“Bathilda Bagshot, the author of – ”
“A History of Magic,” said Hermione, looking interested. “So your parents knew her? She was an incredible magic historian.”
“And she’s still alive,” said Harry, “and she lives in Godric’s Hollow. Ron’s Auntie Muriel was talking about her at the wedding. She knew Dumbledore’s family too. Be pretty interesting to talk to, wouldn’t she?” There was a little too much understanding in the smile Hermione gave him for Harry’s liking. He took back the letter and the photograph and tucked them inside the pouch around his neck, so as not to have to look at her and give himself away. “I understand why you’d love to talk to her about your mum and dad, and Dumbledore too,” said Hermione. “But that wouldn’t really help us in our search for the Horcruxes, would it?” Harry did not answer, and she rushed on, “Harry, I know you really want to go to Godric’s Hollow, but I’m scared. I’m scared at how easily those Death Eaters found us yesterday.
It just makes me feel more than ever that we ought to avoid the place where your parents are buried, I’m sure they’d be expecting you to visit it.”
“It’s not just that,” Harry said, still avoiding looking at her, “Muriel said stuff about Dumbledore at the wedding. I want to know the truth…”
He told Hermione everything that Muriel had told him. When he had finished, Hermione said, “Of course, I can see why that’s upset you, Harry – ”
“I’m not upset,” he lied, “I’d just like to know whether or not it’s true or – ”
“Harry do you really think you’ll get the truth from a malicious old woman like Muriel, or from Rita Skeeter? How can you believe them? You knew Dumbledore!”
“I thought I did,” he muttered.
“But you know how much truth there was in everything Rita wrote about you! Doge is right, how can you let these people tarnish your memories of Dumbledore?”
He looked away, trying not to betray the resentment he felt. There it was again: Choose what to believe. He wanted the truth. Why was everybody so determined that he should not get it?
“Shall we go down to the kitchen?” Hermione suggested after a little pause. “Find something for breakfast?”
Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black
Excitement trickled through Harry, but he was not immediately sure why. He read the sign again. Hermione was already a flight of stairs below him.
“Hermione,” he said, and he was surprised that his voice was so calm. “Come back up here.”
“What’s the matter?”
“R.A.B. I think I’ve found him.”
There was a gasp, and then Hermione ran back up the stairs.
“In your mum’s letter? But I didn’t see – ”
Harry shook his head, pointing at Regulus’s sign. She read it, then clutched Harry’s arm so tightly that he winced.
“Sirius’s brother?” she whispered.
“He was a Death Eater,” said Harry. “Sirius told me about him, he joined up when he was really young and then got cold feet and tried to leave – so they killed him.”
“That fits!” gasped Hermione. “If he was a Death Eater he had access to Voldemort, and if he became disenchanted, then he would have wanted to bring Voldemort down!”
She released Harry, leaned over the banister, and screamed, “Ron! RON! Get up here, quick!”
Ron appeared, panting, a minute later, his wand ready in his hand.
“What’s up? If it’s massive spiders again I want breakfast before I – ”
He frowned at the sign on Regulus’s door, in which Hermione was silently pointing.
“What? That was Sirius’s brother, wasn’t it? Regulus Arcturus … Regulus … R.A.B.! The locket – you don’t reckon –?”
“Let’s find out,” said Harry. He pushed the door: It was locked. Hermione pointed her wand at the handle and said, “Alohamora.” There was a click, and the door swung open.
They moved over the threshold together, gazing around. Regulus’s bedroom was slightly smaller than Sirius’s, though it had the same sense of former grandeur. Whereas Sirius had sought to advertise his diffidence from the rest of the family, Regulus had striven to emphasize the opposite. The Slytherin colors of emerald and silver were everywhere, draping the bed, the walls, and the windows. The Black family crest was painstakingly painted over the bed, along with its motto, TOUJOURS PUR. Beneath this was a collection of yellow newspaper cuttings, all stuck together to make a ragged collage. Hermione crossed the room to examine them.
“They’re all about Voldemort,” she said. “Regulus seems to have been a fan for a few years before he joined the Death Eaters …”
A little puff of dust rose from the bedcovers as she sat down to read the clippings. Harry, meanwhile, had noticed another photograph: a Hogwarts Quidditch team was smiling and waving out of the frame. He moved closer and saw the snakes emblazoned on their chests: Slytherins. Regulus was instantly recognizable as the boy sitting in the middle of the front row: He had the same dark hair and slightly haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller, slighter, and rather less handsome than Sirius had been.
“He played Seeker,” said Harry.
“What?” said Hermione vaguely; she was still immersed in Voldemort’s press clippings.
“He’s sitting in the middle of the front row, that’s where the Seeker … Never mind,” said Harry, realizing that nobody was listening. Ron was on his hands and knees, searching under the wardrobe. Harry looked around the room for likely hiding places and approached the desk. Yet again, somebody had searched before them. The drawers’ contents had been turned over recently, the dust disturbed, but there was nothing of value there: old quills, out-of-date textbooks that bore evidence of being roughly handled, a recently smashed ink bottle, its sticky residue covering the contents of the drawer.
“There’s an easier way,” said Hermione, as Harry wiped his inky fingers on his jeans. She raised her wand and said, “Accio Locket!”
Nothing happened. Ron, who had been searching the folds of the faded curtains, looked disappointed.
“Is that it, then? It’s not here?”
“Oh, it could still be here, but under counter-enchantments,” said Hermione. “Charms to prevent it from being summoned magically, you know.”
“Like Voldemort put on the stone basin in the cave,” said Harry, remembering how he had been unable to Summon the fake locket.
“How are we supposed to find it then?” asked Ron.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
“We search manually,” said Hermione.
“We search manually,” said Hermione.
“That’s a good idea,” said Ron, rolling his eyes, and he resumed his examination of the curtains.
They combed every inch of the room for more than an hour, but were forced, finally, to conclude that the locket was not there.
The sun had risen now; its light dazzled them even through the grimy landing windows.
“It could be somewhere else in the house, though,” said Hermione in a rallying tone as they walked back downstairs. As Harry and Ron had become more discouraged, she seemed to have become more determined. “Whether he’d manage to destroy it or not, he’d want to keep it hidden from Voldemort, wouldn’t he? Remember all those awful things we had to get rid of when we were here last time? That clock that shot bolts at everyone and those old robes that tried to strangle Ron; Regulus might have put them there to protect the locket’s hiding place, even though we didn’t realize it at … at …”
Harry and Ron looked at her. She was standing with one foot in midair, with the dumbstruck look of one who had just been Obliviated: her eyes had even drifted out of focus.
“… at the time,” she finished in a whisper.
“Something wrong?” asked Ron.
“There was a locket.”
“What?” said Harry and Ron together.
“In the cabinet in the drawing room. Nobody could open it. And we … we …”
Harry felt as though a brick had slid down through his chest into his stomach. He remembered. He had even handled the thing as they passed it around, each trying in turn to pry it open. It had been tossed into a sack of rubbish, along with the snuffbox of Wartcap powder and the music box that had made everyone sleepy …
“Kreacher nicked loads of things back from us,” said Harry. It was the only chance, the only slender hope left to them, and he was going to cling to it until forced to let go. “He had a whole stash of stuff in his cupboard in the kitchen. C’mon.”
He ran down the stairs taking two steps at a time, the other two thundering along in his wake. They made so much noise that they woke the portrait of Sirius’s mother as they passed through the hall.
“Filth! Mudbloods! Scum!” she screamed after them as they dashed down into the basement kitchen and slammed the door behind them. Harry ran the length of the room, skidded to a halt at the door of Kreacher’s cupboard, and wrenched it open. There was the nest of dirty old blankets in which the house-elf had once slept, but they were not longer glittering with the trinkets Kreacher had salvaged. The only thing there was an old copy of Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. Refusing to believe his eyes, Harry snatched up the blankets and shook them. A dead mouse fell out and rolled dismally across the floor. Ron groaned as he threw himself into a kitchen chair; Hermione closed her eyes.
“It’s not over yet,” said Harry, and he raised his voice and called, “Kreacher!”
There was a loud crack and the house elf that Harry had so reluctantly inherited from Sirius appeared out of nowhere in front of the cold and empty fireplace: tiny, half human-sized, his pale skin hanging off him in folds, white hair sprouting copiously from his batlike ears. He was still wearing the filthy rag in which they had first met him, and the contemptuous look he bent upon Harry showed that his attitude to his change of ownership had altered no more than his outfit.
“Master,” croaked Kreacher in his bullfrog’s voice, and he bowed low; muttering to his knees, “back in my Mistress’s old house with the blood-traitor Weasley and the Mudblood – ”
“I forbid you to call anyone ‘blood traitor’ or ‘Mudblood,’” growled Harry. He would have found Kreacher, with his snoutlike nose and bloodshot eyes, a distinctively unlovable object even if the elf had not betrayed Sirius to Voldemort.
“I’ve got a question for you,” said Harry, his heart beating rather fast as he looked down at the elf, “and I order you to answer it truthfully. Understand?”
“Yes, Master,” said Kreacher, bowing low again. Harry saw his lips moving soundlessly, undoubtedly framing the insults he was now forbidden to utter.
“Two years ago,” said Harry, his heart now hammering against his ribs, “there was a big gold locket in the drawing room upstairs. We threw it out. Did you steal it back?”
There was a moment’s silence, during which Kreacher straightened up to look Harry full in the face. Then he said, “Yes.”
“Where is it now?” asked Harry jubilantly as Ron and Hermione looked gleeful.
Kreacher closed his eyes as though he could not bear to see their reactions to his next word.
“Gone.”
“Gone?” echoed Harry, elation floating out of him, “What do you mean, it’s gone?”
The elf shivered. He swayed.
“Kreacher,” said Harry fiercely, “I order you – ”
“Mundungus Fletcher,” croaked the elf, his eyes still tight shut. “Mundungus Fletcher stole it all; Miss Bella’s and Miss Cissy’s pictures, my Mistress’s gloves, the Order of Merlin, First Class, the goblets with the family crest, and – and – ”
Kreacher was gulping for air: His hollow chest was rising and falling rapidly, then his eyes flew open and he uttered a bloodcurdling scream.
“ – and the locket, Master Regulus’s locket. Kreacher did wrong, Kreacher failed in his orders!”
Harry reacted instinctively: As Kreacher lunged for the poker standing in the grate, he launched himself upon the elf, flattening him. Hermione’s scream mingled with Kreacher’s but Harry bellowed louder than both of them: “Kreacher, I order you to stay still!”
He felt the elf freeze and released him. Kreacher lay flat on the cold stone floor, tears gushing from his sagging eyes.
“Harry, let him up!” Hermione whispered.
“So he can beat himself up with the poker?” snorted Harry, kneeling beside the elf. “I don’t think so. Right. Kreacher, I want the truth: How do you know Mundungus Fletcher stole the locket?”
“Kreacher saw him!” gasped the elf as tears poured over his snout and into his mouth full of graying teeth. “Kreacher saw him coming out of Kreacher’s cupboard with his hands full of Kreacher’s treasures. Kreacher told the sneak thief to stop, but Mundungus Fletcher laughed and r-ran …”
“You called the locket ‘Master Regulus’s,’” said Harry. “Why? Where did it come from? What did Regulus have to do with it? Kreacher, sit up and tell me everything you know about that locket, and everything Regulus had to do with it!”
The elf sat up, curled into a ball, placed his wet face between his knees, and began to rock backward and forward. When he spoke, his voice was muffled but quite distinct in the silent, echoing kitchen.
“Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a bad boy and broke my Mistress’s heart with his lawless ways. But Master Regulus had proper order; he knew what was due to the name of Black and the dignity of his pure blood. For years he talked of the Dark Lord, who was going to bring the wizards out of hiding to rule the Muggles and the Muggle-borns … and when he was sixteen years old, Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to serve …
And one day, a year after he joined, Master Regulus came down to the kitchen to see Kreacher. Master Regulus always liked Kreacher. And Master Regulus said … he said
“That’s a good idea,” said Ron, rolling his eyes, and he resumed his examination of the curtains.
They combed every inch of the room for more than an hour, but were forced, finally, to conclude that the locket was not there.
The sun had risen now; its light dazzled them even through the grimy landing windows.
“It could be somewhere else in the house, though,” said Hermione in a rallying tone as they walked back downstairs. As Harry and Ron had become more discouraged, she seemed to have become more determined. “Whether he’d manage to destroy it or not, he’d want to keep it hidden from Voldemort, wouldn’t he? Remember all those awful things we had to get rid of when we were here last time? That clock that shot bolts at everyone and those old robes that tried to strangle Ron; Regulus might have put them there to protect the locket’s hiding place, even though we didn’t realize it at … at …”
Harry and Ron looked at her. She was standing with one foot in midair, with the dumbstruck look of one who had just been Obliviated: her eyes had even drifted out of focus.
“… at the time,” she finished in a whisper.
“Something wrong?” asked Ron.
“There was a locket.”
“What?” said Harry and Ron together.
“In the cabinet in the drawing room. Nobody could open it. And we … we …”
Harry felt as though a brick had slid down through his chest into his stomach. He remembered. He had even handled the thing as they passed it around, each trying in turn to pry it open. It had been tossed into a sack of rubbish, along with the snuffbox of Wartcap powder and the music box that had made everyone sleepy …
“Kreacher nicked loads of things back from us,” said Harry. It was the only chance, the only slender hope left to them, and he was going to cling to it until forced to let go. “He had a whole stash of stuff in his cupboard in the kitchen. C’mon.”
He ran down the stairs taking two steps at a time, the other two thundering along in his wake. They made so much noise that they woke the portrait of Sirius’s mother as they passed through the hall.
“Filth! Mudbloods! Scum!” she screamed after them as they dashed down into the basement kitchen and slammed the door behind them. Harry ran the length of the room, skidded to a halt at the door of Kreacher’s cupboard, and wrenched it open. There was the nest of dirty old blankets in which the house-elf had once slept, but they were not longer glittering with the trinkets Kreacher had salvaged. The only thing there was an old copy of Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. Refusing to believe his eyes, Harry snatched up the blankets and shook them. A dead mouse fell out and rolled dismally across the floor. Ron groaned as he threw himself into a kitchen chair; Hermione closed her eyes.
“It’s not over yet,” said Harry, and he raised his voice and called, “Kreacher!”
There was a loud crack and the house elf that Harry had so reluctantly inherited from Sirius appeared out of nowhere in front of the cold and empty fireplace: tiny, half human-sized, his pale skin hanging off him in folds, white hair sprouting copiously from his batlike ears. He was still wearing the filthy rag in which they had first met him, and the contemptuous look he bent upon Harry showed that his attitude to his change of ownership had altered no more than his outfit.
“Master,” croaked Kreacher in his bullfrog’s voice, and he bowed low; muttering to his knees, “back in my Mistress’s old house with the blood-traitor Weasley and the Mudblood – ”
“I forbid you to call anyone ‘blood traitor’ or ‘Mudblood,’” growled Harry. He would have found Kreacher, with his snoutlike nose and bloodshot eyes, a distinctively unlovable object even if the elf had not betrayed Sirius to Voldemort.
“I’ve got a question for you,” said Harry, his heart beating rather fast as he looked down at the elf, “and I order you to answer it truthfully. Understand?”
“Yes, Master,” said Kreacher, bowing low again. Harry saw his lips moving soundlessly, undoubtedly framing the insults he was now forbidden to utter.
“Two years ago,” said Harry, his heart now hammering against his ribs, “there was a big gold locket in the drawing room upstairs. We threw it out. Did you steal it back?”
There was a moment’s silence, during which Kreacher straightened up to look Harry full in the face. Then he said, “Yes.”
“Where is it now?” asked Harry jubilantly as Ron and Hermione looked gleeful.
Kreacher closed his eyes as though he could not bear to see their reactions to his next word.
“Gone.”
“Gone?” echoed Harry, elation floating out of him, “What do you mean, it’s gone?”
The elf shivered. He swayed.
“Kreacher,” said Harry fiercely, “I order you – ”
“Mundungus Fletcher,” croaked the elf, his eyes still tight shut. “Mundungus Fletcher stole it all; Miss Bella’s and Miss Cissy’s pictures, my Mistress’s gloves, the Order of Merlin, First Class, the goblets with the family crest, and – and – ”
Kreacher was gulping for air: His hollow chest was rising and falling rapidly, then his eyes flew open and he uttered a bloodcurdling scream.
“ – and the locket, Master Regulus’s locket. Kreacher did wrong, Kreacher failed in his orders!”
Harry reacted instinctively: As Kreacher lunged for the poker standing in the grate, he launched himself upon the elf, flattening him. Hermione’s scream mingled with Kreacher’s but Harry bellowed louder than both of them: “Kreacher, I order you to stay still!”
He felt the elf freeze and released him. Kreacher lay flat on the cold stone floor, tears gushing from his sagging eyes.
“Harry, let him up!” Hermione whispered.
“So he can beat himself up with the poker?” snorted Harry, kneeling beside the elf. “I don’t think so. Right. Kreacher, I want the truth: How do you know Mundungus Fletcher stole the locket?”
“Kreacher saw him!” gasped the elf as tears poured over his snout and into his mouth full of graying teeth. “Kreacher saw him coming out of Kreacher’s cupboard with his hands full of Kreacher’s treasures. Kreacher told the sneak thief to stop, but Mundungus Fletcher laughed and r-ran …”
“You called the locket ‘Master Regulus’s,’” said Harry. “Why? Where did it come from? What did Regulus have to do with it? Kreacher, sit up and tell me everything you know about that locket, and everything Regulus had to do with it!”
The elf sat up, curled into a ball, placed his wet face between his knees, and began to rock backward and forward. When he spoke, his voice was muffled but quite distinct in the silent, echoing kitchen.
“Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a bad boy and broke my Mistress’s heart with his lawless ways. But Master Regulus had proper order; he knew what was due to the name of Black and the dignity of his pure blood. For years he talked of the Dark Lord, who was going to bring the wizards out of hiding to rule the Muggles and the Muggle-borns … and when he was sixteen years old, Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to serve …
And one day, a year after he joined, Master Regulus came down to the kitchen to see Kreacher. Master Regulus always liked Kreacher. And Master Regulus said … he said
Chapter 10 Kreacher's Tale
Chapter 10 Kreacher's Tale
Harry woke early next morning, wrapped in a sleeping bag on the drawing room floor. A chink of sky was visible between the heavy curtains. It was the cool, clear blue of watered ink, somewhere between night and dawn, and everything was quiet except for Ron and Hermione’s slow, deep breathing. Harry glanced over at the dark shapes they made on the floor beside him. Ron had had a fit of gallantry and insisted that Hermione sleep on the cushions from the sofa, so that her silhouette was raised above his. Her arm curved to the floor, her fingers inches from Ron’s. Harry wondered whether they had fallen asleep holding hands. The idea made him feel strangely lonely.
He looked up at the shadowy ceiling, the cobwebbed chandelier. Less than twenty-four house ago, he had been standing in the sunlight at the entrance to the marquee, waiting to show in wedding guests. It seemed a lifetime away. What was going to happen now? He lay on the floor and he thought of the Horcruxes, of the daunting complex mission Dumbledore had left him… Dumbledore…
The grief that had possessed him since Dumbledore’s death felt different now. The accusations he had heard from Muriel at the wedding seemed to have nested in his brain like diseased things, infecting his memories of the wizard he had idolized. Could Dumbledore have let such things happen? Had he been like Dudley, content to watch neglect and abuse as long as it did not affect him? Could he have turned his back on a sister who was being imprisoned and hidden?
Harry thought of Godric’s Hollow, of graves Dumbledore had never mentioned there; he thought of mysterious objects left without explanation in Dumbledore’s will, and resentment swelled in the darkness. Why hadn’t Dumbledore told him? Why hadn’t he explained? Had Dumbledore actually cared about Harry at all? Or had Harry been nothing more than a tool to be polished and honed, but not trusted, never confided in?
Harry could not stand lying there with nothing but bitter thoughts for company. Desperate for something to do, for distraction, he slipped out of his sleeping bad, picked up his wand, and crept out of the room. On the landing he whispered, “Lumos,” and started to climb the stairs by wandlight.
On the second landing was the bedroom in which he and Ron had slept last time they had been here; he glanced into it. The wardrobe doors stood open and the bedclothes had been ripped back. Harry remembered the overturned troll leg downstairs. Somebody had searched the house since the Order had left. Snape? Or perhaps Mundungus, who had pilfered plenty from this house both before and after Sirius died? Harry’s gaze wandered to the portrait that sometimes contained Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius’s great-great grandfather, but it was empty, showing nothing but a stretch of muddy backdrop. Phineas Nigellus was evidently spending the night in the headmaster’s study at Hogwarts.
Harry continued up the stairs until he reached the topmost landing where there were only two doors. The one facing him bore a nameplate reading Sirius. Harry had never entered his godfather’s bedroom before. He pushed open the door, holding his wand high to cast light as widely as possible. The room was spacious and must once have been handsome. There was a large bed with a carved wooden headboard, a tall window obscured by long velvet curtains and a chandelier thickly coated in dust with candle scrubs still resting in its sockets, solid wax banging in frostlike drips. A fine film of dust covered the pictures on the walls and the bed’s headboard; a spiders web stretched between the chandelier and the top of the large wooden wardrobe, and as Harry moved deeper into the room, he head a scurrying of disturbed mice.
The teenage Sirius had plastered the walls with so many posters and pictures that little of the wall’s silvery-gray silk was visible. Harry could only assume that Sirius’s parents had been unable to remove the Permanent Sticking Charm that kept them on the wall because he was sure they would not have appreciated their eldest son’s taste in decoration. Sirius seemed to have long gone out of his way to annoy his parents. There were several large Gryffindor banners, faded scarlet and gold just to underline his difference from all the rest of the Slytherin family. There were many pictures of Muggle motorcycles, and also (Harry had to admire Sirius’s nerve) several posters of bikini-clad Muggle girls. Harry could tell that they were Muggles because they remained quite stationary within their pictures, faded smiles and glazed eyes frozen on the paper. This was in contrast the only Wizarding photograph on the walls which was a picture of four Hogwarts students standing arm in arm, laughing at the camera.
With a leap of pleasure, Harry recognized his father, his untidy black hair stuck up at the back like Harry’s, and he too wore glasses. Beside him was Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant face so much younger and happier than Harry had ever seen it alive. To Sirius’s right stood Pettigrew, more than a head shorter, plump and watery-eyed, flushed with pleasure at his inclusion in this coolest of gangs, with the much-admired rebels that James and Sirius had been. On James’s left was Lupin, even then a little shabby-looking, but he had the same air of delighted surprise at finding himself liked and included or was it simply because Harry knew how it had been, that he saw these things in the picture? He tried to take it from the wall; it was his now, after all, Sirius had left him everything, but it would not budge. Sirius had taken no chances in preventing his parents from redecorating his room.
Harry looked around at the floor. The sky outside was growing brightest. A shaft of light revealed bits of paper, books, and small objects scattered over the carpet.
Evidently Sirius’s bedroom had been reached too, although its contents seemed to have been judged mostly, if not entirely, worthless. A few of the books had been shaken roughly enough to part company with the covers and sundry pages littered the floor.
Harry bent down, picked up a few of the pieces of paper, and examined them. He recognized one as a part of an old edition of A History of Magic, by Bathilda Bagshot, and another as belonging to a motorcycle maintenance manual. The third was handwritten and crumpled. He smoothed it out.
Dear Padfoot,
Thank you, thank you, for Harry’s birthday present! It was his favorite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself. I’m enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course James thought it was so funny, says he’s going to be a great Quidditch player but we’ve had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don’t take our eyes off him when he gets going.
We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda who has always been sweet to us and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn’t come, but the Order’s got to come first, and Harry’s not old enough to know it’s his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell – also Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend. I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the next about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard.
Bathilda drops in most days, she’s a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore. I’m not sure he’d be pleased if he knew! I don’t know how much to believe, actually because it seems incredible that Dumbledore
Harry’s extremities seemed to have gone numb. He stood quite still, holding the miraculous paper in his nerveless fingers while inside him a kind of quiet eruptions sent joy and grief thundering its equal measure through his veins. Lurching to the bed, he sat down.
He read the letter again, but could not take in any more meaning than he had done the first time, and was reduced to staring at the handwriting itself. She had made her “g”s the same way he did. He searched through the letter for every one of them, and each felt like a friendly little wave glimpsed from behind a veil. The letter was an incredible treasure, proof that Lily Potter had lived, really lived, that her warm hand had once moved across this parchment, tracing ink into these letters, these words, words about him, Harry, her son.
Impatiently brushing away the wetness in his eyes, he reread the letter, this time concentrating on the meaning. It was like listening to a half-remembered voice.
They had a cat… perhaps it had perished, like his parents at Godric’s Hollow… or else fled when there was nobody left to feed it… Sirius had bought him his first broomstick… His parents had known Bathilda Bagshot; had Dumbledore introduced them? Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak… there was something funny there…
Harry paused, pondering his mother’s words. Why had Dumbledore taken James’s Invisibility Cloak? Harry distinctly remembered his headmaster telling him years before, “I don’t need a cloak to become invisible” Perhaps some less gifted Order member had needed its assistance, and Dumbledore had acted as a carrier? Harry passed on…
Wormy was here… Pettigrew, the traitor, had seemed “down” had he? Was he aware that he was seeing James and Lily alive for the last time?
And finally Bathilda again, who told incredible stories about Dumbledore. It seems incredible that Dumbledore –
That Dumbledore what? But there were any number of things that would seem incredible about Dumbledore; that he had once received bottom marks in a Transfiguration test, for instance or had taken up goat charming like Aberforth…
Harry got to his feet and scanned the floor: Perhaps the rest of the letter was here somewhere. He seized papers, treating them in his eagerness, with as little consideration as the original searcher, he pulled open drawers, shook out books, stood on a chair to run his hand over the top of the wardrobe, and crawled under the bed and armchair.
At last, lying facedown on the floor, he spotted what looked like a torn piece of paper under the chest of drawers. When he pulled it out, it proved to be most of the photograph that Lily had described in her letter. A black-haired baby was zooming in and out of the picture on a tiny broom, roaring with laughter, and a pair of legs that must have belonged to James was chasing after him. Harry tucked the photograph into his pocket with Lily’s letter and continued to look for the second sheet.
After another quarter of an hour, however he was forced to conclude that the rest of his mother’s letter was gone. Had it simply been lost in the sixteen years that had elapsed since it had been written, or had it been taken by whoever had searched the room? Harry read the first sheet again, this time looking for clues as to what might have made the second sheet valuable. His toy broomstick could hardly be considered interesting to the Death Eaters… The only potentially useful thing he could see her was possible information on Dumbledore. It seems incredible that Dumbledore – what?
“Harry? Harry? Harry!”
“I’m here!” he called, “What’s happened?”
There was a clatter of footsteps outside the door, and Hermione burst inside.
“We woke up and didn’t know where you were!” she said breathlessly. She turned and shouted over her shoulder, “Ron! I’ve found him”
Ron’s annoyed voice echoed distantly from several floors below.
“Good! Tell him from me he’s a git!”
“Harry don’t just disappear, please, we were terrified! Why did you come up here anyway?” She gazed around the ransacked room. “What have you been doing?”
“Look what I’ve just found”
He held out his mother’s letter. Hermione took it out and read it while Harry watched her. When she reached the end of the page she looked up at him.
“Oh Harry…”
“And there’s this too”
He handed her the torn photograph, and Hermione smiled at the baby zooming in and out of sight on the toy broom.
“I’ve been looking for the rest of the letter,” Harry said, “but it’s not here.”
Hermione glanced around.
“Did you make all this mess, or was some of it done when you got here?”
“Someone had searched before me,” said Harry.
“I thought so. Every room I looked into on the way up had been disturbed. What were they after, do you think?”
“Information on the Order, if it was Snape.”
“But you’d think he’d already have all he needed. I mean was in the Order, wasn’t he?”
“Well then,” said Harry, keen to discuss his theory, “what about information on Dumbledore? The second page of the letter, for instance. You know this Bathilda my mum mentions, you know who she is?”
“Who?”
“Bathilda Bagshot, the author of – ”
“A History of Magic,” said Hermione, looking interested. “So your parents knew her? She was an incredible magic historian.”
“And she’s still alive,” said Harry, “and she lives in Godric’s Hollow. Ron’s Auntie Muriel was talking about her at the wedding. She knew Dumbledore’s family too. Be pretty interesting to talk to, wouldn’t she?” There was a little too much understanding in the smile Hermione gave him for Harry’s liking. He took back the letter and the photograph and tucked them inside the pouch around his neck, so as not to have to look at her and give himself away. “I understand why you’d love to talk to her about your mum and dad, and Dumbledore too,” said Hermione. “But that wouldn’t really help us in our search for the Horcruxes, would it?” Harry did not answer, and she rushed on, “Harry, I know you really want to go to Godric’s Hollow, but I’m scared. I’m scared at how easily those Death Eaters found us yesterday.
It just makes me feel more than ever that we ought to avoid the place where your parents are buried, I’m sure they’d be expecting you to visit it.”
“It’s not just that,” Harry said, still avoiding looking at her, “Muriel said stuff about Dumbledore at the wedding. I want to know the truth…”
He told Hermione everything that Muriel had told him. When he had finished, Hermione said, “Of course, I can see why that’s upset you, Harry – ”
“I’m not upset,” he lied, “I’d just like to know whether or not it’s true or – ”
“Harry do you really think you’ll get the truth from a malicious old woman like Muriel, or from Rita Skeeter? How can you believe them? You knew Dumbledore!”
“I thought I did,” he muttered.
“But you know how much truth there was in everything Rita wrote about you! Doge is right, how can you let these people tarnish your memories of Dumbledore?”
He looked away, trying not to betray the resentment he felt. There it was again: Choose what to believe. He wanted the truth. Why was everybody so determined that he should not get it?
“Shall we go down to the kitchen?” Hermione suggested after a little pause. “Find something for breakfast?”
Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black
Excitement trickled through Harry, but he was not immediately sure why. He read the sign again. Hermione was already a flight of stairs below him.
“Hermione,” he said, and he was surprised that his voice was so calm. “Come back up here.”
“What’s the matter?”
“R.A.B. I think I’ve found him.”
There was a gasp, and then Hermione ran back up the stairs.
“In your mum’s letter? But I didn’t see – ”
Harry shook his head, pointing at Regulus’s sign. She read it, then clutched Harry’s arm so tightly that he winced.
“Sirius’s brother?” she whispered.
“He was a Death Eater,” said Harry. “Sirius told me about him, he joined up when he was really young and then got cold feet and tried to leave – so they killed him.”
“That fits!” gasped Hermione. “If he was a Death Eater he had access to Voldemort, and if he became disenchanted, then he would have wanted to bring Voldemort down!”
She released Harry, leaned over the banister, and screamed, “Ron! RON! Get up here, quick!”
Ron appeared, panting, a minute later, his wand ready in his hand.
“What’s up? If it’s massive spiders again I want breakfast before I – ”
He frowned at the sign on Regulus’s door, in which Hermione was silently pointing.
“What? That was Sirius’s brother, wasn’t it? Regulus Arcturus … Regulus … R.A.B.! The locket – you don’t reckon –?”
“Let’s find out,” said Harry. He pushed the door: It was locked. Hermione pointed her wand at the handle and said, “Alohamora.” There was a click, and the door swung open.
They moved over the threshold together, gazing around. Regulus’s bedroom was slightly smaller than Sirius’s, though it had the same sense of former grandeur. Whereas Sirius had sought to advertise his diffidence from the rest of the family, Regulus had striven to emphasize the opposite. The Slytherin colors of emerald and silver were everywhere, draping the bed, the walls, and the windows. The Black family crest was painstakingly painted over the bed, along with its motto, TOUJOURS PUR. Beneath this was a collection of yellow newspaper cuttings, all stuck together to make a ragged collage. Hermione crossed the room to examine them.
“They’re all about Voldemort,” she said. “Regulus seems to have been a fan for a few years before he joined the Death Eaters …”
A little puff of dust rose from the bedcovers as she sat down to read the clippings. Harry, meanwhile, had noticed another photograph: a Hogwarts Quidditch team was smiling and waving out of the frame. He moved closer and saw the snakes emblazoned on their chests: Slytherins. Regulus was instantly recognizable as the boy sitting in the middle of the front row: He had the same dark hair and slightly haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller, slighter, and rather less handsome than Sirius had been.
“He played Seeker,” said Harry.
“What?” said Hermione vaguely; she was still immersed in Voldemort’s press clippings.
“He’s sitting in the middle of the front row, that’s where the Seeker … Never mind,” said Harry, realizing that nobody was listening. Ron was on his hands and knees, searching under the wardrobe. Harry looked around the room for likely hiding places and approached the desk. Yet again, somebody had searched before them. The drawers’ contents had been turned over recently, the dust disturbed, but there was nothing of value there: old quills, out-of-date textbooks that bore evidence of being roughly handled, a recently smashed ink bottle, its sticky residue covering the contents of the drawer.
“There’s an easier way,” said Hermione, as Harry wiped his inky fingers on his jeans. She raised her wand and said, “Accio Locket!”
Nothing happened. Ron, who had been searching the folds of the faded curtains, looked disappointed.
“Is that it, then? It’s not here?”
“Oh, it could still be here, but under counter-enchantments,” said Hermione. “Charms to prevent it from being summoned magically, you know.”
“Like Voldemort put on the stone basin in the cave,” said Harry, remembering how he had been unable to Summon the fake locket.
“How are we supposed to find it then?” asked Ron.
“We search manually,” said Hermione.
“That’s a good idea,” said Ron, rolling his eyes, and he resumed his examination of the curtains.
They combed every inch of the room for more than an hour, but were forced, finally, to conclude that the locket was not there.
The sun had risen now; its light dazzled them even through the grimy landing windows.
“It could be somewhere else in the house, though,” said Hermione in a rallying tone as they walked back downstairs. As Harry and Ron had become more discouraged, she seemed to have become more determined. “Whether he’d manage to destroy it or not, he’d want to keep it hidden from Voldemort, wouldn’t he? Remember all those awful things we had to get rid of when we were here last time? That clock that shot bolts at everyone and those old robes that tried to strangle Ron; Regulus might have put them there to protect the locket’s hiding place, even though we didn’t realize it at … at …”
Harry and Ron looked at her. She was standing with one foot in midair, with the dumbstruck look of one who had just been Obliviated: her eyes had even drifted out of focus.
“… at the time,” she finished in a whisper.
“Something wrong?” asked Ron.
“There was a locket.”
“What?” said Harry and Ron together.
“In the cabinet in the drawing room. Nobody could open it. And we … we …”
Harry felt as though a brick had slid down through his chest into his stomach. He remembered. He had even handled the thing as they passed it around, each trying in turn to pry it open. It had been tossed into a sack of rubbish, along with the snuffbox of Wartcap powder and the music box that had made everyone sleepy …
“Kreacher nicked loads of things back from us,” said Harry. It was the only chance, the only slender hope left to them, and he was going to cling to it until forced to let go. “He had a whole stash of stuff in his cupboard in the kitchen. C’mon.”
He ran down the stairs taking two steps at a time, the other two thundering along in his wake. They made so much noise that they woke the portrait of Sirius’s mother as they passed through the hall.
“Filth! Mudbloods! Scum!” she screamed after them as they dashed down into the basement kitchen and slammed the door behind them. Harry ran the length of the room, skidded to a halt at the door of Kreacher’s cupboard, and wrenched it open. There was the nest of dirty old blankets in which the house-elf had once slept, but they were not longer glittering with the trinkets Kreacher had salvaged. The only thing there was an old copy of Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. Refusing to believe his eyes, Harry snatched up the blankets and shook them. A dead mouse fell out and rolled dismally across the floor. Ron groaned as he threw himself into a kitchen chair; Hermione closed her eyes.
