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Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince J. K. Rowling — CHAPTER ONE — 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 less 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 dared anyone suggest that it was lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very nasty and well-publicised 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 windows, 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 scared-looking 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 and 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 enquiringly at the Prime Minister. ‘Er,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘listen . it’s 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 on to a rather fine antique rug, brushing ash from the sleeves of his long pinstriped cloak, a lime-green bowler hat in his hand. ‘Ah . Prime Minister,’ said Cornelius Fudge, striding forwards 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 down-right 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 greyer, 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 towards 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 .’ ‘You – er – your – I mean to say, some of your people were – were involved in those – those things, were they?’ Fudge fixed the Prime Minister with a rather stern look. ‘Of course they were,’ he said. ‘Surely you’ve realised what’s going on?’ ‘I .’ hesitated the Prime Minister. It was precisely this sort of behaviour 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, savouring 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 for 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 had felt when a self-proclaimed 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 non-magical 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 still-dumbstruck Prime Minister in a fatherly sort of way. ‘Not to worry,’ he had said, ‘it’s odds on 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 Muggles – the non-magical 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 of the window, thought I was a hoax planned by the opposition.’ At this, the Prime Minister had found his voice at last. ‘You’re – you’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 why – why has nobody told me –?’ ‘The Minister for Magic only reveals him or 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 realised 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 gruelling 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 muddy-brown 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 You-Know-Who . but of course, you don’t even know who You-Know-Who 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 whisky .’ The Prime Minister had rather resented being told to sit down in his own office, let alone offered his own whisky, but he sat nevertheless. Fudge had 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 drawn up a chair. Fudge had talked for over 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 whisky-free 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—’ ‘He Who Must Not Be Named!’ snarled Fudge. ‘I’m sorry . you think that He Who Must Not Be Named 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! Goodnight.’ But they had seen each other again. Less than a year later a harassed-looking 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 You-Know-Who’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 it’s down in the rulebook that we have to notify you if we’re bringing highly dangerous creatures into the country.’ ‘I – what – dragons?’ 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?’ the Prime Minister had repeated hoarsely. ‘No need to worry, no need to worry!’ Fudge had shouted, already with one foot in the flames. ‘We’ll have them rounded up in no time – just thought you ought to know!’ And before the Prime Minister had been able to 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 for 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 sight, therefore, of Fudge stepping out of the fire once more, looking dishevelled 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 the – er – wizarding 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. He Who Must Not Be Named 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 is – I don’t know – is a man alive if he can’t be killed? I don’t really understand it, and Dumbledore won’t explain properly – but 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 well-informed on any subject that came up made him cast around for any details he could remember of their previous conversations. ‘Is Serious Black with – er – He Who Must Not Be Named?’ ‘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 were – er – mistaken about Black. He was innocent after all. And he wasn’t in league with He Who Must Not Be Named either. I mean,’ he added defensively, spinning the bowler hat still faster, ‘all the evidence pointed – we had more than fifty eye-witnesses – but 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 materialising 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 Black’s by-the-by 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?’ ‘He Who Must Not Be Named 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 lime-green blur. ‘Since they have moved into the open, they have been wreaking havoc. The Brockdale bridge – he 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, colouring 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 was – and is – trying 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. ‘He Who Must Not Be Named’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. The Office of Misinformation has been working round 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 giant – it’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 He Who Must Not Be Named may have murdered her in person, because she was a very gifted witch and – and 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 middle-aged woman who lived alone. It was a – a 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. 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 towards 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 round 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 back yard –’ ‘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 centre .’ 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 any more. They’ve deserted the prison and joined He Who Must Not Be Named. 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, weak-kneed, 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, Fudge – you’ve got to do something! It’s your responsibility as Minister for Magic!’ ‘My dear Prime Minister, you can’t honestly think I’m still Minister for 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 shrunken-looking 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 round 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 for 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 on to 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 grey in his mane of tawny hair and his bushy eyebrows; he had keen yellowish eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed 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. ‘Er – yes,’ 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 to 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 am – that’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 is 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 towards the fireplace. ‘Well, that’s really all I had to say. I will keep you posted of developments, Prime Minister – or, 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 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 sake – you’re wizards! You can do magic! Surely you can sort out – well – anything!’ 