/ 




THE BOY WHO LIVED 

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, 
were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, 
thank you very much. They were the last people you’d 
expect to be involved in anything strange or 
mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such 
nonsense. 

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called 
Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy 
man with hardly any neck, although he did have a 
very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and 
blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of 
neck, which came in very useful as she spent so 
much of her time craning over garden fences, spying 
on the neighbors. The Dursley s had a small son 
called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer 
boy anywhere. 

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they 
also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that 
somebody would discover it. They didn’t think they 
could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. 
Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t 

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met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended 
she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her 
good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it 
was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think 
what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in 
the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a 
small son, too, but they had never even seen him. 

This boy was another good reason for keeping the 
Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a 
child like that. 

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray 
Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the 
cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and 
mysterious things would soon be happening all over 
the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out 
his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley 
gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming 
Dudley into his high chair. 

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past 
the window. 

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his 
briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and 
tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because 
Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his 
cereal at the walls. “Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley 
as he left the house. He got into his car and backed 
out of number four’s drive. 

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the 
first sign of something peculiar — a cat reading a 
map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize what he 
had seen — then he jerked his head around to look 
again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner 
of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What 
could he have been thinking of? It must have been a 
trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at 
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the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around 
the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his 
mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet 
Drive — no, looking at the sign; cats couldn’t read 
maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake 
and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward 
town he thought of nothing except a large order of 
drills he was hoping to get that day. 

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his 
mind by something else. As he sat in the usual 
morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that 
there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people 
about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear 
people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups 
you saw on young people! He supposed this was some 
stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the 
steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these 
weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering 
excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see 
that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that 
man had to be older than he was, and wearing an 
emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it 
struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly 
stunt — these people were obviously collecting for 
something ... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved 
on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the 
Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills. 

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in 
his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might 
have found it harder to concentrate on drills that 
morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in 
broad daylight, though people down in the street did; 
they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after 
owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an 
owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a 
perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five 
different people. He made several important telephone 
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calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good 
mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch 
his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a 
bun from the bakery. 

He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he 
passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed 
them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know why, but 
they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering 
excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single collecting 
tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a 
large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words 
of what they were saying. 

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

“ — yes, their son, Harry — ” 

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He 
looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say 
something to them, but thought better of it. 

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his 
office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, 
seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing 
his home number when he changed his mind. He put 
the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, 
thinking ... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn’t 
such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots 
of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. 
Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew 
was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It 
might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no 
point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so 
upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame 
her — if he’d had a sister like that ... but all the 
same, those people in cloaks ... 



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He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that 
afternoon and when he left the building at five o’clock, 
he was still so worried that he walked straight into 
someone just outside the door. 

“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled 
and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. 
Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet 
cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost 
knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split 
into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that 
made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, 
for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You- 
Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like 
yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy 
day!” 

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the 
middle and walked off. 

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been 
hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he 
had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was 
rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, 
hoping he was imagining things, which he had never 
hoped before, because he didn’t approve of 
imagination. 

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the 
first thing he saw — and it didn’t improve his mood — 
was the tabby cat he’d spotted that morning. It was 
now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the 
same one; it had the same markings around its eyes. 

“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly. 

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

Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. 
Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the 

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house. He was still determined not to mention 
anything to his wife. 

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told 
him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems 
with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new 
word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. 
When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the 
living room in time to catch the last report on the 
evening news: 

“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported 
that the nation’s owls have been behaving very 
unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at 
night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have 
been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in 
every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to 
explain why the owls have suddenly changed their 
sleeping pattern.” The newscaster allowed himself a 
grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim 
McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more 
showers of owls tonight, Jim?” 

“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about 
that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting 
oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, 
and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that 
instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a 
downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have 
been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it’s not until 
next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night 
tonight.” 

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars 
all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious 
people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a 
whisper about the Potters . . . 



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Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two 
cups of tea. It was no good. He’d have to say 
something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er 
— Petunia, dear — you haven’t heard from your sister 
lately, have you?” 

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and 
angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn’t 
have a sister. 

“No,” she said sharply. “Why?” 

“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbled. 
“Owls . . . shooting stars . . . and there were a lot of 
funny-looking people in town today ...” 

“So?” snapped Mrs. Dursley. 

“Well, I just thought ... maybe ... it was something to 
do with ... you know ... her crowd.” 

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. 
Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he’d 
heard the name “Potter.” He decided he didn’t dare. 
Instead he said, as casually as he could, “Their son — 
he’d be about Dudley’s age now, wouldn’t he?” 

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

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

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

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking 
horribly. “Yes, I quite agree.” 

He didn’t say another word on the subject as they 
went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the 
bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window 

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and peered down into the front garden. The cat was 
still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though 
it were waiting for something. 

Was he imagining things? Could all this have 
anything to do with the Potters? If it did ... if it got out 
that they were related to a pair of — well, he didn’t 
think he could bear it. 

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep 
quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over 
in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell 
asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, 
there was no reason for them to come near him and 
Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and 
Petunia thought about them and their kind. ... He 
couldn’t see how he and Petunia could get mixed up 
in anything that might be going on — he yawned and 
turned over — it couldn’t affect them. ... 

How very wrong he was. 

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy 
sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no 
sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, 
its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet 
Drive. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car door 
slammed on the next street, nor when two owls 
swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight 
before the cat moved at all. 

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been 
watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you’d 
have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. The 
cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed. 

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet 
Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the 
silver of his hair and beard, which were both long 

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enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long 
robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and 
high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, 
bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles 
and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it 
had been broken at least twice. This man’s name was 
Albus Dumbledore. 

Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that he had 
just arrived in a street where everything from his 
name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy 
rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But 
he did seem to realize he was being watched, because 
he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still 
staring at him from the other end of the street. For 
some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse 
him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have 
known.” 

He found what he was looking for in his inside 
pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He 
flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. 
The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He 
clicked it again — the next lamp flickered into 
darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, 
until the only lights left on the whole street were two 
tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of 
the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their 
window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they 
wouldn’t be able to see anything that was happening 
down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put- 
Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the 
street toward number four, where he sat down on the 
wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but after a 
moment he spoke to it. 

“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.” 



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He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. 
Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking 
woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the 
shape of the markings the cat had had around its 
eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. 
Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She 
looked distinctly ruffled. 

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

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

“You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all 
day,” said Professor McGonagall. 

“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I 
must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my 
way here.” 

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily. 

“Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” she said 
impatiently. “You’d think they’d be a bit more careful, 
but no — even the Muggles have noticed something’s 
going on. It was on their news.” She jerked her head 
back at the Dursleys’ dark living-room window. “I 
heard it. Flocks of owls ... shooting stars. ... Well, 
they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to 
notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent — I’ll 
bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much 
sense.” 

“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. 
“We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven 
years.” 

“I know that,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. 

“But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are 
being downright careless, out on the streets in broad 

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daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, 
swapping rumors.” 

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore 
here, as though hoping he was going to tell her 
something, but he didn’t, so she went on. “A fine 
thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who 
seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found 
out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, 
Dumbledore?” 

“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have 
much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon 
drop?” 

“A what?” 

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

“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as 
though she didn’t think this was the moment for 
lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who has 
gone — ” 

“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like 
yourself can call him by his name? All this You- 
Know-Who’ nonsense — for eleven years I have been 
trying to persuade people to call him by his proper 
name: Voldemort.” Professor McGonagall flinched, but 
Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, 
seemed not to notice. “It all gets so confusing if we 
keep saying You-Know-Who.’ I have never seen any 
reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort’s name.” 

“I know you haven’t,” said Professor McGonagall, 
sounding half exasperated, half admiring. “But you’re 
different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You- 
Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.” 

Page | 12 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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



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

“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since 
Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.” 

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at 
Dumbledore and said, “The owls are nothing next to 
the rumors that are flying around. You know what 
everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared? 

About what finally stopped him?” 

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the 
point she was most anxious to discuss, the real 
reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all 
day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she 
fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she 
did now. It was plain that whatever “everyone” was 
saying, she was not going to believe it until 
Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, 
however, was choosing another lemon drop and did 
not answer. 

“What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last 
night Voldemort turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He 
went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and 
James Potter are — are — that they’re — dead.” 

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall 
gasped. 

“Lily and James ... I can’t believe it ... I didn’t want to 
believe it ... Oh, Albus ...” 

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the 
shoulder. “I know ... I know ...” he said heavily. 

Page | 13 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went 
on. “That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the 
Potters’ son, Harry. But — he couldn’t. He couldn’t 
kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but 
they’re saying that when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter, 
Voldemort’s power somehow broke — and that’s why 
he’s gone.” 

Dumbledore nodded glumly. 

“It’s — it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After 
all he’s done ... all the people he’s killed ... he couldn’t 
kill a little boy? It’s just astounding ... of all the 
things to stop him . . . but how in the name of heaven 
did Harry survive?” 

“We can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “We may 
never know.” 

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief 
and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. 
Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden 
watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very 
odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; 
instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It 
must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, 
because he put it back in his pocket and said, 
“Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be 
here, by the way?” 

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don’t 
suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all 
places?” 

“I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. 
They’re the only family he has left now.” 

“You don’t mean — you can’t mean the people who 
live here?” cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her 

Page | 14 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone -J.K. Rowling 




feet and pointing at number four. “Dumbledore — you 
can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t 
find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got 
this son — I saw him kicking his mother all the way 
up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter 
come and live here!” 

“It’s the best place for him,” said Dumbledore firmly. 
“His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything 
to him when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter.” 

“A letter?” repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, 
sitting back down on the wall. “Really, Dumbledore, 
you think you can explain all this in a letter? These 
people will never understand him! He’ll be famous — 
a legend — I wouldn’t be surprised if today was 
known as Harry Potter Day in the future — there will 
be books written about Harry — every child in our 
world will know his name!” 

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously 
over the top of his half-moon glasses. “It would be 
enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous before he can 
walk and talk! Famous for something he won’t even 
remember! Can’t you see how much better off he’ll be, 
growing up away from all that until he’s ready to take 
it?” 



Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her 
mind, swallowed, and then said, “Yes — yes, you’re 
right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, 
Dumbledore?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though 
she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it. 

“Hagrid’s bringing him.” 

“You think it — wise — to trust Hagrid with 
something as important as this?” 



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

“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said 
Professor McGonagall grudgingly, “but you can’t 
pretend he’s not careless. He does tend to — what 
was that?” 

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around 
them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and 
down the street for some sign of a headlight; it 
swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky — 
and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed 
on the road in front of them. 

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man 
sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a 
normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked 
simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long 
tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his 
face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his 
feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In 
his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of 
blankets. 

“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At 
last. And where did you get that motorcycle?” 

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said the 
giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he 
spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, 
sir.” 

“No problems, were there?” 

“No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him 
out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’ 
around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.” 



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Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward 
over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a 
baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair 
over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped 
cut, like a bolt of lightning. 

“Is that where — ?” whispered Professor McGonagall. 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Hell have that scar forever.” 

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

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

I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect 
map of the London Underground. Well — give him 
here, Hagrid — we’d better get this over with.” 

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned 
toward the Dursleys’ house. 

“Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked 
Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry 
and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, 
whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl 
like a wounded dog. 

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

“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted 
handkerchief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c- 
can’t stand it — Lily an’ James dead — an’ poor little 
Harry off ter live with Muggles — ” 

“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, 
Hagrid, or we’ll be found,” Professor McGonagall 
whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as 
Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and 
walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the 
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doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it 
inside Harry’s blankets, and then came back to the 
other two. For a full minute the three of them stood 
and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders 
shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and 
the twinkling light that usually shone from 
Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out. 

“Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no 
business staying here. We may as well go and join the 
celebrations.” 

“Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’d best 
get this bike away. G ’night, Professor McGonagall — 
Professor Dumbledore, sir.” 

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid 
swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the 
engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off 
into the night. 

“I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” 
said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor 
McGonagall blew her nose in reply. 

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. 
On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put- 
Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light 
sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive 
glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a 
tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end 
of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets 
on the step of number four. 

“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned on his 
heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone. 

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which 
lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last 

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place you would expect astonishing things to happen. 
Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without 
waking up. One small hand closed on the letter 
beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was 
special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he 
would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs. 

Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put 
out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next 
few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin 
Dudley. ... He couldn’t know that at this very 
moment, people meeting in secret all over the country 
were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed 
voices: “To Harry Potter — the boy who lived!” 



Page | 19 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 






THE VANASHIG GLASS 

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had 
woken up to find their nephew on the front step, but 
Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun rose 
on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass 
number four on the Dursleys’ front door; it crept into 
their living room, which was almost exactly the same 
as it had been on the night when Mr. Dursley had 
seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the 
photographs on the mantelpiece really showed how 
much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been 
lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach 
ball wearing different-colored bonnets — but Dudley 
Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the 
photographs showed a large blond boy riding his first 
bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer 
game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his 
mother. The room held no sign at all that another boy 
lived in the house, too. 

Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, 
but not for long. His Aunt Petunia was awake and it 



Page | 20 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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

“Up! Get up! Now!” 

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

“Up!” she screeched. Harry heard her walking toward 
the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan 
being put on the stove. He rolled onto his back and 
tried to remember the dream he had been having. It 
had been a good one. There had been a flying 
motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling he’d had the 
same dream before. 

His aunt was back outside the door. 

“Are you up yet?” she demanded. 

“Nearly,” said Harry. 

“Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the 
bacon. And don’t you dare let it burn, I want 
everything perfect on Duddy’s birthday.” 

Harry groaned. 

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

“Nothing, nothing ...” 

Dudley’s birthday — how could he have forgotten? 
Harry got slowly out of bed and started looking for 
socks. He found a pair under his bed and, after 
pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry 
was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the 
stairs was full of them, and that was where he slept. 
Page | 21 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




When he was dressed he went down the hall into the 
kitchen. The table was almost hidden beneath all 
Dudley’s birthday presents. It looked as though 
Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not 
to mention the second television and the racing bike. 
Exactly why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a 
mystery to Harry, as Dudley was very fat and hated 
exercise — unless of course it involved punching 
somebody. Dudley’s favorite punching bag was Harry, 
but he couldn’t often catch him. Harry didn’t look it, 
but he was very fast. 

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark 
cupboard, but Harry had always been small and 
skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and 
skinnier than he really was because all he had to 
wear were old clothes of Dudley’s, and Dudley was 
about four times bigger than he was. Harry had a thin 
face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green 
eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a lot 
of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had 
punched him on the nose. The only thing Harry liked 
about his own appearance was a very thin scar on his 
forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He 
had had it as long as he could remember, and the 
first question he could ever remember asking his 
Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it. 

“In the car crash when your parents died,” she had 
said. “And don’t ask questions.” 

Don’t ask questions — that was the first rule for a 
quiet life with the Dursleys. 

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was 
turning over the bacon. 

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

Page | 22 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top 
of his newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a 
haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than the 
rest of the boys in his class put together, but it made 
no difference, his hair simply grew that way — all over 
the place. 

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in 
the kitchen with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like 
Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face, not much 
neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair 
that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia 
often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel — 
Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a 
wig. 

Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, 
which was difficult as there wasn’t much room. 
Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His 
face fell. 

“Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his mother and 
father. “That’s two less than last year.” 

“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, 
see, it’s here under this big one from Mommy and 
Daddy.” 

“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red 
in the face. Harry, who could see a huge Dudley 
tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon as 
fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over. 

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because 
she said quickly, “And we’ll buy you another two 
presents while we’re out today. How’s that, popkin? 
Two more presents. Is that all right?” 



Page | 23 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard 
work. Finally he said slowly, “So I’ll have thirty ... 
thirty ...” 

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

“Oh.” Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the 
nearest parcel. “All right then.” 

Uncle Vernon chuckled. 

“Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his 
father. ’Atta boy, Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair. 

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia 
went to answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon 
watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video 
camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new 
computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping the 
paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came 
back from the telephone looking both angry and 
worried. 

“Bad news, Vernon,” she said. “Mrs. Figg’s broken her 
leg. She can’t take him.” She jerked her head in 
Harry’s direction. 

Dudley’s mouth fell open in horror, but Harry’s heart 
gave a leap. Every year on Dudley’s birthday, his 
parents took him and a friend out for the day, to 
adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the 
movies. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs. 
Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away. 

Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of 
cabbage and Mrs. Figg made him look at photographs 
of all the cats she’d ever owned. 

“Now what?” said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at 
Harry as though he’d planned this. Harry knew he 

Page | 24 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




ought to feel sorry that Mrs. Figg had broken her leg, 
but it wasn’t easy when he reminded himself it would 
be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbies, 
Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty again. 

“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested. 

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

The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as 
though he wasn’t there — or rather, as though he was 
something very nasty that couldn’t understand them, 
like a slug. 

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

“On vacation in Majorca,” snapped Aunt Petunia. 

“You could just leave me here,” Harry put in hopefully 
(he’d be able to watch what he wanted on television 
for a change and maybe even have a go on Dudley’s 
computer) . 

Aunt Petunia looked as though she’d just swallowed a 
lemon. 

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

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

“I suppose we could take him to the zoo,” said Aunt 
Petunia slowly, "... and leave him in the car. ...” 

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



Page | 25 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn’t really 
crying — it had been years since he’d really cried — 
but he knew that if he screwed up his face and 
wailed, his mother would give him anything he 
wanted. 

“Dinky Duddydums, don’t cry, Mummy won’t let him 
spoil your special day!” she cried, flinging her arms 
around him. 

“I ... don’t ... want ... him ... t-t-to come!” Dudley 
yelled between huge, pretend sobs. “He always sp- 
spoils everything!” He shot Harry a nasty grin through 
the gap in his mothers arms. 

Just then, the doorbell rang — “Oh, good Lord, 
they’re here!” said Aunt Petunia frantically — and a 
moment later, Dudley’s best friend, Piers Polkiss, 
walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy 
with a face like a rat. He was usually the one who 
held people’s arms behind their backs while Dudley 
hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once. 

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn’t believe his 
luck, was sitting in the back of the Dursleys’ car with 
Piers and Dudley, on the way to the zoo for the first 
time in his life. His aunt and uncle hadn’t been able 
to think of anything else to do with him, but before 
they’d left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside. 

“I’m warning you,” he had said, putting his large 
purple face right up close to Harry’s, “I’m warning you 
now, boy — any funny business, anything at all — 
and you’ll be in that cupboard from now until 
Christmas.” 

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



Page | 26 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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



The problem was, strange things often happened 
around Harry and it was just no good telling the 
Dursleys he didn’t make them happen. 

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from 
the barbers looking as though he hadn’t been at all, 
had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair 
so short he was almost bald except for his bangs, 
which she left “to hide that horrible scar.” Dudley had 
laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a sleepless 
night imagining school the next day, where he was 
already laughed at for his baggy clothes and taped 
glasses. Next morning, however, he had gotten up to 
find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt 
Petunia had sheared it off. He had been given a week 
in his cupboard for this, even though he had tried to 
explain that he couldn’t explain how it had grown 
back so quickly. 

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force 
him into a revolting old sweater of Dudley’s (brown 
with orange puff balls). The harder she tried to pull it 
over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until 
finally it might have fitted a hand puppet, but 
certainly wouldn’t fit Harry. Aunt Petunia had decided 
it must have shrunk in the wash and, to his great 
relief, Harry wasn’t punished. 

On the other hand, he’d gotten into terrible trouble 
for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. 
Dudley’s gang had been chasing him as usual when, 
as much to Harry’s surprise as anyone else’s, there he 
was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had 
received a very angry letter from Harry’s headmistress 
telling them Harry had been climbing school 
buildings. But all he’d tried to do (as he shouted at 
Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his 
Page | 27 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans 
outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed that the 
wind must have caught him in mid-jump. 

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even 
worth being with Dudley and Piers to be spending the 
day somewhere that wasn’t school, his cupboard, or 
Mrs. Figg’s cabbage-smelling living room. 

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt 
Petunia. He liked to complain about things: people at 
work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank, and Harry 
were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning, 
it was motorcycles. 

"... roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums,” 
he said, as a motorcycle overtook them. 

“I had a dream about a motorcycle,” said Harry, 
remembering suddenly. “It was flying.” 

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He 
turned right around in his seat and yelled at Harry, 
his face like a gigantic beet with a mustache: 
“MOTORCYCLES DONT FLY!” 

Dudley and Piers sniggered. 

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

But he wished he hadn’t said anything. If there was 
one thing the Dursleys hated even more than his 
asking questions, it was his talking about anything 
acting in a way it shouldn’t, no matter if it was in a 
dream or even a cartoon — they seemed to think he 
might get dangerous ideas. 

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was 
crowded with families. The Dursleys bought Dudley 

Page | 28 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance 
and then, because the smiling lady in the van had 
asked Harry what he wanted before they could hurry 
him away, they bought him a cheap lemon ice pop. It 
wasn’t bad, either, Harry thought, licking it as they 
watched a gorilla scratching its head who looked 
remarkably like Dudley, except that it wasn’t blond. 

Harry had the best morning he’d had in a long time. 
He was careful to walk a little way apart from the 
Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers, who were starting 
to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, wouldn’t 
fall back on their favorite hobby of hitting him. They 
ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Dudley had a 
tantrum because his knickerbocker glory didn’t have 
enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him 
another one and Harry was allowed to finish the first. 

Harry felt, afterward, that he should have known it 
was all too good to last. 

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool 
and dark in there, with lit windows all along the 
walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes 
were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and 
stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, 
poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. 
Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It 
could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle 
Vernon’s car and crushed it into a trash can — but at 
the moment it didn’t look in the mood. In fact, it was 
fast asleep. 

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, 
staring at the glistening brown coils. 

“Make it move,” he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon 
tapped on the glass, but the snake didn’t budge. 



Page | 29 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“Do it again,” Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped 
the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake 
just snoozed on. 

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

Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently 
at the snake. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it 
had died of boredom itself — no company except 
stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass 
trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than 
having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only 
visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to 
wake you up; at least he got to visit the rest of the 
house. 

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, 
very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a 
level with Harry’s. 

It winked. 

Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if 
anyone was watching. They weren’t. He looked back 
at the snake and winked, too. 

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and 
Dudley, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave 
Harry a look that said quite plainly: 

“I get that all the time.” 

“I know,” Harry murmured through the glass, though 
he wasn’t sure the snake could hear him. “It must be 
really annoying.” 

The snake nodded vigorously. 

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

Page | 30 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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

Boa Constrictor, Brazil. 

“Was it nice there?” 

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again 
and Harry read on: This specimen was bred in the 
zoo. “Oh, I see — so you’ve never been to Brazil?” 

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout 
behind Harry made both of them jump. “DUDLEY! 
MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! 
YOU WONT BELIEVE WHAT IT’S DOING!” 

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he 
could. 

“Out of the way, you,” he said, punching Harry in the 
ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the 
concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no 
one saw how it happened — one second, Piers and 
Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the 
next, they had leapt back with howls of horror. 

Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa 
constrictor’s tank had vanished. The great snake was 
uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. 
People throughout the reptile house screamed and 
started running for the exits. 

As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have 
sworn a low, hissing voice said, “Brazil, here I come. 
... Thanksss, amigo.” 

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock. 



Page | 31 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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

The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of 
strong, sweet tea while he apologized over and over 
again. Piers and Dudley could only gibber. As far as 
Harry had seen, the snake hadn’t done anything 
except snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but 
by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon’s car, 
Dudley was telling them how it had nearly bitten off 
his leg, while Piers was swearing it had tried to 
squeeze him to death. But worst of all, for Harry at 
least, was Piers calming down enough to say, “Harry 
was talking to it, weren’t you, Harry?” 

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the 
house before starting on Harry. He was so angry he 
could hardly speak. He managed to say, “Go — 
cupboard — stay — no meals,” before he collapsed 
into a chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get 
him a large brandy. 

Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing 
he had a watch. He didn’t know what time it was and 
he couldn’t be sure the Dursleys were asleep yet. 

Until they were, he couldn’t risk sneaking to the 
kitchen for some food. 

He’d lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten 
miserable years, as long as he could remember, ever 
since he’d been a baby and his parents had died in 
that car crash. He couldn’t remember being in the car 
when his parents had died. Sometimes, when he 
strained his memory during long hours in his 
cupboard, he came up with a strange vision: a 
blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on his 
forehead. This, he supposed, was the crash, though 
he couldn’t imagine where all the green light came 
from. He couldn’t remember his parents at all. His 
Page | 32 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of 
course he was forbidden to ask questions. There were 
no photographs of them in the house. 

When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and 
dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take 
him away, but it had never happened; the Dursleys 
were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or 
maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to 
know him. Very strange strangers they were, too. A 
tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to him once 
while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. 
After asking Harry furiously if he knew the man, Aunt 
Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without 
buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed 
all in green had waved merrily at him once on a bus. 

A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually 
shaken his hand in the street the other day and then 
walked away without a word. The weirdest thing 
about all these people was the way they seemed to 
vanish the second Harry tried to get a closer look. 

At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that 
Dudley’s gang hated that odd Harry Potter in his 
baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and nobody 
liked to disagree with Dudley’s gang. 



Page | 33 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




3 




THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE 

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned 
Harry his longest-ever punishment. By the time he 
was allowed out of his cupboard again, the summer 
holidays had started and Dudley had already broken 
his new video camera, crashed his remote control 
airplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, 
knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet 
Drive on her crutches. 

Harry was glad school was over, but there was no 
escaping Dudley’s gang, who visited the house every 
single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon were 
all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and 
stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of 
them were all quite happy to join in Dudley’s favorite 
sport: Harry Hunting. 

This was why Harry spent as much time as possible 
out of the house, wandering around and thinking 
about the end of the holidays, where he could see a 
tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be 
going off to secondary school and, for the first time in 
Page | 34 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 



his life, he wouldn’t be with Dudley. Dudley had been 
accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old private school, 
Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, 
on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the 
local public school. Dudley thought this was very 
funny. 

“They stuff people’s heads down the toilet the first day 
at Stonewall,” he told Harry. “Want to come upstairs 
and practice?” 

“No, thanks,” said Harry. “The poor toilet’s never had 
anything as horrible as your head down it — it might 
be sick.” Then he ran, before Dudley could work out 
what he’d said. 

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London 
to buy his Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. 
Figg’s. Mrs. Figg wasn’t as bad as usual. It turned out 
she’d broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and 
she didn’t seem quite as fond of them as before. She 
let Harry watch television and gave him a bit of 
chocolate cake that tasted as though she’d had it for 
several years. 

That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room 
for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings 
boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, 
and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried 
knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the 
teachers weren’t looking. This was supposed to be 
good training for later life. 

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, 
Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest 
moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and 
said she couldn’t believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, 
he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn’t 



Page | 35 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs 
might already have cracked from trying not to laugh. 




There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next 
morning when Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed 
to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. He 
went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked 
like dirty rags swimming in gray water. 

“What’s this?” he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips 
tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a 
question. 

“Your new school uniform,” she said. 

Harry looked in the bowl again. 

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

“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Aunt Petunia. “I’m dyeing 
some of Dudley’s old things gray for you. It’ll look just 
like everyone else’s when I’ve finished.” 

Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not 
to argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to 
think about how he was going to look on his first day 
at Stonewall High — like he was wearing bits of old 
elephant skin, probably. 

Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with 
wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry’s new 
uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as 
usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which 
he carried everywhere, on the table. 

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters 
on the doormat. 

Page | 36 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“Get the mail, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon from 
behind his paper. 

“Make Harry get it.” 

“Get the mail, Harry.” 

“Make Dudley get it.” 

“Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley.” 

Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the 
mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard 
from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was 
vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope 
that looked like a bill, and — a letter for Harry. 

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging 
like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole 
life, had written to him. Who would? He had no 
friends, no other relatives — he didn’t belong to the 
library, so he’d never even got rude notes asking for 
books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so 
plainly there could be no mistake: 

Mr. H. Potter 

The Cupboard under the Stairs 
4 Privet Drive 
Little Whinging 
Surrey 

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish 
parchment, and the address was written in emerald- 
green ink. There was no stamp. 



Page | 37 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry 
saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, 
an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large 
letter H. 

“Hurry up, boy!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the 
kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter 
bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke. 

Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his 
letter. He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the 
postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the 
yellow envelope. 

Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, 
and flipped over the postcard. 

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

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

Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which 
was written on the same heavy parchment as the 
envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of his hand 
by Uncle Vernon. 

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

“Who’d be writing to you?” sneered Uncle Vernon, 
shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at 
it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of 
traffic lights. And it didn’t stop there. Within seconds 
it was the grayish white of old porridge. 

“P-P-Petunia!” he gasped. 



Page | 38 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle 
Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia 
took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment 
it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her 
throat and made a choking noise. 

“Vernon! Oh my goodness — Vernon!” 

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten 
that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley 
wasn’t used to being ignored. He gave his father a 
sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick. 

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

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

“Get out, both of you,” croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing 
the letter back inside its envelope. 

Harry didn’t move. 

“I WANT MY LETTER!” he shouted. 

“Let me see it!” demanded Dudley. 

“OUT!” roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry 
and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw 
them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind 
them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but 
silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; 
Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one 
ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack 
between door and floor. 

“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering 
voice, “look at the address — how could they possibly 
know where he sleeps? You don’t think they’re 
watching the house?” 

Page | 39 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“Watching — spying — might be following us,” 
muttered Uncle Vernon wildly. 

“But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write 
back? Tell them we don’t want — ” 

Harry could see Uncle Vernon’s shiny black shoes 
pacing up and down the kitchen. 

“No,” he said finally. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they don’t 
get an answer. ... Yes, that’s best ... we won’t do 
anything. ...” 

“But — ” 

“I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn’t we 
swear when we took him in we’d stamp out that 
dangerous nonsense?” 

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle 
Vernon did something he’d never done before; he 
visited Harry in his cupboard. 

“Where’s my letter?” said Harry, the moment Uncle 
Vernon had squeezed through the door. “Who’s 
writing to me?” 

“No one. It was addressed to you by mistake,” said 
Uncle Vernon shortly. “I have burned it.” 

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

“SILENCE!” yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of 
spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep 
breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which 
looked quite painful. 



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“Er — yes, Harry — about this cupboard. Your aunt 
and I have been thinking ... you’re really getting a bit 
big for it . . . we think it might be nice if you moved 
into Dudley’s second bedroom.” 

“Why?” said Harry. 

“Don’t ask questions!” snapped his uncle. “Take this 
stuff upstairs, now.” 

The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for 
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors 
(usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where 
Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys 
and things that wouldn’t fit into his first bedroom. It 
only took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything 
he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat 
down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly 
everything in here was broken. The month-old video 
camera was lying on top of a small, working tank 
Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor’s 
dog; in the corner was Dudley’s first-ever television 
set, which he’d put his foot through when his favorite 
program had been canceled; there was a large 
birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley 
had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was 
up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudley 
had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They 
were the only things in the room that looked as 
though they’d never been touched. 

From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling 
at his mother, “I don’t want him in there ... I need 
that room ... make him get out. ...” 

Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday 
he’d have given anything to be up here. Today he’d 
rather be back in his cupboard with that letter than 
up here without it. 

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Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. 
Dudley was in shock. He’d screamed, whacked his 
father with his Smelting stick, been sick on purpose, 
kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through 
the greenhouse roof, and he still didn’t have his room 
back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday 
and bitterly wishing he’d opened the letter in the hall. 
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each 
other darkly. 

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to 
be trying to be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get 
it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting 
stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, 
“There’s another one! ‘Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest 
Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive — ’ ” 

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his 
seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. 
Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to 
get the letter from him, which was made difficult by 
the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around 
the neck from behind. After a minute of confused 
fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the 
Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, 
gasping for breath, with Harry’s letter clutched in his 
hand. 

“Go to your cupboard — I mean, your bedroom,” he 
wheezed at Harry. “Dudley — go — just go.” 

Harry walked round and round his new room. 
Someone knew he had moved out of his cupboard and 
they seemed to know he hadn’t received his first 
letter. Surely that meant they’d try again? And this 
time he’d make sure they didn’t fail. He had a plan. 

The repaired alarm clock rang at six o’clock the next 
morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed 

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silently. He mustn’t wake the Dursleys. He stole 
downstairs without turning on any of the lights. 

He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of 
Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. 
His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall 
toward the front door — 

“AAAAARRRGH ! ” 

Harry leapt into the air; he’d trodden on something 
big and squashy on the doormat — something alive\ 

Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry 
realized that the big, squashy something had been his 
uncle’s face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot 
of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making 
sure that Harry didn’t do exactly what he’d been 
trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an 
hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. 
Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by 
the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into 
Uncle Vernon’s lap. Harry could see three letters 
addressed in green ink. 

“I want — ” he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing 
the letters into pieces before his eyes. 

Uncle Vernon didn’t go to work that day. He stayed at 
home and nailed up the mail slot. 

“See,” he explained to Aunt Petunia through a 
mouthful of nails, “if they can’t deliver them they’ll 
just give up.” 

“I’m not sure that’ll work, Vernon.” 

“Oh, these peoples minds work in strange ways, 
Petunia, they’re not like you and me,” said Uncle 

Page | 43 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone -J.K. Rowling 




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

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for 
Harry. As they couldn’t go through the mail slot they 
had been pushed under the door, slotted through the 
sides, and a few even forced through the small 
window in the downstairs bathroom. 

Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all 
the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and 
boarded up the cracks around the front and back 
doors so no one could go out. He hummed “Tiptoe 
Through the Tulips” as he worked, and jumped at 
small noises. 

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. 
Twenty-four letters to Harry found their way into the 
house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two 
dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had 
handed Aunt Petunia through the living room 
window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone 
calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find 
someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the 
letters in her food processor. 

“Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?” 
Dudley asked Harry in amazement. 







On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the 
breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy. 

“No post on Sundays,” he reminded them cheerfully 
as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, “no 
damn letters today — ” 



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Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney 
as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of 
the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came 
pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys 
ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch 
one — 

“Out! OUT!” 

Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and 
threw him into the hall. When Aunt Petunia and 
Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces, 
Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could 
hear the letters still streaming into the room, 
bouncing off the walls and floor. 

“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak 
calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at 
the same time. “I want you all back here in five 
minutes ready to leave. We’re going away. Just pack 
some clothes. No arguments!” 

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache 
missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later 
they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up 
doors and were in the car, speeding toward the 
highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his 
father had hit him round the head for holding them 
up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and 
computer in his sports bag. 

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn’t 
dare ask where they were going. Every now and then 
Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in 
the opposite direction for a while. 

“Shake ’em off ... shake ’em off,” he would mutter 
whenever he did this. 



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They didn’t stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall 
Dudley was howling. He’d never had such a bad day 
in his life. He was hungry, he’d missed five television 
programs he’d wanted to see, and he’d never gone so 
long without blowing up an alien on his computer. 

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy- 
looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley 
and Harry shared a room with twin beds and damp, 
musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake, 
sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of 
passing cars and wondering... 

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on 
toast for breakfast the next day. They had just 
finished when the owner of the hotel came over to 
their table. 

“ ’Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I 
got about an ’undred of these at the front desk.” 

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

Mr. H. Potter 

Room 1 7 

Railview Hotel 

Cokeworth 

Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon 
knocked his hand out of the way. The woman stared. 

“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up 
quickly and following her from the dining room. 



Page | 46 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“Wouldn’t it be better just to go home, dear?” Aunt 
Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle 
Vernon didn’t seem to hear her. Exactly what he was 
looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into 
the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook 
his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. 
The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed 
field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the 
top of a multilevel parking garage. 

“Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley asked Aunt 
Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had 
parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, 
and disappeared. 

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

“It’s Monday,” he told his mother. “The Great 
Humberto’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with 
a television.” 

Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was 
Monday — and you could usually count on Dudley to 
know the days of the week, because of television — 
then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry’s eleventh 
birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly 
fun — last year, the Dursleys had given him a coat 
hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks. Still, 
you weren’t eleven every day. 

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was 
also carrying a long, thin package and didn’t answer 
Aunt Petunia when she asked what he’d bought. 

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

Everyone out!” 



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It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was 
pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at 
sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most 
miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing 
was certain, there was no television in there. 

“Storm forecast for tonight!” said Uncle Vernon 
gleefully, clapping his hands together. “And this 
gentleman’s kindly agreed to lend us his boat!” 

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, 
pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat 
bobbing in the iron-gray water below them. 

“I’ve already got us some rations,” said Uncle Vernon, 
“so all aboard!” 

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain 
crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped 
their faces. After what seemed like hours they 
reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and 
sliding, led the way to the broken-down house. 

The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of 
seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the 
wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. 
There were only two rooms. 

Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of chips 
each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the 
empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up. 

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

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought 
nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a 
storm to deliver mail. Harry privately agreed, though 
the thought didn’t cheer him up at all. 

Page | 48 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




As night fell, the promised storm blew up around 
them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls 
of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy 
windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in 
the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on 
the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off 
to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find 
the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under 
the thinnest, most ragged blanket. 

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the 
night went on. Harry couldn’t sleep. He shivered and 
turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach 
rumbling with hunger. Dudley’s snores were drowned 
by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. 
The lighted dial of Dudley’s watch, which was 
dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told 
Harry he’d be eleven in ten minutes’ time. He lay and 
watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the 
Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the 
letter writer was now. 

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak 
outside. He hoped the roof wasn’t going to fall in, 
although he might be warmer if it did. Four minutes 
to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so 
full of letters when they got back that he’d be able to 
steal one somehow. 

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard 
on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what 
was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock 
crumbling into the sea? 

One minute to go and he’d be eleven. Thirty seconds 
... twenty ... ten ... nine — maybe he’d wake Dudley 
up, just to annoy him — three ... two ... one ... 

BOOM. 

Page | 49 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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



Page | 50 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 






THE KEEPER OF THE KEYS 

BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake. 

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

There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon 
came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in 
his hands — now they knew what had been in the 
long, thin package he had brought with them. 

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

There was a pause. Then — 

SMASH! 

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean 
off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat 
on the floor. 

A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His 
face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy 
mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could 

Page | 51 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 



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

The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so 
that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, 
picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its 
frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. 
He turned to look at them all. 

“Couldn’t make us a cup o’ tea, could yeh? It’s not 
been an easy journey. ...” 

He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen 
with fear. 

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

Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother, 
who was crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon. 

“An’ here’s Harry!” said the giant. 

Harry looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face 
and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile. 

“Las’ time I saw you, you was only a baby,” said the 
giant. “Yeh look a lot like yer dad, but yeh’ve got yer 
mom’s eyes.” 

Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise. 

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

“Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune,” said the 
giant; he reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the 
gun out of Uncle Vernon’s hands, bent it into a knot 
as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw 
it into a corner of the room. 

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Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a 
mouse being trodden on. 

“Anyway — Harry,” said the giant, turning his back 
on the Dursleys, “a very happy birthday to yeh. Got 
summat fer yeh here — I mighta sat on it at some 
point, but it’ll taste all right.” 

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled 
a slightly squashed box. Harry opened it with 
trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate 
cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in green 
icing. 

Harry looked up at the giant. He meant to say thank 
you, but the words got lost on the way to his mouth, 
and what he said instead was, “Who are you?” 

The giant chuckled. 

“True, I haven’t introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, 
Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.” 

He held out an enormous hand and shook Harry’s 
whole arm. 

“What about that tea then, eh?” he said, rubbing his 
hands together. “I’d not say no ter summat stronger if 
yeh’ve got it, mind.” 

His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled 
chip bags in it and he snorted. He bent down over the 
fireplace; they couldn’t see what he was doing but 
when he drew back a second later, there was a 
roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with 
flickering light and Harry felt the warmth wash over 
him as though he’d sunk into a hot bath. 



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The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged 
under his weight, and began taking all sorts of things 
out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a 
squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, 
several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber 
liquid that he took a swig from before starting to 
make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and 
smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while 
the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat, 
juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley 
fidgeted a little. Uncle Vernon said sharply, “Don’t 
touch anything he gives you, Dudley.” 

The giant chuckled darkly. 

“Yer great puddin’ of a son don’ need fattenin’ 
anymore, Dursley, don’ worry.” 

He passed the sausages to Harry, who was so hungry 
he had never tasted anything so wonderful, but he 
still couldn’t take his eyes off the giant. Finally, as 
nobody seemed about to explain anything, he said, 
“I’m sorry, but I still don’t really know who you are.” 

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with 
the back of his hand. 

“Call me Hagrid,” he said, “everyone does. An’ like I 
told yeh, I’m Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts — yeh’ll 
know all about Hogwarts, o’ course.” 

“Er — no,” said Harry. 

Hagrid looked shocked. 

“Sorry,” Harry said quickly. 

“Sorry?” barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the 
Dursleys, who shrank back into the shadows. “It’s 

Page | 54 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




them as should be sorry! I knew yeh weren’t gettin’ 
yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn’t even 
know abou’ Hogwarts, fer cryin’ out loud! Did yeh 
never wonder where yer parents learned it all?” 

“All what?” asked Harry. 

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

He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill 
the whole hut. The Dursleys were cowering against 
the wall. 

“Do you mean ter tell me,” he growled at the Dursleys, 
“that this boy — this boy! — knows nothin’ abou’ — 
about ANYTHING?” 

Harry thought this was going a bit far. He had been to 
school, after all, and his marks weren’t bad. 

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

But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, “About 
our world, I mean. Your world. My world. Yer parents’ 
world.” 

“What world?” 

Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode. 
“DURSLEY!” he boomed. 

Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered 
something that sounded like “Mimblewimble.” Hagrid 
stared wildly at Harry. 



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“But yeh must know about yer mom and dad,” he 
said. “I mean, they’re famous. You’re famous.” 

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

“Yeh don’ know ... yeh don’ know ...” Hagrid ran his 
fingers through his hair, fixing Harry with a 
bewildered stare. 

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

Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice. 

“Stop!” he commanded. “Stop right there, sir! I forbid 
you to tell the boy anything!” 

A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have 
quailed under the furious look Hagrid now gave him; 
when Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled with 
rage. 

“You never told him? Never told him what was in the 
letter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw 
Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An’ you’ve kept it from 
him all these years?” 

“Kept what from me?” said Harry eagerly. 

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

Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror. 

“Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh,” said Hagrid. 
“Harry — yer a wizard.” 

There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and 
the whistling wind could be heard. 



Page | 56 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“I’m a what?” gasped Harry. 



“A wizard, o’ course,” said Hagrid, sitting back down 
on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, “an’ 
a thumpin’ good’un, I’d say, once yeh’ve been trained 
up a bit. With a mum an’ dad like yours, what else 
would yeh be? An’ I reckon it’s abou’ time yeh read 
yer letter.” 

Harry stretched out his hand at last to take the 
yellowish envelope, addressed in emerald green to Mr. 
H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. He 
pulled out the letter and read: 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL 
o/WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY 

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE 

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

Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of 
Wizards) 

Dear Mr. Potter, 

We are pleased to inform you that you have been 
accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and 
Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary 
books and equipment. 

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no 
later than July 31. 

Yours sincerely, 

Minerva McGonagall, 

Deputy Headmistress 



Page | 57 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




Questions exploded inside Harry’s head like fireworks 
and he couldn’t decide which to ask first. After a few 
minutes he stammered, “What does it mean, they 
await my owl?” 

“Gallopin’ Gorgons, that reminds me,” said Hagrid, 
clapping a hand to his forehead with enough force to 
knock over a cart horse, and from yet another pocket 
inside his overcoat he pulled an owl — a real, live, 
rather ruffled-looking owl — a long quill, and a roll of 
parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he 
scribbled a note that Harry could read upside down: 

Dear Professor Dumbledore, 

Given Harry his letter. 

Taking him to buy his things tomorrow. 

Weather’s horrible. Hope you’re well. 

Hagrid 

Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which 
clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw 
the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and 
sat down as though this was as normal as talking on 
the telephone. 

Harry realized his mouth was open and closed it 
quickly. 

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

Uncle Vernon, still ashen-faced but looking very 
angry, moved into the firelight. 

“He’s not going,” he said. 

Hagrid grunted. 

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



“A what?” said Harry, interested. 

“A Muggle,” said Hagrid, “it’s what we call nonmagic 
folk like them. An’ it’s your bad luck you grew up in a 
family o’ the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on.” 

“We swore when we took him in we’d put a stop to 
that rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon, “swore we’d stamp 
it out of him! Wizard indeed!” 

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

“Knew!” shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. “Knew\ Of 
course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted 
sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just 
like that and disappeared off to that — that school — 
and came home every vacation with her pockets full 
of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the 
only one who saw her for what she was — a freak! 

But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this 
and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in 
the family!” 

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went 
ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all 
this for years. 

“Then she met that Potter at school and they left and 
got married and had you, and of course I knew you’d 
be just the same, just as strange, just as — as — 
abnormal — and then, if you please, she went and got 
herself blown up and we got landed with you!” 



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Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his 
voice he said, “Blown up? You told me they died in a 
car crash!” 

“CAR CRASH!” roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily 
that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. “How 
could a car crash kill Lily an’ James Potter? It’s an 
outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowin’ his own 
story when every kid in our world knows his name!” 

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

The anger faded from Hagrid’s face. He looked 
suddenly anxious. 

“I never expected this,” he said, in a low, worried 
voice. “I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there 
might be trouble gettin’ hold of yeh, how much yeh 
didn’t know. Ah, Harry, I don’ know if I’m the right 
person ter tell yeh — but someone’s gotta — yeh can’t 
go off ter Hogwarts not knowin’.” 

He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys. 

“Well, it’s best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh — 
mind, I can’t tell yeh everythin’, it’s a great myst’ry, 
parts of it. ...” 

He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, 
and then said, “It begins, I suppose, with — with a 
person called — but it’s incredible yeh don’t know his 
name, everyone in our world knows — ” 

“Who?” 

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

“Why not?” 

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“Gulpin’ gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. 
Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard 
who went ... bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. 
Worse than worse. His name was ...” 

Hagrid gulped, but no words came out. 

“Could you write it down?” Harry suggested. 

“Nah — can’t spell it. All right — Voldemort.” Hagrid 
shuddered. “Don’ make me say it again. Anyway, this 
— this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started 
lookin’ fer followers. Got ’em, too — some were afraid, 
some just wanted a bit o’ his power, ’cause he was 
gettin’ himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. 
Didn’t know who ter trust, didn’t dare get friendly 
with strange wizards or witches . . . terrible things 
happened. He was takin’ over. ’Course, some stood up 
to him — an’ he killed ’em. Horribly. One o’ the only 
safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore’s 
the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn’t dare 
try takin’ the school, not jus’ then, anyway. 

“Now, yer mum an’ dad were as good a witch an’ 
wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an’ girl at Hogwarts 
in their day! Suppose the myst’ry is why You-Know- 
Who never tried to get ’em on his side before . . . 
probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter 
want anythin’ ter do with the Dark Side. 

“Maybe he thought he could persuade ’em ... maybe 
he just wanted ’em outta the way. All anyone knows 
is, he turned up in the village where you was all 
living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a 
year old. He came ter yer house an’ — an’ — ” 

Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted 
handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a 
foghorn. 

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



“You-Know-Who killed ’em. An’ then — an’ this is the 
real myst’ry of the thing — he tried to kill you, too. 
Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or 
maybe he just liked killin’ by then. But he couldn’t do 
it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer 
forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That’s what yeh 
get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh — took 
care of yer mum an’ dad an’ yer house, even — but it 
didn’t work on you, an’ that’s why yer famous, Harry. 
No one ever lived after he decided ter kill ’em, no one 
except you, an’ he’d killed some o’ the best witches 
an’ wizards of the age — the McKinnons, the Bones, 
the Prewetts — an’ you was only a baby, an’ you 
lived.” 

Something very painful was going on in Harry’s mind. 
As Hagrid’s story came to a close, he saw again the 
blinding flash of green light, more clearly than he had 
ever remembered it before — and he remembered 
something else, for the first time in his life: a high, 
cold, cruel laugh. 

Hagrid was watching him sadly. 

“Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on 
Dumbledore’s orders. Brought yeh ter this lot ...” 

“Load of old tosh,” said Uncle Vernon. Harry jumped; 
he had almost forgotten that the Dursleys were there. 
Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to have got back his 
courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were 
clenched. 

“Now, you listen here, boy,” he snarled, “I accept 
there’s something strange about you, probably 

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nothing a good beating wouldn’t have cured — and as 
for all this about your parents, well, they were 
weirdos, no denying it, and the world’s better off 
without them in my opinion — asked for all they got, 
getting mixed up with these wizarding types — just 
what I expected, always knew they’d come to a sticky 
end — ” 

But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and 
drew a battered pink umbrella from inside his coat. 
Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, he said, 
“I’m warning you, Dursley — I’m warning you — one 
more word ...” 

In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella 
by a bearded giant, Uncle Vernon’s courage failed 
again; he flattened himself against the wall and fell 
silent. 

“That’s better,” said Hagrid, breathing heavily and 
sitting back down on the sofa, which this time sagged 
right down to the floor. 

Harry, meanwhile, still had questions to ask, 
hundreds of them. 

“But what happened to Vol-, sorry — I mean, You- 
Know-Who?” 

“Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same 
night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more 
famous. That’s the biggest myst’ry, see ... he was 
gettin’ more an’ more powerful — why’d he go? 

“Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno 
if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say 
he’s still out there, bidin’ his time, like, but I don’ 
believe it. People who was on his side came back ter 



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ours. Some of ’em came outta kinda trances. Don’ 
reckon they could’ve done if he was cornin’ back. 

“Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere but 
lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. ’Cause 
somethin’ about you finished him, Harry. There was 
somethin’ goin’ on that night he hadn’t counted on — 
/ dunno what it was, no one does — but somethin’ 
about you stumped him, all right.” 

Hagrid looked at Harry with warmth and respect 
blazing in his eyes, but Harry, instead of feeling 
pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had been a 
horrible mistake. A wizard? Him? How could he 
possibly be? He’d spent his life being clouted by 
Dudley, and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle 
Vernon; if he was really a wizard, why hadn’t they 
been turned into warty toads every time they’d tried 
to lock him in his cupboard? If he’d once defeated the 
greatest sorcerer in the world, how come Dudley had 
always been able to kick him around like a football? 

“Hagrid,” he said quietly, “I think you must have 
made a mistake. I don’t think I can be a wizard.” 

To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled. 

“Not a wizard, eh? Never made things happen when 
you was scared or angry?” 

Harry looked into the fire. Now he came to think 
about it . . . every odd thing that had ever made his 
aunt and uncle furious with him had happened when 
he, Harry, had been upset or angry ... chased by 
Dudley’s gang, he had somehow found himself out of 
their reach . . . dreading going to school with that 
ridiculous haircut, he’d managed to make it grow 
back . . . and the very last time Dudley had hit him, 



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



Harry looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that 
Hagrid was positively beaming at him. 

“See?” said Hagrid. “Harry Potter, not a wizard — you 
wait, you’ll be right famous at Hogwarts.” 

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

“Haven’t I told you he’s not going?” he hissed. “He’s 
going to Stonewall High and he’ll be grateful for it. I’ve 
read those letters and he needs all sorts of rubbish — 
spell books and wands and — ” 

“If he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won’t stop 
him,” growled Hagrid. “Stop Lily an’ James Potter’s 
son goin’ ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. His name’s been 
down ever since he was born. He’s off ter the finest 
school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven 
years there and he won’t know himself. He’ll be with 
youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an’ he’ll be 
under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had, 
Albus Dumbled — ” 

“I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD 
FOOL TO TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!” yelled Uncle 
Vernon. 

But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his 
umbrella and whirled it over his head, “NEVER — ” he 
thundered, “— INSULT — ALBUS — DUMBLEDORE 
— IN — FRONT — OF — ME!” 

He brought the umbrella swishing down through the 
air to point at Dudley — there was a flash of violet 
light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and 

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the next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot with 
his hands clasped over his fat bottom, howling in 
pain. When he turned his back on them, Harry saw a 
curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in his trousers. 

Uncle Vernon roared. Pulling Aunt Petunia and 
Dudley into the other room, he cast one last terrified 
look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them. 

Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his 
beard. 

“Shouldn’ta lost me temper,” he said ruefully, “but it 
didn’t work anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig, 
but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there 
wasn’t much left ter do.” 

He cast a sideways look at Harry under his bushy 
eyebrows. 

“Be grateful if yeh didn’t mention that ter anyone at 
Hogwarts,” he said. “I’m — er — not supposed ter do 
magic, strictly speakin’. I was allowed ter do a bit ter 
follow yeh an’ get yer letters to yeh an’ stuff — one o’ 
the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job — ” 

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

“Oh, well — I was at Hogwarts meself but I — er — 
got expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year. 
They snapped me wand in half an’ everything. But 
Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great 
man, Dumbledore.” 

“Why were you expelled?” 

“It’s gettin’ late and we’ve got lots ter do tomorrow,” 
said Hagrid loudly. “Gotta get up ter town, get all yer 
books an’ that.” 

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



“You can kip under that,” he said. “Don’ mind if it 
wriggles a bit, I think I still got a couple o’ dormice in 
one o’ the pockets.” 



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DIAGON ALLY 

Harry woke early the next morning. Although he 
could tell it was daylight, he kept his eyes shut tight. 

“It was a dream,” he told himself firmly. “I dreamed a 
giant called Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a 
school for wizards. When I open my eyes I’ll be at 
home in my cupboard.” 

There was suddenly a loud tapping noise. 

And there’s Aunt Petunia knocking on the door, Harry 
thought, his heart sinking. But he still didn’t open his 
eyes. It had been such a good dream. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

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

He sat up and Hagrid ’s heavy coat fell off him. The 
hut was full of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid 
himself was asleep on the collapsed sofa, and there 



Page | 68 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 



was an owl rapping its claw on the window, a 
newspaper held in its beak. 

Harry scrambled to his feet, so happy he felt as 
though a large balloon was swelling inside him. He 
went straight to the window and jerked it open. The 
owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of 
Hagrid, who didn’t wake up. The owl then fluttered 
onto the floor and began to attack Hagrid ’s coat. 

“Don’t do that.” 

Harry tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it 
snapped its beak fiercely at him and carried on 
savaging the coat. 

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

“Pay him,” Hagrid grunted into the sofa. 

“What?” 

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

Hagrid ’s coat seemed to be made of nothing but 
pockets — bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of 
string, peppermint humbugs, teabags ... finally, Harry 
pulled out a handful of strange-looking coins. 

“Give him five Knuts,” said Hagrid sleepily. 

“Knuts?” 

“The little bronze ones.” 

Harry counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl 
held out his leg so Harry could put the money into a 



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small leather pouch tied to it. Then he flew off 
through the open window. 

Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched. 

“Best be off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter 
London an’ buy all yer stuff fer school.” 

Harry was turning over the wizard coins and looking 
at them. He had just thought of something that made 
him feel as though the happy balloon inside him had 
got a puncture. 

“Urn — Hagrid?” 

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

“I haven’t got any money — and you heard Uncle 
Vernon last night ... he won’t pay for me to go and 
learn magic.” 

“Don’t worry about that,” said Hagrid, standing up 
and scratching his head. “D’yeh think yer parents 
didn’t leave yeh anything?” 

“But if their house was destroyed — ” 

“They didn’ keep their gold in the house, boy! Nah, 
first stop fer us is Gringotts. Wizards’ bank. Have a 
sausage, they’re not bad cold — an’ I wouldn’ say no 
teh a bit o’ yer birthday cake, neither.” 

“Wizards have banks?” 

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

Harry dropped the bit of sausage he was holding. 



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“Goblins?” 



“Yeah — so yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it, I’ll tell yeh 
that. Never mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the 
safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter 
keep safe — ’cept maybe Hogwarts. As a matter o’ 
fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway Fer Dumbledore. 
Hogwarts business.” Hagrid drew himself up proudly. 
“He usually gets me ter do important stuff fer him. 
Fetchin’ you — gettin’ things from Gringotts — knows 
he can trust me, see. 

“Got everythin’? Come on, then.” 

Harry followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was 
quite clear now and the sea gleamed in the sunlight. 
The boat Uncle Vernon had hired was still there, with 
a lot of water in the bottom after the storm. 

“How did you get here?” Harry asked, looking around 
for another boat. 

“Flew,” said Hagrid. 

“Flew?” 

“Yeah — but we’ll go back in this. Not s’pposed ter 
use magic now I’ve got yeh.” 

They settled down in the boat, Harry still staring at 
Hagrid, trying to imagine him flying. 

“Seems a shame ter row, though,” said Hagrid, giving 
Harry another of his sideways looks. “If I was ter — er 
— speed things up a bit, would yeh mind not 
mentionin’ it at Hogwarts?” 

“Of course not,” said Harry, eager to see more magic. 
Hagrid pulled out the pink umbrella again, tapped it 

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twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off toward 
land. 

“Why would you be mad to try and rob Gringotts?” 
Harry asked. 

“Spells — enchantments,” said Hagrid, unfolding his 
newspaper as he spoke. “They say there’s dragons 
guardin’ the high-security vaults. And then yeh gotta 
find yer way — Gringotts is hundreds of miles under 
London, see. Deep under the Underground. Yeh’d die 
of hunger tryin’ ter get out, even if yeh did manage ter 
get yer hands on summat.” 

Harry sat and thought about this while Hagrid read 
his newspaper, the Daily Prophet Harry had learned 
from Uncle Vernon that people liked to be left alone 
while they did this, but it was very difficult, he’d 
never had so many questions in his life. 

“Ministry o’ Magic messin’ things up as usual,” Hagrid 
muttered, turning the page. 

“There’s a Ministry of Magic?” Harry asked, before he 
could stop himself. 

“ ’Course,” said Hagrid. “They wanted Dumbledore fer 
Minister, o’ course, but he’d never leave Hogwarts, so 
old Cornelius Fudge got the job. Bungler if ever there 
was one. So he pelts Dumbledore with owls every 
morning, askin’ fer advice.” 

“But what does a Ministry of Magic do?” 

“Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles 
that there’s still witches an’ wizards up an’ down the 
country.” 

“Why?” 

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“Why? Blimey, Harry, everyone ’d be wantin’ magic 
solutions to their problems. Nah, we’re best left 
alone.” 

At this moment the boat bumped gently into the 
harbor wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and 
they clambered up the stone steps onto the street. 

Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked 
through the little town to the station. Harry couldn’t 
blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as 
anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary 
things like parking meters and saying loudly, “See 
that, Harry? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?” 

“Hagrid,” said Harry, panting a bit as he ran to keep 
up, “did you say there are dragons at Gringotts?” 

“Well, so they say,” said Hagrid. “Crikey, I’d like a 
dragon.” 

“You’d like one?” 

“Wanted one ever since I was a kid — here we go.” 

They had reached the station. There was a train to 
London in five minutes’ time. Hagrid, who didn’t 
understand “Muggle money,” as he called it, gave the 
bills to Harry so he could buy their tickets. 

People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid 
took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a 
canary-yellow circus tent. 

“Still got yer letter, Harry?” he asked as he counted 
stitches. 

Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket. 



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“Good,” said Hagrid. “There’s a list there of everything 
yeh need.” 



Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn’t 
noticed the night before, and read: 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL 
o/WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY 

UNIFORM 



First-year students will require: 

1 . Three sets of plain work robes (black) 

2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear 

3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or 
similar) 

4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings) 

Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name 
tags 



COURSE BOOKS 



All students should have a copy of each of the 
following: 

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda 
Goshawk 

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot 

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling 

A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric 
Switch 

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One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida 
Spore 

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger 

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt 
Scamander 

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin 
Trimble 



OTHER EQUIPMENT 



1 wand 

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2) 

1 set glass or crystal phials 
1 telescope 
1 set brass scales 

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad 

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE 
NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS 

“Can we buy all this in London?” Harry wondered 
aloud. 

“If yeh know where to go,” said Hagrid. 

Harry had never been to London before. Although 
Hagrid seemed to know where he was going, he was 
obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary 
way. He got stuck in the ticket barrier on the 
Underground, and complained loudly that the seats 
were too small and the trains too slow. 

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“I don’t know how the Muggles manage without 
magic,” he said as they climbed a broken-down 
escalator that led up to a bustling road lined with 
shops. 

Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily; 
all Harry had to do was keep close behind him. They 
passed book shops and music stores, hamburger 
restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as 
if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an 
ordinary street full of ordinary people. Could there 
really be piles of wizard gold buried miles beneath 
them? Were there really shops that sold spell books 
and broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge 
joke that the Dursleys had cooked up? If Harry hadn’t 
known that the Dursleys had no sense of humor, he 
might have thought so; yet somehow, even though 
everything Hagrid had told him so far was 
unbelievable, Harry couldn’t help trusting him. 

“This is it,” said Hagrid, coming to a halt, “the Leaky 
Cauldron. It’s a famous place.” 

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn’t 
pointed it out, Harry wouldn’t have noticed it was 
there. The people hurrying by didn’t glance at it. Their 
eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the 
record shop on the other as if they couldn’t see the 
Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Harry had the most 
peculiar feeling that only he and Hagrid could see it. 
Before he could mention this, Hagrid had steered him 
inside. 

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A 
few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny 
glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long 
pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old 
bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a 
toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped 
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when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know 
Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the 
bartender reached for a glass, saying, “The usual, 
Hagrid?” 

“Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts business,” said Hagrid, 
clapping his great hand on Harry’s shoulder and 
making Harry’s knees buckle. 

“Good Lord,” said the bartender, peering at Harry, “is 
this — can this be — ?” 

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely 
still and silent. 

“Bless my soul,” whispered the old bartender, “Harry 
Potter ... what an honor.” 

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward 
Harry and seized his hand, tears in his eyes. 

“Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back.” 

Harry didn’t know what to say. Everyone was looking 
at him. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it 
without realizing it had gone out. Hagrid was 
beaming. 

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the 
next moment, Harry found himself shaking hands 
with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron. 

“Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can’t believe I’m meeting 
you at last.” 

“So proud, Mr. Potter, I’m just so proud.” 

“Always wanted to shake your hand — I’m all of a 
flutter.” 

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“Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can’t tell you, Diggle’s the 
name, Dedalus Diggle.” 

“I’ve seen you before!” said Harry, as Dedalus Diggle’s 
top hat fell off in his excitement. “You bowed to me 
once in a shop.” 

“He remembers!” cried Dedalus Diggle, looking 
around at everyone. “Did you hear that? He 
remembers me!” 

Harry shook hands again and again — Doris 
Crockford kept coming back for more. 

A pale young man made his way forward, very 
nervously. One of his eyes was twitching. 

“Professor Quirrell!” said Hagrid. “Harry, Professor 
Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts.” 

“P-P-Potter,” stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping 
Harry’s hand, “c-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to 
meet you.” 

“What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?” 

“D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” muttered 
Professor Quirrell, as though he’d rather not think 
about it. “N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?” 

He laughed nervously. “You’ll be g-getting all your 
equipment, I suppose? I’ve g-got to p-pick up a new b- 
book on vampires, m-myself.” He looked terrified at 
the very thought. 

But the others wouldn’t let Professor Quirrell keep 
Harry to himself. It took almost ten minutes to get 
away from them all. At last, Hagrid managed to make 
himself heard over the babble. 



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“Must get on — lots ter buy. Come on, Harry.” 

Doris Crockford shook Harry’s hand one last time, 
and Hagrid led them through the bar and out into a 
small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but 
a trash can and a few weeds. 

Hagrid grinned at Harry. 

“Told yeh, didn’t I? Told yeh you was famous. Even 
Professor Quirrell was tremblin’ ter meet yeh — mind 
you, he’s usually tremblin’.” 

“Is he always that nervous?” 

“Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine 
while he was studyin’ outta books but then he took a 
year off ter get some firsthand experience. ... They say 
he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there was a 
nasty bit o’ trouble with a hag — never been the same 
since. Scared of the students, scared of his own 
subject — now, where’s me umbrella?” 

Vampires? Hags? Harry’s head was swimming. 

Hagrid, meanwhile, was counting bricks in the wall 
above the trash can. 

“Three up ... two across ...” he muttered. “Right, 
stand back, Harry.” 

He tapped the wall three times with the point of his 
umbrella. 

The brick he had touched quivered — it wriggled — in 
the middle, a small hole appeared — it grew wider 
and wider — a second later they were facing an 
archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway 
onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of 
sight. 

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“Welcome,” said Hagrid, “to Diagon Alley.” 

He grinned at Harry’s amazement. They stepped 
through the archway. Harry looked quickly over his 
shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back 
into solid wall. 

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons 
outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons — All Sizes — 
Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver — Self-Stirring — 
Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them. 

“Yeah, you’ll be needin’ one,” said Hagrid, “but we 
gotta get yer money first.” 

Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He 
turned his head in every direction as they walked up 
the street, trying to look at everything at once: the 
shops, the things outside them, the people doing their 
shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary 
was shaking her head as they passed, saying, 

“Dragon liver, sixteen Sickles an ounce, they’re mad.” 

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign 
saying Eeylops Owl Emporium — Tawny, Screech, 
Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys of about 
Harry’s age had their noses pressed against a window 
with broomsticks in it. “Look,” Harry heard one of 
them say, “the new Nimbus Two Thousand — fastest 
ever — ” There were shops selling robes, shops selling 
telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had 
never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of 
bat spleens and eels’ eyes, tottering piles of spell 
books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, 
globes of the moon. ... 

“Gringotts,” said Hagrid. 



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They had reached a snowy white building that 
towered over the other little shops. Standing beside 
its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of 
scarlet and gold, was — 

“Yeah, that’s a goblin,” said Hagrid quietly as they 
walked up the white stone steps toward him. The 
goblin was about a head shorter than Harry. He had a 
swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Harry 
noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they 
walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of 
doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon 
them: 

Enter, stranger, but take heed 

Of what awaits the sin of greed, 

For those who take, but do not earn, 

Must pay most dearly in their turn. 

So if you seek beneath our floors 

A treasure that was never yours, 

Thief, you have been warned, beware 

Of finding more than treasure there. 

“Like I said, yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it,” said 
Hagrid. 

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors 
and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred 
more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long 
counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in 
brass scales, examining precious stones through 
eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count 
Page | 81 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were 
showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Harry 
made for the counter. 

“Morning,” said Hagrid to a free goblin. “We’ve come 
ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter’s safe.” 

“You have his key, sir?” 

“Got it here somewhere,” said Hagrid, and he started 
emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a 
handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblins book of 
numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Harry 
watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of 
rubies as big as glowing coals. 

“Got it,” said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden 
key. 

The goblin looked at it closely. 

“That seems to be in order.” 

“An’ I’ve also got a letter here from Professor 
Dumbledore,” said Hagrid importantly, throwing out 
his chest. “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault 
seven hundred and thirteen.” 

The goblin read the letter carefully. 

“Very well,” he said, handing it back to Hagrid, “I will 
have someone take you down to both vaults. 
Griphook!” 

Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had 
crammed all the dog biscuits back inside his pockets, 
he and Harry followed Griphook toward one of the 
doors leading off the hall. 



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“What’s the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred 
and thirteen?” Harry asked. 

“Can’t tell yeh that,” said Hagrid mysteriously. “Very 
secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore’s trusted me. 
More’n my job’s worth ter tell yeh that.” 

Griphook held the door open for them. Harry, who 
had expected more marble, was surprised. They were 
in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming 
torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were 
little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled 
and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward 
them. They climbed in — Hagrid with some difficulty 
— and were off. 

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting 
passages. Harry tried to remember, left, right, right, 
left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The 
rattling cart seemed to know its own way, because 
Griphook wasn’t steering. 

Harry’s eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, 
but he kept them wide open. Once, he thought he saw 
a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted 
around to see if it was a dragon, but too late — they 
plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake 
where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the 
ceiling and floor. 

“I never know,” Harry called to Hagrid over the noise 
of the cart, “what’s the difference between a 
stalagmite and a stalactite?” 

“Stalagmite’s got an ‘m’ in it,” said Hagrid. “An’ don’ 
ask me questions just now, I think I’m gonna be 
sick.” 



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He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at 
last beside a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid 
got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his 
knees from trembling. 

Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke 
came billowing out, and as it cleared, Harry gasped. 
Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. 
Heaps of little bronze Knuts. 

“All yours,” smiled Hagrid. 

All Harry’s — it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn’t 
have known about this or they’d have had it from him 
faster than blinking. How often had they complained 
how much Harry cost them to keep? And all the time 
there had been a small fortune belonging to him, 
buried deep under London. 

Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a bag. 

“The gold ones are Galleons,” he explained. 

“Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine 
Knuts to a Sickle, it’s easy enough. Right, that should 
be enough fer a couple o’ terms, we’ll keep the rest 
safe for yeh.” He turned to Griphook. “Vault seven 
hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go 
more slowly?” 

“One speed only,” said Griphook. 

They were going even deeper now and gathering 
speed. The air became colder and colder as they 
hurtled round tight corners. They went rattling over 
an underground ravine, and Harry leaned over the 
side to try to see what was down at the dark bottom, 
but Hagrid groaned and pulled him back by the scruff 
of his neck. 



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Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole. 

“Stand back,” said Griphook importantly. He stroked 
the door gently with one of his long fingers and it 
simply melted away. 

“If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they’d be 
sucked through the door and trapped in there,” said 
Griphook. 

“How often do you check to see if anyone’s inside?” 
Harry asked. 

“About once every ten years,” said Griphook with a 
rather nasty grin. 

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this 
top security vault, Harry was sure, and he leaned 
forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous jewels at 
the very least — but at first he thought it was empty. 
Then he noticed a grubby little package wrapped up 
in brown paper lying on the floor. Hagrid picked it up 
and tucked it deep inside his coat. Harry longed to 
know what it was, but knew better than to ask. 

“Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don’t talk to 
me on the way back, it’s best if I keep me mouth 
shut,” said Hagrid. 



One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the 
sunlight outside Gringotts. Harry didn’t know where 
to run first now that he had a bag full of money. He 
didn’t have to know how many Galleons there were to 
a pound to know that he was holding more money 
than he’d had in his whole life — more money than 
even Dudley had ever had. 



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“Might as well get yer uniform,” said Hagrid, nodding 
toward Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. 
“Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a 
pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them 
Gringotts carts.” He did still look a bit sick, so Harry 
entered Madam Malkin’s shop alone, feeling nervous. 

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all 
in mauve. 

“Hogwarts, dear?” she said, when Harry started to 
speak. “Got the lot here — another young man being 
fitted up just now, in fact.” 

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed 
face was standing on a footstool while a second witch 
pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood 
Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over 
his head, and began to pin it to the right length. 

“Hello,” said the boy, “Hogwarts, too?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. 

“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s 
up the street looking at wands,” said the boy. He had 
a bored, drawling voice. “Then I’m going to drag them 
off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years 
can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully father into 
getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.” 

Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley. 

“Have you got your own broom?” the boy went on. 

“No,” said Harry. 

“Play Quidditch at all?” 



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“No,” Harry said again, wondering what on earth 
Quidditch could be. 

“ I do — Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to 
play for my House, and I must say, I agree. Know 
what House you 11 be in yet?” 

“No,” said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute. 

“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do 
they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family 
have been — imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d 
leave, wouldn’t you?” 

“Mmm,” said Harry, wishing he could say something a 
bit more interesting. 

“I say, look at that man!” said the boy suddenly, 
nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was 
standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two 
large ice creams to show he couldn’t come in. 

“That’s Hagrid,” said Harry, pleased to know 
something the boy didn’t. “He works at Hogwarts.” 

“Oh,” said the boy, “I’ve heard of him. He’s a sort of 
servant, isn’t he?” 

“He’s the gamekeeper,” said Harry. He was liking the 
boy less and less every second. 

“Yes, exactly. I heard he’s a sort of savage — lives in a 
hut on the school grounds and every now and then he 
gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire 
to his bed.” 

“I think he’s brilliant,” said Harry coldly. 



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“Do you?” said the boy, with a slight sneer. “Why is he 
with you? Where are your parents?” 

“They’re dead,” said Harry shortly. He didn’t feel 
much like going into the matter with this boy. 

“Oh, sorry,” said the other, not sounding sorry at all. 
“But they were our kind, weren’t they?” 

“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you 
mean.” 

“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, 
do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been 
brought up to know our ways. Some of them have 
never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, 
imagine. I think they should keep it in the old 
wizarding families. What’s your surname, anyway?” 

But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, 
“That’s you done, my dear,” and Harry, not sorry for 
an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped down 
from the footstool. 

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” said the 
drawling boy. 

Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid 
had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with 
chopped nuts). 

“What’s up?” said Hagrid. 

“Nothing,” Harry lied. They stopped to buy parchment 
and quills. Harry cheered up a bit when he found a 
bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When 
they had left the shop, he said, “Hagrid, what’s 
Quidditch?” 



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“Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin’ how little yeh know — 
not knowin’ about Quidditch!” 

“Don’t make me feel worse,” said Harry. He told 
Hagrid about the pale boy in Madam Malkin’s. 

“ — and he said people from Muggle families shouldn’t 
even be allowed in — ” 

“Yer not from a Muggle family. If he’d known who yeh 
were — he’s grown up knowin’ yer name if his 
parents are wizardin’ folk. You saw what everyone in 
the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh. 
Anyway, what does he know about it, some o’ the best 
I ever saw were the only ones with magic in ’em in a 
long line o’ Muggles — look at yer mum! Look what 
she had fer a sister!” 

“So what is Quidditch?” 

“It’s our sport. Wizard sport. It’s like — like soccer in 
the Muggle world — everyone follows Quidditch — 
played up in the air on broomsticks and there’s four 
balls — sorta hard ter explain the rules.” 

“And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?” 

“School Houses. There’s four. Everyone says 
Hufflepuff are a lot o’ duffers, but — ” 

“I bet I’m in Hufflepuff,” said Harry gloomily. 

“Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin,” said Hagrid darkly. 
“There’s not a single witch or wizard who went bad 
who wasn’t in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one.” 

“Vol-, sorry — You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?” 

“Years an’ years ago,” said Hagrid. 

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They bought Harry’s school books in a shop called 
Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to 
the ceiling with books as large as paving stones 
bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in 
covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a 
few books with nothing in them at all. Even Dudley, 
who never read anything, would have been wild to get 
his hands on some of these. Hagrid almost had to 
drag Harry away from Curses and Counter-curses 
(Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies 
with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, 
Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More) by Professor 
Vindictus Viridian. 

“I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley.” 

“I’m not sayin’ that’s not a good idea, but yer not ter 
use magic in the Muggle world except in very special 
circumstances,” said Hagrid. “An’ anyway, yeh 
couldn’ work any of them curses yet, yeh’ll need a lot 
more study before yeh get ter that level.” 

Hagrid wouldn’t let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron, 
either (“It says pewter on yer list”), but they got a nice 
set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a 
collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the 
Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make 
up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and 
rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the 
floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders 
lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, 
and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While 
Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a 
supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry, 
Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at 
twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery- 
black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop). 



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Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Harry’s list 
again. 

“Just yer wand left — oh yeah, an’ I still haven’t got 
yeh a birthday present.” 

Harry felt himself go red. 

“You don’t have to — ” 

“I know I don’t have to. Tell yeh what, I’ll get yer 
animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years 
ago, yeh’d be laughed at — an’ I don’ like cats, they 
make me sneeze. I’ll get yer an owl. All the kids want 
owls, they’re dead useful, carry yer mail an’ 
everythin’.” 

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl 
Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling 
and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry now carried a 
large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep 
with her head under her wing. He couldn’t stop 
stammering his thanks, sounding just like Professor 
Quirrell. 

“Don’ mention it,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Don’ expect 
you’ve had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just 
Ollivanders left now — only place fer wands, 
Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand.” 

A magic wand . . . this was what Harry had been really 
looking forward to. 

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold 
letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine 
Wands since 382b. c. A single wand lay on a faded 
purple cushion in the dusty window. 



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A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the 
shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, 
empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid 
sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had 
entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new 
questions that had just occurred to him and looked 
instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly 
right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of 
his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here 
seemed to tingle with some secret magic. 

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Harry jumped. 
Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a 
loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the 
spindly chair. 

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale 
eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the 
shop. 

“Hello,” said Harry awkwardly. 

“Ah yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be 
seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question. 
“You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday 
she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten 
and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. 
Nice wand for charm work.” 

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished 
he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy. 

“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany 
wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and 
excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father 
favored it — it’s really the wand that chooses the 
wizard, of course.” 



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Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry 
were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself 
reflected in those misty eyes. 

“And that’s where ...” 

Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry’s 
forehead with a long, white finger. 

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said 
softly. “Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful 
wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands ... well, 
if I’d known what that wand was going out into the 
world to do. ...” 

He shook his head and then, to Harry’s relief, spotted 
Hagrid. 

“Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again. 

... Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?” 

“It was, sir, yes,” said Hagrid. 

“Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it 
in half when you got expelled?” said Mr. Ollivander, 
suddenly stern. 

“Er — yes, they did, yes,” said Hagrid, shuffling his 
feet. “I’ve still got the pieces, though,” he added 
brightly. 

“But you don’t use them?” said Mr. Ollivander 
sharply. 

“Oh, no, sir,” said Hagrid quickly. Harry noticed he 
gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke. 

“Hmmm,” said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a 
piercing look. “Well, now — Mr. Potter. Let me see.” 

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He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings 
out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?” 

“Er — well, I’m right-handed,” said Harry. 

“Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Harry 
from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder 
to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he 
measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core 
of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use 
unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the 
heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are 
the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or 
phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will 
never get such good results with another wizard’s 
wand.” 

Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which 
was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this 
on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the 
shelves, taking down boxes. 

“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure 
crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Mr. 
Potter. Try this one. Beech-wood and dragon 
heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take 
it and give it a wave.” 

Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it 
around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his 
hand almost at once. 

“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite 
whippy. Try — ” 

Harry tried — but he had hardly raised the wand 
when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander. 



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“No, no — here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a 
half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.” 

Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. 
Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands 
was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, 
but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the 
shelves, the happier he seemed to become. 

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, well find the 
perfect match here somewhere — I wonder, now — 
yes, why not — unusual combination — holly and 
phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.” 

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his 
fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it 
swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of 
red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, 
throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid 
whooped and clapped and Mr. Ollivander cried, “Oh, 
bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well ... 
how curious ... how very curious ...” 

He put Harry’s wand back into its box and wrapped it 
in brown paper, still muttering, “Curious . . . curious 



“Sorry,” said Harry, “but what’s curious?” 

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare. 

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. 
Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix 
whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another 
feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed 
that you should be destined for this wand when its 
brother — why, its brother gave you that scar.” 



Harry swallowed. 

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“Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed 
how these things happen. The wand chooses the 
wizard, remember. ... I think we must expect great 
things from you, Mr. Potter. ... After all, He-Who- 
Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, 
but great.” 

Harry shivered. He wasn’t sure he liked Mr. 

Ollivander too much. He paid seven gold Galleons for 
his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his 
shop. 

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry 
and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley, 
back through the wall, back through the Leaky 
Cauldron, now empty. Harry didn’t speak at all as 
they walked down the road; he didn’t even notice how 
much people were gawking at them on the 
Underground, laden as they were with all their funny- 
shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its 
cage on Harry’s lap. Up another escalator, out into 
Paddington station; Harry only realized where they 
were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves,” he 
said. 

He bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on 
plastic seats to eat them. Harry kept looking around. 
Everything looked so strange, somehow. 

“You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet,” said Hagrid. 

Harry wasn’t sure he could explain. He’d just had the 
best birthday of his life — and yet — he chewed his 
hamburger, trying to find the words. 

“Everyone thinks I’m special,” he said at last. “All 
those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor 

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Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander ... but I don’t know anything 
about magic at all. How can they expect great things? 
I’m famous and I can’t even remember what I’m 
famous for. I don’t know what happened when Vol-, 
sorry — I mean, the night my parents died.” 

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard 
and eyebrows he wore a very kind smile. 

“Don’ you worry, Harry. You’ll learn fast enough. 
Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you’ll 
be just fine. Just be yerself. I know it’s hard. Yeh’ve 
been singled out, an’ that’s always hard. But yeh’ll 
have a great time at Hogwarts — I did — still do, 
’smatter of fact.” 

Hagrid helped Harry on to the train that would take 
him back to the Dursleys, then handed him an 
envelope. 

“Yer ticket fer Hogwarts,” he said. “First o’ September 
— King’s Cross — it’s all on yer ticket. Any problems 
with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she’ll 
know where to find me. ... See yeh soon, Harry.” 

The train pulled out of the station. Harry wanted to 
watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; he rose in his 
seat and pressed his nose against the window, but he 
blinked and Hagrid had gone. 



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THE JOURNEY FROM PLATFORM 
NINE AND THREE-QUARTERS 

Harry’s last month with the Dursleys wasn’t fun. 
True, Dudley was now so scared of Harry he wouldn’t 
stay in the same room, while Aunt Petunia and Uncle 
Vernon didn’t shut Harry in his cupboard, force him 
to do anything, or shout at him — in fact, they didn’t 
speak to him at all. Half terrified, half furious, they 
acted as though any chair with Harry in it were 
empty. Although this was an improvement in many 
ways, it did become a bit depressing after a while. 

Harry kept to his room, with his new owl for 
company. He had decided to call her Hedwig, a name 
he had found in A History of Magic. His school books 
were very interesting. He lay on his bed reading late 
into the night, Hedwig swooping in and out of the 
open window as she pleased. It was lucky that Aunt 
Petunia didn’t come in to vacuum anymore, because 
Hedwig kept bringing back dead mice. Every night 
before he went to sleep, Harry ticked off another day 



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on the piece of paper he had pinned to the wall, 
counting down to September the first. 

On the last day of August he thought he’d better 
speak to his aunt and uncle about getting to King’s 
Cross station the next day, so he went down to the 
living room where they were watching a quiz show on 
television. He cleared his throat to let them know he 
was there, and Dudley screamed and ran from the 
room. 

“Er — Uncle Vernon?” 

Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening. 

“Er — I need to be at King’s Cross tomorrow to — to 
go to Hogwarts.” 

Uncle Vernon grunted again. 

“Would it be all right if you gave me a lift?” 

Grunt. Harry supposed that meant yes. 

“Thank you.” 

He was about to go back upstairs when Uncle Vernon 
actually spoke. 

“Funny way to get to a wizards’ school, the train. 
Magic carpets all got punctures, have they?” 

Harry didn’t say anything. 

“Where is this school, anyway?” 

“I don’t know,” said Harry, realizing this for the first 
time. He pulled the ticket Hagrid had given him out of 
his pocket. 

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“I just take the train from platform nine and three- 
quarters at eleven o’clock,” he read. 

His aunt and uncle stared. 

“Platform what?” 

“Nine and three-quarters.” 

“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon. “There is no 
platform nine and three-quarters.” 

“It’s on my ticket.” 

“Barking,” said Uncle Vernon, “howling mad, the lot of 
them. You 11 see. You just wait. All right, we’ll take 
you to King’s Cross. We’re going up to London 
tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn’t bother.” 

“Why are you going to London?” Harry asked, trying 
to keep things friendly. 

“Taking Dudley to the hospital,” growled Uncle 
Vernon. “Got to have that ruddy tail removed before 
he goes to Smeltings.” 

Harry woke at five o’clock the next morning and was 
too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. He got up 
and pulled on his jeans because he didn’t want to 
walk into the station in his wizard’s robes — he’d 
change on the train. He checked his Hogwarts list yet 
again to make sure he had everything he needed, saw 
that Hedwig was shut safely in her cage, and then 
paced the room, waiting for the Dursleys to get up. 
Two hours later, Harry’s huge, heavy trunk had been 
loaded into the Dursleys’ car, Aunt Petunia had 
talked Dudley into sitting next to Harry, and they had 
set off. 



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They reached King’s Cross at half past ten. Uncle 
Vernon dumped Harry’s trunk onto a cart and 
wheeled it into the station for him. Harry thought this 
was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead, 
facing the platforms with a nasty grin on his face. 

“Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine — platform 
ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the 
middle, but they don’t seem to have built it yet, do 
they?” 

He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic 
number nine over one platform and a big plastic 
number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle, 
nothing at all. 

“Have a good term,” said Uncle Vernon with an even 
nastier smile. He left without another word. Harry 
turned and saw the Dursleys drive away. All three of 
them were laughing. Harry’s mouth went rather dry. 
What on earth was he going to do? He was starting to 
attract a lot of funny looks, because of Hedwig. He’d 
have to ask someone. 

He stopped a passing guard, but didn’t dare mention 
platform nine and three-quarters. The guard had 
never heard of Hogwarts and when Harry couldn’t 
even tell him what part of the country it was in, he 
started to get annoyed, as though Harry was being 
stupid on purpose. Getting desperate, Harry asked for 
the train that left at eleven o’clock, but the guard said 
there wasn’t one. In the end the guard strode away, 
muttering about time wasters. Harry was now trying 
hard not to panic. According to the large clock over 
the arrivals board, he had ten minutes left to get on 
the train to Hogwarts and he had no idea how to do it; 
he was stranded in the middle of a station with a 
trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of wizard 
money, and a large owl. 

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Hagrid must have forgotten to tell him something you 
had to do, like tapping the third brick on the left to 
get into Diagon Alley. He wondered if he should get 
out his wand and start tapping the ticket inspector’s 
stand between platforms nine and ten. 

At that moment a group of people passed just behind 
him and he caught a few words of what they were 
saying. 

“ — packed with Muggles, of course — ” 

Harry swung round. The speaker was a plump 
woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming 
red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like 
Harry’s in front of him — and they had an owl. 

Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them. 
They stopped and so did he, just near enough to hear 
what they were saying. 

“Now, what’s the platform number?” said the boys’ 
mother. 

“Nine and three-quarters!” piped a small girl, also red- 
headed, who was holding her hand, “Mom, can’t I go 



“You’re not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, 
Percy, you go first.” 

What looked like the oldest boy marched toward 
platforms nine and ten. Harry watched, careful not to 
blink in case he missed it — but just as the boy 
reached the dividing barrier between the two 
platforms, a large crowd of tourists came swarming in 
front of him and by the time the last backpack had 
cleared away, the boy had vanished. 



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“Fred, you next,” the plump woman said. 



“I’m not Fred, I’m George,” said the boy. “Honestly, 
woman, you call yourself our mother? Can’t you tell 
I’m George?” 

“Sorry, George, dear.” 

“Only joking, I am Fred,” said the boy, and off he 
went. His twin called after him to hurry up, and he 
must have done so, because a second later, he had 
gone — but how had he done it? 

Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the 
barrier — he was almost there — and then, quite 
suddenly, he wasn’t anywhere. 

There was nothing else for it. 

“Excuse me,” Harry said to the plump woman. 

“Hello, dear,” she said. “First time at Hogwarts? Ron’s 
new, too.” 

She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He 
was tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands 
and feet, and a long nose. 

“Yes,” said Harry. “The thing is — the thing is, I don’t 
know how to — ” 

“How to get onto the platform?” she said kindly, and 
Harry nodded. 

“Not to worry,” she said. “All you have to do is walk 
straight at the barrier between platforms nine and 
ten. Don’t stop and don’t be scared you’ll crash into 
it, that’s very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if 
you’re nervous. Go on, go now before Ron.” 

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“Er — okay,” said Harry. 

He pushed his trolley around and stared at the 
barrier. It looked very solid. 

He started to walk toward it. People jostled him on 
their way to platforms nine and ten. Harry walked 
more quickly. He was going to smash right into that 
barrier and then he’d be in trouble — leaning forward 
on his cart, he broke into a heavy run — the barrier 
was coming nearer and nearer — he wouldn’t be able 
to stop — the cart was out of control — he was a foot 
away — he closed his eyes ready for the crash — 

It didn’t come ... he kept on running ... he opened his 
eyes. 

A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform 
packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts 
Express, eleven o’clock. Harry looked behind him and 
saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had 
been, with the words Platform Nine and Three- 
Quarters on it. He had done it. 

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the 
chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound 
here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one 
another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble 
and the scraping of heavy trunks. 

The first few carriages were already packed with 
students, some hanging out of the window to talk to 
their families, some fighting over seats. Harry pushed 
his cart off down the platform in search of an empty 
seat. He passed a round-faced boy who was saying, 
“Gran, I’ve lost my toad again.” 

“Oh, Neville,” he heard the old woman sigh. 



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A boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small 
crowd. 



“Give us a look, Lee, go on.” 

The boy lifted the lid of a box in his arms, and the 
people around him shrieked and yelled as something 
inside poked out a long, hairy leg. 

Harry pressed on through the crowd until he found 
an empty compartment near the end of the train. He 
put Hedwig inside first and then started to shove and 
heave his trunk toward the train door. He tried to lift 
it up the steps but could hardly raise one end and 
twice he dropped it painfully on his foot. 

“Want a hand?” It was one of the red-haired twins 
he’d followed through the barrier. 

“Yes, please,” Harry panted. 

“Oy, Fred! C’mere and help!” 

With the twins’ help, Harry’s trunk was at last tucked 
away in a corner of the compartment. 

“Thanks,” said Harry, pushing his sweaty hair out of 
his eyes. 

“What’s that?” said one of the twins suddenly, 
pointing at Harry’s lightning scar. 

“Blimey,” said the other twin. “Are you — ?” 

“He is,” said the first twin. “Aren’t you?” he added to 
Harry. 

“What?” said Harry. 

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“ Harry Potter,” chorused the twins. 

“Oh, him,” said Harry. “I mean, yes, I am.” 

The two boys gawked at him, and Harry felt himself 
turning red. Then, to his relief, a voice came floating 
in through the train’s open door. 

“Fred? George? Are you there?” 

“Coming, Mom.” 

With a last look at Harry, the twins hopped off the 
train. 

Harry sat down next to the window where, half 
hidden, he could watch the red-haired family on the 
platform and hear what they were saying. Their 
mother had just taken out her handkerchief. 

“Ron, you’ve got something on your nose.” 

The youngest boy tried to jerk out of the way, but she 
grabbed him and began rubbing the end of his nose. 

“Mom — geroff.” He wriggled free. 

“Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefink on his nosie?” 
said one of the twins. 

“Shut up,” said Ron. 

“Where’s Percy?” said their mother. 

“He’s coming now.” 

The oldest boy came striding into sight. He had 
already changed into his billowing black Hogwarts 



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robes, and Harry noticed a shiny red and gold badge 
on his chest with the letter P on it. 

“Can’t stay long, Mother,” he said. “I’m up front, the 
prefects have got two compartments to themselves — ” 

“Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?” said one of the twins, 
with an air of great surprise. “You should have said 
something, we had no idea.” 

“Hang on, I think I remember him saying something 
about it,” said the other twin. “Once — ” 

“Or twice — ” 

“A minute — ” 

“All summer — ” 

“Oh, shut up,” said Percy the Prefect. 

“How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?” said one 
of the twins. 

“Because he’s a prefect,” said their mother fondly. “All 
right, dear, well, have a good term — send me an owl 
when you get there.” 

She kissed Percy on the cheek and he left. Then she 
turned to the twins. 

“Now, you two — this year, you behave yourselves. If I 
get one more owl telling me you’ve — you’ve blown up 
a toilet or — ” 

“Blown up a toilet? We’ve never blown up a toilet.” 
“Great idea though, thanks, Mom.” 



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“It’s not funny. And look after Ron.” 

“Don’t worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us.” 

“Shut up,” said Ron again. He was almost as tall as 
the twins already and his nose was still pink where 
his mother had rubbed it. 

“Hey, Mom, guess what? Guess who we just met on 
the train?” 

Harry leaned back quickly so they couldn’t see him 
looking. 

“You know that black-haired boy who was near us in 
the station? Know who he is?” 

“Who?” 

“ Harry Potted” 

Harry heard the little girl’s voice. 

“Oh, Mom, can I go on the train and see him, Mom, 
oh please. ...” 

“You’ve already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy 
isn’t something you goggle at in a zoo. Is he really, 
Fred? How do you know?” 

“Asked him. Saw his scar. It’s really there — like 
lightning.” 

“Poor dear — no wonder he was alone, I wondered. He 
was ever so polite when he asked how to get onto the 
platform.” 

“Never mind that, do you think he remembers what 
You-Know-Who looks like?” 

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Their mother suddenly became very stern. 



“I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don’t you dare. As 
though he needs reminding of that on his first day at 
school.” 

“All right, keep your hair on.” 

A whistle sounded. 

“Hurry up!” their mother said, and the three boys 
clambered onto the train. They leaned out of the 
window for her to kiss them good-bye, and their 
younger sister began to cry. 

“Don’t, Ginny, we’ll send you loads of owls.” 

“Well send you a Hogwarts toilet seat.” 

“ Georg e\” 

“Only joking, Mom.” 

The train began to move. Harry saw the boys’ mother 
waving and their sister, half laughing, half crying, 
running to keep up with the train until it gathered too 
much speed, then she fell back and waved. 

Harry watched the girl and her mother disappear as 
the train rounded the corner. Houses flashed past the 
window. Harry felt a great leap of excitement. He 
didn’t know what he was going to — but it had to be 
better than what he was leaving behind. 

The door of the compartment slid open and the 
youngest redheaded boy came in. 

“Anyone sitting there?” he asked, pointing at the seat 
opposite Harry. “Everywhere else is full.” 

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Harry shook his head and the boy sat down. He 
glanced at Harry and then looked quickly out of the 
window, pretending he hadn’t looked. Harry saw he 
still had a black mark on his nose. 

“Hey, Ron.” 

The twins were back. 

“Listen, we’re going down the middle of the train — 

Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.” 

“Right,” mumbled Ron. 

“Harry,” said the other twin, “did we introduce 
ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, 
our brother. See you later, then.” 

“Bye,” said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the 
compartment door shut behind them. 

“Are you really Harry Potter?” Ron blurted out. 

Harry nodded. 

“Oh — well, I thought it might be one of Fred and 
George’s jokes,” said Ron. “And have you really got — 
you know ...” 

He pointed at Harry’s forehead. 

Harry pulled back his bangs to show the lightning 
scar. Ron stared. 

“So that’s where You-Know-Who — ?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, “but I can’t remember it.” 

“Nothing?” said Ron eagerly. 

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“Well — I remember a lot of green light, but nothing 
else.” 



“Wow,” said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few 
moments, then, as though he had suddenly realized 
what he was doing, he looked quickly out of the 
window again. 

“Are all your family wizards?” asked Harry, who found 
Ron just as interesting as Ron found him. 

“Er — yes, I think so,” said Ron. “I think Mom’s got a 
second cousin who’s an accountant, but we never talk 
about him.” 

“So you must know loads of magic already.” 

The Weasleys were clearly one of those old wizarding 
families the pale boy in Diagon Alley had talked 
about. 

“I heard you went to live with Muggles,” said Ron. 
“What are they like?” 

“Horrible — well, not all of them. My aunt and uncle 
and cousin are, though. Wish I’d had three wizard 
brothers.” 

“Five,” said Ron. For some reason, he was looking 
gloomy. “I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. 
You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to. Bill and 
Charlie have already left — Bill was head boy and 
Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy’s a 
prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they 
still get really good marks and everyone thinks they’re 
really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the 
others, but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it 
first. You never get anything new, either, with five 

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brothers. I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand, 
and Percy’s old rat.” 

Ron reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat 
gray rat, which was asleep. 

“His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless, he hardly ever 
wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being 
made a prefect, but they couldn’t aff — I mean, I got 
Scabbers instead.” 

Ron’s ears went pink. He seemed to think he’d said 
too much, because he went back to staring out of the 
window. 

Harry didn’t think there was anything wrong with not 
being able to afford an owl. After all, he’d never had 
any money in his life until a month ago, and he told 
Ron so, all about having to wear Dudley’s old clothes 
and never getting proper birthday presents. This 
seemed to cheer Ron up. 

"... and until Hagrid told me, I didn’t know anything 
about being a wizard or about my parents or 
Voldemort — ” 

Ron gasped. 

“What?” said Harry. 

“ You said You-Know-Who’s name\” said Ron, sounding 
both shocked and impressed. “I’d have thought you, 
of all people — ” 

“I’m not trying to be brave or anything, saying the 
name,” said Harry, “I just never knew you shouldn’t. 
See what I mean? I’ve got loads to learn. ... I bet,” he 
added, voicing for the first time something that had 



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been worrying him a lot lately, “I bet I’m the worst in 
the class.” 

“You won’t be. There’s loads of people who come from 
Muggle families and they learn quick enough.” 

While they had been talking, the train had carried 
them out of London. Now they were speeding past 
fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a 
time, watching the fields and lanes flick past. 

Around half past twelve there was a great clattering 
outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman 
slid back their door and said, “Anything off the cart, 
dears?” 

Harry, who hadn’t had any breakfast, leapt to his feet, 
but Ron’s ears went pink again and he muttered that 
he’d brought sandwiches. Harry went out into the 
corridor. 

He had never had any money for candy with the 
Dursleys, and now that he had pockets rattling with 
gold and silver he was ready to buy as many Mars 
Bars as he could carry — but the woman didn’t have 
Mars Bars. What she did have were Bertie Bott’s 
Every Flavor Beans, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, 
Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, 
Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things 
Harry had never seen in his life. Not wanting to miss 
anything, he got some of everything and paid the 
woman eleven silver Sickles and seven bronze Knuts. 

Ron stared as Harry brought it all back in to the 
compartment and tipped it onto an empty seat. 

“Hungry, are you?” 



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“Starving,” said Harry, taking a large bite out of a 
pumpkin pasty. 

Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped 
it. There were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one 
of them apart and said, “She always forgets I don’t 
like corned beef.” 

“Swap you for one of these,” said Harry, holding up a 
pasty. “Go on — ” 

“You don’t want this, it’s all dry,” said Ron. “She 
hasn’t got much time,” he added quickly, “you know, 
with five of us.” 

“Go on, have a pasty,” said Harry, who had never had 
anything to share before or, indeed, anyone to share 
it with. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron, 
eating their way through all Harry’s pasties, cakes, 
and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten). 

“What are these?” Harry asked Ron, holding up a 
pack of Chocolate Frogs. “They’re not really frogs, are 
they?” He was starting to feel that nothing would 
surprise him. 

“No,” said Ron. “But see what the card is. I’m missing 
Agrippa.” 

“What?” 

“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know — Chocolate Frogs 
have cards inside them, you know, to collect — 
famous witches and wizards. I’ve got about five 
hundred, but I haven’t got Agrippa or Ptolemy.” 

Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up 
the card. It showed a man’s face. He wore half-moon 
glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver 

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hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture 
was the name Albus Dumbledore. 



“So this is Dumbledore!” said Harry. 

“Don’t tell me you’d never heard of Dumbledore!” said 
Ron. “Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa — thanks 



Harry turned over his card and read: 

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE 

CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS 

Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern 
times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his 
defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the 
discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his 
work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. 
Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and ten 
pin bowling. 

Harry turned the card back over and saw, to his 
astonishment, that Dumbledore ’s face had 
disappeared. 

“He’s gone!” 

“Well, you can’t expect him to hang around all day,” 
said Ron. “He’ll be back. No, I’ve got Morgana again 
and I’ve got about six of her ... do you want it? You 
can start collecting.” 

Ron’s eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs 
waiting to be unwrapped. 

“Help yourself,” said Harry. “But in, you know, the 
Muggle world, people just stay put in photos.” 

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“Do they? What, they don’t move at all?” Ron sounded 
amazed. “Weird).” 



Harry stared as Dumbledore sidled back into the 
picture on his card and gave him a small smile. Ron 
was more interested in eating the frogs than looking 
at the Famous Witches and Wizards cards, but Harry 
couldn’t keep his eyes off them. Soon he had not only 
Dumbledore and Morgana, but Hengist of Woodcraft, 
Alberic Grunnion, Circe, Paracelsus, and Merlin. He 
finally tore his eyes away from the druidess Cliodna, 
who was scratching her nose, to open a bag of Bertie 
Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. 

“You want to be careful with those,” Ron warned 
Harry. “When they say every flavor, they mean every 
flavor — you know, you get all the ordinary ones like 
chocolate and peppermint and marmalade, but then 
you can get spinach and liver and tripe. George 
reckons he had a booger-flavored one once.” 

Ron picked up a green bean, looked at it carefully, 
and bit into a corner. 

“Bleaaargh — see? Sprouts.” 

They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans. 
Harry got toast, coconut, baked bean, strawberry, 
curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was even brave 
enough to nibble the end off a funny gray one Ron 
wouldn’t touch, which turned out to be pepper. 

The countryside now flying past the window was 
becoming wilder. The neat fields had gone. Now there 
were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills. 

There was a knock on the door of their compartment 
and the round-faced boy Harry had passed on 

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platform nine and three-quarters came in. He looked 
tearful. 



“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?” 

When they shook their heads, he wailed, “I’ve lost 
him! He keeps getting away from me!” 

“Hell turn up,” said Harry. 

“Yes,” said the boy miserably. “Well, if you see him ...” 
He left. 

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” said Ron. “If I’d 
brought a toad I’d lose it as quick as I could. Mind 
you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk.” 

The rat was still snoozing on Ron’s lap. 

“He might have died and you wouldn’t know the 
difference,” said Ron in disgust. “I tried to turn him 
yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but 
the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look ...” 

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a 
very battered-looking wand. It was chipped in places 
and something white was glinting at the end. 

“Unicorn hair’s nearly poking out. Anyway — ” 

He had just raised his wand when the compartment 
door slid open again. The toadless boy was back, but 
this time he had a girl with him. She was already 
wearing her new Hogwarts robes. 

“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she said. 
She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy brown 
hair, and rather large front teeth. 

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“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” said Ron, 
but the girl wasn’t listening, she was looking at the 
wand in his hand. 

“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.” 

She sat down. Ron looked taken aback. 

“Er — all right.” 

He cleared his throat. 

“ Sunshine , daisies, butter mellow, 

Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.” 

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers 
stayed gray and fast asleep. 

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said the girl. “Well, 
it’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells 
just for practice and it’s all worked for me. Nobody in 
my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise 
when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of 
course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft 
there is, I’ve heard — I’ve learned all our course books 
by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough — I’m 
Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?” 

She said all this very fast. 

Harry looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his 
stunned face that he hadn’t learned all the course 
books by heart either. 

“I’m Ron Weasley,” Ron muttered. 

“Harry Potter,” said Harry. 



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“Are you really?” said Hermione. “I know all about 
you, of course — I got a few extra books for 
background reading, and you’re in Modern Magical 
History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and 
Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.” 

“Am I?” said Harry, feeling dazed. 

“Goodness, didn’t you know, I’d have found out 
everything I could if it was me,” said Hermione. “Do 
either of you know what House you’ll be in? I’ve been 
asking around, and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds 
by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, 
but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad. ... 
Anyway, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad. 

You two had better change, you know, I expect we’ll 
be there soon.” 

And she left, taking the toadless boy with her. 

“Whatever House I’m in, I hope she’s not in it,” said 
Ron. He threw his wand back into his trunk. “Stupid 
spell — George gave it to me, bet he knew it was a 
dud.” 

“What House are your brothers in?” asked Harry. 

“Gryffindor,” said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling 
on him again. “Mom and Dad were in it, too. I don’t 
know what they’ll say if I’m not. I don’t suppose 
Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put 
me in Slytherin.” 

“That’s the House Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was 
in?” 



“Yeah,” said Ron. He flopped back into his seat, 
looking depressed. 



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“You know, I think the ends of Scabbers’ whiskers are 
a bit lighter,” said Harry, trying to take Ron’s mind off 
Houses. “So what do your oldest brothers do now that 
they’ve left, anyway?” 

Harry was wondering what a wizard did once he’d 
finished school. 

“Charlie’s in Romania studying dragons, and Bill’s in 
Africa doing something for Gringotts,” said Ron. “Did 
you hear about Gringotts? It’s been all over the Daily 
Prophet, but I don’t suppose you get that with the 
Muggles — someone tried to rob a high security 
vault.” 

Harry stared. 

“Really? What happened to them?” 

“Nothing, that’s why it’s such big news. They haven’t 
been caught. My dad says it must’ve been a powerful 
Dark wizard to get round Gringotts, but they don’t 
think they took anything, that’s what’s odd. ’Course, 
everyone gets scared when something like this 
happens in case You-Know-Who’s behind it.” 

Harry turned this news over in his mind. He was 
starting to get a prickle of fear every time You-Know- 
Who was mentioned. He supposed this was all part of 
entering the magical world, but it had been a lot more 
comfortable saying “Voldemort” without worrying. 

“What’s your Quidditch team?” Ron asked. 

“Er — I don’t know any,” Harry confessed. 

“What!” Ron looked dumbfounded. “Oh, you wait, it’s 
the best game in the world — ” And he was off, 
explaining all about the four balls and the positions of 

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the seven players, describing famous games he’d been 
to with his brothers and the broomstick he’d like to 
get if he had the money. He was just taking Harry 
through the finer points of the game when the 
compartment door slid open yet again, but it wasn’t 
Neville the toadless boy, or Hermione Granger this 
time. 

Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle 
one at once: It was the pale boy from Madam Malkin’s 
robe shop. He was looking at Harry with a lot more 
interest than he’d shown back in Diagon Alley. 

“Is it true?” he said. “They’re saying all down the train 
that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is 
it?” 



“Yes,” said Harry. He was looking at the other boys. 
Both of them were thickset and looked extremely 
mean. Standing on either side of the pale boy, they 
looked like bodyguards. 

“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” said the pale 
boy carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking. 

“And my names Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.” 

Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been 
hiding a snigger. Draco Malfoy looked at him. 

“Think my name’s funny, do you? No need to ask who 
you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red 
hair, freckles, and more children than they can 
afford.” 

He turned back to Harry. “You’ll soon find out some 
wizarding families are much better than others, 

Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the 
wrong sort. I can help you there.” 



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He held out his hand to shake Harry’s, but Harry 
didn’t take it. 

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, 
thanks,” he said coolly. 

Draco Malfoy didn’t go red, but a pink tinge appeared 
in his pale cheeks. 

“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he said slowly. 
“Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as 
your parents. They didn’t know what was good for 
them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the 
Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on you.” 

Both Harry and Ron stood up. 

“Say that again,” Ron said, his face as red as his hair. 

“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Malfoy 
sneered. 

“Unless you get out now,” said Harry, more bravely 
than he felt, because Crabbe and Goyle were a lot 
bigger than him or Ron. 

“But we don’t feel like leaving, do we, boys? We’ve 
eaten all our food and you still seem to have some.” 

Goyle reached toward the Chocolate Frogs next to 
Ron — Ron leapt forward, but before he’d so much as 
touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible yell. 

Scabbers the rat was hanging off his finger, sharp 
little teeth sunk deep into Goyle ’s knuckle — Crabbe 
and Malfoy backed away as Goyle swung Scabbers 
round and round, howling, and when Scabbers finally 
flew off and hit the window, all three of them 
disappeared at once. Perhaps they thought there were 
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more rats lurking among the sweets, or perhaps 
they’d heard footsteps, because a second later, 
Hermione Granger had come in. 

“What has been going on?” she said, looking at the 
sweets all over the floor and Ron picking up Scabbers 
by his tail. 

“I think he’s been knocked out,” Ron said to Harry. 

He looked closer at Scabbers. “No — I don’t believe it 
— he’s gone back to sleep.” 

And so he had. 

“You’ve met Malfoy before?” 

Harry explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley. 

“I’ve heard of his family,” said Ron darkly. “They were 
some of the first to come back to our side after You- 
Know-Who disappeared. Said they’d been bewitched. 
My dad doesn’t believe it. He says Malfoy’s father 
didn’t need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side.” He 
turned to Hermione. “Can we help you with 
something?” 

“You’d better hurry up and put your robes on, I’ve 
just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he 
says we’re nearly there. You haven’t been fighting, 
have you? You’ll be in trouble before we even get 
there!” 

“Scabbers has been fighting, not us,” said Ron, 
scowling at her. “Would you mind leaving while we 
change?” 

“All right — I only came in here because people 
outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and 
down the corridors,” said Hermione in a sniffy voice. 

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“And you’ve got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you 
know?” 



Ron glared at her as she left. Harry peered out of the 
window. It was getting dark. He could see mountains 
and forests under a deep purple sky. The train did 
seem to be slowing down. 

He and Ron took off their jackets and pulled on their 
long black robes. Ron’s were a bit short for him, you 
could see his sneakers underneath them. 

A voice echoed through the train: “We will be reaching 
Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your 
luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school 
separately.” 

Harry’s stomach lurched with nerves and Ron, he 
saw, looked pale under his freckles. They crammed 
their pockets with the last of the sweets and joined 
the crowd thronging the corridor. 

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. 
People pushed their way toward the door and out on 
to a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold 
night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads 
of the students, and Harry heard a familiar voice: 
“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here! All right there, 
Harry?” 

Hagrid’s big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads. 

“C’mon, follow me — any more firs’ years? Mind yer 
step, now! Firs’ years follow me!” 

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down 
what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so 
dark on either side of them that Harry thought there 
must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much. 

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Neville, the boy who kept losing his toad, sniffed once 
or twice. 



“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid 
called over his shoulder, “jus’ round this bend here.” 

There was a loud “Oooooh!” 

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge 
of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain 
on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry 
sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers. 

“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called, pointing to 
a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. 
Harry and Ron were followed into their boat by Neville 
and Hermione. 

“Everyone in?” shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to 
himself. “Right then — FORWARD!” 

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, 
gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as 
glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great 
castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed 
nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood. 

“Heads down!” yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached 
the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats 
carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide 
opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a 
dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right 
underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of 
underground harbor, where they clambered out onto 
rocks and pebbles. 

“Oy, you there! Is this your toad?” said Hagrid, who 
was checking the boats as people climbed out of 
them. 

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“Trevor!” cried Neville blissfully, holding out his 
hands. Then they clambered up a passageway in the 
rock after Hagrid’s lamp, coming out at last onto 
smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle. 

They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded 
around the huge, oak front door. 

“Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?” 

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times 
on the castle door. 



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7 




THE SORTING HAT 

The door swung open at once. A tall, black-haired 
witch in emerald-green robes stood there. She had a 
very stern face and Harry’s first thought was that this 
was not someone to cross. 

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” said Hagrid. 

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.” 

She pulled the door wide. The entrance hall was so 
big you could have fit the whole of the Dursleys’ 
house in it. The stone walls were lit with flaming 
torches like the ones at Gringotts, the ceiling was too 
high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase 
facing them led to the upper floors. 

They followed Professor McGonagall across the 
flagged stone floor. Harry could hear the drone of 
hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right — the 
rest of the school must already be here — but 
Professor McGonagall showed the first years into a 
small, empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in, 
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standing rather closer together than they would 
usually have done, peering about nervously. 

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall. 
“The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but 
before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will 
be sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is a very 
important ceremony because, while you are here, 
your House will be something like your family within 
Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your 
House, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend free 
time in your House common room. 

“The four Houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, 
Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each House has its own 
noble history and each has produced outstanding 
witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your 
triumphs will earn your House points, while any rule- 
breaking will lose House points. At the end of the 
year, the House with the most points is awarded the 
House cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a 
credit to whichever House becomes yours. 

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few 
minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest 
you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can 
while you are waiting.” 

Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville’s cloak, 
which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron’s 
smudged nose. Harry nervously tried to flatten his 
hair. 

“I shall return when we are ready for you,” said 
Professor McGonagall. “Please wait quietly.” 

She left the chamber. Harry swallowed. 



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“How exactly do they sort us into Houses?” he asked 
Ron. 



“Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but 
I think he was joking.” 

Harry’s heart gave a horrible jolt. A test? In front of 
the whole school? But he didn’t know any magic yet 
— what on earth would he have to do? He hadn’t 
expected something like this the moment they 
arrived. He looked around anxiously and saw that 
everyone else looked terrified, too. No one was talking 
much except Hermione Granger, who was whispering 
very fast about all the spells she’d learned and 
wondering which one she’d need. Harry tried hard not 
to listen to her. He’d never been more nervous, never, 
not even when he’d had to take a school report home 
to the Dursleys saying that he’d somehow turned his 
teachers wig blue. He kept his eyes fixed on the door. 
Any second now, Professor McGonagall would come 
back and lead him to his doom. 

Then something happened that made him jump about 
a foot in the air — several people behind him 
screamed. 

“What the — ?” 

He gasped. So did the people around him. About 
twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back 
wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they 
glided across the room talking to one another and 
hardly glancing at the first years. They seemed to be 
arguing. What looked like a fat little monk was 
saying: “Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give 
him a second chance — ” 

“My dear Friar, haven’t we given Peeves all the 
chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and 

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you know, he’s not really even a ghost — I say, what 
are you all doing here?” 



A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly 
noticed the first years. 

Nobody answered. 

“New students!” said the Fat Friar, smiling around at 
them. “About to be Sorted, I suppose?” 

A few people nodded mutely. 

“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!” said the Friar. “My old 
House, you know.” 

“Move along now,” said a sharp voice. “The Sorting 
Ceremony’s about to start.” 

Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the 
ghosts floated away through the opposite wall. 

“Now, form a line,” Professor McGonagall told the first 
years, “and follow me.” 

Feeling oddly as though his legs had turned to lead, 
Harry got into line behind a boy with sandy hair, with 
Ron behind him, and they walked out of the chamber, 
back across the hall, and through a pair of double 
doors into the Great Hall. 

Harry had never even imagined such a strange and 
splendid place. It was lit by thousands and thousands 
of candles that were floating in midair over four long 
tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. 
These tables were laid with glittering golden plates 
and goblets. At the top of the hall was another long 
table where the teachers were sitting. Professor 
McGonagall led the first years up here, so that they 
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came to a halt in a line facing the other students, 
with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces 
staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the 
flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among 
the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to 
avoid all the staring eyes, Harry looked upward and 
saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. He heard 
Hermione whisper, “It’s bewitched to look like the sky 
outside. I read about it in Hogwarts, A History.” 

It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, 
and that the Great Hall didn’t simply open on to the 
heavens. 

Harry quickly looked down again as Professor 
McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front 
of the first years. On top of the stool she put a pointed 
wizard’s hat. This hat was patched and frayed and 
extremely dirty. Aunt Petunia wouldn’t have let it in 
the house. 

Maybe they had to try and get a rabbit out of it, Harry 
thought wildly, that seemed the sort of thing — 
noticing that everyone in the hall was now staring at 
the hat, he stared at it, too. For a few seconds, there 
was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip 
near the brim opened wide like a mouth — and the 
hat began to sing: 

“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty, 

But don’t judge on what you see, 

I’ll eat myself if you can find 

A smarter hat than me. 

You can keep your bowlers black, 



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Your top hats sleek and tall, 

For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat 
And I can cap them all. 

There’s nothing hidden in your head 
The Sorting Hat can’t see, 

So try me on and I will tell you 
Where you ought to be. 

You might belong in Gryffindor, 

Where dwell the brave at heart, 

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry 
Set Gryffindors apart; 

You might belong in Hufflepuff, 

Where they are just and loyal, 

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true 
And unafraid of toil; 

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, 

If you’ve a ready mind, 

Where those of wit and learning, 

Will always find their kind; 

Or perhaps in Slytherin 

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You’ll make your real friends, 

Those cunning folk use any means 
To achieve their ends. 

So put me on! Don’t be afraid l\ 

And don’t get in a flap\ 

You’re in safe hands (though I have none) 

For I’m a Thinking Cap\” 

The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished 
its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then 
became quite still again. 

“So we’ve just got to try on the hat!” Ron whispered to 
Harry. “I’ll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling 
a troll.” 

Harry smiled weakly. Yes, trying on the hat was a lot 
better than having to do a spell, but he did wish they 
could have tried it on without everyone watching. The 
hat seemed to be asking rather a lot; Harry didn’t feel 
brave or quick-witted or any of it at the moment. If 
only the hat had mentioned a House for people who 
felt a bit queasy, that would have been the one for 
him. 

Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a 
long roll of parchment. 

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and 
sit on the stool to be sorted,” she said. “Abbott, 
Hannah!” 



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A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of 
line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her 
eyes, and sat down. A moment’s pause — 

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat. 

The table on the right cheered and clapped as 
Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table. 

Harry saw the ghost of the Fat Friar waving merrily at 
her. 

“Bones, Susan!” 

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat again, and Susan 
scuttled off to sit next to Hannah. 

“Boot, Terry!” 

“RAVENCLAW!” 

The table second from the left clapped this time; 
several Ravenclaws stood up to shake hands with 
Terry as he joined them. 

“Brocklehurst, Mandy” went to Ravenclaw too, but 
“Brown, Lavender” became the first new Gryffindor, 
and the table on the far left exploded with cheers; 
Harry could see Ron’s twin brothers catcalling. 

“Bulstrode, Millicent” then became a Slytherin. 
Perhaps it was Harry’s imagination, after all he’d 
heard about Slytherin, but he thought they looked 
like an unpleasant lot. 

He was starting to feel definitely sick now. He 
remembered being picked for teams during gym at his 
old school. He had always been last to be chosen, not 
because he was no good, but because no one wanted 
Dudley to think they liked him. 

Page | 134 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“Finch-Fletchley, Justin!” 



“HUFFLEPUFF!” 

Sometimes, Harry noticed, the hat shouted out the 
House at once, but at others it took a little while to 
decide. “Finnigan, Seamus,” the sandy-haired boy 
next to Harry in the line, sat on the stool for almost a 
whole minute before the hat declared him a 
Gryffindor. 

“Granger, Hermione!” 

Hermione almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat 
eagerly on her head. 

“GRYFFINDOR!” shouted the hat. Ron groaned. 

A horrible thought struck Harry, as horrible thoughts 
always do when you’re very nervous. What if he 
wasn’t chosen at all? What if he just sat there with 
the hat over his eyes for ages, until Professor 
McGonagall jerked it off his head and said there had 
obviously been a mistake and he’d better get back on 
the train? 

When Neville Longbottom, the boy who kept losing his 
toad, was called, he fell over on his way to the stool. 
The hat took a long time to decide with Neville. When 
it finally shouted, “GRYFFINDOR,” Neville ran off still 
wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter 
to give it to “MacDougal, Morag.” 

Malfoy swaggered forward when his name was called 
and got his wish at once: the hat had barely touched 
his head when it screamed, “SLYTHERIN!” 

Malfoy went to join his friends Crabbe and Goyle, 
looking pleased with himself. 

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There weren’t many people left now. 



“Moon” , “Nott” ... , “Parkinson” ... , then a pair of 
twin girls, “Path” and “Path” ... , then “Perks, Sally- 
Anne” . . . , and then, at last — 

“Potter, Harry!” 

As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke 
out like little hissing fires all over the hall. 

“ Potter , did she say?” 

“ The Harry Potter?” 

The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over 
his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a 
good look at him. Next second he was looking at the 
black inside of the hat. He waited. 

“Hmm,” said a small voice in his ear. “Difficult. Very 
difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind 
either. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes — and a 
nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting. ... 
So where shall I put you?” 

Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought, Not 
Slytherin, not Slytherin. 

“Not Slytherin, eh?” said the small voice. “Are you 
sure? You could be great, you know, it’s all here in 
your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to 
greatness, no doubt about that — no? Well, if you’re 
sure — better be GRYFFINDOR!” 

Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole 
hall. He took off the hat and walked shakily toward 
the Gryffindor table. He was so relieved to have been 
chosen and not put in Slytherin, he hardly noticed 

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that he was getting the loudest cheer yet. Percy the 
Prefect got up and shook his hand vigorously, while 
the Weasley twins yelled, “We got Potter! We got 
Potter!” Harry sat down opposite the ghost in the ruff 
he’d seen earlier. The ghost patted his arm, giving 
Harry the sudden, horrible feeling he’d just plunged it 
into a bucket of ice-cold water. 

He could see the High Table properly now. At the end 
nearest him sat Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave 
him the thumbs up. Harry grinned back. And there, 
in the center of the High Table, in a large gold chair, 
sat Albus Dumbledore. Harry recognized him at once 
from the card he’d gotten out of the Chocolate Frog on 
the train. Dumbledore’s silver hair was the only thing 
in the whole hall that shone as brightly as the ghosts. 
Harry spotted Professor Quirrell, too, the nervous 
young man from the Leaky Cauldron. He was looking 
very peculiar in a large purple turban. 

And now there were only four people left to be sorted. 
“Thomas, Dean,” a Black boy even taller than Ron, 
joined Harry at the Gryffindor table. “Turpin, Lisa,” 
became a Ravenclaw and then it was Ron’s turn. He 
was pale green by now. Harry crossed his fingers 
under the table and a second later the hat had 
shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!” 

Harry clapped loudly with the rest as Ron collapsed 
into the chair next to him. 

“Well done, Ron, excellent,” said Percy Weasley 
pompously across Harry as “Zabini, Blaise,” was 
made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her 
scroll and took the Sorting Hat away. 

Harry looked down at his empty gold plate. He had 
only just realized how hungry he was. The pumpkin 
pasties seemed ages ago. 

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Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was 
beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if 
nothing could have pleased him more than to see 
them all there. 

“Welcome!” he said. “Welcome to a new year at 
Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like 
to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! 

Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! 

“Thank you!” 

He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. 
Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or not. 

“Is he — a bit mad?” he asked Percy uncertainly. 

“Mad?” said Percy airily. “He’s a genius! Best wizard 
in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, 
Harry?” 

Harry’s mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him 
were now piled with food. He had never seen so many 
things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast 
chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, 
bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, 
fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, 
ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint 
humbugs. 

The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but 
he’d never been allowed to eat as much as he liked. 
Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really 
wanted, even if it made him sick. Harry piled his plate 
with a bit of everything except the peppermints and 
began to eat. It was all delicious. 

“That does look good,” said the ghost in the ruff sadly, 
watching Harry cut up his steak. 

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“Can’t you — ?” 



“I haven’t eaten for nearly five hundred years,” said 
the ghost. “I don’t need to, of course, but one does 
miss it. I don’t think I’ve introduced myself? Sir 
Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service. 
Resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower.” 

“I know who you are!” said Ron suddenly. “My 
brothers told me about you — you’re Nearly Headless 
Nick!” 

“I would prefer you to call me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy 
— ” the ghost began stiffly, but sandy-haired Seamus 
Finnigan interrupted. 

“Nearly Headless? How can you be nearly headless?” 

Sir Nicholas looked extremely miffed, as if their little 
chat wasn’t going at all the way he wanted. 

“Like this,” he said irritably. He seized his left ear and 
pulled. His whole head swung off his neck and fell 
onto his shoulder as if it was on a hinge. Someone 
had obviously tried to behead him, but not done it 
properly. Looking pleased at the stunned looks on 
their faces, Nearly Headless Nick flipped his head 
back onto his neck, coughed, and said, “So — new 
Gryffindors! I hope you’re going to help us win the 
House Championship this year? Gryffindors have 
never gone so long without winning. Slytherins have 
got the cup six years in a row! The Bloody Baron’s 
becoming almost unbearable — he’s the Slytherin 
ghost.” 

Harry looked over at the Slytherin table and saw a 
horrible ghost sitting there, with blank staring eyes, a 
gaunt face, and robes stained with silver blood. He 
was right next to Malfoy who, Harry was pleased to 

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see, didn’t look too pleased with the seating 
arrangements. 

“How did he get covered in blood?” asked Seamus 
with great interest. 

“I’ve never asked,” said Nearly Headless Nick 
delicately. 

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the 
remains of the food faded from the plates, leaving 
them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the 
desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavor 
you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate 
eclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, Jell- 
0, rice pudding ... 

As Harry helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk 
turned to their families. 

“I’m half-and-half,” said Seamus. “Me dad’s a Muggle. 
Mom didn’t tell him she was a witch ’til after they 
were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him.” 

The others laughed. 

“What about you, Neville?” said Ron. 

“Well, my gran brought me up and she’s a witch,” 
said Neville, “but the family thought I was all- Muggle 
for ages. My Great Uncle Algie kept trying to catch me 
off my guard and force some magic out of me — he 
pushed me off the end of Blackpool pier once, I nearly 
drowned — but nothing happened until I was eight. 
Great Uncle Algie came round for dinner, and he was 
hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles 
when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue 
and he accidentally let go. But I bounced — all the 
way down the garden and into the road. They were all 
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really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy. 
And you should have seen their faces when I got in 
here — they thought I might not be magic enough to 
come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he 
bought me my toad.” 

On Harry’s other side, Percy Weasley and Hermione 
were talking about lessons (“I do hope they start right 
away, there’s so much to learn, I’m particularly 
interested in Transfiguration, you know, turning 
something into something else, of course, it’s 
supposed to be very difficult — “You’ll be starting 
small, just matches into needles and that sort of 
thing — ”). 



Harry, who was starting to feel warm and sleepy, 
looked up at the High Table again. Hagrid was 
drinking deeply from his goblet. Professor McGonagall 
was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor 
Quirrell, in his absurd turban, was talking to a 
teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and 
sallow skin. 

It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher 
looked past Quirrell’s turban straight into Harry’s 
eyes — and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on 
Harry’s forehead. 

“Ouch!” Harry clapped a hand to his head. 

“What is it?” asked Percy. 

“N-nothing.” 

The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder 
to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the 
teacher’s look — a feeling that he didn’t like Harry at 
all. 



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“Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?” he 
asked Percy. 

“Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder 
he’s looking so nervous, that’s Professor Snape. He 
teaches Potions, but he doesn’t want to — everyone 
knows he’s after Quirrell’s job. Knows an awful lot 
about the Dark Arts, Snape.” 

Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn’t 
look at him again. 

At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor 
Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent. 

“Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all 
fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to 
give you. 

“First years should note that the forest on the 
grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our 
older students would do well to remember that as 
well.” 

Dumbledore ’s twinkling eyes flashed in the direction 
of the Weasley twins. 

“I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to 
remind you all that no magic should be used between 
classes in the corridors. 

“Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of 
the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House 
teams should contact Madam Hooch. 

“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third- 
floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds 
to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful 
death.” 

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Harry laughed, but he was one of the few who did. 



“He’s not serious?” he muttered to Percy. 

“Must be,” said Percy, frowning at Dumbledore. “It’s 
odd, because he usually gives us a reason why we’re 
not allowed to go somewhere — the forest’s full of 
dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he 
might have told us prefects, at least.” 

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school 
song!” cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other 
teachers’ smiles had become rather fixed. 

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was 
trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden 
ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables 
and twisted itself, snakelike, into words. 

“Everyone pick their favorite tune,” said Dumbledore, 
“and off we go!” 

And the school bellowed: 

“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts, 

Teach us something please, 

Whether we be old and bald 
Or young with scabby knees, 

Our heads could do with filling 
With some interesting stuff, 

For now they’re bare and full of air, 

Dead flies and bits of fluff, 

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So teach us things worth knowing, 

Bring back what we’ve forgot, 

Just do your best, we’ll do the rest, 

And learn until our brains all rot.” 

Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, 
only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a 
very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their 
last few lines with his wand and when they had 
finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest. 

“Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic 
beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you 
trot!” 

The Gryffindor first years followed Percy through the 
chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and up the 
marble staircase. Harry’s legs were like lead again, 
but only because he was so tired and full of food. He 
was too sleepy even to be surprised that the people in 
the portraits along the corridors whispered and 
pointed as they passed, or that twice Percy led them 
through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and 
hanging tapestries. They climbed more staircases, 
yawning and dragging their feet, and Harry was just 
wondering how much farther they had to go when 
they came to a sudden halt. 

A bundle of walking sticks was floating in midair 
ahead of them, and as Percy took a step toward them 
they started throwing themselves at him. 

“Peeves,” Percy whispered to the first years. “A 
poltergeist.” He raised his voice, “Peeves — show 
yourself.” 



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A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a 
balloon, answered. 

“Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?” 

There was a pop, and a little man with wicked, dark 
eyes and a wide mouth appeared, floating cross- 
legged in the air, clutching the walking sticks. 

“Oooooooh!” he said, with an evil cackle. “Ickle 
Firsties! What fun!” 

He swooped suddenly at them. They all ducked. 

“Go away, Peeves, or the Baron’ll hear about this, I 
mean it!” barked Percy. 

Peeves stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping 
the walking sticks on Neville’s head. They heard him 
zooming away, rattling coats of armor as he passed. 

“You want to watch out for Peeves,” said Percy, as 
they set off again. “The Bloody Baron’s the only one 
who can control him, he won’t even listen to us 
prefects. Here we are.” 

At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a 
very fat woman in a pink silk dress. 

“Password?” she said. 

“Caput Draconis,” said Percy, and the portrait swung 
forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. They all 
scrambled through it — Neville needed a leg up — 
and found themselves in the Gryffindor common 
room, a cozy, round room full of squashy armchairs. 

Percy directed the girls through one door to their 
dormitory and the boys through another. At the top of 

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a spiral staircase — they were obviously in one of the 
towers — they found their beds at last: five four- 
posters hung with deep red, velvet curtains. Their 
trunks had already been brought up. Too tired to talk 
much, they pulled on their pajamas and fell into bed. 

“Great food, isn’t it?” Ron muttered to Harry through 
the hangings. “Get off Scabbers! He’s chewing my 
sheets.” 

Harry was going to ask Ron if he’d had any of the 
treacle tart, but he fell asleep almost at once. 

Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he 
had a very strange dream. He was wearing Professor 
Quirrell’s turban, which kept talking to him, telling 
him he must transfer to Slytherin at once, because it 
was his destiny. Harry told the turban he didn’t want 
to be in Slytherin; it got heavier and heavier; he tried 
to pull it off but it tightened painfully — and there 
was Malfoy, laughing at him as he struggled with it — 
then Malfoy turned into the hook-nosed teacher, 
Snape, whose laugh became high and cold — there 
was a burst of green light and Harry woke, sweating 
and shaking. 

He rolled over and fell asleep again, and when he 
woke next day, he didn’t remember the dream at all. 



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THE POTIONS MASTER 

“There, look.” 

“Where?” 

“Next to the tall kid with the red hair.” 

“Wearing the glasses?” 

“Did you see his face?” 

“Did you see his scar?” 

Whispers followed Harry from the moment he left his 
dormitory the next day. People lining up outside 
classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him, or 
doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, 
staring. Harry wished they wouldn’t, because he was 
trying to concentrate on finding his way to classes. 

There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at 
Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; 
some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some 

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with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to 
remember to jump. Then there were doors that 
wouldn’t open unless you asked politely, or tickled 
them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren’t 
really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. It 
was also very hard to remember where anything was, 
because it all seemed to move around a lot. The 
people in the portraits kept going to visit each other, 
and Harry was sure the coats of armor could walk. 

The ghosts didn’t help, either. It was always a nasty 
shock when one of them glided suddenly through a 
door you were trying to open. Nearly Headless Nick 
was always happy to point new Gryffindors in the 
right direction, but Peeves the Poltergeist was worth 
two locked doors and a trick staircase if you met him 
when you were late for class. He would drop 
wastepaper baskets on your head, pull rugs from 
under your feet, pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak 
up behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and screech, 
“GOT YOUR CONK!” 

Even worse than Peeves, if that was possible, was the 
caretaker, Argus Filch. Harry and Ron managed to get 
on the wrong side of him on their very first morning. 
Filch found them trying to force their way through a 
door that unluckily turned out to be the entrance to 
the out-of-bounds corridor on the third floor. He 
wouldn’t believe they were lost, was sure they were 
trying to break into it on purpose, and was 
threatening to lock them in the dungeons when they 
were rescued by Professor Quirrell, who was passing. 

Filch owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust- 
colored creature with bulging, lamplike eyes just like 
Filch’s. She patrolled the corridors alone. Break a rule 
in front of her, put just one toe out of line, and she’d 
whisk off for Filch, who’d appear, wheezing, two 
seconds later. Filch knew the secret passageways of 
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the school better than anyone (except perhaps the 
Weasley twins) and could pop up as suddenly as any 
of the ghosts. The students all hated him, and it was 
the dearest ambition of many to give Mrs. Norris a 
good kick. 

And then, once you had managed to find them, there 
were the classes themselves. There was a lot more to 
magic, as Harry quickly found out, than waving your 
wand and saying a few funny words. 

They had to study the night skies through their 
telescopes every Wednesday at midnight and learn 
the names of different stars and the movements of the 
planets. Three times a week they went out to the 
greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology, 
with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout, 
where they learned how to take care of all the strange 
plants and fungi, and found out what they were used 
for. 

Easily the most boring class was History of Magic, 
which was the only one taught by a ghost. Professor 
Binns had been very old indeed when he had fallen 
asleep in front of the staff room fire and got up next 
morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. Binns 
droned on and on while they scribbled down names 
and dates, and got Emeric the Evil and Uric the 
Oddball mixed up. 

Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny 
little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to 
see over his desk. At the start of their first class he 
took the roll call, and when he reached Harry’s name 
he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight. 

Professor McGonagall was again different. Harry had 
been quite right to think she wasn’t a teacher to 



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cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking- to 
the moment they sat down in her first class. 

“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and 
dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” she 
said. “Anyone messing around in my class will leave 
and not come back. You have been warned.” 

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. 
They were all very impressed and couldn’t wait to get 
started, but soon realized they weren’t going to be 
changing the furniture into animals for a long time. 
After taking a lot of complicated notes, they were each 
given a match and started trying to turn it into a 
needle. By the end of the lesson, only Hermione 
Granger had made any difference to her match; 
Professor McGonagall showed the class how it had 
gone all silver and pointy and gave Hermione a rare 
smile. 

The class everyone had really been looking forward to 
was Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell’s 
lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke. His classroom 
smelled strongly of garlic, which everyone said was to 
ward off a vampire he’d met in Romania and was 
afraid would be coming back to get him one of these 
days. His turban, he told them, had been given to him 
by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of 
a troublesome zombie, but they weren’t sure they 
believed this story. For one thing, when Seamus 
Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell had 
fought off the zombie, Quirrell went pink and started 
talking about the weather; for another, they had 
noticed that a funny smell hung around the turban, 
and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full 
of garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected 
wherever he went. 



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Harry was very relieved to find out that he wasn’t 
miles behind everyone else. Lots of people had come 
from Muggle families and, like him, hadn’t had any 
idea that they were witches and wizards. There was so 
much to learn that even people like Ron didn’t have 
much of a head start. 

Friday was an important day for Harry and Ron. They 
finally managed to find their way down to the Great 
Hall for breakfast without getting lost once. 

“What have we got today?” Harry asked Ron as he 
poured sugar on his porridge. 

“Double Potions with the Slytherins,” said Ron. 
“Snape’s Head of Slytherin House. They say he always 
favors them — we’ll be able to see if it’s true.” 

“Wish McGonagall favored us,” said Harry. Professor 
McGonagall was head of Gryffindor House, but it 
hadn’t stopped her from giving them a huge pile of 
homework the day before. 

Just then, the mail arrived. Harry had gotten used to 
this by now, but it had given him a bit of a shock on 
the first morning, when about a hundred owls had 
suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during 
breakfast, circling the tables until they saw their 
owners, and dropping letters and packages onto their 
laps. 

Hedwig hadn’t brought Harry anything so far. She 
sometimes flew in to nibble his ear and have a bit of 
toast before going off to sleep in the owlery with the 
other school owls. This morning, however, she 
fluttered down between the marmalade and the sugar 
bowl and dropped a note onto Harry’s plate. Harry 
tore it open at once. It said, in a very untidy scrawl: 



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Dear Harry, 



I know you get Friday afternoons off so would you like 
to come and have a cup of tea with me around three? 

I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an 
answer back with Hedwig. 

Hagrid 

Harry borrowed Ron’s quill, scribbled Yes, please, see 
you later on the back of the note, and sent Hedwig off 
again. 

It was lucky that Harry had tea with Hagrid to look 
forward to, because the Potions lesson turned out to 
be the worst thing that had happened to him so far. 

At the start-of-term banquet, Harry had gotten the 
idea that Professor Snape disliked him. By the end of 
the first Potions lesson, he knew he’d been wrong. 
Snape didn’t dislike Harry — he hated him. 

Potions lessons took place down in one of the 
dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main 
castle, and would have been quite creepy enough 
without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all 
around the walls. 

Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the 
roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry’s name. 

“Ah, yes,” he said softly, “Harry Potter. Our new — 
celebrity.” 

Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle 
sniggered behind their hands. Snape finished calling 
the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were 
black like Hagrid ’s, but they had none of Hagrid ’s 

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warmth. They were cold and empty and made you 
think of dark tunnels. 

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art 
of potion-making,” he began. He spoke in barely more 
than a whisper, but they caught every word — like 
Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a 
class silent without effort. “As there is little foolish 
wand- waving here, many of you will hardly believe 
this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand 
the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its 
shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that 
creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, 
ensnaring the senses. ... I can teach you how to bottle 
fame, brew glory, even stopper death — if you aren’t 
as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to 
teach.” 

More silence followed this little speech. Harry and 
Ron exchanged looks with raised eyebrows. Hermione 
Granger was on the edge of her seat and looked 
desperate to start proving that she wasn’t a 
dunderhead. 

“Potter!” said Snape suddenly. “What would I get if I 
added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of 
wormwood?” 

Powdered root of what to an infusion of what? Harry 
glanced at Ron, who looked as stumped as he was; 
Hermione ’s hand had shot into the air. 

“I don’t know, sir,” said Harry. 

Snape ’s lips curled into a sneer. 

“Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything.” 

He ignored Hermione ’s hand. 

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“Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told 
you to find me a bezoar?” 

Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it 
would go without her leaving her seat, but Harry 
didn’t have the faintest idea what a bezoar was. He 
tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who 
were shaking with laughter. 

“I don’t know, sir.” 

“Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming, 
eh, Potter?” 

Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into 
those cold eyes. He had looked through his books at 
the Dursleys’, but did Snape expect him to remember 
everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and 
Fungi ? 

Snape was still ignoring Hermione’s quivering hand. 

“What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood 
and wolfsbane?” 

At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching 
toward the dungeon ceiling. 

“I don’t know,” said Harry quietly. “I think Hermione 
does, though, why don’t you try her?” 

A few people laughed; Harry caught Seamus’s eye, 
and Seamus winked. Snape, however, was not 
pleased. 

“Sit down,” he snapped at Hermione. “For your 
information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a 
sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the 
Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken 

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from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from 
most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they 
are the same plant, which also goes by the name of 
aconite. Well? Why aren’t you all copying that down?” 

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and 
parchment. Over the noise, Snape said, “And a point 
will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, 
Potter.” 

Things didn’t improve for the Gryffindors as the 
Potions lesson continued. Snape put them all into 
pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to 
cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak, 
watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake 
fangs, criticizing almost everyone except Malfoy, 
whom he seemed to like. He was just telling everyone 
to look at the perfect way Malfoy had stewed his 
horned slugs when clouds of acid green smoke and a 
loud hissing filled the dungeon. Neville had somehow 
managed to melt Seamus’s cauldron into a twisted 
blob, and their potion was seeping across the stone 
floor, burning holes in people’s shoes. Within 
seconds, the whole class was standing on their stools 
while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion 
when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as 
angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs. 

“Idiot boy!” snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion 
away with one wave of his wand. “I suppose you 
added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron 
off the fire?” 

Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over 
his nose. 

“Take him up to the hospital wing,” Snape spat at 
Seamus. Then he rounded on Harry and Ron, who 
had been working next to Neville. 

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“You — Potter — why didn’t you tell him not to add 
the quills? Thought he’d make you look good if he got 
it wrong, did you? That’s another point you’ve lost for 
Gryffindor.” 

This was so unfair that Harry opened his mouth to 
argue, but Ron kicked him behind their cauldron. 

“Don’t push it,” he muttered, “I’ve heard Snape can 
turn very nasty.” 

As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour 
later, Harry’s mind was racing and his spirits were 
low. He’d lost two points for Gryffindor in his very 
first week — why did Snape hate him so much? 

“Cheer up,” said Ron, “Snape’s always taking points 
off Fred and George. Can I come and meet Hagrid 
with you?” 

At five to three they left the castle and made their way 
across the grounds. Hagrid lived in a small wooden 
house on the edge of the forbidden forest. A crossbow 
and a pair of galoshes were outside the front door. 

When Harry knocked they heard a frantic scrabbling 
from inside and several booming barks. Then Hagrid ’s 
voice rang out, saying, “Back, Fang — back.” 

Hagrid ’s big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he 
pulled the door open. 

“Hang on,” he said. “Back, Fang.” 

He let them in, struggling to keep a hold on the collar 
of an enormous black boarhound. 

There was only one room inside. Hams and pheasants 
were hanging from the ceiling, a copper kettle was 

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boiling on the open fire, and in the corner stood a 
massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it. 

“Make yerselves at home,” said Hagrid, letting go of 
Fang, who bounded straight at Ron and started 
licking his ears. Like Hagrid, Fang was clearly not as 
fierce as he looked. 

“This is Ron,” Harry told Hagrid, who was pouring 
boiling water into a large teapot and putting rock 
cakes onto a plate. 

“Another Weasley, eh?” said Hagrid, glancing at Ron’s 
freckles. “I spent half me life chasin’ yer twin brothers 
away from the forest.” 

The rock cakes were shapeless lumps with raisins 
that almost broke their teeth, but Harry and Ron 
pretended to be enjoying them as they told Hagrid all 
about their first lessons. Fang rested his head on 
Harry’s knee and drooled all over his robes. 

Harry and Ron were delighted to hear Hagrid call 
Filch “that old git.” 

“An’ as fer that cat, Mrs. Norris, I’d like ter introduce 
her to Fang sometime. D’yeh know, every time I go up 
ter the school, she follows me everywhere? Can’t get 
rid of her — Filch puts her up to it.” 

Harry told Hagrid about Snape’s lesson. Hagrid, like 
Ron, told Harry not to worry about it, that Snape 
liked hardly any of the students. 

“But he seemed to really hate me.” 

“Rubbish!” said Hagrid. “Why should he?” 



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Yet Harry couldn’t help thinking that Hagrid didn’t 
quite meet his eyes when he said that. 

“How’s yer brother Charlie?” Hagrid asked Ron. “I 
liked him a lot — great with animals.” 

Harry wondered if Hagrid had changed the subject on 
purpose. While Ron told Hagrid all about Charlie’s 
work with dragons, Harry picked up a piece of paper 
that was lying on the table under the tea cozy. It was 
a cutting from the Daily Prophet : 

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST 

Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts 
on 3 1 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark 
wizards or witches unknown. 

Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had 
been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact 
been emptied the same day. 

“But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep 
your noses out if you know what’s good for you,” said 
a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon. 

Harry remembered Ron telling him on the train that 
someone had tried to rob Gringotts, but Ron hadn’t 
mentioned the date. 

“Hagrid!” said Harry, “that Gringotts break-in 
happened on my birthday! It might’ve been happening 
while we were there!” 

There was no doubt about it, Hagrid definitely didn’t 
meet Harry’s eyes this time. He grunted and offered 
him another rock cake. Harry read the story again. 

The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied 
earlier that same day. Hagrid had emptied vault seven 
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hundred and thirteen, if you could call it emptying, 
taking out that grubby little package. Had that been 
what the thieves were looking for? 

As Harry and Ron walked back to the castle for 
dinner, their pockets weighed down with rock cakes 
they’d been too polite to refuse, Harry thought that 
none of the lessons he’d had so far had given him as 
much to think about as tea with Hagrid. Had Hagrid 
collected that package just in time? Where was it 
now? And did Hagrid know something about Snape 
that he didn’t want to tell Harry? 



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9 




THE MIDNIGHT DUEL 

Harry had never believed he would meet a boy he 
hated more than Dudley, but that was before he met 
Draco Malfoy. Still, first-year Gryffindors only had 
Potions with the Slytherins, so they didn’t have to put 
up with Malfoy much. Or at least, they didn’t until 
they spotted a notice pinned up in the Gryffindor 
common room that made them all groan. Flying 
lessons would be starting on Thursday — and 
Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning together. 

“Typical,” said Harry darkly. “Just what I always 
wanted. To make a fool of myself on a broomstick in 
front of Malfoy.” 

He had been looking forward to learning to fly more 
than anything else. 

“You don’t know that you’ll make a fool of yourself,” 
said Ron reasonably. “Anyway, I know Malfoy’s always 
going on about how good he is at Quidditch, but I bet 
that’s all talk.” 

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Malfoy certainly did talk about flying a lot. He 
complained loudly about first years never getting on 
the House Quidditch teams and told long, boastful 
stories that always seemed to end with him narrowly 
escaping Muggles in helicopters. He wasn’t the only 
one, though: the way Seamus Finnigan told it, he’d 
spent most of his childhood zooming around the 
countryside on his broomstick. Even Ron would tell 
anyone who’d listen about the time he’d almost hit a 
hang glider on Charlie’s old broom. Everyone from 
wizarding families talked about Quidditch constantly. 
Ron had already had a big argument with Dean 
Thomas, who shared their dormitory, about soccer. 
Ron couldn’t see what was exciting about a game with 
only one ball where no one was allowed to fly. Harry 
had caught Ron prodding Dean’s poster of West Ham 
soccer team, trying to make the players move. 

Neville had never been on a broomstick in his life, 
because his grandmother had never let him near one. 
Privately, Harry felt she’d had good reason, because 
Neville managed to have an extraordinary number of 
accidents even with both feet on the ground. 

Hermione Granger was almost as nervous about 
flying as Neville was. This was something you couldn’t 
learn by heart out of a book — not that she hadn’t 
tried. At breakfast on Thursday she bored them all 
stupid with flying tips she’d gotten out of a library 
book called Quidditch Through the Ages. Neville was 
hanging on to her every word, desperate for anything 
that might help him hang on to his broomstick later, 
but everybody else was very pleased when Hermione ’s 
lecture was interrupted by the arrival of the mail. 

Harry hadn’t had a single letter since Hagrid’s note, 
something that Malfoy had been quick to notice, of 
course. Malfoy ’s eagle owl was always bringing him 



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packages of sweets from home, which he opened 
gloatingly at the Slytherin table. 

A barn owl brought Neville a small package from his 
grandmother. He opened it excitedly and showed 
them a glass ball the size of a large marble, which 
seemed to be full of white smoke. 

“It’s a Remembrall!” he explained. “Gran knows I 
forget things — this tells you if there’s something 
you’ve forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this 
and if it turns red — oh ...” His face fell, because the 
Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet, “... you’ve 
forgotten something ...” 

Neville was trying to remember what he’d forgotten 
when Draco Malfoy, who was passing the Gryffindor 
table, snatched the Remembrall out of his hand. 

Harry and Ron jumped to their feet. They were half 
hoping for a reason to fight Malfoy, but Professor 
McGonagall, who could spot trouble quicker than any 
teacher in the school, was there in a flash. 

“What’s going on?” 

“Malfoy’s got my Remembrall, Professor.” 

Scowling, Malfoy quickly dropped the Remembrall 
back on the table. 

“Just looking,” he said, and he sloped away with 
Crabbe and Goyle behind him. 

At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Ron, and the 
other Gryffindors hurried down the front steps onto 
the grounds for their first flying lesson. It was a clear, 
breezy day, and the grass rippled under their feet as 
they marched down the sloping lawns toward a 
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smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds 
to the forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying 
darkly in the distance. 

The Slytherins were already there, and so were twenty 
broomsticks lying in neat lines on the ground. Harry 
had heard Fred and George Weasley complain about 
the school brooms, saying that some of them started 
to vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly 
to the left. 

Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, 
gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk. 

“Well, what are you all waiting for?” she barked. 
“Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry 
up.” " 

Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and 
some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles. 

“Stick out your right hand over your broom,” called 
Madam Hooch at the front, “and say ‘Up!’ ” 

“UP!” everyone shouted. 

Harry’s broom jumped into his hand at once, but it 
was one of the few that did. Hermione Granger’s had 
simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville’s hadn’t 
moved at all. Perhaps brooms, like horses, could tell 
when you were afraid, thought Harry; there was a 
quaver in Neville’s voice that said only too clearly that 
he wanted to keep his feet on the ground. 

Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their 
brooms without sliding off the end, and walked up 
and down the rows correcting their grips. Harry and 
Ron were delighted when she told Malfoy he’d been 
doing it wrong for years. 

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“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the 
ground, hard,” said Madam Hooch. “Keep your 
brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight 
back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle 
— three — two — ” 

But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of 
being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the 
whistle had touched Madam Hooch’s lips. 

“Come back, boy!” she shouted, but Neville was rising 
straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle — twelve 
feet — twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face 
look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, 
slip sideways off the broom and — 

WHAM — a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay 
facedown on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was 
still rising higher and higher, and started to drift 
lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight. 

Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as 
white as his. 

“Broken wrist,” Harry heard her mutter. “Come on, 
boy — it’s all right, up you get.” 

She turned to the rest of the class. 

“None of you is to move while I take this boy to the 
hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are 
or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 
‘Quidditch.’ Come on, dear.” 

Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, 
hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm 
around him. 



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No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst 
into laughter. 

“Did you see his face, the great lump?” 

The other Slytherins joined in. 

“Shut up, Malfoy,” snapped Parvati Patil. 

“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” said Pansy 
Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. “Never thought 
you’d like fat little crybabies, Parvati.” 

“Look!” said Malfoy, darting forward and snatching 
something out of the grass. “It’s that stupid thing 
Longbottom’s gran sent him.” 

The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up. 

“Give that here, Malfoy,” said Harry quietly. Everyone 
stopped talking to watch. 

Malfoy smiled nastily. 

“I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find 
— how about — up a tree?” 

“Give it here!” Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto 
his broomstick and taken off. He hadn’t been lying, he 
could fly well. Hovering level with the topmost 
branches of an oak he called, “Come and get it, 
Potter!” 

Harry grabbed his broom. 

“iVo!” shouted Hermione Granger. “Madam Hooch told 
us not to move — you’ll get us all into trouble.” 



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Harry ignored her. Blood was pounding in his ears. 

He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the 
ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his 
hair, and his robes whipped out behind him — and in 
a rush of fierce joy he realized he’d found something 
he could do without being taught — this was easy, 
this was wonderful. He pulled his broomstick up a 
little to take it even higher, and heard screams and 
gasps of girls back on the ground and an admiring 
whoop from Ron. 

He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in 
midair. Malfoy looked stunned. 

“Give it here,” Harry called, “or I’ll knock you off that 
broom!” 

“Oh, yeah?” said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking 
worried. 

Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward 
and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it 
shot toward Malfoy like a javelin. Malfoy only just got 
out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about- 
face and held the broom steady. A few people below 
were clapping. 

“No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, 
Malfoy,” Harry called. 

The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy. 

“Catch it if you can, then!” he shouted, and he threw 
the glass ball high into the air and streaked back 
toward the ground. 

Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up 
in the air and then start to fall. He leaned forward 
and pointed his broom handle down — next second 

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he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball 
— wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the 
screams of people watching — he stretched out his 
hand — a foot from the ground he caught it, just in 
time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently 
onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in 
his fist. 

“HARRY POTTER!” 

His heart sank faster than he’d just dived. Professor 
McGonagall was running toward them. He got to his 
feet, trembling. 

“Never — in all my time at Hogwarts — ” 

Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with 
shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, “ — how dare 
you — might have broken your neck — ” 

“It wasn’t his fault, Professor — ” 

“Be quiet, Miss Patil — ” 

“But Malfoy — ” 

“That’s enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now.” 

Harry caught sight of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle’s 
triumphant faces as he left, walking numbly in 
Professor McGonagall’s wake as she strode toward the 
castle. He was going to be expelled, he just knew it. 

He wanted to say something to defend himself, but 
there seemed to be something wrong with his voice. 
Professor McGonagall was sweeping along without 
even looking at him; he had to jog to keep up. Now 
he’d done it. He hadn’t even lasted two weeks. He’d be 
packing his bags in ten minutes. What would the 
Dursleys say when he turned up on the doorstep? 
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Up the front steps, up the marble staircase inside, 
and still Professor McGonagall didn’t say a word to 
him. She wrenched open doors and marched along 
corridors with Harry trotting miserably behind her. 
Maybe she was taking him to Dumbledore. He 
thought of Hagrid, expelled but allowed to stay on as 
gamekeeper. Perhaps he could be Hagrid’s assistant. 
His stomach twisted as he imagined it, watching Ron 
and the others becoming wizards while he stumped 
around the grounds carrying Hagrid’s bag. 

Professor McGonagall stopped outside a classroom. 
She opened the door and poked her head inside. 

“Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood 
for a moment?” 

Wood? thought Harry, bewildered; was Wood a cane 
she was going to use on him? 

But Wood turned out to be a person, a burly fifth-year 
boy who came out of Flitwick’s class looking 
confused. 

“Follow me, you two,” said Professor McGonagall, and 
they marched on up the corridor, Wood looking 
curiously at Harry. 

“In here.” 

Professor McGonagall pointed them into a classroom 
that was empty except for Peeves, who was busy 
writing rude words on the blackboard. 

“Out, Peeves!” she barked. Peeves threw the chalk 
into a bin, which clanged loudly, and he swooped out 
cursing. Professor McGonagall slammed the door 
behind him and turned to face the two boys. 



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“Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood — I’ve found you a 
Seeker.” 

Wood’s expression changed from puzzlement to 
delight. 

“Are you serious, Professor?” 

“Absolutely,” said Professor McGonagall crisply. “The 
boy’s a natural. I’ve never seen anything like it. Was 
that your first time on a broomstick, Potter?” 

Harry nodded silently. He didn’t have a clue what was 
going on, but he didn’t seem to be being expelled, and 
some of the feeling started coming back to his legs. 

“He caught that thing in his hand after a fifty-foot 
dive,” Professor McGonagall told Wood. “Didn’t even 
scratch himself. Charlie Weasley couldn’t have done 
it.” 

Wood was now looking as though all his dreams had 
come true at once. 

“Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?” he asked 
excitedly. 

“Wood’s captain of the Gryffindor team,” Professor 
McGonagall explained. 

“He’s just the build for a Seeker, too,” said Wood, now 
walking around Harry and staring at him. “Light — 
speedy — we’ll have to get him a decent broom, 
Professor — a Nimbus Two Thousand or a 
Cleansweep Seven, I’d say.” 

“I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we 
can’t bend the first-year rule. Heaven knows, we need 
a better team than last year. Flattened in that last 

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match by Slytherin, I couldn’t look Severus Snape in 
the face for weeks. ...” 

Professor McGonagall peered sternly over her glasses 
at Harry. 

“I want to hear you’re training hard, Potter, or I may 
change my mind about punishing you.” 

Then she suddenly smiled. 

“Your father would have been proud,” she said. “He 
was an excellent Quidditch player himself.” 

“You’re joking.” 

It was dinnertime. Harry had just finished telling Ron 
what had happened when he’d left the grounds with 
Professor McGonagall. Ron had a piece of steak and 
kidney pie halfway to his mouth, but he’d forgotten all 
about it. 

“Seeker?” he said. “But first years never — you must 
be the youngest House player in about — ” 

“ — a century,” said Harry, shoveling pie into his 
mouth. He felt particularly hungry after the 
excitement of the afternoon. “Wood told me.” 

Ron was so amazed, so impressed, he just sat and 
gaped at Harry. 

“I start training next week,” said Harry. “Only don’t 
tell anyone, Wood wants to keep it a secret.” 

Fred and George Weasley now came into the hall, 
spotted Harry, and hurried over. 



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“Well done,” said George in a low voice. “Wood told us. 
We’re on the team too — Beaters.” 

“I tell you, we’re going to win that Quidditch Cup for 
sure this year,” said Fred. “We haven’t won since 
Charlie left, but this year’s team is going to be 
brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was almost 
skipping when he told us.” 

“Anyway, we’ve got to go, Lee Jordan reckons he’s 
found a new secret passageway out of the school.” 

“Bet it’s that one behind the statue of Gregory the 
Smarmy that we found in our first week. See you.” 

Fred and George had hardly disappeared when 
someone far less welcome turned up: Malfoy, flanked 
by Crabbe and Goyle. 

“Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the 
train back to the Muggles?” 

“You’re a lot braver now that you’re back on the 
ground and you’ve got your little friends with you,” 
said Harry coolly. There was of course nothing at all 
little about Crabbe and Goyle, but as the High Table 
was full of teachers, neither of them could do more 
than crack their knuckles and scowl. 

“I’d take you on anytime on my own,” said Malfoy. 
“Tonight, if you want. Wizard’s duel. Wands only — 
no contact. What’s the matter? Never heard of a 
wizard’s duel before, I suppose?” 

“Of course he has,” said Ron, wheeling around. “I’m 
his second, who’s yours?” 

Malfoy looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up. 



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“Crabbe,” he said. “Midnight all right? Well meet you 
in the trophy room; that’s always unlocked.” 

When Malfoy had gone, Ron and Harry looked at each 
other. 

“What is a wizard’s duel?” said Harry. “And what do 
you mean, you’re my second?” 

“Well, a second’s there to take over if you die,” said 
Ron casually, getting started at last on his cold pie. 
Catching the look on Harry’s face, he added quickly, 
“But people only die in proper duels, you know, with 
real wizards. The most you and Malfoy’ll be able to do 
is send sparks at each other. Neither of you knows 
enough magic to do any real damage. I bet he 
expected you to refuse, anyway.” 

“And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?” 

“Throw it away and punch him on the nose,” Ron 
suggested. 

“Excuse me.” 

They both looked up. It was Hermione Granger. 

“Can’t a person eat in peace in this place?” said Ron. 

Hermione ignored him and spoke to Harry. 

“I couldn’t help overhearing what you and Malfoy 
were saying — ” 

“Bet you could,” Ron muttered. 

“ — and you mustn’t go wandering around the school 
at night, think of the points you’ll lose Gryffindor if 



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you’re caught, and you’re bound to be. It’s really very 
selfish of you.” 

“And it’s really none of your business,” said Harry. 
“Good-bye,” said Ron. 

All the same, it wasn’t what you’d call the perfect end 
to the day, Harry thought, as he lay awake much later 
listening to Dean and Seamus falling asleep (Neville 
wasn’t back from the hospital wing). Ron had spent 
all evening giving him advice such as “If he tries to 
curse you, you’d better dodge it, because I can’t 
remember how to block them.” There was a very good 
chance they were going to get caught by Filch or Mrs. 
Norris, and Harry felt he was pushing his luck, 
breaking another school rule today. On the other 
hand, Malfoy’s sneering face kept looming up out of 
the darkness — this was his big chance to beat 
Malfoy face-to-face. He couldn’t miss it. 

“Half-past eleven,” Ron muttered at last, “we’d better 
go.” 

They pulled on their bathrobes, picked up their 
wands, and crept across the tower room, down the 
spiral staircase, and into the Gryffindor common 
room. A few embers were still glowing in the fireplace, 
turning all the armchairs into hunched black 
shadows. They had almost reached the portrait hole 
when a voice spoke from the chair nearest them, “I 
can’t believe you’re going to do this, Harry.” 

A lamp flickered on. It was Hermione Granger, 
wearing a pink bathrobe and a frown. 

“You!” said Ron furiously. “Go back to bed!” 



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“I almost told your brother,” Hermione snapped, 

“Percy — he’s a prefect, he’d put a stop to this.” 

Harry couldn’t believe anyone could be so interfering. 

“Come on,” he said to Ron. He pushed open the 
portrait of the Fat Lady and climbed through the hole. 

Hermione wasn’t going to give up that easily. She 
followed Ron through the portrait hole, hissing at 
them like an angry goose. 

“Don’t you care about Gryffindor, do you only care 
about yourselves, / don’t want Slytherin to win the 
House Cup, and you’ll lose all the points I got from 
Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching 
Spells.” 

“Go away.” 

“All right, but I warned you, you just remember what 
I said when you’re on the train home tomorrow, 
you’re so — ” 

But what they were, they didn’t find out. Hermione 
had turned to the portrait of the Fat Lady to get back 
inside and found herself facing an empty painting. 

The Fat Lady had gone on a nighttime visit and 
Hermione was locked out of Gryffindor Tower. 

“Now what am I going to do?” she asked shrilly. 

“That’s your problem,” said Ron. “We’ve got to go, 
we’re going to be late.” 

They hadn’t even reached the end of the corridor 
when Hermione caught up with them. 

“I’m coming with you,” she said. 

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“You are not.” 



“D’you think I’m going to stand out here and wait for 
Filch to catch me? If he finds all three of us I’ll tell 
him the truth, that I was trying to stop you, and you 
can back me up.” 

“You’ve got some nerve — ” said Ron loudly. 

“Shut up, both of you!” said Harry sharply. “I heard 
something.” 

It was a sort of snuffling. 

“Mrs. Norris?” breathed Ron, squinting through the 
dark. 

It wasn’t Mrs. Norris. It was Neville. He was curled up 
on the floor, fast asleep, but jerked suddenly awake 
as they crept nearer. 

“Thank goodness you found me! I’ve been out here for 
hours, I couldn’t remember the new password to get 
in to bed.” 

“Keep your voice down, Neville. The password’s ‘Pig 
snout’ but it won’t help you now, the Fat Lady’s gone 
off somewhere.” 

“How’s your arm?” said Harry. 

“Fine,” said Neville, showing them. “Madam Pomfrey 
mended it in about a minute.” 

“Good — well, look, Neville, we’ve got to be 
somewhere, we’ll see you later — ” 



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“Don’t leave me!” said Neville, scrambling to his feet, 

“I don’t want to stay here alone, the Bloody Baron’s 
been past twice already.” 

Ron looked at his watch and then glared furiously at 
Hermione and Neville. 

“If either of you get us caught, I’ll never rest until I’ve 
learned that Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us 
about, and used it on you.” 

Hermione opened her mouth, perhaps to tell Ron 
exactly how to use the Curse of the Bogies, but Harry 
hissed at her to be quiet and beckoned them all 
forward. 

They flitted along corridors striped with bars of 
moonlight from the high windows. At every turn Harry 
expected to run into Filch or Mrs. Norris, but they 
were lucky. They sped up a staircase to the third floor 
and tiptoed toward the trophy room. 

Malfoy and Crabbe weren’t there yet. The crystal 
trophy cases glimmered where the moonlight caught 
them. Cups, shields, plates, and statues winked silver 
and gold in the darkness. They edged along the walls, 
keeping their eyes on the doors at either end of the 
room. Harry took out his wand in case Malfoy leapt in 
and started at once. The minutes crept by. 

“He’s late, maybe he’s chickened out,” Ron whispered. 

Then a noise in the next room made them jump. 

Harry had only just raised his wand when they heard 
someone speak — and it wasn’t Malfoy. 

“Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a 
corner.” 



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It was Filch speaking to Mrs. Norris. Horror-struck, 
Harry waved madly at the other three to follow him as 
quickly as possible; they scurried silently toward the 
door, away from Filch’s voice. Neville’s robes had 
barely whipped round the corner when they heard 
Filch enter the trophy room. 

“They’re in here somewhere,” they heard him mutter, 
“probably hiding.” 

“This way!” Harry mouthed to the others and, 
petrified, they began to creep down a long gallery full 
of suits of armor. They could hear Filch getting 
nearer. Neville suddenly let out a frightened squeak 
and broke into a run — he tripped, grabbed Ron 
around the waist, and the pair of them toppled right 
into a suit of armor. 

The clanging and crashing were enough to wake the 
whole castle. 

“RUN!” Harry yelled, and the four of them sprinted 
down the gallery, not looking back to see whether 
Filch was following — they swung around the 
doorpost and galloped down one corridor then 
another, Harry in the lead, without any idea where 
they were or where they were going — they ripped 
through a tapestry and found themselves in a hidden 
passageway, hurtled along it and came out near their 
Charms classroom, which they knew was miles from 
the trophy room. 

“I think we’ve lost him,” Harry panted, leaning against 
the cold wall and wiping his forehead. Neville was 
bent double, wheezing and spluttering. 

“I — told — you,” Hermione gasped, clutching at the 
stitch in her chest, “I — told — you.” 



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“We’ve got to get back to Gryffindor Tower,” said Ron, 
“quickly as possible.” 

“Malfoy tricked you,” Hermione said to Harry. “You 
realize that, don’t you? He was never going to meet 
you — Filch knew someone was going to be in the 
trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off.” 

Harry thought she was probably right, but he wasn’t 
going to tell her that. 

“Let’s go.” 

It wasn’t going to be that simple. They hadn’t gone 
more than a dozen paces when a doorknob rattled 
and something came shooting out of a classroom in 
front of them. 

It was Peeves. He caught sight of them and gave a 
squeal of delight. 

“Shut up, Peeves — please — you’ll get us thrown 
out.” 

Peeves cackled. 

“Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut, 
tut, tut. Naughty, naughty, you’ll get caughty.” 

“Not if you don’t give us away, Peeves, please.” 

“Should tell Filch, I should,” said Peeves in a sanity 
voice, but his eyes glittered wickedly. “It’s for your 
own good, you know.” 

“Get out of the way,” snapped Ron, taking a swipe at 
Peeves — this was a big mistake. 



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“STUDENTS OUT OF BED!” Peeves bellowed, 
“STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS 
CORRIDOR!” 

Ducking under Peeves, they ran for their lives, right 
to the end of the corridor where they slammed into a 
door — and it was locked. 

“This is it!” Ron moaned, as they pushed helplessly at 
the door, “We’re done for! This is the end!” 

They could hear footsteps, Filch running as fast as he 
could toward Peeves ’s shouts. 

“Oh, move over,” Hermione snarled. She grabbed 
Harry’s wand, tapped the lock, and whispered, 
“Alohomora\” 

The lock clicked and the door swung open — they 
piled through it, shut it quickly, and pressed their 
ears against it, listening. 

“Which way did they go, Peeves?” Filch was saying. 
“Quick, tell me.” 

“Say ‘please.’ ” 

“Don’t mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go?” 

“Shan’t say nothing if you don’t say please,” said 
Peeves in his annoying singsong voice. 

“All right — please.” 

“NOTHING! Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn’t say nothing 
if you didn’t say please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!” And they 
heard the sound of Peeves whooshing away and Filch 
cursing in rage. 



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“He thinks this door is locked,” Harry whispered. “I 
think well be okay — get off Neville!” For Neville had 
been tugging on the sleeve of Harry’s bathrobe for the 
last minute. “What?” 

Harry turned around — and saw, quite clearly, what. 
For a moment, he was sure he’d walked into a 
nightmare — this was too much, on top of everything 
that had happened so far. 

They weren’t in a room, as he had supposed. They 
were in a corridor. The forbidden corridor on the third 
floor. And now they knew why it was forbidden. 

They were looking straight into the eyes of a 
monstrous dog, a dog that filled the whole space 
between ceiling and floor. It had three heads. Three 
pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching and 
quivering in their direction; three drooling mouths, 
saliva hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs. 

It was standing quite still, all six eyes staring at them, 
and Harry knew that the only reason they weren’t 
already dead was that their sudden appearance had 
taken it by surprise, but it was quickly getting over 
that, there was no mistaking what those thunderous 
growls meant. 

Harry groped for the doorknob — between Filch and 
death, he’d take Filch. 

They fell backward — Harry slammed the door shut, 
and they ran, they almost flew, back down the 
corridor. Filch must have hurried off to look for them 
somewhere else, because they didn’t see him 
anywhere, but they hardly cared — all they wanted to 
do was put as much space as possible between them 
and that monster. They didn’t stop running until they 



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reached the portrait of the Fat Lady on the seventh 
floor. 

“Where on earth have you all been?” she asked, 
looking at their bathrobes hanging off their shoulders 
and their flushed, sweaty faces. 

“Never mind that — pig snout, pig snout,” panted 
Harry, and the portrait swung forward. They 
scrambled into the common room and collapsed, 
trembling, into armchairs. 

It was a while before any of them said anything. 
Neville, indeed, looked as if he’d never speak again. 

“What do they think they’re doing, keeping a thing 
like that locked up in a school?” said Ron finally. “If 
any dog needs exercise, that one does.” 

Hermione had got both her breath and her bad 
temper back again. 

“You don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?” she 
snapped. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?” 

“The floor?” Harry suggested. “I wasn’t looking at its 
feet, I was too busy with its heads.” 

“No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. It’s 
obviously guarding something.” 

She stood up, glaring at them. 

“I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. We could all 
have been killed — or worse, expelled. Now, if you 
don’t mind, I’m going to bed.” 

Ron stared after her, his mouth open. 



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“No, we don’t mind,” he said. “You’d think we dragged 
her along, wouldn’t you?” 

But Hermione had given Harry something else to 
think about as he climbed back into bed. The dog was 
guarding something. . . . What had Hagrid said? 
Gringotts was the safest place in the world for 
something you wanted to hide — except perhaps 
Hogwarts. 

It looked as though Harry had found out where the 
grubby little package from vault seven hundred and 
thirteen was. 



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10 




HALLOWEEN 

Malfoy couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw that 
Harry and Ron were still at Hogwarts the next day, 
looking tired but perfectly cheerful. Indeed, by the 
next morning Harry and Ron thought that meeting 
the three-headed dog had been an excellent 
adventure, and they were quite keen to have another 
one. In the meantime, Harry filled Ron in about the 
package that seemed to have been moved from 
Gringotts to Hogwarts, and they spent a lot of time 
wondering what could possibly need such heavy 
protection. 

“It’s either really valuable or really dangerous,” said 
Ron. 

“Or both,” said Harry. 

But as all they knew for sure about the mysterious 
object was that it was about two inches long, they 
didn’t have much chance of guessing what it was 
without further clues. 

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Neither Neville nor Hermione showed the slightest 
interest in what lay underneath the dog and the 
trapdoor. All Neville cared about was never going near 
the dog again. 

Hermione was now refusing to speak to Harry and 
Ron, but she was such a bossy know-it-all that they 
saw this as an added bonus. All they really wanted 
now was a way of getting back at Malfoy, and to their 
great delight, just such a thing arrived in the mail 
about a week later. 

As the owls flooded into the Great Hall as usual, 
everyone’s attention was caught at once by a long, 
thin package carried by six large screech owls. Harry 
was just as interested as everyone else to see what 
was in this large parcel, and was amazed when the 
owls soared down and dropped it right in front of him, 
knocking his bacon to the floor. They had hardly 
fluttered out of the way when another owl dropped a 
letter on top of the parcel. 

Harry ripped open the letter first, which was lucky, 
because it said: 



DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE. 

It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I 
don’t want everybody knowing you’ve got a 
broomstick or they’ll all want one. Oliver Wood will 
meet you tonight on the Quidditch field at seven 
o’clock for your first training session. 

Professor M. McGonagall 

Harry had difficulty hiding his glee as he handed the 
note to Ron to read. 

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“A Nimbus Two Thousand!” Ron moaned enviously. 
“I’ve never even touched one.” 

They left the hall quickly, wanting to unwrap the 
broomstick in private before their first class, but 
halfway across the entrance hall they found the way 
upstairs barred by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy seized 
the package from Harry and felt it. 

“That’s a broomstick,” he said, throwing it back to 
Harry with a mixture of jealousy and spite on his face. 
“You’ll be in for it this time, Potter, first years aren’t 
allowed them.” 

Ron couldn’t resist it. 

“It’s not any old broomstick,” he said, “it’s a Nimbus 
Two Thousand. What did you say you’ve got at home, 
Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?” Ron grinned at Harry. 
“Comets look flashy, but they’re not in the same 
league as the Nimbus.” 

“What would you know about it, Weasley, you 
couldn’t afford half the handle,” Malfoy snapped back. 
“I suppose you and your brothers have to save up 
twig by twig.” 

Before Ron could answer, Professor Flitwick appeared 
at Malfoy’s elbow. 

“Not arguing, I hope, boys?” he squeaked. 

“Potters been sent a broomstick, Professor,” said 
Malfoy quickly. 

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” said Professor Flitwick, 
beaming at Harry. “Professor McGonagall told me all 
about the special circumstances, Potter. And what 
model is it?” 

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“A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir,” said Harry, fighting 
not to laugh at the look of horror on Malfoy’s face. 
“And it’s really thanks to Malfoy here that I’ve got it,” 
he added. 

Harry and Ron headed upstairs, smothering their 
laughter at Malfoy’s obvious rage and confusion. 

“Well, it’s true,” Harry chortled as they reached the 
top of the marble staircase, “If he hadn’t stolen 
Neville’s Remembrall I wouldn’t be on the team. ...” 

“So I suppose you think that’s a reward for breaking 
rules?” came an angry voice from just behind them. 
Hermione was stomping up the stairs, looking 
disapprovingly at the package in Harry’s hand. 

“I thought you weren’t speaking to us?” said Harry. 

“Yes, don’t stop now,” said Ron, “it’s doing us so 
much good.” 

Hermione marched away with her nose in the air. 

Harry had a lot of trouble keeping his mind on his 
lessons that day. It kept wandering up to the 
dormitory where his new broomstick was lying under 
his bed, or straying off to the Quidditch field where 
he’d be learning to play that night. He bolted his 
dinner that evening without noticing what he was 
eating, and then rushed upstairs with Ron to unwrap 
the Nimbus Two Thousand at last. 

“Wow,” Ron sighed, as the broomstick rolled onto 
Harry’s bedspread. 

Even Harry, who knew nothing about the different 
brooms, thought it looked wonderful. Sleek and 
shiny, with a mahogany handle, it had a long tail of 

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neat, straight twigs and Nimbus Two Thousand 
written in gold near the top. 

As seven o’clock drew nearer, Harry left the castle and 
set off in the dusk toward the Quidditch field. He’d 
never been inside the stadium before. Hundreds of 
seats were raised in stands around the field so that 
the spectators were high enough to see what was 
going on. At either end of the field were three golden 
poles with hoops on the end. They reminded Harry of 
the little plastic sticks Muggle children blew bubbles 
through, except that they were fifty feet high. 

Too eager to fly again to wait for Wood, Harry 
mounted his broomstick and kicked off from the 
ground. What a feeling — he swooped in and out of 
the goal posts and then sped up and down the field. 
The Nimbus Two Thousand turned wherever he 
wanted at his lightest touch. 

“Hey, Potter, come down!” 

Oliver Wood had arrived. He was carrying a large 
wooden crate under his arm. Harry landed next to 
him. 

“Very nice,” said Wood, his eyes glinting. “I see what 
McGonagall meant ... you really are a natural. I’m 
just going to teach you the rules this evening, then 
you’ll be joining team practice three times a week.” 

He opened the crate. Inside were four different-sized 
balls. 

“Right,” said Wood. “Now, Quidditch is easy enough to 
understand, even if it’s not too easy to play. There are 
seven players on each side. Three of them are called 
Chasers.” 



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“Three Chasers,” Harry repeated, as Wood took out a 
bright red ball about the size of a soccer ball. 

“This ball’s called the Quaffle,” said Wood. “The 
Chasers throw the Quaffle to each other and try and 
get it through one of the hoops to score a goal. Ten 
points every time the Quaffle goes through one of the 
hoops. Follow me?” 

“The Chasers throw the Quaffle and put it through 
the hoops to score,” Harry recited. “So — that’s sort of 
like basketball on broomsticks with six hoops, isn’t 
it?” 



“What’s basketball?” said Wood curiously. 

“Never mind,” said Harry quickly. 

“Now, there’s another player on each side who’s called 
the Keeper — I’m Keeper for Gryffindor. I have to fly 
around our hoops and stop the other team from 
scoring.” 

“Three Chasers, one Keeper,” said Harry, who was 
determined to remember it all. “And they play with 
the Quaffle. Okay, got that. So what are they for?” He 
pointed at the three balls left inside the box. 

“I’ll show you now,” said Wood. “Take this.” 

He handed Harry a small club, a bit like a short 
baseball bat. 

“I’m going to show you what the Bludgers do,” Wood 
said. “These two are the Bludgers.” 

He showed Harry two identical balls, jet black and 
slightly smaller than the red Quaffle. Harry noticed 



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that they seemed to be straining to escape the straps 
holding them inside the box. 

“Stand back,” Wood warned Harry. He bent down and 
freed one of the Bludgers. 

At once, the black ball rose high in the air and then 
pelted straight at Harry’s face. Harry swung at it with 
the bat to stop it from breaking his nose, and sent it 
zigzagging away into the air — it zoomed around their 
heads and then shot at Wood, who dived on top of it 
and managed to pin it to the ground. 

“See?” Wood panted, forcing the struggling Bludger 
back into the crate and strapping it down safely. “The 
Bludgers rocket around, trying to knock players off 
their brooms. That’s why you have two Beaters on 
each team — the Weasley twins are ours — it’s their 
job to protect their side from the Bludgers and try and 
knock them toward the other team. So — think you’ve 
got all that?” 

“Three Chasers try and score with the Quaffle; the 
Keeper guards the goal posts; the Beaters keep the 
Bludgers away from their team,” Harry reeled off. 

“Very good,” said Wood. 

“Er — have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?” Harry 
asked, hoping he sounded offhand. 

“Never at Hogwarts. We’ve had a couple of broken 
jaws but nothing worse than that. Now, the last 
member of the team is the Seeker. That’s you. And 
you don’t have to worry about the Quaffle or the 
Bludgers — ” 

“ — unless they crack my head open.” 



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“Don’t worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for 
the Bludgers — I mean, they’re like a pair of human 
Bludgers themselves.” 

Wood reached into the crate and took out the fourth 
and last ball. Compared with the Quaffle and the 
Bludgers, it was tiny, about the size of a large walnut. 
It was bright gold and had little fluttering silver 
wings. 

“This,” said Wood, “is the Golden Snitch, and it’s the 
most important ball of the lot. It’s very hard to catch 
because it’s so fast and difficult to see. It’s the 
Seeker’s job to catch it. You’ve got to weave in and out 
of the Chasers, Beaters, Bludgers, and Quaffle to get 
it before the other team’s Seeker, because whichever 
Seeker catches the Snitch wins his team an extra 
hundred and fifty points, so they nearly always win. 
That’s why Seekers get fouled so much. A game of 
Quidditch only ends when the Snitch is caught, so it 
can go on for ages — I think the record is three 
months, they had to keep bringing on substitutes so 
the players could get some sleep. 

“Well, that’s it — any questions?” 

Harry shook his head. He understood what he had to 
do all right, it was doing it that was going to be the 
problem. 

“We won’t practice with the Snitch yet,” said Wood, 
carefully shutting it back inside the crate, “it’s too 
dark, we might lose it. Let’s try you out with a few of 
these.” 

He pulled a bag of ordinary golf balls out of his pocket 
and a few minutes later, he and Harry were up in the 
air, Wood throwing the golf balls as hard as he could 
in every direction for Harry to catch. 

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Harry didn’t miss a single one, and Wood was 
delighted. After half an hour, night had really fallen 
and they couldn’t carry on. 

“That Quidditch Cup’ll have our name on it this year,” 
said Wood happily as they trudged back up to the 
castle. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you turn out better 
than Charlie Weasley, and he could have played for 
England if he hadn’t gone off chasing dragons.” 

Perhaps it was because he was now so busy, what 
with Quidditch practice three evenings a week on top 
of all his homework, but Harry could hardly believe it 
when he realized that he’d already been at Hogwarts 
two months. The castle felt more like home than 
Privet Drive ever had. His lessons, too, were becoming 
more and more interesting now that they had 
mastered the basics. 

On Halloween morning they woke to the delicious 
smell of baking pumpkin wafting through the 
corridors. Even better, Professor Flitwick announced 
in Charms that he thought they were ready to start 
making objects fly, something they had all been dying 
to try since they’d seen him make Neville’s toad zoom 
around the classroom. Professor Flitwick put the 
class into pairs to practice. Harry’s partner was 
Seamus Finnigan (which was a relief, because Neville 
had been trying to catch his eye). Ron, however, was 
to be working with Hermione Granger. It was hard to 
tell whether Ron or Hermione was angrier about this. 
She hadn’t spoken to either of them since the day 
Harry’s broomstick had arrived. 

“Now, don’t forget that nice wrist movement we’ve 
been practicing!” squeaked Professor Flitwick, 
perched on top of his pile of books as usual. “Swish 
and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the 
magic words properly is very important, too — never 
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forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f and 
found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his 
chest.” 

It was very difficult. Harry and Seamus swished and 
flicked, but the feather they were supposed to be 
sending skyward just lay on the desktop. Seamus got 
so impatient that he prodded it with his wand and set 
fire to it — Harry had to put it out with his hat. 

Ron, at the next table, wasn’t having much more 
luck. 

“Wingardium Leviosal” he shouted, waving his long 
arms like a windmill. 

“You’re saying it wrong,” Harry heard Hermione snap. 
“It’s Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the ‘gar’ nice and 
long.” 

“You do it, then, if you’re so clever,” Ron snarled. 

Hermione rolled up the sleeves of her gown, flicked 
her wand, and said, “Wingardium LeviosaV’ 

Their feather rose off the desk and hovered about four 
feet above their heads. 

“Oh, well done!” cried Professor Flitwick, clapping. 
“Everyone see here, Miss Granger’s done it!” 

Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of the class. 

“It’s no wonder no one can stand her,” he said to 
Harry as they pushed their way into the crowded 
corridor, “she’s a nightmare, honestly.” 



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Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past 
him. It was Hermione. Harry caught a glimpse of her 
face — and was startled to see that she was in tears. 

“I think she heard you.” 

“So?” said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. 
“She must’ve noticed she’s got no friends.” 

Hermione didn’t turn up for the next class and wasn’t 
seen all afternoon. On their way down to the Great 
Hall for the Halloween feast, Harry and Ron overheard 
Parvati Patil telling her friend Lavender that Hermione 
was crying in the girls’ bathroom and wanted to be 
left alone. Ron looked still more awkward at this, but 
a moment later they had entered the Great Hall, 
where the Halloween decorations put Hermione out of 
their minds. 

A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and 
ceiling while a thousand more swooped over the 
tables in low black clouds, making the candles in the 
pumpkins stutter. The feast appeared suddenly on 
the golden plates, as it had at the start-of-term 
banquet. 

Harry was just helping himself to a baked potato 
when Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the hall, 
his turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone 
stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore’s chair, 
slumped against the table, and gasped, “Troll — in 
the dungeons — thought you ought to know.” 

He then sank to the floor in a dead faint. 

There was an uproar. It took several purple 
firecrackers exploding from the end of Professor 
Dumbledore’s wand to bring silence. 



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“Prefects,” he rumbled, “lead your Houses back to the 
dormitories immediately!” 

Percy was in his element. 

“Follow me! Stick together, first years! No need to fear 
the troll if you follow my orders! Stay close behind 
me, now. Make way, first years coming through! 
Excuse me, I’m a prefect!” 

“How could a troll get in?” Harry asked as they 
climbed the stairs. 

“Don’t ask me, they’re supposed to be really stupid,” 
said Ron. “Maybe Peeves let it in for a Halloween 
joke.” 

They passed different groups of people hurrying in 
different directions. As they jostled their way through 
a crowd of confused Hufflepuffs, Harry suddenly 
grabbed Ron’s arm. 

“I’ve just thought — Hermione.” 

“What about her?” 

“She doesn’t know about the troll.” 

Ron bit his lip. 

“Oh, all right,” he snapped. “But Percy’d better not 
see us.” 

Ducking down, they joined the Hufflepuffs going the 
other way, slipped down a deserted side corridor, and 
hurried off toward the girls’ bathroom. They had just 
turned the corner when they heard quick footsteps 
behind them. 



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“Percy!” hissed Ron, pulling Harry behind a large 
stone griffin. 

Peering around it, however, they saw not Percy but 
Snape. He crossed the corridor and disappeared from 
view. 

“What’s he doing?” Harry whispered. “Why isn’t he 
down in the dungeons with the rest of the teachers?” 

“Search me.” 

Quietly as possible, they crept along the next corridor 
after Snape ’s fading footsteps. 

“He’s heading for the third floor,” Harry said, but Ron 
held up his hand. 

“Can you smell something?” 

Harry sniffed and a foul stench reached his nostrils, a 
mixture of old socks and the kind of public toilet no 
one seems to clean. 

And then they heard it — a low grunting, and the 
shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet. Ron pointed — at 
the end of a passage to the left, something huge was 
moving toward them. They shrank into the shadows 
and watched as it emerged into a patch of moonlight. 

It was a horrible sight. Twelve feet tall, its skin was a 
dull, granite gray, its great lumpy body like a boulder 
with its small bald head perched on top like a 
coconut. It had short legs thick as tree trunks with 
flat, horny feet. The smell coming from it was 
incredible. It was holding a huge wooden club, which 
dragged along the floor because its arms were so long. 



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The troll stopped next to a doorway and peered inside. 
It waggled its long ears, making up its tiny mind, then 
slouched slowly into the room. 

“The key’s in the lock,” Harry muttered. “We could 
lock it in.” 

“Good idea,” said Ron nervously. 

They edged toward the open door, mouths dry, 
praying the troll wasn’t about to come out of it. With 
one great leap, Harry managed to grab the key, slam 
the door, and lock it. 

“Yes!” 

Flushed with their victory, they started to run back 
up the passage, but as they reached the corner they 
heard something that made their hearts stop — a 
high, petrified scream — and it was coming from the 
chamber they’d just chained up. 

“Oh, no,” said Ron, pale as the Bloody Baron. 

“It’s the girls’ bathroom!” Harry gasped. 

“ Hermionel” they said together. 

It was the last thing they wanted to do, but what 
choice did they have? Wheeling around, they sprinted 
back to the door and turned the key, fumbling in their 
panic. Harry pulled the door open and they ran 
inside. 

Hermione Granger was shrinking against the wall 
opposite, looking as if she was about to faint. The troll 
was advancing on her, knocking the sinks off the 
walls as it went. 



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“Confuse it!” Harry said desperately to Ron, and, 
seizing a tap, he threw it as hard as he could against 
the wall. 

The troll stopped a few feet from Hermione. It 
lumbered around, blinking stupidly, to see what had 
made the noise. Its mean little eyes saw Harry. It 
hesitated, then made for him instead, lifting its club 
as it went. 

“Oy, pea-brain!” yelled Ron from the other side of the 
chamber, and he threw a metal pipe at it. The troll 
didn’t even seem to notice the pipe hitting its 
shoulder, but it heard the yell and paused again, 
turning its ugly snout toward Ron instead, giving 
Harry time to run around it. 

“Come on, run, run\” Harry yelled at Hermione, trying 
to pull her toward the door, but she couldn’t move, 
she was still flat against the wall, her mouth open 
with terror. 

The shouting and the echoes seemed to be driving the 
troll berserk. It roared again and started toward Ron, 
who was nearest and had no way to escape. 

Harry then did something that was both very brave 
and very stupid: He took a great running jump and 
managed to fasten his arms around the troll’s neck 
from behind. The troll couldn’t feel Harry hanging 
there, but even a troll will notice if you stick a long bit 
of wood up its nose, and Harry’s wand had still been 
in his hand when he’d jumped — it had gone straight 
up one of the troll’s nostrils. 

Howling with pain, the troll twisted and flailed its 
club, with Harry clinging on for dear life; any second, 
the troll was going to rip him off or catch him a 
terrible blow with the club. 

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Hermione had sunk to the floor in fright; Ron pulled 
out his own wand — not knowing what he was going 
to do he heard himself cry the first spell that came 
into his head: “Wingardium Leviosal” 

The club flew suddenly out of the troll’s hand, rose 
high, high up into the air, turned slowly over — and 
dropped, with a sickening crack, onto its owner’s 
head. The troll swayed on the spot and then fell flat 
on its face, with a thud that made the whole room 
tremble. 

Harry got to his feet. He was shaking and out of 
breath. Ron was standing there with his wand still 
raised, staring at what he had done. 

It was Hermione who spoke first. 

“Is it — dead?” 

“I don’t think so,” said Harry, “I think it’s just been 
knocked out.” 

He bent down and pulled his wand out of the troll’s 
nose. It was covered in what looked like lumpy gray 
glue. 

“Urgh — troll boogers.” 

He wiped it on the troll’s trousers. 

A sudden slamming and loud footsteps made the 
three of them look up. They hadn’t realized what a 
racket they had been making, but of course, someone 
downstairs must have heard the crashes and the 
troll’s roars. A moment later, Professor McGonagall 
had come bursting into the room, closely followed by 
Snape, with Quirrell bringing up the rear. Quirrell 



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took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and 
sat quickly down on a toilet, clutching his heart. 

Snape bent over the troll. Professor McGonagall was 
looking at Ron and Harry. Harry had never seen her 
look so angry. Her lips were white. Hopes of winning 
fifty points for Gryffindor faded quickly from Harry’s 
mind. 

“What on earth were you thinking of?” said Professor 
McGonagall, with cold fury in her voice. Harry looked 
at Ron, who was still standing with his wand in the 
air. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Why aren’t you 
in your dormitory?” 

Snape gave Harry a swift, piercing look. Harry looked 
at the floor. He wished Ron would put his wand down. 

Then a small voice came out of the shadows. 

“Please, Professor McGonagall — they were looking for 
me.” 

“Miss Granger!” 

Hermione had managed to get to her feet at last. 

“I went looking for the troll because I — I thought I 
could deal with it on my own — you know, because 
I’ve read all about them.” 

Ron dropped his wand. Hermione Granger, telling a 
downright lie to a teacher? 

“If they hadn’t found me, I’d be dead now. Harry 
stuck his wand up its nose and Ron knocked it out 
with its own club. They didn’t have time to come and 
fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they 
arrived.” 

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Harry and Ron tried to look as though this story 
wasn’t new to them. 

“Well — in that case ...” said Professor McGonagall, 
staring at the three of them, “Miss Granger, you 
foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a 
mountain troll on your own?” 

Hermione hung her head. Harry was speechless. 
Hermione was the last person to do anything against 
the rules, and here she was, pretending she had, to 
get them out of trouble. It was as if Snape had started 
handing out sweets. 

“Miss Granger, five points will be taken from 
Gryffindor for this,” said Professor McGonagall. “I’m 
very disappointed in you. If you’re not hurt at all, 
you’d better get off to Gryffindor Tower. Students are 
finishing the feast in their Houses.” 

Hermione left. 

Professor McGonagall turned to Harry and Ron. 

“Well, I still say you were lucky, but not many first 
years could have taken on a full-grown mountain 
troll. You each win Gryffindor five points. Professor 
Dumbledore will be informed of this. You may go.” 

They hurried out of the chamber and didn’t speak at 
all until they had climbed two floors up. It was a relief 
to be away from the smell of the troll, quite apart from 
anything else. 

“We should have gotten more than ten points,” Ron 
grumbled. 

“Five, you mean, once she’s taken off Hermione ’s.” 



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“Good of her to get us out of trouble like that,” Ron 
admitted. “Mind you, we did save her.” 

“She might not have needed saving if we hadn’t 
locked the thing in with her,” Harry reminded him. 

They had reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. 

“Pig snout,” they said and entered. 

The common room was packed and noisy. Everyone 
was eating the food that had been sent up. Hermione, 
however, stood alone by the door, waiting for them. 
There was a very embarrassed pause. Then, none of 
them looking at each other, they all said “Thanks,” 
and hurried off to get plates. 

But from that moment on, Hermione Granger became 
their friend. There are some things you can’t share 
without ending up liking each other, and knocking 
out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them. 



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QUIDDITCH 

As they entered November, the weather turned very 
cold. The mountains around the school became icy 
gray and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning the 
ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen 
from the upstairs windows defrosting broomsticks on 
the Quidditch field, bundled up in a long moleskin 
overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin 
boots. 

The Quidditch season had begun. On Saturday, Harry 
would be playing in his first match after weeks of 
training: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. If Gryffindor 
won, they would move up into second place in the 
House Championship. 

Hardly anyone had seen Harry play because Wood 
had decided that, as their secret weapon, Harry 
should be kept, well, secret. But the news that he was 
playing Seeker had leaked out somehow, and Harry 
didn’t know which was worse — people telling him 
he’d be brilliant or people telling him they’d be 
running around underneath him holding a mattress. 
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It was really lucky that Harry now had Hermione as a 
friend. He didn’t know how he’d have gotten through 
all his homework without her, what with all the last- 
minute Quidditch practice Wood was making them 
do. She had also lent him Quidditch Through the Ages, 
which turned out to be a very interesting read. 

Harry learned that there were seven hundred ways of 
committing a Quidditch foul and that all of them had 
happened during a World Cup match in 1473; that 
Seekers were usually the smallest and fastest players, 
and that most serious Quidditch accidents seemed to 
happen to them; that although people rarely died 
playing Quidditch, referees had been known to vanish 
and turn up months later in the Sahara Desert. 

Hermione had become a bit more relaxed about 
breaking rules since Harry and Ron had saved her 
from the mountain troll, and she was much nicer for 
it. The day before Harry’s first Quidditch match the 
three of them were out in the freezing courtyard 
during break, and she had conjured them up a bright 
blue fire that could be carried around in a jam jar. 
They were standing with their backs to it, getting 
warm, when Snape crossed the yard. Harry noticed at 
once that Snape was limping. Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione moved closer together to block the fire from 
view; they were sure it wouldn’t be allowed. 
Unfortunately, something about their guilty faces 
caught Snape’s eye. He limped over. He hadn’t seen 
the fire, but he seemed to be looking for a reason to 
tell them off anyway. 

“What’s that you’ve got there, Potter?” 

It was Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry showed him. 



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“Library books are not to be taken outside the 
school,” said Snape. “Give it to me. Five points from 
Gryffindor.” 

“He’s just made that rule up,” Harry muttered angrily 
as Snape limped away. “Wonder what’s wrong with 
his leg?” 

“Dunno, but I hope it’s really hurting him,” said Ron 
bitterly. 

The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that 
evening. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together next 
to a window. Hermione was checking Harry and Ron’s 
Charms homework for them. She would never let 
them copy (“How will you learn?”), but by asking her 
to read it through, they got the right answers anyway. 

Harry felt restless. He wanted Quidditch Through the 
Ages back, to take his mind off his nerves about 
tomorrow. Why should he be afraid of Snape? Getting 
up, he told Ron and Hermione he was going to ask 
Snape if he could have it. 

“Better you than me,” they said together, but Harry 
had an idea that Snape wouldn’t refuse if there were 
other teachers listening. 

He made his way down to the staffroom and knocked. 
There was no answer. He knocked again. Nothing. 

Perhaps Snape had left the book in there? It was 
worth a try. He pushed the door ajar and peered 
inside — and a horrible scene met his eyes. 

Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was 
holding his robes above his knees. One of his legs was 
bloody and mangled. Filch was handing Snape 
bandages. 

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“Blasted thing,” Snape was saying. “How are you 
supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at 
once?” 

Harry tried to shut the door quietly, but — 

“POTTER!” 

Snape ’s face was twisted with fury as he dropped his 
robes quickly to hide his leg. Harry gulped. 

“I just wondered if I could have my book back.” 

“GET OUT! OUT!” 

Harry left, before Snape could take any more points 
from Gryffindor. He sprinted back upstairs. 

“Did you get it?” Ron asked as Harry joined them. 
“What’s the matter?” 

In a low whisper, Harry told them what he’d seen. 

“You know what this means?” he finished 
breathlessly. “He tried to get past that three-headed 
dog at Halloween! That’s where he was going when we 
saw him — he’s after whatever it’s guarding! And I’d 
bet my broomstick he let that troll in, to make a 
diversion!” 

Hermione’s eyes were wide. 

“No — he wouldn’t,” she said. “I know he’s not very 
nice, but he wouldn’t try and steal something 
Dumbledore was keeping safe.” 

“Honestly, Hermione, you think all teachers are saints 
or something,” snapped Ron. “I’m with Harry. I 



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wouldn’t put anything past Snape. But what’s he 
after? What’s that dog guarding?” 

Harry went to bed with his head buzzing with the 
same question. Neville was snoring loudly, but Harry 
couldn’t sleep. He tried to empty his mind — he 
needed to sleep, he had to, he had his first Quidditch 
match in a few hours — but the expression on 
Snape’s face when Harry had seen his leg wasn’t easy 
to forget. 

The next morning dawned very bright and cold. The 
Great Hall was full of the delicious smell of fried 
sausages and the cheerful chatter of everyone looking 
forward to a good Quidditch match. 

“You’ve got to eat some breakfast.” 

“I don’t want anything.” 

“Just a bit of toast,” wheedled Hermione. 

“I’m not hungry.” 

Harry felt terrible. In an hour’s time he’d be walking 
onto the field. 

“Harry, you need your strength,” said Seamus 
Finnigan. “Seekers are always the ones who get 
clobbered by the other team.” 

“Thanks, Seamus,” said Harry, watching Seamus pile 
ketchup on his sausages. 

By eleven o’clock the whole school seemed to be out 
in the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Many 
students had binoculars. The seats might be raised 
high in the air, but it was still difficult to see what 
was going on sometimes. 

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Ron and Hermione joined Neville, Seamus, and Dean 
the West Ham fan up in the top row. As a surprise for 
Harry, they had painted a large banner on one of the 
sheets Scabbers had ruined. It said Potter for 
President, and Dean, who was good at drawing, had 
done a large Gryffindor lion underneath. Then 
Hermione had performed a tricky little charm so that 
the paint flashed different colors. 

Meanwhile, in the locker room, Harry and the rest of 
the team were changing into their scarlet Quidditch 
robes (Slytherin would be playing in green) . 

Wood cleared his throat for silence. 

“Okay, men,” he said. 

“And women,” said Chaser Angelina Johnson. 

“And women,” Wood agreed. “This is it.” 

“The big one,” said Fred Weasley. 

“The one we’ve all been waiting for,” said George. 

“We know Oliver’s speech by heart,” Fred told Harry, 
“we were on the team last year.” 

“Shut up, you two,” said Wood. “This is the best team 
Gryffindor’s had in years. We’re going to win. I know 
it.” 

He glared at them all as if to say, “Or else.” 

“Right. It’s time. Good luck, all of you.” 

Harry followed Fred and George out of the locker 
room and, hoping his knees weren’t going to give way, 
walked onto the field to loud cheers. 

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Madam Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the 
middle of the field waiting for the two teams, her 
broom in her hand. 

“Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you,” she said, 
once they were all gathered around her. Harry noticed 
that she seemed to be speaking particularly to the 
Slytherin Captain, Marcus Flint, a fifth year. Harry 
thought Flint looked as if he had some troll blood in 
him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fluttering 
banner high above, flashing Potter for President over 
the crowd. His heart skipped. He felt braver. 

“Mount your brooms, please.” 

Harry clambered onto his Nimbus Two Thousand. 

Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle. 

Fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They 
were off. 

“And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina 
Johnson of Gryffindor — what an excellent Chaser 
that girl is, and rather attractive, too — ” 

“JORDAN!” 

“Sorry, Professor.” 

The Weasley twins’ friend, Lee Jordan, was doing the 
commentary for the match, closely watched by 
Professor McGonagall. 

“And she’s really belting along up there, a neat pass 
to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood’s, last 
year only a reserve — back to Johnson and — no, the 
Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain 
Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes — Flint 
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flying like an eagle up there — he’s going to sc- no, 
stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper 
Wood and the Gryffindors take the Quaffle — that’s 
Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive 
around Flint, off up the field and — OUCH — that 
must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a 
Bludger — Quaffle taken by the Slytherins — that’s 
Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but 
he’s blocked by a second Bludger — sent his way by 
Fred or George Weasley, can’t tell which — nice play 
by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back 
in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and 
off she goes — she’s really flying — dodges a speeding 
Bludger — the goal posts are ahead — come on, now, 
Angelina — Keeper Bletchley dives — misses — 
GRYFFINDORS SCORE!” 

Gryffindor cheers filled the cold air, with howls and 
moans from the Slytherins. 

“Budge up there, move along.” 

“Hagrid!” 

Ron and Hermione squeezed together to give Hagrid 
enough space to join them. 

“Bin watchin’ from me hut,” said Hagrid, patting a 
large pair of binoculars around his neck, “But it isn’t 
the same as bein’ in the crowd. No sign of the Snitch 
yet, eh?” 

“Nope,” said Ron. “Harry hasn’t had much to do yet.” 

“Kept outta trouble, though, that’s somethin’,” said 
Hagrid, raising his binoculars and peering skyward at 
the speck that was Harry. 



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Way up above them, Harry was gliding over the game, 
squinting about for some sign of the Snitch. This was 
part of his and Wood’s game plan. 

“Keep out of the way until you catch sight of the 
Snitch,” Wood had said. “We don’t want you attacked 
before you have to be.” 

When Angelina had scored, Harry had done a couple 
of loop-the-loops to let off his feelings. Now he was 
back to staring around for the Snitch. Once he caught 
sight of a flash of gold, but it was just a reflection 
from one of the Weasleys’ wristwatches, and once a 
Bludger decided to come pelting his way, more like a 
cannonball than anything, but Harry dodged it and 
Fred Weasley came chasing after it. 

“All right there, Harry?” he had time to yell, as he 
beat the Bludger furiously toward Marcus Flint. 

“Slytherin in possession,” Lee Jordan was saying, 
“Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys, 
and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the — wait a 
moment — was that the Snitch?” 

A murmur ran through the crowd as Adrian Pucey 
dropped the Quaffle, too busy looking over his 
shoulder at the flash of gold that had passed his left 
ear. 

Harry saw it. In a great rush of excitement he dived 
downward after the streak of gold. Slytherin Seeker 
Terence Higgs had seen it, too. Neck and neck they 
hurtled toward the Snitch — all the Chasers seemed 
to have forgotten what they were supposed to be 
doing as they hung in midair to watch. 



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Harry was faster than Higgs — he could see the little 
round ball, wings fluttering, darting up ahead — he 
put on an extra spurt of speed — 

WHAM! A roar of rage echoed from the Gryffindors 
below — Marcus Flint had blocked Harry on purpose, 
and Harry’s broom spun off course, Harry holding on 
for dear life. 

“Foul!” screamed the Gryffindors. 

Madam Hooch spoke angrily to Flint and then ordered 
a free shot at the goal posts for Gryffindor. But in all 
the confusion, of course, the Golden Snitch had 
disappeared from sight again. 

Down in the stands, Dean Thomas was yelling, “Send 
him off, ref! Red card!” 

“What are you talking about, Dean?” said Ron. 

“Red card!” said Dean furiously. “In soccer you get 
shown the red card and you’re out of the game!” 

“But this isn’t soccer, Dean,” Ron reminded him. 

Hagrid, however, was on Dean’s side. 

“They oughta change the rules. Flint coulda knocked 
Harry outta the air.” 

Lee Jordan was finding it difficult not to take sides. 

“So — after that obvious and disgusting bit of 
cheating — ” 

“Jordan!” growled Professor McGonagall. 

“I mean, after that open and revolting foul — ” 

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“Jordan, I’m warning you — ” 



“All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor 
Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I’m sure, so a 
penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinnet, who puts it 
away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor 
still in possession.” 

It was as Harry dodged another Bludger, which went 
spinning dangerously past his head, that it happened. 
His broom gave a sudden, frightening lurch. For a 
split second, he thought he was going to fall. He 
gripped the broom tightly with both his hands and 
knees. He’d never felt anything like that. 

It happened again. It was as though the broom was 
trying to buck him off. But Nimbus Two Thousands 
did not suddenly decide to buck their riders off. Harry 
tried to turn back toward the Gryffindor goal posts — 
he had half a mind to ask Wood to call time-out — 
and then he realized that his broom was completely 
out of his control. He couldn’t turn it. He couldn’t 
direct it at all. It was zigzagging through the air, and 
every now and then making violent swishing 
movements that almost unseated him. 

Lee was still commentating. 

“Slytherin in possession — Flint with the Quaffle — 
passes Spinnet — passes Bell — hit hard in the face 
by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose — only joking, 
Professor — Slytherins score — oh no ...” 

The Slytherins were cheering. No one seemed to have 
noticed that Harry’s broom was behaving strangely It 
was carrying him slowly higher, away from the game, 
jerking and twitching as it went. 



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“Dunno what Harry thinks he’s doing,” Hagrid 
mumbled. He stared through his binoculars. “If I 
didn’ know better, I’d say he’d lost control of his 
broom ... but he can’t have. ...” 

Suddenly, people were pointing up at Harry all over 
the stands. His broom had started to roll over and 
over, with him only just managing to hold on. Then 
the whole crowd gasped. Harry’s broom had given a 
wild jerk and Harry swung off it. He was now dangling 
from it, holding on with only one hand. 

“Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?” 
Seamus whispered. 

“Can’t have,” Hagrid said, his voice shaking. “Can’t 
nothing interfere with a broomstick except powerful 
Dark magic — no kid could do that to a Nimbus Two 
Thousand.” 

At these words, Hermione seized Hagrid ’s binoculars, 
but instead of looking up at Harry, she started 
looking frantically at the crowd. 

“What are you doing?” moaned Ron, gray-faced. 

“I knew it,” Hermione gasped, “Snape — look.” 

Ron grabbed the binoculars. Snape was in the middle 
of the stands opposite them. He had his eyes fixed on 
Harry and was muttering nonstop under his breath. 

“He’s doing something — jinxing the broom,” said 
Hermione. 

“What should we do?” 

“Leave it to me.” 



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Before Ron could say another word, Hermione had 
disappeared. Ron turned the binoculars back on 
Harry. His broom was vibrating so hard, it was almost 
impossible for him to hang on much longer. The 
whole crowd was on its feet, watching, terrified, as the 
Weasleys flew up to try and pull Harry safely onto one 
of their brooms, but it was no good — every time they 
got near him, the broom would jump higher still. They 
dropped lower and circled beneath him, obviously 
hoping to catch him if he fell. Marcus Flint seized the 
Quaffle and scored five times without anyone 
noticing. 

“Come on, Hermione,” Ron muttered desperately. 

Hermione had fought her way across to the stand 
where Snape stood, and was now racing along the row 
behind him; she didn’t even stop to say sorry as she 
knocked Professor Quirrell headfirst into the row in 
front. Reaching Snape, she crouched down, pulled 
out her wand, and whispered a few, well-chosen 
words. Bright blue flames shot from her wand onto 
the hem of Snape ’s robes. 

It took perhaps thirty seconds for Snape to realize 
that he was on fire. A sudden yelp told her she had 
done her job. Scooping the fire off him into a little jar 
in her pocket, she scrambled back along the row — 
Snape would never know what had happened. 

It was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able 
to clamber back on to his broom. 

“Neville, you can look!” Ron said. Neville had been 
sobbing into Hagrid’s jacket for the last five minutes. 

Harry was speeding toward the ground when the 
crowd saw him clap his hand to his mouth as though 



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he was about to be sick — he hit the field on all fours 
— coughed — and something gold fell into his hand. 

“I’ve got the Snitch!” he shouted, waving it above his 
head, and the game ended in complete confusion. 

“He didn’t catch it, he nearly swallowed it,” Flint was 
still howling twenty minutes later, but it made no 
difference — Harry hadn’t broken any rules and Lee 
Jordan was still happily shouting the results — 
Gryffindor had won by one hundred and seventy 
points to sixty. Harry heard none of this, though. He 
was being made a cup of strong tea back in Hagrid’s 
hut, with Ron and Hermione. 

“It was Snape,” Ron was explaining, “Hermione and I 
saw him. He was cursing your broomstick, muttering, 
he wouldn’t take his eyes off you.” 

“Rubbish,” said Hagrid, who hadn’t heard a word of 
what had gone on next to him in the stands. “Why 
would Snape do somethin’ like that?” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another, 
wondering what to tell him. Harry decided on the 
truth. 

“I found out something about him,” he told Hagrid. 
“He tried to get past that three-headed dog on 
Halloween. It bit him. We think he was trying to steal 
whatever it’s guarding.” 

Hagrid dropped the teapot. 

“How do you know about Fluffy?” he said. 

“ Fluffy ?” 



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“Yeah — he’s mine — bought him off a Greek chappie 
I met in the pub las’ year — I lent him to Dumbledore 
to guard the — ” 

“Yes?” said Harry eagerly. 

“Now, don’t ask me anymore,” said Hagrid gruffly. 
“That’s top secret, that is.” 

“But Snape’s trying to steal it.” 

“Rubbish,” said Hagrid again. “Snape’s a Hogwarts 
teacher, he’d do nothin’ of the sort.” 

“So why did he just try and kill Harry?” cried 
Hermione. 

The afternoon’s events certainly seemed to have 
changed her mind about Snape. 

“I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I’ve read all 
about them! You’ve got to keep eye contact, and 
Snape wasn’t blinking at all, I saw him!” 

“I’m tellin’ yeh, yer wrong!” said Hagrid hotly. “I don’ 
know why Harry’s broom acted like that, but Snape 
wouldn’ try an’ kill a student! Now, listen to me, all 
three of yeh — yer meddlin’ in things that don’ 
concern yeh. It’s dangerous. You forget that dog, an’ 
you forget what it’s guardin’, that’s between Professor 
Dumbledore an’ Nicolas Flamel — ■” 

“Aha!” said Harry, “so there’s someone called Nicolas 
Flamel involved, is there?” 

Hagrid looked furious with himself. 



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THE MIRROR OF ERISED 

Christmas was coming. One morning in mid- 
December, Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in 
several feet of snow. The lake froze solid and the 
Weasley twins were punished for bewitching several 
snowballs so that they followed Quirrell around, 
bouncing off the back of his turban. The few owls that 
managed to battle their way through the stormy sky 
to deliver mail had to be nursed back to health by 
Hagrid before they could fly off again. 

No one could wait for the holidays to start. While the 
Gryffindor common room and the Great Hall had 
roaring fires, the drafty corridors had become icy and 
a bitter wind rattled the windows in the classrooms. 
Worst of all were Professor Snape’s classes down in 
the dungeons, where their breath rose in a mist 
before them and they kept as close as possible to 
their hot cauldrons. 

“I do feel so sorry,” said Draco Malfoy, one Potions 
class, “for all those people who have to stay at 



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Hogwarts for Christmas because they’re not wanted 
at home.” 

He was looking over at Harry as he spoke. Crabbe and 
Goyle chuckled. Harry, who was measuring out 
powdered spine of lion-fish, ignored them. Malfoy had 
been even more unpleasant than usual since the 
Quidditch match. Disgusted that the Slytherins had 
lost, he had tried to get everyone laughing at how a 
wide-mouthed tree frog would be replacing Harry as 
Seeker next. Then he’d realized that nobody found 
this funny, because they were all so impressed at the 
way Harry had managed to stay on his bucking 
broomstick. So Malfoy, jealous and angry, had gone 
back to taunting Harry about having no proper 
family. 

It was true that Harry wasn’t going back to Privet 
Drive for Christmas. Professor McGonagall had come 
around the week before, making a list of students 
who would be staying for the holidays, and Harry had 
signed up at once. He didn’t feel sorry for himself at 
all; this would probably be the best Christmas he’d 
ever had. Ron and his brothers were staying, too, 
because Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were going to Romania 
to visit Charlie. 

When they left the dungeons at the end of Potions, 
they found a large fir tree blocking the corridor ahead. 
Two enormous feet sticking out at the bottom and a 
loud puffing sound told them that Hagrid was behind 
it. 

“Hi, Hagrid, want any help?” Ron asked, sticking his 
head through the branches. 

“Nah, I’m all right, thanks, Ron.” 



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“Would you mind moving out of the way?” came 
Malfoy’s cold drawl from behind them. “Are you trying 
to earn some extra money, Weasley? Hoping to be 
gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts, I 
suppose — that hut of Hagrid’s must seem like a 
palace compared to what your family’s used to.” 

Ron dived at Malfoy just as Snape came up the stairs. 

“WEASLEY!” 

Ron let go of the front of Malfoy’s robes. 

“He was provoked, Professor Snape,” said Hagrid, 
sticking his huge hairy face out from behind the tree. 
“Malfoy was insultin’ his family.” 

“Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules, 
Hagrid,” said Snape silkily. “Five points from 
Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn’t more. 
Move along, all of you.” 

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle pushed roughly past the 
tree, scattering needles everywhere and smirking. 

“I’ll get him,” said Ron, grinding his teeth at Malfoy’s 
back, “one of these days, I’ll get him — ” 

“I hate them both,” said Harry, “Malfoy and Snape.” 

“Come on, cheer up, it’s nearly Christmas,” said 
Hagrid. “Tell yeh what, come with me an’ see the 
Great Hall, looks a treat.” 

So the three of them followed Hagrid and his tree off 
to the Great Hall, where Professor McGonagall and 
Professor Flitwick were busy with the Christmas 
decorations. 



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“Ah, Hagrid, the last tree — put it in the far corner, 
would you?” 

The hall looked spectacular. Festoons of holly and 
mistletoe hung all around the walls, and no less than 
twelve towering Christmas trees stood around the 
room, some sparkling with tiny icicles, some glittering 
with hundreds of candles. 

“How many days you got left until yer holidays?” 
Hagrid asked. 

“Just one,” said Hermione. “And that reminds me — 
Harry, Ron, we’ve got half an hour before lunch, we 
should be in the library.” 

“Oh yeah, you’re right,” said Ron, tearing his eyes 
away from Professor Flitwick, who had golden 
bubbles blossoming out of his wand and was trailing 
them over the branches of the new tree. 

“The library?” said Hagrid, following them out of the 
hall. “Just before the holidays? Bit keen, aren’t yeh?” 

“Oh, we’re not working,” Harry told him brightly. 

“Ever since you mentioned Nicolas Flamel we’ve been 
trying to find out who he is.” 

“You what?” Hagrid looked shocked. “Listen here — 
I’ve told yeh — drop it. It’s nothin’ to you what that 
dog’s guardin’.” 

“We just want to know who Nicolas Flamel is, that’s 
all,” said Hermione. 

“Unless you’d like to tell us and save us the trouble?” 
Harry added. “We must’ve been through hundreds of 
books already and we can’t find him anywhere — just 



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give us a hint — I know I’ve read his name 
somewhere.” 

“I’m sayin’ nothin’,” said Hagrid flatly. 

“Just have to find out for ourselves, then,” said Ron, 
and they left Hagrid looking disgruntled and hurried 
off to the library. 

They had indeed been searching books for Flamel’s 
name ever since Hagrid had let it slip, because how 
else were they going to find out what Snape was 
trying to steal? The trouble was, it was very hard to 
know where to begin, not knowing what Flamel might 
have done to get himself into a book. He wasn’t in 
Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century, or Notable 
Magical Names of Our Time ; he was missing, too, from 
Important Modern Magical Discoveries, and A Study of 
Recent Developments in Wizardry. And then, of 
course, there was the sheer size of the library; tens of 
thousands of books; thousands of shelves; hundreds 
of narrow rows. 

Hermione took out a list of subjects and titles she had 
decided to search while Ron strode off down a row of 
books and started pulling them off the shelves at 
random. Harry wandered over to the Restricted 
Section. He had been wondering for a while if Flamel 
wasn’t somewhere in there. Unfortunately, you 
needed a specially signed note from one of the 
teachers to look in any of the restricted books, and he 
knew he’d never get one. These were the books 
containing powerful Dark Magic never taught at 
Hogwarts, and only read by older students studying 
advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts. 

“What are you looking for, boy?” 

“Nothing,” said Harry. 

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Madam Pince the librarian brandished a feather 
duster at him. 

“You’d better get out, then. Go on — out!” 

Wishing he’d been a bit quicker at thinking up some 
story, Harry left the library. He, Ron, and Hermione 
had already agreed they’d better not ask Madam 
Pince where they could find Flamel. They were sure 
she’d be able to tell them, but they couldn’t risk 
Snape hearing what they were up to. 

Harry waited outside in the corridor to see if the other 
two had found anything, but he wasn’t very hopeful. 
They had been looking for two weeks, after all, but as 
they only had odd moments between lessons it wasn’t 
surprising they’d found nothing. What they really 
needed was a nice long search without Madam Pince 
breathing down their necks. 

Five minutes later, Ron and Hermione joined him, 
shaking their heads. They went off to lunch. 

“You will keep looking while I’m away, won’t you?” 
said Hermione. “And send me an owl if you find 
anything.” 

“And you could ask your parents if they know who 
Flamel is,” said Ron. “It’d be safe to ask them.” 

“Very safe, as they’re both dentists,” said Hermione. 

Once the holidays had started, Ron and Harry were 
having too good a time to think much about Flamel. 
They had the dormitory to themselves and the 
common room was far emptier than usual, so they 
were able to get the good armchairs by the fire. They 
sat by the hour eating anything they could spear on a 
toasting fork — bread, English muffins, 

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marshmallows — and plotting ways of getting Malfoy 
expelled, which were fun to talk about even if they 
wouldn’t work. 

Ron also started teaching Harry wizard chess. This 
was exactly like Muggle chess except that the figures 
were alive, which made it a lot like directing troops in 
battle. Ron’s set was very old and battered. Like 
everything else he owned, it had once belonged to 
someone else in his family — in this case, his 
grandfather. However, old chessmen weren’t a 
drawback at all. Ron knew them so well he never had 
trouble getting them to do what he wanted. 

Harry played with chessmen Seamus Finnigan had 
lent him, and they didn’t trust him at all. He wasn’t a 
very good player yet and they kept shouting different 
bits of advice at him, which was confusing. “Don’t 
send me there, can’t you see his knight? Send him, we 
can afford to lose him.” 

On Christmas Eve, Harry went to bed looking forward 
to the next day for the food and the fun, but not 
expecting any presents at all. When he woke early in 
the morning, however, the first thing he saw was a 
small pile of packages at the foot of his bed. 

“Merry Christmas,” said Ron sleepily as Harry 
scrambled out of bed and pulled on his bathrobe. 

“You, too,” said Harry. “Will you look at this? I’ve got 
some presents!” 

“What did you expect, turnips?” said Ron, turning to 
his own pile, which was a lot bigger than Harry’s. 

Harry picked up the top parcel. It was wrapped in 
thick brown paper and scrawled across it was To 
Harry, from Hagrid. Inside was a roughly cut wooden 

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flute. Hagrid had obviously whittled it himself. Harry 
blew it — it sounded a bit like an owl. 

A second, very small parcel contained a note. 

We received your message and enclose your Christmas 
present. From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Taped 
to the note was a fifty-pence piece. 

“That’s friendly,” said Harry. 

Ron was fascinated by the fifty pence. 

“ Weird\ ” he said, “What a shape! This is money?” 

“You can keep it,” said Harry, laughing at how 
pleased Ron was. “Hagrid and my aunt and uncle — 
so who sent these?” 

“I think I know who that one’s from,” said Ron, 
turning a bit pink and pointing to a very lumpy 
parcel. “My mom. I told her you didn’t expect any 
presents and — oh, no,” he groaned, “she’s made you 
a Weasley sweater.” 

Harry had torn open the parcel to find a thick, hand- 
knitted sweater in emerald green and a large box of 
homemade fudge. 

“Every year she makes us a sweater,” said Ron, 
unwrapping his own, “and mine’s always maroon.” 

“That’s really nice of her,” said Harry, trying the 
fudge, which was very tasty. 

His next present also contained candy — a large box 
of Chocolate Frogs from Hermione. 



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This only left one parcel. Harry picked it up and felt 
it. It was very light. He unwrapped it. 

Something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the 
floor where it lay in gleaming folds. Ron gasped. 

“I’ve heard of those,” he said in a hushed voice, 
dropping the box of Every Flavor Beans he’d gotten 
from Hermione. “If that’s what I think it is — they’re 
really rare, and really valuable.” 

“What is it?” 

Harry picked the shining, silvery cloth off the floor. It 
was strange to the touch, like water woven into 
material. 

“It’s an Invisibility Cloak,” said Ron, a look of awe on 
his face. “I’m sure it is — try it on.” 

Harry threw the cloak around his shoulders and Ron 
gave a yell. 

“It is! Look down!” 

Harry looked down at his feet, but they were gone. He 
dashed to the mirror. Sure enough, his reflection 
looked back at him, just his head suspended in 
midair, his body completely invisible. He pulled the 
cloak over his head and his reflection vanished 
completely. 

“There’s a note!” said Ron suddenly. “A note fell out of 
it!” 



Harry pulled off the cloak and seized the letter. 
Written in narrow, loopy writing he had never seen 
before were the following words: 



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Your father left this in my possession before he died. It 
is time it was returned to you. 

Use it well. 

A Very Merry Christmas to you. 

There was no signature. Harry stared at the note. Ron 
was admiring the cloak. 

“I’d give anuthinq for one of these,” he said. “Anuthinq. 
What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing,” said Harry. He felt very strange. Who had 
sent the cloak? Had it really once belonged to his 
father? 

Before he could say or think anything else, the 
dormitory door was flung open and Fred and George 
Weasley bounded in. Harry stuffed the cloak quickly 
out of sight. He didn’t feel like sharing it with anyone 
else yet. 

“Merry Christmas!” 

“Hey, look — Harry’s got a Weasley sweater, too!” 

Fred and George were wearing blue sweaters, one 
with a large yellow F on it, the other a G. 

“Harry’s is better than ours, though,” said Fred, 
holding up Harry’s sweater. “She obviously makes 
more of an effort if you’re not family.” 

“Why aren’t you wearing yours, Ron?” George 
demanded. “Come on, get it on, they’re lovely and 
warm.” 



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“I hate maroon,” Ron moaned halfheartedly as he 
pulled it over his head. 

“You haven’t got a letter on yours,” George observed. 

“I suppose she thinks you don’t forget your name. But 
we’re not stupid — we know we’re called Gred and 
Forge.” 

“What’s all this noise?” 

Percy Weasley stuck his head through the door, 
looking disapproving. He had clearly gotten halfway 
through unwrapping his presents as he, too, carried a 
lumpy sweater over his arm, which Fred seized. 

“P for prefect! Get it on, Percy, come on, we’re all 
wearing ours, even Harry got one.” 

“I — don’t — want — ” said Percy thickly, as the twins 
forced the sweater over his head, knocking his glasses 
askew. 

“And you’re not sitting with the prefects today, 
either,” said George. “Christmas is a time for family.” 

They frog-marched Percy from the room, his arms 
pinned to his side by his sweater. 

Harry had never in all his life had such a Christmas 
dinner. A hundred fat, roast turkeys; mountains of 
roast and boiled potatoes; platters of chipolatas; 
tureens of buttered peas, silver boats of thick, rich 
gravy and cranberry sauce — and stacks of wizard 
crackers every few feet along the table. These 
fantastic party favors were nothing like the feeble 
Muggle ones the Dursleys usually bought, with their 
little plastic toys and their flimsy paper hats inside. 
Harry pulled a wizard cracker with Fred and it didn’t 
just bang, it went off with a blast like a cannon and 
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engulfed them all in a cloud of blue smoke, while from 
the inside exploded a rear admiral’s hat and several 
live, white mice. Up at the High Table, Dumbledore 
had swapped his pointed wizard’s hat for a flowered 
bonnet, and was chuckling merrily at a joke Professor 
Flitwick had just read him. 

Flaming Christmas puddings followed the turkey. 
Percy nearly broke his teeth on a silver Sickle 
embedded in his slice. Harry watched Hagrid getting 
redder and redder in the face as he called for more 
wine, finally kissing Professor McGonagall on the 
cheek, who, to Harry’s amazement, giggled and 
blushed, her top hat lopsided. 

When Harry finally left the table, he was laden down 
with a stack of things out of the crackers, including a 
pack of non-explodable, luminous balloons, a Grow- 
Your-Own-Warts kit, and his own new wizard chess 
set. The white mice had disappeared and Harry had a 
nasty feeling they were going to end up as Mrs. 
Norris’s Christmas dinner. 

Harry and the Weasleys spent a happy afternoon 
having a furious snowball fight on the grounds. Then, 
cold, wet, and gasping for breath, they returned to the 
fire in the Gryffindor common room, where Harry 
broke in his new chess set by losing spectacularly to 
Ron. He suspected he wouldn’t have lost so badly if 
Percy hadn’t tried to help him so much. 

After a meal of turkey sandwiches, crumpets, trifle, 
and Christmas cake, everyone felt too full and sleepy 
to do much before bed except sit and watch Percy 
chase Fred and George all over Gryffindor Tower 
because they’d stolen his prefect badge. 

It had been Harry’s best Christmas day ever. Yet 
something had been nagging at the back of his mind 

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all day. Not until he climbed into bed was he free to 
think about it: the Invisibility Cloak and whoever had 
sent it. 

Ron, full of turkey and cake and with nothing 
mysterious to bother him, fell asleep almost as soon 
as he’d drawn the curtains of his four-poster. Harry 
leaned over the side of his own bed and pulled the 
cloak out from under it. 

His father’s ... this had been his father’s. He let the 
material flow over his hands, smoother than silk, light 
as air. Use it well, the note had said. 

He had to try it, now. He slipped out of bed and 
wrapped the cloak around himself. Looking down at 
his legs, he saw only moonlight and shadows. It was a 
very funny feeling. 

Use it well. 

Suddenly, Harry felt wide-awake. The whole of 
Hogwarts was open to him in this cloak. Excitement 
flooded through him as he stood there in the dark 
and silence. He could go anywhere in this, anywhere, 
and Filch would never know. 

Ron grunted in his sleep. Should Harry wake him? 
Something held him back — his father’s cloak — he 
felt that this time — the first time — he wanted to use 
it alone. 

He crept out of the dormitory, down the stairs, across 
the common room, and climbed through the portrait 
hole. 

“Who’s there?” squawked the Fat Lady. Harry said 
nothing. He walked quickly down the corridor. 



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Where should he go? He stopped, his heart racing, 
and thought. And then it came to him. The Restricted 
Section in the library. He’d be able to read as long as 
he liked, as long as it took to find out who Flamel 
was. He set off, drawing the Invisibility Cloak tight 
around him as he walked. 

The library was pitch-black and very eerie. Harry lit a 
lamp to see his way along the rows of books. The 
lamp looked as if it was floating along in midair, and 
even though Harry could feel his arm supporting it, 
the sight gave him the creeps. 

The Restricted Section was right at the back of the 
library. Stepping carefully over the rope that 
separated these books from the rest of the library, he 
held up his lamp to read the titles. 

They didn’t tell him much. Their peeling, faded gold 
letters spelled words in languages Harry couldn’t 
understand. Some had no title at all. One book had a 
dark stain on it that looked horribly like blood. The 
hairs on the back of Harry’s neck prickled. Maybe he 
was imagining it, maybe not, but he thought a faint 
whispering was coming from the books, as though 
they knew someone was there who shouldn’t be. 

He had to start somewhere. Setting the lamp down 
carefully on the floor, he looked along the bottom 
shelf for an interesting-looking book. A large black 
and silver volume caught his eye. He pulled it out 
with difficulty, because it was very heavy, and, 
balancing it on his knee, let it fall open. 

A piercing, bloodcurdling shriek split the silence — 
the book was screaming! Harry snapped it shut, but 
the shriek went on and on, one high, unbroken, 
earsplitting note. He stumbled backward and knocked 
over his lamp, which went out at once. Panicking, he 
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heard footsteps coming down the corridor outside — 
stuffing the shrieking book back on the shelf, he ran 
for it. He passed Filch in the doorway; Filch’s pale, 
wild eyes looked straight through him, and Harry 
slipped under Filch’s outstretched arm and streaked 
off up the corridor, the book’s shrieks still ringing in 
his ears. 

He came to a sudden halt in front of a tall suit of 
armor. He had been so busy getting away from the 
library, he hadn’t paid attention to where he was 
going. Perhaps because it was dark, he didn’t 
recognize where he was at all. There was a suit of 
armor near the kitchens, he knew, but he must be 
five floors above there. 

“You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if 
anyone was wandering around at night, and 
somebody’s been in the library — Restricted Section.” 

Harry felt the blood drain out of his face. Wherever he 
was, Filch must know a shortcut, because his soft, 
greasy voice was getting nearer, and to his horror, it 
was Snape who replied, “The Restricted Section? Well, 
they can’t be far, we’ll catch them.” 

Harry stood rooted to the spot as Filch and Snape 
came around the corner ahead. They couldn’t see 
him, of course, but it was a narrow corridor and if 
they came much nearer they’d knock right into him — 
the cloak didn’t stop him from being solid. 

He backed away as quietly as he could. A door stood 
ajar to his left. It was his only hope. He squeezed 
through it, holding his breath, trying not to move it, 
and to his relief he managed to get inside the room 
without their noticing anything. They walked straight 
past, and Harry leaned against the wall, breathing 
deeply, listening to their footsteps dying away. That 
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had been close, very close. It was a few seconds 
before he noticed anything about the room he had 
hidden in. 



It looked like an unused classroom. The dark shapes 
of desks and chairs were piled against the walls, and 
there was an upturned wastepaper basket — but 
propped against the wall facing him was something 
that didn’t look as if it belonged there, something that 
looked as if someone had just put it there to keep it 
out of the way. 

It was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, 
with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed 
feet. There was an inscription carved around the top: 
Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. 

His panic fading now that there was no sound of Filch 
and Snape, Harry moved nearer to the mirror, 
wanting to look at himself but see no reflection again. 
He stepped in front of it. 

He had to clap his hands to his mouth to stop himself 
from screaming. He whirled around. His heart was 
pounding far more furiously than when the book had 
screamed — for he had seen not only himself in the 
mirror, but a whole crowd of people standing right 
behind him. 

But the room was empty. Breathing very fast, he 
turned slowly back to the mirror. 

There he was, reflected in it, white and scared- 
looking, and there, reflected behind him, were at least 
ten others. Harry looked over his shoulder — but still, 
no one was there. Or were they all invisible, too? Was 
he in fact in a room full of invisible people and this 
mirrors trick was that it reflected them, invisible or 
not? 

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He looked in the mirror again. A woman standing 
right behind his reflection was smiling at him and 
waving. He reached out a hand and felt the air behind 
him. If she was really there, he’d touch her, their 
reflections were so close together, but he felt only air 
— she and the others existed only in the mirror. 

She was a very pretty woman. She had dark red hair 
and her eyes — her eyes are just like mine, Harry 
thought, edging a little closer to the glass. Bright 
green — exactly the same shape, but then he noticed 
that she was crying; smiling, but crying at the same 
time. The tall, thin, black-haired man standing next 
to her put his arm around her. He wore glasses, and 
his hair was very untidy. It stuck up at the back, just 
as Harry’s did. 

Harry was so close to the mirror now that his nose 
was nearly touching that of his reflection. 

“Mom?” he whispered. “Dad?” 

They just looked at him, smiling. And slowly, Harry 
looked into the faces of the other people in the mirror, 
and saw other pairs of green eyes like his, other noses 
like his, even a little old man who looked as though 
he had Harry’s knobbly knees — Harry was looking at 
his family, for the first time in his life. 

The Potters smiled and waved at Harry and he stared 
hungrily back at them, his hands pressed flat against 
the glass as though he was hoping to fall right 
through it and reach them. He had a powerful kind of 
ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness. 

How long he stood there, he didn’t know. The 
reflections did not fade and he looked and looked 
until a distant noise brought him back to his senses. 
He couldn’t stay here, he had to find his way back to 

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bed. He tore his eyes away from his mother’s face, 
whispered, “I’ll come back,” and hurried from the 
room. 

“You could have woken me up,” said Ron, crossly. 

“You can come tonight, I’m going back, I want to show 
you the mirror.” 

“I’d like to see your mom and dad,” Ron said eagerly. 

“And I want to see all your family, all the Weasleys, 
you’ll be able to show me your other brothers and 
everyone.” 

“You can see them any old time,” said Ron. “Just 
come round my house this summer. Anyway, maybe 
it only shows dead people. Shame about not finding 
Flamel, though. Have some bacon or something, why 
aren’t you eating anything?” 

Harry couldn’t eat. He had seen his parents and 
would be seeing them again tonight. He had almost 
forgotten about Flamel. It didn’t seem very important 
anymore. Who cared what the three-headed dog was 
guarding? What did it matter if Snape stole it, really? 

“Are you all right?” said Ron. “You look odd.” 

What Harry feared most was that he might not be 
able to find the mirror room again. With Ron covered 
in the cloak, too, they had to walk much more slowly 
the next night. They tried retracing Harry’s route from 
the library, wandering around the dark passageways 
for nearly an hour. 

“I’m freezing,” said Ron. “Let’s forget it and go back.” 

“IVo!” Harry hissed. “I know it’s here somewhere.” 

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They passed the ghost of a tall witch gliding in the 
opposite direction, but saw no one else. Just as Ron 
started moaning that his feet were dead with cold, 
Harry spotted the suit of armor. 

“It’s here — just here — yes!” 

They pushed the door open. Harry dropped the cloak 
from around his shoulders and ran to the mirror. 

There they were. His mother and father beamed at the 
sight of him. 

“See?” Harry whispered. 

“I can’t see anything.” 

“Look! Look at them all ... there are loads of them. ...” 
“I can only see you.” 

“Look in it properly, go on, stand where I am.” 

Harry stepped aside, but with Ron in front of the 
mirror, he couldn’t see his family anymore, just Ron 
in his paisley pajamas. 

Ron, though, was staring transfixed at his image. 
“Look at me!” he said. 

“Can you see all your family standing around you?” 

“No — I’m alone — but I’m different — I look older — 
and I’m Head Boy!” 

“What?” 



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“I am — I’m wearing the badge like Bill used to — and 
I’m holding the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup — 
I’m Quidditch captain, too!” 

Ron tore his eyes away from this splendid sight to 
look excitedly at Harry. 

“Do you think this mirror shows the future?” 

“How can it? All my family are dead — let me have 
another look — ” 

“You had it to yourself all last night, give me a bit 
more time.” 

“You’re only holding the Quidditch Cup, what’s 
interesting about that? I want to see my parents.” 

“Don’t push me — ” 

A sudden noise outside in the corridor put an end to 
their discussion. They hadn’t realized how loudly they 
had been talking. 

“Quick!” 

Ron threw the cloak back over them as the luminous 
eyes of Mrs. Norris came round the door. Ron and 
Harry stood quite still, both thinking the same thing 
— did the cloak work on cats? After what seemed an 
age, she turned and left. 

“This isn’t safe — she might have gone for Filch, I bet 
she heard us. Come on.” 

And Ron pulled Harry out of the room. 

The snow still hadn’t melted the next morning. 



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“Want to play chess, Harry?” said Ron. 



“No.” 

“Why don’t we go down and visit Hagrid?” 

“No ... you go ...” 

“I know what you’re thinking about, Harry, that 
mirror. Don’t go back tonight.” 

“Why not?” 

“I dunno, I’ve just got a bad feeling about it — and 
anyway, you’ve had too many close shaves already. 
Filch, Snape, and Mrs. Norris are wandering around. 
So what if they can’t see you? What if they walk into 
you? What if you knock something over?” 

“You sound like Hermione.” 

“I’m serious, Harry, don’t go.” 

But Harry only had one thought in his head, which 
was to get back in front of the mirror, and Ron wasn’t 
going to stop him. 

That third night he found his way more quickly than 
before. He was walking so fast he knew he was 
making more noise than was wise, but he didn’t meet 
anyone. 

And there were his mother and father smiling at him 
again, and one of his grandfathers nodding happily. 
Harry sank down to sit on the floor in front of the 
mirror. There was nothing to stop him from staying 
here all night with his family. Nothing at all. 

Except — 

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“So — back again, Harry?” 

Harry felt as though his insides had turned to ice. He 
looked behind him. Sitting on one of the desks by the 
wall was none other than Albus Dumbledore. Harry 
must have walked straight past him, so desperate to 
get to the mirror he hadn’t noticed him. 

“I — I didn’t see you, sir.” 

“Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make 
you,” said Dumbledore, and Harry was relieved to see 
that he was smiling. 

“So,” said Dumbledore, slipping off the desk to sit on 
the floor with Harry, “you, like hundreds before you, 
have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised.” 

“I didn’t know it was called that, sir.” 

“But I expect you’ve realized by now what it does?” 

“It — well — it shows me my family — ” 

“And it showed your friend Ron himself as Head Boy.” 

“How did you know — ?” 

“I don’t need a cloak to become invisible,” said 
Dumbledore gently. “Now, can you think what the 
Mirror of Erised shows us all?” 

Harry shook his head. 

“Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be 
able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, 
that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly 
as he is. Does that help?” 



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Harry thought. Then he said slowly, “It shows us 
what we want ... whatever we want ...” 

“Yes and no,” said Dumbledore quietly. “It shows us 
nothing more or less than the deepest, most 
desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have never 
known your family, see them standing around you. 
Ronald Weasley, who has always been overshadowed 
by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best 
of all of them. However, this mirror will give us 
neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away 
before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been 
driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or 
even possible. 

“The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, 
Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If 
you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It 
does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, 
remember that. Now, why don’t you put that 
admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?” 

Harry stood up. 

“Sir — Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you 
something?” 

“Obviously, you’ve just done so,” Dumbledore smiled. 
“You may ask me one more thing, however.” 

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?” 

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

Harry stared. 

“One can never have enough socks,” said 
Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone 



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and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on 
giving me books.” 

It was only when he was back in bed that it struck 
Harry that Dumbledore might not have been quite 
truthful. But then, he thought, as he shoved 
Scabbers off his pillow, it had been quite a personal 
question. 



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NICHOLAS FLAMBL 

Dumbledore had convinced Harry not to go looking 
for the Mirror of Erised again, and for the rest of the 
Christmas holidays the Invisibility Cloak stayed 
folded at the bottom of his trunk. Harry wished he 
could forget what he’d seen in the mirror as easily, 
but he couldn’t. He started having nightmares. Over 
and over again he dreamed about his parents 
disappearing in a flash of green light, while a high 
voice cackled with laughter. 

“You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could 
drive you mad,” said Ron, when Harry told him about 
these dreams. 

Hermione, who came back the day before term 
started, took a different view of things. She was torn 
between horror at the idea of Harry being out of bed, 
roaming the school three nights in a row (“If Filch had 
caught you!”), and disappointment that he hadn’t at 
least found out who Nicolas Flamel was. 



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They had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel 
in a library book, even though Harry was still sure 
he’d read the name somewhere. Once term had 
started, they were back to skimming through books 
for ten minutes during their breaks. Harry had even 
less time than the other two, because Quidditch 
practice had started again. 

Wood was working the team harder than ever. Even 
the endless rain that had replaced the snow couldn’t 
dampen his spirits. The Weasleys complained that 
Wood was becoming a fanatic, but Harry was on 
Wood’s side. If they won their next match, against 
Hufflepuff, they would overtake Slytherin in the 
House Championship for the first time in seven years. 
Quite apart from wanting to win, Harry found that he 
had fewer nightmares when he was tired out after 
training. 

Then, during one particularly wet and muddy practice 
session, Wood gave the team a bit of bad news. He’d 
just gotten very angry with the Weasleys, who kept 
dive-bombing each other and pretending to fall off 
their brooms. 

“Will you stop messing around!” he yelled. “That’s 
exactly the sort of thing that’ll lose us the match! 
Snape’s refereeing this time, and he’ll be looking for 
any excuse to knock points off Gryffindor!” 

George Weasley really did fall off his broom at these 
words. 

“ Snape’s refereeing?” he spluttered through a 
mouthful of mud. “When’s he ever refereed a 
Quidditch match? He’s not going to be fair if we might 
overtake Slytherin.” 



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The rest of the team landed next to George to 
complain, too. 

“It’s not my fault,” said Wood. “We’ve just got to make 
sure we play a clean game, so Snape hasn’t got an 
excuse to pick on us.” 

Which was all very well, thought Harry, but he had 
another reason for not wanting Snape near him while 
he was playing Quidditch. ... 

The rest of the team hung back to talk to one another 
as usual at the end of practice, but Harry headed 
straight back to the Gryffindor common room, where 
he found Ron and Hermione playing chess. Chess was 
the only thing Hermione ever lost at, something Harry 
and Ron thought was very good for her. 

“Don’t talk to me for a moment,” said Ron when Harry 
sat down next to him, “I need to concern” He caught 
sight of Harry’s face. “What’s the matter with you? 

You look terrible.” 

Speaking quietly so that no one else would hear, 

Harry told the other two about Snape ’s sudden, 
sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee. 

“Don’t play,” said Hermione at once. 

“Say you’re ill,” said Ron. 

“Pretend to break your leg,” Hermione suggested. 

“ Really break your leg,” said Ron. 

“I can’t,” said Harry. “There isn’t a reserve Seeker. If I 
back out, Gryffindor can’t play at all.” 



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At that moment Neville toppled into the common 
room. How he had managed to climb through the 
portrait hole was anyone’s guess, because his legs 
had been stuck together with what they recognized at 
once as the Leg-Locker Curse. He must have had to 
bunny hop all the way up to Gryffindor Tower. 

Everyone fell over laughing except Hermione, who 
leapt up and performed the countercurse. Neville’s 
legs sprang apart and he got to his feet, trembling. 

“What happened?” Hermione asked him, leading him 
over to sit with Harry and Ron. 

“Malfoy,” said Neville shakily. “I met him outside the 
library. He said he’d been looking for someone to 
practice that on.” 

“Go to Professor McGonagall!” Hermione urged 
Neville. “Report him!” 

Neville shook his head. 

“I don’t want more trouble,” he mumbled. 

“You’ve got to stand up to him, Neville!” said Ron. 
“He’s used to walking all over people, but that’s no 
reason to lie down in front of him and make it easier.” 

“There’s no need to tell me I’m not brave enough to be 
in Gryffindor, Malfoy’s already done that,” Neville 
choked out. 

Harry felt in the pocket of his robes and pulled out a 
Chocolate Frog, the very last one from the box 
Hermione had given him for Christmas. He gave it to 
Neville, who looked as though he might cry. 



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“You’re worth twelve of Malfoy,” Harry said. “The 
Sorting Hat chose you for Gryffindor, didn’t it? And 
where’s Malfoy? In stinking Slytherin.” 

Neville’s lips twitched in a weak smile as he 
unwrapped the frog. 

“Thanks, Harry ... I think I’ll go to bed. ... D’you want 
the card, you collect them, don’t you?” 

As Neville walked away, Harry looked at the Famous 
Wizard card. 

“Dumbledore again,” he said, “He was the first one I 
ever — ” 

He gasped. He stared at the back of the card. Then he 
looked up at Ron and Hermione. 

“I’ve found him\” he whispered. “I’ve found Flamel! I 
told you I’d read the name somewhere before, I read it 
on the train coming here — listen to this: 

‘Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of 
the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the 
discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his 
work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel’V’ 

Hermione jumped to her feet. She hadn’t looked so 
excited since they’d gotten back the marks for their 
very first piece of homework. 

“Stay there!” she said, and she sprinted up the stairs 
to the girls’ dormitories. Harry and Ron barely had 
time to exchange mystified looks before she was 
dashing back, an enormous old book in her arms. 

“I never thought to look in here!” she whispered 
excitedly. “I got this out of the library weeks ago for a 
bit of light reading.” 

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“Light?” said Ron, but Hermione told him to be quiet 
until she’d looked something up, and started flicking 
frantically through the pages, muttering to herself. 

At last she found what she was looking for. 

“I knew it! I knew it!” 

“Are we allowed to speak yet?” said Ron grumpily. 
Hermione ignored him. 

“Nicolas Flamel,” she whispered dramatically, “is the 
only known maker of the Sorcerer’s Stone\” 

This didn’t have quite the effect she’d expected. 

“The what?” said Harry and Ron. 

“Oh, honestly , don’t you two read? Look — read that, 
there.” 

She pushed the book toward them, and Harry and 
Ron read: 

The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with 
making the Sorcerer’s Stone, a legendary substance 
with astonishing powers. The Stone will transform 
any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of 
Life, which will make the drinker immortal. 

There have been many reports of the Sorcerer’s Stone 
over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in 
existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted 
alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated 
his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, 
enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle 
(six hundred and fifty-eight). 



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“See?” said Hermione, when Harry and Ron had 
finished. “The dog must be guarding Flamel’s 
Sorcerer’s Stone! I bet he asked Dumbledore to keep 
it safe for him, because they’re friends and he knew 
someone was after it, that’s why he wanted the Stone 
moved out of Gringotts!” 

“A stone that makes gold and stops you from ever 
dying!” said Harry. “No wonder Snape’s after it! 

Anyone would want it.” 

“And no wonder we couldn’t find Flamel in that Study 
of Recent Developments in Wizardry,” said Ron. “He’s 
not exactly recent if he’s six hundred and sixty-five, is 
he?” 

The next morning in Defense Against the Dark Arts, 
while copying down different ways of treating werewolf 
bites, Harry and Ron were still discussing what they’d 
do with a Sorcerer’s Stone if they had one. It wasn’t 
until Ron said he’d buy his own Quidditch team that 
Harry remembered about Snape and the coming 
match. 

“I’m going to play,” he told Ron and Hermione. “If I 
don’t, all the Slytherins will think I’m just too scared 
to face Snape. I’ll show them ... it’ll really wipe the 
smiles off their faces if we win.” 

“Just as long as we’re not wiping you off the field,” 
said Hermione. 

As the match drew nearer, however, Harry became 
more and more nervous, whatever he told Ron and 
Hermione. The rest of the team wasn’t too calm, 
either. The idea of overtaking Slytherin in the House 
Championship was wonderful, no one had done it for 
seven years, but would they be allowed to, with such 
a biased referee? 

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Harry didn’t know whether he was imagining it or not, 
but he seemed to keep running into Snape wherever 
he went. At times, he even wondered whether Snape 
was following him, trying to catch him on his own. 
Potions lessons were turning into a sort of weekly 
torture, Snape was so horrible to Harry. Could Snape 
possibly know they’d found out about the Sorcerer’s 
Stone? Harry didn’t see how he could — yet he 
sometimes had the horrible feeling that Snape could 
read minds. 

Harry knew, when they wished him good luck 
outside the locker rooms the next afternoon, that Ron 
and Hermione were wondering whether they’d ever 
see him alive again. This wasn’t what you’d call 
comforting. Harry hardly heard a word of Wood’s pep 
talk as he pulled on his Quidditch robes and picked 
up his Nimbus Two Thousand. 

Ron and Hermione, meanwhile, had found a place in 
the stands next to Neville, who couldn’t understand 
why they looked so grim and worried, or why they had 
both brought their wands to the match. Little did 
Harry know that Ron and Hermione had been secretly 
practicing the Leg-Locker Curse. They’d gotten the 
idea from Malfoy using it on Neville, and were ready 
to use it on Snape if he showed any sign of wanting to 
hurt Harry. 

“Now, don’t forget, it’s Locomotor Mortis,” Hermione 
muttered as Ron slipped his wand up his sleeve. 

“I know,” Ron snapped. “Don’t nag.” 

Back in the locker room, Wood had taken Harry 
aside. 

“Don’t want to pressure you, Potter, but if we ever 
need an early capture of the Snitch it’s now. Finish 

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the game before Snape can favor Hufflepuff too 
much.” 

“The whole school’s out there!” said Fred Weasley, 
peering out of the door. “Even — blimey — 
Dumbledore’s come to watch!” 

Harry’s heart did a somersault. 

“Dumbledore?” he said, dashing to the door to make 
sure. Fred was right. There was no mistaking that 
silver beard. 

Harry could have laughed out loud with relief. He was 
safe. There was simply no way that Snape would dare 
to try to hurt him if Dumbledore was watching. 

Perhaps that was why Snape was looking so angry as 
the teams marched onto the field, something that Ron 
noticed, too. 

“I’ve never seen Snape look so mean,” he told 
Hermione. “Look — they’re off. Ouch!” 

Someone had poked Ron in the back of the head. It 
was Malfoy. 

“Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn’t see you there.” 

Malfoy grinned broadly at Crabbe and Goyle. 

“Wonder how long Potter’s going to stay on his broom 
this time? Anyone want a bet? What about you, 
Weasley?” 

Ron didn’t answer; Snape had just awarded 
Hufflepuff a penalty because George Weasley had hit 
a Bludger at him. Hermione, who had all her fingers 
crossed in her lap, was squinting fixedly at Harry, 

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who was circling the game like a hawk, looking for the 
Snitch. 

“You know how I think they choose people for the 
Gryffindor team?” said Malfoy loudly a few minutes 
later, as Snape awarded Hufflepuff another penalty 
for no reason at all. “It’s people they feel sorry for. 

See, there’s Potter, who’s got no parents, then there’s 
the Weasleys, who’ve got no money — you should be 
on the team, Longbottom, you’ve got no brains.” 

Neville went bright red but turned in his seat to face 
Malfoy. 

“I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy,” he stammered. 

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle howled with laughter, but 
Ron, still not daring to take his eyes from the game, 
said, “You tell him, Neville.” 

“Longbottom, if brains were gold you’d be poorer than 
Weasley, and that’s saying something.” 

Ron’s nerves were already stretched to the breaking 
point with anxiety about Harry. 

“I’m warning you, Malfoy — one more word — ” 

“Ron!” said Hermione suddenly, “Harry — !” 

“What? Where?” 

Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive, 
which drew gasps and cheers from the crowd. 
Hermione stood up, her crossed fingers in her mouth, 
as Harry streaked toward the ground like a bullet. 

“You’re in luck, Weasley, Potter’s obviously spotted 
some money on the ground!” said Malfoy. 

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Ron snapped. Before Malfoy knew what was 
happening, Ron was on top of him, wrestling him to 
the ground. Neville hesitated, then clambered over the 
back of his seat to help. 

“Come on, Harry!” Hermione screamed, leaping onto 
her seat to watch as Harry sped straight at Snape — 
she didn’t even notice Malfoy and Ron rolling around 
under her seat, or the scuffles and yelps coming from 
the whirl of fists that was Neville, Crabbe, and Goyle. 

Up in the air, Snape turned on his broomstick just in 
time to see something scarlet shoot past him, missing 
him by inches — the next second, Harry had pulled 
out of the dive, his arm raised in triumph, the Snitch 
clasped in his hand. 

The stands erupted; it had to be a record, no one 
could ever remember the Snitch being caught so 
quickly. 

“Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game’s over! Harry’s 
won! We’ve won! Gryffindor is in the lead!” shrieked 
Hermione, dancing up and down on her seat and 
hugging Parvati Patil in the row in front. 

Harry jumped off his broom, a foot from the ground. 
He couldn’t believe it. He’d done it — the game was 
over; it had barely lasted five minutes. As Gryffindors 
came spilling onto the field, he saw Snape land 
nearby, white-faced and tight-lipped — then Harry felt 
a hand on his shoulder and looked up into 
Dumbledore’s smiling face. 

“Well done,” said Dumbledore quietly, so that only 
Harry could hear. “Nice to see you haven’t been 
brooding about that mirror . . . been keeping busy . . . 
excellent ...” 



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Snape spat bitterly on the ground. 



Jc Jc Jc 



Harry left the locker room alone some time later, to 
take his Nimbus Two Thousand back to the 
broomshed. He couldn’t ever remember feeling 
happier. He’d really done something to be proud of 
now — no one could say he was just a famous name 
any more. The evening air had never smelled so 
sweet. He walked over the damp grass, reliving the 
last hour in his head, which was a happy blur: 
Gryffindors running to lift him onto their shoulders; 
Ron and Hermione in the distance, jumping up and 
down, Ron cheering through a heavy nosebleed. 

Harry had reached the shed. He leaned against the 
wooden door and looked up at Hogwarts, with its 
windows glowing red in the setting sun. Gryffindor in 
the lead. He’d done it, he’d shown Snape. ... 

And speaking of Snape . . . 

A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of 
the castle. Clearly not wanting to be seen, it walked 
as fast as possible toward the forbidden forest. 
Harry’s victory faded from his mind as he watched. 
He recognized the figure’s prowling walk. Snape, 
sneaking into the forest while everyone else was at 
dinner — what was going on? 

Harry jumped back on his Nimbus Two Thousand 
and took off. Gliding silently over the castle he saw 
Snape enter the forest at a run. He followed. 

The trees were so thick he couldn’t see where Snape 
had gone. He flew in circles, lower and lower, 
brushing the top branches of trees until he heard 



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voices. He glided toward them and landed noiselessly 
in a towering beech tree. 

He climbed carefully along one of the branches, 
holding tight to his broomstick, trying to see through 
the leaves. 

Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape, but he 
wasn’t alone. Quirrell was there, too. Harry couldn’t 
make out the look on his face, but he was stuttering 
worse than ever. Harry strained to catch what they 
were saying. 

"... d-don’t know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of 
all p-places, Severus ...” 

“Oh, I thought we’d keep this private,” said Snape, his 
voice icy. “Students aren’t supposed to know about 
the Sorcerer’s Stone, after all.” 

Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling 
something. Snape interrupted him. 

“Have you found out how to get past that beast of 
Hagrid’s yet?” 

“B-b-but Severus, I — ” 

“You don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell,” said 
Snape, taking a step toward him. 

“I-I don’t know what you — ” 

“You know perfectly well what I mean.” 

An owl hooted loudly, and Harry nearly fell out of the 
tree. He steadied himself in time to hear Snape say, 

“ — your little bit of hocus-pocus. I’m waiting.” 



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“B-but I d-d-don’t — ” 



“Very well,” Snape cut in. “Well have another little 
chat soon, when you’ve had time to think things over 
and decided where your loyalties lie.” 

He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the 
clearing. It was almost dark now, but Harry could see 
Quirrell, standing quite still as though he was 
petrified. 



Jc Jc Jc 



“Harry, where have you been?” Hermione squeaked. 

“We won! You won! We won!” shouted Ron, thumping 
Harry on the back. “And I gave Malfoy a black eye, 
and Neville tried to take on Crabbe and Goyle single- 
handed! He’s still out cold but Madam Pomfrey says 
he’ll be all right — talk about showing Slytherin! 
Everyone’s waiting for you in the common room, we’re 
having a party, Fred and George stole some cakes and 
stuff from the kitchens.” 

“Never mind that now,” said Harry breathlessly. “Let’s 
find an empty room, you wait ’til you hear this. ...” 

He made sure Peeves wasn’t inside before shutting 
the door behind them, then he told them what he’d 
seen and heard. 

“So we were right, it is the Sorcerer’s Stone, and 
Snape’s trying to force Quirrell to help him get it. He 
asked if he knew how to get past Fluffy — and he said 
something about Quirrell’s ‘hocus-pocus’ — I reckon 
there are other things guarding the stone apart from 
Fluffy, loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell 



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would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that 
Snape needs to break through — ” 

“So you mean the Stone’s only safe as long as Quirrell 
stands up to Snape?” said Hermione in alarm. 

“It’ll be gone by next Tuesday,” said Ron. 



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NORBERT THE NORWEGIAN 
RIDGEBACK 

Quirrell, however, must have been braver than they’d 
thought. In the weeks that followed he did seem to be 
getting paler and thinner, but it didn’t look as though 
he’d cracked yet. 

Every time they passed the third-floor corridor, Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione would press their ears to the door 
to check that Fluffy was still growling inside. Snape 
was sweeping about in his usual bad temper, which 
surely meant that the Stone was still safe. Whenever 
Harry passed Quirrell these days he gave him an 
encouraging sort of smile, and Ron had started telling 
people off for laughing at Quirrell’s stutter. 

Hermione, however, had more on her mind than the 
Sorcerer’s Stone. She had started drawing up study 
schedules and color-coding all her notes. Harry and 
Ron wouldn’t have minded, but she kept nagging 
them to do the same. 



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“Hermione, the exams are ages away.” 

“Ten weeks,” Hermione snapped. “That’s not ages, 
that’s like a second to Nicolas Flamel.” 

“But we’re not six hundred years old,” Ron reminded 
her. “Anyway, what are you studying for, you already 
know it all.” 

“What am I studying for? Are you crazy? You realize 
we need to pass these exams to get into the second 
year? They’re very important, I should have started 
studying a month ago, I don’t know what’s gotten into 
me.” 

Unfortunately, the teachers seemed to be thinking 
along the same lines as Hermione. They piled so 
much homework on them that the Easter holidays 
weren’t nearly as much fun as the Christmas ones. It 
was hard to relax with Hermione next to you reciting 
the twelve uses of dragon’s blood or practicing wand 
movements. Moaning and yawning, Harry and Ron 
spent most of their free time in the library with her, 
trying to get through all their extra work. 

“I’ll never remember this,” Ron burst out one 
afternoon, throwing down his quill and looking 
longingly out of the library window. It was the first 
really fine day they’d had in months. The sky was a 
clear, forget-me-not blue, and there was a feeling in 
the air of summer coming. 

