the 
=
Itovc 
with 
a 
loud 
clang 
and 
began 
to 
bubble 
at 
once. 
"Everyone's 
in 
bed, 


of course, we didn't expect you for hours. Here you are —" 
She 
tapped 
the 
pot 
again; 
it 
rose 
into 
the 
air, 
flew 
toward 
Harry, 
and 
tipped 
over; 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
slid 
a 
bowl nearly beneath it just in lime to catch the stream of thick, steaming onion soup. 


"Bread, dear?" 
"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley." 
She 
waved 
her 
wand 
over 
her 
shoulder; 
a 
loaf 
of 
bread 
and 
a 
knife 
soared 
gracefully 
onto 
the 
table; 
as 


the 
loaf 
sliced 
itself 
and 
=
llie 
soup 
pot 
dropped 
back 
onto 
the 
stove, 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
sat 
down 
opposite 
him. 
"So you persuaded Horace Slughorn to take the job?" 


Harry nodded, his mouth so full of hot soup that he could not speak. 
"He 
taught 
Arthur 
and 
me," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley. 
"He 
was 
at 
Hogwarts 
for 
ages, 
started 
around 
the 
same time as Dumbledore, I think. Did you like him?" 


His mouth now full of bread, Harry shrugged and gave a noncommittal jerk of the head. 
"I 
know 
what 
you 
mean," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
nodding 
wisely. 
"Of 
course 
he 
can 
be 
charming 
when 
he 
wants 
to 
be, 
but 
Arthur's 
never 
liked 
him 
much. 
The 
Ministry's 
littered 
with 
Slughorn's 
old 
favorites, 
he 
was 
always 
good 
at 
giving 
leg 
ups, 
but 
he 
never 
had 
much 
time 
for 
Arthur 
— 
didn't 
seem 
to 
think 
he 
was 
enough 
of 
a 
highflier. 
Well, 
that 
just 
shows 
you, 
even 
Slughorn 
makes 
mistakes. 
I 
don't 
know 



whether Ron's told you in any of his letters — it's only just happened — but Arthur's been promoted!" 


It could not have been clearer that Mrs. Weasley had been bursting to say this. 


Harry 
swallowed 
a 
large 
amount 
of 
very 
hot 
soup 
and 
thought 
he 
could 
feel 
his 
throat 
blistering. 
"That's great!" he gasped. 


"You 
are 
sweet," 
beamed 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
possibly 
taking 
his 
watering 
eyes 
for 
emotion 
at 
the 
news. 
"Yes, 
Rufus 
Scrimgeour 
has 
set 
up 
several 
new 
offices 
in 
response 
to 
the 
present 
situation, 
and 
Arthur's 
heading 
the 
Office 
for 
the 
Detection 
and 
Confiscation 
of 
Counterfeit 
Defensive 
Spells 
and 
Protective Objects. It's a big job, he's got ten people reporting to him now!" 


"What exactly — ?" 


"Well, 
you 
see, 
in 
all 
the 
panic 
about 
YouKnowWho, 
odd 
things 
have 
been 
cropping 
up 
for 
sale 
everywhere, 
things 
that 
are 
supposed 
to 
guard 
against 
YouKnowWho 
and 
the 
Death 
Eaters. 
You 
can 
imagine 
the 
kind 
of 
thing 
— 
socalled 
protective 
potions 
that 
are 
really 
gravy 
with 
a 
bit 
of 
bubotuber 
pus 
added, 
or 
instructions 
for 
defensive 
jinxes 
that 
actually 
make 
your 
ears 
fall 
off. 
. 
. 
. 
Well, 
in 
the 
main 
the 
perpetrators 
are 
just 
people 
like 
Mundungus 
Hotelier, 
who've 
never 
done 
an 
honest 
day's 
work 
in 
their 
lives 
and 
are 
taking 
advantage 
of 
how 
frightened 
everybody 
is, 
but 
every 
now 
and 
then 
something 
really 
nasty 
turns 
up. 
The 
other 
day 
Arthur 
confiscated 
a 
box 
of 
cursed 
Sneakoscopes 
that 
were 
almost 
certainly 
planted 
by 
a 
Death 
Eater. 
So 
you 
see, 
it's 
a 
very 
important 
job, 
and 
I 
tell 
him 
it's 
just 
silly 
to 
miss 
dealing 
with 
spark 
plugs 
and 
loasters 
and 
all 
the 
rest 
of 
that 
Muggle 
rubbish." 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
ended 
her 
speech 
with 
a 
stern 
look, 
as 
if 
it 
had 
been 
Harry 
suggesting 
that 
it 
was 
natural 
to 
miss spark plugs. 


"Is Mr. Weasley still at work?" Harry asked. 


"Yes, he is. As a matter of fact, he's a tiny bit late. ... He said he'd be back around midnight. . . ." 


She 
turned 
to 
look 
at 
a 
large 
clock 
that 
was 
perched 
awkwardly 
on 
top 
of 
a 
pile 
of 
sheets 
in 
the 
washing 
basket 
at 
the 
end 
of 
the 
table. 
Harry 
recognized 
it 
at 
once: 
It 
had 
nine 
hands, 
each 
inscribed 
with 
the 
name 
of 
a 
family 
member, 
and 
usually 
hung 
on 
i 
he 
Weasleys' 
sitting 
room 
wall, 
though 
its 
current 
position 
suggested 
that 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
had 
taken 
to 
carrying 
it 
around 
the 
house 
with 
her. 
Every 
single one of its nine hands was now pointing at "mortal peril." 


"It's 
been 
like 
that 
for 
a 
while 
now," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
in 
an 
unconvincingly 
casual 
voice, 
"ever 
since 
YouKnowWho 
came 
back 
into 
the 
open. 
I 
suppose 
everybody's 
in 
mortal 
danger 
now. 
... 
I 
don't 
think 
it 
can 
be 
just 
our 
family 
. 
. 
. 
but 
I 
don't 
know 
anyone 
else 
who's 
got 
a 
clock 
like 
this, 
so 
I 
can't 
check. Oh!" 


With 
a 
sudden 
exclamation 
she 
pointed 
at 
the 
clock's 
face. 
Mr. 
Weasley's 
hand 
had 
switched 
to 
"traveling." 


"He's coming!" 


And 
sure 
enough, 
a 
moment 
later 
there 
was 
a 
knock 
on 
the 
back 
door. 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
jumped 
up 
and 
hurried 
to 
it; 
with 
one 
hand 
on 
the 
doorknob 
and 
her 
face 
pressed 
against 
the 
wood 
she 
called 
softly, 



"Arthur, is that you?" 


"Yes," 
came 
Mr. 
Weasley's 
weary 
voice. 
"But 
I 
would 
say 
that 
even 
if 
I 
were 
a 
Death 
Eater, 
dear. 
Ask 
the question!" 
"Oh, honestly..." 
"Molly!" 
"All right, all right. . . What is your dearest ambition?" 
"To find out how airplanes stay up." 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
nodded 
and 
turned 
the 
doorknob, 
but 
apparently 
Mr. 
Weasley 
was 
holding 
tight 
to 
it 
on 


the other side, because the door remained firmly shut. 
"Molly! I've got to ask you your question first!" 
"Arthur, really, this is just silly. ..." 
"What do you like me to call you when we're alone together?" 
Even 
by 
the 
dim 
light 
of 
the 
lantern 
Harry 
could 
tell 
that 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
had 
turned 
bright 
red; 
he 


himself 
felt 
suddenly 
warm 
around 
the 
ears 
and 
neck, 
and 
hastily 
gulped 
soup, 
clattering 
his 
spoon 
as 
loudly as he could against the bowl. 
=
"
Mollywobbles," whispered a mortified Mrs. Weasley into the crack at the edge of the door. 


"Correct," said Mr. Weasley. "Now you can let me in." 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
opened 
the 
door 
to 
reveal 
her 
husband, 
a 
thin, 
balding, 
redhaired 
wizard 
wearing 
hornrimmed 
spectacles and a long and dusty traveling cloak. 


"I 
still 
don't 
see 
why 
we 
have 
to 
go 
through 
that 
every 
time 
you 
come 
home," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
still 
pink 
in 
the 
face 
as 
she 
helped 
her 
husband 
out 
of 
his 
cloak. 
"I 
mean, 
a 
Death 
Eater 
might 
have 
forced 
the answer out of you before impersonating you!" 


"I 
know, 
dear, 
but 
it's 
Ministry 
procedure, 
and 
I 
have 
to 
set 
an 
example. 
Something 
smells 
good 
— 
onion soup?" 
Mr. Weasley turned hopefully in the direction of the table. 


"Harry! We didn't expect you until morning!" 
They shook hands, 
and Mr. Weasley dropped into 
the 
chair 
beside 
Harry as 
Mrs. Weasley set 
a 
bowl 
of 
soup in front of him too. 


"Thanks, 
Molly. 
It's 
been 
a 
tough 
night. 
Some 
idiot's 
started 
selling 
MetamorphMedals. 
Just 
sling 
them 
around 
your 
neck 
and 
you'll 
be 
able 
to 
change 
your 
appearance 
at 
will. 
A 
hundred 
thousand 
disguises, all for ten Galleons!" 


"And what really happens when you put them on?" 



"Mostly 
you 
just 
turn 
a 
fairly 
unpleasant 
orange 
color, 
but 
a 
couple 
of 
people 
have 
also 
sprouted 
tentacle like warts all over their bodies. As if St. Mungo's didn't have enough to do already!" 


"It 
sounds 
like 
the 
sort 
of 
thing 
Fred 
and 
George 
would 
find 
funny," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
hesitantly. 
"Are you sure — ?" 


"Of 
course 
I 
am!" 
said 
Mr. 
Weasley. 
"The 
boys 
wouldn't 
do 
anything 
like 
that 
now, 
not 
when 
people 
are desperate for protection!" 


"So is that why you're late, MetamorphMedals?" 


"No, 
we 
got 
wind 
of 
a 
nasty 
backfiring 
jinx 
down 
in 
Elephant 
and 
Castle, 
but 
luckily 
the 
Magical 
Law 
Enforcement Squad had sorted it out by the time we got there. ..." 


Harry stifled a yawn behind his hand. 


"Bed," 
said 
an 
undeceived 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
at 
once. 
"I've 
got 
Fred 
and 
George's 
room 
all 
ready 
for 
you, 
you'll have it to yourself." 


"Why, where are they?" 


"Oh, 
they're 
in 
Diagon 
Alley, 
sleeping 
in 
the 
little 
flat 
over 
their 
joke 
shop 
as 
they're 
so 
busy," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley. 
"I 
must 
say, 
I 
didn't 
approve 
at 
first, 
but 
they 
do 
seem 
to 
have 
a 
bit 
of 
a 
flair 
for 
business! Come on, dear, your trunks already up there." 


"'Night, 
Mr. 
Weasley," 
said 
Harry, 
pushing 
back 
his 
chair. 
Crookshanks 
leapt 
lightly 
from 
his 
lap 
and 
slunk out of the room. 


"G'night, Harry," said Mr. Weasley. 


Harry 
saw 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
glance 
at 
the 
clock 
in 
the 
washing 
basket 
as 
they 
left 
the 
kitchen. 
All 
the 
hands were once again at "mortal peril." 


Fred 
and 
George's 
bedroom 
was 
on 
the 
second 
floor. 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
pointed 
her 
wand 
at 
a 
lamp 
on 
the 
bedside 
table 
and it 
ignited 
at 
once, bathing 
the 
room 
in 
a 
pleasant 
golden glow. Though a 
large 
vase 
of 
flowers 
had 
been 
placed 
on 
a 
desk 
in 
front 
of 
the 
small 
window, 
their 
perfume 
could 
not 
disguise 
the 
lingering 
smell 
of 
what 
Harry 
thought 
was 
gunpowder. 
A 
considerable 
amount 
of 
floor 
space 
was 
devoted 
to 
a 
vast 
number 
of 
unmarked, 
sealed 
cardboard 
boxes, 
amongst 
which 
stood 
Harry's 
school 
trunk. The room looked as though it was being used as a temporary warehouse. 


Hedwig 
hooted 
happily 
at 
Harry 
from 
her 
perch 
on 
top 
of 
a 
large 
wardrobe, 
then 
took 
off 
through 
the 
window; 
Harry 
knew 
she 
had 
been 
waiting 
to 
see 
him 
before 
going 
hunting. 
Harry 
bade 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
good 
night, 
put 
on 
pajamas, 
and 
got 
into 
one 
of 
the 
beds. 
There 
was 
something 
hard 
inside 
the 
pillowcase. 
He 
groped 
inside 
it 
and 
pulled 
out 
a 
sticky 
purpleandorange 
sweet, 
which 
he 
recognized 
as a Puking Pastille. Smiling to himself, he rolled over and was instantly asleep. 


Seconds 
later, 
or 
so 
it 
seemed 
to 
Harry, 
he 
was 
awakened 
by 
what 
sounded 
like 
cannon 
fire 
as 
the 
door 
burst 
open. 
Sitting 
bolt 
upright, 
he 
heard 
the 
rasp 
of 
the 
curtains 
being 
pulled 
back: 
The 
dazzling 
sunlight 
seemed 
to 
poke 
him 
hard 
in 
both 
eyes. 
Shielding 
them 
with 
one 
hand, 
he 
groped 
hopelessly 



for his glasses with the other. 
"Wuzzgoinon?" 
"We 
didn't 
know 
you 
were 
here 
already!" 
said 
a 
loud 
and 
excited 
voice, 
and 
he 
received 
a 
sharp 
blow 


to the top of the head. 
"Ron, don't hit him!" said a girl's voice reproachfully. 
Harry's 
hand 
found 
his 
glasses 
and 
he 
shoved 
them 
on, 
though 
I 
he 
light 
was 
so 
bright 
he 
could 
hardly 


see 
anyway. 
A 
long, 
looming 
shadow 
quivered 
in 
front 
of 
him 
for 
a 
moment; 
he 
blinked 
and 
Ron 
Weasley came into focus, grinning down at him. 


"All right?" 
"Never 
been 
better," 
said 
Harry, 
rubbing 
the 
top 
of 
his 
head 
and 
slumping 
back 
onto 
his 
pillows. 
"You?" 


"Not 
bad," 
said 
Ron, 
pulling 
over 
a 
cardboard 
box 
and 
sitting 
on 
it. 
"When 
did 
you 
get 
here? 
Mum's 
only just told us!" 
"About one o'clock this morning." 


"Were the Muggles all right? Did they treat you okay?" 
"Same 
as 
usual," 
said 
Harry, 
as 
Hermione 
perched 
herself 
on 
the 
edge 
of 
his 
bed, 
"they 
didn't 
talk 
to 
me much, but I like it better that way. How're you, Hermione?" 


"Oh, 
I'm 
fine," 
said 
Hermione, 
who 
was 
scrutinizing 
Harry 
as 
though 
he 
was 
sickening 
for 
something. 
He 
thought 
he 
knew 
what 
was 
behind 
this, 
and 
as 
he 
had 
no 
wish 
to 
discuss 
Sirius's 
death 
or 
any 
other 
miserable subject at the moment, he said, "What's the time? Have I missed breakfast?" 


"Don't 
worry 
about 
that, 
Mum's 
bringing 
you 
up 
a 
tray; 
she 
reckons 
you 
look 
underfed," 
said 
Ron, 
rolling his eyes. "So, what's been going on?" 
"Nothing much, I've just been stuck at my aunt and uncle's, haven't I?" 


"Come off it!" said Ron. "You've been off with Dumbledore!" 
"It 
wasn't 
that 
exciting. 
He 
just 
wanted 
me 
to 
help 
him 
persuade 
this 
old 
teacher 
to 
come 
out 
of 
retirement. His name's Horace Slughorn." 


"Oh," said Ron, looking disappointed. "We thought —" 
Hermione flashed a warning look at Ron, and Ron changed tack at top speed. 
"—we thought it'd be something like that." 


"You did?" said Harry, amused. 


"Yeah 
. 
. 
. 
yeah, 
now 
Umbridge 
has 
left, 
obviously 
we 
need 
a 
new 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts 
teacher, don't we? So, er, what's he like?" 
"He 
looks 
a 
bit 
like 
a 
walrus, 
and 
he 
used 
to 
be 
Head 
of 
Slytherin," 
said 
Harry. 
"Something 
wrong, 



Hermione?" 


She 
was 
watching 
him 
as 
though 
expecting 
strange 
symptoms 
to 
manifest 
themselves 
at 
any 
moment. 
She rearranged her features hastily in an unconvincing smile. 
"No, of course not! So, um, did Slughorn seem like he'll be a good teacher?" 
"Dunno," said Harry. "He can't be worse than Umbridge, can he?" 
"I 
know 
someone 
who's 
worse 
than 
Umbridge," 
said 
a 
voice 
from 
the 
doorway. 
Ron's 
younger 
sister 


slouched into the room, looking irritable. "Hi, Harry." 
"What's up with you?" Ron asked. 
"It's her," said Ginny, plonking herself down on Harry's bed. "She's driving me mad." 
"What's she done now?" asked Hermione sympathetically. 
"It's the way she talks to me — you'd think I was about three!" 
"I know," said Hermione, dropping her voice. "She's so full of herself." 
Harry 
was 
astonished 
to 
hear 
Hermione 
talking 
about 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
like 
this 
and 
could 
not 
blame 
Ron 


for saying angrily, "Can't you two lay off her for five seconds?" 
"Oh, that's right, defend her," snapped Ginny. "We all know you can't get enough of her." 
This 
seemed 
an 
odd 
comment 
to 
make 
about 
Ron's 
mother. 
Starting 
to 
feel 
that 
he 
was 
missing 


something, Harry said, "Who are you — ?" 
But 
his 
question 
was 
answered 
before 
he 
could 
finish 
it. 
The 
bedroom 
door 
flew 
open 
again, 
and 
Harry 


instinctively 
yanked 
the 
bedcovers 
up 
to 
his 
chin 
so 
hard 
that 
Hermione 
and 
Ginny 
slid 
off 
the 
bed 
onto the floor. 
A 
young 
woman 
was 
standing 
in 
the 
doorway, 
a 
woman 
of 
such 
breathtaking 
beauty 
that 
the 
room 


seemed 
to 
have 
become 
strangely 
airless. 
She 
was 
tall 
and 
willowy 
with 
long 
blonde 
hair 
and 
appeared 
to 
emanate 
a 
faint, 
silvery 
glow. 
To 
complete 
this 
vision 
of 
perfection, 
she 
was 
carrying 
a 
heavily 
laden breakfast tray. 


"'Arry," she said in a throaty voice. "Eet 'as been too long!" 


As 
she 
swept 
over 
the 
threshold 
toward 
him, 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
was 
revealed, 
bobbing 
along 
in 
her 
wake, 
looking rather cross. 
"There was no need to bring up the tray, I was just about to do it myself!" 
"Eet 
was 
no 
trouble," 
said 
Fleur 
Delacour, 
setting 
the 
tray 
across 
Harry's 
knees 
and 
then 
swooping 
to 


kiss 
him 
on each cheek: 
He 
felt 
the 
places 
where 
her 
mouth 
had touched him 
burn. "I 'ave 
been longing 
to 
see 
=
'
itn. 
You 
remember 
my 
seester, 
Gabrielle? 
She 
never 
stops 
talking 
about 
'Arry 
Potter. 
She 
will be delighted to see you again." 


"Oh ... is she here too?" Harry croaked. 



"No, 
no, 
silly 
boy," 
said 
Fleur 
with 
a 
tinkling 
laugh, 
"I 
mean 
next 
summer, 
when 
we 
— 
but 
do 
you 
not 
know?" 


Her 
great 
blue 
eyes 
widened 
and 
she 
looked 
reproachfully 
at 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
who 
said, 
"We 
hadn't 
got 
around to telling him yet." 


Fleur 
turned 
back 
to 
Harry, 
swinging 
her 
silvery 
sheet 
of 
hair 
so 
that 
it 
whipped 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
across 
the face. 


"Bill and I are going to be married!" 


"Oh," 
said 
Harry 
blankly. 
He 
could 
not 
help 
noticing 
how 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
Hermione, 
and 
Ginny 
were 
all determinedly avoiding one another's gaze. "Wow. Er — congratulations!" 


She swooped down upon him and kissed him again. 


"Bill 
is 
very 
busy 
at 
ze 
moment, 
working 
very 
'ard, 
and 
I 
only 
work 
parttime 
at 
Gringotts 
for 
my 
Eenglish, 
so 
he 
brought 
me 
'ere 
for 
a 
few 
days 
to 
get 
to 
know 
'is 
family 
properly. 
I 
was 
so 
pleased 
to 
'ear 
you 
would 
be 
coming 
— 
zere 
isn't 
much 
to 
do 
'ere, 
unless 
you 
like 
cooking 
and 
chickens! 
Well 
— 
enjoy your breakfast, 'Arry!" 


With 
these 
words 
she 
turned 
gracefully 
and 
seemed 
to 
float 
out 
of 
the 
room, 
closing 
the 
door 
quietly 
behind her. 


Mrs. Weasley made a noise that sounded like =
"
tchah!" 


"Mum hates her," said Ginny quietly. 


"I 
do 
not 
hate 
her!" 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
in 
a 
cross 
whisper. 
"I 
just 
think 
they've 
hurried 
into 
this 
engagement, that's all!" 


"They've 
known 
each 
other 
a 
year," 
said 
Ron, 
who 
looked 
oddly 
groggy 
and 
was 
staring 
at 
the 
closed 
door. 


"Well, 
that's 
not 
very 
long! 
I 
know 
why 
it's 
happened, 
of 
course. 
Its 
all 
this 
uncertainty 
with 
YouKnowWho 
coming 
back, 
people 
think 
they 
might 
be 
dead 
tomorrow, 
so 
they're 
rushing 
all 
sorts 
of 
decisions 
they'd 
normally 
take 
time 
over. 
It 
was 
the 
same 
last 
time 
he 
was 
powerful, 
people 
eloping 
left, right, and center —" 


"Including you and Dad," said Ginny slyly. 


"Yes, 
well, 
your 
father 
and 
I 
were 
made 
for 
each 
other, 
what 
was 
the 
point 
in 
waiting?" 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley. 
"Whereas 
Bill 
and 
Fleur 
. 
. 
. 
well. 
. 
. 
what 
have 
they 
really 
got 
in 
common? 
He's 
a 
hardworking, downtoearth 
sort of person, whereas she's —" 


"A 
cow," 
said 
Ginny, 
nodding. 
"But 
Bill's 
not 
that 
downtoearth. 
He's 
a 
CurseBreaker, 
isn't 
he, 
he 
likes a bit of adventure, a bit of glamour. ... I expect that's why he's gone for Phlegm." 


"Stop 
calling 
her 
that, 
Ginny," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
sharply, 
as 
Harry 
and 
Hermione 
laughed. 
"Well, 
I'd 
better get on. ... Eat your eggs while they're warm, Harry." 



Looking 
careworn, 
she 
left 
the 
room. 
Ron 
still 
seemed 
slightly 
punchdrunk; 
he 
was 
shaking 
his 
head 
experimentally like a dog trying to rid its ears of water. 
"Don't you get used to her if she's staying in the same house?" Harry asked. 


"Well, you do," said Ron, "but if she jumps out at you unexpectedly, like then ..." 
"It's 
pathetic," 
said 
Hermione 
furiously, 
striding 
away 
from 
Ron 
as 
far 
as 
she 
could 
go 
and 
turning 
to 
face him with her arms folded once she had reached the wall. 


"You 
don't 
really 
want 
her 
around 
forever?" 
Ginny 
asked 
Ron 
incredulously. 
When 
he 
merely 
shrugged, she said, "Well, Mum's going to put a stop to it if she can, I bet you anything." 


"How's she going to manage that?" asked Harry. 
"She 
keeps 
trying 
to 
get 
Tonks 
round 
for 
dinner. 
I 
think 
she's 
hoping 
Bill 
will 
fall 
for 
Tonks 
instead. 
I 
hope he does, I'd much rather have her in the family." 


"Yeah, 
that'll 
work," 
said 
Ron 
sarcastically. 
"Listen, 
no 
bloke 
in 
his 
right 
mind's 
going 
to 
fancy 
Tonks 
when 
Fleur's 
around. 
I 
mean, 
Tonks 
is 
okaylooking 
when 
she 
isn't 
doing 
stupid 
things 
to 
her 
hair 
and 
her nose, but —" 


"She's a damn sight nicer than Phlegm? said Ginny. 
"And she's more intelligent, she's an Auror!" said Hermione from the corner. 
"Fleur's not stupid, she was good enough to enter the Triwizard Tournament," said Harry. 
"Not you as well!" said Hermione bitterly. 
"I suppose you like the way Phlegm says ' 'Any,' do you?" asked Ginny scornfully. 
"No," said Harry, wishing he hadn't spoken, "I was just saying, Phlegm — I mean, Fleur —" 
"I'd much rather have Tonks in the family," said Ginny. "At least she's a laugh." 
"She 
hasn't 
been 
much 
of 
a 
laugh 
lately," 
said 
Ron. 
"Every 
time 
I've 
seen 
her 
she's 
looked 
more 
like 


Moaning Myrtle." 


"That's 
not 
fair," 
snapped 
Hermione. 
"She 
still 
hasn't 
got 
over 
what 
happened 
. 
. 
. 
you 
know 
... 
I 
mean, 
he was her cousin!" 
Harry's 
heart 
sank. 
They 
had 
arrived 
at 
Sirius. 
He 
picked 
up 
a 
fork 
and 
began 
shoveling 
scrambled 


eggs into his mouth, hoping to deflect any invitation to join in this part of the conversation. 


"Tonks 
and 
Sirius 
barely 
knew 
each 
other!" 
said 
Ron. 
"Sirius 
was 
in 
Azkaban 
half 
her 
life 
and 
before 
that their families never met —" 
"That's not the point," said Hermione. "She thinks it was her limit he died!" 
"How does she work that one out?" asked Harry, in spite of himself. 



"Well, 
she 
was 
fighting 
Bellatrix 
Lestrange, 
wasn't 
she? 
I 
think 
she 
feels 
that 
if 
only 
she 
had 
finished 
her off, Bellatrix couldn't have killed Sirius." 


"That's stupid," said Ron. 
"It's 
survivor's 
guilt," 
said 
Hermione. 
"I 
know 
Lupin's 
tried 
to 
talk 
her 
round, 
but 
she's 
still 
really 
down. She's actually having trouble with her Metamorphosing!" 


"With her —?" 


"She can't change her appearance like she used to," explained Hermione. "I think her powers must have 
been affected by shock, or something." 
"I didn't know that could happen," said Harry. 
"Nor did I," said Hermione, "but I suppose if you're really depressed ..." 
The 
door 
opened 
again 
and 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
popped 
her 
head 
in. 
"Ginny," 
she 
whispered, 
"come 


downstairs and help me with the lunch." 
"I'm talking to this lot!" said Ginny, outraged. 
"Now!" said Mrs. Weasley, and withdrew. 
"She only wants me there so she doesn't have to be alone with Phlegm!" said Ginny crossly. She swung 


her 
long 
red 
hair 
around 
in 
a 
very 
good 
imitation 
of 
Fleur 
and 
pranced 
across 
the 
room 
with 
her 
arms 
held aloft like a ballerina. 


"You lot had better come down quickly too," she said as she left. 
Harry 
took 
advantage 
of 
the 
temporary 
silence 
to 
eat 
more 
breakfast. 
Hermione 
was 
peering 
into 
Fred 
and 
George's 
boxes, 
though 
every 
now 
and 
then 
she 
cast 
sideways 
looks 
at 
Harry. 
Ron, 
who 
was 
now 
helping himself to Harry’s toast, was still gazing dreamily at the door. 


"What's this?" Hermione asked eventually, holding up what looked like a small telescope. 


"Dunno," 
said 
Ron, 
"but 
if 
Fred 
and 
=
GeorgeVe 
left 
it 
here, 
it's 
probably 
not 
ready 
for 
the 
joke 
shop 
yet, so be careful" 
"Your 
mum 
said 
the 
shop's 
going 
well," 
said 
Harry. 
"Said 
Fred 
and 
George 
have 
got 
a 
real 
flair 
for 


business." 
"That's 
an 
understatement," 
said 
Ron. 
"They're 
raking 
in 
the 
Galleons! 
I 
can't 
wait 
to 
see 
the 
place, 
we 


haven't 
been 
to 
Diagon 
Alley 
yet, 
because 
Mum 
says 
Dad's 
got 
to 
be 
there 
for 
extra 
security 
and 
he's 
been really busy at work, but it sounds excellent." 
"And 
what 
about 
Percy?" 
asked 
Harry; 
the 
thirdeldest 
Weasley 
brother 
had 
fallen 
out 
with 
the 
rest 
of 


the family. "Is he talking to your mum and dad again?" 
"Nope," said Ron. 
"But he knows your dad was right all along now about Voldemort being back —" 



"Dumbledore 
says 
people 
find 
it 
far 
easier 
to 
forgive 
others 
for 
being 
wrong 
than 
being 
right," 
said 
Hermione. "I heard him telling your mum, Ron." 
"Sounds like the sort of mental thing Dumbledore would say," said Ron. 
"He's going to be giving me private lessons this year," said Harry conversationally. 
Ron choked on his bit of toast, and Hermione gasped. 
"You kept that quiet!" said Ron. 


"I only just remembered," said Harry honestly. "He told me last night in your broom shed." 
"Blimey 
. 
. 
. 
private 
lessons 
with 
Dumbledore!" 
said 
Ron, 
looking 
impressed. 
"I 
wonder 
why 
he's 
. 
. 
. 
? 
" 


His 
voice 
tailed 
away. 
Harry 
saw 
him 
and 
Hermione 
exchange 
looks. 
Harry 
laid 
down 
his 
knife 
and 
fork, 
his 
heart 
beating 
rather 
fast 
considering 
that 
all 
he 
was 
doing 
was 
sitting 
in 
bed. 
Dumbledore 
had 
said 
to 
do 
it. 
... 
Why 
not 
now? 
He 
fixed 
his 
eyes 
on 
his 
fork, 
which 
was 
gleaming 
in 
the 
sunlight 
streaming 
into 
his 
lap, 
and 
said, 
"I 
don't 
know 
exactly 
why 
he's 
going 
to 
be 
giving 
me 
lessons, 
but 
I 
think it must be because of the prophecy." 


Neither 
Ron 
nor 
Hermione 
spoke. 
Harry 
had 
the 
impression 
that 
both 
had 
frozen. 
He 
continued, 
still 
speaking to his fork, "You know, the one they were trying to steal at the Ministry." 
"Nobody knows what it said, though," said Hermione quickly. "It got smashed." 


"Although the Prophet says —" began Ron, but Hermione said, "Shh!" 
"The 
Prophet's 
got 
it 
right," 
said 
Harry, 
looking 
up 
at 
them 
both 
with 
a 
great 
effort: 
Hermione 
seemed 
frightened 
and 
Ron 
amazed. 
"That 
glass 
ball 
that 
smashed 
wasn't 
the 
only 
record 
of 
the 
prophecy. 
I 
heard 
the 
whole 
thing 
in 
Dumbledore's 
office, 
he 
was 
the 
one 
the 
prophecy 
was 
made 
to, 
so 
he 
could 
tell 
me. 
From 
what 
it 
said," 
Harry 
took 
a 
deep 
breath, 
"it 
looks 
like 
I'm 
the 
one 
who's 
got 
to 
finish 
off 
Voldemort. ... At least, it said neither of us could live while the other survives." 


The 
three 
of 
them 
gazed 
at 
one 
another 
in 
silence 
for 
a 
moment. 
Then 
there 
was 
a 
loud 
bang 
and 
Hermione vanished behind a puff of black smoke. 


"Hermione!" shouted Harry and Ron; the breakfast tray slid to the floor with a crash. 
Hermione 
emerged, 
coughing, 
out 
of 
the 
smoke, 
clutching 
the 
telescope 
and 
sporting 
a 
brilliantly 
purple black eye. 


"I squeezed it and it — it punched me!" she gasped. 
And sure enough, they now saw a tiny fist on a long spring protruding from the end of the telescope. 
"Don't 
worry," 
said 
Ron, 
who 
was 
plainly 
trying 
not 
to 
laugh, 
"Mum'll 
fix 
that, 
she's 
good 
at 
healing 


minor injuries —" 
"Oh well, never mind that now!" said Hermione hastily. "Harry, oh, Harry. . ." 



She sat down on the edge of his bed again. 


"We 
wondered, 
after 
we 
got 
back 
from 
the 
Ministry 
. 
. 
. 
Obviously, 
we 
didn't 
want 
to 
say 
anything 
to 
you, but from what Lucius Malfoy said about the prophecy, how it was about you and Voldemort, well, 
we 
thought 
it 
might 
be 
something 
like 
this. 
. 
. 
. 
Oh, 
Harry 
. 
. 
." 
She 
stared 
at 
him, 
then 
whispered, 
"Are 
you scared?" 


"Not 
as 
much 
as 
I 
was," 
said 
Harry. 
"When 
I 
first 
heard 
it, 
I 
was 
. 
. 
. 
but 
now, 
it 
seems 
as 
though 
I 
always knew I'd have to face him in the end. . . ." 


"When 
we 
heard 
Dumbledore 
was 
collecting 
you 
in 
person, 
we 
thought 
he 
might 
be 
telling 
you 
something 
or 
showing 
you 
something 
to 
do 
with 
the 
prophecy," 
said 
Ron 
eagerly. 
"And 
we 
were 
kind 
of 
right, 
weren't 
we? 
He 
wouldn't 
be 
giving 
you 
lessons 
if 
he 
thought 
you 
were 
a 
goner, 
wouldn't 
waste 
his time — he must think you've got a chance!" 


"That's 
true," 
said 
Hermione. 
"1 
wonder 
what 
he'll 
teach 
you, 
Harry? 
Really 
advanced 
defensive 
magic, probably. . . powerful countercurses . . . antijinxes 
. . ." 


Harry 
did 
not 
really 
listen. 
A 
warmth 
was 
spreading 
through 
him 
that 
had 
nothing 
to 
do 
with 
the 
sunlight; 
a 
tight 
obstruction 
in 
his 
chest 
seemed 
to 
be 
dissolving. 
He 
knew 
that 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
were 
more 
shocked 
than 
they 
were 
letting 
on, 
but 
the 
mere 
fact 
that 
they 
were 
still 
there 
on 
either 
side 
of 
him, 
speaking 
bracing 
words 
of 
comfort, 
not 
shrinking 
from 
him 
as 
though 
he 
were 
contaminated 
or 
dangerous, was worth more than he could ever tell them. 


"...and 
evasive 
enchantments 
generally," 
concluded 
Hermione. 
"Well, 
at 
least 
you 
know 
one 
lesson 
you'll 
be 
having 
this 
year, 
that's 
one 
more 
than 
Ron 
and 
me. 
I 
wonder 
when 
our 
OWL 
results 
will 
come?" 


"Cant be long now, it's been a month," said Ron. 


"Hang 
on," 
said 
Harry, 
as 
another 
part 
of 
last 
night's 
conversation 
came 
back 
to 
him. 
"I 
think 
Dumbledore said our OWL results would be arriving today!" 


"Today?" shrieked Hermione. "Today? But why didn't you — oh my God — you should have said —" 


She leapt to her feet. 


"I'm going to see whether any owls have come. ..." 


But 
when 
Harry 
arrived 
downstairs 
ten 
minutes 
later, 
fully 
dressed 
and 
carrying 
his 
empty 
breakfast 
tray, 
it 
was 
to 
find 
Hermione 
sitting 
at 
the 
kitchen 
table 
in 
great 
agitation, 
while 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
tried 
to 
lessen her resemblance to half a panda. 


"It 
just 
won't 
budge," 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
was 
saying 
anxiously, 
standing 
over 
Hermione 
with 
her 
wand 
in 
her 
hand 
and 
a 
copy 
of 
The 
Healer's 
Helpmate 
open 
at 
"Bruises, 
Cuts, 
and 
Abrasions." 
"This 
has 
always worked before, I just can't understand it." 


"It'll be Fred and George's idea of a funny joke, making sure it can't come off," said Ginny. 


"But it's got to come off!" squeaked Hermione. "I can't go around looking like this forever!" 



"You won't, dear, we'll find an antidote, don't worry," said Mrs. Weasley soothingly. 
"Bill told me W Fred and George are very amusing!" said Fleur, smiling serenely. 
"Yes, I can hardly breathe for laughing," snapped Hermione. 
She jumped up and started walking round and round the kitchen, twisting her fingers together. 
"Mrs. Weasley, you're quite, quite sure no owls have arrived this morning?" 
"Yes, 
dear, 
I'd 
have 
noticed," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
patiently. 
"But 
it's 
barely 
nine, 
there's 
still 
plenty 
of 


time. . . ." 
"I 
know 
I 
messed 
up 
Ancient 
Runes," 
muttered 
Hermione 
feverishly, 
"I 
definitely 
made 
at 
least 
one 


serious 
mistranslation. 
And 
the 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts 
practical 
was 
no 
good 
at 
all. 
I 
thought 


Transfiguration went all right at the time, but looking back —" 


"Hermione, 
will 
you 
shut 
up, 
you're 
not 
the 
only 
one 
who's 
nervous!" 
barked 
Ron. 
"And 
when 
you've 


got your eleven 'Outstanding Oils .. ." 
"Don't, don't, don't!" said Hermione, flapping her hands hysterically. "I know I've failed everything!" 
"What happens if we fail?" Harry asked the room at large, but it was again Hermione who answered. 
"We 
discuss 
our 
options 
with 
our 
Head 
of 
House, 
I 
asked 
Professor 
McGonagall 
at 
the 
end 
of 
last 


term." 
Harry's stomach squirmed. He wished he had eaten less breakfast. 
"At 
Beauxbatons," 
said 
Fleur 
complacently, 
"we 
'ad 
a 
different 
way 
of 
doing 
things. 
I 
think 
eet 
was 


better. We sat our examinations after six years of study, not five, and then —" 


Fleur's 
words 
were 
drowned 
in 
a 
scream. 
Hermione 
was 
pointing 
through 
the 
kitchen 
window. 
Three 


black specks were clearly visible in the sky, growing larger all the time. 


"They're definitely owls," said Ron hoarsely, jumping up to join Hermione at the window. 


"And there are three of them," said Harry, hastening to her other side. 


"One for each of us," said Hermione in a terrified whisper. "Oh no ... oh no ... oh no ..." 


She gripped both Harry and Ron tightly around the elbows. 


The owls were flying directly at the Burrow, three handsome tawnies, each of which, it became clear as 


they flew lower over the path leading up to the house, was carrying a large square envelope. 
"Oh no!" squealed Hermione. 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
squeezed 
past 
them 
and 
opened 
the 
kitchen 
window. 
One, 
two, 
three, 
the 
owls 
soared 


through it and landed on the table in a neat line. All three of them lifted their right legs. 



Harry 
moved 
forward. 
The 
letter 
addressed 
to 
him 
was 
tied 
to 
the 
leg 
of 
the 
owl 
in 
the 
middle. 
He 
untied 
it 
with 
fumbling 
fingers. 
To 
his 
left, 
Ron 
was 
trying 
to 
detach 
his 
own 
results; 
to 
his 
right, 
Hermione's hands were shaking so much she was making her whole owl tremble. 


Nobody 
in 
the 
kitchen 
spoke. 
At 
last, 
Harry 
managed 
to 
detach 
the 
envelope. 
He 
slit 
it 
open 
quickly 
and unfolded the parchment inside. 


Ordinary Wizarding Level Results 


Pass Grades 
Outstanding (O) 
Exceeds Expectations (E) 
Acceptable (A) 


Fail Grades 
Poor (P) 
Dreadful (D) 
Troll (T) 


Harry James Potter has achieved: 
Astronomy A 
Care of Magical Creatures E 
Charms E 
Defense Against the Dark Arts O 
Divination P 
Herbology E 
History of Magic D 
Potions E 
Transfiguration E 


Harry 
read 
the 
parchment 
through 
several 
times, 
his 
breathing 
becoming 
easier 
with 
each 
reading. 
It 
was 
all 
right: 
He 
had 
always 
known 
that 
he 
would 
fail 
Divination, 
and 
he 
had 
had 
no 
chance 
of 
passing 
History 
of 
Magic, 
given 
that 
he 
had 
collapsed 
halfway 
through 
the 
examination, 
but 
he 
had 
passed 
everything 
else! 
He 
ran 
his 
finger 
down 
the 
grades 
. 
. 
. 
he 
had 
passed 
well 
in 
Transfiguration 
and 
Herbology, 
he 
had 
even 
exceeded 
expectations 
at 
Potions! 
And 
best 
of 
all, 
he 
had 
achieved 
"Outstanding" at Defense Against the Dark Arts! 


He looked around. Hermione had her back to him and her head bent, but Ron was looking delighted. 


"Only 
failed 
Divination 
and 
History 
of 
Magic, 
and 
who 
cares 
about 
them?" 
he 
said 
happily 
to 
Harry. 
"Here — swap —" 


Harry glanced down Ron's grades: There were no "Outstandings" there. . . . 


"Knew 
you'd 
be 
top 
at 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts," 
said 
Ron, 
punching 
Harry 
on 
the 
shoulder. 
"We've done all right, haven't we?" 



"Well 
done!" 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
proudly, 
ruffling 
Ron's 
hair. 
"Seven 
OWLs, 
that's 
more 
than 
Fred 
and 
George got together!" 


"Hermione?" said Ginny tentatively, for Hermione still hadn't turned around. "How did you do?" 


"Inot 
bad," said Hermione in a small voice. 


"Oh, 
come 
off 
it," 
said 
Ron, 
striding 
over 
to 
her 
and 
whipping 
her 
results 
out 
of 
her 
hand. 
"Yep 
— 
ten 
'Outstandings' 
and 
one 
'Exceeds 
Expectations' 
at 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts." 
He 
looked 
down 
at 
her, halfamused, 
halfexasperated. 
"You're actually disappointed, aren't you?" 


Hermione shook her head, but Harry laughed. 


"Well, we're N.E.W.T. students now!" grinned Ron. "Mum, are there any more sausages?" 


Harry 
looked 
back 
down 
at 
his 
results. 
They 
were 
as 
good 
as 
he 
could 
have 
hoped 
for. 
He 
felt 
just 
one 
tiny 
twinge 
of 
regret. 
. 
. 
. 
This 
was 
the 
end 
of 
his 
ambition 
to 
become 
an 
Auror. 
He 
had 
not 
secured 
the 
required 
Potions 
grade. 
He 
had 
known 
all 
along 
that 
he 
wouldn't, 
but 
he 
still 
felt 
a 
sinking 
in 
his 
stomach as he looked again at that small black E. 


It 
was 
odd, 
really, 
seeing 
that 
it 
had 
been 
a 
Death 
Eater 
in 
disguise 
who 
had 
first 
told 
Harry 
he 
would 
make 
a 
good 
Auror, 
but 
somehow 
the 
idea 
had 
taken 
hold 
of 
him, 
and 
he 
couldn't 
really 
think 
of 
anything 
else 
he 
would 
like 
to 
be. Moreover, it 
had seemed the 
right 
destiny 
for 
him 
since 
he 
had heard 
the 
prophecy 
a 
few 
weeks 
ago. 
. 
. 
. 
Neither 
can 
live 
while 
the 
other 
survives. 
. 
. 
.Wouldn't 
he 
be 
living 
up 
to 
the 
prophecy, 
and 
giving 
himself 
the 
best 
chance 
of 
survival, 
if 
he 
joined 
those 
highly 
trained 
wizards whose job it was to find and kill Voldemort? 



Chapter 6 
Draco's Detour 



Harry 
remained 
within 
the 
confines 
of 
the 
Burrow's 
garden 
over 
the 
next 
few 
weeks. 
He 
spent 
most 
of 
his 
days 
playing 
twoaside 
Quidditch 
in 
the 
Weasleys' 
orchard 
(he 
and 
Hermione 
against 
Ron 
and 
Ginny; 
Hermione 
was 
dreadful 
and 
Ginny 
good, 
so 
they 
were 
reasonably 
well 
matched) 
and 
his 
evenings eating triple helpings of everything Mrs. Weasley put in front of him. 


It 
would 
have 
been 
a 
happy, 
peaceful 
holiday 
had 
it 
not 
been 
for 
the 
stones 
of 
disappearances, 
odd 
accidents, 
even 
of 
deaths 
now 
appearing 
almost 
daily 
in 
the 
Prophet. 
Sometimes 
Bill 
and 
Mr. 
Weasley 
brought 
home 
news 
before 
it 
even 
reached 
the 
paper. 
To 
Mrs. 
Weasley’s 
displeasure, 
Harry's 
sixteenth 
birthday 
celebrations 
were 
marred 
by 
grisly 
tidings 
brought 
to 
the 
party 
by 
Remus 
Lupin, 
who 
was 
looking 
gaunt 
and 
grim, 
his 
brown 
hair 
streaked 
liberally 
with 
gray, 
his 
clothes 
more 
ragged 
and 
patched than ever. 

"There 
have 
been 
another 
couple 
of 
dementor 
attacks," 
he 
announced, 
as 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
passed 
him 
a 
large 
slice 
of 
birthday 
cake. 
"And 
they've 
found 
Igor 
Karkaroff's 
body 
in 
a 
shack 
up 
north. 
The 
Dark 
Mark 
had 
been 
set 
over 
it 
— 
well, 
frankly, 
I'm 
surprised 
he 
stayed 
alive 
for 
even 
a 
year 
after 
deserting 
the Death Eaters; Sirius's brother, Regulus, only managed a few days as far as I can remember." 


"Yes, well," said Mrs. Weasley, frowning, "perhaps we should talk about something diff—" 

"Did 
you 
hear 
about 
Florean 
Fortescue, 
Remus?" 
asked 
Bill, 
who 
was 
being 
plied 
with 
wine 
by 
Fleur. 
"The man who ran —" 


"— 
the 
icecream 
place 
in 
Diagon 
Alley?" 
Harry 
interrupted, 
with 
an 
unpleasant, 
hollow 
sensation 
in 
the pit of his stomach. "He used to give me free ice creams. What's happened to him?" 


"Dragged off, by the look of his place." 


"Why?" asked Ron, while Mrs. Weasley pointedly glared at Bill. 


"Who knows? He must've upset them somehow. He was a good man, Florean." 



"Talking of Diagon Alley," said Mr. Weasley, "looks like Ollivander's gone too." 
"The wandmaker?" said Ginny, looking startled. 
"That's 
the 
one. 
Shop's 
empty. 
No 
sign 
of 
a 
struggle. 
No 
one 
knows 
whether 
he 
left 
voluntarily 
or 
was 


kidnapped." 
"But wands — what'll people do for wands?" 
"They'll 
make 
do 
with 
other 
makers," 
said 
Lupin. 
"But 
Ollivander 
was 
the 
best, 
and 
if 
the 
other 
side 


have got him it's not so good for us." 


The day after this rather gloomy birthday tea, their letters and booklists arrived from Hogwarts. Harry's 
included a surprise: he had been made Quidditch Captain. 
"That 
gives 
you 
equal 
status 
with 
prefects!" 
cried 
Hermione 
happily. 
"You 
can 
use 
our 
special 


bathroom now and everything!" 


"Wow, I 
remember 
when Charlie 
wore 
one 
of 
these," 
said Ron, examining 
the 
badge 
with 
glee. "Harry, 
this is so cool, you're my Captain — if you let me back on the team, I suppose, ha ha. . . ." 
"Well, I don't suppose we can put off a trip to Diagon Alley much longer now you've got these," sighed 


Mrs. 
Weasley, 
looking 
down 
Ron’s 
booklist. 
"We'll 
go 
on 
Saturday 
as 
long 
as 
your 
father 
doesn't 
have 


to go into work again. I'm not going there without him." 
"Mum, 
d'you 
honestly 
think 
YouKnowWho's 
going 
to 
be 
hiding 
behind 
a 
bookshelf 
in 
Flourish 
and 
Blotts?" sniggered Ron. 


"Fortescue 
and 
Ollivander 
went 
on 
holiday, 
did 
they?" 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
firing 
up 
at 
once. 
"If 
you 
think security's a laughing matter you can stay behind and I'll get your things myself—" 


"No, I wanna come, I want to see Fred and George's shop!" said Ron hastily. 
"Then 
you 
just 
buck 
up 
your 
ideas, 
young 
man, 
before 
I 
decide 
you're 
too 
immature 
to 
come 
with 
us!" 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
angrily, 
snatching 
up 
her 
clock, 
all 
nine 
hands 
of 
which 
were 
still 
pointing 
at 
"mortal 
peril," 
and 
balancing 
it 
on 
top 
of 
a 
pile 
of 
justlaundered 
towels. 
"And 
that 
goes 
for 
returning 
to Hogwarts as well!" 


Ron 
turned 
to 
stare 
incredulously 
at 
Harry 
as 
his 
mother 
hoisted 
the 
laundry 
basket 
and 
the 
teetering 
clock into her arms and stormed out of the room. 


"Blimey. . . you can't even make a joke round here anymore. . . ." 
But 
Ron 
was 
careful 
not 
to 
be 
flippant 
about 
Voldemort 
over 
the 
next 
few 
days. 
Saturday 
dawned 
without any more outbursts from Mrs. Weasley, though she seemed very tense at breakfast. Bill, who 


would 
be 
staying 
at 
home 
with 
Fleur 
(much 
to 
Hermione 
and 
Ginny's 
pleasure), 
passed 
a 
full 
money 
bag across the table to Harry. 
"Where's mine?" demanded Ron at once, his eyes wide. 
"That's 
already 
Harry's, 
idiot," 
said 
Bill. 
"I 
got 
it 
out 
of 
your 
vault 
for 
you, 
Harry, 
because 
it's 
taking 



about five hours for the public to get to their gold at the moment, the goblins have tightened security so 
much. 
Two 
days 
ago 
Arkie 
Philpott 
had 
a 
Probity 
Probe 
stuck 
up 
his 
... 
Well, 
trust 
me, 
this 
way's 
easier." 


"Thanks, Bill," said Harry, pocketing his gold. 


'"E 
is 
always 
so 
thoughtful," 
purred 
Fleur 
adoringly, 
stroking 
Bill's 
nose. 
Ginny 
mimed 
vomiting 
into 
her cereal behind Fleur. Harry choked over his cornflakes, and Ron thumped him on the back. 

It 
was 
an 
overcast, 
murky 
day. 
One 
of 
the 
special 
Ministry 
of 
Magic 
cars, 
in 
which 
Harry 
had 
ridden 
once 
before, 
was 
awaiting 
them 
in 
the 
front 
yard 
when 
they 
emerged 
from 
the 
house, 
pulling 
on 
their 
cloaks. 


"It's 
good Dad can get 
us 
these 
again," 
said Ron appreciatively, 
stretching 
luxuriously 
as 
the 
car 
moved 
smoothly 
away 
from 
the 
Burrow, 
Bill 
and 
Fleur 
waving 
from 
the 
kitchen 
window. 
He, 
Harry, 
Hermione, and Ginny were all sitting in roomy comfort in the wide backseat. 

"Don't 
get 
used 
to 
it, 
it's 
only 
because 
of 
Harry," 
said 
Mr. 
Weasley 
over 
his 
shoulder. 
He 
and 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
were 
in 
front 
with 
the 
Ministry 
driver; 
the 
front 
passenger 
seat 
had 
obligingly 
stretched 
into 
what 
resembled 
a 
twoseater 
sofa. 
"He's 
been 
given 
topgrade 
security 
status. 
And 
we'll 
be 
joining 
up 
with additional security at the Leaky Cauldron too." 


Harry 
said 
nothing; 
he 
did 
not 
much 
fancy 
doing 
his 
shopping 
while 
surrounded 
by 
a 
battalion 
of 
Aurors. 
He 
had 
stowed 
his 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
in 
his 
backpack 
and 
felt 
that, 
if 
that 
was 
good 
enough 
for 
Dumbledore, 
it 
ought 
to 
be 
good 
enough 
for 
the 
Ministry, 
though 
now 
he 
came 
to 
think 
of 
it, 
he 
was 
not sure the Ministry knew about his cloak. 

"Here 
you 
are, 
then," 
said 
the 
driver, 
a 
surprisingly 
short 
while 
later, 
speaking 
for 
the 
first 
time 
as 
he 
slowed 
in 
Charing 
Cross 
Road 
and 
stopped 
outside 
the 
Leaky 
Cauldron. 
"I'm 
to 
wait 
for 
you, 
any 
idea 
how long you'll be?" 


"A couple of hours, I expect," said Mr. Weasley. "Ah, good, he's here!" 

Harry 
imitated 
Mr. 
Weasley 
and 
peered 
through 
the 
window; 
his 
heart 
leapt. 
There 
were 
no 
Aurors 
waiting 
outside 
the 
inn, 
but 
instead 
the 
gigantic, 
blackbearded 
form 
of 
Rubeus 
Hagrid, 
the 
Hogwarts 
gamekeeper, 
wearing 
a 
long 
beaverskin 
coat, 
beaming 
at 
the 
sight 
of 
Harry's 
face 
and 
oblivious 
to 
the 
startled stares of passing Muggles. 


"Harry!" 
he 
boomed, 
sweeping 
Harry 
into 
a 
bonecrushing 
hug 
the 
moment 
Harry 
had 
stepped 
out 
of 
the 
car. 
"Buckbeak 
— 
Witherwings, 
I 
mean 
— 
yeh 
should 
see 
him, 
Harry, 
he's 
so 
happy 
ter 
be 
back 
in 
the open air —" 


"Glad 
he's 
pleased," 
said 
Harry, 
grinning 
as 
he 
massaged 
his 
ribs. 
"We 
didn't 
know 
'security' 
meant 
you!" 


"I 
know, 
jus' 
like 
old 
times, 
innit? 
See, 
the 
Ministry 
wanted 
ter 
send 
a 
bunch 
o' 
Aurors, 
but 
Dumbledore 
said 
I'd 
do," 
said 
Hagrid 
proudly, 
throwing 
out 
his 
chest 
and 
tucking 
his 
thumbs 
into 
his 
pockets. "Lets get goin' then — after yeh, Molly, Arthur —" 



The 
Leaky 
Cauldron 
was, 
for 
the 
first 
time 
in 
Harry's 
memory, 
completely 
empty. 
Only 
Tom 
the 
landlord, wizened and toothless, 


remained 
of 
the 
old 
crowd. 
He 
looked 
up 
hopefully 
as 
they 
entered, 
but 
before 
he 
could 
speak, 
Hagrid 
said 
importantly, 
"Jus' 
passin' 
through 
today, 
Tom, 
sure 
yeh 
understand, 
Hogwarts 
business, 
yeh 
know." 


Tom 
nodded 
gloomily 
and 
returned 
to 
wiping 
glasses; 
Harry, 
Hermione, 
Hagrid, 
and 
the 
Weasleys 
walked 
through 
the 
bar 
and 
out 
into 
the 
chilly 
little 
courtyard 
at 
the 
back 
where 
the 
dustbins 
stood. 
Hagrid raised his pink umbrella and rapped a certain brick in the wall, which opened at once to form an 
archway onto a winding cobbled street. They stepped through the entrance and paused, looking around. 


Diagon 
Alley 
had 
changed. 
The 
colorful, 
glittering 
window 
displays 
of 
spellbooks, 
potion 
ingredients, 
and 
cauldrons 
were 
lost 
to 
view, 
hidden 
behind 
the 
large 
Ministry 
of 
Magic 
posters 
that 
had 
been 
pasted over them. Most of these somber purple posters carried blownup 
versions of the security advice 
on 
the 
Ministry 
pamphlets 
that 
had 
been 
sent 
out 
over 
the 
summer, 
but 
others 
bore 
moving 
blackandwhite 
photographs 
of 
Death 
Eaters 
known 
to 
be 
on 
the 
loose. 
Bellatrix 
Lestrange 
was 
sneering 
from 
the 
front 
of 
the 
nearest 
apothecary. 
A 
few 
windows 
were 
boarded 
up, 
including 
those 
of 
Florean 
Fortescue's 
Ice 
Cream 
Parlor. 
On 
the 
other 
hand, 
a 
number 
of 
shabbylooking 
stalls 
had 
sprung 
up 
along 
the 
street. 
The 
nearest 
one, 
which 
had 
been 
erected 
outside 
Flourish 
and 
Blotts, 
under 
a 
striped, 
stained awning, had a cardboard sign pinned to its front: 


AMULETS 


Effective Against Werewolves, =
Dement 
on, and =
infer! 


A seedylooking 
little wizard was rattling armfuls of silver symbols on chains at passersby. 

"One 
for 
your 
little 
girl, 
madam?" 
he 
called 
at 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
as 
they 
passed, 
leering 
at 
Ginny. 
"Protect 
her pretty neck?" 

"If I were on duty . . ." said Mr. Weasley, glaring angrily at the amulet seller. 

"Yes, 
but 
don't 
go 
arresting 
anyone 
now, 
dear, 
we're 
in 
a 
hurry," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
nervously 
consulting 
a 
list. 
"I 
think 
we'd 
better 
do 
Madam 
Malkin's 
first, 
Hermione 
wants 
new 
dress 
robes, 
and 
Ron's 
showing 
much 
too 
much 
ankle 
in 
his 
school 
robes, 
and 
you 
must 
need 
new 
ones 
too, 
Harry, 
you've grown so much — come on, everyone —" 


"Molly, 
it 
doesn't 
make 
sense 
for 
all 
of 
us 
to 
go 
to 
Madam 
Malkin's," 
said 
Mr. 
Weasley. 
"Why 
don't 
those three go with Hagrid, and we can go to Flourish and Blotts and get everyone's schoolbooks?" 


"I 
don't 
know," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
anxiously, 
clearly 
torn 
between 
a 
desire 
to 
finish 
the 
shopping 
quickly and the wish to stick together in a pack. "Hagrid, do you think —?" 


"Don' 
fret, 
they'll 
be 
fine 
with 
me, 
Molly," 
said 
Hagrid 
soothingly, 
waving 
an 
airy 
hand 
the 
size 
of 
a 
dustbin 
lid. 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
did 
not 
look 
entirely 
convinced, 
but 
allowed 
the 
separation, 
scurrying 
off 



toward 
Flourish 
and 
Blotts 
with 
her 
husband 
and 
Ginny 
while 
Harry, 
Ron, 
Hermione, 
and 
Hagrid 
set 
off for Madam Malkin's. 


Harry 
noticed 
that 
many 
of 
the 
people 
who 
passed 
them 
had 
the 
same 
harried, 
anxious 
look 
as 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
and 
that 
nobody 
was 
stopping 
to 
talk 
anymore; 
the 
shoppers 
stayed 
together 
in 
their 
own 
tightly knit groups, moving intently about their business. Nobody seemed to be shopping alone. 

"Migh' 
be 
a 
bit 
of 
a 
squeeze 
in 
there 
with 
all 
of 
us," 
said 
Hagrid, 
stopping 
outside 
Madam 
Malkin's 
and 
bending down to peer through the window. "I'll stand guard outside, all right?" 


So 
Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
entered 
the 
little 
shop 
together. 
It 
appeared, 
at 
first 
glance, 
to 
be 
empty, 
but 
no 
sooner 
had 
the 
door 
swung 
shut 
behind 
them 
than 
they 
heard 
a 
familiar 
voice 
issuing 
from 
behind a rack of dress robes in spangled green and blue. 

". 
. 
. 
not 
a 
child, 
in 
case 
you 
haven't 
noticed, 
Mother. 
I 
am 
perfectly 
capable 
of 
doing 
my 
shopping 
alone." 


There 
was 
a 
clucking 
noise 
and 
a 
voice 
Harry 
recognized 
as 
that 
of 
Madam 
Malkin, 
the 
owner, 
said, 
"Now, 
dear, 
your 
mother's 
quite 
right, 
none 
of 
us 
is 
supposed 
to 
go 
wandering 
around 
on 
our 
own 
anymore, it's nothing to do with being a child —" 


"Watch where you're sticking that pin, will you!" 


A 
teenage 
boy 
with 
a 
pale, 
pointed 
face 
and 
whiteblond 
hair 
appeared 
from 
behind 
the 
rack, 
wearing 
a 
handsome 
set 
of 
dark 
green 
robes 
that 
glittered 
with 
pins 
around 
the 
hem 
and 
the 
edges 
of 
the 
sleeves. 
He strode to the mirror and examined himself; it was a few moments before he noticed Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione reflected over his shoulder. His light gray eyes narrowed. 

"If you're wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in," said Draco Malfoy. 

"I 
don't 
think 
there's 
any 
need 
for 
language 
like 
that!" 
said 
Madam 
Malkin, 
scurrying 
out 
from 
behind 
the 
clothes 
rack 
holding 
a 
tape 
measure 
and 
a 
wand. 
"And 
I 
don't 
want 
wands 
drawn 
in 
my 
shop 
either!" 
she 
added 
hastily, 
for 
a 
glance 
toward 
the 
door 
had 
shown 
her 
Harry 
and 
Ron 
both 
standing 
there 
with 
their 
wands 
out 
and 
pointing 
at 
Malfoy. 
Hermione, 
who 
was 
standing 
slightly 
behind 
them, 
whispered, "No, don't, honestly, it's not worth it. " 


"Yeah, 
like 
you'd 
dare 
do 
magic 
out 
of 
school," 
sneered 
Malfoy. 
"Who 
blacked 
your 
eye, 
Granger? 
I 
want to send them flowers." 


"That's 
quite 
enough!" 
said 
Madam 
Malkin 
sharply, 
looking 
over 
her 
shoulder 
for 
support. 
"Madam 
— 
please —" 

Narcissa Malfoy strolled out from behind the clothes rack. 

"Put 
those 
away," 
she 
said 
coldly 
to 
Harry 
and 
Ron. 
"If 
you 
attack 
my 
son 
again, 
I 
shall 
ensure 
that 
it 
is the last thing you ever do." 


"Really?" 
said 
Harry, 
taking 
a 
step 
forward 
and 
gazing 
into 
the 
smoothly 
arrogant 
face 
that, 
for 
all 
its 
pallor, 
still 
resembled 
her 
sister's. 
He 
was 
as 
tall 
as 
she 
was 
now. 
"Going 
to 
get 
a 
few 
Death 
Eater 
pals 



to do us in, are you?" 
Madam Malkin squealed and clutched at her heart. 
"Really, you shouldn't accuse — dangerous thing to say — wands away, please!" 
But Harry did not lower his wand. Narcissa Malfoy smiled unpleasantly. 
"I 
see 
that 
being 
Dumbledore's 
favorite 
has 
given 
you 
a 
false 
sense 
of 
security, 
Harry 
Potter. 
But 


Dumbledore won't always be there to protect you." 


Harry 
looked 
mockingly 
all 
around 
the 
shop. 
"Wow. 
. 
. 
look 
at 
that. 
. 
. 
he's 
not 
here 
now! 
So 
why 
not 
have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!" 
Malfoy 
made 
an 
angry 
movement 
toward 
Harry, 
but 
stumbled 
over 
his 
overlong 
robe. 
Ron 
laughed 


loudly. 
"Don't you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!" Malfoy snarled. 
"It's 
all 
right, 
Draco," 
said 
Narcissa, 
restraining 
him 
with 
her 
thin 
white 
fingers 
upon 
his 
shoulder. 
"I 


expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I am reunited with Lucius." ' 
Harry raised his wand higher. 
"Harry, 
no!" 
moaned 
Hermione, 
grabbing 
his 
arm 
and 
attempting 
to 
push 
it 
down 
by 
his 
side. 
"Think. 
. 


. . You mustn't. . . . You'll be in such trouble. ..." 


Madam 
Malkin 
dithered 
for 
a 
moment 
on 
the 
spot, 
then 
seemed 
to 
decide 
to 
act 
as 
though 
nothing 
was 
happening in the hope that it wouldn't. She bent toward Malfoy, who was still glaring at Harry. 
"I think this left sleeve could come up a little bit more, dear, let me just —" 
"Ouch!" 
bellowed 
Malfoy, 
slapping 
her 
hand 
away. 
"Watch 
where 
you're 
putting 
your 
pins, 
woman! 


Mother — I don't think I want these anymore —" 
He pulled the robes over his head and threw them onto the floor at Madam Malkin's feet. 
"You're 
right, 
Draco," 
said 
Narcissa, 
with 
a 
contemptuous 
glance 
at 
Hermione, 
"now 
I 
know 
the 
kind 


of scum that shops here. . . . We'll do better at Twilfitt and Tatting's." 


And 
with 
that, 
the 
pair 
of 
them 
strode 
out 
of 
the 
shop, 
Malfoy 
taking 
care 
to 
bang 
as 
hard 
as 
he 
could 
into Ron on the way out. 
"Well, 
really? 
said 
Madam 
Malkin, 
snatching 
up 
the 
fallen 
robes 
and 
moving 
the 
tip 
of 
her 
wand 
over 


them like a vacuum cleaner, so that it removed all the dust. 
She 
was 
distracted 
all 
through 
the 
fitting 
of 
Ron's 
and 
Harry's 
new 
robes, 
tried 
to 
sell 
Hermione 


wizard's 
dress 
robes 
instead 
of 
witch's, 
and 
when 
she 
finally 
bowed 
them 
out 
of 
the 
shop 
it 
was 
with 
an 
air of being glad to see the back of them. 
"Got ev'rything?" asked Hagrid brightly when they reappeared at his side. 
"Just about," said Harry. "Did you see the Malfoys?" 



"Yeah," 
said 
Hagrid, 
unconcerned. 
"Bu 
they 
wouldn’ 
dare 
make 
trouble 
in 
the 
middle 
o' 
Diagon 
Alley, 
Harry. Don' worry abou1 them." 


Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
exchanged 
looks, 
but 
before 
they 
could 
disabuse 
Hagrid 
of 
this 
comfortable 
notion, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny appeared, all clutching heavy packages of books. 


"Everyone all right?" said Mrs. Weasley. "Got your robes? Right then, we can pop in at the Apothecary 
and Eeylops on the way to Fred and George's — stick close, now. . . ." 


Neither 
Harry 
nor 
Ron 
bought 
any 
ingredients 
at 
the 
Apothecary, 
seeing 
that 
they 
were 
no 
longer 
studying 
Potions, 
but 
both 
bought 
large 
boxes 
of 
owl 
nuts 
for 
Hedwig 
and 
Pigwidgeon 
at 
Eeylops 
Owl 
Emporium. 
Then, with Mrs. Weasley checking 
her 
watch every minute 
or 
so, 
they headed farther 
along 
the street in search of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, the joke shop run by Fred and George. 

"We 
really 
haven't 
got 
too 
long," 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
said. 
"So 
we'll 
just 
have 
a 
quick 
look 
around 
and 
then 
back to the car. We must be close, that's number ninetytwo 
. . . ninetyfour 
. . ." 


"Whoa,"said Ron, stopping in his tracks. 

Set 
against 
the 
dull, 
postermuffled 
shop 
Fronts 
around 
them, 
Fred 
and 
Georges 
windows 
hit 
the 
eye 
like 
a 
firework 
display. 
Casual 
passersby 
were 
looking 
back 
over 
their 
shoulders 
at 
the 
windows, 
and 
a 
few 
rather 
stunnedlooking 
people 
had 
actually 
come 
to 
a 
halt, 
transfixed. 
The 
lefthand 
window 
was 
dazzlingly 
full 
of 
an 
assortment 
of 
goods 
that 
revolved, 
popped, 
flashed, 
bounced, 
and 
shrieked; 
Harrys 
eyes 
began 
to 
water 
just 
looking 
at 
it. 
The 
righthand 
window 
was 
covered 
with 
a 
gigantic 
poster, purple like those of the Ministry, but emblazoned with flashing yellow letters: 


WHY ARE YOU WORRYING ABOUT 


YOUKNOWWHO? 


YOU SHOULD BE WORRYING ABOUT 


UNOPOO


THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION 


THAT'S GRIPPING THE NATION! 


Harry 
started 
to 
laugh. 
He 
heard 
a 
weak 
sort 
of 
moan 
beside 
him 
and 
looked 
around 
to 
see 
Mrs. 
Weasley gazing, dumbfounded, at the poster. Her lips moved silently, mouthing the name "UNoPoo." 


"They'll be murdered in their beds!" she whispered. 

"No they won’t!" said Ron, who, like Harry, was laughing. "This is brilliant!" 


And 
he 
and 
Harry 
led 
the 
way 
into 
the 
shop. 
It 
was 
packed 
with 
customers; 
Harry 
could 
not 
get 
near 
the 
shelves. 
He 
stared 
around, 
looking 
up 
at 
the 
boxes 
piled 
to 
the 
ceiling: 
Here 
were 
the 
Skiving 
Snackboxes 
that 
the 
twins 
had 
perfected 
during 
their 
last, 
unfinished 
year 
at 
Hogwarts; 
Harry 
noticed 
that 
the 
Nosebleed 
Nougat 
was 
most 
popular, 
with 
only 
one 
battered 
box 
left 
on 
the 
shelf. 
There 
were 



bins 
full 
of 
trick 
wands, 
the 
cheapest 
merely 
turning 
into 
rubber 
chickens 
or 
pairs 
of 
briefs 
when 
waved, 
the 
most 
expensive 
beating 
the 
unwary 
user 
around 
the 
head 
and 
neck, 
and 
boxes 
of 
quills, 
which came 
in 
SelfInking, 
SpellChecking, 
and SmartAnswer 
varieties. A 
space 
cleared in the 
crowd, 
and 
Harry 
pushed 
his 
way 
toward 
the 
counter, 
where 
a 
gaggle 
of 
delighted 
tenyearolds 
was 
watching 
a 
tiny 
little 
wooden 
man 
slowly 
ascending 
the 
steps 
to 
a 
real 
set 
of 
gallows, 
both 
perched 
on 
a 
box 
that 
read: reusable hangman — spell it or he'll swing! 


"'Patented Daydream Charms 


Hermione 
had 
managed 
to 
squeeze 
through 
to 
a 
large 
display 
near 
the 
counter 
and 
was 
reading 
the 
information 
on 
the 
back 
of 
a 
box 
bearing 
a 
highly 
colored 
picture 
of 
a 
handsome 
youth 
and 
a 
swooning 
girl who were standing on the deck of a pirate ship. 


"'One 
simple 
incantation 
and 
you 
will 
enter 
a 
topquality, 
highly 
realistic, 
thirtyminute 
daydream, 
easy 
to 
fit 
into 
the 
average 
school 
lesson 
and 
virtually 
undetectable 
(side 
effects 
include 
vacant 
expression 
and 
minor 
drooling). 
Not 
for 
sale 
to 
undersixteens. 
You 
know," 
said 
Hermione, 
looking 
up 
at Harry, "that really is extraordinary magic!" 

"For that, Hermione," said a voice behind them, "you can have one for free." 


A 
beaming 
Fred 
stood 
before 
them, 
wearing 
a 
set 
of 
magenta 
robes 
that 
clashed 
magnificently 
with 
his 
flaming hair. 

"How are you, Harry?" They shook hands. "And what's happened to your eye, Hermione?" 


"Your punching telescope," she said ruefully. 


"Oh blimey, I forgot about those," said Fred. "Here —" 


He 
pulled 
a 
tub 
out 
of 
his 
pocket 
and 
handed 
it 
to 
her; 
she 
unscrewed 
it 
gingerly 
to 
reveal 
a 
thick 
yellow paste. 

"Just 
dab 
it 
on, 
that 
bruise'll 
be 
gone 
within 
the 
hour," 
said 
Fred. 
"We 
had 
to 
find 
a 
decent 
bruise 
remover. We're testing most of our products on ourselves." 


Hermione looked nervous. "It is safe, isn't it?" she asked. 

'"Course it is," said Fred bracingly. "Come on, Harry, I'll give you a tour." 

Harry 
left 
Hermione 
dabbing 
her 
black 
eye 
with 
paste 
and 
followed 
Fred 
toward 
the 
back 
of 
the 
shop, 
where he saw a stand of card and rope tricks. 

"Muggle 
magic 
tricks!" 
said 
Fred 
happily, 
pointing 
them 
out. 
"For 
freaks 
like 
Dad, 
you 
know, 
who 
love Muggle stuff. It's not a big earner, but we do fairly steady business, they're great novelties. . . . Oh, 
here's George. ..." 


Fred's twin shook Harry's hand energetically. 



"Giving 
him 
the 
tour? 
Come 
through 
the 
back, 
Harry, 
that's 
where 
we're 
making 
the 
real 
money— 
pocket 
anything, 
you, 
and 
you'll 
pay 
in 
more 
than 
Galleons!" 
he 
added 
warningly 
to 
a 
small 
boy 
who 
hastily whipped his hand out of the tub labeled edible dark 

MARKSTHEY'LL 
MAKE ANYONE SICK! 


George 
pushed 
back 
a 
curtain 
beside 
the 
Muggle 
tricks 
and 
Harry 
saw 
a 
darker, 
less 
crowded 
room. 
The packaging on the products lining these shelves was more subdued. 

"We've just developed this more serious line," said Fred. "Funny how it happened . . ." 

"You 
wouldn't 
believe 
how 
many 
people, 
even 
people 
who 
work 
at 
the 
Ministry, 
can't 
do 
a 
decent 
Shield Charm," said George. "'Course, they didn't have you teaching them, Harry." 

"That's 
right. . . . Well, 
we 
thought 
Shield 
Hats 
were 
a 
bit 
of 
a 
laugh, you know, challenge 
your 
mate 
to 
jinx 
you 
while 
wearing 
it 
and 
watch 
his 
face 
when 
the 
jinx 
just 
bounces 
off. 
But 
the 
Ministry 
bought 
five hundred for all its support staff! And we're still getting massive orders!" 


"So we've expanded into a range of Shield Cloaks, Shield Gloves ..." 


"... 
I 
mean, 
they 
wouldn't 
help 
much 
against 
the 
Unforgivable 
Curses, 
but 
for 
minor 
to 
moderate 
hexes 
or jinxes . . ." 


"And 
then 
we 
thought 
we'd 
get 
into 
the 
whole 
area 
of 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts, 
because 
it's 
such 
a 
money 
spinner," 
continued 
George 
enthusiastically. 
"This 
is 
cool. 
Look, 
Instant 
Darkness 
Powder, 
we're importing it from Peru. Handy if you want to make a quick escape." 


"And 
our 
Decoy 
Detonators 
are 
just 
walking 
off 
the 
shelves, 
look," 
said 
Fred, 
pointing 
at 
a 
number 
of 
weirdlooking 
black 
horntype 
objects 
that 
were 
indeed 
attempting 
to 
scurry 
out 
of 
sight. 
"You 
just 
drop 
one 
surreptitiously 
and 
it'll 
run 
off and 
make 
a 
nice 
loud 
noise 
out 
of 
sight, 
giving 
you 
a 
diversion 
if you need one. 

"Handy," said Harry, impressed. 

"Here," said George, catching a couple and throwing them to Harry. 

A 
young 
witch 
with 
short 
blonde 
hair 
poked 
her 
head 
around 
the 
curtain; 
Harry 
saw 
that 
she 
too 
was 
wearing magenta staff robes. 

"There's a customer out here looking for a joke cauldron, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley," she said. 


Harry found it very odd to hear Fred and George called "Mr. Weasley," but they took it in their stride. 

"Right 
you 
are, 
Verity, 
I'm 
coming," 
said 
George 
promptly. 
"Harry, 
you 
help 
yourself 
to 
anything 
you 
want, all right? No charge." 


"I 
can't 
do 
that!" 
said 
Harry, 
who 
had 
already 
pulled 
out 
his 
money 
bag 
to 
pay 
for 
the 
Decoy 
Detonators. 



"You don't pay here," said Fred firmly, waving away Harry's gold. 
"But—" 
"You 
gave 
us 
our 
startup 
loan, 
we 
haven't 
forgotten," 
said 
George 
sternly 
"Take 
whatever 
you 
like, 


and just remember to tell people where you got it, if they ask." 


George swept off through the curtain to help with the customers, and Fred led Harry back into the main 
part of the shop to find Hermione and Ginny still poring over the Patented Daydream Charms. 
"Haven't you girls found our special WonderWitch products yet?" asked Fred. "Follow me, ladies. . . ." 
Near 
the 
window 
was 
an 
array 
of 
violently 
pink 
products 
around 
which 
a 
cluster 
of 
excited 
girls 
was 


giggling enthusiastically. Hermione and Ginny both hung back, looking wary. 
"There you go," said Fred proudly. "Best range of love potions you'll find anywhere." 
Ginny raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Do they work?" she asked. 
"Certainly 
they 
work, 
for 
up 
to 
twentyfour 
hours 
at 
a 
time 
depending 
on 
the 
weight 
of 
the 
boy 
in 


question —" 
"— 
and 
the 
attractiveness 
of 
the 
girl," 
said 
George, 
reappearing 
suddenly 
at 
their 
side. 
"But 
we're 
not 


selling 
them 
to 
our 
sister," 
he 
added, 
becoming 
suddenly 
stern, 
"not 
when 
she's 
already 
got 
about 
five 
boys on the go from what we've —" 
"Whatever 
you've 
heard 
from 
Ron 
is 
a 
big 
fat 
lie," 
said 
Ginny 
calmly, 
leaning 
forward 
to 
take 
a 
small 


pink pot off the shelf. "What's this?" 
"Guaranteed 
tensecond 
pimple 
vanisher," 
said 
Fred. 
"Excellent 
on 
everything 
from 
boils 
to 


blackheads, 
but 
don't 
change 
the 
subject. 
Are 
you 
or 
are 
you 
not 
currently 
going 
out 
with 
a 
boy 
called 
Dean Thomas?" 
"Yes, I am," said Ginny. "And last time I looked, he was definitely one boy, not five. What are those?" 
She 
was 
pointing 
at 
a 
number 
of 
round balls 
of 
fluff 
in shades 
of 
pink and purple, all 
rolling 
around the 


bottom of a cage and emitting highpitched 
squeaks. 


"Pygmy 
Puffs," 
said 
George. 
"Miniature 
puffskeins, 
we 
can’t 
breed 
them 
fast 
enough. 
So 
what 
about 
Michael Corner?" 
"I 
dumped 
him, 
he 
was 
a 
bad 
loser," 
said 
Ginny, 
putting 
a 
finger 
through 
the 
bars 
of 
the 
cage 
and 


watching the Pygmy Puffs crowd around it. "They're really cute!" 


"They're 
fairly 
cuddly, 
yes," 
conceded 
Fred. 
"But 
you're 
moving 
through 
boyfriends 
a 
bit 
fast, 
aren't 
you?" 
Ginny 
turned 
to 
look 
at 
him, 
her 
hands 
on 
her 
hips. 
There 
was 
such 
a 
Mrs. 
Weasleyish 
glare 
on 
her 


face that Harry was surprised Fred didn't recoil. 
"It's 
none 
of 
your 
business. 
And 
I'll 
thank 
you'' 
she 
added 
angrily 
to 
Ron, 
who 
had 
just 
appeared 
at 
George's elbow, laden with merchandise, "not to tell tales about me to these two!" 



"That's 
three 
Galleons, 
nine 
Sickles, 
and 
a 
Knut," 
said 
Fred, 
examining 
the 
many 
boxes 
in 
Ron's 
arms. 
"Cough up." 
"I'm your brother!" 
"And that's our stuff you're nicking. Three Galleons, nine Sickles. I'll knock off the Knut." 
"But I haven't got three Galleons, nine Sickles!" 


"You'd better put it back then, and mind you put it on the right shelves." 
Ron 
dropped 
several 
boxes, 
swore, 
and 
made 
a 
rude 
hand 
gesture 
at 
Fred 
that 
was 
unfortunately 
spotted by Mrs. Weasley, who had chosen that moment to appear. 


"If I see you do that again I'll jinx your fingers together," she said sharply. 
"Mum, can I have a Pygmy Puff?" said Ginny at once. 
"A what?" said Mrs. Weasley warily. 
"Look, they're so sweet. . . ." 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
moved 
aside 
to 
look 
at 
the 
Pygmy 
Puffs, 
and 
Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
momentarily 


had 
an 
unimpeded 
view 
out 
of 
the 
window. 
Draco 
Malfoy 
was 
hurrying 
up 
the 
street 
alone. 
As 
he 
passed 
Weasleys' 
Wizard 
Wheezes, 
he 
glanced 
over 
his 
shoulder. 
Seconds 
later, 
he 
moved 
beyond 
the 
scope of the window and they lost sight of him. 


"Wonder where his mummy is?" said Harry, frowning. 
"Given her the slip by the looks of it," said Ron. 
"Why, though?" said Hermione. 
Harry 
said 
nothing; 
he 
was 
thinking 
too 
hard. 
Narcissa 
Malfoy 
would 
not 
have 
let 
her 
precious 
son 
out 


of her sight willingly; Malfoy must have made a real effort to free himself from her clutches. 
Harry, knowing and loathing Malfoy, was sure the reason could not be innocent. 
He 
glanced 
around. 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
and 
Ginny 
were 
bending 
over 
the 
Pygmy 
Puffs. 
Mr. 
Weasley 
was 


delightedly 
examining 
a 
pack 
of 
Muggle 
marked 
playing 
cards. 
Fred 
and 
George 
were 
both 
helping 
customers. 
On 
the 
other 
side 
of 
the 
glass, 
Hagrid 
was 
standing 
with 
his 
back 
to 
them, 
looking 
up 
and 
down the street. 


"Get under here, quick," said Harry, pulling his Invisibility Cloak out of his bag. 
"Oh — I don't know, Harry," said Hermione, looking uncertainly toward Mrs. Weasley. 
"Come on!" said Ron. 
She 
hesitated 
for 
a 
second 
longer, 
then 
ducked 
under 
the 
cloak 
with 
Harry 
and 
Ron. 
Nobody 
noticed 


them 
vanish; 
they 
were 
all 
too 
interested 
in 
Fred 
and 
George's 
products. 
Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
squeezed 
their 
way 
out 
of 
the 
door 
as 
quickly 
as 
they 
could, 
but 
by 
the 
time 
they 
gained 
the 
street, 
Malfoy had disappeared just as successfully as they had. 



"He 
was 
going 
in 
that 
direction," 
murmured 
Harry 
as 
quietly 
as 
possible, 
so 
that 
the 
humming 
Hagrid 


would not hear them. “Cmon.” 
They 
scurried 
along, 
peering 
left 
and 
right, 
through 
shop 
windows 
and 
doors, 
until 
Hermione 
pointed 
ahead. 


"That's him, isn't it?" she whispered. "Turning left?" 
"Big surprise," whispered Ron. 
For Malfoy had glanced around, then slid into Knockturn Alley and out of sight. 
"Quick, or we'll lose him," said Harry, speeding up. 
"Our 
feet'Il 
be 
seen!" 
said 
Hermionc 
anxiously, 
as 
the 
cloak 
flapped 
a 
little 
around 
their 
ankles; 
it 
was 


much more difficult hiding all three of them under the cloak nowadays. 
"It doesn't matter," said Harry impatiently. "Just hurry!" 
But 
Knockturn 
Alley, 
the 
side 
street 
devoted 
to 
the 
Dark 
Arts, 
looked 
completely 
deserted. 
They 


peered 
into 
windows 
as 
they 
passed, 
but 
none 
of 
the 
shops 
seemed 
to 
have 
any 
customers 
at 
all. 
Harry 
supposed 
it 
was 
a 
bit 
of 
a 
giveaway 
in 
these 
dangerous 
and 
suspicious 
times 
to 
buy 
Dark 
artifacts 
— 
or 
at least, to be seen buying them. 


Hermione gave his arm a hard pinch. 
"Ouch!" 
"Shh! Look! He's in there!" she breathed in Harry's ear. 
They 
had 
drawn 
level 
with 
the 
only 
shop 
in 
Knockturn 
Alley 
that 
Harry 
had 
ever 
visited, 
Borgin 
and 


Burkes, 
which 
sold 
a 
wide 
variety 
of 
sinister 
objects. 
There 
in 
the 
midst 
of 
the 
cases 
full 
of 
skulls 
and 
old 
bottles 
stood 
Draco 
Malfoy 
with 
his 
back 
to 
them, 
just 
visible 
beyond 
the 
very 
same 
large 
black 
cabinet 
in 
which 
Harry 
had 
once 
hidden 
to 
avoid 
Malfoy 
and 
his 
father. 
Judging 
by 
the 
movements 
of 
Malfoy's 
hands, 
he 
was 
talking 
animatedly. 
The 
proprietor 
of 
the 
shop, 
Mr. 
Borgin, 
an 
oilyhaired, 
stooping 
man, 
stood 
facing 
Malfoy. 
He 
was 
wearing 
a 
curious 
expression 
of 
mingled 
resentment 
and 
fear. 


"If only we could hear what they're saying!" said Hermione. 
"We can!" said Ron excitedly. "Hang on — damn —" 
He dropped a couple more of the boxes he was still clutching as he fumbled with the largest. 
"Extendable Ears, look!" 
"Fantastic!" 
said 
Hermione, 
as 
Ron 
unraveled 
the 
long, 
fleshcolored 
strings 
and 
began 
to 
feed 
them 


toward the bottom of the door. "Oh, I hope the door isn't Imperturbable —" 
"No!" said Ron gleefully. "Listen!" 



They 
put 
their 
heads 
together 
and 
listened 
intently 
to 
the 
ends 
of 
the 
strings, 
through 
which 
Malfoy's 
voice could be heard loud and clear, as though a radio had been turned on. 


". . . you know how to fix it?" 
"Possibly," 
said 
Borgin, 
in 
a 
tone 
that 
suggested 
he 
was 
unwilling 
to 
commit 
himself. 
"I'll 
need 
to 
see 
it, though. Why don't you bring it into the shop?" 


"I can't," said Malfoy. "It's got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it." 
Harry saw Borgin lick his lips nervously. 
"Well, 
without 
seeing 
it, 
I 
must 
say 
it 
will 
be 
a 
very 
difficult 
job, 
perhaps 
impossible. 
I 
couldn't 


guarantee anything." 


"No?" 
said 
Malfoy, 
and 
Harry 
knew, 
just 
by 
his 
tone, 
that 
Malfoy 
was 
sneering. 
"Perhaps 
this 
will 
make you more confident." 
He 
moved 
toward 
Borgin 
and 
was 
blocked 
from 
view 
by 
the 
cabinet. 
Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 


shuffled 
sideways 
to 
try 
and 
keep 
him 
in 
sight, 
but 
all 
they 
could 
see 
was 
Borgin, 
looking 
very 


frightened. 
"Tell 
anyone," 
said 
Maifoy, 
"and 
there 
will 
be 
retribution. 
You 
know 
Fenrir 
Greyback? 
He's 
a 
family 
friend. 
He'll 
be 
dropping 
in 
from 
time 
to 
time 
to 
make 
sure 
you're 
giving 
the 
problem 
your 
full 
attention." 


"There will be no need for —" 


"I'll 
decide 
that," 
said 
Malfoy. 
"Well, 
I'd 
better 
be 
off. 
And 
don't 
forget 
to 
keep 
that 
one 
safe, 
I'll 
need 
it." 
"Perhaps you'd like to take it now?" 
"No, 
of 
course 
I 
wouldn't, 
you 
stupid, 
little 
man, 
how 
would 
I 
look 
carrying 
that 
down 
the 
street? 
Just 


don't sell it." 
"Of course not. . . sir." 
Borgin made a bow as deep as the one Harry had once seen him give Lucius Malfoy. 
"Not a word to anyone, Borgin, and that includes my mother, understand?" 
"Naturally, naturally," murmured Borgin, bowing again. 
Next 
moment, 
the 
bell 
over 
the 
door 
tinkled 
loudly 
as 
Malfoy 
stalked 
out 
of 
the 
shop 
looking 
very 


pleased 
with 
himself. 
He 
passed 
so 
close 
to 
Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
that 
they 
felt 
the 
cloak 
flutter 
around their 
knees 
again. 
Inside 
the 
shop, 
Borgin remained frozen; 
his 
unctuous 
smile 
had vanished; 
he 
looked worried. 


"What was that about?" whispered Ron, reeling in the Extendable Ears. 



"Dunno," 
said 
Harry, 
thinking 
hard. 
"He 
wants 
something 
mended 
. 
. 
. 
and 
he 
wants 
to 
reserve 
something in there. . . . Could you see what he pointed at when he said 'that one'?" 
"No, he was behind that cabinet —" 
"You two stay here," whispered Hermione. 


"What are you — ?" 
But 
Hermione 
had 
already 
ducked 
out 
from 
under 
the 
cloak. 
She 
checked 
her 
hair 
in 
the 
reflection 
in 
the 
glass, 
then 
marched 
into 
the 
shop, 
setting 
the 
bell 
tinkling 
again. 
Ron 
hastily 
fed 
the 
Extendable 
Ears back under the door and passed one of the strings to Harry. 


"Hello, 
horrible 
morning, 
isn't 
it?" 
Hermione 
said 
brightly 
to 
Borgin, 
who 
did 
not 
answer, 
but 
cast 
her 
a suspicious look. Humming cheerily, Hermione strolled through the jumble of objects on display. 
"Is this necklace for sale?" she asked, pausing beside a glassfronted 
case. 
"If you've got one and a half thousand Galleons," said Mr. 


Borgin coldly. 
"Oh 
— 
er 
— 
no, 
I 
haven't 
got 
quite 
that 
much," 
said 
Hermione, 
walking 
on. 
"And 
. 
. 
. 
what 
about 
this 
lovely — um — skull?" 


"Sixteen Galleons." 
"So it's for sale, then? It isn't being . . . kept for anyone?" 
Mr. 
Borgin 
squinted 
at 
her. 
Harry 
had 
the 
nasty 
feeling 
he 
knew 
exactly 
what 
Hermione 
was 
up 
to. 


Apparently Hermione felt she had been rumbled too because she suddenly threw caution to the 
winds. 
"The 
thing 
is, 
that 
— 
er 
— 
boy 
who 
was 
in 
here 
just 
now, 
Draco 
Malfoy, 
well, 
he's 
a 
friend 
of 
mine, 


and I want to get him a birthday present, but if he's already reserved anything, I obviously don't want to 
get him the same thing, so ... um ..." 
It was a pretty lame story in Harry's opinion, and apparently Borgin thought so too. 


"Out," he said sharply. "Get out!" 
Hermione 
did 
not 
wait 
to 
be 
asked 
twice, 
but 
hurried 
to 
the 
door 
with 
Borgin 
at 
her 
heels. 
As 
the 
bell 
tinkled again, Borgin slammed the door behind her and put up the closed sign. 


"Ah 
well," 
said 
Ron, 
throwing 
the 
cloak 
back 
over 
Hermione. 
"Worth 
a 
try, 
but 
you 
were 
a 
bit 
obvious 
—" 
"Well, next time you can show me how it's done, Master of Mystery!" she snapped. 
Ron and Hermione bickered all the way back to Weasleys' 
Wizard 
Wheezes, 
where 
they 
were 
forced 
to 
stop 
so 
that 
they 
could 
dodge 
undetected 
around 
a 
very 



anxiouslooking 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
and 
Hagrid, 
who 
had 
clearly 
noticed 
their 
absence. 
Once 
in 
the 
shop, 
Harry 
whipped 
off 
the 
Invisibility 
Cloak, 
hid 
it 
in 
his 
bag, 
and 
joined 
in 
with 
the 
other 
two 
when 
they 
insisted, 
in 
answer 
to 
Mrs. 
Weasleys 
accusations, 
that 
they 
had 
been 
in 
the 
back 
room 
all 
along, 
and 
that she could not have looked properly. 


Chapter 7 
The 
Slug 
Club 



Harry 
spent 
a 
lot 
of 
the 
last 
week 
of 
the 
holidays 
pondering 
the 
meaning 
of 
Malfoy's 
behavior 
in 
Knockturn 
Alley. 
What 
disturbed 
him 
most 
was 
the 
satisfied 
look 
on 
Malfoy's 
face 
as 
he 
had 
left 
the 
shop. 
Nothing 
that 
made 
Malfoy 
look 
that 
happy 
could 
be 
good 
news. 
To 
his 
slight 
annoyance, 
however, 
neither 
Ron 
nor 
Hermione 
seemed 
quite 
as 
curious 
about 
Malfoy's 
activities 
as 
he 
was; 
or 
at 
least, they seemed to get bored of discussing it after a few days. 


"Yes, I've already agreed it was fishy, Harry," said Hermione a little impatiently. She was sitting on the 
windowsill 
in 
Fred 
and 
George's 
room 
with 
her 
feet 
up 
on 
one 
of 
the 
cardboard 
boxes 
and 
had 
only 
grudgingly 
looked 
up 
from 
her 
new 
copy 
of 
Advanced 
Rune 
Translation. 
"But 
haven't 
we 
agreed 
there 
could be a lot of explanations?" 


"Maybe 
he's 
broken 
his 
Hand 
of 
Glory" 
said 
Ron 
vaguely, 
as 
he 
attempted 
to 
straighten 
his 
broomstick's bent tail twigs. "Remember that shriveledup 
arm Malfoy had?" 


"But 
what 
about 
when 
he 
said, 
'Don't 
forget 
to 
keep 
that 
one 
safe'?" 
asked 
Harry 
for 
the 
umpteenth 
time. 
"That 
sounded 
to 
me 
like 
Borgin's 
got 
another 
one 
of 
the 
broken 
objects, 
and 
Malfoy 
wants 
both." 


"You reckon?" said Ron, now trying to scrape some dirt off his broom handle. 


"Yeah, 
I 
do," 
said 
Harry. 
When 
neither 
Ron 
nor 
Hermione 
answered, 
he 
said, 
"Malfoy's 
father's 
in 
Azkaban. Don't you think Malfoy’d like revenge?" 


Ron looked up, blinking. 



"Malfoy, revenge? What can he do about it?" 


"That's 
my 
point, 
I 
don't 
know!" 
said 
Harry, 
frustrated. 
"But 
he's 
up 
to 
something 
and 
I 
think 
we 
should take it seriously. His father's a Death Eater and —" 
Harry 
broke 
off, 
his 
eyes 
fixed 
on 
the 
window 
behind 
Hermione, 
his 
mouth 
open. 
A 
startling 
thought 


had just occurred to him. 
"Harry?" said Hermione in an anxious voice. "What's wrong?" 
"Your scar's not hurting again, is it?" asked Ron nervously. 
"He's a Death Eater," said Harry slowly. "He's replaced his father as a Death Eater!" 
There 
was 
a 
silence; 
then 
Ron 
erupted 
in 
laughter. 
"Malfoy? 
He's 
sixteen, 
Harry! 
You 
think 
You


KnowWho 
would let Malfoy join?" 


"It seems very unlikely, Harry," said Hermione in a repressive sort of voice. "What makes you think — 
?" 
"In 
Madam 
Malkin's. 
She 
didn't 
touch 
him, 
but 
he 
yelled 
and 
jerked 
his 
arm 
away 
from 
her 
when 
she 


went to roll up his sleeve. It was his left arm. He's been branded with the Dark Mark." 
Ron and Hermione looked at each other. 
"Well.. ." said Ron, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. 
"I think he just wanted to get out of there, Harry," said Hermione. 
"He 
showed 
Borgin 
something 
we 
couldn't 
see," 
Harry 
pressed 
on 
stubbornly. 
"Something 
that 


seriously 
scared 
Borgin. 
It 
was 
the 
Mark, 
I 
know 
it 
— 
he 
was 
showing 
Borgin 
who 
he 
was 
dealing 
with, you saw how seriously Borgin took him!" 
Ron and Hermione exchanged another look. 
"I'm not sure, Harry. . . ." 


"Yeah, I still don't reckon YouKnowWho 
would let Malfoy join.. . ." 
Annoyed, 
but 
absolutely 
convinced 
he 
was 
right, 
Harry 
snatched 
up 
a 
pile 
of 
filthy 
Quidditch 
robes 
and 
left 
the 
room; 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
had 
been 
urging 
them 
for 
days 
not 
to 
leave 
their 
washing 
and 
packing 
until 
the 
last 
moment. 
On the 
landing 
he 
bumped into 
Ginny, who was 
returning 
to 
her 
room 
carrying a 
pile of freshly laundered clothes. 


"I wouldn't go in the kitchen just now," she warned him. "There's a lot of Phlegm around." 
"I'll be careful not to slip in it." Harry smiled. 
Sure 
enough, 
when 
he 
entered 
the 
kitchen 
it 
was 
to 
find 
Fleur 
sitting 
at 
the 
kitchen 
table, 
in 
full 
flow 


about 
plans 
for 
her 
wedding 
to 
Bill, 
while 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
kept 
watch 
over 
a 
pile 
of 
selfpeeling 
sprouts, 
looking badtempered. 
". 
. 
. 
Bill 
and 
I 
'ave 
almost 
decided 
on 
only 
two 
bridesmaids, 
Ginny 
and 
Gabrielle 
will 
look 
very 
sweet 



togezzer. 
I 
am 
theenking 
of 
dressing 
zem 
in 
pale 
gold 
— 
pink 
would 
of 
course 
be 
'orrible 
with 
Ginny's 
'air —" 


"Ah, 
Harry!" 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
loudly, 
cutting 
across 
Fleur's 
monologue. 
"Good, 
I 
wanted 
to 
explain 
about 
the 
security 
arrangements 
for 
the 
journey 
to 
Hogwarts 
tomorrow. 
We've 
got 
Ministry 
cars 
again, 
and there will be Aurors waiting at the station —" 


"Is Tonks going to be there?" asked Harry, handing over his Quidditch things. 


"No, I don't think so, she's been stationed somewhere else from what Arthur said." 


"She has let 'erself go, zat Tonks," Fleur mused, examining her own stunning reflection in the back of a 
teaspoon. "A big mistake if you ask—" 


"Yes, 
thank 
you," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
tartly, 
cutting 
across 
Fleur 
again. 
"You'd 
better 
get 
on, 
Harry, 
I 
want the trunks ready tonight, if possible, so we don't have the usual lastminute 
scramble." 


And 
in 
fact, 
their 
departure 
the 
following 
morning 
was 
smoother 
than 
usual. 
The 
Ministry 
cars 
glided 
up 
to 
the 
front 
of 
the 
Burrow 
to 
find 
them 
waiting, 
trunks 
packed; 
Hermione's 
cat, 
Crookshanks, 
safely 
enclosed 
in 
his 
traveling 
basket; 
and 
Hedwig; 
Ron's 
owl, 
Pigwidgeon; 
and 
Ginny's 
new 
purple 
Pygmy 
Puff, Arnold, in cages. 


"Au 
revoir, 
'Any," 
said 
Fleur 
throatily, 
kissing 
him 
goodbye. 
Ron 
hurried 
forward, 
looking 
hopeful, 
but 
Ginny 
stuck 
out 
her 
foot 
and 
Ron 
fell, 
sprawling 
in 
the 
dust 
at 
Fleur's 
feet. 
Furious, 
redfaced, 
and 
dirtspattered, 
he hurried into the car without saying goodbye. 


There 
was 
no 
cheerful 
Hagrid 
waiting 
for 
them 
at 
King's 
Cross 
Station. 
Instead, 
two 
grimfaced, 
bearded 
Aurors 
in 
dark 
Muggle 
suits 
moved 
forward 
the 
moment 
the 
cars 
stopped 
and, 
flanking 
the 
party, marched them into the station without speaking. 


"Quick, quick, through the barrier," said Mrs. Weasley, who 


seemed a little flustered by this austere efficiency. "Harry had better go first, with —" 


She 
looked 
inquiringly 
at 
one 
of 
the 
Aurors, 
who 
nodded 
briefly, 
seized 
Harry's 
upper 
arm, 
and 
attempted to steer him toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten. 


"I 
can 
walk, 
thanks," 
said 
Harry 
irritably, 
jerking 
his 
arm 
out 
of 
the 
Auror's 
grip. 
He 
pushed 
his 
trolley 
directly 
at 
the 
solid 
barrier, 
ignoring 
his 
silent 
companion, 
and 
found 
himself, 
a 
second 
later, 
standing 
on 
platform 
nine 
and 
threequarters, 
where 
the 
scarlet 
Hogwarts 
Express 
stood 
belching 
steam 
over 
the 
crowd. 


Hermione 
and 
the 
Weasleys 
joined 
him 
within 
seconds. 
Without 
waiting 
to 
consult 
his 
grimfaced 
Auror, 
Harry 
motioned 
to 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
to 
follow 
him 
up 
the 
platform, 
looking 
for 
an 
empty 
compartment. 


"We 
can't, 
Harry," 
said 
Hermione, 
looking 
apologetic. 
"Ron 
and 
I've 
got 
to 
go 
to 
the 
prefects' 
carriage 
first and then patrol the corridors for a bit." 


"Oh yeah, I forgot," said Harry. 



"You'd 
better 
get 
straight 
on 
the 
train, 
all 
of 
you, 
you've 
only 
got 
a 
few 
minutes 
to 
go," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley, consulting her watch. "Well, have a lovely term, Ron. . . ." 


"Mr. Weasley, can I have a quick word?" said Harry, making up his mind on the spur of the moment. 
"Of 
course," 
said 
Mr. 
Weasley, 
who 
looked 
slightly 
surprised, 
but 
followed 
Harry 
out 
of 
earshot 
of 
the 
others nevertheless. 


Harry 
had 
thought 
it 
through 
carefully 
and 
come 
to 
the 
conclusion 
that, 
if 
he 
was 
to 
tell 
anyone, 
Mr. 
Weasley 
was 
the 
right 
person; 
firstly, 
because 
he 
worked 
at 
the 
Ministry 
and 
was 
therefore 
in 
the 
best 
position to make further investigations, and secondly, 


because he thought that there was not too much risk of Mr. Weasley exploding with anger. 


He 
could 
see 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
and 
the 
grimfaced 
Auror 
casting 
the 
pair 
of 
them 
suspicious 
looks 
as 
they 
moved away. 
"When we were in Diagon Alley," Harry began, but Mr. Weasley forestalled him with a grimace. 
"Am 
I 
about 
to 
discover 
where 
you, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
disappeared 
to 
while 
you 
were 
supposed 
to 
be 


in the back room of Fred and George's shop?" 
"How did you — ?" 
"Harry, please. You're talking to the man who raised Fred and George." 
"Er . . . yeah, all right, we weren't in the back room." "Very well, then, let's hear the worst." 
"Well, we followed Draco Malfoy. We used my Invisibility Cloak." 
"Did you have any particular reason for doing so, or was it a mere whim?" 
"Because 
I 
thought 
Malfoy 
was 
up 
to 
something," 
said 
Harry, 
disregarding 
Mr. 
Weasley's 
look 
of 


mingled exasperation and amusement. "He'd given his mother the slip and I wanted to know why." 
"Of course you did," said Mr. Weasley, sounding resigned. "Well? Did you find out why?" 
"He 
went 
into 
Borgin 
and 
Burkes," 
said 
Harry, 
"and 
started 
bullying 
the 
bloke 
in 
there, 
Borgin, 
to 
help 


him 
fix 
something. 
And 
he 
said 
he 
wanted 
Borgin 
to 
keep 
something 
else 
for 
him. 
He 
made 
it 
sound 
like it was the same kind of thing that needed fixing. Like they were a pair. And ..." 


Harry took a deep breath. 
"There's 
something 
else. We 
saw 
Malfoy jump 
about 
a 
mile 
when Madam 
Malkin tried to 
touch his 
left 
arm. I think he's been branded with the Dark Mark. 1 think he's replaced his father as a Death Eater." 


Mr. 
Weasley 
looked 
taken 
aback. 
After 
a 
moment 
he 
said, 
"Harry, 
I 
doubt 
whether 
YouKnowWho 


would allow a sixteenyearold 
—" 
"Does 
anyone 
really 
know 
what 
YouKnowWho 
would 
or 
wouldn't 
do?" 
asked 
Harry 
angrily. 
"Mr. 
Weasley, 
I'm 
sorry, 
but 
isn't 
it 
worth 
investigating? 
If 
Malfoy 
wants 
something 
fixing, 
and 
he 
needs 
to 
threaten Borgin to get it done, it's probably something Dark or dangerous, isn't it?" 



"I 
doubt 
it, 
to 
be 
honest, 
Harry," 
said 
Mr. 
Weasley 
slowly. 
"You 
see, 
when 
Lucius 
Malfoy 
was 
arrested, 
we 
raided 
his 
house. 
We 
took 
away 
everything 
that 
might 
have 
been 
dangerous." 
"I 
think 
you 
missed 
something," 
said 
Harry 
stubbornly. 
"Well, 
maybe," 
said 
Mr. 
Weasley, 
but 
Harry 
could 
tell 
that 
Mr. Weasley was humoring him. 


There was a whistle behind them; nearly everyone had boarded the train and the doors were closing. 
"You'd better hurry!' said Mr. Weasley, as Mrs. Weasley cried, "Harry, quickly!" 
He hurried forward and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley helped him load his trunk onto the train. 
"Now, 
dear, 
you're 
coming 
to 
us 
for 
Christmas, 
it's 
all 
fixed 
with 
Dumbledore, 
so 
we'll 
see 
you 
quite 


soon," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
through 
the 
window, 
as 
Harry 
slammed 
the 
door 
shut 
behind 
him 
and 
the 
train began to move. "You make sure you look after yourself and —" 
The train was gathering speed. 
"— be good and —" , She was jogging to keep up now. 


"— stay safe!" 
Harry 
waved 
until 
the 
train 
had 
turned 
a 
corner 
and 
Mr. 
and 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
were 
lost 
to 
view, 
then 
turned 
to 
see 
where 
the 
others 
had 
got 
to. 
He 
supposed 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
were 
cloistered 
in 
the 
prefects' 
carriage, 
but 
Ginny 
was 
a 
little 
way 
along 
the 
corridor, 
chatting 
to 
some 
friends. 
He 
made 
his 
way toward her, dragging his trunk. 


People 
stared 
shamelessly 
as 
he 
approached. 
They 
even 
pressed 
their 
faces 
against 
the 
windows 
of 
their 
compartments 
to 
get 
a 
look 
at 
him. 
He 
had 
expected 
an 
upswing 
in 
the 
amount 
of 
gaping 
and 
gawping 
he 
would have 
to 
endure 
this 
term 
after 
all 
the 
"Chosen 
One" 
rumors 
in the 
Daily 
Prophet, but 
he did not enjoy the sensation of standing in a very bright spotlight. He tapped Ginny on the shoulder. 


"Fancy trying to find a compartment?" 
"I can't, Harry, I said I'd meet Dean," said Ginny brightly. "See you later." 
"Right," 
said 
Harry. 
He 
felt 
a 
strange 
twinge 
of 
annoyance 
as 
she 
walked 
away, 
her 
long 
red 
hair 


dancing 
behind 
her; 
he 
had 
become 
so 
used 
to 
her 
presence 
over 
the 
summer 
that 
he 
had 
almost 
forgotten 
that 
Ginny 
did 
not 
hang 
around 
with 
him, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
while 
at 
school. 
Then 
he 
blinked and looked around: He was surrounded by mesmerized girls. 


"Hi, Harry!" said a familiar voice from behind him. 
"Neville!" said Harry in relief, turning to see a roundfaced 
boy struggling toward him. 
"Hello, Harry," said a girl with long hair and large misty eyes, who was just behind Neville. 
"Luna, hi, how are you?" 
"Very 
well, 
thank 
you," 
said 
Luna. 
She 
was 
clutching 
a 
magazine 
to 
her 
chest; 
large 
letters 
on 
the 
front 


announced that there was a pair of free Spectrespecs inside. 
"Quibbler 
still 
going 
strong, 
then?" 
asked 
Harry, 
who 
felt 
a 
certain 
fondness 
for 
the 
magazine, 
having 



given it an exclusive interview the previous year. 
"Oh yes, circulation's well up," said Luna happily. 
"Let's 
find 
seats," 
said 
Harry, 
and 
the 
three 
of 
them 
set 
off 
along 
the 
train 
through 
hordes 
of 
silently 


staring students. At last they found an empty compartment, and Harry hurried inside gratefully. 
"They're even staring at us? said Neville, indicating himself and Luna. "Because we're with you!" 
"They're 
staring 
at 
you 
because 
you 
were 
at 
the 
Ministry 
too," 
said 
Harry, 
as 
he 
hoisted 
his 
trunk 
into 


the luggage rack. "Our little adventure there was all over the Daily Prophet, you must've 
seen it." 
"Yes, 
I 
thought 
Gran 
would 
be 
angry 
about 
all 
the 
publicity," 
said 
Neville, 
"but 
she 
was 
really 
pleased. 


Says I'm starting to live up to my dad at long last. She bought me a new wand, look!" 
He pulled it out and showed it to Harry. 
"Cherry 
and 
unicorn 
hair," 
he 
said 
proudly. 
"We 
think 
it 
was 
one 
of 
the 
last 
Ollivander 
ever 
sold, 
he 


vanished next day — oi, come back here, Trevor!" 
And he dived under the seat to retrieve his toad as it made one of its frequent bids for freedom. 
"Are we still doing D.A. meetings this year, Harry?" asked Luna, 
who was detaching a pair of psychedelic spectacles from the middle of The Quibbler. 
"No point now we've got rid of Umbridge, is there?" said Harry, sitting down. Neville bumped his head 


against the seat as he emerged from under it. He looked most disappointed. 
"I liked the D.A.! I learned loads with you!" 
"I enjoyed the meetings too," said Luna serenely. "It was like having friends." 
This 
was 
one 
of 
those 
uncomfortable 
things 
Luna 
often 
said 
and 
which 
made 
Harry 
feel 
a 
squirming 


mixture 
of 
pity 
and 
embarrassment. 
Before 
he 
could 
respond, 
however, 
there 
was 
a 
disturbance 
outside 


their 
compartment 
door; 
a 
group 
of 
fourthyear 
girls 
was 
whispering 
and 
giggling 
together 
on 
the 
other 


side of the glass. 


"You ask him!" 


No, you! 


"I'll do it!" 


And 
one 
of 
them, 
a 
boldlooking 
girl 
with 
large 
dark 
eyes, 
a 
prominent 
chin, 
and 
long 
black 
hair 


pushed her way through the door. 


"Hi, 
Harry, 
I'm 
Romilda, 
Romilda 
Vane," 
she 
said 
loudly 
and 
confidently. 
"Why 
don't 
you 
join 
us 
in 


our 
compartment? 
You 
don't 
have 
to 
sit 
with 
them," 
she 
added 
in 
a 
stage 
whisper, 
indicating 
Neville's 


bottom, 
which 
was 
sticking 
out 
from 
under 
the 
seat 
again 
as 
he 
groped 
around 
for 
Trevor, 
and 
Luna, 


who was now wearing her free Spectrespecs, which gave her the look of a demented, multicolored owl. 



"They're friends of mine," said Harry coldly. 


"Oh," said the girl, looking very surprised. "Oh. Okay." 


And she withdrew, sliding the door closed behind her. 


"People 
expect 
you 
10 
have 
cooler 
friends 
than 
us," 
said 
Luna, 
once 
again 
displaying 
her 
knack 
for 
embarrassing honesty. 


"You are cool," said Harry shortly. "None of them was at the Ministry. They didn't fight with me." 


"That's 
a 
very 
nice 
thing 
to 
say," 
beamed 
Luna. 
Then 
she 
pushed 
her 
Spectrespecs 
farther 
up 
her 
nose 
and settled down to read The 


Quibbler. 


"We 
didn't 
face 
him, 
though," 
said 
Neville, 
emerging 
from 
under 
the 
seat 
with 
fluff 
and 
dust 
in 
his 
hair 
and 
a 
resignedlooking 
Trevor 
in 
his 
hand. 
"You 
did. 
You 
should 
hear 
my 
gran 
talk 
about 
you. 
'That 
Harry 
Potter's 
got 
more 
backbone 
than 
the 
whole 
Ministry 
of 
Magic 
put 
together!' 
She'd 
give 
anything 
to have you as a grandson. 
. . . 


Harry 
laughed 
uncomfortably 
and 
changed 
the 
subject 
to 
OWL. 
results 
as 
soon 
as 
he 
could. 
While 
Neville 
recited 
his 
grades 
and 
wondered 
aloud 
whether 
he 
would 
be 
allowed 
to 
take 
a 
Transfiguration 
NEWT, with only an "Acceptable," Harry watched him without really listening. 


Neville's 
childhood 
had 
been 
blighted 
by 
Voldemort 
just 
as 
much 
as 
Harry's 
had, 
but 
Neville 
had 
no 
idea 
how 
close 
he 
had 
come 
to 
having 
Harry's 
destiny. 
The 
prophecy 
could 
have 
referred 
to 
either 
of 
them, 
yet, 
for 
his 
own 
inscrutable 
reasons, 
Voldemort 
had 
chosen 
to 
believe 
that 
Harry 
was 
the 
one 
meant. 


Had Voldemort 
chosen Neville, 
it 
would be 
Neville 
sitting 
opposite 
Harry bearing 
the 
lightningshaped 
scar 
and 
the 
weight 
of 
the 
prophecy. 
... 
Or 
would 
it? 
Would 
Neville’s 
mother 
have 
died 
to 
save 
him, 
as 
Lily 
had 
died 
for 
Harry? 
Surely 
she 
would. 
. 
. 
. 
But 
what 
if 
she 
had 
been 
unable 
to 
stand 
between 
her 
son and Voldemort? Would there then have been no "Chosen One" at all? An empty seat where Neville 
now sat and a scarless Harry who would have been kissed goodbye 
by his own mother, not Ron's? 


"You all right, Harry? You look funny," said Neville. 


Harry started. "Sorry — I —" 


"Wrackspurt 
got 
you?" 
asked 
Luna 
sympathetically, 
peering 
at 
Harry 
through 
her 
enormous 
colored 
spectacles. 


"I —what?" 


"A 
Wrackspurt. 
. 
. 
They're 
invisible. 
They 
float 
in 
through 
your 
ears 
and 
make 
your 
brain 
go 
fuzzy," 
she said. "I thought I felt one zooming around in here." 


She 
flapped 
her 
hands 
at 
thin 
air, 
as 
though 
beating 
off 
large 
invisible 
moths. 
Harry 
and 
Neville 
caught 
each other's eyes and hastily began to talk of Quidditch. 



The 
weather 
beyond 
the 
train 
windows 
was 
as 
patchy 
as 
it 
had 
been 
all 
summer; 
they 
passed 
through 
stretches 
of 
the 
chilling 
mist, 
then 
out 
into 
weak, 
clear 
sunlight. 
It 
was 
during 
one 
of 
the 
clear 
spells, 
when 
the 
sun 
was 
visible 
almost 
directly 
overhead, 
that 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
entered 
the 
compartment 
at 
last. 


"Wish 
the 
lunch 
trolley 
would 
hurry 
up, 
I'm 
starving," 
said 
Ron 
longingly, 
slumping 
into 
the 
seat 
beside 
Harry 
and 
rubbing 
his 
stomach. 
"Hi, 
Neville. 
Hi, 
Luna. 
Guess 
what?" 
he 
added, 
turning 
to 
Harry. 
"Malfoy 
s 
not 
doing 
prefect 
duty. 
He's 
just 
sitting 
in 
his 
compartment 
with 
the 
other 
Slytherins, 
we saw him when we passed." 


Harry 
sat 
up 
straight, 
interested. 
It 
was 
not 
like 
Malfoy 
to 
pass 
up 
the 
chance 
to 
demonstrate 
his 
power 
as prefect, which he had happily abused all the previous year. 
"What did he do when he saw you?" 


"The usual," said Ron indifferently, demonstrating a rude hand 
gesture. "Not 
like 
him, 
though, 
is 
it? 
Well 
— that 
is" 
— he 
did the 
hand gesture 
again — "but 
why isn't 
he out there bullying first years? 


"Dunno," 
said 
Harry, 
but 
his 
mind 
was 
racing. 
Didn't 
this 
look 
as 
though 
Malfoy 
had 
more 
important 


things on his mind than bullying younger students? 
"Maybe 
he 
preferred 
the 
Inquisitorial 
Squad," 
said 
Hermione. 
"Maybe 
being 
a 
prefect 
seems 
a 
bit 
tame 
after that." 


"I don't think so," said Harry. "I think he's —" 


But 
before 
he 
could 
expound 
on 
his 
theory, 
the 
compartment 
door 
slid 
open 
again 
and 
a 
breathless 
thirdyear 
girl stepped inside. 
"I'm 
supposed 
to 
deliver 
these 
to 
Neville 
Longbottom 
and 
Harry 
PPotter," 
she 
faltered, 
as 
her 
eyes 


met 
Harry's 
and 
she 
turned 
scarlet. 
She 
was 
holding 
out 
two 
scrolls 
of 
parchment 
tied 
with 
violet 
ribbon. 
Perplexed, 
Harry 
and 
Neville 
took 
the 
scroll 
addressed 
to 
each 
of 
them 
and 
the 
girl 
stumbled 
back out of the compartment. 


"What is it?" Ron demanded, as Harry unrolled his. 
"An invitation," said Harry.” 
Harry, 
I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C. 
Sincerely, . , . 
"But what does he want me for?" asked Neville nervously, as though he was expecting detention. 
"No 
idea," 
said 
Harry, 
which 
was 
not 
entirely 
true, 
though 
he 
had 
no 
proof 
yet 
that 
his 
hunch 
was 


correct. 
"Listen," 
he 
added, 
seized 
by 
a 
sudden 
brain 
wave, 
"let's 
go 
under 
the 
Invisibility 
Cloak, 
then 
we might get a good look at Malfoy on the way, see what he's up to." 



This 
idea, 
however, 
came 
to 
nothing: 
The 
corridors, 
which 
were 
packed 
with 
people 
on 
the 
lookout 
for 
the 
lunch 
trolley, 
were 
impossible 
to 
negotiate 
while 
wearing 
the 
cloak. 
Harry 
stowed 
it 
regretfully 
back 
in 
his 
bag, 
reflecting 
that 
it 
would 
have 
been 
nice 
to 
wear 
it 
just 
to 
avoid 
all 
the 
staring, 
which 
seemed 
to 
have 
increased 
in 
intensity 
even 
since 
he 
had 
last 
walked 
down 
the 
train. 
Every 
now 
and 
then, 
students 
would 
hurtle 
out 
of 
their 
compartments 
to 
get 
a 
better 
look 
at 
him. 
The 
exception 
was 
Cho 
Chang, 
who 
darted 
into 
her 
compartment 
when 
she 
saw 
Harry 
coming. 
As 
Harry 
passed 
the 
window, he 
saw 
her 
deep in determined conversation 
with 
her 
friend Marietta, who was 
wearing a 
very 
thick 
layer 
of 
makeup 
that 
did 
not 
entirely 
obscure 
the 
odd 
formation 
of 
pimples 
still 
etched 
across 
her 
face. Smirking slightly, Harry pushed on. 


When 
they 
reached 
compartment 
C, 
they 
saw 
at 
once 
that 
they 
were 
not 
Slughorn's 
only 
invitees, 
although judging by the enthusiasm of Slughorn's welcome, Harry was the most warmly anticipated. 


"Harry, 
m'boy!" 
said 
Slughorn, 
jumping 
up 
at 
the 
sight 
of 
him 
so 
that 
his 
great 
velvetcovered 
belly 
seemed 
to 
fill 
all 
the 
remaining 
space 
in 
the 
compartment. 
His 
shiny 
bald 
head 
and 
great 
silvery 
mustache gleamed as brightly in the sunlight as the golden 


buttons on his waistcoat. "Good to see you, good to see you! And you must be Mr. Longbottom!" 


Neville 
nodded, 
looking 
scared. 
At 
a 
gesture 
from 
Slughorn, 
they 
sat 
down 
opposite 
each 
other 
in 
the 
only 
two 
empty 
seats, 
which 
were 
nearest 
the 
door. 
Harry 
glanced 
around 
at 
their 
fellow 
guests. 
He 
recognized 
a 
Slytherin 
from 
their 
year, 
a 
tall 
black 
boy 
with 
high 
cheekbones 
and 
long, 
slanting 
eyes; 
there 
were 
also 
two seventhyear 
boys 
Harry did not 
know 
and, squashed in 
the 
corner 
beside 
Slughorn 
and looking as though she was not entirely sure how she had got there, Ginny. 


"Now, 
do 
you 
know 
everyone?" 
Slughorn 
asked 
Harry 
and 
Neville. 
"Blaise 
Zabini 
is 
in 
your 
year, 
of 
course —
" 


Zabini 
did 
not 
make 
any 
sign 
of 
recognition 
or 
greeting, 
nor 
did 
Harry 
or 
Neville: 
Gryffindor 
and 
Slytherin students loathed each other on principle. 


"This is Cormac McLaggen, perhaps you've come across each other — ? No?" 


McLaggen, a large, wiryhaired 
youth, raised a hand, and Harry and Neville nodded back at him. 


"— and this is Marcus Belby, I don't know whether — ?" 


Belby, who was thin and nervouslooking, 
gave a strained smile. 


"— and this charming young lady tells me she knows you!" Slughorn finished. 


Ginny grimaced at Harry and Neville from behind Slughorn's back. 


"Well 
now, this 
is 
most 
pleasant," 
said Slughorn 
cozily. 
"A 
chance 
to 
get 
to know 
you all 
a 
little 
better. 
Here, take a napkin. I've packed my own lunch; the trolley, as I remember it, is heavy on 


licorice 
wands, 
and 
a 
poor 
old 
man's 
digestive 
system 
isn't 
quite 
up 
to 
such 
things. 
. 
. 
. 
Pheasant, 
Belby?" 


Belby started and accepted what looked like half a cold pheasant. 



"I 
was 
just 
telling 
young 
Marcus 
here 
that 
I 
had 
the 
pleasure 
of 
teaching 
his 
Uncle 
Damocles," 
Slughorn 
told 
Harry 
and 
Neville, 
now 
passing 
around 
a 
basket 
of 
rolls. 
"Outstanding 
wizard, 
outstanding, and his Order of Merlin most welldeserved. 
Do you see much of your uncle, Marcus?" 


Unfortunately, 
Beiby 
had 
just 
taken 
a 
large 
mouthful 
of 
pheasant; 
in 
his 
haste 
to 
answer 
Slughorn 
he 
swallowed too fast, turned purple, and began to choke. 


"Anapneo," said Slughorn calmly, pointing his wand at Belby, whose airway seemed to clear at once. 


"Not. . . not much of him, no," gasped Belby, his eyes streaming. 


"Well, 
of 
course, 
I 
daresay 
he's 
busy," 
said 
Slughorn, 
looking 
questioningly 
at 
Belby. 
"I 
doubt 
he 
invented the Wolfsbane Potion without considerable hard work!" 


"I 
suppose 
. 
. 
." 
said 
Belby, 
who 
seemed 
afraid 
to 
take 
another 
bite 
of 
pheasant 
until 
he 
was 
sure 
that 
Slughorn 
had 
finished 
with 
him. 
"Er 
... 
he 
and 
my 
dad 
don't 
get 
on 
very 
well, 
you 
see, 
so 
I 
don't 
really 
know much about..." 


His voice tailed away as Slughorn gave him a cold smile and turned to McLaggen instead. 


"Now, 
you, 
Cormac," 
said 
Slughorn, 
"I 
happen 
to 
know 
you 
see 
a 
lot 
of 
your 
Uncle 
Tiberius, 
because 
he has a rather splendid picture of the two of you hunting nogtails in, I think, Norfolk?" 


"Oh, yeah, that was fun, that was," said McLaggen. "We went with Bertie Higgs and Rufus Scrimgeour 


— this was before he became Minister, obviously —" 
"Ah, 
you 
know 
Bertie 
and 
Rufus 
too?" 
beamed 
Slughorn, 
now 
offering 
around 
a 
small 
tray 
of 
pies; 
somehow, Belby was missed out. "Now tell me . . ." 


It 
was 
as 
Harry 
had 
suspected. 
Everyone 
here 
seemed 
to 
have 
been 
invited 
because 
they 
were 
connected 
to 
somebody 
wellknown 
or 
influential 
— 
everyone 
except 
Ginny. 
Zabini, 
who 
was 
interrogated 
after 
McLaggen, 
turned 
out 
to 
have 
a 
famously 
beautiful 
witch 
for 
a 
mother 
(from 
what 
Harry 
could 
make 
out, 
she 
had 
been 
married 
seven 
times, 
each 
of 
her 
husbands 
dying 
mysteriously 
and 
leaving 
her 
mounds 
of 
gold). It 
was 
Neville's 
turn next: 
This 
was 
a 
very uncomfortable 
ten minutes, 
for 
Neville's 
parents, 
wellknown 
Aurors, 
had 
been 
tortured 
into 
insanity 
by 
Bellatrix 
Lestrange 
and 
a 
couple 
of 
Death 
Eater 
cronies. 
At 
the 
end 
of 
Neville's 
interview, 
Harry 
had 
the 
impression 
that 
Slughorn was reserving judgment on Neville, yet to see whether he had any of his parents' flair. 


"And 
now," 
said 
Slughorn, 
shifting 
massively 
in 
his 
seat 
with 
the 
air 
of 
a 
compere 
introducing 
his 
star 
act. 
"Harry 
Potter! 
Where 
to 
begin? 
I 
feel 
I 
barely 
scratched 
the 
surface 
when 
we 
met 
over 
the 
summer!" 
He 
contemplated 
Harry 
for 
a 
moment 
as 
though 
he 
was 
a 
particularly 
large 
and 
succulent 
piece of pheasant, then said, "'The Chosen One,' they're calling you now!" 


Harry said nothing. Belby, McLaggen, and Zabini were all staring at him. 


"Of 
course," 
said 
Slughorn, 
watching 
Harry 
closely, 
"there 
have 
been 
rumors 
for 
years. 
... 
I 
remember 
when 
— 
well 
— 
after 
that 
terrible 
night 
— 
Lily 
— 
James 
— 
and 
you 
survived 
— 
and 
the 
word 
was 
that you must have powers beyond the ordinary —" 



Zabini gave a tiny little cough that was clearly supposed to 


indicate amused skepticism. An angry voice burst out from behind Slughorn. 


"Yeah, Zabini, because you're so talented ... at posing. . . ." 


"Oh 
dear!" 
chuckled 
Slughorn 
comfortably, 
looking 
around 
at 
Ginny, 
who 
was 
glaring 
at 
Zabini 
around 
Slughorn's 
great 
belly. 
"You 
want 
to 
be 
careful, 
Blaise! 
I 
saw 
this 
young 
lady 
perform 
the 
most 
marvelous BatBogey 
Hex as I was passing her carriage! I wouldn't cross her!" 


Zabini merely looked contemptuous. 


"Anyway," 
said 
Slughorn, 
turning 
back 
to 
Harry. 
"Such 
rumors 
this 
summer. 
Of 
course, 
one 
doesn't 
know 
what 
to 
believe, 
the 
Prophet 
has 
been 
known 
to 
print 
inaccuracies, 
make 
mistakes 
— 
but 
there 
seems 
little 
doubt, 
given 
the 
number 
of 
witnesses, 
that 
there 
was 
quite 
a 
disturbance 
at 
the 
Ministry 
and that you were there in the thick of it all!" 


Harry, 
who 
could 
not 
see 
any 
way 
out 
of 
this 
without 
flatly 
lying, 
nodded 
but 
still 
said 
nothing. 
Slughorn beamed at him. 


"So 
modest, 
so 
modest, 
no 
wonder 
Dumbledore 
is 
so 
fond 
— 
you 
were 
there, 
then? 
But 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
stories 
— so sensational, 
of 
course, one 
doesn't 
know 
quite 
what 
to believe 
— this 
fabled prophecy, for 
instance —" 


"We never heard a prophecy," said Neville, turning geranium pink as he said it. 


"That's 
right," 
said 
Ginny 
staunchly. 
"Neville 
and 
I 
were 
both 
there 
too, 
and 
all 
this 
'Chosen 
One' 
rubbish is just the Prophet making things up as usual." 


"You 
were 
both 
there 
too, 
were 
you?" 
said 
Slughorn 
with 
great 
interest, 
looking 
from 
Ginny 
to 
Neville, but both of them sat clamlike 
before his encouraging smile. 


"Yes. 
. 
. 
well... 
it 
is 
true 
that 
the 
Prophet 
often 
exaggerates, 
of 
course. 
. 
. 
." 
Slughorn 
said, 
sounding 
a 
little 
disappointed. 
"I 
remember 
dear 
Gwenog 
telling 
me 
(Gwenog 
Jones, 
I 
mean, 
of 
course, 
Captain 
of 
the Holyhead Harpies) —" 


He 
meandered 
off 
into 
a 
longwinded 
reminiscence, 
but 
Harry 
had 
the 
distinct 
impression 
that 
Slughorn had not finished with him, and that he had not been convinced by Neville and Ginny. 


The 
afternoon 
wore 
on 
with 
more 
anecdotes 
about 
illustrious 
wizards 
Slughorn 
had 
taught, 
all 
of 
whom 
had 
been 
delighted 
to 
join 
what 
he 
called 
the 
"Slug 
Club" 
at 
Hogwarts. 
Harry 
could 
not 
wait 
to 
leave, 
but 
couldn't 
see 
how 
to 
do 
so 
politely. 
Finally 
the 
train 
emerged 
from 
yet 
another 
long 
misty 
stretch into a red sunset, and Slughorn looked around, blinking in the twilight. 


"Good 
gracious, 
it's 
getting 
dark 
already! 
I 
didn't 
notice 
that 
they'd 
lit 
the 
lamps! 
You'd 
better 
go 
and 
change 
into 
your 
robes, 
all 
of 
you. 
McLaggen, 
you 
must 
drop 
by 
and 
borrow 
that 
book 
on 
nogtails. 
Harry, 
Blaise 
— 
any 
time 
you're 
passing. 
Same 
goes 
for 
you, 
miss," 
he 
twinkled 
at 
Ginny. 
"Well, 
off 
you go, off you go!" 


As 
he 
pushed 
past 
Harry 
into 
the 
darkening 
corridor, 
Zabini 
shot 
him 
a 
filthy 
look 
that 
Harry 
returned 



with interest. He, Ginny, and Neville followed Zabini back along the train. 


"I'm 
glad 
that's 
over," 
muttered 
Neville. 
"Strange 
man, 
isn't 
he?" 
"Yeah, 
he 
is 
a 
bit," 
said 
Harry, 
his 
eyes on Zabini. "How come you ended up in there, Ginny?" 


"He 
saw 
me 
hex 
Zacharias 
Smith," 
said 
Ginny. 
"You 
remember 
that 
idiot 
from 
Hufflepuff 
who 
was 
in 
the 
D.A.? 
He 
kept 
on and on asking 
about 
what 
happened at 
the 
Ministry 
and in 
the 
end he 
annoyed me 
so much I hexed him — when Slughorn came in I 


thought 
I 
was 
going 
to 
got 
detention, 
but 
he 
just 
thought 
it 
was 
;i 
really 
good 
hex 
and 
invited 
me 
to 
lunch! Mad, eh?" 


"Better 
reason 
for 
inviting 
someone 
than 
because 
their 
mother's 
famous," 
said 
Harry, 
scowling 
at 
the 
back of Zabini's head, "or because their uncle —" 


But 
he 
broke 
off. 
An 
idea 
had 
just 
occurred 
to 
him, 
a 
reckless 
but 
potentially 
wonderful 
idea. 
... 
In 
a 
minute's 
time, 
Zabini 
was 
going 
to 
reenter 
the 
Slytherin 
sixthyear 
compartment 
and 
Malfoy 
would 
be 
sitting 
there, 
thinking 
himself 
unheard 
by 
anybody 
except 
fellow 
Slytherins. 
... 
If 
Harry 
could 
only 
enter, 
unseen, 
behind 
him, 
what 
might 
he 
not 
see 
or 
hear? 
True, 
there 
was 
little 
of 
the 
journey 
left 
— 
Hogsmeade 
Station 
had 
to 
be 
less 
than 
half 
an 
hour 
away, 
judging 
by 
the 
wildness 
of 
the 
scenery 
flashing 
by 
the 
windows 
— 
but 
nobody 
else 
seemed 
prepared 
to 
take 
Harry's 
suspicions 
seriously, 
so 
it 
was down to him to prove them. 


"I'll 
see 
you 
two 
later," 
said 
Harry 
under 
his 
breath, 
pulling 
out 
his 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
and 
flinging 
it 
over himself. 


"But what're you — ?" asked Neville. 


"Later!" 
whispered 
Harry, 
darting 
after 
Zabini 
as 
quietly 
as 
possible, 
though 
the 
rattling 
of 
the 
train 
made such caution almost pointless. 


The 
corridors 
were 
almost 
completely 
empty 
now. 
Nearly 
everyone 
had 
returned 
to 
their 
carriages 
to 
change 
into 
their 
school 
robes 
and pack up their 
possessions. 
Though he 
was 
as 
close 
as 
he 
could 
get 
to 
Zabini 
without 
touching 
him, 
Harry 
was 
not 
quick 
enough 
to 
slip 
into 
the 
compartment 
when 
Zabini 
opened 
the 
door. 
Zabini 
was 
already 
sliding 
it 
shut 
when 
Harry 
hastily 
stuck 
out 
his 
foot 
to 
prevent 
it 
closing. 


"What's 
wrong 
with 
this 
thing?" 
said 
Zabini 
angrily 
as 
he 
smashed 
the 
sliding 
door 
repeatedly 
into 
Harry's foot. 


Harry 
seized 
the 
door 
and 
pushed 
it 
open, 
hard; 
Zabini, 
still 
clinging 
on 
to 
the 
handle, 
toppled 
over 
sideways into Gregory Goyle's lap, and in the ensuing ruckus, Harry darted into the compartment, leapt 
onto 
Zabini's 
temporarily 
empty 
seat, 
and 
hoisted 
himself 
up 
into 
the 
luggage 
rack. 
It 
was 
fortunate 
that 
Goyle 
and Zabini 
were 
snarling at 
each other, drawing 
all 
eyes 
onto 
them, 
for 
Harry was 
quite 
sure 
his 
feet 
and 
ankles 
had 
been 
revealed 
as 
the 
cloak 
had 
flapped 
around 
them; 
indeed, 
for 
one 
horrible 
moment 
he 
thought 
he 
saw 
Malfoy's 
eyes 
follow 
his 
trainer 
as 
it 
whipped 
upward 
out 
of 
sight. 
But 
then 
Goyle 
slammed 
the 
door 
shut 
and 
flung 
Zabini 
off 
him; 
Zabini 
collapsed 
into 
his 
own 
seat 
looking 



ruffled, 
Vincent 
Crabbe 
returned 
to 
his 
comic, 
and 
Malfoy, 
sniggering, 
lay 
back 
down 
across 
two 
seats 
with 
his 
head 
in 
Pansy 
Parkinsons 
lap. 
Harry 
lay 
curled 
uncomfortably 
under 
the 
cloak 
to 
ensure 
that 
every 
inch 
of 
him 
remained 
hidden, 
and 
watched 
Pansy 
stroke 
the 
sleek 
blond 
hair 
off 
Malfoy's 
forehead, 
smirking 
as 
she 
did 
so, 
as 
though 
anyone 
would 
have 
loved 
to 
have 
been 
in 
her 
place. 
The 
lanterns 
swinging 
from 
the 
carriage 
ceiling 
cast 
a 
bright 
light 
over 
the 
scene: 
Harry 
could 
read 
every 
word of Crabbe's comic directly 


below him. 
"So, Zabini," said Malfoy, "what did Slughorn want?" 
"Just trying to make up to wellconnected 
people," said Zabini, 
who was still glowering at Goyle. "Not that he managed to find 
many." 
This information did not seem to please Malfoy. "Who else had he invited?" he demanded. 
"McLaggen from Gryffindor," said Zabini. 
"Oh yeah, his uncle's big in the Ministry," said Malfoy. 
"— someone else called Belby, from Ravenclaw —" 
"Not him, he's a prat!" said Pansy. 
"— and Longbottom, Potter, and that Weasley girl," finished Zabini. 
Malfoy sat up very suddenly, knocking Pansy's hand aside. 
"He invited Longbottom?." 
"Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there," said Zabini indifferently. 
"What's Longbottom got to interest Slughorn?" 
Zabini shrugged. 
"Potter, 
precious 
Potter, 
obviously 
he 
wanted 
a 
look 
at 
'the 
Chosen 
One,'" 
sneered 
Malfoy, 
"but 
that 


Weasley girl! What's so special about her?” 


"A 
lot 
of 
boys 
like 
her," 
said 
Pansy, 
watching 
Malfoy 
out 
of 
the 
corner 
of 
her 
eyes 
for 
his 
reaction. 
"Even you think she's goodlooking, 
don't you, Blaise, and we all know how hard you are to please! 
"I 
wouldn't 
touch 
a 
filthy 
little 
blood 
traitor 
like 
her 
whatever 
she 
looked 
like," 
said 
Zabini 
coldly, 
and 


Pansy 
looked 
pleased. 
Malfoy 
sank 
back 
across 
her 
lap 
and 
allowed 
her 
to 
resume 
the 
stroking 
of 
his 


hair. 
"Well, 
I 
pity 
Slughorn's 
taste. 
Maybe 
he's 
going 
a 
bit 
senile. 
Shame, 
my 
father 
always 
said 
he 
was 
a 
good 
wizard 
in 
his 
day. 
My 
father 
used 
to 
be 
a 
bit 
of 
a 
favorite 
of 
his. 
Slughorn 
probably 
hasn't 
heard 
I'm on the train, or —" 



"I 
wouldn't 
bank 
on 
an 
invitation," 
said 
Zabini. 
"He 
asked 
me 
about 
Notts 
father 
when 
I 
first 
arrived. 
They used to be old 


friends, 
apparently, 
but 
when 
he 
heard 
he'd 
been 
caught 
at 
the 
Ministry 
he 
didn't 
look 
happy, 
and 
Nott 
didn't get an invitation, did he? 1 don't think Slughorn's interested in Dearh Eaters." 


Malfoy looked angry, but forced out a singularly humorless laugh. 


"Well, 
who 
cares 
what 
he's 
interested 
in? 
What 
is 
he, 
when 
you 
come 
down 
to 
it? 
Just 
some 
stupid 
teacher." 
Malfoy 
yawned 
ostentatiously. 
"I 
mean, 
I 
might 
not 
even 
be 
at 
Hogwarts 
next 
year, 
what's 
it 
matter to me if some fat old hasbeen 
likes me or not?" 


"What 
do 
you 
mean, 
you 
might 
not 
be 
at 
Hogwarts 
next 
year?" 
said 
Pansy 
indignantly, 
ceasing 
grooming Malfoy at once. 


"Well, 
you 
never 
know," 
said 
Malfoy 
with 
the 
ghost 
of 
a 
smirk. 
"I 
might 
have 
— 
er 
— 
moved 
on 
to 
bigger and better things." 


Crouched 
in 
the 
luggage 
rack 
under 
his 
cloak, 
Harry's 
heart 
began 
to 
race. 
What 
would 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
say 
about 
this? 
Crabbe 
and 
Goyle 
were 
gawping 
at 
Malfoy; 
apparently 
they 
had 
had 
no 
inkling 
of 
any 
plans 
to 
move 
on 
to 
bigger 
and 
better 
things. 
Even 
Zabini 
had 
allowed 
a 
look 
of 
curiosity 
to 
mar 
his 
haughty 
features. 
Pansy 
resumed 
the 
slow 
stroking 
of 
Malfoy 
s 
hair, 
looking 
dumbfounded. 


"Do you mean —“ 


Malfoy shrugged. 


"Mother 
wants 
me 
to 
complete 
my 
education, 
but 
personally, 
I 
don't 
see 
it 
as 
that 
important 
these 
days. 
I 
mean, 
think 
about 
it. 
... 
When 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
takes 
over, 
is 
he 
going 
to 
care 
how 
many 
OWLs 
or 


N.E.W.T.S 
anyone's 
got? 
Of course 
he 
isn't… 
It'll 
be 
all 
about 
the 
kind 
of 
service 
he 
received, 
the 
level 
of devotion he was shown." 
"And you think you'll be able to do something for him?" asked 


Zabini scathingly. "Sixteen years old and noi even fully qualified yet?" 


"I've 
just 
said, 
haven't 
I? 
Maybe 
he 
doesn't 
care 
if 
I'm 
qualified. 
Maybe 
the 
job 
he 
wants 
me 
to 
do 
isn't 
something that you need to be qualified for," said Malfoy quietly. 