“It’s not over yet,” said Harry, and he raised his voice and called, “Kreacher!”
There was a loud crack and the house elf that Harry had so reluctantly inherited from Sirius appeared out of nowhere in front of the cold and empty fireplace: tiny, half human-sized, his pale skin hanging off him in folds, white hair sprouting copiously from his batlike ears. He was still wearing the filthy rag in which they had first met him, and the contemptuous look he bent upon Harry showed that his attitude to his change of ownership had altered no more than his outfit.
“Master,” croaked Kreacher in his bullfrog’s voice, and he bowed low; muttering to his knees, “back in my Mistress’s old house with the blood-traitor Weasley and the Mudblood – ”
“I forbid you to call anyone ‘blood traitor’ or ‘Mudblood,’” growled Harry. He would have found Kreacher, with his snoutlike nose and bloodshot eyes, a distinctively unlovable object even if the elf had not betrayed Sirius to Voldemort.
“I’ve got a question for you,” said Harry, his heart beating rather fast as he looked down at the elf, “and I order you to answer it truthfully. Understand?”
“Yes, Master,” said Kreacher, bowing low again. Harry saw his lips moving soundlessly, undoubtedly framing the insults he was now forbidden to utter.
“Two years ago,” said Harry, his heart now hammering against his ribs, “there was a big gold locket in the drawing room upstairs. We threw it out. Did you steal it back?”
There was a moment’s silence, during which Kreacher straightened up to look Harry full in the face. Then he said, “Yes.”
“Where is it now?” asked Harry jubilantly as Ron and Hermione looked gleeful.
Kreacher closed his eyes as though he could not bear to see their reactions to his next word.
“Gone.”
“Gone?” echoed Harry, elation floating out of him, “What do you mean, it’s gone?”
The elf shivered. He swayed.
“Kreacher,” said Harry fiercely, “I order you – ”
“Mundungus Fletcher,” croaked the elf, his eyes still tight shut. “Mundungus Fletcher stole it all; Miss Bella’s and Miss Cissy’s pictures, my Mistress’s gloves, the Order of Merlin, First Class, the goblets with the family crest, and – and – ”
Kreacher was gulping for air: His hollow chest was rising and falling rapidly, then his eyes flew open and he uttered a bloodcurdling scream.
“ – and the locket, Master Regulus’s locket. Kreacher did wrong, Kreacher failed in his orders!”
Harry reacted instinctively: As Kreacher lunged for the poker standing in the grate, he launched himself upon the elf, flattening him. Hermione’s scream mingled with Kreacher’s but Harry bellowed louder than both of them: “Kreacher, I order you to stay still!”
He felt the elf freeze and released him. Kreacher lay flat on the cold stone floor, tears gushing from his sagging eyes.
“Harry, let him up!” Hermione whispered.
“So he can beat himself up with the poker?” snorted Harry, kneeling beside the elf. “I don’t think so. Right. Kreacher, I want the truth: How do you know Mundungus Fletcher stole the locket?”
“Kreacher saw him!” gasped the elf as tears poured over his snout and into his mouth full of graying teeth. “Kreacher saw him coming out of Kreacher’s cupboard with his hands full of Kreacher’s treasures. Kreacher told the sneak thief to stop, but Mundungus Fletcher laughed and r-ran …”
“You called the locket ‘Master Regulus’s,’” said Harry. “Why? Where did it come from? What did Regulus have to do with it? Kreacher, sit up and tell me everything you know about that locket, and everything Regulus had to do with it!”
The elf sat up, curled into a ball, placed his wet face between his knees, and began to rock backward and forward. When he spoke, his voice was muffled but quite distinct in the silent, echoing kitchen.
“Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a bad boy and broke my Mistress’s heart with his lawless ways. But Master Regulus had proper order; he knew what was due to the name of Black and the dignity of his pure blood. For years he talked of the Dark Lord, who was going to bring the wizards out of hiding to rule the Muggles and the Muggle-borns … and when he was sixteen years old, Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to serve …
And one day, a year after he joined, Master Regulus came down to the kitchen to see Kreacher. Master Regulus always liked Kreacher. And Master Regulus said … he said
…“The old elf rocked faster than ever.
“… he said that the Dark Lord required an elf.”
“Voldemort needed an elf?” Harry repeated, looking around at Ron and Hermione, who looked just as puzzled as he did.
“Oh yes,” moaned Kreacher. “And Master Regulus had volunteered Kreacher. It was an honor, said Master Regulus, an honor for him and for Kreacher, who must be sure to do whatever the Dark Lord ordered him to do … and then to c-come home.”
Kreacher rocked still faster, his breath coming in sobs.
“So Kreacher went to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord did not tell Kreacher what they were to do, but took Kreacher with him to a cave beside the sea. And beyond the cave was a cavern, and in the cavern was a great black lake …”
The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stood up. Kreacher’s croaking voice seemed to come to him from across the dark water. He saw what had happened as clearly as though he had been present.
“… There was a boat …”
Of course there had been a boat; Harry knew the boat, ghostly green and tiny, bewitched so as to carry one wizard and one victim toward the island in the center. This, then, was how Voldemort had tested the defenses surrounding the Horcrux, by borrowing a disposable creature, a house-elf…
“There was a b-basin full of potion on the island. The D-Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it …”
The elf quaked from head to foot.
“Kreacher drank, and as he drank he saw terrible thing … Kreacher’s insides burned … Kreacher cried for Master Regulus to save him, he cried for his Mistress Black, but the Dark Lord only laughed … He made Kreacher drink all the potion … He dropped a locket into the empty basin … He filled it with more potion.”
“And then the Dark Lord sailed away, leaving Kreacher on the island …”
Harry could see it happening. He watched Voldemort’s white, snakelike face vanishing into darkness, those red eyes fixed pitilessly on the thrashing elf whose death would occur within minutes, whenever he succumbed to the desperate thirst that the burning poison caused its victim … But here, Harry’s imagination could go no further, for he could not see how Kreacher had escaped.
“Kreacher needed water, he crawled to the island’s edge and he drank from the black lake … and hands, dead hands, came out of the water and dragged Kreacher under the surface …”
“How did you get away?” Harry asked, and he was not surprised to hear himself whispering.
Kreacher raised his ugly head and looked Harry with his great, bloodshot eyes.
“Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back,” he said.
“I know – but how did you escape the Inferi?”
Kreacher did not seem to understand.
“Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back,” he repeated.
“I know, but – ”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it, Harry?” said Ron. “He Disapparated!”
“But … you couldn’t Apparate in and out of that cave,” said Harry, “otherwise Dumbledore – ”
“Elf magic isn’t like wizard’s magic, is it?” said Ron, “I mean, they can Apparate and Disapparate in and out of Hogwarts when we can’t.”
There was a silence as Harry digested this. How could Voldemort have made such a mistake? But even as he thought this, Hermione spoke, and her voice was icy.
“Of course, Voldemort would have considered the ways of house-elves far beneath his notice … It would never have occurred to him that they might have magic that he didn’t.”
“The house-elf’s highest law is his Master’s bidding,” intoned Kreacher. “Kreacher was told to come home, so Kreacher came home …”
“Well, then, you did what you were told, didn’t you?” said Hermione kindly. “You didn’t disobey orders at all!”
Kreacher shook his head, rocking as fast as ever.
“So what happened when you got back?” Harry asked. “What did Regulus say when you told him what happened?”
“Master Regulus was very worried, very worried,” croaked Kreacher. “Master Regulus told Kreacher to stay hidden and not to leave the house. And then … it was a little while later … Master Regulus came to find Kreacher in his cupboard one night, and Master Regulus was strange, not as he usually was, disturbed in his mind, Kreacher could tell … and he asked Kreacher to take him to the cave, the cave where Kreacher had gone with the Dark Lord …”
And so they had set off. Harry could visualize them quite clearly, the frightened old elf and the thin, dark Seeker who had so resembled Sirius … Kreacher knew how to open the concealed entrance to the underground cavern, knew how to raise the tiny boat: this time it was his beloved Regulus who sailed with him to the island with its basin of poison …
“And he made you drink the poison?” said Harry, disgusted.
But Kreacher shook his head and wept. Hermione’s hands leapt to her mouth: She seemed to have understood something.
“M-Master Regulus took from his pocket a locket like the one the Dark Lord had,” said Kreacher, tears pouring down either side of his snoutlike nose. “And he told Kreacher to take it and, when the basin was empty, to switch the lockets …”
Kreacher’s sobs came in great rasps now; Harry had to concentrate hard to understand him.
“And he order – Kreacher to leave – without him. And he told Kreacher – to go home – and never to tell my Mistress – what he had done – but to destroy – the first locket. And he drank – all the potion – and Kreacher swapped the lockets – and watched … as Master Regulus … was dragged beneath the water … and …”
“Oh, Kreacher!” wailed Hermione, who was crying. She dropped to her knees beside the elf and tried to hug him. At once he was on his feet, cringing away from her, quite obviously repulsed.
“The Mudblood touched Kreacher, he will not allow it, what would his Mistress say?”
“I told you not to call her ‘Mudblood’!” snarled Harry, but the elf was already punishing himself. He fell to the ground and banged his forehead on the floor.
“Stop him – stop him!” Hermione cried. “Oh, don’t you see now how sick it is, the way they’ve got to obey?”
“Kreacher – stop, stop!” shouted Harry.
The elf lay on the floor, panting and shivering, green mucus glistening around his snot, a bruise already blooming on his pallid forehead where he had struck himself, his eyes swollen and bloodshot and swimming in tears. Harry had never seen anything so pitiful.
“So you brought the locket home,” he said relentlessly, for he was determined to know the full story. “And you tried to destroy it?”
“Nothing Kreacher did made any mark upon it,” moaned the elf. “Kreacher tried everything, everything he knew, but nothing, nothing would work … So many powerful spells upon the casing, Kreacher was sure the way to destroy it was to get inside it, but it would not open … Kreacher punished himself, he tried again, he punished himself, he tried again. Kreacher failed to obey orders, Kreacher could not destroy the locket! And his mistress was mad with grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared and Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, because Master Regulus had f-f-forbidden him to tell any of the f-f-family what happened in the c-cave …”
Kreacher began to sob so hard that there were no more coherent words. Tears flowed down Hermione’s cheeks as she watched Kreacher, but she did not dare touch him again. Even Ron, who was no fan of Kreacher’s, looked troubled. Harry sat back on his heels and shook his head, trying to clear it.
“I don’t understand you, Kreacher,” he said finally. “Voldemort tried to kill you, Regulus died to bring Voldemort down, but you were still happy to betray Sirius to Voldemort? You were happy to go to Narcissa and Bellatrix, and pass information to Voldemort through them …”
“Harry, Kreacher doesn’t think like that,” said Hermione, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. “He’s a slave; house-elves are used to bad, even brutal treatment; what Voldemort did to Kreacher wasn’t that far out of the common way. What do wizard wars mean to an elf like Kreacher? He’s loyal to people who are kind to him, and Mrs. Black must have been, and Regulus certainly was, so he served them willingly and parroted their beliefs. I know what you’re going to say,” she went on as Harry began to protest, “that Regulus changed his mind … but he doesn’t seem to have explained that to Kreacher, does he? And I think I know why. Kreacher and Regulus’s family were all safest if they kept to the old pure-blood line. Regulus was trying to protect them all.”
“Sirius – ”
“Sirius was horrible to Kreacher, Harry, and it’s no good looking like that, you know it’s true. Kreacher had been alone for such a long time when Sirius came to live here, and he was probably starving for a bit of affection. I’m sure ‘Miss Cissy’ and ‘Miss Bella’ were perfectly lovely to Kreacher when he turned up, so he did them a favor and told them everything they wanted to know. I’ve said all along that wizards would pay for how they treat house-elves. Well, Voldemort did … and so did Sirius.”
Harry woke early next morning, wrapped in a sleeping bag on the drawing room floor. A chink of sky was visible between the heavy curtains. It was the cool, clear blue of watered ink, somewhere between night and dawn, and everything was quiet except for Ron and Hermione’s slow, deep breathing. Harry glanced over at the dark shapes they made on the floor beside him. Ron had had a fit of gallantry and insisted that Hermione sleep on the cushions from the sofa, so that her silhouette was raised above his. Her arm curved to the floor, her fingers inches from Ron’s. Harry wondered whether they had fallen asleep holding hands. The idea made him feel strangely lonely.
He looked up at the shadowy ceiling, the cobwebbed chandelier. Less than twenty-four house ago, he had been standing in the sunlight at the entrance to the marquee, waiting to show in wedding guests. It seemed a lifetime away. What was going to happen now? He lay on the floor and he thought of the Horcruxes, of the daunting complex mission Dumbledore had left him… Dumbledore…
The grief that had possessed him since Dumbledore’s death felt different now. The accusations he had heard from Muriel at the wedding seemed to have nested in his brain like diseased things, infecting his memories of the wizard he had idolized. Could Dumbledore have let such things happen? Had he been like Dudley, content to watch neglect and abuse as long as it did not affect him? Could he have turned his back on a sister who was being imprisoned and hidden?
Harry thought of Godric’s Hollow, of graves Dumbledore had never mentioned there; he thought of mysterious objects left without explanation in Dumbledore’s will, and resentment swelled in the darkness. Why hadn’t Dumbledore told him? Why hadn’t he explained? Had Dumbledore actually cared about Harry at all? Or had Harry been nothing more than a tool to be polished and honed, but not trusted, never confided in?
Harry could not stand lying there with nothing but bitter thoughts for company. Desperate for something to do, for distraction, he slipped out of his sleeping bad, picked up his wand, and crept out of the room. On the landing he whispered, “Lumos,” and started to climb the stairs by wandlight.
On the second landing was the bedroom in which he and Ron had slept last time they had been here; he glanced into it. The wardrobe doors stood open and the bedclothes had been ripped back. Harry remembered the overturned troll leg downstairs. Somebody had searched the house since the Order had left. Snape? Or perhaps Mundungus, who had pilfered plenty from this house both before and after Sirius died? Harry’s gaze wandered to the portrait that sometimes contained Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius’s great-great grandfather, but it was empty, showing nothing but a stretch of muddy backdrop. Phineas Nigellus was evidently spending the night in the headmaster’s study at Hogwarts.
Harry continued up the stairs until he reached the topmost landing where there were only two doors. The one facing him bore a nameplate reading Sirius. Harry had never entered his godfather’s bedroom before. He pushed open the door, holding his wand high to cast light as widely as possible. The room was spacious and must once have been handsome. There was a large bed with a carved wooden headboard, a tall window obscured by long velvet curtains and a chandelier thickly coated in dust with candle scrubs still resting in its sockets, solid wax banging in frostlike drips. A fine film of dust covered the pictures on the walls and the bed’s headboard; a spiders web stretched between the chandelier and the top of the large wooden wardrobe, and as Harry moved deeper into the room, he head a scurrying of disturbed mice.
The teenage Sirius had plastered the walls with so many posters and pictures that little of the wall’s silvery-gray silk was visible. Harry could only assume that Sirius’s parents had been unable to remove the Permanent Sticking Charm that kept them on the wall because he was sure they would not have appreciated their eldest son’s taste in decoration. Sirius seemed to have long gone out of his way to annoy his parents. There were several large Gryffindor banners, faded scarlet and gold just to underline his difference from all the rest of the Slytherin family. There were many pictures of Muggle motorcycles, and also (Harry had to admire Sirius’s nerve) several posters of bikini-clad Muggle girls. Harry could tell that they were Muggles because they remained quite stationary within their pictures, faded smiles and glazed eyes frozen on the paper. This was in contrast the only Wizarding photograph on the walls which was a picture of four Hogwarts students standing arm in arm, laughing at the camera.
With a leap of pleasure, Harry recognized his father, his untidy black hair stuck up at the back like Harry’s, and he too wore glasses. Beside him was Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant face so much younger and happier than Harry had ever seen it alive. To Sirius’s right stood Pettigrew, more than a head shorter, plump and watery-eyed, flushed with pleasure at his inclusion in this coolest of gangs, with the much-admired rebels that James and Sirius had been. On James’s left was Lupin, even then a little shabby-looking, but he had the same air of delighted surprise at finding himself liked and included or was it simply because Harry knew how it had been, that he saw these things in the picture? He tried to take it from the wall; it was his now, after all, Sirius had left him everything, but it would not budge. Sirius had taken no chances in preventing his parents from redecorating his room.
Harry looked around at the floor. The sky outside was growing brightest. A shaft of light revealed bits of paper, books, and small objects scattered over the carpet.
Evidently Sirius’s bedroom had been reached too, although its contents seemed to have been judged mostly, if not entirely, worthless. A few of the books had been shaken roughly enough to part company with the covers and sundry pages littered the floor.
Harry bent down, picked up a few of the pieces of paper, and examined them. He recognized one as a part of an old edition of A History of Magic, by Bathilda Bagshot, and another as belonging to a motorcycle maintenance manual. The third was handwritten and crumpled. He smoothed it out.
Dear Padfoot,
Thank you, thank you, for Harry’s birthday present! It was his favorite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself. I’m enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course James thought it was so funny, says he’s going to be a great Quidditch player but we’ve had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don’t take our eyes off him when he gets going.
We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda who has always been sweet to us and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn’t come, but the Order’s got to come first, and Harry’s not old enough to know it’s his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell – also Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend. I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the next about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard.
Bathilda drops in most days, she’s a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore. I’m not sure he’d be pleased if he knew! I don’t know how much to believe, actually because it seems incredible that Dumbledore
Harry’s extremities seemed to have gone numb. He stood quite still, holding the miraculous paper in his nerveless fingers while inside him a kind of quiet eruptions sent joy and grief thundering its equal measure through his veins. Lurching to the bed, he sat down.