Harry, who was looking up “Dittany” in One Thousand 
Magical Herbs and Fungi, didn’t look up until he 
heard Ron say, “Hagrid! What are you doing in the 
library?” 



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Hagrid shuffled into view, hiding something behind 
his back. He looked very out of place in his moleskin 
overcoat. 

“Jus’ lookin’,” he said, in a shifty voice that got their 
interest at once. “An’ what’re you lot up ter?” He 
looked suddenly suspicious. “Yer not still lookin’ fer 
Nicolas Flamel, are yeh?” 

“Oh, we found out who he is ages ago,” said Ron 
impressively. “And we know what that dog’s guarding, 
it’s a Sorcerer’s St — ” 

“Shhhh\” Hagrid looked around quickly to see if 
anyone was listening. “Don’ go shoutin’ about it, 
what’s the matter with yeh?” 

“There are a few things we wanted to ask you, as a 
matter of fact,” said Harry, “about what’s guarding 
the Stone apart from Fluffy — ” 

“SHHHH!” said Hagrid again. “Listen — come an’ see 
me later, I’m not promisin’ I’ll tell yeh anythin’, mind, 
but don’ go rabbitin’ about it in here, students aren’ 
s’pposed ter know. They’ll think I’ve told yeh — ” 

“See you later, then,” said Harry. 

Hagrid shuffled off. 

“What was he hiding behind his back?” said 
Hermione thoughtfully. 

“Do you think it had anything to do with the Stone?” 

“I’m going to see what section he was in,” said Ron, 
who’d had enough of working. He came back a 
minute later with a pile of books in his arms and 
slammed them down on the table. 

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“Dragons'.” he whispered. “Hagrid was looking up stuff 
about dragons! Look at these: Dragon Species of Great 
Britain and Ireland; From Egg to Inferno, A Dragon 
Keeper’s Guide.” 

“Hagrid ’s always wanted a dragon, he told me so the 
first time I ever met him,” said Harry. 

“But it’s against our laws,” said Ron. “Dragon 
breeding was outlawed by the Warlocks’ Convention 
of 1709, everyone knows that. It’s hard to stop 
Muggles from noticing us if we’re keeping dragons in 
the back garden — anyway, you can’t tame dragons, 
it’s dangerous. You should see the burns Charlie’s got 
off wild ones in Romania.” 

“But there aren’t wild dragons in Britain?” said Harry. 

“Of course there are,” said Ron. “Common Welsh 
Green and Hebridean Blacks. The Ministry of Magic 
has a job hushing them up, I can tell you. Our kind 
have to keep putting spells on Muggles who’ve spotted 
them, to make them forget.” 

“So what on earth’s Hagrid up to?” said Hermione. 

When they knocked on the door of the gamekeeper’s 
hut an hour later, they were surprised to see that all 
the curtains were closed. Hagrid called “Who is it?” 
before he let them in, and then shut the door quickly 
behind them. 

It was stifling hot inside. Even though it was such a 
warm day, there was a blazing fire in the grate. 

Hagrid made them tea and offered them stoat 
sandwiches, which they refused. 

“So — yeh wanted to ask me somethin’?” 



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“Yes,” said Harry. There was no point beating around 
the bush. “We were wondering if you could tell us 
what’s guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone apart from 
Fluffy.” 

Hagrid frowned at him. 

“O’ course I can’t,” he said. “Number one, I don’ know 
meself. Number two, yeh know too much already, so I 
wouldn’ tell yeh if I could. That Stone’s here fer a good 
reason. It was almost stolen outta Gringotts — I 
s’ppose yeh’ve worked that out an’ all? Beats me how 
yeh even know abou’ Fluffy.” 

“Oh, come on, Hagrid, you might not want to tell us, 
but you do know, you know everything that goes on 
round here,” said Hermione in a warm, flattering 
voice. Hagrid ’s beard twitched and they could tell he 
was smiling. “We only wondered who had done the 
guarding, really.” Hermione went on. “We wondered 
who Dumbledore had trusted enough to help him, 
apart from you.” 

Hagrid ’s chest swelled at these last words. Harry and 
Ron beamed at Hermione. 

“Well, I don’ s’pose it could hurt ter tell yeh that ... 
let’s see ... he borrowed Fluffy from me ... then some 
o’ the teachers did enchantments ... Professor Sprout 
— Professor Flitwick — Professor McGonagall — ” he 
ticked them off on his fingers, “Professor Quirrell — 
an’ Dumbledore himself did somethin’, o’ course. 

Hang on, I’ve forgotten someone. Oh yeah, Professor 
Snape.” 

“Snape?” 



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“Yeah — yer not still on abou’ that, are yeh? Look, 
Snape helped protect the Stone, he’s not about ter 
steal it.” 

Harry knew Ron and Hermione were thinking the 
same as he was. If Snape had been in on protecting 
the Stone, it must have been easy to find out how the 
other teachers had guarded it. He probably knew 
everything — except, it seemed, Quirrell’s spell and 
how to get past Fluffy. 

“You’re the only one who knows how to get past 
Fluffy, aren’t you, Hagrid?” said Harry anxiously. 

“And you wouldn’t tell anyone, would you? Not even 
one of the teachers?” 

“Not a soul knows except me an’ Dumbledore,” said 
Hagrid proudly. 

“Well, that’s something,” Harry muttered to the 
others. “Hagrid, can we have a window open? I’m 
boiling.” 

“Can’t, Harry, sorry,” said Hagrid. Harry noticed him 
glance at the fire. Harry looked at it, too. 

“Hagrid — what’s that?” 

But he already knew what it was. In the very heart of 
the fire, underneath the kettle, was a huge, black egg. 

“Ah,” said Hagrid, fiddling nervously with his beard, 
“That’s — er ...” 

“Where did you get it, Hagrid?” said Ron, crouching 
over the fire to get a closer look at the egg. “It must’ve 
cost you a fortune.” 



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“Won it,” said Hagrid. “Las’ night. I was down in the 
village havin’ a few drinks an’ got into a game o’ cards 
with a stranger. Think he was quite glad ter get rid of 
it, ter be honest.” 

“But what are you going to do with it when it’s 
hatched?” said Hermione. 

“Well, I’ve bin doin’ some readin’,” said Hagrid, pulling 
a large book from under his pillow. “Got this outta the 
library — Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit — 
it’s a bit outta date, o’ course, but it’s all in here. Keep 
the egg in the fire, ’cause their mothers breathe on 
’em, see, an’ when it hatches, feed it on a bucket o’ 
brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour. An’ 
see here — how ter recognize diff’rent eggs — what I 
got there’s a Norwegian Ridge-back. They’re rare, 
them.” 

He looked very pleased with himself, but Hermione 
didn’t. 

“Hagrid, you live in a wooden house,” she said. 

But Hagrid wasn’t listening. He was humming merrily 
as he stoked the fire. 

So now they had something else to worry about: what 
might happen to Hagrid if anyone found out he was 
hiding an illegal dragon in his hut. 

“Wonder what it’s like to have a peaceful life,” Ron 
sighed, as evening after evening they struggled 
through all the extra homework they were getting. 
Hermione had now started making study schedules 
for Harry and Ron, too. It was driving them nuts. 



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Then, one breakfast time, Hedwig brought Harry 
another note from Hagrid. He had written only two 
words: It’s hatching. 

Ron wanted to skip Herbology and go straight down to 
the hut. Hermione wouldn’t hear of it. 

“Hermione, how many times in our lives are we going 
to see a dragon hatching?” 

“We’ve got lessons, we’ll get into trouble, and that’s 
nothing to what Hagrid ’s going to be in when someone 
finds out what he’s doing — ” 

“Shut up!” Harry whispered. 

Malfoy was only a few feet away and he had stopped 
dead to listen. How much had he heard? Harry didn’t 
like the look on Malfoy’s face at all. 

Ron and Hermione argued all the way to Herbology 
and in the end, Hermione agreed to run down to 
Hagrid’s with the other two during morning break. 
When the bell sounded from the castle at the end of 
their lesson, the three of them dropped their trowels 
at once and hurried through the grounds to the edge 
of the forest. Hagrid greeted them, looking flushed 
and excited. 

“It’s nearly out.” He ushered them inside. 

The egg was lying on the table. There were deep 
cracks in it. Something was moving inside; a funny 
clicking noise was coming from it. 

They all drew their chairs up to the table and watched 
with bated breath. 



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All at once there was a scraping noise and the egg 
split open. The baby dragon flopped onto the table. It 
wasn’t exactly pretty; Harry thought it looked like a 
crumpled, black umbrella. Its spiny wings were huge 
compared to its skinny jet body, it had a long snout 
with wide nostrils, the stubs of horns and bulging, 
orange eyes. 

It sneezed. A couple of sparks flew out of its snout. 

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Hagrid murmured. He reached 
out a hand to stroke the dragon’s head. It snapped at 
his fingers, showing pointed fangs. 

“Bless him, look, he knows his mommy!” said Hagrid. 

“Hagrid,” said Hermione, “how fast do Norwegian 
Ridgebacks grow, exactly?” 

Hagrid was about to answer when the color suddenly 
drained from his face — he leapt to his feet and ran to 
the window. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Someone was lookin’ through the gap in the curtains 
— it’s a kid — he’s runnin’ back up ter the school.” 

Harry bolted to the door and looked out. Even at a 
distance there was no mistaking him. 

Malfoy had seen the dragon. 

Something about the smile lurking on Malfoy’s face 
during the next week made Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
very nervous. They spent most of their free time in 
Hagrid ’s darkened hut, trying to reason with him. 

“Just let him go,” Harry urged. “Set him free.” 

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“I can’t,” said Hagrid. “He’s too little. He’d die.” 



They looked at the dragon. It had grown three times 
in length in just a week. Smoke kept furling out of its 
nostrils. Hagrid hadn’t been doing his gamekeeping 
duties because the dragon was keeping him so busy. 
There were empty brandy bottles and chicken 
feathers all over the floor. 

“I’ve decided to call him Norbert,” said Hagrid, looking 
at the dragon with misty eyes. “He really knows me 
now, watch. Norbert! Norbert! Where’s Mommy?” 

“He’s lost his marbles,” Ron muttered in Harry’s ear. 

“Hagrid,” said Harry loudly, “give it two weeks and 
Norbert’s going to be as long as your house. Malfoy 
could go to Dumbledore at any moment.” 

Hagrid bit his lip. 

“I — I know I can’t keep him forever, but I can’t jus’ 
dump him, can’t.” 

Harry suddenly turned to Ron. 

“Charlie,” he said. 

“You’re losing it, too,” said Ron. “I’m Ron, remember?” 

“No — Charlie — your brother, Charlie. In Romania. 
Studying dragons. We could send Norbert to him. 
Charlie can take care of him and then put him back 
in the wild!” 

“Brilliant!” said Ron. “How about it, Hagrid?” 

And in the end, Hagrid agreed that they could send 
an owl to Charlie to ask him. 

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The following week dragged by. Wednesday night 
found Hermione and Harry sitting alone in the 
common room, long after everyone else had gone to 
bed. The clock on the wall had just chimed midnight 
when the portrait hole burst open. Ron appeared out 
of nowhere as he pulled off Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. 
He had been down at Hagrid’s hut, helping him feed 
Norbert, who was now eating dead rats by the crate. 

“It bit me!” he said, showing them his hand, which 
was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief. “I’m not going 
to be able to hold a quill for a week. I tell you, that 
dragon’s the most horrible animal I’ve ever met, but 
the way Hagrid goes on about it, you’d think it was a 
fluffy little bunny rabbit. When it bit me he told me off 
for frightening it. And when I left, he was singing it a 
lullaby.” 

There was a tap on the dark window. 

“It’s Hedwig!” said Harry, hurrying to let her in. “She’ll 
have Charlie’s answer!” 

The three of them put their heads together to read the 
note. 

Dear Ron, 

How are you? Thanks for the letter — I’d be glad to 
take the Norwegian Ridgeback, but it won’t be easy 
getting him here. I think the best thing will be to send 
him over with some friends of mine who are coming to 
visit me next week. Trouble is, they mustn’t be seen 
carrying an illegal dragon. 

Could you get the Ridgeback up the tallest tower at 
midnight on Saturday? They can meet you there and 
take him away while it’s still dark. 



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Send me an answer as soon as possible. 



Love, 

Charlie 

They looked at one another. 

“We’ve got the Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry. “It 
shouldn’t be too difficult — I think the cloak’s big 
enough to cover two of us and Norbert.” 

It was a mark of how bad the last week had been that 
the other two agreed with him. Anything to get rid of 
Norbert — and Malfoy. 

There was a hitch. By the next morning, Ron’s bitten 
hand had swollen to twice its usual size. He didn’t 
know whether it was safe to go to Madam Pomfrey — 
would she recognize a dragon bite? By the afternoon, 
though, he had no choice. The cut had turned a nasty 
shade of green. It looked as if Norbert’s fangs were 
poisonous. 

Harry and Hermione rushed up to the hospital wing 
at the end of the day to find Ron in a terrible state in 
bed. 

“It’s not just my hand,” he whispered, “although that 
feels like it’s about to fall off. Malfoy told Madam 
Pomfrey he wanted to borrow one of my books so he 
could come and have a good laugh at me. He kept 
threatening to tell her what really bit me — I’ve told 
her it was a dog, but I don’t think she believes me — I 
shouldn’t have hit him at the Quidditch match, that’s 
why he’s doing this.” 

Harry and Hermione tried to calm Ron down. 

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“It’ll all be over at midnight on Saturday,” said 
Hermione, but this didn’t soothe Ron at all. On the 
contrary, he sat bolt upright and broke into a sweat. 

“Midnight on Saturday!” he said in a hoarse voice. 

“Oh no — oh no — I’ve just remembered — Charlie’s 
letter was in that book Malfoy took, he’s going to 
know we’re getting rid of Norbert.” 

Harry and Hermione didn’t get a chance to answer. 
Madam Pomfrey came over at that moment and made 
them leave, saying Ron needed sleep. 

“It’s too late to change the plan now,” Harry told 
Hermione. “We haven’t got time to send Charlie 
another owl, and this could be our only chance to get 
rid of Norbert. We’ll have to risk it. And we have got 
the Invisibility Cloak, Malfoy doesn’t know about 
that.” 

They found Fang the boarhound sitting outside with a 
bandaged tail when they went to tell Hagrid, who 
opened a window to talk to them. 

“I won’t let you in,” he puffed. “Norbert’s at a tricky 
stage — nothin’ I can’t handle.” 

When they told him about Charlie’s letter, his eyes 
filled with tears, although that might have been 
because Norbert had just bitten him on the leg. 

“Aargh! It’s all right, he only got my boot — jus’ 
playin’ — he’s only a baby, after all.” 

The baby banged its tail on the wall, making the 
windows rattle. Harry and Hermione walked back to 
the castle feeling Saturday couldn’t come quickly 
enough. 



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They would have felt sorry for Hagrid when the time 
came for him to say good-bye to Norbert if they hadn’t 
been so worried about what they had to do. It was a 
very dark, cloudy night, and they were a bit late 
arriving at Hagrid ’s hut because they’d had to wait for 
Peeves to get out of their way in the entrance hall, 
where he’d been playing tennis against the wall. 

Hagrid had Norbert packed and ready in a large crate. 

“He’s got lots o’ rats an’ some brandy fer the journey,” 
said Hagrid in a muffled voice. “An’ I’ve packed his 
teddy bear in case he gets lonely.” 

From inside the crate came ripping noises that 
sounded to Harry as though the teddy was having his 
head torn off. 

“Bye-bye, Norbert!” Hagrid sobbed, as Harry and 
Hermione covered the crate with the Invisibility Cloak 
and stepped underneath it themselves. “Mommy will 
never forget you!” 

How they managed to get the crate back up to the 
castle, they never knew. Midnight ticked nearer as 
they heaved Norbert up the marble staircase in the 
entrance hall and along the dark corridors. Up 
another staircase, then another — even one of Harry’s 
shortcuts didn’t make the work much easier. 

“Nearly there!” Harry panted as they reached the 
corridor beneath the tallest tower. 

Then a sudden movement ahead of them made them 
almost drop the crate. Forgetting that they were 
already invisible, they shrank into the shadows, 
staring at the dark outlines of two people grappling 
with each other ten feet away. A lamp flared. 



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Professor McGonagall, in a tartan bathrobe and a hair 
net, had Malfoy by the ear. 



“Detention!” she shouted. “And twenty points from 
Slytherin! Wandering around in the middle of the 
night, how dare you — ” 

“You don’t understand, Professor. Harry Potter’s 
coming — he’s got a dragon!” 

“What utter rubbish! How dare you tell such lies! 
Come on — I shall see Professor Snape about you, 
Malfoy!” 

The steep spiral staircase up to the top of the tower 
seemed the easiest thing in the world after that. Not 
until they’d stepped out into the cold night air did 
they throw off the cloak, glad to be able to breathe 
properly again. Hermione did a sort of jig. 

“Malfoy’s got detention! I could sing!” 

“Don’t,” Harry advised her. 

Chuckling about Malfoy, they waited, Norbert 
thrashing about in his crate. About ten minutes later, 
four broomsticks came swooping down out of the 
darkness. 

Charlie’s friends were a cheery lot. They showed 
Harry and Hermione the harness they’d rigged up, so 
they could suspend Norbert between them. They all 
helped buckle Norbert safely into it and then Harry 
and Hermione shook hands with the others and 
thanked them very much. 

At last, Norbert was going ... going ... gone. 



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They slipped back down the spiral staircase, their 
hearts as light as their hands, now that Norbert was 
off them. No more dragon — Malfoy in detention — 
what could spoil their happiness? 

The answer to that was waiting at the foot of the 
stairs. As they stepped into the corridor, Filch’s face 
loomed suddenly out of the darkness. 

“Well, well, well,” he whispered, “we are in trouble.” 

They’d left the Invisibility Cloak on top of the tower. 



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THE FORBIDDEN FOREST 

Things couldn’t have been worse. 

Filch took them down to Professor McGonagall’s 
study on the first floor, where they sat and waited 
without saying a word to each other. Hermione was 
trembling. Excuses, alibis, and wild cover-up stories 
chased each other around Harry’s brain, each more 
feeble than the last. He couldn’t see how they were 
going to get out of trouble this time. They were 
cornered. How could they have been so stupid as to 
forget the cloak? There was no reason on earth that 
Professor McGonagall would accept for their being out 
of bed and creeping around the school in the dead of 
night, let alone being up the tallest Astronomy Tower, 
which was out-of-bounds except for classes. Add 
Norbert and the Invisibility Cloak, and they might as 
well be packing their bags already. 

Had Harry thought that things couldn’t have been 
worse? He was wrong. When Professor McGonagall 
appeared, she was leading Neville. 



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“Harry!” Neville burst out, the moment he saw the 
other two. “I was trying to find you to warn you, I 
heard Malfoy saying he was going to catch you, he 
said you had a drag — ” 

Harry shook his head violently to shut Neville up, but 
Professor McGonagall had seen. She looked more 
likely to breathe fire than Norbert as she towered over 
the three of them. 

“I would never have believed it of any of you. Mr. Filch 
says you were up in the Astronomy Tower. It’s one 
o’clock in the morning. Explain yourselves.” 

It was the first time Hermione had ever failed to 
answer a teacher’s question. She was staring at her 
slippers, as still as a statue. 

“I think I’ve got a good idea of what’s been going on,” 
said Professor McGonagall. “It doesn’t take a genius 
to work it out. You fed Draco Malfoy some cock-and- 
bull story about a dragon, trying to get him out of bed 
and into trouble. I’ve already caught him. I suppose 
you think it’s funny that Longbottom here heard the 
story and believed it, too?” 

Harry caught Neville’s eye and tried to tell him 
without words that this wasn’t true, because Neville 
was looking stunned and hurt. Poor, blundering 
Neville — Harry knew what it must have cost him to 
try and find them in the dark, to warn them. 

“I’m disgusted,” said Professor McGonagall. “Four 
students out of bed in one night! I’ve never heard of 
such a thing before! You, Miss Granger, I thought you 
had more sense. As for you, Mr. Potter, I thought 
Gryffindor meant more to you than this. All three of 
you will receive detentions — yes, you too, Mr. 
Longbottom, nothing gives you the right to walk 
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around school at night, especially these days, it’s very 
dangerous — and fifty points will be taken from 
Gryffindor.” 

“Fifty?” Harry gasped — they would lose the lead, the 
lead he’d won in the last Quidditch match. 

“Fifty points each,” said Professor McGonagall, 
breathing heavily through her long, pointed nose. 

“Professor — please — ” 

“You can’t—” 

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Potter. Now get 
back to bed, all of you. I’ve never been more ashamed 
of Gryffindor students.” 

A hundred and fifty points lost. That put Gryffindor in 
last place. In one night, they’d ruined any chance 
Gryffindor had had for the House Cup. Harry felt as 
though the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. 
How could they ever make up for this? 

Harry didn’t sleep all night. He could hear Neville 
sobbing into his pillow for what seemed like hours. 
Harry couldn’t think of anything to say to comfort 
him. He knew Neville, like himself, was dreading the 
dawn. What would happen when the rest of 
Gryffindor found out what they’d done? 

At first, Gryffindors passing the giant hourglasses 
that recorded the House points the next day thought 
there ’d been a mistake. How could they suddenly 
have a hundred and fifty points fewer than yesterday? 
And then the story started to spread: Harry Potter, 
the famous Harry Potter, their hero of two Quidditch 
matches, had lost them all those points, him and a 
couple of other stupid first years. 

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From being one of the most popular and admired 
people at the school, Harry was suddenly the most 
hated. Even Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs turned on 
him, because everyone had been longing to see 
Slytherin lose the House Cup. Everywhere Harry 
went, people pointed and didn’t trouble to lower their 
voices as they insulted him. Slytherins, on the other 
hand, clapped as he walked past them, whistling and 
cheering, “Thanks Potter, we owe you one!” 

Only Ron stood by him. 

“They’ll all forget this in a few weeks. Fred and George 
have lost loads of points in all the time they’ve been 
here, and people still like them.” 

“They’ve never lost a hundred and fifty points in one 
go, though, have they?” said Harry miserably. 

“Well — no,” Ron admitted. 

It was a bit late to repair the damage, but Harry 
swore to himself not to meddle in things that weren’t 
his business from now on. He’d had it with sneaking 
around and spying. He felt so ashamed of himself that 
he went to Wood and offered to resign from the 
Quidditch team. 

“Resign?” Wood thundered. “What good’ll that do? 

How are we going to get any points back if we can’t 
win at Quidditch?” 

But even Quidditch had lost its fun. The rest of the 
team wouldn’t speak to Harry during practice, and if 
they had to speak about him, they called him “the 
Seeker.” 

Hermione and Neville were suffering, too. They didn’t 
have as bad a time as Harry, because they weren’t as 

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well-known, but nobody would speak to them, either. 
Hermione had stopped drawing attention to herself in 
class, keeping her head down and working in silence. 

Harry was almost glad that the exams weren’t far 
away. All the studying he had to do kept his mind off 
his misery. He, Ron, and Hermione kept to 
themselves, working late into the night, trying to 
remember the ingredients in complicated potions, 
learn charms and spells by heart, memorize the dates 
of magical discoveries and goblin rebellions. ... 

Then, about a week before the exams were due to 
start, Harry’s new resolution not to interfere in 
anything that didn’t concern him was put to an 
unexpected test. Walking back from the library on his 
own one afternoon, he heard somebody whimpering 
from a classroom up ahead. As he drew closer, he 
heard Quirrell’s voice. 

“No — no — not again, please — ” 

It sounded as though someone was threatening him. 
Harry moved closer. 

“All right — all right — ” he heard Quirrell sob. 

Next second, Quirrell came hurrying out of the 
classroom straightening his turban. He was pale and 
looked as though he was about to cry. He strode out 
of sight; Harry didn’t think Quirrell had even noticed 
him. He waited until Quirrell’s footsteps had 
disappeared, then peered into the classroom. It was 
empty, but a door stood ajar at the other end. Harry 
was halfway toward it before he remembered what 
he’d promised himself about not meddling. 

All the same, he’d have gambled twelve Sorcerer’s 
Stones that Snape had just left the room, and from 

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what Harry had just heard, Snape would be walking 
with a new spring in his step — Quirrell seemed to 
have given in at last. 

Harry went back to the library, where Hermione was 
testing Ron on Astronomy. Harry told them what he’d 
heard. 

“Snape’s done it, then!” said Ron. “If Quirrell’s told 
him how to break his Anti-Dark Force spell — ” 

“There’s still Fluffy, though,” said Hermione. 

“Maybe Snape’s found out how to get past him 
without asking Hagrid,” said Ron, looking up at the 
thousands of books surrounding them. “I bet there’s a 
book somewhere in here telling you how to get past a 
giant three-headed dog. So what do we do, Harry?” 

The light of adventure was kindling again in Ron’s 
eyes, but Hermione answered before Harry could. 

“Go to Dumbledore. That’s what we should have done 
ages ago. If we try anything ourselves we’ll be thrown 
out for sure.” 

“But we’ve got no proof.” said Harry. “Quirrell’s too 
scared to back us up. Snape’s only got to say he 
doesn’t know how the troll got in at Halloween and 
that he was nowhere near the third floor — who do 
you think they’ll believe, him or us? It’s not exactly a 
secret we hate him, Dumbledore ’ll think we made it 
up to get him sacked. Filch wouldn’t help us if his life 
depended on it, he’s too friendly with Snape, and the 
more students get thrown out, the better, he’ll think. 
And don’t forget, we’re not supposed to know about 
the Stone or Fluffy. That’ll take a lot of explaining.” 

Hermione looked convinced, but Ron didn’t. 

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“If we just do a bit of poking around — ” 



“No,” said Harry flatly, “we’ve done enough poking 
around.” 

He pulled a map of Jupiter toward him and started to 
learn the names of its moons. 

The following morning, notes were delivered to Harry, 
Hermione, and Neville at the breakfast table. They 
were all the same: 

Your detention will take place at eleven o’clock 
tonight. 

Meet Mr. Filch in the entrance hall. 

Professor M. McGonagall 

Harry had forgotten they still had detentions to do in 
the furor over the points they’d lost. He half expected 
Hermione to complain that this was a whole night of 
studying lost, but she didn’t say a word. Like Harry, 
she felt they deserved what they’d got. 

At eleven o’clock that night, they said good-bye to Ron 
in the common room and went down to the entrance 
hall with Neville. Filch was already there — and so 
was Malfoy. Harry had also forgotten that Malfoy had 
gotten a detention, too. 

“Follow me,” said Filch, lighting a lamp and leading 
them outside. 

“I bet you’ll think twice about breaking a school rule 
again, won’t you, eh?” he said, leering at them. “Oh 
yes . . . hard work and pain are the best teachers if you 
ask me. ... It’s just a pity they let the old 
punishments die out . . . hang you by your wrists from 
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the ceiling for a few days, I’ve got the chains still in 
my office, keep ’em well oiled in case they’re ever 
needed. ... Right, off we go, and don’t think of running 
off, now, it’ll be worse for you if you do.” 

They marched off across the dark grounds. Neville 
kept sniffing. Harry wondered what their punishment 
was going to be. It must be something really horrible, 
or Filch wouldn’t be sounding so delighted. 

The moon was bright, but clouds scudding across it 
kept throwing them into darkness. Ahead, Harry 
could see the lighted windows of Hagrid’s hut. Then 
they heard a distant shout. 

“Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started.” 

Harry’s heart rose; if they were going to be working 
with Hagrid it wouldn’t be so bad. His relief must 
have showed in his face, because Filch said, “I 
suppose you think you’ll be enjoying yourself with 
that oaf? Well, think again, boy — it’s into the forest 
you’re going and I’m much mistaken if you’ll all come 
out in one piece.” 

At this, Neville let out a little moan, and Malfoy 
stopped dead in his tracks. 

“The forest?” he repeated, and he didn’t sound quite 
as cool as usual. “We can’t go in there at night — 
there’s all sorts of things in there — werewolves, I 
heard.” 

Neville clutched the sleeve of Harry’s robe and made a 
choking noise. 

“That’s your problem, isn’t it?” said Filch, his voice 
cracking with glee. “Should’ve thought of them 
werewolves before you got in trouble, shouldn’t you?” 

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Hagrid came striding toward them out of the dark, 
Fang at his heel. He was carrying his large crossbow, 
and a quiver of arrows hung over his shoulder. 

“Abou’ time,” he said. “I bin waitin’ fer half an hour 
already. All right, Harry, Hermione?” 

“I shouldn’t be too friendly to them, Hagrid,” said 
Filch coldly, “they’re here to be punished, after all.” 

“That’s why yer late, is it?” said Hagrid, frowning at 
Filch. “Bin lecturin’ them, eh? ’Snot your place ter do 
that. Yeh’ve done yer bit, I’ll take over from here.” 

“I’ll be back at dawn,” said Filch, “for what’s left of 
them,” he added nastily, and he turned and started 
back toward the castle, his lamp bobbing away in the 
darkness. 

Malfoy now turned to Hagrid. 

“I’m not going in that forest,” he said, and Harry was 
pleased to hear the note of panic in his voice. 

“Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts,” said 
Hagrid fiercely. “Yeh’ve done wrong an’ now yeh’ve got 
ter pay fer it.” 

“But this is servant stuff, it’s not for students to do. I 
thought we’d be copying lines or something, if my 
father knew I was doing this, he’d — ” 

“ — tell yer that’s how it is at Hogwarts,” Hagrid 
growled. “Copyin’ lines! What good’s that ter anyone? 
Yeh’ll do summat useful or yeh’ll get out. If yeh think 
yer father’d rather you were expelled, then get back 
off ter the castle an’ pack. Go on!” 



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Malfoy didn’t move. He looked at Hagrid furiously, but 
then dropped his gaze. 

“Right then,” said Hagrid, “now, listen carefully, 

’cause it’s dangerous what we’re gonna do tonight, an’ 
I don’ want no one takin’ risks. Follow me over here a 
moment.” 

He led them to the very edge of the forest. Holding his 
lamp up high, he pointed down a narrow, winding 
earth track that disappeared into the thick black 
trees. A light breeze lifted their hair as they looked 
into the forest. 

“Look there,” said Hagrid, “see that stuff shinin’ on 
the ground? Silvery stuff? That’s unicorn blood. 
There’s a unicorn in there bin hurt badly by summat. 
This is the second time in a week. I found one dead 
last Wednesday. We’re gonna try an’ find the poor 
thing. We might have ter put it out of its misery.” 

“And what if whatever hurt the unicorn finds us 
first?” said Malfoy, unable to keep the fear out of his 
voice. 

“There’s nothin’ that lives in the forest that’ll hurt yeh 
if yer with me or Fang,” said Hagrid. “An’ keep ter the 
path. Right, now, we’re gonna split inter two parties 
an’ follow the trail in diff’rent directions. There’s blood 
all over the place, it must’ve bin staggerin’ around 
since last night at least.” 

“I want Fang,” said Malfoy quickly, looking at Fang’s 
long teeth. 

“All right, but I warn yeh, he’s a coward,” said Hagrid. 
“So me, Harry, an’ Hermione’ll go one way an’ Draco, 
Neville, an’ Fang’ll go the other. Now, if any of us 
finds the unicorn, we’ll send up green sparks, right? 

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Get yer wands out an’ practice now — that’s it — an’ 
if anyone gets in trouble, send up red sparks, an’ we’ll 
all come an’ find yeh — so, be careful — let’s go.” 

The forest was black and silent. A little way into it 
they reached a fork in the earth path, and Harry, 
Hermione, and Hagrid took the left path while Malfoy, 
Neville, and Fang took the right. 

They walked in silence, their eyes on the ground. 
Every now and then a ray of moonlight through the 
branches above lit a spot of silver-blue blood on the 
fallen leaves. 

Harry saw that Hagrid looked very worried. 

“ Could a werewolf be killing the unicorns?” Harry 
asked. 

“Not fast enough,” said Hagrid. “It’s not easy ter catch 
a unicorn, they’re powerful magic creatures. I never 
knew one ter be hurt before.” 

They walked past a mossy tree stump. Harry could 
hear running water; there must be a stream 
somewhere close by. There were still spots of unicorn 
blood here and there along the winding path. 

“You all right, Hermione?” Hagrid whispered. “Don’ 
worry, it can’t’ve gone far if it’s this badly hurt, an’ 
then well be able ter — GET BEHIND THAT TREE!” 

Hagrid seized Harry and Hermione and hoisted them 
off the path behind a towering oak. He pulled out an 
arrow and fitted it into his crossbow, raising it, ready 
to fire. The three of them listened. Something was 
slithering over dead leaves nearby: it sounded like a 
cloak trailing along the ground. Hagrid was squinting 



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up the dark path, but after a few seconds, the sound 
faded away. 

“I knew it,” he murmured. “There’s summat in here 
that shouldn’ be.” 

“A werewolf?” Harry suggested. 

“That wasn’ no werewolf an’ it wasn’ no unicorn, 
neither,” said Hagrid grimly. “Right, follow me, but 
careful, now.” 

They walked more slowly, ears straining for the 
faintest sound. Suddenly, in a clearing ahead, 
something definitely moved. 

“Who’s there?” Hagrid called. “Show yerself — I’m 
armed!” 

And into the clearing came — was it a man, or a 
horse? To the waist, a man, with red hair and beard, 
but below that was a horse’s gleaming chestnut body 
with a long, reddish tail. Harry and Hermione’s jaws 
dropped. 

“Oh, it’s you, Ronan,” said Hagrid in relief. “How are 
yeh?” 

He walked forward and shook the centaur’s hand. 

“Good evening to you, Hagrid,” said Ronan. He had a 
deep, sorrowful voice. “Were you going to shoot me?” 

“Can’t be too careful, Ronan,” said Hagrid, patting his 
crossbow. “There’s summat bad loose in this forest. 
This is Harry Potter an’ Hermione Granger, by the 
way. Students up at the school. An’ this is Ronan, 
you two. He’s a centaur.” 



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“We’d noticed,” said Hermione faintly. 



“Good evening,” said Ronan. “Students, are you? And 
do you learn much, up at the school?” 

“Erm — ” 

“A bit,” said Hermione timidly. 

“A bit. Well, that’s something.” Ronan sighed. He 
flung back his head and stared at the sky. “Mars is 
bright tonight.” 

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, glancing up, too. “Listen, I’m glad 
we’ve run inter yeh, Ronan, ’cause there’s a unicorn 
bin hurt — you seen anythin’?” 

Ronan didn’t answer immediately. He stared 
unblinkingly upward, then sighed again. 

“Always the innocent are the first victims,” he said. 

“So it has been for ages past, so it is now.” 

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, “but have yeh seen anythin’, 
Ronan? Anythin’ unusual?” 

“Mars is bright tonight,” Ronan repeated, while 
Hagrid watched him impatiently. “Unusually bright.” 

“Yeah, but I was meanin’ anythin’ unusual a bit 
nearer home,” said Hagrid. “So yeh haven’t noticed 
anythin’ strange?” 

Yet again, Ronan took a while to answer. At last, he 
said, “The forest hides many secrets.” 

A movement in the trees behind Ronan made Hagrid 
raise his bow again, but it was only a second centaur, 

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black-haired and -bodied and wilder-looking than 
Ronan. 



“Hullo, Bane,” said Hagrid. “All right?” 

“Good evening, Hagrid, I hope you are well?” 

“Well enough. Look, I’ve jus’ bin askin’ Ronan, you 
seen anythin’ odd in here lately? There’s a unicorn 
bin injured — would yeh know anythin’ about it?” 

Bane walked over to stand next to Ronan. He looked 
skyward. 

“Mars is bright tonight,” he said simply. 

“We’ve heard,” said Hagrid grumpily. “Well, if either of 
you do see anythin’, let me know, won’t yeh? We’ll be 
off, then.” 

Harry and Hermione followed him out of the clearing, 
staring over their shoulders at Ronan and Bane until 
the trees blocked their view. 

“Never,” said Hagrid irritably, “try an’ get a straight 
answer out of a centaur. Ruddy stargazers. Not 
interested in anythin’ closer’n the moon.” 

“Are there many of them in here?” asked Hermione. 

“Oh, a fair few. . . . Keep themselves to themselves 
mostly, but they’re good enough about turnin’ up if 
ever I want a word. They’re deep, mind, centaurs ... 
they know things ... jus’ don’ let on much.” 

“D’you think that was a centaur we heard earlier?” 
said Harry. 



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“Did that sound like hooves to you? Nah, if yeh ask 
me, that was what’s bin killin’ the unicorns — never 
heard anythin’ like it before.” 

They walked on through the dense, dark trees. Harry 
kept looking nervously over his shoulder. He had the 
nasty feeling they were being watched. He was very 
glad they had Hagrid and his crossbow with them. 
They had just passed a bend in the path when 
Hermione grabbed Hagrid ’s arm. 

“Hagrid! Look! Red sparks, the others are in trouble!” 

“You two wait here!” Hagrid shouted. “Stay on the 
path, I’ll come back for yeh!” 

They heard him crashing away through the 
undergrowth and stood looking at each other, very 
scared, until they couldn’t hear anything but the 
rustling of leaves around them. 

“You don’t think they’ve been hurt, do you?” 
whispered Hermione. 

“I don’t care if Malfoy has, but if something’s got 
Neville ... it’s our fault he’s here in the first place.” 

The minutes dragged by. Their ears seemed sharper 
than usual. Harry’s seemed to be picking up every 
sigh of the wind, every cracking twig. What was going 
on? Where were the others? 

At last, a great crunching noise announced Hagrid’s 
return. Malfoy, Neville, and Fang were with him. 
Hagrid was fuming. Malfoy, it seemed, had sneaked 
up behind Neville and grabbed him as a joke. Neville 
had panicked and sent up the sparks. 



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“Well be lucky ter catch anythin’ now, with the racket 
you two were makin’. Right, we’re changin’ groups — 
Neville, you stay with me an’ Hermione, Harry, you go 
with Fang an’ this idiot. I’m sorry,” Hagrid added in a 
whisper to Harry, “but he’ll have a harder time 
frightenin’ you, an’ we’ve gotta get this done.” 

So Harry set off into the heart of the forest with 
Malfoy and Fang. They walked for nearly half an 
hour, deeper and deeper into the forest, until the path 
became almost impossible to follow because the trees 
were so thick. Harry thought the blood seemed to be 
getting thicker. There were splashes on the roots of a 
tree, as though the poor creature had been thrashing 
around in pain close by. Harry could see a clearing 
ahead, through the tangled branches of an ancient 
oak. 

“Look — ” he murmured, holding out his arm to stop 
Malfoy. 

Something bright white was gleaming on the ground. 
They inched closer. 

It was the unicorn all right, and it was dead. Harry 
had never seen anything so beautiful and sad. Its 
long, slender legs were stuck out at odd angles where 
it had fallen and its mane was spread pearly-white on 
the dark leaves. 

Harry had taken one step toward it when a slithering 
sound made him freeze where he stood. A bush on 
the edge of the clearing quivered. ... Then, out of the 
shadows, a hooded figure came crawling across the 
ground like some stalking beast. Harry, Malfoy, and 
Fang stood transfixed. The cloaked figure reached the 
unicorn, lowered its head over the wound in the 
animals side, and began to drink its blood. 



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“AAAAAAAAAAARGH ! ” 



Malfoy let out a terrible scream and bolted — so did 
Fang. The hooded figure raised its head and looked 
right at Harry — unicorn blood was dribbling down its 
front. It got to its feet and came swiftly toward Harry 
— he couldn’t move for fear. 

Then a pain like he’d never felt before pierced his 
head; it was as though his scar were on fire. Half 
blinded, he staggered backward. He heard hooves 
behind him, galloping, and something jumped clean 
over Harry, charging at the figure. 

The pain in Harry’s head was so bad he fell to his 
knees. It took a minute or two to pass. When he 
looked up, the figure had gone. A centaur was 
standing over him, not Ronan or Bane; this one 
looked younger; he had white-blond hair and a 
palomino body. 

“Are you all right?” said the centaur, pulling Harry to 
his feet. 

“Yes — thank you — what was that?” 

The centaur didn’t answer. He had astonishingly blue 
eyes, like pale sapphires. He looked carefully at 
Harry, his eyes lingering on the scar that stood out, 
livid, on Harry’s forehead. 

“You are the Potter boy,” he said. “You had better get 
back to Hagrid. The forest is not safe at this time — 
especially for you. Can you ride? It will be quicker 
this way. 

“My name is Firenze,” he added, as he lowered 
himself on to his front legs so that Harry could 
clamber onto his back. 

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There was suddenly a sound of more galloping from 
the other side of the clearing. Ronan and Bane came 
bursting through the trees, their flanks heaving and 
sweaty. 

“Firenze!” Bane thundered. “What are you doing? You 
have a human on your back! Have you no shame? Are 
you a common mule?” 

“Do you realize who this is?” said Firenze. “This is the 
Potter boy. The quicker he leaves this forest, the 
better.” 

“What have you been telling him?” growled Bane. 
“Remember, Firenze, we are sworn not to set 
ourselves against the heavens. Have we not read what 
is to come in the movements of the planets?” 

Ronan pawed the ground nervously. “I’m sure Firenze 
thought he was acting for the best,” he said in his 
gloomy voice. 

Bane kicked his back legs in anger. 

“For the best! What is that to do with us? Centaurs 
are concerned with what has been foretold! It is not 
our business to run around like donkeys after stray 
humans in our forest!” 

Firenze suddenly reared on to his hind legs in anger, 
so that Harry had to grab his shoulders to stay on. 

“Do you not see that unicorn?” Firenze bellowed at 
Bane. “Do you not understand why it was killed? Or 
have the planets not let you in on that secret? I set 
myself against what is lurking in this forest, Bane, 
yes, with humans alongside me if I must.” 



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And Firenze whisked around; with Harry clutching on 
as best he could, they plunged off into the trees, 
leaving Ronan and Bane behind them. 

Harry didn’t have a clue what was going on. 

“Why’s Bane so angry?” he asked. “What was that 
thing you saved me from, anyway?” 

Firenze slowed to a walk, warned Harry to keep his 
head bowed in case of low-hanging branches, but did 
not answer Harry’s question. They made their way 
through the trees in silence for so long that Harry 
thought Firenze didn’t want to talk to him anymore. 
They were passing through a particularly dense patch 
of trees, however, when Firenze suddenly stopped. 

“Harry Potter, do you know what unicorn blood is 
used for?” 

“No,” said Harry, startled by the odd question. “We’ve 
only used the horn and tail hair in Potions.” 

“That is because it is a monstrous thing, to slay a 
unicorn,” said Firenze. “Only one who has nothing to 
lose, and everything to gain, would commit such a 
crime. The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive, even 
if you are an inch from death, but at a terrible price. 
You have slain something pure and defenseless to 
save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a 
cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your 
lips.” 

Harry stared at the back of Firenze’s head, which was 
dappled silver in the moonlight. 

“But who’d be that desperate?” he wondered aloud. “If 
you’re going to be cursed forever, death’s better, isn’t 
it?” 

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“It is,” Firenze agreed, “unless all you need is to stay 
alive long enough to drink something else — 
something that will bring you back to full strength 
and power — something that will mean you can never 
die. Mr. Potter, do you know what is hidden in the 
school at this very moment?” 

“The Sorcerer’s Stone! Of course — the Elixir of Life! 
But I don’t understand who — ” 

“Can you think of nobody who has waited many years 
to return to power, who has clung to life, awaiting 
their chance?” 

It was as though an iron fist had clenched suddenly 
around Harry’s heart. Over the rustling of the trees, 
he seemed to hear once more what Hagrid had told 
him on the night they had met: “Some say he died. 
Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough 
human left in him to die.” 

“Do you mean,” Harry croaked, “that was VoZ — ” 

“Harry! Harry, are you all right?” 

Hermione was running toward them down the path, 
Hagrid puffing along behind her. 

“I’m fine,” said Harry, hardly knowing what he was 
saying. “The unicorn’s dead, Hagrid, it’s in that 
clearing back there.” 

“This is where I leave you,” Firenze murmured as 
Hagrid hurried off to examine the unicorn. “You are 
safe now.” 

Harry slid off his back. 



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“Good luck, Harry Potter,” said Firenze. “The planets 
have been read wrongly before now, even by centaurs. 
I hope this is one of those times.” 

He turned and cantered back into the depths of the 
forest, leaving Harry shivering behind him. 

Ron had fallen asleep in the dark common room, 
waiting for them to return. He shouted something 
about Quidditch fouls when Harry roughly shook him 
awake. In a matter of seconds, though, he was wide- 
eyed as Harry began to tell him and Hermione what 
had happened in the forest. 

Harry couldn’t sit down. He paced up and down in 
front of the fire. He was still shaking. 

“Snape wants the Stone for Voldemort ... and 
Voldemort’s waiting in the forest ... and all this time 
we thought Snape just wanted to get rich. ...” 

“Stop saying the name!” said Ron in a terrified 
whisper, as if he thought Voldemort could hear them. 

Harry wasn’t listening. 

“Firenze saved me, but he shouldn’t have done so. ... 
Bane was furious ... he was talking about interfering 
with what the planets say is going to happen. ... They 
must show that Voldemort’s coming back. ... Bane 
thinks Firenze should have let Voldemort kill me. ... I 
suppose that’s written in the stars as well.” 

“Will you stop saying the name\” Ron hissed. 

“So all I’ve got to wait for now is Snape to steal the 
Stone,” Harry went on feverishly, “then Voldemort will 
be able to come and finish me off. ... Well, I suppose 
Bane 11 be happy.” 

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Hermione looked very frightened, but she had a word 
of comfort. 

“Harry, everyone says Dumbledore’s the only one 
You-Know-Who was ever afraid of. With Dumbledore 
around, You-Know-Who won’t touch you. Anyway, 
who says the centaurs are right? It sounds like 
fortune-telling to me, and Professor McGonagall says 
that’s a very imprecise branch of magic.” 

The sky had turned light before they stopped talking. 
They went to bed exhausted, their throats sore. But 
the night’s surprises weren’t over. 

When Harry pulled back his sheets, he found his 
Invisibility Cloak folded neatly underneath them. 
There was a note pinned to it: 

Just in case. 



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THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR 

In years to come, Harry would never quite remember 
how he had managed to get through his exams when 
he half expected Voldemort to come bursting through 
the door at any moment. Yet the days crept by, and 
there could be no doubt that Fluffy was still alive and 
well behind the locked door. 

It was sweltering hot, especially in the large 
classroom where they did their written papers. They 
had been given special, new quills for the exams, 
which had been bewitched with an Anti-Cheating 
spell. 

They had practical exams as well. Professor Flitwick 
called them one by one into his class to see if they 
could make a pineapple tap-dance across a desk. 
Professor McGonagall watched them turn a mouse 
into a snuffbox — points were given for how pretty the 
snuffbox was, but taken away if it had whiskers. 
Snape made them all nervous, breathing down their 
necks while they tried to remember how to make a 
Forgetfulness potion. 

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Harry did the best he could, trying to ignore the 
stabbing pains in his forehead, which had been 
bothering him ever since his trip into the forest. 
Neville thought Harry had a bad case of exam nerves 
because Harry couldn’t sleep, but the truth was that 
Harry kept being woken by his old nightmare, except 
that it was now worse than ever because there was a 
hooded figure dripping blood in it. 

Maybe it was because they hadn’t seen what Harry 
had seen in the forest, or because they didn’t have 
scars burning on their foreheads, but Ron and 
Hermione didn’t seem as worried about the Stone as 
Harry. The idea of Voldemort certainly scared them, 
but he didn’t keep visiting them in dreams, and they 
were so busy with their studying they didn’t have 
much time to fret about what Snape or anyone else 
might be up to. 

Their very last exam was History of Magic. One hour 
of answering questions about batty old wizards who’d 
invented self-stirring cauldrons and they’d be free, 
free for a whole wonderful week until their exam 
results came out. When the ghost of Professor Binns 
told them to put down their quills and roll up their 
parchment, Harry couldn’t help cheering with the 
rest. 

“That was far easier than I thought it would be,” said 
Hermione as they joined the crowds flocking out onto 
the sunny grounds. “I needn’t have learned about the 
1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct or the uprising of 
Elfric the Eager.” 

Hermione always liked to go through their exam 
papers afterward, but Ron said this made him feel ill, 
so they wandered down to the lake and flopped under 
a tree. The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan were 



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tickling the tentacles of a giant squid, which was 
basking in the warm shallows. 



“No more studying,” Ron sighed happily, stretching 
out on the grass. “You could look more cheerful, 

Harry, we’ve got a week before we find out how badly 
we’ve done, there’s no need to worry yet.” 

Harry was rubbing his forehead. 

“I wish I knew what this means\” he burst out angrily. 
“My scar keeps hurting — it’s happened before, but 
never as often as this.” 

“Go to Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione suggested. 

“I’m not ill,” said Harry. “I think it’s a warning ... it 
means danger’s coming. ...” 

Ron couldn’t get worked up, it was too hot. 

“Harry, relax, Hermione ’s right, the Stone’s safe as 
long as Dumbledore’s around. Anyway, we’ve never 
had any proof Snape found out how to get past Fluffy. 
He nearly had his leg ripped off once, he’s not going to 
try it again in a hurry. And Neville will play Quidditch 
for England before Hagrid lets Dumbledore down.” 

Harry nodded, but he couldn’t shake off a lurking 
feeling that there was something he’d forgotten to do, 
something important. When he tried to explain this, 
Hermione said, “That’s just the exams. I woke up last 
night and was halfway through my Transfiguration 
notes before I remembered we’d done that one.” 

Harry was quite sure the unsettled feeling didn’t have 
anything to do with work, though. He watched an owl 
flutter toward the school across the bright blue sky, a 
note clamped in its mouth. Hagrid was the only one 

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who ever sent him letters. Hagrid would never betray 
Dumbledore. Hagrid would never tell anyone how to 
get past Fluffy . . . never . . . but — 

Harry suddenly jumped to his feet. 

“Where ’re you going?” said Ron sleepily. 

“I’ve just thought of something,” said Harry. He had 
turned white. “We’ve got to go and see Hagrid, now.” 

“Why?” panted Hermione, hurrying to keep up. 

“Don’t you think it’s a bit odd,” said Harry, 
scrambling up the grassy slope, “that what Hagrid 
wants more than anything else is a dragon, and a 
stranger turns up who just happens to have an egg in 
his pocket? How many people wander around with 
dragon eggs if it’s against wizard law? Lucky they 
found Hagrid, don’t you think? Why didn’t I see it 
before?” 

“What are you talking about?” said Ron, but Harry, 
sprinting across the grounds toward the forest, didn’t 
answer. 

Hagrid was sitting in an armchair outside his house; 
his trousers and sleeves were rolled up, and he was 
shelling peas into a large bowl. 

“Hullo,” he said, smiling. “Finished yer exams? Got 
time fer a drink?” 

“Yes, please,” said Ron, but Harry cut him off. 

“No, we’re in a hurry. Hagrid, I’ve got to ask you 
something. You know that night you won Norbert? 
What did the stranger you were playing cards with 
look like?” 

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“Dunno said Hagrid casually, “he wouldn’ take his 
cloak off.” 



He saw the three of them look stunned and raised his 
eyebrows. 

“It’s not that unusual, yeh get a lot o’ funny folk in 
the Hog’s Head — that’s one o’ the pubs down in the 
village. Mighta bin a dragon dealer, mightn’ he? I 
never saw his face, he kept his hood up.” 

Harry sank down next to the bowl of peas. 

“What did you talk to him about, Hagrid? Did you 
mention Hogwarts at all?” 

“Mighta come up,” said Hagrid, frowning as he tried 
to remember. “Yeah ... he asked what I did, an’ I told 
him I was gamekeeper here. ... He asked a bit about 
the sorta creatures I look after ... so I told him ... an’ I 
said what I’d always really wanted was a dragon ... 
an’ then ... I can’ remember too well, ’cause he kept 
buyin’ me drinks. ... Let’s see ... yeah, then he said he 
had the dragon egg an’ we could play cards fer it if I 
wanted . . . but he had ter be sure I could handle it, he 
didn’ want it ter go ter any old home. ... So I told him, 
after Fluffy, a dragon would be easy. ...” 

“And did he — did he seem interested in Fluffy?” 

Harry asked, trying to keep his voice calm. 

“Well — yeah — how many three-headed dogs d’yeh 
meet, even around Hogwarts? So I told him, Fluffy’s a 
piece o’ cake if yeh know how to calm him down, jus’ 
play him a bit o’ music an’ he’ll go straight off ter 
sleep — ” 

Hagrid suddenly looked horrified. 

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“I shouldn’ta told yeh that!” he blurted out. “Forget I 
said it! Hey — where’re yeh goin’?” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione didn’t speak to each other 
at all until they came to a halt in the entrance hall, 
which seemed very cold and gloomy after the 
grounds. 

“We’ve got to go to Dumbledore,” said Harry. “Hagrid 
told that stranger how to get past Fluffy, and it was 
either Snape or Voldemort under that cloak — it 
must’ve been easy, once he’d got Hagrid drunk. I just 
hope Dumbledore believes us. Firenze might back us 
up if Bane doesn’t stop him. Where’s Dumbledore’s 
office?” 

They looked around, as if hoping to see a sign 
pointing them in the right direction. They had never 
been told where Dumbledore lived, nor did they know 
anyone who had been sent to see him. 

“Well just have to — ” Harry began, but a voice 
suddenly rang across the hall. 

“What are you three doing inside?” 

It was Professor McGonagall, carrying a large pile of 
books. 

“We want to see Professor Dumbledore,” said 
Hermione, rather bravely, Harry and Ron thought. 

“See Professor Dumbledore?” Professor McGonagall 
repeated, as though this was a very fishy thing to 
want to do. “Why?” 

Harry swallowed — now what? 



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“It’s sort of secret,” he said, but he wished at once he 
hadn’t, because Professor McGonagall’s nostrils 
flared. 

“Professor Dumbledore left ten minutes ago,” she said 
coldly. “He received an urgent owl from the Ministry 
of Magic and flew off for London at once.” 

“He’s gone?” said Harry frantically. “Now?” 

“Professor Dumbledore is a very great wizard, Potter, 
he has many demands on his time — ” 

“But this is important.” 

“Something you have to say is more important than 
the Ministry of Magic, Potter?” 

“Look,” said Harry, throwing caution to the winds, 
“Professor — it’s about the Sorcerer’s Stone — ” 

Whatever Professor McGonagall had expected, it 
wasn’t that. The books she was carrying tumbled out 
of her arms, but she didn’t pick them up. 

“How do you know — ?” she spluttered. 

“Professor, I think — I know — that Sn — that 
someone’s going to try and steal the Stone. I’ve got to 
talk to Professor Dumbledore.” 

She eyed him with a mixture of shock and suspicion. 

“Professor Dumbledore will be back tomorrow,” she 
said finally. “I don’t know how you found out about 
the Stone, but rest assured, no one can possibly steal 
it, it’s too well protected.” 

“But Professor — ” 

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“Potter, I know what I’m talking about,” she said 
shortly. She bent down and gathered up the fallen 
books. “I suggest you all go back outside and enjoy 
the sunshine.” 

But they didn’t. 

“It’s tonight,” said Harry, once he was sure Professor 
McGonagall was out of earshot. “Snape’s going 
through the trapdoor tonight. He’s found out 
everything he needs, and now he’s got Dumbledore 
out of the way. He sent that note, I bet the Ministry of 
Magic will get a real shock when Dumbledore turns 
up.” 

“But what can we — ” 

Hermione gasped. Harry and Ron wheeled round. 
Snape was standing there. 

“Good afternoon,” he said smoothly. 

They stared at him. 

“You shouldn’t be inside on a day like this,” he said, 
with an odd, twisted smile. 

“We were — ” Harry began, without any idea what he 
was going to say. 

“You want to be more careful,” said Snape. “Hanging 
around like this, people will think you’re up to 
something. And Gryffindor really can’t afford to lose 
any more points, can it?” 

Harry flushed. They turned to go outside, but Snape 
called them back. 



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“Be warned, Potter — any more nighttime wanderings 
and I will personally make sure you are expelled. 

Good day to you.” 

He strode off in the direction of the staffroom. 

Out on the stone steps, Harry turned to the others. 

“Right, here’s what we’ve got to do,” he whispered 
urgently. “One of us has got to keep an eye on Snape 
— wait outside the staffroom and follow him if he 
leaves it. Hermione, you’d better do that.” 

“Why me?” 

“It’s obvious,” said Ron. “You can pretend to be 
waiting for Professor Flitwick, you know.” He put on a 
high voice, “ ‘Oh Professor Flitwick, I’m so worried, I 
think I got question fourteen b wrong. . . . ’ ” 

“Oh, shut up,” said Hermione, but she agreed to go 
and watch out for Snape. 

“And we’d better stay outside the third-floor corridor,” 
Harry told Ron. “Come on.” 

But that part of the plan didn’t work. No sooner had 
they reached the door separating Fluffy from the rest 
of the school than Professor McGonagall turned up 
again and this time, she lost her temper. 

“I suppose you think you’re harder to get past than a 
pack of enchantments!” she stormed. “Enough of this 
nonsense! If I hear you’ve come anywhere near here 
again, I’ll take another fifty points from Gryffindor! 

Yes, Weasley, from my own House!” 

Harry and Ron went back to the common room. Harry 
had just said, “At least Hermione’s on Snape’s tail,” 

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when the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open and 
Hermione came in. 

“I’m sorry, Harry!” she wailed. “Snape came out and 
asked me what I was doing, so I said I was waiting for 
Flitwick, and Snape went to get him, and I’ve only 
just got away, I don’t know where Snape went.” 

“Well, that’s it then, isn’t it?” Harry said. 

The other two stared at him. He was pale and his eyes 
were glittering. 

“I’m going out of here tonight and I’m going to try and 
get to the Stone first.” 

“You’re mad!” said Ron. 

“You can’t!” said Hermione. “After what McGonagall 
and Snape have said? You’ll be expelled!” 

“SO WHAT?” Harry shouted. “Don’t you understand? 
If Snape gets hold of the Stone, Voldemort’s coming 
back! Haven’t you heard what it was like when he was 
trying to take over? There won’t be any Hogwarts to 
get expelled from! He’ll flatten it, or turn it into a 
school for the Dark Arts! Losing points doesn’t matter 
anymore, can’t you see? D’you think he’ll leave you 
and your families alone if Gryffindor wins the House 
Cup? If I get caught before I can get to the Stone, well, 
I’ll have to go back to the Dursleys and wait for 
Voldemort to find me there, it’s only dying a bit later 
than I would have, because I’m never going over to 
the Dark Side! I’m going through that trapdoor 
tonight and nothing you two say is going to stop me! 
Voldemort killed my parents, remember?” 

He glared at them. 



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“You’re right, Harry,” said Hermione in a small voice. 



“I’ll use the Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry. “It’s just 
lucky I got it back.” 

“But will it cover all three of us?” said Ron. 

“All — all three of us?” 

“Oh, come off it, you don’t think we’d let you go 
alone?” 

“Of course not,” said Hermione briskly. “How do you 
think you’d get to the Stone without us? I’d better go 
and look through my books, there might be 
something useful. ...” 

“But if we get caught, you two will be expelled, too.” 

“Not if I can help it,” said Hermione grimly. “Flitwick 
told me in secret that I got a hundred and twelve 
percent on his exam. They’re not throwing me out 
after that.” 

After dinner the three of them sat nervously apart in 
the common room. Nobody bothered them; none of 
the Gryffindors had anything to say to Harry any 
more, after all. This was the first night he hadn’t been 
upset by it. Hermione was skimming through all her 
notes, hoping to come across one of the 
enchantments they were about to try to break. Harry 
and Ron didn’t talk much. Both of them were 
thinking about what they were about to do. 

Slowly, the room emptied as people drifted off to bed. 

“Better get the cloak,” Ron muttered, as Lee Jordan 
finally left, stretching and yawning. Harry ran 
upstairs to their dark dormitory. He pulled out the 

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cloak and then his eyes fell on the flute Hagrid had 
given him for Christmas. He pocketed it to use on 
Fluffy — he didn’t feel much like singing. 

He ran back down to the common room. 

“We’d better put the cloak on here, and make sure it 
covers all three of us — if Filch spots one of our feet 
wandering along on its own — ” 

“What are you doing?” said a voice from the corner of 
the room. Neville appeared from behind an armchair, 
clutching Trevor the toad, who looked as though he’d 
been making another bid for freedom. 

“Nothing, Neville, nothing,” said Harry, hurriedly 
putting the cloak behind his back. 

Neville stared at their guilty faces. 

“You’re going out again,” he said. 

“No, no, no,” said Hermione. “No, we’re not. Why don’t 
you go to bed, Neville?” 

Harry looked at the grandfather clock by the door. 
They couldn’t afford to waste any more time, Snape 
might even now be playing Fluffy to sleep. 

“You can’t go out,” said Neville, “you’ll be caught 
again. Gryffindor will be in even more trouble.” 

“You don’t understand,” said Harry, “this is 
important.” 

But Neville was clearly steeling himself to do 
something desperate. 



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“I won’t let you do it,” he said, hurrying to stand in 
front of the portrait hole. “I’ll — I’ll fight you!” 

“Neville,” Ron exploded, “get away from that hole and 
don’t be an idiot — ” 

“Don’t you call me an idiot!” said Neville. “I don’t 
think you should be breaking any more rules! And 
you were the one who told me to stand up to people!” 

“Yes, but not to us,” said Ron in exasperation. 

“Neville, you don’t know what you’re doing.” 

He took a step forward and Neville dropped Trevor the 
toad, who leapt out of sight. 

“Go on then, try and hit me!” said Neville, raising his 
fists. “I’m ready!” 

Harry turned to Hermione. 

“Do something,” he said desperately. 

Hermione stepped forward. 

“Neville,” she said, “I’m really, really sorry about this.” 
She raised her wand. 

“Petrificus Totalusl” she cried, pointing it at Neville. 

Neville’s arms snapped to his sides. His legs sprang 
together. His whole body rigid, he swayed where he 
stood and then fell flat on his face, stiff as a board. 

Hermione ran to turn him over. Neville’s jaws were 
jammed together so he couldn’t speak. Only his eyes 
were moving, looking at them in horror. 



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“What’ve you done to him?” Harry whispered. 



“It’s the full Body-Bind,” said Hermione miserably. 
“Oh, Neville, I’m so sorry.” 

“We had to, Neville, no time to explain,” said Harry. 

“You’ll understand later, Neville,” said Ron as they 
stepped over him and pulled on the Invisibility Cloak. 

But leaving Neville lying motionless on the floor didn’t 
feel like a very good omen. In their nervous state, 
every statue’s shadow looked like Filch, every distant 
breath of wind sounded like Peeves swooping down on 
them. 

At the foot of the first set of stairs, they spotted Mrs. 
Norris skulking near the top. 

“Oh, let’s kick her, just this once,” Ron whispered in 
Harry’s ear, but Harry shook his head. As they 
climbed carefully around her, Mrs. Norris turned her 
lamplike eyes on them, but didn’t do anything. 

They didn’t meet anyone else until they reached the 
staircase up to the third floor. Peeves was bobbing 
halfway up, loosening the carpet so that people would 
trip. 

“Who’s there?” he said suddenly as they climbed 
toward him. He narrowed his wicked black eyes. 
“Know you’re there, even if I can’t see you. Are you 
ghoulie or ghostie or wee student beastie?” 

He rose up in the air and floated there, squinting at 
them. 

“Should call Filch, I should, if something’s a-creeping 
around unseen.” 

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Harry had a sudden idea. 



“Peeves,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “the Bloody 
Baron has his own reasons for being invisible.” 

Peeves almost fell out of the air in shock. He caught 
himself in time and hovered about a foot off the 
stairs. 

“So sorry, your bloodiness, Mr. Baron, sir,” he said 
greasily. “My mistake, my mistake — I didn’t see you 
— of course I didn’t, you’re invisible — forgive old 
Peevsie his little joke, sir.” 

“I have business here, Peeves,” croaked Harry. “Stay 
away from this place tonight.” 

“I will, sir, I most certainly will,” said Peeves, rising up 
in the air again. “Hope your business goes well, 

Baron, I’ll not bother you.” 

And he scooted off. 

“Brilliant, Harry!” whispered Ron. 

A few seconds later, they were there, outside the 
third-floor corridor — and the door was already ajar. 

“Well, there you are,” Harry said quietly, “Snape’s 
already got past Fluffy.” 

Seeing the open door somehow seemed to impress 
upon all three of them what was facing them. 
Underneath the cloak, Harry turned to the other two. 

“If you want to go back, I won’t blame you,” he said. 
“You can take the cloak, I won’t need it now.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” said Ron. 

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“We’re coming,” said Hermione. 

Harry pushed the door open. 

As the door creaked, low, rumbling growls met their 
ears. All three of the dog’s noses sniffed madly in their 
direction, even though it couldn’t see them. 

“What’s that at its feet?” Hermione whispered. 

“Looks like a harp,” said Ron. “Snape must have left it 
there.” 

“It must wake up the moment you stop playing,” said 
Harry. “Well, here goes ...” 

He put Hagrid’s flute to his lips and blew. It wasn’t 
really a tune, but from the first note the beast’s eyes 
began to droop. Harry hardly drew breath. Slowly, the 
dog’s growls ceased — it tottered on its paws and fell 
to its knees, then it slumped to the ground, fast 
asleep. 

“Keep playing,” Ron warned Harry as they slipped out 
of the cloak and crept toward the trapdoor. They 
could feel the dog’s hot, smelly breath as they 
approached the giant heads. 

“I think we’ll be able to pull the door open,” said Ron, 
peering over the dog’s back. “Want to go first, 
Hermione?” 

“No, I don’t!” 

“All right.” Ron gritted his teeth and stepped carefully 
over the dog’s legs. He bent and pulled the ring of the 
trapdoor, which swung up and open. 

“What can you see?” Hermione said anxiously. 

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“Nothing — just black — there’s no way of climbing 
down, we’ll just have to drop.” 

Harry, who was still playing the flute, waved at Ron to 
get his attention and pointed at himself. 

“You want to go first? Are you sure?” said Ron. “I 
don’t know how deep this thing goes. Give the flute to 
Hermione so she can keep him asleep.” 

Harry handed the flute over. In the few seconds’ 
silence, the dog growled and twitched, but the 
moment Hermione began to play, it fell back into its 
deep sleep. 

Harry climbed over it and looked down through the 
trapdoor. There was no sign of the bottom. 

He lowered himself through the hole until he was 
hanging on by his fingertips. Then he looked up at 
Ron and said, “If anything happens to me, don’t 
follow. Go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to 
Dumbledore, right?” 

“Right,” said Ron. 

“See you in a minute, I hope. ...” 

And Harry let go. Cold, damp air rushed past him as 
he fell down, down, down and — 

FLUMP. With a funny, muffled sort of thump he 
landed on something soft. He sat up and felt around, 
his eyes not used to the gloom. It felt as though he 
was sitting on some sort of plant. 

“It’s okay!” he called up to the light the size of a 
postage stamp, which was the open trapdoor, “it’s a 
soft landing, you can jump!” 

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Ron followed right away. He landed, sprawled next to 
Harry. 

“What’s this stuff?” were his first words. 

“Dunno, some sort of plant thing. I suppose it’s here 
to break the fall. Come on, Hermione!” 

The distant music stopped. There was a loud bark 
from the dog, but Hermione had already jumped. She 
landed on Harry’s other side. 

“We must be miles under the school,” she said. 

“Lucky this plant thing’s here, really,” said Ron. 

“Lucky\” shrieked Hermione. “Look at you both!” 

She leapt up and struggled toward a damp wall. She 
had to struggle because the moment she had landed, 
the plant had started to twist snakelike tendrils 
around her ankles. As for Harry and Ron, their legs 
had already been bound tightly in long creepers 
without their noticing. 

Hermione had managed to free herself before the 
plant got a firm grip on her. Now she watched in 
horror as the two boys fought to pull the plant off 
them, but the more they strained against it, the 
tighter and faster the plant wound around them. 

“Stop moving!” Hermione ordered them. “I know what 
this is — it’s Devil’s Snare!” 

“Oh, I’m so glad we know what it’s called, that’s a 
great help,” snarled Ron, leaning back, trying to stop 
the plant from curling around his neck. 



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“Shut up, I’m trying to remember how to kill it!” said 
Hermione. 

“Well, hurry up, I can’t breathe!” Harry gasped, 
wrestling with it as it curled around his chest. 

“Devil’s Snare, Devil’s Snare ... what did Professor 
Sprout say? — it likes the dark and the damp — ” 

“So light a fire!” Harry choked. 

“Yes — of course — but there’s no wood!” Hermione 
cried, wringing her hands. 

“HAVE YOU GONE MAD?” Ron bellowed. “ARE YOU A 
WITCH OR NOT?” 

“Oh, right!” said Hermione, and she whipped out her 
wand, waved it, muttered something, and sent a jet of 
the same bluebell flames she had used on Snape at 
the plant. In a matter of seconds, the two boys felt it 
loosening its grip as it cringed away from the light 
and warmth. Wriggling and flailing, it unraveled itself 
from their bodies, and they were able to pull free. 

“Lucky you pay attention in Herbology, Hermione,” 
said Harry as he joined her by the wall, wiping sweat 
off his face. 

“Yeah,” said Ron, “and lucky Harry doesn’t lose his 
head in a crisis — ‘there’s no wood,’ honestly.” 

“This way,” said Harry, pointing down a stone 
passageway, which was the only way forward. 

All they could hear apart from their footsteps was the 
gentle drip of water trickling down the walls. The 
passageway sloped downward, and Harry was 
reminded of Gringotts. With an unpleasant jolt of the 

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heart, he remembered the dragons said to be 
guarding vaults in the wizards’ bank. If they met a 
dragon, a fully-grown dragon — Norbert had been bad 
enough ... 

“Can you hear something?” Ron whispered. 

Harry listened. A soft rustling and clinking seemed to 
be coming from up ahead. 

“Do you think it’s a ghost?” 

“I don’t know ... sounds like wings to me.” 

“There’s light ahead — I can see something moving.” 

They reached the end of the passageway and saw 
before them a brilliantly lit chamber, its ceiling 
arching high above them. It was full of small, jewel- 
bright birds, fluttering and tumbling all around the 
room. On the opposite side of the chamber was a 
heavy wooden door. 

“Do you think they’ll attack us if we cross the room?” 
said Ron. 

“Probably,” said Harry. “They don’t look very vicious, 
but I suppose if they all swooped down at once . . . 
well, there’s no other choice ... I’ll run.” 

He took a deep breath, covered his face with his arms, 
and sprinted across the room. He expected to feel 
sharp beaks and claws tearing at him any second, 
but nothing happened. He reached the door 
untouched. He pulled the handle, but it was locked. 

The other two followed him. They tugged and heaved 
at the door, but it wouldn’t budge, not even when 
Hermione tried her Alohomora Charm. 

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“Now what?” said Ron. 



“These birds ... they can’t be here just for decoration,” 
said Hermione. 

They watched the birds soaring overhead, glittering — 
glittering? 

“They’re not birds!” Harry said suddenly. “They’re 
keys\ Winged keys — look carefully. So that must 
mean ...” he looked around the chamber while the 
other two squinted up at the flock of keys. "... yes — 
look! Broomsticks! We’ve got to catch the key to the 
door!” 

“But there are hundreds of them!” 

Ron examined the lock on the door. 

“We’re looking for a big, old-fashioned one — probably 
silver, like the handle.” 

They each seized a broomstick and kicked off into the 
air, soaring into the midst of the cloud of keys. They 
grabbed and snatched, but the bewitched keys darted 
and dived so quickly it was almost impossible to 
catch one. 

Not for nothing, though, was Harry the youngest 
Seeker in a century. He had a knack for spotting 
things other people didn’t. After a minute’s weaving 
about through the whirl of rainbow feathers, he 
noticed a large silver key that had a bent wing, as if it 
had already been caught and stuffed roughly into the 
keyhole. 

“That one!” he called to the others. “That big one — 
there — no, there — with bright blue wings — the 
feathers are all crumpled on one side.” 

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Ron went speeding in the direction that Harry was 
pointing, crashed into the ceiling, and nearly fell off 
his broom. 

“We’ve got to close in on it!” Harry called, not taking 
his eyes off the key with the damaged wing. “Ron, you 
come at it from above — Hermione, stay below and 
stop it from going down — and I’ll try and catch it. 
Right, NOW!” 

Ron dived, Hermione rocketed upward, the key 
dodged them both, and Harry streaked after it; it sped 
toward the wall, Harry leaned forward and with a 
nasty, crunching noise, pinned it against the stone 
with one hand. Ron and Hermione ’s cheers echoed 
around the high chamber. 

They landed quickly, and Harry ran to the door, the 
key struggling in his hand. He rammed it into the lock 
and turned — it worked. The moment the lock had 
clicked open, the key took flight again, looking very 
battered now that it had been caught twice. 

“Ready?” Harry asked the other two, his hand on the 
door handle. They nodded. He pulled the door open. 

The next chamber was so dark they couldn’t see 
anything at all. But as they stepped into it, light 
suddenly flooded the room to reveal an astonishing 
sight. 

They were standing on the edge of a huge chessboard, 
behind the black chessmen, which were all taller than 
they were and carved from what looked like black 
stone. Facing them, way across the chamber, were 
the white pieces. Harry, Ron and Hermione shivered 
slightly — the towering white chessmen had no faces. 

“Now what do we do?” Harry whispered. 

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“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said Ron. “We’ve got to play our 
way across the room.” 



Behind the white pieces they could see another door. 

“How?” said Hermione nervously. 

“I think,” said Ron, “we’re going to have to be 
chessmen.” 

He walked up to a black knight and put his hand out 
to touch the knights horse. At once, the stone sprang 
to life. The horse pawed the ground and the knight 
turned his helmeted head to look down at Ron. 

“Do we — er — have to join you to get across?” 

The black knight nodded. Ron turned to the other 
two. 

“This needs thinking about. ...” he said. “I suppose 
we’ve got to take the place of three of the black pieces. 



Harry and Hermione stayed quiet, watching Ron 
think. Finally he said, “Now, don’t be offended or 
anything, but neither of you are that good at chess — 



“We’re not offended,” said Harry quickly. “Just tell us 
what to do.” 

“Well, Harry, you take the place of that bishop, and 
Hermione, you go there instead of that castle.” 

“What about you?” 

“I’m going to be a knight,” said Ron. 

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The chessmen seemed to have been listening, because 
at these words a knight, a bishop, and a castle turned 
their backs on the white pieces and walked off the 
board, leaving three empty squares that Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione took. 

“White always plays first in chess,” said Ron, peering 
across the board. “Yes ... look ...” 

A white pawn had moved forward two squares. 

Ron started to direct the black pieces. They moved 
silently wherever he sent them. Harry’s knees were 
trembling. What if they lost? 

“Harry — move diagonally four squares to the right.” 

Their first real shock came when their other knight 
was taken. The white queen smashed him to the floor 
and dragged him off the board, where he lay quite 
still, facedown. 

“Had to let that happen,” said Ron, looking shaken. 
“Leaves you free to take that bishop, Hermione, go 
on.” 

Every time one of their men was lost, the white pieces 
showed no mercy. Soon there was a huddle of limp 
black players slumped along the wall. Twice, Ron only 
just noticed in time that Harry and Hermione were in 
danger. He himself darted around the board, taking 
almost as many white pieces as they had lost black 
ones. 

“We’re nearly there,” he muttered suddenly. “Let me 
think — let me think ...” 

The white queen turned her blank face toward him. 



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“Yes ...” said Ron softly, “it’s the only way ... I’ve got 
to be taken.” 



“NO!” Harry and Hermione shouted. 

“That’s chess!” snapped Ron. “You’ve got to make 
some sacrifices! I make my move and she’ll take me — 
that leaves you free to checkmate the king, Harry!” 

“But — ” 

“Do you want to stop Snape or not?” 

“Ron — ” 

“Look, if you don’t hurry up, hell already have the 
Stone!” 

There was no alternative. 

“Ready?” Ron called, his face pale but determined. 
“Here I go — now, don’t hang around once you’ve 
won.” 

He stepped forward, and the white queen pounced. 
She struck Ron hard across the head with her stone 
arm, and he crashed to the floor — Hermione 
screamed but stayed on her square — the white 
queen dragged Ron to one side. He looked as if he’d 
been knocked out. 

Shaking, Harry moved three spaces to the left. 

The white king took off his crown and threw it at 
Harry’s feet. They had won. The chessmen parted and 
bowed, leaving the door ahead clear. With one last 
desperate look back at Ron, Harry and Hermione 
charged through the door and up the next 
passageway. 

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“What if he’s — ?” 



“He’ll be all right,” said Harry, trying to convince 
himself. “What do you reckon’s next?” 

“We’ve had Sprout’s, that was the Devil’s Snare; 
Flitwick must’ve put charms on the keys; McGonagall 
transfigured the chessmen to make them alive; that 
leaves Quirrell’s spell, and Snape’s ...” 

They had reached another door. 

“All right?” Harry whispered. 

“Go on.” 

Harry pushed it open. 

A disgusting smell filled their nostrils, making both of 
them pull their robes up over their noses. Eyes 
watering, they saw, flat on the floor in front of them, a 
troll even larger than the one they had tackled, out 
cold with a bloody lump on its head. 

“I’m glad we didn’t have to fight that one,” Harry 
whispered as they stepped carefully over one of its 
massive legs. “Come on, I can’t breathe.” 

He pulled open the next door, both of them hardly 
daring to look at what came next — but there was 
nothing very frightening in here, just a table with 
seven differently shaped bottles standing on it in a 
line. 

“Snape’s,” said Harry. “What do we have to do?” 

They stepped over the threshold, and immediately a 
fire sprang up behind them in the doorway. It wasn’t 
ordinary fire either; it was purple. At the same 

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instant, black flames shot up in the doorway leading 
onward. They were trapped. 

“Look!” Hermione seized a roll of paper lying next to 
the bottles. Harry looked over her shoulder to read it: 

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind, 

Two of us will help you, whichever you would find, 

One among us seven will let you move ahead, 

Another will transport the drinker back instead, 

Two among our number hold only nettle wine, 

Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line. 

Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore, 

To help you in your choice, we give you these clues 
four: 

First, however slyly the poison tries to hide 

You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side; 

Second, different are those who stand at either end, 

But if you would move onward, neither is your friend; 

Third, as you see clearly, all are different size, 

Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides; 

Fourth, the second left and the second on the right 

Are twins once you taste them, though different at first 
sight 

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Hermione let out a great sigh and Harry, amazed, saw 
that she was smiling, the very last thing he felt like 
doing. 

“Brilliant,” said Hermione. “This isn’t magic — it’s 
logic — a puzzle. A lot of the greatest wizards haven’t 
got an ounce of logic, they’d be stuck in here forever.” 

“But so will we, won’t we?” 

“Of course not,” said Hermione. “Everything we need 
is here on this paper. Seven bottles: three are poison; 
two are wine; one will get us safely through the black 
fire, and one will get us back through the purple.” 

“But how do we know which to drink?” 

“Give me a minute.” 

Hermione read the paper several times. Then she 
walked up and down the line of bottles, muttering to 
herself and pointing at them. At last, she clapped her 
hands. 

“Got it,” she said. “The smallest bottle will get us 
through the black fire — toward the Stone.” 

Harry looked at the tiny bottle. 

“There’s only enough there for one of us,” he said. 
“That’s hardly one swallow.” 

They looked at each other. 

“Which one will get you back through the purple 
flames?” 

Hermione pointed at a rounded bottle at the right end 
of the line. 

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“You drink that,” said Harry. “No, listen, get back and 
get Ron. Grab brooms from the flying-key room, 
they’ll get you out of the trapdoor and past Fluffy — 
go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to 
Dumbledore, we need him. I might be able to hold 
Snape off for a while, but I’m no match for him, 
really.” 

“But Harry — what if You-Know- Who’s with him?” 

“Well — I was lucky once, wasn’t I?” said Harry, 
pointing at his scar. “I might get lucky again.” 

Hermione’s lip trembled, and she suddenly dashed at 
Harry and threw her arms around him. 

“Hermionel” 

“Harry — you’re a great wizard, you know.” 

“I’m not as good as you,” said Harry, very 
embarrassed, as she let go of him. 

“Me!” said Hermione. “Books! And cleverness! There 
are more important things — friendship and bravery 
and — oh Harry — be carefull” 

“You drink first,” said Harry. “You are sure which is 
which, aren’t you?” 

“Positive,” said Hermione. She took a long drink from 
the round bottle at the end, and shuddered. 

“It’s not poison?” said Harry anxiously. 

“No — but it’s like ice.” 

“Quick, go, before it wears off.” 



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“Good luck — take care — ” 



“GO!” 

Hermione turned and walked straight through the 
purple fire. 

Harry took a deep breath and picked up the smallest 
bottle. He turned to face the black flames. 

“Here I come,” he said, and he drained the little bottle 
in one gulp. 

It was indeed as though ice was flooding his body. He 
put the bottle down and walked forward; he braced 
himself, saw the black flames licking his body, but 
couldn’t feel them — for a moment he could see 
nothing but dark fire — then he was on the other 
side, in the last chamber. 

There was already someone there — but it wasn’t 
Snape. It wasn’t even Voldemort. 



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THE MAN WITH TWO FACES 

It was Quirrell. 

“You\” gasped Harry. 

Quirrell smiled. His face wasn’t twitching at all. 

“Me,” he said calmly. “I wondered whether I’d be 
meeting you here, Potter.” 

“But I thought — Snape — ” 

“Severus?” Quirrell laughed, and it wasn’t his usual 
quivering treble, either, but cold and sharp. “Yes, 
Severus does seem the type, doesn’t he? So useful to 
have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. 

Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st- 
stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?” 

Harry couldn’t take it in. This couldn’t be true, it 
couldn’t. 

“But Snape tried to kill me!” 

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“No, no, no. / tried to kill you. Your friend Miss 
Granger accidentally knocked me over as she rushed 
to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. She 
broke my eye contact with you. Another few seconds 
and I’d have got you off that broom. I’d have managed 
it before then if Snape hadn’t been muttering a 
countercurse, trying to save you.” 

“Snape was trying to save me?” 

“Of course,” said Quirrell coolly. “Why do you think 
he wanted to referee your next match? He was trying 
to make sure I didn’t do it again. Funny, really ... he 
needn’t have bothered. I couldn’t do anything with 
Dumbledore watching. All the other teachers thought 
Snape was trying to stop Gryffindor from winning, he 
did make himself unpopular . . . and what a waste of 
time, when after all that, I’m going to kill you tonight.” 

Quirrell snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang out of thin 
air and wrapped themselves tightly around Harry. 

“You’re too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the 
school on Halloween like that, for all I knew you’d 
seen me coming to look at what was guarding the 
Stone.” 

“ You let the troll in?” 

“Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls — you must 
have seen what I did to the one in the chamber back 
there? Unfortunately, while everyone else was 
running around looking for it, Snape, who already 
suspected me, went straight to the third floor to head 
me off — and not only did my troll fail to beat you to 
death, that three-headed dog didn’t even manage to 
bite Snape ’s leg off properly. 



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“Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this 
interesting mirror.” 

It was only then that Harry realized what was 
standing behind Quirrell. It was the Mirror of Erised. 

“This mirror is the key to finding the Stone,” Quirrell 
murmured, tapping his way around the frame. “Trust 
Dumbledore to come up with something like this . . . 
but he’s in London ... I’ll be far away by the time he 
gets back. ...” 

All Harry could think of doing was to keep Quirrell 
talking and stop him from concentrating on the 
mirror. 

“I saw you and Snape in the forest — ” he blurted out. 

“Yes,” said Quirrell idly, walking around the mirror to 
look at the back. “He was on to me by that time, 
trying to find out how far I’d got. He suspected me all 
along. Tried to frighten me — as though he could, 
when I had Lord Voldemort on my side. ...” 

Quirrell came back out from behind the mirror and 
stared hungrily into it. 

“I see the Stone ... I’m presenting it to my master ... 
but where is it?” 

Harry struggled against the ropes binding him, but 
they didn’t give. He had to keep Quirrell from giving 
his whole attention to the mirror. 

“But Snape always seemed to hate me so much.” 

“Oh, he does,” said Quirrell casually, “heavens, yes. 
He was at Hogwarts with your father, didn’t you 



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know? They loathed each other. But he never wanted 
you dead.” 

“But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing — I thought 
Snape was threatening you. 

For the first time, a spasm of fear flitted across 
Quirrell’s face. 

“Sometimes,” he said, “I find it hard to follow my 
master’s instructions — he is a great wizard and I am 
weak — ” 

“You mean he was there in the classroom with you?” 
Harry gasped. 

“He is with me wherever I go,” said Quirrell quietly. “I 
met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish 
young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about 
good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong 
I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power, 
and those too weak to seek it. ... Since then, I have 
served him faithfully, although I have let him down 
many times. He has had to be very hard on me.” 
Quirrell shivered suddenly. “He does not forgive 
mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from 
Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me 
. . . decided he would have to keep a closer watch on 
me. ...” 

Quirrell’s voice trailed away. Harry was remembering 
his trip to Diagon Alley — how could he have been so 
stupid? He’d seen Quirrell there that very day, shaken 
hands with him in the Leaky Cauldron. 

Quirrell cursed under his breath. 

“I don’t understand ... is the Stone inside the mirror? 
Should I break it?” 

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Harry’s mind was racing. 



What I want more than anything else in the world at 
the moment, he thought, is to find the Stone before 
Quirrell does. So if I look in the mirror, I should see 
my self finding it — which means I’ll see where it’s 
hidden! But how can I look without Quirrell realizing 
what I’m up to? 

He tried to edge to the left, to get in front of the glass 
without Quirrell noticing, but the ropes around his 
ankles were too tight: he tripped and fell over. Quirrell 
ignored him. He was still talking to himself. 

“What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help 
me, Master!” 

And to Harry’s horror, a voice answered, and the voice 
seemed to come from Quirrell himself. 

“Use the boy ... Use the boy ...” 

Quirrell rounded on Harry. 

“Yes — Potter — come here.” 

He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding 
Harry fell off. Harry got slowly to his feet. 

“Come here,” Quirrell repeated. “Look in the mirror 
and tell me what you see.” 

Harry walked toward him. 

I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie 
about what I see, that’s all. 

Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in 
the funny smell that seemed to come from Quirrell’s 

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turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of the 
mirror, and opened them again. 

He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. 
But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It 
put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood- 
red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its 
pocket — and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy 
drop into his real pocket. Somehow — incredibly — 
he’d gotten the Stone. 

“Well?” said Quirrell impatiently. “What do you see?” 
Harry screwed up his courage. 

“I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore,” he 
invented. “I — I’ve won the House Cup for Gryffindor.” 

Quirrell cursed again. 

“Get out of the way,” he said. As Harry moved aside, 
he felt the Sorcerer’s Stone against his leg. Dare he 
make a break for it? 

But he hadn’t walked five paces before a high voice 
spoke, though Quirrell wasn’t moving his lips. 

“He lies ... He lies ...” 

“Potter, come back here!” Quirrell shouted. “Tell me 
the truth! What did you just see?” 

The high voice spoke again. 

“Let me speak to him ... face-to-face. ...” 

“Master, you are not strong enough!” 

“I have strength enough ... for this. ...” 

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Harry felt as if Devil’s Snare was rooting him to the 
spot. He couldn’t move a muscle. Petrified, he 
watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap 
his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. 
Quirrell’s head looked strangely small without it. 

Then he turned slowly on the spot. 

Harry would have screamed, but he couldn’t make a 
sound. Where there should have been a back to 
Quirrell’s head, there was a face, the most terrible 
face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with 
glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake. 

“Harry Potter ...” it whispered. 

Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs 
wouldn’t move. 

“See what I have become?” the face said. “Mere 
shadow and vapor ... I have form only when I can 
share another’s body . . . but there have always been 
those willing to let me into their hearts and minds. ... 
Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks 
. . . you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the 
forest ... and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be 
able to create a body of my own. ... Now ... why don’t 
you give me that Stone in your pocket?” 

So he knew. The feeling suddenly surged back into 
Harry’s legs. He stumbled backward. 

“Don’t be a fool,” snarled the face. “Better save your 
own life and join me ... or you’ll meet the same end as 
your parents. ... They died begging me for mercy. ...” 

“LIAR!” Harry shouted suddenly. 



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Quirrell was walking backward at him, so that 
Voldemort could still see him. The evil face was now 
smiling. 

“How touching ...” it hissed. “I always value bravery. 

... Yes, boy, your parents were brave. ... I killed your 
father first, and he put up a courageous fight . . . but 
your mother needn’t have died ... she was trying to 
protect you. ... Now give me the Stone, unless you 
want her to have died in vain.” 

“NEVER!” 

Harry sprang toward the flame door, but Voldemort 
screamed “SEIZE HIM!” and the next second, Harry 
felt Quirrell’s hand close on his wrist. At once, a 
needle-sharp pain seared across Harry’s scar; his 
head felt as though it was about to split in two; he 
yelled, struggling with all his might, and to his 
surprise, Quirrell let go of him. The pain in his head 
lessened — he looked around wildly to see where 
Quirrell had gone, and saw him hunched in pain, 
looking at his fingers — they were blistering before his 
eyes. 

“Seize him! SEIZE HIM!” shrieked Voldemort again, 
and Quirrell lunged, knocking Harry clean off his feet, 
landing on top of him, both hands around Harry’s 
neck — Harry’s scar was almost blinding him with 
pain, yet he could see Quirrell howling in agony. 

“Master, I cannot hold him — my hands — my 
hands!” 

And Quirrell, though pinning Harry to the ground 
with his knees, let go of his neck and stared, 
bewildered, at his own palms — Harry could see they 
looked burned, raw, red, and shiny. 



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“Then kill him, fool, and be done!” screeched 
Voldemort. 

Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, 
but Harry, by instinct, reached up and grabbed 
Quirrell’s face — 

“AAAARGH!” 

Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and 
then Harry knew: Quirrell couldn’t touch his bare 
skin, not without suffering terrible pain — his only 
chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in 
enough pain to stop him from doing a curse. 

Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, 
and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed 
and tried to throw Harry off — the pain in Harry’s 
head was building — he couldn’t see — he could only 
hear Quirrell’s terrible shrieks and Voldemort’s yells 
of, “KILL HIM! KILL HIM!” and other voices, maybe in 
Harry’s own head, crying, “Harry! Harry!” 

He felt Quirrell’s arm wrenched from his grasp, knew 
all was lost, and fell into blackness, down ... down ... 
down ... 

Something gold was glinting just above him. The 
Snitch! He tried to catch it, but his arms were too 
heavy. 

He blinked. It wasn’t the Snitch at all. It was a pair of 
glasses. How strange. 

He blinked again. The smiling face of Albus 
Dumbledore swam into view above him. 

“Good afternoon, Harry,” said Dumbledore. 



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Harry stared at him. Then he remembered: “Sir! The 
Stone! It was Quirrell! He’s got the Stone! Sir, quick — 



“Calm yourself, dear boy, you are a little behind the 
times,” said Dumbledore. “Quirrell does not have the 
Stone.” 

“Then who does? Sir, I — ” 

“Harry, please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me 
thrown out.” 

Harry swallowed and looked around him. He realized 
he must be in the hospital wing. He was lying in a bed 
with white linen sheets, and next to him was a table 
piled high with what looked like half the candy shop. 

“Tokens from your friends and admirers,” said 
Dumbledore, beaming. “What happened down in the 
dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a 
complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school 
knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George 
Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a 
toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse 
you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be 
very hygienic, and confiscated it.” 

“How long have I been in here?” 

“Three days. Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger 
will be most relieved you have come round, they have 
been extremely worried.” 

“But sir, the Stone — ” 

“I see you are not to be distracted. Very well, the 
Stone. Professor Quirrell did not manage to take it 



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from you. I arrived in time to prevent that, although 
you were doing very well on your own, I must say.” 

“You got there? You got Hermione’s owl?” 

“We must have crossed in midair. No sooner had I 
reached London than it became clear to me that the 
place I should be was the one I had just left. I arrived 
just in time to pull Quirrell off you — ” 

“It was you.” 

“I feared I might be too late.” 

“You nearly were, I couldn’t have kept him off the 
Stone much longer — ” 

“Not the Stone, boy, you — the effort involved nearly 
killed you. For one terrible moment there, I was afraid 
it had. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed.” 

“Destroyed?” said Harry blankly. “But your friend — 
Nicolas Flamel — ” 

“Oh, you know about Nicolas?” said Dumbledore, 
sounding quite delighted. “You did do the thing 
properly, didn’t you? Well, Nicolas and I have had a 
little chat, and agreed it’s all for the best.” 

“But that means he and his wife will die, won’t they?” 

“They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in 
order and then, yes, they will die.” 

Dumbledore smiled at the look of amazement on 
Harry’s face. 

“To one as young as you, I’m sure it seems incredible, 
but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to 

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bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well- 
organized mind, death is but the next great 
adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a 
wonderful thing. As much money and life as you 
could want! The two things most human beings would 
choose above all — the trouble is, humans do have a 
knack of choosing precisely those things that are 
worst for them.” 

Harry lay there, lost for words. Dumbledore hummed 
a little and smiled at the ceiling. 

“Sir?” said Harry. “I’ve been thinking ... Sir — even if 
the Stone’s gone, Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who — ” 

“Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper 
name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the 
thing itself.” 

“Yes, sir. Well, Voldemort’s going to try other ways of 
coming back, isn’t he? I mean, he hasn’t gone, has 
he?” 

“No, Harry, he has not. He is still out there 
somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to 
share ... not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He 
left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his 
followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry, while 
you may only have delayed his return to power, it will 
merely take someone else who is prepared to fight 
what seems a losing battle next time — and if he is 
delayed again, and again, why, he may never return 
to power.” 

Harry nodded, but stopped quickly, because it made 
his head hurt. Then he said, “Sir, there are some 
other things I’d like to know, if you can tell me ... 
things I want to know the truth about. ...” 



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“The truth.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is a beautiful and 
terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with 
great caution. However, I shall answer your questions 
unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case 
I beg you 11 forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie.” 

“Well ... Voldemort said that he only killed my mother 
because she tried to stop him from killing me. But 
why would he want to kill me in the first place?” 

Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time. 

“Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. 

Not today. Not now. You will know, one day ... put it 
from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older . . . 
I know you hate to hear this . . . when you are ready, 
you will know.” 

And Harry knew it would be no good to argue. 

“But why couldn’t Quirrell touch me?” 

“Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing 
Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t 
realize that love as powerful as your mother’s for you 
leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign ... to 
have been loved so deeply, even though the person 
who loved us is gone, will give us some protection 
forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, 
greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, 
could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to 
touch a person marked by something so good.” 

Dumbledore now became very interested in a bird out 
on the windowsill, which gave Harry time to dry his 
eyes on the sheet. When he had found his voice again, 
Harry said, “And the Invisibility Cloak — do you know 
who sent it to me?” 



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“Ah — your father happened to leave it in my 
possession, and I thought you might like it.” 
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Useful things ... your 
father used it mainly for sneaking off to the kitchens 
to steal food when he was here.” 

“And there’s something else ...” 

“Fire away.” 

“Quirrell said Snape — ” 

“Professor Snape, Harry.” 

“Yes, him — Quirrell said he hates me because he 
hated my father. Is that true?” 

“Well, they did rather detest each other. Not unlike 
yourself and Mr. Malfoy. And then, your father did 
something Snape could never forgive.” 

“What?” 

“He saved his life.” 

“What?” 

“Yes ...” said Dumbledore dreamily. “Funny, the way 
people’s minds work, isn’t it? Professor Snape 
couldn’t bear being in your father’s debt. ... I do 
believe he worked so hard to protect you this year 
because he felt that would make him and your father 
even. Then he could go back to hating your father’s 
memory in peace. ...” 

Harry tried to understand this but it made his head 
pound, so he stopped. 

“And sir, there’s one more thing ...” 

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“Just the one?” 



“How did I get the Stone out of the mirror?” 

“Ah, now, I’m glad you asked me that. It was one of 
my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, 
that’s saying something. You see, only one who 
wanted to find the Stone — find it, but not use it — 
would be able to get it, otherwise they’d just see 
themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My 
brain surprises even me sometimes. ... Now, enough 
questions. I suggest you make a start on these 
sweets. Ah! Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans! I was 
unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a 
vomit-flavored one, and since then I’m afraid I’ve 
rather lost my liking for them — but I think I’ll be safe 
with a nice toffee, don’t you?” 

He smiled and popped the golden-brown bean into his 
mouth. Then he choked and said, “Alas! Ear wax!” 

Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was a nice woman, but 
very strict. 

“Just five minutes,” Harry pleaded. 

“Absolutely not.” 

“You let Professor Dumbledore in. ...” 

“Well, of course, that was the headmaster, quite 
different. You need rest.” 

“I am resting, look, lying down and everything. Oh, go 
on, Madam Pomfrey ...” 

“Oh, very well,” she said. “But five minutes only.” 

And she let Ron and Hermione in. 

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“Harryl” 



Hermione looked ready to fling her arms around him 
again, but Harry was glad she held herself in as his 
head was still very sore. 

“Oh, Harry, we were sure you were going to — 
Dumbledore was so worried — ” 

“The whole school’s talking about it,” said Ron. “What 
really happened?” 

It was one of those rare occasions when the true story 
is even more strange and exciting than the wild 
rumors. Harry told them everything: Quirrell; the 
mirror; the Stone; and Voldemort. Ron and Hermione 
were a very good audience; they gasped in all the 
right places, and when Harry told them what was 
under Quirrell’s turban, Hermione screamed out loud. 

“So the Stone’s gone?” said Ron finally. “Flamel’s just 
going to die?” 

“That’s what I said, but Dumbledore thinks that — 
what was it? — ‘to the well-organized mind, death is 
but the next great adventure.’ ” 

“I always said he was off his rocker,” said Ron, 
looking quite impressed at how crazy his hero was. 

“So what happened to you two?” said Harry. 

“Well, I got back all right,” said Hermione. “I brought 
Ron round — that took a while — and we were 
dashing up to the owlery to contact Dumbledore when 
we met him in the entrance hall — he already knew — 
he just said, ‘Harry’s gone after him, hasn’t he?’ and 
hurtled off to the third floor.” 

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“D’you think he meant you to do it?” said Ron. 
“Sending you your fathers cloak and everything?” 

“Well,” Hermione exploded, “if he did — I mean to say 
— that’s terrible — you could have been killed.” 

“No, it isn’t,” said Harry thoughtfully. “He’s a funny 
man, Dumbledore. I think he sort of wanted to give 
me a chance. I think he knows more or less 
everything that goes on here, you know. I reckon he 
had a pretty good idea we were going to try, and 
instead of stopping us, he just taught us enough to 
help. I don’t think it was an accident he let me find 
out how the mirror worked. It’s almost like he thought 
I had the right to face Voldemort if I could. ...” 

“Yeah, Dumbledore’s off his rocker, all right,” said 
Ron proudly. “Listen, you’ve got to be up for the end- 
of-year feast tomorrow. The points are all in and 
Slytherin won, of course — you missed the last 
Quidditch match, we were steamrollered by 
Ravenclaw without you — but the food’ll be good.” 

At that moment, Madam Pomfrey bustled over. 

“You’ve had nearly fifteen minutes, now OUT,” she 
said firmly. 



•k k k 



After a good night’s sleep, Harry felt nearly back to 
normal. 

“I want to go to the feast,” he told Madam Pomfrey as 
she straightened his many candy boxes. “I can, can’t 
I?” 



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“Professor Dumbledore says you are to be allowed to 
go,” she said sniffily, as though in her opinion 
Professor Dumbledore didn’t realize how risky feasts 
could be. “And you have another visitor.” 

“Oh, good,” said Harry. “Who is it?” 

Hagrid sidled through the door as he spoke. As usual 
when he was indoors, Hagrid looked too big to be 
allowed. He sat down next to Harry, took one look at 
him, and burst into tears. 

“It’s — all — my — ruddy — fault!” he sobbed, his 
face in his hands. “I told the evil git how ter get past 
Fluffy! I told him! It was the only thing he didn’t 
know, an’ I told him! Yeh could’ve died! All fer a 
dragon egg! I’ll never drink again! I should be chucked 
out an’ made ter live as a Muggle!” 

“Hagrid!” said Harry, shocked to see Hagrid shaking 
with grief and remorse, great tears leaking down into 
his beard. “Hagrid, he’d have found out somehow, 
this is Voldemort we’re talking about, he’d have found 
out even if you hadn’t told him.” 

“Yeh could’ve died!” sobbed Hagrid. “An’ don’ say the 
name!” 

“VOLDEMORT!” Harry bellowed, and Hagrid was so 
shocked, he stopped crying. “I’ve met him and I’m 
calling him by his name. Please cheer up, Hagrid, we 
saved the Stone, it’s gone, he can’t use it. Have a 
Chocolate Frog, I’ve got loads. ...” 

Hagrid wiped his nose on the back of his hand and 
said, “That reminds me. I’ve got yeh a present.” 

“It’s not a stoat sandwich, is it?” said Harry 
anxiously, and at last Hagrid gave a weak chuckle. 

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“Nah. Dumbledore gave me the day off yesterday ter 
fix it. ’Course, he shoulda sacked me instead — 
anyway, got y eh this ...” 

It seemed to be a handsome, leather-covered book. 
Harry opened it curiously. It was full of wizard 
photographs. Smiling and waving at him from every 
page were his mother and father. 

“Sent owls off ter all yer parents’ old school friends, 
askin’ fer photos ... knew yeh didn’ have any ... d’yeh 
like it?” 

Harry couldn’t speak, but Hagrid understood. 

Harry made his way down to the end-of-year feast 
alone that night. He had been held up by Madam 
Pomfrey’s fussing about, insisting on giving him one 
last checkup, so the Great Hall was already full. It 
was decked out in the Slytherin colors of green and 
silver to celebrate Slytherin ’s winning the House Cup 
for the seventh year in a row. A huge banner showing 
the Slytherin serpent covered the wall behind the 
High Table. 

When Harry walked in there was a sudden hush, and 
then everybody started talking loudly at once. He 
slipped into a seat between Ron and Hermione at the 
Gryffindor table and tried to ignore the fact that 
people were standing up to look at him. 

Fortunately, Dumbledore arrived moments later. The 
babble died away. 

“Another year gone!” Dumbledore said cheerfully. 

“And I must trouble you with an old man’s wheezing 
waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious 
feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads 
are all a little fuller than they were . . . you have the 
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whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty 
before next year starts. ... 

“Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs 
awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, 
Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in 
third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; 
Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and 
Slytherin, four hundred and seventy- two.” 

A storm of cheering and stamping broke out from the 
Slytherin table. Harry could see Draco Malfoy banging 
his goblet on the table. It was a sickening sight. 

“Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin,” said Dumbledore. 
“However, recent events must be taken into account.” 

The room went very still. The Slytherins’ smiles faded 
a little. 

“Ahem,” said Dumbledore. “I have a few last-minute 
points to dish out. Let me see. Yes ... 

“First — to Mr. Ronald Weasley ...” 

Ron went purple in the face; he looked like a radish 
with a bad sunburn. 

"... for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has 
seen in many years, I award Gryffindor House fifty 
points.” 

Gryffindor cheers nearly raised the bewitched ceiling; 
the stars overhead seemed to quiver. Percy could be 
heard telling the other prefects, “My brother, you 
know! My youngest brother! Got past McGonagall’s 
giant chess set!” 

At last there was silence again. 

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“Second — to Miss Hermione Granger . . . for the use of 
cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House 
fifty points.” 

Hermione buried her face in her arms; Harry strongly 
suspected she had burst into tears. Gryffindors up 
and down the table were beside themselves — they 
were a hundred points up. 

“Third — to Mr. Harry Potter ...” said Dumbledore. 

The room went deadly quiet. "... for pure nerve and 
outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor House sixty 
points.” 

The din was deafening. Those who could add up while 
yelling themselves hoarse knew that Gryffindor now 
had four hundred and seventy-two points — exactly 
the same as Slytherin. They had tied for the House 
Cup — if only Dumbledore had given Harry just one 
more point. 

Dumbledore raised his hand. The room gradually fell 
silent. 

“There are all kinds of courage,” said Dumbledore, 
smiling. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up 
to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our 
friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville 
Longbottom.” 

Someone standing outside the Great Hall might well 
have thought some sort of explosion had taken place, 
so loud was the noise that erupted from the 
Gryffindor table. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood up 
to yell and cheer as Neville, white with shock, 
disappeared under a pile of people hugging him. He 
had never won so much as a point for Gryffindor 
before. Harry, still cheering, nudged Ron in the ribs 
and pointed at Malfoy, who couldn’t have looked more 
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stunned and horrified if he’d just had the Body-Bind 
Curse put on him. 

“Which means,” Dumbledore called over the storm of 
applause, for even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were 
celebrating the downfall of Slytherin, “we need a little 
change of decoration.” 

He clapped his hands. In an instant, the green 
hangings became scarlet and the silver became gold; 
the huge Slytherin serpent vanished and a towering 
Gryffindor lion took its place. Snape was shaking 
Professor McGonagall’s hand, with a horrible, forced 
smile. He caught Harry’s eye and Harry knew at once 
that Snape ’s feelings toward him hadn’t changed one 
jot. This didn’t worry Harry. It seemed as though life 
would be back to normal next year, or as normal as it 
ever was at Hogwarts. 

It was the best evening of Harry’s life, better than 
winning at Quidditch, or Christmas, or knocking out 
mountain trolls ... he would never, ever forget tonight. 

Harry had almost forgotten that the exam results 
were still to come, but come they did. To their great 
surprise, both he and Ron passed with good marks; 
Hermione, of course, had the best grades of the first 
years. Even Neville scraped through, his good 
Herbology mark making up for his abysmal Potions 
one. They had hoped that Goyle, who was almost as 
stupid as he was mean, might be thrown out, but he 
had passed, too. It was a shame, but as Ron said, you 
couldn’t have everything in life. 

And suddenly, their wardrobes were empty, their 
trunks were packed, Neville’s toad was found lurking 
in a corner of the toilets; notes were handed out to all 
students, warning them not to use magic over the 
holidays (“I always hope they’ll forget to give us 
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these,” said Fred Weasley sadly); Hagrid was there to 
take them down to the fleet of boats that sailed across 
the lake; they were boarding the Hogwarts Express; 
talking and laughing as the countryside became 
greener and tidier; eating Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor 
Beans as they sped past Muggle towns; pulling off 
their wizard robes and putting on jackets and coats; 
pulling into platform nine and three-quarters at 
King’s Cross station. 

It took quite a while for them all to get off the 
platform. A wizened old guard was up by the ticket 
barrier, letting them go through the gate in twos and 
threes so they didn’t attract attention by all bursting 
out of a solid wall at once and alarming the Muggles. 

“You must come and stay this summer,” said Ron, 
“both of you — I’ll send you an owl.” 

“Thanks,” said Harry, “I’ll need something to look 
forward to.” 

People jostled them as they moved forward toward the 
gateway back to the Muggle world. Some of them 
called: 

“Bye, Harry!” 

“See you, Potter!” 

“Still famous,” said Ron, grinning at him. 

“Not where I’m going, I promise you,” said Harry. 

He, Ron, and Hermione passed through the gateway 
together. 

“There he is, Mom, there he is, look!” 



Page | 346 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




It was Ginny Weasley, Ron’s younger sister, but she 
wasn’t pointing at Ron. 

“Harry Potter!” she squealed. “Look, Mom! I can see 
“Be quiet, Ginny, and it’s rude to point.” 

Mrs. Weasley smiled down at them. 

“Busy year?” she said. 

“Very,” said Harry. “Thanks for the fudge and the 
sweater, Mrs. Weasley.” 

“Oh, it was nothing, dear.” 

“Ready, are you?” 

It was Uncle Vernon, still purple-faced, still 
mustached, still looking furious at the nerve of Harry, 
carrying an owl in a cage in a station full of ordinary 
people. Behind him stood Aunt Petunia and Dudley, 
looking terrified at the very sight of Harry. 

“You must be Harry’s family!” said Mrs. Weasley. 

“In a manner of speaking,” said Uncle Vernon. “Hurry 
up, boy, we haven’t got all day.” He walked away. 

Harry hung back for a last word with Ron and 
Hermione. 

“See you over the summer, then.” 

“Hope you have — er — a good holiday,” said 
Hermione, looking uncertainly after Uncle Vernon, 
shocked that anyone could be so unpleasant. 



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“Oh, I will,” said Harry, and they were surprised at 
the grin that was spreading over his face. “ They don’t 
know we’re not allowed to use magic at home. I’m 
going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer...” 



Page | 348 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 





J . K . R O W L ! N G 

HARRY 

POTTER 




/ 




THE WORST BIRTHDAY 

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out 
over breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Mr. 
Vernon Dursley had been woken in the early hours of 
the morning by a loud, hooting noise from his nephew 
Harry’s room. 

“Third time this week!” he roared across the table. “If 
you can’t control that owl, it’ll have to go!” 

Harry tried, yet again, to explain. 

“She’s bored,” he said. “She’s used to flying around 
outside. If I could just let her out at night — ” 

“Do I look stupid?” snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of 
fried egg dangling from his bushy mustache. “I know 
what 11 happen if that owl’s let out.” 

He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia. 

Harry tried to argue back but his words were drowned 
by a long, loud belch from the Dursleys’ son, Dudley. 

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“I want more bacon.” 



“There’s more in the frying pan, sweetums,” said Aunt 
Petunia, turning misty eyes on her massive son. “We 
must build you up while we’ve got the chance. ... I 
don’t like the sound of that school food. ...” 

“Nonsense, Petunia, I never went hungry when / was 
at Smeltings,” said Uncle Vernon heartily. “Dudley 
gets enough, don’t you, son?” 

Dudley, who was so large his bottom drooped over 
either side of the kitchen chair, grinned and turned to 
Harry. 

“Pass the frying pan.” 

“You’ve forgotten the magic word,” said Harry 
irritably. 

The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the 
family was incredible: Dudley gasped and fell off his 
chair with a crash that shook the whole kitchen; Mrs. 
Dursley gave a small scream and clapped her hands 
to her mouth; Mr. Dursley jumped to his feet, veins 
throbbing in his temples. 

“I meant ‘please’!” said Harry quickly. “I didn’t mean 



“WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU,” thundered his uncle, 
spraying spit over the table, “ABOUT SAYING THE ‘M’ 
WORD IN OUR HOUSE?” 

“But I — ” 

“HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY!” roared 
Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his fist. 



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“I just — ” 



“I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION 
OF YOUR ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!” 

Harry stared from his purple-faced uncle to his pale 
aunt, who was trying to heave Dudley to his feet. 

“All right,” said Harry, “all right ...” 

Uncle Vernon sat back down, breathing like a winded 
rhinoceros and watching Harry closely out of the 
corners of his small, sharp eyes. 

Ever since Harry had come home for the summer 
holidays, Uncle Vernon had been treating him like a 
bomb that might go off at any moment, because Harry 
Potter wasn’t a normal boy. As a matter of fact, he 
was as not normal as it is possible to be. 

Harry Potter was a wizard — a wizard fresh from his 
first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and 
Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to have 
him back for the holidays, it was nothing to how 
Harry felt. 

He missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a 
constant stomachache. He missed the castle, with its 
secret passageways and ghosts, his classes (though 
perhaps not Snape, the Potions master), the mail 
arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great Hall, 
sleeping in his four-poster bed in the tower dormitory, 
visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his cabin next to 
the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, and, especially, 
Quidditch, the most popular sport in the wizarding 
world (six tall goal posts, four flying balls, and 
fourteen players on broomsticks). 



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All Harry’s spellbooks, his wand, robes, cauldron, and 
top-of-the-line Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had 
been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by Uncle 
Vernon the instant Harry had come home. What did 
the Dursleys care if Harry lost his place on the House 
Quidditch team because he hadn’t practiced all 
summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Harry went 
back to school without any of his homework done? 

The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles (not a 
drop of magical blood in their veins), and as far as 
they were concerned, having a wizard in the family 
was a matter of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had 
even padlocked Harry’s owl, Hedwig, inside her cage, 
to stop her from carrying messages to anyone in the 
wizarding world. 

Harry looked nothing like the rest of the family. Uncle 
Vernon was large and neckless, with an enormous 
black mustache; Aunt Petunia was horse-faced and 
bony; Dudley was blond, pink, and porky. Harry, on 
the other hand, was small and skinny, with brilliant 
green eyes and jet-black hair that was always untidy. 
He wore round glasses, and on his forehead was a 
thin, lightning-shaped scar. 

It was this scar that made Harry so particularly 
unusual, even for a wizard. This scar was the only 
hint of Harry’s very mysterious past, of the reason he 
had been left on the Dursleys’ doorstep eleven years 
before. 

At the age of one year old, Harry had somehow 
survived a curse from the greatest Dark sorcerer of all 
time, Lord Voldemort, whose name most witches and 
wizards still feared to speak. Harry’s parents had died 
in Voldemort’s attack, but Harry had escaped with his 
lightning scar, and somehow — nobody understood 
why — Voldemort’s powers had been destroyed the 
instant he had failed to kill Harry. 

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So Harry had been brought up by his dead mother’s 
sister and her husband. He had spent ten years with 
the Dursleys, never understanding why he kept 
making odd things happen without meaning to, 
believing the Dursleys’ story that he had got his scar 
in the car crash that had killed his parents. 

And then, exactly a year ago, Hogwarts had written to 
Harry, and the whole story had come out. Harry had 
taken up his place at wizard school, where he and his 
scar were famous . . . but now the school year was 
over, and he was back with the Dursleys for the 
summer, back to being treated like a dog that had 
rolled in something smelly. 

The Dursleys hadn’t even remembered that today 
happened to be Harry’s twelfth birthday. Of course, 
his hopes hadn’t been high; they’d never given him a 
real present, let alone a cake — but to ignore it 
completely ... 

At that moment, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat 
importantly and said, “Now, as we all know, today is a 
very important day.” 

Harry looked up, hardly daring to believe it. 

“This could well be the day I make the biggest deal of 
my career,” said Uncle Vernon. 

Harry went back to his toast. Of course, he thought 
bitterly, Uncle Vernon was talking about the stupid 
dinner party. He’d been talking of nothing else for two 
weeks. Some rich builder and his wife were coming to 
dinner and Uncle Vernon was hoping to get a huge 
order from him (Uncle Vernon’s company made drills). 



Page | 6 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“I think we should run through the schedule one 
more time,” said Uncle Vernon. “We should all be in 
position at eight o’clock. Petunia, you will be — ?” 

“In the lounge,” said Aunt Petunia promptly, “waiting 
to welcome them graciously to our home.” 

“Good, good. And Dudley?” 

“I’ll be waiting to open the door.” Dudley put on a 
foul, simpering smile. “May I take your coats, Mr. and 
Mrs. Mason?” 

“They’ll love him!” cried Aunt Petunia rapturously. 

“Excellent, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon. Then he 
rounded on Harry. “And you?” 

“I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and 
pretending I’m not there,” said Harry tonelessly. 

“Exactly,” said Uncle Vernon nastily. “I will lead them 
into the lounge, introduce you, Petunia, and pour 
them drinks. At eight-fifteen — ” 

“I’ll announce dinner,” said Aunt Petunia. 

“And, Dudley, you 11 say — ” 

“May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs. 
Mason?” said Dudley, offering his fat arm to an 
invisible woman. 

“My perfect little gentleman!” sniffed Aunt Petunia. 

“And you?” said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harry. 

“I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending 
I’m not there,” said Harry dully. 

Page | 7 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good 
compliments at dinner. Petunia, any ideas?” 



“Vernon tells me you’re a wonderful golfer, Mr. 

Mason. ... Do tell me where you bought your dress, 
Mrs. Mason. ...” 

“Perfect ... Dudley?” 

“How about — ‘We had to write an essay about our 
hero at school, Mr. Mason, and I wrote about you.’ ” 

This was too much for both Aunt Petunia and Harry. 
Aunt Petunia burst into tears and hugged her son, 
while Harry ducked under the table so they wouldn’t 
see him laughing. 

“And you, boy?” 

Harry fought to keep his face straight as he emerged. 

“I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending 
I’m not there,” he said. 

“Too right, you will,” said Uncle Vernon forcefully. 

“The Masons don’t know anything about you and it’s 
going to stay that way. When dinner’s over, you take 
Mrs. Mason back to the lounge for coffee, Petunia, 
and I’ll bring the subject around to drills. With any 
luck, I’ll have the deal signed and sealed before the 
news at ten. We’ll be shopping for a vacation home in 
Majorca this time tomorrow.” 

Harry couldn’t feel too excited about this. He didn’t 
think the Dursleys would like him any better in 
Majorca than they did on Privet Drive. 

“Right — I’m off into town to pick up the dinner 
jackets for Dudley and me. And you,” he snarled at 

Page | 8 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




Harry. “You stay out of your aunt’s way while she’s 
cleaning.” 

Harry left through the back door. It was a brilliant, 
sunny day. He crossed the lawn, slumped down on 
the garden bench, and sang under his breath: 

“Happy birthday to me ... happy birthday to me ...” 

No cards, no presents, and he would be spending the 
evening pretending not to exist. He gazed miserably 
into the hedge. He had never felt so lonely. More than 
anything else at Hogwarts, more even than playing 
Quidditch, Harry missed his best friends, Ron 
Weasley and Hermione Granger. They, however, didn’t 
seem to be missing him at all. Neither of them had 
written to him all summer, even though Ron had said 
he was going to ask Harry to come and stay. 

Countless times, Harry had been on the point of 
unlocking Hedwig’s cage by magic and sending her to 
Ron and Hermione with a letter, but it wasn’t worth 
the risk. Underage wizards weren’t allowed to use 
magic outside of school. Harry hadn’t told the 
Dursleys this; he knew it was only their terror that he 
might turn them all into dung beetles that stopped 
them from locking him in the cupboard under the 
stairs with his wand and broomstick. For the first 
couple of weeks back, Harry had enjoyed muttering 
nonsense words under his breath and watching 
Dudley tearing out of the room as fast as his fat legs 
would carry him. But the long silence from Ron and 
Hermione had made Harry feel so cut off from the 
magical world that even taunting Dudley had lost its 
appeal — and now Ron and Hermione had forgotten 
his birthday. 

What wouldn’t he give now for a message from 
Hogwarts? From any witch or wizard? He’d almost be 

Page | 9 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




glad of a sight of his archenemy, Draco Malfoy, just to 
be sure it hadn’t all been a dream. ... 

Not that his whole year at Hogwarts had been fun. At 
the very end of last term, Harry had come face-to-face 
with none other than Lord Voldemort himself. 
Voldemort might be a ruin of his former self, but he 
was still terrifying, still cunning, still determined to 
regain power. Harry had slipped through Voldemort’s 
clutches for a second time, but it had been a narrow 
escape, and even now, weeks later, Harry kept waking 
in the night, drenched in cold sweat, wondering where 
Voldemort was now, remembering his livid face, his 
wide, mad eyes — 

Harry suddenly sat bolt upright on the garden bench. 
He had been staring absent-mindedly into the hedge 
— and the hedge was staring back. Two enormous 
green eyes had appeared among the leaves. 

Harry jumped to his feet just as a jeering voice floated 
across the lawn. 

“I know what day it is,” sang Dudley, waddling toward 
him. 

The huge eyes blinked and vanished. 

“What?” said Harry, not taking his eyes off the spot 
where they had been. 

“I know what day it is,” Dudley repeated, coming right 
up to him. 

“Well done,” said Harry. “So you’ve finally learned the 
days of the week.” 



Page | 10 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“Today’s your birthday,” sneered Dudley. “How come 
you haven’t got any cards? Haven’t you even got 
friends at that freak place?” 

“Better not let your mum hear you talking about my 
school,” said Harry coolly. 

Dudley hitched up his trousers, which were slipping 
down his fat bottom. 

“Why’re you staring at the hedge?” he said 
suspiciously. 

“I’m trying to decide what would be the best spell to 
set it on fire,” said Harry. 

Dudley stumbled backward at once, a look of panic 
on his fat face. 

“You c-can’t — Dad told you you’re not to do m-magic 
— he said hell chuck you out of the house — and you 
haven’t got anywhere else to go — you haven’t got any 
friends to take you — ” 

“ Jiggery pokeryV ’ said Harry in a fierce voice. “Hocus 
pocus — squiggly wiggly — ” 

“MUUUUUUM!” howled Dudley, tripping over his feet 
as he dashed back toward the house. “MUUUUM! 

He’s doing you know what!” 

Harry paid dearly for his moment of fun. As neither 
Dudley nor the hedge was in any way hurt, Aunt 
Petunia knew he hadn’t really done magic, but he still 
had to duck as she aimed a heavy blow at his head 
with the soapy frying pan. Then she gave him work to 
do, with the promise he wouldn’t eat again until he’d 
finished. 



Page | 11 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




While Dudley lolled around watching and eating ice 
cream, Harry cleaned the windows, washed the car, 
mowed the lawn, trimmed the flowerbeds, pruned and 
watered the roses, and repainted the garden bench. 
The sun blazed overhead, burning the back of his 
neck. Harry knew he shouldn’t have risen to Dudley’s 
bait, but Dudley had said the very thing Harry had 
been thinking himself ... maybe he didn’t have any 
friends at Hogwarts. ... 

Wish they could see famous Harry Potter now, he 
thought savagely as he spread manure on the flower 
beds, his back aching, sweat running down his face. 

It was half past seven in the evening when at last, 
exhausted, he heard Aunt Petunia calling him. 

“Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!” 

Harry moved gladly into the shade of the gleaming 
kitchen. On top of the fridge stood tonight’s pudding: 
a huge mound of whipped cream and sugared violets. 
A loin of roast pork was sizzling in the oven. 

“Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!” snapped 
Aunt Petunia, pointing to two slices of bread and a 
lump of cheese on the kitchen table. She was already 
wearing a salmon-pink cocktail dress. 

Harry washed his hands and bolted down his pitiful 
supper. The moment he had finished, Aunt Petunia 
whisked away his plate. “Upstairs! Hurry!” 

As he passed the door to the living room, Harry 
caught a glimpse of Uncle Vernon and Dudley in bow 
ties and dinner jackets. He had only just reached the 
upstairs landing when the doorbell rang and Uncle 
Vernon’s furious face appeared at the foot of the 
stairs. 

Page | 12 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“Remember, boy — one sound — ” 

Harry crossed to his bedroom on tiptoe, slipped 
inside, closed the door, and turned to collapse on his 
bed. 

The trouble was, there was already someone sitting 
on it. 



Page | 13 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 






DOBBY’S WARNING 

Harry managed not to shout out, but it was a close 
thing. The little creature on the bed had large, bat- 
like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis 
balls. Harry knew instantly that this was what had 
been watching him out of the garden hedge that 
morning. 

As they stared at each other, Harry heard Dudley’s 
voice from the hall. 

“May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?” 

The creature slipped off the bed and bowed so low 
that the end of its long, thin nose touched the carpet. 
Harry noticed that it was wearing what looked like an 
old pillowcase, with rips for arm- and leg-holes. 

“Er — hello,” said Harry nervously. 

“Harry Potter!” said the creature in a high-pitched 
voice Harry was sure would carry down the stairs. “So 



Page | 14 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 



long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir ... Such an 
honor it is. ...” 

“Th-thank you,” said Harry, edging along the wall and 
sinking into his desk chair, next to Hedwig, who was 
asleep in her large cage. He wanted to ask, “What are 
you?” but thought it would sound too rude, so instead 
he said, “Who are you?” 

“Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf,” said 
the creature. 

“Oh — really?” said Harry. “Er — I don’t want to be 
rude or anything, but — this isn’t a great time for me 
to have a house-elf in my bedroom.” 

Aunt Petunia’s high, false laugh sounded from the 
living room. The elf hung his head. 

“Not that I’m not pleased to meet you,” said Harry 
quickly, “but, er, is there any particular reason you’re 
here?” 

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Dobby earnestly. “Dobby has come 
to tell you, sir ... it is difficult, sir ... Dobby wonders 
where to begin. ...” 

“Sit down,” said Harry politely, pointing at the bed. 

To his horror, the elf burst into tears — very noisy 
tears. 

“S-sit down).” he wailed. “Never ... never ever ...” 

Harry thought he heard the voices downstairs falter. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to offend you 
or anything — ” 



Page | 15 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“Offend Dobby!” choked the elf. “Dobby has never 
been asked to sit down by a wizard — like an equal — 



Harry, trying to say “Shh!” and look comforting at the 
same time, ushered Dobby back onto the bed where 
he sat hiccoughing, looking like a large and very ugly 
doll. At last he managed to control himself, and sat 
with his great eyes fixed on Harry in an expression of 
watery adoration. 

“You can’t have met many decent wizards,” said 
Harry, trying to cheer him up. 

Dobby shook his head. Then, without warning, he 
leapt up and started banging his head furiously on 
the window, shouting, “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!” 

“Don’t — what are you doing?” Harry hissed, 
springing up and pulling Dobby back onto the bed — 
Hedwig had woken up with a particularly loud 
screech and was beating her wings wildly against the 
bars of her cage. 

“Dobby had to punish himself, sir,” said the elf, who 
had gone slightly cross-eyed. “Dobby almost spoke ill 
of his family, sir. ...” 

“Your family?” 

“The wizard family Dobby serves, sir. ... Dobby is a 
house-elf — bound to serve one house and one family 
forever. ...” 

“Do they know you’re here?” asked Harry curiously. 
Dobby shuddered. 



Page | 16 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“Oh, no, sir, no ... Dobby will have to punish himself 
most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will 
have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they 
ever knew, sir — ” 

“But won’t they notice if you shut your ears in the 
oven door?” 

“Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to 
punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get 
on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds me to do 
extra punishments. ...” 

“But why don’t you leave? Escape?” 

“A house-elf must be set free, sir. And the family will 
never set Dobby free . . . Dobby will serve the family 
until he dies, sir. ...” 

Harry stared. 

“And I thought I had it bad staying here for another 
four weeks,” he said. “This makes the Dursleys sound 
almost human. Can’t anyone help you? Can’t I?” 

Almost at once, Harry wished he hadn’t spoken. 

Dobby dissolved again into wails of gratitude. 

“Please,” Harry whispered frantically, “please be quiet. 
If the Dursleys hear anything, if they know you’re 
here — ” 

“Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby . . . Dobby has 
heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness, 
Dobby never knew. ...” 

Harry, who was feeling distinctly hot in the face, said, 
“Whatever you’ve heard about my greatness is a load 



Page | 17 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




of rubbish. I’m not even top of my year at Hogwarts; 
that’s Hermione, she — ” 

But he stopped quickly, because thinking about 
Hermione was painful. 

“Harry Potter is humble and modest,” said Dobby 
reverently, his orb-like eyes aglow. “Harry Potter 
speaks not of his triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be- 
Named — ” 

“Voldemort?” said Harry. 

Dobby clapped his hands over his bat ears and 
moaned, “Ah, speak not the name, sir! Speak not the 
name!” 

“Sorry,” said Harry quickly. “I know lots of people 
don’t like it. My friend Ron — ” 

He stopped again. Thinking about Ron was painful, 
too. 

Dobby leaned toward Harry, his eyes wide as 
headlights. 

“Dobby heard tell,” he said hoarsely, “that Harry 
Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just 
weeks ago ... that Harry Potter escaped yet again.” 

Harry nodded and Dobby’s eyes suddenly shone with 
tears. 

“Ah, sir,” he gasped, dabbing his face with a corner of 
the grubby pillowcase he was wearing. “Harry Potter 
is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers 
already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, 
to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in 



Page | 18 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




the oven door later. . . . Harry Potter must not go back 
to Hogwarts.” 

There was a silence broken only by the chink of 
knives and forks from downstairs and the distant 
rumble of Uncle Vernon’s voice. 

“W-what?” Harry stammered. “But I’ve got to go back 
— term starts on September first. It’s all that’s 
keeping me going. You don’t know what it’s like here. 

I don’t belong here. I belong in your world — at 
Hogwarts.” 

“No, no, no,” squeaked Dobby, shaking his head so 
hard his ears flapped. “Harry Potter must stay where 
he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry 
Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal 
danger.” 

“Why?” said Harry in surprise. 

“There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most 
terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of 
Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispered Dobby, 
suddenly trembling all over. “Dobby has known it for 
months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in 
peril. He is too important, sir!” 

“What terrible things?” said Harry at once. “Who’s 
plotting them?” 

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged 
his head frantically against the wall. 

“All right!” cried Harry, grabbing the elf’s arm to stop 
him. “You can’t tell me. I understand. But why are 
you warning me?” A sudden, unpleasant thought 
struck him. “Hang on — this hasn’t got anything to 
do with Vol — sorry — with You-Know-Who, has it? 
Page | 19 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




You could just shake or nod,” he added hastily as 
Dobby’s head tilted worryingly close to the wall again. 

Slowly, Dobby shook his head. 

“Not — not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sir — ” 

But Dobby’s eyes were wide and he seemed to be 
trying to give Harry a hint. Harry, however, was 
completely lost. 

“He hasn’t got a brother, has he?” 

Dobby shook his head, his eyes wider than ever. 

“Well then, I can’t think who else would have a 
chance of making horrible things happen at 
Hogwarts,” said Harry. “I mean, there’s Dumbledore, 
for one thing — you know who Dumbledore is, don’t 
you?” 

Dobby bowed his head. 

“Albus Dumbledore is the greatest headmaster 
Hogwarts has ever had. Dobby knows it, sir. Dobby 
has heard Dumbledore’s powers rival those of He- 
Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his 
strength. But, sir” — Dobby’s voice dropped to an 
urgent whisper — “there are powers Dumbledore 
doesn’t ... powers no decent wizard ...” 

And before Harry could stop him, Dobby bounded off 
the bed, seized Harry’s desk lamp, and started 
beating himself around the head with earsplitting 
yelps. 

A sudden silence fell downstairs. Two seconds later 
Harry, heart thudding madly, heard Uncle Vernon 



Page | 20 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




coming into the hall, calling, “Dudley must have left 
his television on again, the little tyke!” 

“Quick! In the closet!” hissed Harry, stuffing Dobby 
in, shutting the door, and flinging himself onto the 
bed just as the door handle turned. 

“What — the — devil — are — you — doing?” said 
Uncle Vernon through gritted teeth, his face horribly 
close to Harry’s. “You’ve just ruined the punch line of 
my Japanese golfer joke. ... One more sound and 
you’ll wish you’d never been born, boy!” 

He stomped flat-footed from the room. 

Shaking, Harry let Dobby out of the closet. 

“See what it’s like here?” he said. “See why I’ve got to 
go back to Hogwarts? It’s the only place I’ve got — 
well, I think I’ve got friends.” 

“Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” said 
Dobby slyly. 

“I expect they’ve just been — wait a minute,” said 
Harry, frowning. “How do you know my friends 
haven’t been writing to me?” 

Dobby shuffled his feet. 

“Harry Potter mustn’t be angry with Dobby. Dobby 
did it for the best — ” 

“Have you been stopping my letters?” 

“Dobby has them here, sir,” said the elf. Stepping 
nimbly out of Harry’s reach, he pulled a thick wad of 
envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was 
wearing. Harry could make out Hermione’s neat 

Page | 21 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




writing, Ron’s untidy scrawl, and even a scribble that 
looked as though it was from the Hogwarts 
gamekeeper, Hagrid. 

Dobby blinked anxiously up at Harry. 

“Harry Potter mustn’t be angry. ... Dobby hoped ... if 
Harry Potter thought his friends had forgotten him . . . 
Harry Potter might not want to go back to school, sir. 



Harry wasn’t listening. He made a grab for the letters, 
but Dobby jumped out of reach. 

“Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his 
word that he will not return to Hogwarts. Ah, sir, this 
is a danger you must not face! Say you won’t go back, 
sir!” 

“No,” said Harry angrily. “Give me my friends’ letters!” 

“Then Harry Potter leaves Dobby no choice,” said the 
elf sadly. 

Before Harry could move, Dobby had darted to the 
bedroom door, pulled it open, and sprinted down the 
stairs. 

Mouth dry, stomach lurching, Harry sprang after him, 
trying not to make a sound. He jumped the last six 
steps, landing catlike on the hall carpet, looking 
around for Dobby. From the dining room he heard 
Uncle Vernon saying, "... tell Petunia that very funny 
story about those American plumbers, Mr. Mason. 
She’s been dying to hear ...” 

Harry ran up the hall into the kitchen and felt his 
stomach disappear. 



Page | 22 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




Aunt Petunia’s masterpiece of a pudding, the 
mountain of cream and sugared violets, was floating 
up near the ceiling. On top of a cupboard in the 
corner crouched Dobby. 

“No,” croaked Harry. “Please ... they’ll kill me. ...” 
“Harry Potter must say he’s not going back to school 



“Dobby ... please ...” 

“Say it, sir — ” 

“I can’t — ” 

Dobby gave him a tragic look. 

“Then Dobby must do it, sir, for Harry Potter’s own 
good.” 

The pudding fell to the floor with a heart-stopping 
crash. Cream splattered the windows and walls as the 
dish shattered. With a crack like a whip, Dobby 
vanished. 

There were screams from the dining room and Uncle 
Vernon burst into the kitchen to find Harry, rigid with 
shock, covered from head to foot in Aunt Petunia’s 
pudding. 

At first, it looked as though Uncle Vernon would 
manage to gloss the whole thing over. (“Just our 
nephew — very disturbed — meeting strangers upsets 
him, so we kept him upstairs. ...”) He shooed the 
shocked Masons back into the dining room, promised 
Harry he would flay him to within an inch of his life 
when the Masons had left, and handed him a mop. 
Aunt Petunia dug some ice cream out of the freezer 
Page | 23 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




and Harry, still shaking, started scrubbing the 
kitchen clean. 

Uncle Vernon might still have been able to make his 
deal — if it hadn’t been for the owl. 

Aunt Petunia was just passing around a box of after- 
dinner mints when a huge barn owl swooped through 
the dining room window, dropped a letter on Mrs. 
Mason’s head, and swooped out again. Mrs. Mason 
screamed like a banshee and ran from the house 
shouting about lunatics. Mr. Mason stayed just long 
enough to tell the Dursleys that his wife was mortally 
afraid of birds of all shapes and sizes, and to ask 
whether this was their idea of a joke. 

Harry stood in the kitchen, clutching the mop for 
support, as Uncle Vernon advanced on him, a 
demonic glint in his tiny eyes. 

“Read it!” he hissed evilly, brandishing the letter the 
owl had delivered. “Go on — read it!” 

Harry took it. It did not contain birthday greetings. 

Dear Mr. Potter, 

We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was 
used at your place of residence this evening at twelve 
minutes past nine. 

As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to 
perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on 
your part may lead to expulsion from said school 
(Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage 
Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C). 

We would also ask you to remember that any magical 
activity that risks notice by members of the non- 

P a g e | 24 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense 
under section 13 of the International Confederation of 
Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy. 

Enjoy your holidays! 

Yours sincerely, 

Mafalda Hopkirk 

IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE 
Ministry of Magic 

Harry looked up from the letter and gulped. 

“You didn’t tell us you weren’t allowed to use magic 
outside school,” said Uncle Vernon, a mad gleam 
dancing in his eyes. “Forgot to mention it. ... Slipped 
your mind, I daresay. ...” 

He was bearing down on Harry like a great bulldog, 
all his teeth bared. “Well, I’ve got news for you, boy. ... 
I’m locking you up. ... You’re never going back to that 
school . . . never . . . and if you try and magic yourself 
out — they 11 expel you!” 

And laughing like a maniac, he dragged Harry back 
upstairs. 

Uncle Vernon was as bad as his word. The following 
morning, he paid a man to fit bars on Harry’s window. 
He himself fitted a cat-flap in the bedroom door, so 
that small amounts of food could be pushed inside 
three times a day. They let Harry out to use the 
bathroom morning and evening. Otherwise, he was 
locked in his room around the clock. 



Page | 25 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




Three days later, the Dursleys were showing no sign 
of relenting, and Harry couldn’t see any way out of his 
situation. He lay on his bed watching the sun sinking 
behind the bars on the window and wondered 
miserably what was going to happen to him. 

What was the good of magicking himself out of his 
room if Hogwarts would expel him for doing it? Yet life 
at Privet Drive had reached an all-time low. Now that 
the Dursleys knew they weren’t going to wake up as 
fruit bats, he had lost his only weapon. Dobby might 
have saved Harry from horrible happenings at 
Hogwarts, but the way things were going, he’d 
probably starve to death anyway. 

The cat-flap rattled and Aunt Petunia’s hand 
appeared, pushing a bowl of canned soup into the 
room. Harry, whose insides were aching with hunger, 
jumped off his bed and seized it. The soup was stone- 
cold, but he drank half of it in one gulp. Then he 
crossed the room to Hedwig’s cage and tipped the 
soggy vegetables at the bottom of the bowl into her 
empty food tray. She ruffled her feathers and gave 
him a look of deep disgust. 

“It’s no good turning your beak up at it — that’s all 
we’ve got,” said Harry grimly. 

He put the empty bowl back on the floor next to the 
cat-flap and lay back down on the bed, somehow even 
hungrier than he had been before the soup. 

Supposing he was still alive in another four weeks, 
what would happen if he didn’t turn up at Hogwarts? 
Would someone be sent to see why he hadn’t come 
back? Would they be able to make the Dursleys let 
him go? 



Page | 26 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




The room was growing dark. Exhausted, stomach 
rumbling, mind spinning over the same unanswerable 
questions, Harry fell into an uneasy sleep. 

He dreamed that he was on show in a zoo, with a card 
reading UNDERAGE WIZARD attached to his cage. 
People goggled through the bars at him as he lay, 
starving and weak, on a bed of straw. He saw Dobby’s 
face in the crowd and shouted out, asking for help, 
but Dobby called, “Harry Potter is safe there, sir!” and 
vanished. Then the Dursleys appeared and Dudley 
rattled the bars of the cage, laughing at him. 

“Stop it,” Harry muttered as the rattling pounded in 
his sore head. “Leave me alone ... cut it out ... I’m 
trying to sleep. ...” 

He opened his eyes. Moonlight was shining through 
the bars on the window. And someone was goggling 
through the bars at him: a freckle-faced, red-haired, 
long-nosed someone. 

Ron Weasley was outside Harry’s window. 



Page | 27 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




3 




THE BURROW 

“Ron\” breathed Harry, creeping to the window and 
pushing it up so they could talk through the bars. 
“Ron, how did you — What the — ?” 

Harry’s mouth fell open as the full impact of what he 
was seeing hit him. Ron was leaning out of the back 
window of an old turquoise car, which was parked in 
midair. Grinning at Harry from the front seats were 
Fred and George, Ron’s elder twin brothers. 

“All right, Harry?” asked George. 

“What’s been going on?” said Ron. “Why haven’t you 
been answering my letters? I’ve asked you to stay 
about twelve times, and then Dad came home and 
said you’d got an official warning for using magic in 
front of Muggles — ” 

“It wasn’t me — and how did he know?” 

“He works for the Ministry,” said Ron. “You know 
we’re not supposed to do spells outside school — ” 

Page | 28 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 



“You should talk,” said Harry, staring at the floating 
car. 

“Oh, this doesn’t count,” said Ron. “We’re only 
borrowing this. It’s Dad’s, we didn’t enchant it. But 
doing magic in front of those Muggles you live with — ” 

“I told you, I didn’t — but it’ll take too long to explain 
now — look, can you tell them at Hogwarts that the 
Dursleys have locked me up and won’t let me come 
back, and obviously I can’t magic myself out, because 
the Ministry’ll think that’s the second spell I’ve done 
in three days, so — ” 

“Stop gibbering,” said Ron. “We’ve come to take you 
home with us.” 

“But you can’t magic me out either — ” 

“We don’t need to,” said Ron, jerking his head toward 
the front seat and grinning. “You forget who I’ve got 
with me.” 

“Tie that around the bars,” said Fred, throwing the 
end of a rope to Harry. 

“If the Dursleys wake up, I’m dead,” said Harry as he 
tied the rope tightly around a bar and Fred revved up 
the car. 

“Don’t worry,” said Fred, “and stand back.” 

Harry moved back into the shadows next to Hedwig, 
who seemed to have realized how important this was 
and kept still and silent. The car revved louder and 
louder and suddenly, with a crunching noise, the 
bars were pulled clean out of the window as Fred 
drove straight up in the air. Harry ran back to the 
window to see the bars dangling a few feet above the 
Page | 29 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




ground. Panting, Ron hoisted them up into the car. 
Harry listened anxiously, but there was no sound 
from the Dursleys’ bedroom. 

When the bars were safely in the back seat with Ron, 
Fred reversed as close as possible to Harry’s window. 

“Get in,” Ron said. 

“But all my Hogwarts stuff — my wand — my 
broomstick — ” 

“Where is it?” 

“Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and I can’t 
get out of this room — ” 

“No problem,” said George from the front passenger 
seat. “Out of the way, Harry.” 

Fred and George climbed catlike through the window 
into Harry’s room. You had to hand it to them, 
thought Harry, as George took an ordinary hairpin 
from his pocket and started to pick the lock. 

“A lot of wizards think it’s a waste of time, knowing 
this sort of Muggle trick,” said Fred, “but we feel 
they’re skills worth learning, even if they are a bit 
slow.” 

There was a small click and the door swung open. 

“So — we’ll get your trunk — you grab anything you 
need from your room and hand it out to Ron,” 
whispered George. 

“Watch out for the bottom stair — it creaks,” Harry 
whispered back as the twins disappeared onto the 
dark landing. 

Page | 30 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




Harry dashed around his room, collecting his things 
and passing them out of the window to Ron. Then he 
went to help Fred and George heave his trunk up the 
stairs. Harry heard Uncle Vernon cough. 

At last, panting, they reached the landing, then 
carried the trunk through Harry’s room to the open 
window. Fred climbed back into the car to pull with 
Ron, and Harry and George pushed from the bedroom 
side. Inch by inch, the trunk slid through the window. 

Uncle Vernon coughed again. 

“A bit more,” panted Fred, who was pulling from 
inside the car. “One good push — ” 

Harry and George threw their shoulders against the 
trunk and it slid out of the window into the back seat 
of the car. 

“Okay, let’s go,” George whispered. 

But as Harry climbed onto the windowsill there came 
a sudden loud screech from behind him, followed 
immediately by the thunder of Uncle Vernon’s voice. 

“THAT RUDDY OWL!” 

“I’ve forgotten Hedwig!” 

Harry tore back across the room as the landing light 
clicked on — he snatched up Hedwig’s cage, dashed 
to the window, and passed it out to Ron. He was 
scrambling back onto the chest of drawers when 
Uncle Vernon hammered on the unlocked door — and 
it crashed open. 



Page | 31 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




For a split second, Uncle Vernon stood framed in the 
doorway; then he let out a bellow like an angry bull 
and dived at Harry, grabbing him by the ankle. 

Ron, Fred, and George seized Harry’s arms and pulled 
as hard as they could. 

“Petunia!” roared Uncle Vernon. “He’s getting away! 
HE’S GETTING AWAY!” 

But the Weasleys gave a gigantic tug and Harry’s leg 
slid out of Uncle Vernon’s grasp — Harry was in the 
car — he’d slammed the door shut — 

“Put your foot down, Fred!” yelled Ron, and the car 
shot suddenly toward the moon. 

Harry couldn’t believe it — he was free. He rolled 
down the window, the night air whipping his hair, 
and looked back at the shrinking rooftops of Privet 
Drive. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were 
all hanging, dumbstruck, out of Harry’s window. 

“See you next summer!” Harry yelled. 

The Weasleys roared with laughter and Harry settled 
back in his seat, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Let Hedwig out,” he told Ron. “She can fly behind us. 
She hasn’t had a chance to stretch her wings for 
ages.” 

George handed the hairpin to Ron and, a moment 
later, Hedwig soared joyfully out of the window to 
glide alongside them like a ghost. 

“So — what’s the story, Harry?” said Ron impatiently. 
“What’s been happening?” 



Page | 32 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




Harry told them all about Dobby, the warning he’d 
given Harry and the fiasco of the violet pudding. 
There was a long, shocked silence when he had 
finished. 

“Very fishy,” said Fred finally. 

“Definitely dodgy,” agreed George. “So he wouldn’t 
even tell you who’s supposed to be plotting all this 
stuff?” 

“I don’t think he could,” said Harry. “I told you, every 
time he got close to letting something slip, he started 
banging his head against the wall.” 

He saw Fred and George look at each other. 

“What, you think he was lying to me?” said Harry. 

“Well,” said Fred, “put it this way — house-elves have 
got powerful magic of their own, but they can’t 
usually use it without their master’s permission. I 
reckon old Dobby was sent to stop you coming back 
to Hogwarts. Someone’s idea of a joke. Can you think 
of anyone at school with a grudge against you?” 

“Yes,” said Harry and Ron together, instantly. 

“Draco Malfoy,” Harry explained. “He hates me.” 

“Draco Malfoy?” said George, turning around. “Not 
Lucius Malfoy’s son?” 

“Must be, it’s not a very common name, is it?” said 
Harry. “Why?” 

“I’ve heard Dad talking about him,” said George. “He 
was a big supporter of You-Know-Who.” 



Page | 33 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“And when You-Know-Who disappeared,” said Fred, 
craning around to look at Harry, “Lucius Malfoy came 
back saying he’d never meant any of it. Load of dung 
— Dad reckons he was right in You-Know- Who’s 
inner circle.” 

Harry had heard these rumors about Malfoy’s family 
before, and they didn’t surprise him at all. Malfoy 
made Dudley Dursley look like a kind, thoughtful, 
and sensitive boy. 

“I don’t know whether the Malfoys own a house-elf. 

...” said Harry. 

“Well, whoever owns him will be an old wizarding 
family, and they’ll be rich,” said Fred. 

“Yeah, Mum’s always wishing we had a house-elf to 
do the ironing,” said George. “But all we’ve got is a 
lousy old ghoul in the attic and gnomes all over the 
garden. House-elves come with big old manors and 
castles and places like that; you wouldn’t catch one in 
our house. ...” 

Harry was silent. Judging by the fact that Draco 
Malfoy usually had the best of everything, his family 
was rolling in wizard gold; he could just see Malfoy 
strutting around a large manor house. Sending the 
family servant to stop Harry from going back to 
Hogwarts also sounded exactly like the sort of thing 
Malfoy would do. Had Harry been stupid to take 
Dobby seriously? 

“I’m glad we came to get you, anyway,” said Ron. “I 
was getting really worried when you didn’t answer 
any of my letters. I thought it was Errol’s fault at first 



“Who’s Errol?” 

Page | 34 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“Our owl. He’s ancient. It wouldn’t be the first time 
he’d collapsed on a delivery. So then I tried to borrow 
Hermes — ” 

“Who?” 

“The owl Mum and Dad bought Percy when he was 
made prefect,” said Fred from the front. 

“But Percy wouldn’t lend him to me,” said Ron. “Said 
he needed him.” 

“Percy’s been acting very oddly this summer,” said 
George, frowning. “And he has been sending a lot of 
letters and spending a load of time shut up in his 
room. ... I mean, there’s only so many times you can 
polish a prefect badge. ... You’re driving too far west, 
Fred,” he added, pointing at a compass on the 
dashboard. Fred twiddled the steering wheel. 

“So, does your dad know you’ve got the car?” said 
Harry, guessing the answer. 

“Er, no,” said Ron, “he had to work tonight. Hopefully 
we’ll be able to get it back in the garage without Mum 
noticing we flew it.” 

“What does your dad do at the Ministry of Magic, 
anyway?” 

“He works in the most boring department,” said Ron. 
“The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.” 

“The what?” 

“It’s all to do with bewitching things that are Muggle- 
made, you know, in case they end up back in a 
Muggle shop or house. Like, last year, some old witch 
died and her tea set was sold to an antiques shop. 

Page | 35 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




This Muggle woman bought it, took it home, and tried 
to serve her friends tea in it. It was a nightmare — 
Dad was working overtime for weeks.” 

“What happened?” 

“The teapot went berserk and squirted boiling tea all 
over the place and one man ended up in the hospital 
with the sugar tongs clamped to his nose. Dad was 
going frantic — it’s only him and an old warlock 
called Perkins in the office — and they had to do 
Memory Charms and all sorts of stuff to cover it up — 



“But your dad — this car — ” 

Fred laughed. “Yeah, Dad’s crazy about everything to 
do with Muggles; our shed’s full of Muggle stuff. He 
takes it apart, puts spells on it, and puts it back 
together again. If he raided our house he’d have to put 
himself under arrest. It drives Mum mad.” 

“That’s the main road,” said George, peering down 
through the windshield. “We’ll be there in ten 
minutes. ... Just as well, it’s getting light. ...” 

A faint pinkish glow was visible along the horizon to 
the east. 

Fred brought the car lower, and Harry saw a dark 
patchwork of fields and clumps of trees. 

“We’re a little way outside the village,” said George. 
“Ottery St. Catchpole.” 

Lower and lower went the flying car. The edge of a 
brilliant red sun was now gleaming through the trees. 



Page | 36 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“Touchdown!” said Fred as, with a slight bump, they 
hit the ground. They had landed next to a 
tumbledown garage in a small yard, and Harry looked 
out for the first time at Ron’s house. 

It looked as though it had once been a large stone 
pigpen, but extra rooms had been added here and 
there until it was several stories high and so crooked 
it looked as though it were held up by magic (which, 
Harry reminded himself, it probably was). Four or five 
chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A 
lopsided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance 
read, THE BURROW. Around the front door lay a 
jumble of rubber boots and a very rusty cauldron. 
Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way 
around the yard. 

“It’s not much,” said Ron. 

“It’s wonderful,” said Harry happily, thinking of Privet 
Drive. 

They got out of the car. 

“Now, we’ll go upstairs really quietly,” said Fred, “and 
wait for Mum to call us for breakfast. Then, Ron, you 
come bounding downstairs going, ‘Mum, look who 
turned up in the night!’ and she’ll be all pleased to 
see Harry and no one need ever know we flew the 
car.” 

“Right,” said Ron. “Come on, Harry, I sleep at the — 
at the top — ” 

Ron had gone a nasty greenish color, his eyes fixed on 
the house. The other three wheeled around. 

Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard, 
scattering chickens, and for a short, plump, kind- 

P a g e | 37 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




faced woman, it was remarkable how much she 
looked like a saber-toothed tiger. 

“Ah,” said Fred. 

“Oh, dear,” said George. 

Mrs. Weasley came to a halt in front of them, her 
hands on her hips, staring from one guilty face to the 
next. She was wearing a flowered apron with a wand 
sticking out of the pocket. 

“So,” she said. 

“ ’Morning, Mum,” said George, in what he clearly 
thought was a jaunty, winning voice. 

“Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?” said Mrs. 
Weasley in a deadly whisper. 

“Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to — ” 

All three of Mrs. Weasley’s sons were taller than she 
was, but they cowered as her rage broke over them. 

“Beds empty\ No note\ Car gone — could have crashed 
— out of my mind with worry — did you care? — 
never, as long as I’ve lived — you wait until your father 
gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or 
Charlie or Percy — ” 

“Perfect Percy,” muttered Fred. 

“YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF 
PERCY’S BOOK!” yelled Mrs. Weasley, prodding a 
finger in Fred’s chest. “You could havedied, you could 
have been seen, you could have lost your father his 
job 



Page | 38 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




It seemed to go on for hours. Mrs. Weasley had 
shouted herself hoarse before she turned on Harry, 
who backed away. 

“I’m very pleased to see you, Harry, dear,” she said. 
“Come in and have some breakfast.” 

She turned and walked back into the house and 
Harry, after a nervous glance at Ron, who nodded 
encouragingly, followed her. 

The kitchen was small and rather cramped. There 
was a scrubbed wooden table and chairs in the 
middle, and Harry sat down on the edge of his seat, 
looking around. He had never been in a wizard house 
before. 

The clock on the wall opposite him had only one hand 
and no numbers at all. Written around the edge were 
things like Time to make tea, Time to feed the 
chickens, and You’re late. Books were stacked three 
deep on the mantelpiece, books with titles like Charm 
Your Own Cheese, Enchantment in Baking, and One 
Minute Feasts — It’s Magid And unless Harry’s ears 
were deceiving him, the old radio next to the sink had 
just announced that coming up was “Witching Hour, 
with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina 
Warbeck.” 

Mrs. Weasley was clattering around, cooking 
breakfast a little haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at 
her sons as she threw sausages into the frying pan. 
Every now and then she muttered things like “don’t 
know what you were thinking of,” and “never would 
have believed it.” 

“I don’t blame you, dear,” she assured Harry, tipping 
eight or nine sausages onto his plate. “Arthur and I 
have been worried about you, too. Just last night we 

Page | 39 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




were saying we’d come and get you ourselves if you 
hadn’t written back to Ron by Friday. But really” (she 
was now adding three fried eggs to his plate), “flying 
an illegal car halfway across the country — anyone 
could have seen you — ” 

She flicked her wand casually at the dishes in the 
sink, which began to clean themselves, clinking 
gently in the background. 

“It was cloudy, Mum!” said Fred. 

“You keep your mouth closed while you’re eating!” 
Mrs. Weasley snapped. 

“They were starving him, Mum!” said George. 

“And you!” said Mrs. Weasley, but it was with a 
slightly softened expression that she started cutting 
Harry bread and buttering it for him. 

At that moment there was a diversion in the form of a 
small, redheaded figure in a long nightdress, who 
appeared in the kitchen, gave a small squeal, and ran 
out again. 

“Ginny,” said Ron in an undertone to Harry. “My 
sister. She’s been talking about you all summer.” 

“Yeah, she’ll be wanting your autograph, Harry,” Fred 
said with a grin, but he caught his mother’s eye and 
bent his face over his plate without another word. 
Nothing more was said until all four plates were 
clean, which took a surprisingly short time. 

“Blimey, I’m tired,” yawned Fred, setting down his 
knife and fork at last. “I think I’ll go to bed and — ” 



Page | 40 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“You will not,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “It’s your own 
fault you’ve been up all night. You’re going to de- 
gnome the garden for me; they’re getting completely 
out of hand again — ” 

“Oh, Mum — ” 

“And you two,” she said, glaring at Ron and Fred. 

“You can go up to bed, dear,” she added to Harry. 

“You didn’t ask them to fly that wretched car — ” 

But Harry, who felt wide awake, said quickly, “I’ll help 
Ron. I’ve never seen a de-gnoming — ” 

“That’s very sweet of you, dear, but it’s dull work,” 
said Mrs. Weasley. “Now, let’s see what Lockhart’s got 
to say on the subject — ” 

And she pulled a heavy book from the stack on the 
mantelpiece. George groaned. 

“Mum, we know how to de-gnome a garden — ” 

Harry looked at the cover of Mrs. Weasley’s book. 
Written across it in fancy gold letters were the words 
Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household Pests. There 
was a big photograph on the front of a very good- 
looking wizard with wavy blond hair and bright blue 
eyes. As always in the wizarding world, the 
photograph was moving; the wizard, who Harry 
supposed was Gilderoy Lockhart, kept winking 
cheekily up at them all. Mrs. Weasley beamed down 
at him. 

“Oh, he is marvelous,” she said. “He knows his 
household pests, all right, it’s a wonderful book. ...” 

“Mum fancies him,” said Fred, in a very audible 
whisper. 

Page | 41 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“Don’t be so ridiculous, Fred,” said Mrs. Weasley, her 
cheeks rather pink. “All right, if you think you know 
better than Lockhart, you can go and get on with it, 
and woe betide you if there’s a single gnome in that 
garden when I come out to inspect it.” 

Yawning and grumbling, the Weasleys slouched 
outside with Harry behind them. The garden was 
large, and in Harry’s eyes, exactly what a garden 
should be. The Dursleys wouldn’t have liked it — 
there were plenty of weeds, and the grass needed 
cutting — but there were gnarled trees all around the 
walls, plants Harry had never seen spilling from every 
flower bed, and a big green pond full of frogs. 

“Muggles have garden gnomes, too, you know,” Harry 
told Ron as they crossed the lawn. 

“Yeah, I’ve seen those things they think are gnomes,” 
said Ron, bent double with his head in a peony bush, 
“like fat little Santa Clauses with fishing rods. ...” 

There was a violent scuffling noise, the peony bush 
shuddered, and Ron straightened up. “ This is a 
gnome,” he said grimly. 

“Gerroff me! Gerroff me!” squealed the gnome. 

It was certainly nothing like Santa Claus. It was small 
and leathery looking, with a large, knobby, bald head 
exactly like a potato. Ron held it at arm’s length as it 
kicked out at him with its horny little feet; he grasped 
it around the ankles and turned it upside down. 

“This is what you have to do,” he said. He raised the 
gnome above his head (“Gerroff me!”) and started to 
swing it in great circles like a lasso. Seeing the 
shocked look on Harry’s face, Ron added, “It doesn’t 



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hurt them — you’ve just got to make them really dizzy 
so they can’t find their way back to the gnomeholes.” 



He let go of the gnome’s ankles: It flew twenty feet 
into the air and landed with a thud in the field over 
the hedge. 

“Pitiful,” said Fred. “I bet I can get mine beyond that 
stump.” 

Harry learned quickly not to feel too sorry for the 
gnomes. He decided just to drop the first one he 
caught over the hedge, but the gnome, sensing 
weakness, sank its razor-sharp teeth into Harry’s 
finger and he had a hard job shaking it off — until — 

“Wow, Harry — that must’ve been fifty feet. ...” 

The air was soon thick with flying gnomes. 

“See, they’re not too bright,” said George, seizing five 
or six gnomes at once. “The moment they know the 
de-gnoming’s going on they storm up to have a look. 
You’d think they’d have learned by now just to stay 
put.” 

Soon, the crowd of gnomes in the field started walking 
away in a straggling line, their little shoulders 
hunched. 

“They’ll be back,” said Ron as they watched the 
gnomes disappear into the hedge on the other side of 
the field. “They love it here. ... Dad’s too soft with 
them; he thinks they’re funny. ...” 

Just then, the front door slammed. 

“He’s back!” said George. “Dad’s home!” 

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They hurried through the garden and back into the 
house. 

Mr. Weasley was slumped in a kitchen chair with his 
glasses off and his eyes closed. He was a thin man, 
going bald, but the little hair he had was as red as 
any of his children’s. He was wearing long green 
robes, which were dusty and travel-worn. 

“What a night,” he mumbled, groping for the teapot as 
they all sat down around him. “Nine raids. Nine! And 
old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a hex on me 
when I had my back turned. ...” 

Mr. Weasley took a long gulp of tea and sighed. 

“Find anything, Dad?” said Fred eagerly. 

“All I got were a few shrinking door keys and a biting 
kettle,” yawned Mr. Weasley. “There was some pretty 
nasty stuff that wasn’t my department, though. 
Mortlake was taken away for questioning about some 
extremely odd ferrets, but that’s the Committee on 
Experimental Charms, thank goodness. ...” 

“Why would anyone bother making door keys 
shrink?” said George. 

“Just Muggle-baiting,” sighed Mr. Weasley. “Sell them 
a key that keeps shrinking to nothing so they can 
never find it when they need it. ... Of course, it’s very 
hard to convict anyone because no Muggle would 
admit their key keeps shrinking — they’ll insist they 
just keep losing it. Bless them, they’ll go to any 
lengths to ignore magic, even if it’s staring them in 
the face. ... But the things our lot have taken to 
enchanting, you wouldn’t believe — ” 

“LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?” 

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Mrs. Weasley had appeared, holding a long poker like 
a sword. Mr. Weasley’s eyes jerked open. He stared 
guiltily at his wife. 

“C-cars, Molly, dear?” 

“Yes, Arthur, cars,” said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes 
flashing. “Imagine a wizard buying a rusty old car and 
telling his wife all he wanted to do with it was take it 
apart to see how it worked, while really he was 
enchanting it to make it fly.” 

Mr. Weasley blinked. 

“Well, dear, I think you’ll find that he would be quite 
within the law to do that, even if — er — he maybe 
would have done better to, um, tell his wife the truth. 
... There’s a loophole in the law, you’ll find. ... As long 
as he wasn’t intending to fly the car, the fact that the 
car could fly wouldn’t — ” 

“Arthur Weasley, you made sure there was a loophole 
when you wrote that law!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. 
“Just so you could carry on tinkering with all that 
Muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your 
information, Harry arrived this morning in the car 
you weren’t intending to fly!” 

“Harry?” said Mr. Weasley blankly. “Harry who?” 

He looked around, saw Harry, and jumped. 

“Good lord, is it Harry Potter? Very pleased to meet 
you, Ron’s told us so much about — ” 

“ Your sons flew that car to Harry’s house and back 
last nighti” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “What have you got 
to say about that, eh?” 



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“Did you really?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Did it go 
all right? I — I mean,” he faltered as sparks flew from 
Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, “that — that was very wrong, 
boys — very wrong indeed. ...” 

“Let’s leave them to it,” Ron muttered to Harry as 
Mrs. Weasley swelled like a bullfrog. “Come on, I’ll 
show you my bedroom.” 

They slipped out of the kitchen and down a narrow 
passageway to an uneven staircase, which wound its 
way, zigzagging up through the house. On the third 
landing, a door stood ajar. Harry just caught sight of 
a pair of bright brown eyes staring at him before it 
closed with a snap. 

“Ginny,” said Ron. “You don’t know how weird it is for 
her to be this shy. She never shuts up normally — ” 

They climbed two more flights until they reached a 
door with peeling paint and a small plaque on it, 
saying RONALD’S ROOM. 

Harry stepped in, his head almost touching the 
sloping ceiling, and blinked. It was like walking into a 
furnace: Nearly everything in Ron’s room seemed to 
be a violent shade of orange: the bedspread, the walls, 
even the ceiling. Then Harry realized that Ron had 
covered nearly every inch of the shabby wallpaper 
with posters of the same seven witches and wizards, 
all wearing bright orange robes, carrying broomsticks, 
and waving energetically. 

“Your Quidditch team?” said Harry. 

“The Chudley Cannons,” said Ron, pointing at the 
orange bedspread, which was emblazoned with two 
giant black C’s and a speeding cannonball. “Ninth in 
the league.” 

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Ron’s school spellbooks were stacked untidily in a 
corner, next to a pile of comics that all seemed to 
feature The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad 
Muggle. Ron’s magic wand was lying on top of a fish 
tank full of frog spawn on the windowsill, next to his 
fat gray rat, Scabbers, who was snoozing in a patch of 
sun. 

Harry stepped over a pack of Self- Shuffling playing 
cards on the floor and looked out of the tiny window. 
In the field far below he could see a gang of gnomes 
sneaking one by one back through the Weasleys’ 
hedge. Then he turned to look at Ron, who was 
watching him almost nervously, as though waiting for 
his opinion. 

“It’s a bit small,” said Ron quickly. “Not like that room 
you had with the Muggles. And I’m right underneath 
the ghoul in the attic; he’s always banging on the 
pipes and groaning. ...” 

But Harry, grinning widely, said, “This is the best 
house I’ve ever been in.” 

Ron’s ears went pink. 



Page | 47 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 






AT FLOURISH AND BLOTTS 

Life at the Burrow was as different as possible from 
life on Privet Drive. The Dursleys liked everything 
neat and ordered; the Weasleys’ house burst with the 
strange and unexpected. Harry got a shock the first 
time he looked in the mirror over the kitchen 
mantelpiece and it shouted, “ Tuck your shirt in, 
scruff yV’ The ghoul in the attic howled and dropped 
pipes whenever he felt things were getting too quiet, 
and small explosions from Fred and George’s 
bedroom were considered perfectly normal. What 
Harry found most unusual about life at Ron’s, 
however, wasn’t the talking mirror or the clanking 
ghoul: It was the fact that everybody there seemed to 
like him. 

Mrs. Weasley fussed over the state of his socks and 
tried to force him to eat fourth helpings at every meal. 
Mr. Weasley liked Harry to sit next to him at the 
dinner table so that he could bombard him with 
questions about life with Muggles, asking him to 
explain how things like plugs and the postal service 
worked. 

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“ Fascinating !” he would say as Harry talked him 
through using a telephone. “Ingenious, really, how 
many ways Muggles have found of getting along 
without magic.” 

Harry heard from Hogwarts one sunny morning about 
a week after he had arrived at the Burrow. He and 
Ron went down to breakfast to find Mr. and Mrs. 
Weasley and Ginny already sitting at the kitchen 
table. The moment she saw Harry, Ginny accidentally 
knocked her porridge bowl to the floor with a loud 
clatter. Ginny seemed very prone to knocking things 
over whenever Harry entered a room. She dived under 
the table to retrieve the bowl and emerged with her 
face glowing like the setting sun. Pretending he hadn’t 
noticed this, Harry sat down and took the toast Mrs. 
Weasley offered him. 

“Letters from school,” said Mr. Weasley, passing 
Harry and Ron identical envelopes of yellowish 
parchment, addressed in green ink. “Dumbledore 
already knows you’re here, Harry — doesn’t miss a 
trick, that man. You two’ve got them, too,” he added, 
as Fred and George ambled in, still in their pajamas. 

For a few minutes there was silence as they all read 
their letters. Harry’s told him to catch the Hogwarts 
Express as usual from King’s Cross station on 
September first. There was also a list of the new 
books he’d need for the coming year. 

SECOND-YEAR STUDENTS WILL REQUIRE: 

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 by Miranda 
Goshawk 

Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart 

Gadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart 

Page | 49 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 





Holidays with Hags by Gilderoy Lockhart 

Travels with Trolls by Gilderoy Lockhart 

Voyages with Vampires by Gilderoy Lockhart 

Wanderings with Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart 

Year with the Yeti by Gilderoy Lockhart 

Fred, who had finished his own list, peered over at 
Harry’s. 

“You’ve been told to get all Lockhart’s books, too!” he 
said. “The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher 
must be a fan — bet it’s a witch.” 

At this point, Fred caught his mother’s eye and 
quickly busied himself with the marmalade. 

“That lot won’t come cheap,” said George, with a 
quick look at his parents. “Lockhart’s books are really 
expensive. ...” 

“Well, we’ll manage,” said Mrs. Weasley, but she 
looked worried. “I expect we’ll be able to pick up a lot 
of Ginny’s things secondhand.” 

“Oh, are you starting at Hogwarts this year?” Harry 
asked Ginny. 

She nodded, blushing to the roots of her flaming hair, 
and put her elbow in the butter dish. Fortunately no 
one saw this except Harry, because just then Ron’s 
elder brother Percy walked in. He was already 
dressed, his Hogwarts prefect badge pinned to his 
sweater vest. 

“Morning, all,” said Percy briskly. “Lovely day.” 

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He sat down in the only remaining chair but leapt up 
again almost immediately, pulling from underneath 
him a molting, gray feather duster — at least, that 
was what Harry thought it was, until he saw that it 
was breathing. 

“Errol!” said Ron, taking the limp owl from Percy and 
extracting a letter from under its wing. “Finally — he’s 
got Hermione’s answer. I wrote to her saying we were 
going to try and rescue you from the Dursleys.” 

He carried Errol to a perch just inside the back door 
and tried to stand him on it, but Errol flopped 
straight off again so Ron laid him on the draining 
board instead, muttering, “Pathetic.” Then he ripped 
open Hermione’s letter and read it out loud: 

“ ‘Dear Ron, and Harry if you’re there, 

“ ‘I hope everything went all right and that Harry is 
okay and that you didn’t do anything illegal to get him 
out, Ron, because that would get Harry into trouble, 
too. I’ve been really worried and if Harry is all right, 
will you please let me know at once, but perhaps it 
would be better if you used a different owl, because I 
think another delivery might finish your one off 

“ ‘I’m very busy with schoolwork, of course’ — How can 
she be?” said Ron in horror. “We’re on vacation! — 
‘and we’re going to London next Wednesday to buy my 
new books. Why don’t we meet in Diagon Alley? 

“ ‘Let me know what’s happening as soon as you can. 
Love from Hermione.’ ” 

“Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your 
things then, too,” said Mrs. Weasley, starting to clear 
the table. “What ’re you all up to today?” 



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Harry, Ron, Fred, and George were planning to go up 
the hill to a small paddock the Weasleys owned. It 
was surrounded by trees that blocked it from view of 
the village below, meaning that they could practice 
Quidditch there, as long as they didn’t fly too high. 
They couldn’t use real Quidditch balls, which would 
have been hard to explain if they had escaped and 
flown away over the village; instead they threw apples 
for one another to catch. They took turns riding 
Harry’s Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the 
best broom; Ron’s old Shooting Star was often 
outstripped by passing butterflies. 

Five minutes later they were marching up the hill, 
broomsticks over their shoulders. They had asked 
Percy if he wanted to join them, but he had said he 
was busy. Harry had only seen Percy at mealtimes so 
far; he stayed shut in his room the rest of the time. 

“Wish I knew what he was up to,” said Fred, frowning. 
“He’s not himself. His exam results came the day 
before you did; twelve O.W.L.s and he hardly gloated 
at all.” 

“Ordinary Wizarding Levels,” George explained, seeing 
Harry’s puzzled look. “Bill got twelve, too. If we’re not 
careful, we’ll have another Head Boy in the family. I 
don’t think I could stand the shame.” 

Bill was the oldest Weasley brother. He and the next 
brother, Charlie, had already left Hogwarts. Harry 
had never met either of them, but knew that Charlie 
was in Romania studying dragons and Bill in Egypt 
working for the wizard’s bank, Gringotts. 

“Dunno how Mum and Dad are going to afford all our 
school stuff this year,” said George after a while. “Five 
sets of Lockhart books! And Ginny needs robes and a 
wand and everything. ...” 

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Harry said nothing. He felt a bit awkward. Stored in 
an underground vault at Gringotts in London was a 
small fortune that his parents had left him. Of course, 
it was only in the wizarding world that he had money; 
you couldn’t use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts in 
Muggle shops. He had never mentioned his Gringotts 
bank account to the Dursleys; he didn’t think their 
horror of anything connected with magic would 
stretch to a large pile of gold. 

Mrs. Weasley woke them all early the following 
Wednesday. After a quick half a dozen bacon 
sandwiches each, they pulled on their coats and Mrs. 
Weasley took a flowerpot off the kitchen mantelpiece 
and peered inside. 

“We’re running low, Arthur,” she sighed. “We’ll have 
to buy some more today. ... Ah well, guests first! After 
you, Harry dear!” 

And she offered him the flowerpot. 

Harry stared at them all watching him. 

“W-what am I supposed to do?” he stammered. 

“He’s never traveled by Floo powder,” said Ron 
suddenly. “Sorry, Harry, I forgot.” 

“Never?” said Mr. Weasley. “But how did you get to 
Diagon Alley to buy your school things last year?” 

“I went on the Underground — ” 

“Really?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Were there 
escapators? How exactly — ” 



Page | 53 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“Not now, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Floo powder’s 
a lot quicker, dear, but goodness me, if you’ve never 
used it before — ” 



“He’ll be all right, Mum,” said Fred. “Harry, watch us 
first.” 

He took a pinch of glittering powder out of the 
flowerpot, stepped up to the fire, and threw the 
powder into the flames. 

With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose 
higher than Fred, who stepped right into it, shouted, 
“Diagon Alley!” and vanished. 

“You must speak clearly, dear,” Mrs. Weasley told 
Harry as George dipped his hand into the flowerpot. 
“And be sure to get out at the right grate. ...” 

“The right what?” said Harry nervously as the fire 
roared and whipped George out of sight, too. 

“Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose 
from, you know, but as long as you’ve spoken clearly 



“He’ll be fine, Molly, don’t fuss,” said Mr. Weasley, 
helping himself to Floo powder, too. 

“But, dear, if he got lost, how would we ever explain 
to his aunt and uncle?” 

“They wouldn’t mind,” Harry reassured her. “Dudley 
would think it was a brilliant joke if I got lost up a 
chimney, don’t worry about that — ” 

“Well ... all right ... you go after Arthur,” said Mrs. 
Weasley. “Now, when you get into the fire, say where 
you’re going — ” 

Page | 54 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“And keep your elbows tucked in,” Ron advised. 

“And your eyes shut,” said Mrs. Weasley. “The soot — 



“Don’t fidget,” said Ron. “Or you might well fall out of 
the wrong fireplace — ” 

“But don’t panic and get out too early; wait until you 
see Fred and George.” 

Trying hard to bear all this in mind, Harry took a 
pinch of Floo powder and walked to the edge of the 
fire. He took a deep breath, scattered the powder into 
the flames, and stepped forward; the fire felt like a 
warm breeze; he opened his mouth and immediately 
swallowed a lot of hot ash. 

“D-Dia-gon Alley,” he coughed. 

It felt as though he were being sucked down a giant 
drain. He seemed to be spinning very fast — the 
roaring in his ears was deafening — he tried to keep 
his eyes open but the whirl of green flames made him 
feel sick — something hard knocked his elbow and he 
tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning — now 
it felt as though cold hands were slapping his face — 
squinting through his glasses he saw a blurred 
stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the 
rooms beyond — his bacon sandwiches were 
churning inside him — he closed his eyes again 
wishing it would stop, and then — 

He fell, face forward, onto cold stone and felt the 
bridge of his glasses snap. 

Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, he got gingerly to 
his feet, holding his broken glasses up to his eyes. He 
was quite alone, but where he was, he had no idea. 

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All he could tell was that he was standing in the stone 
fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard’s 
shop — but nothing in here was ever likely to be on a 
Hogwarts school list. 

A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a 
cushion, a bloodstained pack of cards, and a staring 
glass eye. Evil-looking masks stared down from the 
walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the 
counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from 
the ceiling. Even worse, the dark, narrow street Harry 
could see through the dusty shop window was 
definitely not Diagon Alley. 

The sooner he got out of here, the better. Nose still 
stinging where it had hit the hearth, Harry made his 
way swiftly and silently toward the door, but before 
he’d got halfway toward it, two people appeared on 
the other side of the glass — and one of them was the 
very last person Harry wanted to meet when he was 
lost, covered in soot, and wearing broken glasses: 
Draco Malfoy. 

Harry looked quickly around and spotted a large 
black cabinet to his left; he shot inside it and pulled 
the doors closed, leaving a small crack to peer 
through. Seconds later, a bell clanged, and Malfoy 
stepped into the shop. 

The man who followed could only be Draco’s father. 

He had the same pale, pointed face and identical cold, 
gray eyes. Mr. Malfoy crossed the shop, looking lazily 
at the items on display, and rang a bell on the 
counter before turning to his son and saying, “Touch 
nothing, Draco.” 

Malfoy, who had reached for the glass eye, said, “I 
thought you were going to buy me a present.” 



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“I said I would buy you a racing broom,” said his 
father, drumming his fingers on the counter. 

“What’s the good of that if I’m not on the House 
team?” said Malfoy, looking sulky and bad-tempered. 
“Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. 
Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play 
for Gryffindor. He’s not even that good, it’s just 
because he’s famous ... famous for having a stupid 
scar on his forehead. ...” 

Malfoy bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls. 

"... everyone thinks he’s so smart, wonderful Potter 
with his scar and his broomstick — ” 

“You have told me this at least a dozen times 
already,” said Mr. Malfoy, with a quelling look at his 
son. “And I would remind you that it is not — prudent 
— to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when 
most of our kind regard him as the hero who made 
the Dark Lord disappear — ah, Mr. Borgin.” 

A stooping man had appeared behind the counter, 
smoothing his greasy hair back from his face. 

“Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,” said 
Mr. Borgin in a voice as oily as his hair. “Delighted — 
and young Master Malfoy, too — charmed. How may I 
be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and 
very reasonably priced — ” 

“I’m not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling,” said 
Mr. Malfoy. 

“Selling?” The smile faded slightly from Mr. Borgin ’s 
face. 



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“You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is 
conducting more raids,” said Mr. Malfoy, taking a roll 
of parchment from his inside pocket and unraveling it 
for Mr. Borgin to read. “I have a few — ah — items at 
home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were 
to call. ...” 

Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince-nez to his nose and 
looked down the list. 

“The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, sir, 
surely?” 

Mr. Malfoy’s lip curled. 

“I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still 
commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows 
ever more meddlesome. There are rumors about a 
new Muggle Protection Act — no doubt that flea- 
bitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it 



Harry felt a hot surge of anger. 

“ — and as you see, certain of these poisons might 
make it appear — ” 

“I understand, sir, of course,” said Mr. Borgin. “Let 
me see ...” 

“Can I have that?” interrupted Draco, pointing at the 
withered hand on its cushion. 

“Ah, the Hand of Glory!” said Mr. Borgin, abandoning 
Mr. Malfoy’s list and scurrying over to Draco. “Insert a 
candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend 
of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, 
sir.” 



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“I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a 
plunderer, Borgin,” said Mr. Malfoy coldly, and Mr. 
Borgin said quickly, “No offense, sir, no offense meant 



“Though if his grades don’t pick up,” said Mr. Malfoy, 
more coldly still, “that may indeed be all he is fit for 



“It’s not my fault,” retorted Draco. “The teachers all 
have favorites, that Hermione Granger — ” 

“I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of 
no wizard family beat you in every exam,” snapped 
Mr. Malfoy. 

“Ha!” said Harry under his breath, pleased to see 
Draco looking both abashed and angry. 

“It’s the same all over,” said Mr. Borgin, in his oily 
voice. “Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere — 



“Not with me,” said Mr. Malfoy, his long nostrils 
flaring. 

“No, sir, nor with me, sir,” said Mr. Borgin, with a 
deep bow. 

“In that case, perhaps we can return to my list,” said 
Mr. Malfoy shortly. “I am in something of a hurry, 
Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today — ” 

They started to haggle. Harry watched nervously as 
Draco drew nearer and nearer to his hiding place, 
examining the objects for sale. Draco paused to 
examine a long coil of hangman’s rope and to read, 
smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace 



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of opals, Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed — Has 
Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date. 



Draco turned away and saw the cabinet right in front 
of him. He walked forward — he stretched out his 
hand for the handle — 

“Done,” said Mr. Malfoy at the counter. “Come, Draco 



Harry wiped his forehead on his sleeve as Draco 
turned away. 

“Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. Ill expect you at the 
manor tomorrow to pick up the goods.” 

The moment the door had closed, Mr. Borgin dropped 
his oily manner. 

“Good day yourself, Mister Malfoy, and if the stories 
are true, you haven’t sold me half of what’s hidden in 
your manor. ...” 

Muttering darkly, Mr. Borgin disappeared into a back 
room. Harry waited for a minute in case he came 
back, then, quietly as he could, slipped out of the 
cabinet, past the glass cases, and out of the shop 
door. 

Clutching his broken glasses to his face, Harry stared 
around. He had emerged into a dingy alleyway that 
seemed to be made up entirely of shops devoted to the 
Dark Arts. The one he’d just left, Borgin and Burkes, 
looked like the largest, but opposite was a nasty 
window display of shrunken heads and, two doors 
down, a large cage was alive with gigantic black 
spiders. Two shab by-looking wizards were watching 
him from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each 
other. Feeling jumpy, Harry set off, trying to hold his 
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glasses on straight and hoping against hope he’d be 
able to find a way out of here. 

An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling 
poisonous candles told him he was in Knockturn 
Alley. This didn’t help, as Harry had never heard of 
such a place. He supposed he hadn’t spoken clearly 
enough through his mouthful of ashes back in the 
Weasleys’ fire. Trying to stay calm, he wondered what 
to do. 

“Not lost are you, my dear?” said a voice in his ear, 
making him jump. 

An aged witch stood in front of him, holding a tray of 
what looked horribly like whole human fingernails. 

She leered at him, showing mossy teeth. Harry 
backed away. 

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said. “I’m just — ” 

“HARRY! What d’yeh think yer doin’ down there?” 

Harry’s heart leapt. So did the witch; a load of 
fingernails cascaded down over her feet and she 
cursed as the massive form of Hagrid, the Hogwarts 
gamekeeper, came striding toward them, beetle-black 
eyes flashing over his great bristling beard. 

“Hagrid!” Harry croaked in relief. “I was lost — Floo 
powder — ” 

Hagrid seized Harry by the scruff of the neck and 
pulled him away from the witch, knocking the tray 
right out of her hands. Her shrieks followed them all 
the way along the twisting alleyway out into bright 
sunlight. Harry saw a familiar, snow-white marble 
building in the distance — Gringotts Bank. Hagrid 
had steered him right into Diagon Alley. 

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“Yer a mess!” said Hagrid gruffly, brushing soot off 
Harry so forcefully he nearly knocked him into a 
barrel of dragon dung outside an apothecary. 

“Skulkin’ around Knockturn Alley, I dunno — dodgy 
place, Harry — don’ want no one ter see yeh down 
there — ” 

“I realized that,” said Harry, ducking as Hagrid made 
to brush him off again. “I told you, I was lost — what 
were you doing down there, anyway?” 

“ I was lookin’ fer a Flesh-Eatin’ Slug Repellent,” 
growled Hagrid. “They’re ruinin’ the school cabbages. 
Yer not on yer own?” 

“I’m staying with the Weasleys but we got separated,” 
Harry explained. “I’ve got to go and find them. ...” 

They set off together down the street. 

“How come yeh never wrote back ter me?” said Hagrid 
as Harry jogged alongside him (he had to take three 
steps to every stride of Hagrid ’s enormous boots). 
Harry explained all about Dobby and the Dursleys. 

“Lousy Muggles,” growled Hagrid. “If I’d’ve known — ” 

“Harry! Harry! Over here!” 

Harry looked up and saw Hermione Granger standing 
at the top of the white flight of steps to Gringotts. She 
ran down to meet them, her bushy brown hair flying 
behind her. 

“What happened to your glasses? Hello, Hagrid — Oh, 
it’s wonderful to see you two again — Are you coming 
into Gringotts, Harry?” 

“As soon as I’ve found the Weasleys,” said Harry. 

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“Yeh won’t have long ter wait,” Hagrid said with a 
grin. 

Harry and Hermione looked around: Sprinting up the 
crowded street were Ron, Fred, George, Percy, and 
Mr. Weasley. 

“Harry,” Mr. Weasley panted. “We hoped you’d only 
gone one grate too far. ...” He mopped his glistening 
bald patch. “Molly’s frantic — she’s coming now — ” 

“Where did you come out?” Ron asked. 

“Knockturn Alley,” said Hagrid grimly. 

“Excellent.” said Fred and George together. 

“We’ve never been allowed in,” said Ron enviously. 

“I should ruddy well think not,” growled Hagrid. 

Mrs. Weasley now came galloping into view, her 
handbag swinging wildly in one hand, Ginny just 
clinging onto the other. 

“Oh, Harry — oh, my dear — you could have been 
anywhere — ” 

Gasping for breath she pulled a large clothes brush 
out of her bag and began sweeping off the soot Hagrid 
hadn’t managed to beat away. Mr. Weasley took 
Harry’s glasses, gave them a tap of his wand, and 
returned them, good as new. 

“Well, gotta be off,” said Hagrid, who was having his 
hand wrung by Mrs. Weasley (“Knockturn Alley! If you 
hadn’t found him, Hagrid!”). “See yer at Hogwarts!” 
And he strode away, head and shoulders taller than 
anyone else in the packed street. 

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“Guess who I saw in Borgin and Burkes?” Harry 
asked Ron and Hermione as they climbed the 
Gringotts steps. “Malfoy and his father.” 

“Did Lucius Malfoy buy anything?” said Mr. Weasley 
sharply behind them. 

“No, he was selling — ” 

“So he’s worried,” said Mr. Weasley with grim 
satisfaction. “Oh, I’d love to get Lucius Malfoy for 
something. ...” 

“You be careful, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley sharply 
as they were bowed into the bank by a goblin at the 
door. “That family’s trouble. Don’t go biting off more 
than you can chew — ” 

“So you don’t think I’m a match for Lucius Malfoy?” 
said Mr. Weasley indignantly, but he was distracted 
almost at once by the sight of Hermione’s parents, 
who were standing nervously at the counter that ran 
all along the great marble hall, waiting for Hermione 
to introduce them. 

“But you’re Mugglesl” said Mr. Weasley delightedly. 
“We must have a drink! What’s that you’ve got there? 
Oh, you’re changing Muggle money. Molly, look!” He 
pointed excitedly at the ten-pound notes in Mr. 
Granger’s hand. 

“Meet you back here,” Ron said to Hermione as the 
Weasleys and Harry were led off to their underground 
vaults by another Gringotts goblin. 

The vaults were reached by means of small, goblin- 
driven carts that sped along minature train tracks 
through the bank’s underground tunnels. Harry 
enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Weasleys’ 

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vault, but felt dreadful, far worse than he had in 
Knock- turn Alley, when it was opened. There was a 
very small pile of silver Sickles inside, and just one 
gold Galleon. Mrs. Weasley felt right into the corners 
before sweeping the whole lot into her bag. Harry felt 
even worse when they reached his vault. He tried to 
block the contents from view as he hastily shoved 
handfuls of coins into a leather bag. 

Back outside on the marble steps, they all separated. 
Percy muttered vaguely about needing a new quill. 
Fred and George had spotted their friend from 
Hogwarts, Lee Jordan. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were 
going to a secondhand robe shop. Mr. Weasley was 
insisting on taking the Grangers off to the Leaky 
Cauldron for a drink. 

“Well all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to 
buy your schoolbooks,” said Mrs. Weasley, setting off 
with Ginny. “And not one step down Knockturn 
Alley!” she shouted at the twins’ retreating backs. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione strolled off along the 
winding, cobbled street. The bag of gold, silver, and 
bronze jangling cheerfully in Harry’s pocket was 
clamoring to be spent, so he bought three large 
strawberry-and-peanut-butter ice creams, which they 
slurped happily as they wandered up the alley, 
examining the fascinating shop windows. Ron gazed 
longingly at a full set of Chudley Cannon robes in the 
windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies until 
Hermione dragged them off to buy ink and parchment 
next door. In Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke 
Shop, they met Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, who 
were stocking up on Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet- 
Start, No-Heat Fireworks, and in a tiny junk shop full 
of broken wands, lopsided brass scales, and old 
cloaks covered in potion stains they found Percy, 



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deeply immersed in a small and deeply boring book 
called Prefects Who Gained Power. 

“A study of Hogwarts prefects and their later careers,” 
Ron read aloud off the back cover. “That sounds 
fascinating. ...” 

“Go away,” Percy snapped. 

“ ’Course, he’s very ambitious, Percy, he’s got it all 
planned out. ... He wants to be Minister of Magic ...” 
Ron told Harry and Hermione in an undertone as they 
left Percy to it. 

An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts. 
They were by no means the only ones making their 
way to the bookshop. As they approached it, they saw 
to their surprise a large crowd jostling outside the 
doors, trying to get in. The reason for this was 
proclaimed by a large banner stretched across the 
upper windows: 

GILDEROY LOCKHART 

will be signing copies of his autobiography 

MAGICAL ME 

today 12:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m. 

“We can actually meet him!” Hermione squealed. “I 
mean, he’s written almost the whole booklist!” 

The crowd seemed to be made up mostly of witches 
around Mrs. Weasley’s age. A harassed-looking wizard 
stood at the door, saying, “Calmly, please, ladies. ... 
Don’t push, there ... mind the books, now. ...” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione squeezed inside. A long 
line wound right to the back of the shop, where 
Gilderoy Lockhart was signing his books. They each 

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grabbed a copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 
2 and sneaked up the line to where the rest of the 
Weasleys were standing with Mr. and Mrs. Granger. 

“Oh, there you are, good,” said Mrs. Weasley. She 
sounded breathless and kept patting her hair. “Well 
be able to see him in a minute. ...” 

Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view, seated at a 
table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all 
winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the 
crowd. The real Lockhart was wearing robes of forget- 
me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes; his 
pointed wizard’s hat was set at a jaunty angle on his 
wavy hair. 

A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around 
taking photographs with a large black camera that 
emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding 
flash. 

“Out of the way, there,” he snarled at Ron, moving 
back to get a better shot. “This is for the Daily Prophet 



“Big deal,” said Ron, rubbing his foot where the 
photographer had stepped on it. 

Gilderoy Lockhart heard him. He looked up. He saw 
Ron — and then he saw Harry. He stared. Then he 
leapt to his feet and positively shouted, “It can’t be 
Harry Potter?” 

The crowd parted, whispering excitedly; Lockhart 
dived forward, seized Harry’s arm, and pulled him to 
the front. The crowd burst into applause. Harry’s face 
burned as Lockhart shook his hand for the 
photographer, who was clicking away madly, wafting 
thick smoke over the Weasleys. 

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“Nice big smile, Harry,” said Lockhart, through his 
own gleaming teeth. “Together, you and I are worth 
the front page.” 

When he finally let go of Harry’s hand, Harry could 
hardly feel his fingers. He tried to sidle back over to 
the Weasleys, but Lockhart threw an arm around his 
shoulders and clamped him tightly to his side. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said loudly, waving for 
quiet. “What an extraordinary moment this is! The 
perfect moment for me to make a little announcement 
I’ve been sitting on for some time! 

“When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and 
Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography 
— which I shall be happy to present him now, free of 
charge — ” The crowd applauded again. “He had no 
idea,” Lockhart continued, giving Harry a little shake 
that made his glasses slip to the end of his nose, “that 
he would shortly be getting much, much more than 
my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in 
fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and 
gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in 
announcing that this September, I will be taking up 
the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at 
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!” 

The crowd cheered and clapped and Harry found 
himself being presented with the entire works of 
Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their 
weight, he managed to make his way out of the 
limelight to the edge of the room, where Ginny was 
standing next to her new cauldron. 

“You have these,” Harry mumbled to her, tipping the 
books into the cauldron. “I’ll buy my own — ” 



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“Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter?” said a voice 
Harry had no trouble recognizing. He straightened up 
and found himself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy, 
who was wearing his usual sneer. 

“Famous Harry Potter,” said Malfoy. “Can’t even go 
into a bookshop without making the front page.” 

“Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that!” said Ginny. 
It was the first time she had spoken in front of Harry. 
She was glaring at Malfoy. 

“Potter, you’ve got yourself a girlfriend).” drawled 
Malfoy. Ginny went scarlet as Ron and Hermione 
fought their way over, both clutching stacks of 
Lockhart’s books. 

“Oh, it’s you,” said Ron, looking at Malfoy as if he 
were something unpleasant on the sole of his shoe. 
“Bet you’re surprised to see Harry here, eh?” 

“Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, 
Weasley,” retorted Malfoy. “I suppose your parents 
will go hungry for a month to pay for all those.” 

Ron went as red as Ginny. He dropped his books into 
the cauldron, too, and started toward Malfoy, but 
Harry and Hermione grabbed the back of his jacket. 

“Ron!” said Mr. Weasley, struggling over with Fred 
and George. “What are you doing? It’s too crowded in 
here, let’s go outside.” 

“Well, well, well — Arthur Weasley.” 

It was Mr. Malfoy. He stood with his hand on Draco’s 
shoulder, sneering in just the same way. 

“Lucius,” said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly. 

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“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” said Mr. Malfoy. 
“All those raids ... I hope they’re paying you 
overtime?” 

He reached into Ginny’s cauldron and extracted, from 
amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very 
battered copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration. 

“Obviously not,” Mr. Malfoy said. “Dear me, what’s 
the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if 
they don’t even pay you well for it?” 

Mr. Weasley flushed darker than either Ron or Ginny. 

“We have a very different idea of what disgraces the 
name of wizard, Malfoy,” he said. 

“Clearly,” said Mr. Malfoy, his pale eyes straying to 
Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who were watching 
apprehensively. “The company you keep, Weasley ... 
and I thought your family could sink no lower — ” 

There was a thud of metal as Ginny’s cauldron went 
flying; Mr. Weasley had thrown himself at Mr. Malfoy, 
knocking him backward into a bookshelf. Dozens of 
heavy spellbooks came thundering down on all their 
heads; there was a yell of, “Get him, Dad!” from Fred 
or George; Mrs. Weasley was shrieking, “No, Arthur, 
no!”; the crowd stampeded backward, knocking more 
shelves over; “Gentlemen, please — please!” cried the 
assistant, and then, louder than all — 

“Break it up, there, gents, break it up — ” 

Hagrid was wading toward them through the sea of 
books. In an instant he had pulled Mr. Weasley and 
Mr. Malfoy apart. Mr. Weasley had a cut lip and Mr. 
Malfoy had been hit in the eye by an Encyclopedia of 
Toadstools. He was still holding Ginny’s old 
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Transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes 
glittering with malice. 

“Here, girl — take your book — it’s the best your 
father can give you — ” Pulling himself out of Hagrid’s 
grip he beckoned to Draco and swept from the shop. 

“Yeh should’ve ignored him, Arthur,” said Hagrid, 
almost lifting Mr. Weasley off his feet as he 
straightened his robes. “Rotten ter the core, the whole 
family, everyone knows that — no Malfoy’s worth 
listenin’ ter — bad blood, that’s what it is — come on 
now — let’s get outta here.” 

The assistant looked as though he wanted to stop 
them from leaving, but he barely came up to Hagrid’s 
waist and seemed to think better of it. They hurried 
up the street, the Grangers shaking with fright and 
Mrs. Weasley beside herself with fury. 

“A fine example to set for your children . . . brawling in 
public ... what Gilderoy Lockhart must’ve thought — ” 

“He was pleased,” said Fred. “Didn’t you hear him as 
we were leaving? He was asking that bloke from the 
Daily Prophet if he’d be able to work the fight into his 
report — said it was all publicity — ” 

But it was a subdued group that headed back to the 
fireside in the Leaky Cauldron, where Harry, the 
Weasleys, and all their shopping would be traveling 
back to the Burrow using Floo powder. They said 
good-bye to the Grangers, who were leaving the pub 
for the Muggle street on the other side; Mr. Weasley 
started to ask them how bus stops worked, but 
stopped quickly at the look on Mrs. Weasley’s face. 



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Harry took off his glasses and put them safely in his 
pocket before helping himself to Floo powder. It 
definitely wasn’t his favorite way to travel. 



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5 




THE WHOMPING WILLOW 

The end of the summer vacation came too quickly for 
Harry’s liking. He was looking forward to getting back 
to Hogwarts, but his month at the Burrow had been 
the happiest of his life. It was difficult not to feel 
jealous of Ron when he thought of the Dursleys and 
the sort of welcome he could expect next time he 
turned up on Privet Drive. 

On their last evening, Mrs. Weasley conjured up a 
sumptuous dinner that included all of Harry’s favorite 
things, ending with a mouthwatering treacle pudding. 
Fred and George rounded off the evening with a 
display of Filibuster fireworks; they filled the kitchen 
with red and blue stars that bounced from ceiling to 
wall for at least half an hour. Then it was time for a 
last mug of hot chocolate and bed. 

It took a long while to get started next morning. They 
were up at dawn, but somehow they still seemed to 
have a great deal to do. Mrs. Weasley dashed about in 
a bad mood looking for spare socks and quills; people 
kept colliding on the stairs, half-dressed with bits of 
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toast in their hands; and Mr. Weasley nearly broke 
his neck, tripping over a stray chicken as he crossed 
the yard carrying Ginny’s trunk to the car. 

Harry couldn’t see how eight people, six large trunks, 
two owls, and a rat were going to fit into one small 
Ford Anglia. He had reckoned, of course, without the 
special features that Mr. Weasley had added. 

“Not a word to Molly,” he whispered to Harry as he 
opened the trunk and showed him how it had been 
magically expanded so that the luggage fitted easily. 

When at last they were all in the car, Mrs. Weasley 
glanced into the back seat, where Harry, Ron, Fred, 
George, and Percy were all sitting comfortably side by 
side, and said, “Muggles do know more than we give 
them credit for, don’t they?” She and Ginny got into 
the front seat, which had been stretched so that it 
resembled a park bench. “I mean, you’d never know it 
was this roomy from the outside, would you?” 

Mr. Weasley started up the engine and they trundled 
out of the yard, Harry turning back for a last look at 
the house. He barely had time to wonder when he’d 
see it again when they were back — George had 
forgotten his box of Filibuster fireworks. Five minutes 
after that, they skidded to a halt in the yard so that 
Fred could run in for his broomstick. They had 
almost reached the highway when Ginny shrieked 
that she’d left her diary. By the time she had 
clambered back into the car, they were running very 
late, and tempers were running high. 

Mr. Weasley glanced at his watch and then at his 
wife. 

“Molly, dear — ” 



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“No, Arthur — ” 



“No one would see — this little button here is an 
Invisibility Booster I installed — that’d get us up in 
the air — then we fly above the clouds. We’d be there 
in ten minutes and no one would be any the wiser — ” 

“I said no, Arthur, not in broad daylight — ” 

They reached King’s Cross at a quarter to eleven. Mr. 
Weasley dashed across the road to get trolleys for 
their trunks and they all hurried into the station. 

Harry had caught the Hogwarts Express the previous 
year. The tricky part was getting onto platform nine 
and three-quarters, which wasn’t visible to the 
Muggle eye. What you had to do was walk through 
the solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. It 
didn’t hurt, but it had to be done carefully so that 
none of the Muggles noticed you vanishing. 

“Percy first,” said Mrs. Weasley, looking nervously at 
the clock overhead, which showed they had only five 
minutes to disappear casually through the barrier. 

Percy strode briskly forward and vanished. Mr. 
Weasley went next; Fred and George followed. 

“I’ll take Ginny and you two come right after us,” Mrs. 
Weasley told Harry and Ron, grabbing Ginny’s hand 
and setting off. In the blink of an eye they were gone. 

“Let’s go together, we’ve only got a minute,” Ron said 
to Harry. 

Harry made sure that Hedwig’s cage was safely 
wedged on top of his trunk and wheeled his trolley 
around to face the barrier. He felt perfectly confident; 
this wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as using Floo 

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powder. Both of them bent low over the handles of 
their trolleys and walked purposefully toward the 
barrier, gathering speed. A few feet away from it, they 
broke into a run and — 

CRASH. 

Both trolleys hit the barrier and bounced backward; 
Ron’s trunk fell off with a loud thump, Harry was 
knocked off his feet, and Hedwig’s cage bounced onto 
the shiny floor, and she rolled away, shrieking 
indignantly; people all around them stared and a 
guard nearby yelled, “What in blazes d’you think 
you’re doing?” 

“Lost control of the trolley,” Harry gasped, clutching 
his ribs as he got up. Ron ran to pick up Hedwig, who 
was causing such a scene that there was a lot of 
muttering about cruelty to animals from the 
surrounding crowd. 

“Why can’t we get through?” Harry hissed to Ron. 

“I dunno — ” 

Ron looked wildly around. A dozen curious people 
were still watching them. 

“We’re going to miss the train,” Ron whispered. “I 
don’t understand why the gateway’s sealed itself — ” 

Harry looked up at the giant clock with a sickening 
feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ten seconds ... nine 
seconds ... 

He wheeled his trolley forward cautiously until it was 
right against the barrier and pushed with all his 
might. The metal remained solid. 



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Three seconds ... two seconds ... one second ... 

“It’s gone,” said Ron, sounding stunned. “The train’s 
left. What if Mum and Dad can’t get back through to 
us? Have you got any Muggle money?” 

Harry gave a hollow laugh. “The Dursleys haven’t 
given me pocket money for about six years.” 

Ron pressed his ear to the cold barrier. 

“Can’t hear a thing,” he said tensely. “What’re we 
going to do? I don’t know how long it’ll take Mum and 
Dad to get back to us.” 

They looked around. People were still watching them, 
mainly because of Hedwig’s continuing screeches. 

“I think we’d better go and wait by the car,” said 
Harry. “We’re attracting too much atten — ” 

“Harry!” said Ron, his eyes gleaming. “The car!” 

“What about it?” 

“We can fly the car to Hogwarts!” 

“But I thought — ” 

“We’re stuck, right? And we’ve got to get to school, 
haven’t we? And even underage wizards are allowed to 
use magic if it’s a real emergency, section nineteen or 
something of the Restriction of Thingy — ” 

“But your mum and dad ...” said Harry, pushing 
against the barrier again in the vain hope that it 
would give way. “How will they get home?” 



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“They don’t need the car!” said Ron impatiently. “They 
know how to Apparate! You know, just vanish and 
reappear at home! They only bother with Floo powder 
and the car because we’re all underage and we’re not 
allowed to Apparate yet. ...” 

Harry’s feeling of panic turned suddenly to 
excitement. 

“Can you fly it?” 

“No problem,” said Ron, wheeling his trolley around to 
face the exit. “C’mon, let’s go. If we hurry we’ll be able 
to follow the Hogwarts Express — ” 

And they marched off through the crowd of curious 
Muggles, out of the station and back onto the side 
road where the old Ford Anglia was parked. 

Ron unlocked the cavernous trunk with a series of 
taps from his wand. They heaved their luggage back 
in, put Hedwig on the back seat, and got into the 
front. 

“Check that no one’s watching,” said Ron, starting the 
ignition with another tap of his wand. Harry stuck his 
head out of the window: Traffic was rumbling along 
the main road ahead, but their street was empty. 

“Okay,” he said. 

Ron pressed a tiny silver button on the dashboard. 
The car around them vanished — and so did they. 
Harry could feel the seat vibrating beneath him, hear 
the engine, feel his hands on his knees and his 
glasses on his nose, but for all he could see, he had 
become a pair of eyeballs, floating a few feet above the 
ground in a dingy street full of parked cars. 



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“Let’s go,” said Ron’s voice from his right. 



And the ground and the dirty buildings on either side 
fell away, dropping out of sight as the car rose; in 
seconds, the whole of London lay, smoky and 
glittering, below them. 

Then there was a popping noise and the car, Harry, 
and Ron reappeared. 

“Uh-oh,” said Ron, jabbing at the Invisibility Booster. 
“It’s faulty — ” 

Both of them pummeled it. The car vanished. Then it 
flickered back again. 

“Hold on!” Ron yelled, and he slammed his foot on the 
accelerator; they shot straight into the low, woolly 
clouds and everything turned dull and foggy. 

“Now what?” said Harry, blinking at the solid mass of 
cloud pressing in on them from all sides. 

“We need to see the train to know what direction to go 
in,” said Ron. 

“Dip back down again — quickly — ” 

They dropped back beneath the clouds and twisted 
around in their seats, squinting at the ground. 

“I can see it!” Harry yelled. “Right ahead — there!” 

The Hogwarts Express was streaking along below 
them like a scarlet snake. 

“Due north,” said Ron, checking the compass on the 
dashboard. “Okay, we’ll just have to check on it every 
half hour or so — hold on — ” 

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And they shot up through the clouds. A minute later, 
they burst out into a blaze of sunlight. 

It was a different world. The wheels of the car 
skimmed the sea of fluffy cloud, the sky a bright, 
endless blue under the blinding white sun. 

“All we’ve got to worry about now are airplanes,” said 
Ron. 

They looked at each other and started to laugh; for a 
long time, they couldn’t stop. 

It was as though they had been plunged into a 
fabulous dream. This, thought Harry, was surely the 
only way to travel — past swirls and turrets of snowy 
cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a fat 
pack of toffees in the glove compartment, and the 
prospect of seeing Fred’s and George’s jealous faces 
when they landed smoothly and spectacularly on the 
sweeping lawn in front of Hogwarts castle. 

They made regular checks on the train as they flew 
farther and farther north, each dip beneath the 
clouds showing them a different view. London was 
soon far behind them, replaced by neat green fields 
that gave way in turn to wide, purplish moors, a great 
city alive with cars like multicolored ants, villages 
with tiny toy churches. 

Several uneventful hours later, however, Harry had to 
admit that some of the fun was wearing off. The 
toffees had made them extremely thirsty and they had 
nothing to drink. He and Ron had pulled off their 
sweaters, but Harry’s T-shirt was sticking to the back 
of his seat and his glasses kept sliding down to the 
end of his sweaty nose. He had stopped noticing the 
fantastic cloud shapes now and was thinking 
longingly of the train miles below, where you could 
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buy ice-cold pumpkin juice from a trolley pushed by a 
plump witch. Why hadn’t they been able to get onto 
platform nine and three-quarters? 

“Can’t be much further, can it?” croaked Ron, hours 
later still, as the sun started to sink into their floor of 
cloud, staining it a deep pink. “Ready for another 
check on the train?” 

It was still right below them, winding its way past a 
snowcapped mountain. It was much darker beneath 
the canopy of clouds. 

Ron put his foot on the accelerator and drove them 
upward again, but as he did so, the engine began to 
whine. 

Harry and Ron exchanged nervous glances. 

“It’s probably just tired,” said Ron. “It’s never been 
this far before. ...” 

And they both pretended not to notice the whining 
growing louder and louder as the sky became steadily 
darker. Stars were blossoming in the blackness. 

Harry pulled his sweater back on, trying to ignore the 
way the windshield wipers were now waving feebly, as 
though in protest. 

“Not far,” said Ron, more to the car than to Harry, 

“not far now,” and he patted the dashboard 
nervously. 

When they flew back beneath the clouds a little while 
later, they had to squint through the darkness for a 
landmark they knew. 

“There!” Harry shouted, making Ron and Hedwig 
jump. “Straight ahead!” 

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Silhouetted on the dark horizon, high on the cliff over 
the lake, stood the many turrets and towers of 
Hogwarts castle. 

But the car had begun to shudder and was losing 
speed. 

“Come on,” Ron said cajolingly, giving the steering 
wheel a little shake, “nearly there, come on — ” 

The engine groaned. Narrow jets of steam were 
issuing from under the hood. Harry found himself 
gripping the edges of his seat very hard as they flew 
toward the lake. 

The car gave a nasty wobble. Glancing out of his 
window, Harry saw the smooth, black, glassy surface 
of the water, a mile below. Ron’s knuckles were white 
on the steering wheel. The car wobbled again. 

“Come on,” Ron muttered. 

They were over the lake — the castle was right ahead 
— Ron put his foot down. 

There was a loud clunk, a splutter, and the engine 
died completely. 

“Uh-oh,” said Ron, into the silence. 

The nose of the car dropped. They were falling, 
gathering speed, heading straight for the solid castle 
wall. 

“IVoooooo!” Ron yelled, swinging the steering wheel 
around; they missed the dark stone wall by inches as 
the car turned in a great arc, soaring over the dark 
greenhouses, then the vegetable patch, and then out 
over the black lawns, losing altitude all the time. 

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Ron let go of the steering wheel completely and pulled 
his wand out of his back pocket — 



“STOP! STOP!” he yelled, whacking the dashboard 
and the windshield, but they were still plummeting, 
the ground flying up toward them — 

“WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE!” Harry bellowed, 
lunging for the steering wheel, but too late — 

CRUNCH. 

With an earsplitting bang of metal on wood, they hit 
the thick tree trunk and dropped to the ground with a 
heavy jolt. Steam was billowing from under the 
crumpled hood; Hedwig was shrieking in terror; a 
golf-ball-sized lump was throbbing on Harry’s head 
where he had hit the windshield; and to his right, Ron 
let out a low, despairing groan. 

“Are you okay?” Harry said urgently. 

“My wand,” said Ron, in a shaky voice. “Look at my 
wand — ” 

It had snapped, almost in two; the tip was dangling 
limply, held on by a few splinters. 

Harry opened his mouth to say he was sure they’d be 
able to mend it up at the school, but he never even 
got started. At that very moment, something hit his 
side of the car with the force of a charging bull, 
sending him lurching sideways into Ron, just as an 
equally heavy blow hit the roof. 

“What’s happen — ?” 

Ron gasped, staring through the windshield, and 
Harry looked around just in time to see a branch as 

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thick as a python smash into it. The tree they had hit 
was attacking them. Its trunk was bent almost 
double, and its gnarled boughs were pummeling every 
inch of the car it could reach. 

“Aaargh!” said Ron as another twisted limb punched a 
large dent into his door; the windshield was now 
trembling under a hail of blows from knuckle-like 
twigs and a branch as thick as a battering ram was 
pounding furiously on the roof, which seemed to be 
caving — 

“Run for it!” Ron shouted, throwing his full weight 
against his door, but next second he had been 
knocked backward into Harry’s lap by a vicious 
uppercut from another branch. 

“We’re done for!” he moaned as the ceiling sagged, but 
suddenly the floor of the car was vibrating — the 
engine had restarted. 

“Reverse!” Harry yelled, and the car shot backward; 
the tree was still trying to hit them; they could hear 
its roots creaking as it almost ripped itself up, lashing 
out at them as they sped out of reach. 

“That,” panted Ron, “was close. Well done, car — ” 

The car, however, had reached the end of its tether. 
With two sharp clunks, the doors flew open and Harry 
felt his seat tip sideways: Next thing he knew he was 
sprawled on the damp ground. Loud thuds told him 
that the car was ejecting their luggage from the trunk; 
Hedwig’s cage flew through the air and burst open; 
she rose out of it with an angry screech and sped off 
toward the castle without a backward look. Then, 
dented, scratched, and steaming, the car rumbled off 
into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily. 



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“Come back!” Ron yelled after it, brandishing his 
broken wand. “Dad’ll kill me!” 

But the car disappeared from view with one last snort 
from its exhaust. 

“Can you believe our luck?” said Ron miserably, 
bending down to pick up Scabbers. “Of all the trees 
we could’ve hit, we had to get one that hits back.” 

He glanced over his shoulder at the ancient tree, 
which was still flailing its branches threateningly. 

“Come on,” said Harry wearily, “we’d better get up to 
the school. ...” 

It wasn’t at all the triumphant arrival they had 
pictured. Stiff, cold, and bruised, they seized the ends 
of their trunks and began dragging them up the 
grassy slope, toward the great oak front doors. 

“I think the feast’s already started,” said Ron, 
dropping his trunk at the foot of the front steps and 
crossing quietly to look through a brightly lit window. 
“Hey — Harry — come and look — it’s the Sorting!” 

Harry hurried over and, together, he and Ron peered 
in at the Great Hall. 

Innumerable candles were hovering in midair over 
four long, crowded tables, making the golden plates 
and goblets sparkle. Overhead, the bewitched ceiling, 
which always mirrored the sky outside, sparkled with 
stars. 

Through the forest of pointed black Hogwarts hats, 
Harry saw a long line of scared-looking first years 
filing into the Hall. Ginny was among them, easily 
visible because of her vivid Weasley hair. Meanwhile, 

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Professor McGonagall, a bespectacled witch with her 
hair in a tight bun, was placing the famous Hogwarts 
Sorting Hat on a stool before the newcomers. 

Every year, this aged old hat, patched, frayed, and 
dirty, sorted new students into the four Hogwarts 
houses (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and 
Slytherin). Harry well remembered putting it on, 
exactly one year ago, and waiting, petrified, for its 
decision as it muttered aloud in his ear. For a few 
horrible seconds he had feared that the hat was going 
to put him in Slytherin, the House that had turned 
out more Dark witches and wizards than any other — 
but he had ended up in Gryffindor, along with Ron, 
Hermione, and the rest of the Weasleys. Last term, 
Harry and Ron had helped Gryffindor win the House 
Championship, beating Slytherin for the first time in 
seven years. 

A very small, mousy-haired boy had been called 
forward to place the hat on his head. Harry’s eyes 
wandered past him to where Professor Dumbledore, 
the headmaster, sat watching the Sorting from the 
staff table, his long silver beard and half-moon 
glasses shining brightly in the candlelight. Several 
seats along, Harry saw Gilderoy Lockhart, dressed in 
robes of aquamarine. And there at the end was 
Hagrid, huge and hairy, drinking deeply from his 
goblet. 

“Hang on ...” Harry muttered to Ron. “There’s an 
empty chair at the staff table. ... Where’s Snape?” 

Professor Severus Snape was Harry’s least favorite 
teacher. Harry also happened to be Snape ’s least 
favorite student. Cruel, sarcastic, and disliked by 
everybody except the students from his own House 
(Slytherin), Snape taught Potions. 



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“Maybe he’s ill!” said Ron hopefully. 

“Maybe he’s left,” said Harry, “because he missed out 
on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again).” 

“Or he might have been sacked).” said Ron 
enthusiastically. “I mean, everyone hates him — ” 

“Or maybe,” said a very cold voice right behind them, 
“he’s waiting to hear why you two didn’t arrive on the 
school train.” 

Harry spun around. There, his black robes rippling in 
a cold breeze, stood Severus Snape. He was a thin 
man with sallow skin, a hooked nose, and greasy, 
shoulder-length black hair, and at this moment, he 
was smiling in a way that told Harry he and Ron were 
in very deep trouble. 

“Follow me,” said Snape. 

Not daring even to look at each other, Harry and Ron 
followed Snape up the steps into the vast, echoing 
entrance hall, which was lit with flaming torches. A 
delicious smell of food was wafting from the Great 
Hall, but Snape led them away from the warmth and 
light, down a narrow stone staircase that led into the 
dungeons. 

“In!” he said, opening a door halfway down the cold 
passageway and pointing. 

They entered Snape’s office, shivering. The shadowy 
walls were lined with shelves of large glass jars, in 
which floated all manner of revolting things Harry 
didn’t really want to know the name of at the 
moment. The fireplace was dark and empty. Snape 
closed the door and turned to look at them. 



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“So,” he said softly, “the train isn’t good enough for 
the famous Harry Potter and his faithful sidekick, 
Weasley. Wanted to arrive with a bang, did we, boys?” 

“No, sir, it was the barrier at King’s Cross, it — ” 

“Silence!” said Snape coldly. “What have you done 
with the car?” 

Ron gulped. This wasn’t the first time Snape had 
given Harry the impression of being able to read 
minds. But a moment later, he understood, as Snape 
unrolled today’s issue of the Evening Prophet 

“You were seen,” he hissed, showing them the 
headline: FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES 
MUGGLES. He began to read aloud: “Two Muggles in 
London, convinced they saw an old car flying over the 
Post Office tower ... at noon in Norfolk, Mrs. Hetty 
Bayliss, while hanging out her washing ... Mr. Angus 
Fleet, of Peebles, reported to police ... Six or seven 
Muggles in all. I believe your father works in the 
Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?” he said, looking 
up at Ron and smiling still more nastily. “Dear, dear 
... his own son ...” 

Harry felt as though he’d just been walloped in the 
stomach by one of the mad tree’s larger branches. If 
anyone found out Mr. Weasley had bewitched the car 
...he hadn’t thought of that. ... 

“I noticed, in my search of the park, that considerable 
damage seems to have been done to a very valuable 
Whomping Willow,” Snape went on. 

“That tree did more damage to us than we — ” Ron 
blurted out. 



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“Silence!” snapped Snape again. “Most unfortunately, 
you are not in my House and the decision to expel 
you does not rest with me. I shall go and fetch the 
people who do have that happy power. You will wait 
here.” 

Harry and Ron stared at each other, white-faced. 
Harry didn’t feel hungry anymore. He now felt 
extremely sick. He tried not to look at a large, slimy 
something suspended in green liquid on a shelf 
behind Snape ’s desk. If Snape had gone to fetch 
Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor House, they 
were hardly any better off. She might be fairer than 
Snape, but she was still extremely strict. 

Ten minutes later, Snape returned, and sure enough 
it was Professor McGonagall who accompanied him. 
Harry had seen Professor McGonagall angry on 
several occasions, but either he had forgotten just 
how thin her mouth could go, or he had never seen 
her this angry before. She raised her wand the 
moment she entered; Harry and Ron both flinched, 
but she merely pointed it at the empty fireplace, 
where flames suddenly erupted. 

“Sit,” she said, and they both backed into chairs by 
the fire. 

“Explain,” she said, her glasses glinting ominously. 

Ron launched into the story, starting with the barrier 
at the station refusing to let them through. 

“ — so we had no choice, Professor, we couldn’t get on 
the train.” 

“Why didn’t you send us a letter by owl? I believe you 
have an owl?” Professor McGonagall said coldly to 
Harry. 

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Harry gaped at her. Now she’d said it, that seemed 
the obvious thing to have done. 



“I — I didn’t think — ” 

“That,” said Professor McGonagall, “is obvious.” 

There was a knock on the office door and Snape, now 
looking happier than ever, opened it. There stood the 
headmaster, Professor Dumbledore. 

Harry’s whole body went numb. Dumbledore was 
looking unusually grave. He stared down his very 
crooked nose at them, and Harry suddenly found 
himself wishing he and Ron were still being beaten up 
by the Whomping Willow. 

There was a long silence. Then Dumbledore said, 
“Please explain why you did this.” 

It would have been better if he had shouted. Harry 
hated the disappointment in his voice. For some 
reason, he was unable to look Dumbledore in the 
eyes, and spoke instead to his knees. He told 
Dumbledore everything except that Mr. Weasley 
owned the bewitched car, making it sound as though 
he and Ron had happened to find a flying car parked 
outside the station. He knew Dumbledore would see 
through this at once, but Dumbledore asked no 
questions about the car. When Harry had finished, he 
merely continued to peer at them through his 
spectacles. 

“Well go and get our stuff,” said Ron in a hopeless 
sort of voice. 

“What are you talking about, Weasley?” barked 
Professor McGonagall. 

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“Well, you’re expelling us, aren’t you?” said Ron. 

Harry looked quickly at Dumbledore. 

“Not today, Mr. Weasley,” said Dumbledore. “But I 
must impress upon both of you the seriousness of 
what you have done. I will be writing to both your 
families tonight. I must also warn you that if you do 
anything like this again, I will have no choice but to 
expel you.” 

Snape looked as though Christmas had been 
canceled. He cleared his throat and said, “Professor 
Dumbledore, these boys have flouted the Decree for 
the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, caused serious 
damage to an old and valuable tree — surely acts of 
this nature — ” 

“It will be for Professor McGonagall to decide on these 
boys’ punishments, Severus,” said Dumbledore 
calmly. “They are in her House and are therefore her 
responsibility.” He turned to Professor McGonagall. “I 
must go back to the feast, Minerva, I’ve got to give out 
a few notices. Come, Severus, there’s a delicious- 
looking custard tart I want to sample — ” 

Snape shot a look of pure venom at Harry and Ron as 
he allowed himself to be swept out of his office, 
leaving them alone with Professor McGonagall, who 
was still eyeing them like a wrathful eagle. 

“You’d better get along to the hospital wing, Weasley, 
you’re bleeding.” 

“Not much,” said Ron, hastily wiping the cut over his 
eye with his sleeve. “Professor, I wanted to watch my 
sister being Sorted — ” 



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“The Sorting Ceremony is over,” said Professor 
McGonagall. “Your sister is also in Gryffindor.” 

“Oh, good,” said Ron. 

“And speaking of Gryffindor — ” Professor McGonagall 
said sharply, but Harry cut in: “Professor, when we 
took the car, term hadn’t started, so — so Gryffindor 
shouldn’t really have points taken from it — should 
it?” he finished, watching her anxiously. 

Professor McGonagall gave him a piercing look, but 
he was sure she had almost smiled. Her mouth 
looked less thin, anyway. 

“I will not take any points from Gryffindor,” she said, 
and Harry’s heart lightened considerably. “But you 
will both get a detention.” 

It was better than Harry had expected. As for 
Dumbledore’s writing to the Dursleys, that was 
nothing. Harry knew perfectly well they’d just be 
disappointed that the Whomping Willow hadn’t 
squashed him flat. 

Professor McGonagall raised her wand again and 
pointed it at Snape’s desk. A large plate of 
sandwiches, two silver goblets, and a jug of iced 
pumpkin juice appeared with a pop. 

“You will eat in here and then go straight up to your 
dormitory,” she said. “I must also return to the feast.” 

When the door had closed behind her, Ron let out a 
long, low whistle. 

“I thought we’d had it,” he said, grabbing a sandwich. 

“So did I,” said Harry, taking one, too. 

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“Can you believe our luck, though?” said Ron thickly 
through a mouthful of chicken and ham. “Fred and 
George must’ve flown that car five or six times and no 
Muggle ever saw them.” He swallowed and took 
another huge bite. “Why couldn’t we get through the 
barrier?” 

Harry shrugged. “We’ll have to watch our step from 
now on, though,” he said, taking a grateful swig of 
pumpkin juice. “Wish we could’ve gone up to the 
feast. ...” 

“She didn’t want us showing off,” said Ron sagely. 
“Doesn’t want people to think it’s clever, arriving by 
flying car.” 

When they had eaten as many sandwiches as they 
could (the plate kept refilling itself), they rose and left 
the office, treading the familiar path to Gryffindor 
Tower. The castle was quiet; it seemed that the feast 
was over. They walked past muttering portraits and 
creaking suits of armor, and climbed narrow flights of 
stone stairs, until at last they reached the passage 
where the secret entrance to Gryffindor Tower was 
hidden, behind an oil painting of a very fat woman in 
a pink silk dress. 

“Password?” she said as they approached. 

“Er — ” said Harry. 

They didn’t know the new year’s password, not having 
met a Gryffindor prefect yet, but help came almost 
immediately; they heard hurrying feet behind them 
and turned to see Hermione dashing toward them. 

“There you are! Where have you been? The most 
ridiculous rumors — someone said you’d been 
expelled for crashing a flying car — ” 

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“Well, we haven’t been expelled,” Harry assured her. 



“You’re not telling me you did fly here?” said 
Hermione, sounding almost as severe as Professor 
McGonagall. 

“Skip the lecture,” said Ron impatiently, “and tell us 
the new password.” 

“It’s ‘wattlebird,’ ” said Hermione impatiently, “but 
that’s not the point — ” 

Her words were cut short, however, as the portrait of 
the fat lady swung open and there was a sudden 
storm of clapping. It looked as though the whole of 
Gryffindor House was still awake, packed into the 
circular common room, standing on the lopsided 
tables and squashy armchairs, waiting for them to 
arrive. Arms reached through the portrait hole to pull 
Harry and Ron inside, leaving Hermione to scramble 
in after them. 

“Brilliant!” yelled Lee Jordan. “Inspired! What an 
entrance! Flying a car right into the Whomping 
Willow, people’ll be talking about that one for years — 



“Good for you,” said a fifth year Harry had never 
spoken to; someone was patting him on the back as 
though he’d just won a marathon; Fred and George 
pushed their way to the front of the crowd and said 
together, “Why couldn’t we’ve come in the car, eh?” 
Ron was scarlet in the face, grinning embarrassedly, 
but Harry could see one person who didn’t look happy 
at all. Percy was visible over the heads of some 
excited first years, and he seemed to be trying to get 
near enough to start telling them off. Harry nudged 
Ron in the ribs and nodded in Percy’s direction. Ron 
got the point at once. 

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“Got to get upstairs — bit tired,” he said, and the two 
of them started pushing their way toward the door on 
the other side of the room, which led to a spiral 
staircase and the dormitories. 

“ ’Night,” Harry called back to Hermione, who was 
wearing a scowl just like Percy’s. 

They managed to get to the other side of the common 
room, still having their backs slapped, and gained the 
peace of the staircase. They hurried up it, right to the 
top, and at last reached the door of their old 
dormitory, which now had a sign on it saying 
SECOND YEARS. They entered the familiar, circular 
room, with its five four-posters hung with red velvet 
and its high, narrow windows. Their trunks had been 
brought up for them and stood at the ends of their 
beds. 

Ron grinned guiltily at Harry. 

“I know I shouldn’t ’ve enjoyed that or anything, but — 



The dormitory door flew open and in came the other 
second year Gryffindor boys, Seamus Finnigan, Dean 
Thomas, and Neville Longbottom. 

“Unbelievablel” beamed Seamus. 

“Cool,” said Dean. 

“Amazing,” said Neville, awestruck. 

Harry couldn’t help it. He grinned, too. 



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6 




GILDEROY LOCKHART 

The next day, however, Harry barely grinned once. 
Things started to go downhill from breakfast in the 
Great Hall. The four long House tables were laden 
with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains 
of toast, and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the 
enchanted ceiling (today, a dull, cloudy gray). Harry 
and Ron sat down at the Gryffindor table next to 
Hermione, who had her copy of Voyages with 
Vampires propped open against a milk jug. There was 
a slight stiffness in the way she said “ ’Morning,” 
which told Harry that she was still disapproving of the 
way they had arrived. Neville Longbottom, on the 
other hand, greeted them cheerfully. Neville was a 
round-faced and accident-prone boy with the worst 
memory of anyone Harry had ever met. 

“Mail’s due any minute — I think Gran’s sending a 
few things I forgot.” 

Harry had only just started his porridge when, sure 
enough, there was a rushing sound overhead and a 
hundred or so owls streamed in, circling the hall and 

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dropping letters and packages into the chattering 
crowd. A big, lumpy package bounced off Neville’s 
head and, a second later, something large and gray 
fell into Hermione’s jug, spraying them all with milk 
and feathers. 

“Errol\” said Ron, pulling the bedraggled owl out by 
the feet. Errol slumped, unconscious, onto the table, 
his legs in the air and a damp red envelope in his 
beak. 

“Oh, no — ” Ron gasped. 

“It’s all right, he’s still alive,” said Hermione, prodding 
Errol gently with the tip of her finger. 

“It’s not that — it’s that.” 

Ron was pointing at the red envelope. It looked quite 
ordinary to Harry, but Ron and Neville were both 
looking at it as though they expected it to explode. 

“What’s the matter?” said Harry. 

“She’s — she’s sent me a Howler,” said Ron faintly. 

“You’d better open it, Ron,” said Neville in a timid 
whisper. “It’ll be worse if you don’t. My gran sent me 
one once, and I ignored it and” — he gulped — “it was 
horrible.” 

Harry looked from their petrified faces to the red 
envelope. 

“What’s a Howler?” he said. 

But Ron’s whole attention was fixed on the letter, 
which had begun to smoke at the corners. 



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“Open it,” Neville urged. “It’ll all be over in a few 
minutes — ” 

Ron stretched out a shaking hand, eased the envelope 
from Errol’s beak, and slit it open. Neville stuffed his 
fingers in his ears. A split second later, Harry knew 
why. He thought for a moment it had exploded; a roar 
of sound filled the huge hall, shaking dust from the 
ceiling. 

“— STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN 
SURPRISED IF THEY’D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT 
TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU 
STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I 
WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE — ” 

Mrs. Weasley’s yells, a hundred times louder than 
usual, made the plates and spoons rattle on the table, 
and echoed deafeningly off the stone walls. People 
throughout the hall were swiveling around to see who 
had received the Howler, and Ron sank so low in his 
chair that only his crimson forehead could be seen. 

“— LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I 
THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, 

WE DIDN’T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, 
YOU AND HARRY COULD BOTH HAVE DIED — ” 

Harry had been wondering when his name was going 
to crop up. He tried very hard to look as though he 
couldn’t hear the voice that was making his eardrums 
throb. 

“— ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED — YOUR FATHER’S 
FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT’S ENTIRELY YOUR 
FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE 
WE’LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME.” 



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A ringing silence fell. The red envelope, which had 
dropped from Ron’s hand, burst into flames and 
curled into ashes. Harry and Ron sat stunned, as 
though a tidal wave had just passed over them. A few 
people laughed and, gradually, a babble of talk broke 
out again. 

Hermione closed Voyages with Vampires and looked 
down at the top of Ron’s head. 

“Well, I don’t know what you expected, Ron, but you 



“Don’t tell me I deserved it,” snapped Ron. 

Harry pushed his porridge away. His insides were 
burning with guilt. Mr. Weasley was facing an inquiry 
at work. After all Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had done for 
him over the summer . . . 

But he had no time to dwell on this; Professor 
McGonagall was moving along the Gryffindor table, 
handing out course schedules. Harry took his and 
saw that they had double Herbology with the 
Hufflepuffs first. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together, 
crossed the vegetable patch, and made for the 
greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept. At 
least the Howler had done one good thing: Hermione 
seemed to think they had now been punished enough 
and was being perfectly friendly again. 

As they neared the greenhouses they saw the rest of 
the class standing outside, waiting for Professor 
Sprout. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had only just 
joined them when she came striding into view across 
the lawn, accompanied by Gilderoy Lockhart. 

Professor Sprout’s arms were full of bandages, and 
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with another twinge of guilt, Harry spotted the 
Whomping Willow in the distance, several of its 
branches now in slings. 

Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a 
patched hat over her flyaway hair; there was usually 
a large amount of earth on her clothes and her 
fingernails would have made Aunt Petunia faint. 
Gilderoy Lockhart, however, was immaculate in 
sweeping robes of turquoise, his golden hair shining 
under a perfectly positioned turquoise hat with gold 
trimming. 

“Oh, hello there!” he called, beaming around at the 

assembled students. “Just been showing Professor 

Sprout the right way to doctor a Whomping Willow! 

But I don’t want you running away with the idea that 

I’m better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to 

have met several of these exotic plants on my travels 
?? 



“Greenhouse three today, chaps!” said Professor 
Sprout, who was looking distinctly disgruntled, not at 
all her usual cheerful self. 

There was a murmur of interest. They had only ever 
worked in greenhouse one before — greenhouse three 
housed far more interesting and dangerous plants. 
Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt and 
unlocked the door. Harry caught a whiff of damp 
earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume 
of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from 
the ceiling. He was about to follow Ron and Hermione 
inside when Lockhart’s hand shot out. 

“Harry! I’ve been wanting a word — you don’t mind if 
he’s a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor 
Sprout?” 



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Judging by Professor Sprout’s scowl, she did mind, 
but Lockhart said, “That’s the ticket,” and closed the 
greenhouse door in her face. 

“Harry,” said Lockhart, his large white teeth gleaming 
in the sunlight as he shook his head. “Harry, Harry, 
Harry.” 

Completely nonplussed, Harry said nothing. 

“When I heard — well, of course, it was all my fault. 
Could have kicked myself.” 

Harry had no idea what he was talking about. He was 
about to say so when Lockhart went on, “Don’t know 
when I’ve been more shocked. Flying a car to 
Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you’d 
done it. Stood out a mile. Harry, Harry, Harry.” 

It was remarkable how he could show every one of 
those brilliant teeth even when he wasn’t talking. 

“Gave you a taste for publicity, didn’t I?” said 
Lockhart. “Gave you the bug. You got onto the front 
page of the paper with me and you couldn’t wait to do 
it again.” 

“Oh, no, Professor, see — ” 

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” said Lockhart, reaching out 
and grasping his shoulder. “I understand. Natural to 
want a bit more once you’ve had that first taste — 
and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was 
bound to go to your head — but see here, young man, 
you can’t start flying cars to try and get yourself 
noticed. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for 
all that when you’re older. Yes, yes, I know what 
you’re thinking! ‘It’s all right for him, he’s an 
internationally famous wizard already! ’ But when I 
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was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are 
now. In fact, I’d say I was even more of a nobody! I 
mean, a few people have heard of you, haven’t they? 
All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” 
He glanced at the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead. 

“I know, I know — it’s not quite as good as winning 
Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award five 
times in a row, as I have — but it’s a start, Harry, it’s 
a start” 

He gave Harry a hearty wink and strode off. Harry 
stood stunned for a few seconds, then, remembering 
he was supposed to be in the greenhouse, he opened 
the door and slid inside. 

Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench 
in the center of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of 
different-colored ear-muffs were lying on the bench. 
When Harry had taken his place between Ron and 
Hermione, she said, “We’ll be repotting Mandrakes 
today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the 
Mandrake?” 

To nobody’s surprise, Hermione’s hand was first into 
the air. 

“Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative,” 
said Hermione, sounding as usual as though she had 
swallowed the textbook. “It is used to return people 
who have been transfigured or cursed to their original 
state.” 

“Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor,” said Professor 
Sprout. “The Mandrake forms an essential part of 
most antidotes. It is also, however, dangerous. Who 
can tell me why?” 

Hermione’s hand narrowly missed Harry’s glasses as 
it shot up again. 

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“The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears 
it,” she said promptly. 

“Precisely. Take another ten points,” said Professor 
Sprout. “Now, the Mandrakes we have here are still 
very young.” 

She pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke, and 
everyone shuffled forward for a better look. A hundred 
or so tufty little plants, purplish green in color, were 
growing there in rows. They looked quite 
unremarkable to Harry, who didn’t have the slightest 
idea what Hermione meant by the “cry” of the 
Mandrake. 

“Everyone take a pair of earmuffs,” said Professor 
Sprout. 

There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair 
that wasn’t pink and fluffy. 

“When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears 
are completely covered,” said Professor Sprout. “When 
it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs- 
up. Right — earmuffs on.” 

Harry snapped the earmuffs over his ears. They shut 
out sound completely. Professor Sprout put the pink, 
fluffy pair over her own ears, rolled up the sleeves of 
her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and 
pulled hard. 

Harry let out a gasp of surprise that no one could 
hear. 

Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and extremely ugly 
baby popped out of the earth. The leaves were 
growing right out of his head. He had pale green, 



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mottled skin, and was clearly bawling at the top of his 
lungs. 

Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under 
the table and plunged the Mandrake into it, burying 
him in dark, damp compost until only the tufted 
leaves were visible. Professor Sprout dusted off her 
hands, gave them all the thumbs-up, and removed 
her own earmuffs. 

“As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries 
won’t kill yet,” she said calmly as though she’d just 
done nothing more exciting than water a begonia. 
“However, they will knock you out for several hours, 
and as I’m sure none of you want to miss your first 
day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in 
place while you work. I will attract your attention 
when it is time to pack up. 

“Four to a tray — there is a large supply of pots here 

— compost in the sacks over there — and be careful 
of the Venomous Tentacula, it’s teething.” 

She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as 
she spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had 
been inching sneakily over her shoulder. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were joined at their tray by 
a curly-haired Hufflepuff boy Harry knew by sight but 
had never spoken to. 

“Justin Finch-Fletchley,” he said brightly, shaking 
Harry by the hand. “Know who you are, of course, the 
famous Harry Potter. ... And you’re Hermione Granger 

— always top in everything” (Hermione beamed as she 
had her hand shaken too) “ — and Ron Weasley. 
Wasn’t that your flying car?” 



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Ron didn’t smile. The Howler was obviously still on 
his mind. 

“That Lockhart’s something, isn’t he?” said Justin 
happily as they began filling their plant pots with 
dragon dung compost. “Awfully brave chap. Have you 
read his books? I’d have died of fear if I’d been 
cornered in a telephone booth by a werewolf, but he 
stayed cool and — zap — just fantastic. 

“My name was down for Eton, you know. I can’t tell 
you how glad I am I came here instead. Of course, 
Mother was slightly disappointed, but since I made 
her read Lockhart’s books I think she’s begun to see 
how useful it’ll be to have a fully trained wizard in the 
family. ...” 

After that they didn’t have much chance to talk. Their 
earmuffs were back on and they needed to 
concentrate on the Mandrakes. Professor Sprout had 
made it look extremely easy, but it wasn’t. The 
Mandrakes didn’t like coming out of the earth, but 
didn’t seem to want to go back into it either. They 
squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists, and 
gnashed their teeth; Harry spent ten whole minutes 
trying to squash a particularly fat one into a pot. 

By the end of the class, Harry, like everyone else, was 
sweaty, aching, and covered in earth. Everyone 
traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and then 
the Gryffindors hurried off to Transfiguration. 

Professor McGonagall’s classes were always hard 
work, but today was especially difficult. Everything 
Harry had learned last year seemed to have leaked 
out of his head during the summer. He was supposed 
to be turning a beetle into a button, but all he 
managed to do was give his beetle a lot of exercise as 
it scuttled over the desktop avoiding his wand. 

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Ron was having far worse problems. He had patched 
up his wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it 
seemed to be damaged beyond repair. It kept 
crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every 
time Ron tried to transfigure his beetle it engulfed 
him in thick gray smoke that smelled of rotten eggs. 
Unable to see what he was doing, Ron accidentally 
squashed his beetle with his elbow and had to ask for 
a new one. Professor McGonagall wasn’t pleased. 

Harry was relieved to hear the lunch bell. His brain 
felt like a wrung sponge. Everyone filed out of the 
classroom except him and Ron, who was whacking 
his wand furiously on the desk. 

“Stupid — useless — thing — ” 

“Write home for another one,” Harry suggested as the 
wand let off a volley of bangs like a firecracker. 

“Oh, yeah, and get another Howler back,” said Ron, 
stuffing the now hissing wand into his bag. “ ‘It’s your 
own fault your wand got snapped — ’ ” 

They went down to lunch, where Ron’s mood was not 
improved by Hermione’s showing them the handful of 
perfect coat buttons she had produced in 
T ransfiguration . 

“What’ve we got this afternoon?” said Harry, hastily 
changing the subject. 

“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermione at 
once. 

“Why,” demanded Ron, seizing her schedule, “have 
you outlined all Lockhart’s lessons in little hearts?” 



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Hermione snatched the schedule back, blushing 
furiously. 

They finished lunch and went outside into the 
overcast courtyard. Hermione sat down on a stone 
step and buried her nose in Voyages with Vampires 
again. Harry and Ron stood talking about Quidditch 
for several minutes before Harry became aware that 
he was being closely watched. Looking up, he saw the 
very small, mousy-haired boy he’d seen trying on the 
Sorting Hat last night staring at Harry as though 
transfixed. He was clutching what looked like an 
ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Harry 
looked at him, he went bright red. 

“All right, Harry? I’m — I’m Colin Creevey,” he said 
breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. “I’m in 
Gryffindor, too. D’you think — would it be all right if 
— can I have a picture?” he said, raising the camera 
hopefully. 

“A picture?” Harry repeated blankly. 

“So I can prove I’ve met you,” said Colin Creevey 
eagerly, edging further forward. “I know all about you. 
Everyone’s told me. About how you survived when 
You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he 
disappeared and everything and how you’ve still got a 
lightning scar on your forehead” (his eyes raked 
Harry’s hairline) “and a boy in my dormitory said if I 
develop the film in the right potion, the pictures’ll 
move.” Colin drew a great shuddering breath of 
excitement and said, “It’s amazing here, isn’t it? I 
never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I 
got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad’s a milkman, he 
couldn’t believe it either. So I’m taking loads of 
pictures to send home to him. And it’d be really good 
if I had one of you” — he looked imploringly at Harry 



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— “maybe your friend could take it and I could stand 
next to you? And then, could you sign it?” 

“ Signed photos? You’re giving out signed photos, 
Potter?” 

Loud and scathing, Draco Malfoy’s voice echoed 
around the courtyard. He had stopped right behind 
Colin, flanked, as he always was at Hogwarts, by his 
large and thuggish cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. 

“Everyone line up!” Malfoy roared to the crowd. “Harry 
Potter’s giving out signed photos!” 

“No, I’m not,” said Harry angrily, his fists clenching. 
“Shut up, Malfoy.” 

“You’re just jealous,” piped up Colin, whose entire 
body was about as thick as Crabbe ’s neck. 

“Jealous?” said Malfoy, who didn’t need to shout 
anymore: Half the courtyard was listening in. “Of 
what? I don’t want a foul scar right across my head, 
thanks. I don’t think getting your head cut open 
makes you that special, myself.” 

Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering stupidly. 

“Eat slugs, Malfoy,” said Ron angrily. Crabbe stopped 
laughing and started rubbing his knuckles in a 
menacing way. 

“Be careful, Weasley,” sneered Malfoy. “You don’t 
want to start any trouble or your mommy’ll have to 
come and take you away from school.” He put on a 
shrill, piercing voice. “If you put another toe out of line 



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A knot of Slytherin fifth years nearby laughed loudly 
at this. 

“Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter,” smirked 
Malfoy. “It’d be worth more than his family’s whole 
house — ” 

Ron whipped out his Spellotaped wand, but Hermione 
shut Voyages with Vampires with a snap and 
whispered, “Look out!” 

“What’s all this, what’s all this?” Gilderoy Lockhart 
was striding toward them, his turquoise robes 
swirling behind him. “Who’s giving out signed 
photos?” 

Harry started to speak but he was cut short as 
Lockhart flung an arm around his shoulders and 
thundered jovially, “Shouldn’t have asked! We meet 
again, Harry!” 

Pinned to Lockhart’s side and burning with 
humiliation, Harry saw Malfoy slide smirking back 
into the crowd. 

“Come on then, Mr. Creevey,” said Lockhart, beaming 
at Colin. “A double portrait, can’t do better than that, 
and well both sign it for you.” 

Colin fumbled for his camera and took the picture as 
the bell rang behind them, signaling the start of 
afternoon classes. 

“Off you go, move along there,” Lockhart called to the 
crowd, and he set off back to the castle with Harry, 
who was wishing he knew a good Vanishing Spell, 
still clasped to his side. 



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“A word to the wise, Harry,” said Lockhart paternally 
as they entered the building through a side door. “I 
covered up for you back there with young Creevey — 
if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates 
won’t think you’re setting yourself up so much. ...” 

Deaf to Harry’s stammers, Lockhart swept him down 
a corridor lined with staring students and up a 
staircase. 

“Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at 
this stage of your career isn’t sensible — looks a tad 
bigheaded, Harry, to be frank. There may well come a 
time when, like me, you’ll need to keep a stack handy 
wherever you go, but” — he gave a little chortle — “I 
don’t think you’re quite there yet.” 

They had reached Lockhart’s classroom and he let 
Harry go at last. Harry yanked his robes straight and 
headed for a seat at the very back of the class, where 
he busied himself with piling all seven of Lockhart’s 
books in front of him, so that he could avoid looking 
at the real thing. 

The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ron and 
Hermione sat down on either side of Harry. 

“You could’ve fried an egg on your face,” said Ron. 
“You’d better hope Creevey doesn’t meet Ginny, or 
they’ll be starting a Harry Potter fan club.” 

“Shut up,” snapped Harry. The last thing he needed 
was for Lockhart to hear the phrase “Harry Potter fan 
club.” 

When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared 
his throat loudly and silence fell. He reached forward, 
picked up Neville Longbottom’s copy of Travels with 



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Trolls, and held it up to show his own, winking 
portrait on the front. 

“Me,” he said, pointing at it and winking as well. 
“Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, 
Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, 
and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most- 
Charming- Smile Award — but I don’t talk about that. 
I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at 
her!” 

He waited for them to laugh; a few people smiled 
weakly. 

“I see you’ve all bought a complete set of my books — 
well done. I thought we’d start today with a little quiz. 
Nothing to worry about — just to check how well 
you’ve read them, how much you’ve taken in — ” 

When he had handed out the test papers he returned 
to the front of the class and said, “You have thirty 
minutes — start — now\” 

Harry looked down at his paper and read: 

1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color? 

2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition? 

3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart’s 
greatest achievement to date? 

On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right 
down to: 

54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart’s birthday, and what 
would his ideal gift be? 



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Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and 
rifled through them in front of the class. 

“Tut, tut — hardly any of you remembered that my 
favorite color is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. 

And a few of you need to read Wanderings with 
Werewolves more carefully — I clearly state in 
chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be 
harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples — 
though I wouldn’t say no to a large bottle of Ogden’s 
Old Firewhisky!” 

He gave them another roguish wink. Ron was now 
staring at Lockhart with an expression of disbelief on 
his face; Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who 
were sitting in front, were shaking with silent 
laughter. Hermione, on the other hand, was listening 
to Lockhart with rapt attention and gave a start when 
he mentioned her name. 

"... but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret 
ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my 
own range of hair-care potions — good girl! In fact” — 
he flipped her paper over — “full marks! Where is 
Miss Hermione Granger?” 

Hermione raised a trembling hand. 

“Excellent!” beamed Lockhart. “Quite excellent! Take 
ten points for Gryffindor! And so — to business — ” 

He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, 
covered cage onto it. 

“Now — be warned! It is my job to arm you against 
the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may 
find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. 
Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am 
here. All I ask is that you remain calm.” 

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In spite of himself, Harry leaned around his pile of 
books for a better look at the cage. Lockhart placed a 
hand on the cover. Dean and Seamus had stopped 
laughing now. Neville was cowering in his front row 
seat. 

“I must ask you not to scream,” said Lockhart in a 
low voice. “It might provoke them.” 

As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped 
off the cover. 

“Yes,” he said dramatically. “ Freshly caught Cornish 
pixies.” 

Seamus Finnigan couldn’t control himself. He let out 
a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn’t 
mistake for a scream of terror. 

“Yes?” He smiled at Seamus. 

“Well, they’re not — they’re not very — dangerous, are 
they?” Seamus choked. 

“Don’t be so sure!” said Lockhart, waggling a finger 
annoyingly at Seamus. “Devilish tricky little blighters 
they can be!” 

The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches 
high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was 
like listening to a lot of budgies arguing. The moment 
the cover had been removed, they had started 
jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and 
making bizarre faces at the people nearest them. 

“Right, then,” Lockhart said loudly. “Let’s see what 
you make of them!” And he opened the cage. 



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It was pandemonium. The pixies shot in every 
direction like rockets. Two of them seized Neville by 
the ears and lifted him into the air. Several shot 
straight through the window, showering the back row 
with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the 
classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino. 
They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with 
them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from 
the walls, up-ended the waste basket, grabbed bags 
and books and threw them out of the smashed 
window; within minutes, half the class was sheltering 
under desks and Neville was swinging from the iron 
chandelier in the ceiling. 

“Come on now — round them up, round them up, 
they’re only pixies,” Lockhart shouted. 

He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and 
bellowed, “Peskipiksi Pesternomti” 

It had absolutely no effect; one of the pixies seized his 
wand and threw it out of the window, too. Lockhart 
gulped and dived under his own desk, narrowly 
avoiding being squashed by Neville, who fell a second 
later as the chandelier gave way. 

The bell rang and there was a mad rush toward the 
exit. In the relative calm that followed, Lockhart 
straightened up, caught sight of Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione, who were almost at the door, and said, 
“Well, I’ll ask you three to just nip the rest of them 
back into their cage.” He swept past them and shut 
the door quickly behind him. 

“Can you believe him?” roared Ron as one of the 
remaining pixies bit him painfully on the ear. 

“He just wants to give us some hands-on experience,” 
said Hermione, immobilizing two pixies at once with a 

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clever Freezing Charm and stuffing them back into 
their cage. 

“Hands on?” said Harry, who was trying to grab a 
pixie dancing out of reach with its tongue out. 
“Hermione, he didn’t have a clue what he was doing 



“Rubbish,” said Hermione. “You’ve read his books — 
look at all those amazing things he’s done — ” 

“He says he’s done,” Ron muttered. 



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7 




MUDBLOODS AND MURMURS 

Harry spent a lot of time over the next few days 
dodging out of sight whenever he saw Gilderoy 
Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder to avoid 
was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized 
Harry’s schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a 
bigger thrill than to say, “All right, Harry?” six or 
seven times a day and hear, “Hello, Colin,” back, 
however exasperated Harry sounded when he said it. 

Hedwig was still angry with Harry about the 
disasterous car journey and Ron’s wand was still 
malfunctioning, surpassing itself on Friday morning 
by shooting out of Ron’s hand in Charms and hitting 
tiny old Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes, 
creating a large, throbbing green boil where it had 
struck. So with one thing and another, Harry was 
quite glad to reach the weekend. He, Ron, and 
Hermione were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday 
morning. Harry, however, was shaken awake several 
hours earlier than he would have liked by Oliver 
Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. 

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“Whassamatter?” said Harry groggily. 

“Quidditch practice!” said Wood. “Come on!” 

Harry squinted at the window. There was a thin mist 
hanging across the pink-and-gold sky. Now that he 
was awake, he couldn’t understand how he could 
have slept through the racket the birds were making. 

“Oliver,” Harry croaked. “It’s the crack of dawn.” 

“Exactly,” said Wood. He was a tall and burly sixth 
year and, at the moment, his eyes were gleaming with 
a crazed enthusiasm. “It’s part of our new training 
program. Come on, grab your broom, and let’s go,” 
said Wood heartily. “None of the other teams have 
started training yet; we’re going to be first off the 
mark this year — ” 

Yawning and shivering slightly, Harry climbed out of 
bed and tried to find his Quidditch robes. 

“Good man,” said Wood. “Meet you on the field in 
fifteen minutes.” 

When he’d found his scarlet team robes and pulled on 
his cloak for warmth, Harry scribbled a note to Ron 
explaining where he’d gone and went down the spiral 
staircase to the common room, his Nimbus Two 
Thousand on his shoulder. He had just reached the 
portrait hole when there was a clatter behind him and 
Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral 
staircase, his camera swinging madly around his 
neck and something clutched in his hand. 

“I heard someone saying your name on the stairs, 
Harry! Look what I’ve got here! I’ve had it developed, I 
wanted to show you — ” 



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Harry looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was 
brandishing under his nose. 

A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard 
on an arm Harry recognized as his own. He was 
pleased to see that his photographic self was putting 
up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view. 
As Harry watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, 
panting, against the white edge of the picture. 

“Will you sign it?” said Colin eagerly. 

“No,” said Harry flatly, glancing around to check that 
the room was really deserted. “Sorry, Colin, I’m in a 
hurry — Quidditch practice — ” 

He climbed through the portrait hole. 

“Oh, wow! Wait for me! I’ve never watched a Quidditch 
game before!” 

Colin scrambled through the hole after him. 

“It’ll be really boring,” Harry said quickly, but Colin 
ignored him, his face shining with excitement. 

“You were the youngest House player in a hundred 
years, weren’t you, Harry? Weren’t you?” said Colin, 
trotting alongside him. “You must be brilliant. I’ve 
never flown. Is it easy? Is that your own broom? Is 
that the best one there is?” 

Harry didn’t know how to get rid of him. It was like 
having an extremely talkative shadow. 

“I don’t really understand Quidditch,” said Colin 
breathlessly. “Is it true there are four balls? And two 
of them fly around trying to knock people off their 
brooms?” 

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“Yes,” said Harry heavily, resigned to explaining the 
complicated rules of Quidditch. “They’re called 
Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team who 
carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their side. 
Fred and George Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters.” 

“And what are the other balls for?” Colin asked, 
tripping down a couple of steps because he was 
gazing open-mouthed at Harry. 

“Well, the Quaffle — that’s the biggish red one — is 
the one that scores goals. Three Chasers on each 
team throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get 
it through the goal posts at the end of the pitch — 
they’re three long poles with hoops on the end.” 

“And the fourth ball — ” 

“ — is the Golden Snitch,” said Harry, “and it’s very 
small, very fast, and difficult to catch. But that’s what 
the Seeker’s got to do, because a game of Quidditch 
doesn’t end until the Snitch has been caught. And 
whichever team’s Seeker gets the Snitch earns his 
team an extra hundred and fifty points.” 

“And you’re the Gryffindor Seeker, aren’t you?” said 
Colin in awe. 

“Yes,” said Harry as they left the castle and started 
across the dew-drenched grass. “And there’s the 
Keeper, too. He guards the goal posts. That’s it, 
really.” 

But Colin didn’t stop questioning Harry all the way 
down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch field, and 
Harry only shook him off when he reached the 
changing rooms; Colin called after him in a piping 
voice, “I’ll go and get a good seat, Harry!” and hurried 
off to the stands. 

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The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the 
changing room. Wood was the only person who looked 
truly awake. Fred and George Weasley were sitting, 
puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to fourth year 
Alicia Spinnet, who seemed to be nodding off against 
the wall behind her. Her fellow Chasers, Katie Bell 
and Angelina Johnson, were yawning side by side 
opposite them. 

“There you are, Harry, what kept you?” said Wood 
briskly. “Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all 
before we actually get onto the field, because I spent 
the summer devising a whole new training program, 
which I really think will make all the difference. ...” 

Wood was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch 
field, on which were drawn many lines, arrows, and 
crosses in different-colored inks. He took out his 
wand, tapped the board, and the arrows began to 
wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Wood 
launched into a speech about his new tactics, Fred 
Weasley’s head drooped right onto Alicia Spinnet’s 
shoulder and he began to snore. 

The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, 
but there was another board under that, and a third 
under that one. Harry sank into a stupor as Wood 
droned on and on. 

“So,” said Wood, at long last, jerking Harry from a 
wistful fantasy about what he could be eating for 
breakfast at this very moment up at the castle. “Is 
that clear? Any questions?” 

“I’ve got a question, Oliver,” said George, who had 
woken with a start. “Why couldn’t you have told us all 
this yesterday when we were awake?” 

Wood wasn’t pleased. 

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“Now, listen here, you lot,” he said, glowering at them 
all. “We should have won the Quidditch Cup last year. 
We’re easily the best team. But unfortunately — 
owing to circumstances beyond our control — ” 

Harry shifted guiltily in his seat. He had been 
unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match 
of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had 
been a player short and had suffered their worst 
defeat in three hundred years. 

Wood took a moment to regain control of himself. 
Their last defeat was clearly still torturing him. 

“So this year, we train harder than ever before. ... 
Okay, let’s go and put our new theories into practice!” 
Wood shouted, seizing his broomstick and leading the 
way out of the locker rooms. Stiff-legged and still 
yawning, his team followed. 

They had been in the locker room so long that the 
sun was up completely now, although remnants of 
mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Harry 
walked onto the field, he saw Ron and Hermione 
sitting in the stands. 

“Aren’t you finished yet?” called Ron incredulously. 

“Haven’t even started,” said Harry, looking jealously 
at the toast and marmalade Ron and Hermione had 
brought out of the Great Hall. “Wood’s been teaching 
us new moves.” 

He mounted his broomstick and kicked at the 
ground, soaring up into the air. The cool morning air 
whipped his face, waking him far more effectively 
than Wood’s long talk. It felt wonderful to be back on 
the Quidditch field. He soared right around the 
stadium at full speed, racing Fred and George. 

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“What’s that funny clicking noise?” called Fred as 
they hurtled around the corner. 

Harry looked into the stands. Colin was sitting in one 
of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture 
after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the 
deserted stadium. 

“Look this way, Harry! This way!” he cried shrilly. 
“Who’s that?” said Fred. 

“No idea,” Harry lied, putting on a spurt of speed that 
took him as far away as possible from Colin. 

“What’s going on?” said Wood, frowning, as he 
skimmed through the air toward them. “Why’s that 
first year taking pictures? I don’t like it. He could be a 
Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new 
training program.” 

“He’s in Gryffindor,” said Harry quickly. 

“And the Slytherins don’t need a spy, Oliver,” said 
George. 

“What makes you say that?” said Wood testily. 

“Because they’re here in person,” said George, 
pointing. 

Several people in green robes were walking onto the 
field, broomsticks in their hands. 

“I don’t believe it!” Wood hissed in outrage. “I booked 
the field for today! We’ll see about this!” 



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Wood shot toward the ground, landing rather harder 
than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as 
he dismounted. Harry, Fred, and George followed. 

“Flint!” Wood bellowed at the Slytherin Captain. “This 
is our practice time! We got up specially! You can 
clear off now!” 

Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a 
look of trollish cunning on his face as he replied, 
“Plenty of room for all of us, Wood.” 

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie had come over, too. There 
were no girls on the Slytherin team, who stood 
shoulder to shoulder, facing the Gryffindors, leering 
to a man. 

“But I booked the field!” said Wood, positively spitting 
with rage. “I booked it!” 

“Ah,” said Flint. “But Tve got a specially signed note 
here from Professor Snape. % Professor S. Snape, give 
the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the 
Quidditch field owinq to the need to train their new 
Seeker. ’ ” 

“You’ve got a new Seeker?” said Wood, distracted. 
“Where?” 

And from behind the six large figures before them 
came a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his 
pale, pointed face. It was Draco Malfoy. 

“Aren’t you Lucius Malfoy’s son?” said Fred, looking 
at Malfoy with dislike. 

“Funny you should mention Draco’s father,” said Flint 
as the whole Slytherin team smiled still more broadly. 



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“Let me show you the generous gift he’s made to the 
Slytherin team.” 

All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven 
highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of 
fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two 
Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors’ 
noses in the early morning sun. 

“Very latest model. Only came out last month,” said 
Flint carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end 
of his own. “I believe it outstrips the old Two 
Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the 
old Cleansweeps” — he smiled nastily at Fred and 
George, who were both clutching Cleansweep Fives — 
“sweeps the board with them.” 

None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything 
to say for a moment. Malfoy was smirking so broadly 
his cold eyes were reduced to slits. 

“Oh, look,” said Flint. “A field invasion.” 

Ron and Hermione were crossing the grass to see 
what was going on. 