Crabbe 
and 
Goyle 
were 
both 
sitting 
with 
their 
mouths 
open 
like 
gargoyles. 
Pansy 
was 
gazing 
down 
at 
Malfoy as though she had never seen anything so aweinspiring. 


"I 
can 
see 
Hogwarts," 
said 
Malfoy, 
clearly 
relishing 
the 
effect 
he 
had 
created 
as 
he 
pointed 
out 
of 
the 
blackened window. "We'd better get our robes on." 


Harry 
was 
so 
busy 
staring 
at 
Malfoy, 
he 
did 
not 
notice 
Goyle 
reaching 
up 
for 
his 
trunk; 
as 
he 
swung 
it 
down, 
it 
hit 
Harry 
hard 
on 
the 
side 
of 
the 
head. 
He 
let 
out 
an 
involuntary 
gasp 
of 
pain, 
and 
Malfoy 
looked up at the luggage rack, frowning. 



Harry was not afraid of Malfoy, but he still did not much like the idea of being discovered hiding under 
his 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
by 
a 
group 
of 
unfriendly 
Slytherins. 
Eyes 
still 
watering 
and 
head 
still 
throbbing, 
he 
drew 
his 
wand, 
careful 
not 
to 
disarrange 
the 
cloak, 
and 
waited, 
breath 
held. 
To 
his 
relief, 
Malfoy 
seemed 
to 
decide 
that 
he 
had 
imagined 
the 
noise; 
he 
pulled 
on 
his 
robes 
like 
the 
others, 
locked 
his 
trunk, and as the train slowed to a jerky crawl, fastened a thick new traveling cloak round his neck. 


Harry 
could 
see 
the 
corridors 
filling 
up 
again 
and 
hoped 
that 
Hermione 
and 
Ron 
would 
take 
his 
things 
out 
onto 
the 
platform 
for 
him; 
he 
was 
stuck 
where 
he 
was 
until 
the 
compartment 
had 
quite 
emptied. 
At 
last, 
with 
a 
final 
lurch, 
the 
train 
came 
to 
a 
complete 
halt. 
Goyle 
threw 
the 
door 
open 
and 
muscled 
his 
way out 


into a crowd of second years, punching them aside; Crabbe and Zabini followed. 


"You 
go 
on," 
Malfoy 
told 
Pansy, 
who 
was 
waiting 
for 
him 
with 
her 
hand 
held 
out 
as 
though 
hoping 
he 
would hold it. "I just want to check something." 


Pansy 
left. 
Now 
Harry 
and 
Malfoy 
were 
alone 
in 
the 
compartment. 
People 
were 
filing 
past, 
descending 
onto 
the 
dark 
platform. 
Malfoy 
moved 
over 
to 
the 
compartment 
door 
and 
let 
down 
the 
blinds, 
so 
that 
people in the corridor beyond could not peer in. He then bent down over his trunk and opened it again. 


Harry 
peered 
down 
over 
the 
edge 
of 
the 
luggage 
rack, 
his 
heart 
pumping 
a 
little 
faster. 
What 
had 
Malfoy 
wanted 
to 
hide 
from 
Pansy? 
Was 
he 
about 
to 
see 
the 
mysterious 
broken 
object 
it 
was 
so 
important to mend? 


"Petrificus Totalus!" 


Without 
warning, 
Malfoy 
pointed 
his 
wand 
at 
Harry, 
who 
was 
instantly 
paralyzed. 
As 
though 
in 
slow 
motion, 
he 
toppled 
out 
of 
the 
luggage 
rack 
and 
fell, 
with 
an agonizing, 
floorshaking 
crash, 
at 
Malfoy's 
feet, 
the 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
trapped 
beneath 
him, 
his 
whole 
body 
revealed 
with 
his 
legs 
still 
curled 
absurdly 
into 
the 
cramped 
kneeling 
position. 
He 
couldn't 
move 
a 
muscle; 
he 
could 
only 
gaze 
up 
at 
Malfoy, who smiled broadly. 


"I 
thought 
so," 
he 
said 
jubilantly. 
"I 
heard 
Goyle's 
trunk 
hit 
you. 
And 
I 
thought 
I 
saw 
something 
white 
flash through the air after Zabini came back. . . ." 


His eyes lingered for a moment upon Harry's trainers. 


"You didn't hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I've got you here . . ." 


=
Him 


And he stamped, hard, on Harry's face. Harry felt his nose break; blood spurted everywhere. 


"That's from my father. Now, let's see. . . ." 


Malfoy dragged the cloak out from under Harry's immobilized body and threw it over him. 


"I 
don't 
reckon 
they'll 
find 
you 
till 
the 
trains 
back 
in 
London," 
he 
said 
quietly. 
"See 
you 
around, 
Potter ... or not." 



And taking care to tread on Harry's fingers, Malfoy left the compartment. 


Chapter 8 
Victorious 
Snape 



Harry 
could 
not 
move 
a 
muscle. 
He 
lay 
there 
beneath 
the 
_ 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
feeling 
the 
blood 
from 
his 
nose 
flow, 
hot 
and 
wet, 
over 
his 
face, 
listening 
to 
the 
voices 
and 
footsteps 
in 
the 
corridor 
beyond. 
His 
immediate 
thought 
was 
that 
someone, 
would 
surely, 
would 
check 
the 
compartments 
before 
the 
train 
departed 
again. 
But 
at 
once 
came 
the 
dispiriting 
realization 
that 
even 
if 
somebody 
looked 
into 
the 
compartment, he would be neither seen nor heard. His best hope was that somebody else would walk in 
and step on him. 
Harry 
had 
never 
hated 
Malfoy 
more 
than 
as 
he 
lay 
there, 
like 
an 
absurd 
turtle 
on 
its 
back, 
blood 
dripping 
sickeningly 
into 
his 
open 
mouth. 
What 
a 
stupid 
situation 
to 
have 
landed 
himself 
in... 
and 
now 
the 
last 
few 
footsteps 
were 
dying 
away; 
everyone 
was 
shuffling 
along 
the 
dark 
platform 
outside; 
he 
could hear the scraping of trunks and loud babble of talk. 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
would 
think 
that 
he 
had 
left 
the 
train 
without 
them. 
Once 
they 
arrived 
at 
Hogwarts 
and 
took 
their 
places 
in 
the 
Great 
Hall, 
looked 
up 
and 
down 
the 
Gryffindor 
table 
a 
few 
times, 
and 
finally realized that he was not there, he, no doubt, would be halfway back to London. 
He 
tried 
to 
make 
a 
sound, 
even 
a 
grunt, 
but 
it 
was 
impossible. 
Then 
he 
remembered 
that 
some 
wizards, 
like 
Dumbledore, 
could 
perform 
spells 
without 
speaking, 
so 
he 
tried 
to 
summon 
his 
wand, 
which 
had 
fallen out 
of 
his 
hand, by saying 
the 
words 
"Accio Wand!" 
over 
and over 
again 
in his 
head, but 
nothing 
happened. 
He 
thought 
he 
could 
hear 
the 
rustling 
of 
the 
trees 
that 
surrounded 
the 
lake, 
and 
the 
faroff 
hoot 
of 
an 



owl, 
but 
no 
hint 
of 
a 
search 
being 
made 
or 
even 
(he 
despised 
himself 
slightly 
for 
hoping 
it) 
panicked 
voices 
wondering 
where 
Harry 
Potter 
had 
gone. 
A 
feeling 
of 
hopelessness 
spread 
through 
him 
as 
he 
imagined 
the 
convoy 
of 
thestraldrawn 
carriages 
trundling 
up 
to 
the 
school 
and 
the 
muffled 
yells 
of 
laughter 
issuing 
from 
whichever 
carriage 
Malfoy 
was 
riding 
in, 
where 
he 
could 
be 
recounting 
his 
attack on Harry to Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson. 
The 
train 
lurched, 
causing 
Harry 
to 
roll 
over 
onto 
his 
side. 
Now 
he 
was 
staring 
at 
the 
dusty 
underside 
of 
the 
seats 
instead 
of 
the 
ceiling. 
The 
floor 
began 
to 
vibrate 
as 
the 
engine 
roared 
into 
life. 
The 
Express 
was leaving and nobody knew he was still on it... 
Then he felt his Invisibility Cloak fly off him and a voice overhead said, "Wotcher, Harry." 
There 
was 
a 
flash 
of 
red 
light 
and 
Harry's 
body 
unfroze; 
he 
was 
able 
to 
push 
himself 
into 
a 
more 
dignified 
sitting 
position, 
hastily 
wipe 
the 
blood 
off 
his 
bruised 
race 
with 
the 
back 
of 
his 
hand, 
and 
raise his head to look up at Tonks, who was holding the Invisibiliiv Cloak she had just pulled away. 
We'd 
better 
get 
out 
of 
here, 
quickly," 
she 
said, 
as 
the 
train 
windows 
became 
obscured 
with 
steam 
and 
they began to move out of the station. "Come on, we'll jump." 
Harry 
hurried 
after 
her 
into 
the 
corridor. 
She 
pulled 
open 
the 
train 
door 
and 
leapt 
onto 
the 
platform, 
which 
seemed 
to 
be 
sliding 
underneath 
them 
as 
the 
train 
gathered 
momentum. 
He 
followed 
her, 
staggered 
a 
little 
on 
landing, 
then 
straightened 
up 
in 
time 
to 
see 
the 
gleaming 
scarlet 
steam 
engine 
pick 
up speed, round the corner, and disappear from view. 
The 
cold 
night 
air 
was 
soothing 
on 
his 
throbbing 
nose. 
Tonks 
was 
looking 
at 
him; 
he 
felt 
angry 
and 
embarrassed 
that 
he 
had 
been 
discovered 
in 
such 
a 
ridiculous 
position. 
Silently 
she 
handed 
him 
back 
the Invisibility Cloak. 
“Who did it?" 
“Draco Malfoy,” said Harry bitterly. "Thanks for... well..." 
“No 
problem,” 
said 
Tonks, 
without 
smiling. 
From 
what 
Harry 
could 
see 
in 
the 
darkness, 
she 
was 
as 
mousyhaired 
and 
miserablelookinng 
as 
she 
had 
been 
when 
he 
had 
met 
her 
at 
the 
Burrow. 
"I 
can 
fix 
your nose if you stand still." 
Harry 
did 
not 
think 
much 
of 
this 
idea; 
he 
had 
been 
intending 
to 
visit 
Madam 
Pomfrey, 
the 
matron, 
in 
whom he had a little more confidence when it came to Healing Spells, but it seemed rude to say this, so 
he stayed stockstill 
and closed his eyes, 
“Episkey" said Tonks. 
Harry’s 
nose 
felt 
very 
hot, 
and 
then 
very 
cold. 
He 
raised 
a 
hand 
and 
felt 
gingerly. 
It 
seemed 
to 
be 
mended. 
“Thanks a lot!" 
“You'd better put that cloak back on, and we can walk up to the school," said Tonks, still unsmiling. As 
Harry 
swung 
the 
cloak 
back 
over 
himself, 
she 
waved 
her 
wand; 
an 
immense 
silvery 
fourlegged 
creature erupted from it and streaked off into the darkness. 
''Was that a Patronus?" asked Harry, who had seen Dumbledore send messages like this. 
"Yes, 
I'm 
sending 
word 
to 
the 
castle 
that 
I've 
got 
you 
or 
they'll 
worry. 
Come 
on, 
we'd 
better 
not 
dawdle." 
They set off toward the lane that led to the school. 



"How did you find me?" 
"I 
noticed 
you 
hadn't 
left 
the 
train 
and 
I 
knew 
you 
had 
that 
cloak. 
I 
thought 
you 
might 
be 
hiding 
for 
some reason. When I saw the blinds were drawn down on that compartment I thought I’d check." 
"But what are you doing here, anyway?" Harry asked. 
"I'm stationed in Hogsmeade now, to give the school extra protection," said Tonks. 
"Is it just you who's stationed up here, or — ?" 
"No, Proudfoot, Savage, and Dawlish are here too." 
"Dawlish, that Auror Dumbledore attacked last year?" 
"That's right." 
They 
trudged 
up 
the 
dark, 
deserted 
lane, 
following 
the 
freshly 
made 
carriage 
tracks. 
Harry 
looked 
sideways 
at 
Tonks 
under 
his 
cloak. 
Last 
year 
she 
had 
been 
inquisitive 
(to 
the 
point 
of 
being 
a 
little 
annoying 
at 
times), she 
had laughed easily, 
she 
had made 
jokes. 
Now 
she 
seemed older 
and much more 
serious 
and 
purposeful. 
Was 
this 
all 
the 
effect 
of 
what 
had 
happened 
at 
the 
Ministry? 
He 
reflected 
uncomfortably 
that 
Hermione 
would 
have 
suggested 
he 
say 
something 
consoling 
about 
Sirius 
to 
her, 
that 
it 
hadn't 
been 
her 
fault 
at 
all, 
but 
he 
couldn't 
bring 
himself 
to 
do 
it. 
He 
was 
far 
from 
blaming 
her 
for 
Sirius's 
death; 
it 
was 
no 
more 
her 
fault 
than 
anyone 
else’s 
(and 
much 
less 
than 
his), 
but 
he 
did 
not 
like 
talking 
about 
Sirius 
if 
he 
could 
avoid 
it. 
And 
so 
they 
tramped 
on 
through 
the 
cold 
night 
in 
silence, 
Tonks's long cloak whispering on the ground behind them. 
Having 
always 
traveled 
there 
by 
carriage, 
Harry 
had 
never 
before 
appreciated 
just 
how 
far 
Hogwarts 
was 
from 
Hogsmeade 
Station. 
With great 
relief 
he 
finally 
saw 
the 
tall 
pillars 
on either 
side 
of 
the 
gates, 
each 
topped 
with 
a 
winged 
boar. 
He 
was 
cold, 
he 
was 
hungry 
and 
he 
was 
quite 
keen 
to 
leave 
this 
new, 
gloomy Tonks behind. But when he put out a hand to push open the gates, he found them chained shut. 
“Alohomora!" he said confidently, pointing his wand at the padlock, but nothing happened. 
“That won't work on these," said Tonks. "Dumbledore bewitched them himself." 
Harry looked around, I could climb a wall," he suggested. 
“No, 
you 
couldn't," 
said 
Tonks 
flatly. 
"Antiintruder 
jinxes 
on 
all 
of 
them. 
Security's 
been 
tightened 
a 
hundredfold this summer." 
“Well 
then,” 
said 
Harry, 
starting 
to 
feel 
annoyed 
at 
her 
lack 
of 
helpfulness, 
“I 
suppose 
I'll 
just 
have 
to 
sleep out here and wait for morning.” 
“Someone's coming down for you," said Tonks, "Look." 
A 
lantern 
was 
bobbing 
at 
the 
distant 
foot 
of 
the 
castle. 
Harry 
was 
so 
pleased 
to 
see 
it 
he 
felt 
he 
could 
even 
endure 
Filch's 
wheezy 
criticisms 
of 
his 
tardiness 
and 
rants 
about 
how 
his 
timekeeping 
would 
improve 
with 
the 
regular 
application 
of 
thumbscrews. 
It 
was 
not 
until 
the 
glowing 
yellow 
light 
was 
ten 
feet 
away 
from 
them, 
and 
had 
pulled 
off 
his 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
so 
that 
he 
could 
be 
seen, 
that 
he 
recognized, 
with 
a 
rush 
of 
pure 
loathing, 
the 
uplit 
hooked 
nose 
and 
long, 
black, 
greasy 
hair 
of 
Severus 
Snape. 
"Well, 
well, 
well," 
sneered 
Snape, 
taking 
out 
his 
wand 
and 
tapping 
the 
padlock 
once, 
so 
that 
the 
chains 
snaked 
backward 
and 
the 
gates 
creaked 
open. 
"Nice 
of 
you 
to 
turn 
up, 
Potter, 
although 
you 
have 
evidently decided that the wearing of school robes would detract from your appearance." 
"I couldn't change, I didn't have my —" Harry began, but Snape cut across him. 



"There is no need to wait, Nymphadora, Potter is quite — ah 

— safe in my hands." 
"I meant Hagrid to get the message," said Tonks, frowning. 
"Hagrid 
was 
late 
for 
the 
startofterm 
feast, 
just 
like 
Potter 
here, 
so 
I 
took 
it 
instead. 
And 
incidentally," 
said Snape, standing back to allow Harry to pass him, "I was interested to see your new Patronus." 
He 
shut 
the 
gates 
in 
her 
face 
with 
a 
loud 
clang 
and 
tapped 
the 
chains 
with 
his 
wand 
again, 
so 
that 
they 
slithered, clinking, back into place. 
"I 
think 
you 
were 
better 
off 
with 
the 
old 
one," 
said 
Snape, 
the 
malice 
in 
his 
voice 
unmistakable. 
"The 
new one looks weak." 
As 
Snape 
swung 
the 
lantern 
about, 
Harry 
saw, 
fleetingly, 
a 
look 
of 
shock 
and 
anger 
on 
Tonks's 
face. 
Then she was covered in darkness once more. 
"Good 
night," 
Harry 
called 
to 
her 
over 
his 
shoulder, 
as 
he 
began 
the 
walk 
up 
to 
the 
school 
with 
Snape. 
"Thanks for ... everything," 
"See you, Harry." 
Snape 
did 
not 
speak 
for 
a 
minute 
or 
so. 
Harry 
felt 
as 
though 
his 
body 
was 
generating 
waves 
of 
hatred 
so 
powerful 
that 
it 
seemed 
incredibie 
that 
Snape 
could 
not 
feel 
them 
burning 
him. 
He 
had 
loathed 
Snape 
from 
their 
first 
encounter, 
but 
Snape 
had 
placed 
himself 
forever 
and 
irrevocably 
beyond 
the 
possibility 
of 
Harry's 
forgiveness 
by 
his 
attitude 
toward 
Sirius. 
Whatever 
Dumbledore 
said, 
Harry 
had 
had 
time 
to 
think 
over 
the 
summer, 
and 
had 
concluded 
that 
Snape's 
snide 
remarks 
to 
Sirius 
about 
remaining 
safely 
hidden 
while 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
Order 
of 
the 
Phoenix 
were 
off 
fighting 
Voldemort 
had 
probably 
been 
a 
powerful 
factor 
in 
Sirius 
rushing 
off 
to 
the 
Ministry 
the 
night 
that 
he 
had 
died. 
Harry 
clung 
to 
this 
notion, 
because 
it 
enabled 
him 
to 
blame 
Snape, 
which 
felt 
satisfying, 
and 
also 
because 
he 
knew 
that 
if 
anyone 
was 
not 
sorry 
that 
Sirius 
was 
dead, 
it 
was 
the 
man 
now 
striding 
next 
to 
him 
in 
the 
darkness. 
“Fifty 
points 
from 
Gryffindor 
for 
lateness, 
I 
think," 
said 
Snape. 
“And, 
let 
me 
see, 
another 
twenty 
for 
your Muggle attire. You know, I don’t believe any House has ever been in negative figures this early in 
the term: We haven't even started pudding. You might have set a record, Potter." 
The 
fury 
and 
hatred 
bubbling 
inside 
Harry 
seemed 
to 
blaze 
whitehot, 
but 
he 
would 
rather 
have 
been 
immobilized all the way 
back to London than tell Snape why he was late. 
“I suppose you wanted to make an entrance, did you?" Snape 
continued. "And with no flying car available you decided that 
bursting into the Great Hall halfway through the feast ought to 
create a dramatic effect." 
Still Harry remained silent, though he thought his chest might 
explode. He knew that Snape had come to fetch him for this, for 
the few minutes when he could needle and torment Harry without 
anyone else listening. 
They 
reached 
the 
castle 
steps 
at 
last 
and 
as 
the 
great 
oaken 
front 
doors 
swung 
open 
into 
the 
vast 
flagged 
entrance 
hall, 
a 
burst 
of 
talk 
and 
laughter 
and 
of 
tinkling 
plates 
and 
glasses 
greeted 
them 

through 
the 
doors 
standing 
open 
into 
the 
Great 
Hail. 
Harry 
wondered 
whether 
he 
could 
slip 
his 
Invisibility Cloak back on, thereby gaining his seat at the long Gryffindor table (which, inconveniently, 
was 
the 
farthest 
from 
the 
entrance 
hall) 
without 
being 
noticed. 
As 
though 
he 
had 
read 
Harry's 
mind, 
however, 
Snape 
said, 
"No 
cloak. 
You 
can 
walk 
in 
so 
that 
everyone 
sees 
you, 
which 
is 
what 
you 
wanted, I'm sure." 
Harry 
turned 
on 
the 
spot 
and 
marched 
straight 
through 
the 
open 
doors: 
anything 
to 
get 
away 
from 
Snape. 
The 
Great 
Hall 
with 
its 
four 
long 
House 
tables 
and 
its 
staff 
table 
set 
at 
the 
top 
of 
the 
room, 
was 
decorated 
as 
usual 
with 
floating 
candles 
that 
made 
the 
plates 
below 
glitter 
and 
glow. 
It 
was 
ail 
a 
shimmering blur to Harry, however, who walked so fast that he was passing the Hufflepuff table before 
people 
really 
started 
to 
stare, 
and 
by 
the 
time 
they 
were 
standing 
up 
to 
get 
a 
good 
look 
at 
him, 
he 
had 
spotted Ron and Hermione, sped along the benches toward them, .mil forced his way in between them. 
"Where've 
you 
— 
blimey, 
what've 
you 
done 
to 
your 
face?" 
said 
Ron, 
goggling 
at 
him 
along 
with 
everyone else in the vicinity. I 
"Why, what's wrong with it?" said Harry, grabbing a spoon and squinting at his distorted reflection. 
"You're covered in blood!" said Hermione. "Come here —" 
She raised her wand, said "Tergeo!" and siphoned off the dried blood. 
"Thanks," said Harry, feeling his now clean face. "How's my nose looking? 
“Normal," said Hermoine anxiously. "Why shouldn't it? Harry, what happened? We've been terrified!" 
“I'll 
tell 
you 
later," 
said 
Harry 
curtly. 
He 
was 
very 
conscious 
that 
Ginny, 
Neville, 
Dean, 
and 
Seamus 
were 
listening 
in; 
even 
Nearly 
Headless 
Nick, 
the 
Gryffindor 
ghost, 
had 
come 
floating 
along 
the 
bench 
to eavesdrop. 
“But —" said Hermione. 
“Not 
now, 
Hermione," 
said 
Harry, 
in 
a 
darkly 
significant 
voice. 
He 
hoped 
very 
much 
that 
they 
would 
all 
assume 
he 
had 
been 
involved 
in 
something 
heroic, 
preferably 
involving 
a 
couple 
of 
Death 
Eaters 
and 
a 
dementor. 
Of 
course, 
Malfoy 
would 
spread 
the 
story 
as 
wide 
as 
he 
could, 
but 
there 
was 
always 
a 
chance it wouldn't reach too many Gryffindor ears. 
He 
reached 
across 
Ron 
for 
a 
couple 
of 
chicken 
legs 
and 
a 
handful 
chips, 
but 
before 
he 
could 
take 
them 
they vanished, to be replaced with puddings. 
“You missed the Sorting, anyway," said Hermione, as Ron dived a largt: chocolate gateau. 
“Hat say anything interesting?" asked Harry, taking a piece of treacle tart. 
“More of the same, really . . . advising us all to unite in the face enemies, you know." 
“Dumbledore 
mentioned 
Voldemort 
at 
all?" 
Not 
yet, 
but 
he 
always 
saves 
his 
proper 
speech 
for 
after 
the the feast doesn't he? It can't be long now." 
“Snape said Hagrid was late for the feast —" 
“You've seen Snape? How come?" said Ron between frenzied mouthfuls of gateau. 
"Bumped into him," said Harry evasively. 
"Hagrid was only a few minutes late," said Hermione. "Look, he's waving at you, Harry." 
Harry 
looked 
up 
at 
the 
staff 
table 
and 
grinned 
at 
Hagrid, 
who 
was 
indeed 
waving 
at 
him. 
Hagrid 
had 
never quite managed to comport himself with the dignity of Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor 
House, 
the 
top 
of 
whose 
head 
came 
up 
to 
somewhere 
between 
Hagrid's 
elbow 
and 
shoulder 
as 
they 



were 
sitting 
side 
by 
side, 
and 
who 
was 
looking 
disapprovingly 
at 
this 
enthusiastic 
greeting. 
Harry 
was 
surprised 
to 
see 
the 
Divination 
teacher, 
Professor 
Trelawney, 
sitting 
on 
Hagrid's 
other 
side; 
she 
rarely 
left 
her 
tower 
room, 
and 
he 
had 
never 
seen 
her 
at 
the 
startofterm 
feast 
before. 
She 
looked 
as 
odd 
as 
ever, 
glittering 
with 
beads 
and 
trailing 
shawls, 
her 
eyes 
magnified 
to 
enormous 
size 
by 
her 
spectacles. 
Having 
always 
considered 
her 
a 
bit 
of 
a 
fraud, 
Harry 
had 
been 
shocked 
to 
discover 
at 
the 
end 
of 
the 
previous 
term 
that 
it 
had 
been 
she 
who 
had 
made 
the 
prediction 
that 
caused 
Lord 
Voldemort 
to 
kill 
Harry's 
parents 
and 
attack 
Harry 
himself. 
The 
knowledge 
made 
him 
even 
less 
eager 
to 
find 
himself 
in 
her 
company, 
thankfully, 
this 
year 
he 
would 
be 
dropping 
Divination. 
Her 
great 
beaconlike 
eyes 
swiveled 
in 
his 
direction; 
he 
hastily 
looked 
away 
toward 
the 
Slytherin 
table. 
Draco 
Malfoy 
was 
miming 
the 
shatterering 
of 
a 
nose 
to 
raucous 
laughter 
and 
applause. 
Harry 
dropped 
his 
gaze 
to 
his 
treacle tart, his insides burning again. What he would give to fight Malfoy oneonone... 
"So what did Professor Slughorn want?" Hermione asked. 
"To know what really happened at the Ministry." said Harry. 
"Him 
and 
everyone 
else 
here," 
sniffed 
Hermione. 
"People 
were 
interrogating 
us 
about 
it 
on 
the 
train, 
weren't they, Ron?" 
"Yeah," said Ron. "All wanting to know if you really are 'the Chosen One' —" 
"There 
has 
been 
much 
talk 
on 
that 
very 
subject 
even 
amongst 
the 
ghosts," 
interrupted 
Nearly 
Headless 
Nick, 
inclining 
his 
barely 
connected 
head 
toward 
Harry 
so 
that 
it 
wobbled 
dangerously 
on 
its 
ruff. 
"I 
am 
considered 
something 
of 
a 
Potter 
authority; 
it 
is 
widely 
known 
that 
we 
are 
friendly. 
I 
have 
assured 
the 
spirit 
community 
that 
I 
will 
not 
pester 
you 
for 
information, 
however. 
'Harry 
Potter 
knows 
that 
he 
can confide in me with complete confidence,' I told them. 'I would rather die than betray his trust.'" 
“That's nor saying much, seeing as you're already dead," Ron observed. 
“Once 
again, 
you 
show 
all 
the 
sensitivity 
of 
a 
blunt 
axe," 
said 
Nearly 
Headless 
Nick 
in 
affronted 
tones, 
and 
he 
rose 
into 
the 
air 
glided 
back 
toward 
the 
far 
end 
of 
the 
Gryffindor 
table 
just 
as 
Dumbledore 
got 
to his feet at the staff table. The talk and laughter echoing around the Hall died away almost instantly. 
"The 
very 
best 
of 
evenings 
to 
you!" 
he 
said, 
smiling 
broadly, 
his 
arms 
opened 
wide 
as 
though 
to 
embrace the whole room. 
“What happened to his hand?" gasped Hermione. 
She 
was 
not 
the 
only 
one 
who 
had 
noticed. 
Dumbledore's 
right 
hand 
was 
as 
blackened 
and 
deadlooking 
as 
it 
had 
been 
on 
the 
night 
he 
had 
come 
to 
fetch 
Harry 
from 
the 
Dursleys. 
Whispers 
it 
the 
room; 
Dumbledore, 
interpreting 
them 
correctly, 
merely 
smiled 
and 
shook 
his 
purpleandgold 
sleeve 
over his injury. 
“Nothing 
to 
worry 
about," 
he 
said 
airily. 
"Now 
... 
to 
our 
new 
students, 
welcome, 
to 
our 
old 
students, 
welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you . .." 
"His hand was like that when I saw him over the summer," 
Harry 
whispered 
to 
Hermione. 
"I 
thought 
he'd 
have 
cured 
it 
by 
now, 
though 
... 
or 
Madam 
Pomfrey 
would've done." 
"It 
looks 
as 
if 
it's 
died," 
said 
Hermione, 
with 
a 
nauseated 
expression. 
"But 
there 
are 
some 
injuries 
you 
can't cure... old curses…and there are poisons without antidotes. . . ." 
". 
. 
. 
and 
Mr. 
Filch, 
our 
caretaker, 
has 
asked 
me 
to 
say 
chat 
there 
is 
a 
blanket 
ban 
on 
any 
joke 
items 



bought at the shop called Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. 
"Those 
wishing 
to 
play 
for 
their 
House 
Quidditch 
teams 
should 
give 
their 
names 
to 
their 
Heads 
of 
House as usual. We are also looking for new Quidditch commentators, who should do likewise. 
"We 
are 
pleased 
to 
welcome 
a 
new 
member 
of 
staff 
this 
year, 
Professor 
Slughorn"— 
Slughorn 
stood 
up, 
his 
bald 
head 
gleaming 
in 
the 
candlelight, 
his 
big 
waistcoated 
belly 
casting 
the 
table 
into 
shadow 


— "is a former colleague of mine who has agreed resume his old post of Potions master." 
"Potions?" 
"Potions?" 
The word echoed all over the Hall as people wondered wheel they had heard right. 
"Potions?" said Ron and Hermione together, turning to stare Harry. "But you said —" 
"Professor 
Snape, 
meanwhile," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
raising 
voice 
so 
that 
it 
carried 
over 
all 
the 
muttering, 
"will be taking the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." 
"No!" 
said 
Harry, 
so 
loudly 
that 
many 
heads 
turned 
in 
his 
direction. 
He 
did 
not 
care; 
he 
was 
staring 
up 
at 
the 
staff 
table, 
incensed. 
How 
could 
Snape 
be 
given 
the 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts 
job 
after 
all 
this time? Hadn't it been widely known for years that Dumbledore did not trust him to do it? 
“But 
Harry, 
you 
said 
that 
Slughorn 
was 
going 
to 
be 
teaching 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts!" 
said 
Hermione. 
"I 
thought 
he 
was!" 
said 
Harry, 
racking 
his 
brains 
to 
remember 
when 
Dumbledore 
had 
told 
him 
this, 
but now that he came to think of it, he was unable to recall Dumbledore ever telling him what Slughorn 
would be teaching. 
Snape, 
who 
was 
sitting 
on 
Dumbledore's 
right, 
did 
not 
stand 
up 
his 
mention 
of 
his 
name; 
he 
merely 
raised 
a 
hand 
in 
lazy 
acknowledgment 
of 
the 
applause 
from 
the 
Slytherin 
table, 
yet 
Harry 
was 
sure 
he 
could detect a look of triumph on the features he loathed so much. 
“Well, there's one good thing," he said savagely. "Snape'll be gone by the end of the year." 
“What do you mean?" asked Ron. 
“That 
job's 
jinxed. 
No 
ones 
lasted 
more 
than 
a 
year. 
. 
. 
. 
Quirrell 
actually 
died 
doing 
it. 
. 
. 
. 
Personally, 
I'm going to keep my fingers crossed for another death. . . ." 
“Harry!" said Hermione, shocked and reproachful. 
“He 
might 
just 
go back to teaching 
Potions 
at 
the 
end of the 
year" 
said Ron reasonably. 
"That 
Slughorn 
bloke might not want to stay longterm. 
Moody didn't." 
“Dumbledore 
cleared 
his 
throat. 
Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
were 
not 
the 
only 
ones 
who 
had 
been 
talking; 
the 
whole 
Hall 
had 
erupted 
in 
a 
buzz 
of 
conversation 
at 
the 
news 
that 
Snape 
had 
finally 
achieved 
his 
heart’s 
desire. 
Seemingly 
oblivious 
to 
the 
sensational 
nature 
of 
the 
news 
he 
had 
just 
imparted, 
Dumbledore 
said 
nothing 
more 
about 
staff 
appointments, 
but 
waited 
a 
few 
seconds 
to 
ensure 
that the silence was absolute before continuing. 
"Now, 
as 
everybody 
in 
this 
Hall 
knows, 
Lord 
Voldemort 
and 
his 
followers 
are 
once 
more 
at 
large 
and 
gaining in strength." 
The 
silence 
seemed 
to 
tauten 
and 
strain 
as 
Dumbledore 
spoke. 
Harry 
glanced 
at 
Malfoy. 
Malfoy 
was 
not 
looking 
at 
Dumbledore, 
but 
making 
his 
fork 
hover 
in 
midair 
with 
his 
wand, 
as 
though 
he 
found 
the 
headmaster's words unworthy of his attention. 

"I 
cannot 
emphasize 
strongly 
enough 
how 
dangerous 
the 
present 
situation 
is, 
and 
how 
much 
care 
each 
of 
us 
at 
Hogwarts 
must 
take 
to 
ensure 
that 
we 
remain 
safe. 
The 
castle’s 
magical 
fortifications 
have 
been 
strengthened 
over 
the 
summer, 
we 
are 
protected 
in 
new 
and 
more 
powerful 
ways, 
but 
we 
must 
still 
guard 
scrupulously 
against 
carelessness 
on 
the 
part 
of 
any 
student 
or 
member 
of 
staff. 
I 
urge 
you, 
therefore, 
to 
abide 
by 
any 
security 
restrictions 
that 
you 
teachers 
might 
impose 
upon 
you, 
however 
irksome 
you 
might 
find 
them 
— 
in 
particular, 
the 
rule 
that 
you 
are 
not 
to 
be 
out 
of 
after 
hours. 
I 
implore 
you, 
should 
you 
notice 
anything 
strange 
or 
suspicious 
within 
or 
outside 
the 
castle, 
to 
report 
it 
to 
a 
member 
of 
staff 
immediately. 
I 
trust 
you 
to 
conduct 
yourselves, 
always, 
with 
the 
utmost 
regard 
for 
your own and others' safety." 
Dumbledore's blue eyes swept over the students before he smiled once more. 
"But 
now, 
your 
beds 
await, 
as 
warm 
and 
comfortable 
as 
you 
could 
possibly 
wish, 
and 
I 
know 
that 
your 
top priority is to be wellrested 
for your lessons tomorrow. Let us therefore say good night. Pip pip!" 
With 
the 
usual 
deafening 
scraping 
noise, 
the 
benches 
moved 
back 
and 
the 
hundreds 
of 
students 
began 
to 
file 
out 
of 
the 
Great 
Hall 
toward 
their 
dormitories. 
Harry, 
who 
was 
in 
no 
hurry 
at 
all 
to 
leave 
with 
the 
gawping 
crowd, 
nor 
to 
get 
near 
enough 
to 
Malfoy 
to 
allow 
him 
to 
retell 
the 
story 
of 
the 
nosestamping, 
lagged 
behind, 
pretending 
to 
retie 
the 
lace 
on 
his 
trainer, 
allowing 
most 
of 
Gryffindors 
to 
draw 
ahead 
of 
him. 
Hermione 
had 
darted 
ahead 
to 
fulfill 
her 
prefect's 
duty 
of 
shepherding 
the 
first 
years, but Ron remained with Harry. 
“What 
really 
happened 
to 
your 
nose?" 
he 
asked, 
once 
they 
were 
at 
the 
very 
back 
of 
the 
throng 
pressing 
out of the Hall, and out of earshot of anyone else. 
Harry told him. It was a mark of the strength of their friendship that Ron did not laugh. 
“I saw Malfoy miming something to do with a nose," he said darkly. 
“Yeah, 
well, 
never 
mind 
that," 
said 
Harry 
bitterly. 
"Listen 
to 
what 
he 
was 
saying 
before 
he 
found 
out 
I 
was there . . . ." 
“Harry 
had 
expected 
Ron 
to 
be 
stunned 
by 
Malfoys 
boasts. 
With 
what 
Harry 
considered 
pure 
pigheadedness, however, Ron was unimpressed. 
“Come on, Harry, he was just showing off for Parkinson…. 
What kind of mission would YouKnowWho 
have given him?" 
“How d'you know Voldemort doesn't need someone at Hogwarts? It wouldn't be the first —" 
“I 
wish 
yeh'd 
stop 
sayin' 
tha 
name, 
Harry," 
said 
a 
reproachful 
voice 
behind 
them. 
Harry 
looked 
over 
his shoulder to see Hagtid shaking his head. 
"Dumbledore uses that name," said Harry stubbornly 
“Yeah, well, tha's Dumbledore, innit?" said Hagrid mysteriously. 
“So how come yeh were late, Harry? I was worried." 
"Got held up on the train," said Harry. "Why were you late?" 
"I 
was 
with 
Grawp," 
said 
Hagrid 
happily. 
"Los' 
track 
o' 
the 
time. 
He's 
got 
a 
new 
home 
up 
in 
the 
mountains 
now, Dumbledore 
fixed it 
— nice 
big 
cave. He's 
much happier 
than he 
was 
in the 
forest. We 
were havin' a good chat." 
"Really?" 
said 
Harry, 
taking 
care 
not 
to 
catch 
Ron's 
eye; 
the 
last 
time 
he 
had 
met 
Hagrid's 
halfbrother, 
a 
vicious 
giant 
with 
a 
talent 
for 
ripping 
up 
trees 
by 
the 
roots, 
his 
vocabulary 
had 
comprised 
five 
words, 



two of which he was unable to pronounce properly. 
"Oh 
yeah, 
he's 
really 
come 
on," 
said 
Hagrid 
proudly. 
"Yeh'll 
be 
amazed. 
I'm 
thinkin' 
o' 
trainin' 
him 
up 
as me assistant." 
Ron 
snorted 
loudly, 
but 
managed 
to 
pass 
it 
off 
as 
a 
violent 
sneeze. 
They 
were 
now 
standing 
beside 
the 
oak front doors. 
"Anyway, 
I'll 
see 
yeh 
tomorrow, 
firs' 
lesson's 
straight 
after 
lunch. 
Come 
early 
an' 
yeh 
can 
say 
hello 
ter 
Buck — I mean, Witherwings!” 
Raising an arm in cheery farewell, he headed out of the doors into the darkness. 
Harry 
and 
Ron 
looked 
at 
each 
other. 
Harry 
could 
tell 
that 
Ku| 
was 
experiencing 
the 
same 
sinking 
feeling as himself. 
"You're not taking Care of Magical Creatures, are you?" 
Ron shook his head. "And you're not either, are you?" 
Harry shook his head too. 
"And Hermione," said Ron, "she's not, is she?" 
Harry 
shook 
his 
head 
again. 
Exactly 
what 
Hagrid 
would 
say 
when 
he 
realized 
his 
three 
favorite 
students had given up his subject, he did not like to think. 


Chapter 9 
The 
HalfBlood 
Prince 



Harry 
and 
Ron 
met 
Hermione 
in 
the 
common 
room 
before 
breakfast 
next 
morning. 
Hoping 
for 
some 
support 
in 
his 
theory, 
Harry 
lost 
no 
time 
in 
telling 
Hermione 
what 
he 
had 
overheard 
Malfoy 
saying 
on 
the Hogwarts Express. 
"But 
he 
was 
obviously 
showing 
off 
for 
Parkinson, 
wasn't 
he?" 
interjected 
Ron 
quickly, 
before 
Hermione could say anything. 


"Well," 
she 
said 
uncertainly, 
"I 
don't 
know. 
... 
It 
would 
be 
like 
Malfoy 
make 
himself 
seem 
more 
important than he is ... but that's a big lie to tell. . . ." 


"Exactly," 
said 
Harry, 
but 
he 
could 
nor 
press 
the 
point, 
because 
so 
many 
people 
were 
trying 
to 
listen 
in 
to his conversation, not to mention staring at him and whispering behind their hands. 


"It's 
rude 
to 
point," 
Ron 
snapped 
at 
a 
particularly 
minuscule 
firstyear 
boy 
as 
they 
joined 
the 
queue 
to 
climb 
out 
of 
the 
portrait 
hole. 
The 
boy, 
who 
had 
been 
muttering 
something 
about 
Harry 
behind 
his 
hand 
to 
his 
friend, 
promptly 
turned 
scarlet 
and 
toppled 
out 
of 
the 
hole 
in 
alarm. 
Ron 
sniggered. 
"I 
love 
being 
a 
sixth 
year. 
And 
were 
going 
to 
be 
getting 
free 
time 
this 
year. 
Whole 
periods 
when 
we 
can 
just 
sit up here and relax." 


"We're going to need that time for studying, Ron!" said Hermione, as they set off down the corridor. 


"Yeah, but not today," said Ron. "Today's going to be a real doss, I reckon." 



"Hold 
it!" 
said 
Hermione, 
throwing 
out 
an 
arm 
and 
halting 
a 
passing 
fourth 
year, 
who 
was 
attempting 
to 
push 
past 
her 
with 
a 
limegreen 
disk 
clutched 
tightly 
in 
his 
hand. 
"Fanged 
Frisbees 
banned, 
hand 
it 
over," 
she 
told 
him 
sternly. 
The 
scowling 
boy 
handed 
over 
the 
snarling 
Frisbee, 
ducked 
under 
her 
arm, 
and 
took 
off 
after 
his 
friends. 
Ron 
waited 
for 
him 
to 
vanish, 
then 
tugged 
the 
Frisbee 
from 
Hermione's 
grip. 


"Excellent, I've always wanted one of these." 


Hermione's 
remonstration 
was 
drowned 
by 
a 
loud 
giggle; 
Lavender 
Brown 
had 
apparently 
found 
Ron's 
remark 
highly 
amusing. 
She 
continued 
to 
laugh 
as 
she 
passed 
them, 
glancing 
back 
at 
Ron 
over 
her 
shoulder. Ron looked rather pleased with himself. 


The 
ceiling 
of 
the 
Great 
Hall 
was 
serenely 
blue 
and 
streaked 
with 
frail, 
wispy 
clouds, 
just 
like 
the 
squares 
of 
sky 
visible 
through 
the 
high 
mullioned 
windows. 
While 
they 
tucked 
into 
porridge 
and 
eggs 
and 
bacon, 
Harry 
and 
Ron 
told 
Hermione 
about 
their 
embarassing 
conversation 
with 
Hagrid 
the 
previous evening. 


"But 
he 
can't 
really 
think 
we'd 
continue 
Care 
of 
Magical 
Creatures 
!" 
she 
said, 
looking 
distressed. 
"I 
mean, when has any of us expressed . . . you know . . . any enthusiasm?" 


"That's 
it, 
though, 
innit?" 
said 
Ron, 
swallowing 
an 
entire 
fried 
egg 
whole. 
"We 
were 
the 
ones 
who 
made 
the 
most 
effort 
in 
classes 
because 
we 
like 
Hagrid. 
But 
he 
thinks 
we 
liked 
the 
stupid 
subject. 
D'ya 
reckon anyone's going to go on to N.E.W.T.?" 


Neither 
Harry 
nor 
Hermione 
answered; 
there 
was 
no 
need. 
They 
knew 
perfectly 
well 
that 
nobody 
in 
their 
year 
would 
want 
to 
continue 
Care 
of 
Magical 
Creatures. 
They 
avoided 
Hagrid's 
eye 
and 
returned 
his cheery wave only halfheartedly 
when he left the staff table ten minutes later. 


After 
they 
had 
eaten, 
they 
remained 
in 
their 
places, 
awaiting 
Professor 
McGonagall's 
descent 
from 
the 
staff 
table. 
The 
distribution 
of 
class 
schedules 
was 
more 
complicated 
than 
usual 
this 
year, 
for 
Professor 
McGonagall 
needed 
first 
to 
confirm 
that 
everybody 
had 
achieved 
the 
necessary 
O.W.L. 
grades 
to 
continue with their chosen N.E.W.T.s. 


Hermione 
was 
immediately 
cleared 
to 
continue 
with 
Charms, 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts, 
Transfiguration, 
Herbology, 
Arithmancy, 
Ancient 
Runes, 
and 
Potions, 
and 
shot 
off 
to 
a 
first 
period 
Ancient 
Runes 
class 
without 
further 
ado. 
Neville 
took 
a 
little 
longer 
to 
sort 
out; 
his 
round 
face 
was 
anxious as Professor McGonagall looked down his application and then consulted his O.W.L results. 


"Herbology, 
fine," 
she 
said. 
"Professor 
Sprout 
will 
be 
delighted 
to 
see 
you 
back 
with 
an 
'Outstanding' 


O.W.L. 
And 
you 
qualify 
for 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts 
with 
'Exceeds 
Expectations.' 
But 
the 
problem 
is 
Transfiguration. 
I'm 
sorry, 
Longbottom, 
but 
an 
'Acceptable' 
really 
isn't 
good 
enough 
to 
continue to N.E.W.T. level. Just don't think you'd be able to cope with the coursework." 
Neville hung his head. Professor McGonagall peered at him through her square spectacles. 


"Why 
do 
you 
want 
to 
continue 
with 
Transfiguration, 
anyway? 
I've 
never 
had 
the 
impression 
that 
you 
particularly enjoyed it." 



Neville looked miserable and muttered something about "my grandmother wants." 


"Hmph," 
snorted 
Professot 
McGonagall. 
"It's 
high 
time 
your 
grandmother 
learned 
to 
be 
proud 
of 
the 
grandson 
she's 
got, 
rather 
than 
the 
one 
she 
thinks 
she 
ought 
to 
have 
particularly 
after 
what 
happened 
at the Ministry." 


Neville 
turned 
very 
pink 
and 
blinked 
confusedly; 
Professor 
McGonagall 
had 
never 
paid 
him 
a 
compliment before. 


"I'm 
sorry, 
Longbottom, 
but 
I 
cannot 
let 
you 
into 
my 
N.E.W.T. 
class. 
I 
see 
that 
you 
have 
an 
'Exceeds 
Expectations' in Charm however why 
not try for a N.E.W.T. in Charms?" 


"My grandmother thinks Charms is a soft option," mumbled Neville. 


"Take 
Charms," 
said 
Professor 
McGonagall, 
"and 
I 
shall 
drop 
Augusta 
a 
line 
reminding 
her 
that 
just 
because 
she 
failed 
her 
Charms 
O.W.L., 
the 
subject 
is 
not 
necessarily 
worthless." 
Smiling 
slightly 
at 
the 
look 
of 
delighted 
incredulity 
on 
Neville's 
face, 
Professor 
McGonagall 
tapped 
a 
blank 
schedule 
with 
the 
tip of her wand and handed it, now carrying details of his new classes, to Neville. 


Professor 
McGonagall 
turned 
next 
to 
Parvati 
Patil, 
whose 
first 
question 
was 
whether 
Firenze, 
the 
handsome centaur, was still teaching Divination. 


"He 
and 
Professor 
Trelawney 
are 
dividing 
classes 
between 
them 
this 
year," 
said 
Professor 
McGonagall, 
a 
hint 
of 
disapproval 
in 
her 
voice; 
it 
was 
common 
knowledge 
that 
she 
despised 
the 
subject of Divination. "The sixth year is being taken by Professor Trelawney." 


Parvati set off for Divination five minutes later looking slightly crestfallen. 


"So, 
Potter, 
Potter 
. 
. 
." 
said 
Professor 
McGonagall, 
consulting 
her 
notes 
as 
she 
turned 
to 
Harry. 
"Charms, 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts, 
Herbology, 
Transfiguration 
... 
all 
fine. 
I 
must 
say, 
I 
was 
pleased 
with 
your 
Transfiguration 
mark, 
Potter, 
very 
pleased. 
Now, 
why 
haven't 
you 
applied 
to 
continue with Potions? I thought it was your ambition to become an Auror?" 


"It was, but you told me I had to get an 'Outstanding' in my O.W.L., Professor." 


"And 
so 
you 
did 
when 
Professor 
Snape 
was 
teaching 
the 
subject. 
Professor 
Slughorn, 
however, 
is 
perfectly 
happy 
to 
accept 
N.E.W.T. 
students 
with 
'Exceeds 
Expectations' 
at 
O.W.L. 
Do 
you 
wish 
to 
proceed with Potions?" 


"Yes," said Harry, "but I didn't buy the books or any ingredients or anything" 


"I'm 
sure 
Professor 
Slughorn 
will 
be 
able 
to 
lend 
you 
some," 
said 
Professor 
McGonagall. 
"Very 
well, 
Potter, 
here 
is 
your 
schedule. 
Oh, 
by 
the 
waytwenty 
hopefuls 
have 
already 
put 
down 
their 
names 
for 
the 
Gryffindor 
Quidditch 
team. 
I 
shall 
pass 
the 
list 
to 
you 
in 
due 
course 
and 
you 
can 
fix 
up 
trials 
at 
your leisure." 


A 
few 
minutes 
later, 
Ron 
was 
cleared 
to 
do 
the 
same 
subjects 
as 
Harry, 
and 
the 
two 
of 
them 
left 
the 
table together. 

"Look," 
said 
Ron delightedly, 
gazing ar 
his 
schedule, "we've 
got 
a 
free 
period 
now. . . and a 
free 
period 



after break . . . and after lunch . . . excellent." 


They 
returned 
to 
the 
common 
room, 
which 
was 
empty 
apart 
from 
a 
half 
dozen 
seventh 
years, 
including 
Katie Bell, the only remaining member of the original Gryffindor Quidditch team that Harry had joined 
in his first year. 


"I 
thought 
you'd 
get 
that, 
well 
done," 
she 
called 
over, 
pointing. 
at 
the 
Captains 
badge 
on 
Harry's 
chest. 
"Tell me when you call trials!" 


"Don't be stupid," said Harry, "you don't need to try out, I watched you play for five years. . . ." 


"You 
mustn't 
start 
off 
like 
that," 
she 
said 
warningly. 
"For 
all 
you 
know, 
there's 
someone 
much 
better 
than 
me 
out 
there. 
Good 
teams 
have 
been 
ruined 
before 
now 
because 
Captains 
just 
kept 
playing 
the 
old 
faces, or letting in their friends. ..." 


Ron 
looked 
a 
little 
uncomfortable 
and 
began 
playing 
with 
the 
Fanged 
Frisbee 
Hermione 
had 
taken 
from 
the 
fourthyear 
student. 
It 
zoomed 
around 
the 
common 
room, 
snarling 
and 
attempting 
to 
take 
bites of the tapestry. Crookshanks's yellow eyes followed it and he hissed when it came too close. 


An 
hour 
later 
they 
reluctantly 
left 
the 
sunlit 
common 
room 
for 
the 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts 
classroom 
four 
floors 
below. 
Hermione 
was 
already 
queuing 
outside, 
carrying 
an 
armful 
of 
heavy 
books and looking putupon. 


"We 
got 
so 
much 
homework 
for 
Runes," 
she 
said 
anxiously 
when 
Harry 
and 
Ron 
joined 
her. 
"A 
fifteeninch 
essay, two translations, and I've got to read these by Wednesday!" 


"Shame," yawned Ron. 

"You wait," she said resentfully. "I bet Snape gives us loads." 


The 
classroom 
door 
opened 
as 
she 
spoke, 
and 
Snape 
stepped 
into 
the 
corridor, 
his 
sallow 
face 
framed 
as ever by two curtains of greasy black hair. Silence fell over the queue immediately. 


"Inside," he said. 


Harry 
looked 
around 
as 
they 
entered. 
Snape 
had 
imposed 
his 
personality 
upon 
the 
room 
already; 
it 
was 
gloomier 
than 
usual, 
as 
curtains 
had 
been 
drawn 
over 
the 
windows, 
and 
was 
lit 
by 
candlelight. 
New 
pictures 
adorned 
the 
walls, 
many 
of 
them 
showing 
people 
who 
appeared 
to 
be 
in 
pain, 
sporting 
grisly 
injuries 
or 
strangely 
contorted 
body 
parts. 
Nobody 
spoke 
as 
they 
settled 
down, 
looking 
around 
at 
the 
shadowy, gruesome pictures. 


"I 
have 
not 
asked 
you 
to 
take 
out 
your 
books," 
said 
Snape, 
closing 
the 
door 
and 
moving 
to 
face 
the 
class 
from 
behind 
his 
desk; 
Hermione 
hastily 
dropped 
her 
copy 
of 
Confronting 
the 
Faceless 
back 
into 
her bag and stowed it under her chair. "I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention." 


His 
black 
eyes 
roved 
over 
their 
upturned 
faces, 
lingering 
for 
a 
fraction 
of 
a 
second 
longer 
on 
Harry's 
than anyone else's. 

"You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe." 


You 
believe 
. 
. 
. 
like 
you 
haven't 
watched 
them 
all 
come 
and 
go, 
hoping 
you'd 
be 
next, 
thought 
Harry 
scathingly. 


Naturally, 
these 
teachers 
will 
all 
have 
had 
their 
own 
methods 
and 
priorities. 
Given 
this 
confusion 
I 
am 
surprised 
so 
many 
of 
you 
scraped 
an 
O.WL. 
in 
this 
subject. 
I 
shall 
be 
even 
more 
surprised 
if 
all 
of 
you 
manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be more advanced." 


Snape 
set 
off 
around 
the 
edge 
of 
the 
room, 
speaking 
now 
in 
a 
lower 
voice; 
the 
class 
craned 
their 
necks 
to 
keep 
him 
in 
view. 
The 
Dark 
Arts," 
said 
Snape, 
"are 
many, 
varied, 
everchanging, 
and 
eternal. 
Fighting 
them 
is 
like 
fighting 
a 
manyheaded 
monster, 
which, 
each 
time 
a 
neck 
is 
severed, 
sprouts 
a 
head 
even 
fiercer 
and 
cleverer 
than 
before. 
You 
are 
fighting 
that 
which 
is 
unfixed, 
mutating, 
indestructible." 


Harry stared at Snape. It was surely one thing to respect the 
Dark Arts 
as 
a 
dangerous 
enemy, another 
to 
speak of them, 
as 
Snape 
was 
doing, 
with a 
loving caress 
in 
his voice? 


"Your 
defenses," 
said 
Snape, 
a 
little 
louder, 
"must 
therefore 
be 
as 
flexible 
and 
inventive 
as 
rhe 
arts 
you 
seek 
to 
undo. 
These 
pictures 
he 
indicated 
a 
few 
of 
them 
as 
he 
swept 
past 
"
give 
a 
fair 
representation 
of 
what 
happens 
to 
those 
who 
suffer, 
for 
instance, 
the 
Cruciatus 
Curse" 
he 
waved 
a 
hand 
toward 
a 
witch 
who 
was 
clearly 
shrieking 
in 
agony 
"
feel 
the 
Dementor's 
Kiss" 
a 
wizard 
lying 
huddled 
and 
blankeyed, 
slumped 
against 
a 
wall 
"
or 
provoke 
the 
aggression 
of 
the 
Inferius" 
a 
bloody 
mass 
upon 
ground. 


"Has 
an 
Inferius 
been 
seen, 
then?" 
said 
Parvati 
Patil 
in 
a 
high 
pitched 
voice. 
"Is 
it 
definite, 
is 
he 
using 
them?" 


"The 
Dark 
Lord 
has 
used 
Inferi 
in 
the 
past," 
said 
Snape, 
"which 
means 
you 
would 
be 
welladvised 
to 
assume he might use them again. Now. . . " 


He 
set 
off 
again 
around 
the 
other 
side 
of 
the 
classroom 
toward 
his 
desk, 
and 
again, 
they 
watched 
him 
as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind him. , 


". 
. 
. 
you 
are, 
I 
believe, 
complete 
novices 
in 
the 
use 
of 
nonverbal 
spells. 
What 
is 
the 
advantage 
of 
a 
nonverbal spell?" 


Hermione's 
hand 
shot 
into 
the 
air. 
Snape 
took 
his 
time 
looking 
around 
at 
everybody 
else, 
making 
sure 
he had no choice, before saying curtly, "Very well Miss 
Granger?" 


"Your 
adversary 
has 
no 
warning 
about 
what 
kind 
of 
magic 
you're 
about 
to 
perform," 
said 
Hermione, 
"which gives you a splitsecond 
advantage." 


"An 
answer 
copied 
almost 
word 
for 
word 
from 
The 
Standard 
Book 
of 
Spells, 
Grade 
Six," 
said 
Snape 
dismissively 
(over 
in 
the 
corner, 
Malfoy 
sniggered), 
"but 
correct 
in 
essentials. 
Yes, 
those 
who 
progress 
in 
using 
magic 
without 
shouting 
incantations 
gain 
an 
element 
of 
surprise 
in 
their 
spellcasting. 
Not 
all 
wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some" his 
gaze lingered maliciously upon Harry once more "
lack." 



Harry 
knew 
Snape 
was 
thinking 
of 
their 
disastrous 
Occlumency 
lessons 
of 
the 
previous 
year. 
He 
refused to drop his gaze, but glowered at Snape until Snape looked away. 

"You 
will 
now 
divide," 
Snape 
went 
on, 
"into 
pairs. 
One 
partner 
will 
attempt 
jinx 
the 
other 
without 
speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence. Carry on." 


Although 
Snape 
did 
not 
know 
it, 
Harry 
had 
taught 
at 
least 
half 
the 
class 
(everyone 
who 
had 
been 
a 
member of the D.A.) how to perform a Shield Charm the previous year. None of them had ever cast the 
charm 
without 
speaking, 
however. 
A 
reasonable 
amount 
of 
cheating 
ensued; 
many 
people 
were 
merely 
whispering 
the 
incantation 
instead 
of 
saying 
it 
aloud. 
Typically, 
ten 
minutes 
into 
the 
lesson 
Hermione 
managed 
to 
repel 
Neville's 
muttered 
JellyLegs 
Jinx 
without 
uttering 
a 
single 
word, 
a 
feat 
that 
would 
surely 
have 
earned 
her 
twenty 
points 
for 
Gryffindor 
from 
any 
reasonable 
teacher, 
thought 
Harry 
bitterly, but which Snape ignored. He 
swept 
between 
them 
as 
they 
practiced, 
looking 
just 
as 
much 
like 
an 
overgrown 
bat 
as 
ever, 
lingering 
to 
watch Harry and Ron struggling with the task. 


Ron, 
who 
was 
supposed 
to 
be 
jinxing 
Harry, 
was 
purple 
in 
the 
face, 
his 
lips 
tightly 
compressed 
to 
save 
himself from the temptation of muttering the incantation. Harry had his wand raised, waiting 
on tenterhooks to repel a jinx that seemed unlikely ever to come. 


"Pathetic, Weasley," said Snape, after a while. "Here let 
me show you " 


He 
turned 
his 
wand 
on 
Harry 
so 
fast 
that 
Harry 
reacted 
instinctively; 
all 
thought 
of 
nonverbal 
spells 
forgotten, he yelled, "Protego!" 


His 
Shield 
Charm 
was 
so 
strong 
Snape 
was 
knocked 
offbalance 
and 
hit 
a 
desk. 
The 
whole 
class 
had 
looked around and now watched as Snape righted himself, scowling. 


"Do you remember me telling you we are practicing nonverbal spells, Potter?" 


"Yes," said Harry stiffly. 


"Yes, sir." 


"There's 
no 
need 
to 
call 
me 
'sir,' 
Professor." 
The 
words 
had 
escaped 
him 
before 
he 
knew 
what 
he 
was 
saying. 
Several 
people 
gasped, 
including 
Hermione. 
Behind 
Snape, 
however 
, 
Ron, 
Dean, 
and 
Seam 
us 
grinned appreciatively. 


"Detention, 
Saturday 
night, 
my 
office," 
said 
Snape. 
"I 
do 
not 
take 
cheek 
from 
anyone, 
Potter 
. 
. 
. 
not 
even 'the Chosen One.'" 


"That 
was 
brilliant, 
Harry!" 
chortled 
Ron, 
once 
they 
were 
safely 
on 
their 
way 
to 
break 
a 
short 
while 
later. 


"You really shouldn't have said it," said Hermione, frowning at Ron. "What made you?" 


"He 
tried 
to 
jinx 
me, 
in 
case 
you 
didn't 
notice!" 
fumed 
Harry. 
I 
had 
enough 
of 
that 
during 
those 
Occlumency lessons! Why doesn't 
he 
use 
another 
guinea 
pig 
for 
a 
change? 
What's 
Dumbledore 
playing 
at, 
anyway, 
letting 
him 
teach 
Defense? 
Did 
you 
hear 
him 
talking 
about 
the 
Dark 
Arts? 
He 
loves 
them! 



All that unfixed, tndestructble stuff 


"Well," said Hermione, "I thought he sounded a bit like you." 


"Like me?" 


"Yes, 
when 
you 
were 
telling 
us 
what 
it's 
like 
to 
face 
Voldemort. 
You 
said 
it 
wasn't 
just 
memorizing 
a 
bunch 
of 
spells, 
you 
said 
it 
was 
just 
you 
and 
your 
brains 
and 
your 
guts 
well, 
wasn't 
that 
what 
Snape 
was saying? That it really comes down to being brave and quickthinking?" 


Harry 
was 
so 
disarmed 
that 
she 
had 
thought 
his 
words 
as 
well 
worth 
memorizing 
as 
The 
Standard 
Book of Spells that he did not argue. 


"Harry! Hey, Harry!" 


Harry 
looked 
around; 
Jack 
Sloper, 
one 
of 
the 
Beaters 
on 
last 
year's 
Gryffindor 
Quidditch 
team, 
was 
hurrying toward him holding a roll of parchment. 


"For you," panted Sloper. "Listen, 1 heard you're the new Captain. When're you holding trials?" 


"I'm 
not 
sure 
yet," 
said 
Harry, 
thinking 
privately 
that 
Sloper 
would 
be 
very 
lucky 
to 
get 
back 
on 
the 
team. "I'll let you know." 

"Oh, right. I was hoping it'd be this weekend " 


"But 
Harry 
was 
not 
listening; 
he 
had 
just 
recognized 
the 
thin, 
slanting 
writing 
on 
the 
parchment. 
Leaving 
Sloper 
in 
midsentence, 
he 
hurried 
away 
with 
Ron 
and 
Hermione, 
unrolling 
the 
parchment 
as 
he went. 


Dear Harry, 
I 
would 
like 
to 
start 
our 
private 
lessons 
this 
Saturday. 
Kindly 
come 
along 
to 
my 
office 
at 
8 
P.M. 
I 
hope 
you are enjoying your first day back at school. 


Yours sincerely, 


Albus Dumbledore 


P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops. 
"He 
enjoys 
Acid 
Pops?" 
said 
Ron, 
who 
had 
read 
the 
message 
over 
Harry's 
shoulder 
and 
was 
looking 
perplexed. 


"It's 
the 
password 
to 
get 
past 
the 
gargoyle 
outside 
his 
study," 
said 
Harry 
in 
a 
low 
voice. 
"Ha! 
Snape's 
not going to be pleased. . . . I won't be able to do his detention!" 


He, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
spent 
the 
whole 
of 
break 
speculating 
on 
what 
Dumbledore 
would 
teach 
Harry. 
Ron 
thought 
it 
most 
likely 
to 
be 
spectacular 
jinxes 
and 
hexes 
of 
the 
type 
the 
Death 
Eaters 
would 
not 
know. 
Hermione 
said 
such 
things 
were 
illegal, 
and 
thought 
it 
much 
more 
likely 
that 
Dumbledore 
wanted 
to 
teach 
Harry 
advanced 
Defensive 
magic. 
After 
break, 
she 
went 
off 
to 
Arithmancy 
while 
Harry 
and 
Ron 
returned 
to 
the 
common 
room 
where 
they 
grudgingly 
started 
Snape's 
homework. 
This 
turned 
out 
to 
be 
so 
complex 
that 
they 
still 
had 
not 
finished 
when 
Hermione 
joined 
them 
for 
their 
after



lunch 
free 
period 
(though 
she 
considerably 
speeded 
up 
the 
process). 
They 
had 
only 
just 
finished 
when 
the 
bell 
rang 
for 
the 
afternoon's 
double 
Potions 
and 
they 
beat 
the 
familiar 
path 
down 
to 
the 
dungeon 
classroom that had, for so long, been Snape's. 


When 
they 
arrived 
in 
the 
corridor 
they 
saw 
that 
there 
were 
only 
a 
dozen 
people 
progressing 
to 


N.E.W.T. 
level. 
Crabbe 
and 
Goyle 
had 
evidently 
failed 
to 
achieve 
the 
required 
O.W.L. 
grade, 
but 
four 
Slytherins 
had 
made 
it 
through, 
including 
Malfoy. 
Four 
Ravenclaws 
were 
there, 
and 
one 
Hufflepuff, 
Ernie Macmillan, whom Harry liked despite his rather pompous manner. 
"Harry," 
Ernie 
said 
portentously, 
holding 
out 
his 
hand 
as 
Harry 
approached, 
"didn't 
get 
a 
chance 
to 
speak 
in 
Defense 
Against 
The 
Dark 
Arts 
this 
morning. 
Good 
lesson, 
I 
thought, 
but 
Shield 
Charms 
are 
old hat, of course, for us old D.A. lags . . . And how are you, Ron Hermione?" 


Before 
they 
could 
say 
more 
than 
"fine," 
the 
dungeon 
door 
opened 
and 
Slughorn's 
belly 
preceded 
him 
out 
of 
the 
door. 
As 
they 
filed 
into 
the 
room, 
his 
great 
walrus 
mustache 
curved 
above 
his 
beaming 
mouth, and he greeted Harry and Zabini with particular enthusiasm. 


The 
dungeon 
was, 
most 
unusually, 
already 
full 
of 
vapors 
and 
odd 
smells. 
Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
sniffed 
interestedly 
as 
they 
passed 
large, 
bubbling 
cauldrons. 
The 
four 
Slytherins 
took 
a 
table 
together, 
as 
did 
the 
four 
Ravenclaws. 
This 
left 
Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
to 
share 
a 
table 
with 
Ernie. 
They 
chose 
the 
one 
nearest 
a 
goldcolored 
cauldron 
that 
was 
emitting 
one 
of 
the 
most 
seductive 
scents 
Harry 
had 
ever 
inhaled: 
Somehow 
it 
reminded 
him 
simultaneously 
of 
treacle 
tart, 
the 
woody 
smell 
of 
a 
broomstick 
handle, 
and 
something 
flowery 
he 
thought 
he 
might 
have 
smelled 
at 
the 
Burrow. 
He 
found 
that 
he 
was 
breathing 
very 
slowly 
and 
deeply 
and 
that 
the 
potion's 
fumes 
seemed 
to 
be 
filling 
him 
up 
like drink. A great contentment stole over him; he grinned across at Ron, who grinned back lazily. 


"Now 
then, 
now 
then, 
now 
then," 
said 
Slughorn, 
whose 
massive 
outline 
was 
quivering 
through 
the 
many shimmering vapors. "Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and don't forget your copies 
of Advanced PotionMaking. 
. . ." 


"Sir?" said Harry, raising his hand. 


"Harry, m'boy?" 


"I 
haven't 
got 
a 
book 
or 
scales 
or 
anything 
nor's 
Ron 
we 
didn't 
realize 
we'd 
be 
able 
to 
do 
the 
N.E.W.T., you see " 


"Ah, 
yes, 
Professor 
McGonagall 
did 
mention 
. 
. 
. 
not 
to 
worry, 
my 
dear 
boy, 
not 
to 
worry 
at 
all. 
You 
can 
use 
ingredients 
from 
the 
store 
cupboard 
today, 
and 
I'm 
sure 
we 
can 
lend 
you 
some 
scales, 
and 
we've got a small stock of old books here, they'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts. . . ." 


Slughorn 
strode 
over 
to 
a 
corner 
cupboard 
and, 
after 
a 
moment's 
foraging, 
emerged 
with 
two 
very 
batteredlooking 
copies 
of 
Advanced 
PotionMaking 
by 
Libatius 
Borage, 
which 
he 
gave 
to 
Harry 
and 
Ron along with two sets of tarnished scales. 


"Now 
then," 
said 
Slughorn, 
returning 
to 
the 
front 
of 
the 
class 
and 
inflating 
his 
already 
bulging 
chest 
so 
that 
the 
buttons 
on 
his 
waistcoat 
threatened 
to 
burst 
off, 
"I've 
prepared 
a 
few 
potions 
for 
you 
to 
have 
a 



look 
at, 
just 
out 
of 
interest, 
you 
know. 
These 
are 
the 
kind 
of 
thing 
you 
ought 
to 
be 
able 
to 
make 
after 
completing 
your 
N.E.W.T.s. 
You 
ought 
to 
have 
heard 
of 
'em, 
even 
if 
you 
haven't 
made 
'em 
yet. 
Anyone tell me what this one is?" 


He 
indicated 
the 
cauldron 
nearest 
the 
Slytherin 
table. 
Harry 
raised 
himself 
slighty 
in 
his 
seat 
and 
saw 
what looked like plain water boiling away inside it. 
Hermione's wellpracticed 
hand hit the air before anybody else's; Slughorn pointed at her. 


"It's Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion thar forces the, drinker to tell the truth," said Hermione. 
"Very 
good, 
very 
good!" 
said 
Slughorn 
happily. 
"Now," 
he 
continued, 
pointing 
at 
the 
cauldron 
nearest 
the 
Ravenclaw 
table, 
"this 
one 
here 
is 
pretty 
well 
known. 
. 
. 
. 
Featured 
in 
a 
few 
Ministry 
leaflets 
lately 
too . . . Who can ?" 


Hermione's hand was fastest once more. 
"lt's Polyjuice Potion, sir," she said. 
Harry too had recognized the 
slowbubbling, 
mudlike 
substance 
the 
second cauldron, but 
did 
not 
resent 


Hermione 
getting 
the 
credit 
for 
answering 
the 
question; 
she, 
after 
all, 
was 
the 
one 
who 
had 
succeeded 
in 
making 
it, 
back 
in 
their 
second 
year. 
"Excellent, 
excellent! 
Now, 
this 
one 
here 
. 
. 
. 
yes, 
my 
dear?" 
said Slughorn, now looking slightly bemused, as Hermione's hand punched the air again. 


"It's Amortentia!" 


"It 
is 
indeed. 
Ir 
seems 
almost 
foolish 
to 
ask," 
said 
Slughorn, 
who 
was 
looking 
mightily 
impressed, 
"but 
I assume you know what it does?" 
It's the most powerful love porion in the world!" said Hermione. 
'Quire right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive motherofpearl 
sheen?" 
"And 
the 
steam 
rising 
in 
characteristic 
spirals," 
said 
Hermione 
enthusiastically, 
"and 
it's 
supposed 
to 


smell 
differently 
to 
each 
of 
according 
to 
what 
attracts 
us, 
and 
I 
can 
smell 
freshly 
mown 
grass 
and 
new 
parchment and " 
But she turned slightly pink and did not complete the sentence. 
'May I ask your name, my dear?" said Slughorn, ignoring Hermione's embarrassment. 


Hermione Granger, sir." 
"Granger? 
Granger? 
Can 
you 
possibly 
be 
related 
to 
Hector 
DagworthGranger, 
who 
founded 
the 
Most 
Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?" 


"No. I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggleborn, 
you see." 
Harry 
saw 
Malfoy 
lean 
close 
to 
Nott 
and 
whisper 
something; 
both 
of 
them 
sniggered, 
but 
Slughorn 
showed 
no 
dismay; 
on 
the 
contrary, 
he 
beamed 
and 
looked 
from 
Hermione 
to 
Harry, 
who 
was 
sitting 
next to her. 



"Oho! 
'One 
of 
my 
best 
friends 
is 
Muggleborn, 
and 
she's 
the 
best 
in 
our 
year!' 
I'm 
assuming 
this 
is 
the 
very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?" 


"Yes, sir," said Harry. 


"Well, well, take twenty wellearned 
points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger," said Slughorn genially. 


Malfoy 
looked 
rather 
as 
he 
had 
done 
the 
time 
Hermione 
had 
punched 
him 
in 
the 
face. 
Hermione 
turned 
to 
Harry 
with 
a 
radiant 
expression 
and 
whispered, 
"Did 
you 
really 
tell 
him 
I'm 
the 
best 
in 
the 
year? 
Oh, 
Harry!" 


"Well, 
what's 
so 
impressive 
about 
that?" 
whispered 
Ron, 
who 
for 
some 
reason 
looked 
annoyed. 
"You 
are the best in the year I'd've 
told him so if he'd asked me!" 


Hermione 
smiled 
but 
made 
a 
"shhing" 
gesture, 
so 
that 
they 
could 
hear 
what 
Slughorn 
was 
saying. 
Ron 
looked slightly disgruntled. 


"Amortentia 
doesn't 
really 
create 
love, 
of 
course. 
It 
is 
impossible 
to 
manufacture 
or 
imitate 
love. 
No, 
this 
will 
simply 
cause 
a 
powerful 
infatuation 
or 
obsession. 
It 
is 
probably 
the 
most 
dangerous 
and 
powerful 
potion 
in 
this 
room 
oh 
yes," 
he 
said, 
nodding 
gravely 
at 
Maifoy 
and 
Nott, 
both 
of 
whom 
were 
smirking 
skeptically. 
"When 
you 
have 
seen 
as 
much 
of 
life 
as 
I 
have, 
you 
will 
not 
underestimate 
the power of obsessive love. ... 

"And now," said Slughorn, "it is time for us to start work." 


"Sir, 
you 
haven't 
told 
us 
what's 
in 
this 
one," 
said 
Ernie 
Macmillan 
, 
pointing 
at 
a 
small 
black 
cauldron 
standing 
on 
Slughorn's 
desk. 
The 
potion 
within 
was 
splashing 
about 
merrily; 
it 
was 
the 
color 
of 
molten 
gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above the surface, though not a particle had spilled. 


"Oho," 
said 
Slughorn 
again. 
Harry 
was 
sure 
that 
Slughorn 
had 
not 
forgotten 
the 
potion 
at 
all, 
but 
had 
waited 
to 
be 
asked 
for 
dramatic 
effect. 
"Yes. 
That. 
Well, 
that 
one, 
ladies 
and 
gentlemen, 
is 
a 
most 
curious 
little 
potion 
called 
Felix 
Felicis. 
I 
take 
it," 
he 
turned, 
smiling, 
to 
look 
at 
Hermione, 
who 
had 
let 
out an audible gasp, "that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?" 


"It's liquid luck," said Hermione excitedly. "It makes you lucky!" 


The 
whole 
class 
seemed 
to 
sit 
up 
a 
little 
straighter. 
Now 
all 
Harry 
could 
see 
of 
Malfoy 
was 
the 
back 
of 
his sleek blond head, because he was at last giving Slughorn his full and undivided attention. 


"Quite 
right, 
take 
another 
ten 
points 
for 
Gryffindor. 
Yes, 
it's 
a 
funny 
little 
potion, 
Felix 
Felicis," 
said 
Slughorn. 
"Desperately 
tricky 
to 
make, 
and 
disastrous 
to 
get 
wrong. 
However, 
if 
brewed 
correctly, 
as 
this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed ... at least until the effects wear off." 


"Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?" said Terry Boot eagerly. 


"Because 
if 
taken 
in 
excess, 
it 
causes 
giddiness, 
recklessness, 
and 
dangerous 
overconfidence," 
said 
Slughorn. "Too much of a good thing, you know. . . highly toxic in large quantities. But taken 
sparingly, and very occasionally . . ." 



"Have you ever taken it, sir?" asked Michael Corner with great interest. 


"Twice 
in 
my 
life," 
said 
Slughorn. 
"Once 
when 
I 
was 
twentyfour, 
once 
when 
I 
was 
fiftyseven. 
Two 
tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days." 


He 
gazed 
dreamily 
into 
the 
distance. 
Whether 
he 
was 
playacting 
or 
not, 
thought 
Harry, 
the 
effect 
was 
good. 
"And 
that," 
said 
Slughorn, 
apparently 
coming 
back 
to 
earth, 
"is 
what 
I 
shall 
be 
offering 
as 
a 
prize 
in 
this lesson." 


There 
was 
silence 
in 
which 
every 
bubble 
and 
gurgle 
of 
the 
surrounding 
potions 
seemed 
magnified 
tenfold. 


"One 
tiny 
bottle 
of 
Felix 
Felicis," 
said 
Slughorn, 
taking 
a 
minuscule 
glass 
bottle 
with 
a 
cork 
in 
it 
out 
of 
his pocket and showing it to them all. "Enough for twelve hours' luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be 
lucky in everything you attempt." 


"Now, 
I 
must 
give 
you 
warning 
that 
Felix 
Felicis 
is 
a 
banned 
substance 
in 
organized 
competitions 
. 
. 
. 
sporting 
events, 
for 
instance, 
examinations, 
or 
elections. 
So 
the 
winner 
is 
to 
use 
it 
on 
an 
ordinary 
day 
only . . . and watch how that ordinary day becomes extraordinary!" 


"So," 
said 
Slughorn, 
suddenly 
brisk, 
"how 
are 
you 
to 
win 
fabulous 
prize? 
Well, 
by 
turning 
to 
page 
ten 
of 
Advanced 
Potion 
Making. 
We 
have 
a 
little 
over 
an 
hour 
left 
to 
us, 
which 
should 
be 
time 
for 
you 
to 
make 
a 
decent 
attempt 
at 
the 
Draught 
of 
Living 
Death. 
I 
know 
it 
is 
more 
complex 
than 
anything 
you 
have 
attempted 
before, 
and 
I 
do 
not 
expect 
a 
perfect 
potion 
from 
anybody. 
The 
person 
who 
does 
best, 
however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!" 


There 
was 
a 
scraping 
as 
everyone 
drew 
their 
cauldrons 
toward 
them 
and 
some 
loud 
clunks 
as 
people 
began 
adding 
weights 
to 
their 
scales, 
but 
nobody 
spoke. 
The 
concentration 
within 
the 
room 
was 
almost 
tangible. 
Harry 
saw 
Malfoy 
riffling 
feverishly 
through 
his 
copy 
of 
Advanced 
PotionMaking., 
It 
could 
not 
have 
been 
clearer 
that 
Malfoy 
really 
wanted 
that 
lucky 
day. 
Harry 
bent 
swiftly 
over 
the 
tattered 
book Slughorn had lent him. 


To 
his 
annoyance 
he 
saw 
that 
the 
previous 
owner 
had 
scribbled 
all 
over 
the 
pages, 
so 
that 
the 
margins 
were 
as 
black 
as 
the 
printed 
portions. 
Bending 
low 
to 
decipher 
the 
ingredients 
(even 
here, 
the 
previous 
owner 
had 
made 
annotations 
and 
crossed 
things 
out) 
Harry 
hurried 
off 
toward 
the 
store 
cupboard 
to 
find 
what 
he 
needed. 
As 
he 
dashed 
back 
to 
his 
cauldron, 
he 
saw 
Malfoy 
cutting 
up 
Valerian 
roots 
as 
fast as he could. 


Everyone 
kept 
glancing 
around 
at 
what 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
class 
was 
doing; 
this 
was 
both 
an 
advantage 
and 
a disadvantage of Potions, that it was hard to keep your work private. Within ten minutes, the 
whole 
place 
was 
full 
of 
bluish 
steam. 
Hermione, 
of 
course, 
seemed 
to 
have 
progressed 
furthest. 
Her 
potion 
already 
resembled 
the 
"smooth, 
black 
currantcolored 
liquid" 
mentioned 
as 
the 
ideal 
halfway 
stage. 


Having 
finished 
chopping 
his 
roots, 
Harry 
bent 
low 
over 
his 
book 
again. 
It 
was 
really 
very 
irritating, 



having to try and decipher the directions under all the stupid scribbles of the previous owner, 
who 
for 
some 
reason 
had 
taken 
issue 
with 
the 
order 
to 
cut 
up 
the 
sopophorous 
bean 
and 
had 
written 
in 
the alternative instruction: 


Crush with flat side of silver dagger, 
releases juice better than cutting. 


"Sir, 
I 
think 
you 
knew 
my 
grandfather, 
Abraxas 
Malfoy?" 
Harry 
looked 
up; 
Slughorn 
was 
just 
passing 
the Slytherin table. 


"Yes," said Slughorn, without looking at Malfoy, "I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it 
wasn't unexpected, dragon pox at his age. . . ." 


And 
he 
walked 
away. 
Harry 
bent 
back 
over 
his 
cauldron, 
smirking. 
He 
could 
tell 
that 
Malfoy 
had 
expected 
to 
be 
treated 
like 
Harry 
or 
Zabini; 
perhaps 
even 
hoped 
for 
some 
preferential 
treatment 
of 
the 
type 
he 
had 
learned 
to 
expect 
from 
Snape. 
It 
looked 
as 
though 
Malfoy 
would 
have 
to 
rely 
on 
nothing 
but talent to win the bottle of Felix Felicis. 


The sopophorous bean was proving very difficult to cut up. Harry turned to Hermione. 


"Can I borrow your silver knife?" 


She 
nodded 
impatiently, 
not 
taking 
her 
eyes 
off 
her 
potion, 
which 
was 
still 
deep 
purple, 
though 
according to the book ought to be turning a light shade of lilac by now. 


Harry 
crushed 
his 
bean 
with 
the 
flat 
side 
of 
the 
dagger. 
To 
his 
astonishment, 
it 
immediately 
exuded 
so 
much juice he was amazed the shriveled bean could have held it all. 


Hastily 
scooping 
it 
all 
into 
the 
cauldron 
he 
saw, 
to 
his 
surprise, 
that 
the 
potion 
immediately 
turned 
exactly the shade of lilac described by the textbook. 


His 
annoyance 
with 
the 
previous 
owner 
vanishing 
on 
the 
spot, 
Harry 
now 
squinted 
at 
the 
next 
line 
of 
instructions. 
According 
the 
book, 
he 
had 
to 
stir 
counterclockwise 
until 
the 
potion 
turned 
clear 
as 
water. 
According 
to 
the 
addition 
the 
previous 
owner 
made, 
however, 
he 
ought 
to 
add 
a 
clockwise 
stir 
after 
every seventh counterclockwise stir. Could the old owner be right twice? 


Harry 
stirred 
counterclockwise, 
held 
his 
breath, 
and 
stirred 
once 
clockwise. 
The 
effect 
was 
immediate. 
The potion turned pale pink. 


"How 
are 
you 
doing 
that?" 
demanded 
Hermione, 
who 
was 
redfaced 
and 
whose 
hair 
was 
growing 
bushier and bushier in the fumes from her cauldron; her potion was still resolutely purple. 

"Add a clockwise stir " 


"No, no, the book says counterclockwise!" she snapped. 

Harry 
shrugged 
and 
continued 
what 
he 
was 
doing. 
Seven 
stirs 
counterdockwise, 
one 
clockwise, 
pause 
. 
. . seven stirs counterclockwise, one stir clockwise . . . 


Across 
the 
table, 
Ron 
was 
cursing 
fluently 
under 
his 
breath; 
his 
potion 
looked 
like 
liquid 
licorice. 



Harry 
glanced 
around. 
As 
far 
as 
he 
could 
see, 
no 
one 
else's 
potion 
had 
turned 
as 
pale 
as 
his. 
He 
felt 
elated, something that had certainly never happened before in this dungeon. 


"And time's . . . up!" called Slughorn. "Stop stirring, please!" 
Slughorn 
moved 
slowly 
among 
the 
tables, 
peering 
into 
cauldrons. 
He 
made 
no 
comment, 
but 
occasionally 
gave 
the 
potions 
a 
stir 
or 
a 
sniff. 
At 
last 
he 
reached 
the 
table 
where 
Harry, 
Ron, 
Hermione, 
and 
Ernie 
were 
sitting. 
He 
smiled 
ruefully 
at 
the 
tarlike 
substance 
in 
Ron's 
cauldron. 
He 
passed 
over 
Ernie's 
navy 
concoction. 
Hermione's 
potion 
he 
gave 
an 
approving 
nod. 
Then 
he 
saw 
Harry's, and a look of incredulous delight spread over his face. 


"The 
clear 
winner!" 
he 
cried 
to 
the 
dungeon. 
"Excellent, 
excellent, 
Harry! 
Good 
lord, 
it's 
clear 
you've 
inherited 
your 
mother's 
talent. 
She 
was 
a 
dab 
hand 
at 
Potions, 
Lily 
was! 
Here 
you 
are, 
then, 
here 
you 
are one 
bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!" 


Harry 
slipped 
the 
tiny 
bottle 
of 
golden 
liquid 
into 
his 
inner 
pocket, 
feeling 
an 
odd 
combination 
of 
delight 
at 
the 
furious 
looks 
on 
the 
Slytherins' 
faces 
and 
guilt 
at 
the 
disappointed 
expression 
on 
Hermione's. Ron looked simply dumbfounded. 


"How did you do that?" he whispered to Harry as they left the dungeon. 
"Got lucky, I suppose," said Harry, because Malfoy was within earshot. 
Once 
they 
were 
securely 
ensconced 
at 
the 
Gryffindor 
table 
for 
dinner, 
however, 
he 
felt 
safe 
enough 
to 


tell them. Hermione's face became stonier with every word he uttered. 
"I s'pose you think I cheated?" he finished, aggravated by her expression. 
"Well, it wasn't exactly your own work, was it?" she said stiffly. 
"He 
only 
followed 
different 
instructions 
to 
ours," 
said 
Ron, 
"Could've 
been 
a 
catastrophe, 
couldn't 
it? 


But he took a risk and it paid off." He heaved a sigh. "Slughorn could've handed me that book, but no, I 


get the one no one's ever written on. Puked on, by the look of page fiftytwo, 
but" 
"Hang 
on," 
said 
a 
voice 
close 
by 
Harry's 
left 
ear 
and 
he 
caught 
a 
sudden 
waft 
of 
that 
flowery 
smell 
he 
had 
picked 
up 
in 
Slughorn's 
dungeon. 
He 
looked 
around 
and 
saw 
that 
Ginny 
had 
joined 
them. 
"Did 
I 
hear right? You've been taking orders from something someone wrote in a book, Harry?" 


She looked alarmed and angry. Harry knew what was on her mind at once. 


"It's 
nothing," 
he 
said 
reassuringly, 
lowering 
his 
voice. 
"It's 
not 
like, 
you 
know, 
Riddle's 
diary. 
It's 
just 
an old textbook someone's scribbled on." 
"But you're doing what it says?" 
"I just tried a few of the tips written in the margins, honestly, Ginny, there's nothing funny " 
"Ginny's 
got 
a 
point," 
said 
Hermione, 
perking 
up 
at 
once. 
"We 
ought 
to 
check 
that 
there's 
nothing 
odd 


about it. I mean, all these funny instructions, who knows?" 
"Hey!" 
said 
Harry 
indignantly, 
as 
she 
pulled 
his 
copy 
of 
Advanced 
PotionMaking 
out 
of 
his 
bag 
and 



raised 
her 
wand. 
"Specialis 
Revelio!" 
she 
said, 
rapping 
it 
smartly 
on 
the 
front 
cover. 
Nothing 
whatsoever happened. The book simply lay there, looking old and dirty and dogeared. 


"Finished?" said Harry irritably. "Or d'you want to wait and see if it does a few backflips?" 


"It 
seems 
all 
right," 
said 
Hermione, 
still 
staring 
at 
the 
book 
suspiciously. 
"I 
mean, 
it 
really 
does 
seem 
to be ... just a textbook." 


"Good. 
Then 
I'll 
have 
it 
back," 
said 
Harry, 
snatching 
it 
off 
the 
table, 
but 
it 
slipped 
from 
his 
hand 
and 
landed 
open 
on 
the 
floor. 
Nobody 
else 
was 
looking. 
Harry 
bent 
low 
to 
retrieve 
the 
book, 
and 
as 
he 
did 
so, 
he 
saw 
something 
scribbled 
along 
the 
bottom 
of 
the 
back 
cover 
in 
the 
same 
small, 
cramped 
handwriting 
as 
the 
instructions 
that 
had 
won 
him 
his 
bottle 
of 
Felix 
Felicis, 
now 
safely 
hidden 
inside 
a 
pair of socks in his trunk upstairs. 


This book is the property of the Half Blood Prince. 


Chapter 10 



The 
House 
of Count 


For 
or 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
week's 
Potions 
lessons 
Harry 
continued 
to 
follow 
the 
HalfBlood 
Prince's 
instructions 
wherever 
they 
deviated 
from 
Libatius 
Borage's, 
with 
the 
result 
that 
by 
their 
fourth 
lesson 
Slughorn 
was 
raving 
about 
Harrys 
abilities, 
saying 
that 
he 
had 
rarely 
taught 
anyone 
so 
talented. 
Neither 
Ron 
nor 
Hermione 
was 
delighted 
by 
this. 
Although 
Harry 
had 
offered 
to 
share 
his 
book 
with 
both 
of 
them, 
Ron 
had 
more 
difficulty 
deciphering 
the 
handwriting 
than 
Harry 
did, 
and 
could 
not 
keep 
asking 
Harry 
to 
read 
aloud 
or 
it 
might 
look 
suspicious. 
Hermione, 
meanwhile, 
was 
resolutely 
plowing 
on 
with 
what 
she 
called 
the 
"official" 
instructions, 
but 
becoming 
increasingly 
badtempered 
as 
they 
yielded poorer results than the Prince's. 


Harry wondered vaguely who the HalfBlood 
Prince had been. Although the amount of homework they 
had 
been 
given 
prevented 
him 
from 
reading 
the 
whole 
of 
his 
copy 
of 
Advanced 
PotionMaking, 
he 
had 
skimmed 
through 
it 
sufficiently 
to 
see 
that 
there 
was 
barely 
a 
page 
on 
which 
the 
Prince 
had 
not 
made 
additional 
notes, 
not 
all 
of 
them 
concerned 
with 
potionmaking. 
Here 
and 
there 
were 
directions 
for 
what looked like spells that the Prince had made up himself. 

"Or 
herself," 
said 
Hermione 
irritably, 
overhearing 
Harry 
pointing 
some 
of 
these 
out 
to 
Ron 
in 
the 



common 
room 
on 
Saturday 
evening. 
"It 
might 
have 
been 
a 
girl. 
I 
think 
the 
handwriting 
looks 
more 
like 
a girl's than a boy's." 


"The HalfBlood 
Prince, he was called," Harry said. "How many girls have been Princes?" 
Hermione 
seemed 
to 
have 
no 
answer 
to 
this. 
She 
merely 
scowled 
and 
twitched 
her 
essay 
on 
The 
Principles of Rematerialization away from Ron, who was trying to read it upside down. 


Harry 
looked 
at 
his 
watch 
and 
hurriedly 
put 
the 
old 
copy 
of 
Advanced 
PotionMaking 
back 
into 
his 
bag. 


"It's five to eight, I'd better go, I'll be late for Dumbledore." 
"Ooooh!" 
gasped 
Hermione, 
looking 
up 
at 
once. 
"Good 
luck! 
We'll 
wait 
up, 
we 
want 
to 
hear 
what 
he 
teaches you!" 


"Hope it goes okay," said Ron, and the pair of them watched Harry leave through the portrait hole. 
Harry 
proceeded 
through 
deserted 
corridors, 
though 
he 
had 
to 
step 
hastily 
behind 
a 
statue 
when 


Professor 
Trelawney 
appeared 
around 
a 
corner, 
muttering 
to 
herself 
as 
she 
shuffled 
a 
pack 
of 
dirtylooking 
playing cards, reading them as she walked. 
"Two 
of 
spades: 
conflict," 
she 
murmured, 
as 
she 
passed 
the 
place 
where 
Harry 
crouched, 
hidden. 


"Seven 
of 
spades: 
an 
ill 
omen. 
Ten 
of 
spades: 
violence. 
Knave 
of 
spades: 
a 
dark 
young 
man, 
possibly 
troubled, one who dislikes the questioner —" 


She stopped dead, right on the other side of Harry's statue. 
"Well, 
that 
can't 
be 
right," 
she 
said, 
annoyed, 
and 
Harry 
heard 
her 
reshuffling 
vigorously 
as 
she 
set 
off 
again, 
leaving 
nothing 
but 
a 
whiff 
of 
cooking 
sherry 
behind 
her. 
Harry 
waited 
until 
he 
was 
quite 
sure 
she 
had 
gone, 
then 
hurried 
off 
again 
until 
he 
reached 
the 
spot 
in 
the 
seventhfloor 
corridor 
where 
a 
single gargoyle stood against the wall. 


"Acid 
Pops," 
said 
Harry, 
and 
the 
gargoyle 
leapt 
aside; 
the 
wall 
behind 
it 
slid 
apart, 
and 
a 
moving 
spiral 
stone 
staircase 
was 
revealed, 
onto 
which 
Harry 
stepped, 
so 
that 
he 
was 
carried 
in 
smooth 
circles 
up 
to 
the door with the brass knocker that led to Dumbledore's Office. 


Harry knocked. 
"Come in," said Dumbledore s voice. 
"Good evening, sir," said Harry, walking into the headmaster's office. 
"Ah, 
good 
evening, 
Harry. 
Sit 
down," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
smiling. 
"I 
hope 
you've 
had 
an 
enjoyable 
first 


week back at school?" "Yes, thanks, sir," said Harry. 


"You 
must 
have 
been 
busy, 
a 
detention 
under 
your 
belt 
already!" 
"Er," 
began 
Harry 
awkwardly, 
but 
Dumbledore did not look too stern. 
"I have arranged with Professor Snape that you will do your detention next Saturday instead." 
"Right," 
said 
Harry, 
who 
had 
more 
pressing 
matters 
on 
his 
mind 
than 
Snapes 
detention, 
and 
now 



looked 
around 
surreptitiously 
for 
some 
indication 
of 
what 
Dumbledore 
was 
planning 
to 
do 
with 
him 
this 
evening. 
The 
circular 
office 
looked 
just 
as 
it 
always 
did; 
the 
delicate 
silver 
instruments 
stood 
on 
spindlelegged 
tables, 
puffing 
smoke 
and 
whirring; 
portraits 
of 
previous 
headmasters 
and 
headmistresses 
dozed 
in 
their 
frames, 
and 
Dumbledore's 
magnificent 
phoenix, 
Fawkes, 
stood 
on 
his 
perch 
behind 
the 
door, 
watching 
Harry 
with 
bright 
interest. 
It 
did 
not 
even 
look 
as 
though 
Dumbledore 
had cleared a space for dueling practice. 

"So, 
Harry," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
in 
a 
businesslike 
voice. 
"You 
have 
been 
wondering, 
I 
am 
sure, 
what 
I 
have planned for you during these — for want of a better word — lessons?" 


"Yes, sir." 


"Well, 
I 
have 
decided 
that 
it 
is 
time, 
now 
that 
you 
know 
what 
prompted 
Lord 
Voldemort 
to 
try 
and 
kill 
you fifteen years ago, for you to be given certain information." There was a pause. 

"You 
said, 
at 
the 
end 
of 
last 
term, 
you 
were 
going 
to 
tell 
me 
everything," 
said 
Harry. 
It 
was 
hard 
to 
keep a note of accusation from his voice. "Sir," he added. 

"And 
so 
I 
did," 
said 
Dumbledore 
placidly. 
"I 
told 
you 
everything 
I 
know. 
From 
this 
point 
forth, 
we 
shall 
be 
leaving 
the 
firm 
foundation 
of 
fact 
and 
journeying 
together 
through 
the 
murky 
marshes 
of 
memory 
into 
thickets 
of 
wildest 
guesswork. 
From 
here 
on 
in, 
Harry, 
I 
may 
be 
as 
woefully 
wrong 
as 
Humphrey Belcher, who believed the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron." 


"But you think you're right?" said Harry. 

"Naturally 
I 
do, 
but 
as 
I 
have 
already 
proven 
to 
you, 
I 
make 
mistakes 
like 
the 
next 
man. 
In 
fact, 
being 


— forgive me — rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger." 
"Sir," 
said 
Harry 
tentatively, 
"does 
what 
you're 
going 
to 
tell 
me 
have 
anything 
to 
do 
with 
the 
prophecy? Will it help me . . . survive?" 


"It 
has 
a 
very 
great 
deal 
to 
do 
with 
the 
prophecy," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
as 
casually 
as 
if 
Harry 
had 
asked 
him about the next days weather, "and I certainly hope that it will help you to survive,." 


Dumbledore 
got 
to 
his 
feet 
and 
walked 
around 
the 
desk, 
past 
Harry, 
who 
turned 
eagerly 
in 
his 
seat 
to 
watch 
Dumbledore 
bending 
over 
the 
cabinet 
beside 
the 
door. 
When 
Dumbledore 
straightened 
up, 
he 
was 
holding 
a 
familiar 
shallow 
stone 
basin 
etched 
with 
odd 
markings 
around 
its 
rim. 
He 
placed 
the 
Pensieve on the desk in front of Harry. 

"You look worried." 


Harry 
had 
indeed 
been 
eyeing 
the 
Pensieve 
with 
some 
apprehension. 
His 
previous 
experiences 
with 
the 
odd 
device 
that 
stored 
and 
revealed 
thoughts 
and 
memories, 
though 
highly 
instructive, 
had 
also 
been 
uncomfortable. 
The 
last 
time 
he 
had 
disturbed 
its 
contents, 
he 
had 
seen 
much 
more 
than 
he 
would 
have 
wished. But Dumbledore was smiling. 


"This time, you enter the Pensieve with me . . . and, even more unusually, with permission." 


"Where are we going, sir?" 



"For 
a 
trip down Bob Ogden's 
memory lane," 
said Dumbledore, pulling 
from 
his 
pocket 
a 
crystal 
bottle 
containing a swirling silverywhite 
substance. 

"Who was Bob Ogden?" 


"He 
was 
employed 
by 
the 
Department 
of 
Magical 
Law 
Enforcement," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"He 
died 
some 
time 
ago, 
but 
not 
before 
I 
had 
tracked 
him 
down 
and 
persuaded 
him 
to 
confide 
these 
recollections 
to 
me. 
We 
are 
about 
to 
accompany 
him 
on 
a 
visit 
he 
made 
in 
the 
course 
of 
his 
duties. 
If 
you 
will stand, Harry ..." 


But 
Dumbledore 
was 
having 
difficulty 
pulling 
out 
the 
stopper 
of 
the 
crystal 
bottle: 
His 
injured 
hand 
seemed stiff and painful. 

"Shall —shall I, sir?" 

"No matter, Harry —" 


Dumbledore pointed his wand at the bottle and the cork flew out. 


"Sir 
— 
how 
did 
you 
injure 
your 
hand?" 
Harry 
asked 
again, 
looking 
at 
the 
blackened 
fingers 
with 
a 
mixture of revulsion and pity. 


"Now is not the moment for that story, Harry. Not yet. We have an appointment with Bob Ogden." 

Dumbledore 
tipped 
the 
silvery 
contents 
of 
the 
bottle 
into 
the 
Pensieve, 
where 
they 
swirled 
and 
shimmered, 
neither 
liquid 
nor 
gas. 
"After 
you," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
gesturing 
toward 
the 
bowl. 
Harry 
bent 
forward, 
took 
a 
deep 
breath, 
and 
plunged 
his 
face 
into 
the 
silvery 
substance. 
He 
felt 
his 
feet 
leave 
the 
office 
floor; 
he 
was 
falling, 
falling 
through 
whirling 
darkness 
and 
then, 
quite 
suddenly, 
he 
was 
blinking in dazzling sunlight. Before his eyes had adjusted, Dumbledore landed beside him. 


They 
were 
standing 
in 
a 
country 
lane 
bordered 
by 
high, 
tangled 
hedgerows, 
beneath 
a 
summer 
sky 
as 
bright 
and 
blue 
as 
a 
forgetmenot. 
Some 
ten 
feet 
in 
front 
of 
them 
stood 
a 
short, 
plump 
man 
wearing 
enormously 
thick 
glasses 
that 
reduced 
his 
eyes 
to 
molelike 
specks. 
He 
was 
reading 
a 
wooden 
signpost 
that 
was 
sticking 
out 
of 
the 
brambles 
on the 
lefthand 
side 
of the 
road. Harry knew 
this 
must 
be 
Ogden; 
he 
was 
the 
only 
person 
in 
sight, 
and 
he 
was 
also 
wearing 
the 
strange 
assortment 
of 
clothes 
so 
often 
chosen by inexperienced wizards 
trying 
to 
look like 
Muggles: 
in this 
case, a 
frock coat 
and spats 
over 
a 
striped 
onepiece 
bathing 
costume. 
Before 
Harry 
had 
time 
to 
do 
more 
than 
register 
his 
bizarre 
appearance, however, Ogden had set off at a brisk walk down the lane. 

Dumbledore 
and 
Harry 
followed. 
As 
they 
passed 
the 
wooden 
sign, 
Harry 
looked 
up 
at 
its 
two 
arms. 
The 
one 
pointing 
back 
the 
way 
they 
had 
come 
read: 
Great 
Hangleton, 
5 
miles. 
The 
arm 
pointing 
after 
Ogden said Little Hangleton, 1 mile. 


They 
walked 
a 
short 
way 
with 
nothing 
to 
see 
but 
the 
hedgerows, 
the 
wide 
blue 
sky 
overhead 
and 
the 
swishing, 
frockcoated 
figure 
ahead. 
Then 
the 
lane 
curved 
to 
the 
left 
and 
fell 
away, 
sloping 
steeply 
down 
a 
hillside, 
so 
that 
they 
had 
a 
sudden, 
unexpected 
view 
of 
a 
whole 
valley 
laid 
out 
in 
front 
of 
them. 



Harry could see a village, undoubtedly Little Hangleton, nestled between two steep hills, its church and 
graveyard 
clearly 
visible. 
Across 
the 
valley, 
set 
on 
the 
opposite 
hillside, 
was 
a 
handsome 
manor 
house 
surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawn. 

Ogden 
had 
broken 
into 
a 
reluctant 
trot 
due 
to 
the 
steep 
downward 
slope. 
Dumbledore 
lengthened 
his 
stride, 
and 
Harry 
hurried 
to 
keep 
up. 
He 
thought 
Little 
Hangleton 
must 
be 
their 
final 
destination 
and 
wondered, 
as 
he 
had 
done 
on 
the 
night 
they 
had 
found 
Slughorn, 
why 
they 
had 
to 
approach 
it 
from 
such 
a 
distance. 
He 
soon 
discovered 
that 
he 
was 
mistaken 
in 
thinking 
that 
they 
were 
going 
to 
the 
village, 
however. 
The 
lane 
curved 
to 
the 
right 
and 
when 
they 
rounded 
the 
corner, 
it 
was 
to 
see 
the 
very 
edge of Ogden's frock coat vanishing through a gap in the hedge. 

Dumbledore 
and 
Harry 
followed 
him 
onto 
a 
narrow 
dirt 
track 
bordered 
by 
higher 
and 
wilder 
hedgerows 
than 
those 
they 
had 
left 
behind. 
The 
path 
was 
crooked, 
rocky, 
and 
potholed, 
sloping 
downhill 
like 
the 
last 
one, 
and 
it 
seemed 
to 
be 
heading 
for 
a 
patch 
of 
dark 
trees 
a 
little 
below 
them. 
Sure 
enough, the track soon opened up 

at 
the 
copse, 
and 
Dumbledore 
and 
Harry 
came 
to 
a 
halt 
behind 
Ogden, 
who 
had 
stopped 
and 
drawn 
his 
wand. 

Despite 
the 
cloudless 
sky, 
the 
old 
trees 
ahead 
cast 
deep, 
dark, 
cool 
shadows, 
and 
it 
was 
a 
few 
seconds 
before 
Harry's 
eyes 
discerned 
the 
building 
halfhidden 
amongst 
the 
tangle 
of 
trunks. 
It 
seemed 
to 
him 
a 
very 
strange 
location 
to 
choose 
for 
a 
house, 
or 
else 
an 
odd 
decision 
to 
leave 
the 
trees 
growing 
nearby, 
blocking 
all 
light 
and 
the 
view 
of 
the 
valley 
below. 
He 
wondered 
whether 
it 
was 
inhabited; 
its 
walls 
were 
mossy 
and 
so 
many 
tiles 
had 
fallen 
off 
the 
roof 
that 
the 
rafters 
were 
visible 
in 
places. 
Nettles 
grew 
all 
around 
it, 
their 
tips 
reaching 
the 
windows, 
which 
were 
tiny 
and 
thick 
with 
grime. 
Just 
as 
he 
had 
concluded 
that 
nobody 
could 
possibly 
live 
there, 
however, 
one 
of 
the 
windows 
was 
thrown 
open 
with a clatter, and a thin trickle of steam or smoke issued from it, as though somebody was cooking. 

Ogden 
moved 
forward 
quietly 
and, 
it 
seemed 
to 
Harry, 
rather 
cautiously. 
As 
the 
dark 
shadows 
of 
the 
trees 
slid 
over 
him, 
he 
stopped 
again, 
staring 
at 
the 
front 
door, 
to 
which 
somebody 
had 
nailed 
a 
dead 
snake. 

Then 
there 
was 
a 
rustle 
and 
a 
crack, 
and 
a 
man 
in 
rags 
dropped 
from 
the 
nearest 
tree, 
landing 
on 
his 
feet 
right 
in 
front 
of 
Ogden, 
who 
leapt 
backward 
so 
fast 
he 
stood 
on 
the 
tails 
of 
his 
frock 
coat 
and 
stumbled. 


"You're not welcome." 


The 
man 
standing 
before 
them 
had 
thick 
hair 
so 
matted 
with 
dirt 
it 
could 
have 
been 
any 
color. 
Several 
of 
his 
teeth 
were 
missing. 
His 
eyes 
were 
small 
and 
dark 
and 
stared 
in 
opposite 
directions. 
He 
might 
have 
looked 
comical, 
but 
he 
did 
not; 
the 
effect 
was 
frightening, 
and 
Harry 
could 
not 
blame 
Ogden 
for 
backing away several more paces before he spoke. 

"Er — good morning. I'm from the Ministry of Magic —" "You're not welcome." 


"Er — I'm sorry — I don't understand you," said Ogden nervously. 



Harry 
thought 
Ogden 
was 
being 
extremely 
dim; 
the 
stranger 
was 
making 
himself 
very 
clear 
in 
Harry's 
opinion, 
particularly 
as 
he 
was 
brandishing 
a 
wand 
in 
one 
hand 
and 
a 
short 
and 
rather 
bloody 
knife 
in 
the other. 

"You understand him, I'm sure, Harry?" said Dumbledore quietly. "Yes, of course," said Harry, slightly 
nonplussed. "Why can't Ogden — ?" 

But as his eyes found the dead snake on the door again, he suddenly understood. 


"He's speaking Parseltongue?" 

"Very good," said Dumbledore, nodding and smiling. 


The man in rags was now advancing on Ogden, knife in one hand, wand in the other. 

"Now, 
look 
—" 
Ogden 
began, 
but 
too 
late: 
There 
was 
a 
bang, 
and 
Ogden 
was 
on 
the 
ground, 
clutching 
his nose, while a nasty yellowish goo squirted from between his fingers. 

"Morfin!" said a loud voice. 

An 
elderly 
man 
had 
come 
hurrying 
out 
of 
the 
cottage, 
banging 
the 
door 
behind 
him 
so 
that 
the 
dead 
snake 
swung 
pathetically. 
This 
man 
was 
shorter 
than 
the 
first, 
and 
oddly 
proportioned; 
his 
shoulders 
were 
very 
broad 
and 
his 
arms 
overlong, 
which, 
with 
his 
bright 
brown 
eyes, 
short 
scrubby 
hair, 
and 
wrinkled 
face, 
gave 
him 
the 
look 
of 
a 
powerful, 
aged 
monkey. 
He 
came 
to 
a 
halt 
beside 
the 
man 
with 
the knife, who was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden on the ground. 

"Ministry, 
is 
it?" 
said 
the 
older 
man, 
looking 
down 
at 
Ogden. 
"Correct!" 
said 
Ogden 
angrily, 
dabbing 
his face. "And you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?" 


"S'right," said Gaunt. "Got you in the face, did he?" "Yes, he did!" snapped Ogden. 

"Should've 
made 
your 
presence 
known, 
shouldn't 
you?" 
said 
Gaunt 
aggressively. 
"This 
is 
private 
property. Can't just walk in here and not expect my son to defend himself." 

"Defend himself against what, man?" said Ogden, clambering back to his feet. 

"Busybodies. 
Intruders. 
Muggles 
and 
filth." 
Ogden 
pointed 
his 
wand 
at 
his 
own 
nose, 
which 
was 
still 
issuing 
large 
amounts 
of 
what 
looked 
like 
yellow 
pus, 
and 
the 
flow 
stopped 
at 
once. 
Mr. 
Gaunt 
spoke 
out of the corner of his mouth to Morfin. "Get in the house. Don't argue." 

This 
time, 
ready 
for 
it, 
Harry 
recognized 
Parseltongue; 
even 
while 
he 
could 
understand 
what 
was 
being 
said, 
he 
distinguished 
the 
weird 
hissing 
noise 
that 
was 
all 
Ogden 
could 
hear. 
Morfin 
seemed 
to 
be 
on 
the 
point 
of 
disagreeing, 
but 
when 
his 
father 
cast 
him 
a 
threatening 
look 
he 
changed 
his 
mind, 
lumbering away to the 
cottage 
with 
an odd rolling 
gait 
and slamming 
the 
front 
door 
behind him, 
so that 
the snake swung sadly again. 


"It's 
your 
son 
I'm 
here 
to 
see, 
Mr. 
Gaunt," 
said 
Ogden, 
as 
he 
mopped 
the 
last 
of 
the 
pus 
from 
the 
front 
of his coat. "That was Morfin, wasn't it?" 


"At, 
that 
was 
Morfin," 
said 
the 
old 
man 
indifferently. 
"Are 
you 
pureblood?" 
he 
asked, 
suddenly 


aggressive. 
"That's 
neither 
here 
nor 
there," 
said 
Ogden 
coldly, 
and 
Harry 
felt 
his 
respect 
for 
Ogden 
rise. 
Apparently Gaunt felt rather differently. 


He 
squinted 
into 
Ogdens 
lace 
and 
muttered, 
in 
what 
was 
clearly 
supposed 
to 
be 
an 
offensive 
tone, 


"Now I come to think about it, I've seen noses like yours down in the village." 
"I 
don't 
doubt 
it, 
if 
your 
sons 
been 
let 
loose 
on 
them," 
said 
Ogden. 
"Perhaps 
we 
could 
continue 
this 
discussion inside?" 


"Inside?" 
"Yes, Mr. Gaunt. I've already told you. I'm here about Morfin. We sent an owl —" 
"I've no use for owls," said Gaunt. "I don't open letters." 
"Then 
you 
can 
hardly 
complain 
that 
you 
get 
no 
warning 
of 
visitors," 
said 
Ogden 
tartly. 
"I 
am 
here 


following 
a 
serious 
breach 
of 
Wizarding 
law, 
which 
occurred 
here 
in 
the 
early 
hours 
of 
this 
morning 


—" 
"All 
right, 
all 
right, 
all 
right!" 
bellowed 
Gaunt. 
"Come 
in 
the 
bleeding 
house, 
then, 
and 
much 
good 
it'll 
do you!" 


The 
house 
seemed 
to 
contain 
three 
tiny 
rooms. 
Two 
doors 
led 
off 
the 
main 
room, 
which 
served 
as 
kitchen 
and 
living 
room 
combined. 
Morfin 
was 
sitting 
in 
a 
filthy 
armchair 
beside 
the 
smoking 
fire, 
twisting a live adder between his thick fingers and crooning softly at it in Parseltongue: 


Hissy, hissy, little snakey, 
Slither on the floor 
You be good to Morfin 
Or he'll nail you to the door. 
There 
was 
a 
scuffling 
noise 
in 
the 
corner 
beside 
the 
open 
window, 
and 
Harry 
realized 
that 
there 
was 


somebody else in the room, a girl whose ragged gray dress was the exact color of the dirty stone 
wall 
behind 
her. 
She 
was 
standing 
beside 
a 
steaming 
pot 
on 
a 
grimy 
black 
stove, 
and 
was 
fiddling 
around with the 
shelf 
of 
squalidlooking 
pots 
and pans 
above 
it. 
Her 
hair 
was 
lank and dull 
and she 
had 


a 
plain, 
pale, 
rather 
heavy 
face. 
Her 
eyes, 
like 
her 
brother's, 
stared 
in 
opposite 
directions. 
She 
looked 
a 
little cleaner than the two men, but Harry thought he had never seen a more defeatedlooking 
person. 
"M'daughter, Merope," said Gaunt grudgingly, as Ogden looked 
inquiringly toward her. 
"Good morning," said Ogden. 



She 
did 
not 
answer, 
but 
with 
a 
frightened 
glance 
at 
her 
father 
turned 
her 
back 
on 
the 
room 
and 


continued shifting the pots on the shelf behind her. 
"Well, 
Mr. 
Gaunt," 
said 
Ogden, 
"to 
get 
straight 
to 
the 
point, 
we 
have 
reason 
to 
believe 
that 
your 
son, 
Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night." 


There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped one of the pots. 


"Pick 
it 
up!" 
Gaunt 
bellowed 
at 
her. 
"That's 
it, 
grub 
on 
the 
floor 
like 
some 
filthy 
Muggle, 
what's 
your 
wand for, you useless sack of muck?" 
"Mr. 
Gaunt, 
please!" 
said 
Ogden 
in 
a 
shocked 
voice, 
as 
Merope, 
who 
had 
already 
picked 
up 
the 
pot, 


flushed 
blotchily 
scarlet, 
lost 
her 
grip 
on 
the 
pot 
again1 
drew 
her 
wand 
shakily 
from 
her 
pocket, 
pointed 
it 
at 
the 
pot, 
and 
muttered 
a 
hasty, 
inaudible 
spell 
that 
caused 
the 
pot 
to 
shoot 
across 
the 
floor 
away from her, hit the opposite wall, and crack in two. 


Morfin let out a mad cackle of laughter. Gaunt screamed, "Mend it, you pointless lump, mend it!" 


Merope 
stumbled 
across 
the 
room, 
but 
before 
she 
had 
time 
to 
raise 
her 
wand, 
Ogden 
had 
lifted 
his 
own 
and said firmly, "Reparo. " The pot mended itself instantly. 
Gaunt 
looked 
for 
a 
moment 
as 
though 
he 
was 
going 
to 
shout 
at 
Ogden, 
but 
seemed 
to 
think 
better 
of 
it: 


Instead, 
he 
jeered 
at 
his 
daughter, 
"Lucky 
the 
nice 
man 
from 
the 
Ministry's 
here, 
isn't 
it? 
Perhaps 
he'll 


take you off my hands, perhaps he doesn't mind dirty Squibs. . . ." 
Without 
looking 
at 
anybody 
or 
thanking 
Ogden, 
Merope 
picked 
up 
the 
pot 
and 
returned 
it, 
hands 
trembling, 
to 
its 
shelf. 
She 
then 
stood 
quite 
still, 
her 
back 
against 
the 
wall 
between 
the 
filthy 
window 
and the stove, as though she wished for nothing more than to sink into the stone and vanish. 


"Mr. Gaunt," Ogden began again, "as I've said: the reason for my visit —" 


"I 
heard 
you 
the 
first 
time!" 
snapped 
Gaunt. 
"And 
so 
what? 
Morfin 
gave 
a 
Muggle 
a 
bit 
of 
what 
was 
coming to him — what about it, then?" 
"Morfin has broken Wizarding law," said Ogden sternly. 
"'Morfin 
has 
broken 
Wizarding 
law.'" 
Gaunt 
imitated 
Ogdens 
voice, 
making 
it 
pompous 
and 
singsong. 


Morfin cackled again. "He taught a filthy Muggle a lesson, that's illegal now, is it?" 
"Yes," said Ogden. "I'm afraid it is." 
He pulled from an inside pocket a small scroll of parchment and unrolled it. 
"What's that, then, his sentence?" said Gaunt, his voice rising angrily. 
"It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing —" 
"Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are, summoning my son anywhere?" 
"I'm Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad," said Ogden. 
"And 
you 
think 
we're 
scum, 
do 
you?" 
screamed 
Gaunt, 
advancing 
on 
Ogden 
now, 
with 
a 
dirty 
yellow



nailed 
finger 
pointing 
at 
his 
chest. 
"Scum 
who'll 
come 
running 
when 
the 
Ministry 
tells 
'em 
to? 
Do 
you 
know who you're talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?" 


"I 
was 
under 
the 
impression 
that 
I 
was 
speaking 
to 
Mr. 
Gaunt," 
said 
Ogden, 
looking 
wary, 
but 
standing 
his ground. 

"That's 
right!" 
roared 
Gaunt. 
For 
a 
moment, 
Harry 
thought 
Gaunt 
was 
making 
an 
obscene 
hand 
gesture, 
but 
then 
realized 
that 
he 
was 
showing 
Ogden 
the 
ugly, 
blackstoned 
ring 
he 
was 
wearing 
on 
his 
middle 
finger, 
waving 
it 
before 
Ogden's 
eyes. 
"See 
this? 
See 
this? 
Know 
what 
it 
is? 
Know 
where 
it 
came 
from? 
Centuries 
it's 
been 
in 
our 
family, 
that's 
how 
far 
back 
we 
go, 
and 
pureblood 
all 
the 
way! 
Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?" 


"I've 
really 
no 
idea," 
said 
Ogden, 
blinking 
as 
the 
ring 
sailed 
within 
an 
inch 
of 
his 
nose, 
"and 
it's 
quite 
beside the point, Mr. Gaunt. Your son has committed —" 


With 
a 
howl 
of 
rage, 
Gaunt 
ran 
toward 
his 
daughter. 
For 
a 
split 
second, 
Harry 
thought 
he 
was 
going 
to 
throttle 
her 
as 
his 
hand 
flew 
to 
her 
throat; 
next 
moment, 
he 
was 
dragging 
her 
toward 
Ogden 
by 
a 
gold 
chain around her neck. 

"See 
this?" 
he 
bellowed 
at 
Ogden, 
shaking 
a 
heavy 
gold 
locket 
at 
him, 
while 
Merope 
spluttered 
and 
gasped for breath. 


"I see it, I see it!" said Ogden hastily. 


"Slytherins!" 
yelled 
Gaunt. 
"Salazar 
Slytherin's! 
We're 
his 
last 
living 
descendants, 
what 
do 
you 
say 
to 
that, eh?" 


"Mr. 
Gaunt, 
your 
daughter!" 
said 
Ogden 
in 
alarm, 
but 
Gaunt 
had 
already 
released 
Merope; 
she 
staggered away from him, back to her corner, massaging her neck and gulping for air. 

"So!" 
said 
Gaunt 
triumphantly, 
as 
though 
he 
had 
just 
proved 
a 
complicated 
point 
beyond 
all 
possible 
dispute. 
"Don't 
you 
go 
talking 
to 
us 
as 
if 
we're 
dirt 
on 
your 
shoes! 
Generations 
of 
purebloods, 
wizards 
all — more than you can say, I don't doubt!" 


And 
he 
spat 
on 
the 
floor 
at 
Ogdens 
feet. 
Morfin 
cackled 
again. 
Merope, 
huddled 
beside 
the 
window, 
her head bowed and her face hidden by her lank hair, said nothing. 


"Mr. 
Gaunt," 
said 
Ogden 
doggedly, 
"I 
am 
afraid 
that 
neither 
your 
ancestors 
nor 
mine 
have 
anything 
to 
do 
with 
the 
matter 
in 
hand. 
I 
am 
here 
because 
of 
Morfin, 
Morfin 
and 
the 
Muggle 
he 
accosted 
late 
last 
night. 
Our 
information" 
— 
he 
glanced 
down 
at 
his 
scroll 
of 
parchment 
— 
"is 
that 
Morfin 
performed 
a 
jinx or hex on the said Muggle, causing him to erupt in highly painful hives." 


Morfin giggled. 


"Be quiet, boy," snarled Gaunt in Parseltongue, and Morfin fell silent again. 


"And 
so 
what 
if 
he 
did, 
then?" 
Gaunt 
said 
defiantly 
to 
Ogden, 
"I 
expect 
you've 
wiped 
the 
Muggle's 
filthy face clean for him, and his memory to boot —" 


"That's 
hardly 
the 
point, 
is 
it, 
Mr. 
Gaunt?" 
said 
Ogden. 
"This 
was 
an 
unprovoked 
attack 
on 
a 



defenseless —" 

"Ar, 
I 
had 
you 
marked 
out 
as 
a 
Mugglelover 
the 
moment 
I 
saw 
you," 
sneered 
Gaunt, 
and 
he 
spat 
on 
the floor again. 

"This 
discussion 
is 
getting 
us 
nowhere," 
said 
Ogden 
firmly. 
"It 
is 
clear 
from 
your 
son's 
attitude 
that 
he 
feels 
no 
remorse 
for 
his 
actions." 
He 
glanced 
down 
at 
his 
scroll 
of 
parchment 
again. 
"Morfin 
will 
attend 
a 
hearing 
on 
the 
fourteenth 
of 
September 
to 
answer 
the 
charges 
of 
using 
magic 
in 
front 
of 
a 
Muggle and causing harm and distress to that same Mugg —" 


Ogden 
broke 
off. 
The 
jingling, 
clopping 
sounds 
of 
horses 
and 
loud, 
laughing 
voices 
were 
drifting 
in 
through 
the 
open 
window. 
Apparently 
the 
winding 
lane 
to 
the 
village 
passed 
very 
close 
to 
the 
copse 
where 
the 
house 
stood. 
Gaunt 
froze, 
listening, 
his 
eyes 
wide. 
Morfin 
hissed 
and 
turned 
his 
face 
toward 
the sounds, his expression hungry. Merope raised her head. Her face, Harry saw, was starkly white. 

"My 
God, 
what 
an 
eyesore!" 
rang 
out 
a 
girl's 
voice, 
as 
clearly 
audible 
through 
the 
open 
window 
as 
if 
she had stood in the room beside them. "Couldn't your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?" 


"It's 
not 
ours," 
said 
a 
young 
man's 
voice. 
"Everything 
on 
the 
other 
side 
of 
the 
valley 
belongs 
to 
us, 
but 
that 
cottage 
belongs 
to 
an 
old 
tramp 
called 
Gaunt, 
and 
his 
children. 
The 
son's 
quite 
mad, 
you 
should 
hear some of the stories they tell in the village —" 


The 
girl 
laughed. 
The 
jingling, 
clopping 
noises 
were 
growing 
louder 
and 
louder. 
Morfin 
made 
to 
get 
out of his armchair. , "Keep your seat," said his father warningly, in Parseltongue. 

"Tom," 
said 
the 
girl's 
voice 
again, 
now 
so 
close 
they 
were 
clearly 
right 
beside 
the 
house, 
"I 
might 
be 
wrong — but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?" 

"Good 
lord, 
you're 
right!" 
said 
the 
man's 
voice. 
"That'll 
be 
the 
son, 
I 
told 
you 
he's 
not 
right 
in 
the 
head. 
Don't look at it, Cecilia, darling. 

The jingling and clopping sounds were now growing faint again. 


"'Darling,'" 
whispered 
Morfin 
in 
Parseltongue, 
looking 
at 
his 
sister. 
"'Darling, 
he 
called 
her. 
So 
he 
wouldn't have you anyway." 

Merope was so white Harry felt sure she was going to faint. 

"What's 
that?" 
said 
Gaunt 
sharply, 
also 
in 
Parseltongue, 
looking 
from 
his 
son 
to 
his 
daughter. 
"What 
did you say, Morfin?" 


"She 
likes 
looking 
at 
that 
Muggle, 
"said 
Morfin, 
a 
vicious 
expression 
on 
his 
face 
as 
he 
stared 
at 
his 
sister, 
who 
now 
looked 
terrified. 
"Always 
in 
the 
garden 
when 
he 
passes, 
peering 
through 
the 
hedge 
at 
him, isn't she? And last night — " 


Merope 
shook 
her 
head 
jerkily, 
imploringly, 
but 
Morfin 
went 
on 
ruthlessly, 
"Hanging 
out 
of 
the 
window waiting for him to ride home, wasn't she?" 

"Hanging out of the window to look at a Muggle?" said Gaunt quietly. 


All 
three 
of 
the 
Gaunts 
seemed 
to 
have 
forgotten 
Ogden, 
who 
was 
looking 
both 
bewildered 
and 
irritated at this renewed outbreak of incomprehensible hissing and rasping. 

"Is 
it 
true?" 
said 
Gaunt 
in 
a 
deadly 
voice, 
advancing 
a 
step 
or 
two 
toward 
the 
terrified 
girl. 
"My 
daughter—pureblooded 
descendant 
of 
Salazar 
Slytherin 
— 
hankering 
after 
a 
filthy, 
dirtveined 
Muggle?" 

Merope shook her head frantically, pressing herself into the wall, apparently unable to speak. 

"But 
I 
got 
him, 
Father!" 
cackled 
Morfin. 
"I 
got 
him 
as 
he 
went 
by 
and 
he 
didn't 
look 
so 
pretty 
with 
hives all over him, did he, Merope?" 


"You 
disgusting 
little 
Squib, 
you 
filthy 
little 
blood 
traitor!" 
roared 
Gaunt, 
losing 
control, 
and 
his 
hands 
closed around his daughter's throat. 

Both Harry and Ogden yelled "No!" at the same time; Ogden raised his wand and cried, "Relaskio!" 


Gaunt 
was 
thrown 
backward, 
away 
from 
his 
daughter; 
he 
tripped 
over 
a 
chair 
and 
fell 
flat 
on 
his 
back. 
With 
a 
roar 
of 
rage, 
Morfin 
leapt 
out 
of 
his 
chair 
and 
ran 
at 
Ogden, 
brandishing 
his 
bloody 
knife 
and 
firing hexes indiscriminately from his wand. 

Ogden 
ran 
for 
his 
life. 
Dumbledore 
indicated 
that 
they 
ought 
to 
follow 
and 
Harry 
obeyed, 
Merope's 
screams echoing in his ears. 

Ogden 
hurtled 
up 
the 
path 
and 
erupted 
onto 
the 
main 
lane, 
his 
arms 
over 
his 
head, 
where 
he 
collided 
with 
the 
glossy 
chestnut 
horse 
ridden 
by 
a 
very 
handsome, 
darkhaired 
young 
man. 
Both 
he 
and 
the 
pretty 
girl 
riding 
beside 
him 
on 
a 
gray 
horse 
roared 
with 
laughter 
at 
the 
sight 
of 
Ogden, 
who 
bounced 
off 
the 
horse's 
flank 
and 
set 
off 
again, 
his 
frock 
coat 
flying, 
covered 
from 
head 
to 
foot 
in 
dust, 
running 
pellmell 
up the lane. 

"I 
think 
that 
will 
do, 
Harry," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
He 
took 
Harry 
by 
the 
elbow 
and 
tugged. 
Next 
moment, 
they 
were 
both 
soaring 
weightlessly 
through 
darkness, 
until 
they 
landed 
squarely 
on 
their 
feet, 
back 
in 
Dumbledore's now twilit office. 

"What 
happened 
to 
the 
girl 
in 
the 
cottage?" 
said 
Harry 
at 
once, 
as 
Dumbledore 
lit 
extra 
lamps 
with 
a 
flick of his wand. "Merope, or whatever her name was?" 


"Oh, 
she 
survived," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
reseating 
himself 
behind 
his 
desk 
and 
indicating 
that 
Harry 
should 
sit 
down 
too. 
"Ogden 
Apparated 
back 
to 
the 
Ministry 
and 
returned 
with 
reinforcements 
within 
fifteen 
minutes. 
Morfin 
and 
his 
father 
attempted 
to 
fight, 
but 
both 
were 
overpowered, 
removed 
from 
the 
cottage, 
and 
subsequently 
convicted 
by 
the 
Wizengamot. 
Morfin, 
who 
already 
had 
a 
record 
of 
Muggle 
attacks, 
was 
sentenced 
to 
three 
years 
in 
Azkaban. 
Marvolo, 
who 
had 
injured 
several 
Ministry 
employees addition to Ogden, received six months." 


"Marvolo?" Harry repeated wonderingly. 


"That's right," said Dumbledore, smiling in approval. "I am glad to see you're keeping up." 


"That old man was — ?" 



"Voldemort's 
grandfather, 
yes," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"Marvolo, 
his 
son, 
Morfin, 
and 
his 
daughter, 
Merope, were 
the 
last 
of 
the 
Gaunts, 
a 
very ancient 
Wizarding 
family noted for 
a 
vein of 
instability 
and 
violence 
that 
flourished 
through 
the 
generations 
due 
to 
their 
habit 
of 
marrying 
their 
own 
cousins. 
Lack 
of 
sense 
coupled 
with 
a 
great 
liking 
for 
grandeur 
meant 
that 
the 
family 
gold 
was 
squandered 
several 
generations 
before 
Marvolo 
was 
born. 
He, 
as 
you 
saw, 
was 
left 
in 
squalor 
and 
poverty, 
with 
a 
very 
nasty 
temper, 
a 
fantastic 
amount 
of 
arrogance 
and 
pride, 
and 
a 
couple 
of 
family 
heirlooms 
that 
he 
treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his daughter." 

"So 
Merope," 
said 
Harry, 
leaning 
forward 
in 
his 
chair 
and 
staring 
at 
Dumbledore, 
"so 
Merope 
was 
. 
. 
. 
Sir, does that mean she was . . . Voldemort's mother?" 

"It 
does," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"And 
it 
so 
happens 
that 
we 
also 
had 
a 
glimpse 
of 
Voldemort's 
father. 
I 
wonder whether you noticed?" 


"The Muggle Morfin attacked? The man on the horse?" 


"Very 
good 
indeed," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
beaming. 
"Yes, 
that 
was 
Tom 
Riddle 
senior, 
the 
handsome 
Muggle 
who 
used 
to 
go 
riding 
past 
the 
Gaunt 
cottage 
and 
for 
whom 
Merope 
Gaunt 
cherished 
a 
secret, 
burning passion." 


"And 
they 
ended 
up 
married?" 
Harry 
said 
in 
disbelief, 
unable 
to 
imagine 
two 
people 
less 
likely 
to 
fall 
in love. 

"I 
think 
you 
are 
forgetting," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
"that 
Merope 
was 
a 
witch. 
I 
do 
not 
believe 
that 
her 
magical 
powers 
appeared 
to 
their 
best 
advantage 
when 
she 
was 
being 
terrorized 
by 
her 
father. 
Once 
Marvolo 
and 
Morfin 
were 
safely 
in 
Azkaban, 
once 
she 
was 
alone 
and 
free 
for 
the 
first 
time 
in 
her 
life, 
then, 
I 
am 
sure, 
she 
was 
able 
to 
give 
full 
rein 
to 
her 
abilities 
and 
to 
plot 
her 
escape 
from 
the 
desperate 
life she had led for eighteen years." 


"Can 
you 
not 
think 
of 
any 
measure 
Merope 
could 
have 
taken 
to 
make 
Tom 
Riddle 
forget 
his 
Muggle 
companion, and fall in love with her instead?" 

"The Imperius Curse?" Harry suggested. "Or a love potion?" 


"Very 
good. 
Personally, 
I 
am 
inclined 
to 
think 
that 
she 
used 
a 
love 
potion. 
I 
am 
sure 
it 
would 
have 
seemed 
more 
romantic 
to 
her, 
and 
I 
do 
not 
think 
it 
would 
have 
been 
very 
difficult, 
some 
hot 
day, 
when 
Riddle 
was 
riding 
alone, 
to 
persuade 
him 
to 
take 
a 
drink 
of 
water. 
In 
any 
case, 
within 
a 
few 
months 
of 
the 
scene 
we 
have 
just 
witnessed, 
the 
village 
of 
Little 
Hangleton 
enjoyed 
a 
tremendous 
scandal. 
You 
can imagine the gossip it caused when the squire's son ran off with the tramp's daughter, Merope." 

"But 
the 
villagers' 
shock 
was 
nothing 
to 
Marvolo's. 
He 
returned 
from 
Azkaban, 
expecting 
to 
find 
his 
daughter 
dutifully 
awaiting 
his 
return 
with 
a 
hot 
meal 
ready 
on 
his 
table. 
Instead, 
he 
found 
a 
clear 
inch 
of dust and her note of farewell, explaining what she had done." 


"From 
all 
that 
I 
have 
been 
able 
to 
discover, 
he 
never 
mentioned 
her 
name 
or 
existence 
from 
that 
time 
forth. 
The 
shock 
of 
her 
desertion 
may 
have 
contributed 
to 
his 
early 
death 
— 
or 
perhaps 
he 
had 
simply 



never 
learned 
to 
feed 
himself. 
Azkaban 
had 
greatly 
weakened 
Marvolo, 
and 
he 
did 
not 
live 
to 
see 
Morfin return to the cottage." 


"And Merope? She . .. she died, didn't she? Wasn't Voldemort brought up in an orphanage?" 
"Yes, 
indeed," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"We 
must 
do 
a 
certain 
amount 
of 
guessing 
here, 
although 
I 
do 
not 
think 
it 
is 
difficult 
to 
deduce 
what 
happened. 
You 
see, 
within 
a 
few 
months 
of 
their 
runaway 
marriage, 
Tom 
Riddle 
reappeared 
at 
the 
manor 
house 
in 
Little 
Hangleton 
without 
his 
wife. 
The 
rumor 
flew 
around 
the 
neighborhood 
that 
he 
was 
talking 
of 
being 
'hoodwinked' 
and 
'taken 
in.' 
What 
he 
meant, 
I 
am 
sure, 
is 
that 
he 
had 
been 
under 
an 
enchantment 
that 
had 
now 
lifted, 
though 
I 
daresay 
he 
did 
not 
dare 
use 
those 
precise 
words 
for 
fear 
of 
being 
thought 
insane. 
When 
they 
heard 
what 
he 
was 
saying, 
however, 
the 
villagers 
guessed 
that 
Merope 
had 
lied 
to 
Tom 
Riddle, 
pretending 
that 
she 
was 
going 
to 
have his baby, and that he had married her for this reason." 


"But she did have his baby." 
"But not until a year after they were married. Tom Riddle left her while she was still pregnant." 
"What went wrong?" asked Harry. "Why did the love potion stop working?" 
"Again, 
this 
is 
guesswork," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
"but 
I 
believe 
that 
Merope, 
who 
was 
deeply 
in 
love 
with 


her 
husband, 
could 
not 
bear 
to 
continue 
enslaving 
him 
by 
magical 
means. 
I 
believe 
that 
she 
made 
the 
choice 
to 
stop 
giving 
him 
the 
potion. 
Perhaps, 
besotted 
as 
she 
was, 
she 
had 
convinced 
herself 
that 
he 
would 
by 
now 
have 
fallen 
in 
love 
with 
her 
in 
return. 
Perhaps 
she 
thought 
he 
would 
stay 
for 
the 
baby's 
sake. 
If 
so, 
she 
was 
wrong 
on 
both 
counts. 
He 
left 
her, 
never 
saw 
her 
again, 
and 
never 
troubled 
to 
discover what became of his son." 


The 
sky 
outside 
was 
inky 
black 
and 
the 
lamps 
in 
Dumbledore's 
office 
seemed 
to 
glow 
more 
brightly 
than before. 
"I think that will do for tonight, Harry," said Dumbledore after a moment or two. 
"Yes, sir," said Harry. 
He got to his feet, but did not leave. 
"Sir ... is it important to know all this about Voldemort's past?" 
"Very important, I think," said Dumbledore. 
"And it... it's got something to do with the prophecy?" 
"It has everything to do with the prophecy." 


"Right," said Harry, a little confused, but reassured all the same. 
He 
turned to 
go, then another 
question 
occurred to 
him, 
and he 
turned back again. "Sir, 
am 
I 
allowed to 
tell Ron and Hermione everything you've told me?" 


Dumbledore 
considered 
him 
for 
a 
moment, 
then 
said, 
"Yes, 
I 
think 
Mr. 
Weasley 
and 
Miss 
Granger 
have 
proved 
themselves 
trustworthy. 
But 
Harry, 
I 
am 
going 
to 
ask 
you 
to 
ask 
them 
not 
to 
repeat 
any 
of 



this 
to 
anybody 
else. 
It 
would 
not 
be 
a 
good 
idea 
if 
word 
got 
around 
how 
much 
I 
know, 
or 
suspect, 
about Lord Voldemort's secrets." 


"No, sir, I'll make sure it's just Ron and Hermione. Good night." 
He 
turned 
away 
again, 
and 
was 
almost 
at 
the 
door 
when 
he 
saw 
it. 
Sitting 
on 
one 
of 
the 
little 
spindlelegged 
tables 
that 
supported 
so 
many 
fraillooking 
silver 
instruments, 
was 
an 
ugly 
gold 
ring 
set 
with 
a 
large, cracked, black stone. 


"Sir," said Harry, staring at it. "That ring—" 
"Yes?" said Dumbledore. 
"You were wearing it when we visited Professor Slughorn that night." 
"So I was," Dumbledore agreed. 
"But isn't it... sir, isn't it the same ring Marvolo Gaunt showed Ogden?" 
Dumbledore bowed his head. "The very same." 
"But how come — ? Have you always had it?" 
"No, 
I 
acquired 
it 
very 
recently," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"A 
few 
days 
before 
I 
came 
to 
fetch 
you 
from 
your 


aunt and uncle's, in fact." 
"That would be around the time you injured your hand, then, sir?" 
"Around that time, yes, Harry." 
Harry hesitated. Dumbledore was smiling. 
"Sir, how exactly — ?" 
"Too late, Harry! You shall hear the story another time. Good night." 
"Good night, sir." 



Chapter 11 
Hermione's 
Helping 
Hand 


As 
Hermione 
had 
predicted, 
the 
sixth 
years' 
free 
periods 
were 
not 
the 
hours 
of 
blissful 
relaxation 
Ron 
had 
anticipated, 
but 
times 
in 
which 
to 
attempt 
to 
keep 
up 
with 
the 
vast 
amount 
of 
homework 
they 
were 
being 
set. Not 
only 
were 
they studying 
as 
though they had exams 
every day, but 
the 
lessons 
themselves 
had 
become 
more 
demanding 
than 
ever 
before. 
Harry 
barely 
understood 
half 
of 
what 
Professor 
McGonagall 
said 
to 
them 
these 
days; 
even 
Hermione 
had 
had 
to 
ask 
her 
to 
repeat 
instructions 
once 
or 
twice. 
Incredibly, 
and 
to 
Hermione's 
increasing 
resentment, 
Harry's 
best 
subject 
had 
suddenly 
become 
Potions, thanks to the HalfBlood 
Prince. 

Nonverbal 
spells 
were 
now 
expected, 
not 
only 
in 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts, 
but 
in 
Charms 
and 
Transfiguration 
too. 
Harry 
frequently 
looked 
over 
at 
his 
classmates 
in 
the 
common 
room 
or 
at 



mealtimes 
to 
see 
them 
purple 
in 
the 
face 
and 
straining 
as 
though 
they 
had 
overdosed 
on 
UNoPoo; 
but 
he 
knew 
that 
they 
were 
really 
struggling 
to 
make 
spells 
work 
without 
saying 
incantations 
aloud. 
It 
was 
a 
relief 
to 
get 
outside 
into 
the 
greenhouses; 
they 
were 
dealing 
with 
more 
dangerous 
plants 
than 
ever 
in 
Herbology, 
but 
at 
least 
they 
were 
still 
allowed 
to 
swear 
loudly 
if 
the 
Venomous 
Tentacula 
seized 
them 
unexpectedly from behind. 


One 
result 
of 
their 
enormous 
workload 
and 
the 
frantic 
hours 
of 
practicing 
nonverbal 
spells 
was 
that 
Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
had 
so 
far 
been 
unable 
to 
find 
time 
to 
go 
and 
visit 
Hagrid. 
He 
had 
stopped 
coming 
to 
meals 
at 
the 
staff 
table, 
an 
ominous 
sign, 
and 
on 
the 
few 
occasions 
when 
they 
had 
passed 
him 
in 
the 
corridors 
or 
out 
in 
the 
grounds, 
he 
had 
mysteriously 
failed 
to 
notice 
them 
or 
hear 
their 
greetings. 


"We've 
got 
to 
go 
and 
explain," 
said 
Hermione, 
looking 
up 
at 
Hagrid's 
huge 
empty 
chair 
at 
the 
staff 
table the following Saturday at breakfast. 