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 TWO — 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, rubbish-strewn 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 fish-and-chip 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 materialised. ‘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 Auror – Cissy, 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. ‘Cissy – Narcissa – listen 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 called 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 round 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 any more!’ 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 called 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 still-hooded 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 candle-filled lamp hung from the ceiling. The place had an air of neglect, as though it were 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 realised, 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 were 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, yes – but not to make you drinks and – and 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 elf-made 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 book-covered door behind him. Snape poured out three glasses of blood-red 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 am 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 Philosopher’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 colour 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 course, 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 Defence 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 favourite 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 welcome-back 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 Philosopher’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, I assure you, when I explained that I remained faithful, although Dumbledore thought I was his man. Yes, the Dark Lord thought that I had left him for ever, 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 Secret Keeper, 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 not 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 favourite 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, rumours that he himself was a great Dark wizard, which was how he had survived the Dark Lord’s attack. Indeed, many of the Dark Lord’s old followers thought Potter might be a standard around which we could all rally once more. I was curious, I admit it, and not at all inclined to murder him the moment he set foot 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 self-satisfied 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 got 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 round 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 honour. 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 for 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 honoured 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 favourite teacher . you are Lucius’s old friend . I beg you . you are the Dark Lord’s favourite, 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 self-restraint she still possessed. Standing up, she staggered to Snape and seized the front of his robes. Her face close to his, her tears falling on to 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 tear-stained 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 on to 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 quietened 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 paper-white, 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 tear-filled 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 forwards 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 fulfil 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 red-hot 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 tongue 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 THREE — 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 window-pane, 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 colour 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 higgledy-piggledy 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? Rumours continue to fly about the mysterious recent disturbance at the Ministry of Magic, during which He Who Must Not Be Named 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 centred on the fabled Hall of Prophecy. Though Ministry spokeswizards 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 He Who Must Not Be Named. The current whereabouts of the prophecy, if it exists, are unknown, although (cont. page 2, column 5) A second newspaper lay beside the first. This one bore the headline: SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDS FUDGE Most of this front page was taken up with a large black-and-white 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 for Magic. The appointment has largely been greeted with enthusiasm by the wizarding community, though rumours 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 (cont. 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’ SAFETY was visible. Newly appointed Minister for 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 counter-curses 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 swivelling 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 of the Ministry of Magic PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK FORCES The wizarding community is currently under threat from an organisation 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 under-age family members, Side-Along-Apparition. 4. Agree security questions with close friends and family so as to detect Death Eaters masquerading as others by use of Polyjuice Potion (see page 2). 5. Should you feel that a family member, colleague, friend or neighbour 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 was 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 time 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 and 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 waist-length silver hair and beard. Half-moon spectacles were perched on his crooked nose and he was wearing a long black travelling cloak and a pointed hat. Vernon Dursley, whose moustache 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 agapanthuses 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 uncle’s 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 half-moon 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 pre-bedtime wipe-down of all the kitchen surfaces. Her rather horsy 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 pyjamas looked oddly disembodied, his mouth gaping in astonishment and fear. Dumbledore waited a moment or two, apparently to see whether any of the Dursleys were going to say anything, but as the silence 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 forwards 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 shrivelled; 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 honey-coloured liquid into each of the glasses, which then floated to each person in the room. ‘Madam Rosmerta’s finest, oak-matured 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 each other, 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 towards 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 for ever 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 pure-blood.’ 