“What’s happening?” Ron asked Harry. “Why aren’t 
you playing? And what’s he doing here?” 

He was looking at Malfoy, taking in his Slytherin 
Quidditch robes. 

“I’m the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley,” said Malfoy, 
smugly. “Everyone’s just been admiring the brooms 
my father’s bought our team.” 

Ron gaped, openmouthed, at the seven superb 
broomsticks in front of him. 



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“Good, aren’t they?” said Malfoy smoothly. “But 
perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some 
gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off 
those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would 
bid for them.” 

The Slytherin team howled with laughter. 

“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy 
their way in,” said Hermione sharply. “They got in on 
pure talent.” 

The smug look on Malfoy’s face flickered. 

“No one asked your opinion, you filthy little 
Mudblood,” he spat. 

Harry knew at once that Malfoy had said something 
really bad because there was an instant uproar at his 
words. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred 
and George jumping on him, Alicia shrieked, “How 
dare you\”, and Ron plunged his hand into his robes, 
pulled out his wand, yelling, “You’ll pay for that one, 
Malfoy!” and pointed it furiously under Flint’s arm at 
Malfoy’s face. 

A loud bang echoed around the stadium and a jet of 
green light shot out of the wrong end of Ron’s wand, 
hitting him in the stomach and sending him reeling 
backward onto the grass. 

“Ron! Ron! Are you all right?” squealed Hermione. 

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came 
out. Instead he gave an almighty belch and several 
slugs dribbled out of his mouth onto his lap. 

The Slytherin team were paralyzed with laughter. 

Flint was doubled up, hanging onto his new 

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broomstick for support. Malfoy was on all fours, 
banging the ground with his fist. The Gryffindors were 
gathered around Ron, who kept belching large, 
glistening slugs. Nobody seemed to want to touch 
him. 

“We’d better get him to Hagrid’s, it’s nearest,” said 
Harry to Hermione, who nodded bravely, and the pair 
of them pulled Ron up by the arms. 

“What happened, Harry? What happened? Is he ill? 
But you can cure him, can’t you?” Colin had run 
down from his seat and was now dancing alongside 
them as they left the field. Ron gave a huge heave and 
more slugs dribbled down his front. 

“Oooh,” said Colin, fascinated and raising his camera. 
“Can you hold him still, Harry?” 

“Get out of the way, Colin!” said Harry angrily. He and 
Hermione supported Ron out of the stadium and 
across the grounds toward the edge of the forest. 

“Nearly there, Ron,” said Hermione as the 
gamekeeper’s cabin came into view. “You’ll be all right 
in a minute — almost there — ” 

They were within twenty feet of Hagrid’s house when 
the front door opened, but it wasn’t Hagrid who 
emerged. Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing robes of palest 
mauve today, came striding out. 

“Quick, behind here,” Harry hissed, dragging Ron 
behind a nearby bush. Hermione followed, somewhat 
reluctantly. 

“It’s a simple matter if you know what you’re doing!” 
Lockhart was saying loudly to Hagrid. “If you need 
help, you know where I am! I’ll let you have a copy of 

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my book. I’m surprised you haven’t already got one — 
I’ll sign one tonight and send it over. Well, good-bye!” 
And he strode away toward the castle. 

Harry waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then 
pulled Ron out of the bush and up to Hagrid’s front 
door. They knocked urgently. 

Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but 
his expression brightened when he saw who it was. 

“Bin wonderin’ when you’d come ter see me — come 
in, come in — thought you mighta bin Professor 
Lockhart back again — ” 

Harry and Hermione supported Ron over the 
threshold into the one-roomed cabin, which had an 
enormous bed in one corner, a fire crackling merrily 
in the other. Hagrid didn’t seem perturbed by Ron’s 
slug problem, which Harry hastily explained as he 
lowered Ron into a chair. 

“Better out than in,” he said cheerfully, plunking a 
large copper basin in front of him. “Get ’em all up, 
Ron.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything to do except wait for it 
to stop,” said Hermione anxiously, watching Ron bend 
over the basin. “That’s a difficult curse to work at the 
best of times, but with a broken wand — ” 

Hagrid was bustling around making them tea. His 
boarhound, Fang, was slobbering over Harry. 

“What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?” Harry 
asked, scratching Fang’s ears. 

“Givin’ me advice on gettin’ kelpies out of a well,” 
growled Hagrid, moving a half-plucked rooster off his 

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scrubbed table and setting down the teapot. “Like I 
don’ know. An’ bangin’ on about some banshee he 
banished. If one word of it was true, I’ll eat my kettle.” 

It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts 
teacher, and Harry looked at him in surprise. 
Hermione, however, said in a voice somewhat higher 
than usual, “I think you’re being a bit unfair. 

Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the 
best man for the job — ” 

“He was the on’y man for the job,” said Hagrid, 
offering them a plate of treacle toffee, while Ron 
coughed squelchily into his basin. “An’ I mean the 
on’y one. Gettin’ very difficult ter find anyone fer the 
Dark Arts job. People aren’t too keen ter take it on, 
see. They’re startin’ ter think it’s jinxed. No one’s 
lasted long fer a while now. So tell me,” said Hagrid, 
jerking his head at Ron. “Who was he tryin’ ter 
curse?” 

“Malfoy called Hermione something — it must’ve been 
really bad, because everyone went wild.” 

“It was bad,” said Ron hoarsely, emerging over the 
tabletop looking pale and sweaty. “Malfoy called her 
‘Mudblood,’ Hagrid — ” 

Ron dived out of sight again as a fresh wave of slugs 
made their appearance. Hagrid looked outraged. 

“He didn’!” he growled at Hermione. 

“He did,” she said. “But I don’t know what it means. I 
could tell it was really rude, of course — ” 

“It’s about the most insulting thing he could think of,” 
gasped Ron, coming back up. “Mudblood’s a really 
foul name for someone who is Muggle-born — you 

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know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards — 
like Malfoy’s family — who think they’re better than 
everyone else because they’re what people call pure- 
blood.” He gave a small burp, and a single slug fell 
into his outstretched hand. He threw it into the basin 
and continued, “I mean, the rest of us know it doesn’t 
make any difference at all. Look at Neville Longbottom 
— he’s pure-blood and he can hardly stand a 
cauldron the right way up.” 

“An’ they haven’t invented a spell our Hermione can’ 
do,” said Hagrid proudly, making Hermione go a 
brilliant shade of magenta. 

“It’s a disgusting thing to call someone,” said Ron, 
wiping his sweaty brow with a shaking hand. “Dirty 
blood, see. Common blood. It’s ridiculous. Most 
wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we 
hadn’t married Muggles we’d’ve died out.” 

He retched and ducked out of sight again. 

“Well, I don’ blame yeh fer tryin’ ter curse him, Ron,” 
said Hagrid loudly over the thuds of more slugs 
hitting the basin. “Bu’ maybe it was a good thing yer 
wand backfired. ’Spect Lucius Malfoy would’ve come 
marchin’ up ter school if yeh’d cursed his son. Least 
yer not in trouble.” 

Harry would have pointed out that trouble didn’t 
come much worse than having slugs pouring out of 
your mouth, but he couldn’t; Hagrid’s treacle toffee 
had cemented his jaws together. 

“Harry,” said Hagrid abruptly as though struck by a 
sudden thought. “Gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I’ve 
heard you’ve bin givin’ out signed photos. How come I 
haven’t got one?” 



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Furious, Harry wrenched his teeth apart. 

“I have not been giving out signed photos,” he said 
hotly. “If Lockhart’s still spreading that around — ” 

But then he saw that Hagrid was laughing. 

“I’m on’y jokin’,” he said, patting Harry genially on the 
back and sending him face first into the table. “I knew 
yeh hadn’t really. I told Lockhart yeh didn’ need teh. 
Yer more famous than him without tryin’.” 

“Bet he didn’t like that,” said Harry, sitting up and 
rubbing his chin. 

“Don’ think he did,” said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling. 
“An’ then I told him I’d never read one o’ his books an’ 
he decided ter go. Treacle toffee, Ron?” he added as 
Ron reappeared. 

“No thanks,” said Ron weakly. “Better not risk it.” 

“Come an’ see what I’ve bin growin’,” said Hagrid as 
Harry and Hermione finished the last of their tea. 

In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid ’s house 
were a dozen of the largest pumpkins Harry had ever 
seen. Each was the size of a large boulder. 

“Gettin’ on well, aren’t they?” said Hagrid happily. 

“Fer the Halloween feast ... should be big enough by 
then.” 

“What’ve you been feeding them?” said Harry. 

Hagrid looked over his shoulder to check that they 
were alone. 



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“Well, I’ve bin givin’ them — you know — a bit o’ help 



Harry noticed Hagrid’s flowery pink umbrella leaning 
against the back wall of the cabin. Harry had had 
reason to believe before now that this umbrella was 
not all it looked; in fact, he had the strong impression 
that Hagrid’s old school wand was concealed inside it. 
Hagrid wasn’t supposed to use magic. He had been 
expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, but Harry 
had never found out why — any mention of the 
matter and Hagrid would clear his throat loudly and 
become mysteriously deaf until the subject was 
changed. 

“An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?” said Hermione, 
halfway between disapproval and amusement. “Well, 
you’ve done a good job on them.” 

“That’s what yer little sister said,” said Hagrid, 
nodding at Ron. “Met her jus’ yesterday.” Hagrid 
looked sideways at Harry, his beard twitching. “Said 
she was jus’ lookin’ round the grounds, but I reckon 
she was hopin’ she might run inter someone else at 
my house.” He winked at Harry. “If yeh ask me, she 
wouldn’ say no ter a signed — ” 

“Oh, shut up,” said Harry. Ron snorted with laughter 
and the ground was sprayed with slugs. 

“Watch it!” Hagrid roared, pulling Ron away from his 
precious pumpkins. 

It was nearly lunchtime and as Harry had only had 
one bit of treacle toffee since dawn, he was keen to go 
back to school to eat. They said good-bye to Hagrid 
and walked back up to the castle, Ron hiccoughing 
occasionally, but only bringing up two very small 
slugs. 

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They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall 
when a voice rang out, “There you are, Potter — 
Weasley.” Professor McGonagall was walking toward 
them, looking stern. “You will both do your detentions 
this evening.” 

“What’re we doing, Professor?” said Ron, nervously 
suppressing a burp. 

“ You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room 
with Mr. Filch,” said Professor McGonagall. “And no 
magic, Weasley — elbow grease.” 

Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed 
by every student in the school. 

“And you, Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart 
answer his fan mail,” said Professor McGonagall. 

“Oh n — Professor, can’t I go and do the trophy room, 
too?” said Harry desperately. 

“Certainly not,” said Professor McGonagall, raising 
her eyebrows. “Professor Lockhart requested you 
particularly. Eight o’clock sharp, both of you.” 

Harry and Ron slouched into the Great Hall in states 
of deepest gloom, Hermione behind them, wearing a 
well-you-did-break-school-rules sort of expression. 
Harry didn’t enjoy his shepherd’s pie as much as he’d 
thought. Both he and Ron felt they’d got the worse 
deal. 

“Filch ’ll have me there all night,” said Ron heavily. 

“No magic! There must be about a hundred cups in 
that room. I’m no good at Muggle cleaning.” 



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“I’d swap anytime,” said Harry hollowly. “I’ve had 
loads of practice with the Dursleys. Answering 
Lockhart’s fan mail ... he’ll be a nightmare. ...” 

Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what 
seemed like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and 
Harry was dragging his feet along the second-floor 
corridor to Lockhart’s office. He gritted his teeth and 
knocked. 

The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at 
him. 

“Ah, here’s the scalawag!” he said. “Come in, Harry, 
come in — ” 

Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many 
candles were countless framed photographs of 
Lockhart. He had even signed a few of them. Another 
large pile lay on his desk. 

“You can address the envelopes!” Lockhart told Harry, 
as though this was a huge treat. “This first one’s to 
Gladys Gudgeon, bless her — huge fan of mine — ” 

The minutes snailed by. Harry let Lockhart’s voice 
wash over him, occasionally saying, “Mmm” and 
“Right” and “Yeah.” Now and then he caught a phrase 
like, “Fame’s a fickle friend, Harry,” or “Celebrity is as 
celebrity does, remember that.” 

The candles burned lower and lower, making the light 
dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart 
watching him. Harry moved his aching hand over 
what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out 
Veronica Smethley’s address. It must be nearly time to 
leave, Harry thought miserably, please let it be nearly 
time. ... 



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And then he heard something — something quite 
apart from the spitting of the dying candles and 
Lockhart’s prattle about his fans. 

It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a 
voice of breathtaking, ice-cold venom. 

“Come ... come to me. ... Let me rip you. ... Let me tear 
you. ... Let me kill you. ...” 

Harry gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot 
appeared on Veronica Smethley’s street. 

“What?” he said loudly. 

“I know!” said Lockhart. “Six solid months at the top 
of the best-seller list! Broke all records!” 

“No,” said Harry frantically. “That voice!” 

“Sorry?” said Lockhart, looking puzzled. “What voice?” 

“That — that voice that said — didn’t you hear it?” 

Lockhart was looking at Harry in high astonishment. 

“What are you talking about, Harry? Perhaps you’re 
getting a little drowsy? Great Scott — look at the time! 
“We’ve been here nearly four hours! I’d never have 
believed it — the time’s flown, hasn’t it?” 

Harry didn’t answer. He was straining his ears to hear 
the voice again, but there was no sound now except 
for Lockhart telling him he mustn’t expect a treat like 
this every time he got detention. Feeling dazed, Harry 
left. 

It was so late that the Gryffindor common room was 
almost empty. Harry went straight up to the 

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dormitory. Ron wasn’t back yet. Harry pulled on his 
pajamas, got into bed, and waited. Half an hour later, 
Ron arrived, nursing his right arm and bringing a 
strong smell of polish into the darkened room. 

“My muscles have all seized up,” he groaned, sinking 
on his bed. “Fourteen times he made me buff up that 
Quidditch Cup before he was satisfied. And then I 
had another slug attack all over a Special Award for 
Services to the School. Took ages to get the slime off. 

. . . How was it with Lockhart?” 

Keeping his voice low so as not to wake Neville, Dean, 
and Seamus, Harry told Ron exactly what he had 
heard. 

“And Lockhart said he couldn’t hear it?” said Ron. 
Harry could see him frowning in the moonlight. 

“D’you think he was lying? But I don’t get it — even 
someone invisible would’ve had to open the door.” 

“I know,” said Harry, lying back in his four-poster and 
staring at the canopy above him. “I don’t get it either.” 



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d 




THE DEATHDAY PARTY 

October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the 
grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the 
nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds 
among the staff and students. Her Pepperup Potion 
worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking 
at the ears for several hours afterward. Ginny 
Weasley, who had been looking pale, was bullied into 
taking some by Percy. The steam pouring from under 
her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole 
head was on fire. 

Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle 
windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flower 
beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid’s 
pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. Oliver 
Wood’s enthusiasm for regular training sessions, 
however, was not dampened, which was why Harry 
was to be found, late one stormy Saturday afternoon 
a few days before Halloween, returning to Gryffindor 
Tower, drenched to the skin and splattered with mud. 
Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn’t been a 
happy practice session. Fred and George, who had 
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been spying on the Slytherin team, had seen for 
themselves the speed of those new Nimbus Two 
Thousand and Ones. They reported that the Slytherin 
team was no more than seven greenish blurs, 
shooting through the air like missiles. 

As Harry squelched along the deserted corridor he 
came across somebody who looked just as 
preoccupied as he was. Nearly Headless Nick, the 
ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of 
a window, muttering under his breath, "... don’t fulfill 
their requirements ... half an inch, if that ...” 

“Hello, Nick,” said Harry. 

“Hello, hello,” said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and 
looking round. He wore a dashing, plumed hat on his 
long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which 
concealed the fact that his neck was almost 
completely severed. He was pale as smoke, and Harry 
could see right through him to the dark sky and 
torrential rain outside. 

“You look troubled, young Potter,” said Nick, folding a 
transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside 
his doublet. 

“So do you,” said Harry. 

“Ah,” Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, “a 
matter of no importance. ... It’s not as though I really 
wanted to join. ... Thought I’d apply, but apparently I 
‘don’t fulfill requirements’ — ” 

In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great 
bitterness on his face. 

“But you would think, wouldn’t you,” he erupted 
suddenly, pulling the letter back out of his pocket, 

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“that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a 
blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless 
Hunt?” 

“Oh — yes,” said Harry, who was obviously supposed 
to agree. 

“I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all 
been quick and clean, and my head had come off 
properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal 
of pain and ridicule. However — ” Nearly Headless 
Nick shook his letter open and read furiously: 

“ ‘We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have 
parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate 
that it would be impossible otherwise for members to 
participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head- 
Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret, 
therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill 
our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick 
Delaney -Podmore.’ ” 

Fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away. 

“Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, 
Harry! Most people would think that’s good and 
beheaded, but oh, no, it’s not enough for Sir Properly 
Decapitated-Podmore . ” 

Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths and 
then said, in a far calmer tone, “So — what’s 
bothering you? Anything I can do?” 

“No,” said Harry. “Not unless you know where we can 
get seven free Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for 
our match against Sly — ” 

The rest of Harry’s sentence was drowned out by a 
high-pitched mewling from somewhere near his 

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ankles. He looked down and found himself gazing into 
a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. It was Mrs. Norris, the 
skeletal gray cat who was used by the caretaker, 

Argus Filch, as a sort of deputy in his endless battle 
against students. 

“You’d better get out of here, Harry,” said Nick 
quickly. “Filch isn’t in a good mood — he’s got the flu 
and some third years accidentally plastered frog 
brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five. He’s been 
cleaning all morning, and if he sees you dripping mud 
all over the place — ” 

“Right,” said Harry, backing away from the accusing 
stare of Mrs. Norris, but not quickly enough. Drawn 
to the spot by the mysterious power that seemed to 
connect him with his foul cat, Argus Filch burst 
suddenly through a tapestry to Harry’s right, 
wheezing and looking wildly about for the rule- 
breaker. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around 
his head, and his nose was unusually purple. 

“Filth!” he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes 
popping alarmingly as he pointed at the muddy 
puddle that had dripped from Harry’s Quidditch 
robes. “Mess and muck everywhere! I’ve had enough 
of it, I tell you! Follow me, Potter!” 

So Harry waved a gloomy good-bye to Nearly Headless 
Nick and followed Filch back downstairs, doubling the 
number of muddy footprints on the floor. 

Harry had never been inside Filch’s office before; it 
was a place most students avoided. The room was 
dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil lamp 
dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried 
fish lingered about the place. Wooden filing cabinets 
stood around the walls; from their labels, Harry could 
see that they contained details of every pupil Filch 
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had ever punished. Fred and George Weasley had an 
entire drawer to themselves. A highly polished 
collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall 
behind Filch’s desk. It was common knowledge that 
he was always begging Dumbledore to let him 
suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling. 

Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and 
began shuffling around looking for parchment. 

“Dung,” he muttered furiously, “great sizzling dragon 
bogies ... frog brains ... rat intestines ... I’ve had 
enough of it ... make an example ... where’s the form 
... yes ...” 

He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk 
drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dipping 
his long black quill into the ink pot. 

“ Name ... Harry Potter. Crime ...” 

“It was only a bit of mud!” said Harry. 

“It’s only a bit of mud to you, boy, but to me it’s an 
extra hour scrubbing!” shouted Filch, a drip shivering 
unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose. “Crime 
... befouling the castle ... suggested sentence ...” 

Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted 
unpleasantly at Harry, who waited with bated breath 
for his sentence to fall. 

But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great 
BANG! on the ceiling of the office, which made the oil 
lamp rattle. 

“PEEVES!” Filch roared, flinging down his quill in a 
transport of rage. “I’ll have you this time, I’ll have 
you!” 

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And without a backward glance at Harry, Filch ran 
flat-footed from the office, Mrs. Norris streaking 
alongside him. 

Peeves was the school poltergeist, a grinning, airborne 
menace who lived to cause havoc and distress. Harry 
didn’t much like Peeves, but couldn’t help feeling 
grateful for his timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves 
had done (and it sounded as though he’d wrecked 
something very big this time) would distract Filch 
from Harry. 

Thinking that he should probably wait for Filch to 
come back, Harry sank into a moth-eaten chair next 
to the desk. There was only one thing on it apart from 
his half-completed form: a large, glossy, purple 
envelope with silver lettering on the front. With a 
quick glance at the door to check that Filch wasn’t on 
his way back, Harry picked up the envelope and read: 

KWIKSPELL 

A Correspondence Course in Beginners’ Magic 

Intrigued, Harry flicked the envelope open and pulled 
out the sheaf of parchment inside. More curly silver 
writing on the front page said: 

Feel out of step in the world of modern magic? Find 
yourself making excuses not to perform simple spells? 
Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork? 

There is an answer! 

Kwikspell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick-result, easy- 
learn course. Hundreds of witches and wizards have 
benefited from the Kwikspell method! 



Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes: 

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“I had no memory for incantations and my potions 
were a family joke! Now, after a Kwikspell course, I am 
the center of attention at parties and friends beg for the 
recipe of my Scintillation Solution!” 

Warlock D. J. Prod of Didsbury says: 

“My wife used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one 
month into your fabulous Kwikspell course and I 
succeeded in turning her into a yak! 

Thank you, Kwikspell!” 

Fascinated, Harry thumbed through the rest of the 
envelope’s contents. Why on earth did Filch want a 
Kwikspell course? Did this mean he wasn’t a proper 
wizard? Harry was just reading “Lesson One: Holding 
Your Wand (Some Useful Tips)” when shuffling 
footsteps outside told him Filch was coming back. 
Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Harry 
threw it back onto the desk just as the door opened. 

Filch was looking triumphant. 

“That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable!” he 
was saying gleefully to Mrs. Norris. “We’ll have Peeves 
out this time, my sweet — ” 

His eyes fell on Harry and then darted to the 
Kwikspell envelope, which, Harry realized too late, 
was lying two feet away from where it had started. 

Filch ’s pasty face went brick red. Harry braced 
himself for a tidal wave of fury. Filch hobbled across 
to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it 
into a drawer. 

“Have you — did you read — ?” he sputtered. 



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“No,” Harry lied quickly. 

Filch ’s knobbly hands were twisting together. 

“If I thought you’d read my private — not that it’s 
mine — for a friend — be that as it may — however — 



Harry was staring at him, alarmed; Filch had never 
looked madder. His eyes were popping, a tic was 
going in one of his pouchy cheeks, and the tartan 
scarf didn’t help. 

“Very well — go — and don’t breathe a word — not 
that — however, if you didn’t read — go now, I have to 
write up Peeves’ report — go — ” 

Amazed at his luck, Harry sped out of the office, up 
the corridor, and back upstairs. To escape from 
Filch ’s office without punishment was probably some 
kind of school record. 

“Harry! Harry! Did it work?” 

Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom. 
Behind him, Harry could see the wreckage of a large 
black-and-gold cabinet that appeared to have been 
dropped from a great height. 

“I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch’s 
office,” said Nick eagerly. “Thought it might distract 
him — ” 



“Was that you?” said Harry gratefully. “Yeah, it 
worked, I didn’t even get detention. Thanks, Nick!” 

They set off up the corridor together. Nearly Headless 
Nick, Harry noticed, was still holding Sir Patrick’s 
rejection letter. 

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“I wish there was something I could do for you about 
the Headless Hunt,” Harry said. 



Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Harry 
walked right through him. He wished he hadn’t; it 
was like stepping through an icy shower. 

“But there is something you could do for me,” said 
Nick excitedly. “Harry — would I be asking too much 
— but no, you wouldn’t want — ” 

“What is it?” said Harry. 

“Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth 
deathday,” said Nearly Headless Nick, drawing 
himself up and looking dignified. 

“Oh,” said Harry, not sure whether he should look 
sorry or happy about this. “Right.” 

“I’m holding a party down in one of the roomier 
dungeons. Friends will be coming from all over the 
country. It would be such an honor if you would 
attend. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would be most 
welcome, too, of course — but I daresay you’d rather 
go to the school feast?” He watched Harry on 
tenterhooks. 

“No,” said Harry quickly, “I’ll come — ” 

“My dear boy! Harry Potter, at my deathday party! 
And” — he hesitated, looking excited — “do you think 
you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick how very 
frightening and impressive you find me?” 

“Of — of course,” said Harry. 

Nearly Headless Nick beamed at him. 



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“A deathday party?” said Hermione keenly when 
Harry had changed at last and joined her and Ron in 
the common room. “I bet there aren’t many living 
people who can say they’ve been to one of those — it’ll 
be fascinating!” 

“Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they 
died?” said Ron, who was halfway through his Potions 
homework and grumpy. “Sounds dead depressing to 
me....” 

Rain was still lashing the windows, which were now 
inky black, but inside all looked bright and cheerful. 
The firelight glowed over the countless squashy 
armchairs where people sat reading, talking, doing 
homework or, in the case of Fred and George Weasley, 
trying to find out what would happen if you fed a 
Filibuster firework to a salamander. Fred had 
“rescued” the brilliant orange, fire-dwelling lizard 
from a Care of Magical Creatures class and it was 
now smoldering gently on a table surrounded by a 
knot of curious people. 

Harry was at the point of telling Ron and Hermione 
about Filch and the Kwikspell course when the 
salamander suddenly whizzed into the air, emitting 
loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly round the 
room. The sight of Percy bellowing himself hoarse at 
Fred and George, the spectacular display of tangerine 
stars showering from the salamander’s mouth, and its 
escape into the fire, with accompanying explosions, 
drove both Filch and the Kwikspell envelope from 
Harry’s mind. 

By the time Halloween arrived, Harry was regretting 
his rash promise to go to the deathday party. The rest 
of the school was happily anticipating their Halloween 
feast; the Great Hall had been decorated with the 
usual live bats, Hagrid’s vast pumpkins had been 
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carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit 
in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had 
booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the 
entertainment. 

“A promise is a promise,” Hermione reminded Harry 
bossily. “You said you’d go to the deathday party.” 

So at seven o’clock, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked 
straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, 
which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and 
candles, and directed their steps instead toward the 
dungeons. 

The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick’s 
party had been lined with candles, too, though the 
effect was far from cheerful: These were long, thin, 
jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a 
dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. The 
temperature dropped with every step they took. As 
Harry shivered and drew his robes tightly around 
him, he heard what sounded like a thousand 
fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard. 

“Is that supposed to be music?” Ron whispered. They 
turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick 
standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes. 

“My dear friends,” he said mournfully. “Welcome, 
welcome ... so pleased you could come. ...” 

He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside. 

It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of 
hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly 
drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the 
dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, 
played by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped 
platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight-blue 
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with a thousand more black candles. Their breath 
rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a 
freezer. 

“Shall we have a look around?” Harry suggested, 
wanting to warm up his feet. 

“Careful not to walk through anyone,” said Ron 
nervously, and they set off around the edge of the 
dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a 
ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a 
cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a knight 
with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Harry 
wasn’t surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a 
gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver 
bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the 
other ghosts. 

“Oh, no,” said Hermione, stopping abruptly. “Turn 
back, turn back, I don’t want to talk to Moaning 
Myrtle — ” 

“Who?” said Harry as they backtracked quickly. 

“She haunts one of the toilets in the girls’ bathroom 
on the first floor,” said Hermione. 

“She haunts a toilet ?” 

“Yes. It’s been out-of-order all year because she keeps 
having tantrums and flooding the place. I never went 
in there anyway if I could avoid it; it’s awful trying to 
have a pee with her wailing at you — ” 

“Look, food!” said Ron. 

On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, 
also covered in black velvet. They approached it 
eagerly but next moment had stopped in their tracks, 

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horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, 
rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters; 
cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on 
salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of 
cheese covered in furry green mold and, in pride of 
place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a 
tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words, 

SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY-PORPINGTON 
DIED 3 1 ST OCTOBER, 1 492 

Harry watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached 
the table, crouched low, and walked through it, his 
mouth held wide so that it passed through one of the 
stinking salmon. 

“Can you taste it if you walk through it?” Harry asked 
him. 

“Almost,” said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away. 

“I expect they’ve let it rot to give it a stronger flavor,” 
said Hermione knowledgeably, pinching her nose and 
leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis. 

“Can we move? I feel sick,” said Ron. 

They had barely turned around, however, when a 
little man swooped suddenly from under the table and 
came to a halt in midair before them. 

“Hello, Peeves,” said Harry cautiously. 

Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the Poltergeist 
was the very reverse of pale and transparent. He was 
wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving bow tie, 
and a broad grin on his wide, wicked face. 



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“Nibbles?” he said sweetly, offering them a bowl of 
peanuts covered in fungus. 

“No thanks,” said Hermione. 

“Heard you talking about poor Myrtle,” said Peeves, 
his eyes dancing. “Rude you was about poor Myrtle.” 
He took a deep breath and bellowed, “OY! MYRTLE!” 

“Oh, no, Peeves, don’t tell her what I said, she’ll be 
really upset,” Hermione whispered frantically. “I didn’t 
mean it, I don’t mind her — er, hello, Myrtle.” 

The squat ghost of a girl had glided over. She had the 
glummest face Harry had ever seen, half-hidden 
behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles. 

“What?” she said sulkily. 

“How are you, Myrtle?” said Hermione in a falsely 
bright voice. “It’s nice to see you out of the toilet.” 

Myrtle sniffed. 

“Miss Granger was just talking about you — ” said 
Peeves slyly in Myrtle’s ear. 

“Just saying — saying — how nice you look tonight,” 
said Hermione, glaring at Peeves. 

Myrtle eyed Hermione suspiciously. 

“You’re making fun of me,” she said, silver tears 
welling rapidly in her small, see-through eyes. 

“No — honestly — didn’t I just say how nice Myrtle’s 
looking?” said Hermione, nudging Harry and Ron 
painfully in the ribs. 



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“Oh, yeah — ” 



“She did — ” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Myrtle gasped, tears now flooding 
down her face, while Peeves chuckled happily over her 
shoulder. “D’you think I don’t know what people call 
me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! 
Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle!” 

“You’ve forgotten pimply,” Peeves hissed in her ear. 

Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled 
from the dungeon. Peeves shot after her, pelting her 
with moldy peanuts, yelling, “Pimply\ Pimplyl” 

“Oh, dear,” said Hermione sadly. 

Nearly Headless Nick now drifted toward them 
through the crowd. 

“Enjoying yourselves?” 

“Oh, yes,” they lied. 

“Not a bad turnout,” said Nearly Headless Nick 
proudly. “The Wailing Widow came all the way up 
from Kent. ... It’s nearly time for my speech, I’d better 
go and warn the orchestra. ...” 

The orchestra, however, stopped playing at that very 
moment. They, and everyone else in the dungeon, fell 
silent, looking around in excitement, as a hunting 
horn sounded. 

“Oh, here we go,” said Nearly Headless Nick bitterly. 

Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost 
horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The 

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assembly clapped wildly; Harry started to clap, too, 
but stopped quickly at the sight of Nick’s face. 

The horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor 
and halted, rearing and plunging. At the front of the 
pack was a large ghost who held his bearded head 
under his arm, from which position he was blowing 
the horn. The ghost leapt down, lifted his head high 
in the air so he could see over the crowd (everyone 
laughed), and strode over to Nearly Headless Nick, 
squashing his head back onto his neck. 

“Nick!” he roared. “How are you? Head still hanging in 
there?” 

He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Nearly Headless 
Nick on the shoulder. 

“Welcome, Patrick,” said Nick stiffly. 

“Live ’uns!” said Sir Patrick, spotting Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione and giving a huge, fake jump of 
astonishment, so that his head fell off again (the 
crowd howled with laughter). 

“Very amusing,” said Nearly Headless Nick darkly. 

“Don’t mind Nick!” shouted Sir Patrick’s head from 
the floor. “Still upset we won’t let him join the Hunt! 
But I mean to say — look at the fellow — ” 

“I think,” said Harry hurriedly, at a meaningful look 
from Nick, “Nick’s very — frightening and — er — ” 

“Ha!” yelled Sir Patrick’s head. “Bet he asked you to 
say that!” 

“If I could have everyone’s attention, it’s time for my 
speech!” said Nearly Headless Nick loudly, striding 

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toward the podium and climbing into an icy blue 
spotlight. 

“My late lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is 
my great sorrow ...” 

But nobody heard much more. Sir Patrick and the 
rest of the Headless Hunt had just started a game of 
Head Hockey and the crowd were turning to watch. 
Nearly Headless Nick tried vainly to recapture his 
audience, but gave up as Sir Patrick’s head went 
sailing past him to loud cheers. 

Harry was very cold by now, not to mention hungry. 

“I can’t stand much more of this,” Ron muttered, his 
teeth chattering, as the orchestra ground back into 
action and the ghosts swept back onto the dance 
floor. 

“Let’s go,” Harry agreed. 

They backed toward the door, nodding and beaming 
at anyone who looked at them, and a minute later 
were hurrying back up the passageway full of black 
candles. 

“Pudding might not be finished yet,” said Ron 
hopefully, leading the way toward the steps to the 
entrance hall. 

And then Harry heard it. 

"... rip ... tear ... kill ...” 

It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous 
voice he had heard in Lockhart’s office. 



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He stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, 
listening with all his might, looking around, squinting 
up and down the dimly lit passageway. 

“Harry, what’re you — ?” 

“It’s that voice again — shut up a minute — ” 

soo hungry ... for so long ...” 

“Listen!” said Harry urgently, and Ron and Hermione 
froze, watching him. 

“... kill ... time to kill ...” 

The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was 
moving away — moving upward. A mixture of fear and 
excitement gripped him as he stared at the dark 
ceiling; how could it be moving upward? Was it a 
phantom, to whom stone ceilings didn’t matter? 

“This way,” he shouted, and he began to run, up the 
stairs, into the entrance hall. It was no good hoping to 
hear anything here, the babble of talk from the 
Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. 
Harry sprinted up the marble staircase to the first 
floor, Ron and Hermione clattering behind him. 

“Harry, what’re we — ” 

“SHH!” 

Harry strained his ears. Distantly, from the floor 
above, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice: 
“...I smell blood. ...I SMELL BLOOD\” 

His stomach lurched — 



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“It’s going to kill someone!” he shouted, and ignoring 
Ron’s and Hermione’s bewildered faces, he ran up the 
next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen 
over his own pounding footsteps — 

Harry hurtled around the whole of the second floor, 
Ron and Hermione panting behind him, not stopping 
until they turned a corner into the last, deserted 
passage. 

“Harry, what was that all about?” said Ron, wiping 
sweat off his face. “I couldn’t hear anything. ...” 

But Hermione gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the 
corridor. 

“Loo/c!” 

Something was shining on the wall ahead. They 
approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. 
Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall 
between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by 
the flaming torches. 

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. 
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE. 

“What’s that thing — hanging underneath?” said Ron, 
a slight quiver in his voice. 

As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped — there 
was a large puddle of water on the floor; Ron and 
Hermione grabbed him, and they inched toward the 
message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All 
three of them realized what it was at once, and leapt 
backward with a splash. 



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Mrs. Norris, the caretaker’s cat, was hanging by her 
tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a board, 
her eyes wide and staring. 

For a few seconds, they didn’t move. Then Ron said, 
“Let’s get out of here.” 

“Shouldn’t we try and help — ” Harry began 
awkwardly. 

“Trust me,” said Ron. “We don’t want to be found 
here.” 

But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant 
thunder, told them that the feast had just ended. 
From either end of the corridor where they stood 
came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the 
stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; 
next moment, students were crashing into the 
passage from both ends. 

The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as 
the people in front spotted the hanging cat. Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione stood alone, in the middle of the 
corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students 
pressing forward to see the grisly sight. 

Then someone shouted through the quiet. 

“Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next, 
Mudbloods!” 

It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of 
the crowd, his cold eyes alive, his usually bloodless 
face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the 
hanging, immobile cat. 



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9 




THE WRITING ON THE WALL 

“What’s going on here? What’s going on?” 

Attracted no doubt by Malfoy’s shout, Argus Filch 
came shouldering his way through the crowd. Then 
he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in 
horror. 

“My cat! My cat! What’s happened to Mrs. Norris?” he 
shrieked. 

And his popping eyes fell on Harry. 

“You!” he screeched. “You! You’ve murdered my cat! 
You’ve killed her! I’ll kill you! I’ll — ” 

“Argus'.” 

Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a 
number of other teachers. In seconds, he had swept 
past Harry, Ron, and Hermione and detached Mrs. 
Norris from the torch bracket. 



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“Come with me, Argus,” he said to Filch. “You, too, 

Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger.” 

Lockhart stepped forward eagerly. 

“My office is nearest, Headmaster — just upstairs — 
please feel free — ” 

“Thank you, Gilderoy,” said Dumbledore. 

The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, 
looking excited and important, hurried after 
Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and 
Snape. 

As they entered Lockhart’s darkened office there was 
a flurry of movement across the walls; Harry saw 
several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of 
sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the 
candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore laid 
Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began to 
examine her. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged 
tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of 
candlelight, watching. 

The tip of Dumbledore ’s long, crooked nose was 
barely an inch from Mrs. Norris’s fur. He was looking 
at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his 
long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor 
McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes 
narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in 
shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: It was 
as though he was trying hard not to smile. And 
Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making 
suggestions. 

“It was definitely a curse that killed her — probably 
the Trans-mogrifian Torture — I’ve seen it used many 



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times, so unlucky I wasn’t there, I know the very 
countercurse that would have saved her. ...” 

Lockhart’s comments were punctuated by Filch ’s dry, 
racking sobs. He was slumped in a chair by the desk, 
unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face in his hands. 
Much as he detested Filch, Harry couldn’t help feeling 
a bit sorry for him, though not nearly as sorry as he 
felt for himself. If Dumbledore believed Filch, he 
would be expelled for sure. 

Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under 
his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand but 
nothing happened: She continued to look as though 
she had been recently stuffed. 

"... I remember something very similar happening in 
Ouagadougou,” said Lockhart, “a series of attacks, 
the full story’s in my autobiography, I was able to 
provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which 
cleared the matter up at once. ...” 

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all 
nodding in agreement as he talked. One of them had 
forgotten to remove his hair net. 

At last Dumbledore straightened up. 

“She’s not dead, Argus,” he said softly. 

Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting 
the number of murders he had prevented. 

“Not dead?” choked Filch, looking through his fingers 
at Mrs. Norris. “But why’s she all — all stiff and 
frozen?” 



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“She has been Petrified,” said Dumbledore (“Ah! I 
thought so!” said Lockhart). “But how, I cannot say. 



“Ask him\” shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and 
tearstained face to Harry. 

“No second year could have done this,” said 
Dumbledore firmly. “It would take Dark Magic of the 
most advanced — ” 

“He did it, he did it!” Filch spat, his pouchy face 
purpling. “You saw what he wrote on the wall! He 
found — in my office — he knows I’m a — I’m a — ” 
Filch ’s face worked horribly. “He knows I’m a Squib!” 
he finished. 

“I never touched Mrs. Norris!” Harry said loudly, 
uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at him, 
including all the Lockharts on the walls. “And I don’t 
even know what a Squib is.” 

“Rubbish!” snarled Filch. “He saw my Kwikspell 
letter!” 

“If I might speak, Headmaster,” said Snape from the 
shadows, and Harry’s sense of foreboding increased; 
he was sure nothing Snape had to say was going to 
do him any good. 

“Potter and his friends may have simply been in the 
wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, a slight sneer 
curling his mouth as though he doubted it. “But we 
do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why 
was he in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn’t he 
at the Halloween feast?” 



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Harry, Ron and Hermione all launched into an 
explanation about the deathday party. "... there were 
hundreds of ghosts, they’ll tell you we were there — ” 

“But why not join the feast afterward?” said Snape, 
his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Why go 
up to that corridor?” 

Ron and Hermione looked at Harry. 

“Because — because — ” Harry said, his heart 
thumping very fast; something told him it would 
sound very far-fetched if he told them he had been led 
there by a bodiless voice no one but he could hear, 
“because we were tired and wanted to go to bed,” he 
said. 

“Without any supper?” said Snape, a triumphant 
smile flickering across his gaunt face. “I didn’t think 
ghosts provided food fit for living people at their 
parties.” 

“We weren’t hungry,” said Ron loudly as his stomach 
gave a huge rumble. 

Snape’s nasty smile widened. 

“I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being 
entirely truthful,” he said. “It might be a good idea if 
he were deprived of certain privileges until he is ready 
to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should 
be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is 
ready to be honest.” 

“Really, Severus,” said Professor McGonagall sharply, 
“I see no reason to stop the boy playing Quidditch. 
This cat wasn’t hit over the head with a broomstick. 
There is no evidence at all that Potter has done 
anything wrong.” 

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Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look. His 
twinkling light-blue gaze made Harry feel as though 
he were being X-rayed. 

“Innocent until proven guilty, Severus,” he said 
firmly. 

Snape looked furious. So did Filch. 

“My cat has been Petrified!” he shrieked, his eyes 
popping. “I want to see some punishmenti” 

“We will be able to cure her, Argus,” said Dumbledore 
patiently. “Professer Sprout recently managed to 
procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have 
reached their full size, I will have a potion made that 
will revive Mrs. Norris.” 

“I’ll make it,” Lockhart butted in. “I must have done it 
a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake 
Restorative Draught in my sleep — ” 

“Excuse me,” said Snape icily. “But I believe I am the 
Potions master at this school.” 

There was a very awkward pause. 

“You may go,” Dumbledore said to Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione. 

They went, as quickly as they could without actually 
running. When they were a floor up from Lockhart’s 
office, they turned into an empty classroom and 
closed the door quietly behind them. Harry squinted 
at his friends’ darkened faces. 

“D’you think I should have told them about that voice 
I heard?” 



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“No,” said Ron, without hesitation. “Hearing voices no 
one else can hear isn’t a good sign, even in the 
wizarding world.” 

Something in Ron’s voice made Harry ask, “You do 
believe me, don’t you?” 

“ ’Course I do,” said Ron quickly. “But — you must 
admit it’s weird. ...” 

“I know it’s weird,” said Harry. “The whole thing’s 
weird. What was that writing on the wall about? The 
Chamber Has Been Opened’. ... What’s that supposed 
to mean?” 

“You know, it rings a sort of bell,” said Ron slowly. “I 
think someone told me a story about a secret 
chamber at Hogwarts once ... might’ve been Bill. ...” 

“And what on earth’s a Squib?” said Harry. 

To his surprise, Ron stifled a snigger. 

“Well — it’s not funny really — but as it’s Filch,” he 
said. “A Squib is someone who was born into a 
wizarding family but hasn’t got any magic powers. 
Kind of the opposite of Muggle-born wizards, but 
Squibs are quite unusual. If Filch ’s trying to learn 
magic from a Kwikspell course, I reckon he must be a 
Squib. It would explain a lot. Like why he hates 
students so much.” Ron gave a satisfied smile. “He’s 
bitter.” 

A clock chimed somewhere. 

“Midnight,” said Harry. “We’d better get to bed before 
Snape comes along and tries to frame us for 
something else.” 



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For a few days, the school could talk of little else but 
the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in 
everyone’s minds by pacing the spot where she had 
been attacked, as though he thought the attacker 
might come back. Harry had seen him scrubbing the 
message on the wall with Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose 
Magical Mess Remover, but to no effect; the words 
still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. When 
Filch wasn’t guarding the scene of the crime, he was 
skulking red-eyed through the corridors, lunging out 
at unsuspecting students and trying to put them in 
detention for things like “breathing loudly” and 
“looking happy.” 

Ginny Weasley seemed very disturbed by Mrs. 

Norris’s fate. According to Ron, she was a great cat 
lover. 

“But you haven’t really got to know Mrs. Norris,” Ron 
told her bracingly. “Honestly, we’re much better off 
without her.” Ginny ’s lip trembled. “Stuff like this 
doesn’t often happen at Hogwarts,” Ron assured her. 
“They’ll catch the maniac who did it and have him out 
of here in no time. I just hope he’s got time to Petrify 
Filch before he’s expelled. I’m only joking — ” Ron 
added hastily as Ginny blanched. 

The attack had also had an effect on Hermione. It was 
quite usual for Hermione to spend a lot of time 
reading, but she was now doing almost nothing else. 
Nor could Harry and Ron get much response from her 
when they asked what she was up to, and not until 
the following Wednesday did they find out. 

Harry had been held back in Potions, where Snape 
had made him stay behind to scrape tubeworms off 



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the desks. After a hurried lunch, he went upstairs to 
meet Ron in the library, and saw Justin Finch- 
Fletchley, the Hufflepuff boy from Herbology, coming 
toward him. Harry had just opened his mouth to say 
hello when Justin caught sight of him, turned 
abruptly, and sped off in the opposite direction. 

Harry found Ron at the back of the library, measuring 
his History of Magic homework. Professor Binns had 
asked for a three-foot-long composition on “The 
Medieval Assembly of European Wizards.” 

“I don’t believe it, I’m still eight inches short. ...” said 
Ron furiously, letting go of his parchment, which 
sprang back into a roll. “And Hermione’s done four 
feet seven inches and her writing’s tiny.” 

“Where is she?” asked Harry, grabbing the tape 
measure and unrolling his own homework. 

“Somewhere over there,” said Ron, pointing along the 
shelves. “Looking for another book. I think she’s 
trying to read the whole library before Christmas.” 

Harry told Ron about Justin Finch-Fletchley running 
away from him. 

“Dunno why you care. I thought he was a bit of an 
idiot,” said Ron, scribbling away, making his writing 
as large as possible. “All that junk about Lockhart 
being so great — ” 

Hermione emerged from between the bookshelves. 

She looked irritable and at last seemed ready to talk 
to them. 

“All the copies of Hogwarts, A History have been taken 
out,” she said, sitting down next to Harry and Ron. 
“And there’s a two-week waiting list. I wish I hadn’t 

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left my copy at home, but I couldn’t fit it in my trunk 
with all the Lockhart books.” 



“Why do you want it?” said Harry. 

“The same reason everyone else wants it,” said 
Hermione, “to read up on the legend of the Chamber 
of Secrets.” 

“What’s that?” said Harry quickly. 

“That’s just it. I can’t remember,” said Hermione, 
biting her lip. “And I can’t find the story anywhere 
else — ” 

“Hermione, let me read your composition,” said Ron 
desperately, checking his watch. 

“No, I won’t,” said Hermione, suddenly severe. “You’ve 
had ten days to finish it — ” 

“I only need another two inches, come on — ” 

The bell rang. Ron and Hermione led the way to 
History of Magic, bickering. 

History of Magic was the dullest subject on their 
schedule. Professor Binns, who taught it, was their 
only ghost teacher, and the most exciting thing that 
ever happened in his classes was his entering the 
room through the blackboard. Ancient and shriveled, 
many people said he hadn’t noticed he was dead. He 
had simply got up to teach one day and left his body 
behind him in an armchair in front of the staffroom 
fire; his routine had not varied in the slightest since. 

Today was as boring as ever. Professor Binns opened 
his notes and began to read in a flat drone like an old 
vacuum cleaner until nearly everyone in the class was 

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in a deep stupor, occasionally coming to long enough 
to copy down a name or date, then falling asleep 
again. He had been speaking for half an hour when 
something happened that had never happened before. 
Hermione put up her hand. 

Professor Binns, glancing up in the middle of a deadly 
dull lecture on the International Warlock Convention 
of 1289, looked amazed. 

“Miss — er — ?” 

“Granger, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell 
us anything about the Chamber of Secrets,” said 
Hermione in a clear voice. 

Dean Thomas, who had been sitting with his mouth 
hanging open, gazing out of the window, jerked out of 
his trance; Lavender Brown’s head came up off her 
arms and Neville Longbottom’s elbow slipped off his 
desk. 

Professor Binns blinked. 

“My subject is History of Magic,” he said in his dry, 
wheezy voice. “I deal with, facts, Miss Granger, not 
myths and legends.” He cleared his throat with a 
small noise like chalk snapping and continued, “In 
September of that year, a subcommittee of Sardinian 
sorcerers — ” 

He stuttered to a halt. Hermione’s hand was waving 
in the air again. 

“Miss Grant?” 

“Please, sir, don’t legends always have a basis in 
fact?” 



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Professor Binns was looking at her in such 
amazement, Harry was sure no student had ever 
interrupted him before, alive or dead. 

“Well,” said Professor Binns slowly, “yes, one could 
argue that, I suppose.” He peered at Hermione as 
though he had never seen a student properly before. 
“However, the legend of which you speak is such a 
very sensational, even ludicrous tale — ” 

But the whole class was now hanging on Professor 
Binns ’s every word. He looked dimly at them all, every 
face turned to his. Harry could tell he was completely 
thrown by such an unusual show of interest. 

“Oh, very well,” he said slowly. “Let me see ... the 
Chamber of Secrets . . . 

“You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded 
over a thousand years ago — the precise date is 
uncertain — by the four greatest witches and wizards 
of the age. The four school Houses are named after 
them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena 
Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. They built this 
castle together, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was 
an age when magic was feared by common people, 
and witches and wizards suffered much persecution.” 

He paused, gazed blearily around the room, and 
continued. 

“For a few years, the founders worked in harmony 
together, seeking out youngsters who showed signs of 
magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated. 
But then disagreements sprang up between them. A 
rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. 
Slytherin wished to be more selective about the 
students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that 
magical learning should be kept within all-magic 
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families. He disliked taking students of Muggle 
parentage, believing them to be untrustworthy. After 
a while, there was a serious argument on the subject 
between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left 
the school.” 

Professor Binns paused again, pursing his lips, 
looking like a wrinkled old tortoise. 

“Reliable historical sources tell us this much,” he 
said. “But these honest facts have been obscured by 
the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The 
story goes that Slytherin had built a hidden chamber 
in the castle, of which the other founders knew 
nothing. 

“Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the 
Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to 
open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. 
The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber 
of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to 
purge the school of all who were unworthy to study 
magic.” 

There was silence as he finished telling the story, but 
it wasn’t the usual, sleepy silence that filled Professor 
Binns ’s classes. There was unease in the air as 
everyone continued to watch him, hoping for more. 
Professor Binns looked faintly annoyed. 

“The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course,” he 
said. “Naturally, the school has been searched for 
evidence of such a chamber, many times, by the most 
learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. A tale 
told to frighten the gullible.” 

Hermione’s hand was back in the air. 



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“Sir — what exactly do you mean by the ‘horror 
within’ the Chamber?” 

“That is believed to be some sort of monster, which 
the Heir of Slytherin alone can control,” said Professor 
Binns in his dry, reedy voice. 

The class exchanged nervous looks. 

“I tell you, the thing does not exist,” said Professor 
Binns, shuffling his notes. “There is no Chamber and 
no monster.” 

“But, sir,” said Seamus Finnigan, “if the Chamber can 
only be opened by Slytherin’s true heir, no one else 
would be able to find it, would they?” 

“Nonsense, O’Flaherty,” said Professor Binns in an 
aggravated tone. “If a long succession of Hogwarts 
headmasters and headmistresses haven’t found the 
thing — ” 

“But, Professor,” piped up Parvati Patil, “you’d 
probably have to use Dark Magic to open it — ” 

“Just because a wizard doesn’t use Dark Magic 
doesn’t mean he can’t, Miss Pennyfeather,” snapped 
Professor Binns. “I repeat, if the likes of Dumbledore 



“But maybe you’ve got to be related to Slytherin, so 
Dumbledore couldn’t — ” began Dean Thomas, but 
Professor Binns had had enough. 

“That will do,” he said sharply. “It is a myth! It does 
not exist! There is not a shred of evidence that 
Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom 
cupboard! I regret telling you such a foolish story! We 



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will return, if you please, to history, to solid, 
believable, verifiable facti” 



And within five minutes, the class had sunk back into 
its usual torpor. 

“I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old 
loony,” Ron told Harry and Hermione as they fought 
their way through the teeming corridors at the end of 
the lesson to drop off their bags before dinner. “But I 
never knew he started all this pure-blood stuff. I 
wouldn’t be in his House if you paid me. Honestly, if 
the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I’d’ve 
got the train straight back home. ...” 

Hermione nodded fervently, but Harry didn’t say 
anything. His stomach had just dropped 
unpleasantly. 

Harry had never told Ron and Hermione that the 
Sorting Hat had seriously considered putting him in 
Slytherin. He could remember, as though it were 
yesterday, the small voice that had spoken in his ear 
when he’d placed the hat on his head a year before: 
You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your 
head, and Slytherin would help you on the way to 
greatness, no doubt about that. . . . 

But Harry, who had already heard of Slytherin 
House’s reputation for turning out Dark wizards, had 
thought desperately, Not Slytherin ! and the hat had 
said, Oh, well, if you’re sure ... better be Gryffindor. ... 

As they were shunted along in the throng, Colin 
Creevey went past. 

“Hiya, Harry!” 

“Hullo, Colin,” said Harry automatically. 

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“Harry — Harry — a boy in my class has been saying 
you’re — ” 



But Colin was so small he couldn’t fight against the 
tide of people bearing him toward the Great Hall; they 
heard him squeak, “See you, Harry!” and he was 
gone. 

“What’s a boy in his class saying about you?” 
Hermione wondered. 

“That I’m Slytherin’s heir, I expect,” said Harry, his 
stomach dropping another inch or so as he suddenly 
remembered the way Justin Finch-Fletchley had run 
away from him at lunchtime. 

“People here’ll believe anything,” said Ron in disgust. 

The crowd thinned and they were able to climb the 
next staircase without difficulty. 

“D’you really think there’s a Chamber of Secrets?” 

Ron asked Hermione. 

“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “Dumbledore 
couldn’t cure Mrs. Norris, and that makes me think 
that whatever attacked her might not be — well — 
human.” 

As she spoke, they turned a corner and found 
themselves at the end of the very corridor where the 
attack had happened. They stopped and looked. The 
scene was just as it had been that night, except that 
there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket, 
and an empty chair stood against the wall bearing the 
message “The Chamber of Secrets Has Been Opened.” 

“That’s where Filch has been keeping guard,” Ron 
muttered. 

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They looked at each other. The corridor was deserted. 



“Can’t hurt to have a poke around,” said Harry, 
dropping his bag and getting to his hands and knees 
so that he could crawl along, searching for clues. 

“Scorch marks!” he said. “Here — and here — ” 

“Come and look at this!” said Hermione. “This is 
funny. ...” 

Harry got up and crossed to the window next to the 
message on the wall. Hermione was pointing at the 
topmost pane, where around twenty spiders were 
scuttling, apparently fighting to get through a small 
crack. A long, silvery thread was dangling like a rope, 
as though they had all climbed it in their hurry to get 
outside. 

“Have you ever seen spiders act like that?” said 
Hermione wonderingly. 

“No,” said Harry, “have you, Ron? Ron?” 

He looked over his shoulder. Ron was standing well 
back and seemed to be fighting the impulse to run. 

“What’s up?” said Harry. 

“I — don’t — like — spiders,” said Ron tensely. 

“I never knew that,” said Hermione, looking at Ron in 
surprise. “You’ve used spiders in Potions loads of 
times. ...” 

“I don’t mind them dead,” said Ron, who was carefully 
looking anywhere but at the window. “I just don’t like 
the way they move. ...” 

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Hermione giggled. 



“It’s not funny,” said Ron, fiercely. “If you must know, 
when I was three, Fred turned my — my teddy bear 
into a great big filthy spider because I broke his toy 
broomstick. ... You wouldn’t like them either if you’d 
been holding your bear and suddenly it had too many 
legs and ...” 

He broke off, shuddering. Hermione was obviously 
still trying not to laugh. Feeling they had better get off 
the subject, Harry said, “Remember all that water on 
the floor? Where did that come from? Someone’s 
mopped it up.” 

“It was about here,” said Ron, recovering himself to 
walk a few paces past Filch’s chair and pointing. 

“Level with this door.” 

He reached for the brass doorknob but suddenly 
withdrew his hand as though he’d been burned. 

“What’s the matter?” said Harry. 

“Can’t go in there,” said Ron gruffly. “That’s a girls’ 
toilet.” 

“Oh, Ron, there won’t be anyone in there,” said 
Hermione, standing up and coming over. “That’s 
Moaning Myrtle’s place. Come on, let’s have a look.” 

And ignoring the large OUT OF ORDER sign, she 
opened the door. 

It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Harry 
had ever set foot in. Under a large, cracked, and 
spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The floor 
was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the 
stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders; 
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the wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and 
scratched and one of them was dangling off its 
hinges. 

Hermione put her fingers to her lips and set off 
toward the end stall. When she reached it she said, 
“Hello, Myrtle, how are you?” 

Harry and Ron went to look. Moaning Myrtle was 
floating above the tank of the toilet, picking a spot on 
her chin. 

“This is a girls’ bathroom,” she said, eyeing Ron and 
Harry suspiciously. “They’re not girls.” 

“No,” Hermione agreed. “I just wanted to show them 
how — er — nice it is in here.” 

She waved vaguely at the dirty old mirror and the 
damp floor. 

“Ask her if she saw anything,” Harry mouthed at 
Hermione. 

“What are you whispering?” said Myrtle, staring at 
him. 

“Nothing,” said Harry quickly. “We wanted to ask — ” 

“I wish people would stop talking behind my back!” 
said Myrtle, in a voice choked with tears. “I do have 
feelings, you know, even if I am dead — ” 

“Myrtle, no one wants to upset you,” said Hermione. 
“Harry only — ” 

“No one wants to upset me! That’s a good one!” 
howled Myrtle. “My life was nothing but misery at this 
place and now people come along ruining my death!” 

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“We wanted to ask you if you’ve seen anything funny 
lately,” said Hermione quickly. “Because a cat was 
attacked right outside your front door on Halloween.” 

“Did you see anyone near here that night?” said 
Harry. 

“I wasn’t paying attention,” said Myrtle dramatically. 
“Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to 
kill myself. Then, of course, I remembered that I’m — 
that I’m — ” 

“Already dead,” said Ron helpfully. 

Myrtle gave a tragic sob, rose up in the air, turned 
over, and dived headfirst into the toilet, splashing 
water all over them and vanishing from sight, 
although from the direction of her muffled sobs, she 
had come to rest somewhere in the U-bend. 

Harry and Ron stood with their mouths open, but 
Hermione shrugged wearily and said, “Honestly, that 
was almost cheerful for Myrtle. ... Come on, let’s go.” 

Harry had barely closed the door on Myrtle’s gurgling 
sobs when a loud voice made all three of them jump. 

“RON!” 

Percy Weasley had stopped dead at the head of the 
stairs, prefect badge agleam, an expression of 
complete shock on his face. 

“That’s a girls’ bathroom!” he gasped. “What were you 
— ?” 

“Just having a look around,” Ron shrugged. “Clues, 
you know — ” 



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Percy swelled in a manner that reminded Harry 
forcefully of Mrs. Weasley. 



“Get — away — from — there — ” Percy said, striding 
toward them and starting to bustle them along, 
flapping his arms. “Don’t you care what this looks 
like? Coming back here while everyone’s at dinner — ” 

“Why shouldn’t we be here?” said Ron hotly, stopping 
short and glaring at Percy. “Listen, we never laid a 
finger on that cat!” 

“That’s what I told Ginny,” said Percy fiercely, “but 
she still seems to think you’re going to be expelled, 

I’ve never seen her so upset, crying her eyes out, you 
might think of her, all the first years are thoroughly 
overexcited by this business — ” 

“ You don’t care about Ginny,” said Ron, whose ears 
were now reddening. “You’re just worried I’m going to 
mess up your chances of being Head Boy — ” 

“Five points from Gryffindor!” Percy said tersely, 
fingering his prefect badge. “And I hope it teaches you 
a lesson! No more detective work, or I’ll write to 
Mum!” 

And he strode off, the back of his neck as red as 
Ron’s ears. 



Harry, Ron, and Hermione chose seats as far as 
possible from Percy in the common room that night. 
Ron was still in a very bad temper and kept blotting 
his Charms homework. When he reached absently for 
his wand to remove the smudges, it ignited the 
parchment. Fuming almost as much as his 
homework, Ron slammed The Standard Book of 
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Spells, Grade 2 shut. To Harry’s surprise, Hermione 
followed suit. 

“Who can it be, though?” she said in a quiet voice, as 
though continuing a conversation they had just been 
having. “Who’d want to frighten all the Squibs and 
Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts?” 

“Let’s think,” said Ron in mock puzzlement. “Who do 
we know who thinks Muggle-borns are scum?” 

He looked at Hermione. Hermione looked back, 
unconvinced. 

“If you’re talking about Malfoy — ” 

“Of course I am!” said Ron. “You heard him — ‘You’ll 
be next, MudbloodsV — come on, you’ve only got to 
look at his foul rat face to know it’s him — ” 

“Malfoy, the Heir of Slytherin?” said Hermione 
skeptically. 

“Look at his family,” said Harry, closing his books, 
too. “The whole lot of them have been in Slytherin; 
he’s always boasting about it. They could easily be 
Slytherin’s descendants. His father’s definitely evil 
enough.” 

“They could’ve had the key to the Chamber of Secrets 
for centuries!” said Ron. “Handing it down, father to 
son. ...” 

“Well,” said Hermione cautiously, “I suppose it’s 
possible. ...” 

“But how do we prove it?” said Harry darkly. 



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“There might be a way,” said Hermione slowly, 
dropping her voice still further with a quick glance 
across the room at Percy. “Of course, it would be 
difficult. And dangerous, very dangerous. We’d be 
breaking about fifty school rules, I expect — ” 

“If, in a month or so, you feel like explaining, you will 
let us know, won’t you?” said Ron irritably. 

“All right,” said Hermione coldly. “What we’d need to 
do is to get inside the Slytherin common room and 
ask Malfoy a few questions without him realizing it’s 
us.” 



“But that’s impossible,” Harry said as Ron laughed. 

“No, it’s not,” said Hermione. “All we’d need would be 
some Polyjuice Potion.” 

“What’s that?” said Ron and Harry together. 

“Snape mentioned it in class a few weeks ago — ” 

“D’you think we’ve got nothing better to do in Potions 
than listen to Snape?” muttered Ron. 

“It transforms you into somebody else. Think about it! 
We could change into three of the Slytherins. No one 
would know it was us. Malfoy would probably tell us 
anything. He’s probably boasting about it in the 
Slytherin common room right now, if only we could 
hear him.” 

“This Polyjuice stuff sounds a bit dodgy to me,” said 
Ron, frowning. “What if we were stuck looking like 
three of the Slytherins forever?” 

“It wears off after a while,” said Hermione, waving her 
hand impatiently. “But getting hold of the recipe will 

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be very difficult. Snape said it was in a book called 
Moste Potente Potions and it’s bound to be in the 
Restricted Section of the library.” 

There was only one way to get out a book from the 
Restricted Section: You needed a signed note of 
permission from a teacher. 

“Hard to see why we’d want the book, really,” said 
Ron, “if we weren’t going to try and make one of the 
potions.” 

“I think,” said Hermione, “that if we made it sound as 
though we were just interested in the theory, we 
might stand a chance. ...” 

“Oh, come on, no teacher’s going to fall for that,” said 
Ron. “They’d have to be really thick. ...” 



Page | 179 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




10 




THE ROGUE BLUDGER 

Since the disastrous episode of the pixies, Professor 
Lockhart had not brought live creatures to class. 
Instead, he read passages from his books to them, 
and sometimes reenacted some of the more dramatic 
bits. He usually picked Harry to help him with these 
reconstructions; so far, Harry had been forced to play 
a simple Transylvanian villager whom Lockhart had 
cured of a Babbling Curse, a yeti with a head cold, 
and a vampire who had been unable to eat anything 
except lettuce since Lockhart had dealt with him. 

Harry was hauled to the front of the class during their 
very next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, this 
time acting a werewolf. If he hadn’t had a very good 
reason for keeping Lockhart in a good mood, he would 
have refused to do it. 

“Nice loud howl, Harry — exactly — and then, if you’ll 
believe it, I pounced — like this — slammed him to 
the floor — thus — with one hand, I managed to hold 
him down — with my other, I put my wand to his 
throat — I then screwed up my remaining strength 
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and performed the immensely complex Homorphus 
Charm — he let out a piteous moan — go on, Harry — 
higher than that — good — the fur vanished — the 
fangs shrank — and he turned back into a man. 
Simple, yet effective — and another village will 
remember me forever as the hero who delivered them 
from the monthly terror of werewolf attacks.” 

The bell rang and Lockhart got to his feet. 

“Homework — compose a poem about my defeat of 
the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Signed copies of Magical 
Me to the author of the best one!” 

The class began to leave. Harry returned to the back 
of the room, where Ron and Hermione were waiting. 

“Ready?” Harry muttered. 

“Wait till everyone’s gone,” said Hermione nervously. 
“All right ...” 

She approached Lockhart’s desk, a piece of paper 
clutched tightly in her hand, Harry and Ron right 
behind her. 

“Er — Professor Lockhart?” Hermione stammered. “I 
wanted to — to get this book out of the library. Just 
for background reading.” She held out the piece of 
paper, her hand shaking slightly. “But the thing is, 
it’s in the Restricted Section of the library, so I need a 
teacher to sign for it — I’m sure it would help me 
understand what you say in Gadding with Ghouls 
about slow-acting venoms — ” 

“Ah, Gadding with GhoulsV’ said Lockhart, taking the 
note from Hermione and smiling widely at her. 
“Possibly my very favorite book. You enjoyed it?” 



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“Oh, yes,” said Hermione eagerly. “So clever, the way 
you trapped that last one with the tea-strainer — ” 

“Well, I’m sure no one will mind me giving the best 
student of the year a little extra help,” said Lockhart 
warmly, and he pulled out an enormous peacock 
quill. “Yes, nice, isn’t it?” he said, misreading the 
revolted look on Ron’s face. “I usually save it for book 
signings.” 

He scrawled an enormous loopy signature on the note 
and handed it back to Hermione. 

“So, Harry,” said Lockhart, while Hermione folded the 
note with fumbling fingers and slipped it into her bag. 
“Tomorrow’s the first Quidditch match of the season, I 
believe? Gryffindor against Slytherin, is it not? I hear 
you’re a useful player. I was a Seeker, too. I was 
asked to try for the National Squad, but preferred to 
dedicate my life to the eradication of the Dark Forces. 
Still, if ever you feel the need for a little private 
training, don’t hesitate to ask. Always happy to pass 
on my expertise to less able players. ...” 

Harry made an indistinct noise in his throat and then 
hurried off after Ron and Hermione. 

“I don’t believe it,” he said as the three of them 
examined the signature on the note. “He didn’t even 
look at the book we wanted.” 

“That’s because he’s a brainless git,” said Ron. “But 
who cares, we’ve got what we needed — ” 

“He is not a brainless git,” said Hermione shrilly as 
they half ran toward the library. 

“Just because he said you were the best student of 
the year — ” 

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They dropped their voices as they entered the muffled 
stillness of the library. Madam Pince, the librarian, 
was a thin, irritable woman who looked like an 
underfed vulture. 

“Moste Potente Potions?” she repeated suspiciously, 
trying to take the note from Hermione; but Hermione 
wouldn’t let go. 

“I was wondering if I could keep it,” she said 
breathlessly. 

“Oh, come on,” said Ron, wrenching it from her grasp 
and thrusting it at Madam Pince. “We’ll get you 
another autograph. Lockhart ’ll sign anything if it 
stands still long enough.” 

Madam Pince held the note up to the light, as though 
determined to detect a forgery, but it passed the test. 
She stalked away between the lofty shelves and 
returned several minutes later carrying a large and 
moldy-looking book. Hermione put it carefully into 
her bag and they left, trying not to walk too quickly or 
look too guilty. 

Five minutes later, they were barricaded in Moaning 
Myrtle’s out-of-order bathroom once again. Hermione 
had overridden Ron’s objections by pointing out that 
it was the last place anyone in their right minds 
would go, so they were guaranteed some privacy. 
Moaning Myrtle was crying noisily in her stall, but 
they were ignoring her, and she them. 

Hermione opened Moste Potente Potions carefully, and 
the three of them bent over the damp-spotted pages. 

It was clear from a glance why it belonged in the 
Restricted Section. Some of the potions had effects 
almost too gruesome to think about, and there were 
some very unpleasant illustrations, which included a 
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man who seemed to have been turned inside out and 
a witch sprouting several extra pairs of arms out of 
her head. 

“Here it is,” said Hermione excitedly as she found the 
page headed The Polyjuice Potion. It was decorated 
with drawings of people halfway through transforming 
into other people. Harry sincerely hoped the artist 
had imagined the looks of intense pain on their faces. 

“This is the most complicated potion I’ve ever seen,” 
said Hermione as they scanned the recipe. “Lacewing 
flies, leeches, fluxweed, and knotgrass,” she 
murmured, running her finger down the list of 
ingredients. “Well, they’re easy enough, they’re in the 
student store-cupboard, we can help ourselves. ... 
Oooh, look, powdered horn of a bicorn — don’t know 
where we’re going to get that — shredded skin of a 
boomslang — thatll be tricky, too — and of course a 
bit of whoever we want to change into.” 

“Excuse me?” said Ron sharply. “What d’you mean, a 
bit of whoever we’re changing into? I’m drinking 
nothing with Crabbe’s toenails in it — ” 

Hermione continued as though she hadn’t heard him. 

“We don’t have to worry about that yet, though, 
because we add those bits last. ...” 

Ron turned, speechless, to Harry, who had another 
worry. 

“D’you realize how much we’re going to have to steal, 
Hermione? Shredded skin of a boomslang, that’s 
definitely not in the students’ cupboard. What’re we 
going to do, break into Snape’s private stores? I don’t 
know if this is a good idea. ...” 



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Hermione shut the book with a snap. 



“Well, if you two are going to chicken out, fine,” she 
said. There were bright pink patches on her cheeks 
and her eyes were brighter than usual. “ I don’t want 
to break rules, you know. / think threatening Muggle- 
borns is far worse than brewing up a difficult potion. 
But if you don’t want to find out if it’s Malfoy, I’ll go 
straight to Madam Pince now and hand the book back 
in — ” 



“I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be 
persuading us to break rules,” said Ron. “All right, 
we’ll do it. But not toenails, okay?” 

“How long will it take to make, anyway?” said Harry 
as Hermione, looking happier, opened the book again. 

“Well, since the fluxweed has got to be picked at the 
full moon and the lacewings have got to be stewed for 
twenty-one days ... I’d say it’d be ready in about a 
month, if we can get all the ingredients.” 

“A month?” said Ron. “Malfoy could have attacked 
half the Muggle-borns in the school by then!” But 
Hermione ’s eyes narrowed dangerously again, and he 
added swiftly, “But it’s the best plan we’ve got, so full 
steam ahead, I say.” 

However, while Hermione was checking that the coast 
was clear for them to leave the bathroom, Ron 
muttered to Harry, “It’ll be a lot less hassle if you can 
just knock Malfoy off his broom tomorrow.” 

Harry woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a 
while thinking about the coming Quidditch match. He 
was nervous, mainly at the thought of what Wood 
would say if Gryffindor lost, but also at the idea of 
facing a team mounted on the fastest racing brooms 
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gold could buy. He had never wanted to beat 
Slytherin so badly. After half an hour of lying there 
with his insides churning, he got up, dressed, and 
went down to breakfast early, where he found the rest 
of the Gryffindor team huddled at the long, empty 
table, all looking uptight and not speaking much. 

As eleven o’clock approached, the whole school 
started to make its way down to the Quidditch 
stadium. It was a muggy sort of day with a hint of 
thunder in the air. Ron and Hermione came hurrying 
over to wish Harry good luck as he entered the locker 
rooms. The team pulled on their scarlet Gryffindor 
robes, then sat down to listen to Wood’s usual pre- 
match pep talk. 

“Slytherin has better brooms than us,” he began. “No 
point denying it. But we’ve got better people on our 
brooms. We’ve trained harder than they have, we’ve 
been flying in all weathers — ” (“Too true,” muttered 
George Weasley. “I haven’t been properly dry since 
August”) “ — and we’re going to make them rue the 
day they let that little bit of slime, Malfoy, buy his 
way onto their team.” 

Chest heaving with emotion, Wood turned to Harry. 

“It’ll be down to you, Harry, to show them that a 
Seeker has to have something more than a rich 
father. Get to that Snitch before Malfoy or die trying, 
Harry, because we’ve got to win today, we’ve got to.” 

“So no pressure, Harry,” said Fred, winking at him. 

As they walked out onto the field, a roar of noise 
greeted them; mainly cheers, because Ravenclaw and 
Hufflepuff were anxious to see Slytherin beaten, but 
the Slytherins in the crowd made their boos and 
hisses heard, too. Madam Hooch, the Quidditch 
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teacher, asked Flint and Wood to shake hands, which 
they did, giving each other threatening stares and 
gripping rather harder than was necessary. 

“On my whistle,” said Madam Hooch. “Three ... two ... 
one ...” 

With a roar from the crowd to speed them upward, 
the fourteen players rose toward the leaden sky. 

Harry flew higher than any of them, squinting around 
for the Snitch. 

“All right there, Scarhead?” yelled Malfoy, shooting 
underneath him as though to show off the speed of 
his broom. 

Harry had no time to reply. At that very moment, a 
heavy black Bludger came pelting toward him; he 
avoided it so narrowly that he felt it ruffle his hair as 
it passed. 

“Close one, Harry!” said George, streaking past him 
with his club in his hand, ready to knock the Bludger 
back toward a Slytherin. Harry saw George give the 
Bludger a powerful whack in the direction of Adrian 
Pucey, but the Bludger changed direction in midair 
and shot straight for Harry again. 

Harry dropped quickly to avoid it, and George 
managed to hit it hard toward Malfoy. Once again, the 
Bludger swerved like a boomerang and shot at Harry’s 
head. 

Harry put on a burst of speed and zoomed toward the 
other end of the field. He could hear the Bludger 
whistling along behind him. What was going on? 
Bludgers never concentrated on one player like this; it 
was their job to try and unseat as many people as 
possible. ... 

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Fred Weasley was waiting for the Bludger at the other 
end. Harry ducked as Fred swung at the Bludger with 
all his might; the Bludger was knocked off course. 

“Gotcha!” Fred yelled happily, but he was wrong; as 
though it was magnetically attracted to Harry, the 
Bludger pelted after him once more and Harry was 
forced to fly off at full speed. 

It had started to rain; Harry felt heavy drops fall onto 
his face, splattering onto his glasses. He didn’t have a 
clue what was going on in the rest of the game until 
he heard Lee Jordan, who was commentating, say, 
“Slytherin lead, sixty points to zero — ” 

The Slytherins’ superior brooms were clearly doing 
their jobs, and meanwhile the mad Bludger was doing 
all it could to knock Harry out of the air. Fred and 
George were now flying so close to him on either side 
that Harry could see nothing at all except their flailing 
arms and had no chance to look for the Snitch, let 
alone catch it. 

“Someone’s — tampered — with — this — Bludger — ” 
Fred grunted, swinging his bat with all his might at it 
as it launched a new attack on Harry. 

“We need time out,” said George, trying to signal to 
Wood and stop the Bludger breaking Harry’s nose at 
the same time. 

Wood had obviously got the message. Madam Hooch’s 
whistle rang out and Harry, Fred, and George dived 
for the ground, still trying to avoid the mad Bludger. 

“What’s going on?” said Wood as the Gryffindor team 
huddled together, while Slytherins in the crowd 
jeered. “We’re being flattened. Fred, George, where 



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were you when that Bludger stopped Angelina 
scoring?” 

“We were twenty feet above her, stopping the other 
Bludger from murdering Harry, Oliver,” said George 
angrily. “Someone’s fixed it — it won’t leave Harry 
alone. It hasn’t gone for anyone else all game. The 
Slytherins must have done something to it.” 

“But the Bludgers have been locked in Madam 
Hooch’s office since our last practice, and there was 
nothing wrong with them then. ...” said Wood, 
anxiously. 

Madam Hooch was walking toward them. Over her 
shoulder, Harry could see the Slytherin team jeering 
and pointing in his direction. 

“Listen,” said Harry as she came nearer and nearer, 
“with you two flying around me all the time the only 
way I’m going to catch the Snitch is if it flies up my 
sleeve. Go back to the rest of the team and let me deal 
with the rogue one.” 

“Don’t be thick,” said Fred. “It’ll take your head off.” 

Wood was looking from Harry to the Weasleys. 

“Oliver, this is insane,” said Alicia Spinnet angrily. 
“You can’t let Harry deal with that thing on his own. 
Let’s ask for an inquiry — ” 

“If we stop now, we’ll have to forfeit the match!” said 
Harry. “And we’re not losing to Slytherin just because 
of a crazy Bludger! Come on, Oliver, tell them to leave 
me alone!” 



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“This is all your fault,” George said angrily to Wood. “ 
‘Get the Snitch or die trying,’ what a stupid thing to 
tell him—” 



Madam Hooch had joined them. 

“Ready to resume play?” she asked Wood. 

Wood looked at the determined look on Harry’s face. 

“All right,” he said. “Fred, George, you heard Harry — 
leave him alone and let him deal with the Bludger on 
his own.” 

The rain was falling more heavily now. On Madam 
Hooch’s whistle, Harry kicked hard into the air and 
heard the telltale whoosh of the Bludger behind him. 
Higher and higher Harry climbed; he looped and 
swooped, spiraled, zigzagged, and rolled. Slightly 
dizzy, he nevertheless kept his eyes wide open, rain 
was speckling his glasses and ran up his nostrils as 
he hung upside down, avoiding another fierce dive 
from the Bludger. He could hear laughter from the 
crowd; he knew he must look very stupid, but the 
rogue Bludger was heavy and couldn’t change 
direction as quickly as Harry could; he began a kind 
of roller-coaster ride around the edges of the stadium, 
squinting through the silver sheets of rain to the 
Gryffindor goal posts, where Adrian Pucey was trying 
to get past Wood — 

A whistling in Harry’s ear told him the Bludger had 
just missed him again; he turned right over and sped 
in the opposite direction. 

“Training for the ballet, Potter?” yelled Malfoy as 
Harry was forced to do a stupid kind of twirl in midair 
to dodge the Bludger, and he fled, the Bludger trailing 
a few feet behind him; and then, glaring back at 

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Malfoy in hatred, he saw it — the Golden Snitch. It 
was hovering inches above Malfoy’s left ear — and 
Malfoy, busy laughing at Harry, hadn’t seen it. 

For an agonizing moment, Harry hung in midair, not 
daring to speed toward Malfoy in case he looked up 
and saw the Snitch. 

WHAM. 

He had stayed still a second too long. The Bludger 
had hit him at last, smashed into his elbow, and 
Harry felt his arm break. Dimly, dazed by the searing 
pain in his arm, he slid sideways on his rain- 
drenched broom, one knee still crooked over it, his 
right arm dangling useless at his side — the Bludger 
came pelting back for a second attack, this time 
aiming at his face — Harry swerved out of the way, 
one idea firmly lodged in his numb brain: get to 
Malfoy. 

Through a haze of rain and pain he dived for the 
shimmering, sneering face below him and saw its eyes 
widen with fear: Malfoy thought Harry was attacking 
him. 

“What the — ” he gasped, careening out of Harry’s 
way. 

Harry took his remaining hand off his broom and 
made a wild snatch; he felt his fingers close on the 
cold Snitch but was now only gripping the broom with 
his legs, and there was a yell from the crowd below as 
he headed straight for the ground, trying hard not to 
pass out. 

With a splattering thud he hit the mud and rolled off 
his broom. His arm was hanging at a very strange 
angle; riddled with pain, he heard, as though from a 

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distance, a good deal of whistling and shouting. He 
focused on the Snitch clutched in his good hand. 

“Aha,” he said vaguely. “We’ve won.” 

And he fainted. 

He came around, rain falling on his face, still lying on 
the field, with someone leaning over him. He saw a 
glitter of teeth. 

“Oh, no, not you,” he moaned. 

“Doesn’t know what he’s saying,” said Lockhart loudly 
to the anxious crowd of Gryffindors pressing around 
them. “Not to worry, Harry. I’m about to fix your 
arm.” 

“iVo!” said Harry. “I’ll keep it like this, thanks. ...” 

He tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. He heard 
a familiar clicking noise nearby. 

“I don’t want a photo of this, Colin,” he said loudly. 

“Lie back, Harry,” said Lockhart soothingly. “It’s a 
simple charm I’ve used countless times — ” 

“Why can’t I just go to the hospital wing?” said Harry 
through clenched teeth. 

“He should really, Professor,” said a muddy Wood, 
who couldn’t help grinning even though his Seeker 
was injured. “Great capture, Harry, really 
spectacular, your best yet, I’d say — ” 

Through the thicket of legs around him, Harry 
spotted Fred and George Weasley, wrestling the rogue 



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Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific 
fight. 

“Stand back,” said Lockhart, who was rolling up his 
jade-green sleeves. 

“No — don’t — ” said Harry weakly, but Lockhart was 
twirling his wand and a second later had directed it 
straight at Harry’s arm. 

A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Harry’s 
shoulder and spread all the way down to his 
fingertips. It felt as though his arm was being 
deflated. He didn’t dare look at what was happening. 
He had shut his eyes, his face turned away from his 
arm, but his worst fears were realized as the people 
above him gasped and Colin Creevey began clicking 
away madly. His arm didn’t hurt anymore — nor did 
it feel remotely like an arm. 

“Ah,” said Lockhart. “Yes. Well, that can sometimes 
happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer 
broken. That’s the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry, 
just toddle up to the hospital wing — ah, Mr. 

Weasley, Miss Granger, would you escort him? — and 
Madam Pomfrey will be able to — er — tidy you up a 
bit.” 

As Harry got to his feet, he felt strangely lopsided. 
Taking a deep breath he looked down at his right 
side. What he saw nearly made him pass out again. 

Poking out of the end of his robes was what looked 
like a thick, flesh-colored rubber glove. He tried to 
move his fingers. Nothing happened. 

Lockhart hadn’t mended Harry’s bones. He had 
removed them. 



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Madam Pomfrey wasn’t at all pleased. 

“You should have come straight to me!” she raged, 
holding up the sad, limp remainder of what, half an 
hour before, had been a working arm. “I can mend 
bones in a second — but growing them back — ” 

“You will be able to, won’t you?” said Harry 
desperately. 

“I’ll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful,” said 
Madam Pomfrey grimly, throwing Harry a pair of 
pajamas. “You’ll have to stay the night. ...” 

Hermione waited outside the curtain drawn around 
Harry’s bed while Ron helped him into his pajamas. It 
took a while to stuff the rubbery, boneless arm into a 
sleeve. 

“How can you stick up for Lockhart now, Hermione, 
eh?” Ron called through the curtain as he pulled 
Harry’s limp fingers through the cuff. “If Harry had 
wanted deboning he would have asked.” 

“Anyone can make a mistake,” said Hermione. “And it 
doesn’t hurt anymore, does it, Harry?” 

“No,” said Harry, getting into bed. “But it doesn’t do 
anything else either.” 

As he swung himself onto the bed, his arm flapped 
pointlessly. 

Hermione and Madam Pomfrey came around the 
curtain. Madam Pomfrey was holding a large bottle of 
something labeled Skele-Gro. 



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“You’re in for a rough night,” she said, pouring out a 
steaming beakerful and handing it to him. “Regrowing 
bones is a nasty business.” 

So was taking the Skele-Gro. It burned Harry’s mouth 
and throat as it went down, making him cough and 
splutter. Still tut-tutting about dangerous sports and 
inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey retreated, leaving Ron 
and Hermione to help Harry gulp down some water. 

“We won, though,” said Ron, a grin breaking across 
his face. “That was some catch you made. Malfoy’s 
face ... he looked ready to kill. ...” 

“I want to know how he fixed that Bludger,” said 
Hermione darkly. 

“We can add that to the list of questions we’ll ask him 
when we’ve taken the Polyjuice Potion,” said Harry, 
sinking back onto his pillows. “I hope it tastes better 
than this stuff. ...” 

“If it’s got bits of Slytherins in it? You’ve got to be 
joking,” said Ron. 

The door of the hospital wing burst open at that 
moment. Filthy and soaking wet, the rest of the 
Gryffindor team had arrived to see Harry. 

“Unbelievable flying, Harry,” said George. “I’ve just 
seen Marcus Flint yelling at Malfoy. Something about 
having the Snitch on top of his head and not noticing. 
Malfoy didn’t seem too happy.” 

They had brought cakes, sweets, and bottles of 
pumpkin juice; they gathered around Harry’s bed and 
were just getting started on what promised to be a 
good party when Madam Pomfrey came storming over, 



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shouting, “This boy needs rest, he’s got thirty- three 
bones to regrow! Out! OUT!” 

And Harry was left alone, with nothing to distract him 
from the stabbing pains in his limp arm. 

Hours and hours later, Harry woke quite suddenly in 
the pitch blackness and gave a small yelp of pain: His 
arm now felt full of large splinters. For a second, he 
thought that was what had woken him. Then, with a 
thrill of horror, he realized that someone was 
sponging his forehead in the dark. 

“Get off!” he said loudly, and then, “Dobby\” 

The house-elf’s goggling tennis ball eyes were peering 
at Harry through the darkness. A single tear was 
running down his long, pointed nose. 

“Harry Potter came back to school,” he whispered 
miserably. “Dobby warned and warned Harry Potter. 
Ah sir, why didn’t you heed Dobby? Why didn’t Harry 
Potter go back home when he missed the train?” 

Harry heaved himself up on his pillows and pushed 
Dobby’s sponge away. 

“What’re you doing here?” he said. “And how did you 
know I missed the train?” 

Dobby’s lip trembled and Harry was seized by a 
sudden suspicion. 

“It was you!” he said slowly. “You stopped the barrier 
from letting us through!” 

“Indeed yes, sir,” said Dobby, nodding his head 
vigorously, ears flapping. “Dobby hid and watched for 
Harry Potter and sealed the gateway and Dobby had 

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to iron his hands afterward” — he showed Harry ten 
long, bandaged fingers — “but Dobby didn’t care, sir, 
for he thought Harry Potter was safe, and never did 
Dobby dream that Harry Potter would get to school 
another way!” 

He was rocking backward and forward, shaking his 
ugly head. 

“Dobby was so shocked when he heard Harry Potter 
was back at Hogwarts, he let his master’s dinner 
burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, sir. ...” 

Harry slumped back onto his pillows. 

“You nearly got Ron and me expelled,” he said 
fiercely. “You’d better get lost before my bones come 
back, Dobby, or I might strangle you.” 

Dobby smiled weakly. 

“Dobby is used to death threats, sir. Dobby gets them 
five times a day at home.” 

He blew his nose on a corner of the filthy pillowcase 
he wore, looking so pathetic that Harry felt his anger 
ebb away in spite of himself. 

“Why d’you wear that thing, Dobby?” he asked 
curiously. 

“This, sir?” said Dobby, plucking at the pillowcase. “ 
Tis a mark of the house-elf’s enslavement, sir. Dobby 
can only be freed if his masters present him with 
clothes, sir. The family is careful not to pass Dobby 
even a sock, sir, for then he would be free to leave 
their house forever.” 



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Dobby mopped his bulging eyes and said suddenly, 
“Harry Potter must go home! Dobby thought his 
Bludger would be enough to make — ” 

“Your Bludger?” said Harry, anger rising once more. 
“What d’you mean, your Bludger? You made that 
Bludger try and kill me?” 

“Not kill you, sir, never kill you!” said Dobby, 
shocked. “Dobby wants to save Harry Potter’s life! 
Better sent home, grievously injured, than remain 
here, sir! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt 
enough to be sent home!” 

“Oh, is that all?” said Harry angrily. “I don’t suppose 
you’re going to tell me why you wanted me sent home 
in pieces?” 

“Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!” Dobby groaned, more 
tears dripping onto his ragged pillowcase. “If he knew 
what he means to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we 
dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it 
was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the 
height of his powers, sir! We house-elves were treated 
like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like 
that, sir,” he admitted, drying his face on the 
pillowcase. “But mostly, sir, life has improved for my 
kind since you triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be- 
Named. Harry Potter survived, and the Dark Lord’s 
power was broken, and it was a new dawn, sir, and 
Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of 
us who thought the Dark days would never end, sir. 

... And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to 
happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby 
cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history is 
to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is 
open once more — ” 



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Dobby froze, horrors truck, then grabbed Harry’s 
water jug from his bedside table and cracked it over 
his own head, toppling out of sight. A second later, he 
crawled back onto the bed, cross-eyed, muttering, 
“Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby ...” 

“So there is a Chamber of Secrets?” Harry whispered. 
“And — did you say it’s been opened before ? Tell me, 
Dobby!” 

He seized the elf’s bony wrist as Dobby’s hand inched 
toward the water jug. “But I’m not Muggle-born — 
how can I be in danger from the Chamber?” 

“Ah, sir, ask no more, ask no more of poor Dobby,” 
stammered the elf, his eyes huge in the dark. “Dark 
deeds are planned in this place, but Harry Potter 
must not be here when they happen — go home, 

Harry Potter, go home. Harry Potter must not meddle 
in this, sir, ’tis too dangerous — ” 

“Who is it, Dobby?” Harry said, keeping a firm hold on 
Dobby’s wrist to stop him from hitting himself with 
the water jug again. “Who’s opened it? Who opened it 
last time?” 

“Dobby can’t, sir, Dobby can’t, Dobby mustn’t tell!” 
squealed the elf. “Go home, Harry Potter, go home!” 

“I’m not going anywhere!” said Harry fiercely. “One of 
my best friends is Muggle-born; she’ll be first in line if 
the Chamber really has been opened — ” 

“Harry Potter risks his own life for his friends!” 
moaned Dobby in a kind of miserable ecstasy. “So 
noble! So valiant! But he must save himself, he must, 
Harry Potter must not — ” 



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Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Harry 
heard it, too. There were footsteps coming down the 
passageway outside. 

“Dobby must go!” breathed the elf, terrified. There 
was a loud crack, and Harry’s fist was suddenly 
clenched on thin air. He slumped back into bed, his 
eyes on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as the 
footsteps drew nearer. 

Next moment, Dumbledore was backing into the 
dormitory, wearing a long woolly dressing gown and a 
nightcap. He was carrying one end of what looked like 
a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a second 
later, carrying its feet. Together, they heaved it onto a 
bed. 

“Get Madam Pomfrey,” whispered Dumbledore, and 
Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Harry’s 
bed out of sight. Harry lay quite still, pretending to be 
asleep. He heard urgent voices, and then Professor 
McGonagall swept back into view, closely followed by 
Madam Pomfrey, who was pulling a cardigan on over 
her nightdress. He heard a sharp intake of breath. 

“What happened?” Madam Pomfrey whispered to 
Dumbledore, bending over the statue on the bed. 

“Another attack,” said Dumbledore. “Minerva found 
him on the stairs.” 

“There was a bunch of grapes next to him,” said 
Professor McGonagall. “We think he was trying to 
sneak up here to visit Potter.” 

Harry’s stomach gave a horrible lurch. Slowly and 
carefully, he raised himself a few inches so he could 
look at the statue on the bed. A ray of moonlight lay 
across its staring face. 

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It was Colin Creevey. His eyes were wide and his 
hands were stuck up in front of him, holding his 
camera. 

“Petrified?” whispered Madam Pomfrey. 

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “But I shudder to 
think ... If Albus hadn’t been on the way downstairs 
for hot chocolate — who knows what might have — ” 

The three of them stared down at Colin. Then 
Dumbledore leaned forward and wrenched the 
camera out of Colin’s rigid grip. 

“You don’t think he managed to get a picture of his 
attacker?” said Professor McGonagall eagerly. 

Dumbledore didn’t answer. He opened the back of the 
camera. 

“Good gracious!” said Madam Pomfrey. 

A jet of steam had hissed out of the camera. Harry, 
three beds away, caught the acrid smell of burnt 
plastic. 

“Melted,” said Madam Pomfrey wonderingly. “All 
melted ...” 

“What does this mean, Albus?” Professor McGonagall 
asked urgently. 

“It means,” said Dumbledore, “that the Chamber of 
Secrets is indeed open again.” 

Madam Pomfrey clapped a hand to her mouth. 
Professor McGonagall stared at Dumbledore. 

“But, Albus ... surely ... who?” 

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“The question is not who,” said Dumbledore, his eyes 
on Colin. “The question is, how. ...” 

And from what Harry could see of Professor 
McGonagall’s shadowy face, she didn’t understand 
this any better than he did. 



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THE DUELING CLUB 

Harry woke up on Sunday morning to find the 
dormitory blazing with winter sunlight and his arm 
reboned but very stiff. He sat up quickly and looked 
over at Colin’s bed, but it had been blocked from view 
by the high curtains Harry had changed behind 
yesterday. Seeing that he was awake, Madam Pomfrey 
came bustling over with a breakfast tray and then 
began bending and stretching his arm and fingers. 

“All in order,” she said as he clumsily fed himself 
porridge left-handed. “When you’ve finished eating, 
you may leave.” 

Harry dressed as quickly as he could and hurried off 
to Gryffindor Tower, desperate to tell Ron and 
Hermione about Colin and Dobby, but they weren’t 
there. Harry left to look for them, wondering where 
they could have got to and feeling slightly hurt that 
they weren’t interested in whether he had his bones 
back or not. 



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As Harry passed the library, Percy Weasley strolled 
out of it, looking in far better spirits than last time 
they’d met. 

“Oh, hello, Harry,” he said. “Excellent flying 
yesterday, really excellent. Gryffindor has just taken 
the lead for the House Cup — you earned fifty points!” 

“You haven’t seen Ron or Hermione, have you?” said 
Harry. 

“No, I haven’t,” said Percy, his smile fading. “I hope 
Ron’s not in another girls’ toilet ...” 

Harry forced a laugh, watched Percy walk out of sight, 
and then headed straight for Moaning Myrtle’s 
bathroom. He couldn’t see why Ron and Hermione 
would be in there again, but after making sure that 
neither Filch nor any prefects were around, he opened 
the door and heard their voices coming from a locked 
stall. 

“It’s me,” he said, closing the door behind him. There 
was a clunk, a splash, and a gasp from within the 
stall and he saw Hermione ’s eye peering through the 
keyhole. 

“Harry\” she said. “You gave us such a fright — come 
in — how’s your arm?” 

“Fine,” said Harry, squeezing into the stall. An old 
cauldron was perched on the toilet, and a crackling 
from under the rim told Harry they had lit a fire 
beneath it. Conjuring up portable, waterproof fires 
was a speciality of Hermione ’s. 

“We ’d’ve come to meet you, but we decided to get 
started on the Polyjuice Potion,” Ron explained as 



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Harry, with difficulty, locked the stall again. “We’ve 
decided this is the safest place to hide it.” 

Harry started to tell them about Colin, but Hermione 
interrupted. 

“We already know — we heard Professor McGonagall 
telling Professor Flitwick this morning. That’s why we 
decided we’d better get going — ” 

“The sooner we get a confession out of Malfoy, the 
better,” snarled Ron. “D’you know what I think? He 
was in such a foul temper after the Quidditch match, 
he took it out on Colin.” 

“There’s something else,” said Harry, watching 
Hermione tearing bundles of knotgrass and throwing 
them into the potion. “Dobby came to visit me in the 
middle of the night.” 

Ron and Hermione looked up, amazed. Harry told 
them everything Dobby had told him — or hadn’t told 
him. Hermione and Ron listened with their mouths 
open. 

“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before?” 
Hermione said. 

“This settles it,” said Ron in a triumphant voice. 
“Lucius Malfoy must’ve opened the Chamber when he 
was at school here and now he’s told dear old Draco 
how to do it. It’s obvious. Wish Dobby ’d told you what 
kind of monster’s in there, though. I want to know 
how come nobody’s noticed it sneaking around the 
school.” 

“Maybe it can make itself invisible,” said Hermione, 
prodding leeches to the bottom of the cauldron. “Or 
maybe it can disguise itself — pretend to be a suit of 

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armor or something — I’ve read about Chameleon 
Ghouls — ” 



“You read too much, Hermione,” said Ron, pouring 
dead lacewings on top of the leeches. He crumpled up 
the empty lacewing bag and looked at Harry. 

“So Dobby stopped us from getting on the train and 
broke your arm. ...” He shook his head. “You know 
what, Harry? If he doesn’t stop trying to save your life 
he’s going to kill you.” 



k k k 



The news that Colin Creevey had been attacked and 
was now lying as though dead in the hospital wing 
had spread through the entire school by Monday 
morning. The air was suddenly thick with rumor and 
suspicion. The first years were now moving around 
the castle in tight-knit groups, as though scared they 
would be attacked if they ventured forth alone. 

Ginny Weasley, who sat next to Colin Creevey in 
Charms, was distraught, but Harry felt that Fred and 
George were going the wrong way about cheering her 
up. They were taking turns covering themselves with 
fur or boils and jumping out at her from behind 
statues. They only stopped when Percy, apoplectic 
with rage, told them he was going to write to Mrs. 
Weasley and tell her Ginny was having nightmares. 

Meanwhile, hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade 
in talismans, amulets, and other protective devices 
was sweeping the school. Neville Longbottom bought 
a large, evil-smelling green onion, a pointed purple 
crystal, and a rotting newt tail before the other 
Gryffindor boys pointed out that he was in no danger; 



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he was a pureblood, and therefore unlikely to be 
attacked. 

“They went for Filch first,” Neville said, his round face 
fearful. “And everyone knows I’m almost a Squib.” 

In the second week of December Professor 
McGonagall came around as usual, collecting names 
of those who would be staying at school for 
Christmas. Harry, Ron, and Hermione signed her list; 
they had heard that Malfoy was staying, which struck 
them as very suspicious. The holidays would be the 
perfect time to use the Polyjuice Potion and try to 
worm a confession out of him. 

Unfortunately, the potion was only half finished. They 
still needed the bicorn horn and the boomslang skin, 
and the only place they were going to get them was 
from Snape’s private stores. Harry privately felt he’d 
rather face Slytherin’s legendary monster than let 
Snape catch him robbing his office. 

“What we need,” said Hermione briskly as Thursday 
afternoon’s double Potions lesson loomed nearer, “is a 
diversion. Then one of us can sneak into Snape’s 
office and take what we need.” 

Harry and Ron looked at her nervously. 

“I think I’d better do the actual stealing,” Hermione 
continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “You two will be 
expelled if you get into any more trouble, and I’ve got 
a clean record. So all you need to do is cause enough 
mayhem to keep Snape busy for five minutes or so.” 

Harry smiled feebly. Deliberately causing mayhem in 
Snape’s Potions class was about as safe as poking a 
sleeping dragon in the eye. 



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Potions lessons took place in one of the large 
dungeons. Thursday afternoon’s lesson proceeded in 
the usual way. Twenty cauldrons stood steaming 
between the wooden desks, on which stood brass 
scales and jars of ingredients. Snape prowled through 
the fumes, making waspish remarks about the 
Gryffindors’ work while the Slytherins sniggered 
appreciatively. Draco Malfoy, who was Snape’s 
favorite student, kept flicking puffer-fish eyes at Ron 
and Harry, who knew that if they retaliated they 
would get detention faster than you could say 
“Unfair.” 

Harry’s Swelling Solution was far too runny, but he 
had his mind on more important things. He was 
waiting for Hermione’s signal, and he hardly listened 
as Snape paused to sneer at his watery potion. When 
Snape turned and walked off to bully Neville, 
Hermione caught Harry’s eye and nodded. 

Harry ducked swiftly down behind his cauldron, 
pulled one of Fred’s Filibuster fireworks out of his 
pocket, and gave it a quick prod with his wand. The 
firework began to fizz and sputter. Knowing he had 
only seconds, Harry straightened up, took aim, and 
lobbed it into the air; it landed right on target in 
Goyle’s cauldron. 

Goyle’s potion exploded, showering the whole class. 
People shrieked as splashes of the Swelling Solution 
hit them. Malfoy got a faceful and his nose began to 
swell like a balloon; Goyle blundered around, his 
hands over his eyes, which had expanded to the size 
of a dinner plate — Snape was trying to restore calm 
and find out what had happened. Through the 
confusion, Harry saw Hermione slip quietly into 
Snape’s office. 



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“Silence! SILENCE!” Snape roared. “Anyone who has 
been splashed, come here for a Deflating Draught — 
when I find out who did this — ” 

Harry tried not to laugh as he watched Malfoy hurry 
forward, his head drooping with the weight of a nose 
like a small melon. As half the class lumbered up to 
Snape ’s desk, some weighted down with arms like 
clubs, others unable to talk through gigantic puffed- 
up lips, Harry saw Hermione slide back into the 
dungeon, the front of her robes bulging. 

When everyone had taken a swig of antidote and the 
various swellings had subsided, Snape swept over to 
Goyle’s cauldron and scooped out the twisted black 
remains of the firework. There was a sudden hush. 

“If I ever find out who threw this,” Snape whispered, “I 
shall make sure that person is expelled.” 

Harry arranged his face into what he hoped was a 
puzzled expression. Snape was looking right at him, 
and the bell that rang ten minutes later could not 
have been more welcome. 

“He knew it was me,” Harry told Ron and Hermione as 
they hurried back to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. “I 
could tell.” 

Hermione threw the new ingredients into the cauldron 
and began to stir feverishly. 

“It’ll be ready in two weeks,” she said happily. 

“Snape can’t prove it was you,” said Ron reassuringly 
to Harry. “What can he do?” 

“Knowing Snape, something foul,” said Harry as the 
potion frothed and bubbled. 

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A week later, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were walking 
across the entrance hall when they saw a small knot 
of people gathered around the notice board, reading a 
piece of parchment that had just been pinned up. 
Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas beckoned them 
over, looking excited. 

“They’re starting a Dueling Club!” said Seamus. “First 
meeting tonight! I wouldn’t mind dueling lessons; 
they might come in handy one of these days. ...” 

“What, you reckon Slytherin’s monster can duel?” 
said Ron, but he, too, read the sign with interest. 

“Could be useful,” he said to Harry and Hermione as 
they went into dinner. “Shall we go?” 

Harry and Hermione were all for it, so at eight o’clock 
that evening they hurried back to the Great Hall. The 
long dining tables had vanished and a golden stage 
had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of 
candles floating overhead. The ceiling was velvety 
black once more and most of the school seemed to be 
packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and 
looking excited. 

“I wonder who’ll be teaching us?” said Hermione as 
they edged into the chattering crowd. “Someone told 
me Flitwick was a dueling champion when he was 
young — maybe it’ll be him.” 

“As long as it’s not — ” Harry began, but he ended on 
a groan: Gilderoy Lockhart was walking onto the 
stage, resplendent in robes of deep plum and 
accompanied by none other than Snape, wearing his 
usual black. 



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Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called, 

“Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? 
Can you all hear me? Excellent! 

“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me 
permission to start this little dueling club, to train 
you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I 
myself have done on countless occasions — for full 
details, see my published works. 

“Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,” 
said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. “He tells me he 
knows a tiny little bit about dueling himself and has 
sportingly agreed to help me with a short 
demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any 
of you youngsters to worry — you’ll still have your 
Potions master when I’m through with him, never 
fear!” 

“Wouldn’t it be good if they finished each other off?” 
Ron muttered in Harry’s ear. 

Snape ’s upper lip was curling. Harry wondered why 
Lockhart was still smiling; if Snape had been looking 
at him like that he’d have been running as fast as he 
could in the opposite direction. 

Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and 
bowed; at least, Lockhart did, with much twirling of 
his hands, whereas Snape jerked his head irritably. 
Then they raised their wands like swords in front of 
them. 

“As you see, we are holding our wands in the 
accepted combative position,” Lockhart told the silent 
crowd. “On the count of three, we will cast our first 
spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.” 



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“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Harry murmured, watching 
Snape baring his teeth. 

“One — two — three — ” 

Both of them swung their wands above their heads 
and pointed them at their opponent; Snape cried: 

“ ExpelliarmusV’ There was a dazzling flash of scarlet 
light and Lockhart was blasted off his feet: He flew 
backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and 
slid down it to sprawl on the floor. 

Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins cheered. 
Hermione was dancing on tiptoes. “Do you think he’s 
all right?” she squealed through her fingers. 

“Who cares?” said Harry and Ron together. 

Lockhart was getting unsteadily to his feet. His hat 
had fallen off and his wavy hair was standing on end. 

“Well, there you have it!” he said, tottering back onto 
the platform. “That was a Disarming Charm — as you 
see, I’ve lost my wand — ah, thank you, Miss Brown 
— yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor 
Snape, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it was very 
obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to 
stop you it would have been only too easy — however, 

I felt it would be instructive to let them see ...” 

Snape was looking murderous. Possibly Lockhart had 
noticed, because he said, “Enough demonstrating! I’m 
going to come amongst you now and put you all into 
pairs. Professor Snape, if you’d like to help me — ” 

They moved through the crowd, matching up 
partners. Lockhart teamed Neville with Justin Finch- 
Fletchley, but Snape reached Harry and Ron first. 



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“Time to split up the dream team, I think,” he 
sneered. “Weasley, you can partner Finnigan. Potter 



Harry moved automatically toward Hermione. 

“I don’t think so,” said Snape, smiling coldly. “Mr. 
Malfoy, come over here. Let’s see what you make of 
the famous Potter. And you, Miss Granger — you can 
partner Miss Bulstrode.” 

Malfoy strutted over, smirking. Behind him walked a 
Slytherin girl who reminded Harry of a picture he’d 
seen in Holidays with Hags. She was large and square 
and her heavy jaw jutted aggressively. Hermione gave 
her a weak smile that she did not return. 

“Face your partners!” called Lockhart, back on the 
platform. “And bow!” 

Harry and Malfoy barely inclined their heads, not 
taking their eyes off each other. 

“Wands at the ready!” shouted Lockhart. “When I 
count to three, cast your charms to disarm your 
opponents — only to disarm them — we don’t want 
any accidents — one . . . two . . . three — ” 

Harry swung his wand high, but Malfoy had already 
started on “two”: His spell hit Harry so hard he felt as 
though he’d been hit over the head with a saucepan. 
He stumbled, but everything still seemed to be 
working, and wasting no more time, Harry pointed his 
wand straight at Malfoy and shouted, “Rictusempral” 

A jet of silver light hit Malfoy in the stomach and he 
doubled up, wheezing. 



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“I said disarm only\” Lockhart shouted in alarm over 
the heads of the battling crowd, as Malfoy sank to his 
knees; Harry had hit him with a Tickling Charm, and 
he could barely move for laughing. Harry hung back, 
with a vague feeling it would be unsporting to bewitch 
Malfoy while he was on the floor, but this was a 
mistake; gasping for breath, Malfoy pointed his wand 
at Harry’s knees, choked, “Tarantallegral” and the 
next second Harry’s legs began to jerk around out of 
his control in a kind of quickstep. 

“Stop! Stop!” screamed Lockhart, but Snape took 
charge. 

“Finite Incantatem\” he shouted; Harry’s feet stopped 
dancing, Malfoy stopped laughing, and they were able 
to look up. 

A haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the 
scene. Both Neville and Justin were lying on the floor, 
panting; Ron was holding up an ashen-faced Seamus, 
apologizing for whatever his broken wand had done; 
but Hermione and Millicent Bulstrode were still 
moving; Millicent had Hermione in a headlock and 
Hermione was whimpering in pain; both their wands 
lay forgotten on the floor. Harry leapt forward and 
pulled Millicent off. It was difficult: She was a lot 
bigger than he was. 

“Dear, dear,” said Lockhart, skittering through the 
crowd, looking at the aftermath of the duels. “Up you 
go, Macmillan. ... Careful there, Miss Fawcett. ... 
Pinch it hard, it’ll stop bleeding in a second, Boot — 

“I think I’d better teach you how to block unfriendly 
spells,” said Lockhart, standing flustered in the midst 
of the hall. He glanced at Snape, whose black eyes 
glinted, and looked quickly away. “Let’s have a 



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volunteer pair — Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, 
how about you — ” 

“A bad idea, Professor Lockhart,” said Snape, gliding 
over like a large and malevolent bat. “Longbottom 
causes devastation with the simplest spells. We’ll be 
sending what’s left of Finch-Fletchley up to the 
hospital wing in a matchbox.” Neville’s round, pink 
face went pinker. “How about Malfoy and Potter?” 
said Snape with a twisted smile. 

“Excellent idea!” said Lockhart, gesturing Harry and 
Malfoy into the middle of the hall as the crowd backed 
away to give them room. 

“Now, Harry,” said Lockhart. “When Draco points his 
wand at you, you do this.” 

He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated 
sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked 
as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, “Whoops — 
my wand is a little overexcited — ” 

Snape moved closer to Malfoy, bent down, and 
whispered something in his ear. Malfoy smirked, too. 
Harry looked up nervously at Lockhart and said, 
“Professor, could you show me that blocking thing 
again?” 

“Scared?” muttered Malfoy, so that Lockhart couldn’t 
hear him. 

“You wish,” said Harry out of the corner of his mouth. 

Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder. “Just 
do what I did, Harry!” 

“What, drop my wand?” 



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But Lockhart wasn’t listening. 

“Three — two — one — go!” he shouted. 

Malfoy raised his wand quickly and bellowed, 

“ Serpensortial” 

The end of his wand exploded. Harry watched, aghast, 
as a long black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto 
the floor between them, and raised itself, ready to 
strike. There were screams as the crowd backed 
swiftly away, clearing the floor. 

“Don’t move, Potter,” said Snape lazily, clearly 
enjoying the sight of Harry standing motionless, eye 
to eye with the angry snake. “I’ll get rid of it. ...” 

“Allow me!” shouted Lockhart. He brandished his 
wand at the snake and there was a loud bang; the 
snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air 
and fell back to the floor with a loud smack. Enraged, 
hissing furiously, it slithered straight toward Justin 
Finch-Fletchley and raised itself again, fangs exposed, 
poised to strike. 

Harry wasn’t sure what made him do it. He wasn’t 
even aware of deciding to do it. All he knew was that 
his legs were carrying him forward as though he was 
on casters and that he had shouted stupidly at the 
snake, “Leave him alone!” And miraculously — 
inexplicably — the snake slumped to the floor, docile 
as a thick, black garden hose, its eyes now on Harry. 
Harry felt the fear drain out of him. He knew the 
snake wouldn’t attack anyone now, though how he 
knew it, he couldn’t have explained. 

He looked up at Justin, grinning, expecting to see 
Justin looking relieved, or puzzled, or even grateful — 
but certainly not angry and scared. 

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“What do you think you’re playing at?” he shouted, 
and before Harry could say anything, Justin had 
turned and stormed out of the hall. 

Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and the 
snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke. 

Snape, too, was looking at Harry in an unexpected 
way: It was a shrewd and calculating look, and Harry 
didn’t like it. He was also dimly aware of an ominous 
muttering all around the walls. Then he felt a tugging 
on the back of his robes. 

“Come on,” said Ron’s voice in his ear. “Move — come 
on—” 



Ron steered him out of the hall, Hermione hurrying 
alongside them. As they went through the doors, the 
people on either side drew away as though they were 
frightened of catching something. Harry didn’t have a 
clue what was going on, and neither Ron nor 
Hermione explained anything until they had dragged 
him all the way up to the empty Gryffindor common 
room. Then Ron pushed Harry into an armchair and 
said, “You’re a Parselmouth. Why didn’t you tell us?” 

“I’m a what?” said Harry. 

“A Parselmouth .!” said Ron. “You can talk to snakes!” 

“I know,” said Harry. “I mean, that’s only the second 
time I’ve ever done it. I accidentally set a boa 
constrictor on my cousin Dudley at the zoo once — 
long story — but it was telling me it had never seen 
Brazil and I sort of set it free without meaning to — 
that was before I knew I was a wizard — ” 

“A boa constrictor told you it had never seen Brazil?” 
Ron repeated faintly. 



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“So?” said Harry. “I bet loads of people here can do it.” 



“Oh, no they can’t,” said Ron. “It’s not a very common 
gift. Harry, this is bad.” 

“What’s bad?” said Harry, starting to feel quite angry. 
“What’s wrong with everyone? Listen, if I hadn’t told 
that snake not to attack Justin — ” 

“Oh, that’s what you said to it?” 

“What d’you mean? You were there — you heard me 



“I heard you speaking Parseltongue,” said Ron. 

“Snake language. You could have been saying 
anything — no wonder Justin panicked, you sounded 
like you were egging the snake on or something — it 
was creepy, you know — ” 

Harry gaped at him. 

“I spoke a different language? But — I didn’t realize — 
how can I speak a language without knowing I can 
speak it?” 

Ron shook his head. Both he and Hermione were 
looking as though someone had died. Harry couldn’t 
see what was so terrible. 

“D’you want to tell me what’s wrong with stopping a 
massive snake biting off Justin’s head?” he said. 
“What does it matter how I did it as long as Justin 
doesn’t have to join the Headless Hunt?” 

“It matters,” said Hermione, speaking at last in a 
hushed voice, “because being able to talk to snakes 
was what Salazar Slytherin was famous for. That’s 
why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent.” 

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Harry’s mouth fell open. 



“Exactly,” said Ron. “And now the whole school’s 
going to think you’re his great-great-great-great- 
grandson or something — ” 

“But I’m not,” said Harry, with a panic he couldn’t 
quite explain. 

“You’ll find that hard to prove,” said Hermione. “He 
lived about a thousand years ago; for all we know, 
you could be.” 



•k k k 



Harry lay awake for hours that night. Through a gap 
in the curtains around his four-poster he watched 
snow starting to drift past the tower window and 
wondered ... 

Could he be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin? He 
didn’t know anything about his father’s family, after 
all. The Dursleys had always forbidden questions 
about his wizarding relatives. 

Quietly, Harry tried to say something in Parseltongue. 
The words wouldn’t come. It seemed he had to be 
face-to-face with a snake to do it. 

But I’m in Gryffindor, Harry thought. The Sorting Hat 
wouldn’t have put me in here if I had Slytherin blood. 



Ah, said a nasty little voice in his brain, but the 
Sorting Hat wanted to put you in Slytherin, don’t you 
remember? 

Harry turned over. He’d see Justin the next day in 
Herbology and he’d explain that he’d been calling the 

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snake off, not egging it on, which (he thought angrily, 
pummeling his pillow) any fool should have realized. 

By next morning, however, the snow that had begun 
in the night had turned into a blizzard so thick that 
the last Herbology lesson of the term was canceled: 
Professor Sprout wanted to fit socks and scarves on 
the Mandrakes, a tricky operation she would entrust 
to no one else, now that it was so important for the 
Mandrakes to grow quickly and revive Mrs. Norris and 
Colin Creevey. 

Harry fretted about this next to the fire in the 
Gryffindor common room, while Ron and Hermione 
used their time off to play a game of wizard chess. 

“For heaven’s sake, Harry,” said Hermione, 
exasperated, as one of Ron’s bishops wrestled her 
knight off his horse and dragged him off the board. 

“Go and find Justin if it’s so important to you.” 

So Harry got up and left through the portrait hole, 
wondering where Justin might be. 

The castle was darker than it usually was in daytime 
because of the thick, swirling gray snow at every 
window. Shivering, Harry walked past classrooms 
where lessons were taking place, catching snatches of 
what was happening within. Professor McGonagall 
was shouting at someone who, by the sound of it, had 
turned his friend into a badger. Resisting the urge to 
take a look, Harry walked on by, thinking that Justin 
might be using his free time to catch up on some 
work, and deciding to check the library first. 

A group of the Hufflepuffs who should have been in 
Herbology were indeed sitting at the back of the 
library, but they didn’t seem to be working. Between 
the long lines of high bookshelves, Harry could see 

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that their heads were close together and they were 
having what looked like an absorbing conversation. 
He couldn’t see whether Justin was among them. He 
was walking toward them when something of what 
they were saying met his ears, and he paused to 
listen, hidden in the Invisibility section. 

“So anyway,” a stout boy was saying, “I told Justin to 
hide up in our dormitory. I mean to say, if Potter’s 
marked him down as his next victim, it’s best if he 
keeps a low profile for a while. Of course, Justin’s 
been waiting for something like this to happen ever 
since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-born. Justin 
actually told him he’d been down for Eton. That’s not 
the kind of thing you bandy about with Slytherin’s 
heir on the loose, is it?” 

“You definitely think it is Potter, then, Ernie?” said a 
girl with blonde pigtails anxiously. 

“Hannah,” said the stout boy solemnly, “he’s a 
Parselmouth. Everyone knows that’s the mark of a 
Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one 
who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin 
himself Serpent-tongue.” 

There was some heavy murmuring at this, and Ernie 
went on, “Remember what was written on the wall? 
Enemies of the Heir, Beware. Potter had some sort of 
run-in with Filch. Next thing we know, Filch ’s cat’s 
attacked. That first year, Creevey, was annoying 
Potter at the Quidditch match, taking pictures of him 
while he was lying in the mud. Next thing we know — 
Creevey ’s been attacked.” 

“He always seems so nice, though,” said Hannah 
uncertainly, “and, well, he’s the one who made You- 
Know-Who disappear. He can’t be all bad, can he?” 



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Ernie lowered his voice mysteriously, the Hufflepuffs 
bent closer, and Harry edged nearer so that he could 
catch Ernie’s words. 

“No one knows how he survived that attack by You- 
Know-Who. I mean to say, he was only a baby when it 
happened. He should have been blasted into 
smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark wizard 
could have survived a curse like that.” He dropped his 
voice until it was barely more than a whisper, and 
said, “ That’s probably why You-Know-Who wanted to 
kill him in the first place. Didn’t want another Dark 
Lord competing with him. I wonder what other powers 
Potter’s been hiding?” 

Harry couldn’t take anymore. Clearing his throat 
loudly, he stepped out from behind the bookshelves. 

If he hadn’t been feeling so angry, he would have 
found the sight that greeted him funny: Every one of 
the Hufflepuffs looked as though they had been 
Petrified by the sight of him, and the color was 
draining out of Ernie’s face. 

“Hello,” said Harry. “I’m looking for Justin Finch- 
Fletchley.” 

The Hufflepuffs’ worst fears had clearly been 
confirmed. They all looked fearfully at Ernie. 

“What do you want with him?” said Ernie in a 
quavering voice. 

“I wanted to tell him what really happened with that 
snake at the Dueling Club,” said Harry. 

Ernie bit his white lips and then, taking a deep 
breath, said, “We were all there. We saw what 
happened.” 



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“Then you noticed that after I spoke to it, the snake 
backed off?” said Harry. 

“All I saw,” said Ernie stubbornly, though he was 
trembling as he spoke, “was you speaking 
Parseltongue and chasing the snake toward Justin.” 

“I didn’t chase it at him!” Harry said, his voice 
shaking with anger. “It didn’t even touch him!” 

“It was a very near miss,” said Ernie. “And in case 
you’re getting ideas,” he added hastily, “I might tell 
you that you can trace my family back through nine 
generations of witches and warlocks and my blood’s 
as pure as anyone’s, so — ” 

“I don’t care what sort of blood you’ve got!” said Harry 
fiercely. “Why would I want to attack Muggle-borns?” 

“I’ve heard you hate those Muggles you live with,” said 
Ernie swiftly. 

“It’s not possible to live with the Dursleys and not 
hate them,” said Harry. “I’d like to see you try it.” 

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the library, 
earning himself a reproving glare from Madam Pince, 
who was polishing the gilded cover of a large 
spellbook. 

Harry blundered up the corridor, barely noticing 
where he was going, he was in such a fury. The result 
was that he walked into something very large and 
solid, which knocked him backward onto the floor. 

“Oh, hello, Hagrid,” Harry said, looking up. 

Hagrid’s face was entirely hidden by a woolly, snow- 
covered balaclava, but it couldn’t possibly be anyone 

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else, as he filled most of the corridor in his moleskin 
overcoat. A dead rooster was hanging from one of his 
massive, gloved hands. 

“All righ’, Harry?” he said, pulling up the balaclava so 
he could speak. “Why aren’t yeh in class?” 

“Canceled,” said Harry, getting up. “What’re you doing 
in here?” 

Hagrid held up the limp rooster. 

“Second one killed this term,” he explained. “It’s 
either foxes or a Blood-Suckin’ Bugbear, an’ I need 
the headmaster’s permission ter put a charm around 
the hen coop.” 

He peered more closely at Harry from under his thick, 
snow-flecked eyebrows. 

“Yeh sure yeh’re all righ’? Yeh look all hot an’ 
bothered — ” 

Harry couldn’t bring himself to repeat what Ernie and 
the rest of the Hufflepuffs had been saying about him. 

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’d better get going, Hagrid, it’s 
Transfiguration next and I’ve got to pick up my 
books.” 

He walked off, his mind still full of what Ernie had 
said about him. 

“Justin’s been waiting for something like this to 
happen ever since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle- 
born. ...” 

Harry stamped up the stairs and turned along 
another corridor, which was particularly dark; the 

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torches had been extinguished by a strong, icy draft 
that was blowing through a loose windowpane. He 
was halfway down the passage when he tripped 
headlong over something lying on the floor. 

He turned to squint at what he’d fallen over and felt 
as though his stomach had dissolved. 

Justin Finch-Fletchley was lying on the floor, rigid 
and cold, a look of shock frozen on his face, his eyes 
staring blankly at the ceiling. And that wasn’t all. 

Next to him was another figure, the strangest sight 
Harry had ever seen. 

It was Nearly Headless Nick, no longer pearly-white 
and transparent, but black and smoky, floating 
immobile and horizontal, six inches off the floor. His 
head was half off and his face wore an expression of 
shock identical to Justin’s. 

Harry got to his feet, his breathing fast and shallow, 
his heart doing a kind of drumroll against his ribs. He 
looked wildly up and down the deserted corridor and 
saw a line of spiders scuttling as fast as they could 
away from the bodies. The only sounds were the 
muffled voices of teachers from the classes on either 
side. 

He could run, and no one would ever know he had 
been there. But he couldn’t just leave them lying 
here. ... He had to get help. ... Would anyone believe 
he hadn’t had anything to do with this? 

As he stood there, panicking, a door right next to him 
opened with a bang. Peeves the Poltergeist came 
shooting out. 



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“Why, it’s potty wee Potter!” cackled Peeves, knocking 
Harry’s glasses askew as he bounced past him. 
“What’s Potter up to? Why’s Potter lurking — ” 

Peeves stopped, halfway through a midair somersault. 
Upside down, he spotted Justin and Nearly Headless 
Nick. He flipped the right way up, filled his lungs and, 
before Harry could stop him, screamed, “ATTACK! 
ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR 
GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! 
ATTAAAACK!” 

Crash — crash — crash — door after door flew open 
along the corridor and people flooded out. For several 
long minutes, there was a scene of such confusion 
that Justin was in danger of being squashed and 
people kept standing in Nearly Headless Nick. Harry 
found himself pinned against the wall as the teachers 
shouted for quiet. Professor McGonagall came 
running, followed by her own class, one of whom still 
had black-and-white- striped hair. She used her wand 
to set off a loud bang, which restored silence, and 
ordered everyone back into their classes. No sooner 
had the scene cleared somewhat than Ernie the 
Hufflepuff arrived, panting, on the scene. 

“ Caught in the act!” Ernie yelled, his face stark white, 
pointing his finger dramatically at Harry. 

“That will do, Macmillan!” said Professor McGonagall 
sharply. 

Peeves was bobbing overhead, now grinning wickedly, 
surveying the scene; Peeves always loved chaos. As 
the teachers bent over Justin and Nearly Headless 
Nick, examining them, Peeves broke into song: 

“Oh, Potter, you rotter, oh, what have you done, 



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You’re killing off students, you think it’s good fun — ” 



“That’s enough, Peeves!” barked Professor 
McGonagall, and Peeves zoomed away backward, with 
his tongue out at Harry. 

Justin was carried up to the hospital wing by 
Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra of the 
Astronomy department, but nobody seemed to know 
what to do for Nearly Headless Nick. In the end, 
Professor McGonagall conjured a large fan out of thin 
air, which she gave to Ernie with instructions to waft 
Nearly Headless Nick up the stairs. This Ernie did, 
fanning Nick along like a silent black hovercraft. This 
left Harry and Professor McGonagall alone together. 

“This way, Potter,” she said. 

“Professor,” said Harry at once, “I swear I didn’t — ” 

“This is out of my hands, Potter,” said Professor 
McGonagall curtly. 

They marched in silence around a corner and she 
stopped before a large and extremely ugly stone 
gargoyle. 

“Lemon drop!” she said. This was evidently a 
password, because the gargoyle sprang suddenly to 
life and hopped aside as the wall behind him split in 
two. Even full of dread for what was coming, Harry 
couldn’t fail to be amazed. Behind the wall was a 
spiral staircase that was moving smoothly upward, 
like an escalator. As he and Professor McGonagall 
stepped onto it, Harry heard the wall thud closed 
behind them. They rose upward in circles, higher and 
higher, until at last, slightly dizzy, Harry saw a 
gleaming oak door ahead, with a brass knocker in the 
shape of a griffin. 

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He knew now where he was being taken. This must be 
where Dumbledore lived. 



Page | 228 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 





THE POLY JUICE POTION 

They stepped off the stone staircase at the top, and 
Professor McGonagall rapped on the door. It opened 
silently and they entered. Professor McGonagall told 
Harry to wait and left him there, alone. 

Harry looked around. One thing was certain: of all the 
teachers’ offices Harry had visited so far this year, 
Dumbledore’s was by far the most interesting. If he 
hadn’t been scared out of his wits that he was about 
to be thrown out of school, he would have been very 
pleased to have a chance to look around it. 

It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of 
funny little noises. A number of curious silver 
instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring 
and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were 
covered with portraits of old headmasters and 
headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in 
their frames. There was also an enormous, claw- 
footed desk, and, sitting on a shelf behind it, a 
shabby, tattered wizard’s hat — the Sorting Hat 



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Harry hesitated. He cast a wary eye around the 
sleeping witches and wizards on the walls. Surely it 
couldn’t hurt if he took the hat down and tried it on 
again? Just to see ... just to make sure it had put him 
in the right House — 

He walked quietly around the desk, lifted the hat from 
its shelf, and lowered it slowly onto his head. It was 
much too large and slipped down over his eyes, just 
as it had done the last time he’d put it on. Harry 
stared at the black inside of the hat, waiting. Then a 
small voice said in his ear, “Bee in your bonnet, Harry 
Potter?” 

“Er, yes,” Harry muttered. “Er — sorry to bother you 
— I wanted to ask — ” 

“You’ve been wondering whether I put you in the right 
House,” said the hat smartly. “Yes ... you were 
particularly difficult to place. But I stand by what I 
said before” — Harry’s heart leapt — “you would have 
done well in Slytherin — ” 

Harry’s stomach plummeted. He grabbed the point of 
the hat and pulled it off. It hung limply in his hand, 
grubby and faded. Harry pushed it back onto its 
shelf, feeling sick. 

“You’re wrong,” he said aloud to the still and silent 
hat. It didn’t move. Harry backed away, watching it. 
Then a strange, gagging noise behind him made him 
wheel around. 

He wasn’t alone after all. Standing on a golden perch 
behind the door was a decrepit-looking bird that 
resembled a half-plucked turkey. Harry stared at it 
and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging 
noise again. Harry thought it looked very ill. Its eyes 



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were dull and, even as Harry watched, a couple more 
feathers fell out of its tail. 

Harry was just thinking that all he needed was for 
Dumbledore ’s pet bird to die while he was alone in 
the office with it, when the bird burst into flames. 

Harry yelled in shock and backed away into the desk. 
He looked feverishly around in case there was a glass 
of water somewhere but couldn’t see one; the bird, 
meanwhile, had become a fireball; it gave one loud 
shriek and next second there was nothing but a 
smoldering pile of ash on the floor. 

The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking 
very somber. 

“Professor,” Harry gasped. “Your bird — I couldn’t do 
anything — he just caught fire — ” 

To Harry’s astonishment, Dumbledore smiled. 

“About time, too,” he said. “He’s been looking dreadful 
for days; I’ve been telling him to get a move on.” 

He chuckled at the stunned look on Harry’s face. 

“Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry. Phoenixes burst into 
flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn 
from the ashes. Watch him ...” 

Harry looked down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, 
newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It was 
quite as ugly as the old one. 

“It’s a shame you had to see him on a Burning Day,” 
said Dumbledore, seating himself behind his desk. 
“He’s really very handsome most of the time, 
wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating 

Page | 231 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely 
heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and 
they make highly faithful pets.” 

In the shock of Fawkes catching fire, Harry had 
forgotten what he was there for, but it all came back 
to him as Dumbledore settled himself in the high 
chair behind the desk and fixed Harry with his 
penetrating, light-blue stare. 

Before Dumbledore could speak another word, 
however, the door of the office flew open with an 
almighty bang and Hagrid burst in, a wild look in his 
eyes, his balaclava perched on top of his shaggy black 
head and the dead rooster still swinging from his 
hand. 

“It wasn’ Harry, Professor Dumbledore!” said Hagrid 
urgently. “I was talkin’ ter him seconds before that 
kid was found, he never had time, sir — ” 

Dumbledore tried to say something, but Hagrid went 
ranting on, waving the rooster around in his 
agitation, sending feathers everywhere. 

“ — it can’t’ve bin him, I’ll swear it in front o’ the 
Ministry o’ Magic if I have to — ” 

“Hagrid, I — ” 

“ — yeh’ve got the wrong boy, sir, I know Harry never 



“Hagridl” said Dumbledore loudly. “I do not think that 
Harry attacked those people.” 

“Oh,” said Hagrid, the rooster falling limply at his 
side. “Right. I’ll wait outside then, Headmaster.” 



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And he stomped out looking embarrassed. 

“You don’t think it was me, Professor?” Harry 
repeated hopefully as Dumbledore brushed rooster 
feathers off his desk. 

“No, Harry, I don’t,” said Dumbledore, though his face 
was somber again. “But I still want to talk to you.” 

Harry waited nervously while Dumbledore considered 
him, the tips of his long fingers together. 

“I must ask you, Harry, whether there is anything 
you’d like to tell me,” he said gently. “Anything at all.” 

Harry didn’t know what to say. He thought of Malfoy 
shouting, “You’ll be next, Mudbloods!” and of the 
Polyjuice Potion simmering away in Moaning Myrtle’s 
bathroom. Then he thought of the disembodied voice 
he had heard twice and remembered what Ron had 
said: “ Hearing voices no one else can hear isn’t a good 
sign, even in the wizarding world.” He thought, too, 
about what everyone was saying about him, and his 
growing dread that he was somehow connected with 
Salazar Slytherin. ... 

“No,” said Harry. “There isn’t anything, Professor. ...” 

The double attack on Justin and Nearly Headless 
Nick turned what had hitherto been nervousness into 
real panic. Curiously, it was Nearly Headless Nick’s 
fate that seemed to worry people most. What could 
possibly do that to a ghost? people asked each other; 
what terrible power could harm someone who was 
already dead? There was almost a stampede to book 
seats on the Hogwarts Express so that students could 
go home for Christmas. 



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“At this rate, well be the only ones left,” Ron told 
Harry and Hermione. “Us, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. 
What a jolly holiday it’s going to be.” 

Crabbe and Goyle, who always did whatever Malfoy 
did, had signed up to stay over the holidays, too. But 
Harry was glad that most people were leaving. He was 
tired of people skirting around him in the corridors, 
as though he were about to sprout fangs or spit 
poison; tired of all the muttering, pointing, and 
hissing as he passed. 

Fred and George, however, found all this very funny. 
They went out of their way to march ahead of Harry 
down the corridors, shouting, “Make way for the Heir 
of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through. ...” 

Percy was deeply disapproving of this behavior. 

“It is not a laughing matter,” he said coldly. 

“Oh, get out of the way, Percy,” said Fred. “Harry’s in 
a hurry.” 

“Yeah, he’s off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cup of 
tea with his fanged servant,” said George, chortling. 

Ginny didn’t find it amusing either. 

“Oh, don’t,” she wailed every time Fred asked Harry 
loudly who he was planning to attack next, or when 
George pretended to ward Harry off with a large clove 
of garlic when they met. 

Harry didn’t mind; it made him feel better that Fred 
and George, at least, thought the idea of his being 
Slytherin ’s heir was quite ludicrous. But their antics 
seemed to be aggravating Draco Malfoy, who looked 
increasingly sour each time he saw them at it. 

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“It’s because he’s bursting to say it’s really him,” said 
Ron knowingly. “You know how he hates anyone 
beating him at anything, and you’re getting all the 
credit for his dirty work.” 

“Not for long,” said Hermione in a satisfied tone. “The 
Polyjuice Potion’s nearly ready. We’ll be getting the 
truth out of him any day now.” 

At last the term ended, and a silence deep as the 
snow on the grounds descended on the castle. Harry 
found it peaceful, rather than gloomy, and enjoyed 
the fact that he, Hermione, and the Weasleys had the 
run of Gryffindor Tower, which meant they could play 
Exploding Snap loudly without bothering anyone, and 
practice dueling in private. Fred, George, and Ginny 
had chosen to stay at school rather than visit Bill in 
Egypt with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Percy, who 
disapproved of what he termed their childish 
behavior, didn’t spend much time in the Gryffindor 
common room. He had already told them pompously 
that he was only staying over Christmas because it 
was his duty as a prefect to support the teachers 
during this troubled time. 

Christmas morning dawned, cold and white. Harry 
and Ron, the only ones left in their dormitory, were 
woken very early by Hermione, who burst in, fully 
dressed and carrying presents for them both. 

“Wake up,” she said loudly, pulling back the curtains 
at the window. 

“Hermione — you’re not supposed to be in here — ” 
said Ron, shielding his eyes against the light. 

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” said Hermione, 
throwing him his present. “I’ve been up for nearly an 



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hour, adding more lace-wings to the potion. It’s 
ready.” 

Harry sat up, suddenly wide awake. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Positive,” said Hermione, shirting Scabbers the rat so 
that she could sit down on the end of Ron’s four- 
poster. “If we’re going to do it, I say it should be 
tonight.” 

At that moment, Hedwig swooped into the room, 
carrying a very small package in her beak. 

“Hello,” said Harry happily as she landed on his bed. 
“Are you speaking to me again?” 

She nibbled his ear in an affectionate sort of way, 
which was a far better present than the one that she 
had brought him, which turned out to be from the 
Dursleys. They had sent Harry a toothpick and a note 
telling him to find out whether he’d be able to stay at 
Hogwarts for the summer vacation, too. 

The rest of Harry’s Christmas presents were far more 
satisfactory. Hagrid had sent him a large tin of treacle 
toffee, which Harry decided to soften by the fire before 
eating; Ron had given him a book called Flying with 
the Cannons, a book of interesting facts about his 
favorite Quidditch team, and Hermione had bought 
him a luxury eagle-feather quill. Harry opened the 
last present to find a new, hand-knitted sweater from 
Mrs. Weasley and a large plum cake. He read her card 
with a fresh surge of guilt, thinking about Mr. 
Weasley’s car (which hadn’t been seen since its crash 
with the Whomping Willow), and the bout of rule- 
breaking he and Ron were planning next. 



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No one, not even someone dreading taking Polyjuice 
Potion later, could fail to enjoy Christmas dinner at 
Hogwarts. 

The Great Hall looked magnificent. Not only were 
there a dozen frost-covered Christmas trees and thick 
streamers of holly and mistletoe crisscrossing the 
ceiling, but enchanted snow was falling, warm and 
dry, from the ceiling. Dumbledore led them in a few of 
his favorite carols, Hagrid booming more and more 
loudly with every goblet of eggnog he consumed. 

Percy, who hadn’t noticed that Fred had bewitched 
his prefect badge so that it now read “Pin-head,” kept 
asking them all what they were sniggering at. Harry 
didn’t even care that Draco Malfoy was making loud, 
snide remarks about his new sweater from the 
Slytherin table. With a bit of luck, Malfoy would be 
getting his comeuppance in a few hours’ time. 

Harry and Ron had barely finished their third 
helpings of Christmas pudding when Hermione 
ushered them out of the hall to finalize their plans for 
the evening. 

“We still need a bit of the people you’re changing 
into,” said Hermione matter-of-factly, as though she 
were sending them to the supermarket for laundry 
detergent. “And obviously, it’ll be best if you can get 
something of Crabbe’s and Goyle’s; they’re Malfoy’s 
best friends, he’ll tell them anything. And we also 
need to make sure the real Crabbe and Goyle can’t 
burst in on us while we’re interrogating him. 

“I’ve got it all worked out,” she went on smoothly, 
ignoring Harry’s and Ron’s stupefied faces. She held 
up two plump chocolate cakes. “I’ve filled these with a 
simple Sleeping Draught. All you have to do is make 
sure Crabbe and Goyle find them. You know how 
greedy they are, they’re bound to eat them. Once 
Page | 237 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




they’re asleep, pull out a few of their hairs and hide 
them in a broom closet.” 

Harry and Ron looked incredulously at each other. 

“Hermione, I don’t think — ” 

“That could go seriously wrong — ” 

But Hermione had a steely glint in her eye not unlike 
the one Professor McGonagall sometimes had. 

“The potion will be useless without Crabbe’s and 
Goyle’s hair,” she said sternly. “You do want to 
investigate Malfoy, don’t you?” 

“Oh, all right, all right,” said Harry. “But what about 
you? Whose hair are you ripping out?” 

“I’ve already got mine!” said Hermione brightly, 
pulling a tiny bottle out of her pocket and showing 
them the single hair inside it. “Remember Millicent 
Bulstrode wrestling with me at the Dueling Club? She 
left this on my robes when she was trying to strangle 
me! And she’s gone home for Christmas — so I’ll just 
have to tell the Slytherins I’ve decided to come back.” 

When Hermione had bustled off to check on the 
Polyjuice Potion again, Ron turned to Harry with a 
doom-laden expression. 

“Have you ever heard of a plan where so many things 
could go wrong?” 

But to Harry’s and Ron’s utter amazement, stage one 
of the operation went just as smoothly as Hermione 
had said. They lurked in the deserted entrance hall 
after Christmas tea, waiting for Crabbe and Goyle 
who had remained alone at the Slytherin table, 

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shoveling down fourth helpings of trifle. Harry had 
perched the chocolate cakes on the end of the 
banisters. When they spotted Crabbe and Goyle 
coming out of the Great Hall, Harry and Ron hid 
quickly behind a suit of armor next to the front door. 

“How thick can you get?” Ron whispered ecstatically 
as Crabbe gleefully pointed out the cakes to Goyle 
and grabbed them. Grinning stupidly, they stuffed the 
cakes whole into their large mouths. For a moment, 
both of them chewed greedily, looks of triumph on 
their faces. Then, without the smallest change of 
expression, they both keeled over backward onto the 
floor. 

By far the hardest part was hiding them in the closet 
across the hall. Once they were safely stowed among 
the buckets and mops, Harry yanked out a couple of 
the bristles that covered Goyle ’s forehead and Ron 
pulled out several of Crabbe ’s hairs. They also stole 
their shoes, because their own were far too small for 
Crabbe- and Goyle-size feet. Then, still stunned at 
what they had just done, they sprinted up to Moaning 
Myrtle’s bathroom. 

They could hardly see for the thick black smoke 
issuing from the stall in which Hermione was stirring 
the cauldron. Pulling their robes up over their faces, 
Harry and Ron knocked softly on the door. 

“Hermione?” 

They heard the scrape of the lock and Hermione 
emerged, shiny-faced and looking anxious. Behind 
her they heard the gloop gloop of the bubbling, 
glutinous potion. Three glass tumblers stood ready on 
the toilet seat. 

“Did you get them?” Hermione asked breathlessly. 

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Harry showed her Goyle’s hair. 



“Good. And I sneaked these spare robes out of the 
laundry,” Hermione said, holding up a small sack. 
“You’ll need bigger sizes once you’re Crabbe and 
Goyle.” 

The three of them stared into the cauldron. Close up, 
the potion looked like thick, dark mud, bubbling 
sluggishly. 

“I’m sure I’ve done everything right,” said Hermione, 
nervously rereading the splotched page of Moste 
Potente Potions. “It looks like the book says it should 
... once we’ve drunk it, we’ll have exactly an hour 
before we change back into ourselves.” 

“Now what?” Ron whispered. 

“We separate it into three glasses and add the hairs.” 

Hermione ladled large dollops of the potion into each 
of the glasses. Then, her hand trembling, she shook 
Millicent Bulstrode’s hair out of its bottle into the first 
glass. 

The potion hissed loudly like a boiling kettle and 
frothed madly. A second later, it had turned a sick 
sort of yellow. 

“Urgh — essence of Millicent Bulstrode,” said Ron, 
eyeing it with loathing. “Bet it tastes disgusting.” 

“Add yours, then,” said Hermione. 

Harry dropped Goyle’s hair into the middle glass and 
Ron put Crabbe’s into the last one. Both glasses 
hissed and frothed: Goyle’s turned the khaki color of 
a booger, Crabbe’s a dark, murky brown. 

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“Hang on,” said Harry as Ron and Hermione reached 
for their glasses. “We’d better not all drink them in 
here. ... Once we turn into Crabbe and Goyle we won’t 
fit. And Millicent Bulstrode’s no pixie.” 

“Good thinking,” said Ron, unlocking the door. “We’ll 
take separate stalls.” 

Careful not to spill a drop of his Polyjuice Potion, 
Harry slipped into the middle stall. 

“Ready?” he called. 

“Ready,” came Ron’s and Hermione’s voices. 

“One — two — three — ” 

Pinching his nose, Harry drank the potion down in 
two large gulps. It tasted like overcooked cabbage. 

Immediately, his insides started writhing as though 
he’d just swallowed live snakes — doubled up, he 
wondered whether he was going to be sick — then a 
burning sensation spread rapidly from his stomach to 
the very ends of his fingers and toes — next, bringing 
him gasping to all fours, came a horrible melting 
feeling, as the skin all over his body bubbled like hot 
wax — and before his eyes, his hands began to grow, 
the fingers thickened, the nails broadened, the 
knuckles were bulging like bolts — his shoulders 
stretched painfully and a prickling on his forehead 
told him that hair was creeping down toward his 
eyebrows — his robes ripped as his chest expanded 
like a barrel bursting its hoops — his feet were agony 
in shoes four sizes too small — 

As suddenly as it had started, everything stopped. 
Harry lay facedown on the stone-cold floor, listening 
to Myrtle gurgling morosely in the end toilet. With 

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difficulty, he kicked off his shoes and stood up. So 
this was what it felt like, being Goyle. His large hand 
trembling, he pulled off his old robes, which were 
hanging a foot above his ankles, pulled on the spare 
ones, and laced up Goyle’s boatlike shoes. He reached 
up to brush his hair out of his eyes and met only the 
short growth of wiry bristles, low on his forehead. 
Then he realized that his glasses were clouding his 
eyes because Goyle obviously didn’t need them — he 
took them off and called, “Are you two okay?” Goyle’s 
low rasp of a voice issued from his mouth. 

“Yeah,” came the deep grunt of Crabbe from his right. 

Harry unlocked his door and stepped in front of the 
cracked mirror. Goyle stared back at him out of dull, 
deepset eyes. Harry scratched his ear. So did Goyle. 

Ron’s door opened. They stared at each other. Except 
that he looked pale and shocked, Ron was 
indistinguishable from Crabbe, from the pudding- 
bowl haircut to the long, gorilla arms. 

“This is unbelievable,” said Ron, approaching the 
mirror and prodding Crabbe ’s flat nose. 

“Unbelievable.” 

“We’d better get going,” said Harry, loosening the 
watch that was cutting into Goyle’s thick wrist. “We’ve 
still got to find out where the Slytherin common room 
is. I only hope we can find someone to follow ...” 

Ron, who had been gazing at Harry, said, “You don’t 
know how bizarre it is to see Goyle thinking.” He 
banged on Hermione’s door. “C’mon, we need to go — ” 

A high-pitched voice answered him. 



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“I — I don’t think I’m going to come after all. You go 
on without me.” 

“Hermione, we know Millicent Bulstrode’s ugly, no 
one’s going to know it’s you — ” 

“No — really — I don’t think I’ll come. You two hurry 
up, you’re wasting time — ” 

Harry looked at Ron, bewildered. 

“That looks more like Goyle,” said Ron. “That’s how he 
looks every time a teacher asks him a question.” 

“Hermione, are you okay?” said Harry through the 
door. 

“Fine — I’m fine — go on — ” 

Harry looked at his watch. Five of their precious sixty 
minutes had already passed. 

“Well meet you back here, all right?” he said. 

Harry and Ron opened the door of the bathroom 
carefully, checked that the coast was clear, and set 
off. 

“Don’t swing your arms like that,” Harry muttered to 
Ron. 

“Eh?” 

“Crabbe holds them sort of stiff. ...” 

“How’s this?” 

“Yeah, that’s better. ...” 



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They went down the marble staircase. All they needed 
now was a Slytherin that they could follow to the 
Slytherin common room, but there was nobody 
around. 

“Any ideas?” muttered Harry. 

“The Slytherins always come up to breakfast from 
over there,” said Ron, nodding at the entrance to the 
dungeons. The words had barely left his mouth when 
a girl with long, curly hair emerged from the entrance. 

“Excuse me,” said Ron, hurrying up to her. “We’ve 
forgotten the way to our common room.” 

“I beg your pardon?” said the girl stiffly. “Our common 
room? I’m a Ravenclaw.” 

She walked away, looking suspiciously back at them. 

Harry and Ron hurried down the stone steps into the 
darkness, their footsteps echoing particularly loudly 
as Crabbe’s and Goyle’s huge feet hit the floor, feeling 
that this wasn’t going to be as easy as they had 
hoped. 

The labyrinthine passages were deserted. They walked 
deeper and deeper under the school, constantly 
checking their watches to see how much time they 
had left. After a quarter of an hour, just when they 
were getting desperate, they heard a sudden 
movement ahead. 

“Ha!” said Ron excitedly. “There’s one of them now!” 

The figure was emerging from a side room. As they 
hurried nearer, however, their hearts sank. It wasn’t a 
Slytherin, it was Percy. 



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“What’re you doing down here?” said Ron in surprise. 
Percy looked affronted. 

“That,” he said stiffly, “is none of your business. It’s 
Crabbe, isn’t it?” 

“Wh — oh, yeah,” said Ron. 

“Well, get off to your dormitories,” said Percy sternly. 
“It’s not safe to go wandering around dark corridors 
these days.” 

“You are,” Ron pointed out. 

“I,” said Percy, drawing himself up, “am a prefect. 
Nothing’s about to attack me.” 

A voice suddenly echoed behind Harry and Ron. 

Draco Malfoy was strolling toward them, and for the 
first time in his life, Harry was pleased to see him. 

“There you are,” he drawled, looking at them. “Have 
you two been pigging out in the Great Hall all this 
time? I’ve been looking for you; I want to show you 
something really funny.” 

Malfoy glanced witheringly at Percy. 

“And what’re you doing down here, Weasley?” he 
sneered. 

Percy looked outraged. 

“You want to show a bit more respect to a school 
prefect!” he said. “I don’t like your attitude!” 

Malfoy sneered and motioned for Harry and Ron to 
follow him. Harry almost said something apologetic to 

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Percy but caught himself just in time. He and Ron 
hurried after Malfoy, who said as they turned into the 
next passage, “That Peter Weasley — ” 

“Percy,” Ron corrected him automatically. 

“Whatever,” said Malfoy. “I’ve noticed him sneaking 
around a lot lately. And I bet I know what he’s up to. 
He thinks he’s going to catch Slytherin’s heir single- 
handed.” 

He gave a short, derisive laugh. Harry and Ron 
exchanged excited looks. 

Malfoy paused by a stretch of bare, damp stone wall. 
“What’s the new password again?” he said to Harry. 
“Er — ” said Harry. 

“Oh, yeah — pure-blood\” said Malfoy, not listening, 
and a stone door concealed in the wall slid open. 
Malfoy marched through it, and Harry and Ron 
followed him. 

The Slytherin common room was a long, low 
underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling 
from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on 
chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately 
carved mantelpiece ahead of them, and several 
Slytherins were silhouetted around it in high-backed 
chairs. 

“Wait here,” said Malfoy to Harry and Ron, motioning 
them to a pair of empty chairs set back from the fire. 
“I’ll go and get it — my father’s just sent it to me — ” 



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Wondering what Malfoy was going to show them, 
Harry and Ron sat down, doing their best to look at 
home. 

Malfoy came back a minute later, holding what looked 
like a newspaper clipping. He thrust it under Ron’s 
nose. 

“That’ll give you a laugh,” he said. 

Harry saw Ron's eyes widen in shock. He read the 
clipping quickly, gave a very forced laugh, and 
handed it to Harry. 

It had been clipped out of the Daily Prophet, and it 
said: 

INQUIRY AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC 

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle 
Artifacts Office, was today fined fifty Galleons for 
bewitching a Muggle car. 

Mr. Lucius Malfoy, a governor of Hogwarts School of 
Witchcraft and Wizardry, where the enchanted car 
crashed earlier this year, called today for Mr. 
Weasley’s resignation. 

“Weasley has brought the Ministry into disrepute,” 

Mr. Malfoy told our reporter. “He is clearly unfit to 
draw up our laws and his ridiculous Muggle 
Protection Act should be scrapped immediately.” 

Mr. Weasley was unavailable for comment, although 
his wife told reporters to clear off or she’d set the 
family ghoul on them. 



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“Well?” said Malfoy impatiently as Harry handed the 
clipping back to him. “Don’t you think it’s funny?” 

“Ha, ha,” said Harry bleakly. 

“Arthur Weasley loves Muggles so much he should 
snap his wand in half and go and join them,” said 
Malfoy scornfully. “You’d never know the Weasleys 
were purebloods, the way they behave.” 

Ron’s — or rather, Crabbe’s — face was contorted 
with fury. 

“What’s up with you, Crabbe?” snapped Malfoy. 
“Stomachache,” Ron grunted. 

“Well, go up to the hospital wing and give all those 
Mudbloods a kick from me,” said Malfoy, snickering. 
“You know, I’m surprised the Daily Prophet hasn’t 
reported all these attacks yet,” he went on 
thoughtfully. “I suppose Dumbledore’s trying to hush 
it all up. He’ll be sacked if it doesn’t stop soon. 
Father’s always said old Dumbledore’s the worst thing 
that’s ever happened to this place. He loves Muggle- 
borns. A decent headmaster would never ’ve let slime 
like that Creevey in.” 

Malfoy started taking pictures with an imaginary 
camera and did a cruel but accurate impression of 
Colin: “ ‘Potter, can I have your picture, Potter? Can I 
have your autograph? Can I lick your shoes, please, 
Potter?’ ” 

He dropped his hands and looked at Harry and Ron. 
“What’s the matter with you two?” 



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Far too late, Harry and Ron forced themselves to 
laugh, but Malfoy seemed satisfied; perhaps Crabbe 
and Goyle were always slow on the uptake. 

“Saint Potter, the Mudbloods’ friend,” said Malfoy 
slowly. “He’s another one with no proper wizard 
feeling, or he wouldn’t go around with that jumped-up 
Granger Mudblood. And people think he’s Slytherin’s 
heir!” 

Harry and Ron waited with bated breath: Malfoy was 
surely seconds away from telling them it was him — 
but then — 

“I wish I knew who it is,” said Malfoy petulantly. “I 
could help them.” 

Ron’s jaw dropped so that Crabbe looked even more 
clueless than usual. Fortunately, Malfoy didn’t notice, 
and Harry, thinking fast, said, “You must have some 
idea who’s behind it all. ...” 

“You know I haven’t, Goyle, how many times do I have 
to tell you?” snapped Malfoy. “And Father won’t tell 
me anything about the last time the Chamber was 
opened either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it 
was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he 
says that it was all kept quiet and it’ll look suspicious 
if I know too much about it. But I know one thing — 
last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a 
Mudblood died. So I bet it’s a matter of time before 
one of them’s killed this time. ... I hope it’s Granger,” 
he said with relish. 

Ron was clenching Crabbe ’s gigantic fists. Feeling 
that it would be a bit of a giveaway if Ron punched 
Malfoy, Harry shot him a warning look and said, 
“D’you know if the person who opened the Chamber 
last time was caught?” 

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“Oh, yeah ... whoever it was was expelled,” said 
Malfoy. “They’re probably still in Azkaban.” 



“Azkaban?” said Harry, puzzled. 

“Azkaban — the wizard prison , Goyle,” said Malfoy, 
looking at him in disbelief. “Honestly, if you were any 
slower, you’d be going backward.” 

He shifted restlessly in his chair and said, “Father 
says to keep my head down and let the Heir of 
Slytherin get on with it. He says the school needs 
ridding of all the Mudblood filth, but not to get mixed 
up in it. Of course, he’s got a lot on his plate at the 
moment. You know the Ministry of Magic raided our 
manor last week?” 

Harry tried to force Goyle ’s dull face into a look of 
concern. 

“Yeah ...” said Malfoy. “Luckily, they didn’t find much. 
Father’s got some very valuable Dark Arts stuff. But 
luckily, we’ve got our own secret chamber under the 
drawing-room floor — ” 

“Ho!” said Ron. 

Malfoy looked at him. So did Harry. Ron blushed. 

Even his hair was turning red. His nose was also 
slowly lengthening — their hour was up, Ron was 
turning back into himself, and from the look of horror 
he was suddenly giving Harry, he must be, too. 

They both jumped to their feet. 

“Medicine for my stomach,” Ron grunted, and without 
further ado they sprinted the length of the Slytherin 
common room, hurled themselves at the stone wall, 
and dashed up the passage, hoping against hope that 

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Malfoy hadn’t noticed anything. Harry could feel his 
feet slipping around in Goyle’s huge shoes and had to 
hoist up his robes as he shrank; they crashed up the 
steps into the dark entrance hall, which was full of a 
muffled pounding coming from the closet where 
they’d locked Crabbe and Goyle. Leaving their shoes 
outside the closet door, they sprinted in their socks 
up the marble staircase toward Moaning Myrtle’s 
bathroom. 

“Well, it wasn’t a complete waste of time,” Ron 
panted, closing the bathroom door behind them. “I 
know we still haven’t found out who’s doing the 
attacks, but I’m going to write to Dad tomorrow and 
tell him to check under the Malfoys’ drawing room.” 

Harry checked his face in the cracked mirror. He was 
back to normal. He put his glasses on as Ron 
hammered on the door of Hermione’s stall. 

“Hermione, come out, we’ve got loads to tell you — ” 

“Go away!” Hermione squeaked. 

Harry and Ron looked at each other. 

“What’s the matter?” said Ron. “You must be back to 
normal by now, we are — ” 

But Moaning Myrtle glided suddenly through the stall 
door. Harry had never seen her looking so happy. 

“Ooooooh, wait till you see,” she said. “It’s awful — ” 

They heard the lock slide back and Hermione 
emerged, sobbing, her robes pulled up over her head. 

“What’s up?” said Ron uncertainly. “Have you still got 
Millicent’s nose or something?” 

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Hermione let her robes fall and Ron backed into the 
sink. 

Her face was covered in black fur. Her eyes had 
turned yellow and there were long, pointed ears 
poking through her hair. 

“It was a c-cat hair!” she howled. “M-Millicent 
Bulstrode m-must have a cat! And the p-potion isn’t 
supposed to be used for animal transformations!” 

“Uh-oh,” said Ron. 

“You’ll be teased something dreadful,” said Myrtle 
happily. 

“It’s okay, Hermione,” said Harry quickly. “We’ll take 
you up to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey never 
asks too many questions. ...” 

It took a long time to persuade Hermione to leave the 
bathroom. Moaning Myrtle sped them on their way 
with a hearty guffaw. “Wait till everyone finds out 
you’ve got a tail\” 



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* V 




THE VERY SECRET DIARY 

Hermione remained in the hospital wing for several 
weeks. There was a flurry of rumor about her 
disappearance when the rest of the school arrived 
back from their Christmas holidays, because of 
course everyone thought that she had been attacked. 
So many students filed past the hospital wing trying 
to catch a glimpse of her that Madam Pomfrey took 
out her curtains again and placed them around 
Hermione’s bed, to spare her the shame of being seen 
with a furry face. 

Harry and Ron went to visit her every evening. When 
the new term started, they brought her each day’s 
homework. 

“If I’d sprouted whiskers, I’d take a break from work,” 
said Ron, tipping a stack of books onto Hermione’s 
bedside table one evening. 

“Don’t be silly, Ron, I’ve got to keep up,” said 
Hermione briskly. Her spirits were greatly improved 
by the fact that all the hair had gone from her face 

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and her eyes were turning slowly back to brown. “I 
don’t suppose you’ve got any new leads?” she added 
in a whisper, so that Madam Pomfrey couldn’t hear 
her. 

“Nothing,” said Harry gloomily. 

“I was so sure it was Malfoy,” said Ron, for about the 
hundredth time. 

“What’s that?” asked Harry, pointing to something 
gold sticking out from under Hermione’s pillow. 

“Just a get well card,” said Hermione hastily, trying to 
poke it out of sight, but Ron was too quick for her. He 
pulled it out, flicked it open, and read aloud: 

“To Miss Granger, wishing you a speedy recovery, from 
your concerned teacher, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, 
Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the 
Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of 
Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award.” 

Ron looked up at Hermione, disgusted. 

“You sleep with this under your pillow?” 

But Hermione was spared answering by Madam 
Pomfrey sweeping over with her evening dose of 
medicine. 

“Is Lockhart the smarmiest bloke you’ve ever met, or 
what?” Ron said to Harry as they left the infirmary 
and started up the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower. 
Snape had given them so much homework, Harry 
thought he was likely to be in the sixth year before he 
finished it. Ron was just saying he wished he had 
asked Hermione how many rat tails you were 
supposed to add to a Hair-Raising Potion when an 
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angry outburst from the floor above reached their 
ears. 

“That’s Filch,” Harry muttered as they hurried up the 
stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard. 

“You don’t think someone else’s been attacked?” said 
Ron tensely. 

They stood still, their heads inclined toward Filch’s 
voice, which sounded quite hysterical. 

“ — even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I 
haven’t got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I’m 
going to Dumbledore — ” 

His footsteps receded along the out-of-sight corridor 
and they heard a distant door slam. 

They poked their heads around the corner. Filch had 
clearly been manning his usual lookout post: They 
were once again on the spot where Mrs. Norris had 
been attacked. They saw at a glance what Filch had 
been shouting about. A great flood of water stretched 
over half the corridor, and it looked as though it was 
still seeping from under the door of Moaning Myrtle’s 
bathroom. Now that Filch had stopped shouting, they 
could hear Myrtle’s wails echoing off the bathroom 
walls. 

“Now what’s up with her?” said Ron. 

“Let’s go and see,” said Harry, and holding their robes 
over their ankles they stepped through the great wash 
of water to the door bearing its OUT OF ORDER sign, 
ignored it as always, and entered. 

Moaning Myrtle was crying, if possible, louder and 
harder than ever before. She seemed to be hiding 

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down her usual toilet. It was dark in the bathroom 
because the candles had been extinguished in the 
great rush of water that had left both walls and floor 
soaking wet. 

“What’s up, Myrtle?” said Harry. 

“Who’s that?” glugged Myrtle miserably. “Come to 
throw something else at me?” 

Harry waded across to her stall and said, “Why would 
I throw something at you?” 

“Don’t ask me,” Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave 
of yet more water, which splashed onto the already 
sopping floor. “Here I am, minding my own business, 
and someone thinks it’s funny to throw a book at me. 



“But it can’t hurt you if someone throws something at 
you,” said Harry, reasonably. “I mean, it’d just go 
right through you, wouldn’t it?” 

He had said the wrong thing. Myrtle puffed herself up 
and shrieked, “Let’s all throw books at Myrtle, 
because she can’t feel it! Ten points if you can get it 
through her stomach! Fifty points if it goes through 
her head! Well, ha, ha, ha! What a lovely game, I don’t 
think!” 

“Who threw it at you, anyway?” asked Harry. 

“I don’t know. ... I was just sitting in the U-bend, 
thinking about death, and it fell right through the top 
of my head,” said Myrtle, glaring at them. “It’s over 
there, it got washed out. ...” 

Harry and Ron looked under the sink where Myrtle 
was pointing. A small, thin book lay there. It had a 

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shabby black cover and was as wet as everything else 
in the bathroom. Harry stepped forward to pick it up, 
but Ron suddenly flung out an arm to hold him back. 

“What?” said Harry. 

“Are you cra2y?” said Ron. “It could be dangerous.” 

“ Dangerous ?” said Harry, laughing. “Come off it, how 
could it be dangerous?” 

“You’d be surprised,” said Ron, who was looking 
apprehensively at the book. “Some of the books the 
Ministry’s confiscated — Dad’s told me — there was 
one that burned your eyes out. And everyone who 
read Sonnets of a Sorcerer spoke in limericks for the 
rest of their lives. And some old witch in Bath had a 
book that you could never stop reading ! You just had 
to wander around with your nose in it, trying to do 
everything one-handed. And — ” 

“All right, I’ve got the point,” said Harry. 

The little book lay on the floor, nondescript and 
soggy. 

“Well, we won’t find out unless we look at it,” he said, 
and he ducked around Ron and picked it up off the 
floor. 

Harry saw at once that it was a diary, and the faded 
year on the cover told him it was fifty years old. He 
opened it eagerly. On the first page he could just 
make out the name “T. M. Riddle” in smudged ink. 

“Hang on,” said Ron, who had approached cautiously 
and was looking over Harry’s shoulder. “I know that 
name. ... T. M. Riddle got an award for special 
services to the school fifty years ago.” 

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“How on earth d’you know that?” said Harry in 
amazement. 

“Because Filch made me polish his shield about fifty 
times in detention,” said Ron resentfully. “That was 
the one I burped slugs all over. If you’d wiped slime 
off a name for an hour, you’d remember it, too.” 

Harry peeled the wet pages apart. They were 
completely blank. There wasn’t the faintest trace of 
writing on any of them, not even Auntie Mabel’s 
birthday, or dentist, half-past three. 

“He never wrote in it,” said Harry, disappointed. 

“I wonder why someone wanted to flush it away?” said 
Ron curiously. 

Harry turned to the back cover of the book and saw 
the printed name of a variety store on Vauxhall Road, 
London. 

“He must’ve been Muggle-born,” said Harry 
thoughtfully. “To have bought a diary from Vauxhall 
Road. ...” 

“Well, it’s not much use to you,” said Ron. He 
dropped his voice. “Fifty points if you can get it 
through Myrtle’s nose.” 

Harry, however, pocketed it. 

Hermione left the hospital wing, de-whiskered, tail- 
less, and fur-free, at the beginning of February. On 
her first evening back in Gryffindor Tower, Harry 
showed her T. M. Riddle’s diary and told her the story 
of how they had found it. 



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“Oooh, it might have hidden powers,” said Hermione 
enthusiastically, taking the diary and looking at it 
closely. 

“If it has, it’s hiding them very well,” said Ron. “Maybe 
it’s shy. I don’t know why you don’t chuck it, Harry.” 

“I wish I knew why someone did try to chuck it,” said 
Harry. “I wouldn’t mind knowing how Riddle got an 
award for special services to Hogwarts either.” 

“Could’ve been anything,” said Ron. “Maybe he got 
thirty O.W.L.s or saved a teacher from the giant 
squid. Maybe he murdered Myrtle; that would’ve done 
everyone a favor. ...” 

But Harry could tell from the arrested look on 
Hermione ’s face that she was thinking what he was 
thinking. 

“What?” said Ron, looking from one to the other. 

“Well, the Chamber of Secrets was opened fifty years 
ago, wasn’t it?” he said. “That’s what Malfoy said.” 

“Yeah ...” said Ron slowly. 

“And this diary is fifty years old,” said Hermione, 
tapping it excitedly. 

“So?” 

“Oh, Ron, wake up,” snapped Hermione. “We know 
the person who opened the Chamber last time was 
expelled fifty years ago. We know T. M. Riddle got an 
award for special services to the school fifty years 
ago. Well, what if Riddle got his special award for 
catching the Heir of Slytherin? His diary would 
probably tell us everything — where the Chamber is, 
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and how to open it, and what sort of creature lives in 
it — the person who’s behind the attacks this time 
wouldn’t want that lying around, would they?” 

“That’s a brilliant theory, Hermione,” said Ron, “with 
just one tiny little flaw. There’s nothing written in his 
diary.” 

But Hermione was pulling her wand out of her bag. 

“It might be invisible ink!” she whispered. 

She tapped the diary three times and said, 
“Aparecium\” 

Nothing happened. Undaunted, Hermione shoved her 
hand back into her bag and pulled out what appeared 
to be a bright red eraser. 

“It’s a Revealer, I got it in Diagon Alley,” she said. 

She rubbed hard on January first. Nothing happened. 

“I’m telling you, there’s nothing to find in there,” said 
Ron. “Riddle just got a diary for Christmas and 
couldn’t be bothered filling it in.” 

Harry couldn’t explain, even to himself, why he didn’t 
just throw Riddle’s diary away. The fact was that even 
though he knew the diary was blank, he kept 
absentmindedly picking it up and turning the pages, 
as though it were a story he wanted to finish. And 
while Harry was sure he had never heard the name T. 
M. Riddle before, it still seemed to mean something to 
him, almost as though Riddle was a friend he’d had 
when he was very small, and had half-forgotten. But 
this was absurd. He’d never had friends before 
Hogwarts, Dudley had made sure of that. 



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Nevertheless, Harry was determined to find out more 
about Riddle, so next day at break, he headed for the 
trophy room to examine Riddle’s special award, 
accompanied by an interested Hermione and a 
thoroughly unconvinced Ron, who told them he’d 
seen enough of the trophy room to last him a lifetime. 

Riddle’s burnished gold shield was tucked away in a 
corner cabinet. It didn’t carry details of why it had 
been given to him (“Good thing, too, or it’d be even 
bigger and I’d still be polishing it,” said Ron). 

However, they did find Riddle’s name on an old Medal 
for Magical Merit, and on a list of old Head Boys. 

“He sounds like Percy,” said Ron, wrinkling his nose 
in disgust. “Prefect, Head Boy ... probably top of every 
class — ” 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Hermione in a 
slightly hurt voice. 

The sun had now begun to shine weakly on Hogwarts 
again. Inside the castle, the mood had grown more 
hopeful. There had been no more attacks since those 
on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, and Madam 
Pomfrey was pleased to report that the Mandrakes 
were becoming moody and secretive, meaning that 
they were fast leaving childhood. 

“The moment their acne clears up, they’ll be ready for 
repotting again,” Harry heard her telling Filch kindly 
one afternoon. “And after that, it won’t be long until 
we’re cutting them up and stewing them. You’ll have 
Mrs. Norris back in no time.” 

Perhaps the Heir of Slytherin had lost his or her 
nerve, thought Harry. It must be getting riskier and 
riskier to open the Chamber of Secrets, with the 
school so alert and suspicious. Perhaps the monster, 

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whatever it was, was even now settling itself down to 
hibernate for another fifty years. ... 



Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff didn’t take this cheerful 
view. He was still convinced that Harry was the guilty 
one, that he had “given himself away” at the Dueling 
Club. Peeves wasn’t helping matters; he kept popping 
up in the crowded corridors singing “Oh, Potter, you 
rotter ...” now with a dance routine to match. 

Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to think he himself had 
made the attacks stop. Harry overheard him telling 
Professor McGonagall so while the Gryffindors were 
lining up for Transfiguration. 

“I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble, Minerva,” 
he said, tapping his nose knowingly and winking. “I 
think the Chamber has been locked for good this 
time. The culprit must have known it was only a 
matter of time before I caught him. Rather sensible to 
stop now, before I came down hard on him. 

“You know, what the school needs now is a morale- 
booster. Wash away the memories of last term! I won’t 
say any more just now, but I think I know just the 
thing. ...” 

He tapped his nose again and strode off. 

Lockhart’s idea of a morale-booster became clear at 
breakfast time on February fourteenth. Harry hadn’t 
had much sleep because of a late-running Quidditch 
practice the night before, and he hurried down to the 
Great Hall, slightly late. He thought, for a moment, 
that he’d walked through the wrong doors. 

The walls were all covered with large, lurid pink 
flowers. Worse still, heart-shaped confetti was falling 
from the pale blue ceiling. Harry went over to the 

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Gryffindor table, where Ron was sitting looking 
sickened, and Hermione seemed to have been 
overcome with giggles. 

“What’s going on?” Harry asked them, sitting down 
and wiping confetti off his bacon. 

Ron pointed to the teachers’ table, apparently too 
disgusted to speak. Lockhart, wearing lurid pink 
robes to match the decorations, was waving for 
silence. The teachers on either side of him were 
looking stony-faced. From where he sat, Harry could 
see a muscle going in Professor McGonagall’s cheek. 
Snape looked as though someone had just fed him a 
large beaker of Skele-Gro. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lockhart shouted. “And may 
I thank the forty-six people who have so far sent me 
cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this 
little surprise for you all — and it doesn’t end here!” 

Lockhart clapped his hands and through the doors to 
the entrance hall marched a dozen surly-looking 
dwarfs. Not just any dwarfs, however. Lockhart had 
them all wearing golden wings and carrying harps. 

“My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beamed Lockhart. 
“They will be roving around the school today 
delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop 
here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into 
the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor 
Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And 
while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more 
about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve 
ever met, the sly old dog!” 

Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape 
was looking as though the first person to ask him for 
a Love Potion would be force-fed poison. 

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“Please, Hermione, tell me you weren’t one of the 
forty-six,” said Ron as they left the Great Hall for their 
first lesson. Hermione suddenly became very 
interested in searching her bag for her schedule and 
didn’t answer. 

All day long, the dwarfs kept barging into their 
classes to deliver valentines, to the annoyance of the 
teachers, and late that afternoon as the Gryffindors 
were walking upstairs for Charms, one of the dwarfs 
caught up with Harry. 

“Oy, you! ’Arry Potter!” shouted a particularly grim- 
looking dwarf, elbowing people out of the way to get to 
Harry. 

Hot all over at the thought of being given a valentine 
in front of a line of first years, which happened to 
include Ginny Weasley, Harry tried to escape. The 
dwarf, however, cut his way through the crowd by 
kicking people’s shins, and reached him before he’d 
gone two paces. 

“I’ve got a musical message to deliver to ’Arry Potter in 
person,” he said, twanging his harp in a threatening 
sort of way. 

“Not here,” Harry hissed, trying to escape. 

“Stay stilll” grunted the dwarf, grabbing hold of 
Harry’s bag and pulling him back. 

“Let me go!” Harry snarled, tugging. 

With a loud ripping noise, his bag split in two. His 
books, wand, parchment, and quill spilled onto the 
floor and his ink bottle smashed over everything. 



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Harry scrambled around, trying to pick it all up 
before the dwarf started singing, causing something of 
a holdup in the corridor. 

“What’s going on here?” came the cold, drawling voice 
of Draco Malfoy. Harry started stuffing everything 
feverishly into his ripped bag, desperate to get away 
before Malfoy could hear his musical valentine. 

“What’s all this commotion?” said another familiar 
voice as Percy Weasley arrived. 

Losing his head, Harry tried to make a run for it, but 
the dwarf seized him around the knees and brought 
him crashing to the floor. 

“Right,” he said, sitting on Harry’s ankles. “Here is 
your singing valentine: 

His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, 

His hair is as dark as a blackboard. 

I wish he was mine, he’s really divine, 

The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.” 

Harry would have given all the gold in Gringotts to 
evaporate on the spot. Trying valiantly to laugh along 
with everyone else, he got up, his feet numb from the 
weight of the dwarf, as Percy Weasley did his best to 
disperse the crowd, some of whom were crying with 
mirth. 

“Off you go, off you go, the bell rang five minutes ago, 
off to class, now,” he said, shooing some of the 
younger students away. “And you, Malfoy — ” 



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Harry, glancing over, saw Malfoy stoop and snatch up 
something. Leering, he showed it to Crabbe and 
Goyle, and Harry realized that he’d got Riddle’s diary. 

“Give that back,” said Harry quietly. 

“Wonder what Potter’s written in this?” said Malfoy, 
who obviously hadn’t noticed the year on the cover 
and thought he had Harry’s own diary. A hush fell 
over the onlookers. Ginny was staring from the diary 
to Harry, looking terrified. 

“Hand it over, Malfoy,” said Percy sternly. 

“When I’ve had a look,” said Malfoy, waving the diary 
tauntingly at Harry. 

Percy said, “As a school prefect — ” but Harry had lost 
his temper. He pulled out his wand and shouted, 

“ ExpelliarmusV’ and just as Snape had disarmed 
Lockhart, so Malfoy found the diary shooting out of 
his hand into the air. Ron, grinning broadly, caught 
it. 

“Harry!” said Percy loudly. “No magic in the corridors. 
I’ll have to report this, you know!” 

But Harry didn’t care, he was one-up on Malfoy, and 
that was worth five points from Gryffindor any day. 
Malfoy was looking furious, and as Ginny passed him 
to enter her classroom, he yelled spitefully after her, 

“I don’t think Potter liked your valentine much!” 

Ginny covered her face with her hands and ran into 
class. Snarling, Ron pulled out his wand, too, but 
Harry pulled him away. Ron didn’t need to spend the 
whole of Charms belching slugs. 



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It wasn’t until they had reached Professor Flitwick’s 
class that Harry noticed something rather odd about 
Riddle’s diary. All his other books were drenched in 
scarlet ink. The diary, however, was as clean as it had 
been before the ink bottle had smashed all over it. He 
tried to point this out to Ron, but Ron was having 
trouble with his wand again; large purple bubbles 
were blossoming out of the end, and he wasn’t much 
interested in anything else. 



Jc Jc Jc 



Harry went to bed before anyone else in his 
dormitory that night. This was partly because he 
didn’t think he could stand Fred and George singing, 
“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad” one 
more time, and partly because he wanted to examine 
Riddle’s diary again, and knew that Ron thought he 
was wasting his time. 

Harry sat on his four-poster and flicked through the 
blank pages, not one of which had a trace of scarlet 
ink on it. Then he pulled a new bottle out of his 
bedside cabinet, dipped his quill into it, and dropped 
a blot onto the first page of the diary. 

The ink shone brightly on the paper for a second and 
then, as though it was being sucked into the page, 
vanished. Excited, Harry loaded up his quill a second 
time and wrote, “My name is Harry Potter.” 

The words shone momentarily on the page and they, 
too, sank without trace. Then, at last, something 
happened. 

Oozing back out of the page, in his very own ink, 
came words Harry had never written. 



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“Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did 
you come by my diary?” 

These words, too, faded away, but not before Harry 
had started to scribble back. 

“Someone tried to flush it down a toilet.” 

He waited eagerly for Riddle’s reply. 

“Lucky that I recorded my memories in some more 
lasting way than ink. But I always knew that there 
would be those who would not want this diary read.” 

“What do you mean?” Harry scrawled, blotting the 
page in his excitement. 

“I mean that this diary holds memories of terrible 
things. Things that were covered up. Things that 
happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and 
Wizardry.” 

“That’s where I am now,” Harry wrote quickly. “I’m at 
Hogwarts, and horrible stuff’s been happening. Do 
you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?” 

His heart was hammering. Riddle’s reply came 
quickly, his writing becoming untidier, as though he 
was hurrying to tell all he knew. 

“Of course I know about the Chamber of Secrets. In my 
day, they told us it was a legend, that it did not exist. 
But this was a lie. In my fifth year, the Chamber was 
opened and the monster attacked several students, 
finally killing one. I caught the person who’d opened 
the Chamber and he was expelled. But the 
headmaster, Professor Dippet, ashamed that such a 
thing had happened at Hogwarts, forbade me to tell 
the truth. A story was given out that the girl had died 
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in a freak accident They gave me a nice, shiny, 
engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep 
my mouth shut But I knew it could happen again. The 
monster lived on, and the one who had the power to 
release it was not imprisoned.” 

Harry nearly upset his ink bottle in his hurry to write 
back. 

“It’s happening again now. There have been three 
attacks and no one seems to know who’s behind 
them. Who was it last time?” 

“ I can show you, if you like,” came Riddle’s reply. “You 
don’t have to take my word for it. I can take you inside 
my memory of the night when I caught him.” 

Harry hesitated, his quill suspended over the diary. 
What did Riddle mean? How could he be taken inside 
somebody else’s memory? He glanced nervously at the 
door to the dormitory, which was growing dark. When 
he looked back at the diary, he saw fresh words 
forming. 

“Let me show you.” 

Harry paused for a fraction of a second and then 
wrote two letters. 

“OK.” 

The pages of the diary began to blow as though 
caught in a high wind, stopping halfway through the 
month of June. Mouth hanging open, Harry saw that 
the little square for June thirteenth seemed to have 
turned into a minuscule television screen. His hands 
trembling slightly, he raised the book to press his eye 
against the little window, and before he knew what 
was happening, he was tilting forward; the window 
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was widening, he felt his body leave his bed, and he 
was pitched headfirst through the opening in the 
page, into a whirl of color and shadow. 

He felt his feet hit solid ground, and stood, shaking, 
as the blurred shapes around him came suddenly 
into focus. 

He knew immediately where he was. This circular 
room with the sleeping portraits was Dumbledore’s 
office — but it wasn’t Dumbledore who was sitting 
behind the desk. A wizened, frail-looking wizard, bald 
except for a few wisps of white hair, was reading a 
letter by candlelight. Harry had never seen this man 
before. 

“I’m sorry,” he said shakily. “I didn’t mean to butt in 



But the wizard didn’t look up. He continued to read, 
frowning slightly. Harry drew nearer to his desk and 
stammered, “Er — I’ll just go, shall I?” 

Still the wizard ignored him. He didn’t seem even to 
have heard him. Thinking that the wizard might be 
deaf, Harry raised his voice. 

“Sorry I disturbed you. I’ll go now,” he half-shouted. 

The wizard folded up the letter with a sigh, stood up, 
walked past Harry without glancing at him, and went 
to draw the curtains at his window. 

The sky outside the window was ruby-red; it seemed 
to be sunset. The wizard went back to the desk, sat 
down, and twiddled his thumbs, watching the door. 

Harry looked around the office. No Fawkes the 
phoenix — no whirring silver contraptions. This was 

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Hogwarts as Riddle had known it, meaning that this 
unknown wizard was headmaster, not Dumbledore, 
and he, Harry, was little more than a phantom, 
completely invisible to the people of fifty years ago. 

There was a knock on the office door. 

“Enter,” said the old wizard in a feeble voice. 

A boy of about sixteen entered, taking off his pointed 
hat. A silver prefect’s badge was glinting on his chest. 
He was much taller than Harry, but he, too, had jet- 
black hair. 

“Ah, Riddle,” said the headmaster. 

“You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?” said 
Riddle. He looked nervous. 

“Sit down,” said Dippet. “I’ve just been reading the 
letter you sent me.” 

“Oh,” said Riddle. He sat down, gripping his hands 
together very tightly. 

“My dear boy,” said Dippet kindly, “I cannot possibly 
let you stay at school over the summer. Surely you 
want to go home for the holidays?” 

“No,” said Riddle at once. “I’d much rather stay at 
Hogwarts than go back to that — to that — ” 

“You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I 
believe?” said Dippet curiously. 

“Yes, sir,” said Riddle, reddening slightly. 

“You are Muggle-born?” 



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“Half-blood, sir,” said Riddle. “Muggle father, witch 
mother.” 

“And are both your parents — ?” 

“My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told 
me at the orphanage she lived just long enough to 
name me — Tom after my father, Marvolo after my 
grandfather.” 

Dippet clucked his tongue sympathetically. 

“The thing is, Tom,” he sighed, “special arrangements 
might have been made for you, but in the current 
circumstances. ...” 

“You mean all these attacks, sir?” said Riddle, and 
Harry’s heart leapt, and he moved closer, scared of 
missing anything. 

“Precisely,” said the headmaster. “My dear boy, you 
must see how foolish it would be of me to allow you to 
remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in 
light of the recent tragedy . . . the death of that poor 
little girl. ... You will be safer by far at your 
orphanage. As a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic 
is even now talking about closing the school. We are 
no nearer locating the — er — source of all this 
unpleasantness. ...” 

Riddle’s eyes had widened. 

“Sir — if the person was caught — if it all stopped — ” 

“What do you mean?” said Dippet with a squeak in 
his voice, sitting up in his chair. “Riddle, do you mean 
you know something about these attacks?” 

“No, sir,” said Riddle quickly. 

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But Harry was sure it was the same sort of “no” that 
he himself had given Dumbledore. 

Dippet sank back, looking faintly disappointed. 

“You may go, Tom. ...” 

Riddle slid off his chair and slouched out of the room. 
Harry followed him. 

Down the moving spiral staircase they went, emerging 
next to the gargoyle in the darkening corridor. Riddle 
stopped, and so did Harry, watching him. Harry could 
tell that Riddle was doing some serious thinking. He 
was biting his lip, his forehead furrowed. 

Then, as though he had suddenly reached a decision, 
he hurried off, Harry gliding noiselessly behind him. 
They didn’t see another person until they reached the 
entrance hall, when a tall wizard with long, sweeping 
auburn hair and a beard called to Riddle from the 
marble staircase. 

“What are you doing, wandering around this late, 
Tom?” 

Harry gaped at the wizard. He was none other than a 
fifty-year-younger Dumbledore. 

“I had to see the headmaster, sir,” said Riddle. 

“Well, hurry off to bed,” said Dumbledore, giving 
Riddle exactly the kind of penetrating stare Harry 
knew so well. “Best not to roam the corridors these 
days. Not since ...” 

He sighed heavily, bade Riddle good night, and strode 
off. Riddle watched him walk out of sight and then, 



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moving quickly, headed straight down the stone steps 
to the dungeons, with Harry in hot pursuit. 

But to Harry’s disappointment, Riddle led him not 
into a hidden passageway or a secret tunnel but to 
the very dungeon in which Harry had Potions with 
Snape. The torches hadn’t been lit, and when Riddle 
pushed the door almost closed, Harry could only just 
see him, standing stock-still by the door, watching 
the passage outside. 

It felt to Harry that they were there for at least an 
hour. All he could see was the figure of Riddle at the 
door, staring through the crack, waiting like a statue. 
And just when Harry had stopped feeling expectant 
and tense and started wishing he could return to the 
present, he heard something move beyond the door. 

Someone was creeping along the passage. He heard 
whoever it was pass the dungeon where he and Riddle 
were hidden. Riddle, quiet as a shadow, edged 
through the door and followed, Harry tiptoeing behind 
him, forgetting that he couldn’t be heard. 

For perhaps five minutes they followed the footsteps, 
until Riddle stopped suddenly, his head inclined in 
the direction of new noises. Harry heard a door creak 
open, and then someone speaking in a hoarse 
whisper. 

“C’mon ... gotta get yeh outta here. ... C’mon now ... 
in the box ...” 

There was something familiar about that voice. ... 

Riddle suddenly jumped around the corner. Harry 
stepped out behind him. He could see the dark 
outline of a huge boy who was crouching in front of 
an open door, a very large box next to it. 

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“ ’Evening, Rubeus,” said Riddle sharply. 

The boy slammed the door shut and stood up. 

“What yer doin’ down here, Tom?” 

Riddle stepped closer. 

“It’s all over,” he said. “I’m going to have to turn you 
in, Rubeus. They’re talking about closing Hogwarts if 
the attacks don’t stop.” 

“What d’yeh — ” 

“I don’t think you meant to kill anyone. But monsters 
don’t make good pets. I suppose you just let it out for 
exercise and — ” 

“It never killed no one!” said the large boy, backing 
against the closed door. From behind him, Harry 
could hear a funny rustling and clicking. 

“Come on, Rubeus,” said Riddle, moving yet closer. 
“The dead girl’s parents will be here tomorrow. The 
least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing 
that killed their daughter is slaughtered. ...” 

“It wasn’t him!” roared the boy, his voice echoing in 
the dark passage. “He wouldn’! He never!” 

“Stand aside,” said Riddle, drawing out his wand. 

His spell lit the corridor with a sudden flaming light. 
The door behind the large boy flew open with such 
force it knocked him into the wall opposite. And out of 
it came something that made Harry let out a long, 
piercing scream unheard by anyone — 



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A vast, low-slung, hairy body and a tangle of black 
legs; a gleam of many eyes and a pair of razor-sharp 
pincers — Riddle raised his wand again, but he was 
too late. The thing bowled him over as it scuttled 
away, tearing up the corridor and out of sight. Riddle 
scrambled to his feet, looking after it; he raised his 
wand, but the huge boy leapt on him, seized his 
wand, and threw him back down, yelling, 
“NOOOOOOO!” 

The scene whirled, the darkness became complete; 
Harry felt himself falling and, with a crash, he landed 
spread-eagled on his four-poster in the Gryffindor 
dormitory, Riddle’s diary lying open on his stomach. 

Before he had had time to regain his breath, the 
dormitory door opened and Ron came in. 

“There you are,” he said. 

Harry sat up. He was sweating and shaking. 

“What’s up?” said Ron, looking at him with concern. 

“It was Hagrid, Ron. Hagrid opened the Chamber of 
Secrets fifty years ago.” 



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CORNELIUS FUDGE 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had always known that 
Hagrid had an unfortunate liking for large and 
monstrous creatures. During their first year at 
Hogwarts he had tried to raise a dragon in his little 
wooden house, and it would be a long time before 
they forgot the giant, three-headed dog he’d 
christened “Fluffy.” And if, as a boy, Hagrid had heard 
that a monster was hidden somewhere in the castle, 
Harry was sure he’d have gone to any lengths for a 
glimpse of it. He’d probably thought it was a shame 
that the monster had been cooped up so long, and 
thought it deserved the chance to stretch its many 
legs; Harry could just imagine the thirteen-year-old 
Hagrid trying to fit a leash and collar on it. But he 
was equally certain that Hagrid would never have 
meant to kill anybody. 

Harry half wished he hadn’t found out how to work 
Riddle’s diary. Again and again Ron and Hermione 
made him recount what he’d seen, until he was 
heartily sick of telling them and sick of the long, 
circular conversations that followed. 

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“Riddle might have got the wrong person,” said 
Hermione. “Maybe it was some other monster that 
was attacking people. ...” 

“How many monsters d’you think this place can 
hold?” Ron asked dully. 

“We always knew Hagrid had been expelled,” said 
Harry miserably. “And the attacks must’ve stopped 
after Hagrid was kicked out. Otherwise, Riddle 
wouldn’t have got his award.” 

Ron tried a different tack. 

“Riddle does sound like Percy — who asked him to 
squeal on Hagrid, anyway?” 

“But the monster had killed someone, Ron,” said 
Hermione. 

“And Riddle was going to go back to some Muggle 
orphanage if they closed Hogwarts,” said Harry. “I 
don’t blame him for wanting to stay here. ...” 

“You met Hagrid down Knockturn Alley, didn’t you, 
Harry?” 

“He was buying a Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent,” said 
Harry quickly. 

The three of them fell silent. After a long pause, 
Hermione voiced the knottiest question of all in a 
hesitant voice. 

“Do you think we should go and ask Hagrid about it 
all?” 



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“That’d be a cheerful visit,” said Ron. “ ‘Hello, Hagrid. 
Tell us, have you been setting anything mad and 
hairy loose in the castle lately?’ ” 

In the end, they decided that they would not say 
anything to Hagrid unless there was another attack, 
and as more and more days went by with no whisper 
from the disembodied voice, they became hopeful that 
they would never need to talk to him about why he 
had been expelled. It was now nearly four months 
since Justin and Nearly Headless Nick had been 
Petrified, and nearly everybody seemed to think that 
the attacker, whoever it was, had retired for good. 
Peeves had finally got bored of his “Oh, Potter, you 
rotter” song, Ernie Macmillan asked Harry quite 
politely to pass a bucket of leaping toadstools in 
Herbology one day, and in March several of the 
Mandrakes threw a loud and raucous party in 
greenhouse three. This made Professor Sprout very 
happy. 

“The moment they start trying to move into each 
other’s pots, we’ll know they’re fully mature,” she told 
Harry. “Then we’ll be able to revive those poor people 
in the hospital wing.” 

The second years were given something new to think 
about during their Easter holidays. The time had 
come to choose their subjects for the third year, a 
matter that Hermione, at least, took very seriously. 

“It could affect our whole future,” she told Harry and 
Ron as they pored over lists of new subjects, marking 
them with checks. 

“I just want to give up Potions,” said Harry. 



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“We can’t,” said Ron gloomily. “We keep all our old 
subjects, or I’d’ve ditched Defense Against the Dark 
Arts.” 

“But that’s very important!” said Hermione, shocked. 

“Not the way Lockhart teaches it,” said Ron. “I haven’t 
learned anything from him except not to set pixies 
loose.” 

Neville Longbottom had been sent letters from all the 
witches and wizards in his family, all giving him 
different advice on what to choose. Confused and 
worried, he sat reading the subject lists with his 
tongue poking out, asking people whether they 
thought Arithmancy sounded more difficult than the 
study of Ancient Runes. Dean Thomas, who, like 
Harry, had grown up with Muggles, ended up closing 
his eyes and jabbing his wand at the list, then picking 
the subjects it landed on. Hermione took nobody’s 
advice but signed up for everything. 

Harry smiled grimly to himself at the thought of what 
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would say if he tried 
to discuss his career in wizardry with them. Not that 
he didn’t get any guidance: Percy Weasley was eager 
to share his experience. 

“Depends where you want to go, Harry,” he said. “It’s 
never too early to think about the future, so I’d 
recommend Divination. People say Muggle Studies is 
a soft option, but I personally think wizards should 
have a thorough understanding of the non-magical 
community, particularly if they’re thinking of working 
in close contact with them — look at my father, he 
has to deal with Muggle business all the time. My 
brother Charlie was always more of an outdoor type, 
so he went for Care of Magical Creatures. Play to your 
strengths, Harry.” 

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But the only thing Harry felt he was really good at 
was Quidditch. In the end, he chose the same new 
subjects as Ron, feeling that if he was lousy at them, 
at least he’d have someone friendly to help him. 

Gryffindor’s next Quidditch match would be against 
Hufflepuff. Wood was insisting on team practices 
every night after dinner, so that Harry barely had 
time for anything but Quidditch and homework. 
However, the training sessions were getting better, or 
at least drier, and the evening before Saturday’s 
match he went up to his dormitory to drop off his 
broomstick feeling Gryffindor’s chances for the 
Quidditch Cup had never been better. 

But his cheerful mood didn’t last long. At the top of 
the stairs to the dormitory, he met Neville 
Longbottom, who was looking frantic. 

“Harry — I don’t know who did it — I just found — ” 

Watching Harry fearfully, Neville pushed open the 
door. 

The contents of Harry’s trunk had been thrown 
everywhere. His cloak lay ripped on the floor. The 
bedclothes had been pulled off his four-poster and the 
drawer had been pulled out of his bedside cabinet, 
the contents strewn over the mattress. 

Harry walked over to the bed, openmouthed, treading 
on a few loose pages of Travels with Trolls. As he and 
Neville pulled the blankets back onto his bed, Ron, 
Dean, and Seamus came in. Dean swore loudly. 

“What happened, Harry?” 

“No idea,” said Harry. But Ron was examining Harry’s 
robes. All the pockets were hanging out. 

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“Someone’s been looking for something,” said Ron. “Is 
there anything missing?” 

Harry started to pick up all his things and throw 
them into his trunk. It was only as he threw the last 
of the Lockhart books back into it that he realized 
what wasn’t there. 

“Riddle’s diary’s gone,” he said in an undertone to 
Ron. 

“What?” 

Harry jerked his head toward the dormitory door and 
Ron followed him out. They hurried down to the 
Gryffindor common room, which was half-empty, and 
joined Hermione, who was sitting alone, reading a 
book called Ancient Runes Made Easy. 

Hermione looked aghast at the news. 

“But — only a Gryffindor could have stolen — nobody 
else knows our password — ” 

“Exactly,” said Harry. 

They woke the next day to brilliant sunshine and a 
light, refreshing breeze. 

“Perfect Quidditch conditions!” said Wood 
enthusiastically at the Gryffindor table, loading the 
team’s plates with scrambled eggs. “Harry, buck up 
there, you need a decent breakfast.” 

Harry had been staring down the packed Gryffindor 
table, wondering if the new owner of Riddle’s diary 
was right in front of his eyes. Hermione had been 
urging him to report the robbery, but Harry didn’t like 
the idea. He’d have to tell a teacher all about the 
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diary, and how many people knew why Hagrid had 
been expelled fifty years ago? He didn’t want to be the 
one who brought it all up again. 

As he left the Great Hall with Ron and Hermione to go 
and collect his Quidditch things, another very serious 
worry was added to Harry’s growing list. He had just 
set foot on the marble staircase when he heard it yet 
again — 

“ Kill this time ... let me rip ... tear ...” 

He shouted aloud and Ron and Hermione both 
jumped away from him in alarm. 

“The voice!” said Harry, looking over his shoulder. “I 
just heard it again — didn’t you?” 

Ron shook his head, wide-eyed. Hermione, however, 
clapped a hand to her forehead. 

“Harry — I think I’ve just understood something! I’ve 
got to go to the library!” 

And she sprinted away, up the stairs. 

“ What does she understand?” said Harry distractedly, 
still looking around, trying to tell where the voice had 
come from. 

“Loads more than I do,” said Ron, shaking his head. 

“But why’s she got to go to the library?” 

“Because that’s what Hermione does,” said Ron, 
shrugging. “When in doubt, go to the library.” 

Harry stood, irresolute, trying to catch the voice 
again, but people were now emerging from the Great 

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Hall behind him, talking loudly, exiting through the 
front doors on their way to the Quidditch pitch. 



“You’d better get moving,” said Ron. “It’s nearly eleven 
— the match — ” 

Harry raced up to Gryffindor Tower, collected his 
Nimbus Two Thousand, and joined the large crowd 
swarming across the grounds, but his mind was still 
in the castle along with the bodiless voice, and as he 
pulled on his scarlet robes in the locker room, his 
only comfort was that everyone was now outside to 
watch the game. 

The teams walked onto the field to tumultuous 
applause. Oliver Wood took off for a warm-up flight 
around the goal posts; Madam Hooch released the 
balls. The Hufflepuffs, who played in canary yellow, 
were standing in a huddle, having a last-minute 
discussion of tactics. 

Harry was just mounting his broom when Professor 
McGonagall came half marching, half running across 
the pitch, carrying an enormous purple megaphone. 

Harry’s heart dropped like a stone. 

“This match has been canceled,” Professor 
McGonagall called through the megaphone, 
addressing the packed stadium. There were boos and 
shouts. Oliver Wood, looking devastated, landed and 
ran toward Professor McGonagall without getting off 
his broomstick. 

“But, Professor!” he shouted. “We’ve got to play — the 
Cup — Gryffindor — ” 

Professor McGonagall ignored him and continued to 
shout through her megaphone: 

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“All students are to make their way back to the House 
common rooms, where their Heads of Houses will give 
them further information. As quickly as you can, 
please!” 

Then she lowered the megaphone and beckoned 
Harry over to her. 

“Potter, I think you’d better come with me. ...” 

Wondering how she could possibly suspect him this 
time, Harry saw Ron detach himself from the 
complaining crowd; he came running up to them as 
they set off toward the castle. To Harry’s surprise, 
Professor McGonagall didn’t object. 

“Yes, perhaps you’d better come, too, Weasley. ...” 

Some of the students swarming around them were 
grumbling about the match being canceled; others 
looked worried. Harry and Ron followed Professor 
McGonagall back into the school and up the marble 
staircase. But they weren’t taken to anybody’s office 
this time. 

“This will be a bit of a shock,” said Professor 
McGonagall in a surprisingly gentle voice as they 
approached the infirmary. “There has been another 
attack ... another double attack.” 

Harry’s insides did a horrible somersault. Professor 
McGonagall pushed the door open and he and Ron 
entered. 

Madam Pomfrey was bending over a sixth-year girl 
with long, curly hair. Harry recognized her as the 
Ravenclaw they’d accidentally asked for directions to 
the Slytherin common room. And on the bed next to 
her was — 

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“HermioneY’ Ron groaned. 

Hermione lay utterly still, her eyes open and glassy. 

“They were found near the library,” said Professor 
McGonagall. “I don’t suppose either of you can 
explain this? It was on the floor next to them. ...” 

She was holding up a small, circular mirror. 

Harry and Ron shook their heads, both staring at 
Hermione. 

“I will escort you back to Gryffindor Tower,” said 
Professor McGonagall heavily. “I need to address the 
students in any case.” 

“All students will return to their House common 
rooms by six o’clock in the evening. No student is to 
leave the dormitories after that time. You will be 
escorted to each lesson by a teacher. No student is to 
use the bathroom unaccompanied by a teacher. All 
further Quidditch training and matches are to be 
postponed. There will be no more evening activities.” 

The Gryffindors packed inside the common room 
listened to Professor McGonagall in silence. She rolled 
up the parchment from which she had been reading 
and said in a somewhat choked voice, “I need hardly 
add that I have rarely been so distressed. It is likely 
that the school will be closed unless the culprit 
behind these attacks is caught. I would urge anyone 
who thinks they might know anything about them to 
come forward.” 

She climbed somewhat awkwardly out of the portrait 
hole, and the Gryffindors began talking immediately. 



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“That’s two Gryffindors down, not counting a 
Gryffindor ghost, one Ravenclaw, and one Hufflepuff,” 
said the Weasley twins’ friend Lee Jordan, counting 
on his fingers. “Haven’t any of the teachers noticed 
that the Slytherins are all safe? Isn’t it obvious all this 
stuff’s coming from Slytherin? The Heir of Slytherin, 
the monster of Slytherin — why don’t they just chuck 
all the Slytherins out?” he roared, to nods and 
scattered applause. 

Percy Weasley was sitting in a chair behind Lee, but 
for once he didn’t seem keen to make his views heard. 
He was looking pale and stunned. 

“Percy’s in shock,” George told Harry quietly. “That 
Ravenclaw girl — Penelope Clearwater — she’s a 
prefect. I don’t think he thought the monster would 
dare attack a prefect.” 

But Harry was only half-listening. He didn’t seem to 
be able to get rid of the picture of Hermione, lying on 
the hospital bed as though carved out of stone. And if 
the culprit wasn’t caught soon, he was looking at a 
lifetime back with the Dursleys. Tom Riddle had 
turned Hagrid in because he was faced with the 
prospect of a Muggle orphanage if the school closed. 
Harry now knew exactly how he had felt. 

“What’re we going to do?” said Ron quietly in Harry’s 
ear. “D’you think they suspect Hagrid?” 

“We’ve got to go and talk to him,” said Harry, making 
up his mind. “I can’t believe it’s him this time, but if 
he set the monster loose last time he’ll know how to 
get inside the Chamber of Secrets, and that’s a start.” 

“But McGonagall said we’ve got to stay in our tower 
unless we’re in class — ” 



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“I think,” said Harry, more quietly still, “it’s time to 
get my dad’s old cloak out again.” 

Harry had inherited just one thing from his father: a 
long and silvery Invisibility Cloak. It was their only 
chance of sneaking out of the school to visit Hagrid 
without anyone knowing about it. They went to bed at 
the usual time, waited until Neville, Dean, and 
Seamus had stopped discussing the Chamber of 
Secrets and finally fallen asleep, then got up, dressed 
again, and threw the cloak over themselves. 

The journey through the dark and deserted castle 
corridors wasn’t enjoyable. Harry, who had wandered 
the castle at night several times before, had never 
seen it so crowded after sunset. Teachers, prefects, 
and ghosts were marching the corridors in pairs, 
staring around for any unusual activity. Their 
Invisibility Cloak didn’t stop them making any noise, 
and there was a particularly tense moment when Ron 
stubbed his toe only yards from the spot where Snape 
stood standing guard. Thankfully, Snape sneezed at 
almost exactly the moment Ron swore. It was with 
relief that they reached the oak front doors and eased 
them open. 

It was a clear, starry night. They hurried toward the 
lit windows of Hagrid ’s house and pulled off the cloak 
only when they were right outside his front door. 

Seconds after they had knocked, Hagrid flung it open. 
They found themselves face-to-face with him aiming a 
crossbow at them. Fang the boarhound barked loudly 
behind him. 

“Oh,” he said, lowering the weapon and staring at 
them. “What ’re you two doin’ here?” 



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“What’s that for?” said Harry, pointing at the 
crossbow as they stepped inside. 



“Nothin’ — nothin’ — “ Hagrid muttered. “I’ve bin 
expectin’ — doesn’ matter — Sit down — I’ll make tea 



He hardly seemed to know what he was doing. He 
nearly extinguished the fire, spilling water from the 
kettle on it, and then smashed the teapot with a 
nervous jerk of his massive hand. 

“Are you okay, Hagrid?” said Harry. “Did you hear 
about Hermione?” 

“Oh, I heard, all righ’,” said Hagrid, a slight break in 
his voice. 

He kept glancing nervously at the windows. He 
poured them both large mugs of boiling water (he had 
forgotten to add tea bags) and was just putting a slab 
of fruitcake on a plate when there was a loud knock 
on the door. 

Hagrid dropped the fruitcake. Harry and Ron 
exchanged panic-stricken looks, then threw the 
Invisibility Cloak back over themselves and retreated 
into a corner. Hagrid checked that they were hidden, 
seized his crossbow, and flung open his door once 
more. 

“Good evening, Hagrid.” 

It was Dumbledore. He entered, looking deadly 
serious, and was followed by a second, very odd- 
looking man. 

The stranger had rumpled gray hair and an anxious 
expression, and was wearing a strange mixture of 

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clothes: a pinstriped suit, a scarlet tie, a long black 
cloak, and pointed purple boots. Under his arm he 
carried a lime-green bowler. 

“That’s Dad’s boss!” Ron breathed. “Cornelius Fudge, 
the Minister of Magic!” 

Harry elbowed Ron hard to make him shut up. 

Hagrid had gone pale and sweaty. He dropped into 
one of his chairs and looked from Dumbledore to 
Cornelius Fudge. 

“Bad business, Hagrid,” said Fudge in rather clipped 
tones. “Very bad business. Had to come. Four attacks 
on Muggle-borns. Things’ve gone far enough. 
Ministry’s got to act.” 

“I never,” said Hagrid, looking imploringly at 
Dumbledore. “You know I never, Professor 
Dumbledore, sir — ” 

“I want it understood, Cornelius, that Hagrid has my 
full confidence,” said Dumbledore, frowning at Fudge. 

“Look, Albus,” said Fudge, uncomfortably. “Hagrid’s 
record’s against him. Ministry’s got to do something 
— the school governors have been in touch — ” 

“Yet again, Cornelius, I tell you that taking Hagrid 
away will not help in the slightest,” said Dumbledore. 
His blue eyes were full of a fire Harry had never seen 
before. 

“Look at it from my point of view,” said Fudge, 
fidgeting with his bowler. “I’m under a lot of pressure. 
Got to be seen to be doing something. If it turns out it 
wasn’t Hagrid, he’ll be back and no more said. But 



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I’ve got to take him. Got to. Wouldn’t be doing my 
duty — ” 

“Take me?” said Hagrid, who was trembling. “Take me 
where?” 

“For a short stretch only,” said Fudge, not meeting 
Hagrid ’s eyes. “Not a punishment, Hagrid, more a 
precaution. If someone else is caught, you’ll be let out 
with a full apology — ” 

“Not Azkaban?” croaked Hagrid. 

Before Fudge could answer, there was another loud 
rap on the door. 

Dumbledore answered it. It was Harry’s turn for an 
elbow in the ribs; he’d let out an audible gasp. 

Mr. Lucius Malfoy strode into Hagrid’s hut, swathed 
in a long black traveling cloak, smiling a cold and 
satisfied smile. Fang started to growl. 

“Already here, Fudge,” he said approvingly. “Good, 
good...” 

“What’re you doin’ here?” said Hagrid furiously. “Get 
outta my house!” 

“My dear man, please believe me, I have no pleasure 
at all in being inside your — er — d’you call this a 
house?” said Lucius Malfoy, sneering as he looked 
around the small cabin. “I simply called at the school 
and was told that the headmaster was here.” 

“And what exactly did you want with me, Lucius?” 
said Dumbledore. He spoke politely, but the fire was 
still blazing in his blue eyes. 



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“ Dreadful thing, Dumbledore,” said Malfoy lazily, 
taking out a long roll of parchment, “but the 
governors feel it’s time for you to step aside. This is 
an Order of Suspension — you’ll find all twelve 
signatures on it. I’m afraid we feel you’re losing your 
touch. How many attacks have there been now? Two 
more this afternoon, wasn’t it? At this rate, there’ll be 
no Muggle-borns left at Hogwarts, and we all know 
what an awful loss that would be to the school.” 

“Oh, now, see here, Lucius,” said Fudge, looking 
alarmed, “Dumbledore suspended — no, no — last 
thing we want just now — ” 

“The appointment — or suspension — of the 
headmaster is a matter for the governors, Fudge,” 
said Mr. Malfoy smoothly. “And as Dumbledore has 
failed to stop these attacks — ” 

“See here, Malfoy, if Dumbledore can’t stop them,” 
said Fudge, whose upper lip was sweating now, “I 
mean to say, who can?” 

“That remains to be seen,” said Mr. Malfoy with a 
nasty smile. “But as all twelve of us have voted — ” 

Hagrid leapt to his feet, his shaggy black head grazing 
the ceiling. 

“An’ how many did yeh have ter threaten an’ 
blackmail before they agreed, Malfoy, eh?” he roared. 

“Dear, dear, you know, that temper of yours will lead 
you into trouble one of these days, Hagrid,” said Mr. 
Malfoy. “I would advise you not to shout at the 
Azkaban guards like that. They won’t like it at all.” 

“Yeh can’ take Dumbledore!” yelled Hagrid, making 
Fang the boarhound cower and whimper in his 

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basket. “Take him away, an’ the Muggle-borns won’ 
stand a chance! There’ll be killin’ next!” 

“Calm yourself, Hagrid,” said Dumbledore sharply. He 
looked at Lucius Malfoy. 

“If the governors want my removal, Lucius, I shall of 
course step aside — ” 

“But — ” stuttered Fudge. 

“iVo!” growled Hagrid. 

Dumbledore had not taken his bright blue eyes off 
Lucius Malfoy’s cold gray ones. 

“However,” said Dumbledore, speaking very slowly 
and clearly so that none of them could miss a word, 
“you will find that I will only truly have left this school 
when none here are loyal to me. You will also find 
that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those 
who ask for it.” 

For a second, Harry was almost sure Dumbledore’s 
eyes flickered toward the corner where he and Ron 
stood hidden. 

“Admirable sentiments,” said Malfoy, bowing. “We 
shall all miss your — er — highly individual way of 
running things, Albus, and only hope that your 
successor will manage to prevent any — ah — killins.” 

He strode to the cabin door, opened it, and bowed 
Dumbledore out. Fudge, fiddling with his bowler, 
waited for Hagrid to go ahead of him, but Hagrid 
stood his ground, took a deep breath, and said 
carefully, “If anyone wanted ter find out some stuff, 
all they’d have ter do would be ter follow the spiders. 
That’d lead ’em right! That’s all I’m sayin’.” 

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Fudge stared at him in amazement. 



“All right, I’m cornin’,” said Hagrid, pulling on his 
moleskin overcoat. But as he was about to follow 
Fudge through the door, he stopped again and said 
loudly, “An’ someone’ll need ter feed Fang while I’m 
away.” 

The door banged shut and Ron pulled off the 
Invisibility Cloak. 

“We’re in trouble now,” he said hoarsely. “No 
Dumbledore. They might as well close the school 
tonight. There’ll be an attack a day with him gone.” 

Fang started howling, scratching at the closed door. 



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ARAGOG 

Summer was creeping over the grounds around the 
castle; sky and lake alike turned periwinkle blue and 
flowers large as cabbages burst into bloom in the 
greenhouses. But with no Hagrid visible from the 
castle windows, striding the grounds with Fang at his 
heels, the scene didn’t look right to Harry; no better, 
in fact, than the inside of the castle, where things 
were so horribly wrong. 

Harry and Ron had tried to visit Hermione, but 
visitors were now barred from the hospital wing. 

“We’re taking no more chances,” Madam Pomfrey told 
them severely through a crack in the infirmary door. 
“No, I’m sorry, there’s every chance the attacker might 
come back to finish these people off. ...” 

With Dumbledore gone, fear had spread as never 
before, so that the sun warming the castle walls 
outside seemed to stop at the mullioned windows. 
There was barely a face to be seen in the school that 
didn’t look worried and tense, and any laughter that 

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rang through the corridors sounded shrill and 
unnatural and was quickly stifled. 



Harry constantly repeated Dumbledore’s final words 
to himself. “I will only truly have left this school when 
none here are loyal to me. . . . Help will always be given 
at Hog warts to those who ask for it.” But what good 
were these words? Who exactly were they supposed to 
ask for help, when everyone was just as confused and 
scared as they were? 

Hagrid’s hint about the spiders was far easier to 
understand — the trouble was, there didn’t seem to 
be a single spider left in the castle to follow. Harry 
looked everywhere he went, helped (rather reluctantly) 
by Ron. They were hampered, of course, by the fact 
that they weren’t allowed to wander off on their own 
but had to move around the castle in a pack with the 
other Gryffindors. Most of their fellow students 
seemed glad that they were being shepherded from 
class to class by teachers, but Harry found it very 
irksome. 

One person, however, seemed to be thoroughly 
enjoying the atmosphere of terror and suspicion. 

Draco Malfoy was strutting around the school as 
though he had just been appointed Head Boy. Harry 
didn’t realize what he was so pleased about until the 
Potions lesson about two weeks after Dumbledore and 
Hagrid had left, when, sitting right behind Malfoy, 
Harry overheard him gloating to Crabbe and Goyle. 

“I always thought Father might be the one who got rid 
of Dumbledore,” he said, not troubling to keep his 
voice down. “I told you he thinks Dumbledore’s the 
worst headmaster the school’s ever had. Maybe we’ll 
get a decent headmaster now. Someone who won’t 
want the Chamber of Secrets closed. McGonagall 
won’t last long, she’s only filling in. ...” 

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Snape swept past Harry, making no comment about 
Hermione’s empty seat and cauldron. 

“Sir,” said Malfoy loudly. “Sir, why don’t you apply for 
the headmaster’s job?” 

“Now, now, Malfoy,” said Snape, though he couldn’t 
suppress a thin-lipped smile. “Professor Dumbledore 
has only been suspended by the governors. I daresay 
he’ll be back with us soon enough.” 

“Yeah, right,” said Malfoy, smirking. “I expect you’d 
have Father’s vote, sir, if you wanted to apply for the 
job — I’ll tell Father you’re the best teacher here, sir 



Snape smirked as he swept off around the dungeon, 
fortunately not spotting Seamus Finnigan, who was 
pretending to vomit into his cauldron. 

“I’m quite surprised the Mudbloods haven’t all packed 
their bags by now,” Malfoy went on. “Bet you five 
Galleons the next one dies. Pity it wasn’t Granger — ” 

The bell rang at that moment, which was lucky; at 
Malfoy’s last words, Ron had leapt off his stool, and in 
the scramble to collect bags and books, his attempts 
to reach Malfoy went unnoticed. 

“Let me at him,” Ron growled as Harry and Dean 
hung onto his arms. “I don’t care, I don’t need my 
wand, I’m going to kill him with my bare hands — ” 

“Hurry up, I’ve got to take you all to Herbology,” 
barked Snape over the class’s heads, and off they 
marched, with Harry, Ron, and Dean bringing up the 
rear, Ron still trying to get loose. It was only safe to 
let go of him when Snape had seen them out of the 



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castle and they were making their way across the 
vegetable patch toward the greenhouses. 

The Herbology class was very subdued; there were 
now two missing from their number, Justin and 
Hermione. 

Professor Sprout set them all to work pruning the 
Abyssinian Shrivelfigs. Harry went to tip an armful of 
withered stalks onto the compost heap and found 
himself face-to-face with Ernie Macmillan. Ernie took 
a deep breath and said, very formally, “I just want to 
say, Harry, that I’m sorry I ever suspected you. I 
know you’d never attack Hermione Granger, and I 
apologize for all the stuff I said. We’re all in the same 
boat now, and, well — ” 

He held out a pudgy hand, and Harry shook it. 

Ernie and his friend Hannah came to work at the 
same Shrivelfig as Harry and Ron. 

“That Draco Malfoy character,” said Ernie, breaking 
off dead twigs, “he seems very pleased about all this, 
doesn’t he? D’you know, I think he might be 
Slytherin’s heir.” 

“That’s clever of you,” said Ron, who didn’t seem to 
have forgiven Ernie as readily as Harry. 

“Do you think it’s Malfoy, Harry?” Ernie asked. 

“No,” said Harry, so firmly that Ernie and Hannah 
stared. 

A second later, Harry spotted something. 

Several large spiders were scuttling over the ground 
on the other side of the glass, moving in an 

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unnaturally straight line as though taking the 
shortest route to a prearranged meeting. Harry hit 
Ron over the hand with his pruning shears. 

“Ouch\ What ’re you — ” 

Harry pointed out the spiders, following their progress 
with his eyes screwed up against the sun. 

“Oh, yeah,” said Ron, trying, and failing, to look 
pleased. “But we can’t follow them now — ” 

Ernie and Hannah were listening curiously. 

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the spiders. If 
they pursued their fixed course, there could be no 
doubt about where they would end up. 

“Looks like they’re heading for the Forbidden Forest. 



And Ron looked even unhappier about that. 

At the end of the lesson Professor Sprout escorted the 
class to their Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. 
Harry and Ron lagged behind the others so they could 
talk out of earshot. 

“Well have to use the Invisibility Cloak again,” Harry 
told Ron. “We can take Fang with us. He’s used to 
going into the forest with Hagrid, he might be some 
help.” 

“Right,” said Ron, who was twirling his wand 
nervously in his fingers. “Er — aren’t there — aren’t 
there supposed to be werewolves in the forest?” he 
added as they took their usual places at the back of 
Lockhart’s classroom. 



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Preferring not to answer that question, Harry said, 
“There are good things in there, too. The centaurs are 
all right, and the unicorns ...” 

Ron had never been into the Forbidden Forest before. 
Harry had entered it only once and had hoped never 
to do so again. 

Lockhart bounded into the room and the class stared 
at him. Every other teacher in the place was looking 
grimmer than usual, but Lockhart appeared nothing 
short of buoyant. 

“Come now,” he cried, beaming around him. “Why all 
these long faces?” 

People swapped exasperated looks, but nobody 
answered. 

“Don’t you people realize,” said Lockhart, speaking 
slowly, as though they were all a bit dim, “the danger 
has passed! The culprit has been taken away — ” 

“Says who?” said Dean Thomas loudly. 

“My dear young man, the Minister of Magic wouldn’t 
have taken Hagrid if he hadn’t been one hundred 
percent sure that he was guilty,” said Lockhart, in the 
tone of someone explaining that one and one made 
two. 

“Oh, yes he would,” said Ron, even more loudly than 
Dean. 

“I flatter myself I know a touch more about Hagrid ’s 
arrest than you do, Mr. Weasley,” said Lockhart in a 
self-satisfied tone. 



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Ron started to say that he didn’t think so, somehow, 
but stopped in midsentence when Harry kicked him 
hard under the desk. 



“We weren’t there, remember?” Harry muttered. 

But Lockhart’s disgusting cheeriness, his hints that 
he had always thought Hagrid was no good, his 
confidence that the whole business was now at an 
end, irritated Harry so much that he yearned to throw 
Gadding with Ghouls right in Lockhart’s stupid face. 
Instead he contented himself with scrawling a note to 
Ron: Let’s do it tonight 

Ron read the message, swallowed hard, and looked 
sideways at the empty seat usually filled by 
Hermione. The sight seemed to stiffen his resolve, and 
he nodded. 



The Gryffindor common room was always very 
crowded these days, because from six o’clock onward 
the Gryffindors had nowhere else to go. They also had 
plenty to talk about, with the result that the common 
room often didn’t empty until past midnight. 

Harry went to get the Invisibility Cloak out of his 
trunk right after dinner, and spent the evening sitting 
on it, waiting for the room to clear. Fred and George 
challenged Harry and Ron to a few games of 
Exploding Snap, and Ginny sat watching them, very 
subdued in Hermione ’s usual chair. Harry and Ron 
kept losing on purpose, trying to finish the games 
quickly, but even so, it was well past midnight when 
Fred, George, and Ginny finally went to bed. 

Harry and Ron waited for the distant sounds of two 
dormitory doors closing before seizing the cloak, 

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throwing it over themselves, and climbing through the 
portrait hole. 

It was another difficult journey through the castle, 
dodging all the teachers. At last they reached the 
entrance hall, slid back the lock on the oak front 
doors, squeezed between them, trying to stop any 
creaking, and stepped out into the moonlit grounds. 

“ ’Course,” said Ron abruptly as they strode across 
the black grass, “we might get to the forest and find 
there’s nothing to follow. Those spiders might not’ve 
been going there at all. I know it looked like they were 
moving in that sort of general direction, but ...” 

His voice trailed away hopefully. 

They reached Hagrid’s house, sad and sorry-looking 
with its blank windows. When Harry pushed the door 
open, Fang went mad with joy at the sight of them. 
Worried he might wake everyone at the castle with his 
deep, booming barks, they hastily fed him treacle 
toffee from a tin on the mantelpiece, which glued his 
teeth together. 

Harry left the Invisibility Cloak on Hagrid’s table. 
There would be no need for it in the pitch-dark forest. 

“C’mon, Fang, we’re going for a walk,” said Harry, 
patting his leg, and Fang bounded happily out of the 
house behind them, dashed to the edge of the forest, 
and lifted his leg against a large sycamore tree. 

Harry took out his wand, murmured, “Lumos\” and a 
tiny light appeared at the end of it, just enough to let 
them watch the path for signs of spiders. 

“Good thinking,” said Ron. “I’d light mine, too, but 
you know — it’d probably blow up or something. ...” 

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Harry tapped Ron on the shoulder, pointing at the 
grass. Two solitary spiders were hurrying away from 
the wandlight into the shade of the trees. 

“Okay,” Ron sighed as though resigned to the worst, 
“I’m ready. Let’s go.” 

So, with Fang scampering around them, sniffing tree 
roots and leaves, they entered the forest. By the glow 
of Harry’s wand, they followed the steady trickle of 
spiders moving along the path. They walked behind 
them for about twenty minutes, not speaking, 
listening hard for noises other than breaking twigs 
and rustling leaves. Then, when the trees had become 
thicker than ever, so that the stars overhead were no 
longer visible, and Harry’s wand shone alone in the 
sea of dark, they saw their spider guides leaving the 
path. 

Harry paused, trying to see where the spiders were 
going, but everything outside his little sphere of light 
was pitch-black. He had never been this deep into the 
forest before. He could vividly remember Hagrid 
advising him not to leave the forest path last time 
he’d been in here. But Hagrid was miles away now, 
probably sitting in a cell in Azkaban, and he had also 
said to follow the spiders. 

Something wet touched Harry’s hand and he jumped 
backward, crushing Ron’s foot, but it was only Fang’s 
nose. 

“What d’you reckon?” Harry said to Ron, whose eyes 
he could just make out, reflecting the light from his 
wand. 

“We’ve come this far,” said Ron. 



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So they followed the darting shadows of the spiders 
into the trees. They couldn’t move very quickly now; 
there were tree roots and stumps in their way, barely 
visible in the near blackness. Harry could feel Fang’s 
hot breath on his hand. More than once, they had to 
stop, so that Harry could crouch down and find the 
spiders in the wandlight. 

They walked for what seemed like at least half an 
hour, their robes snagging on low-slung branches and 
brambles. After a while, they noticed that the ground 
seemed to be sloping downward, though the trees 
were as thick as ever. 

Then Fang suddenly let loose a great, echoing bark, 
making both Harry and Ron jump out of their skins. 

“What?” said Ron loudly, looking around into the 
pitch-dark, and gripping Harry’s elbow very hard. 

“There’s something moving over there,” Harry 
breathed. “Listen ... sounds like something big. ...” 

They listened. Some distance to their right, the 
something big was snapping branches as it carved a 
path through the trees. 

“Oh, no,” said Ron. “Oh, no, oh, no, oh — ” 

“Shut up,” said Harry frantically. “It’ll hear you.” 

“Hear me?” said Ron in an unnaturally high voice. 

“It’s already heard Fang!” 

The darkness seemed to be pressing on their eyeballs 
as they stood, terrified, waiting. There was a strange 
rumbling noise and then silence. 

“What d’you think it’s doing?” said Harry. 

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“Probably getting ready to pounce,” said Ron. 

They waited, shivering, hardly daring to move. 

“D’you think it’s gone?” Harry whispered. 

“Dunno — ” 

Then, to their right, came a sudden blaze of light, so 
bright in the darkness that both of them flung up 
their hands to shield their eyes. Fang yelped and tried 
to run, but got lodged in a tangle of thorns and yelped 
even louder. 

“Harry!” Ron shouted, his voice breaking with relief. 
“Harry, it’s our car!” 

“What?” 

“Come on!” 

Harry blundered after Ron toward the light, stumbling 
and tripping, and a moment later they had emerged 
into a clearing. 

Mr. Weasley’s car was standing, empty, in the middle 
of a circle of thick trees under a roof of dense 
branches, its headlights ablaze. As Ron walked, 
openmouthed, toward it, it moved slowly toward him, 
exactly like a large, turquoise dog greeting its owner. 

“It’s been here all the time!” said Ron delightedly, 
walking around the car. “Look at it. The forest’s 
turned it wild. ...” 

The sides of the car were scratched and smeared with 
mud. Apparently it had taken to trundling around the 
forest on its own. Fang didn’t seem at all keen on it; 
he kept close to Harry, who could feel him quivering. 

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His breathing slowing down again, Harry stuffed his 
wand back into his robes. 

“And we thought it was going to attack us!” said Ron, 
leaning against the car and patting it. “I wondered 
where it had gone!” 

Harry squinted around on the floodlit ground for 
signs of more spiders, but they had all scuttled away 
from the glare of the headlights. 

“We’ve lost the trail,” he said. “C’mon, let’s go and find 
them.” 

Ron didn’t speak. He didn’t move. His eyes were fixed 
on a point some ten feet above the forest floor, right 
behind Harry. His face was livid with terror. 

Harry didn’t even have time to turn around. There 
was a loud clicking noise and suddenly he felt 
something long and hairy seize him around the 
middle and lift him off the ground, so that he was 
hanging facedown. Struggling, terrified, he heard 
more clicking, and saw Ron’s legs leave the ground, 
too, heard Fang whimpering and howling — next 
moment, he was being swept away into the dark 
trees. 

Head hanging, Harry saw that what had hold of him 
was marching on six immensely long, hairy legs, the 
front two clutching him tightly below a pair of shining 
black pincers. Behind him, he could hear another of 
the creatures, no doubt carrying Ron. They were 
moving into the very heart of the forest. Harry could 
hear Fang fighting to free himself from a third 
monster, whining loudly, but Harry couldn’t have 
yelled even if he had wanted to; he seemed to have left 
his voice back with the car in the clearing. 



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He never knew how long he was in the creature’s 
clutches; he only knew that the darkness suddenly 
lifted enough for him to see that the leaf-strewn 
ground was now swarming with spiders. Craning his 
neck sideways, he realized that they had reached the 
ridge of a vast hollow, a hollow that had been cleared 
of trees, so that the stars shone brightly onto the 
worst scene he had ever laid eyes on. 

Spiders. Not tiny spiders like those surging over the 
leaves below. Spiders the size of carthorses, eight- 
eyed, eight-legged, black, hairy, gigantic. The massive 
specimen that was carrying Harry made its way down 
the steep slope toward a misty, domed web in the very 
center of the hollow, while its fellows closed in all 
around it, clicking their pincers excitedly at the sight 
of its load. 

Harry fell to the ground on all fours as the spider 
released him. Ron and Fang thudded down next to 
him. Fang wasn’t howling anymore, but cowering 
silently on the spot. Ron looked exactly like Harry felt. 
His mouth was stretched wide in a kind of silent 
scream and his eyes were popping. 

Harry suddenly realized that the spider that had 
dropped him was saying something. It had been hard 
to tell, because he clicked his pincers with every word 
he spoke. 

“Aragog!” it called. “Aragog!” 

And from the middle of the misty, domed web, a 
spider the size of a small elephant emerged, very 
slowly. There was gray in the black of his body and 
legs, and each of the eyes on his ugly, pincered head 
was milky white. He was blind. 

“What is it?” he said, clicking his pincers rapidly. 

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“Men,” clicked the spider who had caught Harry. 



“Is it Hagrid?” said Aragog, moving closer, his eight 
milky eyes wandering vaguely. 

“Strangers,” clicked the spider who had brought Ron. 
“Kill them,” clicked Aragog fretfully. “I was sleeping. 



“We’re friends of Hagrid ’s,” Harry shouted. His heart 
seemed to have left his chest to pound in his throat. 

Click, click, click went the pincers of the spiders all 
around the hollow. 

Aragog paused. 

“Hagrid has never sent men into our hollow before,” 
he said slowly. 

“Hagrid’s in trouble,” said Harry, breathing very fast. 
“That’s why we’ve come.” 

“In trouble?” said the aged spider, and Harry thought 
he heard concern beneath the clicking pincers. “But 
why has he sent you?” 

Harry thought of getting to his feet but decided 
against it; he didn’t think his legs would support him. 
So he spoke from the ground, as calmly as he could. 

“They think, up at the school, that Hagrid’s been 
setting a — a — something on students. They’ve 
taken him to Azkaban.” 

Aragog clicked his pincers furiously, and all around 
the hollow the sound was echoed by the crowd of 

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spiders; it was like applause, except applause didn’t 
usually make Harry feel sick with fear. 

“But that was years ago,” said Aragog fretfully. “Years 
and years ago. I remember it well. That’s why they 
made him leave the school. They believed that I was 
the monster that dwells in what they call the 
Chamber of Secrets. They thought that Hagrid had 
opened the Chamber and set me free.” 

“And you ... you didn’t come from the Chamber of 
Secrets?” said Harry, who could feel cold sweat on his 
forehead. 

“I!” said Aragog, clicking angrily. “I was not born in 
the castle. I come from a distant land. A traveler gave 
me to Hagrid when I was an egg. Hagrid was only a 
boy, but he cared for me, hidden in a cupboard in the 
castle, feeding me on scraps from the table. Hagrid is 
my good friend, and a good man. When I was 
discovered, and blamed for the death of a girl, he 
protected me. I have lived here in the forest ever 
since, where Hagrid still visits me. He even found me 
a wife, Mosag, and you see how our family has grown, 
all through Hagrid ’s goodness. ...” 

Harry summoned what remained of his courage. 

“So you never — never attacked anyone?” 

“Never,” croaked the old spider. “It would have been 
my instinct, but out of respect for Hagrid, I never 
harmed a human. The body of the girl who was killed 
was discovered in a bathroom. I never saw any part of 
the castle but the cupboard in which I grew up. Our 
kind like the dark and the quiet. ...” 



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“But then . . . Do you know what did kill that girl?” 
said Harry. “Because whatever it is, it’s back and 
attacking people again — ” 

His words were drowned by a loud outbreak of 
clicking and the rustling of many long legs shifting 
angrily; large black shapes shifted all around him. 

“The thing that lives in the castle,” said Aragog, “is an 
ancient creature we spiders fear above all others. Well 
do I remember how I pleaded with Hagrid to let me go, 
when I sensed the beast moving about the school.” 

“What is it?” said Harry urgently. 

More loud clicking, more rustling; the spiders seemed 
to be closing in. 

“We do not speak of it!” said Aragog fiercely. “We do 
not name it! I never even told Hagrid the name of that 
dread creature, though he asked me, many times.” 

Harry didn’t want to press the subject, not with the 
spiders pressing closer on all sides. Aragog seemed to 
be tired of talking. He was backing slowly into his 
domed web, but his fellow spiders continued to inch 
slowly toward Harry and Ron. 

“Well just go, then,” Harry called desperately to 
Aragog, hearing leaves rustling behind him. 

“Go?” said Aragog slowly. “I think not. ...” 

“But — but — ” 

“My sons and daughters do not harm Hagrid, on my 
command. But I cannot deny them fresh meat, when 
it wanders so willingly into our midst. Good-bye, 
friend of Hagrid.” 

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Harry spun around. Feet away, towering above him, 
was a solid wall of spiders, clicking, their many eyes 
gleaming in their ugly black heads. 

Even as he reached for his wand, Harry knew it was 
no good, there were too many of them, but as he tried 
to stand, ready to die fighting, a loud, long note 
sounded, and a blaze of light flamed through the 
hollow. 

Mr. Weasley’s car was thundering down the slope, 
headlights glaring, its horn screeching, knocking 
spiders aside; several were thrown onto their backs, 
their endless legs waving in the air. The car screeched 
to a halt in front of Harry and Ron and the doors flew 
open. 

“Get Fang!” Harry yelled, diving into the front seat; 

Ron seized the boarhound around the middle and 
threw him, yelping, into the back of the car — the 
doors slammed shut — Ron didn’t touch the 
accelerator but the car didn’t need him; the engine 
roared and they were off, hitting more spiders. They 
sped up the slope, out of the hollow, and they were 
soon crashing through the forest, branches whipping 
the windows as the car wound its way cleverly 
through the widest gaps, following a path it obviously 
knew. 

Harry looked sideways at Ron. His mouth was still 
open in the silent scream, but his eyes weren’t 
popping anymore. 

“Are you okay?” 

Ron stared straight ahead, unable to speak. 

They smashed their way through the undergrowth, 
Fang howling loudly in the back seat, and Harry saw 

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the side mirror snap off as they squeezed past a large 
oak. After ten noisy, rocky minutes, the trees thinned, 
and Harry could again see patches of sky. 

The car stopped so suddenly that they were nearly 
thrown into the windshield. They had reached the 
edge of the forest. Fang flung himself at the window in 
his anxiety to get out, and when Harry opened the 
door, he shot off through the trees to Hagrid’s house, 
tail between his legs. Harry got out too, and after a 
minute or so, Ron seemed to regain the feeling in his 
limbs and followed, still stiff-necked and staring. 

Harry gave the car a grateful pat as it reversed back 
into the forest and disappeared from view. 

Harry went back into Hagrid’s cabin to get the 
Invisibility Cloak. Fang was trembling under a 
blanket in his basket. When Harry got outside again, 
he found Ron being violently sick in the pumpkin 
patch. 

“Follow the spiders,” said Ron weakly, wiping his 
mouth on his sleeve. “I’ll never forgive Hagrid. We’re 
lucky to be alive.” 

“I bet he thought Aragog wouldn’t hurt friends of his,” 
said Harry. 

“That’s exactly Hagrid’s problem!” said Ron, thumping 
the wall of the cabin. “He always thinks monsters 
aren’t as bad as they’re made out, and look where it’s 
got him! A cell in Azkaban!” He was shivering 
uncontrollably now. “What was the point of sending 
us in there? What have we found out, I’d like to 
know?” 

“That Hagrid never opened the Chamber of Secrets,” 
said Harry, throwing the cloak over Ron and prodding 
him in the arm to make him walk. “He was innocent.” 

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Ron gave a loud snort. Evidently, hatching Aragog in 
a cupboard wasn’t his idea of being innocent. 

As the castle loomed nearer Harry twitched the cloak 
to make sure their feet were hidden, then pushed the 
creaking front doors ajar. They walked carefully back 
across the entrance hall and up the marble staircase, 
holding their breath as they passed corridors where 
watchful sentries were walking. At last they reached 
the safety of the Gryffindor common room, where the 
fire had burned itself into glowing ash. They took off 
the cloak and climbed the winding stair to their 
dormitory. 

Ron fell onto his bed without bothering to get 
undressed. Harry, however, didn’t feel very sleepy. He 
sat on the edge of his fourposter, thinking hard about 
everything Aragog had said. 

The creature that was lurking somewhere in the 
castle, he thought, sounded like a sort of monster 
Voldemort — even other monsters didn’t want to 
name it. But he and Ron were no closer to finding out 
what it was, or how it Petrified its victims. Even 
Hagrid had never known what was in the Chamber of 
Secrets. 

Harry swung his legs up onto his bed and leaned 
back against his pillows, watching the moon glinting 
at him through the tower window. 

He couldn’t see what else they could do. They had hit 
dead ends everywhere. Riddle had caught the wrong 
person, the Heir of Slytherin had got off, and no one 
could tell whether it was the same person, or a 
different one, who had opened the Chamber this time. 
There was nobody else to ask. Harry lay down, still 
thinking about what Aragog had said. 



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He was becoming drowsy when what seemed like 
their very last hope occurred to him, and he suddenly 
sat bolt upright. 

“Ron,” he hissed through the dark, “Ron — ” 

Ron woke with a yelp like Fang’s, stared wildly 
around, and saw Harry. 

“Ron — that girl who died. Aragog said she was found 
in a bathroom,” said Harry, ignoring Neville’s 
snuffling snores from the corner. “What if she never 
left the bathroom? What if she’s still there?” 

Ron rubbed his eyes, frowning through the moonlight. 
And then he understood, too. 

“You don’t think — not Moaning Myrtle ?” 



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THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS 

All those times we were in that bathroom, and she 
was just three toilets away,” said Ron bitterly at 
breakfast next day, “and we could’ve asked her, and 
now ...” 

It had been hard enough trying to look for spiders. 
Escaping their teachers long enough to sneak into a 
girls’ bathroom, the girls’ bathroom, moreover, right 
next to the scene of the first attack, was going to be 
almost impossible. 

But something happened in their first lesson, 
Transfiguration, that drove the Chamber of Secrets 
out of their minds for the first time in weeks. Ten 
minutes into the class, Professor McGonagall told 
them that their exams would start on the first of 
June, one week from today. 

“Exams?” howled Seamus Finnigan. “We’re still 
getting exams?” 



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There was a loud bang behind Harry as Neville 
Longbottom’s wand slipped, vanishing one of the legs 
on his desk. Professor McGonagall restored it with a 
wave of her own wand, and turned, frowning, to 
Seamus. 

“The whole point of keeping the school open at this 
time is for you to receive your education,” she said 
sternly. “The exams will therefore take place as usual, 
and I trust you are all studying hard.” 

Studying hard! It had never occurred to Harry that 
there would be exams with the castle in this state. 
There was a great deal of mutinous muttering around 
the room, which made Professor McGonagall scowl 
even more darkly. 

“Professor Dumbledore’s instructions were to keep the 
school running as normally as possible,” she said. 
“And that, I need hardly point out, means finding out 
how much you have learned this year.” 

Harry looked down at the pair of white rabbits he was 
supposed to be turning into slippers. What had he 
learned so far this year? He couldn’t seem to think of 
anything that would be useful in an exam. 

Ron looked as though he’d just been told he had to go 
and live in the Forbidden Forest. 

“Can you imagine me taking exams with this?” he 
asked Harry, holding up his wand, which had just 
started whistling loudly. 

Three days before their first exam, Professor 
McGonagall made another announcement at 
breakfast. 



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“I have good news,” she said, and the Great Hall, 
instead of falling silent, erupted. 

“Dumbledore’s coming back!” several people yelled 
joyfully. 

“You’ve caught the Heir of Slytherin!” squealed a girl 
at the Ravenclaw table. 

“Quidditch matches are back on!” roared Wood 
excitedly. 

When the hubbub had subsided, Professor 
McGonagall said, “Professor Sprout has informed me 
that the Mandrakes are ready for cutting at last. 
Tonight, we will be able to revive those people who 
have been Petrified. I need hardly remind you all that 
one of them may well be able to tell us who, or what, 
attacked them. I am hopeful that this dreadful year 
will end with our catching the culprit.” 

There was an explosion of cheering. Harry looked over 
at the Slytherin table and wasn’t at all surprised to 
see that Draco Malfoy hadn’t joined in. Ron, however, 
was looking happier than he’d looked in days. 

“It won’t matter that we never asked Myrtle, then!” he 
said to Harry. “Hermione’ll probably have all the 
answers when they wake her up! Mind you, she’ll go 
crazy when she finds out we’ve got exams in three 
days’ time. She hasn’t studied. It might be kinder to 
leave her where she is till they’re over.” 

Just then, Ginny Weasley came over and sat down 
next to Ron. She looked tense and nervous, and Harry 
noticed that her hands were twisting in her lap. 

“What’s up?” said Ron, helping himself to more 
porridge. 

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Ginny didn’t say anything, but glanced up and down 
the Gryffindor table with a scared look on her face 
that reminded Harry of someone, though he couldn’t 
think who. 

“Spit it out,” said Ron, watching her. 

Harry suddenly realized who Ginny looked like. She 
was rocking backward and forward slightly in her 
chair, exactly like Dobby did when he was teetering 
on the edge of revealing forbidden information. 

“I’ve got to tell you something,” Ginny mumbled, 
carefully not looking at Harry. 

“What is it?” said Harry. 

Ginny looked as though she couldn’t find the right 
words. 

“What?” said Ron. 

Ginny opened her mouth, but no sound came out. 
Harry leaned forward and spoke quietly, so that only 
Ginny and Ron could hear him. 

“Is it something about the Chamber of Secrets? Have 
you seen something? Someone acting oddly?” 

Ginny drew a deep breath and, at that precise 
moment, Percy Weasley appeared, looking tired and 
wan. 

“If you’ve finished eating, I’ll take that seat, Ginny. I’m 
starving, I’ve only just come off patrol duty.” 

Ginny jumped up as though her chair had just been 
electrified, gave Percy a fleeting, frightened look, and 



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scampered away. Percy sat down and grabbed a mug 
from the center of the table. 



“Percy!” said Ron angrily. “She was just about to tell 
us something important!” 

Halfway through a gulp of tea, Percy choked. 

“What sort of thing?” he said, coughing. 

“I just asked her if she’d seen anything odd, and she 
started to say — ” 

“Oh — that — that’s nothing to do with the Chamber 
of Secrets,” said Percy at once. 

“How do you know?” said Ron, his eyebrows raised. 

“Well, er, if you must know, Ginny, er, walked in on 
me the other day when I was — well, never mind — 
the point is, she spotted me doing something and I, 
um, I asked her not to mention it to anybody. I must 
say, I did think she’d keep her word. It’s nothing, 
really, I’d just rather — ” 

Harry had never seen Percy look so uncomfortable. 

“What were you doing, Percy?” said Ron, grinning. 

“Go on, tell us, we won’t laugh.” 

Percy didn’t smile back. 

“Pass me those rolls, Harry, I’m starving.” 

Harry knew the whole mystery might be solved 
tomorrow without their help, but he wasn’t about to 
pass up a chance to speak to Myrtle if it turned up — 
and to his delight it did, midmorning, when they were 
being led to History of Magic by Gilderoy Lockhart. 

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Lockhart, who had so often assured them that all 
danger had passed, only to be proved wrong right 
away, was now wholeheartedly convinced that it was 
hardly worth the trouble to see them safely down the 
corridors. His hair wasn’t as sleek as usual; it seemed 
he had been up most of the night, patrolling the 
fourth floor. 

“Mark my words,” he said, ushering them around a 
corner. “The first words out of those poor Petrified 
people’s mouths will be ‘It was Hagrid.’ Frankly, I’m 
astounded Professor McGonagall thinks all these 
security measures are necessary.” 

“I agree, sir,” said Harry, making Ron drop his books 
in surprise. 

“Thank you, Harry,” said Lockhart graciously while 
they waited for a long line of Hufflepuffs to pass. “I 
mean, we teachers have quite enough to be getting on 
with, without walking students to classes and 
standing guard all night. ...” 

“That’s right,” said Ron, catching on. “Why don’t you 
leave us here, sir, we’ve only got one more corridor to 
go-” 



“You know, Weasley, I think I will,” said Lockhart. “I 
really should go and prepare my next class — ” 

And he hurried off. 

“Prepare his class,” Ron sneered after him. “Gone to 
curl his hair, more like.” 

They let the rest of the Gryffindors draw ahead of 
them, then darted down a side passage and hurried 
off toward Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. But just as 



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they were congratulating each other on their brilliant 
scheme — 

“Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?” 

It was Professor McGonagall, and her mouth was the 
thinnest of thin lines. 

“We were — we were — ” Ron stammered. “We were 
going to — to go and see — ” 

“Hermione,” said Harry. Ron and Professor 
McGonagall both looked at him. 

“We haven’t seen her for ages, Professor,” Harry went 
on hurriedly, treading on Ron’s foot, “and we thought 
we’d sneak into the hospital wing, you know, and tell 
her the Mandrakes are nearly ready and, er, not to 
worry — ” 

Professor McGonagall was still staring at him, and for 
a moment, Harry thought she was going to explode, 
but when she spoke, it was in a strangely croaky 
voice. 

“Of course,” she said, and Harry, amazed, saw a tear 
glistening in her beady eye. “Of course, I realize this 
has all been hardest on the friends of those who have 
been ... I quite understand. Yes, Potter, of course you 
may visit Miss Granger. I will inform Professor Binns 
where you’ve gone. Tell Madam Pomfrey I have given 
my permission.” 

Harry and Ron walked away, hardly daring to believe 
that they’d avoided detention. As they turned the 
corner, they distinctly heard Professor McGonagall 
blow her nose. 



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“That,” said Ron fervently, “was the best story you’ve 
ever come up with.” 

They had no choice now but to go to the hospital wing 
and tell Madam Pomfrey that they had Professor 
McGonagall’s permission to visit Hermione. 

Madam Pomfrey let them in, but reluctantly. 

“There’s just no point talking to a Petrified person,” 
she said, and they had to admit she had a point when 
they’d taken their seats next to Hermione. It was 
plain that Hermione didn’t have the faintest inkling 
that she had visitors, and that they might just as well 
tell her bedside cabinet not to worry for all the good it 
would do. 

“Wonder if she did see the attacker, though?” said 
Ron, looking sadly at Hermione ’s rigid face. “Because 
if he sneaked up on them all, no one’ll ever know. ...” 

But Harry wasn’t looking at Hermione’s face. He was 
more interested in her right hand. It lay clenched on 
top of her blankets, and bending closer, he saw that a 
piece of paper was scrunched inside her fist. 

Making sure that Madam Pomfrey was nowhere near, 
he pointed this out to Ron. 

“Try and get it out,” Ron whispered, shifting his chair 
so that he blocked Harry from Madam Pomfrey’s view. 

It was no easy task. Hermione’s hand was clamped so 
tightly around the paper that Harry was sure he was 
going to tear it. While Ron kept watch he tugged and 
twisted, and at last, after several tense minutes, the 
paper came free. 



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It was a page torn from a very old library book. Harry 
smoothed it out eagerly and Ron leaned close to read 
it, too. 



Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam 
our land, there is none more curious or more deadly 
than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents. 
This snake, which may reach gigantic size and live 
many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken’s egg, 
hatched beneath a toad. Its methods of killing are 
most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and 
venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, 
and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall 
suffer instant death. Spiders flee before the Basilisk, 
for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees only 
from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it. 

And beneath this, a single word had been written, in 
a hand Harry recognized as Hermione’s. Pipes. 

It was as though somebody had just flicked a light on 
in his brain. 

“Ron,” he breathed. “This is it. This is the answer. The 
monster in the Chamber’s a basilisk — a giant 
serpent! That’s why I’ve been hearing that voice all 
over the place, and nobody else has heard it. It’s 
because I understand Parseltongue. ...” 

Harry looked up at the beds around him. 

“The basilisk kills people by looking at them. But no 
one’s died — because no one looked it straight in the 
eye. Colin saw it through his camera. The basilisk 
burned up all the film inside it, but Colin just got 
Petrified. Justin ... Justin must’ve seen the basilisk 
through Nearly Headless Nick! Nick got the full blast 
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of it, but he couldn’t die again ... and Hermione and 
that Ravenclaw prefect were found with a mirror next 
to them. Hermione had just realized the monster was 
a basilisk. I bet you anything she warned the first 
person she met to look around corners with a mirror 
first! And that girl pulled out her mirror — and — ” 

Ron’s jaw had dropped. 

“And Mrs. Norris?” he whispered eagerly. 

Harry thought hard, picturing the scene on the night 
of Halloween. 

“The water ...” he said slowly. “The flood from 
Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. I bet you Mrs. Norris 
only saw the reflection. ...” 

He scanned the page in his hand eagerly. The more 
he looked at it, the more it made sense. 

"... The crowing of the rooster ... is fatal to if!” he read 
aloud. “Hagrid’s roosters were killed! The Heir of 
Slytherin didn’t want one anywhere near the castle 
once the Chamber was opened! Spiders flee before it\ 

It all fits!” 

“But how’s the basilisk been getting around the 
place?” said Ron. “A giant snake ... Someone would’ve 
seen ...” 

Harry, however, pointed at the word Hermione had 
scribbled at the foot of the page. 

“Pipes,” he said. “Pipes ... Ron, it’s been using the 
plumbing. I’ve been hearing that voice inside the 
walls. ...” 

Ron suddenly grabbed Harry’s arm. 

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“The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets!” he said 
hoarsely. “What if it’s a bathroom? What if it’s in — ” 

“ — Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom,” said Harry. 

They sat there, excitement coursing through them, 
hardly able to believe it. 

“This means,” said Harry, “I can’t be the only 
Parselmouth in the school. The Heir of Slytherin’s 
one, too. That’s how he’s been controlling the 
basilisk.” 

“What’re we going to do?” said Ron, whose eyes were 
flashing. “Should we go straight to McGonagall?” 

“Let’s go to the staffroom,” said Harry, jumping up. 
“She’ll be there in ten minutes. It’s nearly break.” 

They ran downstairs. Not wanting to be discovered 
hanging around in another corridor, they went 
straight into the deserted staffroom. It was a large, 
paneled room full of dark, wooden chairs. Harry and 
Ron paced around it, too excited to sit down. 

But the bell to signal break never came. 

Instead, echoing through the corridors came Professor 
McGonagall’s voice, magically magnified. 

“All students to return to their House dormitories at 
once. All teachers return to the staffroom. Immediately, 
please.” 

Harry wheeled around to stare at Ron. 

“Not another attack? Not now?” 



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“What’ll we do?” said Ron, aghast. “Go back to the 
dormitory?” 

“No,” said Harry, glancing around. There was an ugly 
sort of wardrobe to his left, full of the teachers’ 
cloaks. “In here. Let’s hear what it’s all about. Then 
we can tell them what we’ve found out.” 

They hid themselves inside it, listening to the 
rumbling of hundreds of people moving overhead, and 
the staffroom door banging open. From between the 
musty folds of the cloaks, they watched the teachers 
filtering into the room. Some of them were looking 
puzzled, others downright scared. Then Professor 
McGonagall arrived. 

“It has happened,” she told the silent staffroom. “A 
student has been taken by the monster. Right into 
the Chamber itself.” 

Professor Flitwick let out a squeal. Professor Sprout 
clapped her hands over her mouth. Snape gripped the 
back of a chair very hard and said, “How can you be 
sure?” 

“The Heir of Slytherin,” said Professor McGonagall, 
who was very white, “left another message. Right 
underneath the first one. ‘Her skeleton will lie in the 
Chamber forever.’ ” 

Professor Flitwick burst into tears. 

“Who is it?” said Madam Hooch, who had sunk, weak- 
kneed, into a chair. “Which student?” 

“Ginny Weasley,” said Professor McGonagall. 

Harry felt Ron slide silently down onto the wardrobe 
floor beside him. 

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“We shall have to send all the students home 
tomorrow,” said Professor McGonagall. “This is the 
end of Hogwarts. Dumbledore always said ...” 

The staffroom door banged open again. For one wild 
moment, Harry was sure it would be Dumbledore. 

But it was Lockhart, and he was beaming. 

“So sorry — dozed off — what have I missed?” 

He didn’t seem to notice that the other teachers were 
looking at him with something remarkably like 
hatred. Snape stepped forward. 

“Just the man,” he said. “The very man. A girl has 
been snatched by the monster, Lockhart. Taken into 
the Chamber of Secrets itself. Your moment has come 
at last.” 

Lockhart blanched. 

“That’s right, Gilderoy,” chipped in Professor Sprout. 
“Weren’t you saying just last night that you’ve known 
all along where the entrance to the Chamber of 
Secrets is?” 

“I — well, I — ” sputtered Lockhart. 

“Yes, didn’t you tell me you were sure you knew what 
was inside it?” piped up Professor Flitwick. 

“D-did I? I don’t recall — ” 

“I certainly remember you saying you were sorry you 
hadn’t had a crack at the monster before Hagrid was 
arrested,” said Snape. “Didn’t you say that the whole 
affair had been bungled, and that you should have 
been given a free rein from the first?” 



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Lockhart stared around at his stony-faced colleagues. 



“I — I really never — you may have misunderstood — ” 

“Well leave it to you, then, Gilderoy,” said Professor 
McGonagall. “Tonight will be an excellent time to do 
it. Well make sure everyone’s out of your way. You’ll 
be able to tackle the monster all by yourself. A free 
rein at last.” 

Lockhart gazed desperately around him, but nobody 
came to the rescue. He didn’t look remotely handsome 
anymore. His lip was trembling, and in the absence of 
his usually toothy grin, he looked weak-chinned and 
feeble. 

“V-very well,” he said. “I’ll — I’ll be in my office, 
getting — getting ready.” 

And he left the room. 

“Right,” said Professor McGonagall, whose nostrils 
were flared, “that’s got him out from under our feet. 
The Heads of Houses should go and inform their 
students what has happened. Tell them the Hogwarts 
Express will take them home first thing tomorrow. 

Will the rest of you please make sure no students 
have been left outside their dormitories.” 

The teachers rose and left, one by one. 



It was probably the worst day of Harry’s entire life. 

He, Ron, Fred, and George sat together in a corner of 
the Gryffindor common room, unable to say anything 
to each other. Percy wasn’t there. He had gone to 
send an owl to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, then shut 
himself up in his dormitory. 

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No afternoon ever lasted as long as that one, nor had 
Gryffindor Tower ever been so crowded, yet so quiet. 
Near sunset, Fred and George went up to bed, unable 
to sit there any longer. 

“She knew something, Harry,” said Ron, speaking for 
the first time since they had entered the wardrobe in 
the staffroom. “That’s why she was taken. It wasn’t 
some stupid thing about Percy at all. She’d found out 
something about the Chamber of Secrets. That must 
be why she was — ” Ron rubbed his eyes frantically. “I 
mean, she was a pureblood. There can’t be any other 
reason.” 

Harry could see the sun sinking, blood-red, below the 
skyline. This was the worst he had ever felt. If only 
there was something they could do. Anything. 

“Harry,” said Ron. “D’you think there’s any chance at 
all she’s not — you know — ” 

Harry didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t see how 
Ginny could still be alive. 

“D’you know what?” said Ron. “I think we should go 
and see Lockhart. Tell him what we know. He’s going 
to try and get into the Chamber. We can tell him 
where we think it is, and tell him it’s a basilisk in 
there.” 

Because Harry couldn’t think of anything else to do, 
and because he wanted to be doing something, he 
agreed. The Gryffindors around them were so 
miserable, and felt so sorry for the Weasleys, that 
nobody tried to stop them as they got up, crossed the 
room, and left through the portrait hole. 

Darkness was falling as they walked down to 
Lockhart’s office. There seemed to be a lot of activity 

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going on inside it. They could hear scraping, thumps, 
and hurried footsteps. 

Harry knocked and there was a sudden silence from 
inside. Then the door opened the tiniest crack and 
they saw one of Lockhart’s eyes peering through it. 

“Oh — Mr. Potter — Mr. Weasley — ” he said, opening 
the door a bit wider. “I’m rather busy at the moment 
— if you would be quick — ” 

“Professor, we’ve got some information for you,” said 
Harry. “We think it’ll help you.” 

“Er — well — it’s not terribly — ” The side of 
Lockhart’s face that they could see looked very 
uncomfortable. “I mean — well — all right — ” 

He opened the door and they entered. 

His office had been almost completely stripped. Two 
large trunks stood open on the floor. Robes, jade- 
green, lilac, midnight-blue, had been hastily folded 
into one of them; books were jumbled untidily into 
the other. The photographs that had covered the walls 
were now crammed into boxes on the desk. 

“Are you going somewhere?” said Harry. 

“Er, well, yes,” said Lockhart, ripping a life-size poster 
of himself from the back of the door as he spoke and 
starting to roll it up. “Urgent call — unavoidable — 
got to go — ” 

“What about my sister?” said Ron jerkily. 

“Well, as to that — most unfortunate — ” said 
Lockhart, avoiding their eyes as he wrenched open a 



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drawer and started emptying the contents into a bag. 
“No one regrets more than I — ” 

“You’re the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher!” 
said Harry. “You can’t go now! Not with all the Dark 
stuff going on here!” 

“Well — I must say — when I took the job — ” 
Lockhart muttered, now piling socks on top of his 
robes, “nothing in the job description — didn’t expect 



“You mean you’re running away? said Harry 
disbelievingly. “After all that stuff you did in your 
books — ” 

“Books can be misleading,” said Lockhart delicately. 

“You wrote them!” Harry shouted. 

“My dear boy,” said Lockhart, straightening up and 
frowning at Harry. “Do use your common sense. My 
books wouldn’t have sold half as well if people didn’t 
think I’d done all those things. No one wants to read 
about some ugly old Armenian warlock, even if he did 
save a village from werewolves. He’d look dreadful on 
the front cover. No dress sense at all. And the witch 
who banished the Bandon Banshee had a hairy chin. 

I mean, come on — ” 

“So you’ve just been taking credit for what a load of 
other people have done?” said Harry incredulously. 

“Harry, Harry,” said Lockhart, shaking his head 
impatiently, “it’s not nearly as simple as that. There 
was work involved. I had to track these people down. 
Ask them exactly how they managed to do what they 
did. Then I had to put a Memory Charm on them so 
they wouldn’t remember doing it. If there’s one thing I 
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pride myself on, it’s my Memory Charms. No, it’s been 
a lot of work, Harry. It’s not all book signings and 
publicity photos, you know. You want fame, you have 
to be prepared for a long hard slog.” 

He banged the lids of his trunks shut and locked 
them. 

“Let’s see,” he said. “I think that’s everything. Yes. 
Only one thing left.” 

He pulled out his wand and turned to them. 

“Awfully sorry, boys, but I’ll have to put a Memory 
Charm on you now. Can’t have you blabbing my 
secrets all over the place. I’d never sell another book 



Harry reached his wand just in time. Lockhart had 
barely raised his, when Harry bellowed, 

“ Expelliarmus\ ” 

Lockhart was blasted backward, falling over his 
trunk; his wand flew high into the air; Ron caught it, 
and flung it out of the open window. 

“Shouldn’t have let Professor Snape teach us that 
one,” said Harry furiously, kicking Lockhart’s trunk 
aside. Lockhart was looking up at him, feeble once 
more. Harry was still pointing his wand at him. 

“What d’you want me to do?” said Lockhart weakly. “I 
don’t know where the Chamber of Secrets is. There’s 
nothing I can do.” 

“You’re in luck,” said Harry, forcing Lockhart to his 
feet at wandpoint. “We think we know where it is. 
And what’s inside it. Let’s go.” 



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They marched Lockhart out of his office and down the 
nearest stairs, along the dark corridor where the 
messages shone on the wall, to the door of Moaning 
Myrtle’s bathroom. 

They sent Lockhart in first. Harry was pleased to see 
that he was shaking. 

Moaning Myrtle was sitting on the tank of the end 
toilet. 

“Oh, it’s you,” she said when she saw Harry. “What do 
you want this time?” 

“To ask you how you died,” said Harry. 

Myrtle’s whole aspect changed at once. She looked as 
though she had never been asked such a flattering 
question. 

“Ooooh, it was dreadful,” she said with relish. “It 
happened right in here. I died in this very stall. I 
remember it so well. I’d hidden because Olive Hornby 
was teasing me about my glasses. The door was 
locked, and I was crying, and then I heard somebody 
come in. They said something funny. A different 
language, I think it must have been. Anyway, what 
really got me was that it was a boy speaking. So I 
unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own 
toilet, and then — ” Myrtle swelled importantly, her 
face shining. “I died.” 

“How?” said Harry. 