"We've 
got 
Quidditch 
tryouts 
this 
morning!" 
said 
Ron. 
"And 
we're 
supposed 
to 
be 
practicing 
that 
Aguamenti 
Charm 
from 
Flitwick! 
Anyway, 
explain 
what? 
How 
are 
we 
going 
to 
tell 
him 
we 
hated 
his 
stupid subject?" 


"We didn't hate it!" said Hermione. 


"Speak 
for 
yourself, 
I 
haven't 
forgotten 
the 
skrewts," 
said 
Ron 
darkly. 
"And 
I'm 
telling 
you 
now, 
we've 
had 
a 
narrow 
escape. 
You 
didn't 
hear 
him 
going 
on 
about 
his 
gormless 
brother 
— 
we'd 
have 
been 
teaching Grawp how to tie his shoelaces if we'd stayed." 

"I hate not talking to Hagrid," said Hermione, looking upset. 


"We'll 
go 
down 
after 
Quidditch," 
Harry 
assured 
her. 
He 
too 
was 
missing 
Hagrid, 
although 
like 
Ron 
he 
thought 
that 
they 
were 
better 
off 
without 
Grawp 
in 
their 
lives. 
"But 
trials 
might 
take 
all 
morning, 
the 
number 
of 
people 
who 
have 
applied." 
He 
felt 
slightly 
nervous 
at 
confronting 
the 
first 
hurdle 
of 
his 
Captaincy. "I dunno why the team's this popular all of a sudden." 


"Oh, 
come 
on, 
Harry," 
said 
Hermione, 
suddenly 
impatient. 
"It's 
not 
Quidditch 
that's 
popular, 
it's 
you! 
You've never been more interesting, and frankly, you've never been more fanciable." 


Ron 
gagged 
on 
a 
large 
piece 
of 
kipper. 
Hermione 
spared 
him 
one 
look 
of 
disdain 
before 
turning 
back 
to Harry. 

"Everyone 
knows 
you've 
been 
telling 
the 
truth 
now, 
don't 
they? 
The 
whole 
Wizarding 
world 
has 
had 
to 
admit 
that 
you 
were 
right 
about 
Voldemort 
being 
back 
and 
that 
you 
really 
have 
fought 
him 
twice 
in 
the 
last 
two 
years 
and 
escaped 
both 
times. 
And 
now 
they're 
calling 
you 
'the 
Chosen 
One' 
— 
well, 
come 
on, 
can't you see why people are fascinated by you?" 

Harry 
was 
finding 
the 
Great 
Hall 
very 
hot 
all 
of 
a 
sudden, 
even 
though 
the 
ceiling 
still 
looked 
cold 
and 
rainy. 

"And 
you've 
been 
through 
all 
that 
persecution 
from 
the 
Ministry 
when 
they 
were 
trying 
to 
make 
out 
you 
were 
unstable 
and 
a 
liar. 
You 
can 
still 
see 
the 
marks 
on 
the 
back 
of 
your 
hand 
where 
that 
evil 



woman made you write with your own blood, but you stuck to your story anyway. ..." 


"You 
can 
still 
see 
where 
those 
brains 
got 
hold 
of 
me 
in 
the 
Ministry, 
look," 
said 
Ron, 
shaking 
back 
his 
sleeves. 

"And 
it 
doesn't 
hurt 
that 
you've 
grown 
about 
a 
foot 
over 
the 
summer 
either," 
Hermione 
finished, 
ignoring Ron. 

"I'm tall," said Ron inconsequentially. 


The 
post 
owls 
arrived, 
swooping 
down 
through 
rainflecked 
windows, 
scattering 
everyone 
with 
droplets 
of 
water. 
Most 
people 
were 
receiving 
more 
post 
than 
usual; 
anxious 
parents 
were 
keen 
to 
hear 
from 
their 
children 
and 
to 
reassure 
them, 
in 
turn, 
that 
all 
was 
well 
at 
home. 
Harry 
had 
received 
no 
mail 
since 
the 
start 
of 
term; 
his 
only 
regular 
correspondent 
was 
now 
dead 
and 
although 
he 
had 
hoped 
that 
Lupin 
might 
write 
occasionally, 
he 
had 
so 
far 
been 
disappointed. 
He 
was 
very 
surprised, 
therefore, 
to 
see 
the 
snowy 
white 
Hedwig 
circling 
amongst 
all 
the 
brown 
and 
gray 
owls. 
She 
landed 
in 
front 
of 
him 
carrying 
a 
large, 
square 
package. 
A 
moment 
later, 
an 
identical 
package 
landed 
in 
front 
of 
Ron, 
crushing beneath it his minuscule and exhausted owl, Pigwidgeon. 

"Ha!" 
said 
Harry, 
unwrapping 
the 
parcel 
to 
reveal 
a 
new 
copy 
of 
Advanced 
PotionMaking, 
fresh 
from 
Flourish and Blotts. 


"Oh good," said Hermione, delighted. "Now you can give that graffitied copy back." 


"Are you mad?" said Harry. "I'm keeping it! Look, I've thought it out —" 

He 
pulled 
the 
old 
copy 
of 
Advanced 
PotionMaking 
out 
of 
his 
bag 
and 
tapped 
the 
cover 
with 
his 
wand, 
muttering, 
"Dijjindo!" 
The 
cover 
fell 
off. 
He 
did 
the 
same 
thing 
with 
the 
brandnew 
book 
(Hermione 
looked scandalized). He then swapped the covers, tapped each, and said, "Reparo!" 


There 
sat 
the 
Prince's 
copy, 
disguised 
as 
a 
new 
book, 
and 
there 
sat 
the 
fresh 
copy 
from 
Flourish 
and 
Blotts, looking thoroughly secondhand. 

"I'll give Slughorn back the new one, he can't complain, it cost nine Galleons." 


Hermione 
pressed 
her 
lips 
together, 
looking 
angry 
and 
disapproving, 
but 
was 
distracted 
by 
a 
third 
owl 
landing 
in 
front 
of 
her 
carrying 
that 
day's 
copy 
of 
the 
Daily 
Prophet. 
She 
unfolded 
it 
hastily 
and 
scanned the front page. 

"Anyone 
we 
know 
dead?" 
asked 
Ron 
in 
a 
determinedly 
casual 
voice; 
he 
posed 
the 
same 
question 
every 
time Hermione opened her paper. 

"No, but there have been more dementor attacks," said Hermione. "And an arrest." 


"Excellent, who?" said Harry, thinking of Bellatrix Lestrange. "Stan Shunpike," said Hermione. 

"What?" said Harry, startled. 


"'Stanley 
Shunpike, 
conductor 
on 
the 
popular 
Wizarding 
conveyance 
the 
Knight 
Bus, 
has 
been 
arrested 
on 
suspicion 
of 
Death 
Eater 
activity. 
Mr. 
Shunpike, 
21, 
was 
taken 
into 
custody 
late 
last 
night 
after 
a 
raid on his Clapham home. . .'" 


"Stan 
Shunpike, 
a 
Death 
Eater?" 
said 
Harry, 
remembering 
the 
spotty 
youth 
he 
had 
first 
met 
three 
years 
before. "No way!" 


"He might have been put under the Imperius Curse," said Ron reasonably. "You never can tell." 


"It doesn't look like it," said Hermione, who was still reading. "It says here he was arrested after he was 
overheard 
talking 
about 
the 
Death 
Eaters' 
secret 
plans 
in 
a 
pub." 
She 
looked 
up 
with 
a 
troubled 
expression 
on 
her 
face. 
"If 
he 
was 
under 
the 
Imperius 
Curse, 
he'd 
hardly 
stand 
around 
gossiping 
about 
their plans, would he?" 


"It 
sounds 
like 
he 
was 
trying 
to 
make 
out 
he 
knew 
more 
than 
he 
did," 
said 
Ron. 
"Isn't 
he 
the 
one 
who 
claimed he was going to become Minister of Magic when he was trying to chat up those veela?" 


"Yeah, that's him," said Harry. "I dunno what they're playing at, taking Stan seriously." 


"They 
probably 
want 
to 
look 
as 
though 
they're 
doing 
something," 
said 
Hermione, 
frowning. 
"People 
are 
terrified 
— 
you 
know 
the 
Patil 
twins' 
parents 
want 
them 
to 
go 
home? 
And 
Eloise 
Midgen 
has 
already been withdrawn. Her father picked her up last night." 


"What!" 
said 
Ron, 
goggling 
at 
Hermione. 
"But 
Hogwarts 
is 
safer 
than 
their 
homes, 
bound 
to 
be! 
We've 
got Aurors, and all those extra protective spells, and we've got Dumbledore!" 


"I 
don't 
think 
we've 
got 
him 
all 
the 
time," 
said 
Hermione 
very 
quietly, 
glancing 
toward 
the 
staff 
table 
over 
the 
top 
of 
the 
Prophet. 
"Haven't 
you 
noticed? 
His 
seat's 
been 
empty 
as 
often 
as 
Hagrid's 
this 
past 
week." 


Harry and Ron looked up at 
the 
staff table. The 
headmaster's 
chair 
was 
indeed empty. 
Now 
Harry came 
to think of it, he had not seen Dumbledore since their private lesson a week ago. 

"I 
think 
he's 
left 
the 
school 
to do something 
with the 
Order," 
said Hermione 
in a 
low 
voice. "I 
mean . . . 
it's all looking serious, isn't it?" 


Harry 
and 
Ron 
did 
not 
answer, 
but 
Harry 
knew 
that 
they 
were 
all 
thinking 
the 
same 
thing. 
There 
had 
been 
a 
horrible 
incident 
the 
day 
before, 
when 
Hannah 
Abbott 
had 
been 
taken 
out 
of 
Herbology 
to 
be 
told her mother had been found dead. They had not seen Hannah since. 

When 
they 
left 
the 
Gryffindor 
table 
five 
minutes 
later 
to 
head 
down 
to 
the 
Quidditch 
pitch, 
they 
passed 
Lavender 
Brown 
and 
Parvati 
Patil. 
Remembering 
what 
Hermione 
had 
said 
about 
the 
Patil 
twins' 
parents 
wanting 
them 
to 
leave 
Hogwarts, 
Harry 
was 
unsurprised 
to 
see 
that 
the 
two 
best 
friends 
were 
whispering 
together, 
looking 
distressed. 
What 
did 
surprise 
him 
was 
that 
when 
Ron 
drew 
level 
with 
them, 
Parvati 
suddenly 
nudged 
Lavender, 
who 
looked 
around 
and 
gave 
Ron 
a 
wide 
smile. 
Ron 
blinked 
at 
her, 
then 
returned 
the 
smile 
uncertainly. 
His 
walk 
instantly 
became 
something 
more 
like 
a 
strut. 
Harry resisted 
the 
temptation 
to 
laugh, remembering that 
Ron had refrained from 
doing so 
after 
Malfoy 
had 
broken 
Harry's 
nose; 
Hermione, 
however, 
looked 
cold 
and 
distant 
all 
the 
way 
down 
to 
the 
stadium 



through 
the 
cool, 
misty 
drizzle, 
and 
departed 
to 
find 
a 
place 
in 
the 
stands 
without 
wishing 
Ron 
good 
luck. 

As 
Harry 
had 
expected, 
the 
trials 
took 
most 
of 
the 
morning. 
Half 
of 
Gryffindor 
House 
seemed 
to 
have 
turned up, from first years who were nervously clutching a selection of the dreadful old school brooms, 
to 
seventh 
years 
who 
towered 
over 
the 
rest, 
looking 
coolly 
intimidating. 
The 
latter 
included 
a 
large, 
wiryhaired 
boy Harry recognized immediately from the Hogwarts Express. 


"We 
met 
on 
the 
train, 
in 
old 
Sluggy's 
compartment," 
he 
said 
confidently, 
stepping 
out 
of 
the 
crowd 
to 
shake Harry's hand. "Cormac McLaggen, Keeper." 


"You 
didn't 
try 
out 
last 
year, 
did 
you?" 
asked 
Harry, 
taking 
note 
of 
the 
breadth 
of 
McLaggen 
and 
thinking that he would probably block all three goal hoops without even moving. 


"I 
was 
in 
the 
hospital 
wing 
when 
they 
held 
the 
trials," 
said 
McLaggen, 
with 
something 
of 
a 
swagger. 
"Ate a pound of doxy eggs for a bet." 


"Right," 
said 
Harry. 
"Well. 
. 
. 
if 
you 
wait 
over 
there 
..." 
He 
pointed 
over 
to 
the 
edge 
of 
the 
pitch, 
close 
to 
where 
Hermione 
was 
sitting. 
He 
thought 
he 
saw 
a 
flicker 
of 
annoyance 
pass 
over 
McLaggen's 
face 
and 
wondered 
whether 
McLaggen 
expected 
preferential 
treatment 
because 
they 
were 
both 
"old 
Sluggy's" 
favorites. 
Harry 
decided 
to 
start 
with 
a 
basic 
test, 
asking 
all 
applicants 
for 
the 
team 
to 
divide 
into 
groups 
of 
ten and fly once 
around the 
pitch. This 
was 
a 
good decision: 
the 
first 
ten was 
made 
up of 
first 
years, 
and 
it 
could 
not 
have 
been 
plainer 
that 
they 
had 
hardly 
ever 
flown 
before. 
Only 
one 
boy 
managed 
to 
remain 
airborne 
for 
more 
than 
a 
few 
seconds, 
and 
he 
was 
so 
surprised 
he 
promptly 
crashed 
into one of the goal posts. 


The 
second 
group 
was 
comprised 
of 
ten 
of 
the 
silliest 
girls 
Harry 
had 
ever 
encountered, 
who, 
when 
he 
blew 
his 
whistle, 
merely 
fell 
about 
giggling 
and 
clutching 
one 
another. 
Romilda 
Vane 
was 
amongst 
them. 
When 
he 
told 
them 
to 
leave 
the 
pitch, 
they 
did 
so 
quite 
cheerfully 
and 
went 
to 
sit 
in 
the 
stands 
to 
heckle everyone else. 

The 
third 
group 
had 
a 
pileup 
halfway 
around 
the 
pitch. 
Most 
of 
the 
fourth 
group 
had 
come 
without 
broomsticks. The fifth group were Hufflepuffs. 


"If there's anyone else here who's not from Gryffindor," roared Harry, who was starting to get seriously 
annoyed, "leave now, please! 


There 
was 
a 
pause, 
then 
a 
couple 
of 
little 
Ravenclaws 
went 
sprinting 
off 
the 
pitch, 
snorting 
with 
laughter. 

After 
two 
hours, 
many 
complaints, 
and 
several 
tantrums, 
one 
involving 
a 
crashed 
Comet 
Two 
Sixty 
and 
several 
broken 
teeth, 
Harry 
had 
found 
himself 
three 
Chasers: 
Katie 
Bell, 
returned 
to 
the 
team 
after 
an 
excellent 
trial; 
a 
new 
find 
called 
Demelza 
Robins, 
who 
was 
particularly 
good 
at 
dodging 
Bludgers; 
and 
Ginny 
Weasley, 
who 
had 
outflown 
all 
the 
competition 
and 
scored 
seventeen 
goals 
to 
boot. 
Pleased 
though 
he 
was 
with 
his 
choices, 
Harry 
had 
also 
shouted 
himself 
hoarse 
at 
the 
many 
complainers 
and 
was now enduring a similar battle with the rejected Beaters. 


"That's my final decision and if you don't get out of the way of the Keepers I'll hex you," he bellowed. 

Neither 
of 
his 
chosen 
Beaters 
had 
the 
old 
brilliance 
of 
Fred 
and 
George, 
but 
he 
was 
still 
reasonably 
pleased 
with 
them: 
Jimmy 
Peakes, 
a 
short 
but 
broadchested 
thirdyear 
boy 
who 
had 
managed 
to 
raise 
a 
lump 
the 
size 
of 
an 
egg 
on 
the 
back 
of 
Harry's 
head 
with 
a 
ferociously 
hit 
Bludger, 
and 
Ritchie 
Coote, 
who looked weedy but 
aimed well. 
They now 
joined 
Katie, Demelza, and Ginny in 
the 
stands 
to 
watch the selection of their last team member. 

Harry 
had 
deliberately 
left 
the 
trial 
of 
the 
Keepers 
until 
last, 
hoping 
for 
an 
emptier 
stadium 
and 
less 
pressure 
on 
all 
concerned. 
Unfortunately, 
however, 
all 
the 
rejected 
players 
and 
a 
number 
of 
people 
who 
had 
come 
down 
to 
watch 
after 
a 
lengthy 
breakfast 
had 
joined 
the 
crowd 
by 
now, 
so 
that 
it 
was 
larger 
than 
ever. 
As 
each 
Keeper 
flew 
up 
to 
the 
goal 
hoops, 
the 
crowd 
roared 
and 
jeered 
in 
equal 
measure. 
Harry 
glanced 
over 
at 
Ron, 
who 
had 
always 
had 
a 
problem 
with 
nerves; 
Harry 
had 
hoped 
that 
winning their 
final 
match last 
term 
might 
have 
cured it, 
but 
apparently 
not: 
Ron was 
a 
delicate 
shade 
of 
green. 

None 
of 
the 
first 
five 
applicants 
saved 
more 
than 
two 
goals 
apiece. 
To 
Harry's 
great 
disappointment, 
Cormac 
McLaggen saved four 
penalties 
out 
of 
five. On the 
last 
one, however, he 
shot 
off 
in 
completely 
the 
wrong 
direction; 
the 
crowd 
laughed 
and 
booed 
and 
McLaggen 
returned 
to 
the 
ground 
grinding 
his 
teeth. 


Ron 
looked 
ready 
to 
pass 
out 
as 
he 
mounted 
his 
Cleansweep 
Eleven. 
"Good 
luck!" 
cried 
a 
voice 
from 
the 
stands. 
Harry 
looked 
around, 
expecting 
to 
see 
Hermione, 
but 
it 
was 
Lavender 
Brown. 
He 
would 
have 
quite 
liked 
to 
have 
hidden 
his 
face 
in 
his 
hands, 
as 
she 
did 
a 
moment 
later, 
but 
thought 
that 
as 
the 
Captain he ought to show slightly more grit, and so turned to watch Ron do his trial. 


Yet 
he 
need 
not 
have 
worried: 
Ron 
saved 
one, 
two, 
three, 
four, 
five 
penalties 
in 
a 
row. 
Delighted, 
and 
resisting 
joining 
in 
the 
cheers 
of 
the 
crowd 
with 
difficulty, 
Harry 
turned 
to 
McLaggen 
to 
tell 
him 
that, 
most 
unfortunately, 
Ron 
had 
beaten 
him, 
only 
to 
find 
McLaggen's 
red 
face 
inches 
from 
his 
own. 
He 
stepped back hastily. 


"His 
sister 
didn't 
really 
try," 
said 
McLaggen 
menacingly. 
There 
was 
a 
vein 
pulsing 
in 
his 
temple 
like 
the one Harry had often admired in Uncle Vernon's. "She gave him an easy save." 

"Rubbish," said Harry coldly. "That was the one he nearly missed." 


McLaggen took a step nearer Harry, who stood his ground this time. 

"Give me another go." 


"No," 
said 
Harry. 
"You've 
had 
your 
go. 
You 
saved 
four. 
Ron 
saved 
five. 
Ron's 
Keeper, 
he 
won 
it 
fair 
and square. Get out of my way." 

He 
thought 
for 
a 
moment 
that 
McLaggen 
might 
punch 
him, 
but 
he 
contented 
himself 
with 
an 
ugly 
grimace and stormed away, growling what sounded like threats to thin air. 

Harry turned around to find his new team beaming at him. 



"Well done," he croaked. "You flew really well —" 
"You did brilliantly, Ron!" 
This 
time 
it 
really 
was 
Hermione 
running 
toward 
them 
from 
the 
stands; 
Harry 
saw 
Lavender 
walking 


off 
the 
pitch, 
arm 
in 
arm 
with 
Parvati, 
a 
rather 
grumpy 
expression 
on 
her 
face. 
Ron 
looked 
extremely 


pleased with himself and even taller than usual as he grinned at the team and at Hermione. 
After 
fixing 
the 
time 
of 
their 
first 
full 
practice 
for 
the 
following 
Thursday, 
Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
bade 
goodbye 
to 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
team 
and 
headed 
off 
toward 
Hagrid's. 
A 
watery 
sun 
was 
trying 
to 
break 
through 
the 
clouds 
now 
and 
it 
had 
stopped 
drizzling 
at 
last. 
Harry 
felt 
extremely 
hungry; 
he 
hoped there would be something to eat at Hagrid's. 


"I 
thought 
I 
was 
going 
to 
miss 
that 
fourth 
penalty," 
Ron 
was 
saying 
happily. 
"Tricky 
shot 
from 
Demelza, did you see, had a bit of spin on it —" 


"Yes, yes, you were magnificent," said Hermione, looking amused. 
"I 
was 
better 
than 
that 
McLaggen 
anyway," 
said 
Ron 
in 
a 
highly 
satisfied 
voice. 
"Did 
you 
see 
him 
lumbering off in the wrong direction on his fifth? Looked like he'd been Confunded. ..." 


To 
Harry's 
surprise, 
Hermione 
turned 
a 
very 
deep 
shade 
of 
pink 
at 
these 
words. 
Ron 
noticed 
nothing; 


he was too busy describing each of his other penalties in loving detail. 
The 
great 
gray 
hippogriff, 
Buckbeak, 
was 
tethered 
in 
front 
of 
Hagrid's 
cabin. 
He 
clicked 
his 
razorsharp 
beak at their approach and turned his huge head toward them. 


"Oh dear," said Hermione nervously. "He's still a bit scary, isn't he?" 
"Come 
off 
it, 
you've 
ridden 
him, 
haven't 
you?" 
said 
Ron. 
Harry 
stepped 
forward 
and 
bowed 
low 
to 
the 


hippogriff 
without 
breaking 
eye 
contact 
or 
blinking. 
After 
a 
few 
seconds, 
Buckbeak 
sank 
into 
a 
bow 
too. 
"How 
are 
you?" 
Harry 
asked 
him 
in 
a 
low 
voice, 
moving 
forward 
to 
stroke 
the 
feathery 
head. 
"Missing 


him? But you're okay here with Hagrid, aren't you?" 
"Oi!" said a loud voice. 
Hagrid 
had 
come 
striding 
around 
the 
corner 
of 
his 
cabin 
wearing 
a 
large 
flowery 
apron 
and 
carrying 
a 


sack 
of 
potatoes. 
His 
enormous 
boarhound, 
Fang, 
was 
at 
his 
heels; 
Fang 
gave 
a 
booming 
bark 
and 
bounded forward. 


"Git away from him! He'll have yer fingers — oh. It's yeh lot." 
Fang 
was 
jumping 
up 
at 
Hermione 
and 
Ron, 
attempting 
to 
lick 
their 
ears. 
Hagrid 
stood 
and 
looked 
at 
them all for a split second, then turned and strode into his cabin, slamming the door behind him. 


"Oh dear!" said Hermione, looking stricken. 
"Don't 
worry 
about 
it," 
said 
Harry 
grimly. 
He 
walked 
over 
to 
the 
door 
and 
knocked 
loudly. 
"Hagrid! 
Open up, we want to talk to you!" 



There was no sound from within. 
"If you don't open the door, we'll blast it open!" Harry said, pulling out his wand. 
"Harry!" said Hermione, sounding shocked. "You can't possibly —" 
"Yeah, I can!" said Harry. "Stand back —" 
But 
before 
he 
could 
say 
anything 
else, 
the 
door 
flew 
open 
again 
as 
Harry 
had 
known 
it 
would, 
and 


there 
stood 
Hagrid, 
glowering 
down 
at 
him 
and 
looking, 
despite 
the 
flowery 
apron, 
positively 


alarming. 
"I'm 
a 
teacher!" 
he 
roared 
at 
Harry. 
"A 
teacher, 
Potter! 
How 
dare 
yeh 
threaten 
ter 
break 
down 
my 
door!" 


"I'm sorry, sir" said Harry, emphasizing the last word as he stowed his wand inside his robes. 
Hagrid looked stunned. "Since when have yeh called me 'sir'?" 
"Since when have you called me 'Potter'?" 
"Oh, very clever," growled Hagrid. "Very amusin'. That's me outsmarted, innit? All righ', come in then, 


yeh ungrateful little . . ." 


Mumbling 
darkly, 
he 
stood 
back 
to 
let 
them 
pass. 
Hermione 
scurried 
in 
after 
Harry, 
looking 
rather 
frightened. 
"Well?" 
said 
Hagrid 
grumpily, 
as 
Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
sat 
down 
around 
his 
enormous 
wooden 


table, 
Fang 
laying 
his 
head 
immediately 
upon 
Harry's 
knee 
and 
drooling 
all 
over 
his 
robes. 
"What's 
this? Feelin' sorry for me? Reckon I'm lonely or summat?" 
"No," said Harry at once. "We wanted to see you." 
"We've missed you!" said Hermione tremulously. 


"Missed me, have yeh?" snorted Hagrid. "Yeah. Righ'." 
He 
stomped 
around, 
brewing 
up 
tea 
in 
his 
enormous 
copper 
kettle, 
muttering 
all 
the 
while. 
Finally 
he 
slammed 
down 
three 
bucketsized 
mugs 
of 
mahoganybrown 
tea 
in 
front 
of 
them 
and 
a 
plate 
of 
his 
rock cakes. Harry was hungry enough even for Hagrid's cooking, and took one at once. 


"Hagrid," 
said 
Hermione 
timidly, 
when 
he 
joined 
them 
at 
the 
table 
and 
started 
peeling 
his 
potatoes 
with 
a 
brutality 
that 
suggested 
that 
each 
tuber 
had 
done 
him 
a 
great 
personal 
wrong, 
"we 
really 
wanted 
to 
carry 
on 
with 
Care 
of 
Magical 
Creatures, 
you 
know." 
Hagrid 
gave 
another 
great 
snort. 
Harry 
rather 
thought 
some 
bogeys 
landed 
on 
the 
potatoes, 
and 
was 
inwardly 
thankful 
that 
they 
were 
not 
staying 
for 
dinner. 

"We did!" said Hermione. "But none of us could fit it into our schedules!" 
"Yeah. Righ'," said Hagrid again. 
There 
was 
a 
funny 
squelching 
sound 
and 
they 
all 
looked 
around: 
Hermione 
let 
out 
a 
tiny 
shriek, 
and 



Ron 
leapt 
out 
of 
his 
seat 
and 
hurried 
around 
the 
table 
away 
from 
the 
large 
barrel 
standing 
in 
the 
corner 
that 
they 
had 
only 
just 
noticed. 
It 
was 
full 
of 
what 
looked 
like 
footlong 
maggots, 
slimy, 
white, 
and 
writhing. 


"What are they, Hagrid?" asked Harry, trying to sound interested rather than revolted, but putting down 
his rock cake all the same. 

"Jus' giant grubs," said Hagrid. 

"And they grow into ... ?" said Ron, looking apprehensive. 

"They won' grow inter nuthin'," said Hagrid. "I got 'em ter feed ter Aragog." 


And without warning, he burst into tears. 

"Hagrid!" 
cried 
Hermione, 
leaping 
up, 
hurrying 
around 
the 
table 
the 
long 
way 
to 
avoid 
the 
barrel 
of 
maggots, and putting an arm around his shaking shoulders. "What is it?" 


"It's. 
. 
. 
him 
. 
.." 
gulped 
Hagrid, 
his 
beetleblack 
eyes 
streaming 
as 
he 
mopped 
his 
face 
with 
his 
apron. 
"It's 
. 
. 
. 
Aragog. 
... 
I 
think 
he's 
dyin'. 
. 
, 
. 
He 
got 
ill 
over 
the 
summer 
an' 
he's 
not 
gettin' 
better.... 
I 
don' 
know what I'll do if he ... if he ... We've bin tergether so long. ..." 

Hermione 
patted 
Hagrid's 
shoulder, 
looking 
at 
a 
complete 
loss 
for 
anything 
to 
say. 
Harry 
knew 
how 
she 
felt. 
He 
had known Hagrid 
to present 
a 
vicious 
baby dragon with a 
teddy bear, seen him 
croon over 
giant 
scorpions 
with 
suckers 
and 
stingers, 
attempt 
to 
reason 
with 
his 
brutal 
giant 
of 
a 
halfbrother, 
but 
this 
was 
perhaps 
the 
most 
incomprehensible 
of 
all 
his 
monster 
fancies: 
the 
gigantic 
talking 
spider, 
Aragog, 
who 
dwelled 
deep 
in 
the 
Forbidden 
Forest 
and 
which 
he 
and 
Ron 
had 
only 
narrowly 
escaped 
four years previously. 


"Is 
there 
— 
is 
there 
anything 
we 
can 
do?" 
Hermione 
asked, 
ignoring 
Ron's 
frantic 
grimaces 
and 
headshakings. 


"I 
don' 
think 
there 
is, 
Hermione," 
choked 
Hagrid, 
attempting 
to 
stem 
the 
flood 
of 
his 
tears. 
"See, 
the 
rest o' the tribe ... Aragog's family . . . they're gettin' a bit funny now he's ill... bit restive ..." 

"Yeah, I think we saw a bit of that side of them," said Ron in an undertone. 

"... 
I 
don' 
reckon 
it'd 
be 
safe 
fer 
anyone 
but 
me 
ter 
go 
near 
the 
colony 
at 
the 
mo'," 
Hagrid 
finished, 
blowing 
his 
nose 
hard 
on 
his 
apron 
and 
looking 
up. 
"But 
thanks 
fer 
offerin', 
Hermione. 
... 
It 
means 
a 
lot. . .." 


After 
that, 
the 
atmosphere 
lightened 
considerably, 
for 
although 
neither 
Harry 
nor 
Ron 
had 
shown 
any 
inclination 
to 
go 
and 
feed 
giant 
grubs 
to 
a 
murderous, 
gargantuan 
spider, 
Hagrid 
seemed 
to 
take 
it 
for 
granted that they would have liked to have done and became his usual self once more. 

"Ar, 
I 
always 
knew 
yeh'd 
find 
it 
hard 
ter 
squeeze 
me 
inter 
yer 
timetables," 
he 
said 
gruffly, 
pouring 
them more tea. "Even if yeh applied fer TimeTurners 
—" 

"We 
couldn't 
have 
done," 
said 
Hermione. 
"We 
smashed 
the 
entire 
stock 
of 
Ministry 
TimeTurners 
when we were there last summer. It was in the Daily Prophet." 



"Ar, 
well 
then," 
said 
Hagrid. 
"There's 
no 
way 
yeh 
could've 
done 
it. 
... 
I'm 
sorry 
I've 
bin 
— 
yeh 
know 


— 
I've 
jus' 
bin 
worried 
about 
Aragog 
... 
an 
I 
did 
wonder 
whether, 
if 
Professor 
GrubblyPlank 
had 
bin 
teachin' yeh —" 
At 
which 
all 
three 
of 
them 
stated 
categorically 
and 
untruthfully 
that 
Professor 
GrubblyPlank, 
who 
had 
substituted 
for 
Hagrid 
a 
few 
times, 
was 
a 
dreadful 
teacher, 
with 
the 
result 
that 
by 
the 
time 
Hagrid 
waved them off the premises at dusk, he looked quite cheerful. 


"I'm 
starving," 
said 
Harry, 
once 
the 
door 
had 
closed 
behind 
them 
and 
they 
were 
hurrying 
through 
the 
dark 
and 
deserted 
grounds; 
he 
had 
abandoned 
the 
rock 
cake 
after 
an 
ominous 
cracking 
noise 
from 
one 
of his back teeth. "And I've got that detention with Snape tonight, I haven't got much time for dinner. ... 
" 


As 
they 
came 
into 
the 
castle 
they 
spotted 
Cormac 
McLaggen 
entering 
the 
Great 
Hall. 
It 
took 
him 
two 
attempts 
to 
get 
through 
the 
doors; 
he 
ricocheted 
off 
the 
frame 
on 
the 
first 
attempt. 
Ron 
merely 
guffawed 
gloatingly 
and 
strode 
off 
into 
the 
Hall 
after 
him, 
but 
Harry 
caught 
Hermione's 
arm 
and 
held 
her back. 

"What?" said Hermione defensively. 


"If 
you 
ask 
me," 
said 
Harry 
quietly, 
"McLaggen 
looks 
like 
he 
was 
Confunded 
this 
morning. 
And 
he 
was standing right in front of where you were sitting." 


Hermione blushed. 

"Oh, 
all 
right 
then, 
I 
did 
it," 
she 
whispered. 
"But 
you 
should 
have 
heard 
the 
way 
he 
was 
talking 
about 
Ron and Ginny! Anyway, he's got a nasty temper, you saw how he reacted when he didn't get in — you 
wouldn't have wanted someone like that on the team." 


"No," 
said 
Harry. 
"No, 
I 
suppose 
that's 
true. 
But 
wasn't 
that 
dishonest, 
Hermione? 
I 
mean, 
you're 
a 
prefect, aren't you?" 

"Oh, be quiet," she snapped, as he smirked. 

"What 
are 
you 
two 
doing?" 
demanded 
Ron, 
reappearing 
in 
the 
doorway 
to 
the 
Great 
Hall 
and 
looking 
suspicious. 


"Nothing," 
said 
Harry 
and 
Hermione 
together, 
and 
they 
hurried 
after 
Ron. 
The 
smell 
of 
roast 
beef 
made 
Harry's 
stomach 
ache 
with 
hunger, 
but 
they 
had 
barely 
taken 
three 
steps 
toward 
the 
Gryffindor 
table when Professor Slughorn appeared in front of them, blocking their path. 


"Harry, 
Harry, 
just 
the 
man 
I 
was 
hoping 
to 
see!" 
he 
boomed 
genially, 
twiddling 
the 
ends 
of 
his 
walrus 
mustache 
and 
puffing 
out 
his 
enormous 
belly, 
"I 
was 
hoping 
to 
catch 
you 
before 
dinner! 
What 
do 
you 
say 
to 
a 
spot 
of 
supper 
tonight 
in 
my 
rooms 
instead? 
We're 
having 
a 
little 
party, 
just 
a 
few 
rising 
stars, 
I've 
got 
McLaggen 
coming 
and 
Zabini, 
the 
charming 
Melinda 
Bobbin 
— 
I 
don't 
know 
whether 
you 
know 
her? 
Her 
family 
owns 
a 
large 
chain 
of 
apothecaries 
— 
and, 
of 
course, 
I 
hope 
very 
much 
that 
Miss Granger will favor me by coming too." 


Slughorn 
made 
Hermione 
a 
little 
bow 
as 
he 
finished 
speaking. 
It 
was 
as 
though 
Ron 
was 
not 
present; 
Slughorn did not so much as look at him. 


"I can't come, Professor," said Harry at once. "I've got a detention with Professor Snape." 


"Oh 
dear!" 
said 
Slughorn, 
his 
face 
falling 
comically. 
"Dear, 
dear, 
I 
was 
counting 
on 
you, 
Harry! 
Well, 
now, 
I'll 
just 
have 
to 
have 
a 
word 
with 
Severus 
and 
explain 
the 
situation. 
I'm 
sure 
I'll 
be 
able 
to 
persuade 
him to postpone your detention. Yes, I'll see you both later!" He bustled away out of the Hall. 


"He's 
got 
no 
chance 
of 
persuading 
Snape," 
said 
Harry, 
the 
moment 
Slughorn 
was 
out 
of 
earshot. 
"This 
detentions 
already 
been 
postponed 
once; 
Snape 
did 
it 
for 
Dumbledore, 
but 
he 
won't 
do 
it 
for 
anyone 
else." 


"Oh, 
I 
wish 
you 
could 
come, 
I 
don't 
want 
to 
go 
on 
my 
own!" 
said 
Hermione 
anxiously; 
Harry 
knew 
that she was thinking about McLaggen. 

"I 
doubt 
you'll 
be 
alone, 
Ginny'll 
probably 
be 
invited," 
snapped 
Ron, 
who 
did 
not 
seem 
to 
have 
taken 
kindly to being ignored by Slughorn. 


After 
dinner 
they 
made 
their 
way 
back 
to 
Gryffindor 
Tower. 
The 
common 
room 
was 
very 
crowded, 
as 
most 
people 
had 
finished 
dinner 
by 
now, 
but 
they 
managed 
to 
find 
a 
free 
table 
and 
sat 
down; 
Ron, 
who 
had 
been 
in 
a 
bad 
mood 
ever 
since 
the 
encounter 
with 
Slughorn, 
folded 
his 
arms 
and 
frowned 
at 
the 
ceiling. 
Hermione 
reached 
out 
for 
a 
copy 
of 
the 
Evening 
Prophet, 
which 
somebody 
had 
left 
abandoned 
on a chair. 

"Anything new?" said Harry. 

"Not 
really. 
. 
." 
Hermione 
had 
opened 
the 
newspaper 
and 
was 
scanning 
the 
inside 
pages. 
"Oh, 
look, 
your 
dad's 
in 
here, 
Ron 
— 
he's 
all 
right!" 
she 
added 
quickly, 
for 
Ron 
had 
looked 
around 
in 
alarm. 
"It 
just 
says 
he's 
been 
to 
visit 
the 
Malfoys' 
house. 
'This 
second 
search 
of 
the 
Death 
Eaters 
residence 
does 
not 
seem 
to 
have 
yielded 
any 
results. 
Arthur 
Weasley 
of 
the 
Office 
for 
the 
Detection 
and 
Confiscation 
of 
Counterfeit 
Defensive 
Spells 
and 
Protective 
Objects 
said 
that 
his 
team 
had 
been 
acting 
upon 
a 
confidential tipoff.'" 


"Yeah, 
mine!" 
said 
Harry. 
"I 
told 
him 
at 
Kings 
Cross 
about 
Malfoy 
and 
that 
thing 
he 
was 
trying 
to 
get 
Borgin 
to 
fix! 
Well, 
if 
it's 
not 
at 
their 
house, 
he 
must 
have 
brought 
whatever 
it 
is 
to 
Hogwarts 
with 
him 
—" 


"But 
how 
can 
he 
have 
done, 
Harry?" 
said 
Hermione, 
putting 
down 
the 
newspaper 
with 
a 
surprised 
look. "We were all searched when we arrived, weren't we?" 



"Were you?" said Harry, taken aback. "I wasn't!" 
"Oh 
no, 
of 
course 
you 
weren't, 
I 
forgot 
you 
were 
late. 
. 
.. 
Well, 
Filch 
ran 
over 
all 
of 
us 
with 
Secrecy 
Sensors 
when 
we 
got 
into 
the 
entrance 
hall. 
Any 
Dark 
object 
would 
have 
been 
found, 
I 
know 
for 
a 
fact 


Crabbe 
had 
a 
shrunken 
head 
confiscated. 
So 
you 
see, 
Malfoy 
can't 
have 
brought 
in 
anything 
dangerous!" 
Momentarily 
stymied, 
Harry 
watched 
Ginny 
Weasley 
playing 
with 
Arnold 
the 
Pygmy 
Puff 
for 
a 
while 


before seeing a way around this objection. 
"Someone's sent it to him by owl, then," he said. "His mother or someone." 
"All 
the 
owls 
are 
being 
checked 
too," 
said 
Hermione. 
"Filch 
told 
us 
so 
when 
he 
was 
jabbing 
those 


Secrecy Sensors everywhere he could reach." 
Really 
stumped 
this 
time, 
Harry 
found 
nothing 
else 
to 
say. 
There 
did 
not 
seem 
to 
be 
any 
way 
Malfoy 


could 
have 
brought 
a 
dangerous 
or 
Dark 
object 
into 
the 
school. 
He 
looked 
hopefully 
at 
Ron, 
who 
was 
sitting with his arms folded, staring over at Lavender Brown. 
"Can you think of any way Malfoy — ?" 
"Oh, drop it, Harry," said Ron. 
"Listen, 
it's 
not 
my 
fault 
Slughorn 
invited 
Hermione 
and 
me 
to 
his 
stupid 
party, 
neither 
of 
us 
wanted 
to 


go, you know!" said Harry, firing up. 
"Well, as I'm not invited to any parties," said Ron, getting to his feet again, "I think I'll go to bed." 
He 
stomped 
off 
toward 
the 
door 
to 
the 
boys' 
dormitories, 
leaving 
Harry 
and 
Hermione 
staring 
after 


him. 


"Harry?" 
said 
the 
new 
Chaser, 
Demelza 
Robins, 
appearing 
suddenly 
at 
his 
shoulder. 
"I've 
got 
a 
message for you." 
"From Professor Slughorn?" asked Harry, sitting up hopefully. 
"No 
.. 
. 
from 
Professor 
Snape," 
said 
Demelza. 
Harry's 
heart 
sank. 
"He 
says 
you're 
to 
come 
to 
his 
office 


at 
half 
past 
eight 
tonight 
to 
do 
your 
detention 
— 
er 
— 
no 
matter 
how 
many 
party 
invitations 
you've 
received. And he 
wanted you to know 
you'll 
be 
sorting 
out 
rotten flobberworms 
from 
good ones, to 
use 
in Potions and — and he says there's no need to bring protective gloves." 


"Right," said Harry grimly. "Thanks a lot, Demelza." 



Chapter 12 
Silver and 
Opals 


Where was Dumbledore, and what was he doing? 
Harry 
caught 
sight 
of 
the 
headmaster 
only 
twice 
over 
the 
next 
lew 
weeks. 
He 
rarely 
appeared 
at 
meals 



anymore, and Harry was 
sure 
Hermione 
was 
right 
in thinking 
that 
he 
was 
leaving 
the 
school 
for 
days 
at 
a 
time. 
Had 
Dumbledore 
forgotten 
the 
lessons 
he 
was 
supposed 
to 
be 
giving 
Harry? 
Dumbledore 
had 
said 
that 
the 
lessons 
were 
leading 
to 
something 
to 
do 
with 
the 
prophecy; 
Harry 
had 
felt 
bolstered, 
comforted, and now he felt slightly abandoned. 

Halfway 
through 
October 
came 
their 
first 
trip 
of 
the 
term 
to 
Hogsmeade. 
Harry 
had 
wondered 
whether 
these 
trips 
would 
still 
be 
allowed, 
given 
the 
increasingly 
tight 
security 
measures 
around 
the 
school, 
but 
was 
pleased 
to 
know 
that 
they 
were 
going 
ahead; 
it 
was 
always 
good 
to 
get 
out 
of 
the 
castle 
grounds 
for a few hours. 

Harry 
woke 
early 
on 
the 
morning 
of 
the 
trip, 
which 
was 
proving 
stormy, 
and 
whiled 
away 
the 
time 
until breakfast by reading his copy of Advanced PotionMaking. 
He did not usually lie in bed 

reading 
his 
textbooks; 
that 
sort 
of 
behavior, 
as 
Ron 
rightly 
said, 
was 
indecent 
in 
anybody 
except 
Hermione, 
who 
was 
simply 
weird 
that 
way. 
Harry 
felt, 
however, 
that 
the 
HalfBlood 
Princes 
copy 
of 
Advanced 
PotionMaking 
hardly 
qualified 
as 
a 
textbook. 
The 
more 
Harry 
pored 
over 
the 
book, 
the 
more 
he 
realized 
how 
much 
was 
in 
there, 
not 
only 
the 
handy 
hints 
and 
shortcuts 
on 
potions 
that 
was 
earning 
him 
such 
a 
glowing 
reputation 
with 
Slughorn, 
but 
also 
the 
imaginative 
little 
jinxes 
and 
hexes 
scribbled 
in 
the 
margins, 
which 
Harry 
was 
sure, 
judging 
by 
the 
crossingsout 
and 
revisions, 
that 
the 
Prince had invented himself. 

Harry 
had 
already 
attempted 
a 
few 
of 
the 
Prince's 
selfinvented 
spells. 
There 
had 
been 
a 
hex 
that 
caused 
toenails 
to 
grow 
alarmingly 
fast 
(he 
had 
tried 
this 
on 
Crabbe 
in 
the 
corridor, 
with 
very 
entertaining 
results); 
a 
jinx 
that 
glued 
the 
tongue 
to 
the 
roof 
of 
the 
mouth 
(which 
he 
had 
twice 
used, 
to 
general 
applause, 
on 
an 
unsuspecting 
Argus 
Filch); 
and, 
perhaps 
most 
useful 
of 
all, 
Muffliato, 
a 
spell 
that 
filled 
the 
ears 
of 
anyone 
nearby 
with 
an 
unidentifiable 
buzzing, 
so 
that 
lengthy 
conversations 
could 
be 
held 
in 
class 
with 
out 
being 
overheard. 
The 
only 
person 
who 
did 
not 
find 
these 
charms 
amusing 
was 
Hermione, 
who 
maintained 
a 
rigidly 
disapproving 
expression 
throughout 
and 
refused 
to 
talk at all if Harry had used the Muffliato spell on anyone in the vicinity. 


Sitting 
up 
in 
bed, 
Harry 
turned 
the 
book 
sideways 
so 
as 
to 
examine 
more 
closely 
the 
scribbled 
instructions 
for 
a 
spell 
that 
seemed 
to 
have 
caused 
the 
Prince 
some 
trouble. 
There 
were 
many 
crossingsout 
and alterations, but finally, crammed into a corner of the page, the scribble: 


Levicorpus (nvbl) 


While the wind and sleet pounded relentlessly on the windows, and Neville snored loudly, Harry stared 
at 
the 
letters 
in 
brackets. 
Nvbl 
. 
. 
that 
had 
to 
mean 
"nonverbal." 
Harry 
rather 
doubted 
he 
would 
be 
able 
to 
bring 
off 
this 
particular 
spell; 
he 
was 
still 
having 
difficulty 
with 
nonverbal 
spells, 
something 
Snape 
had 
been 
quick 
to 
comment 
on 
in 
every 
D.A.D.A. 
class. 
On 
the 
other 
hand, 
the 
Prince 
had 
proved 
a 
much more effective teacher than Snape so far. 

Pointing 
his 
wand 
at 
nothing 
in 
particular, 
he 
gave 
it 
an 
upward 
flick 
and 
said 
Levicorpus! 
inside 
his 
head. "Aaaaaaaargh!" 



There was a flash of light and the room was full of voices: Everyone had woken up as Ron had let out a 
yell. 
Harry 
sent 
Advanced 
PotionMaking 
flying 
in 
panic; 
Ron 
was 
dangling 
upside 
down 
in 
midair 
as 
though an invisible hook had hoisted him up by the ankle. 


"Sorry!" 
yelled 
Harry, 
as 
Dean 
and 
Seamus 
roared 
with 
laughter, 
and 
Neville 
picked 
himself 
up 
from 


the floor, having fallen out of Bed. "Hang on — I'll let you down —" 
He 
groped 
for 
the 
potion 
book 
and 
riffled 
through 
it 
in 
a 
panic, 
trying 
to 
find 
the 
right 
page; 
at 
last 
he 
located it and deciphered 


the 
cramped 
word 
underneath 
the 
spell: 
Praying 
that 
this 
was 
the 
counterjinx, 
Harry 
thought 
Liberacorpus! 
with 
all 
his 
might. 
There 
was 
another 
flash 
of 
light, 
and 
Ron 
fell 
in 
a 
heap 
onto 
his 
mattress. 


"Sorry," repeated Harry weakly, while Dean and Seamus continued to roar with laughter. 
"Tomorrow," said Ron in a muffled voice, "I'd rather you set the alarm clock." 
By 
the 
time 
they 
had 
got 
dressed, 
padding 
themselves 
out 
with 
several 
of 
Mrs. 
Weasleys 
handknitted 


sweaters 
and 
carrying, 
cloaks, 
scarves, 
and 
gloves, 
Ron's 
shock 
had 
subsided 
and 
he 
had 
decided 
that 
Harry's 
new 
spell 
was 
highly 
amusing; 
so 
amusing, 
in 
fact, 
that 
he 
lost 
no 
time 
in 
regaling 
Hermione 
with the story as they sat down for breakfast. 


"... 
and 
then 
there 
was 
another 
flash, 
of 
light 
and 
I 
landed 
on 
the 
bed 
again!" 
Ron 
grinned, 
helping 


himself to sausages. 
Hermione 
had 
not 
cracked 
a 
smile 
during 
this 
anecdote, 
and 
now 
turned 
an 
expression 
of 
wintry 
disapproval upon Harry. 


"Was this spell, by any chance, another one from that potion book of yours?" she asked. 
Harry frowned at her. 
"Always jump to the worst conclusion, don't you?" 
"Was it?" 
"Well. . . yeah, it was, but so what?" 
"So you just decided to try out an unknown, handwritten incantation and see what would happen?" 
"Why does it matter if it's handwritten?" said Harry, preferring not to answer the rest of the question. 
"Because 
its 
probably 
not 
Ministry 
of 
Magic 
approved," 
said 
Hermione. 
"And 
also," 
she 
added, 
as 


Harry and Ron rolled their eyes, "because I'm starting to think this Prince character was a bit dodgy." 
Both Harry and Ron shouted her down at once. 
"It 
was 
a 
laugh!" 
said 
Ron, 
upending 
a 
ketchup 
bottle 
over 
his 
sausages. 
"Just 
a 
laugh, 
Hermione, 
that's 


all!" 



"Dangling 
people 
upside 
down 
by 
the 
ankle?" 
said 
Hermione. 
"Who 
puts 
their 
time 
and 
energy 
into 
making up spells like that?" 


"Fred and George," said Ron, shrugging, "it's their kind of thing. And, er—" 


"My dad," said Harry. He had only just remembered. 

"What?" said Ron and Hermione together. 

"My dad used this spell," said Harry. "I — Lupin told me." 


'This 
last 
part 
was 
not 
true; 
in 
fact, 
Harry 
had 
seen 
his 
father 
use 
the 
spell 
on 
Snape, 
but 
he 
had 
never 
told 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
about 
that 
particular 
excursion 
into 
the 
Pensieve. 
Now, 
however, 
a 
wonderful 
possibility occurred to him. Could the HalfBlood 
Prince possibly be — ? 


"Maybe 
your 
dad 
did 
use 
it, 
Harry," 
said 
Hermione, 
"but 
he's 
not 
the 
only 
one. 
We've 
seen 
a 
whole 
bunch 
of 
people 
use 
it, 
in 
case 
you've 
forgotten. 
Dangling 
people 
in 
the 
air. 
Making 
them 
float 
along, 
asleep, helpless." 


Harry 
stared 
at 
her. 
With 
a 
sinking 
feeling, 
he 
too 
remembered 
the 
behavior 
of 
the 
Death 
Eaters 
at 
the 
Quidditch World Cup. Ron came to his aid. 

"That 
was 
different," 
he 
said 
robustly. 
"They 
were 
abusing 
it. 
Harry 
and 
his 
dad 
were 
just 
having 
a 
laugh. 
You 
don't 
like 
the 
Prince, 
Hermione," 
he 
added, 
pointing 
a 
sausage 
at 
her 
sternly, 
"because 
he's 
better than you at Potions —" 


"It's 
got 
nothing 
to 
do 
with 
that!" 
said 
Hermione, 
her 
cheeks 
reddening. 
"I 
just 
think 
it's 
very 
irresponsible 
to 
start 
performing 
spells 
when 
you 
don't 
even 
know 
what 
they're 
for, 
and 
stop 
talking 
about 
'the 
Prince' 
as 
if 
it's 
his 
title, 
I 
bet 
it's 
just 
a 
stupid 
nickname, 
and 
it 
doesn't 
seem 
as 
though 
he 
was a very nice person to me!" 


"I 
don't 
see 
where 
you 
get 
that 
from," 
said 
Harry 
heatedly. 
"If 
he'd 
been 
a 
budding 
Death 
Eater 
he 
wouldn't have been boasting about being 'halfblood,' 
would he?" 


Even 
as 
he 
said 
it, 
Harry 
remembered 
that 
his 
father 
had 
been 
pureblood, 
but 
he 
pushed 
the 
thought 
out of his mind; he would worry about that later. . . . 

"The 
Death 
Eaters 
can't 
all 
be 
pureblood, 
there 
aren't 
enough 
pureblood 
wizards 
left," 
said 
Hermione 
stubbornly. 
"I 
expect 
most 
of 
them 
are 
halfbloods 
pretending 
to 
be 
pure. 
It's 
only 
Muggleborns 
they 
hate, they'd be quite happy to let you and Ron join up." 


"There 
is 
no 
way 
they'd 
let 
me 
be 
a 
Death 
Eater!" 
said 
Ron 
indignantly, 
a 
bit 
of 
sausage 
flying 
off 
the 
fork 
he 
was 
now 
brandishing 
at 
Hermione 
and 
hitting 
Ernie 
Macmillan 
on 
the 
head. 
"My 
whole 
family 
are blood traitors! That's as bad as Muggleborns 
to Death Eaters!" 


"And 
they'd 
love 
to 
have 
me," 
said 
Harry 
sarcastically. 
"We'd 
be 
best 
pals 
if 
they 
didn't 
keep 
trying 
to 
do me in." 


This 
made 
Ron 
laugh; 
even 
Hermione 
gave 
a 
grudging 
smile, 
and 
a 
distraction 
arrived 
in 
the 
shape 
of 
Ginny. 


"Hey, Harry, I'm supposed to give you this." 


It was a scroll of parchment with Harry's name written upon it in familiar thin, slanting writing. 


"Thanks, 
Ginny. 
. 
. 
It's 
Dumbledore's 
next 
lesson!" 
Harry 
told 
Ron 
and 
Hermione, 
pulling 
open 
the 
parchment 
and 
quickly 
reading 
its 
contents. 
"Monday 
evening!" 
He 
felt 
suddenly 
light 
and 
happy. 
"Want to join us in Hogsmeade, Ginny?" he asked. 

"I'm going with Dean — might see you there," she replied, waving at them as she left. 


Filch 
was 
standing 
at 
the 
oak 
front 
doors 
as 
usual, 
checking 
off 
the 
names 
of 
people 
who 
had 
permission 
to 
go 
into 
Hogsmeade. 
The 
process 
took 
even 
longer 
than 
normal 
as 
Filch 
was 
triplechecking 
everybody with his Secrecy Sensor. 

"What 
does 
it 
matter 
if 
we're 
smuggling 
Dark 
stuff 
OUT?" 
demanded 
Ron, 
eyeing 
the 
long 
thin 
Secrecy Sensor with apprehension. "Surely you ought to be checking what we bring back IN?" 


His 
cheek 
earned 
him 
a 
few 
extra 
jabs 
with 
the 
Sensor, 
and 
he 
was 
still 
wincing 
as 
they 
stepped 
out 
into the wind and sleet. 


The 
walk 
into 
Hogsmeade 
was 
not 
enjoyable. 
Harry 
wrapped 
his 
scarf 
over 
his 
lower 
face; 
the 
exposed 
part 
soon 
felt 
both 
raw 
and 
numb. 
The 
road 
to 
the 
village 
was 
full 
of 
students 
bent 
double 
against 
the 
bitter 
wind. 
More 
than 
once 
Harry 
wondered 
whether 
they 
might 
not 
have 
had 
a 
better 
time 
in 
the 
warm 
common 
room, 
and 
when 
they 
finally 
reached 
Hogsmeade 
and 
saw 
that 
Zonko's 
Joke 
Shop 
had 
been 
boarded 
up, 
Harry 
took 
it 
as 
confirmation 
that 
this 
trip 
was 
not 
destined 
to 
be 
fun. 
Ron 
pointed, 
with 
a 
thickly 
gloved 
hand, 
toward 
Honeydukes, 
which 
was 
mercifully 
open, 
and 
Harry 
and 
Hermione 
staggered in his wake into the crowded shop. 


"Thank 
God," 
shivered 
Ron 
as 
they 
were 
enveloped 
by 
warm, 
toffeescented 
air. 
"Let's 
stay 
here 
all 
afternoon." 


"Harry, m'boy!" said a booming voice from behind them. 


"Oh 
no," 
muttered 
Harry. 
The 
three 
of 
them 
turned 
to 
see 
Professor 
Slughorn, 
who 
was 
wearing 
an 
enormous 
furry 
hat 
and 
an 
overcoat 
with 
matching 
fur 
collar, 
clutching 
a 
large 
bag 
of 
crystalized 
pineapple, and occupying at least a quarter of the shop. 

"Harry, 
that's 
three 
of 
my 
little 
suppers 
you've 
missed 
now!" 
said 
Slughorn, 
poking 
him 
genially 
in 
the 
chest. "It won't do, m'boy, I'm determined to have you! Miss Granger loves them, don't you?" 


"Yes," said Hermione helplessly, "they're really —" 


"So why don't you come along, Harry?" demanded Slughorn. 


"Well, 
I've 
had 
Quidditch 
practice, 
Professor," 
said 
Harry, 
who 
had 
indeed 
been 
scheduling 
practices 
every 
time 
Slughorn 
had 
sent 
him 
a 
little, 
violet 
ribbonadorned 
invitation. 
This 
strategy 
meant 
that 
Ron 
was 
not 
left 
out, 
and 
they 
usually 
had 
a 
laugh 
with 
Ginny, 
imagining 
Hermione 
shut 
up 
with 
McLaggen and Zabini. 



"Well, 
I 
certainly 
expect 
you 
to 
win 
your 
first 
match 
after 
all 
the, 
hard 
work!" 
said 
Slughorn. 
"But 
a 
little 
recreation 
never 
hurt 
any 
body. 
Now, 
how 
about 
Monday 
night, 
you 
can't 
possibly 
want 
to 
practice in this weather...." 


"I can't, Professor, I've got — er — an appointment with Professor Dumbledore that evening." 


"Unlucky again!" cried Slughorn dramatically. "Ah, well . . . you can't evade me forever, Harry!" 


And with a 
regal 
wave, he 
waddled out 
of 
the 
shop, taking as 
little 
notice 
of 
Ron as 
though 
he 
had been 
a display of Cockroach Clusters. 

"I 
can't 
believe 
you've 
wriggled 
out 
of 
another 
one," 
said 
Hermione, 
shaking 
her 
head. 
"They're 
not 
that 
bad, 
you 
know. 
. 
. 
They're 
even 
quite 
fun 
sometimes. 
. 
. 
." 
But 
then 
she 
caught 
sight 
of 
Ron's 
expression. "Oh, look — they've got deluxe sugar quills — those would last hours!" 


Glad 
that 
Hermione 
had 
changed 
the 
subject, 
Harry 
showed 
much 
more 
interest 
in 
the 
new 
extralarge 
sugar quills than he would normally have done, but Ron continued to look moody and merely shrugged 
when Hermione asked him where he wanted to go next. 

"Let's go to the Three Broomsticks," said Harry. "It'll be warm." 


They 
bundled 
their 
scarves 
back 
over 
their 
faces 
and 
left 
the 
sweetshop. 
The 
bitter 
wind 
was 
like 
knives on their faces after the sugary warmth of Honeydukes. The street was not very busy; no


body 
was 
lingering 
to 
chat, 
just 
hurrying 
toward 
their 
destinations. 
The 
exceptions 
were 
two 
men 
a 
little 
ahead 
of 
them, 
standing 
just 
outside 
the 
Three 
Broomsticks. 
One 
was 
very 
tall 
and 
thin; 
squinting 
through 
his 
rainwashed 
glasses 
Harry 
recognized 
the 
barman 
who 
worked 
in 
the 
other 
Hogsmeade 
pub, 
the 
Hog's 
Head. 
As 
Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
drew 
closer, 
the 
barman 
drew 
his 
cloak 
more 
tightly 
around 
his 
neck 
and 
walked 
away, 
leaving 
the 
shorter 
man 
to 
fumble 
with 
something 
in 
his 
arms. They were barely feet from him when Harry realized who the man was. 

"Mundungus!" 


The 
squat, 
bandylegged 
man 
with 
long, 
straggly, 
ginger 
hair 
jumped 
and 
dropped 
an 
ancient 
suitcase, 
which burst open, releasing what looked like the entire contents of a junk shop window. 

"Oh, 
'ello, 
'Arry," 
said 
Mundungus 
Fletcher, 
with 
a 
most 
unconvincing 
stab 
at 
airiness. 
"Well, 
don't 
let 
me keep ya." 

And he began scrabbling on the ground to retrieve the contents of his suitcase with every appearance of 
a man eager to be gone. 

"Are 
you 
selling 
this 
stuff?" 
asked 
Harry, 
watching 
Mundungus 
grab 
an 
assortment 
of 
grubbylooking 
objects from the ground. 

"Oh, well, gotta scrape a living," said Mundungus. "Gimme that!" 


Ron had stooped down and picked up something silver. 

"Hang on," Ron said slowly. "This looks familiar —" 



"Thank 
you!" 
said 
Mundungus, 
snatching 
the 
goblet 
out 
of 
Ron's 
hand 
and 
stuffing 
it 
back 
into 
the 


case. "Well, I'll see you all _ OUCH!" 
Harry 
had 
pinned 
Mundungus 
against 
the 
wall 
of 
the 
pub 
by 
the 
throat. 
Holding 
him 
fast 
with 
one 
hand, he pulled out his wand. 


"Harry!" squealed Hermione. 


"You 
rook 
that 
from 
Sinus's 
house," 
said 
Harry, 
who 
was 
almost 
nose 
to 
nose 
with 
Mundungus 
and 
was breathing in an unpleasant smell of old tobacco and spirits. "That had the Black family crest on it." 
"I — no — what — ?" spluttered Mundungus, who was slowly turning purple. 
"What did you do, go back the night he died and strip the place?" snarled Harry. 
"I — no — " 
"Give it to me!" 
"Harry, you mustn't!" shrieked Hermione, as Mundungus started to turn blue. 
There 
was 
a 
bang, 
and 
Harry 
felt 
his 
hands 
fly 
off 
Mundungus's 
throat. 
Gasping 
and 
spluttering, 


Mundungus seized his fallen case, then — CRACK— he Disapparated. 
Harry swore at the top of his voice, spinning on the spot to see where Mundungus had gone. 
"COME BACK, YOU THIEVING — !" 
"There's no point, Harry." Tonks had appeared out of nowhere, her mousy hair wet with sleet. 
"Mundungus will probably be in London by now. There's no point yelling." 
"He's nicked Sirius's stuff! Nicked it!" 
"Yes, 
but 
still," 
said 
Tonks, 
who 
seemed 
perfectly 
untroubled 
by 
this 
piece 
of 
information. 
"You 


should get out of the cold." 


She 
watched 
them 
go 
through 
the 
door 
of 
the 
Three 
Broomsticks. 
The 
moment 
he 
was 
inside, 
Harry 
burst out, "He was nicking Sirius's stuff!" 
"I 
know, 
Harry, 
but 
please 
don't 
shout, 
people 
are 
staring," 
whispered 
Hermione. 
"Go 
and 
sit 
down, 
I'll 


get you a drink." 


Harry 
was 
still 
fuming 
when 
Hermione 
returned 
to 
their 
table 
a 
few 
minutes 
later 
holding 
three 
bottles 
of butterbeer. 
"Can't 
the 
Order 
control 
Mundungus?" 
Harry 
demanded 
of 
the 
other 
two 
in 
a 
furious 
whisper. 
"Can't 


they at least stop him stealing everything that's not fixed down when he's at headquarters?" 
"Shh!" 
said 
Hermione 
desperately, 
looking 
around 
to 
make 
sure 
nobody 
was 
listening; 
there 
were 
a 
couple 
of 
warlocks 
sitting 
close 
by 
who 
were 
staring 
at 
Harry 
with 
great 
interest, 
and 
Zabini 
was 
lolling against a pillar not far away. "Harry, I'd be annoyed too, I know it's your things he's stealing —" 



Harry 
gagged 
on 
his 
butterbeer; 
he 
had 
momentarily 
forgotten 
that 
he 
owned 
number 
twelve, 
Grimmauld Place. 

"Yeah, 
it's 
my 
stuff!" 
he 
said. 
"No 
wonder 
he 
wasn't 
pleased 
to 
see 
me! 
Well, 
I'm 
going 
to 
tell 
Dumbledore what's going on, he's the only one who scares Mundungus." 


"Good 
idea," 
whispered 
Hermione, 
clearly 
pleased 
that 
Harry 
was 
calming 
down. 
"Ron, 
what 
are 
you 
staring at?" 

"Nothing," 
said 
Ron, 
hastily 
looking 
away 
from 
the 
bar, 
but 
Harry 
knew 
he 
was 
trying 
to 
catch 
the 
eye 
of the curvy and attractive barmaid, Madam Rosmerta, for whom he had long nursed a soft spot. 


"I expect 'nothing's' in the back getting more firewhisky," said Hermione waspishly. 


Ron 
ignored 
this 
jibe, 
sipping 
his 
drink 
in 
what 
he 
evidently 
considered 
to 
be 
a 
dignified 
silence. 
Harry 
was 
thinking 
about 
Sirius, 
and 
how 
he 
had 
hated 
those 
silver 
goblets 
anyway. 
Hermione 
drummed 
her 
fingers 
on 
the 
table, 
her 
eyes 
flickering 
between 
Ron 
and 
the 
bar. 
The 
moment 
Harry 
drained 
the 
last 
drops in his bottle she said, "Shall we call it a day and go back to school, then?" 

The 
other 
two 
nodded; 
it 
had 
not 
been 
a 
fun 
trip 
and 
the 
weather 
was 
getting 
worse 
the 
longer 
they 
stayed. 
Once 
again 
they 
drew 
their 
cloaks 
tightly 
around 
them, 
rearranged 
their 
scarves, 
pulled 
on 
their 
gloves, 
then 
followed 
Katie 
Bell 
and 
a 
friend 
out 
of 
the 
pub 
and 
back 
up 
the 
High 
Street. 
Harry's 
thoughts 
strayed 
to 
Ginny 
as 
they 
trudged 
up 
the 
road 
to 
Hogwarts 
through 
the 
frozen 
slush. 
They 
had 
not 
met 
up 
with 
her, 
undoubtedly, 
thought 
Harry, 
because 
she 
and 
Dean 
were 
cozily 
closeted 
in 
Madam 
Puddifoot's 
Tea 
Shop, 
that 
haunt 
of 
happy 
couples. 
Scowling, 
he 
bowed 
his 
head 
against 
the 
swirling sleet and trudged on. 

It was a little while before Harry became aware that the voices of Katie Bell and her friend, which were 
being 
carried 
back 
to 
him 
on 
the 
wind, 
had 
become 
shriller 
and 
louder. 
Harry 
squinted 
at 
their 
indistinct 
figures. 
The 
two 
girls 
were 
having 
an 
argument 
about 
something 
Katie 
was 
holding 
in 
her 
hand. "It's nothing to do with you, Leanne!" Harry heard Katie say. 

They 
rounded 
a 
corner 
in 
the 
lane, 
sleet 
coming 
thick 
and 
fast, 
blurring 
Harry's 
glasses. 
Just 
as 
he 
raised 
a 
gloved 
hand 
to 
wipe 
them, 
Leanne 
made 
to 
grab 
hold 
of 
the 
package 
Katie 
was 
holding; 
Katie 
tugged it back and the package fell to the ground. 

At 
once, 
Katie 
rose 
into 
the 
air, 
not 
as 
Ron 
had 
done, 
suspended 
comically 
by 
the 
ankle, 
but 
gracefully, 
her 
arms 
outstretched, 
as 
though 
she 
was 
about 
to 
fly. 
Yet 
there 
was 
something 
wrong, 
something 
eerie. 
. 
. 
. 
Her 
hair 
was 
whipped 
around 
her 
by 
the 
fierce 
wind, 
but 
her 
eyes 
were 
closed 
and 
her 
face 
was quite empty of 


expression. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Leanne had all halted in their tracks, watching. 

Then, 
six 
feet 
above 
the 
ground, 
Katie 
let 
out 
a 
terrible 
scream. 
Her 
eyes 
flew 
open 
but 
whatever 
she 
could 
see, 
or 
whatever 
she 
was 
feeling, 
was 
clearly 
causing 
her 
terrible 
anguish. 
She 
screamed 
and 
screamed; 
Leanne 
started 
to 
scream 
too 
and 
seized 
Katie's 
ankles, 
trying 
to 
tug 
her 
back 
to 
the 
ground. 
Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Hermione 
rushed 
forward 
to 
help, 
but 
even 
as 
they 
grabbed 
Katie's 
legs, 
she 
fell 
on 



top of 
them; 
Harry and Ron managed to catch her 
but 
she 
was 
writhing 
so much they could hardly hold 
her. 
Instead 
they 
lowered 
her 
to 
the 
ground 
where 
she 
thrashed 
and 
screamed, 
apparently 
unable 
to 
recognize any of them. 


Harry looked around; the landscape seemed deserted. 
"Stay there!" he shouted at the others over the howling wind. "I'm going for help!" 
He 
began 
to 
sprint 
toward 
the 
school; 
he 
had 
never 
seen 
anyone 
behave 
as 
Katie 
had 
just 
behaved 
and 


could 
not 
think 
what 
had 
caused 
it; 
he 
hurtled 
around 
a 
bend 
in 
the 
lane 
and 
collided 
with 
what 
seemed 
to be an enormous bear on its hind legs. 


"Hagrid!" he panted, disentangling himself from the hedgerow into which he had fallen. 
"Harry!" 
said 
Hagrid, 
who 
had 
sleet 
trapped 
in 
his 
eyebrows 
and 
beard, 
and 
was 
wearing 
his 
great, 
shaggy beaverskin coat. "Jus' bin visitin' Grawp, he's comin' on so well yeh wouldn' —" 


"Hagrid, someone's hurt back there, or cursed, or something —" 
"Wha ?" said Hagrid, bending lower to hear what Harry was saying over the raging wind. 
"Someone's been cursed!" bellowed Harry. :, .' 
"Cursed? Who's bin cursed — not Ron? Hermione?" : 
"No, it's not them, it's Katie Bell — this way . . ." 
Together 
they 
ran 
back 
along 
the 
lane. 
It 
took 
them 
no 
time 
to 
find 
the 
little 
group 
of 
people 
around 


Katie, 
who was 
still 
writhing 
and screaming 
on the 
ground; 
Ron, Hermione, and Leanne 
were 
all 
trying 
to quiet her. 
"Get back!" shouted Hagrid. "Lemme see her!" 


"Something's happened to her!" sobbed Leanne. "I don't know what —" 
Hagrid stared at Katie for a second, then without a word, bent down, scooped her into his arms, and ran 
off 
toward 
the 
castle 
with 
her. 
Within 
seconds, 
Katie's 
piercing 
screams 
had 
died 
away 
and 
the 
only 
sound was the roar of the wind. 


Hermione hurried over to Katie's wailing friend and put an arm around her. 
"It's Leanne, isn't it?" 
The girl nodded. 
"Did it just happen all of a sudden, or — ?" 
"It 
was 
when 
that 
package 
tore," 
sobbed 
Leanne, 
pointing 
at 
the 
now 
sodden 
brownpaper 
package 
on 


the 
ground, 
which 
had 
split 
open 
to 
reveal 
a 
greenish 
glitter. 
Ron 
bent 
down, 
his 
hand 
outstretched, 
but 
Harry seized his arm and pulled him back. 
"Don't touch it!" 



He crouched down. An ornate opal necklace was visible, poking out of the paper. 
"I've 
seen 
that 
before," 
said 
Harry, 
staring 
at 
the 
thing. 
"It 
was 
on 
display 
in 
Borgin 
and 
Burkes 
ages 


ago. 
The 
label 
said 
it 
was 
cursed. 
Katie 
must 
have 
touched 
it." 
He 
looked 
up 
at 
Leanne, 
who 
had 
started to shake uncontrollably. "How did Katie get hold of this?" 
"Well, 
that's 
why 
we 
were 
arguing. 
She 
came 
back 
from 
the 
bathroom 
in 
the 
Three 
Broomsticks 


holding 
it, 
said 
it 
was 
a 
surprise 
for 
somebody 
at 
Hogwarts 
and 
she 
had 
to 
deliver 
it. 
She 
looked 
all 
funny when she said it. ... Oh no, oh no, I bet she'd been Imperiused and I didn't realize!" 
Leanne shook with renewed sobs. Hermione patted her shoulder gently. 


"She didn't say who'd given it to her, Leanne?" 
"No 
. 
. 
. 
she 
wouldn't 
tell 
me 
. 
. 
. 
and 
I 
said 
she 
was 
being 
stupid 
and 
not 
to 
take 
it 
up 
to 
school, 
but 
she 
just wouldn't listen and . . . and then I tried to grab it from her . . . and — and —" 


Leanne let out a wail of despair. 


"We'd 
better 
get 
up 
to 
school," 
said 
Hermione, 
her 
arm 
still 
around 
Leanne. 
"We'll 
be 
able 
to 
find 
out 
how she is. Come on. . . ." 
Harry 
hesitated 
for 
a 
moment, 
then 
pulled 
his 
scarf 
from 
around 
his 
face 
and, 
ignoring 
Ron's 
gasp, 


carefully covered the necklace in it and picked it up. 
"We'll need to show this to Madam Pomfrey," he said. 
As 
they 
followed 
Hermione 
and 
Leanne 
up 
the 
road, 
Harry 
was 
thinking 
furiously. 
They 
had 
just 


entered the grounds when he spoke, unable to keep his thoughts to himself any longer. 
"Malfoy 
knows 
about 
this 
necklace. 
It 
was 
in 
a 
case 
at 
Borgin 
and 
Burkes 
four 
years 
ago, 
I 
saw 
him 


having 
a 
good 
look 
at 
it 
while 
I 
was 
hiding 
from 
him 
and 
his 
dad. 
This 
is 
what 
he 
was 
buying 
that 
day 
when we followed him! He remembered it and he went back for it!" , 
"I — I dunno, Harry," said Ron hesitantly. "Loads of people go 
to Borgin and Burkes . . . and didn't that girl say Katie got it in the girls' bathroom?" 
"She 
said 
she 
came 
back 
from 
the 
bathroom 
with 
it, 
she 
didn't 
necessarily 
get 
it 
in 
the 
bathroom 
itself 


—" 
"McGonagall!" said Ron warningly. 
Harry 
looked 
up. 
Sure 
enough, 
Professor 
McGonagall 
was 
hurrying 
down 
the 
stone 
steps 
through 


swirling sleet to meet them. 


"Hagrid says you four saw what happened to Katie Bell — upstairs to my office at once, please! What's 
that you're holding, Potter?" 
"It's the thing she touched," said Harry. 
"Good 
lord," 
said 
Professor 
McGonagall, 
looking 
alarmed 
as 
she 
took 
the 
necklace 
from 
Harry. 
"No, 



no, 
Filch, 
they're 
with 
me!" 
she 
added 
hastily, 
as 
Filch 
came 
shuffling 
eagerly 
across 
the 
entrance 
hall 
holding 
his 
Secrecy 
Sensor 
aloft. 
"Take 
this 
necklace 
to 
Professor 
Snape 
at 
once, 
but 
be 
sure 
not 
to 
touch it, keep it wrapped in the scarf!" 


Harry 
and 
the 
others 
followed 
Professor 
McGonagall 
upstairs 
and 
into 
her 
office. 
The 
sleetspattered 
windows 
were 
rattling 
in 
their 
frames, 
and 
the 
room 
was 
chilly 
despite 
the 
fire 
crackling 
in 
the 
grate. 
Professor 
McGonagall 
closed 
the 
door 
and 
swept 
around 
her 
desk 
to 
face 
Harry, 
Ron, 
Hermione, 
and 
the still sobbing Leanne. 

"Well?" she said sharply. "What happened?" 


Haltingly, 
and 
with 
many 
pauses 
while 
she 
attempted 
to 
control 
her 
crying, 
Leanne 
told 
Professor 
McGonagall 
how 
Katie 
had 
gone 
to 
the 
bathroom 
in 
the 
Three 
Broomsticks 
and 
returned 
holding 
the 
unmarked package, how Katie had seemed a little odd, and 

how 
they 
had 
argued 
about 
the 
advisability 
of 
agreeing 
to 
deliver 
unknown 
objects, 
the 
argument 
culminating 
in 
the 
tussle 
over 
the 
parcel, 
which 
tore 
open. 
At 
this 
point, 
Leanne 
was 
so 
overcome, 
there was no getting another word out of her. 

"All 
right," 
said 
Professor 
McGonagall, 
not 
unkindly, 
"go 
up 
to 
the 
hospital 
wing, 
please, 
Leanne, 
and 
get Madam Pomfrey to give you something for shock." 


When she had left the room, Professor McGonagall turned back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. 

"What happened when Katie touched the necklace?" 

"She 
rose 
up 
in 
the 
air," 
said 
Harry, 
before 
either 
Ron 
or 
Hermione 
could 
speak, 
"and 
then 
began 
to 
scream, and collapsed. Professor, can I see Professor Dumbledore, please?" 


"The headmaster is away until Monday, Potter," said Professor McGonagall, looking surprised. 

"Away?" Harry repeated angrily. 


"Yes, 
Potter, 
away!" 
said 
Professor 
McGonagall 
tartly. 
"But 
anything 
you 
have 
to 
say 
about 
this 
horrible business can be said to me, I'm sure!" 

For 
a 
split 
second, 
Harry 
hesitated. 
Professor 
McGonagall 
did 
not 
invite 
confidences; 
Dumbledore, 
though 
in 
many 
ways 
more 
intimidating, 
still 
seemed 
less 
likely 
to 
scorn 
a 
theory, 
however 
wild. 
This 
was a lifeanddeath 
matter, though, and no moment to worry about being laughed at. 

"I think Draco Malfoy gave Katie that necklace, Professor." ; 


On 
one 
side 
of 
him, 
Ron 
rubbed 
his 
nose 
in 
apparent 
embarrassment; 
on 
the 
other, 
Hermione 
shuffled 
her feet as though quite keen to put a bit of distance between herself and Harry. 

"That 
is 
a 
very 
serious 
accusation, 
Potter," 
said 
Professor 
McGonagall, 
after 
a 
shocked 
pause. 
"Do 
you 
have any proof?" 


"No," 
said 
Harry, 
"but.. 
." 
and 
he 
told 
her 
about 
following 
Malfoy 
to 
Borgin 
and 
Burkes 
and 
the 
conversation they had overheard between him and Mr. Borgin. 



When he had finished speaking, Professor McGonagall looked slightly confused. 
"Malfoy took something to Borgin and Burkes for repair?" 
"No, 
Professor, 
he 
just 
wanted 
Borgin 
to 
tell 
him 
how 
to 
mend 
something, 
he 
didn't 
have 
it 
with 
him. 


But 
that's 
not 
the 
point, 
the 
thing 
is 
that 
he 
bought 
something 
at 
the 
same 
time, 
and 
I 
think 
it 
was 
that 
necklace —" 
"You saw Malfoy leaving the shop with a similar package?" 


"No, Professor, he told Borgin to keep it in the shop for him —" 
"But 
Harry," 
Hermione 
interrupted, 
"Borgin 
asked 
him 
if 
he 
wanted 
to 
take 
it 
with 
him, 
and 
Malfoy 
said no —" 


"Because he didn't want to touch it, obviously!" said Harry angrily. 
"What he actually said was, 'How would I look carrying that down the street?'" said Hermione. 
"Well, he would look a bit of a prat carrying a necklace," interjected Ron. 
"Oh, 
Ron," 
said 
Hermione 
despairingly, 
"it 
would 
be 
all 
wrapped 
up, 
so 
he 
wouldn't 
have 
to 
touch 
it, 


and 
quite 
easy 
to 
hide 
inside 
a 
cloak, 
so 
nobody 
would 
see 
it! 
I 
think 
whatever 
he 
reserved 
at 
Borgin 
and 
Burkes 
was 
noisy 
or 
bulky, 
something 
he 
knew 
would 
draw 
attention 
to 
him 
if 
he 
carried 
it 
down 
the 
street 
— 
and 
in 
any 
case," 
she 
pressed 
on 
loudly, 
before 
Harry 
could 
interrupt, 
"I 
asked 
Borgin 
about 
the 
necklace, 
don't 
you 
remember? 
When 
I 
went 
in 
to 
try 
and 
find 
out 
what 
Malfoy 
had 
asked 
him 
to 
keep, 
I 
saw 
it 
there. 
And 
Borgin 
just 
told 
me 
the 
price, 
he 
didn't 
say 
it 
was 
already 
sold 
or 
anything —" 


"Well, 
you 
were 
being 
really 
obvious, 
he 
realized 
what 
you 
were 
up 
to 
within 
about 
five 
seconds, 
of 


course he wasn't going to tell you — anyway, Malfoy could've sent off for it since —" 
"That's 
enough!" 
said 
Professor 
McGonagall, 
as 
Hermione 
opened 
her 
mouth 
to 
retort, 
looking 
furious. 
"Potter, 
I 
appreciate 
you 
telling 
me 
this, 
but 
we 
cannot 
point 
the 
finger 
of 
blame 
at 
Mr. 
Malfoy 
purely 
because 
he 
visited 
the 
shop 
where 
this 
necklace 
might 
have 
been 
purchased. 
The 
same 
is 
probably 
true 
of hundreds of people —" 


"— that's what I said —" muttered Ron. 


"— 
and 
in 
any 
case, 
we 
have 
put 
stringent 
security 
measures 
in 
place 
this 
year. 
I 
do 
not 
believe 
that 
necklace can possibly have entered this school without our knowledge —" 
"But —" 
"— 
and 
what 
is 
more," 
said 
Professor 
McGonagall, 
with 
an 
air 
of 
awful 
finality, 
"Mr. 
Malfoy 
was 
not 


in Hogsmeade today." 
Harry gaped at her, deflating. 
"How do you know, Professor?" 
"Because 
he 
was 
doing 
detention 
with 
me. 
He 
has 
now 
failed 
to 
complete 
his 
Transfiguration 



homework 
twice 
in 
a 
row. 
So, 
thank 
you 
for 
telling 
me 
your 
suspicions, 
Potter," 
she 
said 
as 
she 
marched 
past 
them, 
"but 
I 
need 
to 
go 
up 
to 
the 
hospital 
wing 
now 
to 
check 
on 
Katie 
Bell. 
Good 
day 
to 
you all." 


She held open her office door. They had no choice but to file past her without another word. 
Harry was angry with the other two for siding with McGonagall; 
nevertheless, he felt compelled to join in once they started discussing what had happened. 
"So 
who 
do 
you 
reckon 
Katie 
was 
supposed 
to 
give 
the 
necklace 
to?" 
asked 
Ron, 
as 
they 
climbed 
the 


stairs to the common room. 


"Goodness 
only 
knows," 
said 
Hermione. 
"But 
whoever 
it 
was 
has 
had 
a 
narrow 
escape. 
No 
one 
could 
have opened that package without touching the necklace." 
"It 
could've 
been 
meant 
for 
loads 
of 
people," 
said 
Harry. 
"Dumbledore 
— 
the 
Death 
Eaters 
would 
love 


to 
get 
rid 
of 
him, 
he 
must 
be 
one 
of 
their 
top 
targets. 
Or 
Slughorn 
— 
Dumbledore 
reckons 
Voldemort 
really wanted him and they can't be pleased that he's sided with Dumbledore. Or —" 


"Or you," said Hermione, looking troubled. 
"Couldn't 
have 
been," 
said 
Harry, 
"or 
Katie 
would've 
just 
turned 
around 
in 
the 
lane 
and 
given 
it 
to 
me, 
wouldn't 
she? 
I 
was 
behind 
her 
all 
the 
way 
out 
of 
the 
Three 
Broomsticks. 
It 
would 
have 
made 
much 
more 
sense 
to 
deliver 
the 
parcel 
outside 
Hogwarts, 
what 
with 
Filch 
searching 
everyone 
who 
goes 
in 
and out. I wonder why Malfoy told her to take it into the castle?" 


"Harry, Malfoy wasn't in Hogsmeade!" said Hermione, actually stamping her foot in frustration. 


"He 
must 
have 
used 
an 
accomplice, 
then," 
said 
Harry. 
"Crabbe 
or 
Goyle 
— 
or, 
come 
to 
think 
of 
it, 
another Death Eater, he'll have loads better cronies than Crabbe and Goyle now he's joined up —" 
Ron and Hermione exchanged looks that plainly said There's no point arguing with him. 
"Dilligrout," said Hermione firmly as they reached the Fat Lady. 
The 
portrait 
swung 
open 
to 
admit 
them 
to 
the 
common 
room. 
It 
was 
quite 
full 
and 
smelled 
of 
damp 


clothing; 
many 
people 
seemed 
to 
have 
returned 
from 
Hogsmeade 
early 
because 
of 
the 
bad 
weather. 


There was no buzz of fear or speculation, however: Clearly, the news of Katie's fate had not yet spread. 
"It 
wasn't 
a 
very 
slick 
attack, 
really, 
when 
you 
stop 
and 
think 
about 
it," 
said 
Ron, 
casually 
turfing 
a 
first 
year 
out 
of 
one 
of 
the 
good 
armchairs 
by 
the 
fire 
so 
that 
he 
could 
sit 
down. 
"The 
curse 
didn't 
even 
make it into the castle. Not what you'd call foolproof." 


"You're 
right," 
said 
Hermione, 
prodding 
Ron 
out 
of 
the 
chair 
with 
her 
foot 
and 
offering 
it 
to 
the 
first 
year again. "It wasn't very well thoughtout 
at all." 
"But since when has Malfoy been one of the world's great thinkers?" asked Harry. 
Neither Ron nor Hermione answered him. 



Chapter 13 
The Secret Riddle 


Katie 
was 
removed 
to 
St. 
Mungo's 
Hospital 
for 
Magical 
Maladies 
and 
Injuries 
the 
following 
day, 
by 



which 
time 
the 
news 
that 
she 
had 
been 
cursed 
had 
spread 
all 
over 
the 
school, 
though 
the 
details 
were 
confused 
and 
nobody 
other 
than 
Harry, 
Ron, 
Hermione, 
and 
Leanne 
seemed 
to 
know 
that 
Katie 
herself 
had not been the intended target. 


"Oh, 
and 
Malfoy 
knows, 
of 
course," 
said 
Harry 
to 
Ron 
and 
Hermione, 
who 
continued 
their 
new 
policy 
of feigning deafness whenever Harry mentioned his MalfoyIsaDeathEater 
theory. 

Harry 
had 
wondered 
whether 
Dumbledore 
would 
return 
from 
wherever 
he 
had 
been 
in 
time 
for 
Monday 
night's 
lesson, 
but 
having 
had 
no 
word 
to 
the 
contrary, 
he 
presented 
himself 
outside 
Dumbledore's 
office 
at 
eight 
o'clock, 
knocked, 
and 
was 
told 
to 
enter. 
There 
sat 
Dumbledore 
looking 
unusually 
tired; 
his 
hand 
was 
as 
black 
and 
burned 
as 
ever, 
but 
he 
smiled 
when 
he 
gestured 
to 
Harry 
to 
sit down. The Pensieve was sitting on the desk again, casting silvery specks of light over the ceiling. 


"You 
have 
had 
a 
busy 
time 
while 
I 
have 
been 
away," 
Dumbledore 
said. 
"I 
believe 
you 
witnessed 
Katie's accident." 


"Yes, sir. How is she?" 


"Still 
very 
unwell, 
although 
she 
was 
relatively 
lucky. 
She 
appears 
to 
have 
brushed 
the 
necklace 
with 
the smallest possible amount of skin; there was a tiny hole in her glove. Had she put it on, had she even 
held 
it 
in her 
ungloved hand, she 
would 
have 
died, perhaps 
instantly. 
Luckily 
Professor 
Snape 
was 
able 
to do enough to prevent a rapid spread of the curse —" 


"Why him?" asked Harry quickly. "Why not Madam Pomfrey?" 


"Impertinent," 
said 
a 
soft 
voice 
from 
one 
of 
the 
portraits 
on 
the 
wall, 
and 
Phineas 
Nigellus 
Black, 
Sirius's 
greatgreatgrandfather, 
raised 
his 
head 
from 
his 
arms 
where 
he 
had 
appeared 
to 
be 
sleeping. 
"I 
would not have permitted a student to question the way Hogwarts operated in my day." 


"Yes, 
thank 
you, 
Phineas," 
said 
Dumbledore 
quellingly. 
"Professor 
Snape 
knows 
much 
more 
about 
the 
Dark 
Arts 
than 
Madam 
Pomfrey, 
Harry. 
Anyway, 
the 
St. 
Mungo's 
staff 
are 
sending 
me 
hourly 
reports, 
and I am hopeful that Katie will make a full recovery in time." 


"Where 
were 
you 
this 
weekend, 
sir?" 
Harry 
asked, 
disregarding 
a 
strong 
feeling 
that 
he 
might 
be 
pushing his luck, a feeling apparently shared by Phineas Nigellus, who hissed softly. 


"I would rather not say just now," said Dumbledore. "However, I shall tell you in due course." 


"You will?" said Harry, startled. 

"Yes, 
I 
expect 
so," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
withdrawing 
a 
fresh 
bottle 
of 
silver 
memories 
from 
inside 
his 
robes and uncorking it with a prod of his wand. 

"Sir," said Harry tentatively, "I met Mundungus in Hogsmeade." 


"Ah 
yes, 
I 
am 
already 
aware 
that 
Mundungus 
has 
been 
treating 
your 
inheritance 
with 
lightfingered 
contempt," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
frowning 
a 
little. 
"He 
has 
gone 
to 
ground 
since 
you 
accosted 
him 
outside 
the 
Three 
Broomsticks; 
I 
rather 
think 
he 
dreads 
facing 
me. 
However, 
rest 
assured 
that 
he 
will 
not 
be 
making away with any more of Sirius's old possessions." 



"That 
mangy 
old 
halfblood 
has 
been 
stealing 
Black 
heirlooms?" 
said 
Phineas 
Nigellus, 
incensed; 
and 
he stalked out of his frame, undoubtedly to visit his portrait in number twelve, Grimmauld Place. 

"Professor," 
said 
Harry, 
after 
a 
short 
pause, 
"did 
Professor 
McGonagall 
tell 
you 
what 
I 
told 
her 
after 
Katie got hurt? About Draco Malfoy?" 

"She told me of your suspicions, yes," said Dumbledore. 

"And do you — ?" 


"I 
shall 
take 
all 
appropriate 
measures 
to 
investigate 
anyone 
who 
might 
have 
had 
a 
hand 
in 
Katie's 
accident," said Dumbledore. "But what concerns me now, Harry, is our lesson." 


Harry 
felt 
slightly 
resentful 
at 
this: 
If 
their 
lessons 
were 
so 
very 
important, 
why 
had 
there 
been 
such 
a 
long 
gap 
between 
the 
first 
and 
second? 
However, 
he 
said 
no 
more 
about 
Draco 
Malfoy, 
but 
watched 
as 
Dumbledore 
poured 
the 
fresh 
memories 
into 
the 
Pensieve 
and 
began 
swirling 
the 
stone 
basin 
once 
more between his longfingered 
hands. 


"You 
will 
remember, 
I 
am 
sure, 
that 
we 
left 
the 
tale 
of 
Lord 
Voldemort's 
beginnings 
at 
the 
point 
where 
the 
handsome 
Muggle, 
Tom 
Riddle, 
had 
abandoned 
his 
witch 
wife, 
Merope, 
and 
returned 
to 
his 
family 
home 
in 
Little 
Hangleton. 
Merope 
was 
left 
alone 
in 
London, 
expecting 
the 
baby 
who 
would 
one 
day 
become Lord Voldemort." 


"How do you know she was in London, sir?" 

"Because 
of 
the 
evidence 
of 
one 
Caractacus 
Burke," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
"who, 
by 
an 
odd 
coincidence, 
helped found the very shop whence came the necklace we have just been discussing." 


He 
swilled 
the 
contents 
of 
the 
Pensieve 
as 
Harry 
had 
seen 
him 
swill 
them 
before, 
much 
as 
a 
gold 
prospector 
sifts 
for 
gold. 
Up 
out 
of 
the 
swirling, 
silvery 
mass 
rose 
a 
little 
old 
man 
revolving 
slowly 
in 
the 
Pensieve, 
silver 
as 
a 
ghost 
but 
much 
more 
solid, 
with 
a 
thatch 
of 
hair 
that 
completely 
covered 
his 
eyes. 


"Yes, 
we 
acquired 
it 
in 
curious 
circumstances. 
It 
was 
brought 
in 
by 
a 
young 
witch 
just 
before 
Christmas, 
oh, 
many 
years 
ago 
now. 
She 
said 
she 
needed 
the 
gold 
badly, 
well, 
that 
much 
was 
obvious. 
Covered 
in 
rags 
and 
pretty 
far 
along 
. 
. 
. 
Going 
to 
have 
a 
baby, 
see. 
She 
said 
the 
locket 
had 
been 
Slytherin's. 
Well, 
we 
hear 
that 
sort 
of 
story 
all 
the 
time, 
'Oh, 
this 
was 
Merlin's, 
this 
was, 
his 
favorite 
teapot,' 
but 
when I 
looked at 
it, 
it 
had his 
mark all 
right, and a 
few 
simple 
spells 
were 
enough to 
tell 
me 
the 
truth. 
Of 
course, 
that 
made 
it 
near 
enough 
priceless. 
She 
didn't 
seem 
to 
have 
any 
idea 
how 
much 
it 
was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!" 

Dumbledore 
gave 
the 
Pensieve 
an 
extravigorous 
shake 
and 
Caractacus 
Burke 
descended 
back 
into 
the 
swirling mass of memory from whence he had come. 

"He only gave her ten Galleons?" said Harry indignantly. 


"Caractacus 
Burke 
was 
not 
famed 
for 
his 
generosity," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"So 
we 
know 
that, 
near 
the 
end 
of her 
pregnancy, 
Merope 
was 
alone 
in 
London 
and 
in 
desperate 
need 
of 
gold, 
desperate 
enough 
to 



sell 
her 
one 
and 
only 
valuable 
possession, 
the 
locket 
that 
was 
one 
of 
Marvolo's 
treasured 
family 
heirlooms." 


"But 
she 
could 
do 
magic!" 
said 
Harry 
impatiently. 
"She 
could 
have 
got 
food 
and 
everything 
for 
herself 
by magic, couldn't she?" 

"Ah," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
"perhaps 
she 
could. 
But 
it 
is 
my 
belief—I 
am 
guessing 
again, 
but 
I 
am 
sure 
I 
am 
right 
— that 
when her 
husband abandoned her, Merope 
stopped using 
magic. I 
do not 
think 
that 
she 
wanted to be a witch any longer. Of course, it is also possible that her unrequited love and the attendant 
despair 
sapped her 
of 
her 
powers; 
that 
can happen. In 
any case, as 
you are 
about 
to see, Merope 
refused 
to raise her wand even to save her own life." 


"She wouldn't even stay alive for her son?" 


Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?" 


"No," said Harry quickly, "but she had a choice, didn't she, not like my mother —" 


"Your 
mother 
had 
a 
choice 
too," 
said 
Dumbledore 
gently. 
"Yes, 
Merope 
Riddle 
chose 
death 
in 
spite 
of 
a 
son 
who 
needed 
her, 
but 
do 
not 
judge 
her 
too 
harshly, 
Harry. 
She 
was 
greatly 
weakened 
by 
long 
suffering and she never had your mother's courage. And now, if you will stand ..." 


"Where are we going?" Harry asked, as Dumbledore joined him at the front of the desk. 

"This 
time," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
"we 
are 
going 
to 
enter 
my 
memory. 
I 
think 
you 
will 
find 
it 
both 
rich 
in 
detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Harry ..." 


Harry 
bent 
over 
the 
Pensieve; 
his 
face 
broke 
the 
cool 
surface 
of 
the 
memory 
and 
then 
he 
was 
falling 
through 
darkness 
again. 
. 
. 
. 
Seconds 
later, 
his 
feet 
hit 
firm 
ground; 
he 
opened 
his 
eyes 
and 
found 
that 
he and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, oldfashioned 
London street. 

"There 
I 
am," 
said 
Dumbledore 
brightly, 
pointing 
ahead 
of 
them 
to 
a 
tall 
figure 
crossing 
the 
road 
in 
front of a horsedrawn 
milk cart. 

This 
younger 
Albus 
Dumbledore's 
long 
hair 
and 
beard 
were 
auburn. 
Having 
reached 
their 
side 
of 
the 
street, 
he 
strode 
off 
along 
the 
pavement, 
drawing 
many 
curious 
glances 
due 
to 
the 
flamboyantly 
cut 
suit of plum velvet that he was wearing. 

"Nice 
suit, 
sir," 
said 
Harry, 
before 
he 
could 
stop 
himself, 
but 
Dumbledore 
merely 
chuckled 
as 
they 
followed 
his 
younger 
self 
a 
short 
distance, 
finally 
passing 
through 
a 
set 
of 
iron 
gates 
into 
a 
bare 
courtyard 
that 
fronted 
a 
rather 
grim, 
square 
building 
surrounded 
by 
high 
railings. 
He 
mounted 
the 
few 
steps 
leading 
to 
the 
front 
door 
and 
knocked 
once. 
After 
a 
moment 
or 
two, 
the 
door 
was 
opened 
by 
a 
scruffy girl wearing an apron. 

"Good afternoon. I have an appointment with a Mrs. Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?" 


"Oh," 
said 
the 
bewilderedlooking 
girl, 
taking 
in 
Dumbledore's 
eccentric 
appearance. 
"Um. 
. 
. 
just 
a 
mo' . . . MRS. COLE!" she bellowed over her shoulder. 

Harry 
heard 
a 
distant 
voice 
shouting 
something 
in 
response. 
The 
girl 
turned 
back 
to 
Dumbledore. 



"Come in, she's on 'er way." 
Dumbledore 
stepped 
into 
a 
hallway 
tiled 
in 
black 
and 
white; 
the 
whole 
place 
was 
shabby 
but 
spotlessly 
clean. 
Harry 
and 
the 
older 
Dumbledore 
followed. 
Before 
the 
front 
door 
had 
closed 
behind 
them, 
a 
skinny, 
harassedlooking 
woman 
came 
scurrying 
toward 
them. 
She 
had 
a 
sharpfeatured 
face 
that 


appeared 
more 
anxious 
than 
unkind, 
and 
she 
was 
talking 
over 
her 
shoulder 
to 
another 
aproned 
helper 
as she walked toward Dumbledore. 
". 
. 
. 
and 
take 
the 
iodine 
upstairs 
to 
Martha, 
Billy 
Stubbs 
has 
been 
picking 
his 
scabs 
and 
Eric 
Whalley's 


oozing 
all 
over 
his 
sheets 
— 
chicken 
pox 
on 
top 
of 
everything 
else," 
she 
said 
to 
nobody 
in 
particular, 
and 
then 
her 
eyes 
fell 
upon 
Dumbledore 
and 
she 
stopped 
dead 
in 
her 
tracks, 
looking 
as 
astonished 
as 
if 
a giraffe had just crossed her threshold. 


"Good afternoon," said Dumbledore, holding out his hand. Mrs. Cole simply gaped. 


"My 
name 
is 
Albus 
Dumbledore. 
I 
sent 
you 
a 
letter 
requesting 
an 
appointment 
and 
you 
very 
kindly 
invited me here today." 
Mrs. 
Cole 
blinked. 
Apparently 
deciding 
that 
Dumbledore 
was 
not 
a 
hallucination, 
she 
said 
feebly, 
"Oh 


yes. Well — well then — you'd better come into my room. Yes." 
She 
led 
Dumbledore 
into 
a 
small 
room 
that 
seemed 
part 
sitting 
room, 
part 
office. 
It 
was 
as 
shabby 
as 


the hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched. She invited Dumbledore to sit on a rickety chair 
and seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing him nervously. 
"I 
am 
here, 
as 
I 
told 
you 
in 
my 
letter, 
to 
discuss 
Tom 
Riddle 
and 
arrangements 
for 
his 
future," 
said 


Dumbledore. 
"Are you family?" asked Mrs. Cole. 
"No, I am a teacher," said Dumbledore. "I have come to offer Tom a place at my school." 
"What school's this, then?" 
"It is called Hogwarts," said Dumbledore. 
"And how come you're interested in Tom?" 
"We believe he has qualities we are looking for." 
"You mean he's won a scholarship? How can he have done? He's never been entered for one." 
"Well, his name has been down for our school since birth —" 
"Who registered him? His parents?" 
There 
was 
no 
doubt 
that 
Mrs. 
Cole 
was 
an 
inconveniently 
sharp 
woman. 
Apparently 
Dumbledore 


thought 
so 
too, 
for 
Harry 
now 
saw 
him 
slip 
his 
wand 
out 
of 
the 
pocket 
of 
his 
velvet 
suit, 
at 
the 
same 


time picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs. Cole's desktop. 
"Here," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
waving 
his 
wand 
once 
as 
he 
passed 
her 
the 
piece 
of 
paper, 
"I 
think 
this 
will 
make everything clear." 



Mrs. Cole's eyes slid out of focus and back again as she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment. 


"That 
seems 
perfectly 
in 
order," 
she 
said 
placidly, 
handing 
it 
back. 
Then 
her 
eyes 
fell 
upon 
a 
bottle 
of 
gin and two glasses that had certainly not been present a few seconds before. 

"Er — may I offer you a glass of gin?" she said in an extrarefined 
voice. 

"Thank you very much," said Dumbledore, beaming. 


It 
soon 
became 
clear 
that 
Mrs. 
Cole 
was 
no 
novice 
when 
it 
came 
to 
gin 
drinking. 
Pouring 
both 
of 
them 
a 
generous 
measure, 
she 
drained 
her 
own 
glass 
in 
one 
gulp. 
Smacking 
her 
lips 
frankly, 
she 
smiled 
at 
Dumbledore for the first time, and he didn't hesitate to press his advantage. 

"I 
was 
wondering 
whether 
you 
could 
tell 
me 
anything 
of 
Tom 
Riddle's 
history? 
I 
think 
he 
was 
born 
here in the orphanage?" 


"That's right," said Mrs. Cole, helping herself to more gin. "I remember it clear as anything, because I'd 
just 
started 
here 
myself. 
New 
Year's 
Eve 
and 
bitter 
cold, 
snowing, 
you 
know. 
Nasty 
night. 
And 
this 
girl, 
not 
much 
older 
than 
I 
was 
myself 
at 
the 
time, 
came 
staggering 
up 
the 
front 
steps. 
Well, 
she 
wasn't 
the first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour." 


Mrs. Cole nodded impressively and took another generous gulp of gin. 

"Did 
she 
say 
anything 
before 
she 
died?" 
asked 
Dumbledore. 
"Anything 
about 
the 
boy's 
father, 
for 
instance?" 


"Now, 
as 
it 
happens, 
she 
did," 
said 
Mrs. 
Cole, 
who 
seemed 
to 
be 
rather 
enjoying 
herself 
now, 
with 
the 
gin 
in 
her 
hand 
and 
an 
eager 
audience 
for 
her 
story. 
"I 
remember 
she 
said 
to 
me, 
'I 
hope 
he 
looks 
like 
his 
papa,' 
and 
I 
won't 
lie, 
she 
was 
right 
to 
hope 
it, 
because 
she 
was 
no 
beauty 
— 
and 
then 
she 
told 
me 
he 
was 
to 
be 
named 
Tom, 
for 
his 
father, 
and 
Marvolo, 
for 
her 
father 
— 
yes, 
I 
know, 
funny 
name, 
isn't 
it? 
We 
wondered 
whether 
she 
came 
from 
a 
circus 
— 
and 
she 
said 
the 
boy's 
surname 
was 
to 
be 
Riddle. 
And she died soon after that without another word. 

"Well, 
we 
named 
him 
just 
as 
she'd 
said, 
it 
seemed 
so 
important 
to 
the 
poor 
girl, 
but 
no 
Tom 
nor 
Marvolo 
nor 
any 
kind 
of 
Riddle 
ever 
came 
looking 
for 
him, 
nor 
any 
family 
at 
all, 
so 
he 
stayed 
in 
the 
orphanage and he's been here ever since." 


Mrs. 
Cole 
helped 
herself, 
almost 
absentmindedly, 
to 
another 
healthy 
measure 
of 
gin. 
Two 
pink 
spots 
had appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she said, "He's a funny boy." 


"Yes," said Dumbledore. "I thought he might be." 


"He 
was 
a 
funny 
baby 
too. 
He 
hardly 
ever 
cried, 
you 
know. 
And 
then, 
when 
he 
got 
a 
little 
older, 
he 
was. . . odd." 


"Odd in what way?" asked Dumbledore gently. 


"Well, he —" 


But 
Mrs. 
Cole 
pulled 
up 
short, 
and 
there 
was 
nothing 
blurry 
or 
vague 
about 
the 
inquisitorial 
glance 
she 
shot Dumbledore over her gin glass. 
"He's definitely got a place at your school, you say?" 
"Definitely," said Dumbledore. 
"And nothing I say can change that?" 
"Nothing," said Dumbledore. 
"You'll be taking him away, whatever?" 


"Whatever," repeated Dumbledore gravely. 
She 
squinted 
at 
him 
as 
though 
deciding 
whether 
or 
not 
to 
trust 
him. 
Apparently 
she 
decided 
she 
could, 
because she said in a sudden rush, "He scares the other children." 


"You mean he is a bully?" asked Dumbledore. 


"I think he must be," said Mrs. Cole, frowning slightly, "but it's very hard to catch him at it. There have 
been incidents. . . . Nasty things ..." 
Dumbledore 
did 
not 
press 
her, 
though 
Harry 
could 
tell 
that 
he 
was 
interested. 
She 
took 
yet 
another 


gulp of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still. 


"Billy 
Stubbs's 
rabbit. 
. 
. 
well, 
Tom 
said 
he 
didn't 
do 
it 
and 
I 
don't 
see 
how 
he 
could 
have 
done, 
but 
even so, it didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?" 
"I shouldn't think so, no," said Dumbledore quietly. 
"But 
I'm 
jiggered 
if 
I 
know 
how 
he 
got 
up 
there 
to 
do 
it. 
All 
I 
know 
is 
he 
and 
Billy 
had 
argued 
the 
day 


before. 
And 
then" 
— 
Mrs. 
Cole 
took 
another 
swig 
of 
gin, 
slopping 
a 
little 
over 
her 
chin 
this 
time 


— 
"on 
the 
summer 
outing 
— 
we 
take 
them 
out, 
you 
know, 
once 
a 
year, 
to 
the 
countryside 
or 
to 
the 
seaside 
— well, 
Amy Benson and Dennis 
Bishop 
were 
never 
quite 
right 
afterwards, 
and all 
we 
ever 
got 
out of them was that they'd gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they'd just gone exploring, but 
something happened in there, I'm sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things. . . . 
" 
She 
looked 
around 
at 
Dumbledore 
again, 
and 
though 
her 
cheeks 
were 
flushed, 
her 
gaze 
was 
steady. 
"I 
don't think many people will be sorry to see the back of him." 


"You 
understand, 
I'm 
sure, 
that 
we 
will 
not 
be 
keeping 
him 
permanently?" 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"He 
will 
have to return here, at the very least, every summer." 


"Oh, 
well, 
that's 
better 
than 
a 
whack 
on 
the 
nose 
with 
a 
rusty 
poker," 
said 
Mrs. 
Cole 
with 
a 
slight 
hiccup. She got to her feet, and Harry was impressed to see that she was quite steady, even though twothirds 
of the gin was now gone. "I suppose you'd like to see him?" 


"Very much," said Dumbledore, rising too. 

She led him out of her office and up the stone stairs, calling out instructions and admonitions to helpers 



and 
children 
as 
she 
passed. 
The 
orphans, 
Harry 
saw, 
were 
all 
wearing 
the 
same 
kind 
of 
grayish 
tunic. 
They 
looked 
reasonably 
wellcared 
for, 
but 
there 
was 
no 
denying 
that 
this 
was 
a 
grim 
place 
in 
which 
to 
grow up. 

"Here 
we 
are," 
said 
Mrs. 
Cole, 
as 
they 
turned 
off 
the 
second 
landing 
and 
stopped 
outside 
the 
first 
door 
in a long corridor. She knocked twice and entered. 

"Tom? 
You've 
got 
a 
visitor. 
This 
is 
Mr. 
Dumberton 
— 
sorry, 
Dunderbore. 
He's 
come 
to 
tell 
you 
— 
well, I'll let him do it." 


Harry 
and 
the 
two 
Dumbledores 
entered 
the 
room, 
and 
Mrs. 
Cole 
closed 
the 
door 
on 
them. 
It 
was 
a 
small 
bare 
room 
with 
nothing 
in 
it 
except 
an 
old 
wardrobe 
and 
an 
iron 
bedstead. 
A 
boy 
was 
sitting 
on 
top of the gray blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book. 

There 
was 
no 
trace 
of 
the 
Gaunts 
in 
Tom 
Riddle's 
face. 
Merope 
had 
got 
her 
dying 
wish: 
He 
was 
his 
handsome 
father 
in 
miniature, 
tall 
for 
eleven 
years 
old, 
darkhaired, 
and 
pale. 
His 
eyes 
narrowed 
slightly as he took in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. There was a moment's silence. 

"How do you do, Tom?" said Dumbledore, walking forward and holding out his hand. 

The 
boy 
hesitated, 
then 
took 
it, 
and 
they 
shook 
hands. 
Dumbledore 
drew 
up 
the 
hard 
wooden 
chair 
beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital patient and visitor. 


"I am Professor Dumbledore." 

"'Professor'?" 
repeated 
Riddle. 
He 
looked 
wary. 
"Is 
that 
like 
'doctor'? 
What 
are 
you 
here 
for? 
Did 
she 
get you in to have a look at me?" 


He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left. 

"No, no," said Dumbledore, smiling. 


"I don't believe you," said Riddle. "She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!" 


He 
spoke 
the 
last 
three 
words 
with 
a 
ringing 
force 
that 
was 
almost 
shocking. 
It 
was 
a 
command, 
and 
it 
sounded 
as 
though 
he 
had 
given 
it 
many 
times 
before. 
His 
eyes 
had 
widened 
and 
he 
was 
glaring 
at 
Dumbledore, 
who 
made 
no 
response 
except 
to 
continue 
smiling 
pleasantly. 
After 
a 
few 
seconds 
Riddle 
stopped glaring, though he looked, if anything, warier still. 


"Who are you?" 


"I 
have 
told 
you. 
My 
name 
is 
Professor 
Dumbledore 
and 
I 
work 
at 
a 
school 
called 
Hogwarts. 
I 
have 
come to offer you a place at my school — your new school, if you would like to come." 

Riddle's 
reaction 
to 
this 
was 
most 
surprising. 
He 
leapt 
from 
the 
bed 
and 
backed 
away 
from 
Dumbledore, looking furious. 


"You 
can't 
kid 
me! 
The 
asylum, 
that's 
where 
you're 
from, 
isn't 
it? 
'Professor,' 
yes, 
of 
course 
— 
well, 
I'm 
not 
going, 
see? 
That 
old 
cat's 
the 
one 
who 
should 
be 
in 
the 
asylum. 
I 
never 
did 
anything 
to 
little 
Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you! 



"I 
am 
not 
from 
the 
asylum," 
said 
Dumbledore 
patiently. 
"I 
am 
a 
teacher 
and, 
if 
you 
will 
sit 
down 
calmly, 
I 
shall 
tell 
you 
about 
Hogwarts. 
Of 
course, 
if 
you 
would 
rather 
not 
come 
to 
the 
school, 
nobody 
will force you —" 


"I'd like to see them try," sneered Riddle. 


"Hogwarts," 
Dumbledore 
went 
on, 
as 
though 
he 
had 
not 
heard 
Riddle's 
last 
words, 
"is 
a 
school 
for 
people with special abilities —" 
"I'm not mad!" 
"I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic." 
There 
was 
silence. 
Riddle 
had 
frozen, 
his 
face 
expressionless, 
but 
his 
eyes 
were 
flickering 
back 
and 


forth between each of Dumbledore's, as though trying to catch one of them lying. 
"Magic?" he repeated in a whisper. 
"That's right," said Dumbledore. 
"It's. . . it's magic, what I can do?" 
"What is it that you can do?" 
"All 
sorts," 
breathed 
Riddle. 
A 
flush 
of 
excitement 
was 
rising 
up 
his 
neck 
into 
his 
hollow 
cheeks; 
he 


looked 
fevered. 
"I 
can 
make 
filings 
move 
without 
touching 
them. 
I 
can 
make 
animals 
do 
what 
I 
want 
them 
to 
do, 
without 
training 
them. 
I 
can 
make 
bad 
things 
happen 
to 
people 
who 
annoy 
me. 
I 
can 
make 
them hurt if I want to." 


His 
legs 
were 
trembling. 
He 
stumbled 
forward 
and 
sat 
down 
on 
the 
bed 
again, 
staring 
at 
his 
hands, 
his 


head bowed as though in prayer. 
"I 
knew 
I 
was 
different," 
he 
whispered 
to 
his 
own 
quivering 
fingers. 
"I 
knew 
I 
was 
special. 
Always, 
I 
knew there was something." 


"Well, 
you 
were 
quite 
right," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
who 
was 
no 
longer 
smiling, 
but 
watching 
Riddle 


intently. "You are a wizard." 
Riddle 
lifted 
his 
head. 
His 
face 
was 
transfigured: 
There 
was 
a 
wild 
happiness 
upon 
it, 
yet 
for 
some 
reason 
it 
did 
not 
make 
him 
better 
looking; 
on 
the 
contrary, 
his 
finely 
carved 
features 
seemed 
somehow 
rougher, his expression almost bestial. 


"Are you a wizard too?" 
"Yes, I am." 
"Prove 
it," 
said 
Riddle 
at 
once, 
in 
the 
same 
commanding 
tone 
he 
had 
used 
when 
he 
had 
said, 
"Tell 
the 


truth." 
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—" 
"Of course I am!" 



"Then you will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir.'" 


Riddle's 
expression 
hardened 
for 
the 
most 
fleeting 
moment 
before 
he 
said, 
in 
an 
unrecognizably 
polite 
voice, "I'm sorry, sir. I meant — please, Professor, could you show me — ?" 


Harry 
was 
sure 
that 
Dumbledore 
was 
going 
to 
refuse, 
that 
he 
would 
tell 
Riddle 
there 
would 
be 
plenty 
of 
time 
for 
practical 
demonstrations 
at 
Hogwarts, 
that 
they 
were 
currently 
in 
a 
building 
full 
of 
Muggles 
and 
must 
therefore 
be 
cautious. 
To 
his 
great 
surprise, 
however, 
Dumbledore 
drew 
his 
wand 
from 
an 
inside 
pocket 
of 
his 
suit 
jacket, 
pointed 
it 
at 
the 
shabby 
wardrobe 
in 
the 
corner, 
and 
gave 
the 
wand 
a 
casual flick. 

The wardrobe burst into flames. 

Riddle 
jumped 
to 
his 
feet; 
Harry could 
hardly blame 
him 
for 
howling 
in shock and rage; 
all 
his 
worldly 
possessions 
must 
be 
in 
there. But 
even as 
Riddle 
rounded on Dumbledore, the 
flames 
vanished, leaving 
the wardrobe completely undamaged. 

Riddle 
stared 
from 
the 
wardrobe 
to 
Dumbledore; 
then, 
his 
expression 
greedy, 
he 
pointed 
at 
the 
wand. 
"Where can I get one of them?" 


"All in good time," said Dumbledore. "I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe." 

And 
sure 
enough, 
a 
faint 
rattling 
could 
be 
heard 
from 
inside 
it. 
For 
the 
first 
time, 
Riddle 
looked 
frightened. 

"Open the door," said Dumbledore. 

Riddle 
hesitated, 
then 
crossed 
the 
room 
and 
threw 
open 
the 
wardrobe 
door. 
On 
the 
topmost 
shelf, 
above 
a 
rail 
of 
threadbare 
clothes, 
a 
small 
cardboard 
box 
was 
shaking 
and 
rattling 
as 
though 
there 
were 
several frantic mice trapped inside it. 


"Take it out," said Dumbledore. 

Riddle took down the quaking box. He looked unnerved. 

"Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?" asked Dumbledore. 

Riddle 
threw 
Dumbledore 
a 
long, 
clear, 
calculating 
look. 
"Yes, 
I 
suppose 
so, 
sir," 
he 
said 
finally, 
in 
an 
expressionless voice. 

"Open it," said Dumbledore. 

Riddle 
took 
off 
the 
lid 
and 
tipped 
the 
contents 
onto 
his 
bed 
without 
looking 
at 
them. 
Harry, 
who 
had 
expected 
something 
much 
more 
exciting, 
saw 
a 
mess 
of 
small, 
everyday 
objects: 
a 
yoyo, 
a 
silver 
thimble, 
and 
a 
tarnished 
mouth 
organ 
among 
them. 
Once 
free 
of 
the 
box, 
they 
stopped 
quivering 
and 
lay quite still upon the thin blankets. 


"You 
will 
return 
them 
to 
their 
owners 
with 
your 
apologies," 
said 
Dumbledore 
calmly, 
putting 
his 
wand 
back 
into 
his 
jacket. 
"I 
shall 
know 
whether 
it 
has 
been 
done. 
And 
be 
warned: 
Thieving 
is 
not 
tolerated 
at Hogwarts." 



Riddle 
did 
not 
look 
remotely 
abashed; 
he 
was 
still 
staring 
coldly 
and 
appraisingly 
at 
Dumbledore. 
At 
last he said in a colorless voice, "Yes, sir." 


"At 
Hogwarts," 
Dumbledore 
went 
on, 
"we 
teach 
you 
not 
only 
to 
use 
magic, 
but 
to 
control 
it. 
You 
have 


— 
inadvertently, 
I 
am 
sure 
— 
been 
using 
your 
powers 
in 
a 
way 
that 
is 
neither 
taught 
nor 
tolerated 
at 
our 
school. 
You 
are 
not 
the 
first, 
nor 
will 
you 
be 
the 
last, 
to 
allow 
your 
magic 
to 
run 
away 
with 
you. 
But 
you 
should 
know 
that 
Hogwarts 
can 
expel 
students, 
and 
the 
Ministry 
of 
Magic 
— 
yes, 
there 
is 
a 
Ministry 
— 
will 
punish 
lawbreakers 
still 
more 
severely. 
All 
new 
wizards 
must 
accept 
that, 
in 
entering 
our world, they abide by our laws." 
"Yes, sir," said Riddle again. 

It 
was 
impossible 
to 
tell 
what 
he 
was 
thinking; 
his 
face 
remained 
quite 
blank 
as 
he 
put 
the 
little 
cache 
of 
stolen 
objects 
back into 
the 
cardboard box. When he 
had finished, 
he 
turned to Dumbledore 
and said 
baldly, "I haven't got any money." 


"That is easily remedied," said Dumbledore, drawing a leather moneypouch 
from his pocket. "There is 
a 
fund 
at 
Hogwarts 
for 
those 
who 
require 
assistance 
to 
buy 
books 
and 
robes. 
You 
might 
have 
to 
buy 
some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but —" 


"Where 
do 
you 
buy 
spellbooks?" 
interrupted 
Riddle, 
who 
had 
taken 
the 
heavy 
money 
bag 
without 
thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat gold Galleon, 

"In 
Diagon 
Alley," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"I 
have 
your 
list 
of 
books 
and 
school 
equipment 
with 
me. 
I 
can 
help you find everything —" 


"You're coming with me?" asked Riddle, looking up. 

"Certainly, if you —" 


"I 
don't 
need 
you," 
said 
Riddle. 
"I'm 
used 
to 
doing 
things 
for 
myself, 
I 
go 
round 
London 
on 
my 
own 
all 
the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley — sir?" he added, catching Dumbledore's eye. 

Harry 
thought 
that 
Dumbledore 
would 
insist 
upon 
accompanying 
Riddle, 
but 
once 
again 
he 
was 
surprised. 
Dumbledore 
handed 
Riddle 
the 
envelope 
containing 
his 
list 
of 
equipment, 
and 
after 
telling 
Riddle 
exactly 
how 
to 
get 
to 
the 
Leaky 
Cauldron 
from 
the 
orphanage, 
he 
said, 
"You 
will 
be 
able 
to 
see 
it, 
although 
Muggles 
around 
you 
— 
nonmagical 
people, 
that 
is 
— 
will 
not. 
Ask 
for 
Tom 
the 
barman 


— easy enough to remember, as he shares your name —" 
Riddle gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to displace an irksome fly. 

"You dislike the name 'Tom'?" 


"There 
are 
a 
lot 
of 
Toms," 
muttered 
Riddle. 
Then, 
as 
though 
he 
could 
not 
suppress 
the 
question, 
as 
though 
it 
burst 
from 
him 
in 
spite 
of 
himself, 
he 
asked, 
"Was 
my 
father 
a 
wizard? 
He 
was 
called 
Tom 
Riddle too, they've told me." 


"I'm afraid I don't know," said Dumbledore, his voice gentle. 


"My 
mother 
can't 
have 
been 
magic, 
or 
she 
wouldn't 
have 
died," 
said 
Riddle, 
more 
to 
himself 
than 



Dumbledore. 
"It 
must've 
been 
him. 
So 
— 
when 
I've 
got 
all 
my 
stuff— 
when 
do 
I 
come 
to 
this 
Hogwarts?" 


"All 
the 
details 
are 
on 
the 
second 
piece 
of 
parchment 
in 
your 
envelope," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"You 
will 
leave from King's Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too." 


Riddle 
nodded. 
Dumbledore 
got 
to 
his 
feet 
and 
held 
out 
his 
hand 
again. 
Taking 
it, 
Riddle 
said, 
"I 
can 
speak 
to 
snakes. 
I 
found 
out 
when 
we've 
been 
to 
the 
country 
on 
trips 
— 
they 
find 
me, 
they 
whisper 
to 
me. Is that normal for a wizard?" 


Harry 
could 
tell 
that 
he 
had 
withheld 
mention 
of 
this 
strangest 
power 
until 
that 
moment, 
determined 
to 
impress. 


"It is unusual," said Dumbledore, after a moment's hesitation, "but not unheard of." 


His 
tone 
was 
casual 
but 
his 
eyes 
moved 
curiously 
over 
Riddle's 
face. 
They 
stood 
for 
a 
moment, 
man 
and boy, staring at each other. Then the handshake was broken; Dumbledore was at the door. 

"Goodbye, 
Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts." 


"I 
think 
that 
will 
do," 
said 
the 
whitehaired 
Dumbledore 
at 
Harry's 
side, 
and 
seconds 
later, 
they 
were 
soaring weightlessly through darkness once more, before landing squarely in the presentday 
office. 

"Sit down," said Dumbledore, landing beside Harry. 

Harry obeyed, his mind still full of what he had just seen. 

"He 
believed 
it 
much 
quicker 
than 
I 
did 
— 
I 
mean, 
when 
you 
told 
him 
he 
was 
a 
wizard," 
said 
Harry. 
"I 
didn't believe Hagrid at first, when he told me." 


"Yes, 
Riddle 
was 
perfectly 
ready 
to 
believe 
that 
he 
was 
— 
to 
use 
his 
word 
— 
'special,'" 
said 
Dumbledore. 

"Did you know — then?" asked Harry. 

"Did 
I 
know 
that 
I 
had 
just 
met 
the 
most 
dangerous 
Dark 
wizard 
of 
all 
time?" 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"No, 
I 
had 
no 
idea 
that 
he 
was 
to 
grow 
up 
to 
be 
what 
he 
is. 
However, 
I 
was 
certainly 
intrigued 
by 
him. 
I 
returned 
to 
Hogwarts 
intending 
to 
keep 
an 
eye 
upon 
him, 
something 
I 
should 
have 
done 
in 
any 
case, 
given 
that 
he 
was 
alone 
and 
friendless, 
but 
which, 
already, 
I 
felt 
I 
ought 
to 
do 
for 
others' 
sake 
as 
much 
as his. 


"His 
powers, 
as 
you 
heard, 
were 
surprisingly 
welldeveloped 
for 
such 
a 
young 
wizard 
and 
— 
most 
interestingly 
and 
ominously 
of 
all 
— 
he 
had 
already 
discovered 
that 
he 
had 
some 
measure 
of 
control 
over 
them, 
and 
begun 
to 
use 
them 
consciously. 
And 
as 
you 
saw, 
they 
were 
not 
the 
random 
experiments 
typical 
of 
young 
wizards: 
He 
was 
already 
using 
magic 
against 
other 
people, 
to 
frighten, 
to 
punish, 
to 
control. 
The 
little 
stories 
of 
the 
strangled 
rabbit 
and 
the 
young 
boy 
and 
girl 
he 
lured 
into 
a 
cave 
were 
most suggestive. . . . 'I can make them hurt if I want to. . . .'" 


"And he was a Parselmouth," interjected Harry. 


"Yes, 
indeed; 
a 
rare 
ability, 
and 
one 
supposedly 
connected 
with 
the 
Dark 
Arts, 
although 
as 
we 
know, 
there 
are 
Parselmouths 
among 
the 
great 
and 
the 
good 
too. 
In 
fact, 
his 
ability 
to 
speak 
to 
serpents 
did 
not make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for cruelty, secrecy, and domination. 


"Time 
is 
making 
fools 
of 
us 
again," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
indicating 
the 
dark 
sky 
beyond 
the 
windows. 
"But 
before 
we 
part, 
I 
want 
to 
draw 
your 
attention 
to 
certain 
features 
of 
the 
scene 
we 
have 
just 
witnessed, for they have a great bearing on the matters we shall be discussing in future meetings. 


"Firstly, 
I 
hope 
you 
noticed 
Riddle's 
reaction 
when 
I 
mentioned 
that 
another 
shared 
his 
first 
name, 
'Tom'?" 

Harry nodded. 

"There 
he 
showed 
his 
contempt 
for 
anything 
that 
tied 
him 
to 
other 
people, 
anything 
that 
made 
him 
ordinary. 
Even 
then, 
he 
wished 
to 
be 
different, 
separate, 
notorious. 
He 
shed 
his 
name, 
as 
you 
know, 
within a few short years of that conversation and created the mask of Lord Voldemort' behind which he 
has been hidden for so long. 


"I 
trust 
that 
you 
also 
noticed 
that 
Tom 
Riddle 
was 
already 
highly 
selfsufficient, 
secretive, 
and, 
apparently, 
friendless? 
He 
did 
not 
want 
help 
or 
companionship 
on 
his 
trip 
to 
Diagon 
Alley. 
He 
preferred 
to 
operate 
alone. 
The 
adult 
Voldemort 
is 
the 
same. 
You 
will 
hear 
many 
of 
his 
Death 
Eaters 
claiming 
that 
they 
are 
in 
his 
confidence, 
that 
they 
alone 
are 
close 
to 
him, 
even 
understand 
him. 
They 
are deluded. Lord Voldemort has never had a friend, nor do I believe that he has ever wanted one. 

"And 
lastly 
— 
I 
hope 
you 
are 
not 
too 
sleepy 
to 
pay 
attention 
to 
this, 
Harry 
— 
the 
young 
Tom 
Riddle 
liked 
to 
collect 
trophies. 
You 
saw 
the 
box 
of 
stolen 
articles 
he 
had 
hidden 
in 
his 
room. 
These 
were 
taken 
from 
victims 
of 
his 
bullying 
behavior, 
souvenirs, 
if 
you 
will, 
of 
particularly 
unpleasant 
bits 
of 
magic. Bear in mind this magpielike 
tendency, for this, particularly, will be important later. 

"And now, it really is time for bed." 


Harry 
got 
to 
his 
feet. 
As 
he 
walked 
across 
the 
room, 
his 
eyes 
fell 
I 
upon 
the 
little 
table 
on 
which 
Marvolo Gaunt's ring had rested last I time, but the ring was no longer there. 

"Yes, Harry?" said Dumbledore, for Harry had come to a halt. I 

"The 
ring's 
gone," 
said 
Harry, 
looking 
around. 
"But 
I 
thought 
I 
you 
might 
have 
the 
mouth 
organ 
or 
something." 


Dumbledore beamed at him, peering over the top of his hall' moon spectacles. 

"Very astute, Harry, but the mouth organ was only ever a mouth organ." 


And on that enigmatic note he waved to Harry, who understood himself to be dismissed. 



Chapter 14 
Felix Felicis 



Harry 
had 
Herbology 
first 
thing 
the 
following 
morning. 
He 
had 
been 
unable 
to 
tell 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
about 
his 
lesson 
with 
Dumbledore 
over 
breakfast 
for 
fear 
of 
being 
overheard, 
but 
he 
filled 
them 
in 
as 
they 
walked 
across 
the 
vegetable 
patch 
toward 
the 
greenhouses. 
The 
weekend’s 
brutal 
wind 
had 
died 
out 
at 
last; 
the 
weird 
mist 
had 
returned 
and 
it 
took 
them 
a 
little 
longer 
than 
usual 
to 
find 
the 
correct 
greenhouse. 

"Wow, scary thought, 
the 
boy YouKnowWho," 
said 
Ron quietly, as 
they took 
their 
places 
around one 
of 
the 
gnarled 
Snargaluff 
stumps 
that 
formed 
this 
terms 
project, 
and 
began 
pulling 
on 
their 
protective 
gloves. 
"But 
I 
still 
don't 
get 
why 
Dumbledore's 
showing 
you 
all 
this. 
I 
mean, 
it's 
really 
interesting 
and 
everything, but what's the point?" 

"Dunno," said Harry, inserting a gum shield. "But he says its all important and it'll help me survive." 


"I 
think 
it's 
fascinating," 
said 
Hermione 
earnestly. 
"It 
makes 
absolute 
sense 
to 
know 
as 
much 
about 
Voldemort as possible. How else will you find out his weaknesses?" 


"So how was Slughorn's latest party?" Harry asked her thickly through the gum shield. 


"Oh, it 
was 
quite 
fun, really," 
said 
Hermione, 
now 
putting 
on protective 
goggles. "I mean, he 
drones 
on 
about 
famous 
exploits 
a 
bit, 
and 
he 
absolutely 
fawns 
on 
McLaggen 
because 
he's 
so 
well 
connected, 
but 
he gave us some really nice food and he introduced us to Gwenog Jones." 


"Gwenog 
Jones?" 
said 
Ron, 
his 
eyes 
widening 
under 
his 
own 
goggles. 
"The 
Gwenog 
Jones? 
Captain 
of 
the Holyhead Harpies?" 


"That's right," said Hermione. "Personally, I thought she was a bit full of herself, but —" 


"Quite 
enough 
chat 
over 
here!" 
said 
Professor 
Sprout 
briskly, 
bustling 
over 
and 
looking 
stern. 
"You're 
lagging behind, everybody else has started, and Neville's already got his first pod!" 


They 
looked 
around; 
sure 
enough, 
there 
sat 
Neville 
with 
a 
bloody 
lip 
and 
several 
nasty 
scratches 
along 
the side of his face, but clutching an unpleasantly pulsating green object about the size of a grapefruit. 


"Okay, 
Professor, 
we're 
starting 
now!" 
said 
Ron, 
adding 
quietly, 
when 
she 
had 
turned 
away 
again, 
"should ve used Muffliato, Harry." 


"No, we shouldn't!" said Hermione at once, looking, as she always did, intensely cross at the thought of 
the HalfBlood 
Prince and his spells. "Well, come on ... we'd better get going. ..." 


She 
gave 
the 
other 
two 
an 
apprehensive 
look; 
they 
all 
took 
deep 
breaths 
and 
then 
dived 
at 
the 
gnarled 
stump between them. 

It 
sprang 
to 
life 
at 
once; 
long, 
prickly, 
bramblelike 
vines 
flew 
out 
of 
the 
top 
and 
whipped 
through 
the 
air. 
One 
tangled 
itself 
in 
Hermione's 
hair, 
and 
Ron 
beat 
it 
back 
with 
a 
pair 
of 
secateurs; 
Harry 
succeeded 
in 
trapping 
a 
couple 
of 
vines 
and 
knotting 
them 
together; 
a 
hole 
opened 
in 
the 
middle 
of 
all 
the 
tentaclelike 
branches; 
Hermione 
plunged 
her 
arm 
bravely 
into 
this 
hole, 
which 
closed 
like 
a 
trap 
around 
her 
elbow; 
Harry 
and 
Ron 
tugged 
and 
wrenched 
at 
the 
vines, 
forcing 
the 
hole 
to 
open 
again, 
and 
Hermione 
snatched 
her 
arm 
free, 
clutching 
in 
her 
fingers 
a 
pod 
just 
like 
Neville's. 
At 
once, 
the 



prickly 
vines 
shot 
back 
inside, 
and 
the 
gnarled 
stump 
sat 
there 
looking 
like 
an 
innocently 
dead 
lump 
of 
wood. 

"You 
know, 
I 
don't 
think 
I'll 
be 
having 
any 
of 
these 
in 
my 
garden 
when 
I've 
got 
my 
own 
place," 
said 
Ron, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead and wiping sweat from his face. 

"Pass 
me 
a 
bowl," 
said 
Hermione, 
holding 
the 
pulsating 
pod 
at 
arm's 
length; 
Harry 
handed 
one 
over 
and she dropped the pod into it with a look of disgust on her face. 

"Don't be squeamish, squeeze it out, they're best when they're fresh!" called Professor Sprout. 

"Anyway," said 
Hermione, continuing 
their 
interrupted conversation 
as 
though 
a 
lump 
of wood had not 
just 
attacked 
them, 
"Slughorn's 
going 
to 
have 
a 
Christmas 
party, 
Harry, 
and 
there's 
no 
way 
you'll 
be 
able 
to 
wriggle 
out 
of 
this 
one 
because 
he 
actually 
asked 
me 
to 
check 
your 
free 
evenings, 
so 
he 
could 
be sure to have it on a night you can come." 


Harry 
groaned. 
Meanwhile, 
Ron, 
who 
was 
attempting 
to 
burst 
the 
pod 
in 
the 
bowl 
by 
putting 
both 
hands 
on 
it, 
standing 
up, 
and 
squashing 
it 
as 
hard 
as 
he 
could, 
said 
angrily, 
"And 
this 
is 
another 
party 
just for Slughorn's favorites, is it?" 


"Just for the Slug Club, yes," said Hermione. 

The 
pod 
flew 
out 
from 
under 
Ron's 
fingers 
and 
hit 
the 
green 
house 
glass, 
rebounding 
onto 
the 
back 
of 
Professor 
Sprout's 
head 
and 
knocking 
off 
her 
old, 
patched 
hat. 
Harry 
went 
to 
retrieve 
the 
pod; 
when 
he 
got back, Hermione was saying, "Look, I didn't make up the name 'Slug Club' —" 


"'Slug 
Club,'"repeated 
Ron 
with 
a 
sneer 
worthy 
of 
Malfoy. 
"It's 
pathetic. 
Well, 
I 
hope 
you 
enjoy 
your 
party. 
Why 
don't 
you 
try 
hooking 
up 
with 
McLaggen, 
then 
Slughorn 
can 
make 
you 
King 
and 
Queen 
Slug —" 

"We're 
allowed 
to 
bring 
guests," 
said 
Hermione, 
who 
for 
some 
reason 
had 
turned 
a 
bright, 
boiling 
scarlet, "and I was going to ask you to come, but if you think it's that stupid then I won't bother!" 


Harry 
suddenly 
wished 
the 
pod 
had 
flown 
a 
little 
farther, 
so 
that 
he 
need 
not 
have 
been 
sitting 
here 
with 
the 
pair 
of 
them. 
Unnoticed 
by 
either, 
he 
seized 
the 
bowl 
that 
contained 
the 
pod 
and 
began 
to 
try 
and 
open 
it 
by 
the 
noisiest 
and 
most 
energetic 
means 
he 
could 
think 
of; 
unfortunately, 
he 
could 
still 
hear every word of their conversation. 


"You were going to ask me?" asked Ron, in a completely different voice. 

"Yes," said Hermione angrily. "But obviously if you'd rather 1 hooked up with McLaggen ..." 


There was a pause while Harry continued to pound the resilient pod with a trowel. 


"No, I wouldn't," said Ron, in a very quiet voice. 

Harry missed the pod, hit the bowl, and shattered it. 


‘"Reparo,"' 
he 
said 
hastily, 
poking 
the 
pieces 
with 
his 
wand, 
and 
the 
bowl 
sprang 
back 
together 
again. 
The 
crash, 
however, 
appeared 
to 
have 
awoken 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
to 
Harry's 
presence. 
Hermione 



looked 
flustered 
and 
immediately 
started 
fussing 
about 
for 
her 
copy 
of 
“FleshEating 
Trees 
of 
the 
World” 
to 
find 
out 
the 
correct 
way 
to 
juice 
Snargaluff 
pods; 
Ron, 
on 
the 
other 
hand, 
looked 
sheepish 
but also rather pleased with himself. 


"Hand 
that 
over, 
Harry," 
said 
Hermione 
hurriedly. 
"It 
says 
we're 
supposed 
to 
puncture 
them 
with 
something sharp. . . ." 

Harry 
passed 
her 
the 
pod 
in 
the 
bowl; 
he 
and 
Ron 
both 
snapped 
their 
goggles 
back 
over 
their 
eyes 
and 
dived, 
once 
more, 
for 
the 
stump. 
It 
was 
not 
as 
though 
he 
was 
really 
surprised, 
thought 
Harry, 
as 
he 
wrestled 
with 
a 
thorny 
vine 
intent 
upon 
throttling 
him; 
he 
had 
had 
an 
inkling 
that 
this 
might 
happen 
sooner 
or 
later. 
But 
he 
was 
not 
sure 
how 
he 
felt 
about 
it. 
... 
He 
and 
Cho 
were 
now 
too 
embarrassed 
to 
look 
at 
each 
other, 
let 
alone 
talk 
to 
each 
other; 
what 
if 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
started 
going 
out 
together, 
then 
split 
up? 
Could 
their 
friendship 
survive 
it? 
Harry 
remembered 
the 
few 
weeks 
when 
they 
had 
not 
been 
talking 
to 
each 
other 
in 
the 
third 
year; 
he 
had 
not 
enjoyed 
trying 
to 
bridge 
the 
distance 
between 
them. 
And 
then, 
what 
if 
they 
didn't 
split 
up? 
What 
if 
they 
became 
like 
Bill 
and 
Fleur, 
and 
it 
became 
excruciatingly embarrassing to be in their presence, so that he was shut out for good? 


"Gotcha!" 
yelled Ron, pulling 
a 
second pod from 
the 
stump 
just 
as 
Hermione 
managed to burst 
the 
first 
one open, so that the bowl was full of tubers wriggling like pale green worms. 


The 
rest 
of 
the 
lesson 
passed 
without 
further 
mention 
of 
Slughorn's 
party. 
Although 
Harry 
watched 
his 
two 
friends 
more 
closely 
over 
the 
next 
few 
days, 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
did 
not 
seem 
any 
different 
except 
that 
they 
were 
a 
little 
politer 
to 
each other 
than 
usual. 
Harry 
supposed 
he 
would 
just 
have 
to 
wait 
to 
see 
what 


happened 
under 
the 
influence 
of 
butterbeer 
in 
Slughorn's 
dimly 
lit 
room 
on 
the 
night 
of 
the 
party. 
In 
the meantime, however, he had more pressing worries. 

Katie 
Bell 
was 
still 
in 
St. 
Mungo's 
Hospital 
with 
no 
prospect 
of 
leaving, 
which 
meant 
that 
the 
promising 
Gryffindor 
team 
Harry 
had 
been 
training 
so 
carefully 
since 
September 
was 
one 
Chaser 
short. 
He 
kept 
putting 
off 
replacing 
Katie 
in 
the 
hope 
that 
she 
would 
return, 
but 
their 
opening 
match 
against Slytherin was looming, and he finally had to accept that she would not be back in time to play. 

Harry did not think he could stand another fullHouse 
tryout. With a sinking feeling that had little to do 
with 
Quidditch, 
he 
cornered 
Dean 
Thomas 
after 
Transfiguration 
one 
day. 
Most 
of 
the 
class 
had 
already 
left, 
although 
several 
twittering 
yellow 
birds 
were 
still 
zooming 
around 
the 
room, 
all 
of 
Hermione's 
creation; nobody else had succeeded in conjuring so much as a feather from thin air. 

"Are you still interested in playing Chaser?" 


"Wha 
— 
? 
Yeah, 
of 
course!" 
said 
Dean 
excitedly. 
Over 
Dean’s 
shoulder, 
Harry 
saw 
Seamus 
Finnegan 
slamming 
his 
books 
into 
his 
bag, looking 
sour. One 
of 
the 
reasons 
why Harry would 
have 
preferred not 
to have to ask Dean to play was that he knew Seamus would not like it. On the other hand, he had to do 
what was best for the team, and Dean had outflown Seamus at the tryouts. 

"Well then, you're in," said Harry. "There's a practice tonight, seven o'clock." 