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 realising 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 round; all three of the Dursleys were cowering with their arms over their heads as their glasses bounced up and down on their skulls, the 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 house-elf appeared, with a snout for a nose, giant bat’s ears and enormous bloodshot eyes, crouching on the Dursleys’ shagpile carpet and covered in grimy rags. Aunt Petunia let out a hair-raising 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 pyjama trousers, and Uncle Vernon bellowed, ‘What the hell is that?’ ‘Kreacher,’ finished Dumbledore. ‘Kreacher won’t, Kreacher won’t, Kreacher won’t!’ croaked the house-elf, quite as loudly as Uncle Vernon, stamping his long gnarled feet and pulling his ears. ‘Kreacher 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, won’t –’ ‘As you can see, Harry,’ said Dumbledore loudly, over Kreacher’s continued croaks of ‘won’t, 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 house-elf. ‘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 forwards on to 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, as Kreacher thrashed around at his feet. ‘Not if you don’t want to,’ said Dumbledore. ‘If I might make a suggestion, you could send him to Hogwarts to work in the kitchen there. In that way, the other house-elves 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 house-elves.’ Kreacher, who was now lying flat on his back with his arms and legs in the air, gave Harry one upside-down 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 Colour-Change 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 year’s 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 has 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 as 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 finger 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, 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 for ever as far as they were con-cerned, 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 on to cool, misty darkness. ‘And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.’ ? — CHAPTER FOUR — 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 they set off down Privet Drive together. He had never had a proper conversation with his headmaster outside Hogwarts before; there was usually a desk between them. The memory of their last face-to-face encounter kept intruding, too, and it rather heightened Harry’s sense of embarrassment; he had shouted a lot on that occasion, not to mention doing 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 counter-jinx 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 realised that Privet Drive had vanished. He and Dumbledore were now standing in what appeared to be a deserted village square, in the centre of which stood an old war memorial and a few benches. His comprehension catching up with his senses, Harry realised 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 travelling cloak a little more tightly 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 the lightning-shaped 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 realised 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 it. ‘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 favourite flavour 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 further away like a dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys strewn across the floor. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier glittered 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 round. ‘Not pretty, is it,’ he said heavily. ‘Yes, something horrible has happened here.’ Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the room, scrutinising the wreckage at his feet. Harry followed, gazing around, half-scared 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 wand-light sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his enormous, silver walrus-like moustache, and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pyjamas. 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 moustache 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 place; ornaments re-formed in midair; feathers zoomed into their cushions; torn books repaired themselves as they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared on to 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 clock. ‘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 sky-high 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. ‘Hm. 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 lightning-shaped scar it bore. ‘Oho!’ ‘This,’ said Dumbledore, moving forwards 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 times’ sake?’ Slughorn hesitated. ‘All right then, one drink,’ he said ungraciously. Dumbledore smiled at Harry and directed him towards 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. ‘Humph,’ 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 that 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 fingers; the sight of them made the back of Harry’s neck prickle unpleasantly. ‘I 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 broken-down 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 neighbours don’t spot you bringing in the piano.’ ‘Ingenious,’ said Dumbledore. ‘But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down 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 rumours 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 half-breeds”.’ ‘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 crossed 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 strode 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. ‘Humph. Yes, well. You shouldn’t have favourites 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 finger 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 Muggle-born, of course. Couldn’t believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good.’ ‘One of my best friends is Muggle-born,’ 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 all-time favourite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after her, too – now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course – another Muggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings-on at Gringotts!’ He bounced up and down a little, smiling in a self-satisfied way, and pointed at the many glittering photograph frames on the dresser, each peopled with tiny moving occupants. ‘All ex-students, 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 Harkiss, 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 first-name 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 sympathise 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 He Who Must Not Be Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore,’ he muttered grudgingly. ‘And I suppose one could argue that as I have not joined the Death Eaters, He Who Must Not Be Named 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 re-entered 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 time. 