“No idea,” said Myrtle in hushed tones. “I just 
remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eyes. My 
whole body sort of seized up, and then I was floating 
away. ...” She looked dreamily at Harry. “And then I 
came back again. I was determined to haunt Olive 
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Hornby, you see. Oh, she was sorry she’d ever 
laughed at my glasses.” 

“Where exactly did you see the eyes?” said Harry. 

“Somewhere there,” said Myrtle, pointing vaguely 
toward the sink in front of her toilet. 

Harry and Ron hurried over to it. Lockhart was 
standing well back, a look of utter terror on his face. 

It looked like an ordinary sink. They examined every 
inch of it, inside and out, including the pipes below. 
And then Harry saw it: Scratched on the side of one of 
the copper taps was a tiny snake. 

“That tap’s never worked,” said Myrtle brightly as he 
tried to turn it. 

“Harry,” said Ron. “Say something. Something in 
Parseltongue.” 

“But — ” Harry thought hard. The only times he’d ever 
managed to speak Parseltongue were when he’d been 
faced with a real snake. He stared hard at the tiny 
engraving, trying to imagine it was real. 

“Open up,” he said. 

He looked at Ron, who shook his head. 

“English,” he said. 

Harry looked back at the snake, willing himself to 
believe it was alive. If he moved his head, the 
candlelight made it look as though it were moving. 

“Open up,” he said. 



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Except that the words weren’t what he heard; a 
strange hissing had escaped him, and at once the tap 
glowed with a brilliant white light and began to spin. 
Next second, the sink began to move; the sink, in fact, 
sank, right out of sight, leaving a large pipe exposed, 
a pipe wide enough for a man to slide into. 

Harry heard Ron gasp and looked up again. He had 
made up his mind what he was going to do. 

“I’m going down there,” he said. 

He couldn’t not go, not now they had found the 
entrance to the Chamber, not if there was even the 
faintest, slimmest, wildest chance that Ginny might 
be alive. 

“Me too,” said Ron. 

There was a pause. 

“Well, you hardly seem to need me,” said Lockhart, 
with a shadow of his old smile. “I’ll just — ” 

He put his hand on the door knob, but Ron and Harry 
both pointed their wands at him. 

“You can go first,” Ron snarled. 

White-faced and wandless, Lockhart approached the 
opening. 

“Boys,” he said, his voice feeble. “Boys, what good will 
it do?” 

Harry jabbed him in the back with his wand. 

Lockhart slid his legs into the pipe. 



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“I really don’t think — ” he started to say, but Ron 
gave him a push, and he slid out of sight. Harry 
followed quickly. He lowered himself slowly into the 
pipe, then let go. 

It was like rushing down an endless, slimy, dark 
slide. He could see more pipes branching off in all 
directions, but none as large as theirs, which twisted 
and turned, sloping steeply downward, and he knew 
that he was falling deeper below the school than even 
the dungeons. Behind him he could hear Ron, 
thudding slightly at the curves. 

And then, just as he had begun to worry about what 
would happen when he hit the ground, the pipe 
leveled out, and he shot out of the end with a wet 
thud, landing on the damp floor of a dark stone 
tunnel large enough to stand in. Lockhart was getting 
to his feet a little ways away, covered in slime and 
white as a ghost. Harry stood aside as Ron came 
whizzing out of the pipe, too. 

“We must be miles under the school,” said Harry, his 
voice echoing in the black tunnel. 

“Under the lake, probably,” said Ron, squinting 
around at the dark, slimy walls. 

All three of them turned to stare into the darkness 
ahead. 

“Lumosl” Harry muttered to his wand and it lit again. 
“C’mon,” he said to Ron and Lockhart, and off they 
went, their footsteps slapping loudly on the wet floor. 

The tunnel was so dark that they could only see a 
little distance ahead. Their shadows on the wet walls 
looked monstrous in the wandlight. 



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“Remember,” Harry said quietly as they walked 
cautiously forward, “any sign of movement, close your 
eyes right away. ...” 

But the tunnel was quiet as the grave, and the first 
unexpected sound they heard was a loud crunch as 
Ron stepped on what turned out to be a rat’s skull. 
Harry lowered his wand to look at the floor and saw 
that it was littered with small animal bones. Trying 
very hard not to imagine what Ginny might look like if 
they found her, Harry led the way forward, around a 
dark bend in the tunnel. 

“Harry — there’s something up there — ” said Ron 
hoarsely, grabbing Harry’s shoulder. 

They froze, watching. Harry could just see the outline 
of something huge and curved, lying right across the 
tunnel. It wasn’t moving. 

“Maybe it’s asleep,” he breathed, glancing back at the 
other two. Lockhart’s hands were pressed over his 
eyes. Harry turned back to look at the thing, his heart 
beating so fast it hurt. 

Very slowly, his eyes as narrow as he could make 
them and still see, Harry edged forward, his wand 
held high. 

The light slid over a gigantic snake skin, of a vivid, 
poisonous green, lying curled and empty across the 
tunnel floor. The creature that had shed it must have 
been twenty feet long at least. 

“Blimey,” said Ron weakly. 

There was a sudden movement behind them. Gilderoy 
Lockhart’s knees had given way. 



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“Get up,” said Ron sharply, pointing his wand at 
Lockhart. 

Lockhart got to his feet — then he dived at Ron, 
knocking him to the ground. 

Harry jumped forward, but too late — Lockhart was 
straightening up, panting, Ron’s wand in his hand 
and a gleaming smile back on his face. 

“The adventure ends here, boys!” he said. “I shall take 
a bit of this skin back up to the school, tell them I 
was too late to save the girl, and that you two 
tragically lost your minds at the sight of her mangled 
body — say good-bye to your memories!” 

He raised Ron’s Spellotaped wand high over his head 
and yelled, “Obliviatel” 

The wand exploded with the force of a small bomb. 
Harry flung his arms over his head and ran, slipping 
over the coils of snake skin, out of the way of great 
chunks of tunnel ceiling that were thundering to the 
floor. Next moment, he was standing alone, gazing at 
a solid wall of broken rock. 

“Ron!” he shouted. “Are you okay? Ron!” 

“I’m here!” came Ron’s muffled voice from behind the 
rock-fall. “I’m okay — this git’s not, though — he got 
blasted by the wand — ” 

There was a dull thud and a loud “ow!” It sounded as 
though Ron had just kicked Lockhart in the shins. 

“What now?” Ron’s voice said, sounding desperate. 
“We can’t get through — it’ll take ages. ...” 



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Harry looked up at the tunnel ceiling. Huge cracks 
had appeared in it. He had never tried to break apart 
anything as large as these rocks by magic, and now 
didn’t seem a good moment to try — what if the whole 
tunnel caved in? 

There was another thud and another “ow!” from 
behind the rocks. They were wasting time. Ginny had 
already been in the Chamber of Secrets for hours. ... 
Harry knew there was only one thing to do. 

“Wait there,” he called to Ron. “Wait with Lockhart. I’ll 
go on. ... If I’m not back in an hour ...” 

There was a very pregnant pause. 

“I’ll try and shift some of this rock,” said Ron, who 
seemed to be trying to keep his voice steady. “So you 
can — can get back through. And, Harry — ” 

“See you in a bit,” said Harry, trying to inject some 
confidence into his shaking voice. 

And he set off alone past the giant snake skin. 

Soon the distant noise of Ron straining to shift the 
rocks was gone. The tunnel turned and turned again. 
Every nerve in Harry’s body was tingling 
unpleasantly. He wanted the tunnel to end, yet 
dreaded what he’d find when it did. And then, at last, 
as he crept around yet another bend, he saw a solid 
wall ahead on which two entwined serpents were 
carved, their eyes set with great, glinting emeralds. 

Harry approached, his throat very dry. There was no 
need to pretend these stone snakes were real; their 
eyes looked strangely alive. 



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He could guess what he had to do. He cleared his 
throat, and the emerald eyes seemed to flicker. 

“Open,” said Harry, in a low, faint hiss. 

The serpents parted as the wall cracked open, the 
halves slid smoothly out of sight, and Harry, shaking 
from head to foot, walked inside. 



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THE HEIR OF SLYTHERIN 

He was standing at the end of a very long, dimly lit 
chamber. Towering stone pillars entwined with more 
carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in 
darkness, casting long, black shadows through the 
odd, greenish gloom that filled the place. 

His heart beating very fast, Harry stood listening to 
the chill silence. Could the basilisk be lurking in a 
shadowy corner, behind a pillar? And where was 
Ginny? 

He pulled out his wand and moved forward between 
the serpentine columns. Every careful footstep echoed 
loudly off the shadowy walls. He kept his eyes 
narrowed, ready to clamp them shut at the smallest 
sign of movement. The hollow eye sockets of the stone 
snakes seemed to be following him. More than once, 
with a jolt of the stomach, he thought he saw one stir. 

Then, as he drew level with the last pair of pillars, a 
statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, 
standing against the back wall. 

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Harry had to crane his neck to look up into the giant 
face above: It was ancient and monkeyish, with a 
long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the 
wizard’s sweeping stone robes, where two enormous 
gray feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor. And 
between the feet, facedown, lay a small, black-robed 
figure with flaming-red hair. 

“Ginnyl” Harry muttered, sprinting to her and 
dropping to his knees. “Ginny — don’t be dead — 
please don’t be dead — ” He flung his wand aside, 
grabbed Ginny’s shoulders, and turned her over. Her 
face was white as marble, and as cold, yet her eyes 
were closed, so she wasn’t Petrified. But then she 
must be — 

“Ginny, please wake up,” Harry muttered desperately, 
shaking her. Ginny’s head lolled hopelessly from side 
to side. 

“She won’t wake,” said a soft voice. 

Harry jumped and spun around on his knees. 

A tall, black-haired boy was leaning against the 
nearest pillar, watching. He was strangely blurred 
around the edges, as though Harry were looking at 
him through a misted window. But there was no 
mistaking him — 

“Tom — Tom Riddle?” 

Riddle nodded, not taking his eyes off Harry’s face. 

“What d’you mean, she won’t wake?” Harry said 
desperately. “She’s not — she’s not — ?” 

“She’s still alive,” said Riddle. “But only just.” 



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Harry stared at him. Tom Riddle had been at 
Hogwarts fifty years ago, yet here he stood, a weird, 
misty light shining about him, not a day older than 
sixteen. 

“Are you a ghost?” Harry said uncertainly. 

“A memory,” said Riddle quietly. “Preserved in a diary 
for fifty years.” 

He pointed toward the floor near the statue’s giant 
toes. Lying open there was the little black diary Harry 
had found in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. For a 
second, Harry wondered how it had got there — but 
there were more pressing matters to deal with. 

“You’ve got to help me, Tom,” Harry said, raising 
Ginny’s head again. “We’ve got to get her out of here. 
There’s a basilisk ... I don’t know where it is, but it 
could be along any moment. ... Please, help me — ” 

Riddle didn’t move. Harry, sweating, managed to hoist 
Ginny half off the floor, and bent to pick up his wand 
again. 

But his wand had gone. 

“Did you see — ?” 

He looked up. Riddle was still watching him — 
twirling Harry’s wand between his long fingers. 

“Thanks,” said Harry, stretching out his hand for it. 

A smile curled the corners of Riddle’s mouth. He 
continued to stare at Harry, twirling the wand idly. 



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“Listen,” said Harry urgently, his knees sagging with 
Ginny’s dead weight. “We’ve got to go\ If the basilisk 
comes — ” 

“It won’t come until it is called,” said Riddle calmly. 

Harry lowered Ginny back onto the floor, unable to 
hold her up any longer. 

“What d’you mean?” he said. “Look, give me my wand, 
I might need it — ” 

Riddle’s smile broadened. 

“You won’t be needing it,” he said. 

Harry stared at him. 

“What d’you mean, I won’t be — ?” 

“I’ve waited a long time for this, Harry Potter,” said 
Riddle. “For the chance to see you. To speak to you.” 

“Look,” said Harry, losing patience, “I don’t think you 
get it. We’re in the Chamber of Secrets. We can talk 
later — ” 

“We’re going to talk now,” said Riddle, still smiling 
broadly, and he pocketed Harry’s wand. 

Harry stared at him. There was something very funny 
going on here. ... 

“How did Ginny get like this?” he asked slowly. 

“Well, that’s an interesting question,” said Riddle 
pleasantly. “And quite a long story. I suppose the real 
reason Ginny Weasley’s like this is because she 



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opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an 
invisible stranger.” 

“What are you talking about?” said Harry. 

“The diary,” said Riddle. “My diary. Little Ginny’s been 
writing in it for months and months, telling me all her 
pitiful worries and woes — how her brothers tease 
her, how she had to come to school with secondhand 
robes and books, how” — Riddle’s eyes glinted — 

“how she didn’t think famous, good, great Harry 
Potter would ever like her. ...” 

All the time he spoke, Riddle’s eyes never left Harry’s 
face. There was an almost hungry look in them. 

“It’s very boring, having to listen to the silly little 
troubles of an eleven-year-old girl,” he went on. “But I 
was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was 
kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one’s ever 
understood me like you, Tom. ... I’m so glad I’ve got 
this diary to confide in. ... It’s like having a friend I can 
carry around in my pocket. ...” 

Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn’t suit 
him. It made the hairs stand up on the back of 
Harry’s neck. 

“If I say it myself, Harry, I’ve always been able to 
charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured out her 
soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what 
I wanted. ... I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of 
her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew 
powerful, far more powerful than little Miss Weasley. 
Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few 
of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul back 
into her ...” 



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“What d’you mean?” said Harry, whose mouth had 
gone very dry. 

“Haven’t you guessed yet, Harry Potter?” said Riddle 
softly. “Ginny Weasley opened the Chamber of 
Secrets. She strangled the school roosters and 
daubed threatening messages on the walls. She set 
the Serpent of Slytherin on four Mudbloods, and the 
Squib’s cat.” 

“No,” Harry whispered. 

“Yes,” said Riddle, calmly. “Of course, she didn’t know 
what she was doing at first. It was very amusing. I 
wish you could have seen her new diary entries . . . far 
more interesting, they became. ... Dear Tom,” he 
recited, watching Harry’s horrified face, “7 think I’m 
losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over 
my robes and I don’t know how they got there. Dear 
Tom, I can’t remember what I did on the night of 
Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I’ve got paint 
all down my front. Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling me 
I’m pale and I’m not myself. I think he suspects me. . . . 
There was another attack today and I don’t know 
where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I’m 
going mad. ... I think I’m the one attacking everyone, 
Tom\” 

Harry’s fists were clenched, the nails digging deep 
into his palms. 

“It took a very long time for stupid little Ginny to stop 
trusting her diary,” said Riddle. “But she finally 
became suspicious and tried to dispose of it. And 
that’s where you came in, Harry. You found it, and I 
couldn’t have been more delighted. Of all the people 
who could have picked it up, it was you, the very 
person I was most anxious to meet. ...” 



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“And why did you want to meet me?” said Harry. 

Anger was coursing through him, and it was an effort 
to keep his voice steady. 

“Well, you see, Ginny told me all about you, Harry,” 
said Riddle. “Your whole fascinating history.” His eyes 
roved over the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead, and 
their expression grew hungrier. “I knew I must find 
out more about you, talk to you, meet you if I could. 
So I decided to show you my famous capture of that 
great oaf, Hagrid, to gain your trust — ” 

“Hagrid’s my friend,” said Harry, his voice now 
shaking. “And you framed him, didn’t you? I thought 
you made a mistake, but — ” 

Riddle laughed his high laugh again. 

“It was my word against Hagrid’s, Harry. Well, you 
can imagine how it looked to old Armando Dippet. On 
the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, 
parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student 
... on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in 
trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf 
cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden 
Forest to wrestle trolls ... but I admit, even / was 
surprised how well the plan worked. I thought 
someone must realize that Hagrid couldn’t possibly be 
the Heir of Slytherin. It had taken me five whole years 
to find out everything I could about the Chamber of 
Secrets and discover the secret entrance ... as though 
Hagrid had the brains, or the power! 

“Only the Transfiguration teacher, Dumbledore, 
seemed to think Hagrid was innocent. He persuaded 
Dippet to keep Hagrid and train him as gamekeeper. 
Yes, I think Dumbledore might have guessed. ... 
Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the 
other teachers did. ...” 

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“I bet Dumbledore saw right through you,” said 
Harry, his teeth gritted. 

“Well, he certainly kept an annoyingly close watch on 
me after Hagrid was expelled,” said Riddle carelessly. 
“I knew it wouldn’t be safe to open the Chamber again 
while I was still at school. But I wasn’t going to waste 
those long years I’d spent searching for it. I decided to 
leave behind a diary, preserving my sixteen-year-old 
self in its pages, so that one day, with luck, I would 
be able to lead another in my footsteps, and finish 
Salazar Slytherin’s noble work.” 

“Well, you haven’t finished it,” said Harry 
triumphantly. “No one’s died this time, not even the 
cat. In a few hours the Mandrake Draught will be 
ready and everyone who was Petrified will be all right 
again — ” 

“Haven’t I already told you,” said Riddle quietly, “that 
killing Mudbloods doesn’t matter to me anymore? For 
many months now, my new target has been — you.” 

Harry stared at him. 

“Imagine how angry I was when the next time my 
diary was opened, it was Ginny who was writing to 
me, not you. She saw you with the diary, you see, and 
panicked. What if you found out how to work it, and I 
repeated all her secrets to you? What if, even worse, I 
told you who’d been strangling roosters? So the 
foolish little brat waited until your dormitory was 
deserted and stole it back. But I knew what I must 
do. It was clear to me that you were on the trail of 
Slytherin’s heir. From everything Ginny had told me 
about you, I knew you would go to any lengths to 
solve the mystery — particularly if one of your best 
friends was attacked. And Ginny had told me the 



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whole school was buzzing because you could speak 
Parseltongue. ... 

“So I made Ginny write her own farewell on the wall 
and come down here to wait. She struggled and cried 
and became very boring. But there isn’t much life left 
in her. ... She put too much into the diary, into me. 
Enough to let me leave its pages at last. ... I have 
been waiting for you to appear since we arrived here. I 
knew you’d come. I have many questions for you, 
Harry Potter.” 

“Like what?” Harry spat, fists still clenched. 

“Well,” said Riddle, smiling pleasantly, “how is it that 
you — a skinny boy with no extraordinary magical 
talent — managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all 
time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, 
while Lord Voldemort’s powers were destroyed?” 

There was an odd red gleam in his hungry eyes now. 

“Why do you care how I escaped?” said Harry slowly. 
“Voldemort was after your time. ...” 

“Voldemort,” said Riddle softly, “is my past, present, 
and future, Harry Potter. ...” 

He pulled Harry’s wand from his pocket and began to 
trace it through the air, writing three shimmering 
words: 

tom marvolo riddle 

Then he waved the wand once, and the letters of his 
name rearranged themselves: 

i am lord voldemort 



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“You see?” he whispered. “It was a name I was already 
using at Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends only, 
of course. You think I was going to use my filthy 
Muggle father’s name forever? I, in whose veins runs 
the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my 
mother’s side? I, keep the name of a foul, common 
Muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born, 
just because he found out his wife was a witch? No, 
Harry — I fashioned myself a new name, a name I 
knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to 
speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the 
world!” 

Harry’s brain seemed to have jammed. He stared 
numbly at Riddle, at the orphaned boy who had 
grown up to murder Harry’s own parents, and so 
many others. ... At last he forced himself to speak. 

“You’re not,” he said, his quiet voice full of hatred. 

“Not what?” snapped Riddle. 

“Not the greatest sorcerer in the world,” said Harry, 
breathing fast. “Sorry to disappoint you and all that, 
but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus 
Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were 
strong, you didn’t dare try and take over at Hogwarts. 
Dumbledore saw through you when you were at 
school and he still frightens you now, wherever you’re 
hiding these days — ” 

The smile had gone from Riddle’s face, to be replaced 
by a very ugly look. 

“Dumbledore ’s been driven out of this castle by the 
mere memory of me!” he hissed. 



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“He’s not as gone as you might think!” Harry retorted. 
He was speaking at random, wanting to scare Riddle, 
wishing rather than believing it to be true — 

Riddle opened his mouth, but froze. 

Music was coming from somewhere. Riddle whirled 
around to stare down the empty Chamber. The music 
was growing louder. It was eerie, spine-tingling, 
unearthly; it lifted the hair on Harry’s scalp and made 
his heart feel as though it was swelling to twice its 
normal size. Then, as the music reached such a pitch 
that Harry felt it vibrating inside his own ribs, flames 
erupted at the top of the nearest pillar. 

A crimson bird the size of a swan had appeared, 
piping its weird music to the vaulted ceiling. It had a 
glittering golden tail as long as a peacock’s and 
gleaming golden talons, which were gripping a ragged 
bundle. 

A second later, the bird was flying straight at Harry. It 
dropped the ragged thing it was carrying at his feet, 
then landed heavily on his shoulder. As it folded its 
great wings, Harry looked up and saw it had a long, 
sharp golden beak and a beady black eye. 

The bird stopped singing. It sat still and warm next to 
Harry’s cheek, gazing steadily at Riddle. 

“That’s a phoenix. ...” said Riddle, staring shrewdly 
back at it. 

“Fawkes?” Harry breathed, and he felt the bird’s 
golden claws squeeze his shoulder gently. 

“And that — ” said Riddle, now eyeing the ragged thing 
that Fawkes had dropped, “that’s the old school 
Sorting Hat — ” 

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So it was. Patched, frayed, and dirty, the hat lay 
motionless at Harry’s feet. 

Riddle began to laugh again. He laughed so hard that 
the dark Chamber rang with it, as though ten Riddles 
were laughing at once — 

“This is what Dumbledore sends his defender! A 
songbird and an old hat! Do you feel brave, Harry 
Potter? Do you feel safe now?” 

Harry didn’t answer. He might not see what use 
Fawkes or the Sorting Hat were, but he was no longer 
alone, and he waited for Riddle to stop laughing with 
his courage mounting. 

“To business, Harry,” said Riddle, still smiling 
broadly. “Twice — in your past, in my future — we 
have met. And twice I failed to kill you. How did you 
survive ? Tell me everything. The longer you talk,” he 
added softly, “the longer you stay alive.” 

Harry was thinking fast, weighing his chances. Riddle 
had the wand. He, Harry, had Fawkes and the Sorting 
Hat, neither of which would be much good in a duel. 

It looked bad, all right . . . but the longer Riddle stood 
there, the more life was dwindling out of Ginny ... and 
in the meantime, Harry noticed suddenly, Riddle’s 
outline was becoming clearer, more solid. ... If it had 
to be a fight between him and Riddle, better sooner 
than later. 

“No one knows why you lost your powers when you 
attacked me,” said Harry abruptly. “I don’t know 
myself. But I know why you couldn’t kill me. Because 
my mother died to save me. My common Muggle-born 
mother,” he added, shaking with suppressed rage. 
“She stopped you killing me. And I’ve seen the real 
you, I saw you last year. You’re a wreck. You’re barely 
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alive. That’s where all your power got you. You’re in 
hiding. You’re ugly, you’re foul — ” 

Riddle’s face contorted. Then he forced it into an 
awful smile. 

“So. Your mother died to save you. Yes, that’s a 
powerful counter-charm. I can see now ... there is 
nothing special about you, after all. I wondered, you 
see. There are strange likenesses between us, after 
all. Even you must have noticed. Both half-bloods, 
orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two 
Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great 
Slytherin himself. We even look something alike ... 
but after all, it was merely a lucky chance that saved 
you from me. That’s all I wanted to know.” 

Harry stood, tense, waiting for Riddle to raise his 
wand. But Riddle’s twisted smile was widening again. 

“Now, Harry, I’m going to teach you a little lesson. 
Let’s match the powers of Lord Voldemort, Heir of 
Salazar Slytherin, against famous Harry Potter, and 
the best weapons Dumbledore can give him. ...” 

He cast an amused eye over Fawkes and the Sorting 
Hat, then walked away. Harry, fear spreading up his 
numb legs, watched Riddle stop between the high 
pillars and look up into the stone face of Slytherin, 
high above him in the half-darkness. Riddle opened 
his mouth wide and hissed — but Harry understood 
what he was saying. . . . 

“ Speak to me, Slytherin , greatest of the Hogwarts 
Four.” 

Harry wheeled around to look up at the statue, 
Fawkes swaying on his shoulder. 



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Slytherin’s gigantic stone face was moving. 
Horrorstruck, Harry saw his mouth opening, wider 
and wider, to make a huge black hole. 

And something was stirring inside the statue’s mouth. 
Something was slithering up from its depths. 

Harry backed away until he hit the dark Chamber 
wall, and as he shut his eyes tight he felt Fawkes’ 
wing sweep his cheek as he took flight. Harry wanted 
to shout, “Don’t leave me!” but what chance did a 
phoenix have against the king of serpents? 

Something huge hit the stone floor of the Chamber. 
Harry felt it shudder — he knew what was happening, 
he could sense it, could almost see the giant serpent 
uncoiling itself from Slytherin’s mouth. Then he heard 
Riddle’s hissing voice: 

“Kill him.” 

The basilisk was moving toward Harry; he could hear 
its heavy body slithering heavily across the dusty 
floor. Eyes still tightly shut, Harry began to run 
blindly sideways, his hands outstretched, feeling his 
way — Voldemort was laughing — 

Harry tripped. He fell hard onto the stone and tasted 
blood — the serpent was barely feet from him, he 
could hear it coming — 

There was a loud, explosive spitting sound right above 
him, and then something heavy hit Harry so hard 
that he was smashed into the wall. Waiting for fangs 
to sink through his body he heard more mad hissing, 
something thrashing wildly off the pillars — 

He couldn’t help it — he opened his eyes wide enough 
to squint at what was going on. 

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The enormous serpent, bright, poisonous green, thick 
as an oak trunk, had raised itself high in the air and 
its great blunt head was weaving drunkenly between 
the pillars. As Harry trembled, ready to close his eyes 
if it turned, he saw what had distracted the snake. 

Fawkes was soaring around its head, and the basilisk 
was snapping furiously at him with fangs long and 
thin as sabers — 

Fawkes dived. His long golden beak sank out of sight 
and a sudden shower of dark blood spattered the 
floor. The snake’s tail thrashed, narrowly missing 
Harry, and before Harry could shut his eyes, it turned 

— Harry looked straight into its face and saw that its 
eyes, both its great, bulbous yellow eyes, had been 
punctured by the phoenix; blood was streaming to the 
floor, and the snake was spitting in agony. 

“NO!” Harry heard Riddle screaming. “LEAVE THE 
BIRD! LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU! 
YOU CAN STILL SMELL HIM! KILL HIM!” 

The blinded serpent swayed, confused, still deadly. 
Fawkes was circling its head, piping his eerie song, 
jabbing here and there at its scaly nose as the blood 
poured from its ruined eyes. 

“Help me, help me,” Harry muttered wildly, “someone 

— anyone — ” 

The snake’s tail whipped across the floor again. Harry 
ducked. Something soft hit his face. 

The basilisk had swept the Sorting Hat into Harry’s 
arms. Harry seized it. It was all he had left, his only 
chance — he rammed it onto his head and threw 
himself flat onto the floor as the basilisk’s tail swung 
over him again. 

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Help me — help me — Harry thought, his eyes 
screwed tight under the hat. Please help me — 

There was no answering voice. Instead, the hat 
contracted, as though an invisible hand was 
squeezing it very tightly. 

Something very hard and heavy thudded onto the top 
of Harry’s head, almost knocking him out. Stars 
winking in front of his eyes, he grabbed the top of the 
hat to pull it off and felt something long and hard 
beneath it. 

A gleaming silver sword had appeared inside the hat, 
its handle glittering with rubies the size of eggs. 

“KILL THE BOY! LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS 
BEHIND YOU! SNIFF — SMELL HIM!” 

Harry was on his feet, ready. The basilisk’s head was 
falling, its body coiling around, hitting pillars as it 
twisted to face him. He could see the vast, bloody eye 
sockets, see the mouth stretching wide, wide enough 
to swallow him whole, lined with fangs long as his 
sword, thin, glittering, venomous — 

It lunged blindly — Harry dodged and it hit the 
Chamber wall. It lunged again, and its forked tongue 
lashed Harry’s side. He raised the sword in both his 
hands — 

The basilisk lunged again, and this time its aim was 
true — Harry threw his whole weight behind the 
sword and drove it to the hilt into the roof of the 
serpent’s mouth — 

But as warm blood drenched Harry’s arms, he felt a 
searing pain just above his elbow. One long, 
poisonous fang was sinking deeper and deeper into 

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his arm and it splintered as the basilisk keeled over 
sideways and fell, twitching, to the floor. 

Harry slid down the wall. He gripped the fang that 
was spreading poison through his body and wrenched 
it out of his arm. But he knew it was too late. White- 
hot pain was spreading slowly and steadily from the 
wound. Even as he dropped the fang and watched his 
own blood soaking his robes, his vision went foggy. 
The Chamber was dissolving in a whirl of dull color. 

A patch of scarlet swam past, and Harry heard a soft 
clatter of claws beside him. 

“Fawkes,” said Harry thickly. “You were fantastic, 
Fawkes. ...” He felt the bird lay its beautiful head on 
the spot where the serpent’s fang had pierced him. 

He could hear echoing footsteps and then a dark 
shadow moved in front of him. 

“You’re dead, Harry Potter,” said Riddle’s voice above 
him. “Dead. Even Dumbledore’s bird knows it. Do you 
see what he’s doing, Potter? He’s crying.” 

Harry blinked. Fawkes’s head slid in and out of focus. 
Thick, pearly tears were trickling down the glossy 
feathers. 

“I’m going to sit here and watch you die, Harry Potter. 
Take your time. I’m in no hurry.” 

Harry felt drowsy. Everything around him seemed to 
be spinning. 

“So ends the famous Harry Potter,” said Riddle’s 
distant voice. “Alone in the Chamber of Secrets, 
forsaken by his friends, defeated at last by the Dark 
Lord he so unwisely challenged. You’ll be back with 

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your dear Mudblood mother soon, Harry. ... She 
bought you twelve years of borrowed time . . . but Lord 
Voldemort got you in the end, as you knew he must. 



If this is dying, thought Harry, it’s not so bad. 

Even the pain was leaving him. ... 

But was this dying? Instead of going black, the 
Chamber seemed to be coming back into focus. Harry 
gave his head a little shake and there was Fawkes, 
still resting his head on Harry’s arm. A pearly patch 
of tears was shining all around the wound — except 
that there was no wound — 

“Get away, bird,” said Riddle’s voice suddenly. “Get 
away from him — I said, get away — ” 

Harry raised his head. Riddle was pointing Harry’s 
wand at Fawkes; there was a bang like a gun, and 
Fawkes took flight again in a whirl of gold and scarlet. 

“Phoenix tears ...” said Riddle quietly, staring at 
Harry’s arm. “Of course ... healing powers ... I forgot 



He looked into Harry’s face. “But it makes no 
difference. In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and 
me, Harry Potter ... you and me. ...” 

He raised the wand — 

Then, in a rush of wings, Fawkes had soared back 
overhead and something fell into Harry’s lap — the 
diary. 

For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still 
raised, stared at it. Then, without thinking, without 

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considering, as though he had meant to do it all 
along, Harry seized the basilisk fang on the floor next 
to him and plunged it straight into the heart of the 
book. 

There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink 
spurted out of the diary in torrents, streaming over 
Harry’s hands, flooding the floor. Riddle was writhing 
and twisting, screaming and flailing and then — 

He had gone. Harry’s wand fell to the floor with a 
clatter and there was silence. Silence except for the 
steady drip drip of ink still oozing from the diary. The 
basilisk venom had burned a sizzling hole right 
through it. 

Shaking all over, Harry pulled himself up. His head 
was spinning as though he’d just traveled miles by 
Floo powder. Slowly, he gathered together his wand 
and the Sorting Hat, and, with a huge tug, retrieved 
the glittering sword from the roof of the basilisk’s 
mouth. 

Then came a faint moan from the end of the 
Chamber. Ginny was stirring. As Harry hurried 
toward her, she sat up. Her bemused eyes traveled 
from the huge form of the dead basilisk, over Harry, 
in his blood-soaked robes, then to the diary in his 
hand. She drew a great, shuddering gasp and tears 
began to pour down her face. 

“Harry — oh, Harry — I tried to tell you at b- 
breakfast, but I c -couldn’t say it in front of Percy — it 
was me, Harry — but I — I s-swear I d-didn’t mean to 
— R-Riddle made me, he t-took me over — and — 
how did you kill that — that thing? W-where’s Riddle? 
The last thing I r-remember is him coming out of the 
diary — ” 



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“It’s all right,” said Harry, holding up the diary, and 
showing Ginny the fang hole, “Riddle’s finished. Look! 
Him and the basilisk. C’mon, Ginny, let’s get out of 
here — ” 

“I’m going to be expelled!” Ginny wept as Harry helped 
her awkwardly to her feet. “I’ve looked forward to 
coming to Hogwarts ever since B-Bill came and n-now 
I’ll have to leave and — w-what’ll Mum and Dad say?” 

Fawkes was waiting for them, hovering in the 
Chamber entrance. Harry urged Ginny forward; they 
stepped over the motionless coils of the dead basilisk, 
through the echoing gloom, and back into the tunnel. 
Harry heard the stone doors close behind them with a 
soft hiss. 

After a few minutes’ progress up the dark tunnel, a 
distant sound of slowly shifting rock reached Harry’s 
ears. 

“Ron!” Harry yelled, speeding up. “Ginny’s okay! I’ve 
got her!” 

He heard Ron give a strangled cheer, and they turned 
the next bend to see his eager face staring through 
the sizable gap he had managed to make in the 
rockfall. 

“Ginny\” Ron thrust an arm through the gap in the 
rock to pull her through first. “You’re alive! I don’t 
believe it! What happened? How — what — where did 
that bird come from?” 

Fawkes had swooped through the gap after Ginny. 

“He’s Dumbledore’s,” said Harry, squeezing through 
himself. 



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“How come you’ve got a sword?” said Ron, gaping at 
the glittering weapon in Harry’s hand. 



“I’ll explain when we get out of here,” said Harry with 
a sideways glance at Ginny, who was crying harder 
than ever. 

“But — ” 

“Later,” Harry said shortly. He didn’t think it was a 
good idea to tell Ron yet who’d been opening the 
Chamber, not in front of Ginny, anyway. “Where’s 
Lockhart?” 

“Back there,” said Ron, still looking puzzled but 
jerking his head up the tunnel toward the pipe. “He’s 
in a bad way. Come and see.” 

Led by Fawkes, whose wide scarlet wings emitted a 
soft golden glow in the darkness, they walked all the 
way back to the mouth of the pipe. Gilderoy Lockhart 
was sitting there, humming placidly to himself. 

“His memory’s gone,” said Ron. “The Memory Charm 
backfired. Hit him instead of us. Hasn’t got a clue 
who he is, or where he is, or who we are. I told him to 
come and wait here. He’s a danger to himself.” 

Lockhart peered good-naturedly up at them all. 

“Hello,” he said. “Odd sort of place, this, isn’t it? Do 
you live here?” 

“No,” said Ron, raising his eyebrows at Harry. 

Harry bent down and looked up the long, dark pipe. 

“Have you thought how we’re going to get back up 
this?” he said to Ron. 

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Ron shook his head, but Fawkes the phoenix had 
swooped past Harry and was now fluttering in front of 
him, his beady eyes bright in the dark. He was waving 
his long golden tail feathers. Harry looked uncertainly 
at him. 

“He looks like he wants you to grab hold ...” said Ron, 
looking perplexed. “But you’re much too heavy for a 
bird to pull up there — ” 

“Fawkes,” said Harry, “isn’t an ordinary bird.” He 
turned quickly to the others. “We’ve got to hold on to 
each other. Ginny, grab Ron’s hand. Professor 
Lockhart — ” 

“He means you,” said Ron sharply to Lockhart. 

“You hold Ginny’s other hand — ” 

Harry tucked the sword and the Sorting Hat into his 
belt, Ron took hold of the back of Harry’s robes, and 
Harry reached out and took hold of Fawkes’s 
strangely hot tail feathers. 

An extraordinary lightness seemed to spread through 
his whole body and the next second, in a rush of 
wings, they were flying upward through the pipe. 
Harry could hear Lockhart dangling below him, 
saying, “Amazing! Amazing! This is just like magic!” 
The chill air was whipping through Harry’s hair, and 
before he’d stopped enjoying the ride, it was over — 
all four of them were hitting the wet floor of Moaning 
Myrtle’s bathroom, and as Lockhart straightened his 
hat, the sink that hid the pipe was sliding back into 
place. 

Myrtle goggled at them. 

“You’re alive,” she said blankly to Harry. 

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“There’s no need to sound so disappointed,” he said 
grimly, wiping flecks of blood and slime off his 
glasses. 

“Oh, well ... I’d just been thinking ... if you had died, 
you’d have been welcome to share my toilet,” said 
Myrtle, blushing silver. 

“Urgh!” said Ron as they left the bathroom for the 
dark, deserted corridor outside. “Harry! I think 
Myrtle’s grown fond of you! You’ve got competition, 
Ginny!” 

But tears were still flooding silently down Ginny’s 
face. 

“Where now?” said Ron, with an anxious look at 
Ginny. Harry pointed. 

Fawkes was leading the way, glowing gold along the 
corridor. They strode after him, and moments later, 
found themselves outside Professor McGonagall’s 
office. 

Harry knocked and pushed the door open. 



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DOBBY’S REWARD 

For a moment there was silence as Harry, Ron, 

Ginny, and Lockhart stood in the doorway, covered in 
muck and slime and (in Harry’s case) blood. Then 
there was a scream. 

“Ginny\” 

It was Mrs. Weasley, who had been sitting crying in 
front of the fire. She leapt to her feet, closely followed 
by Mr. Weasley, and both of them flung themselves on 
their daughter. 

Harry, however, was looking past them. Professor 
Dumbledore was standing by the mantelpiece, 
beaming, next to Professor McGonagall, who was 
taking great, steadying gasps, clutching her chest. 
Fawkes went whooshing past Harry’s ear and settled 
on Dumbledore ’s shoulder, just as Harry found 
himself and Ron being swept into Mrs. Weasley’s tight 
embrace. 

“You saved her! You saved her! How did you do it?” 

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“I think we’d all like to know that,” said Professor 
McGonagall weakly. 

Mrs. Weasley let go of Harry, who hesitated for a 
moment, then walked over to the desk and laid upon 
it the Sorting Hat, the ruby-encrusted sword, and 
what remained of Riddle’s diary. 

Then he started telling them everything. For nearly a 
quarter of an hour he spoke into the rapt silence: He 
told them about hearing the disembodied voice, how 
Hermione had finally realized that he was hearing a 
basilisk in the pipes; how he and Ron had followed 
the spiders into the forest, that Aragog had told them 
where the last victim of the basilisk had died; how he 
had guessed that Moaning Myrtle had been the 
victim, and that the entrance to the Chamber of 
Secrets might be in her bathroom. ... 

“Very well,” Professor McGonagall prompted him as 
he paused, “so you found out where the entrance was 
— breaking a hundred school rules into pieces along 
the way, I might add — but how on earth did you all 
get out of there alive, Potter?” 

So Harry, his voice now growing hoarse from all this 
talking, told them about Fawkes’s timely arrival and 
about the Sorting Hat giving him the sword. But then 
he faltered. He had so far avoided mentioning Riddle’s 
diary — or Ginny. She was standing with her head 
against Mrs. Weasley ’s shoulder, and tears were still 
coursing silently down her cheeks. What if they 
expelled her? Harry thought in panic. Riddle’s diary 
didn’t work anymore. ... How could they prove it had 
been he who’d made her do it all? 

Instinctively, Harry looked at Dumbledore, who 
smiled faintly, the firelight glancing off his half-moon 
spectacles. 

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“What interests me most,” said Dumbledore gently, “is 
how Lord Voldemort managed to enchant Ginny, 
when my sources tell me he is currently in hiding in 
the forests of Albania.” 

Relief — warm, sweeping, glorious relief — swept over 
Harry. 

“W-what’s that?” said Mr. Weasley in a stunned voice. 
“You-Know-Who? En-enchant Ginny? But Ginny ’s not 
... Ginny hasn’t been ... has she?” 

“It was this diary,” said Harry quickly, picking it up 
and showing it to Dumbledore. “Riddle wrote it when 
he was sixteen. ...” 

Dumbledore took the diary from Harry and peered 
keenly down his long, crooked nose at its burnt and 
soggy pages. 

“Brilliant,” he said softly. “Of course, he was probably 
the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen.” 

He turned around to the Weasleys, who were looking 
utterly bewildered. 

“Very few people know that Lord Voldemort was once 
called Tom Riddle. I taught him myself, fifty years 
ago, at Hogwarts. He disappeared after leaving the 
school . . . traveled far and wide . . . sank so deeply into 
the Dark Arts, consorted with the very worst of our 
kind, underwent so many dangerous, magical 
transformations, that when he resurfaced as Lord 
Voldemort, he was barely recognizable. Hardly anyone 
connected Lord Voldemort with the clever, handsome 
boy who was once Head Boy here.” 

“But, Ginny,” said Mrs. Weasley. “What’s our Ginny 
got to do with — with — him?” 



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“His d-diary!” Ginny sobbed. “I’ve b-been writing in it, 
and he’s been w- writing back all year — ” 

“Ginnyl” said Mr. Weasley, flabbergasted. “Haven’t I 
taught you anything ? What have I always told you? 
Never trust anything that can think for itself if you 
can’t see where it keeps its brain. Why didn’t you 
show the diary to me, or your mother? A suspicious 
object like that, it was clearly full of Dark Magic — ” 

“I d-didn’t know,” sobbed Ginny. “I found it inside one 
of the books Mum got me. I th-thought someone had 
just left it in there and forgotten about it — ” 

“Miss Weasley should go up to the hospital wing right 
away,” Dumbledore interrupted in a firm voice. “This 
has been a terrible ordeal for her. There will be no 
punishment. Older and wiser wizards than she have 
been hoodwinked by Lord Voldemort.” He strode over 
to the door and opened it. “Bed rest and perhaps a 
large, steaming mug of hot chocolate. I always find 
that cheers me up,” he added, twinkling kindly down 
at her. “You will find that Madam Pomfrey is still 
awake. She’s just giving out Mandrake juice — I 
daresay the basilisk’s victims will be waking up any 
moment.” 

“So Hermione’s okay!” said Ron brightly. 

“There has been no lasting harm done, Ginny,” said 
Dumbledore. 

Mrs. Weasley led Ginny out, and Mr. Weasley 
followed, still looking deeply shaken. 

“You know, Minerva,” Professor Dumbledore said 
thoughtfully to Professor McGonagall, “I think all this 
merits a good feast Might I ask you to go and alert 
the kitchens?” 

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“Right,” said Professor McGonagall crisply, also 
moving to the door. “Ill leave you to deal with Potter 
and Weasley, shall I?” 

“Certainly,” said Dumbledore. 

She left, and Harry and Ron gazed uncertainly at 
Dumbledore. What exactly had Professor McGonagall 
meant, deal with them? Surely — surely — they 
weren’t about to be punished? 

“I seem to remember telling you both that I would 
have to expel you if you broke any more school rules,” 
said Dumbledore. 

Ron opened his mouth in horror. 

“Which goes to show that the best of us must 
sometimes eat our words,” Dumbledore went on, 
smiling. “You will both receive Special Awards for 
Services to the School and — let me see — yes, I think 
two hundred points apiece for Gryffindor.” 

Ron went as brightly pink as Lockhart’s valentine 
flowers and closed his mouth again. 

“But one of us seems to be keeping mightily quiet 
about his part in this dangerous adventure,” 
Dumbledore added. “Why so modest, Gilderoy?” 

Harry gave a start. He had completely forgotten about 
Lockhart. He turned and saw that Lockhart was 
standing in a corner of the room, still wearing his 
vague smile. When Dumbledore addressed him, 
Lockhart looked over his shoulder to see who he was 
talking to. 



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“Professor Dumbledore,” Ron said quickly, “there was 
an accident down in the Chamber of Secrets. 
Professor Lockhart — ” 

“Am I a professor?” said Lockhart in mild surprise. 
“Goodness. I expect I was hopeless, was I?” 

“He tried to do a Memory Charm and the wand 
backfired,” Ron explained quietly to Dumbledore. 

“Dear me,” said Dumbledore, shaking his head, his 
long silver mustache quivering. “Impaled upon your 
own sword, Gilderoy!” 

“Sword?” said Lockhart dimly. “Haven’t got a sword. 
That boy has, though.” He pointed at Harry. “He’ll 
lend you one.” 

“Would you mind taking Professor Lockhart up to the 
infirmary, too?” Dumbledore said to Ron. “I’d like a 
few more words with Harry. ...” 

Lockhart ambled out. Ron cast a curious look back at 
Dumbledore and Harry as he closed the door. 

Dumbledore crossed to one of the chairs by the fire. 

“Sit down, Harry,” he said, and Harry sat, feeling 
unaccountably nervous. 

“First of all, Harry, I want to thank you,” said 
Dumbledore, eyes twinkling again. “You must have 
shown me real loyalty down in the Chamber. Nothing 
but that could have called Fawkes to you.” 

He stroked the phoenix, which had fluttered down 
onto his knee. Harry grinned awkwardly as 
Dumbledore watched him. 



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“And so you met Tom Riddle,” said Dumbledore 
thoughtfully. “I imagine he was most interested in 
you. ...” 

Suddenly, something that was nagging at Harry came 
tumbling out of his mouth. 

“Professor Dumbledore ... Riddle said I’m like him. 
Strange likenesses, he said. ...” 

“ Did he, now?” said Dumbledore, looking thoughtfully 
at Harry from under his thick silver eyebrows. “And 
what do you think, Harry?” 

“I don’t think I’m like him!” said Harry, more loudly 
than he’d intended. “I mean, I’m — I’m in Gryffindor, 
I’m ...” 

But he fell silent, a lurking doubt resurfacing in his 
mind. 

“Professor,” he started again after a moment. “The 
Sorting Hat told me I’d — I’d have done well in 
Slytherin. Everyone thought / was Slytherin’s heir for 
a while ... because I can speak Parseltongue. ...” 

“You can speak Parseltongue, Harry,” said 
Dumbledore calmly, “because Lord Voldemort — who 
is the last remaining descendant of Salazar Slytherin 
— can speak Parseltongue. Unless I’m much 
mistaken, he transferred some of his own powers to 
you the night he gave you that scar. Not something he 
intended to do, I’m sure. ...” 

“Voldemort put a bit of himself in me?” Harry said, 
thunderstruck. 

“It certainly seems so.” 



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“So I should be in Slytherin,” Harry said, looking 
desperately into Dumbledore ’s face. “The Sorting Hat 
could see Slytherin ’s power in me, and it — ” 

“Put you in Gryffindor,” said Dumbledore calmly. 
“Listen to me, Harry. You happen to have many 
qualities Salazar Slytherin prized in his hand-picked 
students. His own very rare gift, Parseltongue — 
resourcefulness — determination — a certain 
disregard for rules,” he added, his mustache 
quivering again. “Yet the Sorting Hat placed you in 
Gryffindor. You know why that was. Think.” 

“It only put me in Gryffindor,” said Harry in a 
defeated voice, “because I asked not to go in 
Slytherin. ...” 

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, beaming once more. 
“Which makes you very different from Tom Riddle. It 
is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far 
more than our abilities.” Harry sat motionless in his 
chair, stunned. “If you want proof, Harry, that you 
belong in Gryffindor, I suggest you look more closely 
at this.” 

Dumbledore reached across to Professor McGonagall’s 
desk, picked up the blood-stained silver sword, and 
handed it to Harry. Dully, Harry turned it over, the 
rubies blazing in the firelight. And then he saw the 
name engraved just below the hilt. 

Godric Gryffindor. 

“Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of 
the hat, Harry,” said Dumbledore simply. 

For a minute, neither of them spoke. Then 
Dumbledore pulled open one of the drawers in 



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Professor McGonagall’s desk and took out a quill and 
a bottle of ink. 

“What you need, Harry, is some food and sleep. I 
suggest you go down to the feast, while I write to 
Azkaban — we need our gamekeeper back. And I 
must draft an advertisement for the Daily Prophet, 
too,” he added thoughtfully. “Well be needing a new 
Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. ... Dear me, 
we do seem to run through them, don’t we?” 

Harry got up and crossed to the door. He had just 
reached for the handle, however, when the door burst 
open so violently that it bounced back off the wall. 

Lucius Malfoy stood there, fury in his face. And 
cowering behind his legs, heavily wrapped in 
bandages, was Dobby. 

“Good evening, Lucius,” said Dumbledore pleasantly. 

Mr. Malfoy almost knocked Harry over as he swept 
into the room. Dobby went scurrying in after him, 
crouching at the hem of his cloak, a look of abject 
terror on his face. 

The elf was carrying a stained rag with which he was 
attempting to finish cleaning Mr. Malfoy ’s shoes. 
Apparently Mr. Malfoy had set out in a great hurry, 
for not only were his shoes half-polished, but his 
usually sleek hair was disheveled. Ignoring the elf 
bobbing apologetically around his ankles, he fixed his 
cold eyes upon Dumbledore. 

“So!” he said “You’ve come back. The governors 
suspended you, but you still saw fit to return to 
Hogwarts.” 



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“Well, you see, Lucius,” said Dumbledore, smiling 
serenely, “the other eleven governors contacted me 
today. It was something like being caught in a 
hailstorm of owls, to tell the truth. They’d heard that 
Arthur Weasley’s daughter had been killed and 
wanted me back here at once. They seemed to think I 
was the best man for the job after all. Very strange 
tales they told me, too. ... Several of them seemed to 
think that you had threatened to curse their families 
if they didn’t agree to suspend me in the first place.” 

Mr. Malfoy went even paler than usual, but his eyes 
were still slits of fury. 

“So — have you stopped the attacks yet?” he sneered. 
“Have you caught the culprit?” 

“We have,” said Dumbledore, with a smile. 

“Well?” said Mr. Malfoy sharply. “Who is it?” 

“The same person as last time, Lucius,” said 
Dumbledore. “But this time, Lord Voldemort was 
acting through somebody else. By means of this 
diary.” 

He held up the small black book with the large hole 
through the center, watching Mr. Malfoy closely. 
Harry, however, was watching Dobby. 

The elf was doing something very odd. His great eyes 
fixed meaningfully on Harry, he kept pointing at the 
diary, then at Mr. Malfoy, and then hitting himself 
hard on the head with his fist. 

“I see ...” said Mr. Malfoy slowly to Dumbledore. 

“A clever plan,” said Dumbledore in a level voice, still 
staring Mr. Malfoy straight in the eye. “Because if 

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Harry here” — Mr. Malfoy shot Harry a swift, sharp 
look — “and his friend Ron hadn’t discovered this 
book, why — Ginny Weasley might have taken all the 
blame. No one would ever have been able to prove she 
hadn’t acted of her own free will. ...” 

Mr. Malfoy said nothing. His face was suddenly 
masklike. 

“And imagine,” Dumbledore went on, “what might 
have happened then. ... The Weasleys are one of our 
most prominent pure-blood families. Imagine the 
effect on Arthur Weasley and his Muggle Protection 
Act, if his own daughter was discovered attacking and 
killing Muggle-borns. ... Very fortunate the diary was 
discovered, and Riddle’s memories wiped from it. Who 
knows what the consequences might have been 
otherwise. ...” 

Mr. Malfoy forced himself to speak. 

“Very fortunate,” he said stiffly. 

And still, behind his back, Dobby was pointing, first 
to the diary, then to Lucius Malfoy, then punching 
himself in the head. 

And Harry suddenly understood. He nodded at 
Dobby, and Dobby backed into a corner, now twisting 
his ears in punishment. 

“Don’t you want to know how Ginny got hold of that 
diary, Mr. Malfoy?” said Harry. 

Lucius Malfoy rounded on him. 

“How should I know how the stupid little girl got hold 
of it?” he said. 



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“Because you gave it to her,” said Harry. “In Flourish 
and Blotts. You picked up her old Transfiguration 
book and slipped the diary inside it, didn’t you?” 

He saw Mr. Malfoy’s white hands clench and 
unclench. 

“Prove it,” he hissed. 

“Oh, no one will be able to do that,” said Dumbledore, 
smiling at Harry. “Not now that Riddle has vanished 
from the book. On the other hand, I would advise you, 
Lucius, not to go giving out any more of Lord 
Voldemort’s old school things. If any more of them 
find their way into innocent hands, I think Arthur 
Weasley, for one, will make sure they are traced back 
to you. ...” 

Lucius Malfoy stood for a moment, and Harry 
distinctly saw his right hand twitch as though he was 
longing to reach for his wand. Instead, he turned to 
his house-elf. 

“We’re going, Dobby!” 

He wrenched open the door and as the elf came 
hurrying up to him, he kicked him right through it. 
They could hear Dobby squealing with pain all the 
way along the corridor. Harry stood for a moment, 
thinking hard. Then it came to him — 

“Professor Dumbledore,” he said hurriedly. “Can I give 
that diary back to Mr. Malfoy, please?” 

“Certainly, Harry,” said Dumbledore calmly. “But 
hurry. The feast, remember. ...” 

Harry grabbed the diary and dashed out of the office. 
He could hear Dobby’s squeals of pain receding 

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around the corner. Quickly, wondering if this plan 
could possibly work, Harry took off one of his shoes, 
pulled off his slimy, filthy sock, and stuffed the diary 
into it. Then he ran down the dark corridor. 

He caught up with them at the top of the stairs. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” he gasped, skidding to a halt, “I’ve got 
something for you — ” 

And he forced the smelly sock into Lucius Malfoy’s 
hand. 

“What the — ?” 

Mr. Malfoy ripped the sock off the diary, threw it 
aside, then looked furiously from the ruined book to 
Harry. 

“You’ll meet the same sticky end as your parents one 
of these days, Harry Potter,” he said softly. “They were 
meddlesome fools, too.” 

He turned to go. 

“Come, Dobby. I said, come.” 

But Dobby didn’t move. He was holding up Harry’s 
disgusting, slimy sock, and looking at it as though it 
were a priceless treasure. 

“Master has given a sock,” said the elf in wonderment. 
“Master gave it to Dobby.” 

“What’s that?” spat Mr. Malfoy. “What did you say?” 

“Got a sock,” said Dobby in disbelief. “Master threw it, 
and Dobby caught it, and Dobby — Dobby is free.” 



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Lucius Malfoy stood frozen, staring at the elf. Then he 
lunged at Harry. 

“You’ve lost me my servant, boy!” 

But Dobby shouted, “You shall not harm Harry 
Potter!” 

There was a loud bang, and Mr. Malfoy was thrown 
backward. He crashed down the stairs, three at a 
time, landing in a crumpled heap on the landing 
below. He got up, his face livid, and pulled out his 
wand, but Dobby raised a long, threatening finger. 

“You shall go now,” he said fiercely, pointing down at 
Mr. Malfoy. “You shall not touch Harry Potter. You 
shall go now.” 

Lucius Malfoy had no choice. With a last, incensed 
stare at the pair of them, he swung his cloak around 
him and hurried out of sight. 

“Harry Potter freed Dobby!” said the elf shrilly, gazing 
up at Harry, moonlight from the nearest window 
reflected in his orb-like eyes. “Harry Potter set Dobby 
free!” 

“Least I could do, Dobby,” said Harry, grinning. “Just 
promise never to try and save my life again.” 

The elf’s ugly brown face split suddenly into a wide, 
toothy smile. 

“I’ve just got one question, Dobby,” said Harry as 
Dobby pulled on Harry’s sock with shaking hands. 
“You told me all this had nothing to do with He-Who- 
Must-Not-Be-Named, remember? Well — ” 



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“It was a clue, sir,” said Dobby, his eyes widening, as 
though this was obvious. “Was giving you a clue. The 
Dark Lord, before he changed his name, could be 
freely named, you see?” 

“Right,” said Harry weakly. “Well, I’d better go. There’s 
a feast, and my friend Hermione should be awake by 
now. ...” 

Dobby threw his arms around Harry’s middle and 
hugged him. 

“Harry Potter is greater by far than Dobby knew!” he 
sobbed. “Farewell, Harry Potter!” 

And with a final loud crack, Dobby disappeared. 

Harry had been to several Hogwarts feasts, but never 
one quite like this. Everybody was in their pajamas, 
and the celebration lasted all night. Harry didn’t know 
whether the best bit was Hermione running toward 
him, screaming “You solved it! You solved it!” or 
Justin hurrying over from the Hufflepuff table to 
wring his hand and apologize endlessly for suspecting 
him, or Hagrid turning up at half past three, cuffing 
Harry and Ron so hard on the shoulders that they 
were knocked into their plates of trifle, or his and 
Ron’s four hundred points for Gryffindor securing the 
House Cup for the second year running, or Professor 
McGonagall standing up to tell them all that the 
exams had been canceled as a school treat (“Oh, no!” 
said Hermione), or Dumbledore announcing that, 
unfortunately, Professor Lockhart would be unable to 
return next year, owing to the fact that he needed to 
go away and get his memory back. Quite a few of the 
teachers joined in the cheering that greeted this news. 

“Shame,” said Ron, helping himself to a jam 
doughnut. “He was starting to grow on me.” 

Page | 378 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




The rest of the final term passed in a haze of blazing 
sunshine. Hogwarts was back to normal with only a 
few, small differences — Defense Against the Dark 
Arts classes were canceled (“but we’ve had plenty of 
practice at that anyway,” Ron told a disgruntled 
Hermione) and Lucius Malfoy had been sacked as a 
school governor. Draco was no longer strutting 
around the school as though he owned the place. On 
the contrary, he looked resentful and sulky. On the 
other hand, Ginny Weasley was perfectly happy 
again. 

Too soon, it was time for the journey home on the 
Hogwarts Express. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, 
George, and Ginny got a compartment to themselves. 
They made the most of the last few hours in which 
they were allowed to do magic before the holidays. 
They played Exploding Snap, set off the very last of 
Fred and George’s Filibuster fireworks, and practiced 
disarming each other by magic. Harry was getting 
very good at it. 

They were almost at King’s Cross when Harry 
remembered something. 

“Ginny — what did you see Percy doing, that he didn’t 
want you to tell anyone?” 

“Oh, that,” said Ginny, giggling. “Well — Percy’s got a 
girlfriend.” 

Fred dropped a stack of books on George’s head. 
“What?” 

“It’s that Ravenclaw prefect, Penelope Clearwater,” 
said Ginny. “That’s who he was writing to all last 
summer. He’s been meeting her all over the school in 
secret. I walked in on them kissing in an empty 

Page | 379 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




classroom one day. He was so upset when she was — 
you know — attacked. You won’t tease him, will you?” 
she added anxiously. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Fred, who was looking 
like his birthday had come early. 

“Definitely not,” said George, sniggering. 

The Hogwarts Express slowed and finally stopped. 

Harry pulled out his quill and a bit of parchment and 
turned to Ron and Hermione. 

“This is called a telephone number,” he told Ron, 
scribbling it twice, tearing the parchment in two, and 
handing it to them. “I told your dad how to use a 
telephone last summer — he’ll know. Call me at the 
Dursleys’, okay? I can’t stand another two months 
with only Dudley to talk to. ...” 

“Your aunt and uncle will be proud, though, won’t 
they?” said Hermione as they got off the train and 
joined the crowd thronging toward the enchanted 
barrier. “When they hear what you did this year? 

“Proud?” said Harry. “Are you crazy? All those times I 
could’ve died, and I didn’t manage it? They’ll be 
furious. ...” 

And together they walked back through the gateway 
to the Muggle world. 



Page | 380 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




/ 




OWL POST 

Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. 
For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more 
than any other time of year. For another, he really 
wanted to do his homework but was forced to do it in 
secret, in the dead of night. And he also happened to 
be a wizard. 

It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his 
stomach in bed, the blankets drawn right over his 
head like a tent, a flashlight in one hand and a large 
leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda 
Bagshot) propped open against the pillow. Harry 
moved the tip of his eagle-feather quill down the page, 
frowning as he looked for something that would help 
him write his essay, “Witch Burning in the Fourteenth 
Century Was Completely Pointless — discuss.” 

The quill paused at the top of a likely-looking 
paragraph. Harry pushed his round glasses up the 
bridge of his nose, moved his flashlight closer to the 
book, and read: 



Page | 2 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 



Non-magic people (more commonly known as 
Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval 
times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare 
occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, 
burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard 
would perform a basic Flame Freezing Charm and 
then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a 
gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird 
enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed 
herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in 
various disguises. 

Harry put his quill between his teeth and reached 
underneath his pillow for his ink bottle and a roll of 
parchment. Slowly and very carefully he unscrewed 
the ink bottle, dipped his quill into it, and began to 
write, pausing every now and then to listen, because 
if any of the Dursleys heard the scratching of his quill 
on their way to the bathroom, he’d probably find 
himself locked in the cupboard under the stairs for 
the rest of the summer. 

The Dursley family of number four, Privet Drive, was 
the reason that Harry never enjoyed his summer 
holidays. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and their son, 
Dudley, were Harry’s only living relatives. They were 
Muggles, and they had a very medieval attitude 
toward magic. Harry’s dead parents, who had been a 
witch and wizard themselves, were never mentioned 
under the Dursleys’ roof. For years, Aunt Petunia and 
Uncle Vernon had hoped that if they kept Harry as 
downtrodden as possible, they would be able to 
squash the magic out of him. To their fury, they had 
been unsuccessful. These days they lived in terror of 
anyone finding out that Harry had spent most of the 
last two years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and 
Wizardry. The most they could do, however, was to 
lock away Harry’s spellbooks, wand, cauldron, and 



Page | 3 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




broomstick at the start of the summer break, and 
forbid him to talk to the neighbors. 

This separation from his spellbooks had been a real 
problem for Harry, because his teachers at Hogwarts 
had given him a lot of holiday work. One of the 
essays, a particularly nasty one about shrinking 
potions, was for Harry’s least favorite teacher, 
Professor Snape, who would be delighted to have an 
excuse to give Harry detention for a month. Harry had 
therefore seized his chance in the first week of the 
holidays. While Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and 
Dudley had gone out into the front garden to admire 
Uncle Vernon’s new company car (in very loud voices, 
so that the rest of the street would notice it too), 

Harry had crept downstairs, picked the lock on the 
cupboard under the stairs, grabbed some of his 
books, and hidden them in his bedroom. As long as 
he didn’t leave spots of ink on the sheets, the 
Dursleys need never know that he was studying 
magic by night. 

Harry was particularly keen to avoid trouble with his 
aunt and uncle at the moment, as they were already 
in an especially bad mood with him, all because he’d 
received a telephone call from a fellow wizard one 
week into the school vacation. 

Ron Weasley, who was one of Harry’s best friends at 
Hogwarts, came from a whole family of wizards. This 
meant that he knew a lot of things Harry didn’t, but 
had never used a telephone before. Most unluckily it 
had been Uncle Vernon who had answered the call. 

“Vernon Dursley speaking.” 

Harry, who happened to be in the room at the time, 
froze as he heard Ron’s voice answer. 



Page | 4 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“HELLO? HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME? I — WANT — 
TO — TALK — TO — HARRY — POTTER!” 

Ron was yelling so loudly that Uncle Vernon jumped 
and held the receiver a foot away from his ear, staring 
at it with an expression of mingled fury and alarm. 

“WHO IS THIS?” he roared in the direction of the 
mouthpiece. “WHO ARE YOU?” 

“RON — WEASLEY!” Ron bellowed back, as though he 
and Uncle Vernon were speaking from opposite ends 
of a football field. “I’M — A — FRIEND — OF — 
HARRY’S — FROM — SCHOOL — ” 

Uncle Vernon’s small eyes swiveled around to Harry, 
who was rooted to the spot. 

“THERE IS NO HARRY POTTER HERE!” he roared, 
now holding the receiver at arm’s length, as though 
frightened it might explode. “I DONT KNOW WHAT 
SCHOOL YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT! NEVER 
CONTACT ME AGAIN! DONT YOU COME NEAR MY 
FAMILY!” 

And he threw the receiver back onto the telephone as 
if dropping a poisonous spider. 

The fight that had followed had been one of the worst 
ever. 

“HOW DARE YOU GIVE THIS NUMBER TO PEOPLE 
LIKE — PEOPLE LIKE YOU!” Uncle Vernon had 
roared, spraying Harry with spit. 

Ron obviously realized that he’d gotten Harry into 
trouble, because he hadn’t called again. Harry’s other 
best friend from Hogwarts, Hermione Granger, hadn’t 
been in touch either. Harry suspected that Ron had 

Page | 5 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




warned Hermione not to call, which was a pity, 
because Hermione, the cleverest witch in Harry’s 
year, had Muggle parents, knew perfectly well how to 
use a telephone, and would probably have had 
enough sense not to say that she went to Hogwarts. 

So Harry had had no word from any of his wizarding 
friends for five long weeks, and this summer was 
turning out to be almost as bad as the last one. There 
was just one very small improvement — after 
swearing that he wouldn’t use her to send letters to 
any of his friends, Harry had been allowed to let his 
owl, Hedwig, out at night. Uncle Vernon had given in 
because of the racket Hedwig made if she was locked 
in her cage all the time. 

Harry finished writing about Wendelin the Weird and 
paused to listen again. The silence in the dark house 
was broken only by the distant, grunting snores of his 
enormous cousin, Dudley. It must be very late, Harry 
thought. His eyes were itching with tiredness. 

Perhaps he’d finish this essay tomorrow night. ... 

He replaced the top of the ink bottle; pulled an old 
pillowcase from under his bed; put the flashlight, A 
History of Magic, his essay, quill, and ink inside it; got 
out of bed; and hid the lot under a loose floorboard 
under his bed. Then he stood up, stretched, and 
checked the time on the luminous alarm clock on his 
bedside table. 

It was one o’clock in the morning. Harry’s stomach 
gave a funny jolt. He had been thirteen years old, 
without realizing it, for a whole hour. 

Yet another unusual thing about Harry was how little 
he looked forward to his birthdays. He had never 
received a birthday card in his life. The Dursleys had 



Page | 6 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




completely ignored his last two birthdays, and he had 
no reason to suppose they would remember this one. 

Harry walked across the dark room, past Hedwig’s 
large, empty cage, to the open window. He leaned on 
the sill, the cool night air pleasant on his face after a 
long time under the blankets. Hedwig had been 
absent for two nights now. Harry wasn’t worried 
about her: she’d been gone this long before. But he 
hoped she’d be back soon — she was the only living 
creature in this house who didn’t flinch at the sight of 
him. 

Harry, though still rather small and skinny for his 
age, had grown a few inches over the last year. His 
jet-black hair, however, was just as it always had 
been — stubbornly untidy, whatever he did to it. The 
eyes behind his glasses were bright green, and on his 
forehead, clearly visible through his hair, was a thin 
scar, shaped like a bolt of lightning. 

Of all the unusual things about Harry, this scar was 
the most extraordinary of all. It was not, as the 
Dursleys had pretended for ten years, a souvenir of 
the car crash that had killed Harry’s parents, because 
Lily and James Potter had not died in a car crash. 
They had been murdered, murdered by the most 
feared Dark wizard for a hundred years, Lord 
Voldemort. Harry had escaped from the same attack 
with nothing more than a scar on his forehead, where 
Voldemort’s curse, instead of killing him, had 
rebounded upon its originator. Barely alive, 

Voldemort had fled. ... 

But Harry had come face-to-face with him at 
Hogwarts. Remembering their last meeting as he 
stood at the dark window, Harry had to admit he was 
lucky even to have reached his thirteenth birthday. 



Page | 7 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




He scanned the starry sky for a sign of Hedwig, 
perhaps soaring back to him with a dead mouse 
dangling from her beak, expecting praise. Gazing 
absently over the rooftops, it was a few seconds before 
Harry realized what he was seeing. 

Silhouetted against the golden moon, and growing 
larger every moment, was a large, strangely lopsided 
creature, and it was flapping in Harry’s direction. He 
stood quite still, watching it sink lower and lower. For 
a split second he hesitated, his hand on the window 
latch, wondering whether to slam it shut. But then 
the bizarre creature soared over one of the street 
lamps of Privet Drive, and Harry, realizing what it 
was, leapt aside. 

Through the window soared three owls, two of them 
holding up the third, which appeared to be 
unconscious. They landed with a soft flump on 
Harry’s bed, and the middle owl, which was large and 
gray, keeled right over and lay motionless. There was 
a large package tied to its legs. 

Harry recognized the unconscious owl at once — his 
name was Errol, and he belonged to the Weasley 
family. Harry dashed to the bed, untied the cords 
around Errol’s legs, took off the parcel, and then 
carried Errol to Hedwig’s cage. Errol opened one 
bleary eye, gave a feeble hoot of thanks, and began to 
gulp some water. 

Harry turned back to the remaining owls. One of 
them, the large snowy female, was his own Hedwig. 
She, too, was carrying a parcel and looked extremely 
pleased with herself. She gave Harry an affectionate 
nip with her beak as he removed her burden, then 
flew across the room to join Errol. 



Page | 8 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




Harry didn’t recognize the third owl, a handsome 
tawny one, but he knew at once where it had come 
from, because in addition to a third package, it was 
carrying a letter bearing the Hogwarts crest. When 
Harry relieved this owl of its burden, it ruffled its 
feathers importantly, stretched its wings, and took off 
through the window into the night. 

Harry sat down on his bed and grabbed Errol’s 
package, ripped off the brown paper, and discovered a 
present wrapped in gold, and his first ever birthday 
card. Fingers trembling slightly, he opened the 
envelope. Two pieces of paper fell out — a letter and a 
newspaper clipping. 

The clipping had clearly come out of the wizarding 
newspaper, the Daily Prophet, because the people in 
the black-and-white picture were moving. Harry 
picked up the clipping, smoothed it out, and read: 

MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE 

SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE 

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts 
Office at the Ministry of Magic, has won the annual 
Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw. 

A delighted Mr. Weasley told the Daily Prophet, “We 
will be spending the gold on a summer holiday in 
Egypt, where our eldest son, Bill, works as a curse 
breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank. ” 

The Weasley family will be spending a month in 
Egypt, returning for the start of the new school year 
at Hogwarts, which five of the Weasley children 
currently attend. 



Page | 9 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




Harry scanned the moving photograph, and a grin 
spread across his face as he saw all nine of the 
Weasleys waving furiously at him, standing in front of 
a large pyramid. Plump little Mrs. Weasley; tall, 
balding Mr. Weasley; six sons; and one daughter, all 
(though the black-and-white picture didn’t show it) 
with flaming-red hair. Right in the middle of the 
picture was Ron, tall and gangling, with his pet rat, 
Scabbers, on his shoulder and his arm around his 
little sister, Ginny. 

Harry couldn’t think of anyone who deserved to win a 
large pile of gold more than the Weasleys, who were 
very nice and extremely poor. He picked up Ron’s 
letter and unfolded it. 

Dear Harry, 

Happy birthday! 

Look, I’m really sorry about that telephone call. I hope 
the Muggles didn’t give you a hard time. I asked Dad, 
and he reckons I shouldn’t have shouted. 

It’s amazing here in Egypt. Bill’s taken us around all 
the tombs and you wouldn’t believe the curses those 
old Egyptian wizards put on them. Mum wouldn’t let 
Ginny come in the last one. There were all these 
mutant skeletons in there, of Muggles who’d broken in 
and grown extra heads and stuff. 

I couldn’t believe it when Dad won the Daily Prophet 
Draw. Seven hundred galleons! Most of it’s gone on 
this trip, but they’re going to buy me a new wand for 
next year. 

Harry remembered only too well the occasion when 
Ron’s old wand had snapped. It had happened when 



Page | 10 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




the car the two of them had been flying to Hogwarts 
had crashed into a tree on the school grounds. 

We’ll be back about a week before term starts and 
we’ll be going up to London to get my wand and our 
new books. Any chance of meeting you there? 

Don’t let the Muggles get you down! 

Try and come to London, 

Ron 

PS. Percy’s Head Boy. He got the letter last week. 

Harry glanced back at the photograph. Percy, who 
was in his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, was 
looking particularly smug. He had pinned his Head 
Boy badge to the fez perched jauntily on top of his 
neat hair, his horn-rimmed glasses flashing in the 
Egyptian sun. 

Harry now turned to his present and unwrapped it. 
Inside was what looked like a miniature glass 
spinning top. There was another note from Ron 
beneath it. 

Harry — this is a Pocket Sneakoscope. If there’s 
someone untrustworthy around, it’s supposed to light 
up and spin. Bill says it’s rubbish sold for wizard 
tourists and isn’t reliable, because it kept lighting up at 
dinner last night. But he didn’t realize Fred and George 
had put beetles in his soup. 

Bye — 

Ron 



Page | 11 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




Harry put the Pocket Sneakoscope on his bedside 
table, where it stood quite still, balanced on its point, 
reflecting the luminous hands of his clock. He looked 
at it happily for a few seconds, then picked up the 
parcel Hedwig had brought. 

Inside this, too, there was a wrapped present, a card, 
and a letter, this time from Hermione. 

Dear Harry, 

Ron wrote to me and told me about his phone call to 
your Uncle Vernon. I do hope you’re all right. 

I’m on holiday in France at the moment and I didn’t 
know how I was going to send this to you — what if 
they’d opened it at customs? — but then Hedwig 
turned up! I think she wanted to make sure you got 
something for your birthday for a change. I bought your 
present by owl-order; there was an advertisement in 
the Daily Prophet (I’ve been getting it delivered; it’s so 
good to keep up with what’s going on in the wizarding 
world). Did you see that picture of Ron and his family a 
week ago? I bet he’s learning loads. I’m really jealous 
— the ancient Egyptian wizards were fascinating. 

There’s some interesting local history of witchcraft 
here, too. I’ve rewritten my whole History of Magic 
essay to include some of the things I’ve found out. I 
hope it’s not too long — it’s two rolls of parchment more 
than Professor Binns asked for. 

Ron says he’s going to be in London in the last week of 
the holidays. Can you make it? Will your aunt and 
uncle let you come? I really hope you can. If not, I’ll see 
you on the Hogwarts Express on September first! 

Love from 



Page | 12 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




Hermione 



PS. Ron says Percy’s Head Boy. I’ll bet Percy’s really 
pleased. 

Ron doesn’t seem too happy about it. 

Harry laughed as he put Hermione ’s letter aside and 
picked up her present. It was very heavy. Knowing 
Hermione, he was sure it would be a large book full of 
very difficult spells — but it wasn’t. His heart gave a 
huge bound as he ripped back the paper and saw a 
sleek black leather case, with silver words stamped 
across it, reading Broomstick Servicing Kit. 

“Wow, Hermione!” Harry whispered, unzipping the 
case to look inside. 

There was a large jar of Fleetwood’s High-Finish 
Handle Polish, a pair of gleaming silver Tail-Twig 
Clippers, a tiny brass compass to clip on your broom 
for long journeys, and a Handbook of Do-It-Yourself 
Broomcare. 

Apart from his friends, the thing that Harry missed 
most about Hogwarts was Quidditch, the most 
popular sport in the magical world — highly 
dangerous, very exciting, and played on broomsticks. 
Harry happened to be a very good Quidditch player; 
he had been the youngest person in a century to be 
picked for one of the Hogwarts House teams. One of 
Harry’s most prized possessions was his Nimbus Two 
Thousand racing broom. 

Harry put the leather case aside and picked up his 
last parcel. He recognized the untidy scrawl on the 
brown paper at once: this was from Hagrid, the 
Hogwarts gamekeeper. He tore off the top layer of 
paper and glimpsed something green and leathery, 
Page | 13 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




but before he could unwrap it properly, the parcel 
gave a strange quiver, and whatever was inside it 
snapped loudly — as though it had jaws. 

Harry froze. He knew that Hagrid would never send 
him anything dangerous on purpose, but then, 

Hagrid didn’t have a normal person’s view of what 
was dangerous. Hagrid had been known to befriend 
giant spiders, buy vicious, three-headed dogs from 
men in pubs, and sneak illegal dragon eggs into his 
cabin. 

Harry poked the parcel nervously. It snapped loudly 
again. Harry reached for the lamp on his bedside 
table, gripped it firmly in one hand, and raised it over 
his head, ready to strike. Then he seized the rest of 
the wrapping paper in his other hand and pulled. 

And out fell — a book. Harry just had time to register 
its handsome green cover, emblazoned with the 
golden title The Monster Book of Monsters, before it 
flipped onto its edge and scuttled sideways along the 
bed like some weird crab. 

“Uh-oh,” Harry muttered. 

The book toppled off the bed with a loud clunk and 
shuffled rapidly across the room. Harry followed it 
stealthily. The book was hiding in the dark space 
under his desk. Praying that the Dursleys were still 
fast asleep, Harry got down on his hands and knees 
and reached toward it. 

“Ouch!” 

The book snapped shut on his hand and then flapped 
past him, still scuttling on its covers. Harry 
scrambled around, threw himself forward, and 



Page | 14 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




managed to flatten it. Uncle Vernon gave a loud, 
sleepy grunt in the room next door. 

Hedwig and Errol watched interestedly as Harry 
clamped the struggling book tightly in his arms, 
hurried to his chest of drawers, and pulled out a belt, 
which he buckled tightly around it. The Monster Book 
shuddered angrily, but could no longer flap and snap, 
so Harry threw it down on the bed and reached for 
Hagrid’s card. 

Dear Harry, 

Happy birthday! 

Think you might find this useful for next year. 

Won’t say no more here. Tell you when I see you. 

Hope the Muggles are treating you right. 

All the best, 

Hagrid 

It struck Harry as ominous that Hagrid thought a 
biting book would come in useful, but he put Hagrid’s 
card up next to Ron’s and Hermione’s, grinning more 
broadly than ever. Now there was only the letter from 
Hogwarts left. 

Noticing that it was rather thicker than usual, Harry 
slit open the envelope, pulled out the first page of 
parchment within, and read: 

Dear Mr. Potter, 

Please note that the new school year will begin on 
September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave 

Page | 15 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




from King’s Cross station, platform nine and three- 
quarters, at eleven o’clock. 

Third years are permitted to visit the village of 
Hogsmeade on certain weekends. Please give the 
enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to 
sign. 

A list of books for next year is enclosed. 

Yours sincerely, 

Professor M. McGonagall 
Deputy Headmistress 

Harry pulled out the Hogsmeade permission form and 
looked at it, no longer grinning. It would be wonderful 
to visit Hogsmeade on weekends; he knew it was an 
entirely wizarding village, and he had never set foot 
there. But how on earth was he going to persuade 
Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia to sign the form? 

He looked over at the alarm clock. It was now two 
o’clock in the morning. 

Deciding that he’d worry about the Hogsmeade form 
when he woke up, Harry got back into bed and 
reached up to cross off another day on the chart he’d 
made for himself, counting down the days left until 
his return to Hogwarts. Then he took off his glasses 
and lay down, eyes open, facing his three birthday 
cards. 

Extremely unusual though he was, at that moment 
Harry Potter felt just like everyone else — glad, for the 
first time in his life, that it was his birthday. 



Page | 16 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 





AUNT MARGE’S BIG MISTAKE 

Harry went down to breakfast the next morning to 
find the three Dursleys already sitting around the 
kitchen table. They were watching a brand-new 
television, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present 
for Dudley, who had been complaining loudly about 
the long walk between the fridge and the television in 
the living room. Dudley had spent most of the 
summer in the kitchen, his piggy little eyes fixed on 
the screen and his five chins wobbling as he ate 
continually. 

Harry sat down between Dudley and Uncle Vernon, a 
large, beefy man with very little neck and a lot of 
mustache. Far from wishing Harry a happy birthday, 
none of the Dursleys made any sign that they had 
noticed Harry enter the room, but Harry was far too 
used to this to care. He helped himself to a piece of 
toast and then looked up at the reporter on the 
television, who was halfway through a report on an 
escaped convict: 



Page | 17 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 



"... The public is warned that Black is armed and 
extremely dangerous. A special hot line has been set 
up, and any sighting of Black should be reported 
immediately.” 

“No need to tell us he’s no good,” snorted Uncle 
Vernon, staring over the top of his newspaper at the 
prisoner. “Look at the state of him, the filthy 
layabout! Look at his hair!” 

He shot a nasty look sideways at Harry, whose untidy 
hair had always been a source of great annoyance to 
Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on the 
television, however, whose gaunt face was 
surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, Harry 
felt very well groomed indeed. 

The reporter had reappeared. 

“The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will 
announce today — ” 

“Hang on!” barked Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at 
the reporter. “You didn’t tell us where that maniac’s 
escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic could be 
coming up the street right now!” 

Aunt Petunia, who was bony and horse-faced, 
whipped around and peered intently out of the 
kitchen window. Harry knew Aunt Petunia would 
simply love to be the one to call the hot line number. 
She was the nosiest woman in the world and spent 
most of her life spying on the boring, law-abiding 
neighbors. 

“When will they learn,” said Uncle Vernon, pounding 
the table with his large purple fist, “that hanging’s the 
only way to deal with these people?” 



Page | 18 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“Very true,” said Aunt Petunia, who was still 
squinting into next door’s runner beans. 

Uncle Vernon drained his teacup, glanced at his 
watch, and added, “I’d better be off in a minute, 
Petunia. Marge’s train gets in at ten.” 

Harry, whose thoughts had been upstairs with the 
Broomstick Servicing Kit, was brought back to earth 
with an unpleasant bump. 

“Aunt Marge?” he blurted out. “Sh — she’s not 
coming here, is she?” 

Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon’s sister. Even though 
she was not a blood relative of Harry’s (whose mother 
had been Aunt Petunia’s sister), he had been forced to 
call her “Aunt” all his life. Aunt Marge lived in the 
country, in a house with a large garden, where she 
bred bulldogs. She didn’t often stay at Privet Drive, 
because she couldn’t bear to leave her precious dogs, 
but each of her visits stood out horribly vividly in 
Harry’s mind. 

At Dudley’s fifth birthday party, Aunt Marge had 
whacked Harry around the shins with her walking 
stick to stop him from beating Dudley at musical 
statues. A few years later, she had turned up at 
Christmas with a computerized robot for Dudley and 
a box of dog biscuits for Harry. On her last visit, the 
year before Harry started at Hogwarts, Harry had 
accidentally trodden on the tail of her favorite dog. 
Ripper had chased Harry out into the garden and up 
a tree, and Aunt Marge had refused to call him off 
until past midnight. The memory of this incident still 
brought tears of laughter to Dudley’s eyes. 

“Marge’ll be here for a week,” Uncle Vernon snarled, 
“and while we’re on the subject” — he pointed a fat 

Page | 19 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




finger threateningly at Harry — “we need to get a few 
things straight before I go and collect her.” 

Dudley smirked and withdrew his gaze from the 
television. Watching Harry being bullied by Uncle 
Vernon was Dudley’s favorite form of entertainment. 

“Firstly,” growled Uncle Vernon, “you’ll keep a civil 
tongue in your head when you’re talking to Marge.” 

“All right,” said Harry bitterly, “if she does when she’s 
talking to me.” 

“Secondly,” said Uncle Vernon, acting as though he 
had not heard Harry’s reply, “as Marge doesn’t know 
anything about your abnormality, I don’t want any — 
any funny stuff while she’s here. You behave yourself, 
got me?” 

“I will if she does,” said Harry through gritted teeth. 

“And thirdly,” said Uncle Vernon, his mean little eyes 
now slits in his great purple face, “we’ve told Marge 
you attend St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably 
Criminal Boys.” 

“What?” Harry yelled. 

“And you’ll be sticking to that story, boy, or there’ll be 
trouble,” spat Uncle Vernon. 

Harry sat there, white-faced and furious, staring at 
Uncle Vernon, hardly able to believe it. Aunt Marge 
coming for a week-long visit — it was the worst 
birthday present the Dursleys had ever given him, 
including that pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks. 



Page | 20 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“Well, Petunia,” said Uncle Vernon, getting heavily to 
his feet, “111 be off to the station, then. Want to come 
along for the ride, Dudders?” 

“No,” said Dudley, whose attention had returned to 
the television now that Uncle Vernon had finished 
threatening Harry. 

“Duddy’s got to make himself smart for his auntie,” 
said Aunt Petunia, smoothing Dudley’s thick blond 
hair. “Mummy’s bought him a lovely new bow tie.” 

Uncle Vernon clapped Dudley on his porky shoulder. 

“See you in a bit, then,” he said, and he left the 
kitchen. 

Harry, who had been sitting in a kind of horrified 
trance, had a sudden idea. Abandoning his toast, he 
got quickly to his feet and followed Uncle Vernon to 
the front door. 

Uncle Vernon was pulling on his car coat. 

“I’m not taking you,” he snarled as he turned to see 
Harry watching him. 

“Like I wanted to come,” said Harry coldly. “I want to 
ask you something.” 

Uncle Vernon eyed him suspiciously. 

“Third years at Hog — at my school are allowed to 
visit the village sometimes,” said Harry. 

“So?” snapped Uncle Vernon, taking his car keys from 
a hook next to the door. 



Page | 21 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“I need you to sign the permission form,” said Harry 
in a rush. 

“And why should I do that?” sneered Uncle Vernon. 

“Well,” said Harry, choosing his words carefully, “it’ll 
be hard work, pretending to Aunt Marge I go to that 
St. Whatsits — ” 

“St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal 
Boys!” bellowed Uncle Vernon, and Harry was pleased 
to hear a definite note of panic in Uncle Vernon’s 
voice. 

“Exactly,” said Harry, looking calmly up into Uncle 
Vernon’s large, purple face. “It’s a lot to remember. I’ll 
have to make it sound convincing, won’t I? What if I 
accidentally let something slip?” 

“ You’ll get the stuffing knocked out of you, won’t you?” 
roared Uncle Vernon, advancing on Harry with his fist 
raised. But Harry stood his ground. 

“Knocking the stuffing out of me won’t make Aunt 
Marge forget what I could tell her,” he said grimly. 

Uncle Vernon stopped, his fist still raised, his face an 
ugly puce. 

“But if you sign my permission form,” Harry went on 
quickly, “I swear I’ll remember where I’m supposed to 
go to school, and I’ll act like a Mug — like I’m normal 
and everything.” 

Harry could tell that Uncle Vernon was thinking it 
over, even if his teeth were bared and a vein was 
throbbing in his temple. 



Page | 22 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“Right,” he snapped finally. “I shall monitor your 
behavior carefully during Marge’s visit. If, at the end 
of it, you’ve toed the line and kept to the story, I’ll 
sign your ruddy form.” 

He wheeled around, pulled open the front door, and 
slammed it so hard that one of the little panes of 
glass at the top fell out. 

Harry didn’t return to the kitchen. He went back 
upstairs to his bedroom. If he was going to act like a 
real Muggle, he’d better start now. Slowly and sadly 
he gathered up all his presents and his birthday 
cards and hid them under the loose floorboard with 
his homework. Then he went to Hedwig’s cage. Errol 
seemed to have recovered; he and Hedwig were both 
asleep, heads under their wings. Harry sighed, then 
poked them both awake. 

“Hedwig,” he said gloomily, “you’re going to have to 
clear off for a week. Go with Errol. Ron’ll look after 
you. I’ll write him a note, explaining. And don’t look at 
me like that” — Hedwig’s large amber eyes were 
reproachful — “it’s not my fault. It’s the only way I’ll 
be allowed to visit Hogsmeade with Ron and 
Hermione.” 

Ten minutes later, Errol and Hedwig (who had a note 
to Ron bound to her leg) soared out of the window 
and out of sight. Harry, now feeling thoroughly 
miserable, put the empty cage away inside the 
wardrobe. 

But Harry didn’t have long to brood. In next to no 
time, Aunt Petunia was shrieking up the stairs for 
Harry to come down and get ready to welcome their 
guest. 



Page | 23 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“Do something about your hair!” Aunt Petunia 
snapped as he reached the hall. 

Harry couldn’t see the point of trying to make his hair 
lie flat. Aunt Marge loved criticizing him, so the 
untidier he looked, the happier she would be. 

All too soon, there was a crunch of gravel outside as 
Uncle Vernon’s car pulled back into the driveway, 
then the clunk of the car doors and footsteps on the 
garden path. 

“Get the door!” Aunt Petunia hissed at Harry. 

A feeling of great gloom in his stomach, Harry pulled 
the door open. 

On the threshold stood Aunt Marge. She was very like 
Uncle Vernon: large, beefy, and purple-faced, she 
even had a mustache, though not as bushy as his. In 
one hand she held an enormous suitcase, and tucked 
under the other was an old and evil-tempered 
bulldog. 

“Where’s my Dudders?” roared Aunt Marge. “Where’s 
my neffy-poo?” 

Dudley came waddling down the hall, his blond hair 
plastered flat to his fat head, a bow tie just visible 
under his many chins. Aunt Marge thrust the 
suitcase into Harry’s stomach, knocking the wind out 
of him, seized Dudley in a tight one-armed hug, and 
planted a large kiss on his cheek. 

Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley only put up 
with Aunt Marge’s hugs because he was well paid for 
it, and sure enough, when they broke apart, Dudley 
had a crisp twenty-pound note clutched in his fat fist. 



Page | 24 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“Petunia!” shouted Aunt Marge, striding past Harry as 
though he was a hat stand. Aunt Marge and Aunt 
Petunia kissed, or rather, Aunt Marge bumped her 
large jaw against Aunt Petunia’s bony cheekbone. 

Uncle Vernon now came in, smiling jovially as he shut 
the door. 

“Tea, Marge?” he said. “And what will Ripper take?” 

“Ripper can have some tea out of my saucer,” said 
Aunt Marge as they all proceeded into the kitchen, 
leaving Harry alone in the hall with the suitcase. But 
Harry wasn’t complaining; any excuse not to be with 
Aunt Marge was fine by him, so he began to heave the 
case upstairs into the spare bedroom, taking as long 
as he could. 

By the time he got back to the kitchen, Aunt Marge 
had been supplied with tea and fruitcake, and Ripper 
was lapping noisily in the corner. Harry saw Aunt 
Petunia wince slightly as specks of tea and drool 
flecked her clean floor. Aunt Petunia hated animals. 

“Who’s looking after the other dogs, Marge?” Uncle 
Vernon asked. 

“Oh, I’ve got Colonel Fubster managing them,” 
boomed Aunt Marge. “He’s retired now, good for him 
to have something to do. But I couldn’t leave poor old 
Ripper. He pines if he’s away from me.” 

Ripper began to growl again as Harry sat down. This 
directed Aunt Marge’s attention to Harry for the first 
time. 

“So!” she barked. “Still here, are you?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. 

Page | 25 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“Don’t you say ‘yes’ in that ungrateful tone,” Aunt 
Marge growled. “It’s damn good of Vernon and 
Petunia to keep you. Wouldn’t have done it myself. 
You’d have gone straight to an orphanage if you’d 
been dumped on my doorstep.” 

Harry was bursting to say that he’d rather live in an 
orphanage than with the Dursleys, but the thought of 
the Hogsmeade form stopped him. He forced his face 
into a painful smile. 

“Don’t you smirk at me!” boomed Aunt Marge. “I can 
see you haven’t improved since I last saw you. I hoped 
school would knock some manners into you.” She 
took a large gulp of tea, wiped her mustache, and 
said, “Where is it that you send him, again, Vernon?” 

“St. Brutus’s,” said Uncle Vernon promptly. “It’s a 
first-rate institution for hopeless cases.” 

“I see,” said Aunt Marge. “Do they use the cane at St. 
Brutus’s, boy?” she barked across the table. 

“Er — ” 



Uncle Vernon nodded curtly behind Aunt Marge’s 
back. 

“Yes,” said Harry. Then, feeling he might as well do 
the thing properly, he added, “all the time.” 

“Excellent,” said Aunt Marge. “I won’t have this 
namby-pamby, wishy-washy nonsense about not 
hitting people who deserve it. A good thrashing is 
what’s needed in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. 
Have you been beaten often?” 

“Oh, yeah,” said Harry, “loads of times.” 



Page | 26 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




Aunt Marge narrowed her eyes. 



“I still don’t like your tone, boy,” she said. “If you can 
speak of your beatings in that casual way, they 
clearly aren’t hitting you hard enough. Petunia, I’d 
write if I were you. Make it clear that you approve the 
use of extreme force in this boy’s case.” 

Perhaps Uncle Vernon was worried that Harry might 
forget their bargain; in any case, he changed the 
subject abruptly. 

“Heard the news this morning, Marge? What about 
that escaped prisoner, eh?” 

As Aunt Marge started to make herself at home, Harry 
caught himself thinking almost longingly of life at 
number four without her. Uncle Vernon and Aunt 
Petunia usually encouraged Harry to stay out of their 
way, which Harry was only too happy to do. Aunt 
Marge, on the other hand, wanted Harry under her 
eye at all times, so that she could boom out 
suggestions for his improvement. She delighted in 
comparing Harry with Dudley, and took huge 
pleasure in buying Dudley expensive presents while 
glaring at Harry, as though daring him to ask why he 
hadn’t got a present too. She also kept throwing out 
dark hints about what made Harry such an 
unsatisfactory person. 

“You mustn’t blame yourself for the way the boy’s 
turned out, Vernon,” she said over lunch on the third 
day. “If there’s something rotten on the inside, there’s 
nothing anyone can do about it.” 

Harry tried to concentrate on his food, but his hands 
shook and his face was starting to burn with anger. 
Remember the form, he told himself. Think about 
Hogsmeade. Don’t say anything. Don’t rise — 

Page | 27 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




Aunt Marge reached for her glass of wine. 



“It’s one of the basic rules of breeding,” she said. “You 
see it all the time with dogs. If there’s something 
wrong with the bitch, there’ll be something wrong 
with the pup — ” 

At that moment, the wineglass Aunt Marge was 
holding exploded in her hand. Shards of glass flew in 
every direction and Aunt Marge sputtered and 
blinked, her great ruddy face dripping. 

“Marge!” squealed Aunt Petunia. “Marge, are you all 
right?” 

“Not to worry,” grunted Aunt Marge, mopping her face 
with her napkin. “Must have squeezed it too hard. Did 
the same thing at Colonel Fubster’s the other day. No 
need to fuss, Petunia, I have a very firm grip ...” 

But Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were both 
looking at Harry suspiciously, so he decided he’d 
better skip dessert and escape from the table as soon 
as he could. 

Outside in the hall, he leaned against the wall, 
breathing deeply. It had been a long time since he’d 
lost control and made something explode. He couldn’t 
afford to let it happen again. The Hogsmeade form 
wasn’t the only thing at stake — if he carried on like 
that, he’d be in trouble with the Ministry of Magic. 

Harry was still an underage wizard, and he was 
forbidden by wizard law to do magic outside school. 
His record wasn’t exactly clean either. Only last 
summer he’d gotten an official warning that had 
stated quite clearly that if the Ministry got wind of 
any more magic in Privet Drive, Harry would face 
expulsion from Hogwarts. 

Page | 28 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




He heard the Dursleys leaving the table and hurried 
upstairs out of the way. 

Harry got through the next three days by forcing 
himself to think about his Handbook of Do-It-Yourself 
Broomcare whenever Aunt Marge started on him. This 
worked quite well, though it seemed to give him a 
glazed look, because Aunt Marge started voicing the 
opinion that he was mentally subnormal. 

At last, at long last, the final evening of Marge’s stay 
arrived. Aunt Petunia cooked a fancy dinner and 
Uncle Vernon uncorked several bottles of wine. They 
got all the way through the soup and the salmon 
without a single mention of Harry’s faults; during the 
lemon meringue pie, Uncle Vernon bored them all 
with a long talk about Grunnings, his drill-making 
company; then Aunt Petunia made coffee and Uncle 
Vernon brought out a bottle of brandy. 

“Can I tempt you, Marge?” 

Aunt Marge had already had quite a lot of wine. Her 
huge face was very red. 

“Just a small one, then,” she chuckled. “A bit more 
than that ... and a bit more ... that’s the ticket.” 

Dudley was eating his fourth slice of pie. Aunt 
Petunia was sipping coffee with her little finger 
sticking out. Harry really wanted to disappear into his 
bedroom, but he met Uncle Vernon’s angry little eyes 
and knew he would have to sit it out. 

“Aah,” said Aunt Marge, smacking her lips and 
putting the empty brandy glass back down. “Excellent 
nosh, Petunia. It’s normally just a fry-up for me of an 
evening, with twelve dogs to look after. ...” She 
burped richly and patted her great tweed stomach. 
Page | 29 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“Pardon me. But I do like to see a healthy-sized boy,” 
she went on, winking at Dudley. “You’ll be a proper- 
sized man, Dudders, like your father. Yes, I’ll have a 
spot more brandy, Vernon. ...” 

“Now, this one here — ” 

She jerked her head at Harry, who felt his stomach 
clench. The Handbook, he thought quickly. 

“This one’s got a mean, runty look about him. You get 
that with dogs. I had Colonel Fubster drown one last 
year. Ratty little thing it was. Weak. Underbred.” 

Harry was trying to remember page twelve of his 
book: A Charm to Cure Reluctant Reversers. 

“It all comes down to blood, as I was saying the other 
day. Bad blood will out. Now, I’m saying nothing 
against your family, Petunia” — she patted Aunt 
Petunia’s bony hand with her shovellike one — “but 
your sister was a bad egg. They turn up in the best 
families. Then she ran off with a wastrel and here’s 
the result right in front of us.” 

Harry was staring at his plate, a funny ringing in his 
ears. Grasp your broom firmly by the tail, he thought. 
But he couldn’t remember what came next. Aunt 
Marge’s voice seemed to be boring into him like one of 
Uncle Vernon’s drills. 

“This Potter,” said Aunt Marge loudly, seizing the 
brandy bottle and splashing more into her glass and 
over the tablecloth, “you never told me what he did?” 

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were looking 
extremely tense. Dudley had even looked up from his 
pie to gape at his parents. 



Page | 30 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“He — didn’t work,” said Uncle Vernon, with half a 
glance at Harry. “Unemployed.” 



“As I expected!” said Aunt Marge, taking a huge swig 
of brandy and wiping her chin on her sleeve. “A no- 
account, good-for-nothing, lazy scrounger who — ” 

“He was not,” said Harry suddenly. The table went 
very quiet. Harry was shaking all over. He had never 
felt so angry in his life. 

“MORE BRANDY!” yelled Uncle Vernon, who had gone 
very white. He emptied the bottle into Aunt Marge’s 
glass. “You, boy,” he snarled at Harry. “Go to bed, go 
on — ” 



“No, Vernon,” hiccuped Aunt Marge, holding up a 
hand, her tiny bloodshot eyes fixed on Harry’s. “Go 
on, boy, go on. Proud of your parents, are you? They 
go and get themselves killed in a car crash (drunk, I 
expect) — ” 

“They didn’t die in a car crash!” said Harry, who 
found himself on his feet. 

“They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar, and left 
you to be a burden on their decent, hardworking 
relatives!” screamed Aunt Marge, swelling with fury. 
“You are an insolent, ungrateful little — ” 

But Aunt Marge suddenly stopped speaking. For a 
moment, it looked as though words had failed her. 

She seemed to be swelling with inexpressible anger — 
but the swelling didn’t stop. Her great red face started 
to expand, her tiny eyes bulged, and her mouth 
stretched too tightly for speech — next second, 
several buttons had just burst from her tweed jacket 
and pinged off the walls — she was inflating like a 
monstrous balloon, her stomach bursting free of her 
Page | 31 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




tweed waistband, each of her fingers blowing up like a 
salami — 

“MARGE!” yelled Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia 
together as Aunt Marge’s whole body began to rise off 
her chair toward the ceiling. She was entirely round, 
now, like a vast life buoy with piggy eyes, and her 
hands and feet stuck out weirdly as she drifted up 
into the air, making apoplectic popping noises. Ripper 
came skidding into the room, barking madly. 

“NOOOOOOO!” 

Uncle Vernon seized one of Marge’s feet and tried to 
pull her down again, but was almost lifted from the 
floor himself. A second later, Ripper leapt forward and 
sank his teeth into Uncle Vernon’s leg. 

Harry tore from the dining room before anyone could 
stop him, heading for the cupboard under the stairs. 
The cupboard door burst magically open as he 
reached it. In seconds, he had heaved his trunk to the 
front door. He sprinted upstairs and threw himself 
under the bed, wrenching up the loose floorboard, 
and grabbed the pillowcase full of his books and 
birthday presents. He wriggled out, seized Hedwig’s 
empty cage, and dashed back downstairs to his 
trunk, just as Uncle Vernon burst out of the dining 
room, his trouser leg in bloody tatters. 

“COME BACK IN HERE!” he bellowed. “COME BACK 
AND PUT HER RIGHT!” 

But a reckless rage had come over Harry. He kicked 
his trunk open, pulled out his wand, and pointed it at 
Uncle Vernon. 

“She deserved it,” Harry said, breathing very fast. 

“She deserved what she got. You keep away from me.” 

Page | 32 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




He fumbled behind him for the latch on the door. 



“I’m going,” Harry said. “I’ve had enough.” 

And in the next moment, he was out in the dark, 
quiet street, heaving his heavy trunk behind him, 
Hedwig’s cage under his arm. 



Page | 33 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




3 




THE KNIGHT BUS 

Harry was several streets away before he collapsed 
onto a low wall in Magnolia Crescent, panting from 
the effort of dragging his trunk. He sat quite still, 
anger still surging through him, listening to the 
frantic thumping of his heart. 

But after ten minutes alone in the dark street, a new 
emotion overtook him: panic. Whichever way he 
looked at it, he had never been in a worse fix. He was 
stranded, quite alone, in the dark Muggle world, with 
absolutely nowhere to go. And the worst of it was, he 
had just done serious magic, which meant that he 
was almost certainly expelled from Hogwarts. He had 
broken the Decree for the Restriction of Underage 
Wizardry so badly, he was surprised Ministry of Magic 
representatives weren’t swooping down on him where 
he sat. 

Harry shivered and looked up and down Magnolia 
Crescent. What was going to happen to him? Would 
he be arrested, or would he simply be outlawed from 
the wizarding world? He thought of Ron and 

Page | 34 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 



Hermione, and his heart sank even lower. Harry was 
sure that, criminal or not, Ron and Hermione would 
want to help him now, but they were both abroad, 
and with Hedwig gone, he had no means of contacting 
them. 

He didn’t have any Muggle money, either. There was a 
little wizard gold in the money bag at the bottom of 
his trunk, but the rest of the fortune his parents had 
left him was stored in a vault at Gringotts Wizarding 
Bank in London. He’d never be able to drag his trunk 
all the way to London. Unless ... 

He looked down at his wand, which he was still 
clutching in his hand. If he was already expelled (his 
heart was now thumping painfully fast), a bit more 
magic couldn’t hurt. He had the Invisibility Cloak he 
had inherited from his father — what if he bewitched 
the trunk to make it feather-light, tied it to his 
broomstick, covered himself in the cloak, and flew to 
London? Then he could get the rest of his money out 
of his vault and ... begin his life as an outcast. It was 
a horrible prospect, but he couldn’t sit on this wall 
forever, or he’d find himself trying to explain to 
Muggle police why he was out in the dead of night 
with a trunkful of spellbooks and a broomstick. 

Harry opened his trunk again and pushed the 
contents aside, looking for the Invisibility Cloak — 
but before he had found it, he straightened up 
suddenly, looking around him once more. 

A funny prickling on the back of his neck had made 
Harry feel he was being watched, but the street 
appeared to be deserted, and no lights shone from 
any of the large square houses. 

He bent over his trunk again, but almost immediately 
stood up once more, his hand clenched on his wand. 

Page | 35 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




He had sensed rather than heard it: someone or 
something was standing in the narrow gap between 
the garage and the fence behind him. Harry squinted 
at the black alleyway. If only it would move, then he’d 
know whether it was just a stray cat or — something 
else. 

“Lumos,” Harry muttered, and a light appeared at the 
end of his wand, almost dazzling him. He held it high 
over his head, and the pebble-dashed walls of number 
two suddenly sparkled; the garage door gleamed, and 
between them Harry saw, quite distinctly, the hulking 
outline of something very big, with wide, gleaming 
eyes. 

Harry stepped backward. His legs hit his trunk and 
he tripped. His wand flew out of his hand as he flung 
out an arm to break his fall, and he landed, hard, in 
the gutter — 

There was a deafening BANG, and Harry threw up his 
hands to shield his eyes against a sudden blinding 
light — 

With a yell, he rolled back onto the pavement, just in 
time. A second later, a gigantic pair of wheels and 
headlights screeched to a halt exactly where Harry 
had just been lying. They belonged, as Harry saw 
when he raised his head, to a triple-decker, violently 
purple bus, which had appeared out of thin air. Gold 
lettering over the windshield spelled The Knight Bus. 

For a split second, Harry wondered if he had been 
knocked silly by his fall. Then a conductor in a purple 
uniform leapt out of the bus and began to speak 
loudly to the night. 

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for 
the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your 

Page | 36 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




wand hand, step on board, and we can take you 
anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, 
and I will be your conductor this eve — ” 

The conductor stopped abruptly. He had just caught 
sight of Harry, who was still sitting on the ground. 
Harry snatched up his wand again and scrambled to 
his feet. Close up, he saw that Stan Shunpike was 
only a few years older than he was, eighteen or 
nineteen at most, with large, protruding ears and 
quite a few pimples. 

“What were you doin’ down there?” said Stan, 
dropping his professional manner. 

“Fell over,” said Harry. 

“ ’Choo fall over for?” sniggered Stan. 

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” said Harry, annoyed. One 
of the knees in his jeans was torn, and the hand he 
had thrown out to break his fall was bleeding. He 
suddenly remembered why he had fallen over and 
turned around quickly to stare at the alleyway 
between the garage and fence. The Knight Bus’s 
headlamps were flooding it with light, and it was 
empty. 

“ ’Choo lookin’ at?” said Stan. 

“There was a big black thing,” said Harry, pointing 
uncertainly into the gap. “Like a dog ... but massive 



He looked around at Stan, whose mouth was slightly 
open. With a feeling of unease, Harry saw Stan’s eyes 
move to the scar on Harry’s forehead. 

“Woss that on your ’ead?” said Stan abruptly. 

Page | 37 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“Nothing,” said Harry quickly, flattening his hair over 
his scar. If the Ministry of Magic was looking for him, 
he didn’t want to make it too easy for them. 

“Woss your name?” Stan persisted. 

“Neville Longbottom,” said Harry, saying the first 
name that came into his head. “So — so this bus,” he 
went on quickly, hoping to distract Stan, “did you say 
it goes anywhere?” 

“Yep,” said Stan proudly, “anywhere you like, long’s 
it’s on land. Can’t do nuffink underwater. ’Ere,” he 
said, looking suspicious again, “you did flag us down, 
dincha? Stuck out your wand ’and, dincha?” 

“Yes,” said Harry quickly. “Listen, how much would it 
be to get to London?” 

“Eleven Sickles,” said Stan, “but for firteen you get ’ot 
chocolate, and for fifteen you get an ’ot water bottle 
an’ a toofbrush in the color of your choice.” 

Harry rummaged once more in his trunk, extracted 
his money bag, and shoved some gold into Stan’s 
hand. He and Stan then lifted his trunk, with 
Hedwig’s cage balanced on top, up the steps of the 
bus. 

There were no seats; instead, half a dozen brass 
bedsteads stood beside the curtained windows. 
Candles were burning in brackets beside each bed, 
illuminating the wood-paneled walls. A tiny wizard in 
a nightcap at the rear of the bus muttered, “Not now, 
thanks, I’m pickling some slugs” and rolled over in his 
sleep. 

“You ’ave this one,” Stan whispered, shoving Harry’s 
trunk under the bed right behind the driver, who was 

Page | 38 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




sitting in an armchair in front of the steering wheel. 
“This is our driver, Ernie Prang. This is Neville 
Longbottom, Ern.” 

Ernie Prang, an elderly wizard wearing very thick 
glasses, nodded to Harry, who nervously flattened his 
bangs again and sat down on his bed. 

“Take ’er away, Ern,” said Stan, sitting down in the 
armchair next to Ernie’s. 

There was another tremendous BANG, and the next 
moment Harry found himself flat on his bed, thrown 
backward by the speed of the Knight Bus. Pulling 
himself up, Harry stared out of the dark window and 
saw that they were now bowling along a completely 
different street. Stan was watching Harry’s stunned 
face with great enjoyment. 

“This is where we was before you flagged us down,” he 
said. “Where are we, Ern? Somewhere in Wales?” 

“Ar,” said Ernie. 

“How come the Muggles don’t hear the bus?” said 
Harry. 

“Them!” said Stan contemptuously. “Don’ listen 
properly, do they? Don’ look properly either. Never 
notice nuffink, they don’.” 

“Best go wake up Madam Marsh, Stan,” said Ern. 
“Well be in Abergavenny in a minute.” 

Stan passed Harry’s bed and disappeared up a 
narrow wooden staircase. Harry was still looking out 
of the window, feeling increasingly nervous. Ernie 
didn’t seem to have mastered the use of a steering 
wheel. The Knight Bus kept mounting the pavement, 
Page | 39 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




but it didn’t hit anything; lines of lampposts, 
mailboxes, and trash cans jumped out of its way as it 
approached and back into position once it had 
passed. 

Stan came back downstairs, followed by a faintly 
green witch wrapped in a traveling cloak. 

“ ’Ere you go, Madam Marsh,” said Stan happily as 
Ern stamped on the brake and the beds slid a foot or 
so toward the front of the bus. Madam Marsh 
clamped a handkerchief to her mouth and tottered 
down the steps. Stan threw her bag out after her and 
rammed the doors shut; there was another loud 
BANG, and they were thundering down a narrow 
country lane, trees leaping out of the way. 

Harry wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if he had 
been traveling on a bus that didn’t keep banging 
loudly and jumping a hundred miles at a time. His 
stomach churned as he fell back to wondering what 
was going to happen to him, and whether the 
Dursleys had managed to get Aunt Marge off the 
ceiling yet. 

Stan had unfurled a copy of the Daily Prophet and 
was now reading with his tongue between his teeth. A 
large photograph of a sunken-faced man with long, 
matted hair blinked slowly at Harry from the front 
page. He looked strangely familiar. 

“That man!” Harry said, forgetting his troubles for a 
moment. “He was on the Muggle news!” 

Stanley turned to the front page and chuckled. 

“Sirius Black,” he said, nodding. “ ’Course ’e was on 
the Muggle news, Neville, where you been?” 



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He gave a superior sort of chuckle at the blank look 
on Harry’s face, removed the front page, and handed 
it to Harry. 

“You oughta read the papers more, Neville.” 

Harry held the paper up to the candlelight and read: 
BLACK STILL AT LARGE 

Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner 
ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding 
capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today. 

“We are doing all we can to recapture Black,” said the 
Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning, 

“and we beg the magical community to remain calm.” 

Fudge has been criticized by some members of the 
International Federation of Warlocks for informing the 
Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis. 

“Well, really, I had to, don’t you know,” said an 
irritable Fudge. “Black is mad. He’s a danger to 
anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the 
Prime Minister’s assurance that he will not breathe a 
word of Black’s true identity to anyone. And let’s face 
it — who’d believe him if he did?” 

While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a 
gun (a kind of metal wand that Muggles use to kill 
each other), the magical community lives in fear of a 
massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black 
murdered thirteen people with a single curse. 



Harry looked into the shadowed eyes of Sirius Black, 
the only part of the sunken face that seemed alive. 

Page | 41 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




Harry had never met a vampire, but he had seen 
pictures of them in his Defense Against the Dark Arts 
classes, and Black, with his waxy white skin, looked 
just like one. 

“Scary-lookin’ fing, inee?” said Stan, who had been 
watching Harry read. 

“He murdered thirteen people?” said Harry, handing 
the page back to Stan, “with one curse?” 

“Yep,” said Stan, “in front of witnesses an’ all. Broad 
daylight. Big trouble it caused, dinnit, Ern?” 

“Ar,” said Ern darkly. 

Stan swiveled in his armchair, his hands on the back, 
the better to look at Harry. 

“Black woz a big supporter of You-Know-’Oo,” he said. 

“What, Voldemort?” said Harry, without thinking. 

Even Stan’s pimples went white; Ern jerked the 
steering wheel so hard that a whole farmhouse had to 
jump aside to avoid the bus. 

“You outta your tree?” yelped Stan. “ ’Choo say ’is 
name for?” 

“Sorry,” said Harry hastily. “Sorry, I — I forgot — ” 

“Forgot!” said Stan weakly. “Blimey, my ’eart’s goin’ 
that fast...” 

“So — so Black was a supporter of You-Know-Who?” 
Harry prompted apologetically. 



Page | 42 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“Yeah,” said Stan, still rubbing his chest. “Yeah, 
that’s right. Very close to You-Know-’Oo, they say. 
Anyway, when little ’Arry Potter got the better of You- 
Know-’Oo — ” 

Harry nervously flattened his bangs down again. 

“ — all You-Know-’Oo’s supporters was tracked down, 
wasn’t they, Ern? Most of ’em knew it was all over, 
wiv You-Know-’Oo gone, and they came quiet. But not 
Sirius Black. I ’eard he thought ’e’d be second-in- 
command once You-Know-’Oo ’ad taken over. 

“Anyway, they cornered Black in the middle of a street 
full of Muggles an’ Black took out ’is wand and ’e 
blasted ’alf the street apart, an’ a wizard got it, an’ so 
did a dozen Muggles what got in the way. ’Orrible, eh? 
An’ you know what Black did then?” Stan continued 
in a dramatic whisper. 

“What?” said Harry. 

“Laughed,” said Stan. “Jus’ stood there an’ laughed. 
An’ when reinforcements from the Ministry of Magic 
got there, ’e went wiv ’em quiet as anyfink, still 
laughing ’is ’ead off. ’Cos ’e’s mad, inee, Ern? Inee 
mad?” 

“If he weren’t when he went to Azkaban, he will be 
now,” said Ern in his slow voice. “I’d blow meself up 
before I set foot in that place. Serves him right, mind 
you ... after what he did. ...” 

“They ’ad a job coverin’ it up, din’ they, Ern?” Stan 
said. “ ’Ole street blown up an’ all them Muggles 
dead. What was it they said ’ad ’appened, Ern?” 

“Gas explosion,” grunted Ernie. 



Page | 43 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“An’ now ’e’s out,” said Stan, examining the 
newspaper picture of Black’s gaunt face again. “Never 
been a breakout from Azkaban before, ’as there, Ern? 
Beats me ’ow ’e did it. Frightenin’, eh? Mind, I don’t 
fancy ’is chances against them Azkaban guards, eh, 
Ern?” 

Ernie suddenly shivered. 

“Talk about summat else, Stan, there’s a good lad. 
Them Azkaban guards give me the collywobbles.” 

Stan put the paper away reluctantly, and Harry 
leaned against the window of the Knight Bus, feeling 
worse than ever. He couldn’t help imagining what 
Stan might be telling his passengers in a few nights’ 
time. 

“ ’Ear about that ’Arry Potter? Blew up ’is aunt! We 
’ad ’im ’ere on the Knight Bus, di’n’t we, Ern? ’E was 
tryin’ to run for it. ...” 

He, Harry, had broken wizard law just like Sirius 
Black. Was inflating Aunt Marge bad enough to land 
him in Azkaban? Harry didn’t know anything about 
the wizard prison, though everyone he’d ever heard 
speak of it did so in the same fearful tone. Hagrid, the 
Hogwarts gamekeeper, had spent two months there 
only last year. Harry wouldn’t soon forget the look of 
terror on Hagrid ’s face when he had been told where 
he was going, and Hagrid was one of the bravest 
people Harry knew. 

The Knight Bus rolled through the darkness, 
scattering bushes and wastebaskets, telephone 
booths and trees, and Harry lay, restless and 
miserable, on his feather bed. After a while, Stan 
remembered that Harry had paid for hot chocolate, 
but poured it all over Harry’s pillow when the bus 
Page | 44 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




moved abruptly from Anglesey to Aberdeen. One by 
one, wizards and witches in dressing gowns and 
slippers descended from the upper floors to leave the 
bus. They all looked very pleased to go. 

Finally, Harry was the only passenger left. 

“Right then, Neville,” said Stan, clapping his hands, 
“whereabouts in London?” 

“Diagon Alley,” said Harry. 

“Righto,” said Stan. “ ’Old tight, then ...” 

BANG! 

They were thundering along Charing Cross Road. 
Harry sat up and watched buildings and benches 
squeezing themselves out of the Knight Bus’s way. 

The sky was getting a little lighter. He would lie low 
for a couple of hours, go to Gringotts the moment it 
opened, then set off — where, he didn’t know. 

Ern slammed on the brakes and the Knight Bus 
skidded to a halt in front of a small and shabby- 
looking pub, the Leaky Cauldron, behind which lay 
the magical entrance to Diagon Alley. 

“Thanks,” Harry said to Ern. 

He jumped down the steps and helped Stan lower his 
trunk and Hedwig’s cage onto the pavement. 

“Well,” said Harry. “ ’Bye then!” 

But Stan wasn’t paying attention. Still standing in the 
doorway to the bus, he was goggling at the shadowy 
entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. 



Page | 45 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“ There you are, Harry,” said a voice. 



Before Harry could turn, he felt a hand on his 
shoulder. At the same time, Stan shouted, “Blimey! 
Ern, come ’ere! Come ’ere!” 

Harry looked up at the owner of the hand on his 
shoulder and felt a bucketful of ice cascade into his 
stomach — he had walked right into Cornelius Fudge, 
the Minister of Magic himself. 

Stan leapt onto the pavement beside them. 

“What didja call Neville, Minister?” he said excitedly. 

Fudge, a portly little man in a long, pinstriped cloak, 
looked cold and exhausted. 

“Neville?” he repeated, frowning. “This is Harry 
Potter.” 

“I knew it!” Stan shouted gleefully. “Ern! Ern! Guess 
’oo Neville is, Ern! ’E’s ’Arry Potter! I can see ’is scar!” 

“Yes,” said Fudge testily, “well, I’m very glad the 
Knight Bus picked Harry up, but he and I need to 
step inside the Leaky Cauldron now ...” 

Fudge increased the pressure on Harry’s shoulder, 
and Harry found himself being steered inside the pub. 
A stooping figure bearing a lantern appeared through 
the door behind the bar. It was Tom, the wizened, 
toothless landlord. 

“You’ve got him, Minister!” said Tom. “Will you be 
wanting anything? Beer? Brandy?” 

“Perhaps a pot of tea,” said Fudge, who still hadn’t let 
go of Harry. 

Page | 46 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




There was a loud scraping and puffing from behind 
them, and Stan and Ern appeared, carrying Harry’s 
trunk and Hedwig’s cage and looking around 
excitedly. 

“ ’Ow come you di’n’t tell us ’oo you are, eh, Neville?” 
said Stan, beaming at Harry, while Ernie’s owlish face 
peered interestedly over Stan’s shoulder. 

“And a private parlor, please, Tom,” said Fudge 
pointedly. 

“ ’Bye,” Harry said miserably to Stan and Ern as Tom 
beckoned Fudge toward the passage that led from the 
bar. 

“ ’Bye, Neville!” called Stan. 

Fudge marched Harry along the narrow passage after 
Tom’s lantern, and then into a small parlor. Tom 
clicked his fingers, a fire burst into life in the grate, 
and he bowed himself out of the room. 

“Sit down, Harry,” said Fudge, indicating a chair by 
the fire. 

Harry sat down, feeling goose bumps rising up his 
arms despite the glow of the fire. Fudge took off his 
pinstriped cloak and tossed it aside, then hitched up 
the trousers of his bottle-green suit and sat down 
opposite Harry. 

“I am Cornelius Fudge, Harry. The Minister of Magic.” 

Harry already knew this, of course; he had seen 
Fudge once before, but as he had been wearing his 
father’s Invisibility Cloak at the time, Fudge wasn’t to 
know that. 



Page | 47 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




Tom the innkeeper reappeared, wearing an apron over 
his nightshirt and bearing a tray of tea and crumpets. 
He placed the tray on a table between Fudge and 
Harry and left the parlor, closing the door behind 
him. 

“Well, Harry,” said Fudge, pouring out tea, “you’ve 
had us all in a right flap, I don’t mind telling you. 
Running away from your aunt and uncle’s house like 
that! I’d started to think ... but you’re safe, and that’s 
what matters.” 

Fudge buttered himself a crumpet and pushed the 
plate toward Harry. 

“Eat, Harry, you look dead on your feet. Now then ... 
You will be pleased to hear that we have dealt with 
the unfortunate blowing-up of Miss Marjorie Dursley. 
Two members of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad 
were dispatched to Privet Drive a few hours ago. Miss 
Dursley has been punctured and her memory has 
been modified. She has no recollection of the incident 
at all. So that’s that, and no harm done.” 

Fudge smiled at Harry over the rim of his teacup, 
rather like an uncle surveying a favorite nephew. 
Harry, who couldn’t believe his ears, opened his 
mouth to speak, couldn’t think of anything to say, 
and closed it again. 

“Ah, you’re worrying about the reaction of your aunt 
and uncle?” said Fudge. “Well, I won’t deny that they 
are extremely angry, Harry, but they are prepared to 
take you back next summer as long as you stay at 
Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter holidays.” 

Harry unstuck his throat. 



Page | 48 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“I always stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas and 
Easter holidays,” he said, “and I don’t ever want to go 
back to Privet Drive.” 

“Now, now, I’m sure you’ll feel differently once you’ve 
calmed down,” said Fudge in a worried tone. “They 
are your family, after all, and I’m sure you are fond of 
each other — er — very deep down.” 

It didn’t occur to Harry to put Fudge right. He was 
still waiting to hear what was going to happen to him 
now. 

“So all that remains,” said Fudge, now buttering 
himself a second crumpet, “is to decide where you’re 
going to spend the last three weeks of your vacation. I 
suggest you take a room here at the Leaky Cauldron 
and — ” 

“Hang on,” blurted Harry. “What about my 
punishment?” 

Fudge blinked. 

“Punishment?” 

“I broke the law!” Harry said. “The Decree for the 
Restriction of Underage Wizardry!” 

“Oh, my dear boy, we’re not going to punish you for a 
little thing like that!” cried Fudge, waving his crumpet 
impatiently. “It was an accident! We don’t send people 
to Azkaban just for blowing up their aunts!” 

But this didn’t tally at all with Harry’s past dealings 
with the Ministry of Magic. 

“Last year, I got an official warning just because a 
house-elf smashed a pudding in my uncle’s house!” 

Page | 49 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




he told Fudge, frowning. “The Ministry of Magic said 
I’d be expelled from Hogwarts if there was any more 
magic there!” 

Unless Harry’s eyes were deceiving him, Fudge was 
suddenly looking awkward. 

“Circumstances change, Harry. ... We have to take 
into account ... in the present climate . . . Surely you 
don’t want to be expelled?” 

“Of course I don’t,” said Harry. 

“Well then, what’s all the fuss about?” laughed Fudge. 
“Now, have a crumpet, Harry, while I go and see if 
Tom’s got a room for you.” 

Fudge strode out of the parlor and Harry stared after 
him. There was something extremely odd going on. 
Why had Fudge been waiting for him at the Leaky 
Cauldron, if not to punish him for what he’d done? 
And now Harry came to think of it, surely it wasn’t 
usual for the Minister of Magic himself to get involved 
in matters of underage magic? 

Fudge came back, accompanied by Tom the 
innkeeper. 

“Room eleven’s free, Harry,” said Fudge. “I think you’ll 
be very comfortable. Just one thing, and I’m sure 
you’ll understand ... I don’t want you wandering off 
into Muggle London, all right? Keep to Diagon Alley. 
And you’re to be back here before dark each night. 
Sure you’ll understand. Tom will be keeping an eye on 
you for me.” 

“Okay,” said Harry slowly, “but why — ?” 



Page | 50 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“Don’t want to lose you again, do we?” said Fudge 
with a hearty laugh. “No, no ... best we know where 
you are. ... I mean ...” 

Fudge cleared his throat loudly and picked up his 
pinstriped cloak. 

“Well, I’ll be off, plenty to do, you know. ...” 

“Have you had any luck with Black yet?” Harry asked. 

Fudge’s finger slipped on the silver fastenings of his 
cloak. 

“What’s that? Oh, you’ve heard — well, no, not yet, 
but it’s only a matter of time. The Azkaban guards 
have never yet failed ... and they are angrier than I’ve 
ever seen them.” 

Fudge shuddered slightly. 

“So, I’ll say good-bye.” 

He held out his hand and Harry, shaking it, had a 
sudden idea. 

“Er — Minister? Can I ask you something?” 

“Certainly,” said Fudge with a smile. 

“Well, third years at Hogwarts are allowed to visit 
Hogsmeade, but my aunt and uncle didn’t sign the 
permission form. D’you think you could — ?” 

Fudge was looking uncomfortable. 

“Ah,” he said. “No, no, I’m very sorry, Harry, but as 
I’m not your parent or guardian — ” 



Page | 51 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“But you’re the Minister of Magic,” said Harry eagerly. 
“If you gave me permission — ” 

“No, I’m sorry, Harry, but rules are rules,” said Fudge 
flatly. “Perhaps you’ll be able to visit Hogsmeade next 
year. In fact, I think it’s best if you don’t ... yes ... 
well, I’ll be off. Enjoy your stay, Harry.” 

And with a last smile and shake of Harry’s hand, 
Fudge left the room. Tom now moved forward, 
beaming at Harry. 

“If you’ll follow me, Mr. Potter,” he said, “I’ve already 
taken your things up. ...” 

Harry followed Tom up a handsome wooden staircase 
to a door with a brass number eleven on it, which 
Tom unlocked and opened for him. 

Inside was a very comfortable-looking bed, some 
highly polished oak furniture, a cheerfully crackling 
fire and, perched on top of the wardrobe — 

“Hedwig!” Harry gasped. 

The snowy owl clicked her beak and fluttered down 
onto Harry’s arm. 

“Very smart owl you’ve got there,” chuckled Tom. 
“Arrived about five minutes after you did. If there’s 
anything you need, Mr. Potter, don’t hesitate to ask.” 

He gave another bow and left. 

Harry sat on his bed for a long time, absentmindedly 
stroking Hedwig. The sky outside the window was 
changing rapidly from deep, velvety blue to cold, 
steely gray and then, slowly, to pink shot with gold. 
Harry could hardly believe that he’d left Privet Drive 
Page | 52 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




only a few hours ago, that he wasn’t expelled, and 
that he was now facing three Dursley-free weeks. 



“It’s been a very weird night, Hedwig,” he yawned. 

And without even removing his glasses, he slumped 
back onto his pillows and fell asleep. 



Page | 53 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 






THE LEAKY CAULDRON 

It took Harry several days to get used to his strange 
new freedom. Never before had he been able to get up 
whenever he wanted or eat whatever he fancied. He 
could even go wherever he pleased, as long as it was 
in Diagon Alley, and as this long cobbled street was 
packed with the most fascinating wizarding shops in 
the world, Harry felt no desire to break his word to 
Fudge and stray back into the Muggle world. 

Harry ate breakfast each morning in the Leaky 
Cauldron, where he liked watching the other guests: 
funny little witches from the country, up for a day’s 
shopping; venerable-looking wizards arguing over the 
latest article in Transfiguration Today; wild-looking 
warlocks; raucous dwarfs; and once, what looked 
suspiciously like a hag, who ordered a plate of raw 
liver from behind a thick woollen balaclava. 

After breakfast Harry would go out into the backyard, 
take out his wand, tap the third brick from the left 
above the trash bin, and stand back as the archway 
into Diagon Alley opened in the wall. 

Page | 54 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 



Harry spent the long sunny days exploring the shops 
and eating under the brightly colored umbrellas 
outside cafes, where his fellow diners were showing 
one another their purchases (“it’s a lunascope, old 
boy — no more messing around with moon charts, 
see?”) or else discussing the case of Sirius Black 
(“personally, I won’t let any of the children out alone 
until he’s back in Azkaban”). Harry didn’t have to do 
his homework under the blankets by flashlight 
anymore; now he could sit in the bright sunshine 
outside Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor, 
finishing all his essays with occasional help from 
Florean Fortescue himself, who, apart from knowing a 
great deal about medieval witch burnings, gave Harry 
free sundaes every half an hour. 

Once Harry had refilled his money bag with gold 
Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts from his 
vault at Gringotts, he had to exercise a lot of self- 
control not to spend the whole lot at once. He had to 
keep reminding himself that he had five years to go at 
Hogwarts, and how it would feel to ask the Dursleys 
for money for spellbooks, to stop himself from buying 
a handsome set of solid gold Gobstones (a wizarding 
game rather like marbles, in which the stones squirt a 
nasty-smelling liquid into the other player’s face when 
they lose a point). He was sorely tempted, too, by the 
perfect, moving model of the galaxy in a large glass 
ball, which would have meant he never had to take 
another Astronomy lesson. But the thing that tested 
Harry’s resolution most appeared in his favorite shop, 
Quality Quidditch Supplies, a week after he’d arrived 
at the Leaky Cauldron. 

Curious to know what the crowd in the shop was 
staring at, Harry edged his way inside and squeezed 
in among the excited witches and wizards until he 
glimpsed a newly erected podium, on which was 



Page | 55 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




mounted the most magnificent broom he had ever 
seen in his life. 

“Just come out — prototype — ” a square-jawed 
wizard was telling his companion. 

“It’s the fastest broom in the world, isn’t it, Dad?” 
squeaked a boy younger than Harry, who was 
swinging off his father’s arm. 

“Irish International Side’s just put in an order for 
seven of these beauties!” the proprietor of the shop 
told the crowd. “And they’re favorites for the World 
Cup!” 

A large witch in front of Harry moved, and he was 
able to read the sign next to the broom: 

THE FIREBOLT 

This state-of-the-art racing broom sports a stream- 
lined, superfine handle of ash, treated with a 
diamond-hard polish and hand-numbered with its 
own registration number. Each individually selected 
birch twig in the broomtail has been honed to 
aerodynamic perfection, giving the Firebolt 
unsurpassable balance and pinpoint precision. The 
Firebolt has an acceleration of 150 miles an hour in 
ten seconds and incorporates an unbreakable 
Braking Charm. Price on request. 

Price on request ... Harry didn’t like to think how 
much gold the Firebolt would cost. He had never 
wanted anything as much in his whole life — but he 
had never lost a Quidditch match on his Nimbus Two 
Thousand, and what was the point in emptying his 
Gringotts vault for the Firebolt, when he had a very 
good broom already? Harry didn’t ask for the price, 



Page | 56 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




but he returned, almost every day after that, just to 
look at the Firebolt. 

There were, however, things that Harry needed to 
buy. He went to the Apothecary to replenish his store 
of potions ingredients, and as his school robes were 
now several inches too short in the arm and leg, he 
visited Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions and 
bought new ones. Most important of all, he had to 
buy his new schoolbooks, which would include those 
for his two new subjects, Care of Magical Creatures 
and Divination. 

Harry got a surprise as he looked in at the bookshop 
window. Instead of the usual display of gold- 
embossed spellbooks the size of paving slabs, there 
was a large iron cage behind the glass that held about 
a hundred copies of The Monster Book of Monsters. 
Torn pages were flying everywhere as the books 
grappled with each other, locked together in furious 
wrestling matches and snapping aggressively. 

Harry pulled his booklist out of his pocket and 
consulted it for the first time. The Monster Book of 
Monsters was listed as the required book for Care of 
Magical Creatures. Now Harry understood why Hagrid 
had said it would come in useful. He felt relieved; he 
had been wondering whether Hagrid wanted help with 
some terrifying new pet. 

As Harry entered Flourish and Blotts, the manager 
came hurrying toward him. 

“Hogwarts?” he said abruptly. “Come to get your new 
books?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, “I need — ” 



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“Get out of the way,” said the manager impatiently, 
brushing Harry aside. He drew on a pair of very thick 
gloves, picked up a large, knobbly walking stick, and 
proceeded toward the door of the Monster Books’ cage. 

“Hang on,” said Harry quickly, “I’ve already got one of 
those.” 

“Have you?” A look of enormous relief spread over the 
manager’s face. “Thank heavens for that. I’ve been 
bitten five times already this morning — ” 

A loud ripping noise rent the air; two of the Monster 
Books had seized a third and were pulling it apart. 

“Stop it! Stop it!” cried the manager, poking the 
walking stick through the bars and knocking the 
books apart. “I’m never stocking them again, never! 

It’s been bedlam! I thought we’d seen the worst when 
we bought two hundred copies of the Invisible Book of 
Invisibility — cost a fortune, and we never found 
them. ... Well ... is there anything else I can help you 
with?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, looking down his booklist, “I need 
Unfogging the Future by Cassandra Vablatsky.” 

“Ah, starting Divination, are you?” said the manager, 
stripping off his gloves and leading Harry into the 
back of the shop, where there was a corner devoted to 
fortune-telling. A small table was stacked with 
volumes such as Predicting the Unpredictable: Insulate 
Yourself Against Shocks and Broken Balls: When 
Fortunes Turn Foul. 

“Here you are,” said the manager, who had climbed a 
set of steps to take down a thick, black-bound book. 
“Unfogging the Future. Very good guide to all your 



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basic fortune-telling methods — palmistry, crystal 
balls, bird entrails — ” 

But Harry wasn’t listening. His eyes had fallen on 
another book, which was among a display on a small 
table: Death Omens: What to Do When You Know the 
Worst Is Coming. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t read that if I were you,” said the 
manager lightly, looking to see what Harry was 
staring at. “You’ll start seeing death omens 
everywhere. It’s enough to frighten anyone to death.” 

But Harry continued to stare at the front cover of the 
book; it showed a black dog large as a bear, with 
gleaming eyes. It looked oddly familiar. ... 

The manager pressed Unfogging the Future into 
Harry’s hands. 

“Anything else?” he said. 

“Yes,” said Harry, tearing his eyes away from the 
dog’s and dazedly consulting his booklist. “Er — I 
need Intermediate Transfiguration and The Standard 
Book of Spells, Grade Three.” 

Harry emerged from Flourish and Blotts ten minutes 
later with his new books under his arms and made 
his way back to the Leaky Cauldron, hardly noticing 
where he was going and bumping into several people. 

He tramped up the stairs to his room, went inside, 
and tipped his books onto his bed. Somebody had 
been in to tidy; the windows were open and sun was 
pouring inside. Harry could hear the buses rolling by 
in the unseen Muggle street behind him and the 
sound of the invisible crowd below in Diagon Alley. He 
caught sight of himself in the mirror over the basin. 
Page | 59 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“It can’t have been a death omen,” he told his 
reflection defiantly. “I was panicking when I saw that 
thing in Magnolia Crescent. ... It was probably just a 
stray dog. ...” 

He raised his hand automatically and tried to make 
his hair lie flat. 

“You’re fighting a losing battle there, dear,” said his 
mirror in a wheezy voice. 

As the days slipped by, Harry started looking 
wherever he went for a sign of Ron or Hermione. 

Plenty of Hogwarts students were arriving in Diagon 
Alley now, with the start of term so near. Harry met 
Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, his fellow 
Gryffindors, in Quality Quidditch Supplies, where 
they too were ogling the Firebolt; he also ran into the 
real Neville Longbottom, a round-faced, forgetful boy, 
outside Flourish and Blotts. Harry didn’t stop to chat; 
Neville appeared to have mislaid his booklist and was 
being told off by his very formidable-looking 
grandmother. Harry hoped she never found out that 
he’d pretended to be Neville while on the run from the 
Ministry of Magic. 

Harry woke on the last day of the holidays, thinking 
that he would at least meet Ron and Hermione 
tomorrow, on the Hogwarts Express. He got up, 
dressed, went for a last look at the Firebolt, and was 
just wondering where he’d have lunch, when someone 
yelled his name and he turned. 

“Harry! HARRY!” 

They were there, both of them, sitting outside Florean 
Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor — Ron looking 
incredibly freckly, Hermione very brown, both waving 
frantically at him. 

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“Finally!” said Ron, grinning at Harry as he sat down. 
“We went to the Leaky Cauldron, but they said you’d 
left, and we went to Flourish and Blotts, and Madam 
Malkin’s, and — ” 

“I got all my school stuff last week,” Harry explained. 
“And how come you knew I’m staying at the Leaky 
Cauldron?” 

“Dad,” said Ron simply. 

Mr. Weasley, who worked at the Ministry of Magic, 
would of course have heard the whole story of what 
had happened to Aunt Marge. 

“Did you really blow up your aunt, Harry?” said 
Hermione in a very serious voice. 

“I didn’t mean to,” said Harry while Ron roared with 
laughter. “I just — lost control.” 

“It’s not funny, Ron,” said Hermione sharply. 
“Honestly, I’m amazed Harry wasn’t expelled.” 

“So am I,” admitted Harry. “Forget expelled, I thought 
I was going to be arrested.” He looked at Ron. “Your 
dad doesn’t know why Fudge let me off, does he?” 

“Probably ’cause it’s you, isn’t it?” shrugged Ron, still 
chuckling. “Famous Harry Potter and all that. I’d hate 
to see what the Ministry’d do to me if I blew up an 
aunt. Mind you, they’d have to dig me up first, 
because Mum would’ve killed me. Anyway, you can 
ask Dad yourself this evening. We’re staying at the 
Leaky Cauldron tonight too! So you can come to 
King’s Cross with us tomorrow! Hermione’s there as 
well!” 



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Hermione nodded, beaming. “Mum and Dad dropped 
me off this morning with all my Hogwarts things.” 

“Excellent!” said Harry happily. “So, have you got all 
your new books and stuff?” 

“Look at this,” said Ron, pulling a long thin box out of 
a bag and opening it. “Brand-new wand. Fourteen 
inches, willow, containing one unicorn tail-hair. And 
we’ve got all our books — ” He pointed at a large bag 
under his chair. “What about those Monster Books, 
eh? The assistant nearly cried when we said we 
wanted two.” 

“What’s all that, Hermione?” Harry asked, pointing at 
not one but three bulging bags in the chair next to 
her. 

“Well, I’m taking more new subjects than you, aren’t 
I?” said Hermione. “Those are my books for 
Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, 
Study of Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies — ” 

“What are you doing Muggle Studies for?” said Ron, 
rolling his eyes at Harry. “You’re Muggle-born! Your 
mum and dad are Muggles! You already know all 
about Muggles!” 

“But it’ll be fascinating to study them from the 
wizarding point of view,” said Hermione earnestly. 

“Are you planning to eat or sleep at all this year, 
Hermione?” asked Harry, while Ron sniggered. 
Hermione ignored them. 

“I’ve still got ten Galleons,” she said, checking her 
purse. “It’s my birthday in September, and Mum and 
Dad gave me some money to get myself an early 
birthday present.” 

Page | 62 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“How about a nice book?” said Ron innocently. 

“No, I don’t think so,” said Hermione composedly. “I 
really want an owl. I mean, Harry’s got Hedwig and 
you’ve got Errol — ” 

“I haven’t,” said Ron. “Errol’s a family owl. All I’ve got 
is Scabbers.” He pulled his pet rat out of his pocket. 
“And I want to get him checked over,” he added, 
placing Scabbers on the table in front of them. “I 
don’t think Egypt agreed with him.” 

Scabbers was looking thinner than usual, and there 
was a definite droop to his whiskers. 

“There’s a magical creature shop just over there,” said 
Harry, who knew Diagon Alley very well by now. “You 
could see if they’ve got anything for Scabbers, and 
Hermione can get her owl.” 

So they paid for their ice cream and crossed the street 
to the Magical Menagerie. 

There wasn’t much room inside. Every inch of wall 
was hidden by cages. It was smelly and very noisy 
because the occupants of these cages were all 
squeaking, squawking, jabbering, or hissing. The 
witch behind the counter was already advising a 
wizard on the care of double-ended newts, so Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione waited, examining the cages. 

A pair of enormous purple toads sat gulping wetly 
and feasting on dead blowflies. A gigantic tortoise 
with a jewel-encrusted shell was glittering near the 
window. Poisonous orange snails were oozing slowly 
up the side of their glass tank, and a fat white rabbit 
kept changing into a silk top hat and back again with 
a loud popping noise. Then there were cats of every 
color, a noisy cage of ravens, a basket of funny 
Page | 63 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




custard-colored furballs that were humming loudly, 
and on the counter, a vast cage of sleek black rats 
that were playing some sort of skipping game using 
their long, bald tails. 

The double-ended newt wizard left, and Ron 
approached the counter. 

“It’s my rat,” he told the witch. “He been a bit off-color 
ever since I brought him back from Egypt.” 

“Bang him on the counter,” said the witch, pulling a 
pair of heavy black spectacles out of her pocket. 

Ron lifted Scabbers out of his inside pocket and 
placed him next to the cage of his fellow rats, who 
stopped their skipping tricks and scuffled to the wire 
for a better look. 

Like nearly everything Ron owned, Scabbers the rat 
was secondhand (he had once belonged to Ron’s 
brother Percy) and a bit battered. Next to the glossy 
rats in the cage, he looked especially woebegone. 

“Hm,” said the witch, picking up Scabbers. “How old 
is this rat?” 

“Dunno,” said Ron. “Quite old. He used to belong to 
my brother.” 

“What powers does he have?” said the witch, 
examining Scabbers closely. 

“Er — ” The truth was that Scabbers had never shown 
the faintest trace of interesting powers. The witch’s 
eyes moved from Scabbers ’s tattered left ear to his 
front paw, which had a toe missing, and tutted 
loudly. 



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“He’s been through the mill, this one,” she said. 



“He was like that when Percy gave him to me,” said 
Ron defensively. 

“An ordinary common or garden rat like this can’t be 
expected to live longer than three years or so,” said 
the witch. “Now, if you were looking for something a 
bit more hard-wearing, you might like one of these — ” 

She indicated the black rats, who promptly started 
skipping again. Ron muttered, “Show-offs.” 

“Well, if you don’t want a replacement, you can try 
this rat tonic,” said the witch, reaching under the 
counter and bringing out a small red bottle. 

“Okay,” said Ron. “How much — OUCH!” 

Ron buckled as something huge and orange came 
soaring from the top of the highest cage, landed on 
his head, and then propelled itself, spitting madly, at 
Scabbers. 

“NO, CROOKSHANKS, NO!” cried the witch, but 
Scabbers shot from between her hands like a bar of 
soap, landed splay-legged on the floor, and then 
scampered for the door. 

“Scabbers!” Ron shouted, racing out of the shop after 
him; Harry followed. 

It took them nearly ten minutes to catch Scabbers, 
who had taken refuge under a wastepaper bin outside 
Quality Quidditch Supplies. Ron stuffed the trembling 
rat back into his pocket and straightened up, 
massaging his head. 

“What was that?” 

Page | 65 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




“It was either a very big cat or quite a small tiger,” 
said Harry. 

“Where’s Hermione?” 

“Probably getting her owl — ” 

They made their way back up the crowded street to 
the Magical Menagerie. As they reached it, Hermione 
came out, but she wasn’t carrying an owl. Her arms 
were clamped tightly around the enormous ginger cat. 

“You bought that monster?” said Ron, his mouth 
hanging open. 

“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” said Hermione, glowing. 

That was a matter of opinion, thought Harry. The 
cat’s ginger fur was thick and fluffy, but it was 
definitely a bit bowlegged and its face looked grumpy 
and oddly squashed, as though it had run headlong 
into a brick wall. Now that Scabbers was out of sight, 
however, the cat was purring contentedly in 
Hermione ’s arms. 

“Hermione, that thing nearly scalped me!” said Ron. 

“He didn’t mean to, did you, Crookshanks?” said 
Hermione. 

“And what about Scabbers?” said Ron, pointing at the 
lump in his chest pocket. “He needs rest and 
relaxation! How’s he going to get it with that thing 
around?” 

“That reminds me, you forgot your rat tonic,” said 
Hermione, slapping the small red bottle into Ron’s 
hand. “And stop worrying, Crookshanks will be 
sleeping in my dormitory and Scabbers in yours, 

Page | 66 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




what’s the problem? Poor Crookshanks, that witch 
said he’d been in there for ages; no one wanted him.” 

“I wonder why,” said Ron sarcastically as they set off 
toward the Leaky Cauldron. 

They found Mr. Weasley sitting in the bar, reading the 
Daily Prophet. 

“Harry!” he said, smiling as he looked up. “How are 
you?” 

“Fine, thanks,” said Harry as he, Ron, and Hermione 
joined Mr. Weasley with all their shopping. 

Mr. Weasley put down his paper, and Harry saw the 
now familiar picture of Sirius Black staring up at him. 

“They still haven’t caught him, then?” he asked. 

“No,” said Mr. Weasley, looking extremely grave. 
“They’ve pulled us all off our regular jobs at the 
Ministry to try and find him, but no luck so far.” 

“Would we get a reward if we caught him?” asked 
Ron. “It’d be good to get some more money — ” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ron,” said Mr. Weasley, who on 
closer inspection looked very strained. “Black’s not 
going to be caught by a thirteen-year-old wizard. It’s 
the Azkaban guards who’ll get him back, you mark 
my words.” 

At that moment Mrs. Weasley entered the bar, laden 
with shopping bags and followed by the twins, Fred 
and George, who were about to start their fifth year at 
Hogwarts; the newly elected Head Boy, Percy; and the 
Weasleys’ youngest child and only girl, Ginny. 



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Ginny, who had always been very taken with Harry, 
seemed even more heartily embarrassed than usual 
when she saw him, perhaps because he had saved 
her life during their previous year at Hogwarts. She 
went very red and muttered “hello” without looking at 
him. Percy, however, held out his hand solemnly as 
though he and Harry had never met and said, “Harry. 
How nice to see you.” 

“Hello, Percy,” said Harry, trying not to laugh. 

“I hope you’re well?” said Percy pompously, shaking 
hands. It was rather like being introduced to the 
mayor. 

“Very well, thanks — ” 

“Harry!” said Fred, elbowing Percy out of the way and 
bowing deeply. “Simply splendid to see you, old boy — 



“Marvelous,” said George, pushing Fred aside and 
seizing Harry’s hand in turn. “Absolutely spiffing.” 

Percy scowled. 

“That’s enough, now,” said Mrs. Weasley. 

“Mum!” said Fred as though he’d only just spotted her 
and seizing her hand too. “How really corking to see 
you — ” 

“I said, that’s enough,” said Mrs. Weasley, depositing 
her shopping in an empty chair. “Hello, Harry, dear. I 
suppose you’ve heard our exciting news?” She pointed 
to the brand-new silver badge on Percy’s chest. 
“Second Head Boy in the family!” she said, swelling 
with pride. 



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“And last,” Fred muttered under his breath. 



“I don’t doubt that,” said Mrs. Weasley, frowning 
suddenly. “I notice they haven’t made you two 
prefects.” 

“What do we want to be prefects for?” said George, 
looking revolted at the very idea. “It’d take all the fun 
out of life.” 

Ginny giggled. 

“You want to set a better example for your sister!” 
snapped Mrs. Weasley. 

“Ginny’s got other brothers to set her an example, 
Mother,” said Percy loftily. “I’m going up to change for 
dinner. ...” 

He disappeared and George heaved a sigh. 

“We tried to shut him in a pyramid,” he told Harry. 
“But Mum spotted us.” 

Dinner that night was a very enjoyable affair. Tom the 
innkeeper put three tables together in the parlor, and 
the seven Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione ate their 
way through five delicious courses. 

“How’re we getting to King’s Cross tomorrow, Dad?” 
asked Fred as they dug into a sumptuous chocolate 
pudding. 

“The Ministry’s providing a couple of cars,” said Mr. 
Weasley. 

Everyone looked up at him. 

“Why?” said Percy curiously. 

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“It’s because of you, Perce,” said George seriously. 
“And there’ll be little flags on the hoods, with HB on 
them — ” 

“ — for Humongous Bighead,” said Fred. 

Everyone except Percy and Mrs. Weasley snorted into 
their pudding. 

“Why are the Ministry providing cars, Father?” Percy 
asked again, in a dignified voice. 

“Well, as we haven’t got one anymore,” said Mr. 
Weasley, “ — and as I work there, they’re doing me a 
favor — ” 

His voice was casual, but Harry couldn’t help noticing 
that Mr. Weasley’s ears had gone red, just like Ron’s 
did when he was under pressure. 

“Good thing, too,” said Mrs. Weasley briskly. “Do you 
realize how much luggage you’ve all got between you? 
A nice sight you’d be on the Muggle Underground. ... 
You are all packed, aren’t you?” 

“Ron hasn’t put all his new things in his trunk yet,” 
said Percy, in a long-suffering voice. “He’s dumped 
them on my bed.” 

“You’d better go and pack properly, Ron, because we 
won’t have much time in the morning,” Mrs. Weasley 
called down the table. Ron scowled at Percy. 

After dinner everyone felt very full and sleepy. One by 
one they made their way upstairs to their rooms to 
check their things for the next day. Ron and Percy 
were next door to Harry. He had just closed and 
locked his own trunk when he heard angry voices 
through the wall, and went to see what was going on. 
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The door of number twelve was ajar and Percy was 
shouting. 

“It was here, on the bedside table, I took it off for 
polishing — ” 

“I haven’t touched it, all right?” Ron roared back. 
“What’s up?” said Harry. 

“My Head Boy badge is gone,” said Percy, rounding on 
Harry. 

“So’s Scabbers’s rat tonic,” said Ron, throwing things 
out of his trunk to look. “I think I might’ve left it in 
the bar — ” 

“You’re not going anywhere till you’ve found my 
badge!” yelled Percy. 

“I’ll get Scabbers’s stuff, I’m packed,” Harry said to 
Ron, and he went downstairs. 

Harry was halfway along the passage to the bar, 
which was now very dark, when he heard another 
pair of angry voices coming from the parlor. A second 
later, he recognized them as Mr. and Mrs. Weasleys’. 
He hesitated, not wanting them to know he’d heard 
them arguing, when the sound of his own name made 
him stop, then move closer to the parlor door. 

“... makes no sense not to tell him,” Mr. Weasley was 
saying heatedly. “Harry’s got a right to know. I’ve tried 
to tell Fudge, but he insists on treating Harry like a 
child. He’s thirteen years old and — ” 

“Arthur, the truth would terrify him!” said Mrs. 
Weasley shrilly. “Do you really want to send Harry 



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back to school with that hanging over him? For 
heaven’s sake, he’s happy not knowing!” 

“I don’t want to make him miserable, I want to put 
him on his guard!” retorted Mr. Weasley. “You know 
what Harry and Ron are like, wandering off by 
themselves — they’ve even ended up in the Forbidden 
Forest! But Harry mustn’t do that this year! When I 
think what could have happened to him that night he 
ran away from home! If the Knight Bus hadn’t picked 
him up, I’m prepared to bet he would have been dead 
before the Ministry found him.” 

“But he’s not dead, he’s fine, so what’s the point — ” 

“Molly, they say Sirius Black’s mad, and maybe he is, 
but he was clever enough to escape from Azkaban, 
and that’s supposed to be impossible. It’s been a 
month, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of him, and I 
don’t care what Fudge keeps telling the Daily Prophet, 
we’re no nearer catching Black than inventing self- 
spelling wands. The only thing we know for sure is 
what Black’s after — ” 

“But Harry will be perfectly safe at Hogwarts.” 

“We thought Azkaban was perfectly safe. If Black can 
break out of Azkaban, he can break into Hogwarts.” 

“But no one’s really sure that Black’s after Harry — ” 

There was a thud on wood, and Harry was sure Mr. 
Weasley had banged his fist on the table. 

“Molly, how many times do I have to tell you? They 
didn’t report it in the press because Fudge wanted it 
kept quiet, but Fudge went out to Azkaban the night 
Black escaped. The guards told Fudge that Black’s 
been talking in his sleep for a while now. Always the 
Page | 72 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




same words: ‘He’s at Hogwarts ... he’s at Hogwarts.’ 
Black is deranged, Molly, and he wants Harry dead. If 
you ask me, he thinks murdering Harry will bring 
You-Know-Who back to power. Black lost everything 
the night Harry stopped You-Know-Who, and he’s had 
twelve years alone in Azkaban to brood on that. ...” 

There was a silence. Harry leaned still closer to the 
door, desperate to hear more. 

“Well, Arthur, you must do what you think is right. 
But you’re forgetting Albus Dumbledore. I don’t think 
anything could hurt Harry at Hogwarts while 
Dumbledore ’s headmaster. I suppose he knows about 
all this?” 

“Of course he knows. We had to ask him if he minds 
the Azkaban guards stationing themselves around the 
entrances to the school grounds. He wasn’t happy 
about it, but he agreed.” 

“Not happy? Why shouldn’t he be happy, if they’re 
there to catch Black?” 

“Dumbledore isn’t fond of the Azkaban guards,” said 
Mr. Weasley heavily. “Nor am I, if it comes to that ... 
but when you’re dealing with a wizard like Black, you 
sometimes have to join forces with those you’d rather 
avoid.” 

“If they save Harry — ” 

“ — then I will never say another word against them,” 
said Mr. Weasley wearily. “It’s late, Molly, we’d better 
go up. ...” 

Harry heard chairs move. As quietly as he could, he 
hurried down the passage to the bar and out of sight. 
The parlor door opened, and a few seconds later 

Page | 73 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




footsteps told him that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were 
climbing the stairs. 



The bottle of rat tonic was lying under the table they 
had sat at earlier. Harry waited until he heard Mr. 
and Mrs. Weasley’s bedroom door close, then headed 
back upstairs with the bottle. 

Fred and George were crouching in the shadows on 
the landing, heaving with laughter as they listened to 
Percy dismantling his and Ron’s room in search of his 
badge. 

“We’ve got it,” Fred whispered to Harry. “We’ve been 
improving it.” 

The badge now read BigheacL Boy. 

Harry forced a laugh, went to give Ron the rat tonic, 
then shut himself in his room and lay down on his 
bed. 

So Sirius Black was after him. This explained 
everything. Fudge had been lenient with him because 
he was so relieved to find him alive. He’d made Harry 
promise to stay in Diagon Alley where there were 
plenty of wizards to keep an eye on him. And he was 
sending two Ministry cars to take them all to the 
station tomorrow, so that the Weasleys could look 
after Harry until he was on the train. 

Harry lay listening to the muffled shouting next door 
and wondered why he didn’t feel more scared. Sirius 
Black had murdered thirteen people with one curse; 
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley obviously thought Harry would 
be panic-stricken if he knew the truth. But Harry 
happened to agree wholeheartedly with Mrs. Weasley 
that the safest place on earth was wherever Albus 
Dumbledore happened to be. Didn’t people always say 
Page | 74 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




that Dumbledore was the only person Lord Voldemort 
had ever been afraid of? Surely Black, as Voldemort’s 
right-hand man, would be just as frightened of him? 

And then there were these Azkaban guards everyone 
kept talking about. They seemed to scare most people 
senseless, and if they were stationed all around the 
school, Black’s chances of getting inside seemed very 
remote. 

No, all in all, the thing that bothered Harry most was 
the fact that his chances of visiting Hogsmeade now 
looked like zero. Nobody would want Harry to leave 
the safety of the castle until Black was caught; in 
fact, Harry suspected his every move would be 
carefully watched until the danger had passed. 

He scowled at the dark ceiling. Did they think he 
couldn’t look after himself? He’d escaped Lord 
Voldemort three times; he wasn’t completely useless. 



Unbidden, the image of the beast in the shadows of 
Magnolia Crescent crossed his mind. What to do when 
you know the worst is coming. . . . 

“I’m not going to be murdered,” Harry said out loud. 

“That’s the spirit, dear,” said his mirror sleepily. 



Page | 75 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




5 




THE DEMENTOR 

Tom woke Harry the next morning with his usual 
toothless grin and a cup of tea. Harry got dressed and 
was just persuading a disgruntled Hedwig to get back 
into her cage when Ron banged his way into the 
room, pulling a sweatshirt over his head and looking 
irritable. 

“The sooner we get on the train, the better,” he said. 
“At least I can get away from Percy at Hogwarts. Now 
he’s accusing me of dripping tea on his photo of 
Penelope Clearwater. You know,” Ron grimaced, “his 
girlfriend. She’s hidden her face under the frame 
because her nose has gone all blotchy. ...” 

“I’ve got something to tell you,” Harry began, but they 
were interrupted by Fred and George, who had looked 
in to congratulate Ron on infuriating Percy again. 

They headed down to breakfast, where Mr. Weasley 
was reading the front page of the Daily Prophet with a 
furrowed brow and Mrs. Weasley was telling 

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Hermione and Ginny about a love potion she’d made 
as a young girl. All three of them were rather giggly. 

“What were you saying?” Ron asked Harry as they sat 
down. 

“Later,” Harry muttered as Percy stormed in. 

Harry had no chance to speak to Ron or Hermione in 
the chaos of leaving; they were too busy heaving all 
their trunks down the Leaky Cauldron’s narrow 
staircase and piling them up near the door, with 
Hedwig and Hermes, Percy’s screech owl, perched on 
top in their cages. A small wickerwork basket stood 
beside the heap of trunks, spitting loudly. 

“It’s all right, Crookshanks,” Hermione cooed through 
the wickerwork. “I’ll let you out on the train.” 

“You won’t,” snapped Ron. “What about poor 
Scabbers, eh?” 

He pointed at his chest, where a large lump indicated 
that Scabbers was curled up in his pocket. 

Mr. Weasley, who had been outside waiting for the 
Ministry cars, stuck his head inside. 

“They’re here,” he said. “Harry, come on.” 

Mr. Weasley marched Harry across the short stretch 
of pavement toward the first of two old-fashioned dark 
green cars, each of which was driven by a furtive- 
looking wizard wearing a suit of emerald velvet. 

“In you get, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, glancing up and 
down the crowded street. 



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Harry got into the back of the car and was shortly 
joined by Hermione, Ron, and, to Ron’s disgust, 

Percy. 

The journey to King’s Cross was very uneventful 
compared with Harry’s trip on the Knight Bus. The 
Ministry of Magic cars seemed almost ordinary, 
though Harry noticed that they could slide through 
gaps that Uncle Vernon’s new company car certainly 
couldn’t have managed. They reached King’s Cross 
with twenty minutes to spare; the Ministry drivers 
found them trolleys, unloaded their trunks, touched 
their hats in salute to Mr. Weasley, and drove away, 
somehow managing to jump to the head of an 
unmoving line at the traffic lights. 

Mr. Weasley kept close to Harry’s elbow all the way 
into the station. 

“Right then,” he said, glancing around them. “Let’s do 
this in pairs, as there are so many of us. I’ll go 
through first with Harry.” 

Mr. Weasley strolled toward the barrier between 
platforms nine and ten, pushing Harry’s trolley and 
apparently very interested in the Intercity 125 that 
had just arrived at platform nine. With a meaningful 
look at Harry, he leaned casually against the barrier. 
Harry imitated him. 

In a moment, they had fallen sideways through the 
solid metal onto platform nine and three-quarters and 
looked up to see the Hogwarts Express, a scarlet 
steam engine, puffing smoke over a platform packed 
with witches and wizards seeing their children onto 
the train. 



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Percy and Ginny suddenly appeared behind Harry. 
They were panting and had apparently taken the 
barrier at a run. 

“Ah, there’s Penelope!” said Percy, smoothing his hair 
and going pink again. Ginny caught Harry’s eye, and 
they both turned away to hide their laughter as Percy 
strode over to a girl with long, curly hair, walking with 
his chest thrown out so that she couldn’t miss his 
shiny badge. 

Once the remaining Weasleys and Hermione had 
joined them, Harry and Ron led the way to the end of 
the train, past packed compartments, to a carriage 
that looked quite empty. They loaded the trunks onto 
it, stowed Hedwig and Crookshanks in the luggage 
rack, then went back outside to say good-bye to Mr. 
and Mrs. Weasley. 

Mrs. Weasley kissed all her children, then Hermione, 
and finally, Harry. He was embarrassed, but really 
quite pleased, when she gave him an extra hug. 

“Do take care, won’t you, Harry?” she said as she 
straightened up, her eyes oddly bright. Then she 
opened her enormous handbag and said, “I’ve made 
you all sandwiches. ... Here you are, Ron ... no, 
they’re not corned beef. ... Fred? Where’s Fred? Here 
you are, dear. ...” 

“Harry,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, “come over here a 
moment.” 

He jerked his head toward a pillar, and Harry followed 
him behind it, leaving the others crowded around 
Mrs. Weasley. 

“There’s something I’ve got to tell you before you leave 
— ” said Mr. Weasley, in a tense voice. 

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“It’s all right, Mr. Weasley,” said Harry. “I already 
know.” 

“You know? How could you know?” 

“I — er — I heard you and Mrs. Weasley talking last 
night. I couldn’t help hearing,” Harry added quickly. 
“Sorry — ” 

“That’s not the way I’d have chosen for you to find 
out,” said Mr. Weasley, looking anxious. 

“No — honestly, it’s okay. This way, you haven’t 
broken your word to Fudge and I know what’s going 
on.” 

“Harry, you must be very scared — ” 

“I’m not,” said Harry sincerely. “Really” he added, 
because Mr. Weasley was looking disbelieving. “I’m 
not trying to be a hero, but seriously, Sirius Black 
can’t be worse than Voldemort, can he?” 

Mr. Weasley flinched at the sound of the name but 
overlooked it. 

“Harry, I knew you were, well, made of stronger stuff 
than Fudge seems to think, and I’m obviously pleased 
that you’re not scared, but — ” 

“Arthur!” called Mrs. Weasley, who was now 
shepherding the rest onto the train. “Arthur, what are 
you doing? It’s about to go!” 

“He’s coming, Molly!” said Mr. Weasley but he turned 
back to Harry and kept talking in a lower and more 
hurried voice. “Listen, I want you to give me your 
word — ” 



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“ — that I’ll be a good boy and stay in the castle?” said 
Harry gloomily. 

“Not entirely,” said Mr. Weasley, who looked more 
serious than Harry had ever seen him. “Harry, swear 
to me you won’t go looking for Black.” 

Harry stared. “What?” 

There was a loud whistle. Guards were walking along 
the train, slamming all the doors shut. 

“Promise me, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, talking more 
quickly still, “that whatever happens — ” 

“Why would I go looking for someone I know wants to 
kill me?” said Harry blankly. 

“Swear to me that whatever you might hear — ” 

“Arthur, quickly!” cried Mrs. Weasley. 

Steam was billowing from the train; it had started to 
move. Harry ran to the compartment door and Ron 
threw it open and stood back to let him on. They 
leaned out of the window and waved at Mr. and Mrs. 
Weasley until the train turned a corner and blocked 
them from view. 

“I need to talk to you in private,” Harry muttered to 
Ron and Hermione as the train picked up speed. 

“Go away, Ginny,” said Ron. 

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Ginny huffily, and she stalked 
off. 



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Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off down the corridor, 
looking for an empty compartment, but all were full 
except for the one at the very end of the train. 

This had only one occupant, a man sitting fast asleep 
next to the window. Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
checked on the threshold. The Hogwarts Express was 
usually reserved for students and they had never seen 
an adult there before, except for the witch who 
pushed the food cart. 

The stranger was wearing an extremely shabby set of 
wizard’s robes that had been darned in several places. 
He looked ill and exhausted. Though quite young, his 
light brown hair was flecked with gray. 

“Who d’you reckon he is?” Ron hissed as they sat 
down and slid the door shut, taking the seats farthest 
away from the window. 

“Professor R. J. Lupin,” whispered Hermione at once. 
“How d’you know that?” 

“It’s on his case,” she replied, pointing at the luggage 
rack over the man’s head, where there was a small, 
battered case held together with a large quantity of 
neatly knotted string. The name Professor R. J. Lupin 
was stamped across one corner in peeling letters. 

“Wonder what he teaches?” said Ron, frowning at 
Professor Lupin’s pallid profile. 

“That’s obvious,” whispered Hermione. “There’s only 
one vacancy, isn’t there? Defense Against the Dark 
Arts.” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had already had two 
Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, both of 

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whom had lasted only one year. There were rumors 
that the job was jinxed. 

“Well, I hope he’s up to it,” said Ron doubtfully. “He 
looks like one good hex would finish him off, doesn’t 
he? Anyway ...” He turned to Harry. “What were you 
going to tell us?” 

Harry explained all about Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s 
argument and the warning Mr. Weasley had just 
given him. When he’d finished, Ron looked 
thunderstruck, and Hermione had her hands over her 
mouth. She finally lowered them to say, “Sirius Black 
escaped to come after you? Oh, Harry ... you’ll have to 
be really, really careful. Don’t go looking for trouble, 
Harry — ” 

“I don’t go looking for trouble,” said Harry, nettled. 
“Trouble usually finds me.” 

“How thick would Harry have to be, to go looking for a 
nutter who wants to kill him?” said Ron shakily. 

They were taking the news worse than Harry had 
expected. Both Ron and Hermione seemed to be much 
more frightened of Black than he was. 

“No one knows how he got out of Azkaban,” said Ron 
uncomfortably. “No one’s ever done it before. And he 
was a top-security prisoner too.” 

“But they’ll catch him, won’t they?” said Hermione 
earnestly. “I mean, they’ve got all the Muggles looking 
out for him too. ...” 

“What’s that noise?” said Ron suddenly. 

A faint, tinny sort of whistle was coming from 
somewhere. They looked all around the compartment. 

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“It’s coming from your trunk, Harry,” said Ron, 
standing up and reaching into the luggage rack. A 
moment later he had pulled the Pocket Sneakoscope 
out from between Harry’s robes. It was spinning very 
fast in the palm of Ron’s hand and glowing brilliantly. 

“Is that a Sneakoscope?” said Hermione interestedly, 
standing up for a better look. 

“Yeah ... mind you, it’s a very cheap one,” Ron said. 

“It went haywire just as I was tying it to Errol’s leg to 
send it to Harry.” 

“Were you doing anything untrustworthy at the time?” 
said Hermione shrewdly. 

“No! Well ... I wasn’t supposed to be using Errol. You 
know he’s not really up to long journeys ... but how 
else was I supposed to get Harry’s present to him?” 

“Stick it back in the trunk,” Harry advised as the 
Sneakoscope whistled piercingly, “or it’ll wake him 
up.” 

He nodded toward Professor Lupin. Ron stuffed the 
Sneakoscope into a particularly horrible pair of Uncle 
Vernon’s old socks, which deadened the sound, then 
closed the lid of the trunk on it. 

“We could get it checked in Hogsmeade,” said Ron, 
sitting back down. “They sell that sort of thing in 
Dervish and Banges, magical instruments and stuff. 
Fred and George told me.” 

“Do you know much about Hogsmeade?” asked 
Hermione keenly. “I’ve read it’s the only entirely non- 
Muggle settlement in Britain — ” 



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“Yeah, I think it is,” said Ron in an offhand sort of 
way, “but that’s not why I want to go. I just want to 
get inside Honeydukes!” 

“What’s that?” said Hermione. 

“It’s this sweetshop,” said Ron, a dreamy look coming 
over his face, “where they’ve got everything. ... Pepper 
Imps — they make you smoke at the mouth — and 
great fat Chocoballs full of strawberry mousse and 
clotted cream, and really excellent sugar quills, which 
you can suck in class and just look like you’re 
thinking what to write next — ” 

“But Hogsmeade’s a very interesting place, isn’t it?” 
Hermione pressed on eagerly. “In Sites of Historical 
Sorcery it says the inn was the headquarters for the 
1612 goblin rebellion, and the Shrieking Shack’s 
supposed to be the most severely haunted building in 
Britain — ” 

“ — and massive sherbet balls that make you levitate a 
few inches off the ground while you’re sucking them,” 
said Ron, who was plainly not listening to a word 
Hermione was saying. 

Hermione looked around at Harry. 

“Won’t it be nice to get out of school for a bit and 
explore Hogsmeade?” 

“ ’Spect it will,” said Harry heavily. “You’ll have to tell 
me when you’ve found out.” 

“What d’you mean?” said Ron. 

“I can’t go. The Dursleys didn’t sign my permission 
form, and Fudge wouldn’t either.” 



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Ron looked horrified. 



“You’re not allowed to come? But — no way — 
McGonagall or someone will give you permission — ” 

Harry gave a hollow laugh. Professor McGonagall, 
head of Gryffindor House, was very strict. 

“ — or we can ask Fred and George, they know every 
secret passage out of the castle — ” 

“Ron!” said Hermione sharply. “I don’t think Harry 
should be sneaking out of school with Black on the 
loose — ” 

“Yeah, I expect that’s what McGonagall will say when 
I ask for permission,” said Harry bitterly. 

“But if we’re with him,” said Ron spiritedly to 
Hermione, “Black wouldn’t dare — ” 

“Oh, Ron, don’t talk rubbish,” snapped Hermione. 
“Black’s already murdered a whole bunch of people in 
the middle of a crowded street. Do you really think 
he’s going to worry about attacking Harry just 
because we’re there?” 

She was fumbling with the straps of Crookshanks’s 
basket as she spoke. 

“Don’t let that thing out!” Ron said, but too late; 
Crookshanks leapt lightly from the basket, stretched, 
yawned, and sprang onto Ron’s knees; the lump in 
Ron’s pocket trembled and he shoved Crookshanks 
angrily away. 

“Get out of here!” 

“Ron, don’t!” said Hermione angrily. 

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Ron was about to answer back when Professor Lupin 
stirred. They watched him apprehensively, but he 
simply turned his head the other way, mouth slightly 
open, and slept on. 

The Hogwarts Express moved steadily north and the 
scenery outside the window became wilder and darker 
while the clouds overhead thickened. People were 
chasing backward and forward past the door of their 
compartment. Crookshanks had now settled in an 
empty seat, his squashed face turned toward Ron, his 
yellow eyes on Ron’s top pocket. 

At one o’clock, the plump witch with the food cart 
arrived at the compartment door. 

“D’you think we should wake him up?” Ron asked 
awkwardly, nodding toward Professor Lupin. “He 
looks like he could do with some food.” 

Hermione approached Professor Lupin cautiously. 

“Er — Professor?” she said. “Excuse me — Professor?” 

He didn’t move. 

“Don’t worry, dear,” said the witch as she handed 
Harry a large stack of Cauldron Cakes. “If he’s hungry 
when he wakes, I’ll be up front with the driver.” 

“I suppose he is asleep?” said Ron quietly as the witch 
slid the compartment door closed. “I mean — he 
hasn’t died, has he?” 

“No, no, he’s breathing,” whispered Hermione, taking 
the Cauldron Cake Harry passed her. 

He might not be very good company, but Professor 
Lupin’s presence in their compartment had its uses. 

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Midafternoon, just as it had started to rain, blurring 
the rolling hills outside the window, they heard 
footsteps in the corridor again, and their three least 
favorite people appeared at the door: Draco Malfoy, 
flanked by his cronies, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory 
Goyle. 

Draco Malfoy and Harry had been enemies ever since 
they had met on their very first train journey to 
Hogwarts. Malfoy, who had a pale, pointed, sneering 
face, was in Slytherin House; he played Seeker on the 
Slytherin Quidditch team, the same position that 
Harry played on the Gryffindor team. Crabbe and 
Goyle seemed to exist to do Malfoy’s bidding. They 
were both wide and musclely; Crabbe was taller, with 
a pudding-bowl haircut and a very thick neck; Goyle 
had short, bristly hair and long, gorilla-ish arms. 

“Well, look who it is,” said Malfoy in his usual lazy 
drawl, pulling open the compartment door. “Potty and 
the Weasel.” 

Crabbe and Goyle chuckled trollishly. 

“I heard your father finally got his hands on some 
gold this summer, Weasley,” said Malfoy. “Did your 
mother die of shock?” 

Ron stood up so quickly he knocked Crookshanks’s 
basket to the floor. Professor Lupin gave a snort. 

“Who’s that?” said Malfoy, taking an automatic step 
backward as he spotted Lupin. 

“New teacher,” said Harry, who got to his feet, too, in 
case he needed to hold Ron back. “What were you 
saying, Malfoy?” 



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Malfoy’s pale eyes narrowed; he wasn’t fool enough to 
pick a fight right under a teacher’s nose. 

“C’mon,” he muttered resentfully to Crabbe and 
Goyle, and they disappeared. 

Harry and Ron sat down again, Ron massaging his 
knuckles. 

“I’m not going to take any crap from Malfoy this year,” 
he said angrily. “I mean it. If he makes one more 
crack about my family, I’m going to get hold of his 
head and — ” 

Ron made a violent gesture in midair. 

“Ron,” hissed Hermione, pointing at Professor Lupin, 
“be careful ...” 

But Professor Lupin was still fast asleep. 

The rain thickened as the train sped yet farther north; 
the windows were now a solid, shimmering gray, 
which gradually darkened until lanterns flickered into 
life all along the corridors and over the luggage racks. 
The train rattled, the rain hammered, the wind 
roared, but still, Professor Lupin slept. 

“We must be nearly there,” said Ron, leaning forward 
to look past Professor Lupin at the now completely 
black window. 

The words had hardly left him when the train started 
to slow down. 

“Great,” said Ron, getting up and walking carefully 
past Professor Lupin to try and see outside. “I’m 
starving. I want to get to the feast. ...” 



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“We can’t be there yet,” said Hermione, checking her 
watch. 

“So why’re we stopping?” 

The train was getting slower and slower. As the noise 
of the pistons fell away, the wind and rain sounded 
louder than ever against the windows. 

Harry, who was nearest the door, got up to look into 
the corridor. All along the carriage, heads were 
sticking curiously out of their compartments. 

The train came to a stop with a jolt, and distant thuds 
and bangs told them that luggage had fallen out of 
the racks. Then, without warning, all the lamps went 
out and they were plunged into total darkness. 

“What’s going on?” said Ron’s voice from behind 
Harry. 

“Ouch!” gasped Hermione. “Ron, that was my foot!” 
Harry felt his way back to his seat. 

“D’you think we’ve broken down?” 

“Dunno ...” 

There was a squeaking sound, and Harry saw the dim 
black outline of Ron, wiping a patch clean on the 
window and peering out. 

“There’s something moving out there,” Ron said. “I 
think people are coming aboard. ...” 

The compartment door suddenly opened and someone 
fell painfully over Harry’s legs. 



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“Sorry — d’you know what’s going on? — Ouch — 
sorry — ” 

“Hullo, Neville,” said Harry, feeling around in the dark 
and pulling Neville up by his cloak. 

“Harry? Is that you? What’s happening?” 

“No idea — sit down — ” 

There was a loud hissing and a yelp of pain; Neville 
had tried to sit on Crookshanks. 

“I’m going to go and ask the driver what’s going on,” 
came Hermione’s voice. Harry felt her pass him, heard 
the door slide open again, and then a thud and two 
loud squeals of pain. 

“Who’s that?” 

“Who’s that?” 

“Ginny?” 

“Hermione?” 

“What are you doing?” 

“I was looking for Ron — ” 

“Come in and sit down — ” 

“Not here!” said Harry hurriedly. “I’m here!” 

“Ouch!” said Neville. 

“Quiet!” said a hoarse voice suddenly. 



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Professor Lupin appeared to have woken up at last. 
Harry could hear movements in his corner. None of 
them spoke. 

There was a soft, crackling noise, and a shivering 
light filled the compartment. Professor Lupin 
appeared to be holding a handful of flames. They 
illuminated his tired, gray face, but his eyes looked 
alert and wary. 

“Stay where you are,” he said in the same hoarse 
voice, and he got slowly to his feet with his handful of 
fire held out in front of him. 

But the door slid slowly open before Lupin could 
reach it. 

Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the shivering 
flames in Lupin’s hand, was a cloaked figure that 
towered to the ceiling. Its face was completely hidden 
beneath its hood. Harry’s eyes darted downward, and 
what he saw made his stomach contract. There was a 
hand protruding from the cloak and it was glistening, 
grayish, slimy-looking, and scabbed, like something 
dead that had decayed in water. . . . 

But it was visible only for a split second. As though 
the creature beneath the cloak sensed Harry’s gaze, 
the hand was suddenly withdrawn into the folds of its 
black cloak. 

And then the thing beneath the hood, whatever it 
was, drew a long, slow, rattling breath, as though it 
were trying to suck something more than air from its 
surroundings. 

An intense cold swept over them all. Harry felt his 
own breath catch in his chest. The cold went deeper 



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than his skin. It was inside his chest, it was inside 
his very heart. ... 



Harry’s eyes rolled up into his head. He couldn’t see. 
He was drowning in cold. There was a rushing in his 
ears as though of water. He was being dragged 
downward, the roaring growing louder . . . 

And then, from far away, he heard screaming, 
terrible, terrified, pleading screams. He wanted to 
help whoever it was, he tried to move his arms, but 
couldn’t ... a thick white fog was swirling around him, 
inside him — 

“Harry! Harry! Are you all right?” 

Someone was slapping his face. 

“W — what?” 

Harry opened his eyes; there were lanterns above 
him, and the floor was shaking — the Hogwarts 
Express was moving again and the lights had come 
back on. He seemed to have slid out of his seat onto 
the floor. Ron and Hermione were kneeling next to 
him, and above them he could see Neville and 
Professor Lupin watching. Harry felt very sick; when 
he put up his hand to push his glasses back on, he 
felt cold sweat on his face. 

Ron and Hermione heaved him back onto his seat. 

“Are you okay?” Ron asked nervously. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, looking quickly toward the door. 
The hooded creature had vanished. “What happened? 
Where’s that — that thing? Who screamed?” 

“No one screamed,” said Ron, more nervously still. 

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Harry looked around the bright compartment. Ginny 
and Neville looked back at him, both very pale. 

“But I heard screaming — ” 

A loud snap made them all jump. Professor Lupin was 
breaking an enormous slab of chocolate into pieces. 

“Here,” he said to Harry, handing him a particularly 
large piece. “Eat it. It’ll help.” 

Harry took the chocolate but didn’t eat it. 

“What was that thing?” he asked Lupin. 

“A dementor,” said Lupin, who was now giving 
chocolate to everyone else. “One of the dementors of 
Azkaban.” 

Everyone stared at him. Professor Lupin crumpled up 
the empty chocolate wrapper and put it in his pocket. 

“Eat,” he repeated. “It’ll help. I need to speak to the 
driver, excuse me ...” 

He strolled past Harry and disappeared into the 
corridor. 

“Are you sure you’re okay, Harry?” said Hermione, 
watching Harry anxiously. 

“I don’t get it. ... What happened?” said Harry, wiping 
more sweat off his face. 

“Well — that thing — the dementor — stood there and 
looked around (I mean, I think it did, I couldn’t see its 
face) — and you — you — ” 



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“I thought you were having a fit or something,” said 
Ron, who still looked scared. “You went sort of rigid 
and fell out of your seat and started twitching — ” 

“And Professor Lupin stepped over you, and walked 
toward the dementor, and pulled out his wand,” said 
Hermione, “and he said, ‘None of us is hiding Sirius 
Black under our cloaks. Go.’ But the dementor didn’t 
move, so Lupin muttered something, and a silvery 
thing shot out of his wand at it, and it turned around 
and sort of glided away. ...” 

“It was horrible,” said Neville, in a higher voice than 
usual. “Did you feel how cold it got when it came in?” 

“I felt weird,” said Ron, shifting his shoulders 
uncomfortably. “Like I’d never be cheerful again. ...” 

Ginny, who was huddled in her corner looking nearly 
as bad as Harry felt, gave a small sob; Hermione went 
over and put a comforting arm around her. 

“But didn’t any of you — fall off your seats?” said 
Harry awkwardly. 

“No,” said Ron, looking anxiously at Harry again. 
“Ginny was shaking like mad, though. ...” 

Harry didn’t understand. He felt weak and shivery, as 
though he were recovering from a bad bout of flu; he 
also felt the beginnings of shame. Why had he gone to 
pieces like that, when no one else had? 

Professor Lupin had come back. He paused as he 
entered, looked around, and said, with a small smile, 
“I haven’t poisoned that chocolate, you know. ...” 



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Harry took a bite and to his great surprise felt 
warmth spread suddenly to the tips of his fingers and 
toes. 

“Well be at Hogwarts in ten minutes,” said Professor 
Lupin. “Are you all right, Harry?” 

Harry didn’t ask how Professor Lupin knew his name. 

“Fine,” he muttered, embarrassed. 

They didn’t talk much during the remainder of the 
journey. At long last, the train stopped at Hogsmeade 
station, and there was a great scramble to get 
outside; owls hooted, cats meowed, and Neville’s pet 
toad croaked loudly from under his hat. It was 
freezing on the tiny platform; rain was driving down 
in icy sheets. 

“Firs’ years this way!” called a familiar voice. Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione turned and saw the gigantic 
outline of Hagrid at the other end of the platform, 
beckoning the terrified-looking new students forward 
for their traditional journey across the lake. 

“All righ’, you three?” Hagrid yelled over the heads of 
the crowd. They waved at him, but had no chance to 
speak to him because the mass of people around 
them was shunting them away along the platform. 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed the rest of the 
school along the platform and out onto a rough mud 
track, where at least a hundred stagecoaches awaited 
the remaining students, each pulled, Harry could only 
assume, by an invisible horse, because when they 
climbed inside and shut the door, the coach set off all 
by itself, bumping and swaying in procession. 

The coach smelled faintly of mold and straw. Harry 
felt better since the chocolate, but still weak. Ron and 

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Hermione kept looking at him sideways, as though 
frightened he might collapse again. 

As the carriage trundled toward a pair of magnificent 
wrought iron gates, flanked with stone columns 
topped with winged boars, Harry saw two more 
towering, hooded dementors, standing guard on 
either side. A wave of cold sickness threatened to 
engulf him again; he leaned back into the lumpy seat 
and closed his eyes until they had passed the gates. 
The carriage picked up speed on the long, sloping 
drive up to the castle; Hermione was leaning out of 
the tiny window, watching the many turrets and 
towers draw nearer. At last, the carriage swayed to a 
halt, and Hermione and Ron got out. 

As Harry stepped down, a drawling, delighted voice 
sounded in his ear. 

“You fainted, Potter? Is Longbottom telling the truth? 
You actually fainted?” 

Malfoy elbowed past Hermione to block Harry’s way 
up the stone steps to the castle, his face gleeful and 
his pale eyes glinting maliciously. 

“Shove off, Malfoy,” said Ron, whose jaw was 
clenched. 

“Did you faint as well, Weasley?” said Malfoy loudly. 
“Did the scary old dementor frighten you too, 
Weasley?” 

“Is there a problem?” said a mild voice. Professor 
Lupin had just gotten out of the next carriage. 

Malfoy gave Professor Lupin an insolent stare, which 
took in the patches on his robes and the delapidated 
suitcase. With a tiny hint of sarcasm in his voice, he 

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said, “Oh, no — er — Professor,” then he smirked at 
Crabbe and Goyle and led them up the steps into the 
castle. 

Hermione prodded Ron in the back to make him 
hurry, and the three of them joined the crowd 
swarming up the steps, through the giant oak front 
doors, into the cavernous entrance hall, which was lit 
with flaming torches, and housed a magnificent 
marble staircase that led to the upper floors. 

The door into the Great Hall stood open at the right; 
Harry followed the crowd toward it, but had barely 
glimpsed the enchanted ceiling, which was black and 
cloudy tonight, when a voice called, “Potter! Granger! 

I want to see you both!” 

Harry and Hermione turned around, surprised. 
Professor McGonagall, Transfiguration teacher and 
head of Gryffindor House, was calling over the heads 
of the crowd. She was a stern-looking witch who wore 
her hair in a tight bun; her sharp eyes were framed 
with square spectacles. Harry fought his way over to 
her with a feeling of foreboding: Professor McGonagall 
had a way of making him feel he must have done 
something wrong. 

“There’s no need to look so worried — I just want a 
word in my office,” she told them. “Move along there, 
Weasley.” 

Ron stared as Professor McGonagall ushered 
Harry and Hermione away from the chattering crowd; 
they accompanied her across the entrance hall, up 
the marble staircase, and along a corridor. 

Once they were in her office, a small room with a 
large, welcoming fire, Professor McGonagall motioned 
Harry and Hermione to sit down. She settled herself 

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behind her desk and said abruptly, “Professor Lupin 
sent an owl ahead to say that you were taken ill on 
the train, Potter.” 

Before Harry could reply, there was a soft knock on 
the door and Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, came 
bustling in. 

Harry felt himself going red in the face. It was bad 
enough that he’d passed out, or whatever he had 
done, without everyone making all this fuss. 

“I’m fine,” he said, “I don’t need anything — ” 

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said Madam Pomfrey, ignoring 
this and bending down to stare closely at him. “I 
suppose you’ve been doing something dangerous 
again?” 

“It was a dementor, Poppy,” said Professor 
McGonagall. 

They exchanged a dark look, and Madam Pomfrey 
clucked disapprovingly. 

“Setting dementors around a school,” she muttered, 
pushing back Harry’s hair and feeling his forehead. 
“He won’t be the last one who collapses. Yes, he’s all 
clammy. Terrible things, they are, and the effect they 
have on people who are already delicate — ” 

“I’m not delicate!” said Harry crossly. 

“Of course you’re not,” said Madam Pomfrey 
absentmindedly, now taking his pulse. 

“What does he need?” said Professor McGonagall 
crisply. “Bed rest? Should he perhaps spend tonight 
in the hospital wing?” 

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‘Tm /ine!” said Harry, jumping up. The thought of 
what Draco Malfoy would say if he had to go to the 
hospital wing was torture. 

“Well, he should have some chocolate, at the very 
least,” said Madam Pomfrey, who was now trying to 
peer into Harry’s eyes. 

“I’ve already had some,” said Harry. “Professor Lupin 
gave me some. He gave it to all of us.” 

“Did he, now?” said Madam Pomfrey approvingly. “So 
we’ve finally got a Defense Against the Dark Arts 
teacher who knows his remedies?” 

“Are you sure you feel all right, Potter?” Professor 
McGonagall said sharply. 

“Yes,” said Harry. 

“Very well. Kindly wait outside while I have a quick 
word with Miss Granger about her course schedule, 
then we can go down to the feast together.” 

Harry went back into the corridor with Madam 
Pomfrey, who left for the hospital wing, muttering to 
herself. He had to wait only a few minutes; then 
Hermione emerged looking very happy about 
something, followed by Professor McGonagall, and the 
three of them made their way back down the marble 
staircase to the Great Hall. 

It was a sea of pointed black hats; each of the long 
House tables was lined with students, their faces 
glimmering by the light of thousands of candles, 
which were floating over the tables in midair. 

Professor Flitwick, who was a tiny little wizard with a 
shock of white hair, was carrying an ancient hat and 
a three-legged stool out of the hall. 

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“Oh,” said Hermione softly, “we’ve missed the 
Sorting!” 

New students at Hogwarts were sorted into Houses by 
trying on the Sorting Hat, which shouted out the 
House they were best suited to (Gryffindor, 

Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin). Professor 
McGonagall strode off toward her empty seat at the 
staff table, and Harry and Hermione set off in the 
other direction, as quietly as possible, toward the 
Gryffindor table. People looked around at them as 
they passed along the back of the hall, and a few of 
them pointed at Harry. Had the story of his collapsing 
in front of the dementor traveled that fast? 

He and Hermione sat down on either side of Ron, who 
had saved them seats. 

“What was all that about?” he muttered to Harry. 

Harry started to explain in a whisper, but at that 
moment the headmaster stood up to speak, and he 
broke off. 

Professor Dumbledore, though very old, always gave 
an impression of great energy. He had several feet of 
long silver hair and beard, half-moon spectacles, and 
an extremely crooked nose. He was often described as 
the greatest wizard of the age, but that wasn’t why 
Harry respected him. You couldn’t help trusting Albus 
Dumbledore, and as Harry watched him beaming 
around at the students, he felt really calm for the first 
time since the dementor had entered the train 
compartment. 

“Welcome!” said Dumbledore, the candlelight 
shimmering on his beard. “Welcome to another year 
at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and 
as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it 

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out of the way before you become befuddled by our 
excellent feast. ...” 

Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued, “As 
you will all be aware after their search of the 
Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing 
host to some of the dementors of Azkaban, who are 
here on Ministry of Magic business.” 

He paused, and Harry remembered what Mr. Weasley 
had said about Dumbledore not being happy with the 
dementors guarding the school. 

“They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds,” 
Dumbledore continued, “and while they are with us, I 
must make it plain that nobody is to leave school 
without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled 
by tricks or disguises — or even Invisibility Cloaks,” 
he added blandly, and Harry and Ron glanced at each 
other. “It is not in the nature of a dementor to 
understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn 
each and every one of you to give them no reason to 
harm you. I look to the prefects, and our new Head 
Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs afoul 
of the dementors,” he said. 

Percy, who was sitting a few seats down from Harry, 
puffed out his chest again and stared around 
impressively. Dumbledore paused again; he looked 
very seriously around the hall, and nobody moved or 
made a sound. 

“On a happier note,” he continued, “I am pleased to 
welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year. 

“First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to 
fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.” 



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There was some scattered, rather unenthusiastic 
applause. Only those who had been in the 
compartment on the train with Professor Lupin 
clapped hard, Harry among them. Professor Lupin 
looked particularly shabby next to all the other 
teachers in their best robes. 

“Look at Snape!” Ron hissed in Harry’s ear. 

Professor Snape, the Potions master, was staring 
along the staff table at Professor Lupin. It was 
common knowledge that Snape wanted the Defense 
Against the Dark Arts job, but even Harry, who hated 
Snape, was startled at the expression twisting his 
thin, sallow face. It was beyond anger: it was loathing. 
Harry knew that expression only too well; it was the 
look Snape wore every time he set eyes on Harry. 

“As to our second new appointment,” Dumbledore 
continued as the lukewarm applause for Professor 
Lupin died away. “Well, I am sorry to tell you that 
Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures 
teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to 
enjoy more time with his remaining limbs. However, I 
am delighted to say that his place will be filled by 
none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to 
take on this teaching job in addition to his 
gamekeeping duties.” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at one another, 
stunned. Then they joined in with the applause, 
which was tumultuous at the Gryffindor table in 
particular. Harry leaned forward to see Hagrid, who 
was ruby-red in the face and staring down at his 
enormous hands, his wide grin hidden in the tangle of 
his black beard. 



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“We should’ve known!” Ron roared, pounding the 
table. “Who else would have assigned us a biting 
book?” 



Harry, Ron, and Hermione were the last to stop 
clapping, and as Professor Dumbledore started 
speaking again, they saw that Hagrid was wiping his 
eyes on the tablecloth. 

“Well, I think that’s everything of importance,” said 
Dumbledore. “Let the feast begin!” 

The golden plates and goblets before them filled 
suddenly with food and drink. Harry, suddenly 
ravenous, helped himself to everything he could reach 
and began to eat. 

It was a delicious feast; the hall echoed with talk, 
laughter, and the clatter of knives and forks. Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione, however, were eager for it to 
finish so that they could talk to Hagrid. They knew 
how much being made a teacher would mean to him. 
Hagrid wasn’t a fully qualified wizard; he had been 
expelled from Hogwarts in his third year for a crime 
he had not committed. It had been Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione who had cleared Hagrid ’s name last year. 

At long last, when the last morsels of pumpkin tart 
had melted from the golden platters, Dumbledore 
gave the word that it was time for them all to go to 
bed, and they got their chance. 

“Congratulations, Hagrid!” Hermione squealed as they 
reached the teachers’ table. 

“All down ter you three,” said Hagrid, wiping his 
shining face on his napkin as he looked up at them. 
“Can’ believe it ... great man, Dumbledore ... came 
straight down to me hut after Professor Kettleburn 

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said he’d had enough. ... It’s what I always wanted. 



Overcome with emotion, he buried his face in his 
napkin, and Professor McGonagall shooed them away. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione joined the Gryffindors 
streaming up the marble staircase and, very tired 
now, along more corridors, up more and more stairs, 
to the hidden entrance to Gryffindor Tower. A large 
portrait of a fat lady in a pink dress asked them, 
“Password?” 

“Coming through, coming through!” Percy called from 
behind the crowd. “The new password’s ‘Fortuna 
Major’!” 

“Oh no,” said Neville Longbottom sadly. He always 
had trouble remembering the passwords. 

Through the portrait hole and across the common 
room, the girls and boys divided toward their separate 
staircases. Harry climbed the spiral stair with no 
thought in his head except how glad he was to be 
back. They reached their familiar, circular dormitory 
with its five four-poster beds, and Harry, looking 
around, felt he was home at last. 



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TALONS AND TEA LEAVES 

When Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the Great 
Hall for breakfast the next day, the first thing they 
saw was Draco Malfoy, who seemed to be entertaining 
a large group of Slytherins with a very funny story. As 
they passed, Malfoy did a ridiculous impression of a 
swooning fit and there was a roar of laughter. 

“Ignore him,” said Hermione, who was right behind 
Harry. “Just ignore him, it’s not worth it. ...” 

“Hey, Potter!” shrieked Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin 
girl with a face like a pug. “Potter! The dementors are 
coming, Potter! Woooooooo!” 

Harry dropped into a seat at the Gryffindor table, next 
to George Weasley. 

“New third-year course schedules,” said George, 
passing them over. “What’s up with you, Harry?” 

“Malfoy,” said Ron, sitting down on George’s other 
side and glaring over at the Slytherin table. 

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George looked up in time to see Malfoy pretending to 
faint with terror again. 

“That little git,” he said calmly. “He wasn’t so cocky 
last night when the dementors were down at our end 
of the train. Came running into our compartment, 
didn’t he, Fred?” 

“Nearly wet himself,” said Fred, with a contemptuous 
glance at Malfoy. 

“I wasn’t too happy myself,” said George. “They’re 
horrible things, those dementors. ...” 

“Sort of freeze your insides, don’t they?” said Fred. 

“You didn’t pass out, though, did you?” said Harry in 
a low voice. 

“Forget it, Harry,” said George bracingly. “Dad had to 
go out to Azkaban one time, remember, Fred? And he 
said it was the worst place he’d ever been, he came 
back all weak and shaking. . . . They suck the 
happiness out of a place, dementors. Most of the 
prisoners go mad in there.” 

“Anyway, we’ll see how happy Malfoy looks after our 
first Quidditch match,” said Fred. “Gryffindor versus 
Slytherin, first game of the season, remember?” 

The only time Harry and Malfoy had faced each other 
in a Quidditch match, Malfoy had definitely come off 
worse. Feeling slightly more cheerful, Harry helped 
himself to sausages and fried tomatoes. 

Hermione was examining her new schedule. 

“Ooh, good, we’re starting some new subjects today,” 
she said happily. 

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“Hermione,” said Ron, frowning as he looked over her 
shoulder, “they’ve messed up your schedule. Look — 
they’ve got you down for about ten subjects a day. 
There isn’t enough time.” 

“I’ll manage. I’ve fixed it all with Professor 
McGonagall.” 

“But look,” said Ron, laughing, “see this morning? 
Nine o’clock, Divination. And underneath, nine 
o’clock, Muggle Studies. And” — Ron leaned closer to 
the schedule, disbelieving — “ look — underneath 
that, Arithmancy, nine o’clock. I mean, I know you’re 
good, Hermione, but no one’s that good. How’re you 
supposed to be in three classes at once?” 

“Don’t be silly,” said Hermione shortly. “Of course I 
won’t be in three classes at once.” 

“Well, then — ” 

“Pass the marmalade,” said Hermione. 

“But — ” 

“Oh, Ron, what’s it to you if my schedule’s a bit full?” 
Hermione snapped. “I told you, I’ve fixed it all with 
Professor McGonagall.” 

Just then, Hagrid entered the Great Hall. He was 
wearing his long moleskin overcoat and was 
absentmindedly swinging a dead polecat from one 
enormous hand. 

“All righ’?” he said eagerly, pausing on the way to the 
staff table. “Yer in my firs’ ever lesson! Right after 
lunch! Bin up since five gettin’ everythin’ ready. ... 
Hope it’s okay. ... Me, a teacher ... hones’ly. ...” 



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He grinned broadly at them and headed off to the 
staff table, still swinging the polecat. 

“Wonder what he’s been getting ready?” said Ron, a 
note of anxiety in his voice. 

The hall was starting to empty as people headed off 
toward their first lesson. Ron checked his course 
schedule. 

“We’d better go, look, Divination’s at the top of North 
Tower. It’ll take us ten minutes to get there. ...” 

They finished their breakfasts hastily, said good-bye 
to Fred and George, and walked back through the 
hall. As they passed the Slytherin table, Malfoy did 
yet another impression of a fainting fit. The shouts of 
laughter followed Harry into the entrance hall. 

The journey through the castle to North Tower was a 
long one. Two years at Hogwarts hadn’t taught them 
everything about the castle, and they had never been 
inside North Tower before. 

“There’s — got — to — be — a — shortcut,” Ron 
panted as they climbed their seventh long staircase 
and emerged on an unfamiliar landing, where there 
was nothing but a large painting of a bare stretch of 
grass hanging on the stone wall. 

“I think it’s this way,” said Hermione, peering down 
the empty passage to the right. 

“Can’t be,” said Ron. “That’s south, look, you can see 
a bit of the lake out of the window ...” 

Harry was watching the painting. A fat, dapple-gray 
pony had just ambled onto the grass and was grazing 
nonchalantly. Harry was used to the subjects of 

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Hogwarts paintings moving around and leaving their 
frames to visit one another, but he always enjoyed 
watching it. A moment later, a short, squat knight in 
a suit of armor clanked into the picture after his 
pony. By the look of the grass stains on his metal 
knees, he had just fallen off. 

“Aha!” he yelled, seeing Harry, Ron, and Hermione. 
“What villains are these, that trespass upon my 
private lands! Come to scorn at my fall, perchance? 
Draw, you knaves, you dogs!” 

They watched in astonishment as the little knight 
tugged his sword out of its scabbard and began 
brandishing it violently, hopping up and down in 
rage. But the sword was too long for him; a 
particularly wild swing made him overbalance, and he 
landed facedown in the grass. 

“Are you all right?” said Harry, moving closer to the 
picture. 

“Get back, you scurvy braggart! Back, you rogue!” 

The knight seized his sword again and used it to push 
himself back up, but the blade sank deeply into the 
grass and, though he pulled with all his might, he 
couldn’t get it out again. Finally, he had to flop back 
down onto the grass and push up his visor to mop his 
sweating face. 

“Listen,” said Harry, taking advantage of the knight’s 
exhaustion, “we’re looking for the North Tower. You 
don’t know the way, do you?” 

“A quest!” The knight’s rage seemed to vanish 
instantly. He clanked to his feet and shouted, “Come 
follow me, dear friends, and we shall find our goal, or 
else shall perish bravely in the charge!” 

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He gave the sword another fruitless tug, tried and 
failed to mount the fat pony, gave up, and cried, “On 
foot then, good sirs and gentle lady! On! On!” 

And he ran, clanking loudly, into the left side of the 
frame and out of sight. 

They hurried after him along the corridor, following 
the sound of his armor. Every now and then they 
spotted him running through a picture ahead. 

“Be of stout heart, the worst is yet to come!” yelled the 
knight, and they saw him reappear in front of an 
alarmed group of women in crinolines, whose picture 
hung on the wall of a narrow spiral staircase. 

Puffing loudly, Harry, Ron, and Hermione climbed the 
tightly spiraling steps, getting dizzier and dizzier, 
until at last they heard the murmur of voices above 
them and knew they had reached the classroom. 

“Farewell!” cried the knight, popping his head into a 
painting of some sinister-looking monks. “Farewell, 
my comrades-in-arms! If ever you have need of noble 
heart and steely sinew, call upon Sir Cadogan!” 

“Yeah, well call you,” muttered Ron as the knight 
disappeared, “if we ever need someone mental.” 

They climbed the last few steps and emerged onto a 
tiny landing, where most of the class was already 
assembled. There were no doors off this landing, but 
Ron nudged Harry and pointed at the ceiling, where 
there was a circular trapdoor with a brass plaque on 
it. 

“ ‘Sibyll Trelawney, Divination teacher,’ ” Harry read. 
“How’re we supposed to get up there?” 



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As though in answer to his question, the trapdoor 
suddenly opened, and a silvery ladder descended 
right at Harry’s feet. Everyone got quiet. 

“After you,” said Ron, grinning, so Harry climbed the 
ladder first. 

He emerged into the strangest-looking classroom he 
had ever seen. In fact, it didn’t look like a classroom 
at all, more like a cross between someone’s attic and 
an old-fashioned tea shop. At least twenty small, 
circular tables were crammed inside it, all 
surrounded by chintz armchairs and fat little poufs. 
Everything was lit with a dim, crimson light; the 
curtains at the windows were all closed, and the 
many lamps were draped with dark red scarves. It 
was stiflingly warm, and the fire that was burning 
under the crowded mantelpiece was giving off a 
heavy, sickly sort of perfume as it heated a large 
copper kettle. The shelves running around the 
circular walls were crammed with dusty-looking 
feathers, stubs of candles, many packs of tattered 
playing cards, countless silvery crystal balls, and a 
huge array of teacups. 

Ron appeared at Harry’s shoulder as the class 
assembled around them, all talking in whispers. 

“Where is she?” Ron said. 

A voice came suddenly out of the shadows, a soft, 
misty sort of voice. 

“Welcome,” it said. “How nice to see you in the 
physical world at last.” 

Harry’s immediate impression was of a large, 
glittering insect. Professor Trelawney moved into the 
firelight, and they saw that she was very thin; her 

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large glasses magnified her eyes to several times their 
natural size, and she was draped in a gauzy spangled 
shawl. Innumerable chains and beads hung around 
her spindly neck, and her arms and hands were 
encrusted with bangles and rings. 

“Sit, my children, sit,” she said, and they all climbed 
awkwardly into armchairs or sank onto poufs. Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione sat themselves around the same 
round table. 

“Welcome to Divination,” said Professor Trelawney, 
who had seated herself in a winged armchair in front 
of the fire. “My name is Professor Trelawney. You may 
not have seen me before. I find that descending too 
often into the hustle and bustle of the main school 
clouds my Inner Eye.” 

Nobody said anything to this extraordinary 
pronouncement. Professor Trelawney delicately 
rearranged her shawl and continued, “So you have 
chosen to study Divination, the most difficult of all 
magical arts. I must warn you at the outset that if 
you do not have the Sight, there is very little I will be 
able to teach you. Books can take you only so far in 
this field. ...” 

At these words, both Harry and Ron glanced, 
grinning, at Hermione, who looked startled at the 
news that books wouldn’t be much help in this 
subject. 

“Many witches and wizards, talented though they are 
in the area of loud bangs and smells and sudden 
disappearings, are yet unable to penetrate the veiled 
mysteries of the future,” Professor Trelawney went on, 
her enormous, gleaming eyes moving from face to 
nervous face. “It is a Gift granted to few. You, boy,” 



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she said suddenly to Neville, who almost toppled off 
his pouf. “Is your grandmother well?” 



“I think so,” said Neville tremulously. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you, dear,” said 
Professor Trelawney, the firelight glinting on her long 
emerald earrings. Neville gulped. Professor Trelawney 
continued placidly. “We will be covering the basic 
methods of Divination this year. The first term will be 
devoted to reading the tea leaves. Next term we shall 
progress to palmistry. By the way, my dear,” she shot 
suddenly at Parvati Patil, “beware a red-haired man.” 

Parvati gave a startled look at Ron, who was right 
behind her, and edged her chair away from him. 

“In the second term,” Professor Trelawney went on, 

“we shall progress to the crystal ball — if we have 
finished with fire omens, that is. Unfortunately, 
classes will be disrupted in February by a nasty bout 
of flu. I myself will lose my voice. And around Easter, 
one of our number will leave us forever.” 

A very tense silence followed this pronouncement, but 
Professor Trelawney seemed unaware of it. 

“I wonder, dear,” she said to Lavender Brown, who 
was nearest and shrank back in her chair, “if you 
could pass me the largest silver teapot?” 

Lavender, looking relieved, stood up, took an 
enormous teapot from the shelf, and put it down on 
the table in front of Professor Trelawney. 

“Thank you, my dear. Incidentally, that thing you are 
dreading — it will happen on Friday the sixteenth of 
October.” 

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Lavender trembled. 



“Now, I want you all to divide into pairs. Collect a 
teacup from the shelf, come to me, and I will fill it. 
Then sit down and drink, drink until only the dregs 
remain. Swill these around the cup three times with 
the left hand, then turn the cup upside down on its 
saucer, wait for the last of the tea to drain away, then 
give your cup to your partner to read. You will 
interpret the patterns using pages five and six of 
Unfogging the Future. I shall move among you, helping 
and instructing. Oh, and dear” — she caught Neville 
by the arm as he made to stand up — “after you’ve 
broken your first cup, would you be so kind as to 
select one of the blue patterned ones? I’m rather 
attached to the pink.” 

Sure enough, Neville had no sooner reached the shelf 
of teacups when there was a tinkle of breaking china. 
Professor Trelawney swept over to him holding a 
dustpan and brush and said, “One of the blue ones, 
then, dear, if you wouldn’t mind ... thank you. ...” 

When Harry and Ron had had their teacups filled, 
they went back to their table and tried to drink the 
scalding tea quickly. They swilled the dregs around as 
Professor Trelawney had instructed, then drained the 
cups and swapped over. 

“Right,” said Ron as they both opened their books at 
pages five and six. “What can you see in mine?” 

“A load of soggy brown stuff,” said Harry. The heavily 
perfumed smoke in the room was making him feel 
sleepy and stupid. 

“Broaden your minds, my dears, and allow your eyes 
to see past the mundane!” Professor Trelawney cried 
through the gloom. 

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Harry tried to pull himself together. 

“Right, you’ve got a crooked sort of cross ...” He 
consulted Unfogging the Future. “That means you’re 
going to have ‘trials and suffering’ — sorry about that 
— but there’s a thing that could be the sun ... hang 
on ... that means ‘great happiness’ ... so you’re going 
to suffer but be very happy. ...” 

“You need your Inner Eye tested, if you ask me,” said 
Ron, and they both had to stifle their laughs as 
Professor Trelawney gazed in their direction. 

“My turn ...” Ron peered into Harry’s teacup, his 
forehead wrinkled with effort. “There’s a blob a bit like 
a bowler hat,” he said. “Maybe you’re going to work 
for the Ministry of Magic. ...” 

He turned the teacup the other way up. 

“But this way it looks more like an acorn. ... What’s 
that?” He scanned his copy of Unfogging the Future. “ 
‘A windfall, unexpected gold.’ Excellent, you can lend 
me some ... and there’s a thing here,” he turned the 
cup again, “that looks like an animal . . . yeah, if that 
was its head ... it looks like a hippo ... no, a sheep ...” 

Professor Trelawney whirled around as Harry let out a 
snort of laughter. 

“Let me see that, my dear,” she said reprovingly to 
Ron, sweeping over and snatching Harry’s cup from 
him. Everyone went quiet to watch. 

Professor Trelawney was staring into the teacup, 
rotating it counterclockwise. 

“The falcon ... my dear, you have a deadly enemy.” 



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“But everyone knows that,” said Hermione in a loud 
whisper. Professor Trelawney stared at her. 

“Well, they do,” said Hermione. “Everybody knows 
about Harry and You-Know-Who.” 

Harry and Ron stared at her with a mixture of 
amazement and admiration. They had never heard 
Hermione speak to a teacher like that before. 

Professor Trelawney chose not to reply. She lowered 
her huge eyes to Harry’s cup again and continued to 
turn it. 

“The club ... an attack. Dear, dear, this is not a happy 
cup. ...” 

“I thought that was a bowler hat,” said Ron 
sheepishly. 

“The skull ... danger in your path, my dear. ...” 

Everyone was staring, transfixed, at Professor 
Trelawney, who gave the cup a final turn, gasped, and 
then screamed. 

There was another tinkle of breaking china; Neville 
had smashed his second cup. Professor Trelawney 
sank into a vacant armchair, her glittering hand at 
her heart and her eyes closed. 

“My dear boy . . . my poor, dear boy ... no ... it is 
kinder not to say ... no ... don’t ask me. ...” 

“What is it, Professor?” said Dean Thomas at once. 
Everyone had got to their feet, and slowly they 
crowded around Harry and Ron’s table, pressing close 
to Professor Trelawney’s chair to get a good look at 
Harry’s cup. 



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“My dear,” Professor Trelawney’s huge eyes opened 
dramatically, “you have the Grim.” 



“The what?” said Harry. 

He could tell that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t 
understand; Dean Thomas shrugged at him and 
Lavender Brown looked puzzled, but nearly everybody 
else clapped their hands to their mouths in horror. 

“The Grim, my dear, the Grim!” cried Professor 
Trelawney, who looked shocked that Harry hadn’t 
understood. “The giant, spectral dog that haunts 
churchyards! My dear boy, it is an omen — the worst 
omen — of death .!” 

Harry’s stomach lurched. That dog on the cover of 
Death Omens in Flourish and Blotts — the dog in the 
shadows of Magnolia Crescent . . . Lavender Brown 
clapped her hands to her mouth too. Everyone was 
looking at Harry, everyone except Hermione, who had 
gotten up and moved around to the back of Professor 
Trelawney’s chair. 

“I don’t think it looks like a Grim,” she said flatly. 

Professor Trelawney surveyed Hermione with 
mounting dislike. 

“You’ll forgive me for saying so, my dear, but I 
perceive very little aura around you. Very little 
receptivity to the resonances of the future.” 

Seamus Finnigan was tilting his head from side to 
side. 

“It looks like a Grim if you do this,” he said, with his 
eyes almost shut, “but it looks more like a donkey 
from here,” he said, leaning to the left. 

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“When you’ve all finished deciding whether I’m going 
to die or not!” said Harry, taking even himself by 
surprise. Now nobody seemed to want to look at him. 

“I think we will leave the lesson here for today,” said 
Professor Trelawney in her mistiest voice. “Yes ... 
please pack away your things. ...” 

Silently the class took their teacups back to Professor 
Trelawney, packed away their books, and closed their 
bags. Even Ron was avoiding Harry’s eyes. 

“Until we meet again,” said Professor Trelawney 
faintly, “fair fortune be yours. Oh, and dear” — she 
pointed at Neville — “you’ll be late next time, so mind 
you work extra-hard to catch up.” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione descended Professor 
Trelawney’s ladder and the winding stair in silence, 
then set off for Professor McGonagall’s 
Transfiguration lesson. It took them so long to find 
her classroom that, early as they had left Divination, 
they were only just in time. 

Harry chose a seat right at the back of the room, 
feeling as though he were sitting in a very bright 
spotlight; the rest of the class kept shooting furtive 
glances at him, as though he were about to drop dead 
at any moment. He hardly heard what Professor 
McGonagall was telling them about Animagi (wizards 
who could transform at will into animals), and wasn’t 
even watching when she transformed herself in front 
of their eyes into a tabby cat with spectacle markings 
around her eyes. 

“Really, what has got into you all today?” said 
Professor McGonagall, turning back into herself with 
a faint pop, and staring around at them all. “Not that 



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it matters, but that’s the first time my 
transformation’s not got applause from a class.” 



Everybody’s heads turned toward Harry again, but 
nobody spoke. Then Hermione raised her hand. 

“Please, Professor, we’ve just had our first Divination 
class, and we were reading the tea leaves, and — ” 

“Ah, of course,” said Professor McGonagall, suddenly 
frowning. “There is no need to say any more, Miss 
Granger. Tell me, which of you will be dying this 
year?” 

Everyone stared at her. 

“Me,” said Harry, finally. 

“I see,” said Professor McGonagall, fixing Harry with 
her beady eyes. “Then you should know, Potter, that 
Sibyll Trelawney has predicted the death of one 
student a year since she arrived at this school. None 
of them has died yet. Seeing death omens is her 
favorite way of greeting a new class. If it were not for 
the fact that I never speak ill of my colleagues — ” 

Professor McGonagall broke off, and they saw that her 
nostrils had gone white. She went on, more calmly, 
“Divination is one of the most imprecise branches of 
magic. I shall not conceal from you that I have very 
little patience with it. True Seers are very rare, and 
Professor Trelawney — ” 

She stopped again, and then said, in a very matter-of- 
fact tone, “You look in excellent health to me, Potter, 
so you will excuse me if I don’t let you off homework 
today. I assure you that if you die, you need not hand 
it in.” 

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Hermione laughed. Harry felt a bit better. It was 
harder to feel scared of a lump of tea leaves away 
from the dim red light and befuddling perfume of 
Professor Trelawney’s classroom. Not everyone was 
convinced, however. Ron still looked worried, and 
Lavender whispered, “But what about Neville’s cup?” 

When the Transfiguration class had finished, they 
joined the crowd thundering toward the Great Hall for 
lunch. 

“Ron, cheer up,” said Hermione, pushing a dish of 
stew toward him. “You heard what Professor 
McGonagall said.” 

Ron spooned stew onto his plate and picked up his 
fork but didn’t start. 

“Harry,” he said, in a low, serious voice, “you haven’t 
seen a great black dog anywhere, have you?” 

“Yeah, I have,” said Harry. “I saw one the night I left 
the Dursleys’.” 

Ron let his fork fall with a clatter. 

“Probably a stray,” said Hermione calmly. 

Ron looked at Hermione as though she had gone 
mad. 

“Hermione, if Harry’s seen a Grim, that’s — that’s 
bad,” he said. “My — my uncle Bilius saw one and — 
and he died twenty-four hours later!” 

“Coincidence,” said Hermione airily, pouring herself 
some pumpkin juice. 



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“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” said Ron, 
starting to get angry. “Grims scare the living daylights 
out of most wizards!” 

“There you are, then,” said Hermione in a superior 
tone. “They see the Grim and die of fright. The Grim’s 
not an omen, it’s the cause of death! And Harry’s still 
with us because he’s not stupid enough to see one 
and think, right, well, I’d better kick the bucket then!” 

Ron mouthed wordlessly at Hermione, who opened 
her bag, took out her new Arithmancy book, and 
propped it open against the juice jug. 

“I think Divination seems very woolly,” she said, 
searching for her page. “A lot of guesswork, if you ask 
me.” 

“There was nothing woolly about the Grim in that 
cup!” said Ron hotly. 

“You didn’t seem quite so confident when you were 
telling Harry it was a sheep,” said Hermione coolly. 

“Professor Trelawney said you didn’t have the right 
aura! You just don’t like being bad at something for a 
change!” 

He had touched a nerve. Hermione slammed her 
Arithmancy book down on the table so hard that bits 
of meat and carrot flew everywhere. 

“If being good at Divination means I have to pretend 
to see death omens in a lump of tea leaves, I’m not 
sure I’ll be studying it much longer! That lesson was 
absolute rubbish compared with my Arithmancy 
class!” 



She snatched up her bag and stalked away. 

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Ron frowned after her. 



“What’s she talking about?” he said to Harry. “She 
hasn’t been to an Arithmancy class yet.” 

Harry was pleased to get out of the castle after lunch. 
Yesterday’s rain had cleared; the sky was a clear, pale 
gray, and the grass was springy and damp underfoot 
as they set off for their first ever Care of Magical 
Creatures class. 

Ron and Hermione weren’t speaking to each other. 
Harry walked beside them in silence as they went 
down the sloping lawns to Hagrid’s hut on the edge of 
the Forbidden Forest. It was only when he spotted 
three only-too-familiar backs ahead of them that he 
realized they must be having these lessons with the 
Slytherins. Malfoy was talking animatedly to Crabbe 
and Goyle, who were chortling. Harry was quite sure 
he knew what they were talking about. 

Hagrid was waiting for his class at the door of his hut. 
He stood in his moleskin overcoat, with Fang the 
boarhound at his heels, looking impatient to start. 

“C’mon, now, get a move on!” he called as the class 
approached. “Got a real treat for yeh today! Great 
lesson cornin’ up! Everyone here? Right, follow me!” 

For one nasty moment, Harry thought that Hagrid 
was going to lead them into the forest; Harry had had 
enough unpleasant experiences in there to last him a 
lifetime. However, Hagrid strolled off around the edge 
of the trees, and five minutes later, they found 
themselves outside a kind of paddock. There was 
nothing in there. 



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“Everyone gather ’round the fence here!” he called. 
“That’s it — make sure yeh can see — now, firs’ thing 
yeh’ll want ter do is open yer books — ” 

“How?” said the cold, drawling voice of Draco Malfoy. 

“Eh?” said Hagrid. 

“How do we open our books?” Malfoy repeated. He 
took out his copy of The Monster Book of Monsters, 
which he had bound shut with a length of rope. Other 
people took theirs out too; some, like Harry, had 
belted their book shut; others had crammed them 
inside tight bags or clamped them together with 
binder clips. 

“Hasn’ — hasn’ anyone bin able ter open their 
books?” said Hagrid, looking crestfallen. 

The class all shook their heads. 

“Yeh’ve got ter stroke ’em,” said Hagrid, as though 
this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Look — 



He took Hermione’s copy and ripped off the Spellotape 
that bound it. The book tried to bite, but Hagrid ran a 
giant forefinger down its spine, and the book 
shivered, and then fell open and lay quiet in his hand. 

“Oh, how silly we’ve all been!” Malfoy sneered. “We 
should have stroked them! Why didn’t we guess!” 

“I — I thought they were funny,” Hagrid said 
uncertainly to Hermione. 

“Oh, tremendously funny!” said Malfoy. “Really witty, 
giving us books that try and rip our hands off!” 



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“Shut up, Malfoy,” said Harry quietly. Hagrid was 
looking downcast and Harry wanted Hagrid ’s first 
lesson to be a success. 

“Righ’ then,” said Hagrid, who seemed to have lost his 
thread, “so — so yeh’ve got yer books an’ — an’ — 
now yeh need the Magical Creatures. Yeah. So I’ll go 
an’ get ’em. Hang on ...” 

He strode away from them into the forest and out of 
sight. 

“God, this place is going to the dogs,” said Malfoy 
loudly. “That oaf teaching classes, my father’ll have a 
fit when I tell him — ” 

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry repeated. 

“Careful, Potter, there’s a dementor behind you — ” 

“Oooooooh!” squealed Lavender Brown, pointing 
toward the opposite side of the paddock. 

Trotting toward them were a dozen of the most bizarre 
creatures Harry had ever seen. They had the bodies, 
hind legs, and tails of horses, but the front legs, 
wings, and heads of what seemed to be giant eagles, 
with cruel, steel-colored beaks and large, brilliantly 
orange eyes. The talons on their front legs were half a 
foot long and deadly looking. Each of the beasts had a 
thick leather collar around its neck, which was 
attached to a long chain, and the ends of all of these 
were held in the vast hands of Hagrid, who came 
jogging into the paddock behind the creatures. 

“Gee up, there!” he roared, shaking the chains and 
urging the creatures toward the fence where the class 
stood. Everyone drew back slightly as Hagrid reached 
them and tethered the creatures to the fence. 

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“Hippogriffs!” Hagrid roared happily, waving a hand at 
them. “Beau’iful, aren’ they?” 

Harry could sort of see what Hagrid meant. Once you 
got over the first shock of seeing something that was 
half horse, half bird, you started to appreciate the 
hippogriffs’ gleaming coats, changing smoothly from 
feather to hair, each of them a different color: stormy 
gray, bronze, pinkish roan, gleaming chestnut, and 
inky black. 

“So,” said Hagrid, rubbing his hands together and 
beaming around, “if yeh wan’ ter come a bit nearer — ” 

No one seemed to want to. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, 
however, approached the fence cautiously. 

“Now, firs’ thing yeh gotta know abou’ hippogriffs is, 
they’re proud,” said Hagrid. “Easily offended, 
hippogriffs are. Don’t never insult one, ’cause it might 
be the last thing yeh do.” 

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle weren’t listening; they 
were talking in an undertone and Harry had a nasty 
feeling they were plotting how best to disrupt the 
lesson. 

“Yeh always wait fer the hippogriff ter make the firs’ 
move,” Hagrid continued. “It’s polite, see? Yeh walk 
toward him, and yeh bow, an’ yeh wait. If he bows 
back, yeh’re allowed ter touch him. If he doesn’ bow, 
then get away from him sharpish, ’cause those talons 
hurt. 

“Right — who wants ter go first?” 

Most of the class backed farther away in answer. 

Even Harry, Ron, and Hermione had misgivings. The 
hippogriffs were tossing their fierce heads and flexing 

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their powerful wings; they didn’t seem to like being 
tethered like this. 

“No one?” said Hagrid, with a pleading look. 

“I’ll do it,” said Harry. 

There was an intake of breath from behind him, and 
both Lavender and Parvati whispered, “Oooh, no, 
Harry, remember your tea leaves!” 

Harry ignored them. He climbed over the paddock 
fence. 

“Good man, Harry!” roared Hagrid. “Right then — let’s 
see how yeh get on with Buckbeak.” 

He untied one of the chains, pulled the gray hippogriff 
away from its fellows, and slipped off its leather 
collar. The class on the other side of the paddock 
seemed to be holding its breath. Malfoy’s eyes were 
narrowed maliciously. 

“Easy, now, Harry,” said Hagrid quietly. “Yeh’ve got 
eye contact, now try not ter blink. ... Hippogriffs don’ 
trust yeh if yeh blink too much. ...” 

Harry’s eyes immediately began to water, but he 
didn’t shut them. Buckbeak had turned his great, 
sharp head and was staring at Harry with one fierce 
orange eye. 

“Tha’s it,” said Hagrid. “Tha’s it, Harry ... now, bow 



Harry didn’t feel much like exposing the back of his 
neck to Buckbeak, but he did as he was told. He gave 
a short bow and then looked up. 



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The hippogriff was still staring haughtily at him. It 
didn’t move. 

“Ah,” said Hagrid, sounding worried. “Right — back 
away, now, Harry, easy does it — ” 

But then, to Harry’s enormous surprise, the hippogriff 
suddenly bent its scaly front knees and sank into 
what was an unmistakable bow. 

“Well done, Harry!” said Hagrid, ecstatic. “Right — 
yeh can touch him! Pat his beak, go on!” 

Feeling that a better reward would have been to back 
away, Harry moved slowly toward the hippogriff and 
reached out toward it. He patted the beak several 
times and the hippogriff closed its eyes lazily, as 
though enjoying it. 

The class broke into applause, all except for Malfoy, 
Crabbe, and Goyle, who were looking deeply 
disappointed. 

“Righ’ then, Harry,” said Hagrid. “I reckon he might’ 
let yeh ride him!” 

This was more than Harry had bargained for. He was 
used to a broomstick; but he wasn’t sure a hippogriff 
would be quite the same. 

“Yeh climb up there, jus’ behind the wing joint,” said 
Hagrid, “an’ mind yeh don’ pull any of his feathers 
out, he won’ like that. ...” 

Harry put his foot on the top of Buckbeak’s wing and 
hoisted himself onto its back. Buckbeak stood up. 
Harry wasn’t sure where to hold on; everything in 
front of him was covered with feathers. 



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“Go on, then!” roared Hagrid, slapping the hippogriff’s 
hindquarters. 

Without warning, twelve-foot wings flapped open on 
either side of Harry; he just had time to seize the 
hippogriff around the neck before he was soaring 
upward. It was nothing like a broomstick, and Harry 
knew which one he preferred; the hippogriff’s wings 
beat uncomfortably on either side of him, catching 
him under his legs and making him feel he was about 
to be thrown off; the glossy feathers slipped under his 
fingers and he didn’t dare get a stronger grip; instead 
of the smooth action of his Nimbus Two Thousand, he 
now felt himself rocking backward and forward as the 
hindquarters of the hippogriff rose and fell with its 
wings. 

Buckbeak flew him once around the paddock and 
then headed back to the ground; this was the bit 
Harry had been dreading; he leaned back as the 
smooth neck lowered, feeling he was going to slip off 
over the beak, then felt a heavy thud as the four ill- 
assorted feet hit the ground. He just managed to hold 
on and push himself straight again. 

“Good work, Harry!” roared Hagrid as everyone except 
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle cheered. “Okay, who else 
wants a go?” 

Emboldened by Harry’s success, the rest of the class 
climbed cautiously into the paddock. Hagrid untied 
the hippogriffs one by one, and soon people were 
bowing nervously, all over the paddock. Neville ran 
repeatedly backward from his, which didn’t seem to 
want to bend its knees. Ron and Hermione practiced 
on the chestnut, while Harry watched. 



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Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had taken over Buckbeak. 
He had bowed to Malfoy, who was now patting his 
beak, looking disdainful. 

“This is very easy,” Malfoy drawled, loud enough for 
Harry to hear him. “I knew it must have been, if 
Potter could do it. ... I bet you’re not dangerous at all, 
are you?” he said to the hippogriff. “Are you, you great 
ugly brute?” 

It happened in a flash of steely talons; Malfoy let out a 
high-pitched scream and next moment, Hagrid was 
wrestling Buckbeak back into his collar as he 
strained to get at Malfoy, who lay curled in the grass, 
blood blossoming over his robes. 

“I’m dying!” Malfoy yelled as the class panicked. “I’m 
dying, look at me! It’s killed me!” 

“Yer not dyin’!” said Hagrid, who had gone very white. 
“Someone help me — gotta get him outta here — ” 

Hermione ran to hold open the gate as Hagrid lifted 
Malfoy easily. As they passed, Harry saw that there 
was a long, deep gash on Malfoy’s arm; blood 
splattered the grass and Hagrid ran with him, up the 
slope toward the castle. 

Very shaken, the Care of Magical Creatures class 
followed at a walk. The Slytherins were all shouting 
about Hagrid. 

“They should fire him straight away!” said Pansy 
Parkinson, who was in tears. 

“It was Malfoy’s fault!” snapped Dean Thomas. 

Crabbe and Goyle flexed their muscles threateningly. 



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They all climbed the stone steps into the deserted 
entrance hall. 

“I’m going to see if he’s okay!” said Pansy, and they all 
watched her run up the marble staircase. The 
Slytherins, still muttering about Hagrid, headed away 
in the direction of their dungeon common room; 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione proceeded upstairs to 
Gryffindor Tower. 

“D’you think he’ll be all right?” said Hermione 
nervously. 

“ ’Course he will. Madam Pomfrey can mend cuts in 
about a second,” said Harry, who had had far worse 
injuries mended magically by the nurse. 

“That was a really bad thing to happen in Hagrid ’s 
first class, though, wasn’t it?” said Ron, looking 
worried. “Trust Malfoy to mess things up for him. ...” 

They were among the first to reach the Great Hall at 
dinnertime, hoping to see Hagrid, but he wasn’t there. 

“They wouldn’t fire him, would they?” said Hermione 
anxiously, not touching her steak-and-kidney 
pudding. 

“They’d better not,” said Ron, who wasn’t eating 
either. 

Harry was watching the Slytherin table. A large group 
including Crabbe and Goyle was huddled together, 
deep in conversation. Harry was sure they were 
cooking up their own version of how Malfoy had been 
injured. 

“Well, you can’t say it wasn’t an interesting first day 
back,” said Ron gloomily. 

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They went up to the crowded Gryffindor common 
room after dinner and tried to do the homework 
Professor McGonagall had given them, but all three of 
them kept breaking off and glancing out of the tower 
window. 

“There’s a light on in Hagrid’s window,” Harry said 
suddenly. 

Ron looked at his watch. 

“If we hurried, we could go down and see him. It’s still 
quite early. ...” 

“I don’t know,” Hermione said slowly, and Harry saw 
her glance at him. 

“I’m allowed to walk across the grounds,” he said 
pointedly. “Sirius Black hasn’t got past the dementors 
yet, has he?” 

So they put their things away and headed out of the 
portrait hole, glad to meet nobody on their way to the 
front doors, as they weren’t entirely sure they were 
supposed to be out. 

The grass was still wet and looked almost black in the 
twilight. When they reached Hagrid’s hut, they 
knocked, and a voice growled, “C’min.” 

Hagrid was sitting in his shirtsleeves at his scrubbed 
wooden table; his boarhound, Fang, had his head in 
Hagrid’s lap. One look told them that Hagrid had been 
drinking a lot; there was a pewter tankard almost as 
big as a bucket in front of him, and he seemed to be 
having difficulty getting them into focus. 



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“ ’Spect it’s a record,” he said thickly, when he 
recognized them. “Don’ reckon they’ve ever had a 
teacher who lasted on’y a day before.” 

“You haven’t been fired, Hagrid!” gasped Hermione. 

“Not yet,” said Hagrid miserably, taking a huge gulp 
of whatever was in the tankard. “But ’s only a matter 
o’ time, i’n’t it, after Malfoy ...” 

“How is he?” said Ron as they all sat down. “It wasn’t 
serious, was it?” 

“Madam Pomfrey fixed him best she could,” said 
Hagrid dully, “but he’s sayin’ it’s still agony ... covered 
in bandages ... moanin’ ...” 

“He’s faking it,” said Harry at once. “Madam Pomfrey 
can mend anything. She regrew half my bones last 
year. Trust Malfoy to milk it for all it’s worth.” 

“School gov’nors have bin told, o’ course,” said Hagrid 
miserably. “They reckon I started too big. Shoulda left 
hippogriffs fer later ... done flobberworms or summat. 
... Jus’ thought it’d make a good firs’ lesson. ... ’S all 
my fault. ...” 

“It’s all Malfoy ’s fault, Hagrid!” said Hermione 
earnestly. 

“We’re witnesses,” said Harry. “You said hippogriffs 
attack if you insult them. It’s Malfoy’s problem that 
he wasn’t listening. We’ll tell Dumbledore what really 
happened.” 

“Yeah, don’t worry, Hagrid, we’ll back you up,” said 
Ron. 



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Tears leaked out of the crinkled corners of Hagrid ’s 
beetle-black eyes. He grabbed both Harry and Ron 
and pulled them into a bone-breaking hug. 

“I think you’ve had enough to drink, Hagrid,” said 
Hermione firmly. She took the tankard from the table 
and went outside to empty it. 

“Ar, maybe she’s right,” said Hagrid, letting go of 
Harry and Ron, who both staggered away, rubbing 
their ribs. Hagrid heaved himself out of his chair and 
followed Hermione unsteadily outside. They heard a 
loud splash. 

“What’s he done?” said Harry nervously as Hermione 
came back in with the empty tankard. 

“Stuck his head in the water barrel,” said Hermione, 
putting the tankard away. 

Hagrid came back, his long hair and beard sopping 
wet, wiping the water out of his eyes. 

“Tha’s better,” he said, shaking his head like a dog 
and drenching them all. “Listen, it was good of yeh ter 
come an’ see me, I really — ” 

Hagrid stopped dead, staring at Harry as though he’d 
only just realized he was there. 

“WHAT DYEH THINK YOU’RE DOIN’, EH?” he roared, 
so suddenly that they jumped a foot in the air. 

“YEH ’RE NOT TO GO WANDERIN’ AROUND AFTER 
DARK, HARRY! AN’ YOU TWO! LETTIN’ HIM!” 

Hagrid strode over to Harry, grabbed his arm, and 
pulled him to the door. 



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“C’mon!” Hagrid said angrily. “I’m takin’yer all back 
up ter school, an’ don’ let me catch yeh walkin’ down 
ter see me after dark again. I’m not worth that!” 



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7 




THE BOGGART IN THE WARDROBE 

Malfoy didn’t reappear in classes until late on 
Thursday morning, when the Slytherins and 
Gryffindors were halfway through double Potions. He 
swaggered into the dungeon, his right arm covered in 
bandages and bound up in a sling, acting, in Harry’s 
opinion, as though he were the heroic survivor of 
some dreadful battle. 

“How is it, Draco?” simpered Pansy Parkinson. “Does 
it hurt much?” 

“Yeah,” said Malfoy, putting on a brave sort of 
grimace. But Harry saw him wink at Crabbe and 
Goyle when Pansy had looked away. 

“Settle down, settle down,” said Professor Snape idly. 

Harry and Ron scowled at each other; Snape wouldn’t 
have said “settle down” if they’d walked in late, he’d 
have given them detention. But Malfoy had always 
been able to get away with anything in Snape ’s 

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classes; Snape was head of Slytherin House, and 
generally favored his own students above all others. 



They were making a new potion today, a Shrinking 
Solution. Malfoy set up his cauldron right next to 
Harry and Ron, so that they were preparing their 
ingredients on the same table. 

“Sir,” Malfoy called, “sir, I’ll need help cutting up 
these daisy roots, because of my arm — ” 

“Weasley, cut up Malfoy’s roots for him,” said Snape 
without looking up. 

Ron went brick red. 

“There’s nothing wrong with your arm,” he hissed at 
Malfoy. 

Malfoy smirked across the table. 

“Weasley, you heard Professor Snape; cut up these 
roots.” 

Ron seized his knife, pulled Malfoy’s roots toward 
him, and began to chop them roughly, so that they 
were all different sizes. 

“Professor,” drawled Malfoy, “Weasley’s mutilating my 
roots, sir.” 

Snape approached their table, stared down his 
hooked nose at the roots, then gave Ron an 
unpleasant smile from beneath his long, greasy black 
hair. 

“Change roots with Malfoy, Weasley.” 

“But, sir — !” 

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Ron had spent the last quarter of an hour carefully 
shredding his own roots into exactly equal pieces. 

“Now,” said Snape in his most dangerous voice. 

Ron shoved his own beautifully cut roots across the 
table at Malfoy, then took up the knife again. 

“And, sir, 111 need this shrivelfig skinned,” said 
Malfoy, his voice full of malicious laughter. 

“Potter, you can skin Malfoy’s shrivelfig,” said Snape, 
giving Harry the look of loathing he always reserved 
just for him. 

Harry took Malfoy’s shrivelfig as Ron began trying to 
repair the damage to the roots he now had to use. 
Harry skinned the shrivelfig as fast as he could and 
flung it back across the table at Malfoy without 
speaking. Malfoy was smirking more broadly than 
ever. 

“Seen your pal Hagrid lately?” he asked them quietly. 

“None of your business,” said Ron jerkily, without 
looking up. 

“I’m afraid he won’t be a teacher much longer,” said 
Malfoy in a tone of mock sorrow. “Father’s not very 
happy about my injury — ” 

“Keep talking, Malfoy, and I’ll give you a real injury,” 
snarled Ron. 

“ — he’s complained to the school governors. And to 
the Ministry of Magic. Father’s got a lot of influence, 
you know. And a lasting injury like this” — he gave a 
huge, fake sigh — “who knows if my arm’ll ever be the 
same again?” 

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“So that’s why you’re putting it on,” said Harry, 
accidentally beheading a dead caterpillar because his 
hand was shaking in anger. “To try to get Hagrid 
fired.” 

“Well,” said Malfoy, lowering his voice to a whisper, 

“ partly , Potter. But there are other benefits too. 
Weasley, slice my caterpillars for me.” 

A few cauldrons away, Neville was in trouble. Neville 
regularly went to pieces in Potions lessons; it was his 
worst subject, and his great fear of Professor Snape 
made things ten times worse. His potion, which was 
supposed to be a bright, acid green, had turned — 

“Orange, Longbottom,” said Snape, ladling some up 
and allowing it to splash back into the cauldron, so 
that everyone could see. “Orange. Tell me, boy, does 
anything penetrate that thick skull of yours? Didn’t 
you hear me say, quite clearly, that only one rat 
spleen was needed? Didn’t I state plainly that a dash 
of leech juice would suffice? What do I have to do to 
make you understand, Longbottom?” 

Neville was pink and trembling. He looked as though 
he was on the verge of tears. 

“Please, sir,” said Hermione, “please, I could help 
Neville put it right — ” 

“I don’t remember asking you to show off, Miss 
Granger,” said Snape coldly, and Hermione went as 
pink as Neville. “Longbottom, at the end of this lesson 
we will feed a few drops of this potion to your toad 
and see what happens. Perhaps that will encourage 
you to do it properly.” 

Snape moved away, leaving Neville breathless with 
fear. 

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“Help me!” he moaned to Hermione. 



“Hey, Harry,” said Seamus Finnigan, leaning over to 
borrow Harry’s brass scales, “have you heard? Daily 
Prophet this morning — they reckon Sirius Black’s 
been sighted.” 

“Where?” said Harry and Ron quickly. On the other 
side of the table, Malfoy looked up, listening closely. 

“Not too far from here,” said Seamus, who looked 
excited. “It was a Muggle who saw him. ’Course, she 
didn’t really understand. The Muggles think he’s just 
an ordinary criminal, don’t they? So she phoned the 
telephone hot line. By the time the Ministry of Magic 
got there, he was gone.” 

“Not too far from here ... ,” Ron repeated, looking 
significantly at Harry. He turned around and saw 
Malfoy watching closely. “What, Malfoy? Need 
something else skinned?” 

But Malfoy’s eyes were shining malevolently, and they 
were fixed on Harry. He leaned across the table. 

“Thinking of trying to catch Black single-handed, 
Potter?” 

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Harry offhandedly. 

Malfoy’s thin mouth was curving in a mean smile. 

“Of course, if it was me,” he said quietly, “I’d have 
done something before now. I wouldn’t be staying in 
school like a good boy, I’d be out there looking for 
him.” 

“What are you talking about, Malfoy?” said Ron 
roughly. 

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“Don’t you know, Potter?” breathed Malfoy, his pale 
eyes narrowed. 



“Know what?” 

Malfoy let out a low, sneering laugh. 

“Maybe you’d rather not risk your neck,” he said. 
“Want to leave it to the dementors, do you? But if it 
was me, I’d want revenge. I’d hunt him down myself.” 

“ What are you talking about?” said Harry angrily, but 
at that moment Snape called, “You should have 
finished adding your ingredients by now; this potion 
needs to stew before it can be drunk, so clear away 
while it simmers and then we’ll test Longbottom’s. ...” 

Crabbe and Goyle laughed openly, watching Neville 
sweat as he stirred his potion feverishly. Hermione 
was muttering instructions to him out of the corner of 
her mouth, so that Snape wouldn’t see. Harry and 
Ron packed away their unused ingredients and went 
to wash their hands and ladles in the stone basin in 
the corner. 

“What did Malfoy mean?” Harry muttered to Ron as 
he stuck his hands under the icy jet that poured from 
the gargoyle’s mouth. “Why would I want revenge on 
Black? He hasn’t done anything to me — yet.” 

“He’s making it up,” said Ron savagely. “He’s trying to 
make you do something stupid. ...” 

The end of the lesson in sight, Snape strode over to 
Neville, who was cowering by his cauldron. 

“Everyone gather ’round,” said Snape, his black eyes 
glittering, “and watch what happens to Longbottom’s 
toad. If he has managed to produce a Shrinking 

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Solution, it will shrink to a tadpole. If, as I don’t 
doubt, he has done it wrong, his toad is likely to be 
poisoned.” 

The Gryffindors watched fearfully. The Slytherins 
looked excited. Snape picked up Trevor the toad in 
his left hand and dipped a small spoon into Neville’s 
potion, which was now green. He trickled a few drops 
down Trevor’s throat. 

There was a moment of hushed silence, in which 
Trevor gulped; then there was a small pop, and Trevor 
the tadpole was wriggling in Snape ’s palm. 

The Gryffindors burst into applause. Snape, looking 
sour, pulled a small bottle from the pocket of his 
robe, poured a few drops on top of Trevor, and he 
reappeared suddenly, fully grown. 

“Five points from Gryffindor,” said Snape, which 
wiped the smiles from every face. “I told you not to 
help him, Miss Granger. Class dismissed.” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione climbed the steps to the 
entrance hall. Harry was still thinking about what 
Malfoy had said, while Ron was seething about 
Snape. 

“Five points from Gryffindor because the potion was 
all right! Why didn’t you lie, Hermione? You should’ve 
said Neville did it all by himself!” 

Hermione didn’t answer. Ron looked around. 

“Where is she?” 

Harry turned too. They were at the top of the steps 
now, watching the rest of the class pass them, 
heading for the Great Hall and lunch. 

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“She was right behind us,” said Ron, frowning. 

Malfoy passed them, walking between Crabbe and 
Goyle. He smirked at Harry and disappeared. 

“There she is,” said Harry. 

Hermione was panting slightly, hurrying up the 
stairs; one hand clutched her bag, the other seemed 
to be tucking something down the front of her robes. 

“How did you do that?” said Ron. 

“What?” said Hermione, joining them. 

“One minute you were right behind us, the next 
moment, you were back at the bottom of the stairs 
again.” 

“What?” Hermione looked slightly confused. “Oh — I 
had to go back for something. Oh no — ” 

A seam had split on Hermione’s bag. Harry wasn’t 
surprised; he could see that it was crammed with at 
least a dozen large and heavy books. 

“Why are you carrying all these around with you?” 
Ron asked her. 

“You know how many subjects I’m taking,” said 
Hermione breathlessly. “Couldn’t hold these for me, 
could you?” 

“But — ” Ron was turning over the books she had 
handed him, looking at the covers. “You haven’t got 
any of these subjects today. It’s only Defense Against 
the Dark Arts this afternoon.” 



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“Oh yes,” said Hermione vaguely, but she packed all 
the books back into her bag just the same. “I hope 
there’s something good for lunch, I’m starving,” she 
added, and she marched off toward the Great Hall. 

“D’you get the feeling Hermione ’s not telling us 
something?” Ron asked Harry. 



Professor Lupin wasn’t there when they arrived at his 
first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. They all 
sat down, took out their books, quills, and 
parchment, and were talking when he finally entered 
the room. Lupin smiled vaguely and placed his tatty 
old briefcase on the teacher’s desk. He was as shabby 
as ever but looked healthier than he had on the train, 
as though he had had a few square meals. 

“Good afternoon,” he said. “Would you please put all 
your books back in your bags. Today’s will be a 
practical lesson. You will need only your wands.” 

A few curious looks were exchanged as the class put 
away their books. They had never had a practical 
Defense Against the Dark Arts before, unless you 
counted the memorable class last year when their old 
teacher had brought a cageful of pixies to class and 
set them loose. 

“Right then,” said Professor Lupin, when everyone 
was ready. “If you’d follow me.” 

Puzzled but interested, the class got to its feet and 
followed Professor Lupin out of the classroom. He led 
them along the deserted corridor and around a 
corner, where the first thing they saw was Peeves the 
Poltergeist, who was floating upside down in midair 
and stuffing the nearest keyhole with chewing gum. 
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Peeves didn’t look up until Professor Lupin was two 
feet away; then he wiggled his curly-toed feet and 
broke into song. 

“Loony, loopy Lupin,” Peeves sang. “Loony, loopy 
Lupin, loony, loopy Lupin — ” 

Rude and unmanageable as he almost always was, 
Peeves usually showed some respect toward the 
teachers. Everyone looked quickly at Professor Lupin 
to see how he would take this; to their surprise, he 
was still smiling. 

“I’d take that gum out of the keyhole if I were you, 
Peeves,” he said pleasantly. “Mr. Filch won’t be able to 
get in to his brooms.” 

Filch was the Hogwarts caretaker, a bad-tempered, 
failed wizard who waged a constant war against the 
students and, indeed, Peeves. However, Peeves paid 
no attention to Professor Lupin’s words, except to 
blow a loud wet raspberry. 

Professor Lupin gave a small sigh and took out his 
wand. 

“This is a useful little spell,” he told the class over his 
shoulder. “Please watch closely.” 

He raised the wand to shoulder height, said, 

“ Waddiwasil ” and pointed it at Peeves. 

With the force of a bullet, the wad of chewing gum 
shot out of the keyhole and straight down Peeves ’s left 
nostril; he whirled upright and zoomed away, cursing. 

“Cool, sir!” said Dean Thomas in amazement. 



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“Thank you, Dean,” said Professor Lupin, putting his 
wand away again. “Shall we proceed?” 

They set off again, the class looking at shabby 
Professor Lupin with increased respect. He led them 
down a second corridor and stopped, right outside the 
staffroom door. 

“Inside, please,” said Professor Lupin, opening it and 
standing back. 

The staffroom, a long, paneled room full of old, 
mismatched chairs, was empty except for one teacher. 
Professor Snape was sitting in a low armchair, and he 
looked around as the class filed in. His eyes were 
glittering and there was a nasty sneer playing around 
his mouth. As Professor Lupin came in and made to 
close the door behind him, Snape said, “Leave it open, 
Lupin. Td rather not witness this.” 

He got to his feet and strode past the class, his black 
robes billowing behind him. At the doorway he turned 
on his heel and said, “Possibly no one’s warned you, 
Lupin, but this class contains Neville Longbottom. I 
would advise you not to entrust him with anything 
difficult. Not unless Miss Granger is hissing 
instructions in his ear.” 

Neville went scarlet. Harry glared at Snape; it was bad 
enough that he bullied Neville in his own classes, let 
alone doing it in front of other teachers. 

Professor Lupin had raised his eyebrows. 

“I was hoping that Neville would assist me with the 
first stage of the operation,” he said, “and I am sure 
he will perform it admirably.” 



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Neville’s face went, if possible, even redder. Snape’s 
lip curled, but he left, shutting the door with a snap. 

“Now, then,” said Professor Lupin, beckoning the 
class toward the end of the room, where there was 
nothing but an old wardrobe where the teachers kept 
their spare robes. As Professor Lupin went to stand 
next to it, the wardrobe gave a sudden wobble, 
banging off the wall. 

“Nothing to worry about,” said Professor Lupin calmly 
because a few people had jumped backward in alarm. 
“There’s a boggart in there.” 

Most people seemed to feel that this was something to 
worry about. Neville gave Professor Lupin a look of 
pure terror, and Seamus Finnigan eyed the now 
rattling doorknob apprehensively. 

“Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces,” said Professor 
Lupin. “Wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the 
cupboards under sinks — I’ve even met one that had 
lodged itself in a grandfather clock. This one moved in 
yesterday afternoon, and I asked the headmaster if 
the staff would leave it to give my third years some 
practice. 

“So, the first question we must ask ourselves is, what 
is a boggart?” 

Hermione put up her hand. 

“It’s a shape-shifter,” she said. “It can take the shape 
of whatever it thinks will frighten us most.” 

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Professor 
Lupin, and Hermione glowed. “So the boggart sitting 
in the darkness within has not yet assumed a form. 

He does not yet know what will frighten the person on 

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the other side of the door. Nobody knows what a 
boggart looks like when he is alone, but when I let 
him out, he will immediately become whatever each of 
us most fears. 

“This means,” said Professor Lupin, choosing to 
ignore Neville’s small sputter of terror, “that we have a 
huge advantage over the boggart before we begin. 

Have you spotted it, Harry?” 

Trying to answer a question with Hermione next to 
him, bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet 
with her hand in the air, was very off-putting, but 
Harry had a go. 

“Er — because there are so many of us, it won’t know 
what shape it should be?” 

“Precisely,” said Professor Lupin, and Hermione put 
her hand down, looking a little disappointed. “It’s 
always best to have company when you’re dealing 
with a boggart. He becomes confused. Which should 
he become, a headless corpse or a flesh-eating slug? I 
once saw a boggart make that very mistake — tried to 
frighten two people at once and turned himself into 
half a slug. Not remotely frightening. 

“The charm that repels a boggart is simple, yet it 
requires force of mind. You see, the thing that really 
finishes a boggart is laughter. What you need to do is 
force it to assume a shape that you find amusing. 

“We will practice the charm without wands first. After 
me, please ... riddikulusV’ 

“ RiddikulusV’ said the class together. 

“Good,” said Professor Lupin. “Very good. But that 
was the easy part, I’m afraid. You see, the word alone 

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is not enough. And this is where you come in, 
Neville.” 



The wardrobe shook again, though not as much as 
Neville, who walked forward as though he were 
heading for the gallows. 

“Right, Neville,” said Professor Lupin. “First things 
first: what would you say is the thing that frightens 
you most in the world?” 

Neville’s lips moved, but no noise came out. 

“Didn’t catch that, Neville, sorry,” said Professor 
Lupin cheerfully. 

Neville looked around rather wildly, as though 
begging someone to help him, then said, in barely 
more than a whisper, “Professor Snape.” 

Nearly everyone laughed. Even Neville grinned 
apologetically. Professor Lupin, however, looked 
thoughtful. 

“Professor Snape ... hmmm ... Neville, I believe you 
live with your grandmother?” 

“Er — yes,” said Neville nervously. “But — I don’t 
want the boggart to turn into her either.” 

“No, no, you misunderstand me,” said Professor 
Lupin, now smiling. “I wonder, could you tell us what 
sort of clothes your grandmother usually wears?” 

Neville looked startled, but said, “Well ... always the 
same hat. A tall one with a stuffed vulture on top. 

And a long dress ... green, normally ... and sometimes 
a fox-fur scarf.” 

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“And a handbag?” prompted Professor Lupin. 

“A big red one,” said Neville. 

“Right then,” said Professor Lupin. “Can you picture 
those clothes very clearly, Neville? Can you see them 
in your mind’s eye?” 

“Yes,” said Neville uncertainly, plainly wondering 
what was coming next. 

“When the boggart bursts out of this wardrobe, 

Neville, and sees you, it will assume the form of 
Professor Snape,” said Lupin. “And you will raise your 
wand — thus — and cry ‘Riddikulus’ — and 
concentrate hard on your grandmother’s clothes. If all 
goes well, Professor Boggart Snape will be forced into 
that vulture-topped hat, and that green dress, with 
that big red handbag.” 

There was a great shout of laughter. The wardrobe 
wobbled more violently. 

“If Neville is successful, the boggart is likely to shift 
his attention to each of us in turn,” said Professor 
Lupin. “I would like all of you to take a moment now 
to think of the thing that scares you most, and 
imagine how you might force it to look comical. ...” 

The room went quiet. Harry thought ... What scared 
him most in the world? 

His first thought was Lord Voldemort — a Voldemort 
returned to full strength. But before he had even 
started to plan a possible counterattack on a boggart - 
Voldemort, a horrible image came floating to the 
surface of his mind. ... 



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A rotting, glistening hand, slithering back beneath a 
black cloak ... a long, rattling breath from an unseen 
mouth . . . then a cold so penetrating it felt like 
drowning. ... 

Harry shivered, then looked around, hoping no one 
had noticed. Many people had their eyes shut tight. 
Ron was muttering to himself, “Take its legs off.” 
Harry was sure he knew what that was about. Ron’s 
greatest fear was spiders. 

“Everyone ready?” said Professor Lupin. 

Harry felt a lurch of fear. He wasn’t ready. How could 
you make a dementor less frightening? But he didn’t 
want to ask for more time; everyone else was nodding 
and rolling up their sleeves. 

“Neville, we’re going to back away,” said Professor 
Lupin. “Let you have a clear field, all right? I’ll call the 
next person forward. ... Everyone back, now, so 
Neville can get a clear shot — ” 

They all retreated, backed against the walls, leaving 
Neville alone beside the wardrobe. He looked pale and 
frightened, but he had pushed up the sleeves of his 
robes and was holding his wand ready. 

“On the count of three, Neville,” said Professor Lupin, 
who was pointing his own wand at the handle of the 
wardrobe. “One — two — three — now\” 

A jet of sparks shot from the end of Professor Lupin’s 
wand and hit the doorknob. The wardrobe burst 
open. Hook-nosed and menacing, Professor Snape 
stepped out, his eyes flashing at Neville. 



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Neville backed away, his wand up, mouthing 
wordlessly. Snape was bearing down upon him, 
reaching inside his robes. 

“R — r — riddikulusV’ squeaked Neville. 

There was a noise like a whip crack. Snape stumbled; 
he was wearing a long, lace-trimmed dress and a 
towering hat topped with a moth-eaten vulture, and 
he was swinging a huge crimson handbag. 

There was a roar of laughter; the boggart paused, 
confused, and Professor Lupin shouted, “Parvati! 
Forward!” 

Parvati walked forward, her face set. Snape rounded 
on her. There was another crack, and where he had 
stood was a bloodstained, bandaged mummy; its 
sightless face was turned to Parvati and it began to 
walk toward her very slowly, dragging its feet, its stiff 
arms rising — 

“RiddikulusV’ cried Parvati. 

A bandage unraveled at the mummy’s feet; it became 
entangled, fell face forward, and its head rolled off. 

“Seamus!” roared Professor Lupin. 

Seamus darted past Parvati. 

Crack ! Where the mummy had been was a woman 
with floor-length black hair and a skeletal, green- 
tinged face — a banshee. She opened her mouth wide 
and an unearthly sound filled the room, a long, 
wailing shriek that made the hair on Harry’s head 
stand on end — 

“RiddikulusV’ shouted Seamus. 

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The banshee made a rasping noise and clutched her 
throat; her voice was gone. 

Crack). The banshee turned into a rat, which chased 
its tail in a circle, then — crack). — became a 
rattlesnake, which slithered and writhed before — 
crack ! — becoming a single, bloody eyeball. 

“It’s confused!” shouted Lupin. “We’re getting there! 
Dean!” 

Dean hurried forward. 

Crack) The eyeball became a severed hand, which 
flipped over and began to creep along the floor like a 
crab. 

“RiddikulusV’ yelled Dean. 

There was a snap, and the hand was trapped in a 
mousetrap. 

“Excellent! Ron, you next!” 

Ron leapt forward. 

Crack) 

Quite a few people screamed. A giant spider, six feet 
tall and covered in hair, was advancing on Ron, 
clicking its pincers menacingly. For a moment, Harry 
thought Ron had frozen. Then — 

“RiddikulusV’ bellowed Ron, and the spider’s legs 
vanished; it rolled over and over; Lavender Brown 
squealed and ran out of its way and it came to a halt 
at Harry’s feet. He raised his wand, ready, but — 



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“Here!” shouted Professor Lupin suddenly, hurrying 
forward. 

Crack). 

The legless spider had vanished. For a second, 
everyone looked wildly around to see where it was. 
Then they saw a silvery-white orb hanging in the air 
in front of Lupin, who said, “RiddikulusV’ almost 
lazily. 

Crack ! 

“Forward, Neville, and finish him off!” said Lupin as 
the boggart landed on the floor as a cockroach. Crack). 
Snape was back. This time Neville charged forward 
looking determined. 

“RiddikulusV’ he shouted, and they had a split 
second’s view of Snape in his lacy dress before Neville 
let out a great “Ha!” of laughter, and the boggart 
exploded, burst into a thousand tiny wisps of smoke, 
and was gone. 

“Excellent!” cried Professor Lupin as the class broke 
into applause. “Excellent, Neville. Well done, 
everyone. ... Let me see ... five points to Gryffindor for 
every person to tackle the boggart — ten for Neville 
because he did it twice . . . and five each to Hermione 
and Harry.” 

“But I didn’t do anything,” said Harry. 

“You and Hermione answered my questions correctly 
at the start of the class, Harry,” Lupin said lightly. 
“Very well, everyone, an excellent lesson. Homework, 
kindly read the chapter on boggarts and summarize it 
for me ... to be handed in on Monday. That will be 
all.” 

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Talking excitedly, the class left the staffroom. Harry, 
however, wasn’t feeling cheerful. Professor Lupin had 
deliberately stopped him from tackling the boggart. 
Why? Was it because he’d seen Harry collapse on the 
train, and thought he wasn’t up to much? Had he 
thought Harry would pass out again? 

But no one else seemed to have noticed anything. 

“Did you see me take that banshee?” shouted 
Seamus. 

“And the hand!” said Dean, waving his own around. 
“And Snape in that hat!” 

“And my mummy!” 

“I wonder why Professor Lupin’s frightened of crystal 
balls?” said Lavender thoughtfully. 

“That was the best Defense Against the Dark Arts 
lesson we’ve ever had, wasn’t it?” said Ron excitedly 
as they made their way back to the classroom to get 
their bags. 

“He seems like a very good teacher,” said Hermione 
approvingly. “But I wish I could have had a turn with 
the boggart — ” 

“What would it have been for you?” said Ron, 
sniggering. “A piece of homework that only got nine 
out of ten?” 



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d 




FLIGHT OF THE FAT LADY 

In no time at all, Defense Against the Dark Arts had 
become most people’s favorite class. Only Draco 
Malfoy and his gang of Slytherins had anything bad to 
say about Professor Lupin. 

“Look at the state of his robes,” Malfoy would say in a 
loud whisper as Professor Lupin passed. “He dresses 
like our old house-elf.” 

But no one else cared that Professor Lupin’s robes 
were patched and frayed. His next few lessons were 
just as interesting as the first. After boggarts, they 
studied Red Caps, nasty little goblinlike creatures 
that lurked wherever there had been bloodshed: in 
the dungeons of castles and the potholes of deserted 
battlefields, waiting to bludgeon those who had gotten 
lost. From Red Caps they moved on to kappas, creepy 
water-dwellers that looked like scaly monkeys, with 
webbed hands itching to strangle unwitting waders in 
their ponds. 