"Right," said Dean. "Cheers, Harry! Blimey, I can't wait to tell Ginny!" 


He 
sprinted 
out 
of 
the 
room, 
leaving 
Harry 
and 
Seamus 
alone 
together, 
an 
uncomfortable 
moment 
made 
no 
easier 
when 
a 
bird 
dropping 
landed 
on 
Seamus's 
head 
as 
one 
of 
Hermione's 
canaries 
whizzed 
over them. 

Seamus 
was 
not 
the 
only 
person 
disgruntled 
by 
the 
choice 
of 
Katie’s 
substitute. 
There 
was 
much 
muttering 
in 
the 
common 
room 
about 
the 
fact 
that 
Harry 
had 
now 
chosen 
two 
of 
his 
classmates 
for 
the 
team. 
As 
Harry 
had 
endured 
much 
worse 
mutterings 
than 
this 
in 
his 
school 
career, 
he 
was 
not 
particularly 
bothered, 
but 
all 
the 
same, 
the 
pressure 
was 
increasing 
to 
provide 
a 
win 
in 
the 
upcoming 
match 
against 
Slytherin. 
If 
Gryffindor 
won, 
Harry 
knew 
that 
the 
whole 
House 
would 
forget 
that 
they 
had 
criticized 
him 
and 
swear 
that 
they 
had 
always 
known 
it 
was 
a 
great 
team. 
If 
they 
lost. 
. 
. 
well, 
Harry thought wryly, he had still endured worse mutterings. . . . 

Harry 
had 
no 
reason 
to 
regret 
his 
choice 
once 
he 
saw 
Dean 
fly 
that 
evening; 
he 
worked 
well 
with 
Ginny and Demelza. The 
Beaters, Peakes 
and Coote, were 
getting 
better 
all 
the 
time. 
The 
only 
problem 
was Ron. 

Harry 
had 
known 
all 
along 
that 
Ron 
was 
an 
inconsistent 
player 
who 
suffered 
from 
nerves 
and 
a 
lack 
of 
confidence, 
and 
unfortunately, 
the 
looming 
prospect 
of 
the 
opening 
game 
of 
the 
season 
seemed 
to 
have 
brought 
out 
all 
his 
old 
insecurities. 
After 
letting 
in 
half 
a 
dozen 
goals, 
most 
of 
them 
scored 
by 
Ginny, 
his 
technique 
became 
wilder 
and 
wilder, 
until 
he 
finally 
punched 
an 
oncoming 
Demelza 
Robins 
in 
the 
mouth. 


"It 
was 
an 
accident, 
I'm 
sorry, 
Demelza, 
really 
sorry!" 
Ron 
shouted 
after 
her 
as 
she 
zigzagged 
back 
to 
the ground, dripping blood everywhere. "I just —" 

"Panicked," 
Ginny 
said 
angrily, 
landing 
next 
to 
Demelza 
and 
examining 
her 
fat 
lip. 
"You 
prat, 
Ron, 
look at the state of her!" 

"I 
can 
fix 
that," 
said 
Harry, 
landing 
beside 
the 
two 
girls, 
pointing 
his 
wand 
at 
Demelzas 
mouth, 
and 
saying "Episkey." "And Ginny, don't call Ron a prat, you're not the Captain of this team —" 


"Well, you seemed too busy to call him a prat and I thought someone should —" 

Harry forced himself not to laugh. 

"In the air, everyone, let's go. . . ." 


Overall 
it 
was 
one 
of 
the 
worst 
practices 
they 
had 
had 
all 
term, 
though 
Harry 
did 
not 
feel 
that 
honesty 
was the best policy when they were this close to the match. 

"Good 
work, 
everyone, 
I 
think 
we'll 
flatten 
Slytherin," 
he 
said 
bracingly, 
and 
the 
Chasers 
and 
Beaters 
left the changing room looking reasonably happy with themselves. 


"I 
played 
like 
a 
sack 
of 
dragon 
dung," 
said 
Ron 
in 
a 
hollow 
voice 
when 
the 
door 
had 
swung 
shut 
behind Ginny. 

"No, 
you 
didn't," 
said 
Harry 
firmly. 
"You're 
the 
best 
Keeper 
I 
tried 
out, 
Ron. 
Your 
only 
problem 
is 



nerves." 


He 
kept 
up 
a 
relentless 
flow 
of 
encouragement 
all 
the 
way 
back 
to 
the 
castle, 
and 
by 
the 
time 
they 
reached 
the 
second 
floor, 
Ron 
was 
looking 
marginally 
more 
cheerful. 
When 
Harry 
pushed 
open 
the 
tapestry 
to 
take 
their 
usual 
shortcut 
up 
to 
Gryffindor 
Tower, 
however, 
they 
found 
themselves 
looking 
at Dean and Ginny, who were locked in a close embrace and kissing fiercely as though glued together. 

It 
was 
as 
though 
something 
large 
and 
scaly 
erupted 
into 
life 
in 
Harry's 
stomach, 
clawing 
at 
his 
insides: 
Hot 
blood 
seemed 
to 
flood 
his 
brain, 
so 
that 
all 
thought 
was 
extinguished, 
replaced 
by 
a 
savage 
urge 
to 
jinx 
Dean 
into 
a 
jelly. 
Wrestling 
with 
this 
sudden 
madness, 
he 
heard 
Ron's 
voice 
as 
though 
from 
a 
great distance away. 

“Oi!” 


Dean and Ginny broke apart and looked around. "What?" said Ginny. 

"I 
don't 
want 
to 
find 
my 
own 
sister 
snogging 
people 
in 
public!" 
"This 
was 
a 
deserted 
corridor 
till 
you 
came butting in!" said Ginny. 

Dean 
was 
looking 
embarrassed. 
He 
gave 
Harry 
a 
shifty 
grin 
that 
Harry 
did 
not 
return, 
as 
the 
newborn 
monster inside him was roaring for Dean's instant dismissal from the team. 


"Er . . . c'mon, Ginny," said Dean, "let's go back to the common room. ..." 


"You 
go!" 
said 
Ginny. 
"I 
want 
a 
word 
with 
my 
dear 
brother!" 
Dean 
left, 
looking 
as 
though 
he 
was 
not 
sorry to depart the scene. 

"Right," 
said 
Ginny, 
tossing 
her 
long 
red 
hair 
out 
of 
her 
face 
and 
glaring 
at 
Ron, 
"let's 
get 
this 
straight 
once 
and 
for 
all. 
It 
is 
none 
of 
your 
business 
who 
I 
go 
out 
with 
or 
what 
I 
do 
with 
them, 
Ron 
—" 
"Yeah, 
it is!" said Ron, just as angrily. "D' you think I want people saying my sister's a —" 


"A 
what?" 
shouted 
Ginny, 
drawing 
her 
wand. 
"A 
what, 
exactly?" 
"He 
doesn't 
mean 
anything, 
Ginny 
—" 
said 
Harry 
automatically, 
though 
the 
monster 
was 
roaring 
its 
approval 
of 
Ron's 
words. 
"Oh 
yes 
he 
does!" 
she 
said, 
flaring 
up 
at 
Harry. 
"Just 
because 
he's 
never 
snogged 
anyone 
in 
his 
life, 
just 
because 
the best kiss he's ever had is from our Auntie Muriel —" 


"Shut your mouth!" bellowed Ron, bypassing red and turning maroon. 

"No, I will not!" yelled Ginny, beside herself. "I've seen you with Phlegm, hoping she'll kiss you on the 
cheek 
every 
time 
you 
see 
her, 
it's 
pathetic! 
If 
you 
went 
out 
and 
got 
a 
bit 
of 
snogging 
done 
your 
self, 
you wouldn't mind so much that everyone else does it!" 


Ron had pulled out his wand too; Harry stepped swiftly between them. 


"You 
don't 
know 
what 
you're 
talking 
about!" 
Ron 
roared, 
trying 
to 
get 
a 
clear 
shot 
at 
Ginny 
around 
Harry, 
who 
was 
now 
standing 
in 
front 
of 
her 
with 
his 
arms 
outstretched. 
"Just 
because 
I 
don't 
do 
it 
in 
public — !" 


Ginny screamed with derisive laughter, trying to push Harry out of the way. 


"Been 
kissing 
Pigwidgeon, 
have 
you? 
Or 
have 
you 
got 
a 
picture 
of 
Auntie 
Muriel 
stashed 
under 
your 
pillow?" You — 

A 
streak 
of 
orange 
light 
flew 
under 
Harrys 
left 
arm 
and 
missed 
Ginny 
by 
inches; 
Harry 
pushed 
Ron 
up 
against the wall. 


"Don't be stupid —" 


"Harry's 
snogged 
Cho 
Chang!" 
shouted 
Ginny, 
who 
sounded 
close 
to 
tears 
now. 
"And 
Hermione 
snogged 
Viktor 
Krum, 
it's 
only 
you 
who 
acts 
like 
it's 
something 
disgusting, 
Ron, 
and 
that's 
because 
you've got about as much experience as a twelveyearold!" 


And 
with 
that, 
she 
stormed 
away. 
Harry 
quickly 
let 
go 
of 
Ron; 
the 
look 
on 
his 
face 
was 
murderous. 
They 
both 
stood 
there, 
breathing 
heavily, 
until 
Mrs. 
Norris, 
Rich's 
cat, 
appeared 
around 
the 
corner, 
which broke the tension. 


"C'mon," said Harry, as the sound of Filch's shuffling feet reached their ears. 

They 
hurried 
up 
the 
stairs 
and 
along 
a 
seventhfloor 
corridor. 
"Oi, 
out 
of 
the 
way!" 
Ron 
barked 
at 
a 
small girl who jumped in fright and dropped a bottle of toadspawn. 

Harry 
hardly 
noticed 
the 
sound 
of 
shattering 
glass; 
he 
felt 
disoriented, 
dizzy; 
being 
struck 
by 
a 
lightning 
bolt 
must 
be 
something 
like 
this. 
It's 
just 
because 
she's 
Ron’s 
sister, 
he 
told 
himself. 
You 
just 
didn't like seeing her kissing Dean because she's Ron's sister. . . . 

But 
unbidden 
into 
his 
mind 
came 
an 
image 
of 
that 
same 
deserted 
corridor 
with 
himself 
kissing 
Ginny 
instead. 
. 
. 
. 
The 
monster 
in 
his 
chest 
purred 
. 
. 
. 
but 
then 
he 
saw 
Ron 
ripping 
open 
the 
tapestry 
curtain 
and 
drawing 
his 
wand 
on 
Harry, 
shouting 
things 
like 
"betrayal 
of 
trust" 
. 
. 
. 
"supposed 
to 
be 
my 
friend" . . . 

"D'you 
think 
Hermione 
did 
snog 
Krum?" 
Ron 
asked 
abruptly, 
as 
they 
approached 
the 
Fat 
Lady. 
Harry 
gave 
a 
guilty 
start 
and 
wrenched 
his 
imagination 
away 
from 
a 
corridor 
in 
which 
no 
Ron 
intruded, 
in 
which 
he 
and 
Ginny 
were 
quite 
alone 
— 
"What?" 
he 
said 
confusedly. 
"Oh 
... 
er 
..." 
The 
honest 
answer 
was 
"yes," 
but 
he 
did 
not 
want 
to 
give 
it. 
However, 
Ron 
seemed 
to 
gather 
the 
worst 
from 
the 
look 
on 
Harry's face. 

"Dilligrout," 
he 
said 
darkly 
to 
the 
Fat 
Lady, 
and 
they 
climbed 
through 
the 
portrait 
hole 
into 
the 
common room. 

Neither 
of 
them 
mentioned 
Ginny 
or 
Hermione 
again; 
indeed, 
they 
barely 
spoke 
to 
each 
other 
that 
evening and got into bed in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts, 


Harry 
lay 
awake 
for 
a 
long 
time, 
looking 
up 
at 
the 
canopy 
of 
his 
fourposter 
and 
trying 
to 
convince 
himself 
that 
his 
feelings 
for 
Ginny 
were 
entirely 
elderbrotherly. 
They 
had 
lived, 
had 
they 
not, 
like 
brother 
and 
sister 
all 
summer, 
playing 
Quidditch, 
teasing 
Ron, 
and 
having 
a 
laugh 
about 
Bill 
and 
Phlegm? He had known Ginny for years now. ... It was natural that he should feel protective . . . natural 
that 
he 
should 
want 
to 
look 
out 
for 
her 
. 
. 
. 
want 
to 
rip 
Dean 
limb 
from 
limb 
for 
kissing 
her... 
No 
... 
he 
would have to control that particular brotherly feeling. . . . 


Ron gave a great grunting snore. 

She's 
Ron's 
sister, 
Harry 
told 
himself 
firmly. 
Ron's 
sister. 
She's 
outofbounds. 
He 
would 
not 
risk 
his 
friendship 
with 
Ron 
for 
anything. 
He 
punched 
his 
pillow 
into 
a 
more 
comfortable 
shape 
and 
waited 
for 
sleep to come, trying his utmost not to allow his thoughts to stray anywhere near Ginny. 

Harry 
awoke 
next 
morning 
feeling 
slightly 
dazed 
and 
confused 
by 
a 
series 
of 
dreams 
in 
which 
Ron 
had 
chased 
him 
with 
a 
Beater’s 
bat, 
but 
by 
midday 
he 
would 
have 
happily 
exchanged 
the 
dream 
Ron 
for 
the 
real 
one, 
who 
was 
not 
only 
coldshouldering 
Ginny 
and 
Dean, 
but 
also 
treating 
a 
hurt 
and 
bewildered 
Hermione 
with 
an 
icy, 
sneering 
indifference. 
What 
was 
more, 
Ron 
seemed 
to 
have 
become, 
overnight, 
as 
touchy 
and 
ready 
to 
lash 
out 
as 
the 
average 
BlastEnded 
Skrewt. 
Harry 
spent 
the 
day 
attempting 
to 
keep 
the 
peace 
between 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
with 
no 
success; 
finally, 
Hermione 
departed 
for 
bed 
in 
high 
dudgeon, 
and 
Ron 
stalked 
off 
to 
the 
boys' 
dormitory 
after 
swearing 
angrily 
at 
several 
frightened first years for looking at him. 


To 
Harry’s 
dismay, 
Ron's 
new 
aggression 
did 
not 
wear 
off 
over 
the 
next 
few 
days. 
Worse 
still, 
it 
coincided 
with 
an 
even 
deeper 
dip 
in 
his 
Keeping 
skills, 
which 
made 
him 
still 
more 
aggressive, 
so 
that 
during 
the 
final 
Quidditch 
practice 
before 
Saturdays 
match, 
he 
failed 
to 
save 
every 
single 
goal 
the 
Chasers aimed at him, but bellowed at everybody so much that he reduced Demelza Robins to tears. 

"You 
shut 
up 
and 
leave 
her 
alone!" 
shouted 
Peakes, 
who 
was 
about 
twothirds 
Ron's 
height, 
though 
admittedly carrying a heavy bat. 

"ENOUGH!" bellowed Harry, who had seen Ginny glowering in Ron’s direction and, remembering her 
reputation 
as 
an 
accomplished 
caster 
of 
the 
BatBogey 
Hex, 
soared 
over 
to 
intervene 
before 
things 
got 
out 
of 
hand. 
"Peakes, 
go 
and 
pack 
up 
the 
Bludgers. 
Demelza, 
pull 
yourself 
together, 
you 
played 
really 
well 
today, 
Ron 
. 
. 
." 
he 
waited 
until 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
team 
were 
out 
of 
earshot 
before 
saying 
it, 
"you're 
my best mate, but carry on treating the rest of them like this and I'm going to kick you off the team." 


He 
really 
thought 
for 
a 
moment 
that 
Ron 
might 
hit 
him, 
but 
then 
something 
much 
worse 
happened: 
Ron seemed to sag on his broom. all the fight went out of him and he said, "I resign. I'm pathetic." 


"You're 
not 
pathetic 
and 
you're 
not 
resigning!" 
said 
Harry 
fiercely, 
seizing 
Ron 
by 
the 
front 
of 
his 
robes. 
"You 
can 
save 
anything 
when 
you're 
on 
form, 
it's 
a 
mental 
problem 
you've 
got!" 
"You 
calling 
me mental?" "Yeah, maybe I am!" 

They 
glared 
at 
each 
other 
for 
a 
moment, 
then 
Ron 
shook 
his 
head 
wearily. 
"I 
know 
you 
haven't 
got 
any 
time to find another Keeper, so I'll play tomorrow, but if we lose, and we will, I'm taking myself off the 
team." 


Nothing 
Harry 
said 
made 
any 
difference. 
He 
tried 
boosting 
Ron's 
confidence 
all 
through 
dinner, 
but 
Ron 
was 
too 
busy 
being 
grumpy 
and 
surly 
with 
Hermione 
to 
notice. 
Harry 
persisted 
in 
the 
common 
room 
that 
evening, 
but 
his 
assertion 
that 
the 
whole 
team 
would 
be 
devastated 
if 
Ron 
left 
was 
somewhat 
undermined 
by 
the 
fact 
that 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
team 
was 
sitting 
in 
a 
huddle 
in 
a 
distant 
corner, 
clearly 
muttering 
about 
Ron 
and 
casting 
him 
nasty 
looks. 
Finally 
Harry 
tried 
getting 
angry 
again 
in 
the 
hope 
of 
provoking 
Ron 
into 
a 
defiant, 
and 
hopefully 
goalsaving, 
attitude, 
but 
this 
strategy 
did 
not 
appear 
to 



work any better than encouragement; Ron went to bed as dejected and hopeless as ever. 

Harry 
lay 
awake 
for 
a 
very 
long 
time 
in 
the 
darkness. 
He 
did 
not 
want 
to 
lose 
the 
upcoming 
match; 
not 


only 
was 
it 
his 
first 
as 
Captain, 
but 
he 
was 
determined 
to 
beat 
Draco 
Malfoy 
at 
Quidditch 
even 
if 
he 


could 
not 
yet 
prove 
his 
suspicions 
about 
him. 
Yet 
if 
Ron 
played 
as 
he 
had 
done 
in 
the 
last 
few 


practices, their chances of winning were very slim. . . . 


If 
only 
there 
was 
something 
he 
could 
do 
to 
make 
Ron 
pull 
himself 
together 
. 
. 
. 
make 
him 
play 
at 
the 


top of his form . . . something that would ensure that Ron had a really good day. . . . 
And the answer came to Harry in one, sudden, glorious stroke of inspiration. 
Breakfast 
was 
the 
usual 
excitable 
affair 
next 
morning; 
the 
Slytherins 
hissed 
and 
booed 
loudly 
as 
every 


member 
of 
the 
Gryffindor 
team 
entered 
the 
Great 
Hall. 
Harry 
glanced 
at 
the 
ceiling 
and 
saw 
a 
clear, 


pale blue sky: a good omen. 


The 
Gryffindor 
table, 
a 
solid 
mass 
of 
red 
and 
gold, 
cheered 
as 
Harry 
and 
Ron 
approached. 
Harry 


grinned and waved; Ron grimaced weakly and shook his head. 


"Cheer up, Ron!" called Lavender. "I know you'll be brilliant!" : Ron ignored her. 


"Tea?" 
Harry 
asked 
him. 
"Coffee? 
Pumpkin 
juice?" 
"Anything," 
said 
Ron 
glumly, 
taking 
a 
moody 
bite 


of toast. 


A 
few 
minutes 
later 
Hermione, 
who 
had 
become 
so 
tired 
of 
Ron's 
recent 
unpleasant 
behavior 
that 
she 


had not come down to breakfast with them, paused on her way up the table. 
"How are you both feeling?" she asked tentatively, her eyes on the back of Ron's head. 
"Fine," 
said 
Harry, 
who 
was 
concentrating 
on 
handing 
Ron 
a 
glass 
of 
pumpkin 
juice. 
"There 
you 
go, 


Ron. Drink up." 
Ron had just raised the glass to his lips when Hermione spoke 
sharply. 
"Don't drink that, Ron!" 
Both Harry and Ron looked up at her. 
"Why not?" said Ron. 
Hermione was now staring at Harry as though she could not believe her eyes. 
"You just put something in that drink." 
"Excuse me?" said Harry. 
"You 
heard 
me. 
I 
saw 
you. 
You 
just 
tipped 
something 
into 
Ron's 
drink. 
You've 
got 
the 
bottle 
in 
your 


hand right now!" 
"I dont know what you're talking about," said Harry, stowing the little bottle hastily in his pocket. 



"Ron, 
I 
warn 
you, 
don't 
drink 
it!" 
Hermione 
said 
again, 
alarmed, 
but 
Ron 
picked 
up 
the 
glass, 
drained 


it in one gulp, and said, "Stop bossing me around, Hermione." 
She 
looked 
scandalized. 
Bending 
low 
so 
that 
only 
Harry 
could 
hear 
her, 
she 
hissed, 
"You 
should 
be 
expelled for that. I'd never have believed it of you, Harry!" 


"Look who's talking," he whispered back. "Confunded anyone lately?" 
She 
stormed 
up 
the 
table 
away 
from 
them. 
Harry 
watched 
her 
go 
without 
regret. 
Hermione 
had 
never 


really 
understood 
what 
a 
serious 
business 
Quidditch 
was. 
He 
then 
looked 
around 
at 
Ron, 
who 
was 
smacking his lips. 
"Nearly time/' said Harry blithely. 
The frosty grass crunched underfoot as they strode down to the stadium. 
"Pretty lucky the weathers this good, eh?" Harry asked Ron. 
"Yeah," said Ron, who was pale and sicklooking. 
Ginny and Demelza were already wearing their Quidditch robes and waiting in the changing room. 
"Conditions 
look 
ideal," 
said 
Ginny, 
ignoring 
Ron. 
"And 
guess 
what? 
That 
Slytherin 
Chaser 
Vaisey 
— 


he 
took 
a 
Bludger 
in the 
head yesterday during their 
practice, and he's 
too 
sore 
to 
play! 
And even better 
than that — Malfoy's gone off sick too!" 


"What?" said Harry, wheeling around to stare at her. "He's ill? What's wrong with him?" 
"No 
idea, 
but 
it's 
great 
for 
us," 
said 
Ginny 
brightly. 
"They're 
playing 
Harper 
instead; 
he's 
in 
my 
year 
and he's an idiot." 


Harry 
smiled 
back 
vaguely, 
but 
as 
he 
pulled 
on 
his 
scarlet 
robes 
his 
mind 
was 
far 
from 
Quidditch. 
Malfoy 
had 
once 
before 
claimed 
he 
could 
not 
play 
due 
to 
injury, 
but 
on 
that 
occasion 
he 
had 
made 
sure 
the whole match was rescheduled for a time that suited the Slytherins better. Why was he now happy to 
let a substitute go on? Was he really ill, or was he faking? 


"Fishy, isn't it?" he said in an undertone to Ron. "Malfoy not playing?" 
"Lucky, 
I 
call 
it," 
said 
Ron, 
looking 
slightly 
more 
animated. 
"And 
Vaisey 
off 
too, 
he's 
their 
best 
goal 


scorer, 
I 
didn't 
fancy 
— 
hey!" 
he 
said 
suddenly, 
freezing 
halfway 
through 
pulling 
on 
his 
Keepers 
gloves and staring at Harry. 
"What?" 
"I... 
you 
. 
. 
." 
Ron 
had 
dropped 
his 
voice, 
he 
looked 
both 
scared 
and 
excited. 
"My 
drink 
... 
my 
pumpkin 


juice ... you didn't...?" 


Harry 
raised 
his 
eyebrows, 
but 
said 
nothing 
except, 
"We'll 
be 
starting 
in 
about 
five 
minutes, 
you'd 
better get your boots on." 
They walked out onto the pitch to tumultuous roars and boos. One end of the stadium was solid red and 


gold; 
the 
other, 
a 
sea 
of 
green 
and 
silver. 
Many 
Hufflepuffs 
and 
Ravenclaws 
had 
taken 
sides 
too: 



Amidst 
all 
the 
yelling 
and 
clapping 
Harry 
could 
distinctly 
hear 
the 
roar 
of 
Luna 
Lovegood's 
famous 
liontopped 
hat. 


Harry 
stepped 
up 
to 
Madam 
Hooch, 
the 
referee, 
who 
was 
standing 
ready 
to 
release 
the 
balls 
from 
the 
crate. 

"Captains 
shake 
hands," 
she 
said, 
and 
Harry 
had 
his 
hand 
crushed 
by 
the 
new 
Slytherin 
Captain, 
Urquhart. "Mount your brooms. On the whistle . . . three . . . two . . . one . . ." 


The 
whistle 
sounded, 
Harry 
and 
the 
others 
kicked 
off 
hard 
from 
the 
frozen 
ground, 
and 
they 
were 
away. 

Harry 
soared 
around 
the 
perimeter 
of 
the 
grounds, 
looking 
around 
for 
the 
Snitch 
and 
keeping 
one 
eye 
on 
Harper, 
who 
was 
zigzagging 
far 
below 
him. 
Then 
a 
voice 
that 
was 
jarringly 
different 
to 
the 
usual 
commentator's started up. 

"Well, 
there 
they 
go, 
and 
I 
think 
we're 
all 
surprised 
to 
see 
the 
team 
that 
Potter's 
put 
together 
this 
year. 
Many 
thought, 
given 
Ronald 
Weasley's 
patchy 
performance 
as 
Keeper 
last 
year, 
that 
he 
might 
be 
off 
the team, but of course, a close personal friendship with the Captain does help. . . ." 


These 
words 
were 
greeted 
with 
jeers 
and 
applause 
from 
the 
Slytherin 
end 
of 
the 
pitch. 
Harry 
craned 
around 
on 
his 
broom 
to 
look 
toward 
the 
commentator's 
podium. 
A 
call, 
skinny 
blond 
buy 
with 
an 
upturned nose was standing there, talking into the magical megaphone that had once been Lee Jordan's; 
Harry recognized Zacharias Smith, a Hufflepuff player whom he heartily disliked. 


"Oh, and here comes Slytherin's first attempt on goal, it's Urquhart streaking down the pitch and —" 


Harrys stomach turned over. 

"— Weasley saves it, well, he's bound to get lucky sometimes, I suppose. . . ." 

"That's 
right, 
Smith, 
he 
is," 
muttered 
Harry, 
grinning 
to 
himself, 
as 
he 
dived 
amongst 
the 
Chasers 
with 
his eyes searching all around for some hint of the elusive Snitch. 


With 
half 
an 
hour 
of 
the 
game 
gone, 
Gryffindor 
were 
leading 
sixty 
points 
to 
zero, 
Ron 
having 
made 
some 
truly 
spectacular 
saves, 
some 
by 
the 
very 
tips 
of 
his 
gloves, 
and 
Ginny 
having 
scored 
four 
of 
Gryffindor's 
six 
goals. 
This 
effectively 
stopped 
Zacharias 
wondering 
loudly 
whether 
the 
two 
Weasleys 
were only there because Harry liked them, and he started on Peakes and Coote instead. 

"Of 
course, Coote 
isn't 
really the 
usual 
build 
for 
a 
Beater," 
said 
Zacharias 
loftily, 
"they've 
generally 
got 
a bit more muscle —" 

"Hit 
a 
Bludger 
at 
him!" 
Harry 
called 
to 
Coote 
as 
he 
zoomed 
past, 
but 
Coote, 
grinning 
broadly, 
chose 
to 
aim 
the 
next 
Bludger 
at 
Harper 
instead, 
who 
was 
just 
passing 
Harry 
in 
the 
opposite 
direction. 
Harry 
was pleased to hear the dull thunk that meant the Bludger had found its mark. 

It 
seemed 
as 
though 
Gryffindor 
could 
do 
no 
wrong. 
Again 
and 
again 
they 
scored, 
and 
again 
and 
again, 
at 
the 
other 
end 
of 
the 
pitch, 
Ron 
saved 
goals 
with 
apparent 
ease. 
He 
was 
actually 
smiling 
now, 
and 
when the crowd greeted a particularly good save with a 



rousing chorus of the old favorite "Weasley Is Our King," he pretended to conduct them from on high. 

"Thinks 
he's 
something 
special 
today, 
doesn't 
he?" 
said 
a 
snide 
voice, 
and 
Harry 
was 
nearly 
knocked 
off 
his 
broom 
as 
Harper 
collided 
with 
him 
hard 
and 
deliberately. 
"Your 
bloodtraitor 
pal..." 
Madam 
Hooch's 
back 
was 
turned, 
and 
though 
Gryffindors 
below 
shouted 
in 
anger, 
by 
the 
time 
she 
looked 
around, 
Harper 
had 
already 
sped 
off. 
His 
shoulder 
aching, 
Harry 
raced 
after 
him, 
determined 
to 
ram 
him back. ... 

"And 
I 
think 
Harper 
of 
Slytherin's 
seen 
the 
Snitch!" 
said 
Zacharias 
Smith 
through 
his 
megaphone. 
"Yes, he's certainly seen something Potter hasn't!" 


Smith 
really 
was 
an 
idiot, 
thought 
Harry, 
hadn't 
he 
noticed 
them 
collide? 
But 
next 
moment, 
his 
stomach seemed to drop out 
of 
the 
, sky — Smith 
was 
right 
and Harry was 
wrong: 
Harper 
had not 
sped 
upward 
at 
random; 
he 
had 
spotted 
what 
Harry 
had 
not: 
The 
Snitch 
was 
speeding 
along 
high 
above 
them, glinting brightly against the clear blue sky. 


Harry 
accelerated; 
the 
wind 
was 
whistling 
in 
his 
ears 
so 
that 
it 
drowned 
all 
sound 
of 
Smith's 
commentary 
or 
the 
crowd, 
but 
Harper 
was 
still 
ahead 
of 
him, 
and 
Gryffindor 
was 
only 
a 
hundred 
points 
up; 
if 
Harper 
got 
there 
first 
Gryffindor 
had 
lost. 
. 
. 
and 
now 
Harper 
was 
feet 
from 
it, 
his 
hand 
outstretched. ... 

"Oi, 
Harper!" 
yelled 
Harry 
in 
desperation. 
"How 
much 
did 
Malfoy 
pay 
you 
to 
come 
on 
instead 
of 
him?" 


He 
did 
not 
know 
what 
made 
him 
say 
it, 
but 
Harper 
did 
a 
doubletake; 
he 
fumbled 
the 
Snitch, 
let 
it 
slip 
through 
his 
fingers, 
and 
shot 
right 
past 
it. 
Harry 
made 
a 
great 
swipe 
for 
the 
tiny, 
fluttering 
ball 
and 
caught it. 


"YES!" 
Hairy 
yelled. 
Wheeling 
around, 
he 
hurtled 
back 
toward 
the 
ground, 
the 
Snitch 
held 
high 
in 
his 
hand. 
As 
the 
crowd 
realized 
what 
had 
happened, 
a 
great 
shout 
went 
up 
that 
almost 
drowned 
the 
sound 
of the whistle that signaled the end of the game. 

"Ginny, 
where're 
you 
going?" 
yelled 
Harry, 
who 
had 
found 
hint 
self 
trapped 
in 
the 
midst 
of 
a 
mass 
midair 
hug 
with 
the 
rest 
of 
tin1 
team, 
but 
Ginny 
sped 
right 
on 
past 
them 
until, 
with 
an 
almighty 
crash, 
she 
collided 
with 
the 
commentators 
podium. 
As 
the 
crowd 
shrieked 
and 
laughed, 
the 
Gryffindor 
team 
landed 
beside 
the 
wreckage 
of 
wood 
under 
which 
Zacharias 
was 
feebly 
stirring,: 
Harry 
heard 
Ginny 
saying blithely to an irate Professor McGonagall, "Forgot to brake, Professor, sorry." 


Laughing, 
Harry 
broke 
free 
of 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
team 
and 
hugged 
Ginny, 
but 
let 
go 
very 
quickly. 
Avoiding 
her 
gaze, 
he 
clapped 
cheering 
Ron 
on 
the 
back 
instead 
as, 
all 
enmity 
forgotten, 
the 
Gryffindor team left the pitch arm in arm, punching the air ami waving to their supporters. 


The 
atmosphere 
in 
the 
changing 
room 
was 
jubilant. 
"Party 
up 
in 
the 
common 
room, 
Seamus 
said!" 
yelled Dean exuberantly. "C'mon, Ginny, Demelza!" 


Ron 
and 
Harry 
were 
the 
last 
two 
in 
the 
changing 
room. 
They 
were 
just 
about 
to 
leave 
when 
Hermione 
entered. 
She 
was 
twisting 
her 
Gryffindor 
scarf 
in 
her 
hands 
and 
looked 
upset 
but 
determined. 
"I 
want 
a 



word 
with 
you, 
Harry." 
She 
took 
a 
deep 
breath. 
"Yon 
shouldn't 
have 
done 
it. 
You 
heard 
Slughorn, 
its 
illegal." 
"What 
are 
you 
going 
to 
do, 
turn 
us 
in?" 
demanded 
Ron. 
"What 
are 
you 
two 
talking 
about?" 
asked 
Harry, 
turning 
away 
to 
hang 
up 
his 
robes 
so 
that 
neither 
of 
them 
would 
see 
him 
grinning, 
"You 
know 
perfectly 
well 
what 
we're 
talking 
about!" 
said 
Hermione 
shrilly. 
"You 
spiked 
Rons 
juice 
with 
lucky potion at breakfast! I'elix Felicis!" 


"No, I didn't," said Harry, turning back to face them both. 

"Yes 
you 
did, 
Harry, 
and 
that's 
why 
everything 
went 
right, 
there 
were 
Slytherin 
players 
missing 
and 
Ron saved everything!" 


"I 
didn't 
put 
it 
in!" 
said 
Harry, 
grinning 
broadly. 
He 
slipped 
his 
hand 
inside 
his 
jacket 
pocket 
and 
drew 
out 
the 
tiny 
bottle 
that 
Hermione 
had 
seen 
in 
his 
hand 
that 
morning. 
It 
was 
full 
of 
golden 
potion 
and 
the 
cork 
was 
still 
tightly 
sealed 
with 
wax. 
"I 
wanted 
Ron 
to 
think 
I'd 
done 
it, 
so 
I 
faked 
it 
when 
I 
knew 
you 
were 
looking." 
He 
looked 
at 
Ron. 
"You 
saved 
everything 
because 
you 
felt 
lucky. 
You 
did 
it 
all 
yourself." 


He pocketed the potion again. 


"There 
really 
wasn't 
anything 
in 
my 
pumpkin 
juice?" 
Ron 
said, 
astounded. 
"But 
the 
weather's 
good. 
. 
. 
and Vaisey couldn't play. ... I honestly haven't been given lucky potion?" ] 


Harry shook his 
head. Ron gaped at 
him 
for 
a 
moment, 
then rounded on Hermione, imitating 
her 
voice. 
"You 
added 
Felix 
Felicis 
to 
Ron’s 
juice 
this 
morning, 
that's 
why 
he 
saved 
everything! 
See! 
I 
can 
save 
goals without help, Hermione!" 


"I never said you couldn't — Ron, you thought you'd been given it too!" 


But Ron had already strode past her out of the door with his broomstick over his shoulder. 

"Er," 
said 
Harry 
into 
the 
sudden 
silence; 
he 
had 
not 
expected 
his 
plan 
to 
backfire 
like 
this, 
"shall. 
. 
. 
shall we go up to the party, then?" 


"You 
go!" 
said 
Hermione, 
blinking 
back 
tears. 
"I'm 
sick 
of 
Ron 
at 
the 
moment, 
I 
don't 
know 
what 
I'm 
supposed to have done. . . ." 


And she stormed out of the changing room too. 

Harry 
walked 
slowly 
back 
up 
the 
grounds 
toward 
the 
castle 
through 
the 
crowd, 
many 
of 
whom 
shouted 
congratulations 
at 
him, 
but 
he 
felt 
a 
great 
sense 
of 
letdown; 
he 
had 
been 
sure 
that 
if 
Ron 
won 
the 
match, 
he 
and 
Hermione 
would 
be 
friends 
again 
immediately. 
He 
did 
not 
see 
how 
he 
could 
possibly 
explain 
to Hermione 
that 
what 
she 
had done 
to 
offend Ron was 
kiss 
Viktor 
Krum, not 
when the 
offense 
had occurred so long ago. 

Harry 
could 
not 
see 
Hermione 
at 
the 
Gryffindor 
celebration 
party, 
which 
was 
in 
full 
swing 
when 
he 
arrived. 
Renewed 
cheers 
and 
clapping 
greeted 
his 
appearance, 
and 
he 
was 
soon 
surrounded 
by 
a 
mob 
of 
people 
congratulating 
him. 
What 
with 
trying 
to 
shake 
off 
the 
Creevey 
brothers, 
who 
wanted 
a 
blowbyblow 
match 
analysis, 
and 
the 
large 
group 
of 
girls 
that 
encircled 
him, 
laughing 
at 
his 
least 
amusing 



comments 
and 
batting 
their 
eyelids, 
it 
was 
some 
time 
before 
he 
could 
try 
and 
find 
Ron. 
At 
last, 
he 
extricated himself from Romilda Vane, who was hinting heavily that she would like to go to Slughorn's 
Christmas 
party 
with 
him. 
As 
he 
was 
ducking 
toward 
the 
drinks 
table, 
he 
walked 
straight 
into 
Ginny, 
Arnold the Pygmy Puff riding on her shoulder and Crookshanks mewing hopefully at her heels. 


"Looking for Ron?" she asked, smirking. "He's over there, the filthy hypocrite." 


Harry 
looked 
into 
the 
corner 
she 
was 
indicating. 
There, 
in 
full 
view 
of 
the 
whole 
room, 
stood 
Ron 
wrapped so closely around Lavender Brown it was hard to tell whose hands were whose. 
"It 
looks 
like 
he's 
eating 
her 
face, 
doesn't 
it?" 
said 
Ginny 
dispassionately. 
"But 
I 
suppose 
he's 
got 
to 


refine his technique somehow. Good game, Harry." 


She 
patted 
him 
on 
the 
arm; 
Harry 
felt 
a 
swooping 
sensation 
in 
his 
stomach, 
but 
then 
she 
walked 
off 
to 
help herself to more butterbeer. Crookshanks trotted after her, his yellow eyes fixed upon Arnold. 
Harry 
turned 
away 
from 
Ron, 
who 
did 
not 
look 
like 
he 
would 
be 
surfacing 
soon, 
just 
as 
the 
portrait 


hole 
was 
closing. 
With 
a 
sinking 
feeling, 
he 
thought 
he 
saw 
a 
mane 
of 
bushy 
brown 
hair 
whipping 
out 


of sight. 
He 
darted 
forward, 
sidestepped 
Romilda 
Vane 
again, 
and 
pushed 
open 
the 
portrait 
of 
the 
Fat 
Lady. 
The 
corridor outside , seemed to be deserted. 


"Hermione?" 
He 
found 
her 
in 
the 
first 
unlocked 
classroom 
he 
tried. 
She 
was 
sitting 
on 
the 
teacher's 
desk, 
alone 


except 
for 
a 
small 
ring 
of 
twittering 
yellow 
birds 
circling 
her 
head, 
which 
she 
had 
clearly 
just 
conjured 
out of midair. Harry could not help admiring her spellwork 
at a time like this. 
"Oh, hello, Harry," she said in a brittle voice. "I was just practicing." 
"Yeah . . . they're — er — really good. ..." said Harry. 
He 
had 
no 
idea 
what 
to 
say 
to 
her. 
He 
was 
just 
wondering 
whether 
there 
was 
any 
chance 
that 
she 
had 


not 
noticed 
Ron, 
that 
she 
had 
merely 
left 
the 
room 
because 
the 
party 
was 
a 
little 
too 
rowdy, 
when 
she 
said, in an unnaturally highpitched 
voice, "Ron seems to be enjoying the celebrations." 
"Er . . . does he?" said Harry. 


"Don't pretend you didn't see him," said Hermione. "He wasn't exactly hiding it, was — ?" 
The 
door 
behind 
them 
burst 
open. 
To 
Harry's 
horror, 
Ron 
came 
in, 
laughing, 
pulling 
Lavender 
by 
the 
hand. ; ' 


"Oh," he said, drawing up short at the sight of Harry and Hermione. 
"Oops!" said Lavender, and she backed out of the room, giggling. The door swung shut behind her. 
There 
was 
a 
horrible, 
swelling, 
billowing 
silence. 
Hermione 
was 
staring 
at 
Ron, 
who 
refused 
to 
look 
at 


her, 
but 
said 
with 
an 
odd 
mixture 
of 
bravado 
and 
awkwardness, 
"Hi, 
Harry! 
Wondered 
where 
you'd 
got 
to!" 



Hermione 
slid 
off 
the 
desk. 
The 
little 
flock 
of 
golden 
birds 
continued 
to 
twitter 
in 
circles 
around 
her 
head so that she looked like a strange, feathery model of the solar system. 


"You shouldn't leave Lavender waiting outside," she said quietly. "She'll wonder where you've gone." 


She 
walked 
very 
slowly 
and 
erectly 
toward 
the 
door. 
Harry 
glanced 
at 
Ron, 
who 
was 
looking 
relieved 
that nothing worse had happened. 

"Oppugno!" came a shriek from the doorway. 

Harry 
spun 
around 
to 
see 
Hermione 
pointing 
her 
wand 
at 
Ron, 
her 
expression 
wild: 
The 
little 
flock 
of 
birds 
was 
speeding 
like 
a 
hail 
of 
fat 
golden 
bullets 
toward 
Ron, 
who 
yelped 
and 
covered 
his 
face 
with 
his hands, but the birds attacked, pecking and clawing at every bit of flesh they could reach. 

"Gerremoffme!" 
he 
yelled, 
but 
with 
one 
last 
look 
of 
vindictive 
fury, 
Hermione 
wrenched 
open 
the 
door 
and disappeared through it. Harry thought he heard a sob before it slammed. 


Chapter 15 
The 
Unbreakable Vow 



Snow 
was 
swirling 
against 
the 
icy 
windows 
once 
more; 
Christmas 
was 
approaching 
fast. 
Hagrid 
had 
already 
singlehandedly 
delivered 
the 
usual 
twelve 
C 
hristmas 
trees 
to 
the 
Great 
Hall; 
garlands 
of 
holly 
and 
tinsel 
had 
been 
twisted 
around 
the 
banisters 
of 
the 
stairs; 
everlasting 
candles 
glowed 
from 
inside 
the 
helmets 
of 
suits 
of 
armor 
and 
great 
bunches 
of 
mistletoe 
had 
been 
hung 
at 
intervals 
along 
the 
corridors. 
Large 
groups 
of 
girls 
tended 
to 
converge 
underneath 
the 
mistletoe 
bunches 
every 
time 
Harry 
went 
past, 
which 
caused 
blockages 
in 
the 
corridors; 
fortunat 
e 
ly, 
however, 
Harry's 
frequent 
nighttime 
wanderings 
had 
given 
him 
an 
unusually 
good 
knowledge 
of 
the 
castle's 
secret 
passageways, 
so 
that 
he 
was often, without too much difficulty, to naviga t e mistletoefree 
routes between classes. 

Ron, 
who 
might 
once 
have 
found 
the 
necessity 
of 
these 
detours 
excuse 
for 
jealousy 
rather 
than 
hilarity, 
simply 
roared 
with 
laughter 
about 
it 
all. 
Although 
Harry 
much 
preferred 
this 
new 
laughing, 
joking 
Ron 
to 
the 
moody, 
aggressive 
model 
he 
had 
been 
enduring 
for 
the 
last 
few 
weeks, 
the 
improved 
Ron 
came 
at 
a 
heavy 
price. 
Firstly, 
Harry 
had 
to 
put 
up 
with 
the 
frequent 
presence 
of 
Lavender 
Brown, 
who 
seemed 
to 
regard 
any 
moment 
that 
she 
was 
not 
kissing 
Ron 
as 
a 
moment 
wasted; 
and 
secondly, 
Harry 
found 
himself 
once 
more 
the 
best 
friend 
of 
two 
people 
who 
seemed 
unlikely 
ever 
to 
speak 
to 
each 
other again. 
Ron, 
whose 
hands 
and 
forearms 
still 
bore 
scratches 
and 
cuts 
from 
Hermione's 
bird 
attack, 
was 
taking 
a 
defensive and resentful tone. 

"She 
can't 
complain," 
he 
told 
Harry. 
"She 
snogged 
Krum. 
So 
she's 
found 
out 
someone 
wants 
to 
snog 
me too. Well, it's a free country. I haven't done anything wrong." 

Harry did not answer, but pretended to be absorbed in the book they were supposed to have read before 
Charms 
next 
morning 
(Quintessence: 
A 
Q 
uest). 
Determined 
as 
he 
was 
to 
remain 
friends 
with 
both 
Ron and Hermione, he was spending a lot of time with his mouth shut tight. 


"I 
never 
promised 
Hermione 
anything 
, 
" 
Ron 
mumbled. 
"I 
mean, 
all 
right, 
I 
was 
going 
to 
go 
to 
Slughorn's Christmas party with her, but she never said... just as friends... I'm a free agent..." 


Harry 
turned 
a 
page 
of 
Quintessence, 
aware 
that 
Ron 
was 
watching 
him. 
Ron's 
voice 
trailed 
away 
in 
mutters, 
barely 
audible 
over 
the 
loud 
crackling 
of 
the 
fire, 
though 
Harry 
thought 
he 
caught 
the 
words 
"Krum" and "Can't complain" again. 

Hermione's 
schedule 
was 
so 
full 
that 
Harry 
could 
only 
talk 
to 
her 
properly 
in 
the 
evenings, 
when 
Ron 
was, 
in 
any 
case, 
so 
tightly 
wrapped 
around 
Lavender 
that 
he 
did 
not 
notice 
what 
Harry 
was 
doing. 
Hermione refused to sit in the common room while Ron was there, So Harry generally joined her in the 
library, which meant that their conversations were held in whispers. 


"He's 
at 
perfect 
liberty 
to 
kiss 
whomever 
he 
likes," 
said 
Hermione, 
while 
the 
librarian 
, 
Madam 
Pince, 
prowled the shelves behind them. "I really couldn't care less." 


She 
raised 
her 
quill 
and 
dotted 
an 
'i' 
so 
ferociously 
that 
she 
punctured 
a 
hole 
in 
her 
parchment. 
Harry 
said 
nothing. 
He 
thought 
his 
voice 
might 
soon 
vanish 
from 
the 
lack 
of 
use. 
He 
bent 
a 
little 
lower 
over 
Advanced 
PotionMaking 
and 
continued 
to 
make 
notes 
on 
Everlasting 
Elixirs, 
occasionally 
pausing 
to 
decipher the p rince's useful additions to Libatius B orage's text. 


"And incidentally," said Hermione, after a few moments, "you need to be careful." 


"For 
the 
last 
time," 
said 
Harry, 
speaking 
in 
a 
slightly 
hoarse 
tone 
after 
threequarters 
of 
an 
ho 
u 
r 
of 
silence, 
"I 
am 
not 
giving 
back 
this 
book 
. 
I've 
learned 
more 
from 
the 
Halfblood 
p 
rince 
than 
Snape 
or 
Slughorn have taught me in" 


"I'm 
not 
talking 
about 
your 
stupid 
socalled 
prince," 
said 
Hermione 
, 
giving 
his 
book 
a 
nasty 
look 
as 
though 
it 
had 
been 
rude 
to 
her. 
"I'm 
talki 
ng 
about 
earlier. 
I 
went 
into 
the 
girl's 
bathroom 
just 
before 
I 
came 
in 
here 
and 
there 
were 
about 
a 
dozen 
girls 
in 
there, 
including 
that 
Romilda 
Vane 
, 
trying 
to 
decide 
how 
to 
slip 
you 
a 
love 
potion. 
They're 
all 
hoping 
they're 
going 
to 
get 
you 
to 
take 
them 
to 
Slughorn's 
party, 
and 
thay 
all 
seem 
to 
have 
bought 
Fred 
and 
George's 
love 
potions, 
which 
I'm 
afraid 
to 
say probably work " 


"Why 
didn't 
you 
confiscate 
them 
then?" 
demanded 
Harry, 
it 
seemed 
extraordinary 
that 
Hermione's 
m 
ania for upholding the rules could have abandoned her at this crucial juncture. 

"They 
didn't 
have 
the 
potions 
with 
them 
in 
the 
bathroom," 
said 
Hermione 
scornfully, 
"They 
were 
just 
discussing 
tactics. 
As 
I 
doubt 
the 
Halfblood 
prince" 
she 
gave 
the 
book 
another 
scornful 
look 
"could 
dream 
up 
an 
antidote 
for 
a 
dozen 
different 
love 
potions 
at 
once, 
I'd 
just 
invite 
someone 
to 
go 
with 
you, 
that'll 
stop 
all 
the 
others 
thinking 
they've 
still 
got 
a 
chance. 
It's 
tomor 
r 
ow 
night, 
they're 
getting 
desperate." 


"There 
isn't 
anyone 
I 
want 
to 
invite," 
mumbled 
Harry, 
who 
was 
still 
not 
trying 
to 
think 
about 
Ginny 
any 
more 
than 
he 
could 
help, 
despite 
the 
fact 
the 
fact 
that 
she 
kept 
cropping 
up 
in 
his 
dreams 
in 
ways 
that made him devoutly thankful that Ron could not perform Legilimency. 

"Well, 
just 
be 
careful 
what 
you 
drink, 
because 
Romilda 
Va 
ne 
looked 
like 
she 
meant 
business." 
said 
Hermione grimly. 


She 
hitched 
up 
the 
long 
roll 
of 
parchment 
on 
which 
she 
was 
writing 
her 
Arithma 
n 
cy 
essay 
and 
continued to scratch away with her quill. Harry wa t che d her with his mind a long way away. 

"Hang 
on 
a 
moment," 
he 
said 
slowly. 
"I 
thought 
Filch 
had 
banned 
anything 
bought 
at 
Weasley's 
Wizard Wheezes?" 


"And 
when 
has 
anyone 
ever 
paid 
attention 
to 
what 
Filch 
has 
banned?" 
asked 
Hermione, 
still 
concentrating on her essay. 

"But 
I 
thought 
all 
the 
owls 
were 
being 
searched. 
So 
how 
come 
these 
grils 
are 
able 
to 
bring 
love 
potions 
into the school?" 


"Fred 
and 
George 
send 
them 
disguised 
as 
perfumes 
and 
cough 
potions," 
said 
Hermione. 
"It's 
part 
of 
their Owl order service." 


"You know a lot about it." 


Hermione gave him the kind of nasty look she had just given his copy of Advanced PotionMaking. 


"It 
was 
all 
on 
the 
back 
of 
the 
bottles 
they 
showed 
Ginny 
and 
me 
in 
the 
summer," 
she 
said 
coldly, 
"I 



don't go around putting potions in people's drinks... or pretending too eit h er, which is just as bad..." 


"Yeah, 
well, 
never 
mind 
that," 
said 
Harry 
quickly. 
"The 
point 
is, 
Filch 
is 
being 
fooled 
isn't 
he? 
These 
girls 
are 
getting 
stuff 
into 
the 
school 
disguised 
as 
something 
else! 
So 
why 
couldn't 
Malfoy 
have 
brought the necklace into the school ?" 


"Oh, Harry... not that again..." 


"Come on, why not?" demanded Harry. 

"Look 
, 
" 
sighed 
Hermione, 
"Secrecy 
Sensors 
detect 
jinxes, 
curses, 
and 
concealment 
charms, 
don't 
they? 
They're 
used 
to 
find 
d 
ark 
magic 
and 
d 
ark 
obje 
c 
ts. 
They'd 
have 
picked 
up 
a 
powerful 
curse 
, 
like 
the 
one 
in 
the 
necklace, 
withi 
n 
seconds. 
But 
something 
that's 
just 
been 
put 
in 
the 
wrong 
bottle 
wouldn ' t register anyway 
Love potions aren't d ark or dangerous " 


"Easy for you to say," muttered Harry, thinking of Romilda Vane. 

"so 
it 
would 
be 
down 
to 
Filch 
to 
realise 
it 
wasn't 
a 
cough 
potion, 
and 
he's 
not 
a 
very 
good 
wizard, 
I 
doubt he can tell one potion from " 


Hermione 
stopped 
dead; 
Harry 
had 
heard 
it 
too. 
Somebody 
had 
moved 
close 
behind 
them 
among 
the 
dark 
bookshelves. 
They 
waited, 
and 
a 
moment 
later 
the 
vulturelike 
countenance 
of 
Madam 
Pince 
appeared 
around 
the 
corner, 
her 
sunken 
cheeks, 
her 
skin 
like 
parchment, 
and 
her 
long 
hooked 
nose 
illuminated unflatteringly by the lamp she was carrying. 


"The 
library 
is 
now 
closed," 
she 
said, 
"Mind 
you 
return 
anything 
you 
have 
borrowed 
to 
the 
correct 



what have you been doing to that book, you depraved boy?" 


"It 
isn't 
the 
library's, 
it's 
mine!" 
said 
Harry 
hastily, 
snatching 
his 
copy 
of 
Advanced 
PotionMaking 
off 
the table as she lunged at it with a clawlike hand. 
" Spoiled!" she hissed . "Desecrated, befouled !" 


"It's just a book that's been written on!" said Harry, tugging it out of her grip. 
She 
looked 
as 
though 
she 
might 
have 
a 
seizure; 
Hermione, 
who 
had 
hastily 
packed 
her 
things, 
grabbed 
Harry by the arm and frogmarched him away. 


"She'll ban you from the library if you're not careful. Why did you have to bring that stupid book?" 


"It's 
not 
my 
fault 
she's 
barking 
mad, 
Hermione. 
Or 
d'you 
think 
she 
overheard 
you 
being 
rude 
about 
Filch? I've always thought there might be something between them..." 
"Oh, ha ha.." 


Enjoying 
the 
fact 
that 
they 
could 
speak 
normally 
again, 
they 
made 
their 
way 
along 
the 
deserted 
lamplit 
corridors 
back 
to 
the 
common 
room, 
arguing 
w 
hether 
or 
not 
Filch 
and 
Madam 
Pince 
were 
secretly 
in love with each other. 


"Baubles" said Harry to the Fat Lady, this being the new, festive password. 
"Same to you," said the fat lady with a roguish grin, and she swung forward to admit them. 



"Hi, 
Harry!" 
said 
Romilda 
Vane, 
the 
moment 
he 
had 
climbed 
through 
the 
portrait 
hole. 
"Fancy 
a 
gillywater?" 


Hermione gave him a "whatdidItellyou?" 
look over her shoulder. 

"No thanks," said Harry quickly. "I don't like it much." 


"Well, take these anyway," said Romilda, thrusting a box into his hands. "Chocolate Cauldrons, they've 
got firewhiskey in them. My gran sent them to me, but I don't like them." 


"Ohright 
thanks 
a 
lot." 
said 
Harry, 
who 
could 
not 
think 
what 
else 
to 
say. 
" 
ErI 
' 
m 
just 
going 
over here with ..." 


He hurried off behind Hermione, his voice tailing away feebly. 


"Told 
you," 
said 
Hermione 
succinctly, 
" 
Sooner 
you 
ask 
someone, 
sooner 
they'll 
all 
leave 
you 
alone 
and you can " 


But 
her 
face 
suddnly 
turned 
blank; 
she 
had 
just 
spotted 
Ron 
and 
Lavender, 
who 
were 
i 
ntertwined 
in 
the same armchair. 

"Well, 
good 
night, 
Harry" 
said 
Hermione, 
though 
it 
was 
only 
seven 
o'clock 
in 
the 
evening, 
and 
she 
left 
for the girl s' dormitory without another word. 

Harry 
went 
to 
bed 
comforting 
himself 
that 
there 
was 
only 
one 
more 
day 
of 
lessons 
to 
struggle 
through, 
plus 
Slughorn's 
party, 
after 
which 
he 
and 
Ron 
would 
depart 
together 
for 
the 
B 
urrow. 
It 
now 
seemed 
impossible 
that 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
would 
make 
up 
with 
each 
other 
before 
the 
holidays 
began, 
but 
perhaps, somehow, the break would give them time to calm down, think better of their behavior... 

But 
his 
hopes 
were 
not 
high, 
and 
they 
sank 
still 
lower 
after 
enduring 
a 
Transfiguration 
lesson 
with 
them 
both 
next 
day. 
They 
had 
just 
embarked 
upon 
the 
immensely 
difficult 
topic 
of 
human 
transfiguration; 
working 
in 
front 
of 
mirrors 
, 
they 
were 
suposed 
to 
be 
changing 
the 
color 
of 
their 
own 
eyebrows. 
Hermione 
laughed 
unkindly 
at 
Ron's 
disastrous 
first 
attempt, 
during 
which 
he 
somehow 
managed 
to 
give 
himself 
a 
spectacular 
handlebar 
mustache; 
Ron 
retaliated 
by 
doing 
a 
cruel 
but 
accurate 
impression 
of 
Hermione 
jumping 
up 
and 
down 
in 
her 
seat 
every 
time 
Profe 
s 
sor 
McGonagall 
asked 
a 
question, 
which 
Lavender 
and 
Parvati 
found 
deeply 
amusing 
and 
which 
reduced 
Hermione 
to 
the 
verge 
of 
tears 
again. 
She 
raced 
out 
of 
the 
classroom 
on 
the 
bell, 
leaving 
half 
her 
things 
behind; 
Harry, 
deciding 
that 
her 
need 
was 
greater 
than 
Ron's 
just 
now, 
scooped 
up 
her 
remaining 
po 
ssessions 
and followed her. 

He 
finally 
tracked 
her 
down 
as 
she 
emerged 
from 
a 
girl's 
bathroom 
on 
the 
floor 
below. 
She 
was 
accompanied by Luna Lovegood, who was patting her vaguely on the back. 

"Oh, hello, Harry , " said Luna . " D id you know one of your eyebrows is bright yellow?" 

"Hi, Luna. Hermione , you left your stuff..." 
He held out her books. 



"Oh, yes," said Hermione in a choked voice, taking her things and turning away quickly to hide the fact 
she was wiping her eyes with her pencil case. "Thank you , Harry. Well, I'd better get going..." 


And 
she 
hurried 
off, 
without 
ever 
giving 
Harry 
any 
time 
to 
offer 
words 
of 
comfort, 
though 
admittedly 
he could not think of any. 


"She's 
a 
bit 
upset 
, 
" 
said 
Luna. 
"I 
thought 
at 
first 
it 
was 
Moaning 
Myrtle 
in 
there, 
but 
it 
turned 
out 
to 
be Hermione. She said something about Ron Weasley..." 


"Yeah, they've had a row," said Harry. 


"He 
says 
funny 
things 
sometimes, 
doesn't 
he?" 
said 
Luna 
as 
they 
set 
off 
down 
the 
corridor 
together. 
"But he can be a bit unkind. I noticed that last year." 


" 
I 
s'pose 
, 
" 
said 
Harry. 
Luna 
was 
demonstrating 
her 
usual 
knack 
of 
speaking 
uncomfortable 
truths; 
he 
had never met anyone quite like her. "So have you had a good term?" 


"Oh, 
it's 
been 
al 
l 
right," 
said 
Luna. 
" 
A 
bit 
lonely 
without 
the 
D.A. 
Ginny's 
been 
nice, 
though. 
She 
stopped two boys in our Transfiguration class calling me 'Loony' the other day " 


"How would you like to come to S lughorn's party with me tonight?" 


The 
words 
were 
out 
of 
Harry's 
mouth 
before 
he 
could 
stop 
them; 
he 
heard 
himself 
say 
them 
as 
though 
it were a stranger speaking. 


Luna turned her protuberant eyes to him in surprise. 


"Slughorn's party? With you?" 


"Yeah," 
said 
Harry, 
"We're 
supposed 
to 
bring 
guests, 
so 
I 
thought 
you 
might 
like.. 
I 
mean..." 
He 
was 
keen 
to 
make 
his 
intentions 
perfectly 
clear. 
" 
I 
mean, 
just 
as 
friends, 
you 
know. 
But 
if 
you 
don't 
want 
to..." 
He was already half hoping that she didn't want to. 


"O 
h 
no, 
I'd 
love 
to 
go 
with 
you 
as 
friends!" 
said 
Luna, 
beaming 
as 
he 
had 
never 
seen 
her 
beam 
before. 
"Nobody's 
ever 
asked 
me 
to 
a 
party 
before, 
as 
a 
friend! 
Is 
that 
why 
you 
dyed 
your 
eyebrow, 
for 
the 
party? Should I dye mine too?" 
"No" said Harry firmly, "That was a mistake. I'll get Hermione to put it right for me. So I'll meet you in 
the entrance hall at eight o'clock then . " 


"AHA!" 
screamed 
a 
voice 
from 
overhead 
and 
both 
of 
them 
jumped; 
unnoticed 
by 
either 
of 
them, 
they 
had 
just 
passed 
underneath 
Peeves, 
who 
was 
hanging 
upside 
down 
from 
a 
chandelier 
and 
grinning 
maliciously at them. 


"Potty asked Loony to go to the part y ! Potty lurves Loony! Potty luuuuuurves Looooony!" 


And he zoomed away cackling and shrieking, "Potty loves Loony!" 

"Nice 
to 
keep 
these 
things 
private," 
said 
Harry. 
And 
sure 
enough, 
in 
no 
time 
at 
all 
the 
whole 
school 
seemed to know that Harry Potter was taking Luna Lovegood to Slughorn's party. 


"You 
could've 
taken 
anyone!" 
said 
Ron 
in 
disbelief 
over 
dinner. 
"Anyone! 
And 
you 
chose 
Loony 


Lovegood?" 
"Don't 
call 
her 
that, 
Ron!" 
snapped 
Ginny, 
pausing 
behind 
Harry 
on 
her 
way 
to 
join 
friends. 
"I'm 
really 
glad you're taking her Harry, she's so excited." 


And 
she 
moved 
on 
down 
the 
table 
to 
sit 
with 
Dean. 
Harry 
tried 
to 
feel 
pleased 
that 
Ginny 
was 
glad 
he 
was 
taking 
Luna 
to 
the 
party 
but 
could 
not 
quite 
manage 
it. 
A 
long 
way 
along 
the 
table 
Hermione 
was 
sitting alone, playing with her stew. Harry noticed Ron looking at her furtively. 


"You could say sorry , " suggested Harry bluntly. 
"What , and get attacked by another flock of canaries?" muttered Ron. 
"What did you have to imitate her for?" 
"She laughed at my mustache!" 
"So did I, it was the stupidest thing I've ever seen." 
But 
Ron 
did 
not 
seem 
to 
have 
he 
a 
rd; 
Lavender 
had 
just 
arrived 
with 
Parvati. 
Squeezing 
herself 
in 


between Harry and Ron, Lavender flung her arms around Ron's neck. 


"Hi, 
Harry," 
said 
Parvati 
who, 
like 
Harry, 
looked 
faintly 
embarrassed 
and 
bored 
by 
the 
behavior 
of 
their two friends. 
"Hi," 
said 
Harry, 
"How're 
you? 
You're 
staying 
at 
Hogwarts, 
then? 
I 
heard 
your 
parents 
wanted 
you 
to 


leave." 


"I 
managed 
to 
talk 
them 
out 
o 
f 
it 
for 
the 
time 
being," 
said 
Parvati. 
"That 
Katie 
thing 
really 
freaked 
them out, but as there hasn't been anything since... Oh, hi, Hermione!" 
Parvati 
positively 
beamed. 
Harry 
could 
tell 
that 
she 
was 
feeling 
guilty 
for 
having 
laughed 
at 
Hermione 


in 
Transfiguration. 
He 
looked 
around 
and 
saw 
that 
Hermione 
was 
beaming 
back, 
if 
possible 
even 
more 


brightly. Girls were very strange sometimes. 
"Hi, 
Parvati!" 
said 
Hermione, 
ignoring 
Ron 
and 
Lavender 
completely. 
"Are 
you 
going 
to 
Slughorn's 
party tonight?" 


"No 
invite," 
said 
Parvati 
gloomily. 
"I'd 
love 
to 
go, 
though, 
it 
sounds 
like 
it's 
going 
to 
be 
really 
good... 
You're going, aren't you?" 


"Yes, I'm meeting Cormac at eight, and we're " 
There 
was 
a 
noise 
like 
a 
plunger 
being 
withdrawn 
from 
a 
blocked 
sink 
, 
and 
Ron 
surfaced. 
Hermione 
acted as though she had not seen or heard anything. 


"we're 
going up to the party together." 
"Cormac?" said Parvati. "Cormac McLaggen, you mean?" 



"That's 
right," 
said 
Hermione 
sweetly. 
"The 
one 
who 
*almost*" 
she 
put 
a 
great 
deal 
of 
emphasis 
on 
the word "
bec a me Gryffindor Keeper." 


"Are you going out with him, then?" asked Parvati, wideeyed. 


"Oh yes 
didn't 
you know?" said Harmione, with a most unHermioneish 
giggle. 

"No!" 
said 
Parvati, 
looking 
positively 
agog 
at 
thi 
s 
piece 
of 
gossip. 
"Wow 
, 
you 
like 
your 
Quidditch 
players, don't you? First Krum, then McLaggen. . ." 

"I 
like 
*really 
good* 
Quidditch 
players," 
Hermione 
corrected 
her, 
still 
smiling. 
"Well, 
see 
you... 
Got 
to 
go and get ready for the party..." 


She 
left. 
At 
once 
Lavender 
and 
Parvati 
put 
their 
heads 
together 
to 
discuss 
this 
new 
development, 
with 
everything 
they 
had 
ever 
heard 
about 
McLaggen, 
and 
all 
they 
had 
ever 
guessed 
about 
Hermione. 
Ron 
looked 
strangely 
blank 
and 
said 
nothing. 
Harry 
was 
left 
to 
ponder 
in 
silence 
the 
depths 
to 
which 
girls 
would sink to get revenge. 

When 
he 
arrived 
in 
the 
entrance 
hall 
at 
eight 
o'clock 
that 
night, 
he 
found 
an 
unusually 
large 
number 
of 
girls 
lurking 
there, 
all 
of 
whom 
seemed 
to 
be 
staring 
at 
him 
resentfully 
as 
he 
approached 
Luna. 
She 
was 
wearing 
a 
set 
of 
spangled 
silver 
robes 
that 
were 
attracting 
a 
certain 
amount 
of 
giggles 
from 
the 
onlookers, 
but 
otherwise 
she 
looked 
quite 
nice. 
Harry 
was 
glad, 
in 
any 
case, 
that 
she 
had 
left 
off 
her 
radish earrings, her butterbeer cork necklace, and her Spectrespecs. 

"Hi," he said. "Shall we get going then?" 


"Oh yes," she said happily. "Where is the party?" 


"Slughorn's 
office," 
said 
Harry, 
leading 
her 
up 
the 
marble 
staircase 
away 
from 
all 
the 
staring 
and 
muttering. "Did you hear, there's supposed to be a vampire coming?" 


"Rufus Scrimgeour?" asked Luna. 

"I what?" 
said Harry, disconcerted. "You mean the Minister of Magic?" 


"Yes, 
he's 
a 
vampire," 
said 
Luna 
matteroffactly. 
"Father 
wrote 
a 
very 
long 
article 
about 
it 
when 
Scrimgeour 
first 
took 
over 
from 
Cornelius 
Fudge, 
but 
he 
was 
forced 
not 
to 
publish 
by 
somebody 
from 
the Ministry. Obviously, they didn't want the truth to get out!" 


Harry, 
who 
thought 
it 
most 
unlikely 
that 
Rufus 
Scrimgeour 
was 
a 
vampire, 
but 
who 
was 
used 
to 
Luna 
repeating 
her 
father's 
bizarre 
views 
as 
though 
they 
were 
fact, 
did 
not 
reply; 
they 
were 
already 
approaching 
Slughorn's 
office 
and 
the 
sounds 
of 
laughter, 
music, 
and 
loud 
conversation 
were 
growing 
louder with every step they took. 

Whether 
it 
had 
been 
built 
that 
way, 
or 
because 
he 
had 
used 
magical 
trickery 
to 
make 
it 
so, 
Slughorn's 
office 
was 
much 
larger 
than 
the 
usual 
teacher's 
study. 
The 
ceiling 
and 
walls 
had 
been 
draped 
with 
emerald, 
crimson 
, 
and 
gold 
hangings, 
so 
that 
it 
looked 
as 
though 
they 
were 
all 
inside 
a 
vast 
tent. 
The 
room 
was 
crowded 
and 
stuffy 
and 
bathed 
in 
the 
red 
light 
cast 
by 
an 
ornate 
golden 
lamp 
dangling 
from 
the 
center 
of 
the 
ceiling 
in 
which 
real 
fairies 
were 
fluttering, 
each 
a 
brilliant 
speck 
of 
light. 
Loud 



singing 
accompanied 
by 
what 
sounded 
like 
mandolins 
issued 
from 
a 
distant 
corner; 
a 
haze 
of 
pipe 
smoke 
hung 
over 
several 
elderly 
warlocks 
deep 
in 
conversation, 
and 
a 
number 
of 
houseelves 
were 
negotiating 
their 
way 
squeakily 
through 
the 
forest 
of 
knees, 
obscured 
by 
the 
heavy 
silver 
platters 
of 
food they were bearing, so that they looked like little roving tables. 

"Harry, 
m'boy!" 
boomed 
Slughorn, 
almost 
as 
soon 
as 
Harry 
and 
Luna 
had 
squeezed 
in 
through 
the 
door. "Come in, come in, so many people I'd like you to meet!" 

Slughorn 
was 
wearing 
a 
tasseled 
velvet 
hat 
to 
match 
his 
smoking 
jacket. 
Gripping 
Harry's 
arm 
so 
tightly 
he 
might 
have 
been 
hoping 
to 
Disapparate 
with 
him, 
Slughorn 
led 
him 
purposefully 
into 
the 
party; Harry seized Luna's hand and dragged her along with him. 


"Harry, 
I'd 
like 
you 
to 
meet 
Eldred 
Worple, 
an 
old 
student 
of 
mine, 
author 
of 
' 
Blood 
Brothers: 
My 
L 
ife Amongst the Vampires' and, 
of course, his friend Sanguini." 


Worple, 
who 
was 
a 
small, 
stout, 
bespectacled 
man, 
grabbed 
Harry's 
hand 
and 
shook 
it 
enthusiastically; 
the 
vampire 
Sanguini, 
who 
was 
tall 
and 
emaciated 
with 
dark 
shadows 
under 
his 
eyes, 
merely 
nodded. 
He looked rather bored. A gaggle of girls was standing close to him, looking curious and excited. 

"Harry 
Potter, 
I 
am 
simply 
delighted!" 
said 
Worple, 
peering 
shortsightedly 
up 
into 
Harry's 
face. 
"I 
was 
saying 
to 
Professor 
Slughorn 
only 
the 
other 
day, 
'Where 
is 
the 
biography 
of 
Harry 
Potter 
for 
which 
we 
have all been waiting?'" 


"Er," said Harry, "were you?" 


"Just 
as 
modest 
as 
Horace 
described!" 
said 
Worple. 
"But 
seriously" 
— 
his 
manner 
changed; 
it 
became 
suddenly 
businesslike 
— 
"I 
would 
be 
delighted 
to 
write 
it 
myself— 
people 
are 
craving 
to 
know 
more 
about 
you, 
dear 
boy, 
craving! 
If 
you 
were 
prepared 
to 
grant 
me 
a 
few 
interviews, 
say 
in 
fouror 
fivehour 
sessions, 
why, 
we 
could 
have 
the 
book 
finished 
within 
months. 
And 
all 
with 
very 
little 
effort 
on 
your 
part, 
I 
assure 
you 
— 
ask 
Sanguini 
here 
if 
it 
isn't 
quite 
— 
Sanguini, 
stay 
here!" 
added 
Worple, 
suddenly 
stern, 
for 
the 
vampire 
had 
been 
edging 
toward 
the 
nearby 
group 
of 
girls, 
a 
rather 
hungry 
look 
in 
his 
eye. 
"Here, 
have 
a 
pasty," 
said 
Worple, 
seizing 
one 
from 
a 
passing 
elf 
and 
stuffing 
it 
into 
Sanguini's 
hand 
before 
turning 
his 
attention 
back 
to 
Harry. 
"My 
dear 
boy, 
the 
gold 
you 
could 
make, 
you have no idea —" 

"I'm 
definitely 
not 
interested," 
said 
Harry 
firmly, 
"and 
I've 
just 
seen 
a 
friend 
of 
mine, 
sorry." 
He 
pulled 
Luna 
after 
him 
into 
the 
crowd; 
he 
had 
indeed 
just 
seen 
a 
long 
mane 
of 
brown 
hair 
disappear 
between 
what looked like two members of the Weird Sisters. 

"Hermione! Hermione !" 


"Harry! There you are, thank goodness! Hi, Luna !" 


"What's 
happened 
to 
you?" 
asked 
Harry, 
for 
Hermione 
looked 
distinctly 
disheveled, 
rather 
as 
though 
she had just fought her way out of a thicket of Devil's Snare. 


"Oh, 
I've 
just 
escaped 
— 
I 
mean, 
I've 
just 
left 
Cormac," 
she 
said. 
"Under 
the 
mistletoe," 
she 
added 
in 
explanation, as Harry continued to look questioningly at her. 

"Serves 
you 
right 
for 
coming 
with 
him," 
he 
told 
her 
severely. 
"I 
thought 
he'd 
annoy 
Ron 
most," 
said 
Hermione 
dispassionately. 
"I 
debated 
for 
a 
while 
about 
Zacharias 
Smith, 
but 
I 
thought, 
on 
the 
whole 
—" 


"You considered Smith?" said Harry, revoked. 

"Yes, 
I 
did, 
and 
I'm 
starting 
to 
wish 
I'd 
chosen 
him, 
McLaggen 
makes 
Grawp 
look 
a 
gentleman. 
Let's 
go 
this 
way, 
we'll 
be 
able 
to 
see 
him 
coming, 
he's 
so 
tall. 
. 
. 
." 
The 
three 
of 
them 
made 
their 
way 
over 
to 
the 
other 
side 
of 
the 
room, 
scooping 
up 
goblets 
of 
mead 
on 
the 
way, 
realizing 
too 
late 
that 
Professor 
Trelawney was standing there alone. 

"Hello," said Luna politely to Professor Trelawney. 

"Good 
evening, 
my 
dear," 
said 
Professor 
Trelawney, 
focusing 
upon 
Luna 
with 
some 
difficulty. 
Harry 
could smell cooking sherry again. "I haven't seen you in my classes lately. .." 


"No, I've got Firenze this year," said Luna. 

"Oh, 
of 
course," 
said 
Professor 
Trelawney 
with 
an 
angry, 
drunken 
titter. 
"Or 
Dobbin, 
as 
I 
prefer 
to 
think 
of 
him. 
You 
would 
have 
thought, 
would 
you 
not, 
that 
now 
I 
am 
returned 
to 
the 
school 
Professor 
Dumbledore 
might 
have 
got 
rid 
of 
the 
horse? 
But 
no 
... 
we 
share 
classes. 
. 
. 
. 
It's 
an 
insult, 
frankly, 
an 
insult. Do you know. . ." Professor Trelawney seemed too tipsy to have recognized Harry. 

Under 
cover 
of 
her 
furious 
criticisms 
of 
Firenze, 
Harry 
drew 
closer 
to 
Hermione 
and 
said, 
"Let 
' 
s 
get 
something straight. Are you planning to tell Ron that you interfered at Keeper tryouts?" 


Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Do you really think I'd stoop that low?" 

=
Harry 
looked at her shrewdly. "Hermione, if you can ask 0111 McLaggen —" 

"There's 
a 
difference," 
said 
Hermione 
with 
dignity. 
"I've 
got 
no 
plans 
to 
tell 
Ron 
anything 
about 
what 
might, or might not, have happened at Keeper tryouts." 


"Good," said Harry fervently. "Because he'll just fall apart again, and we'll lose the next match —" 


"Quidditch!" 
said 
Hermione 
angrily. 
"Is 
that 
all 
boys 
care 
about? 
Cormac 
hasn't 
asked 
me 
one 
single 
question 
about 
myself, 
no, 
I've 
just 
been 
treated 
to 
'A 
Hundred 
Great 
Saves 
Made 
by 
Cormac 
McLaggen' 
nonstop 
ever 
since 
— 
oh 
no, 
here 
he 
comes!" 
She 
moved 
so 
fast 
it 
was 
as 
though 
she 
had 
Disapparated; 
one 
moment 
she 
was 
there, 
the 
next, 
she 
had 
squeezed 
between 
two 
guffawing 
witches 
and vanished. 


"Seen Hermione?" asked McLaggen, forcing his way through the throng a minute later. 

"No, 
sorry," 
said 
Harry, 
and 
he 
turned 
quickly 
to 
join 
in 
Luna's 
conversation, 
forgetting 
for 
a 
split 
second to whom she was talking. 


"Harry Potter!" said Professor Trelawney in deep, vibrant tones, noticing him for the first time. 



"Oh, hello," said Harry unenthusiastically. 


"My 
dear 
boy!" 
she 
said 
in 
a 
very 
carrying 
whisper. 
"The 
rumors! 
The 
stories! 
'The 
Chosen 
One'! 
Of 
course, 
I 
have 
known 
for 
a 
very 
long 
time. 
. 
. 
. 
The 
omens 
were 
never 
good, 
Harry. 
. 
. 
But 
why 
have 
you not returned to Divination? For you, of all people, the subject is of the utmost importance!" 

"Ah, 
Sybi 
l 
l, 
we 
all 
think 
our 
subject's 
most 
important!" 
said 
a 
loud 
voice, 
and 
Slughorn 
appeared 
at 
Professor 
Trelawney 
s 
other 
side, 
his 
face 
very 
red, 
his 
velvet 
hat 
a 
little 
askew, 
a 
glass 
of 
mead 
in 
one 
hand 
and 
an 
enormous 
mince 
pie 
in 
the 
other. 
"But 
I 
don't 
t 
hink 
I've 
ever 
known 
such 
a 
natural 
at 
Potions!" 
said 
Slughorn, 
regarding 
Harry 
with 
a 
fond, 
if 
bloodshot, 
eye. 
"Instinctive, 
you 
know 
— 
like 
his mother! I've only ever taught a few with this kind of ability, I can tell you that, Sybi l l — why even 
Severus 
—" 
And 
to 
Harry's 
horror, 
Slughorn 
threw 
out 
an 
arm 
and 
seemed 
to 
scoop 
Snape 
out 
of 
thin 
air 
toward 
them. 
"Stop 
skulking 
and 
come 
and 
join 
us, 
Severus!" 
hiccuped 
Slughorn 
happily. 
"I 
was 
just 
talking 
about 
Harry's 
exceptional 
potionmaking! 
Some 
credit 
must 
go 
to 
you, 
of 
course, 
you 
taught him for five years!" 


Trapped, 
with 
Slughorns 
arm 
around 
his 
shoulders, 
Snape 
looked 
down 
his 
hooked 
nose 
at 
Harry, 
his 
black 
eyes 
narrowed. 
"Funny, 
I 
never 
had 
the 
impression 
that 
I 
managed 
to 
teach 
Potter 
anything 
at 
all." 


"Well, 
then, 
it's 
natural 
ability!" 
shouted 
Slughorn. 
"You 
should 
have 
seen 
what 
he 
gave 
me, 
first 
lesson, 
Draught 
of 
Living 
Death 
— 
never 
had 
a 
student 
produce 
finer 
on 
a 
first 
attempt, 
I 
don't 
think 
even you, Severus —" 


"Really?" 
said 
Snape 
quietly, 
his 
eyes 
still 
boring 
into 
Harry, 
who 
felt 
a 
certain 
disquiet. 
The 
last 
thing 
he wanted was for Snape to start investigating the source of his newfound brilliance at Potions. 


"Remind me what other subjects you're taking, Harry?" asked Slughorn . 

"Defense Against the D ark Arts, Charms, Transfiguration , Herbology..." 


"All the subjects required, in short, for an Auror ," said Snap e with the faintest sneer. 

"Yeah, well, that's what I'd like to do," said Harry defiantly. 


"And a great one you'll make too!" boomed Slughorn. 


"I 
don't 
think 
you 
should 
be 
an Auror, 
Harry," 
said 
Luna 
unex 
pectedly. 
Everybody 
looked 
at 
her. 
"The 
Aurors 
are 
part 
of 
the 
Rotfang 
Conspiracy, 
I 
thought 
everyone 
knew 
that. 
They're 
planning 
to 
bring 
down the Ministry of Magic from within using a c om bination of Dark Magic and gum disease." 


Harry inhaled half his mead up his nose as he started to lau gh. Really, it had been worth bringing Luna 
just 
for 
this. 
Emerging, 
from 
his 
goblet, 
coughing, 
sopping 
wet 
but 
still 
grinning, 
he 
saw 
something 
calculated 
to 
raise 
his 
spirits 
even 
higher: 
Draco 
Malf 
o 
y 
being 
dragged 
by 
the 
ear 
toward 
them 
by 
Argus Filch. 



"Professor 
Slughorn," 
wheezed 
Filch, 
his 
jowls 
aquiver 
and 
the 
maniacal 
light 
of 
mischiefdetection 
in 
his 
bulging 
eyes, 
"I 
discovered 
this 
boy 
lurking 
in 
an 
upstairs 
corridor. 
He 
claims 
to 
have 
been 
invited 
to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him with an invitation?" 


Malfoy 
pulled 
himself 
free 
of 
Filchs 
grip, 
looking 
furious. 
"All 
right, 
I 
wasn't 
invited!" 
he 
said 
angrily. 
"I was trying to gate crash, happy?" 


"No, 
I'm 
not!" 
said 
Filch, 
a 
statement 
at 
complete 
odds 
with 
the 
glee 
on 
his 
face. 
"You're 
in 
trouble, 
you 
are! Didn't 
the 
headma 
ster 
say 
that 
nighttime 
prowling 
' 
s 
out, 
unless 
you've 
got 
permission, 
didn't 
he, eh?" 


=
"
That's 
all 
right, 
Argus, 
that's 
all 
right," 
said 
Slughorn, 
waving 
it 
1.1 
nd. 
"It's 
Christmas, 
and 
it's 
not 
a crime to want to come to a party . Just this once, we'll forget any punishment; you may stay , Draco. 

Fil 
ich's 
expression 
of 
outraged disappointment 
was 
perfectly 
pre 
di 
c 
t 
able; 
but 
why, Harry wondered, 
watching 
him, 
did 
Malfoy 
look 
almost 
equally 
unhappy? 
And 
why 
was 
Snape 
looking 
at 
Malfoy 
as 
though 
both 
angry 
and 
. 
. 
. 
was 
it 
p 
ossible? 
... 
a 
lit 
tl 
afraid? 
But 
almost 
before 
Harry 
had 
registered 
what 
he 
had 
seen, 
Filch 
had 
turned 
and 
shuffled 
away, 
muttering 
under 
his 
breath; 
Malfoy 
h 
ad 
composed 
his 
face 
into 
a 
smile 
and 
was 
thanking 
Slughorn 
for 
his 
generosity, 
and 
Snape's 
face 
was 
smoothly inscrutable again. 

"It's 
nothing, 
nothing," 
said 
Slughorn, 
waving 
away 
Malfoy's 
t 
hanks. 
"I 
did 
know 
your 
grandfather, 
after all...." 


"He 
always 
spoke 
very 
highly 
of 
you, 
sir," 
said 
Malfoy 
quickly. 
"Said 
you 
were 
the 
best 
potionmaker 
he'd ever known. ..." 


Harry 
stared 
at 
Malfoy. 
It 
was 
not 
the 
suckingup 
that 
intrigued 
him; 
he 
had 
watched 
Malfoy 
do 
that 
to 
Snape 
for 
a 
long 
time. 
It 
was 
the 
fact 
that 
Malfoy 
did, 
after 
all, 
look 
a 
little 
ill. 
This 
was 
the 
first 
time 
he 
had 
seen 
Malfoy 
close 
up 
for 
ages; 
he 
now 
saw 
that 
Malfoy 
had 
dark 
shadows 
under 
his 
eyes 
and 
a 
distinctly grayish tinge to his skin. 


"I'd like a word with you, Draco," said Snape suddenly. 


"Now , Severus," said Slughorn, hiccuping again, "it's Christ mas, do n't be too hard —" 

"I 
am 
his 
Head 
of 
House, 
and 
I 
shall 
decide 
how 
hard, 
or 
otherwise, 
to 
be," 
said 
Snape 
curtly. 
"Follow 
me, Draco." 


They left, Snape 
leading 
the 
way, Malfoy looking 
resentful. 
Harry stood 
there 
for 
a 
moment, 
irresolute, 
then said, "I'll be back in a bit, Luna — er — bathroom." 


"All 
right," 
she 
said 
cheerfully, 
and 
he 
thought 
he 
heard 
her, 
as 
he 
hurried 
off 
into 
the 
crowd, 
resume 
the 
subject 
of 
the 
Rotfang 
Conspiracy 
with 
Professor 
Trelawney, 
who 
seemed 
sincerely 
in 
terested. 
It 
was 
easy, 
once 
out 
of 
the 
party, 
to 
pull 
his 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
out 
of 
his 
pocket 
and 
throw 
it 
over 
himself, 
for 
the 
corridor 
was 
quite 
deserted. 
What 
was 
more 
difficult 
was 
finding 
Snape 
and 
Malfoy. 
Harry 
ran 
down 
the 
corridor, 
the 
noise 
of 
his 
feet 
masked 
by 
the 
music 
and 
loud 
talk 
still 
issuing 
from 
Slughorn's 
office 
behind 
him. 
Perhaps 
Snape 
had 
taken 
Malfoy 
to 
his 
office 
in 
the 
dungeons 
... 
or 



perhaps 
he 
was 
escorting 
him 
back 
to 
the 
Slyt 
herin 
common 
room. 
. 
. 
. 
Harry 
pressed 
his 
ear 
against 
door 
after 
door 
as 
he 
dashed 
down 
the 
corridor 
until, 
with 
a 
great 
jolt 
of 
excitement, 
he 
crouched 
down 
to the keyhole of the last classroom in the corridor and heard voices. 

" . . . cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled —" 


"I didn't have anything to do with it, all right?" 


"I 
hope 
you 
are 
telling 
the 
truth, 
because 
it 
was 
both 
clumsy 
a 
nd 
foolish. 
Already 
you 
are 
suspected 
of 
having a hand in it." 


"Who 
suspects 
me?" 
said 
Malfoy 
angrily. 
"For 
the 
last 
time, 
I 
didn't 
do 
it, 
okay? 
That 
Bell 
girl 
must 
' 
ve 
had 
an 
enemy 
no 
on 
e 
knows 
about 
— 
don't 
look 
at 
me 
like 
that! 
I 
know 
what 
you're 
doing, 
I'm 
not 
stupid, but it won't work — I can stop you!" 

There 
was 
a 
pause 
and 
then 
Snape 
said 
quietly, 
"Ah 
. 
. 
. 
Aunt 
Bellatrix 
has 
been 
teaching 
you 
Occlumency, I see. What thoughts are you trying to conceal from your master, Draco?" 


"I'm 
not 
trying 
to 
conceal 
anything 
from 
him, 
I 
just 
don't 
want 
you 
butting 
in 
!" 
Harry 
pressed 
his 
ear 
still 
more 
closely 
against 
the 
keyhole. 
. 
. 
. 
What 
had 
happened 
to 
make 
Malfoy 
speak 
to 
Snape 
like 
this 


— Snape, toward whom he had always shown respect, even liking? 
"So 
that 
is 
why 
you 
have 
been 
avoiding 
me 
this 
term? 
You 
have 
feared 
my 
interference? 
You 
realize 
that, 
had 
anybody 
else 
failed 
to 
come 
to 
my 
office 
when 
I 
had 
told 
them 
repeatedly 
to 
be 
there, 
Draco 
—" 
"So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!" jeered Malfoy. 
There 
was 
another 
pause. 
Then 
Snape 
said, 
"You 
know 
perfectly 
well 
that 
I 
do 
not 
wish 
to 
do 
either 
of 


those things ." 
"You'd better stop telling me to come to your office then!" 
"Listen 
to 
me," 
said 
Snape, 
his 
voice 
so 
low 
now 
that 
Harry 
had 
to 
push 
his 
ear 
very 
hard 
against 
the 


keyhole 
to 
hear. 
"I 
am 
trying 
to 
help 
you. 
I 
swore 
to 
your 
mother 
I 
would 
protect 
you. 
I 
made 
the 


Unbreakable Vow, Draco —" 
"Looks 
like 
you'll 
have 
to 
break 
it, 
then, 
because 
I 
don't 
need 
your 
protection! 
It's 
my 
job, 
he 
gave 
it 
to 
me 
and 
I'm 
doing 
it, 
I've 
got 
a 
plan 
and 
it's 
going 
to 
work, 
it's 
just 
taking 
a 
bit 
longer 
than 
I 
thought 
it 
would!" 


"What is your plan ?" 
"It's none of your business !" 
" If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you ..." 
"I have all the assistance I need, thanks, I'm not alone!" 
"You 
were 
certainly 
alone 
tonight, 
which 
was 
foolish 
in 
the 
extreme, 
wandering 
the 
corridors 
without 


lookouts or backup, these are elementary mistakes —" 



"I would've had Crabbe and Goyle with me if you hadn't put them in detention!" 


"Keep 
your 
voice 
down!" 
spat 
Snape, 
for 
Malfoy 
' 
s 
voice 
had 
risen 
excitedly. 
"If 
your 
friends 
Crabbe 
and 
Goyle 
intend 
to 
pass 
their 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts 
OWL 
this 
time 
around, 
they 
will 
need 
to 
work a little harder than they are doing at pres —" 


"What 
does 
it 
matter?" 
said 
Malfoy. 
"Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts 
— 
its 
all 
just 
a 
joke, 
isn't 
it, 
an 
act? Like any of us need protecting against the Dark Arts —" 


"It 
is 
an 
act 
that 
is 
crucial 
to 
success, 
Draco!" 
said 
Snape. 
"Where 
do 
you 
think 
I 
would 
have 
been 
all 
these 
years, 
if 
I 
had 
not 
known 
how 
to 
act? 
Now 
listen 
to 
me! 
You 
are 
being 
incautious, 
wandering 
around 
at 
night, 
getting 
yourself 
caught, 
and 
if 
you 
are 
placing 
your 
reliance 
in 
assistants 
like 
Crabbe 
and Goyle —" 


"They're not the only ones, I've got other people on my side, better people!" 

"Then why not confide in me, and I can —" 


"I know what you're up to! You want to steal my glory!" 


There 
was 
another 
pause, 
then 
Snape 
said 
coldly, 
"You 
are 
speaking 
like 
a 
child. 
I 
quite 
understand 
that your fathers capture and imprisonment has upset you, but —" 


Harry 
had 
barely 
a 
second 
' 
s 
warning; 
he 
heard 
Malfoy's 
footsteps 
on 
the 
other 
side 
of 
the 
door 
and 
flung 
himself 
out 
of 
the 
way 
just 
as 
it 
burst 
open 
. 
Malfoy 
was 
striding 
away 
down 
the 
corridor, 
past 
the 
open 
door 
of 
Slughorns 
office, 
around 
the 
distant 
corner, 
and 
out 
of 
sight. 
Hardly 
daring 
to 
breathe, 
Harry 
remained 
crouched 
down 
as 
Snape 
emerged 
slowly 
from 
the 
classroom. 
His 
expression 
unfathomable, 
he 
returned 
to 
the 
party. 
Harry 
remained 
on 
the 
floor, 
hidden 
beneath 
the 
cloak, 
his 
mind 
racing. 


Chapter 16 
A Very 
Frosty 
Christmas 



“So Snape was offering to help him? He was definitely offering to help him?" 
"If you ask. that once more," said Harry, "I'm going to stick this sprout —" 
"I'm 
only 
checking!" 
said 
Ron. 
They 
were 
standing 
alone 
at 
the 
Burrow's 
kitchen 
sink, 
peeling 
a 


mountain of sprouts for Mrs. Weasley. Snow was drifting past the window in front of them. 


"Yes, 
Snape 
was 
offering 
to 
help 
him!" 
said 
Harry. 
"He 
said 
he'd 
promised 
Malfoy's 
mother 
to 
protect 
him, that he'd made an Unbreakable Oath or something —" 
"An Unbreakable Vow?" said Ron, looking stunned. "Nah, he can't have. . . . Are you sure?" 
"Yes, I'm sure," said Harry. "Why, what does it mean?" 
“Well, you can't break an Unbreakable Vow. . . ." 
"I'd worked that much out for myself, funnily enough. What happens if you break it, then?" 
"You 
die," 
said 
Ron 
simply. 
"Fred 
and 
George 
tried 
to 
get 
me 
to 
make 
one 
when 
I 
was 
about 
five. 
I 


nearly 
did 
too, 
I 
was 
holding 
hands 
with 
Fred 
and 
everything 
when 
Dad 
found 
us. 
He 
went 
mental," 
said 
Ron, 
with 
a 
reminiscent 
gleam 
in 
his 
eyes. 
"Only 
time 
I've 
ever 
seen 
Dad 
as 
angry 
as 
Mum, 
Fred 
reckons his left buttock has never been the same since." 


"Yeah, well, passing over Fred's left buttock —" 
"I beg your pardon?" said Fred's voice as the twins entered the kitchen. 
"Aaah, George, look at this. They're using knives and everything. Bless them." 
"I'll 
be 
seventeen 
in 
two 
and 
a 
bit 
months' 
time," 
said 
Ron 
grumpily, 
"and 
then 
I'll 
be 
able 
to 
do 
it 
by 


magic!" 


"But 
meanwhile," 
said 
George, 
sitting 
down 
at 
the 
kitchen 
table 
and 
putting 
his 
feet 
up 
on 
it, 
"we 
can 
enjoy watching you demonstrate the correct use of a — whoopsadaisy!" 
"You made me do that!" said Ron angrily, sucking his cut thumb. "You wait, when I'm seventeen —" 
"I'm sure you'll dazzle us all with hitherto unsuspected magical skills," yawned Fred. 
"And 
speaking 
of 
hitherto 
unsuspected 
skills, 
Ronald," 
said 
George, 
"what 
is 
this 
we 
hear 
from 
Ginny 


about you and a young lady called — unless our information is faulty — Lavender Brown?" 


Ron 
turned 
a 
little 
pink, 
but 
did 
not 
look 
displeased 
as 
he 
turned 
back 
to 
the 
sprouts. 
"Mind 
your 
own 
business." 
"What 
a 
snappy 
retort," 
said 
Fred. 
"I 
really 
don't 
know 
how 
you 
think 
of 
them. 
No, 
what 
we 
wanted 
to 


know was... how did it happen?" 
"What d'you mean?" 



"Did she have an accident or something?" 
"What?" ..¦; 
"Well, how did she sustain such extensive brain damage? Careful, now!" 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
entered 
the 
room 
just 
in 
time 
to 
see 
Ron 
throw 
the 
sprout 
knife 
at 
Fred, 
who 
had 
turned 


it into a paper airplane with one lazy flick of his wand, 
"Ron!" she said furiously. "Don't you ever let me see you throwing knives again!" 
"I wont," said Ron, "let you see," he added under his breath, as he turned back to the sprout mountain. 
"Fred, 
George, 
I'm 
sorry, 
dears, 
but 
Remus 
is 
arriving 
tonight, 
so 
Bill 
will 
have 
to 
squeeze 
in 
with 
you 


two." ; 
"No problem," said George. 
"
Then, 
as 
Charlie 
isn't 
coming 
home, 
that 
just 
leaves 
Harry 
and 
;¦/ 
Ron 
in 
the 
attic, 
and 
if 
Fleur 
shares 


with 
Ginny 
—" 
"— 
that'll 
make 
Ginny's 
Christmas 
—" 
muttered 
Fred. 
"— 
everyone 
should 
be 


comfortable. Well, they'll have a bed, anyway," said Mrs. Weasley, sounding slightly harassed. 
"Percy 
definitely 
not 
showing 
his 
ugly 
face, 
then?" 
asked 
Fred. 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
turned 
away 
before 
she 
answered. "No, he's busy, I expect, at the Ministry." 


"Or 
he's 
the 
world's 
biggest 
prat," 
said 
Fred, 
as 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
left 
the 
kitchen. 
"One 
of 
the 
two. 
"Well, 


let's get going, then, George." 
"What 
are 
you 
two 
up 
to?" 
asked 
Ron. 
"Cant 
you 
help 
us 
with 
these 
sprouts? 
You 
could 
just 
use 
your 
wand and then we'll be free 


too!" 
"No, 
I 
don't 
think 
we 
can 
do 
that," 
said 
Fred 
seriously. 
"It's 
very 
characterbuilding 
stuff, 
learning 
to 
peel 
sprouts 
without 
magic, 
makes 
you 
appreciate 
how 
difficult 
it 
is 
for 
Muggles 
and 
Squibs 
—" 
"— 
and 
if 
you 
want 
people 
to 
help 
you, 
Ron," 
added 
George, 
throwing 
the 
paper 
airplane 
at 
him, 
"I 
wouldn't 
chuck 
knives 
at 
them. 
Just 
a 
little 
hint. 
We're 
off 
to 
the 
village, 
there's 
a 
very 
pretty 
girl 


working 
in 
the 
paper 
shop 
who 
thinks 
my 
card 
tricks 
are 
something 
marvelous 
. 
. 
, 
almost 
like 
real 
magic. ..." 
"Gits," 
said 
Ron 
darkly, 
watching 
Fred 
and 
George 
setting 
off 
across 
the 
snowy 
yard. 
"Would've 
only 


taken them ten seconds and then we could've gone too." 
"I couldn't," said Harry. "I promised Dumbledore I wouldn't wander off while I'm staying here." 
"Oh 
yeah," 
said 
Ron. 
He 
peeled 
a 
few 
more 
sprouts 
and 
then 
said, 
"Are 
you 
going 
to 
tell 
Dumbledore 


what you heard Snape and Malfoy saying to each other?" 


"Yep," 
said 
Harry. 
"I'm 
going 
to 
tell 
anyone 
who 
can 
put 
a 
stop 
to 
it, 
and 
Dumbledore’s 
top 
of 
the 
list. 
I might have another word with your dad too." 
"Pity 
you 
didn't 
hear 
what 
Malfoy’s 
actually 
doing, 
though." 
"I 
couldn't 
have 
done, 
could 
I? 
That 
was 



the whole point, he was refusing to tell Snape." 

There 
was 
silence 
for 
a 
moment 
or 
two, 
then 
Ron 
said, 
" 
'Course, 
you 
know 
what 
they'll 
all 
say? 
Dad 
and 
Dumbledore 
and 
all 
of 
them? 
They'll 
say 
Snape 
isn't 
really 
trying 
to 
help 
Malfoy, 
he 
was 
just 
trying to find out what Malfoy's up to." 


"They didn't hear him," said Harry flatly. "No one's that good an actor, not even Snape." 


"Yeah . . . I'm just saying, though/' said Ron. 

Harry turned to face him, frowning. "You think I'm right, though?" , 

"Yeah, 
I 
do!" 
said 
Ron 
hastily. 
"Seriously, 
I 
do! 
But 
they're 
all 
convinced 
Snape's 
in 
the 
Order, 
aren't 
they?" 


Harry 
said 
nothing. 
It 
had 
already 
occurred 
to 
him 
that 
this 
would 
be 
the 
most 
likely 
objection 
to 
his 
new 
evidence; 
he 
could 
hear 
Hermione 
now: 
Obviously, 
Harry, 
he 
was 
pretending 
to 
offer 
help 
so 
he 
could trick Malfoy into telling him what he's doing. . . . 

This 
was 
pure 
imagination, 
however, 
as 
he 
had 
had 
no 
opportunity 
to 
tell 
Hermione 
what 
he 
had 
overheard. 
She 
had 
disappeared 
from 
Slughorn's 
party 
before 
he 
returned 
to 
it, 
or 
so 
he 
had 
been 
informed 
by 
an 
irate 
McLaggen, 
and 
she 
had 
already 
gone 
to 
bed 
by 
the 
time 
he 
returned 
to 
the 
common 
room. 
As 
he 
and 
Ron 
had 
left 
for 
the 
Burrow 
early 
the 
next 
day, 
he 
had 
barely 
had 
time 
to 
wish 
her 
a 
happy 
Christmas 
and 
to 
tell 
her 
that 
he 
had 
some 
very 
important 
news 
when 
they 
got 
back 
from 
the 
holidays. 
He 
was 
not 
entirely 
sure 
that 
she 
had 
heard 
him, 
though; 
Ron 
and 
Lavender 
had 
been saying a thoroughly nonverbal goodbye 
just behind him at the time. 


Still, 
even 
Hermione 
would 
not 
be 
able 
to 
deny 
one 
thing: 
Malfoy 
was 
definitely 
up 
to 
something, 
and 
Snape 
knew 
it, 
so 
Harry 
felt 
fully 
justified 
in 
saying 
"I 
told 
you 
so," 
which 
he 
had 
done 
several 
times 
to Ron already. 

Harry 
did 
not 
get 
the 
chance 
to 
speak 
to 
Mr. 
Weasley, 
who 
was 
working 
very 
long 
hours 
at 
the 
Ministry, 
until 
Christmas 
Eve 
night. 
The 
Weasleys 
and 
their 
guests 
were 
sitting 
in 
the 
living 
room, 
which 
Ginny 
had 
decorated 
so 
lavishly 
that 
it 
was 
rather 
like 
sitting 
in 
a 
paperchain 
explosion. 
Fred, 
George, 
Harry, 
and 
Ron 
were 
the 
only 
ones 
who 
knew 
that 
the 
angel 
on 
top 
of 
the 
tree 
was 
actually 
a 
garden 
gnome 
that 
had 
bitten 
Fred 
on 
the 
ankle 
as 
hr 
pulled 
up 
carrots 
for 
Christmas 
dinner. 
Stupefied, 
painted 
gold, 
stuffed 
into 
a 
miniature 
tutu 
and 
with 
small 
wings 
glued 
to 
il.s 
back, 
it 
glowered 
down 
at 
them 
all, 
the 
ugliest 
angel 
Harry 
had 
ever 
seen, 
with 
a 
large 
bald 
head 
like 
a 
potato 
and 
rather 
hairy 
feet. 


They 
were 
all 
supposed 
to 
be 
listening 
to 
a 
Christmas 
broadcast 
by 
Mrs. 
Weasleys 
favorite 
singer, 
Celestina Warbeck, whose voice was warbling out of the large wooden wireless set. Fleur, who seemed 
to 
find 
Celestina 
very 
dull, 
was 
talking 
so 
loudly 
in 
the 
corner 
that 
a 
scowling 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
kept 
pointing 
her 
wand 
at 
the 
volume 
control, 
so 
that 
Celestina 
grew 
louder 
and 
louder. 
Under 
cover 
of 
a 
particularly 
jazzy 
number 
called 
"A 
Cauldron 
Full 
of 
Hot, 
Strong 
Love," 
Fred 
and 
George 
started 
a 
game 
of 
Exploding 
Snap 
with 
Ginny. 
Ron 
kept 
shooting 
Bill 
and 
Fleur 
covert 
looks, 
as 
though 
hoping 



to 
pick 
up 
tips. 
Meanwhile, 
Remus 
Lupin, 
who 
was 
thinner 
and 
more 
raggedlooking 
than 
ever, 
was 
sitting beside the fire, staring into its depths as though he could not hear Celestinas voice. 
Oh, come and stir my cauldron, 
And if you do it right, 
I'll boil you up some hot strong love 


To keep you warm tonight. 
"We 
danced 
to 
this 
when 
we 
were 
eighteen!" 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
wiping 
her 
eyes 
on 
her 
knitting. 
"Do 
you remember, Arthur?" 


"Mphf?" 
said 
Mr. 
Weasley, 
whose 
head 
had 
been 
nodding 
over 
the 
satsuma 
he 
was 
peeling. 
"Oh 
yes 
... 
marvelous tune . . ." 


With an effort, he sat up a little straighter and looked around at Harry, who was sitting next to him. 
"Sorry 
about 
this," 
he 
said, 
jerking 
his 
head 
toward 
the 
wireless 
as 
Celestina 
broke 
into 
the 
chorus. 
"Be 
over soon." 


"No problem," said Harry, grinning. "Has it been busy at the Ministry?" 
"Very," 
said 
Mr. 
Weasley. 
"I 
wouldn't 
mind 
if 
we 
were 
getting 
anywhere, 
but 
of 
the 
three 
arrests 
we've 


made 
in 
the 
last 
couple 
of 
months, 
I 
doubt 
that 
one 
of 
them 
is 
a 
genuine 
Death 
Eater 
— 
only 
don't 
repeat that, Harry," he added quickly, looking much more awake all of a sudden. 
"They're not still holding Stan Shunpike, are they?" asked Harry. 
"I'm 
afraid 
so," 
said 
Mr. 
Weasley. 
"I 
know 
Dumbledore's 
tried 
appealing 
directly 
to 
Scrimgeour 
about 


Stan. 
... 
I 
mean, 
anybody 
who 
has 
actually 
interviewed 
him 
agrees 
that 
he's 
about 
as 
much 
a 
Death 
Eater 
as 
this 
satsuma 
. 
. 
. 
but 
the 
top 
levels 
want 
to 
look 
as 
though 
they're 
making 
some 
progress, 
and 
'three arrests' sounds better than 'three mistaken arrests and releases'. . . but again, this is 


all top secret. . . ." 
"I 
won't 
say 
anything," 
said 
Harry. 
He 
hesitated 
for 
a 
moment, 
wondering 
how 
best 
to 
embark 
on 
what 


he 
wanted 
to 
say; 
as 
he 
marshaled 
his 
thoughts, 
Celestina 
Warbeck 
began 
a 
ballad 
called 
"You 
Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me." 
"Mr. Weasley, you know what I told you at the station when we were setting off for school?" 
"I 
checked, 
Harry," 
said 
Mr. 
Weasley 
at 
once. 
"I 
went 
and 
searched 
the 
Malfoys' 
house. 
There 
was 


nothing, either broken or whole, that shouldn't have been there." 


"Yeah, 
I 
know, 
I 
saw 
in 
the 
Prophet 
that 
you'd 
looked 
. 
. 
. 
but 
this 
is 
something 
different. 
. 
. 
. 
Well, 
something more ..." 
And he told Mr. Weasley everything he had overheard between 



Malfoy 
and 
Snape, 
As 
Harry 
spoke, 
he 
saw 
Lupin's 
head 
turn 
a 
little 
toward 
him, 
taking 
in 
every 
word. 
When he had finished, there was silence, except for Celestina's crooning. 


Oh, my poor heart, where has it gone? It's left me for a spell... 


"Has it occurred to you, Harry," said Mr. Weasley, "that Snape was simply pretending — ?" 


"Pretending 
to 
offer 
help, 
so 
that 
he 
could 
find 
out 
what 
Malfoy's 
up 
to?" 
said 
Harry 
quickly. 
"Yeah, 
I 
thought you'd say that. But how do we know?" 


"It 
isn't 
our 
business 
to 
know," 
said 
Lupin 
unexpectedly. 
He 
had 
turned 
his 
back 
on 
the 
fire 
now 
and 
faced 
Harry 
across 
Mr. 
Weasley. 
"It's 
Dumbledore’s 
business. 
Dumbledore 
trusts 
Severus, 
and 
that 
ought to be good enough for all of us." 


"But," said Harry, "just say — just say Dumbledores wrong about Snape —" 

"People 
have 
said 
it, 
many 
times. 
It 
comes 
down 
to 
whether 
or 
not 
you 
trust 
Dumbledore’s 
judgment. 
I 
do; therefore, I trust Severus." 


"But 
Dumbledore 
can 
make 
mistakes," 
argued 
Harry. 
"He 
says 
it 
himself. 
And 
you" 
— 
he 
looked 
Lupin straight in the eye — "do you honestly like Snape?" 


"I 
neither 
like 
nor 
dislike 
Severus," 
said 
Lupin. 
"No, 
Harry, 
I 
am 
speaking 
the 
truth," 
he 
added, 
as 
Harry 
pulled 
a 
skeptical 
expression. 
"We 
shall 
never 
be 
bosom 
friends, 
perhaps; 
after 
all 
that 
happened 
between 
James 
and 
Sirius 
and 
Severus, 
there 
is 
too 
much 
bitterness 
there. 
But 
I 
do 
not 
forget 
that 
during 
the 
year 
I 
taught 
at 
Hogwarts, 
Severus 
made 
the 
Wolfsbane 
Potion 
for 
me 
every 
month, 
made 
it 
perfectly, so that I did not have to suffer as I usually do at the full moon." 


"But he 'accidentally' let it slip that you're a werewolf, so you had to leave!" said Harry angrily. 


Lupin 
shrugged. 
"The 
news 
would 
have 
leaked 
out 
anyway. 
We 
both 
know 
he 
wanted 
my 
job, 
but 
he 
could 
have 
wreaked 
much 
worse 
damage 
on 
me 
by 
tampering 
with 
the 
potion. 
He 
kept 
me 
healthy. 
I 
must be grateful." 


"Maybe he didn't dare mess with the potion with Dumbledore watching him!" said Harry. 

"You 
are 
determined 
to 
hate 
him, 
Harry," 
said 
Lupin 
with 
a 
faint 
smile. 
"And 
I 
understand; 
with 
James 
as 
your 
father, 
with 
Sirius 
as 
your 
godfather, 
you 
have 
inherited 
an 
old 
prejudice. 
By 
all 
means 
tell 
Dumbledore 
what 
you 
have 
told 
Arthur 
and 
me, 
but 
do 
not 
expect 
him 
to 
share 
your 
view 
of 
the 
matter; 
do 
not 
even 
expect 
him 
to 
be 
surprised 
by 
what 
you 
tell 
him. 
It 
might 
have 
been 
on 
Dumbledore's orders that Severus questioned Draco." ; 


. . . and now you've torn it quite apart I'll thank you to give back my heart! 


Celestina 
ended 
her 
song 
on 
a 
very 
long, 
highpitched 
note 
and 
loud 
applause 
issued 
out 
of 
the 
wireless, which Mrs. Weasley joined in with enthusiastically. 


"Eez eet over?" said Fleur loudly. "Thank goodness, what an 'orrible —" 


"Shall we have a nightcap, then?" asked Mr. Weasley loudly, leaping to his feet. "Who wants eggnog?" 



"What have you been up to lately?" Harry asked Lupin, as Mr, Weasley bustled off to fetch the eggnog, 
and everybody else stretched and broke into conversation. 

"Oh, 
I've 
been 
underground," 
said 
Lupin. 
"Almost 
literally. 
That's 
why 
I 
haven't 
been 
able 
to 
write, 
Harry; sending letters to you would have been something of a giveaway." : 


"What do you mean?" ' 


"I've 
been 
living 
among 
my 
fellows, 
my 
equals," 
said 
Lupin. 
"Werewolves," 
he 
added, 
at 
Harrys 
look 
of 
incomprehension. 
"Nearly 
all 
of 
them 
are 
on 
Voldemort's 
side. 
Dumbledore 
wanted 
a 
spy 
and 
here 
I 
was . . . readymade." 


He 
sounded 
a 
little 
bitter, 
and 
perhaps 
realized 
it, 
for 
he 
smiled 
more 
warmly 
as 
he 
went 
on, 
"I 
am 
not 
complaining; 
it 
is 
necessary 
work 
and 
who 
can 
do 
it 
better 
than 
I? 
However, 
it 
has 
been 
difficult 
gaining 
their 
trust. 
I 
bear 
the 
unmistakable 
signs 
of 
having 
tried 
to 
live 
among 
wizards, 
you 
see, 
whereas 
they 
have 
shunned 
normal 
society 
and 
live 
on 
the 
margins, 
stealing 
— 
and 
sometimes 
killing 


— to eat." 
"How come they like Voldemort?" 


"They 
think 
that, 
under 
his 
rule, 
they 
will 
have 
a 
better 
life," 
said 
Lupin. 
"And 
it 
is 
hard 
to 
argue 
with 
Greyback out there. . . ." 


"Who's Greyback?" 

"You 
haven't 
heard 
of 
him?" 
Lupin's 
hands 
closed 
convulsively 
in 
his 
lap. 
"Fenrir 
Greyback 
is, 
perhaps, 
the 
most 
savage 
werewolf 
alive 
today. 
He 
regards 
it 
as 
his 
mission 
in 
life 
to 
bite 
and 
to 
contaminate 
as 
many 
people 
as 
possible; 
he 
wants 
to 
create 
enough 
werewolves 
to 
overcome 
the 
wizards. 
Voldemort 
has 
promised 
him 
prey 
in 
return 
for 
his 
services. 
Greyback 
specializes 
in 
children. 
. 
. 
. 
Bite 
them 
young, 
he 
says, 
and 
raise 
them 
away 
from 
their 
parents, 
raise 
them 
to 
hate 
normal 
wizards. 
Voldemort 
has 
threatened 
to 
unleash 
him 
upon 
people's 
sons 
and 
daughters; 
it 
is 
a 
threat 
that 
usually 
produces good results." 


Lupin 
paused 
and 
then 
said, 
"It 
was 
Greyback 
who 
bit 
me." 
"What?" 
said 
Harry, 
astonished. 
"When 
— 
when you were a kid, you mean?" 


"Yes. 
My 
father 
had 
offended 
him. 
I 
did 
not 
know, 
for 
a 
very 
long 
time, 
the 
identity 
of 
the 
werewolf 
who 
had 
attacked 
me; 
I 
even 
felt 
pity 
for 
him, 
thinking 
that 
he 
had 
had 
no 
control, 
knowing 
by 
then 
how 
it 
felt 
to 
transform. 
But 
Greyback 
is 
not 
like 
that. 
At 
the 
full 
moon, 
he 
positions 
himself 
close 
to 
victims, 
ensuring 
that 
he 
is 
near 
enough 
to 
strike. 
He 
plans 
it 
all. 
And 
this 
is 
the 
man 
Voldemort 
is 
using 
to 
marshal 
the 
werewolves. 
I 
cannot 
pretend 
that 
my 
particular 
brand 
of 
reasoned 
argument 
is 
making 
much 
headway 
against 
Greyback's 
insistence 
that 
we 
werewolves 
deserve 
blood, 
that 
we 
ought 
to 
revenge 
ourselves 
on 
normal 
people." 
"But 
you 
are 
normal!" 
said 
Harry 
fiercely. 
"You've 
just 
got 
a 


— a 
problem —" 

Lupin 
burst 
out 
laughing. 
"Sometimes 
you 
remind 
me 
a 
lot 
of 
James. 
He 
called 
it 
my 
'furry 
little 



problem in company. Many people were under the impression that I owned a badly behaved 
rabbit." 
He 
accepted 
a 
glass 
of 
eggnog 
from 
Mr. 
Weasley 
with 
a 
word 
of 
thanks, 
looking 
slightly 
more 


cheerful, 
Harry, meanwhile, 
felt 
a 
rush 
of 
excitement: 
This 
last 
mention 
of 
his 
father 
had reminded him 
that there was something he had been looking forward to asking Lupin. 
"Have you ever heard of someone called the HalfBlood 
Prince?" 
"The HalfBlood 
what?" 


"Prince," said Harry, watching him closely for signs of recognition. 
"There 
are 
no 
Wizarding 
princes," 
said 
Lupin, 
now 
smiling. 
"Is 
this 
a 
title 
you 
re 
thinking 
of 
adopting? 
I should have thought being 'the Chosen One' would be enough." 


"It's 
nothing 
to 
do 
with 
me!" 
said 
Harry 
indignantly. 
"The 
HalfBlood 
Prince 
is 
someone 
who 
used 
to 
go 
to 
Hogwarts, 
I've 
got 
his 
old 
Potions 
book. 
He 
wrote 
spells 
all 
over 
it, 
spells 
he 
invented. 
One 
of 
them was Levicorpus —" 


"Oh, 
that 
one 
had 
a 
great 
vogue 
during 
my 
time 
at 
Hogwarts," 
said 
Lupin 
reminiscently. 
"There 
were 
a 
few months in my fifth year when you couldn't move for being hoisted into the air by your ankle." 


"My dad used it," said Harry. "I saw him in the Pensieve, he used it on Snape." 
He 
tried 
to 
sound 
casual, 
as 
though 
this 
was 
a 
throwaway 
comment 
of 
no 
real 
importance, 
but 
he 
was 
not sure he had achieved the right effect; Lupins smile was a little too understanding. 


"Yes," 
he 
said, 
"but 
he 
wasn't 
the 
only 
one. 
As 
I 
say, 
it 
was 
very 
popular. 
. 
. 
. 
You 
know 
how 
these 
spells come and go. , . ." 
"But it sounds like it was invented while you were at school," Harry persisted. 


"Not necessarily," said Lupin. "Jinxes go in and out of fashion like everything else." 
He 
looked 
into 
Harry's 
face 
and 
then 
said 
quietly, 
"James 
was 
a 
pureblood, 
Harry, 
and 
I 
promise 
you, 
he never asked us to call him 'Prince.'" 


Abandoning pretense, Harry said, "And it wasn't Sirius? Or you?" 
"Definitely not." 
"Oh." 
Harry 
stared 
into 
the 
fire. 
"I 
just 
thought 
— 
well, 
he's 
helped 
me 
out 
a 
lot 
in 
Potions 
classes, 
the 


Prince has." 
"How old is this book, Harry?" 
"I dunno, I've never checked." 
"Well, perhaps that will give you some clue as to when the Prince was at Hogwarts," said Lupin. 
Shortly 
after 
this, 
Fleur 
decided 
to 
imitate 
Celestina 
singing 
"A 
Cauldron 
Full 
of 
Hot, 
Strong 
Love," 



which 
was 
taken 
by 
everyone, 
once 
they 
had 
glimpsed 
Mrs. 
Weasley's 
expression, 
to 
be 
the 
cue 
to 
go 
to 
bed. 
Harry 
and 
Ron 
climbed 
all 
the 
way 
up 
to 
Ron's 
attic 
bedroom, 
where 
a 
camp 
bed 
had 
been 
added for Harry. 


Ron 
fell 
asleep 
almost 
immediately, 
but 
Harry 
delved 
into 
his 
trunk 
and 
pulled 
out 
his 
copy 
of 
Advanced 
PotionMaking 
before 
getting 
into 
bed. 
There 
he 
turned 
its 
pages, 
searching, 
until 
he 
finally 
found, 
at 
the 
front 
of 
the 
book, 
the 
date 
that 
it 
had 
been 
published. 
It 
was 
nearly 
fifty 
years 
old. 
Neither 
his 
father, 
nor 
his 
father's 
friends, 
had 
been 
at 
Hogwarts 
fifty 
years 
ago. 
Feeling 
disappointed, 
Harry 
threw 
the 
book 
back 
into 
his 
trunk, 
turned 
off 
the 
lamp, 
and 
rolled 
over, 
thinking 
of 
werewolves 
and 
Snape, 
Stan 
Shunpike 
and 
the 
HalfBlood 
Prince, 
and 
finally 
falling 
into 
an 
uneasy 
sleep 
full 
of 
creeping shadows and the cries of bitten children. . . . 


"She's got to be joking. . . ." 


Harry 
woke 
with 
a 
start 
to 
find 
a 
bulging 
stocking 
lying 
over 
the 
end 
of 
his 
bed. 
He 
put 
on 
his 
glasses 
and looked around; the tiny window was almost completely obscured with snow and, in front of it, Ron 
was sitting bolt upright in bed and examining what appeared to be a thick gold chain. 


"What's chat?" asked Harry. ' 


"Its from Lavender," said Ron, sounding revolted^ "She earn 


honestly think I'd wear ..." 


Harry looked more closely and let out a shout of laughter, Dan 


gling from the chain in large gold letters were the words: 


“My sweetheart” 


"Nice," he said. "Classy. You should definitely wear it in front ol Fred and George." 
"If you tell them," said Ron, shoving the necklace out of sight under his pillow, "I — I — I’ll —" 
"Stutter at me?" said Harry, grinning. "Come on, would I?" 
"How 
could 
she 
think 
I'd 
like 
something 
like 
that, 
though?" 
Ron 
demanded 
of 
thin 
air, 
looking 
rather 


shocked. 


"Well, 
think 
back," 
said 
Harry. 
"Have 
you 
ever 
let 
it 
slip 
that 
you'd 
like 
to 
go 
out 
in 
public 
with 
the 
words 'My Sweetheart' round your neck?" 
"Well... we don't really talk much," said Ron. "It's mainly . . ." 
"Snogging," said Harry. 
"Well, 
yeah," 
said 
Ron. 
He 
hesitated 
a 
moment, 
then 
said, 
"Is 
Hermione 
really 
going 
out 
with 


McLaggen?" 



"I dunno," said Harry. "They were at Slughorn's party together, but I don't think it went that well." 


Ron looked slightly more cheerful as he delved deeper into his stocking. 

Harrys 
presents 
included 
a 
sweater 
with 
a 
large 
Golden 
Snitch 
worked 
onto 
the 
front, 
handknitted 
by 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
a 
large 
box 
of 
Weasleys' 
Wizard 
Wheezes 
products 
from 
the 
twins, 
and 
a 
slightly 
damp, 
moldysmelling 
package that came with a label reading To Master, From Kreacher, 

Harry 
stared 
at 
it. 
"D'you 
reckon 
this 
is 
safe 
to 
open?" 
he 
asked. 
"Can't 
be 
anything 
dangerous, 
all 
our 
mail's still being searched at the Ministry," replied Ron, though he was eyeing the parcel suspiciously. 


"I 
didn't 
think 
of 
giving 
Kreacher 
anything. 
Do 
people 
usually 
give 
their 
houseelves 
Christmas 
presents?" asked Harry, prodding the parcel cautiously. 


"Hermione would," said Ron. "But let's wait and see what it is before you start feeling guilty." 


A 
moment 
later, 
Harry 
had 
given 
a 
loud 
yell 
and 
leapt 
out 
of 
his 
camp 
bed; 
the 
package 
contained 
a 
large 
number 
of 
maggots. 
"Nice," 
said 
Ron, 
roaring 
with 
laughter. 
"Very 
thoughtful." 
"I'd 
rather 
have 
them than that necklace," said Harry, which sobered Ron up at once. 

Everybody 
was 
wearing 
new 
sweaters 
when 
they 
all 
sat 
down 
for 
Christmas 
lunch, 
everyone 
except 
Fleur 
(on 
whom, 
it 
appeared, 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
had 
not 
wanted 
to 
waste 
one) 
and 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
herself, 
who 
was 
sporting 
a 
brandnew 
midnight 
blue 
witch's 
hat 
glittering 
with 
what 
looked 
like 
tiny 
starlike 
diamonds, and a spectacular golden necklace. 

"Fred 
and 
George 
gave 
them 
to 
me! 
Aren't 
they 
beautiful?" 
.: 
"Well, 
we 
find 
we 
appreciate 
you 
more 
and 
more, 
Mum, 
now 
we're 
washing 
our 
own 
socks," 
said 
George, 
waving 
an 
airy 
hand. 
"Parsnips, 
Remus?" 


"Harry, you've 
got 
a 
maggot 
in your 
hair," 
said 
Ginny cheerfully, 
leaning across 
the 
table 
to pick it 
out; 
Harry felt goose bumps erupt up his neck that had nothing to do with the maggot. 


"'Ow 'orrible," said Fleur, with an affected little shudder. 

"Yes, isn't it?" said Ron. "Gravy, Fleur?" 

. 
In 
his 
eagerness 
to 
help 
her, 
he 
knocked 
the 
gravy 
boat 
flying; 
Bill 
waved 
his 
wand 
and 
the 
gravy 
soared up in the air and returned meekly to the boat. 

"You 
are 
as 
bad 
as 
zat 
Tonks," 
said 
Fleur 
to 
Ron, 
when 
she 
had 
finished 
kissing 
Bill 
in 
thanks. 
"She 
is 
always knocking —" 

"I 
invited 
dear 
Tonks 
to 
come 
along 
today," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
setting 
down 
the 
carrots 
with 
unnecessary 
force 
and 
glaring 
at 
Fleur. 
"But 
she 
wouldn't 
come. 
Have 
you 
spoken 
to 
her 
lately, 
Remus?" 


"No, 
I 
haven't 
been 
in 
contact 
with 
anybody 
very 
much," 
said 
Lupin. 
"But 
Tonks 
has 
got 
her 
own 
family to go to, hasn't she?" 



"Hmmm," 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley. 
"Maybe. 
I 
got 
the 
impression 
she 
was 
planning 
to 
spend 
Christmas 
alone, actually." 


She 
gave 
Lupin 
an 
annoyed 
look, 
as 
though 
it 
was 
all 
his 
fault 
she 
was 
getting 
Fleur 
for 
a 
daughterinlaw 
instead 
of 
Tonks, 
but 
Harry, 
glancing 
across 
at 
Fleur, 
who 
was 
now 
feeding 
Bill 
bits 
of 
turkey 
off 
her 
own 
fork, 
thought 
that 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
was 
fighting 
a 
longlost 
battle. 
He 
was, 
however, 
reminded 
of 
a 
question 
he 
had 
with 
regard 
to 
Tonks, 
and 
who 
better 
to 
ask 
than 
Lupin, 
the 
man 
who 
knew 
all 
about 
Patronuses? 


"Tonks's 
Patronus 
has 
changed 
its 
form," 
he 
told 
him. 
"Snape 
said 
so 
anyway. 
I 
didn't 
know 
that 
could 
happen. Why would your Patronus change?" 


Lupin 
took 
his 
time 
chewing 
his 
turkey 
and 
swallowing 
before 
saying 
slowly, 
"Sometimes 
... 
a 
great 
shock ... an emotional upheaval ..." 


"It 
looked 
big, 
and 
it 
had 
four 
legs," 
said 
Harry, 
struck 
by 
a 
sudden 
thought 
and 
lowering 
his 
voice. 
"Hey ... it couldn't be — ?" 

"Arthur!" 
said 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
suddenly. 
She 
had 
risen 
from 
her 
chair; 
her 
hand 
was 
pressed 
over 
her 
heart and she was staring out of the kitchen window. "Arthur — it's Percy!" 


"What?" 


Mr. 
Weasley 
looked 
around. 
Everybody 
looked 
quickly 
at 
the 
window; 
Ginny 
stood 
up 
for 
a 
better 
look. 
There, 
sure 
enough, 
was 
Percy 
Weasley, 
striding 
across 
the 
snowy 
yard, 
his 
hornrimmed 
glasses 
glinting in the sunlight. He was not, however, alone. 

"Arthur, he's — he's with the Minister!" 


And 
sure 
enough, 
the 
man 
Harry 
had 
seen 
in 
the 
Daily 
Prophet 
was 
following 
along 
in 
Percy's 
wake, 
limping 
slightly, 
his 
mane 
of 
graying 
hair 
and 
his 
black 
cloak 
flecked 
with 
snow. 
Before 
any 
of 
, 
them 
could 
say 
anything, 
before 
Mr. 
and 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
could 
do 
: 
more 
than 
exchange 
stunned 
looks, 
the 
back door opened and there stood Percy. 

There was a moment's painful silence. Then Percy said rather stiffly, "Merry Christmas, Mother." 


"Oh, Percy!" said Mrs. Weasley, and she threw herself into his arms. 


Rufus 
Scrimgeour 
paused 
in 
the 
doorway, 
leaning 
on 
his 
walking 
stick 
and 
smiling 
as 
he 
observed 
this 
affecting scene. 

"You 
must 
forgive 
this 
intrusion," 
he 
said, 
when 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
looked 
around 
at 
him, 
beaming 
and 
wiping 
her 
eyes. 
"Percy 
and 
I 
were 
in 
the 
vicinity 
— 
working, 
you 
know 
— 
and 
he 
couldn't 
resist 
dropping in and seeing you all." 


But 
Percy 
showed 
no 
sign 
of 
wanting 
to 
greet 
any 
of 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
family. 
He 
stood, 
pokerstraight 
and 
awkwardlooking, 
and 
stared 
over 
everybody 
else's 
heads. 
Mr. 
Weasley, 
Fred, 
and 
George 
were 
all 
observing him, stonyfaced. 


"Please, 
come 
in, 
sit 
down, 
Minister!" 
fluttered 
Mrs. 
Weasley, 
straightening 
her 
hat. 
Have 
a 
little 



purkey, or some tooding. ... 1 '. mean —" 


"No, 
no, 
my 
dear 
Molly," 
said 
Scrimgeour. 
Harry 
guessed 
that 
he 
had 
checked 
her 
name 
with 
Percy 
before 
they 
entered 
the 
house. 
"I 
don't 
want 
to 
intrude, 
wouldn't 
be 
here 
at 
all 
if 
Percy 
hadn't 
wanted 
to 
see you all so badly. . . ." 


"Oh, Perce!" said Mrs. Weasley tearfully, reaching up to kiss him. 


". , . We've 
only 
looked in 
for 
five 
minutes, 
so 
I'll 
have 
a 
stroll 
around the 
yard while 
you catch up with 
Percy. 
No, 
no, 
I 
assure 
you 
I 
don't 
want 
to 
butt 
in! 
Well, 
if 
anybody 
cared 
to 
show 
me 
your 
charming 
garden . . . Ah, that young man's finished, why doesn't he take a stroll with me?" 


The 
atmosphere 
around 
the 
table 
changed 
perceptibly. 
Everybody 
looked 
from 
Scrimgeour 
to 
Harry. 
Nobody 
seemed 
to 
find 
Scrimgeour's 
pretense 
that 
he 
did 
not 
know 
Harry's 
name 
convincing, 
or 
find 
it 
natural 
that 
he 
should 
be 
chosen 
to 
accompany 
the 
Minister 
around 
the 
garden 
when 
Ginny, 
Fleur, 
and 
George also had clean plates. 


"Yeah, all right," said Harry into the silence. 

He 
was 
not 
fooled; 
for 
all 
Scrimgeour's 
talk 
that 
they 
had 
just 
been 
in 
the 
area, 
that 
Percy 
wanted 
to 
look 
up 
his 
family, 
this 
must 
be 
the 
real 
reason 
that 
they 
had 
come, 
so 
that 
Scrimgeour 
could 
speak 
to 
Harry alone. 

"It's 
fine," 
he 
said 
quietly, 
as 
he 
passed 
Lupin, 
who 
had 
half 
risen 
from 
his 
chair. 
"Fine," 
he 
added, 
as 
Mr. Weasley opened his mouth to speak. 

"Wonderful!" said Scrimgeour, standing back to let Harry pass 


through 
the 
door 
ahead 
of 
him. 
"We'll 
just 
take 
a 
turn 
around 
the 
garden, 
and 
Percy 
and 
I'll 
be 
off. 
Carry on, everyone!" 


Harry 
walked 
across 
the 
yard 
toward 
the 
Weasleys' 
overgrown, 
snowcovered 
garden, 
Scrimgeour 
limping 
slightly 
at 
his 
side. 
He 
had, 
Harry 
knew, 
been 
Head 
of 
the 
Auror 
office; 
he 
looked 
tough 
and 
battlescarred, 
very different from portly Fudge in his bowler hat. 

"Charming," 
said 
Scrimgeour, 
stopping 
at 
the 
garden 
fence 
and 
looking 
out 
over 
the 
snowy 
lawn 
and 
the indistinguishable plants. "Charming." 


Harry said nothing. He could tell that Scrimgeour was watching him. 


"I've 
wanted 
to 
meet 
you 
for 
a 
very 
long 
time," 
said 
Scrimgeour, 
after 
a 
few 
moments. 
"Did 
you 
know 
that?" 

"No," said Harry truthfully. 
¦!. 

"Oh 
yes, 
for 
a 
very 
long 
time. 
But 
Dumbledore 
has 
been 
very 
protective 
of 
you," 
said 
Scrimgeour. 
"Natural, 
of 
course, 
natural, 
after 
what 
you've 
been 
through. 
. 
. 
. 
Especially 
what 
happened 
at 
: 
the 
Ministry ...": 


He 
waited 
for 
Harry 
to 
say 
something, 
but 
Harry 
did 
not 
oblige, 
: 
so 
he 
went 
on, 
"I 
have 
been 
hoping 



for 
an 
occasion 
to 
talk 
to 
you 
ever 
since 
I 
gained 
office, 
but 
Dumbledore 
has 
— 
most 
understandably, 
as I say — prevented this." 


Still, Harry said nothing, waiting. 


"The 
rumors 
that 
have 
flown 
around!" 
said 
Scrimgeour. 
"Well, 
of 
course, 
we 
both 
know 
how 
these 
stories get distorted ... all these whispers of a prophecy . . . of you being 'the Chosen One'. . ." 

They were getting near it now, Harry thought, the reason Scrimgeour was here. 

“I assume that Dumbledore has discussed these matters with you?", 


Harry 
deliberated, 
wondering 
whether 
he 
ought 
to 
lie 
or 
not. 
He 
looked 
at 
the 
little 
gnome 
prints 
all 
around 
the 
flowerbeds, 
ami 
the 
scuffedup 
patch 
that 
marked 
the 
spot 
where 
Fred 
had 
caught 
the 
gnome 
now 
wearing 
the 
tutu 
at 
the 
top 
of 
the 
Christmas 
tree. 
Finally, 
he 
decided 
on 
the 
truth 
... 
or 
a 
bit 
of it. 


"Yeah, we've discussed it." 


"Have 
you, 
have 
you 
. 
. 
." 
said 
Scrimgeour. 
Harry 
could 
see, 
out 
of 
the 
corner 
of 
his 
eye, 
Scrimgeour 
squinting 
at 
him, 
so he 
pretended to 
be 
very interested in 
a 
gnome 
that 
had just 
poked its 
head out 
from 
underneath a frozen rhododendron. "And what has Dumbledore told you, Harry?" 

"Sorry, 
but 
that's 
between 
us," 
said 
Harry. 
He 
kept 
his 
voice 
as 
pleasant 
as 
he 
could, 
and 
Scrimgeour's 
tone, 
too, 
was 
light 
and 
friendly 
as 
he 
said, 
"Oh, 
of 
course, 
if 
it's 
a 
question 
of 
confidences, 
I 
wouldn't 
want 
you 
to 
divulge 
. 
. 
. 
no, 
no 
... 
and 
in 
any 
case, 
does 
it 
really 
matter 
whether 
you 
are 
'the 
Chosen 
One' or not?" 


Harry 
had 
to 
mull 
that 
one 
over 
for 
a 
few 
seconds 
before 
responding. 
"I 
don't 
really 
know 
what 
you 
mean, Minister." 


"Well, 
of 
course, 
to 
you 
it 
will 
matter 
enormously," 
said 
Scrimgeour 
with 
a 
laugh. 
"But 
to 
the 
Wizarding community at large . . . it's all perception, isn't it? It's what people believe that's important." 


Harry 
said 
nothing. 
He 
thought 
he 
saw, 
dimly, 
where 
they 
were 
heading, 
but 
he 
was 
not 
going 
to 
help 
Scrimgeour 
get 
there. 
The 
gnome 
under 
the 
rhododendron 
was 
now 
digging 
for 
worms 
at 
its 
roots, 
and 
Harry kept his eyes fixed upon it. 

"People 
believe 
you 
are 
'the 
Chosen 
One,' 
you 
see," 
said 
Scrimgeour. 
"They 
think 
you 
quite 
the 
hero 


— 
which, 
of 
course, 
you 
arc, 
Harry, 
chosen 
or 
not! 
How 
many 
times 
have 
you 
faced 
HeWhoMustNotBeNamed 
now? 
Well, 
anyway," 
he 
pressed 
on, 
without 
waiting 
for 
a 
reply, 
"the 
point 
is, 
you 
are 
a 
symbol 
of 
hope 
lor 
many, 
Harry. 
The 
idea 
that 
there 
is 
somebody 
out 
there 
who 
might 
be 
able, 
who 
might 
even 
be 
destined, 
to 
destroy 
HeWhoMustNotBeNamed 
— 
well, 
naturally, 
it 
gives 
people 
a 
lift. 
And 
I 
can't 
help 
but 
feel 
that, 
once 
you 
realize 
this, 
you 
might 
consider 
it, 
well, 
almost 
a 
duty, 
to 
stand alongside the Ministry, and give everyone a boost." 

The 
gnome 
had 
just 
managed 
to 
get 
hold 
of 
a 
worm. 
It 
was 
now 
tugging 
very 
hard 
on 
it, 
trying 
to 
get 
it 
out 
of 
the 
frozen 
ground. 
Harry 
was 
silent 
so 
long 
that 
Scrimgeour 
said, 
looking 
from 
Harry 
to 
the 
gnome, "Funny little chaps, aren't they? But what say you, Harry?" 


"I 
don't 
exactly 
understand 
what 
you 
want," 
said 
Harry 
slowly. 
'"Stand 
alongside 
the 
Ministry' 
. 
. 
. 
What does that mean?" 

"Oh, 
well, 
nothing 
at 
all 
onerous, 
I 
assure 
you," 
said 
Scrimgeour. 
"If 
you 
were 
to 
be 
seen 
popping 
in 
and 
out 
of 
the 
Ministry 
from 
time 
to 
time, 
for 
instance, 
that 
would 
give 
the 
right 
impression. 
And 
of 
course, 
while 
you 
were 
there, 
you 
would 
have 
ample 
: 
opportunity 
to 
speak 
to 
Gawain 
Robards, 
my 
successor 
as 
Head 
of 
the 
Auror 
office. 
Dolores 
Umbridge 
has 
told 
me 
that 
you 
cherish 
an 
ambition 
to 
become an Auror. Well, that could be arranged very easily. ..." 


Harry 
felt 
anger 
bubbling 
in 
the 
pit 
of 
his 
stomach: 
So 
Dolores 
Umbridge 
was 
still 
at 
the 
Ministry, 
was 
she? 


"So 
basically," 
he 
said, 
as 
though 
he 
just 
wanted 
to 
clarify 
a 
few 
points, 
"you'd 
like 
to 
give 
the 
impression that I'm working for the Ministry?" 


"It 
would 
give 
everyone 
a 
lift 
to 
think 
you 
were 
more 
involved, 
Harry," 
said 
Scrimgeour, 
sounding 
relieved 
that 
Harry 
had 
cottoned 
on 
so 
quickly. 
"'The 
Chosen 
One,' 
you 
know. 
. 
. 
It's 
all 
about 
giving 
people hope, the feeling that exciting things are happening. ..." 

"But 
if 
I 
keep 
running 
in 
and 
out 
of 
the 
Ministry," 
said 
Harry, 
still 
endeavoring 
to 
keep 
his 
voice 
friendly, "won't that seem as though I approve of what the Ministry's up to?" 


"Well," said Scrimgeour, frowning slightly, "well, yes, that's partly why we'd like —" 


"No, 
I 
don't 
think 
that'll 
work," 
said 
Harry 
pleasantly. 
"You 
see, 
I 
don't 
like 
some 
of 
the 
things 
the 
Ministry's doing. Locking up Stan Shunpike, for instance." 


Scrimgeour 
did 
not 
speak 
for 
a 
moment 
but 
his 
expression 
hardened 
instantly. 
"I 
would 
not 
expect 
you 
to 
understand," 
he 
said, 
and 
he 
was 
not 
as 
successful 
at 
keeping 
anger 
out 
of 
his 
voice 
as 
Harry 
had 
been. "These are dangerous times, and certain measures need to be taken. You are sixteen years old —" 


"Dumbledore's 
a 
lot 
older 
than 
sixteen, 
and 
he 
doesn't 
think 
Stan 
should 
be 
in 
Azkaban 
either," 
said 
Harry. "You're making Stan a scapegoat, just like you want to make me a mascot." 


They 
looked 
at 
each 
other, 
long 
and 
hard. 
Finally 
Scrimgeour 
said, 
with 
no 
pretense 
at 
warmth, 
"I 
see. 
You 
prefer 
— 
like 
your 
hero, 
Dumbledore 
— 
to 
disassociate 
yourself 
from 
the 
Ministry?" 
"I 
don't 
want to be used," said Harry. 