He read the letter again, but could not take in any more meaning than he had done the first time, and was reduced to staring at the handwriting itself. She had made her “g”s the same way he did. He searched through the letter for every one of them, and each felt like a friendly little wave glimpsed from behind a veil. The letter was an incredible treasure, proof that Lily Potter had lived, really lived, that her warm hand had once moved across this parchment, tracing ink into these letters, these words, words about him, Harry, her son.
Impatiently brushing away the wetness in his eyes, he reread the letter, this time concentrating on the meaning. It was like listening to a half-remembered voice.
They had a cat… perhaps it had perished, like his parents at Godric’s Hollow… or else fled when there was nobody left to feed it… Sirius had bought him his first broomstick… His parents had known Bathilda Bagshot; had Dumbledore introduced them? Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak… there was something funny there…
Harry paused, pondering his mother’s words. Why had Dumbledore taken James’s Invisibility Cloak? Harry distinctly remembered his headmaster telling him years before, “I don’t need a cloak to become invisible” Perhaps some less gifted Order member had needed its assistance, and Dumbledore had acted as a carrier? Harry passed on…
Wormy was here… Pettigrew, the traitor, had seemed “down” had he? Was he aware that he was seeing James and Lily alive for the last time?
And finally Bathilda again, who told incredible stories about Dumbledore. It seems incredible that Dumbledore –
That Dumbledore what? But there were any number of things that would seem incredible about Dumbledore; that he had once received bottom marks in a Transfiguration test, for instance or had taken up goat charming like Aberforth…
Harry got to his feet and scanned the floor: Perhaps the rest of the letter was here somewhere. He seized papers, treating them in his eagerness, with as little consideration as the original searcher, he pulled open drawers, shook out books, stood on a chair to run his hand over the top of the wardrobe, and crawled under the bed and armchair.
At last, lying facedown on the floor, he spotted what looked like a torn piece of paper under the chest of drawers. When he pulled it out, it proved to be most of the photograph that Lily had described in her letter. A black-haired baby was zooming in and out of the picture on a tiny broom, roaring with laughter, and a pair of legs that must have belonged to James was chasing after him. Harry tucked the photograph into his pocket with Lily’s letter and continued to look for the second sheet.
After another quarter of an hour, however he was forced to conclude that the rest of his mother’s letter was gone. Had it simply been lost in the sixteen years that had elapsed since it had been written, or had it been taken by whoever had searched the room? Harry read the first sheet again, this time looking for clues as to what might have made the second sheet valuable. His toy broomstick could hardly be considered interesting to the Death Eaters… The only potentially useful thing he could see her was possible information on Dumbledore. It seems incredible that Dumbledore – what?
“Harry? Harry? Harry!”
“I’m here!” he called, “What’s happened?”
There was a clatter of footsteps outside the door, and Hermione burst inside.
“We woke up and didn’t know where you were!” she said breathlessly. She turned and shouted over her shoulder, “Ron! I’ve found him”
Ron’s annoyed voice echoed distantly from several floors below.
“Good! Tell him from me he’s a git!”
“Harry don’t just disappear, please, we were terrified! Why did you come up here anyway?” She gazed around the ransacked room. “What have you been doing?”
“Look what I’ve just found”
He held out his mother’s letter. Hermione took it out and read it while Harry watched her. When she reached the end of the page she looked up at him.
“Oh Harry…”
“And there’s this too”
He handed her the torn photograph, and Hermione smiled at the baby zooming in and out of sight on the toy broom.
“I’ve been looking for the rest of the letter,” Harry said, “but it’s not here.”
Hermione glanced around.
“Did you make all this mess, or was some of it done when you got here?”
“Someone had searched before me,” said Harry.
“I thought so. Every room I looked into on the way up had been disturbed. What were they after, do you think?”
“Information on the Order, if it was Snape.”
“But you’d think he’d already have all he needed. I mean was in the Order, wasn’t he?”
“Well then,” said Harry, keen to discuss his theory, “what about information on Dumbledore? The second page of the letter, for instance. You know this Bathilda my mum mentions, you know who she is?”
“Who?”
“Bathilda Bagshot, the author of – ”
“A History of Magic,” said Hermione, looking interested. “So your parents knew her? She was an incredible magic historian.”
“And she’s still alive,” said Harry, “and she lives in Godric’s Hollow. Ron’s Auntie Muriel was talking about her at the wedding. She knew Dumbledore’s family too. Be pretty interesting to talk to, wouldn’t she?” There was a little too much understanding in the smile Hermione gave him for Harry’s liking. He took back the letter and the photograph and tucked them inside the pouch around his neck, so as not to have to look at her and give himself away. “I understand why you’d love to talk to her about your mum and dad, and Dumbledore too,” said Hermione. “But that wouldn’t really help us in our search for the Horcruxes, would it?” Harry did not answer, and she rushed on, “Harry, I know you really want to go to Godric’s Hollow, but I’m scared. I’m scared at how easily those Death Eaters found us yesterday.
It just makes me feel more than ever that we ought to avoid the place where your parents are buried, I’m sure they’d be expecting you to visit it.”
“It’s not just that,” Harry said, still avoiding looking at her, “Muriel said stuff about Dumbledore at the wedding. I want to know the truth…”
He told Hermione everything that Muriel had told him. When he had finished, Hermione said, “Of course, I can see why that’s upset you, Harry – ”
“I’m not upset,” he lied, “I’d just like to know whether or not it’s true or – ”
“Harry do you really think you’ll get the truth from a malicious old woman like Muriel, or from Rita Skeeter? How can you believe them? You knew Dumbledore!”
“I thought I did,” he muttered.
“But you know how much truth there was in everything Rita wrote about you! Doge is right, how can you let these people tarnish your memories of Dumbledore?”
He looked away, trying not to betray the resentment he felt. There it was again: Choose what to believe. He wanted the truth. Why was everybody so determined that he should not get it?
“Shall we go down to the kitchen?” Hermione suggested after a little pause. “Find something for breakfast?”
Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black
Excitement trickled through Harry, but he was not immediately sure why. He read the sign again. Hermione was already a flight of stairs below him.
“Hermione,” he said, and he was surprised that his voice was so calm. “Come back up here.”
“What’s the matter?”
“R.A.B. I think I’ve found him.”
There was a gasp, and then Hermione ran back up the stairs.
“In your mum’s letter? But I didn’t see – ”
Harry shook his head, pointing at Regulus’s sign. She read it, then clutched Harry’s arm so tightly that he winced.
“Sirius’s brother?” she whispered.
“He was a Death Eater,” said Harry. “Sirius told me about him, he joined up when he was really young and then got cold feet and tried to leave – so they killed him.”
“That fits!” gasped Hermione. “If he was a Death Eater he had access to Voldemort, and if he became disenchanted, then he would have wanted to bring Voldemort down!”
She released Harry, leaned over the banister, and screamed, “Ron! RON! Get up here, quick!”
Ron appeared, panting, a minute later, his wand ready in his hand.
“What’s up? If it’s massive spiders again I want breakfast before I – ”
He frowned at the sign on Regulus’s door, in which Hermione was silently pointing.
“What? That was Sirius’s brother, wasn’t it? Regulus Arcturus … Regulus … R.A.B.! The locket – you don’t reckon –?”
“Let’s find out,” said Harry. He pushed the door: It was locked. Hermione pointed her wand at the handle and said, “Alohamora.” There was a click, and the door swung open.
They moved over the threshold together, gazing around. Regulus’s bedroom was slightly smaller than Sirius’s, though it had the same sense of former grandeur. Whereas Sirius had sought to advertise his diffidence from the rest of the family, Regulus had striven to emphasize the opposite. The Slytherin colors of emerald and silver were everywhere, draping the bed, the walls, and the windows. The Black family crest was painstakingly painted over the bed, along with its motto, TOUJOURS PUR. Beneath this was a collection of yellow newspaper cuttings, all stuck together to make a ragged collage. Hermione crossed the room to examine them.
“They’re all about Voldemort,” she said. “Regulus seems to have been a fan for a few years before he joined the Death Eaters …”
A little puff of dust rose from the bedcovers as she sat down to read the clippings. Harry, meanwhile, had noticed another photograph: a Hogwarts Quidditch team was smiling and waving out of the frame. He moved closer and saw the snakes emblazoned on their chests: Slytherins. Regulus was instantly recognizable as the boy sitting in the middle of the front row: He had the same dark hair and slightly haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller, slighter, and rather less handsome than Sirius had been.
“He played Seeker,” said Harry.
“What?” said Hermione vaguely; she was still immersed in Voldemort’s press clippings.
“He’s sitting in the middle of the front row, that’s where the Seeker … Never mind,” said Harry, realizing that nobody was listening. Ron was on his hands and knees, searching under the wardrobe. Harry looked around the room for likely hiding places and approached the desk. Yet again, somebody had searched before them. The drawers’ contents had been turned over recently, the dust disturbed, but there was nothing of value there: old quills, out-of-date textbooks that bore evidence of being roughly handled, a recently smashed ink bottle, its sticky residue covering the contents of the drawer.
“There’s an easier way,” said Hermione, as Harry wiped his inky fingers on his jeans. She raised her wand and said, “Accio Locket!”
Nothing happened. Ron, who had been searching the folds of the faded curtains, looked disappointed.
“Is that it, then? It’s not here?”
“Oh, it could still be here, but under counter-enchantments,” said Hermione. “Charms to prevent it from being summoned magically, you know.”
“Like Voldemort put on the stone basin in the cave,” said Harry, remembering how he had been unable to Summon the fake locket.
“How are we supposed to find it then?” asked Ron.
“We search manually,” said Hermione.
“That’s a good idea,” said Ron, rolling his eyes, and he resumed his examination of the curtains.
They combed every inch of the room for more than an hour, but were forced, finally, to conclude that the locket was not there.
The sun had risen now; its light dazzled them even through the grimy landing windows.
“It could be somewhere else in the house, though,” said Hermione in a rallying tone as they walked back downstairs. As Harry and Ron had become more discouraged, she seemed to have become more determined. “Whether he’d manage to destroy it or not, he’d want to keep it hidden from Voldemort, wouldn’t he? Remember all those awful things we had to get rid of when we were here last time? That clock that shot bolts at everyone and those old robes that tried to strangle Ron; Regulus might have put them there to protect the locket’s hiding place, even though we didn’t realize it at … at …”
Harry and Ron looked at her. She was standing with one foot in midair, with the dumbstruck look of one who had just been Obliviated: her eyes had even drifted out of focus.
“… at the time,” she finished in a whisper.
“Something wrong?” asked Ron.
“There was a locket.”
“What?” said Harry and Ron together.
“In the cabinet in the drawing room. Nobody could open it. And we … we …”
Harry felt as though a brick had slid down through his chest into his stomach. He remembered. He had even handled the thing as they passed it around, each trying in turn to pry it open. It had been tossed into a sack of rubbish, along with the snuffbox of Wartcap powder and the music box that had made everyone sleepy …
“Kreacher nicked loads of things back from us,” said Harry. It was the only chance, the only slender hope left to them, and he was going to cling to it until forced to let go. “He had a whole stash of stuff in his cupboard in the kitchen. C’mon.”
He ran down the stairs taking two steps at a time, the other two thundering along in his wake. They made so much noise that they woke the portrait of Sirius’s mother as they passed through the hall.
“Filth! Mudbloods! Scum!” she screamed after them as they dashed down into the basement kitchen and slammed the door behind them. Harry ran the length of the room, skidded to a halt at the door of Kreacher’s cupboard, and wrenched it open. There was the nest of dirty old blankets in which the house-elf had once slept, but they were not longer glittering with the trinkets Kreacher had salvaged. The only thing there was an old copy of Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. Refusing to believe his eyes, Harry snatched up the blankets and shook them. A dead mouse fell out and rolled dismally across the floor. Ron groaned as he threw himself into a kitchen chair; Hermione closed her eyes.
“It’s not over yet,” said Harry, and he raised his voice and called, “Kreacher!”
There was a loud crack and the house elf that Harry had so reluctantly inherited from Sirius appeared out of nowhere in front of the cold and empty fireplace: tiny, half human-sized, his pale skin hanging off him in folds, white hair sprouting copiously from his batlike ears. He was still wearing the filthy rag in which they had first met him, and the contemptuous look he bent upon Harry showed that his attitude to his change of ownership had altered no more than his outfit.
“Master,” croaked Kreacher in his bullfrog’s voice, and he bowed low; muttering to his knees, “back in my Mistress’s old house with the blood-traitor Weasley and the Mudblood – ”
“I forbid you to call anyone ‘blood traitor’ or ‘Mudblood,’” growled Harry. He would have found Kreacher, with his snoutlike nose and bloodshot eyes, a distinctively unlovable object even if the elf had not betrayed Sirius to Voldemort.
“I’ve got a question for you,” said Harry, his heart beating rather fast as he looked down at the elf, “and I order you to answer it truthfully. Understand?”
“Yes, Master,” said Kreacher, bowing low again. Harry saw his lips moving soundlessly, undoubtedly framing the insults he was now forbidden to utter.
“Two years ago,” said Harry, his heart now hammering against his ribs, “there was a big gold locket in the drawing room upstairs. We threw it out. Did you steal it back?”
There was a moment’s silence, during which Kreacher straightened up to look Harry full in the face. Then he said, “Yes.”
“Where is it now?” asked Harry jubilantly as Ron and Hermione looked gleeful.
Kreacher closed his eyes as though he could not bear to see their reactions to his next word.
“Gone.”
“Gone?” echoed Harry, elation floating out of him, “What do you mean, it’s gone?”
The elf shivered. He swayed.
“Kreacher,” said Harry fiercely, “I order you – ”
“Mundungus Fletcher,” croaked the elf, his eyes still tight shut. “Mundungus Fletcher stole it all; Miss Bella’s and Miss Cissy’s pictures, my Mistress’s gloves, the Order of Merlin, First Class, the goblets with the family crest, and – and – ”
Kreacher was gulping for air: His hollow chest was rising and falling rapidly, then his eyes flew open and he uttered a bloodcurdling scream.
“ – and the locket, Master Regulus’s locket. Kreacher did wrong, Kreacher failed in his orders!”
Harry reacted instinctively: As Kreacher lunged for the poker standing in the grate, he launched himself upon the elf, flattening him. Hermione’s scream mingled with Kreacher’s but Harry bellowed louder than both of them: “Kreacher, I order you to stay still!”
He felt the elf freeze and released him. Kreacher lay flat on the cold stone floor, tears gushing from his sagging eyes.
“Harry, let him up!” Hermione whispered.
“So he can beat himself up with the poker?” snorted Harry, kneeling beside the elf. “I don’t think so. Right. Kreacher, I want the truth: How do you know Mundungus Fletcher stole the locket?”
“Kreacher saw him!” gasped the elf as tears poured over his snout and into his mouth full of graying teeth. “Kreacher saw him coming out of Kreacher’s cupboard with his hands full of Kreacher’s treasures. Kreacher told the sneak thief to stop, but Mundungus Fletcher laughed and r-ran …”
“You called the locket ‘Master Regulus’s,’” said Harry. “Why? Where did it come from? What did Regulus have to do with it? Kreacher, sit up and tell me everything you know about that locket, and everything Regulus had to do with it!”
The elf sat up, curled into a ball, placed his wet face between his knees, and began to rock backward and forward. When he spoke, his voice was muffled but quite distinct in the silent, echoing kitchen.
“Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a bad boy and broke my Mistress’s heart with his lawless ways. But Master Regulus had proper order; he knew what was due to the name of Black and the dignity of his pure blood. For years he talked of the Dark Lord, who was going to bring the wizards out of hiding to rule the Muggles and the Muggle-borns … and when he was sixteen years old, Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to serve …
And one day, a year after he joined, Master Regulus came down to the kitchen to see Kreacher. Master Regulus always liked Kreacher. And Master Regulus said … he said
…“The old elf rocked faster than ever.
“… he said that the Dark Lord required an elf.”
“Voldemort needed an elf?” Harry repeated, looking around at Ron and Hermione, who looked just as puzzled as he did.
“Oh yes,” moaned Kreacher. “And Master Regulus had volunteered Kreacher. It was an honor, said Master Regulus, an honor for him and for Kreacher, who must be sure to do whatever the Dark Lord ordered him to do … and then to c-come home.”
Kreacher rocked still faster, his breath coming in sobs.
“So Kreacher went to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord did not tell Kreacher what they were to do, but took Kreacher with him to a cave beside the sea. And beyond the cave was a cavern, and in the cavern was a great black lake …”
The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stood up. Kreacher’s croaking voice seemed to come to him from across the dark water. He saw what had happened as clearly as though he had been present.
“… There was a boat …”
Of course there had been a boat; Harry knew the boat, ghostly green and tiny, bewitched so as to carry one wizard and one victim toward the island in the center. This, then, was how Voldemort had tested the defenses surrounding the Horcrux, by borrowing a disposable creature, a house-elf…
“There was a b-basin full of potion on the island. The D-Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it …”
The elf quaked from head to foot.
“Kreacher drank, and as he drank he saw terrible thing … Kreacher’s insides burned … Kreacher cried for Master Regulus to save him, he cried for his Mistress Black, but the Dark Lord only laughed … He made Kreacher drink all the potion … He dropped a locket into the empty basin … He filled it with more potion.”
“And then the Dark Lord sailed away, leaving Kreacher on the island …”
Harry could see it happening. He watched Voldemort’s white, snakelike face vanishing into darkness, those red eyes fixed pitilessly on the thrashing elf whose death would occur within minutes, whenever he succumbed to the desperate thirst that the burning poison caused its victim … But here, Harry’s imagination could go no further, for he could not see how Kreacher had escaped.
“Kreacher needed water, he crawled to the island’s edge and he drank from the black lake … and hands, dead hands, came out of the water and dragged Kreacher under the surface …”
“How did you get away?” Harry asked, and he was not surprised to hear himself whispering.