Harry only wished he was as happy with some of his 
other classes. Worst of all was Potions. Snape was in 

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a particularly vindictive mood these days, and no one 
was in any doubt why. The story of the boggart 
assuming Snape’s shape, and the way that Neville 
had dressed it in his grandmother’s clothes, had 
traveled through the school like wildfire. Snape didn’t 
seem to find it funny. His eyes flashed menacingly at 
the very mention of Professor Lupin’s name, and he 
was bullying Neville worse than ever. 

Harry was also growing to dread the hours he spent 
in Professor Trelawney’s stifling tower room, 
deciphering lopsided shapes and symbols, trying to 
ignore the way Professor Trelawney’s enormous eyes 
filled with tears every time she looked at him. He 
couldn’t like Professor Trelawney, even though she 
was treated with respect bordering on reverence by 
many of the class. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown 
had taken to haunting Professor Trelawney’s tower 
room at lunchtimes, and always returned with 
annoyingly superior looks on their faces, as though 
they knew things the others didn’t. They had also 
started using hushed voices whenever they spoke to 
Harry, as though he were on his deathbed. 

Nobody really liked Care of Magical Creatures, which, 
after the action-packed first class, had become 
extremely dull. Hagrid seemed to have lost his 
confidence. They were now spending lesson after 
lesson learning how to look after flobberworms, which 
had to be some of the most boring creatures in 
existence. 

“Why would anyone bother looking after them?” said 
Ron, after yet another hour of poking shredded 
lettuce down the flobberworms’ slimy throats. 

At the start of October, however, Harry had 
something else to occupy him, something so enjoyable 
it more than made up for his unsatisfactory classes. 

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The Quidditch season was approaching, and Oliver 
Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor team, called a 
meeting one Thursday evening to discuss tactics for 
the new season. 

There were seven people on a Quidditch team: three 
Chasers, whose job it was to score goals by putting 
the Quaffle (a red, soccer-sized ball) through one of 
the fifty-foot-high hoops at each end of the field; two 
Beaters, who were equipped with heavy bats to repel 
the Bludgers (two heavy black balls that zoomed 
around trying to attack the players); a Keeper, who 
defended the goal posts, and the Seeker, who had the 
hardest job of all, that of catching the Golden Snitch, 
a tiny, winged, walnut-sized ball, whose capture 
ended the game and earned the Seeker’s team an 
extra one hundred and fifty points. 

Oliver Wood was a burly seventeen-year-old, now in 
his seventh and final year at Hogwarts. There was a 
quiet sort of desperation in his voice as he addressed 
his six fellow team members in the chilly locker rooms 
on the edge of the darkening Quidditch field. 

“This is our last chance — my last chance — to win 
the Quidditch Cup,” he told them, striding up and 
down in front of them. “I’ll be leaving at the end of 
this year. I’ll never get another shot at it. 

“Gryffindor hasn’t won for seven years now. Okay, so 
we’ve had the worst luck in the world — injuries — 
then the tournament getting called off last year. ...” 
Wood swallowed, as though the memory still brought 
a lump to his throat. “But we also know we’ve got the 
best — ruddy — team — in — the — school,” he said, 
punching a fist into his other hand, the old manic 
glint back in his eye. 

“We’ve got three superb Chasers.” 

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Wood pointed at Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson, 
and Katie Bell. 

“We’ve got two unbeatable Beaters.” 

“Stop it, Oliver, you’re embarrassing us,” said Fred 
and George Weasley together, pretending to blush. 

“And we’ve got a Seeker who has never failed to win 
us a match).” Wood rumbled, glaring at Harry with a 
kind of furious pride. “And me,” he added as an 
afterthought. 

“We think you’re very good too, Oliver,” said George. 

“Spanking good Keeper,” said Fred. 

“The point is,” Wood went on, resuming his pacing, 
“the Quidditch Cup should have had our name on it 
these last two years. Ever since Harry joined the 
team, I’ve thought the thing was in the bag. But we 
haven’t got it, and this year’s the last chance we’ll get 
to finally see our name on the thing. ...” 

Wood spoke so dejectedly that even Fred and George 
looked sympathetic. 

“Oliver, this year’s our year,” said Fred. 

“Well do it, Oliver!” said Angelina. 

“Definitely,” said Harry. 

Full of determination, the team started training 
sessions, three evenings a week. The weather was 
getting colder and wetter, the nights darker, but no 
amount of mud, wind, or rain could tarnish Harry’s 
wonderful vision of finally winning the huge, silver 
Quidditch Cup. 

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Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room one 
evening after training, cold and stiff but pleased with 
the way practice had gone, to find the room buzzing 
excitedly. 

“What’s happened?” he asked Ron and Hermione, 
who were sitting in two of the best chairs by the 
fireside and completing some star charts for 
Astronomy. 

“First Hogsmeade weekend,” said Ron, pointing at a 
notice that had appeared on the battered old bulletin 
board. “End of October. Halloween.” 

“Excellent,” said Fred, who had followed Harry 
through the portrait hole. “I need to visit Zonko’s. I’m 
nearly out of Stink Pellets.” 

Harry threw himself into a chair beside Ron, his high 
spirits ebbing away. Hermione seemed to read his 
mind. 

“Harry, I’m sure you’ll be able to go next time,” she 
said. “They’re bound to catch Black soon. He’s been 
sighted once already” 

“Black’s not fool enough to try anything in 
Hogsmeade,” said Ron. “Ask McGonagall if you can go 
this time, Harry. The next one might not be for ages 



“Ron\” said Hermione. “Harry’s supposed to stay in 
school — ” 

“He can’t be the only third year left behind,” said Ron. 
“Ask McGonagall, go on, Harry — ” 

“Yeah, I think I will,” said Harry, making up his mind. 



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Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but at that 
moment Crookshanks leapt lightly onto her lap. A 
large, dead spider was dangling from his mouth. 

“Does he have to eat that in front of us?” said Ron, 
scowling. 

“Clever Crookshanks, did you catch that all by 
yourself?” said Hermione. 

Crookshanks slowly chewed up the spider, his yellow 
eyes fixed insolently on Ron. 

“Just keep him over there, that’s all,” said Ron 
irritably, turning back to his star chart. “I’ve got 
Scabbers asleep in my bag.” 

Harry yawned. He really wanted to go to bed, but he 
still had his own star chart to complete. He pulled his 
bag toward him, took out parchment, ink, and quill, 
and started work. 

“You can copy mine, if you like,” said Ron, labeling 
his last star with a flourish and shoving the chart 
toward Harry. 

Hermione, who disapproved of copying, pursed her 
lips but didn’t say anything. Crookshanks was still 
staring unblinkingly at Ron, flicking the end of his 
bushy tail. Then, without warning, he pounced. 

“OY!” Ron roared, seizing his bag as Crookshanks 
sank four sets of claws deep inside it and began 
tearing ferociously. “GET OFF, YOU STUPID ANIMAL!” 

Ron tried to pull the bag away from Crookshanks, but 
Crookshanks clung on, spitting and slashing. 



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“Ron, don’t hurt him!” squealed Hermione; the whole 
common room was watching; Ron whirled the bag 
around, Crookshanks still clinging to it, and Scabbers 
came flying out of the top — 

“CATCH THAT CAT!” Ron yelled as Crookshanks freed 
himself from the remnants of the bag, sprang over the 
table, and chased after the terrified Scabbers. 

George Weasley made a lunge for Crookshanks but 
missed; Scabbers streaked through twenty pairs of 
legs and shot beneath an old chest of drawers. 
Crookshanks skidded to a halt, crouched low on his 
bandy legs, and started making furious swipes 
beneath it with his front paw. 

Ron and Hermione hurried over; Hermione grabbed 
Crookshanks around the middle and heaved him 
away; Ron threw himself onto his stomach and, with 
great difficulty, pulled Scabbers out by the tail. 

“Look at him!” he said furiously to Hermione, 
dangling Scabbers in front of her. “He’s skin and 
bone! You keep that cat away from him!” 

“Crookshanks doesn’t understand it’s wrong!” said 
Hermione, her voice shaking. “All cats chase rats, 
Ron!” 

“There’s something funny about that animal!” said 
Ron, who was trying to persuade a frantically wiggling 
Scabbers back into his pocket. “It heard me say that 
Scabbers was in my bag!” 

“Oh, what rubbish,” said Hermione impatiently. 
“Crookshanks could smell him, Ron, how else d’you 
think — ” 



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“That cat’s got it in for Scabbers!” said Ron, ignoring 
the people around him, who were starting to giggle. 
“And Scabbers was here first, and he’s ill!” 

Ron marched through the common room and out of 
sight up the stairs to the boys’ dormitories. 

Ron was still in a bad mood with Hermione next day. 
He barely talked to her all through Herbology, even 
though he, Harry, and Hermione were working 
together on the same puffapod. 

“How’s Scabbers?” Hermione asked timidly as they 
stripped fat pink pods from the plants and emptied 
the shining beans into a wooden pail. 

“He’s hiding at the bottom of my bed, shaking,” said 
Ron angrily, missing the pail and scattering beans 
over the greenhouse floor. 

“Careful, Weasley, careful!” cried Professor Sprout as 
the beans burst into bloom before their very eyes. 

They had Transfiguration next. Harry, who had 
resolved to ask Professor McGonagall after the lesson 
whether he could go into Hogsmeade with the rest, 
joined the line outside the class trying to decide how 
he was going to argue his case. He was distracted, 
however, by a disturbance at the front of the line. 

Lavender Brown seemed to be crying. Parvati had her 
arm around her and was explaining something to 
Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who were 
looking very serious. 

“What’s the matter, Lavender?” said Hermione 
anxiously as she, Harry, and Ron went to join the 
group. 



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“She got a letter from home this morning,” Parvati 
whispered. “It’s her rabbit, Binky. He’s been killed by 
a fox.” 

“Oh,” said Hermione, “I’m sorry, Lavender.” 

“I should have known!” said Lavender tragically. “You 
know what day it is?” 

“Er — ” 



“The sixteenth of October! That thing you’re dreading, 
it will happen on the sixteenth of October!’ 
Remember? She was right, she was right!” 

The whole class was gathered around Lavender now. 
Seamus shook his head seriously. Hermione 
hesitated; then she said, “You — you were dreading 
Binky being killed by a fox?” 

“Well, not necessarily by a fox,” said Lavender, 
looking up at Hermione with streaming eyes, “but I 
was obviously dreading him dying, wasn’t I?” 

“Oh,” said Hermione. She paused again. Then — 

“Was Binky an old rabbit?” 

“N — no!” sobbed Lavender. “H — he was only a 
baby!” 

Parvati tightened her arm around Lavender’s 
shoulders. 

“But then, why would you dread him dying?” said 
Hermione. 

Parvati glared at her. 



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“Well, look at it logically,” said Hermione, turning to 
the rest of the group. “I mean, Binky didn’t even die 
today, did he? Lavender just got the news today — ” 
Lavender wailed loudly. “ — and she can’t have been 
dreading it, because it’s come as a real shock — ” 

“Don’t mind Hermione, Lavender,” said Ron loudly, 
“she doesn’t think other people’s pets matter very 
much.” 

Professor McGonagall opened the classroom door at 
that moment, which was perhaps lucky; Hermione 
and Ron were looking daggers at each other, and 
when they got into class, they seated themselves on 
either side of Harry and didn’t talk to each other for 
the whole class. 

Harry still hadn’t decided what he was going to say to 
Professor McGonagall when the bell rang at the end of 
the lesson, but it was she who brought up the subject 
of Hogsmeade first. 

“One moment, please!” she called as the class made 
to leave. “As you’re all in my House, you should hand 
Hogsmeade permission forms to me before Halloween. 
No form, no visiting the village, so don’t forget!” 

Neville put up his hand. 

“Please, Professor, I — I think I’ve lost — ” 

“Your grandmother sent yours to me directly, 
Longbottom,” said Professor McGonagall. “She 
seemed to think it was safer. Well, that’s all, you may 
leave.” 

“Ask her now,” Ron hissed at Harry. 

“Oh, but — ” Hermione began. 

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“Go for it, Harry,” said Ron stubbornly. 

Harry waited for the rest of the class to disappear, 
then headed nervously for Professor McGonagall’s 
desk. 

“Yes, Potter?” 

Harry took a deep breath. 

“Professor, my aunt and uncle — er — forgot to sign 
my form,” he said. 

Professor McGonagall looked over her square 
spectacles at him but didn’t say anything. 

“So — er — d’you think it would be all right — I 
mean, will it be okay if I — if I go to Hogsmeade?” 

Professor McGonagall looked down and began 
shuffling papers on her desk. 

“I’m afraid not, Potter,” she said. “You heard what I 
said. No form, no visiting the village. That’s the rule.” 

“But — Professor, my aunt and uncle — you know, 
they’re Muggles, they don’t really understand about 
— about Hogwarts forms and stuff,” Harry said, while 
Ron egged him on with vigorous nods. “If you said I 
could go — ” 

“But I don’t say so,” said Professor McGonagall, 
standing up and piling her papers neatly into a 
drawer. “The form clearly states that the parent or 
guardian must give permission.” She turned to look at 
him, with an odd expression on her face. Was it pity? 
“I’m sorry, Potter, but that’s my final word. You had 
better hurry, or you’ll be late for your next lesson.” 



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There was nothing to be done. Ron called Professor 
McGonagall a lot of names that greatly annoyed 
Hermione; Hermione assumed an “all-for-the-best” 
expression that made Ron even angrier, and Harry 
had to endure everyone in the class talking loudly 
and happily about what they were going to do first, 
once they got into Hogsmeade. 

“There’s always the feast,” said Ron, in an effort to 
cheer Harry up. “You know, the Halloween feast, in 
the evening.” 

“Yeah,” said Harry gloomily, “great.” 

The Halloween feast was always good, but it would 
taste a lot better if he was coming to it after a day in 
Hogsmeade with everyone else. Nothing anyone said 
made him feel any better about being left behind. 
Dean Thomas, who was good with a quill, had offered 
to forge Uncle Vernon’s signature on the form, but as 
Harry had already told Professor McGonagall he 
hadn’t had it signed, that was no good. Ron 
halfheartedly suggested the Invisibility Cloak, but 
Hermione stamped on that one, reminding Ron what 
Dumbledore had told them about the dementors 
being able to see through them. Percy had what were 
possibly the least helpful words of comfort. 

“They make a fuss about Hogsmeade, but I assure 
you, Harry, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” he said 
seriously. “All right, the sweetshop’s rather good, and 
Zonko’s Joke Shop’s frankly dangerous, and yes, the 
Shrieking Shack’s always worth a visit, but really, 
Harry, apart from that, you’re not missing anything.” 

On Halloween morning, Harry awoke with the rest 
and went down to breakfast, feeling thoroughly 
depressed, though doing his best to act normally. 



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“Well bring you lots of sweets back from 
Honeydukes,” said Hermione, looking desperately 
sorry for him. 

“Yeah, loads,” said Ron. He and Hermione had finally 
forgotten their squabble about Crookshanks in the 
face of Harry’s difficulties. 

“Don’t worry about me,” said Harry, in what he hoped 
was an offhand voice, “I’ll see you at the feast. Have a 
good time.” 

He accompanied them to the entrance hall, where 
Filch, the caretaker, was standing inside the front 
doors, checking off names against a long list, peering 
suspiciously into every face, and making sure that no 
one was sneaking out who shouldn’t be going. 

“Staying here, Potter?” shouted Malfoy, who was 
standing in line with Crabbe and Goyle. “Scared of 
passing the dementors?” 

Harry ignored him and made his solitary way up the 
marble staircase, through the deserted corridors, and 
back to Gryffindor Tower. 

“Password?” said the Fat Lady, jerking out of a doze. 

“Fortuna Major,” said Harry listlessly. 

The portrait swung open and he climbed through the 
hole into the common room. It was full of chattering 
first and second years, and a few older students, who 
had obviously visited Hogsmeade so often the novelty 
had worn off. 

“Harry! Harry! Hi, Harry!” 



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It was Colin Creevey, a second year who was deeply in 
awe of Harry and never missed an opportunity to 
speak to him. 

“Aren’t you going to Hogsmeade, Harry? Why not? 
Hey” — Colin looked eagerly around at his friends — 
“you can come and sit with us, if you like, Harry!” 

“Er — no, thanks, Colin,” said Harry, who wasn’t in 
the mood to have a lot of people staring avidly at the 
scar on his forehead. “I — I’ve got to go to the library, 
got to get some work done.” 

After that, he had no choice but to turn right around 
and head back out of the portrait hole again. 

“What was the point waking me up?” the Fat Lady 
called grumpily after him as he walked away. 

Harry wandered dispiritedly toward the library, but 
halfway there he changed his mind; he didn’t feel like 
working. He turned around and came face-to-face 
with Filch, who had obviously just seen off the last of 
the Hogsmeade visitors. 

“What are you doing?” Filch snarled suspiciously. 

“Nothing,” said Harry truthfully. 

“Nothing!” spat Filch, his jowls quivering 
unpleasantly. “A likely story! Sneaking around on 
your own — why aren’t you in Hogsmeade buying 
Stink Pellets and Belch Powder and Whizzing Worms 
like the rest of your nasty little friends?” 

Harry shrugged. 



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“Well, get back to your common room where you 
belong!” snapped Filch, and he stood glaring until 
Harry had passed out of sight. 

But Harry didn’t go back to the common room; he 
climbed a staircase, thinking vaguely of visiting the 
Owlery to see Hedwig, and was walking along another 
corridor when a voice from inside one of the rooms 
said, “Harry?” 

Harry doubled back to see who had spoken and met 
Professor Lupin, looking around his office door. 

“What are you doing?” said Lupin, though in a very 
different voice from Filch. “Where are Ron and 
Hermione?” 

“Hogsmeade,” said Harry, in a would-be casual voice. 

“Ah,” said Lupin. He considered Harry for a moment. 
“Why don’t you come in? I’ve just taken delivery of a 
grindylow for our next lesson.” 

“A what?” said Harry. 

He followed Lupin into his office. In the corner stood a 
very large tank of water. A sickly green creature with 
sharp little horns had its face pressed against the 
glass, pulling faces and flexing its long, spindly 
fingers. 

“Water demon,” said Lupin, surveying the grindylow 
thoughtfully. “We shouldn’t have much difficulty with 
him, not after the kappas. The trick is to break his 
grip. You notice the abnormally long fingers? Strong, 
but very brittle.” 

The grindylow bared its green teeth and then buried 
itself in a tangle of weeds in a corner. 

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“Cup of tea?” Lupin said, looking around for his 
kettle. “I was just thinking of making one.” 

“All right,” said Harry awkwardly. 

Lupin tapped the kettle with his wand and a blast of 
steam issued suddenly from the spout. 

“Sit down,” said Lupin, taking the lid off a dusty tin. 
“I’ve only got teabags, I’m afraid — but I daresay 
you’ve had enough of tea leaves?” 

Harry looked at him. Lupin’s eyes were twinkling. 

“How did you know about that?” Harry asked. 

“Professor McGonagall told me,” said Lupin, passing 
Harry a chipped mug of tea. “You’re not worried, are 
you?” 

“No,” said Harry. 

He thought for a moment of telling Lupin about the 
dog he’d seen in Magnolia Crescent but decided not 
to. He didn’t want Lupin to think he was a coward, 
especially since Lupin already seemed to think he 
couldn’t cope with a boggart. 

Something of Harry’s thoughts seemed to have shown 
on his face, because Lupin said, “Anything worrying 
you, Harry?” 

“No,” Harry lied. He drank a bit of tea and watched 
the grindylow brandishing a fist at him. “Yes,” he said 
suddenly, putting his tea down on Lupin’s desk. “You 
know that day we fought the boggart? 

“Yes,” said Lupin slowly. 



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“Why didn’t you let me fight it?” said Harry abruptly. 
Lupin raised his eyebrows. 

“I would have thought that was obvious, Harry,” he 
said, sounding surprised. 

Harry, who had expected Lupin to deny that he’d 
done any such thing, was taken aback. 

“Why?” he said again. 

“Well,” said Lupin, frowning slightly, “I assumed that 
if the boggart faced you, it would assume the shape of 
Lord Voldemort.” 

Harry stared. Not only was this the last answer he’d 
expected, but Lupin had said Voldemort ’s name. The 
only person Harry had ever heard say the name aloud 
(apart from himself) was Professor Dumbledore. 

“Clearly, I was wrong,” said Lupin, still frowning at 
Harry. “But I didn’t think it a good idea for Lord 
Voldemort to materialize in the staffroom. I imagined 
that people would panic.” 

“I didn’t think of Voldemort,” said Harry honestly. “I 
— I remembered those dementors.” 

“I see,” said Lupin thoughtfully. “Well, well ... I’m 
impressed.” He smiled slightly at the look of surprise 
on Harry’s face. “That suggests that what you fear 
most of all is — fear. Very wise, Harry.” 

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he drank 
some more tea. 

“So you’ve been thinking that I didn’t believe you 
capable of fighting the boggart?” said Lupin shrewdly. 

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“Well ... yeah,” said Harry. He was suddenly feeling a 
lot happier. “Professor Lupin, you know the 
dementors — ” 

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. 

“Come in,” called Lupin. 

The door opened, and in came Snape. He was 
carrying a goblet, which was smoking faintly, and 
stopped at the sight of Harry, his black eyes 
narrowing. 

“Ah, Severus,” said Lupin, smiling. “Thanks very 
much. Could you leave it here on the desk for me?” 

Snape set down the smoking goblet, his eyes 
wandering between Harry and Lupin. 

“I was just showing Harry my grindylow,” said Lupin 
pleasantly, pointing at the tank. 

“Fascinating,” said Snape, without looking at it. “You 
should drink that directly, Lupin.” 

“Yes, yes, I will,” said Lupin. 

“I made an entire cauldronful,” Snape continued. “If 
you need more.” 

“I should probably take some again tomorrow. Thanks 
very much, Severus.” 

“Not at all,” said Snape, but there was a look in his 
eye Harry didn’t like. He backed out of the room, 
unsmiling and watchful. 

Harry looked curiously at the goblet. Lupin smiled. 



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“Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion 
for me,” he said. “I have never been much of a potion- 
brewer and this one is particularly complex.” He 
picked up the goblet and sniffed it. “Pity sugar makes 
it useless,” he added, taking a sip and shuddering. 

“Why — ?” Harry began. Lupin looked at him and 
answered the unfinished question. 

“I’ve been feeling a bit off-color,” he said. “This potion 
is the only thing that helps. I am very lucky to be 
working alongside Professor Snape; there aren’t many 
wizards who are up to making it.” 

Professor Lupin took another sip and Harry had a 
crazy urge to knock the goblet out of his hands. 

“Professor Snape’s very interested in the Dark Arts,” 
he blurted out. 

“Really?” said Lupin, looking only mildly interested as 
he took another gulp of potion. 

“Some people reckon — ” Harry hesitated, then 
plunged recklessly on, “some people reckon he’d do 
anything to get the Defense Against the Dark Arts 
job.” 

Lupin drained the goblet and pulled a face. 

“Disgusting,” he said. “Well, Harry, I’d better get back 
to work. I’ll see you at the feast later.” 

“Right,” said Harry, putting down his empty teacup. 

The empty goblet was still smoking. 

“There you go,” said Ron. “We got as much as we 
could carry.” 

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A shower of brilliantly colored sweets fell into Harry’s 
lap. It was dusk, and Ron and Hermione had just 
turned up in the common room, pink-faced from the 
cold wind and looking as though they’d had the time 
of their lives. 

“Thanks,” said Harry, picking up a packet of tiny 
black Pepper Imps. “What’s Hogsmeade like? Where 
did you go?” 

By the sound of it — everywhere. Dervish and 
Banges, the wizarding equipment shop, Zonko’s Joke 
Shop, into the Three Broomsticks for foaming mugs of 
hot butterbeer, and many places besides. 

“The post office, Harry! About two hundred owls, all 
sitting on shelves, all color-coded depending on how 
fast you want your letter to get there!” 

“Honeydukes has got a new kind of fudge; they were 
giving out free samples, there’s a bit, look — ” 

“We think we saw an ogre, honestly, they get all sorts 
at the Three Broomsticks — ” 

“Wish we could have brought you some butterbeer, 
really warms you up — ” 

“What did you do?” said Hermione, looking anxious. 
“Did you get any work done?” 

“No,” said Harry. “Lupin made me a cup of tea in his 
office. And then Snape came in. ...” 

He told them all about the goblet. Ron’s mouth fell 
open. 

“ Lupin drank it?” he gasped. “Is he mad?” 



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Hermione checked her watch. 



“We’d better go down, you know, the feast’ll be 
starting in five minutes. ...” They hurried through the 
portrait hole and into the crowd, still discussing 
Snape. 

“But if he — you know” — Hermione dropped her 
voice, glancing nervously around — “if he was trying 
to — to poison Lupin — he wouldn’t have done it in 
front of Harry.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” said Harry as they reached the 
entrance hall and crossed into the Great Hall. It had 
been decorated with hundreds and hundreds of 
candle-filled pumpkins, a cloud of fluttering live bats, 
and many flaming orange streamers, which were 
swimming lazily across the stormy ceiling like brilliant 
watersnakes. 

The food was delicious; even Hermione and Ron, who 
were full to bursting with Honeydukes sweets, 
managed second helpings of everything. Harry kept 
glancing at the staff table. Professor Lupin looked 
cheerful and as well as he ever did; he was talking 
animatedly to tiny little Professor Flitwick, the 
Charms teacher. Harry moved his eyes along the 
table, to the place where Snape sat. Was he imagining 
it, or were Snape ’s eyes flickering toward Lupin more 
often than was natural? 

The feast finished with an entertainment provided by 
the Hogwarts ghosts. They popped out of the walls 
and tables to do a bit of formation gliding; Nearly 
Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, had a great 
success with a reenactment of his own botched 
beheading. 



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It had been such a pleasant evening that Harry’s good 
mood couldn’t even be spoiled by Malfoy, who 
shouted through the crowd as they all left the hall, 
“The dementors send their love, Potter!” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed the rest of the 
Gryffindors along the usual path to Gryffindor Tower, 
but when they reached the corridor that ended with 
the portrait of the Fat Lady, they found it jammed 
with students. 

“Why isn’t anyone going in?” said Ron curiously. 

Harry peered over the heads in front of him. The 
portrait seemed to be closed. 

“Let me through, please,” came Percy’s voice, and he 
came bustling importantly through the crowd. 

“What’s the holdup here? You can’t all have forgotten 
the password — excuse me, I’m Head Boy — ” 

And then a silence fell over the crowd, from the front 
first, so that a chill seemed to spread down the 
corridor. They heard Percy say, in a suddenly sharp 
voice, “Somebody get Professor Dumbledore. Quick.” 

People’s heads turned; those at the back were 
standing on tiptoe. 

“What’s going on?” said Ginny, who had just arrived. 

A moment later, Professor Dumbledore was there, 
sweeping toward the portrait; the Gryffindors 
squeezed together to let him through, and Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione moved closer to see what the trouble 
was. 

“Oh, my — ” Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm. 



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The Fat Lady had vanished from her portrait, which 
had been slashed so viciously that strips of canvas 
littered the floor; great chunks of it had been torn 
away completely. 

Dumbledore took one quick look at the ruined 
painting and turned, his eyes somber, to see 
Professors McGonagall, Lupin, and Snape hurrying 
toward him. 

“We need to find her,” said Dumbledore. “Professor 
McGonagall, please go to Mr. Filch at once and tell 
him to search every painting in the castle for the Fat 
Lady.” 

“You’ll be lucky!” said a cackling voice. 

It was Peeves the Poltergeist, bobbing over the crowd 
and looking delighted, as he always did, at the sight 
of wreckage or worry. 

“What do you mean, Peeves?” said Dumbledore 
calmly, and Peeves’s grin faded a little. He didn’t dare 
taunt Dumbledore. Instead he adopted an oily voice 
that was no better than his cackle. 

“Ashamed, Your Headship, sir. Doesn’t want to be 
seen. She’s a horrible mess. Saw her running through 
the landscape up on the fourth floor, sir, dodging 
between the trees. Crying something dreadful,” he 
said happily. “Poor thing,” he added unconvincingly. 

“Did she say who did it?” said Dumbledore quietly. 

“Oh yes, Professorhead,” said Peeves, with the air of 
one cradling a large bombshell in his arms. “He got 
very angry when she wouldn’t let him in, you see.” 
Peeves flipped over and grinned at Dumbledore from 



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between his own legs. “Nasty temper he’s got, that 
Sirius Black.” 



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9 




GRIM DEFEAT 

Professor Dumbledore sent all the Gryffindors back to 
the Great Hall, where they were joined ten minutes 
later by the students from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and 
Slytherin, who all looked extremely confused. 

“The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough 
search of the castle,” Professor Dumbledore told them 
as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick closed all 
doors into the hall. “I’m afraid that, for your own 
safety, you will have to spend the night here. I want 
the prefects to stand guard over the entrances to the 
hall and I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in 
charge. Any disturbance should be reported to me 
immediately,” he added to Percy, who was looking 
immensely proud and important. “Send word with one 
of the ghosts.” 

Professor Dumbledore paused, about to leave the hall, 
and said, “Oh, yes, you’ll be needing ...” 

One casual wave of his wand and the long tables flew 
to the edges of the hall and stood themselves against 

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the walls; another wave, and the floor was covered 
with hundreds of squashy purple sleeping bags. 

“Sleep well,” said Professor Dumbledore, closing the 
door behind him. 

The hall immediately began to buzz excitedly; the 
Gryffindors were telling the rest of the school what 
had just happened. 

“Everyone into their sleeping bags!” shouted Percy. 
“Come on, now, no more talking! Lights out in ten 
minutes!” 

“C’mon,” Ron said to Harry and Hermione; they seized 
three sleeping bags and dragged them into a corner. 

“Do you think Black’s still in the castle?” Hermione 
whispered anxiously. 

“Dumbledore obviously thinks he might be,” said Ron. 

“It’s very lucky he picked tonight, you know,” said 
Hermione as they climbed fully dressed into their 
sleeping bags and propped themselves on their elbows 
to talk. “The one night we weren’t in the tower. ...” 

“I reckon he’s lost track of time, being on the run,” 
said Ron. “Didn’t realize it was Halloween. Otherwise 
he’d have come bursting in here.” 

Hermione shuddered. 

All around them, people were asking one another the 
same question: “How did he get in?” 

“Maybe he knows how to Apparate,” said a Ravenclaw 
a few feet away. “Just appear out of thin air, you 
know.” 

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“Disguised himself, probably,” said a Hufflepuff fifth 
year. 

“He could’ve flown in,” suggested Dean Thomas. 

“Honestly, am I the only person who’s ever bothered 
to read Hogwarts, A History?” said Hermione crossly 
to Harry and Ron. 

“Probably,” said Ron. “Why?” 

“Because the castle’s protected by more than walls, 
you know,” said Hermione. “There are all sorts of 
enchantments on it, to stop people entering by 
stealth. You can’t just Apparate in here. And I’d like 
to see the disguise that could fool those dementors. 
They’re guarding every single entrance to the 
grounds. They’d have seen him fly in too. And Filch 
knows all the secret passages, they’ll have them 
covered. ...” 

“The lights are going out now!” Percy shouted. “I want 
everyone in their sleeping bags and no more talking!” 

The candles all went out at once. The only light now 
came from the silvery ghosts, who were drifting about 
talking seriously to the prefects, and the enchanted 
ceiling, which, like the sky outside, was scattered 
with stars. What with that, and the whispering that 
still filled the hall, Harry felt as though he were 
sleeping outdoors in a light wind. 

Once every hour, a teacher would reappear in the hall 
to check that everything was quiet. Around three in 
the morning, when many students had finally fallen 
asleep, Professor Dumbledore came in. Harry watched 
him looking around for Percy, who had been prowling 
between the sleeping bags, telling people off for 
talking. Percy was only a short way away from Harry, 
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Ron, and Hermione, who quickly pretended to be 
asleep as Dumbledore’s footsteps drew nearer. 

“Any sign of him, Professor?” asked Percy in a 
whisper. 

“No. All well here?” 

“Everything under control, sir.” 

“Good. There’s no point moving them all now. I’ve 
found a temporary guardian for the Gryffindor 
portrait hole. You’ll be able to move them back in 
tomorrow.” 

“And the Fat Lady, sir?” 

“Hiding in a map of Argyllshire on the second floor. 
Apparently she refused to let Black in without the 
password, so he attacked. She’s still very distressed, 
but once she’s calmed down, I’ll have Mr. Filch 
restore her.” 

Harry heard the door of the hall creak open again, 
and more footsteps. 

“Headmaster?” It was Snape. Harry kept quite still, 
listening hard. “The whole of the third floor has been 
searched. He’s not there. And Filch has done the 
dungeons; nothing there either.” 

“What about the Astronomy tower? Professor 
Trelawney’s room? The Owlery?” 

“All searched ...” 

“Very well, Severus. I didn’t really expect Black to 
linger.” 



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“Have you any theory as to how he got in, Professor?” 
asked Snape. 

Harry raised his head very slightly off his arms to free 
his other ear. 

“Many, Severus, each of them as unlikely as the 
next.” 

Harry opened his eyes a fraction and squinted up to 
where they stood; Dumbledore ’s back was to him, but 
he could see Percy’s face, rapt with attention, and 
Snape ’s profile, which looked angry. 

“You remember the conversation we had, 

Headmaster, just before — ah — the start of term?” 
said Snape, who was barely opening his lips, as 
though trying to block Percy out of the conversation. 

“I do, Severus,” said Dumbledore, and there was 
something like warning in his voice. 

“It seems — almost impossible — that Black could 
have entered the school without inside help. I did 
express my concerns when you appointed — ” 

“I do not believe a single person inside this castle 
would have helped Black enter it,” said Dumbledore, 
and his tone made it so clear that the subject was 
closed that Snape didn’t reply. “I must go down to the 
dementors,” said Dumbledore. “I said I would inform 
them when our search was complete.” 

“Didn’t they want to help, sir?” said Percy. 

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore coldly. “But I’m afraid no 
dementor will cross the threshold of this castle while I 
am headmaster.” 



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Percy looked slightly abashed. Dumbledore left the 
hall, walking quickly and quietly. Snape stood for a 
moment, watching the headmaster with an expression 
of deep resentment on his face; then he too left. 

Harry glanced sideways at Ron and Hermione. Both of 
them had their eyes open too, reflecting the starry 
ceiling. 

“What was all that about?” Ron mouthed. 

The school talked of nothing but Sirius Black for the 
next few days. The theories about how he had entered 
the castle became wilder and wilder; Hannah Abbott, 
from Hufflepuff, spent much of their next Herbology 
class telling anyone who’d listen that Black could 
turn into a flowering shrub. 

The Fat Lady’s ripped canvas had been taken off the 
wall and replaced with the portrait of Sir Cadogan 
and his fat gray pony. Nobody was very happy about 
this. Sir Cadogan spent half his time challenging 
people to duels, and the rest thinking up ridiculously 
complicated passwords, which he changed at least 
twice a day. 

“He’s a complete lunatic,” said Seamus Finnigan 
angrily to Percy. “Can’t we get anyone else?” 

“None of the other pictures wanted the job,” said 
Percy. “Frightened of what happened to the Fat Lady. 
Sir Cadogan was the only one brave enough to 
volunteer.” 

Sir Cadogan, however, was the least of Harry’s 
worries. He was now being closely watched. Teachers 
found excuses to walk along corridors with him, and 
Percy Weasley (acting, Harry suspected, on his 
mother’s orders) was tailing him everywhere like an 
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extremely pompous guard dog. To cap it all, Professor 
McGonagall summoned Harry into her office, with 
such a somber expression on her face Harry thought 
someone must have died. 

“There’s no point hiding it from you any longer, 
Potter,” she said in a very serious voice. “I know this 
will come as a shock to you, but Sirius Black — ” 

“I know he’s after me,” said Harry wearily. “I heard 
Ron’s dad telling his mum. Mr. Weasley works for the 
Ministry of Magic.” 

Professor McGonagall seemed very taken aback. She 
stared at Harry for a moment or two, then said, “I see! 
Well, in that case, Potter, you’ll understand why I 
don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be practicing 
Quidditch in the evenings. Out on the field with only 
your team members, it’s very exposed, Potter — ” 

“We’ve got our first match on Saturday!” said Harry, 
outraged. “I’ve got to train, Professor!” 

Professor McGonagall considered him intently. Harry 
knew she was deeply interested in the Gryffindor 
team’s prospects; it had been she, after all, who’d 
suggested him as Seeker in the first place. He waited, 
holding his breath. 

“Hmm ...” Professor McGonagall stood up and stared 
out of the window at the Quidditch field, just visible 
through the rain. “Well ... goodness knows, I’d like to 
see us win the Cup at last ... but all the same, Potter 
... I’d be happier if a teacher were present. I’ll ask 
Madam Hooch to oversee your training sessions.” 

The weather worsened steadily as the first Quidditch 
match drew nearer. Undaunted, the Gryffindor team 
was training harder than ever under the eye of 

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Madam Hooch. Then, at their final training session 
before Saturday’s match, Oliver Wood gave his team 
some unwelcome news. 

“We’re not playing Slytherin!” he told them, looking 
very angry. “Flint’s just been to see me. We’re playing 
Hufflepuff instead.” 

“Why?” chorused the rest of the team. 

“Flint’s excuse is that their Seeker’s arm’s still 
injured,” said Wood, grinding his teeth furiously. “But 
it’s obvious why they’re doing it. Don’t want to play in 
this weather. Think it’ll damage their chances. ...” 

There had been strong winds and heavy rain all day, 
and as Wood spoke, they heard a distant rumble of 
thunder. 

“There’s nothing wrong with Malfoy’s arm!” said Harry 
furiously. “He’s faking it!” 

“I know that, but we can’t prove it,” said Wood 
bitterly. “And we’ve been practicing all those moves 
assuming we’re playing Slytherin, and instead it’s 
Hufflepuff, and their style’s quite different. They’ve got 
a new Captain and Seeker, Cedric Diggory — ” 

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie suddenly giggled. 

“What?” said Wood, frowning at this lighthearted 
behavior. 

“He’s that tall, good-looking one, isn’t he?” said 
Angelina. 

“Strong and silent,” said Katie, and they started to 
giggle again. 



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“He’s only silent because he’s too thick to string two 
words together,” said Fred impatiently. “I don’t know 
why you’re worried, Oliver, Hufflepuff is a pushover. 
Last time we played them, Harry caught the Snitch in 
about five minutes, remember?” 

“We were playing in completely different conditions!” 
Wood shouted, his eyes bulging slightly. “Diggory’s 
put a very strong side together! He’s an excellent 
Seeker! I was afraid you’d take it like this! We mustn’t 
relax! We must keep our focus! Slytherin is trying to 
wrong-foot us! We must win!” 

“Oliver, calm down!” said Fred, looking slightly 
alarmed. “We’re taking Hufflepuff very seriously. 
Seriously.” 

The day before the match, the winds reached howling 
point and the rain fell harder than ever. It was so 
dark inside the corridors and classrooms that extra 
torches and lanterns were lit. The Slytherin team was 
looking very smug indeed, and none more so than 
Malfoy. 

“Ah, if only my arm was feeling a bit better!” he sighed 
as the gale outside pounded the windows. 

Harry had no room in his head to worry about 
anything except the match tomorrow. Oliver Wood 
kept hurrying up to him between classes and giving 
him tips. The third time this happened, Wood talked 
for so long that Harry suddenly realized he was ten 
minutes late for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and 
set off at a run with Wood shouting after him, 
“Diggory’s got a very fast swerve, Harry, so you might 
want to try looping him — ” 



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Harry skidded to a halt outside the Defense Against 
the Dark Arts classroom, pulled the door open, and 
dashed inside. 

“Sorry I’m late, Professor Lupin, I — ” 

But it wasn’t Professor Lupin who looked up at him 
from the teacher’s desk; it was Snape. 

“This lesson began ten minutes ago, Potter, so I think 
we’ll make it ten points from Gryffindor. Sit down.” 

But Harry didn’t move. 

“Where’s Professor Lupin?” he said. 

“He says he is feeling too ill to teach today,” said 
Snape with a twisted smile. “I believe I told you to sit 
down?” 

But Harry stayed where he was. 

“What’s wrong with him?” 

Snape ’s black eyes glittered. 

“Nothing life-threatening,” he said, looking as though 
he wished it were. “Five more points from Gryffindor, 
and if I have to ask you to sit down again, it will be 
fifty.” 

Harry walked slowly to his seat and sat down. Snape 
looked around at the class. 

“As I was saying before Potter interrupted, Professor 
Lupin has not left any record of the topics you have 
covered so far — ” 



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“Please, sir, we’ve done boggarts, Red Caps, kappas, 
and grindylows,” said Hermione quickly, “and we’re 
just about to start — ” 

“Be quiet,” said Snape coldly. “I did not ask for 
information. I was merely commenting on Professor 
Lupin’s lack of organization.” 

“He’s the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher 
we’ve ever had,” said Dean Thomas boldly, and there 
was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the 
class. Snape looked more menacing than ever. 

“You are easily satisfied. Lupin is hardly overtaxing 
you — I would expect first years to be able to deal 
with Red Caps and grindylows. Today we shall 
discuss — ” 

Harry watched him flick through the textbook, to the 
very back chapter, which he must know they hadn’t 
covered. 

“ — werewolves,” said Snape. 

“But, sir,” said Hermione, seemingly unable to 
restrain herself, “we’re not supposed to do werewolves 
yet, we’re due to start hinkypunks — ” 

“Miss Granger,” said Snape in a voice of deadly calm, 
“I was under the impression that I am teaching this 
lesson, not you. And I am telling you all to turn to 
page 394.” He glanced around again. “All of you! 

Now\” 

With many bitter sidelong looks and some sullen 
muttering, the class opened their books. 

“Which of you can tell me how we distinguish between 
the werewolf and the true wolf?” said Snape. 

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Everyone sat in motionless silence; everyone except 
Hermione, whose hand, as it so often did, had shot 
straight into the air. 

“Anyone?” Snape said, ignoring Hermione. His twisted 
smile was back. “Are you telling me that Professor 
Lupin hasn’t even taught you the basic distinction 
between — ” 

“We told you,” said Parvati suddenly, “we haven’t got 
as far as werewolves yet, we’re still on — ” 

“Silencel” snarled Snape. “Well, well, well, I never 
thought I’d meet a third -year class who wouldn’t even 
recognize a werewolf when they saw one. I shall make 
a point of informing Professor Dumbledore how very 
behind you all are. ...” 

“Please, sir,” said Hermione, whose hand was still in 
the air, “the werewolf differs from the true wolf in 
several small ways. The snout of the werewolf — ” 

“That is the second time you have spoken out of turn, 
Miss Granger,” said Snape coolly. “Five more points 
from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all.” 

Hermione went very red, put down her hand, and 
stared at the floor with her eyes full of tears. It was a 
mark of how much the class loathed Snape that they 
were all glaring at him, because every one of them 
had called Hermione a know-it-all at least once, and 
Ron, who told Hermione she was a know-it-all at least 
twice a week, said loudly, “You asked us a question 
and she knows the answer! Why ask if you don’t want 
to be told?” 

The class knew instantly he’d gone too far. Snape 
advanced on Ron slowly, and the room held its 
breath. 

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“Detention, Weasley,” Snape said silkily, his face very 
close to Ron’s. “And if I ever hear you criticize the way 
I teach a class again, you will be very sorry indeed.” 

No one made a sound throughout the rest of the 
lesson. They sat and made notes on werewolves from 
the textbook, while Snape prowled up and down the 
rows of desks, examining the work they had been 
doing with Professor Lupin. 

“Very poorly explained . . . That is incorrect, the kappa 
is more commonly found in Mongolia. . . . Professor 
Lupin gave this eight out of ten? I wouldn’t have given 
it three. ...” 

When the bell rang at last, Snape held them back. 

“You will each write an essay, to be handed in to me, 
on the ways you recognize and kill werewolves. I want 
two rolls of parchment on the subject, and I want 
them by Monday morning. It is time somebody took 
this class in hand. Weasley, stay behind, we need to 
arrange your detention.” 

Harry and Hermione left the room with the rest of the 
class, who waited until they were well out of earshot, 
then burst into a furious tirade about Snape. 

“Snape ’s never been like this with any of our other 
Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, even if he did 
want the job,” Harry said to Hermione. “Why’s he got 
it in for Lupin? D’you think this is all because of the 
boggart?” 

“I don’t know,” said Hermione pensively. “But I really 
hope Professor Lupin gets better soon. ...” 

Ron caught up with them five minutes later, in a 
towering rage. 

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“D’you know what that — ” (he called Snape 
something that made Hermione say “Ron\”) “ — is 
making me do? I’ve got to scrub out the bedpans in 
the hospital wing. Without magid” He was breathing 
deeply, his fists clenched. “Why couldn’t Black have 
hidden in Snape’s office, eh? He could have finished 
him off for us!” 

Harry woke extremely early the next morning; so early 
that it was still dark. For a moment he thought the 
roaring of the wind had woken him. Then he felt a 
cold breeze on the back of his neck and sat bolt 
upright — Peeves the Poltergeist had been floating 
next to him, blowing hard in his ear. 

“What did you do that for?” said Harry furiously. 

Peeves puffed out his cheeks, blew hard, and zoomed 
backward out of the room, cackling. 

Harry fumbled for his alarm clock and looked at it. It 
was half past four. Cursing Peeves, he rolled over and 
tried to get back to sleep, but it was very difficult, now 
that he was awake, to ignore the sounds of the 
thunder rumbling overhead, the pounding of the wind 
against the castle walls, and the distant creaking of 
the trees in the Forbidden Forest. In a few hours he 
would be out on the Quidditch field, battling through 
that gale. Finally, he gave up any thought of more 
sleep, got up, dressed, picked up his Nimbus Two 
Thousand, and walked quietly out of the dormitory. 

As Harry opened the door, something brushed against 
his leg. He bent down just in time to grab 
Crookshanks by the end of his bushy tail and drag 
him outside. 

“You know, I reckon Ron was right about you,” Harry 
told Crookshanks suspiciously. “There are plenty of 

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mice around this place — go and chase them. Go on,” 
he added, nudging Crookshanks down the spiral 
staircase with his foot. “Leave Scabbers alone.” 

The noise of the storm was even louder in the 
common room. Harry knew better than to think the 
match would be canceled; Quidditch matches weren’t 
called off for trifles like thunderstorms. Nevertheless, 
he was starting to feel very apprehensive. Wood had 
pointed out Cedric Diggory to him in the corridor; 
Diggory was a fifth year and a lot bigger than Harry. 
Seekers were usually light and speedy, but Diggory’s 
weight would be an advantage in this weather 
because he was less likely to be blown off course. 

Harry whiled away the hours until dawn in front of 
the fire, getting up every now and then to stop 
Crookshanks from sneaking up the boys’ staircase 
again. At long last Harry thought it must be time for 
breakfast, so he headed through the portrait hole 
alone. 

“Stand and fight, you mangy cur!” yelled Sir Cadogan. 
“Oh, shut up,” Harry yawned. 

He revived a bit over a large bowl of porridge, and by 
the time he’d started on toast, the rest of the team 
had turned up. 

“It’s going to be a tough one,” said Wood, who wasn’t 
eating anything. 

“Stop worrying, Oliver,” said Alicia soothingly, “we 
don’t mind a bit of rain.” 

But it was considerably more than a bit of rain. Such 
was the popularity of Quidditch that the whole school 
turned out to watch the match as usual, but they ran 

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down the lawns toward the Quidditch field, heads 
bowed against the ferocious wind, umbrellas being 
whipped out of their hands as they went. Just before 
he entered the locker room, Harry saw Malfoy, 

Crabbe, and Goyle, laughing and pointing at him from 
under an enormous umbrella on their way to the 
stadium. 

The team changed into their scarlet robes and waited 
for Wood’s usual pre-match pep talk, but it didn’t 
come. He tried to speak several times, made an odd 
gulping noise, then shook his head hopelessly and 
beckoned them to follow him. 

The wind was so strong that they staggered sideways 
as they walked out onto the field. If the crowd was 
cheering, they couldn’t hear it over the fresh rolls of 
thunder. Rain was splattering over Harry’s glasses. 
How on earth was he going to see the Snitch in this? 

The Hufflepuffs were approaching from the opposite 
side of the field, wearing canary -yellow robes. The 
Captains walked up to each other and shook hands; 
Diggory smiled at Wood but Wood now looked as 
though he had lockjaw and merely nodded. Harry saw 
Madam Hooch’s mouth form the words, “Mount your 
brooms.” He pulled his right foot out of the mud with 
a squelch and swung it over his Nimbus Two 
Thousand. Madam Hooch put her whistle to her lips 
and gave it a blast that sounded shrill and distant — 
they were off. 

Harry rose fast, but his Nimbus was swerving slightly 
with the wind. He held it as steady as he could and 
turned, squinting into the rain. 

Within five minutes Harry was soaked to his skin and 
frozen, hardly able to see his teammates, let alone the 
tiny Snitch. He flew backward and forward across the 

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field past blurred red and yellow shapes, with no idea 
of what was happening in the rest of the game. He 
couldn’t hear the commentary over the wind. The 
crowd was hidden beneath a sea of cloaks and 
battered umbrellas. Twice Harry came very close to 
being unseated by a Bludger; his vision was so 
clouded by the rain on his glasses he hadn’t seen 
them coming. 

He lost track of time. It was getting harder and harder 
to hold his broom straight. The sky was getting 
darker, as though night had decided to come early. 
Twice Harry nearly hit another player, without 
knowing whether it was a teammate or opponent; 
everyone was now so wet, and the rain so thick, he 
could hardly tell them apart. ... 

With the first flash of lightning came the sound of 
Madam Hooch’s whistle; Harry could just see the 
outline of Wood through the thick rain, gesturing him 
to the ground. The whole team splashed down into 
the mud. 

“I called for time-out!” Wood roared at his team. 

“Come on, under here — ” 

They huddled at the edge of the field under a large 
umbrella; Harry took off his glasses and wiped them 
hurriedly on his robes. 

“What’s the score?” 

“We’re fifty points up,” said Wood, “but unless we get 
the Snitch soon, we’ll be playing into the night.” 

“I’ve got no chance with these on,” Harry said 
exasperatedly, waving his glasses. 



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At that very moment, Hermione appeared at his 
shoulder; she was holding her cloak over her head 
and was, inexplicably, beaming. 

“I’ve had an idea, Harry! Give me your glasses, quick!” 

He handed them to her, and as the team watched in 
amazement, Hermione tapped them with her wand 
and said, “Imperviusl” 

“There!” she said, handing them back to Harry. 
“They’ll repel water!” 

Wood looked as though he could have kissed her. 

“Brilliant!” he called hoarsely after her as she 
disappeared into the crowd. “Okay, team, let’s go for 
it!” 



Hermione ’s spell had done the trick. Harry was still 
numb with cold, still wetter than he’d ever been in his 
life, but he could see. Full of fresh determination, he 
urged his broom through the turbulent air, staring in 
every direction for the Snitch, avoiding a Bludger, 
ducking beneath Diggory, who was streaking in the 
opposite direction. ... 

There was another clap of thunder, followed 
immediately by forked lightning. This was getting 
more and more dangerous. Harry needed to get the 
Snitch quickly — 

He turned, intending to head back toward the middle 
of the field, but at that moment, another flash of 
lightning illuminated the stands, and Harry saw 
something that distracted him completely — the 
silhouette of an enormous shaggy black dog, clearly 
imprinted against the sky, motionless in the topmost, 
empty row of seats. 

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Harry’s numb hands slipped on the broom handle 
and his Nimbus dropped a few feet. Shaking his 
sodden bangs out of his eyes, he squinted back into 
the stands. The dog had vanished. 

“Harry!” came Wood’s anguished yell from the 
Gryffindor goal posts. “Harry, behind you!” 

Harry looked wildly around. Cedric Diggory was 
pelting up the field, and a tiny speck of gold was 
shimmering in the rain-filled air between them — 

With a jolt of panic, Harry threw himself flat to the 
broom-handle and zoomed toward the Snitch. 

“Come on!” he growled at his Nimbus as the rain 
whipped his face. “Fasteri” 

But something odd was happening. An eerie silence 
was falling across the stadium. The wind, though as 
strong as ever, was forgetting to roar. It was as 
though someone had turned off the sound, as though 
Harry had gone suddenly deaf — what was going on? 

And then a horribly familiar wave of cold swept over 
him, inside him, just as he became aware of 
something moving on the field below. . . . 

Before he’d had time to think, Harry had taken his 
eyes off the Snitch and looked down. 

At least a hundred dementors, their hidden faces 
pointing up at him, were standing beneath him. It 
was as though freezing water were rising in his chest, 
cutting at his insides. And then he heard it again. ... 
Someone was screaming, screaming inside his head 
... a woman . . . 

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry\” 

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“ Stand aside, you silly girl ... stand aside, now. ...” 



“ Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead — ” 

Numbing, swirling white mist was filling Harry’s 
brain. . . . What was he doing? Why was he flying? He 
needed to help her. ... She was going to die. ... She 
was going to be murdered. ... 

He was falling, falling through the icy mist. 

“Not Harry\ Please ... have mercy ... have mercy. ...” 

A shrill voice was laughing, the woman was 
screaming, and Harry knew no more. 

“Lucky the ground was so soft.” 

“I thought he was dead for sure.” 

“But he didn’t even break his glasses.” 

Harry could hear the voices whispering, but they 
made no sense whatsoever. He didn’t have a clue 
where he was, or how he’d got there, or what he’d 
been doing before he got there. All he knew was that 
every inch of him was aching as though it had been 
beaten. 

“That was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” 

Scariest . . . the scariest thing . . . hooded black figures 
... cold ... screaming ... 

Harry’s eyes snapped open. He was lying in the 
hospital wing. The Gryffindor Quidditch team, 
spattered with mud from head to foot, was gathered 
around his bed. Ron and Hermione were also there, 

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looking as though they’d just climbed out of a 
swimming pool. 

“Harry!” said Fred, who looked extremely white 
underneath the mud. “How’re you feeling?” 

It was as though Harry’s memory was on fast forward. 
The lightning — the Grim — the Snitch — and the 
dementors ... 

“What happened?” he said, sitting up so suddenly 
they all gasped. 

“You fell off,” said Fred. “Must’ve been — what — fifty 
feet?” 

“We thought you’d died,” said Alicia, who was 
shaking. 

Hermione made a small, squeaky noise. Her eyes were 
extremely bloodshot. 

“But the match,” said Harry. “What happened? Are we 
doing a replay?” 

No one said anything. The horrible truth sank into 
Harry like a stone. 

“We didn’t — lose?” 

“Diggory got the Snitch,” said George. “Just after you 
fell. He didn’t realize what had happened. When he 
looked back and saw you on the ground, he tried to 
call it off. Wanted a rematch. But they won fair and 
square ... even Wood admits it.” 

“Where is Wood?” said Harry, suddenly realizing he 
wasn’t there. 



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“Still in the showers,” said Fred. “We think he’s trying 
to drown himself.” 

Harry put his face to his knees, his hands gripping 
his hair. Fred grabbed his shoulder and shook it 
roughly. 

“C’mon, Harry, you’ve never missed the Snitch 
before.” 

“There had to be one time you didn’t get it,” said 
George. 

“It’s not over yet,” said Fred. “We lost by a hundred 
points, right? So if Hufflepuff loses to Ravenclaw and 
we beat Ravenclaw and Slytherin ...” 

“Hufflepuff’ll have to lose by at least two hundred 
points,” said George. 

“But if they beat Ravenclaw ...” 

“No way, Ravenclaw is too good. But if Slytherin loses 
against Hufflepuff ...” 

“It all depends on the points — a margin of a hundred 
either way — ” 

Harry lay there, not saying a word. They had lost ... 
for the first time ever, he had lost a Quidditch match. 

After ten minutes or so, Madam Pomfrey came over to 
tell the team to leave him in peace. 

“Well come and see you later,” Fred told him. “Don’t 
beat yourself up, Harry, you’re still the best Seeker 
we’ve ever had.” 



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The team trooped out, trailing mud behind them. 
Madam Pomfrey shut the door behind them, looking 
disapproving. Ron and Hermione moved nearer to 
Harry’s bed. 

“Dumbledore was really angry,” Hermione said in a 
quaking voice. “I’ve never seen him like that before. 

He ran onto the field as you fell, waved his wand, and 
you sort of slowed down before you hit the ground. 
Then he whirled his wand at the dementors. Shot 
silver stuff at them. They left the stadium right away. 
... He was furious they’d come onto the grounds. We 
heard him — ” 

“Then he magicked you onto a stretcher,” said Ron. 
“And walked up to school with you floating on it. 
Everyone thought you were ...” 

His voice faded, but Harry hardly noticed. He was 
thinking about what the dementors had done to him 
... about the screaming voice. He looked up and saw 
Ron and Hermione looking at him so anxiously that 
he quickly cast around for something matter-of-fact to 
say. 

“Did someone get my Nimbus?” 

Ron and Hermione looked quickly at each other. 

“Er — ” 



“What?” said Harry, looking from one to the other. 

“Well ... when you fell off, it got blown away,” said 
Hermione hesitantly. 

“And?” 



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“And it hit — it hit — oh, Harry — it hit the 
Whomping Willow.” 

Harry’s insides lurched. The Whomping Willow was a 
very violent tree that stood alone in the middle of the 
grounds. 

“And?” he said, dreading the answer. 

“Well, you know the Whomping Willow,” said Ron. “It 
— it doesn’t like being hit.” 

“Professor Flitwick brought it back just before you 
came around,” said Hermione in a very small voice. 

Slowly, she reached down for a bag at her feet, turned 
it upside down, and tipped a dozen bits of splintered 
wood and twig onto the bed, the only remains of 
Harry’s faithful, finally beaten broomstick. 



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10 




THE MARAUDER’S MAP 

Madam Pomfrey insisted on keeping Harry in the 
hospital wing for the rest of the weekend. He didn’t 
argue or complain, but he wouldn’t let her throw 
away the shattered remnants of his Nimbus Two 
Thousand. He knew he was being stupid, knew that 
the Nimbus was beyond repair, but Harry couldn’t 
help it; he felt as though he’d lost one of his best 
friends. 

He had a stream of visitors, all intent on cheering him 
up. Hagrid sent him a bunch of earwiggy flowers that 
looked like yellow cabbages, and Ginny Weasley, 
blushing furiously, turned up with a get-well card she 
had made herself, which sang shrilly unless Harry 
kept it shut under his bowl of fruit. The Gryffindor 
team visited again on Sunday morning, this time 
accompanied by Wood, who told Harry (in a hollow, 
dead sort of voice) that he didn’t blame him in the 
slightest. Ron and Hermione left Harry’s bedside only 
at night. But nothing anyone said or did could make 
Harry feel any better, because they knew only half of 
what was troubling him. 

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He hadn’t told anyone about the Grim, not even Ron 
and Hermione, because he knew Ron would panic 
and Hermione would scoff. The fact remained, 
however, that it had now appeared twice, and both 
appearances had been followed by near-fatal 
accidents; the first time, he had nearly been run over 
by the Knight Bus; the second, fallen fifty feet from 
his broomstick. Was the Grim going to haunt him 
until he actually died? Was he going to spend the rest 
of his life looking over his shoulder for the beast? 

And then there were the dementors. Harry felt sick 
and humiliated every time he thought of them. 
Everyone said the dementors were horrible, but no 
one else collapsed every time they went near one. No 
one else heard echoes in their head of their dying 
parents. 

Because Harry knew who that screaming voice 
belonged to now. He had heard her words, heard 
them over and over again during the night hours in 
the hospital wing while he lay awake, staring at the 
strips of moonlight on the ceiling. When the 
dementors approached him, he heard the last 
moments of his mother’s life, her attempts to protect 
him, Harry, from Lord Voldemort, and Voldemort’s 
laughter before he murdered her. . . . Harry dozed 
fitfully, sinking into dreams full of clammy, rotted 
hands and petrified pleading, jerking awake to dwell 
again on his mother’s voice. 

It was a relief to return to the noise and bustle of the 
main school on Monday, where he was forced to think 
about other things, even if he had to endure Draco 
Malfoy’s taunting. Malfoy was almost beside himself 
with glee at Gryffindor’s defeat. He had finally taken 
off his bandages, and celebrated having the full use of 
both arms again by doing spirited imitations of Harry 
falling off his broom. Malfoy spent much of their next 
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Potions class doing dementor imitations across the 
dungeon; Ron finally cracked and flung a large, 
slippery crocodile heart at Malfoy, which hit him in 
the face and caused Snape to take fifty points from 
Gryffindor. 

“If Snape’s teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts 
again, I’m skiving off,” said Ron as they headed 
toward Lupin’s classroom after lunch. “Check who’s 
in there, Hermione.” 

Hermione peered around the classroom door. 

“It’s okay!” 

Professor Lupin was back at work. It certainly looked 
as though he had been ill. His old robes were hanging 
more loosely on him and there were dark shadows 
beneath his eyes; nevertheless, he smiled at the class 
as they took their seats, and they burst at once into 
an explosion of complaints about Snape’s behavior 
while Lupin had been ill. 

“It’s not fair, he was only filling in, why should he give 
us homework?” 

“We don’t know anything about werewolves — ” 

“ — two rolls of parchment!” 

“Did you tell Professor Snape we haven’t covered them 
yet?” Lupin asked, frowning slightly. 

The babble broke out again. 

“Yes, but he said we were really behind — ” 

“ — he wouldn’t listen — ” 



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“ — two rolls of parchmenti” 



Professor Lupin smiled at the look of indignation on 
every face. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll speak to Professor Snape. You don’t 
have to do the essay.” 

“Oh no,” said Hermione, looking very disappointed. 
“I’ve already finished it!” 

They had a very enjoyable lesson. Professor Lupin 
had brought along a glass box containing a 
hinkypunk, a little one-legged creature who looked as 
though he were made of wisps of smoke, rather frail 
and harmless-looking. 

“Lures travelers into bogs,” said Professor Lupin as 
they took notes. “You notice the lantern dangling from 
his hand? Hops ahead — people follow the light — 
then — ’ ” 

The hinkypunk made a horrible squelching noise 
against the glass. 

When the bell rang, everyone gathered up their things 
and headed for the door, Harry among them, but — 

“Wait a moment, Harry,” Lupin called. “I’d like a 
word.” 

Harry doubled back and watched Professor Lupin 
covering the hinkypunk’s box with a cloth. 

“I heard about the match,” said Lupin, turning back 
to his desk and starting to pile books into his 
briefcase, “and I’m sorry about your broomstick. Is 
there any chance of fixing it?” 

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“No,” said Harry. “The tree smashed it to bits.” 

Lupin sighed. 

“They planted the Whomping Willow the same year 
that I arrived at Hogwarts. People used to play a 
game, trying to get near enough to touch the trunk. In 
the end, a boy called Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an 
eye, and we were forbidden to go near it. No 
broomstick would have a chance. 

“Did you hear about the dementors too?” said Harry 
with difficulty. 

Lupin looked at him quickly. 

“Yes, I did. I don’t think any of us have seen Professor 
Dumbledore that angry. They have been growing 
restless for some time ... furious at his refusal to let 
them inside the grounds. ... I suppose they were the 
reason you fell?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. He hesitated, and then the question 
he had to ask burst from him before he could stop 
himself. “ Why? Why do they affect me like that? Am I 
just — ?” 



“It has nothing to do with weakness,” said Professor 
Lupin sharply, as though he had read Harry’s mind. 
“The dementors affect you worse than the others 
because there are horrors in your past that the others 
don’t have.” 

A ray of wintery sunlight fell across the classroom, 
illuminating Lupin’s gray hairs and the lines on his 
young face. 

“Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk 
this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places, 

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they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, 
hope, and happiness out of the air around them. 

Even Muggles feel their presence, though they can’t 
see them. Get too near a dementor and every good 
feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of 
you. If it can, the dementor will feed on you long 
enough to reduce you to something like itself . . . soul- 
less and evil. You’ll be left with nothing but the worst 
experiences of your life. And the worst that happened 
to you, Harry, is enough to make anyone fall off their 
broom. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.” 

“When they get near me — ” Harry stared at Lupin’s 
desk, his throat tight. “I can hear Voldemort 
murdering my mum.” 

Lupin made a sudden motion with his arm as though 
to grip Harry’s shoulder, but thought better of it. 

There was a moment’s silence, then — 

“Why did they have to come to the match?” said Harry 
bitterly. 

“They’re getting hungry,” said Lupin coolly, shutting 
his briefcase with a snap. “Dumbledore won’t let them 
into the school, so their supply of human prey has 
dried up. ... I don’t think they could resist the large 
crowd around the Quidditch field. All that excitement 
. . . emotions running high ... it was their idea of a 
feast.” 

“Azkaban must be terrible,” Harry muttered. Lupin 
nodded grimly. 

“The fortress is set on a tiny island, way out to sea, 
but they don’t need walls and water to keep the 
prisoners in, not when they’re all trapped inside their 
own heads, incapable of a single cheerful thought. 
Most of them go mad within weeks.” 

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“But Sirius Black escaped from them,” Harry said 
slowly. “He got away. ...” 



Lupin’s briefcase slipped from the desk; he had to 
stoop quickly to catch it. 

“Yes,” he said, straightening up, “Black must have 
found a way to fight them. I wouldn’t have believed it 
possible. ... Dementors are supposed to drain a 
wizard of his powers if he is left with them too long. 



“You made that dementor on the train back off,” said 
Harry suddenly. 

“There are — certain defenses one can use,” said 
Lupin. “But there was only one dementor on the train. 
The more there are, the more difficult it becomes to 
resist.” 

“What defenses?” said Harry at once. “Can you teach 
me?” 

“I don’t pretend to be an expert at fighting dementors, 
Harry ... quite the contrary. ...” 

“But if the dementors come to another Quidditch 
match, I need to be able to fight them — ” 

Lupin looked into Harry’s determined face, hesitated, 
then said, “Well ... all right. I’ll try and help. But it’ll 
have to wait until next term, I’m afraid. I have a lot to 
do before the holidays. I chose a very inconvenient 
time to fall ill.” 

What with the promise of anti-dementor lessons from 
Lupin, the thought that he might never have to hear 
his mother’s death again, and the fact that Ravenclaw 
flattened Hufflepuff in their Quidditch match at the 

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end of November, Harry’s mood took a definite 
upturn. Gryffindor were not out of the running after 
all, although they could not afford to lose another 
match. Wood became repossessed of his manic 
energy, and worked his team as hard as ever in the 
chilly haze of rain that persisted into December. 

Harry saw no hint of a dementor within the grounds. 
Dumbledore’s anger seemed to be keeping them at 
their stations at the entrances. 

Two weeks before the end of the term, the sky 
lightened suddenly to a dazzling, opaline white and 
the muddy grounds were revealed one morning 
covered in glittering frost. Inside the castle, there was 
a buzz of Christmas in the air. Professor Flitwick, the 
Charms teacher, had already decorated his classroom 
with shimmering lights that turned out to be real, 
fluttering fairies. The students were all happily 
discussing their plans for the holidays. Both Ron and 
Hermione had decided to remain at Hogwarts, and 
though Ron said it was because he couldn’t stand two 
weeks with Percy, and Hermione insisted she needed 
to use the library, Harry wasn’t fooled; they were 
doing it to keep him company, and he was very 
grateful. 

To everyone’s delight except Harry’s, there was to be 
another Hogsmeade trip on the very last weekend of 
the term. 

“We can do all our Christmas shopping there!” said 
Hermione. “Mum and Dad would really love those 
Toothflossing Stringmints from Honeydukes!” 

Resigned to the fact that he would be the only third 
year staying behind again, Harry borrowed a copy of 
Which Broomstick from Wood, and decided to spend 
the day reading up on the different makes. He had 
been riding one of the school brooms at team 
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practice, an ancient Shooting Star, which was very 
slow and jerky; he definitely needed a new broom of 
his own. 



On the Saturday morning of the Hogsmeade trip, 
Harry bid good-bye to Ron and Hermione, who were 
wrapped in cloaks and scarves, then turned up the 
marble staircase alone, and headed back toward 
Gryffindor Tower. Snow had started to fall outside the 
windows, and the castle was very still and quiet. 

“Psst — Harry!” 

He turned, halfway along the third-floor corridor, to 
see Fred and George peering out at him from behind a 
statue of a humpbacked, one-eyed witch. 

“What are you doing?” said Harry curiously. “How 
come you’re not going to Hogsmeade?” 

“We’ve come to give you a bit of festive cheer before 
we go,” said Fred, with a mysterious wink. “Come in 
here. ...” 

He nodded toward an empty classroom to the left of 
the one-eyed statue. Harry followed Fred and George 
inside. George closed the door quietly and then 
turned, beaming, to look at Harry. 

“Early Christmas present for you, Harry,” he said. 

Fred pulled something from inside his cloak with a 
flourish and laid it on one of the desks. It was a large, 
square, very worn piece of parchment with nothing 
written on it. Harry, suspecting one of Fred and 
George’s jokes, stared at it. 

“What’s that supposed to be?” 

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“This, Harry, is the secret of our success,” said 
George, patting the parchment fondly. 

“It’s a wrench, giving it to you,” said Fred, “but we 
decided last night, your need’s greater than ours.” 

“Anyway, we know it by heart,” said George. “We 
bequeath it to you. We don’t really need it anymore.” 

“And what do I need with a bit of old parchment?” 
said Harry. 

“A bit of old parchment!” said Fred, closing his eyes 
with a grimace as though Harry had mortally offended 
him. “Explain, George.” 

“Well ... when we were in our first year, Harry — 
young, carefree, and innocent — ” 

Harry snorted. He doubted whether Fred and George 
had ever been innocent. 

“ — well, more innocent than we are now — we got 
into a spot of bother with Filch.” 

“We let off a Dungbomb in the corridor and it upset 
him for some reason — ” 

“So he hauled us off to his office and started 
threatening us with the usual — ” 

“ — detention — ” 

“ — disembowelment — ” 

“ — and we couldn’t help noticing a drawer in one of 
his filing cabinets marked Confiscated and Highly 
Dangerous.” 



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“Don’t tell me — ” said Harry, starting to grin. 

“Well, what would you’ve done?” said Fred. “George 
caused a diversion by dropping another Dungbomb, I 
whipped the drawer open, and grabbed — this.” 

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know,” said George. 
“We don’t reckon Filch ever found out how to work it. 
He probably suspected what it was, though, or he 
wouldn’t have confiscated it.” 

“And you know how to work it?” 

“Oh yes,” said Fred, smirking. “This little beauty’s 
taught us more than all the teachers in this school.” 

“You’re winding me up,” said Harry, looking at the 
ragged old bit of parchment. 

“Oh, are we?” said George. 

He took out his wand, touched the parchment lightly, 
and said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” 

And at once, thin ink lines began to spread like a 
spider’s web from the point that George’s wand had 
touched. They joined each other, they crisscrossed, 
they fanned into every corner of the parchment; then 
words began to blossom across the top, great, curly 
green words, that proclaimed: 

Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs 

Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers 

are proud to present 

THE MARAUDER’S MAP 



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It was a map showing every detail of the Hogwarts 
castle and grounds. But the truly remarkable thing 
were the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labeled 
with a name in minuscule writing. Astounded, Harry 
bent over it. A labeled dot in the top left corner 
showed that Professor Dumbledore was pacing his 
study; the caretaker’s cat, Mrs. Norris, was prowling 
the second floor; and Peeves the Poltergeist was 
currently bouncing around the trophy room. And as 
Harry’s eyes traveled up and down the familiar 
corridors, he noticed something else. 

This map showed a set of passages he had never 
entered. And many of them seemed to lead — 

“Right into Hogsmeade,” said Fred, tracing one of 
them with his finger. “There are seven in all. Now, 
Filch knows about these four” — he pointed them out 
— “but we’re sure we’re the only ones who know 
about these. Don’t bother with the one behind the 
mirror on the fourth floor. We used it until last 
winter, but it’s caved in — completely blocked. And 
we don’t reckon anyone’s ever used this one, because 
the Whomping Willow’s planted right over the 
entrance. But this one here, this one leads right into 
the cellar of Honeydukes. We’ve used it loads of times. 
And as you might’ve noticed, the entrance is right 
outside this room, through that one-eyed old crone’s 
hump.” 

“Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs,” sighed 
George, patting the heading of the map. “We owe 
them so much.” 

“Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new 
generation of law-breakers,” said Fred solemnly. 

“Right,” said George briskly. “Don’t forget to wipe it 
after you’ve used it — ” 

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“ — or anyone can read it,” Fred said warningly. 

“Just tap it again and say, ‘Mischief managed!’ And 
it’ll go blank.” 

“So, young Harry,” said Fred, in an uncanny 
impersonation of Percy, “mind you behave yourself.” 

“See you in Honeydukes,” said George, winking. 

They left the room, both smirking in a satisfied sort of 
way. 

Harry stood there, gazing at the miraculous map. He 
watched the tiny ink Mrs. Norris turn left and pause 
to sniff at something on the floor. If Filch really didn’t 
know ... he wouldn’t have to pass the dementors at 
all. ... 

But even as he stood there, flooded with excitement, 
something Harry had once heard Mr. Weasley say 
came floating out of his memory. 

Never trust anything that can think for itself, if you 
can’t see where it keeps its brain. 

This map was one of those dangerous magical objects 
Mr. Weasley had been warning against. ... Aids for 
Magical Mischief-Makers . . . but then, Harry reasoned, 
he only wanted to use it to get into Hogsmeade, it 
wasn’t as though he wanted to steal anything or 
attack anyone ... and Fred and George had been 
using it for years without anything horrible 
happening. ... 

Harry traced the secret passage to Honeydukes with 
his finger. 



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Then, quite suddenly, as though following orders, he 
rolled up the map, stuffed it inside his robes, and 
hurried to the door of the classroom. He opened it a 
couple of inches. There was no one outside. Very 
carefully, he edged out of the room and behind the 
statue of the one-eyed witch. 

What did he have to do? He pulled out the map again 
and saw, to his astonishment, that a new ink figure 
had appeared upon it, labeled Harry Potter. This 
figure was standing exactly where the real Harry was 
standing, about halfway down the third-floor corridor. 
Harry watched carefully. His little ink self appeared to 
be tapping the witch with his minute wand. Harry 
quickly took out his real wand and tapped the statue. 
Nothing happened. He looked back at the map. The 
tiniest speech bubble had appeared next to his figure. 
The word inside said, “ Dissendium.” 

“ Dissendiurrd” Harry whispered, tapping the stone 
witch again. 

At once, the statue’s hump opened wide enough to 
admit a fairly thin person. Harry glanced quickly up 
and down the corridor, then tucked the map away 
again, hoisted himself into the hole headfirst, and 
pushed himself forward. 

He slid a considerable way down what felt like a stone 
slide, then landed on cold, damp earth. He stood up, 
looking around. It was pitch dark. He held up his 
wand, muttered, “Lumos\” and saw that he was in a 
very narrow, low, earthy passageway. He raised the 
map, tapped it with the tip of his wand, and 
muttered, “Mischief managed!” The map went blank 
at once. He folded it carefully, tucked it inside his 
robes, then, heart beating fast, both excited and 
apprehensive, he set off. 



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The passage twisted and turned, more like the burrow 
of a giant rabbit than anything else. Harry hurried 
along it, stumbling now and then on the uneven floor, 
holding his wand out in front of him. 

It took ages, but Harry had the thought of 
Honeydukes to sustain him. After what felt like an 
hour, the passage began to rise. Panting, Harry sped 
up, his face hot, his feet very cold. 

Ten minutes later, he came to the foot of some worn 
stone steps, which rose out of sight above him. 

Careful not to make any noise, Harry began to climb. 
A hundred steps, two hundred steps, he lost count as 
he climbed, watching his feet. ... Then, without 
warning, his head hit something hard. 

It seemed to be a trapdoor. Harry stood there, 
massaging the top of his head, listening. He couldn’t 
hear any sounds above him. Very slowly, he pushed 
the trapdoor open and peered over the edge. 

He was in a cellar, which was full of wooden crates 
and boxes. Harry climbed out of the trapdoor and 
replaced it — it blended so perfectly with the dusty 
floor that it was impossible to tell it was there. Harry 
crept slowly toward the wooden staircase that led 
upstairs. Now he could definitely hear voices, not to 
mention the tinkle of a bell and the opening and 
shutting of a door. 

Wondering what he ought to do, he suddenly heard a 
door open much closer at hand; somebody was about 
to come downstairs. 

“And get another box of Jelly Slugs, dear, they’ve 
nearly cleaned us out — ” said a woman’s voice. 



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A pair of feet was coming down the staircase. Harry 
leapt behind an enormous crate and waited for the 
footsteps to pass. He heard the man shifting boxes 
against the opposite wall. He might not get another 
chance — 

Quickly and silently, Harry dodged out from his 
hiding place and climbed the stairs; looking back, he 
saw an enormous backside and shiny bald head, 
buried in a box. Harry reached the door at the top of 
the stairs, slipped through it, and found himself 
behind the counter of Honeydukes — he ducked, 
crept sideways, and then straightened up. 

Honeydukes was so crowded with Hogwarts students 
that no one looked twice at Harry. He edged among 
them, looking around, and suppressed a laugh as he 
imagined the look that would spread over Dudley’s 
piggy face if he could see where Harry was now. 

There were shelves upon shelves of the most 
succulent-looking sweets imaginable. Creamy chunks 
of nougat, shimmering pink squares of coconut ice, 
fat, honey-colored toffees; hundreds of different kinds 
of chocolate in neat rows; there was a large barrel of 
Every Flavor Beans, and another of Fizzing Whizbees, 
the levitating sherbert balls that Ron had mentioned; 
along yet another wall were “Special Effects” sweets: 
Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum (which filled a room with 
bluebell-colored bubbles that refused to pop for days), 
the strange, splintery Toothflossing Stringmints, tiny 
black Pepper Imps (“breathe fire for your friends!”), 

Ice Mice (“hear your teeth chatter and squeak!”), 
peppermint creams shaped like toads (“hop 
realistically in the stomach!”), fragile sugar-spun 
quills, and exploding bonbons. 

Harry squeezed himself through a crowd of sixth 
years and saw a sign hanging in the farthest corner of 

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the shop (UNUSUAL TASTES). Ron and Hermione 
were standing underneath it, examining a tray of 
blood-flavored lollipops. Harry sneaked up behind 
them. 

“Ugh, no, Harry won’t want one of those, they’re for 
vampires, I expect,” Hermione was saying. 

“How about these?” said Ron, shoving ajar of 
Cockroach Clusters under Hermione ’s nose. 

“Definitely not,” said Harry. 

Ron nearly dropped the jar. 

“Harry\” squealed Hermione. “What are you doing 
here? How — how did you — ?” 

“Wow!” said Ron, looking very impressed, “you’ve 
learned to Apparate!” 

“ ’Course I haven’t,” said Harry. He dropped his voice 
so that none of the sixth years could hear him and 
told them all about the Marauder’s Map. 

“How come Fred and George never gave it to me!” said 
Ron, outraged. “I’m their brother!” 

“But Harry isn’t going to keep it!” said Hermione, as 
though the idea were ludicrous. “He’s going to hand it 
in to Professor McGonagall, aren’t you, Harry?” 

“No, I’m not!” said Harry. 

“Are you mad?” said Ron, goggling at Hermione. 

“Hand in something that good?” 

“If I hand it in, I’ll have to say where I got it! Filch 
would know Fred and George had nicked it!” 

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“But what about Sirius Black?” Hermione hissed. “He 
could be using one of the passages on that map to get 
into the castle! The teachers have got to know!” 

“He can’t be getting in through a passage,” said Harry 
quickly. “There are seven secret tunnels on the map, 
right? Fred and George reckon Filch already knows 
about four of them. And of the other three — one of 
them’s caved in, so no one can get through it. One of 
them’s got the Whomping Willow planted over the 
entrance, so you can’t get out of it. And the one I just 
came through — well — it’s really hard to see the 
entrance to it down in the cellar, so unless he knew it 
was there ...” 

Harry hesitated. What if Black did know the passage 
was there? Ron, however, cleared his throat 
significantly, and pointed to a notice pasted on the 
inside of the sweetshop door. 

— BY ORDER OF — 

THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC 

Customers are reminded that until further notice, 
dementors will be patrolling the streets of Hogsmeade 
every night after sundown. This measure has been put 
in place for the safety of Hogsmeade residents and will 
be lifted upon the recapture of Sirius Black. It is 
therefore advisable that you complete your shopping 
well before nightfall. 

Merry Christmas! 



“See?” said Ron quietly. “I’d like to see Black try and 
break into Honeydukes with dementors swarming all 



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over the village. Anyway, Hermione, the Honeydukes 
owners would hear a break-in, wouldn’t they? They 
live over the shop!” 

“Yes, but — but — ” Hermoine seemed to be struggling 
to find another problem. “Look, Harry still shouldn’t 
be coming into Hogsmeade. He hasn’t got a signed 
form! If anyone finds out, he’ll be in so much trouble! 
And it’s not nightfall yet — what if Sirius Black turns 
up today? Now?” 

“He’d have a job spotting Harry in this,” said Ron, 
nodding through the mullioned windows at the thick, 
swirling snow. “Come on, Hermione, it’s Christmas. 
Harry deserves a break.” 

Hermione bit her lip, looking extremely worried. 

“Are you going to report me?” Harry asked her, 
grinning. 

“Oh — of course not — but honestly, Harry — ” 

“Seen the Fizzing Whizbees, Harry?” said Ron, 
grabbing him and leading him over to their barrel. 
“And the Jelly Slugs? And the Acid Pops? Fred gave 
me one of those when I was seven — it burnt a hole 
right through my tongue. I remember Mum walloping 
him with her broomstick.” Ron stared broodingly into 
the Acid Pop box. “Reckon Fred’d take a bit of 
Cockroach Cluster if I told him they were peanuts?” 

When Ron and Hermione had paid for all their sweets, 
the three of them left Honeydukes for the blizzard 
outside. 

Hogsmeade looked like a Christmas card; the little 
thatched cottages and shops were all covered in a 
layer of crisp snow; there were holly wreaths on the 

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doors and strings of enchanted candles hanging in 
the trees. 

Harry shivered; unlike the other two, he didn’t have 
his cloak. They headed up the street, heads bowed 
against the wind, Ron and Hermione shouting 
through their scarves. 

“That’s the post office — ” 

“Zonko’s is up there — ” 

“We could go up to the Shrieking Shack — ” 

“Tell you what,” said Ron, his teeth chattering, “shall 
we go for a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks?” 

Harry was more than willing; the wind was fierce and 
his hands were freezing, so they crossed the road, 
and in a few minutes were entering the tiny inn. 

It was extremely crowded, noisy, warm, and smoky. A 
curvy sort of woman with a pretty face was serving a 
bunch of rowdy warlocks up at the bar. 

“That’s Madam Rosmerta,” said Ron. “I’ll get the 
drinks, shall I?” he added, going slightly red. 

Harry and Hermione made their way to the back of 
the room, where there was a small, vacant table 
between the window and a handsome Christmas tree, 
which stood next to the fireplace. Ron came back five 
minutes later, carrying three foaming tankards of hot 
butterbeer. 

“Merry Christmas!” he said happily, raising his 
tankard. 



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Harry drank deeply. It was the most delicious thing 
he’d ever tasted and seemed to heat every bit of him 
from the inside. 

A sudden breeze ruffled his hair. The door of the 
Three Broomsticks had opened again. Harry looked 
over the rim of his tankard and choked. 

Professors McGonagall and Flitwick had just entered 
the pub with a flurry of snowflakes, shortly followed 
by Hagrid, who was deep in conversation with a portly 
man in a lime-green bowler hat and a pinstriped 
cloak — Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic. 

In an instant, Ron and Hermione had both placed 
hands on the top of Harry’s head and forced him off 
his stool and under the table. Dripping with 
butterbeer and crouching out of sight, Harry clutched 
his empty tankard and watched the teachers’ and 
Fudge’s feet move toward the bar, pause, then turn 
and walk right toward him. 

Somewhere above him, Hermione whispered, 
“Mobiliarbus\” 

The Christmas tree beside their table rose a few 
inches off the ground, drifted sideways, and landed 
with a soft thump right in front of their table, hiding 
them from view. Staring through the dense lower 
branches, Harry saw four sets of chair legs move back 
from the table right beside theirs, then heard the 
grunts and sighs of the teachers and minister as they 
sat down. 

Next he saw another pair of feet, wearing sparkly 
turquoise high heels, and heard a woman’s voice. 

“A small gillywater — ” 



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“Mine,” said Professor McGonagall’s voice. 

“Four pints of mulled mead — ” 

“Ta, Rosmerta,” said Hagrid. 

“A cherry syrup and soda with ice and umbrella — ” 

“Mmm!” said Professor Flitwick, smacking his lips. 

“So you 11 be the red currant rum, Minister.” 

“Thank you, Rosmerta, m’dear,” said Fudge’s voice. 
“Lovely to see you again, I must say. Have one 
yourself, won’t you? Come and join us. ...” 

“Well, thank you very much, Minister.” 

Harry watched the glittering heels march away and 
back again. His heart was pounding uncomfortably in 
his throat. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that this 
was the last weekend of term for the teachers too? 
And how long were they going to sit there? He needed 
time to sneak back into Honeydukes if he wanted to 
return to school tonight. ... Hermione’s leg gave a 
nervous twitch next to him. 

“So, what brings you to this neck of the woods, 
Minister?” came Madam Rosmerta’s voice. 

Harry saw the lower part of Fudge’s thick body twist 
in his chair as though he were checking for 
eavesdroppers. Then he said in a quiet voice, “What 
else, m’dear, but Sirius Black? I daresay you heard 
what happened up at the school at Halloween?” 

“I did hear a rumor,” admitted Madam Rosmerta. 



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“Did you tell the whole pub, Hagrid?” said Professor 
McGonagall exasperatedly. 

“Do you think Black’s still in the area, Minister?” 
whispered Madam Rosmerta. 

“I’m sure of it,” said Fudge shortly. 

“You know that the dementors have searched the 
whole village twice?” said Madam Rosmerta, a slight 
edge to her voice. “Scared all my customers away. ... 
It’s very bad for business, Minister.” 

“Rosmerta, m’dear, I don’t like them any more than 
you do,” said Fudge uncomfortably. “Necessary 
precaution ... unfortunate, but there you are. ... I’ve 
just met some of them. They’re in a fury against 
Dumbledore — he won’t let them inside the castle 
grounds.” 

“I should think not,” said Professor McGonagall 
sharply. “How are we supposed to teach with those 
horrors floating around?” 

“Hear, hear!” squeaked tiny Professor Flitwick, whose 
feet were dangling a foot from the ground. 

“All the same,” demurred Fudge, “they are here to 
protect you all from something much worse. ... We all 
know what Black’s capable of. ...” 

“Do you know, I still have trouble believing it,” said 
Madam Rosmerta thoughtfully. “Of all the people to 
go over to the Dark Side, Sirius Black was the last I’d 
have thought ... I mean, I remember him when he was 
a boy at Hogwarts. If you’d told me then what he was 
going to become, I’d have said you’d had too much 
mead.” 



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“You don’t know the half of it, Rosmerta,” said Fudge 
gruffly. “The worst he did isn’t widely known.” 

“The worst?” said Madam Rosmerta, her voice alive 
with curiosity. “Worse than murdering all those poor 
people, you mean?” 

“I certainly do,” said Fudge. 

“I can’t believe that. What could possibly be worse?” 

“You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta,” 
murmured Professor McGonagall. “Do you remember 
who his best friend was?” 

“Naturally,” said Madam Rosmerta, with a small 
laugh. “Never saw one without the other, did you? The 
number of times I had them in here — ooh, they used 
to make me laugh. Quite the double act, Sirius Black 
and James Potter!” 

Harry dropped his tankard with a loud clunk. Ron 
kicked him. 

“Precisely,” said Professor McGonagall. “Black and 
Potter. Ringleaders of their little gang. Both very 
bright, of course — exceptionally bright, in fact — but 
I don’t think we’ve ever had such a pair of 
troublemakers — ” 

“I dunno,” chuckled Hagrid. “Fred and George 
Weasley could give ’em a run fer their money.” 

“You’d have thought Black and Potter were brothers!” 
chimed in Professor Flitwick. “Inseparable!” 

“Of course they were,” said Fudge. “Potter trusted 
Black beyond all his other friends. Nothing changed 
when they left school. Black was best man when 

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James married Lily. Then they named him godfather 
to Harry. Harry has no idea, of course. You can 
imagine how the idea would torment him.” 

“Because Black turned out to be in league with You- 
Know-Who?” whispered Madam Rosmerta. 

“Worse even than that, m’dear. ...” Fudge dropped his 
voice and proceeded in a sort of low rumble. “Not 
many people are aware that the Potters knew You- 
Know-Who was after them. Dumbledore, who was of 
course working tirelessly against You-Know-Who, had 
a number of useful spies. One of them tipped him off, 
and he alerted James and Lily at once. He advised 
them to go into hiding. Well, of course, You-Know- 
Who wasn’t an easy person to hide from. Dumbledore 
told them that their best chance was the Fidelius 
Charm.” 

“How does that work?” said Madam Rosmerta, 
breathless with interest. Professor Flitwick cleared his 
throat. 

“An immensely complex spell,” he said squeakily, 
“involving the magical concealment of a secret inside 
a single, living soul. The information is hidden inside 
the chosen person, or Secret-Keeper, and is 
henceforth impossible to find — unless, of course, the 
Secret-Keeper chooses to divulge it. As long as the 
Secret-Keeper refused to speak, You-Know-Who could 
search the village where Lily and James were staying 
for years and never find them, not even if he had his 
nose pressed against their sitting room window!” 

“So Black was the Potters’ Secret-Keeper?” whispered 
Madam Rosmerta. 

“Naturally,” said Professor McGonagall. “James Potter 
told Dumbledore that Black would die rather than tell 

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where they were, that Black was planning to go into 
hiding himself . . . and yet, Dumbledore remained 
worried. I remember him offering to be the Potters’ 
Secret-Keeper himself.” 

“He suspected Black?” gasped Madam Rosmerta. 

“He was sure that somebody close to the Potters had 
been keeping You-Know-Who informed of their 
movements,” said Professor McGonagall darkly. 
“Indeed, he had suspected for some time that 
someone on our side had turned traitor and was 
passing a lot of information to You-Know-Who.” 

“But James Potter insisted on using Black?” 

“He did,” said Fudge heavily. “And then, barely a week 
after the Fidelius Charm had been performed — ” 

“Black betrayed them?” breathed Madam Rosmerta. 

“He did indeed. Black was tired of his double-agent 
role, he was ready to declare his support openly for 
You-Know-Who, and he seems to have planned this 
for the moment of the Potters’ death. But, as we all 
know, You-Know-Who met his downfall in little Harry 
Potter. Powers gone, horribly weakened, he fled. And 
this left Black in a very nasty position indeed. His 
master had fallen at the very moment when he, Black, 
had shown his true colors as a traitor. He had no 
choice but to run for it — ” 

“Filthy, stinkin’ turncoat!” Hagrid said, so loudly that 
half the bar went quiet. 

“Shh!” said Professor McGonagall. 

“I met him!” growled Hagrid. “I musta bin the last ter 
see him before he killed all them people! It was me 

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what rescued Harry from Lily an’ James’s house after 
they was killed! Jus’ got him outta the ruins, poor 
little thing, with a great slash across his forehead, an’ 
his parents dead ... an’ Sirius Black turns up, on that 
flyin’ motorbike he used ter ride. Never occurred ter 
me what he was doin’ there. I didn’ know he’d bin Lily 
an’ James’s Secret-Keeper. Thought he’d jus’ heard 
the news o’ You- Know- Who’s attack an’ come ter see 
what he could do. White an’ shakin’, he was. An’ yeh 
know what I did? I COMFORTED THE MURDERIN’ 
TRAITOR!” Hagrid roared. 

“Hagrid, please!” said Professor McGonagall. “Keep 
your voice down!” 

“How was I ter know he wasn’ upset abou’ Lily an’ 
James? It was You-Know-Who he cared abou’! An’ 
then he says, ‘Give Harry ter me, Hagrid, I’m his 
godfather, I’ll look after him — ’ Ha! But I’d had me 
orders from Dumbledore, an’ I told Black no, 
Dumbledore said Harry was ter go ter his aunt an’ 
uncle’s. Black argued, but in the end he gave in. Told 
me ter take his motorbike ter get Harry there. ‘I won’t 
need it anymore,’ he says. 

“I shoulda known there was somethin’ fishy goin’ on 
then. He loved that motorbike, what was he givin’ it 
ter me for? Why wouldn’ he need it anymore? Fact 
was, it was too easy ter trace. Dumbledore knew he’d 
bin the Potters’ Secret-Keeper. Black knew he was 
goin’ ter have ter run fer it that night, knew it was a 
matter o’ hours before the Ministry was after him. 

“But what if I’d given Harry to him, eh? I bet he ’d’ve 
pitched him off the bike halfway out ter sea. His bes’ 
friends’ son! But when a wizard goes over ter the Dark 
Side, there’s nothin’ and no one that matters to ’em 
anymore. ...” 



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A long silence followed Hagrid ’s story. Then Madam 
Rosmerta said with some satisfaction, “But he didn’t 
manage to disappear, did he? The Ministry of Magic 
caught up with him next day!” 

“Alas, if only we had,” said Fudge bitterly. “It was not 
we who found him. It was little Peter Pettigrew — 
another of the Potters’ friends. Maddened by grief, no 
doubt, and knowing that Black had been the Potters’ 
Secret-Keeper, he went after Black himself.” 

“Pettigrew . . . that fat little boy who was always 
tagging around after them at Hogwarts?” said Madam 
Rosmerta. 

“Hero-worshipped Black and Potter,” said Professor 
McGonagall. “Never quite in their league, talent-wise. 

I was often rather sharp with him. You can imagine 
how I — how I regret that now. ...” She sounded as 
though she had a sudden head cold. 

“There, now, Minerva,” said Fudge kindly, “Pettigrew 
died a hero’s death. Eyewitnesses — Muggles, of 
course, we wiped their memories later — told us how 
Pettigrew cornered Black. They say he was sobbing, 
“Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?’ And then he 
went for his wand. Well, of course, Black was quicker. 
Blew Pettigrew to smithereens. ...” 

Professor McGonagall blew her nose and said thickly, 
“Stupid boy . . . foolish boy ... he was always hopeless 
at dueling ... should have left it to the Ministry. ...” 

“I tell yeh, if I’d got ter Black before little Pettigrew 
did, I wouldn’t’ve messed around with wands — I’d’ve 
ripped him limb — from — limb,” Hagrid growled. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Hagrid,” 
said Fudge sharply. “Nobody but trained Hit Wizards 

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from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad would have 
stood a chance against Black once he was cornered. I 
was Junior Minister in the Department of Magical 
Catastrophes at the time, and I was one of the first on 
the scene after Black murdered all those people. I — I 
will never forget it. I still dream about it sometimes. A 
crater in the middle of the street, so deep it had 
cracked the sewer below. Bodies everywhere. Muggles 
screaming. And Black standing there laughing, with 
what was left of Pettigrew in front of him ... a heap of 
bloodstained robes and a few — a few fragments — ” 

Fudge’s voice stopped abruptly. There was the sound 
of five noses being blown. 

“Well, there you have it, Rosmerta,” said Fudge 
thickly. “Black was taken away by twenty members of 
the Magical Law Enforcement Squad and Pettigrew 
received the Order of Merlin, First Class, which I 
think was some comfort to his poor mother. Black’s 
been in Azkaban ever since.” 

Madam Rosmerta let out a long sigh. 

“Is it true he’s mad, Minister?” 

“I wish I could say that he was,” said Fudge slowly. “I 
certainly believe his master’s defeat unhinged him for 
a while. The murder of Pettigrew and all those 
Muggles was the action of a cornered and desperate 
man — cruel ... pointless. Yet I met Black on my last 
inspection of Azkaban. You know, most of the 
prisoners in there sit muttering to themselves in the 
dark; there’s no sense in them ... but I was shocked 
at how normal Black seemed. He spoke quite 
rationally to me. It was unnerving. You’d have 
thought he was merely bored — asked if I’d finished 
with my newspaper, cool as you please, said he 
missed doing the crossword. Yes, I was astounded at 
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how little effect the dementors seemed to be having on 
him — and he was one of the most heavily guarded in 
the place, you know. Dementors outside his door day 
and night.” 

“But what do you think he’s broken out to do?” said 
Madam Rosmerta. “Good gracious, Minister, he isn’t 
trying to rejoin You-Know-Who, is he?” 

“I daresay that is his — er — eventual plan,” said 
Fudge evasively. “But we hope to catch Black long 
before that. I must say, You-Know-Who alone and 
friendless is one thing . . . but give him back his most 
devoted servant, and I shudder to think how quickly 
he’ll rise again. ...” 

There was a small chink of glass on wood. Someone 
had set down their glass. 

“You know, Cornelius, if you’re dining with the 
headmaster, we’d better head back up to the castle,” 
said Professor McGonagall. 

One by one, the pairs of feet in front of Harry took the 
weight of their owners once more; hems of cloaks 
swung into sight, and Madam Rosemerta’s glittering 
heels disappeared behind the bar. The door of the 
Three Broomsticks opened again, there was another 
flurry of snow, and the teachers had disappeared. 

“Harry?” 

Ron’s and Hermione’s faces appeared under the table. 
They were both staring at him, lost for words. 



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THE FIREBOLT 

Harry didn’t have a very clear idea of how he had 
managed to get back into the Honeydukes cellar, 
through the tunnel, and into the castle once more. All 
he knew was that the return trip seemed to take no 
time at all, and that he hardly noticed what he was 
doing, because his head was still pounding with the 
conversation he had just heard. 

Why had nobody ever told him? Dumbledore, Hagrid, 
Mr. Weasley, Cornelius Fudge ... why hadn’t anyone 
ever mentioned the fact that Harry’s parents had died 
because their best friend had betrayed them? 

Ron and Hermione watched Harry nervously all 
through dinner, not daring to talk about what they’d 
overheard, because Percy was sitting close by them. 
When they went upstairs to the crowded common 
room, it was to find Fred and George had set off half a 
dozen Dungbombs in a fit of end-of-term high spirits. 
Harry, who didn’t want Fred and George asking him 
whether he’d reached Hogsmeade or not, sneaked 
quietly up to the empty dormitory and headed 
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straight for his bedside cabinet. He pushed his books 
aside and quickly found what he was looking for — 
the leather-bound photo album Hagrid had given him 
two years ago, which was full of wizard pictures of his 
mother and father. He sat down on his bed, drew the 
hangings around him, and started turning the pages, 
searching, until ... 

He stopped on a picture of his parents’ wedding day. 
There was his father waving up at him, beaming, the 
untidy black hair Harry had inherited standing up in 
all directions. There was his mother, alight with 
happiness, arm in arm with his dad. And there ... 
that must be him. Their best man ... Harry had never 
given him a thought before. 

If he hadn’t known it was the same person, he would 
never have guessed it was Black in this old 
photograph. His face wasn’t sunken and waxy, but 
handsome, full of laughter. Had he already been 
working for Voldemort when this picture had been 
taken? Was he already planning the deaths of the two 
people next to him? Did he realize he was facing 
twelve years in Azkaban, twelve years that would 
make him unrecognizable? 

But the dementors don’t affect him, Harry thought, 
staring into the handsome, laughing face. He doesn’t 
have to hear my mum screaming if they get too close — 

Harry slammed the album shut, reached over and 
stuffed it back into his cabinet, took off his robe and 
glasses and got into bed, making sure the hangings 
were hiding him from view. 

The dormitory door opened. 

“Harry?” said Ron’s voice uncertainly. 



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But Harry lay still, pretending to be asleep. He heard 
Ron leave again, and rolled over on his back, his eyes 
wide open. 

A hatred such as he had never known before was 
coursing through Harry like poison. He could see 
Black laughing at him through the darkness, as 
though somebody had pasted the picture from the 
album over his eyes. He watched, as though 
somebody was playing him a piece of film, Sirius 
Black blasting Peter Pettigrew (who resembled Neville 
Longbottom) into a thousand pieces. He could hear 
(though having no idea what Black’s voice might 
sound like) a low, excited mutter. “It has happened, 
My Lord . . . the Potters have made me their Secret- 
Keeper. ...” And then came another voice, laughing 
shrilly, the same laugh that Harry heard inside his 
head whenever the dementors drew near. . . . 

“Harry, you — you look terrible.” 

Harry hadn’t gotten to sleep until daybreak. He had 
awoken to find the dormitory deserted, dressed, and 
gone down the spiral staircase to a common room 
that was completely empty except for Ron, who was 
eating a Peppermint Toad and massaging his 
stomach, and Hermione, who had spread her 
homework over three tables. 

“Where is everyone?” said Harry. 

“Gone! It’s the first day of the holidays, remember?” 
said Ron, watching Harry closely. “It’s nearly 
lunchtime; I was going to come and wake you up in a 
minute.” 

Harry slumped into a chair next to the fire. Snow was 
still falling outside the windows. Crookshanks was 
spread out in front of the fire like a large, ginger rug. 

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“You really don’t look well, you know,” Hermione said, 
peering anxiously into his face. 

“I’m fine,” said Harry. 

“Harry, listen,” said Hermione, exchanging a look with 
Ron, “you must be really upset about what we heard 
yesterday. But the thing is, you mustn’t go doing 
anything stupid.” 

“Like what?” said Harry. 

“Like trying to go after Black,” said Ron sharply. 

Harry could tell they had rehearsed this conversation 
while he had been asleep. He didn’t say anything. 

“You won’t, will you, Harry?” said Hermione. 

“Because Black’s not worth dying for,” said Ron. 

Harry looked at them. They didn’t seem to 
understand at all. 

“D’you know what I see and hear every time a 
dementor gets too near me?” Ron and Hermione 
shook their heads, looking apprehensive. “I can hear 
my mum screaming and pleading with Voldemort. 

And if you’d heard your mum screaming like that, 
just about to be killed, you wouldn’t forget it in a 
hurry. And if you found out someone who was 
supposed to be a friend of hers betrayed her and sent 
Voldemort after her — ” 

“There’s nothing you can do!” said Hermione, looking 
stricken. “The dementors will catch Black and he’ll go 
back to Azkaban and — and serve him right!” 



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“You heard what Fudge said. Black isn’t affected by 
Azkaban like normal people are. It’s not a 
punishment for him like it is for the others.” 

“So what are you saying?” said Ron, looking very 
tense. “You want to — to kill Black or something?” 

“Don’t be silly,” said Hermione in a panicky voice. 
“Harry doesn’t want to kill anyone, do you, Harry?” 

Again, Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t know what he 
wanted to do. All he knew was that the idea of doing 
nothing, while Black was at liberty, was almost more 
than he could stand. 

“Malfoy knows,” he said abruptly. “Remember what 
he said to me in Potions? ‘If it was me, I’d hunt him 
down myself. ... I’d want revenge.’ ” 

“You’re going to take Malfoy ’s advice instead of ours?” 
said Ron furiously. “Listen ... you know what 
Pettigrew’s mother got back after Black had finished 
with him? Dad told me — the Order of Merlin, First 
Class, and Pettigrew’s finger in a box. That was the 
biggest bit of him they could find. Black’s a madman, 
Harry, and he’s dangerous — ” 

“Malfoy’s dad must have told him,” said Harry, 
ignoring Ron. “He was right in Voldemort’s inner 
circle — ” 

“ Say You-Knotu-Who, will you?” interjected Ron 
angrily. 

“ — so obviously, the Malfoys knew Black was working 
for Voldemort — ” 

“ — and Malfoy’d love to see you blown into about a 
million pieces, like Pettigrew! Get a grip. Malfoy’s just 

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hoping you 11 get yourself killed before he has to play 
you at Quidditch.” 

“Harry, please,” said Hermione, her eyes now shining 
with tears, “please be sensible. Black did a terrible, 
terrible thing, but d-don’t put yourself in danger, it’s 
what Black wants. ... Oh, Harry, you’d be playing 
right into Black’s hands if you went looking for him. 
Your mum and dad wouldn’t want you to get hurt, 
would they? They’d never want you to go looking for 
Black!” 

“I’ll never know what they’d have wanted, because 
thanks to Black, I’ve never spoken to them,” said 
Harry shortly. 

There was a silence in which Crookshanks stretched 
luxuriously, flexing his claws. Ron’s pocket quivered. 

“Look,” said Ron, obviously casting around for a 
change of subject, “it’s the holidays! It’s nearly 
Christmas! Let’s — let’s go down and see Hagrid. We 
haven’t visited him for ages!” 

“No!” said Hermione quickly. “Harry isn’t supposed to 
leave the castle, Ron — ” 

“Yeah, let’s go,” said Harry, sitting up, “and I can ask 
him how come he never mentioned Black when he 
told me all about my parents!” 

Further discussion of Sirius Black plainly wasn’t 
what Ron had had in mind. 

“Or we could have a game of chess,” he said hastily, 
“or Gobstones. Percy left a set — ” 

“No, let’s visit Hagrid,” said Harry firmly. 



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So they got their cloaks from their dormitories and set 
off through the portrait hole (“Stand and fight, you 
yellow-bellied mongrels!”), down through the empty 
castle and out through the oak front doors. 

They made their way slowly down the lawn, making a 
shallow trench in the glittering, powdery snow, their 
socks and the hems of their cloaks soaked and 
freezing. The Forbidden Forest looked as though it 
had been enchanted, each tree smattered with silver, 
and Hagrid’s cabin looked like an iced cake. 

Ron knocked, but there was no answer. 

“He’s not out, is he?” said Hermione, who was 
shivering under her cloak. 

Ron had his ear to the door. 

“There’s a weird noise,” he said. “Listen — is that 
Fang?” 

Harry and Hermione put their ears to the door too. 
From inside the cabin came a series of low, throbbing 
moans. 

“Think we’d better go and get someone?” said Ron 
nervously. 

“Hagrid!” called Harry, thumping the door. “Hagrid, 
are you in there?” 

There was a sound of heavy footsteps, then the door 
creaked open. Hagrid stood there with his eyes red 
and swollen, tears splashing down the front of his 
leather vest. 

“Yeh’ve heard?” he bellowed, and he flung himself 
onto Harry’s neck. 

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Hagrid being at least twice the size of a normal man, 
this was no laughing matter. Harry, about to collapse 
under Hagrid’s weight, was rescued by Ron and 
Hermione, who each seized Hagrid under an arm and 
heaved him back into the cabin. Hagrid allowed 
himself to be steered into a chair and slumped over 
the table, sobbing uncontrollably, his face glazed with 
tears that dripped down into his tangled beard. 

“Hagrid, what is it?” said Hermione, aghast. 

Harry spotted an official-looking letter lying open on 
the table. 

“What’s this, Hagrid?” 

Hagrid’s sobs redoubled, but he shoved the letter 
toward Harry, who picked it up and read aloud: 

Dear Mr. Hagrid, 

Further to our inquiry into the attack by a hippogriff on 
a student in your class, we have accepted the 
assurances of Professor Dumbledore that you bear no 
responsibility for the regrettable incident. 

“Well, that’s okay then, Hagrid!” said Ron, clapping 
Hagrid on the shoulder. But Hagrid continued to sob, 
and waved one of his gigantic hands, inviting Harry to 
read on. 

However, we must register our concern about the 
hippogriff in question. We have decided to uphold the 
official complaint of Mr. Lucius Malfoy, and this matter 
will therefore be taken to the Committee for the 
Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. The hearing will take 
place on April 20th, and we ask you to present 
yourself and your hippogriff at the Committee’s offices 



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in London on that date. In the meantime, the hippogriff 
should be kept tethered and isolated. 

Yours in fellowship ... 

There followed a list of the school governors. 

“Oh,” said Ron. “But you said Buckbeak isn’t a bad 
hippogriff, Hagrid. I bet he’ll get off — ” 

“Yeh don’ know them gargoyles at the Committee fer 
the Disposal o’ Dangerous Creatures!” choked Hagrid, 
wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “They’ve got it in fer 
interestin’ creatures!” 

A sudden sound from the corner of Hagrid ’s cabin 
made Harry, Ron, and Hermione whip around. 
Buckbeak the hippogriff was lying in the corner, 
chomping on something that was oozing blood all over 
the floor. 

“I couldn’ leave him tied up out there in the snow!” 
choked Hagrid. “All on his own! At Christmas.” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another. 

They had never seen eye to eye with Hagrid about 
what he called “interesting creatures” and other 
people called “terrifying monsters.” On the other 
hand, there didn’t seem to be any particular harm in 
Buckbeak. In fact, by Hagrid’s usual standards, he 
was positively cute. 

“You’ll have to put up a good strong defense, Hagrid,” 
said Hermione, sitting down and laying a hand on 
Hagrid’s massive forearm. “I’m sure you can prove 
Buckbeak is safe.” 



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“Won’t make no difference!” sobbed Hagrid. “Them 
Disposal devils, they’re all in Lucius Malfoy’s pocket! 
Scared o’ him! An’ if I lose the case, Buckbeak — ” 

Hagrid drew his finger swiftly across his throat, then 
gave a great wail and lurched forward, his face in his 
arms. 

“What about Dumbledore, Hagrid?” said Harry. 

“He’s done more’n enough fer me already,” groaned 
Hagrid. “Got enough on his plate what with keepin’ 
them dementors outta the castle, an’ Sirius Black 
lurkin’ around — ” 

Ron and Hermione looked quickly at Harry, as though 
expecting him to start berating Hagrid for not telling 
him the truth about Black. But Harry couldn’t bring 
himself to do it, not now that he saw Hagrid so 
miserable and scared. 

“Listen, Hagrid,” he said, “you can’t give up. 
Hermione’s right, you just need a good defense. You 
can call us as witnesses — ” 

“I’m sure I’ve read about a case of hippogriff-baiting,” 
said Hermione thoughtfully, “where the hippogriff got 
off. I’ll look it up for you, Hagrid, and see exactly what 
happened.” 

Hagrid howled still more loudly. Harry and Hermione 
looked at Ron to help them. 

“Er — shall I make a cup of tea?” said Ron. 

Harry stared at him. 

“It’s what my mum does whenever someone’s upset,” 
Ron muttered, shrugging. 

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At last, after many more assurances of help, with a 
steaming mug of tea in front of him, Hagrid blew his 
nose on a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth and 
said, “Yer right. I can’ afford to go ter pieces. Gotta 
pull meself together. ...” 

Fang the boarhound came timidly out from under the 
table and laid his head on Hagrid ’s knee. 

“I’ve not bin meself lately,” said Hagrid, stroking Fang 
with one hand and mopping his face with the other. 
“Worried abou’ Buckbeak, an’ no one likin’ me classes 



“We do like them!” lied Hermione at once. 

“Yeah, they’re great!” said Ron, crossing his fingers 
under the table. “Er — how are the flobberworms?” 

“Dead,” said Hagrid gloomily. “Too much lettuce.” 

“Oh no!” said Ron, his lip twitching. 

“An’ them dementors make me feel ruddy terrible an’ 
all,” said Hagrid, with a sudden shudder. “Gotta walk 
past ’em ev’ry time I want a drink in the Three 
Broomsticks. ’S like bein’ back in Azkaban — ” 

He fell silent, gulping his tea. Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione watched him breathlessly. They had never 
heard Hagrid talk about his brief spell in Azkaban 
before. After a pause, Hermione said timidly, “Is it 
awful in there, Hagrid?” 

“Yeh’ve no idea,” said Hagrid quietly. “Never bin 
anywhere like it. Thought I was goin’ mad. Kep’ goin’ 
over horrible stuff in me mind . . . the day I got 
expelled from Hogwarts . . . day me dad died . . . day I 
had ter let Norbert go. ...” 

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His eyes filled with tears. Norbert was the baby 
dragon Hagrid had once won in a game of cards. 



“Yeh can’ really remember who yeh are after a while. 
An’ yeh can’ see the point o’ livin’ at all. I used ter 
hope I’d jus’ die in me sleep. ... When they let me out, 
it was like bein’ born again, ev’rythin’ came floodin’ 
back, it was the bes’ feelin’ in the world. Mind, the 
dementors weren’t keen on lettin’ me go.” 

“But you were innocent!” said Hermione. 

Hagrid snorted. 

“Think that matters to them? They don’ care. Long as 
they’ve got a couple o’ hundred humans stuck there 
with ’em, so they can leech all the happiness out of 
’em, they don’ give a damn who’s guilty an’ who’s 
not.” 

Hagrid went quiet for a moment, staring into his tea. 
Then he said quietly, “Thought o’ jus’ letting 
Buckbeak go ... tryin’ ter make him fly away ... but 
how d’yeh explain ter a hippogriff it’s gotta go inter 
hidin’? An’ — an’ I’m scared o’ breakin’ the law. ...” He 
looked up at them, tears leaking down his face again. 
“I don’ ever want ter go back ter Azkaban.” 

The trip to Hagrid’s, though far from fun, had 
nevertheless had the effect Ron and Hermione had 
hoped. Though Harry had by no means forgotten 
about Black, he couldn’t brood constantly on revenge 
if he wanted to help Hagrid win his case against the 
Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. 
He, Ron, and Hermione went to the library the next 
day and returned to the empty common room laden 
with books that might help prepare a defense for 
Buckbeak. The three of them sat in front of the 
roaring fire, slowly turning the pages of dusty 
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volumes about famous cases of marauding beasts, 
speaking occasionally when they ran across 
something relevant. 

“Here’s something ... there was a case in 1722 ... but 
the hippogriff was convicted — ugh, look what they 
did to it, that’s disgusting — ” 

“This might help, look — a manticore savaged 
someone in 1296, and they let the manticore off — oh 
— no, that was only because everyone was too scared 
to go near it. ...” 

Meanwhile, in the rest of the castle, the usual 
magnificent Christmas decorations had been put up, 
despite the fact that hardly any of the students 
remained to enjoy them. Thick streamers of holly and 
mistletoe were strung along the corridors, mysterious 
lights shone from inside every suit of armor, and the 
Great Hall was filled with its usual twelve Christmas 
trees, glittering with golden stars. A powerful and 
delicious smell of cooking pervaded the corridors, and 
by Christmas Eve, it had grown so strong that even 
Scabbers poked his nose out of the shelter of Ron’s 
pocket to sniff hopefully at the air. 

On Christmas morning, Harry was woken by Ron 
throwing his pillow at him. 

“Oy! Presents!” 

Harry reached for his glasses and put them on, 
squinting through the semi-darkness to the foot of his 
bed, where a small heap of parcels had appeared. Ron 
was already ripping the paper off his own presents. 

“Another sweater from Mum . . . maroon again . . . see if 
you’ve got one.” 



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Harry had. Mrs. Weasley had sent him a scarlet 
sweater with the Gryffindor lion knitted on the front, 
also a dozen home-baked mince pies, some Christmas 
cake, and a box of nut brittle. As he moved all these 
things aside, he saw a long, thin package lying 
underneath. 

“What’s that?” said Ron, looking over, a freshly 
unwrapped pair of maroon socks in his hand. 

“Dunno ...” 

Harry ripped the parcel open and gasped as a 
magnificent, gleaming broomstick rolled out onto his 
bedspread. Ron dropped his socks and jumped off his 
bed for a closer look. 

“I don’t believe it,” he said hoarsely. 

It was a Firebolt, identical to the dream broom Harry 
had gone to see every day in Diagon Alley. Its handle 
glittered as he picked it up. He could feel it vibrating 
and let go; it hung in midair, unsupported, at exactly 
the right height for him to mount it. His eyes moved 
from the golden registration number at the top of the 
handle, right down to the perfectly smooth, 
streamlined birch twigs that made up the tail. 

“Who sent it to you?” said Ron in a hushed voice. 

“Look and see if there’s a card,” said Harry. 

Ron ripped apart the Firebolt’s wrappings. 

“Nothing! Blimey, who’d spend that much on you?” 

“Well,” said Harry, feeling stunned, “I’m betting it 
wasn’t the Dursleys.” 



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“I bet it was Dumbledore,” said Ron, now walking 
around and around the Firebolt, taking in every 
glorious inch. “He sent you the Invisibility Cloak 
anonymously. ...” 

“That was my dad’s, though,” said Harry. 
“Dumbledore was just passing it on to me. He 
wouldn’t spend hundreds of Galleons on me. He can’t 
go giving students stuff like this — ” 

“That’s why he wouldn’t say it was from him!” said 
Ron. “In case some git like Malfoy said it was 
favoritism. Hey, Harry” — Ron gave a great whoop of 
laughter — “Malfoyl Wait till he sees you on this! He’ll 
be sick as a pig! This is an international standard 
broom, this is!” 

“I can’t believe this,” Harry muttered, running a hand 
along the Firebolt, while Ron sank onto Harry’s bed, 
laughing his head off at the thought of Malfoy. “ Who 
— ?” 

“I know,” said Ron, controlling himself, “I know who it 
could’ve been — Lupin!” 

“What?” said Harry, now starting to laugh himself. 
“Lupin? Listen, if he had this much gold, he’d be able 
to buy himself some new robes.” 

“Yeah, but he likes you,” said Ron. “And he was away 
when your Nimbus got smashed, and he might’ve 
heard about it and decided to visit Diagon Alley and 
get this for you — ” 

“What d’you mean, he was away?” said Harry. “He 
was ill when I was playing in that match.” 



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“Well, he wasn’t in the hospital wing,” said Ron. “I 
was there, cleaning out the bedpans on that detention 
from Snape, remember?” 

Harry frowned at Ron. 

“I can’t see Lupin affording something like this.” 

“What ’re you two laughing about?” 

Hermione had just come in, wearing her dressing 
gown and carrying Crookshanks, who was looking 
very grumpy, with a string of tinsel tied around his 
neck. 

“Don’t bring him in here!” said Ron, hurriedly 
snatching Scabbers from the depths of his bed and 
stowing him in his pajama pocket. But Hermione 
wasn’t listening. She dropped Crookshanks onto 
Seamus’s empty bed and stared, open-mouthed, at 
the Firebolt. 

“Oh, Harry\ Who sent you that?” 

“No idea,” said Harry. “There wasn’t a card or 
anything with it.” 

To his great surprise, Hermione did not appear either 
excited or intrigued by the news. On the contrary, her 
face fell, and she bit her lip. 

“What’s the matter with you?” said Ron. 

“I don’t know,” said Hermione slowly, “but it’s a bit 
odd, isn’t it? I mean, this is supposed to be quite a 
good broom, isn’t it?” 

Ron sighed exasperatedly. 



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“It’s the best broom there is, Hermione,” he said. 

“So it must’ve been really expensive. ...” 

“Probably cost more than all the Slytherins’ brooms 
put together,” said Ron happily. 

“Well ... who’d send Harry something as expensive as 
that, and not even tell him they’d sent it?” said 
Hermione. 

“Who cares?” said Ron impatiently. “Listen, Harry, 
can I have a go on it? Can I?” 

“I don’t think anyone should ride that broom just yet!” 
said Hermione shrilly. 

Harry and Ron looked at her. 

“What d’you think Harry’s going to do with it — sweep 
the floor?” said Ron. 

But before Hermione could answer, Crookshanks 
sprang from Seamus’s bed, right at Ron’s chest. 

“GET — HIM — OUT — OF — HERE!” Ron bellowed 
as Crookshanks ’s claws ripped his pajamas and 
Scabbers attempted a wild escape over his shoulder. 
Ron seized Scabbers by the tail and aimed a 
misjudged kick at Crookshanks that hit the trunk at 
the end of Harry’s bed, knocking it over and causing 
Ron to hop up and down, howling with pain. 

Crookshanks ’s fur suddenly stood on end. A shrill, 
tinny whistling was filling the room. The Pocket 
Sneakoscope had become dislodged from Uncle 
Vernon’s old socks and was whirling and gleaming on 
the floor. 



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“I forgot about that!” Harry said, bending down and 
picking up the Sneakoscope. “I never wear those 
socks if I can help it. ...” 

The Sneakoscope whirled and whistled in his palm. 
Crookshanks was hissing and spitting at it. 

“You’d better take that cat out of here, Hermione,” 
said Ron furiously, sitting on Harry’s bed nursing his 
toe. “Can’t you shut that thing up?” he added to 
Harry as Hermione strode out of the room, 
Crookshanks ’s yellow eyes still fixed maliciously on 
Ron. 

Harry stuffed the Sneakoscope back inside the socks 
and threw it back into his trunk. All that could be 
heard now were Ron’s stifled moans of pain and rage. 
Scabbers was huddled in Ron’s hands. It had been a 
while since Harry had seen him out of Ron’s pocket, 
and he was unpleasantly surprised to see that 
Scabbers, once so fat, was now very skinny; patches 
of fur seemed to have fallen out too. 

“He’s not looking too good, is he?” Harry said. 

“It’s stress!” said Ron. “He’d be fine if that big stupid 
furball left him alone!” 

But Harry, remembering what the woman at the 
Magical Menagerie had said about rats living only 
three years, couldn’t help feeling that unless Scabbers 
had powers he had never revealed, he was reaching 
the end of his life. And despite Ron’s frequent 
complaints that Scabbers was both boring and 
useless, he was sure Ron would be very miserable if 
Scabbers died. 

Christmas spirit was definitely thin on the ground in 
the Gryffindor common room that morning. Hermione 

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had shut Crookshanks in her dormitory, but was 
furious with Ron for trying to kick him; Ron was still 
fuming about Crookshanks ’s fresh attempt to eat 
Scabbers. Harry gave up trying to make them talk to 
each other and devoted himself to examining the 
Firebolt, which he had brought down to the common 
room with him. For some reason this seemed to 
annoy Hermione as well; she didn’t say anything, but 
she kept looking darkly at the broom as though it too 
had been criticizing her cat. 

At lunchtime they went down to the Great Hall, to 
find that the House tables had been moved against 
the walls again, and that a single table, set for twelve, 
stood in the middle of the room. Professors 
Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and 
Flitwick were there, along with Filch, the caretaker, 
who had taken off his usual brown coat and was 
wearing a very old and rather moldy-looking tailcoat. 
There were only three other students, two extremely 
nervous-looking first years and a sullen-faced 
Slytherin fifth year. 

“Merry Christmas!” said Dumbledore as Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione approached the table. “As there are so 
few of us, it seemed foolish to use the House tables. 

... Sit down, sit down!” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down side by side at 
the end of the table. 

“Crackers!” said Dumbledore enthusiastically, offering 
the end of a large silver noisemaker to Snape, who 
took it reluctantly and tugged. With a bang like a 
gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, 
pointed witch’s hat topped with a stuffed vulture. 

Harry, remembering the boggart, caught Ron’s eye 
and they both grinned; Snape ’s mouth thinned and 

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he pushed the hat toward Dumbledore, who swapped 
it for his wizard’s hat at once. 



“Dig in!” he advised the table, beaming around. 

As Harry was helping himself to roast potatoes, the 
doors of the Great Hall opened again. It was Professor 
Trelawney, gliding toward them as though on wheels. 
She had put on a green sequined dress in honor of 
the occasion, making her look more than ever like a 
glittering, oversized dragonfly. 

“Sibyll, this is a pleasant surprise!” said Dumbledore, 
standing up. 

“I have been crystal gazing, Headmaster,” said 
Professor Trelawney in her mistiest, most faraway 
voice, “and to my astonishment, I saw myself 
abandoning my solitary luncheon and coming to join 
you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? I at 
once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to 
forgive my lateness. ...” 

“Certainly, certainly,” said Dumbledore, his eyes 
twinkling. “Let me draw you up a chair — ” 

And he did indeed draw a chair in midair with his 
wand, which revolved for a few seconds before falling 
with a thud between Professors Snape and 
McGonagall. Professor Trelawney, however, did not sit 
down; her enormous eyes had been roving around the 
table, and she suddenly uttered a kind of soft scream. 

“I dare not, Headmaster! If I join the table, we shall be 
thirteen! Nothing could be more unlucky! Never forget 
that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will 
be the first to die!” 



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“Well risk it, Sibyll,” said Professor McGonagall 
impatiently. “Do sit down, the turkey’s getting stone 
cold.” 



Professor Trelawney hesitated, then lowered herself 
into the empty chair, eyes shut and mouth clenched 
tight, as though expecting a thunderbolt to hit the 
table. Professor McGonagall poked a large spoon into 
the nearest tureen. 

“Tripe, Sibyll?” 

Professor Trelawney ignored her. Eyes open again, 
she looked around once more and said, “But where is 
dear Professor Lupin?” 

“I’m afraid the poor fellow is ill again,” said 
Dumbledore, indicating that everybody should start 
serving themselves. “Most unfortunate that it should 
happen on Christmas Day.” 

“But surely you already knew that, Sibyll?” said 
Professor McGonagall, her eyebrows raised. 

Professor Trelawney gave Professor McGonagall a very 
cold look. 

“Certainly I knew, Minerva,” she said quietly. “But 
one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing. 

I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the 
Inner Eye, so as not to make others nervous.” 

“That explains a great deal,” said Professor 
McGonagall tartly. 

Professor Trelawney’s voice suddenly became a good 
deal less misty. 



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“If you must know, Minerva, I have seen that poor 
Professor Lupin will not be with us for very long. He 
seems aware, himself, that his time is short. He 
positively fled when I offered to crystal gaze for him — 



“Imagine that,” said Professor McGonagall dryly. 

“I doubt,” said Dumbledore, in a cheerful but slightly 
raised voice, which put an end to Professor 
McGonagall and Professor Trelawney’s conversation, 
“that Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger. 
Severus, you’ve made the potion for him again?” 

“Yes, Headmaster,” said Snape. 

“Good,” said Dumbledore. “Then he should be up and 
about in no time. ... Derek, have you had any of these 
chipolatas? They’re excellent.” 

The first-year boy went furiously red on being 
addressed directly by Dumbledore, and took the 
platter of sausages with trembling hands. 

Professor Trelawney behaved almost normally until 
the very end of Christmas dinner, two hours later. 

Full to bursting with Christmas dinner and still 
wearing their party hats, Harry and Ron got up first 
from the table and she shrieked loudly. 

“My dears! Which of you left his seat first? Which?” 

“Dunno,” said Ron, looking uneasily at Harry. 

“I doubt it will make much difference,” said Professor 
McGonagall coldly, “unless a mad axe-man is waiting 
outside the doors to slaughter the first into the 
entrance hall.” 



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Even Ron laughed. Professor Trelawney looked highly 
affronted. 

“Coming?” Harry said to Hermione. 

“No,” Hermione muttered, “I want a quick word with 
Professor McGonagall.” 

“Probably trying to see if she can take any more 
classes,” yawned Ron as they made their way into the 
entrance hall, which was completely devoid of mad 
axe-men. 

When they reached the portrait hole, they found Sir 
Cadogan enjoying a Christmas party with a couple of 
monks, several previous headmasters of Hogwarts, 
and his fat pony. He pushed up his visor and toasted 
them with a flagon of mead. 

“Merry — hie — Christmas! Password?” 

“Scurvy cur,” said Ron. 

“And the same to you, sir!” roared Sir Cadogan as the 
painting swung forward to admit them. 

Harry went straight up to the dormitory, collected the 
Firebolt and the Broomstick Servicing Kit Hermione 
had given him for his birthday, brought them 
downstairs, and tried to find something to do to the 
Firebolt; however, there were no bent twigs to clip, 
and the handle was so shiny already it seemed 
pointless to polish it. He and Ron simply sat admiring 
it from every angle until the portrait hole opened, and 
Hermione came in, accompanied by Professor 
McGonagall. 

Though Professor McGonagall was head of Gryffindor 
House, Harry had seen her in the common room only 

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once before, and that had been to make a very grave 
announcement. He and Ron stared at her, both 
holding the Firebolt. Hermione walked around them, 
sat down, picked up the nearest book, and hid her 
face behind it. 

“So that’s it, is it?” said Professor McGonagall beadily, 
walking over to the fireside and staring at the 
Firebolt. “Miss Granger has just informed me that you 
have been sent a broomstick, Potter.” 

Harry and Ron looked around at Hermione. They 
could see her forehead reddening over the top of her 
book, which was upside down. 

“May I?” said Professor McGonagall, but she didn’t 
wait for an answer before pulling the Firebolt out of 
their hands. She examined it carefully from handle to 
twig-ends. “Hmm. And there was no note at all, 

Potter? No card? No message of any kind?” 

“No,” said Harry blankly. 

“I see ... ,” said Professor McGonagall. “Well, I’m 
afraid I will have to take this, Potter.” 

“W — what?” said Harry, scrambling to his feet. 
“Why?” 

“It will need to be checked for jinxes,” said Professor 
McGonagall. “Of course, I’m no expert, but I daresay 
Madam Hooch and Professor Flitwick will strip it 
down — ” 

“Strip it down?” repeated Ron, as though Professor 
McGonagall was mad. 



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“It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks,” said 
Professor McGonagall. “You will have it back if we are 
sure it is jinx-free.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with it!” said Harry, his voice 
shaking slightly. “Honestly, Professor — ” 

“You can’t know that, Potter,” said Professor 
McGonagall, quite kindly, “not until you’ve flown it, at 
any rate, and I’m afraid that is out of the question 
until we are certain that it has not been tampered 
with. I shall keep you informed.” 

Professor McGonagall turned on her heel and carried 
the Firebolt out of the portrait hole, which closed 
behind her. Harry stood staring after her, the tin of 
High-Finish Polish still clutched in his hands. Ron, 
however, rounded on Hermione. 

“What did you go running to McGonagall for?” 

Hermione threw her book aside. She was still pink in 
the face, but stood up and faced Ron defiantly. 

“Because I thought — and Professor McGonagall 
agrees with me — that that broom was probably sent 
to Harry by Sirius Black!” 



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THE PATRONUS 

Harry knew that Hermione had meant well, but that 
didn’t stop him from being angry with her. He had 
been the owner of the best broom in the world for a 
few short hours, and now, because of her 
interference, he didn’t know whether he would ever 
see it again. He was positive that there was nothing 
wrong with the Firebolt now, but what sort of state 
would it be in once it had been subjected to all sorts 
of anti-jinx tests? 

Ron was furious with Hermione too. As far as he was 
concerned, the stripping-down of a brand-new 
Firebolt was nothing less than criminal damage. 
Hermione, who remained convinced that she had 
acted for the best, started avoiding the common room. 
Harry and Ron supposed she had taken refuge in the 
library and didn’t try to persuade her to come back. 
All in all, they were glad when the rest of the school 
returned shortly after New Year, and Gryffindor Tower 
became crowded and noisy again. 



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Wood sought Harry out on the night before term 
started. 



“Had a good Christmas?” he said, and then, without 
waiting for an answer, he sat down, lowered his voice, 
and said, “I’ve been doing some thinking over 
Christmas, Harry. After the last match, you know. If 
the dementors come to the next one ... I mean . . . we 
can’t afford you to — well — ” 

Wood broke off, looking awkward. 

“I’m working on it,” said Harry quickly. “Professor 
Lupin said he’d train me to ward off the dementors. 
We should be starting this week. He said he’d have 
time after Christmas.” 

“Ah,” said Wood, his expression clearing. “Well, in 
that case — I really didn’t want to lose you as Seeker, 
Harry. And have you ordered a new broom yet?” 

“No,” said Harry. 

“What! You’d better get a move on, you know — you 
can’t ride that Shooting Star against Ravenclaw!” 

“He got a Firebolt for Christmas,” said Ron. 

“A Firebolt? No! Seriously? A — a real Firebolt?” 

“Don’t get excited, Oliver,” said Harry gloomily. “I 
haven’t got it anymore. It was confiscated.” And he 
explained all about how the Firebolt was now being 
checked for jinxes. 

“Jinxed? How could it be jinxed?” 



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“Sirius Black,” Harry said wearily. “He’s supposed to 
be after me. So McGonagall reckons he might have 
sent it.” 

Waving aside the information that a famous murderer 
was after his Seeker, Wood said, “But Black couldn’t 
have bought a Firebolt! He’s on the run! The whole 
country’s on the lookout for him! How could he just 
walk into Quality Quidditch Supplies and buy a 
broomstick?” 

“I know,” said Harry, “but McGonagall still wants to 
strip it down — ” 

Wood went pale. 

“I’ll go and talk to her, Harry,” he promised. “I’ll make 
her see reason. ... A Firebolt ... a real Firebolt, on our 
team . . . She wants Gryffindor to win as much as we 
do. ... I’ll make her see sense. A Firebolt ...” 

Classes started again the next day. The last thing 
anyone felt like doing was spending two hours on the 
grounds on a raw January morning, but Hagrid had 
provided a bonfire full of salamanders for their 
enjoyment, and they spent an unusually good lesson 
collecting dry wood and leaves to keep the fire blazing 
while the flame-loving lizards scampered up and 
down the crumbling, white-hot logs. The first 
Divination lesson of the new term was much less fun; 
Professor Trelawney was now teaching them 
palmistry, and she lost no time in informing Harry 
that he had the shortest life line she had ever seen. 

It was Defense Against the Dark Arts that Harry was 
keen to get to; after his conversation with Wood, he 
wanted to get started on his anti-dementor lessons as 
soon as possible. 



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“Ah yes,” said Lupin, when Harry reminded him of his 
promise at the end of class. “Let me see ... how about 
eight o’clock on Thursday evening? The History of 
Magic classroom should be large enough. ... I’ll have 
to think carefully about how we’re going to do this. ... 
We can’t bring a real dementor into the castle to 
practice on. ...” 

“Still looks ill, doesn’t he?” said Ron as they walked 
down the corridor, heading to dinner. “What d’you 
reckon ’s the matter with him?” 

There was a loud and impatient “tuh” from behind 
them. It was Hermione, who had been sitting at the 
feet of a suit of armor, repacking her bag, which was 
so full of books it wouldn’t close. 

“And what are you tutting at us for?” said Ron 
irritably. 

“Nothing,” said Hermione in a lofty voice, heaving her 
bag back over her shoulder. 

“Yes, you were,” said Ron. “I said I wonder what’s 
wrong with Lupin, and you — ” 

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” said Hermione, with a look of 
maddening superiority. 

“If you don’t want to tell us, don’t,” snapped Ron. 

“Fine,” said Hermione haughtily, and she marched off. 

“She doesn’t know,” said Ron, staring resentfully after 
Hermione. “She’s just trying to get us to talk to her 
again.” 

At eight o’clock on Thursday evening, Harry left 
Gryffindor Tower for the History of Magic classroom. 

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It was dark and empty when he arrived, but he lit the 
lamps with his wand and had waited only five 
minutes when Professor Lupin turned up, carrying a 
large packing case, which he heaved onto Professor 
Binns’ desk. 

“What’s that?” said Harry. 

“Another boggart,” said Lupin, stripping off his cloak. 
“I’ve been combing the castle ever since Tuesday, and 
very luckily, I found this one lurking inside Mr. Filch’s 
filing cabinet. It’s the nearest we’ll get to a real 
dementor. The boggart will turn into a dementor when 
he sees you, so we’ll be able to practice on him. I can 
store him in my office when we’re not using him; 
there’s a cupboard under my desk he’ll like.” 

“Okay,” said Harry, trying to sound as though he 
wasn’t apprehensive at all and merely glad that Lupin 
had found such a good substitute for a real dementor. 

“So ...” Professor Lupin had taken out his own wand, 
and indicated that Harry should do the same. “The 
spell I am going to try and teach you is highly 
advanced magic, Harry — well beyond Ordinary 
Wizarding Level. It is called the Patronus Charm.” 

“How does it work?” said Harry nervously. 

“Well, when it works correctly, it conjures up a 
Patronus,” said Lupin, “which is a kind of anti- 
dementor — a guardian that acts as a shield between 
you and the dementor.” 

Harry had a sudden vision of himself crouching 
behind a Hagrid-sized figure holding a large club. 
Professor Lupin continued, “The Patronus is a kind of 
positive force, a projection of the very things that the 
dementor feeds upon — hope, happiness, the desire 
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to survive — but it cannot feel despair, as real 
humans can, so the dementors can’t hurt it. But I 
must warn you, Harry, that the charm might be too 
advanced for you. Many qualified wizards have 
difficulty with it.” 

“What does a Patronus look like?” said Harry 
curiously. 

“Each one is unique to the wizard who conjures it.” 
“And how do you conjure it?” 

“With an incantation, which will work only if you are 
concentrating, with all your might, on a single, very 
happy memory.” 

Harry cast his mind about for a happy memory. 
Certainly, nothing that had happened to him at the 
Dursleys’ was going to do. Finally, he settled on the 
moment when he had first ridden a broomstick. 

“Right,” he said, trying to recall as exactly as possible 
the wonderful, soaring sensation of his stomach. 

“The incantation is this — ” Lupin cleared his throat. 
“Expecto patronum).” 

“Expecto patronum,” Harry repeated under his breath, 
“expecto patronum.” 

“Concentrating hard on your happy memory?” 

“Oh — yeah — ” said Harry, quickly forcing his 
thoughts back to that first broom ride. “Expecto 
patrono — no, patronum — sorry — expecto patronum, 
expecto patronum — ” 



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Something whooshed suddenly out of the end of his 
wand; it looked like a wisp of silvery gas. 



“Did you see that?” said Harry excitedly. “Something 
happened!” 

“Very good,” said Lupin, smiling. “Right, then — ready 
to try it on a dementor?” 

“Yes,” Harry said, gripping his wand very tightly, and 
moving into the middle of the deserted classroom. He 
tried to keep his mind on flying, but something else 
kept intruding. . . . Any second now, he might hear his 
mother again . . . but he shouldn’t think that, or he 
would hear her again, and he didn’t want to ... or did 
he? 

Lupin grasped the lid of the packing case and pulled. 

A dementor rose slowly from the box, its hooded face 
turned toward Harry, one glistening, scabbed hand 
gripping its cloak. The lamps around the classroom 
flickered and went out. The dementor stepped from 
the box and started to sweep silently toward Harry, 
drawing a deep, rattling breath. A wave of piercing 
cold broke over him — 

“Expecto patronurrd” Harry yelled. “Expecto patronum). 
Expecto — ” 

But the classroom and the dementor were dissolving. 

. . . Harry was falling again through thick white fog, 
and his mother’s voice was louder than ever, echoing 
inside his head — “ Not Harry\ Not Harry\ Please — I’ll 
do anything — ” 

“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl\” 

“Harry!” 

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Harry jerked back to life. He was lying flat on his back 
on the floor. The classroom lamps were alight again. 
He didn’t have to ask what had happened. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, sitting up and feeling cold sweat 
trickling down behind his glasses. 

“Are you all right?” said Lupin. 

“Yes ...” Harry pulled himself up on one of the desks 
and leaned against it. 

“Here — ” Lupin handed him a Chocolate Frog. “Eat 
this before we try again. I didn’t expect you to do it 
your first time; in fact, I would have been astounded if 
you had.” 

“It’s getting worse,” Harry muttered, biting off the 
Frog’s head. “I could hear her louder that time — and 
him — Voldemort — ” 

Lupin looked paler than usual. 

“Harry, if you don’t want to continue, I will more than 
understand — ” 

“I do!” said Harry fiercely, stuffing the rest of the 
Chocolate Frog into his mouth. “I’ve got to! What if 
the dementors turn up at our match against 
Ravenclaw? I can’t afford to fall off again. If we lose 
this game we’ve lost the Quidditch Cup!” 

“All right then ... ,” said Lupin. “You might want to 
select another memory, a happy memory, I mean, to 
concentrate on. ... That one doesn’t seem to have 
been strong enough. ...” 

Harry thought hard and decided his feelings when 
Gryffindor had won the House Championship last 

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year had definitely qualified as very happy. He 
gripped his wand tightly again and took up his 
position in the middle of the classroom. 

“Ready?” said Lupin, gripping the box lid. 

“Ready,” said Harry, trying hard to fill his head with 
happy thoughts about Gryffindor winning, and not 
dark thoughts about what was going to happen when 
the box opened. 

“Go!” said Lupin, pulling off the lid. The room went 
icily cold and dark once more. The dementor glided 
forward, drawing its breath; one rotting hand was 
extending toward Harry — 

“Expecto patronum).” Harry yelled. “Expecto patronuml 
Expecto pat — ” 

White fog obscured his senses . . . big, blurred shapes 
were moving around him ... then came a new voice, a 
man’s voice, shouting, panicking — 

“Lily, take Harry and go\ It’s him\ Go! Run\ I’ll hold him 

off~ 

The sounds of someone stumbling from a room — a 
door bursting open — a cackle of high-pitched 
laughter — 

“Harry! Harry ... wake up. ...” 

Lupin was tapping Harry hard on the face. This time 
it was a minute before Harry understood why he was 
lying on a dusty classroom floor. 

“I heard my dad,” Harry mumbled. “That’s the first 
time I’ve ever heard him — he tried to take on 



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Voldemort himself, to give my mum time to run for it. 



Harry suddenly realized that there were tears on his 
face mingling with the sweat. He bent his face as low 
as possible, wiping them off on his robes, pretending 
to do up his shoelace, so that Lupin wouldn’t see. 

“You heard James?” said Lupin in a strange voice. 

“Yeah ...” Face dry, Harry looked up. “Why — you 
didn’t know my dad, did you?” 

“I — I did, as a matter of fact,” said Lupin. “We were 
friends at Hogwarts. Listen, Harry — perhaps we 
should leave it here for tonight. This charm is 
ridiculously advanced. ... I shouldn’t have suggested 
putting you through this. ...” 

“No!” said Harry. He got up again. “I’ll have one more 
go! I’m not thinking of happy enough things, that’s 
what it is. ... Hang on. ...” 

He racked his brains. A really, really happy memory 
. . . one that he could turn into a good, strong 
Patronus ... 

The moment when he’d first found out he was a 
wizard, and would be leaving the Dursleys for 
Hogwarts! If that wasn’t a happy memory, he didn’t 
know what was. ... Concentrating very hard on how 
he had felt when he’d realized he’d be leaving Privet 
Drive, Harry got to his feet and faced the packing case 
once more. 

“Ready?” said Lupin, who looked as though he were 
doing this against his better judgment. 

“Concentrating hard? All right — go!” 



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He pulled off the lid of the case for the third time, and 
the dementor rose out of it; the room fell cold and 
dark — 

“EXPECTO PATRONUM ” Harry bellowed. “ EXPECTO 
PATRONUM EXPECTO PATRONUM ” 

The screaming inside Harry’s head had started again 
— except this time, it sounded as though it were 
coming from a badly tuned radio — softer and louder 
and softer again — and he could still see the 
dementor — it had halted — and then a huge, silver 
shadow came bursting out of the end of Harry’s wand, 
to hover between him and the dementor, and though 
Harry’s legs felt like water, he was still on his feet — 
though for how much longer, he wasn’t sure — 

“ RiddikulusV’ roared Lupin, springing forward. 

There was a loud crack, and Harry’s cloudy Patronus 
vanished along with the dementor; he sank into a 
chair, feeling as exhausted as if he’d just run a mile, 
and felt his legs shaking. Out of the corner of his eye, 
he saw Professor Lupin forcing the boggart back into 
the packing case with his wand; it had turned into a 
silvery orb again. 

“Excellent!” Lupin said, striding over to where Harry 
sat. “Excellent, Harry! That was definitely a start!” 

“Can we have another go? Just one more go?” 

“Not now,” said Lupin firmly. “You’ve had enough for 
one night. Here — ” 

He handed Harry a large bar of Honeydukes’ best 
chocolate. 



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“Eat the lot, or Madam Pomfrey will be after my blood. 
Same time next week?” 

“Okay,” said Harry. He took a bite of the chocolate 
and watched Lupin extinguishing the lamps that had 
rekindled with the disappearance of the dementor. A 
thought had just occurred to him. 

“Professor Lupin?” he said. “If you knew my dad, you 
must’ve known Sirius Black as well.” 

Lupin turned very quickly. 

“What gives you that idea?” he said sharply. 

“Nothing — I mean, I just knew they were friends at 
Hogwarts too. ...” 

Lupin’s face relaxed. 

“Yes, I knew him,” he said shortly. “Or I thought I did. 
You’d better be off, Harry, it’s getting late.” 

Harry left the classroom, walking along the corridor 
and around a corner, then took a detour behind a 
suit of armor and sank down on its plinth to finish 
his chocolate, wishing he hadn’t mentioned Black, as 
Lupin was obviously not keen on the subject. Then 
Harry’s thoughts wandered back to his mother and 
father. ... 

He felt drained and strangely empty, even though he 
was so full of chocolate. Terrible though it was to hear 
his parents’ last moments replayed inside his head, 
these were the only times Harry had heard their 
voices since he was a very small child. But he’d never 
be able to produce a proper Patronus if he half 
wanted to hear his parents again. ... 



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“They’re dead,” he told himself sternly. “They’re dead 
and listening to echoes of them won’t bring them 
back. You’d better get a grip on yourself if you want 
that Quidditch Cup.” 

He stood up, crammed the last bit of chocolate into 
his mouth, and headed back to Gryffindor Tower. 

Ravenclaw played Slytherin a week after the start of 
term. Slytherin won, though narrowly. According to 
Wood, this was good news for Gryffindor, who would 
take second place if they beat Ravenclaw too. He 
therefore increased the number of team practices to 
five a week. This meant that with Lupin’s anti- 
dementor classes, which in themselves were more 
draining than six Quidditch practices, Harry had just 
one night a week to do all his homework. Even so, he 
wasn’t showing the strain nearly as much as 
Hermione, whose immense workload finally seemed to 
be getting to her. Every night, without fail, Hermione 
was to be seen in a corner of the common room, 
several tables spread with books, Arithmancy charts, 
rune dictionaries, diagrams of Muggles lifting heavy 
objects, and file upon file of extensive notes; she 
barely spoke to anybody and snapped when she was 
interrupted. 

“How’s she doing it?” Ron muttered to Harry one 
evening as Harry sat finishing a nasty essay on 
Undetectable Poisons for Snape. Harry looked up. 
Hermione was barely visible behind a tottering pile of 
books. 

“Doing what?” 

“Getting to all her classes!” Ron said. “I heard her 
talking to Professor Vector, that Arithmancy witch, 
this morning. They were going on about yesterday’s 
lesson, but Hermione can’t’ve been there, because she 

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was with us in Care of Magical Creatures! And Ernie 
McMillan told me she’s never missed a Muggle 
Studies class, but half of them are at the same time 
as Divination, and she’s never missed one of them 
either!” 

Harry didn’t have time to fathom the mystery of 
Hermione’s impossible schedule at the moment; he 
really needed to get on with Snape’s essay. Two 
seconds later, however, he was interrupted again, this 
time by Wood. 

“Bad news, Harry. I’ve just been to see Professor 
McGonagall about the Firebolt. She — er — got a bit 
shirty with me. Told me I’d got my priorities wrong. 
Seemed to think I cared more about winning the Cup 
than I do about you staying alive. Just because I told 
her I didn’t care if it threw you off, as long as you 
caught the Snitch first.” Wood shook his head in 
disbelief. “Honestly, the way she was yelling at me . . . 
you’d think I’d said something terrible. ... Then I 
asked her how much longer she was going to keep it. 
...” He screwed up his face and imitated Professor 
McGonagall’s severe voice. “ ‘As long as necessary, 
Wood’ ... I reckon it’s time you ordered a new broom, 
Harry. There’s an order form at the back of Which 
Broomstick ... you could get a Nimbus Two Thousand 
and One, like Malfoy’s got.” 

“I’m not buying anything Malfoy thinks is good,” said 
Harry flatly. 

January faded imperceptibly into February, with no 
change in the bitterly cold weather. The match 
against Ravenclaw was drawing nearer and nearer, 
but Harry still hadn’t ordered a new broom. He was 
now asking Professor McGonagall for news of the 
Firebolt after every Transfiguration lesson, Ron 



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standing hopefully at his shoulder, Hermione rushing 
past with her face averted. 

“No, Potter, you can’t have it back yet,” Professor 
McGonagall told him the twelfth time this happened, 
before he’d even opened his mouth. “We’ve checked 
for most of the usual curses, but Professor Flitwick 
believes the broom might be carrying a Hurling Hex. I 
shall tell you once we’ve finished checking it. Now, 
please stop badgering me.” 

To make matters even worse, Harry’s anti-dementor 
lessons were not going nearly as well as he had 
hoped. Several sessions on, he was able to produce 
an indistinct, silvery shadow every time the boggart- 
dementor approached him, but his Patronus was too 
feeble to drive the dementor away. All it did was 
hover, like a semi-transparent cloud, draining Harry 
of energy as he fought to keep it there. Harry felt 
angry with himself, guilty about his secret desire to 
hear his parents’ voices again. 

“You’re expecting too much of yourself,” said 
Professor Lupin sternly in their fourth week of 
practice. “For a thirteen-year-old wizard, even an 
indistinct Patronus is a huge achievement. You aren’t 
passing out anymore, are you?” 

“I thought a Patronus would — charge the dementors 
down or something,” said Harry dispiritedly. “Make 
them disappear — ” 

“The true Patronus does do that,” said Lupin. “But 
you’ve achieved a great deal in a very short space of 
time. If the dementors put in an appearance at your 
next Quidditch match, you will be able to keep them 
at bay long enough to get back to the ground.” 



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“You said it’s harder if there are loads of them,” said 
Harry. 

“I have complete confidence in you,” said Lupin, 
smiling. “Here — you’ve earned a drink — something 
from the Three Broomsticks. You won’t have tried it 
before — ” 

He pulled two bottles out of his briefcase. 

“Butterbeer!” said Harry, without thinking. “Yeah, I 
like that stuff!” 

Lupin raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh — Ron and Hermione brought me some back 
from Hogsmeade,” Harry lied quickly. 

“I see,” said Lupin, though he still looked slightly 
suspicious. “Well — let’s drink to a Gryffindor victory 
against Ravenclaw! Not that I’m supposed to take 
sides, as a teacher ... ,” he added hastily. 

They drank the butterbeer in silence, until Harry 
voiced something he’d been wondering for a while. 

“What’s under a dementor’s hood?” 

Professor Lupin lowered his bottle thoughtfully. 

“Hmmm ... well, the only people who really know are 
in no condition to tell us. You see, the dementor 
lowers its hood only to use its last and worst 
weapon.” 

“What’s that?” 

“They call it the Dementor’s Kiss,” said Lupin, with a 
slightly twisted smile. “It’s what dementors do to 

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those they wish to destroy utterly. I suppose there 
must be some kind of mouth under there, because 
they clamp their jaws upon the mouth of the victim 
and — and suck out his soul.” 

Harry accidentally spat out a bit of butterbeer. 

“What — they kill — ?” 

“Oh no,” said Lupin. “Much worse than that. You can 
exist without your soul, you know, as long as your 
brain and heart are still working. But you 11 have no 
sense of self anymore, no memory, no ... anything. 
There’s no chance at all of recovery. You’ll just — 
exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever 
... lost.” 

Lupin drank a little more butterbeer, then said, “It’s 
the fate that awaits Sirius Black. It was in the Daily 
Prophet this morning. The Ministry have given the 
dementors permission to perform it if they find him.” 

Harry sat stunned for a moment at the idea of 
someone having their soul sucked out through their 
mouth. But then he thought of Black. 

“He deserves it,” he said suddenly. 

“You think so?” said Lupin lightly. “Do you really 
think anyone deserves that?” 

“Yes,” said Harry defiantly. “For ... for some things ...” 

He would have liked to have told Lupin about the 
conversation he’d overheard about Black in the Three 
Broomsticks, about Black betraying his mother and 
father, but it would have involved revealing that he’d 
gone to Hogsmeade without permission, and he knew 
Lupin wouldn’t be very impressed by that. So he 
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finished his butterbeer, thanked Lupin, and left the 
History of Magic classroom. 

Harry half wished that he hadn’t asked what was 
under a dementor’s hood, the answer had been so 
horrible, and he was so lost in unpleasant thoughts of 
what it would feel like to have your soul sucked out of 
you that he walked headlong into Professor 
McGonagall halfway up the stairs. 

“Do watch where you’re going, Potter!” 

“Sorry, Professor — ” 

“I’ve just been looking for you in the Gryffindor 
common room. Well, here it is, we’ve done everything 
we could think of, and there doesn’t seem to be 
anything wrong with it at all. You’ve got a very good 
friend somewhere, Potter. ...” 

Harry’s jaw dropped. She was holding out his 
Firebolt, and it looked as magnificent as ever. 

“I can have it back?” Harry said weakly. “Seriously?” 

“Seriously,” said Professor McGonagall, and she was 
actually smiling. “I daresay you’ll need to get the feel 
of it before Saturday’s match, won’t you? And Potter 
— do try and win, won’t you? Or we’ll be out of the 
running for the eighth year in a row, as Professor 
Snape was kind enough to remind me only last night. 



Speechless, Harry carried the Firebolt back upstairs 
toward Gryffindor Tower. As he turned a corner, he 
saw Ron dashing toward him, grinning from ear to 
ear. 



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“She gave it to you? Excellent! Listen, can I still have 
a go on it? Tomorrow?” 

“Yeah ... anything ... said Harry, his heart lighter 
than it had been in a month. “You know what — we 
should make up with Hermione. ... She was only 
trying to help. ...” 

“Yeah, all right,” said Ron. “She’s in the common 
room now — working, for a change — ” 

They turned into the corridor to Gryffindor Tower and 
saw Neville Longbottom, pleading with Sir Cadogan, 
who seemed to be refusing him entrance. 

“I wrote them down!” Neville was saying tearfully. 

“But I must’ve dropped them somewhere!” 

“A likely tale!” roared Sir Cadogan. Then, spotting 
Harry and Ron: “Good even, my fine young yeomen! 
Come clap this loon in irons. He is trying to force 
entry to the chambers within!” 

“Oh, shut up,” said Ron as he and Harry drew level 
with Neville. 

“I’ve lost the passwords!” Neville told them miserably. 
“I made him tell me what passwords he was going to 
use this week, because he keeps changing them, and 
now I don’t know what I’ve done with them!” 

“Oddsbodikins,” said Harry to Sir Cadogan, who 
looked extremely disappointed and reluctantly swung 
forward to let them into the common room. There was 
a sudden, excited murmur as every head turned and 
the next moment, Harry was surrounded by people 
exclaiming over his Firebolt. 

“Where ’d you get it, Harry?” 

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“Will you let me have a go?” 

“Have you ridden it yet, Harry?” 

“Ravenclaw’ll have no chance, they’re all on 
Cleansweep Sevens!” 

“Can I just hold it, Harry?” 

After ten minutes or so, during which the Firebolt was 
passed around and admired from every angle, the 
crowd dispersed and Harry and Ron had a clear view 
of Hermione, the only person who hadn’t rushed over 
to them, bent over her work and carefully avoiding 
their eyes. Harry and Ron approached her table and 
at last, she looked up. 

“I got it back,” said Harry, grinning at her and holding 
up the Firebolt. 

“See, Hermione? There wasn’t anything wrong with 
it!” said Ron. 

“Well — there might have been!” said Hermione. “I 
mean, at least you know now that it’s safe!” 

“Yeah, I suppose so,” said Harry. “I’d better put it 
upstairs — ” 

“I’ll take it!” said Ron eagerly. “I’ve got to give 
Scabbers his rat tonic.” 

He took the Firebolt and, holding it as if it were made 
of glass, carried it away up the boys’ staircase. 

“Can I sit down, then?” Harry asked Hermione. 

“I suppose so,” said Hermione, moving a great stack 
of parchment off a chair. 

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Harry looked around at the cluttered table, at the 
long Arithmancy essay on which the ink was still 
glistening, at the even longer Muggle Studies essay 
(“Explain Why Muggles Need Electricity”) and at the 
rune translation Hermione was now poring over. 

“How are you getting through all this stuff?” Harry 
asked her. 

“Oh, well — you know — working hard,” said 
Hermione. Close-up, Harry saw that she looked 
almost as tired as Lupin. 

“Why don’t you just drop a couple of subjects?” Harry 
asked, watching her lifting books as she searched for 
her rune dictionary. 

“I couldn’t do that!” said Hermione, looking 
scandalized. 

“Arithmancy looks terrible,” said Harry, picking up a 
very complicated-looking number chart. 

“Oh no, it’s wonderful!” said Hermione earnestly. “It’s 
my favorite subject! It’s — ” 

But exactly what was wonderful about Arithmancy, 
Harry never found out. At that precise moment, a 
strangled yell echoed down the boys’ staircase. The 
whole common room fell silent, staring, petrified, at 
the entrance. Then came hurried footsteps, growing 
louder and louder — and then Ron came leaping into 
view, dragging with him a bedsheet. 

“LOOK!” he bellowed, striding over to Hermione’s 
table. “LOOK!” he yelled, shaking the sheets in her 
face. 

“Ron, what — ?” 

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“SCABBERS! LOOK! SCABBERS!” 



Hermione was leaning away from Ron, looking utterly 
bewildered. Harry looked down at the sheet Ron was 
holding. There was something red on it. Something 
that looked horribly like — 

“BLOOD!” Ron yelled into the stunned silence. “HE’S 
GONE! AND YOU KNOW WHAT WAS ON THE 
FLOOR?” 

“N — no,” said Hermione in a trembling voice. 

Ron threw something down onto Hermione ’s rune 
translation. Hermione and Harry leaned forward. 
Lying on top of the weird, spiky shapes were several 
long, ginger cat hairs. 



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GRYFFINDOR VERSUS RAVENCLAW 

It looked like the end of Ron and Hermione’s 
friendship. Each was so angry with the other that 
Harry couldn’t see how they’d ever make up. 

Ron was enraged that Hermione had never taken 
Crookshanks’s attempts to eat Scabbers seriously, 
hadn’t bothered to keep a close enough watch on him, 
and was still trying to pretend that Crookshanks was 
innocent by suggesting that Ron look for Scabbers 
under all the boys’ beds. Hermione, meanwhile, 
maintained fiercely that Ron had no proof that 
Crookshanks had eaten Scabbers, that the ginger 
hairs might have been there since Christmas, and 
that Ron had been prejudiced against her cat ever 
since Crookshanks had landed on Ron’s head in the 
Magical Menagerie. 

Personally, Harry was sure that Crookshanks had 
eaten Scabbers, and when he tried to point out to 
Hermione that the evidence all pointed that way, she 
lost her temper with Harry too. 



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“Okay, side with Ron, I knew you would!” she said 
shrilly. “First the Firebolt, now Scabbers, everything’s 
my fault, isn’t it! Just leave me alone, Harry, I’ve got a 
lot of work to do!” 

Ron had taken the loss of his rat very hard indeed. 

“Come on, Ron, you were always saying how boring 
Scabbers was,” said Fred bracingly “And he’s been 
off-color for ages, he was wasting away. It was 
probably better for him to snuff it quickly — one 
swallow — he probably didn’t feel a thing.” 

“Fred\” said Ginny indignantly. 

“All he did was eat and sleep, Ron, you said it 
yourself,” said George. 

“He bit Goyle for us once!” Ron said miserably. 
“Remember, Harry?” 

“Yeah, that’s true,” said Harry. 

“His finest hour,” said Fred, unable to keep a straight 
face. “Let the scar on Goyle ’s finger stand as a lasting 
tribute to his memory. Oh, come on, Ron, get yourself 
down to Hogsmeade and buy a new rat, what’s the 
point of moaning?” 

In a last-ditch attempt to cheer Ron up, Harry 
persuaded him to come along to the Gryffindor team’s 
final practice before the Ravenclaw match, so that he 
could have a ride on the Firebolt after they’d finished. 
This did seem to take Ron’s mind off Scabbers for a 
moment (“Great! Can I try and shoot a few goals on 
it?”) so they set off for the Quidditch field together. 

Madam Hooch, who was still overseeing Gryffindor 
practices to keep an eye on Harry, was just as 

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impressed with the Firebolt as everyone else had 
been. She took it in her hands before takeoff and gave 
them the benefit of her professional opinion. 

“Look at the balance on it! If the Nimbus series has a 
fault, it’s a slight list to the tail end — you often find 
they develop a drag after a few years. They’ve updated 
the handle too, a bit slimmer than the Cleansweeps, 
reminds me of the old Silver Arrows — a pity they’ve 
stopped making them. I learned to fly on one, and a 
very fine old broom it was too. ...” 

She continued in this vein for some time, until Wood 
said, “Er — Madam Hooch? Is it okay if Harry has the 
Firebolt back? We need to practice. ...” 

“Oh — right — here you are, then, Potter,” said 
Madam Hooch. “I’ll sit over here with Weasley ...” 

She and Ron left the field to sit in the stadium, and 
the Gryffindor team gathered around Wood for his 
final instructions for tomorrow’s match. 

“Harry, I’ve just found out who Ravenclaw is playing 
as Seeker. It’s Cho Chang. She’s a fourth year, and 
she’s pretty good. ... I really hoped she wouldn’t be fit, 
she’s had some problems with injuries. ...” Wood 
scowled his displeasure that Cho Chang had made a 
full recovery, then said, “On the other hand, she rides 
a Comet Two Sixty, which is going to look like a joke 
next to the Firebolt.” He gave Harry’s broom a look of 
fervent admiration, then said, “Okay, everyone, let’s 
go 



And at long last, Harry mounted his Firebolt, and 
kicked off from the ground. 

It was better than he’d ever dreamed. The Firebolt 
turned with the lightest touch; it seemed to obey his 

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thoughts rather than his grip; it sped across the field 
at such speed that the stadium turned into a green- 
and-gray blur; Harry turned it so sharply that Alicia 
Spinnet screamed, then he went into a perfectly 
controlled dive, brushing the grassy field with his toes 
before rising thirty, forty, fifty feet into the air again — 

“Harry, I’m letting the Snitch out!” Wood called. 

Harry turned and raced a Bludger toward the goal 
posts; he outstripped it easily, saw the Snitch dart 
out from behind Wood, and within ten seconds had 
caught it tightly in his hand. 

The team cheered madly. Harry let the Snitch go 
again, gave it a minute’s head start, then tore after it, 
weaving in and out of the others; he spotted it lurking 
near Katie Bell’s knee, looped her easily, and caught 
it again. 

It was the best practice ever; the team, inspired by 
the presence of the Firebolt in their midst, performed 
their best moves faultlessly, and by the time they hit 
the ground again, Wood didn’t have a single criticism 
to make, which, as George Weasley pointed out, was a 
first. 

“I can’t see what’s going to stop us tomorrow!” said 
Wood. “Not unless — Harry, you’ve sorted out your 
dementor problem, haven’t you?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, thinking of his feeble Patronus 
and wishing it were stronger. 

“The dementors won’t turn up again, Oliver. 
Dumbledore’d go ballistic,” said Fred confidently. 



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“Well, let’s hope not,” said Wood. “Anyway — good 
work, everyone. Let’s get back to the tower ... turn in 
early — ” 

“I’m staying out for a bit; Ron wants a go on the 
Firebolt,” Harry told Wood, and while the rest of the 
team headed off to the locker rooms, Harry strode 
over to Ron, who vaulted the barrier to the stands 
and came to meet him. Madam Hooch had fallen 
asleep in her seat. 

“Here you go,” said Harry, handing Ron the Firebolt. 

Ron, an expression of ecstasy on his face, mounted 
the broom and zoomed off into the gathering darkness 
while Harry walked around the edge of the field, 
watching him. Night had fallen before Madam Hooch 
awoke with a start, told Harry and Ron off for not 
waking her, and insisted that they go back to the 
castle. 

Harry shouldered the Firebolt and he and Ron walked 
out of the shadowy stadium, discussing the Firebolt’s 
superbly smooth action, its phenomenal acceleration, 
and its pinpoint turning. They were halfway toward 
the castle when Harry, glancing to his left, saw 
something that made his heart turn over — a pair of 
eyes, gleaming out of the darkness. 

Harry stopped dead, his heart banging against his 
ribs. 

“What’s the matter?” said Ron. 

Harry pointed. Ron pulled out his wand and 
muttered, “Lumos\” 



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A beam of light fell across the grass, hit the bottom of 
a tree, and illuminated its branches; there, crouching 
among the budding leaves, was Crookshanks. 

“Get out of here!” Ron roared, and he stooped down 
and seized a stone lying on the grass, but before he 
could do anything else, Crookshanks had vanished 
with one swish of his long ginger tail. 

“See?” Ron said furiously, chucking the stone down 
again. “She’s still letting him wander about wherever 
he wants — probably washing down Scabbers with a 
couple of birds now. ...” 

Harry didn’t say anything. He took a deep breath as 
relief seeped through him; he had been sure for a 
moment that those eyes had belonged to the Grim. 
They set off for the castle once more. Slightly 
ashamed of his moment of panic, Harry didn’t say 
anything to Ron — nor did he look left or right until 
they had reached the well-lit entrance hall. 

Harry went down to breakfast the next morning with 
the rest of the boys in his dormitory, all of whom 
seemed to think the Firebolt deserved a sort of guard 
of honor. As Harry entered the Great Hall, heads 
turned in the direction of the Firebolt, and there was 
a good deal of excited muttering. Harry saw, with 
enormous satisfaction, that the Slytherin team were 
all looking thunderstruck. 

“Did you see his face?” said Ron gleefully, looking 
back at Malfoy. “He can’t believe it! This is brilliant!” 

Wood, too, was basking in the reflected glory of the 
Firebolt. 

“Put it here, Harry,” he said, laying the broom in the 
middle of the table and carefully turning it so that its 

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name faced upward. People from the Ravenclaw and 
Hufflepuff tables were soon coming over to look. 
Cedric Diggory came over to congratulate Harry on 
having acquired such a superb replacement for his 
Nimbus, and Percy’s Ravenclaw girlfriend, Penelope 
Clearwater, asked if she could actually hold the 
Firebolt. 

“Now, now, Penny, no sabotage!” said Percy heartily 
as she examined the Firebolt closely “Penelope and I 
have got a bet on,” he told the team. “Ten Galleons on 
the outcome of the match!” 

Penelope put the Firebolt down again, thanked Harry, 
and went back to her table. 

“Harry — make sure you win,” said Percy, in an 
urgent whisper. “I haven’t got ten Galleons. Yes, I’m 
coming, Penny!” And he bustled off to join her in a 
piece of toast. 

“Sure you can manage that broom, Potter?” said a 
cold, drawling voice. 

Draco Malfoy had arrived for a closer look, Crabbe 
and Goyle right behind him. 

“Yeah, reckon so,” said Harry casually. 

“Got plenty of special features, hasn’t it?” said Malfoy, 
eyes glittering maliciously. “Shame it doesn’t come 
with a parachute — in case you get too near a 
dementor.” 

Crabbe and Goyle sniggered. 

“Pity you can’t attach an extra arm to yours, Malfoy,” 
said Harry. “Then it could catch the Snitch for you.” 



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The Gryffindor team laughed loudly. Malfoy’s pale 
eyes narrowed, and he stalked away. They watched 
him rejoin the rest of the Slytherin team, who put 
their heads together, no doubt asking Malfoy whether 
Harry’s broom really was a Firebolt. 

At a quarter to eleven, the Gryffindor team set off for 
the locker rooms. The weather couldn’t have been 
more different from their match against Hufflepuff. It 
was a clear, cool day with a very light breeze; there 
would be no visibility problems this time, and Harry, 
though nervous, was starting to feel the excitement 
only a Quidditch match could bring. They could hear 
the rest of the school moving into the stadium 
beyond. Harry took off his black school robes, 
removed his wand from his pocket, and stuck it 
inside the T-shirt he was going to wear under his 
Quidditch robes. He only hoped he wouldn’t need it. 
He wondered suddenly whether Professor Lupin was 
in the crowd, watching. 

“You know what we’ve got to do,” said Wood as they 
prepared to leave the locker rooms. “If we lose this 
match, we’re out of the running. Just — just fly like 
you did in practice yesterday, and we’ll be okay!” 

They walked out onto the field to tumultuous 
applause. The Ravenclaw team, dressed in blue, were 
already standing in the middle of the field. Their 
Seeker, Cho Chang, was the only girl on their team. 
She was shorter than Harry by about a head, and 
Harry couldn’t help noticing, nervous as he was, that 
she was extremely pretty. She smiled at Harry as the 
teams faced each other behind their captains, and he 
felt a slight lurch in the region of his stomach that he 
didn’t think had anything to do with nerves. 



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“Wood, Davies, shake hands,” Madam Hooch said 
briskly, and Wood shook hands with the Ravenclaw 
Captain. 

“Mount your brooms ... on my whistle . . . three — two 
— one — ” 

Harry kicked off into the air and the Firebolt zoomed 
higher and faster than any other broom; he soared 
around the stadium and began squinting around for 
the Snitch, listening all the while to the commentary, 
which was being provided by the Weasley twins’ 
friend Lee Jordan. 

“They’re off, and the big excitement this match is the 
Firebolt that Harry Potter is flying for Gryffindor. 
According to Which Broomstick, the Firebolt’s going to 
be the broom of choice for the national teams at this 
year’s World Championship — ” 

“Jordan, would you mind telling us what’s going on in 
the match?” interrupted Professor McGonagall’s voice. 

“Right you are, Professor — just giving a bit of 
background information — the Firebolt, incidentally, 
has a built-in auto-brake and — ” 

“Jordan!” 

“Okay, okay, Gryffindor in possession, Katie Bell of 
Gryffindor heading for goal ...” 

Harry streaked past Katie in the opposite direction, 
gazing around for a glint of gold and noticing that Cho 
Chang was tailing him closely. She was undoubtedly 
a very good flier — she kept cutting across him, 
forcing him to change direction. 



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“Show her your acceleration, Harry!” Fred yelled as he 
whooshed past in pursuit of a Bludger that was 
aiming for Alicia. 

Harry urged the Firebolt forward as they rounded the 
Ravenclaw goal posts and Cho fell behind. Just as 
Katie succeeded in scoring the first goal of the match, 
and the Gryffindor end of the field went wild, he saw 
it — the Snitch was close to the ground, flitting near 
one of the barriers. 

Harry dived; Cho saw what he was doing and tore 
after him — Harry was speeding up, excitement 
flooding him; dives were his speciality, he was ten feet 
away — 

Then a Bludger, hit by one of the Ravenclaw Beaters, 
came pelting out of nowhere; Harry veered off course, 
avoiding it by an inch, and in those few, crucial 
seconds, the Snitch had vanished. 

There was a great “Ooooooh” of disappointment from 
the Gryffindor supporters, but much applause for 
their Beater from the Ravenclaw end. George Weasley 
vented his feelings by hitting the second Bludger 
directly at the offending Beater, who was forced to roll 
right over in midair to avoid it. 

“Gryffindor leads by eighty points to zero, and look at 
that Firebolt go! Potter’s really putting it through its 
paces now, see it turn — Chang’s Comet is just no 
match for it, the Firebolt’s precision-balance is really 
noticeable in these long — ” 

“JORDAN! ARE YOU BEING PAID TO ADVERTISE 
FIREBOLTS? GET ON WITH THE COMMENTARY!” 

Ravenclaw was pulling back; they had now scored 
three goals, which put Gryffindor only fifty points 

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ahead — if Cho got the Snitch before him, Ravenclaw 
would win. Harry dropped lower, narrowly avoiding a 
Ravenclaw Chaser, scanning the field frantically — a 
glint of gold, a flutter of tiny wings — the Snitch was 
circling the Gryffindor goal post — 

Harry accelerated, eyes fixed on the speck of gold 
ahead — but just then, Cho appeared out of thin air, 
blocking him — 

“HARRY, THIS IS NO TIME TO BE A GENTLEMAN!” 
Wood roared as Harry swerved to avoid a collision. 
“KNOCK HER OFF HER BROOM IF YOU HAVE TO!” 

Harry turned and caught sight of Cho; she was 
grinning. The Snitch had vanished again. Harry 
turned his Firebolt upward and was soon twenty feet 
above the game. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw 
Cho following him. ... She’d decided to mark him 
rather than search for the Snitch herself. . . . All right, 
then ... if she wanted to tail him, she’d have to take 
the consequences. ... 

He dived again, and Cho, thinking he’d seen the 
Snitch, tried to follow; Harry pulled out of the dive 
very sharply; she hurtled downward; he rose fast as a 
bullet once more, and then saw it, for the third time 
— the Snitch was glittering way above the field at the 
Ravenclaw end. 

He accelerated; so, many feet below, did Cho. He was 
winning, gaining on the Snitch with every second — 
then — 

“Oh!” screamed Cho, pointing. 

Distracted, Harry looked down. 



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Three dementors, three tall, black, hooded dementors, 
were looking up at him. 

He didn’t stop to think. Plunging a hand down the 
neck of his robes, he whipped out his wand and 
roared, “Expecto patronum).” 

Something silver-white, something enormous, erupted 
from the end of his wand. He knew it had shot 
directly at the dementors but didn’t pause to watch; 
his mind still miraculously clear, he looked ahead — 
he was nearly there. He stretched out the hand still 
grasping his wand and just managed to close his 
fingers over the small, struggling Snitch. 

Madam Hooch’s whistle sounded. Harry turned 
around in midair and saw six scarlet blurs bearing 
down on him; next moment, the whole team was 
hugging him so hard he was nearly pulled off his 
broom. Down below he could hear the roars of the 
Gryffindors in the crowd. 

“That’s my boy!” Wood kept yelling. Alicia, Angelina, 
and Katie had all kissed Harry; Fred had him in a grip 
so tight Harry felt as though his head would come off. 
In complete disarray, the team managed to make its 
way back to the ground. Harry got off his broom and 
looked up to see a gaggle of Gryffindor supporters 
sprinting onto the field, Ron in the lead. Before he 
knew it, he had been engulfed by the cheering crowd. 

“Yes!” Ron yelled, yanking Harry’s arm into the air. 
“Yes! Yes!” 

“Well done, Harry!” said Percy, looking delighted. “Ten 
Galleons to me! Must find Penelope, excuse me — ” 

“Good for you, Harry!” roared Seamus Finnigan. 



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“Ruddy brilliant!” boomed Hagrid over the heads of 
the milling Gryffindors. 

“That was quite some Patronus,” said a voice in 
Harry’s ear. 

Harry turned around to see Professor Lupin, who 
looked both shaken and pleased. 

“The dementors didn’t affect me at all!” Harry said 
excitedly. “I didn’t feel a thing!” 

“That would be because they — er — weren’t 
dementors,” said Professor Lupin. “Come and see — ” 

He led Harry out of the crowd until they were able to 
see the edge of the field. 

“You gave Mr. Malfoy quite a fright,” said Lupin. 

Harry stared. Lying in a crumpled heap on the ground 
were Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Marcus Flint, the 
Slytherin team Captain, all struggling to remove 
themselves from long, black, hooded robes. It looked 
as though Malfoy had been standing on Goyle ’s 
shoulders. Standing over them, with an expression of 
the utmost fury on her face, was Professor 
McGonagall. 

“An unworthy trick!” she was shouting. “A low and 
cowardly attempt to sabotage the Gryffindor Seeker! 
Detention for all of you, and fifty points from 
Slytherin! I shall be speaking to Professor 
Dumbledore about this, make no mistake! Ah, here 
he comes now!” 

If anything could have set the seal on Gryffindor’s 
victory, it was this. Ron, who had fought his way 
through to Harry’s side, doubled up with laughter as 

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they watched Malfoy fighting to extricate himself from 
the robe, Goyle’s head still stuck inside it. 



“Come on, Harry!” said George, fighting his way over. 
“Party! Gryffindor common room, now!” 

“Right,” said Harry, and feeling happier than he had 
in ages, he and the rest of the team led the way, still 
in their scarlet robes, out of the stadium and back up 
to the castle. 



It felt as though they had already won the Quidditch 
Cup; the party went on all day and well into the night. 
Fred and George Weasley disappeared for a couple of 
hours and returned with armfuls of bottles of 
butterbeer, pumpkin fizz, and several bags full of 
Honeydukes sweets. 

“How did you do that?” squealed Angelina Johnson as 
George started throwing Peppermint Toads into the 
crowd. 

“With a little help from Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and 
Prongs,” Fred muttered in Harry’s ear. 

Only one person wasn’t joining in the festivities. 
Hermione, incredibly, was sitting in a corner, 
attempting to read an enormous book entitled Home 
Life and Social Habits of British Muggles. Harry broke 
away from the table where Fred and George had 
started juggling butterbeer bottles and went over to 
her. 

“Did you even come to the match?” he asked her. 

“Of course I did,” said Hermione in a strangely high- 
pitched voice, not looking up. “And I’m very glad we 

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won, and I think you did really well, but I need to 
read this by Monday.” 

“Come on, Hermione, come and have some food,” 
Harry said, looking over at Ron and wondering 
whether he was in a good enough mood to bury the 
hatchet. 

“I can’t, Harry. I’ve still got four hundred and twenty- 
two pages to read!” said Hermione, now sounding 
slightly hysterical. “Anyway ...” She glanced over at 
Ron too. “He doesn’t want me to join in.” 

There was no arguing with this, as Ron chose that 
moment to say loudly, “If Scabbers hadn’t just been 
eaten, he could have had some of those Fudge Flies. 
He used to really like them — ” 

Hermione burst into tears. Before Harry could say or 
do anything, she tucked the enormous book under 
her arm, and, still sobbing, ran toward the staircase 
to the girls’ dormitories and out of sight. 

“Can’t you give her a break?” Harry asked Ron 
quietly. 

“No,” said Ron flatly. “If she just acted like she was 
sorry — but she’ll never admit she’s wrong, Hermione. 
She’s still acting like Scabbers has gone on vacation 
or something.” 

The Gryffindor party ended only when Professor 
McGonagall turned up in her tartan dressing gown 
and hair net at one in the morning, to insist that they 
all go to bed. Harry and Ron climbed the stairs to 
their dormitory, still discussing the match. At last, 
exhausted, Harry climbed into bed, twitched the 
hangings of his four-poster shut to block out a ray of 



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moonlight, lay back, and felt himself almost instantly 
drifting off to sleep. ... 

He had a very strange dream. He was walking 
through a forest, his Firebolt over his shoulder, 
following something silvery- white. It was winding its 
way through the trees ahead, and he could only catch 
glimpses of it between the leaves. Anxious to catch up 
with it, he sped up, but as he moved faster, so did his 
quarry. Harry broke into a run, and ahead he heard 
hooves gathering speed. Now he was running flat out, 
and ahead he could hear galloping. Then he turned a 
corner into a clearing and — 

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH 
! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” 

Harry woke as suddenly as though he’d been hit in 
the face. Disoriented in the total darkness, he 
fumbled with his hangings — he could hear 
movements around him, and Seamus Finnigan’s voice 
from the other side of the room: “What’s going on?” 

Harry thought he heard the dormitory door slam. At 
last finding the divide in his curtains, he ripped them 
back, and at the same moment, Dean Thomas lit his 
lamp. 

Ron was sitting up in bed, the hangings torn from one 
side, a look of utmost terror on his face. 

“Black! Sirius Black! With a knife!” 

“What?” 

“Here! Just now! Slashed the curtains! Woke me up!” 
“You sure you weren’t dreaming, Ron?” said Dean. 



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“Look at the curtains! I tell you, he was here!” 

They all scrambled out of bed; Harry reached the 
dormitory door first, and they sprinted back down the 
staircase. Doors opened behind them, and sleepy 
voices called after them. 

“Who shouted?” 

“What ’re you doing?” 

The common room was lit with the glow of the dying 
fire, still littered with the debris from the party. It was 
deserted. 

“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming, Ron?” 

“I’m telling you, I saw him!” 

“What’s all the noise?” 

“Professor McGonagall told us to go to bed!” 

A few of the girls had come down their staircase, 
pulling on dressing gowns and yawning. Boys, too, 
were reappearing. 

“Excellent, are we carrying on?” said Fred Weasley 
brightly. 

“Everyone back upstairs!” said Percy, 
hurrying into the common room and pinning his 
Head Boy badge to his pajamas as he spoke. 

“Perce — Sirius Black!” said Ron faintly. “In our 
dormitory! With a knife! Woke me up!” 

The common room went very still. 



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“Nonsense!” said Percy, looking startled. “You had too 
much to eat, Ron — had a nightmare — ” 



“I’m telling you — ” 

“Now, really, enough’s enough!” 

Professor McGonagall was back. She slammed the 
portrait behind her as she entered the common room 
and stared furiously around. 

“I am delighted that Gryffindor won the match, but 
this is getting ridiculous! Percy, I expected better of 
you!” 

“I certainly didn’t authorize this, Professor!” said 
Percy, puffing himself up indignantly. “I was just 
telling them all to get back to bed! My brother Ron 
here had a nightmare — ” 

“IT WASNT A NIGHTMARE!” Ron yelled. 

“PROFESSOR, I WOKE UP, AND SIRIUS BLACK WAS 
STANDING OVER ME, HOLDING A KNIFE!” 

Professor McGonagall stared at him. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Weasley, how could he possibly 
have gotten through the portrait hole?” 

“Ask him!” said Ron, pointing a shaking finger at the 
back of Sir Cadogan’s picture. “Ask him if he saw — ” 

Glaring suspiciously at Ron, Professor McGonagall 
pushed the portrait back open and went outside. The 
whole common room listened with bated breath. 

“Sir Cadogan, did you just let a man enter Gryffindor 
Tower?” 

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“Certainly, good lady!” cried Sir Cadogan. 

There was a stunned silence, both inside and outside 
the common room. 

“You — you did?” said Professor McGonagall. “But — 
but the password!” 

“He had ’em!” said Sir Cadogan proudly. “Had the 
whole week’s, my lady! Read ’em off a little piece of 
paper!” 

Professor McGonagall pulled herself back through the 
portrait hole to face the stunned crowd. She was 
white as chalk. 

“Which person,” she said, her voice shaking, “which 
abysmally foolish person wrote down this week’s 
passwords and left them lying around?” 

There was utter silence, broken by the smallest of 
terrified squeaks. Neville Longbottom, trembling from 
head to fluffy-slippered toes, raised his hand slowly 
into the air. 



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SNAPE’S GRUDGE 

No one in Gryffindor Tower slept that night. They 
knew that the castle was being searched again, and 
the whole House stayed awake in the common room, 
waiting to hear whether Black had been caught. 
Professor McGonagall came back at dawn, to tell 
them that he had again escaped. 

Throughout the day, everywhere they went they saw 
signs of tighter security; Professor Flitwick could be 
seen teaching the front doors to recognize a large 
picture of Sirius Black; Filch was suddenly bustling 
up and down the corridors, boarding up everything 
from tiny cracks in the walls to mouse holes. Sir 
Cadogan had been fired. His portrait had been taken 
back to its lonely landing on the seventh floor, and 
the Fat Lady was back. She had been expertly 
restored, but was still extremely nervous, and had 
agreed to return to her job only on condition that she 
was given extra protection. A bunch of surly security 
trolls had been hired to guard her. They paced the 
corridor in a menacing group, talking in grunts and 
comparing the size of their clubs. 

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Harry couldn’t help noticing that the statue of the 
one-eyed witch on the third floor remained unguarded 
and unblocked. It seemed that Fred and George had 
been right in thinking that they — and now Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione — were the only ones who knew 
about the hidden passageway within it. 

“D’you reckon we should tell someone?” Harry asked 
Ron. 

“We know he’s not coming in through Honey duke’s,” 
said Ron dismissively “We’d’ve heard if the shop had 
been broken into.” 

Harry was glad Ron took this view. If the one-eyed 
witch was boarded up too, he would never be able to 
go into Hogsmeade again. 

Ron had become an instant celebrity. For the first 
time in his life, people were paying more attention to 
him than to Harry, and it was clear that Ron was 
rather enjoying the experience. Though still severely 
shaken by the night’s events, he was happy to tell 
anyone who asked what had happened, with a wealth 
of detail. 

"... I was asleep, and I heard this ripping noise, and I 
thought it was in my dream, you know? But then 
there was this draft ... I woke up and one side of the 
hangings on my bed had been pulled down. ... I rolled 
over . . . and I saw him standing over me . . . like a 
skeleton, with loads of filthy hair . . . holding this great 
long knife, must’ve been twelve inches ... and he 
looked at me, and I looked at him, and then I yelled, 
and he scampered. 

“Why, though?” Ron added to Harry as the group of 
second-year girls who had been listening to his 
chilling tale departed. “Why did he run?” 

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Harry had been wondering the same thing. Why had 
Black, having got the wrong bed, not silenced Ron 
and proceeded to Harry? Black had proved twelve 
years ago that he didn’t mind murdering innocent 
people, and this time he had been facing five 
unarmed boys, four of whom were asleep. 

“He must’ve known he’d have a job getting back out of 
the castle once you’d yelled and woken people up,” 
said Harry thoughtfully. “He’d’ve had to kill the whole 
House to get back through the portrait hole . . . then 
he would’ve met the teachers. ...” 

Neville was in total disgrace. Professor McGonagall 
was so furious with him she had banned him from all 
future Hogsmeade visits, given him a detention, and 
forbidden anyone to give him the password into the 
tower. Poor Neville was forced to wait outside the 
common room every night for somebody to let him in, 
while the security trolls leered unpleasantly at him. 
None of these punishments, however, came close to 
matching the one his grandmother had in store for 
him. Two days after Black’s break-in, she sent Neville 
the very worst thing a Hogwarts student could receive 
over breakfast — a Howler. 

The school owls swooped into the Great Hall carrying 
the mail as usual, and Neville choked as a huge barn 
owl landed in front of him, a scarlet envelope clutched 
in its beak. Harry and Ron, who were sitting opposite 
him, recognized the letter as a Howler at once — Ron 
had got one from his mother the year before. 

“Run for it, Neville,” Ron advised. 

Neville didn’t need telling twice. He seized the 
envelope, and holding it before him like a bomb, 
sprinted out of the hall, while the Slytherin table 
exploded with laughter at the sight of him. They 

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heard the Howler go off in the entrance hall — 
Neville’s grandmother’s voice, magically magnified to 
a hundred times its usual volume, shrieking about 
how he had brought shame on the whole family. 

Harry was too busy feeling sorry for Neville to notice 
immediately that he had a letter too. Hedwig got his 
attention by nipping him sharply on the wrist. 

“Ouch! Oh — thanks, Hedwig.” 

Harry tore open the envelope while Hedwig helped 
herself to some of Neville’s cornflakes. The note inside 
said: 

Dear Harry and Ron, 

How about having tea with me this afternoon ’round 
six? 



I’ll come and collect you from the castle. 

WAIT FOR ME IN THE ENTRANCE HALL; 

YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED OUT ON YOUR OWN 
Cheers, 

Hagrid 

“He probably wants to hear all about Black!” said 
Ron. 

So at six o’clock that afternoon, Harry and Ron left 
Gryffindor Tower, passed the security trolls at a run, 
and headed down to the entrance hall. 

Hagrid was already waiting for them. 



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“All right, Hagrid!” said Ron. “S’pose you want to hear 
about Saturday night, do you?” 

“I’ve already heard all abou’ it,” said Hagrid, opening 
the front doors and leading them outside. 

“Oh,” said Ron, looking slightly put out. 

The first thing they saw on entering Hagrid’s cabin 
was Buckbeak, who was stretched out on top of 
Hagrid’s patchwork quilt, his enormous wings folded 
tight to his body, enjoying a large plate of dead 
ferrets. Averting his eyes from this unpleasant sight, 
Harry saw a gigantic, hairy brown suit and a very 
horrible yellow-and-orange tie hanging from the top of 
Hagrid’s wardrobe door. 

“What are they for, Hagrid?” said Harry. 

“Buckbeak’s case against the Committee fer the 
Disposal o’ Dangerous Creatures,” said Hagrid. “This 
Friday. Him an’ me’ll be goin’ down ter London 
together. I’ve booked two beds on the Knight Bus. ...” 

Harry felt a nasty pang of guilt. He had completely 
forgotten that Buckbeak’s trial was so near, and 
judging by the uneasy look on Ron’s face, he had too. 
They had also forgotten their promise about helping 
him prepare Buckbeak’s defense; the arrival of the 
Firebolt had driven it clean out of their minds. 

Hagrid poured them tea and offered them a plate of 
Bath buns, but they knew better than to accept; they 
had had too much experience with Hagrid’s cooking. 

“I got somethin’ ter discuss with you two,” said 
Hagrid, sitting himself between them and looking 
uncharacteristically serious. 



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“What?” said Harry. 

“Hermione,” said Hagrid. 

“What about her?” said Ron. 

“She’s in a righ’ state, that’s what. She’s bin cornin’ 
down ter visit me a lot since Chris ’mas. Bin feelin’ 
lonely. Firs’ yeh weren’ talking to her because o’ the 
Firebolt, now yer not talkin’ to her because her cat — ” 

“ — ate Scabbers!” Ron interjected angrily. 

“Because her cat acted like all cats do,” Hagrid 
continued doggedly. “She’s cried a fair few times, yeh 
know. Goin’ through a rough time at the moment. 
Bitten off more’n she can chew, if yeh ask me, all the 
work she’s tryin’ ter do. Still found time ter help me 
with Buckbeak’s case, mind. ... She’s found some 
really good stuff fer me ... reckon he’ll stand a good 
chance now. ...” 

“Hagrid, we should’ve helped as well — sorry — ” 

Harry began awkwardly. 

“I’m not blamin’ yeh!” said Hagrid, waving Harry’s 
apology aside. “Gawd knows yeh’ve had enough ter be 
gettin’ on with. I’ve seen yeh practicin’ Quidditch ev’ry 
hour o’ the day an’ night — but I gotta tell yeh, I 
thought you two’d value yer friend more’n 
broomsticks or rats. Tha’s all.” 

Harry and Ron exchanged uncomfortable looks. 

“Really upset, she was, when Black nearly stabbed 
yeh, Ron. She’s got her heart in the right place, 
Hermione has, an’ you two not talkin’ to her — ” 



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“If she’d just get rid of that cat, I’d speak to her 
again!” Ron said angrily. “But she’s still sticking up 
for it! It’s a maniac, and she won’t hear a word 
against it!” 

“Ah, well, people can be a bit stupid abou’ their pets,” 
said Hagrid wisely. Behind him, Buckbeak spat a few 
ferret bones onto Hagrid’s pillow. 

They spent the rest of their visit discussing 
Gryffindor’s improved chances for the Quidditch Cup. 
At nine o’clock, Hagrid walked them back up to the 
castle. 

A large group of people was bunched around the 
bulletin board when they returned to the common 
room. 

“Hogsmeade, next weekend!” said Ron, craning over 
the heads to read the new notice. “What d’you 
reckon?” he added quietly to Harry as they went to sit 
down. 

“Well, Filch hasn’t done anything about the passage 
into Honeydukes. ...” Harry said, even more quietly. 

“Harry!” said a voice in his right ear. Harry started 
and looked around at Hermione, who was sitting at 
the table right behind them and clearing a space in 
the wall of books that had been hiding her. 

“Harry, if you go into Hogsmeade again ... I’ll tell 
Professor McGonagall about that map!” said 
Hermione. 

“Can you hear someone talking, Harry?” growled Ron, 
not looking at Hermione. 



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“Ron, how can you let him go with you? After what 
Sirius Black nearly did to youl I mean it, I’ll tell — ” 

“So now you’re trying to get Harry expelled!” said Ron 
furiously. “Haven’t you done enough damage this 
year?” 

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but with a 
soft hiss, Crookshanks leapt onto her lap. Hermione 
took one frightened look at the expression on Ron’s 
face, gathered up Crookshanks, and hurried away 
toward the girls’ dormitories. 

“So how about it?” Ron said to Harry as though there 
had been no interruption. “Come on, last time we 
went you didn’t see anything. You haven’t even been 
inside Zonko’s yet!” 

Harry looked around to check that Hermione was well 
out of earshot. 

“Okay,” he said. “But I’m taking the Invisibility Cloak 
this time.” 

On Saturday morning, Harry packed his Invisibility 
Cloak in his bag, slipped the Marauder’s Map into his 
pocket, and went down to breakfast with everyone 
else. Hermione kept shooting suspicious looks down 
the table at him, but he avoided her eye and was 
careful to let her see him walking back up the marble 
staircase in the entrance hall as everybody else 
proceeded to the front doors. 

“ ’Bye!” Harry called to Ron. “See you when you get 
back!” 

Ron grinned and winked. 



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Harry hurried up to the third floor, slipping the 
Marauder’s Map out of his pocket as he went. 
Crouching behind the one-eyed witch, he smoothed it 
out. A tiny dot was moving in his direction. Harry 
squinted at it. The minuscule writing next to it read 
Neville Longbottom. 

Harry quickly pulled out his wand, muttered, 

“ Dissendium).” and shoved his bag into the statue, but 
before he could climb in himself, Neville came around 
the corner. 

“Harry! I forgot you weren’t going to Hogsmeade 
either!” 

“Hi, Neville,” said Harry, moving swiftly away from the 
statue and pushing the map back into his pocket. 
“What are you up to?” 

“Nothing,” shrugged Neville. “Want a game of 
Exploding Snap?” 

“Er — not now — I was going to go to the library and 
do that vampire essay for Lupin — ” 

“I’ll come with you!” said Neville brightly. “I haven’t 
done it either!” 

“Er — hang on — yeah, I forgot, I finished it last 
night!” 

“Great, you can help me!” said Neville, his round face 
anxious. “I don’t understand that thing about the 
garlic at all — do they have to eat it, or — ” 

He broke off with a small gasp, looking over Harry’s 
shoulder. 

It was Snape. Neville took a quick step behind Harry. 

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“And what are you two doing here?” said Snape, 
coming to a halt and looking from one to the other. 
“An odd place to meet — ” 

To Harry’s immense disquiet, Snape’s black eyes 
flicked to the doorways on either side of them, and 
then to the one-eyed witch. 

“We’re not — meeting here,” said Harry. “We just — 
met here.” 

“Indeed?” said Snape. “You have a habit of turning up 
in unexpected places, Potter, and you are very rarely 
there for no good reason. ... I suggest the pair of you 
return to Gryffindor Tower, where you belong.” 

Harry and Neville set off without another word. As 
they turned the corner, Harry looked back. Snape was 
running one of his hands over the one-eyed witch’s 
head, examining it closely. 

Harry managed to shake Neville off at the Fat Lady by 
telling him the password, then pretending he’d left his 
vampire essay in the library and doubling back. Once 
out of sight of the security trolls, he pulled out the 
map again and held it close to his nose. 

The third floor corridor seemed to be deserted. Harry 
scanned the map carefully and saw, with a leap of 
relief, that the tiny dot labeled Severus Snape was 
now back in its office. 

He sprinted back to the one-eyed witch, opened her 
hump, heaved himself inside, and slid down to meet 
his bag at the bottom of the stone chute. He wiped 
the Marauder’s Map blank again, then set off at a 
run. 



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Harry, completely hidden beneath the Invisibility 
Cloak, emerged into the sunlight outside Honeydukes 
and prodded Ron in the back. 

“It’s me,” he muttered. 

“What kept you?” Ron hissed. 

“Snape was hanging around. ...” 

They set off up the High Street. 

“Where are you?” Ron kept muttering out of the 
corner of his mouth. “Are you still there? This feels 
weird. ...” 

They went to the post office; Ron pretended to be 
checking the price of an owl to Bill in Egypt so that 
Harry could have a good look around. The owls sat 
hooting softly down at him, at least three hundred of 
them; from Great Grays right down to tiny little Scops 
owls (“Local Deliveries Only”), which were so small 
they could have sat in the palm of Harry’s hand. 

Then they visited Zonko’s, which was so packed with 
students Harry had to exercise great care not to tread 
on anyone and cause a panic. There were jokes and 
tricks to fulfill even Fred’s and George’s wildest 
dreams; Harry gave Ron whispered orders and passed 
him some gold from under the cloak. They left 
Zonko’s with their money bags considerably lighter 
than they had been on entering, but their pockets 
bulging with Dungbombs, Hiccup Sweets, Frog Spawn 
Soap, and a Nose-Biting Teacup apiece. 

The day was fine and breezy, and neither of them felt 
like staying indoors, so they walked past the Three 
Broomsticks and climbed a slope to visit the 
Shrieking Shack, the most haunted dwelling in 

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Britain. It stood a little way above the rest of the 
village, and even in daylight was slightly creepy, with 
its boarded windows and dank overgrown garden. 

“Even the Hogwarts ghosts avoid it,” said Ron as they 
leaned on the fence, looking up at it. “I asked Nearly 
Headless Nick ... he says he’s heard a very rough 
crowd lives here. No one can get in. Fred and George 
tried, obviously, but all the entrances are sealed shut. 



Harry, feeling hot from their climb, was just 
considering taking off the cloak for a few minutes 
when they heard voices nearby. Someone was 
climbing toward the house from the other side of the 
hill; moments later, Malfoy had appeared, followed 
closely by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy was speaking. 

"... should have an owl from Father any time now. He 
had to go to the hearing to tell them about my arm . . . 
about how I couldn’t use it for three months. ...” 

Crabbe and Goyle sniggered. 

“I really wish I could hear that great hairy moron 
trying to defend himself ... There’s no ’arm in ’im, 
’onest — ’ . . . that hippogriff’s as good as dead — ” 

Malfoy suddenly caught sight of Ron. His pale face 
split in a malevolent grin. 

“What are you doing, Weasley?” 

Malfoy looked up at the crumbling house behind Ron. 

“Suppose you’d love to live here, wouldn’t you, 
Weasley? Dreaming about having your own bedroom? 

I heard your family all sleep in one room — is that 
true?” 

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Harry seized the back of Ron’s robes to stop him from 
leaping on Malfoy. 

“Leave him to me,” he hissed in Ron’s ear. 

The opportunity was too perfect to miss. Harry crept 
silently around behind Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, 
bent down, and scooped a large handful of mud out of 
the path. 

“We were just discussing your friend Hagrid,” Malfoy 
said to Ron. “Just trying to imagine what he’s saying 
to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous 
Creatures. D’you think he’ll cry when they cut off his 
hippogriff’s — ” 

SPLAT. 

Malfoy’s head jerked forward as the mud hit him; his 
silver-blond hair was suddenly dripping in muck. 

“What the — ?” 

Ron had to hold onto the fence to keep himself 
standing, he was laughing so hard. Malfoy, Crabbe, 
and Goyle spun stupidly on the spot, staring wildly 
around, Malfoy trying to wipe his hair clean. 

“What was that? Who did that?” 

“Very haunted up here, isn’t it?” said Ron, with the 
air of one commenting on the weather. 

Crabbe and Goyle were looking scared. Their bulging 
muscles were no use against ghosts. Malfoy was 
staring madly around at the deserted landscape. 



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Harry sneaked along the path, where a particularly 
sloppy puddle yielded some foul-smelling, green 
sludge. 

SPLATTER. 

Crabbe and Goyle caught some this time. Goyle 
hopped furiously on the spot, trying to rub it out of 
his small, dull eyes. 

“It came from over there!” said Malfoy, wiping his 
face, and staring at a spot some six feet to the left of 
Harry. 

Crabbe blundered forward, his long arms 
outstretched like a zombie. Harry dodged around him, 
picked up a stick, and lobbed it at Crabbe ’s back. 
Harry doubled up with silent laughter as Crabbe did a 
kind of pirouette in midair, trying to see who had 
thrown it. As Ron was the only person Crabbe could 
see, it was Ron he started toward, but Harry stuck 
out his leg. Crabbe stumbled — and his huge, flat foot 
caught the hem of Harry’s cloak. Harry felt a great 
tug, then the cloak slid off his face. 

For a split second, Malfoy stared at him. 

“AAARGH!” he yelled, pointing at Harry’s head. Then 
he turned tail and ran, at breakneck speed, back 
down the hill, Crabbe and Goyle behind him. 

Harry tugged the cloak up again, but the damage was 
done. 

“Harry!” Ron said, stumbling forward and staring 
hopelessly at the point where Harry had disappeared, 
“you’d better run for it! If Malfoy tells anyone — you’d 
better get back to the castle, quick — ” 



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“See you later,” said Harry, and without another 
word, he tore back down the path toward Hogsmeade. 



Would Malfoy believe what he had seen? Would 
anyone believe Malfoy? Nobody knew about the 
Invisibility Cloak — nobody except Dumbledore. 
Harry’s stomach turned over — Dumbledore would 
know exactly what had happened, if Malfoy said 
anything — 

Back into Honeydukes, back down the cellar steps, 
across the stone floor, through the trapdoor — Harry 
pulled off the cloak, tucked it under his arm, and ran, 
flat out, along the passage. ... Malfoy would get back 
first . . . how long would it take him to find a teacher? 
Panting, a sharp pain in his side, Harry didn’t slow 
down until he reached the stone slide. He would have 
to leave the cloak where it was, it was too much of a 
giveaway in case Malfoy had tipped off a teacher — he 
hid it in a shadowy corner, then started to climb, fast 
as he could, his sweaty hands slipping on the sides of 
the chute. He reached the inside of the witch’s hump, 
tapped it with his wand, stuck his head through, and 
hoisted himself out; the hump closed, and just as 
Harry jumped out from behind the statue, he heard 
quick footsteps approaching. 

It was Snape. He approached Harry at a swift walk, 
his black robes swishing, then stopped in front of 
him. 

“So,” he said. 

There was a look of suppressed triumph about him. 
Harry tried to look innocent, all too aware of his 
sweaty face and his muddy hands, which he quickly 
hid in his pockets. 

“Come with me, Potter,” said Snape. 

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Harry followed him downstairs, trying to wipe his 
hands clean on the inside of his robes without Snape 
noticing. They walked down the stairs to the 
dungeons and then into Snape’s office. 

Harry had been in here only once before, and he had 
been in very serious trouble then too. Snape had 
acquired a few more slimy horrible things in jars 
since last time, all standing on shelves behind his 
desk, glinting in the firelight and adding to the 
threatening atmosphere. 

“Sit,” said Snape. 

Harry sat. Snape, however, remained standing. 

“Mr. Malfoy has just been to see me with a strange 
story, Potter,” said Snape. 

Harry didn’t say anything. 

“He tells me that he was up by the Shrieking Shack 
when he ran into Weasley — apparently alone.” 

Still, Harry didn’t speak. 

“Mr. Malfoy states that he was standing talking to 
Weasley, when a large amount of mud hit him in the 
back of the head. How do you think that could have 
happened?” 

Harry tried to look mildly surprised. 

“I don’t know, Professor.” 

Snape’s eyes were boring into Harry’s. It was exactly 
like trying to stare down a hippogriff. Harry tried hard 
not to blink. 



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“Mr. Malfoy then saw an extraordinary apparition. 

Can you imagine what it might have been, Potter?” 

“No,” said Harry, now trying to sound innocently 
curious. 

“It was your head, Potter. Floating in midair.” 

There was a long silence. 

“Maybe he’d better go to Madam Pomfrey,” said Harry. 
“If he’s seeing things like — ” 

“What would your head have been doing in 
Hogsmeade, Potter?” said Snape softly. “Your head is 
not allowed in Hogsmeade. No part of your body has 
permission to be in Hogsmeade.” 

“I know that,” said Harry, striving to keep his face free 
of guilt or fear. “It sounds like Malfoy’s having 
hallucin — ” 

“Malfoy is not having hallucinations,” snarled Snape, 
and he bent down, a hand on each arm of Harry’s 
chair, so that their faces were a foot apart. “If your 
head was in Hogsmeade, so was the rest of you.” 

“I’ve been up in Gryffindor Tower,” said Harry. “Like 
you told — ” 

“Can anyone confirm that?” 

Harry didn’t say anything. Snape’s thin mouth curled 
into a horrible smile. 

“So,” he said, straightening up again. “Everyone from 
the Minister of Magic downward has been trying to 
keep famous Harry Potter safe from Sirius Black. But 
famous Harry Potter is a law unto himself. Let the 

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ordinary people worry about his safety! Famous Harry 
Potter goes where he wants to, with no thought for 
the consequences.” 

Harry stayed silent. Snape was trying to provoke him 
into telling the truth. He wasn’t going to do it. Snape 
had no proof — yet. 

“How extraordinarily like your father you are, Potter,” 
Snape said suddenly, his eyes glinting. “He too was 
exceedingly arrogant. A small amount of talent on the 
Quidditch field made him think he was a cut above 
the rest of us too. Strutting around the place with his 
friends and admirers . . . The resemblance between you 
is uncanny.” 

“My dad didn’t strut,” said Harry, before he could stop 
himself. “And neither do I.” 

“Your father didn’t set much store by rules either,” 
Snape went on, pressing his advantage, his thin face 
full of malice. “Rules were for lesser mortals, not 
Quidditch Cup-winners. His head was so swollen — ” 

“SHUT UP!” 

Harry was suddenly on his feet. Rage such as he had 
not felt since his last night in Privet Drive was 
coursing through him. He didn’t care that Snape’s 
face had gone rigid, the black eyes flashing 
dangerously. 

“ What did you say to me, Potter?” 

“I told you to shut up about my dad!” Harry yelled. “I 
know the truth, all right? He saved your life! 
Dumbledore told me! You wouldn’t even be here if it 
wasn’t for my dad!” 



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Snape’s sallow skin had gone the color of sour milk. 

“And did the headmaster tell you the circumstances 
in which your father saved my life?” he whispered. 

“Or did he consider the details too unpleasant for 
precious Potter’s delicate ears?” 

Harry bit his lip. He didn’t know what had happened 
and didn’t want to admit it — but Snape seemed to 
have guessed the truth. 

“I would hate for you to run away with a false idea of 
your father, Potter,” he said, a terrible grin twisting 
his face. “Have you been imagining some act of 
glorious heroism? Then let me correct you — your 
saintly father and his friends played a highly amusing 
joke on me that would have resulted in my death if 
your father hadn’t got cold feet at the last moment. 
There was nothing brave about what he did. He was 
saving his own skin as much as mine. Had their joke 
succeeded, he would have been expelled from 
Hogwarts.” 

Snape’s uneven, yellowish teeth were bared. 

“Turn out your pockets, Potter!” he spat suddenly. 

Harry didn’t move. There was a pounding in his ears. 

“Turn out your pockets, or we go straight to the 
headmaster! Pull them out, Potter!” 

Cold with dread, Harry slowly pulled out the bag of 
Zonko’s tricks and the Marauder’s Map. 

Snape picked up the Zonko’s bag. 



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“Ron gave them to me,” said Harry, praying he’d get a 
chance to tip Ron off before Snape saw him. “He — 
brought them back from Hogsmeade last time — ” 

“Indeed? And you’ve been carrying them around ever 
since? How very touching . . . and what is this?” 

Snape had picked up the map. Harry tried with all his 
might to keep his face impassive. 

“Spare bit of parchment,” he said with a shrug. 

Snape turned it over, his eyes on Harry. 

“Surely you don’t need such a very old piece of 
parchment?” he said. “Why don’t I just — throw this 
away?” 

His hand moved toward the fire. 

“No!” Harry said quickly. 

“So!” said Snape, his long nostrils quivering. “Is this 
another treasured gift from Mr. Weasley? Or is it — 
something else? A letter, perhaps, written in invisible 
ink? Or — instructions to get into Hogsmeade without 
passing the dementors?” 

Harry blinked. Snape ’s eyes gleamed. 

“Let me see, let me see ... ,” he muttered, taking out 
his wand and smoothing the map out on his desk. 
“Reveal your secret!” he said, touching the wand to 
the parchment. 

Nothing happened. Harry clenched his hands to stop 
them from shaking. 



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“Show yourself!” Snape said, tapping the map 
sharply. 

It stayed blank. Harry was taking deep, calming 
breaths. 

“Professor Severus Snape, master of this school, 
commands you to yield the information you conceal!” 
Snape said, hitting the map with his wand. 

As though an invisible hand were writing upon it, 
words appeared on the smooth surface of the map. 

“Mr. Moony presents his compliments to Professor 
Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large 
nose out of other people’s business.” 

Snape froze. Harry stared, dumbstruck, at the 
message. But the map didn’t stop there. More writing 
was appearing beneath the first. 

“Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony, and would like to 
add that Professor Snape is an ugly git.” 

It would have been very funny if the situation hadn’t 
been so serious. And there was more. ... 

“Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment 
that an idiot like that ever became a professor.” 

Harry closed his eyes in horror. When he’d opened 
them, the map had had its last word. 

“Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and 
advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball.” 

Harry waited for the blow to fall. 

“So ... ,” said Snape softly. “We’ll see about this. ...” 

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He strode across to his fire, seized a fistful of 
glittering powder from ajar on the fireplace, and 
threw it into the flames. 

“Lupin!” Snape called into the fire. “I want a word!” 

Utterly bewildered, Harry stared at the fire. A large 
shape had appeared in it, revolving very fast. Seconds 
later, Professor Lupin was clambering out of the 
fireplace, brushing ash off his shabby robes. 

“You called, Severus?” said Lupin mildly. 

“I certainly did,” said Snape, his face contorted with 
fury as he strode back to his desk. “I have just asked 
Potter to empty his pockets. He was carrying this.” 

Snape pointed at the parchment, on which the words 
of Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs 
were still shining. An odd, closed expression appeared 
on Lupin’s face. 

“Well?” said Snape. 

Lupin continued to stare at the map. Harry had the 
impression that Lupin was doing some very quick 
thinking. 

“Well?” said Snape again. “This parchment is plainly 
full of Dark Magic. This is supposed to be your area of 
expertise, Lupin. Where do you imagine Potter got 
such a thing?” 

Lupin looked up and, by the merest half-glance in 
Harry’s direction, warned him not to interrupt. 

“Full of Dark Magic?” he repeated mildly. “Do you 
really think so, Severus? It looks to me as though it is 
merely a piece of parchment that insults anybody who 

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reads it. Childish, but surely not dangerous? I 
imagine Harry got it from a joke shop — ” 

“Indeed?” said Snape. His jaw had gone rigid with 
anger. “You think a joke shop could supply him with 
such a thing? You don’t think it more likely that he 
got it directly from the manufacturers?” 

Harry didn’t understand what Snape was talking 
about. Nor, apparently, did Lupin. 

“You mean, by Mr. Wormtail or one of these people?” 
he said. “Harry, do you know any of these men?” 

“No,” said Harry quickly. 

“You see, Severus?” said Lupin, turning back to 
Snape. “It looks like a Zonko product to me — ” 

Right on cue, Ron came bursting into the office. He 
was completely out of breath, and stopped just short 
of Snape ’s desk, clutching the stitch in his chest and 
trying to speak. 

“I — gave — Harry — that — stuff,” he choked. 
“Bought — it ... in Zonko ’s ... ages — ago ...” 

“Well!” said Lupin, clapping his hands together and 
looking around cheerfully. “That seems to clear that 
up! Severus, I’ll take this back, shall I?” He folded the 
map and tucked it inside his robes. “Harry, Ron, 
come with me, I need a word about my vampire essay 
— excuse us, Severus — ” 

Harry didn’t dare look at Snape as they left his office. 
He, Ron, and Lupin walked all the way back into the 
entrance hall before speaking. Then Harry turned to 
Lupin. 



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“Professor, I — ” 



“I don’t want to hear explanations,” said Lupin 
shortly. He glanced around the empty entrance hall 
and lowered his voice. “I happen to know that this 
map was confiscated by Mr. Filch many years ago. 

Yes, I know it’s a map,” he said as Harry and Ron 
looked amazed. “I don’t want to know how it fell into 
your possession. I am, however, astounded that you 
didn’t hand it in. Particularly after what happened the 
last time a student left information about the castle 
lying around. And I can’t let you have it back, Harry.” 

Harry had expected that, and was too keen for 
explanations to protest. 

“Why did Snape think I’d got it from the 
manufacturers?” 

“Because ... ,” Lupin hesitated, “because these 
mapmakers would have wanted to lure you out of 
school. They’d think it extremely entertaining.” 

“Do you know them?” said Harry, impressed. 

“We’ve met,” he said shortly. He was looking at Harry 
more seriously than ever before. 

“Don’t expect me to cover up for you again, Harry. I 
cannot make you take Sirius Black seriously. But I 
would have thought that what you have heard when 
the dementors draw near you would have had more of 
an effect on you. Your parents gave their lives to keep 
you alive, Harry. A poor way to repay them — 
gambling their sacrifice for a bag of magic tricks.” 

He walked away, leaving Harry feeling worse by far 
than he had at any point in Snape ’s office. Slowly, he 
and Ron mounted the marble staircase. As Harry 

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passed the one-eyed witch, he remembered the 
Invisibility Cloak — it was still down there, but he 
didn’t dare go and get it. 



“It’s my fault,” said Ron abruptly. “I persuaded you to 
go. Lupin’s right, it was stupid, we shouldn’t’ve done 



it — ” 



He broke off; they reached the corridor where the 
security trolls were pacing, and Hermione was 
walking toward them. One look at her face convinced 
Harry that she had heard what had happened. His 
heart plummeted — had she told Professor 
McGonagall? 

“Come to have a good gloat?” said Ron savagely as 
she stopped in front of them. “Or have you just been 
to tell on us?” 

“No,” said Hermione. She was holding a letter in her 
hands and her lip was trembling. “I just thought you 
ought to know ... Hagrid lost his case. Buckbeak is 
going to be executed.” 



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THE QUIDDITCH FINAL 

“He — he sent me this,” Hermione said, holding out 
the letter. 

Harry took it. The parchment was damp, and 
enormous teardrops had smudged the ink so badly in 
places that it was very difficult to read. 

Dear Hermione, 

We lost I’m allowed to bring him back to Hogwarts. 
Execution date to be fixed. 

Beaky has enjoyed London. 

I won’t forget all the help you gave us. 

Hagrid 

“They can’t do this,” said Harry. “They can’t. 
Buckbeak isn’t dangerous.” 



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“Malfoy’s dad’s frightened the Committee into it,” said 
Hermione, wiping her eyes. “You know what he’s like. 
They’re a bunch of doddery old fools, and they were 
scared. There’ll be an appeal, though, there always is. 
Only I can’t see any hope. ... Nothing will have 
changed.” 

“Yeah, it will,” said Ron fiercely. “You won’t have to do 
all the work alone this time, Hermione. I’ll help.” 

“Oh, Ron!” 

Hermione flung her arms around Ron’s neck and 
broke down completely. Ron, looking quite terrified, 
patted her very awkwardly on the top of the head. 
Finally, Hermione drew away. 

“Ron, I’m really, really sorry about Scabbers ... ,” she 
sobbed. 

“Oh — well — he was old,” said Ron, looking 
thoroughly relieved that she had let go of him. “And 
he was a bit useless. You never know, Mum and Dad 
might get me an owl now.” 

The safety measures imposed on the students since 
Black’s second break-in made it impossible for Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione to go and visit Hagrid in the 
evenings. Their only chance of talking to him was 
during Care of Magical Creatures lessons. 

He seemed numb with shock at the verdict. 

“S’all my fault. Got all tongue-tied. They was all sittin’ 
there in black robes an’ I kep’ droppin’ me notes and 
forgettin’ all them dates yeh looked up fer me, 
Hermione. An’ then Lucius Malfoy stood up an’ said 
his bit, and the Committee jus’ did exac’ly what he 
told ’em. ...” 

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“There’s still the appeal!” said Ron fiercely. “Don’t give 
up yet, we’re working on it!” 

They were walking back up to the castle with the rest 
of the class. Ahead they could see Malfoy, who was 
walking with Crabbe and Goyle, and kept looking 
back, laughing derisively. 

“S’no good, Ron,” said Hagrid sadly as they reached 
the castle steps. “That Committee’s in Lucius Malfoy ’s 
pocket. I’m jus’ gonna make sure the rest o’ Beaky’s 
time is the happiest he’s ever had. I owe him that. ...” 

Hagrid turned around and hurried back toward his 
cabin, his face buried in his handkerchief. 

“Look at him blubber!” 

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had been standing just 
inside the castle doors, listening. 

“Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic?” said 
Malfoy. “And he’s supposed to be our teacher!” 

Harry and Ron both made furious moves toward 
Malfoy, but Hermione got there first — SMACK! 

She had slapped Malfoy across the face with all the 
strength she could muster. Malfoy staggered. Harry, 
Ron, Crabbe, and Goyle stood flabbergasted as 
Hermione raised her hand again. 

“Don’t you dare call Hagrid pathetic, you foul — you 
evil — ” 

“Hermione!” said Ron weakly, and he tried to grab her 
hand as she swung it back. 

“Get off, Ron!” 

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Hermione pulled out her wand. Malfoy stepped 
backward. Crabbe and Goyle looked at him for 
instructions, thoroughly bewildered. 

“C’mon,” Malfoy muttered, and in a moment, all three 
of them had disappeared into the passageway to the 
dungeons. 

“Hermionel” Ron said again, sounding both stunned 
and impressed. 

“Harry, you’d better beat him in the Quidditch final!” 
Hermione said shrilly. “You just better had, because I 
can’t stand it if Slytherin wins!” 

“We’re due in Charms,” said Ron, still goggling at 
Hermione. “We’d better go.” 

They hurried up the marble staircase toward 
Professor Flitwick’s classroom. 

“You’re late, boys!” said Professor Flitwick reprovingly 
as Harry opened the classroom door. “Come along, 
quickly, wands out, we’re experimenting with 
Cheering Charms today, we’ve already divided into 
pairs — ” 

Harry and Ron hurried to a desk at the back and 
opened their bags. Ron looked behind him. 

“Where’s Hermione gone?” 

Harry looked around too. Hermione hadn’t entered 
the classroom, yet Harry knew she had been right 
next to him when he had opened the door. 

“That’s weird,” said Harry, staring at Ron. “Maybe — 
maybe she went to the bathroom or something?” 



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But Hermione didn’t turn up all lesson. 

“She could’ve done with a Cheering Charm on her 
too,” said Ron as the class left for lunch, all grinning 
broadly — the Cheering Charms had left them with a 
feeling of great contentment. 

Hermione wasn’t at lunch either. By the time they 
had finished their apple pie, the after-effects of the 
Cheering Charms were wearing off, and Harry and 
Ron had started to get slightly worried. 

“You don’t think Malfoy did something to her?” Ron 
said anxiously as they hurried upstairs toward 
Gryffindor Tower. 

They passed the security trolls, gave the Fat Lady the 
password (“Flibbertigibbet”), and scrambled through 
the portrait hole into the common room. 

Hermione was sitting at a table, fast asleep, her head 
resting on an open Arithmancy book. They went to sit 
down on either side of her. Harry prodded her awake. 

“Wh — what?” said Hermione, waking with a start 
and staring wildly around. “Is it time to go? W — 
which lesson have we got now? 

“Divination, but it’s not for another twenty minutes,” 
said Harry. “Hermione, why didn’t you come to 
Charms?” 

“What? Oh no!” Hermione squeaked. “I forgot to go to 
Charms!” 

“But how could you forget?” said Harry. “You were 
with us till we were right outside the classroom!” 



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“I don’t believe it!” Hermione wailed. “Was Professor 
Flitwick angry? Oh, it was Malfoy, I was thinking 
about him and I lost track of things!” 

“You know what, Hermione?” said Ron, looking down 
at the enormous Arithmancy book Hermione had 
been using as a pillow. “I reckon you’re cracking up. 
You’re trying to do too much.” 

“No, I’m not!” said Hermione, brushing her hair out of 
her eyes and staring hopelessly around for her bag. “I 
just made a mistake, that’s all! I’d better go and see 
Professor Flitwick and say sorry. ... I’ll see you in 
Divination!” 

Hermione joined them at the foot of the ladder to 
Professor Trelawney’s classroom twenty minutes later, 
looking extremely harassed. 

“I can’t believe I missed Cheering Charms! And I bet 
they come up in our exams; Professor Flitwick hinted 
they might!” 

Together they climbed the ladder into the dim, stifling 
tower room. Glowing on every little table was a crystal 
ball full of pearly white mist. Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione sat down together at the same rickety table. 

“I thought we weren’t starting crystal balls until next 
term,” Ron muttered, casting a wary eye around for 
Professor Trelawney, in case she was lurking nearby. 

“Don’t complain, this means we’ve finished 
palmistry,” Harry muttered back. “I was getting sick 
of her flinching every time she looked at my hands.” 

“Good day to you!” said the familiar, misty voice, and 
Professor Trelawney made her usual dramatic 
entrance out of the shadows. Parvati and Lavender 

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quivered with excitement, their faces lit by the milky 
glow of their crystal ball. 



“I have decided to introduce the crystal ball a little 
earlier than I had planned,” said Professor Trelawney, 
sitting with her back to the fire and gazing around. 
“The fates have informed me that your examination in 
June will concern the Orb, and I am anxious to give 
you sufficient practice.” 

Hermione snorted. 

“Well, honestly ... ‘the fates have informed her’ ... who 
sets the exam? She does! What an amazing 
prediction!” she said, not troubling to keep her voice 
low. Harry and Ron choked back laughs. 

It was hard to tell whether Professor Trelawney had 
heard them, as her face was hidden in shadow. She 
continued, however, as though she had not. 

“Crystal gazing is a particularly refined art,” she said 
dreamily. “I do not expect any of you to See when first 
you peer into the Orb’s infinite depths. We shall start 
by practicing relaxing the conscious mind and 
external eyes” — Ron began to snigger uncontrollably 
and had to stuff his fist in his mouth to stifle the 
noise — “so as to clear the Inner Eye and the 
superconscious. Perhaps, if we are lucky, some of you 
will See before the end of the class.” 

And so they began. Harry, at least, felt extremely 
foolish, staring blankly at the crystal ball, trying to 
keep his mind empty when thoughts such as “this is 
stupid” kept drifting across it. It didn’t help that Ron 
kept breaking into silent giggles and Hermione kept 
tutting. 



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“Seen anything yet?” Harry asked them after a 
quarter of an hour’s quiet crystal gazing. 

“Yeah, there’s a burn on this table,” said Ron, 
pointing. “Someone’s spilled their candle.” 

“This is such a waste of time,” Hermione hissed. “I 
could be practicing something useful. I could be 
catching up on Cheering Charms — ” 

Professor Trelawney rustled past. 

“Would anyone like me to help them interpret the 
shadowy portents within their Orb?” she murmured 
over the clinking of her bangles. 

“I don’t need help,” Ron whispered. “It’s obvious what 
this means. There’s going to be loads of fog tonight.” 

Both Harry and Hermione burst out laughing. 

“Now, really!” said Professor Trelawney as everyone’s 
heads turned in their direction. Parvati and Lavender 
were looking scandalized. “You are disturbing the 
clairvoyant vibrations!” She approached their table 
and peered into their crystal ball. Harry felt his heart 
sinking. He was sure he knew what was coming — 

“There is something here!” Professor Trelawney 
whispered, lowering her face to the ball, so that it was 
reflected twice in her huge glasses. “Something 
moving . . . but what is it?” 

Harry was prepared to bet everything he owned, 
including his Firebolt, that it wasn’t good news, 
whatever it was. And sure enough — 

“My dear ... ,” Professor Trelawney breathed, gazing 
up at Harry. “It is here, plainer than ever before ... my 

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dear, stalking toward you, growing ever closer ... the 
Gr — ” 



“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” said Hermione loudly. “Not 
that ridiculous Grim again\” 

Professor Trelawney raised her enormous eyes to 
Hermione ’s face. Parvati whispered something to 
Lavender, and they both glared at Hermione too. 
Professor Trelawney stood up, surveying Hermione 
with unmistakable anger. 

“I am sorry to say that from the moment you have 
arrived in this class, my dear, it has been apparent 
that you do not have what the noble art of Divination 
requires. Indeed, I don’t remember ever meeting a 
student whose mind was so hopelessly mundane.” 

There was a moment’s silence. Then — 

“Fine!” said Hermione suddenly, getting up and 
cramming Unfogging the Future back into her bag. 
“Fine!” she repeated, swinging the bag over her 
shoulder and almost knocking Ron off his chair. “I 
give up! I’m leaving!” 

And to the whole class’s amazement, Hermione strode 
over to the trapdoor, kicked it open, and climbed 
down the ladder out of sight. 

It took a few minutes for the class to settle down 
again. Professor Trelawney seemed to have forgotten 
all about the Grim. She turned abruptly from Harry 
and Ron’s table, breathing rather heavily as she 
tugged her gauzy shawl more closely to her. 

“Ooooo!” said Lavender suddenly, making everyone 
start. “Oooooo, Professor Trelawney, I’ve just 
remembered! You saw her leaving, didn’t you? Didn’t 

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you, Professor? ‘Around Easter, one of our number will 
leave us forever*.’ You said it ages ago, Professor!” 

Professor Trelawney gave her a dewy smile. 

“Yes, my dear, I did indeed know that Miss Granger 
would be leaving us. One hopes, however, that one 
might have mistaken the Signs. ... The Inner Eye can 
be a burden, you know. ...” 

Lavender and Parvati looked deeply impressed, and 
moved over so that Professor Trelawney could join 
their table instead. 

“Some day Hermione’s having, eh?” Ron muttered to 
Harry, looking awed. 

“Yeah ...” 

Harry glanced into the crystal ball but saw nothing 
but swirling white mist. Had Professor Trelawney 
really seen the Grim again? Would he? The last thing 
he needed was another near-fatal accident, with the 
Quidditch final drawing ever nearer. 

The Easter holidays were not exactly relaxing. The 
third years had never had so much homework. Neville 
Longbottom seemed close to a nervous collapse, and 
he wasn’t the only one. 

“Call this a holiday!” Seamus Finnigan roared at the 
common room one afternoon. “The exams are ages 
away, what’re they playing at?” 

But nobody had as much to do as Hermione. Even 
without Divination, she was taking more subjects 
than anybody else. She was usually last to leave the 
common room at night, first to arrive at the library 



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the next morning; she had shadows like Lupin’s 
under her eyes, and seemed constantly close to tears. 

Ron had taken over responsibility for Buckbeak’s 
appeal. When he wasn’t doing his own work, he was 
poring over enormously thick volumes with names 
like The Handbook of Hippogriff Psychology and Fowl 
or Foul? A Study of Hippogriff Brutality. He was so 
absorbed, he even forgot to be horrible to 
Crookshanks. 

Harry, meanwhile, had to fit in his homework around 
Quidditch practice every day, not to mention endless 
discussions of tactics with Wood. The Gryffindor- 
Slytherin match would take place on the first 
Saturday after the Easter holidays. Slytherin was 
leading the tournament by exactly two hundred 
points. This meant (as Wood constantly reminded his 
team) that they needed to win the match by more 
than that amount to win the Cup. It also meant that 
the burden of winning fell largely on Harry, because 
capturing the Snitch was worth one hundred and fifty 
points. 

“So you must catch it only if we’re more than fifty 
points up,” Wood told Harry constantly. “Only if we’re 
more than fifty points up, Harry, or we win the match 
but lose the Cup. You’ve got that, haven’t you? You 
must catch the Snitch only if we’re — ” 

“I KNOW, OLIVER!” Harry yelled. 

The whole of Gryffindor House was obsessed with the 
coming match. Gryffindor hadn’t won the Quidditch 
Cup since the legendary Charlie Weasley (Ron’s 
second oldest brother) had been Seeker. But Harry 
doubted whether any of them, even Wood, wanted to 
win as much as he did. The enmity between Harry 
and Malfoy was at its highest point ever. Malfoy was 
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still smarting about the mud-throwing incident in 
Hogsmeade and was even more furious that Harry 
had somehow wormed his way out of punishment. 
Harry hadn’t forgotten Malfoy’s attempt to sabotage 
him in the match against Ravenclaw, but it was the 
matter of Buckbeak that made him most determined 
to beat Malfoy in front of the entire school. 

Never, in anyone’s memory, had a match approached 
in such a highly charged atmosphere. By the time the 
holidays were over, tension between the two teams 
and their Houses was at the breaking point. A 
number of small scuffles broke out in the corridors, 
culminating in a nasty incident in which a Gryffindor 
fourth year and a Slytherin sixth year ended up in the 
hospital wing with leeks sprouting out of their ears. 

Harry was having a particularly bad time of it. He 
couldn’t walk to class without Slytherins sticking out 
their legs and trying to trip him up; Crabbe and Goyle 
kept popping up wherever he went, and slouching 
away looking disappointed when they saw him 
surrounded by people. Wood had given instructions 
that Harry should be accompanied everywhere he 
went, in case the Slytherins tried to put him out of 
action. The whole of Gryffindor House took up the 
challenge enthusiastically, so that it was impossible 
for Harry to get to classes on time because he was 
surrounded by a vast, chattering crowd. Harry was 
more concerned for his Firebolt’s safety than his own. 
When he wasn’t flying it, he locked it securely in his 
trunk and frequently dashed back up to Gryffindor 
Tower at break times to check that it was still there. 

All usual pursuits were abandoned in the Gryffindor 
common room the night before the match. Even 
Hermione had put down her books. 

“I can’t work, I can’t concentrate,” she said nervously. 

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There was a great deal of noise. Fred and George 
Weasley were dealing with the pressure by being 
louder and more exuberant than ever. Oliver Wood 
was crouched over a model of a Quidditch field in the 
corner, prodding little figures across it with his wand 
and muttering to himself. Angelina, Alicia, and Katie 
were laughing at Fred’s and George’s jokes. Harry was 
sitting with Ron and Hermione, removed from the 
center of things, trying not to think about the next 
day, because every time he did, he had the horrible 
sensation that something very large was fighting to 
get out of his stomach. 

“You’re going to be fine,” Hermione told him, though 
she looked positively terrified. 

“You’ve got a Firebolti” said Ron. 

“Yeah ... ,” said Harry, his stomach writhing. 

It came as a relief when Wood suddenly stood up and 
yelled, “Team! Bed!” 



Harry slept badly. First he dreamed that he had 
overslept, and that Wood was yelling, “Where were 
you? We had to use Neville instead!” Then he dreamed 
that Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherin team arrived 
for the match riding dragons. He was flying at 
breakneck speed, trying to avoid a spurt of flames 
from Malfoy ’s steed’s mouth, when he realized he had 
forgotten his Firebolt. He fell through the air and 
woke with a start. 

It was a few seconds before Harry remembered that 
the match hadn’t taken place yet, that he was safe in 
bed, and that the Slytherin team definitely wouldn’t 
be allowed to play on dragons. He was feeling very 

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thirsty. Quietly as he could, he got out of his four- 
poster and went to pour himself some water from the 
silver jug beneath the window. 

The grounds were still and quiet. No breath of wind 
disturbed the treetops in the Forbidden Forest; the 
Whomping Willow was motionless and innocent- 
looking. It looked as though the conditions for the 
match would be perfect. 

Harry set down his goblet and was about to turn back 
to his bed when something caught his eye. An animal 
of some kind was prowling across the silvery lawn. 

Harry dashed to his bedside table, snatched up his 
glasses, and put them on, then hurried back to the 
window. It couldn’t be the Grim — not now — not 
right before the match — 

He peered out at the grounds again and, after a 
minute’s frantic searching, spotted it. It was skirting 
the edge of the forest now. ... It wasn’t the Grim at all 
...it was a cat. ... Harry clutched the window ledge in 
relief as he recognized the bottlebrush tail. It was only 
Crookshanks. ... 

Or was it only Crookshanks? Harry squinted, 
pressing his nose flat against the glass. Crookshanks 
seemed to have come to a halt. Harry was sure he 
could see something else moving in the shadow of the 
trees too. 

And just then, it emerged — a gigantic, shaggy black 
dog, moving stealthily across the lawn, Crookshanks 
trotting at its side. Harry stared. What did this mean? 
If Crookshanks could see the dog as well, how could it 
be an omen of Harry’s death? 

“Ron!” Harry hissed. “Ron! Wake up!” 

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“Huh?” 



“I need you to tell me if you can see something!” 

“S’all dark, Harry,” Ron muttered thickly. “What’re 
you on about?” 

“Down here — ” 

Harry looked quickly back out of the window. 

Crookshanks and the dog had vanished. Harry 
climbed onto the windowsill to look right down into 
the shadows of the castle, but they weren’t there. 
Where had they gone? 

A loud snore told him Ron had fallen asleep again. 

Harry and the rest of the Gryffindor team entered the 
Great Hall the next day to enormous applause. Harry 
couldn’t help grinning broadly as he saw that both 
the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables were applauding 
them too. The Slytherin table hissed loudly as they 
passed. Harry noticed that Malfoy looked even paler 
than usual. 

Wood spent the whole of breakfast urging his team to 
eat, while touching nothing himself. Then he hurried 
them off to the field before anyone else had finished, 
so they could get an idea of the conditions. As they 
left the Great Hall, everyone applauded again. 

“Good luck, Harry!” called Cho. Harry felt himself 
blushing. 

“Okay — no wind to speak of — sun’s a bit bright, 
that could impair your vision, watch out for it — 

ground’s fairly hard, good, that’ll give us a fast kickoff 
?? 

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Wood paced the field, staring around with the team 
behind him. Finally, they saw the front doors of the 
castle open in the distance and the rest of the school 
spilling onto the lawn. 

“Locker rooms,” said Wood tersely. 

None of them spoke as they changed into their scarlet 
robes. Harry wondered if they were feeling like he 
was: as though he’d eaten something extremely 
wriggly for breakfast. In what seemed like no time at 
all, Wood was saying, “Okay, it’s time, let’s go — ” 

They walked out onto the field to a tidal wave of noise. 
Three-quarters of the crowd was wearing scarlet 
rosettes, waving scarlet flags with the Gryffindor lion 
upon them, or brandishing banners with slogans like 
“GO GRYFFINDOR!” and “LIONS FOR THE CUP!” 
Behind the Slytherin goal posts, however, two 
hundred people were wearing green; the silver serpent 
of Slytherin glittered on their flags, and Professor 
Snape sat in the very front row, wearing green like 
everyone else, and a very grim smile. 

“And here are the Gryffindors!” yelled Lee Jordan, 
who was acting as commentator as usual. “Potter, 

Bell, Johnson, Spinnet, Weasley, Weasley, and Wood. 
Widely acknowledged as the best team Hogwarts has 
seen in a good few years — ” 

Lee’s comments were drowned by a tide of “boos” from 
the Slytherin end. 

“And here come the Slytherin team, led by Captain 
Flint. He’s made some changes in the lineup and 
seems to be going for size rather than skill — ” 

More boos from the Slytherin crowd. Harry, however, 
thought Lee had a point. Malfoy was easily the 

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smallest person on the Slytherin team; the rest of 
them were enormous. 



“Captains, shake hands!” said Madam Hooch. 

Flint and Wood approached each other and grasped 
each other’s hand very tightly; it looked as though 
each was trying to break the other’s fingers. 

“Mount your brooms!” said Madam Hooch. “Three ... 
two ... one ...” 

The sound of her whistle was lost in the roar from the 
crowd as fourteen brooms rose into the air. Harry felt 
his hair fly back off his forehead; his nerves left him 
in the thrill of the flight; he glanced around, saw 
Malfoy on his tail, and sped off in search of the 
Snitch. 

“And it’s Gryffindor in possession, Alicia Spinnet of 
Gryffindor with the Quaffle, heading straight for the 
Slytherin goal posts, looking good, Alicia! Argh, no — 
Quaffle intercepted by Warrington, Warrington of 
Slytherin tearing up the field — WHAM! — nice 
Bludger work there by George Weasley, Warrington 
drops the Quaffle, it’s caught by — Johnson, 
Gryffindor back in possession, come on, Angelina — 
nice swerve around Montague — duck, Angelina, 
that’s a Bludger] — SHE SCORES! TEN-ZERO TO 
GRYFFINDOR!” 

Angelina punched the air as she soared around the 
end of the field; the sea of scarlet below was 
screaming its delight — 

“OUCH!” 

Angelina was nearly thrown from her broom as 
Marcus Flint went smashing into her. 

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“Sorry!” said Flint as the crowd below booed. “Sorry, 
didn’t see her!” 

A moment later, Fred Weasley chucked his Beater’s 
club at the back of Flint’s head. Flint’s nose smashed 
into the handle of his broom and began to bleed. 

“That will do!” shrieked Madam Hooch, zooming 
between them. “Penalty shot to Gryffindor for an 
unprovoked attack on their Chaser! Penalty shot to 
Slytherin for deliberate damage to their Chaser!” 

“Come off it, Miss!” howled Fred, but Madam Hooch 
blew her whistle and Alicia flew forward to take the 
penalty. 

“Come on, Alicia!” yelled Lee into the silence that had 
descended on the crowd. “YES! SHE’S BEATEN THE 
KEEPER! TWENTY-ZERO TO GRYFFINDOR!” 

Harry turned the Firebolt sharply to watch Flint, still 
bleeding freely, fly forward to take the Slytherin 
penalty. Wood was hovering in front of the Gryffindor 
goal posts, his jaw clenched. 

“ ’Course, Wood’s a superb Keeper!” Lee Jordan told 
the crowd as Flint waited for Madam Hooch’s whistle. 
“Superb! Very difficult to pass — very difficult indeed 

— YES! I DONT BELIEVE IT! HE’S SAVED IT!” 

Relieved, Harry zoomed away, gazing around for the 
Snitch, but still making sure he caught every word of 
Lee’s commentary. It was essential that he hold 
Malfoy off the Snitch until Gryffindor was more than 
fifty points up — 

“Gryffindor in possession, no, Slytherin in possession 

— no! — Gryffindor back in possession and it’s Katie 



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Bell, Katie Bell for Gryffindor with the Quaffle, she’s 
streaking up the field — THAT WAS DELIBERATE!” 



Montague, a Slytherin Chaser, had swerved in front of 
Katie, and instead of seizing the Quaffle had grabbed 
her head. Katie cartwheeled in the air, managed to 
stay on her broom, but dropped the Quaffle. 

Madam Hooch’s whistle rang out again as she soared 
over to Montague and began shouting at him. A 
minute later, Katie had put another penalty past the 
Slytherin Seeker. 

“THIRTY-ZERO! TAKE THAT, YOU DIRTY, CHEATING 



“Jordan, if you can’t commentate in an unbiased way 

— !” 

“I’m telling it like it is, Professor!” 

Harry felt a huge jolt of excitement. He had seen the 
Snitch — it was shimmering at the foot of one of the 
Gryffindor goal posts — but he mustn’t catch it yet — 
and if Malfoy saw it — 

Faking a look of sudden concentration, Harry pulled 
his Firebolt around and sped off toward the Slytherin 
end — it worked. Malfoy went haring after him, 
clearly thinking Harry had seen the Snitch there. ... 

WHOOSH. 

One of the Bludgers came streaking past Harry’s right 
ear, hit by the gigantic Slytherin Beater, Derrick. 

Then again — 

WHOOSH. 

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The second Bludger grazed Harry’s elbow. The other 
Beater, Bole, was closing in. 

Harry had a fleeting glimpse of Bole and Derrick 
zooming toward him, clubs raised — 

He turned the Firebolt upward at the last second, and 
Bole and Derrick collided with a sickening crunch. 

“Ha haaa!” yelled Lee Jordan as the Slytherin Beaters 
lurched away from each other, clutching their heads. 
“Too bad, boys! You’ll need to get up earlier than that 
to beat a Firebolt! And it’s Gryffindor in possession 
again, as Johnson takes the Quaffle — Flint alongside 
her — poke him in the eye, Angelina! — it was a joke, 
Professor, it was a joke — oh no — Flint in 
possession, Flint flying toward the Gryffindor goal 
posts, come on now, Wood, save — !” 

But Flint had scored; there was an eruption of cheers 
from the Slytherin end, and Lee swore so badly that 
Professor McGonagall tried to tug the magical 
megaphone away from him. 

“Sorry, Professor, sorry! Won’t happen again! So, 
Gryffindor in the lead, thirty points to ten, and 
Gryffindor in possession — ” 

It was turning into the dirtiest game Harry had ever 
played in. Enraged that Gryffindor had taken such an 
early lead, the Slytherins were rapidly resorting to any 
means to take the Quaffle. Bole hit Alicia with his 
club and tried to say he’d thought she was a Bludger. 
George Weasley elbowed Bole in the face in 
retaliation. Madam Hooch awarded both teams 
penalties, and Wood pulled off another spectacular 
save, making the score forty-ten to Gryffindor. 



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The Snitch had disappeared again. Malfoy was still 
keeping close to Harry as he soared over the match, 
looking around for it — once Gryffindor was fifty 
points ahead — 

Katie scored. Fifty-ten. Fred and George Weasley were 
swooping around her, clubs raised, in case any of the 
Slytherins were thinking of revenge. Bole and Derrick 
took advantage of Fred’s and George’s absence to aim 
both Bludgers at Wood; they caught him in the 
stomach, one after the other, and he rolled over in the 
air, clutching his broom, completely winded. 

Madam Hooch was beside herself. 

“YOU DO NOT ATTACK THE KEEPER UNLESS THE 
QUAFFLE IS WITHIN THE SCORING AREA!” she 
shrieked at Bole and Derrick. “Gryffindor penalty!” 

And Angelina scored. Sixty-ten. Moments later, Fred 
Weasley pelted a Bludger at Warrington, knocking the 
Quaffle out of his hands; Alicia seized it and put it 
through the Slytherin goal — seventy-ten. 

The Gryffindor crowd below was screaming itself 
hoarse — Gryffindor was sixty points in the lead, and 
if Harry caught the Snitch now, the Cup was theirs. 
Harry could almost feel hundreds of eyes following 
him as he soared around the field, high above the rest 
of the game, with Malfoy speeding along behind him. 

And then he saw it. The Snitch was sparkling twenty 
feet above him. 

Harry put on a huge burst of speed; the wind was 
roaring in his ears; he stretched out his hand, but 
suddenly, the Firebolt was slowing down — 



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Horrified, he looked around. Malfoy had thrown 
himself forward, grabbed hold of the Firebolt’s tail, 
and was pulling it back. 

“You — ” 

Harry was angry enough to hit Malfoy, but couldn’t 
reach — Malfoy was panting with the effort of holding 
onto the Firebolt, but his eyes were sparkling 
maliciously. He had achieved what he’d wanted to do 
— the Snitch had disappeared again. 

“Penalty! Penalty to Gryffindor! I’ve never seen such 
tactics!” Madam Hooch screeched, shooting up to 
where Malfoy was sliding back onto his Nimbus Two 
Thousand and One. 

“YOU CHEATING SCUM!” Lee Jordan was howling 
into the megaphone, dancing out of Professor 
McGonagall’s reach. “YOU FILTHY, CHEATING B — ” 

Professor McGonagall didn’t even bother to tell him 
off. She was actually shaking her finger in Malfoy’s 
direction, her hat had fallen off, and she too was 
shouting furiously. 

Alicia took Gryffindor’s penalty, but she was so angry 
she missed by several feet. The Gryffindor team was 
losing concentration and the Slytherins, delighted by 
Malfoy’s foul on Harry, were being spurred on to 
greater heights. 

“Slytherin in possession, Slytherin heading for goal — 
Montague scores — ” Lee groaned. “Seventy-twenty to 
Gryffindor. ...” 

Harry was now marking Malfoy so closely their knees 
kept hitting each other. Harry wasn’t going to let 
Malfoy anywhere near the Snitch. ... 

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“Get out of it, Potter!” Malfoy yelled in frustration as 
he tried to turn and found Harry blocking him. 

“Angelina Johnson gets the Quaffle for Gryffindor, 
come on, Angelina, COME ON!” 

Harry looked around. Every single Slytherin player 
apart from Malfoy was streaking up the pitch toward 
Angelina, including the Slytherin Keeper — they were 
all going to block her — 

Harry wheeled the Firebolt around, bent so low he 
was lying flat along the handle, and kicked it forward. 
Like a bullet, he shot toward the Slytherins. 

“AAAAAAARRRGH ! ” 

They scattered as the Firebolt zoomed toward them; 
Angelina’s way was clear. 

“SHE SCORES! SHE SCORES! Gryffindor leads by 
eighty points to twenty!” 

Harry, who had almost pelted headlong into the 
stands, skidded to a halt in midair, reversed, and 
zoomed back into the middle of the field. 

And then he saw something to make his heart stand 
still. Malfoy was diving, a look of triumph on his face 
— there, a few feet above the grass below, was a tiny, 
golden glimmer — 

Harry urged the Firebolt downward, but Malfoy was 
miles ahead — 

“Go! Go! Go!” Harry urged his broom. He was gaining 
on Malfoy — Harry flattened himself to the broom 
handle as Bole sent a Bludger at him — he was at 
Malfoy’s ankles — he was level — 

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Harry threw himself forward, took both hands off his 
broom. He knocked Malfoy’s arm out of the way and 



“YES!” 

He pulled out of his dive, his hand in the air, and the 
stadium exploded. Harry soared above the crowd, an 
odd ringing in his ears. The tiny golden ball was held 
tight in his fist, beating its wings hopelessly against 
his fingers. 

Then Wood was speeding toward him, half-blinded by 
tears; he seized Harry around the neck and sobbed 
unrestrainedly into his shoulder. Harry felt two large 
thumps as Fred and George hit them; then 
Angelina’s, Alicia’s, and Katie’s voices, “We’ve won the 
Cup\ We’ve won the Cup\” Tangled together in a 
many-armed hug, the Gryffindor team sank, yelling 
hoarsely, back to earth. 

Wave upon wave of crimson supporters was pouring 
over the barriers onto the field. Hands were raining 
down on their backs. Harry had a confused 
impression of noise and bodies pressing in on him. 
Then he, and the rest of the team, were hoisted onto 
the shoulders of the crowd. Thrust into the light, he 
saw Hagrid, plastered with crimson rosettes — “Yeh 
beat ’em, Harry, yeh beat ’em! Wait till I tell 
Buckbeak!” There was Percy, jumping up and down 
like a maniac, all dignity forgotten. Professor 
McGonagall was sobbing harder even than Wood, 
wiping her eyes with an enormous Gryffindor flag; 
and there, fighting their way toward Harry, were Ron 
and Hermione. Words failed them. They simply 
beamed as Harry was borne toward the stands, where 
Dumbledore stood waiting with the enormous 
Quidditch Cup. 



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If only there had been a dementor around. ... As a 
sobbing Wood passed Harry the Cup, as he lifted it 
into the air, Harry felt he could have produced the 
world’s best Patronus. 



Page | 349 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 






PROFESSOR TRELAWNEY’S 
PREDICTION 

Harry’s euphoria at finally winning the Quidditch Cup 
lasted at least a week. Even the weather seemed to be 
celebrating; as June approached, the days became 
cloudless and sultry, and all anybody felt like doing 
was strolling onto the grounds and flopping down on 
the grass with several pints of iced pumpkin juice, 
perhaps playing a casual game of Gobstones or 
watching the giant squid propel itself dreamily across 
the surface of the lake. 

But they couldn’t. Exams were nearly upon them, and 
instead of lazing around outside, the students were 
forced to remain inside the castle, trying to bully their 
brains into concentrating while enticing wafts of 
summer air drifted in through the windows. Even 
Fred and George Weasley had been spotted working; 
they were about to take their O.W.L.s (Ordinary 
Wizarding Levels). Percy was getting ready to take his 
N.E.W.T.s (Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests), the 
highest qualification Hogwarts offered. As Percy 

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hoped to enter the Ministry of Magic, he needed top 
grades. He was becoming increasingly edgy, and gave 
very severe punishments to anybody who disturbed 
the quiet of the common room in the evenings. In fact, 
the only person who seemed more anxious than Percy 
was Hermione. 

Harry and Ron had given up asking her how she was 
managing to attend several classes at once, but they 
couldn’t restrain themselves when they saw the exam 
schedule she had drawn up for herself. The first 
column read: 

Monday 

9 o’clock, Arithmancy 
9 o’clock, Transfiguration 
Lunch 

1 o’clock, Charms 
1 o’clock, Ancient Runes 

“Hermione?” Ron said cautiously, because she was 
liable to explode when interrupted these days. “Er — 
are you sure you’ve copied down these times right?” 

“What?” snapped Hermione, picking up the exam 
schedule and examining it. “Yes, of course I have.” 

“Is there any point asking how you’re going to sit for 
two exams at once?” said Harry. 

“No,” said Hermione shortly. “Have either of you seen 
my copy of Numerology and Gramatica?” 



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“Oh, yeah, I borrowed it for a bit of bedtime reading,” 
said Ron, but very quietly. Hermione started shifting 
heaps of parchment around on her table, looking for 
the book. Just then, there was a rustle at the window 
and Hedwig fluttered through it, a note clutched tight 
in her beak. 

“It’s from Hagrid,” said Harry, ripping the note open. 
“Buckbeak’s appeal — it’s set for the sixth.” 

“That’s the day we finish our exams,” said Hermione, 
still looking everywhere for her Arithmancy book. 

“And they’re coming up here to do it,” said Harry, still 
reading from the letter. “Someone from the Ministry of 
Magic and — and an executioner.” 

Hermione looked up, startled. 

“They’re bringing the executioner to the appeal! But 
that sounds as though they’ve already decided!” 

“Yeah, it does,” said Harry slowly. 

“They can’t!” Ron howled. “I’ve spent ages reading up 
on stuff for him; they can’t just ignore it all!” 

But Harry had a horrible feeling that the Committee 
for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures had had its 
mind made up for it by Mr. Malfoy. Draco, who had 
been noticeably subdued since Gryffindor’s triumph 
in the Quidditch final, seemed to regain some of his 
old swagger over the next few days. From sneering 
comments Harry overheard, Malfoy was certain 
Buckbeak was going to be killed, and seemed 
thoroughly pleased with himself for bringing it about. 
It was all Harry could do to stop himself imitating 
Hermione and hitting Malfoy in the face on these 
occasions. And the worst thing of all was that they 
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had no time or opportunity to go and see Hagrid, 
because the strict new security measures had not 
been lifted, and Harry didn’t dare retrieve his 
Invisibility Cloak from below the one-eyed witch. 

k k k 



Exam week began and an unnatural hush fell over 
the castle. The third years emerged from 
Transfiguration at lunchtime on Monday, limp and 
ashen-faced, comparing results and bemoaning the 
difficulty of the tasks they had been set, which had 
included turning a teapot into a tortoise. Hermione 
irritated the rest by fussing about how her tortoise 
had looked more like a turtle, which was the least of 
everyone else’s worries. 

“Mine still had a spout for a tail, what a nightmare. 



“Were the tortoises supposed to breathe steam?” 

“It still had a willow-patterned shell, d’you think 
that 11 count against me?” 

Then, after a hasty lunch, it was straight back 
upstairs for the Charms exam. Hermione had been 
right; Professor Flitwick did indeed test them on 
Cheering Charms. Harry slightly overdid his out of 
nerves and Ron, who was partnering him, ended up 
in fits of hysterical laughter and had to be led away to 
a quiet room for an hour before he was ready to 
perform the charm himself. After dinner, the students 
hurried back to their common rooms, not to relax, 
but to start studying for Care of Magical Creatures, 
Potions, and Astronomy. 



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Hagrid presided over the Care of Magical Creatures 
exam the following morning with a very preoccupied 
air indeed; his heart didn’t seem to be in it at all. He 
had provided a large tub of fresh flobberworms for the 
class, and told them that to pass the test, their 
flobberworm had to still be alive at the end of one 
hour. As flobberworms flourished best if left to their 
own devices, it was the easiest exam any of them had 
ever taken, and also gave Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
plenty of opportunity to speak to Hagrid. 

“Beaky’s gettin’ a bit depressed,” Hagrid told them, 
bending low on the pretense of checking that Harry’s 
flobberworm was still alive. “Bin cooped up too long. 
But still ... we’ll know day after tomorrow — one way 
or the other — ” 

They had Potions that afternoon, which was an 
unqualified disaster. Try as Harry might, he couldn’t 
get his Confusing Concoction to thicken, and Snape, 
standing watch with an air of vindictive pleasure, 
scribbled something that looked suspiciously like a 
zero onto his notes before moving away. 

Then came Astronomy at midnight, up on the tallest 
tower; History of Magic on Wednesday morning, in 
which Harry scribbled everything Florean Fortescue 
had ever told him about medieval witch-hunts, while 
wishing he could have had one of Fortescue ’s choco- 
nut sundaes with him in the stifling classroom. 
Wednesday afternoon meant Herbology, in the 
greenhouses under a baking-hot sun; then back to 
the common room once more, with sunburnt necks, 
thinking longingly of this time next day, when it 
would all be over. 

Their second to last exam, on Thursday morning, was 
Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Lupin had 
compiled the most unusual exam any of them had 

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ever taken; a sort of obstacle course outside in the 
sun, where they had to wade across a deep paddling 
pool containing a grindylow, cross a series of potholes 
full of Red Caps, squish their way across a patch of 
marsh while ignoring misleading directions from a 
hinkypunk, then climb into an old trunk and battle 
with a new boggart. 

“Excellent, Harry,” Lupin muttered as Harry climbed 
out of the trunk, grinning. “Full marks.” 

Flushed with his success, Harry hung around to 
watch Ron and Hermione. Ron did very well until he 
reached the hinkypunk, which successfully confused 
him into sinking waist-high into the quagmire. 
Hermione did everything perfectly until she reached 
the trunk with the boggart in it. After about a minute 
inside it, she burst out again, screaming. 

“Hermione!” said Lupin, startled. “What’s the matter?” 

“P — P — Professor McGonagall!” Hermione gasped, 
pointing into the trunk. “Sh — she said I’d failed 
everything!” 

It took a little while to calm Hermione down. When at 
last she had regained a grip on herself, she, Harry, 
and Ron went back to the castle. Ron was still slightly 
inclined to laugh at Hermione ’s boggart, but an 
argument was averted by the sight that met them on 
the top of the steps. 

Cornelius Fudge, sweating slightly in his pinstriped 
cloak, was standing there staring out at the grounds. 
He started at the sight of Harry. 

“Hello there, Harry!” he said. “Just had an exam, I 
expect? Nearly finished?” 



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“Yes,” said Harry. Hermione and Ron, not being on 
speaking terms with the Minister of Magic, hovered 
awkwardly in the background. 

“Lovely day,” said Fudge, casting an eye over the lake. 
“Pity ... pity ...” 

He sighed deeply and looked down at Harry. 

“I’m here on an unpleasant mission, Harry. The 
Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures 
required a witness to the execution of a mad 
hippogriff. As I needed to visit Hogwarts to check on 
the Black situation, I was asked to step in.” 

“Does that mean the appeal’s already happened?” Ron 
interrupted, stepping forward. 

“No, no, it’s scheduled for this afternoon,” said Fudge, 
looking curiously at Ron. 

“Then you might not have to witness an execution at 
all!” said Ron stoutly. “The hippogriff might get off!” 

Before Fudge could answer, two wizards came 
through the castle doors behind him. One was so 
ancient he appeared to be withering before their very 
eyes; the other was tall and strapping, with a thin 
black mustache. Harry gathered that they were 
representatives of the Committee for the Disposal of 
Dangerous Creatures, because the very old wizard 
squinted toward Hagrid’s cabin and said in a feeble 
voice, “Dear, dear, I’m getting too old for this. ... Two 
o’clock, isn’t it, Fudge?” 

The black-mustached man was fingering something in 
his belt; Harry looked and saw that he was running 
one broad thumb along the blade of a shining axe. 

Ron opened his mouth to say something, but 

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Hermione nudged him hard in the ribs and jerked her 
head toward the entrance hall. 

“Why’d you stop me?” said Ron angrily as they 
entered the Great Hall for lunch. “Did you see them? 
They’ve even got the axe ready! This isn’t justice!” 

“Ron, your dad works for the Ministry, you can’t go 
saying things like that to his boss!” said Hermione, 
but she too looked very upset. “As long as Hagrid 
keeps his head this time, and argues his case 
properly, they can’t possibly execute Buckbeak. ...” 

But Harry could tell Hermione didn’t really believe 
what she was saying. All around them, people were 
talking excitedly as they ate their lunch, happily 
anticipating the end of the exams that afternoon, but 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione, lost in worry about Hagrid 
and Buckbeak, didn’t join in. 

Harry’s and Ron’s last exam was Divination; 
Hermione’s, Muggle Studies. They walked up the 
marble staircase together; Hermione left them on the 
first floor and Harry and Ron proceeded all the way 
up to the seventh, where many of their class were 
sitting on the spiral staircase to Professor Trelawney’s 
classroom, trying to cram in a bit of last-minute 
studying. 