"Some 
would 
say 
it's 
your 
duty 
to 
be 
used 
by 
the 
Ministry!" 
"Yeah, 
and 
others 
might 
say 
its 
your 
duty 
to 
check 
that 
people 
really 
are 
Death 
Eaters 
before 
you 
chuck 
them 
in 
prison," 
said 
Harry, 
his 
temper 
rising now. "You're doing what Barty Crouch 


did. 
You 
never 
get 
it 
right, 
you 
people, 
do 
you? 
Either 
we've 
got 
Fudge, 
pretending 
everything's 
lovely 
while 
people 
get 
murdered 
right 
under 
his 
nose, 
or 
we've 
got 
you, 
chucking 
the 
wrong 
people 
into 
jail 
and trying to pretend you've got 'the Chosen One' working for you!" ' i 


"So you're not 'the Chosen One'?" said Scrimgeour. ' 
"I thought you said it didn't matter either way?" said Harry, with a bitter laugh. "Not to you anyway." 
"I shouldn't have said that," said Scrimgeour quickly. "It was tactless —" 
"No, 
it 
was 
honest," 
said 
Harry. 
"One 
of 
the 
only 
honest 
things 
you've 
said 
to 
me. 
You 
don't 
care 


whether 
I 
live 
or 
die, 
but 
you 
do 
care 
that 
I 
help 
you 
convince 
everyone 
you're 
winning 
the 
war 
against 


Voldemort. I haven't forgotten, Minister...." 
He 
raised 
his 
right 
fist. 
There, 
shining 
white 
on 
the 
back 
of 
his 
cold 
hand, 
were 
the 
scars 
which 
Dolores Umbridge had forced him to carve into his own flesh: I must not tell lies. 


"I 
don't 
remember 
you 
rushing 
to 
my 
defense 
when 
I 
was 
trying 
to 
tell 
everyone 
Voldemort 
was 
back. 


The Ministry wasn't so keen to be pals last year." 
They 
stood 
in 
silence 
as 
icy 
as 
the 
ground 
beneath 
their 
feet. 
The 
gnome 
had 
finally 
managed 
to 
extricate 
his 
worm 
and 
was 
now 
sucking 
on 
it 
happily, 
leaning 
against 
the 
bottommost 
branches 
of 
the 
rhododendron bush. 


"What 
is 
Dumbledore 
up 
to?" 
said 
Scrimgeour 
brusquely. 
"Where 
does 
he 
go 
when 
he 
is 
absent 
from 
Hogwarts?" 
"No idea," said Harry. 
"And you wouldn't tell me if you knew," said Scrimgeour, "would you?" 
"No, 1 wouldn't," said Harry. 


"Well, then, I shall have to see whether I can't find out by other means." 
"You 
can 
try," 
said 
Harry 
indifferently. 
"But 
you 
seem 
cleverer 
than 
Fudge, 
so 
I'd 
have 
thought 
you'd 
have 
learned 
from 
his 
mistakes. 
He 
tried 
interfering 
at 
Hogwarts. 
You 
might 
have 
noticed 
he's 
not 
Minister anymore, but Dumbledore’s still headmaster. I'd leave Dumbledore alone, if I were you." 


There was a long pause. 


"Well, 
it 
is 
clear 
to 
me 
that 
he 
has 
done 
a 
very 
good 
job 
on 
you," 
said 
Scrimgeour, 
his 
eyes 
cold 
and 
hard behind his wirerimmed 
glasses, "Dumbledore’s man through and through, aren't you, Potter?" 
"Yeah, I am," said Harry. "Glad we straightened that out." 
And turning his back on the Minister of Magic, he strode back toward the house. 



Chapter 17 
A Sluggish 
Memory 



Late 
in 
the 
afternoon, 
a 
few 
days 
after 
New 
Year, 
Harry, 
Ron, 
and 
Ginny 
lined 
up 
beside 
the 
kitchen 
fire 
to 
return 
to 
Hogwarts. 
The 
Ministry 
had 
arranged 
this 
oneoff 
connection 
to 
the 
Floo 
Network 
to 
return 
students 
quickly 
and 
safely 
to 
the 
school. 
Only 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
was 
there 
to 
say 
goodbye, 
as 
Mr. 
Weasley, 
Fred, 
George, 
Bill, 
and 
Fleur 
were 
all 
at 
work. 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
dissolved 
into 
tears 
at 
the 
moment 
of 
parting. 
Admittedly, 
it 
took 
very 
little 
to 
set 
her 
off 
lately; 
she 
had 
been 
crying 
on 
and 
off 
ever 
since 
Percy 
had 
stormed 
from 
the 
house 
on 
Christmas 
Day 
with 
his 
glasses 
splattered 
with 
mashed parsnip (for which Fred, George, and Ginny all claimed credit). 

"Don't 
cry, 
Mum," 
said 
Ginny, 
patting 
her 
on 
the 
back 
as 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
sobbed 
into 
her 
shoulder. 
"It's 
okay. ..." 

"Yeah, don't worry about us," said Ron, permitting his mother to plant a very wet kiss on his cheek, "or 
about Percy. He's such a prat, it's not really a loss, is it?" 


Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever as she enfolded Harry in her arms. 

"Promise me you'll look after yourself.. .. Stay out of trouble. ..." 


"I always do, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry. "I like a quiet life, you know me." 


She gave a watery chuckle and stood back. "Be good, then, all of you. ..." 

Harry 
stepped 
into 
the 
emerald 
fire 
and 
shouted 
"Hogwarts!" 
He 
had 
one 
last 
fleeting 
view 
of 
the 
Weasleys' 
kitchen 
and 
Mrs. 
Weasley's 
tearful 
face 
before 
the 
flames 
engulfed 
him; 
spinning 
very 
fast, 
he 
caught 
blurred 
glimpses 
of 
other 
Wizarding 
rooms, 
which 
were 
whipped 
out 
of 
sight 
before 
he 
could 
get 
a 
proper 
look; 
then 
he 
was 
slowing 
down, 
finally 
stopping 
squarely 
in 
the 
fireplace 
in 
Professor 
McGonagall's 
office. 
She 
barely 
glanced 
up 
from 
her 
work 
as 
he 
clambered 
out 
over 
the 
grate. 

"Evening, Potter. Try not to get too much ash on the carpet." 


"No, Professor." 


Harry 
straightened 
his 
glasses 
and 
flattened 
his 
hair 
as 
Ron 
came 
spinning 
into 
view. 
When 
Ginny 
had 
arrived, 
all 
three 
of 
them 
trooped 
out 
of 
McGonagall's 
office 
and 
off 
toward 
Gryffindor 
Tower. 
Harry 
glanced 
out 
of 
the 
corridor 
windows 
as 
they 
passed; 
the 
sun 
was 
already 
sinking 
over 
grounds 
carpeted 



in 
deeper 
snow 
than 
had 
lain 
over 
the 
Burrow 
garden. 
In 
the 
distance, 
he 
could 
see 
Hagrid 
feeding 


Buckbeak in front of his cabin. 
"Baubles," 
said 
Ron 
confidently, 
when 
they 
reached 
the 
Fat 
Lady, 
who 
was 
looking 
rather 
paler 
than 
usual and winced at his loud voice. 


"No," she said. 
“What d’you mean, ‘no’ ? 
"There is a new password," she said. "And please don't shout." 
"But we've been away, how're we supposed to — ?" 
"Harry! Ginny!" 
Hermione was hurrying toward them, very pinkfaced 
and wearing a cloak, hat, and gloves. 
"I 
got 
back 
a 
couple 
of 
hours 
ago, 
I've 
just 
been 
down 
to 
visit 
Hagrid 
and 
Buck 
— 
I 
mean 


Witherwings," she said breathlessly. "Did you have a good Christmas?" 
"Yeah," 
said 
Ron 
at 
once, 
"pretty 
eventful, 
Rufus 
Scrim 
—" 
] 
"I've 
got 
something 
for 
you, 
Harry," 
said 


Hermione, 
neither 
looking 
at 
Ron 
nor 
giving 
any 
sign 
that 
she 
had 
heard 
him. 
"Oh, 
hang 
on 
— 
password. Abstinence." 
"Precisely," said the Fat Lady in a feeble voice, and swung forward to reveal the portrait hole. 
"What's up with her?" asked Harry. 
"Overindulged 
over 
Christmas, 
apparently," 
said 
Hermione, 
rolling 
her 
eyes 
as 
she 
led 
the 
way 
into 
the 


packed 
common 
room. 
"She 
and 
her 
friend 
Violet 
drank 
their 
way 
through 
all 
the 
wine 
in 
that 
picture 


of drunk monks down by the Charms corridor. Anyway..." 
She 
rummaged 
in 
her 
pocket 
for 
a 
moment, 
then 
pulled 
out 
a 
scroll 
of 
parchment 
with 
Dumbledore's 
writing on it. 


"Great," 
said 
Harry, 
unrolling 
it 
at 
once 
to 
discover 
that 
his 
next 
lesson 
with 
Dumbledore 
was 


scheduled for the following night. "I’ve got loads to tell him — and you. Let's sit down —" 
But 
at 
that 
moment 
there 
was 
a 
loud 
squeal 
of 
"WonWon!" 
and 
Lavender 
Brown 
came 
hurtling 
out 
of 
nowhere 
and 
flung 
herself 
into 
Ron's 
arms. 
Several 
onlookers 
sniggered; 
Hermione 
gave 
a 
tinkling 
laugh and said, "There's a cable over here... Coming. Ginny?" 


"No, 
thanks, 
I 
said 
I'd 
meet 
Dean," 
said 
Ginny, 
though 
Harry 
could 
not 
help 
noticing 
that 
she 
did 
not 
sound 
very 
enthusiastic. 
Leaving 
Ron 
and 
Lavender 
locked 
in 
a 
kind 
of 
vertical 
wrestling, 
match, 
Harry led Hermione over to the spare table. 


"So how was your Christmas?" 
"Oh, fine," she shrugged. "Nothing special. How was it at WonWon's?" 
"I'll tell you in a minute," said Harry. "Look, Hermione, can't you —" 



"No, I can't," she said flatly. "So don't even ask." 
"I thought maybe, you know, over Christmas —" 
"It 
was 
the 
Fat 
Lady 
who 
drank 
a 
vat 
of 
fivehundredyearold 
wine, 
Harry, 
not 
me. 
So 
what 
was 
this 


important news you wanted to tell me?" 
She 
looked 
too 
fierce 
to 
argue 
with 
at 
that 
moment, 
so 
Harry 
dropped 
the 
subject 
of 
Ron 
and 
recounted 


all 
that 
he 
had 
overheard 
between 
Malfoy 
and 
Snape. 
When 
he 
had 
finished, 
Hermione 
sat 
in 
thought 
for a moment and then said, "Don't you think — ?" 
"— he was pretending to offer help so that he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he's doing?" 
"Well, yes," said Hermione. 
"Ron’s 
dad 
and 
Lupin 
think 
so," 
Harry 
said 
grudgingly. 
"But 
this 
definitely 
proves 
Malfoy’s 
planning 


something, you can't deny that." 
"No, I can't," she answered slowly. 
"And he's acting on Voldemort's orders, just like I said!" 
"Hmm .. . did either of them actually mention Voldemort's name?" 
Harry 
frowned, 
trying 
to 
remember. 
"I'm 
not 
sure 
... 
Snape 
definitely 
said 
'your 
master,' 
and 
who 
else 


would that be?" 
"I don't know," said Hermione, biting her lip. "Maybe his father?" 
She 
stared 
across 
the 
room, 
apparently 
lost 
in 
thought, 
not 
even 
noticing 
Lavender 
tickling 
Ron. 


"How's Lupin?" 


"Not 
great," 
said 
Harry, 
and 
he 
told 
her 
all 
about 
Lupin’s 
mission 
among 
the 
werewolves 
and 
the 
difficulties he was facing. "Have you heard of this Fenrir Greyback?" 
"Yes, I have!" said Hermione, sounding startled. "And so have you, Harry!" 
"When, History of Magic? You know full well I never listened ..." 
"No, 
no, 
not 
History 
of 
Magic 
— 
Malfoy 
threatened 
Borgin 
with 
Kim!" 
said 
Hermione. 
"Back 
in 


Knockturn Alley, don't 
you remember? 
He 
told 
Borgin 
that 
Greyback was 
an 
old 
family 
friend and that 


he'd be checking up on Borgin's progress!" 
Harry 
gaped 
at 
her. 
"I 
forgot! 
But 
this 
proves 
Malfoy 
s 
a 
Death 
Eater, 
how 
else 
could 
he 
be 
in 
contact 
with Greyback and telling him what to do?" 


"It 
is 
pretty 
suspicious," 
breathed 
Hermione. 
"Unless 
. 
. 
." 
"Oh, 
come 
on," 
said 
Harry 
in 
exasperation, 


"you can't get round this one!" 
"Well 
. 
. 
. 
there 
is 
the 
possibility 
it 
was 
an 
empty 
threat." 
"You're 
unbelievable, 
you 
are," 
said 
Harry, 
shaking his head. 


"We'll 
see 
who's 
right. 
. 
. 
. 
You'll 
be 
eating 
your 
words, 
Hermione, 
just 
like 
the 
Ministry. 
Oh 
yeah, 
1 



had a row with Rufus Scrimgeour as well. . . ." 


And 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
evening 
passed 
amicably 
with 
both 
of 
them 
abusing 
the 
Minister 
of 
Magic, 
for 
Hermione, 
like 
Ron, 
thought 
that 
after 
all 
the 
Ministry 
had 
put 
Harry 
through 
the 
previous 
year, 
they 
had a great deal of nerve asking him for help now. 

The 
new 
term 
started 
next 
morning 
with 
a 
pleasant 
surprise 
for 
the 
sixth 
years: 
a 
large 
sign 
had 
been 
pinned to the common room notice boards overnight. 


APPARITION LESSONS 


If 
you 
are 
seventeen 
years 
of 
age, 
or 
will 
turn 
seventeen 
on 
or 
before 
the 
31st 
August 
next, 
you 
are 
eligible 
for 
a 
twelveweek 
course 
of 
Apparition 
Lessons 
from 
a 
Ministry 
of 
Magic 
Apparition 
instructor. Please sign below if you would like to participate. Cost: 12 Galleons. 


Harry 
and 
Ron 
joined 
the 
crowd 
that 
was 
jostling 
around 
the 
notice 
and 
taking 
it 
in 
turns 
to 
write 
their 
names 
at 
the 
bottom. 
Ron 
was 
just 
taking 
out 
his 
quill 
to 
sign 
after 
Hermione 
when 
Lavender 
crept 
up 
behind 
him, 
slipped 
her 
hands 
over 
his 
eyes, 
and 
trilled, 
"Guess 
who, 
WonWon?" 
Harry 
turned 
to 
see 
Hermione 
stalking 
off; 
he 
caught 
up 
with 
her, 
having 
no 
wish 
to 
stay 
behind 
with 
Ron 
and 
Lavender, 
but 
to 
his 
surprise, 
Ron 
caught 
up 
with 
them 
only 
a 
little 
way 
beyond 
the 
portrait 
hole, 
his 
ears 
bright 
red and his expression disgruntled. Without a word, Hermione sped up to walk with Neville. 


"So 
— 
Apparition," 
said 
Ron, 
his 
tone 
making 
it 
perfectly 
plain 
that 
Harry 
was 
not 
to 
mention 
what 
had just happened. "Should be a laugh, eh?" 

"I 
dunno," 
said 
Harry. 
"Maybe 
it's 
better 
when 
you 
do 
it 
yourself, 
I 
didn’t 
enjoy 
it 
much 
when 
Dumbledore took me along for the ride." 


"I forgot you'd already done it. ... I'd better pass my test first 


time," 
said 
Ron, 
looking 
anxious. 
"Fred 
and 
George 
did," 
"Charlie 
failed, 
though, 
didn't 
he?" 
"Yeah, 
but Charlie's bigger than me" — Ron held his arms out from his body as though he was a gorilla — "so 
Fred and George 


didn't 
go 
on 
about 
it 
much 
. 
. 
. 
not 
to 
his 
face 
anyway 
. 
. 
." 
"When 
can 
we 
take 
the 
actual 
test?" 
"Soon 
as 
we're 
seventeen. 
That's 
only 
March 
for 
me!" 
"Yeah, 
but 
you 
wouldn't 
be 
able 
to 
Apparate 
in 
here, 
not in the castle . . ." 


"Not the point, is it? Everyone would know I could Apparate if I wanted." 

Ron 
was 
not 
the 
only 
one 
to 
be 
excited 
at 
the 
prospect 
of 
Apparition. 
All 
that 
day 
there 
was 
much 
talk 
about 
the 
forthcoming 
, 
lessons; 
a 
great 
deal 
of 
store 
was 
set 
by 
being 
able 
to 
vanish 
and 
reappear 
at 
will. 


"How 
cool 
will 
it 
be 
when 
we 
can 
just 
—" 
Seamus 
clicked 
his 
ringers 
to 
indicate 
disappearance. 
"Me 
cousin 
Fergus 
does 
it 
just 
to 
annoy 
me, 
you 
wait 
till 
I 
can 
do 
it 
back. 
. 
. 
He'll 
never 
have 
another 



peaceful moment. . . ." 


Lost in visions of this happy prospect, he flicked his wand a little too enthusiastically, so that instead of 
producing 
the 
fountain 
of 
pure 
water 
that 
was 
the 
object 
of 
today's 
Charms 
lesson, 
he 
let 
out 
a 
hoselike 
jet that ricocheted off the ceiling and knocked Professor Flitwick flat on his face. 

"Harry’s 
already 
Apparated," 
Ron 
told 
a 
slightly 
abashed 
Seamus, 
after 
Professor 
Flitwick 
had 
dried 
himself 
off 
with 
a 
wave 
of 
his 
wand 
and 
set 
Seamus 
lines: 
"I 
am 
a 
wizard, 
not 
a 
baboon 
brandishing 
a 
stick." "Dum — er — someone took him. SideAlongApparition, 
you know." 


"Whoa!" 
whispered 
Seamus, 
and 
he, 
Dean, 
and 
Neville 
put 
their 
heads 
a 
little 
closer 
to 
hear 
what 
Apparition 
felt 
like. 
For 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
day, 
Harry 
was 
besieged 
with 
requests 
from 
the 
other 
sixth 
years 
to 
describe 
the 
sensation 
of 
Apparition. 
All 
of 
them 
seemed 
awed, 
rather 
than 
put 
off, 
when 
he 
told 
them 
how 
uncomfortable 
it 
was, 
and 
he 
was 
still 
answering 
detailed 
questions 
at 
ten 
to 
eight 
that 
evening, 
when 
he 
was 
forced 
to 
lie 
and 
say 
that 
he 
needed 
to 
return 
a 
book 
to 
the 
library, 
so 
as 
to 
escape in time for his lesson with Dumbledore. 

The 
lamps 
in 
Dumbledore’s 
office 
were 
lit, 
the 
portraits 
of 
previous 
headmasters 
were 
snoring 
gently 
in 
their 
frames, 
and 
the 
Pensieve 
was 
ready 
upon 
the 
desk 
once 
more. 
Dumbledore’s 
hands 
lay 
on 
either 
side 
of 
it, 
the 
right 
one 
as 
blackened 
and 
burntlooking 
as 
ever. 
It 
did 
not 
seem 
to 
have 
healed 
at 
all 
and 
Harry 
wondered, 
for 
perhaps 
the 
hundredth 
time, 
what 
had 
caused 
such 
a 
distinctive 
injury, 
but 
did 
not 
ask; 
Dumbledore 
had 
said 
that 
he 
would 
know 
eventually 
and 
there 
was, 
in 
any 
case, 
another 
subject 
he 
wanted 
to 
discuss. 
But 
before 
Harry 
could 
say 
anything 
about 
Snape 
and 
Malfoy, 
Dumbledore spoke. 

"I 
hear 
that 
you 
met 
the 
Minister 
of 
Magic 
over 
Christmas?" 
"Yes," 
said 
Harry. 
"He's 
not 
very 
happy 
with me." 


"No," 
sighed 
Dumbledore. 
"He 
is 
not 
very 
happy 
with 
me 
either. 
We 
must 
try 
not 
to 
sink 
beneath 
our 
anguish, Harry, but battle on." 


Harry grinned. 

"He wanted me to tell the Wizarding community that the Ministry's doing a wonderful job.' 


Dumbledore smiled. 


"It 
was 
Fudge's 
idea 
originally, 
you 
know. 
During 
his 
last 
days 
in 
office, 
when 
he 
was 
trying 
desperately to cling to his post, he sought a meeting with you, hoping that you would give him your 


support —" 


"After everything Fudge did last year?" said Harry angrily. "After 
Umbridge ?” 


"I 
told 
Cornelius 
there 
was 
no 
chance 
of 
it, 
but 
the 
idea 
did 
not 
die 
when 
he 
left: 
office. 
Within 
hours 
of Scrimgeour's appointment we met and he demanded that I arrange a meeting with you —" 

"So that's why you argued!" Harry blurted out. "It was in the Daily Prophet"' 


"The 
Prophet 
is 
bound 
to 
report 
the 
truth 
occasionally," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
"if 
only 
accidentally. 
Yes, 



that was why we argued. Well, it appears that Rufus found a way to corner you at last." 
"He accused me of being 'Dumbledore's man through and through.'" 
"How very rude of him." 
"I told him I was." 
Dumbledore 
opened his 
mouth 
to 
speak and then closed it 
again. 
Behind 
Harry, Fawkes 
the 
phoenix let 


out a low, soft, musical cry. To Harry’s intense embarrassment, he suddenly realized 


that 
Dumbledore's 
bright 
blue 
eyes 
looked 
rather 
watery, 
ami 
stared 
hastily 
at 
his 
own 
knees. 
When 
Dumbledore spoke, however, his voice was quite steady. 
"I am very touched, Harry." 
"Scrimgeour 
wanted 
to 
know 
where 
you 
go 
when 
you're 
not 
at 
Hogwarts," 
said 
Harry, 
still 
looking 


fixedly at his knees. 
"Yes, 
he 
is 
very 
nosy 
about 
that," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
now 
sounding 
cheerful, 
and 
Harry 
thought 
it 
safe 
to 
look 
up 
again. 
"He 
has 
even 
attempted 
to 
have 
me 
followed. 
Amusing, 
really. 
He 
set 
Dawlish 
to 
tail 


me. 
It 
wasn't 
kind. 
I 
have 
already 
been 
forced 
to 
jinx 
Dawlish 
once; 
I 
did 
it 
again 
with 
the 
greatest 
regret." 
"So 
they 
still 
don't 
know 
where 
you 
go?" 
asked 
Harry, 
hoping 
for 
more 
information 
on 
this 
intriguing 


subject, but Dumbledore merely smiled over the top of his halfmoon 
spectacles. 


"No, 
they 
don't, 
and 
the 
time 
is 
not 
quite 
right 
for 
you 
to 
know 
either. 
Now, 
I 
suggest 
we 
press 
on, 
unless there's anything else — ?" "There is, actually, sir," said Harry. "It's about Malfoy and Snape." 
"Professor Snape, Harry." 
"Yes, sir. I overheard them during Professor Slughorns party . . . well, I followed them, actually. ..." 
Dumbledore 
listened 
to 
Harry's 
story 
with 
an 
impassive 
face. 
When 
Harry 
had 
finished 
he 
did 
not 


speak 
for 
a 
few 
moments, 
then 
said, 
"Thank 
you 
for 
telling 
me 
this, 
Harry, 
but 
I 
suggest 
that 
you 
put 
it 
out of your mind. I do not think that it is of great importance." 


"Not of great importance?" repeated Harry incredulously. "Professor, did you understand — ?" 
"Yes, 
Harry, 
blessed 
as 
I 
am 
with 
extraordinary 
brainpower, 
I 
understood 
everything 
you 
told 
me," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
a 
little 
sharply. 
"I 
think 
you 
might 
even 
consider 
the 
possibility 
that 
I 
understood 
more 
than 
you 
did. 
Again, 
I 
am 
glad 
that 
you 
have 
conlided 
in 
me, 
but 
let 
me 
reassure 
you 
that 
you 
have not told me anything that causes me disquiet." 


Harry 
sat 
in 
seething 
silence, 
glaring 
at 
Dumbledore. 
What 
was 
going 
on? 
Did 
this 
mean 
that 
Dumbledore 
had 
indeed 
ordered 
Snape 
to 
find 
out 
what 
Malfoy 
was 
doing, 
in 
which 
case 
he 
had 
already heard everything Harry had just told him from Snape? Or was he really worried by what he had 
heard, but pretending not to be? 


"So, sir," said Harry, in what he hoped was a polite, calm voice, "you definitely still trust — ?" 



"I 
have 
been 
tolerant 
enough 
to 
answer 
that 
question 
already," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
but 
he 
did 
not 
sound 
very tolerant anymore. "My answer has not changed." 

"I 
should 
think 
not," 
said 
a 
snide 
voice; 
Phineas 
Nigellus 
was 
evidently 
only 
pretending 
to 
be 
asleep. 
Dumbledore ignored him. 


"And 
now, 
Harry, 
I 
must 
insist 
that 
we 
press 
on. 
I 
have 
more 
important 
things 
to 
discuss 
with 
you 
this 
evening." 


Harry 
sat 
there 
feeling 
mutinous. 
How 
would 
it 
be 
if 
he 
refused 
to 
permit 
the 
change 
of 
subject, 
if 
he 
insisted 
upon 
arguing 
the 
case 
against 
Malfoy? 
As 
though 
he 
had 
read 
Harry's 
mind, 
Dumbledore 
shook his head. 

"Ah, 
Harry, 
how 
often 
this 
happens, 
even 
between 
the 
best 
of 
friends! 
Each 
of 
us 
believes 
that 
what 
he 
has to say is much more important than anything the other might have to contribute!" 


"I don't think what you've got to say is unimportant, sir," said Harry stiffly. 


"Well, 
you 
are 
quite 
right, 
because 
it 
is 
not," 
said 
Dumbledore 
briskly. 
"I 
have 
two 
more 
memories 
to 
show 
you 
this 
evening, 
both 
obtained 
with 
enormous 
difficulty, 
and 
the 
second 
of 
them 
is, 
1 
think, 
the 
most important I have collected." 


Harry 
did 
not 
say 
anything 
to 
this; 
he 
still 
felt 
angry 
at 
the 
reception 
his 
confidences 
had 
received, 
but 
could not see what was to be gained by arguing further. 

"So," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
in 
a 
ringing 
voice, 
"we 
meet 
this 
evening 
to 
continue 
the 
tale 
of 
Tom 
Riddle, 
whom 
we 
left 
last 
lesson 
poised 
on 
the 
threshold 
of 
his 
years 
at 
Hogwarts. 
You 
will 
remember 
how 
excited he 
was 
to hear 
that 
he 
was 
a 
wizard, that 
he 
refused my 
company on a 
trip 
to Diagon 
Alley, and 
that I, in turn, warned him against continued thievery when he arrived at school. 


"Well, 
the 
start 
of 
the 
school 
year 
arrived 
and 
with 
it 
came 
Tom 
Riddle, 
a 
quiet 
boy 
in 
his 
secondhand 
robes, 
who lined 
up with the 
other 
first 
years 
to be 
sorted. He 
was 
placed in 
Slytherin House 
almost 
the 
moment 
that 
the 
Sorting 
Hat 
touched 
his 
head," 
continued 
Dumbledore, 
waving 
his 
blackened 
hand 
toward 
the 
shelf 
over 
his 
head 
where 
the 
Sorting 
Hat 
sat, 
ancient 
and 
unmoving. 
"How 
soon 
Riddle 
learned 
that 
the 
famous 
founder 
of 
the 
House 
could 
talk 
to 
snakes, 
I 
do 
not 
know 
— 
perhaps 
that 
very 
evening. The knowledge can only have excited him and increased his sense of selfimportance. 


"However, 
if 
he 
was 
frightening 
or 
impressing 
fellow 
Slytherins 
with 
displays 
of 
Parseltongue 
in 
their 
common 
room, 
no 
hint 
of 
it 
reached 
the 
staff. 
He 
showed 
no 
sign 
of 
outward 
arrogance 
or 
aggression 
at 
all. 
As 
an 
unusually 
talented 
and 
very 
goodlooking 
orphan, 
he 
naturally 
drew 
attention 
and 
sympathy from the staff almost from the moment of his arrival. He seemed police, quiet, and thirsty for 
knowledge. Nearly all were most favorably impressed by him." 


"Didn't you tell them, sir, what he'd been like when you met him at the orphanage?" asked Harry. 

"No, 
I 
did 
not. 
Though 
he 
had 
shown 
no 
hint 
of 
remorse, 
it 
was 
possible 
that 
he 
felt 
sorry 
for 
how 
he 
had behaved before and was resolved to turn over a fresh leaf. I chose to give him that chance." 



Dumbledore 
paused 
and 
looked 
inquiringly 
at 
Harry, 
who 
had 
opened 
his 
mouth 
to 
speak. 
Here, 
again, 
was Dumbledore's tendency to trust people in spite of overwhelming evidence that they did not deserve 
it! But then Harry remembered something. . . . 

"But 
you 
didn't 
really 
trust 
him, 
sir, 
did 
you? 
He 
told 
me 
. 
. 
. 
the 
Riddle 
who 
came 
out 
of 
that 
diary 
said, 'Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did.'" 


"Let 
us 
say 
that 
I 
did 
not 
take 
it 
for 
granted 
that 
he 
was 
trustworthy," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"I 
had, 
as 
I 
have 
already 
indicated, 
resolved 
to 
keep 
a 
close 
eye 
upon 
him, 
and 
so 
I 
did. 
I 
cannot 
pretend 
that 
I 
gleaned 
a 
great 
deal 
from 
my 
observations 
at 
first. 
He 
was 
very 
guarded 
with 
me; 
he 
felt, 
I 
am 
sure, 
that 
in 
the 
thrill 
of 
discovering 
his 
true 
identity 
he 
had 
told 
me 
a 
little 
too 
much. 
He 
was 
careful 
never 
to 
reveal 
as 
much 
again, 
but 
he 
could 
not 
take 
back 
what 
he 
had 
let 
slip 
in 
his 
excitement, 
nor 
what 
Mrs. 
Cole 
had 
confided 
in 
me. 
However, 
he 
had 
the 
sense 
never 
to 
try 
and 
charm 
me 
as 
he 
charmed 
so 
many of my colleagues. 


"As 
he 
moved 
up 
the 
school, 
he 
gathered 
about 
him 
a 
group 
of 
dedicated 
friends; 
I 
call 
them 
that, 
for 
want of a better term, although as I have already indicated, Riddle undoubtedly felt no affection for any 
of 
them. 
This 
group 
had 
a 
kind 
of 
dark 
glamour 
within 
the 
castle. 
They 
were 
a 
motley 
collection; 
a 
mixture 
of 
the 
weak 
seeking 
protection, 
the 
ambitious 
seeking 
some 
shared 
glory, 
and 
the 
thuggish 
gravitating 
toward 
a 
leader 
who 
could 
show 
them 
more 
refined 
forms 
of 
cruelty. 
In 
other 
words, 
they 
were 
the 
forerunners 
of 
the 
Death 
Eaters, 
and 
indeed 
some 
of 
them 
became 
the 
first 
Death 
Eaters 
after 
leaving Hogwarts. 


"Rigidly 
controlled 
by 
Riddle, 
they 
were 
never 
detected 
in 
open 
wrongdoing, 
although 
their 
seven 
years 
at 
Hogwarts 
were 
marked 
by 
a 
number 
of 
nasty 
incidents 
to 
which 
they 
were 
never 
satisfactorily 
linked, 
the 
most 
serious 
of 
which 
was, 
of 
course, 
the 
opening 
of 
the 
Chamber 
of 
Secrets, 
which 
resulted in the death of a girl. As you know, Hagrid was wrongly accused of that crime. 

"I 
have 
not 
been 
able 
to 
find 
many 
memories 
of 
Riddle 
at 
Hogwarts," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
placing 
his 
withered 
hand 
on 
the 
Pensieve. 
"Few 
who 
knew 
him 
then 
are 
prepared 
to 
talk 
about 
him; 
they 
are 
too 
terrified. 
What 
I 
know, 
I 
found 
out 
after 
he 
had 
left 
Hogwarts, 
after 
much 
painstaking 
effort, 
after 
tracing 
those 
few 
who 
could 
be 
tricked 
into 
speaking, 
after 
searching 
old 
records 
and 
questioning 
Muggle and wizard witnesses alike. 

"Those 
whom 
I 
could 
persuade 
to 
talk 
told 
me 
that 
Riddle 
was 
obsessed 
with 
his 
parentage. 
This 
is 
understandable, 
of 
course; 
he 
had 
grown 
up 
in 
an 
orphanage 
and 
naturally 
wished 
to 
know 
how 
he 
came 
to 
be 
there. 
It 
seems 
that 
he 
searched 
in 
vain 
for 
some 
trace 
of 
Tom 
Riddle 
senior 
on 
the 
shields 
in 
the 
trophy 
room, 
on 
the 
lists 
of 
prefects 
in 
the 
old 
school 
records, 
even 
in 
the 
books 
of 
Wizarding 
history. 
Finally 
he 
was 
forced 
to 
accept 
that 
his 
father 
had 
never 
set 
foot 
in 
Hogwarts. 
I 
believe 
that 
it 
was 
then 
that 
he 
dropped 
the 
name 
forever, 
assumed 
the 
identity 
of 
Lord 
Voldemort, 
and 
began 
his 
investigations 
into 
his 
previously 
despised 
mother's 
family 
— 
the 
woman 
whom, 
you 
will 
remember, 
he had thought could not be a witch if she had succumbed to the shameful human weakness of death. 


"All 
he 
had 
to 
go 
upon 
was 
the 
single 
name 
'Marvolo,' 
which 
he 
knew 
from 
those 
who 
ran 
the 
orphanage 
had 
been 
his 
mother's 
father's 
name. 
Finally, 
after 
painstaking 
research, 
through 
old 
books 



of 
Wizarding 
families, 
he 
discovered 
the 
existence 
of 
Slytherin's 
surviving 
line. 
In 
the 
summer 
of 
his 
sixteenth 
year, 
he 
left 
the 
orphanage 
to 
which 
he 
returned 
annually 
and 
set 
off 
to 
find 
his 
Gaunt 
relatives. And now, Harry, if you will stand ..." : 


Dumbledore 
rose, 
and 
Harry 
saw 
that 
he 
was 
again 
holding 
a. 
small 
crystal 
bottle 
filled 
with 
swirling, 
pearly memory. 

"I 
was 
very 
lucky 
to 
collect 
this," 
he 
said, 
as 
he 
poured 
the 
gleaming 
mass 
into 
the 
Pensieve. 
"As 
you 
will understand when we have experienced it. Shall we?" 

Harry 
stepped 
up 
to 
the 
stone 
basin 
and 
bowed 
obediently 
until 
his 
face 
sank 
through 
the 
surface 
of 
the 
memory; 
he 
felt 
the 
familiar 
sensation 
of 
falling 
through 
nothingness 
and 
then 
landed 
upon 
a 
dirty 
stone floor in almost total darkness. 


It 
took 
him 
several 
seconds 
to 
recognize 
the 
place, 
by 
which 
time 
Dumbledore 
had 
landed 
beside 
him. 
The 
Gaunts' 
house 
was 
now 
more 
indescribably 
filthy 
than 
anywhere 
Harry 
had 
ever 
seen. 
The 
ceiling 
was 
thick 
with 
cobwebs, 
the 
floor 
coated 
in 
grime; 
moldy 
and 
rotting 
food 
lay 
upon 
the 
table 
amidst 
a 
mass 
of 
crusted 
pots. 
The 
only 
light 
came 
from 
a 
single 
guttering 
candle 
placed 
at 
the 
feet 
of 
a 
man 
with 
hair 
and 
beard 
so 
overgrown 
Harry 
could 
see 
neither 
eyes 
nor 
mouth. 
He 
was 
slumped 
in 
an 
armchair by the fire, and Harry wondered for a moment whether he was dead. But 


then 
there 
came 
a 
loud 
knock 
on 
the 
door 
and 
the 
man 
jerked 
awake, 
raising 
a 
wand 
in 
his 
right 
hand 
and a short knife in his left. 


The 
door 
creaked 
open. 
There 
on 
the 
threshold, 
holding 
an 
oldfashioned 
lamp, 
stood 
a 
boy 
Harry 
recognized at once: tall, pale, darkhaired, 
and handsome — the teenage Voldemort. 

Voldemort's 
eyes 
moved 
slowly 
around 
the 
hovel 
and 
then 
found 
the 
man 
in 
the 
armchair. 
For 
a 
few 
seconds 
they 
looked 
at 
each 
other, 
then 
the 
man 
staggered 
upright, 
the 
many 
empty 
bottles 
at 
his 
feet 
clattering and tinkling across the floor. 

"YOU!" he bellowed. "YOU!" 


And he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife held aloft. 


"Stop." 


Riddle 
spoke 
in 
Parseltongue. 
The 
man 
skidded 
into 
the 
table, 
sending 
moldy 
pots 
crashing 
to 
the 
floor. 
He 
stared 
at 
Riddle. 
There 
was 
a 
long 
silence 
while 
they 
contemplated 
each 
other. 
The 
man 
broke it. 


"You speak it?" 


"Yes, I speak it," said Riddle. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind 
him. 
Harry 
could 
not 
help 
but 
feel 
a 
resentful 
admiration 
for 
Voldemort's 
complete 
lack 
of 
fear. 
His 
race merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, disappointment. 


"Where is Marvolo?" he asked. 

"Dead," said the other. "Died years ago, didn't he?" 



Riddle frowned. 
"Who are you, then?" 
"I’m Morfin, ain't I?" 
"Marvolo's son?" 
"'Course I am, then..." • ,, . 
Morfin 
pushed 
the 
hair 
out 
of 
his 
dirty 
face, 
the 
better 
to 
see 
Riddle, 
and 
Harry 
saw 
that 
he 
wore 


Marvolo's blackstoned 
ring on his right hand. 
"I thought you was that Muggle," whispered Morfin. "You look mighty like that Muggle." 
"What Muggle?" said Riddle sharply. 
"That 
Muggle 
what 
my 
sister 
took 
a 
fancy 
to, 
that 
Muggle 
what 
lives 
in 
the 
big 
house 
over 
the 
way," 


said 
Morfin, 
and 
he 
spat 
unexpectedly 
upon 
the 
floor 
between 
them. 
"You 
look 
right 
like 
him. 
Riddle. 


But he's older now, in 'e? He's older'n you, now I think on it. ..." 
Morfin 
looked 
slightly 
dazed 
and 
swayed 
a 
little, 
still 
clutching 
the 
edge 
of 
the 
table 
for 
support. 
"He 
come back, see," he added stupidly. 


Voldemort 
was 
gazing 
at 
Morfin 
as 
though 
appraising 
his 
possibilities. 
Now 
he 
moved 
a 
little 
closer 


and said, "Riddle came back?" 
"Ar, 
he 
left 
her, 
and 
serve 
her 
right, 
marrying 
filth!" 
said 
Morfin, 
spitting 
on 
the 
floor 
again. 
"Robbed 
us, mind, before she ran off. , Where's the locket, eh, where's Slytherin's locket?" 


Voldemort 
did 
not 
answer. 
Morfin 
was 
working 
himself 
into 
a 
rage 
again; 
he 
brandished 
his 
knife 
and 
shouted, 
"Dishonored 
us, 
, 
she 
did, 
that 
little 
slut! 
And 
whore 
you, 
coming 
here 
and 
asking 
questions 
about all that? It's over, innit. . . . It's over. ..." 


He 
looked 
away, 
staggering 
slightly, 
and 
Voldemort 
moved 
forward. 
As 
he 
did 
so, 
an 
unnatural 
darkness 
fell, 
extinguishing 
Voldemort's 
lamp 
and 
Morfin's 
candle, 
extinguishing 
everything. 
. 
. 
. 
Dumbledore's 
fingers 
closed 
tightly 
around 
Harry's 
arm 
and 
they 
were 
soaring 
back 
into 
the 
present 
again. 
The 
soft 
golden 
light 
in 
Dumbledore's 
office 
seemed 
to 
dazzle 
Harry's 
eyes 
after 
that 
impenetrable darkness. | 


"Is that all?" said Harry at once. "Why did it go dark, what happened?" 
"Because 
Morfin 
could 
not 
remember 
anything 
from 
that 
point 
onward," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
gesturing 


Harry 
back 
into 
his 
seat. 
"When 
he 
awoke 
next 
morning, 
he 
was 
lying 
on 
the 
floor, 
quite 
alone. 
Marvolo's ring had gone. 
"Meanwhile, 
in 
the 
village 
of 
Little 
Hangleton, 
a 
maid 
was 
running 
along 
the 
High 
Street, 
screaming 


that 
there 
were 
three 
bodies 
lying 
in 
the 
drawing 
room 
of 
the 
big 
house: 
Tom 
Riddle 
Senior 
and 
his 
mother and father. 
"The 
Muggle 
authorities 
were 
perplexed. 
As 
far 
as 
I 
am 
aware, 
they 
do 
not 
know 
to 
this 
day 
how 
the 



Riddles 
died, 
for 
the 
Avadu 
Kedavra 
curse 
does 
not 
usually 
leave 
any 
sign 
of 
damage. 
. 
. 
. 
The 
exception 
sits 
before 
me," 
Dumbledore 
added, 
with 
a 
nod 
to 
Harry's 
scar. 
"The 
Ministry, 
on 
the 
other 
hand, 
knew 
at 
once 
that 
this 
was 
a 
wizard's 
murder. 
They 
also 
knew 
that 
a 
convicted 
Mugglehater 
lived 
across 
the 
valley 
from 
the 
Riddle 
house, 
a 
Mugglehater 
who 
had 
already 
been 
imprisoned 
once 
for attacking one of the murdered people. 

"So 
the 
Ministry 
called 
upon 
Morfin. 
They 
did 
not 
need 
to 
question 
him, 
to 
use 
Veritaserum 
or 
Legilimency. 
He 
admitted 
to 
the 
murder 
on 
the 
spot, 
giving 
details 
only 
the 
murderer 
could 
know. 
He 
was 
proud, 
he 
said, 
to 
have 
killed 
the 
Muggles, 
had 
been 
awaiting 
his 
chance 
all 
these 
years. 
He 
handed 
over 
his 
wand, 
which 
was 
proved 
at 
once 
to 
have 
been 
used 
to 
kill 
the 
Riddles. 
And 
he 
permitted himself to be led off to Azkaban without a fight. 


All 
that 
disturbed 
him 
was 
the 
fact 
that 
his 
fathers 
ring 
had 
disappeared. 
'He'll 
kill 
me 
for 
losing 
it,' 
he 
told 
his 
captors 
over 
and 
over 
again. 
'He'll 
kill 
me 
for 
losing 
his 
ring.' 
And 
that, 
apparently, 
was 
all 
he 
ever 
said 
again. 
He 
lived 
out 
the 
remainder 
of 
his 
life 
in 
Azkaban, 
lamenting 
the 
loss 
of 
Marvolo's 
last 
heirloom, 
and 
is 
buried 
beside 
the 
prison, 
alongside 
the 
other 
poor 
souls 
who 
have 
expired 
within 
its 
walls." 


"So Voldemort stole Morfin's wand and used it?" said Harry, sitting up straight. 


"That's 
right," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"We 
have 
no 
memories 
to 
show 
us 
this, 
but 
I 
think 
we 
can 
be 
fairly 
sure 
what 
happened. 
Voldemort 
Stupefied 
his 
uncle, 
took 
his 
wand, 
and 
proceeded 
across 
the 
valley 
to 
'the 
big 
house 
over 
the 
way.' 
There 
he 
murdered 
the 
Muggle 
man 
who 
had 
abandoned 
his 
witch 
mother, 
and, 
for 
good 
measure, 
his 
Muggle 
grandparents, 
thus 
obliterating 
the 
last 
of 
the 
unworthy 
Riddle 
line 
and 
revenging 
himself 
upon 
the 
father 
who 
never 
wanted 
him. 
Then 
he 
returned 
to 
the 
Gaunt 
hovel, 
performed 
the 
complex 
bit 
of 
magic 
that 
would 
implant 
a 
false 
memory 
in 
his 
uncle's 
mind, 
laid 
Morfin's 
wand 
beside 
its 
unconscious 
owner, 
pocketed 
the 
ancient 
ring 
he 
wore, 
and 
departed." 

"And Morfin never realized he hadn't done it?" 


"Never," said Dumbledore. "He gave, as I say, a full and boastful confession." 


"But 
he 
had 
this 
real 
memory 
in 
him 
all 
the 
time!" 
"Yes, 
but 
it 
took 
a 
great 
deal 
of 
skilled 
Legilimency 
to 
coax 
it 
out 
of 
him," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
"and 
why 
should 
anybody 
delve 
further 
into 
Morfin's 
mind 
when 
he 
had 
already 
confessed 
to 
the 
crime? 
However, 
I 
was 
able 
to 
secure 
a 
visit 
to 
Morfin 
in 
the 
last 
weeks 
of 
his 
life, 
by 
which 
time 
I 
was 
attempting 
to 
discover 
as 
much 
as 
I 
could 
about 
Voldemort's 
past. 
I 
extracted 
this 
memory 
with 
difficulty. 
When 
I 
saw 
what 
it 
contained, 
I 
attempted 
to 
use 
it 
to 
secure 
Morfin's 
release 
from 
Azkaban. 
Before 
the 
Ministry 
reached 
their 
decision, 
however, 
Morfin 
had died." 


"But 
how 
come 
the 
Ministry 
didn't 
realize 
that 
Voldemort 
had 
done 
all 
that 
to 
Morfin?" 
Harry 
asked 
angrily 
"He 
was 
underage 
at 
the 
time, 
wasn't 
he? 
I 
thought 
they 
could 
detect 
underage 
magic!" 
"You 
are 
quite 
right 
— 
they 
can 
detect 
magic, 
but 
not 
the 
perpetrator: 
You 
will 
remember 
that 
you 
were 
blamed by the Ministry for the Hover Charm that was, in fact, cast by —" 



"Dobby," 
growled 
Harry; 
this 
injustice 
still 
rankled. 
"So 
if 
you're 
underage 
and 
you 
do 
magic 
inside 
an 
adult witch or wizard's house, the Ministry won't know?" 

"They 
will 
certainly 
be 
unable 
to 
tell 
who 
performed 
the 
magic," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
smiling 
slightly 
at 
the 
look 
of 
great 
indignation 
on 
Harrys 
face. 
"They 
rely 
on 
witch 
and 
wizard 
parents 
to 
enforce 
their 
offspring's obedience while within their walls." 


"Well, that's rubbish," snapped Harry. "Look what happened here, look what happened to Morfin!" 


"I 
agree," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"Whatever 
Morfin 
was, 
he 
did 
not 
deserve 
to 
die 
as 
he 
did, 
blamed 
for 
murders 
he 
had 
not 
committed. 
But 
it 
is 
getting 
late, 
and 
I 
want 
you 
to 
see 
this 
other 
memory 
before 
we part. ..." 


Dumbledore 
took 
from 
an 
inside 
pocket 
another 
crystal 
phial 
and 
Harry 
fell 
silent 
at 
once, 
remembering 
that 
Dumbledore 
had 
said 
it 
was 
the 
most 
important 
one 
he 
had 
collected. 
Harry 
noticed 
that 
the 
contents 
proved difficult 
to 
empty 
into 
the 
Pensieve, as 
though they had congealed slightly; 
did 
memories go bad? 


"This 
will 
not 
take 
long," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
when 
he 
had 
finally 
emptied 
the 
phial. 
"We 
shall 
be 
back 
before you know it. Once more into the Pensieve, then . . ." 


And 
Harry 
fell 
again 
through 
the 
silver 
surface, 
landing 
this 
time 
right 
in 
front 
of 
a 
man 
he 
recognized 
at once. 

It 
was 
a 
much 
younger 
Horace 
Slughorn. 
Harry 
was 
so 
used 
to 
him 
bald 
that 
he 
found 
the 
sight 
of 
Slughorn 
with 
thick, 
shiny, 
strawcolored 
hair 
quite 
disconcerting; 
it 
looked 
as 
though 
he 
had 
had 
his 
head 
thatched, 
though 
there 
was 
already 
a 
shiny 
Galleonsized 
bald 
patch 
on 
his 
crown. 
His 
mustache, 
less 
massive 
than 
it 
was 
these 
days, 
was 
gingeryblond. 
He 
was 
not 
quite 
as 
rotund 
as 
the 
Slughorn 
Harry 
knew, 
though 
the 
golden 
buttons 
on 
his 
richly 
embroidered 
waistcoat 
were 
taking 
a 
fair 
amount 
of 
strain. 
His 
little 
feet 
resting 
upon 
a 
velvet 
pouffe, 
he 
was 
sitting 
well 
back 
in 
a 
comfortable 
winged 
armchair, 
one 
hand 
grasping 
a 
small 
glass 
of 
wine, 
the 
other 
searching 
through 
a 
box 
of 
crystalized 
pineapple. 

Harry 
looked 
around 
as 
Dumbledore 
appeared 
beside 
him 
and 
saw 
that 
they 
were 
standing 
in 
Slughorn's 
office. 
Haifa 
dozen 
boys 
were 
sitting 
around 
Slughorn, 
all 
on 
harder 
or 
lower 
seats 
than 
his, 
and 
all 
in 
their 
midteens. 
Harry 
recognized 
Voldemort 
at 
once. 
His 
was 
the 
most 
handsome 
face 
and 
he 
looked 
the 
most 
relaxed 
of 
all 
the 
boys. 
His 
right 
hand 
lay 
negligently 
upon 
the 
arm 
of 
his 
chair; 
with 
a 
jolt, 
Harry 
saw 
that 
he 
was 
wearing 
Marvolo's 
goldandblack 
ring; 
he 
had 
already 
killed 
his 
father. 

"Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?" he asked. 

"Tom, 
Tom, 
if 
I 
knew 
I 
couldn't 
tell 
you," 
said 
Slughorn, 
wagging 
a 
reproving, 
sugarcovered 
finger 
at 
Riddle, 
though 
ruining 
the 
effect 
slightly 
by 
winking. 
"I 
must 
say, 
I'd 
like 
to 
know 
where 
you 
get 
your 
information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.” 


Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks. 



"What 
with 
your 
uncanny 
ability 
to 
know 
things 
you 
shouldn’t, 
and 
your 
careful 
flattery 
of 
the 
people 


who matter — thank you fm the pineapple, by the way, you're quite right, it is my favorite — " 
As 
several 
of 
the 
boys 
tittered, 
something 
very 
odd 
happened. 
The 
whole 
room 
was 
suddenly 
filled 
with 
a 
thick 
white 
fog, 
so 
that 
Harry 
could 
see 
nothing 
but 
the 
face 
of 
Dumbledore, 
who 
was 
standing 
beside 
him. 
Then 
Slughorn's 
voice 
rang 
out 
through 
the 
mist, 
unnaturally 
loudly, 
"You'll 
go 
wrong, 
boy, mark my words. " 


The 
fog 
cleared 
as 
suddenly 
as 
it 
had 
appeared 
and 
yet 
nobody 
made 
any 
allusion 
to 
it, 
nor 
did 
anybody 
look 
as 
though 
anything 
unusual 
had 
just 
happened. 
Bewildered, 
Harry 
looked 
around 
as 
a 
small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock. 


"Good 
gracious, 
is 
it 
that 
time 
already?" 
said 
Slughorn. 
"You'd 
better 
get 
going, 
boys, 
or 
we'll 
all 
be 
in 


trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it's detention. Same goes for you, Avery." 
Slughorn 
pulled 
himself 
out 
of 
his 
armchair 
and 
carried 
his 
empty 
glass 
over 
to 
his 
desk 
as 
the 
boys 
filed 
out. 
Voldemort, 
however, 
stayed 
behind. 
Harry 
could 
tell 
he 
had 
dawdled 
deliberately, 
wanting 
to 
be last in the room with Slughorn. 


"Look 
sharp, 
Tom," 
said 
Slughorn, 
turning 
around 
and 
finding 
him 
still 
present. 
"You 
don't 
want 
to 
be 
caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect..." 
"Sir, I wanted to ask you something." 
"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away...." 


"Sir, I wondered what you know about. . . about Horcruxes?" 
And 
it 
happened 
all 
over 
again: 
The 
dense 
fog 
filled 
the 
room 
so 
that 
Harry 
could 
not 
see 
Slughorn 
or 
Voldemort 
at 
all; 
only 
Dumbledore, 
smiling 
serenely 
beside 
him. 
Then 
Slughorn's 
voice 
boomed 
out 
again, just as it had done before. 


"I 
don't 
know 
anything 
about 
Horcruxes 
and 
I 
wouldn't 
tell 
you 
if 
I 
did! 
Now 
get 
out 
of 
here 
at 
once 
and don’t let me catch you mentioning them again!" 
"Well, that's that," said Dumbledore placidly beside Harry. 
"Time to go." 
And Harry's feet left the floor to fall, seconds later, back onto the 
rug in front of Dumbledore's desk. 


"That's all there is?" said Harry blankly. 
Dumbledore 
had 
said 
that 
this 
was 
the 
most 
important 
memory 
of 
all, 
but 
he 
could 
not 
see 
what 
was 
so 
significant 
about 
it. 
Admittedly 
the 
fog, 
and 
the 
fact 
that 
nobody 
seemed 
to 
have 
noticed 
it, 
was 
odd, 
but 
other 
than 
that 
nothing 
seemed 
to 
have 
happened 
except 
that 
Voldemort 
had 
asked 
a 
question 
and 
failed to get an answer. 


"As 
you 
might 
have 
noticed," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
reseating 
himself 
behind 
his 
desk, 
"that 
memory 
has 



been tampered with." 


"Tampered with?" repeated Harry, sitting back down too. 

"Certainly," said Dumbledore. "Professor Slughorn has meddled with his own recollections." 


"But why would he do that?" 


"Because, 
I 
think, 
he 
is 
ashamed 
of 
what 
he 
remembers," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"He 
has 
tried 
to 
rework 
the 
memory 
to 
show 
himself 
in 
a 
better 
light, 
obliterating 
those 
parts 
which 
he 
does 
not 
wish 
me 
to 
see. 
It 
is, 
as 
you 
will 
have 
noticed, 
very 
crudely 
done, 
and 
that 
is 
all 
to 
the 
good, 
for 
it 
shows 
that 
the 
true 
memory is still there beneath the alterations. 


"And 
so, 
for 
the 
first 
time, 
I 
am 
giving 
you 
homework, 
Harry. 
It 
will 
be 
your 
job 
to 
persuade 
Professor 
Slughorn 
to 
divulge 
the 
real 
memory, 
which 
will 
undoubtedly 
be 
our 
most 
crucial 
piece 
of 
information 
of all." 


Harry stared at him. 


"But 
surely, 
sir," 
he 
said, 
keeping 
his 
voice 
as 
respectful 
as 
possible, 
"you 
don't 
need 
me 
— 
you 
could 
use Legilimency ... or Veritaserum. ..." 


"Professor 
Slughorn 
is 
an 
extremely 
able 
wizard 
who 
will 
be 
expecting 
both," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"He 
is 
much 
more 
accomplished 
at 
Occlumency 
than 
poor 
Morfin 
Gaunt, 
and 
I 
would 
be 
astonished 
if 
he 
has 
not carried an antidote to Veritaserum with him ever since I coerced him into giving me this travesty of 
a recollection. 


"No, 
I 
think 
it 
would 
be 
foolish 
to 
attempt 
to 
wrest 
the 
truth 
from 
Professor 
Slughorn 
by 
force, 
and 
might 
do 
much 
more 
harm 
than 
good; 
I 
do 
not 
wish 
him 
to 
leave 
Hogwarts. 
However, 
he 
has 
his 
weaknesses 
like 
the 
rest 
of 
us, 
and 
I 
believe 
that 
you 
are 
the 
one 
person 
who 
might 
be 
able 
to 
penetrate 
his 
defenses. 
It 
is 
most 
important 
that 
we 
secure 
the 
true 
memory, 
Harry. 
. 
. 
. 
How 
important, 
we 
will 
only know when we have seen the real thing. So, good luck . . . and good night." 


A little taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, Harry got to his feet quickly. "Good night, sir." 


As 
he 
closed 
the 
study 
door 
behind 
him, 
he 
distinctly 
heard 
Phineas 
Nigellus 
say, 
"I 
can't 
see 
why 
the 
boy should be able to do it better than you, Dumbledore." 


"I wouldn't expect you to, Phineas," replied Dumbledore, and Fawkes gave another low, musical cry. 


Chapter 18 
Birthday 
Surprises 



The 
next 
day 
Harry 
confided 
in 
both 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
the 
task 
that 
Dumbledore 
had 
set 
him, 
though 
separately, 
for 
Hermione 
still 
refused 
to 
remain 
in 
Ron's 
presence 
longer 
than 
it 
took 
to 
give 
him 
a 
contemptuous look. 


Ron thought that Harry was unlikely to have any trouble with Slughorn at all. 


'He 
loves 
you,' 
he 
said 
over 
breakfast, 
waving 
an 
airy 
forkful 
of 
fried 
egg. 
'Won't 
refuse 
you 
anything, 
will he? Not his little Potions Prince. Just hang back after class this afternoon and ask him.' 
Hermione, however, took a gloomier view. 
'He must be determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore couldn't get it out of him,' she said 


in 
a 
low 
voice, 
as 
they 
stood 
in 
the 
deserted, 
snowy 
courtyard 
at 
break. 
'Horcruxes 
... 
Horcruxes 
... 
I've 
never even heard of them ...' 


'You haven't?' 
Harry 
was 
disappointed; 
he 
had 
hoped 
that 
Hermione 
might 
have 
been 
able 
to 
give 
him 
a 
clue 
as 
to 
what Horcruxes were. 


'They 
must 
be 
really 
advanced 
Dark 
magic, 
or 
why 
would 
Voldemort 
have 
wanted 
to 
know 
about 
them? I think it's going to be difficult to get the information, Harry, you'll have to be very careful about 
how you approach Slughorn, think out a strategy ..." 


'Ron reckons 1 should just hang back after Potions this afternoon ...' 


'Oh, 
well, 
if 
WonWon 
thinks 
that, 
you'd 
better 
do 
it,' 
she 
said, 
flaring 
up 
at 
once. 
'After 
all, 
when 
has 
WonWon's 
judgement ever been faulty?' 
'Hermione, can't you —' 
'No!' she said angrily, and stormed away, leaving Harry alone and ankledeep 
in snow. 
Potions 
lessons 
were 
uncomfortable 
enough 
these 
days, 
seeing 
as 
Harry, 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
had 
to 


share 
a 
desk. Today, Hermione 
moved her 
cauldron around the 
table 
so that 
she 
was 
close 
to Ernie, and 
ignored both Harry and Ron. 
'What've 
you done?' Ron muttered to Harry, looking at Hermione's haughty profile. 


But before Harry could answer, Slughorn was calling for silence from the front of the room. 
'Settle 
down, 
settle 
down, 
please! 
Quickly, 
now, 
lots 
of 
work 
to 
get 
through 
this 
afternoon! 
Golpalott's 
Third Law ... who can tell me ? 
But Miss Granger can, of course!' 



Hermione 
recited 
at 
top 
speed: 
'Golpalott'sThirdLawstatesthattheantidoteforablendedpoisonwillbeequaltomorethanthesumoftheantidotesforeac
oftheseparalecomponents.' 


'Precisely!' 
beamed 
Slughorn. 
Ten 
points 
for 
Gryffindor! 
Now, 
if 
we 
accept 
Golpalott's 
Third 
Law 
as 
true ..." 


Harry 
was 
going 
to 
have 
to 
take 
Slughorn's 
word 
for 
it 
that 
Golpalott's 
Third 
Law 
was 
true, 
because 
he 
had 
not 
understood 
any 
of 
it. 
Nobody 
apart 
from 
Hermione 
seemed 
to 
be 
following 
what 
Slughorn 
said 
next, either. 


'... 
which 
means, 
of 
course, 
that 
assuming 
we 
have 
achieved 
correct 
identification 
of 
the 
potion's 
ingredients 
by 
Scarpin's 
Revelaspell, 
our 
primary 
aim 
is 
not 
the 
relatively 
simple 
one 
of 
selecting 
antidotes to those ingredients in a 


of 
themselves, 
but 
to 
find 
that 
added 
component 
which 
will, 
by 
an 
almost 
alchemical 
process, 
transform these disparate elements ' 


Ron 
was 
sitting 
beside 
Harry 
with 
his 
mouth 
halfopen, 
doodling 
absently 
on 
his 
new 
copy 
of 
Advanced 
PotionMaking. 
Ron 
kept 
forgetting 
that 
he 
could 
no 
longer 
rely 
on 
Hermione 
to 
help 
him 
out of trouble when he failed to grasp what was going on. 


'... 
and 
so,' 
finished 
Slughorn, 
'I 
want 
each 
of 
you 
to 
come 
and 
take 
one 
of 
these 
phials 
from 
my 
desk. 
You 
are 
to 
create 
an 
antidote 
for 
the 
poison 
within 
it 
before 
the 
end 
of 
the 
lesson. 
Good 
luck, 
and 
don't 
forget your protective gloves!' 


Hermione 
had 
left 
her 
stool 
and 
was 
halfway 
towards 
Siughorn's 
desk 
before 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
class 
had 
realised 
it 
was 
time 
to 
move, 
and 
by 
the 
time 
Harry, 
Ron 
and 
Ernie 
returned 
to 
the 
table, 
she 
had 
already tipped the contents of her phial into her cauldron and was kindling a fire underneath it. 


'it's 
a 
shame 
that 
the 
Prince 
won't 
be 
able 
to 
help 
you 
much 
with 
this, 
Harry,' 
she 
said 
brightly 
as 
she 
straightened up. 'You have to understand the principles involved this time. No short cuts or cheats!' 


Annoyed, 
Harry 
uncorked 
the 
poison 
he 
had 
taken 
from 
Siughorn's 
desk, 
which 
was 
a 
garish 
shade 
of 
pink, 
tipped 
it 
into 
his 
cauldron 
and 
lit 
a 
fire 
underneath 
it. 
He 
did 
not 
have 
the 
faintest 
idea 
what 
he 
was 
supposed 
to 
do 
next. 
He 
glanced 
at 
Ron, 
who 
was 
now 
standing 
there 
looking 
rather 
gormless, 
having copied everything Harry had done. 


'You sure the Prince hasn't got any tips?' Ron muttered to Harry. 


Harry 
pulled 
out 
his 
trusty 
copy 
of 
Advanced 
PotionMaking 
and 
turned 
to 
the 
chapter 
on 
Antidotes. 
There 
was 
Golpalott's 
Third 
Law, 
stated 
word 
for 
word 
as 
Hermione 
had 
recited 
it, 
but 
not 
a 
single 
illuminating 
note 
in 
the 
Prince's 
hand 
to 
explain 
what 
it 
meant. 
Apparently 
the 
Prince, 
like 
Hermione, 
had had no difficulty understanding it. 


'Nothing,' said Harry gloomily. 


Hermione 
was 
now 
waving 
her 
wand 
enthusiastically 
over 
her 
cauldron. 
Unfortunately, 
they 
could 
not 



copy 
the 
spell 
she 
was 
doing 
because 
she 
was 
now 
so 
good 
at 
nonverbal 
incantations 
that 
she 
did 
not 
need 
to 
say 
the 
words 
aloud. 
Ernie 
Macmillan, 
however, 
was 
muttering, 
'Specialis 
revelio!' 
over 
his 
cauldron, which sounded impressive, so Harry and Ron hastened to imitate him. 


It 
took 
Harry 
only 
five 
minutes 
to 
realise 
that 
his 
reputation 
as 
the 
best 
potionmaker 
in 
the 
class 
was 
crashing 
around 
his 
ears. 
Slughorn 
had 
peered 
hopefully 
into 
his 
cauldron 
on 
his 
first 
circuit 
of 
the 
dungeon, 
preparing 
to 
exclaim 
in 
delight 
as 
he 
usually 
did, 
and 
instead 
had 
withdrawn 
his 
head 
hastily, 
coughing, 
as 
the 
smell 
of 
bad 
eggs 
overwhelmed 
him. 
Hermione's 
expression 
could 
not 
have 
been 
any 
smugger; 
she 
had 
loathed 
being 
outperformed 
in 
every 
Potions 
class. 
She 
was 
now 
decanting 
the 
mysteriously 
separated 
ingredients 
of 
her 
poison 
into 
ten 
different 
crystal 
phials. 
More 
to 
avoid 
watching 
this 
irritating 
sight 
than 
anything 
else, 
Harry 
bent 
over 
the 
HalfBlood 
Prince's 
book 
and 
turned a few pages with unnecessary force. 


And there it was, scrawled right across a long list of antidotes. 


Just shove 
a bezoar down their throats. 


Harry 
stared 
at 
these 
words 
for 
a 
moment. 
Hadn't 
he 
once, 
long 
ago, 
heard 
of 
bezoars? 
Hadn't 
Snape 
mentioned 
them 
in 
their 
first 
ever 
Potions 
lesson? 
'A 
stone 
taken 
from 
the 
stomach 
of 
a 
goat, 
which 
will protect from most 
poisons.' 


It 
was 
not 
an 
answer 
to 
the 
Golpalott 
problem, 
and 
had 
Snape 
still 
been 
their 
teacher, 
Harry 
would 
not 
have 
dared 
do 
it, 
but 
this 
was 
a 
moment 
for 
desperate 
measures. 
He 
hastened 
towards 
the 
store 
cupboard 
and 
rummaged 
within 
it, 
pushing 
aside 
unicorn 
horns 
and 
tangles 
of 
dried 
herbs 
until 
he 
found, at the very back, a small card box on which had been scribbled the word 'Bezoars'. 


He 
opened 
the 
box 
just 
as 
Slughorn 
called, 
Two 
minutes 
left, 
everyone!' 
Inside 
were 
half 
a 
dozen 
shrivelled 
brown 
objects, 
looking 
more 
like 
driedup 
kidneys 
than 
real 
stones. 
Harry 
seized 
one, 
put 
the box back in the cupboard and hurried back to his cauldron. 


'Time's 
... 
UP!' 
called 
Slughorn 
genially. 
'Well, 
let's 
see 
how 
you've 
done! 
Blaise 
... 
what 
have 
you 
got 
for me?' 


Slowly, 
Slughorn 
moved 
around 
the 
room, 
examining 
the 
various 
antidotes. 
Nobody 
had 
finished 
the 
task, 
although 
Hermione 
was 
trying 
to 
cram 
a 
few 
more 
ingredients 
into 
her 
bottle 
before 
Slughorn 
reached 
her. 
Ron 
had 
given 
up 
completely, 
and 
was 
merely 
trying 
to 
avoid 
breathing 
in 
the 
putrid 
fumes 
issuing 
from 
his 
cauldron. 
Harry 
stood 
there 
waiting, 
the 
bezoar 
clutched 
in 
a 
slightly 
sweaty 
hand. 


Slughorn 
reached 
their 
table 
last. 
He 
sniffed 
Ernie's 
potion 
and 
passed 
on 
to 
Ron's 
with 
a 
grimace. 
He 
did not linger over Ron's cauldron, but backed away swiftly, retching slightly. 


'And you, Harry,' he said. 'What have you got to show me?' 


Harry held out his hand, the bezoar sitting on his palm. 


Slughorn 
looked 
down 
at 
it 
for 
a 
full 
ten 
seconds. 
Harry 
wondered, 
for 
a 
moment, 
whether 
he 
was 
going to shout at him. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. 



'You've 
got 
a 
nerve, 
boy!' 
he 
boomed, 
taking 
the 
bezoar 
and 
holding 
it 
up 
so 
that 
the 
class 
could 
see 
it. 
'Oh, 
you're 
like 
your 
mother 
... 
well, 
1 
can't 
fault 
you 
... 
a 
bezoar 
would 
certainly 
act 
as 
an 
antidote 
to 
all these potions!' 


Hermione, 
who 
was 
sweatyfaced 
and 
had 
soot 
on 
her 
nose, 
looked 
livid. 
Her 
halffinished 
antidote, 
comprising fiftytwo 
ingredients including a chunk of her own hair, 
bubbled sluggishly behind Slughorn, who had eyes for nobody but Harry. 


'And you thought of a bezoar all by yourself, did you, Harry?' she asked through gritted teeth. 
That's 
the 
individual 
spirit 
a 
real 
potionmaker 
needs!' 
said 
Slughorn happily, before 
Harry could 
reply. 
'Just 
like 
his 
mother, 
she 
had 
the 
same 
intuitive 
grasp 
of 
potionmaking, 
it's 
undoubtedly 
from 
Lily 
he 
gets it ... yes, Harry, yes, if you've got a bezoar to hand, of course that would do the trick ... although as 
they don't work on everything, and are pretty rare, it's still worth knowing how to mix antidotes ...' 


The 
only 
person 
in 
the 
room 
looking 
angrier 
than 
Hermione 
was 
Malfoy, 
who, 
Harry 
was 
pleased 
to 
see, 
had 
spilled 
something 
that 
looked 
like 
cat 
sick 
over 
himself. 
Before 
either 
of 
them 
could 
express 
their fury that Harry had come top of the class by not doing any work, however, the bell rang. 


Time to pack up!' said Slughorn. 'And an extra ten points to Gryffindor for sheer cheek!' 
Still chuckling, he waddled back to his desk at the front of the dungeon. 
Harry 
dawdled 
behind, 
taking 
an 
inordinate 
amount 
of 
time 
to 
do 
up 
his 
bag. 
Neither 
Ron 
nor 


Hermione 
wished 
him 
luck 
as 
they 
left; 
both 
looked 
rather 
annoyed. 
At 
last 
Harry 
and 
Slughorn 
were 


the only two left in the room. 
'Come 
on, 
now, 
Harry, 
you'll 
be 
late 
for 
your 
next 
lesson,' 
said 
Slughorn 
affably, 
snapping 
the 
gold 
clasps shut on his dragonskin briefcase. 


'Sir,' said Harry, reminding himself irresistibly of Voldemort, '1 wanted to ask you something.' 
'Ask away, then, my dear boy, ask away ..." 
'Sir, 1 wondered what you know about ... about Horcruxes?' 
Slughorn 
froze. 
His 
round 
face 
seemed 
to 
sink 
in 
upon 
itself. 
He 
licked 
his 
lips 
and 
said 
hoarsely, 


'What did you say?' 'I asked whether you know anything about Horcruxes, sir. You see ' 
'Dumbledore put you up to this,' whispered Slughorn. 
His 
voice 
had 
changed 
completely. 
It 
was 
not 
genial 
any 
more, 
but 
shocked, 
terrified. 
He 
fumbled 
in 


his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping his sweating brow. 
'Dumbledore's shown you that that 
memory,' said Slughorn. 'Well? Hasn't he?' 
'Yes,' said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was best not to lie. 
'Yes, 
of 
course,' 
said 
Slughorn 
quietly, 
still 
dabbing 
at 
his 
white 
face. 
'Of 
course 
... 
well, 
if 
you've 
seen 


that memory, Harry, you'll know that I don't know anything anything 
he 
repeated the word forcefully 
'about 
Horcruxes.' 



He 
seized 
his 
dragonskin 
briefcase, 
stuffed 
his 
handkerchief 
back 
into 
his 
pocket 
and 
marched 
to 
the 
dungeon door. 


'Sir,' said Harry desperately, 'I just thought there might be a bit more to the memory ' 


'Did you?' said Slughorn. Then you were wrong, weren't you? WRONG!' 


He 
bellowed 
the 
last 
word 
and, 
before 
Harry 
could 
say 
another 
word, 
slammed 
the 
dungeon 
door 
behind him. 


Neither 
Ron 
nor 
Hermione 
was 
at 
all 
sympathetic 
when 
Harry 
told 
them 
of 
this 
disastrous 
interview 
Hermione was still seething at the way Harry had triumphed without doing the work properly. Ron was 
resentful that Harry hadn't slipped him a bezoar, too. 


'It 
would've 
just 
looked 
stupid 
if 
we'd 
both 
done 
it!' 
said 
Harry 
irritably. 
'Look, 
I 
had 
to 
try 
and 
soften 
him 
up 
so 
I 
could 
ask 
him 
about 
Voldemort, 
didn't 
I? 
Oh, 
will 
you 
gel 
a 
grip!' 
he 
added 
in 
exasperation, as Ron winced at the sound of the name. 


Infuriated by his failure and by Ron and Hermione's atti


tudes, 
Harry 
brooded 
for 
the 
next 
few 
days 
over 
what 
to 
do 
next 
about 
Slughorn. 
He 
decided 
that, 
for 
the 
time 
being, 
he 
would 
let 
Slughorn 
think 
that 
he 
had 
forgotten 
all 
about 
Horcruxes; 
it 
was 
surely 
best to lull him into a false sense of security before returning to the attack. 


When 
Harry 
did 
noi 
question 
Slughorn 
again, 
the 
Potions 
master 
reverted 
to 
his 
usual 
affectionate 
treatment 
of 
him, 
and 
appeared 
to 
have 
put 
the 
matter 
from 
his 
mind. 
Harry 
awaited 
an 
invitation 
to 
one 
of 
his 
little 
evening 
parties, 
determined 
to 
accept 
this 
time, 
even 
if 
he 
had 
to 
reschedule 
Quidditch 
prac 
tice. 
Unfortunately, 
however, 
no 
such 
invitation 
arrived. 
Harry 
checked 
with 
Hermione 
and 
Ginny: 
neither 
of 
them 
had 
received 
an 
invitation 
and 
nor, 
as 
far 
as 
they 
knew, 
had 
anybody 
else. 
Harry 
could 
not 
help 
wondering 
whether 
this 
meant 
that 
Slughorn 
was 
not 
quite 
as 
forgetful 
as 
he 
appeared, simply determined to give Harry no additional opportunities to question him. 


Meanwhile, 
the 
Hogwarts 
library 
had 
failed 
Hermione 
for 
the 
first 
lime 
in 
living 
memory. 
She 
was 
so 
shocked, she even forgot that she was annoyed at Harry for his trick with the bezoar, 


'I 
haven't 
found 
one 
single 
explanation 
of 
what 
Horcruxes 
do!" 
she 
told 
him. 
'Not 
a 
single 
one! 
I've 
been 
right 
through 
the 
restricted 
section 
and 
even 
in 
the 
most 
horrible 
books, 
where 
they 
tell 
you 
how 
to 
brew 
the 
most 
gruesome 
potions 
nothing! 
All 
I 
could 
find 
was 
this, 
in 
the 
introduciion 
to 
Magick 
Mostc 
Evilc 
— 
listen 
— 
"of 
the 
Horcrux, 
wickedest 
of 
magical 
inventions, 
we 
shall 
not 
speak 
nor 
give 
direction" 
... 1 mean, why mention 
it, 
then?' 
she 
said impatiently, 
slamming 
the 
old 
book shut; 
it 
let 
out 
a 
ghostly 
wail. 
'Oh, 
shut 
up,' 
she 
snapped, 
stuffing 
it 
back 
into 
her 
bag. 
'I 
asked 
whether 
you 
know 
anything about Horcruxes, sir. You see 


'Dumbledore put you up to this,' whispered Slughorn, 


His 
voice 
had 
changed 
completely. 
It 
was 
not 
genial 
any 
more, 
but 
shocked, 
terrified. 
He 
fumbled 
in 
his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping his sweating brow. 


'Dumbledore's shown you that — that memory,' said Slughorn. 'Well? Hasn't he?' 


'Yes,' said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was best not to lie. 

'Yes, 
of 
course,' 
said 
Slughorn 
quietly, 
still 
dabbing 
at 
his 
white 
face. 
'Of 
course 
... 
well, 
if 
you've 
seen 
that memory, Harry, you'll know that I don't know anything anything 
he 
repeated the word forcefully 
'about 
Horcruxes.' 

He 
seized 
his 
dragonskin 
briefcase, 
stuffed 
his 
handkerchief 
back 
into 
his 
pocket 
and 
marched 
to 
the 
dungeon door. 

'Sir,' said Harry desperately, '1 just thought there might be a 


'Did you?' said Slughorn. Then you were wrong, weren't you? WRONG!' 


He 
bellowed 
the 
last 
word 
and, 
before 
Harry 
could 
say 
another 
word, 
slammed 
the 
dungeon 
door 
behind him. 


Neither 
Ron 
nor 
Hermione 
was 
at 
all 
sympathetic 
when 
Harry 
told 
them 
of 
this 
disastrous 
interview. 
Hermione was still seething at the way Harry had triumphed without doing the work properly. Ron was 
resentful that Harry hadn't slipped him a bezoar, too. 


'It 
would've 
just 
looked 
stupid 
if 
we'd 
both 
done 
it!' 
said 
Harry 
irritably. 
'Look, 
1 
had 
to 
try 
and 
soften 
him 
up 
so 
1 
could 
ask 
him 
about 
Voldemort, 
didn't 
I? 
Oh, 
will 
you 
get 
a 
grip!' 
he 
added 
in 
exasperation, as Ron winced at the sound of 


Infuriated by his failure and by Ron and Hermione's atti


tudes, 
Harry 
brooded 
for 
the 
next 
few 
days 
over 
what 
to 
do 
next 
about 
Slughorn. 
He 
decided 
that, 
for 
the 
time 
being, 
he 
would 
let 
Slughorn 
think 
that 
he 
had 
forgotten 
all 
about 
Horcruxes; 
it 
was 
surely 
best to lull him into a false sense of security before returning to the attack. 

When 
Harry 
did 
not 
question 
Slughorn 
again, 
the 
Potions 
master 
reverted 
to 
his 
usual 
affectionate 
treatment 
of 
him, 
and 
appeared 
to 
have 
put 
the 
matter 
from 
his 
mind. 
Harry 
awaited 
an 
invitation 
to 
one 
of 
his 
little 
evening 
parties, 
determined 
to 
accept 
this 
time, 
even 
if 
he 
had 
to 
reschedule 
Quidditch 
practice. Unfortunately, however, no such invitation 
arrived. Harry checked with 
Hermione 
and Ginny: 
neither 
of 
them 
had 
received 
an 
invitation 
and 
nor, 
as 
far 
as 
they 
knew, 
had 
anybody 
else. 
Harry 
could 
not 
help 
wondering 
whether 
this 
meant 
that 
Slughorn 
was 
not 
quite 
as 
forgetful 
as 
he 
appeared, 
simply 
determined to give Harry no additional opportunities to question him. 

Meanwhile, 
the 
Hogwarts 
library 
had 
failed 
Hermione 
for 
the 
first 
time 
in 
living 
memory. 
She 
was 
so 
shocked, she even forgot that she was annoyed at Harry for his trick with the bezoar. 


'I 
haven't 
found 
one 
single 
explanation 
of 
what 
Horcruxes 
do!' 
she 
told 
him. 
'Not 
a 
single 
one! 
I've 
been 
right 
through 
the 
restricted 
section 
and 
even 
in 
the 
most 
horrible 
books, 
where 
they 
tell 
you 
how 
to 
brew 
the 
most 
gruesome 
potions 
nothing! 
All 
I 
could 
find 
was 
this, 
in 
the 
introduction 
to 
Magick 
Moste 
Evile 
listen 
"
of 
the 
Horcrux, 
wickedest 
of 
magical 
inventions, 
we 
shall 
not 
speak 
nor 
give 
direction" 
... 
I 
mean, 
why 
mention 
it, 
then?' 
she 
said 
impatiently, 
slamming 
the 
old 
book 
shut; 
it 
let 
out 
a ghostly wail. 'Oh, shut up,' she snapped, stuffing it back into her bag. 

The 
snow 
melted 
around 
the 
school 
as 
February 
arrived, 
to 
be 
replaced 
by 
cold, 
dreary 
wetness. 
Purplishgrey 
clouds 
hung 
low 
over 
the 
castle 
and 
a 
constant 
fall 
of 
chilly 
rain 
made 
the 
lawns 
slippery 
and 
muddy. 
The 
upshot 
of 
this 
was 
that 
the 
sixthyears' 
first 
Apparition 
lesson, 
which 
was 
scheduled 
for 
a 
Saturday morning 
so that 
no normal 
lessons 
would 
be 
missed, 
took 
place 
in 
the 
Great 
Hall 
instead 
of in the grounds. 

When 
Harry 
and 
Hermione 
arrived 
in 
the 
Hall 
(Ron 
had 
come 
down 
with 
Lavender) 
they 
found 
that 
the 
tables 
had 
disappeared. 
Rain 
lashed 
against 
the 
high 
windows 
and 
the 
enchanted 
ceiling 
swirled 
darkly 
above 
them 
as 
they 
assembled 
in 
front 
of 
Professors 
McGonagall, 
Snape, 
Flitwick 
and 
Sprout 
the 
Heads 
of 
House 
and 
a 
small 
wizard 
whom 
Harry 
took 
to 
be 
the 
Apparition 
Instructor 
from 
the 
Ministry. 
He 
was 
oddly 
colourless, 
with 
transparent 
eyelashes, 
wispy 
hair 
and 
an 
insubstantial 
air, 
as 
though 
a 
single 
gust 
of 
wind 
might 
blow 
him 
away. 
Harry 
wondered 
whether 
constant 
disappearances 
and 
reappearances 
had 
somehow 
diminished 
his 
substance, 
or 
whether 
this 
frail 
build 
was 
ideal 
for 
anyone wishing to vanish. 


'Good 
morning,' 
said 
the 
Ministry 
wizard, 
when 
all 
the 
students 
had 
arrived 
and 
the 
Heads 
of 
House 
had 
called 
for 
quiet. 
'My 
name 
is 
Wilkie 
Twycross 
and 
I 
shall 
be 
your 
MinistryApparition 
Instructor 
for the next twelve weeks. 1 hope to be able to prepare you for your Apparition test in this time ' 


'Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!' barked Professor McGonagall. 


Everybody 
looked 
round. 
Malfoy 
had 
flushed 
a 
dull 
pink; 
he 
looked 
furious 
as 
he 
stepped 
away 
from 
Crabbe, 
with 
whom 
he 
appeared 
to 
have 
been 
having 
a 
whispered 
argument. 
Harry 
glanced 
quickly 
at 
Snape, 
who 
also 
looked 
annoyed, 
though 
Harry 
strongly 
suspected 
that 
this 
was 
less 
because 
of 
Malfoy's rudeness than the fact that McGonagall had reprimanded one of his house. 

'by 
which time, many of you may be ready to take your test,' Twycross continued, as though there had 
been no interruption. 


'As 
you 
may 
know, 
it 
is 
usually 
impossible 
to 
Apparate 
or 
Disapparate 
within 
Hogwarts. 
The 
Headmaster 
has 
lifted 
this 
enchantment, 
purely 
within 
the 
Great 
Hall, 
for 
one 
hour, 
so 
as 
to 
enable 
you 
to 
practise. 
May 
I 
emphasise 
that 
you 
will 
not 
be 
able 
to 
Apparate 
outside 
the 
walls 
of 
this 
Hall, 
and 
that you would be unwise to try. 

'I 
would 
like 
each 
of 
you 
to 
place 
yourselves 
now 
so 
that 
you 
have 
a 
clear 
five 
feet 
of 
space 
in 
front 
of 
you.' 

There 
was 
a 
great 
scrambiing 
and 
jostling 
as 
people 
separated, 
banged 
into 
each 
other, 
and 
ordered 
others 
out 
of 
their 
space. 
The 
Heads 
of 
House 
moved 
among 
the 
students, 
marshalling 
them 
into 



position and breaking up arguments. 


'Harry, where are you going? 1 demanded Hermione. 


But 
Harry 
did 
not 
answer; 
he 
was 
moving 
quickly 
through 
the 
crowd, 
past 
the 
place 
where 
Professor 
Flitwick 
was 
making 
squeaky 
attempts 
to 
position 
a 
few 
Ravenclaws, 
all 
of 
whom 
wanted 
to 
be 
near 
the 
front, 
past 
Professor 
Sprout, 
who 
was 
chivvying 
the 
Hufflepuffs 
into 
line, 
until, 
by 
dodging 
around 
Ernie 
Macmillan, 
he 
managed 
to 
position 
himself 
right 
at 
the 
back 
of 
the 
crowd, 
directly 
behind 
Malfoy, 
who 
was 
taking 
advantage 
of 
the 
general 
upheaval 
to 
continue 
his 
argument 
with 
Crabbe, 
standing five feet away and looking mutinous. 


'I 
don't 
know 
how 
much 
longer, 
all 
right?' 
Malfoy 
shot 
at 
him, 
oblivious 
to 
Harry 
standing 
right 
behind 
him. 'It's taking longer than I thought it would.' 


Crabbe opened his mouth, but Malfoy appeared to secondguess 
what he was going to say. 

'Look, it's 
none 
of 
your 
business 
what 
I'm 
doing, 
Crabbe, you and Goyle 
just 
do as 
you're 
told and keep 
a lookout!' 


'! 
tell 
my 
friends 
what 
I'm 
up 
to, 
if 
I 
want 
them 
to 
keep 
a 
lookout 
for 
me," 
Harry 
said, 
just 
loud 
enough 
for Malfoy to hear him. 


Malfoy 
spun 
round 
on 
the 
spot, 
his 
hand 
flying 
to 
his 
wand, 
but 
at 
thai 
precise 
moment 
the 
four 
Heads 
of House shouted, 'Quiet!' and silence fell again. Malfoy turned slowly to face the front. 

Thank you,' said Twycross. :Now then ...' 


He 
waved 
his 
wand. 
Oldfashioned 
wooden 
hoops 
instantly 
appeared 
on 
the 
floor 
in 
from 
of 
every 
student. 


The 
important 
things 
to 
remember 
when 
Apparating 
are 
the 
three 
Ds!' 
said 
Twycross. 
'Destination, 
Determination, Deliberation! 


'Step 
one: 
fix 
your 
mind 
firmly 
upon 
the 
desired 
destination,' 
said 
Twycross. 
'In 
this 
case, 
the 
interior 
of your hoop. Kindly concentrate upon that destination now.' 


Everybody 
looked 
around 
furtively, 
to 
check 
that 
everyone 
else 
was 
staring 
into 
their 
hoop, 
then 
hastily 
did 
as 
they 
were 
told. 
Harry 
gazed 
at 
the 
circular 
patch 
of 
dusty 
floor 
enclosed 
by 
his 
hoop 
and 
tried 
hard 
to 
think 
of 
nothing 
else. 
This 
proved 
impossible, 
as 
he 
couldn't 
stop 
puzzling 
over 
what 
Malfoy was doing that needed lookouts. 


"Step 
two,' 
said 
Twycross, 
'focus 
your 
determination 
to 
occupy 
the 
visualised 
space! 
Let 
your 
yearning 
to enter it flood from your mind to every particle of your body!' 

Harry 
glanced 
around 
surreptitiously. 
A 
little 
way 
to 
his 
left, 
Ernie 
Macmillan 
was 
contemplating 
his 
hoop 
so 
hard 
that 
his 
face 
had 
turned 
pink; 
it 
looked 
as 
though 
he 
was 
straining 
to 
lay 
a 
Quafflesized 
egg. Harry bit back a laugh and hastily returned his gaze to his own hoop. 

'Step 
three,' 
called 
Twycross, 
'and 
only 
when 
1 
give 
the 
command 
... 
lum 
on 
the 
spot, 
feeiing 
your 
way 
into nothingness, moving with 
deliberation 1. On my command, now ... one1 



Harry 
glanced 
around 
again; 
lots 
of 
people 
were 
looking 
positively 
alarmed 
at 
being 
asked 
to 
Apparate 
so quickly. 


Harry tried to fix his thoughts on his hoop again; he had already forgotten what the three Ds stood for. 

: THREE!' 


Harry 
spun 
on 
the 
spot, 
lost 
his 
balance 
and 
nearly 
fell 
over. 
He 
was 
not 
the 
only 
one. 
The 
whole 
Hall 
was 
suddenly 
full 
of 
staggering 
people; 
Neville 
was 
flat 
on 
his 
back; 
Ernie 
Macmillan, 
on 
the 
other 
hand, 
had 
done 
a 
kind 
of 
pirouetting 
leap 
into 
his 
hoop 
and 
looked 
momentarily 
thrilled, 
until 
he 
caught sight of Dean Thomas roaring with laughter at him. 


'Never 
mind, 
never 
mind,' 
said 
Twycross 
dryly, 
who 
did 
not 
seem 
to 
have 
expected 
anything 
better. 
'Adjust your hoops, please, and back to your original positions ...' 

The 
second 
atlem.pt 
was 
no 
better 
than 
the 
first. 
The 
third 
was 
just 
as 
bad. 
Not 
until 
the 
fourth 
did 
anything 
exciting 
happen. 
There 
was 
a 
horrible 
screech 
of 
pain 
and 
everybody 
looked 
around, 
terrified, 
to 
see 
Susan 
Bones 
of 
Hufflepuff 
wobbling 
in 
her 
hoop 
with 
her 
left 
leg 
still 
standing 
five 
feet 
away 
where she had started. 

The 
Heads 
of 
House 
converged 
on 
her; 
there 
was 
a 
great 
bang 
and 
a 
puff 
of 
purple 
smoke, 
which 
cleared to reveal Susan sobbing, reunited with her leg but looking horrified. 

'Sph'nching, 
or 
the 
separation 
of 
random 
body 
parts,' 
said 
Wilkie 
Twycross 
dispassionately, 
'occurs 
when 
the 
mind 
is 
insufficiently 
determined. 
You 
must 
concentrate 
continually 
upon 
your 
destination, 
and move, without hasie, but with deliberation ... thus.' 


Twycross 
stepped 
forwards, 
turned 
gracefully 
on 
the 
spot 
with 
his 
arms 
outstretched 
and 
vanished 
in 
a 
swirl 
of 
robes, 
reappearing 
at 
the 
back 
of 
the 
Hall. 
'Remember 
the 
three 
Ds,' 
he 
said, 
'and 
try 
again 
... 
one two 
three 
' 


But 
an 
hour 
later, 
Susan's 
Splinching 
was 
still 
ihe 
most 
interesting 
thing 
that 
had 
happened. 
Twycross 
did 
not 
seem 
discouraged. 
Fastening 
his 
cloak 
at 
his 
neck, 
he 
merely 
said, 
'Until 
next 
Saturday, 
everybody, and do not forget: 
Destination. Determination. 
Deliberation.' 


With 
that, 
he 
waved 
his 
wand, 
Vanishing 
the 
hoops, 
and 
walked 
out 
of 
the 
Hall 
accompanied 
by 
Professor McGonagall. Talk broke out at once as people began moving towards the Entrance Hall. 


'How 
did 
you 
do?' 
asked 
Ron, 
hurrying 
towards 
Harry. 
'1 
think 
1 
felt 
something 
the 
last 
time 
I 
tried 
a 
kind of tingling in my feet.' 


'1 
expect 
your 
trainers 
are 
too 
small, 
WonWon,' 
said 
a 
voice 
behind 
them, 
and 
Hermione 
stalked 
past, 
smirking. 


'1 didn't feel anything,' said Harry, ignoring this interruption. "But 1 don't care about that now' 


'What d'you mean, you don't care ... don't you want to leam to Apparate?' said Ron incredulously. 


'I'm 
not 
fussed, 
really. 
I 
prefer 
flying,' 
said 
Harry, 
glancing 
over 
his 
shoulder 
to 
see 
where 
Malfoy 
was, 
and 
speeding 
up 
as 
they 
came 
into 
the 
Entrance 
Hall. 
'Look, 
hurry 
up, 
will 
you, 
there's 
something 
I 



want to do ...' 


Perplexed, 
Ron 
followed 
Harry 
back 
to 
Gryffindor 
Tower 
at 
a 
run. 
They 
were 
temporarily 
detained 
by 
Peeves, 
who 
had 
jammed 
a 
door 
on 
the 
fourth 
floor 
shut 
and 
was 
refusing 
to 
let 
anyone 
pass 
until 
they 
set 
fire 
to 
their 
own 
pants, 
but 
Harry 
and 
Ron 
simply 
turned 
back 
and 
took 
one 
of 
their 
trusted 
short 
cuts. Within five minutes, they were climbing through the portrait hole. 

'Are you going to tell me what we're doing, then?' asked Ron, panting slightly. 


'Up 
here,' 
said 
Harry, 
and 
he 
crossed 
the 
common 
room 
and 
led 
the 
way 
through 
the 
door 
to 
the 
boys' 
staircase. 

Their 
dormitory 
was, 
as 
Ham' 
had 
hoped, 
empty. 
He 
flung 
open 
his 
trunk 
and 
began 
to 
rummage 
in 
it, 
while Ron watched impatiently. 


'Harry ...' 


'Malfoy's 
using 
Crabbe 
and 
Goyle 
as 
lookouts. 
He 
was 
arguing 
with 
Crabbe 
just 
now. 
1 
want 
to 
know ... aha.' 


He 
had 
found 
it, 
a 
folded 
square 
of 
apparently 
blank 
parchment, 
which 
he 
now 
smoothed 
out 
and 
tapped with [he tip of his wand. 

'I solemn!)' 
swear that I am up to no good ... or Malfoy is, 


At 
once, 
the 
Marauder's 
Map 
appeared 
on 
the 
parchment's 
surface. 
Here 
was 
a 
detailed 
plan 
of 
every 
one 
of 
the 
castle's 
floors 
and, 
moving 
around 
it, 
the 
tiny, 
labelled 
black 
dots 
that 
signified 
each 
of 
the 
castle's occupants. 


'Help me find Malfoy,' said Harry urgently. 


He laid the map upon his bed and he and Ron leaned over it, searching. 


'There!' 
said Ron, after a minute or so. 'He's in the Slytherin common room, look ... with Parkinson and 
Zabini and Crabbe and Goyle ..." 


Harry looked down at the map, disappointed, but rallied almost at once. 

'Well, 
I'm 
keeping 
an 
eye 
on 
him 
from 
now 
on,' 
he 
said 
firmly. 
'And 
the 
moment 
1 
see 
him 
lurking 
somewhere 
with 
Crabbe 
and 
Goyle 
keeping 
watch 
outside, 
it'll 
be 
on 
with 
the 
old 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
and off to find out what he's' 


He 
broke 
off 
as 
Neville 
entered the 
dormitory, 
bringing 
with him 
a 
strong smell 
of singed material, and 
began rummaging in his trunk for a fresh pair of pants. 


Despite 
his 
determination 
10 
catch 
Malfoy 
out, 
Harry 
had 
no 
luck 
at 
all 
over 
the 
next 
couple 
of 
weeks. 
Although 
he 
consulted 
the 
map 
as 
often 
as 
he 
could, 
sometimes 
making 
unnecessary 
visits 
to 
the 
bathroom 
between 
lessons 
to 
search 
it, 
he 
did 
not 
once 
see 
Malfoy 
anywhere 
suspicious. 
Admittedly, 
he 
spotted 
Crabbe 
and 
Goyle 
moving 
around 
the 
castle 
on 
their 
own 
more 
often 
than 
usual, 
sometimes 
remaining 
stationary 
in 
deserted 
corridors, 
but 
at 
these 
times 
Malfoy 
was 
not 
only 
nowhere 
near 
them, 



but 
impossible 
to 
locate 
on 
the 
map 
at 
all. 
This 
was 
most 
mysterious. 
Harry 
toyed 
with 
the 
possibility 
that 
Malfoy 
was 
actually 
leaving 
the 
school 
grounds, 
but 
could 
not 
see 
how 
he 
could 
be 
doing 
it, 
given 
the 
very 
high 
leve! 
of 
security 
now 
operating 
within 
the 
castle. 
He 
could 
only 
suppose 
ihat 
he 
was 
missing 
Malfoy 
amongst 
the 
hundreds 
of 
tiny 
black 
dots 
upon 
the 
map. 
As 
for 
the 
fact 
that 
Malfoy, 
Crabbe 
and 
Goyle 
appeared 
to 
be 
going 
their 
different 
ways 
when 
they 
were 
usually 
inseparable, 
these 
things happened as people got older Ron 
and Hermione, Harry reflected sadly, were living proof. 

February 
moved 
towards 
March 
with 
no 
change 
in 
the 
weather 
except 
that 
it 
became 
windy 
as 
well 
as 
wet. 
To 
general 
indignation, 
a 
sign 
went 
up 
on 
all 
commonroom 
noticeboards 
that 
the 
next 
trip 
into 
Hogsmeade had been cancelled. Ron was furious. 


'It was on my birthday!' he said, 'i was looking forward to that!' 


'Not a big surprise, though, is it?' said Harry. 'Not after what happened to Katie.' 

She 
had 
still 
not 
returned 
from 
Si 
Mungo's. 
What 
was 
more, 
further 
disappearances 
had 
been 
reported 
in the 
Daily Prophet, 
including several relatives of students at Hogwarts. 


'But now all I've got to look forward to is stupid Apparition!' said Ron grumpily. 'Big birthday treat ...' 


Three lessons on, Apparition was proving as difficult as 


ever, 
though 
a 
few 
more 
people 
had 
managed 
to 
Splinch 
themselves. 
Frustration 
was 
running 
high 
and 
there was a certain amount of illfeeling 
towards Wilkie Twycross and his three Ds, which had inspired 
a number of nicknames for him, the politest of which were Dogbreath 
and Dunghead. 


'Happy 
birthday, 
Ron,' 
said 
Harry, 
when 
they 
were 
woken 
on 
the 
first 
of 
March 
by 
Seamus 
and 
Dean 
leaving noisily for breakfast. 'Have a present.' 


He 
threw 
the 
package 
across 
on 
to 
Ron's 
bed, 
where 
it 
joined 
a 
small 
pile 
of 
them 
that 
must, 
Harry 
assumed, have been delivered by houseelves 
in the night. 


'Cheers,' 
said 
Ron 
drowsily, 
and 
as 
he 
ripped 
off 
the 
paper 
Harry 
got 
out 
of 
bed, 
opened 
his 
own 
crunk 
and began rummaging in it for the Marauder's Map, which he hid after every use. He turfed out half the 
contents 
of 
his 
trunk 
before 
he 
found 
it 
hiding 
beneath 
the 
rolledup 
socks 
in 
which 
he 
was 
still 
keeping his bottle of lucky potion, Felix Felicis. 


'Right,' 
he 
murmured, 
taking 
it 
back 
to 
bed 
with 
him, 
tapping 
it 
quietly 
and 
murmuring, 
'I 
solemnly 
swear 
that 
I 
am 
up 
to 
no 
good,' 
so 
that 
Neville, 
who 
was 
passing 
the 
foot 
of 
his 
bed 
at 
the 
time, 
would 
not hear. 

'Nice 
one, 
Harry!' 
said 
Ron 
enthusiastically, 
waving 
the 
new 
pair 
of 
Quidditch 
Keeper's 
gloves 
Harry 
had given him. 


'No 
problem,' 
said 
Harry 
absentmindedly, 
as 
he 
searched 
the 
Slytherin 
dormitory 
closely 
for 
Malfoy. 
'Hey ... I don't think he's in his bed ...' 


Ron 
did 
not 
answer; 
he 
was 
too 
busy 
unwrapping 
presents, 
every 
now 
and 
then 
letting 
out 
an 
exclamation of pleasure. 


'Seriously 
good haul 
this 
year!' 
he 
announced, holding 
up a 
heavy gold 
watch with 
odd symbols 
around 
the 
edge 
and 
tiny 
moving 
stars 
instead 
of 
hands. 
'See 
what 
Mum 
and 
Dad 
got 
me? 
Blimey, 
I 
think 
I'll 
come of age next year too ... 


'Cool,' 
muttered 
Harry, 
sparing 
the 
watch 
a 
glance 
before 
peering 
more 
closely 
at 
the 
map. 
Where 
was 
Malfoy? 
He 
did 
not 
seem 
to 
be 
at 
the 
Slytherin 
table 
in 
the 
Great 
Hall, 
eating 
breakfast 
... 
he 
was 
nowhere 
near 
Snape, 
who 
was 
sitting 
in 
his 
study 
... 
he 
wasn't 
in 
any 
of 
the 
bathrooms 
or 
in 
the 
hospital wing ... 


'Want one? 1 said Ron thickly, holding out a box of Chocolate Cauldrons. 
'No thanks,' said Harry, looking up. 'Malfoy's gone again!' 
'Can't 
have 
done,' 
said 
Ron, 
stuffing 
a 
second 
Cauldron 
into 
his 
mouth 
as 
he 
slid 
out 
of 
bed 
to 
get 


dressed. 'Come 
on. if 
you don't 
hurry up you'll 
have 
to Apparate 
on an emptystomach 
... might 
make 
it 


easier, 1 suppose ..." 
Ron 
looked 
thoughtfully 
ai 
the 
box 
of 
Chocolate 
Cauldrons, 
then 
shrugged 
and 
helped 
himself 
to 
a 
third. 


Harry 
tapped 
the 
map 
with 
his 
wand, 
muttered, 
'Mischief 
managed,' 
though 
it 
hadn't 
been, 
and 
got 
dressed, 
thinking 
hard. 
There 
had 
to 
be 
an 
explanation 
for 
Malfoy's 
periodic 
disappearances, 
but 
he 
simply 
could 
not 
think 
what 
it 
could 
be. 
The 
best 
way 
of 
finding 
out 
would 
be 
to 
tail 
him, 
bur 
even 
with 
the 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
this 
was 
an 
impractical 
idea; 
he 
had 
lessons, 
Quidditch 
practice, 
homework 
and 
Apparition; 
he 
could 
not 
follow 
Malfoy 
around 
school 
all 
day 
wilhout 
his 
absence 
being 
remarked 
upon, 


'Ready?' he said to Ron. 


He 
was 
halfway 
to 
the 
dormitory 
door 
when 
he 
realised 
that 
Ron 
had 
not 
moved, 
but 
was 
leaning 
on 
his bedpost, staring out of the rainwashed 
window with a strangely unfocused look on his face. 
'Ron? Breakfast.' 
'I'm not hungry,' 
Harry stared ai him. 
'I thought you just said ?' 
Well, 
all right, I'll come down with you,' sighed Ron, 'but I don't want to eat.' 
Harry scrutinised him suspiciously. 
'You've just eaten half a box of Chocolate Cauldrons, haven't you?' 
'It's not that,' Ron sighed again. 'You ... you wouldn't understand.' 
'Fair enough,' said Harry, albeit puzzled, as he turned to open the door. 
'Harry!' said Ron suddenly. 



'What?' 
'Harry, I can't stand it!' 
'You 
can't 
stand 
what?' 
asked 
Harry, 
now 
starling 
to 
feel 
definitely 
alarmed. 
Ron 
was 
rather 
pale 
and 


looked as though he was about to be sick. 
'I can't stop thinking about her!' said Ron hoarsely. 
Harry gaped at 
him. 
He 
had not 
expected this 
and was 
not 
sure 
he 
wanted to 
hear 
it. 
Friends 
they might 


be, but if Ron started calling Lavender 'LavLav', 
he would have to pui his foot down. 


'Why 
does 
that 
stop 
you 
having 
breakfast?' 
Harry 
asked, 
trying 
to 
inject 
a 
note 
of 
common 
sense 
into 
the proceedings. 
'I don't think she knows I exist,' said Ron with a desperate gesture. 
'She definitely knows you exist,' said Harry, bewildered. 'She keeps snogging you, doesn't she?' 
Ron blinked. 
'Who are you talking about?' 
Who 
are 
you 
talking 
about?' 
said 
Harry, 
with 
an 
increasing 
sense 
that 
all 
reason 
had 
dropped 
out 
of 
the 


conversation. 
'Romilda 
Vane,' 
said 
Ron 
softly, 
and 
his 
whole 
face 
seemed 
to 
illuminate 
as 
he 
said 
it, 
as 
though 
hit 
by 


a 
ray 
of 
purest 
sunlight. 
They 
stared 
at 
each 
other 
for 
almost 
a 
whole 
minute, 
before 
Harry 
said, 
'This 
is a joke, right? You're joking.' 
T think ... Harry, 1 ihink I love her,' said Ron in a strangled voice. 
'OK,' 
said 
Harry, 
walking 
up 
to 
Ron 
10 
get 
a 
better 
look 
at 
the 
glazed 
eyes 
and 
the 
pallid 
complexion, 


'OK ... say that again with a straight face.' 


'I 
love 
her,' 
repeated 
Ron 
breathlessly. 
'Have 
you 
seen 
her 
hair, 
it's 
all 
black 
and 
shiny 
and 
silky 
... 
and 
her eyes? Her big dark eyes? And her ' 
'This is really funny and everything,' said Harry impatiently, 'but joke's over, all right? Drop it.' 
He 
turned 
to 
leave; 
he 
had 
got 
two 
steps 
towards 
the 
door 
when 
a 
crashing 
blow 
hit 
him 
on 
the 
right 


ear. 
Staggering, 
he 
looked 
round. 
Ron's 
fist 
was 
drawn 
right 
back, 
his 
face 
was 
contorted 
with 
rage; 
he 


was about to strike again. 
Harry 
reacted 
instinctively; 
his 
wand 
was 
out 
of 
his 
pocket 
and 
the 
incantation 
sprang 
to 
mind 
without 
conscious thought: 
Le\icorpus! 


Ron 
yelled 
as 
his 
heel 
was 
wrenched 
upwards 
once 
more; 
he 
dangled 
helplessly, 
upsidedown, 
his 
robes hanging off him. 
'What was 
that for?' 
Harry bellowed. 
'You 
insulted 
her, 
Harry! 
You 
said 
it 
was 
a 
joke!' 
shouted 
Ron, 
who 
was 
slowly 
turning 
purple 
in 
the 



face as all the blood rushed to his head. 
'This is insane!' said Harry. 'What's got into ?' 
And 
then 
he 
saw 
the 
box 
lying 
open 
on 
Ron's 
bed 
and 
the 
truth 
hit 
him 
with 
the 
force 
of 
a 
stampeding 


troll. 
'Where did you get those Chocolate Cauldrons?' 
'They 
were 
a 
birthday 
present!' 
shouted 
Ron, 
revolving 
slowly 
in 
midair 
as 
he 
struggled 
to 
get 
free. 
'1 


offered you one, didn't 1?' 
'You just picked them up off the floor, didn't you?' 
'They'd fallen off my bed, all right? Let me go!' 
'They 
didn't 
fall 
off 
your 
bed, 
you 
prat, 
don't 
you 
understand? 
They 
were 
mine, 
1 
chucked 
them 
out 
of 


my 
trunk 
when 
1 
was 
looking 
for 
the 
map. 
They're 
the 
Chocolate 
Cauldrons 
Romilda 
gave 
me 
before 
Christmas and they're all spiked with love potion!' 
But only one word of this seemed to have registered with Ron. 


'Romilda?' he repeated. 'Did you say Romilda? Harry do 
you know her? Can you introduce me?' 
Harry 
stared 
at 
the 
dangling 
Ron, 
whose 
face 
now 
looked 
tremendously 
hopeful, 
and 
fought 
a 
strong 
desire to laugh. A part of him the 
part closest to his throbbing right ear was 
quite keen on the idea of 
letting 
Ron 
down 
and 
watching 
him 
run 
amok 
until 
the 
effects 
of 
the 
potion 
wore 
off 
... 
but 
on 
the 
other 
hand, 
they 
were 
supposed 
to 
be 
friends, 
Ron 
had 
not 
been 
himself 
when 
he 
had 
attacked, 
and 
Harrythought 
that 
he 
would 
deserve 
another 
punching 
if 
he 
permitted 
Ron to 
declare 
undying love 
for 
Romilda Vane. 


'Yeah, I'll introduce you,' said Harry, thinking fast. 'I'm going to let you down now, OK?' 


He 
sent 
Ron 
crashing 
back 
to 
the 
floor 
(his 
ear 
did 
hurt 
quite 
a 
lot), 
but 
Ron 
simply 
bounded 
to 
his 
feet 
again, grinning. 
'She'll be in Slughorn's office, 1 said Harry confidently, leading the way to the door. 
'Why will she be in there?' asked Ron anxiously, hurrying to keep up. 
'Oh, she has extra Potions lessons with him,' said Harry, inventing wildly. 
'Maybe 1 could ask if 1 can have them with her?' said Ron eagerly. 
'Great 
idea,' 
said 
Harry. 
Lavender 
was 
waiting 
beside 
the 
portrait 
hole, 
a 
complication 
Harry 
had 
not 


foreseen. 
'You're lace, WonWon!' 
she pouted. 'I've got you a birthday' 
'Leave me alone,' said Ron impatiently, 'Harry's going to introduce me to Romilda Vane.' 
And 
without 
another 
word 
to 
her, 
he 
pushed 
his 
way 
oui 
of 
the 
portrait 
hole. 
Harry 
tried 
to 
make 
an 


apologetic 
face 
to 
Lavender, 
but 
it 
might 
have 
turned 
out 
simply 
amused, 
because 
she 
looked 
more 



offended than ever as the Fat Lady swung shut behind them. 


Harry 
had 
been 
slightly 
worried 
that 
Slughorn 
might 
be 
at 
breakfast, 
but 
he 
answered 
his 
office 
door 
at 
the 
first 
knock, 
wearing 
a 
green 
velvet 
dressinggown 
and 
matching 
nightcap 
and 
looking 
rather 
blearyeyed. 


'Harry,' he mumbled. 'This is very early for a call ... I generally sleep late on a Saturday ..." 


'Professor, 
I'm 
really 
sorry 
to 
disturb 
you,' 
said 
Harry 
as 
quietly 
as 
possible, 
while 
Ron 
stood 
on 
tiptoe, 
attempting 
to 
see 
past 
Slughorn 
into 
his 
room, 
'but 
my 
friend 
Ron's 
swallowed 
a 
love 
potion 
by 
mistake. 
You 
couldn't 
make 
him 
an 
antidote, 
could 
you? 
I'd 
take 
him 
to 
Madam 
Pomfrey, 
but 
we're 
not 
supposed to have anything from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and, you know ... awkward questions ...' 


Td have 
thought 
you could have 
whipped him 
up a 
remedy, Harry, an expert 
potioneer 
like 
you?' 
asked 
Slughorn. 
'Er,' 
said 
Harry, 
somewhat 
distracted 
by 
the 
fact 
that 
Ron 
was 
now 
elbowing 
him 
in 
the 
ribs 
in 
an 
attempt 
to 
force 
his 
way 
into 
the 
room, 
'well, 
I've 
never 
mixed 
an 
antidote 
for 
a 
love 
potion, 
sir, 
and by the time I get it right Ron might've done something serious ' 


Helpfully, Ron chose this moment to moan, 'I can't see her. Harry is 
he hiding her?' 

'Was 
this 
potion 
within 
date?' 
asked 
Slughorn, 
now 
eyeing 
Ron 
with 
professional 
interest. 
'They 
can 
strengthen, you know, the longer they're kept.' 


That 
would 
explain 
a 
lot,' 
panted 
Harry, 
now 
positively 
wrestling 
with 
Ron 
to 
keep 
him 
from 
knocking 
Slughorn over. 'It's his birthday, Professor,' he added imploringly. 


'Oh, 
all 
right, 
come 
in, 
then, 
come 
in,' 
said 
Slughorn, 
relenting. 
'I've 
got 
the 
necessary 
here 
in 
my 
bag, 
it's not a difficult antidote ...' 


Ron 
burst 
through 
the 
door 
into 
Slughorn's 
overheated, 
crowded 
study, 
tripped 
over 
a 
tasselled 
footstool, 
regained 
his 
balance 
by 
seizing 
Harry 
around 
the 
neck 
and 
muttered, 
'She 
didn't 
see 
that, 
did 
she?' 


'She's 
not 
here 
yet,' 
said 
Harry, 
watching 
Slughorn 
opening 
his 
potion 
kit 
and 
adding 
a 
few 
pinches 
of 
this and that to a small crystal bottle. 

That's good,' said Ron fervently. 'How do I look?' 


'Very 
handsome,' 
said 
Slughorn 
smoothly, 
handing 
Ron 
a 
glass 
of 
clear 
liquid. 
'Now 
drink 
that 
up, 
it's 
a tonic for the nerves, keep you calm when she arrives, you know,' 

'Brilliant,' said Ron eagerly, and he gulped the antidote down noisily. 


Harry 
and 
Slughorn 
watched 
him. 
For 
a 
moment, 
Ron 
beamed 
at 
them. 
Then, 
very 
slowly, 
his 
grin 
sagged and vanished, to be replaced by an expression of utmost horror. 

'Back to normal, then?' said Harry, grinning. Slughorn chuckled. Thanks a lot, Professor.' 


'Don't 
mention 
it, 
m'boy, 
don't 
mention 
it,' 
said 
Slughorn, 
as 
Ron 
collapsed 
into 
a 
nearby 
armchair, 
looking 
devastated. 
'Pickmeup, 
that's 
what 
he 
needs,' 
Slughorn 
continued, 
nowbustling 
over 
to 
a 



table 
loaded 
with 
drinks. 
'I've 
got 
Butterbeer, 
I've 
got 
wine, 
I've 
got 
one 
last 
bottle 
of 
this 
oakmatured 
mead ... hmm ... meant to give that to Dumbledore for 


Christmas 
... 
ah 
well 
...' 
he 
shrugged 
'... 
he 
can't 
miss 
what 
he's 
never 
had! 
Why 
don't 
we 
open 
it 
now 
and 
celebrate 
Mr 
Weasley's 
birthday? 
Nothing 
like 
a 
fine 
spirit 
to 
chase 
away 
the 
pangs 
of 
disappointed love ...' 


He 
chortled 
again 
and 
Harry 
joined 
in. 
This 
was 
the 
firsi 
time 
he 
had 
found 
himself 
almost 
alone 
with 
Slughorn 
since 
his 
disastrous 
first 
attempt 
to 
extract 
the 
true 
memory 
from 
him. 
Perhaps, 
if 
he 
could 
just keep Slughorn in a good mood ... perhaps if they got through enough of the oakmatured 
mead ... 


There 
you 
are, 
then,' 
said 
Slughorn, 
handing 
Harry 
and 
Ron 
a 
glass 
of 
mead 
each, 
before 
raising 
his 
own. 'Well, a very happy birthday, Ralph ' 


'Ron 
' 
whispered Harry. 
But 
Ron, 
who 
did 
not 
appear 
to 
be 
listening 
to 
the 
toast, 
had 
already 
thrown 
the 
mead 
into 
his 
mouth 
and swallowed it. 


There 
was 
one 
second, 
hardly 
more 
than 
a 
heartbeat, 
in 
which 
Harry 
knew 
there 
was 
something 
terribly wrong and Slughorn, it seemed, did not. 
'and 
may you have many more 


'Ron!' 


Ron 
had 
dropped 
his 
glass; 
he 
halfrose 
from 
his 
chair 
and 
then 
crumpled, 
his 
extremities 
jerking 
uncontrollably. Foam was dribbling from his mouth and his eyes were bulging from their sockets. 
'Professor!' Harry bellowed. 'Do something]' 
But Slughorn seemed paralysed by shock. Ron twitched and choked: his skin was turning blue. 


'What but 
' 
spluttered Slughorn. 
Harry 
leapt 
over 
a 
low 
table 
and 
sprinted 
towards 
Slughorn's 
open 
potion 
kit, 
pulling 
out 
jars 
and 
pouches, while the terrible sound of Ron's gargling breath filled the room. Then 


he found it the 
shrivelled kidneylike 
stone 
Slughorn had taken from him in Potions. 
He 
hurtled 
back 
to 
Ron's 
side, 
wrenched 
open 
his 
jaw 
and 
thrust 
the 
bezoar 
into 
his 
mouth. 
Ron 
gave 
a 
great shudder, a rattling gasp and his body became limp and still. 



Chapter 19 
Elf Tails 



So, all in all, not one of Ron's better birthdays?" said Fred. 


It 
was 
evening; 
the 
hospital 
wing 
was 
quiet, 
the 
windows 
curtained, 
the 
lamps 
lit. 
Ron's 
was 
the 
only 
occupied 
bed. 
Harry, 
Hermione, 
and 
Ginny 
were 
sitting 
around 
him; 
they 
had 
spent 
all 
day 
waiting 
outside 
the 
double 
doors, 
trying 
to 
see 
inside 
whenever 
somebody 
went 
in 
or 
out. 
Madam 
Pomfrey 
had 
only let them enter at eight o'clock. Fred and George had arrived at ten past. 


"This 
isn't 
how 
we 
imagined 
handing 
over 
our 
present," 
said 
George 
grimly, 
putting 
down 
a 
large 
wrapped gift on Ron's bedside cabinet and sitting beside Ginny. 


"Yeah, when we pictured the scene, he was conscious," said Fred. 


"There we were in Hogsmeade, waiting to surprise him —" said George. 


"You were in Hogsmeade?" asked Ginny, looking up. 


"We were thinking of buying Zonko's," said Fred gloomily. "A Hogsmeade branch, you know, but a fat 
lot 
of 
good 
it'll 
do 
us 
if 
you 
lot 
aren't 
allowed 
out 
at 
weekends 
to 
buy 
our 
stuff 
anymon 
... 
But 
never 
mind that now." 


He drew up a chair beside Harry and looked at Ron's pale face. 


"How exactly did it happen, Harry?" 


Harry 
retold 
the 
story 
he 
had 
already 
recounted, 
it 
felt 
like 
a 
hundred 
times 
to 
Dumbledore, 
to 
McGonagall, to Madam Pomfrey, to Hermione, and to Ginny. 


". 
. 
. 
and 
then 
I 
got 
the 
bezoar 
down 
his 
throat 
and 
his 
breathing 
eased 
up 
a 
bit, 
Slughorn 
ran 
for 
help, 
McGonagall 
and 
Madam 
Pomfrey 
turned 
up, 
and 
they 
brought 
Ron 
up 
here. 
They 
reckon 
he'll 
be 
all 
right. Madam Pomfrey says he'll have to stay here a week or so ... keep taking essence of rue . . ." 


"Blimey, it was lucky you thought of a bezoar," said George in a low voice. 


"Lucky 
there 
was 
one 
in 
the 
room," 
said 
Harry, 
who 
kept 
turning 
cold 
at 
the 
thought 
of 
what 
would 
have happened if he had not been able to lay hands on the little stone. 


Hermione 
gave 
an 
almost 
inaudible 
sniff. 
She 
had 
been 
exceptionally 
quiet 
all 
day. 
Having 
hurtled, 
whitefaced, 
up to Harry outside the hospital wing and demanded to know what had happened., she had 
taken 
almost 
no 
part 
in 
Harry 
and 
Ginny's 
obsessive 
discussion 
about 
how 
Ron 
had 
been 
poisoned, 
but 
merely 
stood 
beside 
them, 
clenchjawed 
and 
frightenedlooking, 
until 
ai 
last 
they 
had 
been 
allowed 
in 
to see him. 



"Do 
Mum 
and 
Dad 
know?" 
Fred 
asked 
Ginny. 
"They've 
already 
seen 
him, 
they 
arrived 
an 
hour 
ago 
— 
they're in Dumbledore's office now, but they'll be back soon. . . ." 


There was a pause while they all watched Ron mumble a little in his sleep. 


"So the poison was in the drink?" said Fred quietly. 


"Yes," 
said 
Harry 
at 
once; 
he 
could 
think 
of 
nothing 
else 
and 
was 
glad 
for 
the 
opportunity 
to 
start 
discussing it again. "Slughorn poured it out —" 


"Would he have been able to slip something into Ron's glass without you seeing?" 


"Probably," said Harry, "but why would Slughorn want to poison Ron?" 


"No 
idea," 
said 
Fred, 
frowning. 
"You 
don't 
think 
he 
could 
have 
mixed 
up 
the 
glasses 
by 
mistake? 
Meaning to get you?" 


"Why 
would 
Slughorn 
want 
to 
poison 
Harry?" 
asked 
Ginny. 
"I 
dunno," 
said 
Fred, 
"but 
there 
must 
be 
loads 
of 
people 
who'd 
like 
to 
poison 
Harry, 
mustn't 
there? 
'The 
Chosen 
One' 
and 
all 
that?" 
"So 
you 
think Slughorn's a Death Eater?" said Ginny. :, 


"Anything's 
possible," 
said 
Fred 
darkly. 
"He 
could 
be 
under 
the 
Imperius 
Curse," 
said 
George. 
"Or 
he 
could 
be 
innocent," 
said 
Ginny. 
"The 
poison 
could 
have 
been 
in 
the 
bottle, 
in 
which 
case 
it 
was 
probably meant for Slughorn himself." 


"Who'd want to kill Slughorn?" 


"Dumbledore 
reckons 
Voldemort 
wanted 
Slughorn 
on 
his 
side," 
said 
Harry. 
"Slughorn 
was 
in 
hiding 
for 
a 
year 
before 
he 
came 
to 
Hogwarts. 
And 
. 
. 
." 
He 
thought 
of 
the 
memory 
Dumbledore 
had 
not 
yet 
been 
able 
to 
extract 
from 
Slughorn. 
"And 
maybe 
Voldemort 
wants 
him 
out 
of 
the 
way, 
maybe 
he 
thinks he could be valuable to Dumbledore." 


"But 
you 
said 
Slughorn 
had 
been 
planning 
to 
give 
th.u 
Untie 
to 
Dumbledore 
for 
Christmas," 
Ginny 
reminded him. "So the poisoner could just as easily have been after Dumbledore." 


"Then 
the 
poisoner 
didn't 
know 
Slughorn 
very 
well," 
said 
Hermione, 
speaking 
for 
the 
first 
time 
in 
hours 
and 
sounding 
as 
though 
she 
had 
a 
bad 
head 
cold. 
"Anyone 
who 
knew 
Slughorn 
would 
have 
I 
known there was a good chance he'd keep something that tasty for himself." I 


"Ermynee," 
croaked Ron unexpectedly from between them 


They 
all 
fell 
silent, 
watching 
him 
anxiously, 
but 
after 
muttering 
incomprehensibly 
for 
a 
moment 
he 
merely started snoring. 


The 
dormitory 
doors 
flew 
open, 
making 
them 
all 
jump: 
Hagrid 
came 
striding 
toward 
them, 
his 
hair 
rainflecked, 
his 
bearskin 
coat 
flapping 
behind 
him, 
a 
crossbow 
in 
his 
hand, 
leaving 
a 
trail 
of 
muddy 
dolphinsized 
footprints all over the floor. 


"Bin 
in 
the 
forest 
all 
day!" 
he 
panted. 
"Aragog's 
worse, 
I 
bin 
readin' 
to 
him 
— 
didn' 
get 
up 
ter 
dinner 
till jus' now an' then Professor Sprout told me abou' Ron! How is he?" 



"Not bad," said Harry. "They say he'll be okay." 


"No more than six visitors at a time!" said Madam Pomfrey, hurrying out of her office. 


"Hagrid makes six," George pointed out. 


"Oh . . . yes. .." 
said 
Madam 
Pomfrey, who seemed to have 
been counting 
Hagrid 
as 
several 
people 
due 
to 
his 
vastness. 
To 
cover 
her 
confusion, 
she 
hurried 
off 
to 
clear 
up 
his 
muddy 
foot 
prints 
with 
her 
wand. 


"I 
don' 
believe 
this," 
said 
Hagrid 
hoarsely, 
shaking 
his 
great 
shaggy 
head 
as 
he 
stared 
down 
at 
Ron. 
"Jus' don' believe it... Look at him lyin' there. . . . Who'd want ter hurt him, eh?" 


"That's just what we were discussing," said Harry. "We don't know." 


"Someone 
couldn’ 
have 
a 
grudge 
against 
the 
Gryfinndor 
Quidditch 
team, 
could 
they?" 
said 
Hagrid 
anxiously. "Firs' Katie, now Ron . . ." 


"I cant see anyone trying to bump off a Quidditch team," said 


I m urge. 


Wood might've done the Slytherins if he could've got away with it," said Fred fairly. 


Well, 
I 
don't 
think 
it's 
Quidditch, 
but 
I 
think 
there's 
a 
connection 
between 
the 
attacks," 
said 
Hermione 
quietly 


"How d'you work that out?" asked Fred. 


"Well, 
for 
one 
thing, 
they 
both 
ought 
to 
have 
been 
fatal 
and 
weren't, 
although 
that 
was 
pure 
luck. 
And 
for 
another, 
neither 
the 
poison 
nor 
the 
necklace 
seems 
to 
have 
reached 
the 
person 
who 
was 
(supposed 
to 
be 
killed. 
Of 
course," 
she 
added 
broodingly, 
"that 
makes 
the 
person 
behind 
this 
even 
more 
dangerous 
in 
a 
way, 
because 
they 
don't 
seem 
to 
care 
how 
many 
people 
they 
finish 
off 
In 
lore 
they 
actually reach their victim." 


Before 
anybody 
could 
respond 
to 
this 
ominous 
pronouncement, 
tindormitory 
doors 
opened 
again 
and 
Mr. 
and 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
hurried 
up 
the 
ward. 
They 
had 
done 
no 
more 
than 
satisfy 
themselves 
that 
Ron 
would 
make 
a 
full 
recovery 
on 
their 
last 
visit 
to 
the 
ward; 
now 
Mrs. 
Weasley 
seized 
hold 
of 
Harry 
and 
hugged 
him 
very 
tighty. 
"Dumbledore's 
told 
us 
how 
you 
saved 
him 
with 
the 
bezoar," 
she 
sobbed. 
"Oh, 
Harry, what can we say? You saved Ginny . . . you saved Arthur , . . now you've saved Ron 


"Don't 
be 
... I didn't. 
. ." 
muttered Harry awkwardly. "Half 
our 
family 
does 
seem 
to 
owe 
you their 
lives, 
now 
I 
stop 
and 
think 
about 
it," 
Mr. 
Weasley 
said 
in 
a 
constricted 
voice. 
"Well, 
all 
I 
can 
say 
is 
that 
it 
was 
a 
lucky 
clay 
for 
the 
Weasleys 
when 
Ron 
decided 
to 
sit 
in 
your 
compartment 
on 
the 
Hogwarts 
Expirv., Harry." 


Harry 
could 
not 
think 
of 
any 
reply 
to 
this 
and 
was 
almost 
gl.i«l 
when 
Madam 
Pomfrey 
reminded 
them 
that 
there 
were 
only 
supposed 
to 
be 
six 
visitors 
around 
Ron's 
bed; 
he 
and 
Hermione 
rose 
.h 
once 
to 
leave and Hagrid decided to go with them, leaving Ron with his family. 



"It's 
terrible," 
growled 
Hagrid 
into 
his 
beard, 
as 
the 
three 
ol 
them 
walked 
back 
along 
the 
corridor 
to 
the 
marble 
staircase. "Ml 
this 
new 
security, 
an kids 
are 
still 
gettin' 
hurt. 
. . . Dumbledoiv's 
worried sick. . . . 
He don say much, but I can tell. . . ." 


"Hasn't he got any ideas, Hagrid?" asked Hermione desperately. 


"I 
spect 
he's 
got 
hundreds 
of 
ideas, 
brain 
like 
his," 
said 
Hagrid. 
"But 
he 
doesn' 
know 
who 
sent 
that 
necklace 
nor 
put 
poison 
in 
that 
wine, 
or 
they'dve 
bin 
caught, 
wouldn 
they? 
Wha' 
worries 
me," 
said 
Hagrid, 
lowering 
his 
voice 
and 
glancing 
over 
his 
shoulder 
(Harry, 
for 
good 
measure, 
checked 
the 
ceiling 
for 
Peeves), 
"is 
how 
long 
Hogwarts 
can 
stay 
open 
if 
kids 
are 
bein' 
attacked. 
Chamber 
o' 
Secrets 
all 
over 
again, 
isn' 
it? 
There'll 
be 
panic, 
more 
parents 
takin 
their 
kids 
outta 
school, 
an 
nex' 
thing 
yeh 
know the board o' governors ..." 


Hagrid 
stopped 
talking 
as 
the 
ghost 
of 
a 
longhaired 
woman 
drifted 
serenely 
past, 
then 
resumed 
in 
a 
hoarse whisper, ". . . the board o' governors'll be talkin about shuttin' us up fer good." 


"Surely not?" said Hermione, looking worried. 


"Gotta 
see 
it 
from 
their 
point 
o' 
view," 
said 
Hagrid 
heavily. 
"I 
mean, 
it's 
always 
bin 
a 
bit 
of 
a 
risk 
sendin 
a 
kid 
ter 
Hogwarts, 
hasn’ 
it? 
Yer 
expect 
accidents, 
don' 
yeh, 
with 
hundreds 
of 
underage 
wizards 
all 
locked 
up 
tergether, 
but 
attempted 
murder, 
tha's 
tliff'rent. 
'S'no 
wonder 
Dumbledore's 
angry 
with 
Sn 
—" 


Hagrid 
stopped 
in 
his 
tracks, 
a 
familiar, 
guilty 
expression 
on 
what 
was 
visible 
of 
his 
face 
above 
his 
tangled black beard. 


"What?" said Harry quickly. "Dumbledore's angry with Snape?" 


"I 
never 
said 
tha’," 
said 
Hagrid, 
though 
his 
look 
of 
panic 
could 
not 
have 
been 
a 
bigger 
giveaway. 
"Look at the time, it's gettin' on fer midnight, I need ter —" 


"Hagrid, why is Dumbledore angry with Snape?" Harry asked loudly. 


"Shhhh!" 
said 
Hagrid, 
looking 
both 
nervous 
and 
angry. 
"Don’ 
shout 
stuff 
like 
that, 
Harry, 
d'yeh 
wan’ 
me 
ter 
lose 
me 
job? 
Mind, 
I 
don' 
suppose 
yeh'd 
care, 
would 
yeh, 
not 
now 
yeh've 
given 
up 
Care 
of 
Mag 
—" 


"Don't try and make me feel guilty, it wont work!" said Harry forcefully. "What's Snape done?" 


"I 
dunno, 
Harry, 
I 
shouldn'ta 
heard 
it 
at 
all! 
I 
— 
well, 
I 
was 
comin’ 
outta 
the 
forest 
the 
other 
evenin’ 
an' 
I 
overheard 
'em 
talking— 
well, 
arguin’. 
Didn't 
like 
ter 
draw 
attention 
to 
meself, 
so 
I 
sorta 
skulked 
an tried not ter listen, but it was a — well, a heated discussion an' it wasn’ easy ter block it out." 


"Well?" Harry urged him, as Hagrid shuffled his enormous feet uneasily. 


"Well 
— 
I 
jus' 
heard 
Snape 
sayin’ 
Dumbledore 
took 
too 
much 
fer 
granted 
an 
maybe 
he 
— 
Snape 
— 
didn’ wan’ ter do it any more —“ 


"Do what?" 



"I 
dunno, 
Harry, 
it 
sounded 
like 
Snape 
was 
feelin’ 
a 
bit 
overworked, 
tha's 
all 
— 
anyway, 
Dumbledore 
told 
him 
flat 
out 
he'd 
agreed 
ter 
do 
it 
an' 
that 
was 
all 
there 
was 
to 
it. 
Pretty 
firm 
with 
him. 
An' 
then 
he 
said 
summat 
abou’ 
Snape 
makin' 
investigations 
in 
his 
House, 
in 
Slytherin. 
Well, 
there's 
nothin' 
strange 
abou' 
that!" 
Hagrid 
added 
hastily, 
as 
Harry 
and 
Hermione 
exchanged 
looks 
full 
of 
meaning. 
"All 
the 
Heads o' Houses were asked ter look inter that necklace business —" 


"Yeah, but Dumbledore's not having rows with the rest of them, is he?" said Harry. 


"Look," 
Hagrid 
twisted 
his 
crossbow 
uncomfortably 
in 
his 
hands; 
there 
was 
a 
loud 
splintering 
sound 
and 
it 
snapped 
in 
two. 
"I 
know 
what 
yeh're 
like 
abou' 
Snape, 
Harry, 
an' 
I 
don' 
want 
yeh 
ter 
go 
readin' 
more inter this than there is." 


"Look out," said Hermione tersely. 


They 
turned 
just 
in 
time 
to 
see 
the 
shadow 
of 
Argus 
Filch 
looming 
over 
the 
wall 
behind 
them 
before 
the man himself turned the corner, hunchbacked, his jowls aquiver. 


"Oho!" he wheezed. "Out of bed so late, this'll mean detention!" 


"No it won', Filch," said Hagrid shortly. "They're with me, aren’ they?" 


"And what difference does that make?" asked Filch obnoxiously. 


"I'm a ruddy teacher, aren' I, yeh sneakin' Squib!" said Hagrid, firing up at once. 


There 
was 
a 
nasty 
hissing 
noise 
as 
Filch 
swelled 
with 
fury; 
Mrs. 
Norris 
had 
arrived, 
unseen, 
and 
was 
twisting herself sinuously around Filch's skinny ankles. 


"Get goin," said Hagrid out of the corner of his mouth. 


Harry 
did 
not 
need 
telling 
twice; 
he 
and 
Hermione 
both 
hurried 
off; 
Hagrid's 
and 
Filch's 
raised 
voices 
echoed 
behind 
them 
as 
they 
ran. 
They 
passed 
Peeves 
near 
the 
turning 
into 
Gryffindor 
Tower, 
but 
he 
was streaking happily toward the source of the yelling, cackling and calling, 


When there's strife and when there's trouble 


Call on Peevsie, he'll make double! 


The 
Fat 
Lady 
was 
snoozing 
and 
not 
pleased 
to 
be 
woken, 
but 
swung 
forward 
grumpily 
to 
allow 
them 
to 
clamber 
into 
the 
mercifully 
peaceful 
and 
empty 
common 
room. 
It 
did 
not 
seem 
that 
people 
knew 
about 
Ron 
yet; 
Harry 
was 
very 
relieved: 
He 
had 
been 
interrogated 
enough 
that 
day. 
Hermione 
bade 
him 
good 
night 
and 
set 
off 
for 
the 
girls' 
dormitory. 
Harry, 
however, 
remained 
behind, 
taking 
a 
seat 
beside the fire and looking down into the dying embers. 


So 
Dumbledore 
had 
argued 
with 
Snape. 
In 
spite 
of 
all 
he 
had 
told 
Harry, 
in 
spite 
of 
his 
insistence 
that 
he 
trusted 
Snape 
completely, 
he 
had 
lost 
his 
temper 
with 
him. 
. 
. 
. 
He 
did 
not 
think 
that 
Snape 
had 
tried 
hard enough to investigate the Slytherins ... or, perhaps, to investigate a single Slytherin: Malfoy? 



Was 
it 
because 
Dumbledore 
did 
not 
want 
Harry 
to 
do 
anything 
foolish, 
to 
take 
matters 
into 
his 
own 
hands, 
that 
he 
had 
pretended 
there 
was 
nothing 
in 
Harry's 
suspicions? 
That 
seemed 
likely. 
It 
, 
might 
even 
be 
that 
Dumbledore 
did 
not 
want 
anything 
to 
distract 
Harry 
from 
their 
lessons, 
or 
from 
procuring 
that 
memory 
from 
Slughorn. 
Perhaps 
Dumbledore 
did 
not 
think 
it 
right 
to 
confide 
suspicions 
about 
his 
staff to sixteenyearolds. 
... 


"There you are, Potter!" 


Harry 
jumped 
to 
his 
feet 
in 
shock, 
his 
wand 
at 
the 
ready. 
He 
had 
been 
quite 
convinced 
that 
the 
common 
room 
was 
empty; 
he 
had 
not 
been 
at 
all 
prepared 
for 
a 
hulking 
figure 
to 
rise 
suddenly 
out 
of 
a 
distant chair. A closer look showed him that it was Cormac McLaggen. 


"I've 
been 
waiting 
for 
you 
to 
come 
back," 
said 
McLaggen, 
disregarding 
Harry’s 
drawn 
wand. 
"Must’ve 
fallen 
asleep. 
Look, 
I 
saw 
them 
taking 
Weasley 
up 
to 
the 
hospital 
wing 
earlier. 
Didn't 
look 
like 
he'll 
be 
fit for next week's match." 


It took Harry a few moments to realize what McLaggen was talking about. 


"Oh 
. 
. 
. 
right. 
. 
. 
Quidditch," 
he 
said, 
putting 
his 
wand 
back 
into 
the 
belt 
of 
his 
jeans 
and 
running 
a 
hand wearily through his hair. "Yeah ... he might not make it." 


"Well, then, I'll be playing Keeper, won't I?" said McLaggen. 


"Yeah," said Harry. "Yeah, I suppose so. ..." 


He 
could 
not 
think 
of 
an 
argument 
against 
it; 
after 
all, 
McLaggen 
had 
certainly 
performed 
secondbest 
in the trials. 


"Excellent," said McLaggen in a satisfied voice. "So when's practice?" 


"What? Oh . . . there's one tomorrow evening." 


"Good. 
Listen, 
Potter, 
we 
should 
have 
a 
talk 
beforehand. 
I've 
got 
some 
ideas 
on 
strategy 
you 
might 
find useful." 


"Right," 
said 
Harry 
unenthusiastically. 
"Well, 
I'll 
hear 
them 
tomorrow, 
then. 
I'm 
pretty 
tired 
now 
... 
see 
you . . ." 


The 
news 
that 
Ron 
had 
been 
poisoned 
spread 
quickly 
next 
day, 
but 
it 
did 
not 
cause 
the 
sensation 
that 
Katie's 
attack 
had 
done. 
People 
seemed 
to 
think 
that 
it 
might 
have 
been 
an 
accident, 
given 
that 
he 
had 
been 
in 
the 
Potions 
master's 
room 
at 
the 
time, 
and 
that 
as 
he 
had 
been 
given 
an 
antidote 
immediately 
there 
was 
no 
real 
harm 
done. 
In 
fact, 
the 
Gryffindors 
were 
generally 
much 
more 
interested 
in 
the 
upcoming 
Quidditch 
match 
against 
Hufflepuff, 
for 
many 
of 
them 
wanted 
to 
see 
Zacharias 
Smith, 
who 
played 
Chaser 
on 
the 
Hufflepuff 
team, 
punished 
soundly 
for 
his 
commentary 
during 
the 
opening 
match 
against Slytherin. 


Harry, 
however, 
had 
never 
been 
less 
interested 
in 
Quidditch; 
he 
was 
rapidly 
becoming 
obsessed 
with 
Draco 
Malfoy. 
Still 
checking 
the 
Marauder's 
Map 
whenever 
he 
got 
a 
chance, 
he 
sometimes 
made 
detours 
to 
wherever 
Malfoy 
happened 
to 
be, 
but 
had 
not 
yet 
detected 
him 
doing 
anything 
out 
of 
the 



ordinary. 
And 
still 
there 
were 
those 
inexplicable 
times 
when 
Malfoy 
simply 
vanished 
from 
the 
map. . . . 


But 
Harry 
did 
not 
get 
a 
lot 
of 
time 
to 
consider 
the 
problem, 
what 
with 
Quidditch 
practice, 
homework, 
and 
the 
fact 
that 
he 
was 
now 
being 
dogged 
wherever 
he 
went 
by 
Cormac 
McLaggen 
and 
Lavender 
Brown. 


He 
could 
not 
decide 
which 
of 
them 
was 
more 
annoying. 
McLaggen 
kept 
up 
a 
constant 
stream 
of 
hints 
that 
he 
would 
make 
a 
better 
permanent 
Keeper 
for 
the 
team 
than 
Ron, 
and 
that 
now 
that 
Harry 
was 
seeing 
him 
play 
regularly 
he 
would 
surely 
come 
around 
to 
this 
way 
of 
thinking 
too; 
he 
was 
also 
keen 
to 
criticize 
the 
other 
players 
and 
provide 
Harry 
with 
detailed 
training 
schemes, 
so 
that 
more 
than 
once 
Harry was forced to remind him who was Captain. 


Meanwhile, 
Lavender 
kept 
sidling 
up 
to 
Harry 
to 
discuss 
Ron, 
which 
Harry 
found 
almost 
more 
wearing 
than 
McLaggen's 
Quidditch 
lectures. 
At 
first, 
Lavender 
had 
been 
very 
annoyed 
that 
nobody 
had 
thought 
to 
tell 
her 
that 
Ron 
was 
in 
the 
hospital 
wing 
— 
"I 
mean, 
I 
am 
his 
girlfriend!" 
— 
but 
unfortunately 
slithad 
now 
decided 
to 
forgive 
Harry 
this 
lapse 
of 
memory 
and 
was 
keen 
to 
have 
lots 
of 
indepth 
chats 
with 
him 
about 
Ron's 
feelings, 
a 
most 
uncomfortable 
experience 
that 
Harry 
would 
have 
happily forgone. 


"Look, 
why 
don't 
you 
talk 
to 
Ron 
about 
all 
this?" 
Harry 
asked, 
after 
a 
particularly 
long 
interrogation 
from 
Lavender 
that 
took 
in 
everything 
from 
precisely 
what 
Ron 
had 
said 
about 
her 
new 
drew 
robes 
to 
whether or not Harry thought that Ron considered his relationship with Lavender to be "serious." 