Kreacher raised his ugly head and looked Harry with his great, bloodshot eyes.
“Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back,” he said.
“I know – but how did you escape the Inferi?”
Kreacher did not seem to understand.
“Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back,” he repeated.
“I know, but – ”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it, Harry?” said Ron. “He Disapparated!”
“But … you couldn’t Apparate in and out of that cave,” said Harry, “otherwise Dumbledore – ”
“Elf magic isn’t like wizard’s magic, is it?” said Ron, “I mean, they can Apparate and Disapparate in and out of Hogwarts when we can’t.”
There was a silence as Harry digested this. How could Voldemort have made such a mistake? But even as he thought this, Hermione spoke, and her voice was icy.
“Of course, Voldemort would have considered the ways of house-elves far beneath his notice … It would never have occurred to him that they might have magic that he didn’t.”
“The house-elf’s highest law is his Master’s bidding,” intoned Kreacher. “Kreacher was told to come home, so Kreacher came home …”
“Well, then, you did what you were told, didn’t you?” said Hermione kindly. “You didn’t disobey orders at all!”
Kreacher shook his head, rocking as fast as ever.
“So what happened when you got back?” Harry asked. “What did Regulus say when you told him what happened?”
“Master Regulus was very worried, very worried,” croaked Kreacher. “Master Regulus told Kreacher to stay hidden and not to leave the house. And then … it was a little while later … Master Regulus came to find Kreacher in his cupboard one night, and Master Regulus was strange, not as he usually was, disturbed in his mind, Kreacher could tell … and he asked Kreacher to take him to the cave, the cave where Kreacher had gone with the Dark Lord …”
And so they had set off. Harry could visualize them quite clearly, the frightened old elf and the thin, dark Seeker who had so resembled Sirius … Kreacher knew how to open the concealed entrance to the underground cavern, knew how to raise the tiny boat: this time it was his beloved Regulus who sailed with him to the island with its basin of poison …
“And he made you drink the poison?” said Harry, disgusted.
But Kreacher shook his head and wept. Hermione’s hands leapt to her mouth: She seemed to have understood something.
“M-Master Regulus took from his pocket a locket like the one the Dark Lord had,” said Kreacher, tears pouring down either side of his snoutlike nose. “And he told Kreacher to take it and, when the basin was empty, to switch the lockets …”
Kreacher’s sobs came in great rasps now; Harry had to concentrate hard to understand him.
“And he order – Kreacher to leave – without him. And he told Kreacher – to go home – and never to tell my Mistress – what he had done – but to destroy – the first locket. And he drank – all the potion – and Kreacher swapped the lockets – and watched … as Master Regulus … was dragged beneath the water … and …”
“Oh, Kreacher!” wailed Hermione, who was crying. She dropped to her knees beside the elf and tried to hug him. At once he was on his feet, cringing away from her, quite obviously repulsed.
“The Mudblood touched Kreacher, he will not allow it, what would his Mistress say?”
“I told you not to call her ‘Mudblood’!” snarled Harry, but the elf was already punishing himself. He fell to the ground and banged his forehead on the floor.
“Stop him – stop him!” Hermione cried. “Oh, don’t you see now how sick it is, the way they’ve got to obey?”
“Kreacher – stop, stop!” shouted Harry.
The elf lay on the floor, panting and shivering, green mucus glistening around his snot, a bruise already blooming on his pallid forehead where he had struck himself, his eyes swollen and bloodshot and swimming in tears. Harry had never seen anything so pitiful.
“So you brought the locket home,” he said relentlessly, for he was determined to know the full story. “And you tried to destroy it?”
“Nothing Kreacher did made any mark upon it,” moaned the elf. “Kreacher tried everything, everything he knew, but nothing, nothing would work … So many powerful spells upon the casing, Kreacher was sure the way to destroy it was to get inside it, but it would not open … Kreacher punished himself, he tried again, he punished himself, he tried again. Kreacher failed to obey orders, Kreacher could not destroy the locket! And his mistress was mad with grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared and Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, because Master Regulus had f-f-forbidden him to tell any of the f-f-family what happened in the c-cave …”
Kreacher began to sob so hard that there were no more coherent words. Tears flowed down Hermione’s cheeks as she watched Kreacher, but she did not dare touch him again. Even Ron, who was no fan of Kreacher’s, looked troubled. Harry sat back on his heels and shook his head, trying to clear it.
“I don’t understand you, Kreacher,” he said finally. “Voldemort tried to kill you, Regulus died to bring Voldemort down, but you were still happy to betray Sirius to Voldemort? You were happy to go to Narcissa and Bellatrix, and pass information to Voldemort through them …”
“Harry, Kreacher doesn’t think like that,” said Hermione, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. “He’s a slave; house-elves are used to bad, even brutal treatment; what Voldemort did to Kreacher wasn’t that far out of the common way. What do wizard wars mean to an elf like Kreacher? He’s loyal to people who are kind to him, and Mrs. Black must have been, and Regulus certainly was, so he served them willingly and parroted their beliefs. I know what you’re going to say,” she went on as Harry began to protest, “that Regulus changed his mind … but he doesn’t seem to have explained that to Kreacher, does he? And I think I know why. Kreacher and Regulus’s family were all safest if they kept to the old pure-blood line. Regulus was trying to protect them all.”
“Sirius – ”
“Sirius was horrible to Kreacher, Harry, and it’s no good looking like that, you know it’s true. Kreacher had been alone for such a long time when Sirius came to live here, and he was probably starving for a bit of affection. I’m sure ‘Miss Cissy’ and ‘Miss Bella’ were perfectly lovely to Kreacher when he turned up, so he did them a favor and told them everything they wanted to know. I’ve said all along that wizards would pay for how they treat house-elves. Well, Voldemort did … and so did Sirius.”
Harry had no retort. As he
Harry had no retort. As he watched Kreacher sobbing on the floor, he remembered what Dumbledore had said to him, mere hours after Sirius’s death: I do not think Sirius ever saw Kreacher as a being with feelings as acute as a human’s …
“Kreacher,” said Harry after a while, “when you feel up to it, er … please sit up.”
It was several minutes before Kreacher hiccupped himself into silence. Then he pushed himself into a sitting position again, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes like a small child.
“Kreacher, I am going to ask you to do something,” said Harry. He glanced at Hermione for assistance. He wanted to give the order kindly, but at the same time, he could not pretend that it was not an order. However, the change in his tone seemed to have gained her approval: She smiled encouragingly.
“Kreacher, I want you, please, to go and find Mundungus Fletcher. We need to find out where the locket – where Master Regulus’s locket it. It’s really important. We want to finish the work Master Regulus started, we want to – er – ensure that he didn’t die in vain.”
Kreacher dropped his fists and looked up at Harry.
“Find Mundungus Fletcher?” he croaked.
“And bring him here, to Grimmauld Place,” said Harry. “Do you think you could do that for us?”
As Kreacher nodded and got to his feet, Harry had a sudden inspiration. He pulled out Hagrid’s purse and took out the fake Horcrux, the substitute locket in which Regulus had placed the note to Voldemort.
“Kreacher, I’d, er, like you to have this,” he said, pressing the locket into the elf’s hand. “This belonged to Regulus and I’m sure he’d want you to have it as a token of gratitude for what you – ”
“Overkill, mate,” said Ron as the elf took one look at the locket, let out a howl of shock and misery, and threw himself back onto the ground.
It took them nearly half an hour to calm down Kreacher, who was so overcome to be presented with a Black family heirloom for his very own that he was too weak at the knees to stand properly. When finally he was able to totter a few steps they all accompanied him to his cupboard, watched him tuck up the locket safely in his dirty blankets, and assured him that they would make its protection their first priority while he was away. He then made two low bows to Harry and Ron, and even gave a funny little spasm in Hermione’s direction that might have been an attempt at a respectful salute, before Disapparating with the usual loud crack.
“Kreacher,” said Harry after a while, “when you feel up to it, er … please sit up.”
It was several minutes before Kreacher hiccupped himself into silence. Then he pushed himself into a sitting position again, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes like a small child.
“Kreacher, I am going to ask you to do something,” said Harry. He glanced at Hermione for assistance. He wanted to give the order kindly, but at the same time, he could not pretend that it was not an order. However, the change in his tone seemed to have gained her approval: She smiled encouragingly.
“Kreacher, I want you, please, to go and find Mundungus Fletcher. We need to find out where the locket – where Master Regulus’s locket it. It’s really important. We want to finish the work Master Regulus started, we want to – er – ensure that he didn’t die in vain.”
Kreacher dropped his fists and looked up at Harry.
“Find Mundungus Fletcher?” he croaked.
“And bring him here, to Grimmauld Place,” said Harry. “Do you think you could do that for us?”
As Kreacher nodded and got to his feet, Harry had a sudden inspiration. He pulled out Hagrid’s purse and took out the fake Horcrux, the substitute locket in which Regulus had placed the note to Voldemort.
“Kreacher, I’d, er, like you to have this,” he said, pressing the locket into the elf’s hand. “This belonged to Regulus and I’m sure he’d want you to have it as a token of gratitude for what you – ”
“Overkill, mate,” said Ron as the elf took one look at the locket, let out a howl of shock and misery, and threw himself back onto the ground.
It took them nearly half an hour to calm down Kreacher, who was so overcome to be presented with a Black family heirloom for his very own that he was too weak at the knees to stand properly. When finally he was able to totter a few steps they all accompanied him to his cupboard, watched him tuck up the locket safely in his dirty blankets, and assured him that they would make its protection their first priority while he was away. He then made two low bows to Harry and Ron, and even gave a funny little spasm in Hermione’s direction that might have been an attempt at a respectful salute, before Disapparating with the usual loud crack.
Chapter 8 The Wedding
Chapter 8 The Wedding
Three o’clock on the following afternoon found Harry, Ron, Fred and George standing outside the great white marquee in the orchard, awaiting the arrival of the wedding guests. Harry had taken a large dose of Polyjuice Potion and was now the double of a redheaded Muggle boy from the local village, Ottery St. Catchpole, from whom Fred had stolen hairs using a Summoning Charm. The plan was to introduce Harry as “Cousin Barny” and trust to the great number of Weasley relatives to camouflage him.
All four of them were clutching seating plans, so that they could help show people to the right seats. A host of white-robed waiters had arrived an hour earlier, along with a golden jacketed band, and all of these wizards were currently sitting a short distance away under a tree. Harry could see a blue haze of pipe smoke issuing from the spot. Behind Harry, the entrance to the marquee revealed rows and rows of fragile golden chairs set on either side of a long purple carpet. The supporting poles were entwined with white and gold flowers. Fred and George had fastened an enormous bunch of golden balloons over the exact point where Bill and Fleur would shortly become husband and wife. Outside, butterflies and bees were hovering lazily over the grass and hedgerow. Harry was rather uncomfortable. The Muggle boy whose appearance he was affecting was slightly fatter than him and his dress robes felt hot and tight in the full glare of a summer’s day.
“When I get married,” said Fred, tugging at the collar of his own robes, “I won’t be bothering with any of this nonsense. You can all wear what you like, and I’ll put a full Body Bird Curse on Mum until it’s all over.”
“She wasn’t too bad this morning, considering,” said George. “Cried a bit about Percy not being here, but who wants him. Oh blimey, brace yourselves, here they come, look.”
Brightly colored figures were appearing, one by one out of nowhere at the distant boundary of the yard. Within minutes a procession had formed, which began to snake its way up through the garden toward the marquee. Exotic flowers and bewitched birds fluttered on the witches’ hats, while precious gems glittered from many of the wizards’ cravats; a hum of excited chatter grew louder and louder, drowning the sound of the bees as the crowd approached the tent.
“Excellent, I think I see a few veela cousins,” said George, craning his neck for a better look. “They’ll need help understanding our English customs, I’ll look after them….”
“Not so fast, Your Holeyness,” said Fred, and darting past the gaggle of middle-aged witches heading for the procession, he said, “Here – permetiez moi to assister vous,” to a pair of pretty French girls, who giggled and allowed him to escort them inside. George was left to deal with the middle-aged witches and Ron took charge of Mr. Weasley’s old Ministry-colleague Perkins, while a rather deaf old couple fell to Harry’s lot.
“Wotcher,” said a familiar voice as he came out of the marquee again and found Tonks and Lupin at the front of the queue. She had turned blonde for the occasion.
“Arthur told us you were the one with the curly hair. Sorry about last night,” she added in a whisper as Harry led them up the aisle. “The Ministry’s being very anti-werewolf at the museum and we thought our presence might not do you any favors.”
“It’s fine, I understand,” said Harry, speaking more to Lupin than Tonks. Lupin gave him a swift smile, but as they turned away Harry saw Lupin’s face fall again into lines of misery. He did not understand it, but there was no time to dwell on the matter. Hagrid was causing a certain amount of disruption. Having misunderstood Fred’s directions as he had sat himself, not upon the magically enlarged and reinforced seat set aside for him in the back row, but on five sets that now resembled a large pile of golden matchsticks.
chanel outlet
cheap uggs on sale
burberry outlet
nike outlet store
cheap uggs for sale
Three o’clock on the following afternoon found Harry, Ron, Fred and George standing outside the great white marquee in the orchard, awaiting the arrival of the wedding guests. Harry had taken a large dose of Polyjuice Potion and was now the double of a redheaded Muggle boy from the local village, Ottery St. Catchpole, from whom Fred had stolen hairs using a Summoning Charm. The plan was to introduce Harry as “Cousin Barny” and trust to the great number of Weasley relatives to camouflage him.
All four of them were clutching seating plans, so that they could help show people to the right seats. A host of white-robed waiters had arrived an hour earlier, along with a golden jacketed band, and all of these wizards were currently sitting a short distance away under a tree. Harry could see a blue haze of pipe smoke issuing from the spot. Behind Harry, the entrance to the marquee revealed rows and rows of fragile golden chairs set on either side of a long purple carpet. The supporting poles were entwined with white and gold flowers. Fred and George had fastened an enormous bunch of golden balloons over the exact point where Bill and Fleur would shortly become husband and wife. Outside, butterflies and bees were hovering lazily over the grass and hedgerow. Harry was rather uncomfortable. The Muggle boy whose appearance he was affecting was slightly fatter than him and his dress robes felt hot and tight in the full glare of a summer’s day.
“When I get married,” said Fred, tugging at the collar of his own robes, “I won’t be bothering with any of this nonsense. You can all wear what you like, and I’ll put a full Body Bird Curse on Mum until it’s all over.”
“She wasn’t too bad this morning, considering,” said George. “Cried a bit about Percy not being here, but who wants him. Oh blimey, brace yourselves, here they come, look.”
Brightly colored figures were appearing, one by one out of nowhere at the distant boundary of the yard. Within minutes a procession had formed, which began to snake its way up through the garden toward the marquee. Exotic flowers and bewitched birds fluttered on the witches’ hats, while precious gems glittered from many of the wizards’ cravats; a hum of excited chatter grew louder and louder, drowning the sound of the bees as the crowd approached the tent.
“Excellent, I think I see a few veela cousins,” said George, craning his neck for a better look. “They’ll need help understanding our English customs, I’ll look after them….”
“Not so fast, Your Holeyness,” said Fred, and darting past the gaggle of middle-aged witches heading for the procession, he said, “Here – permetiez moi to assister vous,” to a pair of pretty French girls, who giggled and allowed him to escort them inside. George was left to deal with the middle-aged witches and Ron took charge of Mr. Weasley’s old Ministry-colleague Perkins, while a rather deaf old couple fell to Harry’s lot.
“Wotcher,” said a familiar voice as he came out of the marquee again and found Tonks and Lupin at the front of the queue. She had turned blonde for the occasion.
“Arthur told us you were the one with the curly hair. Sorry about last night,” she added in a whisper as Harry led them up the aisle. “The Ministry’s being very anti-werewolf at the museum and we thought our presence might not do you any favors.”
“It’s fine, I understand,” said Harry, speaking more to Lupin than Tonks. Lupin gave him a swift smile, but as they turned away Harry saw Lupin’s face fall again into lines of misery. He did not understand it, but there was no time to dwell on the matter. Hagrid was causing a certain amount of disruption. Having misunderstood Fred’s directions as he had sat himself, not upon the magically enlarged and reinforced seat set aside for him in the back row, but on five sets that now resembled a large pile of golden matchsticks.
chanel outlet
cheap uggs on sale
burberry outlet
nike outlet store
cheap uggs for sale
Monday, November 29, 2010
Chapter 30 The White Tomb
Chapter 30 The White Tomb
All lessons were suspended, all examinations postponed. Some students were hurried away from Hogwarts by their parents over the next couple of days—the Patil twins
were gone before breakfast on the morning following Dumbledore's death and Zacharias Smith was escorted from the castle by his haughty-looking father. Seamus Finnigan,
on the other hand, refused point-blank to accompany his mother home; they had a shouting match in the Entrance Hall which was resolved when she agreed that he could
remain behind for the funeral. She had difficulty in finding a bed in Hogsmeade, Seamus told Harry and Ron, for wizards and witches were pouring into the village,
preparing to pay their last respects to Dumbledore.
Some excitement was caused among the younger students, who had never seen it before, when a powder-blue carriage the size of a house, pulled by a dozen giant winged
palominos, came soaring out of the sky in the late afternoon before the funeral and landed on the edge of the Forest. Harry watched from a window as a gigantic and
handsome olive-skinned, black-haired woman descended the carriage steps and threw herself into the waiting Hagrid's arms. Meanwhile a delegation of Ministry officials,
including the Minister for Magic himself, was being accommodated within the castle. Harry was diligently avoiding contact with any of them; he was sure that, sooner or
later, he would be asked again to account for Dumbledore's last excursion from Hogwarts.
Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny were spending all of their time together. The beautiful weather seemed to mock them; Harry could imagine how it would have been if
Dumbledore had not died, and they had had this time together at the very end of the year, Ginny's examinations finished, the pressure of homework lifted ... and hour by
hour, he put off saying the thing that he knew he must say, doing what he knew it was right to do, because it was too hard to forgo his best source of comfort.