“She’s seeing us all separately,” Neville informed them 
as they went to sit down next to him. He had his copy 
of Unfogging the Future open on his lap at the pages 
devoted to crystal gazing. “Have either of you ever 
seen anything in a crystal ball?” he asked them 
unhappily. 

“Nope,” said Ron in an offhand voice. He kept 
checking his watch; Harry knew that he was counting 
down the time until Buckbeak’s appeal started. 

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The line of people outside the classroom shortened 
very slowly. As each person climbed back down the 
silver ladder, the rest of the class hissed, “What did 
she ask? Was it okay?” 

But they all refused to say. 

“She says the crystal ball’s told her that if I tell you, 

I’ll have a horrible accident!” squeaked Neville as he 
clambered back down the ladder toward Harry and 
Ron, who had now reached the landing. 

“That’s convenient,” snorted Ron. “You know, I’m 
starting to think Hermione was right about her” — he 
jabbed his thumb toward the trapdoor overhead — 
“she’s a right old fraud.” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, looking at his own watch. It was 
now two o’clock. “Wish she’d hurry up ...” 

Parvati came back down the ladder glowing with 
pride. 

“She says I’ve got all the makings of a true Seer,” she 
informed Harry and Ron. “I saw loads of stuff. ... Well, 
good luck!” 

She hurried off down the spiral staircase toward 
Lavender. 

“Ronald Weasley,” said the familiar, misty voice from 
over their heads. Ron grimaced at Harry and climbed 
the silver ladder out of sight. Harry was now the only 
person left to be tested. He settled himself on the floor 
with his back against the wall, listening to a fly 
buzzing in the sunny window, his mind across the 
grounds with Hagrid. 



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Finally, after about twenty minutes, Ron’s large feet 
reappeared on the ladder. 

“How’d it go?” Harry asked him, standing up. 

“Rubbish,” said Ron. “Couldn’t see a thing, so I made 
some stuff up. Don’t think she was convinced, 
though. ...” 

“Meet you in the common room,” Harry muttered as 
Professor Trelawney’s voice called, “Harry Potter!” 

The tower room was hotter than ever before; the 
curtains were closed, the fire was alight, and the 
usual sickly scent made Harry cough as he stumbled 
through the clutter of chairs and tables to where 
Professor Trelawney sat waiting for him before a large 
crystal ball. 

“Good day, my dear,” she said softly. “If you would 
kindly gaze into the Orb. ... Take your time, now ... 
then tell me what you see within it. ...” 

Harry bent over the crystal ball and stared, stared as 
hard as he could, willing it to show him something 
other than swirling white fog, but nothing happened. 

“Well?” Professor Trelawney prompted delicately. 
“What do you see?” 

The heat was overpowering and his nostrils were 
stinging with the perfumed smoke wafting from the 
fire beside them. He thought of what Ron had just 
said, and decided to pretend. 

“Er — ” said Harry, “a dark shape ... um ...” 

“What does it resemble?” whispered Professor 
Trelawney. “Think, now ...” 

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Harry cast his mind around and it landed on 
Buckbeak. 

“A hippogriff,” he said firmly. 

“Indeed!” whispered Professor Trelawney, scribbling 
keenly on the parchment perched upon her knees. 
“My boy, you may well be seeing the outcome of poor 
Hagrid’s trouble with the Ministry of Magic! Look 
closer. . . . Does the hippogriff appear to . . . have its 
head?” 

“Yes,” said Harry firmly. 

“Are you sure?” Professor Trelawney urged him. “Are 
you quite sure, dear? You don’t see it writhing on the 
ground, perhaps, and a shadowy figure raising an axe 
behind it?” 

“No!” said Harry, starting to feel slightly sick. 

“No blood? No weeping Hagrid?” 

“No!” said Harry again, wanting more than ever to 
leave the room and the heat. “It looks fine, it’s — 
flying away. ...” 

Professor Trelawney sighed. 

“Well, dear, I think we’ll leave it there. ... A little 
disappointing ... but I’m sure you did your best.” 

Relieved, Harry got up, picked up his bag and turned 
to go, but then a loud, harsh voice spoke behind him. 

“It will happen tonight.” 



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Harry wheeled around. Professor Trelawney had gone 
rigid in her armchair; her eyes were unfocused and 
her mouth sagging. 

“S — sorry?” said Harry. 

But Professor Trelawney didn’t seem to hear him. Her 
eyes started to roll. Harry sat there in a panic. She 
looked as though she was about to have some sort of 
seizure. He hesitated, thinking of running to the 
hospital wing — and then Professor Trelawney spoke 
again, in the same harsh voice, quite unlike her own: 

“The Dark Lord lies alone and friendless, abandoned 
by his followers. His servant has been chained these 
twelve years. Tonight, before midnight ... the servant 
will break free and set out to rejoin his master. The 
Dark Lord will rise again with his servant’s aid, 
greater and more terrible than ever he was. Tonight ... 
before midnight . . . the servant . . . will set out ... to 
rejoin ... his master. ...” 

Professor Trelawney’s head fell forward onto her 
chest. She made a grunting sort of noise. Harry sat 
there, staring at her. Then, quite suddenly, Professor 
Trelawney’s head snapped up again. 

“I’m so sorry, dear boy,” she said dreamily, “the heat 
of the day, you know ... I drifted off for a moment. ...” 

Harry sat there, staring at her. 

“Is there anything wrong, my dear?” 

“You — you just told me that the — the Dark Lord’s 
going to rise again ... that his servant’s going to go 
back to him. ...” 

Professor Trelawney looked thoroughly startled. 

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“The Dark Lord? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? My 
dear boy, that’s hardly something to joke about. ... 
Rise again, indeed — ” 

“But you just said it! You said the Dark Lord — ” 

“I think you must have dozed off too, dear!” said 
Professor Trelawney. “I would certainly not presume 
to predict anything quite as far-fetched as that\” 

Harry climbed back down the ladder and the spiral 
staircase, wondering ... had he just heard Professor 
Trelawney make a real prediction? Or had that been 
her idea of an impressive end to the test? 

Five minutes later he was dashing past the security 
trolls outside the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, 
Professor Trelawney’s words still resounding in his 
head. People were striding past him in the opposite 
direction, laughing and joking, heading for the 
grounds and a bit of long-awaited freedom; by the 
time he had reached the portrait hole and entered the 
common room, it was almost deserted. Over in the 
corner, however, sat Ron and Hermione. 

“Professor Trelawney,” Harry panted, “just told me — ” 

But he stopped abruptly at the sight of their faces. 

“Buckbeak lost,” said Ron weakly. “Hagrid’s just sent 
this.” 

Hagrid’s note was dry this time, no tears had 
splattered it, yet his hand seemed to have shaken so 
much as he wrote that it was hardly legible. 

Lost appeal. They’re going to execute at sunset 



Nothing you can do. Don’t come down. 

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I don’t want you to see it 
Hagrid 

“We’ve got to go,” said Harry at once. “He can’t just sit 
there on his own, waiting for the executioner!” 

“Sunset, though,” said Ron, who was staring out the 
window in a glazed sort of way. “We’d never be 
allowed ... ’specially you, Harry. ...” 

Harry sank his head into his hands, thinking. 

“If we only had the Invisibility Cloak. ...” 

“Where is it?” said Hermione. 

Harry told her about leaving it in the passageway 
under the one-eyed witch. 

"... if Snape sees me anywhere near there again, I’m 
in serious trouble,” he finished. 

“That’s true,” said Hermione, getting to her feet. “If he 
sees you. ... How do you open the witch’s hump 
again?” 

“You — you tap it and say, ‘Dissendium,’ ” said Harry. 
“But — ” 

Hermione didn’t wait for the rest of his sentence; she 
strode across the room, pushed open the Fat Lady’s 
portrait and vanished from sight. 

“She hasn’t gone to get it?” Ron said, staring after 
her. 



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She had. Hermione returned a quarter of an hour 
later with the silvery cloak folded carefully under her 
robes. 

“Hermione, I don’t know what’s gotten into you 
lately!” said Ron, astounded. “First you hit Malfoy, 
then you walk out on Professor Trelawney — ” 

Hermione looked rather flattered. 

They went down to dinner with everybody else, but 
did not return to Gryffindor Tower afterward. Harry 
had the cloak hidden down the front of his robes; he 
had to keep his arms folded to hide the lump. They 
skulked in an empty chamber off the entrance hall, 
listening, until they were sure it was deserted. They 
heard a last pair of people hurrying across the hall 
and a door slamming. Hermione poked her head 
around the door. 

“Okay,” she whispered, “no one there — cloak on — ” 

Walking very close together so that nobody would see 
them, they crossed the hall on tiptoe beneath the 
cloak, then walked down the stone front steps into 
the grounds. The sun was already sinking behind the 
Forbidden Forest, gilding the top branches of the 
trees. 

They reached Hagrid’s cabin and knocked. He was a 
minute in answering, and when he did, he looked all 
around for his visitor, pale-faced and trembling. 

“It’s us,” Harry hissed. “We’re wearing the Invisibility 
Cloak. Let us in and we can take it off.” 

“Yeh shouldn’ve come!” Hagrid whispered, but he 
stood back, and they stepped inside. Hagrid shut the 
door quickly and Harry pulled off the cloak. 

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Hagrid was not crying, nor did he throw himself upon 
their necks. He looked like a man who did not know 
where he was or what to do. This helplessness was 
worse to watch than tears. 

“Wan’ some tea?” he said. His great hands were 
shaking as he reached for the kettle. 

“Where’s Buckbeak, Hagrid?” said Hermione 
hesitantly. 

“I — I took him outside,” said Hagrid, spilling milk all 
over the table as he filled up the jug. “He’s tethered in 
me pumpkin patch. Thought he oughta see the trees 
an’ — an’ smell fresh air — before — ” 

Hagrid ’s hand trembled so violently that the milk jug 
slipped from his grasp and shattered all over the 
floor. 

“I’ll do it, Hagrid,” said Hermione quickly, hurrying 
over and starting to clean up the mess. 

“There’s another one in the cupboard,” Hagrid said, 
sitting down and wiping his forehead on his sleeve. 
Harry glanced at Ron, who looked back hopelessly. 

“Isn’t there anything anyone can do, Hagrid?” Harry 
asked fiercely, sitting down next to him. “Dumbledore 



“He’s tried,” said Hagrid. “He’s got no power ter 
overrule the Committee. He told ’em Buckbeak’s all 
right, but they’re scared. ... Yeh know what Lucius 
Malfoy’s like ... threatened ’em, I expect ... an’ the 
executioner, Macnair, he’s an old pal o’ Malfoy’s ... 
but it’ll be quick an’ clean ... an’ I’ll be beside him. ...” 



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Hagrid swallowed. His eyes were darting all over the 
cabin as though looking for some shred of hope or 
comfort. 

“Dumbledore ’s gonna come down while it — while it 
happens. Wrote me this mornin’. Said he wants ter — 
ter be with me. Great man, Dumbledore. ...” 

Hermione, who had been rummaging in Hagrid ’s 
cupboard for another milk jug, let out a small, quickly 
stifled sob. She straightened up with the new jug in 
her hands, fighting back tears. 

“Well stay with you too, Hagrid,” she began, but 
Hagrid shook his shaggy head. 

“Yeh’re ter go back up ter the castle. I told yeh, I don’ 
wan’ yeh watchin’. An’ yeh shouldn’ be down here 
anyway. ... If Fudge an’ Dumbledore catch yeh out 
without permission, Harry, yehll be in big trouble.” 

Silent tears were now streaming down Hermione ’s 
face, but she hid them from Hagrid, bustling around 
making tea. Then, as she picked up the milk bottle to 
pour some into the jug, she let out a shriek. 

“Ron! I — I don’t believe it — it’s Scabbersl” 

Ron gaped at her. 

“What are you talking about?” 

Hermione carried the milk jug over to the table and 
turned it upside down. With a frantic squeak, and 
much scrambling to get back inside, Scabbers the rat 
came sliding out onto the table. 

“Scabbers!” said Ron blankly. “Scabbers, what are 
you doing here?” 

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He grabbed the struggling rat and held him up to the 
light. Scabbers looked dreadful. He was thinner than 
ever, large tufts of hair had fallen out leaving wide 
bald patches, and he writhed in Ron’s hands as 
though desperate to free himself. 

“It’s okay, Scabbers!” said Ron. “No cats! There’s 
nothing here to hurt you!” 

Hagrid suddenly stood up, his eyes fixed on the 
window. His normally ruddy face had gone the color 
of parchment. 

“They’re cornin’. ...” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione whipped around. A group 
of men was walking down the distant castle steps. In 
front was Albus Dumbledore, his silver beard 
gleaming in the dying sun. Next to him trotted 
Cornelius Fudge. Behind them came the feeble old 
Committee member and the executioner, Macnair. 

“Yeh gotta go,” said Hagrid. Every inch of him was 
trembling. “They mustn’ find yeh here. ... Go now. ...” 

Ron stuffed Scabbers into his pocket and Hermione 
picked up the cloak. 

“I’ll let yeh out the back way,” said Hagrid. 

They followed him to the door into his back garden. 
Harry felt strangely unreal, and even more so when 
he saw Buckbeak a few yards away, tethered to a tree 
behind Hagrid’s pumpkin patch. Buckbeak seemed to 
know something was happening. He turned his sharp 
head from side to side and pawed the ground 
nervously. 



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“It’s okay, Beaky,” said Hagrid softly. “It’s okay ...” He 
turned to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “Go on,” he 
said. “Get goin’.” 

But they didn’t move. 

“Hagrid, we can’t — ” 

“Well tell them what really happened — ” 

“They can’t kill him — ” 

“Go!” said Hagrid fiercely. “It’s bad enough without 
you lot in trouble an’ all!” 

They had no choice. As Hermione threw the cloak 
over Harry and Ron, they heard voices at the front of 
the cabin. Hagrid looked at the place where they had 
just vanished from sight. 

“Go quick,” he said hoarsely. “Don’ listen. ...” 

And he strode back into his cabin as someone 
knocked at the front door. 

Slowly, in a kind of horrified trance, Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione set off silently around Hagrid’s house. As 
they reached the other side, the front door closed with 
a sharp snap. 

“Please, let’s hurry,” Hermione whispered. “I can’t 
stand it, I can’t bear it. ...” 

They started up the sloping lawn toward the castle. 
The sun was sinking fast now; the sky had turned to 
a clear, purple-tinged grey, but to the west there was 
a ruby-red glow. 

Ron stopped dead. 

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“Oh, please, Ron,” Hermione began. 

“It’s Scabbers — he won’t — stay put — ” 

Ron was bent over, trying to keep Scabbers in his 
pocket, but the rat was going berserk; squeaking 
madly, twisting and flailing, trying to sink his teeth 
into Ron’s hand. 

“Scabbers, it’s me, you idiot, it’s Ron,” Ron hissed. 

They heard a door open behind them and men’s 
voices. 

“Oh, Ron, please let’s move, they’re going to do it!” 
Hermione breathed. 

“Okay — Scabbers, stay put — ” 

They walked forward; Harry, like Hermione, was 
trying not to listen to the rumble of voices behind 
them. Ron stopped again. 

“I can’t hold him — Scabbers, shut up, everyone’ll 
hear us — ” 

The rat was squealing wildly, but not loudly enough 
to cover up the sounds drifting from Hagrid’s garden. 
There was a jumble of indistinct male voices, a 
silence, and then, without warning, the unmistakable 
swish and thud of an axe. 

Hermione swayed on the spot. 

“They did it!” she whispered to Harry. “I d — don’t 
believe it — they did it!” 



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CAT, RAT, AND DOG 



Harry’s mind had gone blank with shock. The three of 
them stood transfixed with horror under the 
Invisibility Cloak. The very last rays of the setting sun 
were casting a bloody light over the long-shadowed 
grounds. Then, behind them, they heard a wild 
howling. 

“Hagrid,” Harry muttered. Without thinking about 
what he was doing, he made to turn back, but both 
Ron and Hermione seized his arms. 

“We can’t,” said Ron, who was paper-white. “He’ll be 
in worse trouble if they know we’ve been to see him. 



Hermione ’s breathing was shallow and uneven. 

“How — could — they?” she choked. “How could 
they?” 

“Come on,” said Ron, whose teeth seemed to be 
chattering. 

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They set off back toward the castle, walking slowly to 
keep themselves hidden under the cloak. The light 
was fading fast now. By the time they reached open 
ground, darkness was settling like a spell around 
them. 

“Scabbers, keep still,” Ron hissed, clamping his hand 
over his chest. The rat was wriggling madly. Ron 
came to a sudden halt, trying to force Scabbers 
deeper into his pocket. “What’s the matter with you, 
you stupid rat? Stay still — OUCH! He bit me!” 

“Ron, be quiet!” Hermione whispered urgently. 
“Fudge’ll be out here in a minute — ” 

“He won’t — stay — put — ” 

Scabbers was plainly terrified. He was writhing with 
all his might, trying to break free of Ron’s grip. 

“What’s the matter with him?” 

But Harry had just seen — slinking toward them, his 
body low to the ground, wide yellow eyes glinting 
eerily in the darkness — Crookshanks. Whether he 
could see them or was following the sound of 
Scabbers’s squeaks, Harry couldn’t tell. 

“Crookshanks!” Hermione moaned. “No, go away, 
Crookshanks! Go away!” 

But the cat was getting nearer — 

“Scabbers — NO!” 

Too late — the rat had slipped between Ron’s 
clutching fingers, hit the ground, and scampered 
away. In one bound, Crookshanks sprang after him, 
and before Harry or Hermione could stop him, Ron 

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had thrown the Invisibility Cloak off himself and 
pelted away into the darkness. 



“Ron\” Hermione moaned. 

She and Harry looked at each other, then followed at 
a sprint; it was impossible to run full out under the 
cloak; they pulled it off and it streamed behind them 
like a banner as they hurtled after Ron; they could 
hear his feet thundering along ahead and his shouts 
at Crookshanks. 

“Get away from him — get away — Scabbers, come 
here — ” 

There was a loud thud. 

“Gotchal Get off, you stinking cat — ” 

Harry and Hermione almost fell over Ron; they 
skidded to a stop right in front of him. He was 
sprawled on the ground, but Scabbers was back in 
his pocket; he had both hands held tight over the 
quivering lump. 

“Ron — come on — back under the cloak — ” 

Hermione panted. “Dumbledore — the Minister — 
they’ll be coming back out in a minute — ” 

But before they could cover themselves again, before 
they could even catch their breath, they heard the 
soft pounding of gigantic paws. ... Something was 
bounding toward them, quiet as a shadow — an 
enormous, pale-eyed, jet-black dog. 

Harry reached for his wand, but too late — the dog 
had made an enormous leap and the front paws hit 
him on the chest; he keeled over backward in a whirl 
of hair; he felt its hot breath, saw inch-long teeth — 

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But the force of its leap had carried it too far; it rolled 
off him. Dazed, feeling as though his ribs were 
broken, Harry tried to stand up; he could hear it 
growling as it skidded around for a new attack. 

Ron was on his feet. As the dog sprang back toward 
them he pushed Harry aside; the dog’s jaws fastened 
instead around Ron’s outstretched arm. Harry lunged 
forward, he seized a handful of the brute’s hair, but it 
was dragging Ron away as easily as though he were a 
rag doll — 

Then, out of nowhere, something hit Harry so hard 
across the face he was knocked off his feet again. He 
heard Hermione shriek with pain and fall too. 

Harry groped for his wand, blinking blood out of his 
eyes — 

“Lumos\” he whispered. 

The wandlight showed him the trunk of a thick tree; 
they had chased Scabbers into the shadow of the 
Whomping Willow and its branches were creaking as 
though in a high wind, whipping backward and 
forward to stop them going nearer. 

And there, at the base of the trunk, was the dog, 
dragging Ron backward into a large gap in the roots 
— Ron was fighting furiously, but his head and torso 
were slipping out of sight — 

“Ron!” Harry shouted, trying to follow, but a heavy 
branch whipped lethally through the air and he was 
forced backward again. 

All they could see now was one of Ron’s legs, which 
he had hooked around a root in an effort to stop the 
dog from pulling him farther underground — but a 

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horrible crack cut the air like a gunshot; Ron’s leg 
had broken, and a moment later, his foot vanished 
from sight. 

“Harry — we’ve got to go for help — ” Hermione 
gasped; she was bleeding too; the Willow had cut her 
across the shoulder. 

“No! That thing’s big enough to eat him; we haven’t 
got time — ” 

“Harry — we’re never going to get through without 
help — ” 

Another branch whipped down at them, twigs 
clenched like knuckles. 

“If that dog can get in, we can,” Harry panted, darting 
here and there, trying to find a way through the 
vicious, swishing branches, but he couldn’t get an 
inch nearer to the tree roots without being in range of 
the tree’s blows. 

“Oh, help, help,” Hermione whispered frantically, 
dancing uncertainly on the spot, “please ...” 

Crookshanks darted forward. He slithered between 
the battering branches like a snake and placed his 
front paws upon a knot on the trunk. 

Abruptly, as though the tree had been turned to 
marble, it stopped moving. Not a leaf twitched or 
shook. 

“Crookshanks!” Hermione whispered uncertainly. She 
now grasped Harry’s arm painfully hard. “How did he 
know — ?” 



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“He’s friends with that dog,” said Harry grimly. “I’ve 
seen them together. Come on — and keep your wand 
out — ” 

They covered the distance to the trunk in seconds, 
but before they had reached the gap in the roots, 
Crookshanks had slid into it with a flick of his 
bottlebrush tail. Harry went next; he crawled forward, 
headfirst, and slid down an earthy slope to the 
bottom of a very low tunnel. Crookshanks was a little 
way along, his eyes flashing in the light from Harry’s 
wand. Seconds later, Hermione slithered down beside 
him. 

“Where’s Ron?” she whispered in a terrified voice. 

“This way,” said Harry, setting off, bent-backed, after 
Crookshanks. 

“Where does this tunnel come out?” Hermione asked 
breathlessly from behind him. 

“I don’t know. ... It’s marked on the Marauder’s Map 
but Fred and George said no one’s ever gotten into it. 
...It goes off the edge of the map, but it looked like it 
was heading for Hogsmeade. ...” 

They moved as fast as they could, bent almost double; 
ahead of them, Crookshanks ’s tail bobbed in and out 
of view. On and on went the passage; it felt at least as 
long as the one to Honeydukes. ... All Harry could 
think of was Ron and what the enormous dog might 
be doing to him. ... He was drawing breath in sharp, 
painful gasps, running at a crouch. ... 

And then the tunnel began to rise; moments later it 
twisted, and Crookshanks had gone. Instead, Harry 
could see a patch of dim light through a small 
opening. 

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He and Hermione paused, gasping for breath, edging 
forward. Both raised their wands to see what lay 
beyond. 

It was a room, a very disordered, dusty room. Paper 
was peeling from the walls; there were stains all over 
the floor; every piece of furniture was broken as 
though somebody had smashed it. The windows were 
all boarded up. 

Harry glanced at Hermione, who looked very 
frightened but nodded. 

Harry pulled himself out of the hole, staring around. 
The room was deserted, but a door to their right stood 
open, leading to a shadowy hallway. Hermione 
suddenly grabbed Harry’s arm again. Her wide eyes 
were traveling around the boarded windows. 

“Harry,” she whispered, “I think we’re in the Shrieking 
Shack.” 

Harry looked around. His eyes fell on a wooden chair 
near them. Large chunks had been torn out of it; one 
of the legs had been ripped off entirely. 

“Ghosts didn’t do that,” he said slowly. 

At that moment, there was a creak overhead. 
Something had moved upstairs. Both of them looked 
up at the ceiling. Hermione ’s grip on Harry’s arm was 
so tight he was losing feeling in his fingers. He raised 
his eyebrows at her; she nodded again and let go. 

Quietly as they could, they crept out into the hall and 
up the crumbling staircase. Everything was covered 
in a thick layer of dust except the floor, where a wide 
shiny stripe had been made by something being 
dragged upstairs. 

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They reached the dark landing. 



“Nox,” they whispered together, and the lights at the 
end of their wands went out. Only one door was open. 
As they crept toward it, they heard movement from 
behind it; a low moan, and then a deep, loud purring. 
They exchanged a last look, a last nod. 

Wand held tightly before him, Harry kicked the door 
wide open. 

On a magnificent four-poster bed with dusty hangings 
lay Crookshanks, purring loudly at the sight of them. 
On the floor beside him, clutching his leg, which 
stuck out at a strange angle, was Ron. 

Harry and Hermione dashed across to him. 

“Ron — are you okay?” 

“Where’s the dog?” 

“Not a dog,” Ron moaned. His teeth were gritted with 
pain. “Harry, it’s a trap — ” 

“What — ” 

“He’s the dog ... he’s an Animagus. ...” 

Ron was staring over Harry’s shoulder. Harry wheeled 
around. With a snap, the man in the shadows closed 
the door behind them. 

A mass of filthy, matted hair hung to his elbows. If 
eyes hadn’t been shining out of the deep, dark 
sockets, he might have been a corpse. The waxy skin 
was stretched so tightly over the bones of his face, it 
looked like a skull. His yellow teeth were bared in a 
grin. It was Sirius Black. 

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“ ExpelliarmusV’ he croaked, pointing Ron’s wand at 
them. 

Harry’s and Hermione’s wands shot out of their 
hands, high in the air, and Black caught them. Then 
he took a step closer. His eyes were fixed on Harry. 

“I thought you’d come and help your friend,” he said 
hoarsely. His voice sounded as though he had long 
since lost the habit of using it. “Your father would 
have done the same for me. Brave of you, not to run 
for a teacher. I’m grateful ... it will make everything 
much easier. ...” 

The taunt about his father rang in Harry’s ears as 
though Black had bellowed it. A boiling hate erupted 
in Harry’s chest, leaving no place for fear. For the first 
time in his life, he wanted his wand back in his hand, 
not to defend himself, but to attack ... to kill. Without 
knowing what he was doing, he started forward, but 
there was a sudden movement on either side of him 
and two pairs of hands grabbed him and held him 
back. ... “No, Harry!” Hermione gasped in a petrified 
whisper; Ron, however, spoke to Black. 

“If you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us too!” 
he said fiercely, though the effort of standing upright 
was draining him of still more color, and he swayed 
slightly as he spoke. 

Something flickered in Black’s shadowed eyes. 

“Lie down,” he said quietly to Ron. “You will damage 
that leg even more.” 

“Did you hear me?” Ron said weakly, though he was 
clinging painfully to Harry to stay upright. “You’ll 
have to kill all three of us!” 



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“There’ll be only one murder here tonight,” said Black, 
and his grin widened. 



“Why’s that?” Harry spat, trying to wrench himself 
free of Ron and Hermione. “Didn’t care last time, did 
you? Didn’t mind slaughtering all those Muggles to 
get at Pettigrew. ... What’s the matter, gone soft in 
Azkaban?” 

“Harry!” Hermione whimpered. “Be quiet!” 

“HE KILLED MY MUM AND DAD!” Harry roared, and 
with a huge effort he broke free of Hermione ’s and 
Ron’s restraint and lunged forward — 

He had forgotten about magic — he had forgotten that 
he was short and skinny and thirteen, whereas Black 
was a tall, full-grown man — all Harry knew was that 
he wanted to hurt Black as badly as he could and 
that he didn’t care how much he got hurt in return — 

Perhaps it was the shock of Harry doing something so 
stupid, but Black didn’t raise the wands in time — 
one of Harry’s hands fastened over his wasted wrist, 
forcing the wand tips away; the knuckles of Harry’s 
other hand collided with the side of Black’s head and 
they fell, backward, into the wall — 

Hermione was screaming; Ron was yelling; there was 
a blinding flash as the wands in Black’s hand sent a 
jet of sparks into the air that missed Harry’s face by 
inches; Harry felt the shrunken arm under his fingers 
twisting madly, but he clung on, his other hand 
punching every part of Black it could find. 

But Black’s free hand had found Harry’s throat — 

“No,” he hissed, “I’ve waited too long — ” 

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The fingers tightened, Harry choked, his glasses 
askew. 

Then he saw Hermione ’s foot swing out of nowhere. 
Black let go of Harry with a grunt of pain; Ron had 
thrown himself on Black’s wand hand and Harry 
heard a faint clatter — 

He fought free of the tangle of bodies and saw his own 
wand rolling across the floor; he threw himself toward 
it but — 

“Argh!” 

Crookshanks had joined the fray; both sets of front 
claws had sunk themselves deep into Harry’s arm; 
Harry threw him off, but Crookshanks now darted 
toward Harry’s wand — 

“NO YOU DONT!” roared Harry, and he aimed a kick 
at Crookshanks that made the cat leap aside, 
spitting; Harry snatched up his wand and turned — 

“Get out of the way!” he shouted at Ron and 
Hermione. 

They didn’t need telling twice. Hermione, gasping for 
breath, her lip bleeding, scrambled aside, snatching 
up her and Ron’s wands. Ron crawled to the four- 
poster and collapsed onto it, panting, his white face 
now tinged with green, both hands clutching his 
broken leg. 

Black was sprawled at the bottom of the wall. His thin 
chest rose and fell rapidly as he watched Harry 
walking slowly nearer, his wand pointing straight at 
Black’s heart. 

“Going to kill me, Harry?” he whispered. 

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Harry stopped right above him, his wand still pointing 
at Black’s chest, looking down at him. A livid bruise 
was rising around Black’s left eye and his nose was 
bleeding. 

“You killed my parents,” said Harry, his voice shaking 
slightly, but his wand hand quite steady. 

Black stared up at him out of those sunken eyes. 

“I don’t deny it,” he said very quietly. “But if you knew 
the whole story.” 

“The whole story?” Harry repeated, a furious 
pounding in his ears. “You sold them to Voldemort. 
That’s all I need to know.” 

“You’ve got to listen to me,” Black said, and there was 
a note of urgency in his voice now. “You’ll regret it if 
you don’t. ... You don’t understand. ...” 

“I understand a lot better than you think,” said Harry, 
and his voice shook more than ever. “You never heard 
her, did you? My mum ... trying to stop Voldemort 
killing me ... and you did that ... you did it. ...” 

Before either of them could say another word, 
something ginger streaked past Harry; Crookshanks 
leapt onto Black’s chest and settled himself there, 
right over Black’s heart. Black blinked and looked 
down at the cat. 

“Get off,” he murmured, trying to push Crookshanks 
off him. 

But Crookshanks sank his claws into Black’s robes 
and wouldn’t shift. He turned his ugly, squashed face 
to Harry and looked up at him with those great yellow 
eyes. To his right, Hermione gave a dry sob. 

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Harry stared down at Black and Crookshanks, his 
grip tightening on the wand. So what if he had to kill 
the cat too? It was in league with Black. ... If it was 
prepared to die, trying to protect Black, that wasn’t 
Harry’s business. ... If Black wanted to save it, that 
only proved he cared more for Crookshanks than for 
Harry’s parents. ... 

Harry raised the wand. Now was the moment to do it. 
Now was the moment to avenge his mother and 
father. He was going to kill Black. He had to kill 
Black. This was his chance. ... 

The seconds lengthened. And still Harry stood frozen 
there, wand poised, Black staring up at him, 
Crookshanks on his chest. Ron’s ragged breathing 
came from near the bed; Hermione was quite silent. 

And then came a new sound — 

Muffled footsteps were echoing up through the floor 
— someone was moving downstairs. 

“WE’RE UP HERE!” Hermione screamed suddenly. 
“WE’RE UP HERE — SIRIUS BLACK — QUICK!” 

Black made a startled movement that almost 
dislodged Crookshanks; Harry gripped his wand 
convulsively — Do it nouA said a voice in his head — 
but the footsteps were thundering up the stairs and 
Harry still hadn’t done it. 

The door of the room burst open in a shower of red 
sparks and Harry wheeled around as Professor Lupin 
came hurtling into the room, his face bloodless, his 
wand raised and ready. His eyes flickered over Ron, 
lying on the floor, over Hermione, cowering next to the 
door, to Harry, standing there with his wand covering 



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Black, and then to Black himself, crumpled and 
bleeding at Harry’s feet. 

“ ExpelliarmusV’ Lupin shouted. 

Harry’s wand flew once more out of his hand; so did 
the two Hermione was holding. Lupin caught them all 
deftly, then moved into the room, staring at Black, 
who still had Crookshanks lying protectively across 
his chest. 

Harry stood there, feeling suddenly empty. He hadn’t 
done it. His nerve had failed him. Black was going to 
be handed back to the dementors. 

Then Lupin spoke, in a very tense voice. 

“Where is he, Sirius?” 

Harry looked quickly at Lupin. He didn’t understand 
what Lupin meant. Who was Lupin talking about? He 
turned to look at Black again. 

Black’s face was quite expressionless. For a few 
seconds, he didn’t move at all. Then, very slowly, he 
raised his empty hand and pointed straight at Ron. 
Mystified, Harry glanced around at Ron, who looked 
bewildered. 

“But then ... ,” Lupin muttered, staring at Black so 
intently it seemed he was trying to read his mind, "... 
why hasn’t he shown himself before now? Unless” — 
Lupin’s eyes suddenly widened, as though he was 
seeing something beyond Black, something none of 
the rest could see, “ — unless he was the one ... 
unless you switched . . . without telling me?” 

Very slowly, his sunken gaze never leaving Lupin’s 
face, Black nodded. 

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“Professor,” Harry interrupted loudly, “what’s going 
on — ?” 

But he never finished the question, because what he 
saw made his voice die in his throat. Lupin was 
lowering his wand, gazing fixedly at Black. The 
Professor walked to Black’s side, seized his hand, 
pulled him to his feet so that Crookshanks fell to the 
floor, and embraced Black like a brother. 

Harry felt as though the bottom had dropped out of 
his stomach. 

“I DONT BELIEVE IT!” Hermione screamed. 

Lupin let go of Black and turned to her. She had 
raised herself off the floor and was pointing at Lupin, 
wild-eyed. “You — you — ” 

“Hermione — ” 

“ — you and him!” 

“Hermione, calm down — ” 

“I didn’t tell anyone!” Hermione shrieked. “I’ve been 
covering up for you — ” 

“Hermione, listen to me, please!” Lupin shouted. “I 
can explain — ” 

Harry could feel himself shaking, not with fear, but 
with a fresh wave of fury. 

“I trusted you,” he shouted at Lupin, his voice 
wavering out of control, “and all the time you’ve been 
his friend!” 



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“You’re wrong,” said Lupin. “I haven’t been Sirius’s 
friend, but I am now — Let me explain. ...” 

“NO!” Hermione screamed. “Harry, don’t trust him, 
he’s been helping Black get into the castle, he wants 
you dead too — he’s a werewolf.” 

There was a ringing silence. Everyone’s eyes were now 
on Lupin, who looked remarkably calm, though rather 
pale. 

“Not at all up to your usual standard, Hermione,” he 
said. “Only one out of three, I’m afraid. I have not 
been helping Sirius get into the castle and I certainly 
don’t want Harry dead. ...” An odd shiver passed over 
his face. “But I won’t deny that I am a werewolf.” 

Ron made a valiant effort to get up again but fell back 
with a whimper of pain. Lupin made toward him, 
looking concerned, but Ron gasped, 

“Get away from me, werewolf” 

Lupin stopped dead. Then, with an obvious effort, he 
turned to Hermione and said, “How long have you 
known?” 

“Ages,” Hermione whispered. “Since I did Professor 
Snape’s essay. ...” 

“He’ll be delighted,” said Lupin coolly. “He assigned 
that essay hoping someone would realize what my 
symptoms meant. ... Did you check the lunar chart 
and realize that I was always ill at the full moon? Or 
did you realize that the boggart changed into the 
moon when it saw me?” 

“Both,” Hermione said quietly. 



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Lupin forced a laugh. 

“You’re the cleverest witch of your age I’ve ever met, 
Hermione.” 

“I’m not,” Hermione whispered. “If I’d been a bit 
cleverer, I’d have told everyone what you are!” 

“But they already know,” said Lupin. “At least, the 
staff do.” 

“Dumbledore hired you when he knew you were a 
werewolf?” Ron gasped. “Is he mad?” 

“Some of the staff thought so,” said Lupin. “He had to 
work very hard to convince certain teachers that I’m 
trustworthy — ” 

“AND HE WAS WRONG!” Harry yelled. “YOU VE BEEN 
HELPING HIM ALL THE TIME!” He was pointing at 
Black, who suddenly crossed to the four-poster bed 
and sank onto it, his face hidden in one shaking 
hand. Crookshanks leapt up beside him and stepped 
onto his lap, purring. Ron edged away from both of 
them, dragging his leg. 

“I have not been helping Sirius,” said Lupin. “If you’ll 
give me a chance, I’ll explain. Look — ” 

He separated Harry’s, Ron’s and Hermione’s wands 
and threw each back to its owner; Harry caught his, 
stunned. 

“There,” said Lupin, sticking his own wand back into 
his belt. “You’re armed, we’re not. Now will you 
listen?” 

Harry didn’t know what to think. Was it a trick? 



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“If you haven’t been helping him,” he said, with a 
furious glance at Black, “how did you know he was 
here?” 



“The map,” said Lupin. “The Marauder’s Map. I was in 
my office examining it — ” 

“You know how to work it?” Harry said suspiciously. 

“Of course I know how to work it,” said Lupin, waving 
his hand impatiently. “I helped write it. I’m Moony — 
that was my friends’ nickname for me at school.” 

“You wrote — ?” 

“The important thing is, I was watching it carefully 
this evening, because I had an idea that you, Ron, 
and Hermione might try and sneak out of the castle to 
visit Hagrid before his hippogriff was executed. And I 
was right, wasn’t I?” 

He had started to pace up and down, looking at them. 
Little patches of dust rose at his feet. 

“You might have been wearing your father’s old cloak, 
Harry — ” 

“How d’you know about the cloak?” 

“The number of times I saw James disappearing 
under it... ,” said Lupin, waving an impatient hand 
again. “The point is, even if you’re wearing an 
Invisibility Cloak, you still show up on the Marauder’s 
Map. I watched you cross the grounds and enter 
Hagrid’s hut. Twenty minutes later, you left Hagrid, 
and set off back toward the castle. But you were now 
accompanied by somebody else.” 

“What?” said Harry. “No, we weren’t!” 

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“I couldn’t believe my eyes,” said Lupin, still pacing, 
and ignoring Harry’s interruption. “I thought the map 
must be malfunctioning. How could he be with you?” 

“No one was with us!” said Harry. 

“And then I saw another dot, moving fast toward you, 
labeled Sirius Black. ... I saw him collide with you; I 
watched as he pulled two of you into the Whomping 
Willow — ” 

“One of us!” Ron said angrily. 

“No, Ron,” said Lupin. “Two of you.” 

He had stopped his pacing, his eyes moving over Ron. 

“Do you think I could have a look at the rat?” he said 
evenly. 

“What?” said Ron. “What’s Scabbers got to do with 
it?” 



“Everything,” said Lupin. “Could I see him, please?” 

Ron hesitated, then put a hand inside his robes. 
Scabbers emerged, thrashing desperately; Ron had to 
seize his long bald tail to stop him escaping. 
Crookshanks stood up on Black’s leg and made a soft 
hissing noise. 

Lupin moved closer to Ron. He seemed to be holding 
his breath as he gazed intently at Scabbers. 

“What?” Ron said again, holding Scabbers close to 
him, looking scared. “What’s my rat got to do with 
anything?” 

“That’s not a rat,” croaked Sirius Black suddenly. 

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“What d’you mean — of course he’s a rat — ” 

“No, he’s not,” said Lupin quietly. “He’s a wizard.” 

“An Animagus,” said Black, “by the name of Peter 
Pettigrew.” 



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MOONY, WORMTAIL, PADFOOT, AND 

PRONGS 

It took a few seconds for the absurdity of this 
statement to sink in. Then Ron voiced what Harry 
was thinking. 

“You’re both mental.” 

“Ridiculous!” said Hermione faintly. 

“Peter Pettigrew’s dead!” said Harry. “He killed him 
twelve years ago!” He pointed at Black, whose face 
twitched convulsively. 

“I meant to,” he growled, his yellow teeth bared, “but 
little Peter got the better of me ... not this time, 
though!” 

And Crookshanks was thrown to the floor as Black 
lunged at Scabbers; Ron yelled with pain as Black’s 
weight fell on his broken leg. 



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“Sirius, NO!” Lupin yelled, launching himself forwards 
and dragging Black away from Ron again, “WAIT! You 
can’t do it just like that — they need to understand — 
we’ve got to explain — ” 

“We can explain afterwards!” snarled Black, trying to 
throw Lupin off. One hand was still clawing the air as 
it tried to reach Scabbers, who was squealing like a 
piglet, scratching Ron’s face and neck as he tried to 
escape. 

“They’ve — got — a — right — to — know — 
everything!” Lupin panted, still trying to restrain 
Black. “Ron’s kept him as a pet! There are parts of it 
even I don’t understand! And Harry — you owe Harry 
the truth, Sirius!” 

Black stopped struggling, though his hollowed eyes 
were still fixed on Scabbers, who was clamped tightly 
under Ron’s bitten, scratched, and bleeding hands. 

“All right, then,” Black said, without taking his eyes 
off the rat. “Tell them whatever you like. But make it 
quick, Remus. I want to commit the murder I was 
imprisoned for. ...” 

“You’re nutters, both of you,” said Ron shakily, 
looking round at Harry and Hermione for support. 

“I’ve had enough of this. I’m off.” 

He tried to heave himself up on his good leg, but 
Lupin raised his wand again, pointing it at Scabbers. 

“You’re going to hear me out, Ron,” he said quietly. 
“Just keep a tight hold on Peter while you listen.” 

“HE’S NOT PETER, HE’S SCABBERS!” Ron yelled, 
trying to force the rat back into his front pocket, but 
Scabbers was fighting too hard; Ron swayed and 

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overbalanced, and Harry caught him and pushed him 
back down to the bed. Then, ignoring Black, Harry 
turned to Lupin. 

“There were witnesses who saw Pettigrew die,” he 
said. “A whole street full of them ...” 

“They didn’t see what they thought they saw!” said 
Black savagely, still watching Scabbers struggling in 
Ron’s hands. 

“Everyone thought Sirius killed Peter,” said Lupin, 
nodding. “I believed it myself — until I saw the map 
tonight. Because the Marauder’s map never lies ... 
Peter’s alive. Ron’s holding him, Harry.” 

Harry looked down at Ron, and as their eyes met, 
they agreed, silently: Black and Lupin were both out 
of their minds. Their story made no sense whatsoever. 
How could Scabbers be Peter Pettigrew? Azkaban 
must have unhinged Black after all — but why was 
Lupin playing along with him? 

Then Hermione spoke, in a trembling, would-be calm 
sort of voice, as though trying to will Professor Lupin 
to talk sensibly. 

“But Professor Lupin ... Scabbers can’t be Pettigrew 
... it just can’t be true, you know it can’t ...” 

“Why can’t it be true?” Lupin said calmly, as though 
they were in class, and Hermione had simply spotted 
a problem in an experiment with grindylows. 

“Because . . . because people would know if Peter 
Pettigrew had been an Animagus. We did Animagi in 
class with Professor McGonagall. And I looked them 
up when I did my homework — the Ministry of Magic 
keeps tabs on witches and wizards who can become 
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animals; there’s a register showing what animal they 
become, and their markings and things ... and I went 
and looked Professor McGonagall up on the register, 
and there have been only seven Animagi this century, 
and Pettigrew’s name wasn’t on the list — ” 

Harry had barely had time to marvel inwardly at the 
effort Hermione put into her homework, when Lupin 
started to laugh. “Right again, Hermione!” he said. 
“But the Ministry never knew that there used to be 
three unregistered Animagi running around 
Hogwarts.” 

“If you’re going to tell them the story, get a move on, 
Remus,” snarled Black, who was still watching 
Scabbers’s every desperate move. “I’ve waited twelve 
years, I’m not going to wait much longer.” 

“All right ... but you’ll need to help me, Sirius,” said 
Lupin, “I only know how it began ...” 

Lupin broke off. There had been a loud creak behind 
him. The bedroom door had opened of its own accord. 
All five of them stared at it. Then Lupin strode toward 
it and looked out into the landing. 

“No one there ...” 

“This place is haunted!” said Ron. 

“It’s not,” said Lupin, still looking at the door in a 
puzzled way. “The Shrieking Shack was never 
haunted. ... The screams and howls the villagers used 
to hear were made by me.” 

He pushed his graying hair out of his eyes, thought 
for a moment, then said, “That’s where all of this 
starts — with my becoming a werewolf. None of this 



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could have happened if I hadn’t been bitten ... and if I 
hadn’t been so foolhardy. ...” 

He looked sober and tired. Ron started to interrupt, 
but Hermione said, “Shh!” She was watching Lupin 
very intently. 

“I was a very small boy when I received the bite. My 
parents tried everything, but in those days there was 
no cure. The potion that Professor Snape has been 
making for me is a very recent discovery. It makes me 
safe, you see. As long as I take it in the week 
preceding the full moon, I keep my mind when I 
transform. ... I am able to curl up in my office, a 
harmless wolf, and wait for the moon to wane again. 

“Before the Wolfsbane Potion was discovered, 
however, I became a fully fledged monster once a 
month. It seemed impossible that I would be able to 
come to Hogwarts. Other parents weren’t likely to 
want their children exposed to me. 

“But then Dumbledore became Headmaster, and he 
was sympathetic. He said that as long as we took 
certain precautions, there was no reason I shouldn’t 
come to school. ...” Lupin sighed, and looked directly 
at Harry. “I told you, months ago, that the Whomping 
Willow was planted the year I came to Hogwarts. The 
truth is that it was planted because I came to 
Hogwarts. This house” — Lupin looked miserably 
around the room, — “the tunnel that leads to it — 
they were built for my use. Once a month, I was 
smuggled out of the castle, into this place, to 
transform. The tree was placed at the tunnel mouth 
to stop anyone coming across me while I was 
dangerous.” 

Harry couldn’t see where this story was going, but he 
was listening raptly all the same. The only sound 

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apart from Lupin’s voice was Scabbers’s frightened 
squeaking. 



“My transformations in those days were — were 
terrible. It is very painful to turn into a werewolf. I 
was separated from humans to bite, so I bit and 
scratched myself instead. The villagers heard the 
noise and the screaming and thought they were 
hearing particularly violent spirits. Dumbledore 
encouraged the rumor. . . . Even now, when the house 
has been silent for years, the villagers don’t dare 
approach it. ... 

“But apart from my transformations, I was happier 
than I had ever been in my life. For the first time ever, 
I had friends, three great friends. Sirius Black ... 

Peter Pettigrew ... and, of course, your father, Harry 
— James Potter. 

“Now, my three friends could hardly fail to notice that 
I disappeared once a month. I made up all sorts of 
stories. I told them my mother was ill, and that I had 
to go home to see her. ... I was terrified they would 
desert me the moment they found out what I was. But 
of course, they, like you, Hermione, worked out the 
truth. ... 

“And they didn’t desert me at all. Instead, they did 
something for me that would make my 
transformations not only bearable, but the best times 
of my life. They became Animagi.” 

“My dad too?” said Harry, astounded. 

“Yes, indeed,” said Lupin. “It took them the best part 
of three years to work out how to do it. Your father 
and Sirius here were the cleverest students in the 
school, and lucky they were, because the Animagus 
transformation can go horribly wrong — one reason 
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the Ministry keeps a close watch on those attempting 
to do it. Peter needed all the help he could get from 
James and Sirius. Finally, in our fifth year, they 
managed it. They could each turn into a different 
animal at will.” 

“But how did that help you?” said Hermione, 
sounding puzzled. 

“They couldn’t keep me company as humans, so they 
kept me company as animals,” said Lupin. “A 
werewolf is only a danger to people. They sneaked out 
of the castle every month under James’s Invisibility 
Cloak. They transformed . . . Peter, as the smallest, 
could slip beneath the Willow’s attacking branches 
and touch the knot that freezes it. They would then 
slip down the tunnel and join me. Under their 
influence, I became less dangerous. My body was still 
wolfish, but my mind seemed to become less so while 
I was with them.” 

“Hurry up, Remus,” snarled Black, who was still 
watching Scabbers with a horrible sort of hunger on 
his face. 

“I’m getting there, Sirius, I’m getting there ... well, 
highly exciting possibilities were open to us now that 
we could all transform. Soon we were leaving the 
Shrieking Shack and roaming the school grounds and 
the village by night. Sirius and James transformed 
into such large animals, they were able to keep a 
werewolf in check. I doubt whether any Hogwarts 
students ever found out more about the Hogwarts 
grounds and Hogsmeade than we did. ... And that’s 
how we came to write the Marauder’s Map, and sign it 
with our nicknames. Sirius is Padfoot. Peter is 
Wormtail. James was Prongs.” 



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“What sort of animal — ?” Harry began, but Hermione 
cut him off. 

“That was still really dangerous! Running around in 
the dark with a werewolf! What if you’d given the 
others the slip, and bitten somebody?” 

“A thought that still haunts me,” said Lupin heavily. 
“And there were near misses, many of them. We 
laughed about them afterwards. We were young, 
thoughtless — carried away with our own cleverness.” 

“I sometimes felt guilty about betraying Dumbledore’s 
trust, of course ... he had admitted me to Hogwarts 
when no other headmaster would have done so, and 
he had no idea I was breaking the rules he had set 
down for my own and others’ safety. He never knew I 
had led three fellow students into becoming Animagi 
illegally. But I always managed to forget my guilty 
feelings every time we sat down to plan our next 
month’s adventure. And I haven’t changed ...” 

Lupin’s face had hardened, and there was self-disgust 
in his voice. “All this year, I have been battling with 
myself, wondering whether I should tell Dumbledore 
that Sirius was an Animagus. But I didn’t do it. Why? 
Because I was too cowardly. It would have meant 
admitting that I’d betrayed his trust while I was at 
school, admitting that I’d led others along with me ... 
and Dumbledore’s trust has meant everything to me. 
He let me into Hogwarts as a boy, and he gave me a 
job when I have been shunned all my adult life, 
unable to find paid work because of what I am. And 
so I convinced myself that Sirius was getting into the 
school using dark arts he learned from Voldemort, 
that being an Animagus had nothing to do with it . . . 
so, in a way, Snape’s been right about me all along.” 



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“Snape?” said Black harshly, taking his eyes off 
Scabbers for the first time in minutes and looking up 
at Lupin. “What’s Snape got to do with it?” 

“He’s here, Sirius,” said Lupin heavily. “He’s teaching 
here as well.” He looked up at Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione. 

“Professor Snape was at school with us. He fought 
very hard against my appointment to the Defense 
Against the Dark Arts job. He has been telling 
Dumbledore all year that I am not to be trusted. He 
has his reasons ... you see, Sirius here played a trick 
on him which nearly killed him, a trick which 
involved me — ” 

Black made a derisive noise. 

“It served him right,” he sneered. “Sneaking around, 
trying to find out what we were up to . . . hoping he 
could get us expelled. ...” 

“Severus was very interested in where I went every 
month.” Lupin told Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “We 
were in the same year, you know, and we — er — 
didn’t like each other very much. He especially 
disliked James. Jealous, I think, of James’s talent on 
the Quidditch field . . . anyway Snape had seen me 
crossing the grounds with Madam Pomfrey one 
evening as she led me toward the Whomping Willow 
to transform. Sirius thought it would be — er — 
amusing, to tell Snape all he had to do was prod the 
knot on the tree trunk with a long stick, and he’d be 
able to get in after me. Well, of course, Snape tried it 
— if he’d got as far as this house, he’d have met a 
fully grown werewolf — but your father, who’d heard 
what Sirius had done, went after Snape and pulled 
him back, at great risk to his life . . . Snape glimpsed 
me, though, at the end of the tunnel. He was 
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forbidden by Dumbledore to tell anybody, but from 
that time on he knew what I was. ...” 

“So that’s why Snape doesn’t like you,” said Harry 
slowly, “because he thought you were in on the joke?” 

“That’s right,” sneered a cold voice from the wall 
behind Lupin. 

Severus Snape was pulling off the Invisibility Cloak, 
his wand pointing directly at Lupin. 



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THE SERVANT OF LORD 
VOLDERMORT 

Hermione screamed. Black leapt to his feet. Harry felt 
as though he’d received a huge electric shock. 

“I found this at the base of the Whomping Willow,” 
said Snape, throwing the cloak aside, careful to keep 
this wand pointing directly at Lupin’s chest. “Very 
useful, Potter, I thank you. ...” 

Snape was slightly breathless, but his face was full of 
suppressed triumph. “You’re wondering, perhaps, 
how I knew you were here?” he said, his eyes 
glittering. “I’ve just been to your office, Lupin. You 
forgot to take your potion tonight, so I took a gobletful 
along. And very lucky I did ... lucky for me, I mean. 
Lying on your desk was a certain map. One glance at 
it told me all I needed to know. I saw you running 
along this passageway and out of sight.” 

“Severus — ” Lupin began, but Snape overrode him. 



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“I’ve told the headmaster again and again that you’re 
helping your old friend Black into the castle, Lupin, 
and here’s the proof. Not even I dreamed you would 
have the nerve to use this old place as your hideout 



“Severus, you’re making a mistake,” said Lupin 
urgently. “You haven’t heard everything — I can 
explain — Sirius is not here to kill Harry — ” 

“Two more for Azkaban tonight,” said Snape, his eyes 
now gleaming fanatically. “I shall be interested to see 
how Dumbledore takes this. ... He was quite 
convinced you were harmless, you know, Lupin ... a 
tame werewolf — ” 

“You fool,” said Lupin softly. “Is a schoolboy grudge 
worth putting an innocent man back inside 
Azkaban?” 

BANG! Thin, snakelike cords burst from the end of 
Snape’s wand and twisted themselves around Lupin’s 
mouth, wrists, and ankles; he overbalanced and fell 
to the floor, unable to move. With a roar of rage, 

Black started toward Snape, but Snape pointed his 
wand straight between Black’s eyes. 

“Give me a reason,” he whispered. “Give me a reason 
to do it, and I swear I will.” 

Black stopped dead. It would have been impossible to 
say which face showed more hatred. 

Harry stood there, paralyzed, not knowing what to do 
or whom to believe. He glanced around at Ron and 
Hermione. Ron looked just as confused as he did, still 
fighting to keep hold on the struggling Scabbers. 
Hermione, however, took an uncertain step toward 
Snape and said, in a very breathless voice, “Professor 
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Snape — it — it wouldn’t hurt to hear what they’ve 
got to say, w — would it?” 

“Miss Granger, you are already facing suspension 
from this school,” Snape spat. “You, Potter, and 
Weasley are out-of-bounds, in the company of a 
convicted murderer and a werewolf. For once in your 
life, hold your tongue.” 

“But if — if there was a mistake — ” 

“KEEP QUIET, YOU STUPID GIRL!” Snape shouted, 
looking suddenly quite deranged. “DONT TALK 
ABOUT WHAT YOU DONT UNDERSTAND!” A few 
sparks shot out of the end of his wand, which was 
still pointed at Black’s face. Hermione fell silent. 

“Vengeance is very sweet,” Snape breathed at Black. 
“How I hoped I would be the one to catch you. ...” 

“The joke’s on you again, Severus,” Black snarled. “As 
long as this boy brings his rat up to the castle” — he 
jerked his head at Ron — “I’ll come quietly. ...” 

“Up to the castle?” said Snape silkily. “I don’t think 
we need to go that far. All I have to do is call the 
dementors once we get out of the Willow. They’ll be 
very pleased to see you, Black ... pleased enough to 
give you a little kiss, I daresay. ...” 

What little color there was in Black’s face left it. 

“You — you’ve got to hear me out,” he croaked. “The 
rat — look at the rat — ” 

But there was a mad glint in Snape ’s eyes that Harry 
had never seen before. He seemed beyond reason. 



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“Come on, all of you,” he said. He clicked his fingers, 
and the ends of the cords that bound Lupin flew to 
his hands. “Ill drag the werewolf. Perhaps the 
dementors will have a kiss for him too — ” 

Before he knew what he was doing, Harry had crossed 
the room in three strides and blocked the door. 

“Get out of the way, Potter, you’re in enough trouble 
already,” snarled Snape. “If I hadn’t been here to save 
your skin — ” 

“Professor Lupin could have killed me about a 
hundred times this year,” Harry said. “I’ve been alone 
with him loads of times, having defense lessons 
against the dementors. If he was helping Black, why 
didn’t he just finish me off then?” 

“Don’t ask me to fathom the way a werewolf’s mind 
works,” hissed Snape. “Get out of the way, Potter.” 

“YOU’RE PATHETIC!” Harry yelled. “JUST BECAUSE 
THEY MADE A FOOL OF YOU AT SCHOOL YOU 
WONT EVEN LISTEN — ” 

“SILENCE! I WILL NOT BE SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT!” 
Snape shrieked, looking madder than ever. “Like 
father, like son, Potter! I have just saved your neck; 
you should be thanking me on bended knee! You 
would have been well served if he’d killed you! You’d 
have died like your father, too arrogant to believe you 
might be mistaken in Black — now get out of the way, 
or I will make you. GET OUT OF THE WAY, POTTER!” 

Harry made up his mind in a split second. Before 
Snape could take even one step toward him, he had 
raised his wand. 



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“ Expelliarmus\” he yelled — except that his wasn’t the 
only voice that shouted. There was a blast that made 
the door rattle on its hinges; Snape was lifted off his 
feet and slammed into the wall, then slid down it to 
the floor, a trickle of blood oozing from under his hair. 
He had been knocked out. 

Harry looked around. Both Ron and Hermione had 
tried to disarm Snape at exactly the same moment. 
Snape ’s wand soared in a high arc and landed on the 
bed next to Crookshanks. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Black, looking at 
Harry. “You should have left him to me. ...” 

Harry avoided Black’s eyes. He wasn’t sure, even now, 
that he’d done the right thing. 

“We attacked a teacher. ... We attacked a teacher ... ,” 
Hermione whimpered, staring at the lifeless Snape 
with frightened eyes. “Oh, we’re going to be in so 
much trouble — ” 

Lupin was struggling against his bonds. Black bent 
down quickly and untied him. Lupin straightened up, 
rubbing his arms where the ropes had cut into them. 

“Thank you, Harry,” he said. 

“I’m still not saying I believe you,” he told Lupin. 

“Then it’s time we offered you some proof,” said 
Lupin. “You, boy — give me Peter, please. Now.” 

Ron clutched Scabbers closer to his chest. 

“Come off it,” he said weakly. “Are you trying to say 
he broke out of Azkaban just to get his hands on 
Scabbers ? I mean ...” He looked up at Harry and 

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Hermione for support, “Okay, say Pettigrew could 
turn into a rat — there are millions of rats — how’s he 
supposed to know which one he’s after if he was 
locked up in Azkaban?” 

“You know, Sirius, that’s a fair question,” said Lupin, 
turning to Black and frowning slightly. “How did you 
find out where he was?” 

Black put one of his clawlike hands inside his robes 
and took out a crumpled piece of paper, which he 
smoothed flat and held out to show the others. 

It was the photograph of Ron and his family that had 
appeared in the Daily Prophet the previous summer, 
and there, on Ron’s shoulder, was Scabbers. 

“How did you get this?” Lupin asked Black, 
thunderstruck. 

“Fudge,” said Black. “When he came to inspect 
Azkaban last year, he gave me his paper. And there 
was Peter, on the front page ... on this boy’s shoulder. 
... I knew him at once . . . how many times had I seen 
him transform? And the caption said the boy would 
be going back to Hogwarts ... to where Harry was. ...” 

“My God,” said Lupin softly, staring from Scabbers to 
the picture in the paper and back again. “His front 
paw ...” 

“What about it?” said Ron defiantly. 

“He’s got a toe missing,” said Black. 

“Of course,” Lupin breathed. “So simple ... so brilliant 
... he cut it off himself?” 



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“Just before he transformed,” said Black. “When I 
cornered him, he yelled for the whole street to hear 
that I’d betrayed Lily and James. Then, before I could 
curse him, he blew apart the street with the wand 
behind his back, killed everyone within twenty feet of 
himself — and sped down into the sewer with the 
other rats. ...” 

“Didn’t you ever hear, Ron?” said Lupin. “The biggest 
bit of Peter they found was his finger.” 

“Look, Scabbers probably had a fight with another rat 
or something! He’s been in my family for ages, right — 



“Twelve years, in fact,” said Lupin. “Didn’t you ever 
wonder why he was living so long?” 

“We — we’ve been taking good care of him!” said Ron. 

“Not looking too good at the moment, though, is he?” 
said Lupin. “I’d guess he’s been losing weight ever 
since he heard Sirius was on the loose again. ...” 

“He’s been scared of that mad cat!” said Ron, nodding 
toward Crookshanks, who was still purring on the 
bed. 

But that wasn’t right, Harry thought suddenly. ... 
Scabbers had been looking ill before he met 
Crookshanks . . . ever since Ron’s return from Egypt . . . 
since the time when Black had escaped. ... 

“This cat isn’t mad,” said Black hoarsely. He reached 
out a bony hand and stroked Crookshanks ’s fluffy 
head. “He’s the most intelligent of his kind I’ve ever 
met. He recognized Peter for what he was right away. 
And when he met me, he knew I was no dog. It was a 
while before he trusted me. ... Finally, I managed to 
Page | 406 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




communicate to him what I was after, and he’s been 
helping me. ...” 



“What do you mean?” breathed Hermione. 

“He tried to bring Peter to me, but couldn’t ... so he 
stole the passwords into Gryffindor Tower for me. ... 

As I understand it, he took them from a boy’s bedside 
table. ...” 

Harry’s brain seemed to be sagging under the weight 
of what he was hearing. It was absurd . . . and yet . . . 

“But Peter got wind of what was going on and ran for 
it. ...” croaked Black. “This cat — Crookshanks, did 
you call him? — told me Peter had left blood on the 
sheets. ... I supposed he bit himself. ... Well, faking 
his own death had worked once. ...” 

These words jolted Harry to his senses. 

“And why did he fake his death?” he said furiously. 
“Because he knew you were about to kill him like you 
killed my parents!” 

“No,” said Lupin, “Harry — ” 

“And now you’ve come to finish him off!” 

“Yes, I have,” said Black, with an evil look at 
Scabbers. 

“Then I should’ve let Snape take you!” Harry shouted. 

“Harry,” said Lupin hurriedly, “don’t you see? All this 
time we’ve thought Sirius betrayed your parents, and 
Peter tracked him down — but it was the other way 
around, don’t you see? Peter betrayed your mother 
and father — Sirius tracked Peter down — ” 

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“THAT’S NOT TRUE!” Harry yelled. “HE WAS THEIR 
SECRET-KEEPER! HE SAID SO BEFORE YOU 
TURNED UP. HE SAID HE KILLED THEM!” 

He was pointing at Black, who shook his head slowly; 
the sunken eyes were suddenly overbright. 

“Harry ... I as good as killed them,” he croaked. “I 
persuaded Lily and James to change to Peter at the 
last moment, persuaded them to use him as Secret- 
Keeper instead of me. ... I’m to blame, I know it. ... 
The night they died, I’d arranged to check on Peter, 
make sure he was still safe, but when I arrived at his 
hiding place, he’d gone. Yet there was no sign of a 
struggle. It didn’t feel right. I was scared. I set out for 
your parents’ house straight away. And when I saw 
their house, destroyed, and their bodies ... I realized 
what Peter must’ve done ... what I’d done. ...” 

His voice broke. He turned away. 

“Enough of this,” said Lupin, and there was a steely 
note in his voice Harry had never heard before. 
“There’s one certain way to prove what really 
happened. Ron, give me that rat” 

“What are you going to do with him if I give him to 
you?” Ron asked Lupin tensely. 

“Force him to show himself,” said Lupin. “If he really 
is a rat, it won’t hurt him.” 

Ron hesitated. Then at long last, he held out 
Scabbers and Lupin took him. Scabbers began to 
squeak without stopping, twisting and turning, his 
tiny black eyes bulging in his head. 

“Ready, Sirius?” said Lupin. 



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Black had already retrieved Snape’s wand from the 
bed. He approached Lupin and the struggling rat, and 
his wet eyes suddenly seemed to be burning in his 
face. 

“Together?” he said quietly. 

“I think so,” said Lupin, holding Scabbers tightly in 
one hand and his wand in the other. “On the count of 
three. One — two — THREE!” 

A flash of blue-white light erupted from both wands; 
for a moment, Scabbers was frozen in midair, his 
small gray form twisting madly — Ron yelled — the 
rat fell and hit the floor. There was another blinding 
flash of light and then — 

It was like watching a speeded-up film of a growing 
tree. A head was shooting upward from the ground; 
limbs were sprouting; a moment later, a man was 
standing where Scabbers had been, cringing and 
wringing his hands. Crookshanks was spitting and 
snarling on the bed; the hair on his back was 
standing up. 

He was a very short man, hardly taller than Harry 
and Hermione. His thin, colorless hair was unkempt 
and there was a large bald patch on top. He had the 
shrunken appearance of a plump man who has lost a 
lot of weight in a short time. His skin looked grubby, 
almost like Scabbers ’s fur, and something of the rat 
lingered around his pointed nose and his very small, 
watery eyes. He looked around at them all, his 
breathing fast and shallow. Harry saw his eyes dart to 
the door and back again. 

“Well, hello, Peter,” said Lupin pleasantly, as though 
rats frequently erupted into old school friends around 
him. “Long time, no see.” 

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“S — Sirius ... R — Remus ...” Even Pettigrew’s voice 
was squeaky. Again, his eyes darted toward the door. 
“My friends ... my old friends ...” 

Black’s wand arm rose, but Lupin seized him around 
the wrist, gave him a warning look, then turned again 
to Pettigrew, his voice light and casual. 

“We’ve been having a little chat, Peter, about what 
happened the night Lily and James died. You might 
have missed the finer points while you were 
squeaking around down there on the bed — ” 

“Remus,” gasped Pettigrew, and Harry could see 
beads of sweat breaking out over his pasty face, “you 
don’t believe him, do you... ? He tried to kill me, 
Remus. ...” 

“So we’ve heard,” said Lupin, more coldly. “I’d like to 
clear up one or two little matters with you, Peter, if 
you’d be so — ” 

“He’s come to try and kill me again!” Pettigrew 
squeaked suddenly, pointing at Black, and Harry saw 
that he used his middle finger, because his index was 
missing. “He killed Lily and James and now he’s going 
to kill me too. ... You’ve got to help me, Remus. ...” 

Black’s face looked more skull-like than ever as he 
stared at Pettigrew with his fathomless eyes. 

“No one’s going to try and kill you until we’ve sorted a 
few things out,” said Lupin. 

“Sorted things out?” squealed Pettigrew, looking 
wildly about him once more, eyes taking in the 
boarded windows and, again, the only door. “I knew 
he’d come after me! I knew he’d be back for me! I’ve 
been waiting for this for twelve years!” 

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“You knew Sirius was going to break out of Azkaban?” 
said Lupin, his brow furrowed. “When nobody has 
ever done it before?” 

“He’s got dark powers the rest of us can only dream 
of!” Pettigrew shouted shrilly. “How else did he get out 
of there? I suppose He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named 
taught him a few tricks!” 

Black started to laugh, a horrible, mirthless laugh 
that filled the whole room. 

“Voldemort, teach me tricks?” he said. 

Pettigrew flinched as though Black had brandished a 
whip at him. 

“What, scared to hear your old master’s name?” said 
Black. “I don’t blame you, Peter. His lot aren’t very 
happy with you, are they?” 

“Don’t know what you mean, Sirius — ” muttered 
Pettigrew, his breathing faster than ever. His whole 
face was shining with sweat now. 

“You haven’t been hiding from me for twelve years,” 
said Black. “You’ve been hiding from Voldemort’s old 
supporters. I heard things in Azkaban, Peter. ... They 
all think you’re dead, or you’d have to answer to 
them. ... I’ve heard them screaming all sorts of things 
in their sleep. Sounds like they think the double- 
crosser double-crossed them. Voldemort went to the 
Potters’ on your information ... and Voldemort met his 
downfall there. And not all Voldemort’s supporters 
ended up in Azkaban, did they? There are still plenty 
out here, biding their time, pretending they’ve seen 
the error of their ways. ... If they ever got wind that 
you were still alive, Peter — ” 



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“Don’t know ... what you’re talking about... said 
Pettigrew again, more shrilly than ever. He wiped his 
face on his sleeve and looked up at Lupin. “You don’t 
believe this — this madness, Remus — ” 

“I must admit, Peter, I have difficulty in 
understanding why an innocent man would want to 
spend twelve years as a rat,” said Lupin evenly. 

“Innocent, but scared!” squealed Pettigrew. “If 
Voldemort’s supporters were after me, it was because 
I put one of their best men in Azkaban — the spy, 
Sirius Black!” 

Black’s face contorted. 

“How dare you,” he growled, sounding suddenly like 
the bear-sized dog he had been. “I, a spy for 
Voldemort? When did I ever sneak around people who 
were stronger and more powerful than myself? But 
you, Peter — I’ll never understand why I didn’t see 
you were the spy from the start. You always liked big 
friends who’d look after you, didn’t you? It used to be 
us ... me and Remus ... and James. ...” 

Pettigrew wiped his face again; he was almost panting 
for breath. 

“Me, a spy ... must be out of your mind ... never ... 
don’t know how you can say such a — ” 

“Lily and James only made you Secret-Keeper 
because I suggested it,” Black hissed, so venomously 
that Pettigrew took a step backward. “I thought it was 
the perfect plan ... a bluff. ... Voldemort would be 
sure to come after me, would never dream they’d use 
a weak, talentless thing like you. ... It must have been 
the finest moment of your miserable life, telling 
Voldemort you could hand him the Potters.” 

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Pettigrew was muttering distractedly; Harry caught 
words like “far-fetched” and “lunacy,” but he couldn’t 
help paying more attention to the ashen color of 
Pettigrew’s face and the way his eyes continued to 
dart toward the windows and door. 

“Professor Lupin?” said Hermione timidly. “Can — can 
I say something?” 

“Certainly, Hermione,” said Lupin courteously. 

“Well — Scabbers — I mean, this — this man — he’s 
been sleeping in Harry’s dormitory for three years. If 
he’s working for You-Know-Who, how come he never 
tried to hurt Harry before now?” 

“There!” said Pettigrew shrilly, pointing at Ron with 
his maimed hand. “Thank you! You see, Remus? I 
have never hurt a hair of Harry’s head! Why should 
I?” 

“I’ll tell you why,” said Black. “Because you never did 
anything for anyone unless you could see what was in 
it for you. Voldemort’s been in hiding for fifteen years, 
they say he’s half dead. You weren’t about to commit 
murder right under Albus Dumbledore’s nose, for a 
wreck of a wizard who’d lost all of his power, were 
you? You’d want to be quite sure he was the biggest 
bully in the playground before you went back to him, 
wouldn’t you? Why else did you find a wizard family 
to take you in? Keeping an ear out for news, weren’t 
you, Peter? Just in case your old protector regained 
strength, and it was safe to rejoin him. ...” 

Pettigrew opened his mouth and closed it several 
times. He seemed to have lost the ability to talk. 

“Er — Mr. Black — Sirius?” said Hermione. 



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Black jumped at being addressed like this and stared 
at Hermione as though he had never seen anything 
quite like her. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, how — how did you get 
out of Azkaban, if you didn’t use Dark Magic?” 

“Thank you!” gasped Pettigrew, nodding frantically at 
her. “Exactly! Precisely what I — ” 

But Lupin silenced him with a look. Black was 
frowning slightly at Hermione, but not as though he 
were annoyed with her. He seemed to be pondering 
his answer. 

“I don’t know how I did it,” he said slowly. “I think the 
only reason I never lost my mind is that I knew I was 
innocent. That wasn’t a happy thought, so the 
dementors couldn’t suck it out of me ... but it kept me 
sane and knowing who I am . . . helped me keep my 
powers ... so when it all became . . . too much ... I 
could transform in my cell . . . become a dog. 
Dementors can’t see, you know. ...” He swallowed. 
“They feel their way toward people by feeding off their 
emotions. ... They could tell that my feelings were less 
— less human, less complex when I was a dog ... but 
they thought, of course, that I was losing my mind 
like everyone else in there, so it didn’t trouble them. 
But I was weak, very weak, and I had no hope of 
driving them away from me without a wand. ... 

“But then I saw Peter in that picture ... I realized he 
was at Hogwarts with Harry . . . perfectly positioned to 
act, if one hint reached his ears that the Dark Side 
was gathering strength again. ...” 

Pettigrew was shaking his head, mouthing 
noiselessly, but staring all the while at Black as 
though hypnotized. 

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"... ready to strike at the moment he could be sure of 
allies ... and to deliver the last Potter to them. If he 
gave them Harry, who’d dare say he’d betrayed Lord 
Voldemort? He’d be welcomed back with honors. ... 

“So you see, I had to do something. I was the only one 
who knew Peter was still alive. ...” 

Harry remembered what Mr. Weasley had told Mrs. 
Weasley. “The guards say he’s been talking in his 
sleep ... always the same words ... ‘He’s at Hog warts.’ 



“It was as if someone had lit a fire in my head, and 
the dementors couldn’t destroy it. ... It wasn’t a 
happy feeling ... it was an obsession . . . but it gave me 
strength, it cleared my mind. So, one night when they 
opened my door to bring food, I slipped past them as 
a dog. ... It’s so much harder for them to sense 
animal emotions that they were confused. ... I was 
thin, very thin . . . thin enough to slip through the 
bars. ... I swam as a dog back to the mainland. ... I 
journeyed north and slipped into the Hogwarts 
grounds as a dog. I’ve been living in the forest ever 
since, except when I came to watch the Quidditch, of 
course. You fly as well as your father did, Harry. ...” 

He looked at Harry, who did not look away. 

“Believe me,” croaked Black. “Believe me, Harry. I 
never betrayed James and Lily. I would have died 
before I betrayed them.” 

And at long last, Harry believed him. Throat too tight 
to speak, he nodded. 

“No!” 



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Pettigrew had fallen to his knees as though Harry’s 
nod had been his own death sentence. He shuffled 
forward on his knees, groveling, his hands clasped in 
front of him as though praying. 

“Sirius — it’s me ... it’s Peter ... your friend ... you 
wouldn’t ...” 

Black kicked out and Pettigrew recoiled. 

“There’s enough filth on my robes without you 
touching them,” said Black. 

“Remus!” Pettigrew squeaked, turning to Lupin 
instead, writhing imploringly in front of him. “You 
don’t believe this ... wouldn’t Sirius have told you 
they’d changed the plan?” 

“Not if he thought I was the spy, Peter,” said Lupin. “I 
assume that’s why you didn’t tell me, Sirius?” he said 
casually over Pettigrew’s head. 

“Forgive me, Remus,” said Black. 

“Not at all, Padfoot, old friend,” said Lupin, who was 
now rolling up his sleeves. “And will you, in turn, 
forgive me for believing you were the spy?” 

“Of course,” said Black, and the ghost of a grin flitted 
across his gaunt face. He, too, began rolling up his 
sleeves. “Shall we kill him together?” 

“Yes, I think so,” said Lupin grimly. 

“You wouldn’t ... you won’t... ,” gasped Pettigrew. And 
he scrambled around to Ron. 



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“Ron ... haven’t I been a good friend ... a good pet? 

You won’t let them kill me, Ron, will you ... you’re on 
my side, aren’t you?” 

But Ron was staring at Pettigrew with the utmost 
revulsion. 

“I let you sleep in my bed\” he said. 

“Kind boy ... kind master ...” Pettigrew crawled toward 
Ron, “you won’t let them do it. ... I was your rat. ... I 
was a good pet. ...” 

“If you made a better rat than a human, it’s not much 
to boast about, Peter,” said Black harshly. Ron, going 
still paler with pain, wrenched his broken leg out of 
Pettigrew’s reach. Pettigrew turned on his knees, 
staggered forward, and seized the hem of Hermione’s 
robes. 

“Sweet girl ... clever girl ... you — you won’t let them. 
... Help me. ...” 

Hermione pulled her robes out of Pettigrew’s 
clutching hands and backed away against the wall, 
looking horrified. 

Pettigrew knelt, trembling uncontrollably, and turned 
his head slowly toward Harry. 

“Harry ... Harry ... you look just like your father ... 
just like him. ...” 

“HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO HARRY?” roared Black. 
“HOW DARE YOU FACE HIM? HOW DARE YOU TALK 
ABOUT JAMES IN FRONT OF HIM?” 

“Harry,” whispered Pettigrew, shuffling toward him, 
hands outstretched. “Harry, James wouldn’t have 

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wanted me killed. ... James would have understood, 
Harry ... he would have shown me mercy. ...” 



Both Black and Lupin strode forward, seized 
Pettigrew’s shoulders, and threw him backward onto 
the floor. He sat there, twitching with terror, staring 
up at them. 

“You sold Lily and James to Voldemort,” said Black, 
who was shaking too. “Do you deny it?” 

Pettigrew burst into tears. It was horrible to watch, 
like an oversized, balding baby, cowering on the floor. 

“Sirius, Sirius, what could I have done? The Dark 
Lord . . . you have no idea ... he has weapons you can’t 
imagine. ... I was scared, Sirius, I was never brave 
like you and Remus and James. I never meant it to 
happen. ... He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced me — 



“DONT LIE!” bellowed Black. “YOU’D BEEN PASSING 
INFORMATION TO HIM FOR A YEAR BEFORE LILY 
AND JAMES DIED! YOU WERE HIS SPY!” 

“He — he was taking over everywhere!” gasped 
Pettigrew. “Wh — what was there to be gained by 
refusing him?” 

“What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil 
wizard who has ever existed?” said Black, with a 
terribly fury in his face. “Only innocent lives, Peter!” 

“You don’t understand!” whined Pettigrew. “He would 
have killed me, Sirius!” 

“THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!” roared Black. 
“DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS 
WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!” 

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Black and Lupin stood shoulder to shoulder, wands 
raised. 

“You should have realized,” said Lupin quietly, “if 
Voldemort didn’t kill you, we would. Good-bye, Peter.” 

Hermione covered her face with her hands and turned 
to the wall. 

“NO!” Harry yelled. He ran forward, placing himself in 
front of Pettigrew, facing the wands. “You can’t kill 
him,” he said breathlessly. “You can’t.” 

Black and Lupin both looked staggered. 

“Harry, this piece of vermin is the reason you have no 
parents,” Black snarled. “This cringing bit of filth 
would have seen you die too, without turning a hair. 
You heard him. His own stinking skin meant more to 
him than your whole family.” 

“I know,” Harry panted. “We’ll take him up to the 
castle. We’ll hand him over to the dementors. ... He 
can go to Azkaban ... but don’t kill him.” 

“Harry!” gasped Pettigrew, and he flung his arms 
around Harry’s knees. “You — thank you — it’s more 
than I deserve — thank you — ” 

“Get off me,” Harry spat, throwing Pettigrew’s hands 
off him in disgust. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m 
doing it because — I don’t reckon my dad would’ve 
wanted them to become killers — just for you.” 

No one moved or made a sound except Pettigrew, 
whose breath was coming in wheezes as he clutched 
his chest. Black and Lupin were looking at each 
other. Then, with one movement, they lowered their 
wands. 

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“You’re the only person who has the right to decide, 
Harry,” said Black. “But think ... think what he did. 



“He can go to Azkaban,” Harry repeated. “If anyone 
deserves that place, he does. ...” 

Pettigrew was still wheezing behind him. 

“Very well,” said Lupin. “Stand aside, Harry.” 

Harry hesitated. 

“I’m going to tie him up,” said Lupin. “That’s all, I 
swear.” 

Harry stepped out of the way. Thin cords shot from 
Lupin’s wand this time, and next moment, Pettigrew 
was wriggling on the floor, bound and gagged. 

“But if you transform, Peter,” growled Black, his own 
wand pointing at Pettigrew too, “we will kill you. You 
agree, Harry?” 

Harry looked down at the pitiful figure on the floor 
and nodded so that Pettigrew could see him. 

“Right,” said Lupin, suddenly businesslike. “Ron, I 
can’t mend bones nearly as well as Madam Pomfrey, 
so I think it’s best if we just strap your leg up until we 
can get you to the hospital wing.” 

He hurried over to Ron, bent down, tapped Ron’s leg 
with his wand, and muttered, “Ferula.” Bandages 
spun up Ron’s leg, strapping it tightly to a splint. 
Lupin helped him to his feet; Ron put his weight 
gingerly on the leg and didn’t wince. 

“That’s better,” he said. “Thanks.” 

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“What about Professor Snape?” said Hermione in a 
small voice, looking down at Snape’s prone figure. 



“There’s nothing seriously wrong with him,” said 
Lupin, bending over Snape and checking his pulse. 
“You were just a little — overenthusiastic. Still out 
cold. Er — perhaps it will be best if we don’t revive 
him until we’re safely back in the castle. We can take 
him like this. ...” 

He muttered, “Mobilicorpus.” As though invisible 
strings were tied to Snape’s wrists, neck, and knees, 
he was pulled into a standing position, head still 
lolling unpleasantly, like a grotesque puppet. He hung 
a few inches above the ground, his limp feet dangling. 
Lupin picked up the Invisibility Cloak and tucked it 
safely into his pocket. 

“And two of us should be chained to this,” said Black, 
nudging Pettigrew with his toe. “Just to make sure.” 

“I’ll do it,” said Lupin. 

“And me,” said Ron savagely, limping forward. 

Black conjured heavy manacles from thin air; soon 
Pettigrew was upright again, left arm chained to 
Lupin’s right, right arm to Ron’s left. Ron’s face was 
set. He seemed to have taken Scabbers’s true identity 
as a personal insult. Crookshanks leapt lightly off the 
bed and led the way out of the room, his bottlebrush 
tail held jauntily high. 



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THE DEMENTOR’S KISS 

Harry had never been part of a stranger group. 
Crookshanks led the way down the stairs; Lupin, 
Pettigrew, and Ron went next, looking like entrants in 
a six-legged race. Next came Professor Snape, drifting 
creepily along, his toes hitting each stair as they 
descended, held up by his own wand, which was 
being pointed at him by Sirius. Harry and Hermione 
brought up the rear. 

Getting back into the tunnel was difficult. Lupin, 
Pettigrew, and Ron had to turn sideways to manage 
it; Lupin still had Pettigrew covered with his wand. 
Harry could see them edging awkwardly along the 
tunnel in single file. Crookshanks was still in the 
lead. Harry went right after Black, who was still 
making Snape drift along ahead of them; he kept 
bumping his lolling head on the low ceiling. Harry 
had the impression Black was making no effort to 
prevent this. 



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“You know what this means?” Black said abruptly to 
Harry as they made their slow progress along the 
tunnel. “Turning Pettigrew in?” 

“You’re free,” said Harry. 

“Yes ... ,” said Black. “But I’m also — I don’t know if 
anyone ever told you — I’m your godfather.” 

“Yeah, I knew that,” said Harry. 

“Well ... your parents appointed me your guardian,” 
said Black stiffly. “If anything happened to them ...” 

Harry waited. Did Black mean what he thought he 
meant? 

“I’ll understand, of course, if you want to stay with 
your aunt and uncle,” said Black. “But ... well ... 
think about it. Once my name’s cleared ... if you 
wanted a ... a different home ...” 

Some sort of explosion took place in the pit of Harry’s 
stomach. 

“What — live with you?” he said, accidentally cracking 
his head on a bit of rock protruding from the ceiling. 
“Leave the Dursleys?” 

“Of course, I thought you wouldn’t want to,” said 
Black quickly. “I understand, I just thought I’d — ” 

“Are you insane?” said Harry, his voice easily as 
croaky as Black’s. “Of course I want to leave the 
Dursleys! Have you got a house? When can I move 
in?” 



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Black turned right around to look at him; Snape’s 
head was scraping the ceiling but Black didn’t seem 
to care. 

“You want to?” he said. “You mean it?” 

“Yeah, I mean it!” said Harry. 

Black’s gaunt face broke into the first true smile 
Harry had seen upon it. The difference it made was 
startling, as though a person ten years younger were 
shining through the starved mask; for a moment, he 
was recognizable as the man who had laughed at 
Harry’s parents’ wedding. 

They did not speak again until they had reached the 
end of the tunnel. Crookshanks darted up first; he 
had evidently pressed his paw to the knot on the 
trunk, because Lupin, Pettigrew, and Ron clambered 
upward without any sound of savaging branches. 

Black saw Snape up through the hole, then stood 
back for Harry and Hermione to pass. At last, all of 
them were out. 

The grounds were very dark now; the only light came 
from the distant windows of the castle. Without a 
word, they set off. Pettigrew was still wheezing and 
occasionally whimpering. Harry’s mind was buzzing. 
He was going to leave the Dursleys. He was going to 
live with Sirius Black, his parents’ best friend. ... He 
felt dazed. ... What would happen when he told the 
Dursleys he was going to live with the convict they’d 
seen on television... ! 

“One wrong move, Peter,” said Lupin threateningly 
ahead. His wand was still pointed sideways at 
Pettigrew’s chest. 



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Silently they tramped through the grounds, the castle 
lights growing slowly larger. Snape was still drifting 
weirdly ahead of Black, his chin bumping on his 
chest. And then — 

A cloud shifted. There were suddenly dim shadows on 
the ground. Their party was bathed in moonlight. 

Snape collided with Lupin, Pettigrew, and Ron, who 
had stopped abruptly. Black froze. He flung out one 
arm to make Harry and Hermione stop. 

Harry could see Lupin’s silhouette. He had gone rigid. 
Then his limbs began to shake. 

“Oh, my — ” Hermione gasped. “He didn’t take his 
potion tonight! He’s not safe!” 

“Run,” Black whispered. “Run. Now.” 

But Harry couldn’t run. Ron was chained to Pettigrew 
and Lupin. He leapt forward but Black caught him 
around the chest and threw him back. 

“Leave it to me — RUN!” 

There was a terrible snarling noise. Lupin’s head was 
lengthening. So was his body. His shoulders were 
hunching. Hair was sprouting visibly on his face and 
hands, which were curling into clawed paws. 
Crookshanks’s hair was on end again; he was backing 
away — 

As the werewolf reared, snapping its long jaws, Sirius 
disappeared from Harry’s side. He had transformed. 
The enormous, bearlike dog bounded forward. As the 
werewolf wrenched itself free of the manacle binding 
it, the dog seized it about the neck and pulled it 



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backward, away from Ron and Pettigrew. They were 
locked, jaw to jaw, claws ripping at each other — 

Harry stood, transfixed by the sight, too intent upon 
the battle to notice anything else. It was Hermione’s 
scream that alerted him — 

Pettigrew had dived for Lupin’s dropped wand. Ron, 
unsteady on his bandaged leg, fell. There was a bang, 
a burst of light — and Ron lay motionless on the 
ground. Another bang — Crookshanks flew into the 
air and back to the earth in a heap. 

“ ExpelliarmusV’ Harry yelled, pointing his own wand 
at Pettigrew; Lupin’s wand flew high into the air and 
out of sight. “Stay where you are!” Harry shouted, 
running forward. 

Too late. Pettigrew had transformed. Harry saw his 
bald tail whip through the manacle on Ron’s 
outstretched arm and heard a scurrying through the 
grass. 

There was a howl and a rumbling growl; Harry turned 
to see the werewolf taking flight; it was galloping into 
the forest — 

“Sirius, he’s gone, Pettigrew transformed!” Harry 
yelled. 

Black was bleeding; there were gashes across his 
muzzle and back, but at Harry’s words he scrambled 
up again, and in an instant, the sound of his paws 
faded to silence as he pounded away across the 
grounds. 

Harry and Hermione dashed over to Ron. 



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“What did he do to him?” Hermione whispered. Ron’s 
eyes were only half-closed, his mouth hung open; he 
was definitely alive, they could hear him breathing, 
but he didn’t seem to recognize them. 

“I don’t know. ...” 

Harry looked desperately around. Black and Lupin 
both gone . . . they had no one but Snape for company, 
still hanging, unconscious, in midair. 

“We’d better get them up to the castle and tell 
someone,” said Harry, pushing his hair out of his 
eyes, trying to think straight. Come — ” 

But then, from beyond the range of their vision, they 
heard a yelping, a whining: a dog in pain. ... 

“Sirius,” Harry muttered, staring into the darkness. 

He had a moment’s indecision, but there was nothing 
they could do for Ron at the moment, and by the 
sound of it, Black was in trouble — 

Harry set off at a run, Hermione right behind him. 

The yelping seemed to be coming from the ground 
near the edge of the lake. They pelted toward it, and 
Harry, running flat out, felt the cold without realizing 
what it must mean — 

The yelping stopped abruptly. As they reached the 
lakeshore, they saw why — Sirius had turned back 
into a man. He was crouched on all fours, his hands 
over his head. 

“iVooo,” he moaned. “Noooo ... please. ...” 

And then Harry saw them. Dementors, at least a 
hundred of them, gliding in a black mass around the 

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lake toward them. He spun around, the familiar, icy 
cold penetrating his insides, fog starting to obscure 
his vision; more were appearing out of the darkness 
on every side; they were encircling them. ... 

“Hermione, think of something happy!” Harry yelled, 
raising his wand, blinking furiously to try and clear 
his vision, shaking his head to rid it of the faint 
screaming that had started inside it — 

I’m going to live with my godfather. I’m leaving the 
Dursleys. 

He forced himself to think of Black, and only Black, 
and began to chant: “Expecto patronum). Expecto 
patronum).” 

Black gave a shudder, rolled over, and lay motionless 
on the ground, pale as death. 

Hell be all right. I’m going to go and live with him. 

“Expecto patronum). Hermione, help me! Expecto 
patronum).” 

“Expecto — ” Hermione whispered, “expecto — expecto 



But she couldn’t do it. The dementors were closing in, 
barely ten feet from them. They formed a solid wall 
around Harry and Hermione, and were getting closer. 



“EXPECTO PATRONUM” Harry yelled, trying to blot 
the screaming from his ears. “EXPECTO PATRONUM.” 

A thin wisp of silver escaped his wand and hovered 
like mist before him. At the same moment, Harry felt 



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Hermione collapse next to him. He was alone ... 
completely alone. ... 

“Expecto — expecto patronum — ” 

Harry felt his knees hit the cold grass. Fog was 
clouding his eyes. With a huge effort, he fought to 
remember — Sirius was innocent — innocent — We’ll 
be okay — I’m going to live with him — 

“ Expecto patronum J” he gasped. 

By the feeble light of his formless Patronus, he saw a 
dementor halt, very close to him. It couldn’t walk 
through the cloud of silver mist Harry had conjured. 

A dead, slimy hand slid out from under the cloak. It 
made a gesture as though to sweep the Patronus 
aside. 

“No — no — ” Harry gasped. “He’s innocent ... expecto 
— expecto patronum — ” 

He could feel them watching him, hear their rattling 
breath like an evil wind around him. The nearest 
dementor seemed to be considering him. Then it 
raised both its rotting hands — and lowered its hood. 

Where there should have been eyes, there was only 
thin, gray scabbed skin, stretched blankly over empty 
sockets. But there was a mouth ... a gaping, 
shapeless hole, sucking the air with the sound of a 
death rattle. 

A paralyzing terror filled Harry so that he couldn’t 
move or speak. His Patronus flickered and died. 

White fog was blinding him. He had to fight ... expecto 
patronum ... he couldn’t see ... and in the distance, he 
heard the familiar screaming . . . expecto patronum . . . 

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he groped in the mist for Sirius, and found his arm ... 
they weren’t going to take him. ... 

But a pair of strong, clammy hands suddenly 
attached themselves around Harry’s neck. They were 
forcing his face upward. ... He could feel its breath. ... 
It was going to get rid of him first. ... He could feel its 
putrid breath. . . . His mother was screaming in his 
ears. ... She was going to be the last thing he ever 
heard — 

And then, through the fog that was drowning him, he 
thought he saw a silvery light growing brighter and 
brighter. ... He felt himself fall forward onto the grass. 
... Facedown, too weak to move, sick and shaking, 
Harry opened his eyes. The dementor must have 
released him. The blinding light was illuminating the 
grass around him. ... The screaming had stopped, the 
cold was ebbing away. . . . 

Something was driving the dementors back. ... It was 
circling around him and Black and Hermione. ... They 
were leaving. ... The air was warm again. ... 

With every ounce of strength he could muster, Harry 
raised his head a few inches and saw an animal amid 
the light, galloping away across the lake. ... Eyes 
blurred with sweat, Harry tried to make out what it 
was. ... It was as bright as a unicorn. ... Fighting to 
stay conscious, Harry watched it canter to a halt as it 
reached the opposite shore. For a moment, Harry 
saw, by its brightness, somebody welcoming it back 
. . . raising his hand to pat it . . . someone who looked 
strangely familiar ... but it couldn’t be ... 

Harry didn’t understand. He couldn’t think anymore. 
He felt the last of his strength leave him, and his head 
hit the ground as he fainted. 



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HERMIONE’S SECRET 

“Shocking business ... shocking ... miracle none of 
them died . . . never heard the like ... by thunder, it 
was lucky you were there, Snape. ...” 

“Thank you, Minister.” 

“Order of Merlin, Second Class, I’d say. First Class, if 
I can wangle it!” 

“Thank you very much indeed, Minister.” 

“Nasty cut you’ve got there. ... Black’s work, I 
suppose?” 

“As a matter of fact, it was Potter, Weasley, and 
Granger, Minister. ...” 

“iVo!” 

“Black had bewitched them, I saw it immediately. A 
Confundus Charm, to judge by their behavior. They 
seemed to think there was a possibility he was 

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innocent. They weren’t responsible for their actions. 
On the other hand, their interference might have 
permitted Black to escape. ... They obviously thought 
they were going to catch Black single-handed. They’ve 
got away with a great deal before now. ... I’m afraid 
it’s given them a rather high opinion of themselves ... 
and of course Potter has always been allowed an 
extraordinary amount of license by the headmaster — 



“Ah, well, Snape ... Harry Potter, you know ... we’ve 
all got a bit of a blind spot where he’s concerned.” 

“And yet — is it good for him to be given so much 
special treatment? Personally, I try and treat him like 
any other student. And any other student would be 
suspended — at the very least — for leading his 
friends into such danger. Consider, Minister — 
against all school rules — after all the precautions 
put in place for his protection — out-of-bounds, at 
night, consorting with a werewolf and a murderer — 
and I have reason to believe he has been visiting 
Hogsmeade illegally too — ” 

“Well, well ... we shall see, Snape, we shall see. ... The 
boy has undoubtedly been foolish. ...” 

Harry lay listening with his eyes tight shut. He felt 
very groggy. The words he was hearing seemed to be 
traveling very slowly from his ears to his brain, so 
that it was difficult to understand. ... His limbs felt 
like lead; his eyelids too heavy to lift. ... He wanted to 
lie here, on this comfortable bed, forever. ... 

“What amazes me most is the behavior of the 
dementors ... you’ve really no idea what made them 
retreat, Snape?” 



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“No, Minister ... by the time I had come ’round they 
were heading back to their positions at the entrances. 



“Extraordinary. And yet Black, and Harry, and the girl 



“All unconscious by the time I reached them. I bound 
and gagged Black, naturally, conjured stretchers, and 
brought them all straight back to the castle.” 

There was a pause. Harry’s brain seemed to be 
moving a little faster, and as it did, a gnawing 
sensation grew in the pit of his stomach. ... 

He opened his eyes. 

Everything was slightly blurred. Somebody had 
removed his glasses. He was lying in the dark hospital 
wing. At the very end of the ward, he could make out 
Madam Pomfrey with her back to him, bending over a 
bed. Harry squinted. Ron’s red hair was visible 
beneath Madam Pomfrey’s arm. 

Harry moved his head over on the pillow. In the bed 
to his right lay Hermione. Moonlight was falling 
across her bed. Her eyes were open too. She looked 
petrified, and when she saw that Harry was awake, 
pressed a finger to her lips, then pointed to the 
hospital wing door. It was ajar, and the voices of 
Cornelius Fudge and Snape were coming through it 
from the corridor outside. 

Madam Pomfrey now came walking briskly up the 
dark ward to Harry’s bed. He turned to look at her. 
She was carrying the largest block of chocolate he 
had ever seen in his life. It looked like a small 
boulder. 



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“Ah, you’re awake!” she said briskly. She placed the 
chocolate on Harry’s bedside table and began 
breaking it apart with a small hammer. 

“How’s Ron?” said Harry and Hermione together. 

“He’ll live,” said Madam Pomfrey grimly. “As for you 
two ... you’ll be staying here until I’m satisfied you’re 
— Potter, what do you think you’re doing?” 

Harry was sitting up, putting his glasses back on, and 
picking up his wand. 

“I need to see the headmaster,” he said. 

“Potter,” said Madam Pomfrey soothingly, “it’s all 
right. They’ve got Black. He’s locked away upstairs. 
The dementors will be performing the kiss any 
moment now — ” 

“WHAT?” 

Harry jumped up out of bed; Hermione had done the 
same. But his shout had been heard in the corridor 
outside; next second, Cornelius Fudge and Snape had 
entered the ward. 

“Harry, Harry, what’s this?” said Fudge, looking 
agitated. “You should be in bed — has he had any 
chocolate?” he asked Madam Pomfrey anxiously. 

“Minister, listen!” Harry said. “Sirius Black’s innocent! 
Peter Pettigrew faked his own death! We saw him 
tonight! You can’t let the dementors do that thing to 
Sirius, he’s — ” 

But Fudge was shaking his head with a small smile 
on his face. 



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“Harry, Harry, you’re very confused, you’ve been 
through a dreadful ordeal, lie back down, now, we’ve 
got everything under control. ...” 

“YOU HAVEN’T!” Harry yelled. “YOU VE GOT THE 
WRONG MAN!” 

“Minister, listen, please,” Hermione said; she had 
hurried to Harry’s side and was gazing imploringly 
into Fudge’s face. “I saw him too. It was Ron’s rat, 
he’s an Animagus, Pettigrew, I mean, and — ” 

“You see, Minister?” said Snape. “Confunded, both of 
them. ... Black’s done a very good job on them. ...” 

“WE’RE NOT CONFUNDED!” Harry roared. 

“Minister! Professor!” said Madam Pomfrey angrily. “I 
must insist that you leave. Potter is my patient, and 
he should not be distressed!” 

“I’m not distressed, I’m trying to tell them what 
happened!” Harry said furiously. “If they’d just listen 



But Madam Pomfrey suddenly stuffed a large chunk 
of chocolate into Harry’s mouth; he choked, and she 
seized the opportunity to force him back onto the bed. 

“Now, please, Minister, these children need care. 
Please leave — ” 

The door opened again. It was Dumbledore. Harry 
swallowed his mouthful of chocolate with great 
difficulty and got up again. 

“Professor Dumbledore, Sirius Black — ” 



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“For heaven’s sake!” said Madam Pomfrey 
hysterically. “Is this a hospital wing or not? 
Headmaster, I must insist — ” 

“My apologies, Poppy, but I need a word with Mr. 
Potter and Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore calmly. “I 
have just been talking to Sirius Black — ” 

“I suppose he’s told you the same fairy tale he’s 
planted in Potter’s mind?” spat Snape. “Something 
about a rat, and Pettigrew being alive — ” 

“That, indeed, is Black’s story,” said Dumbledore, 
surveying Snape closely through his half-moon 
spectacles. 

“And does my evidence count for nothing?” snarled 
Snape. “Peter Pettigrew was not in the Shrieking 
Shack, nor did I see any sign of him on the grounds.” 

“That was because you were knocked out, Professor!” 
said Hermione earnestly. “You didn’t arrive in time to 
hear — ” 

“Miss Granger, HOLD YOUR TONGUE!” 

“Now, Snape,” said Fudge, startled, “the young lady is 
disturbed in her mind, we must make allowances — ” 

“I would like to speak to Harry and Hermione alone,” 
said Dumbledore abruptly. “Cornelius, Severus, 

Poppy — please leave us.” 

“Headmaster!” sputtered Madam Pomfrey “They need 
treatment, they need rest — ” 

“This cannot wait,” said Dumbledore. “I must insist.” 



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Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips and strode away into 
her office at the end of the ward, slamming the door 
behind her. Fudge consulted the large gold pocket 
watch dangling from his waistcoat. 

“The dementors should have arrived by now,” he said. 
“Ill go and meet them. Dumbledore, 111 see you 
upstairs.” 

He crossed to the door and held it open for Snape, 
but Snape hadn’t moved. 

“You surely don’t believe a word of Black’s story?” 
Snape whispered, his eyes fixed on Dumbledore ’s 
face. 

“I wish to speak to Harry and Hermione alone,” 
Dumbledore repeated. 

Snape took a step toward Dumbledore. 

“Sirius Black showed he was capable of murder at the 
age of sixteen,” he breathed. “You haven’t forgotten 
that, Headmaster? You haven’t forgotten that he once 
tried to kill me?” 

“My memory is as good as it ever was, Severus,” said 
Dumbledore quietly. 

Snape turned on his heel and marched through the 
door Fudge was still holding. It closed behind them, 
and Dumbledore turned to Harry and Hermione. They 
both burst into speech at the same time. 

“Professor, Black’s telling the truth — we saw 
Pettigrew — ” 

“ — he escaped when Professor Lupin turned into a 
werewolf — ” 

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“ — he’s a rat — ” 



“ — Pettigrew’s front paw, I mean, finger, he cut it off 



“ — Pettigrew attacked Ron, it wasn’t Sirius — ” 

But Dumbledore held up his hand to stem the flood of 
explanations. 

“It is your turn to listen, and I beg you will not 
interrupt me, because there is very little time,” he 
said quietly. “There is not a shred of proof to support 
Black’s story, except your word — and the word of 
two thirteen-year-old wizards will not convince 
anybody. A street full of eyewitnesses swore they saw 
Sirius murder Pettigrew. I myself gave evidence to the 
Ministry that Sirius had been the Potters’ Secret- 
Keeper.” 

“Professor Lupin can tell you — ” Harry said, unable to 
stop himself. 

“Professor Lupin is currently deep in the forest, 
unable to tell anyone anything. By the time he is 
human again, it will be too late, Sirius will be worse 
than dead. I might add that werewolves are so 
mistrusted by most of our kind that his support will 
count for very little — and the fact that he and Sirius 
are old friends — ” 

“But — ” 

“ Listen to me, Harry. It is too late, you understand 
me? You must see that Professor Snape’s version of 
events is far more convincing than yours.” 

“He hates Sirius,” Hermione said desperately. “All 
because of some stupid trick Sirius played on him — ” 

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“Sirius has not acted like an innocent man. The 
attack on the Fat Lady — entering Gryffindor Tower 
with a knife — without Pettigrew, alive or dead, we 
have no chance of overturning Sirius’s sentence.” 

“But you believe us.” 

“Yes, I do,” said Dumbledore quietly. “But I have no 
power to make other men see the truth, or to overrule 
the Minister of Magic. ...” 

Harry stared up into the grave face and felt as though 
the ground beneath him were falling sharply away. He 
had grown used to the idea that Dumbledore could 
solve anything. He had expected Dumbledore to pull 
some amazing solution out of the air. But no . . . their 
last hope was gone. 

“What we need,” said Dumbledore slowly, and his 
light blue eyes moved from Harry to Hermione, “is 
more time.” 

“But — ” Hermione began. And then her eyes became 
very round. “OH!” 

“Now, pay attention,” said Dumbledore, speaking very 
low, and very clearly. “Sirius is locked in Professor 
Flitwick’s office on the seventh floor. Thirteenth 
window from the right of the West Tower. If all goes 
well, you will be able to save more than one innocent 
life tonight. But remember this, both of you: you must 
not be seen. Miss Granger, you know the law — you 
know what is at stake. ... You — must — not — be — 
seen.” 

Harry didn’t have a clue what was going on. 
Dumbledore had turned on his heel and looked back 
as he reached the door. 



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“I am going to lock you in. It is — ” he consulted his 
watch, “five minutes to midnight. Miss Granger, three 
turns should do it. Good luck.” 

“Good luck?” Harry repeated as the door closed 
behind Dumbledore. “Three turns? What’s he talking 
about? What are we supposed to do?” 

But Hermione was fumbling with the neck of her 
robes, pulling from beneath them a very long, very 
fine gold chain. 

“Harry, come here,” she said urgently. “Quick).” 

Harry moved toward her, completely bewildered. She 
was holding the chain out. He saw a tiny, sparkling 
hourglass hanging from it. 

“Here — ” 

She had thrown the chain around his neck too. 

“Ready?” she said breathlessly. 

“What are we doing?” Harry said, completely lost. 

Hermione turned the hourglass over three times. 

The dark ward dissolved. Harry had the sensation 
that he was flying very fast, backward. A blur of 
colors and shapes rushed past him, his ears were 
pounding, he tried to yell but couldn’t hear his own 
voice — 

And then he felt solid ground beneath his feet, and 
everything came into focus again — 

He was standing next to Hermione in the deserted 
entrance hall and a stream of golden sunlight was 

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falling across the paved floor from the open front 
doors. He looked wildly around at Hermione, the 
chain of the hourglass cutting into his neck. 

“Hermione, what — ?” 

“In here!” Hermione seized Harry’s arm and dragged 
him across the hall to the door of a broom closet; she 
opened it, pushed him inside among the buckets and 
mops, then slammed the door behind them. 

“What — how — Hermione, what happened?” 

“We’ve gone back in time,” Hermione whispered, 
lifting the chain off Harry’s neck in the darkness. 
“Three hours back ...” 

Harry found his own leg and gave it a very hard 
pinch. It hurt a lot, which seemed to rule out the 
possibility that he was having a very bizarre dream. 

“But — ” 

“Shh! Listen! Someone’s coming! I think — I think it 
might be us!” 

Hermione had her ear pressed against the cupboard 
door. 

“Footsteps across the hall ... yes, I think it’s us going 
down to Hagrid’s!” 

“Are you telling me,” Harry whispered, “that we’re 
here in this cupboard and we’re out there too?” 

“Yes,” said Hermione, her ear still glued to the 
cupboard door. “I’m sure it’s us. It doesn’t sound like 
more than three people ... and we’re walking slowly 
because we’re under the Invisibility Cloak — ” 

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She broke off, still listening intently. 



“We’ve gone down the front steps. ...” 

Hermione sat down on an upturned bucket, looking 
desperately anxious, but Harry wanted a few 
questions answered. 

“Where did you get that hourglass thing?” 

“It’s called a Time-Turner,” Hermione whispered, “and 
I got it from Professor McGonagall on our first day 
back. I’ve been using it all year to get to all my 
lessons. Professor McGonagall made me swear I 
wouldn’t tell anyone. She had to write all sorts of 
letters to the Ministry of Magic so I could have one. 
She had to tell them that I was a model student, and 
that I’d never, ever use it for anything except my 
studies. ... I’ve been turning it back so I could do 
hours over again, that’s how I’ve been doing several 
lessons at once, see? But ... 

“Harry, I don’t understand what Dumbledore wants us 
to do. Why did he tell us to go back three hours? 

How’s that going to help Sirius?” 

Harry stared at her shadowy face. 

“There must be something that happened around now 
he wants us to change,” he said slowly. “What 
happened? We were walking down to Hagrid’s three 
hours ago. ...” 

“This is three hours ago, and we are walking down to 
Hagrid’s,” said Hermione. “We just heard ourselves 
leaving. ...” 

Harry frowned; he felt as though he were screwing up 
his whole brain in concentration. 

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“Dumbledore just said — just said we could save 
more than one innocent life. ...” And then it hit him. 
“Hermione, we’re going to save Buckbeak!” 

“But — how will that help Sirius?” 

“Dumbledore said — he just told us where the 
window is — the window of Flitwick’s office! Where 
they’ve got Sirius locked up! We’ve got to fly 
Buckbeak up to the window and rescue Sirius! Sirius 
can escape on Buckbeak — they can escape together!” 

From what Harry could see of Hermione’s face, she 
looked terrified. 

“If we manage that without being seen, it’ll be a 
miracle!” 

“Well, we’ve got to try, haven’t we?” said Harry. He 
stood up and pressed his ear against the door. 

“Doesn’t sound like anyone’s there. ... Come on, let’s 

go. ...” 

Harry pushed open the closet door. The entrance hall 
was deserted. As quietly and quickly as they could, 
they darted out of the closet and down the stone 
steps. The shadows were already lengthening, the 
tops of the trees in the Forbidden Forest gilded once 
more with gold. 

“If anyone’s looking out of the window — ” Hermione 
squeaked, looking up at the castle behind them. 

“Well run for it,” said Harry determinedly. “Straight 
into the forest, all right? We’ll have to hide behind a 
tree or something and keep a lookout — ” 



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“Okay, but well go around by the greenhouses!” said 
Hermione breathlessly. “We need to keep out of sight 
of Hagrid’s front door, or well see us! We must be 
nearly at Hagrid’s by now!” 

Still working out what she meant, Harry set off at a 
sprint, Hermione behind him. They tore across the 
vegetable gardens to the greenhouses, paused for a 
moment behind them, then set off again, fast as they 
could, skirting around the Whomping Willow, tearing 
toward the shelter of the forest. ... 

Safe in the shadows of the trees, Harry turned 
around; seconds later, Hermione arrived beside him, 
panting. 

“Right,” she gasped. “We need to sneak over to 
Hagrid’s. ... Keep out of sight, Harry. ...” 

They made their way silently through the trees, 
keeping to the very edge of the forest. Then, as they 
glimpsed the front of Hagrid’s house, they heard a 
knock upon his door. They moved quickly behind a 
wide oak trunk and peered out from either side. 

Hagrid had appeared in his doorway, shaking and 
white, looking around to see who had knocked. And 
Harry heard his own voice. 

“It’s us. We’re wearing the Invisibility Cloak. Let us in 
and we can take it off.” 

“Yeh shouldn’ve come!” Hagrid whispered. He stood 
back, then shut the door quickly. 

“This is the weirdest thing we’ve ever done,” Harry 
said fervently. 

“Let’s move along a bit,” Hermione whispered. “We 
need to get nearer to Buckbeak!” 

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They crept through the trees until they saw the 
nervous hippogriff, tethered to the fence around 
Hagrid’s pumpkin patch. 

“Now?” Harry whispered. 

“No!” said Hermione. “If we steal him now, those 
Committee people will think Hagrid set him free! 

We’ve got to wait until they’ve seen he’s tied outside!” 

“That’s going to give us about sixty seconds,” said 
Harry. This was starting to seem impossible. 

At that moment, there was a crash of breaking china 
from inside Hagrid’s cabin. 

“That’s Hagrid breaking the milk jug,” Hermione 
whispered. “I’m going to find Scabbers in a moment — 



Sure enough, a few minutes later, they heard 
Hermione ’s shriek of surprise. 

“Hermione,” said Harry suddenly, “what if we — we 
just run in there and grab Pettigrew — ” 

“No!” said Hermione in a terrified whisper. “Don’t you 
understand? We’re breaking one of the most 
important wizarding laws! Nobody’s supposed to 
change time, nobody! You heard Dumbledore, if we’re 
seen — ” 

“We’d only be seen by ourselves and Hagrid!” 

“Harry, what do you think you’d do if you saw 
yourself bursting into Hagrid’s house?” said 
Hermione. 



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“I’d — I’d think I’d gone mad,” said Harry, “or I’d think 
there was some Dark Magic going on — ” 



“ Exactly ! You wouldn’t understand, you might even 
attack yourself! Don’t you see? Professor McGonagall 
told me what awful things have happened when 
wizards have meddled with time. ... Loads of them 
ended up killing their past or future selves by 
mistake!” 

“Okay!” said Harry. “It was just an idea, I just thought 



But Hermione nudged him and pointed toward the 
castle. Harry moved his head a few inches to get a 
clear view of the distant front doors. Dumbledore, 
Fudge, the old Committee member, and Macnair the 
executioner were coming down the steps. 

“We’re about to come out!” Hermione breathed. 

And sure enough, moments later, Hagrid’s back door 
opened, and Harry saw himself, Ron, and Hermione 
walking out of it with Hagrid. It was, without a doubt, 
the strangest sensation of his life, standing behind 
the tree, and watching himself in the pumpkin patch. 

“It’s okay, Beaky, it’s okay ... ,” Hagrid said to 
Buckbeak. Then he turned to Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione. “Go on. Get goin’.” 

“Hagrid, we can’t — ” 

“Well tell them what really happened — ” 

“They can’t kill him — ” 

“Go! It’s bad enough without you lot in trouble an’ 
all!” 

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Harry watched the Hermione in the pumpkin patch 
throw the Invisibility Cloak over him and Ron. 

“Go quick. Don’ listen. ...” 

There was a knock on Hagrid’s front door. The 
execution party had arrived. Hagrid turned around 
and headed back into his cabin, leaving the back door 
ajar. Harry watched the grass flatten in patches all 
around the cabin and heard three pairs of feet 
retreating. He, Ron, and Hermione had gone ... but 
the Harry and Hermione hidden in the trees could 
now hear what was happening inside the cabin 
through the back door. 

“Where is the beast?” came the cold voice of Macnair. 

“Out — outside,” Hagrid croaked. 

Harry pulled his head out of sight as Macnair’s face 
appeared at Hagrid’s window, staring out at 
Buckbeak. Then they heard Fudge. 

“We — er — have to read you the official notice of 
execution, Hagrid. I’ll make it quick. And then you 
and Macnair need to sign it. Macnair, you’re 
supposed to listen too, that’s procedure — ” 

Macnair’s face vanished from the window. It was now 
or never. 

“Wait here,” Harry whispered to Hermione. “I’ll do it.” 

As Fudge’s voice started again, Harry darted out from 
behind his tree, vaulted the fence into the pumpkin 
patch, and approached Buckbeak. 

“It is the decision of the Committee for the Disposal of 
Dangerous Creatures that the hippogriff Buckbeak, 

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hereafter called the condemned, shall be executed on 
the sixth of June at sundown — ” 

Careful not to blink, Harry stared up into Buckbeak’s 
fierce orange eyes once more and bowed. Buckbeak 
sank to his scaly knees and then stood up again. 
Harry began to fumble with the knot of rope tying 
Buckbeak to the fence. 

"... sentenced to execution by beheading, to be carried 
out by the Committee’s appointed executioner, Walden 
Macnair ...” 

“Come on, Buckbeak,” Harry murmured, “come on, 
we’re going to help you. Quietly ... quietly ...” 

"... as witnessed below. Hagrid, you sign here. ...” 

Harry threw all his weight onto the rope, but 
Buckbeak had dug in his front feet. 

“Well, let’s get this over with,” said the reedy voice of 
the Committee member from inside Hagrid’s cabin. 
“Hagrid, perhaps it will be better if you stay inside — ” 

“No, I — I wan’ ter be with him. ... I don’ wan’ him ter 
be alone — ” 

Footsteps echoed from within the cabin. 

“Buckbeak, move\” Harry hissed. 

Harry tugged harder on the rope around Buckbeak’s 
neck. The hippogriff began to walk, rustling its wings 
irritably. They were still ten feet away from the forest, 
in plain view of Hagrid’s back door. 

“One moment, please, Macnair,” came Dumbledore’s 
voice. “You need to sign too.” The footsteps stopped. 

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Harry heaved on the rope. Buckbeak snapped his 
beak and walked a little faster. 



Hermione ’s white face was sticking out from behind a 
tree. 

“Harry, hurry!” she mouthed. 

Harry could still hear Dumbledore’s voice talking from 
within the cabin. He gave the rope another wrench. 
Buckbeak broke into a grudging trot. They had 
reached the trees. ... 

“Quick! Quick!” Hermione moaned, darting out from 
behind her tree, seizing the rope too and adding her 
weight to make Buckbeak move faster. Harry looked 
over his shoulder; they were now blocked from sight; 
they couldn’t see Hagrid’s garden at all. 

“Stop!” he whispered to Hermione. “They might hear 
us — ” 



Hagrid’s back door had opened with a bang. Harry, 
Hermione, and Buckbeak stood quite still; even the 
hippogriff seemed to be listening intently. 

Silence . . . then — 

“Where is it?” said the reedy voice of the Committee 
member. “Where is the beast?” 

“It was tied here!” said the executioner furiously. “I 
saw it! Just here!” 

“How extraordinary,” said Dumbledore. There was a 
note of amusement in his voice. 

“Beaky!” said Hagrid huskily. 

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There was a swishing noise, and the thud of an axe. 
The executioner seemed to have swung it into the 
fence in anger. And then came the howling, and this 
time they could hear Hagrid ’s words through his sobs. 

“Gone! Gone! Bless his little beak, he’s gone\ Musta 
pulled himself free! Beaky, yeh clever boy!” 

Buckbeak started to strain against the rope, trying to 
get back to Hagrid. Harry and Hermione tightened 
their grip and dug their heels into the forest floor to 
stop him. 

“Someone untied him!” the executioner was snarling. 
“We should search the grounds, the forest — ” 

“Macnair, if Buckbeak has indeed been stolen, do you 
really think the thief will have led him away on foot?” 
said Dumbledore, still sounding amused. “Search the 
skies, if you will. ... Hagrid, I could do with a cup of 
tea. Or a large brandy.” 

“O’ — o’ course, Professor,” said Hagrid, who sounded 
weak with happiness. “Come in, come in. ...” 

Harry and Hermione listened closely. They heard 
footsteps, the soft cursing of the executioner, the 
snap of the door, and then silence once more. 

“Now what?” whispered Harry, looking around. 

“Well have to hide in here,” said Hermione, who 
looked very shaken. “We need to wait until they’ve 
gone back to the castle. Then we wait until it’s safe to 
fly Buckbeak up to Sirius’s window. He won’t be there 
for another couple of hours. ... Oh, this is going to be 
difficult. ...” 



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She looked nervously over her shoulder into the 
depths of the forest. The sun was setting now. 

“We’re going to have to move,” said Harry, thinking 
hard. “We’ve got to be able to see the Whomping 
Willow, or we won’t know what’s going on.” 

“Okay,” said Hermione, getting a firmer grip on 
Buckbeak’s rope. “But we’ve got to keep out of sight, 
Harry, remember. ...” 

They moved around the edge of the forest, darkness 
falling thickly around them, until they were hidden 
behind a clump of trees through which they could 
make out the Willow. 

“There’s Ron!” said Harry suddenly. 

A dark figure was sprinting across the lawn and its 
shout echoed through the still night air. 

“Get away from him — get away — Scabbers, come 
here — ” 

And then they saw two more figures materialize out of 
nowhere. Harry watched himself and Hermione 
chasing after Ron. Then he saw Ron dive. 

“Gotchcd Get off, you stinking cat — ” 

“There’s Sirius!” said Harry. The great shape of the 
dog had bounded out from the roots of the Willow. 
They saw him bowl Harry over, then seize Ron. ... 

“Looks even worse from here, doesn’t it?” said Harry, 
watching the dog pulling Ron into the roots. “Ouch — 
look, I just got walloped by the tree — and so did you 
— this is weird — ” 



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The Whomping Willow was creaking and lashing out 
with its lower branches; they could see themselves 
darting here and there, trying to reach the trunk. And 
then the tree froze. 

“That was Crookshanks pressing the knot,” said 
Hermione. 

“And there we go ... ,” Harry muttered. “We’re in.” 

The moment they disappeared, the tree began to move 
again. Seconds later, they heard footsteps quite close 
by. Dumbledore, Macnair, Fudge, and the old 
Committee member were making their way up to the 
castle. 

“Right after we’d gone down into the passage!” said 
Hermione. “If only Dumbledore had come with us ...” 

“Macnair and Fudge would’ve come too,” said Harry 
bitterly. “I bet you anything Fudge would’ve told 
Macnair to murder Sirius on the spot. ...” 

They watched the four men climb the castle steps and 
disappear from view. For a few minutes the scene was 
deserted. Then — 

“Here comes Lupin!” said Harry as they saw another 
figure sprinting down the stone steps and haring 
toward the Willow. Harry looked up at the sky. Clouds 
were obscuring the moon completely. 

They watched Lupin seize a broken branch from the 
ground and prod the knot on the trunk. The tree 
stopped fighting, and Lupin, too, disappeared into the 
gap in its roots. 

“If he’d only grabbed the cloak,” said Harry. “It’s just 
lying there. ...” 

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He turned to Hermione. 



“If I just dashed out now and grabbed it, Snape’d 
never be able to get it and — ” 

“Harry, we mustn’t be seen!” 

“How can you stand this?” he asked Hermione 
fiercely. “Just standing here and watching it happen?” 
He hesitated. “I’m going to grab the cloak!” 

“Harry, no!” 

Hermione seized the back of Harry’s robes not a 
moment too soon. Just then, they heard a burst of 
song. It was Hagrid, making his way up to the castle, 
singing at the top of his voice, and weaving slightly as 
he walked. A large bottle was swinging from his 
hands. 

“See?” Hermione whispered. “See what would have 
happened? We’ve got to keep out of sight! No, 
Buckbeak).” 

The hippogriff was making frantic attempts to get to 
Hagrid again; Harry seized his rope too, straining to 
hold Buckbeak back. They watched Hagrid meander 
tipsily up to the castle. He was gone. Buckbeak 
stopped fighting to get away. His head drooped sadly. 

Barely two minutes later, the castle doors flew open 
yet again, and Snape came charging out of them, 
running toward the Willow. 

Harry’s fists clenched as they watched Snape skid to 
a halt next to the tree, looking around. He grabbed 
the cloak and held it up. 



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“Get your filthy hands off it,” Harry snarled under his 
breath. 

“Shh!” 

Snape seized the branch Lupin had used to freeze the 
tree, prodded the knot, and vanished from view as he 
put on the cloak. 

“So that’s it,” said Hermione quietly. “We’re all down 
there ... and now we’ve just got to wait until we come 
back up again. ...” 

She took the end of Buckbeak’s rope and tied it 
securely around the nearest tree, then sat down on 
the dry ground, arms around her knees. 

“Harry, there’s something I don’t understand. ... Why 
didn’t the dementors get Sirius? I remember them 
coming, and then I think I passed out . . . there were 
so many of them. ...” 

Harry sat down too. He explained what he’d seen; 
how, as the nearest dementor had lowered its mouth 
to Harry’s, a large silver something had come 
galloping across the lake and forced the dementors to 
retreat. 

Hermione ’s mouth was slightly open by the time 
Harry had finished. 

“But what was it?” 

“There’s only one thing it could have been, to make 
the dementors go,” said Harry. “A real Patronus. A 
powerful one.” 

“But who conjured it?” 



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Harry didn’t say anything. He was thinking back to 
the person he’d seen on the other bank of the lake. He 
knew who he thought it had been . . . but how could it 
have been? 

“Didn’t you see what they looked like?” said Hermione 
eagerly. “Was it one of the teachers?” 

“No,” said Harry. “He wasn’t a teacher.” 

“But it must have been a really powerful wizard, to 
drive all those dementors away. ... If the Patronus 
was shining so brightly, didn’t it light him up? 
Couldn’t you see — ?” 

“Yeah, I saw him,” said Harry slowly. “But ... maybe I 
imagined it. ... I wasn’t thinking straight. ... I passed 
out right afterward. ...” 

“ Who did you think it was?” 

“I think — ” Harry swallowed, knowing how strange 
this was going to sound. “I think it was my dad.” 

Harry glanced up at Hermione and saw that her 
mouth was fully open now. She was gazing at him 
with a mixture of alarm and pity. 

“Harry, your dad’s — well — dead,” she said quietly. 

“I know that,” said Harry quickly. 

“You think you saw his ghost?” 

“I don’t know ... no ... he looked solid. ...” 

“But then — ” 



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“Maybe I was seeing things,” said Harry. “But ... from 
what I could see ... it looked like him. ... I’ve got 
photos of him. ...” 

Hermione was still looking at him as though worried 
about his sanity. 

“I know it sounds crazy,” said Harry flatly. He turned 
to look at Buckbeak, who was digging his beak into 
the ground, apparently searching for worms. But he 
wasn’t really watching Buckbeak. 

He was thinking about his father and about his 
father’s three oldest friends ... Moony, Wormtail, 
Padfoot, and Prongs. ... Had all four of them been out 
on the grounds tonight? Wormtail had reappeared 
this evening when everyone had thought he was dead. 
... Was it so impossible his father had done the same? 
Had he been seeing things across the lake? The figure 
had been too far away to see distinctly . . . yet he had 
felt sure, for a moment, before he’d lost 
consciousness. ... 

The leaves overhead rustled faintly in the breeze. The 
moon drifted in and out of sight behind the shifting 
clouds. Hermione sat with her face turned toward the 
Willow, waiting. 

And then, at last, after over an hour . . . 

“Here we come!” Hermione whispered. 

She and Harry got to their feet. Buckbeak raised his 
head. They saw Lupin, Pettigrew, and Ron clambering 
awkwardly out of the hole in the roots . . . followed by 
the unconscious Snape, drifting weirdly upward. Next 
came Harry, Hermione, and Black. They all began to 
walk toward the castle. 



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Harry’s heart was starting to beat very fast. He 
glanced up at the sky. Any moment now, that cloud 
was going to move aside and show the moon. ... 

“Harry,” Hermione muttered as though she knew 
exactly what he was thinking, “we’ve got to stay put. 
We mustn’t be seen. There’s nothing we can do. ...” 

“So we’re just going to let Pettigrew escape all over 
again. ...” said Harry quietly. 

“How do you expect to find a rat in the dark?” 
snapped Hermione. “There’s nothing we can do! We 
came back to help Sirius; we’re not supposed to be 
doing anything else!” 

“ All right'.” 

The moon slid out from behind its cloud. They saw 
the tiny figures across the grounds stop. Then they 
saw movement — 

“There goes Lupin,” Hermione whispered. “He’s 
transforming — ” 

“Hermione!” said Harry suddenly. “We’ve got to move!” 

“We mustn’t, I keep telling you — ” 

“Not to interfere! Lupin’s going to run into the forest, 
right at us!” 

Hermione gasped. 

“Quick!” she moaned, dashing to untie Buckbeak. 
“Quick! Where are we going to go? Where are we going 
to hide? The dementors will be coming any moment — 



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“Back to Hagrid’s!” Harry said. “It’s empty now — 
come on!” 

They ran as fast as they could, Buckbeak cantering 
along behind them. They could hear the werewolf 
howling behind them. ... 

The cabin was in sight; Harry skidded to the door, 
wrenched it open, and Hermione and Buckbeak 
flashed past him; Harry threw himself in after them 
and bolted the door. Fang the boarhound barked 
loudly. 

“Shh, Fang, it’s us!” said Hermione, hurrying over and 
scratching his ears to quieten him. “That was really 
close!” she said to Harry. 

“Yeah ...” 

Harry was looking out of the window. It was much 
harder to see what was going on from here. Buckbeak 
seemed very happy to find himself back inside 
Hagrid’s house. He lay down in front of the fire, folded 
his wings contentedly, and seemed ready for a good 
nap. 

“I think I’d better go outside again, you know,” said 
Harry slowly. “I can’t see what’s going on — we won’t 
know when it’s time — ” 

Hermione looked up. Her expression was suspicious. 

“I’m not going to try and interfere,” said Harry 
quickly. “But if we don’t see what’s going on, how’re 
we going to know when it’s time to rescue Sirius?” 

“Well ... okay, then ... I’ll wait here with Buckbeak ... 
but Harry, be careful — there’s a werewolf out there 
— and the dementors — ” 

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Harry stepped outside again and edged around the 
cabin. He could hear yelping in the distance. That 
meant the dementors were closing in on Sirius. ... He 
and Hermione would be running to him any moment. 



Harry stared out toward the lake, his heart doing a 
kind of drumroll in his chest. ... Whoever had sent 
that Patronus would be appearing at any moment. ... 

For a fraction of a second he stood, irresolute, in front 
of Hagrid’s door. You must not be seen. But he didn’t 
want to be seen. He wanted to do the seeing. ... He 
had to know. . . . 

And there were the dementors. They were emerging 
out of the darkness from every direction, gliding 
around the edges of the lake. ... They were moving 
away from where Harry stood, to the opposite bank. 

... He wouldn’t have to get near them. ... 

Harry began to run. He had no thought in his head 
except his father. ... If it was him ... if it really was 
him ... he had to know, had to find out. ... 

The lake was coming nearer and nearer, but there 
was no sign of anybody. On the opposite bank, he 
could see tiny glimmers of silver — his own attempts 
at a Patronus — 

There was a bush at the very edge of the water. Harry 
threw himself behind it, peering desperately through 
the leaves. On the opposite bank, the glimmers of 
silver were suddenly extinguished. A terrified 
excitement shot through him — any moment now — 

“Come on!” he muttered, staring about. “Where are 
you? Dad, come on — ” 



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But no one came. Harry raised his head to look at the 
circle of dementors across the lake. One of them was 
lowering its hood. It was time for the rescuer to 
appear — but no one was coming to help this time — 

And then it hit him — he understood. He hadn’t seen 
his father — he had seen himself — 

Harry flung himself out from behind the bush and 
pulled out his wand. 

“EXPECTO PATRONUM ” he yelled. 

And out of the end of his wand burst, not a shapeless 
cloud of mist, but a blinding, dazzling, silver animal. 
He screwed up his eyes, trying to see what it was. It 
looked like a horse. It was galloping silently away 
from him, across the black surface of the lake. He 
saw it lower its head and charge at the swarming 
dementors. ... Now it was galloping around and 
around the black shapes on the ground, and the 
dementors were falling back, scattering, retreating 
into the darkness. ... They were gone. 

The Patronus turned. It was cantering back toward 
Harry across the still surface of the water. It wasn’t a 
horse. It wasn’t a unicorn, either. It was a stag. It was 
shining brightly as the moon above ... it was coming 
back to him. ... 

It stopped on the bank. Its hooves made no mark on 
the soft ground as it stared at Harry with its large, 
silver eyes. Slowly, it bowed its antlered head. And 
Harry realized . . . 

“Prongs,” he whispered. 

But as his trembling fingertips stretched toward the 
creature, it vanished. 

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Harry stood there, hand still outstretched. Then, with 
a great leap of his heart, he heard hooves behind him 
— he whirled around and saw Hermione dashing 
toward him, dragging Buckbeak behind her. 

“What did you do?” she said fiercely. “You said you 
were only going to keep a lookout!” 

“I just saved all our lives ... ,” said Harry. “Get behind 
here — behind this bush — I’ll explain.” 

Hermione listened to what had just happened with 
her mouth open yet again. 

“Did anyone see you?” 

“Yes, haven’t you been listening? I saw me but I 
thought I was my dad! It’s okay!” 

“Harry, I can’t believe it. ... You conjured up a 
Patronus that drove away all those dementors! That’s 
very, very advanced magic. ...” 

“I knew I could do it this time,” said Harry, “because 
I’d already done it. ... Does that make sense?” 

“I don’t know — Harry, look at Snape!” 

Together they peered around the bush at the other 
bank. Snape had regained consciousness. He was 
conjuring stretchers and lifting the limp forms of 
Harry, Hermione, and Black onto them. A fourth 
stretcher, no doubt bearing Ron, was already floating 
at his side. Then, wand held out in front of him, he 
moved them away toward the castle. 

“Right, it’s nearly time,” said Hermione tensely, 
looking at her watch. “We’ve got about forty-five 
minutes until Dumbledore locks the door to the 

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hospital wing. We’ve got to rescue Sirius and get back 
into the ward before anybody realizes we’re missing. 



They waited, watching the moving clouds reflected in 
the lake, while the bush next to them whispered in 
the breeze. Buckbeak, bored, was ferreting for worms 
again. 

“D’you reckon he’s up there yet?” said Harry, 
checking his watch. He looked up at the castle and 
began counting the windows to the right of the West 
Tower. 

“Look!” Hermione whispered. “Who’s that? Someone’s 
coming back out of the castle!” 

Harry stared through the darkness. The man was 
hurrying across the grounds, toward one of the 
entrances. Something shiny glinted in his belt. 

“Macnair!” said Harry. “The executioner! He’s gone to 
get the dementors! This is it, Hermione — ” 

Hermione put her hands on Buckbeak’s back and 
Harry gave her a leg up. Then he placed his foot on 
one of the lower branches of the bush and climbed up 
in front of her. He pulled Buckbeak’s rope back over 
his neck and tied it to the other side of his collar like 
reins. 

“Ready?” he whispered to Hermione. “You’d better 
hold on to me — ” 

He nudged Buckbeak’s sides with his heels. 

Buckbeak soared straight into the dark air. Harry 
gripped his flanks with his knees, feeling the great 
wings rising powerfully beneath them. Hermione was 

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holding Harry very tight around the waist; he could 
hear her muttering, “Oh, no — I don’t like this — oh, I 
really don’t like this — ” 

Harry urged Buckbeak forward. They were gliding 
quietly toward the upper floors of the castle. ... Harry 
pulled hard on the left-hand side of the rope, and 
Buckbeak turned. Harry was trying to count the 
windows flashing past — 

“Whoa!” he said, pulling backward as hard as he 
could. 

Buckbeak slowed down and they found themselves at 
a stop, unless you counted the fact that they kept 
rising up and down several feet as the hippogriff beat 
his wings to remain airborne. 

“He’s there!” Harry said, spotting Sirius as they rose 
up beside the window. He reached out, and as 
Buckbeak’s wings fell, was able to tap sharply on the 
glass. 

Black looked up. Harry saw his jaw drop. He leapt 
from his chair, hurried to the window and tried to 
open it, but it was locked. 

“Stand back!” Hermione called to him, and she took 
out her wand, still gripping the back of Harry’s robes 
with her left hand. 

“Alohomoral” 

The window sprang open. 

“How — how — ?” said Black weakly, staring at the 
hippogriff. 



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“Get on — there’s not much time,” said Harry, 
gripping Buckbeak firmly on either side of his sleek 
neck to hold him steady. “You’ve got to get out of here 

— the dementors are coming — Macnair’s gone to get 
them.” 

Black placed a hand on either side of the window 
frame and heaved his head and shoulders out of it. It 
was very lucky he was so thin. In seconds, he had 
managed to fling one leg over Buckbeak’s back and 
pull himself onto the hippogriff behind Hermione. 

“Okay, Buckbeak, up!” said Harry, shaking the rope. 
“Up to the tower — come on!” 

The hippogriff gave one sweep of its mighty wings and 
they were soaring upward again, high as the top of 
the West Tower. Buckbeak landed with a clatter on 
the battlements, and Harry and Hermione slid off him 
at once. 

“Sirius, you’d better go, quick,” Harry panted. “They’ll 
reach Flitwick’s office any moment, they’ll find out 
you’re gone.” 

Buckbeak pawed the ground, tossing his sharp head. 

“What happened to the other boy? Ron?” croaked 
Sirius. 

“He’s going to be okay. He’s still out of it, but Madam 
Pomfrey says shell be able to make him better. Quick 

- go 



But Black was still staring down at Harry. 

“How can I ever thank — ” 

“GO!” Harry and Hermione shouted together. 

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Black wheeled Buckbeak around, facing the open sky. 

“Well see each other again,” he said. “You are — truly 
your father’s son, Harry. ...” 

He squeezed Buckbeak’s sides with his heels. Harry 
and Hermione jumped back as the enormous wings 
rose once more. ... The hippogriff took off into the air. 

. . . He and his rider became smaller and smaller as 
Harry gazed after them ... then a cloud drifted across 
the moon. ... They were gone. 



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OWL POST AGAIN 



“Harry!” 

Hermione was tugging at his sleeve, staring at her 
watch. “We’ve got exactly ten minutes to get back 
down to the hospital wing without anybody seeing us 
— before Dumbledore locks the door — ” 

“Okay,” said Harry, wrenching his gaze from the sky, 
“let’s go. ...” 

They slipped through the doorway behind them and 
down a tightly spiraling stone staircase. As they 
reached the bottom of it, they heard voices. They 
flattened themselves against the wall and listened. It 
sounded like Fudge and Snape. They were walking 
quickly along the corridor at the foot of the staircase. 

"... only hope Dumbledore ’s not going to make 
difficulties,” Snape was saying. “The Kiss will be 
performed immediately?” 



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“As soon as Macnair returns with the dementors. This 
whole Black affair has been highly embarrassing. I 
can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to 
informing the Daily Prophet that we’ve got him at last. 
...I daresay they’ll want to interview you, Snape ... 
and once young Harry’s back in his right mind, I 
expect he’ll want to tell the Prophet exactly how you 
saved him. ...” 

Harry clenched his teeth. He caught a glimpse of 
Snape’s smirk as he and Fudge passed Harry and 
Hermione’s hiding place. Their footsteps died away. 
Harry and Hermione waited a few moments to make 
sure they’d really gone, then started to run in the 
opposite direction. Down one staircase, then another, 
along a new corridor — then they heard a cackling 
ahead. 

“Peeves\” Harry muttered, grabbing Hermione’s wrist. 
“In here!” 

They tore into a deserted classroom to their left just 
in time. Peeves seemed to be bouncing along the 
corridor in boisterous good spirits, laughing his head 
off. 

“Oh, he’s horrible,” whispered Hermione, her ear to 
the door. “I bet he’s all excited because the dementors 
are going to finish off Sirius. ...” She checked her 
watch. “Three minutes, Harry!” 

They waited until Peeves ’s gloating voice had faded 
into the distance, then slid back out of the room and 
broke into a run again. 

“Hermione — what’ll happen — if we don’t get back 
inside — before Dumbledore locks the door?” Harry 
panted. 



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“I don’t want to think about it!” Hermione moaned, 
checking her watch again. “One minute!” 

They had reached the end of the corridor with the 
hospital wing entrance. “Okay — I can hear 
Dumbledore,” said Hermione tensely. “Come on, 
Harry!” 

They crept along the corridor. The door opened. 
Dumbledore ’s back appeared. 

“I am going to lock you in,” they heard him saying. “It 
is five minutes to midnight. Miss Granger, three turns 
should do it. Good luck.” 

Dumbledore backed out of the room, closed the door, 
and took out his wand to magically lock it. Panicking, 
Harry and Hermione ran forward. Dumbledore looked 
up, and a wide smile appeared under the long silver 
mustache. “Well?” he said quietly. 

“We did it!” said Harry breathlessly. “Sirius has gone, 
on Buckbeak. ...” 

Dumbledore beamed at them. 

“Well done. I think — ” He listened intently for any 
sound within the hospital wing. “Yes, I think you’ve 
gone too — get inside — I’ll lock you in — ” 

Harry and Hermione slipped back inside the 
dormitory. It was empty except for Ron, who was still 
lying motionless in the end bed. As the lock clicked 
behind them, Harry and Hermione crept back to their 
own beds, Hermione tucking the Time-Turner back 
under her robes. A moment later, Madam Pomfrey 
came striding back out of her office. 



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“Did I hear the headmaster leaving? Am I allowed to 
look after my patients now?” 

She was in a very bad mood. Harry and Hermione 
thought it best to accept their chocolate quietly. 
Madam Pomfrey stood over them, making sure they 
ate it. But Harry could hardly swallow. He and 
Hermione were waiting, listening, their nerves 
jangling. ... And then, as they both took a fourth piece 
of chocolate from Madam Pomfrey, they heard a 
distant roar of fury echoing from somewhere above 
them. ... 

“What was that?” said Madam Pomfrey in alarm. 

Now they could hear angry voices, growing louder and 
louder. Madam Pomfrey was staring at the door. 

“Really — they’ll wake everybody up! What do they 
think they’re doing?” 

Harry was trying to hear what the voices were saying. 
They were drawing nearer — 

“He must have Disapparated, Severus. We should 
have left somebody in the room with him. When this 
gets out — ” 

“HE DIDNT DISAPPARATE!” Snape roared, now very 
close at hand. “YOU CANT APPARATE OR 
DISAPPARATE INSIDE THIS CASTLE! THIS — HAS — 
SOMETHING — TO — DO — WITH — POTTER!” 

“Severus — be reasonable — Harry has been locked 
up-” 

BAM. 

The door of the hospital wing burst open. 

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Fudge, Snape, and Dumbledore came striding into the 
ward. Dumbledore alone looked calm. Indeed, he 
looked as though he was quite enjoying himself. 

Fudge appeared angry. But Snape was beside himself. 

“OUT WITH IT, POTTER!” he bellowed. “WHAT DID 
YOU DO?” 

“Professor Snape!” shrieked Madam Pomfrey. “Control 
yourself!” 

“See here, Snape, be reasonable,” said Fudge. “This 
door’s been locked, we just saw — ” 

“THEY HELPED HIM ESCAPE, I KNOW IT!” Snape 
howled, pointing at Harry and Hermione. His face was 
twisted; spit was flying from his mouth. 

“Calm down, man!” Fudge barked. “You’re talking 
nonsense!” 

“YOU DONT KNOW POTTER!” shrieked Snape. “HE 
DID IT, I KNOW HE DID IT — ” 

“That will do, Severus,” said Dumbledore quietly. 
“Think about what you are saying. This door has been 
locked since I left the ward ten minutes ago. Madam 
Pomfrey, have these students left their beds?” 

“Of course not!” said Madam Pomfrey, bristling. “I 
would have heard them!” 

“Well, there you have it, Severus,” said Dumbledore 
calmly. “Unless you are suggesting that Harry and 
Hermione are able to be in two places at once, I’m 
afraid I don’t see any point in troubling them further.” 

Snape stood there, seething, staring from Fudge, who 
looked thoroughly shocked at his behavior, to 

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Dumbledore, whose eyes were twinkling behind his 
glasses. Snape whirled about, robes swishing behind 
him, and stormed out of the ward. 

“Fellow seems quite unbalanced,” said Fudge, staring 
after him. “I’d watch out for him if I were you, 
Dumbledore.” 

“Oh, he’s not unbalanced,” said Dumbledore quietly. 
“He’s just suffered a severe disappointment.” 

“He’s not the only one!” puffed Fudge. “The Daily 
Prophet’s going to have a field day! We had Black 
cornered and he slipped through our fingers yet 
again! All it needs now is for the story of that 
hippogriff’s escape to get out, and I’ll be a 
laughingstock! Well ... I’d better go and notify the 
Ministry. ...” 

“And the dementors?” said Dumbledore. “They’ll be 
removed from the school, I trust?” 

“Oh yes, they’ll have to go,” said Fudge, running his 
fingers distractedly through his hair. “Never dreamed 
they’d attempt to administer the Kiss on an innocent 
boy. ... Completely out of control ... no, I’ll have them 
packed off back to Azkaban tonight. ... Perhaps we 
should think about dragons at the school entrance. 



“Hagrid would like that,” said Dumbledore, smiling at 
Harry and Hermione. As he and Fudge left the 
dormitory, Madam Pomfrey hurried to the door and 
locked it again. Muttering angrily to herself, she 
headed back to her office. 

There was a low moan from the other end of the ward. 
Ron had woken up. They could see him sitting up, 
rubbing his head, looking around. 

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“What — what happened?” he groaned. “Harry? Why 
are we in here? Where’s Sirius? Where’s Lupin? 

What’s going on?” 

Harry and Hermione looked at each other. 

“You explain,” said Harry, helping himself to some 
more chocolate. 

When Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the hospital 
wing at noon the next day, it was to find an almost 
deserted castle. The sweltering heat and the end of 
the exams meant that everyone was taking full 
advantage of another Hogsmeade visit. Neither Ron 
nor Hermione felt like going, however, so they and 
Harry wandered onto the grounds, still talking about 
the extraordinary events of the previous night and 
wondering where Sirius and Buckbeak were now. 
Sitting near the lake, watching the giant squid waving 
its tentacles lazily above the water, Harry lost the 
thread of the conversation as he looked across to the 
opposite bank. The stag had galloped toward him 
from there just last night. ... 

A shadow fell across them and they looked up to see a 
very bleary-eyed Hagrid, mopping his sweaty face with 
one of his tablecloth-sized handkerchiefs and 
beaming down at them. 

“Know I shouldn’ feel happy, after wha’ happened las’ 
night,” he said. “I mean, Black escapin’ again, an’ 
everythin’ — but guess what?” 

“What?” they said, pretending to look curious. 

“Beaky! He escaped! He’s free! Bin celebratin’ all 
night!” 



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“That’s wonderful!” said Hermione, giving Ron a 
reproving look because he looked as though he was 
close to laughing. 

“Yeah ... can’t’ve tied him up properly,” said Hagrid, 
gazing happily out over the grounds. “I was worried 
this mornin’, mind ... thought he mighta met 
Professor Lupin on the grounds, but Lupin says he 
never ate anythin’ las’ night. ...” 

“What?” said Harry quickly. 

“Blimey, haven’ yeh heard?” said Hagrid, his smile 
fading a little. He lowered his voice, even though there 
was nobody in sight. “Er — Snape told all the 
Slytherins this mornin’. ... Thought everyone ’d know 
by now ... Professor Lupin’s a werewolf, see. An’ he 
was loose on the grounds las’ night. ... He’s packin’ 
now, o’ course.” 

“He’s packing?” said Harry, alarmed. “Why?” 

“Leavin’, isn’ he?” said Hagrid, looking surprised that 
Harry had to ask. “Resigned firs’ thing this mornin’. 
Says he can’t risk it happenin’ again.” 

Harry scrambled to his feet. 

“I’m going to see him,” he said to Ron and Hermione. 
“But if he’s resigned — ” 

“ — doesn’t sound like there’s anything we can do — ” 

“I don’t care. I still want to see him. I’ll meet you back 
here.” 

Lupin’s office door was open. He had already packed 
most of his things. The grindylow’s empty tank stood 

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next to his battered old suitcase, which was open and 
nearly full. Lupin was bending over something on his 
desk and looked up only when Harry knocked on the 
door. 

“I saw you coming,” said Lupin, smiling. He pointed to 
the parchment he had been poring over. It was the 
Marauder’s Map. 

“I just saw Hagrid,” said Harry. “And he said you’d 
resigned. It’s not true, is it?” 

“I’m afraid it is,” said Lupin. He started opening his 
desk drawers and taking out the contents. 

“Why?” said Harry. “The Ministry of Magic don’t think 
you were helping Sirius, do they?” 

Lupin crossed to the door and closed it behind Harry. 

“No. Professor Dumbledore managed to convince 
Fudge that I was trying to save your lives.” He sighed. 
“That was the final straw for Severus. I think the loss 
of the Order of Merlin hit him hard. So he — er — 
accidentally let slip that I am a werewolf this morning 
at breakfast.” 

“You’re not leaving just because of that!” said Harry. 
Lupin smiled wryly. 

“This time tomorrow, the owls will start arriving from 
parents. ... They will not want a werewolf teaching 
their children, Harry. And after last night, I see their 
point. I could have bitten any of you. ... That must 
never happen again.” 

“You’re the best Defense Against the Dark Arts 
teacher we’ve ever had!” said Harry. “Don’t go!” 

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Lupin shook his head and didn’t speak. He carried on 
emptying his drawers. Then, while Harry was trying 
to think of a good argument to make him stay, Lupin 
said, “From what the headmaster told me this 
morning, you saved a lot of lives last night, Harry. If 
I’m proud of anything I’ve done this year, it’s how 
much you’ve learned. ... Tell me about your 
Patronus.” 

“How d’you know about that?” said Harry, distracted. 

“What else could have driven the dementors back?” 

Harry told Lupin what had happened. When he’d 
finished, Lupin was smiling again. 

“Yes, your father was always a stag when he 
transformed,” he said. “You guessed right ... that’s 
why we called him Prongs.” 

Lupin threw his last few books into his case, closed 
the desk drawers, and turned to look at Harry. 

“Here — I brought this from the Shrieking Shack last 
night,” he said, handing Harry back the Invisibility 
Cloak. “And ...” He hesitated, then held out the 
Marauder’s Map too. “I am no longer your teacher, so 
I don’t feel guilty about giving you back this as well. 
It’s no use to me, and I daresay you, Ron, and 
Hermione will find uses for it.” 

Harry took the map and grinned. 

“You told me Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs 
would’ve wanted to lure me out of school ... you said 
they’d have thought it was funny.” 

“And so we would have,” said Lupin, now reaching 
down to close his case. “I have no hesitation in saying 

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that James would have been highly disappointed if 
his son had never found any of the secret passages 
out of the castle.” 

There was a knock on the door. Harry hastily stuffed 
the Marauder’s Map and the Invisibility Cloak into his 
pocket. 

It was Professor Dumbledore. He didn’t look surprised 
to see Harry there. 

“Your carriage is at the gates, Remus,” he said. 

“Thank you, Headmaster.” 

Lupin picked up his old suitcase and the empty 
grindylow tank. 

“Well — good-bye, Harry,” he said, smiling. “It has 
been a real pleasure teaching you. I feel sure we’ll 
meet again sometime. Headmaster, there is no need 
to see me to the gates, I can manage. ...” 

Harry had the impression that Lupin wanted to leave 
as quickly as possible. 

“Good-bye, then, Remus,” said Dumbledore soberly. 
Lupin shifted the grindylow tank slightly so that he 
and Dumbledore could shake hands. Then, with a 
final nod to Harry and a swift smile, Lupin left the 
office. 

Harry sat down in his vacated chair, staring glumly at 
the floor. He heard the door close and looked up. 
Dumbledore was still there. 

“Why so miserable, Harry?” he said quietly. “You 
should be very proud of yourself after last night.” 



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“It didn’t make any difference,” said Harry bitterly. 
“Pettigrew got away.” 

“Didn’t make any difference?” said Dumbledore 
quietly. “It made all the difference in the world, Harry. 
You helped uncover the truth. You saved an innocent 
man from a terrible fate.” 

Terrible. Something stirred in Harry’s memory. 

Greater and more terrible than ever before ... Professor 
Trelawney’s prediction! 

“Professor Dumbledore — yesterday, when I was 
having my Divination exam, Professor Trelawney went 
very — very strange.” 

“Indeed?” said Dumbledore. “Er — stranger than 
usual, you mean?” 

“Yes . . . her voice went all deep and her eyes rolled 
and she said ... she said Voldemort’s servant was 
going to set out to return to him before midnight. ... 
She said the servant would help him come back to 
power.” Harry stared up at Dumbledore. “And then 
she sort of became normal again, and she couldn’t 
remember anything she’d said. Was it — was she 
making a real prediction?” 

Dumbledore looked mildly impressed. 

“Do you know, Harry, I think she might have been,” 
he said thoughtfully. “Who’d have thought it? That 
brings her total of real predictions up to two. I should 
offer her a pay raise. ...” 

“But — ” Harry looked at him, aghast. How could 
Dumbledore take this so calmly? 



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“But — I stopped Sirius and Professor Lupin from 
killing Pettigrew! That makes it my fault if Voldemort 
comes back!” 



“It does not,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Hasn’t your 
experience with the Time-Turner taught you anything, 
Harry? The consequences of our actions are always so 
complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a 
very difficult business indeed. ... Professor Trelawney, 
bless her, is living proof of that. ... You did a very 
noble thing, in saving Pettigrew’s life.” 

“But if he helps Voldemort back to power — !” 

“Pettigrew owes his life to you. You have sent 
Voldemort a deputy who is in your debt. ... When one 
wizard saves another wizard’s life, it creates a certain 
bond between them ... and I’m much mistaken if 
Voldemort wants his servant in the debt of Harry 
Potter.” 

“I don’t want a connection with Pettigrew!” said Harry. 
“He betrayed my parents!” 

“This is magic at its deepest, its most impenetrable, 
Harry. But trust me ... the time may come when you 
will be very glad you saved Pettigrew’s life.” 

Harry couldn’t imagine when that would be. 
Dumbledore looked as though he knew what Harry 
was thinking. 

“I knew your father very well, both at Hogwarts and 
later, Harry,” he said gently. “He would have saved 
Pettigrew too, I am sure of it.” 

Harry looked up at him. Dumbledore wouldn’t laugh 
— he could tell Dumbledore . . . 

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“I thought it was my dad who’d conjured my 
Patronus. I mean, when I saw myself across the lake 
...I thought I was seeing him.” 

“An easy mistake to make,” said Dumbledore softly. “I 
expect you 11 tire of hearing it, but you do look 
extraordinarily like James. Except for the eyes ... you 
have your mother’s eyes.” 

Harry shook his head. 

“It was stupid, thinking it was him,” he muttered. “I 
mean, I knew he was dead.” 

“You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You 
think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever 
in times of great trouble? Your father is alive in you, 
Harry, and shows himself most plainly when you have 
need of him. How else could you produce that 
particular Patronus? Prongs rode again last night.” 

It took a moment for Harry to realize what 
Dumbledore had said. 

“Last night Sirius told me all about how they became 
Animagi,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “An 
extraordinary achievement — not least, keeping it 
quiet from me. And then I remembered the most 
unusual form your Patronus took, when it charged 
Mr. Malfoy down at your Quidditch match against 
Ravenclaw. You know, Harry, in a way, you did see 
your father last night. ... You found him inside 
yourself.” 

And Dumbledore left the office, leaving Harry to his 
very confused thoughts. 



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Nobody at Hogwarts now knew the truth of what had 
happened the night that Sirius, Buckbeak, and 
Pettigrew had vanished except Harry, Ron, Hermione, 
and Professor Dumbledore. As the end of term 
approached, Harry heard many different theories 
about what had really happened, but none of them 
came close to the truth. 

Malfoy was furious about Buckbeak. He was 
convinced that Hagrid had found a way of smuggling 
the hippogriff to safety, and seemed outraged that he 
and his father had been outwitted by a gamekeeper. 
Percy Weasley, meanwhile, had much to say on the 
subject of Sirius’s escape. 

“If I manage to get into the Ministry, I’ll have a lot of 
proposals to make about Magical Law Enforcement!” 
he told the only person who would listen — his 
girlfriend, Penelope. 

Though the weather was perfect, though the 
atmosphere was so cheerful, though he knew they 
had achieved the near impossible in helping Sirius to 
freedom, Harry had never approached the end of a 
school year in worse spirits. 

He certainly wasn’t the only one who was sorry to see 
Professor Lupin go. The whole of Harry’s Defense 
Against the Dark Arts class was miserable about his 
resignation. 

“Wonder what they’ll give us next year?” said Seamus 
Finnigan gloomily. 

“Maybe a vampire,” suggested Dean Thomas 
hopefully. 

It wasn’t only Professor Lupin’s departure that was 
weighing on Harry’s mind. He couldn’t help thinking a 

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lot about Professor Trelawney’s prediction. He kept 
wondering where Pettigrew was now, whether he had 
sought sanctuary with Voldemort yet. But the thing 
that was lowering Harry’s spirits most of all was the 
prospect of returning to the Dursleys. For maybe half 
an hour, a glorious half hour, he had believed he 
would be living with Sirius from now on . . . his 
parents’ best friend. ... It would have been the next 
best thing to having his own father back. And while 
no news of Sirius was definitely good news, because it 
meant he had successfully gone into hiding, Harry 
couldn’t help feeling miserable when he thought of 
the home he might have had, and the fact that it was 
now impossible. 

The exam results came out on the last day of term. 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione had passed every subject. 
Harry was amazed that he had got through Potions. 
He had a shrewd suspicion that Dumbledore might 
have stepped in to stop Snape failing him on purpose. 
Snape’s behavior toward Harry over the past week 
had been quite alarming. Harry wouldn’t have 
thought it possible that Snape’s dislike for him could 
increase, but it certainly had. A muscle twitched 
unpleasantly at the corner of Snape’s thin mouth 
every time he looked at Harry, and he was constantly 
flexing his fingers, as though itching to place them 
around Harry’s throat. 

Percy had got his top-grade N.E.W.T.s; Fred and 
George had scraped a handful of O.W.L.s each. 
Gryffindor House, meanwhile, largely thanks to their 
spectacular performance in the Quidditch Cup, had 
won the House championship for the third year 
running. This meant that the end of term feast took 
place amid decorations of scarlet and gold, and that 
the Gryffindor table was the noisiest of the lot, as 
everybody celebrated. Even Harry managed to forget 



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about the journey back to the Dursleys the next day 
as he ate, drank, talked, and laughed with the rest. 



As the Hogwarts Express pulled out of the station the 
next morning, Hermione gave Harry and Ron some 
surprising news. 

“I went to see Professor McGonagall this morning, just 
before breakfast. I’ve decided to drop Muggle Studies.” 

“But you passed your exam with three hundred and 
twenty percent!” said Ron. 

“I know,” sighed Hermione, “but I can’t stand another 
year like this one. That Time-Turner, it was driving 
me mad. I’ve handed it in. Without Muggle Studies 
and Divination, I’ll be able to have a normal schedule 
again.” 

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us about it,” said 
Ron grumpily. “We’re supposed to be your friends.” 

“I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone,” said Hermione 
severely. She looked around at Harry, who was 
watching Hogwarts disappear from view behind a 
mountain. Two whole months before he’d see it again. 



“Oh, cheer up, Harry!” said Hermione sadly. 

“I’m okay,” said Harry quickly. “Just thinking about 
the holidays.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about them too,” said Ron. 
“Harry, you’ve got to come and stay with us. I’ll fix it 
up with Mum and Dad, then I’ll call you. I know how 
to use a fellytone now — ” 

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“A telephone, Ron,” said Hermione. “Honestly, you 
should take Muggle Studies next year. ...” 

Ron ignored her. 

“It’s the Quidditch World Cup this summer! How 
about it, Harry? Come and stay, and we’ll go and see 
it! Dad can usually get tickets from work.” 

This proposal had the effect of cheering Harry up a 
great deal. 

“Yeah ... I bet the Dursleys’d be pleased to let me 
come ... especially after what I did to Aunt Marge. ...” 

Feeling considerably more cheerful, Harry joined Ron 
and Hermione in several games of Exploding Snap, 
and when the witch with the tea cart arrived, he 
bought himself a very large lunch, though nothing 
with chocolate in it. 

But it was late in the afternoon before the thing that 
made him truly happy turned up. ... 

“Harry,” said Hermione suddenly, peering over his 
shoulder. “What’s that thing outside your window?” 

Harry turned to look outside. Something very small 
and gray was bobbing in and out of sight beyond the 
glass. He stood up for a better look and saw that it 
was a tiny owl, carrying a letter that was much too 
big for it. The owl was so small, in fact, that it kept 
tumbling over in the air, buffeted this way and that in 
the train’s slipstream. Harry quickly pulled down the 
window, stretched out his arm, and caught it. It felt 
like a very fluffy Snitch. He brought it carefully inside. 
The owl dropped its letter onto Harry’s seat and began 
zooming around their compartment, apparently very 
pleased with itself for accomplishing its task. Hedwig 
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clicked her beak with a sort of dignified disapproval. 
Crookshanks sat up in his seat, following the owl with 
his great yellow eyes. Ron, noticing this, snatched the 
owl safely out of harm’s way. 

Harry picked up the letter. It was addressed to him. 

He ripped open the letter, and shouted, “It’s from 
Sirius!” 

“What?” said Ron and Hermione excitedly. “Read it 
aloud!” 

Dear Harry, 

I hope this finds you before you reach your aunt and 
uncle. I don’t know whether they’re used to owl post 

Buckbeak and I are in hiding. I won’t tell you where, in 
case this owl falls into the wrong hands. I have some 
doubt about his reliability, but he is the best I could 
find, and he did seem eager for the job. 

I believe the dementors are still searching for me, but 
they haven’t a hope of finding me here. I am planning 
to allow some Muggles to glimpse me soon, a long way 
from Hogwarts, so that the security on the castle will 
be lifted. 

There is something I never got around to telling you 
during our brief meeting. It was I who sent you the 
Firebolt — 

“Ha!” said Hermione triumphantly. “See! I told you it 
was from him!” 

“Yes, but he hadn’t jinxed it, had he?” said Ron. 
“Ouch!” The tiny owl, now hooting happily in his 
hand, had nibbled one of his fingers in what it 
seemed to think was an affectionate way. 

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Crookshanks took the order to the Owl Office for me. I 
used your name but told them to take the gold from my 
own Gringotts vault. Please consider it as thirteen 
birthdays’ worth of presents from your godfather. 

I would also like to apologize for the fright I think I 
gave you that night last year when you left your 
uncle’s house. I had only hoped to get a glimpse of you 
before starting my journey north, but I think the sight 
of me alarmed you. 

I am enclosing something else for you, which I think 
will make your next year at Hogwarts more enjoyable. 

If ever you need me, send word. Your owl will find me. 

I’ll write again soon. 

Sirius 

Harry looked eagerly inside the envelope. There was 
another piece of parchment in there. He read it 
through quickly and felt suddenly as warm and 
contented as though he’d swallowed a bottle of hot 
butterbeer in one gulp. 

I, Sirius Black, Harry Potter’s godfather, hereby give 
him permission to visit Hogsmeade on weekends. 

“That’ll be good enough for Dumbledore!” said Harry 
happily. He looked back at Sirius’s letter. 

“Hang on, there’s a P.S. ...” 

I thought your friend Ron might like to keep this owl, 
as it’s my fault he no longer has a rat. 

Ron’s eyes widened. The minute owl was still hooting 
excitedly. 

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“Keep him?” he said uncertainly. He looked closely at 
the owl for a moment; then, to Harry’s and 
Hermione’s great surprise, he held him out for 
Crookshanks to sniff. 

“What do’you reckon?” Ron asked the cat. “Definitely 
an owl?” 

Crookshanks purred. 

“That’s good enough for me,” said Ron happily. “He’s 
mine.” 

Harry read and reread the letter from Sirius all the 
way back into King’s Cross station. It was still 
clutched tightly in his hand as he, Ron, and 
Hermione stepped back through the barrier of 
platform nine and three-quarters. Harry spotted 
Uncle Vernon at once. He was standing a good 
distance from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, eyeing them 
suspiciously, and when Mrs. Weasley hugged Harry in 
greeting, his worst suspicions about them seemed 
confirmed. 

“I’ll call about the World Cup!” Ron yelled after Harry 
as Harry bid him and Hermione good-bye, then 
wheeled the trolley bearing his trunk and Hedwig’s 
cage toward Uncle Vernon, who greeted him in his 
usual fashion. 

“What’s that?” he snarled, staring at the envelope 
Harry was still clutching in his hand. “If it’s another 
form for me to sign, you’ve got another — ” 

“It’s not,” said Harry cheerfully. “It’s a letter from my 
godfather.” 

“Godfather?” sputtered Uncle Vernon. “You haven’t 
got a godfather!” 

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“Yes, I have,” said Harry brightly. “He was my mum 
and dad’s best friend. He’s a convicted murderer, but 
he’s broken out of wizard prison and he’s on the run. 
He likes to keep in touch with me, though ... keep up 
with my news ... check if I’m happy. ...” 

And, grinning broadly at the look of horror on Uncle 
Vernon’s face, Harry set off toward the station exit, 
Hedwig rattling along in front of him, for what looked 
like a much better summer than the last. 



Page | 487 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling 




/ 




THE RIDDLE HOUSE 

The villagers of Little Hangleton still called it “the 
Riddle House,” even though it had been many years 
since the Riddle family had lived there. It stood on a 
hill overlooking the village, some of its windows 
boarded, tiles missing from its roof, and ivy spreading 
unchecked over its face. Once a fine-looking manor, 
and easily the largest and grandest building for miles 
around, the Riddle House was now damp, derelict, 
and unoccupied. 

The Little Hangletons all agreed that the old house 
was “creepy.” Half a century ago, something strange 
and horrible had happened there, something that the 
older inhabitants of the village still liked to discuss 
when topics for gossip were scarce. The story had 
been picked over so many times, and had been 
embroidered in so many places, that nobody was 
quite sure what the truth was anymore. Every version 
of the tale, however, started in the same place: Fifty 
years before, at daybreak on a fine summer’s 
morning, when the Riddle House had still been well 



Page | 2 



Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 



kept and impressive, a maid had entered the drawing 
room to find all three Riddles dead. 

The maid had run screaming down the hill into the 
village and roused as many people as she could. 

“Lying there with their eyes wide open! Cold as ice! 
Still in their dinner things!” 

The police were summoned, and the whole of Little 
Hangleton had seethed with shocked curiosity and ill- 
disguised excitement. Nobody wasted their breath 
pretending to feel very sad about the Riddles, for they 
had been most unpopular. Elderly Mr. and Mrs. 
Riddle had been rich, snobbish, and rude, and their 
grown-up son, Tom, had been, if anything, worse. All 
the villagers cared about was the identity of their 
murderer — for plainly, three apparently healthy 
people did not all drop dead of natural causes on the 
same night. 

The Hanged Man, the village pub, did a roaring trade 
that night; the whole village seemed to have turned 
out to discuss the murders. They were rewarded for 
leaving their firesides when the Riddles’ cook arrived 
dramatically in their midst and announced to the 
suddenly silent pub that a man called Frank Bryce 
had just been arrested. 

“Frank!” cried several people. “Never!” 

Frank Bryce was the Riddles’ gardener. He lived alone 
in a rundown cottage on the grounds of the Riddle 
House. Frank had come back from the war with a 
very stiff leg and a great dislike of crowds and loud 
noises, and had been working for the Riddles ever 
since. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




There was a rush to buy the cook drinks and hear 
more details. 



“Always thought he was odd,” she told the eagerly 
listening villagers, after her fourth sherry. 

“Unfriendly, like. I’m sure if I’ve offered him a cuppa 
once, I’ve offered it a hundred times. Never wanted to 
mix, he didn’t.” 

“Ah, now,” said a woman at the bar, “he had a hard 
war, Frank. He likes the quiet life. That’s no reason to 



“Who else had a key to the back door, then?” barked 
the cook. “There’s been a spare key hanging in the 
gardener’s cottage far back as I can remember! 
Nobody forced the door last night! No broken 
windows! All Frank had to do was creep up to the big 
house while we was all sleeping. ...” 

The villagers exchanged dark looks. 

“I always thought he had a nasty look about him, 
right enough,” grunted a man at the bar. 

“War turned him funny, if you ask me,” said the 
landlord. 

“Told you I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of 
Frank, didn’t I, Dot?” said an excited woman in the 
corner. 

“Horrible temper,” said Dot, nodding fervently. “I 
remember, when he was a kid ...” 

By the following morning, hardly anyone in Little 
Hangleton doubted that Frank Bryce had killed the 
Riddles. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




But over in the neighboring town of Great Hangleton, 
in the dark and dingy police station, Frank was 
stubbornly repeating, again and again, that he was 
innocent, and that the only person he had seen near 
the house on the day of the Riddles’ deaths had been 
a teenage boy, a stranger, dark-haired and pale. 
Nobody else in the village had seen any such boy, and 
the police were quite sure that Frank had invented 
him. 

Then, just when things were looking very serious for 
Frank, the report on the Riddles’ bodies came back 
and changed everything. 

The police had never read an odder report. A team of 
doctors had examined the bodies and had concluded 
that none of the Riddles had been poisoned, stabbed, 
shot, strangled, suffocated, or (as far as they could 
tell) harmed at all. In fact (the report continued, in a 
tone of unmistakable bewilderment), the Riddles all 
appeared to be in perfect health — apart from the fact 
that they were all dead. The doctors did note (as 
though determined to find something wrong with the 
bodies) that each of the Riddles had a look of terror 
upon his or her face — but as the frustrated police 
said, whoever heard of three people being frightened 
to death? 

As there was no proof that the Riddles had been 
murdered at all, the police were forced to let Frank go. 
The Riddles were buried in the Little Hangleton 
churchyard, and their graves remained objects of 
curiosity for a while. To everyone’s surprise, and amid 
a cloud of suspicion, Frank Bryce returned to his 
cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House. 

“ ’S far as I’m concerned, he killed them, and I don’t 
care what the police say,” said Dot in the Hanged 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




Man. “And if he had any decency, he’d leave here, 
knowing as how we knows he did it.” 

But Frank did not leave. He stayed to tend the garden 
for the next family who lived in the Riddle House, and 
then the next — for neither family stayed long. 

Perhaps it was partly because of Frank that the new 
owners said there was a nasty feeling about the place, 
which, in the absence of inhabitants, started to fall 
into disrepair. 

The wealthy man who owned the Riddle House these 
days neither lived there nor put it to any use; they 
said in the village that he kept it for “tax reasons,” 
though nobody was very clear what these might be. 
The wealthy owner continued to pay Frank to do the 
gardening, however. Frank was nearing his seventy- 
seventh birthday now, very deaf, his bad leg stiffer 
than ever, but could be seen pottering around the 
flower beds in fine weather, even though the weeds 
were starting to creep up on him, try as he might to 
suppress them. 

Weeds were not the only things Frank had to contend 
with either. Boys from the village made a habit of 
throwing stones through the windows of the Riddle 
House. They rode their bicycles over the lawns Frank 
worked so hard to keep smooth. Once or twice, they 
broke into the old house for a dare. They knew that 
old Frank’s devotion to the house and grounds 
amounted almost to an obsession, and it amused 
them to see him limping across the garden, 
brandishing his stick and yelling croakily at them. 
Frank, for his part, believed the boys tormented him 
because they, like their parents and grandparents, 
thought him a murderer. So when Frank awoke one 
night in August and saw something very odd up at 
the old house, he merely assumed that the boys had 
gone one step further in their attempts to punish him. 
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It was Frank’s bad leg that woke him; it was paining 
him worse than ever in his old age. He got up and 
limped downstairs into the kitchen with the idea of 
refilling his hot-water bottle to ease the stiffness in 
his knee. Standing at the sink, filling the kettle, he 
looked up at the Riddle House and saw lights 
glimmering in its upper windows. Frank knew at once 
what was going on. The boys had broken into the 
house again, and judging by the flickering quality of 
the light, they had started a fire. 

Frank had no telephone, and in any case, he had 
deeply mistrusted the police ever since they had 
taken him in for questioning about the Riddles’ 
deaths. He put down the kettle at once, hurried back 
upstairs as fast as his bad leg would allow, and was 
soon back in his kitchen, fully dressed and removing 
a rusty old key from its hook by the door. He picked 
up his walking stick, which was propped against the 
wall, and set off into the night. 

The front door of the Riddle House bore no sign of 
being forced, nor did any of the windows. Frank 
limped around to the back of the house until he 
reached a door almost completely hidden by ivy, took 
out the old key, put it into the lock, and opened the 
door noiselessly. 

He let himself into the cavernous kitchen. Frank had 
not entered it for many years; nevertheless, although 
it was very dark, he remembered where the door into 
the hall was, and he groped his way toward it, his 
nostrils full of the smell of decay, ears pricked for any 
sound of footsteps or voices from overhead. He 
reached the hall, which was a little lighter owing to 
the large mullioned windows on either side of the 
front door, and started to climb the stairs, blessing 
the dust that lay thick upon the stone, because it 
muffled the sound of his feet and stick. 

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On the landing, Frank turned right, and saw at once 
where the intruders were: At the very end of the 
passage a door stood ajar, and a flickering light shone 
through the gap, casting a long sliver of gold across 
the black floor. Frank edged closer and closer, 
grasping his walking stick firmly. Several feet from 
the entrance, he was able to see a narrow slice of the 
room beyond. 

The fire, he now saw, had been lit in the grate. This 
surprised him. Then he stopped moving and listened 
intently, for a man’s voice spoke within the room; it 
sounded timid and fearful. 

“There is a little more in the bottle, My Lord, if you 
are still hungry.” 

“Later,” said a second voice. This too belonged to a 
man — but it was strangely high-pitched, and cold as 
a sudden blast of icy wind. Something about that 
voice made the sparse hairs on the back of Frank’s 
neck stand up. “Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail.” 

Frank turned his right ear toward the door, the better 
to hear. There came the clink of a bottle being put 
down upon some hard surface, and then the dull 
scraping noise of a heavy chair being dragged across 
the floor. Frank caught a glimpse of a small man, his 
back to the door, pushing the chair into place. He was 
wearing a long black cloak, and there was a bald 
patch at the back of his head. Then he went out of 
sight again. 

“Where is Nagini?” said the cold voice. 

“I — I don’t know, My Lord,” said the first voice 
nervously. “She set out to explore the house, I think. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




“You will milk her before we retire, Wormtail,” said 
the second voice. “I will need feeding in the night. The 
journey has tired me greatly.” 

Brow furrowed, Frank inclined his good ear still closer 
to the door, listening very hard. There was a pause, 
and then the man called Wormtail spoke again. 

“My Lord, may I ask how long we are going to stay 
here?” 

“A week,” said the cold voice. “Perhaps longer. The 
place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot 
proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the 
Quidditch World Cup is over.” 

Frank inserted a gnarled finger into his ear and 
rotated it. Owing, no doubt, to a buildup of earwax, 
he had heard the word “Quidditch,” which was not a 
word at all. 

“The — the Quidditch World Cup, My Lord?” said 
Wormtail. (Frank dug his finger still more vigorously 
into his ear.) “Forgive me, but — I do not understand 
— why should we wait until the World Cup is over?” 

“Because, fool, at this very moment wizards are 
pouring into the country from all over the world, and 
every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be on 
duty, on the watch for signs of unusual activity, 
checking and double-checking identities. They will be 
obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice 
anything. So we wait.” 

Frank stopped trying to clear out his ear. He had 
distinctly heard the words “Ministry of Magic,” 
“wizards,” and “Muggles.” Plainly, each of these 
expressions meant something secret, and Frank could 
think of only two sorts of people who would speak in 
Page | 9 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire -J.K. Rowling 




code: spies and criminals. Frank tightened his hold 
on his walking stick once more, and listened more 
closely still. 

“Your Lordship is still determined, then?” Wormtail 
said quietly. 

“Certainly I am determined, Wormtail.” There was a 
note of menace in the cold voice now. 

A slight pause followed — and then Wormtail spoke, 
the words tumbling from him in a rush, as though he 
was forcing himself to say this before he lost his 
nerve. 

“It could be done without Harry Potter, My Lord.” 

Another pause, more protracted, and then — 

“Without Harry Potter?” breathed the second voice 
softly. “I see ...” 

“My Lord, I do not say this out of concern for the boy!” 
said Wormtail, his voice rising squeakily. “The boy is 
nothing to me, nothing at all! It is merely that if we 
were to use another witch or wizard — any wizard — 
the thing could be done so much more quickly! If you 
allowed me to leave you for a short while — you know 
that I can disguise myself most effectively — I could 
be back here in as little as two days with a suitable 
person — ” 

“I could use another wizard,” said the cold voice 
softly, “that is true. ...” 

“My Lord, it makes sense,” said Wormtail, sounding 
thoroughly relieved now. “Laying hands on Harry 
Potter would be so difficult, he is so well protected — ” 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




“And so you volunteer to go and fetch me a 
substitute? I wonder . . . perhaps the task of nursing 
me has become wearisome for you, “Wormtail? Could 
this suggestion of abandoning the plan be nothing 
more than an attempt to desert me?” 

“My Lord! I — I have no wish to leave you, none at all 



“Do not lie to me!” hissed the second voice. “I can 
always tell, Wormtail! You are regretting that you ever 
returned to me. I revolt you. I see you flinch when you 
look at me, feel you shudder when you touch me. ...” 

“No! My devotion to Your Lordship — ” 

“Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You 
would not be here if you had anywhere else to go. 

How am I to survive without you, when I need feeding 
every few hours? Who is to milk Nagini?” 

“But you seem so much stronger, My Lord — ” 

“Liar,” breathed the second voice. “I am no stronger, 
and a few days alone would be enough to rob me of 
the little health I have regained under your clumsy 
care. Silencel” 

Wormtail, who had been sputtering incoherently, fell 
silent at once. For a few seconds, Frank could hear 
nothing but the fire crackling. Then the second man 
spoke once more, in a whisper that was almost a hiss. 

“I have my reasons for using the boy, as I have 
already explained to you, and I will use no other. I 
have waited thirteen years. A few more months will 
make no difference. As for the protection surrounding 
the boy, I believe my plan will be effective. All that is 
needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail — 

Page | 11 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




courage you will find, unless you wish to feel the full 
extent of Lord Voldemort’s wrath — ” 

“My Lord, I must speak!” said Wormtail, panic in his 
voice now. “All through our journey I have gone over 
the plan in my head — My Lord, Bertha Jorkins’s 
disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if 
we proceed, if I murder — ” 

“IP” whispered the second voice. “If? If you follow the 
plan, Wormtail, the Ministry need never know that 
anyone else has died. You will do it quietly and 
without fuss; I only wish that I could do it myself, but 
in my present condition ... Come, Wormtail, one more 
death and our path to Harry Potter is clear. I am not 
asking you to do it alone. By that time, my faithful 
servant will have rejoined us — ” 

“I am a faithful servant,” said Wormtail, the merest 
trace of sullenness in his voice. 

“Wormtail, I need somebody with brains, somebody 
whose loyalty has never wavered, and you, 
unfortunately, fulfill neither requirement.” 

“I found you,” said Wormtail, and there was definitely 
a sulky edge to his voice now. “I was the one who 
found you. I brought you Bertha Jorkins.” 

“That is true,” said the second man, sounding 
amused. “A stroke of brilliance I would not have 
thought possible from you, Wormtail — though, if 
truth be told, you were not aware how useful she 
would be when you caught her, were you?” 

“I — I thought she might be useful, My Lord — ” 

“Liar,” said the second voice again, the cruel 
amusement more pronounced than ever. “However, I 

Page | 12 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




do not deny that her information was invaluable. 
Without it, I could never have formed our plan, and 
for that, you will have your reward, Wormtail. I will 
allow you to perform an essential task for me, one 
that many of my followers would give their right 
hands to perform. ...” 

“R-really, My Lord? What — ?” Wormtail sounded 
terrified again. 

“Ah, Wormtail, you don’t want me to spoil the 
surprise? Your part will come at the very end ... but I 
promise you, you will have the honor of being just as 
useful as Bertha Jorkins.” 

“You ... you ...” Wormtail’s voice suddenly sounded 
hoarse, as though his mouth had gone very dry. “You 
. . . are going ... to kill me too?” 

“Wormtail, Wormtail,” said the cold voice silkily, “why 
would I kill you? I killed Bertha because I had to. She 
was fit for nothing after my questioning, quite 
useless. In any case, awkward questions would have 
been asked if she had gone back to the Ministry with 
the news that she had met you on her holidays. 
Wizards who are supposed to be dead would do well 
not to run into Ministry of Magic witches at wayside 
inns. ...” 

Wormtail muttered something so quietly that Frank 
could not hear it, but it made the second man laugh 
— an entirely mirthless laugh, cold as his speech. 

“We could have modified her memory? But Memory 
Charms can be broken by a powerful wizard, as I 
proved when I questioned her. It would be an insult to 
her memory not to use the information I extracted 
from her, Wormtail.” 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




Out in the corridor, Frank suddenly became aware 
that the hand gripping his walking stick was slippery 
with sweat. The man with the cold voice had killed a 
woman. He was talking about it without any kind of 
remorse — with amusement. He was dangerous — a 
madman. And he was planning more murders — this 
boy, Harry Potter, whoever he was — was in danger — 

Frank knew what he must do. Now, if ever, was the 
time to go to the police. He would creep out of the 
house and head straight for the telephone box in the 
village . . . but the cold voice was speaking again, and 
Frank remained where he was, frozen to the spot, 
listening with all his might. 

“One more murder . . . my faithful servant at Hogwarts 
... Harry Potter is as good as mine, Wormtail. It is 
decided. There will be no more argument. But quiet ... 
I think I hear Nagini. ...” 

And the second man’s voice changed. He started 
making noises such as Frank had never heard before; 
he was hissing and spitting without drawing breath. 
Frank thought he must be having some sort of fit or 
seizure. 

And then Frank heard movement behind him in the 
dark passageway. He turned to look, and found 
himself paralyzed with fright. 

Something was slithering toward him along the dark 
corridor floor, and as it drew nearer to the sliver of 
firelight, he realized with a thrill of terror that it was a 
gigantic snake, at least twelve feet long. Horrified, 
transfixed, Frank stared as its undulating body cut a 
wide, curving track through the thick dust on the 
floor, coming closer and closer — What was he to do? 
The only means of escape was into the room where 



Page | 14 



Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




two men sat plotting murder, yet if he stayed where 
he was the snake would surely kill him — 

But before he had made his decision, the snake was 
level with him, and then, incredibly, miraculously, it 
was passing; it was following the spitting, hissing 
noises made by the cold voice beyond the door, and in 
seconds, the tip of its diamond-patterned tail had 
vanished through the gap. 

There was sweat on Frank’s forehead now, and the 
hand on the walking stick was trembling. Inside the 
room, the cold voice was continuing to hiss, and 
Frank was visited by a strange idea, an impossible 
idea. . . . This man could talk to snakes. 

Frank didn’t understand what was going on. He 
wanted more than anything to be back in his bed with 
his hot-water bottle. The problem was that his legs 
didn’t seem to want to move. As he stood there 
shaking and trying to master himself, the cold voice 
switched abruptly to English again. 

“Nagini has interesting news, Wormtail,” it said. 

“In-indeed, My Lord?” said Wormtail. 

“Indeed, yes,” said the voice. “According to Nagini, 
there is an old Muggle standing right outside this 
room, listening to every word we say.” 

Frank didn’t have a chance to hide himself. There 
were footsteps, and then the door of the room was 
flung wide open. 

A short, balding man with graying hair, a pointed 
nose, and small, watery eyes stood before Frank, a 
mixture of fear and alarm in his face. 



Page | 15 



Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




“Invite him inside, Wormtail. Where are your 
manners?” 

The cold voice was coming from the ancient armchair 
before the fire, but Frank couldn’t see the speaker. 
The snake, on the other hand, was curled up on the 
rotting hearth rug, like some horrible travesty of a pet 
dog. 

Wormtail beckoned Frank into the room. Though still 
deeply shaken, Frank took a firmer grip upon his 
walking stick and limped over the threshold. 

The fire was the only source of light in the room; it 
cast long, spidery shadows upon the walls. Frank 
stared at the back of the armchair; the man inside it 
seemed to be even smaller than his servant, for Frank 
couldn’t even see the back of his head. 

“You heard everything, Muggle?” said the cold voice. 

“What’s that you’re calling me?” said Frank defiantly, 
for now that he was inside the room, now that the 
time had come for some sort of action, he felt braver; 
it had always been so in the war. 

“I am calling you a Muggle,” said the voice coolly. “It 
means that you are not a wizard.” 

“I don’t know what you mean by wizard,” said Frank, 
his voice growing steadier. “All I know is I’ve heard 
enough to interest the police tonight, I have. You’ve 
done murder and you’re planning more! And I’ll tell 
you this too,” he added, on a sudden inspiration, “my 
wife knows I’m up here, and if I don’t come back — ” 

“You have no wife,” said the cold voice, very quietly. 
“Nobody knows you are here. You told nobody that 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




you were coming. Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, 
Muggle, for he knows ... he always knows. ...” 

“Is that right?” said Frank roughly. “Lord, is it? Well, I 
don’t think much of your manners, My Lord. Turn 
’round and face me like a man, why don’t you?” 

“But I am not a man, Muggle,” said the cold voice, 
barely audible now over the crackling of the flames. “I 
am much, much more than a man. However ... why 
not? I will face you. ... Wormtail, come turn my chair 
around.” 

The servant gave a whimper. 

“You heard me, Wormtail.” 

Slowly, with his face screwed up, as though he would 
rather have done anything than approach his master 
and the hearth rug where the snake lay, the small 
man walked forward and began to turn the chair. The 
snake lifted its ugly triangular head and hissed 
slightly as the legs of the chair snagged on its rug. 

And then the chair was facing Frank, and he saw 
what was sitting in it. His walking stick fell to the 
floor with a clatter. He opened his mouth and let out 
a scream. He was screaming so loudly that he never 
heard the words the thing in the chair spoke as it 
raised a wand. There was a flash of green light, a 
rushing sound, and Frank Bryce crumpled. He was 
dead before he hit the floor. 

Two hundred miles away, the boy called Harry Potter 
woke with a start. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 






THE SCAR 

Harry lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though 
he had been running. He had awoken from a vivid 
dream with his hands pressed over his face. The old 
scar on his forehead, which was shaped like a bolt of 
lightning, was burning beneath his fingers as though 
someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to his 
skin. 

He sat up, one hand still on his scar, the other 
reaching out in the darkness for his glasses, which 
were on the bedside table. He put them on and his 
bedroom came into clearer focus, lit by a faint, misty 
orange light that was filtering through the curtains 
from the street lamp outside the window. 

Harry ran his fingers over the scar again. It was still 
painful. He turned on the lamp beside him, scrambled 
out of bed, crossed the room, opened his wardrobe, 
and peered into the mirror on the inside of the door. A 
skinny boy of fourteen looked back at him, his bright 
green eyes puzzled under his untidy black hair. He 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 



examined the lightning-bolt scar of his reflection more 
closely. It looked normal, but it was still stinging. 

Harry tried to recall what he had been dreaming 
about before he had awoken. It had seemed so real. ... 
There had been two people he knew and one he 
didn’t. ... He concentrated hard, frowning, trying to 
remember. ... 

The dim picture of a darkened room came to him. ... 
There had been a snake on a hearth rug ... a small 
man called Peter, nicknamed Wormtail ... and a cold, 
high voice ... the voice of Lord Voldemort. Harry felt 
as though an ice cube had slipped down into his 
stomach at the very thought. ... 

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember what 
Voldemort had looked like, but it was impossible. ... 
All Harry knew was that at the moment when 
Voldemort’s chair had swung around, and he, Harry, 
had seen what was sitting in it, he had felt a spasm of 
horror, which had awoken him ... or had that been 
the pain in his scar? 

And who had the old man been? For there had 
definitely been an old man; Harry had watched him 
fall to the ground. It was all becoming confused. 

Harry put his face into his hands, blocking out his 
bedroom, trying to hold on to the picture of that dimly 
lit room, but it was like trying to keep water in his 
cupped hands; the details were now trickling away as 
fast as he tried to hold on to them. ... Voldemort and 
Wormtail had been talking about someone they had 
killed, though Harry could not remember the name . . . 
and they had been plotting to kill someone else . . . 
him). 

Harry took his face out of his hands, opened his eyes, 
and stared around his bedroom as though expecting 

Page | 19 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




to see something unusual there. As it happened, 
there were an extraordinary number of unusual 
things in this room. A large wooden trunk stood open 
at the foot of his bed, revealing a cauldron, 
broomstick, black robes, and assorted spellbooks. 
Rolls of parchment littered that part of his desk that 
was not taken up by the large, empty cage in which 
his snowy owl, Hedwig, usually perched. On the floor 
beside his bed a book lay open; Harry had been 
reading it before he fell asleep last night. The pictures 
in this book were all moving. Men in bright orange 
robes were zooming in and out of sight on 
broomsticks, throwing a red ball to one another. 

Harry walked over to the book, picked it up, and 
watched one of the wizards score a spectacular goal 
by putting the ball through a fifty-foot-high hoop. 

Then he snapped the book shut. Even Quidditch — in 
Harry’s opinion, the best sport in the world — 
couldn’t distract him at the moment. He placed Flying 
with the Cannons on his bedside table, crossed to the 
window, and drew back the curtains to survey the 
street below. 

Privet Drive looked exactly as a respectable suburban 
street would be expected to look in the early hours of 
Saturday morning. All the curtains were closed. As far 
as Harry could see through the darkness, there 
wasn’t a living creature in sight, not even a cat. 

And yet . . . and yet . . . Harry went restlessly back to 
the bed and sat down on it, running a finger over his 
scar again. It wasn’t the pain that bothered him; 

Harry was no stranger to pain and injury. He had lost 
all the bones from his right arm once and had them 
painfully regrown in a night. The same arm had been 
pierced by a venomous foot-long fang not long 
afterward. Only last year Harry had fallen fifty feet 
from an airborne broomstick. He was used to bizarre 
Page | 20 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire -J.K. Rowling 




accidents and injuries; they were unavoidable if you 
attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry 
and had a knack for attracting a lot of trouble. 

No, the thing that was bothering Harry was that the 
last time his scar had hurt him, it had been because 
Voldemort had been close by. ... But Voldemort 
couldn’t be here, now. ... The idea of Voldemort 
lurking in Privet Drive was absurd, impossible. ... 

Harry listened closely to the silence around him. Was 
he half-expecting to hear the creak of a stair or the 
swish of a cloak? And then he jumped slightly as he 
heard his cousin Dudley give a tremendous grunting 
snore from the next room. 

Harry shook himself mentally; he was being stupid. 
There was no one in the house with him except Uncle 
Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley, and they were 
plainly still asleep, their dreams untroubled and 
painless. 

Asleep was the way Harry liked the Dursleys best; it 
wasn’t as though they were ever any help to him 
awake. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were 
Harry’s only living relatives. They were Muggles who 
hated and despised magic in any form, which meant 
that Harry was about as welcome in their house as 
dry rot. They had explained away Harry’s long 
absences at Hogwarts over the last three years by 
telling everyone that he went to St. Brutus’s Secure 
Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. They knew 
perfectly well that, as an underage wizard, Harry 
wasn’t allowed to use magic outside Hogwarts, but 
they were still apt to blame him for anything that 
went wrong about the house. Harry had never been 
able to confide in them or tell them anything about 
his life in the wizarding world. The very idea of going 
to them when they awoke, and telling them about his 
Page | 21 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire -J.K. Rowling 




scar hurting him, and about his worries about 
Voldemort, was laughable. 

And yet it was because of Voldemort that Harry had 
come to live with the Dursleys in the first place. If it 
hadn’t been for Voldemort, Harry would not have had 
the lightning scar on his forehead. If it hadn’t been for 
Voldemort, Harry would still have had parents. ... 

Harry had been a year old the night that Voldemort — 
the most powerful Dark wizard for a century, a wizard 
who had been gaining power steadily for eleven years 
— arrived at his house and killed his father and 
mother. Voldemort had then turned his wand on 
Harry; he had performed the curse that had disposed 
of many full-grown witches and wizards in his steady 
rise to power — and, incredibly, it had not worked. 
Instead of killing the small boy, the curse had 
rebounded upon Voldemort. Harry had survived with 
nothing but a lightning-shaped cut on his forehead, 
and Voldemort had been reduced to something barely 
alive. His powers gone, his life almost extinguished, 
Voldemort had fled; the terror in which the secret 
community of witches and wizards had lived for so 
long had lifted, Voldemort’s followers had disbanded, 
and Harry Potter had become famous. 

It had been enough of a shock for Harry to discover, 
on his eleventh birthday, that he was a wizard; it had 
been even more disconcerting to find out that 
everyone in the hidden wizarding world knew his 
name. Harry had arrived at Hogwarts to find that 
heads turned and whispers followed him wherever he 
went. But he was used to it now: At the end of this 
summer, he would be starting his fourth year at 
Hogwarts, and Harry was already counting the days 
until he would be back at the castle again. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




But there was still a fortnight to go before he went 
back to school. He looked hopelessly around his room 
again, and his eye paused on the birthday cards his 
two best friends had sent him at the end of July. 

What would they say if Harry wrote to them and told 
them about his scar hurting? 

At once, Hermione Granger’s voice seemed to fill his 
head, shrill and panicky. 

“ Your scar hurt? Harry, that’s really serious. . . . Write 
to Professor Dumbledorel And I’ll go and check 
Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions. ... Maybe 
there’s something in there about curse scars. ...” 

Yes, that would be Hermione’s advice: Go straight to 
the headmaster of Hogwarts, and in the meantime, 
consult a book. Harry stared out of the window at the 
inky blue-black sky. He doubted very much whether a 
book could help him now. As far as he knew, he was 
the only living person to have survived a curse like 
Voldemort’s; it was highly unlikely, therefore, that he 
would find his symptoms listed in Common Magical 
Ailments and Afflictions. As for informing the 
headmaster, Harry had no idea where Dumbledore 
went during the summer holidays. He amused himself 
for a moment, picturing Dumbledore, with his long 
silver beard, full-length wizard’s robes, and pointed 
hat, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing 
suntan lotion onto his long crooked nose. Wherever 
Dumbledore was, though, Harry was sure that 
Hedwig would be able to find him; Harry’s owl had 
never yet failed to deliver a letter to anyone, even 
without an address. But what would he write? 

Dear Professor Dumbledore, Sorry to bother you, but 
my scar hurt this morning. Yours sincerely, Harry 
Potter. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




Even inside his head the words sounded stupid. 

And so he tried to imagine his other best friend, Ron 
Weasley’s, reaction, and in a moment, Ron’s red hair 
and long-nosed, freckled face seemed to swim before 
Harry, wearing a bemused expression. 

“ Your scar hurt? But ... but You-Knotu-Who can’t be 
near you now, can he? I mean ... you’d know, wouldn’t 
you? He’d be trying to do you in again, wouldn’t he? I 
dunno, Harry, maybe curse scars always twinge a bit 
... I’ll ask Dad. ...” 

Mr. Weasley was a fully qualified wizard who worked 
in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the 
Ministry of Magic, but he didn’t have any particular 
expertise in the matter of curses, as far as Harry 
knew. In any case, Harry didn’t like the idea of the 
whole Weasley family knowing that he, Harry, was 
getting jumpy about a few moments’ pain. Mrs. 
Weasley would fuss worse than Hermione, and Fred 
and George, Ron’s sixteen-year-old twin brothers, 
might think Harry was losing his nerve. The Weasleys 
were Harry’s favorite family in the world; he was 
hoping that they might invite him to stay any time 
now (Ron had mentioned something about the 
Quidditch World Cup), and he somehow didn’t want 
his visit punctuated with anxious inquiries about his 
scar. 

Harry kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. What 
he really wanted (and it felt almost shameful to admit 
it to himself) was someone like — someone like a 
parent: an adult wizard whose advice he could ask 
without feeling stupid, someone who cared about 
him, who had had experience with Dark Magic. ... 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




And then the solution came to him. It was so simple, 
and so obvious, that he couldn’t believe it had taken 
so long — Sirius. 

Harry leapt up from the bed, hurried across the room, 
and sat down at his desk; he pulled a piece of 
parchment toward him, loaded his eagle-feather quill 
with ink, wrote Dear Sirius, then paused, wondering 
how best to phrase his problem, still marveling at the 
fact that he hadn’t thought of Sirius straight away. 

But then, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising — after all, 
he had only found out that Sirius was his godfather 
two months ago. 

There was a simple reason for Sirius’s complete 
absence from Harry’s life until then — Sirius had 
been in Azkaban, the terrifying wizard jail guarded by 
creatures called dementors, sightless, soul-sucking 
fiends who had come to search for Sirius at Hogwarts 
when he had escaped. Yet Sirius had been innocent 
— the murders for which he had been convicted had 
been committed by Wormtail, Voldemort’s supporter, 
whom nearly everybody now believed dead. Harry, 

Ron, and Hermione knew otherwise, however; they 
had come face-to-face with Wormtail only the 
previous year, though only Professor Dumbledore had 
believed their story. 

For one glorious hour, Harry had believed that he was 
leaving the Dursleys at last, because Sirius had 
offered him a home once his name had been cleared. 
But the chance had been snatched away from him — 
Wormtail had escaped before they could take him to 
the Ministry of Magic, and Sirius had had to flee for 
his life. Harry had helped him escape on the back of a 
hippogriff called Buckbeak, and since then, Sirius 
had been on the run. The home Harry might have had 
if Wormtail had not escaped had been haunting him 
all summer. It had been doubly hard to return to the 
Page | 25 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




Dursleys knowing that he had so nearly escaped them 
forever. 

Nevertheless, Sirius had been of some help to Harry, 
even if he couldn’t be with him. It was due to Sirius 
that Harry now had all his school things in his 
bedroom with him. The Dursleys had never allowed 
this before; their general wish of keeping Harry as 
miserable as possible, coupled with their fear of his 
powers, had led them to lock his school trunk in the 
cupboard under the stairs every summer prior to this. 
But their attitude had changed since they had found 
out that Harry had a dangerous murderer for a 
godfather — for Harry had conveniently forgotten to 
tell them that Sirius was innocent. 

Harry had received two letters from Sirius since he 
had been back at Privet Drive. Both had been 
delivered, not by owls (as was usual with wizards), 
but by large, brightly colored tropical birds. Hedwig 
had not approved of these flashy intruders; she had 
been most reluctant to allow them to drink from her 
water tray before flying off again. Harry, on the other 
hand, had liked them; they put him in mind of palm 
trees and white sand, and he hoped that, wherever 
Sirius was (Sirius never said, in case the letters were 
intercepted), he was enjoying himself. Somehow, 

Harry found it hard to imagine dementors surviving 
for long in bright sunlight; perhaps that was why 
Sirius had gone south. Sirius’s letters, which were 
now hidden beneath the highly useful loose 
floorboard under Harry’s bed, sounded cheerful, and 
in both of them he had reminded Harry to call on him 
if ever Harry needed to. Well, he needed to now, all 
right. ... 

Harry’s lamp seemed to grow dimmer as the cold gray 
light that precedes sunrise slowly crept into the room. 
Finally, when the sun had risen, when his bedroom 

Page | 26 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




walls had turned gold, and when sounds of movement 
could be heard from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia’s 
room, Harry cleared his desk of crumpled pieces of 
parchment and reread his finished letter. 

Dear Sirius, 

Thanks for your last letter. That bird was enormous; it 
could hardly get through my window. 

Things are the same as usual here. Dudley’s diet isn’t 
going too well. My aunt found him smuggling 
doughnuts into his room yesterday. They told him 
they ’d have to cut his pocket money if he keeps doing 
it, so he got really angry and chucked his PlayStation 
out of the window. That’s a sort of computer thing you 
can play games on. Bit stupid really, now he hasn’t 
even got Mega-Mutilation Part Three to take his mind 
off things. 

I’m okay, mainly because the Dursleys are terrified 
you might turn up and turn them all into bats if I ask 
you to. 

A weird thing happened this morning, though. My scar 
hurt again. Last time that happened it was because 
Voldemort was at Hogwarts. But I don’t reckon he can 
be anywhere near me now, can he? Do you know if 
curse scars sometimes hurt years afterward? 

I’ll send this with Hedwig when she gets back; she’s 
offhunt-\ing at the moment. Say hello to Buckbeak for 
me. 

Harry 

Yes, thought Harry, that looked all right. There was 
no point putting in the dream; he didn’t want it to 
look as though he was too worried. He folded up the 

Page | 27 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




parchment and laid it aside on his desk, ready for 
when Hedwig returned. Then he got to his feet, 
stretched, and opened his wardrobe once more. 
Without glancing at his reflection, he started to get 
dressed before going down to breakfast. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




3 




THE INVITATION 

By the time Harry arrived in the kitchen, the three 
Dursleys were already seated around the table. None 
of them looked up as he entered or sat down. Uncle 
Vernon’s large red face was hidden behind the 
morning’s Daily Mail, and Aunt Petunia was cutting a 
grapefruit into quarters, her lips pursed over her 
horselike teeth. 

Dudley looked furious and sulky, and somehow 
seemed to be taking up even more space than usual. 
This was saying something, as he always took up an 
entire side of the square table by himself. When Aunt 
Petunia put a quarter of unsweetened grapefruit onto 
Dudley’s plate with a tremulous “There you are, Diddy 
darling,” Dudley glowered at her. His life had taken a 
most unpleasant turn since he had come home for 
the summer with his end-of-year report. 

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had managed to find 
excuses for his bad marks as usual: Aunt Petunia 
always insisted that Dudley was a very gifted boy 
whose teachers didn’t understand him, while Uncle 

Page | 29 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 



Vernon maintained that “he didn’t want some swotty 
little nancy boy for a son anyway.” They also skated 
over the accusations of bullying in the report — “He’s 
a boisterous little boy, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly!” 
Aunt Petunia had said tearfully. 

However, at the bottom of the report there were a few 
well-chosen comments from the school nurse that not 
even Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia could explain 
away. No matter how much Aunt Petunia wailed that 
Dudley was big-boned, and that his poundage was 
really puppy fat, and that he was a growing boy who 
needed plenty of food, the fact remained that the 
school outfitters didn’t stock knickerbockers big 
enough for him anymore. The school nurse had seen 
what Aunt Petunia’s eyes — so sharp when it came to 
spotting fingerprints on her gleaming walls, and in 
observing the comings and goings of the neighbors — 
simply refused to see: that far from needing extra 
nourishment, Dudley had reached roughly the size 
and weight of a young killer whale. 

So — after many tantrums, after arguments that 
shook Harry’s bedroom floor, and many tears from 
Aunt Petunia — the new regime had begun. The diet 
sheet that had been sent by the Smeltings school 
nurse had been taped to the fridge, which had been 
emptied of all Dudley’s favorite things — fizzy drinks 
and cakes, chocolate bars and burgers — and filled 
instead with fruit and vegetables and the sorts of 
things that Uncle Vernon called “rabbit food.” To 
make Dudley feel better about it all, Aunt Petunia had 
insisted that the whole family follow the diet too. She 
now passed a grapefruit quarter to Harry. He noticed 
that it was a lot smaller than Dudley’s. Aunt Petunia 
seemed to feel that the best way to keep up Dudley’s 
morale was to make sure that he did, at least, get 
more to eat than Harry. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




But Aunt Petunia didn’t know what was hidden under 
the loose floorboard upstairs. She had no idea that 
Harry was not following the diet at all. The moment 
he had got wind of the fact that he was expected to 
survive the summer on carrot sticks, Harry had sent 
Hedwig to his friends with pleas for help, and they 
had risen to the occasion magnificently. Hedwig had 
returned from Hermione’s house with a large box 
stuffed full of sugar-free snacks. (Hermione’s parents 
were dentists.) Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, had 
obliged with a sack full of his own homemade rock 
cakes. (Harry hadn’t touched these; he had had too 
much experience of Hagrid ’s cooking.) Mrs. Weasley, 
however, had sent the family owl, Errol, with an 
enormous fruitcake and assorted meat pies. Poor 
Errol, who was elderly and feeble, had needed a full 
five days to recover from the journey. And then on 
Harry’s birthday (which the Dursleys had completely 
ignored) he had received four superb birthday cakes, 
one each from Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, and Sirius. 
Harry still had two of them left, and so, looking 
forward to a real breakfast when he got back upstairs, 
he ate his grapefruit without complaint. 

Uncle Vernon laid aside his paper with a deep sniff of 
disapproval and looked down at his own grapefruit 
quarter. 

“Is this it?” he said grumpily to Aunt Petunia. 

Aunt Petunia gave him a severe look, and then 
nodded pointedly at Dudley, who had already finished 
his own grapefruit quarter and was eyeing Harry’s 
with a very sour look in his piggy little eyes. 

Uncle Vernon gave a great sigh, which ruffled his 
large, bushy mustache, and picked up his spoon. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




The doorbell rang. Uncle Vernon heaved himself out 
of his chair and set off down the hall. Quick as a 
flash, while his mother was occupied with the kettle, 
Dudley stole the rest of Uncle Vernon’s grapefruit. 

Harry heard talking at the door, and someone 
laughing, and Uncle Vernon answering curtly. Then 
the front door closed, and the sound of ripping paper 
came from the hall. 

Aunt Petunia set the teapot down on the table and 
looked curiously around to see where Uncle Vernon 
had got to. She didn’t have to wait long to find out; 
after about a minute, he was back. He looked livid. 

“You,” he barked at Harry. “In the living room. Now.” 

Bewildered, wondering what on earth he was 
supposed to have done this time, Harry got up and 
followed Uncle Vernon out of the kitchen and into the 
next room. Uncle Vernon closed the door sharply 
behind both of them. 

“So,” he said, marching over to the fireplace and 
turning to face Harry as though he were about to 
pronounce him under arrest. “So.” 

Harry would have dearly loved to have said, “So 
what?” but he didn’t feel that Uncle Vernon’s temper 
should be tested this early in the morning, especially 
when it was already under severe strain from lack of 
food. He therefore settled for looking politely puzzled. 

“This just arrived,” said Uncle Vernon. He brandished 
a piece of purple writing paper at Harry. “A letter. 
About you.” 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




Harry’s confusion increased. Who would be writing to 
Uncle Vernon about him? Who did he know who sent 
letters by the postman? 

Uncle Vernon glared at Harry, then looked down at 
the letter and began to read aloud: 

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, 

We have never been introduced, but I am sure you 
have heard a great deal from Harry about my son Ron. 

As Harry might have told you, the final of the 
Quidditch World Cup takes place this Monday night, 
and my husband, Arthur, has just managed to get 
prime tickets through his connections at the 
Department of Magical Games and Sports. 

I do hope you will allow us to take Harry to the match, 
as this really is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; Britain 
hasn’t hosted the cup for thirty years, and tickets are 
extremely hard to come by. We would of course be glad 
to have Harry stay for the remainder of the summer 
holidays, and to see him safely onto the train back to 
school. 

It would be best for Harry to send us your answer as 
quickly as possible in the normal way, because the 
Muggle postman has never delivered to our house, and 
I am not sure he even knows where it is. 

Hoping to see Harry soon, 

Yours sincerely, 

Molly Weasley 

P.S. I do hope we’ve put enough stamps on. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




Uncle Vernon finished reading, put his hand back 
into his breast pocket, and drew out something else. 

“Look at this,” he growled. 

He held up the envelope in which Mrs. Weasley’s 
letter had come, and Harry had to fight down a laugh. 
Every bit of it was covered in stamps except for a 
square inch on the front, into which Mrs. Weasley 
had squeezed the Dursleys’ address in minute 
writing. 

“She did put enough stamps on, then,” said Harry, 
trying to sound as though Mrs. Weasley’s was a 
mistake anyone could make. His uncle’s eyes flashed. 

“The postman noticed,” he said through gritted teeth. 
“Very interested to know where this letter came from, 
he was. That’s why he rang the doorbell. Seemed to 
think it was funny.” 

Harry didn’t say anything. Other people might not 
understand why Uncle Vernon was making a fuss 
about too many stamps, but Harry had lived with the 
Dursleys too long not to know how touchy they were 
about anything even slightly out of the ordinary. Their 
worst fear was that someone would find out that they 
were connected (however distantly) with people like 
Mrs. Weasley. 

Uncle Vernon was still glaring at Harry, who tried to 
keep his expression neutral. If he didn’t do or say 
anything stupid, he might just be in for the treat of a 
lifetime. He waited for Uncle Vernon to say 
something, but he merely continued to glare. Harry 
decided to break the silence. 

“So — can I go then?” he asked. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




A slight spasm crossed Uncle Vernon’s large purple 
face. The mustache bristled. Harry thought he knew 
what was going on behind the mustache: a furious 
battle as two of Uncle Vernon’s most fundamental 
instincts came into conflict. Allowing Harry to go 
would make Harry happy, something Uncle Vernon 
had struggled against for thirteen years. On the other 
hand, allowing Harry to disappear to the Weasleys’ for 
the rest of the summer would get rid of him two 
weeks earlier than anyone could have hoped, and 
Uncle Vernon hated having Harry in the house. To 
give himself thinking time, it seemed, he looked down 
at Mrs. Weasley’s letter again. 

“Who is this woman?” he said, staring at the 
signature with distaste. 

“You’ve seen her,” said Harry. “She’s my friend Ron’s 
mother, she was meeting him off the Hog — off the 
school train at the end of last term.” 

He had almost said “Hogwarts Express,” and that was 
a sure way to get his uncle’s temper up. Nobody ever 
mentioned the name of Harry’s school aloud in the 
Dursley household. 

Uncle Vernon screwed up his enormous face as 
though trying to remember something very 
unpleasant. 

“Dumpy sort of woman?” he growled finally. “Load of 
children with red hair?” 

Harry frowned. He thought it was a bit rich of Uncle 
Vernon to call anyone “dumpy,” when his own son, 
Dudley, had finally achieved what he’d been 
threatening to do since the age of three, and become 
wider than he was tall. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




Uncle Vernon was perusing the letter again. 

“Quidditch,” he muttered under his breath. 

“Quidditch — what is this rubbish?” 

Harry felt a second stab of annoyance. 

“It’s a sport,” he said shortly. “Played on broom — ” 

“All right, all right!” said Uncle Vernon loudly. Harry 
saw, with some satisfaction, that his uncle looked 
vaguely panicky. Apparently his nerves couldn’t stand 
the sound of the word “broomsticks” in his living 
room. He took refuge in perusing the letter again. 
Harry saw his lips form the words “send us your 
answer ... in the normal way.” He scowled. 

“What does she mean, ‘the normal way’?” he spat. 

“Normal for us,” said Harry, and before his uncle 
could stop him, he added, “you know, owl post. That’s 
what’s normal for wizards.” 

Uncle Vernon looked as outraged as if Harry had just 
uttered a disgusting swear word. Shaking with anger, 
he shot a nervous look through the window, as 
though expecting to see some of the neighbors with 
their ears pressed against the glass. 

“How many times do I have to tell you not to mention 
that unnaturalness under my roof?” he hissed, his 
face now a rich plum color. “You stand there, in the 
clothes Petunia and I have put on your ungrateful 
back — ” 

“Only after Dudley finished with them,” said Harry 
coldly, and indeed, he was dressed in a sweatshirt so 
large for him that he had had to roll back the sleeves 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




five times so as to be able to use his hands, and 
which fell past the knees of his extremely baggy jeans. 



“I will not be spoken to like that!” said Uncle Vernon, 
trembling with rage. 

But Harry wasn’t going to stand for this. Gone were 
the days when he had been forced to take every single 
one of the Dursleys’ stupid rules. He wasn’t following 
Dudley’s diet, and he wasn’t going to let Uncle Vernon 
stop him from going to the Quidditch World Cup, not 
if he could help it. Harry took a deep, steadying 
breath and then said, “Okay, I can’t see the World 
Cup. Can I go now, then? Only I’ve got a letter to 
Sirius I want to finish. You know — my godfather.” 

He had done it. He had said the magic words. Now he 
watched the purple recede blotchily from Uncle 
Vernon’s face, making it look like badly mixed black 
currant ice cream. 

“You’re — you’re writing to him, are you?” said Uncle 
Vernon, in a would-be calm voice — but Harry had 
seen the pupils of his tiny eyes contract with sudden 
fear. 

“Well — yeah,” said Harry, casually. “It’s been a while 
since he heard from me, and, you know, if he doesn’t, 
he might start thinking something’s wrong.” 

He stopped there to enjoy the effect of these words. 

He could almost see the cogs working under Uncle 
Vernon’s thick, dark, neatly parted hair. If he tried to 
stop Harry writing to Sirius, Sirius would think Harry 
was being mistreated. If he told Harry he couldn’t go 
to the Quidditch World Cup, Harry would write and 
tell Sirius, who would know Harry was being 
mistreated. There was only one thing for Uncle 
Vernon to do. Harry could see the conclusion forming 
Page | 37 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




in his uncle’s mind as though the great mustached 
face were transparent. Harry tried not to smile, to 
keep his own face as blank as possible. And then — 

“Well, all right then. You can go to this ruddy ... this 
stupid ... this World Cup thing. You write and tell 
these — these Weasleys they’re to pick you up, mind. 
I haven’t got time to go dropping you off all over the 
country. And you can spend the rest of the summer 
there. And you can tell your — your godfather ... tell 
him ... tell him you’re going.” 

“Okay then,” said Harry brightly. 

He turned and walked toward the living room door, 
fighting the urge to jump into the air and whoop. He 
was going ... he was going to the Weasleys’, he was 
going to watch the Quidditch World Cup! 

Outside in the hall he nearly ran into Dudley, who 
had been lurking behind the door, clearly hoping to 
overhear Harry being told off. He looked shocked to 
see the broad grin on Harry’s face. 

“That was an excellent breakfast, wasn’t it?” said 
Harry. “I feel really full, don’t you?” 

Laughing at the astonished look on Dudley’s face, 
Harry took the stairs three at a time, and hurled 
himself back into his bedroom. 

The first thing he saw was that Hedwig was back. She 
was sitting in her cage, staring at Harry with her 
enormous amber eyes, and clicking her beak in the 
way that meant she was annoyed about something. 
Exactly what was annoying her became apparent 
almost at once. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




“OUCH!” said Harry as what appeared to be a small, 
gray, feathery tennis ball collided with the side of his 
head. Harry massaged the spot furiously, looking up 
to see what had hit him, and saw a minute owl, small 
enough to fit into the palm of his hand, whizzing 
excitedly around the room like a loose firework. Harry 
then realized that the owl had dropped a letter at his 
feet. Harry bent down, recognized Ron’s handwriting, 
then tore open the envelope. Inside was a hastily 
scribbled note. 

Harry — DAD GOT THE TICKETS — Ireland versus 
Bulgaria, Monday night. Mum’s writing to the Muggles 
to ask you to stay. They might already have the letter, 

I don’t know how fast Muggle post is. Thought I’d send 
this with Pig anyway. 

Harry stared at the word “Pig,” then looked up at the 
tiny owl now zooming around the light fixture on the 
ceiling. He had never seen anything that looked less 
like a pig. Maybe he couldn’t read Ron’s writing. He 
went back to the letter: 

We’re coming for you whether the Muggles like it or 
not, you can’t miss the World Cup, only Mum and Dad 
reckon it’s better if we pretend to ask their permission 
first. If they say yes, send Pig back with your answer 
pronto, and we’ll come and get you at five o’clock on 
Sunday. If they say no, send Pig back pronto and we’ll 
come and get you at five o’clock on Sunday anyway. 

Hermione’s arriving this afternoon. Percy’s started 
work — the Department of International Magical 
Cooperation. Don’t mention anything about Abroad 
while you’re here unless you want the pants bored off 
you. 

See you soon — 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




Ron 



“Calm down!” Harry said as the small owl flew low 
over his head, twittering madly with what Harry could 
only assume was pride at having delivered the letter 
to the right person. “Come here, I need you to take my 
answer back!” 

The owl fluttered down on top of Hedwig’s cage. 
Hedwig looked coldly up at it, as though daring it to 
try and come any closer. 

Harry seized his eagle-feather quill once more, 
grabbed a fresh piece of parchment, and wrote: 

Ron, it’s all okay, the Muggles say I can come. See you 
five o’clock tomorrow. Can’t wait. 

Harry 

He folded this note up very small, and with immense 
difficulty, tied it to the tiny owl’s leg as it hopped on 
the spot with excitement. The moment the note was 
secure, the owl was off again; it zoomed out of the 
window and out of sight. 

Harry turned to Hedwig. 

“Feeling up to a long journey?” he asked her. 

Hedwig hooted in a dignified sort of a way. 

“Can you take this to Sirius for me?” he said, picking 
up his letter. “Hang on ... I just want to finish it.” 

He unfolded the parchment and hastily added a 
postscript. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




If you want to contact me, I’ll be at my friend Ron 
Weasley’s for the rest of the summer. His dad’s got us 
tickets for the Quidditch World Cup\ 

The letter finished, he tied it to Hedwig’s leg; she kept 
unusually still, as though determined to show him 
how a real post owl should behave. 

“I’ll be at Ron’s when you get back, all right?” Harry 
told her. 

She nipped his finger affectionately, then, with a soft 
swooshing noise, spread her enormous wings and 
soared out of the open window. 

Harry watched her out of sight, then crawled under 
his bed, wrenched up the loose floorboard, and pulled 
out a large chunk of birthday cake. He sat there on 
the floor eating it, savoring the happiness that was 
flooding through him. He had cake, and Dudley had 
nothing but grapefruit; it was a bright summer’s day, 
he would be leaving Privet Drive tomorrow, his scar 
felt perfectly normal again, and he was going to watch 
the Quidditch World Cup. It was hard, just now, to 
feel worried about anything — even Lord Voldemort. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 






BACK TO THE BURROW 

By twelve o’clock the next day, Harry’s school trunk 
was packed with his school things and all his most 
prized possessions — the Invisibility Cloak he had 
inherited from his father, the broomstick he had 
gotten from Sirius, the enchanted map of Hogwarts he 
had been given by Fred and George Weasley last year. 
He had emptied his hiding place under the loose 
floorboard of all food, double-checked every nook and 
cranny of his bedroom for forgotten spellbooks or 
quills, and taken down the chart on the wall counting 
down the days to September the first, on which he 
liked to cross off the days remaining until his return 
to Hogwarts. 

The atmosphere inside number four, Privet Drive was 
extremely tense. The imminent arrival at their house 
of an assortment of wizards was making the Dursleys 
uptight and irritable. Uncle Vernon had looked 
downright alarmed when Harry informed him that the 
Weasley s would be arriving at five o’clock the very 
next day. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 



“I hope you told them to dress properly, these people,” 
he snarled at once. “I’ve seen the sort of stuff your lot 
wear. They’d better have the decency to put on 
normal clothes, that’s all.” 

Harry felt a slight sense of foreboding. He had rarely 
seen Mr. or Mrs. Weasley wearing anything that the 
Dursleys would call “normal.” Their children might 
don Muggle clothing during the holidays, but Mr. and 
Mrs. Weasley usually wore long robes in varying 
states of shabbiness. Harry wasn’t bothered about 
what the neighbors would think, but he was anxious 
about how rude the Dursleys might be to the 
Weasleys if they turned up looking like their worst 
idea of wizards. 

Uncle Vernon had put on his best suit. To some 
people, this might have looked like a gesture of 
welcome, but Harry knew it was because Uncle 
Vernon wanted to look impressive and intimidating. 
Dudley, on the other hand, looked somehow 
diminished. This was not because the diet was at last 
taking effect, but due to fright. Dudley had emerged 
from his last encounter with a fully-grown wizard with 
a curly pig’s tail poking out of the seat of his trousers, 
and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had had to pay 
for its removal at a private hospital in London. It 
wasn’t altogether surprising, therefore, that Dudley 
kept running his hand nervously over his backside, 
and walking sideways from room to room, so as not to 
present the same target to the enemy. 

Lunch was an almost silent meal. Dudley didn’t even 
protest at the food (cottage cheese and grated celery). 
Aunt Petunia wasn’t eating anything at all. Her arms 
were folded, her lips were pursed, and she seemed to 
be chewing her tongue, as though biting back the 
furious diatribe she longed to throw at Harry. 



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“They’ll be driving, of course?” Uncle Vernon barked 
across the table. 

“Er,” said Harry. 

He hadn’t thought of that. How were the Weasleys 
going to pick him up? They didn’t have a car 
anymore; the old Ford Anglia they had once owned 
was currently running wild in the Forbidden Forest at 
Hogwarts. But Mr. Weasley had borrowed a Ministry 
of Magic car last year; possibly he would do the same 
today? 

“I think so,” said Harry. 

Uncle Vernon snorted into his mustache. Normally, 
Uncle Vernon would have asked what car Mr. Weasley 
drove; he tended to judge other men by how big and 
expensive their cars were. But Harry doubted whether 
Uncle Vernon would have taken to Mr. Weasley even 
if he drove a Ferrari. 

Harry spent most of the afternoon in his bedroom; he 
couldn’t stand watching Aunt Petunia peer out 
through the net curtains every few seconds, as 
though there had been a warning about an escaped 
rhinoceros. Finally, at a quarter to five, Harry went 
back downstairs and into the living room. 

Aunt Petunia was compulsively straightening 
cushions. Uncle Vernon was pretending to read the 
paper, but his tiny eyes were not moving, and Harry 
was sure he was really listening with all his might for 
the sound of an approaching car. Dudley was 
crammed into an armchair, his porky hands beneath 
him, clamped firmly around his bottom. Harry 
couldn’t take the tension; he left the room and went 
and sat on the stairs in the hall, his eyes on his 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




watch and his heart pumping fast from excitement 
and nerves. 

But five o’clock came and then went. Uncle Vernon, 
perspiring slightly in his suit, opened the front door, 
peered up and down the street, then withdrew his 
head quickly. 

“They’re late!” he snarled at Harry. 

“I know,” said Harry. “Maybe — er — the traffic’s bad, 
or something.” 

Ten past five ... then a quarter past five ... Harry was 
starting to feel anxious himself now. At half past, he 
heard Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia conversing in 
terse mutters in the living room. 

“No consideration at all.” 

“We might’ve had an engagement.” 

“Maybe they think theyll get invited to dinner if 
they’re late.” 

“Well, they most certainly won’t be,” said Uncle 
Vernon, and Harry heard him stand up and start 
pacing the living room. “They’ll take the boy and go, 
there 11 be no hanging around. That’s if they’re coming 
at all. Probably mistaken the day. I daresay their kind 
don’t set much store by punctuality. Either that or 
they drive some tin-pot car that’s broken d — 
AAAAAAAARRRRRGH ! ” 

Harry jumped up. From the other side of the living 
room door came the sounds of the three Dursleys 
scrambling, panic-stricken, across the room. Next 
moment Dudley came flying into the hall, looking 
terrified. 

Page | 45 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




“What happened?” said Harry. “What’s the matter?” 

But Dudley didn’t seem able to speak. Hands still 
clamped over his buttocks, he waddled as fast as he 
could into the kitchen. Harry hurried into the living 
room. 

Loud hangings and scrapings were coming from 
behind the Dursleys’ boarded-up fireplace, which had 
a fake coal fire plugged in front of it. 

“What is it?” gasped Aunt Petunia, who had backed 
into the wall and was staring, terrified, toward the 
fire. “What is it, Vernon?” 

But they were left in doubt barely a second longer. 
Voices could be heard from inside the blocked 
fireplace. 

“Ouch! Fred, no — go back, go back, there’s been 
some kind of mistake — tell George not to — OUCH! 
George, no, there’s no room, go back quickly and tell 
Ron — ” 

“Maybe Harry can hear us, Dad — maybe he’ll be able 
to let us out — ” 

There was a loud hammering of fists on the boards 
behind the electric fire. 

“Harry? Harry, can you hear us?” 

The Dursleys rounded on Harry like a pair of angry 
wolverines. 

“What is this?” growled Uncle Vernon. “What’s going 
on?” 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




“They — they’ve tried to get here by Floo powder,” 
said Harry, fighting a mad desire to laugh. “They can 
travel by fire — only you’ve blocked the fireplace — 
hang on — ” 

He approached the fireplace and called through the 
boards. 

“Mr. Weasley? Can you hear me?” 

The hammering stopped. Somebody inside the 
chimney piece said, “Shh!” 

“Mr. Weasley, it’s Harry ... the fireplace has been 
blocked up. You won’t be able to get through there.” 

“Damn!” said Mr. Weasley’s voice. “What on earth did 
they want to block up the fireplace for?” 

“They’ve got an electric fire,” Harry explained. 

“Really?” said Mr. Weasley’s voice excitedly. “Eclectic, 
you say? With a plug? Gracious, I must see that. ... 
Let’s think ... ouch, Ron!” 

Ron’s voice now joined the others’. 

“What are we doing here? Has something gone 
wrong?” 

“Oh no, Ron,” came Fred’s voice, very sarcastically. 
“No, this is exactly where we wanted to end up.” 

“Yeah, we’re having the time of our lives here,” said 
George, whose voice sounded muffled, as though he 
was squashed against the wall. 



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“Boys, boys ...” said Mr. Weasley vaguely. “I’m trying 
to think what to do. ... Yes ... only way ... Stand back, 
Harry.” 

Harry retreated to the sofa. Uncle Vernon, however, 
moved forward. 

“Wait a moment!” he bellowed at the fire. “What 
exactly are you going to — ” 

BANG. 

The electric fire shot across the room as the boarded- 
up fireplace burst outward, expelling Mr. Weasley, 
Fred, George, and Ron in a cloud of rubble and loose 
chippings. Aunt Petunia shrieked and fell backward 
over the coffee table; Uncle Vernon caught her before 
she hit the floor, and gaped, speechless, at the 
Weasleys, all of whom had bright red hair, including 
Fred and George, who were identical to the last 
freckle. 

“That’s better,” panted Mr. Weasley, brushing dust 
from his long green robes and straightening his 
glasses. “Ah — you must be Harry’s aunt and uncle!” 

Tall, thin, and balding, he moved toward Uncle 
Vernon, his hand outstretched, but Uncle Vernon 
backed away several paces, dragging Aunt Petunia. 
Words utterly failed Uncle Vernon. His best suit was 
covered in white dust, which had settled in his hair 
and mustache and made him look as though he had 
just aged thirty years. 

“Er — yes — sorry about that,” said Mr. Weasley, 
lowering his hand and looking over his shoulder at 
the blasted fireplace. “It’s all my fault. It just didn’t 
occur to me that we wouldn’t be able to get out at the 
other end. I had your fireplace connected to the Floo 
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Network, you see — just for an afternoon, you know, 
so we could get Harry. Muggle fireplaces aren’t 
supposed to be connected, strictly speaking — but 
I’ve got a useful contact at the Floo Regulation Panel 
and he fixed it for me. I can put it right in a jiffy, 
though, don’t worry. I’ll light a fire to send the boys 
back, and then I can repair your fireplace before I 
Disapparate.” 

Harry was ready to bet that the Dursleys hadn’t 
understood a single word of this. They were still 
gaping at Mr. Weasley, thunderstruck. Aunt Petunia 
staggered upright again and hid behind Uncle 
Vernon. 

“Hello, Harry!” said Mr. Weasley brightly. “Got your 
trunk ready?” 

“It’s upstairs,” said Harry, grinning back. 

“Well get it,” said Fred at once. Winking at Harry, he 
and George left the room. They knew where Harry’s 
bedroom was, having once rescued him from it in the 
dead of night. Harry suspected that Fred and George 
were hoping for a glimpse of Dudley; they had heard a 
lot about him from Harry. 

“Well,” said Mr. Weasley, swinging his arms slightly, 
while he tried to find words to break the very nasty 
silence. “Very — erm — very nice place you’ve got 
here.” 

As the usually spotless living room was now covered 
in dust and bits of brick, this remark didn’t go down 
too well with the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon’s face 
purpled once more, and Aunt Petunia started chewing 
her tongue again. However, they seemed too scared to 
actually say anything. 



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Mr. Weasley was looking around. He loved everything 
to do with Muggles. Harry could see him itching to go 
and examine the television and the video recorder. 

“They run off eckeltricity, do they?” he said 
knowledgeably. “Ah yes, I can see the plugs. I collect 
plugs,” he added to Uncle Vernon. “And batteries. Got 
a very large collection of batteries. My wife thinks I’m 
mad, but there you are.” 

Uncle Vernon clearly thought Mr. Weasley was mad 
too. He moved ever so slightly to the right, screening 
Aunt Petunia from view, as though he thought Mr. 
Weasley might suddenly run at them and attack. 

Dudley suddenly reappeared in the room. Harry could 
hear the clunk of his trunk on the stairs, and knew 
that the sounds had scared Dudley out of the kitchen. 
Dudley edged along the wall, gazing at Mr. Weasley 
with terrified eyes, and attempted to conceal himself 
behind his mother and father. Unfortunately, Uncle 
Vernon’s bulk, while sufficient to hide bony Aunt 
Petunia, was nowhere near enough to conceal Dudley. 

“Ah, this is your cousin, is it, Harry?” said Mr. 
Weasley, taking another brave stab at making 
conversation. 

“Yep,” said Harry, “that’s Dudley.” 

He and Ron exchanged glances and then quickly 
looked away from each other; the temptation to burst 
out laughing was almost overwhelming. Dudley was 
still clutching his bottom as though afraid it might 
fall off. Mr. Weasley, however, seemed genuinely 
concerned at Dudley’s peculiar behavior. Indeed, from 
the tone of his voice when he next spoke, Harry was 
quite sure that Mr. Weasley thought Dudley was quite 



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as mad as the Dursleys thought he was, except that 
Mr. Weasley felt sympathy rather than fear. 

“Having a good holiday, Dudley?” he said kindly. 

Dudley whimpered. Harry saw his hands tighten still 
harder over his massive backside. 

Fred and George came back into the room carrying 
Harry’s school trunk. They glanced around as they 
entered and spotted Dudley. Their faces cracked into 
identical evil grins. 

“Ah, right,” said Mr. Weasley. “Better get cracking 
then.” 

He pushed up the sleeves of his robes and took out 
his wand. Harry saw the Dursleys draw back against 
the wall as one. 

“Incendio\” said Mr. Weasley, pointing his wand at the 
hole in the wall behind him. 

Flames rose at once in the fireplace, crackling merrily 
as though they had been burning for hours. Mr. 
Weasley took a small drawstring bag from his pocket, 
untied it, took a pinch of the powder inside, and 
threw it onto the flames, which turned emerald green 
and roared higher than ever. 

“Off you go then, Fred,” said Mr. Weasley. 

“Coming,” said Fred. “Oh no — hang on — ” 

A bag of sweets had spilled out of Fred’s pocket and 
the contents were now rolling in every direction — 
big, fat toffees in brightly colored wrappers. 



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Fred scrambled around, cramming them back into his 
pocket, then gave the Dursleys a cheery wave, 
stepped forward, and walked right into the fire, saying 
“the Burrow!” Aunt Petunia gave a little shuddering 
gasp. There was a whooshing sound, and Fred 
vanished. 

“Right then, George,” said Mr. Weasley, “you and the 
trunk.” 

Harry helped George carry the trunk forward into the 
flames and turn it onto its end so that he could hold 
it better. Then, with a second whoosh, George had 
cried “the Burrow!” and vanished too. 

“Ron, you next,” said Mr. Weasley. 

“See you,” said Ron brightly to the Dursleys. He 
grinned broadly at Harry, then stepped into the fire, 
shouted “the Burrow!” and disappeared. 

Now Harry and Mr. Weasley alone remained. 

“Well ... T>ye then,” Harry said to the Dursleys. 

They didn’t say anything at all. Harry moved toward 
the fire, but just as he reached the edge of the hearth, 
Mr. Weasley put out a hand and held him back. He 
was looking at the Dursleys in amazement. 

“Harry said good-bye to you,” he said. “Didn’t you 
hear him?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry muttered to Mr. Weasley. 
“Honestly, I don’t care.” 

Mr. Weasley did not remove his hand from Harry’s 
shoulder. 



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“You aren’t going to see your nephew till next 
summer,” he said to Uncle Vernon in mild 
indignation. “Surely you’re going to say good-bye?” 

Uncle Vernon’s face worked furiously. The idea of 
being taught consideration by a man who had just 
blasted away half his living room wall seemed to be 
causing him intense suffering. But Mr. Weasley’s 
wand was still in his hand, and Uncle Vernon’s tiny 
eyes darted to it once, before he said, very resentfully, 
“Good-bye, then.” 

“See you,” said Harry, putting one foot forward into 
the green flames, which felt pleasantly like warm 
breath. At that moment, however, a horrible gagging 
sound erupted behind him, and Aunt Petunia started 
to scream. 

Harry wheeled around. Dudley was no longer 
standing behind his parents. He was kneeling beside 
the coffee table, and he was gagging and sputtering 
on a foot-long, purple, slimy thing that was 
protruding from his mouth. One bewildered second 
later, Harry realized that the foot-long thing was 
Dudley’s tongue — and that a brightly colored toffee 
wrapper lay on the floor before him. 

Aunt Petunia hurled herself onto the ground beside 
Dudley, seized the end of his swollen tongue, and 
attempted to wrench it out of his mouth; 
unsurprisingly, Dudley yelled and sputtered worse 
than ever, trying to fight her off. Uncle Vernon was 
bellowing and waving his arms around, and Mr. 
Weasley had to shout to make himself heard. 

“Not to worry, I can sort him out!” he yelled, 
advancing on Dudley with his wand outstretched, but 
Aunt Petunia screamed worse than ever and threw 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




herself on top of Dudley, shielding him from Mr. 
Weasley. 



“No, really!” said Mr. Weasley desperately. “It’s a 
simple process — it was the toffee — my son Fred — 
real practical joker — but it’s only an Engorgement 
Charm — at least, I think it is — please, I can correct 



it — ” 



But far from being reassured, the Dursleys became 
more panic-stricken; Aunt Petunia was sobbing 
hysterically, tugging Dudley’s tongue as though 
determined to rip it out; Dudley appeared to be 
suffocating under the combined pressure of his 
mother and his tongue; and Uncle Vernon, who had 
lost control completely, seized a china figure from on 
top of the sideboard and threw it very hard at Mr. 
Weasley, who ducked, causing the ornament to 
shatter in the blasted fireplace. 

“Now really!” said Mr. Weasley angrily, brandishing 
his wand. “I’m trying to help\” 

Bellowing like a wounded hippo, Uncle Vernon 
snatched up another ornament. 

“Harry, go! Just go!” Mr. Weasley shouted, his wand 
on Uncle Vernon. “I’ll sort this out!” 

Harry didn’t want to miss the fun, but Uncle Vernon’s 
second ornament narrowly missed his left ear, and on 
balance he thought it best to leave the situation to 
Mr. Weasley. He stepped into the fire, looking over his 
shoulder as he said “the Burrow!” His last fleeting 
glimpse of the living room was of Mr. Weasley blasting 
a third ornament out of Uncle Vernon’s hand with his 
wand, Aunt Petunia screaming and lying on top of 
Dudley, and Dudley’s tongue lolling around like a 
great slimy python. But next moment Harry had 
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begun to spin very fast, and the Dursleys’ living room 
was whipped out of sight in a rush of emerald-green 
flames. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




5 




WEASLEYS’ WIZARD WHEEZES 

Harry spun faster and faster, elbows tucked tightly to 
his sides, blurred fireplaces flashing past him, until 
he started to feel sick and closed his eyes. Then, 
when at last he felt himself slowing down, he threw 
out his hands and came to a halt in time to prevent 
himself from falling face forward out of the Weasleys’ 
kitchen fire. 

“Did he eat it?” said Fred excitedly, holding out a 
hand to pull Harry to his feet. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, straightening up. “What was it?” 

“Ton-Tongue Toffee,” said Fred brightly. “George and I 
invented them, and we’ve been looking for someone to 
test them on all summer. ...” 

The tiny kitchen exploded with laughter; Harry looked 
around and saw that Ron and George were sitting at 
the scrubbed wooden table with two red-haired people 
Harry had never seen before, though he knew 

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immediately who they must be: Bill and Charlie, the 
two eldest Weasley brothers. 



“How’re you doing, Harry?” said the nearer of the two, 
grinning at him and holding out a large hand, which 
Harry shook, feeling calluses and blisters under his 
fingers. This had to be Charlie, who worked with 
dragons in Romania. Charlie was built like the twins, 
shorter and stockier than Percy and Ron, who were 
both long and lanky. He had a broad, good-natured 
face, which was weather-beaten and so freckly that he 
looked almost tanned; his arms were muscular, and 
one of them had a large, shiny burn on it. 

Bill got to his feet, smiling, and also shook Harry’s 
hand. Bill came as something of a surprise. Harry 
knew that he worked for the wizarding bank, 
Gringotts, and that Bill had been Head Boy at 
Hogwarts; Harry had always imagined Bill to be an 
older version of Percy: fussy about rule-breaking and 
fond of bossing everyone around. However, Bill was — 
there was no other word for it — cool. He was tall, 
with long hair that he had tied back in a ponytail. He 
was wearing an earring with what looked like a fang 
dangling from it. Bill’s clothes would not have looked 
out of place at a rock concert, except that Harry 
recognized his boots to be made, not of leather, but of 
dragon hide. 

Before any of them could say anything else, there was 
a faint popping noise, and Mr. Weasley appeared out 
of thin air at George’s shoulder. He was looking 
angrier than Harry had ever seen him. 

“That wasn’t funny, Fred!” he shouted. “What on 
earth did you give that Muggle boy?” 



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“I didn’t give him anything,” said Fred, with another 
evil grin. “I just dropped it. ... It was his fault he went 
and ate it, I never told him to.” 

“You dropped it on purpose!” roared Mr. Weasley. 

“You knew he’d eat it, you knew he was on a diet — ” 

“How big did his tongue get?” George asked eagerly. 

“It was four feet long before his parents would let me 
shrink it!” 

Harry and the Weasleys roared with laughter again. 

“It isn’t funny\” Mr. Weasley shouted. “That sort of 
behavior seriously undermines wizard-Muggle 
relations! I spend half my life campaigning against the 
mistreatment of Muggles, and my own sons — ” 

“We didn’t give it to him because he’s a Muggle!” said 
Fred indignantly. 

“No, we gave it to him because he’s a great bullying 
git,” said George. “Isn’t he, Harry?” 

“Yeah, he is, Mr. Weasley,” said Harry earnestly. 

“That’s not the point!” raged Mr. Weasley. “You wait 
until I tell your mother — ” 

“Tell me what?” said a voice behind them. 

Mrs. Weasley had just entered the kitchen. She was a 
short, plump woman with a very kind face, though 
her eyes were presently narrowed with suspicion. 

“Oh hello, Harry, dear,” she said, spotting him and 
smiling. Then her eyes snapped back to her husband. 
“Tell me what , Arthur?” 

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Mr. Weasley hesitated. Harry could tell that, however 
angry he was with Fred and George, he hadn’t really 
intended to tell Mrs. Weasley what had happened. 
There was a silence, while Mr. Weasley eyed his wife 
nervously. Then two girls appeared in the kitchen 
doorway behind Mrs. Weasley. One, with very bushy 
brown hair and rather large front teeth, was Harry’s 
and Ron’s friend, Hermione Granger. The other, who 
was small and red-haired, was Ron’s younger sister, 
Ginny. Both of them smiled at Harry, who grinned 
back, which made Ginny go scarlet — she had been 
very taken with Harry ever since his first visit to the 
Burrow. 

“Tell me what, Arthur?” Mrs. Weasley repeated, in a 
dangerous sort of voice. 

“It’s nothing, Molly,” mumbled Mr. Weasley, “Fred and 
George just — but I’ve had words with them — ” 

“What have they done this time?” said Mrs. Weasley. 
“If it’s got anything to do with Weasleys’ Wizard 
Wheezes — ” 

“Why don’t you show Harry where he’s sleeping, 

Ron?” said Hermione from the doorway. 

“He knows where he’s sleeping,” said Ron, “in my 
room, he slept there last — ” 

“We can all go,” said Hermione pointedly. 

“Oh,” said Ron, cottoning on. “Right.” 

“Yeah, we’ll come too,” said George. 

“You stay where you are!” snarled Mrs. Weasley. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




Harry and Ron edged out of the kitchen, and they, 
Hermione, and Ginny set off along the narrow hallway 
and up the rickety staircase that zigzagged through 
the house to the upper stories. 

“What are Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes?” Harry asked 
as they climbed. 

Ron and Ginny both laughed, although Hermione 
didn’t. 

“Mum found this stack of order forms when she was 
cleaning Fred and George’s room,” said Ron quietly. 
“Great long price lists for stuff they’ve invented. Joke 
stuff, you know. Fake wands and trick sweets, loads 
of stuff. It was brilliant, I never knew they’d been 
inventing all that ...” 

“We’ve been hearing explosions out of their room for 
ages, but we never thought they were actually making 
things,” said Ginny. “We thought they just liked the 
noise.” 

“Only, most of the stuff — well, all of it, really — was 
a bit dangerous,” said Ron, “and, you know, they were 
planning to sell it at Hogwarts to make some money, 
and Mum went mad at them. Told them they weren’t 
allowed to make any more of it, and burned all the 
order forms. ... She’s furious at them anyway. They 
didn’t get as many O.W.L.s as she expected.” 

O.W.L.s were Ordinary Wizarding Levels, the 
examinations Hogwarts students took at the age of 
fifteen. 

“And then there was this big row,” Ginny said, 
“because Mum wants them to go into the Ministry of 
Magic like Dad, and they told her all they want to do 
is open a joke shop.” 

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Just then a door on the second landing opened, and a 
face poked out wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a 
very annoyed expression. 

“Hi, Percy,” said Harry. 

“Oh hello, Harry,” said Percy. “I was wondering who 
was making all the noise. I’m trying to work in here, 
you know — I’ve got a report to finish for the office — 
and it’s rather difficult to concentrate when people 
keep thundering up and down the stairs.” 

“We’re not thundering,” said Ron irritably. “We’re 
walking. Sorry if we’ve disturbed the top-secret 
workings of the Ministry of Magic.” 

“What are you working on?” said Harry. 

“A report for the Department of International Magical 
Cooperation,” said Percy smugly. “We’re trying to 
standardize cauldron thickness. Some of these foreign 
imports are just a shade too thin — leakages have 
been increasing at a rate of almost three percent a 
year — ” 

“That’ll change the world, that report will,” said Ron. 
“Front page of the Daily Prophet, I expect, cauldron 
leaks.” 

Percy went slightly pink. 

“You might sneer, Ron,” he said heatedly, “but unless 
some sort of international law is imposed we might 
well find the market flooded with flimsy, shallow- 
bottomed products that seriously endanger — ” 

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” said Ron, and he started off 
upstairs again. Percy slammed his bedroom door 
shut. As Harry, Hermione, and Ginny followed Ron up 

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three more flights of stairs, shouts from the kitchen 
below echoed up to them. It sounded as though Mr. 
Weasley had told Mrs. Weasley about the toffees. 

The room at the top of the house where Ron slept 
looked much as it had the last time that Harry had 
come to stay: the same posters of Ron’s favorite 
Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons, were whirling 
and waving on the walls and sloping ceiling, and the 
fish tank on the windowsill, which had previously 
held frog spawn, now contained one extremely large 
frog. Ron’s old rat, Scabbers, was here no more, but 
instead there was the tiny gray owl that had delivered 
Ron’s letter to Harry in Privet Drive. It was hopping 
up and down in a small cage and twittering madly. 

“Shut up, Pig,” said Ron, edging his way between two 
of the four beds that had been squeezed into the 
room. “Fred and George are in here with us, because 
Bill and Charlie are in their room,” he told Harry. 
“Percy gets to keep his room all to himself because 
he’s got to work.” 

“Er — why are you calling that owl Pig?” Harry asked 
Ron. 

“Because he’s being stupid,” said Ginny. “Its proper 
name is Pigwidgeon.” 

“Yeah, and that’s not a stupid name at all,” said Ron 
sarcastically. “Ginny named him,” he explained to 
Harry. “She reckons it’s sweet. And I tried to change 
it, but it was too late, he won’t answer to anything 
else. So now he’s Pig. I’ve got to keep him up here 
because he annoys Errol and Hermes. He annoys me 
too, come to that.” 

Pigwidgeon zoomed happily around his cage, hooting 
shrilly. Harry knew Ron too well to take him 

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seriously. He had moaned continually about his old 
rat, Scabbers, but had been most upset when 
Hermione’s cat, Crookshanks, appeared to have eaten 
him. 

“Where’s Crookshanks?” Harry asked Hermione now. 

“Out in the garden, I expect,” she said. “He likes 
chasing gnomes. He’s never seen any before.” 

“Percy’s enjoying work, then?” said Harry, sitting 
down on one of the beds and watching the Chudley 
Cannons zooming in and out of the posters on the 
ceiling. 

“Enjoying it?” said Ron darkly. “I don’t reckon he’d 
come home if Dad didn’t make him. He’s obsessed. 
Just don’t get him onto the subject of his boss. 
According to Mr. Crouch ... as I was saying to Mr. 
Crouch . . . Mr. Crouch is of the opinion . . . Mr. Crouch 
was telling me ... They 11 be announcing their 
engagement any day now.” 

“Have you had a good summer, Harry?” said 
Hermione. “Did you get our food parcels and 
everything?” 

“Yeah, thanks a lot,” said Harry. “They saved my life, 
those cakes.” 

“And have you heard from — ?” Ron began, but at a 
look from Hermione he fell silent. Harry knew Ron 
had been about to ask about Sirius. Ron and 
Hermione had been so deeply involved in helping 
Sirius escape from the Ministry of Magic that they 
were almost as concerned about Harry’s godfather as 
he was. However, discussing him in front of Ginny 
was a bad idea. Nobody but themselves and Professor 



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Dumbledore knew about how Sirius had escaped, or 
believed in his innocence. 

“I think they’ve stopped arguing,” said Hermione, to 
cover the awkward moment, because Ginny was 
looking curiously from Ron to Harry. “Shall we go 
down and help your mum with dinner?” 

“Yeah, all right,” said Ron. The four of them left Ron’s 
room and went back downstairs to find Mrs. Weasley 
alone in the kitchen, looking extremely bad-tempered. 

“We’re eating out in the garden,” she said when they 
came in. “There’s just not room for eleven people in 
here. Could you take the plates outside, girls? Bill 
and Charlie are setting up the tables. Knives and 
forks, please, you two,” she said to Ron and Harry, 
pointing her wand a little more vigorously than she 
had intended at a pile of potatoes in the sink, which 
shot out of their skins so fast that they ricocheted off 
the walls and ceiling. 

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” she snapped, now directing 
her wand at a dustpan, which hopped off the 
sideboard and started skating across the floor, 
scooping up the potatoes. “Those two!” she burst out 
savagely, now pulling pots and pans out of a 
cupboard, and Harry knew she meant Fred and 
George. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to them, 
I really don’t. No ambition, unless you count making 
as much trouble as they possibly can. ...” 

Mrs. Weasley slammed a large copper saucepan down 
on the kitchen table and began to wave her wand 
around inside it. A creamy sauce poured from the 
wand tip as she stirred. 

“It’s not as though they haven’t got brains,” she 
continued irritably, taking the saucepan over to the 

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stove and lighting it with a further poke of her wand, 
“but they’re wasting them, and unless they pull 
themselves together soon, they’ll be in real trouble. 
I’ve had more owls from Hogwarts about them than 
the rest put together. If they carry on the way they’re 
going, they’ll end up in front of the Improper Use of 
Magic Office.” 

Mrs. Weasley jabbed her wand at the cutlery drawer, 
which shot open. Harry and Ron both jumped out of 
the way as several knives soared out of it, flew across 
the kitchen, and began chopping the potatoes, which 
had just been tipped back into the sink by the 
dustpan. 

“I don’t know where we went wrong with them,” said 
Mrs. Weasley, putting down her wand and starting to 
pull out still more saucepans. “It’s been the same for 
years, one thing after another, and they won’t listen 
to — OH NOT AGAIN.” 

She had picked up her wand from the table, and it 
had emitted a loud squeak and turned into a giant 
rubber mouse. 

“One of their fake wands again!” she shouted. “How 
many times have I told them not to leave them lying 
around?” 

She grabbed her real wand and turned around to find 
that the sauce on the stove was smoking. 

“C’mon,” Ron said hurriedly to Harry, seizing a 
handful of cutlery from the open drawer, “let’s go and 
help Bill and Charlie.” 

They left Mrs. Weasley and headed out the back door 
into the yard. 



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They had only gone a few paces when Hermione’s 
bandy-legged ginger cat, Crookshanks, came pelting 
out of the garden, bottle-brush tail held high in the 
air, chasing what looked like a muddy potato on legs. 
Harry recognized it instantly as a gnome. Barely ten 
inches high, its horny little feet pattered very fast as it 
sprinted across the yard and dived headlong into one 
of the Wellington boots that lay scattered around the 
door. Harry could hear the gnome giggling madly as 
Crookshanks inserted a paw into the boot, trying to 
reach it. Meanwhile, a very loud crashing noise was 
coming from the other side of the house. The source 
of the commotion was revealed as they entered the 
garden, and saw that Bill and Charlie both had their 
wands out, and were making two battered old tables 
fly high above the lawn, smashing into each other, 
each attempting to knock the other’s out of the air. 
Fred and George were cheering, Ginny was laughing, 
and Hermione was hovering near the hedge, 
apparently torn between amusement and anxiety. 

Bill’s table caught Charlie’s with a huge bang and 
knocked one of its legs off. There was a clatter from 
overhead, and they all looked up to see Percy’s head 
poking out of a window on the second floor. 

“Will you keep it down?!” he bellowed. 

“Sorry, Perce,” said Bill, grinning. “How’re the 
cauldron bottoms coming on?” 

“Very badly,” said Percy peevishly, and he slammed 
the window shut. Chuckling, Bill and Charlie directed 
the tables safely onto the grass, end to end, and then, 
with a flick of his wand, Bill reattached the table leg 
and conjured tablecloths from nowhere. 

By seven o’clock, the two tables were groaning under 
dishes and dishes of Mrs. Weasley’s excellent cooking, 

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and the nine Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione were 
settling themselves down to eat beneath a clear, deep- 
blue sky. To somebody who had been living on meals 
of increasingly stale cake all summer, this was 
paradise, and at first, Harry listened rather than 
talked as he helped himself to chicken and ham pie, 
boiled potatoes, and salad. 

At the far end of the table, Percy was telling his father 
all about his report on cauldron bottoms. 

“I’ve told Mr. Crouch that I’ll have it ready by 
Tuesday,” Percy was saying pompously. “That’s a bit 
sooner than he expected it, but I like to keep on top of 
things. I think he’ll be grateful I’ve done it in good 
time, I mean, it’s extremely busy in our department 
just now, what with all the arrangements for the 
World Cup. We’re just not getting the support we 
need from the Department of Magical Games and 
Sports. Ludo Bagman — ” 

“I like Ludo,” said Mr. Weasley mildly. “He was the 
one who got us such good tickets for the Cup. I did 
him a bit of a favor: His brother, Otto, got into a spot 
of trouble — a lawnmower with unnatural powers — I 
smoothed the whole thing over.” 

“Oh Bagman’s likable enough, of course,” said Percy 
dismissively, “but how he ever got to be Head of 
Department ... when I compare him to Mr. Crouch! I 
can’t see Mr. Crouch losing a member of our 
department and not trying to find out what’s 
happened to them. You realize Bertha Jorkins has 
been missing for over a month now? Went on holiday 
to Albania and never came back?” 

“Yes, I was asking Ludo about that,” said Mr. 

Weasley, frowning. “He says Bertha’s gotten lost 



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plenty of times before now — though I must say, if it 
was someone in my department, I’d be worried. ...” 

“Oh Bertha’s hopeless, all right,” said Percy. “I hear 
she’s been shunted from department to department 
for years, much more trouble than she’s worth ... but 
all the same, Bagman ought to be trying to find her. 
Mr. Crouch has been taking a personal interest, she 
worked in our department at one time, you know, and 
I think Mr. Crouch was quite fond of her — but 
Bagman just keeps laughing and saying she probably 
misread the map and ended up in Australia instead of 
Albania. However” — Percy heaved an impressive sigh 
and took a deep swig of elderflower wine — “we’ve got 
quite enough on our plates at the Department of 
International Magical Cooperation without trying to 
find members of other departments too. As you know, 
we’ve got another big event to organize right after the 
World Cup.” 

Percy cleared his throat significantly and looked down 
toward the end of the table where Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione were sitting. “ You know the one I’m talking 
about, Father.” He raised his voice slightly. “The top- 
secret one.” 

Ron rolled his eyes and muttered to Harry and 
Hermione, “He’s been trying to get us to ask what that 
event is ever since he started work. Probably an 
exhibition of thick-bottomed cauldrons.” 

In the middle of the table, Mrs. Weasley was arguing 
with Bill about his earring, which seemed to be a 
recent acquisition. 

“... with a horrible great fang on it. Really, Bill, what 
do they say at the bank?” 



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“Mum, no one at the bank gives a damn how I dress 
as long as I bring home plenty of treasure,” said Bill 
patiently. 

“And your hair’s getting silly, dear,” said Mrs. 

Weasley, fingering her wand lovingly. “I wish you’d let 
me give it a trim. ...” 

“I like it,” said Ginny, who was sitting beside Bill. 
“You’re so old-fashioned, Mum. Anyway, it’s nowhere 
near as long as Professor Dumbledore’s. ...” 

Next to Mrs. Weasley, Fred, George, and Charlie were 
all talking spiritedly about the World Cup. 

“It’s got to be Ireland,” said Charlie thickly, through a 
mouthful of potato. “They flattened Peru in the 
semifinals.” 

“Bulgaria has got Viktor Krum, though,” said Fred. 

“Krum’s one decent player, Ireland has got seven,” 
said Charlie shortly. “I wish England had got through. 
That was embarrassing, that was.” 

“What happened?” said Harry eagerly, regretting more 
than ever his isolation from the wizarding world when 
he was stuck on Privet Drive. 

“Went down to Transylvania, three hundred and 
ninety to ten,” said Charlie gloomily. “Shocking 
performance. And Wales lost to Uganda, and Scotland 
was slaughtered by Luxembourg.” 

Harry had been on the Gryffindor House Quidditch 
team ever since his first year at Hogwarts and owned 
one of the best racing brooms in the world, a Firebolt. 
Flying came more naturally to Harry than anything 



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else in the magical world, and he played in the 
position of Seeker on the Gryffindor House team. 

Mr. Weasley conjured up candles to light the 
darkening garden before they had their homemade 
strawberry ice cream, and by the time they had 
finished, moths were fluttering low over the table, and 
the warm air was perfumed with the smells of grass 
and honeysuckle. Harry was feeling extremely well fed 
and at peace with the world as he watched several 
gnomes sprinting through the rosebushes, laughing 
madly and closely pursued by Crookshanks. 

Ron looked carefully up the table to check that the 
rest of the family were all busy talking, then he said 
very quietly to Harry, “So — have you heard from 
Sirius lately?” 

Hermione looked around, listening closely. 

“Yeah,” said Harry softly, “twice. He sounds okay. I 
wrote to him yesterday. He might write back while I’m 
here.” 

He suddenly remembered the reason he had written 
to Sirius, and for a moment was on the verge of telling 
Ron and Hermione about his scar hurting again, and 
about the dream that had awoken him . . . but he 
really didn’t want to worry them just now, not when 
he himself was feeling so happy and peaceful. 

“Look at the time,” Mrs. Weasley said suddenly, 
checking her wristwatch. “You really should be in 
bed, the whole lot of you — you’ll be up at the crack 
of dawn to get to the Cup. Harry, if you leave your 
school list out, I’ll get your things for you tomorrow in 
Diagon Alley. I’m getting everyone else’s. There might 
not be time after the World Cup, the match went on 
for five days last time.” 

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“Wow — hope it does this time!” said Harry 
enthusiastically. 

“Well, I certainly don’t,” said Percy sanctimoniously. “I 
shudder to think what the state of my in-tray would 
be if I was away from work for five days.” 

“Yeah, someone might slip dragon dung in it again, 
eh, Perce?” said Fred. 

“That was a sample of fertilizer from Norway!” said 
Percy, going very red in the face. “It was nothing 
personall” 

“It was,” Fred whispered to Harry as they got up from 
the table. “We sent it.” 



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THE PORTKEY 

Harry felt as though he had barely lain down to sleep 
in Ron’s room when he was being shaken awake by 
Mrs. Weasley. 

“Time to go, Harry, dear,” she whispered, moving 
away to wake Ron. 

Harry felt around for his glasses, put them on, and 
sat up. It was still dark outside. Ron muttered 
indistinctly as his mother roused him. At the foot of 
Harry’s mattress he saw two large, disheveled shapes 
emerging from tangles of blankets. 

“ ’S’ time already?” said Fred groggily. 

They dressed in silence, too sleepy to talk, then, 
yawning and stretching, the four of them headed 
downstairs into the kitchen. 

Mrs. Weasley was stirring the contents of a large pot 
on the stove, while Mr. Weasley was sitting at the 
table, checking a sheaf of large parchment tickets. He 

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looked up as the boys entered and spread his arms so 
that they could see his clothes more clearly. He was 
wearing what appeared to be a golfing sweater and a 
very old pair of jeans, slightly too big for him and held 
up with a thick leather belt. 

“What d’you think?” he asked anxiously. “We’re 
supposed to go incognito — do I look like a Muggle, 
Harry?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, smiling, “very good.” 

“Where ’re Bill and Charlie and Per-Per-Percy?” said 
George, failing to stifle a huge yawn. 

“Well, they’re Apparating, aren’t they?” said Mrs. 
Weasley, heaving the large pot over to the table and 
starting to ladle porridge into bowls. “So they can 
have a bit of a lie-in.” 

Harry knew that Apparating meant disappearing from 
one place and reappearing almost instantly in 
another, but had never known any Hogwarts student 
to do it, and understood that it was very difficult. 

“So they’re still in bed?” said Fred grumpily, pulling 
his bowl of porridge toward him. “Why can’t we 
Apparate too?” 

“Because you’re not of age and you haven’t passed 
your test,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “And where have 
those girls got to?” 

She bustled out of the kitchen and they heard her 
climbing the stairs. 

“You have to pass a test to Apparate?” Harry asked. 



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“Oh yes,” said Mr. Weasley, tucking the tickets safely 
into the back pocket of his jeans. “The Department of 
Magical Transportation had to fine a couple of people 
the other day for Apparating without a license. It’s not 
easy, Apparition, and when it’s not done properly it 
can lead to nasty complications. This pair I’m talking 
about went and splinched themselves.” 