"Well, I would, but he's always asleep when I go and see him!" said Lavender fretfully. 


"Is 
he?" 
said 
Harry, 
surprised, 
for 
he 
had 
found 
Ron 
perfectly 
alert 
every 
time 
he 
had 
been 
up 
to 
the 
hospital 
wing, 
both 
highly 
interested 
in 
the 
news 
of 
Dumbledore 
and 
Snape's 
row 
and 
keen 
m 
abuse 
McLaggen as much as possible. 


"Is Hermione Granger still visiting him?" Lavender demanded suddenly. 


"Yeah, I think so. Well, they're friends, aren't they?" said Harry uncomfortably. 


"Friends, 
don't 
make 
me 
laugh," 
said 
Lavender 
scornfully. 
"She 
didn't 
talk 
to 
him 
for 
weeks 
after 
he 
started going out with me! But I suppose she wants to make up with him now he's all interesting. ..." 


"Would 
you 
call 
getting 
poisoned 
being 
interesting?" 
asked 
Harry. 
"Anyway 
— 
sorry, 
got 
to 
go 
— 
there's 
McLaggen 
coming 
for 
a 
talk 
about 
Quidditch," 
said 
Harry 
hurriedly, 
and 
he 
dashed 
sideways 
through 
a 
door 
pretending 
to 
be 
solid 
wall 
and 
sprinted 
down 
the 
shortcut 
that 
would 
take 
him 
off 
to 
Potions where, thankfully, neither Lavender nor McLaggen could follow him. 


On 
the 
morning 
of 
the 
Quidditch 
match 
against 
Hufflepuff, 
Harry 
dropped 
in 
on 
the 
hospital 
wing 
before 
heading 
down 
to 
the 
pitch. 
Ron 
was 
very 
agitated; 
Madam 
Pomfrey 
would 
not 
let 
him 
go 
down 
to watch the match, feeling it would overexcite him. 


"So 
how's 
McLaggen 
shaping 
up?" 
he 
asked 
Harry 
nervously, 
apparently 
forgetting 
that 
he 
had 
already 
asked the same question twice. 



"I've 
told 
you," 
said 
Harry 
patiently, 
"he 
could 
be 
worldclass 
and 
I 
wouldn't 
want 
to 
keep 
him. 
He 
keeps 
trying 
to 
tell 
everyone 
what 
to 
do, 
he 
thinks 
he 
could 
play 
every 
position 
better 
than 
the 
rest 
of 
us. 
I 
can't 
wait 
to 
be 
shot 
of 
him. 
And 
speaking 
of 
getting 
shot 
of 
people," 
Harry 
added, 
getting 
to 
his 
feet 
and 
picking 
up 
his 
Firebolt, 
"will 
you 
stop 
pretending 
to 
be 
asleep 
when 
Lavender 
comes 
to 
see 
you? She's driving me mad as well." 


"Oh," said Ron, looking sheepish. "Yeah. All right." 


"If you don't want to go out with her anymore, just tell her," said Harry. 


"Yeah 
. 
. 
. 
well. 
. 
. 
it's 
not 
that 
easy, 
is 
it?" 
said 
Ron. 
He 
paused. 
"Hermione 
going 
to 
look 
in 
before 
the 
match?" he added casually. 


"No, she's already gone down to the pitch with Ginny." 


"Oh," 
said 
Ron, 
looking 
rather 
glum. 
"Right. 
Well, 
good 
luck. 
Hope 
you 
hammer 
McLag 
— 
I 
mean, 
Smith." 


"I'll try," said Harry, shouldering his broom. "See you after the match." 


He 
hurried 
down 
through 
the 
deserted 
corridors; 
the 
whole 
school 
was 
outside, 
either 
already 
seated 
in 
the 
stadium 
or 
heading 
down 
toward 
it. 
He 
was 
looking 
out 
of 
the 
windows 
he 
passed, 
trying 
to 
gauge 
how 
much wind they were 
facing, 
when a 
noise 
ahead made 
him 
glance 
up and he 
saw 
Malfoy walking 
toward him, accompanied by two girls, both of whom looked sulky and resentful. 


Malfoy stopped short at the sight of Harry, then gave a short, humorless laugh and continued walking. 


"Where're you going?" Harry demanded. 


"Yeah, 
I'm 
really 
going 
to 
tell 
you, 
because 
it's 
your 
business, 
Potter," 
sneered 
Malfoy. 
"You'd 
better 
hurry 
up, 
they'll 
be 
waiting 
for 
'the 
Chosen 
Captain' 
— 
'the 
Boy 
Who 
Scored' 
— 
whatever 
they 
call 
you these days." 


One 
of 
the 
girls 
gave 
an 
unwilling 
giggle. 
Harry 
stared 
at 
her. 
She 
blushed. 
Malfoy 
pushed 
past 
Harry 
and she and her friend followed at a trot, turning the corner and vanishing from view. 


Harry 
stood 
rooted 
on 
the 
spot 
and 
watched 
them 
disappear. 
This 
was 
infuriating; 
he 
was 
already 
cutting 
it 
fine 
to 
get 
to 
the 
match 
on 
time 
and 
yet 
there 
was 
Malfoy, 
skulking 
off 
while 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
school 
was 
absent: 
Harry's 
best 
chance 
yet 
of 
discovering 
what 
Malfoy 
was 
up 
to. 
The 
silent 
seconds 
trickled 
past, 
and 
Harry 
remained 
where 
he 
was, 
frozen, 
gazing 
at 
the 
place 
where 
Malfoy 
had 
vanished. . . . 


"Where 
have 
you been?" 
demanded Ginny, as 
Harry sprinted into 
the 
changing rooms. 
The 
whole 
team 
was 
changed 
and 
ready; 
Coote 
and 
Peakes, 
the 
Beaters, 
were 
both 
hitting 
their 
clubs 
nervously 
against 
their legs. 


"I met Malfoy," Harry told her quietly, as he pulled his scarlet robes over his head. 


"So 
I 
wanted to know 
how 
come 
he's 
up at 
the 
castle 
with a 
couple 
of 
girlfriends 
while 
everyone 
else 
is 
down here. ..." 



"Does it matter right now?" 


"Well, 
I'm 
not 
likely 
to 
find 
out, 
am 
I?" 
said 
Harry, 
seizing 
his 
Firebolt 
and 
pushing 
his 
glasses 
straight. "Come on then!" 


And without another word, he marched out onto the pitch to deafening cheers and boos. 


There was little wind; the clouds were patchy; every now and then there were dazzling flashes of bright 
sunlight. 


"Tricky conditions!" McLaggen said bracingly to the team. "Coote, Peakes, you'll want to fly out of the 
sun, so they don't see you coming —" 


"I'm 
the 
Captain, 
McLaggen, 
shut 
up 
giving 
them 
instructions," 
said 
Harry 
angrily. 
"Just 
get 
up 
by 
the 
goal posts!" 


Once McLaggen had marched off, Harry turned to Coote and Peakes. 


"Make sure you do fly out of the sun," he told them grudgingly. 


He 
shook 
hands 
with 
the 
Hufflepuff 
Captain, 
and 
then, 
on 
Madam 
Hooch's 
whistle, 
kicked 
off 
and 
rose 
into 
the 
air, 
higher 
than 
the 
rest 
of 
his 
team, 
streaking 
around 
the 
pitch 
in 
search 
of 
the 
Snitch. 
If 
he 
could 
catch 
it 
good 
and 
early, 
there 
might 
be 
a 
chance 
he 
could 
get 
back 
up 
to 
the 
castle, 
seize 
the 
Marauder's Map, and find out what Malfoy was doing. . . . 


"And 
that's 
Smith 
of 
Hufflepuff 
with 
the 
Quaffle," 
said 
a 
dreamy 
voice, 
echoing 
over 
the 
grounds. 
"He 
did 
the 
commentary 
last 
time, 
of 
course, 
and 
Ginny 
Weasley 
flew 
into 
him, 
I 
think 
probably 
on 
purpose, 
it 
looked 
like 
it. 
Smith 
was 
being 
quite 
rude 
about 
Gryffindor, 
I 
expect 
he 
regrets 
that 
now 
he's 
playing 
them 
— 
oh, 
look, 
he's 
lost 
the 
Quaffle, 
Ginny 
took 
it 
from 
him, 
I 
do 
like 
her, 
she's 
very 
nice. ..." 


Harry 
stared 
down 
at 
the 
commentator's 
podium. 
Surely 
nobody 
in 
their 
right 
mind 
would 
have 
let 
Luna Lovegood commentate? But even from above there was no mistaking that long, dirtyblonde 
hair, 
nor 
the 
necklace 
of 
butterbeer 
corks. 
. 
. 
. 
Beside 
Luna, 
Professor 
McGonagall 
was 
looking 
slightly 
uncomfortable, as though she was indeed having second thoughts about this appointment. 


". 
. 
. 
but 
now 
that 
big 
Hufflepuff 
player's 
got 
the 
Quaffle 
from 
, 
her, 
I 
can't 
remember 
his 
name, 
it's 
something like Bibble — no, Buggins —" 


"It's Cadwallader!" said Professor McGonagall loudly from beside Luna. The crowd laughed. 


Harry 
stared 
around 
for 
the 
Snitch; 
there 
was 
no 
sign 
of 
it. 
Moments 
later, 
Cadwallader 
scored. 
McLaggen 
had 
been 
shouting 
criticism 
at 
Ginny 
for 
allowing 
the 
Quaffle 
out 
of 
her 
possession, 
with 
the result that he had not noticed the large red ball soaring past his right ear. 


"McLaggen, 
will 
you 
pay 
attention 
to 
what 
you're 
supposed 
to 
be 
doing 
and 
leave 
everyone 
else 
alone!" bellowed Harry, wheeling around to face his Keeper. 


"You're not setting a great example!" McLaggen shouted back, redfaced 
and furious. 



"And 
Harry 
Potter's 
now 
having 
an 
argument 
with 
his 
Keeper," 
said 
Luna 
serenely, 
while 
both 
Hufflepuffs 
and 
Slytherins 
below 
in 
the 
crowd 
cheered 
and 
jeered. 
"I 
don't 
think 
that'll 
help 
him 
find 
the Snitch, but maybe it's a clever ruse. ..." 


Swearing 
angrily, 
Harry 
spun 
round 
and 
set 
off 
around 
the 
pitch 
again, 
scanning 
the 
skies 
for 
some 
sign of the tiny, winged golden ball. 


Ginny 
and 
Demelza 
scored 
a 
goal 
apiece, 
giving 
the 
redandgoldclad 
supporters 
below 
something 
to 
cheer 
about. 
Then 
Cadwallader 
scored 
again, 
making 
things 
level, 
but 
Luna 
did 
not 
seem 
to 
have 
noticed; 
she 
appeared 
singularly 
uninterested 
in 
such 
mundane 
things 
as 
the 
score, 
and 
kept 
attempting 
to 
draw 
the 
crowd's 
attention 
to 
such 
things 
as 
interestingly 
shaped 
clouds 
and 
the 
possibility 
that 
Zacharias 
Smith, 
who 
had 
so 
far 
failed 
to 
maintain 
possession 
of 
the 
Quaffle 
for 
longer 
than 
a 
minute, 
was suffering from something called "Loser's Lurgy." 


"Seventyforty 
to Hufflepuff!" barked Professor McGonagall into Luna's megaphone. 


"Is 
it, 
already?" 
said 
Luna 
vaguely. 
"Oh, 
look! 
The 
Gryffindor 
Keeper's 
got 
hold 
of 
one 
of 
the 
Beater's 
bats." 


Harry 
spun 
around 
in 
midair. 
Sure 
enough, 
McLaggen, 
for 
reasons 
best 
known 
to 
himself, 
had 
pulled 
Peakes's 
bat 
from 
him 
and 
appeared 
to 
be 
demonstrating 
how 
to 
hit 
a 
Bludger 
toward 
an 
oncoming 
Cadwallader. 


"Will 
you 
give 
him 
back 
his 
bat 
and 
get 
back 
to 
the 
goal 
posts!" 
roared 
Harry, 
pelting 
toward 
McLaggen just as McLaggen took a ferocious swipe at the Bludger and mishit it. 


A 
blinding, 
sickening 
pain 
... 
a 
flash 
of 
light. 
. 
. 
distant 
screams 
. 
. 
. 
and 
the 
sensation 
of 
falling 
down 
a 
long tunnel. . . 


And 
the 
next 
thing 
Harry 
knew, 
he 
was 
lying 
in 
a 
remarkably 
warm 
and 
comfortable 
bed 
and 
looking 
up 
at 
a 
lamp 
that 
was 
throwing 
a 
circle 
of 
golden 
light 
onto 
a 
shadowy 
ceiling. 
He 
raised 
his 
head 
awkwardly. There on his left was a familiarlooking, 
freckly, redhaired 
person. 


"Nice of you to drop in," said Ron, grinning. 


Harry 
blinked 
and 
looked 
around. 
Of 
course: 
He 
was 
in 
the 
hospital 
wing. 
The 
sky 
outside 
was 
indigo 
streaked 
with 
crimson. 
The 
match 
must 
have 
finished 
hours 
ago 
... 
as 
had 
any 
hope 
of 
cornering 
Malfoy. Harry's head felt strangely heavy; he raised a hand and felt a stiff turban of bandages. 


"What happened?" 


"Cracked skull," said Madam Pomfrey, bustling up and pushing him back against his pillows. "Nothing 
to 
worry 
about, 
I 
mended 
it 
at 
once, 
but 
I'm 
keeping 
you 
in 
overnight. 
You 
shouldn't 
over 
exert 
yourself for a few hours." 


"I 
don't 
want 
to 
stay 
here 
overnight," 
said 
Harry 
angrily, 
sitting 
up 
and 
throwing 
back 
his 
covers. 
"I 
want to find McLaggen and kill him." 


"I'm 
afraid 
that 
would 
come 
under 
the 
heading 
of 
'overexertion,'" 
said 
Madam 
Pomfrey, 
pushing 
him 



firmly 
back 
onto 
the 
bed 
and 
raising 
her 
wand 
in 
a 
threatening 
manner. 
"You 
will 
stay 
here 
until 
I 
discharge you, Potter, or I shall call the headmaster." 


She bustled back into her office, and Harry sank back into his pillows, fuming. 


"D'you know how much we lost by?" he asked Ron through clenched teeth. 


"Well, yeah I do," said Ron apologetically. "Final score was three hundred and twenty to sixty." 


"Brilliant," said Harry savagely. "Really brilliant! When I get hold of McLaggen —" 


"You don't want to get hold of him, he's the size of a troll," said 


Ron 
reasonably. 
"Personally, 
I 
think 
there's 
a 
lot 
to 
be 
said 
for 
hexing 
him 
with 
that 
toenail 
thing 
of 
the 
Prince's. 
Anyway, 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
team 
might've 
dealt 
with 
him 
before 
you 
get 
out 
of 
here, 
they're 
not 
happy. ..." 


There 
was 
a 
note 
of 
badly 
suppressed 
glee 
in 
Rons 
voice; 
Harry 
could 
tell 
he 
was 
nothing 
short 
of 
thrilled 
that 
McLaggen 
had 
messed 
up 
so 
badly. 
Harry 
lay 
there, 
staring 
up 
at 
the 
patch 
of 
light 
on 
the 
ceiling, 
his 
recently 
mended 
skull 
not 
hurting, 
precisely, 
but 
feeling 
slightly 
tender 
underneath 
all 
the 
bandaging. 


"I 
could 
hear 
the 
match 
commentary 
from 
here," 
said 
Ron, 
his 
voice 
now 
shaking 
with 
laughter. 
"I 
hope Luna always commentates from now on. . . . Loser's Lurgy ..." 


But 
Harry 
was 
still 
too 
angry 
to 
see 
much 
humor 
in 
the 
situation, 
and 
after 
a 
while 
Ron's 
snorts 
subsided. 


"Ginny 
came 
in 
to 
visit 
while 
you 
were 
unconscious," 
he 
said, 
after 
a 
long 
pause, 
and 
Harry's 
imagination 
zoomed 
into 
overdrive, 
rapidly 
constructing 
a 
scene 
in 
which 
Ginny, 
weeping 
over 
his 
lifeless 
form, 
confessed 
her 
feelings 
of 
deep 
attraction 
to 
him 
while 
Ron 
gave 
them 
his 
blessing. 
. 
. 
. 
"She reckons you only just arrived on time for the match. How come? You left here early enough." 


"Oh 
. 
. 
." 
said 
Harry, 
as 
the 
scene 
in 
his 
mind's 
eye 
imploded. 
"Yeah 
. 
. 
. 
well, 
I 
saw 
Malfoy 
sneaking 
off 
with 
a 
couple 
of 
girls 
who 
didn't 
look 
like 
they 
wanted 
to 
be 
with 
him, 
and 
that's 
the 
second 
time 
he's 
made 
sure 
he 
isn't 
down 
on 
the 
Quidditch 
pitch 
with 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
school; 
he 
skipped 
the 
last 
match too, remember?" Harry sighed. "Wish I'd followed him now, the match was such a fiasco. . . ." 


"Don't 
be 
stupid," 
said 
Ron 
sharply. 
"You 
couldn't 
have 
missed 
a 
Quidditch 
match 
just 
to 
follow 
Malfoy, you're the Captain!" 


"I 
want 
to 
know 
what 
he's 
up 
to," 
said 
Harry. 
"And 
don't 
tell 
nn 
its 
all 
in 
my 
head, 
not 
after 
what 
I 
overheard between him and Snape —" 


"I 
never 
said 
it 
was 
all 
in 
your 
head," 
said 
Ron, 
hoisting 
himself 
up 
on 
an 
elbow 
in 
turn 
and 
frowning 
at 
Harry, 
"but 
there's 
no 
rule 
saying 
only 
one 
person 
at 
a 
time 
can 
be 
plotting 
anything 
in 
this 
place! 
You're 
getting 
a 
bit 
obsessed 
with 
Malfoy, 
Harry. 
I 
mean, 
thinking 
about 
missing 
a 
match 
just 
to 
follow him ..." 


"I 
want 
to 
catch 
him 
at 
it!" 
said 
Harry 
in 
frustration. 
"I 
mean, 
where's 
he 
going 
when 
he 
disappears 
off 



the map?" 


"I dunno . . . Hogsmeade?" suggested Ron, yawning. 


"I've 
never 
seen 
him 
going 
along 
any 
of 
the 
secret 
passageway 
on 
the 
map. 
I 
thought 
they 
were 
being 
watched now anyway?" 


"Well then, I dunno," said Ron. 


Silence fell between them. Harry stared up at the circle of lamp light above him, thinking. . . . 


If 
only 
he 
had 
Rufus 
Scrimgeour's 
power, 
he 
would 
have 
been 
able 
to 
set 
a 
tail 
upon 
Malfoy, 
but 
unfortunately 
Harry 
did 
not 
have 
an 
office 
full 
of 
Aurors 
at 
his 
command. 
. 
. 
. 
He 
thought 
fleetingly 
of 
trying 
to 
set 
something 
up 
with 
the 
D.A., 
but 
there 
again 
was 
the 
problem 
that 
people 
would 
be 
missed 
from lessons; most of them, after all, still had full schedules. . . . 


There 
was 
a 
low, 
rumbling 
snore 
from 
Ron's 
bed. 
After 
a 
while 
Madam 
Pomfrey 
came 
out 
of 
her 
office, 
this 
time 
wearing 
a 
thick 
dressing 
gown. 
It 
was 
easiest 
to 
feign 
sleep; 
Harry 
rolled 
over 
onto 
his 
side 
and listened to 
all 
the 
curtains 
closing 
themselves 
as 
she 
waved her 
wand. The 
lamps 
dimmed, and 
she returned to her office; he heard the door click behind her and knew that she was off to bed. 


This 
was, 
Harry 
reflected 
in 
the 
darkness, 
the 
third 
time 
that 
he 
had 
been 
brought 
to 
the 
hospital 
wing 
because 
of 
a 
Quidditch 
injury. 
Last 
time 
he 
had 
fallen 
off 
his 
broom 
due 
to 
the 
presence 
of 
dementors 
around 
the 
pitch, 
and 
the 
time 
before 
that, 
all 
the 
bones 
had 
been 
removed 
from 
his 
arm 
by 
the 
incurably 
inept 
Professor 
Lockhart. 
. 
. 
. 
That 
had 
been 
his 
most 
painful 
injury 
by 
far 
... 
he 
remembered 
the 
agony 
of 
regrowing 
an 
armful 
of 
bones 
in 
one 
night, 
a 
discomfort 
not 
eased 
by 
the 
arrival 
of 
an 
unexpected visitor in the middle of the — 


Harry 
sat 
bolt 
upright, 
his 
heart 
pounding, 
his 
bandage 
turban 
askew. 
He 
had 
the 
solution 
at 
last: 
There 
was a way to have Malfoy followed — how could he have forgotten, why hadn't he thought 


of it before? 


But 
the 
question 
was, 
how 
to 
call 
him? 
What 
did 
you 
do? 
Quietly, 
tentatively, 
Harry 
spoke 
into 
the 
darkness. 


"Kreacher?" 


There was a very loud crack, and the sounds of scuffling and squeaks filled the silent room. Ron awoke 
with a yelp. 


"What's going — ?" 


Harry 
pointed 
his 
wand 
hastily 
at 
the 
door 
of 
Madam 
Pomfrey's 
office 
and 
muttered, 
"Muffliato!" 
so 
that she would not come running. Then he scrambled to the end of his bed for a better look at 


what was going on. 


Two 
houseelves 
were 
rolling 
around 
on 
the 
floor 
in 
the 
middle 
of 
the 
dormitory, 
one 
wearing 
a 
shrunken 
maroon 
jumper 
and 
several 
woolly 
hats, 
the 
other, 
a 
filthy 
old 
rag 
strung 
over 
his 
hips 
like 
a 



loincloth. 
Then 
there 
was 
another 
loud 
bang, 
and 
Peeves 
the 
Poltergeist 
appeared 
in 
midair 
above 
the 
wrestling elves. 


"I 
was 
watching 
that, 
Potty!" 
he 
told 
Harry 
indignantly, 
pointing 
at 
the 
fight 
below, 
before 
letting 
out 
a 
loud cackle. "Look at the ickle creatures squabbling, bitey bitey, punchy punchy —" 


"Kreacher 
will 
not 
insult 
Harry 
Potter 
in 
front 
of 
Dobby, 
no 
he 
won't, 
or 
Dobby 
will 
shut 
Kreacher's 
mouth for him!" cried Dobby in a highpitched 
voice. 


"— 
kicky, 
scratchy!" 
cried 
Peeves 
happily, 
now 
pelting 
bits 
of' 
chalk 
at 
the 
elves 
to 
enrage 
them 
further. "Tweaky, pokey!" 


"Kreacher 
will 
say 
what 
he 
likes 
about 
his 
master, 
oh 
yes, 
and 
what 
a 
master 
he 
is, 
filthy 
friend 
of 
Mudbloods, oh, what would poor Kreacher's mistress say — ?" 


Exactly what Kreacher's mistress would have said they did not find out, for at that moment Dobby sank 
his 
knobbly 
little 
fist 
into 
Kreacher’s 
mouth 
and 
knocked 
out 
half 
of 
his 
teeth. 
Harry 
and 
Ron 
both 
leapt 
out 
of 
their 
beds 
and 
wrenched 
the 
two 
elves 
apart, 
though 
they 
continued 
to 
try 
and 
kick 
and 
punch 
each 
other, 
egged 
on 
by 
Peeves, 
who 
swooped 
around 
the 
lamp 
squealing, 
"Stick 
your 
fingers 
up his nosey, draw his cork and pull his earsies —" 


Harry 
aimed 
his 
wand 
at 
Peeves 
and 
said, 
"Langlock!" 
Peeves 
clutched 
at 
his 
throat, 
gulped, 
then 
swooped 
from 
the 
room 
making 
obscene 
gestures 
but 
unable 
to 
speak, 
owing 
to 
the 
fact 
that 
his 
tongue 
had just glued itself to the roof of his mouth. 


"Nice 
one," 
said 
Ron 
appreciatively, 
lifting 
Dobby 
into 
the 
air 
so 
that 
his 
flailing 
limbs 
no 
longer 
made 
contact with Kreacher. "That was another Prince hex, wasn't it?" 


"Yeah," 
said 
Harry, 
twisting 
Kreacher's 
wizened 
arm 
into 
a 
half 
nelson. 
"Right 
— 
I'm 
forbidding 
you 
to 
fight 
each 
other! 
Well, 
Kreacher, 
you're 
forbidden 
to 
fight 
Dobby. 
Dobby, 
I 
know 
I'm 
not 
allowed 
to 
give you orders —" 


"Dobby 
is 
a 
free 
houseelf 
and 
he 
can 
obey 
anyone 
he 
likes 
and 
Dobby 
will 
do 
whatever 
Harry 
Potter 
wants him to do!" said Dobby, tears now streaming down his shriveled little face onto his jumper. 


"Okay 
then," 
said 
Harry, 
and 
he 
and 
Ron 
both 
released 
the 
elves, 
who 
fell 
to 
the 
floor 
but 
did 
not 
continue fighting. 


"Master 
called 
me?" 
croaked 
Kreacher, 
sinking 
into 
a 
bow 
even 
as 
he 
gave 
Harry 
a 
look 
that 
plainly 
wished him a painful death. 


"Yeah, 
I 
did," 
said 
Harry, 
glancing 
toward 
Madam 
Pomfrey's 
office 
door 
to 
check 
that 
the 
Muffliato 
spell 
was 
still 
working; 
there 
was 
no 
sign 
that 
she 
had 
heard 
any 
of 
the 
commotion. 
"I've 
got 
a 
job 
for 
you." 


"Kreacher 
will 
do 
whatever 
Master 
wants," 
said 
Kreacher, 
sinking 
so 
low 
that 
his 
lips 
almost 
touched 
his 
gnarled 
toes, 
"because 
Kreacher 
has 
no 
choice, 
but 
Kreacher 
is 
ashamed 
to 
have 
such 
a 
master, 
yes 
—" 



"Dobby 
will 
do 
it, 
Harry 
Potter!" 
squeaked 
Dobby, 
his 
tennisballsized 
eyes 
still 
swimming 
in 
tears. 
"Dobby would be honored to help Harry Potter!" 


"Come 
to 
think 
of 
it, 
it 
would 
be 
good 
to 
have 
both 
of 
you," 
said 
Harry. 
"Okay 
then 
... 
I 
want 
you 
to 
tail Draco Malfoy." 


Ignoring 
the 
look 
of 
mingled 
surprise 
and 
exasperation 
on 
Ron's 
face, 
Harry 
went 
on, 
"I 
want 
to 
know 
where he's going, who he's meeting, and what he's doing. I want you to follow him around the 


clock." 


"Yes, 
Harry 
Potter!" 
said 
Dobby 
at 
once, 
his 
great 
eyes 
shining 
with 
excitement. 
"And 
if 
Dobby 
does 
it 
wrong, Dobby will throw himself off the topmost tower, Harry Potter!" 


"There won't be any need for that," said Harry hastily. 


"Master 
wants 
me 
to 
follow 
the 
youngest 
of 
the 
Malfoys?" 
croaked 
Kreacher. 
"Master 
wants 
me 
to 
spy 
upon the pureblood 
greatnephew 
of my old mistress?" 


"That's 
the 
one," 
said 
Harry, 
foreseeing 
a 
great 
danger 
and 
determining 
to 
prevent 
it 
immediately. 
"And 
you're 
forbidden 
to 
tip 
him 
off, 
Kreacher, 
or 
to 
show 
him 
what 
you're 
up 
to, 
or 
to 
talk 
to 
him 
at 
all, or to write him messages or ... or to contact him in any way. Got it?" 


He 
thought 
he 
could 
see 
Kreacher 
struggling 
to 
see 
a 
loophole 
in 
the 
instructions 
he 
had 
just 
been 
given 
and 
waited. 
After 
a 
moment 
or 
two, 
and 
to 
Harrys 
great 
satisfaction, 
Kreacher 
bowed 
deeply 
again 
and 
said, 
with 
bitter 
resentment, 
"Master 
thinks 
of 
everything, 
and 
Kreacher 
must 
obey 
him 
even 
though Kreacher would much rather be the servant of the Malfoy boy, oh yes. . . ." 


"That's 
settled, 
then," 
said 
Harry. 
"I'll 
want 
regular 
reports, 
but 
make 
sure 
I'm 
not 
surrounded 
by 
people 
when 
you 
turn 
up. 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
are 
okay. 
And 
don't 
tell 
anyone 
what 
you're 
doing. 
Just 
stick to Malfoy like a couple of wart plasters." 



Chapter 20 
Lord 
Voldemort's Request 



Harry 
and 
Ron 
left 
the 
hospital 
wing 
first 
thing 
on 
Monday 
morning, 
restored 
to 
full 
health 
by 
the 
ministrations 
of 
Madam 
Pomfrey 
and 
now 
able 
to 
enjoy 
the 
benefits 
of 
having 
been 
knocked 
out 
and 
poisoned, 
the 
best 
of 
which 
was 
that 
Hermione 
was 
friends 
with 
Ron 
again. 
Hermione 
even 
escorted 
them 
down 
to 
breakfast, 
bringing 
with 
her 
the 
news 
that 
Ginny 
had 
argued 
with 
Dean. 
The 
drowsing 
creature in Harry's chest suddenly raised its head, sniffing the air hopefully. 


"What 
did 
they 
row 
about?" 
he 
asked, 
trying 
to 
sound 
casual 
as 
they 
turned 
onto 
a 
seventhfloor 
corridor that was deserted but for a very small girl who had been examining a tapestry of trolls in tutus. 
She 
looked 
terrified 
at 
the 
sight 
of 
the 
approaching 
sixth 
years 
and 
dropped 
the 
heavy 
brass 
scales 
she 
was carrying. 


"It's all right!" said Hermione kindly, hurrying forward to help her. "Here ..." 


She 
tapped 
the 
broken 
scales 
with 
her 
wand 
and 
said, 
"Reparo." 
The 
girl 
did 
not 
say 
thank 
you, 
but 
remained rooted to the spot as they passed and watched them out of sight; Ron glanced back at her. 

"I swear they're getting smaller," he said. 


"Never mind her," said Harry, a little impatiently. "What did Ginny and Dean row about, Hermione?" 


"Oh, Dean was laughing about McLaggen hitting that Bludgu at you," said Hermione. 

"It 
must've 
looked 
funny," 
said 
Ron 
reasonably. 
"It 
didn't 
look 
funny 
at 
all!" 
said 
Hermione 
hotly. 
"It 
looked terrible and if Coote and Peakes hadn't caught Harry he could have been very badly hurt!" 


"Yeah, 
well, 
there 
was 
no 
need 
for 
Ginny 
and 
Dean 
to 
split 
up 
over 
it," 
said 
Harry, 
still 
trying 
to 
sound 
casual. "Or are they still together?" 


"Yes, they are — but why are you so interested?" asked Hermione, giving Harry a sharp look. 


"I 
just 
don't 
want 
my 
Quidditch 
team 
messed 
up 
again!" 
he 
said 
hastily, 
but 
Hermione 
continued 
to 
look 
suspicious, 
and 
he 
was 
most 
relieved 
when 
a 
voice 
behind 
them 
called, 
"Harry!" 
giving 
him 
an 
excuse to turn his back on her. "Oh, hi, Luna." 


"
I 
went 
to 
the 
hospital 
wing 
to 
find 
you," 
said 
Luna, 
rummaging 
in 
her 
bag. 
"But 
they 
said 
you'd 
left..." 


She 
thrust 
what 
appeared 
to 
be 
a 
green 
onion, 
a 
large 
spotted 
toadstool, 
and 
a 
considerable 
amount 
of 
what 
looked 
like 
cat 
litter 
into 
Ron's 
hands, 
finally 
pulling 
out 
a 
rather 
grubby 
scroll 
of 
parchment 
that 
she handed to Harry. 


". . . I've been told to give you this." 


It 
was 
a 
small 
roll 
of 
parchment, 
which 
Harry 
recognized 
at 
once 
as 
another 
invitation 
to 
a 
lesson 
with 
Dumbledore. 

"Tonight," he told Ron and Hermione, once he had unrolled it. 


"Nice 
commentary 
last 
match!" 
said 
Ron 
to 
Luna 
as 
she 
took 
back 
the 
green 
onion, 
the 
toadstool, 
and 
the cat litter. Luna smiled vaguely. 

"You're making fun of me, aren't you?" she said. "Everyone says I was dreadful." 


"No, 
I'm 
serious!" 
said 
Ron 
earnestly. 
"I 
can't 
remember 
enjoying 
commentary 
more! 
What 
is 
this, 
by 
the way?" he added, holding the onionlike object up to eye level. 


"Oh, 
it's 
a 
Gurdyroot," 
she 
said, 
stuffing 
the 
cat 
litter 
and 
the 
toadstool 
back 
into 
her 
bag. 
"You 
can 
keep 
it 
if 
you 
like, 
I've 
got 
a 
few 
of 
them. 
They're 
really 
excellent 
for 
warding 
off 
Gulping 
Plimpies." 
And she walked away, leaving Ron chortling, still clutching the Gurdyroot. 


"You 
know, 
she's 
grown 
on 
me, 
Luna," 
he 
said, 
as 
they 
set 
off 
again 
for 
the 
Great 
Hall. 
"I 
know 
she's 
insane, 
but 
it's 
in 
a 
good 
—" 
He 
stopped 
talking 
very 
suddenly. 
Lavender 
Brown 
was 
standing 
at 
the 
foot of the marble staircase looking thunderous. "Hi," said Ron nervously. 


"C'mon," 
Harry 
muttered 
to 
Hermione, 
and 
they 
sped 
past, 
though 
not 
before 
they 
had 
heard 
Lavender 
say, "Why didn't you tell me you were getting out today? And why was she with you?" 


Ron looked both sulky and annoyed when he appeared at breakfast half an hour later, and though he sat 
with 
Lavender, 
Harry 
did 
not 
see 
them 
exchange 
a 
word 
all 
the 
time 
they 
were 
together. 
Hermione 
was 
acting 
as 
though 
she 
was 
quite 
oblivious 
to 
all 
of 
this, 
but 
once 
or 
twice 
Harry 
saw 
an 
inexplicable 
smirk 
cross 
her 
face. All 
that 
day she 
seemed to be 
in a 
particularly good mood, and that 
evening 
in 
the 
common 
room 
she 
even 
consented 
to 
look 
over 
(in 
other 
words, 
finish 
writing) 
Harry's 
Herbology 
essay, 
something 
she 
had 
been 
resolutely 
refusing 
to 
do 
up 
to 
this 
point, 
because 
she 
had 
known 
that 
Harry would then let Ron copy his work. 

"Thanks 
a 
lot, 
Hermione," 
said 
Harry, 
giving 
her 
a 
hasty 
pat 
on 
the 
back 
as 
he 
checked 
his 
watch 
and 
saw that it was nearly eight o'clock. "Listen, I’ve got to hurry or I'll be late for Dumbledore. ..." 


She 
did 
not 
answer, 
but 
merely 
crossed 
out 
a 
few 
of 
his 
feebler 
sentences 
in 
a 
weary 
sort 
of 
way. 
Grinning, 
Harry 
hurried 
out 
through 
the 
portrait 
hole 
and 
off 
to 
the 
headmasters 
office. 
The 
gargoyle 
leapt 
aside 
at 
the 
mention 
of 
toffee 
eclairs, 
and 
Harry 
took 
the 
spiral 
staircase 
two 
steps 
at 
a 
time, 
knocking on the door just as a clock within chimed eight. 


"Enter," 
called 
Dumbledore, 
but 
as 
Harry 
put 
out 
a 
hand 
to 
push 
the 
door, 
it 
was 
wrenched 
open 
from 
inside. There stood Professor Trelawney. 

"Aha!" 
she 
cried, 
pointing 
dramatically 
at 
Harry 
as 
she 
blinked 
at 
him 
through 
her 
magnifying 
spectacles. 


"So this is the reason I am to be thrown unceremoniously from your office, Dumbledore!" 



"My 
dear 
Sybill," 
said 
Dumbledore 
in 
a 
slightly 
exasperated 
voice, 
"there 
is 
no 
question 
of 
throwing 
you 
unceremoniously 
from 
anywhere, 
but 
Harry 
does 
have 
an 
appointment, 
and 
I 
really 
don't 
think 
there is any more to be said —" 


"Very 
well," 
said 
Professor 
Trelawney, 
in 
a 
deeply 
wounded 
voice. 
"If 
you 
will 
not 
banish 
the 
usurping nag, so be it. ... 

Perhaps I shall find a school where my talents are better appreciated. ..." 


She 
pushed 
past 
Harry 
and 
disappeared 
down 
the 
spiral 
staircase; 
they 
heard 
her 
stumble 
halfway 
down, and Harry guessed that she had tripped over one of her trailing shawls. 


"Please close the door and sit down, Harry," said Dumbledore, sounding rather tired. 

Harry 
obeyed, 
noticing 
as 
he 
took 
his 
usual 
seat 
in 
front 
of 
Dumbledore's 
desk 
that 
the 
Pensieve 
lay 
between them once more, as did two more tiny crystal bottles full of swirling memory. 

"Professor Trelawney still isn't happy Firenze is teaching, then?" Harry asked. 

"No," 
said 
Dumbledore, "Divination 
is 
turning out 
to be 
much more 
trouble 
than I could have 
foreseen, 
never having studied the subject myself. I cannot ask Firenze to return to the forest, where he is now an 
outcast, 
nor 
can 
I 
ask 
Sybill 
Trelawney 
to 
leave. 
Between 
ourselves, 
she 
has 
no 
idea 
of 
the 
danger 
she 
would be in outside the castle. She does not know — and I think it would be unwise to enlighten her — 
that she made the prophecy about you and Voldemort, you see." 


Dumbledore 
heaved 
a 
deep 
sigh, 
then 
said, 
"But 
never 
mind 
my 
staffing 
problems. 
We 
have 
much 
more 
important 
matters 
to 
discuss. 
Firstly 
— 
have 
you 
managed 
the 
task 
I 
set 
you 
at 
the 
end 
of 
our 
previous lesson?" 

"Ah," 
said 
Harry, 
brought 
up 
short. 
What 
with 
Apparition 
lessons 
and 
Quidditch 
and 
Ron 
being 
poisoned 
and 
getting 
his 
skull 
cracked 
and 
his 
determination 
to 
find 
out 
what 
Draco 
Malfoy 
was 
up 
to, 
Harry 
had 
almost 
forgotten 
about 
the 
memory 
Dumbledore 
had 
asked 
him 
to 
extract 
from 
Professor 
Slughorn. "Well, I 
asked Professor 
Slughorn 
about 
it 
at 
the 
end of Potions, 
sir, 
but, er, he 
wouldn't 
give 
it to me." There was a little silence. 

"I 
see," 
said 
Dumbledore 
eventually, 
peering 
at 
Harry 
over 
the 
top 
of 
his 
halfmoon 
spectacles 
and 
giving 
Harry 
the 
usual 
sensation 
that 
he 
was 
being 
Xrayed. 
"And 
you 
feel 
that 
you 
have 
exerted 
your 
very 
best 
efforts 
in 
this 
matter, 
do 
you? 
That 
you 
have 
exercised 
all 
of 
your 
considerable 
ingenuity? 
That you have left no depth of cunning unplumbed in your quest to retrieve the memory?" 


"Well," 
Harry 
stalled, 
at 
a 
loss 
for 
what 
to 
say 
next. 
His 
single 
attempt 
to 
get 
hold 
of 
the 
memory 
suddenly 
seemed 
embarrassingly 
feeble. 
"Well 
. 
. 
. 
the 
day 
Ron 
swallowed 
love 
potion 
by 
mistake 
I 
took 
him 
to 
Professor 
Slughorn. 
I 
thought 
maybe 
if 
I 
got 
Professor 
Slughorn 
in 
a 
good 
enough 
mood 
—" 
"And 
did 
that 
work?" 
asked 
Dumbledore. 
"Well, 
no, 
sir, 
because 
Ron 
got 
poisoned 
—" 
"— 
which, 
naturally, 
made 
you 
forget 
all 
about 
trying 
to 
retrieve 
the 
memory; 
I 
would 
have 
expected 
nothing 
else, 
while 
your 
best 
friend 
was 
in 
danger. 
Once 
it 
became 
clear 
that 
Mr. 
Weasley 
was 
going 
to 
make 
a 
full 
recovery, 
however, 
I 
would 
have 
hoped 
that 
you 
returned 
to 
the 
task 
I 
set 
you. 
I 
thought 
I 
made 
it 
clear 



to 
you 
how 
very 
important 
that 
memory 
is. 
Indeed, 
I 
did 
my 
best 
to 
impress 
upon 
you 
that 
it 
is 
the 
most crucial memory of all and that we will be wasting our time without it." 


A 
hot, 
prickly 
feeling 
of 
shame 
spread 
from 
the 
top 
of 
Harry’s 
head 
all 
the 
way 
down 
his 
body. 
Dumbledore 
had 
not 
raised 
his 
voice, 
he 
did 
not 
even 
sound 
angry, 
but 
Harry 
would 
have 
preferred 
him to yell; this cold disappointment was worse than anything. 


"Sir," he said, a little desperately, "it isn't that I wasn't bothered or anything, I've just had other — other 
things . . ." 


"Other things on your mind," Dumbledore finished the sentence for him. "I see." 


Silence 
fell 
between 
them 
again, 
the 
most 
uncomfortable 
silence 
Harry 
had 
ever 
experienced 
with 
Dumbledore; 
it 
seemed 
to 
go 
on 
and 
on, 
punctuated 
only 
by 
the 
little 
grunting 
snores 
of 
the 
portrait 
of 
Armando 
Dippet 
over 
Dumbledore's 
head. 
Harry 
felt 
strangely 
diminished, 
as 
though 
he 
had 
shrunk 
a 
little 
since 
he 
had 
entered 
the 
room. 
When 
he 
could 
stand 
it 
no 
longer 
he 
said, 
"Professor 
Dumbledore, 
I'm 
really 
sorry. 
I 
should 
have 
done 
more. 
... 
I 
should 
have 
realized 
you 
wouldn't 
have 
asked 
me 
to 
do 
it if it wasn't really important." 


"Thank you for 
saying 
that, 
Harry," 
said Dumbledore 
quietly. 
"May I 
hope, then, that 
you will 
give 
this 
matter 
higher 
priority 
from 
now 
on? 
There 
will 
be 
little 
point 
in 
our 
meeting 
after 
tonight 
unless 
we 
have that memory." 


"I'll do it, sir, I'll get it from him," he said earnestly. 


"Then 
we 
shall 
say 
no 
more 
about 
it 
just 
now," 
said 
Dumbledore 
more 
kindly, 
"but 
continue 
with 
our 
story where we left off. You remember where that was?" 


"Yes, 
sir," 
said 
Harry 
quickly. 
"Voldemort 
killed 
his 
father 
and 
his 
grandparents 
and 
made 
it 
look 
as 
though 
his 
Uncle 
Morfin 
did 
it. 
Then 
he 
went 
back 
to 
Hogwarts 
and 
he 
asked 
... 
he 
asked 
Professor 
Slughorn about Horcruxes," he mumbled shamefacedly. 

"Very 
good," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"Now, 
you 
will 
remember, 
I 
hope, 
that 
I 
told 
you 
at 
the 
very 
outset 
of 
these meetings of ours that we would be entering the realms of guesswork and speculation?" 


“Yes, sir”. 

"Thus 
far, 
as 
I 
hope 
you 
agree, 
I 
have 
shown 
you 
reasonably 
firm 
sources 
of 
fact 
for 
my 
deductions 
as 
to what Voldemort did until the age of seventeen?" 


Harry nodded. 



"But 
now, 
Harry," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
"now 
things 
become 
murkier 
and 
stranger. 
If 
it 
was 
difficult 
to 
find 
evidence 
about 
the 
boy 
Riddle, 
it 
has 
been 
almost 
impossible 
to 
find 
anyone 
prepared 
to 
reminisce 
about 
the 
man 
Voldemort. 
In 
fact, 
I 
doubt 
whether 
there 
is 
a 
soul 
alive, 
apart 
from 
himself, 
who 
could 
give 
us 
a 
full 
account 
of 
his 
life 
since 
he 
left 
Hogwarts. 
However, 
I 
have 
two 
last 
memories 
that 
I 
would 
like 
to 
share 
with 
you." 
Dumbledore 
indicated 
the 
two 
little 
crystal 
bottles 
gleaming 
beside 
the 
Pensieve. 
"I 
shall 
then 
be 
glad 
of 
your 
opinion 
as 
to 
whether 
the 
conclusions 
I 
have 
drawn 
from 
them 
seem likely." 


The 
idea 
that 
Dumbledore 
valued 
his 
opinion 
this 
highly 
made 
Harry 
feel 
even 
more 
deeply 
ashamed 
that 
he 
had 
failed 
in 
the 
task 
of 
retrieving 
the 
Horcrux 
memory, 
and 
he 
shifted 
guiltily 
in 
his 
seat 
as 
Dumbledore raised the first of the two bottles to the light and examined it. 


"I 
hope 
you 
are 
not 
tired 
of 
diving 
into 
other 
people's 
memories, 
for 
they 
are 
curious 
recollections, 
these 
two," 
he 
said. 
"This 
first 
one 
came 
from 
a 
very 
old 
houseelf 
by 
the 
name 
of 
Hokey. 
Before 
we 
see what Hokey witnessed, I must quickly recount how Lord Voldemort left Hogwarts. 


"He 
reached 
the 
seventh 
year 
of 
his 
schooling 
with, 
as 
you 
might 
have 
expected, 
top 
grades 
in 
every 
examination 
he 
had 
taken. 
All 
around 
him, 
his 
classmates 
were 
deciding 
which 
jobs 
they 
were 
to 
pursue 
once 
they 
had 
left 
Hogwarts. 
Nearly 
everybody 
expected 
spectacular 
things 
from 
Tom 
Riddle, 
prefect, 
Head 
Boy, 
winner 
of 
the 
Award 
for 
Special 
Services 
to 
the 
School. 
I 
know 
that 
several 
teachers, Professor Slughorn amongst them, suggested that he join the Ministry of Magic, offered to set 
up 
appointments, 
put 
him 
in 
touch 
with 
useful 
contacts. 
He 
refused 
all 
offers. 
The 
next 
thing 
the 
staff 
knew, Voldemort was working at Borgin and Burkes." 


"At Borgin and Burkes?" Harry repeated, stunned. 

"At 
Borgin 
and 
Burkes," 
repeated 
Dumbledore 
calmly. 
"I 
think 
you 
will 
see 
what 
attractions 
the 
place 
held 
for 
him 
when 
we 
have 
entered 
Hokey's 
memory. 
But 
this 
was 
not 
Voldemort's 
first 
choice 
of 
job. 
Hardly 
anyone 
knew 
of it 
at 
the 
time 
— I was 
one 
of 
the 
few 
in 
whom 
the 
then headmaster 
confided — 
but 
Voldemort 
first 
approached 
Professor 
Dippet 
and 
asked 
whether 
he 
could 
remain 
at 
Hogwarts 
as 
a 
teacher." 


"He wanted to stay here? Why?" asked Harry, more amazed still. 


"I 
believe 
he 
had 
several 
reasons, 
though 
he 
confided 
none 
of 
them 
to 
Professor 
Dippet," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"Firstly, 
and 
very 
importantly, 
Voldemort 
was, 
I 
believe, 
more 
attached 
to 
this 
school 
than 
he 
has 
ever 
been 
to 
a 
person. 
Hogwarts 
was 
where 
he 
had 
been 
happiest; 
the 
first 
and 
only 
place 
he had felt at home." 


Harry felt slightly uncomfortable at these words, for this was exactly how he felt about Hogwarts too. 

"Secondly, 
the 
castle 
is 
a 
stronghold 
of 
ancient 
magic. 
Undoubtedly 
Voldemort 
had 
penetrated 
many 
more of its secrets than most of the students who pass through the place, but he may have felt that there 
were still mysteries to unravel, stores of magic to tap. 

"And 
thirdly, 
as 
a 
teacher, 
he 
would 
have 
had 
great 
power 
and 
influence 
over 
young 
witches 
and 



wizards. 
Perhaps 
he 
had 
gained 
the 
idea 
from 
Professor 
Slughorn, 
the 
teacher 
with 
whom 
he 
was 
on 
best 
terms, 
who 
had 
demonstrated 
how 
influential 
a 
role 
a 
teacher 
can 
play. 
I 
do 
not 
imagine 
for 
an 
instant 
that 
Voldemort 
envisaged 
spending 
the 
rest 
of 
his 
life 
at 
Hogwarts, 
but 
I 
do 
think 
that 
he 
saw 
it 
as a useful recruiting ground, and a place where he might begin to build himself an army." 


"But he didn't get the job, sir?" 


"No, 
he 
did 
not. 
Professor 
Dippet 
told 
him 
that 
he 
was 
too 
young 
at 
eighteen, 
but 
invited 
him 
to 
reapply in a few years, if he still wished to teach." 

"How 
did 
you 
feel 
about 
that, 
sir?" 
asked 
Harry 
hesitantly. 
"Deeply 
uneasy," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"I 
had 
advised 
Armando 
against 
the 
appointment 
— 
I 
did 
not 
give 
the 
reasons 
I 
have 
given 
you, 
for 
Professor 
Dippet 
was 
very 
fond 
of 
Voldemort 
and 
convinced 
of 
his 
honesty. 
But 
I 
did 
not 
want 
Lord 
Voldemort 
back at this school, and especially not in a position of power." 


"Which job did he want, sir? What subject did he want to teach?" 


Somehow, Harry knew the answer even before Dumbledore gave it. 


"Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts. 
It 
was 
being 
taught 
at 
the 
time 
by 
an 
old 
Professor 
by 
the 
name 
of 
Galatea Merrythought, who had been at Hogwarts for nearly fifty years. 

"So 
Voldemort 
went 
off 
to 
Borgin 
and 
Burkes, 
and 
all 
the 
staff 
who 
had 
admired 
him 
said 
what 
a 
waste 
it 
was, 
a 
brilliant 
young 
wizard 
like 
that, 
working 
in 
a 
shop. 
However, 
Voldemort 
was 
no 
mere 
assistant. 
Polite 
and 
handsome 
and 
clever, 
he 
was 
soon 
given 
particular 
jobs 
of 
the 
type 
that 
only 
exist 
in 
a 
place 
like 
Borgin 
and 
Burkes, 
which 
specializes, 
as 
you 
know, 
Harry, 
in 
objects 
with 
unusual 
and 
powerful 
properties. 
Voldemort 
was 
sent 
to 
persuade 
people 
to 
part 
with 
their 
treasures 
for 
sale 
by 
the 
partners, and he was, by all accounts, unusually gifted at doing this." 


"I'll bet he was," said Harry, unable to contain himself. 


"Well, 
quite," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
with 
a 
faint 
smile. 
"And 
now 
it 
is 
time 
to 
hear 
from 
Hokey 
the 
houseelf, 
who worked for a very old, very rich witch by the name of Hepzibah Smith." 


Dumbledore 
tapped 
a 
bottle 
with 
his 
wand, 
the 
cork 
flew 
out, 
and 
he 
tipped 
the 
swirling 
memory 
into 
the Pensieve, saying as he did so, "After you, Harry." 


Harry 
got 
to 
his 
feet 
and 
bent 
once 
more 
over 
the 
rippling 
silver 
contents 
of 
the 
stone 
basin 
until 
his 
face 
touched 
them. 
He 
tumbled 
through 
dark 
nothingness 
and 
landed 
in 
a 
sitting 
room 
in 
front 
of 
an 
immensely 
fat 
old 
lady 
wearing 
an 
elaborate 
ginger 
wig 
and 
a 
brilliant 
pink 
set 
of 
robes 
that 
flowed 
all 
around her, giving her the look of a melting iced cake. She was looking into a small jeweled mirror and 
dabbing 
rouge 
onto 
her 
already 
scarlet 
cheeks 
with 
a 
large 
powder 
puff, 
while 
the 
tiniest 
and 
oldest 
houseelf 
Harry had ever seen laced her fleshy feet into tight satin slippers. 


"Hurry 
up, 
Hokey!" 
said 
Hepzibah 
imperiously. 
"He 
said 
he'd 
come 
at 
four, 
it's 
only 
a 
couple 
of 
minutes to and he's never been late yet!" 


She 
tucked 
away 
her 
powder 
puff 
as 
the 
houseelf 
straightened 
up. 
The 
top 
of 
the 
elf's 
head 
barely 



reached 
the 
seat 
of 
Hepzibah's 
chair, 
and 
her 
papery 
skin 
hung 
off 
her 
frame 
just 
like 
the 
crisp 
linen 
sheet she wore draped like a toga. 

"How 
do 
I 
look?" 
said 
Hepzibah, 
turning 
her 
head 
to 
admire 
the 
various 
angles 
of 
her 
face 
in 
the 
mirror. 

"Lovely, madam," squeaked Hokey. 

Harry could 
only 
assume 
that 
it 
was 
down in 
Hokey’s 
contract 
that 
she 
must 
lie 
through her 
teeth when 
asked this question, because Hepzibah Smith looked a long way from lovely in his opinion. 


A tinkling doorbell rang and both mistress and elf jumped. 

"Quick, 
quick, 
he's 
here, 
Hokey!" 
cried 
Hepzibah 
and 
the 
elf 
scurried 
out 
of 
the 
room, 
which 
was 
so 
crammed 
with 
objects 
that 
it 
was 
difficult 
to 
see 
how 
anybody 
could 
navigate 
their 
way 
across 
it 
without 
knocking 
over 
at 
least 
a 
dozen 
things: 
There 
were 
cabinets 
full 
of 
little 
lacquered 
boxes, 
cases 
full 
of 
goldembossed 
books, 
shelves 
of 
orbs 
and 
celestial 
globes, 
and 
many 
flourishing 
potted 
plants 
in 
brass 
containers. 
In 
fact, 
the 
room 
looked 
like 
a 
cross 
between 
a 
magical 
antique 
shop 
and 
a 
conservatory. 

The 
houseelf 
returned 
within 
minutes, 
followed 
by 
a 
tall 
young 
man 
Harry 
had 
no 
difficulty 
whatsoever 
in 
recognizing 
as 
Voldemort. 
He 
was 
plainly 
dressed 
in 
a 
black 
suit; 
his 
hair 
was 
a 
little 
longer 
than 
it 
had 
been 
at 
school 
and 
his 
cheeks 
were 
hollowed, 
but 
all 
of 
this 
suited 
him; 
he 
looked 
more 
handsome 
than 
ever. 
He 
picked 
his 
way 
through 
the 
cramped 
room 
with 
an 
air 
that 
showed 
he 
had visited many times before and bowed low over Hepzibah's fat little hand, brushing it with his lips. 


"I brought you flowers," he said quietly, producing a bunch of roses from nowhere. 

"You 
naughty 
boy, 
you 
shouldn't 
have!" 
squealed 
old 
Hepzibah, 
though 
Harry 
noticed 
that 
she 
had 
an 
empty 
vase 
standing 
ready 
on 
the 
nearest 
little 
table. 
"You 
do 
spoil 
this 
old 
lady, 
Tom. 
... 
Sit 
down, 
sit 
down. . . . Where's Hokey? Ah ..." 


The 
houseelf 
had 
come 
dashing 
back 
into 
the 
room 
carrying 
a 
tray 
of 
little 
cakes, 
which 
she 
set 
at 
her 
mistress's elbow. 

"Help 
yourself, 
Tom," 
said 
Hepzibah, 
"I 
know 
how 
you 
love 
my 
cakes. 
Now, 
how 
are 
you? 
You 
look 
pale. They overwork you at that shop, I've said it a hundred times. ..." 


Voldemort smiled mechanically and Hepzibah simpered. .¦,! 


"Well, what's your excuse for visiting this time?" she asked, batring 
her lashes. 

"Mr. 
Burke 
would 
like 
to 
make 
an 
improved 
offer 
for 
the 
goblinmade 
armor," 
said 
Voldemort. 
"Five 
hundred Galleons, he feels it is a more than fair —" 

"Now, now, not so fast, or I’ll think you're only here for my trinkets!" pouted Hepzibah. 

"I 
am 
ordered 
here 
because 
of them," 
said 
Voldemort 
quietly. 
"I 
am 
only 
a 
poor 
assistant, 
madam, 
who 
must do as he is told. Mr. Burke wishes me to inquire —" 



"Oh, 
Mr. 
Burke, 
phooey!" 
said 
Hepzibah, 
waving 
a 
little 
hand. 
"I've 
something 
to 
show 
you 
that 
I've 
never 
shown 
Mr. 
Burke! 
Can 
you 
keep 
a 
secret, 
Tom? 
Will 
you 
promise 
you 
won't 
tell 
Mr. 
Burke 
I've 
got 
it? 
He'd 
never 
let 
me 
rest 
if 
he 
knew 
I'd 
shown 
it 
to 
you, 
and 
I'm 
not 
selling, 
not 
to 
Burke, 
not 
to 
anyone! But you, Tom, you'll appreciate it for its history, not how many Galleons you can get for it." 


"I'd 
be 
glad 
to 
see 
anything 
Miss 
Hepzibah 
shows 
me," 
said 
Voldemort 
quietly, 
and 
Hepzibah 
gave 
another girlish giggle. 


"I 
had 
Hokey 
bring 
it 
out 
for 
me 
. 
. 
. 
Hokey, 
where 
are 
you? 
I 
want 
to 
show 
Mr. 
Riddle 
our 
finest 
treasure. ... In fact, bring both, while you're at it. ..." 


"Here, 
madam," 
squeaked 
the 
houseelf, 
and 
Harry 
saw 
two 
leather 
boxes, 
one 
on 
top 
of 
the 
other, 
moving 
across 
the 
room 
as 
if 
of 
their 
own 
volition, 
though 
he 
knew 
the 
tiny 
elf 
was 
holding 
them 
over 
her head as she wended her way between tables, ***pouffes, and footstools. 


"Now," 
said 
Hepzibah 
happily, 
taking 
the 
boxes 
from 
the 
elf, 
laying 
them 
in 
her 
lap, 
and 
preparing 
to 
open 
the 
topmost 
one, 
"I 
think 
you'll 
like 
this, 
Tom. 
. 
. 
. 
Oh, 
if 
my 
family 
knew 
I 
was 
showing 
you. 
. 
. 
. 
They can't wait to get their hands on this!" 


She 
opened 
the 
lid. 
Harry 
edged 
forward 
a 
little 
to 
get 
a 
better 
view 
and 
saw 
what 
looked 
like 
a 
small 
golden cup with two finely wrought handles. 

"I 
wonder 
whether 
you 
know 
what 
it 
is, 
Tom? 
Pick 
it 
up, 
have 
a 
good 
look!" 
whispered 
Hepzibah, 
and 
Voldemort 
stretched 
out 
a 
longfingered 
hand 
and 
lifted 
the 
cup 
by 
one 
handle 
out 
of 
its 
snug 
silken 
wrappings. 
Harry 
thought 
he 
saw 
a 
red 
gleam 
in 
his 
dark 
eyes. 
His 
greedy 
expression 
was 
curiously 
mirrored 
on 
Hepzibah’s 
face, 
except 
that 
her 
tiny 
eyes 
were 
fixed 
upon 
Voldemort's 
handsome 
features. 

"A badger," murmured Voldemort, examining the engraving upon the cup. "Then this was . . . ?" 


"Helga 
Hufflepuff 
's, 
as 
you 
very 
well 
know, 
you 
clever 
boy!" 
said 
Hepzibah, 
leaning 
forward 
with 
a 
loud 
creaking 
of 
corsets 
and 
actually 
pinching 
his 
hollow 
cheek. 
"Didn't 
I 
tell 
you 
I 
was 
distantly 
descended? 
This 
has 
been 
handed 
down 
in 
the 
family 
for 
years 
and 
years. 
Lovely, 
isn't 
it? 
And 
all 
sorts 
of 
powers 
it's 
supposed 
to 
possess 
too, 
but 
I 
haven't 
tested 
them 
thoroughly, 
I 
just 
keep 
it 
nice 
and 
safe 
in here. . . ." 


She 
hooked 
the 
cup 
back 
off 
Voldemort's 
long 
forefinger 
and 
restored 
it 
gently 
to 
its 
box, 
too 
intent 
upon 
settling 
it 
carefully 
back 
into 
position 
to 
notice 
the 
shadow 
that 
crossed 
Voldemort's 
face 
as 
the 
cup was taken away. 

"Now 
then," 
said 
Hepzibah 
happily, 
"where’s 
Hokey? 
Oh 
yes, 
there 
you 
are 
— 
take 
that 
away 
now, 
Hokey." 


The 
elf 
obediently 
took 
the 
boxed 
cup, 
and 
Hepzibah 
turned 
her 
attention 
to 
the 
much 
flatter 
box 
in 
her 
lap. 

"I 
think 
you'll 
like 
this 
even 
more, 
Tom," 
she 
whispered. 
"Lean 
in 
a 
little, 
dear 
boy, 
so 
you 
can 
see. 
. 
. 
. 
Of 
course, 
Burke 
knows 
I've 
got 
this 
one, 
I 
bought 
it 
from 
him, 
and 
I 
daresay 
he'd 
love 
to 
get 
it 
back 



when I'm gone. ..." 


She 
slid 
back 
the 
fine 
filigree 
clasp 
and 
flipped 
open 
the 
box. 
There 
upon 
the 
smooth 
crimson 
velvet 
lay a heavy golden locket. 
Voldemort reached out his hand, without invitation this time, and held it up to the light, staring at it. 
"Slytherin's mark," he said quietly, as the light played upon an ornate, serpentine S. 
"That's 
right!" 
said 
Hepzibah, 
delighted, 
apparently, 
at 
the 
sight 
of 
Voldemort 
gazing 
at 
her 
locket, 


transfixed. 
"I 
had 
to 
pay 
an 
arm 
and 
a 
leg 
for 
it, 
but 
I 
couldn't 
let 
it 
pass, 
not 
a 
real 
treasure 
like 
that, 
had 
to 
have 
it 
for 
my 
collection. 
Burke 
bought 
it, 
apparently, 
from 
a 
raggedlooking 
woman 
who 
seemed to have stolen it, but had no idea of its true value —" 


There 
was 
no 
mistaking 
it 
this 
time: 
Voldemort's 
eyes 
flashed 
scarlet 
at 
the 
words, 
and 
Harry 
saw 
his 


knuckles whiten on the locket's chain. 
"— 
I 
daresay 
Burke 
paid 
her 
a 
pittance 
but 
there 
you 
are. 
. 
. 
. 
Pretty, 
isn't 
it? 
And 
again, 
all 
kinds 
of 
powers attributed to it, though I just keep it nice and safe. . . ." 


She 
reached 
out 
to 
take 
the 
locket 
back. 
For 
a 
moment, 
Harry 
thought 
Voldemort 
was 
not 
going 
to 
let 
go of it, but then it had slid through his fingers and was back in its red velvet cushion. 
“So there you are, Tom, clear, and I hope you enjoyed that!” 
She looked him full in the face and for the first time, Harry saw her foolish smile falter. 
"Are you all right, dear?" 


"Oh yes," said Voldemort quietly. "Yes, I'm very well. ..." 
“I 
thought 
— 
but 
a 
trick 
of 
the 
light, 
I 
suppose 
—" 
said 
Hepzibah, 
looking 
unnerved, 
and 
Harry 
guessed 
that 
she 
too 
had 
seen 
the 
momentary 
red 
gleam 
in 
Voldemort's 
eyes. 
"Here, 
Hokey, 
take 
these 
away and lock them up again. ... The usual enchantments..." 


"Time 
to 
leave, 
Harry," 
said 
Dumbledore 
quietly, 
and 
as 
the 
in 
tie 
elf 
bobbed 
away 
bearing 
the 
boxes, 
Dumbledore 
grasped Harry once 
again 
above 
the 
elbow 
and together 
they rose 
up through oblivion 
and 
back to Dumbledore's office. 


"Hepzibah 
Smith 
died 
two 
days 
after 
that 
little 
scene," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
resuming 
his 
seat 
and 
indicating 
that 
Harry 
should 
do 
the 
same. 
"Hokey 
the 
houseelf 
was 
convicted 
by 
the 
Ministry 
of 
poisoning her mistress's evening cocoa by accident." 


"No way!" said Harry angrily. 
"I 
see 
we 
are 
of 
one 
mind," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"Certainly, 
then 
are 
many 
similarities 
between 
this 
death 


and 
that 
of 
the 
Riddles. 
In 
both 
cases, 
somebody 
else 
took 
the 
blame, 
someone 
who 
had 
a 
clear 
memory of having caused the death —" "Hokey confessed?" 
"She 
remembered 
putting 
something 
in 
her 
mistress's 
cocoa 
that 
turned 
out 
not 
to 
be 
sugar, 
but 
a 
lethal 


and 
littleknown 
poison, 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"It 
was 
concluded 
that 
she 
had 
not 
meant 
to 
do 
it, 
but 
being 



old and confused —" 


"Voldemort 
modified her 
memory, just 
like 
he 
did with 
Morfin!" "Yes, that 
is 
my conclusion 
too," 
said 
Dumbledore. "And, just as with Morfin, the Ministry was predisposed to suspect Hokey —" 


"— 
because 
she 
was 
a 
houseelf," 
said 
Harry. 
He 
had 
rarely 
felt 
more 
in 
sympathy 
with 
the 
society 
Hermione 
had 
set 
up, 
S.P.E.W. 
"Precisely," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"She 
was 
old, 
she 
admitted 
to 
having 
tampered 
with 
the 
drink, 
and 
nobody 
at 
the 
Ministry 
bothered 
to 
inquire 
further. 
As 
in 
the 
case 
of 
Morfin, 
by 
the 
time 
I 
traced 
her 
and 
managed 
to 
extract 
this 
memory, 
her 
life 
was 
almost 
over 
— 
but 
her 
memory, 
of 
course, 
proves 
nothing 
except 
that 
Voldemort 
knew 
of 
the 
existence 
of 
the 
cup 
and 
the 
locket. 


"By 
the 
time 
Hokey 
was 
convicted, 
Hepzibah's 
family 
had 
realized 
that 
two 
of 
her 
greatest 
treasures 
were 
missing. 
It 
took 
them 
a 
while 
to 
be 
sure 
of 
this, 
for 
she 
had 
many 
hiding 
places, 
having 
always 
guarded 
her 
collection 
most 
jealously. 
But 
before 
they 
were 
sure 
beyond 
doubt 
that 
the 
cup 
and 
the 
locket 
were 
both 
gone, 
the 
assistant 
who 
had 
worked 
at 
Borgin 
and 
Burkes, 
the 
young 
man 
who 
had 
visited 
Hepzibah 
so 
regularly 
and 
charmed 
her 
so 
well, 
had 
resigned 
his 
post 
and 
vanished. 
His 
superiors 
had 
no 
idea 
where 
he 
had 
gone; 
they 
were 
as 
surprised 
as 
anyone 
at 
his 
disappearance. 
And 
that was the last that was seen or heard of Tom Riddle for a very long time. 

"Now," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
"if 
you 
don't 
mind, 
Harry, 
I 
want 
to 
pause 
once 
more 
to 
draw 
your 
attention 
to 
certain 
points 
of 
our 
story. 
Voldemort 
had 
committed 
another 
murder; 
whether 
it 
was 
his 
first 
since 
he 
killed 
the 
Riddles, 
I 
do 
not 
know, 
but 
I 
think 
it 
was. 
This 
time, 
as 
you 
will 
have 
seen, 
he 
killed 
not 
for 
revenge, 
but 
for 
gain. 
He 
wanted 
the 
two 
fabulous 
trophies 
that 
poor, 
besotted, 
old 
woman 
showed 
him. 
Just 
as 
he 
had 
once 
robbed 
the 
other 
children 
at 
his 
orphanage, 
just 
as 
he 
had 
stolen 
his 
Uncle 
Morfin’s ring, so he ran off now with Hepzibahs cup and locket." 


"But," 
said 
Harry, 
frowning, 
"it 
seems 
mad. 
. 
. 
. 
Risking 
everything, 
throwing 
away 
his 
job, 
just 
for 
those . . ." 


"Mad 
to 
you, 
perhaps, 
but 
not 
to 
Voldemort," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"I 
hope 
you 
will 
understand 
in 
due 
course 
exactly 
what 
those 
objects 
meant 
to 
him, 
Harry, 
but 
you 
must 
admit 
that 
it 
is 
not 
difficult 
to 
imagine 
that 
he 
saw 
the 
locket, 
at 
least, 
as 
rightfully 
his." 
"The 
locket 
maybe," 
said 
Harry, 
"but 
why 
take the cup as well?" 


"It 
had 
belonged 
to 
another 
of 
Hogwarts’s 
founders," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"I 
think 
he 
still 
felt 
a 
great 
pull 
toward 
the 
school 
and 
that 
he 
could 
not 
resist 
an 
object 
so 
steeped 
in 
Hogwarts 
history. 
There 
were 
other reasons, I think. ... I hope to be able to demonstrate them to you in due course. 

"And 
now 
for 
the 
very 
last 
recollection 
I 
have 
to 
show 
you, 
at 
least 
until 
you 
manage 
to 
retrieve 
Professor 
Slughorn's 
memory 
for 
us. 
Ten 
years 
separates 
Hokey’s 
memory 
and 
this 
one, 
ten 
years 
during 
which 
we 
can 
only 
guess 
at 
what 
Lord 
Voldemort 
was 
doing. 
. 
. 
." 
Harry 
got 
to 
his 
feet 
once 
more as Dumbledore emptied the last memory into the Pensieve. 

"Whose memory is it?" he asked. "Mine," said Dumbledore. 


And 
Harry 
dived 
after 
Dumbledore 
through 
the 
shifting 
silver 
mass, 
landing 
in 
the 
very 
office 
he 
had 
just 
left. 
There 
was 
Fawkes 
slumbering 
happily 
on 
his 
perch, 
and 
there 
behind 
the 
desk 
was 
Dumbledore, 
who 
looked 
very 
similar 
to 
the 
Dumbledore 
standing 
beside 
Harry, 
though 
both 
hands 
were 
whole 
and 
undamaged 
and 
his 
face 
was, 
perhaps, 
a 
little 
less 
lined. 
The 
one 
difference 
between 
the 
presentday 
office 
and 
this 
one 
was 
that 
it 
was 
snowing 
in 
the 
past; 
bluish 
flecks 
were 
drifting 
past 
the window in the dark and building up on the outside ledge. 

The 
younger 
Dumbledore 
seemed 
to 
be 
waiting 
for 
something, 
and 
sure 
enough, 
moments 
after 
their 
arrival, there was a knock on the door and he said, "Enter." 


Harry 
let 
out 
a 
hastily 
stifled 
gasp. 
Voldemort 
had 
entered 
the 
room. 
His 
features 
were 
not 
those 
Harry 
had 
seen 
emerge 
from 
the 
great 
stone 
cauldron 
almost 
two 
years 
ago: 
They 
were 
not 
as 
snakelike, 
the 
eyes 
were 
not 
yet 
scarlet, 
the 
face 
not 
yet 
masklike, 
and 
yet 
he 
was 
no 
longer 
handsome 
Tom 
Riddle. 
It 
was 
as 
though 
his 
features 
had 
been 
burned 
and 
blurred; 
they 
were 
waxy 
and 
oddly 
distorted, 
and 
the 
whites 
of 
the 
eyes 
now 
had 
a 
permanently 
bloody 
look, 
though 
the 
pupils 
were 
not 
yet 
the 
slits 
that 
Harry 
knew 
they 
would 
become. 
He 
was 
wearing 
a 
long 
black 
cloak, 
and 
his 
face 
was 
as 
pale 
as 
the 
snow glistening on his shoulders. 


The 
Dumbledore 
behind 
the 
desk 
showed 
no 
sign 
of 
surprise. 
Evidently 
this 
visit 
had 
been 
made 
by 
appointment. 


"Good evening, Tom," said Dumbledore easily. "Won't you sit down?" 


"Thank you," said Voldemort, and he took the seat to which Dumbledore had gestured — the very seat, 
by 
the 
looks 
of 
it, 
that 
Harry 
had 
just 
vacated 
in 
the 
present. 
"I 
heard 
that 
you 
had 
become 
headmaster," he said, and his voice was slightly higher and colder than it had been. "A worthy choice." 


"I am glad you approve," said Dumbledore, smiling. "May I offer you a drink?" 


"That would be welcome," said Voldemort. "I have come a long way." 


Dumbledore 
stood 
and 
swept 
over 
to 
the 
cabinet 
where 
he 
now 
kept 
the 
Pensieve, 
but 
which 
then 
was 
full 
of 
bottles. 
Having 
handed 
Voldemort 
a 
goblet 
of 
wine 
and 
poured 
one 
for 
himself, 
he 
returned 
to 
the seat behind his desk. . "So, Tom ... to what do I owe the pleasure?" 


Voldemort did not answer at once, but merely sipped his wine. 

"They do not call me 'Tom' anymore," he said. "These days, 1 am known as —" 


"I 
know 
what 
you 
are 
known 
as," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
smiling, 
pleasantly. 
"But 
to 
me, 
I'm 
afraid, 
you 
will 
always 
be 
Tom 
Riddle. 
It 
is 
one 
of 
the 
irritating 
things 
about 
old 
teachers. 
I 
am 
afraid 
that 
they 
never quite forget their charges' youthful beginnings." 


He 
raised 
his 
glass 
as 
though 
toasting 
Voldemort, 
whose 
face 
remained 
expressionless. 
Nevertheless, 
Harry 
felt 
the 
atmosphere 
in 
the 
room 
change 
subtly: 
Dumbledore's 
refusal 
to 
use 
Voldemort’s 
chosen 
name 
was 
a 
refusal 
to 
allow 
Voldemort 
to 
dictate 
the 
terms 
of 
the 
meeting, 
and 
Harry 
could 
tell 
that 
Voldemort took it as such. 


"I 
am 
surprised 
you 
have 
remained 
here 
so 
long," 
said 
Voldemort 
after 
a 
short 
pause. 
"I 
always 
wondered why a wizard such as yourself never wished to leave school." 


"Well," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
still 
smiling, 
"to 
a 
wizard 
such 
as 
myself, 
there 
can 
be 
nothing 
more 
important 
than 
passing 
on 
ancient 
skills, 
helping 
hone 
young 
minds. 
If 
I 
remember 
correctly, 
you 
once 
saw the attraction of teaching too." 


"I 
see 
it 
still," 
said 
Voldemort. 
"I 
merely 
wondered 
why 
you 
— 
who 
are 
so 
often 
asked 
for 
advice 
by 
the Ministry, and who have twice, I think, been offered the post of Minister —" 


"Three 
times 
at 
the 
last 
count, 
actually," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"But 
the 
Ministry 
never 
attracted 
me 
as 
a 
career. Again, something we have in common, I think." 


Voldemort 
inclined 
his 
head, 
unsmiling, 
and 
took 
another 
sip 
of 
wine. 
Dumbledore 
did 
not 
break 
the 
silence 
that 
stretched 
between 
them 
now, 
but 
waited, 
with 
a 
look 
of 
pleasant 
expectancy, 
for 
Voldemort to talk first. 


"I 
have 
returned," 
he 
said, 
after 
a 
little 
while, 
"later, 
perhaps, 
than 
Professor 
Dippet 
expected 
. 
. 
. 
but 
I 
have 
returned, 
nevertheless, 
to 
request 
again 
what 
he 
once 
told 
me 
I 
was 
too 
young 
to 
have. 
I 
have 
come 
to 
you 
to 
ask 
that 
you 
permit 
me 
to 
return 
to 
this 
castle, 
to 
teach. 
I 
think 
you 
must 
know 
that 
I 
have 
seen 
and 
done 
much 
since 
I 
left 
this 
place. 
I 
could 
show 
and 
tell 
your 
students 
things 
they 
can 
gain from no other wizard." 


Dumbledore considered Voldemort over the top of his own goblet for a while before speaking. 

"Yes, 
I 
certainly 
do 
know 
that 
you 
have 
seen 
and 
done 
much 
since 
leaving 
us," 
he 
said 
quietly. 
"Rumors of your doings have reached your old school, Tom. I should be sorry to believe half of them." 


Voldemort's 
expression 
remained impassive 
as 
he 
said, 
"Greatness 
inspires 
envy, envy engenders 
spite, 
spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore." 


"You call it 'greatness,' what you have been doing, do you?" asked Dumbledore delicately. 


"Certainly," 
said 
Voldemort, 
and 
his 
eyes 
seemed 
to 
burn 
red. 
"I 
have 
experimented; 
I 
have 
pushed 
the 
boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been pushed —" 


"Of 
some 
kinds 
of 
magic," 
Dumbledore 
corrected 
him 
quietly. 
"Of 
some. 
Of 
others, 
you 
remain 
. 
. 
. 
forgive me . . . woefully ignorant." 


For 
the 
first 
time, 
Voldemort 
smiled. 
It 
was 
a 
taut 
leer, 
an 
evil 
thing, 
more 
threatening 
than 
a 
look 
of 
rage. 

"The 
old 
argument," 
he 
said 
softly. 
"But 
nothing 
I 
have 
seen 
in 
the 
world 
has 
supported 
your 
famous 
pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic, Dumbledore." 


"Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places," suggested Dumbledore. 

"Well, 
then, 
what 
better 
place 
to 
start 
my 
fresh 
researches 
than 
here, 
at 
Hogwarts?" 
said 
Voldemort. 
"Will 
you 
let 
me 
return? 
Will 
you 
let 
me 
share 
my 
knowledge 
with 
your 
students? 
I 
place 
myself 
and 
my talents at your disposal. I am yours to command." 



Dumbledore 
raised 
his 
eyebrows. 
"And 
what 
will 
become 
of 
those 
whom 
you 
command? 
What 
will 


happen to those who call themselves — or so rumor has it — the Death Eaters?" 
Harry 
could 
tell 
that 
Voldemort 
had 
not 
expected 
Dumbledore 
to 
know 
this 
name; 
he 
saw 
Voldemort’s 
eyes flash red again and the slitlike nostrils flare. 


"My friends," he said, after a moment's pause, "will carry on without me, I am sure." 


"I 
am 
glad 
to 
hear 
that 
you 
consider 
them 
friends," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"I 
was 
under 
the 
impression 
that 
they are more in the order of servants." 
"You are mistaken," said Voldemort. 
"Then 
if 
I 
were 
to 
go 
to 
the 
Hog's 
Head 
tonight, 
I 
would 
not 
find 
a 
group 
of 
them 
— 
Nott, 
Rosier, 


Muldber, 
Dolohov 
— 
awaiting 
your 
return? 
Devoted 
friends 
indeed, 
to 
travel 
this 
far 
with 
you 
on 
a 


snowy night, merely to wish you luck as you attempted to secure a teaching post." 
There 
could 
be 
no 
doubt 
that 
Dumbledore's 
detailed 
knowledge 
of 
those 
with 
whom 
he 
was 
traveling 
was even less welcome to Voldemort; however, he rallied almost at once. 


"You are omniscient as ever, Dumbledore." 
"Oh no, merely friendly with the local barmen," said Dumbledore lightly. "Now, Tom . . ." 
Dumbledore 
set 
down 
his 
empty 
glass 
and 
drew 
himself 
up 
in 
his 
seat, 
the 
tips 
of 
his 
fingers 
together 


in a very characteristic gesture. 


"Let 
us 
speak 
openly. 
Why 
have 
you 
come 
here 
tonight, 
surrounded 
by 
henchmen, 
to 
request 
a 
job 
we 
both know you do not want?" 
Voldemort 
looked 
coldly 
surprised. 
"A 
job 
I 
do 
not 
want? 
On 
the 
contrary, 
Dumbledore, 
I 
want 
it 
very 


much." 


"Oh, 
you 
want 
to 
come 
back 
to 
Hogwarts, 
but 
you 
do 
not 
want 
to 
teach 
any 
more 
than 
you 
wanted 
to 
when you were eighteen. What is it you're after, Tom? Why not try an open request for once?" 
Voldemort sneered. "If you do not want to give me a job —" 
"Of 
course 
I 
don't," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"And 
I 
don't 
think 
for 
a 
moment 
you 
expected 
me 
to. 


Nevertheless, you came here, you asked, you must have had a purpose." 


Voldemort 
stood 
up. 
He 
looked 
less 
like 
Tom 
Riddle 
than 
ever, 
his 
features 
thick 
with 
rage. 
"This 
is 
your final word?" 
"It is," said Dumbledore, also standing. 
"Then we have nothing more to say to each other." 
"No, 
nothing," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
and 
a 
great 
sadness 
filled 
his 
face. 
"The 
time 
is 
long 
gone 
when 
I 


could 
frighten 
you 
with 
a 
burning 
wardrobe 
and 
force 
you 
to 
make 
repayment 
for 
your 
crimes. 
But 
I 
wish I could, Tom. ... I wish I could. . . ." 



For 
a 
second, 
Harry 
was 
on 
the 
verge 
of 
shouting 
a 
pointless 
warning: 
He 
was 
sure 
that 
Voldemort's 
hand 
had 
twitched 
toward 
his 
pocket 
and 
his 
wand; 
but 
then 
the 
moment 
had 
passed, 
Voldemort 
had 
turned away, the door was closing, and he was gone. 

Harry 
felt 
Dumbledore's 
hand 
close 
over 
his 
arm 
again 
and 
moments 
later, 
they 
were 
standing 
together 
on 
almost 
the 
same 
spot, 
but 
there 
was 
no 
snow 
building 
on 
the 
window 
ledge, 
and 
Dumbledore's 
hand 
was blackened and deadlooking 
once more. 

"Why?" 
said 
Harry 
at 
once, 
looking 
up 
into 
Dumbledore's 
face. 
"Why 
did 
he 
come 
back? 
Did 
you 
ever 
find out?" 


"I have ideas," said Dumbledore, "but no more than that." 


"What ideas, sir?" 


"I 
shall 
tell 
you, 
Harry, 
when 
you 
have 
retrieved 
that 
memory 
from 
Professor 
Slughorn," 
said 
Dumbledore. 

"When you have that last piece of the jigsaw, everything will, I hope, be clear ... to both of us." 

Harry 
was 
still 
burning 
with 
curiosity 
and 
even 
though 
Dumbledore 
had 
walked 
to 
the 
door 
and 
was 
holding it open for him, he did not move at once. 

"Was he after the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again, sir? He didn't say. ..." 


"Oh, 
he 
definitely 
wanted 
the 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts 
job," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"The 
aftermath 
of 
our 
little 
meeting 
proved 
that. 
You 
see, 
we 
have 
never 
been 
able 
to 
keep 
a 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts teacher for longer than a year since I refused the post to Lord Voldemort." 



Chapter 21 
The Unknowable 
Room 



Harry 
wracked 
his 
brains 
over 
the 
next 
week 
as 
to 
how 
he 
was 
to 
persuade 
Slughorn 
to 
hand 
over 
the 
true 
memory, 
but 
nothing 
in 
the 
nature 
of 
a 
brain 
wave 
occurred 
and 
he 
was 
reduced 
to 
doing 
what 
he 
did 
increasingly 
these 
days 
when 
at 
a 
loss: 
poring 
over 
his 
Potions 
book, 
hoping 
that 
the 
Prince 
would 
have scribbled something useful in a margin, as he had done so many times before. 

"You won't find anything in there," said Hermione firmly, late on Sunday evening. 

"Don't 
start, 
Hermione," 
said 
Harry. 
"If 
it 
hadn't 
been 
for 
the 
Prince, 
Ron 
wouldn't 
be 
sitting 
here 
now." 


"He would if you'd just listened to Snape in our first year," said Hermione dismissively. 


Harry 
ignored 
her. 
He 
had 
just 
found 
an 
incantation 
“Sectumsempra!" 
scrawled 
in 
a 
margin 
above 
the 
intriguing 
words 
"For 
enemies," 
and 
was 
itching 
to 
try 
it 
out, 
but 
thought 
it 
best 
not 
to 
in 
front 
of 
Hermione. 
Instead, 
he 
surreptitiously 
folded 
down 
the 
corner 
of 
the 
page. 
They 
were 
sitting 
beside 
the 
fire 
in 
the 
common 
room; 
the 
only 
other 
people 
awake 
were 
fellow 
sixth 
years. 
There 
had 
been 
a 
certain 
amount 
of 
excitement 
earlier 
when 
they 
had 
come 
back 
from 
dinner 
to 
find 
a 
new 
sign 
on 
the 
notice 
board 
that 
announced 
the 
date 
for 
their 
Apparition 
Test. 
Those 
who 
would 
be 
seventeen 
on 
or 
before 
the 
first 
test 
date, 
the 
twentyfirst 
of 
April, 
had 
the 
option 
of 
signing 
up 
for 
additional 
practice 
sessions, which would take place (heavily supervised) in Hogsmeade. 

Ron 
had 
panicked 
on 
reading 
this 
notice; 
he 
had 
still 
not 
managed 
to 
Apparate 
and 
feared 
he 
would 
not 
be 
ready 
for 
the 
test. 
Hermione, 
who 
had 
now 
achieved 
Apparition 
twice, 
was 
a 
little 
more 
confident, 
but 
Harry, 
who 
would 
not 
be 
seventeen 
for 
another 
four 
months, 
could 
not 
take 
the 
test 
whether 
ready 
or not. 


"At least you can Apparate, though!" said Ron tensely. "You'll have no trouble come July!" 


"I've 
only 
done 
it 
once," 
Harry 
reminded 
him; 
he 
had 
finally 
managed 
to 
disappear 
and 
rematerialize 
inside his hoop during their previous lesson. 



Having 
wasted 
a 
lot 
of 
time 
worrying 
aloud 
about 
Apparition, 
Ron 
was 
now 
struggling 
to 
finish 
a 
viciously 
difficult 
essay 
for 
Snape 
that 
Harry 
and 
Hermione 
had 
already 
completed. 
Harry 
fully 
expected 
to 
receive 
low 
marks 
on 
his, 
because 
he 
had 
disagreed 
with 
Snape 
on 
the 
best 
way 
to 
tackle 
dementors, but he did not care: Slughorns memory was the most important thing to him now. 

"I'm 
telling 
you, 
the 
stupid 
Prince 
isn't 
going 
to 
be 
able 
to 
help 
you 
with 
this, 
Harry!" 
said 
Hermione, 
more 
loudly. 
"There's 
only 
one 
way 
to 
force 
someone 
to 
do 
what 
you 
want, 
and 
that's 
the 
Imperius 
Curse, which is illegal —" 


"Yeah, 
I 
know 
that, 
thanks," 
said 
Harry, 
not 
looking 
up 
from 
the 
book. 
"That's 
why 
I'm 
looking 
for 
something 
different. 
Dumbledorf 
says 
Veritaserum 
won't 
do 
it, 
but 
there 
might 
be 
something 
else, 
a 
potion or a spell. . . ." 


"You're 
going 
about 
it 
the 
wrong 
way," 
said 
Hermione. 
"Only 
you 
can 
get 
the 
memory, 
Dumbledore 
says. 
That 
must 
mean 
you 
can 
persuade 
Slughorn 
where 
other 
people 
can’t. 
It's 
not 
a 
question 
of 
slipping him a potion, anyone could do that —" 

"How 
do 
you 
spell 
'belligerent'?" 
said 
Ron, 
shaking 
his 
quill 
very 
hard 
while 
staring 
at 
his 
parchment. 
"It can't be B — U — M —" 


"No, 
it 
isn't," 
said 
Hermione, 
pulling 
Ron's 
essay 
toward 
her. 
"And 
'augury' 
doesn't 
begin 
O 
— 
R 
— 
G 
either. What kind of quill are you using?" 


"It's one of Fred and George's SpellCheck 
ones, but I think the charm must be wearing off." 


"Yes, 
it 
must," 
said 
Hermione, 
pointing 
at 
the 
title 
of 
his 
essay, 
"because 
we 
were 
asked 
how 
we'd 
deal 
with 
dementors, 
not 
'Dugbogs', 
and 
I 
don't 
remember 
you 
changing 
your 
name 
to 
'Roonil 
Wazlib’ 
either." 


"Ah 
no!" 
said 
Ron, 
staring 
horrorstruck 
at 
the 
parchment. 
"Don't 
say 
I'll 
have 
to 
write 
the 
whole 
thing 
out again!" 


"It's okay, we can fix it," said Hermione, pulling the essay toward her and taking out her wand. 


"I 
love 
you, Hermione," 
said 
Ron, sinking 
back in 
his 
chair, rubbing his 
eyes 
wearily. 
Hermione 
turned 
faintly pink, but merely said, "Don't let Lavender hear you saying that." 


"1 won't," said Ron into his hands. "Or maybe I will, then she'll ditch me." 


"Why don't you ditch her if you want to finish it?" asked Harry. 

"You haven't ever chucked anyone, have you?" said Ron. "You and Cho just —" 


"Sort of fell apart, yeah," said Harry. 


"Wish 
that 
would 
happen 
with 
me 
and 
Lavender," 
said 
Ron 
gloomily, 
watching 
Hermione 
silently 
tapping 
each 
of 
his 
misspelled 
words 
with 
the 
end 
of 
her 
wand, 
so 
that 
they 
corrected 
themselves 
on 
the 
page. 
"But 
the 
more 
I 
hint 
I 
want 
to 
finish 
it, 
the 
tighter 
she 
holds 
on. 
It's 
like 
going 
out 
with 
the 
giant squid." 



"There," said Hermione, some twenty minutes later, handing back Ron's essay. 

"Thanks 
a 
million," 
said 
Ron. 
"Can 
I 
borrow 
your 
quill 
for 
the 
conclusion?" 
Harry, 
who 
had 
found 
nothing 
useful 
in 
the 
HalfBlood 
Prince's 
notes 
so 
far, 
looked 
around; 
the 
three 
of 
them 
were 
now 
the 
only 
ones 
left 
in 
the 
common 
room, 
Seamus 
having 
just 
gone 
up 
to 
bed 
cursing 
Snape 
and 
his 
essay. 
The 
only 
sounds 
were 
the 
crackling 
of the 
fire 
and 
Ron 
scratching 
out 
one 
last 
paragraph 
on 
dementors 
using Hermione's quill. Harry had just closed the HalfBlood 
Prince's book, yawning, when — 

Crack! 


Hermione 
let 
out 
a 
little 
shriek; 
Ron 
spilled 
ink 
all 
over 
his 
freshly 
completed 
essay, 
and 
Harry 
said, 
"Kreacher!" 


The 
houseelf 
bowed 
low 
and 
addressed 
his 
own 
gnarled 
toes. 
"Master 
said 
he 
wanted 
regular 
reports 
on what the Malfoy boy is doing, so Kreacher has come to give" 


Crack! 


Dobby 
appeared 
alongside 
Kreacher, 
his 
teacozy 
hat 
askew. 
"Dobby 
has 
been 
helping 
too, 
Harry 
Potter!" 
he 
squeaked, 
casting 
Kreacher 
a 
resentful 
look. 
"And 
Kreacher 
ought 
to 
tell 
Dobby 
when 
he 
is 
coming to see Harry Potter so they can make their reports together!" 


"What 
is 
this?" 
asked 
Hermione, 
still 
looking 
shocked 
by 
these 
sudden 
appearances. 
"What's 
going 
on, 
Harry?" 
Harry 
hesitated 
before 
answering, 
because 
he 
had 
not 
told 
Hermione 
about 
setting 
Kreacher 
and Dobby to tail Malfoy; houseelves 
were always such a touchy subject with her. 

"Well. . . they've been following Malfoy for me," he said. 


"Night and day," croaked Kreacher. 


"Dobby 
has 
not 
slept 
for 
a 
week, 
Harry 
Potter!" 
said 
Dobby 
proudly, 
swaying 
where 
he 
stood. 
Hermione looked indignant. 

"You haven't slept, Dobby? But surely, Harry, you didn't tell him not to —" 


"No, 
of 
course 
I 
didn't," 
said 
Harry 
quickly. 
"Dobby, 
you 
can 
sleep, 
all 
right? 
But 
has 
either 
of 
you 
found out anything?" he hastened to ask, before Hermione could intervene again. 


"Master 
Malfoy 
moves 
with 
a 
nobility 
that 
befits 
his 
pure 
blood," 
croaked 
Kreacher 
at 
once. 
"His 
features recall the fine bones of my mistress and his manners are those of—" 


"Draco 
Malfoy 
is 
a 
bad 
boy!" 
squeaked 
Dobby 
angrily. 
"A 
bad 
boy 
who 
— 
who 
—" 
He 
shuddered 
from 
the 
tassel 
of 
his 
tea 
cozy 
to 
the 
toes 
of 
his 
socks 
and 
then 
ran 
at 
the 
fire, 
as 
though 
about 
to 
dive 
into 
it. 
Harry, 
to 
whom 
this 
was 
not 
entirely 
unexpected, 
caught 
him 
around 
the 
middle 
and 
held 
him 
fast. For a few seconds Dobby struggled, then went limp. 


"Thank 
you, 
Harry 
Potter," 
he 
panted. 
"Dobby 
still 
finds 
it 
difficult 
to 
speak 
ill 
of 
his 
old 
masters." 
Harry 
released 
him; 
Dobby 
straightened 
his 
tea 
cozy 
and 
said 
defiantly 
to 
Kreacher, 
"But 
Kreacher 
should know that Draco Malfoy is not a good master to a houseelf!" 



"Yeah, 
we 
don't 
need 
to 
hear 
about 
you 
being 
in 
love 
with 
Malfoy," 
Harry 
told 
Kreacher. 
"Let's 
fast 
forward to where he's actually been going." 


Kreacher 
bowed 
again, 
looking 
furious, 
and 
then 
said, 
"Master 
Malfoy 
eats 
in 
the 
Great 
Hall, 
he 
sleeps 
in a dormitory in the dungeons, he attends his classes in a variety of—" 


"Dobby, 
you 
tell 
me," 
said 
Harry, 
cutting 
across 
Kreacher. 
"Has 
he 
been 
going 
anywhere 
he 
shouldn't 
have?" 


"Harry 
Potter, 
sir," 
squeaked 
Dobby, 
his 
great 
orblike 
eyes 
shining 
in 
the 
firelight, 
"the 
Malfoy 
boy 
is 
breaking 
no 
rules 
that 
Dobby 
can 
discover, 
but 
he 
is 
still 
keen 
to 
avoid 
detection. 
He 
has 
been 
making 
regular 
visits 
to 
the 
seventh 
floor 
with 
a 
variety 
of 
other 
students, 
who 
keep 
watch 
for 
him 
while 
he 
enters —" 

"The 
Room 
of 
Requirement!" 
said 
Harry, 
smacking 
himself 
hard 
on 
the 
forehead 
with 
Advanced 
PotionMaking. 
Hermione and Ron stared at him. "That's where he's been sneaking off to! That's where 
he's 
doing… 
whatever 
he's 
doing! 
And 
I 
bet 
that's 
why 
he's 
been 
disappearing 
off 
the 
map 
— 
come 
to 
think of it, I've never seen the Room of Requirement on there!" 


"Maybe the Marauders never knew the room was there," said Ron. 

"I 
think 
it'll 
be 
part 
of 
the 
magic 
of 
the 
room," 
said 
Hermione. 
"If 
you 
need 
it 
to 
be 
unplottable, 
it 
will 
be." 


"Dobby, have you managed to get in to have a look at what Malfoy's doing?" said Harry eagerly. 


"No, Harry Potter, that is impossible," said Dobby. 

"No, it's 
not," 
said Harry at 
once. "Malfoy 
got 
into 
our 
headquarters 
there 
last 
year, so I'll 
be 
able 
to get 
in and spy on him, no problem." 


"But 
I 
don't 
think 
you 
will, 
Harry," 
said 
Hermione 
slowly. 
"Malfoy 
already 
knew 
exactly 
how 
we 
were 
using 
the 
room, 
didn't 
he, 
because 
that 
stupid 
Marietta 
had 
blabbed. 
He 
needed 
the 
room 
to 
become 
the 
headquarters 
of 
the 
D.A., 
so 
it 
did. 
But 
you 
don't 
know 
what 
the 
room 
becomes 
when 
Malfoy 
goes 
in 
there, so you don't know what to ask it to transform into." 


"There'll be a way around that," said Harry dismissively. "You've done brilliantly, Dobby." 


"Kreachers 
done 
well 
too," 
said 
Hermione 
kindly; 
but 
far 
from 
looking 
grateful, 
Kreacher 
averted 
his 
huge, bloodshot eyes and croaked at the ceiling, "The Mudblood is speaking to Kreacher, Kreacher will 
pretend he cannot hear —" 


"Get 
out 
of 
it," 
Harry 
snapped 
at 
him, 
and 
Kreacher 
made 
one 
last 
deep 
bow 
and 
Disapparated. 
"You'd 
better go and get some sleep too, Dobby." 


"Thank you, Harry Potter, sir!" squeaked Dobby happily, and he too vanished. 

"How 
good 
is 
this?" 
said 
Harry 
enthusiastically, 
turning 
to 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
the 
moment 
the 
room 
was elffree 
again. "We know where Malfoy's going! We've got him cornered now!" 



"Yeah, 
it's 
great," 
said 
Ron 
glumly, 
who 
was 
attempting 
to 
mop 
up 
the 
sodden 
mass 
of 
ink 
chat 
had 
recently 
been 
an 
almost 
completed 
essay. 
Hermione 
pulled 
it 
toward 
her 
and 
began 
siphoning 
the 
ink 
off with her wand. 

"But 
what's 
all 
this 
about 
him 
going 
up 
there 
with 
a 
variety 
of 
students'?" 
said 
Hermione. 
"How 
many 
people are in on it? You wouldn't think he'd trust lots of them to know what he's doing" 


"Yeah, 
that 
is 
weird," 
said 
Harry, 
frowning. 
"I 
heard 
him 
telling 
Crabbe 
it 
wasn't 
Crabbe's 
business 
what 
he 
was 
doing... 
so 
what's 
he 
telling 
all 
these... 
all 
these..." 
Harry's 
voice 
tailed 
away; 
he 
was 
staring 
at 
the 
fire. 
"God, 
I've 
been 
stupid," 
he 
said 
quietly. 
"Its 
obvious, 
isn't 
it? 
There 
was 
a 
great 
vat 
of it down in the dungeon. . . . He could’ve nicked some any time during that lesson. . . ." 


"Nicked what?" said Ron. 


"Polyjuice 
Potion. 
He 
stole 
some 
of 
the 
Polyjuice 
Potion 
Slughorn 
showed 
us 
in 
our 
first 
Potions 
lesson… 
There 
aren't 
a 
whole 
variety 
of 
students 
standing 
guard 
for 
Malfoy… 
it's 
just 
Crabbe 
and 
Goyle 
as 
usual. 
…Yeah, 
it 
all 
fits!" 
said 
Harry, 
jumping 
up 
and 
starting 
to 
pace 
in 
front 
of 
the 
fire. 
"They're 
stupid 
enough 
to 
do 
what 
they're 
told 
even 
if 
he 
won't 
tell 
them 
what 
he's 
up 
to, 
but 
he 
doesn't 
want 
them 
to 
be 
seen 
lurking 
around 
outside 
the 
Room 
of 
Requirement, 
so 
he's 
got 
them 
taking 
Polyjuice 
to 
make 
them 
look 
like 
other 
people… 
Those 
two 
girls 
I 
saw 
him 
with 
when 
he 
missed 
Quidditch — ha! Crabbe and Goyle!" 


“Do 
you 
mean 
to 
say," 
said 
Hermione 
in 
a 
hushed 
voice, 
"that 
that 
little 
girl 
whose 
scales 
I 
repaired 


— ?" 
"Yeah, 
of 
course!" 
said 
Harry 
loudly, 
staring 
at 
her. 
"Of 
course! 
Malfoy 
must've 
been 
inside 
the 
room 
at 
the 
time, so she 
— what 
am 
I talking 
about? 
— he 
dropped the 
scales 
to tell 
Malfoy not 
to 
corne 
out, 
because 
there 
was 
someone 
there! 
And 
there 
was 
that 
girl 
who 
dropped 
the 
toadspawn 
too! 
We've 
been 
walking past him all the time and not realizing it!" 


"He's 
got 
Crabbe 
and 
Goyle 
transforming 
into 
girls?" 
guffawed 
Ron. 
"Blimey… 
no 
wonder 
they 
don't 
look too happy these days. I'm surprised they don't tell him to stuff it." 


"Well, they wouldn't, would they, if he's shown them his Dark Mark?" said Harry. 

"Hmmm... 
the 
Dark 
Mark 
we 
don't 
know 
exists," 
said 
Hermione 
skeptically, 
rolling 
up 
Ron's 
dried 
essay before it could come to any more harm and handing it to him. 


"We'll see” said Harry confidently. 


"Yes, 
we 
will," 
Hermione 
said, 
getting 
to 
her 
feet 
and 
stretching. 
"But, 
Harry, 
before 
you 
get 
all 
excited, 
I 
still 
don't 
think 
you'll 
be 
able 
to 
get 
into 
the 
Room 
of 
Requirement 
without 
knowing 
what's 
there 
first'. 
And 
I 
don't 
think 
you 
should 
forget" 
— 
she 
heaved 
her 
bag 
onto 
her 
shoulder 
and 
gave 
him 
a 
very 
serious 
look 
— 
"that 
what 
you're 
supposed 
to 
be 
concentrating 
on 
is 
getting 
that 
memory 
from 
Slughorn. Good night." 


Harry 
watched 
her 
go, 
feeling 
slightly 
disgruntled. 
Once 
the 
door 
to 
the 
girls' 
dormitories 
had 
closed 
behind her he rounded on Ron. "What d'you think?" 



"Wish 
I 
could 
Disapparate 
like 
a 
houseelf," 
said 
Ron, 
staring 
at 
the 
spot 
where 
Dobby 
had 
vanished. 
"I'd have that Apparition Test in the bag." 


Harry 
did 
not 
sleep 
well 
that 
night. 
He 
lay 
awake 
for 
what 
felt 
like 
hours, 
wondering 
how 
Malfoy 
was 
using 
the 
Room 
of 
Requirement 
and 
what 
he, 
Harry, 
would 
see 
when 
he 
went 
in 
there 
the 
following 
day, 
for 
whatever 
Hermione 
said, 
Harry 
was 
sure 
that 
if 
Malfoy 
had=
been 
able 
to 
see 
the 
headquarters 
of 
the 
D.A., 
he 
would 
be 
able 
to 
see 
Malfoy's, 
what 
could 
it 
be? 
A 
meeting 
place? 
A 
hideout? 
A 
ston 
room? 
A 
workshop? 
Harrys 
mind 
worked 
feverishly 
and 
his 
dreams, 
when 
he 
finally 
fell 
asleep, 
were 
broken 
and 
disturbed 
by 
images 
of 
Malfoy, 
who 
turned 
into 
Slughorn, 
who 
turned 
into Snape… 

Harry 
was 
in 
a 
state 
of 
great 
anticipation 
over 
breakfast 
the 
following 
morning; 
he 
had 
a 
free 
period 
before 
Defense 
Against 
the 
Dark 
Arts 
and 
was 
determined 
to 
spend 
it 
trying 
to 
get 
into 
the 
Room 
of 
Requirement. 
Hermione 
was 
rather 
ostentatiously 
showing 
no 
interest 
in 
his 
whispered 
plans 
for 
forcing 
entry 
into 
the 
room, 
which 
irritated 
Harry, 
because 
he 
thought 
she 
might 
be 
a 
lot 
of 
help 
if 
she 
wanted to. 

"Look," 
he 
said 
quietly, 
leaning 
forward 
and 
putting 
a 
hand 
on 
the 
Daily 
Prophet, 
which 
she 
had 
just 
removed 
from 
a 
post 
owl, 
to 
stop 
her 
from 
opening 
it 
and 
vanishing 
behind 
it. 
"I 
haven't 
forgotten 
about 
Slughorn, 
but 
I 
haven't 
got 
a 
clue 
how 
to 
get 
that 
memory 
off 
him, 
and 
until 
I 
get 
a 
brain 
wave 
why shouldn't I find out what Malfoy's doing?" 


"I've 
already 
told 
you, 
you 
need 
to 
persuade 
Slughorn," 
said 
Hermione. 
"It's 
not 
a 
question 
of 
tricking 
him 
or 
bewitching 
him, 
or 
Dumbledore 
could 
have 
done 
it 
in 
a 
second. 
Instead 
of 
messing 
around 
outside 
the 
Room 
of 
Requirement" 
— she 
jerked the 
Prophet 
out 
from 
under 
Harrys 
hand and unfolded 
it 
to 
look 
at 
the 
front 
page 
— 
"you 
should 
go 
and 
find 
Slughorn 
and 
start 
appealing 
to 
his 
better 
nature." 


"Anyone we know — ?" asked Ron, as Hermione scanned the headlines. 


"Yes!" 
said 
Hermione, 
causing 
both 
Harry 
and 
Ron 
to 
gag 
on 
their 
breakfast. 
"But 
it's 
all 
right, 
he's 
not 
dead 
— 
its 
Mundungus, 
he's 
been 
arrested 
and 
sent 
to 
Azkaban! 
Something 
to 
do 
with 
impersonating 
an 
Inferius 
during 
an 
attempted 
burglary, 
and 
someone 
called 
Octavius 
Pepper 
has 
vanished. 
Oh, 
and 
how 
horrible, 
a 
nineyearold 
boy 
has 
been 
arrested 
for 
trying 
to 
kill 
his 
grandparents, 
they 
think 
he 
was under the Imperius Curse." 


They 
finished 
their 
breakfast 
in 
silence. 
Hermione 
set 
off 
immediately 
for 
Ancient 
Runes; 
Ron 
for 
the 
common room, where he still had to finish his conclusion on Snape's dementor essay, and Harry for the 
corridor 
on 
the 
seventh 
floor 
and 
the 
stretch 
of 
wall 
opposite 
the 
tapestry 
of 
Barnabas 
the 
Barmy 
teaching trolls to do ballet. 


Harry 
slipped 
on 
his 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
once 
he 
had 
found 
an 
empty 
passage, 
but 
he 
need 
not 
have 
bothered. 
When 
he 
reached 
his 
destination 
he 
found 
it 
deserted. 
Harry 
was 
not 
sure 
whether 
his 
chances 
of 
getting 
inside 
the 
room 
were 
better 
with 
Malfoy 
inside 
it 
or 
out, 
but 
at 
least 
his 
first 
attempt 
was 
not 
going 
to 
be 
complicated 
by 
the 
presence 
of 
Crabbe 
or 
Goyle 
pretending 
to 
be 
an 
elevenyearold 
girl. 


He 
closed 
his 
eyes 
as 
he 
approached 
the 
place 
where 
the 
Room 
of 
Requirement's 
door 
was 
concealed. 
He 
knew 
what 
he 
had 
to 
do; 
he 
had 
become 
most 
accomplished 
at 
it 
last 
year. 
Concentrating 
with 
all 
his 
might 
he 
thought, 
“I 
need 
to 
see 
what 
Malfoy's 
doing 
in 
here... 
I 
need 
to 
see 
what 
Malfoy's 
doing 
in 
here... I need to see what Malfoy's doing in here...” 


Three 
times 
he 
walked 
past 
the 
door; 
then, 
his 
heart 
pounding 
with 
excitement, 
he 
opened 
his 
eyes 
and 
faced it 
— but 
he 
was 
still 
looking 
at 
a 
stretch of 
mundanely 
blank wall. 
He 
moved forward and gave 
it 
an experimental push. The stone remained solid and unyielding. 


"Okay," said Harry aloud. "Okay... I thought the wrong thing..." He pondered for a moment then set off 
again, 
eyes 
closed, 
concentrating 
as 
hard 
as 
he 
could. 
“I 
need 
to 
see 
the 
place 
where 
Malfoy 
keeps 
coming 
secretly... 
I 
need 
to 
see 
the 
place 
where 
Malfoy 
keeps 
coming 
secretly...” 
After 
three 
walks 
past, he opened his eyes expectantly. 


There was no door. 


"Oh, 
come 
off 
it," 
he 
told 
the 
wall 
irritably. 
"That 
was 
a 
clear 
instruction. 
Fine." 
He 
thought 
hard 
for 
several 
minutes 
before 
striding 
off 
once 
more. 
“I 
need 
you 
to 
become 
the 
place 
you 
become 
for 
Draco 
Malfoy...” 


He 
did 
not 
immediately 
open 
his 
eyes 
when 
he 
had 
finished 
his 
patrolling; 
he 
was 
listening 
hard, 
as 
though 
he 
might 
hear 
the 
door 
pop 
into 
existence. 
He 
heard 
nothing, 
however, 
except 
the 
distant 
twittering of birds outside. He opened his eyes. 

There was still no door. 


Harry 
swore. 
Someone 
screamed. 
He 
looked 
around 
to 
see 
a 
gaggle 
of 
first 
years 
running 
back 
around 
the 
corner, 
apparently 
under 
the 
impression 
that 
they 
had 
just 
encountered 
a 
particularly 
foulmouthed 
ghost. 


Harry 
tried 
every 
variation 
of 
"I 
need 
to 
see 
what 
Draco 
Malfoy 
is 
doing 
inside 
you" 
that 
he 
could 
think 
of 
for 
a 
whole 
hour, 
at 
the 
end 
of 
which 
he 
was 
forced 
to 
concede 
that 
Hermione 
might 
have 
had 
a 
point: 
The 
room 
simply 
did 
not 
want 
to 
open 
for 
him. 
Frustrated 
and 
annoyed, 
he 
set 
off 
for 
Defense 
Against the Dark Arts, pulling off his Invisibility Cloak and stuffing it into his bag as he went. 


"Late 
again, 
Potter," 
said 
Snape 
coldly, 
as 
Harry 
hurried 
into 
the 
candlelit 
classroom. 
"Ten 
points 
from 
Gryfrindor." 
Harry 
scowled 
at 
Snape 
as 
he 
flung 
himself 
into 
the 
seat 
beside 
Ron. 
Half 
the 
class 
were 
still 
on 
their 
feet, 
taking 
out 
books 
and 
organizing 
their 
things; 
he 
could 
not 
be 
much 
later 
than 
any 
of 
them. 

"Before 
we 
start, 
I 
want 
your 
dementor 
essays," 
said 
Snape, 
waving 
his 
wand 
carelessly, 
so 
that 



twentyfive 
scrolls 
of 
parchment 
soared 
into 
the 
air 
and 
landed 
in 
a 
neat 
pile 
on 
his 
desk. 
"And 
I 
hope 
for 
your 
sakes 
they 
are 
better 
than 
the 
tripe 
I 
had 
to 
endure 
on 
resisting 
the 
Imperius 
Curse. 
Now, 
if 
you will all open your books to page — what is it, Mr. Finnigan?" 


"Sir," 
said 
Seamus, 
"I've 
been 
wondering, 
how 
do 
you 
tell 
the 
difference 
between 
an 
Inferius 
and 
a 
ghost? Because there was something in the paper about an Inferius —" 


"No, there wasn't," said Snape in a bored voice. 

"But sir, I heard people talking —" 


"If 
you 
had 
actually 
read 
the 
article 
in 
question, 
Mr. 
Finnigan, 
you 
would 
have 
known 
that 
the 
socalled 
Inferius was nothing but a smelly sneak thief by the name of Mundungus Fletcher." 


"I 
thought 
Snape 
and 
Mundungus 
were 
on 
the 
same 
side," 
muttered 
Harry 
to 
Ron 
and 
Hermione. 
"Shouldn't he be upset Mundungus has been arrest —" 


"But 
Potter 
seems 
to 
have 
a 
lot 
to 
say 
on 
the 
subject," 
said 
Snape, 
pointing 
suddenly 
at 
the 
back 
of 
the 
room, 
his 
black 
eyes 
fixed 
on 
Harry. 
"Let 
us 
ask 
Potter 
how 
we 
would 
tell 
the 
difference 
between 
an 
Inferius and a ghost." 


The 
whole 
class 
looked 
around 
at 
Harry, 
who 
hastily 
tried 
to 
recall 
what 
Dumbledore 
had 
told 
him 
the 
night that they had gone to visit Slughorn. "Er — well — ghosts are transparent —" he said. 

"Oh, 
very 
good," 
interrupted 
Snape, 
his 
lip 
curling. 
"Yes, 
it 
in 
easy 
to 
see 
that 
nearly 
six 
years 
of 
magical education have not been wasted on you, Potter. 'Ghosts are transparent."' 


Pansy 
Parkinson 
let 
out 
a 
highpitched 
giggle. 
Several 
other 
people 
were 
smirking. 
Harry 
took 
a 
deep 
breath 
and 
continued 
calmly, 
though 
his 
insides 
were 
boiling, 
"Yeah, 
ghosts 
are 
transparent, 
but 
Inferi 
are dead bodies, aren't they? So they'd be solid —" 


"A 
fiveyearold 
could 
have 
told 
us 
as 
much," 
sneered 
Snape. 
"The 
Inferius 
is 
a 
corpse 
that 
has 
been 
reanimated 
by 
a 
Dark 
wizard's 
spells. 
It 
is 
not 
alive, 
it 
is 
merely 
used 
like 
a 
puppet 
to 
do 
the 
wizard's 
bidding. 
A 
ghost, 
as 
I trust 
that 
you are 
all 
aware 
by now, is 
the 
imprint 
of 
a 
departed soul 
left 
upon the 
earth, and of course, as Potter so wisely tells us, transparent. " 


"Well, 
what 
Harry 
said 
is 
the 
most 
useful 
if 
we're 
trying 
to 
tell 
them 
apart!" 
said 
Ron. 
"When 
we 
come 
facetoface 
with 
one 
down 
a 
dark 
alley, 
we're 
going 
to 
be 
having 
a 
look 
to 
see 
if 
its 
solid, 
aren't 
we, 
we're 
not 
going 
to 
be 
asking, 
'Excuse 
me, 
are 
you 
the 
imprint 
of 
a 
departed 
soul?'" 
There 
was 
a 
ripple 
of laughter, instantly quelled by the look Snape gave the class. 


"Another 
ten 
points 
from 
Gryffindor," 
said 
Snape. 
"I 
would 
expect 
nothing 
more 
sophisticated 
from 
you, Ronald Weasley, the boy so solid he cannot Apparate half an inch across a room." 


"No!" 
whispered 
Hermione, 
grabbing 
Harrys 
arm 
as 
he 
opened 
his 
mouth 
furiously. 
"There's 
no 
point, 
you'll just end up in detention again, leave it!" 


"Now 
open 
your 
books 
to 
page 
two 
hundred 
and 
thirteen," 
said 
Snape, 
smirking 
a 
little, 
"and 
read 
the 
first two paragraphs on the Cruciatus Curse." 



Ron 
was 
very 
subdued 
all 
through 
the 
class. 
When 
the 
bell 
sounded 
at 
the 
end 
of 
the 
lesson, 
Lavender 
caught 
up 
with 
Ron 
and 
Harry 
(Hermione 
mysteriously 
melted 
out 
of 
sight 
as 
she 
approached) 
and 
abused 
Snape 
hotly 
for 
his 
jibe 
about 
Ron's 
Apparition, 
but 
this 
seemed 
to 
merely 
irritate 
Ron, 
and 
he 
shook her off by making a detour into the boys' bathroom with Harry. 

"Snape's 
right, 
though, 
isn't 
he?" 
said 
Ron, 
after 
staring 
into 
a 
cracked 
mirror 
for 
a 
minute 
or 
two. 
"I 
dunno whether it's worth me taking the test. I just can't get the hang of Apparition." 


"You 
might 
as 
well 
do 
the 
extra 
practice 
sessions 
in 
Hogsmeade 
and 
see 
where 
they 
get 
you," 
said 
Harry 
reasonably. 
"It'll 
be 
more 
interesting 
than 
trying 
to 
get 
into 
a 
stupid 
hoop 
anyway. 
Then, 
if 
you're 
still 
not 
— 
you 
know 
— 
as 
good 
as 
you'd 
like 
to 
be, 
you 
can 
postpone 
the 
test, 
do 
it 
with 
me 
over the summer — Myrtle, this is the boys' bathroom!" 


The 
ghost 
of 
a 
girl 
had 
risen 
out 
of 
the 
toilet 
in 
a 
cubicle 
behind 
them 
and 
was 
now 
floating 
in 
midair, 
staring at them through thick, white, round glasses. "Oh," she said glumly. "It's you two." 


"Who were you expecting?" said Ron, looking at her in the mirror. 


"Nobody," said Myrtle, picking moodily at a spot on her chin. "He said he'd come back and see me, but 
then 
you 
said 
you'd 
pop 
in 
and 
visit 
me 
too" 
— 
she 
gave 
Harry 
a 
reproachful 
look 
— 
"and 
I 
haven't 
seen you for months and months. I've learned not to expect too much from boys." 


"I 
thought 
you 
lived 
in 
that 
girls' 
bathroom?" 
said 
Harry, 
who 
had 
been 
careful 
to 
give 
the 
place 
a 
wide 
berth for some years now. 

"I 
do," 
she 
said, 
with 
a 
sulky 
little 
shrug, 
"but 
that 
doesn't 
mean 
I 
cant 
visit 
other 
places. 
I 
came 
and 
saw you in your bath once, remember?" 


"Vividly," said Harry. 


"But 
I 
thought 
he 
liked 
me," 
she 
said 
plaintively. 
"Maybe 
if 
you 
two 
left, 
he'd 
come 
back 
again. 
We 
had lots in common. I'm sure he felt it." 


And 
she 
looked 
hopefully 
toward 
the 
door. 
"When 
you 
say 
you 
had 
lots 
in 
common," 
said 
Ron, 
sounding rather amused now, "d'you mean he lives in an Sbend 
too?" 


"No," 
said 
Myrtle 
defiantly, 
her 
voice 
echoing 
loudly 
around 
the 
old 
tiled 
bathroom. 
"I 
mean 
he's 
sensitive, people bully him too, and he feels lonely and hasn't got anybody to talk to, and he's not afraid 
to show his feelings and cry!" 


"There's been a boy in here crying?" said Harry curiously. "A young boy?" 


"Never 
you 
mind!" 
said 
Myrtle, 
her 
small, 
leaky 
eyes 
fixed 
on 
Ron, 
who 
was 
now 
definitely 
grinning. 
"I promised I wouldn't tell anyone, and I'll take his secret to the —" 

"— 
not 
the 
grave, 
surely?" 
said 
Ron 
with 
a 
snort. 
"The 
sewers, 
maybe." 
Myrtle 
gave 
a 
howl 
of 
rage 
and 
dived 
back 
into 
the 
toilet, 
causing 
water 
to 
slop 
over 
the 
sides 
and 
onto 
the 
floor. 
Goading 
Myrtle 
seemed 
to 
have 
put 
fresh 
heart 
into 
Ron. 
"You're 
right," 
he 
said, 
swinging 
his 
schoolbag 
back 
over 
his 
shoulder, "I'll do the practice sessions in Hogsmeade before I decide about taking the test." 



And 
so 
the 
following 
weekend, 
Ron 
joined 
Hermione 
and 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
sixth 
years 
who 
would 
turn 
seventeen 
in 
time 
to 
take 
the 
test 
in 
a 
fortnight. 
Harry 
felt 
rather 
jealous 
watching 
them 
all 
get 
ready 
to 
go 
into 
the 
village; 
he 
missed 
making 
trips 
there, 
and 
it 
was 
a 
particularly 
fine 
spring 
day, 
one 
of 
the 
first 
clear 
skies 
they 
had 
seen 
in 
a 
long 
time. 
However, 
he 
had 
decided 
to 
use 
the 
time 
to 
attempt 
another assault on the Room of Requirement. 


"You'd 
do 
better," 
said 
Hermione, 
when 
he 
confided 
this 
plan 
to 
Ron 
and 
her 
in 
the 
entrance 
hall, 
"to 
go straight to Slughorn's office and try and get that memory from him." 


"I've 
been 
trying!" 
said 
Harry 
crossly, 
which 
was 
perfectly 
true. 
He 
had 
lagged 
behind 
after 
every 
Potions 
lesson 
that 
week 
in 
an 
attempt 
to 
corner 
Slughorn, 
but 
the 
Potions 
master 
always 
left 
the 
dungeon 
so 
fast 
that 
Harry 
had 
not 
been 
able 
to 
catch 
him. 
Twice, 
Harry 
had 
gone 
to 
his 
office 
and 
knocked, 
but 
received 
no 
reply, 
though 
on 
the 
second 
occasion 
he 
was 
sure 
he 
had 
heard 
the 
quickly 
stifled sounds of an old gramophone. 

"He 
doesn't 
want 
to talk 
to me, Hermione! He 
can tell 
I've 
been trying to 
get 
him 
on his 
own again, and 
he's not going to let it happen!” 


"Well, you've just got to keep at it, haven't you?" 


The 
short 
queue 
of 
people 
waiting 
to 
file 
past 
Filch, 
who 
was 
doing 
his 
usual 
prodding 
act 
with 
the 
Secrecy 
Sensor, 
moved 
forward 
a 
few 
steps 
and 
Harry 
did 
not 
answer 
in 
case 
he 
was 
overheard 
by 
the 
caretaker. He 
wished Ron and Hermione 
both 
luck, then turned and climbed the 
marble 
staircase 
again, 
determined, whatever Hermione said, to devote an hour or two to the Room of Requirement. 

Once 
out 
of 
sight 
of 
the 
entrance 
hall, 
Harry pulled the 
Marauder's 
Map and his 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
from 
his 
bag. Having 
concealed himself, he 
tapped the 
map, murmured, "I 
solemnly 
swear 
that 
I 
am 
up to 
no 
good," and scanned it carefully. 


As 
it 
was 
Sunday 
morning, 
nearly 
all 
the 
students 
were 
inside 
their 
various 
common 
rooms, 
the 
Gryffindors 
in 
one 
tower, 
the 
Ravenclaws 
in 
another, 
the 
Slytherins 
in 
the 
dungeons, 
and 
the 
Hufflepuffs 
in 
the 
basement 
near 
the 
kitchens. 
Here 
and 
there 
a 
stray 
person 
meandered 
around 
the 
library 
or 
up 
a 
corridor. 
There 
were 
a 
few 
people 
out 
in 
the 
grounds, 
and 
there, 
alone 
in 
the 
seventhfloor 
corridor, 
was 
Gregory 
Goyle. 
There 
was 
no 
sign 
of 
the 
Room 
of 
Requirement, 
but 
Harry 
was 
not 
worried 
about 
that; 
if 
Goyle 
was 
standing 
guard 
outside 
it, 
the 
room 
was 
open, 
whether 
the 
map 
was 
aware 
of 
it 
or 
not. 
He 
therefore 
sprinted 
up 
the 
stairs, 
slowing 
down 
only 
when 
he 
reached 
the 
corner 
into 
the 
corridor, 
when 
he 
began 
to 
creep, 
very 
slowly, 
toward 
the 
very 
same 
little 
girl, 
clutching 
her 
heavy 
brass 
scales, 
that 
Hermione 
had 
so 
kindly 
helped 
a 
fortnight 
before. 
He 
waited 
until 
he 
was 
right 
behind her before bending very low and whispering, "Hello…you're very pretty, aren't you?" 



Goyle 
gave 
a 
highpitched 
scream 
of 
terror, 
threw 
the 
scales 
up 
into 
the 
air, 
and 
sprinted 
away, 
vanishing 
from 
sight 
long 
before 
the 
sound 
of 
the 
scales 
smashing 
had 
stopped 
echoing 
around 
the 
corridor. 
Laughing, 
Harry 
turned 
to 
contemplate 
the 
blank 
wall 
behind 
which, 
he 
was 
sure, 
Draco 
Malfoy 
was 
now 
standing 
frozen, 
aware 
that 
someone 
unwelcome 
was 
out 
there, 
but 
not 
daring 
to 
make 
an 
appearance. 
It 
gave 
Harry 
a 
most 
agreeable 
feeling 
of 
power 
as 
he 
tried 
to 
remember 
what 
form of words he had not yet tried. 


Yet 
this 
hopeful 
mood 
did 
not 
last 
long. 
Half 
an 
hour 
later, 
having 
tried 
many 
more 
variations 
of 
his 
request 
to 
see 
what 
Malfoy 
was 
up 
to, 
the 
wall 
was 
just 
as 
doorless 
as 
ever. 
Harry 
felt 
frustrated 
beyond 
belief=
Malfoy 
might 
be 
just 
feet 
away 
from 
him, 
and 
there 
was 
still 
not 
the 
tiniest 
shred 
of 
evidence 
as 
to 
what 
he 
was 
doing 
in 
there. 
Losing 
his 
patience 
completely, 
Harry 
ran 
at 
the 
wall 
and 
kicked it. 


"OUCH!" 


He 
thought 
he 
might 
have 
broken 
his 
toe; 
as 
he 
clutched 
it 
and 
hopped 
on 
one 
foot, 
the 
Invisibility 
Cloak slipped off him. 


"Harry?" 


He 
spun 
around, 
onelegged, 
and 
toppled 
over. 
There, 
to 
his 
utter 
astonishment, 
was 
Tonks, 
walking 
toward him as though she frequently strolled up this corridor. 

"What’re 
you 
doing 
here?" 
he 
said, 
scrambling 
to 
his 
feet 
again; 
why 
did 
she 
always 
have 
to 
find 
him 
lying on the floor? 


"I 
came 
to 
see 
Dumbledore," 
said 
Tonks. 
Harry 
thought 
she 
looked 
terrible: 
thinner 
than 
usual, 
her 
mousecolored 
hair lank. 

"His office isn't here," said Harry, "it's round the other side of the castle, behind the gargoyle —" 


"I know," said Tonks. "He's not there. Apparently he's gone away again." 


"Has 
he?" 
said 
Harry, 
putting 
his 
bruised 
foot 
gingerly 
back 
on 
the 
floor. 
"Hey 
— 
you 
don't 
know 
where he goes, I suppose?" 


"No," said Tonks. 


"What did you want to see him about?" 


"Nothing 
in particular," 
said Tonks, picking, 
apparently 
unconsciously, 
at 
the 
sleeve 
of 
her 
robe. "I 
just 
thought he might know what's going on. I've heard rumors… people getting hurt." 


"Yeah, I know, it's all been in the papers," said Harry. "That little kid trying to kill his —" 

"The 
Prophet's 
often 
behind 
the 
times," 
said 
Tonks, 
who 
didn't 
seem 
to 
be 
listening 
to 
him. 
"You 
haven't had any letters from anyone in the Order recently?" 


"No 
one 
from 
the 
Order 
writes 
to 
me 
anymore," 
said 
Harry, 
"not 
since 
Sirius 
—“ 
He 
saw 
that 
her 
eyes 
had filled with tears. 


"I'm sorry," he muttered awkwardly. "I mean... I miss him, as well." 
"What?" said Tonks blankly, as though she had not heard him. "Well. I'll see you around, Harry.” 
And 
she 
turned 
abruptly 
and 
walked 
back 
down 
the 
corridor, 
leaving 
Harry 
to 
stare 
after 
her. 
After 
a 


minute 
or 
so, 
he 
pulled 
the 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
on 
again 
and 
resumed 
his 
efforts 
to 
get 
into 
the 
Room 
of 
Requirement, 
but 
his 
heart 
was 
not 
in 
it. 
Finally, 
a 
hollow 
feeling 
in 
his 
stomach 
and 
the 
knowledge 
that 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
would 
soon 
be 
back 
for 
lunch 
made 
him 
abandon 
the 
attempt 
and 
leave 
the 
corridor to Malfoy who, hopefully, would be too afraid to leave for some hours to come. 


He found Ron and Hermione in the Great Hall, already halfway through an early lunch. 
"I 
did 
it 
— 
well, 
kind 
of!" 
Ron 
told 
Harry 
enthusiastically 
when 
he 
caught 
sight 
of 
him. 
"I 
was 


supposed 
to 
be 
Apparating 
to 
outside 
Madam 
Puddifoots 
Tea 
Shop 
and 
I 
overshot 
it 
a 
bit, 
ended 
up 
near Scrivenshafts, but at least I moved!" 
"Good one," said Harry. "How'd you do, Hermione?" 
"Oh, 
she 
was 
perfect, 
obviously," 
said 
Ron, 
before 
Hermione 
could 
answer. 
"Perfect 
deliberation, 


divination, 
and 
desperation 
or 
whatever 
the 
hell 
it 
is 
— 
we 
all 
went 
for 
a 
quick 
drink 
in 
the 
Three 
Broomsticks 
after 
and 
you 
should've 
heard 
Twycross 
going 
on 
about 
her 
— 
I'll 
be 
surprised 
if 
he 
doesn't pop the question soon —" 


"And 
what 
about 
you?" 
asked 
Hermione, 
ignoring 
Ron. 
"Have 
you 
been 
up 
at 
the 
Room 
of 
Requirement all this time?" 
"Yep," said Harry. "And guess who I ran into up there? Tonks!" 
"Tonks?" repeated Ron and Hermione together, looking surprised. 


"Yeah, she said she'd come to visit Dumbledore." 
"If 
you 
ask 
me," 
said 
Ron 
once 
Harry 
had 
finished 
describing 
his 
conversation 
with 
Tonks, 
"she's 
cracking up a bit. Losing her nerve after what happened at the Ministry." 


"It’s 
a 
bit 
odd," 
said 
Hermione, 
who 
for 
some 
reason 
looked 
very 
concerned. 
"She's 
supposed 
to 
be 
guarding 
the 
school, 
why 
she 
suddenly 
abandoning 
her 
post 
to 
come 
and 
see 
Dumbledore 
when 
he's 
not even here?" 


"I 
had 
a 
thought," 
said 
Harry 
tentatively. 
He 
felt 
strange 
about 
voicing 
it; 
this 
was 
much 
more 
Hermione’s territory than his. "You don't think she can have been... you know... in love with Sirius?" 


Hermione stared at him. "What on earth makes you say that?" 
"I 
dunno," 
said 
Harry, 
shrugging, 
"but 
she 
was 
nearly 
crying 
when 
I 
mentioned 
his 
name, 
and 
her 
Patronus is a big fourlegged 
thing now. I wondered whether it hadn't become... you know... him." 


"It's 
a 
thought," 
said 
Hermione 
slowly. 
"But 
I 
still 
don't 
know 
why 
she'd 
be 
bursting 
into 
the 
castle 
to 
see Dumbledore, if that's really why she was here." 
"Goes 
back 
to 
what 
I 
said, 
doesn't 
it?" 
said 
Ron, 
who 
was 
now 
shoveling 
mashed 
potato 
into 
his 



mouth. 
"She's 
gone 
a 
bit 
funny. 
Lost 
her 
nerve. 
Women," 
he 
said 
wisely 
to 
Harry, 
"they're 
easily 
upset." 


"And 
yet," 
said 
Hermione, 
coming 
out 
of 
her 
reverie, 
"I 
doubt 
you'd 
find 
a 
woman 
who 
sulked 
for 
half 
an 
hour 
because 
Madam 
Rosmerta 
didn't 
laugh 
at 
their 
joke 
about 
the 
hag, 
the 
Healer, 
and 
the 
Mimbulus mimbletonia." 


Ron scowled. 


Chapter 22 
After 
the 
Burial 



Patches 
of 
bright 
blue 
sky 
were 
beginning 
to 
appear 
over 
the 
castle 
turrets, 
but 
these 
signs 
of 
approaching 
summer 
did 
not 
lift 
Harry's 
mood. 
He 
had 
been 
thwarted, 
both 
in 
his 
attempts 
to 
find 
out 
what 
Malfoy 
was 
doing, 
and 
in 
his 
efforts 
to 
start 
a 
conversation 
with 
Slughorn 
that 
might 
lead, 
somehow, to Slughorn handing over the memory he had apparently suppressed for decades. 

"For the last time, just forget about Malfoy," Hermione told Harry firmly. 


They 
were 
sitting 
with 
Ron 
in 
a 
sunny 
corner 
of 
the 
courtyard 
after 
lunch. 
Hermione 
and 
Ron 
were 
both 
clutching 
a 
Ministry 
of 
Magic 
leaflet 
— 
Common 
Apparition 
Mistakes 
and 
How 
to 
Avoid 
Them 


— 
for 
they 
were 
taking 
their 
tests 
that 
very 
afternoon, 
but 
by 
and 
large 
the 
leaflets 
had 
not 
proved 
soothing to the nerves. 
Ron gave a start and tried to hide behind Hermione as a girl came around the corner. 
"It isn't Lavender," said Hermione wearily. 
"Oh, good," said Ron, relaxing. 
"Harry Potter?" said the girl. "I was asked to give you this." 
"Thanks..." 



Harry's 
heart 
sank 
as 
he 
took 
the 
small 
scroll 
of 
parchment. 
Once 
the 
girl 
was 
out 
of 
earshot 
he 
said, 


"Dumbledore said we wouldn't be having any more lessons until I got the memory!" 
"Maybe 
he 
wants 
to 
check 
on 
how 
you're 
doing?" 
suggested 
Hermione, 
as 
Harry 
unrolled 
the 
parchment; 
but 
rather 
than 
finding 
Dumbledore's 
long, 
narrow, 
slanted 
writing 
he 
saw 
an 
untidy 
sprawl, 
very 
difficult 
to 
read 
due 
to 
the 
presence 
of 
large 
blotches 
on 
the 
parchment 
where 
the 
ink 
had 
run. 


Dear Harry, Ron and Hermione! 
Aragog died last night. Harry and Ron, you met him and you know how special he was. 
Hermione, I know you'd have liked him. 
It would mean a lot to me if you'd nip down for the burial later this evening. 
I'm planning on doing it round dusk, that was his favorite time of day. 
I know you're not supposed to be out that late, but you can use the cloak. 
Wouldn't ask, but I can't face it alone. 
Hagrid 
"Look 
at 
this," 
said 
Harry, 
handing 
the 
note 
to 
Hermione. 
"Oh, 
for 
heaven's 
sake," 
she 
said, 
scanning 
it 


quickly 
and 
passing 
it 
to 
Ron, 
who 
read 
it 
through 
looking 
increasingly 
incredulous. 
"He's 
mental" 
he 
said 
furiously. 
"That 
thing 
told 
its 
mates 
to 
eat 
Harry 
and 
me! 
Told 
them 
to 
help 
themselves! 
And 
now 
Hagrid expects us to go down there and cry over its horrible hairy body!" 


"Its 
not 
just 
that," 
said 
Hermione. 
"He's 
asking 
us 
to 
leave 
the 
castle 
at 
night 
and 
he 
knows 
security's 
a 
million times tighter and how much trouble we'd be in if we were caught." 
"We've been down to see him by night before," said Harry. 
"Yes, 
but 
for 
something 
like 
this?" 
said 
Hermione. 
"We've 
risked 
a 
lot 
to 
help 
Hagrid 
out, 
but 
after 
all 


— Aragog's dead. If it were a question of saving him —" 
"— 
I'd 
want 
to 
go 
even 
less," 
said 
Ron 
firmly. 
"You 
didn't 
meet 
him, 
Hermione. 
Believe 
me, 
being 
dead will have improved him a lot." 
Harry 
took 
the 
note 
back 
and 
stared 
down 
at 
all 
the 
inky 
blotches 
all 
over 
it. 
Tears 
had 
clearly 
fallen 


thick and fast upon the parchment. . . . 


"Harry, 
you 
can't 
be 
thinking 
of 
going," 
said 
Hermione. 
"It's 
such 
a 
pointless 
thing 
to 
get 
detention 
for." 
Harry sighed. "Yeah, I know," he said. "I s'pose Hagrid'll have to bury Aragog without us." 
"Yes, 
he 
will," 
said 
Hermione, 
looking 
relieved. 
"Look, 
Potions 
will 
be 
almost 
empty 
this 
afternoon, 


with us all off doing our tests. . . . Try and soften Slughorn up a bit then!" 
"Fiftyseventh 
time lucky, you think?" said Harry bitterly. 


"Lucky," said Ron suddenly. "Harry, that's it — get lucky!" 
"What d'you mean?" 
"Use your lucky potion!" 
"Ron, that's — that's it!" said Hermione, sounding stunned. "Of course! Why didn't I think of it?" 
Harry stared at them both. "Felix Felicis?" he said. "I dunno . . . I was sort of saving it. ..." 
"What for?" demanded Ron incredulously. 
"What on earth is more important than this memory, Harry?" asked Hermione. 
Harry 
did 
not 
answer. 
The 
thought 
of 
that 
little 
golden 
bottle 
had 
hovered 
on 
the 
edges 
of 
his 


imagination 
for 
some 
time; 
vague 
and 
unformulated 
plans 
that 
involved 
Ginny 
splitting 
up 
with 
Dean, 
and 
Ron 
somehow 
being 
happy 
to 
see 
her 
with 
a 
new 
boyfriend, 
had 
been 
fermenting 
in 
the 
depths 
of 
his brain, unacknowledged except during dreams or the twilight time between sleeping and waking. . . . 


"Harry? Are you still with us?" asked Hermione. 


"Wha 
— 
? 
Yeah, 
of 
course," 
he 
said, 
pulling 
himself 
together. 
"Well. 
. 
. 
okay. 
If 
I 
can't 
get 
Slughorn 
to 
talk this afternoon, I'll take some Felix and have another go this evening." 
"That's 
decided, 
then," 
said 
Hermione 
briskly, 
getting 
to 
her 
feet 
and 
performing 
a 
graceful 
pirouette. 


"Destination . . . determination . . . deliberation . . ." she murmured. 
"Oh, stop that," Ron begged her, "I feel sick enough as it is — quick, hide me!" 
"It 
isn't 
Lavender!" 
said Hermione 
impatiently, 
as 
another 
couple 
of girls 
appeared in the 
courtyard and 


Ron dived behind her. 


"Cool," 
said 
Ron, 
peering 
over 
Hermiones 
shoulder 
to 
check. 
"Blimey, 
they 
don't 
look 
happy, 
do 
they?" 
"They're 
the 
Montgomery 
sisters 
and 
of 
course 
they 
don't 
look 
happy, 
didn't 
you 
hear 
what 
happened 


to their little brother?" said Hermione. 
"I'm losing track of what's happening to everyone's relatives, to be honest," said Ron. 
"Well, 
their 
brother 
was 
attacked 
by 
a 
werewolf. 
The 
rumor 
is 
that 
their 
mother 
refused 
to 
help 
the 


Death Eaters. Anyway, the boy was only five and he died in St. Mungos, they couldn't save him." 


"He 
died?" 
repeated 
Harry, 
shocked. 
"But 
surely 
werewolves 
don't 
kill, 
they 
just 
turn 
you 
into 
one 
of 
them?" 
"They 
sometimes 
kill," 
said 
Ron, 
who 
looked 
unusually 
grave 
now. 
"I've 
heard 
of 
it 
happening 
when 


the werewolf gets carried away." 
"What was the werewolf's name?" said Harry quickly. 
"Well, the rumor is that it was that Fenrir Greyback," said Hermione. 



"I knew it — the maniac who likes attacking kids, the one Lupin told me about!" said Harry angrily. 


Hermione looked at him bleakly. 


"Harry, 
you've 
got 
to 
get 
that 
memory," 
she 
said. 
"It's 
all 
about 
stopping 
Voldemort, 
isn't 
it? 
These 
dreadful things that are happening are all down to him. . . ." 

The bell rang overhead in the castle and both Hermione and Ron jumped to their feet, looking terrified. 


"You'll 
do 
fine," 
Harry 
told 
them 
both, 
as 
they 
headed 
toward 
the 
entrance 
hall 
to 
meet 
the 
rest 
of 
the 
people taking their Apparition Test. "Good luck." 


"And you too!" said Hermione with a significant look, as Harry headed off to the dungeons. 

There were only three of them in Potions that afternoon: Harry, Ernie, and Draco Malfoy. 

"All too young to Apparate just yet?" said Slughorh genially, "Not turned seventeen yet?" 


They shook their heads. 


"Ah 
well," 
said 
Slughorn 
cheerily, 
"as 
we're 
so 
few, 
we'll 
do 
something 
for 
fun. 
I 
want 
you 
all 
to 
brew 
me up something amusing!" 


"That 
sounds 
good, 
sir," 
said 
Ernie 
sycophantically, 
rubbing 
his 
hands 
together. 
Malfoy, 
on 
the 
other 
hand, 
did 
not 
crack 
a 
smile. 
"What 
do 
you 
mean, 
'something 
amusing'?" 
he 
said 
irritably. 
"Oh, 
surprise 
me," said Slughorn airily. 