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 seemed 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 fastening his travelling cloak and Harry zipping 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 Muggle-born 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 back seat – more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favourites at Hogwarts, sometimes 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 favourites with himself at the centre, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favourite crystallised 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 him, 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 favourite 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 towards a run-down 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?’; 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 that he had come to associate with Dementors. ‘It’s just hard,’ Harry said finally, in a low voice, ‘to realise 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 realised 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 wand-light, ‘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 favour 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 half-moon 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 he 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 O.W.L., 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 onwards. 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 FIVE — 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 that he recognised 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, heart-shaped 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 colourful than usual without her customary shade of bubblegum-pink 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 Mad-Eye are coming –?’ ‘No, really, Molly . thanks anyway . goodnight, 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 the 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 swear Ron’s grown four inches since I last bought him school robes. Are you hungry, Harry?’ ‘Yeah, I am,’ said Harry, suddenly realising 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 jumped on to his knees and settled there, purring. ‘So Hermione’s here?’ he asked happily as he tickled Crookshanks behind the ear. ‘Oh yes, she arrived the day before yesterday,’ said Mrs Weasley, rapping a large iron pot with her wand: it bounced on to the stove 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 towards Harry and tipped over; Mrs Weasley slid a bowl neatly beneath it just in time 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 on to the table. As the loaf sliced itself and the soup pot dropped back on to 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 non-committal 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 favourites, 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 high-flier. 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 You-Know-Who, odd things have been cropping up for sale everywhere, things that are supposed to guard against You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters. You can imagine the kind of thing – so-called pro-tective 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 Fletcher, 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 toasters 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 recognised it at once: it had nine hands, each inscribed with the name of a family member, and usually hung on the 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 You-Know-Who came back into the open. I suppose everybody’s in mortal peril 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 travelling. ‘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 aeroplanes 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, red-haired wizard wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a long and dusty travelling 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 Metamorph-Medals. 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 colour, 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, Metamorph-Medals?’ ‘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 trunk’s 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 goodnight, put on pyjamas and got into one of the beds. There was something hard in the pillowcase. He groped inside it and pulled out a sticky purple and orange sweet, which he recognised as a Puking Pastille. Smiling to himself, he rolled over and was instantly asleep. Seconds later, or so it seemed to Harry, he was woken 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 the 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 on to 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 OK?’ ‘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 scrutinising 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 Defence 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 on to 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 towards 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 ’im. 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 each other’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 part-time 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. It’s all this uncertainty with You-Know-Who 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 centre –’ ‘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 hard-working, down-to-earth sort of person, whereas she’s –’ ‘A cow,’ said Ginny, nodding. ‘But Bill’s not that down-to-earth. He’s a curse-breaker, 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 punch-drunk; 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 for ever?’ 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 OK-looking 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 “’Arry”, 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 shovelling 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 fault 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 George’ve 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 third-eldest 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 on to 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 each other 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. ‘I wonder what he’ll teach you, Harry? Really advanced defensive magic, probably . powerful counter-curses . anti-jinxes .’ 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 O.W.L. results will come?’ ‘Can’t be long now, it’s been a month,’ said Ron. ‘Hang on,’ said Harry, as another part of the previous night’s conversation came back to him. ‘I think Dumbledore said our O.W.L. 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 for ever!’ ‘You won’t, dear, we’ll find an antidote, don’t worry,’ said Mrs Weasley soothingly. ‘Bill told me ’ow 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 Defence 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 ten “Outstanding” O.W.L.s .’ ‘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 forwards. 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) Acceptable (A) Exceeds Expectations (E) Fail Grades: Poor (P) Dreadful (D) Troll (T) HARRY JAMES POTTER HAS ACHIEVED: Astronomy: A Care of Magical Creatures: E Charms: E Defence 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’ in Defence Against the Dark Arts! He looked round. 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 in Defence 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 O.W.L.s, that’s more than Fred and George got together!’ ‘Hermione?’ said Ginny tentatively, for Hermione still hadn’t turned round. ‘How did you do?’ ‘I – not 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 – nine “Outstandings” and one “Exceeds Expectations” in Defence Against the Dark Arts.’ He looked down at her, half-amused, half-exasperated. ‘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 month 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 SIX — 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 two-a-side 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 stories 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 grey, 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 ice-cream 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 wand-maker?’ 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 book lists 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 book list. ‘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 You-Know-Who’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 just-laundered 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 any more .’ 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 back seat. ‘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 two-seater sofa. ‘He’s been given top-grade 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, black-bearded 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 bone-crushing 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. ‘Let’s 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 on to a winding cobbled street. They stepped through the entrance and paused, looking around. Diagon Alley had changed. The colourful, 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 sombre purple posters carried blown-up versions of the security advice on the Ministry pamphlets that had been sent out over the summer, but others bore moving black-and-white 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 Parlour. On the other hand, a number of shabby-looking 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, Dementors and Inferi A seedy-looking little wizard was rattling armfuls of silver symbols on chains at passers-by. ‘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 school books?’ ‘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 towards 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 any more; 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 o’ us,’ said Hagrid, stopping outside Madam Malkin’s and bending down to peer through the window. ‘I’ll stand guard outside, all righ’?’ 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 recognised as that of Madam Malkin said, ‘Now, dear, your mother’s quite right, none of us is supposed to go wandering around on our own any more, 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 white-blond 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 grey 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 towards 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 forwards 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 favourite 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 towards 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 towards 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 any more –’ He pulled the robes over his head and threw them on to 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 the dust. She was distracted all through the fitting of Ron 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 abou’ 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 further 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 ninety-two . ninety-four .’ ‘Whoa,’ said Ron, stopping in his tracks. Set against the dull, poster-muffled shop fronts around them, Fred and George’s windows hit the eye like a firework display. Casual passers-by were looking back over their shoulders at the windows, and a few rather stunned-looking people had actually come to a halt, transfixed. The left-hand window was dazzlingly full of an assortment of goods that revolved, popped, flashed, bounced and shrieked; Harry’s eyes began to water just looking at it. The right-hand window was covered with a gigantic poster, purple like those of the Ministry, but emblazoned with flashing yellow letters: Why Are You Worrying About You-Know-Who? You SHOULD Be Worrying About U-NO-POO – the Constipation Sensation That’s Gripping the Nation! Harry started to laugh. He heard a weak sort of moan beside him and looked round to see Mrs Weasley gazing, dumbfounded, at the poster. Her lips moved, silently mouthing the name, ‘U-No-Poo.’ ‘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 pants when waved; the most expensive beating the unwary user around the head and neck; boxes of quills, which came in Self-Inking, Spell-Checking and Smart-Answer varieties. A space cleared in the crowd and Harry pushed his way towards the counter, where a gaggle of delighted ten-year-olds 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 coloured 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 top-quality, highly realistic thirty-minute daydream, easy to fit into the average school lesson and virtually undetectable (side-effects include vacant expression and minor drooling). Not for sale to under-sixteens.” 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?’ ‘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 towards 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 to 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 labelled: Edible Dark Marks – They’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 Defence 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 weird-looking black hooter-type 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 round 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 start-up 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 sceptically. ‘Do they work?’ ‘Certainly they work, for up to twenty-four 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 forwards to take a small pink pot off the shelf. ‘What’s this?’ ‘Guaranteed Ten-Second 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 high-pitched 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 Weasley-ish 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 all 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 towards 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. ‘C’mon.’ 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 round, then slid into Knockturn Alley and out of sight. ‘Quick, or we’ll lose him,’ said Harry, speeding up. ‘Our feet’ll be seen!’ said Hermione anxiously, as the Cloak flapped a little around their ankles; it was much more difficult hiding all three of them under it 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 artefacts – 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 oily-haired, 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 unravelled the long, flesh-coloured strings and began to feed them towards 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 towards 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 Malfoy, ‘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 glass-fronted case. ‘If you’ve got one and a half thousand Galleons,’ said 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?’ 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 anxious-looking 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 Weasley’s accusations, that they had been in the back room all along, and that she could not have looked properly.