Everyone around the table except Harry winced. 

“Er — splinched?” said Harry. 

“They left half of themselves behind,” said Mr. 

Weasley, now spooning large amounts of treacle onto 
his porridge. “So, of course, they were stuck. Couldn’t 
move either way. Had to wait for the Accidental Magic 
Reversal Squad to sort them out. Meant a fair old bit 
of paperwork, I can tell you, what with the Muggles 
who spotted the body parts they’d left behind. ...” 

Harry had a sudden vision of a pair of legs and an 
eyeball lying abandoned on the pavement of Privet 
Drive. 

“Were they okay?” he asked, startled. 

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Weasley matter-of-factly. “But they 
got a heavy fine, and I don’t think they’ll be trying it 
again in a hurry. You don’t mess around with 
Apparition. There are plenty of adult wizards who 
don’t bother with it. Prefer brooms — slower, but 
safer.” 

“But Bill and Charlie and Percy can all do it?” 

“Charlie had to take the test twice,” said Fred, 
grinning. “He failed the first time, Apparated five 
miles south of where he meant to, right on top of 
some poor old dear doing her shopping, remember?” 

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“Yes, well, he passed the second time,” said Mrs. 
Weasley, marching back into the kitchen amid hearty 
sniggers. 

“Percy only passed two weeks ago,” said George. “He’s 
been Apparating downstairs every morning since, just 
to prove he can.” 

There were footsteps down the passageway and 
Hermione and Ginny came into the kitchen, both 
looking pale and drowsy. 

“Why do we have to be up so early?” Ginny said, 
rubbing her eyes and sitting down at the table. 

“We’ve got a bit of a walk,” said Mr. Weasley. 

“Walk?” said Harry. “What, are we walking to the 
World Cup?” 

“No, no, that’s miles away,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling. 
“We only need to walk a short way. It’s just that it’s 
very difficult for a large number of wizards to 
congregate without attracting Muggle attention. We 
have to be very careful about how we travel at the 
best of times, and on a huge occasion like the 
Quidditch World Cup — ” 

“George!” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, and they all 
jumped. 

“What?” said George, in an innocent tone that 
deceived nobody. 

“What is that in your pocket?” 

“Nothing!” 

“Don’t you lie to me!” 

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Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at George’s pocket 
and said, “Acciol” 

Several small, brightly colored objects zoomed out of 
George’s pocket; he made a grab for them but missed, 
and they sped right into Mrs. Weasley ’s outstretched 
hand. 

“We told you to destroy them!” said Mrs. Weasley 
furiously, holding up what were unmistakably more 
Ton-Tongue Toffees. “We told you to get rid of the lot! 
Empty your pockets, go on, both of you!” 

It was an unpleasant scene; the twins had evidently 
been trying to smuggle as many toffees out of the 
house as possible, and it was only by using her 
Summoning Charm that Mrs. Weasley managed to 
find them all. 

“Acciol Acciol Acciol” she shouted, and toffees zoomed 
from all sorts of unlikely places, including the lining 
of George’s jacket and the turn-ups of Fred’s jeans. 

“We spent six months developing those!” Fred 
shouted at his mother as she threw the toffees away. 

“Oh a fine way to spend six months!” she shrieked. 

“No wonder you didn’t get more O.W.L.s!” 

All in all, the atmosphere was not very friendly as 
they took their departure. Mrs. Weasley was still 
glowering as she kissed Mr. Weasley on the cheek, 
though not nearly as much as the twins, who had 
each hoisted their rucksacks onto their backs and 
walked out without a word to her. 

“Well, have a lovely time,” said Mrs. Weasley, “and 
behave yourselves,” she called after the twins’ 
retreating backs, but they did not look back or 

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answer. “I’ll send Bill, Charlie, and Percy along 
around midday,” Mrs. Weasley said to Mr. Weasley, as 
he, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny set off across 
the dark yard after Fred and George. 

It was chilly and the moon was still out. Only a dull, 
greenish tinge along the horizon to their right showed 
that daybreak was drawing closer. Harry, having been 
thinking about thousands of wizards speeding toward 
the Quidditch World Cup, sped up to walk with Mr. 
Weasley. 

“So how does everyone get there without all the 
Muggles noticing?” he asked. 

“It’s been a massive organizational problem,” sighed 
Mr. Weasley. “The trouble is, about a hundred 
thousand wizards turn up at the World Cup, and of 
course, we just haven’t got a magical site big enough 
to accommodate them all. There are places Muggles 
can’t penetrate, but imagine trying to pack a hundred 
thousand wizards into Diagon Alley or platform nine 
and three-quarters. So we had to find a nice deserted 
moor, and set up as many anti-Muggle precautions as 
possible. The whole Ministry’s been working on it for 
months. First, of course, we have to stagger the 
arrivals. People with cheaper tickets have to arrive 
two weeks beforehand. A limited number use Muggle 
transport, but we can’t have too many clogging up 
their buses and trains — remember, wizards are 
coming from all over the world. Some Apparate, of 
course, but we have to set up safe points for them to 
appear, well away from Muggles. I believe there’s a 
handy wood they’re using as the Apparition point. For 
those who don’t want to Apparate, or can’t, we use 
Portkeys. They’re objects that are used to transport 
wizards from one spot to another at a prearranged 
time. You can do large groups at a time if you need to. 
There have been two hundred Portkeys placed at 
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strategic points around Britain, and the nearest one 
to us is up at the top of Stoatshead Hill, so that’s 
where we’re headed.” 

Mr. Weasley pointed ahead of them, where a large 
black mass rose beyond the village of Ottery St. 
Catchpole. 

“What sort of objects are Portkeys?” said Harry 
curiously. 

“Well, they can be anything,” said Mr. Weasley. 
“Unobtrusive things, obviously, so Muggles don’t go 
picking them up and playing with them . . . stuff they’ll 
just think is litter. ...” 

They trudged down the dark, dank lane toward the 
village, the silence broken only by their footsteps. The 
sky lightened very slowly as they made their way 
through the village, its inky blackness diluting to 
deepest blue. Harry’s hands and feet were freezing. 

Mr. Weasley kept checking his watch. 

They didn’t have breath to spare for talking as they 
began to climb Stoatshead Hill, stumbling 
occasionally in hidden rabbit holes, slipping on thick 
black tuffets of grass. Each breath Harry took was 
sharp in his chest and his legs were starting to seize 
up when, at last, his feet found level ground. 

“Whew,” panted Mr. Weasley, taking off his glasses 
and wiping them on his sweater. “Well, we’ve made 
good time — we’ve got ten minutes. ...” 

Hermione came over the crest of the hill last, 
clutching a stitch in her side. 



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“Now we just need the Portkey,” said Mr. Weasley, 
replacing his glasses and squinting around at the 
ground. “It won’t be big. ... Come on ...” 

They spread out, searching. They had only been at it 
for a couple of minutes, however, when a shout rent 
the still air. 

“Over here, Arthur! Over here, son, we’ve got it!” 

Two tall figures were silhouetted against the starry 
sky on the other side of the hilltop. 

“Amos!” said Mr. Weasley, smiling as he strode over to 
the man who had shouted. The rest of them followed. 

Mr. Weasley was shaking hands with a ruddy-faced 
wizard with a scrubby brown beard, who was holding 
a moldy-looking old boot in his other hand. 

“This is Amos Diggory, everyone,” said Mr. Weasley. 
“He works for the Department for the Regulation and 
Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know 
his son, Cedric?” 

Cedric Diggory was an extremely handsome boy of 
around seventeen. He was Captain and Seeker of the 
Hufflepuff House Quidditch team at Hogwarts. 

“Hi,” said Cedric, looking around at them all. 

Everybody said hi back except Fred and George, who 
merely nodded. They had never quite forgiven Cedric 
for beating their team, Gryffindor, in the first 
Quidditch match of the previous year. 

“Long walk, Arthur?” Cedric’s father asked. 



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“Not too bad,” said Mr. Weasley. “We live just on the 
other side of the village there. You?” 

“Had to get up at two, didn’t we, Ced? I tell you, I’ll be 
glad when he’s got his Apparition test. Still ... not 
complaining ... Quidditch World Cup, wouldn’t miss it 
for a sackful of Galleons — and the tickets cost about 
that. Mind you, looks like I got off easy. ...” Amos 
Diggory peered good-naturedly around at the three 
Weasley boys, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny. “All these 
yours, Arthur?” 

“Oh no, only the redheads,” said Mr. Weasley, 
pointing out his children. “This is Hermione, friend of 
Ron’s — and Harry, another friend — ” 

“Merlin’s beard,” said Amos Diggory, his eyes 
widening. “Harry? Harry Potter?” 

“Er — yeah,” said Harry. 

Harry was used to people looking curiously at him 
when they met him, used to the way their eyes moved 
at once to the lightning scar on his forehead, but it 
always made him feel uncomfortable. 

“Ced’s talked about you, of course,” said Amos 
Diggory. “Told us all about playing against you last 
year. ... I said to him, I said — Ced, that’ll be 
something to tell your grandchildren, that will. ... You 
beat Harry Potterl” 

Harry couldn’t think of any reply to this, so he 
remained silent. Fred and George were both scowling 
again. Cedric looked slightly embarrassed. 

“Harry fell off his broom, Dad,” he muttered. “I told 
you ... it was an accident. ...” 



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“Yes, but you didn’t fall off, did you?” roared Amos 
genially, slapping his son on his back. “Always 
modest, our Ced, always the gentleman ... but the 
best man won, I’m sure Harry’d say the same, 
wouldn’t you, eh? One falls off his broom, one stays 
on, you don’t need to be a genius to tell which one’s 
the better flier!” 

“Must be nearly time,” said Mr. Weasley quickly, 
pulling out his watch again. “Do you know whether 
we’re waiting for any more, Amos?” 

“No, the Lovegoods have been there for a week already 
and the Fawcetts couldn’t get tickets,” said Mr. 
Diggory. “There aren’t any more of us in this area, are 
there?” 

“Not that I know of,” said Mr. Weasley. “Yes, it’s a 
minute off. ... We’d better get ready. ...” 

He looked around at Harry and Hermione. 

“You just need to touch the Portkey, that’s all, a 
finger will do — ” 

With difficulty, owing to their bulky backpacks, the 
nine of them crowded around the old boot held out by 
Amos Diggory. 

They all stood there, in a tight circle, as a chill breeze 
swept over the hilltop. Nobody spoke. It suddenly 
occurred to Harry how odd this would look if a 
Muggle were to walk up here now ... nine people, two 
of them grown men, clutching this manky old boot in 
the semidarkness, waiting. ... 

“Three ...” muttered Mr. Weasley, one eye still on his 
watch, “two ... one ...” 



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It happened immediately: Harry felt as though a hook 
just behind his navel had been suddenly jerked 
irresistibly forward. His feet left the ground; he could 
feel Ron and Hermione on either side of him, their 
shoulders banging into his; they were all speeding 
forward in a howl of wind and swirling color; his 
forefinger was stuck to the boot as though it was 
pulling him magnetically onward and then — 

His feet slammed into the ground; Ron staggered into 
him and he fell over; the Portkey hit the ground near 
his head with a heavy thud. 

Harry looked up. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, and 
Cedric were still standing, though looking very 
windswept; everybody else was on the ground. 

“Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill,” said a voice. 



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7 




BAGMAN AND CROUCH 

Harry disentangled himself from Ron and got to his 
feet. They had arrived on what appeared to be a 
deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of them was a 
pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of 
whom was holding a large gold watch, the other a 
thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both were dressed 
as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the 
watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; 
his colleague, a kilt and a poncho. 

“Morning, Basil,” said Mr. Weasley, picking up the 
boot and handing it to the kilted wizard, who threw it 
into a large box of used Portkeys beside him; Harry 
could see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can, 
and a punctured football. 

“Hello there, Arthur,” said Basil wearily. “Not on duty, 
eh? It’s all right for some. ... We’ve been here all 
night. ... You’d better get out of the way, we’ve got a 
big party coming in from the Black Forest at five- 
fifteen. Hang on, I’ll find your campsite. ... Weasley ... 
Weasley ...” He consulted his parchment list. “About a 
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quarter of a mile’s walk over there, first field you 
come to. Site manager’s called Mr. Roberts. Diggory ... 
second field ... ask for Mr. Payne.” 

“Thanks, Basil,” said Mr. Weasley, and he beckoned 
everyone to follow him. 

They set off across the deserted moor, unable to make 
out much through the mist. After about twenty 
minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swam 
into view. Beyond it, Harry could just make out the 
ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents, 
rising up the gentle slope of a large field toward a 
dark wood on the horizon. They said good-bye to the 
Diggorys and approached the cottage door. 

A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at 
the tents. Harry knew at a glance that this was the 
only real Muggle for several acres. When he heard 
their footsteps, he turned his head to look at them. 

“Morning!” said Mr. Weasley brightly. 

“Morning,” said the Muggle. 

“Would you be Mr. Roberts?” 

“Aye, I would,” said Mr. Roberts. “And who’re you?” 

“Weasley — two tents, booked a couple of days ago?” 

“Aye,” said Mr. Roberts, consulting a list tacked to the 
door. “You’ve got a space up by the wood there. Just 
the one night?” 

“That’s it,” said Mr. Weasley. 

“You’ll be paying now, then?” said Mr. Roberts. 



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“Ah — right — certainly — ” said Mr. Weasley. He 
retreated a short distance from the cottage and 
beckoned Harry toward him. “Help me, Harry,” he 
muttered, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his 
pocket and starting to peel the notes apart. “This 
one’s a — a — a ten? Ah yes, I see the little number 
on it now. ... So this is a five?” 

“A twenty,” Harry corrected him in an undertone, 
uncomfortably aware of Mr. Roberts trying to catch 
every word. 

“Ah yes, so it is. ... I don’t know, these little bits of 
paper ...” 

“You foreign?” said Mr. Roberts as Mr. Weasley 
returned with the correct notes. 

“Foreign?” repeated Mr. Weasley, puzzled. 

“You’re not the first one who’s had trouble with 
money,” said Mr. Roberts, scrutinizing Mr. Weasley 
closely. “I had two try and pay me with great gold 
coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago.” 

“Did you really?” said Mr. Weasley nervously. 

Mr. Roberts rummaged around in a tin for some 
change. 

“Never been this crowded,” he said suddenly, looking 
out over the misty field again. “Hundreds of pre- 
bookings. People usually just turn up. ...” 

“Is that right?” said Mr. Weasley, his hand held out 
for his change, but Mr. Roberts didn’t give it to him. 

“Aye,” he said thoughtfully. “People from all over. 
Loads of foreigners. And not just foreigners. Weirdos, 

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you know? There’s a bloke walking ’round in a kilt 
and a poncho.” 

“Shouldn’t he?” said Mr. Weasley anxiously. 

“It’s like some sort of ... I dunno ... like some sort of 
rally,” said Mr. Roberts. “They all seem to know each 
other. Like a big party.” 

At that moment, a wizard in plus-fours appeared out 
of thin air next to Mr. Roberts’s front door. 

“Obliviate\” he said sharply, pointing his wand at Mr. 
Roberts. 

Instantly, Mr. Roberts’s eyes slid out of focus, his 
brows unknitted, and a look of dreamy unconcern fell 
over his face. Harry recognized the symptoms of one 
who had just had his memory modified. 

“A map of the campsite for you,” Mr. Roberts said 
placidly to Mr. Weasley. “And your change.” 

“Thanks very much,” said Mr. Weasley. 

The wizard in plus-fours accompanied them toward 
the gate to the campsite. He looked exhausted: His 
chin was blue with stubble and there were deep 
purple shadows under his eyes. Once out of earshot 
of Mr. Roberts, he muttered to Mr. Weasley, “Been 
having a lot of trouble with him. Needs a Memory 
Charm ten times a day to keep him happy. And Ludo 
Bagman’s not helping. Trotting around talking about 
Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of his voice, not a 
worry about anti-Muggle security. Blimey, I’ll be glad 
when this is over. See you later, Arthur.” 

He Disapparated. 



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“I thought Mr. Bagman was Head of Magical Games 
and Sports,” said Ginny, looking surprised. “He 
should know better than to talk about Bludgers near 
Muggles, shouldn’t he?” 

“He should,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling, and leading 
them through the gates into the campsite, “but Ludo’s 
always been a bit ... well ... lax about security. You 
couldn’t wish for a more enthusiastic head of the 
sports department though. He played Quidditch for 
England himself, you know. And he was the best 
Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had.” 

They trudged up the misty field between long rows of 
tents. Most looked almost ordinary; their owners had 
clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as possible, 
but had slipped up by adding chimneys, or bellpulls, 
or weather vanes. However, here and there was a tent 
so obviously magical that Harry could hardly be 
surprised that Mr. Roberts was getting suspicious. 
Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection 
of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several 
live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther 
on they passed a tent that had three floors and 
several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a 
tent that had a front garden attached, complete with 
birdbath, sundial, and fountain. 

“Always the same,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling. “We 
can’t resist showing off when we get together. Ah, 
here we are, look, this is us.” 

They had reached the very edge of the wood at the top 
of the field, and here was an empty space, with a 
small sign hammered into the ground that read 
WEEZLY. 

“Couldn’t have a better spot!” said Mr. Weasley 
happily. “The field is just on the other side of the 

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wood there, we’re as close as we could be.” He hoisted 
his backpack from his shoulders. “Right,” he said 
excitedly, “no magic allowed, strictly speaking, not 
when we’re out in these numbers on Muggle land. 
We’ll be putting these tents up by hand! Shouldn’t be 
too difficult. ... Muggles do it all the time. ... Here, 
Harry, where do you reckon we should start?” 

Harry had never been camping in his life; the 
Dursleys had never taken him on any kind of holiday, 
preferring to leave him with Mrs. Figg, an old 
neighbor. However, he and Hermione worked out 
where most of the poles and pegs should go, and 
though Mr. Weasley was more of a hindrance than a 
help, because he got thoroughly overexcited when it 
came to using the mallet, they finally managed to 
erect a pair of shabby two-man tents. 

All of them stood back to admire their handiwork. 
Nobody looking at these tents would guess they 
belonged to wizards, Harry thought, but the trouble 
was that once Bill, Charlie, and Percy arrived, they 
would be a party of ten. Hermione seemed to have 
spotted this problem too; she gave Harry a quizzical 
look as Mr. Weasley dropped to his hands and knees 
and entered the first tent. 

“Well be a bit cramped,” he called, “but I think we’ll 
all squeeze in. Come and have a look.” 

Harry bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and felt 
his jaw drop. He had walked into what looked like an 
old-fashioned, three-room flat, complete with 
bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it was 
furnished in exactly the same sort of style as Mrs. 
Figg’s house: There were crocheted covers on the 
mismatched chairs and a strong smell of cats. 



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“Well, it’s not for long,” said Mr. Weasley, mopping his 
bald patch with a handkerchief and peering in at the 
four bunk beds that stood in the bedroom. “I 
borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn’t 
camp much anymore, poor fellow, he’s got lumbago.” 

He picked up the dusty kettle and peered inside it. 
“Well need water. ...” 

“There’s a tap marked on this map the Muggle gave 
us,” said Ron, who had followed Harry inside the tent 
and seemed completely unimpressed by its 
extraordinary inner proportions. “It’s on the other 
side of the field.” 

“Well, why don’t you, Harry, and Hermione go and get 
us some water then” — Mr. Weasley handed over the 
kettle and a couple of saucepans — “and the rest of 
us will get some wood for a fire?” 

“But we’ve got an oven,” said Ron. “Why can’t we just 



“Ron, anti-Muggle security!” said Mr. Weasley, his 
face shining with anticipation. “When real Muggles 
camp, they cook on fires outdoors. I’ve seen them at 



it! 






After a quick tour of the girls’ tent, which was slightly 
smaller than the boys’, though without the smell of 
cats, Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off across the 
campsite with the kettle and saucepans. 

Now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, 
they could see the city of tents that stretched in every 
direction. They made their way slowly through the 
rows, staring eagerly around. It was only just 
dawning on Harry how many witches and wizards 



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there must be in the world; he had never really 
thought much about those in other countries. 

Their fellow campers were starting to wake up. First 
to stir were the families with small children; Harry 
had never seen witches and wizards this young 
before. A tiny boy no older than two was crouched 
outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand 
and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which was 
swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As they drew 
level with him, his mother came hurrying out of the 
tent. 

“ How ma.ny times, Kevin? You don’t — touch — 
Daddy’s — wand — yecchh!” 

She had trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her 
scolding carried after them on the still air, mingling 
with the little boy’s yells — “You bust slug! You bust 
slug!” 

A short way farther on, they saw two little witches, 
barely older than Kevin, who were riding toy 
broomsticks that rose only high enough for the girls’ 
toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard had 
already spotted them; as he hurried past Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione he muttered distractedly, “In broad 
daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose — ” 

Here and there adult wizards and witches were 
emerging from their tents and starting to cook 
breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them, 
conjured fires with their wands; others were striking 
matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though 
sure this couldn’t work. Three African wizards sat in 
serious conversation, all of them wearing long white 
robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit on a 
bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged 
American witches sat gossiping happily beneath a 
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spangled banner stretched between their tents that 
read: THE SALEM WITCHES’ INSTITUTE. Harry 
caught snatches of conversation in strange languages 
from the inside of tents they passed, and though he 
couldn’t understand a word, the tone of every single 
voice was excited. 

“Er — is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?” 
said Ron. 

It wasn’t just Ron’s eyes. They had walked into a 
patch of tents that were all covered with a thick 
growth of shamrocks, so that it looked as though 
small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the 
earth. Grinning faces could be seen under those that 
had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they 
heard their names. 

“Harry! Ron! Hermione!” 

It was Seamus Finnigan, their fellow Gryffindor fourth 
year. He was sitting in front of his own shamrock- 
covered tent, with a sandy-haired woman who had to 
be his mother, and his best friend, Dean Thomas, 
also of Gryffindor. 

“Like the decorations?” said Seamus, grinning. “The 
Ministry’s not too happy.” 

“Ah, why shouldn’t we show our colors?” said Mrs. 
Finnigan. “You should see what the Bulgarians have 
got dangling all over their tents. You’ll be supporting 
Ireland, of course?” she added, eyeing Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione beadily. When they had assured her 
that they were indeed supporting Ireland, they set off 
again, though, as Ron said, “Like we’d say anything 
else surrounded by that lot.” 



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“I wonder what the Bulgarians have got dangling all 
over their tents?” said Hermione. 

“Let’s go and have a look,” said Harry, pointing to a 
large patch of tents upheld, where the Bulgarian flag 
— white, green, and red — was fluttering in the 
breeze. 

The tents here had not been bedecked with plant life, 
but each and every one of them had the same poster 
attached to it, a poster of a very surly face with heavy 
black eyebrows. The picture was, of course, moving, 
but all it did was blink and scowl. 

“Krum,” said Ron quietly. 

“What?” said Hermione. 

“Krum!” said Ron. “Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian 
Seeker!” 

“He looks really grumpy,” said Hermione, looking 
around at the many Krums blinking and scowling at 
them. 

“ ‘Really grumpy’?” Ron raised his eyes to the 
heavens. “Who cares what he looks like? He’s 
unbelievable. He’s really young too. Only just eighteen 
or something. He’s a genius, you wait until tonight, 
you’ll see.” 

There was already a small queue for the tap in the 
corner of the field. Harry, Ron, and Hermione joined 
it, right behind a pair of men who were having a 
heated argument. One of them was a very old wizard 
who was wearing a long flowery nightgown. The other 
was clearly a Ministry wizard; he was holding out a 
pair of pinstriped trousers and almost crying with 
exasperation. 

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“Just put them on, Archie, there’s a good chap. You 
can’t walk around like that, the Muggle at the gate’s 
already getting suspicious — ” 

“I bought this in a Muggle shop,” said the old wizard 
stubbornly. “Muggles wear them.” 

“Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they 
wear these,” said the Ministry wizard, and he 
brandished the pinstriped trousers. 

“I’m not putting them on,” said old Archie in 
indignation. “I like a healthy breeze ’round my 
privates, thanks.” 

Hermione was overcome with such a strong fit of the 
giggles at this point that she had to duck out of the 
queue and only returned when Archie had collected 
his water and moved away. 

Walking more slowly now, because of the weight of 
the water, they made their way back through the 
campsite. Here and there, they saw more familiar 
faces: other Hogwarts students with their families. 
Oliver Wood, the old captain of Harry’s House 
Quidditch team, who had just left Hogwarts, dragged 
Harry over to his parents’ tent to introduce him, and 
told him excitedly that he had just been signed to the 
Puddlemere United reserve team. Next they were 
hailed by Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year, 
and a little farther on they saw Cho Chang, a very 
pretty girl who played Seeker on the Ravenclaw team. 
She waved and smiled at Harry, who slopped quite a 
lot of water down his front as he waved back. More to 
stop Ron from smirking than anything, Harry 
hurriedly pointed out a large group of teenagers 
whom he had never seen before. 



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“Who d’you reckon they are?” he said. “They don’t go 
to Hogwarts, do they?” 



“ ’Spect they go to some foreign school,” said Ron. “I 
know there are others. Never met anyone who went to 
one, though. Bill had a penfriend at a school in Brazil 
. . . this was years and years ago . . . and he wanted to 
go on an exchange trip but Mum and Dad couldn’t 
afford it. His penfriend got all offended when he said 
he wasn’t going and sent him a cursed hat. It made 
his ears shrivel up.” 

Harry laughed but didn’t voice the amazement he felt 
at hearing about other wizarding schools. He 
supposed, now that he saw representatives of so 
many nationalities in the campsite, that he had been 
stupid never to realize that Hogwarts couldn’t be the 
only one. He glanced at Hermione, who looked utterly 
unsurprised by the information. No doubt she had 
run across the news about other wizarding schools in 
some book or other. 

“You’ve been ages,” said George when they finally got 
back to the Weasleys’ tents. 

“Met a few people,” said Ron, setting the water down. 
“You not got that fire started yet?” 

“Dad’s having fun with the matches,” said Fred. 

Mr. Weasley was having no success at all in lighting 
the fire, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Splintered 
matches littered the ground around him, but he 
looked as though he was having the time of his life. 

“Oops!” he said as he managed to light a match and 
promptly dropped it in surprise. 



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“Come here, Mr. Weasley,” said Hermione kindly, 
taking the box from him, and showing him how to do 
it properly. 

At last they got the fire lit, though it was at least 
another hour before it was hot enough to cook 
anything. There was plenty to watch while they 
waited, however. Their tent seemed to be pitched right 
alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and 
Ministry members kept hurrying up and down it, 
greeting Mr. Weasley cordially as they passed. Mr. 
Weasley kept up a running commentary, mainly for 
Harry’s and Hermione’s benefit; his own children 
knew too much about the Ministry to be greatly 
interested. 

“That was Cuthbert Mockridge, Head of the Goblin 
Liaison Office. ... Here comes Gilbert Wimple; he’s 
with the Committee on Experimental Charms; he’s 
had those horns for awhile now. ... Hello, Arnie ... 
Arnold Peasegood, he’s an Obliviator — member of the 
Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, you know. ... and 
that’s Bode and Croaker ... they’re Unspeakables. ...” 

“They’re what?” 

“From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no 
idea what they get up to. ...” 

At last, the fire was ready, and they had just started 
cooking eggs and sausages when Bill, Charlie, and 
Percy came strolling out of the woods toward them. 

“Just Apparated, Dad,” said Percy loudly. “Ah, 
excellent, lunch!” 

They were halfway through their plates of eggs and 
sausages when Mr. Weasley jumped to his feet, 
waving and grinning at a man who was striding 

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toward them. “Aha!” he said. “The man of the 
moment! Ludo!” 

Ludo Bagman was easily the most noticeable person 
Harry had seen so far, even including old Archie in 
his flowered nightdress. He was wearing long 
Quidditch robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright 
yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was 
splashed across his chest. He had the look of a 
powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes 
were stretched tightly across a large belly he surely 
had not had in the days when he had played 
Quidditch for England. His nose was squashed 
(probably broken by a stray Bludger, Harry thought), 
but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy 
complexion made him look like a very overgrown 
schoolboy. 

“Ahoy there!” Bagman called happily. He was walking 
as though he had springs attached to the balls of his 
feet and was plainly in a state of wild excitement. 

“Arthur, old man,” he puffed as he reached the 
campfire, “what a day, eh? What a day! Could we 
have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless 
night coming . . . and hardly a hiccough in the 
arrangements. ... Not much for me to do!” 

Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry 
wizards rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence 
of some sort of a magical fire that was sending violet 
sparks twenty feet into the air. 

Percy hurried forward with his hand outstretched. 
Apparently his disapproval of the way Ludo Bagman 
ran his department did not prevent him from wanting 
to make a good impression. 



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“Ah — yes,” said Mr. Weasley, grinning, “this is my 
son Percy. He’s just started at the Ministry — and 
this is Fred — no, George, sorry — that’s Fred — Bill, 
Charlie, Ron — my daughter, Ginny — and Ron’s 
friends, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter.” 

Bagman did the smallest of double takes when he 
heard Harry’s name, and his eyes performed the 
familiar flick upward to the scar on Harry’s forehead. 

“Everyone,” Mr. Weasley continued, “this is Ludo 
Bagman, you know who he is, it’s thanks to him we’ve 
got such good tickets — ” 

Bagman beamed and waved his hand as if to say it 
had been nothing. 

“Fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?” he said 
eagerly, jingling what seemed to be a large amount of 
gold in the pockets of his yellow-and-black robes. “I’ve 
already got Roddy Pontner betting me Bulgaria will 
score first — I offered him nice odds, considering 
Ireland’s front three are the strongest I’ve seen in 
years — and little Agatha Timms has put up half 
shares in her eel farm on a week-long match.” 

“Oh ... go on then,” said Mr. Weasley. “Let’s see ... a 
Galleon on Ireland to win?” 

“A Galleon?” Ludo Bagman looked slightly 
disappointed, but recovered himself. “Very well, very 
well . . . any other takers?” 

“They’re a bit young to be gambling,” said Mr. 

Weasley. “Molly wouldn’t like — ” 

“Well bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three 
Knuts,” said Fred as he and George quickly pooled all 



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their money, “that Ireland wins — but Viktor Krum 
gets the Snitch. Oh and we’ll throw in a fake wand.” 



“You don’t want to go showing Mr. Bagman rubbish 
like that — ” Percy hissed, but Bagman didn’t seem to 
think the wand was rubbish at all; on the contrary, 
his boyish face shone with excitement as he took it 
from Fred, and when the wand gave a loud squawk 
and turned into a rubber chicken, Bagman roared 
with laughter. 

“Excellent! I haven’t seen one that convincing in 
years! I’d pay five Galleons for that!” 

Percy froze in an attitude of stunned disapproval. 

“Boys,” said Mr. Weasley under his breath, “I don’t 
want you betting. ... That’s all your savings. ... Your 
mother — ” 

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Arthur!” boomed Ludo 
Bagman, rattling his pockets excitedly. “They’re old 
enough to know what they want! You reckon Ireland 
will win but Krum ’ll get the Snitch? Not a chance, 
boys, not a chance. ... I’ll give you excellent odds on 
that one. ... We’ll add five Galleons for the funny 
wand, then, shall we. ...” 

Mr. Weasley looked on helplessly as Ludo Bagman 
whipped out a notebook and quill and began jotting 
down the twins’ names. 

“Cheers,” said George, taking the slip of parchment 
Bagman handed him and tucking it away carefully. 
Bagman turned most cheerfully back to Mr. Weasley. 

“Couldn’t do me a brew, I suppose? I’m keeping an 
eye out for Barty Crouch. My Bulgarian opposite 
number’s making difficulties, and I can’t understand 

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a word he’s saying. Barty’ll be able to sort it out. He 
speaks about a hundred and fifty languages.” 

“Mr. Crouch?” said Percy, suddenly abandoning his 
look of poker-stiff disapproval and positively writhing 
with excitement. “He speaks over two hundred! 
Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll ...” 

“Anyone can speak Troll,” said Fred dismissively. “All 
you have to do is point and grunt.” 

Percy threw Fred an extremely nasty look and stoked 
the fire vigorously to bring the kettle back to the boil. 

“Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?” Mr. Weasley 
asked as Bagman settled himself down on the grass 
beside them all. 

“Not a dicky bird,” said Bagman comfortably. “But 
she’ll turn up. Poor old Bertha ... memory like a leaky 
cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my 
word for it. She’ll wander back into the office 
sometime in October, thinking it’s still July.” 

“You don’t think it might be time to send someone to 
look for her?” Mr. Weasley suggested tentatively as 
Percy handed Bagman his tea. 

“Barty Crouch keeps saying that,” said Bagman, his 
round eyes widening innocently, “but we really can’t 
spare anyone at the moment. Oh — talk of the devil! 
Barty!” 

A wizard had just Apparated at their fireside, and he 
could not have made more of a contrast with Ludo 
Bagman, sprawled on the grass in his old Wasp 
robes. Barty Crouch was a stiff, upright, elderly man, 
dressed in an impeccably crisp suit and tie. The 
parting in his short gray hair was almost unnaturally 
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straight, and his narrow toothbrush mustache looked 
as though he trimmed it using a slide rule. His shoes 
were very highly polished. Harry could see at once 
why Percy idolized him. Percy was a great believer in 
rigidly following rules, and Mr. Crouch had complied 
with the rule about Muggle dressing so thoroughly 
that he could have passed for a bank manager; Harry 
doubted even Uncle Vernon would have spotted him 
for what he really was. 

“Pull up a bit of grass, Barty,” said Ludo brightly, 
patting the ground beside him. 

“No thank you, Ludo,” said Crouch, and there was a 
bite of impatience in his voice. “I’ve been looking for 
you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add 
another twelve seats to the Top Box.” 

“Oh is that what they’re after?” said Bagman. “I 
thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of 
tweezers. Bit of a strong accent.” 

“Mr. Crouch!” said Percy breathlessly, sunk into a 
kind of half-bow that made him look like a 
hunchback. “Would you like a cup of tea?” 

“Oh,” said Mr. Crouch, looking over at Percy in mild 
surprise. “Yes — thank you, Weatherby.” 

Fred and George choked into their own cups. Percy, 
very pink around the ears, busied himself with the 
kettle. 

“Oh and I’ve been wanting a word with you too, 
Arthur,” said Mr. Crouch, his sharp eyes falling upon 
Mr. Weasley. “Ali Bashir’s on the warpath. He wants a 
word with you about your embargo on flying carpets.” 

Mr. Weasley heaved a deep sigh. 

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“I sent him an owl about that just last week. If I’ve 
told him once I’ve told him a hundred times: Carpets 
are defined as a Muggle Artifact by the Registry of 
Proscribed Charmable Objects, but will he listen?” 

“I doubt it,” said Mr. Crouch, accepting a cup from 
Percy. “He’s desperate to export here.” 

“Well, they’ll never replace brooms in Britain, will 
they?” said Bagman. 

“Ali thinks there’s a niche in the market for a family 
vehicle,” said Mr. Crouch. “I remember my 
grandfather had an Axminster that could seat twelve 
— but that was before carpets were banned, of 
course.” 

He spoke as though he wanted to leave nobody in any 
doubt that all his ancestors had abided strictly by the 
law. 

“So, been keeping busy, Barty?” said Bagman 
breezily. 

“Fairly,” said Mr. Crouch dryly. “Organizing Portkeys 
across five continents is no mean feat, Ludo.” 

“I expect you’ll both be glad when this is over?” said 
Mr. Weasley. 

Ludo Bagman looked shocked. 

“Glad! Don’t know when I’ve had more fun. ... Still, 
it’s not as though we haven’t got anything to look 
forward to, eh, Barty? Eh? Plenty left to organize, eh?” 

Mr. Crouch raised his eyebrows at Bagman. 



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“We agreed not to make the announcement until all 
the details — ” 

“Oh details!” said Bagman, waving the word away like 
a cloud of midges. “They’ve signed, haven’t they? 
They’ve agreed, haven’t they? I bet you anything these 
kids’ll know soon enough anyway. I mean, it’s 
happening at Hogwarts — ” 

“Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know,” 
said Mr. Crouch sharply, cutting Bagman’s remarks 
short. “Thank you for the tea, Weatherby.” 

He pushed his undrunk tea back at Percy and waited 
for Ludo to rise; Bagman struggled to his feet, 
swigging down the last of his tea, the gold in his 
pockets chinking merrily. 

“See you all later!” he said. “You’ll be up in the Top 
Box with me — I’m commentating!” He waved, Barty 
Crouch nodded curtly, and both of them 
Disapparated. 

“What’s happening at Hogwarts, Dad?” said Fred at 
once. “What were they talking about?” 

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Mr.Weasley, 
smiling. 

“It’s classified information, until such time as the 
Ministry decides to release it,” said Percy stiffly. “Mr. 
Crouch was quite right not to disclose it.” 

“Oh shut up, Weatherby,” said Fred. 

A sense of excitement rose like a palpable cloud over 
the campsite as the afternoon wore on. By dusk, the 
still summer air itself seemed to be quivering with 
anticipation, and as darkness spread like a curtain 

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over the thousands of waiting wizards, the last 
vestiges of pretence disappeared: the Ministry seemed 
to have bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting 
the signs of blatant magic now breaking out 
everywhere. 

Salesmen were Apparating every few feet, carrying 
trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary 
merchandise. There were luminous rosettes — green 
for Ireland, red for Bulgaria — which were squealing 
the names of the players, pointed green hats 
bedecked with dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves 
adorned with lions that really roared, flags from both 
countries that played their national anthems as they 
were waved; there were tiny models of Firebolts that 
really flew, and collectible figures of famous players, 
which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening 
themselves. 

“Been saving my pocket money all summer for this,” 
Ron told Harry as they and Hermione strolled through 
the salesmen, buying souvenirs. Though Ron 
purchased a dancing shamrock hat and a large green 
rosette, he also bought a small figure of Viktor Krum, 
the Bulgarian Seeker. The miniature Krum walked 
backward and forward over Ron’s hand, scowling up 
at the green rosette above him. 

“Wow, look at these!” said Harry, hurrying over to a 
cart piled high with what looked like brass 
binoculars, except that they were covered with all 
sorts of weird knobs and dials. 

“Omnioculars,” said the saleswizard eagerly. “You can 
replay action . . . slow everything down . . . and they 
flash up a play-by-play breakdown if you need it. 
Bargain — ten Galleons each.” 



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“Wish I hadn’t bought this now,” said Ron, gesturing 
at his dancing shamrock hat and gazing longingly at 
the Omnioculars. 

“Three pairs,” said Harry firmly to the wizard. 

“No — don’t bother,” said Ron, going red. He was 
always touchy about the fact that Harry, who had 
inherited a small fortune from his parents, had much 
more money than he did. 

“You won’t be getting anything for Christmas,” Harry 
told him, thrusting Omnioculars into his and 
Hermione’s hands. “For about ten years, mind.” 

“Fair enough,” said Ron, grinning. 

“Oooh, thanks, Harry,” said Hermione. “And I’ll get us 
some programs, look — ” 

Their money bags considerably lighter, they went 
back to the tents. Bill, Charlie, and Ginny were all 
sporting green rosettes too, and Mr. Weasley was 
carrying an Irish flag. Fred and George had no 
souvenirs as they had given Bagman all their gold. 

And then a deep, booming gong sounded somewhere 
beyond the woods, and at once, green and red 
lanterns blazed into life in the trees, lighting a path to 
the field. 

“It’s time!” said Mr. Weasley, looking as excited as any 
of them. “Come on, let’s go!” 



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-4 



THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP 

Clutching their purchases, Mr. Weasley in the lead, 
they all hurried into the wood, following the lantern- 
lit trail. They could hear the sounds of thousands of 
people moving around them, shouts and laughter, 
snatches of singing. The atmosphere of feverish 
excitement was highly infectious; Harry couldn’t stop 
grinning. They walked through the wood for twenty 
minutes, talking and joking loudly, until at last they 
emerged on the other side and found themselves in 
the shadow of a gigantic stadium. Though Harry 
could see only a fraction of the immense gold walls 
surrounding the field, he could tell that ten 
cathedrals would fit comfortably inside it. 

“Seats a hundred thousand,” said Mr. Weasley, 
spotting the awestruck look on Harry’s face. “Ministry 
task force of five hundred have been working on it all 
year. Muggle Repelling Charms on every inch of it. 
Every time Muggles have got anywhere near here all 
year, they’ve suddenly remembered urgent 
appointments and had to dash away again . . . bless 
them,” he added fondly, leading the way toward the 
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nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a 
swarm of shouting witches and wizards. 

“Prime seats!” said the Ministry witch at the entrance 
when she checked their tickets. “Top Box! Straight 
upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go.” 

The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich 
purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the 
crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into 
the stands to their left and right. Mr. Weasley’s party 
kept climbing, and at last they reached the top of the 
staircase and found themselves in a small box, set at 
the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly 
halfway between the golden goal posts. About twenty 
purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and 
Harry, filing into the front seats with the Weasleys, 
looked down upon a scene the likes of which he could 
never have imagined. 

A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking 
their places in the seats, which rose in levels around 
the long oval field. Everything was suffused with a 
mysterious golden light, which seemed to come from 
the stadium itself. The field looked smooth as velvet 
from their lofty position. At either end of the field 
stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite 
them, almost at Harry’s eye level, was a gigantic 
blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it as 
though an invisible giant’s hand were scrawling upon 
the blackboard and then wiping it off again; watching 
it, Harry saw that it was flashing advertisements 
across the field. 

The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family — safe, 
reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burglar Buzzer ... Mrs. 
Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain, 
No Stain! ... Gladrags Wizardwear — London, Paris, 
Hogsmeade ... 

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Harry tore his eyes away from the sign and looked 
over his shoulder to see who else was sharing the box 
with them. So far it was empty, except for a tiny 
creature sitting in the second from last seat at the 
end of the row behind them. The creature, whose legs 
were so short they stuck out in front of it on the 
chair, was wearing a tea towel draped like a toga, and 
it had its face hidden in its hands. Yet those long, 
batlike ears were oddly familiar. . . . 

“ Dobby ?” said Harry incredulously. 

The tiny creature looked up and stretched its fingers, 
revealing enormous brown eyes and a nose the exact 
size and shape of a large tomato. It wasn’t Dobby — it 
was, however, unmistakably a house-elf, as Harry’s 
friend Dobby had been. Harry had set Dobby free 
from his old owners, the Malfoy family. 

“Did sir just call me Dobby?” squeaked the elf 
curiously from between its fingers. Its voice was 
higher even than Dobby’s had been, a teeny, 
quivering squeak of a voice, and Harry suspected — 
though it was very hard to tell with a house-elf — that 
this one might just be female. Ron and Hermione 
spun around in their seats to look. Though they had 
heard a lot about Dobby from Harry, they had never 
actually met him. Even Mr. Weasley looked around in 
interest. 

“Sorry,” Harry told the elf, “I just thought you were 
someone I knew.” 

“But I knows Dobby too, sir!” squeaked the elf. She 
was shielding her face, as though blinded by light, 
though the Top Box was not brightly lit. “My name is 
Winky, sir — and you, sir — ” Her dark brown eyes 
widened to the size of side plates as they rested upon 
Harry’s scar. “You is surely Harry Potter!” 

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“Yeah, I am,” said Harry. 



“But Dobby talks of you all the time, sir!” she said, 
lowering her hands very slightly and looking 
awestruck. 

“How is he?” said Harry. “How’s freedom suiting 
him?” 

“Ah, sir,” said Winky, shaking her head, “ah sir, 
meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is not sure you did 
Dobby a favor, sir, when you is setting him free.” 

“Why?” said Harry, taken aback. “What’s wrong with 
him?” 

“Freedom is going to Dobby’s head, sir,” said Winky 
sadly. “Ideas above his station, sir. Can’t get another 
position, sir.” 

“Why not?” said Harry. 

Winky lowered her voice by a half-octave and 
whispered, “He is wanting paying for his work, sir.” 

“Paying?” said Harry blankly. “Well — why shouldn’t 
he be paid?” 

Winky looked quite horrified at the idea and closed 
her fingers slightly so that her face was half-hidden 
again. 

“House-elves is not paid, sir!” she said in a muffled 
squeak. “No, no, no. I says to Dobby, I says, go find 
yourself a nice family and settle down, Dobby. He is 
getting up to all sorts of high jinks, sir, what is 
unbecoming to a house-elf. You goes racketing 
around like this, Dobby, I says, and next thing I hear 
you’s up in front of the Department for the Regulation 
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and Control of Magical Creatures, like some common 
goblin.” 

“Well, it’s about time he had a bit of fun,” said Harry. 

“House-elves is not supposed to have fun, Harry 
Potter,” said Winky firmly, from behind her hands. 
“House-elves does what they is told. I is not liking 
heights at all, Harry Potter” — she glanced toward the 
edge of the box and gulped — “but my master sends 
me to the Top Box and I comes, sir.” 

“Why’s he sent you up here, if he knows you don’t like 
heights?” said Harry, frowning. 

“Master — master wants me to save him a seat, Harry 
Potter. He is very busy,” said Winky, tilting her head 
toward the empty space beside her. “Winky is wishing 
she is back in master’s tent, Harry Potter, but Winky 
does what she is told. Winky is a good house-elf.” 

She gave the edge of the box another frightened look 
and hid her eyes completely again. Harry turned back 
to the others. 

“So that’s a house-elf?” Ron muttered. “Weird things, 
aren’t they?” 

“Dobby was weirder,” said Harry fervently. 

Ron pulled out his Omnioculars and started testing 
them, staring down into the crowd on the other side 
of the stadium. 

“Wild!” he said, twiddling the replay knob on the side. 
“I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose 
again ... and again ... and again ...” 



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Hermione, meanwhile, was skimming eagerly through 
her velvet-covered, tasseled program. 



“ ‘A display from the team mascots will precede the 
match,’ ” she read aloud. 

“Oh that’s always worth watching,” said Mr. Weasley. 
“National teams bring creatures from their native 
land, you know, to put on a bit of a show.” 

The box filled gradually around them over the next 
half hour. Mr. Weasley kept shaking hands with 
people who were obviously very important wizards. 
Percy jumped to his feet so often that he looked as 
though he were trying to sit on a hedgehog. When 
Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself, 
arrived, Percy bowed so low that his glasses fell off 
and shattered. Highly embarrassed, he repaired them 
with his wand and thereafter remained in his seat, 
throwing jealous looks at Harry, whom Cornelius 
Fudge had greeted like an old friend. They had met 
before, and Fudge shook Harry’s hand in a fatherly 
fashion, asked how he was, and introduced him to 
the wizards on either side of him. 

“Harry Potter, you know,” he told the Bulgarian 
minister loudly, who was wearing splendid robes of 
black velvet trimmed with gold and didn’t seem to 
understand a word of English. “Harry Potter ... oh 
come on now, you know who he is . . . the boy who 
survived You-Know-Who ... you do know who he is — ” 

The Bulgarian wizard suddenly spotted Harry’s scar 
and started gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at 
it. 

“Knew we’d get there in the end,” said Fudge wearily 
to Harry. “I’m no great shakes at languages; I need 
Barty Crouch for this sort of thing. Ah, I see his 

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house-elf’s saving him a seat. ... Good job too, these 
Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the 
best places ... ah, and here’s Lucius!” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned quickly. Edging 
along the second row to three still-empty seats right 
behind Mr. Weasley were none other than Dobby the 
house-elf’s former owners: Lucius Malfoy; his son, 
Draco; and a woman Harry supposed must be Draco’s 
mother. 

Harry and Draco Malfoy had been enemies ever since 
their very first journey to Hogwarts. A pale boy with a 
pointed face and white-blond hair, Draco greatly 
resembled his father. His mother was blonde too; tall 
and slim, she would have been nice-looking if she 
hadn’t been wearing a look that suggested there was 
a nasty smell under her nose. 

“Ah, Fudge,” said Mr. Malfoy, holding out his hand as 
he reached the Minister of Magic. “How are you? I 
don’t think you’ve met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, 
Draco?” 

“How do you do, how do you do?” said Fudge, smiling 
and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy. “And allow me to 
introduce you to Mr. Oblansk — Obalonsk — Mr. — 
well, he’s the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he 
can’t understand a word I’m saying anyway, so never 
mind. And let’s see who else — you know Arthur 
Weasley, I daresay?” 

It was a tense moment. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy 
looked at each other and Harry vividly recalled the 
last time they had come face-to-face: It had been in 
Flourish and Blotts’ bookshop, and they had had a 
fight. Mr. Malfoy’s cold gray eyes swept over Mr. 
Weasley, and then up and down the row. 



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“Good lord, Arthur,” he said softly. “What did you 
have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your 
house wouldn’t have fetched this much?” 

Fudge, who wasn’t listening, said, “Lucius has just 
given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo’s 
Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. 
He’s here as my guest.” 

“How — how nice,” said Mr. Weasley, with a very 
strained smile. 

Mr. Malfoy’s eyes had returned to Hermione, who 
went slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at 
him. Harry knew exactly what was making Mr. 
Malfoy’s lip curl like that. The Malfoys prided 
themselves on being purebloods; in other words, they 
considered anyone of Muggle descent, like Hermione, 
second-class. However, under the gaze of the Minister 
of Magic, Mr. Malfoy didn’t dare say anything. He 
nodded sneeringly to Mr. Weasley and continued 
down the line to his seats. Draco shot Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione one contemptuous look, then settled 
himself between his mother and father. 

“Slimy gits,” Ron muttered as he, Harry, and 
Hermione turned to face the field again. Next 
moment, Ludo Bagman charged into the box. 

“Everyone ready?” he said, his round face gleaming 
like a great, excited Edam. “Minister — ready to go?” 

“Ready when you are, Ludo,” said Fudge comfortably. 

Ludo whipped out his wand, directed it at his own 
throat, and said “Sonorusl” and then spoke over the 
roar of sound that was now filling the packed 
stadium; his voice echoed over them, booming into 
every corner of the stands. 

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“Ladies and gentlemen ... welcome! Welcome to the 
final of the four hundred and twenty-second 
Quidditch World Cup!” 

The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of 
flags waved, adding their discordant national 
anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite 
them was wiped clear of its last message (Bertie Bott’s 
Every Flavor Beans — A Risk With Every Mouthfull) 
and now showed BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0. 

“And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce 
... the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!” 

The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid 
block of scarlet, roared its approval. 

“I wonder what they’ve brought,” said Mr. Weasley, 
leaning forward in his seat. “Aaah!” He suddenly 
whipped off his glasses and polished them hurriedly 
on his robes. “Veelal” 

“What are veel — ?” 

But a hundred veela were now gliding out onto the 
field, and Harry’s question was answered for him. 
Veela were women . . . the most beautiful women Harry 
had ever seen ... except that they weren’t — they 
couldn’t be — human. This puzzled Harry for a 
moment while he tried to guess what exactly they 
could be; what could make their skin shine moon- 
bright like that, or their white-gold hair fan out 
behind them without wind . . . but then the music 
started, and Harry stopped worrying about them not 
being human — in fact, he stopped worrying about 
anything at all. 

The veela had started to dance, and Harry’s mind had 
gone completely and blissfully blank. All that 

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mattered in the world was that he kept watching the 
veela, because if they stopped dancing, terrible things 
would happen. ... 

And as the veela danced faster and faster, wild, half- 
formed thoughts started chasing through Harry’s 
dazed mind. He wanted to do something very 
impressive, right now. Jumping from the box into the 
stadium seemed a good idea . . . but would it be good 
enough? 

“Harry, what are you doing?” said Hermione’s voice 
from a long way off. 

The music stopped. Harry blinked. He was standing 
up, and one of his legs was resting on the wall of the 
box. Next to him, Ron was frozen in an attitude that 
looked as though he were about to dive from a 
springboard. 

Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn’t 
want the veela to go. Harry was with them; he would, 
of course, be supporting Bulgaria, and he wondered 
vaguely why he had a large green shamrock pinned to 
his chest. Ron, meanwhile, was absent-mindedly 
shredding the shamrocks on his hat. Mr. Weasley, 
smiling slightly, leaned over to Ron and tugged the 
hat out of his hands. 

“You’ll be wanting that,” he said, “once Ireland have 
had their say.” 

“Huh?” said Ron, staring openmouthed at the veela, 
who had now lined up along one side of the field. 

Hermione made a loud tutting noise. She reached up 
and pulled Harry back into his seat. “Honestlyl” she 
said. 



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“And now,” roared Ludo Bagman’s voice, “kindly put 
your wands in the air ... for the Irish National Team 
Mascots!” 

Next moment, what seemed to be a great green-and- 
gold comet came zooming into the stadium. It did one 
circuit of the stadium, then split into two smaller 
comets, each hurtling toward the goal posts. A 
rainbow arced suddenly across the field, connecting 
the two balls of light. The crowd oooohed and 
aaaaahed, as though at a fireworks display. Now the 
rainbow faded and the balls of light reunited and 
merged; they had formed a great shimmering 
shamrock, which rose up into the sky and began to 
soar over the stands. Something like golden rain 
seemed to be falling from it — 

“Excellent!” yelled Ron as the shamrock soared over 
them, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing 
off their heads and seats. Squinting up at the 
shamrock, Harry realized that it was actually 
comprised of thousands of tiny little bearded men 
with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or 
green. 

“Leprechauns!” said Mr. Weasley over the tumultuous 
applause of the crowd, many of whom were still 
fighting and rummaging around under their chairs to 
retrieve the gold. 

“There you go,” Ron yelled happily, stuffing a fistful of 
gold coins into Harry’s hand, “for the Omnioculars! 
Now you’ve got to buy me a Christmas present, ha!” 

The great shamrock dissolved, the leprechauns 
drifted down onto the field on the opposite side from 
the veela, and settled themselves cross-legged to 
watch the match. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




“And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome — 
the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you — 
Dimitrov!” 

A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast 
it was blurred, shot out onto the field from an 
entrance far below, to wild applause from the 
Bulgarian supporters. 

“Ivanova!” 

A second scarlet-robed player zoomed out. 

“Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand — 
Krum\” 

“That’s him, that’s him!” yelled Ron, following Krum 
with his Omnioculars. Harry quickly focused his own. 

Viktor Krum was thin, dark, and sallow-skinned, with 
a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He 
looked like an overgrown bird of prey. It was hard to 
believe he was only eighteen. 

“And now, please greet — the Irish National Quidditch 
Team!” yelled Bagman. “Presenting — Connolly! Ryan! 
Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand — Lynch).” 

Seven green blurs swept onto the field; Harry spun a 
small dial on the side of his Omnioculars and slowed 
the players down enough to read the word “Firebolt” 
on each of their brooms and see their names, 
embroidered in silver, upon their backs. 

“And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, 
acclaimed Chairwizard of the International 
Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!” 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




A small and skinny wizard, completely bald but with 
a mustache to rival Uncle Vernon’s, wearing robes of 
pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the 
field. A silver whistle was protruding from under the 
mustache, and he was carrying a large wooden crate 
under one arm, his broomstick under the other. 

Harry spun the speed dial on his Omnioculars back 
to normal, watching closely as Mostafa mounted his 
broomstick and kicked the crate open — four balls 
burst into the air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black 
Bludgers, and (Harry saw it for the briefest moment, 
before it sped out of sight) the minuscule, winged 
Golden Snitch. With a sharp blast on his whistle, 
Mostafa shot into the air after the balls. 

“Theeeeeeeey’re OFF!” screamed Bagman. “And it’s 
Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! 
Levski! Moran!” 

It was Quidditch as Harry had never seen it played 
before. He was pressing his Omnioculars so hard to 
his glasses that they were cutting into the bridge of 
his nose. The speed of the players was incredible — 
the Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to one another 
so fast that Bagman only had time to say their 
names. Harry spun the slow dial on the right of his 
Omnioculars again, pressed the play-by-play button 
on the top, and he was immediately watching in slow 
motion, while glittering purple lettering flashed across 
the lenses and the noise of the crowd pounded 
against his eardrums. 

Hawkshead Attacking Formation, he read as he 
watched the three Irish Chasers zoom closely 
together, Troy in the center, slightly ahead of Mullet 
and Moran, bearing down upon the Bulgarians. 
Porskoff Ploy flashed up next, as Troy made as though 
to dart upward with the Quaffle, drawing away the 
Bulgarian Chaser Ivanova and dropping the Quaffle to 
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Moran. One of the Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov, swung 
hard at a passing Bludger with his small club, 
knocking it into Moran’s path; Moran ducked to avoid 
the Bludger and dropped the Quaffle; and Levski, 
soaring beneath, caught it — 

“TROY SCORES!” roared Bagman, and the stadium 
shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. “Ten 
zero to Ireland!” 

“What?” Harry yelled, looking wildly around through 
his Omnioculars. “But Levski’s got the Quaffle!” 

“Harry, if you’re not going to watch at normal speed, 
you’re going to miss things!” shouted Hermione, who 
was dancing up and down, waving her arms in the air 
while Troy did a lap of honor around the field. Harry 
looked quickly over the top of his Omni-oculars and 
saw that the leprechauns watching from the sidelines 
had all risen into the air again and formed the great, 
glittering shamrock. Across the field, the veela were 
watching them sulkily. 

Furious with himself, Harry spun his speed dial back 
to normal as play resumed. 

Harry knew enough about Quidditch to see that the 
Irish Chasers were superb. They worked as a 
seamless team, their movements so well coordinated 
that they appeared to be reading one another’s minds 
as they positioned themselves, and the rosette on 
Harry’s chest kept squeaking their names: “Troy — 
Mullet — Moran).” And within ten minutes, Ireland had 
scored twice more, bringing their lead to thirty-zero 
and causing a thunderous tide of roars and applause 
from the green-clad supporters. 

The match became still faster, but more brutal. 

Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, were 

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whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the 
Irish Chasers, and were starting to prevent them from 
using some of their best moves; twice they were forced 
to scatter, and then, finally, Ivanova managed to 
break through their ranks; dodge the Keeper, Ryan; 
and score Bulgaria’s first goal. 

“Fingers in your ears!” bellowed Mr. Weasley as the 
veela started to dance in celebration. Harry screwed 
up his eyes too; he wanted to keep his mind on the 
game. After a few seconds, he chanced a glance at the 
field. The veela had stopped dancing, and Bulgaria 
was again in possession of the Quaffle. 

“Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova — oh I say!” 
roared Bagman. 

One hundred thousand wizards gasped as the two 
Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummeted through the 
center of the Chasers, so fast that it looked as though 
they had just jumped from airplanes without 
parachutes. Harry followed their descent through his 
Omnioculars, squinting to see where the Snitch was 



“They’re going to crash!” screamed Hermione next to 
Harry. 

She was half right — at the very last second, Viktor 
Krum pulled out of the dive and spiraled off. Lynch, 
however, hit the ground with a dull thud that could 
be heard throughout the stadium. A huge groan rose 
from the Irish seats. 

“Fool!” moaned Mr. Weasley. “Krum was feinting!” 

“It’s time-out!” yelled Bagman’s voice, “as trained 
mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan 
Lynch!” 

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“He’ll be okay, he only got ploughed!” Charlie said 
reassuringly to Ginny, who was hanging over the side 
of the box, looking horror-struck. “Which is what 
Krum was after, of course. ...” 

Harry hastily pressed the replay and play-by-play 
buttons on his Omnioculars, twiddled the speed dial, 
and put them back up to his eyes. 

He watched as Krum and Lynch dived again in slow 
motion. Wronski Defensive Feint — dangerous Seeker 
diversion read the shining purple lettering across his 
lenses. He saw Krum’s face contorted with 
concentration as he pulled out of the dive just in 
time, while Lynch was flattened, and he understood 
— Krum hadn’t seen the Snitch at all, he was just 
making Lynch copy him. Harry had never seen 
anyone fly like that; Krum hardly looked as though he 
was using a broomstick at all; he moved so easily 
through the air that he looked unsupported and 
weightless. Harry turned his Omnioculars back to 
normal and focused them on Krum. He was now 
circling high above Lynch, who was being revived by 
mediwizards with cups of potion. Harry, focusing still 
more closely upon Krum’s face, saw his dark eyes 
darting all over the ground a hundred feet below. He 
was using the time while Lynch was revived to look 
for the Snitch without interference. 

Lynch got to his feet at last, to loud cheers from the 
green-clad supporters, mounted his Firebolt, and 
kicked back off into the air. His revival seemed to give 
Ireland new heart. When Mostafa blew his whistle 
again, the Chasers moved into action with a skill 
unrivaled by anything Harry had seen so far. 

After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland 
had pulled ahead by ten more goals. They were now 



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leading by one hundred and thirty points to ten, and 
the game was starting to get dirtier. 

As Mullet shot toward the goal posts yet again, 
clutching the Quaffle tightly under her arm, the 
Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, flew out to meet her. 
Whatever happened was over so quickly Harry didn’t 
catch it, but a scream of rage from the Irish crowd, 
and Mostafa’s long, shrill whistle blast, told him it 
had been a foul. 

“And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for 
cobbing — excessive use of elbows!” Bagman informed 
the roaring spectators. “And — yes, it’s a penalty to 
Ireland!” 

The leprechauns, who had risen angrily into the air 
like a swarm of glittering hornets when Mullet had 
been fouled, now darted together to form the words 
“HA, HA, HA!” The veela on the other side of the field 
leapt to their feet, tossed their hair angrily, and 
started to dance again. 

As one, the Weasley boys and Harry stuffed their 
fingers into their ears, but Hermione, who hadn’t 
bothered, was soon tugging on Harry’s arm. He 
turned to look at her, and she pulled his fingers 
impatiently out of his ears. 

“Look at the referee!” she said, giggling. 

Harry looked down at the field. Hassan Mostafa had 
landed right in front of the dancing veela, and was 
acting very oddly indeed. He was flexing his muscles 
and smoothing his mustache excitedly. 

“Now, we can’t have that!” said Ludo Bagman, though 
he sounded highly amused. “Somebody slap the 
referee!” 

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A mediwizard came tearing across the field, his 
fingers stuffed into his own ears, and kicked Mostafa 
hard in the shins. Mostafa seemed to come to himself; 
Harry, watching through the Omnioculars again, saw 
that he looked exceptionally embarrassed and had 
started shouting at the veela, who had stopped 
dancing and were looking mutinous. 

“And unless I’m much mistaken, Mostafa is actually 
attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots!” 
said Bagman’s voice. “Now there’s something we 
haven’t seen before. ... Oh this could turn nasty. ...” 

It did: The Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov, 
landed on either side of Mostafa and began arguing 
furiously with him, gesticulating toward the 
leprechauns, who had now gleefully formed the words 
“HEE, HEE, HEE.” Mostafa was not impressed by the 
Bulgarians’ arguments, however; he was jabbing his 
finger into the air, clearly telling them to get flying 
again, and when they refused, he gave two short 
blasts on his whistle. 

“Two penalties for Ireland!” shouted Bagman, and the 
Bulgarian crowd howled with anger. “And Volkov and 
Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms . . . 
yes ... there they go ... and Troy takes the Quaffle ...” 

Play now reached a level of ferocity beyond anything 
they had yet seen. The Beaters on both sides were 
acting without mercy: Volkov and Vulchanov in 
particular seemed not to care whether their clubs 
made contact with Bludger or human as they swung 
them violently through the air. Dimitrov shot straight 
at Moran, who had the Quaffle, nearly knocking her 
off her broom. 

“Foul\” roared the Irish supporters as one, all 
standing up in a great wave of green. 

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“Foul!” echoed Ludo Bagman’s magically magnified 
voice. “Dimitrov skins Moran — deliberately flying to 
collide there — and it’s got to be another penalty — 
yes, there’s the whistle!” 

The leprechauns had risen into the air again, and this 
time, they formed a giant hand, which was making a 
very rude sign indeed at the veela across the field. At 
this, the veela lost control. Instead of dancing, they 
launched themselves across the field and began 
throwing what seemed to be handfuls of fire at the 
leprechauns. Watching through his Omnioculars, 
Harry saw that they didn’t look remotely beautiful 
now. On the contrary, their faces were elongating into 
sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings 
were bursting from their shoulders — 

“And that, boys,” yelled Mr. Weasley over the tumult 
of the crowd below, “is why you should never go for 
looks alone!” 

Ministry wizards were flooding onto the field to 
separate the veela and the leprechauns, but with little 
success; meanwhile, the pitched battle below was 
nothing to the one taking place above. Harry turned 
this way and that, staring through his Omnioculars, 
as the Quaffle changed hands with the speed of a 
bullet. 

“Levski — Dimitrov — Moran — Troy — Mullet — 
Ivanova — Moran again — Moran — MORAN 
SCORES!” 

But the cheers of the Irish supporters were barely 
heard over the shrieks of the veela, the blasts now 
issuing from the Ministry members’ wands, and the 
furious roars of the Bulgarians. The game 
recommenced immediately; now Levski had the 
Quaffle, now Dimitrov — 

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The Irish Beater Quigley swung heavily at a passing 
Bludger, and hit it as hard as possible toward Krum, 
who did not duck quickly enough. It hit him full in 
the face. 

There was a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum’s 
nose looked broken, there was blood everywhere, but 
Hassan Mostafa didn’t blow his whistle. He had 
become distracted, and Harry couldn’t blame him; 
one of the veela had thrown a handful of fire and set 
his broom tail alight. 

Harry wanted someone to realize that Krum was 
injured; even though he was supporting Ireland, 

Krum was the most exciting player on the field. Ron 
obviously felt the same. 

“Time-out! Ah, come on, he can’t play like that, look 
at him — ” 

“Look at Lynch 1” Harry yelled. 

For the Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive, 
and Harry was quite sure that this was no Wronski 
Feint; this was the real thing. ... 

“He’s seen the Snitch!” Harry shouted. “He’s seen it! 
Look at him go!” 

Half the crowd seemed to have realized what was 
happening; the Irish supporters rose in another great 
wave of green, screaming their Seeker on . . . but Krum 
was on his tail. How he could see where he was going, 
Harry had no idea; there were flecks of blood flying 
through the air behind him, but he was drawing level 
with Lynch now as the pair of them hurtled toward 
the ground again — 

“They’re going to crash!” shrieked Hermione. 

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“They’re not!” roared Ron. 

“Lynch is!” yelled Harry. 

And he was right — for the second time, Lynch hit the 
ground with tremendous force and was immediately 
stampeded by a horde of angry veela. 

“The Snitch, where’s the Snitch?” bellowed Charlie, 
along the row. 

“He’s got it — Krum’s got it — it’s all over!” shouted 
Harry. 

Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, 
was rising gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint 
of gold in his hand. 

The scoreboard was flashing BULGARIA: 160, 
IRELAND: 170 across the crowd, who didn’t seem to 
have realized what had happened. Then, slowly, as 
though a great jumbo jet were revving up, the 
rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and 
louder and erupted into screams of delight. 

“IRELAND WINS!” Bagman shouted, who like the 
Irish, seemed to be taken aback by the sudden end of 
the match. “KRUM GETS THE SNITCH — BUT 
IRELAND WINS — good lord, I don’t think any of us 
were expecting that!” 

“What did he catch the Snitch for?” Ron bellowed, 
even as he jumped up and down, applauding with his 
hands over his head. “He ended it when Ireland were 
a hundred and sixty points ahead, the idiot!” 

“He knew they were never going to catch up!” Harry 
shouted back over all the noise, also applauding 



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loudly. “The Irish Chasers were too good. ... He 
wanted to end it on his terms, that’s all. ...” 



“He was very brave, wasn’t he?” Hermione said, 
leaning forward to watch Krum land as a swarm of 
mediwizards blasted a path through the battling 
leprechauns and veela to get to him. “He looks a 
terrible mess. ...” 

Harry put his Omnioculars to his eyes again. It was 
hard to see what was happening below, because 
leprechauns were zooming delightedly all over the 
field, but he could just make out Krum, surrounded 
by mediwizards. He looked surlier than ever and 
refused to let them mop him up. His team members 
were around him, shaking their heads and looking 
dejected; a short way away, the Irish players were 
dancing gleefully in a shower of gold descending from 
their mascots. Flags were waving all over the stadium, 
the Irish national anthem blared from all sides; the 
veela were shrinking back into their usual, beautiful 
selves now, though looking dispirited and forlorn. 

“Veil, ve fought bravely,” said a gloomy voice behind 
Harry. He looked around; it was the Bulgarian 
Minister of Magic. 

“You can speak English!” said Fudge, sounding 
outraged. “And you’ve been letting me mime 
everything all day!” 

“Veil, it vos very funny,” said the Bulgarian minister, 
shrugging. 

“And as the Irish team performs a lap of honor, 
flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup 
itself is brought into the Top Box!” roared Bagman. 



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Harry’s eyes were suddenly dazzled by a blinding 
white light, as the Top Box was magically illuminated 
so that everyone in the stands could see the inside. 
Squinting toward the entrance, he saw two panting 
wizards carrying a vast golden cup into the box, 
which they handed to Cornelius Fudge, who was still 
looking very disgruntled that he’d been using sign 
language all day for nothing. 

“Let’s have a really loud hand for the gallant losers — 
Bulgaria!” Bagman shouted. 

And up the stairs into the box came the seven 
defeated Bulgarian players. The crowd below was 
applauding appreciatively; Harry could see thousands 
and thousands of Omniocular lenses flashing and 
winking in their direction. 

One by one, the Bulgarians filed between the rows of 
seats in the box, and Bagman called out the name of 
each as they shook hands with their own minister 
and then with Fudge. Krum, who was last in line, 
looked a real mess. Two black eyes were blooming 
spectacularly on his bloody face. He was still holding 
the Snitch. Harry noticed that he seemed much less 
coordinated on the ground. He was slightly duck- 
footed and distinctly round-shouldered. But when 
Krum’s name was announced, the whole stadium 
gave him a resounding, earsplitting roar. 

And then came the Irish team. Aidan Lynch was being 
supported by Moran and Connolly; the second crash 
seemed to have dazed him and his eyes looked 
strangely unfocused. But he grinned happily as Troy 
and Quigley lifted the Cup into the air and the crowd 
below thundered its approval. Harry’s hands were 
numb with clapping. 



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At last, when the Irish team had left the box to 
perform another lap of honor on their brooms (Aidan 
Lynch on the back of Connolly’s, clutching hard 
around his waist and still grinning in a bemused sort 
of way), Bagman pointed his wand at his throat and 
muttered, “Quietus.” 

“They’ll be talking about this one for years,” he said 
hoarsely, “a really unexpected twist, that. ... shame it 
couldn’t have lasted longer. ... Ah yes. ... yes, I owe 
you . . . how much?” 

For Fred and George had just scrambled over the 
backs of their seats and were standing in front of 
Ludo Bagman with broad grins on their faces, their 
hands outstretched. 



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9 




THE DARK MARK 

“ Don’t tell your mother you’ve been gambling,” Mr. 
Weasley implored Fred and George as they all made 
their way slowly down the purple-carpeted stairs. 

“Don’t worry, Dad,” said Fred gleefully, “we’ve got big 
plans for this money. We don’t want it confiscated.” 

Mr. Weasley looked for a moment as though he was 
going to ask what these big plans were, but seemed to 
decide, upon reflection, that he didn’t want to know. 

They were soon caught up in the crowds now flooding 
out of the stadium and back to their campsites. 
Raucous singing was borne toward them on the night 
air as they retraced their steps along the lantern-lit 
path, and leprechauns kept shooting over their heads, 
cackling and waving their lanterns. When they finally 
reached the tents, nobody felt like sleeping at all, and 
given the level of noise around them, Mr. Weasley 
agreed that they could all have one last cup of cocoa 
together before turning in. They were soon arguing 
enjoyably about the match; Mr. Weasley got drawn 

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into a disagreement about cobbing with Charlie, and 
it was only when Ginny fell asleep right at the tiny 
table and spilled hot chocolate all over the floor that 
Mr. Weasley called a halt to the verbal replays and 
insisted that everyone go to bed. Hermione and Ginny 
went into the next tent, and Harry and the rest of the 
Weasleys changed into pajamas and clambered into 
their bunks. From the other side of the campsite they 
could still hear much singing and the odd echoing 
bang. 

“Oh I am glad I’m not on duty,” muttered Mr. Weasley 
sleepily. “I wouldn’t fancy having to go and tell the 
Irish they’ve got to stop celebrating.” 

Harry, who was on a top bunk above Ron, lay staring 
up at the canvas ceiling of the tent, watching the glow 
of an occasional leprechaun lantern flying overhead, 
and picturing again some of Krum’s more spectacular 
moves. He was itching to get back on his own Firebolt 
and try out the Wronski Feint. ... Somehow Oliver 
Wood had never managed to convey with all his 
wriggling diagrams what that move was supposed to 
look like. ... Harry saw himself in robes that had his 
name on the back, and imagined the sensation of 
hearing a hundred-thousand-strong crowd roar, as 
Ludo Bagman’s voice echoed throughout the stadium, 
“I give you ... PotteA.” 

Harry never knew whether or not he had actually 
dropped off to sleep — his fantasies of flying like 
Krum might well have slipped into actual dreams — 
all he knew was that, quite suddenly, Mr. Weasley 
was shouting. 

“Get up! Ron — Harry — come on now, get up, this is 
urgent!” 



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Harry sat up quickly and the top of his head hit 
canvas. 

“ ’S’ matter?” he said. 

Dimly, he could tell that something was wrong. The 
noises in the campsite had changed. The singing had 
stopped. He could hear screams, and the sound of 
people running. He slipped down from the bunk and 
reached for his clothes, but Mr. Weasley, who had 
pulled on his jeans over his own pajamas, said, “No 
time, Harry — just grab a jacket and get outside — 
quickly!” 

Harry did as he was told and hurried out of the tent, 
Ron at his heels. 

By the light of the few fires that were still burning, he 
could see people running away into the woods, fleeing 
something that was moving across the field toward 
them, something that was emitting odd flashes of 
light and noises like gunfire. Loud jeering, roars of 
laughter, and drunken yells were drifting toward 
them; then came a burst of strong green light, which 
illuminated the scene. 

A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving 
together with wands pointing straight upward, was 
marching slowly across the field. Harry squinted at 
them. ... They didn’t seem to have faces. ... Then he 
realized that their heads were hooded and their faces 
masked. High above them, floating along in midair, 
four struggling figures were being contorted into 
grotesque shapes. It was as though the masked 
wizards on the ground were puppeteers, and the 
people above them were marionettes operated by 
invisible strings that rose from the wands into the air. 
Two of the figures were very small. 



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More wizards were joining the marching group, 
laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Tents 
crumpled and fell as the marching crowd swelled. 
Once or twice Harry saw one of the marchers blast a 
tent out of his way with his wand. Several caught fire. 
The screaming grew louder. 

The floating people were suddenly illuminated as they 
passed over a burning tent and Harry recognized one 
of them: Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager. The 
other three looked as though they might be his wife 
and children. One of the marchers below flipped Mrs. 
Roberts upside down with his wand; her nightdress 
fell down to reveal voluminous drawers and she 
struggled to cover herself up as the crowd below her 
screeched and hooted with glee. 

“That’s sick,” Ron muttered, watching the smallest 
Muggle child, who had begun to spin like a top, sixty 
feet above the ground, his head flopping limply from 
side to side. “That is really sick. ...” 

Hermione and Ginny came hurrying toward them, 
pulling coats over their nightdresses, with Mr. 

Weasley right behind them. At the same moment, Bill, 
Charlie, and Percy emerged from the boys’ tent, fully 
dressed, with their sleeves rolled up and their wands 
out. 

“We’re going to help the Ministry!” Mr. Weasley 
shouted over all the noise, rolling up his own sleeves. 
“You lot — get into the woods, and stick together. I’ll 
come and fetch you when we’ve sorted this out!” 

Bill, Charlie, and Percy were already sprinting away 
toward the oncoming marchers; Mr. Weasley tore 
after them. Ministry wizards were dashing from every 
direction toward the source of the trouble. The crowd 
beneath the Roberts family was coming ever closer. 
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“C’mon,” said Fred, grabbing Ginny’s hand and 
starting to pull her toward the wood. Harry, Ron, 
Hermione, and George followed. They all looked back 
as they reached the trees. The crowd beneath the 
Roberts family was larger than ever; they could see 
the Ministry wizards trying to get through it to the 
hooded wizards in the center, but they were having 
great difficulty. It looked as though they were scared 
to perform any spell that might make the Roberts 
family fall. 

The colored lanterns that had lit the path to the 
stadium had been extinguished. Dark figures were 
blundering through the trees; children were crying; 
anxious shouts and panicked voices were 
reverberating around them in the cold night air. 

Harry felt himself being pushed hither and thither by 
people whose faces he could not see. Then he heard 
Ron yell with pain. 

“What happened?” said Hermione anxiously, stopping 
so abruptly that Harry walked into her. “Ron, where 
are you? Oh this is stupid — lumos\” 

She illuminated her wand and directed its narrow 
beam across the path. Ron was lying sprawled on the 
ground. 

“Tripped over a tree root,” he said angrily, getting to 
his feet again. 

“Well, with feet that size, hard not to,” said a drawling 
voice from behind them. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned sharply. Draco 
Malfoy was standing alone nearby, leaning against a 
tree, looking utterly relaxed. His arms folded, he 
seemed to have been watching the scene at the 
campsite through a gap in the trees. 

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Ron told Malfoy to do something that Harry knew he 
would never have dared say in front of Mrs. Weasley 

“Language, Weasley,” said Malfoy, his pale eyes 
glittering. “Hadn’t you better be hurrying along, now? 
You wouldn’t like her spotted, would you?” 

He nodded at Hermione, and at the same moment, a 
blast like a bomb sounded from the campsite, and a 
flash of green light momentarily lit the trees around 
them. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Hermione 
defiantly. 

“Granger, they’re after Muggles,” said Malfoy. “D’you 
want to be showing off your knickers in midair? 
Because if you do, hang around ... they’re moving this 
way, and it would give us all a laugh.” 

“Hermione’s a witch,” Harry snarled. 

“Have it your own way, Potter,” said Malfoy, grinning 
maliciously. “If you think they can’t spot a Mudblood, 
stay where you are.” 

“You watch your mouth!” shouted Ron. Everybody 
present knew that “Mudblood” was a very offensive 
term for a witch or wizard of Muggle parentage. 

“Never mind, Ron,” said Hermione quickly, seizing 
Ron’s arm to restrain him as he took a step toward 
Malfoy. 

There came a bang from the other side of the trees 
that was louder than anything they had heard. 

Several people nearby screamed. Malfoy chuckled 
softly. 



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“Scare easily, don’t they?” he said lazily. “I suppose 
your daddy told you all to hide? What’s he up to — 
trying to rescue the Muggles?” 

“Where’re your parents?” said Harry, his temper 
rising. “Out there wearing masks, are they?” 

Malfoy turned his face to Harry, still smiling. 

“Well ... if they were, I wouldn’t be likely to tell you, 
would I, Potter?” 

“Oh come on,” said Hermione, with a disgusted look 
at Malfoy, “let’s go and find the others.” 

“Keep that big bushy head down, Granger,” sneered 
Malfoy. 

“Come on,” Hermione repeated, and she pulled Harry 
and Ron up the path again. 

“I’ll bet you anything his dad is one of that masked 
lot!” said Ron hotly. 

“Well, with any luck, the Ministry will catch him!” 
said Hermione fervently. “Oh I can’t believe this. 

Where have the others got to?” 

Fred, George, and Ginny were nowhere to be seen, 
though the path was packed with plenty of other 
people, all looking nervously over their shoulders 
toward the commotion back at the campsite. A huddle 
of teenagers in pajamas was arguing vociferously a 
little way along the path. When they saw Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione, a girl with thick curly hair turned and 
said quickly, “ Ou est Madame Maxime? Nous Vavons 
perdue — ” 

“Er — what?” said Ron. 

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“Oh ...” The girl who had spoken turned her back on 
him, and as they walked on they distinctly heard her 
say, “ ’Ogwarts.” 

“Beauxbatons,” muttered Hermione. 

“Sorry?” said Harry. 

“They must go to Beauxbatons,” said Hermione. “You 
know . . . Beauxbatons Academy of Magic ... I read 
about it in An Appraisal of Magical Education in 
Europe.” 

“Oh ... yeah ... right,” said Harry. 

“Fred and George can’t have gone that far,” said Ron, 
pulling out his wand, lighting it like Hermione’s, and 
squinting up the path. Harry dug in the pockets of his 
jacket for his own wand — but it wasn’t there. The 
only thing he could find was his Omnioculars. 

“Ah, no, I don’t believe it ... I’ve lost my wand!” 

“You’re kidding!” 

Ron and Hermione raised their wands high enough to 
spread the narrow beams of light farther on the 
ground; Harry looked all around him, but his wand 
was nowhere to be seen. 

“Maybe it’s back in the tent,” said Ron. 

“Maybe it fell out of your pocket when we were 
running?” Hermione suggested anxiously. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, “maybe ...” 

He usually kept his wand with him at all times in the 
wizarding world, and finding himself without it in the 

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midst of a scene like this made him feel very 
vulnerable. 



A rustling noise nearby made all three of them jump. 
Winky the house-elf was fighting her way out of a 
clump of bushes nearby. She was moving in a most 
peculiar fashion, apparently with great difficulty; it 
was as though someone invisible were trying to hold 
her back. 

“There is bad wizards about!” she squeaked 
distractedly as she leaned forward and labored to 
keep running. “People high — high in the air! Winky 
is getting out of the way!” 

And she disappeared into the trees on the other side 
of the path, panting and squeaking as she fought the 
force that was restraining her. 

“What’s up with her?” said Ron, looking curiously 
after Winky. “Why can’t she run properly?” 

“Bet she didn’t ask permission to hide,” said Harry. 

He was thinking of Dobby: Every time he had tried to 
do something the Malfoys wouldn’t like, the house-elf 
had been forced to start beating himself up. 

“You know, house-elves get a very raw deal!” said 
Hermione indignantly. “It’s slavery, that’s what it is! 
That Mr. Crouch made her go up to the top of the 
stadium, and she was terrified, and he’s got her 
bewitched so she can’t even run when they start 
trampling tents! Why doesn’t anyone do something 
about it?” 

“Well, the elves are happy, aren’t they?” Ron said. 

“You heard old Winky back at the match ... ‘House- 
elves is not supposed to have fun’ ... that’s what she 
likes, being bossed around. ...” 

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“It’s people like you, Ron,” Hermione began hotly, 

“who prop up rotten and unjust systems, just 
because they’re too lazy to — ” 

Another loud bang echoed from the edge of the wood. 

“Let’s just keep moving, shall we?” said Ron, and 
Harry saw him glance edgily at Hermione. Perhaps 
there was truth in what Malfoy had said; perhaps 
Hermione was in more danger than they were. They 
set off again, Harry still searching his pockets, even 
though he knew his wand wasn’t there. 

They followed the dark path deeper into the wood, 
still keeping an eye out for Fred, George, and Ginny. 
They passed a group of goblins who were cackling 
over a sack of gold that they had undoubtedly won 
betting on the match, and who seemed quite 
unperturbed by the trouble at the campsite. Farther 
still along the path, they walked into a patch of silvery 
light, and when they looked through the trees, they 
saw three tall and beautiful veela standing in a 
clearing, surrounded by a gaggle of young wizards, all 
of whom were talking very loudly. 

“I pull down about a hundred sacks of Galleons a 
year!” one of them shouted. “I’m a dragon killer for 
the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous 
Creatures.” 

“No, you’re not!” yelled his friend. “You’re a 
dishwasher at the Leaky Cauldron. ... but I’m a 
vampire hunter, I’ve killed about ninety so far — ” 

A third young wizard, whose pimples were visible even 
by the dim, silvery light of the veela, now cut in, “I’m 
about to become the youngest ever Minister of Magic, 

I am.” 



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Harry snorted with laughter. He recognized the 
pimply wizard: His name was Stan Shunpike, and he 
was in fact a conductor on the triple-decker Knight 
Bus. He turned to tell Ron this, but Ron’s face had 
gone oddly slack, and next second Ron was yelling, 
“Did I tell you I’ve invented a broomstick that’ll reach 
Jupiter?” 

“Honestly\” said Hermione, and she and Harry 
grabbed Ron firmly by the arms, wheeled him around, 
and marched him away. By the time the sounds of 
the veela and their admirers had faded completely, 
they were in the very heart of the wood. They seemed 
to be alone now; everything was much quieter. 

Harry looked around. “I reckon we can just wait here, 
you know. Well hear anyone coming a mile off.” 

The words were hardly out of his mouth, when Ludo 
Bagman emerged from behind a tree right ahead of 
them. 

Even by the feeble light of the two wands, Harry could 
see that a great change had come over Bagman. He 
no longer looked buoyant and rosy-faced; there was 
no more spring in his step. He looked very white and 
strained. 

“Who’s that?” he said, blinking down at them, trying 
to make out their faces. “What are you doing in here, 
all alone?” 

They looked at one another, surprised. 

“Well — there’s a sort of riot going on,” said Ron. 
Bagman stared at him. 

“What?” 

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“At the campsite . . . some people have got hold of a 
family of Muggles. ...” 

Bagman swore loudly. 

“Damn them!” he said, looking quite distracted, and 
without another word, he Disapparated with a small 
pop\ 

“Not exactly on top of things, Mr. Bagman, is he?” 
said Hermione, frowning. 

“He was a great Beater, though,” said Ron, leading 
the way off the path into a small clearing, and sitting 
down on a patch of dry grass at the foot of a tree. 

“The Wimbourne Wasps won the league three times in 
a row while he was with them.” 

He took his small figure of Krum out of his pocket, set 
it down on the ground, and watched it walk around. 
Like the real Krum, the model was slightly duck- 
footed and round-shouldered, much less impressive 
on his splayed feet than on his broomstick. Harry was 
listening for noise from the campsite. Everything 
seemed much quieter; perhaps the riot was over. 

“I hope the others are okay,” said Hermione after a 
while. 

“They’ll be fine,” said Ron. 

“Imagine if your dad catches Lucius Malfoy,” said 
Harry, sitting down next to Ron and watching the 
small figure of Krum slouching over the fallen leaves. 
“He’s always said he’d like to get something on him.” 

“That’d wipe the smirk off old Draco’s face, all right,” 
said Ron. 



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“Those poor Muggles, though,” said Hermione 
nervously. “What if they can’t get them down?” 

“They will,” said Ron reassuringly. “They’ll find a 
way.” 

“Mad, though, to do something like that when the 
whole Ministry of Magic’s out here tonight!” said 
Hermione. “I mean, how do they expect to get away 
with it? Do you think they’ve been drinking, or are 
they just — ” 

But she broke off abruptly and looked over her 
shoulder. Harry and Ron looked quickly around too. 

It sounded as though someone was staggering toward 
their clearing. They waited, listening to the sounds of 
the uneven steps behind the dark trees. But the 
footsteps came to a sudden halt. 

“Hello?” called Harry. 

There was silence. Harry got to his feet and peered 
around the tree. It was too dark to see very far, but he 
could sense somebody standing just beyond the range 
of his vision. 

“Who’s there?” he said. 

And then, without warning, the silence was rent by a 
voice unlike any they had heard in the wood; and it 
uttered, not a panicked shout, but what sounded like 
a spell. 

“MORSMORDREl ” 

And something vast, green, and glittering erupted 
from the patch of darkness Harry’s eyes had been 
struggling to penetrate; it flew up over the treetops 
and into the sky. 

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“What the — ?” gasped Ron as he sprang to his feet 
again, staring up at the thing that had appeared. 

For a split second, Harry thought it was another 
leprechaun formation. Then he realized that it was a 
colossal skull, comprised of what looked like emerald 
stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a 
tongue. As they watched, it rose higher and higher, 
blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against 
the black sky like a new constellation. 

Suddenly, the wood all around them erupted with 
screams. Harry didn’t understand why, but the only 
possible cause was the sudden appearance of the 
skull, which had now risen high enough to illuminate 
the entire wood like some grisly neon sign. He 
scanned the darkness for the person who had 
conjured the skull, but he couldn’t see anyone. 

“Who’s there?” he called again. 

“Harry, come on, move\” Hermione had seized the 
collar of his jacket and was tugging him backward. 

“What’s the matter?” Harry said, startled to see her 
face so white and terrified. 

“It’s the Dark Mark, Harry!” Hermione moaned, 
pulling him as hard as she could. “You-Know-Who’s 
sign!” 

“Voldemort’s — ?” 

“Harry, come on!” 

Harry turned — Ron was hurriedly scooping up his 
miniature Krum — the three of them started across 
the clearing — but before they had taken a few 
hurried steps, a series of popping noises announced 

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the arrival of twenty wizards, appearing from thin air, 
surrounding them. 

Harry whirled around, and in an instant, he 
registered one fact: Each of these wizards had his 
wand out, and every wand was pointing right at 
himself, Ron, and Hermione. 

Without pausing to think, he yelled, “DUCK!” 

He seized the other two and pulled them down onto 
the ground. 

“STUPEFYl” roared twenty voices — there was a 
blinding series of flashes and Harry felt the hair on 
his head ripple as though a powerful wind had swept 
the clearing. Raising his head a fraction of an inch he 
saw jets of fiery red light flying over them from the 
wizards’ wands, crossing one another, bouncing off 
tree trunks, rebounding into the darkness — 

“Stop!” yelled a voice he recognized. “STOP! That’s my 
son\” 

Harry’s hair stopped blowing about. He raised his 
head a little higher. The wizard in front of him had 
lowered his wand. He rolled over and saw Mr. Weasley 
striding toward them, looking terrified. 

“Ron — Harry” — his voice sounded shaky — 
“Hermione — are you all right?” 

“Out of the way, Arthur,” said a cold, curt voice. 

It was Mr. Crouch. He and the other Ministry wizards 
were closing in on them. Harry got to his feet to face 
them. Mr. Crouch’s face was taut with rage. 



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“Which of you did it?” he snapped, his sharp eyes 
darting between them. “Which of you conjured the 
Dark Mark?” 

“We didn’t do that!” said Harry, gesturing up at the 
skull. 

“We didn’t do anything!” said Ron, who was rubbing 
his elbow and looking indignantly at his father. “What 
did you want to attack us for?” 

“Do not lie, sir!” shouted Mr. Crouch. His wand was 
still pointing directly at Ron, and his eyes were 
popping — he looked slightly mad. “You have been 
discovered at the scene of the crime!” 

“Barty,” whispered a witch in a long woolen dressing 
gown, “they’re kids, Barty, they’d never have been 
able to — ” 

“Where did the Mark come from, you three?” said Mr. 
Weasley quickly. 

“Over there,” said Hermione shakily, pointing at the 
place where they had heard the voice. “There was 
someone behind the trees . . . they shouted words — 
an incantation — ” 

“Oh, stood over there, did they?” said Mr. Crouch, 
turning his popping eyes on Hermione now, disbelief 
etched all over his face. “Said an incantation, did 
they? You seem very well informed about how that 
Mark is summoned, missy — ” 

But none of the Ministry wizards apart from Mr. 
Crouch seemed to think it remotely likely that Harry, 
Ron, or Hermione had conjured the skull; on the 
contrary, at Hermione’s words, they had all raised 



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their wands again and were pointing in the direction 
she had indicated, squinting through the dark trees. 

“We’re too late,” said the witch in the woolen dressing 
gown, shaking her head. “They’ll have Disapparated.” 

“I don’t think so,” said a wizard with a scrubby brown 
beard. It was Amos Diggory, Cedric’s father. “Our 
Stunners went right through those trees. ... There’s a 
good chance we got them. ...” 

“Amos, be careful!” said a few of the wizards 
warningly as Mr. Diggory squared his shoulders, 
raised his wand, marched across the clearing, and 
disappeared into the darkness. Hermione watched 
him vanish with her hands over her mouth. 

A few seconds later, they heard Mr. Diggory shout. 

“Yes! We got them! There’s someone here! 
Unconscious! It’s — but — blimey ...” 

“You’ve got someone?” shouted Mr. Crouch, sounding 
highly disbelieving. “Who? Who is it?” 

They heard snapping twigs, the rustling of leaves, and 
then crunching footsteps as Mr. Diggory reemerged 
from behind the trees. He was carrying a tiny, limp 
figure in his arms. Harry recognized the tea towel at 
once. It was Winky. 

Mr. Crouch did not move or speak as Mr. Diggory 
deposited his elf on the ground at his feet. The other 
Ministry wizards were all staring at Mr. Crouch. For a 
few seconds Crouch remained transfixed, his eyes 
blazing in his white face as he stared down at Winky. 
Then he appeared to come to life again. 

“This — cannot — be,” he said jerkily. “No — ” 

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He moved quickly around Mr. Diggory and strode off 
toward the place where he had found Winky. 



“No point, Mr. Crouch,” Mr. Diggory called after him. 
“There’s no one else there.” 

But Mr. Crouch did not seem prepared to take his 
word for it. They could hear him moving around and 
the rustling of leaves as he pushed the bushes aside, 
searching. 

“Bit embarrassing,” Mr. Diggory said grimly, looking 
down at Winky’s unconscious form. “Barty Crouch’s 
house-elf ... I mean to say ...” 

“Come off it, Amos,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, “you 
don’t seriously think it was the elf? The Dark Mark’s a 
wizard’s sign. It requires a wand.” 

“Yeah,” said Mr. Diggory, “and she had a wand.” 

“What?” said Mr. Weasley. 

“Here, look.” Mr. Diggory held up a wand and showed 
it to Mr. Weasley. “Had it in her hand. So that’s 
clause three of the Code of Wand Use broken, for a 
start. No non-human creature is permitted to carry or 
use a wand.” 

Just then there was another pop, and Ludo Bagman 
Apparated right next to Mr. Weasley. Looking 
breathless and disorientated, he spun on the spot, 
goggling upward at the emerald-green skull. 

“The Dark Mark!” he panted, almost trampling Winky 
as he turned inquiringly to his colleagues. “Who did 
it? Did you get them? Barty! What’s going on?” 



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Mr. Crouch had returned empty-handed. His face was 
still ghostly white, and his hands and his toothbrush 
mustache were both twitching. 

“Where have you been, Barty?” said Bagman. “Why 
weren’t you at the match? Your elf was saving you a 
seat too — gulping gargoyles!” Bagman had just 
noticed Winky lying at his feet. “What happened to 
her?” 

“I have been busy, Ludo,” said Mr. Crouch, still 
talking in the same jerky fashion, barely moving his 
lips. “And my elf has been stunned.” 

“Stunned? By you lot, you mean? But why — ?” 

Comprehension dawned suddenly on Bagman’s 
round, shiny face; he looked up at the skull, down at 
Winky, and then at Mr. Crouch. 

“iVo!” he said. “Winky? Conjure the Dark Mark? She 
wouldn’t know how! She’d need a wand, for a start!” 

“And she had one,” said Mr. Diggory. “I found her 
holding one, Ludo. If it’s all right with you, Mr. 

Crouch, I think we should hear what she’s got to say 
for herself.” 

Crouch gave no sign that he had heard Mr. Diggory, 
but Mr. Diggory seemed to take his silence for assent. 
He raised his own wand, pointed it at Winky, and 
said, “Rennervatel” 

Winky stirred feebly. Her great brown eyes opened 
and she blinked several times in a bemused sort of 
way. Watched by the silent wizards, she raised herself 
shakily into a sitting position. She caught sight of Mr. 
Diggory’s feet, and slowly, tremulously, raised her 
eyes to stare up into his face; then, more slowly still, 
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she looked up into the sky. Harry could see the 
floating skull reflected twice in her enormous, glassy 
eyes. She gave a gasp, looked wildly around the 
crowded clearing, and burst into terrified sobs. 

“Elf!” said Mr. Diggory sternly. “Do you know who I 
am? I’m a member of the Department for the 
Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures!” 

Winky began to rock backward and forward on the 
ground, her breath coming in sharp bursts. Harry 
was reminded forcibly of Dobby in his moments of 
terrified disobedience. 

“As you see, elf, the Dark Mark was conjured here a 
short while ago,” said Mr. Diggory. “And you were 
discovered moments later, right beneath it! An 
explanation, if you please!” 

“I — I — I is not doing it, sir!” Winky gasped. “I is not 
knowing how, sir!” 

“You were found with a wand in your hand!” barked 
Mr. Diggory, brandishing it in front of her. And as the 
wand caught the green light that was filling the 
clearing from the skull above, Harry recognized it. 

“Hey — that’s mine!” he said. 

Everyone in the clearing looked at him. 

“Excuse me?” said Mr. Diggory, incredulously. 

“That’s my wand!” said Harry. “I dropped it!” 

“You dropped it?” repeated Mr. Diggory in disbelief. 

“Is this a confession? You threw it aside after you 
conjured the Mark?” 



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“Amos, think who you’re talking to!” said Mr. Weasley, 
very angrily. “Is Harry Potter likely to conjure the 
Dark Mark?” 

“Er — of course not,” mumbled Mr. Diggory. “Sorry ... 
carried away ...” 

“I didn’t drop it there, anyway,” said Harry, jerking 
his thumb toward the trees beneath the skull. “I 
missed it right after we got into the wood.” 

“So,” said Mr. Diggory, his eyes hardening as he 
turned to look at Winky again, cowering at his feet. 
“You found this wand, eh, elf? And you picked it up 
and thought you’d have some fun with it, did you?” 

“I is not doing magic with it, sir!” squealed Winky, 
tears streaming down the sides of her squashed and 
bulbous nose. “I is ... I is ... I is just picking it up, sir! 

I is not making the Dark Mark, sir, I is not knowing 
how!” 

“It wasn’t her!” said Hermione. She looked very 
nervous, speaking up in front of all these Ministry 
wizards, yet determined all the same. “Winky’s got a 
squeaky little voice, and the voice we heard doing the 
incantation was much deeper!” She looked around at 
Harry and Ron, appealing for their support. “It didn’t 
sound anything like Winky, did it?” 

“No,” said Harry, shaking his head. “It definitely didn’t 
sound like an elf.” 

“Yeah, it was a human voice,” said Ron. 

“Well, we’ll soon see,” growled Mr. Diggory, looking 
unimpressed. “There’s a simple way of discovering the 
last spell a wand performed, elf, did you know that?” 



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Winky trembled and shook her head frantically, her 
ears flapping, as Mr. Diggory raised his own wand 
again and placed it tip to tip with Harry’s. 

“ Prior Incantatol” roared Mr. Diggory. 

Harry heard Hermione gasp, horrified, as a gigantic 
serpent-tongued skull erupted from the point where 
the two wands met, but it was a mere shadow of the 
green skull high above them; it looked as though it 
were made of thick gray smoke: the ghost of a spell. 

“Deletrius\” Mr. Diggory shouted, and the smoky skull 
vanished in a wisp of smoke. 

“So,” said Mr. Diggory with a kind of savage triumph, 
looking down upon Winky, who was still shaking 
convulsively. 

“I is not doing it!” she squealed, her eyes rolling in 
terror. “I is not, I is not, I is not knowing how! I is a 
good elf, I isn’t using wands, I isn’t knowing how!” 

“ You’ve been caught red-handed, elf.” Mr. Diggory 
roared. “Caught with the guilty wand in your hand\” 

“Amos,” said Mr. Weasley loudly, “think about it ... 
precious few wizards know how to do that spell. ... 
Where would she have learned it?” 

“Perhaps Amos is suggesting,” said Mr. Crouch, cold 
anger in every syllable, “that I routinely teach my 
servants to conjure the Dark Mark?” 

There was a deeply unpleasant silence. Amos Diggory 
looked horrified. “Mr. Crouch ... not ... not at all ...” 

“You have now come very close to accusing the two 
people in this clearing who are least likely to conjure 

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that Mark!” barked Mr. Crouch. “Harry Potter — and 
myself! I suppose you are familiar with the boy’s 
story, Amos?” 

“Of course — everyone knows — ” muttered Mr. 
Diggory, looking highly discomforted. 

“And I trust you remember the many proofs I have 
given, over a long career, that I despise and detest the 
Dark Arts and those who practice them?” Mr. Crouch 
shouted, his eyes bulging again. 

“Mr. Crouch, I — I never suggested you had anything 
to do with it!” Amos Diggory muttered again, now 
reddening behind his scrubby brown beard. 

“If you accuse my elf, you accuse me, Diggory!” 
shouted Mr. Crouch. “Where else would she have 
learned to conjure it?” 

“She — she might’ve picked it up anywhere — ” 

“Precisely, Amos,” said Mr. Weasley. “ She might have 
picked it up anywhere. ... Winky?” he said kindly, 
turning to the elf, but she flinched as though he too 
was shouting at her. “Where exactly did you find 
Harry’s wand?” 

Winky was twisting the hem of her tea towel so 
violently that it was fraying beneath her fingers. 

“I — I is finding it ... finding it there, sir. ...” she 
whispered, “there ... in the trees, sir. ...” 

“You see, Amos?” said Mr. Weasley. “Whoever 
conjured the Mark could have Disapparated right 
after they’d done it, leaving Harry’s wand behind. A 
clever thing to do, not using their own wand, which 
could have betrayed them. And Winky here had the 
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misfortune to come across the wand moments later 
and pick it up.” 

“But then, she’d have been only a few feet away from 
the real culprit!” said Mr. Diggory impatiently. “Elf? 
Did you see anyone?” 

Winky began to tremble worse than ever. Her giant 
eyes flickered from Mr. Diggory, to Ludo Bagman, and 
onto Mr. Crouch. Then she gulped and said, “I is 
seeing no one, sir ... no one ...” 

“Amos,” said Mr. Crouch curtly, “I am fully aware 
that, in the ordinary course of events, you would want 
to take Winky into your department for questioning. I 
ask you, however, to allow me to deal with her.” 

Mr. Diggory looked as though he didn’t think much of 
this suggestion at all, but it was clear to Harry that 
Mr. Crouch was such an important member of the 
Ministry that he did not dare refuse him. 

“You may rest assured that she will be punished,” Mr. 
Crouch added coldly. 

“M-m-master ...” Winky stammered, looking up at Mr. 
Crouch, her eyes brimming with tears. “M-m-master, 
p-p-please ...” 

Mr. Crouch stared back, his face somehow 
sharpened, each line upon it more deeply etched. 
There was no pity in his gaze. 

“Winky has behaved tonight in a manner I would not 
have believed possible,” he said slowly. “I told her to 
remain in the tent. I told her to stay there while I 
went to sort out the trouble. And I find that she 
disobeyed me. This means clothes.” 



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“No!” shrieked Winky, prostrating herself at Mr. 
Crouch’s feet. “No, master! Not clothes, not clothes!” 

Harry knew that the only way to turn a house-elf free 
was to present it with proper garments. It was pitiful 
to see the way Winky clutched at her tea towel as she 
sobbed over Mr. Crouch’s feet. 

“But she was frightened!” Hermione burst out angrily, 
glaring at Mr. Crouch. “Your elf’s scared of heights, 
and those wizards in masks were levitating people! 

You can’t blame her for wanting to get out of their 
way!” 

Mr. Crouch took a step backward, freeing himself 
from contact with the elf, whom he was surveying as 
though she were something filthy and rotten that was 
contaminating his over-shined shoes. 

“I have no use for a house-elf who disobeys me,” he 
said coldly, looking over at Hermione. “I have no use 
for a servant who forgets what is due to her master, 
and to her master’s reputation.” 

Winky was crying so hard that her sobs echoed 
around the clearing. There was a very nasty silence, 
which was ended by Mr. Weasley, who said quietly, 
“Well, I think I’ll take my lot back to the tent, if 
nobody’s got any objections. Amos, that wand’s told 
us all it can — if Harry could have it back, please — ” 

Mr. Diggory handed Harry his wand and Harry 
pocketed it. 

“Come on, you three,” Mr. Weasley said quietly. But 
Hermione didn’t seem to want to move; her eyes were 
still upon the sobbing elf. “Hermione!” Mr. Weasley 
said, more urgently. She turned and followed Harry 
and Ron out of the clearing and off through the trees. 
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“What’s going to happen to Winky?” said Hermione, 
the moment they had left the clearing. 

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Weasley. 

“The way they were treating her!” said Hermione 
furiously. “Mr. Diggory, calling her ‘elf’ all the time ... 
and Mr. Crouch! He knows she didn’t do it and he’s 
still going to sack her! He didn’t care how frightened 
she’d been, or how upset she was — it was like she 
wasn’t even human!” 

“Well, she’s not,” said Ron. 

Hermione rounded on him. 

“That doesn’t mean she hasn’t got feelings, Ron. It’s 
disgusting the way — ” 

“Hermione, I agree with you,” said Mr. Weasley 
quickly, beckoning her on, “but now is not the time to 
discuss elf rights. I want to get back to the tent as 
fast as we can. What happened to the others?” 

“We lost them in the dark,” said Ron. “Dad, why was 
everyone so uptight about that skull thing?” 

“I’ll explain everything back at the tent,” said Mr. 
Weasley tensely. 

But when they reached the edge of the wood, their 
progress was impeded. A large crowd of frightened- 
looking witches and wizards was congregated there, 
and when they saw Mr. Weasley coming toward them, 
many of them surged forward. 

“What’s going on in there?” 

“Who conjured it?” 

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“Arthur — it’s not — Him?” 



“Of course it’s not Him,” said Mr. Weasley 
impatiently. “We don’t know who it was; it looks like 
they Disapparated. Now excuse me, please, I want to 
get to bed.” 

He led Harry, Ron, and Hermione through the crowd 
and back into the campsite. All was quiet now; there 
was no sign of the masked wizards, though several 
ruined tents were still smoking. 

Charlie’s head was poking out of the boys’ tent. 

“Dad, what’s going on?” he called through the dark. 
“Fred, George, and Ginny got back okay, but the 
others — ” 

“I’ve got them here,” said Mr. Weasley, bending down 
and entering the tent. Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
entered after him. 

Bill was sitting at the small kitchen table, holding a 
bedsheet to his arm, which was bleeding profusely. 
Charlie had a large rip in his shirt, and Percy was 
sporting a bloody nose. Fred, George, and Ginny 
looked unhurt, though shaken. 

“Did you get them, Dad?” said Bill sharply. “The 
person who conjured the Mark?” 

“No,” said Mr. Weasley. “We found Barty Crouch’s elf 
holding Harry’s wand, but we’re none the wiser about 
who actually conjured the Mark.” 

“What?” said Bill, Charlie, and Percy together. 

“Harry’s wand?” said Fred. 



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“Mr. Crouch’s elf?” said Percy, sounding 
thunderstruck. 

With some assistance from Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione, Mr. Weasley explained what had happened 
in the woods. When they had finished their story, 
Percy swelled indignantly. 

“Well, Mr. Crouch is quite right to get rid of an elf like 
that!” he said. “Running away when he’d expressly 
told her not to ... embarrassing him in front of the 
whole Ministry . . . how would that have looked, if 
she’d been brought up in front of the Department for 
the Regulation and Control — ” 

“She didn’t do anything — she was just in the wrong 
place at the wrong time!” Hermione snapped at Percy, 
who looked very taken aback. Hermione had always 
got on fairly well with Percy — better, indeed, than 
any of the others. 

“Hermione, a wizard in Mr. Crouch’s position can’t 
afford a house-elf who’s going to run amok with a 
wand!” said Percy pompously, recovering himself. 

“She didn’t run amok!” shouted Hermione. “She just 
picked it up off the ground!” 

“Look, can someone just explain what that skull thing 
was?” said Ron impatiently. “It wasn’t hurting 
anyone. ... Why’s it such a big deal?” 

“I told you, it’s You-Know-Who’s symbol, Ron,” said 
Hermione, before anyone else could answer. “I read 
about it in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts.” 

“And it hasn’t been seen for thirteen years,” said Mr. 
Weasley quietly. “Of course people panicked ... it was 
almost like seeing You-Know-Who back again.” 

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“I don’t get it,” said Ron, frowning. “I mean ... it’s still 
only a shape in the sky. ...” 

“Ron, You-Know-Who and his followers sent the Dark 
Mark into the air whenever they killed,” said Mr. 
Weasley. “The terror it inspired ... you have no idea, 
you’re too young. Just picture coming home and 
finding the Dark Mark hovering over your house, and 
knowing what you’re about to find inside. ...” Mr. 
Weasley winced. “Everyone’s worst fear ... the very 
worst ...” 

There was silence for a moment. Then Bill, removing 
the sheet from his arm to check on his cut, said, 

“Well, it didn’t help us tonight, whoever conjured it. It 
scared the Death Eaters away the moment they saw 
it. They all Disapparated before we’d got near enough 
to unmask any of them. We caught the Robertses 
before they hit the ground, though. They’re having 
their memories modified right now.” 

“Death Eaters?” said Harry. “What are Death Eaters?” 

“It’s what You-Know- Who’s supporters called 
themselves,” said Bill. “I think we saw what’s left of 
them tonight — the ones who managed to keep 
themselves out of Azkaban, anyway.” 

“We can’t prove it was them, Bill,” said Mr. Weasley. 
“Though it probably was,” he added hopelessly. 

“Yeah, I bet it was!” said Ron suddenly. “Dad, we met 
Draco Malfoy in the woods, and he as good as told us 
his dad was one of those nutters in masks! And we all 
know the Malfoys were right in with You-Know-Who!” 

“But what were Voldemort’s supporters — ” Harry 
began. Everybody flinched — like most of the 
wizarding world, the Weasleys always avoided saying 

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Voldemort’s name. “Sorry,” said Harry quickly. “What 
were You -Know- Who’s supporters up to, levitating 
Muggles? I mean, what was the point?” 

“The point?” said Mr. Weasley with a hollow laugh. 
“Harry, that’s their idea of fun. Half the Muggle 
killings back when You-Know-Who was in power were 
done for fun. I suppose they had a few drinks tonight 
and couldn’t resist reminding us all that lots of them 
are still at large. A nice little reunion for them,” he 
finished disgustedly. 

“But if they were the Death Eaters, why did they 
Disapparate when they saw the Dark Mark?” said 
Ron. “They’d have been pleased to see it, wouldn’t 
they?” 

“Use your brains, Ron,” said Bill. “If they really were 
Death Eaters, they worked very hard to keep out of 
Azkaban when You-Know-Who lost power, and told all 
sorts of lies about him forcing them to kill and torture 
people. I bet they’d be even more frightened than the 
rest of us to see him come back. They denied they’d 
ever been involved with him when he lost his powers, 
and went back to their daily lives. ... I don’t reckon 
he’d be over-pleased with them, do you?” 

“So ... whoever conjured the Dark Mark ...” said 
Hermione slowly, “were they doing it to show support 
for the Death Eaters, or to scare them away?” 

“Your guess is as good as ours, Hermione,” said Mr. 
Weasley. “But I’ll tell you this ... it was only the Death 
Eaters who ever knew how to conjure it. I’d be very 
surprised if the person who did it hadn’t been a Death 
Eater once, even if they’re not now. ... Listen, it’s very 
late, and if your mother hears what’s happened she’ll 
be worried sick. We’ll get a few more hours sleep and 
then try and get an early Portkey out of here.” 

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Harry got back into his bunk with his head buzzing. 
He knew he ought to feel exhausted: It was nearly 
three in the morning, but he felt wide-awake — wide- 
awake, and worried. 

Three days ago — it felt like much longer, but it had 
only been three days — he had awoken with his scar 
burning. And tonight, for the first time in thirteen 
years, Lord Voldemort’s mark had appeared in the 
sky. What did these things mean? 

He thought of the letter he had written to Sirius 
before leaving Privet Drive. Would Sirius have gotten 
it yet? When would he reply? Harry lay looking up at 
the canvas, but no flying fantasies came to him now 
to ease him to sleep, and it was a long time after 
Charlie’s snores filled the tent that Harry finally dozed 
off. 



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10 




MAYHEM AT THE MINISTRY 

Mr. Weasley woke them after only a few hours sleep. 
He used magic to pack up the tents, and they left the 
campsite as quickly as possible, passing Mr. Roberts 
at the door of his cottage. Mr. Roberts had a strange, 
dazed look about him, and he waved them off with a 
vague “Merry Christmas.” 

“Hell be all right,” said Mr. Weasley quietly as they 
marched off onto the moor. “Sometimes, when a 
person’s memory’s modified, it makes him a bit 
disorientated for a while . . . and that was a big thing 
they had to make him forget.” 

They heard urgent voices as they approached the spot 
where the Portkeys lay, and when they reached it, 
they found a great number of witches and wizards 
gathered around Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys, all 
clamoring to get away from the campsite as quickly as 
possible. Mr. Weasley had a hurried discussion with 
Basil; they joined the queue, and were able to take an 
old rubber tire back to Stoatshead Hill before the sun 
had really risen. They walked back through Ottery St. 
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Catchpole and up the damp lane toward the Burrow 
in the dawn light, talking very little because they were 
so exhausted, and thinking longingly of their 
breakfast. As they rounded the corner and the 
Burrow came into view, a cry echoed along the lane. 

“Oh thank goodness, thank goodness!” 

Mrs. Weasley, who had evidently been waiting for 
them in the front yard, came running toward them, 
still wearing her bedroom slippers, her face pale and 
strained, a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet 
clutched in her hand. 

“Arthur — I’ve been so worried — so worried — ” 

She flung her arms around Mr. Weasley’s neck, and 
the Daily Prophet fell out of her limp hand onto the 
ground. Looking down, Harry saw the headline: 
SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD 
CUP, complete with a twinkling black-and-white 
photograph of the Dark Mark over the treetops. 

“You’re all right,” Mrs. Weasley muttered distractedly, 
releasing Mr. Weasley and staring around at them all 
with red eyes, “you’re alive. ... Oh boys ...” 

And to everybody’s surprise, she seized Fred and 
George and pulled them both into such a tight hug 
that their heads banged together. 

“ Ouch\ Mum — you’re strangling us — ” 

“I shouted at you before you left!” Mrs. Weasley said, 
starting to sob. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about! What 
if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I 
ever said to you was that you didn’t get enough 
O.W.L.s? Oh Fred ... George ...” 



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“Come on, now, Molly, we’re all perfectly okay,” said 
Mr. Weasley soothingly, prising her off the twins and 
leading her back toward the house. “Bill,” he added in 
an undertone, “pick up that paper, I want to see what 
it says. ...” 

When they were all crammed into the tiny kitchen, 
and Hermione had made Mrs. Weasley a cup of very 
strong tea, into which Mr. Weasley insisted on 
pouring a shot of Ogdens Old Firewhiskey, Bill 
handed his father the newspaper. Mr. Weasley 
scanned the front page while Percy looked over his 
shoulder. 

“I knew it,” said Mr. Weasley heavily. “Ministry 
blunders ... culprits not apprehended ... lax security ... 
Dark wizards running unchecked . . . national disgrace 
... Who wrote this? Ah ... of course ... Rita Skeeter.” 

“That woman’s got it in for the Ministry of Magic!” 
said Percy furiously. “Last week she was saying we’re 
wasting our time quibbling about cauldron thickness, 
when we should be stamping out vampires! As if it 
wasn’t specifically stated in paragraph twelve of the 
Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part- 
Humans — ” 

“Do us a favor, Perce,” said Bill, yawning, “and shut 
up.” 

“I’m mentioned,” said Mr. Weasley, his eyes widening 
behind his glasses as he reached the bottom of the 
Daily Prophet article. 

“Where?” spluttered Mrs. Weasley, choking on her tea 
and whiskey. “If I’d seen that, I’d have known you 
were alive!” 



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“Not by name,” said Mr. Weasley. “Listen to this: ‘If 
the terrified wizards and witches who waited 
breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected 
reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were 
sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged some 
time after the appearance of the Dark Mark alleging 
that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any 
more information. Whether this statement will be 
enough to quash the rumors that several bodies were 
removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be 
seen.’ Oh really,” said Mr. Weasley in exasperation, 
handing the paper to Percy. “Nobody was hurt. What 
was I supposed to say? Rumors that several bodies 
were removed from the woods ... well, there certainly 
will be rumors now she’s printed that.” 

He heaved a deep sigh. “Molly, I’m going to have to go 
into the office; this is going to take some smoothing 
over.” 

“I’ll come with you, Father,” said Percy importantly. 
“Mr. Crouch will need all hands on deck. And I can 
give him my cauldron report in person.” 

He bustled out of the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley looked 
most upset. 

“Arthur, you’re supposed to be on holiday! This hasn’t 
got anything to do with your office; surely they can 
handle this without you?” 

“I’ve got to go, Molly,” said Mr. Weasley. “I’ve made 
things worse. I’ll just change into my robes and I’ll be 
off. ...” 

“Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry suddenly, unable to 
contain himself, “Hedwig hasn’t arrived with a letter 
for me, has she?” 



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“Hedwig, dear?” said Mrs. Weasley distractedly. “No ... 
no, there hasn’t been any post at all.” 

Ron and Hermione looked curiously at Harry. With a 
meaningful look at both of them he said, “All right if I 
go and dump my stuff in your room, Ron?” 

“Yeah ... think I will too,” said Ron at once. 
“Hermione?” 

“Yes,” she said quickly, and the three of them 
marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs. 

“What’s up, Harry?” said Ron, the moment they had 
closed the door of the attic room behind them. 

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Harry said. 

“On Saturday morning, I woke up with my scar 
hurting again.” 

Ron’s and Hermione’s reactions were almost exactly 
as Harry had imagined them back in his bedroom on 
Privet Drive. Hermione gasped and started making 
suggestions at once, mentioning a number of 
reference books, and everybody from Albus 
Dumbledore to Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts nurse. 
Ron simply looked dumbstruck. 

“But — he wasn’t there, was he? You-Know-Who? I 
mean — last time your scar kept hurting, he was at 
Hogwarts, wasn’t he?” 

“I’m sure he wasn’t on Privet Drive,” said Harry. “But I 
was dreaming about him . . . him and Peter — you 
know, Wormtail. I can’t remember all of it now, but 
they were plotting to kill ... someone.” 



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He had teetered for a moment on the verge of saying 
“me,” but couldn’t bring himself to make Hermione 
look any more horrified than she already did. 

“It was only a dream,” said Ron bracingly. “Just a 
nightmare.” 

“Yeah, but was it, though?” said Harry, turning to 
look out of the window at the brightening sky. “It’s 
weird, isn’t it? ... My scar hurts, and three days later 
the Death Eaters are on the march, and Voldemort’s 
sign’s up in the sky again.” 

“Don’t — say — his — name!” Ron hissed through 
gritted teeth. 

“And remember what Professor Trelawney said?” 

Harry went on, ignoring Ron. “At the end of last 
year?” 

Professor Trelawney was their Divination teacher at 
Hogwarts. Hermione ’s terrified look vanished as she 
let out a derisive snort. 

“Oh Harry, you aren’t going to pay attention to 
anything that old fraud says?” 

“You weren’t there,” said Harry. “You didn’t hear her. 
This time was different. I told you, she went into a 
trance — a real one. And she said the Dark Lord 
would rise again . . . greater and more terrible than ever 
before ... and he’d manage it because his servant was 
going to go back to him ... and that night Wormtail 
escaped.” 

There was a silence in which Ron fidgeted 
absentmindedly with a hole in his Chudley Cannons 
bedspread. 



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“Why were you asking if Hedwig had come, Harry?” 
Hermione asked. “Are you expecting a letter?” 

“I told Sirius about my scar,” said Harry, shrugging. 
“I’m waiting for his answer.” 

“Good thinking!” said Ron, his expression clearing. “I 
bet Sirius ’ll know what to do!” 

“I hoped he’d get back to me quickly,” said Harry. 

“But we don’t know where Sirius is ... he could be in 
Africa or somewhere, couldn’t he?” said Hermione 
reasonably. “Hedwig’s not going to manage that 
journey in a few days.” 

“Yeah, I know,” said Harry, but there was a leaden 
feeling in his stomach as he looked out of the window 
at the Hedwig-free sky. 

“Come and have a game of Quidditch in the orchard, 
Harry,” said Ron. “Come on — three on three, Bill and 
Charlie and Fred and George will play. ... You can try 
out the Wronski Feint. ...” 

“Ron,” said Hermione, in an I-don’t-think-you’re- 
being- very- sensitive sort of voice, “Harry doesn’t want 
to play Quidditch right now. ... He’s worried, and he’s 
tired. ... We all need to go to bed. ...” 

“Yeah, I want to play Quidditch,” said Harry 
suddenly. “Hang on, I’ll get my Firebolt.” 

Hermione left the room, muttering something that 
sounded very much like “Boys.” 

k k k 



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Neither Mr. Weasley nor Percy was at home much 
over the following week. Both left the house each 
morning before the rest of the family got up, and 
returned well after dinner every night. 

“It’s been an absolute uproar,” Percy told them 
importantly the Sunday evening before they were due 
to return to Hogwarts. “I’ve been putting out fires all 
week. People keep sending Howlers, and of course, if 
you don’t open a Howler straight away, it explodes. 
Scorch marks all over my desk and my best quill 
reduced to cinders.” 

“Why are they all sending Howlers?” asked Ginny, 
who was mending her copy of One Thousand Magical 
Herbs and Fungi with Spellotape on the rug in front of 
the living room fire. 

“Complaining about security at the World Cup,” said 
Percy. “They want compensation for their ruined 
property. Mundungus Fletcher’s put in a claim for a 
twelve-bedroomed tent with en-suite Jacuzzi, but I’ve 
got his number. I know for a fact he was sleeping 
under a cloak propped on sticks.” 

Mrs. Weasley glanced at the grandfather clock in the 
corner. Harry liked this clock. It was completely 
useless if you wanted to know the time, but otherwise 
very informative. It had nine golden hands, and each 
of them was engraved with one of the Weasley family’s 
names. There were no numerals around the face, but 
descriptions of where each family member might be. 
“Home,” “school,” and “work” were there, but there 
was also “traveling,” “lost,” “hospital,” “prison,” and, 
in the position where the number twelve would be on 
a normal clock, “mortal peril.” 

Eight of the hands were currently pointing to the 
“home” position, but Mr. Weasley’s, which was the 

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longest, was still pointing to “work.” Mrs. Weasley 
sighed. 



“Your father hasn’t had to go into the office on 
weekends since the days of You-Know-Who,” she said. 
“They’re working him far too hard. His dinner’s going 
to be mined if he doesn’t come home soon.” 

“Well, Father feels he’s got to make up for his mistake 
at the match, doesn’t he?” said Percy. “If truth be 
told, he was a tad unwise to make a public statement 
without clearing it with his Head of Department first 



“Don’t you dare blame your father for what that 
wretched Skeeter woman wrote!” said Mrs. Weasley, 
flaring up at once. 

“If Dad hadn’t said anything, old Rita would just have 
said it was disgraceful that nobody from the Ministry 
had commented,” said Bill, who was playing chess 
with Ron. “Rita Skeeter never makes anyone look 
good. Remember, she interviewed all the Gringotts’ 
Charm Breakers once, and called me ‘a long-haired 
pillock’?” 

“Well, it is a bit long, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley gently. 
“If you’d just let me — ” 

“No, Mum.” 

Rain lashed against the living room window. 

Hermione was immersed in The Standard Book of 
Spells, Grade 4, copies of which Mrs. Weasley had 
bought for her, Harry, and Ron in Diagon Alley. 
Charlie was darning a fireproof balaclava. Harry was 
polishing his Firebolt, the broomstick servicing kit 
Hermione had given him for his thirteenth birthday 
open at his feet. Fred and George were sitting in a far 
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corner, quills out, talking in whispers, their heads 
bent over a piece of parchment. 

“What are you two up to?” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, 
her eyes on the twins. 

“Homework,” said Fred vaguely. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re still on holiday,” said Mrs. 
Weasley. 

“Yeah, we’ve left it a bit late,” said George. 

“You’re not by any chance writing out a new order 
form, are you?” said Mrs. Weasley shrewdly. “You 
wouldn’t be thinking of restarting Weasleys’ Wizard 
Wheezes, by any chance?” 

“Now, Mum,” said Fred, looking up at her, a pained 
look on his face. “If the Hogwarts Express crashed 
tomorrow, and George and I died, how would you feel 
to know that the last thing we ever heard from you 
was an unfounded accusation?” 

Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Weasley. 

“Oh your father’s coming!” she said suddenly, looking 
up at the clock again. 

Mr. Weasley’s hand had suddenly spun from “work” 
to “traveling”; a second later it had shuddered to a 
halt on “home” with the others, and they heard him 
calling from the kitchen. 

“Coming, Arthur!” called Mrs. Weasley, hurrying out 
of the room. 



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A few moments later, Mr. Weasley came into the 
warm living room carrying his dinner on a tray. He 
looked completely exhausted. 

“Well, the fat’s really in the fire now,” he told Mrs. 
Weasley as he sat down in an armchair near the 
hearth and toyed unenthusiastically with his 
somewhat shriveled cauliflower. “Rita Skeeter’s been 
ferreting around all week, looking for more Ministry 
mess-ups to report. And now she’s found out about 
poor old Bertha going missing, so that’ll be the 
headline in the Prophet tomorrow. I told Bagman he 
should have sent someone to look for her ages ago.” 

“Mr. Crouch has been saying it for weeks and weeks,” 
said Percy swiftly. 

“Crouch is very lucky Rita hasn’t found out about 
Winky,” said Mr. Weasley irritably. “There’d be a 
week’s worth of headlines in his house-elf being 
caught holding the wand that conjured the Dark 
Mark.” 

“I thought we were all agreed that that elf, while 
irresponsible, did not conjure the Mark?” said Percy 
hotly. 

“If you ask me, Mr. Crouch is very lucky no one at the 
Daily Prophet knows how mean he is to elves!” said 
Hermione angrily. 

“Now look here, Hermione!” said Percy. “A high- 
ranking Ministry official like Mr. Crouch deserves 
unswerving obedience from his servants — ” 

“His slave, you mean!” said Hermione, her voice rising 
passionately, “because he didn’t pay Winky, did he?” 



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“I think you’d all better go upstairs and check that 
you’ve packed properly!” said Mrs. Weasley, breaking 
up the argument. “Come on now, all of you. ...” 

Harry repacked his broomstick servicing kit, put his 
Firebolt over his shoulder, and went back upstairs 
with Ron. The rain sounded even louder at the top of 
the house, accompanied by loud whistlings and 
moans from the wind, not to mention sporadic howls 
from the ghoul who lived in the attic. Pigwidgeon 
began twittering and zooming around his cage when 
they entered. The sight of the half-packed trunks 
seemed to have sent him into a frenzy of excitement. 

“Bung him some Owl Treats,” said Ron, throwing a 
packet across to Harry. “It might shut him up.” 

Harry poked a few Owl Treats through the bars of 
Pigwidgeon’s cage, then turned to his trunk. Hedwig’s 
cage stood next to it, still empty. 

“It’s been over a week,” Harry said, looking at 
Hedwig’s deserted perch. “Ron, you don’t reckon 
Sirius has been caught, do you?” 

“Nah, it would’ve been in the Daily Prophet,” said Ron. 
“The Ministry would want to show they’d caught 
someone, wouldn’t they?” 

“Yeah, I suppose. ...” 

“Look, here’s the stuff Mum got for you in Diagon 
Alley. And she’s got some gold out of your vault for 
you ... and she’s washed all your socks.” 

He heaved a pile of parcels onto Harry’s camp bed 
and dropped the money bag and a load of socks next 
to it. Harry started unwrapping the shopping. Apart 
from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, by 

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Miranda Goshawk, he had a handful of new quills, a 
dozen rolls of parchment, and refills for his potion- 
making kit — he had been running low on spine of 
lionfish and essence of belladonna. He was just piling 
underwear into his cauldron when Ron made a loud 
noise of disgust behind him. 

“What is that supposed to be?” 

He was holding up something that looked to Harry 
like a long, maroon velvet dress. It had a moldy- 
looking lace frill at the collar and matching lace cuffs. 

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Weasley 
entered, carrying an armful of freshly laundered 
Hogwarts robes. 

“Here you are,” she said, sorting them into two piles. 
“Now, mind you pack them properly so they don’t 
crease.” 

“Mum, you’ve given me Ginny’s new dress,” said Ron, 
handing it out to her. 

“Of course I haven’t,” said Mrs. Weasley. “That’s for 
you. Dress robes.” 

“What?” said Ron, looking horror-struck. 

“Dress robes!” repeated Mrs. Weasley. “It says on your 
school list that you’re supposed to have dress robes 
this year ... robes for formal occasions.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Ron in disbelief. “I’m 
not wearing that, no way.” 

“Everyone wears them, Ron!” said Mrs. Weasley 
crossly. “They’re all like that! Your father’s got some 
for smart parties!” 

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“I’ll go starkers before I put that on,” said Ron 
stubbornly. 

“Don’t be so silly,” said Mrs. Weasley. “You’ve got to 
have dress robes, they’re on your list! I got some for 
Harry too ... show him, Harry. ...” 

In some trepidation, Harry opened the last parcel on 
his camp bed. It wasn’t as bad as he had expected, 
however; his dress robes didn’t have any lace on them 
at all — in fact, they were more or less the same as 
his school ones, except that they were bottle green 
instead of black. 

“I thought they’d bring out the color of your eyes, 
dear,” said Mrs. Weasley fondly. 

“Well, they’re okay!” said Ron angrily, looking at 
Harry’s robes. “Why couldn’t I have some like that?” 

“Because ... well, I had to get yours secondhand, and 
there wasn’t a lot of choice!” said Mrs. Weasley, 
flushing. 

Harry looked away. He would willingly have split all 
the money in his Gringotts vault with the Weasleys, 
but he knew they would never take it. 

“I’m never wearing them,” Ron was saying stubbornly. 
“Never.” 

“Fine,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “Go naked. And, Harry, 
make sure you get a picture of him. Goodness knows 
I could do with a laugh.” 

She left the room, slamming the door behind her. 
There was a funny spluttering noise from behind 
them. Pigwidgeon was choking on an overlarge Owl 
Treat. 

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“Why is everything I own rubbish?” said Ron 
furiously, striding across the room to unstick 
Pigwidgeon’s beak. 



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ABOARD THE HOGWARTS EXPRESS 

There was a definite end-of-the-holidays gloom in the 
air when Harry awoke next morning. Heavy rain was 
still splattering against the window as he got dressed 
in jeans and a sweatshirt; they would change into 
their school robes on the Hogwarts Express. 

He, Ron, Fred, and George had just reached the first- 
floor landing on their way down to breakfast, when 
Mrs. Weasley appeared at the foot of the stairs, 
looking harassed. 

“Arthur!” she called up the staircase. “Arthur! Urgent 
message from the Ministry!” 

Harry flattened himself against the wall as Mr. 
Weasley came clattering past with his robes on back- 
to-front and hurtled out of sight. When Harry and the 
others entered the kitchen, they saw Mrs. Weasley 
rummaging anxiously in the drawers — “I’ve got a 
quill here somewhere!” — and Mr. Weasley bending 
over the fire, talking to — 



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Harry shut his eyes hard and opened them again to 
make sure that they were working properly. 

Amos Diggory’s head was sitting in the middle of the 
flames like a large, bearded egg. It was talking very 
fast, completely unperturbed by the sparks flying 
around it and the flames licking its ears. 

"... Muggle neighbors heard bangs and shouting, so 
they went and called those what-d’you-call-’ems — 
please-men. Arthur, you’ve got to get over there — ” 

“Here!” said Mrs. Weasley breathlessly, pushing a 
piece of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a crumpled 
quill into Mr. Weasley’s hands. 

“ — it’s a real stroke of luck I heard about it,” said Mr. 
Diggory’s head. “I had to come into the office early to 
send a couple of owls, and I found the Improper Use 
of Magic lot all setting off — if Rita Skeeter gets hold 
of this one, Arthur — ” 

“What does Mad-Eye say happened?” asked Mr. 
Weasley, unscrewing the ink bottle, loading up his 
quill, and preparing to take notes. 

Mr. Diggory’s head rolled its eyes. “Says he heard an 
intruder in his yard. Says he was creeping toward the 
house, but was ambushed by his dustbins.” 

“What did the dustbins do?” asked Mr. Weasley, 
scribbling frantically. 

“Made one hell of a noise and fired rubbish 
everywhere, as far as I can tell,” said Mr. Diggory. 
“Apparently one of them was still rocketing around 
when the please-men turned up — ” 

Mr. Weasley groaned. 

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“And what about the intruder?” 



“Arthur, you know Mad-Eye,” said Mr. Diggory’s head, 
rolling its eyes again. “Someone creeping into his yard 
in the dead of night? More likely there’s a very shell- 
shocked cat wandering around somewhere, covered in 
potato peelings. But if the Improper Use of Magic lot 
get their hands on Mad-Eye, he’s had it — think of 
his record — we’ve got to get him off on a minor 
charge, something in your department — what are 
exploding dustbins worth?” 

“Might be a caution,” said Mr. Weasley, still writing 
very fast, his brow furrowed. “Mad-Eye didn’t use his 
wand? He didn’t actually attack anyone?” 

“I’ll bet he leapt out of bed and started jinxing 
everything he could reach through the window,” said 
Mr. Diggory, “but they’ll have a job proving it, there 
aren’t any casualties.” 

“All right, I’m off,” Mr. Weasley said, and he stuffed 
the parchment with his notes on it into his pocket 
and dashed out of the kitchen again. 

Mr. Diggory’s head looked around at Mrs. Weasley. 

“Sorry about this, Molly,” it said, more calmly, 
“bothering you so early and everything . . . but Arthur’s 
the only one who can get Mad-Eye off, and Mad-Eye’s 
supposed to be starting his new job today. Why he 
had to choose last night ...” 

“Never mind, Amos,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Sure you 
won’t have a bit of toast or anything before you go?” 

“Oh go on, then,” said Mr. Diggory. 



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Mrs. Weasley took a piece of buttered toast from a 
stack on the kitchen table, put it into the fire tongs, 
and transferred it into Mr. Diggory’s mouth. 

“Fanks,” he said in a muffled voice, and then, with a 
small pop, vanished. 

Harry could hear Mr. Weasley calling hurried good- 
byes to Bill, Charlie, Percy, and the girls. Within five 
minutes, he was back in the kitchen, his robes on the 
right way now, dragging a comb through his hair. 

“I’d better hurry — you have a good term, boys,” said 
Mr. Weasley to Harry, Ron, and the twins, fastening a 
cloak over his shoulders and preparing to 
Disapparate. “Molly, are you going to be all right 
taking the kids to King’s Cross?” 

“Of course I will,” she said. “You just look after Mad- 
Eye, we’ll be fine.” 

As Mr. Weasley vanished, Bill and Charlie entered the 
kitchen. 

“Did someone say Mad-Eye?” Bill asked. “What’s he 
been up to now? 

“He says someone tried to break into his house last 
night,” said Mrs. Weasley. 

“Mad-Eye Moody?” said George thoughtfully, 
spreading marmalade on his toast. “Isn’t he that 
nutter — ” 

“Your father thinks very highly of Mad-Eye Moody,” 
said Mrs. Weasley sternly. 



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“Yeah, well, Dad collects plugs, doesn’t he?” said Fred 
quietly as Mrs. Weasley left the room. “Birds of a 
feather ...” 

“Moody was a great wizard in his time,” said Bill. 

“He’s an old friend of Dumbledore’s, isn’t he?” said 
Charlie. 

“Dumbledore’s not what you’d call normal, though, is 
he?” said Fred. “I mean, I know he’s a genius and 
everything ...” 

“Who is Mad-Eye?” asked Harry. 

“He’s retired, used to work at the Ministry,” said 
Charlie. “I met him once when Dad took me into work 
with him. He was an Auror — one of the best ... a 
Dark wizard catcher,” he added, seeing Harry’s blank 
look. “Half the cells in Azkaban are full because of 
him. He made himself loads of enemies, though ... the 
families of people he caught, mainly . . . and I heard 
he’s been getting really paranoid in his old age. 
Doesn’t trust anyone anymore. Sees Dark wizards 
everywhere.” 

Bill and Charlie decided to come and see everyone off 
at King’s Cross station, but Percy, apologizing most 
profusely, said that he really needed to get to work. 

“I just can’t justify taking more time off at the 
moment,” he told them. “Mr. Crouch is really starting 
to rely on me.” 

“Yeah, you know what, Percy?” said George seriously. 
“I reckon he’ll know your name soon.” 



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Mrs. Weasley had braved the telephone in the village 
post office to order three ordinary Muggle taxis to take 
them into London. 



“Arthur tried to borrow Ministry cars for us,” Mrs. 
Weasley whispered to Harry as they stood in the rain- 
washed yard, watching the taxi drivers heaving six 
heavy Hogwarts trunks into their cars. “But there 
weren’t any to spare. ... Oh dear, they don’t look 
happy, do they?” 

Harry didn’t like to tell Mrs. Weasley that Muggle taxi 
drivers rarely transported overexcited owls, and 
Pigwidgeon was making an earsplitting racket. Nor 
did it help that a number of Filibuster’s Fabulous 
Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks went off unexpectedly 
when Fred’s trunk sprang open, causing the driver 
carrying it to yell with fright and pain as Crookshanks 
clawed his way up the man’s leg. 

The journey was uncomfortable, owing to the fact that 
they were jammed in the back of the taxis with their 
trunks. Crookshanks took quite a while to recover 
from the fireworks, and by the time they entered 
London, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all severely 
scratched. They were very relieved to get out at King’s 
Cross, even though the rain was coming down harder 
than ever, and they got soaked carrying their trunks 
across the busy road and into the station. 

Harry was used to getting onto platform nine and 
three-quarters by now. It was a simple matter of 
walking straight through the apparently solid barrier 
dividing platforms nine and ten. The only tricky part 
was doing this in an unobtrusive way, so as to avoid 
attracting Muggle attention. They did it in groups 
today; Harry, Ron, and Hermione (the most 
conspicuous, since they were accompanied by 
Pigwidgeon and Crookshanks) went first; they leaned 
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casually against the barrier, chatting unconcernedly, 
and slid sideways through it ... and as they did so, 
platform nine and three-quarters materialized in front 
of them. 

The Hogwarts Express, a gleaming scarlet steam 
engine, was already there, clouds of steam billowing 
from it, through which the many Hogwarts students 
and parents on the platform appeared like dark 
ghosts. Pigwidgeon became noisier than ever in 
response to the hooting of many owls through the 
mist. Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off to find seats, 
and were soon stowing their luggage in a 
compartment halfway along the train. They then 
hopped back down onto the platform to say good-bye 
to Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie. 

“I might be seeing you all sooner than you think,” 
said Charlie, grinning, as he hugged Ginny good-bye. 

“Why?” said Fred keenly. 

“You’ll see,” said Charlie. “Just don’t tell Percy I 
mentioned it ... it’s ‘classified information, until such 
time as the Ministry sees fit to release it,’ after all.” 

“Yeah, I sort of wish I were back at Hogwarts this 
year,” said Bill, hands in his pockets, looking almost 
wistfully at the train. 

“Why?” said George impatiently. 

“You’re going to have an interesting year,” said Bill, 
his eyes twinkling. “I might even get time off to come 
and watch a bit of it. ...” 

“A bit of what?” said Ron. 



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But at that moment, the whistle blew, and Mrs. 
Weasley chivvied them toward the train doors. 

“Thanks for having us to stay, Mrs. Weasley,” said 
Hermione as they climbed on board, closed the door, 
and leaned out of the window to talk to her. 

“Yeah, thanks for everything, Mrs. Weasley,” said 
Harry. 

“Oh it was my pleasure, dears,” said Mrs. Weasley. 
“Td invite you for Christmas, but ... well, I expect 
you’re all going to want to stay at Hogwarts, what 
with ... one thing and another.” 

“Mum!” said Ron irritably. “What d’you three know 
that we don’t?” 

“You’ll find out this evening, I expect,” said Mrs. 
Weasley, smiling. “It’s going to be very exciting — 
mind you, I’m very glad they’ve changed the rules — ” 

“What rules?” said Harry, Ron, Fred, and George 
together. 

“I’m sure Professor Dumbledore will tell you. ... Now, 
behave, won’t you? Won’t you, Fred? And you, 
George?” 

The pistons hissed loudly and the train began to 
move. 

“Tell us what’s happening at Hogwarts!” Fred 
bellowed out of the window as Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and 
Charlie sped away from them. “What rules are they 
changing?” 



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But Mrs. Weasley only smiled and waved. Before the 
train had rounded the corner, she, Bill, and Charlie 
had Disapparated. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione went back to their 
compartment. The thick rain splattering the windows 
made it very difficult to see out of them. Ron undid 
his trunk, pulled out his maroon dress robes, and 
flung them over Pigwidgeon’s cage to muffle his 
hooting. 

“Bagman wanted to tell us what’s happening at 
Hogwarts,” he said grumpily, sitting down next to 
Harry. “At the World Cup, remember? But my own 
mother won’t say. Wonder what — ” 

“Shh!” Hermione whispered suddenly, pressing her 
finger to her lips and pointing toward the 
compartment next to theirs. Harry and Ron listened, 
and heard a familiar drawling voice drifting in 
through the open door. 

"... Father actually considered sending me to 
Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts, you know. He 
knows the headmaster, you see. Well, you know his 
opinion of Dumbledore — the man’s such a 
Mudblood-lover — and Durmstrang doesn’t admit 
that sort of riffraff. But Mother didn’t like the idea of 
me going to school so far away. Father says 
Durmstrang takes a far more sensible line than 
Hogwarts about the Dark Arts. Durmstrang students 
actually learn them, not just the defense rubbish we 
do. ...” 

Hermione got up, tiptoed to the compartment door, 
and slid it shut, blocking out Malfoy’s voice. 



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“So he thinks Durmstrang would have suited him, 
does he?” she said angrily. “I wish he had gone, then 
we wouldn’t have to put up with him.” 

“Durmstrang’s another wizarding school?” said Harry. 

“Yes,” said Hermione sniffily, “and it’s got a horrible 
reputation. According to An Appraisal of Magical 
Education in Europe, it puts a lot of emphasis on the 
Dark Arts.” 

“I think I’ve heard of it,” said Ron vaguely. “Where is 
it? What country?” 

“Well, nobody knows, do they?” said Hermione, 
raising her eyebrows. 

“Er — why not?” said Harry. 

“There’s traditionally been a lot of rivalry between all 
the magic schools. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons like 
to conceal their whereabouts so nobody can steal 
their secrets,” said Hermione matter-of-factly. 

“Come off it,” said Ron, starting to laugh. 
“Durmstrang’s got to be about the same size as 
Hogwarts — how are you going to hide a great big 
castle?” 

“But Hogwarts is hidden,” said Hermione, in surprise. 
“Everyone knows that ... well, everyone who’s read 
Hogwarts, A History, anyway.” 

“Just you, then,” said Ron. “So go on — how d’you 
hide a place like Hogwarts?” 

“It’s bewitched,” said Hermione. “If a Muggle looks at 
it, all they see is a moldering old ruin with a sign over 



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the entrance saying DANGER, DO NOT ENTER, 
UNSAFE.” 

“So Durmstrangll just look like a min to an outsider 
too?” 

“Maybe,” said Hermione, shrugging, “or it might have 
Muggle-repelling charms on it, like the World Cup 
stadium. And to keep foreign wizards from finding it, 
they’ll have made it Unplottable — ” 

“Come again?” 

“Well, you can enchant a building so it’s impossible to 
plot on a map, can’t you?” 

“Er ... if you say so,” said Harry. 

“But I think Durmstrang must be somewhere in the 
far north,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “Somewhere 
very cold, because they’ve got fur capes as part of 
their uniforms.” 

“Ah, think of the possibilities,” said Ron dreamily. “It 
would’ve been so easy to push Malfoy off a glacier and 
make it look like an accident. ... Shame his mother 
likes him. ...” 

The rain became heavier and heavier as the train 
moved farther north. The sky was so dark and the 
windows so steamy that the lanterns were lit by 
midday. The lunch trolley came rattling along the 
corridor, and Harry bought a large stack of Cauldron 
Cakes for them to share. 

Several of their friends looked in on them as the 
afternoon progressed, including Seamus Finnigan, 
Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom, a round- 
faced, extremely forgetful boy who had been brought 

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up by his formidable witch of a grandmother. Seamus 
was still wearing his Ireland rosette. Some of its 
magic seemed to be wearing off now; it was still 
squeaking “ Troy — Mullet — Moran\” but in a very 
feeble and exhausted sort of way. After half an hour 
or so, Hermione, growing tired of the endless 
Quidditch talk, buried herself once more in The 
Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, and started trying 
to learn a Summoning Charm. 

Neville listened jealously to the others’ conversation 
as they relived the Cup match. 

“Gran didn’t want to go,” he said miserably. “Wouldn’t 
buy tickets. It sounded amazing though.” 

“It was,” said Ron. “Look at this, Neville. ...” 

He rummaged in his trunk up in the luggage rack and 
pulled out the miniature figure of Viktor Krum. 

“Oh wow,” said Neville enviously as Ron tipped Krum 
onto his pudgy hand. 

“We saw him right up close, as well,” said Ron. “We 
were in the Top Box — ” 

“For the first and last time in your life, Weasley.” 

Draco Malfoy had appeared in the doorway. Behind 
him stood Crabbe and Goyle, his enormous, thuggish 
cronies, both of whom appeared to have grown at 
least a foot during the summer. Evidently they had 
overheard the conversation through the compartment 
door, which Dean and Seamus had left ajar. 

“Don’t remember asking you to join us, Malfoy,” said 
Harry coolly. 



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“Weasley ... what is that?” said Malfoy, pointing at 
Pigwidgeon’s cage. A sleeve of Ron’s dress robes was 
dangling from it, swaying with the motion of the train, 
the moldy lace cuff very obvious. 

Ron made to stuff the robes out of sight, but Malfoy 
was too quick for him; he seized the sleeve and 
pulled. 

“Look at this!” said Malfoy in ecstasy, holding up 
Ron’s robes and showing Crabbe and Goyle, “Weasley, 
you weren’t thinking of wearing these, were you? I 
mean — they were very fashionable in about eighteen 
ninety. ...” 

“Eat dung, Malfoy!” said Ron, the same color as the 
dress robes as he snatched them back out of Malfoy’s 
grip. Malfoy howled with derisive laughter; Crabbe 
and Goyle guffawed stupidly. 

“So ... going to enter, Weasley? Going to try and bring 
a bit of glory to the family name? There’s money 
involved as well, you know ... you’d be able to afford 
some decent robes if you won. ...” 

“What are you talking about?” snapped Ron. 

“ Are you going to enter?” Malfoy repeated. “I suppose 
you will, Potter? You never miss a chance to show off, 
do you?” 

“Either explain what you’re on about or go away, 
Malfoy,” said Hermione testily, over the top of The 
Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4. 

A gleeful smile spread across Malfoy’s pale face. 

“Don’t tell me you don’t know?” he said delightedly. 
“You’ve got a father and brother at the Ministry and 

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you don’t even know ? My God, my father told me 
about it ages ago ... heard it from Cornelius Fudge. 
But then, Father’s always associated with the top 
people at the Ministry. . . . Maybe your father’s too 
junior to know about it, Weasley ... yes ... they 
probably don’t talk about important stuff in front of 
him. ...” 

Laughing once more, Malfoy beckoned to Crabbe and 
Goyle, and the three of them disappeared. 

Ron got to his feet and slammed the sliding 
compartment door so hard behind them that the glass 
shattered. 

“Ronl” said Hermione reproachfully, and she pulled 
out her wand, muttered “ ReparoV ’ and the glass 
shards flew back into a single pane and back into the 
door. 

“Well ... making it look like he knows everything and 
we don’t. ...” Ron snarled. “ ‘Father’s always 
associated with the top people at the Ministry.’... Dad 
could’ve got a promotion any time ... he just likes it 
where he is. ...” 

“Of course he does,” said Hermione quietly. “Don’t let 
Malfoy get to you, Ron — ” 

“Him! Get to me!? As if!” said Ron, picking up one of 
the remaining Cauldron Cakes and squashing it into 
a pulp. 

Ron’s bad mood continued for the rest of the journey. 
He didn’t talk much as they changed into their school 
robes, and was still glowering when the Hogwarts 
Express slowed down at last and finally stopped in 
the pitch-darkness of Hogsmeade station. 



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As the train doors opened, there was a rumble of 
thunder overhead. Hermione bundled up 
Crookshanks in her cloak and Ron left his dress 
robes over Pigwidgeon as they left the train, heads 
bent and eyes narrowed against the downpour. The 
rain was now coming down so thick and fast that it 
was as though buckets of ice-cold water were being 
emptied repeatedly over their heads. 

“Hi, Hagrid!” Harry yelled, seeing a gigantic silhouette 
at the far end of the platform. 

“All righ’, Harry?” Hagrid bellowed back, waving. “See 
yeh at the feast if we don’ drown!” 

First years traditionally reached Hogwarts Castle by 
sailing across the lake with Hagrid. 

“Oooh, I wouldn’t fancy crossing the lake in this 
weather,” said Hermione fervently, shivering as they 
inched slowly along the dark platform with the rest of 
the crowd. A hundred horseless carriages stood 
waiting for them outside the station. Harry, Ron, 
Hermione, and Neville climbed gratefully into one of 
them, the door shut with a snap, and a few moments 
later, with a great lurch, the long procession of 
carriages was rumbling and splashing its way up the 
track toward Hogwarts Castle. 



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THE TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT 

Through the gates, flanked with statues of winged 
boars, and up the sweeping drive the carriages 
trundled, swaying dangerously in what was fast 
becoming a gale. Leaning against the window, Harry 
could see Hogwarts coming nearer, its many lighted 
windows blurred and shimmering behind the thick 
curtain of rain. Lightning flashed across the sky as 
their carriage came to a halt before the great oak front 
doors, which stood at the top of a flight of stone steps. 
People who had occupied the carriages in front were 
already hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. 
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville jumped down from 
their carriage and dashed up the steps too, looking up 
only when they were safely inside the cavernous, 
torch-lit entrance hall, with its magnificent marble 
staircase. 

“Blimey,” said Ron, shaking his head and sending 
water everywhere, “if that keeps up the lake’s going to 
overflow. I’m soak — ARRGH!” 



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A large, red, water-filled balloon had dropped from 
out of the ceiling onto Ron’s head and exploded. 
Drenched and sputtering, Ron staggered sideways 
into Harry, just as a second water bomb dropped — 
narrowly missing Hermione, it burst at Harry’s feet, 
sending a wave of cold water over his sneakers into 
his socks. People all around them shrieked and 
started pushing one another in their efforts to get out 
of the line of fire. Harry looked up and saw, floating 
twenty feet above them, Peeves the Poltergeist, a little 
man in a bell-covered hat and orange bow tie, his 
wide, malicious face contorted with concentration as 
he took aim again. 

“PEEVES!” yelled an angry voice. “Peeves, come down 
here at ONCE!” 

Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and 
head of Gryffindor House, had come dashing out of 
the Great Hall; she skidded on the wet floor and 
grabbed Hermione around the neck to stop herself 
from falling. 

“Ouch — sorry, Miss Granger — ” 

“That’s all right, Professor!” Hermione gasped, 
massaging her throat. 

“Peeves, get down here NOW!” barked Professor 
McGonagall, straightening her pointed hat and 
glaring upward through her square-rimmed 
spectacles. 

“Not doing nothing!” cackled Peeves, lobbing a water 
bomb at several fifth-year girls, who screamed and 
dived into the Great Hall. “Already wet, aren’t they? 
Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!” And he aimed another 
bomb at a group of second years who had just 
arrived. 

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“I shall call the headmaster!” shouted Professor 
McGonagall. “I’m warning you, Peeves — ” 

Peeves stuck out his tongue, threw the last of his 
water bombs into the air, and zoomed off up the 
marble staircase, cackling insanely. 

“Well, move along, then!” said Professor McGonagall 
sharply to the bedraggled crowd. “Into the Great Hall, 
come on!” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione slipped and slid across the 
entrance hall and through the double doors on the 
right, Ron muttering furiously under his breath as he 
pushed his sopping hair off his face. 

The Great Hall looked its usual splendid self, 
decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates 
and goblets gleamed by the light of hundreds and 
hundreds of candles, floating over the tables in 
midair. The four long House tables were packed with 
chattering students; at the top of the Hall, the staff 
sat along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils. 

It was much warmer in here. Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione walked past the Slytherins, the 
Ravenclaws, and the Hufflepuffs, and sat down with 
the rest of the Gryffindors at the far side of the Hall, 
next to Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost. 
Pearly white and semitransparent, Nick was dressed 
tonight in his usual doublet, but with a particularly 
large ruff, which served the dual purpose of looking 
extra-festive, and insuring that his head didn’t wobble 
too much on his partially severed neck. 

“Good evening,” he said, beaming at them. 

“Says who?” said Harry, taking off his sneakers and 
emptying them of water. “Hope they hurry up with the 
Sorting. I’m starving.” 

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The Sorting of the new students into Houses took 
place at the start of every school year, but by an 
unlucky combination of circumstances, Harry hadn’t 
been present at one since his own. He was quite 
looking forward to it. Just then, a highly excited, 
breathless voice called down the table. 

“Hiya, Harry!” 

It was Colin Creevey, a third year to whom Harry was 
something of a hero. 

“Hi, Colin,” said Harry warily. 

“Harry, guess what? Guess what, Harry? My brother’s 
starting! My brother Dennis!” 

“Er — good,” said Harry. 

“He’s really excited!” said Colin, practically bouncing 
up and down in his seat. “I just hope he’s in 
Gryffindor! Keep your fingers crossed, eh, Harry?” 

“Er — yeah, all right,” said Harry. He turned back to 
Hermione, Ron, and Nearly Headless Nick. “Brothers 
and sisters usually go in the same Houses, don’t 
they?” he said. He was judging by the Weasleys, all 
seven of whom had been put into Gryffindor. 

“Oh no, not necessarily,” said Hermione. “Parvati 
Patil’s twin’s in Ravenclaw, and they’re identical. 
You’d think they’d be together, wouldn’t you?” 

Harry looked up at the staff table. There seemed to be 
rather more empty seats there than usual. Hagrid, of 
course, was still fighting his way across the lake with 
the first years; Professor McGonagall was presumably 
supervising the drying of the entrance hall floor, but 



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there was another empty chair too, and Harry 
couldn’t think who else was missing. 

“Where’s the new Defense Against the Dark Arts 
teacher?” said Hermione, who was also looking up at 
the teachers. 

They had never yet had a Defense Against the Dark 
Arts teacher who had lasted more than three terms. 
Harry’s favorite by far had been Professor Lupin, who 
had resigned last year. He looked up and down the 
staff table. There was definitely no new face there. 

“Maybe they couldn’t get anyone!” said Hermione, 
looking anxious. 

Harry scanned the table more carefully. Tiny little 
Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was sitting on 
a large pile of cushions beside Professor Sprout, the 
Herbology teacher, whose hat was askew over her 
flyaway gray hair. She was talking to Professor 
Sinistra of the Astronomy department. On Professor 
Sinistra ’s other side was the sallow-faced, hook- 
nosed, greasy-haired Potions master, Snape — 

Harry’s least favorite person at Hogwarts. Harry’s 
loathing of Snape was matched only by Snape ’s 
hatred of him, a hatred which had, if possible, 
intensified last year, when Harry had helped Sirius 
escape right under Snape ’s overlarge nose — Snape 
and Sirius had been enemies since their own school 
days. 

On Snape ’s other side was an empty seat, which 
Harry guessed was Professor McGonagall’s. Next to it, 
and in the very center of the table, sat Professor 
Dumbledore, the headmaster, his sweeping silver hair 
and beard shining in the candlelight, his magnificent 
deep green robes embroidered with many stars and 
moons. The tips of Dumbledore ’s long, thin fingers 
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were together and he was resting his chin upon them, 
staring up at the ceiling through his half-moon 
spectacles as though lost in thought. Harry glanced 
up at the ceiling too. It was enchanted to look like the 
sky outside, and he had never seen it look this 
stormy. Black and purple clouds were swirling across 
it, and as another thunderclap sounded outside, a 
fork of lightning flashed across it. 

“Oh hurry up,” Ron moaned, beside Harry, “I could 
eat a hippogriff.” 

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the 
doors of the Great Hall opened and silence fell. 
Professor McGonagall was leading a long line of first 
years up to the top of the Hall. If Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione were wet, it was nothing to how these first 
years looked. They appeared to have swum across the 
lake rather than sailed. All of them were shivering 
with a combination of cold and nerves as they filed 
along the staff table and came to a halt in a line 
facing the rest of the school — all of them except the 
smallest of the lot, a boy with mousy hair, who was 
wrapped in what Harry recognized as Hagrid’s 
moleskin overcoat. The coat was so big for him that it 
looked as though he were draped in a furry black 
circus tent. His small face protruded from over the 
collar, looking almost painfully excited. When he had 
lined up with his terrified-looking peers, he caught 
Colin Creevey’s eye, gave a double thumbs-up, and 
mouthed, I fell in the lake\ He looked positively 
delighted about it. 

Professor McGonagall now placed a three-legged stool 
on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, 
an extremely old, dirty, patched wizard’s hat. The first 
years stared at it. So did everyone else. For a 
moment, there was silence. Then a long tear near the 



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brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke 
into song: 

A thousand years or more ago, 

When I was newly sewn, 

There lived four wizards of renown, 

Whose names are still well known: 

Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor, 

Fair Ravenclaw, from glen, 

Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad, 

Shrewd Slytherin, from fen. 

They shared a wish, a hope, a dream, 

They hatched a daring plan 
To educate young sorcerers 
Thus Hogwarts School began. 

Now each of these four founders 
Formed their own house, for each 
Did value different virtues 
In the ones they had to teach. 

By Gryffindor, the bravest were 
Prized far beyond the rest; 

For Ravenclaw, the cleverest 
Would always be the best; 

For Hufflepuff, hard workers were 
Most worthy of admission; 

And power-hungry Slytherin 
Loved those of great ambition. 

While still alive they did divide 
Their favorites from the throng, 

Yet how to pick the worthy ones 
When they were dead and gone? 

Twas Gryffindor who found the way, 

He whipped me off his head 

The founders put some brains in me 

So I could choose instead! 

Now slip me snug about your ears, 

I’ve never yet been wrong, 

111 have a look inside your mind 
And tell where you belong! 

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The Great Hall rang with applause as the Sorting Hat 
finished. 



“That’s not the song it sang when it Sorted us,” said 
Harry, clapping along with everyone else. 

“Sings a different one every year,” said Ron. “It’s got 
to be a pretty boring life, hasn’t it, being a hat? I 
suppose it spends all year making up the next one.” 

Professor McGonagall was now unrolling a large scroll 
of parchment. 

“When I call out your name, you will put on the hat 
and sit on the stool,” she told the first years. “When 
the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at 
the appropriate table. 

“Ackerley, Stewart!” 

A boy walked forward, visibly trembling from head to 
foot, picked up the Sorting Hat, put it on, and sat 
down on the stool. 

“RAVENCLAW!” shouted the hat. 

Stewart Ackerley took off the hat and hurried into a 
seat at the Ravenclaw table, where everyone was 
applauding him. Harry caught a glimpse of Cho, the 
Ravenclaw Seeker, cheering Stewart Ackerley as he 
sat down. For a fleeting second, Harry had a strange 
desire to join the Ravenclaw table too. 

“Baddock, Malcolm!” 

“SLYTHERIN!” 

The table on the other side of the hall erupted with 
cheers; Harry could see Malfoy clapping as Baddock 

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joined the Slytherins. Harry wondered whether 
Baddock knew that Slytherin House had turned out 
more Dark witches and wizards than any other. Fred 
and George hissed Malcolm Baddock as he sat down. 

“Branstone, Eleanor!” 

“HUFFLEPUFF!” 

“Cauldwell, Owen!” 

“HUFFLEPUFF!” 

“Creevey, Dennis!” 

Tiny Dennis Creevey staggered forward, tripping over 
Hagrid ’s moleskin, just as Hagrid himself sidled into 
the Hall through a door behind the teachers’ table. 
About twice as tall as a normal man, and at least 
three times as broad, Hagrid, with his long, wild, 
tangled black hair and beard, looked slightly alarming 
— a misleading impression, for Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione knew Hagrid to possess a very kind nature. 
He winked at them as he sat down at the end of the 
staff table and watched Dennis Creevey putting on 
the Sorting Hat. The rip at the brim opened wide — 

“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat shouted. 

Hagrid clapped along with the Gryffindors as Dennis 
Creevey, beaming widely, took off the hat, placed it 
back on the stool, and hurried over to join his 
brother. 

“Colin, I fell in!” he said shrilly, throwing himself into 
an empty seat. “It was brilliant! And something in the 
water grabbed me and pushed me back in the boat!” 



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“Cool!” said Colin, just as excitedly. “It was probably 
the giant squid, Dennis!” 

“Wow\” said Dennis, as though nobody in their 
wildest dreams could hope for more than being 
thrown into a storm-tossed, fathoms-deep lake, and 
pushed out of it again by a giant sea monster. 

“Dennis! Dennis! See that boy down there? The one 
with the black hair and glasses? See him? Know who 
he is, Dennis ?” 

Harry looked away, staring very hard at the Sorting 
Hat, now Sorting Emma Dobbs. 

The Sorting continued; boys and girls with varying 
degrees of fright on their faces moving one by one to 
the three-legged stool, the line dwindling slowly as 
Professor McGonagall passed the L’s. 

“Oh hurry up,” Ron moaned, massaging his stomach. 

“Now, Ron, the Sorting’s much more important than 
food,” said Nearly Headless Nick as “Madley, Laura!” 
became a Hufflepuff. 

“ ’Course it is, if you’re dead,” snapped Ron. 

“I do hope this year’s batch of Gryffindors are up to 
scratch,” said Nearly Headless Nick, applauding as 
“McDonald, Natalie!” joined the Gryffindor table. “We 
don’t want to break our winning streak, do we?” 

Gryffindor had won the Inter-House Championship 
for the last three years in a row. 

“Pritchard, Graham!” 

“SLYTHERIN!” 

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“Quirke, Orla!” 



“RAVENCLAW!” 

And finally, with “Whitby, Kevin!” (“HUFFLEPUFF!”), 
the Sorting ended. Professor McGonagall picked up 
the hat and the stool and carried them away. 

“About time,” said Ron, seizing his knife and fork and 
looking expectantly at his golden plate. 

Professor Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was 
smiling around at the students, his arms opened wide 
in welcome. 

“I have only two words to say to you,” he told them, 
his deep voice echoing around the Hall. “ Tuck in.” 

“Hear, hear!” said Harry and Ron loudly as the empty 
dishes filled magically before their eyes. 

Nearly Headless Nick watched mournfully as Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione loaded their own plates. 

“Aaah, ’at’s be’er,” said Ron, with his mouth full of 
mashed potato. 

“You’re lucky there’s a feast at all tonight, you know,” 
said Nearly Headless Nick. “There was trouble in the 
kitchens earlier.” 

“Why? Wha’ ’appened?” said Harry, through a sizable 
chunk of steak. 

“Peeves, of course,” said Nearly Headless Nick, 
shaking his head, which wobbled dangerously. He 
pulled his ruff a little higher up on his neck. “The 
usual argument, you know. He wanted to attend the 
feast — well, it’s quite out of the question, you know 
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what he’s like, utterly uncivilized, can’t see a plate of 
food without throwing it. We held a ghost’s council — 
the Fat Friar was all for giving him the chance — but 
most wisely, in my opinion, the Bloody Baron put his 
foot down.” 

The Bloody Baron was the Slytherin ghost, a gaunt 
and silent specter covered in silver bloodstains. He 
was the only person at Hogwarts who could really 
control Peeves. 

“Yeah, we thought Peeves seemed hacked off about 
something,” said Ron darkly. “So what did he do in 
the kitchens?” 

“Oh the usual,” said Nearly Headless Nick, shrugging. 
“Wreaked havoc and mayhem. Pots and pans 
everywhere. Place swimming in soup. Terrified the 
house-elves out of their wits — ” 

Clang. 

Hermione had knocked over her golden goblet. 
Pumpkin juice spread steadily over the tablecloth, 
staining several feet of white linen orange, but 
Hermione paid no attention. 

“There are house-elves here?” she said, staring, 
horror-struck, at Nearly Headless Nick. “Here at 
Hogwarts ?” 

“Certainly,” said Nearly Headless Nick, looking 
surprised at her reaction. “The largest number in any 
dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred.” 

“I’ve never seen one!” said Hermione. 

“Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do 
they?” said Nearly Headless Nick. “They come out at 

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night to do a bit of cleaning . . . see to the fires and so 
on. ... I mean, you’re not supposed to see them, are 
you? That’s the mark of a good house-elf, isn’t it, that 
you don’t know it’s there?” 

Hermione stared at him. 

“But they get paid?” she said. “They get holidays, 
don’t they? And — and sick leave, and pensions, and 
everything?” 

Nearly Headless Nick chortled so much that his ruff 
slipped and his head flopped off, dangling on the inch 
or so of ghostly skin and muscle that still attached it 
to his neck. 

“Sick leave and pensions?” he said, pushing his head 
back onto his shoulders and securing it once more 
with his ruff. “House-elves don’t want sick leave and 
pensions!” 

Hermione looked down at her hardly touched plate of 
food, then put her knife and fork down upon it and 
pushed it away from her. 

“Oh c’mon, ’Er-my-knee,” said Ron, accidentally 
spraying Harry with bits of Yorkshire pudding. “Oops 
— sorry, ’Arry — ” He swallowed. “You won’t get them 
sick leave by starving yourself!” 

“Slave labor,” said Hermione, breathing hard through 
her nose. “That’s what made this dinner. Slave labor.” 

And she refused to eat another bite. 

The rain was still drumming heavily against the high, 
dark glass. Another clap of thunder shook the 
windows, and the stormy ceiling flashed, illuminating 



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the golden plates as the remains of the first course 
vanished and were replaced, instantly, with puddings. 

“Treacle tart, Hermione!” said Ron, deliberately 
wafting its smell toward her. “Spotted dick, look! 
Chocolate gateau!” 

But Hermione gave him a look so reminiscent of 
Professor McGonagall that he gave up. 

When the puddings too had been demolished, and the 
last crumbs had faded off the plates, leaving them 
sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore got to his feet 
again. The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceased 
almost at once, so that only the howling wind and 
pounding rain could be heard. 

“So!” said Dumbledore, smiling around at them all. 
“Now that we are all fed and watered,” (“Hmph!” said 
Hermione) “I must once more ask for your attention, 
while I give out a few notices. 

“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you 
that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has 
this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, 
Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The 
full list comprises some four hundred and thirty- 
seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. 

Filch ’s office, if anybody would like to check it.” 

The corners of Dumbledore ’s mouth twitched. He 
continued, “As ever, I would like to remind you all 
that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to 
students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below 
third year. 

“It is also my painful duty to inform you that the 
Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this 
year.” 

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“What?” Harry gasped. He looked around at Fred and 
George, his fellow members of the Quidditch team. 
They were mouthing soundlessly at Dumbledore, 
apparently too appalled to speak. Dumbledore went 
on, “This is due to an event that will be starting in 
October, and continuing throughout the school year, 
taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy — 
but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have 
great pleasure in announcing that this year at 
Hogwarts — ” 

But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of 
thunder and the doors of the Great Hall banged open. 

A man stood in the doorway, leaning upon a long 
staff, shrouded in a black traveling cloak. Every head 
in the Great Hall swiveled toward the stranger, 
suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning 
that flashed across the ceiling. He lowered his hood, 
shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair, 
then began to walk up toward the teachers’ table. 

A dull clunk echoed through the Hall on his every 
other step. He reached the end of the top table, 
turned right, and limped heavily toward Dumbledore. 
Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling. 
Hermione gasped. 

The lightning had thrown the man’s face into sharp 
relief, and it was a face unlike any Harry had ever 
seen. It looked as though it had been carved out of 
weathered wood by someone who had only the 
vaguest idea of what human faces are supposed to 
look like, and was none too skilled with a chisel. 
Every inch of skin seemed to be scarred. The mouth 
looked like a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the 
nose was missing. But it was the man’s eyes that 
made him frightening. 



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One of them was small, dark, and beady. The other 
was large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. 
The blue eye was moving ceaselessly, without 
blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to 
side, quite independently of the normal eye — and 
then it rolled right over, pointing into the back of the 
man’s head, so that all they could see was whiteness. 

The stranger reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a 
hand that was as badly scarred as his face, and 
Dumbledore shook it, muttering words Harry couldn’t 
hear. He seemed to be making some inquiry of the 
stranger, who shook his head unsmilingly and replied 
in an undertone. Dumbledore nodded and gestured 
the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side. 

The stranger sat down, shook his mane of dark gray 
hair out of his face, pulled a plate of sausages toward 
him, raised it to what was left of his nose, and sniffed 
it. He then took a small knife out of his pocket, 
speared a sausage on the end of it, and began to eat. 
His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages, but the 
blue eye was still darting restlessly around in its 
socket, taking in the Hall and the students. 

“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark 
Arts teacher?” said Dumbledore brightly into the 
silence. “Professor Moody.” 

It was usual for new staff members to be greeted with 
applause, but none of the staff or students clapped 
except Dumbledore and Hagrid, who both put their 
hands together and applauded, but the sound echoed 
dismally into the silence, and they stopped fairly 
quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by 
Moody’s bizarre appearance to do more than stare at 
him. 



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“Moody?” Harry muttered to Ron. “MacL-Eye Moody? 
The one your dad went to help this morning?” 

“Must be,” said Ron in a low, awed voice. 

“What happened to him?” Hermione whispered. “What 
happened to his face?” 

“Dunno,” Ron whispered back, watching Moody with 
fascination. 

Moody seemed totally indifferent to his less-than- 
warm welcome. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in 
front of him, he reached again into his traveling cloak, 
pulled out a hip flask, and took a long draught from 
it. As he lifted his arm to drink, his cloak was pulled a 
few inches from the ground, and Harry saw, below the 
table, several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a 
clawed foot. 

Dumbledore cleared his throat. 

“As I was saying,” he said, smiling at the sea of 
students before him, all of whom were still gazing 
transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, “we are to have the 
honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming 
months, an event that has not been held for over a 
century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you 
that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at 
Hogwarts this year.” 

“You’re JOKING!” said Fred Weasley loudly. 

The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody’s 
arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone laughed, and 
Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively. 

“I am not joking, Mr. Weasley,” he said, “though now 
that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over 

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the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun 
who all go into a bar ...” 

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly. 

“Er — but maybe this is not the time ... no ...” said 
Dumbledore, “where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard 
Tournament ... well, some of you will not know what 
this tournament involves, so I hope those who do 
know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, 
and allow their attention to wander freely. 

“The Triwizard Tournament was first established 
some seven hundred years ago as a friendly 
competition between the three largest European 
schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and 
Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent 
each school, and the three champions competed in 
three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to 
host the tournament once every five years, and it was 
generally agreed to be a most excellent way of 
establishing ties between young witches and wizards 
of different nationalities — until, that is, the death toll 
mounted so high that the tournament was 
discontinued.” 

“ Death toll?” Hermione whispered, looking alarmed. 
But her anxiety did not seem to be shared by the 
majority of students in the Hall; many of them were 
whispering excitedly to one another, and Harry 
himself was far more interested in hearing about the 
tournament than in worrying about deaths that had 
happened hundreds of years ago. 

“There have been several attempts over the centuries 
to reinstate the tournament,” Dumbledore continued, 
“none of which has been very successful. However, 
our own departments of International Magical 
Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have 
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decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have 
worked hard over the summer to ensure that this 
time, no champion will find himself or herself in 
mortal danger. 

“The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be 
arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, 
and the selection of the three champions will take 
place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide 
which students are most worthy to compete for the 
Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a 
thousand Galleons personal prize money.” 

“I’m going for it!” Fred Weasley hissed down the table, 
his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such 
glory and riches. He was not the only person who 
seemed to be visualizing himself as the Hogwarts 
champion. At every House table, Harry could see 
people either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else 
whispering fervently to their neighbors. But then 
Dumbledore spoke again, and the Hall quieted once 
more. 

“Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the 
Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts,” he said, “the heads of the 
participating schools, along with the Ministry of 
Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on 
contenders this year. Only students who are of age — 
that is to say, seventeen years or older — will be 
allowed to put forward their names for consideration. 
This” — Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for 
several people had made noises of outrage at these 
words, and the Weasley twins were suddenly looking 
furious — “is a measure we feel is necessary, given 
that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and 
dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is 
highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh 
year will be able to cope with them. I will personally 
be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our 
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impartial judge into making them Hogwarts 
champion.” His light blue eyes twinkled as they 
flickered over Fred’s and George’s mutinous faces. “I 
therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting 
yourself if you are under seventeen. 

“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang 
will be arriving in October and remaining with us for 
the greater part of this year. I know that you will all 
extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they 
are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support 
to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. 
And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to 
you all to be alert and rested as you enter your 
lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!” 

Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to 
Mad-Eye Moody. There was a great scraping and 
banging as all the students got to their feet and 
swarmed toward the double doors into the entrance 
hall. 

“They can’t do that!” said George Weasley, who had 
not joined the crowd moving toward the door, but was 
standing up and glaring at Dumbledore. “We’re 
seventeen in April, why can’t we have a shot?” 

“They’re not stopping me entering,” said Fred 
stubbornly, also scowling at the top table. “The 
champions’ll get to do all sorts of stuff you’d never be 
allowed to do normally. And a thousand Galleons 
prize money!” 

“Yeah,” said Ron, a faraway look on his face. “Yeah, a 
thousand Galleons ...” 

“Come on,” said Hermione, “we’ll be the only ones left 
here if you don’t move.” 



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Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George set off for 
the entrance hall, Fred and George debating the ways 
in which Dumbledore might stop those who were 
under seventeen from entering the tournament. 

“Who’s this impartial judge who’s going to decide who 
the champions are?” said Harry. 

“Dunno,” said Fred, “but it’s them we’ll have to fool. I 
reckon a couple of drops of Aging Potion might do it, 
George. ...” 

“Dumbledore knows you’re not of age, though,” said 
Ron. 

“Yeah, but he’s not the one who decides who the 
champion is, is he?” said Fred shrewdly. “Sounds to 
me like once this judge knows who wants to enter, 
he’ll choose the best from each school and never mind 
how old they are. Dumbledore ’s trying to stop us 
giving our names.” 

“People have died, though!” said Hermione in a 
worried voice as they walked through a door 
concealed behind a tapestry and started up another, 
narrower staircase. 

“Yeah,” said Fred airily, “but that was years ago, 
wasn’t it? Anyway, where’s the fun without a bit of 
risk? Hey, Ron, what if we find out how to get ’round 
Dumbledore? Fancy entering?” 

“What d’you reckon?” Ron asked Harry. “Be cool to 
enter, wouldn’t it? But I s’pose they might want 
someone older. ... Dunno if we’ve learned enough. ...” 

“I definitely haven’t,” came Neville’s gloomy voice from 
behind Fred and George. 



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“I expect my gran’d want me to try, though. She’s 
always going on about how I should be upholding the 
family honor. I’ll just have to — oops. ...” 

Neville’s foot had sunk right through a step halfway 
up the staircase. There were many of these trick 
stairs at Hogwarts; it was second nature to most of 
the older students to jump this particular step, but 
Neville’s memory was notoriously poor. Harry and 
Ron seized him under the armpits and pulled him 
out, while a suit of armor at the top of the stairs 
creaked and clanked, laughing wheezily. 

“Shut it, you,” said Ron, banging down its visor as 
they passed. 

They made their way up to the entrance to Gryffindor 
Tower, which was concealed behind a large portrait of 
a fat lady in a pink silk dress. 

“Password?” she said as they approached. 

“Balderdash,” said George, “a prefect downstairs told 
me.” 

The portrait swung forward to reveal a hole in the wall 
through which they all climbed. A crackling fire 
warmed the circular common room, which was full of 
squashy armchairs and tables. Hermione cast the 
merrily dancing flames a dark look, and Harry 
distinctly heard her mutter “ Slave labor,” before 
bidding them good night and disappearing through 
the doorway to the girls’ dormitory. 

Harry, Ron, and Neville climbed up the last, spiral 
staircase until they reached their own dormitory, 
which was situated at the top of the tower. Five four- 
poster beds with deep crimson hangings stood against 
the walls, each with its owner’s trunk at the foot. 

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Dean and Seamus were already getting into bed; 
Seamus had pinned his Ireland rosette to his 
headboard, and Dean had tacked up a poster of 
Viktor Krum over his bedside table. His old poster of 
the West Ham football team was pinned right next to 
it. 

“Mental,” Ron sighed, shaking his head at the 
completely stationary soccer players. 

Harry, Ron, and Neville got into their pajamas and 
into bed. Someone — a house-elf, no doubt — had 
placed warming pans between the sheets. It was 
extremely comfortable, lying there in bed and 
listening to the storm raging outside. 

“I might go in for it, you know,” Ron said sleepily 
through the darkness, “if Fred and George find out 
how to ... the tournament ... you never know, do 
you?” 

“S’pose not. ...” 

Harry rolled over in bed, a series of dazzling new 
pictures forming in his mind’s eye. ... He had 
hoodwinked the impartial judge into believing he was 
seventeen ... he had become Hogwarts champion ... 
he was standing on the grounds, his arms raised in 
triumph in front of the whole school, all of whom were 
applauding and screaming ... he had just won the 
Triwizard Tournament. ... Cho’s face stood out 
particularly clearly in the blurred crowd, her face 
glowing with admiration. ... 

Harry grinned into his pillow, exceptionally glad that 
Ron couldn’t see what he could. 



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MAD-EYE MOODY 

The storm had blown itself out by the following 
morning, though the ceiling in the Great Hall was still 
gloomy; heavy clouds of pewter gray swirled overhead 
as Harry, Ron, and Hermione examined their new 
course schedules at breakfast. A few seats along, 

Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were discussing 
magical methods of aging themselves and bluffing 
their way into the Triwizard Tournament. 

“Today’s not bad ... outside all morning,” said Ron, 
who was running his finger down the Monday column 
of his schedule. “Herbology with the Hufflepuffs and 
Care of Magical Creatures ... damn it, we’re still with 
the Slytherins. ...” 

“Double Divination this afternoon,” Harry groaned, 
looking down. Divination was his least favorite 
subject, apart from Potions. Professor Trelawney kept 
predicting Harry’s death, which he found extremely 
annoying. 



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“You should have given it up like me, shouldn’t you?” 
said Hermione briskly, buttering herself some toast. 
“Then you’d be doing something sensible like 
Arithmancy.” 

“You’re eating again, I notice,” said Ron, watching 
Hermione adding liberal amounts of jam to her toast 
too. 

“I’ve decided there are better ways of making a stand 
about elf rights,” said Hermione haughtily. 

“Yeah ... and you were hungry,” said Ron, grinning. 

There was a sudden rustling noise above them, and a 
hundred owls came soaring through the open 
windows carrying the morning mail. Instinctively, 
Harry looked up, but there was no sign of white 
among the mass of brown and gray. The owls circled 
the tables, looking for the people to whom their letters 
and packages were addressed. A large tawny owl 
soared down to Neville Longbottom and deposited a 
parcel into his lap — Neville almost always forgot to 
pack something. On the other side of the Hall Draco 
Malfoy’s eagle owl had landed on his shoulder, 
carrying what looked like his usual supply of sweets 
and cakes from home. Trying to ignore the sinking 
feeling of disappointment in his stomach, Harry 
returned to his porridge. Was it possible that 
something had happened to Hedwig, and that Sirius 
hadn’t even got his letter? 

His preoccupation lasted all the way across the 
sodden vegetable patch until they arrived in 
greenhouse three, but here he was distracted by 
Professor Sprout showing the class the ugliest plants 
Harry had ever seen. Indeed, they looked less like 
plants than thick, black, giant slugs, protruding 
vertically out of the soil. Each was squirming slightly 
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and had a number of large, shiny swellings upon it, 
which appeared to be full of liquid. 

“Bubotubers,” Professor Sprout told them briskly. 
“They need squeezing. You will collect the pus — ” 

“The what?” said Seamus Finnigan, sounding 
revolted. 

“Pus, Finnigan, pus,” said Professor Sprout, “and it’s 
extremely valuable, so don’t waste it. You will collect 
the pus, I say, in these bottles. Wear your dragon- 
hide gloves; it can do funny things to the skin when 
undiluted, bubotuber pus.” 

Squeezing the bubotubers was disgusting, but oddly 
satisfying. As each swelling was popped, a large 
amount of thick yellowish-green liquid burst forth, 
which smelled strongly of petrol. They caught it in the 
bottles as Professor Sprout had indicated, and by the 
end of the lesson had collected several pints. 

“This’ll keep Madam Pomfrey happy,” said Professor 
Sprout, stoppering the last bottle with a cork. “An 
excellent remedy for the more stubborn forms of acne, 
bubotuber pus. Should stop students resorting to 
desperate measures to rid themselves of pimples.” 

“Like poor Eloise Midgen,” said Hannah Abbott, a 
Hufflepuff, in a hushed voice. “She tried to curse hers 
off.” 

“Silly girl,” said Professor Sprout, shaking her head. 
“But Madam Pomfrey fixed her nose back on in the 
end.” 

A booming bell echoed from the castle across the wet 
grounds, signaling the end of the lesson, and the 
class separated; the Hufflepuffs climbing the stone 

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steps for Transfiguration, and the Gryffindors heading 
in the other direction, down the sloping lawn toward 
Hagrid ’s small wooden cabin, which stood on the edge 
of the Forbidden Forest. 

Hagrid was standing outside his hut, one hand on the 
collar of his enormous black boarhound, Fang. There 
were several open wooden crates on the ground at his 
feet, and Fang was whimpering and straining at his 
collar, apparently keen to investigate the contents 
more closely. As they drew nearer, an odd rattling 
noise reached their ears, punctuated by what 
sounded like minor explosions. 

“Mornin’!” Hagrid said, grinning at Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione. “Be’er wait fer the Slytherins, they won’ 
want ter miss this — Blast-Ended Skrewts!” 

“Come again?” said Ron. 

Hagrid pointed down into the crates. 

“Eurgh!” squealed Lavender Brown, jumping 
backward. 

“Eurgh” just about summed up the Blast-Ended 
Skrewts in Harry’s opinion. They looked like 
deformed, shell-less lobsters, horribly pale and slimy - 
looking, with legs sticking out in very odd places and 
no visible heads. There were about a hundred of them 
in each crate, each about six inches long, crawling 
over one another, bumping blindly into the sides of 
the boxes. They were giving off a very powerful smell 
of rotting fish. Every now and then, sparks would fly 
out of the end of a skrewt, and with a small phut, it 
would be propelled forward several inches. 



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“On’y jus’ hatched,” said Hagrid proudly, “so yeh’ll be 
able ter raise ’em yerselves! Thought we’d make a bit 
of a project of it!” 

“And why would we want to raise them?” said a cold 
voice. 

The Slytherins had arrived. The speaker was Draco 
Malfoy. Crabbe and Goyle were chuckling 
appreciatively at his words. 

Hagrid looked stumped at the question. 

“I mean, what do they do?” asked Malfoy. “What is the 
point of them?” 

Hagrid opened his mouth, apparently thinking hard; 
there was a few seconds’ pause, then he said roughly, 
“Tha’s next lesson, Malfoy. Yer jus’ feedin’ ’em today. 
Now, yeh’ll wan’ ter try ’em on a few diff’rent things — 
I’ve never had ’em before, not sure what they’ll go fer 

— I got ant eggs an’ frog livers an’ a bit o’ grass snake 

— just try ’em out with a bit of each.” 

“First pus and now this,” muttered Seamus. 

Nothing but deep affection for Hagrid could have 
made Harry, Ron, and Hermione pick up squelchy 
handfuls of frog liver and lower them into the crates 
to tempt the Blast-Ended Skrewts. Harry couldn’t 
suppress the suspicion that the whole thing was 
entirely pointless, because the skrewts didn’t seem to 
have mouths. 

“Ouch\” yelled Dean Thomas after about ten minutes. 
“It got me!” 

Hagrid hurried over to him, looking anxious. 



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“Its end exploded!” said Dean angrily, showing Hagrid 
a burn on his hand. 

“Ah, yeah, that can happen when they blast off,” said 
Hagrid, nodding. 

“Eurgh!” said Lavender Brown again. “Eurgh, Hagrid, 
what’s that pointy thing on it?” 

“Ah, some of ’em have got stings,” said Hagrid 
enthusiastically (Lavender quickly withdrew her hand 
from the box). “I reckon they’re the males. ... The 
females Ve got sorta sucker things on their bellies. ... I 
think they might be ter suck blood.” 

“Well, I can certainly see why we’re trying to keep 
them alive,” said Malfoy sarcastically. “Who wouldn’t 
want pets that can burn, sting, and bite all at once?” 

“Just because they’re not very pretty, it doesn’t mean 
they’re not useful,” Hermione snapped. “Dragon 
blood’s amazingly magical, but you wouldn’t want a 
dragon for a pet, would you?” 

Harry and Ron grinned at Hagrid, who gave them a 
furtive smile from behind his bushy beard. Hagrid 
would have liked nothing better than a pet dragon, as 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione knew only too well — he 
had owned one for a brief period during their first 
year, a vicious Norwegian Ridgeback by the name of 
Norbert. Hagrid simply loved monstrous creatures, 
the more lethal, the better. 

“Well, at least the skrewts are small,” said Ron as 
they made their way back up to the castle for lunch 
an hour later. 



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“They are now,” said Hermione in an exasperated 
voice, “but once Hagrid’s found out what they eat, I 
expect they’ll be six feet long.” 

“Well, that won’t matter if they turn out to cure 
seasickness or something, will it?” said Ron, grinning 
slyly at her. 

“You know perfectly well I only said that to shut 
Malfoy up,” said Hermione. “As a matter of fact I 
think he’s right. The best thing to do would be to 
stamp on the lot of them before they start attacking 
us all.” 

They sat down at the Gryffindor table and helped 
themselves to lamb chops and potatoes. Hermione 
began to eat so fast that Harry and Ron stared at her. 

“Er — is this the new stand on elf rights?” said Ron. 
“You’re going to make yourself puke instead?” 

“No,” said Hermione, with as much dignity as she 
could muster with her mouth bulging with sprouts. “I 
just want to get to the library.” 

“What?” said Ron in disbelief. “Hermione — it’s the 
first day back! We haven’t even got homework yet!” 

Hermione shrugged and continued to shovel down her 
food as though she had not eaten for days. Then she 
leapt to her feet, said, “See you at dinner!” and 
departed at high speed. 

When the bell rang to signal the start of afternoon 
lessons, Harry and Ron set off for North Tower where, 
at the top of a tightly spiraling staircase, a silver 
stepladder led to a circular trapdoor in the ceiling, 
and the room where Professor Trelawney lived. 



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The familiar sweet perfume spreading from the fire 
met their nostrils as they emerged at the top of the 
stepladder. As ever, the curtains were all closed; the 
circular room was bathed in a dim reddish light cast 
by the many lamps, which were all draped with 
scarves and shawls. Harry and Ron walked through 
the mass of occupied chintz chairs and poufs that 
cluttered the room, and sat down at the same small 
circular table. 

“Good day,” said the misty voice of Professor 
Trelawney right behind Harry, making him jump. 

A very thin woman with enormous glasses that made 
her eyes appear far too large for her face, Professor 
Trelawney was peering down at Harry with the tragic 
expression she always wore whenever she saw him. 
The usual large amount of beads, chains, and bangles 
glittered upon her person in the firelight. 

“You are preoccupied, my dear,” she said mournfully 
to Harry. “My inner eye sees past your brave face to 
the troubled soul within. And I regret to say that your 
worries are not baseless. I see difficult times ahead 
for you, alas ... most difficult ... I fear the thing you 
dread will indeed come to pass ... and perhaps sooner 
than you think. ...” 

Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. Ron rolled his 
eyes at Harry, who looked stonily back. Professor 
Trelawney swept past them and seated herself in a 
large winged armchair before the fire, facing the class. 
Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, who deeply 
admired Professor Trelawney, were sitting on poufs 
very close to her. 

“My dears, it is time for us to consider the stars,” she 
said. “The movements of the planets and the 
mysterious portents they reveal only to those who 

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understand the steps of the celestial dance. Human 
destiny may be deciphered by the planetary rays, 
which intermingle ...” 

But Harry’s thoughts had drifted. The perfumed fire 
always made him feel sleepy and dull-witted, and 
Professor Trelawney’s rambling talks on fortune- 
telling never held him exactly spellbound — though 
he couldn’t help thinking about what she had just 
said to him. “ ‘I fear the thing you dread will indeed 
come to pass . . . ’ ” 

But Hermione was right, Harry thought irritably, 
Professor Trelawney really was an old fraud. He 
wasn’t dreading anything at the moment at all ... well, 
unless you counted his fears that Sirius had been 
caught ... but what did Professor Trelawney know? He 
had long since come to the conclusion that her brand 
of fortune-telling was really no more than lucky 
guesswork and a spooky manner. 

Except, of course, for that time at the end of last 
term, when she had made the prediction about 
Voldemort rising again . . . and Dumbledore himself 
had said that he thought that trance had been 
genuine, when Harry had described it to him. ... 

“Harry\” Ron muttered. 

“What?” 

Harry looked around; the whole class was staring at 
him. He sat up straight; he had been almost dozing 
off, lost in the heat and his thoughts. 

“I was saying, my dear, that you were clearly born 
under the baleful influence of Saturn,” said Professor 
Trelawney, a faint note of resentment in her voice at 



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the fact that he had obviously not been hanging on 
her words. 

“Born under — what, sorry?” said Harry. 

“Saturn, dear, the planet Saturn!” said Professor 
Trelawney, sounding definitely irritated that he wasn’t 
riveted by this news. “I was saying that Saturn was 
surely in a position of power in the heavens at the 
moment of your birth. ... Your dark hair ... your mean 
stature ... tragic losses so young in life ... I think I am 
right in saying, my dear, that you were born in 
midwinter?” 

“No,” said Harry, “I was born in July.” 

Ron hastily turned his laugh into a hacking cough. 

Half an hour later, each of them had been given a 
complicated circular chart, and was attempting to fill 
in the position of the planets at their moment of birth. 
It was dull work, requiring much consultation of 
timetables and calculation of angles. 

“I’ve got two Neptunes here,” said Harry after a while, 
frowning down at his piece of parchment, “that can’t 
be right, can it?” 

“Aaaaah,” said Ron, imitating Professor Trelawney’s 
mystical whisper, “when two Neptunes appear in the 
sky, it is a sure sign that a midget in glasses is being 
born, Harry ...” 

Seamus and Dean, who were working nearby, 
sniggered loudly, though not loudly enough to mask 
the excited squeals from Lavender Brown — “Oh 
Professor, look! I think I’ve got an unaspected planet! 
Oooh, which one’s that, Professor?” 



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“It is Uranus, my dear,” said Professor Trelawney, 
peering down at the chart. 

“Can I have a look at Uranus too, Lavender?” said 
Ron. 

Most unfortunately, Professor Trelawney heard him, 
and it was this, perhaps, that made her give them so 
much homework at the end of the class. 

“A detailed analysis of the way the planetary 
movements in the coming month will affect you, with 
reference to your personal chart,” she snapped, 
sounding much more like Professor McGonagall than 
her usual airy-fairy self. “I want it ready to hand in 
next Monday, and no excuses!” 

“Miserable old bat,” said Ron bitterly as they joined 
the crowds descending the staircases back to the 
Great Hall and dinner. “Thatll take all weekend, that 
will. ...” 

“Lots of homework?” said Hermione brightly, catching 
up with them. “Professor Vector didn’t give us any at 
all!” 

“Well, bully for Professor Vector,” said Ron moodily. 

They reached the entrance hall, which was packed 
with people queuing for dinner. They had just joined 
the end of the line, when a loud voice rang out behind 
them. 

“Weasley! Hey, Weasley!” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned. Malfoy, Crabbe, 
and Goyle were standing there, each looking 
thoroughly pleased about something. 



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“What?” said Ron shortly. 



“Your dad’s in the paper, Weasley!” said Malfoy, 
brandishing a copy of the Daily Prophet and speaking 
very loudly, so that everyone in the packed entrance 
hall could hear. “Listen to this! 

FURTHER MISTAKES AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC 

It seems as though the Ministry of Magic’s troubles are 
not yet at an end, writes Rita Skeeter, Special 
Correspondent. Recently under fire for its poor crowd 
control at the Quidditch World Cup, and still unable to 
account for the disappearance of one of its witches, the 
Ministry was plunged into fresh embarrassment 
yesterday by the antics of Arnold Weasley, of the 
Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. ” 

Malfoy looked up. 

“Imagine them not even getting his name right, 
Weasley. It’s almost as though he’s a complete 
nonentity, isn’t it?” he crowed. 

Everyone in the entrance hall was listening now. 
Malfoy straightened the paper with a flourish and 
read on: 

Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of 
a flying car two years ago, was yesterday involved in 
a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers (“policemen”) 
over a number of highly aggressive dustbins. Mr. 
Weasley appears to have rushed to the aid of “Mad- 
Eye” Moody, the aged ex-Auror who retired from the 
Ministry when no longer able to tell the difference 
between a handshake and attempted murder. 
Unsurprisingly, Mr. Weasley found, upon arrival at Mr. 
Moody ’s heavily guarded house, that Mr. Moody had 
once again raised a false alarm. Mr. Weasley was 
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forced to modify several memories before he could 
escape from the policemen, but refused to answer 
Daily Prophet questions about why he had involved 
the Ministry in such an undignified and potentially 
embarrassing scene. 

“And there’s a picture, Weasley!” said Malfoy, flipping 
the paper over and holding it up. “A picture of your 
parents outside their house — if you can call it a 
house! Your mother could do with losing a bit of 
weight, couldn’t she?” 

Ron was shaking with fury. Everyone was staring at 
him. 

“Get stuffed, Malfoy,” said Harry. “C’mon, Ron. ...” 

“Oh yeah, you were staying with them this summer, 
weren’t you, Potter?” sneered Malfoy. “So tell me, is 
his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?” 

“You know your mother, Malfoy?” said Harry — both 
he and Hermione had grabbed the back of Ron’s 
robes to stop him from launching himself at Malfoy — 
“that expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under 
her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it 
just because you were with her?” 

Malfoy’s pale face went slightly pink. 

“Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter.” 

“Keep your fat mouth shut, then,” said Harry, turning 
away. 

BANG! 

Several people screamed — Harry felt something 
white-hot graze the side of his face — he plunged his 

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hand into his robes for his wand, but before he’d even 
touched it, he heard a second loud BANG, and a roar 
that echoed through the entrance hall. 

“OH NO YOU DONT, LADDIE!” 

Harry spun around. Professor Moody was limping 
down the marble staircase. His wand was out and it 
was pointing right at a pure white ferret, which was 
shivering on the stone-flagged floor, exactly where 
Malfoy had been standing. 

There was a terrified silence in the entrance hall. 
Nobody but Moody was moving a muscle. Moody 
turned to look at Harry — at least, his normal eye was 
looking at Harry; the other one was pointing into the 
back of his head. 

“Did he get you?” Moody growled. His voice was low 
and gravelly. 

“No,” said Harry, “missed.” 

“LEAVE IT!” Moody shouted. 

“Leave — what?” Harry said, bewildered. 

“Not you — him!” Moody growled, jerking his thumb 
over his shoulder at Crabbe, who had just frozen, 
about to pick up the white ferret. It seemed that 
Moody’s rolling eye was magical and could see out of 
the back of his head. 

Moody started to limp toward Crabbe, Goyle, and the 
ferret, which gave a terrified squeak and took off, 
streaking toward the dungeons. 

“I don’t think so!” roared Moody, pointing his wand at 
the ferret again — it flew ten feet into the air, fell with 

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a smack to the floor, and then bounced upward once 
more. 

“I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s 
back’s turned,” growled Moody as the ferret bounced 
higher and higher, squealing in pain. “Stinking, 
cowardly, scummy thing to do. ...” 

The ferret flew through the air, its legs and tail flailing 
helplessly. 

“Never — do — that — again — ” said Moody, speaking 
each word as the ferret hit the stone floor and 
bounced upward again. 

“Professor Moody!” said a shocked voice. 

Professor McGonagall was coming down the marble 
staircase with her arms full of books. 

“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” said Moody calmly, 
bouncing the ferret still higher. 

“What — what are you doing?” said Professor 
McGonagall, her eyes following the bouncing ferret’s 
progress through the air. 

“Teaching,” said Moody. 

“Teach — Moody, is that a student?” shrieked 
Professor McGonagall, the books spilling out of her 
arms. 

“Yep,” said Moody. 

“No!” cried Professor McGonagall, running down the 
stairs and pulling out her wand; a moment later, with 
a loud snapping noise, Draco Malfoy had reappeared, 
lying in a heap on the floor with his sleek blond hair 

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all over his now brilliantly pink face. He got to his 
feet, wincing. 

“Moody, we never use Transfiguration as a 
punishment!” said Professor McGonagall weakly. 
“Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?” 

“He might’ve mentioned it, yeah,” said Moody, 
scratching his chin unconcernedly, “but I thought a 
good sharp shock — ” 

“We give detentions, Moody! Or speak to the offender’s 
Head of House!” 

“I’ll do that, then,” said Moody, staring at Malfoy with 
great dislike. 

Malfoy, whose pale eyes were still watering with pain 
and humiliation, looked malevolently up at Moody 
and muttered something in which the words “my 
father” were distinguishable. 

“Oh yeah?” said Moody quietly, limping forward a few 
steps, the dull clunk of his wooden leg echoing around 
the hall. “Well, I know your father of old, boy. ... You 
tell him Moody’s keeping a close eye on his son . . . you 
tell him that from me. ... Now, your Head of House’ll 
be Snape, will it?” 

“Yes,” said Malfoy resentfully. 

“Another old friend,” growled Moody. “I’ve been 
looking forward to a chat with old Snape. ... Come on, 
you. ...” 

And he seized Malfoy’s upper arm and marched him 
off toward the dungeons. 



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Professor McGonagall stared anxiously after them for 
a few moments, then waved her wand at her fallen 
books, causing them to soar up into the air and back 
into her arms. 

“Don’t talk to me,” Ron said quietly to Harry and 
Hermione as they sat down at the Gryffindor table a 
few minutes later, surrounded by excited talk on all 
sides about what had just happened. 

“Why not?” said Hermione in surprise. 

“Because I want to fix that in my memory forever,” 
said Ron, his eyes closed and an uplifted expression 
on his face. “Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing 
ferret ...” 

Harry and Hermione both laughed, and Hermione 
began doling beef casserole onto each of their plates. 

“He could have really hurt Malfoy, though,” she said. 
“It was good, really, that Professor McGonagall 
stopped it — ” 

“Hermione!” said Ron furiously, his eyes snapping 
open again, “you’re ruining the best moment of my 
life!” 

Hermione made an impatient noise and began to eat 
at top speed again. 

“Don’t tell me you’re going back to the library this 
evening?” said Harry, watching her. 

“Got to,” said Hermione thickly. “Loads to do.” 

“But you told us Professor Vector — ” 



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“It’s not schoolwork,” she said. Within five minutes, 
she had cleared her plate and departed. No sooner 
had she gone than her seat was taken by Fred 
Weasley. 

“Moody!” he said. “How cool is he?” 

“Beyond cool,” said George, sitting down opposite 
Fred. 

“Supercool,” said the twins’ best friend, Lee Jordan, 
sliding into the seat beside George. “We had him this 
afternoon,” he told Harry and Ron. 

“What was it like?” said Harry eagerly. 

Fred, George, and Lee exchanged looks full of 
meaning. 

“Never had a lesson like it,” said Fred. 

“He knows, man,” said Lee. 

“Knows what?” said Ron, leaning forward. 

“Knows what it’s like to be out there doing it,” said 
George impressively. 

“Doing what?” said Harry. 

“Fighting the Dark Arts,” said Fred. 

“He’s seen it all,” said George. 

“ ’Mazing,” said Lee. 

Ron dived into his bag for his schedule. 



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“We haven’t got him till Thursday!” he said in a 
disappointed voice. 



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THE UNFORGIVABLE CURSES 

The next two days passed without great incident, 
unless you counted Neville melting his sixth cauldron 
in Potions. Professor Snape, who seemed to have 
attained new levels of vindictiveness over the 
summer, gave Neville detention, and Neville returned 
from it in a state of nervous collapse, having been 
made to disembowel a barrel full of horned toads. 

“You know why Snape ’s in such a foul mood, don’t 
you?” said Ron to Harry as they watched Hermione 
teaching Neville a Scouring Charm to remove the frog 
guts from under his fingernails. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Moody.” 

It was common knowledge that Snape really wanted 
the Dark Arts job, and he had now failed to get it for 
the fourth year running. Snape had disliked all of 
their previous Dark Arts teachers, and shown it — 
but he seemed strangely wary of displaying overt 
animosity to Mad-Eye Moody. Indeed, whenever Harry 
saw the two of them together — at mealtimes, or 

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when they passed in the corridors — he had the 
distinct impression that Snape was avoiding Moody’s 
eye, whether magical or normal. 

“I reckon Snape’s a bit scared of him, you know,” 
Harry said thoughtfully. 

“Imagine if Moody turned Snape into a horned toad,” 
said Ron, his eyes misting over, “and bounced him all 
around his dungeon. ...” 

The Gryffindor fourth years were looking forward to 
Moody’s first lesson so much that they arrived early 
on Thursday lunchtime and queued up outside his 
classroom before the bell had even rung. The only 
person missing was Hermione, who turned up just in 
time for the lesson. 

“Been in the — ” 

“Library.” Harry finished her sentence for her. 

“C’mon, quick, or we won’t get decent seats.” 

They hurried into three chairs right in front of the 
teacher’s desk, took out their copies of The Dark 
Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, and waited, 
unusually quiet. Soon they heard Moody’s distinctive 
clunking footsteps coming down the corridor, and he 
entered the room, looking as strange and frightening 
as ever. They could just see his clawed, wooden foot 
protruding from underneath his robes. 

“You can put those away,” he growled, stumping over 
to his desk and sitting down, “those books. You won’t 
need them.” 

They returned the books to their bags, Ron looking 
excited. 



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Moody took out a register, shook his long mane of 
grizzled gray hair out of his twisted and scarred face, 
and began to call out names, his normal eye moving 
steadily down the list while his magical eye swiveled 
around, fixing upon each student as he or she 
answered. 

“Right then,” he said, when the last person had 
declared themselves present, “I’ve had a letter from 
Professor Lupin about this class. Seems you’ve had a 
pretty thorough grounding in tackling Dark creatures 
— you’ve covered boggarts, Red Caps, hinkypunks, 
grindylows, Kappas, and werewolves, is that right?” 

There was a general murmur of assent. 

“But you’re behind — very behind — on dealing with 
curses,” said Moody. “So I’m here to bring you up to 
scratch on what wizards can do to each other. I’ve got 
one year to teach you how to deal with Dark — ” 

“What, aren’t you staying?” Ron blurted out. 

Moody’s magical eye spun around to stare at Ron; 

Ron looked extremely apprehensive, but after a 
moment Moody smiled — the first time Harry had 
seen him do so. The effect was to make his heavily 
scarred face look more twisted and contorted than 
ever, but it was nevertheless good to know that he 
ever did anything as friendly as smile. Ron looked 
deeply relieved. 

“You’ll be Arthur Weasley’s son, eh?” Moody said. 
“Your father got me out of a very tight corner a few 
days ago. ... Yeah, I’m staying just the one year. 
Special favor to Dumbledore. ... One year, and then 
back to my quiet retirement.” 



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He gave a harsh laugh, and then clapped his gnarled 
hands together. 

“So — straight into it. Curses. They come in many 
strengths and forms. Now, according to the Ministry 
of Magic, I’m supposed to teach you countercurses 
and leave it at that. I’m not supposed to show you 
what illegal Dark curses look like until you’re in the 
sixth year. You’re not supposed to be old enough to 
deal with it till then. But Professor Dumbledore’s got 
a higher opinion of your nerves, he reckons you can 
cope, and I say, the sooner you know what you’re up 
against, the better. How are you supposed to defend 
yourself against something you’ve never seen? A 
wizard who’s about to put an illegal curse on you isn’t 
going to tell you what he’s about to do. He’s not going 
to do it nice and polite to your face. You need to be 
prepared. You need to be alert and watchful. You 
need to put that away, Miss Brown, when I’m 
talking.” 

Lavender jumped and blushed. She had been showing 
Parvati her completed horoscope under the desk. 
Apparently Moody’s magical eye could see through 
solid wood, as well as out of the back of his head. 

“So ... do any of you know which curses are most 
heavily punished by wizarding law?” 

Several hands rose tentatively into the air, including 
Ron’s and Hermione’s. Moody pointed at Ron, though 
his magical eye was still fixed on Lavender. 

“Er,” said Ron tentatively, “my dad told me about one. 
... Is it called the Imperius Curse, or something?” 

“Ah, yes,” said Moody appreciatively. “Your father 
would know that one. Gave the Ministry a lot of 
trouble at one time, the Imperius Curse.” 

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Moody got heavily to his mismatched feet, opened his 
desk drawer, and took out a glass jar. Three large 
black spiders were scuttling around inside it. Harry 
felt Ron recoil slightly next to him — Ron hated 
spiders. 

Moody reached into the jar, caught one of the spiders, 
and held it in the palm of his hand so that they could 
all see it. He then pointed his wand at it and 
muttered, “Imperio\” 

The spider leapt from Moody’s hand on a fine thread 
of silk and began to swing backward and forward as 
though on a trapeze. It stretched out its legs rigidly, 
then did a back flip, breaking the thread and landing 
on the desk, where it began to cartwheel in circles. 
Moody jerked his wand, and the spider rose onto two 
of its hind legs and went into what was unmistakably 
a tap dance. 

Everyone was laughing — everyone except Moody. 

“Think it’s funny, do you?” he growled. “You’d like it, 
would you, if I did it to you?” 

The laughter died away almost instantly. 

“Total control,” said Moody quietly as the spider 
balled itself up and began to roll over and over. “I 
could make it jump out of the window, drown itself, 
throw itself down one of your throats ...” 

Ron gave an involuntary shudder. 

“Years back, there were a lot of witches and wizards 
being controlled by the Imperius Curse,” said Moody, 
and Harry knew he was talking about the days in 
which Voldemort had been all-powerful. “Some job for 



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the Ministry, trying to sort out who was being forced 
to act, and who was acting of their own free will. 

“The Imperius Curse can be fought, and I’ll be 
teaching you how, but it takes real strength of 
character, and not everyone’s got it. Better avoid 
being hit with it if you can. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” 
he barked, and everyone jumped. 

Moody picked up the somersaulting spider and threw 
it back into the jar. 

“Anyone else know one? Another illegal curse?” 

Hermione’s hand flew into the air again and so, to 
Harry’s slight surprise, did Neville’s. The only class in 
which Neville usually volunteered information was 
Herbology, which was easily his best subject. Neville 
looked surprised at his own daring. 

“Yes?” said Moody, his magical eye rolling right over 
to fix on Neville. 

“There’s one — the Cruciatus Curse,” said Neville in a 
small but distinct voice. 

Moody was looking very intently at Neville, this time 
with both eyes. 

“Your name’s Longbottom?” he said, his magical eye 
swooping down to check the register again. 

Neville nodded nervously, but Moody made no further 
inquiries. Turning back to the class at large, he 
reached into the jar for the next spider and placed it 
upon the desktop, where it remained motionless, 
apparently too scared to move. 



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“The Cruciatus Curse,” said Moody. “Needs to be a bit 
bigger for you to get the idea,” he said, pointing his 
wand at the spider. “Engorgio\” 

The spider swelled. It was now larger than a 
tarantula. Abandoning all pretense, Ron pushed his 
chair backward, as far away from Moody’s desk as 
possible. 

Moody raised his wand again, pointed it at the spider, 
and muttered, “CrucioV’ 

At once, the spider’s legs bent in upon its body; it 
rolled over and began to twitch horribly, rocking from 
side to side. No sound came from it, but Harry was 
sure that if it could have given voice, it would have 
been screaming. Moody did not remove his wand, and 
the spider started to shudder and jerk more violently 



“Stop it!” Hermione said shrilly. 

Harry looked around at her. She was looking, not at 
the spider, but at Neville, and Harry, following her 
gaze, saw that Neville’s hands were clenched upon the 
desk in front of him, his knuckles white, his eyes 
wide and horrified. 

Moody raised his wand. The spider’s legs relaxed, but 
it continued to twitch. 

“Reducio,” Moody muttered, and the spider shrank 
back to its proper size. He put it back into the jar. 

“Pain,” said Moody softly. “You don’t need 
thumbscrews or knives to torture someone if you can 
perform the Cruciatus Curse. ... That one was very 
popular once too. 



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“Right . . . anyone know any others?” 



Harry looked around. From the looks on everyone’s 
faces, he guessed they were all wondering what was 
going to happen to the last spider. Hermione’s hand 
shook slightly as, for the third time, she raised it into 
the air. 

“Yes?” said Moody, looking at her. 

“Avada Kedavra,” Hermione whispered. 

Several people looked uneasily around at her, 
including Ron. 

“Ah,” said Moody, another slight smile twisting his 
lopsided mouth. “Yes, the last and worst. Avada 
Kedavra ... the Killing Curse.” 

He put his hand into the glass jar, and almost as 
though it knew what was coming, the third spider 
scuttled frantically around the bottom of the jar, 
trying to evade Moody’s fingers, but he trapped it, and 
placed it upon the desktop. It started to scuttle 
frantically across the wooden surface. 

Moody raised his wand, and Harry felt a sudden thrill 
of foreboding. 

“Avada Kedavral” Moody roared. 

There was a flash of blinding green light and a 
rushing sound, as though a vast, invisible something 
was soaring through the air — instantaneously the 
spider rolled over onto its back, unmarked, but 
unmistakably dead. Several of the students stifled 
cries; Ron had thrown himself backward and almost 
toppled off his seat as the spider skidded toward him. 

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Moody swept the dead spider off the desk onto the 
floor. 

“Not nice,” he said calmly. “Not pleasant. And there’s 
no countercurse. There’s no blocking it. Only one 
known person has ever survived it, and he’s sitting 
right in front of me.” 

Harry felt his face redden as Moody’s eyes (both of 
them) looked into his own. He could feel everyone else 
looking around at him too. Harry stared at the blank 
blackboard as though fascinated by it, but not really 
seeing it at all. ... 

So that was how his parents had died . . . exactly like 
that spider. Had they been unblemished and 
unmarked too? Had they simply seen the flash of 
green light and heard the rush of speeding death, 
before life was wiped from their bodies? 

Harry had been picturing his parents’ deaths over 
and over again for three years now, ever since he’d 
found out they had been murdered, ever since he’d 
found out what had happened that night: Wormtail 
had betrayed his parents’ whereabouts to Voldemort, 
who had come to find them at their cottage. How 
Voldemort had killed Harry’s father first. How James 
Potter had tried to hold him off, while he shouted at 
his wife to take Harry and run ... Voldemort had 
advanced on Lily Potter, told her to move aside so 
that he could kill Harry . . . how she had begged him to 
kill her instead, refused to stop shielding her son . . . 
and so Voldemort had murdered her too, before 
turning his wand on Harry. . . . 

Harry knew these details because he had heard his 
parents’ voices when he had fought the dementors 
last year — for that was the terrible power of the 
dementors: to force their victims to relive the worst 

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memories of their lives, and drown, powerless, in their 
own despair. . . . 

Moody was speaking again, from a great distance, it 
seemed to Harry. With a massive effort, he pulled 
himself back to the present and listened to what 
Moody was saying. 

“Avada Kedavra’s a curse that needs a powerful bit of 
magic behind it — you could all get your wands out 
now and point them at me and say the words, and I 
doubt I’d get so much as a nosebleed. But that 
doesn’t matter. I’m not here to teach you how to do it. 

“Now, if there’s no countercurse, why am I showing 
you? Because you’ve got to know. You’ve got to 
appreciate what the worst is. You don’t want to find 
yourself in a situation where you’re facing it. 
CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he roared, and the whole 
class jumped again. 

“Now ... those three curses — Avada Kedavra, 
Imperius, and Cruciatus — are known as the 
Unforgivable Curses. The use of any one of them on a 
fellow human being is enough to earn a life sentence 
in Azkaban. That’s what you’re up against. That’s 
what I’ve got to teach you to fight. You need 
preparing. You need arming. But most of all, you 
need to practice constant, never-ceasing vigilance. Get 
out your quills ... copy this down. ...” 

They spent the rest of the lesson taking notes on each 
of the Unforgivable Curses. No one spoke until the 
bell rang — but when Moody had dismissed them and 
they had left the classroom, a torrent of talk burst 
forth. Most people were discussing the curses in awed 
voices — “Did you see it twitch?” “ — and when he 
killed it — just like that!” 



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They were talking about the lesson, Harry thought, as 
though it had been some sort of spectacular show, 
but he hadn’t found it very entertaining — and nor, it 
seemed, had Hermione. 

“Hurry up,” she said tensely to Harry and Ron. 

“Not the ruddy library again?” said Ron. 

“No,” said Hermione curtly, pointing up a side 
passage. “Neville.” 

Neville was standing alone, halfway up the passage, 
staring at the stone wall opposite him with the same 
horrified, wide-eyed look he had worn when Moody 
had demonstrated the Cruciatus Curse. 

“Neville?” Hermione said gently. 

Neville looked around. 

“Oh hello,” he said, his voice much higher than usual. 
“Interesting lesson, wasn’t it? I wonder what’s for 
dinner, I’m — I’m starving, aren’t you?” 

“Neville, are you all right?” said Hermione. 

“Oh yes, I’m fine,” Neville gabbled in the same 
unnaturally high voice. “Very interesting dinner — I 
mean lesson — what’s for eating?” 

Ron gave Harry a startled look. 

“Neville, what — ?” 

But an odd clunking noise sounded behind them, and 
they turned to see Professor Moody limping toward 
them. All four of them fell silent, watching him 



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apprehensively, but when he spoke, it was in a much 
lower and gentler growl than they had yet heard. 

“It’s all right, sonny,” he said to Neville. “Why don’t 
you come up to my office? Come on . . . we can have a 
cup of tea. ...” 

Neville looked even more frightened at the prospect of 
tea with Moody. He neither moved nor spoke. Moody 
turned his magical eye upon Harry. 

“You all right, are you, Potter?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, almost defiantly. 

Moody’s blue eye quivered slightly in its socket as it 
surveyed Harry. Then he said, “You’ve got to know. It 
seems harsh, maybe, but you’ve got to know. No point 
pretending ... well ... come on, Longbottom, I’ve got 
some books that might interest you.” 

Neville looked pleadingly at Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione, but they didn’t say anything, so Neville 
had no choice but to allow himself to be steered away, 
one of Moody’s gnarled hands on his shoulder. 

“What was that about?” said Ron, watching Neville 
and Moody turn the corner. 

“I don’t know,” said Hermione, looking pensive. 

“Some lesson, though, eh?” said Ron to Harry as they 
set off for the Great Hall. “Fred and George were right, 
weren’t they? He really knows his stuff, Moody, 
doesn’t he? When he did Avada Kedavra, the way that 
spider just died, just snuffed it right — ” 

But Ron fell suddenly silent at the look on Harry’s 
face and didn’t speak again until they reached the 

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Great Hall, when he said he supposed they had better 
make a start on Professor Trelawney’s predictions 
tonight, since they would take hours. 

Hermione did not join in with Harry and Ron’s 
conversation during dinner, but ate furiously fast, 
and then left for the library again. Harry and Ron 
walked back to Gryffindor Tower, and Harry, who had 
been thinking of nothing else all through dinner, now 
raised the subject of the Unforgivable Curses himself. 

“Wouldn’t Moody and Dumbledore be in trouble with 
the Ministry if they knew we’d seen the curses?” 

Harry asked as they approached the Fat Lady. 

“Yeah, probably,” said Ron. “But Dumbledore’s always 
done things his way, hasn’t he, and Moody’s been 
getting in trouble for years, I reckon. Attacks first and 
asks questions later — look at his dustbins. 
Balderdash.” 

The Fat Lady swung forward to reveal the entrance 
hole, and they climbed into the Gryffindor common 
room, which was crowded and noisy. 

“Shall we get our Divination stuff, then?” said Harry. 

“I s’pose,” Ron groaned. 

They went up to the dormitory to fetch their books 
and charts, to find Neville there alone, sitting on his 
bed, reading. He looked a good deal calmer than at 
the end of Moody’s lesson, though still not entirely 
normal. His eyes were rather red. 

“You all right, Neville?” Harry asked him. 

“Oh yes,” said Neville, “I’m fine, thanks. Just reading 
this book Professor Moody lent me. ...” 

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He held up the book: Magical Water Plants of the 
Mediterranean. 

“Apparently, Professor Sprout told Professor Moody 
I’m really good at Herbology,” Neville said. There was 
a faint note of pride in his voice that Harry had rarely 
heard there before. “He thought I’d like this.” 

Telling Neville what Professor Sprout had said, Harry 
thought, had been a very tactful way of cheering 
Neville up, for Neville very rarely heard that he was 
good at anything. It was the sort of thing Professor 
Lupin would have done. 

Harry and Ron took their copies of Unfogging the 
Future back down to the common room, found a 
table, and set to work on their predictions for the 
coming month. An hour later, they had made very 
little progress, though their table was littered with 
bits of parchment bearing sums and symbols, and 
Harry’s brain was as fogged as though it had been 
filled with the fumes from Professor Trelawney’s fire. 

“I haven’t got a clue what this lot’s supposed to 
mean,” he said, staring down at a long list of 
calculations. 

“You know,” said Ron, whose hair was on end 
because of all the times he had run his fingers 
through it in frustration, “I think it’s back to the old 
Divination standby.” 

“What — make it up?” 

“Yeah,” said Ron, sweeping the jumble of scrawled 
notes off the table, dipping his pen into some ink, and 
starting to write. 



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“Next Monday,” he said as he scribbled, “I am likely to 
develop a cough, owing to the unlucky conjunction of 
Mars and Jupiter.” He looked up at Harry. “You know 
her — just put in loads of misery, shell lap it up.” 

“Right,” said Harry, crumpling up his first attempt 
and lobbing it over the heads of a group of chattering 
first years into the fire. “Okay ... on Monday, / will be 
in danger of — er — burns.” 

“Yeah, you will be,” said Ron darkly, “we’re seeing the 
skrewts again on Monday. Okay, Tuesday, I’ll ... erm 



“Lose a treasured possession,” said Harry, who was 
flicking through Unfogging the Future for ideas. 

“Good one,” said Ron, copying it down. “Because of 
... erm ... Mercury. Why don’t you get stabbed in the 
back by someone you thought was a friend?” 

“Yeah ... cool ...” said Harry, scribbling it down, 
“because ... Venus is in the twelfth house.” 

“And on Wednesday, I think I’ll come off worst in a 
fight.” 

“Aaah, I was going to have a fight. Okay, I’ll lose a 
bet.” 

“Yeah, you’ll be betting I’ll win my fight. ...” 

They continued to make up predictions (which grew 
steadily more tragic) for another hour, while the 
common room around them slowly emptied as people 
went up to bed. Crookshanks wandered over to them, 
leapt lightly into an empty chair, and stared 
inscrutably at Harry, rather as Hermione might look if 
she knew they weren’t doing their homework properly. 
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Staring around the room, trying to think of a kind of 
misfortune he hadn’t yet used, Harry saw Fred and 
George sitting together against the opposite wall, 
heads together, quills out, poring over a single piece 
of parchment. It was most unusual to see Fred and 
George hidden away in a corner and working silently; 
they usually liked to be in the thick of things and the 
noisy center of attention. There was something 
secretive about the way they were working on the 
piece of parchment, and Harry was reminded of how 
they had sat together writing something back at the 
Burrow. He had thought then that it was another 
order form for Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, but it didn’t 
look like that this time; if it had been, they would 
surely have let Lee Jordan in on the joke. He 
wondered whether it had anything to do with entering 
the Triwizard Tournament. 

As Harry watched, George shook his head at Fred, 
scratched out something with his quill, and said, in a 
very quiet voice that nevertheless carried across the 
almost deserted room, “No — that sounds like we’re 
accusing him. Got to be careful ...” 

Then George looked over and saw Harry watching 
him. Harry grinned and quickly returned to his 
predictions — he didn’t want George to think he was 
eavesdropping. Shortly after that, the twins rolled up 
their parchment, said good night, and went off to bed. 

Fred and George had been gone ten minutes or so 
when the portrait hole opened and Hermione climbed 
into the common room carrying a sheaf of parchment 
in one hand and a box whose contents rattled as she 
walked in the other. Crookshanks arched his back, 
purring. 

“Hello,” she said, “I’ve just finished!” 



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“So have I!” said Ron triumphantly, throwing down 
his quill. 

Hermione sat down, laid the things she was carrying 
in an empty armchair, and pulled Ron’s predictions 
toward her. 

“Not going to have a very good month, are you?” she 
said sardonically as Crookshanks curled up in her 
lap. 

“Ah well, at least I’m forewarned,” Ron yawned. 

“You seem to be drowning twice,” said Hermione. 

“Oh am I?” said Ron, peering down at his predictions. 
“I’d better change one of them to getting trampled by 
a rampaging hippogriff.” 

“Don’t you think it’s a bit obvious you’ve made these 
up?” said Hermione. 

“How dare you!” said Ron, in mock outrage. “We’ve 
been working like house-elves here!” 

Hermione raised her eyebrows. 

“It’s just an expression,” said Ron hastily. 

Harry laid down his quill too, having just finished 
predicting his own death by decapitation. 

“What’s in the box?” he asked, pointing at it. 

“Funny you should ask,” said Hermione, with a nasty 
look at Ron. She took off the lid and showed them the 
contents. 



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Inside were about fifty badges, all of different colors, 
but all bearing the same letters: S.P.E.W. 

“ ‘Spew?” said Harry, picking up a badge and looking 
at it. “What’s this about?” 

“Not spew,” said Hermione impatiently. “It’s S-P-E-W. 
Stands for the Society for the Promotion of Elfish 
Welfare.” 

“Never heard of it,” said Ron. 

“Well, of course you haven’t,” said Hermione briskly, 
“I’ve only just started it.” 

“Yeah?” said Ron in mild surprise. “How many 
members have you got?” 

“Well — if you two join — three,” said Hermione. 

“And you think we want to walk around wearing 
badges saying ‘spew,’ do you?” said Ron. 

“S-P-E-W!” said Hermione hotly. “I was going to put 
Stop the Outrageous Abuse of Our Fellow Magical 
Creatures and Campaign for a Change in Their Legal 
Status — but it wouldn’t fit. So that’s the heading of 
our manifesto.” 

She brandished the sheaf of parchment at them. 

“I’ve been researching it thoroughly in the library. Elf 
enslavement goes back centuries. I can’t believe no 
one’s done anything about it before now.” 

“Hermione — open your ears,” said Ron loudly. “They. 
Like. It. They like being enslaved!” 



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“Our short-term aims,” said Hermione, speaking even 
more loudly than Ron, and acting as though she 
hadn’t heard a word, “are to secure house-elves fair 
wages and working conditions. Our long-term aims 
include changing the law about non-wand use, and 
trying to get an elf into the Department for the 
Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, because 
they’re shockingly underrepresented.” 

“And how do we do all this?” Harry asked. 

“We start by recruiting members,” said Hermione 
happily. “I thought two Sickles to join — that buys a 
badge — and the proceeds can fund our leaflet 
campaign. You’re treasurer, Ron — I’ve got you a 
collecting tin upstairs — and Harry, you’re secretary, 
so you might want to write down everything I’m 
saying now, as a record of our first meeting.” 

There was a pause in which Hermione beamed at the 
pair of them, and Harry sat, torn between 
exasperation at Hermione and amusement at the look 
on Ron’s face. The silence was broken, not by Ron, 
who in any case looked as though he was temporarily 
dumbstruck, but by a soft tap, tap on the window. 
Harry looked across the now empty common room 
and saw, illuminated by the moonlight, a snowy owl 
perched on the windowsill. 

“Hedwig!” he shouted, and he launched himself out of 
his chair and across the room to pull open the 
window. 

Hedwig flew inside, soared across the room, and 
landed on the table on top of Harry’s predictions. 

“About time!” said Harry, hurrying after her. 



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“She’s got an answer!” said Ron excitedly, pointing at 
the grubby piece of parchment tied to Hedwig’s leg. 

Harry hastily untied it and sat down to read, 
whereupon Hedwig fluttered onto his knee, hooting 
softly. 

“What does it say?” Hermione asked breathlessly. 

The letter was very short, and looked as though it had 
been scrawled in a great hurry. Harry read it aloud: 

Harry — 

I’m flying north immediately. This news about your 
scar is the latest in a series of strange rumors that 
have reached me here. If it hurts again , go straight to 
Dumbledore — they’re saying he’s got Mad-Eye out of 
retirement, which means he’s reading the signs, even if 
no one else is. 

I’ll be in touch soon. My best to Ron and Hermione. 

Keep your eyes open, Harry. 

Sirius 

Harry looked up at Ron and Hermione, who stared 
back at him. 

“He’s flying north?” Hermione whispered. “He’s 
coming back?” 

“Dumbledore’s reading what signs?” said Ron, looking 
perplexed. “Harry — what’s up?” 

For Harry had just hit himself in the forehead with 
his fist, jolting Hedwig out of his lap. 

“I shouldn’t’ve told him!” Harry said furiously. 

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“What are you on about?” said Ron in surprise. 



“It’s made him think he’s got to come back!” said 
Harry, now slamming his fist on the table so that 
Hedwig landed on the back of Ron’s chair, hooting 
indignantly. “Coming back, because he thinks I’m in 
trouble! And there’s nothing wrong with me! And I 
haven’t got anything for you,” Harry snapped at 
Hedwig, who was clicking her beak expectantly, 

“you’ll have to go up to the Owlery if you want food.” 

Hedwig gave him an extremely offended look and took 
off for the open window, cuffing him around the head 
with her outstretched wing as she went. 

“Harry,” Hermione began, in a pacifying sort of voice. 

“I’m going to bed,” said Harry shortly. “See you in the 
morning.” 

Upstairs in the dormitory he pulled on his pajamas 
and got into his four-poster, but he didn’t feel 
remotely tired. 

If Sirius came back and got caught, it would be his, 
Harry’s, fault. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? A 
few seconds’ pain and he’d had to blab. ... If he’d just 
had the sense to keep it to himself. . . . 

He heard Ron come up into the dormitory a short 
while later, but did not speak to him. For a long time, 
Harry lay staring up at the dark canopy of his bed. 
The dormitory was completely silent, and, had he 
been less preoccupied, Harry would have realized that 
the absence of Neville’s usual snores meant that he 
was not the only one lying awake. 



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BEAUXBATONS AND DRUMSTRANG 

Early next morning, Harry woke with a plan fully 
formed in his mind, as though his sleeping brain had 
been working on it all night. He got up, dressed in the 
pale dawn light, left the dormitory without waking 
Ron, and went back down to the deserted common 
room. Here he took a piece of parchment from the 
table upon which his Divination homework still lay 
and wrote the following letter: 

Dear Sirius, 

I reckon I just imagined my scar hurting, I was half 
asleep when I wrote to you last time. There’s no point 
coming back, everything’s fine here. Don’t worry about 
me, my head feels completely normal. 

Harry 

He then climbed out of the portrait hole, up through 
the silent castle (held up only briefly by Peeves, who 
tried to overturn a large vase on him halfway along 



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the fourth-floor corridor), finally arriving at the 
Owlery, which was situated at the top of West Tower. 

The Owlery was a circular stone room, rather cold 
and drafty, because none of the windows had glass in 
them. The floor was entirely covered in straw, owl 
droppings, and the regurgitated skeletons of mice and 
voles. Hundreds upon hundreds of owls of every 
breed imaginable were nestled here on perches that 
rose right up to the top of the tower, nearly all of 
them asleep, though here and there a round amber 
eye glared at Harry. He spotted Hedwig nestled 
between a barn owl and a tawny, and hurried over to 
her, sliding a little on the dropping-strewn floor. 

It took him a while to persuade her to wake up and 
then to look at him, as she kept shuffling around on 
her perch, showing him her tail. She was evidently 
still furious about his lack of gratitude the previous 
night. In the end, it was Harry suggesting she might 
be too tired, and that perhaps he would ask Ron to 
borrow Pigwidgeon, that made her stick out her leg 
and allow him to tie the letter to it. 

“Just find him, all right?” Harry said, stroking her 
back as he carried her on his arm to one of the holes 
in the wall. “Before the dementors do.” 

She nipped his finger, perhaps rather harder than she 
would ordinarily have done, but hooted softly in a 
reassuring sort of way all the same. Then she spread 
her wings and took off into the sunrise. Harry 
watched her fly out of sight with the familiar feeling of 
unease back in his stomach. He had been so sure 
that Sirius’s reply would alleviate his worries rather 
than increasing them. 

“That was a lie, Harry,” said Hermione sharply over 
breakfast, when he told her and Ron what he had 

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done. “You didn’t imagine your scar hurting and you 
know it.” 

“So what?” said Harry. “He’s not going back to 
Azkaban because of me.” 

“Drop it,” said Ron sharply to Hermione as she 
opened her mouth to argue some more, and for once, 
Hermione heeded him, and fell silent. 

Harry did his best not to worry about Sirius over the 
next couple of weeks. True, he could not stop himself 
from looking anxiously around every morning when 
the post owls arrived, nor, late at night before he went 
to sleep, prevent himself from seeing horrible visions 
of Sirius, cornered by dementors down some dark 
London street, but betweentimes he tried to keep his 
mind off his godfather. He wished he still had 
Quidditch to distract him; nothing worked so well on 
a troubled mind as a good, hard training session. On 
the other hand, their lessons were becoming more 
difficult and demanding than ever before, particularly 
Moody’s Defense Against the Dark Arts. 

To their surprise, Professor Moody had announced 
that he would be putting the Imperius Curse on each 
of them in turn, to demonstrate its power and to see 
whether they could resist its effects. 

“But — but you said it’s illegal, Professor,” said 
Hermione uncertainly as Moody cleared away the 
desks with a sweep of his wand, leaving a large clear 
space in the middle of the room. “You said — to use it 
against another human was — ” 

“Dumbledore wants you taught what it feels like,” 
said Moody, his magical eye swiveling onto Hermione 
and fixing her with an eerie, unblinking stare. “If 
you’d rather learn the hard way — when someone’s 

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putting it on you so they can control you completely 
— fine by me. You’re excused. Off you go.” 

He pointed one gnarled finger toward the door. 
Hermione went very pink and muttered something 
about not meaning that she wanted to leave. Harry 
and Ron grinned at each other. They knew Hermione 
would rather eat bubotuber pus than miss such an 
important lesson. 

Moody began to beckon students forward in turn and 
put the Imperius Curse upon them. Harry watched 
as, one by one, his classmates did the most 
extraordinary things under its influence. Dean 
Thomas hopped three times around the room, singing 
the national anthem. Lavender Brown imitated a 
squirrel. Neville performed a series of quite 
astonishing gymnastics he would certainly not have 
been capable of in his normal state. Not one of them 
seemed to be able to fight off the curse, and each of 
them recovered only when Moody had removed it. 

“Potter,” Moody growled, “you next.” 

Harry moved forward into the middle of the 
classroom, into the space that Moody had cleared of 
desks. Moody raised his wand, pointed it at Harry, 
and said, “Imperio\” 

It was the most wonderful feeling. Harry felt a floating 
sensation as every thought and worry in his head was 
wiped gently away, leaving nothing but a vague, 
untraceable happiness. He stood there feeling 
immensely relaxed, only dimly aware of everyone 
watching him. 

And then he heard Mad-Eye Moody’s voice, echoing in 
some distant chamber of his empty brain: Jump onto 
the desk . . . jump onto the desk. . . . 

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Harry bent his knees obediently, preparing to spring. 
Jump onto the desk. ... 

Why, though? Another voice had awoken in the back 
of his brain. 

Stupid thing to do, really, said the voice. 

Jump onto the desk. ... 

No, I don’t think I will, thanks, said the other voice, a 
little more firmly ... no, I don’t really want to. ... 

Jump\ NOW 

The next thing Harry felt was considerable pain. He 
had both jumped and tried to prevent himself from 
jumping — the result was that he’d smashed 
headlong into the desk, knocking it over, and, by the 
feeling in his legs, fractured both his kneecaps. 

“Now, that’s more like it!” growled Moody’s voice, and 
suddenly, Harry felt the empty, echoing feeling in his 
head disappear. He remembered exactly what was 
happening, and the pain in his knees seemed to 
double. 

“Look at that, you lot ... Potter fought! He fought it, 
and he damn near beat it! We’ll try that again, Potter, 
and the rest of you, pay attention — watch his eyes, 
that’s where you see it — very good, Potter, very good 
indeed! They’ll have trouble controlling you!” 



“The way he talks,” Harry muttered as he hobbled out 
of the Defense Against the Dark Arts class an hour 
later (Moody had insisted on putting Harry through 

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his paces four times in a row, until Harry could throw 
off the curse entirely), “you’d think we were all going 
to be attacked any second.” 

“Yeah, I know,” said Ron, who was skipping on every 
alternate step. He had had much more difficulty with 
the curse than Harry, though Moody assured him the 
effects would wear off by lunch-time. “Talk about 
paranoid ...” Ron glanced nervously over his shoulder 
to check that Moody was definitely out of earshot and 
went on. “No wonder they were glad to get shot of him 
at the Ministry. Did you hear him telling Seamus 
what he did to that witch who shouted ‘Boo’ behind 
him on April Fools’ Day? And when are we supposed 
to read up on resisting the Imperius Curse with 
everything else we’ve got to do?” 

All the fourth years had noticed a definite increase in 
the amount of work they were required to do this 
term. Professor McGonagall explained why, when the 
class gave a particularly loud groan at the amount of 
Transfiguration homework she had assigned. 

“You are now entering a most important phase of your 
magical education!” she told them, her eyes glinting 
dangerously behind her square spectacles. “Your 
Ordinary Wizarding Levels are drawing closer — ” 

“We don’t take O.W.L.s till fifth year!” said Dean 
Thomas indignantly. 

“Maybe not, Thomas, but believe me, you need all the 
preparation you can get! Miss Granger remains the 
only person in this class who has managed to turn a 
hedgehog into a satisfactory pincushion. I might 
remind you that your pincushion, Thomas, still curls 
up in fright if anyone approaches it with a pin!” 



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Hermione, who had turned rather pink again, seemed 
to be trying not to look too pleased with herself. 

Harry and Ron were deeply amused when Professor 
Trelawney told them that they had received top marks 
for their homework in their next Divination class. She 
read out large portions of their predictions, 
commending them for their unflinching acceptance of 
the horrors in store for them — but they were less 
amused when she asked them to do the same thing 
for the month after next; both of them were running 
out of ideas for catastrophes. 

Meanwhile Professor Binns, the ghost who taught 
History of Magic, had them writing weekly essays on 
the goblin rebellions of the eighteenth century. 
Professor Snape was forcing them to research 
antidotes. They took this one seriously, as he had 
hinted that he might be poisoning one of them before 
Christmas to see if their antidote worked. Professor 
Flitwick had asked them to read three extra books in 
preparation for their lesson on Summoning Charms. 

Even Hagrid was adding to their workload. The Blast- 
Ended Skrewts were growing at a remarkable pace 
given that nobody had yet discovered what they ate. 
Hagrid was delighted, and as part of their “project,” 
suggested that they come down to his hut on 
alternate evenings to observe the skrewts and make 
notes on their extraordinary behavior. 

“I will not,” said Draco Malfoy flatly when Hagrid had 
proposed this with the air of Father Christmas pulling 
an extra- large toy out of his sack. “I see enough of 
these foul things during lessons, thanks.” 

Hagrid ’s smile faded off his face. 



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“Yeh’ll do wha’yer told,” he growled, “or I’ll be takin’ a 
leaf outta Professor Moody’s book. ... I hear yeh made 
a good ferret, Malfoy.” 

The Gryffindors roared with laughter. Malfoy flushed 
with anger, but apparently the memory of Moody’s 
punishment was still sufficiently painful to stop him 
from retorting. Harry, Ron, and Hermione returned to 
the castle at the end of the lesson in high spirits; 
seeing Hagrid put down Malfoy was particularly 
satisfying, especially because Malfoy had done his 
very best to get Hagrid sacked the previous year. 

When they arrived in the entrance hall, they found 
themselves unable to proceed owing to the large 
crowd of students congregated there, all milling 
around a large sign that had been erected at the foot 
of the marble staircase. Ron, the tallest of the three, 
stood on tiptoe to see over the heads in front of them 
and read the sign aloud to the other two: 

TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT 

The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang 
will be arriving at 6 o’clock on Friday the 30th of 
October. Lessons will end half an hour early — 

“Brilliant!” said Harry. “It’s Potions last thing on 
Friday! Snape won’t have time to poison us all!” 

Students will return their bags and books to their 
dormitories and assemble in front of the castle to 
greet our guests before the Welcoming Feast. 



“Only a week away!” said Ernie Macmillan of 
Hufflepuff, emerging from the crowd, his eyes 



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gleaming. “I wonder if Cedric knows? Think 111 go and 
tell him. ...” 



“Cedric?” said Ron blankly as Ernie hurried off. 

“Diggory,” said Harry. “He must be entering the 
tournament.” 

“That idiot, Hogwarts champion?” said Ron as they 
pushed their way through the chattering crowd 
toward the staircase. 

“He’s not an idiot. You just don’t like him because he 
beat Gryffindor at Quidditch,” said Hermione. “I’ve 
heard he’s a really good student — and he’s a 
prefect.” 

She spoke as though this settled the matter. 

“You only like him because he’s handsome,” said Ron 
scathingly. 

“Excuse me, I don’t like people just because they’re 
handsome!” said Hermione indignantly. 

Ron gave a loud false cough, which sounded oddly 
like “Lockhart\” 

The appearance of the sign in the entrance hall had a 
marked effect upon the inhabitants of the castle. 
During the following week, there seemed to be only 
one topic of conversation, no matter where Harry 
went: the Triwizard Tournament. Rumors were flying 
from student to student like highly contagious germs: 
who was going to try for Hogwarts champion, what 
the tournament would involve, how the students from 
Beauxbatons and Durmstrang differed from 
themselves. 

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Harry noticed too that the castle seemed to be 
undergoing an extra-thorough cleaning. Several grimy 
portraits had been scrubbed, much to the displeasure 
of their subjects, who sat huddled in their frames 
muttering darkly and wincing as they felt their raw 
pink faces. The suits of armor were suddenly 
gleaming and moving without squeaking, and Argus 
Filch, the caretaker, was behaving so ferociously to 
any students who forgot to wipe their shoes that he 
terrified a pair of first-year girls into hysterics. 

Other members of the staff seemed oddly tense too. 

“Longbottom, kindly do not reveal that you can’t even 
perform a simple Switching Spell in front of anyone 
from Durmstrang!” Professor McGonagall barked at 
the end of one particularly difficult lesson, during 
which Neville had accidentally transplanted his own 
ears onto a cactus. 

When they went down to breakfast on the morning of 
the thirtieth of October, they found that the Great 
Hall had been decorated overnight. Enormous silk 
banners hung from the walls, each of them 
representing a Hogwarts House: red with a gold lion 
for Gryffindor, blue with a bronze eagle for 
Ravenclaw, yellow with a black badger for Hufflepuff, 
and green with a silver serpent for Slytherin. Behind 
the teachers’ table, the largest banner of all bore the 
Hogwarts coat of arms: lion, eagle, badger, and snake 
united around a large letter H. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down beside Fred and 
George at the Gryffindor table. Once again, and most 
unusually, they were sitting apart from everyone else 
and conversing in low voices. Ron led the way over to 
them. 



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“It’s a bummer, all right,” George was saying gloomily 
to Fred. “But if he won’t talk to us in person, we’ll 
have to send him the letter after all. Or we’ll stuff it 
into his hand. He can’t avoid us forever.” 

“Who’s avoiding you?” said Ron, sitting down next to 
them. 

“Wish you would,” said Fred, looking irritated at the 
interruption. 

“What’s a bummer?” Ron asked George. 

“Having a nosy git like you for a brother,” said George. 

“You two got any ideas on the Triwizard Tournament 
yet?” Harry asked. “Thought any more about trying to 
enter?” 

“I asked McGonagall how the champions are chosen 
but she wasn’t telling,” said George bitterly. “She just 
told me to shut up and get on with transfiguring my 
raccoon.” 

“Wonder what the tasks are going to be?” said Ron 
thoughtfully. “You know, I bet we could do them, 
Harry. We’ve done dangerous stuff before. ...” 

“Not in front of a panel of judges, you haven’t,” said 
Fred. “McGonagall says the champions get awarded 
points according to how well they’ve done the tasks.” 

“Who are the judges?” Harry asked. 

“Well, the Heads of the participating schools are 
always on the panel,” said Hermione, and everyone 
looked around at her, rather surprised, “because all 
three of them were injured during the Tournament of 



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1792, when a cockatrice the champions were 
supposed to be catching went on the rampage.” 

She noticed them all looking at her and said, with her 
usual air of impatience that nobody else had read all 
the books she had, “It’s all in Hogwarts, A History. 
Though, of course, that book’s not entirely reliable. A 
Revised History of Hogwarts would be a more 
accurate title. Or A Highly Biased and Selective 
History of Hogwarts, Which Glosses Over the Nastier 
Aspects of the School.” 

“What are you on about?” said Ron, though Harry 
thought he knew what was coming. 

“ House-elves\” said Hermione, her eyes flashing. “Not 
once, in over a thousand pages, does Hogwarts, A 
History mention that we are all colluding in the 
oppression of a hundred slaves!” 

Harry shook his head and applied himself to his 
scrambled eggs. His and Ron’s lack of enthusiasm 
had done nothing whatsoever to curb Hermione ’s 
determination to pursue justice for house-elves. True, 
both of them had paid two Sickles for a S.P.E.W. 
badge, but they had only done it to keep her quiet. 
Their Sickles had been wasted, however; if anything, 
they seemed to have made Hermione more vociferous. 
She had been badgering Harry and Ron ever since, 
first to wear the badges, then to persuade others to do 
the same, and she had also taken to rattling around 
the Gryffindor common room every evening, cornering 
people and shaking the collecting tin under their 
noses. 

“You do realize that your sheets are changed, your 
fires lit, your classrooms cleaned, and your food 
cooked by a group of magical creatures who are 
unpaid and enslaved?” she kept saying fiercely. 

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Some people, like Neville, had paid up just to stop 
Hermione from glowering at them. A few seemed 
mildly interested in what she had to say, but were 
reluctant to take a more active role in campaigning. 
Many regarded the whole thing as a joke. 

Ron now rolled his eyes at the ceiling, which was 
flooding them all in autumn sunlight, and Fred 
became extremely interested in his bacon (both twins 
had refused to buy a S.P.E.W. badge). George, 
however, leaned in toward Hermione. 

“Listen, have you ever been down in the kitchens, 
Hermione?” 

“No, of course not,” said Hermione curtly, “I hardly 
think students are supposed to — ” 

“Well, we have,” said George, indicating Fred, “loads 
of times, to nick food. And we’ve met them, and 
they’re happy. They think they’ve got the best job in 
the world — ” 

“That’s because they’re uneducated and 
brainwashed!” Hermione began hotly, but her next 
few words were drowned out by the sudden 
whooshing noise from overhead, which announced 
the arrival of the post owls. Harry looked up at once, 
and saw Hedwig soaring toward him. Hermione 
stopped talking abruptly; she and Ron watched 
Hedwig anxiously as she fluttered down onto Harry’s 
shoulder, folded her wings, and held out her leg 
wearily. 

Harry pulled off Sirius’s reply and offered Hedwig his 
bacon rinds, which she ate gratefully. Then, checking 
that Fred and George were safely immersed in further 
discussions about the Tri-wizard Tournament, Harry 



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read out Sirius’s letter in a whisper to Ron and 
Hermione. 



Nice try, Harry. 

I’m back in the country and well hidden. I want you to 
keep me posted on everything that’s going on at 
Hog warts. Don’t use Hedwig, keep changing owls, and 
don’t worry about me, just watch out for yourself. Don’t 
forget what I said about your scar. 

Sirius 

“Why d’you have to keep changing owls?” Ron asked 
in a low voice. 

“Hedwig’ll attract too much attention,” said Hermione 
at once. “She stands out. A snowy owl that keeps 
returning to wherever he’s hiding ... I mean, they’re 
not native birds, are they?” 

Harry rolled up the letter and slipped it inside his 
robes, wondering whether he felt more or less worried 
than before. He supposed that Sirius managing to get 
back without being caught was something. He 
couldn’t deny either that the idea that Sirius was 
much nearer was reassuring; at least he wouldn’t 
have to wait so long for a response every time he 
wrote. 

“Thanks, Hedwig,” he said, stroking her. She hooted 
sleepily, dipped her beak briefly into his goblet of 
orange juice, then took off again, clearly desperate for 
a good long sleep in the Owlery. 

There was a pleasant feeling of anticipation in the air 
that day. Nobody was very attentive in lessons, being 
much more interested in the arrival that evening of 
the people from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang; even 

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Potions was more bearable than usual, as it was half 
an hour shorter. When the bell rang early, Harry, 

Ron, and Hermione hurried up to Gryffindor Tower, 
deposited their bags and books as they had been 
instructed, pulled on their cloaks, and rushed back 
downstairs into the entrance hall. 

The Heads of Houses were ordering their students 
into lines. 

“Weasley, straighten your hat,” Professor McGonagall 
snapped at Ron. “Miss Patil, take that ridiculous 
thing out of your hair.” 

Parvati scowled and removed a large ornamental 
butterfly from the end of her plait. 

“Follow me, please,” said Professor McGonagall. “First 
years in front ... no pushing. ...” 

They filed down the steps and lined up in front of the 
castle. It was a cold, clear evening; dusk was falling 
and a pale, transparent-looking moon was already 
shining over the Forbidden Forest. Harry, standing 
between Ron and Hermione in the fourth row from 
the front, saw Dennis Creevey positively shivering 
with anticipation among the other first years. 

“Nearly six,” said Ron, checking his watch and then 
staring down the drive that led to the front gates. 
“How d’you reckon they’re coming? The train?” 

“I doubt it,” said Hermione. 

“How, then? Broomsticks?” Harry suggested, looking 
up at the starry sky. 

“I don’t think so ... not from that far away. ...” 



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“A Portkey?” Ron suggested. “Or they could Apparate 
— maybe you’re allowed to do it under seventeen 
wherever they come from?” 

“You can’t Apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds, 
how often do I have to tell you?” said Hermione 
impatiently. 

They scanned the darkening grounds excitedly, but 
nothing was moving; everything was still, silent, and 
quite as usual. Harry was starting to feel cold. He 
wished they’d hurry up. ... Maybe the foreign 
students were preparing a dramatic entrance. ... He 
remembered what Mr. Weasley had said back at the 
campsite before the Quidditch World Cup: “always the 
same — we can’t resist showing off when we get 
together. ...” 

And then Dumbledore called out from the back row 
where he stood with the other teachers — 

“Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation 
from Beauxbatons approaches!” 

“Where?” said many students eagerly, all looking in 
different directions. 

“There!” yelled a sixth year, pointing over the forest. 

Something large, much larger than a broomstick — 
or, indeed, a hundred broomsticks — was hurtling 
across the deep blue sky toward the castle, growing 
larger all the time. 

“It’s a dragon!” shrieked one of the first years, losing 
her head completely. 

“Don’t be stupid ... it’s a flying house!” said Dennis 
Creevey. 

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Dennis’s guess was closer. ... As the gigantic black 
shape skimmed over the treetops of the Forbidden 
Forest and the lights shining from the castle windows 
hit it, they saw a gigantic, powder-blue, horse-drawn 
carriage, the size of a large house, soaring toward 
them, pulled through the air by a dozen winged 
horses, all palominos, and each the size of an 
elephant. 

The front three rows of students drew backward as 
the carriage hurtled ever lower, coming in to land at a 
tremendous speed — then, with an almighty crash 
that made Neville jump backward onto a Slytherin 
fifth year’s foot, the horses’ hooves, larger than dinner 
plates, hit the ground. A second later, the carriage 
landed too, bouncing upon its vast wheels, while the 
golden horses tossed their enormous heads and rolled 
large, fiery red eyes. 

Harry just had time to see that the door of the 
carriage bore a coat of arms (two crossed, golden 
wands, each emitting three stars) before it opened. 

A boy in pale blue robes jumped down from the 
carriage, bent forward, fumbled for a moment with 
something on the carriage floor, and unfolded a set of 
golden steps. He sprang back respectfully. Then 
Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging 
from the inside of the carriage — a shoe the size of a 
child’s sled — followed, almost immediately, by the 
largest woman he had ever seen in his life. The size of 
the carriage, and of the horses, was immediately 
explained. A few people gasped. 

Harry had only ever seen one person as large as this 
woman in his life, and that was Hagrid; he doubted 
whether there was an inch difference in their heights. 
Yet somehow — maybe simply because he was used 
to Hagrid — this woman (now at the foot of the steps, 
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and looking around at the waiting, wide-eyed crowd) 
seemed even more unnaturally large. As she stepped 
into the light flooding from the entrance hall, she was 
revealed to have a handsome, olive-skinned face; 
large, black, liquid-looking eyes; and a rather beaky 
nose. Her hair was drawn back in a shining knob at 
the base of her neck. She was dressed from head to 
foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals 
gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers. 

Dumbledore started to clap; the students, following 
his lead, broke into applause too, many of them 
standing on tiptoe, the better to look at this woman. 

Her face relaxed into a gracious smile and she walked 
forward toward Dumbledore, extending a glittering 
hand. Dumbledore, though tall himself, had barely to 
bend to kiss it. 

“My dear Madame Maxime,” he said. “Welcome to 
Hogwarts.” 

“Dumbly-dorr,” said Madame Maxime in a deep voice. 
“I ’ope I find you well?” 

“In excellent form, I thank you,” said Dumbledore. 

“My pupils,” said Madame Maxime, waving one of her 
enormous hands carelessly behind her. 

Harry, whose attention had been focused completely 
upon Madame Maxime, now noticed that about a 
dozen boys and girls, all, by the look of them, in their 
late teens, had emerged from the carriage and were 
now standing behind Madame Maxime. They were 
shivering, which was unsurprising, given that their 
robes seemed to be made of fine silk, and none of 
them were wearing cloaks. A few had wrapped scarves 
and shawls around their heads. From what Harry 
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could see of them (they were standing in Madame 
Maxime ’s enormous shadow), they were staring up at 
Hogwarts with apprehensive looks on their faces. 

“ ’As Karkaroff arrived yet?” Madame Maxime asked. 

“He should be here any moment,” said Dumbledore. 
“Would you like to wait here and greet him or would 
you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?” 

“Warm up, I think,” said Madame Maxime. “But ze 
’orses — ” 

“Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be 
delighted to take care of them,” said Dumbledore, “the 
moment he has returned from dealing with a slight 
situation that has arisen with some of his other — er 
— charges.” 

“Skrewts,” Ron muttered to Harry, grinning. 

“My steeds require — er — forceful ’andling,” said 
Madame Maxime, looking as though she doubted 
whether any Care of Magical Creatures teacher at 
Hogwarts could be up to the job. “Zey are very strong. 



“I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job,” 
said Dumbledore, smiling. 

“Very well,” said Madame Maxime, bowing slightly. 
“Will you please inform zis ’Agrid zat ze ’orses drink 
only single-malt whiskey?” 

“It will be attended to,” said Dumbledore, also bowing. 

“Come,” said Madame Maxime imperiously to her 
students, and the Hogwarts crowd parted to allow her 
and her students to pass up the stone steps. 

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“How big d’you reckon Durmstrang’s horses are going 
to be?” Seamus Finnigan said, leaning around 
Lavender and Parvati to address Harry and Ron. 

“Well, if they’re any bigger than this lot, even Hagrid 
won’t be able to handle them,” said Harry. “That’s if 
he hasn’t been attacked by his skrewts. Wonder 
what’s up with them?” 

“Maybe they’ve escaped,” said Ron hopefully. 

“Oh don’t say that,” said Hermione with a shudder. 
“Imagine that lot loose on the grounds. ...” 

They stood, shivering slightly now, waiting for the 
Durmstrang party to arrive. Most people were gazing 
hopefully up at the sky. For a few minutes, the 
silence was broken only by Madame Maxime’s huge 
horses snorting and stamping. But then — 

“Can you hear something?” said Ron suddenly. 

Harry listened; a loud and oddly eerie noise was 
drifting toward them from out of the darkness: a 
muffled rumbling and sucking sound, as though an 
immense vacuum cleaner were moving along a 
riverbed. ... 

“The lake!” yelled Lee Jordan, pointing down at it. 
“Look at the lake!” 

From their position at the top of the lawns 
overlooking the grounds, they had a clear view of the 
smooth black surface of the water — except that the 
surface was suddenly not smooth at all. Some 
disturbance was taking place deep in the center; great 
bubbles were forming on the surface, waves were now 
washing over the muddy banks — and then, out in 
the very middle of the lake, a whirlpool appeared, as if 
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a giant plug had just been pulled out of the lake’s 
floor. ... 

What seemed to be a long, black pole began to rise 
slowly out of the heart of the whirlpool . . . and then 
Harry saw the rigging. . . . 

“It’s a mast!” he said to Ron and Hermione. 

Slowly, magnificently, the ship rose out of the water, 
gleaming in the moonlight. It had a strangely skeletal 
look about it, as though it were a resurrected wreck, 
and the dim, misty lights shimmering at its portholes 
looked like ghostly eyes. Finally, with a great sloshing 
noise, the ship emerged entirely, bobbing on the 
turbulent water, and began to glide toward the bank. 
A few moments later, they heard the splash of an 
anchor being thrown down in the shallows, and the 
thud of a plank being lowered onto the bank. 

People were disembarking; they could see their 
silhouettes passing the lights in the ship’s portholes. 
All of them, Harry noticed, seemed to be built along 
the lines of Crabbe and Goyle . . . but then, as they 
drew nearer, walking up the lawns into the light 
streaming from the entrance hall, he saw that their 
bulk was really due to the fact that they were wearing 
cloaks of some kind of shaggy, matted fur. But the 
man who was leading them up to the castle was 
wearing furs of a different sort: sleek and silver, like 
his hair. 

“Dumbledore!” he called heartily as he walked up the 
slope. “How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?” 

“Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff,” 
Dumbledore replied. 



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Karkaroff had a fruity, unctuous voice; when he 
stepped into the light pouring from the front doors of 
the castle they saw that he was tall and thin like 
Dumbledore, but his white hair was short, and his 
goatee (finishing in a small curl) did not entirely hide 
his rather weak chin. When he reached Dumbledore, 
he shook hands with both of his own. 

“Dear old Hogwarts,” he said, looking up at the castle 
and smiling; his teeth were rather yellow, and Harry 
noticed that his smile did not extend to his eyes, 
which remained cold and shrewd. “How good it is to 
be here, how good. ... Viktor, come along, into the 
warmth ... you don’t mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a 
slight head cold. ...” 

Karkaroff beckoned forward one of his students. As 
the boy passed, Harry caught a glimpse of a 
prominent curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He 
didn’t need the punch on the arm Ron gave him, or 
the hiss in his ear, to recognize that profile. 

“Harry — it’s Krum\” 



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t'fyfflapier- l6 




THE GOBLET OF FIRE 

“I don’t believe it!” Ron said, in a stunned voice, as 
the Hogwarts students filed back up the steps behind 
the party from Durmstrang. “Krum, Harry! Viktor 
Kruml” 

“For heaven’s sake, Ron, he’s only a Quidditch 
player,” said Hermione. 

“Only a Quidditch player?” Ron said, looking at her as 
though he couldn’t believe his ears. “Hermione — he’s 
one of the best Seekers in the world! I had no idea he 
was still at school!” 

As they recrossed the entrance hall with the rest of 
the Hogwarts students heading for the Great Hall, 
Harry saw Lee Jordan jumping up and down on the 
soles of his feet to get a better look at the back of 
Krum’s head. Several sixth-year girls were frantically 
searching their pockets as they walked — 

“Oh I don’t believe it, I haven’t got a single quill on me 

?? 