Malfoy 
opened 
his 
copy 
of 
Advanced 
PotionMaking 
with 
a 
sulky 
expression. 
It 
could 
not 
have 
been 
plainer 
that 
he 
thought 
this 
lesson 
was 
a 
waste 
of 
time. 
Undoubtedly, 
Harry 
thought, 
watching 
him 
over 
the 
top 
of 
his 
own 
book, 
Malfoy 
was 
begrudging 
the 
time 
he 
could 
otherwise 
be 
spending 
in 
the 
Room of Requirement. 


Was 
it 
his 
imagination, 
or 
did Malfoy, like 
Tonks, look thinner! 
Certainly 
he 
looked paler; 
his 
skin 
still 
had 
that 
grayish 
tinge, 
probably 
because 
he 
so 
rarely 
saw 
daylight 
these 
days. 
But 
there 
was 
no 
air 
of 
smugness, 
excitement, 
or 
superiority; 
none 
of 
the 
swagger 
that 
he 
had 
had 
on 
the 
Hogwarts 
Express, 
when 
he 
had 
boasted 
openly 
of 
the 
mission 
he 
had 
been 
given 
by 
Voldemort. 
. 
. 
. 
There 
could 
be 
only 
one conclusion, in Harry's opinion: The mission, whatever it was, was going badly. 


Cheered 
by 
this 
thought, 
Harry 
skimmed 
through 
his 
copy 
of 
Advanced 
PotionMaking 
and 
found 
a 
heavily 
corrected 
HalfBlood 
Prince's 
version 
of 
"An 
Elixir 
to 
Induce 
Euphoria," 
which 
seemed 
not 
only 
to 
meet 
Slughorn's 
instructions, 
but 
which 
might 
(Harry's 
heart 
leapt 
as 
the 
thought 
struck 
him) 
put 
Slughorn 
into 
such 
a 
good 
mood 
that 
he 
would 
be 
prepared 
to 
hand 
over 
that 
memory 
if 
Harry 
could persuade him to taste some. . . . 

"Well, 
now, 
this 
looks 
absolutely 
wonderful," 
said 
Slughorn 
an 
hour 
and 
a 
half 
later, 
clapping 
his 
hands 
together 
as 
he 
stared 
down 
into 
the 
sunshine 
yellow 
contents 
of 
Harry's 
cauldron. 
"Euphoria, 
I 
take 
it? 
And 
what's 
that 
I 
smell? 
Mmmm 
. 
. 
. 
you've 
added 
just 
a 
sprig 
of 
peppermint, 
haven't 
you? 
Unorthodox, 
but 
what 
a 
stroke 
of 
inspiration, 
Harry, 
of 
course, 
that 
would 
tend 
to 
counterbalance 
the 
occasional 
side 
effects 
of 
excessive 
singing 
and 
nosetweaking. 
... 
I 
really 
don't 
know 
where 
you 
get 



these brain waves, my boy . . . unless —" 
Harry pushed the HalfBlood 
Prince's book deeper into his bag with his foot. 
"— it's just your mother's genes coming out in you!" 
"Oh . . . yeah, maybe," said Harry, relieved. 
Ernie 
was 
looking 
rather 
grumpy; 
determined 
to 
outshine 
Harry 
for 
once, 
he 
had 
most 
rashly 
invented 


his own potion, which had curdled and formed a kind of purple dumpling at the bottom of his cauldron. 
Malfoy 
was 
already 
packing 
up, 
sourfaced; 
Slughorn 
had 
pronounced 
his 
Hiccuping 
Solution 
merely 
"passable." 


The 
bell 
rang 
and 
both 
Ernie 
and 
Malfoy 
left 
at 
once. 
"Sir," 
Harry 
began, 
but 
Slughorn 
immediately 
glanced 
over 
his 
shoulder; 
when 
he 
saw 
that 
the 
room 
was 
empty 
but 
for 
himself 
and 
Harry, 
he 
hurried 
away as fast as he could. 


"Professor — Professor, don't you want to taste my po — ?" called Harry desperately. 


But 
Slughorn 
had 
gone. 
Disappointed, 
Harry 
emptied 
the 
cauldron, 
packed 
up 
his 
things, 
left 
the 
dungeon, and walked slowly back upstairs to the common room. 
Ron and Hermione returned in the late afternoon. 
"Harry!" cried Hermione as she climbed through the portrait hole. "Harry, I passed!" 
"Well done!" he said. "And Ron?" 
"He 
— 
he 
just 
failed," 
whispered 
Hermione, 
as 
Ron 
came 
slouching 
into 
the 
room 
looking 
most 


morose. 
"It 
was 
really 
unlucky, 
a 
tiny 
thing, 
the 
examiner 
just 
spotted 
that 
he'd 
left 
half 
an 
eyebrow 


behind. . . How did it go with Slughorn?" 
"No 
joy," 
said 
Harry, 
as 
Ron 
joined 
them. 
"Bad 
luck, 
mate, 
but 
you'll 
pass 
next 
time 
— 
we 
can 
take 
it 
together." 


"Yeah, I s'pose," said Ron grumpily. "But half an eyebrow – like that matters!" 
"I know," said Hermione soothingly, "it does seem really harsh. ..." 
They 
spent 
most 
of 
their 
dinner 
roundly 
abusing 
the 
Apparition 
examiner, 
and 
Ron 
looked 
fractionally 


more 
cheerful 
by 
the 
time 
they 
set 
off 
back 
to 
the 
common 
room, 
now 
discussing 
the 
continuing 
problem of Slughorn and the memory. 


"So, Harry — you going to use the Felix Felicis or what?" Ron demanded. 
"Yeah, 
I 
s'pose 
I'd 
better," 
said 
Harry. 
"I 
don't 
reckon 
I'll 
need 
all 
of 
it, 
not 
twentyfour 
hours' 
worth, 
it 
can't take all night.... I'll just take a mouthful. Two or three hours should do it." 


"It's a great feeling when you take it," said Ron reminiscently. "Like you can't do anything wrong." 
"What are you talking about?" said Hermione, laughing. "You've never taken any!" 
"Yeah, 
but 
I 
thought 
I 
had, 
didn't 
I?" 
said 
Ron, 
as 
though 
explaining 
the 
obvious. 
"Same 
difference 



really ..." 
As 
they 
had 
only 
just 
seen 
Slughorn 
enter 
the 
Great 
Hall 
and 
knew 
that 
he 
liked 
to 
take 
time 
over 
meals, 
they 
lingered 
for 
a 
while 
in 
the 
common 
room, 
the 
plan 
being 
that 
Harry 
should 
go 
to 
Slughorn's 
office 
once 
the 
teacher 
had 
had 
time 
to 
get 
back 
there. 
When 
the 
sun 
had 
sunk 
to 
the 
level 
of 
the 
treetops 
in 
the 
Forbidden 
Forest, 
they 
decided 
the 
moment 
had 
come, 
and 
after 
checking 


carefully 
that 
Neville, 
Dean, 
and 
Seamus 
were 
all 
in 
the 
common 
room, 
sneaked 
up 
to 
the 
boys' 
dormitory. 
Harry took out the rolledup 
socks at the bottom of his trunk and extracted the tiny, gleaming bottle. 
"Well, here goes," said Harry, and he raised the little bottle and look a carefully measured gulp. 
"What does it feel like?" whispered Hermione. 
Harry 
did 
not 
answer 
for 
a 
moment. 
Then, 
slowly 
but 
surely, 
an 
exhilarating 
sense 
of 
infinite 


opportunity 
stole 
through 
him; 
he 
felt 
as 
though 
he 
could 
have 
done 
anything, 
anything 
at 
all... 
and 
getting the memory from Slughorn seemed suddenly not only possible, but positively easy. . . . 
He got to his feet, smiling, brimming with confidence. 
"Excellent," he said. "Really excellent. Right. . . I'm going down to Hagrid's." 
"What?" said Ron and Hermione together, looking aghast. 
"No, Harry — you've got to go and see Slughorn, remember?" said Hermione. 
"No," said Harry confidently. "I'm going to Hagrid's, I've got a good feeling about going to Hagrid's." 


"You've got a good feeling about burying a giant spider?" asked Ron, looking stunned. 
"Yeah," 
said 
Harry, 
pulling 
his 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
out 
of 
his 
bag. 
"I 
feel 
like 
it's 
the 
place 
to 
be 
tonight, 
you know what I mean?" 


"No," said Ron and Hermione together, both looking positively alarmed now. 


"This 
is 
Felix 
Felicis, 
I 
suppose?" 
said 
Hermione 
anxiously, 
holding 
up 
the 
bottle 
to 
the 
light. 
"You 
haven't got another little bottle full of— I don't know —" 
"Essence of Insanity?" suggested Ron, as Harry swung his cloak over his shoulders. 
Harry laughed, and Ron and Hermione looked even more alarmed. 
"Trust 
me," 
he 
said. 
"I 
know 
what 
I'm 
doing 
... 
or 
at 
least" 
he 
strolled 
confidently 
to 
the 
door— 
"Felix 


does." 


He 
pulled 
the 
Invisibility 
Cloak 
over 
his 
head 
and 
set 
off 
down 
the 
stairs, 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
hurrying 
along behind him. At the foot of the stairs, Harry slid through the open door. 
"What 
were 
you 
doing 
up 
there 
with 
her!” 
shrieked 
Lavender 
Brown, 
staring 
right 
through 
Harry 
at 


Ron 
and 
Hermione 
emerging 
together 
from 
the 
boys' 
dormitories. 
Harry 
heard 
Ron 
spluttering 
behind 
him as he darted across the room away from them. 



Getting 
through 
the 
portrait 
hole 
was 
simple; 
as 
he 
approached 
it, 
Ginny 
and 
Dean 
came 
through 
it, 
and Harry was able to slip between them. As he did so, he brushed accidentally against Ginny. 

"Don't 
push 
me, 
please, 
Dean," 
she 
said, 
sounding 
annoyed. 
; 
"You're 
always 
doing 
that, 
I 
can 
get 
through perfectly well on my own. ..." 

The 
portrait 
swung 
closed 
behind 
Harry, 
but 
not 
before 
he 
had 
heard 
Dean 
make 
an 
angry 
retort.. 
. 
. 
His 
feeling 
of 
elation 
increasing, 
Harry 
strode 
off 
through 
the 
castle. 
He 
did 
not 
have 
to 
creep 
along, 
for 
he 
met 
nobody 
on 
his 
way, 
but 
this 
did 
not 
surprise 
him 
in 
the 
slightest. 
This 
evening, 
he 
was 
the 
luckiest person at Hogwarts. 


Why 
he 
knew 
that 
going 
to 
Hagrid's 
was 
the 
right 
thing 
to 
do, 
he 
had 
no 
idea. 
It 
was 
as 
though 
the 
potion 
was 
illuminating 
a 
few 
steps 
of 
the 
path 
at 
a 
time. 
He 
could 
not 
see 
the 
final 
destination, 
he 
could 
not 
see 
where 
Slughorn 
came 
in, 
but 
he 
knew 
that 
he 
was 
going 
the 
right 
way 
to 
get 
that 
memory. 
When 
he 
reached 
the 
entrance 
hall 
he 
saw 
that 
Filch 
had 
forgotten 
to 
lock 
the 
front 
door. 
Beaming, 
Harry 
threw 
it 
open 
and 
breathed 
in 
the 
smell 
of 
clean 
air 
and 
grass 
for 
a 
moment 
before 
walking down the steps into the dusk. 

It 
was 
when 
he 
reached 
the 
bottom 
step 
that 
it 
occurred 
to 
him 
how 
very 
pleasant 
it 
would 
be 
to 
pass 
the 
vegetable 
patch 
on 
his 
walk 
to 
Hagrid's. 
It 
was 
not 
strictly 
on 
the 
way, 
but 
it 
seemed 
clear 
to 
Harry 
that 
this 
was 
a 
whim 
on 
which 
he 
should 
act, 
so 
he 
directed 
his 
feet 
immediately 
toward 
the 
vegetable 
patch, 
where 
he 
was 
pleased, 
but 
not 
altogether 
surprised, 
to 
find 
Professor 
Slughorn 
in 
conversation 
with 
Professor 
Sprout. 
Harry 
lurked 
behind 
a 
low 
stone 
wall, 
feeling 
at 
peace 
with 
the 
world 
and 
listening to their conversation. 

"I 
do 
thank 
you 
for 
taking 
the 
time, 
Pomona," 
Slughorn 
was 
saying 
courteously, 
"most 
authorities 
agree that they are at their most efficacious if picked at twilight." 


"Oh, I quite agree," said Professor Sprout warmly. "That enough for you?" 


"Plenty, 
plenty," 
said 
Slughorn, 
who, 
Harry 
saw, 
was 
carrying 
an 
armful 
of 
leafy 
plants. 
"This 
should 
allow 
for 
a 
few 
leaves 
for 
each 
of 
my 
third 
years, 
and 
some 
to 
spare 
if 
anybody 
overstews 
them. 
. 
. 
. 
Well, good evening to you, and many thanks again!" 

Professor 
Sprout 
headed 
off 
into 
the 
gathering 
darkness 
in 
the 
direction 
of 
her 
greenhouses, 
and 
Slughorn directed his steps to the spot where Harry stood, invisible. 


Seized with an immediate desire to reveal himself, Harry pullet I off the cloak with a flourish. 


"Good evening, Professor." 


"Merlin’s 
beard, 
Harry, 
you 
made 
me 
jump," 
said 
Slughotn, 
stopping 
dead 
in 
his 
tracks 
and 
looking 
wary. "How did you get out of the castle?" 

"I 
think 
Filch 
must've 
forgotten 
to 
lock 
the 
doors," 
said 
Harry 
cheerfully, 
and 
was 
delighted 
to 
see 
Slughorn scowl. 



"I'll 
be 
reporting 
that 
man, 
he's 
more 
concerned 
about 
litter 
than 
proper 
security 
if 
you 
ask 
me. 
. 
. 
. 
But 
why are you out then, Harry?" 


"Well, 
sir, 
it's 
Hagrid," 
said 
Harry, 
who 
knew 
that 
the 
right 
thing 
to 
do 
just 
now 
was 
to 
tell 
the 
truth. 
"He's pretty upset. . . But you won't tell anyone, Professor? I don't want trouble for him. ..." 

Slughorn's 
curiosity 
was 
evidently 
aroused. 
"Well, 
I 
can't 
promise 
that," 
he 
said 
gruffly. 
"But 
I 
know 
that Dumbledore trusts Hagrid to the hilt, so I'm sure he can't be up to anything very dreadful. .. ." 


"Well, 
it's 
this 
giant 
spider, 
he's 
had 
it 
for 
years. 
... 
It 
lived 
in 
the 
forest. 
... 
It 
could 
talk 
and 
everything 
—" 


"I 
heard 
rumors 
there 
were 
acromantulas 
in 
the 
forest," 
said 
Slughorn 
softly, 
looking 
over 
at 
the 
mass 
of black trees. "It's true, then?" 

"Yes," 
said 
Harry. 
"But 
this 
one, 
Aragog, 
the 
first 
one 
Hagrid 
ever 
got, 
it 
died 
last 
night. 
He's 
devastated. He wants company while he buries it and I said I'd go." 


"Touching, 
touching," 
said 
Slughorn 
absentmindedly, 
his 
large 
droopy 
eyes 
fixed 
upon 
the 
distant 
lights 
of 
Hagrid's 
cabin. 
"But 
acromantula 
venom 
is 
very 
valuable 
... 
If 
the 
beast 
only 
just 
died 
it 
might 
not 
yet 
have 
dried 
out. 
. 
. 
. 
Of 
course, 
I 
wouldn't 
want 
to 
do 
anything 
insensitive 
if 
Hagrid 
is 
upset. 
. 
. 
but 
if 
there 
was 
any 
way 
to 
procure 
some 
... 
I 
mean, 
its 
almost 
impossible 
to 
get 
venom 
from 
an 
acromantula while its alive. ..." 


Slughorn 
seemed 
to 
be 
talking 
more 
to 
himself 
than 
Harry 
now. 
". 
. 
. 
seems 
an 
awful 
waste 
not 
to 
collect it... might get a hundred Galleons a pint. ... To be frank, my salary is not large. . . ." 


And 
now 
Harry 
saw 
clearly 
what 
was 
to 
be 
done. 
"Well," 
he 
said, 
with 
a 
most 
convincing 
hesitancy, 
"well, 
if 
you 
wanted 
to 
come, 
Professor, 
Hagrid 
would 
probably 
be 
really 
pleased. 
. 
. 
. 
Give 
Aragog 
a 
better sendoff, 
you know ..." 


"Yes, 
of 
course," 
said 
Slughorn, 
his 
eyes 
now 
gleaming 
with 
enthusiasm. 
"I 
tell 
you 
what, 
Harry, 
I'll 
meet 
you 
down 
there 
with 
a 
bottle 
or 
two. 
. 
. 
. 
We'll 
drink 
the 
poor 
beast's 
— 
well 
— 
not 
health 
— 
but 
we'll 
send 
it 
off 
in 
style, 
anyway, 
once 
it's 
buried. 
And 
I'll 
change 
my 
tie, 
this 
one 
is 
a 
little 
exuberant 
for the occasion. . . ." 

He bustled back into the castle, and Harry sped off to Hagrid's, delighted with himself. 

"Yen 
came," 
croaked 
Hagrid, 
when 
he 
opened 
the 
door 
and 
saw 
Harry 
emerging 
from 
the 
Invisibility 
Cloak in front of him. 


"Yeah — Ron and Hermione couldn't, though," said Harry. "They're really sorry." 


"Don — don matter . . . Hed've bin touched yeh're here, though, Harry. . . ." 


Hagrid 
gave 
a 
great 
sob. 
He 
had 
made 
himself 
a 
black 
armband 
out 
of what 
looked 
like 
a 
rag 
dipped 
in 
boot 
polish, 
and 
his 
eyes 
were 
puffy, 
red, 
and 
swollen. 
Harry 
patted 
him 
consolingly 
on 
the 
elbow, 
which was the highest point of Hagrid he could easily reach. 

"Where are we burying him?" he asked. "The forest?" 



"Blimey, 
no," 
said 
Hagrid, 
wiping 
his 
streaming 
eyes 
on 
the 
bottom 
of 
his 
shirt. 
"The 
other 
spiders 
won' 
let 
me 
anywhere 
near 
their 
webs 
now 
Aragog's 
gone. 
Turns 
out 
it 
was 
only 
on 
his 
orders 
they 
didn' eat me! Can yeh believe that, Harry?" 


The 
honest 
answer 
was 
"yes"; 
Harry 
recalled 
with 
painful 
ease 
the 
scene 
when 
he 
and 
Ron 
had 
come 
facetoface 
with 
the 
aeromantulas. 
They 
had 
been 
quite 
clear 
that 
Aragog 
was 
the 
only 
thing 
that 
stopped them from eating Hagrid. 


"Never 
bin 
an 
area 
o' 
the 
forest 
I 
couldn' 
go 
before!" 
said 
Hagrid, 
shaking 
his 
head. 
"It 
wasn' 
easy, 
gettin' 
Aragog's 
body 
out 
o' 
there, 
I 
can 
tell 
yeh 
— 
they 
usually 
eat 
their 
dead, 
see. 
. 
. 
. 
But 
I 
wanted 
ter 
give 'im a nice burial... a proper sendoff. 
. ." 


He 
broke 
into 
sobs 
again 
and 
Harry 
resumed 
the 
patting 
of 
his 
elbow, 
saying 
as 
he 
did 
so 
(for 
the 
potion 
seemed 
to 
indicate 
that 
it 
was 
the 
right 
thing 
to 
do), 
"Professor 
Slughorn 
met 
me 
coming 
down 
here, Hagrid." 


"Not 
in 
trouble, 
are 
yeh?" 
said 
Hagrid, 
looking 
up, 
alarmed. 
"Yeh 
shouldn’ 
be 
outta 
the 
castle 
in 
the 
evenin', I know it, it's my fault —" 

"No, 
no, 
when 
he 
heard 
what 
I 
was 
doing 
he 
said 
he'd 
like 
to 
come 
and 
pay 
his 
last 
respects 
to 
Aragog 
too," said Harry. 

"He's 
gone 
to 
change 
into 
something 
more 
suitable, 
I 
think…and 
he 
said 
he'd 
bring 
some 
bottles 
so 
we 
can drink to Aragog's memory...” 


"Did 
he?" 
said 
Hagrid, 
looking 
both 
astonished 
and 
touched. 
"Tha's 
— 
tha's 
righ' 
nice 
of 
him, 
that 
is, 
an' 
not 
turnin' 
yeh 
in 
either. 
I've 
never 
really 
had 
a 
lot 
ter 
do 
with 
Horace 
Slughorn 
before. 
.. 
. 
Comin' 
ter see old Aragog off, though, eh? Well. . . he’d've liked that, Aragog would. . . ." 


Harry 
thought 
privately 
that 
what 
Aragog 
would 
have 
liked 
most 
about 
Slughorn 
was 
the 
ample 
amount 
of 
edible 
flesh 
he 
provided, 
but 
he 
merely 
moved 
to 
the 
rear 
window 
of 
Hagrid's 
hut, 
where 
he 
saw 
the 
rather 
horrible 
sight 
of 
the 
enormous 
dead 
spider 
lying 
on 
its 
back 
outside, 
its 
legs 
curled 
and 
tangled. 

"Are we going to bury him here, Hagrid, in your garden?" 


"Jus' 
beyond 
the 
pumpkin 
patch, 
I 
thought," 
said 
Hagrid 
in 
a 
choked 
voice. 
"I've 
already 
dug 
the 
— 
yeh 
know 
— 
grave. 
Jus' 
thought 
we'd 
say 
a 
few 
nice 
things 
over 
him 
— 
happy 
memories, 
yeh 
know 
—" 


His 
voice 
quivered 
and 
broke. 
There 
was 
a 
knock 
on 
the 
door, 
and 
he 
turned 
to 
answer 
it, 
blowing 
his 
nose on his great spotted handkerchief as he did so. Slughorn hurried over the threshold, several bottles 
in his arms, and wearing a somber black cravat. 

"Hagrid," he said, in a deep, grave voice. "So very sorry to hear of your loss." 


"Tha's 
very 
nice 
of 
yeh," 
said 
Hagrid. 
"Thanks 
a 
lot. 
An' 
thanks 
fer 
not 
givin 
Harry 
detention 
neither. . . ." 



"Wouldn't have dreamed of it," said Slughorn. "Sad night, sad night. . . Where is the poor creature?" 


"Out here," said Hagrid in a shaking voice. "Shall we — shall we do it, then?" 


The 
three 
of 
them 
stepped 
out 
into 
the 
back 
garden. 
The 
moon 
was 
glistening 
palely 
through 
the 
trees 
now, 
and 
its 
rays 
mingled 
with 
the 
light 
spilling 
from 
Hagrid's 
window 
to 
illuminate 
Aragogs 
body 
lying on the edge of a massive pit beside a tenfoothigh 
mound of freshly dug earth. 

"Magnificent," 
said 
Slughorn, 
approaching 
the 
spiders 
head, 
where 
eight 
milky 
eyes 
stared 
blankly 
at 
the 
sky 
and 
two 
huge, 
curved 
pincers 
shone, 
motionless, 
in 
the 
moonlight. 
Harry 
thougln 
he 
heard 
the 
tinkle of bottles as Slughorn bent over the pincers, apparently examining the enormous hairy head. 

"Its 
not 
ev'ryone 
appreciates 
how 
beau'iful 
they 
are’ 
said 
H 
grid 
to 
Slughorn's 
back, 
tears 
leaking 
from 
the corners of his crinkled eyes. "I didn' know yeh were interested in creatures like Aragog, Horace." 


"Interested? 
My 
dear 
Hagrid, 
I 
revere 
them," 
said 
Slughorn, 
stepping 
back 
from 
the 
body. 
Harry 
saw 
the 
glint 
of 
a 
bottle 
disappear 
beneath 
his 
cloak, 
though 
Hagrid, 
mopping 
his 
eyes 
once 
more, 
noticed 
nothing. "Now . . . shall we proceed to the burial?" 


Hagrid 
nodded 
and 
moved 
forward. 
He 
heaved 
the 
gigantic 
spider 
into 
his 
arms 
and, 
with 
an 
enormous 
grunt, 
rolled 
it 
into 
the 
dark 
pit. 
It 
hit 
the 
bottom 
with 
a 
rather 
horrible, 
crunchy 
thud. 
Hagrid 
started 
to 
cry again. 


"Of 
course, 
it's 
difficult 
for 
you, 
who 
knew 
him 
best," 
said 
Slughorn, 
who 
like 
Harry 
could 
reach 
no 
higher than Hagrid's elbow, but patted it all the same. "Why don't I say a few words?" 


He 
must 
have 
got 
a 
lot 
of 
good 
quality 
venom 
from 
Aragog, 
Harry 
thought, 
for 
Slughorn 
wore 
a 
satisfied 
smirk 
as 
he 
stepped 
up 
to 
the 
rim 
of 
the 
pit 
and 
said, 
in 
a 
slow, 
impressive 
voice, 
"Farewell, 
Aragog, 
king 
of 
arachnids, 
whose 
long 
and 
faithful 
friendship 
those 
who 
knew 
you 
won't 
forget! 
Though 
your 
body 
will 
decay, 
your 
spirit 
lingers 
on 
in 
the 
quiet, 
webspun 
places 
of 
your 
forest 
home. 
May 
your 
manyeyed 
descendants 
ever 
flourish 
and 
your 
human 
friends 
find 
solace 
for 
the 
loss 
they 
have sustained." 


"Tha 
was 
. 
. 
. 
tha 
was 
. 
. 
. 
beau'iful!" 
howled 
Hagrid, 
and 
he 
collapsed 
onto 
the 
compost 
heap, 
crying 
harder than ever. 

"There, there," 
said 
Slughorn, 
waving 
his 
wand so that 
the 
huge 
pile 
of 
earth rose 
up and then fell, with 
a 
muffled 
sort 
of 
crash, 
onto 
the 
dead 
spider, 
forming 
a 
smooth 
mound. 
"Lets 
get 
inside 
and 
have 
a 
drink. Get on his other side, Harry. . . . That's it. ... Up you come, Hagrid . . . Well done ..." 

They 
deposited 
Hagrid 
in 
a 
chair 
at 
the 
table. 
Fang, 
who 
had 
been 
skulking 
in 
his 
basket 
during 
the 
burial, 
now 
came 
padding 
softly 
across 
to 
them 
and 
put 
his 
heavy 
head 
into 
Harry's 
lap 
as 
usual. 
Slughorn uncorked one of the bottles of wine he had brought. 

"I 
have 
had 
it 
all 
tested 
for 
poison," 
he 
assured 
Harry, 
pouring 
most 
of 
the 
first 
bottle 
into 
one 
of 
Hagrid's 
bucketsized 
mugs 
and 
handing 
it 
to 
Hagrid. 
"Had 
a 
houseelf 
taste 
every 
bottle 
after 
what 
happened to your poor friend Rupert." 



Harry 
saw, 
in 
his 
mind's 
eye, 
the 
expression 
on 
Hermione's 
face 
if 
she 
ever 
heard 
about 
this 
abuse 
of 
houseelves, and decided never to mention it to her. 

"One 
for 
Harry 
. 
. 
." 
said 
Slughorn, 
dividing 
a 
second 
bottle 
between 
two 
mugs, 
". 
. 
. 
and 
one 
for 
me. 
Well" — he raised his mug high — "to Aragog." 


"Aragog," 
said 
Harry 
and 
Hagrid 
together. 
Both 
Slughorn 
and 
Hagrid 
drank 
deeply. 
Harry, 
however, 
with 
the 
way 
ahead 
illuminated 
for 
him 
by 
Felix 
Felicis, 
knew 
that 
he 
must 
not 
drink, 
so 
he 
merely 
pretended to take a gulp and then set the mug back on the table before him. 


"I 
had 
him 
from 
an 
egg, 
yeh 
know," 
said 
Hagrid 
morosely. 
"'Tiny 
little 
thing 
he 
was 
when 
he 
hatched. 
'Bout the size of a Pekingese” 


"Sweet," said Slughorn. 


"Used ter keep him in a cupboard up at the school until . . . well..." 


Hagrid's 
face 
darkened 
and 
Harry 
knew 
why: 
Tom 
Riddle 
had 
contrived 
to 
have 
Hagrid 
thrown 
out 
of 
school, 
blamed 
for 
opening 
the 
Chamber 
of 
Secrets. 
Slughorn, 
however, 
did 
not 
seem 
to 
be 
listening; 
he 
was 
looking 
up 
at 
the 
ceiling, 
from 
which 
a 
number 
of 
brass 
pots 
hung, 
and 
also 
a 
long, 
silky 
skein 
of bright white hair. 

"That's not unicorn hair, Hagrid?" 


"Oh, 
yeah," 
said 
Hagrid 
indifferently. 
"Gets 
pulled 
out 
of 
their 
tails, 
they 
catch 
it 
on 
branches 
an' 
stuff 
in the forest, yeh know ..." 

"But my dear chap, do you know how much that's worth?" 

"I 
use 
it 
fer 
bindin' 
on 
bandages 
an 
stuff 
if 
a 
creature 
gets 
in 
jured," 
said 
Hagrid, 
shrugging. 
"It's 
dead 
useful. . . very strong.” 


Slughorn 
took 
another 
deep 
draught 
from 
his 
mug, 
his 
eyes 
moving 
carefully 
around 
the 
cabin 
now, 
looking, 
Harry 
knew, 
for 
more 
treasures 
that 
he 
might 
be 
able 
to 
convert 
into 
a 
plentiful 
su 
ply 
of 
oakmatured 
mead, 
crystalized 
pineapple, 
and 
velvet 
smoking 
jackets. 
He 
refilled 
Hagrid's 
mug 
and 
his 
own, 
and 
questioned 
him 
about 
the 
creatures 
that 
lived 
in 
the 
forest 
these 
days 
and 
how 
Hagrid 
was 
able 
to 
look after 
them 
all. 
Hagrid, 
becoming 
expansive 
under 
the 
influence 
of the 
drink 
and Slughorn's 
flattering 
interest, 
stopped 
mopping 
his 
eyes 
and 
entered 
happily 
into 
a 
long 
explanation 
of 
bowtruckle 
husbandry. 

The 
Felix 
Felicis 
gave 
Harry 
a 
little 
nudge 
at 
this 
point, 
and 
he 
noticed 
that 
the 
supply 
of 
drink 
that 
Slughorn 
had 
brought 
was 
running 
out 
fast. 
Harry 
had 
not 
yet 
managed 
to 
bring 
off 
the 
Refilling 
Charm 
without 
saying 
the 
incantation 
aloud, 
but 
the 
idea 
that 
he 
might 
not 
be 
able 
to 
do 
it 
tonight 
was 
laughable: 
Indeed, 
Harry 
grinned 
to 
himself 
as, 
unnoticed 
by 
either 
Hagrid 
or 
Slugliorn 
(now 
swapping 
tales 
of 
the 
illegal 
trade 
in 
dragon 
eggs) 
he 
pointed 
his 
wand 
under 
the 
table 
at 
the 
emptying 
bottles and they immediately began to refill. 



After 
an 
hour 
or 
so, 
Hagrid 
and 
Slughorn 
began 
making 
extravagant 
toasts: 
to 
Hogwarts, 
to 
Dumbledore, to elfmade 
wine, and to


"Harry 
Potter!" 
bellowed 
Hagrid, 
slopping 
some 
of 
his 
fourteenth 
bucket 
of 
wine 
down 
his 
chin 
as 
he 
drained it. 


"Yes, 
indeed," 
cried 
Slughorn 
a 
little 
thickly, 
"Parry 
Otter, 
the 
Chosen 
Boy 
Who 
— 
well 
— 
something 
of that sort," he mumbled, and drained his mug too. 


Not 
long 
after 
this, 
Hagrid 
became 
tearful 
again 
and 
pressed 
the 
whole 
unicorn 
tail 
upon 
Slughorn, 


who pocketed it with cries of, "To friendship! To generosity! To ten Galleons a hair!" 
And 
for 
a 
while 
after 
that, 
Hagrid 
and 
Slughorn 
were 
sitting 
side 
by 
side, 
arms 
around 
each 
other, 
singing a slow sad song about a dying wizard called Odo. 


"Aaargh, 
the 
good 
die 
young," 
muttered 
Hagrid, 
slumping 
low 
onto 
the 
table, 
a 
little 
crosseyed, 
while 
Slughorn 
continued 
to 
warble 
the 
refrain. 
"Me 
dad 
was 
no 
age 
ter 
go 
... 
nor 
were 
yer 
mum' 
an' 
dad, 
Harry . . ." 


Great 
fat 
tears 
oozed 
out 
of 
the 
corners 
of 
Hagrid's 
crinkled 
eyes 
again; 
he 
grasped 
Harry's 
arm 
and 
shook it 
"Bes' wiz and witchard o' their age … I never knew.. . terrible thing . . . terrible thing ..." 
“And Odo the hero, they bore him back home 
To the place that he'd known as a lad,” 
sang Slughorn plaintively. 
“They laid him to rest with his hat inside out. 


And his wand snapped in two, which was sad.” 
". 
. 
. 
terrible," 
Hagrid 
grunted, 
and 
his 
great 
shaggy 
head 
rolled 
sideways 
onto 
his 
arms 
and 
he 
fell 
asleep, snoring deeply. 


"Sorry," said Slughorn with a hiccup. "Can't carry a tune to save my life." 


"Hagrid 
wasn't 
talking 
about 
your 
singing," 
said 
Harry 
quietly. 
"He 
was 
talking 
about 
my 
mum 
and 
dad dying." 
"Oh," said Slughorn, repressing a large belch. "Oh dear. Yes, that was — was terrible indeed. Terrible . 


. . terrible ..." 
He looked quite at a loss for what to say, and resorted to refilling their mugs. 
"I don't — don't suppose you remember it, Harry?" he asked awkwardly. 
"No 
— 
well, 
I 
was 
only 
one 
when 
they 
died," 
said 
Harry, 
his 
eyes 
on 
the 
flame 
of 
the 
candle 
flickering 


in 
Hagrid's 
heavy 
snores. 
"But 
I've 
found 
out 
pretty 
much 
what 
happened 
since. 
My 
dad 
died 
first. 
Did 



you know that?" 
"I — I didn't," said Slughorn in a hushed voice. 
"Yeah . . . Voldemort murdered him and then stepped over his body toward my mum," said Harry. 
Slughorn 
gave 
a 
great 
shudder, 
but 
he 
did 
not 
seem 
able 
to 
tear 
his 
horrified 
gaze 
away 
from 
Harry's 


face. 


"He 
told 
her 
to 
get 
out 
of 
the 
way," 
said 
Harry 
remorselessly. 
"He 
told 
me 
she 
needn't 
have 
died. 
He 
only wanted me. She could have run." 
"Oh dear," breathed Slughorn. "She could have . . . she needn't . . . That's awful. . . ." 
"It 
is, 
isn't 
it?" 
said 
Harry, 
in 
a 
voice 
barely 
more 
than 
a 
whisper. 
"But 
she 
didn't 
move. 
Dad 
was 


already 
dead, 
but 
she 
didn't 
want 
me 
to 
go 
too. 
She 
tried 
to 
plead 
with 
Voldemort. 
. 
. 
but 
he 
just 


laughed...." 
"That's enough!" said Slughorn suddenly, raising a shaking hand. "Really, my dear boy, enough . . . I'm 
an old man ... I don't need to hear ... I don't want to hear ..." 


"I forgot," lied Harry, Felix Felicis leading him on. "You liked her, didn't you?" 


"Liked 
her?" 
said 
Slughorn, 
his 
eyes 
brimming 
with 
tears 
once 
more. 
"I 
don't 
imagine 
anyone 
who 
met 
her wouldn't have liked her. . . . Very brave . . . Very funny... It was the most horrible thing. ..." 
"But you won't help her son," said Harry. "She gave me her life, but you won't give me a memory." 
Hagrid's 
rumbling 
snores 
filled 
the 
cabin. 
Harry 
looked 
steadily 
into 
Slughorn's 
tearfilled 
eyes. 
The 


Potions master seemed unable to look away. 


"Don't 
say 
that," 
he 
whispered. 
"It 
isn't 
a 
question 
... 
If 
it 
were 
to 
help 
you, 
of 
course 
. 
. 
. 
but 
no 
purpose can be served . . ." 
"It can," said Harry clearly. "Dumbledore needs information. I need information." 
He 
knew 
he 
was 
safe: 
Felix 
was 
telling 
him 
that 
Slughorn 
would 
remember 
nothing 
of 
this 
in 
the 


morning. Looking Slughorn straight in the eye, Harry leaned forward a little. 
"I am the Chosen One. I have to kill him. I need that memory." 
Slughorn turned paler than ever; his shiny forehead gleamed with sweat. 
"You are the Chosen One?" . . I. 
"Of course I am," said Harry calmly. 
"But 
then 
. 
. 
. 
my 
dear 
boy 
. 
. 
. 
you're 
asking 
a 
great 
deal. 
. 
. 
you're 
asking 
me, 
in 
fact, 
to 
aid 
you 
in 


your attempt to destroy“ 
"You don't want to get rid of the wizard who killed Lily Evans?'" 
"Harry, Harry, of course I do, but —" 



"You're scared he'll find out you helped me?" 


Slughorn said nothing; he looked terrified. 

"Be brave like my mother, Professor. . . ." 


Slughorn 
raised 
a 
pudgy 
hand 
and 
pressed 
his 
shaking 
fingers 
to 
his 
mouth; 
he 
looked 
for 
a 
moment 
like an enormously overgrown baby. 

"I 
am 
not 
proud 
. 
. 
." 
he 
whispered 
through 
his 
fingers. 
"I 
am 
ashamed 
of 
what 
— 
of 
what 
that 
memory 
shows. ... I think I may have done great damage that day. ..." 


"You'd 
cancel 
out 
anything 
you 
did 
by 
giving 
me 
the 
memory," 
said 
Harry. 
"It 
would 
be 
a 
very 
brave 
and noble thing to do." 


Hagrid 
twitched 
in 
his 
sleep 
and 
snored 
on. 
Slughorn 
and 
Harry 
stared 
at 
each 
other 
over 
the 
guttering 
candle. 
There 
was 
a 
long, 
long 
silence, 
but 
Felix 
Felicis 
told 
Harry 
not 
to 
break 
it, 
to 
wait. 
Then, 
very 
slowly, 
Slughorn 
put 
his 
hand 
in 
his 
pocket 
and 
pulled 
out 
his 
wand. 
He 
put 
his 
other 
hand 
inside 
his 
cloak 
and 
took 
out 
a 
small, 
empty 
bottle. 
Still 
looking 
into 
Harry's 
eyes, 
Slughorn 
touched 
the 
tip 
of 
his 
wand 
to 
his 
temple 
and 
withdrew 
it, 
so 
that 
a 
long, 
silver 
thread 
of 
memory 
came 
away 
too, 
clinging 
to 
the 
wand 
tip. 
Longer 
and 
longer 
the 
memory 
stretched 
until 
it 
broke 
and 
swung, 
silvery 
bright, 
from 
the 
wand. 
Slughorn 
lowered 
it 
into 
the 
bottle 
where 
it 
coiled, 
then 
spread, 
swirling 
like 
gas. He corked the bottle with a trembling hand and then passed it across the table to Harry. 

"Thank you very much, Professor." 

"You're 
a 
good 
boy," 
said 
Professor 
Slughorn, 
tears 
trickling 
down 
his 
fat 
cheeks 
into 
his 
walrus 
mustache. "And you've got her eyes. . . . Just don't think too badly of me once you've seen it. . . ," 


And he too put his head on his arms, gave a deep sigh, and fell asleep. 


Chapter 23 
Horcruxes 


Harry 
could 
feel 
the 
Felix 
Felicis 
wearing 
off 
as 
he 
creeped 
back 
into 
the 
castle. 
The 
front 
door 
had 
remained 
un 
locked 
for 
him, 
but 
on 
the 
third 
floor 
he 
met 
Peeves 
and 
only 
narrowly 
avoided 
detection 
by 
diving 
sideways 
through 
one 
of 
his 
shortcuts. 
By 
the 
time 
he 
got 
up 
to 
the 
portrait 
of 
the 
Fat 
Lady 
and pulled off his Invisibility Cloak, he was not surprised to find her in a most unhelpful mood. 


"What sort of time do you call this?" 
"I'm really sorry — I had to go out for something important —" 
"Well, the password changed at midnight, so you'll just have to sleep in the corridor, won't you?" 
"You're joking!" said Harry. "Why did it have to change at midnight?" 
"That's 
the 
way 
it 
is," 
said 
the 
Fat 
Lady. 
"If 
you're 
angry, 
go 
and 
take 
it 
up 
with 
the 
headmaster, 
he's 


the one who's tightened security." 



"Fantastic," 
said 
Harry 
bitterly, 
looking 
around 
at 
the 
hard 
floor. 
"Really 
brilliant. 
Yeah, 
I 
would 
go 
and take it up with Dumbledore if he was here, because he's the one who wanted me to —" 
"He is here," said a voice behind Harry. "Professor Dumbledore returned to the school an hour ago." 


Nearly Headless Nick was gliding toward Harry, his head wobbling as usual upon his ruff. 
"I 
had 
it 
from 
the 
Bloody 
Baron, 
who 
saw 
him 
arrive," 
said 
Nick. 
"He 
appeared, 
according 
to 
the 
Baron, to be in good spirits, though a little tired, of course." 


"Where is he?" said Harry, his heart leaping,” 
"Oh, groaning and clanking up on the Astronomy Tower, it's a, favorite pastime of his —" 
"Not the Bloody Baron — Dumbledore!" 
"Oh 
— 
in 
his 
office," 
said 
Nick. 
"I 
believe, 
from 
what 
the 
Baron 
said, 
that 
he 
had 
business 
to 
attend 
to 


before turning in —" 
"Yeah, 
he 
has," 
said 
Harry, 
excitement 
blazing 
in 
his 
chest 
at 
the 
prospect 
of 
telling 
Dumbledore 
he 


had 
secured 
the 
memory. 
He 
wheeled 
about 
and 
sprinted 
off 
again, 
ignoring 
the 
Fat 
Lady 
who 
was 
calling after him. 
"Come back! All right, I lied! I was annoyed you woke me up! The password's still 'tapeworm'!" 
But 
Harry 
was 
already 
hurtling 
back 
along 
the 
corridor 
and 
within 
minutes, 
he 
was 
saying 
"toffee 


eclairs" 
to 
Dumbledore's 
gargoyle, 
which 
leapt 
aside, 
permitting 
Harry 
entrance 
onto 
the 
spiral 


staircase. 
"Enter," 
said 
Dumbledore 
when 
Harry 
knocked. 
He 
sounded 
exhausted. 
Harry 
pushed 
open 
the 
door. 
There 
was 
Dumbledore's 
office, 
looking 
the 
same 
as 
ever, 
but 
with 
black, 
starstrewn 
skies 
beyond 
the 
windows. 


"Good gracious, Harry," said Dumbledore in surprise. "To what do I owe this very late pleasure?" 
"Sir — I've got it. I’ve got the memory from Slughorn." 
Harry 
pulled 
out 
the 
tiny 
glass 
bottle 
and 
showed 
it 
to 
Dumbledore. 
For 
a 
moment 
or 
two, 
the 


headmaster looked stunned. Then his face split in a wide smile. 
"Harry, this is spectacular news! Very well done indeed! I knew you could do it!" 
All 
thought 
of 
the 
lateness 
of 
the 
hour 
apparently 
forgotten, 
he 
hurried 
around 
his 
desk, 
took 
the 
bottle 


with 
Slughorn's 
memory 
in 
his 
uninjured 
hand, 
and 
strode 
over 
to 
the 
cabinet 
where 
he 
kepi 
the 


Pensieve. 
"And 
now," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
placing 
the 
stone 
basin 
upon 
the 
desk 
and 
emptying 
the 
contents 
of 
the 
bottle into it. "Now, at last. we shall see. Harry, quickly . . ." 


Harry bowed obediently 
over 
the 
Pensieve 
and felt 
his 
feet 
leave 
the 
office 
floor. . . . Once 
again he 
fell 
through 
darkness 
and 
landed 
in 
Horace 
Slughorn's 
office 
many 
years 
before. 
There 
was 
the 
much 
younger 
Slughorn, 
with 
his 
thick, 
shiny, 
strawcolored 
hair 
and 
his 
gingeryblond 
mustache, 
sitting 



again 
in 
the 
comfortable 
winged 
armchair 
in 
his 
office, 
his 
feet 
resting 
upon 
a 
velvet 
pouffe, 
a 
small 
glass 
of 
wine 
in 
one 
hand, 
the 
other 
rummaging 
in 
a 
box 
of 
crystallized 
pineapple. 
And 
there 
were 
the 
half 
dozen 
teenage 
boys 
sitting 
around 
Slughorn 
with 
Tom 
Riddle 
in 
the 
midst 
of 
them, 
Marvolo's 
goldandblack 
ring gleaming on his finger. 

Dumbledore 
landed 
beside 
Harry 
just 
as 
Riddle 
asked, 
"Sir 
is 
it 
true 
that 
Professor 
Merrythought 
is 
retiring?" 


"Tom, 
Tom, 
if 
I 
knew 
I 
couldn't 
tell 
you," 
said 
Slughorn, 
wagging 
his 
finger 
reprovingly 
at 
Riddle, 
though 
winking 
at 
the 
same 
time. 
"I 
must 
say, 
I'd 
like 
to 
know 
where 
you 
get 
your 
information, 
boy, 
more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are." 


Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks. 


"What 
with 
your 
uncanny 
ability 
to 
know 
things 
you 
shouldn't, 
and 
your 
careful 
flattery 
of 
the 
people 
who 
matter 
— 
thank 
you 
for 
the 
pineapple, 
by 
the 
way, 
you're 
quite 
right, 
it 
is 
my 
favorite 
—" 
Several 
of 
the 
boys 
tittered 
again. 
"— 
I 
confidently 
expect 
you 
to 
rise 
to 
Minister 
of 
Magic 
within 
twenty 
years. Fifteen, if you keep sending me pineapple, I have excellent contacts at the Ministry." 


Tom 
Riddle 
merely 
smiled 
as 
the 
others 
laughed 
again. 
Harry 
noticed 
that 
he 
was 
by 
no 
means 
the 
eldest of the group of boys, but that they all seemed to look to him as their leader. 

"I 
don't 
know 
that 
politics 
would 
suit 
me, 
sir," 
he 
said 
when 
the 
laughter 
had 
died 
away. 
"I 
don't 
have 
the right kind of background, for one thing." 


A 
couple 
of 
the 
boys 
around 
him 
smirked 
at 
each 
other. 
Harry 
was 
sure 
they 
were 
enjoying 
a 
private 
joke, undoubtedly about what they knew, or suspected, regarding their gang leader's famous ancestor. 

"Nonsense," 
said 
Slughorn 
briskly, 
"couldn't 
be 
plainer 
you 
come 
from 
decent 
Wizarding 
stock, 
abilities like yours. No, you'll go far, Tom, I've never been wrong about a student yet." 


The 
small 
golden 
clock 
standing 
upon 
Slughorn's 
desk 
chimed 
eleven 
o'clock 
behind 
him 
and 
he 
looked around. 

"Good 
gracious, 
is 
it 
that 
time 
already? 
You'd 
better 
get 
going 
boys, 
or 
we'll 
all 
be 
in 
trouble. 
Lestrange, I want your essay by in morrow or it's detention. Same goes for you, Avery." 


One 
by 
one, 
the 
boys 
filed 
out 
of 
the 
room. 
Slughorn 
heaved 
himself 
out 
of 
his 
armchair 
and 
carried 
his 
empty 
glass 
over 
to 
his 
desk. 
A 
movement 
behind 
him 
made 
him 
look 
around; 
Riddle 
was 
still 
standing there. 

"Look sharp, Tom, you don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect.. ." 


"Sir, I wanted to ask you something." ' 
"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away. . . ." 


"Sir, I wondered what you know about. . . about Horcruxes?' 


Slughorn stared at him, his thick ringers absentmindedly clawing the stem of his wine glass. 


"Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?" 



But Harry could tell that Slughorn knew perfectly well that this was not schoolwork. 
"Not exactly, sir," said Riddle. "I came across the term while reading and I didn't fully understand it." 
"No 
. 
. 
. 
well. 
. 
. 
you'd 
be 
hardpushed 
to 
find 
a 
book 
at 
Hogwarts 
that'll 
give 
you 
details 
on 
Horcruxes, 


Tom, that's very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed," said Slughorn. 


"But 
you 
obviously 
know 
all 
about 
them, 
sir? 
I 
mean, 
a 
wizard 
like 
you 
— 
sorry, 
I 
mean, 
if 
you 
can't 
tell me, obviously — I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could — so I just thought I'd –“ 
It 
was 
very 
well 
done, 
thought 
Harry, 
the 
hesitancy, 
the 
casual 
tone, 
the 
careful 
flattery, 
none 
of 
it 


overdone. 
He, 
Harry, 
had 
had 
too 
much 
experience 
of 
trying 
to 
wheedle 
information 
out 
of 
reluctant 
people 
not 
to 
recognize 
a 
master 
at 
work. 
He 
could 
tell 
that 
Riddle 
wanted 
the 
information 
very, 
very 
much; perhaps had been working toward this moment for weeks. 


"Well," 
said 
Slughorn, 
not 
looking 
at 
Riddle, 
but 
fiddling 
with 
the 
ribbon 
on 
top 
of 
his 
box 
of 
crystallized 
pineapple, 
"well, 
it 
can't 
hurt 
to 
give 
you 
an 
overview, 
of 
course. 
Just 
so 
that 
you 
understand 
t 
he 
term. 
A 
Horcrux 
is 
the 
word 
used 
for 
an 
object 
in 
which 
a 
person 
has 
concealed 
part 
of 
their soul." 


"I don't quite understand how that works, though, sir," said Riddle. 
His voice was carefully controlled, but Harry could sense his excitement. 
"Well, 
you 
split 
your 
soul, 
you 
see," 
said 
Slughorn, 
"and 
hide 
part 
of 
it 
in 
an 
object 
outside 
the 
body. 


Then, 
even 
if 
one's 
body 
is 
attacked 
or 
destroyed, 
one 
cannot 
die, 
for 
part 
of 
the 
soul 
remains 


earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form ..." 
Slughorn's 
face 
crumpled 
and 
Harry 
found 
himself 
remembering 
words 
he 
had 
heard 
nearly 
two 
years 
before: 
"I 
was 
ripped 
from 
my 
body, 
I 
was 
less 
than 
spirit, 
less 
than 
the 
meanest 
ghost. 
. 
. 
but 
still, 
I 
was alive." 


"... few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable." 
But Riddle's hunger was now apparent; his expression was greedy, he could no longer hide his longing. 
"How do you split your soul?" 
"Well," 
said 
Slughorn 
uncomfortably, 
"you 
must 
understand 
that 
the 
soul 
is 
supposed 
to 
remain 
intact 


and whole. Splitting n it I an act of violation, it is against nature." 
"But how do you do it?" 
"By 
an 
act 
of 
evil 
— 
the 
supreme 
act 
of 
evil. 
By 
commiting 
murder. 
Killing 
rips 
the 
soul 
apart. 
The 


wizard 
intent 
upon 
creating 
a 
Horcrux 
would 
use 
the 
damage 
to 
his 
advantage: 
He 
would 
encase 
the 
torn portion —" 


"Encase? But how — ?" 
"There 
is 
a 
spell, 
do 
not 
ask 
me, 
I 
don't 
know!" 
said 
Slughoin 
shaking 
his 
head 
like 
an 
old 
elephant 
bothered by mosquitoes. " Do I look as though I have tried it — do I look like a killer?" 



"No, sir, of course not," said Riddle quickly. "I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to offend . . ." 


"Not 
at 
all, 
not 
at 
all, 
not 
offended," 
said 
Slughorn 
gruffly, 
"It 
is 
natural 
to 
feel 
some 
curiosity 
about 
these things. . . . Wizards of a certain caliber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic. . . ." 


"Yes, 
sir," 
said 
Riddle. 
"What 
I 
don't 
understand, 
though 
— 
just 
out 
of 
curiosity 
— 
I 
mean, 
would 
one 
Horcrux 
be 
much 
use? 
Can 
you 
only 
split 
your 
soul 
once? 
Wouldn't 
it 
be 
better, 
make 
you 
stronger, 
to 
have 
your 
soul 
in 
more 
pieces, 
I 
mean, 
for 
instance, 
isn't 
seven 
the 
most 
powerfully 
magical 
number, 
wouldn't seven — ?" 


"Merlin's 
beard, 
Tom!" 
yelped 
Slughorn. 
"Seven! 
Isn't 
it 
bad 
enough 
to 
think 
of 
killing 
one 
person? 
And in any case . . . bad enough to divide the soul . . . but to rip it into seven pieces . . ." 


Slughorn 
looked 
deeply 
troubled 
now: 
He 
was 
gazing 
at 
Riddle 
as 
though 
he 
had 
never 
seen 
him 
plainly before, and Harry could tell that he was regretting entering into the conversation at all. 


"Of course," he muttered, "this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic . . ." 


"Yes, sir, of course," said Riddle quickly. 


"But 
all 
the 
same, 
Tom 
. 
. 
. 
keep 
it 
quiet, 
what 
I've 
told 
— 
that's 
to 
say, 
what 
we've 
discussed. 
People 
wouldn't 
like 
to 
think 
we've 
been 
chatting 
about 
Horcruxes. 
It's 
a 
banned 
subject 
at 
Hogwarts, 
you 
know. . . . Dumbledore's particularly fierce about it. ..." 


"I 
won't 
say 
a 
word, 
sir," 
said 
Riddle, 
and 
he 
left, 
but 
not 
before 
Harry 
had 
glimpsed 
his 
face, 
which 
was 
full 
of 
that 
same 
wild 
happiness 
it 
had 
worn 
when 
he 
had 
first 
found 
out 
that 
he 
was 
a 
wizard, 
the 
sort of happiness that did not enhance his handsome features, but made them, somehow, less human. . . 


"Thank you, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly. "Let us go. . . ." 


When 
Harry 
landed 
back 
on 
the 
office 
floor 
Dumbledore 
was 
; 
already 
sitting 
down 
behind 
his 
desk. 
Harry sat too and waited for Dumbledore to speak. 

"I 
have 
been 
hoping 
for 
this 
piece 
of 
evidence 
for 
a 
very 
long 
time," 
said 
Dumbledore 
at 
last. 
"It 
confirms 
the 
theory 
on 
which 
I 
have 
been 
working, 
it 
tells 
me 
that 
I 
am 
right, 
and 
also 
how 
very 
far 
there is still to go. ..." 


Harry 
suddenly 
noticed 
that 
every 
single 
one 
of 
the 
old 
headmasters 
and 
headmistresses 
in 
the 
portraits 
around 
the 
walls 
was 
awake 
and 
listening 
in 
on 
their 
conversation. 
A 
corpulent, 
red 
nosed 
wizard 
had 
actually taken out an ear trumpet. 


"Well, 
Harry," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
"I 
am 
sure 
you 
understood 
the 
significance 
of 
what 
we 
just 
heard. 
At 
the 
same 
age 
as 
you are 
now, give 
or 
take 
a 
few 
months, 
Tom 
Riddle 
was 
doing 
all 
he 
could to 
find out 
how to make himself immortal." 


"You 
think 
he 
succeeded 
then, 
sir?" 
asked 
Harry. 
"He 
made 
a 
Horcrux? 
And 
that's 
why 
he 
didn't 
die 
when he attacked me? He had a Horcrux hidden somewhere? A bit of his soul was safe?" 


"A 
bit... 
or 
more," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"You 
heard 
Voldemort, 
what 
he 
particularly 
wanted 
from 
Horace 
was 
an 
opinion 
on 
what 
would 
happen 
to 
the 
wizard 
who 
created 
more 
than 
one 
Horcrux, 
what 
would 



happen 
to 
the 
wizard 
so 
determined 
to 
evade 
death 
that 
he 
would 
be 
prepared 
to 
murder 
many 
times, 
rip 
his 
soul 
repeatedly, 
so 
as 
to 
store 
it 
in 
many, 
separately 
concealed 
Horcruxc. 
No 
book 
would 
have 
given him 
that 
information. 
As 
far 
as 
I 
know 
— as 
far, I 
am 
sure, as 
Voldemort 
knew 
— no wizard had 
ever done more than tear his soul in two." 


Dumbledore 
paused 
for 
a 
moment, 
marshaling 
his 
thought, 
and 
then 
said, 
"Four 
years 
ago, 
I 
received 
what I considered certain proof that Voldemort had split his soul." 


"Where?" asked Harry. "How?" 


"You 
handed 
it 
to 
me, 
Harry," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"The 
diary, 
Riddles 
diary, 
the 
one 
giving 
instructions 
on how to reopen the Chamber of Secrets." 


"I don't understand, sir," said Harry. 

"Well, 
although 
I 
did 
not 
see 
the 
Riddle 
who 
came 
out 
of 
the 
diary, 
what 
you 
described 
to 
me 
was 
a 
phenomenon 
I 
had 
never 
witnessed. 
A 
mere 
memory 
starting 
to 
act 
and 
think 
for 
itself? 
A 
mere 
memory, 
sapping 
the 
life 
out 
of 
the 
girl 
into 
whose 
hands 
it 
had 
fallen? 
No, 
something 
much 
more 
sinister 
had 
lived 
inside 
that 
book. 
... 
a 
fragment 
of 
soul, 
I 
was 
almost 
sure 
of 
it. 
The 
diary 
had 
been 
a 
Horcrux. 
But 
this 
raised 
as 
many 
questions 
as 
it 
answered. 
What 
intrigued 
and 
alarmed 
me 
most 
was 
that that diary had been intended as a weapon as much as a safeguard." 

"1 still don't understand," said Harry. 

"Well, 
it 
worked 
as 
a 
Horcrux 
is 
supposed 
to 
work 
— 
in 
other 
words, 
the 
fragment 
of 
soul 
concealed 
inside 
it 
was 
kept 
safe 
and 
had 
undoubtedly 
played 
its 
part 
in 
preventing 
the 
death 
of 
its 
owner. 
But 
there 
could 
be 
no 
doubt 
that 
Riddle 
really 
wanted 
that 
diary 
read, 
wanted 
the 
piece 
of 
his 
soul 
to 
inhabit or possess somebody else, so that Slytherin's monster would be unleashed again." 


"Well, 
he 
didn't 
want 
his 
hard 
work 
to 
be 
wasted," 
said 
Harry. 
"He 
wanted 
people 
to 
know 
he 
was 
Slytherin's heir, because he couldn't take credit at the time." 


"Quite 
correct," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
nodding. 
"But 
don't 
you 
see, 
Harry, 
that 
if 
he 
intended 
the 
diary 
to 
be 
passed 
to, 
or 
planted 
on, 
some 
future 
Hogwarts 
student, 
he 
was 
being 
remarkably 
blase 
about 
that 
precious 
fragment 
of 
his 
soul 
concealed 
within 
it. 
The 
point 
of 
a 
Horcrux 
is, 
as 
Professor 
Slughorn 
explained, 
to 
keep 
part 
of 
the 
self 
hidden 
and 
safe, 
not 
to 
fling 
it 
into 
somebody 
else's 
path 
and 
run 
the 
risk 
that 
they 
might 
destroy 
it 
— 
as 
indeed 
happened: 
That 
particular 
fragment 
of 
soul 
is 
no 
more; 
you 
saw to that. 

The 
careless 
way 
in 
which 
Voldemort 
regarded 
this 
Horcrux 
seemed 
most 
ominous 
to 
me. 
It 
suggested 
that 
he 
must 
have 
made 
— 
or 
had 
been 
planning 
to 
make 
— 
more 
Horcruxes, 
so 
that 
the 
loss 
of 
his 
first 
would 
not 
be 
so 
detrimental. 
I 
did 
not 
wish 
to 
believe 
it, 
but 
nothing 
else 
seemed 
to 
make 
sense. 
Then 
you 
told 
me, 
two 
years 
later, 
that 
on 
the 
night 
that 
Voldemort 
returned 
to 
his 
body, 
he 
made 
a 
most 
illuminating 
and 
alarming 
statement 
to 
his 
Death 
Eaters. 
‘I 
who 
have 
gone 
further 
than 
anybody 
along 
the 
path 
that 
leads 
to 
immortality.’ 
That 
was 
what 
you 
told 
me 
he 
said. 
'Further 
than 
anybody!' 
And 
I 
thought 
I 
knew 
what 
that 
meant, 
though 
the 
Death 
Eaters 
did 
not. 
He 
was 
referring 
to 
his 



Horcruxes, 
Horcruxes 
in 
the 
plural, 
Harry, 
which 
I 
don’t 
believe 
any 
other 
wizard 
has 
ever 
had. 
Yet 
it 
fitted: 
Lord 
Voldomort 
has 
seemed 
to 
grow 
less 
human 
with 
the 
passing 
years, 
and 
the 
transformation 
he 
had 
undergone 
seemed 
to 
me 
to 
be 
only 
explainable 
if 
his 
soul 
was 
mutilated 
beyond 
the 
realms 
of 
what we might call 'usual evil' . . ." 


"So 
he's 
made 
himself 
impossible 
to 
kill 
by 
murdering 
other 
people?" 
said 
Harry. 
"Why 
couldn't 
he 
make a Sorcerer's Stone, or steal one, if he was so interested in immortality?" 


"Well, 
we 
know 
that 
he 
tried 
to 
do 
just 
that, 
five 
years 
ago," 
s;n«l 
Dumbledore. 
"But 
there 
are 
several 
reasons why, I think, a Sorcerer's Stone would appeal less than Horcruxes to Lord Voldemort, 

"While 
the 
Elixir 
of 
Life 
does 
indeed 
extend 
life, 
it 
must 
lie 
drunk 
regularly, 
for 
all 
eternity, 
if 
the 
drinker 
is 
to 
maintain 
the 
immortality. 
Therefore, 
Voldemort 
would 
be 
entirely 
dependant 
on 
the 
Elixir, 
and 
if 
it 
ran 
out, 
or 
was 
contaminated, 
or 
if 
the 
Stone 
was 
stolen, 
he 
would 
die 
just 
like 
any 
other man. Voldemort likes to operate alone, remember. I believe that he would have found the thought 
of 
being 
dependent, 
even 
on 
the 
Elixir, 
intolerable. 
Of 
course 
he 
was 
prepared 
to 
drink 
it 
if 
it 
would 
take him out of the horrible partlife 
to which he was condemned after attacking you, but only to regain 
a 
body. 
Thereafter, 
I 
am 
convinced, 
he 
intended 
to 
continue 
to 
rely 
on 
his 
Horcruxes. 
He 
would 
need 
nothing more, if only he could regain a human form. He was already immortal, you see ... or as close to 
immortal 
as 
any 
man 
can 
be. 
But 
now, 
Harry, 
armed 
with 
this 
information, 
the 
crucial 
memory 
you 
have 
succeeded 
in 
procuring 
for 
us, 
we 
are 
closer 
to 
the 
secret 
of 
finishing 
Lord 
Voldemort 
than 
anyone 
has 
ever 
been 
before. 
You 
heard 
him, 
Harry: 
'Wouldn't 
it 
be 
better, 
make 
you 
stronger, 
to 
have 
your 
soul 
in 
more 
pieces 
. 
. 
. 
isn't 
seven 
the 
most 
powerfully 
magical 
number 
. 
. 
.' 
Isn't 
seven 
the 
most 
powerfully 
magical 
number. 
Yes, 
I 
think 
the 
idea 
of 
a 
sevenpart 
soul 
would 
greatly 
appeal 
to 
Lord 
Voldemort." 


"He 
made 
seven 
Horcruxes?" 
said 
Harry, 
horrorstruck, 
while 
several 
of 
the 
portraits 
on 
the 
walls 
made 
similar 
noises 
of 
shock 
mid 
outrage. 
"But 
they 
could 
be 
anywhere 
in 
the 
world 
— 
hidden 
— 
buried or invisible —" 


"I 
am 
glad 
to 
see 
you 
appreciate 
the 
magnitude 
of 
the 
problem," 
said 
Dumbledore 
calmly. 
"But 
firstly, 
no, 
Harry, 
not 
seven 
Horcruxes: 
six. 
The 
seventh 
part 
of 
his 
soul, 
however 
maimed, 
resides 
inside 
his 
regenerated 
body. 
That 
was 
the 
part 
of 
him 
that 
lived 
a 
spectral 
existence 
for 
so 
many 
years 
during 
his 
exile; 
without 
that, 
he 
has 
no 
self 
at 
all. 
That 
seventh 
piece 
of 
soul 
will 
be 
the 
last 
that 
anybody 
wishing to kill Voldemort must attack — the piece that lives in his body." 


"But the six Horcruxes, then," said Harry, a little desperately, "how are we supposed to find them?" 


"You are forgetting . . . you have already destroyed one of them. And I have destroyed another." 


"You have?" said Harry eagerly. 

"Yes 
indeed," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
and 
he 
raised 
his 
blackened, 
burnedlooking 
hand. 
"The 
ring, 
Harry. 
Marvolo's 
ring. 
And 
a 
terrible 
curse 
there 
was 
upon 
it 
too. 
Had 
it 
not 
been 
— 
forgive 
me 
the 
lack 
of 
seemly 
modesty 
— 
for 
my 
own 
prodigious 
skill, 
and 
for 
Professor 
Snape's 
timely 
action 
when 
I 
returned 
to 
Hogwarts, 
desperately 
injured, 
I 
might 
not 
have 
lived 
to 
tell 
the 
tale. 
However, 
a 
withered 



hand 
does 
not 
seem 
an 
unreasonable 
exchange 
for 
a 
seventh 
of 
Voldemort's 
soul. 
The 
ring 
is 
no 
longer 
a Horcrux." 


"But how did you find it?" 


"Well, 
as 
you 
now 
know, 
for 
many 
years 
I 
have 
made 
it 
my 
business 
to 
discover 
as 
much 
as 
I 
can 
about 
Voldemort's 
past 
life. 
I 
have 
traveled 
widely, 
visiting 
those 
places 
he 
once 
knew. 
I 
stumbled 
across 
the 
ring 
hidden 
in 
the 
ruin 
of 
the 
Gaunt’s 
house. 
It 
seem 
that 
once 
Voldemort 
had 
succeeded 
in 
sealing 
a 
piece 
of 
his 
soul 
in 
side 
it, 
he 
did 
not 
want 
to 
wear 
it 
anymore. 
He 
hid 
it, 
protected 
by 
many 
powerful enchantments, in the shack where his ancestors had once lived (Morfin having been carted off 
to 
Azkaban, 
of 
course), 
never 
guessing 
that 
I 
might 
one 
day 
take 
the 
trouble 
to 
visit 
the 
ruin, 
or 
that 
I 
might be keeping an eye open for traces of magical concealment. 

"However, 
we 
should 
not 
congratulate 
ourselves 
too 
heartily. 
You 
destroyed 
the 
diary 
and 
I 
the 
ring, 
but if we are right in our theory of a sevenpart 
soul, four Horcruxes remain." 


"And 
they 
could 
be 
anything?" 
said 
Harry. 
"They 
could 
be 
oh, 
in 
tin 
cans 
or, 
I 
dunno, 
empty 
potion 
bottles. . . ." 


"You 
are 
thinking 
of 
Portkeys, 
Harry, 
which 
must 
be 
ordinary 
objects, 
easy 
to 
overlook. 
But 
would 
Lord 
Voldemort 
use 
tin 
cans 
or 
old 
potion 
bottles 
to 
guard 
his 
own 
precious 
soul? 
You 
are 
forgetting 
what 
I 
have 
showed 
you. 
Lord 
Voldemort 
liked 
to 
collect 
trophies, 
and 
he 
preferred 
objects 
with 
a 
powerful 
magical 
history 
His 
pride, 
his 
belief 
in 
his 
own 
superiority, 
his 
determination 
to 
carve 
for 
himself 
a 
startling 
place 
in 
magical 
history; 
these 
things, 
suggest 
to 
me 
that 
Voldemort 
would 
have 
chosen his Horcruxr with some care, favoring objects worthy of the honor." 


"The diary wasn't that special." 


"The 
diary, 
as 
you 
have 
said 
yourself, 
was 
proof 
that 
he 
was 
the 
Hire 
of 
Slytherin. 
I 
am 
sure 
that 
Voldemort considered it of stupendous importance." 


"So, the other Horcruxes?" said Harry. "Do you think you know what they are, sir?" 


"I 
can 
only 
guess," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"For 
the 
reasons 
I 
have 
already 
given, 
I 
believe 
that 
Lord 
Voldemort 
would 
prefer 
objects 
that, 
in 
themselves, 
have 
a 
certain 
grandeur. 
I 
have 
therefore 
trawled 
back 
through 
Voldemort's 
past 
to 
see 
if 
I 
can 
find 
evidence 
that 
such 
artifacts 
have 
disappeared 
around 
him." 


"The locket!" said Harry loudly, "Hufflepuff's cup!" 


"Yes," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
smiling, 
"I 
would 
be 
prepared 
to 
bet 
— 
perhaps 
not 
my 
other 
hand 
— 
but 
a 
couple 
of 
fingers, 
that 
they 
became 
Horcruxes 
three 
and 
four. 
The 
remaining 
two, 
assuming 
again 
that 
he 
created 
a 
total 
of 
six, 
are 
more 
of 
a 
problem, 
but 
I 
will 
hazard 
a 
guess 
that, 
having 
secured 
objects 
from 
Hufflepuff 
and 
Slytherin, 
he 
set 
out 
to 
track 
down 
objects 
owned 
by 
Gryffindor 
or 
Ravenclaw. 
Four 
objects 
from 
the 
four 
founders 
would, 
I 
am 
sure, 
have 
exerted 
a 
powerful 
pull 
over 
Voldemort's 
imagination. 
I 
cannot 
answer 
for 
whether 
he 
ever 
managed 
to 
find 
anything 
of 
Ravenclaw's. 
I 
am 
confident, however, that the only known relic of Gryffindor remains safe." 



Dumbledore 
pointed 
his 
blackened 
fingers 
to 
the 
wall 
behind 
him, 
where 
a 
rubyencrusted 
sword 
reposed within a glass case. 

"Do 
you think 
that's 
why he 
really wanted to come 
back to Hogwarts, 
sir?" 
said 
Harry. "To 
try and find 
something from one of the other founders?" 


"My 
thoughts 
precisely," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"But 
unfortunately, 
that 
does 
not 
advance 
us 
much 
further, 
for 
he 
was 
turned 
away, 
or 
so 
I 
believe, 
without 
the 
chance 
to 
search 
the 
school. 
I 
am 
forced 
to 
conclude 
that 
he 
never 
fulfilled 
his 
ambition 
of 
collecting 
four 
founders' 
objects. 
He 
definitely 
had 
two 


— he may have found three — that is the best we can do for now." 
"Even 
if 
he 
got 
something 
of 
Ravenclaw's 
or 
of 
Gryffindor's, 
that 
leaves 
a 
sixth 
Horcrux," 
said 
Harry, 
counting on his fingers. "Unless he’s got both?" 

"I 
don't 
think 
so," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"I 
think 
I 
know 
what 
the 
sixth 
Horcrux 
is. 
I 
wonder 
what 
you 
will 
say when I confess that I have been curious for a while about the behavior of the snake, Nagini?' 

"The snake?" said Harry, startled. "You can use animals as Horcruxes?" 


"Well, 
it 
is 
inadvisable 
to 
do 
so," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
"because 
to 
confide 
a 
part 
of 
your 
soul 
to 
something 
that 
can 
think 
and 
move 
for 
itself 
is 
obviously 
a 
very 
risky 
business. 
However, 
if 
my 
calculations 
are 
correct, 
Voldemort 
was 
still 
at 
least 
one 
Horcrux 
short 
of 
his 
goal 
of 
six 
when 
he 
entered 
your 
parents' 
house 
with 
the 
intention 
of 
killing 
you. 
He 
seems 
to 
have 
reserved 
the 
process 
of 
making 
Horcruxes 
for 
particularly 
significant 
deaths. 
You 
would 
certainly 
have 
been 
that. 
He 
believed 
that 
in 
killing 
you, 
he 
was 
destroying 
the 
danger 
the 
prophecy 
had 
outlined. 
He 
believed 
he 
was 
making 
himself 
invincible. 
I 
am 
sure 
that 
he 
was 
intending 
to 
make 
his 
final 
Horcrux 
with 
your 
death. 
As 
we 
know, 
he 
failed. 
After 
an 
interval 
of 
some 
years, 
however, 
he 
used 
Nagini 
to 
kill 
an 
old 
Muggle 
man, 
and 
it 
might 
then 
have 
occurred 
to 
him 
to 
turn 
her 
into 
his 
last 
Horcrux. 
She 
underlines 
the 
Slytherin 
connection, 
which 
enhances 
Lord 
Voldemorts 
mystique; 
I 
think 
he 
is 
perhaps 
as 
fond 
of 
her 
as 
he 
can 
be 
of 
anything; 
he 
certainly 
likes 
to 
keep 
her 
close, 
and 
he 
seems 
to 
have 
an 
unusual 
amount 
of control over her, even for a Parselmouth." 


"So," 
said 
Harry, 
"the 
diary's 
gone, 
the 
ring's 
gone. 
The 
cup, 
the 
locket, 
and 
the 
snake 
are 
still 
intact, 
and you think there might be a Horcrux that was once Ravenclaw's or Gryffindor's?" 


"An admirably succinct and accurate summary, yes," said Dumbledore, bowing his head. 

"So 
. 
. 
. 
are 
you 
still 
looking 
for 
them, 
sir? 
Is 
that 
where 
you've 
been 
going 
when 
you've 
been 
leaving 
the school?" 


"Correct," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"I 
have 
been 
looking 
for 
a 
very 
long 
time. 
I 
think. 
. 
. 
perhaps 
... 
I 
may 
be 
close to finding another one. There are hopeful signs." 


"And if you do," said Harry quickly, "can I come with you and help get rid of it?" 

Dumbledore looked at Harry very intently for a moment before saying, "Yes, I think so." 


"I can?" said Harry, thoroughly taken aback. 


"Oh yes," said Dumbledore, smiling slightly. "I think you have earned that right." 


Harry 
felt 
his 
heart 
lift. 
It 
was 
very 
good 
not 
to 
hear 
words 
of 
caution 
and 
protection 
for 
once. 
The 
headmasters 
and 
headmistresses 
around 
the 
walls 
seemed 
less 
impressed 
by 
Dumbledore's 
decision; 
Harry saw a few of them shaking their heads and Phineas Nigellus actually snorted. 

"Does 
Voldemort 
know 
when 
a 
Horcrux 
is 
destroyed, 
sir? 
Can 
he 
feel 
it?" 
Harry 
asked, 
ignoring 
the 
portraits. 


"A 
very 
interesting 
question, 
Harry. 
I 
believe 
not. 
I 
believe 
that 
Voldemort 
is 
now 
so 
immersed 
in 
evil, 
and these 
crucial 
parts 
of 
himself have 
been detached for 
so 
long, he 
does 
not 
feel 
as 
we 
do. Perhaps, 
at 
the 
point 
of 
death, 
he 
might 
be 
aware 
of 
his 
loss 
. 
. 
. 
but 
he 
was 
not 
aware, 
for 
instance, 
that 
the 
diary 
had 
been 
destroyed 
until 
he 
forced 
the 
truth 
out 
of 
Lucius 
Malfoy. 
When 
Voldemort 
discovered 
that 
the 
diary 
had 
been 
mutilated 
and 
robbed 
of 
all 
its 
powers, 
I 
am 
told 
that 
his 
anger 
was 
terrible 
to 
behold." 


"But I thought he meant Lucius Malfoy to smuggle it into Hogwarts?" 


"Yes, 
he 
did, 
years 
ago, 
when 
he 
was 
sure 
he 
would 
be 
able 
to 
create 
more 
Horcruxes, 
but 
still 
Lucius 
was 
supposed 
to 
wait 
for 
Voldemorts 
sayso, 
and 
he 
never 
received 
it, 
for 
Voldemort 
vanished 
shortly 
after 
giving 
him 
the 
diary. 
No 
doubt 
he 
thought 
that 
Lucius 
would 
not 
dare 
do 
anything 
with 
the 
Horcrux 
other 
than 
guard 
it 
carefully, 
but 
he 
was 
counting 
too 
much 
upon 
Lucius’s 
fear 
of 
a 
master 
who 
had 
been 
gone 
for 
years 
and 
whom 
Lucius 
believed 
dead. 
Of 
course, 
Lucius 
did 
not 
know 
what 
the 
diary 
really 
was. 
I 
understand 
that 
Voldemort 
had 
told 
him 
the 
diary 
would 
cause 
the 
Chamber 
of 
Secrets 
to 
reopen 
because 
it 
was 
cleverly 
enchanted. 
Had 
Lucius 
known 
he 
held 
a 
portion 
of 
his 
masters 
soul 
in 
his 
hands, 
he 
would 
undoubtedly 
have 
treated 
it 
with 
more 
reverence 
— 
but 
instead 
he 
went 
ahead 
and 
carried 
out 
the 
old 
plan 
for 
his 
own 
ends. 
By 
planting 
the 
diary 
upon 
Arthur 
Weasleys 
daughter, 
he 
hoped 
to 
discredit 
Arthur 
and 
get 
rid 
of 
a 
highly 
incriminating 
magical 
object 
in 
one 
stroke. 
Ah, 
poor 
Lucius 
. 
. 
. 
what 
with 
Voldemorts 
fury 
about 
the 
fact 
that 
he 
threw 
away 
the 
Horcrux 
for 
his 
own 
gain, 
and 
the 
fiasco 
at 
the 
Ministry 
last 
year, 
I 
would 
not 
be 
surprised 
if 
he 
is 
not 
secretly 
glad to be safe in Azkaban at the moment." 


Harry 
sat 
in 
thought 
for 
a 
moment, 
then 
asked, 
"So 
if 
all 
of 
his 
Horcruxes 
are 
destroyed, 
Voldemort 
couldbe killed?" 


"Yes, 
I 
think 
so," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"Without 
his 
Horcruxes, 
Voldemort 
will 
be 
a 
mortal 
man 
with 
a 
maimed 
and 
diminished 
soul. 
Never 
forget, 
though, 
that 
while 
his 
soul 
may 
be 
damaged 
beyond 
repair, 
his 
brain 
and 
his 
magical 
powers 
remain 
intact. 
It 
will 
take 
uncommon 
skill 
and 
power 
to 
kill 
a 
wizard 
like Voldemort even without his Horcruxes." 


"But I haven't got uncommon skill and power," said Harry, before he could stop himself. 

"Yes, 
you 
have," 
said 
Dumbledore 
firmly. 
"You 
have 
a 
power 
that 
Voldemort 
has 
never 
had. 
You 
can 
—" 



"I 
know!" 
said 
Harry 
impatiently. 
"I 
can 
love!" 
It 
was 
only 
with 
difficulty 
that 
he 
stopped 
himself 
adding, "Big deal!" 


"Yes, 
Harry, 
you 
can 
love," 
said 
Dumbledore, 
who 
looked 
as 
though 
he 
knew 
perfectly 
well 
what 
Harry 
had 
just 
refrained 
from 
saying. 
"Which, 
given 
everything 
that 
has 
happened 
to 
you, 
is 
a 
great 
and remarkable thing. You are still too young to understand how unusual you are, Harry." 

"So, 
when 
the 
prophecy 
says 
that 
I'll 
have 
'power 
the 
Dark 
Lord 
knows 
not,' 
it 
just 
means 
— 
love?" 
asked Harry, feeling a little let down. 

"Yes 
— 
just 
love," 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"But 
Harry, 
never 
forget 
that 
what 
the 
prophecy 
says 
is 
only 
significant 
because 
Voldemort 
made 
it 
so. 
I 
told 
you 
this 
at 
the 
end 
of 
last 
year. 
Voldemort 
singled 
you 
out 
as 
the 
person 
who 
would 
be 
most 
dangerous 
to 
him 
— 
and 
in 
doing 
so, 
he 
made 
you 
the 
person 
who would be most dangerous to him!" 


"But it comes to the same —" 


"No, 
it 
doesn't!" 
said 
Dumbledore, 
sounding 
impatient 
now. 
Pointing 
at 
Harry 
with 
his 
black, 
withered 
hand, he said, "You are setting too much store by the prophecy!" 


"But," spluttered Harry, "but you said the prophecy means —“ 


"If 
Voldemort 
had 
never 
heard 
of 
the 
prophecy, 
would 
it 
have 
been 
fulfilled? 
Would 
it 
have 
meant 
anything? Of course not! Ho you think every prophecy in the Hall of Prophecy has been fulfilled?" 


"But," said Harry, bewildered, "but last year, you said one of us would have to kill the other —" 


"Harry, Harry, only because 
Voldemort 
made 
a 
grave 
error, and acted on Professor 
Trelawney's 
words! 
If 
Voldemort 
had 
never 
murdered 
your 
father, 
would 
he 
have 
imparted 
in 
you 
a 
furious 
desire 
for 
revenge? 
Of 
course 
not! 
If 
he 
had 
not 
forced 
your 
mother 
to 
die 
for 
you, 
would 
he 
have 
given 
you 
a 
magical 
protection 
he 
could 
not 
penetrate? 
Of 
course 
not, 
Harry! 
Don't 
you 
see? 
Voldemort 
himself 
created 
his 
worst 
enemy, 
just 
as 
tyrants 
everywhere 
do! 
Have 
you 
any 
idea 
how 
much 
tyrants 
fear 
the 
people 
they 
oppress? 
All 
of 
them 
realize 
that, 
one 
day, 
amongst 
their 
many 
victims, 
there 
is 
sure 
to 
be 
one 
who 
rises 
against 
them 
and 
strikes 
back! 
Voldemort 
is 
no 
different! 
Always 
he 
was 
on 
the 
lookout 
for 
the 
one 
who 
would 
challenge 
him. 
He 
heard 
the 
prophecy 
and 
he 
leapt 
into 
action, 
with 
the 
result 
that 
he 
not 
only 
handpicked 
the 
man 
most 
likely 
to 
finish 
him, 
he 
handed 
him 
uniquely 
deadly 
weapons!" 


"But —" 


"It 
is 
essential 
that 
you 
understand 
this!" 
said 
Dumbledore, 
standing 
up 
and 
striding 
about 
the 
room, 
his 
glittering 
robes 
swooshing 
in 
his 
wake; 
Harry 
had 
never 
seen 
him 
so 
agitated. 
"By 
attempting 
to 
kill 
you, 
Voldemort 
himself 
singled 
out 
the 
remarkable 
person 
who 
sits 
here 
in 
front 
of 
me, 
and 
gave 
him 
the 
tools 
for 
the 
job! 
It 
is 
Voldemort's 
fault 
that 
you 
were 
able 
to 
see 
into 
his 
thoughts, 
his 
ambitions, 
that 
you 
even 
understand 
the 
snakelike 
language 
in 
which 
he 
gives 
orders, 
and 
yet, 
Harry, 
despite 
your 
privileged 
insight 
into 
Voldemort's 
world 
(which, 
incidentally, 
is 
a 
gift 
any 
Death 
Eater 
would 
kill 
to 
have), 
you 
have 
never 
been 
seduced 
by 
the 
Dark 
Arts, 
never, 
even 
for 
a 
second, 
shown 



the slightest desire to become one of Voldemort's followers!" 


"Of course I haven't!" said Harry indignantly. "He killed my mum and dad!" 


"You 
are 
protected, 
in 
short, 
by 
your 
ability 
to 
love!" 
said 
Dumbledore 
loudly. 
"The 
only 
protection 
that 
can 
possibly 
work 
against 
the 
lure 
of 
power 
like 
Voldemort's! 
In 
spite 
of 
all 
the 
temptation 
you 
have 
endured, 
all 
the 
suffering, 
you 
remain 
pure 
of 
heart, 
just 
as 
pure 
as 
you 
were 
at 
the 
age 
of 
eleven, 
when 
you 
stared 
into 
a 
mirror 
that 
reflected 
your 
heart's 
desire, 
and 
it 
showed 
you 
only 
the 
way 
to 
thwart 
Lord 
Voldemort, 
and 
not 
immortality 
or 
riches. 
Harry, 
have 
you 
any 
idea 
how 
few 
wizards 
could 
have 
seen 
what 
you 
saw 
in 
that 
mirror? 
Voldemort 
should 
have 
known 
then 
what 
he 
was 
dealing 
with, 
but 
he 
did 
not! 
But 
he 
knows 
it 
now. 
You 
have 
flitted 
into 
Lord 
Voldemort's 
mind 
without 
damage 
to 
yourself, 
but 
he 
cannot 
possess 
you 
without 
enduring 
mortal 
agony, 
as 
he 
discovered 
in 
the 
Ministry. 
I 
do 
not 
think 
he 
understands 
why, 
Harry, 
but 
then, 
he 
was 
in 
such 
a 
hurry 
to 
mutilate 
his 
own 
soul, 
he 
never 
paused 
to 
understand 
the 
incomparable 
power 
of 
a 
soul 
that 
is 
untarnished 
and 
whole." 

"But, 
sir," 
said 
Harry, 
making 
valiant 
efforts 
not 
to 
sound 
argumentative, 
"it 
all 
comes 
to 
the 
same 
thing, doesn't it? I've got to try and kill him, or —" 


"Got 
to?" 
said 
Dumbledore. 
"Of 
course 
you've 
got 
to! 
But 
not 
because 
of 
the 
prophecy! 
Because 
you, 
yourself, will never rest until you've tried! We both know it! Imagine, please, just for a moment, 


that you had never heard that prophecy! How would you feel about Voldemort now? Think!" 


Harry 
watched 
Dumbledore 
striding 
up 
and 
down 
in 
front 
ol 
him, 
and 
thought. 
He 
thought 
of 
his 
mother, 
his 
father, 
and 
Sinus. 
He 
thought 
of 
Cedric 
Diggory. 
He 
thought 
of 
all 
the 
terrible 
deeds 
he 
knew Lord Voldemort had done. A flame seemed to leap inside his chest, searing his throat. 

"I'd want him finished," said Harry quietly. "And I'd want to do it." 


"Of 
course 
you 
would!" 
cried 
Dumbledore. 
"You 
see, 
the 
prophecy 
does 
not 
mean 
you 
have 
to 
do 
anything! 
But 
the 
prophecy 
caused 
Lord 
Voldemort 
to 
mark 
you 
as 
his 
equal. 
... 
In 
other 
words, 
you 
are 
free 
to 
choose 
your 
way, 
quite 
free 
to 
turn 
your 
back 
on 
the 
prophecy! 
But 
Voldemort 
continues 
to 
set store by the prophecy. He will continue to hunt you . . . which makes it certain, really, that —" 


"That one of us is going to end up killing the other," said Harry. "Yes." 


But 
he 
understood 
at 
last 
what 
Dumbledore 
had 
been 
trying 
to 
tell 
him. 
It 
was, 
he 
thought, 
the 
difference 
between 
being 
dragged 
into 
the 
arena 
to 
face 
a 
battle 
to 
the 
death 
and 
walking 
into 
the 
arena 
with 
your 
head 
held 
high. 
Some 
people, 
perhaps, 
would 
say 
that 
there 
was 
little 
to 
choose 
between 
the 
two 
ways, 
but 
Dumbledore 
knew 
— 
and 
so 
do 
I, 
thought 
Harry, 
with 
a 
rush 
of 
fierce 
pride, 
and 
so 
did 
my parents — that there was all the difference in the world. 


Chapter 24 
Sectumsempra 


Exhausted 
but 
delighted 
with 
his 
night's 
work, 
Harry 
told 
Ron 
and 
Hermione 
everything 
that 
had 
happened during 
next 
morning's 
Charms 
lesson (having first 
cast 
the 
Muffliato 
spell 
upon those 
nearest 
them). 
They 
were 
both 
satisfyingly 
impressed 
by 
the 
way 
he 
had 
wheedled 
the 
memory 
out 
of 
Slughorn 
and 
positively 
awed 
when 
he 
told 
them 
about 
Voldemort's 
Horcruxes 
and 
Dumbledore's 
promise to take Harry along, should he find another one. 

"Wow," said Ron, when Harry had finally finished telling them everything; Ron was waving his wand 
very vaguely in the direction of the ceiling without paying the slightest bit of attention to what he was 
doing. "Wow. You're actually going to go with Dumbledore . . . and try and destroy . . . wow." 


"Ron, you're making it snow," said Hermione patiently, grabbing his wrist and redirecting his wand 



away from the ceiling from which, sure enough, large white flakes had started to fall. Lavender Brown, 
Harry noticed, glared at Hermione from a neighboring table through very red eyes, and Hermione 
immediately let go of Rons arm. 


"Oh yeah," said Ron, looking down at his shoulders in vague surprise. "Sorry... looks like we've all got 


horrible dandruff now. ..." 
He brushed some of the fake snow off Hermiones shoulder Lavender burst into tears. Ron looked 
immensely guilty and turned his back on her. 


"We split up," he told Harry out of the corner of his mouth, "Last night. When she saw me coming out 
of the dormitory with Hermione. Obviously she couldn't see you, so she thought it had just been the 
two of us." 


"Ah," said Harry. "Well — you don't mind it's over, do you?", "No," Ron admitted. "It was pretty bad 


while she was yelling, but at least I didn't have to finish it." 
"Coward," said Hermione, though she looked amused. "Well, it was a bad night for romance all 
around. Ginny and Dean split up too, Harry." 


Harry thought there was a rather knowing look in her eye as she told him that, but she could not 
possibly know that his insides were suddenly dancing the conga. Keeping his face as immobile and his 
voice as indifferent as he could, he asked, "How come?" 


"Oh, something really silly . . . She said he was always trying to help her through the portrait hole, like 
she couldn't climb in herself . . . but they've been a bit rocky for ages." 
Harry glanced over at Dean on the other side of the classroom. He certainly looked unhappy. 
"Of course, this puts you in a bit of a dilemma, doesn't it?" said Hermione. 
"What d'you mean?" said Harry quickly. 
"The Quidditch team," said Hermione. "If Ginnyand Dean aren't speaking . . ." 


"Oh — oh yeah," said Harry. 
"Flitwick," said Ron in a warning tone. The tiny little Charms master was bobbing his way toward 
them, and Hermione was the only one who had managed to turn vinegar into wine; her glass flask was 
full of deep crimson liquid, whereas the contents of Harry's and Ron's were still murky brown. 


"Now, now, boys," squeaked Professor Flitwick reproachfully. "A little less talk, a little more 


action . . . Let me see you try. . . ." 
Together they raised their wands, concentrating with all their might, and pointed them at their flasks. 
Harry's vinegar turned to ice; Rons flask exploded. 


"Yes ... for homework," said Professor Flitwick, reemerging from under the table and pulling shards of 
glass out of the top of his hat, "practice." 
They had one of their rare joint free periods after Charms and walked back to the common room 



together. Ron seemed to be positively lighthearted about the end of his relationship with Lavender, and 
Hermione seemed cheery too, though when asked what she was grinning about she simply said, "It's a 
nice day." Neither of them seemed to have noticed that a fierce battle was raging inside Harry's brain: 


She's Rons sister. 
But she's ditched Dean! 
She's still Rons sister. 
I'm his best mate! 
That'll make it worse. 
If I talked to him first — 
He'd hit you. 
What if I don't care? 
He's your best mate! 


Harry barely noticed that they were climbing through the portrait hole into the sunny common room, 
and only vaguely registered the small group of seventh years clustered together there, until Hermione 
cried, "Katie! You're back! Are you okay?" 


Harry stared: It was indeed Katie Bell, looking completely healthy and surrounded by her jubilant 
friends. 

"I'm really well!" she said happily. "They let me out of St. Mungos on Monday, I had a couple of days 
at home with Mum and Dad and then came back here this morning. Leanne was just telling me about 
McLaggen and the last match, Harry. . . ." 

"Yeah," said Harry, "well, now you're back and Ron's fit, we'll have a decent chance of thrashing 
Ravenclaw, which means we could still be in the running for the Cup. Listen, Katie . . ." 


He had to put the question to her at once; his curiosity even drove Ginny temporarily from his brain. 
He dropped his voice as Katie's friends started gathering up their things; apparently they were late for 
Transfiguration. 

". . . that necklace . . . can you remember who gave it to you now?" 


"No," said Katie, shaking her head ruefully. "Everyone's been asking me, but I haven't got a clue. The 
last thing I remember was walking into the ladies' in the Three Broomsticks." 


"You definitely went into the bathroom, then?" said Hermione. 

"Well, I know I pushed open the door," said Katie, "so I suppose whoever Imperiused me was standing 
just behind it. After that, my memory's a blank until about two weeks ago in St. Mungo's. Listen, I'd 



better go, I wouldn't put it past McGonagall to give me lines even if it is my first day back. ..." 


She caught up her bag and books and hurried after her friends, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione to sit 
down at a window table and ponder what she had told them. 

"So it must have been a girl or a woman who gave Katie the necklace," said Hermione, "to be in the 
ladies' bathroom." 


"Or someone who looked like a girl or a woman," said Harry. "Don't forget, there was a cauldron full 
of Polyjuice Potion at Hogwarts. 
We know some of it got stolen. . . ." 


In his mind's eye, he watched a parade of Crabbes and Goyles prance past, all transformed into girls. 

"I think I'm going to take another swig of Felix," said Harry, "and have a go at the Room of 
Requirement again." 


"That would be a complete waste of potion," said Hermione flatly, putting down the copy of Spellmans 
Syllabary she had just taken out of her bag. "Luck can only get you so far, Harry. The situation with 
Slughorn was different; you always had the ability to persuade him, you just needed to tweak the 
circumstances a bit. Luck isn't enough to get you through a powerful enchantment, though. Don't go 
wasting the rest of that potion! You'll need all the luck you can get if Dumbledore takes you along with 
him ..." She dropped her voice to a whisper. 

"Couldn't we make some more?" Ron asked Harry, ignoring Hermione. "It'd be great to have a stock of 
it. ... Have a look in the book... " 


Harry pulled his copy of Advanced PotionMaking 
out of his bap, and looked up Felix Felicis. 


"Blimey, its seriously complicated," he said, running an eye down the list of ingredients. "And it takes 
six months.,. You've got to let it stew. ..." 


"Typical," said Ron. 

Harry was about to put his book away again when he noticed the corner of a page folded down; turning 
to it, he saw the Sectumsempra 
spell, captioned "For Enemies," that he had marked a few weeks 
previously. He had still not found out what it did, mainly because he did not want to test it around 
Hermione, but he was considering trying it out on McLaggen next time he came up behind him 
unawares. 

The only person who was not particularly pleased to see Katie Bell back at school was Dean Thomas, 
because he would no longer be required to fill her place as Chaser. He took the blow stoically enough 
when Harry told him, merely grunting and shrugging, but Harry had the distinct feeling as he walked 
away that Dean and Seamus were muttering mutinously behind his back. 

The following fortnight saw the best Quidditch practices Harry had known as Captain. His team was so 
pleased to be rid of McLaggen, so glad to have Katie back at last, that they were flying extremely well. 


Ginny did not seem at all upset about the breakup with Dean; on the contrary, she was the life and soul 
of the team. Her imitations of Ron anxiously bobbing up and down in front of the goal posts as the 



Quaffle sped toward him, or of Harry bellowing orders at McLaggen before being knocked out cold, 
kept them all highly amused. Harry, laughing with the others, was glad to have an innocent reason to 
look at Ginny; he had received several more Bludger injuries during practice because he had not been 
keeping his eyes on the Snitch. 


The battle still raged inside his head: Ginny or Ron? Sometimes he thought that the postLavender 
Ron 
might not mind too much if he asked Ginny out, but then he remembered Ron's expression when he 
had seen her kissing Dean, and was sure that Ron would consider it base treachery if Harry so much as 
held her hand. . . . 

Yet Harry could not help himself talking to Ginny, laughing with her, walking back from practice with 
her; however much his conscience ached, he found himself wondering how best to get her on her own. 
It would have been ideal if Slughorn had given another of his little parties, for Ron would not be 
around — but unfortunately, Slughorn seemed to have given them up. Once or twice Harry considered 
asking for Hermione's help, but he did not think he could stand seeing the smug look on her face; he 
thought he caught it sometimes when Hermione spotted him staring at Ginny or laughing at her jokes. 
And to complicate matters, he had the nagging worry that if he didn't do it, somebody else was sure to 
ask Ginny out soon: He and Ron were at least agreed on the fact that she was too popular for her own 
good. 

All in all, the temptation to take another gulp of Felix Felicis was becoming stronger by the day, for 
surely this was a case for, as Hermione put it, "tweaking the circumstances"? The balmy days slid 
gently through May, and Ron seemed to be there at Harry's shoulder every time he saw Ginny. Harry 
found himself longing for a stroke of luck that would somehow cause Ron to realize that nothing 
would make him happier than his best friend and his sister falling for each other and to leave them 
alone together for longer than a few seconds. There seemed no chance of either while the final 
Quidditch game of the season was looming; Ron wanted to talk tactics with Harry all the time and had 
little thought for anything else. 

Ron was not unique in this respect; interest in the GryffindorRavenclaw 
game was running extremely 
high throughout the school, for the match would decide the Championship, which was still wide open. 
If Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw by a margin of three hundred points (a tall order, and yet Harry had 
never known his team to fly better) then they would win the Championship. If they won by less than 
three hundred points, they would come second to Ravenclaw; if they lost by a hundred points they 
would be third behind Hufflepuff and if they lost by more than a hundred, they would be in fourth 
place and nobody, Harry thought, would ever, ever let him forget that it had been he who had captained 
Gryffindor to their first bottomofthetable 
defeat in two centuries. 

The runup 
to this crucial match had all the usual features: members of rival Houses attempting to 
intimidate opposing teams in the corridors; unpleasant chants about individual players being rehearsed 
loudly as they passed; the team members themselves either swaggering around enjoying all the 
attention or else dashing into bathrooms between classes to throw up. Somehow, the game had become 
inextricably linked in Harry's mind with success or failure in his plans for Ginny. He could not help 



feeling that if they won by more than three hundred points, the scenes of euphoria and a nice loud 
aftermatch 
party might be just as good as a hearty swig of Felix Felicis. 


In the midst of all his preoccupations, Harry had not forgotten his other ambition: finding out what 
Malfoy was up to in the Room of Requirement. He was still checking the Marauder's Map, and as he 
was unable to locate Malfoy on it, deduced that Malfoy was still spending plenty of time within the 
room. Although Harry was losing hope that he would ever succeed in getting inside the Room of 
Requirement, he attempted it whenever he was in the vicinity, but no matter how he reworded his 
request, the wall remained firmly doorless. 


A few days before the match against Ravenclaw, Harry found himself walking down to dinner alone 
from the common room, Ron having rushed off into a nearby bathroom to throw up yet again, and 
Hermione having dashed off to see Professor Vector about a mistake she thought she might have made 
in her last Arithmancy essay. More out of habit than anything, Harry made his usual detour along the 
seventhfloor 
corridor, checking the Marauder's Map as he went. For a moment he could not find 
Malfoy anywhere and assumed he must indeed be inside the Room of Requirement again, but then he 
saw Malfoy's tiny, labeled dot standing in a boys' bathroom on the floor below, accompanied, not by 
Crabbe or Goyle, but by Moaning Myrtle. 


Harry only stopped staring at this unlikely coupling when he walked right into a suit of armor. The 
loud crash brought him out of his reverie; hurrying from the scene lest Filch turn up, he dashed down 
the marble staircase and along the passageway below. Outside the bathroom, he pressed his ear against 
the door. He could not hear anything. He very quietly pushed the door open. 

Draco Malfoy was standing with his back to the door, his hands clutching either side of the sink, his 
whiteblond 
head bowed. 

"Don't," crooned Moaning Myrtle's voice from one of the cubicles. "Don't. . . tell me what's wrong ... I 
can help you. . . ." 


"No one can help me," said Malfoy. His whole body was shaking. "I can't do it. ... I can't. ... It won't 
work . . . and unless 1 do it soon ... he says he'll kill me. ..." 


And Harry realized, with a shock so huge it seemed to root him to the spot, that Malfoy was crying — 
actually crying — tears streaming down his pale face into the grimy basin. Malfoy gasped and gulped 
and then, with a great shudder, looked up into flucracked 
mirror and saw Harry staring at him over his 
shoulder. 

Malfoy wheeled around, drawing his wand. Instinctively, Harry pulled out his own. Malfoy's hex 
missed Harry by inches, shattering the lamp on the wall beside him; Harry threw himself sideways, 
thought Levicorpus! and flicked his wand, but Malfoy blocked the jinx and raised his wand for another 
— 

"No! No! Stop it!" squealed Moaning Myrtle, her voice echoing loudly around the tiled room. "Stop! 
STOP!" 



There was a loud bang and the bin behind Harry exploded; Harry attempted a LegLocker 
Curse that 
backfired off the wall behind Malfoy's ear and smashed the cistern beneath Moaning Myrtle, who 
screamed loudly; water poured everywhere and Harry slipped as Malfoy, his face contorted, cried, 
"Cruci —" 

"SECTUMSEMPRA!" bellowed Harry from the floor, waving his wand wildly. 


Blood spurted from Malfoy's face and chest as though he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He 
staggered backward and collapsed onto the waterlogged floor with a great splash, his wand falling 
from his limp right hand. 

"No —" gasped Harry. 

Slipping and staggering, Harry got to his feet and plunged toward Malfoy, whose face was now shining 
scarlet, his white hands scrabbling at his bloodsoaked 
chest. 


"No — I didn't —" 


Harry did not know what he was saying; he fell to his knees beside Malfoy, who was shaking 
uncontrollably in a pool of his own blood. Moaning Myrtle let out a deafening scream: "MURDER! 
MURDER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDER!" 


The door banged open behind Harry and he looked up, terrified: Snape had burst into the room, his 
face livid. Pushing Harry roughly aside, he knelt over Malfoy, drew his wand, and traced it over the 
deep wounds Harry's curse had made, muttering an incantation that sounded almost like song. The 
flow of blood seemed to ease; Snape wiped the residue from Malfoy's face and repeated his spell. Now 
the wounds seemed to be knitting. 


Harry was still watching, horrified by what he had done, barely aware that he too was soaked in blood 
and water. Moaning Myrtle was still sobbing and wailing overhead. When Snape had performed his 
countercurse for the third time, he halflifted 
Malfoy into a standing position. 


"You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take dittany 
immediately we might avoid even that.. . . Come...." 


He supported Malfoy across the bathroom, turning at the door to say in a voice of cold fury, "And you, 
Potter . . . You wait here for me." 

It did not occur to Harry for a second to disobey. He stood up slowly, shaking, and looked down at the 
wet floor. There were bloodstains floating like crimson flowers across its surface. He could not even 
find it in himself to tell Moaning Myrtle to be quiet, as she continued to wail and sob with increasingly 
evident enjoyment. 

Snape returned ten minutes later. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. 


"Go," he said to Myrtle, and she swooped back into her toilet at once, leaving a ringing silence behind 
her. 

"I didn't mean it to happen," said Harry at once. His voice echoed in the cold, watery space. "I didn't 



know what that spell did." 


But Snape ignored this. "Apparently I underestimated you, Potter," he said quietly. "Who would have 
thought you knew such Dark Magic? Who taught you that spell?" 
"I — read about it somewhere." 
"Where?" 
"It was — a library book," Harry invented wildly. "I can't remember what it was call —" 
"Liar," said Snape. Harry's throat went dry. He knew what Snape was going to do and he had never 


been able to prevent it. ... 
The bathroom seemed to shimmer before his eyes; he struggled to block out all thought, but try as he 


might, the HalfBlood 
Prince's copy of Advanced PotionMaking 
swam hazily to the forefront of his 
mind. 
And then he was staring at Snape again, in the midst of this wrecked, soaked bathroom. He stared into 


Snape's black eyes, hoping against hope that Snape had not seen what he feared, but — 


"Bring me your schoolbag," said Snape softly, "and all of your schoolbooks. All of them. Bring them 
to me here. Now!" 
There was no point arguing. Harry turned at once and splashed 
out of the bathroom. Once in the corridor, he broke into a run toward Gryffindor Tower. Most people 


were walking the other way; they gaped at him, drenched in water and blood, but he answered none of 


the questions fired at him as he ran past. 
He felt stunned; it was as though a beloved pet had turned suddenly savage; what had the Prince been 
thinking to copy such a spell into his book? And what would happen when Snape saw it? Would he tell 
Slughorn — Harry's stomach churned — how Harry had been achieving such good results in Potions 
all year? Would he confiscate or destroy the book that had taught Harry so much . . . the book that had 
become a kind of guide and friend? Harry could not let it happen. . . . He could not. . . 


"Where've you — ? Why are you soaking — ? Is that blood." Ron was standing at the top of the stairs, 
looking bewildered at , the sight of Harry. 
"I need your book," Harry panted. "Your Potions book. Quick . . . give it to me . . ." 
"But what about the HalfBlood 
—" 


"I'll explain later!" 
Ron pulled his copy of Advanced PotionMaking 
out of his bag and handed it over; Harry sprinted off 
past him and back to the common room. Here, he seized his schoolbag, ignoring the amazed looks of 
several people who had already finished their dinner, threw himself back out of the portrait hole, and 
hurtled off along the seventhfloor 
corridor. 


He skidded to a halt beside the tapestry of dancing trolls, closed his eyes, and began to walk. 



I need a place to hide my book. . . . I need a place to hide my book. . . . I need a place to hide my 
book. ... 

Three times he walked up and down in front of the stretch of blank wall. When he opened his eyes, 
there it was at last: the door to the Room of Requirement. Harry wrenched it open, flung him self 
inside, and slammed it shut. 


He gasped. Despite his haste, his panic, his fear of what awaited him back in the bathroom, he could 
not help but be overawed by what he was looking at. He was standing in a room the size of a large 
cathedral, whose high windows were sending shafts of light down upon what looked like a city with 
towering walls, built of what Harry knew must be objects hidden by generations of Hogwarts 
inhabitants. There were alleyways and roads bordered by tetering piles of broken and damaged 
furniture, stowed away, perhaps, to hide the evidence of mishandled magic, or else hidden by castleproud 
houseelves. 
There were thousands and thousands of books, no doubt banned or graffitied or 
stolen. There were winged catapults and Fanged Frisbees, some still with enough life in them to hover 
halfheartedly over the mountains of other forbidden items; there were chipped bottles of congealed 
potions, hats, jewels, cloaks; there were what looked like dragon eggshells, corked bottles whose 
contents still shimmered evilly, several rusting swords, and a heavy, bloodstained axe. 

Harry hurried forward into one of the many alleyways between all this hidden treasure. He turned right 
past an enormous stuffed troll, ran on a short way, took a left at the broken Vanishing Cabinet in which 
Montague had got lost the previous year, finally pausing beside a large cupboard that seemed to have 
had acid thrown at its blistered surface. He opened one of the cupboard's creaking doors: It had already 
been used as a hiding place for something in a cage that had long since died; its skeleton had five legs. 
He stuffed the HalfBlood 
Princes book behind the cage and slammed the door. He paused for a 
moment, his heart thumping horribly, gazing around at all the clutter. . . . Would he be able to find this 
spot again amidst all this junk? Seizing the chipped bust of an ugly old warlock from on top of a 
nearby crate, he stood it on top of the cupboard where the book was now hidden, perched a dusty old 
wig and a tarnished tiara on the statues head to make it more distinctive, then sprinted back through the 
alleyways of hidden junk as fast as he could go, back to the door, back out onto the corridor, where he 
slammed the door behind him, and it turned at once back into stone. 

Harry ran flatout 
toward the bathroom on the floor below, cramming Ron's copy of Advanced PotionMaking 
into his bag as he did so. A minute later, he was back in front of Snape, who held out his hand 
wordlessly for Harry's schoolbag. Harry handed it over, panting, a searing pain in his chest, and 
waited. 

One by one, Snape extracted Harrys books and examined them., Finally, the only book left was the 
Potions book, which he looked at very carefully before speaking. 

"This is your copy of Advanced PotionMaking, 
is it, Potter?" 


"Yes," said Harry, still breathing hard. 

"You're quite sure of that, are you, Potter?" 


"Yes," said Harry, with a touch more defiance. 
"This is the copy of Advanced PotionMaking 
that you purchased from Flourish and Blotts?" 
"Yes," said Harry firmly. 
"Then why," asked Snape, "does it have the name 'Roonil Wazlib' written inside the front cover?" 
Harrys heart missed a beat. "That's my nickname," he said. ' 
"Your nickname," repeated Snape. ; "Yeah . . . that's what my friends call me," said Harry. 
"I understand what a nickname is," said Snape. The cold, black eyes were boring once more into 


Harry's; he tried not to look into them. Close your mind. . . . Close your mind. . . . But he had never 


learned how to do it properly. . . . 
"Do you know what I think, Potter?" said Snape, very quietly. "I think that you are a liar and a cheat 
and that you deserve detention with me every Saturday until the end of term. "What do you think, 
Potter?" 


"I — I don't agree, sir," said Harry, still refusing to look into Snape's eyes. 


"Well, we shall see how you feel after your detentions," said Snape. "Ten o'clock Saturday morning, 
Potter. My office." 
"But sir . . ." said Harry, looking up desperately. "Quidditch . . . the last match of the ..." 
"Ten o'clock," whispered Snape, with a smile that showed his yellow teeth. "Poor Gryffindor. . . fourth 


place this year, I fear ..." 


And he left the bathroom without another word, leaving Harry to stare into the cracked mirror, feeling 
sicker, he was sure, than Ron had ever felt in his life. 
"I won't say 'I told you so,'" said Hermione, an hour later in the common room. 
"Leave it, Hermione," said Ron angrily. 
Harry had never made it to dinner; he had no appetite at all. He had just finished telling Ron, 


Hermione, and Ginny what had happened, not that there seemed to have been much need. The news 
had traveled very fast: Apparently Moaning Myrtle had taken it upon herself to pop up in every 
bathroom in the castle to tell the story; Malfoy had already been visited in the hospital wing by Pansy 
Parkinson, who had lost no time in vilifying Harry far and wide, and Snape had told the staff precisely 
what had happened. Harry had already been called out of the common room to endure fifteen highly 
unpleasant minutes in the company of Professor McGonagall, who had told him he was lucky not to 
have been expelled and that she supported wholeheartedly Snape's punishment of detention every 
Saturday until the end of term. 


"I told you there was something wrong with that Prince person," Hermione said, evidently unable to 
stop herself. "And I was right, wasn't I." 
"No, I don't think you were," said Harry stubbornly. 



He was having a bad enough time without Hermione lecturing him; the looks on the Gryffindor team's 
faces when he had told them he would not be able to play on Saturday had been the worst punishment 
of all. He could feel Ginny's eyes on him now but did not meet them; he did not want to see 
disappointment or anger there. He had just told her that she would be playing Seeker on Saturday and 
that Dean would be rejoining the team as Chaser in her place. Perhaps, if they won, Ginny and Dean 
would make up during the postmatch 
euphoria. . . . The thought went through Harry like an icy 
knife. . . . 

"Harry," said Hermione, "how can you still stick up for that book when that spell —" 


"Will you stop harping on about the book!" snapped Harry. "The Prince only copied it out! It's not like 
he was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he was making a note of something that had been 
used against him!" 


"I don't believe this," said Hermione. "You're actually defending— 


"I'm not defending what I did!" said Harry quickly. "I wish 1 ; hadn't done it, and not just because I've 
got about a dozen detentions. You know I wouldn't've used a spell like that, not even on Malfoy, but 
you can't blame the Prince, he hadn't written 'try this out, it's really good' — he was just making notes 
for himself, wasn't he, not for anyone else. . . ." 


"Are you telling me," said Hermione, "that you're going to go back — ?" 


"And get the book? Yeah, I am," said Harry forcefully. "Listen, without the Prince I'd never have won 
the Felix Felicis. I'd never have known how to save Ron from poisoning, I'd never have —" 


"— got a reputation for Potions brilliance you don't deserve," said Hermione nastily. 


"Give it a rest, Hermione!" said Ginny, and Harry was so amazed, so grateful, he looked up. "By the 
sound of it, Malfoy was trying to use an Unforgivable Curse, you should be glad Harry had something 
good up his sleeve!" 

"Well, of course I'm glad Harry wasn't cursed!" said Hermione, clearly stung. "But you can't call that 
Sectumsempra spell good, Ginny, look where it's landed him! And I'd have thought, seeing what this 
has done to your chances in the match —" 


"Oh, don't start acting as though you understand Quidditch," snapped Ginny, "you'll only embarrass 
yourself." 


Harry and Ron stared: Hermione and Ginny, who had always got on together very well, were now 
sitting with their arms folded, glaring in opposite directions. Ron looked nervously at Harry, then 
snatched up a book at random and hid behind it. Harry, however, 

little though he knew he deserved it, felt unbelievably cheerful all of a sudden, even though none of 
them spoke again for the rest of the evening. 


His lightheartedness was shortlived. 
There were Slytherin taunts to be endured next day, not to 
mention much anger from fellow Gryffindors, who were most unhappy that their Captain had got 



himself banned from the final match of the season. By Saturday morning, whatever he might have told 
Hermione, Harry would have gladly exchanged all the Felix Felicis in the world to be walking down to 
the Quidditch pitch with Ron, Ginny, and the others. It was almost unbearable to turn away from the 
mass of students streaming out into the sunshine, all of them wearing rosettes and hats and brandishing 
banners and scarves, to descend the stone steps into the dungeons and walk until the distant sounds of 
the crowd were quite obliterated, knowing that he would not be able to hear a word of commentary or a 
cheer or groan. 

"Ah, Potter," said Snape, when Harry had knocked on his door and entered the unpleasantly familiar 
office that Snape, despite teaching floors above now, had not vacated; it was as dimly lit as ever and 
the same slimy dead objects were suspended in colored potions all around the walls. Ominously, there 
were many cobwebbed 
boxes piled on a table where Harry was clearly supposed to sit; they had an 
aura of tedious, hard, and pointless work about them. 


"Mr. Filch has been looking for someone to clear out these old files," said Snape softly. "They are the 
records of other Hogwarts wrongdoers and their punishments. Where the ink has grown faint, or the 
cards have suffered damage from mice, we would like you to copy out the crimes and punishments 
afresh and, making sure that they are in alphabetical order, replace them in the boxes. You will not use 
magic." 

"Right, Professor," said Harry, with as much contempt as he could put into the last three syllables. 


"I thought you could start," said Snape, a malicious smile on his lips, "with boxes one thousand and 
twelve to one thousand and fiftysix. 
You will find some familiar names in there, which should add 
interest to the task. Here, you see . . ." 


He pulled out a card from one of the topmost boxes with a flourish and read, "James Potter and Sirius 
Black. Apprehended using an illegal hex upon Bertram Aubrey. Aubreys head twice normal size. 
Double detention." Snape sneered. "It must be such a comforting thing that, though they are gone, a 
record of their great achievements remains." 


Harry felt the familiar boiling sensation in the pit of his stomach. Biting his tongue to prevent himself 
retaliating, he sat down in front of the boxes and pulled one toward him. 


It was, as Harry had anticipated, useless, boring work, punctuated (as Snape had clearly planned) with 
the regular jolt in the stomach that meant he had just read his father or Sirius's names, usually coupled 
together in various petty misdeeds, occasionally accompanied by those of Remus Lupin and Peter 
Pettigrew. And while he copied out all their various offenses and punishments, he wondered what was 
going on outside, where the match would have just started . . . Ginny playing Seeker against Cho . . . 

Harry glanced again and again at the large clock ticking on the wall. It seemed to be moving half as 
fast as a regular clock; perhaps Snape had bewitched it to go extra slowly? He could not have been 
here for only half an hour ... an hour ... an hour and a half. . . . 

Harry's stomach started rumbling when the clock showed half past twelve. Snape, who had not spoken 
at all since setting Harry his task, finally looked up at ten past one. 


"I think that will do," he said coldly. "Mark the place you have reached. You will continue at ten 
o'clock next Saturday." Yes, sir. 


Harry stuffed a bent card into the box at random and hurried out of the door before Snape could change 
his mind, racing back up the stone steps, straining his ears to hear a sound from the pitch, but all was 
quiet. ... It was over, then. . . . 

He hesitated outside the crowded Great Hall, then ran up the marble staircase; whether Gryffindor had 
won or lost, the team usually celebrated or commiserated in their own common room. 

"Quid agis?" he said tentatively to the Fat Lady, wondering what he would find inside. 

Her expression was unreadable as she replied, "You'll see." 

And she swung forward. 

A roar of celebration erupted from the hole behind her. Harry gaped as people began to scream at the 
sight of him; several hands pulled him into the room. 


"We won!" yelled Ron, bounding into sight and brandishing the silver Cup at Harry. "We won! Four 
hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! We won!" 

Harry looked around; there was Ginny running toward him; she had a hard, blazing look in her face as 
she threw her arms around him. And without thinking, without planning it, without worrying about the 
fact that fifty people were watching, Harry kissed her. 

After several long moments — or it might have been half an hour — or possibly several sunlit days — 
they broke apart. The room had gone very quiet. Then several people wolfwhistled 
and there was an 
outbreak of nervous giggling. Harry looked over the top of Ginny's head to see Dean Thomas holding a 
shattered glass in his hand, and Romilda Vane looking as though she might throw something. 
Hermione was beaming, but Harry's eyes sought Ron. At last he found him, still clutching the Cup and 
wearing an expression appropriate to having been clubbed over the head. For a fraction of a second 
they looked at each other, then Ron gave a tiny jerk of the head that Harry understood to mean, Well— 
if you must. 


The creature in his chest roaring in triumph, he grinned down at Ginny and gestured wordlessly out of 
the portrait hole. A long walk in the grounds seemed indicated, during which — if they had time — 
they might discuss the match. 


Chapter 25 
The 
Seer 
Overheard 


The 
fact 
that 
Harry 
Potter 
was 
going 
out 
with 
Ginny 
Weasley 
seemed 
to 
interest 
a 
great 
number 
of 
people, 
most 
of 
them 
girls, 
yet 
Harry 
found 
himself 
newly 
and 
happily 
impervious 
to 
gossip 
over 
the 
next 
few 
weeks. 
After 
all, 
it 
made 
a 
very 
nice 
change 
to 
be 
talked 
about 
because 
of 
something 
that 
was 
making 
him 
happier 
than 
he 
could 
remember 
being 
for 
a 
very 
long 
time, 
rather 
than 
because 
he 
had 
been involved in horrific scenes of Dark magic. 


'You'd think people had better things to gossip about,' said Ginny, as she sat on the commonroom 
floor, leaning against Harry's legs and reading the Daily Prophet. Three Dementor attacks in a week, 
and all Romilda Vane does is ask me if it's true you've got a Hippogriff tattooed across your chest.' 


Ron and Hermione both roared with laughter. Harry ignored them. 



'What did you tell her?' 


' ? told her it's a Hungarian Horntail,' said Ginny, turning a page of the newspaper idly. 'Much more 
macho.' 


Thanks,' said Harry, grinning. 'And what did you tell her Ron's got?' 

'A Pygmy Puff, but I didn't say where.' 


Ron scowled as Hermione rolled around laughing. 


'Watch it,' he said, pointing wamingly at Harry and Ginny. 'Just because I've given my permission 
doesn't mean I can't withdraw it ' 


"Tour permission",' scoffed Ginny. 'Since when did you give me permission to do anything? Anyway, 
you said yourself you'd rather it was Harry than Michael or Dean.' 


'Yeah, 1 would,' said Ron grudgingly. 'And just as long as you don't start snogging each other in public 
' 


'You filthy hypocrite! What about you and Lavender, thrashing around like a pair of eels all over the 
place?' demanded Ginny. 

But Ron's tolerance was not to be tested much as they moved into June, for Harry and Ginny's time 
together was becoming increasingly restricted. Ginny's O.W.L.s were approaching and she was 
therefore forced to revise for hours into the night. On one such evening, when Ginny had retired to the 
library and Harry was sitting beside the window in the common room, supposedly finishing his 
Herbology homework 
but in reality reliving a particularly happy hour he had spent down by the lake 
with Ginny at lunchtime, 
Hermione dropped into the seat between him and Ron with an unpleasantly 
purposeful look on her face. 

'I want to talk to you, Harry.' 

'What about?' said Harry suspiciously. Only the previous day, Hermione had told him off for 
distracting Ginny when she ought to be working hard for her examinations. 


The socalled 
HalfBlood 
Prince.' 


'Oh, not again,' he groaned. 'Will you please drop it?' 


He had not dared to return to the Room of Requirement to retrieve his book, and his performance in 
Potions was suffering accordingly (though Slughorn, who approved of Ginny, had jocularly attributed 
this to Harry being lovesick). But Harry was sure that Snape had not yet given up hope of laying hands 
on the Prince's book, and was determined to leave it where it was while Snape remained on the 
lookout. 


'I'm not dropping it,' said Hermione firmly, 'until you've heard me out. Now, I've been trying to find 
out a bit about who might make a hobby of inventing Dark spells ' 


'He didn't make a hobby of it ' 



'He, he who 
says it's a he?' 
'We've been through this,' said Harry crossly. 'Prince, Hermione, Prince!' 
'Right!' said Hermione, red patches blazing in her cheeks as she pulled a very old piece of newsprint 


out of her pocket and slammed it down on the table in front of Harry. 'Look at that! Look at the 


picture!' 
Harry picked up the crumbling piece of paper and stared at the moving photograph, yellowed with age; 
Ron leaned over for a look, too. The picture showed a skinny girl of around fifteen. She was not pretty; 
she looked simultaneously cross and sullen, with heavy brows and a long, pallid face. Underneath the 
photograph was the caption: Eileen Prince, Captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones Team. 


'So?' said Harry, scanning the short news item to which the picture belonged; it was a rather dull story 
about interschool 
competitions. 
'Her name was Eileen Prince. Prince, Harry.' 
They looked at each other and Harry realised what Hermione was trying to say. He burst out laughing. 
'No way.' 
'What?' 


'You think she was the HalfBlood 
...? Oh, come on.' 
'Well, why not? Harry, there aren't any real princes in the wizarding world! It's either a nickname, a 
madeup 
title somebody's given themselves, or it could be their actual name, couldn't it? No, listen! If, 
say, her father was a wizard 


whose surname was "Prince", and her mother was a Muggle, then that would make her a "halfblood 
Prince"!' 
'Yeah, very ingenious, Hermione ...' 
'But it would! Maybe she was proud of being half a Prince!' 
'Listen, Hermione, I can tell it's not a girl. I can just tell.' 


The truth is that you don't think a girl would have been clever enough,' said Hermione angrily. 
'How can I have hung round with you for five years and not think girls are clever?' said Harry, stung by 
this. 'It's the way he writes. I just know the Prince was a bloke, I can tell. This girl hasn't got anything 
to do with it. Where did you get this, anyway?' 


‘The library,' said Hermione, predictably. There's a whole collection of old Prophets up there. Well, 
I'm going to find out more about Eileen Prince if I can.' 


'Enjoy yourself,' said Harry irritably. 
'I will,' said Hermione. 'And the first place I'll look,' she shot at him, as she reached the portrait hole, 'is 
records of old Potions awards!' 



Harry scowled after her for a moment, then continued his contemplation of the darkening sky. 


'She's just never got over you outperforming her in Potions,' said Ron, returning to his copy of One 
Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. 
'You don't think I'm mad, wanting that book back, do you?' 
'Course not,' said Ron robustly. 'He was a genius, the Prince. Anyway ... without his bezoar tip ...' he 


drew his finger significantly across his own throat, 'I wouldn't be here to discuss it, would I? I mean, 
I'm not saying that spell you used on Malfoy was great ' 
'Nor am I,' said Harry quickly. 


'But he healed all right, didn't he? Back on his feet in no time.' 
'Yeah,' said Harry; this was perfectly true, although his conscience squirmed slightly all the same. 
Thanks to Snape ...' 


'You still got detention with Snape this Saturday?' Ron continued. 


'Yeah, and the Saturday after that, and the Saturday after that,' sighed Harry. 'And he's hinting now that 
if I don't get all the boxes done by the end of term, we'll carry on next year.' 
He was finding these detentions particularly irksome because they cut into the already limited time he 


could have been spending with Ginny. Indeed, he had frequently wondered lately whether Snape did 
not know this, for he was keeping Harry later and later every time, while making pointed asides about 
Harry having to miss the good weather and the varied opportunities it offered. 


Harry was shaken from these bitter reflections by the appearance at his side of Jimmy Peakes, who was 


holding out a scroll of parchment. 
‘Thanks, Jimmy ... hey, it's from Dumbledore!' said Harry excitedly, unrolling the parchment and 
scanning it. 'He wants me to go to his office as quick as 1 can!' 


They stared at each other. 
'Blimey,' whispered Ron. 'You don't reckon ... he hasn't found ...?' 
'Better go and see, hadn't I?' said Harry, jumping to his feet. 
He hurried out of the common room and along the seventh floor as fast as he could, passing nobody 


but Peeves, who swooped past in the opposite direction, throwing bits of chalk at Harry in a routine 
sort of way and cackling loudly as he dodged Harry's defensive jinx. Once Peeves had vanished, there 
was silence in the corridors; with only fifteen minutes left until curfew, most people had already 
returned to their common rooms. 


And then Harry heard a scream and a crash. He stopped in his tracks, listening. 
'How dare 
you 
aaaaargh!' 
The noise was coming from a corridor nearby; Harry sprinted towards it, his wand at the ready, hurtled 


round another corner and saw Professor Trelawney sprawled upon the floor, her head covered in one of 



her many shawls, several sherry bottles lying beside her, one broken. 
'Professor ' 
Harry hurried forwards and helped Professor Trelawney to her feet. Some of her glittering beads had 


become entangled with her glasses. She hiccoughed loudly, patted her hair and pulled herself up on 
Harry's helping arm. 


'What happened, Professor?' 
'You may well ask!' she said shrilly. 'I was strolling along, brooding upon certain Dark portents 1 
happen to have glimpsed ...' 


But Harry was not paying much attention. He had just noticed where they were standing: there on the 
right was the tapestry of dancing trolls and, on the left, that smoothly impenetrable stretch of stone 
wall that concealed 


'Professor, were you trying to get into the Room of Requirement?' 
'... omens I have been vouchsafed what?' 
She looked suddenly shifty. 
The Room of Requirement,' repeated Harry. 'Were you trying to get in there?' 
'I well 
I 
didn't know students knew about ' 
'Not all of them do,' said Harry. 'But what happened? You screamed ... it sounded as though you were 


hurt...' 
'I well,' 
said Professor Trelawney, drawing her shawls around her defensively and staring down at 


him with her vastly magnified eyes. 'I wished to ah 
deposit 
certain – um personal 
items in the 
Room ...' And she muttered something about 'nasty accusations'. 
'Right,' said Harry, glancing down at the sherry bottles. 'But you couldn't get in and hide them?' 
He found this very odd; the Room had opened for him, after all, when he had wanted to hide the Half


Blood Prince's book. 


'Oh, I got in all right,' said Professor Trelawney, glaring at the wall. 'But there was somebody already 
in there.' 
'Somebody in ? 
Who?' demanded Harry. 'Who was in there?' 
' ? have no idea,' said Professor Trelawney, looking slightly taken aback at the urgency in Harry's 


voice. 'I walked into the Room and I heard a voice, which has never happened before in all my years of 
hiding of 
using the Room, I mean.' 
'A voice? Saying what?' 
'I don't know that it was saying anything,' said Professor Trelawney. 'It was ... whooping.' 
'Whooping?' 



'Gleefully,' she said, nodding. 
Harry stared at her. 
'Was it male or female?' 
' ? would hazard a guess at male,' said Professor Trelawney. 
'And it sounded happy?' 
'Very happy,' said Professor Trelawney sniffily. 
'As though it was celebrating?' 
'Most definitely.' 
'And then ?' 
'And then I called out, "Who's there?"' 
'You couldn't have found out who it was without asking?' Harry asked her, slightly frustrated. 
‘The Inner Eye,' said Professor Trelawney with dignity, straightening her shawls and many strands of 


glittering beads, 'was fixed upon matters well outside the mundane realms of whooping voices.' 


'Right,' said Harry hastily; he had heard about Professor Trelawney's Inner Eye all too often before. 


'And did the voice say who was there?' 


'No, it did not,' she said. 'Everything went pitch black and the next thing I knew, I was being hurled 


headfirst out of the Room!' 
'And you didn't see that coming?' said Harry, unable to help himself. 
'No, I did not, as I say, it was pitch ' 
She stopped and glared at him suspiciously. 
'I think you'd better tell Professor Dumbledore,' said Harry. 'He ought to know Malfoy's celebrating I 


mean, that someone threw you out of the Room.' 
To his surprise, Professor Trelawney drew herself up at this suggestion, looking haughty. 
The Headmaster has intimated that he would prefer fewer visits from me,' she said coldly. I am not one 


to press my company upon those who do not value it. If Dumbledore chooses to ignore the warnings 


the cards show ' 


Her bony hand closed suddenly around Harry's wrist. 


'Again and again, no matter how I lay them out ' 


And she pulled a card dramatically from underneath her shawls. 


'the 
lightningstruck 
tower,' she whispered. 'Calamity. Disaster. Coming nearer all the time ...' 


'Right,' said Harry again. 'Well ... I still think you should tell Dumbledore about this voice and 


everything going dark and being thrown out of the Room ...' 



'You think so?' Professor Trelawney seemed to consider the matter for a moment, but Harry could tell 
that she liked the idea of retelling her little adventure. 

'I'm going to see him right now,' said Harry. 'I've got a meeting with him. We could go together.' 

'Oh, well, in that case,' said Professor Trelawney with a smile. She bent down, scooped up her sherry 
bottles and dumped them unceremoniously in a large blue and white vase standing in a nearby niche. 

'I miss having you in my classes, Harry,' she said soulfully, as they set off together. 'You were never 
much of a Seer ... but you were a wonderful Object...' 

Harry did not reply; he had loathed being the Object of Professor Trelawney's continual predictions of 
doom. 

'I am afraid,' she went on, 'that the nag I'm 
sorry, the centaur knows 
nothing of cartomancy. I asked 
him one 
Seer to another had 
he not, too, sensed the distant vibrations of coming catastrophe? But he 
seemed to find me almost comical. Yes, comical!' 


Her voice rose rather hysterically and Harry caught a powerful whiff of sherry even though the bottles 
had been left behind. 


'Perhaps the horse has heard people say that I have not inherited my greatgreatgrandmother's 
gift. 
Those rumours have been bandied about by the jealous for years. You know what I say to such people, 
Harry? Would Dumbledore have let me teach at this great school, put so much trust in me all these 
years, had I not proved myself to him?' 


Harry mumbled something indistinct. 


'I well remember my first interview with Dumbledore,' went on Professor Trelawney, in throaty tones. 
'He was deeply impressed, of course, deeply impressed ... I was staying at the Hog's Head, which I do 
not advise, incidentally bed 
bugs, dear boy but 
funds were low. Dumbledore did me the courtesy of 
calling upon me in my room at the inn. He questioned me ... I must confess that, at first, I thought he 
seemed illdisposed 
towards Divination ... and I remember I was starting to feel a little odd, I had not 
eaten much that day ... but then ...' 


And now Harry was paying attention properly for the first time, for he knew what had happened then: 
Professor Trelawney had made the prophecy that had altered the course of his whole life, the prophecy 
about him and Voldemort. 

'... but then we were rudely interrupted by Severus Snape!' 


'What?' 


'Yes, there was a commotion outside the door and it flew open, and there was that rather uncouth 
barman standing with Snape, who was waffling about having come the wrong way up the stairs, 
although I'm afraid that I myself rather thought he had been apprehended eavesdropping on my 
interview with Dumbledore you 
see, he himself was seeking a job at the time, and no doubt hoped to 
pick up tips! Well, after that, you know, Dumbledore seemed much more disposed to give me a job, 



and I could not help thinking, Harry, that it was because he appreciated the stark contrast between my 
own unassuming manners and quiet talent, compared to the pushing, thrusting young man who was 
prepared to listen at keyholes Harry, 
dear?' 


She looked back over her shoulder, having only just realised that Harry was no longer with her; he had 
stopped walking and they were now ten feet from each other. 


'Harry?' she repeated uncertainly. 
Perhaps his face was white, to make her look so concerned and frightened. Harry was standing stockstill 
as waves of shock crashed over him, wave after wave, obliterating everything except the 
information that had been kept from him for so long ... 


It was Snape who had overheard the prophecy. It was Snape who had carried the news of the prophecy 
to Voldemort. Snape and Peter Pettigrew together had sent Voldemort hunting after Lily and James 
and their son ... 


Nothing else mattered to Harry just now. 


'Harry?' said Professor Trelawney again. 'Harry I 
thought we were going to see the Headmaster 
together?' 
'You stay here,' said Harry through numb lips. 
'But, dear ... I was going to tell him how I was assaulted in the Room of' 
'You stay here!' Harry repeated angrily. 
She looked alarmed as he ran past her, round the corner into Dumbledore's corridor, where the lone 


gargoyle stood sentry. Harry shouted the password at the gargoyle and ran up the moving spiral 
staircase three steps at a time. He did not knock upon Dumbledore's door, he hammered; and the calm 
voice answered 'Enter' after Harry had already flung himself into the room. 


Fawkes the phoenix looked round, his bright black eyes gleaming with reflected gold from the sunset 
beyond the window. Dumbledore was standing at the window looking out at the grounds, a long, black 
travelling cloak in his arms. 


'Well, Harry, I promised that you could come with me.' 


For a moment or two, Harry did not understand; the conversation with Trelawney had driven 
everything else out of his head and his brain seemed to be moving very slowly. 
'Come ... with you ... ?' 
'Only if you wish it, of course.' 
'If I...' 
And then Harry remembered why he had been eager to come to Dumbledore's office in the first place. 
'You've found one? You've found a Horcrux?' 



'I believe so.' 
Rage and resentment fought shock and excitement: for several moments, Harry could not speak. 
'It is natural to be afraid,' said Dumbledore. 
'I'm not scared!' said Harry at once, and it was perfectly 


true; fear was one emotion he was not feeling at all. 'Which Horcrux is it? Where is it?' 
'I am not sure which it is though 
I think we can rule out the snake but 
I believe it to be hidden in a 
cave on the coast many miles from here, a cave I have been trying to locate for a very long time: the 


cave in which Tom Riddle once terrorised two children from his orphanage on their annual trip; you 
remember?' 
'Yes,' said Harry. 'How is it protected?' 
'I do not know; I have suspicions that may be entirely wrong.' Dumbledore hesitated, then said, 'Harry, 


I promised you that you could come with me, and I stand by that promise, but it would be very wrong 


of me not to warn you that this will be exceedingly dangerous.' 
'I'm coming,' said Harry, almost before Dumbledore had finished speaking. Boiling with anger at 
Snape, his desire to do something desperate and risky had increased tenfold in the last few minutes. 
This seemed to show on Harry's face, for Dumbledore moved away from the window, and looked more 
closely at Harry, a slight crease between his silver eyebrows. 


'What has happened to you?' 
'Nothing,' lied Harry promptly. 
'What has upset you?' 
'I'm not upset.' 
'Harry, you were never a good Occlumens ' 
The word was the spark that ignited Harry's fury. 
'Snape!' he said, very loudly, and Fawkes gave a soft squawk behind them. 'Snape's what's happened! 


He told Voldemort about the prophecy, it was him, he listened outside the door, Trelawney told me!' 


Dumbledore's expression did not change, but Harry thought his face whitened under the bloody tinge 
cast by the setting sun. For a long moment, Dumbledore said nothing. 
'When did you find out about this?' he asked at last. 
'Just now!' said Many, who was refraining from yelling with enormous difficulty. And then, suddenly, 


he could not stop himself. 'AND YOU LET HIM TEACH HERE AND HE TOLD VOLDEMORT TO 
GO AFTER MY MUM AND DAD!' 
Breathing hard as though he were fighting, Harry turned away from Dumbledore, who still had not 



moved a muscle, and paced up and down the study, rubbing his knuckles in his hand and exercising 
every last bit of restraint to prevent himself knocking things over. He wanted to rage and storm at 
Dumbledore, but he also wanted to go with him to try and destroy the Horcrux; he wanted to tell him 
that he was a foolish old man for trusting Snape, but he was terrified that Dumbledore would not take 
him along unless he mastered his anger ... 

'Harry,' said Dumbledore quietly. 'Please listen to me.' 


It was as difficult to stop his relentless pacing as to refrain from shouting. Harry paused, biting his lip, 
and looked into Dumbledore's lined face. 

'Professor Snape made a terrible ' 


'Don't tell me it was a mistake, sir, he was listening at the door!' 


'Please let me finish.' Dumbledore waited until Harry had nodded curtly, then went on. 'Professor 
Snape made a terrible mistake. He was still in Lord Voldemort's employ on the night he heard the first 
half of Professor Trelawney's prophecy. Naturally, he hastened to tell his master what he had heard, for 
it concerned his master most deeply. But he did not know he 
had no possible way of knowing which 
boy Voldemort would hunt from then onwards, or that the parents he would destroy in his murderous 
quest were people that Professor Snape knew, that they were your mother and father ' 


Harry let out a yell of mirthless laughter. 

'He hated my dad like he hated Sirius! Haven't you noticed, Professor, how the people Snape hates tend 
to end up dead?' 


'You have no idea of the remorse Professor Snape felt when he realised how Lord Voldemort had 
interpreted the prophecy, Harry. I believe it to be the greatest regret of his life and the reason that he 
returned ' 


'But he's a very good Occlumens, isn't he, sir?' said Harry, whose voice was shaking with the effort of 
keeping it steady. 'And isn't Voldemort convinced that Snape's on his side, even now? Professor ... how 
can you be sure Snape's on our side?' 


Dumbledore did not speak for a moment; he looked as though he was trying to make up his mind about 
something. At last he said, 'I am sure. I trust Severus Snape completely.' 


Harry breathed deeply for a few moments in an effort to steady himself. It did not work. 

'Well, I don't!' he said, as loudly as before. 'He's up to something with Draco Malfoy right now, right 
under your nose, and you still ' 


'We have discussed this, Harry,' said Dumbledore, and now he sounded stern again. 'I have told you my 
views.' 


'You're leaving the school tonight and I'll bet you haven't even considered that Snape and Malfoy 
might decide to ' 


To what?' asked Dumbledore, his eyebrows raised. 'What is it that you suspect them of doing, 



precisely?' 

'I ... they're up to something!' said Harry and his hands curled into fists as he said it. 'Professor 


Trelawney was just in the Room of Requirement, trying to hide her sherry bottles, and she heard 


Malfoy whooping, celebrating! He's trying to mend something dangerous in there and if you ask me 


he's fixed it at last and you're about to just walk out of school * without ' 


'Enough,' said Dumbledore. He said it quite calmly, and yet Harry fell silent at once; he knew that he 


had finally crossed some invisible line. 'Do you think that I have once left the school unprotected 


during my absences this year? I have not. Tonight, when I leave, there will again be additional protec


tion in place. Please do not suggest that I do not take the safety of my students seriously, Harry.' 


'I didn't ' 
mumbled Harry, a little abashed, but Dumbledore cut across him. 


' ? do not wish to discuss the matter any further.' 


Harry bit back his retort, scared that he had gone too far, that he had ruined his chance of 


accompanying Dumbledore, but Dumbledore went on, 'Do you wish to come with me tonight?' 
'Yes,' said Harry at once. 
'Very well, then: listen.' 
Dumbledore drew himself up to his full height. 
'I take you with me on one condition: that you obey any command I might give you at once, and 


without question.' 
'Of course.' 
'Be sure to understand me, Harry. I mean that you must follow even such orders as "run", "hide" or "go 


back". Do I have your word?' 
'I yes, 
of course.' 
'If 1 tell you to hide, you will do so?' 
'Yes.' 
'If I tell you to flee, you will obey?' 
'Yes.' 
'If I tell you to leave me, and save yourself, you will do as I tell you?' 
'I ' 
'Harry?' 
They looked at each other for a moment. 
'Yes, sir.' 
'Very good. Then I wish you to go and fetch your Cloak and meet me in the Entrance Hall in five 



minutes' time.' 