They visited the hospital wing twice a day: Neville had been discharged, but Bill remained under Madam Pomfrey's care. His scars were as bad as ever; in truth, he now
bore a distinct resemblance to Mad-Eye Moody, though thankfully with both eyes and legs, but in personality he seemed just the same as ever. All that appeared to have
changed was that he now had a great liking for very rare steaks.
All lessons were suspended, all examinations postponed. Some students were hurried away from Hogwarts by their parents over the next couple of days—the Patil twins
were gone before breakfast on the morning following Dumbledore's death and Zacharias Smith was escorted from the castle by his haughty-looking father. Seamus Finnigan,
on the other hand, refused point-blank to accompany his mother home; they had a shouting match in the Entrance Hall which was resolved when she agreed that he could
remain behind for the funeral. She had difficulty in finding a bed in Hogsmeade, Seamus told Harry and Ron, for wizards and witches were pouring into the village,
preparing to pay their last respects to Dumbledore.
Some excitement was caused among the younger students, who had never seen it before, when a powder-blue carriage the size of a house, pulled by a dozen giant winged
palominos, came soaring out of the sky in the late afternoon before the funeral and landed on the edge of the Forest. Harry watched from a window as a gigantic and
handsome olive-skinned, black-haired woman descended the carriage steps and threw herself into the waiting Hagrid's arms. Meanwhile a delegation of Ministry officials,
including the Minister for Magic himself, was being accommodated within the castle. Harry was diligently avoiding contact with any of them; he was sure that, sooner or
later, he would be asked again to account for Dumbledore's last excursion from Hogwarts.
Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny were spending all of their time together. The beautiful weather seemed to mock them; Harry could imagine how it would have been if
Dumbledore had not died, and they had had this time together at the very end of the year, Ginny's examinations finished, the pressure of homework lifted ... and hour by
hour, he put off saying the thing that he knew he must say, doing what he knew it was right to do, because it was too hard to forgo his best source of comfort.
They visited the hospital wing twice a day: Neville had been discharged, but Bill remained under Madam Pomfrey's care. His scars were as bad as ever; in truth, he now
bore a distinct resemblance to Mad-Eye Moody, though thankfully with both eyes and legs, but in personality he seemed just the same as ever. All that appeared to have
changed was that he now had a great liking for very rare steaks.
“Well said,” squeaked Professor Flitwick
“Well said,” squeaked Professor Flitwick. “Well said indeed! Our students should pay tribute, it is fitting. We can arrange transport home afterward.”
“Seconded,” barked Professor Sprout.
“I suppose ... yes ...” said Slughorn in a rather agitated voice, while Hagrid let out a strangled sob of assent.
“He's coming,” said Professor McGonagall suddenly, gazing down into the grounds. “The Minister ... and by the looks of it. He's brought a delegation...”
“Can I leave, Professor?” said Harry at once.
He had no desire at all to see, or be interrogated by, Rufus Scrimgeour tonight.
“You may,” said Professor McGonagall. “And quickly.”
She strode toward the door and held it open for him. He sped down the spiral staircase and off along the deserted corridor; he had left his Invisibility Cloak at the
top of the Astronomy Tower, but it did not matter; there was nobody in the corridors to see him pass, not even Filch, Mrs. Norris, or Peeves. He did not meet another
soul until he turned into the passage leading to the Gryffindor common room.
“Is it true?” whispered the Fat Lady as he approached her. “It is really true? Dumbledore—dead?”
“Yes,” said Harry.
She let out a wail and, without waiting for the password, swung forward to admit him.
As Harry had suspected it would be, the common room was jam-packed. The room fell silent as he climbed through the portrait hole. He saw Dean and Seamus sitting in a
group nearby: this meant that the dormitory must be empty, or nearly so. Without speaking to anybody, without making eye contact at all, Harry walked straight across
the room and through the door to the boys’ dormitories.
As he had hoped, Ron was waiting for him, still fully dressed, sitting on his bed. Harry sat down on his own four-poster and for a moment, they simply stared at each
other.
“They're talking about closing the school,” said Harry.
“Lupin said they would,” said Ron.
There was a pause.
“So?” said Ron in a very low voice, as though he thought the furniture might be listening in. “Did you find one? Did you get it? A—a Horcrux?”
Harry shook his head. All that had taken place around that black lake seemed like an old nightmare now; had it really happened, and only hours ago?
“You didn't get it?” said Ron, looking crestfallen. “It wasn't there?”
“No,” said Harry. “Someone had already taken it and left a fake in its place.”
“Already taken—?”
Wordlessly, Harry pulled the fake locket from his pocket, opened it, and passed it to Ron. The full story could wait... it did not matter tonight... nothing mattered
except the end, the end of their pointless adventure, the end of Dumbledore's life...
“R.A.B.,” whispered Ron, “but who was that?”
“Dunno,” said Harry, lying back on his bed fully clothed and staring blankly upwards. He felt no curiosity at all about R.A.B.: he doubted that he would ever feel
curious again. As he lay there, he became aware suddenly that the grounds were silent. Fawkes had stopped singing.
And he knew, without knowing how he knew it, that the phoenix had gone, had left Hogwarts for good, just as Dumbledore had left the school, had left the world... had
left Harry.
“Seconded,” barked Professor Sprout.
“I suppose ... yes ...” said Slughorn in a rather agitated voice, while Hagrid let out a strangled sob of assent.
“He's coming,” said Professor McGonagall suddenly, gazing down into the grounds. “The Minister ... and by the looks of it. He's brought a delegation...”
“Can I leave, Professor?” said Harry at once.
He had no desire at all to see, or be interrogated by, Rufus Scrimgeour tonight.
“You may,” said Professor McGonagall. “And quickly.”
She strode toward the door and held it open for him. He sped down the spiral staircase and off along the deserted corridor; he had left his Invisibility Cloak at the
top of the Astronomy Tower, but it did not matter; there was nobody in the corridors to see him pass, not even Filch, Mrs. Norris, or Peeves. He did not meet another
soul until he turned into the passage leading to the Gryffindor common room.
“Is it true?” whispered the Fat Lady as he approached her. “It is really true? Dumbledore—dead?”
“Yes,” said Harry.
She let out a wail and, without waiting for the password, swung forward to admit him.
As Harry had suspected it would be, the common room was jam-packed. The room fell silent as he climbed through the portrait hole. He saw Dean and Seamus sitting in a
group nearby: this meant that the dormitory must be empty, or nearly so. Without speaking to anybody, without making eye contact at all, Harry walked straight across
the room and through the door to the boys’ dormitories.
As he had hoped, Ron was waiting for him, still fully dressed, sitting on his bed. Harry sat down on his own four-poster and for a moment, they simply stared at each
other.
“They're talking about closing the school,” said Harry.
“Lupin said they would,” said Ron.
There was a pause.
“So?” said Ron in a very low voice, as though he thought the furniture might be listening in. “Did you find one? Did you get it? A—a Horcrux?”
Harry shook his head. All that had taken place around that black lake seemed like an old nightmare now; had it really happened, and only hours ago?
“You didn't get it?” said Ron, looking crestfallen. “It wasn't there?”
“No,” said Harry. “Someone had already taken it and left a fake in its place.”
“Already taken—?”
Wordlessly, Harry pulled the fake locket from his pocket, opened it, and passed it to Ron. The full story could wait... it did not matter tonight... nothing mattered
except the end, the end of their pointless adventure, the end of Dumbledore's life...
“R.A.B.,” whispered Ron, “but who was that?”
“Dunno,” said Harry, lying back on his bed fully clothed and staring blankly upwards. He felt no curiosity at all about R.A.B.: he doubted that he would ever feel
curious again. As he lay there, he became aware suddenly that the grounds were silent. Fawkes had stopped singing.
And he knew, without knowing how he knew it, that the phoenix had gone, had left Hogwarts for good, just as Dumbledore had left the school, had left the world... had
left Harry.
“I am sure Dumbledore would have wanted the school
“I am sure Dumbledore would have wanted the school to remain open,” said Professor Sprout. “I feel that if a single pupil wants to come, then the school ought to
remain open for that pupil.”
“But will we have a single pupil after this?” said Slughorn, now dabbing his sweating brow with a silken handkerchief. “Parents will want to keep their children at
home and I can't say I blame them. Personally, I don't think we're in more danger at Hogwarts than we are anywhere else, but you can't expect mothers to think like
that. They'll want to keep their families together, it's only natural.”
“I agree,” said Professor McGonagall. “And in any case, it is not true to say that Dumbledore never envisaged a situation in which Hogwarts might close. When the
Chamber of Secrets reopened he considered the closure of the school—and I must say that Professor Dumbledore's murder is more disturbing to me than the idea of
Slytherin's monster living undetected in the bowels of the castle...”
“We must consult the governors,” said Professor Flitwick in his squeaky little voice; he had a large bruise on his forehead but seemed otherwise unscathed by his
collapse in Snape's office. “We must follow the established procedures. A decision should not be made hastily.”
“Hagrid, you haven't said anything,” said Professor McGonagall. “What are your views, ought Hogwarts to remain open?”
Hagrid, who had been weeping silently into his large, spotted handkerchief throughout this conversation, now raised puffy red eyes and croaked, “I dunno, Professor...
that's fer the Heads of House an’ the Headmistress ter decide ...”
“Professor Dumbledore always valued your views,” said Professor McGonagall kindly, “and so do I.”
“Well, I'm stayin,” said Hagrid, fat tears still leaking out of the corners of his eyes and trickling down into his tangled beard. “It's me home, it's bin me home
since I was thirteen. An’ if there's kids who wan’ me ter teach ‘em, I'll do it. But... I dunno ... Hogwarts without Dumbledore ...” He gulped and disappeared
behind his handkerchief once more, and there was silence.
“Very well,” said Professor McGonagall, glancing out of the window at the grounds, checking to see whether the Minister was yet approaching, “then I must agree with
Filius that the right thing to do is to consult the governors, who will make the final decision.
“Now, as to getting students home... there is an argument for doing it sooner rather than later. We could arrange for the Hogwarts Express to come tomorrow if
necessary—”
“What about Dumbledore's funeral?” said Harry, speaking at last.
“Well...” said Professor McGonagall, losing a little of her briskness as her voice shook. “I—I know that it was Dumbledore's wish to be laid to rest here, at
Hogwarts—”
“Then that's what'll happen, isn't it?” said Harry fiercely.
“If the Ministry thinks it appropriate,” said Professor McGonagall. “No other headmaster or headmistress has ever been—”
“No other headmaster or headmistress ever gave more to this school,” growled Hagrid.
“Hogwarts should be Dumbledore's final resting place,” said Professor Flitwick.
“Absolutely,” said Professor Sprout.
“And in that case,” said Harry, “you shouldn't send the students home until the funeral's over. They'll want to say—”
The last word caught in his throat, but Professor Sprout completed the sentence for him.
“Goodbye.”
remain open for that pupil.”
“But will we have a single pupil after this?” said Slughorn, now dabbing his sweating brow with a silken handkerchief. “Parents will want to keep their children at
home and I can't say I blame them. Personally, I don't think we're in more danger at Hogwarts than we are anywhere else, but you can't expect mothers to think like
that. They'll want to keep their families together, it's only natural.”
“I agree,” said Professor McGonagall. “And in any case, it is not true to say that Dumbledore never envisaged a situation in which Hogwarts might close. When the
Chamber of Secrets reopened he considered the closure of the school—and I must say that Professor Dumbledore's murder is more disturbing to me than the idea of
Slytherin's monster living undetected in the bowels of the castle...”
“We must consult the governors,” said Professor Flitwick in his squeaky little voice; he had a large bruise on his forehead but seemed otherwise unscathed by his
collapse in Snape's office. “We must follow the established procedures. A decision should not be made hastily.”
“Hagrid, you haven't said anything,” said Professor McGonagall. “What are your views, ought Hogwarts to remain open?”
Hagrid, who had been weeping silently into his large, spotted handkerchief throughout this conversation, now raised puffy red eyes and croaked, “I dunno, Professor...
that's fer the Heads of House an’ the Headmistress ter decide ...”
“Professor Dumbledore always valued your views,” said Professor McGonagall kindly, “and so do I.”
“Well, I'm stayin,” said Hagrid, fat tears still leaking out of the corners of his eyes and trickling down into his tangled beard. “It's me home, it's bin me home
since I was thirteen. An’ if there's kids who wan’ me ter teach ‘em, I'll do it. But... I dunno ... Hogwarts without Dumbledore ...” He gulped and disappeared
behind his handkerchief once more, and there was silence.
“Very well,” said Professor McGonagall, glancing out of the window at the grounds, checking to see whether the Minister was yet approaching, “then I must agree with
Filius that the right thing to do is to consult the governors, who will make the final decision.
“Now, as to getting students home... there is an argument for doing it sooner rather than later. We could arrange for the Hogwarts Express to come tomorrow if
necessary—”
“What about Dumbledore's funeral?” said Harry, speaking at last.
“Well...” said Professor McGonagall, losing a little of her briskness as her voice shook. “I—I know that it was Dumbledore's wish to be laid to rest here, at
Hogwarts—”
“Then that's what'll happen, isn't it?” said Harry fiercely.
“If the Ministry thinks it appropriate,” said Professor McGonagall. “No other headmaster or headmistress has ever been—”
“No other headmaster or headmistress ever gave more to this school,” growled Hagrid.
“Hogwarts should be Dumbledore's final resting place,” said Professor Flitwick.
“Absolutely,” said Professor Sprout.
“And in that case,” said Harry, “you shouldn't send the students home until the funeral's over. They'll want to say—”
The last word caught in his throat, but Professor Sprout completed the sentence for him.
“Goodbye.”
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Chapter 18 Birthday Surprises
Chapter 18 Birthday Surprises
The next day Harry confided in both Ron and Hermione the task that Dumbledore had set him, though separately, for Hermione still refused to remain in Ron's presence
longer than it took to give him a contemptuous look.
Ron thought that Harry was unlikely to have any trouble with Slughorn at all.
“He loves you,” he said over breakfast, waving an airy forkful of fried egg. “Won't refuse you anything, will he? Not his little Potions Prince. Just hang back after
class this afternoon and ask him.”
Hermione, however, took a gloomier view.
“He must be determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore couldn't get it out of him,” she said in a low voice, as they stood in the deserted, snowy courtyard
at break. “Horcruxes ... Horcruxes ... I've never even heard of them ...”
“You haven't?”
Harry was disappointed; he had hoped that Hermione might have been able to give him a clue as to what Horcruxes were.
“They must be really advanced Dark magic, or why would Voldemort have wanted to know about them? I think it's going to be difficult to get the information, Harry,
you'll have to be very careful about how you approach Slughorn, think out a strategy ...”
“Ron reckons I should just hang back after Potions this afternoon ...”
“Oh, well, if Won-Won thinks that, you'd better do it,” she said, flaring up at once. “After all, when has Won-Won‘s judgement ever been faulty?”
“Hermione, can't you —”
“No!” she said angrily, and stormed away, leaving Harry alone and ankle-deep in snow.
The next day Harry confided in both Ron and Hermione the task that Dumbledore had set him, though separately, for Hermione still refused to remain in Ron's presence
longer than it took to give him a contemptuous look.
Ron thought that Harry was unlikely to have any trouble with Slughorn at all.
“He loves you,” he said over breakfast, waving an airy forkful of fried egg. “Won't refuse you anything, will he? Not his little Potions Prince. Just hang back after
class this afternoon and ask him.”
Hermione, however, took a gloomier view.
“He must be determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore couldn't get it out of him,” she said in a low voice, as they stood in the deserted, snowy courtyard
at break. “Horcruxes ... Horcruxes ... I've never even heard of them ...”
“You haven't?”
Harry was disappointed; he had hoped that Hermione might have been able to give him a clue as to what Horcruxes were.
“They must be really advanced Dark magic, or why would Voldemort have wanted to know about them? I think it's going to be difficult to get the information, Harry,
you'll have to be very careful about how you approach Slughorn, think out a strategy ...”
“Ron reckons I should just hang back after Potions this afternoon ...”
“Oh, well, if Won-Won thinks that, you'd better do it,” she said, flaring up at once. “After all, when has Won-Won‘s judgement ever been faulty?”
“Hermione, can't you —”
“No!” she said angrily, and stormed away, leaving Harry alone and ankle-deep in snow.
“Tampered with?” repeated Harry, sitting back down too.
“Tampered with?” repeated Harry, sitting back down too.
“Certainly,” said Dumbledore. “Professor Slughorn has meddled with his own recollections.”
“But why would he do that?”
“Because, I think, he is ashamed of what he remembers,” said Dumbledore. “He has tried to rework the memory to show himself in a better light, obliterating those
parts which he does not wish me to see. It is, as you will have noticed, very crudely done, and that is all to the good, for it shows that the true memory is still
there beneath the alterations.
“And so, for the first time, I am giving you homework, Harry. It will be your job to persuade Professor Slughorn to divulge the real memory, which will undoubtedly be
our most crucial piece of information of all.”
Harry stared at him.
“But surely, sir,” he said, keeping his voice as respectful as possible, “you don't need me—you could use Legilimency ... or Veritaserum...”
“Professor Slughorn is an extremely able wizard who will be expecting both,” said Dumbledore. “He is much more accomplished at Occlumency than poor Morfin Gaunt, and
I would be astonished if he has not carried an antidote to Veritaserum with him ever since I coerced him into giving me this travesty of a recollection.
“No, I think it would be foolish to attempt to wrest the truth from Professor Slughorn by force, and might do much more harm than good; I do not wish him to leave
Hogwarts. However, he has his weaknesses like the rest of us, and I believe that you are the one person who might be able to penetrate his defenses. It is most
important that we secure the true memory, Harry... how important, we will only know when we have seen the real thing. So, good luck... and goodnight.”