Dumbledore turned back to look out of the fiery window; the sun was now a rubyred 
glare along the 
horizon. Harry walked quickly from the office and down the spiral staircase. His mind was oddly clear 
all of a sudden. He knew what to do. 

Ron and Hermione were sitting together in the common room when he came back. 'What does 
Dumbledore want?' Hermione said at once. 'Harry, are you OK?' she added anxiously. 


'I'm fine,' said Harry shortly, racing past them. He dashed up the stairs and into his dormitory, where he 
flung open his trunk and pulled out the Marauder's Map and a pair of balledup 
socks. Then he sped 
back down the stairs and into the common room, skidding to a halt where Ron and Hermione sat, 
looking stunned. 

'I haven't got much time,' Harry panted, 'Dumbledore thinks I'm getting my Invisibility Cloak. Listen ... 
' 

Quickly he told them where he was going, and why. He did not pause either for Hermione's gasps of 
horror or for Ron's hasty questions; they could work out the finer details for themselves later. 

'... so you see what this means?' Harry finished at a gallop. 'Dumbledore won't be here tonight, so 
Malfoy's going to have another clear shot at whatever he's up to. No, listen to me!" he hissed angrily, 
as both Ron and Hermione showed every sign of interrupting. 'I know it was Malfoy celebrating in the 
Room of Requirement. Here ' 
He shoved the Marauder's Map into Hermione's hand. 'You've got to 
watch him and you've got to watch Snape, too. Use anyone else who you can rustle up from the DA. 
Hermione, those contact Galleons will still work, right? Dumbledore says he's put extra protection in 
the school, but if Snape's involved, he'll know what Dumbledore's protection is, and how to avoid it but 
he won't be expecting you lot to be on the watch, will he?' 


'Harry ' 
began Hermione, her eyes huge with fear. 

' ? haven't got time to argue,' said Harry curtly. Take this as well ' 
He thrust the socks into Ron's 
hands. 

‘Thanks,' said Ron. 'Er why 
do I need socks?' 


'You need what's wrapped in them, it's the Felix Felicis. Share it between yourselves and Ginny too. 
Say goodbye to her from me. I'd better go, Dumbledore's waiting ' 


'No!' said Hermione, as Ron unwrapped the tiny little bottle of golden potion, looking awestruck. 'We 
don't want it, you take it, who knows what you're going to be facing?' 


'I'Il be fine, I'll be with Dumbledore,' said Harry. 'I want to know you lot are OK ... don't look like that, 
Hermione, I'll see you later 


And he was off, hurrying back through the portrait hole towards the Entrance Hall. 


Dumbledore was waiting beside the oaken front doors. He turned as Harry came skidding out on to the 
topmost stone step, panting hard, a searing stitch in his side. 



'I would like you to wear your Cloak, please,' said Dumbledore, and he waited until Harry had thrown 
it on before saying, 'Very good. Shall we go?' 


Dumbledore set off at once down the stone steps, his own travelling cloak barely stirring in the still 
summer air. Harry hurried alongside him under the Invisibility Cloak, still panting and sweating rather 
a lot. 


'But what will people think when they see you leaving, Professor?' Harry asked, his mind on Malfoy 
and Snape. 

That I am off into Hogsmeade for a drink,' said Dumbledore lightly. 'I sometimes offer Rosmerta my 
custom, or else visit the Hog's Head ... or I appear to. It is as good a way as any of disguising one's true 
destination.' 


They made their way down the drive in the gathering twilight. The air was full of the smells of warm 
grass, lake water and wood smoke from Hagrid's cabin. It was difficult to believe that they were 
heading for anything dangerous or frightening. 

'Professor,' said Harry quietly, as the gates at the bottom of the drive came into view, 'will we be 
Apparating?' 


'Yes,' said Dumbledore. 'You can Apparate now, I believe?' 


'Yes,' said Harry, 'but I haven't got a licence.' 


He felt it best to be honest; what if he spoiled everything by turning up a hundred miles from where he 
was supposed to go? 


'No matter,' said Dumbledore, 'I can assist you again.' 


They turned out of the gates into the twilit, deserted lane to Hogsmeade. Darkness descended fast as 
they walked and by the time they reached the High Street night was falling in earnest. Lights twinkled 
from windows over shops and as they neared the Three Broomsticks they heard raucous shouting. 


'and 
stay out!' shouted Madam Rosmerta, forcibly ejecting a grubbylooking 
wizard. 'Oh, hello, Albus 
... you're out late ...' 


'Good evening, Rosmerta, good evening ... forgive me, I'm off to the Hog's Head ... no offence, but I 
feel like a quieter atmosphere tonight...' 


A minute later they turned the corner into the side street where the Hog's Head's sign creaked a little, 
though there was no breeze. In contrast to the Three Broomsticks, the pub appeared to be completely 
empty. 

'It will not be necessary for us to enter,' muttered Dumbledore, glancing around. 'As long as nobody 
sees us go ... now place your hand upon my arm, Harry. There is no need to grip too hard, I am merely 
guiding you. On the count of three one 
... two ... three ...' 


Harry turned. At once, there was that horrible sensation that he was being squeezed through a thick 
rubber tube; he could not draw breath, every part of him was being compressed almost past endurance 



and then, just when he thought he must suffocate, the invisible bands seemed to burst open, and he was 
standing in cool darkness, breathing in lungfuls of fresh, salty air. 



Chapter 26 
The Cave 


Harry 
could 
smell 
salt 
and 
hear 
rushing 
waves; 
a 
light, 
chilly 
breeze 
ruffled 
his 
hair 
as 
he 
looked 
out 
at 
moonlit 
sea 
and 
starstrewn 
sky. 
He 
was 
standing 
upon 
a 
high 
outcrop 
of 
dark 
rock, 
water 
foaming 
and 
churning 
below 
him. 
He 
glanced 
over 
his 
shoulder. 
A 
towering 
cliff 
stood 
behind 
them, 
a 
sheer 
drop, 
black 
and 
faceless. 
A 
few 
large 
chunks 
of 
rock, 
such 
as 
the 
one 
upon 
which 
Harry 
and 
Dumbledore 
were 
standing, 
looked 
as 
though 
they 
had 
broken 
away 
from 
the 
cliff 
face 
at 
some 
point 
in 
the 
past. 
It 
was a bleak, harsh view, the sea and the rock unrelieved by any tree or sweep of grass or sand. 

"What do you think?" asked Dumbledore. He might have been asking Harry's opinion on whether it 
was a good site for a picnic. 

"They brought the kids from the orphanage here?" asked Harry, who could not imagine a less cozy 



spot for a day trip. 

"Not here, precisely," said Dumbledore. "There is a village of sorts about halfway along the cliffs 
behind us. I believe the orphans were taken there for a little sea air and a view of the waves. No, I think 
it was only ever Tom Riddle and his youthful victims who visited this spot. No Muggle could reach 
this rock unless they were uncommonly good mountaineers, and boats cannot approach the cliffs, the 
waters around them are too dangerous. I imagine that Riddle climbed down; magic would have served 
better than ropes. And he brought two small children with him, probably for the pleasure of terrorizing 
them. I think the journey alone would have done it, don't you?" 


Harry looked up at the cliff again and felt goose bumps. 


"But his final destination — and ours — lies a little farther on. Come." 

Dumbledore beckoned Harry to the very edge of the rock where a series of jagged niches made 
footholds leading down to boulders that lay halfsubmerged 
in water and closer to the cliff. It was a 
treacherous descent and Dumbledore, hampered slightly by his withered hand, moved slowly. The 
lower rocks were slippery with seawater. Harry could feel flecks of cold salt spray hitting his face. 
"Lumos," said Dumbledore, as he reached the boulder closest to the cliff face. A thousand flecks of 
golden light sparkled upon the dark surface of the water a few feet below where he crouched; the black 
wall of rock beside him was illuminated too. "You see?" said Dumbledore quietly, holding his wand a 
little higher. Harry saw a fissure in the cliff into which dark water was swirling. "You will not object to 
getting a little wet?" 

"No," said Harry. 

"Then take off your Invisibility Cloak — there is no need for it now — and let us take the plunge," 
And with the sudden agility of a much younger man, Dumbledore slid from the boulder, landed in the 
sea, and began to swim, with a perfect breaststroke, toward the dark slit in the rock face, his lit wand 
held in his teeth. Harry pulled off his cloak, stuffed it into his pocket, and followed. The water was icy; 
Harry's waterlogged clothes billowed around him and weighed him down. Taking deep breaths that 
filled his nostrils with the tang of salt and seaweed, he struck out for the shimmering, shrinking light 
now moving deeper into the cliff. The fissure soon opened into a dark tunnel that Harry could tell 
would be filled with water at high tide. The slimy walls were barely three feet apart and glimmered 
like wet tar in the passing light of Dumbledore's wand. A little way in, the passageway curved to the 
left, and Harry saw that it extended far into the cliff. He continued to swim in Dumbledore's wake, the 
tips of his benumbed fingers brushing the rough, wet rock. 

Then he saw Dumbledore rising out of the water ahead, his silver hair and dark robes gleaming. When 
Harry reached the spot he found steps that led into a large cave. He clambered up them, water 
streaming from his soaking clothes, and emerged, shivering uncontrollably, into the still and freezing 
air. 

Dumbledore was standing in the middle of the cave, his wand held high as he turned slowly on the 
spot, examining the walls and ceiling. 



"Yes, this is the place," said Dumbledore. 

"How can you tell?" Harry spoke in a whisper. 

"It has known magic," said Dumbledore simply. Harry could not tell whether the shivers he was 
experiencing were due to his spinedeep 
coldness or to the same awareness of 


enchantments. He watched as Dumbledore continued to revolve on the spot, evidently concentrating on 
things Harry could not see. "This is merely the antechamber, the entrance hall," said Dumbledore after 
a moment or two. "We need to penetrate the inner place. . . . Now it is Lord Voldemort's obstacles that 
stand in our way, rather than those nature made. . . ." 


Dumbledore approached the wall of the cave and caressed it with his blackened fingertips, murmuring 
words in a strange tongue that Harry did not understand. Twice Dumbledore walked right around the 
cave, touching as much of the rough rock as he could, occasionally pausing, running his fingers 
backward and forward over a particular spot, until finally he stopped, his hand pressed flat against the 
wall. "Here," he said. "We go on through here. The entrance is concealed." Harry did not ask how 
Dumbledore knew. He had never seen a wizard work things out like this, simply by looking and 
touching; but Harry had long since learned that bangs and smoke were more often the marks of 
ineptitude than expertise. Dumbledore stepped back from the cave wall and pointed his wand at the 
rock. For a moment, an arched outline appeared there, blazing white as though there was a powerful 
light behind the crack. 

"You've ddone 
it!" said Harry through chattering teeth, but before the words had left his lips the 
outline had gone, leaving the rock as bare and solid as ever. Dumbledore looked around. 

"Harry, I'm so sorry, I forgot," he said; he now pointed his wand at Harry and at once, Harry's clothes 
were as warm and dry as if they had been hanging in front of a blazing fire. 

"Thank you," said Harry gratefully, but Dumbledore had already turned his attention back to the solid 
cave wall. He did not try any more magic, but simply stood there staring at it intently, as though 
something extremely interesting was written on it. Harry stayed quite still; he did not want to break 
Dumbledores concentration. Then, after two solid minutes, Dumbledore said quietly, "Oh, surely not. 
So crude." 


"What is it, Professor?" 


"I rather think," said Dumbledore, putting his uninjured hand inside his robes and drawing out a short 
silver knife of the kind Harry used to chop potion ingredients, "that we are required to make payment 
to pass." 


"Payment?" said Harry. "You've got to give the door something?" 


"Yes," said Dumbledore. "Blood, if I am not much mistaken." 


"Blood?" 

"I said it was crude," said Dumbledore, who sounded disdainful, even disappointed, as though 



Voldemort had fallen short of higher standards Dumbledore expected. "The idea, as I am sure you will 
have gathered, is that your enemy must weaken himor 
herself to enter. Once again, Lord Voldemort 
fails to grasp that there are much more terrible things than physical injury." 


"Yeah, but still, if you can avoid it . . ." said Harry, who had experienced enough pain not to be keen 
for more. 

"Sometimes, however, it is unavoidable," said Dumbledore, shaking back the sleeve of his robes and 
exposing the forearm of his injured hand. 

"Professor!" protested Harry, hurrying forward as Dumbledore raised his knife. "I'll do it, I'm —" He 
did not know what he was going to say — younger, fitter? 


But Dumbledore merely smiled. There was a flash of silver, and a spurt of scarlet; the rock face was 
peppered with dark, glistening drops. 

"You are very kind, Harry," said Dumbledore, now passing the tip of his wand over the deep cut he 
had made in his own arm, so that it healed instantly, just as Snape had healed Malfoy's wound, "But 
your blood is worth more than mine. Ah, that seems to have done the trick, doesn't it?" The blazing 
silver outline of an arch had appeared in the wall once more, and this time it did not fade away: The 
bloodspattered 
rock within it simply vanished, leaving an opening into what seemed total darkness. 
"After me, I think," said Dumbledore, and he walked through the archway with Harry on his heels, 
lighting his own wand hastily as he went. 

An eerie sight met their eyes: They were standing on the edge of a great black lake, so vast that Harry 
could not make out the distant banks, in a cavern so high that the ceiling too was out of sight. A misty 
greenish light shone far away in what looked like the middle of the lake; it was reflected in the 
completely still water below. The greenish glow and the light from the two wands were the only things 
that broke the otherwise velvety blackness, though their rays did not penetrate as far as Harry would 
have expected. The darkness was somehow denser than normal darkness. 


"Let us walk," said Dumbledore quietly. "Be very careful not to step into the water. Stay close to me." 
He set off around the edge of the lake, and Harry followed close behind him. Their footsteps made 
echoing, slapping sounds on the narrow rim of rock that surrounded the water. On and on they walked, 
but the view did not vary: on one side of them, the rough cavern wall, on the other, the boundless 
expanse of smooth, glassy blackness, in the very middle of which was that mysterious greenish glow. 
Harry found the place and the silence oppressive, unnerving. 

"Professor?" he said finally. "Do you think the Horcrux is here?" 


"Oh yes," said Dumbledore. "Yes, I'm sure it is. The question is, how do we get to it?" 


"We couldn't... we couldn't just try a Summoning Charm?" Harry said, sure that it was a stupid 
suggestion. But he was much keener than he was prepared to admit on getting out of this place as soon 
as possible. 


"Certainly we could," said Dumbledore, stopping so suddenly that Harry almost walked into him. 



"Why don't you do it?" 


"Me? Oh . . . okay . . ." Harry had not expected this, but cleared his throat and said loudly, wand aloft, 


"Accio Horcrux!" 


With a noise like an explosion, something very large and pale erupted out of the dark water some 


twenty feet away; before Harry could see what it was, it had vanished again with a crashing splash that 


made great, deep ripples on the mirrored surface. Harry leapt backward in shock and hit the wall; his 


heart was still thundering as he turned to Dumbledore. 


"What was that?" 


"Something, I think, that is ready to respond should we attempt to seize the Horcrux." 


Harry looked back at the water. The surface of the lake was once more shining black glass: The ripples 


had vanished unnaturally fast; Harry's heart, however, was still pounding. 
"Did you think that would happen, sir?" 
"I thought something would happen if we made an obvious attempt to get our hands on the Horcrux. 


That was a very good idea, Harry; much the simplest way of finding out what we are facing." 
"But we don't know what the thing was," said Harry, looking at the sinisterly smooth water. 
"What the things are, you mean," said Dumbledore. "I doubt very much that there is only one of them. 


Shall we walk on?" 
"Professor?" 
"Yes, Harry?" 
"Do you think we're going to have to go into the lake?" 
"Into it? Only if we are very unfortunate." 
"You don't think the Horcrux is at the bottom?" 
"Oh no ... I think the Horcrux is in the middle." And Dumbledore pointed toward the misty green light 


in the center of the lake. 
"So we're going to have to cross the lake to get to it?" 
"Yes, I think so." Harry did not say anything. His thoughts were all of water monsters, of giant 


serpents, of demons, kelpies, and sprites. . . . 


"Aha," said Dumbledore, and he stopped again; this time, Harry really did walk into him; for a moment 


he toppled on the edge of the dark water, and Dumbledore's uninjured hand closed tightly around his 


upper arm, pulling him back. "So sorry, Harry, I should have given warning. Stand back against the 


wall, please; I think I have found the place." 


Harry had no idea what Dumbledore meant; this patch of dark bank was exactly like every other bit as 


far as he could tell, but Dumbledore seemed to have detected something special about it. This time he 



was running his hand, not over the rocky wall, but t hrough the thin air, as though expecting to find and 
grip something invisible. 


"Oho," said Dumbledore happily, seconds later. His hand had closed in midair upon something Harry 
could not see. Dumbledore moved closer to the water; Harry watched nervously as the tips of 
Dumbledore's buckled shoes found the utmost edge of the rock rim. Keeping his hand clenched in 
midair, Dumbledore raised his wand with the other and tapped his fist with the point. 


Immediately a thick coppery green chain appeared out of thin air, extending from the depths of the 
water into Dumbledore's clenched hand. Dumbledore tapped the chain, which began to slide through 
his fist like a snake, coiling itself on the ground with a clinking sound that echoed noisily off the rocky 
walls, pulling something from the depths of the black water. Harry gasped as the ghostly prow of a tiny 
boat broke the surface, glowing as green as the chain, and floated, with barely a ripple, toward the 
place on the bank where Harry and Dumbledore stood. 


"How did you know that was there?" Harry asked in astonishment. 

"Magic always leaves traces," said Dumbledore, as the boat hit the bank with a gentle bump, 
"sometimes very distinctive traces. I taught Tom Riddle. I know his style." 


"Is ... is this boat safe?" 


"Oh yes, I think so. Voldemort needed to create a means to cross the lake without attracting the wrath 
of those creatures he had placed within it in case he ever wanted to visit or remove his Horcrux." 

"So the things in the water won't do anything to us if we cross in Voldemort's boat?" 

"I think we must resign ourselves to the fact that they will, at some point, realize we are not Lord 
Voldemort. Thus far, however, we have done well. They have allowed us to raise the boat." 


"But why have they let us?" asked Harry, who could not shake off the vision of tentacles rising out of 
the dark water the moment they were out of sight of the bank. 

"Voldemort would have been reasonably confident that none but a very great wizard would have been 
able to find the boat," said Dumbledore. "I think he would have been prepared to risk what was, to his 
mind, the most unlikely possibility that somebody else would find it, knowing that he had set other 
obstacles ahead that only he would be able to penetrate. We shall see whether he was right." 


Harry looked down into the boat. It really was very small. "It doesn't look like it was built for two 
people. Will it hold both of us? Will we be too heavy together?" 


Dumbledore chuckled. "Voldemort will not have cared about the weight, but about the amount of 
magical power that crossed his lake. I rather think an enchantment will have been placed upon this boat 
so that only one wizard at a time will be able to sail in it." 


"But then — ?" 


"I do not think you will count, Harry: You are underage and unqualified. Voldemort would never have 
expected a sixteenyearold 
to reach this place: I think it unlikely that your powers will register 



compared to mine." These words did nothing to raise Harrys morale; perhaps Dumbledore knew it, for 
he added, "Voldemort's mistake, Harry, Voldemort's mistake. . . Age is foolish and forgetful when it 
underestimates youth. . . . Now, you first this time, and be careful not to touch the water." Dumbledore 
stood aside and Harry climbed carefully into the boat. Dumbledore stepped in too, coiling the chain 
onto the floor. They were crammed in together; Harry could not comfortably sit, but crouched, his 
knees jutting over the edge of the boat, which began to move at once. There was no sound other than 
the silken rustle of the boat's prow cleaving the water; it moved without their help, as though an 
invisible rope was pulling it onward toward the light in the center. Soon they could no longer see the 
walls of the cavern; they might have been at sea except that there were no waves. 

Harry looked down and saw the reflected gold of his wandlight sparkling and glittering on the black 
water as they passed. The boat was carving deep ripples upon the glassy surface, grooves in the dark 
mirror. . . . 

And then Harry saw it, marble white, floating inches below the surface. "Professor!" he said, and his 
startled voice echoed loudly over the silent water. 

"Harry?" 

"I think I saw a hand in the water — a human hand!" 


"Yes, I am sure you did," said Dumbledore calmly. 


Harry stared down into the water, looking for the vanished hand, and a sick feeling rose in his throat. 

"So that thing that jumped out of the water — ?" But Harry had his answer before Dumbledore could 
reply; the wandlight had slid over a fresh patch of water and showed him, this time, a dead man lying 
faceup inches beneath the surface, his open eyes misted as though with cobwebs, his hair and his robes 
swirling around him like smoke. "There are bodies in here!" said Harry, and his voice sounded much 
higher than usual and most unlike his own. 

"Yes," said Dumbledore placidly, "but we do not need to worry about them at the moment." 


"At the moment?" Harry repeated, tearing his gaze from the water to look at Dumbledore. 

"Not while they are merely drifting peacefully below us," said Dumbledore. "There is nothing to be 
feared from a body, Harry, any more than there is anything to be feared from the darkness. Lord 
Voldemort, who of course secretly fears both, disagrees. But once again he reveals his own lack of 
wisdom. It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more." Harry said 
nothing; he did not want to argue, but he found the idea that there were bodies floating around them 
and beneath them horrible and, what was more, he did not believe that they were not dangerous. 


"But one of them jumped," he said, trying to make his voice as level and calm as Dumbledore's. "When 
I tried to Summon the Horcrux, a body leapt out of the lake." 


"Yes," said Dumbledore. "I am sure that once we take the Horcrux, we shall find them less peaceable. 
However, like many creatures that dwell in cold and darkness, they fear light and warmth, which we 
shall therefore call to our aid should the need arise. Fire, Harry," Dumbledore added with a smile, in 



response to Harry's bewildered expression. 

"Oh . . . right. . ." said Harry quickly. He turned his head to look at the greenish glow toward which the 
boat was still inexorably sailing. He could not pretend now that he was not scared. The great black 
lake, teeming with the dead ... It seemed hours and hours ago that he had met Professor Trelawney, that 
he had given Ron and Hermione Felix Felicis. . . . He suddenly wished he had said a better goodbye 
to 
them . . . and he hadn't seen Ginny at all. . . 

"Nearly there," said Dumbledore cheerfully. Sure enough, the greenish light seemed to be growing 
larger at last, and within minutes, the boat had come to a halt, bumping gently into something that 
Harry could not see at first, but when he raised his illuminated wand he saw that they had reached a 
small island of smooth rock in the center of the lake. "Careful not to touch the water," said 
Dumbledore again as Harry climbed out of the boat. 

The island was no larger than Dumbledore's office, an expanse of flat dark stone on which stood 
nothing but the source of that greenish light, which looked much brighter when viewed close to. Harry 
squinted at it; at first, he thought it was a lamp of some kind, but then he saw that the light was coming 
from a stone basin rather like the Pensieve, which was set on top of a pedestal. Dumbledore 
approached the basin and Harry followed. Side by side, they looked down into it. The basin was full of 
an emerald liquid emitting that phosphorescent glow. 

"What is it?" asked Harry quietly. 


"I am not sure," said Dumbledore. "Something more worrisome than blood and bodies, however." 
Dumbledore pushed back the sleeve of his robe over his blackened hand, and stretched out the tips of 
his burned fingers toward the surface of the potion. 


"Sir, no, don't touch — !" 


"I cannot touch," said Dumbledore, smiling faintly. "See? I cannot approach any nearer than this. You 
try." 


Staring, Harry put his hand into the basin and attempted to touch the potion. He met an invisible 
barrier that prevented him coming within an inch of it. No matter how hard he pushed, his fingers 
encountered nothing but what seemed to be solid and flexible air. 

"Out of the way, please, Harry," said Dumbledore. He raised his wand and made complicated 
movements over the surface of thepotion, 
murmuring soundlessly. Nothing happened, except per haps 
that the potion glowed a little brighter. Harry remained silent while Dumbledore worked, but after a 
while Dumbledore withdrew his wand, and Harry felt it was safe to talk again. 


"You think the Horcrux is in there, sir?" 


"Oh yes." Dumbledore peered more closely into the basin. Harry saw his face reflected, upside down, 
in the smooth surface of the green potion. "But how to reach it? This potion cannot be penetrated by 
hand, Vanished, parted, scooped up, or siphoned away, nor can it be Transfigured, Charmed, or 
otherwise made to change its nature." Almost absentmindedly, Dumbledore raised his wand again, 



twirled it once in midair, and then caught the crystal goblet that he had conjured out of nowhere. "I can 
only conclude that this potion is supposed to be drunk." 
"What?" said Harry. "No!" 
"Yes, I think so: Only by drinking it can I empty the basin and see what lies in its depths." 


"But what if— what if it kills you?" 
"Oh, I doubt that it would work like that," said Dumbledore easily. "Lord Voldemort would not want 
to kill the person who reached this island." Harry couldn't believe it. Was this more of Dumbledore's 
insane determination to see good in everyone? 


"Sir," said Harry, trying to keep his voice reasonable, "sir, this is Voldemort we're —" 
"I'm sorry, Harry; I should have said, he would not want to immediately kill the person who reached 
this island," Dumbledore corrected himself. "He would want to keep them alive long enough to find 
out how they managed to penetrate so far through his defenses and, most importantly of all, why they 


were so intent upon emptying the basin. Do not forget that Lord Voldemort believes that he alone 
knows about his Horcruxes." 
Harry made to speak again, but this time Dumbledore raised his hand for silence, frowning slightly at 


the emerald liquid, evidently thinking hard. "Undoubtedly," he said, finally, "this potion must act in a 
way that will prevent me taking the Horcrux. It might paralyze me, cause me to forget what I am here 
for, create so much pain I am distracted, or render me incapable in some other way. This being the 
case, Harry, it will be your job to make sure I keep drinking, even if you have to tip the potion into my 
protesting mouth. You understand?" 


Their eyes met over the basin, each pale face lit with that strange, green light. Harry did not speak. 
Was this why he had been invited along — so that he could forcefeed 
Dumbledore a potion that might 
cause him unendurable pain? 


"You remember," said Dumbledore, "the condition on which I brought you with me?" 
Harry hesitated, looking into the blue eyes that had turned green in the reflected light of the basin. 
"But what if—?" 
"You swore, did you not, to follow any command I gave you?" 
"Yes, but—" 
"I warned you, did I not, that there might be danger?" 
"Yes," said Harry, "but —" 
"Well, then," said Dumbledore, shaking back his sleeves once more and raising the empty goblet, "you 


have my orders." 
"Why can't I drink the potion instead?" asked Harry desperately. 
"Because I am much older, much cleverer, and much less valuable," said Dumbledore. "Once and for 



all, Harry, do I have your word that you will do all in your power to make me keep drinking?" 
"Couldn't — ?" 
"Do I have it?" 
"But—" 
"Your word, Harry." 
"I —all right, but—" 
Before Harry could make any further protest, Dumbledore lowered the crystal goblet into the potion. 


For a split second, Harry hoped that he would not be able to touch the potion with the goblet, but the 
crystal sank into the surface as nothing else had; when the glass was full to the brim, Dumbledore 
lifted it to his mouth. "Your good health, Harry." 


And he drained the goblet. Harry watched, terrified, his hands gripping the rim of the basin so hard that 
his fingertips were numb. 


"Professor?" he said anxiously, as Dumbledore lowered the empty glass. "How do you feel?" 
Dumbledore shook his head, his eyes closed. Harry wondered whether he was in pain. Dumbledore 
plunged the glass blindly back into the basin, refilled it, and drank once more. 


In silence, Dumbledore drank three gobletsful of the potion. Then, halfway through the fourth goblet, 
he staggered and fell forward against the basin. His eyes were still closed, his breathing heavy. 


"Professor Dumbledore?" said Harry, his voice strained. "Can you hear me?" 
Dumbledore did not answer. His face was twitching as though he was deeply asleep, but dreaming a 
horrible dream. His grip on the goblet was slackening; the potion was about to spill from it. Harry 
reached forward and grasped the crystal cup, holding it steady. "Professor, can you hear me?" he 
repeated loudly, his voice echoing around the cavern. 


Dumbledore panted and then spoke in a voice Harry did not recognize, for he had never heard 
Dumbledore frightened like this. 


"I don't want. . . Don't make me ..." 
Harry stared into the whitened face he knew so well, at the crooked nose and halfmoon 
spectacles, and 
did not know what to do. 


". . . don't like . . . want to stop . . ." moaned Dumbledore. 
"You . . . you can't stop, Professor," said Harry. "You've got to keep drinking, remember? You told me 
you had to keep drinking. Here . . ." Hating himself, repulsed by what he was doing, Harry forced the 


goblet back toward Dumbledore's mouth and tipped it, so that Dumbledore drank the remainder of the 
potion inside. 
"No ..." he groaned, as Harry lowered the goblet back into the basin and refilled it for him. "I don't 


want to. ... I don't want to. . . . Let me go. . . ." 



"Its all right, Professor," said Harry, his hand shaking. "Its all right, I'm here —" 

"Make it stop, make it stop," moaned Dumbledore. 

"Yes.. . yes, this'll make it stop," lied Harry. He tipped the contents of the goblet into Dumbledore's 
open mouth. Dumbledore screamed; the noise echoed all around the vast chamber, across the dead 
black water. 

"No, no, no, no, I can't, I can't, don't make me, I don't warn to. . . ." 


"It's all right, Professor, it's all right!" said Harry loudly, his hands shaking so badly he could hardly 
scoop up the sixth goblei ful of potion; the basin was now half empty. "Nothing's happening to you, 
you're safe, it isn't real, I swear it isn't real — take this, now, take this..." And obediently, Dumbledore 
drank, as though it was an antidote Harry offered him, but upon draining the goblet, he sank to his 
knees, shaking uncontrollably. 

"Its all my fault, all my fault," he sobbed. "Please make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it 
stop and I'll never, never again ..." 


"This will make it stop, Professor," Harry said, his voice cracking as he tipped the seventh glass of 
potion into Dumbledore's mouth. 


Dumbledore began to cower as though invisible torturers surrounded him; his flailing hand almost 
knocked the refilled goblet from Harry's trembling hands as he moaned, "Don't hurt them, don't hurt 
them, please, please, its my fault, hurt me instead ..." 


"Here, drink this, drink this, you'll be all right," said Harry desperately, and once again Dumbledore 
obeyed him, opening his mouth even as he kept his eyes tight shut and shook from head to foot. And 
now he fell forward, screaming again, hammering his fists upon the ground, while Harry filled the 
ninth goblet. 

"Please, please, please, no ... not that, not that, I'll do anything ..." 


"Just drink, Professor, just drink . . ." 

Dumbledore drank like a child dying of thirst, but when he had finished, he yelled again as though his 
insides were on fire. "No more, please, no more ..." 


Harry scooped up a tenth gobletful of potion and felt the crystal scrape the bottom of the basin. "We're 
nearly there, Professor. Drink this, drink it. ..." 


He supported Dumbledore's shoulders and again, Dumbledore drained the glass; then Harry was on his 
feet once more, refilling the goblet as Dumbledore began to scream in more anguish than ever, "I want 
to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!" 


"Drink this, Professor. Drink this. . . ." 


Dumbledore drank, and no sooner had he finished than he yelled, "KILL ME!" 



"This — this one will!" gasped Harry. "Just drink this .. . It'll be over ... all over!" Dumbledore gulped 
at the goblet, drained every last drop, and then, with a great, rattling gasp, rolled over onto his face. 

"No!" shouted Harry, who had stood to refill the goblet again; instead he dropped the cup into the 
basin, flung himself down beside Dumbledore, and heaved him over onto his back; Dumbledore's 
glasses were askew, his mouth agape, his eyes closed. "No." said Harry, shaking Dumbledore, "no, 
you're not dead, you said it wasn't poison, wake up, wake up — Rennervate!" he cried, his wand 
pointing at Dumbledores chest; there was a flash of red light but nothing happened. "Rennervate — sir 


— please —" 
Dumbledores eyelids flickered; Harry's heart leapt, "Sir, are you — ?" 


"Water," croaked Dumbledore. 

"Water," panted Harry. "Yes —" He leapt to his feet and seized the goblet he had dropped in the basin; 
he barely registered the golden locket lying curled beneath it. 


"Aguamenti!" he shouted, jabbing the goblet with his wand. The goblet filled with clear water; Harry 
dropped to his knees beside Dumbledore, raised his head, and brought the glass to his lips — but it was 
empty. Dumbledore groaned and began to pant. "But I had some — wait — Aguamenti!" said Harry 
again, pointing his wand at the goblet. Once more, for a second, clear water gleamed within it, but as 
he approached Dumbledores mouth, the water vanished again. "Sir, I'm trying, I'm trying!" said Harry 
desperately, but he did not think that Dumbledore could hear him; he had rolled onto his side and was 
drawing great, rattling breaths that sounded agonizing. "Aguamenti —Aguamenti —AGUAMENTI!" 


The goblet filled and emptied once more. And now Dumbledores breathing was fading. His brain 
whirling in panic, Harry knew, instinctively, the only way left to get water, because Voldemort had 
planned it so ... He flung himself over to the edge of the rock and plunged the goblet into the lake, 
bringing it up full to the brim of icy water that did not vanish. "Sir — here!" Harry yelled, and lunging 
forward, he tipped the water clumsily over Dumbledores face. 

It was the best he could do, for the icy feeling on his arm not holding the cup was not the lingering 
chill of the water. A slimy white hand had gripped his wrist, and the creature to whom it belonged was 
pulling him, slowly, backward across the rock. The surface of the lake was no longer mirrorsmooth; 
it 
was churning, and everywhere Harry looked, white heads and hands were emerging from the dark 
water, men and women and children with sunken, sightless eyes were moving toward the rock: an 
army of the dead rising from the black water. 

"Petrificus Totalus!" yelled Harry, struggling to cling to the smooth, soaked surface of the island as he 
pointed his wand at the Inferius that had his arm. It released him, falling backward into the water with 
a splash; he scrambled to his feet, but many more Inferi were already climbing onto the rock, their 
bony hands clawing at its slippery surface, their blank, frosted eyes upon him, trailing waterlogged 
rags, sunken faces leering. 


"Petrificus Totalus!" Harry bellowed again, backing away as he swiped his wand through the air; six or 
seven of them crumpled, but more were coming toward him. "Impedimenta! Incarcerous!" A few of 



them stumbled, one or two of them bound in ropes, but those climbing onto the rock behind them 
merely stepped over or on the fallen bodies. Still slashing at the air with his wand, Harry yelled, 
"Sectumsempra! SECTUMSEMPRA!" But though gashes appeared in their sodden rags and their icy 
skin, they had no blood to spill: They walked on, unfeeling, their shrunken hands outstretched toward 
him, and as he backed away still farther, he felt arms enclose him from behind, thin, fleshlcv. arms 
cold as death, and his feet left the ground as they lifted him and began to carry him, slowly and surely, 
back to the water, anil he knew there would be no release, that he would be drowned, and become one 
more dead guardian of a fragment of Voldemorts shattered soul... 


But then, through the darkness, fire erupted: crimson and gold, a ring of fire that surrounded the rock 
so that the Inferi holding Harry so tightly stumbled and faltered; they did not dare pass through the 
flames to get to the water. They dropped Harry; he hit the ground, slipped on the rock, and fell, grazing 
his arms, then scrambled back up, raising his wand and staring around. 

Dumbledore was on his feet again, pale as any of the surrounding Inferi, but taller than any too, the fire 
dancing in his eyes; his wand was raised like a torch and from its tip emanated the flames, like a vast 
lasso, encircling them all with warmth. The Inferi bumped into each other, attempting, blindly, to escape 
the fire in which they were enclosed. . . . 

Dumbledore scooped the locket from the bottom of the stone basin and stowed it inside his robes. 
Wordlessly, he gestured to Harry to come to his side. Distracted by the flames, the Inferi seemed 
unaware that their quarry was leaving as Dumbledore led Harry back to the boat, the ring of fire 
moving with them, around them, the bewildered Inferi accompanying them to the waters edge, where 
they slipped gratefully back into their dark waters. 


Harry, who was shaking all over, thought for a moment that Dumbledore might not be able to climb 
into the boat; he staggered a little as he attempted it; all his efforts seemed to be going into maintaining 
the ring of protective flame around them. Harry seized him and helped him back to his seat. Once they 
were both safely jammed inside again, the boat began to move back across the black water, away from 
the rock, still encircled by that ring of fire, and it seemed that the Inferi swarming below them did not 
dare resurface. 

"Sir," panted Harry, "sir, I forgot — about fire — they were coming at me and I panicked —" 


"Quite understandable," murmured Dumbledore. Harry was alarmed to hear how faint his voice was. 

They reached the bank with a little bump and Harry leapt out, then turned quickly to help Dumbledore. 
The moment that Dumbledore reached the bank he let his wand hand fall; the ring of fire vanished, but 
the Inferi did not emerge again from the water. The little boat sank into the water once more; clanking 
and tinkling, its chain slithered back into the lake too. Dumbledore gave a great sigh and leaned against 
the cavern wall. 


"I am weak..." he said. 


"Don't worry, sir," said Harry at once, anxious about Dumbledore's extreme pallor and by his air of 
exhaustion. "Don't worry, I'll get us back. . . . Lean on me, sir. . . ." 



And pulling Dumbledore's uninjured arm around his shoulders, Harry guided his headmaster back 
around the lake, bearing most of his weight. 


"The protection was . . . after all... welldesigned," 
said Dumbledore faintly. "One alone could not have 
done it. ... You did well, very well, Harry. ..." 


"Don't talk now," said Harry, fearing how slurred Dumbledore's voice had become, how much his feet 
dragged. "Save your energy, sir. . . . We'll soon be out of here. . . ." 


"The archway will have sealed again. . . . My knife ..." ' 


"There's no need, I got cut on the rock," said Harry firmly. "Just tell me where. . . ." 


"Here . . ." 


Harry wiped his grazed forearm upon the stone: Having received its tribute of blood, the archway 
reopened instantly. They crossed the outer cave, and Harry helped Dumbledore back into the icy 
seawater that filled the crevice in the cliff. 

"It's going to be all right, sir," Harry said over and over again, more worried by Dumbledore's silence 
than he had been by his weakened voice. "We're nearly there. ... I can Apparate us both back . . . Don't 
worry. . . ." 


"I am not worried, Harry," said Dumbledore, his voice a little stronger despite the freezing water. "I am 
with you." 



Chapter 27 
The LightningStruck 
Tower 


Once 
back 
under 
the 
starry 
sky, 
Harry 
heaved 
Dumbledore 
on 
to 
the 
top 
of 
the 
nearest 
boulder 
and 
then 
to 
his 
feet. 
Sodden 
and 
shivering, 
Dumbledore's 
weight 
still 
upon 
him, 
Harry 
con 
centrated 
harder 
than 
he 
had 
ever 
done 
upon 
his 
destination: 
Hogsmeade. 
Closing 
his 
eyes, 
gripping 
Dumbledore's 
arm 
as tightly as he could, he stepped forwards into that feeling of horrible compression. 



He knew it had worked before he opened his eyes: the smell of salt, the sea breeze had gone. He and 
Dumbledore were shivering and dripping in the middle of the dark High Street in Hogsmeade. For one 
horrible moment Harry's imagination showed him more Inferi creeping towards him around the sides 
of shops, but he blinked and saw that nothing was stirring; all was still, the darkness complete but for a 
few streetlamps and lit upper windows. 


'We did it, Professor!' Harry whispered with difficulty; he suddenly realised that he had a searing stitch 


in his chest. 'We did it! We got the Horcrux!' 
Dumbledore staggered against him. For a moment, Harry thought that his inexpert Apparition had 
thrown Dumbledore offbalance; 
then he saw his face, paler and damper than ever in the distant light 
of a streetlamp. 


'Sir, are you all right?' 


'I've been better,' said Dumbledore weakly, though the corners of his mouth twitched. That potion ... 
was no health drink ..." 
And to Harry's horror, Dumbledore sank on to the ground. 
'Sir it's 
OK, sir, you're going to be all right, don't worry ' 
He looked around desperately for help, but there was nobody to be seen and all he could think was that 


he must somehow get Dumbledore quickly to the hospital wing. 
'We need to get you up to the school, sir ... Madam Pomfrey ...' 
'No,' said Dumbledore. 'It is ... Professor Snape whom I need ... but I do not think ... I can walk very far 


just yet ...' 


'Right sir, 
listen I'm 
going to knock on a door, find a place you can stay then 
I can run and get 
Madam ' 
'Severus,' said Dumbledore clearly. 'I need Severus ...' 
'All right then, Snape but 
I'm going to have to leave you for a moment so I can ' 
Before Harry could make a move, however, he heard run ning footsteps. His heart leapt: somebody had 


seen, somebody knew they needed help and 
looking around he saw Madam Rosmerta scurrying down 
the dark street towards them on highheeled, 
fluffy slippers, wearing a silk dressinggown 
embroidered 
with dragons. 


'I saw you Apparate as I was pulling my bedroom curtains! Thank goodness, thank goodness, I couldn't 
think what to but 
what's wrong with Albus?' 


She came to a halt, panting, and stared down, wideeyed, 
at Dumbledore. 
'He's hurt,' said Harry. 'Madam Rosmerta, can he come into the Three Broomsticks while I go up to the 
school and get help for him?' 


'You can't go up there alone! Don't you realise haven't 
you seen ?' 



'If you help me support him,' said Harry, not listening to her, 'I think we can get him inside ' 


'What has happened?' asked Dumbledore. 'Rosmerta, what's wrong?' 

The the 
Dark Mark, Albus.' 


And she pointed into the sky, in the direction of Hogwarts. Dread flooded Harry at the sound of the 
words ... he turned and looked. 

There it was, hanging in the sky above the school: the blazing 
green skull with a serpent tongue, the 
mark Death Eaters left behind whenever they had entered a building ... wherever they had murdered ... 

'When did it appear?' asked Dumbledore, and his hand clenched painfully upon Harry's shoulder as he 
struggled to his feet. 


'Must have been minutes ago, it wasn't there when I put the cat out, but when I got upstairs ' 


'We need to return to the castle at once,' said Dumbledore. 'Rosmerta,' and though he staggered a little, 
he seemed wholly in command of the situation, 'we need transport brooms 
' 


'I've got a couple behind the bar,' she said, looking very frightened. 'Shall I run and fetch ?' 


'No, Harry can do it.' 


Harry raised his wand at once. 

'Accio Rosmerta's brooms.' 


A second later they heard a loud bang as the front door of the pub burst open; two brooms had shot out 
into the street and were racing each other to Harry's side, where they stopped dead, quivering slightly, 
at waist height. 


'Rosmerta, please send a message to the Ministry,' said Dumbledore, as he mounted the broom nearest 
him. 'It might be that nobody within Hogwarts has yet realised anything is wrong ... Harry, put on your 
Invisibility Cloak.' 


Harry pulled his Cloak out of his pocket and threw it over himself before mounting his broom; Madam 
Rosmerta was already tottering back towards her pub as Harry and Dumbledore kicked off from the 
ground and rose up into the air. As they sped towards the castle, Harry glanced sideways at 
Dumbledore, ready to grab him should he fall, but the sight of the Dark Mark seemed to have acted 
upon Dumbledore like a stimulant: he was bent low over his broom, his eyes fixed upon the Mark, his 
long silver hair and beard flying behind him in the night air. And Harry, too, looked ahead at the skull, 
and fear swelled inside him like a venomous bubble, compressing his lungs, driving all other 
discomfort from his mind ... 

How long had they been away? Had Ron, Hermione and Ginny's luck run out by now? Was it one of 
them who had caused the Mark to be set over the school, or was it Neville, or Luna, or some other 
member of the DA? And if it was ... he was the one who had told them to patrol the corridors, he had 
asked them to leave the safety of their beds ... would he be responsible, again, for the death of a friend? 



As they flew over the dark, twisting lane down which they had walked earlier, Harry heard, over the 
whistling of the night air in his ears, Dumbledore muttering in some strange language again. He 
thought he understood why as he felt his broom shudder for a moment when they flew over the boundary 
wall into the grounds: Dumbledore was undoing the enchantments he himself had set around the 
castle, so that they could enter at speed. The Dark Mark was glittering directly above the Astronomy 
Tower, the highest of the castle. Did that mean the death had occurred there? 


Dumbledore had already crossed the crenellated ramparts and was dismounting; Harry landed next to 
him seconds later and looked around. 

The ramparts were deserted. The door to the spiral staircase that led back into the castle was closed. 
There was no sign of a struggle, of a fight to the death, of a body. 

'What does it mean?' Harry asked Dumbledore, looking up at the green skull with its serpent's tongue 
glinting evilly above them. 'Is it the real Mark? Has someone definitely been Professor?' 


In the dim green glow from the Mark Harry saw Dumbledore clutching at his chest with his blackened 
hand. 

'Go and wake Severus,' said Dumbledore faintly but clearly. Tell him what has happened and bring him 
to me. Do noth ing else, speak to nobody else and do not remove your Cloak. I shall wait here.' 


'But ' 


'You swore to obey me, Harry go!' 


Harry hurried over to the door leading to the spiral staircase, but his hand had only just closed upon the 
iron ring of the door when he heard running footsteps on the other side. He looked round at 
Dumbledore, who gestured to him to retreat. Harry backed away, drawing his wand as he did so. 


The door burst open and somebody erupted through it and shouted: 
'Expelliarmus!' 


Harry's body became instantly rigid and immobile, and he felt himself fall back against the Tower wall, 
propped like an unsteady statue, unable to move or speak. He could not understand how it had 
happened Expelliarmus 
was not a Freezing Charm 


Then, by the light of the Mark, he saw Dumbledore's wand flying in an arc over the edge of the 
ramparts and understood ... Dumbledore had wordlessly immobilised Harry, and the second he had 
taken to perform the spell had cost him the chance of defending himself. 


Standing against the ramparts, very white in the face, Dumbledore still showed no sign of panic or 
distress. He merely looked across at his disarmer and said, 'Good evening, Draco.' 


Malfoy stepped forwards, glancing around quickly to check that he and Dumbledore were alone. His 
eyes fell upon the second broom. 


'Who else is here?' 

'A question 1 might ask you. Or are you acting alone?' 



Harry saw Malfoy's pale eyes shift back to Dumbledore in the greenish glare of the Mark. 
'No,' he said. 'I've got backup. 
There are Death Eaters here in your school tonight.' 
'Well, well,' said Dumbledore, as though Malfoy was show ing him an ambitious homework project. 


'Very good indeed. You found a way to let them in, did you?' 
'Yeah,' said Malfoy, who was panting. 'Right under your nose and you never realised!' 
'Ingenious,' said Dumbledore. 'Yet ... forgive me ... where are they now? You seem unsupported.' 
They met some of your guard. They're having a fight down below. They won't be long ... I came on 


ahead. I I've 
got a job to do.' 
'Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy,' said Dumbledore softly. 
There was silence. Harry stood imprisoned within his own invisible, paralysed body, staring at the two 


of them, his ears straining to hear sounds of the Death Eaters' distant fight, and in front of him, Draco 
Malfoy did nothing but stare at Albus Dumbledore who, incredibly, smiled. 
'Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.' 


'How do you know?' said Malfoy at once. 
He seemed to realise how childish the words had sounded; Harry saw him flush in the Mark's greenish 
light. 


'You don't know what I'm capable of,' said Malfoy more forcefully, 'you don't know what I've done!' 
'Oh, yes, I do,' said Dumbledore mildly. 'You almost killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley. You have 


been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year. Forgive me, Draco, but they have been 
feeble attempts ... so feeble, to be honest, that I wonder whether your heart has been really in it...' 
'It has been in it!' said Malfoy vehemently. 'I've been work ing on it all year, and tonight ' 
Somewhere in the depths of the castle below Harry heard a muffled yell. Malfoy stiffened and glanced 


over his shoulder. 
'Somebody is putting up a good fight,' said Dumbledore conversationally. 'But you were saying ... yes, 


you have managed to introduce Death Eaters into my school which, I admit, I thought impossible ... 
how did you do it?' 
But Malfoy said nothing: he was still listening to whatever was happening below and seemed almost as 


paralysed as Harry was. 
'Perhaps you ought to get on with the job alone,' suggested Dumbledore. 'What if your backup 
has 
been thwarted by my guard? As you have perhaps realised, there are members of the Order of the 


Phoenix here tonight, too. And after all, you don't really need help ... I have no wand at the moment ... 
I cannot defend myself.' 
Malfoy merely stared at him. 



'I see,' said Dumbledore kindly, when Malfoy neither 
moved nor spoke. 'You are afraid to act until they join 
you.'» 

'I'm not afraid!' snarled Malfoy, though he still made no move to hurt Dumbledore. 'It's you who 
should be scared!' 


'But why? I don't think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe ... 
so tell me, while we wait for your friends ... how did you smuggle them in here? It seems to have taken 
you a long time to work out how to do it.' 


Malfoy looked as though he was fighting down the urge to shout, or to vomit. He gulped and took 
several deep breaths, glaring at Dumbledore, his wand pointing directly at the latter's heart. Then, as 
though he could not help himself, he said, '1 had to mend that broken Vanishing Cabinet that no one's 
used for years. The one Montague got lost in last year.' 


'Aaaah.' 


Dumbledore's sigh was half a groan. He closed his eyes for a moment. 


That was clever ... there is a pair, I take it?' 


'The other's in Borgin and Burkes,' said Malfoy, 'and they make a kind of passage between them. 
Montague told me that when he was stuck in the Hogwarts one, he was trapped in limbo but sometimes 
he could hear what was going on at school, and sometimes what was going on in the shop, as if the 
Cabinet was travelling between them, but he couldn't make anyone hear him ... in the end he managed 
to Apparate out, even though he'd never passed his test. He nearly died doing it. Everyone thought it 
was a really good story, but I was the only one who realised what it meant even 
Borgin didn't know 1 
was the one who realised there could be a way into Hogwarts through the Cabinets if I fixed the 
broken one.' 


'Very good,' murmured Dumbledore. 'So the Death Eaters were able to pass from Borgin and Burkes 
into the school to help you ... a clever plan, a very clever plan ... and, as you say, right under my 
nose ...' 


'Yeah,' said Malfoy who, bizarrely, seemed to draw courage and comfort from Dumbledore's praise. 
'Yeah, it was!' 


'But there were times,' Dumbledore went on, 'weren't there, when you were not sure you would succeed 
in mending the Cabinet? And you resorted to crude and badly judged measures such as sending me a 
cursed necklace that was bound to reach the wrong hands ... poisoning mead there was only the 
slightest chance I might drink ...' 


'Yeah, well, you still didn't realise who was behind that stuff, did you?' sneered Malfoy, as Dumbledore 
slid a little down the ramparts, the strength in his legs apparently fading, and Harry struggled 
fruitlessly, mutely, against the enchantment binding him. 


'As a matter of fact, I did,' said Dumbledore. 'I was sure it was you.' 


'Why didn't you stop me, then?' Malfoy demanded. 

'I tried, Draco. Professor Snape has been keeping watch over you on my orders ' 


'He hasn't been doing 
your 
orders, he promised my mother ' 


'Of course that is what he would tell you, Draco, but ' 


'He's a doubleagent, 
you stupid old man, he isn't working for you, you just think he is!' 


'We must agree to differ on that, Draco. It so happens that I trust Professor Snape ' 


'Well, you're losing your grip, then!' sneered Malfoy. 'He's been offering me plenty of help wanting 
all the glory for himself wanting 
a bit of the action "
What are you doing? Did you do the necklace, 
that was stupid, it could have blown everything " 
But I haven't told him what I've been doing in the 
Room of Requirement, he's going to wake up tomorrow and it'll all be over and he won't be the Dark 
Lord's favourite any more, he'll be nothing compared to me, nothing!' 


'Very gratifying,' said Dumbledore mildly. 'We all like* appreciation for our own hard work, of 
course ... but you must have had an accomplice, all the same ... someone in Hogsmeade, someone who 
was able to slip Katie the the 
aaaah 


Dumbledore closed his eyes again and nodded, as though he was about to fall asleep. 

'... of course ... Rosmerta. How long has she been under the Imperius Curse?' 

'Got there at last, have you?' Malfoy taunted. 

There was another yell from below, rather louder than the last. Malfoy looked nervously over his 
shoulder again, then back at Dumbledore, who went on, 'So poor Rosmerta was forced to lurk in her 
own bathroom and pass that necklace to any Hogwarts student who entered the room unaccompanied? 
And the poisoned mead ... well, naturally, Rosmerta was able to poison it for you before she sent the 
bottle to Slughorn, believing that it was to be my Christmas present ... yes, very neat ... very neat ... 
poor Mr Filch would not, of course, think to check a bottle of Rosmerta's ... tell me, how have you 
been communicating with Rosmerta? I thought we had all methods of communication in and out of the 
school monitored.' 


'Enchanted coins,' said Malfoy, as though he was compelled to keep talking, though his wand hand was 
shaking badly. 'I had one and she had the other and 1 could send her messages ' 


'Isn't that the secret method of communication the group that called themselves Dumbledore's Army 
used last year?' asked Dumbledore. His voice was light and conversational, but Harry saw him slip an 
inch lower down the wall as he said it. 

'Yeah, I got the idea from them,' said Malfoy, with a twisted smile. 'I got the idea of poisoning the 
mead from the Mudblood Granger, as well, I heard her talking in the library about Filch not 
recognising potions ...' 



Hogsmeade, someone who was able to slip Katie the the 
aaaah 


Dumbledore closed his eyes again and nodded, as though he was about to fall asleep. 

'... of course ... Rosmerta. How long has she been under the Imperius Curse?' 

'Got there at last, have you?' Malfoy taunted. 

There was another yell from below, rather louder than the last. Malfoy looked nervously over his 
shoulder again, then back at Dumbledore, who went on, 'So poor Rosmerta was forced to lurk in her 
own bathroom and pass that necklace to any Hogwarts student who entered the room unaccompanied? 
And the poisoned mead ... well, naturally, Rosmerta was able to poison it for you before she sent the 
bottle to Slughorn, believing that it was to be my Christmas present ... yes, very neat ... very neat ... 
poor Mr Filch would not, of course, think to check a bottle of Rosmerta's ... tell me, how have you 
been communicating with Rosmerta? I thought we had all methods of communication in and out of the 
school monitored.' 


'Enchanted coins,' said Malfoy, as though he was compelled to keep talking, though his wand hand was 
shaking badly. 'I had one and she had the other and 1 could send her messages ' 


'Isn't that the secret method of communication the group that called themselves Dumbledore's Army 
used last year?' asked Dumbledore. His voice was light and conversational, but Harry saw him slip an 
inch lower down the wall as he said it. 

'Yeah, I got the idea from them,' said Malfoy, with a twisted smile. 'I got the idea of poisoning the 
mead from the Mudblood Granger, as well, I heard her talking in the library about Filch not 
recognising potions ...' 


'Please do not use that offensive word in front of me,' said Dumbledore. 

Malfoy gave a harsh laugh. 

'You care about me saying "Mudblood" when I'm about to kill you?' 


'Yes, I do,' said Dumbledore, and Harry saw his feet slide a little on the floor as he struggled to remain 
upright. 'But as for being about to kill me, Draco, you have had several long minutes now. We are 
quite alone. I am more defenceless than you can have dreamed of finding me, and still you have not 
acted ...' 

Malfoy's mouth contorted involuntarily, as though he had tasted something very bitter. 

'Now, about tonight,' Dumbledore went on, 'I am a little puzzled about how it happened ... you knew 
that I had left the school? But of course,' he answered his own question, 'Rosmerta saw me leaving, she 
tipped you off using your ingenious coins, I'm sure ...' 


'That's right,' said Malfoy. 'But she said you were just going for a drink, you'd be back ...' 



'Well, I certainly did have a drink ... and I came back ... after a fashion,' mumbled Dumbledore. 'So you 
decided to spring a trap for me?' 


'We decided to put the Dark Mark over the Tower and get you to hurry up here, to see who'd been 
killed,' said Malfoy. 'And it worked!' 


'Well ... yes and no ...' said Dumbledore. 'But am I to take it, then, that nobody has been murdered?' 


'Someone's dead,' said Malfoy and his voice seemed to go up an octave as he said it. 'One of your 
people ... I don't know who, it was dark ... I stepped over the body ... I was* supposed to be waiting up 
here when you got back, only your Phoenix lot got in the way ...' 


'Yes, they do that,' said Dumbledore. 

There was a bang and shouts from below, louder than ever; it sounded as though people were fighting 
on the actual spiral staircase that led to where Dumbledore, Malfoy and Harry stood, and Harry's heart 
thundered unheard in his invisible chest ... someone was dead ... Malfoy had stepped over the body ... 
but who was it? 


There is little time, one way or another,' said Dumbledore. 'So let us discuss your options, Draco.' 

'My 
options!' said Malfoy loudly. 'I'm standing here with a wand I'm 
about to kill you ' 


'My dear boy, let us have no more pretence about that. If you were going to kill me, you would have 
done it when you first Disarmed me, you would not have stopped for this pleasant chat about ways and 
means.' 


'I haven't got any options!' said Malfoy, and he was sud denly as white as Dumbledore. 'I've got to do 
it! He'll kill me! He'll kill my whole family!' 


'I appreciate the difficulty of your position,' said Dumbledore. 'Why else do you think I have not 
confronted you before now? Because I knew that you would have been murdered if Lord Voldemort 
realised that I suspected you.' 


Malfoy winced at the sound of the name. 

'I did not dare speak to you of the mission with which I knew you had been entrusted, in case he used 
Legilimency against you,' continued Dumbledore. 'But now at last we can speak plainly to each 
other ... no harm has been done, you have hurt nobody, though you are very lucky that your 
unintentional victims survived ... I can help you, Draco.' 

'No, you can't,' said Malfoy, his wand hand shaking very badly indeed. 'Nobody can. He told me to do 
it or he'll kill me. I've got no choice.' 


'Come over to the right side, Draco, and we can hide you more completely than you can possibly 
imagine. What is more, I can send members of the Order to your mother tonight to hide her likewise. 
Your father is safe at the moment in Azkaban ... when the time comes we can protect him too ... come 
over to the right side, Draco ... you are not a killer ...' 


Malfoy stared at Dumbledore. 


'But I got this far, didn't I?' he said slowly. They thought I'd die in the attempt, but I'm here ... and 
you're in my power ... I'm the one with the wand ... you're at my mercy ...' 


'No, Draco,' said Dumbledore quietly. 'It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now.' 
Malfoy did not speak. His mouth was open, his wand hand still trembling. Harry thought he saw it 
drop by a fraction 


But suddenly footsteps were thundering up the stairs and a second later Malfoy was buffeted out of the 
way as four people in black robes burst through the door on to the ramparts. Still paralysed, his eyes 
staring unblinkingly, Harry gazed in terror upon four strangers: it seemed the Death Eaters had won the 
fight below. 


A lumpylooking 
man with an odd lopsided leer gave a wheezy giggle. 
'Dumbledore cornered!' he said, and he turned to a stocky little woman who looked as though she could 


be his sister and who was grinning eagerly. 'Dumbledore wandless, Dumbledore alone! Well done, 
Draco, well done!' 
'Good evening, Amycus,' said Dumbledore calmly, as though welcoming the man to a tea party. 'And 


you've brought Alecto too ... charming ...' 
The woman gave an angry little titter. 
Think your little jokes'll help you on your death bed, then?' she jeered. 
'Jokes? No, no, these are manners,' replied Dumbledore. 
'Do it,' said the stranger standing nearest to Harry, a big, rangy man with matted grey hair and 


whiskers, whose black Death Eater's robes looked uncomfortably tight. He had a voice like none that 
Harry had ever heard: a rasping bark of a voice. Harry could smell a powerful mixture of dirt, sweat 
and, unmistakeably, of blood coming from him. His filthy hands had long yellowish nails. 


'Is that you, Fenrir?' asked Dumbledore. 
That's right,' rasped the other. 'Pleased to see me, Dumbledore?' 
'No, I cannot say that I am ...' 
Fenrir Greyback grinned, showing pointed teeth. Blood trickled down his chin and he licked his lips 


slowly, obscenely. 
'But you know how much I like kids, Dumbledore.' 
'Am I to take it that you are attacking even without the full moon now? This is most unusual ... you 


have developed a taste for human flesh that cannot be satisfied once a month?' 
That's right,' said Greyback. 'Shocks you, that, does it, Dumbledore? Frightens you?' 
'Well, I cannot pretend it does not disgust me a little,' said Dumbledore. 'And, yes, I am a little shocked 


that Draco here invited you, of all people, into the school where his friends live...' 



'I didn't,' breathed Malfoy. He was not looking at Greyback; he did not seem to want to even glance at 
him. 'I didn't know he was going to come ' 


'I wouldn't want to miss a trip to Hogwarts, Dumbledore,' rasped Greyback. 'Not when there are throats 
to be ripped out ... delicious, delicious ...' 


And he raised a yellow fingernail and picked at his front teeth, leering at Dumbledore. 

'1 could do you for afters, Dumbledore ...' 


'No,' said the fourth Death Eater sharply. He had a heavy, brutallooking 
face. 'We've got orders. 
Draco's got to do it. Now, Draco, and quickly.' 


Malfoy was showing less resolution than ever. He looked terrified as he stared into Dumbledore's face, 
which was even paler, and rather lower than usual, as he had slid so far down the rampart wall. 

'He's not long for this world anyway, if you ask me!' said the lopsided man, to the accompaniment of 
his sister's wheezing giggles. 'Look at him what's 
happened to you, then, Dumby?' 


'Oh, weaker resistance, slower reflexes, Amycus,' said Dumbledore. 'Old age, in short ... one day, 
perhaps, it will happen to you ... if you are lucky ...' 


'What's that mean, then, what's that mean?' yelled the Death Eater, suddenly violent. 'Always the same, 
weren't yeh, Dumby, talking and doing nothing, nothing, I don't even know why the Dark Lord's 
bothering to kill yeh! Come on, Draco, do it!' 


But at that moment, there were renewed sounds of scuffling from below and a voice shouted, 'They've 
blocked the stairs Reducto! 
REDUCTO!' 


Harry's heart leapt: so these four had not eliminated all opposition, but merely broken through the fight 
to the top of the Tower, and, by the sound of it, created a barrier behind them 


'Now, Draco, quickly!' said the brutalfaced 
man angrily. 

But Malfoy's hand was shaking so badly that he could barely aim. 


Til do it,' snarled Greyback, moving towards Dumbledore with his hands outstretched, his teeth bared. 

'I said no!' shouted the brutalfaced 
man; there was a flash of light and the werewolf was blasted out of 
the way; he hit the ramparts and staggered, looking furious. Harry's heart was hammering so hard it 
seemed impossible that nobody could hear him standing there, imprisoned by Dumbledore's spell if 
he 
could only move, he could aim a curse from under the Cloak 


'Draco, do it, or stand aside so one of us ' 
screeched the woman, but at that precise moment the door to 
the ramparts burst open once more and there stood Snape, his wand clutched in his hand as his black 
eyes swept the scene, from Dumbledore slumped against the wall, to the four Death Eaters, including 
the enraged werewolf, and Malfoy. 

'We've got a problem, Snape,' said the lumpy Amycus, whose eyes and wand were fixed alike upon 
Dumbledore, 'the boy doesn't seem able ' 



But somebody else had spoken Snape's name, quite softly. 
'Severus ...' 
The sound frightened Harry beyond anything he had experienced all evening. For the first time, 


Dumbledore was pleading. 


Snape said nothing, but walked forwards and pushed Malfoy roughly out of the way. The three Death 
Eaters fell back without a word. Even the werewolf seemed cowed. 
Snape gazed for a moment at Dumbledore, and there was revulsion and hatred etched in the harsh lines 


of his face. 
'Severus ... please ..." 
Snape raised his wand and pointed it directly at Dumbledore. 


'Avada Kedavra!' 


A jet of green light shot from the end of Snape's wand and hit Dumbledore squarely in the chest. 
Harry's scream of horror never left him; silent and unmoving, he was forced to watch as Dumbledore 
was blasted into the air: for a split second he seemed to hang suspended beneath the shining skull, and 
then he fell slowly backwards, like a great rag doll, over the battlements and out of sight. 



Chapter 28 
Flight of 
the 
Prince 


Harry 
felt 
as 
though 
he 
too 
were 
hurtling 
through 
space; 
it 
had 
not 
happened. 
. 
. 
. 
It 
could 
not 
have 
happened. ... 


"Out of here, quickly," said Snape. 



He seized Malfoy by the scruff of the neck and forced him through the door ahead of the rest; 
Greyback and the squat brother and sister followed, the latter both panting excitedly. As they vanished 
through the door, Harry realized he could move again. What was now holding him paralyzed against 
the wall was not magic, but horror and shock. He threw the Invisibility Cloak aside as the brutalfaced 
Death Eater, last to leave the tower top, was disappearing through the door. 

"Petrificus Totalus!" 


The Death Eater buckled as though hit in the back with something solid and fell to the ground, rigid as 
a waxwork, but he had barely hit the floor when Harry was clambering over him and running down the 
darkened staircase. 

Terror tore at Harry;s heart. ... He had to get to Dumbledore and he had to catch Snape. ... Somehow 
the two things were linked. ... He could reverse what had happened if he had them both together. ... 
Dumbledore could not have died. ... 


He leapt the last ten steps of the spiral staircase and stopped where he landed, his wand raised. The 
dimly lit corridor was full of dust; half the ceiling seemed to have fallen in; and a battle was raging 
before him, but even as he attempted to make out who were fighting whom, he heard the hated voice 
shout, "It's over, time to go!" and saw Snape disappearing around the corner at the far end of the 
corridor; he and Malfoy seemed to have forced their way through the fight unscathed. As Harry 
plunged after them, one of the fighters detached themselves from the fray and flew at him: it was the 
werewolf, Fenrir. He was on top of Harry before Harry could raise his wand: Harry fell backward, with 
filthy matted hair in his face, the stench of sweat and blood filling his nose and mouth, hot greedy 
breath at his throat 


"Petrificus Totalus!" 


Harry felt Fenrir collapse against him; with a stupendous effort he pushed the werewolf off and onto 
the floor as a jet of green light came flying toward him; he ducked and ran, headfirst, into the fight. His 
feet met something squashy and slippery on the floor and he stumbled: There were two bodies lying 
there, lying facedown in a pool of blood, but there was no time to investigate. Harry now saw red hair 
flying like flames in front of him: Ginny was locked in combat with the lumpy Death Eater, Amycus, 
who was throwing hex after hex at her while she dodged them: Amycus was giggling, enjoying the 
sport: "Crucio Crucio 
you 
can't dance forever, pretty" 


"Impedimenta!" yelled Harry. 


His jinx hit Amycus in the chest: He gave a piglike squeal of pain, was lifted off his feet and slammed 
into the opposite wall, slid down it, and fell out of sight behind Ron, Professor McGonagall, and 
Lupin, each of whom was battling a separate Death Eater. Beyond them, Harry saw Tonks fighting an 
enormous blond wizard who was sending curses flying in all directions, so that they ricocheted off the 
walls around them, cracking stone, shattering the nearest window 


"Harry, where did you come from?" Ginny cried, but there was no time to answer her. He put his head 
down and sprinted forward, narrowly avoiding a blast that erupted over his head, showering them all in 



bits of wall. Snape must not escape, he must catch up with Snape 


"Take that!" shouted Professor McGonagall, and Harry glimpsed the female Death Eater, Alecto, 
sprinting away down the corridor with her arms over her head, her brother right behind her. He 
launched himself after them but his foot caught on something, and next moment he was lying across 
someone's legs. Looking around, he saw Neville's pale, round face flat against the floor. "Neville, are 
you ?" 


"M'all right," muttered Neville, who was clutching his stomach, "Harry . . . Snape 'n' Malfoy . . . ran 
past. . ." 


"I know, I'm on it!" said Harry, aiming a hex from the floor at the enormous blond Death Eater who 
was causing most of the chaos. The man gave a howl of pain as the spell hit him in the face: He 
wheeled around, staggered, and then pounded away after the brother and sister. Harry scrambled up 
from the floor and began to sprint along the corridor, ignoring the bangs issuing from behind him, the 
yells of the others to come back, and the mute call of the figures on the ground whose fate he did not 
yet know. . . . 


He skidded around the corner, his trainers slippery with blood; Snape had an immense head start. Was 
it possible that he had already entered the cabinet in the Room of Requirement, or had the Order made 
steps to secure it, to prevent the Death Eaters retreating that way? He could hear nothing but his own 
pounding feet, his own hammering heart as he sprinted along the next empty corridor, but then spotted 
a bloody footprint that showed at least one of the fleeing Death Eaters was heading toward the front 
doors perhaps 
the Room of Requirement was indeed blocked 


He skidded around another corner and a curse flew past him; he dived behind a suit of armor that 
exploded. He saw the brother and sister running down the marble staircase ahead and aimed jinxes at 
them, but merely hit several bewigged witches in a portrait on the landing, who ran screeching into 
neighboring paintings. As he leapt the wreckage of armor, Harry heard more shouts and screams; other 
people within the castle seemed to have awoken. . . . 


He pelted toward a shortcut, hoping to overtake the brother and sister and close in on Snape and 
Malfoy, who must surely have reached the grounds by now. Remembering to leap the vanishing step 
halfway down the concealed staircase, he burst through a tapestry at the bottom and out into a corridor 
where a number of bewildered and pajamaclad 
Hufflepuffs stood. 


"Harry! We heard a noise, and someone said something aboui the Dark Mark " 
began Ernie 
Macmillan. 


"Out of the way!" yelled Harry, knocking two boys aside as he sprinted toward the landing and down 
the remainder of the marble staircase. The oak front doors had been blasted open, there were smears of 
blood on the flagstones, and several terrified students stood huddled against the walls, one or two still 
cowering with their arms over their faces. The giant Gryffindor hourglass had been hit by a curse, and 
the rubies within were still falling, with a loud rattle, onto the flagstones below. 


Harry flew across the entrance hall and out into the dark grounds: He could just make out three figures 



racing across the lawn, heading for the gates beyond which they could Disapparate by 
the looks of 
them, the huge blond Death Eater and, some way ahead of him, Snape and Malfoy. ... 


The cold night air ripped at Harry's lungs as he tore after them; he saw a flash of light in the distance 
that momentarily silhouetted his quarry. He did not know what it was but continued to run, not yet near 
enough to get a good aim with a curse 


Another flash, shouts, retaliatory jets of light, and Harry understood: Hagrid had emerged from his 
cabin and was trying to stop the Death Eaters escaping, and though every breath seemed to shred his 
lungs and the stitch in his chest was like fire, Harry sped up as an unbidden voice in his head said: not 
Hagrid. . . not Hagrid too . . . 


Something caught Harry hard in the small of the back and he fell forward, his face smacking the 
ground, blood pouring out of both nostrils: He knew, even as he rolled over, his wand ready, that the 
brother and sister he had overtaken using his shortcut were closing in behind him. . . . 


"Impedimenta!" he yelled as he rolled over again, crouching close to the dark ground, and 
miraculously his jinx hit one of them, who stumbled and fell, tripping up the other; Harry leapt to his 
feet and sprinted on after Snape. 


And now he saw the vast outline of Hagrid, illuminated by the light of the crescent moon revealed 
suddenly behind clouds; the blond Death Eater was aiming curse after curse at the gamekeeper; but 
Hagrids immense strength and the toughened skin he had inherited from his giantess mother seemed to 
be protecting him. Snape and Malfoy, however, were still running; they would soon be beyond the 
gates, able to Disapparate 


Harry tore past Hagrid and his opponent, took aim at Snape's back, and yelled, "Stupefy!" 
He missed; the jet of red light soared past Snape's head; Snape shouted, "Run, Draco!"and turned. 
Twenty yards apart, he and Harry looked at each other before raising their wands simultaneously. 


"Cruc " 


But Snape parried the curse, knocking Harry backward off his feet before he could complete it; Harry 
rolled over and scrambled back up again as the huge Death Eater behind him yelled, "Incendio!" Harry 
heard an explosive bang and a dancing orange light spilled over all of them: Hagrid's house was on 
fire. 


"Fang's in there, yer evil !" 
Hagrid bellowed. 


"Cruc " 
yelled Harry for the second time, aiming for the figure ahead illuminated in the dancing 
firelight, but Snape blocked the spell again. Harry could see him sneering. 


"No Unforgivable Curses from you, Potter!" he shouted over the rushing of the flames, Hagrid's yells, 
and the wild yelping of the trapped Fang. "You haven't got the nerve or the ability " 


"Incarc"
Harry roared, but Snape deflected the spell with an almost lazy flick of his arm. 


"Fight back!" Harry screamed at him. "Fight back, you cowardly" 



"Coward, did you call me, Potter?" shouted Snape. "Your father would never attack me unless it was 
four on one, what would you call him, I wonder?" "Stupe" 


"Blocked again and again and again until you learn to keep your mouth shut and your mind closed, 
Potter!" sneered Snape, deflecting the curse once more. "Now come!" he shouted at the huge Death 
Eater behind Harry. "It is time to be gone, before the Ministry turns up " 


"Impedi " 


But before he could finish this jinx, excruciating pain hit Harry; he keeled over in the grass. Someone 
was screaming, he would surely die of this agony, Snape was going to torture him to death or madness 



"No!" roared Snape's voice and the pain stopped as suddenly as it had started; Harry lay curled on the 
dark grass, clutching his wand and panting; somewhere overhead Snape was shouting, "Have you 
forgotten our orders? Potter belongs to the Dark Lord we 
are to leave him! Go! Go!" 


And Harry felt the ground shudder under his face as the brother and sister and the enormous Death 
Eater obeyed, running toward the gates. Harry uttered an inarticulate yell of rage: In that instant, he 
cared not whether he lived or died. Pushing himself to his feet again, he staggered blindly toward 
Snape, the man he now hated as much as he hated Voldemort himself 


"Sectum " 


Snape flicked his wand and the curse was repelled yet again; but Harry was mere feet away now and he 
could see Snape's face clearly at last: He was no longer sneering or jeering; the blazing flames showed 
a face full of rage. Mustering all his powers of concentration, Harry thought, Levi 


"No, Potter!" screamed Snape. There was a loud BANG and Harry was soaring backward, hitting the 
ground hard again, ;un\ this time his wand flew out of his hand. He could hear Hagrid yelling and Fang 
howling as Snape closed in and looked down on him where he lay, wandless and defenseless as 
Dumbledore hadl been. Snape's pale face, illuminated by the flaming cabin, was suffused with hatred 
just as it had been before he had cursed Dumbledore. 


"You dare use my own spells against me, Potter? It was I who invented them I, 
the HalfBlood 
Prince! And you'd turn my inventions on me, like your filthy father, would you? I don't think so . . . 
no" 


Harry had dived for his wand; Snape shot a hex at it and it flew feet away into the darkness and out of 
sight. 


"Kill me then," panted Harry, who felt no fear at all, but only rage and contempt. "Kill me like you 
killed him, you coward " 


"DON'T " 
screamed Snape, and his face was suddenly demented, inhuman, as though he was in as 
much pain as the yelping, howling dog stuck in the burning house behind them "
CALL ME 
COWARD!" 



And he slashed at the air: Harry felt a whitehot, 
whiplike something hit him across the face and was 
slammed backward into the ground. Spots of light burst in front of his eyes and for a moment all the 
breath seemed to have gone from his body, then he heard a rush of wings above him and something 
enormous obscured the stars. Buckbeak had flown at Snape, who staggered backward as the razorsharp 
claws slashed at him. As Harry raised himself into a sitting position, his head still swimming 
from its last contact with the ground, he saw Snape running as hard as he could, the enormous beast 
flapping behind him and screeching as Harry had never heard him screech 


Harry struggled to his feet, looking around groggily for his wand, hoping to give chase again, but even 
as his fingers fumbled in the grass, discarding twigs, he knew it would be too late, and sure enough, by 
the time he had located his wand, he turned only to see the hippogriff circling the gates. Snape had 
managed to Disapparate just beyond the school's boundaries. 


"Hagrid," muttered Harry, still dazed, looking around. "HAGRID?" 


He stumbled toward the burning house as an enormous figure emerged from out of the flames carrying 
Fang on his back. With a cry of thankfulness, Harry sank to his knees; he was shaking in every limb, 
his body ached all over, and his breath came in painful stabs. 


"Yeh all righ', Harry? Yeh all righ'? Speak ter me, Harry. . .." 


Hagrids huge, hairy face was swimming above Harry, blocking out the stars. Harry could smell burnt 
wood and dog hair; he put out a hand and felt Fang's reassuringly warm and alive body quivering 
beside him. 


"I'm all right," panted Harry. "Are you?" "'Course I am . . . take more'n that ter finish me." 


Hagrid put his hands under Harry's arms and raised him up with such force that Harry's feet 
momentarily left the ground before Hagrid set him upright again. He could see blood trickling down 
Hagrid's cheek from a deep cut under one eye, which was swelling rapidly. 


"We should put out your house," said Harry, "the charm's 'Aguamenti' ..." 


"Knew it was summat like that," mumbled Hagrid, and he raised a smoldering pink, flowery umbrella 
and said, "Aguamenti!" 


A jet of water flew out of the umbrella tip. Harry raised his wand arm, which felt like lead, and 
murmured "Aguamenti" too: Together, he and Hagrid poured water on the house until the last flame 
was extinguished. 


"S'not too bad," said Hagrid hopefully a few minutes later, looking at the smoking wreck. "Nothin 
Dumbledore won' be able to put righ' . . ." 


Harry felt a searing pain in his stomach at the sound of the name. In the silence and the stillness, horror 
rose inside him. 


"Hagrid ..." 


"I was bindin' up a couple o' bowtruckle legs when I heard 'em coming," said Hagrid sadly, still staring 



at his wrecked cabin. "They'll bin burnt ter twigs, poor little things. . . ." 
"Hagrid . . ." 
"But what happened, Harry? I jus' saw them Death Eaters runnin 
down from the castle, but what the 


ruddy hell was Snape doin' with 'em? Where's he gone was 
he chasin' them?" 
"He . . ." Harry cleared his throat; it was dry from panic and the smoke. "Hagrid, he killed . . ." 
"Killed?" said Hagrid loudly, staring down at Harry. "Snape killed? What're yeh on abou', Harry?" 
"Dumbledore," said Harry. "Snape killed .. . Dumbledore." 
Hagrid simply looked at him, the little of his face that could be seen completely blank, 


uncomprehending. 
"Dumbledore wha, Harry?" 
"He's dead. Snape killed him...." 
"Don' say that," said Hagrid roughly. "Snape kill Dumbledore don' 
be stupid, Harry. Wha's made yeh 


say tha'?" 
"I saw it happen." , ,.. 
"Yeh couldn' have." 
"I saw it, Hagrid." 
Hagrid shook his head; his expression was disbelieving but sympathetic, and Harry knew that Hagrid 


thought he had sustained a blow to the head, that he was confused, perhaps by the aftereffects of a jinx. 


... 
"What musta happened was, Dumbledore musta told Snape ter go with them Death Eaters," Hagrid 
said confidently. "I suppose he's gotta keep his cover. Look, let's get yeh back up ter the school. Come 
on, Harry. ..." 


Harry did not attempt to argue or explain. He was still shaking uncontrollably. Hagrid would find out 
soon enough, too soon. ... As they directed their steps back toward the castle, Harry saw that many of 
its windows were lit now. He could imagine, clearly, the scenes inside as people moved from room to 
room, telling each other that Death Eaters had got in, that the Mark was shining over Hogwarts, that 
somebody must have been killed. . . . 


The oak front doors stood open ahead of them, light flooding out onto the drive and the lawn. Slowly, 
uncertainly, dressinggowned 
people were creeping down the steps, looking around nervously for some 
sign of the Death Eaters who had fled into the night. Harry's eyes, however, were fixed upon the 
ground at the foot of the tallest tower. He imagined that he could see a black, huddled mass lying in the 
grass there, though he was really too far away to see anything of the sort. Even as he stared wordlessly 
at the place where he thought 


Dumbledore's body must lie, however, he saw people beginning to move toward it. 



"What're they all lookin' at?" said Hagrid, as he and Harry approached the castle front, Fang keeping as 
close as he could to their ankles. "Wha's that lyin' on the grass?" Hagrid added sharply, heading now 
toward the foot of the Astronomy Tower, where a small crowd was congregating. "See it, Harry? Right 
at the foot of the tower? Under where the Mark . . . Blimey . . . yeh don' think someone got thrown ?" 


Hagrid fell silent, the thought apparently too horrible to express aloud. Harry walked alongside him, 
feeling the aches and pains in his face and his legs where the various hexes of the last half hour had hit 
him, though in an oddly detached way, as though somebody near him was suffering them. What was 
real and inescapable was the awful pressing feeling in his chest. . . . 


He and Hagrid moved, dreamlike, through the murmuring crowd to the very front, where the 
dumbstruck students and teachers had left a gap. 


Harry heard Hagrid's moan of pain and shock, but he did not stop; he walked slowly forward until he 
reached the place where Dumbledore lay and crouched down beside him. He had known there was no 
hope from the moment that the full BodyBind 
Curse Dumbledore had placed upon him lifted, known 
that it could have happened only because its caster was dead, but there was still no preparation for 
seeing him here, spreadeagled, 
broken: the greatest wizard Harry had ever, or would ever, meet. 


Dumbledore's eyes were closed; but for the strange angle of his arms and legs, he might have been 
sleeping. Harry reached out, straightened the halfmoon 
spectacles upon the crooked nose, and wiped a 
trickle of blood from the mouth with his own sleeve. Then he gazed down at the wise old face and tried 
to absorb the enormous and incomprehensible truth: that never again would Dumbledore speak to him, 
never again could he help


The crowd murmured behind Harry. After what seemed like a long time, he became aware that he was 
kneeling upon something hard and looked down. 


The locket they had managed to steal so many hours before had fallen out of Dumbledore's pocket. It 
had opened, perhaps due to the force with which it hit the ground. And although he could not feel more 
shock or horror or sadness than he felt already, Harry knew, as he picked it up, that there was 
something wrong


He turned the locket over in his hands. This was neither as large as the locket he remembered seeing in 
the Pensieve, nor were there any markings upon it, no sign of the ornate S that was supposed to be 
Slytherins mark. Moreover, there was nothing inside but for a scrap of folded parchment wedged 
tightly into the place where a portrait should have been. 


Automatically, without really thinking about what he was doing, Harry pulled out the fragment of 
parchment, opened it, and read by the light of the many wands that had now been lit behind him: 


To the Dark Lord 


I now I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who dicovered your 
secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. 

I face death in the hope that when you meet your match you will be mortal once more. 



R.A.B. 
Harry neither knew nor cared what the message meant. Only one thing mattered: This was not a 
Horcrux. Dumbledore had weakened himself by drinking that terrible potion for nothing. Harry 
crumpled the parchment in his hand, and his eyes burned with tears as behind him Fang began to howl. 



Chapter 29 
The Phoenix Lament 


C 'mere, Harry ..." 
"No." 
"Yeh can' stay here, Harry. ... Come on, now...." "No." 



He did not want to leave Dumbledores side, he did not want to move anywhere. Hagrid's hand on his 


shoulder was trembling. Then another voice said, "Harry, come on." 
A much smaller and warmer hand had enclosed his and was pulling him upward. He obeyed its 
pressure without really thinking about it. Only as he walked blindly back through the crowd did he 
realize, from a trace of flowery scent on the air, that it was Ginny who was leading him back into the 
castle. Incomprehensible voices battered him, sobs and shouts and wails stabbed the night, but Harry 
and Ginny walked on, back up the steps into the entrance hall. Faces swam on the edges of Harry's 
vision, people were peering at him, whispering, wondering, and Gryffindor rubies glistened on the 
floor like drops of blood as they made their way toward the marble staircase. 


"We're going to the hospital wing," said Ginny. 
"I'm not hurt," said Harry. ! 
"It's McGonagalls orders," said Ginny. "Everyone's up there, Ron and Hermione and Lupin and 


everyone " 
Fear stirred in Harry's chest again: He had forgotten the inert figures he had left behind. 
"Ginny, who else is dead?" 
"Don't worry, none of us." 
"But the Dark Mark Malfoy 
said he stepped over a body " 
"He stepped over Bill, but its all right, he's alive." 
There was something in her voice, however, that Harry knew boded ill. 
"Are you sure?" 
"Of course I'm sure . . . he's a a 
bit of a mess, that's all. Greyback attacked him. Madam Pomfrey says 


he won't won't 
look the same anymore. . . ." 
Ginny's voice trembled a little. 
"We don't really know what the aftereffects will be I 
mean, Greyback being a werewolf, but not 


transformed at the time." 
"But the others . . . There were other bodies on the ground. . . ." 
"Neville and Professor Flitwick are both hurt, but Madam Pomfrey says they'll be all right. And a 


Death Eater's dead, he got hit by a Killing Curse that huge blond one was firing off everywhere Harry, 
if we hadn't had your Felix potion, I think we'd all have been killed, but everything seemed to 
just miss us " 


They had reached the hospital wing. Pushing open the doors, Harry saw Neville lying, apparently 
asleep, in a bed near the door. Ron, Hermione, Luna, Tonks, and Lupin were gathered around another 
bed near the far end of the ward. At the sound of the doors opening, they all looked up. Hermione ran 
to Harry and hugged him; Lupin moved forward too, looking anxious. 



"Are you all right, Harry?" 

"I'm fine.... How's Bill?" 


Nobody answered. Harry looked over Hermione's shoulder and saw an unrecognizable face lying on 
Bill's pillow, so badly slashed and ripped that he looked grotesque. Madam Pomfrey was dabbing at his 
wounds with some harshsmelling 
green ointment. Harry remembered how Snape had mended 
Malfoy's Sectumsempra wounds so easily with his wand. 


"Can't you fix them with a charm or something?" he asked the matron. 


"No charm will work on these," said Madam Pomfrey. "I've tried everything I know, but there is no 
cure for werewolf bites." 


"But he wasn't bitten at the full moon," said Ron, who was gazing down into his brother's face as 
though he could somehow force him to mend just by staring. "Greyback hadn't transformed, so surely 
Bill won't be a a 
real ?" 
: 


He looked uncertainly at Lupin. 


"No, I don't think that Bill will be a true werewolf," said Lupin, "but that does not mean that there 
won't be some contamination. Those are cursed wounds. They are unlikely ever to heal fully, and and 
Bill might have some wolfish characteristics from now on." 


"Dumbledore might know something that'd work, though," Ron said. "Where is he? Bill fought those 
maniacs on Dumbledore's orders, Dumbledore owes him, he can't leave him in this state " 


"Ron Dumbledores 
dead," said Ginny. 


"No!" Lupin looked wildly from Ginny to Harry, as though hoping the latter might contradict her, but 
when Harry did nor, Lupin collapsed into a chair beside Bill's bed, his hands over his face. Harry had 
never seen Lupin lose control before; he felt as though he was intruding upon something private, 
indecent. He turned away and caught Ron's eye instead, exchanging in silence a look that confirmed 
what Ginny had said. 


"How did he die?" whispered Tonks. "How did it happen?" 


"Snape killed him," said Harry. "I was there, I saw it. We arrived back on the Astronomy Tower 
because that's where the Mark was. . . . Dumbledore was ill, he was weak, but I think he realized it was 
a trap when we heard footsteps running up the stairs. He immobilized me, I couldn't do anything, I was 
under the Invisibility Cloak and 
then Malfoy came through the door and disarmed him " 


Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth and Ron groaned. Luna's mouth trembled. 


"more 
Death Eaters arrived and 
then Snape and 
Snape did it. The Avada Kedavra." Harry couldn't 
go on. 


Madam Pomfrey burst into tears. Nobody paid her any attention except Ginny, who whispered, "Shh! 
Listen!" 



Gulping, Madam Pomfrey pressed her fingers to her mouth, her eyes wide. Somewhere out in the 
darkness, a phoenix was singing in a way Harry had never heard before: a stricken lament of terrible 
beauty. And Harry felt, as he had felt about phoenix song before, that the music was inside him, not 
without: It was his own grief turned magically to song that echoed across the grounds and through the 
castle windows. 


How long they all stood there, listening, he did not know, nor why it seemed to ease their pain a little 
to listen to the sound of their mourning, but it felt like a long time later that the hospital door opened 
again and Professor McGonagall entered the ward. Like all the rest, she bore marks of the recent battle: 
There were grazes on her face and her robes were ripped. 


"Molly and Arthur are on their way," she said, and the spell of the music was broken: Everyone roused 
themselves as though coming out of trances, turning again to look at Bill, or else to rub their own eyest 
shake their heads. "Harry, what happened? According to Hagrid you were with Professor Dumbledore 
when he when 
it happened. He says Professor Snape was involved in some " 
"Snape killed 
Dumbledore," said Harry. 


She stared at him for a moment, then swayed alarmingly; Madam Pomfrey, who seemed to have pulled 
herself together, ran forward, conjuring a chair from thin air, which she pushed under McGonagall. 


"Snape," repeated McGonagall faintly, falling into the chair. "We all wondered . . . but he trusted . . . 
always . . . Snape... I can't believe it. ..." 


"Snape was a highly accomplished Occlumens," said Lupin, his voice uncharacteristically harsh. "We 
always knew that." 


"But Dumbledore swore he was on our side!" whispered Tonks. "I always thought Dumbledore must 
know something about Snape that we didn't. ..." . 


"He always hinted that he had an ironclad reason for trusting Snape," muttered Professor McGonagall, 
now dabbing at the corners of her leaking eyes with a tartanedged 
handkerchief. "I mean . . . with 
Snapes history ... of course people were bound to wonder. . . but Dumbledore told me explicitly that 
Snape's repentance was absolutely genuineWouldn't 
hear a word against him!" 


"I'd love to know what Snape told him to convince him," said Tonks. 


"I know," said Harry, and they all turned to look at him. "Snape passed Voldemort the information that 
made Voldemort hunt down my mum and dad. Then Snape told Dumbledore he hadn't realized what 
he was doing, he was really sorry he'd done it, sorry that they were dead." 


They all stared at him. 


"And Dumbledore believed that?" said Lupin incredulously. "Dumbledore believed Snape was sorry 
James was dead? Snape hated James. . . ." 


"And he didn't think my mother was worth a damn either," said Harry, "because she was Muggleborn... 
'Mudblood,' he called her. ..." 



Nobody asked how Harry knew this. All of them seemed to be lost in horrified shock, trying to digest 
the monstrous truth of what had happened. 


"This is all my fault," said Professor McGonagall suddenly. She looked disoriented, twisting her wet 
handkerchief in her hands. "My fault. I sent Filius to fetch Snape tonight, I actually sent for him to 
come and help us! If I hadn't alerted Snape to what was going on, he might never have joined forces 
with the Death Eaters. I don't think he knew they were there before Filius told him, I don't think he 
knew they were coming." 


"It isn't your fault, Minerva," said Lupin firmly. "We all wanted more help, we were glad to think 
Snape was on his way...." 


"So when he arrived at the fight, he joined in on the Death Eaters' side?" asked Harry, who wanted 
every detail of Snape's duplicity and infamy, feverishly collecting more reasons to hate him, to swear 
vengeance. 


"I don't know exactly how it happened," said Professor McGonagall distractedly. "It's all so 
confusing. . . . Dumbledore had told us that he would be leaving the school for a few hours and that we 
were to patrol the corridors just in case . . . Remus, Bill, and Nymphadora were to join us ... and so we 
patrolled. All seemed quiet. Every secret passageway out of the school was covered. We knew nobody 
could fly in. There were powerful enchantments on every entrance into the castle. I still don't know 
how the Death Eaters can possibly have entered. . . ." 


"I do," said Harry, and he explained, briefly, about the pair of Vanishing Cabinets and the magical 
pathway they formed. "So they got in through the Room of Requirement." 


Almost against his will he glanced from Ron to Hermione, both of whom looked devastated. 


"I messed up, Harry," said Ron bleakly. "We did like you told us: We checked the Marauder's Map and 
we couldn't see Malfoy on it, so we thought he must be in the Room of Requirement, so me, Ginny, 
and Neville went to keep watch on it... but Malfoy got past us." 


"He came out of the room about an hour after we started keeping watch," said Ginny. "He was on his 
own, clutching that awful shriveled arm " 


"His Hand of Glory," said Ron. "Gives light only to the holder, remember?" 


"Anyway," Ginny went on, "he must have been checking whether the coast was clear to let the Death 
Eaters out, because the moment he saw us he threw something into the air and it all went pitchblack 
" 


"Peruvian 
Instant Darkness Powder," said Ron bitterly. "Fred and George's. I'm going to be having a 
word with them about who they let buy their products." 


"We tried everything, Lumos, Incendio," said Ginny. "Nothing would penetrate the darkness; all we 
could do was grope our way out of the corridor again, and meanwhile we could hear people rushing 
past us. Obviously Malfoy could see because of that hand thing and was guiding them, but we didn't 
dare use any curses or anything in case we hit each other, and by the time we'd reached a corridor that 
was light, they'd gone." 



"Luckily," said Lupin hoarsely, "Ron, Ginny, and Neville ran into us almost immediately and told us 
what had happened. We found the Death Eaters minutes later, heading in the direction of the 
Astronomy Tower. Malfoy obviously hadn't expected more people to be on the watch; he seemed to 
have exhausted his supply of Darkness Powder, at any rate. A fight broke out, they scattered and we 
gave chase. One of them, Gibbon, broke away and headed up the tower stairs " 


"To set off the Mark?" asked Harry. 


"He must have done, yes, they must have arranged that before they left the Room of Requirement," 
said Lupin. "But I don't think Gibbon liked the idea of waiting up there alone for Dumbledore, because 
he came running back downstairs to rejoin the fight and was hit by a Killing Curse that just missed 
me." 


"So if Ron was watching the Room of Requirement with Ginny and Neville," said Harry, turning to 
Hermione, "were you ?" 


"Outside Snape's office, yes," whispered Hermione, her eyes sparkling with tears, "with Luna. We 
hung around for ages outside it and nothing happened. . . . We didn't know what was going on upstairs, 
Ron had taken the mapIt 
was nearly midnight when Professor Flitwick came sprinting down into 
the dungeons. He was shouting about Death Eaters in the castle, I don't think he really registered that 
Luna and I were there at all, he just burst his way into Snape's office and we heard him saying that 
Snape had to go back with him and help and then we heard a loud thump and Snape came hurtling out 
of his room and he saw us and and 
" 
"What?" Harry urged her. 


"I was so stupid, Harry!" said Hermione in a highpitched 
whisper. "He said Professor Flitwick had 
collapsed and that we should go and take care of him while he while 
he went to help fight the Death 
Eaters " 
She covered her face in shame and continued to talk into her fingers, so that her voice was 
muffled. "We went into his office to see if we could help Professor Flitwick and found him 
unconscious on the floor. . . and oh, it's so obvious now, Snape must have Stupefied Flitwick, but we 
didn't realize, Harry, we didn't realize, we just let Snape go!" 


"It's not your fault," said Lupin firmly. "Hermione, had you not obeyed Snape and got out of the way, 
he probably would have killed you and Luna." 


"So then he came upstairs," said Harry, who was watching Snape running up the marble staircase in his 
mind's eye, his black robes billowing behind him as ever, pulling his wand from under his cloak as he 
ascended, "and he found the place where you were all fighting. ..." 


"We were in trouble, we were losing," said Tonks in a low voice. "Gibbon was down, but the rest of 
the Death Eaters seemed ready to fight to the death. Neville had been hurt, Bill had been savaged by 
Greyback... It was all dark . . . curses flying everywhere . . . The Malfoy boy had vanished, he must 
have slipped past, up the stairs . . . then more of them ran after him, but one of them blocked the stair 
behind them with some kind of curse. . . . Neville ran at it and got thrown up into the air " 


"None of us could break through," said Ron, "and that massive Death Eater was still firing off jinxes 
all over the place, they were bouncing off the walls and barely missing us. . . ." 



"And then Snape was there," said Tonks, "and then he wasn't " 


"I saw him running toward us, but that huge Death Eaters jinx just missed me right afterward and I 
ducked and lost track of things," said Ginny. 


"I saw him run straight through the cursed barrier as though it wasn't there," said Lupin. "I tried to 
follow him, but was thrown back just like Neville. . . ." 


"He must have known a spell we didn't," whispered McGonagall. "After all he 
was the Defense 
Against the Dark Arts teacher. ... I just assumed that he was in a hurry to chase after the Death Eaters 
who'd escaped up to the tower. ..." 


"He was," said Harry savagely, "but to help them, not to stop them . . . and I'll bet you had to have a 
Dark Mark to get through that barrier so 
what happened when he came back down?" 


"Well, the big Death Eater had just fired off a hex that caused half the ceiling to fall in, and also broke 
the curse blocking the stairs," said Lupin. "We all ran forward those 
of us who were still standing 
anyway and 
then Snape and the boy emerged out of the dust obviously, 
none of us attacked them " 


"We just let them pass," said Tonks in a hollow voice. "We thought they were being chased by the 
Death Eaters and 
next thing, the other Death Eaters and Greyback were back and we were fighting 
again I 
thought I heard Snape shout something, but I don't know what " 


"He shouted, 'It's over,'" said Harry. "He'd done what he'd meant to do." 


They all fell silent. Fawkes's lament was still echoing over the dark grounds outside. As the music 
reverberated upon the air, unbidden, unwelcome thoughts slunk into Harry's mind. . . . Had they taken 
Dumbledore's body from the foot of the tower yet? What would happen to it next? Where would it 
rest? He clenched his fists tighdy in his pockets. He could feel the small cold lump of the fake Horcrux 
against the knuckles of his right hand. 


The doors of the hospital wing burst open, making them all jump: Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were striding 
up the ward, Fleur just behind them, her beautiful face terrified. 


"Molly Arthur 
" 
said Professor McGonagall, jumping up and hurrying to greet them. "I am so sorry 
" 


"Bill," whispered Mrs. Weasley, darting past Professor McGonagall as she caught sight of Bill's 
mangled face. "Oh, Bill!" 


Lupin and Tonks had got up hastily and retreated so that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could get nearer to the 
bed. Mrs. Weasley bent over her son and pressed her lips to his bloody forehead. 


"You said Greyback attacked him?" Mr. Weasley asked Professor McGonagall distractedly. "But he 
hadn't transformed? So what does that mean? What will happen to Bill?" 


"We don't yet know," said Professor McGonagall, looking helplessly at Lupin. 


"There will probably be some contamination, Arthur," .said Lupin. "It is an odd case, possibly unique. . 
. . We don't know what his behavior might be like when he awakens. . . ." 



Mrs. Weasley took the nastysmelling 
ointment from Madam Pomfrey and began dabbing at Bill's 
wounds. 


"And Dumbledore ..." said Mr. Weasley. "Minerva, is it true ... Is he really. . . ?" 


As Professor McGonagall nodded, Harry felt Ginny move beside him and looked at her. Her slightly 
narrowed eyes were fixed upon Fleur, who was gazing down at Bill with a frozen expression on her 
face. 


"Dumbledore gone," whispered Mr. Weasley, but Mrs. Weasley had eyes only for her eldest son; she 
began to sob, tears falling onto Bill's mutilated face. 


"Of course, it doesn't matter how he looks. . . . It's not rreally 
important. . . but he was a very 
handsome little bboy 
. . . always very handsome . . . and he was ggoing 
to be married!" 


"And what do you mean by zat?" said Fleur suddenly and loudly. "What do you mean, ' he was going 
to be married?'" 


Mrs. Weasley raised her tearstained 
face, looking startled. "Well only 
that" 


"You theenk Bill will not wish to marry me anymore?" demanded Fleur. "You theenk, because of these 
bites, he will not love me?" 


"No, that's not what I " 


"Because 'e will!" said Fleur, drawing herself up to her full height and throwing back her long mane of 
silver hair. "It would take more zan a werewolf to stop Bill loving me!" 


"Well, yes, I'm sure," said Mrs. Weasley, "but I thought perhaps given 
how how 
he " 


"You thought I would not weesh to marry him? Or per'aps, you hoped?" said Fleur, her nostrils flaring. 
"What do I care how he looks? I am goodlooking 
enough for both of us, I theenk! All these scars show 
is zat my husband is brave! And I shall do zat!" she added fiercely, pushing Mrs. Weasley aside and 
snatching the ointment from her. 


Mrs. Weasley fell back against her husband and watched Fleur mopping up Bill's wounds with a most 
curious expression upon her face. Nobody said anything; Harry did not dare move. Like everybody 
else, he was waiting for the explosion. 


"Our GreatAuntie 
Muriel," said Mrs. Weasley after a long pause, "has a very beautiful tiara goblinmade 
which 
I am sure I could persuade her to lend you for the wedding. She is very fond of Bill, you 
know, and it would look lovely with your hair." 


"Thank you," said Fleur stiffly. "I am sure zat will be lovely." 


And then, Harry did not quite see how it happened, both , women were crying and hugging each other. 
Completely bewildered, wondering whether the world had gone mad, he turned around: Ron looked as 
stunned as he felt and Ginny and Hermione were exchanging startled looks. 



"You see!" said a strained voice. Tonks was glaring at Lupin. "She still wants to marry him, even 
though he's been bitten! She doesn't care! 


"It's different," said Lupin, barely moving his lips and looking suddenly tense. "Bill will not be a full 
werewolf. The cases are completely " 


"But I don't care either, I don't care!" said Tonks, seizing the front of Lupin's robes and shaking them. 
"I've told you a million times. . . ." 


And the meaning of Tonks's Patronus and her mousecolored 
hair, and the reason she had come 
running to find Dumbledore when she had heard a rumor someone had been attacked by Greyback, all 
suddenly became clear to Harry; it had not been Sinus that Tonks had fallen in love with after all. 


"And I've told you a million times," said Lupin, refusing to meet her eyes, staring at the floor, "that I 
am too old for you, too poor . . . too dangerous. . . ." 


"I've said all along you're taking a ridiculous line on this, Remus," said Mrs. Weasley over Fleur's 
shoulder as she patted her on the back. 


"I am not being ridiculous," said Lupin steadily. "Tonks deserves somebody young and whole." 


"But she wants you," said Mr. Weasley, with a small smile. "And after all, Remus, young and whole 
men do not necessarily remain so." 


He gestured sadly at his son, lying between them. 


"This is... not the moment to discuss it," said Lupin, avoiding everybody's eyes as he looked around 
distractedly. "Dumbledore is dead. ..." 


"Dumbledore would have been happier than anybody to think that there was a little more love in the 
world," said Professor McGonagall curtly, just as the hospital doors opened again and Hagrid walked 
in. 


The little of his face that was not obscured by hair or beard was soaking and swollen; he was shaking 
with tears, a vast, spotted handkerchief in his hand. 


"I've . . . I've done it, Professor," he choked. "Mmoved 
him. Professor Sprout's got the kids back in 
bed. Professor Flitwick's lyin down, but he says he'll be all righ' in a jiffy, an' Professor Slughorn says 
the Ministry's bin informed." 


"Thank you, Hagrid," said Professor McGonagall, standing up at once and turning to look at the group 
around Bill's bed. "I shall have to see the Ministry when they get here. Hagrid, please tell the Heads of 
Houses Slughorn 
can represent Slytherin that 
I want to see them in my office forthwith. I would like 
you to join us too." 


As Hagrid nodded, turned, and shuffled out of the room again, she looked down at Harry. "Before I 
meet them I would like a quick word with you, Harry. If you'll come with me. ..." 


Harry stood up, murmured "See you in a bit" to Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, and followed Professor 
McGonagall back down the ward. The corridors outside were deserted and the only sound was the 



distant phoenix song. It was several minutes before Harry became aware that they were not heading for 
Professor McGonagall's office, but for Dumbledore's, and another few seconds before he realized that 
of course, she had been deputy headmistress, . . . Apparently she was now headmistress ... so the room 
behind the gargoyle was now hers. 


In silence they ascended the moving spiral staircase and entered the circular office. He did not know 
what he had expected: that the room would be draped in black, perhaps, or even that Dumbledore's 
body might be lying there. In fact, it looked almost exactly as it had done when he and Dumbledore 
had left it mere hours previously: the silver instruments whirring and puffing on their spindle legged 
tables, Gryffindor's sword in its glass case gleaming in the moonlight, the Sorting Hat on a shelf 
behind the desk, the Fawkes's perch stood empty, he was still crying his lament to the grounds. And a 
new portrait had joined the ranks of the dead headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts: 
Dumbledore was slumbering in a golden frame over the desk, his halfmoon 
spectacle perched upon 
his crooked nose, looking peaceful and untroubled. 


After glancing once at this portrait, Professor McGonagall made an odd movement as though steeling 
herself, then rounded the' desk to look at Harry, her face taut and lined. 


"Harry," she said, "I would like to know what you and Professor Dumbledore were doing this evening 
when you left the school." 


"I can't tell you that, Professor," said Harry. He had expected the question and had his answer ready. It 
had been here, in this very room, that Dumbledore had told him that he was to confide the contents of 
their lessons to nobody but Ron and Hermione. 


"Harry, it might be important," said Professor McGonagall. 


"It is," said Harry, "very, but he didn't want me to tell anyone." 


Professor McGonagall glared at him. "Potter" Harry 
registered the renewed use of his surname "
in 
the light of Professor Dumbledore's death, I think you must see that the situation has changed 
somewhat " 


"I don't think so," said Harry, shrugging. "Professor Dumbledore never told me to stop following his 
orders if he died." But 


"There's one thing you should know before the Ministry gets here, though. Madam Rosmerta's under 
the Imperius Curse, she was helping Malfoy and the Death Eaters, that's how the necklace and the 
poisoned mead " 


"Rosmerta?" said Professor McGonagall incredulously, but before she could go on, there was a knock 
on the door behind them and Professors Sprout, Flitwick, and Slughorn traipsed into the room, 
followed by Hagrid, who was still weeping copiously, his huge frame trembling with grief. 


"Snape!" ejaculated Slughorn, who looked the most shaken, pale and sweating. "Snape! I taught him! I 
thought I knew him!" 


But before any of them could respond to this, a sharp voice spoke from high on the wall: A sallow



faced wizard with a short black fringe had just walked back into his empty canvas. "Minerva, the 
Minister will be here within seconds, he has just Disapparated from the Ministry." 


"Thank you, Everard," said Professor McGonagall, and she turned quickly to her teachers. 


"I want to talk about what happens to Hogwarts before he gets here," she said quickly. "Personally, I 
am not convinced that the school should reopen next year. The death of the headmaster at the hands of 
one of our colleagues is a terrible stain upon Hogwarts's history. It is horrible." 


"I am sure Dumbledore would have wanted the school to remain open," said Professor Sprout. "I feel 
that if a single pupil wants to come, then the school ought to remain open for that pupil." 


"But will we have a single pupil after this?" said Slughorn, now dabbing his sweating brow with a 
silken handkerchief. "Parents will want to keep their children at home and I can't say I blame them. 
Personally, I don't think we're in more danger at Hogwarts than we are anywhere else, but you can't 
expect mothers to think like that. They'll want to keep their families together, it's only natural." 


"I agree," said Professor McGonagall. "And in any case, it is not true to say that Dumbledore never 
envisaged a situation in which Hogwarts might close. When the Chamber of Secrets reopened he 
considered the closure of the school and 
I must say that Professor Dumbledore's murder is more 
disturbing to me than the idea of Slytherin's monster living undetected in the bowels of the castle. . . ." 


"We must consult the governors," said Professor Flitwick in his squeaky little voice; he had a large 
bruise on his forehead but seemed otherwise unscathed by his collapse in Snape's office. "We must 
follow the established procedures. A decision should not be made hastily." 


"Hagrid, you haven't said anything," said Professor McGonagall. "What are your views, ought 
Hogwarts to remain open?" 


Hagrid, who had been weeping silently into his large, spotted handkerchief throughout this 
conversation, now raised puffy red eyes and croaked, "I dunno, Professor . . . that's fer the Heads of 
House an the headmistress ter decide ..." 


"Professor Dumbledore always valued your views," said Professor McGonagall kindly, "and so do I." 


"Well, I'm stayin," said Hagrid, fat tears still leaking out of the corners of his eyes and trickling down 
into his tangled beard. "It's me home, it's bin me home since I was thirteen. An' if there's kids who wan' 
me ter teach 'em, I'll do it. But... I dunno ... Hogwarts without Dumbledore .. ." He gulped and 
disappeared behind his handkerchief once more, and there was silence. 


"Very well," said Professor McGonagall, glancing out of the window at the grounds, checking to see 
whether the Minister was yet approaching, "then I must agree with Filius that the right thing to do is to 
consult the governors, who will make the final decision. 


"Now, as to getting students home . . . there is an argument for doing it sooner rather than later. We 
could arrange for the Hogwarts Express to come tomorrow if necessary " 


"What about Dumbledore's funeral?" said Harry, speaking at last. 



"Well. . ." said Professor McGonagall, losing a little of her briskness as her voice shook. "I I 
know 
that it was Dumbledore's wish to be laid to rest here, at Hogwarts " 


"Then that's what'll happen, isn't it?" said Harry fiercely. 
"If the Ministry thinks it appropriate," said Professor McGonagall. "No other headmaster or 
headmistress has ever been " 


"No other headmaster or headmistress ever gave more to this school," growled Hagrid. 
"Hogwarts should be Dumbledore's final resting place," said Professor Flitwick. 
"Absolutely," said Professor Sprout. 
"And in that case," said Harry, "you shouldn't send the students home until the jfuneral's over. They'll 


want to say " 
The last word caught in his throat, but Professor Sprout completed the sentence for him. "Goodbye." 
"Well said," squeaked Professor Flitwick. "Well said indeed! Our students should pay tribute, it is 


fitting. We can arrange transport home afterward." 
"Seconded," barked Professor Sprout. ] 
"I suppose ... yes .. ." said Slughorn in a rather agitated voice, while Hagrid let out a strangled sob of 


assent. 


"He's coming," said Professor McGonagall suddenly, gazing down into the grounds. "The Minister . . . 
and by the looks of it. he's brought a delegation . . ." 
"Can I leave, Professor?" said Harry at once. 
He had no desire at all to see, or be interrogated by, Rufus Scrimgeour tonight. 
"You may," said Professor McGonagall. "And quickly." 
She strode toward the door and held it open for him. He sped down the spiral staircase and off along 


the deserted corridor; hehad 
left his Invisibility Cloak at the top of the Astronomy Tower, but it did 
not matter; there was nobody in the corridors to see him pass, not even Filch, Mrs. Norris, or Peeves. 
He did not meet another soul until he turned into the passage leading to the Gryffindor common room. 


"Is it true?" whispered the Fat Lady as he approached her. "It is really true? Dumbledore dead?" 
"Yes," said Harry. 
She let out a wail and, without waiting for the password, swung forward to admit him. 
As Harry had suspected it would be, the common room was jampacked. 
The room fell silent as he 


climbed through the portrait hole. He saw Dean and Seamus sitting in a group nearby: This meant that 
the dormitory must be empty, or nearly so. Without speaking to anybody, without making eye contact 
at all, Harry walked straight across the room and through the door to the boys' dormitories. 


As he had hoped, Ron was waiting for him, still fully dressed, sitting on his bed. Harry sat down on his 



own fourposter 
and for a moment, they simply stared at each other. 
"They're talking about closing the school," said Harry. 
"Lupin said they would," said Ron. 
There was a pause. 
"So?" said Ron in a very low voice, as though he thought the furniture might be listening in. "Did you 


find one? Did you get it? A a 
Horcrux?" 


Harry shook his head. All that had taken place around that black lake seemed like an old nightmare 
now; had it really happened, and only hours ago? 
"You didn't get it?" said Ron, looking crestfallen. "It wasn't there?" 
"No," said Harry. "Someone had already taken it and left a fake in its place." 
"Already taken ?" 
Wordlessly, Harry pulled the fake locket from his pocket, opened it, and passed it to Ron. The full 


story could wait. ... It did not matter tonight. . . nothing mattered except the end, the end of their 
pointless adventure, the end of Dumbledore's life. . . . 


"R.A.B.," whispered Ron, "but who was that?" 
"Dunno," said Harry, lying back on his bed fully clothed and staring blankly upwards. He felt no 
curiosity at all about R.A.B.: He doubted that he would ever feel curious again. As he lay there, he 
became aware suddenly that the grounds were silent. Fawkes had stopped singing. And he knew, 
without knowing how he knew it, that ilie phoenix had gone, had left Hogwarts for good, just as 
Dumbledore had left the school, had left the world . . . had left Harry. 



Chapter 30 
The 
White Tomb 


All 
lessons 
were 
suspended, 
all 
examinations 
postponed. 
Some 
students 
were 
hurried 
away 
from 
Hogwarts 
by 
their 
parents 
over 
the 
next 
couple 
of 
days 
the 
Patil 
twins 
were 
gone 
before 
breakfast 
on 
the 
morning 
following 
Dumbledore's 
death 
and 
Zacharias 
Smith 
was 
escorted 
from 
the 
castle 
by 
his 
haughtylooking 
father. 
Seamus 
Finnigan, 
on 
the 
other 
hand, 
refused 
pointblank 
to 
accompany 
his 
mother home; they had a shouting match in the Entrance Hall which was resolved when she agreed that 



he 
could 
remain 
behind 
for 
the 
funeral. 
She 
had 
difficulty 
in 
finding 
a 
bed 
in 
Hogsmeade, 
Seamus 
told 
Harry 
and 
Ron, 
for 
wizards 
and 
witches 
were 
pouring 
into 
the 
village, 
preparing 
to 
pay 
their 
last 
respects to Durnbledore. 

Some excitement was caused among the younger students, who had never seen it before, when a 
powderblue 
carriage the size of a house, pulled by a dozen giant winged palominos, came soaring out 
of the sky in the late afternoon before the funeral and landed on the edge of the Forest. Harry watched 
from a window as a gigantic and handsome oliveskinned, 
blackhaired 
woman descended the carriage 
steps and threw herself into the waiting Hagrid's arms. Meanwhile a delegation of Ministry officials, 
including the Minister for Magic himself, was being accommodated within the castle. Harry was 
diligently avoiding contact with any of them; he 


was sure that, sooner or later, he would be asked again to account for Dumbledore's last excursion 
from Hogwarts. 


Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny were spending all of their time together. The beautiful weather 
seemed to mock them; Harry could imagine how it would have been if Durnbledore had not died, and 
they had had this time together at the very end of the year, Ginny's examinations finished, the pressure 
of homework lifted ... and hour by hour, he put off saying the thing that he knew he must say, doing 
what he knew it was right to do, because it was too hard to forgo his best source of comfort. 


They visited the hospital wing twice a day: Neville had been discharged, but Bill remained under 
Madam Pomfrey's care. His scars were as bad as ever; in truth, he now bore a distinct resemblance to 
MadEye 
Moody, though thankfully with both eyes and legs, but in personality he seemed jusi the 
same as ever. All that appeared to have changed was that he now had a great liking for very rare steaks. 


'... so eet ees lucky 'e is marrying me,' said Fleur happily, plumping up Bill's pillows, 'because ze 
British overcook their meat, I 'ave always said this.' 


'I suppose I'm just going to have to accept that he really is going to marry her,' sighed Ginny later that 
evening, as she, Harry, Ron and Hermione sat beside the open window of the Gryffindor common 
room, looking out over the twilit grounds, 

'She's not that bad,' said Harry. 'Ugly, though,' he added hastily, as Ginny raised her eyebrows, and she 
let out a reluctant giggle. 


'Well, I suppose if Mum can stand it, 1 can.' 


'Anyone else we know died?' Ron asked Hermione, who was perusing the Evening Prophet. 


Hermione winced at the forced toughness in his voice. 

'No,' she said reprovingly, folding up ihe newspaper. 'They're still looking for Snape, but no sign ...' 


'Of course there isn't,' said Harry, who became angry every lime this subject cropped up. They won't 
find Snape till they find Voldemort, and seeing as they've never managed to do that in all this time ...' 



'I'm going to go to bed,' yawned Ginny. 'I haven't been sleeping thai well since ... well ... I could do 
with some sleep.' 


She kissed Harry (Ron looked away pointedly), waved al the other two and departed for the girls' 
dormitories. The moment the door had closed behind her, Hermione leaned forwards towards Harry 
with a most Hermioneish 
look on her face. 

'Harry, I found something ou( this morning, in the library ..,' 


'R.A.B.?' said Harry, silling up straight. 

He did not feel the way he had so often felt before, excited, curious, burning to get to the bottom of a 
mystery; he simply knew that the task of discovering the truth about the real Horcrux had to be 
completed before he could move a little further along the dark and winding path stretching ahead of 
him, the path that he and Dumbledore had set out upon together, and which he now knew he would 
have to journey alone. There might still be as many as four Horcruxes out there somewhere and each 
would need to be found and eliminated before there was even a possibility that Voldemort could be 
killed. He kept reciting their names to himself, as though by listing them he could bring them within 
reach: 'the locket .., the cup ... the snake ... something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's ... the locket ... 
the cup ... the snake ... something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's ...' 


This mantra seemed to pulse through Harry's mind as he 


fell asleep at night, and his dreams were thick with cups, lockets and mysterious objects that he could 
not quite reach, though Dumbledore helpfully offered Harry a rope ladder that turned to snakes the 
moment he began to climb ... 

He had shown Hermione the note inside the locket the morning after Dumbledore's death, and although 
she had not immediately recognised the initials as belonging to some obscure wizard about whom she 
had been reading, she had since been rushing off to the library a little more often than was strictly 
necessary for somebody who had no homework to do. 

'No,' she said sadly, 'I've been trying, Harry, but I haven't found anything ... there are a couple of 
reasonably wellknown 
wizards with those initials Rosalind 
Antigone Bungs ... Rupert "Axebanger" 
Brookstanton ... but they don't seem to fit at all. Judging by that note, the person who stole the Horcrux 
knew Voldemort, and I can't find a shred of evidence that Bungs or Axebanger ever had anything to do 
with him ... no, actually, it's about ... well, Snape.' 


She looked nervous even saying the name again. 


'What about him?' asked Harry heavily, slumping back in his chair. 

'Well, it's just that I was sort of right about the HalfBlood 
Prince business,' she said tentatively. 


'D'you have to rub it in, Hermione? How tTyou think 1 feel about that now?' 



'No no 
Harry, 
I didn't mean that!' she said hastily, looking around to check that they were not being 
overheard. 'It's just that 1 was right about Eileen Prince once owning the book. You see ... she was 
Snape's mother!' 


T thought she wasn't much of a looker,' said Ron. Hermione ignored him. 


'1 was going through ihe rest of the old Prophets and there 


was a tiny announcement about Eileen Prince marrying a man called Tobias Snape, and then later an 
announcement saying that she'd given birth to a ' 


'murderer,' 
spat Harry. 

'Well ... yes,' said Hermione. 'So ... 1 was sort of right. Snape must have been proud of being "half a 
Prince", you see? Tobias Snape was a Muggie from what it said in the Prophet' 


'Yeah, that fits,' said Harry. 'He'd play up the pureblood 
side so he could get in with Lucius Malfoy 
and the rest of them ... he's just like Voldemort. Pureblood 
mother, Muggie father ... ashamed of his 
parentage, trying to make himself feared using the Dark Arts, gave himself an impressive new name Lard 
Voldemort the 
HalfBlood 
Prince how 
could Dumbledore have missed ?' 


He broke off, looking out of the window. He could not stop himself dwelling upon Dumbledore's 
inexcusable trust in Snape ... but as Hermione had just inadvertently reminded him, he, Harry, had 
been taken in just the same ... in spite of the increasing nastiness of those scribbled spells, he had 
refused to believe ill of the boy who had been so clever, who had helped him so much ... 

Helped him ... it was an almost unendurable thought, now ... 

'I still don't get why he didn't turn you in for using that book,' said Ron. 'He must've known where you 
were getting it ali from.' 


'He knew,' said Harry bitterly. 'He knew when I used Secfumsempra. He didn't really need 
Legilimency ... he might even have known before then, with Slughom talking about how brilliant I was 
at Potions ... shouldn't have left his old book in the bottom of that cupboard, should he?' 


'But why didn't he turn you in?' 


'I don't ihink he wanted to associate himself with that book,' said Hermione. 'I don't think Dumbledore 
would have liked it very much if he'd known. And even if Snape pretended it hadn't been his, Slughom 
would have recognised his writing at once. Anyway, the book was left in Snape's old classroom, and 
I'll bet Dumbledore knew his mother was called "Prince".' 


T should've shown the book to Dumbledore,' said Harry. 'All that lime he was showing me how 
Voldemort was evil even when he was at school, and 1 had proof Snape was, too ' 


'"Evil" is a strong word,' said Hermione quietly. 


'You were the one who kept telling me the book was dangerous!' 



'I'm trying to say, Harry, that you're pulling too much blame on yourself. 1 thought the Prince seemed 
to have a nasty sense of humour, but I would never have guessed he was a potential killer ...' 


'None of us could've guessed Snape would ... you know,' said Ron. 

Silence fell between them, each of them lost in their own thoughts, but Harry was sure that they, like 
him, were thinking about the following morning, when Dumbledore's body would be laid to rest. Harry 
had never attended a funeral before; there had been no body to bury when Sirius had died. He did not 
know what to expect and was a little worried about what he might see, about how he would feel. He 
wondered whether Dumbledore's death would be more real to him once the funeral was over. Though 
he had moments when the horrible fact of it threatened to overwhelm him, there were blank stretches 
of numbness where, despite the fact that nobody was talking about anything else in the whole castle, he 
still found it difficult 10 believe that Dumbledore 


had really gone. Admittedly he had not, as he had with Sirius, looked desperately for some kind of 
loophole, some way that Dumbledore would come back ... he felt in his pocket for the cold chain of the 
fake Horcrux, which he now carried with him everywhere, not as a talisman, but as a reminder of what 
it had cost and what remained still to do. 

Harry rose early to pack the next day; the Hogwarts Express would be leaving an hour after the 
funeral. Downstairs he found the mood in the Great Hall subdued. Everybody was wearing their dress 
robes and no one seemed very hungry. Professor McGonagall had left the thronelike chair in the 
middle of the staff table empty. Hagrid's chair was deserted too: Harry thought thai perhaps he had not 
been able to face breakfast; but Snape's place had been unceremoniously filled by Rufus Scrimgeour. 
Harry avoided his yellowish eyes as they scanned the Hall; Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that 
Scrimgeour was looking for him. Among Scrimgeour's entourage Harry spotted the red hair and hornrimmed 
glasses of Percy Weasley. Ron gave no sign that he was aware of Percy, apart from stabbing 
pieces of kipper with unwonted venom. 

Over at the Slytherin table Crabbe and Goyle were mutter 
ing together. Hulking boys though they were, they looked 
oddly lonely without the tall, pale figure of Malfoy between 
them, bossing them around. Harry had not spared Malfoy 
much thought. His animosity was all for Snape, but he had 
not forgotten the fear in Malfoy's voice on that Tower top, nor 
the fact that he had lowered his wand before the other Death 
Eaters arrived. Harry did not believe that Malfoy would have 
killed Dumbledore. He despised Malfoy still for his infatu 
ation with the Dark Arts, but now the tiniest drop of pity 
mingled with his dislike. Where, Harry wondered, was Malfoy 
now, and what was Voldemort making him do under threat of 
killing him and his parents? ? •••>. 

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by a nudge in the ribs from Ginny. Professor McGonagall had risen 



to her feet and the mournful hum in the Hall died away at once. 

'It is nearly time,' she said. 'Please follow your Heads of House out into the grounds. Gryffindors, after 
me.' 


They filed out from behind their benches in near silence. Harry glimpsed Slughorn at the head of the 
Slytherin column, wearing magnificent long emeraldgreen 
robes embroidered with silver. He had 
never seen Professor Sprout, Head of the Hufflepuffs, looking so clean; there was not a single patch on 
her hat, and when they reached the Entrance Hall, they found Madam Pince standing beside Filch, she 
in a thick black veil that fell to her knees, he in an ancient black suit and tie reeking of mothbails. 


They were heading, as Harry saw when he stepped out on to the stone steps from the front doors, 
towards the lake. The warmth of the sun caressed his face as they followed Professor McGonagall in 
silence to the place where hundreds of chairs had been set out in rows. An aisle ran down the centre of 
them: there was a marble table standing at the front, all chairs facing it. It was the most beautiful 
summer's day. 

An extraordinary assortment of people had already settled into half of the chairs: shabby and smart, old 
and young. Most Harry did not recognise, but there were a few that he did, including members of the 
Order of the Phoenix: Kingsley Shacklebolt, MadEye 
Moody, Tonks, her hair miraculously returned 
to vividest pink, Remus Lupin, with whom she seemed to be holding hands, Mr and Mrs Weasley, Bill 
supported by Fleur and followed by Fred and George, who were wearing jackets of black dragonskin. 
Then there was Madame Maxime, who took up twoandahalf 
chairs on her own, Tom, the landlord of 
the Leaky Cauldron, Arabella Figg, Harry's Squib neighbour, the hairy bass player from the 


wizardmg group the Weird bisters, hrnie Frang, dnver ol the Knight Bus, Madam Malkin, of the robe 
shop in Diagon Alley, and some people whom Harry merely knew by sight, such as the barman of the 
Hog's Head and the witch who pushed the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. The castle ghosts were 
there too, barely visible in the bright sunlight, discernible only when they moved, shimmering 
insubstantially in the gleaming air. 

Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny filed into seats at the end of a row beside the lake. People were 
whispering to each other; it sounded like a breeze in the grass, but the birdsong was louder by far. The 
crowd continued to swell; with a great rush of affection for both of them, Harry saw Neville being 
helped into a seat by Luna. They alone of all the DA had responded to Hermione's summons the night 
that Dumbledore had died, and Harry knew why: they were the ones who had missed the DA most ... 
probably the ones who had checked their coins regularly in the hope that there would be another 
meeting ... 

Cornelius Fudge walked past them towards the front rows, his expression miserable, twirling his green 
bowler hat as usual; Harry next recognised Rita Skeeter, who, he was infuriated to see, had a notebook 
clutched in her redtakmed 
hand; and then, with a worse jolt of fury, Dolores Umbridge, an 
unconvincing expression of grief upon her toadlike face, a black velvet bow set atop her ironcoloured 
curls. At the sight of the centaur Firenze, who was standing like a sentinel near the water's edge, she 
gave a start and scurried hastily into a seat a good distance away. 


The staff were seated at last. Harry could see Scrimgeour looking grave and dignified in the front row 
with Professor McGonagall. He wondered whether Scrimgeour or any of these important people were 
really sorry that Dumbledore wasand he forgot his dislike of the Ministry in looking around for the 
source of it. He was not the only one: many heads were turning, searching, a little alarmed. 

'In there,' whispered Ginny in Harry's ear. 


And he saw them in the clear green sunlit water, inches below the surface, reminding him horribly of 
the Inferi; a chorus of merpeople singing in a strange language he did not understand, their pallid faces 
rippling, their purplish hair flowing all around them. The music made the hair on Harry's neck stand up 
and yet it was not unpleasant. It spoke very clearly of loss and of despair. As he looked down into the 
wild faces of the singers he had the feeling that they, at least, were sorry for Dumbledore's passing. 
Then Ginny nudged him again and he looked round. 

Hagrid was walking slowly up the aisle between the chairs. He was crying quite silently, his face 
gleaming with tears, and in his arms, wrapped in purple velvet spangled with golden stars, was what 
Harry knew to be Dumbledore's body. A sharp pain rose in Harry's throat at this sight: for a moment, 
the strange music and the knowledge that Dumbledore's body was so close seemed to take all warmth 
from the day. Ron looked white and shocked. Tears were falling thick and fast into both Ginny and 
Hermione's laps. 

They could not see clearly what was happening at the front. Hagrid seemed to have placed the body 
carefully upon the table. Now he retreated down the aisle, blowing his nose with loud trumpeting 
noises that drew scandalised looks from some, including, Harry saw, Dolores Umbridge ... but Harry 
knew that Dumbledore would not have cared. He tried to make a friendly gesture to Hagrid as he 
passed, but Hagrid's eyes were so swollen it was a wonder he could see where he was going. Harry 
glanced at the back row to which Hagrid 

was heading and realised what was guiding him, for there, dressed in a jacket and trousers each the size 
of a small marquee, was the giant Grawp, his great ugly boulderlike 
head bowed, docile, almost 
human. Hagrid sat down next to his halfbrother 
and Grawp palled Hagrid hard on the head, so that his 
chair legs sank into the ground. Harry had a wonderful momentary urge to laugh. But then the music 
stopped and he turned to face the front again. 

A little tuftyhaired 
man in plain black robes had got to his feet and stood now in front of 
Dumbledore's body. Harry could not hear what he was saying. Odd words floated back to them over 
the hundreds of beads. 'Nobility of spirit' ... 'intellectual contribution' ... 'greatness of heart' ... it did not 
mean very much. It had little to do with Dumbledore as Harry had known him. He suddenly 
remembered Dumbledore's idea of a few words: 'nitwit', 'oddment', 'blubber' and 'tweak 1, and again, 
had to suppress a grin ... what was the matter with him? 


There was a soft splashing noise to his left and he saw that the merpeople had broken the surface to 
listen, too. He remembered Dumbledore crouching at the water's edge two years ago, very close to 
where Harry now sat, and conversing in Mermish with the Merchieftainess. Harry wondered where 
Dumbledore had learned Mermish. There was so much he had never asked him, so much he should 



have said ... 

And then, without warning, it swept over him, the dreadful truth, more completely and undeniably than 
it had until now. Dumbledore was dead, gone ... he clutched the cold locket in his hand so tightly that it 
hurt, but he could not prevent hot tears spilling from his eyes: he looked away from Ginny and the 
others and stared out over the lake, towards the Forest, as the little man in black droned on ... there was 
movement among the trees. The centaurs had come to pay their respects, too. They did not move into 
the open but Harry saw them 


standing quite still, halfhidden 
in shadow, watching the wizards, their bows hanging at their sides. 
And Harry remembered his first nightmarish trip into the Forest, the first time he had ever encountered 
the thing that was then Voldemort, and how he had faced him, and how he and Dumbledore had 
discussed fighting a losing battle not long thereafter. It was important, Dumbledore said, to fight, and 
fight again, and keep fighting, for only then could evil be kept at bay, though never quite eradicated ... 

And Harry saw very clearly as be sal there under the hot sun bow people who cared about him had 
stood in front of him one by one, his mother, his father, his godfather, and finally Dumbledore, all 
determined to protect him; but now that was over. He could not let anybody else stand between him 
and Voldemort; he must abandon for ever the illusion he ought to have lost at the age of one: that the 
shelter of a parent's arms meant that nothing could hurt him. There was no waking from his nightmare, 
no comforting whisper in the dark that he was safe really, that it was all in his imagination; the last and 
greatest of his proteclors had died and he was more alone than he had ever been before. 

The little man in black had stopped speaking at last and resumed his seat. Harry waited for somebody 
else to get to their feet; he expected speeches, probably from the Minister, but nobody moved. 

Then several people screamed. Bright, white flames had erupted around Dumbledore's body and the 
table upon which it lay: higher and higher they rose, obscuring the body. White smoke spiralled into 
the air and made strange shapes: Harry thought, for one heartstopping 
moment, that he saw a phoenix 
fly joyfully into the blue, but next second the fire had vanished. In its place was a white marble tomb, 
encasing Dumbledore's body and the table on which he had rested. 

There were a few more cries of shock as a shower of arrows soared through the air, but they fell far 
short of the crowd. It was, Harry knew, the centaurs' tribute: he saw them turn tail and disappear back 
into the cool trees. Likewise the merpeople 
sank slowly back into the green water and were lost from 
view. 

Harry looked ai Ginny, Ron and Hermione: Ron's face was screwed up as though the sunlight was 
blinding him. Hermione's face was glazed with tears, but Ginny was no longer crying. She met Harry's 
gaze with the same hard, blazing look that he had seen when she had hugged him after winning the 
Quidditch Cup in his absence, and he knew that at that moment they understood each other perfectly, 
and that when he told her what he was going to do now, she would not say 'Be careful', or 'Don't do it', 
but accept his decision, because she would not have expected anything less of him. And so he steeled 
himself to say what he had known he must say ever since Dumbledore had died. 


'Ginny, listen ...' he said very quietly, as the buzz of conversation grew louder around them and people 
began to get to their feet. 'I can't be involved with you any more. We've got to stop seeing each other. 
We can't be together.' 


She said, with an oddly twisted smile, 'It's for some stupid, noble reason, isn't it?' 


'It's been like ... like something out of someone else's life, these last few weeks with you,' said Harry. 
'But 1 can't ... we can't ... I've got things to do alone now.' 

She did not cry, she simply looked at him, 

'Voldemort uses people his enemies are close to. He's already used you as bait once, and that was just 
because you're my best friend's sister. Think how much danger you'll be in if we keep this up. He'll 
know, he'll find out. He'll try and get to me through you.' 


'What if I don't care?' said Ginny fiercely. 

'I care,' said Harry. 'How do you think I'd feel if this was your funeral ... and it was my fault ...' 


She looked away from him, over the lake. 

T never really gave up on you,' she said. 'Not really. I always hoped ... Hermione told me to get on 
with life, maybe go out with some other people, relax a bit around you, because I never used to be able 
to talk if you were in the room, remember? And she thought you might take a bit more notice if I was a 
bit more myself.' 


'Smart girl, that Hermione,' said Harry, trying to smile. 'I just wish I'd asked you sooner. We coukTve 
had ages ... months ... years maybe ...' 


'But you've been too busy saving the wizarding world,' said Ginny, halflaughing. 
'Well ... I can't say 
I'm surprised. I knew this would happen in the end. I knew you wouldn't be happy unless you were 
hunting Voldemort. Maybe that's why I like you so much.' 


Harry could not bear to hear these things, nor did he think his resolution would hold if he remained 
sitting beside her. Ron, he saw, was now holding Hermione and stroking her hair while she sobbed into 
his shoulder, tears dripping from the end of his own long nose. With a miserable gesture, Harry got up, 
turned his back on Ginny and on Dumbledore's tomb and walked away around the lake. Moving felt 
much more bearable than sitting still: just as setting out as soon as possible to track down the 
Horcruxes and kill Voldemort would feel better than waiting to do it ... 

'Harry!' 

He turned. Rufus Scrimgeour was limping rapidly towards him around the bank, leaning on his 
walking stick. 

'I've been hoping to have a word ... do you mind if I walk a little way with you?' 


'No,' said Harry indifferently, and set off again. 

'Harry, this was a dreadful tragedy,' said Scrimgeour quietly, 'I cannot tell you how appalled I was to 



hear of it. Dumbledore was a very great wizard. We had our disagreements, as you know, but no one 
knows better than 1 ' 


•What do you want?' asked Harry flatly. 
Scrimgeour looked annoyed but, as before, hastily modified his expression to one of sorrowful 
understanding. 
'You are, of course, devastated,' he said. 'I know that you were very close to Dumbledore. I think you 


may have been his favourite ever pupil. The bond between the two of you ' 
'What do you want?' Harry repeated, coming to a halt. 
Scrimgeour stopped too, leaned on his stick and stared at Harry, his expression shrewd now. 
'The word is that you were with him when he left the school the night that he died.' 
'Whose word?' said Harry. 
'Somebody Stupefied a Death Eater on top of the Tower after Dumbledore died. There were also two 


broomsticks up there. The Ministry can add two and two, Harry.' 


'Glad to hear it,' said Harry. 'Well, where I went with Dumbledore and what we did is my business. He 
didn't want people to know.' 
'Such loyalty is admirable, of course,' said Scrimgeour, who seemed to be restraining his irritation with 


difficulty, 'bul Dumbledore is gone, Harry. He's gone.' 


'He will only be gone from the school when none here are loyal to him,' said Harry, smiling in spite of 
himself. 
'My dear boy ... even Dumbledore cannot return from the' 
'I am not saying he can. You wouldn't understand. But I've got nothing to tell you.' 
Scrimgeour hesitated, then said, in what was evidently 
supposed to be a tone of delicacy, The Ministry can offer you all sorts of protection, you know, Harry. 


I would be delighted to place a couple of my Aurors at your service ' 
Harry laughed. 
'Voldemort wants to kill me himself and Aurors won't stop him. So thanks for the offer, but no thanks.' 
'So,' said Scrimgeour, his voice cold now, 'the request 1 made of you at Christmas ' 
'What request? Oh yeah ... the one where I tell the world what a great job you're doing in exchange for 


—' 
'for 
raising everyone's morale!' snapped Scrimgeour. 
Harry considered him for a moment. 
'Released Stan Shunpike yet?' 



Scrimgeour turned a nasty purple colour highly reminiscent of Uncle Vernon. 
'1 see you are ' 
'Dumbledore's man through and through,' said Harry. 'That's right.' 
Scrimgeour glared at him for another moment, then turned and limped away without another word. 


Harry could see Percy and the rest of the Ministry delegation waiting for him, casting nervous glances 
at the sobbing Hagrid and Grawp, who were still in their seats. Ron and Hermione were hurrying 
towards Harry, passing Scrimgeour going in the opposite direction; Harry turned and walked slowly 
on, waiting for them to catch up, which they finally did in the shade of a beech tree under which they 
had sat in happier times. 


"What did Scrimgeour want?' Hermione whispered. 


'Same as he wanted at Christmas,' shrugged Harry. 'Wanted me to give him inside information on 
Dumbledore and be the Ministry's new poster boy.' 
Ron seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, then he said loudly to Hermione, 'Look, let me go 


back and hit Percy!' 
'No,' she said firmly, grabbing his arm. 
'It'll make me feel better!' 
Harry laughed. Even Hermione grinned a little, though her smile faded as she looked up at the castle. 
'I can't bear the idea that we might never come back.' she said softly. 'How can Hogwarts close?' 
'Maybe it won't,' said Ron. 'We're not in any more danger here than we are at home, are we? 


Everywhere's the same now. I'd even say Hogwarts is safer, there are more wizards inside to defend the 
place. What d'you reckon, Harry?' 


'I'm not coming back even if it does reopen,' said Harry. 
Ron gaped at him, but Hermione said sadly, 'I knew you were going to say that. But then what will you 
do? 1 


'I'm going back to the Dursleys' once more, because Dumbledore wanted me to,' said Harry. 'But it'll be 
a short visit, and then I'll be gone for good.' 


'But where will you go if you don't come back to school?' 
'I thought I might go back to Godric's Hollow,' Harry muttered. He had had the idea in his head ever 
since the night of Dumbledore's death. 'For me, it started there, all of it. I've just got a feeling I need to 
go there. And I can visit my parents' graves, I'd like that.' 


'And then what?' said Ron. 
Then I've got to track down the rest of the Horcruxes, haven't I?' said Harry, his eyes upon 
Dumbledore's white tomb, reflected in the water on the other side of the lake. That's what he wanted 
me to do, that's why he told me all about them. If Dumbledore was right and 
I'm sure he was there 



are still four of them out there. I've got to find them and destroy them and then I've got to go after the 
seventh bit of Voldemort's soul, the bit that's still in his body, and I'm the one who's going to kill him. 
And if I meet Severus Snape 


along the way,' he added, 'so much trie better tor me, so mucn the worse for him.' 
There was a long silence. The crowd had almost dispersed now, the stragglers giving the monumental 


figure of Grawp a wide berth as he cuddled Hagrid, whose howls of grief were still echoing across the 
water. 
'We'll be there, Harry,' said Ron. 
'What?' 
At your aunt and uncle's house,' said Ron. 'And then we'll go with you, wherever you're going.' 
'No ' 
said Harry quickly; he had not counted on this, he had meant them to understand that he was 


undertaking this most dangerous journey alone. 


'You said to us once before,' said Hermione quietly, 'that there was time to turn back if we wanted to. 
We've had time, haven't we?' 
'We're with you whatever happens,' said Ron. 'But, mate, you're going to have to come round my mum 


and dad's house before we do anything else, even Godric's Hollow.' 
'Why?' 
'Bill and Fleur's wedding, remember?' 
Harry looked at him, startled; the idea that anything as normal as a wedding could still exist seemed 


incredible and yet wonderful. 
'Yeah, we shouldn't miss that,' he said finally. 
His hand closed automatically around the fake Horcrux, but in spite of everything, in spite of the dark 


and twisting path he saw stretching ahead for himself, in spite of the final meeting with Voldemort he 
knew must come, whether in a month, in a year, or in ten, he felt his heart lift at the thought that there 
was still one last golden day of peace left to enjoy with Ron and Hermione. 




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