A little taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, Harry got to his feet quickly. “Good night, sir.”
As he closed the study door behind him, he distinctly heard Phineas Nigellus say, “I can't see why the boy should be able to do it better than you, Dumbledore.”
“I wouldn't expect you to, Phineas,” replied Dumbledore, and Fawkes gave another low, musical cry.
“Certainly,” said Dumbledore. “Professor Slughorn has meddled with his own recollections.”
“But why would he do that?”
“Because, I think, he is ashamed of what he remembers,” said Dumbledore. “He has tried to rework the memory to show himself in a better light, obliterating those
parts which he does not wish me to see. It is, as you will have noticed, very crudely done, and that is all to the good, for it shows that the true memory is still
there beneath the alterations.
“And so, for the first time, I am giving you homework, Harry. It will be your job to persuade Professor Slughorn to divulge the real memory, which will undoubtedly be
our most crucial piece of information of all.”
Harry stared at him.
“But surely, sir,” he said, keeping his voice as respectful as possible, “you don't need me—you could use Legilimency ... or Veritaserum...”
“Professor Slughorn is an extremely able wizard who will be expecting both,” said Dumbledore. “He is much more accomplished at Occlumency than poor Morfin Gaunt, and
I would be astonished if he has not carried an antidote to Veritaserum with him ever since I coerced him into giving me this travesty of a recollection.
“No, I think it would be foolish to attempt to wrest the truth from Professor Slughorn by force, and might do much more harm than good; I do not wish him to leave
Hogwarts. However, he has his weaknesses like the rest of us, and I believe that you are the one person who might be able to penetrate his defenses. It is most
important that we secure the true memory, Harry... how important, we will only know when we have seen the real thing. So, good luck... and goodnight.”
A little taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, Harry got to his feet quickly. “Good night, sir.”
As he closed the study door behind him, he distinctly heard Phineas Nigellus say, “I can't see why the boy should be able to do it better than you, Dumbledore.”
“I wouldn't expect you to, Phineas,” replied Dumbledore, and Fawkes gave another low, musical cry.
“Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?
“Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?” he asked.
“Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you,” said Slughorn, wagging a reproving, sugar-covered finger at Riddle, though ruining the effect slightly by winking. “I must
say, I'd like to know where you get your information, boy; more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.”
Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.
“What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't, and your careful flattery of the people who matter—thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you're quite
right, it is my favorite—”
As several of the boys tittered, something very odd happened. The whole room was suddenly filled with a thick white fog, so that Harry could see nothing but the face of
Dumbledore, who was standing beside him. Then Slughorn's voice rang out through the mist, unnaturally loudly: “—you'll go wrong, boy, mark my words.”
The fog cleared as suddenly as it had appeared and yet nobody made any allusion to it, nor did anybody look as though anything unusual had just happened. Bewildered,
Harry looked around as a small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock.
“Good gracious, is it that time already?” said Slughorn. “You'd better get going, boys, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it's
detention. Same goes for you, Avery.”
Slughorn pulled himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk as the boys filed out. Voldemort, however, stayed behind. Harry could tell he
had dawdled deliberately, wanting to be last in the room with Slughorn.
“Look sharp, Tom,” said Slughorn, turning around and finding him still present. “You don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect...”
“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away....”
“Sir, I wondered what you know about... about Horcruxes?”
And it happened all over again: the dense fog filled the room so that Harry could not see Slughorn or Voldemort at all; only Dumbledore, smiling serenely beside him.
Then Slughorn's voice boomed out again, just as it had done before.
“I don't know anything about Horcruxes and I wouldn't tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once and don't let me catch you mentioning them again!”
“Well, that's that,” said Dumbledore placidly beside Harry. “Time to go.”
And Harry's feet left the floor to fall, seconds later, back onto the rug in front of Dumbledore's desk.
“That's all there is?” said Harry blankly.
Dumbledore had said that this was the most important memory of all, but he could not see what was so significant about it. Admittedly the fog, and the fact that nobody
seemed to have noticed it, was odd, but other than that nothing seemed to have happened except that Voldemort had asked a question and failed to get an answer.
“As you might have noticed,” said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk, “that memory has been tampered with.”
“Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you,” said Slughorn, wagging a reproving, sugar-covered finger at Riddle, though ruining the effect slightly by winking. “I must
say, I'd like to know where you get your information, boy; more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.”
Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.
“What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't, and your careful flattery of the people who matter—thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you're quite
right, it is my favorite—”
As several of the boys tittered, something very odd happened. The whole room was suddenly filled with a thick white fog, so that Harry could see nothing but the face of
Dumbledore, who was standing beside him. Then Slughorn's voice rang out through the mist, unnaturally loudly: “—you'll go wrong, boy, mark my words.”
The fog cleared as suddenly as it had appeared and yet nobody made any allusion to it, nor did anybody look as though anything unusual had just happened. Bewildered,
Harry looked around as a small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock.
“Good gracious, is it that time already?” said Slughorn. “You'd better get going, boys, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it's
detention. Same goes for you, Avery.”
Slughorn pulled himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk as the boys filed out. Voldemort, however, stayed behind. Harry could tell he
had dawdled deliberately, wanting to be last in the room with Slughorn.
“Look sharp, Tom,” said Slughorn, turning around and finding him still present. “You don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect...”
“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away....”
“Sir, I wondered what you know about... about Horcruxes?”
And it happened all over again: the dense fog filled the room so that Harry could not see Slughorn or Voldemort at all; only Dumbledore, smiling serenely beside him.
Then Slughorn's voice boomed out again, just as it had done before.
“I don't know anything about Horcruxes and I wouldn't tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once and don't let me catch you mentioning them again!”
“Well, that's that,” said Dumbledore placidly beside Harry. “Time to go.”
And Harry's feet left the floor to fall, seconds later, back onto the rug in front of Dumbledore's desk.
“That's all there is?” said Harry blankly.
Dumbledore had said that this was the most important memory of all, but he could not see what was so significant about it. Admittedly the fog, and the fact that nobody
seemed to have noticed it, was odd, but other than that nothing seemed to have happened except that Voldemort had asked a question and failed to get an answer.
“As you might have noticed,” said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk, “that memory has been tampered with.”
“You are quite right—they can detect magic
“You are quite right—they can detect magic, but not the perpetrator: you will remember that you were blamed by the Ministry for the Hover Charm that was, in fact,
cast by —”
“Dobby,” growled Harry; this injustice still rankled. “So if you're underage and you do magic inside an adult witch or wizard's house, the Ministry won't know?”
“They will certainly be unable to tell who performed the magic,” said Dumbledore, smiling slightly at the look of great indignation on Harry's face. “They rely on
witch and wizard parents to enforce their offspring's obedience while within their walls.”
“Well, that's rubbish,” snapped Harry. “Look what happened here, look what happened to Morfin!”
“I agree,” said Dumbledore. “Whatever Morfin was, he did not deserve to die as he did, blamed for murders he had not committed. But it is getting late, and I want
you to see this other memory before we part...”
Dumbledore took from an inside pocket another crystal phial and Harry fell silent at once, remembering that Dumbledore had said it was the most important one he had
collected. Harry noticed that the contents proved difficult to empty into the Pensieve, as though they had congealed slightly; did memories go bad?
“This will not take long,” said Dumbledore, when he had finally emptied the phial. “We shall be back before you know it. Once more into the Pensieve, then...”
And Harry fell again through the silver surface, landing this time right in front of a man he recognized at once.
It was a much younger Horace Slughorn. Harry was so used to him bald that he found the sight of Slughorn with thick, shiny, straw-colored hair quite disconcerting; it
looked as though he had had his head thatched, though there was already a shiny Galleon-sized bald patch on his crown. His mustache, less massive than it was these
days, was gingery-blond. He was not quite as rotund as the Slughorn Harry knew, though the golden buttons on his richly embroidered waistcoat were taking a fair amount
of strain. His little feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, he was sitting well back in a comfortable winged armchair, one hand grasping a small glass of wine, the other
searching through a box of crystalized pineapple.
Harry looked around as Dumbledore appeared beside him and saw that they were standing in Slughorn's office. Half a dozen boys were sitting around Slughorn, all on
harder or lower seats than his, and all in their mid-teens. Harry recognized Voldemort at once. His was the most handsome face and he looked the most relaxed of all the
boys. His right hand lay negligently upon the arm of his chair; with a jolt, Harry saw that he was wearing Marvolo's gold-and-black ring; he had already killed his
father.
cast by —”
“Dobby,” growled Harry; this injustice still rankled. “So if you're underage and you do magic inside an adult witch or wizard's house, the Ministry won't know?”
“They will certainly be unable to tell who performed the magic,” said Dumbledore, smiling slightly at the look of great indignation on Harry's face. “They rely on
witch and wizard parents to enforce their offspring's obedience while within their walls.”
“Well, that's rubbish,” snapped Harry. “Look what happened here, look what happened to Morfin!”
“I agree,” said Dumbledore. “Whatever Morfin was, he did not deserve to die as he did, blamed for murders he had not committed. But it is getting late, and I want
you to see this other memory before we part...”
Dumbledore took from an inside pocket another crystal phial and Harry fell silent at once, remembering that Dumbledore had said it was the most important one he had
collected. Harry noticed that the contents proved difficult to empty into the Pensieve, as though they had congealed slightly; did memories go bad?
“This will not take long,” said Dumbledore, when he had finally emptied the phial. “We shall be back before you know it. Once more into the Pensieve, then...”
And Harry fell again through the silver surface, landing this time right in front of a man he recognized at once.
It was a much younger Horace Slughorn. Harry was so used to him bald that he found the sight of Slughorn with thick, shiny, straw-colored hair quite disconcerting; it
looked as though he had had his head thatched, though there was already a shiny Galleon-sized bald patch on his crown. His mustache, less massive than it was these
days, was gingery-blond. He was not quite as rotund as the Slughorn Harry knew, though the golden buttons on his richly embroidered waistcoat were taking a fair amount
of strain. His little feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, he was sitting well back in a comfortable winged armchair, one hand grasping a small glass of wine, the other
searching through a box of crystalized pineapple.
Harry looked around as Dumbledore appeared beside him and saw that they were standing in Slughorn's office. Half a dozen boys were sitting around Slughorn, all on
harder or lower seats than his, and all in their mid-teens. Harry recognized Voldemort at once. His was the most handsome face and he looked the most relaxed of all the
boys. His right hand lay negligently upon the arm of his chair; with a jolt, Harry saw that he was wearing Marvolo's gold-and-black ring; he had already killed his
father.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
which he gave to Harry and Ron along with two sets of tarnished scales.
which he gave to Harry and Ron along with two sets of tarnished scales.
“Now then,” said Slughorn, returning to the front of the class and inflating his already bulging chest so that the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to burst off,
“I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your
N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of ‘em, even if you haven't made ‘em yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?”
He indicated the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table. Harry raised himself slighty in his seat and saw what looked like plain water boiling away inside it.
Hermione's well-practiced hand hit the air before anybody else's; Slughorn pointed at her.
“It's Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion thar forces the drinker to tell the truth,” said Hermione.
“Very good, very good!” said Slughorn happily. “Now,” he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table, “this one here is pretty well known...
Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too... Who can—?”
Hermione's hand was fastest once more.
“lt's Polyjuice Potion, sir,” she said.
Harry too had recognized the slow-bubbling, mudlike substance the second cauldron, but did not resent Hermione getting the credit for answering the question; she, after
all, was the one who had succeeded in making it, back in their second year.
“Excellent, excellent! Now, this one her... yes, my dear?” said Slughorn, now looking slightly bemused, as Hermione's hand punched the air again.
“It's Amortentia!”
“It is indeed. Ir seems almost foolish to ask,” said Slughorn, who was looking mightily impressed, “but I assume you know what it does?”
“It's the most powerful love porion in the world!” said Hermione.
“Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?”
“And the steam rising in characteristic spirals,” said Hermione enthusiastically, “and it's supposed to smell differently to each of according to what attracts us,
and I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and—”
But she turned slightly pink and did not complete the sentence.
“May I ask your name, my dear?” said Slughorn, ignoring Hermione's embarrassment.
“Hermione Granger, sir.”
“Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?”
“No. I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born, you see.”
Harry saw Malfoy lean close to Nott and whisper something; both of them sniggered, but Slughorn showed no dismay; on the contrary, he beamed and looked from Hermione to
Harry, who was sitting next to her.
“Oho! ’One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year!’ I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?”
“Yes, sir,” said Harry.
“Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” said Slughorn genially.
Malfoy looked rather as he had done the time Hermione had punched him in the face. Hermione turned to Harry with a radiant expression and whispered, “Did you really
tell him I'm the best in the year? Oh, Harry!”
“Well, what's so impressive about that?” whispered Ron, who for some reason looked annoyed. “You are the best in the year—I'd've told him so if he'd asked me!”
Hermione smiled but made a “shushing” gesture, so that they could hear what Slughorn was saying. Ron looked slightly disgruntled.
“Amortentia doesn't really create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It
is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room—oh yes,” he said, nodding gravely at Malfoy and Nott, both of whom were smirking skeptically. “When
you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love...
“And now,” said Slughorn, “it is time for us to start work.”
“Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one,” said Ernie Macmillan, pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn's desk. The potion within was splashing
about merrily; it was the color of molten gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above the surface, though not a particle had spilled.
“Oho,” said Slughorn again. Harry was sure that Slughorn had not forgotten the potion at all, but had waited to be asked for dramatic effect. “Yes. That. Well, that
one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it,” he turned, smiling, to look at Hermione, who had let out an audible gasp,
“that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?”
“It's liquid luck,” said Hermione excitedly. “It makes you lucky!”
The whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter. Now all Harry could see of Malfoy was the back of his sleek blond head, because he was at last giving Slughorn his
full and undivided attention.
“Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn. “Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to
get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed ... at least until the effects wear off.”
“Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?” said Terry Boot eagerly.
“Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence,” said Slughorn. “Too much of a good thing, you know... highly toxic in
large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally...”
“Have you ever taken it, sir?” asked Michael Corner with great interest.
“Twice in my life,” said Slughorn. “Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days.”
“Now then,” said Slughorn, returning to the front of the class and inflating his already bulging chest so that the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to burst off,
“I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your
N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of ‘em, even if you haven't made ‘em yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?”
He indicated the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table. Harry raised himself slighty in his seat and saw what looked like plain water boiling away inside it.
Hermione's well-practiced hand hit the air before anybody else's; Slughorn pointed at her.
“It's Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion thar forces the drinker to tell the truth,” said Hermione.
“Very good, very good!” said Slughorn happily. “Now,” he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table, “this one here is pretty well known...
Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too... Who can—?”
Hermione's hand was fastest once more.
“lt's Polyjuice Potion, sir,” she said.
Harry too had recognized the slow-bubbling, mudlike substance the second cauldron, but did not resent Hermione getting the credit for answering the question; she, after
all, was the one who had succeeded in making it, back in their second year.
“Excellent, excellent! Now, this one her... yes, my dear?” said Slughorn, now looking slightly bemused, as Hermione's hand punched the air again.
“It's Amortentia!”
“It is indeed. Ir seems almost foolish to ask,” said Slughorn, who was looking mightily impressed, “but I assume you know what it does?”
“It's the most powerful love porion in the world!” said Hermione.
“Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?”
“And the steam rising in characteristic spirals,” said Hermione enthusiastically, “and it's supposed to smell differently to each of according to what attracts us,
and I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and—”
But she turned slightly pink and did not complete the sentence.
“May I ask your name, my dear?” said Slughorn, ignoring Hermione's embarrassment.
“Hermione Granger, sir.”
“Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?”
“No. I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born, you see.”
Harry saw Malfoy lean close to Nott and whisper something; both of them sniggered, but Slughorn showed no dismay; on the contrary, he beamed and looked from Hermione to
Harry, who was sitting next to her.
“Oho! ’One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year!’ I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?”
“Yes, sir,” said Harry.
“Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” said Slughorn genially.
Malfoy looked rather as he had done the time Hermione had punched him in the face. Hermione turned to Harry with a radiant expression and whispered, “Did you really
tell him I'm the best in the year? Oh, Harry!”
“Well, what's so impressive about that?” whispered Ron, who for some reason looked annoyed. “You are the best in the year—I'd've told him so if he'd asked me!”
Hermione smiled but made a “shushing” gesture, so that they could hear what Slughorn was saying. Ron looked slightly disgruntled.
“Amortentia doesn't really create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It
is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room—oh yes,” he said, nodding gravely at Malfoy and Nott, both of whom were smirking skeptically. “When
you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love...
“And now,” said Slughorn, “it is time for us to start work.”
“Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one,” said Ernie Macmillan, pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn's desk. The potion within was splashing
about merrily; it was the color of molten gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above the surface, though not a particle had spilled.
“Oho,” said Slughorn again. Harry was sure that Slughorn had not forgotten the potion at all, but had waited to be asked for dramatic effect. “Yes. That. Well, that
one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it,” he turned, smiling, to look at Hermione, who had let out an audible gasp,
“that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?”
“It's liquid luck,” said Hermione excitedly. “It makes you lucky!”
The whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter. Now all Harry could see of Malfoy was the back of his sleek blond head, because he was at last giving Slughorn his
full and undivided attention.
“Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn. “Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to
get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed ... at least until the effects wear off.”
“Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?” said Terry Boot eagerly.
“Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence,” said Slughorn. “Too much of a good thing, you know... highly toxic in
large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally...”
“Have you ever taken it, sir?” asked Michael Corner with great interest.
“Twice in my life,” said Slughorn. “Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days.”
He gazed dreamily into the distance
He gazed dreamily into the distance. Whether he was playacting or not, thought Harry, the effect was good.
“And that,” said Slughorn, apparently coming back to earth, “is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson.”
There was silence in which every bubble and gurgle of the surrounding potions seemed magnified tenfold.
“One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn, taking a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his pocket and showing it to them all. “Enough for twelve
hours’ luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt.”
“Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a banned substance in organized competition... sporting events, for instance, examinations, or elections. So the
winner is to use it on an ordinary day only... and watch how that ordinary day becomes extraordinary!”
“So,” said Slughorn, suddenly brisk, “how are you to win this fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of Advanced Potion Making. We have a little over an hour
left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and
I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!”
There was a scraping as everyone drew their cauldrons toward them and some loud clunks as people began adding weights to their scales, but nobody spoke. The
concentration within the room was almost tangible. Harry saw Malfoy riffling feverishly through his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. It could not have been clearer that
Malfoy really wanted that lucky day. Harry bent swiftly over the tattered book Slughorn had lent him.
To his annoyance he saw that the previous owner had scribbled all over the pages, so that the margins were as black as the printed portions. Bending low to decipher the
ingredients (even here, the previous owner had made annotations and crossed things out) Harry hurried off toward the store cupboard to find what he needed. As he dashed
back to his cauldron, he saw Malfoy cutting up Valerian roots as fast as he could.
Everyone kept glancing around at what the rest of the class was doing; this was both an advantage and a disadvantage of Potions, that it was hard to keep your work
private. Within ten minutes, the whole place was full of bluish steam. Hermione, of course, seemed to have progressed furthest. Her potion already resembled the
“smooth, black currant-colored liquid” mentioned as the ideal halfway stage.
Having finished chopping his roots, Harry bent low over his book again. It was really very irritating, having to try and decipher the directions under all the stupid
scribbles of the previous owner, who for some reason had taken issue with the order to cut up the sopophorous bean and had written in the alternative instruction:
Crush with flat side of silver dagger, releases juice better than cutting.
“Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?” Harry looked up; Slughorn was just passing the Slytherin table.
“Yes,” said Slughorn, without looking at Malfoy, “I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it wasn't unexpected, dragon pox at his age... ”
And he walked away. Harry bent back over his cauldron, smirking. He could tell that Malfoy had expected to be treated like Harry or Zabini; perhaps even hoped for some
preferential treatment of the type he had learned to expect from Snape. It looked as though Malfoy would have to rely on nothing but talent to win the bottle of Felix
Felicis.
The sopophorous bean was proving very difficult to cut up. Harry turned to Hermione.
“Can I borrow your silver knife?”
She nodded impatiently, not taking her eyes off her potion, which was still deep purple, though according to the book ought to be turning a light shade of lilac by now.
Harry crushed his bean with the flat side of the dagger. To his astonishment, it immediately exuded so much juice he was amazed the shriveled bean could have held it
all.
Hastily scooping it all into the cauldron he saw, to his surprise, that the potion immediately turned exactly the shade of lilac described by the textbook.
His annoyance with the previous owner vanishing on the spot, Harry now squinted at the next line of instructions. According the book, he had to stir counterclockwise
until the potion turned clear as water. According to the addition the previous owner made, however, he ought to add a clockwise stir after every seventh
counterclockwise stir. Could the old owner be right twice?
Harry stirred counterclockwise, held his breath, and stirred once clockwise. The effect was immediate. The potion turned pale pink.
“How are you doing that?” demanded Hermione, who was redfaced and whose hair was growing bushier and bushier in the fumes from her cauldron; her potion was still
resolutely purple.
“Add a clockwise stir—”
“No, no, the book says counterclockwise!” she snapped.
Harry shrugged and continued what he was doing. Seven stirs counterclockwise, one clockwise, pause... seven stirs counterclockwise, one stir clockwise...
Across the table, Ron was cursing fluently under his breath; his potion looked like liquid licorice. Harry glanced around. As far as he could see, no one else's potion
had turned as pale as his. He felt elated, something that had certainly never happened before in this dungeon.
“And time's... up!” called Slughorn. “Stop stirring, please!”
Slughorn moved slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons. He made no comment, but occasionally gave the potions a stir or a sniff. At last he reached the table
where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ernie were sitting. He smiled ruefully at the tarlike substance in Ron's cauldron. He passed over Ernie's navy concoction. Hermione's
potion he gave an approving nod. Then he saw Harry's, and a look of incredulous delight spread over his face.
“The clear winner!” he cried to the dungeon. “Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it's clear you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab hand at
“And that,” said Slughorn, apparently coming back to earth, “is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson.”
There was silence in which every bubble and gurgle of the surrounding potions seemed magnified tenfold.
“One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn, taking a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his pocket and showing it to them all. “Enough for twelve
hours’ luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt.”
“Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a banned substance in organized competition... sporting events, for instance, examinations, or elections. So the
winner is to use it on an ordinary day only... and watch how that ordinary day becomes extraordinary!”
“So,” said Slughorn, suddenly brisk, “how are you to win this fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of Advanced Potion Making. We have a little over an hour
left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and
I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!”
There was a scraping as everyone drew their cauldrons toward them and some loud clunks as people began adding weights to their scales, but nobody spoke. The
concentration within the room was almost tangible. Harry saw Malfoy riffling feverishly through his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. It could not have been clearer that
Malfoy really wanted that lucky day. Harry bent swiftly over the tattered book Slughorn had lent him.
To his annoyance he saw that the previous owner had scribbled all over the pages, so that the margins were as black as the printed portions. Bending low to decipher the
ingredients (even here, the previous owner had made annotations and crossed things out) Harry hurried off toward the store cupboard to find what he needed. As he dashed
back to his cauldron, he saw Malfoy cutting up Valerian roots as fast as he could.
Everyone kept glancing around at what the rest of the class was doing; this was both an advantage and a disadvantage of Potions, that it was hard to keep your work
private. Within ten minutes, the whole place was full of bluish steam. Hermione, of course, seemed to have progressed furthest. Her potion already resembled the
“smooth, black currant-colored liquid” mentioned as the ideal halfway stage.
Having finished chopping his roots, Harry bent low over his book again. It was really very irritating, having to try and decipher the directions under all the stupid
scribbles of the previous owner, who for some reason had taken issue with the order to cut up the sopophorous bean and had written in the alternative instruction:
Crush with flat side of silver dagger, releases juice better than cutting.
“Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?” Harry looked up; Slughorn was just passing the Slytherin table.
“Yes,” said Slughorn, without looking at Malfoy, “I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it wasn't unexpected, dragon pox at his age... ”
And he walked away. Harry bent back over his cauldron, smirking. He could tell that Malfoy had expected to be treated like Harry or Zabini; perhaps even hoped for some
preferential treatment of the type he had learned to expect from Snape. It looked as though Malfoy would have to rely on nothing but talent to win the bottle of Felix
Felicis.
The sopophorous bean was proving very difficult to cut up. Harry turned to Hermione.
“Can I borrow your silver knife?”
She nodded impatiently, not taking her eyes off her potion, which was still deep purple, though according to the book ought to be turning a light shade of lilac by now.
Harry crushed his bean with the flat side of the dagger. To his astonishment, it immediately exuded so much juice he was amazed the shriveled bean could have held it
all.
Hastily scooping it all into the cauldron he saw, to his surprise, that the potion immediately turned exactly the shade of lilac described by the textbook.
His annoyance with the previous owner vanishing on the spot, Harry now squinted at the next line of instructions. According the book, he had to stir counterclockwise
until the potion turned clear as water. According to the addition the previous owner made, however, he ought to add a clockwise stir after every seventh
counterclockwise stir. Could the old owner be right twice?
Harry stirred counterclockwise, held his breath, and stirred once clockwise. The effect was immediate. The potion turned pale pink.
“How are you doing that?” demanded Hermione, who was redfaced and whose hair was growing bushier and bushier in the fumes from her cauldron; her potion was still
resolutely purple.
“Add a clockwise stir—”
“No, no, the book says counterclockwise!” she snapped.
Harry shrugged and continued what he was doing. Seven stirs counterclockwise, one clockwise, pause... seven stirs counterclockwise, one stir clockwise...
Across the table, Ron was cursing fluently under his breath; his potion looked like liquid licorice. Harry glanced around. As far as he could see, no one else's potion
had turned as pale as his. He felt elated, something that had certainly never happened before in this dungeon.
“And time's... up!” called Slughorn. “Stop stirring, please!”
Slughorn moved slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons. He made no comment, but occasionally gave the potions a stir or a sniff. At last he reached the table
where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ernie were sitting. He smiled ruefully at the tarlike substance in Ron's cauldron. He passed over Ernie's navy concoction. Hermione's
potion he gave an approving nod. Then he saw Harry's, and a look of incredulous delight spread over his face.
“The clear winner!” he cried to the dungeon. “Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it's clear you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab hand at
Potions, Lily was! Here you are
Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here you are—one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!”
Harry slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his inner pocket, feeling an odd combination of delight at the furious looks on the Slytherins’ faces and guilt at
the disappointed expression on Hermione's. Ron looked simply dumbfounded.
“How did you do that?” he whispered to Harry as they left the dungeon.
“Got lucky, I suppose,” said Harry, because Malfoy was within earshot.
Once they were securely ensconced at the Gryffindor table for dinner, however, he felt safe enough to tell them. Hermione's face became stonier with every word he
uttered.
“I s'pose you think I cheated?” he finished, aggravated by her expression.
“Well, it wasn't exactly your own work, was it?” she said stiffly.
“He only followed different instructions to ours,” said Ron, “Could've been a catastrophe, couldn't it? But he took a risk and it paid off.” He heaved a sigh.
“Slughorn could've handed me that book, but no, I get the one no one's ever written on. Puked on, by the look of page fifty-two, but—”
“Hang on,” said a voice close by Harry's left ear and he caught a sudden waft of that flowery smell he had picked up in Slughorn's dungeon. He looked around and saw
that Ginny had joined them. “Did I hear right? You've been taking orders from something someone wrote in a book, Harry?”
She looked alarmed and angry. Harry knew what was on her mind at once.
“It's nothing,” he said reassuringly, lowering his voice. “It's not like, you know, Riddle's diary. It's just an old textbook someone's scribbled on.”
“But you're doing what it says?”
“I just tried a few of the tips written in the margins, honestly, Ginny, there's nothing funny—”
“Ginny's got a point,” said Hermione, perking up at once. “We ought to check that there's nothing odd about it. I mean, all these funny instructions, who knows?”
“Hey!” said Harry indignantly, as she pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and raised her wand.
“Specialis Revelio!” she said, rapping it smartly on the front cover. Nothing whatsoever happened. The book simply lay there, looking old and dirty and dog-eared.
“Finished?” said Harry irritably. “Or d'you want to wait and see if it does a few backflips?”
“It seems all right,” said Hermione, still staring at the book suspiciously. “I mean, it really does seem to be ... just a textbook.”
“Good. Then I'll have it back,” said Harry, snatching it off the table, but it slipped from his hand and landed open on the floor. Nobody else was looking. Harry bent
low to retrieve the book, and as he did so, he saw something scribbled along the bottom of the back cover in the same small, cramped handwriting as the instructions
that had won him his bottle of Felix Felicis, now safely hidden inside a pair of socks in his trunk upstairs.
This book is the property of the Half Blood Prince.
Harry slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his inner pocket, feeling an odd combination of delight at the furious looks on the Slytherins’ faces and guilt at
the disappointed expression on Hermione's. Ron looked simply dumbfounded.
“How did you do that?” he whispered to Harry as they left the dungeon.
“Got lucky, I suppose,” said Harry, because Malfoy was within earshot.
Once they were securely ensconced at the Gryffindor table for dinner, however, he felt safe enough to tell them. Hermione's face became stonier with every word he
uttered.
“I s'pose you think I cheated?” he finished, aggravated by her expression.
“Well, it wasn't exactly your own work, was it?” she said stiffly.
“He only followed different instructions to ours,” said Ron, “Could've been a catastrophe, couldn't it? But he took a risk and it paid off.” He heaved a sigh.
“Slughorn could've handed me that book, but no, I get the one no one's ever written on. Puked on, by the look of page fifty-two, but—”
“Hang on,” said a voice close by Harry's left ear and he caught a sudden waft of that flowery smell he had picked up in Slughorn's dungeon. He looked around and saw
that Ginny had joined them. “Did I hear right? You've been taking orders from something someone wrote in a book, Harry?”
She looked alarmed and angry. Harry knew what was on her mind at once.
“It's nothing,” he said reassuringly, lowering his voice. “It's not like, you know, Riddle's diary. It's just an old textbook someone's scribbled on.”
“But you're doing what it says?”
“I just tried a few of the tips written in the margins, honestly, Ginny, there's nothing funny—”
“Ginny's got a point,” said Hermione, perking up at once. “We ought to check that there's nothing odd about it. I mean, all these funny instructions, who knows?”
“Hey!” said Harry indignantly, as she pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and raised her wand.
“Specialis Revelio!” she said, rapping it smartly on the front cover. Nothing whatsoever happened. The book simply lay there, looking old and dirty and dog-eared.
“Finished?” said Harry irritably. “Or d'you want to wait and see if it does a few backflips?”
“It seems all right,” said Hermione, still staring at the book suspiciously. “I mean, it really does seem to be ... just a textbook.”
“Good. Then I'll have it back,” said Harry, snatching it off the table, but it slipped from his hand and landed open on the floor. Nobody else was looking. Harry bent
low to retrieve the book, and as he did so, he saw something scribbled along the bottom of the back cover in the same small, cramped handwriting as the instructions
that had won him his bottle of Felix Felicis, now safely hidden inside a pair of socks in his trunk upstairs.
This book is the property of the Half Blood Prince.
And he and Harry led the way into the shop.
And he and Harry led the way into the shop. It was packed with customers; Harry could not get near the shelves. He stared around, looking up at the boxes piled to the ceiling: here were the Skiving Snackboxes that the twins had perfected during their last, unfinished year at Hogwarts; Harry noticed that the Nosebleed Nougat was most popular, with only one battered box left on the shelf. There were bins full of trick wands, the cheapest merely turning into rubber chickens or pairs of briefs when waved, the most expensive beating the unwary user around the head and neck, and boxes of quills, which came in Self-Inking, Spell-Checking, and Smart-Answer varieties. A space cleared in the crowd, and Harry pushed his way toward 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 colored picture of a handsome youth and a swooning girl who were standing on the deck of a pirate ship.
“‘One simple incantation and you will enter a 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?” she asked.
“Course it is,” said Fred bracingly. “Come on, Harry, I'll give you a tour.”
Harry left Hermione dabbing her black eye with paste and followed Fred toward the back of the shop, where he saw a stand of card and rope tricks.
“Muggle magic tricks!” said Fred happily, pointing them out. “For freaks like Dad, you know, who love Muggle stuff. It's not a big earner, but we do fairly steady business, they're great novelties... Oh, here's George...”
Fred's twin shook Harry's hand energetically.
“Giving him the tour? Come through the back, Harry, that's where we're making the real money... pocket anything, you, and you'll pay in more than Galleons!” he added warningly to a small boy who hastily whipped his hand out of the tub labeled: Edible Dark 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 Defense Against the Dark Arts, because it's such a money spinner,” continued George enthusiastically. “This is cool. Look, Instant Darkness Powder, we're importing it from Peru. Handy if you want to make a quick escape.”
“And our Decoy Detonators are just walking off the shelves, look,” said Fred, pointing at a number of weird-looking black horn-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 around the curtain; Harry saw that she too was wearing magenta staff robes.
“There's a customer out here looking for a joke cauldron, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley,” she said.
Harry found it very odd to hear Fred and George called “Mr. Weasley,” but they took it in their stride.
“Right you are, Verity, I'm coming,” said George promptly. “Harry, you help yourself to anything you want, all right? No charge.”
“I can't do that!” said Harry, who had already pulled out his money bag to pay for the Decoy Detonators.
“You don't pay here,” said Fred firmly, waving away Harry's gold.
“But...”
“You gave us our 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 skeptically. “Do they work?” she asked.
“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 forward 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.
gucci outlet
louis vuitton outlet
chanel outlet store
nike outlet store
uggs outlet
uggs sale
cheap uggs
“‘Patented Daydream Charms’ ”
Hermione had managed to squeeze through to a large display near the counter and was reading the information on the back of a box bearing a highly colored picture of a handsome youth and a swooning girl who were standing on the deck of a pirate ship.
“‘One simple incantation and you will enter a 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?” she asked.
“Course it is,” said Fred bracingly. “Come on, Harry, I'll give you a tour.”
Harry left Hermione dabbing her black eye with paste and followed Fred toward the back of the shop, where he saw a stand of card and rope tricks.
“Muggle magic tricks!” said Fred happily, pointing them out. “For freaks like Dad, you know, who love Muggle stuff. It's not a big earner, but we do fairly steady business, they're great novelties... Oh, here's George...”
Fred's twin shook Harry's hand energetically.
“Giving him the tour? Come through the back, Harry, that's where we're making the real money... pocket anything, you, and you'll pay in more than Galleons!” he added warningly to a small boy who hastily whipped his hand out of the tub labeled: Edible Dark 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 Defense Against the Dark Arts, because it's such a money spinner,” continued George enthusiastically. “This is cool. Look, Instant Darkness Powder, we're importing it from Peru. Handy if you want to make a quick escape.”
“And our Decoy Detonators are just walking off the shelves, look,” said Fred, pointing at a number of weird-looking black horn-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 around the curtain; Harry saw that she too was wearing magenta staff robes.
“There's a customer out here looking for a joke cauldron, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley,” she said.
Harry found it very odd to hear Fred and George called “Mr. Weasley,” but they took it in their stride.
“Right you are, Verity, I'm coming,” said George promptly. “Harry, you help yourself to anything you want, all right? No charge.”
“I can't do that!” said Harry, who had already pulled out his money bag to pay for the Decoy Detonators.
“You don't pay here,” said Fred firmly, waving away Harry's gold.
“But...”
“You gave us our 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 skeptically. “Do they work?” she asked.
“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 forward 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.
gucci outlet
louis vuitton outlet
chanel outlet store
nike outlet store
uggs outlet
uggs sale
cheap uggs
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)