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“D’you think he’d sign my hat in lipstick?” 



“Really,” Hermione said loftily as they passed the 
girls, now squabbling over the lipstick. 

“I’m getting his autograph if I can,” said Ron. “You 
haven’t got a quill, have you, Harry?” 

“Nope, they’re upstairs in my bag,” said Harry. 

They walked over to the Gryffindor table and sat 
down. Ron took care to sit on the side facing the 
doorway, because Krum and his fellow Durmstrang 
students were still gathered around it, apparently 
unsure about where they should sit. The students 
from Beauxbatons had chosen seats at the Ravenclaw 
table. They were looking around the Great Hall with 
glum expressions on their faces. Three of them were 
still clutching scarves and shawls around their heads. 

“It’s not that cold,” said Hermione defensively. “Why 
didn’t they bring cloaks?” 

“Over here! Come and sit over here!” Ron hissed. 

“Over here! Hermione, budge up, make a space — ” 

“What?” 

“Too late,” said Ron bitterly. 

Viktor Krum and his fellow Durmstrang students had 
settled themselves at the Slytherin table. Harry could 
see Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle looking very smug 
about this. As he watched, Malfoy bent forward to 
speak to Krum. 

“Yeah, that’s right, smarm up to him, Malfoy,” said 
Ron scathingly. “I bet Krum can see right through 
him, though ... bet he gets people fawning over him 

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all the time. ... Where d’you reckon they’re going to 
sleep? We could offer him a space in our dormitory, 
Harry ... I wouldn’t mind giving him my bed, I could 
kip on a camp bed.” 

Hermione snorted. 

“They look a lot happier than the Beauxbatons lot,” 
said Harry. 

The Durmstrang students were pulling off their heavy 
furs and looking up at the starry black ceiling with 
expressions of interest; a couple of them were picking 
up the golden plates and goblets and examining 
them, apparently impressed. 

Up at the staff table, Filch, the caretaker, was adding 
chairs. He was wearing his moldy old tailcoat in 
honor of the occasion. Harry was surprised to see 
that he added four chairs, two on either side of 
Dumbledore’s. 

“But there are only two extra people,” Harry said. 
“Why’s Filch putting out four chairs, who else is 
coming?” 

“Eh?” said Ron vaguely. He was still staring avidly at 
Krum. 

When all the students had entered the Hall and 
settled down at their House tables, the staff entered, 
filing up to the top table and taking their seats. Last 
in line were Professor Dumbledore, Professor 
Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime. When their 
headmistress appeared, the pupils from Beauxbatons 
leapt to their feet. A few of the Hogwarts students 
laughed. The Beauxbatons party appeared quite 
unembarrassed, however, and did not resume their 
seats until Madame Maxime had sat down on 
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Dumbledore ’s left-hand side. Dumbledore remained 
standing, and a silence fell over the Great Hall. 

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and — 
most particularly — guests,” said Dumbledore, 
beaming around at the foreign students. “I have great 
pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and 
trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and 
enjoyable.” 

One of the Beauxbatons girls still clutching a muffler 
around her head gave what was unmistakably a 
derisive laugh. 

“No one’s making you stay!” Hermione whispered, 
bristling at her. 

“The tournament will be officially opened at the end of 
the feast,” said Dumbledore. “I now invite you all to 
eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!” 

He sat down, and Harry saw Karkaroff lean forward at 
once and engage him in conversation. 

The plates in front of them filled with food as usual. 
The house-elves in the kitchen seemed to have pulled 
out all the stops; there was a greater variety of dishes 
in front of them than Harry had ever seen, including 
several that were definitely foreign. 

“What’s that?” said Ron, pointing at a large dish of 
some sort of shellfish stew that stood beside a large 
steak-and-kidney pudding. 

“Bouillabaisse,” said Hermione. 

“Bless you,” said Ron. 



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“It’s French,” said Hermione, “I had it on holiday 
summer before last. It’s very nice.” 

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Ron, helping himself 
to black pudding. 

The Great Hall seemed somehow much more crowded 
than usual, even though there were barely twenty 
additional students there; perhaps it was because 
their differently colored uniforms stood out so clearly 
against the black of the Hogwarts’ robes. Now that 
they had removed their furs, the Durmstrang 
students were revealed to be wearing robes of a deep 
bloodred. 

Hagrid sidled into the Hall through a door behind the 
staff table twenty minutes after the start of the feast. 
He slid into his seat at the end and waved at Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione with a very heavily bandaged 
hand. 

“Skrewts doing all right, Hagrid?” Harry called. 

“Thrivin’,” Hagrid called back happily. 

“Yeah, I’ll just bet they are,” said Ron quietly. “Looks 
like they’ve finally found a food they like, doesn’t it? 
Hagrid ’s fingers.” 

At that moment, a voice said, “Excuse me, are you 
wanting ze bouillabaisse?” 

It was the girl from Beauxbatons who had laughed 
during Dumbledore’s speech. She had finally removed 
her muffler. A long sheet of silvery-blonde hair fell 
almost to her waist. She had large, deep blue eyes, 
and very white, even teeth. 



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Ron went purple. He stared up at her, opened his 
mouth to reply, but nothing came out except a faint 
gurgling noise. 

“Yeah, have it,” said Harry, pushing the dish toward 
the girl. 

“You ’ave finished wiz it?” 

“Yeah,” Ron said breathlessly. “Yeah, it was 
excellent.” 

The girl picked up the dish and carried it carefully off 
to the Ravenclaw table. Ron was still goggling at the 
girl as though he had never seen one before. Harry 
started to laugh. The sound seemed to jog Ron back 
to his senses. 

“She’s a veelcd” he said hoarsely to Harry. 

“Of course she isn’t!” said Hermione tartly. “I don’t see 
anyone else gaping at her like an idiot!” 

But she wasn’t entirely right about that. As the girl 
crossed the Hall, many boys’ heads turned, and some 
of them seemed to have become temporarily 
speechless, just like Ron. 

“I’m telling you, that’s not a normal girl!” said Ron, 
leaning sideways so he could keep a clear view of her. 
“They don’t make them like that at Hogwarts!” 

“They make them okay at Hogwarts,” said Harry 
without thinking. Cho happened to be sitting only a 
few places away from the girl with the silvery hair. 

“When you’ve both put your eyes back in,” said 
Hermione briskly, “you’ll be able to see who’s just 
arrived.” 

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She was pointing up at the staff table. The two 
remaining empty seats had just been filled. Ludo 
Bagman was now sitting on Professor Karkaroff’s 
other side, while Mr. Crouch, Percy’s boss, was next 
to Madame Maxime. 

“What are they doing here?” said Harry in surprise. 

“They organized the Triwizard Tournament, didn’t 
they?” said Hermione. “I suppose they wanted to be 
here to see it start.” 

When the second course arrived they noticed a 
number of unfamiliar desserts too. Ron examined an 
odd sort of pale blancmange closely, then moved it 
carefully a few inches to his right, so that it would be 
clearly visible from the Ravenclaw table. The girl who 
looked like a veela appeared to have eaten enough, 
however, and did not come over to get it. 

Once the golden plates had been wiped clean, 
Dumbledore stood up again. A pleasant sort of 
tension seemed to fill the Hall now. Harry felt a slight 
thrill of excitement, wondering what was coming. 
Several seats down from them, Fred and George were 
leaning forward, staring at Dumbledore with great 
concentration. 

“The moment has come,” said Dumbledore, smiling 
around at the sea of upturned faces. “The Triwizard 
Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few 
words of explanation before we bring in the casket — ” 

“The what?” Harry muttered. 

Ron shrugged. 

“ — just to clarify the procedure that we will be 
following this year. But first, let me introduce, for 

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those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, 
Head of the Department of International Magical 
Cooperation” — there was a smattering of polite 
applause — “and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the 
Department of Magical Games and Sports.” 

There was a much louder round of applause for 
Bagman than for Crouch, perhaps because of his 
fame as a Beater, or simply because he looked so 
much more likable. He acknowledged it with a jovial 
wave of his hand. Bartemius Crouch did not smile or 
wave when his name was announced. Remembering 
him in his neat suit at the Quidditch World Cup, 
Harry thought he looked strange in wizard’s robes. 

His toothbrush mustache and severe parting looked 
very odd next to Dumbledore’s long white hair and 
beard. 

“Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly 
over the last few months on the arrangements for the 
Triwizard Tournament,” Dumbledore continued, “and 
they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and 
Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the 
champions’ efforts.” 

At the mention of the word “champions,” the 
attentiveness of the listening students seemed to 
sharpen. Perhaps Dumbledore had noticed their 
sudden stillness, for he smiled as he said, “The 
casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch.” 

Filch, who had been lurking unnoticed in a far corner 
of the Hall, now approached Dumbledore carrying a 
great wooden chest encrusted with jewels. It looked 
extremely old. A murmur of excited interest rose from 
the watching students; Dennis Creevey actually stood 
on his chair to see it properly, but, being so tiny, his 
head hardly rose above anyone else’s. 



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“The instructions for the tasks the champions will 
face this year have already been examined by Mr. 
Crouch and Mr. Bagman,” said Dumbledore as Filch 
placed the chest carefully on the table before him, 

“and they have made the necessary arrangements for 
each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced 
throughout the school year, and they will test the 
champions in many different ways . . . their magical 
prowess — their daring — their powers of deduction 
— and, of course, their ability to cope with danger.” 

At this last word, the Hall was filled with a silence so 
absolute that nobody seemed to be breathing. 

“As you know, three champions compete in the 
tournament,” Dumbledore went on calmly, “one from 
each of the participating schools. They will be marked 
on how well they perform each of the Tournament 
tasks and the champion with the highest total after 
task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions 
will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of 
Fire.” 

Dumbledore now took out his wand and tapped three 
times upon the top of the casket. The lid creaked 
slowly open. Dumbledore reached inside it and pulled 
out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup. It would have 
been entirely unremarkable had it not been full to the 
brim with dancing blue-white flames. 

Dumbledore closed the casket and placed the goblet 
carefully on top of it, where it would be clearly visible 
to everyone in the Hall. 

“Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion 
must write their name and school clearly upon a slip 
of parchment and drop it into the goblet,” said 
Dumbledore. “Aspiring champions have twenty-four 
hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow 
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night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of 
the three it has judged most worthy to represent their 
schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall 
tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those 
wishing to compete. 

“To ensure that no underage student yields to 
temptation,” said Dumbledore, “I will be drawing an 
Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been 
placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of 
seventeen will be able to cross this line. 

“Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to 
compete that this tournament is not to be entered 
into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by 
the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the 
tournament through to the end. The placing of your 
name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical 
contract. There can be no change of heart once you 
have become a champion. Please be very sure, 
therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to 
play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, 

I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all.” 

“An Age Line!” Fred Weasley said, his eyes glinting, as 
they all made their way across the Hall to the doors 
into the entrance hall. “Well, that should be fooled by 
an Aging Potion, shouldn’t it? And once your name’s 
in that goblet, you’re laughing — it can’t tell whether 
you’re seventeen or not!” 

“But I don’t think anyone under seventeen will stand 
a chance,” said Hermione, “we just haven’t learned 
enough ...” 

“Speak for yourself,” said George shortly. “You’ll try 
and get in, won’t you, Harry?” 



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Harry thought briefly of Dumbledore ’s insistence that 
nobody under seventeen should submit their name, 
but then the wonderful picture of himself winning the 
Triwizard Tournament filled his mind again. ... He 
wondered how angry Dumbledore would be if 
someone younger than seventeen did find a way to get 
over the Age Line. ... 

“Where is he?” said Ron, who wasn’t listening to a 
word of this conversation, but looking through the 
crowd to see what had become of Krum. “Dumbledore 
didn’t say where the Durmstrang people are sleeping, 
did he?” 

But this query was answered almost instantly; they 
were level with the Slytherin table now, and Karkaroff 
had just bustled up to his students. 

“Back to the ship, then,” he was saying. “Viktor, how 
are you feeling? Did you eat enough? Should I send 
for some mulled wine from the kitchens?” 

Harry saw Krum shake his head as he pulled his furs 
back on. 

“Professor, I vood like some vine,” said one of the 
other Durmstrang boys hopefully. 

“I wasn’t offering it to you, Poliakoff,” snapped 
Karkaroff, his warmly paternal air vanishing in an 
instant. “I notice you have dribbled food all down the 
front of your robes again, disgusting boy — ” 

Karkaroff turned and led his students toward the 
doors, reaching them at exactly the same moment as 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Harry stopped to let him 
walk through first. 



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“Thank you,” said Karkaroff carelessly, glancing at 
him. 

And then Karkaroff froze. He turned his head back to 
Harry and stared at him as though he couldn’t believe 
his eyes. Behind their headmaster, the students from 
Durmstrang came to a halt too. Karkaroff s eyes 
moved slowly up Harry’s face and fixed upon his scar. 
The Durmstrang students were staring curiously at 
Harry too. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw 
comprehension dawn on a few of their faces. The boy 
with food all down his front nudged the girl next to 
him and pointed openly at Harry’s forehead. 

“Yeah, that’s Harry Potter,” said a growling voice from 
behind them. 

Professor Karkaroff spun around. Mad-Eye Moody 
was standing there, leaning heavily on his staff, his 
magical eye glaring unblinkingly at the Durmstrang 
headmaster. 

The color drained from Karkaroff’s face as Harry 
watched. A terrible look of mingled fury and fear came 
over him. 

“You!” he said, staring at Moody as though unsure he 
was really seeing him. 

“Me,” said Moody grimly. “And unless you’ve got 
anything to say to Potter, Karkaroff, you might want 
to move. You’re blocking the doorway.” 

It was true; half the students in the Hall were now 
waiting behind them, looking over one another’s 
shoulders to see what was causing the holdup. 

Without another word, Professor Karkaroff swept his 
students away with him. Moody watched him until he 

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was out of sight, his magical eye fixed upon his back, 
a look of intense dislike upon his mutilated face. 



As the next day was Saturday, most students would 
normally have breakfasted late. Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione, however, were not alone in rising much 
earlier than they usually did on weekends. When they 
went down into the entrance hall, they saw about 
twenty people milling around it, some of them eating 
toast, all examining the Goblet of Fire. It had been 
placed in the center of the hall on the stool that 
normally bore the Sorting Hat. A thin golden line had 
been traced on the floor, forming a circle ten feet 
around it in every direction. 

“Anyone put their name in yet?” Ron asked a third- 
year girl eagerly. 

“All the Durmstrang lot,” she replied. “But I haven’t 
seen anyone from Hogwarts yet.” 

“Bet some of them put it in last night after we’d all 
gone to bed,” said Harry. “I would’ve if it had been me 
... wouldn’t have wanted everyone watching. What if 
the goblet just gobbed you right back out again?” 

Someone laughed behind Harry. Turning, he saw 
Fred, George, and Lee Jordan hurrying down the 
staircase, all three of them looking extremely excited. 

“Done it,” Fred said in a triumphant whisper to Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione. “Just taken it.” 

“What?” said Ron. 

“The Aging Potion, dung brains,” said Fred. 



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“One drop each,” said George, rubbing his hands 
together with glee. “We only need to be a few months 
older.” 



“We’re going to split the thousand Galleons between 
the three of us if one of us wins,” said Lee, grinning 
broadly. 

“I’m not sure this is going to work, you know,” said 
Hermione warningly “I’m sure Dumbledore will have 
thought of this.” 

Fred, George, and Lee ignored her. 

“Ready?” Fred said to the other two, quivering with 
excitement. “C’mon, then — I’ll go first — ” 

Harry watched, fascinated, as Fred pulled a slip of 
parchment out of his pocket bearing the words Fred 
Weasley — Hog warts. Fred walked right up to the 
edge of the line and stood there, rocking on his toes 
like a diver preparing for a fifty-foot drop. Then, with 
the eyes of every person in the entrance hall upon 
him, he took a great breath and stepped over the line. 

For a split second Harry thought it had worked — 
George certainly thought so, for he let out a yell of 
triumph and leapt after Fred — but next moment, 
there was a loud sizzling sound, and both twins were 
hurled out of the golden circle as though they had 
been thrown by an invisible shot-putter. They landed 
painfully, ten feet away on the cold stone floor, and to 
add insult to injury, there was a loud popping noise, 
and both of them sprouted identical long white 
beards. 

The entrance hall rang with laughter. Even Fred and 
George joined in, once they had gotten to their feet 
and taken a good look at each other’s beards. 

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“I did warn you,” said a deep, amused voice, and 
everyone turned to see Professor Dumbledore coming 
out of the Great Hall. He surveyed Fred and George, 
his eyes twinkling. “I suggest you both go up to 
Madam Pomfrey. She is already tending to Miss 
Fawcett, of Ravenclaw, and Mr. Summers, of 
Hufflepuff, both of whom decided to age themselves 
up a little too. Though I must say, neither of their 
beards is anything like as fine as yours.” 

Fred and George set off for the hospital wing, 
accompanied by Lee, who was howling with laughter, 
and Harry, Ron, and Hermione, also chortling, went 
in to breakfast. 

The decorations in the Great Hall had changed this 
morning. As it was Halloween, a cloud of live bats was 
fluttering around the enchanted ceiling, while 
hundreds of carved pumpkins leered from every 
corner. Harry led the way over to Dean and Seamus, 
who were discussing those Hogwarts students of 
seventeen or over who might be entering. 

“There’s a rumor going around that Warrington got up 
early and put his name in,” Dean told Harry. “That 
big bloke from Slytherin who looks like a sloth.” 

Harry, who had played Quidditch against Warrington, 
shook his head in disgust. 

“We can’t have a Slytherin champion!” 

“And all the Hufflepuffs are talking about Diggory,” 
said Seamus contemptuously. “But I wouldn’t have 
thought he’d have wanted to risk his good looks.” 

“Listen!” said Hermione suddenly. 



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People were cheering out in the entrance hall. They all 
swiveled around in their seats and saw Angelina 
Johnson coming into the Hall, grinning in an 
embarrassed sort of way. A tall black girl who played 
Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Angelina 
came over to them, sat down, and said, “Well, I’ve 
done it! Just put my name in!” 

“You’re kidding!” said Ron, looking impressed. 

“Are you seventeen, then?” asked Harry. 

“ ’Course she is, can’t see a beard, can you?” said 
Ron. 

“I had my birthday last week,” said Angelina. 

“Well, I’m glad someone from Gryffindor’s entering,” 
said Hermione. “I really hope you get it, Angelina!” 

“Thanks, Hermione,” said Angelina, smiling at her. 

“Yeah, better you than Pretty-Boy Diggory,” said 
Seamus, causing several Hufflepuffs passing their 
table to scowl heavily at him. 

“What’re we going to do today, then?” Ron asked 
Harry and Hermione when they had finished 
breakfast and were leaving the Great Hall. 

“We haven’t been down to visit Hagrid yet,” said 
Harry. 

“Okay,” said Ron, “just as long as he doesn’t ask us to 
donate a few fingers to the skrewts.” 

A look of great excitement suddenly dawned on 
Hermione ’s face. 



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“I’ve just realized — I haven’t asked Hagrid to join 
S.P.E.W. yet!” she said brightly. “Wait for me, will 
you, while I nip upstairs and get the badges?” 

“What is it with her?” said Ron, exasperated, as 
Hermione ran away up the marble staircase. 

“Hey, Ron,” said Harry suddenly. “It’s your friend ...” 

The students from Beauxbatons were coming through 
the front doors from the grounds, among them, the 
veela-girl. Those gathered around the Goblet of Fire 
stood back to let them pass, watching eagerly. 

Madame Maxime entered the hall behind her students 
and organized them into a line. One by one, the 
Beauxbatons students stepped across the Age Line 
and dropped their slips of parchment into the blue- 
white flames. As each name entered the fire, it turned 
briefly red and emitted sparks. 

“What d’you reckon’ll happen to the ones who aren’t 
chosen?” Ron muttered to Harry as the veela-girl 
dropped her parchment into the Goblet of Fire. 
“Reckon they’ll go back to school, or hang around to 
watch the tournament?” 

“Dunno,” said Harry. “Hang around, I suppose. ... 
Madame Maxime’s staying to judge, isn’t she?” 

When all the Beauxbatons students had submitted 
their names, Madame Maxime led them back out of 
the hall and out onto the grounds again. 

“Where are they sleeping, then?” said Ron, moving 
toward the front doors and staring after them. 



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A loud rattling noise behind them announced 
Hermione’s reappearance with the box of S.P.E.W. 
badges. 

“Oh good, hurry up,” said Ron, and he jumped down 
the stone steps, keeping his eyes on the back of the 
veela-girl, who was now halfway across the lawn with 
Madame Maxime. 

As they neared Hagrid’s cabin on the edge of the 
Forbidden Forest, the mystery of the Beauxbatons’ 
sleeping quarters was solved. The gigantic powder- 
blue carriage in which they had arrived had been 
parked two hundred yards from Hagrid’s front door, 
and the students were climbing back inside it. The 
elephantine flying horses that had pulled the carriage 
were now grazing in a makeshift paddock alongside it. 

Harry knocked on Hagrid’s door, and Fang’s booming 
barks answered instantly 

“ ’Bout time!” said Hagrid, when he’d flung open the 
door. “Thought you lot’d forgotten where I live!” 

“We’ve been really busy, Hag — ” Hermione started to 
say, but then she stopped dead, looking up at Hagrid, 
apparently lost for words. 

Hagrid was wearing his best (and very horrible) hairy 
brown suit, plus a checked yellow-and-orange tie. 

This wasn’t the worst of it, though; he had evidently 
tried to tame his hair, using large quantities of what 
appeared to be axle grease. It was now slicked down 
into two bunches — perhaps he had tried a ponytail 
like Bill’s, but found he had too much hair. The look 
didn’t really suit Hagrid at all. For a moment, 
Hermione goggled at him, then, obviously deciding 
not to comment, she said, “Erm — where are the 
skrewts?” 

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“Out by the pumpkin patch,” said Hagrid happily. 
“They’re gettin’ massive, mus’ be nearly three foot 
long now. On’y trouble is, they’ve started killin’ each 
other.” 

“Oh no, really?” said Hermione, shooting a repressive 
look at Ron, who, staring at Hagrid’s odd hairstyle, 
had just opened his mouth to say something about it. 

“Yeah,” said Hagrid sadly. “ ’S’ okay, though, I’ve got 
’em in separate boxes now. Still got abou’ twenty.” 

“Well, that’s lucky,” said Ron. Hagrid missed the 
sarcasm. 

Hagrid’s cabin comprised a single room, in one corner 
of which was a gigantic bed covered in a patchwork 
quilt. A similarly enormous wooden table and chairs 
stood in front of the fire beneath the quantity of cured 
hams and dead birds hanging from the ceiling. They 
sat down at the table while Hagrid started to make 
tea, and were soon immersed in yet more discussion 
of the Triwizard Tournament. Hagrid seemed quite as 
excited about it as they were. 

“You wait,” he said, grinning. “You jus’ wait. Yer going 
ter see some stuff yeh’ve never seen before. Firs’ task 
... ah, but I’m not supposed ter say.” 

“Go on, Hagrid!” Harry, Ron, and Hermione urged 
him, but he just shook his head, grinning. 

“I don’ want ter spoil it fer yeh,” said Hagrid. “But it’s 
gonna be spectacular, I’ll tell yeh that. Them 
champions ’re going ter have their work cut out. Never 
thought I’d live ter see the Triwizard Tournament 
played again!” 



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They ended up having lunch with Hagrid, though they 
didn’t eat much — Hagrid had made what he said was 
a beef casserole, but after Hermione unearthed a 
large talon in hers, she, Harry, and Ron rather lost 
their appetites. However, they enjoyed themselves 
trying to make Hagrid tell them what the tasks in the 
tournament were going to be, speculating which of 
the entrants were likely to be selected as champions, 
and wondering whether Fred and George were 
beardless yet. 

A light rain had started to fall by midafternoon; it was 
very cozy sitting by the fire, listening to the gentle 
patter of the drops on the window, watching Hagrid 
darning his socks and arguing with Hermione about 
house-elves — for he flatly refused to join S.P.E.W. 
when she showed him her badges. 

“It’d be doin’ ’em an unkindness, Hermione,” he said 
gravely, threading a massive bone needle with thick 
yellow yarn. “It’s in their nature ter look after 
humans, that’s what they like, see? Yeh’d be makin’ 
’em unhappy ter take away their work, an’ insultin’ 
’em if yeh tried ter pay ’em.” 

“But Harry set Dobby free, and he was over the moon 
about it!” said Hermione. “And we heard he’s asking 
for wages now!” 

“Yeah, well, yeh get weirdos in every breed. I’m not 
sayin’ there isn’t the odd elf who’d take freedom, but 
yeh’ll never persuade most of ’em ter do it — no, 
nothin’ doin’, Hermione.” 

Hermione looked very cross indeed and stuffed her 
box of badges back into her cloak pocket. 

By half past five it was growing dark, and Ron, Harry, 
and Hermione decided it was time to get back up to 

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the castle for the Halloween feast — and, more 
important, the announcement of the school 
champions. 

“I’ll come with yeh,” said Hagrid, putting away his 
darning. “Jus’ give us a sec.” 

Hagrid got up, went across to the chest of drawers 
beside his bed, and began searching for something 
inside it. They didn’t pay too much attention until a 
truly horrible smell reached their nostrils. Coughing, 
Ron said, “Hagrid, what’s that?” 

“Eh?” said Hagrid, turning around with a large bottle 
in his hand. “Don’ yeh like it?” 

“Is that aftershave?” said Hermione in a slightly 
choked voice. 

“Er — eau de cologne,” Hagrid muttered. He was 
blushing. “Maybe it’s a bit much,” he said gruffly. “I’ll 
go take it off, hang on . . . 

He stumped out of the cabin, and they saw him 
washing himself vigorously in the water barrel outside 
the window. 

“Eau de cologne?” said Hermione in amazement. 
“Hagrid?” 

“And what’s with the hair and the suit?” said Harry in 
an undertone. 

“Look!” said Ron suddenly, pointing out of the 
window. 

Hagrid had just straightened up and turned ’round. If 
he had been blushing before, it was nothing to what 
he was doing now. Getting to their feet very 

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cautiously, so that Hagrid wouldn’t spot them, Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione peered through the window and 
saw that Madame Maxime and the Beauxbatons 
students had just emerged from their carriage, clearly 
about to set off for the feast too. They couldn’t hear 
what Hagrid was saying, but he was talking to 
Madame Maxime with a rapt, misty-eyed expression 
Harry had only ever seen him wear once before — 
when he had been looking at the baby dragon, 

Norbert. 

“He’s going up to the castle with her!” said Hermione 
indignantly. “I thought he was waiting for us!” 

Without so much as a backward glance at his cabin, 
Hagrid was trudging off up the grounds with Madame 
Maxime, the Beauxbatons students following in their 
wake, jogging to keep up with their enormous strides. 

“He fancies her!” said Ron incredulously. “Well, if they 
end up having children, they’ll be setting a world 
record — bet any baby of theirs would weigh about a 
ton.” 

They let themselves out of the cabin and shut the 
door behind them. It was surprisingly dark outside. 
Drawing their cloaks more closely around themselves, 
they set off up the sloping lawns. 

“Ooh it’s them, look!” Hermione whispered. 

The Durmstrang party was walking up toward the 
castle from the lake. Viktor Krum was walking side by 
side with Karkaroff, and the other Durmstrang 
students were straggling along behind them. Ron 
watched Krum excitedly, but Krum did not look 
around as he reached the front doors a little ahead of 
Hermione, Ron, and Harry and proceeded through 
them. 

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When they entered the candlelit Great Hall it was 
almost full. The Goblet of Fire had been moved; it was 
now standing in front of Dumbledore ’s empty chair at 
the teachers’ table. Fred and George — clean-shaven 
again — seemed to have taken their disappointment 
fairly well. 

“Hope it’s Angelina,” said Fred as Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione sat down. 

“So do I!” said Hermione breathlessly. “Well, we’ll 
soon know!” 

The Halloween feast seemed to take much longer than 
usual. Perhaps because it was their second feast in 
two days, Harry didn’t seem to fancy the 
extravagantly prepared food as much as he would 
have normally. Like everyone else in the Hall, judging 
by the constantly craning necks, the impatient 
expressions on every face, the fidgeting, and the 
standing up to see whether Dumbledore had finished 
eating yet, Harry simply wanted the plates to clear, 
and to hear who had been selected as champions. 

At long last, the golden plates returned to their 
original spotless state; there was a sharp upswing in 
the level of noise within the Hall, which died away 
almost instantly as Dumbledore got to his feet. On 
either side of him, Professor Karkaroff and Madame 
Maxime looked as tense and expectant as anyone. 
Ludo Bagman was beaming and winking at various 
students. Mr. Crouch, however, looked quite 
uninterested, almost bored. 

“Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” 
said Dumbledore. “I estimate that it requires one 
more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are 
called, I would ask them please to come up to the top 
of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through 
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into the next chamber” — he indicated the door 
behind the staff table — “where they will be receiving 
their first instructions.” 

He took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave 
with it; at once, all the candles except those inside the 
carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them 
into a state of semidarkness. The Goblet of Fire now 
shone more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, 
the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames 
almost painful on the eyes. Everyone watched, 
waiting. ... A few people kept checking their watches. 



“Any second,” Lee Jordan whispered, two seats away 
from Harry. 

The flames inside the goblet turned suddenly red 
again. Sparks began to fly from it. Next moment, a 
tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of 
parchment fluttered out of it — the whole room 
gasped. 

Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held 
it at arm’s length, so that he could read it by the light 
of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white. 

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he read, in a strong, 
clear voice, “will be Viktor Krum.” 

“No surprises there!” yelled Ron as a storm of 
applause and cheering swept the Hall. Harry saw 
Viktor Krum rise from the Slytherin table and slouch 
up toward Dumbledore; he turned right, walked along 
the staff table, and disappeared through the door into 
the next chamber. 



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“Bravo, Viktor!” boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that 
everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. 
“Knew you had it in you!” 

The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone’s 
attention was focused again on the goblet, which, 
seconds later, turned red once more. A second piece 
of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames. 

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” said Dumbledore, 

“is Fleur Delacour!” 

“It’s her, Ron!” Harry shouted as the girl who so 
resembled a veela got gracefully to her feet, shook 
back her sheet of silvery blonde hair, and swept up 
between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. 

“Oh look, they’re all disappointed,” Hermione said 
over the noise, nodding toward the remainder of the 
Beauxbatons party. “Disappointed” was a bit of an 
understatement, Harry thought. Two of the girls who 
had not been selected had dissolved into tears and 
were sobbing with their heads on their arms. 

When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side 
chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a 
silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste 
it. The Hogwarts champion next ... 

And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks 
showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into 
the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third 
piece of parchment. 

“The Hogwarts champion,” he called, “is Cedric 
Diggory!” 

“No!” said Ron loudly, but nobody heard him except 
Harry; the uproar from the next table was too great. 

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Every single Hufflepuff had jumped to his or her feet, 
screaming and stamping, as Cedric made his way 
past them, grinning broadly, and headed off toward 
the chamber behind the teachers’ table. Indeed, the 
applause for Cedric went on so long that it was some 
time before Dumbledore could make himself heard 
again. 

“Excellent!” Dumbledore called happily as at last the 
tumult died down. “Well, we now have our three 
champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, 
including the remaining students from Beauxbatons 
and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce 
of support you can muster. By cheering your 
champion on, you will contribute in a very real — ” 

But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it 
was apparent to everybody what had distracted him. 

The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. 
Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot 
suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another 
piece of parchment. 

Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a 
long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out 
and stared at the name written upon it. There was a 
long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the 
slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at 
Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat 
and read out — 

“ Harry Potter.” 



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THE FOUR CHAMPIONS 

Harry sat there, aware that every head in the Great 
Hall had turned to look at him. He was stunned. He 
felt numb. He was surely dreaming. He had not heard 
correctly. 

There was no applause. A buzzing, as though of angry 
bees, was starting to fill the Hall; some students were 
standing up to get a better look at Harry as he sat, 
frozen, in his seat. 

Up at the top table, Professor McGonagall had got to 
her feet and swept past Ludo Bagman and Professor 
Karkaroff to whisper urgently to Professor 
Dumbledore, who bent his ear toward her, frowning 
slightly. 

Harry turned to Ron and Hermione; beyond them, he 
saw the long Gryffindor table all watching him, 
openmouthed. 

“I didn’t put my name in,” Harry said blankly. “You 
know I didn’t.” 

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Both of them stared just as blankly back. 

At the top table, Professor Dumbledore had 
straightened up, nodding to Professor McGonagall. 

“Harry Potter!” he called again. “Harry! Up here, if you 
please!” 

“Go on,” Hermione whispered, giving Harry a slight 
push. 

Harry got to his feet, trod on the hem of his robes, 
and stumbled slightly. He set off up the gap between 
the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables. It felt like an 
immensely long walk; the top table didn’t seem to be 
getting any nearer at all, and he could feel hundreds 
and hundreds of eyes upon him, as though each were 
a searchlight. The buzzing grew louder and louder. 
After what seemed like an hour, he was right in front 
of Dumbledore, feeling the stares of all the teachers 
upon him. 

“Well ... through the door, Harry,” said Dumbledore. 
He wasn’t smiling. 

Harry moved off along the teachers’ table. Hagrid was 
seated right at the end. He did not wink at Harry, or 
wave, or give any of his usual signs of greeting. He 
looked completely astonished and stared at Harry as 
he passed like everyone else. Harry went through the 
door out of the Great Hall and found himself in a 
smaller room, lined with paintings of witches and 
wizards. A handsome fire was roaring in the fireplace 
opposite him. 

The faces in the portraits turned to look at him as he 
entered. He saw a wizened witch flit out of the frame 
of her picture and into the one next to it, which 



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contained a wizard with a walrus mustache. The 
wizened witch started whispering in his ear. 

Viktor Krum, Cedric Diggory, and Fleur Delacour 
were grouped around the fire. They looked strangely 
impressive, silhouetted against the flames. Krum, 
hunched-up and brooding, was leaning against the 
mantelpiece, slightly apart from the other two. Cedric 
was standing with his hands behind his back, staring 
into the fire. Fleur Delacour looked around when 
Harry walked in and threw back her sheet of long, 
silvery hair. 

“What is it?” she said. “Do zey want us back in ze 
Hall?” 

She thought he had come to deliver a message. Harry 
didn’t know how to explain what had just happened. 
He just stood there, looking at the three champions. It 
struck him how very tall all of them were. 

There was a sound of scurrying feet behind him, and 
Ludo Bagman entered the room. He took Harry by the 
arm and led him forward. 

“Extraordinary!” he muttered, squeezing Harry’s arm. 
“Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen ... lady,” he 
added, approaching the fireside and addressing the 
other three. “May I introduce — incredible though it 
may seem — the fourth Triwizard champion?” 

Viktor Krum straightened up. His surly face darkened 
as he surveyed Harry. Cedric looked nonplussed. He 
looked from Bagman to Harry and back again as 
though sure he must have misheard what Bagman 
had said. Fleur Delacour, however, tossed her hair, 
smiling, and said, “Oh, vairy funny joke, Meester 
Bagman.” 



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“Joke?” Bagman repeated, bewildered. “No, no, not at 
all! Harry’s name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!” 

Krum’s thick eyebrows contracted slightly. Cedric was 
still looking politely bewildered. Fleur frowned. 

“But evidently zair ’as been a mistake,” she said 
contemptuously to Bagman. “ ’E cannot compete. ’E is 
too young.” 

“Well ... it is amazing,” said Bagman, rubbing his 
smooth chin and smiling down at Harry. “But, as you 
know, the age restriction was only imposed this year 
as an extra safety measure. And as his name’s come 
out of the goblet ... I mean, I don’t think there can be 
any ducking out at this stage. ... It’s down in the 
rules, you’re obliged ... Harry will just have to do the 
best he — ” 

The door behind them opened again, and a large 
group of people came in: Professor Dumbledore, 
followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Professor Karkaroff, 
Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, and 
Professor Snape. Harry heard the buzzing of the 
hundreds of students on the other side of the wall, 
before Professor McGonagall closed the door. 

“Madame Maxime!” said Fleur at once, striding over to 
her headmistress. “Zey are saying zat zis little boy is 
to compete also!” 

Somewhere under Harry’s numb disbelief he felt a 
ripple of anger. Little boy ? 

Madame Maxime had drawn herself up to her full, 
and considerable, height. The top of her handsome 
head brushed the candle-filled chandelier, and her 
gigantic black-satin bosom swelled. 



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“What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?” she said 
imperiously. 

“I’d rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore,” 
said Professor Karkaroff. He was wearing a steely 
smile, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. “Two 
Hogwarts champions? I don’t remember anyone 
telling me the host school is allowed two champions 
— or have I not read the rules carefully enough?” 

He gave a short and nasty laugh. 

“C’est impossible,” said Madame Maxime, whose 
enormous hand with its many superb opals was 
resting upon Fleur’s shoulder. “ ’Ogwarts cannot ’ave 
two champions. It is most injust.” 

“We were under the impression that your Age Line 
would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore,” 
said Karkaroff, his steely smile still in place, though 
his eyes were colder than ever. “Otherwise, we would, 
of course, have brought along a wider selection of 
candidates from our own schools.” 

“It’s no one’s fault but Potter’s, Karkaroff,” said Snape 
softly. His black eyes were alight with malice. “Don’t 
go blaming Dumbledore for Potter’s determination to 
break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he 
arrived here — ” 

“Thank you, Severus,” said Dumbledore firmly, and 
Snape went quiet, though his eyes still glinted 
malevolently through his curtain of greasy black hair. 

Professor Dumbledore was now looking down at 
Harry, who looked right back at him, trying to discern 
the expression of the eyes behind the half-moon 
spectacles. 



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“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, 
Harry?” he asked calmly. 

“No,” said Harry. He was very aware of everybody 
watching him closely. Snape made a soft noise of 
impatient disbelief in the shadows. 

“Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet 
of Fire for you?” said Professor Dumbledore, ignoring 
Snape. 

“No,” said Harry vehemently. 

“Ah, but of course ’e is lying!” cried Madame Maxime. 
Snape was now shaking his head, his lip curling. 

“He could not have crossed the Age Line,” said 
Professor McGonagall sharply. “I am sure we are all 
agreed on that — ” 

“Dumbly-dorr must ’ave made a mistake wiz ze line,” 
said Madame Maxime, shrugging. 

“It is possible, of course,” said Dumbledore politely 

“Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not 
make a mistake!” said Professor McGonagall angrily. 
“Really, what nonsense! Harry could not have crossed 
the line himself, and as Professor Dumbledore 
believes that he did not persuade an older student to 
do it for him, I’m sure that should be good enough for 
everybody else!” 

She shot a very angry look at Professor Snape. 

“Mr. Crouch ... Mr. Bagman,” said Karkaroff, his voice 
unctuous once more, “you are our — er — objective 
judges. Surely you will agree that this is most 
irregular?” 

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Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his 
handkerchief and looked at Mr. Crouch, who was 
standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face 
half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the 
half darkness making him look much older, giving 
him an almost skull-like appearance. When he spoke, 
however, it was in his usual curt voice. 

“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly 
that those people whose names come out of the 
Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the 
tournament.” 

“Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front,” said 
Bagman, beaming and turning back to Karkaroff and 
Madame Maxime, as though the matter was now 
closed. 

“I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of 
my students,” said Karkaroff. He had dropped his 
unctuous tone and his smile now. His face wore a 
very ugly look indeed. “You will set up the Goblet of 
Fire once more, and we will continue adding names 
until each school has two champions. It’s only fair, 
Dumbledore.” 

“But Karkaroff, it doesn’t work like that,” said 
Bagman. “The Goblet of Fire’s just gone out — it won’t 
reignite until the start of the next tournament — ” 

“ — in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be 
competing!” exploded Karkaroff. “After all our 
meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little 
expected something of this nature to occur! I have 
half a mind to leave now!” 

“Empty threat, Karkaroff,” growled a voice from near 
the door. “You can’t leave your champion now. He’s 
got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding 

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magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, 
eh?” 



Moody had just entered the room. He limped toward 
the fire, and with every right step he took, there was a 
loud clunk. 

“Convenient?” said Karkaroff. “I’m afraid I don’t 
understand you, Moody.” 

Harry could tell he was trying to sound disdainful, as 
though what Moody was saying was barely worth his 
notice, but his hands gave him away; they had balled 
themselves into fists. 

“Don’t you?” said Moody quietly. “It’s very simple, 
Karkaroff. Someone put Potter’s name in that goblet 
knowing he’d have to compete if it came out.” 

“Evidently, someone ’oo wished to give ’Ogwarts two 
bites at ze apple!” said Madame Maxime. 

“I quite agree, Madame Maxime,” said Karkaroff, 
bowing to her. “I shall be lodging complaints with the 
Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation 
of Wizards — ” 

“If anyone’s got reason to complain, it’s Potter,” 
growled Moody, “but ... funny thing ... I don’t hear 
him saying a word. ...” 

“Why should ’e complain?” burst out Fleur Delacour, 
stamping her foot. “ ’E ’as ze chance to compete, ’asn’t 
’e? We ’ave all been ’oping to be chosen for weeks and 
weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons 
in prize money — zis is a chance many would die for!” 

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” 
said Moody, with the merest trace of a growl. 

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An extremely tense silence followed these words. Ludo 
Bagman, who was looking very anxious indeed, 
bounced nervously up and down on his feet and said, 
“Moody, old man ... what a thing to say!” 

“We all know Professor Moody considers the morning 
wasted if he hasn’t discovered six plots to murder him 
before lunchtime,” said Karkaroff loudly. “Apparently 
he is now teaching his students to fear assassination 
too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark 
Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your 
reasons.” 

“Imagining things, am I?” growled Moody. “Seeing 
things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put 
the boy’s name in that goblet. ...” 

“Ah, what evidence is zere of zat?” said Madame 
Maxime, throwing up her huge hands. 

“Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical 
object!” said Moody. “It would have needed an 
exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle 
that goblet into forgetting that only three schools 
compete in the tournament. ... I’m guessing they 
submitted Potter’s name under a fourth school, to 
make sure he was the only one in his category. ...” 

“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, 
Moody,” said Karkaroff coldly, “and a very ingenious 
theory it is — though of course, I heard you recently 
got it into your head that one of your birthday 
presents contained a cunningly disguised basilisk 
egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a 
carriage clock. So you’ll understand if we don’t take 
you entirely seriously. ...” 

“There are those who’ll turn innocent occasions to 
their advantage,” Moody retorted in a menacing voice. 

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“It’s my job to think the way Dark wizards do, 
Karkaroff — as you ought to remember. ...” 

“Alas tor!” said Dumbledore warningly. Harry 
wondered for a moment whom he was speaking to, 
but then realized “Mad-Eye” could hardly be Moody’s 
real first name. Moody fell silent, though still 
surveying Karkaroff with satisfaction — Karkaroff’s 
face was burning. 

“How this situation arose, we do not know,” said 
Dumbledore, speaking to everyone gathered in the 
room. “It seems to me, however, that we have no 
choice but to accept it. Both Cedric and Harry have 
been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, 
therefore, they will do. ...” 

“Ah, but Dumbly-dorr — ” 

“My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, 

I would be delighted to hear it.” 

Dumbledore waited, but Madame Maxime did not 
speak, she merely glared. She wasn’t the only one 
either. Snape looked furious; Karkaroff livid; Bagman, 
however, looked rather excited. 

“Well, shall we crack on, then?” he said, rubbing his 
hands together and smiling around the room. “Got to 
give our champions their instructions, haven’t we? 
Barty, want to do the honors?” 

Mr. Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie. 

“Yes,” he said, “instructions. Yes ... the first task ...” 

He moved forward into the firelight. Close up, Harry 
thought he looked ill. There were dark shadows 
beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look about his 

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wrinkled skin that had not been there at the 
Quidditch World Cup. 

“The first task is designed to test your daring,” he told 
Harry, Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor, “so we are not going 
to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the 
unknown is an important quality in a wizard . . . very 
important. ... 

“The first task will take place on November the 
twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the 
panel of judges. 

“The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept 
help of any kind from their teachers to complete the 
tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the 
first challenge armed only with their wands. They will 
receive information about the second task when the 
first is over. Owing to the demanding and time- 
consuming nature of the tournament, the champions 
are exempted from end-of-year tests.” 

Mr. Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore. 

“I think that’s all, is it, Albus?” 

“I think so,” said Dumbledore, who was looking at Mr. 
Crouch with mild concern. “Are you sure you 
wouldn’t like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?” 

“No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry,” 
said Mr. Crouch. “It is a very busy, very difficult time 
at the moment. ... I’ve left young Weatherby in 
charge. ... Very enthusiastic ... a little 
overenthusiastic, if truth be told. ...” 

“You’ll come and have a drink before you go, at 
least?” said Dumbledore. 



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“Come on, Barty, I’m staying!” said Bagman brightly. 
“It’s all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much 
more exciting here than at the office!” 

“I think not, Ludo,” said Crouch with a touch of his 
old impatience. 

“Professor Karkaroff — Madame Maxime — a 
nightcap?” said Dumbledore. 

But Madame Maxime had already put her arm 
around Fleur’s shoulders and was leading her swiftly 
out of the room. Harry could hear them both talking 
very fast in French as they went off into the Great 
Hall. Karkaroff beckoned to Krum, and they, too, 
exited, though in silence. 

“Harry, Cedric, I suggest you go up to bed,” said 
Dumbledore, smiling at both of them. “I am sure 
Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are waiting to celebrate with 
you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this 
excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and 
noise.” 

Harry glanced at Cedric, who nodded, and they left 
together. 

The Great Hall was deserted now; the candles had 
burned low, giving the jagged smiles of the pumpkins 
an eerie, flickering quality. 

“So,” said Cedric, with a slight smile. “We’re playing 
against each other again!” 

“I s’pose,” said Harry. He really couldn’t think of 
anything to say. The inside of his head seemed to be 
in complete disarray, as though his brain had been 
ransacked. 



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“So ... tell me ...” said Cedric as they reached the 
entrance hall, which was now lit only by torches in 
the absence of the Goblet of Fire. “How did you get 
your name in?” 

“I didn’t,” said Harry, staring up at him. “I didn’t put 
it in. I was telling the truth.” 

“Ah ... okay,” said Cedric. Harry could tell Cedric 
didn’t believe him. “Well ... see you, then.” 

Instead of going up the marble staircase, Cedric 
headed for a door to its right. Harry stood listening to 
him going down the stone steps beyond it, then, 
slowly, he started to climb the marble ones. 

Was anyone except Ron and Hermione going to 
believe him, or would they all think he’d put himself 
in for the tournament? Yet how could anyone think 
that, when he was facing competitors who’d had three 
years’ more magical education than he had — when 
he was now facing tasks that not only sounded very 
dangerous, but which were to be performed in front of 
hundreds of people? Yes, he’d thought about it ... he’d 
fantasized about it ... but it had been a joke, really, 
an idle sort of dream ... he’d never really, seriously 
considered entering. ... 

But someone else had considered it ... someone else 
had wanted him in the tournament, and had made 
sure he was entered. Why? To give him a treat? He 
didn’t think so, somehow. ... 

To see him make a fool of himself? Well, they were 
likely to get their wish. ... 

But to get him killed? 



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Was Moody just being his usual paranoid self? 
Couldn’t someone have put Harry’s name in the 
goblet as a trick, a practical joke? Did anyone really 
want him dead? 

Harry was able to answer that at once. Yes, someone 
wanted him dead, someone had wanted him dead 
ever since he had been a year old ... Lord Voldemort. 
But how could Voldemort have ensured that Harry’s 
name got into the Goblet of Fire? Voldemort was 
supposed to be far away, in some distant country, in 
hiding, alone ... feeble and powerless. ... 

Yet in that dream he had had, just before he had 
awoken with his scar hurting, Voldemort had not 
been alone ... he had been talking to Wormtail ... 
plotting Harry’s murder. . . . 

Harry got a shock to find himself facing the Fat Lady 
already. He had barely noticed where his feet were 
carrying him. It was also a surprise to see that she 
was not alone in her frame. The wizened witch who 
had flitted into her neighbor’s painting when he had 
joined the champions downstairs was now sitting 
smugly beside the Fat Lady. She must have dashed 
through every picture lining seven staircases to reach 
here before him. Both she and the Fat Lady were 
looking down at him with the keenest interest. 

“Well, well, well,” said the Fat Lady, “Violet’s just told 
me everything. Who’s just been chosen as school 
champion, then?” 

“Balderdash,” said Harry dully. 

“It most certainly isn’t!” said the pale witch 
indignantly. 



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“No, no, Vi, it’s the password,” said the Fat Lady 
soothingly, and she swung forward on her hinges to 
let Harry into the common room. 

The blast of noise that met Harry’s ears when the 
portrait opened almost knocked him backward. Next 
thing he knew, he was being wrenched inside the 
common room by about a dozen pairs of hands, and 
was facing the whole of Gryffindor House, all of whom 
were screaming, applauding, and whistling. 

“You should’ve told us you’d entered!” bellowed Fred; 
he looked half annoyed, half deeply impressed. 

“How did you do it without getting a beard? Brilliant!” 
roared George. 

“I didn’t,” Harry said. “I don’t know how — ” 

But Angelina had now swooped down upon him; “Oh 
if it couldn’t be me, at least it’s a Gryffindor — ” 

“You’ll be able to pay back Diggory for that last 
Quidditch match, Harry!” shrieked Katie Bell, another 
of the Gryffindor Chasers. 

“We’ve got food, Harry, come and have some — ” 

“I’m not hungry, I had enough at the feast — ” 

But nobody wanted to hear that he wasn’t hungry; 
nobody wanted to hear that he hadn’t put his name in 
the goblet; not one single person seemed to have 
noticed that he wasn’t at all in the mood to celebrate. 
... Lee Jordan had unearthed a Gryffindor banner 
from somewhere, and he insisted on draping it 
around Harry like a cloak. Harry couldn’t get away; 
whenever he tried to sidle over to the staircase up to 
the dormitories, the crowd around him closed ranks, 
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forcing another butterbeer on him, stuffing crisps and 
peanuts into his hands. ... Everyone wanted to know 
how he had done it, how he had tricked Dumbledore’s 
Age Line and managed to get his name into the 
goblet. ... 

“I didn’t,” he said, over and over again, “I don’t know 
how it happened.” 

But for all the notice anyone took, he might just as 
well not have answered at all. 

“I’m tired!” he bellowed finally, after nearly half an 
hour. “No, seriously, George — I’m going to bed — ” 

He wanted more than anything to find Ron and 
Hermione, to find a bit of sanity, but neither of them 
seemed to be in the common room. Insisting that he 
needed to sleep, and almost flattening the little 
Creevey brothers as they attempted to waylay him at 
the foot of the stairs, Harry managed to shake 
everyone off and climb up to the dormitory as fast as 
he could. 

To his great relief, he found Ron was lying on his bed 
in the otherwise empty dormitory, still fully dressed. 
He looked up when Harry slammed the door behind 
him. 

“Where ’ve you been?” Harry said. 

“Oh hello,” said Ron. 

He was grinning, but it was a very odd, strained sort 
of grin. Harry suddenly became aware that he was 
still wearing the scarlet Gryffindor banner that Lee 
had tied around him. He hastened to take it off, but it 
was knotted very tightly. Ron lay on the bed without 
moving, watching Harry struggle to remove it. 

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“So,” he said, when Harry had finally removed the 
banner and thrown it into a corner. 

“Congratulations . ” 

“What d’you mean, congratulations?” said Harry, 
staring at Ron. There was definitely something wrong 
with the way Ron was smiling: It was more like a 
grimace. 

“Well ... no one else got across the Age Line,” said 
Ron. “Not even Fred and George. What did you use — 
the Invisibility Cloak?” 

“The Invisibility Cloak wouldn’t have got me over that 
line,” said Harry slowly. 

“Oh right,” said Ron. “I thought you might’ve told me 
if it was the cloak ... because it would’ve covered both 
of us, wouldn’t it? But you found another way, did 
you?” 

“Listen,” said Harry, “I didn’t put my name in that 
goblet. Someone else must’ve done it.” 

Ron raised his eyebrows. 

“What would they do that for?” 

“I dunno,” said Harry. He felt it would sound very 
melodramatic to say, “To kill me.” 

Ron’s eyebrows rose so high that they were in danger 
of disappearing into his hair. 

“It’s okay, you know, you can tell me the truth,” he 
said. “If you don’t want everyone else to know, fine, 
but I don’t know why you’re bothering to lie, you 
didn’t get into trouble for it, did you? That friend of 
the Fat Lady’s, that Violet, she’s already told us all 
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Dumbledore’s letting you enter. A thousand Galleons 
prize money, eh? And you don’t have to do end-of- 
year tests either. ...” 

“I didn’t put my name in that goblet!” said Harry, 
starting to feel angry. 

“Yeah, okay,” said Ron, in exactly the same sceptical 
tone as Cedric. “Only you said this morning you’d 
have done it last night, and no one would’ve seen you. 
... I’m not stupid, you know.” 

“You’re doing a really good impression of it,” Harry 
snapped. 

“Yeah?” said Ron, and there was no trace of a grin, 
forced or otherwise, on his face now. “You want to get 
to bed, Harry. I expect you’ll need to be up early 
tomorrow for a photo-call or something.” 

He wrenched the hangings shut around his four- 
poster, leaving Harry standing there by the door, 
staring at the dark red velvet curtains, now hiding 
one of the few people he had been sure would believe 
him. 



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THE WEIGHING OF THE WANDS 

When Harry woke up on Sunday morning, it took him 
a moment to remember why he felt so miserable and 
worried. Then the memory of the previous night rolled 
over him. He sat up and ripped back the curtains of 
his own four-poster, intending to talk to Ron, to force 
Ron to believe him — only to find that Ron’s bed was 
empty; he had obviously gone down to breakfast. 

Harry dressed and went down the spiral staircase into 
the common room. The moment he appeared, the 
people who had already finished breakfast broke into 
applause again. The prospect of going down into the 
Great Hall and facing the rest of the Gryffindors, all 
treating him like some sort of hero, was not inviting; 
it was that, however, or stay here and allow himself to 
be cornered by the Creevey brothers, who were both 
beckoning frantically to him to join them. He walked 
resolutely over to the portrait hole, pushed it open, 
climbed out of it, and found himself face-to-face with 
Hermione. 



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“Hello,” she said, holding up a stack of toast, which 
she was carrying in a napkin. “I brought you this. ... 
Want to go for a walk?” 

“Good idea,” said Harry gratefully. 

They went downstairs, crossed the entrance hall 
quickly without looking in at the Great Hall, and were 
soon striding across the lawn toward the lake, where 
the Durmstrang ship was moored, reflected blackly in 
the water. It was a chilly morning, and they kept 
moving, munching their toast, as Harry told 
Hermione exactly what had happened after he had left 
the Gryffindor table the night before. To his immense 
relief, Hermione accepted his story without question. 

“Well, of course I knew you hadn’t entered yourself,” 
she said when he’d finished telling her about the 
scene in the chamber off the Hall. “The look on your 
face when Dumbledore read out your name! But the 
question is, who did put it in? Because Moody’s right, 
Harry ... I don’t think any student could have done it 
... they’d never be able to fool the Goblet, or get over 
Dumbledore ’s — ” 

“Have you seen Ron?” Harry interrupted. 

Hermione hesitated. 

“Erm ... yes ... he was at breakfast,” she said. 

“Does he still think I entered myself?” 

“Well ... no, I don’t think so ... not really,” said 
Hermione awkwardly. 

“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘not really’?” 



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“Oh Harry, isn’t it obvious?” Hermione said 
despairingly. “He’s jealous!” 



“Jealous?” Harry said incredulously. “Jealous of 
what? He wants to make a prat of himself in front of 
the whole school, does he?” 

“Look,” said Hermione patiently, “it’s always you who 
gets all the attention, you know it is. I know it’s not 
your fault,” she added quickly, seeing Harry open his 
mouth furiously. “I know you don’t ask for it ... but — 
well — you know, Ron’s got all those brothers to 
compete against at home, and you’re his best friend, 
and you’re really famous — he’s always shunted to 
one side whenever people see you, and he puts up 
with it, and he never mentions it, but I suppose this 
is just one time too many. ...” 

“Great,” said Harry bitterly. “Really great. Tell him 
from me I’ll swap any time he wants. Tell him from 
me he’s welcome to it. ... People gawping at my 
forehead everywhere I go. ...” 

“I’m not telling him anything,” Hermione said shortly. 
“Tell him yourself. It’s the only way to sort this out.” 

“I’m not running around after him trying to make him 
grow up!” Harry said, so loudly that several owls in a 
nearby tree took flight in alarm. “Maybe he’ll believe 
I’m not enjoying myself once I’ve got my neck broken 
or — ” 



“That’s not funny,” said Hermione quietly. “That’s not 
funny at all.” She looked extremely anxious. “Harry, 
I’ve been thinking — you know what we’ve got to do, 
don’t you? Straight away, the moment we get back to 
the castle?” 

“Yeah, give Ron a good kick up the — ” 

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“Write to Sirius. You’ve got to tell him what’s 
happened. He asked you to keep him posted on 
everything that’s going on at Hogwarts. ... It’s almost 
as if he expected something like this to happen. I 
brought some parchment and a quill out with me — ” 

“Come off it,” said Harry, looking around to check 
that they couldn’t be overheard, but the grounds were 
quite deserted. “He came back to the country just 
because my scar twinged. He’ll probably come 
bursting right into the castle if I tell him someone’s 
entered me in the Triwizard Tournament — ” 

“He’d want you to tell him,” said Hermione sternly. 
“He’s going to find out anyway — ” 

“How?” 

“Harry, this isn’t going to be kept quiet,” said 
Hermione, very seriously. “This tournament’s famous, 
and you’re famous. Ill be really surprised if there isn’t 
anything in the Daily Prophet about you competing. . . . 
You’re already in half the books about You-Know- 
Who, you know ... and Sirius would rather hear it 
from you, I know he would.” 

“Okay, okay, I’ll write to him,” said Harry, throwing 
his last piece of toast into the lake. They both stood 
and watched it floating there for a moment, before a 
large tentacle rose out of the water and scooped it 
beneath the surface. Then they returned to the castle. 

“Whose owl am I going to use?” Harry said as they 
climbed the stairs. “He told me not to use Hedwig 
again.” 

“Ask Ron if you can borrow — ” 

“I’m not asking Ron for anything,” Harry said flatly. 

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“Well, borrow one of the school owls, then, anyone 
can use them,” said Hermione. 

They went up to the Owlery Hermione gave Harry a 
piece of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink, then 
strolled around the long lines of perches, looking at 
all the different owls, while Harry sat down against a 
wall and wrote his letter. 

Dear Sirius, 

You told me to keep you posted on what’s happening 
at Hogwarts, so here goes — I don’t know if you’ve 
heard, but the Tri-wizard Tournament’s happening this 
year and on Saturday night I got picked as a fourth 
champion. I don’t know who put my name in the Goblet 
of Fire, because I didn’t The other Hogwarts champion 
is Cedric Diggory, from Hufflepuff 

He paused at this point, thinking. He had an urge to 
say something about the large weight of anxiety that 
seemed to have settled inside his chest since last 
night, but he couldn’t think how to translate this into 
words, so he simply dipped his quill back into the ink 
bottle and wrote, 

Hope you’re okay, and Buckbeak — Harry 



“Finished,” he told Hermione, getting to his feet and 
brushing straw off his robes. At this, Hedwig came 
fluttering down onto his shoulder and held out her 
leg. 

“I can’t use you,” Harry told her, looking around for 
the school owls. “I’ve got to use one of these. ...” 



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Hedwig gave a very loud hoot and took off so suddenly 
that her talons cut into his shoulder. She kept her 
back to Harry all the time he was tying his letter to 
the leg of a large barn owl. When the barn owl had 
flown off, Harry reached out to stroke Hedwig, but she 
clicked her beak furiously and soared up into the 
rafters out of reach. 

“First Ron, then you,” said Harry angrily. “ This isn’t 
my fault.” 

If Harry had thought that matters would improve 
once everyone got used to the idea of him being 
champion, the following day showed him how 
mistaken he was. He could no longer avoid the rest of 
the school once he was back at lessons — and it was 
clear that the rest of the school, just like the 
Gryffindors, thought Harry had entered himself for 
the tournament. Unlike the Gryffindors, however, 
they did not seem impressed. 

The Hufflepuffs, who were usually on excellent terms 
with the Gryffindors, had turned remarkably cold 
toward the whole lot of them. One Herbology lesson 
was enough to demonstrate this. It was plain that the 
Hufflepuffs felt that Harry had stolen their 
champion’s glory; a feeling exacerbated, perhaps, by 
the fact that Hufflepuff House very rarely got any 
glory, and that Cedric was one of the few who had 
ever given them any, having beaten Gryffindor once at 
Quidditch. Ernie Macmillan and Justin Finch- 
Fletchley, with whom Harry normally got on very well, 
did not talk to him even though they were repotting 
Bouncing Bulbs at the same tray — though they did 
laugh rather unpleasantly when one of the Bouncing 
Bulbs wriggled free from Harry’s grip and smacked 
him hard in the face. Ron wasn’t talking to Harry 
either. Hermione sat between them, making very 
forced conversation, but though both answered her 
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normally, they avoided making eye contact with each 
other. Harry thought even Professor Sprout seemed 
distant with him — but then, she was Head of 
Hufflepuff House. 

He would have been looking forward to seeing Hagrid 
under normal circumstances, but Care of Magical 
Creatures meant seeing the Slytherins too — the first 
time he would come face-to-face with them since 
becoming champion. 

Predictably, Malfoy arrived at Hagrid ’s cabin with his 
familiar sneer firmly in place. 

“Ah, look, boys, it’s the champion,” he said to Crabbe 
and Goyle the moment he got within earshot of Harry. 
“Got your autograph books? Better get a signature 
now, because I doubt he’s going to be around much 
longer. ... Half the Triwizard champions have died ... 
how long d’you reckon you’re going to last, Potter? 

Ten minutes into the first task’s my bet.” 

Crabbe and Goyle guffawed sycophantically, but 
Malfoy had to stop there, because Hagrid emerged 
from the back of his cabin balancing a teetering tower 
of crates, each containing a very large Blast-Ended 
Skrewt. To the class’s horror, Hagrid proceeded to 
explain that the reason the skrewts had been killing 
one another was an excess of pent-up energy, and 
that the solution would be for each student to fix a 
leash on a skrewt and take it for a short walk. The 
only good thing about this plan was that it distracted 
Malfoy completely. 

“Take this thing for a walk?” he repeated in disgust, 
staring into one of the boxes. “And where exactly are 
we supposed to fix the leash? Around the sting, the 
blasting end, or the sucker?” 



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“Roun’ the middle,” said Hagrid, demonstrating. “Er 
— yeh might want ter put on yer dragon-hide gloves, 
jus’ as an extra precaution, like. Harry — you come 
here an’ help me with this big one. ...” 

Hagrid’s real intention, however, was to talk to Harry 
away from the rest of the class. He waited until 
everyone else had set off with their skrewts, then 
turned to Harry and said, very seriously, “So — yer 
competin’, Harry. In the tournament. School 
champion.” 

“One of the champions,” Harry corrected him. 

Hagrid’s beetle-black eyes looked very anxious under 
his wild eyebrows. 

“No idea who put yeh in fer it, Harry?” 

“You believe I didn’t do it, then?” said Harry, 
concealing with difficulty the rush of gratitude he felt 
at Hagrid’s words. 

“ ’Course I do,” Hagrid grunted. “Yeh say it wasn’ you, 
an’ I believe yeh — an’ Dumbledore believes yer, an’ 
all.” 

“Wish I knew who did do it,” said Harry bitterly. 

The pair of them looked out over the lawn; the class 
was widely scattered now, and all in great difficulty. 
The skrewts were now over three feet long, and 
extremely powerful. No longer shell-less and colorless, 
they had developed a kind of thick, grayish, shiny 
armor. They looked like a cross between giant 
scorpions and elongated crabs — but still without 
recognizable heads or eyes. They had become 
immensely strong and very hard to control. 



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“Look like they’re havin’ fun, don’ they?” Hagrid said 
happily. Harry assumed he was talking about the 
skrewts, because his classmates certainly weren’t; 
every now and then, with an alarming bang, one of 
the skrewts’ ends would explode, causing it to shoot 
forward several yards, and more than one person was 
being dragged along on their stomach, trying 
desperately to get back on their feet. 

“Ah, I don’ know, Harry,” Hagrid sighed suddenly, 
looking back down at him with a worried expression 
on his face. “School champion ... everythin’ seems ter 
happen ter you, doesn’ it?” 

Harry didn’t answer. Yes, everything did seem to 
happen to him ... that was more or less what 
Hermione had said as they had walked around the 
lake, and that was the reason, according to her, that 
Ron was no longer talking to him. 

The next few days were some of Harry’s worst at 
Hogwarts. The closest he had ever come to feeling like 
this had been during those months, in his second 
year, when a large part of the school had suspected 
him of attacking his fellow students. But Ron had 
been on his side then. He thought he could have 
coped with the rest of the school’s behavior if he could 
just have had Ron back as a friend, but he wasn’t 
going to try and persuade Ron to talk to him if Ron 
didn’t want to. Nevertheless, it was lonely with dislike 
pouring in on him from all sides. 

He could understand the Hufflepuffs’ attitude, even if 
he didn’t like it; they had their own champion to 
support. He expected nothing less than vicious 
insults from the Slytherins — he was highly 
unpopular there and always had been, because he 
had helped Gryffindor beat them so often, both at 
Quidditch and in the Inter-House Championship. But 
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he had hoped the Ravenclaws might have found it in 
their hearts to support him as much as Cedric. He 
was wrong, however. Most Ravenclaws seemed to 
think that he had been desperate to earn himself a bit 
more fame by tricking the goblet into accepting his 
name. 

Then there was the fact that Cedric looked the part of 
a champion so much more than he did. Exceptionally 
handsome, with his straight nose, dark hair, and gray 
eyes, it was hard to say who was receiving more 
admiration these days, Cedric or Viktor Krum. Harry 
actually saw the same sixth-year girls who had been 
so keen to get Krum’s autograph begging Cedric to 
sign their school bags one lunchtime. 

Meanwhile there was no reply from Sirius, Hedwig 
was refusing to come anywhere near him, Professor 
Trelawney was predicting his death with even more 
certainty than usual, and he did so badly at 
Summoning Charms in Professor Flitwick’s class that 
he was given extra homework — the only person to 
get any, apart from Neville. 

“It’s really not that difficult, Harry,” Hermione tried to 
reassure him as they left Flitwick’s class — she had 
been making objects zoom across the room to her all 
lesson, as though she were some sort of weird magnet 
for board dusters, wastepaper baskets, and 
lunascopes. “You just weren’t concentrating properly 



“Wonder why that was,” said Harry darkly as Cedric 
Diggory walked past, surrounded by a large group of 
simpering girls, all of whom looked at Harry as 
though he were a particularly large Blast-Ended 
Skrewt. “Still — never mind, eh? Double Potions to 
look forward to this afternoon. ...” 



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Double Potions was always a horrible experience, but 
these days it was nothing short of torture. Being shut 
in a dungeon for an hour and a half with Snape and 
the Slytherins, all of whom seemed determined to 
punish Harry as much as possible for daring to 
become school champion, was about the most 
unpleasant thing Harry could imagine. He had 
already struggled through one Friday’s worth, with 
Hermione sitting next to him intoning “ignore them, 
ignore them, ignore them” under her breath, and he 
couldn’t see why today should be any better. 

When he and Hermione arrived at Snape ’s dungeon 
after lunch, they found the Slytherins waiting outside, 
each and every one of them wearing a large badge on 
the front of his or her robes. For one wild moment 
Harry thought they were S.P.E.W. badges — then he 
saw that they all bore the same message, in luminous 
red letters that burnt brightly in the dimly lit 
underground passage: 

Support CEDRIC DIGGORY — 

The REAL Hogwarts Champion 

“Like them, Potter?” said Malfoy loudly as Harry 
approached. “And this isn’t all they do — look!” 

He pressed his badge into his chest, and the message 
upon it vanished, to be replaced by another one, 
which glowed green: 

POTTER STINKS 

The Slytherins howled with laughter. Each of them 
pressed their badges too, until the message POTTER 
STINKS was shining brightly all around Harry. He felt 
the heat rise in his face and neck. 



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“Oh very funny,” Hermione said sarcastically to Pansy 
Parkinson and her gang of Slytherin girls, who were 
laughing harder than anyone, “really witty.” 

Ron was standing against the wall with Dean and 
Seamus. He wasn’t laughing, but he wasn’t sticking 
up for Harry either. 

“Want one, Granger?” said Malfoy, holding out a 
badge to Hermione. “I’ve got loads. But don’t touch 
my hand, now. I’ve just washed it, you see; don’t want 
a Mudblood sliming it up.” 

Some of the anger Harry had been feeling for days 
and days seemed to burst through a dam in his chest. 
He had reached for his wand before he’d thought 
what he was doing. People all around them scrambled 
out of the way, backing down the corridor. 

“Harry!” Hermione said warningly. 

“Go on, then, Potter,” Malfoy said quietly, drawing out 
his own wand. “Moody’s not here to look after you 
now — do it, if you’ve got the guts — ” 

For a split second, they looked into each other’s eyes, 
then, at exactly the same time, both acted. 

“ FurnunculusV’ Harry yelled. 

“ DensaugeoV’ screamed Malfoy. 

Jets of light shot from both wands, hit each other in 
midair, and ricocheted off at angles — Harry’s hit 
Goyle in the face, and Malfoy’s hit Hermione. Goyle 
bellowed and put his hands to his nose, where great 
ugly boils were springing up — Hermione, whimpering 
in panic, was clutching her mouth. 



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“Hermione!” 



Ron had hurried forward to see what was wrong with 
her; Harry turned and saw Ron dragging Hermione ’s 
hand away from her face. It wasn’t a pretty sight. 
Hermione ’s front teeth — already larger than average 
— were now growing at an alarming rate; she was 
looking more and more like a beaver as her teeth 
elongated, past her bottom lip, toward her chin — 
panic-stricken, she felt them and let out a terrified 
cry. 

“And what is all this noise about?” said a soft, deadly 
voice. 

Snape had arrived. The Slytherins clamored to give 
their explanations; Snape pointed a long yellow finger 
at Malfoy and said, “Explain.” 

“Potter attacked me, sir — ” 

“We attacked each other at the same time!” Harry 
shouted. 

“ — and he hit Goyle — look — ” 

Snape examined Goyle, whose face now resembled 
something that would have been at home in a book 
on poisonous fungi. 

“Hospital wing, Goyle,” Snape said calmly. 

“Malfoy got Hermione!” Ron said. “Loo/d” 

He forced Hermione to show Snape her teeth — she 
was doing her best to hide them with her hands, 
though this was difficult as they had now grown down 
past her collar. Pansy Parkinson and the other 



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Slytherin girls were doubled up with silent giggles, 
pointing at Hermione from behind Snape ’s back. 

Snape looked coldly at Hermione, then said, “I see no 
difference.” 

Hermione let out a whimper; her eyes filled with tears, 
she turned on her heel and ran, ran all the way up 
the corridor and out of sight. 

It was lucky, perhaps, that both Harry and Ron 
started shouting at Snape at the same time; lucky 
their voices echoed so much in the stone corridor, for 
in the confused din, it was impossible for him to hear 
exactly what they were calling him. He got the gist, 
however. 

“Let’s see,” he said, in his silkiest voice. “Fifty points 
from Gryffindor and a detention each for Potter and 
Weasley. Now get inside, or it’ll be a week’s worth of 
detentions.” 

Harry’s ears were ringing. The injustice of it made 
him want to curse Snape into a thousand slimy 
pieces. He passed Snape, walked with Ron to the 
back of the dungeon, and slammed his bag down onto 
the table. Ron was shaking with anger too — for a 
moment, it felt as though everything was back to 
normal between them, but then Ron turned and sat 
down with Dean and Seamus instead, leaving Harry 
alone at his table. On the other side of the dungeon, 
Malfoy turned his back on Snape and pressed his 
badge, smirking. POTTER STINKS flashed once more 
across the room. 

Harry sat there staring at Snape as the lesson began, 
picturing horrific things happening to him. ... If only 
he knew how to do the Cruciatus Curse ... he’d have 



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Snape flat on his back like that spider, jerking and 
twitching. ... 

“Antidotes!” said Snape, looking around at them all, 
his cold black eyes glittering unpleasantly. “You 
should all have prepared your recipes now. I want you 
to brew them carefully, and then, we will be selecting 
someone on whom to test one. ...” 

Snape’s eyes met Harry’s, and Harry knew what was 
coming. Snape was going to poison him. Harry 
imagined picking up his cauldron, and sprinting to 
the front of the class, and bringing it down on Snape’s 
greasy head — 

And then a knock on the dungeon door burst in on 
Harry’s thoughts. 

It was Colin Creevey; he edged into the room, 
beaming at Harry, and walked up to Snape’s desk at 
the front of the room. 

“Yes?” said Snape curtly. 

“Please, sir, I’m supposed to take Harry Potter 
upstairs.” 

Snape stared down his hooked nose at Colin, whose 
smile faded from his eager face. 

“Potter has another hour of Potions to complete,” said 
Snape coldly. “He will come upstairs when this class 
is finished.” 

Colin went pink. 

“Sir — sir, Mr. Bagman wants him,” he said 
nervously. “All the champions have got to go, I think 
they want to take photographs. ...” 

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Harry would have given anything he owned to have 
stopped Colin saying those last few words. He 
chanced half a glance at Ron, but Ron was staring 
determinedly at the ceiling. 

“Very well, very well,” Snape snapped. “Potter, leave 
your things here, I want you back down here later to 
test your antidote.” 

“Please, sir — he’s got to take his things with him,” 
squeaked Colin. “All the champions — ” 

“Very well\” said Snape. “Potter — take your bag and 
get out of my sight!” 

Harry swung his bag over his shoulder, got up, and 
headed for the door. As he walked through the 
Slytherin desks, POTTER STINKS flashed at him from 
every direction. 

“It’s amazing, isn’t it, Harry?” said Colin, starting to 
speak the moment Harry had closed the dungeon 
door behind him. “Isn’t it, though? You being 
champion?” 

“Yeah, really amazing,” said Harry heavily as they set 
off toward the steps into the entrance hall. “What do 
they want photos for, Colin?” 

“The Daily Prophet, I think!” 

“Great,” said Harry dully. “Exactly what I need. More 
publicity.” 

“Good luck!” said Colin when they had reached the 
right room. Harry knocked on the door and entered. 

He was in a fairly small classroom; most of the desks 
had been pushed away to the back of the room, 

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leaving a large space in the middle; three of them, 
however, had been placed end-to-end in front of the 
blackboard and covered with a long length of velvet. 
Five chairs had been set behind the velvet-covered 
desks, and Ludo Bagman was sitting in one of them, 
talking to a witch Harry had never seen before, who 
was wearing magenta robes. 

Viktor Krum was standing moodily in a corner as 
usual and not talking to anybody. Cedric and Fleur 
were in conversation. Fleur looked a good deal 
happier than Harry had seen her so far; she kept 
throwing back her head so that her long silvery hair 
caught the light. A paunchy man, holding a large 
black camera that was smoking slightly, was 
watching Fleur out of the corner of his eye. 

Bagman suddenly spotted Harry, got up quickly, and 
bounded forward. 

“Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, 
Harry, in you come ... nothing to worry about, it’s just 
the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges 
will be here in a moment — ” 

“Wand weighing?” Harry repeated nervously. 

“We have to check that your wands are fully 
functional, no problems, you know, as they’re your 
most important tools in the tasks ahead,” said 
Bagman. “The expert’s upstairs now with 
Dumbledore. And then there’s going to be a little 
photo shoot. This is Rita Skeeter,” he added, 
gesturing toward the witch in magenta robes. “She’s 
doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily 
Prophet ...” 

“Maybe not that small, Ludo,” said Rita Skeeter, her 
eyes on Harry. 

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Her hair was set in elaborate and curiously rigid curls 
that contrasted oddly with her heavy-jawed face. She 
wore jeweled spectacles. The thick fingers clutching 
her crocodile-skin handbag ended in two-inch nails, 
painted crimson. 

“I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry 
before we start?” she said to Bagman, but still gazing 
fixedly at Harry. “The youngest champion, you know 
... to add a bit of color?” 

“Certainly!” cried Bagman. “That is — if Harry has no 
objection?” 

“Er — ” said Harry. 

“Lovely,” said Rita Skeeter, and in a second, her 
scarlet-taloned fingers had Harry’s upper arm in a 
surprisingly strong grip, and she was steering him 
out of the room again and opening a nearby door. 

“We don’t want to be in there with all that noise,” she 
said. “Let’s see ... ah, yes, this is nice and cozy.” 

It was a broom cupboard. Harry stared at her. 

“Come along, dear — that’s right — lovely,” said Rita 
Skeeter again, perching herself precariously upon an 
upturned bucket, pushing Harry down onto a 
cardboard box, and closing the door, throwing them 
into darkness. “Let’s see now ...” 

She unsnapped her crocodile-skin handbag and 
pulled out a handful of candles, which she lit with a 
wave of her wand and magicked into midair, so that 
they could see what they were doing. 

“You won’t mind, Harry, if I use a Quick-Quotes 
Quill? It leaves me free to talk to you normally. ...” 

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“A what?” said Harry. 



Rita Skeeter’s smile widened. Harry counted three 
gold teeth. She reached again into her crocodile bag 
and drew out a long acid-green quill and a roll of 
parchment, which she stretched out between them on 
a crate of Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess 
Remover. She put the tip of the green quill into her 
mouth, sucked it for a moment with apparent relish, 
then placed it upright on the parchment, where it 
stood balanced on its point, quivering slightly. 

“Testing ... my name is Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet 
reporter.” 

Harry looked down quickly at the quill. The moment 
Rita Skeeter had spoken, the green quill had started 
to scribble, skidding across the parchment: 

Attractive blonde Rita Skeeter, forty-three, whose 
savage quill has punctured many inflated reputations 



“Lovely,” said Rita Skeeter, yet again, and she ripped 
the top piece of parchment off, crumpled it up, and 
stuffed it into her handbag. Now she leaned toward 
Harry and said, “So, Harry ... what made you decide 
to enter the Triwizard Tournament?” 

“Er — ” said Harry again, but he was distracted by the 
quill. Even though he wasn’t speaking, it was dashing 
across the parchment, and in its wake he could make 
out a fresh sentence: 

An ugly scar, souvenir of a tragic past, disfigures the 
otherwise charming face of Harry Potter, whose eyes 



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“Ignore the quill, Harry,” said Rita Skeeter firmly. 
Reluctantly, Harry looked up at her instead. “Now — 
why did you decide to enter the tournament, Harry?” 

“I didn’t,” said Harry. “I don’t know how my name got 
into the Goblet of Fire. I didn’t put it in there.” 

Rita Skeeter raised one heavily penciled eyebrow. 

“Come now, Harry, there’s no need to be scared of 
getting into trouble. We all know you shouldn’t really 
have entered at all. But don’t worry about that. Our 
readers love a rebel.” 

“But I didn’t enter,” Harry repeated. “I don’t know 
who — ” 

“How do you feel about the tasks ahead?” said Rita 
Skeeter. “Excited? Nervous?” 

“I haven’t really thought ... yeah, nervous, I suppose,” 
said Harry. His insides squirmed uncomfortably as he 
spoke. 

“Champions have died in the past, haven’t they?” said 
Rita Skeeter briskly. “Have you thought about that at 
all?” 

“Well ... they say it’s going to be a lot safer this year,” 
said Harry. 

The quill whizzed across the parchment between 
them, back and forward as though it were skating. 

“Of course, you’ve looked death in the face before, 
haven’t you?” said Rita Skeeter, watching him closely. 
“How would you say that’s affected you?” 

“Er,” said Harry, yet again. 

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“Do you think that the trauma in your past might 
have made you keen to prove yourself? To live up to 
your name? Do you think that perhaps you were 
tempted to enter the Triwizard Tournament because 



“I didn’t enter,” said Harry, starting to feel irritated. 

“Can you remember your parents at all?” said Rita 
Skeeter, talking over him. 

“No,” said Harry. 

“How do you think they’d feel if they knew you were 
competing in the Triwizard Tournament? Proud? 
Worried? Angry?” 

Harry was feeling really annoyed now. How on earth 
was he to know how his parents would feel if they 
were alive? He could feel Rita Skeeter watching him 
very intently. Frowning, he avoided her gaze and 
looked down at words the quill had just written: 

Tears fill those startling green eyes as our 
conversation turns to the parents he can barely 
remember. 

“I have NOT got tears in my eyes!” said Harry loudly. 

Before Rita Skeeter could say a word, the door of the 
broom cupboard was pulled open. Harry looked 
around, blinking in the bright light. Albus 
Dumbledore stood there, looking down at both of 
them, squashed into the cupboard. 

“ Dumbledorel” cried Rita Skeeter, with every 
appearance of delight — but Harry noticed that her 
quill and the parchment had suddenly vanished from 
the box of Magical Mess Remover, and Rita’s clawed 

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fingers were hastily snapping shut the clasp of her 
crocodile-skin bag. “How are you?” she said, standing 
up and holding out one of her large, mannish hands 
to Dumbledore. “I hope you saw my piece over the 
summer about the International Confederation of 
Wizards’ Conference?” 

“Enchantingly nasty,” said Dumbledore, his eyes 
twinkling. “I particularly enjoyed your description of 
me as an obsolete dingbat.” 

Rita Skeeter didn’t look remotely abashed. 

“I was just making the point that some of your ideas 
are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore, and that many 
wizards in the street — ” 

“I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the 
rudeness, Rita,” said Dumbledore, with a courteous 
bow and a smile, “but I’m afraid we will have to 
discuss the matter later. The Weighing of the Wands 
is about to start, and it cannot take place if one of our 
champions is hidden in a broom cupboard.” 

Very glad to get away from Rita Skeeter, Harry 
hurried back into the room. The other champions 
were now sitting in chairs near the door, and he sat 
down quickly next to Cedric, looking up at the velvet- 
covered table, where four of the five judges were now 
sitting — Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr. 
Crouch, and Ludo Bagman. Rita Skeeter settled 
herself down in a corner; Harry saw her slip the 
parchment out of her bag again, spread it on her 
knee, suck the end of the Quick-Quotes Quill, and 
place it once more on the parchment. 

“May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?” said Dumbledore, 
taking his place at the judges’ table and talking to the 
champions. “He will be checking your wands to 

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ensure that they are in good condition before the 
tournament.” 

Harry looked around, and with a jolt of surprise saw 
an old wizard with large, pale eyes standing quietly by 
the window. Harry had met Mr. Ollivander before — 
he was the wand-maker from whom Harry had 
bought his own wand over three years ago in Diagon 
Alley. 

“Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, 
please?” said Mr. Ollivander, stepping into the empty 
space in the middle of the room. 

Fleur Delacour swept over to Mr. Ollivander and 
handed him her wand. 

“Hmmm ...” he said. 

He twirled the wand between his long fingers like a 
baton and it emitted a number of pink and gold 
sparks. Then he held it close to his eyes and 
examined it carefully. 

“Yes,” he said quietly, “nine and a half inches ... 
inflexible . . . rosewood . . . and containing . . . dear me 



“An ’air from ze ’ead of a veela,” said Fleur. “One of 
my grandmuzzer’s.” 

So Fleur was part veela, thought Harry, making a 
mental note to tell Ron . . . then he remembered that 
Ron wasn’t speaking to him. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Ollivander, “yes, I’ve never used veela 
hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather 
temperamental wands . . . however, to each his own, 
and if this suits you ...” 

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Mr. Ollivander ran his fingers along the wand, 
apparently checking for scratches or bumps; then he 
muttered, “ OrchideousV’ and a bunch of flowers burst 
from the wand tip. 

“Very well, very well, it’s in fine working order,” said 
Mr. Ollivander, scooping up the flowers and handing 
them to Fleur with her wand. “Mr. Diggory, you next.” 

Fleur glided back to her seat, smiling at Cedric as he 
passed her. 

“Ah, now, this is one of mine, isn’t it?” said Mr. 
Ollivander, with much more enthusiasm, as Cedric 
handed over his wand. “Yes, I remember it well. 
Containing a single hair from the tail of a particularly 
fine male unicorn . . . must have been seventeen 
hands; nearly gored me with his horn after I plucked 
his tail. Twelve and a quarter inches ... ash ... 
pleasantly springy. It’s in fine condition. ... You treat 
it regularly?” 

“Polished it last night,” said Cedric, grinning. 

Harry looked down at his own wand. He could see 
finger marks all over it. He gathered a fistful of robe 
from his knee and tried to rub it clean surreptitiously. 
Several gold sparks shot out of the end of it. Fleur 
Delacour gave him a very patronizing look, and he 
desisted. 

Mr. Ollivander sent a stream of silver smoke rings 
across the room from the tip of Cedric’s wand, 
pronounced himself satisfied, and then said, “Mr. 
Krum, if you please.” 

Viktor Krum got up and slouched, round-shouldered 
and duck-footed, toward Mr. Ollivander. He thrust 



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out his wand and stood scowling, with his hands in 
the pockets of his robes. 



“Hmm,” said Mr. Ollivander, “this is a Gregorovitch 
creation, unless I’m much mistaken? A fine wand- 
maker, though the styling is never quite what I . . . 
however ...” 

He lifted the wand and examined it minutely, turning 
it over and over before his eyes. 

“Yes . . . hornbeam and dragon heartstring?” he shot at 
Krum, who nodded. “Rather thicker than one usually 
sees . . . quite rigid . . . ten and a quarter inches . . . 

Avis'.” 

The hornbeam wand let off a blast like a gun, and a 
number of small, twittering birds flew out of the end 
and through the open window into the watery 
sunlight. 

“Good,” said Mr. Ollivander, handing Krum back his 
wand. “Which leaves ... Mr. Potter.” 

Harry got to his feet and walked past Krum to Mr. 
Ollivander. He handed over his wand. 

“Aaaah, yes,” said Mr. Ollivander, his pale eyes 
suddenly gleaming. “Yes, yes, yes. How well I 
remember.” 

Harry could remember too. He could remember it as 
though it had happened yesterday. . . 

Four summers ago, on his eleventh birthday, he had 
entered Mr. Ollivander’s shop with Hagrid to buy a 
wand. Mr. Ollivander had taken his measurements 
and then started handing him wands to try. Harry 
had waved what felt like every wand in the shop, until 
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at last he had found the one that suited him — this 
one, which was made of holly, eleven inches long, and 
contained a single feather from the tail of a phoenix. 
Mr. Ollivander had been very surprised that Harry 
had been so compatible with this wand. “Curious,” he 
had said, “curious,” and not until Harry asked what 
was curious had Mr. Ollivander explained that the 
phoenix feather in Harry’s wand had come from the 
same bird that had supplied the core of Lord 
Voldemort’s. 

Harry had never shared this piece of information with 
anybody. He was very fond of his wand, and as far as 
he was concerned its relation to Voldemort’s wand 
was something it couldn’t help — rather as he 
couldn’t help being related to Aunt Petunia. However, 
he really hoped that Mr. Ollivander wasn’t about to 
tell the room about it. He had a funny feeling Rita 
Skeeter’s Quick-Quotes Quill might just explode with 
excitement if he did. 

Mr. Ollivander spent much longer examining Harry’s 
wand than anyone else’s. Eventually, however, he 
made a fountain of wine shoot out of it, and handed it 
back to Harry, announcing that it was still in perfect 
condition. 

“Thank you all,” said Dumbledore, standing up at the 
judges’ table. “You may go back to your lessons now 
— or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to 
dinner, as they are about to end — ” 

Feeling that at last something had gone right today, 
Harry got up to leave, but the man with the black 
camera jumped up and cleared his throat. 

“Photos, Dumbledore, photos!” cried Bagman 
excitedly. “All the judges and champions, what do you 
think, Rita?” 

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“Er — yes, let’s do those first,” said Rita Skeeter, 
whose eyes were upon Harry again. “And then 
perhaps some individual shots.” 

The photographs took a long time. Madame Maxime 
cast everyone else into shadow wherever she stood, 
and the photographer couldn’t stand far enough back 
to get her into the frame; eventually she had to sit 
while everyone else stood around her. Karkaroff kept 
twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra 
curl; Krum, whom Harry would have thought would 
have been used to this sort of thing, skulked, half- 
hidden, at the back of the group. The photographer 
seemed keenest to get Fleur at the front, but Rita 
Skeeter kept hurrying forward and dragging Harry 
into greater prominence. Then she insisted on 
separate shots of all the champions. At last, they were 
free to go. 

Harry went down to dinner. Hermione wasn’t there — 
he supposed she was still in the hospital wing having 
her teeth fixed. He ate alone at the end of the table, 
then returned to Gryffindor Tower, thinking of all the 
extra work on Summoning Charms that he had to do. 
Up in the dormitory, he came across Ron. 

“You’ve had an owl,” said Ron brusquely the moment 
he walked in. He was pointing at Harry’s pillow. The 
school barn owl was waiting for him there. 

“Oh — right,” said Harry. 

“And we’ve got to do our detentions tomorrow night, 
Snape’s dungeon,” said Ron. 

He then walked straight out of the room, not looking 
at Harry. For a moment, Harry considered going after 
him — he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to talk to 
him or hit him, both seemed quite appealing — but 

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the lure of Sirius’s answer was too strong. Harry 
strode over to the barn owl, took the letter off its leg, 
and unrolled it. 

Harry — 

I can’t say everything I would like to in a letter, it’s too 
risky in case the owl is intercepted — we need to talk 
face-to-face. Can you ensure that you are alone by the 
fire in Gryffindor Tower at one o’clock in the morning 
on the 22nd of November? 

I know better than anyone that you can look after 
yourself and while you’re around Dumbledore and 
Moody I don’t think anyone will be able to hurt you. 
However, someone seems to be having a good try. 
Entering you in that tournament would have been very 
risky, especially right under Dumbledore’ s nose. 

Be on the watch, Harry. I still want to hear about 
anything unusual. Let me know about the 22nd of 
November as quickly as you can. 

Sirius 



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THE HUNGARIAN HORNTAIL 

The prospect of talking face-to-face with Sirius was all 
that sustained Harry over the next fortnight, the only 
bright spot on a horizon that had never looked 
darker. The shock of finding himself school champion 
had worn off slightly now, and the fear of what was 
facing him had started to sink in. The first task was 
drawing steadily nearer; he felt as though it were 
crouching ahead of him like some horrific monster, 
barring his path. He had never suffered nerves like 
these; they were way beyond anything he had 
experienced before a Quidditch match, not even his 
last one against Slytherin, which had decided who 
would win the Quidditch Cup. Harry was finding it 
hard to think about the future at all; he felt as though 
his whole life had been leading up to, and would 
finish with, the first task. ... 

Admittedly, he didn’t see how Sirius was going to 
make him feel any better about having to perform an 
unknown piece of difficult and dangerous magic in 
front of hundreds of people, but the mere sight of a 
friendly face would be something at the moment. 

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Harry wrote back to Sirius saying that he would be 
beside the common room fire at the time Sirius had 
suggested, and he and Hermione spent a long time 
going over plans for forcing any stragglers out of the 
common room on the night in question. If the worst 
came to the worst, they were going to drop a bag of 
Dungbombs, but they hoped they wouldn’t have to 
resort to that — Filch would skin them alive. 

In the meantime, life became even worse for Harry 
within the confines of the castle, for Rita Skeeter had 
published her piece about the Triwizard Tournament, 
and it had turned out to be not so much a report on 
the tournament as a highly colored life story of Harry. 
Much of the front page had been given over to a 
picture of Harry; the article (continuing on pages two, 
six, and seven) had been all about Harry, the names 
of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang champions 
(misspelled) had been squashed into the last line of 
the article, and Cedric hadn’t been mentioned at all. 

The article had appeared ten days ago, and Harry still 
got a sick, burning feeling of shame in his stomach 
every time he thought about it. Rita Skeeter had 
reported him saying an awful lot of things that he 
couldn’t remember ever saying in his life, let alone in 
that broom cupboard. 

I suppose I get my strength from my parents. I know 
they’d be very proud of me if they could see me now. 

... Yes, sometimes at night I still cry about them, I’m 
not ashamed to admit it. ... I know nothing will hurt 
me during the tournament, because they’re watching 
over me. ... 

But Rita Skeeter had gone even further than 
transforming his “er’s” into long, sickly sentences: 

She had interviewed other people about him too. 



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Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts. His close 
friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is rarely seen 
out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a 
stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who, like Harry, is 
one of the top students in the school. 

From the moment the article had appeared, Harry 
had had to endure people — Slytherins, mainly — 
quoting it at him as he passed and making sneering 
comments. 

“Want a hanky, Potter, in case you start crying in 
Transfiguration?” 

“Since when have you been one of the top students in 
the school, Potter? Or is this a school you and 
Longbottom have set up together?” 

“Hey — Harry!” 

“Yeah, that’s right!” Harry found himself shouting as 
he wheeled around in the corridor, having had just 
about enough. “I’ve just been crying my eyes out over 
my dead mum, and I’m just off to do a bit more. ...” 

“No — it was just — you dropped your quill.” 

It was Cho. Harry felt the color rising in his face. 

“Oh — right — sorry,” he muttered, taking the quill 
back. 

“Er ... good luck on Tuesday,” she said. “I really hope 
you do well.” 

Which left Harry feeling extremely stupid. 

Hermione had come in for her fair share of 
unpleasantness too, but she hadn’t yet started yelling 

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at innocent bystanders; in fact, Harry was full of 
admiration for the way she was handling the 
situation. 

“ Stunningly pretty? Her?” Pansy Parkinson had 
shrieked the first time she had come face-to-face with 
Hermione after Rita’s article had appeared. “What was 
she judging against — a chipmunk?” 

“Ignore it,” Hermione said in a dignified voice, holding 
her head in the air and stalking past the sniggering 
Slytherin girls as though she couldn’t hear them. 

“Just ignore it, Harry.” 

But Harry couldn’t ignore it. Ron hadn’t spoken to 
him at all since he had told him about Snape’s 
detentions. Harry had half hoped they would make 
things up during the two hours they were forced to 
pickle rats’ brains in Snape’s dungeon, but that had 
been the day Rita’s article had appeared, which 
seemed to have confirmed Ron’s belief that Harry was 
really enjoying all the attention. 

Hermione was furious with the pair of them; she went 
from one to the other, trying to force them to talk to 
each other, but Harry was adamant: He would talk to 
Ron again only if Ron admitted that Harry hadn’t put 
his name in the Goblet of Fire and apologized for 
calling him a liar. 

“I didn’t start this,” Harry said stubbornly. “It’s his 
problem.” 

“You miss him!” Hermione said impatiently. “And I 
know he misses you — ” 

“Miss him?” said Harry. “I don’t miss him. ...” 



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But this was a downright lie. Harry liked Hermione 
very much, but she just wasn’t the same as Ron. 

There was much less laughter and a lot more hanging 
around in the library when Hermione was your best 
friend. Harry still hadn’t mastered Summoning 
Charms, he seemed to have developed something of a 
block about them, and Hermione insisted that 
learning the theory would help. They consequently 
spent a lot of time poring over books during their 
lunchtimes. 

Viktor Krum was in the library an awful lot too, and 
Harry wondered what he was up to. Was he studying, 
or was he looking for things to help him through the 
first task? Hermione often complained about Krum 
being there — not that he ever bothered them — but 
because groups of giggling girls often turned up to spy 
on him from behind bookshelves, and Hermione 
found the noise distracting. 

“He’s not even good-looking!” she muttered angrily, 
glaring at Krum’s sharp profile. “They only like him 
because he’s famous! They wouldn’t look twice at him 
if he couldn’t do that Wonky- Faint thing — ” 

“Wronski Feint,” said Harry, through gritted teeth. 
Quite apart from liking to get Quidditch terms 
correct, it caused him another pang to imagine Ron’s 
expression if he could have heard Hermione talking 
about Wonky- Faints. 

It is a strange thing, but when you are dreading 
something, and would give anything to slow down 
time, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up. The 
days until the first task seemed to slip by as though 
someone had fixed the clocks to work at double 
speed. Harry’s feeling of barely controlled panic was 
with him wherever he went, as everpresent as the 
snide comments about the Daily Prophet article. 

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On the Saturday before the first task, all students in 
the third year and above were permitted to visit the 
village of Hogsmeade. Hermione told Harry that it 
would do him good to get away from the castle for a 
bit, and Harry didn’t need much persuasion. 

“What about Ron, though?” he said. “Don’t you want 
to go with him?” 

“Oh ... well ...” Hermione went slightly pink. “I 
thought we might meet up with him in the Three 
Broomsticks. ...” 

“No,” said Harry flatly. 

“Oh Harry, this is so stupid — ” 

“I’ll come, but I’m not meeting Ron, and I’m wearing 
my Invisibility Cloak.” 

“Oh all right then ...” Hermione snapped, “but I hate 
talking to you in that cloak, I never know if I’m 
looking at you or not.” 

So Harry put on his Invisibility Cloak in the 
dormitory, went back downstairs, and together he 
and Hermione set off for Hogsmeade. 

Harry felt wonderfully free under the cloak; he 
watched other students walking past them as they 
entered the village, most of them sporting Support 
Cedric Diggory\ badges, but no horrible remarks came 
his way for a change, and nobody was quoting that 
stupid article. 

“People keep looking at me now,” said Hermione 
grumpily as they came out of Honeydukes Sweetshop 
later, eating large cream-filled chocolates. “They think 
I’m talking to myself.” 

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“Don’t move your lips so much then.” 



“Come on, please just take off your cloak for a bit, no 
one’s going to bother you here.” 

“Oh yeah?” said Harry. “Look behind you.” 

Rita Skeeter and her photographer friend had just 
emerged from the Three Broomsticks pub. Talking in 
low voices, they passed right by Hermione without 
looking at her. Harry backed into the wall of 
Honeydukes to stop Rita Skeeter from hitting him 
with her crocodile-skin handbag. When they were 
gone, Harry said, “She’s staying in the village. I bet 
she’s coming to watch the first task.” 

As he said it, his stomach flooded with a wave of 
molten panic. He didn’t mention this; he and 
Hermione hadn’t discussed what was coming in the 
first task much; he had the feeling she didn’t want to 
think about it. 

“She’s gone,” said Hermione, looking right through 
Harry toward the end of the street. “Why don’t we go 
and have a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks, it’s a 
bit cold, isn’t it? You don’t have to talk to Ron!” she 
added irritably, correctly interpreting his silence. 

The Three Broomsticks was packed, mainly with 
Hogwarts students enjoying their free afternoon, but 
also with a variety of magical people Harry rarely saw 
anywhere else. Harry supposed that as Hogsmeade 
was the only all-wizard village in Britain, it was a bit 
of a haven for creatures like hags, who were not as 
adept as wizards at disguising themselves. 

It was very hard to move through crowds in the 
Invisibility Cloak, in case you accidentally trod on 
someone, which tended to lead to awkward questions. 

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Harry edged slowly toward a spare table in the corner 
while Hermione went to buy drinks. On his way 
through the pub, Harry spotted Ron, who was sitting 
with Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. Resisting the urge 
to give Ron a good hard poke in the back of the head, 
he finally reached the table and sat down at it. 

Hermione joined him a moment later and slipped him 
a butterbeer under his cloak. 

“I look like such an idiot, sitting here on my own,” she 
muttered. “Lucky I brought something to do.” 

And she pulled out a notebook in which she had been 
keeping a record of S.P.E.W. members. Harry saw his 
and Ron’s names at the top of the very short list. It 
seemed a long time ago that they had sat making up 
those predictions together, and Hermione had turned 
up and appointed them secretary and treasurer. 

“You know, maybe I should try and get some of the 
villagers involved in S.P.E.W.,” Hermione said 
thoughtfully, looking around the pub. 

“Yeah, right,” said Harry. He took a swig of butterbeer 
under his cloak. “Hermione, when are you going to 
give up on this spew stuff?” 

“When house-elves have decent wages and working 
conditions!” she hissed back. “You know, I’m starting 
to think it’s time for more direct action. I wonder how 
you get into the school kitchens?” 

“No idea, ask Fred and George,” said Harry. 

Hermione lapsed into thoughtful silence, while Harry 
drank his butterbeer, watching the people in the pub. 
All of them looked cheerful and relaxed. Ernie 
Macmillan and Hannah Abbott were swapping 

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Chocolate Frog cards at a nearby table; both of them 
sporting Support Cedric Diggory\ badges on their 
cloaks. Right over by the door he saw Cho and a large 
group of her Ravenclaw friends. She wasn’t wearing a 
Cedric badge though. ... This cheered up Harry very 
slightly. ... 

What wouldn’t he have given to be one of these 
people, sitting around laughing and talking, with 
nothing to worry about but homework? He imagined 
how it would have felt to be here if his name hadn’t 
come out of the Goblet of Fire. He wouldn’t be wearing 
the Invisibility Cloak, for one thing. Ron would be 
sitting with him. The three of them would probably be 
happily imagining what deadly dangerous task the 
school champions would be facing on Tuesday. He’d 
have been really looking forward to it, watching them 
do whatever it was . . . cheering on Cedric with 
everyone else, safe in a seat at the back of the stands. 



He wondered how the other champions were feeling. 
Every time he had seen Cedric lately, he had been 
surrounded by admirers and looking nervous but 
excited. Harry glimpsed Fleur Delacour from time to 
time in the corridors; she looked exactly as she 
always did, haughty and unruffled. And Krum just 
sat in the library, poring over books. 

Harry thought of Sirius, and the tight, tense knot in 
his chest seemed to ease slightly. He would be 
speaking to him in just over twelve hours, for tonight 
was the night they were meeting at the common room 
fire — assuming nothing went wrong, as everything 
else had done lately. ... 

“Look, it’s Hagrid!” said Hermione. 



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The back of Hagrid ’s enormous shaggy head — he 
had mercifully abandoned his bunches — emerged 
over the crowd. Harry wondered why he hadn’t 
spotted him at once, as Hagrid was so large, but 
standing up carefully, he saw that Hagrid had been 
leaning low, talking to Professor Moody. Hagrid had 
his usual enormous tankard in front of him, but 
Moody was drinking from his hip flask. Madam 
Rosmerta, the pretty landlady, didn’t seem to think 
much of this; she was looking askance at Moody as 
she collected glasses from tables around them. 
Perhaps she thought it was an insult to her mulled 
mead, but Harry knew better. Moody had told them 
all during their last Defense Against the Dark Arts 
lesson that he preferred to prepare his own food and 
drink at all times, as it was so easy for Dark wizards 
to poison an unattended cup. 

As Harry watched, he saw Hagrid and Moody get up 
to leave. He waved, then remembered that Hagrid 
couldn’t see him. Moody, however, paused, his 
magical eye on the corner where Harry was standing. 
He tapped Hagrid in the small of the back (being 
unable to reach his shoulder), muttered something to 
him, and then the pair of them made their way back 
across the pub toward Harry and Hermione’s table. 

“All right, Hermione?” said Hagrid loudly. 

“Hello,” said Hermione, smiling back. 

Moody limped around the table and bent down; Harry 
thought he was reading the S.P.E.W. notebook, until 
he muttered, “Nice cloak, Potter.” 

Harry stared at him in amazement. The large chunk 
missing from Moody’s nose was particularly obvious 
at a few inches’ distance. Moody grinned. 



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“Can your eye — I mean, can you — ?” 



“Yeah, it can see through Invisibility Cloaks,” Moody 
said quietly. “And it’s come in useful at times, I can 
tell you.” 

Hagrid was beaming down at Harry too. Harry knew 
Hagrid couldn’t see him, but Moody had obviously 
told Hagrid he was there. Hagrid now bent down on 
the pretext of reading the S.P.E.W. notebook as well, 
and said in a whisper so low that only Harry could 
hear it, “Harry, meet me tonight at midnight at me 
cabin. Wear that cloak.” 

Straightening up, Hagrid said loudly, “Nice ter see 
yeh, Hermione,” winked, and departed. Moody 
followed him. 

“Why does Hagrid want me to meet him at midnight?” 
Harry said, very surprised. 

“Does he?” said Hermione, looking startled. “I wonder 
what he’s up to? I don’t know whether you should go, 
Harry. ...” She looked nervously around and hissed, 

“It might make you late for Sirius.” 

It was true that going down to Hagrid ’s at midnight 
would mean cutting his meeting with Sirius very fine 
indeed; Hermione suggested sending Hedwig down to 
Hagrid ’s to tell him he couldn’t go — always assuming 
she would consent to take the note, of course — 

Harry, however, thought it better just to be quick at 
whatever Hagrid wanted him for. He was very curious 
to know what this might be; Hagrid had never asked 
Harry to visit him so late at night. 

At half past eleven that evening, Harry, who had 
pretended to go up to bed early, pulled the Invisibility 
Cloak back over himself and crept back downstairs 

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through the common room. Quite a few people were 
still in there. The Creevey brothers had managed to 
get hold of a stack of Support Cedric Diggoryl badges 
and were trying to bewitch them to make them say 
Support Harry Potter\ instead. So far, however, all they 
had managed to do was get the badges stuck on 
POTTER STINKS. Harry crept past them to the portrait 
hole and waited for a minute or so, keeping an eye on 
his watch. Then Hermione opened the Fat Lady for 
him from outside as they had planned. He slipped 
past her with a whispered “Thanks!” and set off 
through the castle. 

The grounds were very dark. Harry walked down the 
lawn toward the lights shining in Hagrid’s cabin. The 
inside of the enormous Beauxbatons carriage was 
also lit up; Harry could hear Madame Maxime talking 
inside it as he knocked on Hagrid’s front door. 

“You there, Harry?” Hagrid whispered, opening the 
door and looking around. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, slipping inside the cabin and 
pulling the cloak down off his head. “What’s up?” 

“Got summat ter show yeh,” said Hagrid. 

There was an air of enormous excitement about 
Hagrid. He was wearing a flower that resembled an 
oversized artichoke in his buttonhole. It looked as 
though he had abandoned the use of axle grease, but 
he had certainly attempted to comb his hair — Harry 
could see the comb’s broken teeth tangled in it. 

“What’re you showing me?” Harry said warily, 
wondering if the skrewts had laid eggs, or Hagrid had 
managed to buy another giant three-headed dog off a 
stranger in a pub. 



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“Come with me, keep quiet, an’ keep yerself covered 
with that cloak,” said Hagrid. “We won’ take Fang, he 
won’ like it. ...” 

“Listen, Hagrid, I can’t stay long. ... I’ve got to be back 
up at the castle by one o’clock — ” 

But Hagrid wasn’t listening; he was opening the cabin 
door and striding off into the night. Harry hurried to 
follow and found, to his great surprise, that Hagrid 
was leading him to the Beauxbatons carriage. 

“Hagrid, what — ?” 

“Shhh!” said Hagrid, and he knocked three times on 
the door bearing the crossed golden wands. 

Madame Maxime opened it. She was wearing a silk 
shawl wrapped around her massive shoulders. She 
smiled when she saw Hagrid. 

“Ah, ’Agrid ... it is time?” 

“Bong-sewer,” said Hagrid, beaming at her, and 
holding out a hand to help her down the golden steps. 

Madame Maxime closed the door behind her, Hagrid 
offered her his arm, and they set off around the edge 
of the paddock containing Madame Maxime ’s giant 
winged horses, with Harry, totally bewildered, 
running to keep up with them. Had Hagrid wanted to 
show him Madame Maxime? He could see her any old 
time he wanted ... she wasn’t exactly hard to miss. ... 

But it seemed that Madame Maxime was in for the 
same treat as Harry, because after a while she said 
playfully, “Wair is it you are taking me, ’Agrid?” 



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“Yeh’ll enjoy this,” said Hagrid gruffly, “worth seem’, 
trust me. On’y — don’ go tellin’ anyone I showed yeh, 
right? Yeh’re not s’posed ter know.” 

“Of course not,” said Madame Maxime, fluttering her 
long black eyelashes. 

And still they walked, Harry getting more and more 
irritated as he jogged along in their wake, checking 
his watch every now and then. Hagrid had some 
harebrained scheme in hand, which might make him 
miss Sirius. If they didn’t get there soon, he was going 
to turn around, go straight back to the castle, and 
leave Hagrid to enjoy his moonlit stroll with Madame 
Maxime. ... 

But then — when they had walked so far around the 
perimeter of the forest that the castle and the lake 
were out of sight — Harry heard something. Men were 
shouting up ahead . . . then came a deafening, 
earsplitting roar. . . . 

Hagrid led Madame Maxime around a clump of trees 
and came to a halt. Harry hurried up alongside them 
— for a split second, he thought he was seeing 
bonfires, and men darting around them — and then 
his mouth fell open. 

Dragons. 

Four fully grown, enormous, vicious-looking dragons 
were rearing onto their hind legs inside an enclosure 
fenced with thick planks of wood, roaring and 
snorting — torrents of fire were shooting into the dark 
sky from their open, fanged mouths, fifty feet above 
the ground on their outstretched necks. There was a 
silvery-blue one with long, pointed horns, snapping 
and snarling at the wizards on the ground; a smooth- 
scaled green one, which was writhing and stamping 
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with all its might; a red one with an odd fringe of fine 
gold spikes around its face, which was shooting 
mushroom-shaped fire clouds into the air; and a 
gigantic black one, more lizard-like than the others, 
which was nearest to them. 

At least thirty wizards, seven or eight to each dragon, 
were attempting to control them, pulling on the 
chains connected to heavy leather straps around their 
necks and legs. Mesmerized, Harry looked up, high 
above him, and saw the eyes of the black dragon, with 
vertical pupils like a cat’s, bulging with either fear or 
rage, he couldn’t tell which. ... It was making a 
horrible noise, a yowling, screeching scream. ... 

“Keep back there, Hagrid!” yelled a wizard near the 
fence, straining on the chain he was holding. “They 
can shoot fire at a range of twenty feet, you know! I’ve 
seen this Horntail do forty!” 

“Is’n’ it beautiful?” said Hagrid softly. 

“It’s no good!” yelled another wizard. “Stunning 
Spells, on the count of three!” 

Harry saw each of the dragon keepers pull out his 
wand. 

“Stupefy\” they shouted in unison, and the Stunning 
Spells shot into the darkness like fiery rockets, 
bursting in showers of stars on the dragons’ scaly 
hides — 

Harry watched the dragon nearest to them teeter 
dangerously on its back legs; its jaws stretched wide 
in a silent howl; its nostrils were suddenly devoid of 
flame, though still smoking — then, very slowly, it 
fell. Several tons of sinewy, scaly-black dragon hit the 



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ground with a thud that Harry could have sworn 
made the trees behind him quake. 



The dragon keepers lowered their wands and walked 
forward to their fallen charges, each of which was the 
size of a small hill. They hurried to tighten the chains 
and fasten them securely to iron pegs, which they 
forced deep into the ground with their wands. 

“Wan’ a closer look?” Hagrid asked Madame Maxime 
excitedly. The pair of them moved right up to the 
fence, and Harry followed. The wizard who had 
warned Hagrid not to come any closer turned, and 
Harry realized who it was: Charlie Weasley. 

“All right, Hagrid?” he panted, coming over to talk. 
“They should be okay now — we put them out with a 
Sleeping Draft on the way here, thought it might be 
better for them to wake up in the dark and the quiet 
— but, like you saw, they weren’t happy, not happy at 
all — ” 



“What breeds you got here, Charlie?” said Hagrid, 
gazing at the closest dragon, the black one, with 
something close to reverence. Its eyes were still just 
open. Harry could see a strip of gleaming yellow 
beneath its wrinkled black eyelid. 

“This is a Hungarian Horntail,” said Charlie. “There’s 
a Common Welsh Green over there, the smaller one — 
a Swedish Short-Snout, that blue-gray — and a 
Chinese Fireball, that’s the red.” 

Charlie looked around; Madame Maxime was strolling 
away around the edge of the enclosure, gazing at the 
stunned dragons. 

“I didn’t know you were bringing her, Hagrid,” Charlie 
said, frowning. “The champions aren’t supposed to 

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know what’s coming — she’s bound to tell her 
student, isn’t she?” 



“Jus’ thought she’d like ter see ’em,” shrugged Hagrid, 
still gazing, enraptured, at the dragons. 

“Really romantic date, Hagrid,” said Charlie, shaking 
his head. 

“Four ...” said Hagrid, “so it’s one fer each o’ the 
champions, is it? What’ve they gotta do — fight ’em?” 

“Just get past them, I think,” said Charlie. “We’ll be 
on hand if it gets nasty, Extinguishing Spells at the 
ready. They wanted nesting mothers, I don’t know 
why ... but I tell you this, I don’t envy the one who 
gets the Horntail. Vicious thing. Its back end’s as 
dangerous as its front, look.” 

Charlie pointed toward the Horntail’s tail, and Harry 
saw long, bronze-colored spikes protruding along it 
every few inches. 

Five of Charlie’s fellow keepers staggered up to the 
Horntail at that moment, carrying a clutch of huge 
granite-gray eggs between them in a blanket. They 
placed them carefully at the Horntail’s side. Hagrid let 
out a moan of longing. 

“I’ve got them counted, Hagrid,” said Charlie sternly. 
Then he said, “How’s Harry?” 

“Fine,” said Hagrid. He was still gazing at the eggs. 

“Just hope he’s still fine after he’s faced this lot,” said 
Charlie grimly, looking out over the dragons’ 
enclosure. “I didn’t dare tell Mum what he’s got to do 
for the first task; she’s already having kittens about 
him. ...” Charlie imitated his mother’s anxious voice. “ 
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‘ How could they let him enter that tournament, he’s 
much too young\ I thought they were all safe, I thought 
there was going to he an age limiti ’ She was in floods 
after that Daily Prophet article about him. ‘He still 
cries about his parents\ Oh bless him, I never knew\ ’ ” 

Harry had had enough. Trusting to the fact that 
Hagrid wouldn’t miss him, with the attractions of four 
dragons and Madame Maxime to occupy him, he 
turned silently and began to walk away, back to the 
castle. 

He didn’t know whether he was glad he’d seen what 
was coming or not. Perhaps this way was better. The 
first shock was over now. Maybe if he’d seen the 
dragons for the first time on Tuesday, he would have 
passed out cold in front of the whole school ... but 
maybe he would anyway. ... He was going to be armed 
with his wand — which, just now, felt like nothing 
more than a narrow strip of wood — against a fifty- 
foot-high, scaly, spike-ridden, fire-breathing dragon. 
And he had to get past it. With everyone watching. 
How? 

Harry sped up, skirting the edge of the forest; he had 
just under fifteen minutes to get back to the fireside 
and talk to Sirius, and he couldn’t remember, ever, 
wanting to talk to someone more than he did right 
now — when, without warning, he ran into something 
very solid. 

Harry fell backward, his glasses askew, clutching the 
cloak around him. A voice nearby said, “Ouch! Who’s 
there?” 

Harry hastily checked that the cloak was covering 
him and lay very still, staring up at the dark outline 
of the wizard he had hit. He recognized the goatee ... 
it was Karkaroff. 

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“Who’s there?” said Karkaroff again, very 
suspiciously, looking around in the darkness. Harry 
remained still and silent. After a minute or so, 
Karkaroff seemed to decide that he had hit some sort 
of animal; he was looking around at waist height, as 
though expecting to see a dog. Then he crept back 
under the cover of the trees and started to edge 
forward toward the place where the dragons were. 

Very slowly and very carefully, Harry got to his feet 
and set off again as fast as he could without making 
too much noise, hurrying through the darkness back 
toward Hogwarts. 

He had no doubt whatsoever what Karkaroff was up 
to. He had sneaked off his ship to try and find out 
what the first task was going to be. He might even 
have spotted Hagrid and Madame Maxime heading off 
around the forest together — they were hardly 
difficult to spot at a distance . . . and now all Karkaroff 
had to do was follow the sound of voices, and he, like 
Madame Maxime, would know what was in store for 
the champions. 

By the looks of it, the only champion who would be 
facing the unknown on Tuesday was Cedric. 

Harry reached the castle, slipped in through the front 
doors, and began to climb the marble stairs; he was 
very out of breath, but he didn’t dare slow down. ... 

He had less than five minutes to get up to the fire. ... 

“Balderdash!” he gasped at the Fat Lady, who was 
snoozing in her frame in front of the portrait hole. 

“If you say so,” she muttered sleepily, without opening 
her eyes, and the picture swung forward to admit 
him. Harry climbed inside. The common room was 
deserted, and, judging by the fact that it smelled quite 

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normal, Hermione had not needed to set off any 
Dungbombs to ensure that he and Sirius got privacy. 

Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and threw 
himself into an armchair in front of the fire. The room 
was in semidarkness; the flames were the only source 
of light. Nearby, on a table, the Support Cedric 
Diggoryl badges the Creeveys had been trying to 
improve were glinting in the firelight. They now read 
POTTER REALLY STINKS. Harry looked back into the 
flames, and jumped. 

Sirius’s head was sitting in the fire. If Harry hadn’t 
seen Mr. Diggory do exactly this back in the Weasleys’ 
kitchen, it would have scared him out of his wits. 
Instead, his face breaking into the first smile he had 
worn for days, he scrambled out of his chair, 
crouched down by the hearth, and said, “Sirius — 
how ’re you doing?” 

Sirius looked different from Harry’s memory of him. 
When they had said good-bye, Sirius’s face had been 
gaunt and sunken, surrounded by a quantity of long, 
black, matted hair — but the hair was short and 
clean now, Sirius’s face was fuller, and he looked 
younger, much more like the only photograph Harry 
had of him, which had been taken at the Potters’ 
wedding. 

“Never mind me, how are you?” said Sirius seriously. 

“I’m — ” For a second, Harry tried to say “fine” — but 
he couldn’t do it. Before he could stop himself, he was 
talking more than he’d talked in days — about how 
no one believed he hadn’t entered the tournament of 
his own free will, how Rita Skeeter had lied about him 
in the Daily Prophet, how he couldn’t walk down a 
corridor without being sneered at — and about Ron, 
Ron not believing him, Ron’s jealousy ... 

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"... and now Hagrid’s just shown me what’s coming in 
the first task, and it’s dragons, Sirius, and I’m a 
goner,” he finished desperately. 

Sirius looked at him, eyes full of concern, eyes that 
had not yet lost the look that Azkaban had given 
them — that deadened, haunted look. He had let 
Harry talk himself into silence without interruption, 
but now he said, “Dragons we can deal with, Harry, 
but we’ll get to that in a minute — I haven’t got long 
here ... I’ve broken into a wizarding house to use the 
fire, but they could be back at any time. There are 
things I need to warn you about.” 

“What?” said Harry, feeling his spirits slip a further 
few notches. ... Surely there could be nothing worse 
than dragons coming? 

“Karkaroff,” said Sirius. “Harry, he was a Death Eater. 
You know what Death Eaters are, don’t you?” 

“Yes — he — what?” 

“He was caught, he was in Azkaban with me, but he 
got released. I’d bet everything that’s why Dumbledore 
wanted an Auror at Hogwarts this year — to keep an 
eye on him. Moody caught Karkaroff. Put him into 
Azkaban in the first place.” 

“Karkaroff got released?” Harry said slowly — his 
brain seemed to be struggling to absorb yet another 
piece of shocking information. “Why did they release 
him?” 

“He did a deal with the Ministry of Magic,” said Sirius 
bitterly. “He said he’d seen the error of his ways, and 
then he named names ... he put a load of other people 
into Azkaban in his place. ... He’s not very popular in 
there, I can tell you. And since he got out, from what I 
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can tell, he’s been teaching the Dark Arts to every 
student who passes through that school of his. So 
watch out for the Durmstrang champion as well.” 

“Okay,” said Harry slowly. “But ... are you saying 
Karkaroff put my name in the goblet? Because if he 
did, he’s a really good actor. He seemed furious about 
it. He wanted to stop me from competing.” 

“We know he’s a good actor,” said Sirius, “because he 
convinced the Ministry of Magic to set him free, didn’t 
he? Now, I’ve been keeping an eye on the Daily 
Prophet, Harry — ” 

“ — you and the rest of the world,” said Harry bitterly. 

“ — and reading between the lines of that Skeeter 
woman’s article last month, Moody was attacked the 
night before he started at Hogwarts. Yes, I know she 
says it was another false alarm,” Sirius said hastily, 
seeing Harry about to speak, “but I don’t think so, 
somehow. I think someone tried to stop him from 
getting to Hogwarts. I think someone knew their job 
would be a lot more difficult with him around. And no 
one’s going to look into it too closely; Mad-Eye’s heard 
intruders a bit too often. But that doesn’t mean he 
can’t still spot the real thing. Moody was the best 
Auror the Ministry ever had.” 

“So . . . what are you saying?” said Harry slowly. 
“Karkaroff’s trying to kill me? But — why?” 

Sirius hesitated. 

“I’ve been hearing some very strange things,” he said 
slowly. “The Death Eaters seem to be a bit more active 
than usual lately. They showed themselves at the 
Quidditch World Cup, didn’t they? Someone set off 



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the Dark Mark . . . and then — did you hear about that 
Ministry of Magic witch who’s gone missing?” 

“Bertha Jorkins?” said Harry. 

“Exactly ... she disappeared in Albania, and that’s 
definitely where Voldemort was rumored to be last ... 
and she would have known the Triwizard Tournament 
was coming up, wouldn’t she?” 

“Yeah, but ... it’s not very likely she’d have walked 
straight into Voldemort, is it?” said Harry. 

“Listen, I knew Bertha Jorkins,” said Sirius grimly. 
“She was at Hogwarts when I was, a few years above 
your dad and me. And she was an idiot. Very nosy, 
but no brains, none at all. It’s not a good 
combination, Harry. I’d say she’d be very easy to lure 
into a trap. 

“So ... so Voldemort could have found out about the 
tournament?” said Harry. “Is that what you mean? 
You think Karkaroff might be here on his orders?” 

“I don’t know,” said Sirius slowly, “I just don’t know 
... Karkaroff doesn’t strike me as the type who’d go 
back to Voldemort unless he knew Voldemort was 
powerful enough to protect him. But whoever put 
your name in that goblet did it for a reason, and I 
can’t help thinking the tournament would be a very 
good way to attack you and make it look like an 
accident.” 

“Looks like a really good plan from where I’m 
standing,” said Harry grinning bleakly. “They’ll just 
have to stand back and let the dragons do their stuff.” 

“Right — these dragons,” said Sirius, speaking very 
quickly now. “There’s a way, Harry. Don’t be tempted 

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to try a Stunning Spell — dragons are strong and too 
powerfully magical to be knocked out by a single 
Stunner, you need about half a dozen wizards at a 
time to overcome a dragon — ” 

“Yeah, I know, I just saw,” said Harry. 

“But you can do it alone,” said Sirius. “There is a way, 
and a simple spell’s all you need. Just — ” 

But Harry held up a hand to silence him, his heart 
suddenly pounding as though it would burst. He 
could hear footsteps coming down the spiral staircase 
behind him. 

“Go!” he hissed at Sirius. “Go! There’s someone 
coming!” 

Harry scrambled to his feet, hiding the fire — if 
someone saw Sirius’s face within the walls of 
Hogwarts, they would raise an almighty uproar — the 
Ministry would get dragged in — he, Harry, would be 
questioned about Sirius’s whereabouts — 

Harry heard a tiny pop\ in the fire behind him and 
knew Sirius had gone. He watched the bottom of the 
spiral staircase. Who had decided to go for a stroll at 
one o’clock in the morning, and stopped Sirius from 
telling him how to get past a dragon? 

It was Ron. Dressed in his maroon paisley pajamas, 
Ron stopped dead facing Harry across the room, and 
looked around. 

“Who were you talking to?” he said. 

“What’s that got to do with you?” Harry snarled. 

“What are you doing down here at this time of night?” 



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“I just wondered where you — ” Ron broke off, 
shrugging. “Nothing. I’m going back to bed.” 

“Just thought you’d come nosing around, did you?” 
Harry shouted. He knew that Ron had no idea what 
he’d walked in on, knew he hadn’t done it on purpose, 
but he didn’t care — at this moment he hated 
everything about Ron, right down to the several 
inches of bare ankle showing beneath his pajama 
trousers. 

“Sorry about that,” said Ron, his face reddening with 
anger. “Should’ve realized you didn’t want to be 
disturbed. I’ll let you get on with practicing for your 
next interview in peace.” 

Harry seized one of the POTTER REALLY STINKS 
badges off the table and chucked it, as hard as he 
could, across the room. It hit Ron on the forehead 
and bounced off. 

“There you go,” Harry said. “Something for you to 
wear on Tuesday. You might even have a scar now, if 
you’re lucky. ... That’s what you want, isn’t it?” 

He strode across the room toward the stairs; he half 
expected Ron to stop him, he would even have liked 
Ron to throw a punch at him, but Ron just stood 
there in his too-small pajamas, and Harry, having 
stormed upstairs, lay awake in bed fuming for a long 
time afterward and didn’t hear him come up to bed. 



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THE FIRST TASK 

Harry got up on Sunday morning and dressed so 
inattentively that it was a while before he realized he 
was trying to pull his hat onto his foot instead of his 
sock. When he’d finally got all his clothes on the right 
parts of his body, he hurried off to find Hermione, 
locating her at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, 
where she was eating breakfast with Ginny. Feeling 
too queasy to eat, Harry waited until Hermione had 
swallowed her last spoonful of porridge, then dragged 
her out onto the grounds. There, he told her all about 
the dragons, and about everything Sirius had said, 
while they took another long walk around the lake. 

Alarmed as she was by Sirius’s warnings about 
Karkaroff, Hermione still thought that the dragons 
were the more pressing problem. 

“Let’s just try and keep you alive until Tuesday 
evening,” she said desperately, “and then we can 
worry about Karkaroff.” 



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They walked three times around the lake, trying all 
the way to think of a simple spell that would subdue 
a dragon. Nothing whatsoever occurred to them, so 
they retired to the library instead. Here, Harry pulled 
down every book he could find on dragons, and both 
of them set to work searching through the large pile. 

“ ‘Talon-clipping by charms ... treating scale-rot ...’ 

This is no good, this is for nutters like Hagrid who 
want to keep them healthy. ...” 

“ ‘Dragons are extremely difficult to slay, owing to the 
ancient magic that imbues their thick hides, which 
none but the most powerful spells can penetrate ...’ 

But Sirius said a simple one would do it. ...” 

“Let’s try some simple spellbooks, then,” said Harry, 
throwing aside Men Who Love Dragons Too Much. 

He returned to the table with a pile of spellbooks, set 
them down, and began to flick through each in turn, 
Hermione whispering nonstop at his elbow. 

“Well, there are Switching Spells ... but what’s the 
point of Switching it? Unless you swapped its fangs 
for wine-gums or something that would make it less 
dangerous. ... The trouble is, like that book said, not 
much is going to get through a dragon’s hide. ... I’d 
say Transfigure it, but something that big, you really 
haven’t got a hope, I doubt even Professor McGonagall 
... unless you’re supposed to put the spell on 
yourself? Maybe to give yourself extra powers? But 
they’re not simple spells, I mean, we haven’t done any 
of those in class, I only know about them because I’ve 
been doing O.W.L. practice papers. ...” 

“Hermione,” Harry said, through gritted teeth, “will 
you shut up for a bit, please? I’m trying to 
concentrate.” 

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But all that happened, when Hermione fell silent, was 
that Harry’s brain filled with a sort of blank buzzing, 
which didn’t seem to allow room for concentration. He 
stared hopelessly down the index of Basic Hexes for 
the Busy and Vexed. Instant scalping . . . but dragons 
had no hair . . . pepper breath . . . that would probably 
increase a dragon’s firepower ... horn tongue ... just 
what he needed, to give it an extra weapon . . . 

“Oh no, he’s back again, why can’t he read on his 
stupid ship?” said Hermione irritably as Viktor Krum 
slouched in, cast a surly look over at the pair of them, 
and settled himself in a distant corner with a pile of 
books. “Come on, Harry, we’ll go back to the common 
room ... his fan club’ll be here in a moment, twittering 
away. ...” 

And sure enough, as they left the library, a gang of 
girls tiptoed past them, one of them wearing a 
Bulgaria scarf tied around her waist. 

Harry barely slept that night. When he awoke on 
Monday morning, he seriously considered for the first 
time ever just running away from Hogwarts. But as 
he looked around the Great Hall at breakfast time, 
and thought about what leaving the castle would 
mean, he knew he couldn’t do it. It was the only place 
he had ever been happy . . . well, he supposed he must 
have been happy with his parents too, but he couldn’t 
remember that. 

Somehow, the knowledge that he would rather be 
here and facing a dragon than back on Privet Drive 
with Dudley was good to know; it made him feel 
slightly calmer. He finished his bacon with difficulty 
(his throat wasn’t working too well), and as he and 
Hermione got up, he saw Cedric Diggory leaving the 
Hufflepuff table. 



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Cedric still didn’t know about the dragons ... the only 
champion who didn’t, if Harry was right in thinking 
that Maxime and Karkaroff would have told Fleur and 
Krum. ... 

“Hermione, I’ll see you in the greenhouses,” Harry 
said, coming to his decision as he watched Cedric 
leaving the Hall. “Go on, I’ll catch you up.” 

“Harry, you’ll be late, the bell’s about to ring — ” 

“I’ll catch you up, okay?” 

By the time Harry reached the bottom of the marble 
staircase, Cedric was at the top. He was with a load of 
sixth-year friends. Harry didn’t want to talk to Cedric 
in front of them; they were among those who had 
been quoting Rita Skeeter’s article at him every time 
he went near them. He followed Cedric at a distance 
and saw that he was heading toward the Charms 
corridor. This gave Harry an idea. Pausing at a 
distance from them, he pulled out his wand, and took 
careful aim. 

“Diffindol” 

Cedric’s bag split. Parchment, quills, and books 
spilled out of it onto the floor. Several bottles of ink 
smashed. 

“Don’t bother,” said Cedric in an exasperated voice as 
his friends bent down to help him. “Tell Flitwick I’m 
coming, go on. ...” 

This was exactly what Harry had been hoping for. He 
slipped his wand back into his robes, waited until 
Cedric’s friends had disappeared into their classroom, 
and hurried up the corridor, which was now empty of 
everyone but himself and Cedric. 

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“Hi,” said Cedric, picking up a copy of A Guide to 
Advanced Transfiguration that was now splattered 
with ink. “My bag just split ... brand-new and all ...” 

“Cedric,” said Harry, “the first task is dragons.” 

“What?” said Cedric, looking up. 

“Dragons,” said Harry, speaking quickly, in case 
Professor Flitwick came out to see where Cedric had 
got to. “They’ve got four, one for each of us, and we’ve 
got to get past them.” 

Cedric stared at him. Harry saw some of the panic 
he’d been feeling since Saturday night flickering in 
Cedric’s gray eyes. 

“Are you sure?” Cedric said in a hushed voice. 

“Dead sure,” said Harry. “I’ve seen them.” 

“But how did you find out? We’re not supposed to 
know. ...” 

“Never mind,” said Harry quickly — he knew Hagrid 
would be in trouble if he told the truth. “But I’m not 
the only one who knows. Fleur and Krum will know 
by now — Maxime and Karkaroff both saw the 
dragons too.” 

Cedric straightened up, his arms full of inky quills, 
parchment, and books, his ripped bag dangling off 
one shoulder. He stared at Harry, and there was a 
puzzled, almost suspicious look in his eyes. 

“Why are you telling me?” he asked. 

Harry looked at him in disbelief. He was sure Cedric 
wouldn’t have asked that if he had seen the dragons 

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himself. Harry wouldn’t have let his worst enemy face 
those monsters unprepared — well, perhaps Malfoy or 
Snape ... 

“It’s just ... fair, isn’t it?” he said to Cedric. “We all 
know now ... we’re on an even footing, aren’t we?” 

Cedric was still looking at him in a slightly suspicious 
way when Harry heard a familiar clunking noise 
behind him. He turned around and saw Mad-Eye 
Moody emerging from a nearby classroom. 

“Come with me, Potter,” he growled. “Diggory, off you 
go.” 

Harry stared apprehensively at Moody. Had he 
overheard them? 

“Er — Professor, I’m supposed to be in Herbology — ” 

“Never mind that, Potter. In my office, please. ...” 

Harry followed him, wondering what was going to 
happen to him now. What if Moody wanted to know 
how he’d found out about the dragons? Would Moody 
go to Dumbledore and tell on Hagrid, or just turn 
Harry into a ferret? Well, it might be easier to get past 
a dragon if he were a ferret, Harry thought dully, he’d 
be smaller, much less easy to see from a height of fifty 
feet ... 

He followed Moody into his office. Moody closed the 
door behind them and turned to look at Harry, his 
magical eye fixed upon him as well as the normal one. 

“That was a very decent thing you just did, Potter,” 
Moody said quietly. 



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Harry didn’t know what to say; this wasn’t the 
reaction he had expected at all. 



“Sit down,” said Moody, and Harry sat, looking 
around. 

He had visited this office under two of its previous 
occupants. In Professor Lockhart’s day, the walls had 
been plastered with beaming, winking pictures of 
Professor Lockhart himself. When Lupin had lived 
here, you were more likely to come across a specimen 
of some fascinating new Dark creature he had 
procured for them to study in class. Now, however, 
the office was full of a number of exceptionally odd 
objects that Harry supposed Moody had used in the 
days when he had been an Auror. 

On his desk stood what looked like a large, cracked, 
glass spinning top; Harry recognized it at once as a 
Sneakoscope, because he owned one himself, though 
it was much smaller than Moody’s. In the corner on a 
small table stood an object that looked something like 
an extra- squiggly, golden television aerial. It was 
humming slightly. What appeared to be a mirror hung 
opposite Harry on the wall, but it was not reflecting 
the room. Shadowy figures were moving around 
inside it, none of them clearly in focus. 

“Like my Dark Detectors, do you?” said Moody, who 
was watching Harry closely. 

“What’s that?” Harry asked, pointing at the squiggly 
golden aerial. 

“Secrecy Sensor. Vibrates when it detects 
concealment and lies ... no use here, of course, too 
much interference — students in every direction lying 
about why they haven’t done their homework. Been 
humming ever since I got here. I had to disable my 
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Sneakoscope because it wouldn’t stop whistling. It’s 
extra-sensitive, picks up stuff about a mile around. Of 
course, it could be picking up more than kid stuff,” he 
added in a growl. 

“And what’s the mirror for?” 

“Oh that’s my Foe-Glass. See them out there, 
skulking around? I’m not really in trouble until I see 
the whites of their eyes. That’s when I open my 
trunk.” 

He let out a short, harsh laugh, and pointed to the 
large trunk under the window. It had seven keyholes 
in a row. Harry wondered what was in there, until 
Moody’s next question brought him sharply back to 
earth. 

“So ... found out about the dragons, have you?” 

Harry hesitated. He’d been afraid of this — but he 
hadn’t told Cedric, and he certainly wasn’t going to 
tell Moody, that Hagrid had broken the rules. 

“It’s all right,” said Moody, sitting down and 
stretching out his wooden leg with a groan. 

“Cheating’s a traditional part of the Tri-wizard 
Tournament and always has been.” 

“I didn’t cheat,” said Harry sharply. “It was — a sort 
of accident that I found out.” 

Moody grinned. “I wasn’t accusing you, laddie. I’ve 
been telling Dumbledore from the start, he can be as 
high-minded as he likes, but you can bet old 
Karkaroff and Maxime won’t be. They’ll have told their 
champions everything they can. They want to win. 
They want to beat Dumbledore. They’d like to prove 
he’s only human.” 

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Moody gave another harsh laugh, and his magical eye 
swiveled around so fast it made Harry feel queasy to 
watch it. 

“So ... got any ideas how you’re going to get past your 
dragon yet?” said Moody. 

“No,” said Harry. 

“Well, I’m not going to tell you,” said Moody gruffly. “I 
don’t show favoritism, me. I’m just going to give you 
some good, general advice. And the first bit is — play 
to your strengths.” 

“I haven’t got any,” said Harry, before he could stop 
himself. 

“Excuse me,” growled Moody, “you’ve got strengths if I 
say you’ve got them. Think now. What are you best 
at?” 

Harry tried to concentrate. What was he best at? 

Well, that was easy, really — 

“Quidditch,” he said dully, “and a fat lot of help — ” 

“That’s right,” said Moody, staring at him very hard, 
his magical eye barely moving at all. “You’re a damn 
good flier from what I’ve heard.” 

“Yeah, but ...” Harry stared at him. “I’m not allowed a 
broom, I’ve only got my wand — ” 

“My second piece of general advice,” said Moody 
loudly, interrupting him, “is to use a nice, simple 
spell that will enable you to get what you need.” 

Harry looked at him blankly. What did he need? 



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“Come on, boy ...” whispered Moody. “Put them 
together ... it’s not that difficult. ...” 

And it clicked. He was best at flying. He needed to 
pass the dragon in the air. For that, he needed his 
Firebolt. And for his Firebolt, he needed — 

“Hermione,” Harry whispered, when he had sped into 
greenhouse three minutes later, uttering a hurried 
apology to Professor Sprout as he passed her. 
“Hermione — I need you to help me.” 

“What d’you think I’ve been trying to do, Harry?” she 
whispered back, her eyes round with anxiety over the 
top of the quivering Flutterby Bush she was pruning. 

“Hermione, I need to learn how to do a Summoning 
Charm properly by tomorrow afternoon.” 

And so they practiced. They didn’t have lunch, but 
headed for a free classroom, where Harry tried with 
all his might to make various objects fly across the 
room toward him. He was still having problems. The 
books and quills kept losing heart halfway across the 
room and dropping like stones to the floor. 

“Concentrate, Harry, concentrate. ...” 

“What d’you think I’m trying to do?” said Harry 
angrily. “A great big dragon keeps popping up in my 
head for some reason. ... Okay, try again. ...” 

He wanted to skip Divination to keep practicing, but 
Hermione refused point-blank to skive off 
Arithmancy, and there was no point in staying 
without her. He therefore had to endure over an hour 
of Professor Trelawney, who spent half the lesson 
telling everyone that the position of Mars with relation 



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to Saturn at that moment meant that people born in 
July were in great danger of sudden, violent deaths. 

“Well, that’s good,” said Harry loudly, his temper 
getting the better of him, “just as long as it’s not 
drawn-out. I don’t want to suffer.” 

Ron looked for a moment as though he was going to 
laugh; he certainly caught Harry’s eye for the first 
time in days, but Harry was still feeling too resentful 
toward Ron to care. He spent the rest of the lesson 
trying to attract small objects toward him under the 
table with his wand. He managed to make a fly zoom 
straight into his hand, though he wasn’t entirely sure 
that was his prowess at Summoning Charms — 
perhaps the fly was just stupid. 

He forced down some dinner after Divination, then 
returned to the empty classroom with Hermione, 
using the Invisibility Cloak to avoid the teachers. 

They kept practicing until past midnight. They would 
have stayed longer, but Peeves turned up and, 
pretending to think that Harry wanted things thrown 
at him, started chucking chairs across the room. 
Harry and Hermione left in a hurry before the noise 
attracted Filch, and went back to the Gryffindor 
common room, which was now mercifully empty. 

At two o’clock in the morning, Harry stood near the 
fireplace, surrounded by heaps of objects: books, 
quills, several upturned chairs, an old set of 
Gobstones, and Neville’s toad, Trevor. Only in the last 
hour had Harry really got the hang of the Summoning 
Charm. 

“That’s better, Harry, that’s loads better,” Hermione 
said, looking exhausted but very pleased. 



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“Well, now we know what to do next time I can’t 
manage a spell,” Harry said, throwing a rune 
dictionary back to Hermione, so he could try again, 
“threaten me with a dragon. Right ...” He raised his 
wand once more. “Accio Dictionary !” 

The heavy book soared out of Hermione ’s hand, flew 
across the room, and Harry caught it. 

“Harry, I really think you’ve got it!” said Hermione 
delightedly. 

“Just as long as it works tomorrow,” Harry said. “The 
Firebolt’s going to be much farther away than the 
stuff in here, it’s going to be in the castle, and I’m 
going to be out there on the grounds. ...” 

“That doesn’t matter,” said Hermione firmly “Just as 
long as you’re concentrating really, really hard on it, 
it’ll come. Harry, we’d better get some sleep ... you’re 
going to need it.” 

Harry had been focusing so hard on learning the 
Summoning Charm that evening that some of his 
blind panic had left him. It returned in full measure, 
however, on the following morning. The atmosphere 
in the school was one of great tension and excitement. 
Lessons were to stop at midday, giving all the 
students time to get down to the dragons’ enclosure 
— though of course, they didn’t yet know what they 
would find there. 

Harry felt oddly separate from everyone around him, 
whether they were wishing him good luck or hissing 
“ We’ll have a box of tissues ready, Potted as he 
passed. It was a state of nervousness so advanced 
that he wondered whether he mightn’t just lose his 
head when they tried to lead him out to his dragon, 
and start trying to curse everyone in sight. Time was 
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behaving in a more peculiar fashion than ever, 
rushing past in great dollops, so that one moment he 
seemed to be sitting down in his first lesson, History 
of Magic, and the next, walking into lunch . . . and 
then (where had the morning gone? the last of the 
dragon-free hours?), Professor McGonagall was 
hurrying over to him in the Great Hall. Lots of people 
were watching. 

“Potter, the champions have to come down onto the 
grounds now. ... You have to get ready for your first 
task.” 

“Okay,” said Harry, standing up, his fork falling onto 
his plate with a clatter. 

“Good luck, Harry,” Hermione whispered. “You’ll be 
fine!” 

“Yeah,” said Harry in a voice that was most unlike his 
own. 

He left the Great Hall with Professor McGonagall. She 
didn’t seem herself either; in fact, she looked nearly 
as anxious as Hermione. As she walked him down the 
stone steps and out into the cold November afternoon, 
she put her hand on his shoulder. 

“Now, don’t panic,” she said, “just keep a cool head. 

... We’ve got wizards standing by to control the 
situation if it gets out of hand. ... The main thing is 
just to do your best, and nobody will think any the 
worse of you. ... Are you all right?” 

“Yes,” Harry heard himself say. “Yes, I’m fine.” 

She was leading him toward the place where the 
dragons were, around the edge of the forest, but when 
they approached the clump of trees behind which the 

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enclosure would be clearly visible, Harry saw that a 
tent had been erected, its entrance facing them, 
screening the dragons from view. 

“You’re to go in here with the other champions,” said 
Professor McGonagall, in a rather shaky sort of voice, 
“and wait for your turn, Potter. Mr. Bagman is in 
there ... he’ll be telling you the — the procedure. ... 
Good luck.” 

“Thanks,” said Harry, in a flat, distant voice. She left 
him at the entrance of the tent. Harry went inside. 

Fleur Delacour was sitting in a corner on a low 
wooden stool. She didn’t look nearly as composed as 
usual, but rather pale and clammy. Viktor Krum 
looked even surlier than usual, which Harry 
supposed was his way of showing nerves. Cedric was 
pacing up and down. When Harry entered, Cedric 
gave him a small smile, which Harry returned, feeling 
the muscles in his face working rather hard, as 
though they had forgotten how to do it. 

“Harry! Good-o!” said Bagman happily, looking 
around at him. “Come in, come in, make yourself at 
home!” 

Bagman looked somehow like a slightly overblown 
cartoon figure, standing amid all the pale-faced 
champions. He was wearing his old Wasp robes again. 

“Well, now we’re all here — time to fill you in!” said 
Bagman brightly. “When the audience has assembled, 
I’m going to be offering each of you this bag” — he 
held up a small sack of purple silk and shook it at 
them — “from which you will each select a small 
model of the thing you are about to face! There are 
different — er — varieties, you see. And I have to tell 



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you something else too . . . ah, yes . . . your task is to 
collect the golden egg\” 

Harry glanced around. Cedric had nodded once, to 
show that he understood Bagman’s words, and then 
started pacing around the tent again; he looked 
slightly green. Fleur Delacour and Krum hadn’t 
reacted at all. Perhaps they thought they might be 
sick if they opened their mouths; that was certainly 
how Harry felt. But they, at least, had volunteered for 
this. ... 

And in no time at all, hundreds upon hundreds of 
pairs of feet could be heard passing the tent, their 
owners talking excitedly, laughing, joking. ... Harry 
felt as separate from the crowd as though they were a 
different species. And then — it seemed like about a 
second later to Harry — Bagman was opening the 
neck of the purple silk sack. 

“Ladies first,” he said, offering it to Fleur Delacour. 

She put a shaking hand inside the bag and drew out 
a tiny, perfect model of a dragon — a Welsh Green. It 
had the number two around its neck. And Harry 
knew, by the fact that Fleur showed no sign of 
surprise, but rather a determined resignation, that he 
had been right: Madame Maxime had told her what 
was coming. 

The same held true for Krum. He pulled out the 
scarlet Chinese Fireball. It had a number three 
around its neck. He didn’t even blink, just sat back 
down and stared at the ground. 

Cedric put his hand into the bag, and out came the 
blueish-gray Swedish Short-Snout, the number one 
tied around its neck. Knowing what was left, Harry 
put his hand into the silk bag and pulled out the 

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Hungarian Horntail, and the number four. It 
stretched its wings as he looked down at it, and bared 
its minuscule fangs. 

“Well, there you are!” said Bagman. “You have each 
pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers 
refer to the order in which you are to take on the 
dragons, do you see? Now, I’m going to have to leave 
you in a moment, because I’m commentating. Mr. 
Diggory, you’re first, just go out into the enclosure 
when you hear a whistle, all right? Now ... Harry ... 
could I have a quick word? Outside?” 

“Er ... yes,” said Harry blankly, and he got up and 
went out of the tent with Bagman, who walked him a 
short distance away, into the trees, and then turned 
to him with a fatherly expression on his face. 

“Feeling all right, Harry? Anything I can get you?” 

“What?” said Harry. “I — no, nothing.” 

“Got a plan?” said Bagman, lowering his voice 
conspiratorially. “Because I don’t mind sharing a few 
pointers, if you’d like them, you know. I mean,” 
Bagman continued, lowering his voice still further, 
“you’re the underdog here, Harry. ... Anything I can 
do to help ...” 

“No,” said Harry so quickly he knew he had sounded 
rude, “no — I — I know what I’m going to do, thanks.” 

“Nobody would know, Harry,” said Bagman, winking 
at him. 

“No, I’m fine,” said Harry, wondering why he kept 
telling people this, and wondering whether he had 
ever been less fine. “I’ve got a plan worked out, I — ” 



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A whistle had blown somewhere. 



“Good lord, I’ve got to run!” said Bagman in alarm, 
and he hurried off. 

Harry walked back to the tent and saw Cedric 
emerging from it, greener than ever. Harry tried to 
wish him luck as he walked past, but all that came 
out of his mouth was a sort of hoarse grunt. 

Harry went back inside to Fleur and Krum. Seconds 
later, they heard the roar of the crowd, which meant 
Cedric had entered the enclosure and was now face- 
to-face with the living counterpart of his model. ... 

It was worse than Harry could ever have imagined, 
sitting there and listening. The crowd screamed . . . 
yelled . . . gasped like a single many-headed entity, as 
Cedric did whatever he was doing to get past the 
Swedish Short-Snout. Krum was still staring at the 
ground. Fleur had now taken to retracing Cedric’s 
steps, around and around the tent. And Bagman’s 
commentary made everything much, much worse. ... 
Horrible pictures formed in Harry’s mind as he heard: 
“Oooh, narrow miss there, very narrow” ... “He’s 
taking risks, this one!” ... “Clever move — pity it 
didn’t work!” 

And then, after about fifteen minutes, Harry heard 
the deafening roar that could mean only one thing: 
Cedric had gotten past his dragon and captured the 
golden egg. 

“Very good indeed!” Bagman was shouting. “And now 
the marks from the judges!” 

But he didn’t shout out the marks; Harry supposed 
the judges were holding them up and showing them 
to the crowd. 

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“One down, three to go!” Bagman yelled as the whistle 
blew again. “Miss Delacour, if you please!” 



Fleur was trembling from head to foot; Harry felt more 
warmly toward her than he had done so far as she left 
the tent with her head held high and her hand 
clutching her wand. He and Krum were left alone, at 
opposite sides of the tent, avoiding each other’s gaze. 

The same process started again. ... “Oh I’m not sure 
that was wise!” they could hear Bagman shouting 
gleefully. “Oh . . . nearly! Careful now . . . good lord, I 
thought she’d had it then!” 

Ten minutes later, Harry heard the crowd erupt into 
applause once more. ... Fleur must have been 
successful too. A pause, while Fleur’s marks were 
being shown . . . more clapping . . . then, for the third 
time, the whistle. 

“And here comes Mr. Krum!” cried Bagman, and 
Krum slouched out, leaving Harry quite alone. 

He felt much more aware of his body than usual; very 
aware of the way his heart was pumping fast, and his 
fingers tingling with fear ... yet at the same time, he 
seemed to be outside himself, seeing the walls of the 
tent, and hearing the crowd, as though from far away. 



“Very daring!” Bagman was yelling, and Harry heard 
the Chinese Fireball emit a horrible, roaring shriek, 
while the crowd drew its collective breath. “That’s 
some nerve he’s showing — and — yes, he’s got the 
egg!” 

Applause shattered the wintery air like breaking 
glass; Krum had finished — it would be Harry’s turn 
any moment. 

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He stood up, noticing dimly that his legs seemed to be 
made of marshmallow. He waited. And then he heard 
the whistle blow. He walked out through the entrance 
of the tent, the panic rising into a crescendo inside 
him. And now he was walking past the trees, through 
a gap in the enclosure fence. 

He saw everything in front of him as though it was a 
very highly colored dream. There were hundreds and 
hundreds of faces staring down at him from stands 
that had been magicked there since he’d last stood on 
this spot. And there was the Horntail, at the other 
end of the enclosure, crouched low over her clutch of 
eggs, her wings half-furled, her evil, yellow eyes upon 
him, a monstrous, scaly, black lizard, thrashing her 
spiked tail, leaving yard-long gouge marks in the hard 
ground. The crowd was making a great deal of noise, 
but whether friendly or not, Harry didn’t know or 
care. It was time to do what he had to do ... to focus 
his mind, entirely and absolutely, upon the thing that 
was his only chance. ... 

He raised his wand. 

“Accio Firebolti” he shouted. 

Harry waited, every fiber of him hoping, praying. ... If 
it hadn’t worked ... if it wasn’t coming ... He seemed 
to be looking at everything around him through some 
sort of shimmering, transparent barrier, like a heat 
haze, which made the enclosure and the hundreds of 
faces around him swim strangely. ... 

And then he heard it, speeding through the air behind 
him; he turned and saw his Firebolt hurtling toward 
him around the edge of the woods, soaring into the 
enclosure, and stopping dead in midair beside him, 
waiting for him to mount. The crowd was making 
even more noise. ... Bagman was shouting something 
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... but Harry’s ears were not working properly 
anymore ... listening wasn’t important. ... 

He swung his leg over the broom and kicked off from 
the ground. And a second later, something 
miraculous happened. ... 

As he soared upward, as the wind rushed through his 
hair, as the crowd’s faces became mere flesh-colored 
pinpricks below, and the Horntail shrank to the size 
of a dog, he realized that he had left not only the 
ground behind, but also his fear. . . . He was back 
where he belonged. ... 

This was just another Quidditch match, that was all 
... just another Quidditch match, and that Horntail 
was just another ugly opposing team. ... 

He looked down at the clutch of eggs and spotted the 
gold one, gleaming against its cement-colored fellows, 
residing safely between the dragon’s front legs. 
“Okay,” Harry told himself, “diversionary tactics ... 
let’s go. ...” 

He dived. The Horntail’s head followed him; he knew 
what it was going to do and pulled out of the dive just 
in time; a jet of fire had been released exactly where 
he would have been had he not swerved away . . . but 
Harry didn’t care ... that was no more than dodging a 
Bludger. ... 

“Great Scott, he can fly!” yelled Bagman as the crowd 
shrieked and gasped. “Are you watching this, Mr. 
Krum?” 

Harry soared higher in a circle; the Horntail was still 
following his progress; its head revolving on its long 
neck — if he kept this up, it would be nicely dizzy — 



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but better not push it too long, or it would be 
breathing fire again — 

Harry plummeted just as the Horntail opened its 
mouth, but this time he was less lucky — he missed 
the flames, but the tail came whipping up to meet 
him instead, and as he swerved to the left, one of the 
long spikes grazed his shoulder, ripping his robes — 

He could feel it stinging, he could hear screaming and 
groans from the crowd, but the cut didn’t seem to be 
deep. ... Now he zoomed around the back of the 
Horntail, and a possibility occurred to him. ... 

The Horntail didn’t seem to want to take off, she was 
too protective of her eggs. Though she writhed and 
twisted, furling and unfurling her wings and keeping 
those fearsome yellow eyes on Harry, she was afraid 
to move too far from them . . . but he had to persuade 
her to do it, or he’d never get near them. ... The trick 
was to do it carefully, gradually. . . . 

He began to fly, first this way, then the other, not 
near enough to make her breathe fire to stave him off, 
but still posing a sufficient threat to ensure she kept 
her eyes on him. Her head swayed this way and that, 
watching him out of those vertical pupils, her fangs 
bared. ... 

He flew higher. The Horntail’s head rose with him, her 
neck now stretched to its fullest extent, still swaying, 
like a snake before its charmer. . . . 

Harry rose a few more feet, and she let out a roar of 
exasperation. He was like a fly to her, a fly she was 
longing to swat; her tail thrashed again, but he was 
too high to reach now. ... She shot fire into the air, 
which he dodged. ... Her jaws opened wide. ... 



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“Come on,” Harry hissed, swerving tantalizingly above 
her, “come on, come and get me ... up you get now ...” 

And then she reared, spreading her great, black, 
leathery wings at last, as wide as those of a small 
airplane — and Harry dived. Before the dragon knew 
what he had done, or where he had disappeared to, 
he was speeding toward the ground as fast as he 
could go, toward the eggs now unprotected by her 
clawed front legs — he had taken his hands off his 
Firebolt — he had seized the golden egg — 

And with a huge spurt of speed, he was off, he was 
soaring out over the stands, the heavy egg safely 
under his uninjured arm, and it was as though 
somebody had just turned the volume back up — for 
the first time, he became properly aware of the noise 
of the crowd, which was screaming and applauding as 
loudly as the Irish supporters at the World Cup — 

“Look at that!” Bagman was yelling. “Will you look at 
that! Our youngest champion is quickest to get his 
egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr. 
Potter!” 

Harry saw the dragon keepers rushing forward to 
subdue the Horntail, and, over at the entrance to the 
enclosure, Professor McGonagall, Professor Moody, 
and Hagrid hurrying to meet him, all of them waving 
him toward them, their smiles evident even from this 
distance. He flew back over the stands, the noise of 
the crowd pounding his eardrums, and came in 
smoothly to land, his heart lighter than it had been in 
weeks. ... He had got through the first task, he had 
survived. ... 

“That was excellent, Potter!” cried Professor 
McGonagall as he got off the Firebolt — which from 
her was extravagant praise. He noticed that her hand 

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shook as she pointed at his shoulder. “You’ll need to 
see Madam Pomfrey before the judges give out your 
score. ... Over there, she’s had to mop up Diggory 
already. ...” 

“Yeh did it, Harry!” said Hagrid hoarsely. “Yeh did it! 
An’ agains’ the Horntail an’ all, an’ yeh know Charlie 
said that was the wors’ — ” 

“Thanks, Hagrid,” said Harry loudly, so that Hagrid 
wouldn’t blunder on and reveal that he had shown 
Harry the dragons beforehand. 

Professor Moody looked very pleased too; his magical 
eye was dancing in its socket. 

“Nice and easy does the trick, Potter,” he growled. 

“Right then, Potter, the first aid tent, please ...” said 
Professor McGonagall. 

Harry walked out of the enclosure, still panting, and 
saw Madam Pomfrey standing at the mouth of a 
second tent, looking worried. 

“Dragons!” she said, in a disgusted tone, pulling 
Harry inside. The tent was divided into cubicles; he 
could make out Cedric’s shadow through the canvas, 
but Cedric didn’t seem to be badly injured; he was 
sitting up, at least. Madam Pomfrey examined Harry’s 
shoulder, talking furiously all the while. “Last year 
dementors, this year dragons, what are they going to 
bring into this school next? You’re very lucky ... this 
is quite shallow ... it’ll need cleaning before I heal it 
up, though. ...” 

She cleaned the cut with a dab of some purple liquid 
that smoked and stung, but then poked his shoulder 
with her wand, and he felt it heal instantly. 

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“Now, just sit quietly for a minute — sit! And then you 
can go and get your score.” 

She bustled out of the tent and he heard her go next 
door and say, “How does it feel now, Diggory?” 

Harry didn’t want to sit still: He was too full of 
adrenaline. He got to his feet, wanting to see what 
was going on outside, but before he’d reached the 
mouth of the tent, two people had come darting inside 
— Hermione, followed closely by Ron. 

“Harry, you were brilliant!” Hermione said squeakily. 
There were fingernail marks on her face where she 
had been clutching it in fear. “You were amazing! You 
really were!” 

But Harry was looking at Ron, who was very white 
and staring at Harry as though he were a ghost. 

“Harry,” he said, very seriously, “whoever put your 
name in that goblet — I — I reckon they’re trying to 
do you in!” 

It was as though the last few weeks had never 
happened — as though Harry were meeting Ron for 
the first time, right after he’d been made champion. 

“Caught on, have you?” said Harry coldly. “Took you 
long enough.” 

Hermione stood nervously between them, looking 
from one to the other. Ron opened his mouth 
uncertainly. Harry knew Ron was about to apologize 
and suddenly he found he didn’t need to hear it. 

“It’s okay,” he said, before Ron could get the words 
out. “Forget it.” 



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“No,” said Ron, “I shouldn’t’ve — ” 



“ Forget it,” Harry said. 

Ron grinned nervously at him, and Harry grinned 
back. 

Hermione burst into tears. 

“There’s nothing to cry about!” Harry told her, 
bewildered. 

“You two are so stupid).” she shouted, stamping her 
foot on the ground, tears splashing down her front. 
Then, before either of them could stop her, she had 
given both of them a hug and dashed away, now 
positively howling. 

“Barking mad,” said Ron, shaking his head. “Harry, 
c’mon, they’ll be putting up your scores. ...” 

Picking up the golden egg and his Firebolt, feeling 
more elated than he would have believed possible an 
hour ago, Harry ducked out of the tent, Ron by his 
side, talking fast. 

“You were the best, you know, no competition. Cedric 
did this weird thing where he Transfigured a rock on 
the ground . . . turned it into a dog ... he was trying to 
make the dragon go for the dog instead of him. Well, 
it was a pretty cool bit of Transfiguration, and it sort 
of worked, because he did get the egg, but he got 
burned as well — the dragon changed its mind 
halfway through and decided it would rather have 
him than the Labrador; he only just got away. And 
that Fleur girl tried this sort of charm, I think she 
was trying to put it into a trance — well, that kind of 
worked too, it went all sleepy, but then it snored, and 
this great jet of flame shot out, and her skirt caught 
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fire — she put it out with a bit of water out of her 
wand. And Krum — you won’t believe this, but he 
didn’t even think of flying! He was probably the best 
after you, though. Hit it with some sort of spell right 
in the eye. Only thing is, it went trampling around in 
agony and squashed half the real eggs — they took 
marks off for that, he wasn’t supposed to do any 
damage to them.” 

Ron drew breath as he and Harry reached the edge of 
the enclosure. Now that the Horntail had been taken 
away, Harry could see where the five judges were 
sitting — right at the other end, in raised seats 
draped in gold. 

“It’s marks out of ten from each one,” Ron said, and 
Harry, squinting up the field, saw the first judge — 
Madame Maxime — raise her wand in the air. What 
looked like a long silver ribbon shot out of it, which 
twisted itself into a large figure eight. 

“Not bad!” said Ron as the crowd applauded. “I 
suppose she took marks off for your shoulder. ...” 

Mr. Crouch came next. He shot a number nine into 
the air. 

“Looking good!” Ron yelled, thumping Harry on the 
back. 

Next, Dumbledore. He too put up a nine. The crowd 
was cheering harder than ever. 

Ludo Bagman — ten. 

“Ten?” said Harry in disbelief. “But ... I got hurt. ... 
What’s he playing at?” 

“Harry, don’t complain!” Ron yelled excitedly. 

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And now Karkaroff raised his wand. He paused for a 
moment, and then a number shot out of his wand too 
— four. 



“What?” Ron bellowed furiously. “Four? You lousy, 
biased scumbag, you gave Krum ten!” 

But Harry didn’t care, he wouldn’t have cared if 
Karkaroff had given him zero; Ron’s indignation on 
his behalf was worth about a hundred points to him. 
He didn’t tell Ron this, of course, but his heart felt 
lighter than air as he turned to leave the enclosure. 
And it wasn’t just Ron ... those weren’t only 
Gryffindors cheering in the crowd. When it had come 
to it, when they had seen what he was facing, most of 
the school had been on his side as well as Cedric’s. ... 
He didn’t care about the Slytherins, he could stand 
whatever they threw at him now. 

“You’re tied in first place, Harry! You and Krum!” said 
Charlie Weasley, hurrying to meet them as they set off 
back toward the school. “Listen, I’ve got to run, I’ve 
got to go and send Mum an owl, I swore I’d tell her 
what happened — but that was unbelievable! Oh yeah 
— and they told me to tell you you’ve got to hang 
around for a few more minutes. ... Bagman wants a 
word, back in the champions’ tent.” 

Ron said he would wait, so Harry reentered the tent, 
which somehow looked quite different now: friendly 
and welcoming. He thought back to how he’d felt 
while dodging the Horntail, and compared it to the 
long wait before he’d walked out to face it. ... There 
was no comparison; the wait had been immeasurably 
worse. 

Fleur, Cedric, and Krum all came in together. One 
side of Cedric’s face was covered in a thick orange 



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paste, which was presumably mending his burn. He 
grinned at Harry when he saw him. 

“Good one, Harry.” 

“And you,” said Harry, grinning back. 

“Well done, all of you!” said Ludo Bagman, bouncing 
into the tent and looking as pleased as though he 
personally had just got past a dragon. “Now, just a 
quick few words. You’ve got a nice long break before 
the second task, which will take place at half past 
nine on the morning of February the twenty-fourth — 
but we’re giving you something to think about in the 
meantime! If you look down at those golden eggs 
you’re all holding, you will see that they open ... see 
the hinges there? You need to solve the clue inside 
the egg — because it will tell you what the second 
task is, and enable you to prepare for it! All clear? 
Sure? Well, off you go, then!” 

Harry left the tent, rejoined Ron, and they started to 
walk back around the edge of the forest, talking hard; 
Harry wanted to hear what the other champions had 
done in more detail. Then, as they rounded the clump 
of trees behind which Harry had first heard the 
dragons roar, a witch leapt out from behind them. 

It was Rita Skeeter. She was wearing acid-green robes 
today; the Quick-Quotes Quill in her hand blended 
perfectly against them. 

“Congratulations, Harry!” she said, beaming at him. “I 
wonder if you could give me a quick word? How you 
felt facing that dragon? How you feel now, about the 
fairness of the scoring?” 

“Yeah, you can have a word,” said Harry savagely. 
“Good-bye.” 

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And he set off back to the castle with Ron. 



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THE HOUSE-ELF LIBERATION FRONT 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione went up to the Owlery that 
evening to find Pigwidgeon, so that Harry could send 
Sirius a letter telling him that he had managed to get 
past his dragon unscathed. On the way, Harry filled 
Ron in on everything Sirius had told him about 
Karkaroff. Though shocked at first to hear that 
Karkaroff had been a Death Eater, by the time they 
entered the Owlery Ron was saying that they ought to 
have suspected it all along. 

“Fits, doesn’t it?” he said. “Remember what Malfoy 
said on the train, about his dad being friends with 
Karkaroff? Now we know where they knew each other. 
They were probably running around in masks 
together at the World Cup. ... I’ll tell you one thing, 
though, Harry, if it was Karkaroff who put your name 
in the goblet, he’s going to be feeling really stupid 
now, isn’t he? Didn’t work, did it? You only got a 
scratch! Come here — I’ll do it — ” 

Pigwidgeon was so overexcited at the idea of a delivery 
he was flying around and around Harry’s head, 

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hooting incessantly. Ron snatched Pigwidgeon out of 
the air and held him still while Harry attached the 
letter to his leg. 

“There’s no way any of the other tasks are going to be 
that dangerous, how could they be?” Ron went on as 
he carried Pigwidgeon to the window. “You know 
what? I reckon you could win this tournament, Harry, 
I’m serious.” 

Harry knew that Ron was only saying this to make up 
for his behavior of the last few weeks, but he 
appreciated it all the same. Hermione, however, 
leaned against the Owlery wall, folded her arms, and 
frowned at Ron. 

“Harry’s got a long way to go before he finishes this 
tournament,” she said seriously. “If that was the first 
task, I hate to think what’s coming next.” 

“Right little ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” said Ron. 
“You and Professor Trelawney should get together 
sometime.” 

He threw Pigwidgeon out of the window. Pigwidgeon 
plummeted twelve feet before managing to pull 
himself back up again; the letter attached to his leg 
was much longer and heavier than usual — Harry 
hadn’t been able to resist giving Sirius a blow-by-blow 
account of exactly how he had swerved, circled, and 
dodged the Horntail. They watched Pigwidgeon 
disappear into the darkness, and then Ron said, 

“Well, we’d better get downstairs for your surprise 
party, Harry — Fred and George should have nicked 
enough food from the kitchens by now.” 

Sure enough, when they entered the Gryffindor 
common room it exploded with cheers and yells again. 
There were mountains of cakes and flagons of 

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pumpkin juice and butterbeer on every surface; Lee 
Jordan had let off some Filibuster’s Fireworks, so that 
the air was thick with stars and sparks; and Dean 
Thomas, who was very good at drawing, had put up 
some impressive new banners, most of which depicted 
Harry zooming around the Horntail’s head on his 
Firebolt, though a couple showed Cedric with his 
head on fire. 

Harry helped himself to food; he had almost forgotten 
what it was like to feel properly hungry, and sat down 
with Ron and Hermione. He couldn’t believe how 
happy he felt; he had Ron back on his side, he’d 
gotten through the first task, and he wouldn’t have to 
face the second one for three months. 

“Blimey, this is heavy,” said Lee Jordan, picking up 
the golden egg, which Harry had left on a table, and 
weighing it in his hands. “Open it, Harry, go on! Let’s 
just see what’s inside it!” 

“He’s supposed to work out the clue on his own,” 
Hermione said swiftly. “It’s in the tournament rules. 



“I was supposed to work out how to get past the 
dragon on my own too,” Harry muttered, so only 
Hermione could hear him, and she grinned rather 
guiltily. 

“Yeah, go on, Harry, open it!” several people echoed. 

Lee passed Harry the egg, and Harry dug his 
fingernails into the groove that ran all the way around 
it and prised it open. 

It was hollow and completely empty — but the 
moment Harry opened it, the most horrible noise, a 
loud and screechy wailing, filled the room. The 

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nearest thing to it Harry had ever heard was the ghost 
orchestra at Nearly Headless Nick’s deathday party, 
who had all been playing the musical saw. 

“Shut it!” Fred bellowed, his hands over his ears. 

“What was that?” said Seamus Finnigan, staring at 
the egg as Harry slammed it shut again. “Sounded 
like a banshee. ... Maybe you’ve got to get past one of 
those next, Harry!” 

“It was someone being tortured!” said Neville, who 
had gone very white and spilled sausage rolls all over 
the floor. “You’re going to have to fight the Cruciatus 
Curse!” 

“Don’t be a prat, Neville, that’s illegal,” said George. 
“They wouldn’t use the Cruciatus Curse on the 
champions. I thought it sounded a bit like Percy 
singing ... maybe you’ve got to attack him while he’s 
in the shower, Harry.” 

“Want a jam tart, Hermione?” said Fred. 

Hermione looked doubtfully at the plate he was 
offering her. Fred grinned. 

“It’s all right,” he said. “I haven’t done anything to 
them. It’s the custard creams you’ve got to watch — ” 

Neville, who had just bitten into a custard cream, 
choked and spat it out. Fred laughed. 

“Just my little joke, Neville. ...” 

Hermione took a jam tart. Then she said, “Did you get 
all this from the kitchens, Fred?” 



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“Yep,” said Fred, grinning at her. He put on a high- 
pitched squeak and imitated a house-elf. “ ‘Anything 
we can get you, sir, anything at all!’ They’re dead 
helpful ... get me a roast ox if I said I was peckish.” 

“How do you get in there?” Hermione said in an 
innocently casual sort of voice. 

“Easy,” said Fred, “concealed door behind a painting 
of a bowl of fruit. Just tickle the pear, and it giggles 
and — ” He stopped and looked suspiciously at her. 
“Why?” 

“Nothing,” said Hermione quickly. 

“Going to try and lead the house-elves out on strike 
now, are you?” said George. “Going to give up all the 
leaflet stuff and try and stir them up into rebellion?” 

Several people chortled. Hermione didn’t answer. 

“Don’t you go upsetting them and telling them they’ve 
got to take clothes and salaries!” said Fred warningly. 
“You’ll put them off their cooking!” 

Just then, Neville caused a slight diversion by turning 
into a large canary. 

“Oh — sorry, Neville!” Fred shouted over all the 
laughter. “I forgot — it was the custard creams we 
hexed — ” 

Within a minute, however, Neville had molted, and 
once his feathers had fallen off, he reappeared looking 
entirely normal. He even joined in laughing. 

“Canary Creams!” Fred shouted to the excitable 
crowd. “George and I invented them — seven Sickles 
each, a bargain!” 

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It was nearly one in the morning when Harry finally 
went up to the dormitory with Ron, Neville, Seamus, 
and Dean. Before he pulled the curtains of his four- 
poster shut, Harry set his tiny model of the 
Hungarian Horntail on the table next to his bed, 
where it yawned, curled up, and closed its eyes. 

Really, Harry thought, as he pulled the hangings on 
his four-poster closed, Hagrid had a point . . . they 
were all right, really, dragons. ... 

The start of December brought wind and sleet to 
Hogwarts. Drafty though the castle always was in 
winter, Harry was glad of its fires and thick walls 
every time he passed the Durmstrang ship on the 
lake, which was pitching in the high winds, its black 
sails billowing against the dark skies. He thought the 
Beauxbatons caravan was likely to be pretty chilly 
too. Hagrid, he noticed, was keeping Madame 
Maxime’s horses well provided with their preferred 
drink of single-malt whiskey; the fumes wafting from 
the trough in the corner of their paddock was enough 
to make the entire Care of Magical Creatures class 
light-headed. This was unhelpful, as they were still 
tending the horrible skrewts and needed their wits 
about them. 

“I’m not sure whether they hibernate or not,” Hagrid 
told the shivering class in the windy pumpkin patch 
next lesson. “Thought we’d jus’ try an’ see if they 
fancied a kip ... we’ll jus’ settle ’em down in these 
boxes. ...” 

There were now only ten skrewts left; apparently their 
desire to kill one another had not been exercised out 
of them. Each of them was now approaching six feet 
in length. Their thick gray armor; their powerful, 
scuttling legs; their fire-blasting ends; their stings 
and their suckers, combined to make the skrewts the 
most repulsive things Harry had ever seen. The class 
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looked dispiritedly at the enormous boxes Hagrid had 
brought out, all lined with pillows and fluffy blankets. 

“Well jus’ lead ’em in here,” Hagrid said, “an’ put the 
lids on, and we’ll see what happens.” 

But the skrewts, it transpired, did not hibernate, and 
did not appreciate being forced into pillow-lined boxes 
and nailed in. Hagrid was soon yelling, “Don’ panic, 
now, don’ panic!” while the skrewts rampaged around 
the pumpkin patch, now strewn with the smoldering 
wreckage of the boxes. Most of the class — Malfoy, 
Crabbe, and Goyle in the lead — had fled into 
Hagrid ’s cabin through the back door and barricaded 
themselves in; Harry, Ron, and Hermione, however, 
were among those who remained outside trying to 
help Hagrid. Together they managed to restrain and 
tie up nine of the skrewts, though at the cost of 
numerous burns and cuts; finally, only one skrewt 
was left. 

“Don’ frighten him, now!” Hagrid shouted as Ron and 
Harry used their wands to shoot jets of fiery sparks at 
the skrewt, which was advancing menacingly on 
them, its sting arched, quivering, over its back. “Jus’ 
try an’ slip the rope ’round his sting, so he won’ hurt 
any o’ the others!” 

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want that!” Ron shouted angrily 
as he and Harry backed into the wall of Hagrid ’s 
cabin, still holding the skrewt off with their sparks. 

“Well, well, well ... this does look like fun.” 

Rita Skeeter was leaning on Hagrid ’s garden fence, 
looking in at the mayhem. She was wearing a thick 
magenta cloak with a furry purple collar today, and 
her crocodile-skin handbag was over her arm. 



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Hagrid launched himself forward on top of the skrewt 
that was cornering Harry and Ron and flattened it; a 
blast of fire shot out of its end, withering the 
pumpkin plants nearby. 

“Who ’re you?” Hagrid asked Rita Skeeter as he 
slipped a loop of rope around the skrewt’s sting and 
tightened it. 

“Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter,” Rita replied, 
beaming at him. Her gold teeth glinted. 

“Thought Dumbledore said you weren’ allowed inside 
the school anymore,” said Hagrid, frowning slightly as 
he got off the slightly squashed skrewt and started 
tugging it over to its fellows. 

Rita acted as though she hadn’t heard what Hagrid 
had said. 

“What are these fascinating creatures called?” she 
asked, beaming still more widely. 

“Blast-Ended Skrewts,” grunted Hagrid. 

“Really?” said Rita, apparently full of lively interest. 
“I’ve never heard of them before ... where do they 
come from?” 

Harry noticed a dull red flush rising up out of 
Hagrid’s wild black beard, and his heart sank. Where 
had Hagrid got the skrewts from? Hermione, who 
seemed to be thinking along these lines, said quickly, 
“They’re very interesting, aren’t they? Aren’t they, 
Harry?” 

“What? Oh yeah ... ouch ... interesting,” said Harry as 
she stepped on his foot. 



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“Ah, you’re here, Harry!” said Rita Skeeter as she 
looked around. “So you like Care of Magical 
Creatures, do you? One of your favorite lessons?” 

“Yes,” said Harry stoutly. Hagrid beamed at him. 

“Lovely,” said Rita. “Really lovely. Been teaching 
long?” she added to Hagrid. 

Harry noticed her eyes travel over Dean (who had a 
nasty cut across one cheek), Lavender (whose robes 
were badly singed), Seamus (who was nursing several 
burnt fingers), and then to the cabin windows, where 
most of the class stood, their noses pressed against 
the glass waiting to see if the coast was clear. 

“This is o’ny me second year,” said Hagrid. 

“Lovely... I don’t suppose you’d like to give an 
interview, would you? Share some of your experience 
of magical creatures? The Prophet does a zoological 
column every Wednesday, as I’m sure you know. We 
could feature these — er — Bang-Ended Scoots.” 

“Blast-Ended Skrewts,” Hagrid said eagerly. “Er — 
yeah, why not?” 

Harry had a very bad feeling about this, but there was 
no way of communicating it to Hagrid without Rita 
Skeeter seeing, so he had to stand and watch in 
silence as Hagrid and Rita Skeeter made 
arrangements to meet in the Three Broomsticks for a 
good long interview later that week. Then the bell 
rang up at the castle, signaling the end of the lesson. 

“Well, good-bye, Harry!” Rita Skeeter called merrily to 
him as he set off with Ron and Hermione. “Until 
Friday night, then, Hagrid!” 



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“Shell twist everything he says,” Harry said under his 
breath. 

“Just as long as he didn’t import those skrewts 
illegally or anything,” said Hermione desperately. 

They looked at one another — it was exactly the sort 
of thing Hagrid might do. 

“Hagrid’s been in loads of trouble before, and 
Dumbledore’s never sacked him,” said Ron 
consolingly. “Worst that can happen is Hagrid’ll have 
to get rid of the skrewts. Sorry ... did I say worst? I 
meant best.” 

Harry and Hermione laughed, and, feeling slightly 
more cheerful, went off to lunch. 

Harry thoroughly enjoyed double Divination that 
afternoon; they were still doing star charts and 
predictions, but now that he and Ron were friends 
once more, the whole thing seemed very funny again. 
Professor Trelawney, who had been so pleased with 
the pair of them when they had been predicting their 
own horrific deaths, quickly became irritated as they 
sniggered through her explanation of the various 
ways in which Pluto could disrupt everyday life. 

“I would think,” she said, in a mystical whisper that 
did not conceal her obvious annoyance, “that some of 
us” — she stared very meaningfully at Harry — 

“might be a little less frivolous had they seen what I 
have seen during my crystal gazing last night. As I sat 
here, absorbed in my needlework, the urge to consult 
the orb overpowered me. I arose, I settled myself 
before it, and I gazed into its crystalline depths . . . and 
what do you think I saw gazing back at me?” 

“An ugly old bat in outsize specs?” Ron muttered 
under his breath. 

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Harry fought hard to keep his face straight. 

“Death, my dears.” 

Parvati and Lavender both put their hands over their 
mouths, looking horrified. 

“Yes,” said Professor Trelawney, nodding impressively, 
“it comes, ever closer, it circles overhead like a 
vulture, ever lower ... ever lower over the castle. ...” 

She stared pointedly at Harry, who yawned very 
widely and obviously. 

“It’d be a bit more impressive if she hadn’t done it 
about eighty times before,” Harry said as they finally 
regained the fresh air of the staircase beneath 
Professor Trelawney’s room. “But if I’d dropped dead 
every time she’s told me I’m going to, I’d be a medical 
miracle.” 

“You’d be a sort of extra-concentrated ghost,” said 
Ron, chortling, as they passed the Bloody Baron going 
in the opposite direction, his wide eyes staring 
sinisterly. “At least we didn’t get homework. I hope 
Hermione got loads off Professor Vector, I love not 
working when she is. ...” 

But Hermione wasn’t at dinner, nor was she in the 
library when they went to look for her afterward. The 
only person in there was Viktor Krum. Ron hovered 
behind the bookshelves for a while, watching Krum, 
debating in whispers with Harry whether he should 
ask for an autograph — but then Ron realized that six 
or seven girls were lurking in the next row of books, 
debating exactly the same thing, and he lost his 
enthusiasm for the idea. 



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“Wonder where she’s got to?” Ron said as he and 
Harry went back to Gryffindor Tower. 



“Dunno ... balderdash.” 

But the Fat Lady had barely begun to swing forward 
when the sound of racing feet behind them 
announced Hermione’s arrival. 

“Harry!” she panted, skidding to a halt beside him 
(the Fat Lady stared down at her, eyebrows raised). 
“Harry, you’ve got to come — you’ve got to come, the 
most amazing thing’s happened — please — ” 

She seized Harry’s arm and started to try to drag him 
back along the corridor. 

“What’s the matter?” Harry said. 

“I’ll show you when we get there — oh come on, quick 



Harry looked around at Ron; he looked back at Harry, 
intrigued. 

“Okay,” Harry said, starting off back down the 
corridor with Hermione, Ron hurrying to keep up. 

“Oh don’t mind me!” the Fat Lady called irritably after 
them. “Don’t apologize for bothering me! I’ll just hang 
here, wide open, until you get back, shall I?” 

“Yeah, thanks!” Ron shouted over his shoulder. 

“Hermione, where are we going?” Harry asked, after 
she had led them down through six floors, and 
started down the marble staircase into the entrance 
hall. 



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“You’ll see, you’ll see in a minute!” said Hermione 
excitedly. 

She turned left at the bottom of the staircase and 
hurried toward the door through which Cedric 
Diggory had gone the night after the Goblet of Fire 
had regurgitated his and Harry’s names. Harry had 
never been through here before. He and Ron followed 
Hermione down a flight of stone steps, but instead of 
ending up in a gloomy underground passage like the 
one that led to Snape’s dungeon, they found 
themselves in a broad stone corridor, brightly lit with 
torches, and decorated with cheerful paintings that 
were mainly of food. 

“Oh hang on ...” said Harry slowly, halfway down the 
corridor. “Wait a minute, Hermione. ...” 

“What?” She turned around to look at him, 
anticipation all over her face. 

“I know what this is about,” said Harry. 

He nudged Ron and pointed to the painting just 
behind Hermione. It showed a gigantic silver fruit 
bowl. 

“Hermione!” said Ron, cottoning on. “You’re trying to 
rope us into that spew stuff again!” 

“No, no, I’m not!” she said hastily. “And it’s not spew, 
Ron — ” 

“Changed the name, have you?” said Ron, frowning at 
her. “What are we now, then, the House-Elf Liberation 
Front? I’m not barging into that kitchen and trying to 
make them stop work, I’m not doing it — ” 



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‘Tm not asking you to!” Hermione said impatiently. “I 
came down here just now, to talk to them all, and I 
found — oh come on, Harry, I want to show you!” 

She seized his arm again, pulled him in front of the 
picture of the giant fruit bowl, stretched out her 
forefinger, and tickled the huge green pear. It began 
to squirm, chuckling, and suddenly turned into a 
large green door handle. Hermione seized it, pulled 
the door open, and pushed Harry hard in the back, 
forcing him inside. 

He had one brief glimpse of an enormous, high- 
ceilinged room, large as the Great Hall above it, with 
mounds of glittering brass pots and pans heaped 
around the stone walls, and a great brick fireplace at 
the other end, when something small hurtled toward 
him from the middle of the room, squealing, “Harry 
Potter, sir! Harry Potteri” 

Next second all the wind had been knocked out of 
him as the squealing elf hit him hard in the midriff, 
hugging him so tightly he thought his ribs would 
break. 

“D-Dobby?” Harry gasped. 

“It is Dobby, sir, it is!” squealed the voice from 
somewhere around his navel. “Dobby has been 
hoping and hoping to see Harry Potter, sir, and Harry 
Potter has come to see him, sir!” 

Dobby let go and stepped back a few paces, beaming 
up at Harry, his enormous, green, tennis-ball-shaped 
eyes brimming with tears of happiness. He looked 
almost exactly as Harry remembered him; the pencil- 
shaped nose, the batlike ears, the long fingers and 
feet — all except the clothes, which were very 
different. 

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When Dobby had worked for the Malfoys, he had 
always worn the same filthy old pillowcase. Now, 
however, he was wearing the strangest assortment of 
garments Harry had ever seen; he had done an even 
worse job of dressing himself than the wizards at the 
World Cup. He was wearing a tea cozy for a hat, on 
which he had pinned a number of bright badges; a tie 
patterned with horseshoes over a bare chest, a pair of 
what looked like children’s soccer shorts, and odd 
socks. One of these, Harry saw, was the black one 
Harry had removed from his own foot and tricked Mr. 
Malfoy into giving Dobby, thereby setting Dobby free. 
The other was covered in pink and orange stripes. 

“Dobby, what’re you doing here?” Harry said in 
amazement. 

“Dobby has come to work at Hogwarts, sir!” Dobby 
squealed excitedly. “Professor Dumbledore gave 
Dobby and Winky jobs, sir!” 

“Winky?” said Harry. “She’s here too?” 

“Yes, sir, yes!” said Dobby, and he seized Harry’s 
hand and pulled him off into the kitchen between the 
four long wooden tables that stood there. Each of 
these tables, Harry noticed as he passed them, was 
positioned exactly beneath the four House tables 
above, in the Great Hall. At the moment, they were 
clear of food, dinner having finished, but he supposed 
that an hour ago they had been laden with dishes 
that were then sent up through the ceiling to their 
counterparts above. 

At least a hundred little elves were standing around 
the kitchen, beaming, bowing, and curtsying as 
Dobby led Harry past them. They were all wearing the 
same uniform: a tea towel stamped with the Hogwarts 
crest, and tied, as Winky’s had been, like a toga. 

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Dobby stopped in front of the brick fireplace and 
pointed. 

“Winky, sir!” he said. 

Winky was sitting on a stool by the fire. Unlike 
Dobby, she had obviously not foraged for clothes. She 
was wearing a neat little skirt and blouse with a 
matching blue hat, which had holes in it for her large 
ears. However, while every one of Dobby ’s strange 
collection of garments was so clean and well cared for 
that it looked brand-new, Winky was plainly not 
taking care of her clothes at all. There were soup 
stains all down her blouse and a burn in her skirt. 

“Hello, Winky,” said Harry. 

Winky’s lip quivered. Then she burst into tears, which 
spilled out of her great brown eyes and splashed 
down her front, just as they had done at the 
Quidditch World Cup. 

“Oh dear,” said Hermione. She and Ron had followed 
Harry and Dobby to the end of the kitchen. “Winky, 
don’t cry, please don’t ...” 

But Winky cried harder than ever. Dobby, on the 
other hand, beamed up at Harry. 

“Would Harry Potter like a cup of tea?” he squeaked 
loudly, over Winky’s sobs. 

“Er — yeah, okay,” said Harry. 

Instantly, about six house-elves came trotting up 
behind him, bearing a large silver tray laden with a 
teapot, cups for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, a milk 
jug, and a large plate of biscuits. 



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“Good service!” Ron said, in an impressed voice. 
Hermione frowned at him, but the elves all looked 
delighted; they bowed very low and retreated. 

“How long have you been here, Dobby?” Harry asked 
as Dobby handed around the tea. 

“Only a week, Harry Potter, sir!” said Dobby happily. 
“Dobby came to see Professor Dumbledore, sir. You 
see, sir, it is very difficult for a house-elf who has 
been dismissed to get a new position, sir, very difficult 
indeed — ” 

At this, Winky howled even harder, her squashed- 
tomato of a nose dribbling all down her front, though 
she made no effort to stem the flow. 

“Dobby has traveled the country for two whole years, 
sir, trying to find work!” Dobby squeaked. “But Dobby 
hasn’t found work, sir, because Dobby wants paying 
now!” 

The house-elves all around the kitchen, who had been 
listening and watching with interest, all looked away 
at these words, as though Dobby had said something 
rude and embarrassing. Hermione, however, said, 
“Good for you, Dobby!” 

“Thank you, miss!” said Dobby, grinning toothily at 
her. “But most wizards doesn’t want a house-elf who 
wants paying, miss. That’s not the point of a house- 
elf,’ they says, and they slammed the door in Dobby ’s 
face! Dobby likes work, but he wants to wear clothes 
and he wants to be paid, Harry Potter. . . . Dobby likes 
being free!” 

The Hogwarts house-elves had now started edging 
away from Dobby, as though he were carrying 
something contagious. Winky, however, remained 

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where she was, though there was a definite increase 
in the volume of her crying. 

“And then, Harry Potter, Dobby goes to visit Winky, 
and finds out Winky has been freed too, sir!” said 
Dobby delightedly. 

At this, Winky flung herself forward off her stool and 
lay facedown on the flagged stone floor, beating her 
tiny fists upon it and positively screaming with 
misery. Hermione hastily dropped down to her knees 
beside her and tried to comfort her, but nothing she 
said made the slightest difference. Dobby continued 
with his story, shouting shrilly over Winky’s 
screeches. 

“And then Dobby had the idea, Harry Potter, sir! Why 
doesn’t Dobby and Winky find work together?’ Dobby 
says. Where is there enough work for two house- 
elves?’ says Winky. And Dobby thinks, and it comes 
to him, sir! Hogwarts\ So Dobby and Winky came to 
see Professor Dumbledore, sir, and Professor 
Dumbledore took us on!” 

Dobby beamed very brightly, and happy tears welled 
in his eyes again. 

“And Professor Dumbledore says he will pay Dobby, 
sir, if Dobby wants paying! And so Dobby is a free elf, 
sir, and Dobby gets a Galleon a week and one day off 
a month!” 

“That’s not very much!” Hermione shouted 
indignantly from the floor, over Winky’s continued 
screaming and fist-beating. 

“Professor Dumbledore offered Dobby ten Galleons a 
week, and weekends off,” said Dobby, suddenly giving 
a little shiver, as though the prospect of so much 

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leisure and riches were frightening, “but Dobby beat 
him down, miss. ... Dobby likes freedom, miss, but he 
isn’t wanting too much, miss, he likes work better.” 

“And how much is Professor Dumbledore paying you, 
Winky?” Hermione asked kindly. 

If she had thought this would cheer up Winky, she 
was wildly mistaken. Winky did stop crying, but when 
she sat up she was glaring at Hermione through her 
massive brown eyes, her whole face sopping wet and 
suddenly furious. 

“Winky is a disgraced elf, but Winky is not yet getting 
paid!” she squeaked. “Winky is not sunk so low as 
that! Winky is properly ashamed of being freed!” 

“Ashamed?” said Hermione blankly. “But — Winky, 
come on! It’s Mr. Crouch who should be ashamed, not 
you! You didn’t do anything wrong, he was really 
horrible to you — ” 

But at these words, Winky clapped her hands over 
the holes in her hat, flattening her ears so that she 
couldn’t hear a word, and screeched, “You is not 
insulting my master, miss! You is not insulting Mr. 
Crouch! Mr. Crouch is a good wizard, miss! Mr. 
Crouch is right to sack bad Winky!” 

“Winky is having trouble adjusting, Harry Potter,” 
squeaked Dobby confidentially. “Winky forgets she is 
not bound to Mr. Crouch anymore; she is allowed to 
speak her mind now, but she won’t do it.” 

“Can’t house-elves speak their minds about their 
masters, then?” Harry asked. 

“Oh no, sir, no,” said Dobby, looking suddenly 
serious. “ Tis part of the house-elf’s enslavement, sir. 

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We keeps their secrets and our silence, sir. We 
upholds the family’s honor, and we never speaks ill of 
them — though Professor Dumbledore told Dobby he 
does not insist upon this. Professor Dumbledore said 
we is free to — to — ” 

Dobby looked suddenly nervous and beckoned Harry 
closer. Harry bent forward. Dobby whispered, “He 
said we is free to call him a — a barmy old codger if 
we likes, sir!” 

Dobby gave a frightened sort of giggle. 

“But Dobby is not wanting to, Harry Potter,” he said, 
talking normally again, and shaking his head so that 
his ears flapped. “Dobby likes Professor Dumbledore 
very much, sir, and is proud to keep his secrets and 
our silence for him.” 

“But you can say what you like about the Malfoys 
now?” Harry asked him, grinning. 

A slightly fearful look came into Dobby’s immense 
eyes. 

“Dobby — Dobby could,” he said doubtfully. He 
squared his small shoulders. “Dobby could tell Harry 
Potter that his old masters were — were — bad Dark 
wizards'.” 

Dobby stood for a moment, quivering all over, horror- 
struck by his own daring — then he rushed over to 
the nearest table and began banging his head on it 
very hard, squealing, “ Bad Dobby ! Bad Dobby\” 

Harry seized Dobby by the back of his tie and pulled 
him away from the table. 



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“Thank you, Harry Potter, thank you,” said Dobby 
breathlessly, rubbing his head. 

“You just need a bit of practice,” Harry said. 

“Practice!” squealed Winky furiously. “You is ought to 
be ashamed of yourself, Dobby, talking that way 
about your masters!” 

“They isn’t my masters anymore, Winky!” said Dobby 
defiantly. “Dobby doesn’t care what they think 
anymore!” 

“Oh you is a bad elf, Dobby!” moaned Winky, tears 
leaking down her face once more. “My poor Mr. 
Crouch, what is he doing without Winky? He is 
needing me, he is needing my help! I is looking after 
the Crouches all my life, and my mother is doing it 
before me, and my grandmother is doing it before her 
...oh what is they saying if they knew Winky was 
freed? Oh the shame, the shame!” She buried her face 
in her skirt again and bawled. 

“Winky,” said Hermione firmly, “I’m quite sure Mr. 
Crouch is getting along perfectly well without you. 
We’ve seen him, you know — ” 

“You is seeing my master?” said Winky breathlessly, 
raising her tearstained face out of her skirt once more 
and goggling at Hermione. “You is seeing him here at 
Hogwarts?” 

“Yes,” said Hermione, “he and Mr. Bagman are judges 
in the Tri-wizard Tournament.” 

“Mr. Bagman comes too?” squeaked Winky, and to 
Harry’s great surprise (and Ron’s and Hermione’s too, 
by the looks on their faces), she looked angry again. 



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“Mr. Bagman is a bad wizard! A very bad wizard! My 
master isn’t liking him, oh no, not at all!” 

“Bagman — bad?” said Harry. 

“Oh yes,” Winky said, nodding her head furiously. 

“My master is telling Winky some things! But Winky 
is not saying ... Winky — Winky keeps her master’s 
secrets. ...” 

She dissolved yet again in tears; they could hear her 
sobbing into her skirt, “Poor master, poor master, no 
Winky to help him no more!” 

They couldn’t get another sensible word out of Winky. 
They left her to her crying and finished their tea, 
while Dobby chatted happily about his life as a free elf 
and his plans for his wages. 

“Dobby is going to buy a sweater next, Harry Potter!” 
he said happily, pointing at his bare chest. 

“Tell you what, Dobby,” said Ron, who seemed to have 
taken a great liking to the elf, “I’ll give you the one my 
mum knits me this Christmas, I always get one from 
her. You don’t mind maroon, do you?” 

Dobby was delighted. 

“We might have to shrink it a bit to fit you,” Ron told 
him, “but it’ll go well with your tea cozy.” 

As they prepared to take their leave, many of the 
surrounding elves pressed in upon them, offering 
snacks to take back upstairs. Hermione refused, with 
a pained look at the way the elves kept bowing and 
curtsying, but Harry and Ron loaded their pockets 
with cream cakes and pies. 



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“Thanks a lot!” Harry said to the elves, who had all 
clustered around the door to say good night. “See 
you, Dobby!” 

“Harry Potter . . . can Dobby come and see you 
sometimes, sir?” Dobby asked tentatively. 

“ ’Course you can,” said Harry, and Dobby beamed. 

“You know what?” said Ron, once he, Hermione, and 
Harry had left the kitchens behind and were climbing 
the steps into the entrance hall again. “All these years 
I’ve been really impressed with Fred and George, 
nicking food from the kitchens — well, it’s not exactly 
difficult, is it? They can’t wait to give it away!” 

“I think this is the best thing that could have 
happened to those elves, you know,” said Hermione, 
leading the way back up the marble staircase. “Dobby 
coming to work here, I mean. The other elves will see 
how happy he is, being free, and slowly it’ll dawn on 
them that they want that too!” 

“Let’s hope they don’t look too closely at Winky,” said 
Harry. 

“Oh shell cheer up,” said Hermione, though she 
sounded a bit doubtful. “Once the shock’s worn off, 
and she’s got used to Hogwarts, she’ll see how much 
better off she is without that Crouch man.” 

“She seems to love him,” said Ron thickly (he had just 
started on a cream cake) . 

“Doesn’t think much of Bagman, though, does she?” 
said Harry. “Wonder what Crouch says at home about 
him?” 



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“Probably says he’s not a very good Head of 
Department,” said Hermione, “and let’s face it ... he’s 
got a point, hasn’t he?” 

“I’d still rather work for him than old Crouch,” said 
Ron. “At least Bagman’s got a sense of humor.” 

“Don’t let Percy hear you saying that,” Hermione said, 
smiling slightly. 

“Yeah, well, Percy wouldn’t want to work for anyone 
with a sense of humor, would he?” said Ron, now 
starting on a chocolate eclair. “Percy wouldn’t 
recognize a joke if it danced naked in front of him 
wearing Dobby’s tea cozy.” 



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THE UNEXPECTED TASK 

“Potter! Weasley! Will you pay attention?” 

Professor McGonagall’s irritated voice cracked like a 
whip through the Transfiguration class on Thursday, 
and Harry and Ron both jumped and looked up. 

It was the end of the lesson; they had finished their 
work; the guinea fowl they had been changing into 
guinea pigs had been shut away in a large cage on 
Professor McGonagall’s desk (Neville’s still had 
feathers); they had copied down their homework from 
the blackboard (“Describe, with examples, the ways in 
which Transforming Spells must be adapted when 
performing Cross-Species Switches”). The bell was due 
to ring at any moment, and Harry and Ron, who had 
been having a sword fight with a couple of Fred and 
George’s fake wands at the back of the class, looked 
up, Ron holding a tin parrot and Harry, a rubber 
haddock. 

“Now that Potter and Weasley have been kind enough 
to act their age,” said Professor McGonagall, with an 

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angry look at the pair of them as the head of Harry’s 
haddock drooped and fell silently to the floor — Ron’s 
parrot’s beak had severed it moments before — “I 
have something to say to you all. 

“The Yule Ball is approaching — a traditional part of 
the Tri-wizard Tournament and an opportunity for us 
to socialize with our foreign guests. Now, the ball will 
be open only to fourth years and above — although 
you may invite a younger student if you wish — ” 

Lavender Brown let out a shrill giggle. Parvati Patil 
nudged her hard in the ribs, her face working 
furiously as she too fought not to giggle. They both 
looked around at Harry. Professor McGonagall 
ignored them, which Harry thought was distinctly 
unfair, as she had just told off him and Ron. 

“Dress robes will be worn,” Professor McGonagall 
continued, “and the ball will start at eight o’clock on 
Christmas Day, finishing at midnight in the Great 
Hall. Now then — ” 

Professor McGonagall stared deliberately around the 
class. 

“The Yule Ball is of course a chance for us all to — er 
— let our hair down,” she said, in a disapproving 
voice. 

Lavender giggled harder than ever, with her hand 
pressed hard against her mouth to stifle the sound. 
Harry could see what was funny this time: Professor 
McGonagall, with her hair in a tight bun, looked as 
though she had never let her hair down in any sense. 

“But that does NOT mean,” Professor McGonagall 
went on, “that we will be relaxing the standards of 
behavior we expect from Hogwarts students. I will be 

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most seriously displeased if a Gryffindor student 
embarrasses the school in any way.” 

The bell rang, and there was the usual scuffle of 
activity as everyone packed their bags and swung 
them onto their shoulders. 

Professor McGonagall called above the noise, “Potter 
— a word, if you please.” 

Assuming this had something to do with his headless 
rubber haddock, Harry proceeded gloomily to the 
teacher’s desk. Professor McGonagall waited until the 
rest of the class had gone, and then said, “Potter, the 
champions and their partners — ” 

“What partners?” said Harry. 

Professor McGonagall looked suspiciously at him, as 
though she thought he was trying to be funny. 

“Your partners for the Yule Ball, Potter,” she said 
coldly. “Your dance partners.” 

Harry’s insides seemed to curl up and shrivel. 

“Dance partners?” He felt himself going red. “I don’t 
dance,” he said quickly. 

“Oh yes, you do,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. 
“That’s what I’m telling you. Traditionally, the 
champions and their partners open the ball.” 

Harry had a sudden mental image of himself in a top 
hat and tails, accompanied by a girl in the sort of 
frilly dress Aunt Petunia always wore to Uncle 
Vernon’s work parties. 

“I’m not dancing,” he said. 

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“It is traditional,” said Professor McGonagall firmly. 
“You are a Hogwarts champion, and you will do what 
is expected of you as a representative of the school. 

So make sure you get yourself a partner, Potter.” 

“But — I don’t — ” 

“You heard me, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall in 
a very final sort of way. 

A week ago, Harry would have said finding a partner 
for a dance would be a cinch compared to taking on a 
Hungarian Horntail. But now that he had done the 
latter, and was facing the prospect of asking a girl to 
the ball, he thought he’d rather have another round 
with the dragon. 

Harry had never known so many people to put their 
names down to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas; he 
always did, of course, because the alternative was 
usually going back to Privet Drive, but he had always 
been very much in the minority before now. This year, 
however, everyone in the fourth year and above 
seemed to be staying, and they all seemed to Harry to 
be obsessed with the coming ball — or at least all the 
girls were, and it was amazing how many girls 
Hogwarts suddenly seemed to hold; he had never 
quite noticed that before. Girls giggling and 
whispering in the corridors, girls shrieking with 
laughter as boys passed them, girls excitedly 
comparing notes on what they were going to wear on 
Christmas night. ... 

“Why do they have to move in packs?” Harry asked 
Ron as a dozen or so girls walked past them, 
sniggering and staring at Harry. “How’re you 
supposed to get one on their own to ask them?” 



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“Lasso one?” Ron suggested. “Got any idea who you’re 
going to try?” 

Harry didn’t answer. He knew perfectly well whom 
he’d like to ask, but working up the nerve was 
something else. ... Cho was a year older than he was; 
she was very pretty; she was a very good Quidditch 
player, and she was also very popular. 

Ron seemed to know what was going on inside 
Harry’s head. 

“Listen, you’re not going to have any trouble. You’re a 
champion. You’ve just beaten a Hungarian Horntail. I 
bet they 11 be queuing up to go with you.” 

In tribute to their recently repaired friendship, Ron 
had kept the bitterness in his voice to a bare 
minimum. Moreover, to Harry’s amazement, he 
turned out to be quite right. 

A curly-haired third-year Hufflepuff girl to whom 
Harry had never spoken in his life asked him to go to 
the ball with her the very next day. Harry was so 
taken aback he said no before he’d even stopped to 
consider the matter. The girl walked off looking rather 
hurt, and Harry had to endure Dean’s, Seamus’s, and 
Ron’s taunts about her all through History of Magic. 
The following day, two more girls asked him, a second 
year and (to his horror) a fifth year who looked as 
though she might knock him out if he refused. 

“She was quite good-looking,” said Ron fairly, after 
he’d stopped laughing. 

“She was a foot taller than me,” said Harry, still 
unnerved. “Imagine what I’d look like trying to dance 
with her.” 



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Hermione’s words about Krum kept coming back to 
him. “They only like him because he’s famous!” Harry 
doubted very much if any of the girls who had asked 
to be his partner so far would have wanted to go to 
the ball with him if he hadn’t been a school 
champion. Then he wondered if this would bother 
him if Cho asked him. 

On the whole, Harry had to admit that even with the 
embarrassing prospect of opening the ball before him, 
life had definitely improved since he had got through 
the first task. He wasn’t attracting nearly as much 
unpleasantness in the corridors anymore, which he 
suspected had a lot to do with Cedric — he had an 
idea Cedric might have told the Hufflepuffs to leave 
Harry alone, in gratitude for Harry’s tip-off about the 
dragons. There seemed to be fewer Support Cedric 
Diggoryl badges around too. Draco Malfoy, of course, 
was still quoting Rita Skeeter’s article to him at every 
possible opportunity, but he was getting fewer and 
fewer laughs out of it — and just to heighten Harry’s 
feeling of well-being, no story about Hagrid had 
appeared in the Daily Prophet 

“She didn’ seem very int’rested in magical creatures, 
ter tell yeh the truth,” Hagrid said, when Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione asked him how his interview with Rita 
Skeeter had gone during the last Care of Magical 
Creatures lesson of the term. To their very great relief, 
Hagrid had given up on direct contact with the 
skrewts now, and they were merely sheltering behind 
his cabin today, sitting at a trestle table and 
preparing a fresh selection of food with which to 
tempt the skrewts. 

“She jus’ wanted me ter talk about you, Harry,” 

Hagrid continued in a low voice. “Well, I told her we’d 
been friends since I went ter fetch yeh from the 
Dursleys. ‘Never had to tell him off in four years?’ she 

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said. ‘Never played you up in lessons, has he?’ I told 
her no, an’ she didn’ seem happy at all. Yeh’d think 
she wanted me to say yeh were horrible, Harry.” 

“ ’Course she did,” said Harry, throwing lumps of 
dragon liver into a large metal bowl and picking up 
his knife to cut some more. “She can’t keep writing 
about what a tragic little hero I am, it’ll get boring.” 

“She wants a new angle, Hagrid,” said Ron wisely as 
he shelled salamander eggs. “You were supposed to 
say Harry’s a mad delinquent!” 

“But he’s not!” said Hagrid, looking genuinely 
shocked. 

“She should’ve interviewed Snape,” said Harry grimly. 
“He’d give her the goods on me any day. ‘Potter has 
been crossing lines ever since he first arrived at this 
school. . . . ’ ” 

“Said that, did he?” said Hagrid, while Ron and 
Hermione laughed. “Well, yeh might’ve bent a few 
rules, Harry, bu’ yeh’re all righ’ really, aren’ you?” 

“Cheers, Hagrid,” said Harry, grinning. 

“You coming to this ball thing on Christmas Day, 
Hagrid?” said Ron. 

“Though’ I might look in on it, yeah,” said Hagrid 
gruffly. “Should be a good do, I reckon. You’ll be 
openin’ the dancin’, won’ yeh, Harry? Who ’re you 
takin’?” 

“No one, yet,” said Harry, feeling himself going red 
again. Hagrid didn’t pursue the subject. 



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The last week of term became increasingly boisterous 
as it progressed. Rumors about the Yule Ball were 
flying everywhere, though Harry didn’t believe half of 
them — for instance, that Dumbledore had bought 
eight hundred barrels of mulled mead from Madam 
Rosmerta. It seemed to be fact, however, that he had 
booked the Weird Sisters. Exactly who or what the 
Weird Sisters were Harry didn’t know, never having 
had access to a wizard’s wireless, but he deduced 
from the wild excitement of those who had grown up 
listening to the WWN (Wizarding Wireless Network) 
that they were a very famous musical group. 

Some of the teachers, like little Professor Flitwick, 
gave up trying to teach them much when their minds 
were so clearly elsewhere; he allowed them to play 
games in his lesson on Wednesday, and spent most of 
it talking to Harry about the perfect Summoning 
Charm Harry had used during the first task of the 
Triwizard Tournament. Other teachers were not so 
generous. Nothing would ever deflect Professor Binns, 
for example, from plowing on through his notes on 
goblin rebellions — as Binns hadn’t let his own death 
stand in the way of continuing to teach, they 
supposed a small thing like Christmas wasn’t going to 
put him off. It was amazing how he could make even 
bloody and vicious goblin riots sound as boring as 
Percy’s cauldron-bottom report. Professors 
McGonagall and Moody kept them working until the 
very last second of their classes too, and Snape, of 
course, would no sooner let them play games in class 
than adopt Harry. Staring nastily around at them all, 
he informed them that he would be testing them on 
poison antidotes during the last lesson of the term. 

“Evil, he is,” Ron said bitterly that night in the 
Gryffindor common room. “Springing a test on us on 
the last day. Ruining the last bit of term with a whole 
load of studying.” 

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“Mmm ... you’re not exactly straining yourself, 
though, are you?” said Hermione, looking at him over 
the top of her Potions notes. Ron was busy building a 
card castle out of his Exploding Snap pack — a much 
more interesting pastime than with Muggle cards, 
because of the chance that the whole thing would 
blow up at any second. 

“It’s Christmas, Hermione,” said Harry lazily; he was 
rereading Flying with the Cannons for the tenth time 
in an armchair near the fire. 

Hermione looked severely over at him too. “I’d have 
thought you’d be doing something constructive, 

Harry, even if you don’t want to learn your antidotes!” 

“Like what?” Harry said as he watched Joey Jenkins 
of the Cannons belt a Bludger toward a Ballycastle 
Bats Chaser. 

“That egg!” Hermione hissed. 

“Come on, Hermione, I’ve got till February the twenty- 
fourth,” Harry said. 

He had put the golden egg upstairs in his trunk and 
hadn’t opened it since the celebration party after the 
first task. There were still two and a half months to go 
until he needed to know what all the screechy wailing 
meant, after all. 

“But it might take weeks to work it out!” said 
Hermione. “You’re going to look a real idiot if everyone 
else knows what the next task is and you don’t!” 

“Leave him alone, Hermione, he’s earned a bit of a 
break,” said Ron, and he placed the last two cards on 
top of the castle and the whole lot blew up, singeing 
his eyebrows. 

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“Nice look, Ron ... go well with your dress robes, that 
will.” 



It was Fred and George. They sat down at the table 
with Harry, Ron, and Hermione as Ron felt how much 
damage had been done. 

“Ron, can we borrow Pigwidgeon?” George asked. 

“No, he’s off delivering a letter,” said Ron. “Why?” 

“Because George wants to invite him to the ball,” said 
Fred sarcastically. 

“Because we want to send a letter, you stupid great 
prat,” said George. 

“Who d’you two keep writing to, eh?” said Ron. 

“Nose out, Ron, or I’ll burn that for you too,” said 
Fred, waving his wand threateningly. “So ... you lot 
got dates for the ball yet?” 

“Nope,” said Ron. 

“Well, you’d better hurry up, mate, or all the good 
ones will be gone,” said Fred. 

“Who’re you going with, then?” said Ron. 

“Angelina,” said Fred promptly, without a trace of 
embarrassment. 

“What?” said Ron, taken aback. “You’ve already asked 
her?” 

“Good point,” said Fred. He turned his head and 
called across the common room, “Oi! Angelina!” 

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Angelina, who had been chatting with Alicia Spinnet 
near the fire, looked over at him. 



“What?” she called back. 

“Want to come to the ball with me?” 

Angelina gave Fred an appraising sort of look. 

“All right, then,” she said, and she turned back to 
Alicia and carried on chatting with a bit of a grin on 
her face. 

“There you go,” said Fred to Harry and Ron, “piece of 
cake.” 

He got to his feet, yawning, and said, “We’d better use 
a school owl then, George, come on. ...” 

They left. Ron stopped feeling his eyebrows and 
looked across the smoldering wreck of his card castle 
at Harry. 

“We should get a move on, you know ... ask someone. 
He’s right. We don’t want to end up with a pair of 
trolls.” 

Hermione let out a sputter of indignation. 

“A pair of . . . what, excuse me?” 

“Well — you know,” said Ron, shrugging. “I’d rather 
go alone than with — with Eloise Midgen, say.” 

“Her acne’s loads better lately — and she’s really 
nice!” 

“Her nose is off-center,” said Ron. 

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“Oh I see,” Hermione said, bristling. “So basically, 
you’re going to take the best-looking girl who’ll have 
you, even if she’s completely horrible?” 

“Er — yeah, that sounds about right,” said Ron. 

“I’m going to bed,” Hermione snapped, and she swept 
off toward the girls’ staircase without another word. 

The Hogwarts staff, demonstrating a continued desire 
to impress the visitors from Beauxbatons and 
Durmstrang, seemed determined to show the castle at 
its best this Christmas. When the decorations went 
up, Harry noticed that they were the most stunning 
he had yet seen inside the school. Everlasting icicles 
had been attached to the banisters of the marble 
staircase; the usual twelve Christmas trees in the 
Great Hall were bedecked with everything from 
luminous holly berries to real, hooting, golden owls, 
and the suits of armor had all been bewitched to sing 
carols whenever anyone passed them. It was quite 
something to hear “O Come, All Ye Faithful” sung by 
an empty helmet that only knew half the words. 
Several times, Filch the caretaker had to extract 
Peeves from inside the armor, where he had taken to 
hiding, filling in the gaps in the songs with lyrics of 
his own invention, all of which were very rude. 

And still, Harry hadn’t asked Cho to the ball. He and 
Ron were getting very nervous now, though as Harry 
pointed out, Ron would look much less stupid than 
he would without a partner; Harry was supposed to 
be starting the dancing with the other champions. 

“I suppose there’s always Moaning Myrtle,” he said 
gloomily, referring to the ghost who haunted the girls’ 
toilets on the second floor. 



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“Harry — we’ve just got to grit our teeth and do it,” 
said Ron on Friday morning, in a tone that suggested 
they were planning the storming of an impregnable 
fortress. “When we get back to the common room 
tonight, we’ll both have partners — agreed?” 

“Er ... okay,” said Harry. 

But every time he glimpsed Cho that day — during 
break, and then lunchtime, and once on the way to 
History of Magic — she was surrounded by friends. 
Didn’t she ever go anywhere alone? Could he perhaps 
ambush her as she was going into a bathroom? But 
no — she even seemed to go there with an escort of 
four or five girls. Yet if he didn’t do it soon, she was 
bound to have been asked by somebody else. 

He found it hard to concentrate on Snape’s Potions 
test, and consequently forgot to add the key 
ingredient — a bezoar — meaning that he received 
bottom marks. He didn’t care, though; he was too 
busy screwing up his courage for what he was about 
to do. When the bell rang, he grabbed his bag, and 
hurried to the dungeon door. 

“I’ll meet you at dinner,” he said to Ron and 
Hermione, and he dashed off upstairs. 

He’d just have to ask Cho for a private word, that was 
all. ... He hurried off through the packed corridors 
looking for her, and (rather sooner than he had 
expected) he found her, emerging from a Defense 
Against the Dark Arts lesson. 

“Er — Cho? Could I have a word with you?” 

Giggling should be made illegal, Harry thought 
furiously, as all the girls around Cho started doing it. 



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She didn’t, though. She said, “Okay,” and followed 
him out of earshot of her classmates. 

Harry turned to look at her and his stomach gave a 
weird lurch as though he had missed a step going 
downstairs. 

“Er,” he said. 

He couldn’t ask her. He couldn’t. But he had to. Cho 
stood there looking puzzled, watching him. 

The words came out before Harry had quite got his 
tongue around them. 

“Wangoballwime?” 

“Sorry?” said Cho. 

“D’you — d’you want to go to the ball with me?” said 
Harry. Why did he have to go red now? Why ? 

“Oh!” said Cho, and she went red too. “Oh Harry, I’m 
really sorry,” and she truly looked it. “I’ve already said 
I’ll go with someone else.” 

“Oh,” said Harry. 

It was odd; a moment before his insides had been 
writhing like snakes, but suddenly he didn’t seem to 
have any insides at all. 

“Oh okay,” he said, “no problem.” 

“I’m really sorry,” she said again. 

“That’s okay,” said Harry. 



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They stood there looking at each other, and then Cho 
said, “Well — ” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. 

“Well, ’bye,” said Cho, still very red. She walked away. 
Harry called after her, before he could stop himself. 
“Who ’re you going with?” 

“Oh — Cedric,” she said. “Cedric Diggory.” 

“Oh right,” said Harry. 

His insides had come back again. It felt as though 
they had been filled with lead in their absence. 

Completely forgetting about dinner, he walked slowly 
back up to Gryffindor Tower, Cho’s voice echoing in 
his ears with every step he took. “ Cedric — Cedric 
Diggory.” He had been starting to quite like Cedric — 
prepared to overlook the fact that he had once beaten 
him at Quidditch, and was handsome, and popular, 
and nearly everyone’s favorite champion. Now he 
suddenly realized that Cedric was in fact a useless 
pretty boy who didn’t have enough brains to fill an 
eggcup. 

“Fairy lights,” he said dully to the Fat Lady — the 
password had been changed the previous day. 

“Yes, indeed, dear!” she trilled, straightening her new 
tinsel hair band as she swung forward to admit him. 

Entering the common room, Harry looked around, 
and to his surprise he saw Ron sitting ashen-faced in 
a distant corner. Ginny was sitting with him, talking 
to him in what seemed to be a low, soothing voice. 

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“What’s up, Ron?” said Harry, joining them. 



Ron looked up at Harry, a sort of blind horror in his 
face. 

“Why did I do it?” he said wildly. “I don’t know what 
made me do it!” 

“What?” said Harry. 

“He — er — just asked Fleur Delacour to go to the 
ball with him,” said Ginny. She looked as though she 
was fighting back a smile, but she kept patting Ron’s 
arm sympathetically. 

“You what?” said Harry. 

“I don’t know what made me do it!” Ron gasped again. 
“What was I playing at? There were people — all 
around — I’ve gone mad — everyone watching! I was 
just walking past her in the entrance hall — she was 
standing there talking to Diggory — and it sort of 
came over me — and I asked her!” 

Ron moaned and put his face in his hands. He kept 
talking, though the words were barely 
distinguishable. 

“She looked at me like I was a sea slug or something. 
Didn’t even answer. And then — I dunno — I just sort 
of came to my senses and ran for it.” 

“She’s part veela,” said Harry. “You were right — her 
grandmother was one. It wasn’t your fault, I bet you 
just walked past when she was turning on the old 
charm for Diggory and got a blast of it — but she was 
wasting her time. He’s going with Cho Chang.” 

Ron looked up. 

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“I asked her to go with me just now,” Harry said dully, 
“and she told me.” 

Ginny had suddenly stopped smiling. 

“This is mad,” said Ron. “We’re the only ones left who 
haven’t got anyone — well, except Neville. Hey — 
guess who he asked? Hermionel” 

“ What?” said Harry, completely distracted by this 
startling news. 

“Yeah, I know!” said Ron, some of the color coming 
back into his face as he started to laugh. “He told me 
after Potions! Said she’s always been really nice, 
helping him out with work and stuff — but she told 
him she was already going with someone. Ha! As if! 
She just didn’t want to go with Neville ... I mean, who 
would?” 

“Don’t!” said Ginny, annoyed. “Don’t laugh — ” 

Just then Hermione climbed in through the portrait 
hole. 

“Why weren’t you two at dinner?” she said, coming 
over to join them. 

“Because — oh shut up laughing, you two — because 
they’ve both just been turned down by girls they 
asked to the ball!” said Ginny. 

That shut Harry and Ron up. 

“Thanks a bunch, Ginny,” said Ron sourly. 

“All the good-looking ones taken, Ron?” said 
Hermione loftily. “Eloise Midgen starting to look quite 



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pretty now, is she? Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone 
somewhere who’ll have you.” 

But Ron was staring at Hermione as though suddenly 
seeing her in a whole new light. 

“Hermione, Neville’s right — you are a girl. ...” 

“Oh well spotted,” she said acidly. 

“Well — you can come with one of us!” 

“No, I can’t,” snapped Hermione. 

“Oh come on,” he said impatiently, “we need partners, 
we’re going to look really stupid if we haven’t got any, 
everyone else has ...” 

“I can’t come with you,” said Hermione, now blushing, 
“because I’m already going with someone.” 

“No, you’re not!” said Ron. “You just said that to get 
rid of Neville!” 

“Oh did I?” said Hermione, and her eyes flashed 
dangerously. “Just because it’s taken you three years 
to notice, Ron, doesn’t mean no one else has spotted 
I’m a girl!” 

Ron stared at her. Then he grinned again. 

“Okay, okay, we know you’re a girl,” he said. “That 
do? Will you come now?” 

“I’ve already told you!” Hermione said very angrily. 

“I’m going with someone else!” 

And she stormed off toward the girls’ dormitories 
again. 

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“She’s lying,” said Ron flatly, watching her go. 

“She’s not,” said Ginny quietly. 

“Who is it then?” said Ron sharply. 

“I’m not telling you, it’s her business,” said Ginny. 

“Right,” said Ron, who looked extremely put out, “this 
is getting stupid. Ginny, you can go with Harry, and 
I’ll just—” 

“I can’t,” said Ginny, and she went scarlet too. “I’m 
going with — with Neville. He asked me when 
Hermione said no, and I thought ... well ... I’m not 
going to be able to go otherwise, I’m not in fourth 
year.” She looked extremely miserable. “I think I’ll go 
and have dinner,” she said, and she got up and 
walked off to the portrait hole, her head bowed. 

Ron goggled at Harry. 

“What’s got into them?” he demanded. 

But Harry had just seen Parvati and Lavender come 
in through the portrait hole. The time had come for 
drastic action. 

“Wait here,” he said to Ron, and he stood up, walked 
straight up to Parvati, and said, “Parvati? Will you go 
to the ball with me?” 

Parvati went into a fit of giggles. Harry waited for 
them to subside, his fingers crossed in the pocket of 
his robes. 

“Yes, all right then,” she said finally, blushing 
furiously. 



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“Thanks,” said Harry, in relief. “Lavender — will you 
go with Ron?” 

“She’s going with Seamus,” said Parvati, and the pair 
of them giggled harder than ever. 

Harry sighed. 

“Can’t you think of anyone who’d go with Ron?” he 
said, lowering his voice so that Ron wouldn’t hear. 

“What about Hermione Granger?” said Parvati. 

“She’s going with someone else.” 

Parvati looked astonished. 

“Ooooh — who?” she said keenly. 

Harry shrugged. “No idea,” he said. “So what about 
Ron?” 

“Well ...” said Parvati slowly, “I suppose my sister 
might ... Padma, you know ... in Ravenclaw. I’ll ask 
her if you like.” 

“Yeah, that would be great,” said Harry. “Let me 
know, will you?” 

And he went back over to Ron, feeling that this ball 
was a lot more trouble than it was worth, and hoping 
very much that Padma Patil’s nose was dead center. 



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THE YULE BALL 

Despite the very heavy load of homework that the 
fourth years had been given for the holidays, Harry 
was in no mood to work when term ended, and spent 
the week leading up to Christmas enjoying himself as 
fully as possible along with everyone else. Gryffindor 
Tower was hardly less crowded now than during 
term-time; it seemed to have shrunk slightly too, as 
its inhabitants were being so much rowdier than 
usual. Fred and George had had a great success with 
their Canary Creams, and for the first couple of days 
of the holidays, people kept bursting into feather all 
over the place. Before long, however, all the 
Gryffindors had learned to treat food anybody else 
offered them with extreme caution, in case it had a 
Canary Cream concealed in the center, and George 
confided to Harry that he and Fred were now working 
on developing something else. Harry made a mental 
note never to accept so much as a crisp from Fred 
and George in future. He still hadn’t forgotten Dudley 
and the Ton-Tongue Toffee. 



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Snow was falling thickly upon the castle and its 
grounds now. The pale blue Beauxbatons carriage 
looked like a large, chilly, frosted pumpkin next to the 
iced gingerbread house that was Hagrid’s cabin, while 
the Durmstrang ship’s portholes were glazed with ice, 
the rigging white with frost. The house-elves down in 
the kitchen were outdoing themselves with a series of 
rich, warming stews and savory puddings, and only 
Fleur Delacour seemed to be able to find anything to 
complain about. 

“It is too ’eavy, all zis ’Ogwarts food,” they heard her 
saying grumpily as they left the Great Hall behind her 
one evening (Ron skulking behind Harry, keen not to 
be spotted by Fleur). “I will not fit into my dress 
robes!” 

“Oooh there’s a tragedy,” Hermione snapped as Fleur 
went out into the entrance hall. “She really thinks a 
lot of herself, that one, doesn’t she?” 

“Hermione — who are you going to the ball with?” 
said Ron. 

He kept springing this question on her, hoping to 
startle her into a response by asking it when she least 
expected it. However, Hermione merely frowned and 
said, “I’m not telling you, you’ll just make fun of me.” 

“You’re joking, Weasley!” said Malfoy, behind them. 
“You’re not telling me someone’s asked that to the 
ball? Not the long-molared Mudblood?” 

Harry and Ron both whipped around, but Hermione 
said loudly, waving to somebody over Malfoy’s 
shoulder, “Hello, Professor Moody!” 



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Malfoy went pale and jumped backward, looking 
wildly around for Moody, but he was still up at the 
staff table, finishing his stew. 

“Twitchy little ferret, aren’t you, Malfoy?” said 
Hermione scathingly, and she, Harry, and Ron went 
up the marble staircase laughing heartily. 

“Hermione,” said Ron, looking sideways at her, 
suddenly frowning, “your teeth ...” 

“What about them?” she said. 

“Well, they’re different ... I’ve just noticed. ...” 

“Of course they are — did you expect me to keep 
those fangs Malfoy gave me?” 

“No, I mean, they’re different to how they were before 
he put that hex on you. ... They’re all ... straight and 
— and normal-sized.” 

Hermione suddenly smiled very mischievously, and 
Harry noticed it too: It was a very different smile from 
the one he remembered. 

“Well ... when I went up to Madam Pomfrey to get 
them shrunk, she held up a mirror and told me to 
stop her when they were back to how they normally 
were,” she said. “And I just ... let her carry on a bit.” 
She smiled even more widely. “Mum and Dad won’t be 
too pleased. I’ve been trying to persuade them to let 
me shrink them for ages, but they wanted me to carry 
on with my braces. You know, they’re dentists, they 
just don’t think teeth and magic should — look! 
Pigwidgeon’s back!” 

Ron’s tiny owl was twittering madly on the top of the 
icicle-laden banisters, a scroll of parchment tied to 

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his leg. People passing him were pointing and 
laughing, and a group of third-year girls paused and 
said, “Oh look at the weeny owl! Isn’t he cute?” 

“Stupid little feathery git!” Ron hissed, hurrying up 
the stairs and snatching up Pigwidgeon. “You bring 
letters to the addressee! You don’t hang around 
showing off!” 

Pigwidgeon hooted happily, his head protruding over 
Ron’s fist. The third-year girls all looked very 
shocked. 

“Clear off!” Ron snapped at them, waving the fist 
holding Pigwidgeon, who hooted more happily than 
ever as he soared through the air. “Here — take it, 
Harry,” Ron added in an undertone as the third-year 
girls scuttled away looking scandalized. He pulled 
Sirius’s reply off Pigwidgeon’s leg, Harry pocketed it, 
and they hurried back to Gryffindor Tower to read it. 

Everyone in the common room was much too busy in 
letting off more holiday steam to observe what anyone 
else was up to. Ron, Harry, and Hermione sat apart 
from everyone else by a dark window that was 
gradually filling up with snow, and Harry read out: 

Dear Harry, 

Congratulations on getting past the Horntail. Whoever 
put your name in that goblet shouldn’t be feeling too 
happy right now! I was going to suggest a 
Conjunctivitis Curse, as a dragon’s eyes are its 
weakest point — “That’s what Krum did!” Hermione 
whispered — but your way was better, I’m impressed. 

Don’t get complacent, though, Harry. You’ve only done 
one task; whoever put you in for the tournament’s got 
plenty more opportunity if they’re trying to hurt you. 

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Keep your eyes open — particularly when the person 
we discussed is around — and concentrate on keeping 
yourself out of trouble. 

Keep in touch, I still want to hear about anything 
unusual. 

Sirius 

“He sounds exactly like Moody,” said Harry quietly, 
tucking the letter away again inside his robes. “ 
‘Constant vigilance!’ You’d think I walk around with 
my eyes shut, banging off the walls. ...” 

“But he’s right, Harry,” said Hermione, “you have still 
got two tasks to do. You really ought to have a look at 
that egg, you know, and start working out what it 
means. ...” 

“Hermione, he’s got ages!” snapped Ron. “Want a 
game of chess, Harry?” 

“Yeah, okay,” said Harry. Then, spotting the look on 
Hermione ’s face, he said, “Come on, how’m I 
supposed to concentrate with all this noise going on? 

I won’t even be able to hear the egg over this lot.” 

“Oh I suppose not,” she sighed, and she sat down to 
watch their chess match, which culminated in an 
exciting checkmate of Ron’s, involving a couple of 
recklessly brave pawns and a very violent bishop. 

Harry awoke very suddenly on Christmas Day. 
Wondering what had caused his abrupt return to 
consciousness, he opened his eyes, and saw 
something with very large, round, green eyes staring 
back at him in the darkness, so close they were 
almost nose to nose. 



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“Dobbyl” Harry yelled, scrambling away from the elf 
so fast he almost fell out of bed. “Don’t do that!” 

“Dobby is sorry, sir!” squeaked Dobby anxiously, 
jumping backward with his long fingers over his 
mouth. “Dobby is only wanting to wish Harry Potter 
‘Merry Christmas’ and bring him a present, sir! Harry 
Potter did say Dobby could come and see him 
sometimes, sir!” 

“It’s okay,” said Harry, still breathing rather faster 
than usual, while his heart rate returned to normal. 
“Just — just prod me or something in future, all right, 
don’t bend over me like that. ...” 

Harry pulled back the curtains around his four- 
poster, took his glasses from his bedside table, and 
put them on. His yell had awoken Ron, Seamus, 

Dean, and Neville. All of them were peering through 
the gaps in their own hangings, heavy-eyed and 
tousle-haired. 

“Someone attacking you, Harry?” Seamus asked 
sleepily. 

“No, it’s just Dobby,” Harry muttered. “Go back to 
sleep.” 

“Nah ... presents!” said Seamus, spotting the large 
pile at the foot of his bed. Ron, Dean, and Neville 
decided that now they were awake they might as well 
get down to some present-opening too. Harry turned 
back to Dobby, who was now standing nervously next 
to Harry’s bed, still looking worried that he had upset 
Harry. There was a Christmas bauble tied to the loop 
on top of his tea cozy. 

“Can Dobby give Harry Potter his present?” he 
squeaked tentatively. 

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“ ’Course you can,” said Harry. “Er ... I’ve got 
something for you too.” 

It was a lie; he hadn’t bought anything for Dobby at 
all, but he quickly opened his trunk and pulled out a 
particularly knobbly rolled-up pair of socks. They 
were his oldest and foulest, mustard yellow, and had 
once belonged to Uncle Vernon. The reason they were 
extra-knobbly was that Harry had been using them to 
cushion his Sneakoscope for over a year now. He 
pulled out the Sneakoscope and handed the socks to 
Dobby, saying, “Sorry, I forgot to wrap them. ...” 

But Dobby was utterly delighted. 

“Socks are Dobby’s favorite, favorite clothes, sir!” he 
said, ripping off his odd ones and pulling on Uncle 
Vernon’s. “I has seven now, sir. ... But sir ...” he said, 
his eyes widening, having pulled both socks up to 
their highest extent, so that they reached to the 
bottom of his shorts, “they has made a mistake in the 
shop, Harry Potter, they is giving you two the same!” 

“Ah, no, Harry, how come you didn’t spot that?” said 
Ron, grinning over from his own bed, which was now 
strewn with wrapping paper. “Tell you what, Dobby — 
here you go — take these two, and you can mix them 
up properly. And here’s your sweater.” 

He threw Dobby a pair of violet socks he had just 
unwrapped, and the hand-knitted sweater Mrs. 
Weasley had sent. Dobby looked quite overwhelmed. 

“Sir is very kind!” he squeaked, his eyes brimming 
with tears again, bowing deeply to Ron. “Dobby knew 
sir must be a great wizard, for he is Harry Potter’s 
greatest friend, but Dobby did not know that he was 
also as generous of spirit, as noble, as selfless — ” 



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“They’re only socks,” said Ron, who had gone slightly 
pink around the ears, though he looked rather 
pleased all the same. “Wow, Harry — ” He had just 
opened Harry’s present, a Chudley Cannon hat. 

“Cool!” He jammed it onto his head, where it clashed 
horribly with his hair. 

Dobby now handed Harry a small package, which 
turned out to be — socks. 

“Dobby is making them himself, sir!” the elf said 
happily. “He is buying the wool out of his wages, sir!” 

The left sock was bright red and had a pattern of 
broomsticks upon it; the right sock was green with a 
pattern of Snitches. 

“They’re ... they’re really ... well, thanks, Dobby,” said 
Harry, and he pulled them on, causing Dobby’s eyes 
to leak with happiness again. 

“Dobby must go now, sir, we is already making 
Christmas dinner in the kitchens!” said Dobby, and 
he hurried out of the dormitory, waving good-bye to 
Ron and the others as he passed. 

Harry’s other presents were much more satisfactory 
than Dobby’s odd socks — with the obvious exception 
of the Dursleys’, which consisted of a single tissue, an 
all-time low — Harry supposed they too were 
remembering the Ton-Tongue Toffee. Hermione had 
given Harry a book called Quidditch Teams of Britain 
and Ireland ; Ron, a bulging bag of Dungbombs; 

Sirius, a handy penknife with attachments to unlock 
any lock and undo any knot; and Hagrid, a vast box 
of sweets including all Harry’s favorites: Bertie Bott’s 
Every Flavor Beans, Chocolate Frogs, Drooble’s Best 
Blowing Gum, and Fizzing Whizbees. There was also, 
of course, Mrs. Weasley’s usual package, including a 
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new sweater (green, with a picture of a dragon on it — 
Harry supposed Charlie had told her all about the 
Horntail), and a large quantity of homemade mince 
pies. 

Harry and Ron met up with Hermione in the common 
room, and they went down to breakfast together. They 
spent most of the morning in Gryffindor Tower, where 
everyone was enjoying their presents, then returned 
to the Great Hall for a magnificent lunch, which 
included at least a hundred turkeys and Christmas 
puddings, and large piles of Cribbage’s Wizarding 
Crackers. 

They went out onto the grounds in the afternoon; the 
snow was untouched except for the deep channels 
made by the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students 
on their way up to the castle. Hermione chose to 
watch Harry and the Weasleys’ snowball fight rather 
than join in, and at five o’clock said she was going 
back upstairs to get ready for the ball. 

“What, you need three hours?” said Ron, looking at 
her incredulously and paying for his lapse in 
concentration when a large snowball, thrown by 
George, hit him hard on the side of the head. “Who ’re 
you going with?” he yelled after Hermione, but she 
just waved and disappeared up the stone steps into 
the castle. 

There was no Christmas tea today, as the ball 
included a feast, so at seven o’clock, when it had 
become hard to aim properly, the others abandoned 
their snowball fight and trooped back to the common 
room. The Fat Lady was sitting in her frame with her 
friend Violet from downstairs, both of them extremely 
tipsy, empty boxes of chocolate liqueurs littering the 
bottom of her picture. 



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“Lairy fights, that’s the one!” she giggled when they 
gave the password, and she swung forward to let 
them inside. 

Harry, Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville changed into 
their dress robes up in their dormitory, all of them 
looking very self-conscious, but none as much as 
Ron, who surveyed himself in the long mirror in the 
corner with an appalled look on his face. There was 
just no getting around the fact that his robes looked 
more like a dress than anything else. In a desperate 
attempt to make them look more manly, he used a 
Severing Charm on the ruff and cuffs. It worked fairly 
well; at least he was now lace-free, although he hadn’t 
done a very neat job, and the edges still looked 
depressingly frayed as the boys set off downstairs. 

“I still can’t work out how you two got the best- 
looking girls in the year,” muttered Dean. 

“Animal magnetism,” said Ron gloomily, pulling stray 
threads out of his cuffs. 

The common room looked strange, full of people 
wearing different colors instead of the usual mass of 
black. Parvati was waiting for Harry at the foot of the 
stairs. She looked very pretty indeed, in robes of 
shocking pink, with her long dark plait braided with 
gold, and gold bracelets glimmering at her wrists. 
Harry was relieved to see that she wasn’t giggling. 

“You — er — look nice,” he said awkwardly. 

“Thanks,” she said. “Padma’s going to meet you in the 
entrance hall,” she added to Ron. 

“Right,” said Ron, looking around. “Where’s 
Hermione?” 



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Parvati shrugged. “Shall we go down then, Harry?” 



“Okay,” said Harry, wishing he could just stay in the 
common room. Fred winked at Harry as he passed 
him on the way out of the portrait hole. 

The entrance hall was packed with students too, all 
milling around waiting for eight o’clock, when the 
doors to the Great Hall would be thrown open. Those 
people who were meeting partners from different 
Houses were edging through the crowd trying to find 
one another. Parvati found her sister, Padma, and led 
her over to Harry and Ron. 

“Hi,” said Padma, who was looking just as pretty as 
Parvati in robes of bright turquoise. She didn’t look 
too enthusiastic about having Ron as a partner, 
though; her dark eyes lingered on the frayed neck and 
sleeves of his dress robes as she looked him up and 
down. 

“Hi,” said Ron, not looking at her, but staring around 
at the crowd. “Oh no ...” 

He bent his knees slightly to hide behind Harry, 
because Fleur Delacour was passing, looking 
stunning in robes of silver-gray satin, and 
accompanied by the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, 
Roger Davies. When they had disappeared, Ron stood 
straight again and stared over the heads of the crowd. 

“Where is Hermione?” he said again. 

A group of Slytherins came up the steps from their 
dungeon common room. Malfoy was in front; he was 
wearing dress robes of black velvet with a high collar, 
which in Harry’s opinion made him look like a vicar. 
Pansy Parkinson in very frilly robes of pale pink was 
clutching Malfoy’s arm. Crabbe and Goyle were both 
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wearing green; they resembled moss-colored boulders, 
and neither of them, Harry was pleased to see, had 
managed to find a partner. 

The oak front doors opened, and everyone turned to 
look as the Durmstrang students entered with 
Professor Karkaroff. Krum was at the front of the 
party, accompanied by a pretty girl in blue robes 
Harry didn’t know. Over their heads he saw that an 
area of lawn right in front of the castle had been 
transformed into a sort of grotto full of fairy lights — 
meaning hundreds of actual living fairies were sitting 
in the rosebushes that had been conjured there, and 
fluttering over the statues of what seemed to be 
Father Christmas and his reindeer. 

Then Professor McGonagall’s voice called, 

“Champions over here, please!” 

Parvati readjusted her bangles, beaming; she and 
Harry said “See you in a minute” to Ron and Padma 
and walked forward, the chattering crowd parting to 
let them through. Professor McGonagall, who was 
wearing dress robes of red tartan and had arranged a 
rather ugly wreath of thistles around the brim of her 
hat, told them to wait on one side of the doors while 
everyone else went inside; they were to enter the 
Great Hall in procession when the rest of the students 
had sat down. Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies 
stationed themselves nearest the doors; Davies looked 
so stunned by his good fortune in having Fleur for a 
partner that he could hardly take his eyes off her. 
Cedric and Cho were close to Harry too; he looked 
away from them so he wouldn’t have to talk to them. 
His eyes fell instead on the girl next to Krum. His jaw 
dropped. 

It was Hermione. 



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But she didn’t look like Hermione at all. She had done 
something with her hair; it was no longer bushy but 
sleek and shiny, and twisted up into an elegant knot 
at the back of her head. She was wearing robes made 
of a floaty, periwinkle-blue material, and she was 
holding herself differently, somehow — or maybe it 
was merely the absence of the twenty or so books she 
usually had slung over her back. She was also 
smiling — rather nervously, it was true — but the 
reduction in the size of her front teeth was more 
noticeable than ever; Harry couldn’t understand how 
he hadn’t spotted it before. 

“Hi, Harry!” she said. “Hi, Parvati!” 

Parvati was gazing at Hermione in unflattering 
disbelief. She wasn’t the only one either; when the 
doors to the Great Hall opened, Krum’s fan club from 
the library stalked past, throwing Hermione looks of 
deepest loathing. Pansy Parkinson gaped at her as 
she walked by with Malfoy, and even he didn’t seem 
to be able to find an insult to throw at her. Ron, 
however, walked right past Hermione without looking 
at her. 

Once everyone else was settled in the Hall, Professor 
McGonagall told the champions and their partners to 
get in line in pairs and to follow her. They did so, and 
everyone in the Great Hall applauded as they entered 
and started walking up toward a large round table at 
the top of the Hall, where the judges were sitting. 

The walls of the Hall had all been covered in sparkling 
silver frost, with hundreds of garlands of mistletoe 
and ivy crossing the starry black ceiling. The House 
tables had vanished; instead, there were about a 
hundred smaller, lantern-lit ones, each seating about 
a dozen people. 



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Harry concentrated on not tripping over his feet. 
Parvati seemed to be enjoying herself; she was 
beaming around at everybody, steering Harry so 
forcefully that he felt as though he were a show dog 
she was putting through its paces. He caught sight of 
Ron and Padma as he neared the top table. Ron was 
watching Hermione pass with narrowed eyes. Padma 
was looking sulky. 

Dumbledore smiled happily as the champions 
approached the top table, but Karkaroff wore an 
expression remarkably like Ron’s as he watched 
Krum and Hermione draw nearer. Ludo Bagman, 
tonight in robes of bright purple with large yellow 
stars, was clapping as enthusiastically as any of the 
students; and Madame Maxime, who had changed 
her usual uniform of black satin for a flowing gown of 
lavender silk, was applauding them politely. But Mr. 
Crouch, Harry suddenly realized, was not there. The 
fifth seat at the table was occupied by Percy Weasley. 

When the champions and their partners reached the 
table, Percy drew out the empty chair beside him, 
staring pointedly at Harry. Harry took the hint and 
sat down next to Percy, who was wearing brand-new, 
navy-blue dress robes and an expression of such 
smugness that Harry thought it ought to be fined. 

“I’ve been promoted,” Percy said before Harry could 
even ask, and from his tone, he might have been 
announcing his election as supreme ruler of the 
universe. “I’m now Mr. Crouch’s personal assistant, 
and I’m here representing him.” 

“Why didn’t he come?” Harry asked. He wasn’t looking 
forward to being lectured on cauldron bottoms all 
through dinner. 



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‘Tm afraid to say Mr. Crouch isn’t well, not well at all. 
Hasn’t been right since the World Cup. Hardly 
surprising — overwork. He’s not as young as he was 
— though still quite brilliant, of course, the mind 
remains as great as it ever was. But the World Cup 
was a fiasco for the whole Ministry, and then, Mr. 
Crouch suffered a huge personal shock with the 
misbehavior of that house-elf of his, Blinky, or 
whatever she was called. Naturally, he dismissed her 
immediately afterward, but — well, as I say, he’s 
getting on, he needs looking after, and I think he’s 
found a definite drop in his home comforts since she 
left. And then we had the tournament to arrange, and 
the aftermath of the Cup to deal with — that revolting 
Skeeter woman buzzing around — no, poor man, he’s 
having a well earned, quiet Christmas. I’m just glad 
he knew he had someone he could rely upon to take 
his place.” 

Harry wanted very much to ask whether Mr. Crouch 
had stopped calling Percy “Weatherby” yet, but 
resisted the temptation. 

There was no food as yet on the glittering golden 
plates, but small menus were lying in front of each of 
them. Harry picked his up uncertainly and looked 
around — there were no waiters. Dumbledore, 
however, looked carefully down at his own menu, 
then said very clearly to his plate, “Pork chops!” 

And pork chops appeared. Getting the idea, the rest of 
the table placed their orders with their plates too. 
Harry glanced up at Hermione to see how she felt 
about this new and more complicated method of 
dining — surely it meant plenty of extra work for the 
house-elves? — but for once, Hermione didn’t seem to 
be thinking about S.P.E.W. She was deep in talk with 
Viktor Krum and hardly seemed to notice what she 
was eating. 

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It now occurred to Harry that he had never actually 
heard Krum speak before, but he was certainly 
talking now, and very enthusiastically at that. 

“Veil, ve have a castle also, not as big as this, nor as 
comfortable, I am thinking,” he was telling Hermione. 
“Ve have just four floors, and the fires are lit only for 
magical purposes. But ve have grounds larger even 
than these — though in vinter, ve have very little 
daylight, so ve are not enjoying them. But in summer 
ve are flying every day, over the lakes and the 
mountains — ” 

“Now, now, Viktor!” said Karkaroff with a laugh that 
didn’t reach his cold eyes, “don’t go giving away 
anything else, now, or your charming friend will know 
exactly where to find us!” 

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Igor, all this 
secrecy ... one would almost think you didn’t want 
visitors.” 

“Well, Dumbledore,” said Karkaroff, displaying his 
yellowing teeth to their fullest extent, “we are all 
protective of our private domains, are we not? Do we 
not jealously guard the halls of learning that have 
been entrusted to us? Are we not right to be proud 
that we alone know our school’s secrets, and right to 
protect them?” 

“Oh I would never dream of assuming I know all 
Hogwarts’ secrets, Igor,” said Dumbledore amicably. 
“Only this morning, for instance, I took a wrong 
turning on the way to the bathroom and found myself 
in a beautifully proportioned room I have never seen 
before, containing a really rather magnificent 
collection of chamber pots. When I went back to 
investigate more closely, I discovered that the room 
had vanished. But I must keep an eye out for it. 

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Possibly it is only accessible at five-thirty in the 
morning. Or it may only appear at the quarter moon 
— or when the seeker has an exceptionally full 
bladder.” 

Harry snorted into his plate of goulash. Percy 
frowned, but Harry could have sworn Dumbledore 
had given him a very small wink. 

Meanwhile Fleur Delacour was criticizing the 
Hogwarts decorations to Roger Davies. 

“Zis is nothing,” she said dismissively, looking around 
at the sparkling walls of the Great Hall. “At ze Palace 
of Beauxbatons, we ’ave ice sculptures all around ze 
dining chamber at Chreestmas. Zey do not melt, of 
course . . . zey are like ’uge statues of diamond, 
glittering around ze place. And ze food is seemply 
superb. And we ’ave choirs of wood nymphs, ’oo 
serenade us as we eat. We ’ave none of zis ugly armor 
in ze ’alls, and eef a poltergeist ever entaired into 
Beauxbatons, ’e would be expelled like zat.” She 
slapped her hand onto the table impatiently. 

Roger Davies was watching her talk with a very dazed 
look on his face, and he kept missing his mouth with 
his fork. Harry had the impression that Davies was 
too busy staring at Fleur to take in a word she was 
saying. 

“Absolutely right,” he said quickly, slapping his own 
hand down on the table in imitation of Fleur. “Like 
that. Yeah.” 

Harry looked around the Hall. Hagrid was sitting at 
one of the other staff tables; he was back in his 
horrible hairy brown suit and gazing up at the top 
table. Harry saw him give a small wave, and looking 



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around, saw Madame Maxime return it, her opals 
glittering in the candlelight. 

Hermione was now teaching Krum to say her name 
properly; he kept calling her “Hermy-own.” 

“Her-my-oh-nee,” she said slowly and clearly. 

“Herm-own-ninny.” 

“Close enough,” she said, catching Harry’s eye and 
grinning. 

When all the food had been consumed, Dumbledore 
stood up and asked the students to do the same. 

Then, with a wave of his wand, all the tables zoomed 
back along the walls leaving the floor clear, and then 
he conjured a raised platform into existence along the 
right wall. A set of drums, several guitars, a lute, a 
cello, and some bagpipes were set upon it. 

The Weird Sisters now trooped up onto the stage to 
wildly enthusiastic applause; they were all extremely 
hairy and dressed in black robes that had been 
artfully ripped and torn. They picked up their 
instruments, and Harry, who had been so interested 
in watching them that he had almost forgotten what 
was coming, suddenly realized that the lanterns on all 
the other tables had gone out, and that the other 
champions and their partners were standing up. 

“Come on!” Parvati hissed. “We’re supposed to dance!” 

Harry tripped over his dress robes as he stood up. 

The Weird Sisters struck up a slow, mournful tune; 
Harry walked onto the brightly lit dance floor, 
carefully avoiding catching anyone’s eye (he could see 
Seamus and Dean waving at him and sniggering), and 
next moment, Parvati had seized his hands, placed 
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one around her waist, and was holding the other 
tightly in hers. 

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, Harry thought, 
revolving slowly on the spot (Parvati was steering) . He 
kept his eyes fixed over the heads of the watching 
people, and very soon many of them too had come 
onto the dance floor, so that the champions were no 
longer the center of attention. Neville and Ginny were 
dancing nearby — he could see Ginny wincing 
frequently as Neville trod on her feet — and 
Dumbledore was waltzing with Madame Maxime. He 
was so dwarfed by her that the top of his pointed hat 
barely tickled her chin; however, she moved very 
gracefully for a woman so large. Mad-Eye Moody was 
doing an extremely ungainly two-step with Professor 
Sinistra, who was nervously avoiding his wooden leg. 

“Nice socks, Potter,” Moody growled as he passed, his 
magical eye staring through Harry’s robes. 

“Oh — yeah, Dobby the house-elf knitted them for 
me,” said Harry, grinning. 

“He is so creepy\” Parvati whispered as Moody 
clunked away. “I don’t think that eye should be 
allowed]” 

Harry heard the final, quavering note from the 
bagpipe with relief. The Weird Sisters stopped playing, 
applause filled the hall once more, and Harry let go of 
Parvati at once. 

“Let’s sit down, shall we?” 

“Oh — but — this is a really good one!” Parvati said 
as the Weird Sisters struck up a new song, which was 
much faster. 



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“No, I don’t like it,” Harry lied, and he led her away 
from the dance floor, past Fred and Angelina, who 
were dancing so exhuberantly that people around 
them were backing away in fear of injury, and over to 
the table where Ron and Padma were sitting. 

“How’s it going?” Harry asked Ron, sitting down and 
opening a bottle of butterbeer. 

Ron didn’t answer. He was glaring at Hermione and 
Krum, who were dancing nearby. Padma was sitting 
with her arms and legs crossed, one foot jiggling in 
time to the music. Every now and then she threw a 
disgruntled look at Ron, who was completely ignoring 
her. Parvati sat down on Harry’s other side, crossed 
her arms and legs too, and within minutes was asked 
to dance by a boy from Beauxbatons. 

“You don’t mind, do you, Harry?” Parvati said. 

“What?” said Harry, who was now watching Cho and 
Cedric. 

“Oh never mind,” snapped Parvati, and she went off 
with the boy from Beauxbatons. When the song 
ended, she did not return. 

Hermione came over and sat down in Parvati’s empty 
chair. She was a bit pink in the face from dancing. 

“Hi,” said Harry. Ron didn’t say anything. 

“It’s hot, isn’t it?” said Hermione, fanning herself with 
her hand. “Viktor’s just gone to get some drinks.” 

Ron gave her a withering look. “Viktor?” he said. 
“Hasn’t he asked you to call him Vicky yet?” 



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Hermione looked at him in surprise. “What’s up with 
you?” she said. 

“If you don’t know,” said Ron scathingly, “I’m not 
going to tell you.” 

Hermione stared at him, then at Harry, who 
shrugged. 

“Ron, what — ?” 

“He’s from Durmstrang!” spat Ron. “He’s competing 
against Harry! Against Hogwarts! You — you’re — ” 
Ron was obviously casting around for words strong 
enough to describe Hermione ’s crime, “ fraternizing 
with the enemy, that’s what you’re doing!” 

Hermione’s mouth fell open. 

“Don’t be so stupid!” she said after a moment. “The 
enemy\ Honestly — who was the one who was all 
excited when they saw him arrive? Who was the one 
who wanted his autograph? Who’s got a model of him 
up in their dormitory?” 

Ron chose to ignore this. “I s’pose he asked you to 
come with him while you were both in the library?” 

“Yes, he did,” said Hermione, the pink patches on her 
cheeks glowing more brightly. “So what?” 

“What happened — trying to get him to join spew, 
were you?” 

“No, I wasn’t! If you really want to know, he — he said 
he’d been coming up to the library every day to try 
and talk to me, but he hadn’t been able to pluck up 
the courage!” 



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Hermione said this very quickly, and blushed so 
deeply that she was the same color as Parvati’s robes. 

“Yeah, well — that’s his story,” said Ron nastily. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Obvious, isn’t it? He’s Karkaroff’s student, isn’t he? 
He knows who you hang around with. ... He’s just 
trying to get closer to Harry — get inside information 
on him — or get near enough to jinx him — ” 

Hermione looked as though Ron had slapped her. 
When she spoke, her voice quivered. 

“For your information, he hasn’t asked me one single 
thing about Harry, not one — ” 

Ron changed tack at the speed of light. 

“Then he’s hoping you’ll help him find out what his 
egg means! I suppose you’ve been putting your heads 
together during those cozy little library sessions — ” 

“I’d never help him work out that egg!” said Hermione, 
looking outraged. “Never. How could you say 
something like that — I want Harry to win the 
tournament, Harry knows that, don’t you, Harry?” 

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” sneered Ron. 

“This whole tournament’s supposed to be about 
getting to know foreign wizards and making friends 
with them!” said Hermione hotly. 

“No it isn’t!” shouted Ron. “It’s about winning!” 

People were starting to stare at them. 



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“Ron,” said Harry quietly, “I haven’t got a problem 
with Hermione coming with Krum — ” 

But Ron ignored Harry too. 

“Why don’t you go and find Vicky, he’ll be wondering 
where you are,” said Ron. 

“Don’t call him Vickyl” 

Hermione jumped to her feet and stormed off across 
the dance floor, disappearing into the crowd. Ron 
watched her go with a mixture of anger and 
satisfaction on his face. 

“Are you going to ask me to dance at all?” Padma 
asked him. 

“No,” said Ron, still glaring after Hermione. 

“Fine,” snapped Padma, and she got up and went to 
join Parvati and the Beauxbatons boy, who conjured 
up one of his friends to join them so fast that Harry 
could have sworn he had zoomed him there by a 
Summoning Charm. 

“Vare is Herm-own-ninny?” said a voice. 

Krum had just arrived at their table clutching two 
butterbeers. 

“No idea,” said Ron mulishly, looking up at him. “Lost 
her, have you?” 

Krum was looking surly again. 

“Veil, if you see her, tell her I haff drinks,” he said, 
and he slouched off. 



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“Made friends with Viktor Krum, have you, Ron?” 



Percy had bustled over, rubbing his hands together 
and looking extremely pompous. “Excellent! That’s 
the whole point, you know — international magical 
cooperation!” 

To Harry’s displeasure, Percy now took Padma’s 
vacated seat. The top table was now empty; Professor 
Dumbledore was dancing with Professor Sprout, Ludo 
Bagman with Professor McGonagall; Madame Maxime 
and Hagrid were cutting a wide path around the 
dance floor as they waltzed through the students, and 
Karkaroff was nowhere to be seen. When the next 
song ended, everybody applauded once more, and 
Harry saw Ludo Bagman kiss Professor McGonagall’s 
hand and make his way back through the crowds, at 
which point Fred and George accosted him. 

“What do they think they’re doing, annoying senior 
Ministry members?” Percy hissed, watching Fred and 
George suspiciously. “No respect ...” 

Ludo Bagman shook off Fred and George fairly 
quickly, however, and, spotting Harry, waved and 
came over to their table. 

“I hope my brothers weren’t bothering you, Mr. 
Bagman?” said Percy at once. 

“What? Oh not at all, not at all!” said Bagman. “No, 
they were just telling me a bit more about those fake 
wands of theirs. Wondering if I could advise them on 
the marketing. I’ve promised to put them in touch 
with a couple of contacts of mine at Zonko’s Joke 
Shop. ...” 

Percy didn’t look happy about this at all, and Harry 
was prepared to bet he would be rushing to tell Mrs. 

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Weasley about this the moment he got home. 
Apparently Fred and George’s plans had grown even 
more ambitious lately, if they were hoping to sell to 
the public. Bagman opened his mouth to ask Harry 
something, but Percy diverted him. 

“How do you feel the tournament’s going, Mr. 

Bagman? Our department’s quite satisfied — the 
hitch with the Goblet of Fire” — he glanced at Harry 
— “was a little unfortunate, of course, but it seems to 
have gone very smoothly since, don’t you think?” 

“Oh yes,” Bagman said cheerfully, “it’s all been 
enormous fun. How’s old Barty doing? Shame he 
couldn’t come.” 

“Oh I’m sure Mr. Crouch will be up and about in no 
time,” said Percy importantly, “but in the meantime, 
I’m more than willing to take up the slack. Of course, 
it’s not all attending balls” — he laughed airily — “oh 
no, I’ve had to deal with all sorts of things that have 
cropped up in his absence — you heard Ali Bashir 
was caught smuggling a consignment of flying carpets 
into the country? And then we’ve been trying to 
persuade the Transylvanians to sign the International 
Ban on Dueling. I’ve got a meeting with their Head of 
Magical Cooperation in the new year — ” 

“Let’s go for a walk,” Ron muttered to Harry, “get 
away from Percy. ...” 

Pretending they wanted more drinks, Harry and Ron 
left the table, edged around the dance floor, and 
slipped out into the entrance hall. The front doors 
stood open, and the fluttering fairy lights in the rose 
garden winked and twinkled as they went down the 
front steps, where they found themselves surrounded 
by bushes; winding, ornamental paths; and large 
stone statues. Harry could hear splashing water, 

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which sounded like a fountain. Here and there, people 
were sitting on carved benches. He and Ron set off 
along one of the winding paths through the 
rosebushes, but they had gone only a short way when 
they heard an unpleasantly familiar voice. 

"... don’t see what there is to fuss about, Igor.” 

“Severus, you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!” 
Karkaroff’s voice sounded anxious and hushed, as 
though keen not to be overheard. “It’s been getting 
clearer and clearer for months. I am becoming 
seriously concerned, I can’t deny it — ” 

“Then flee,” said Snape’s voice curtly. “Flee — I will 
make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at 
Hogwarts.” 

Snape and Karkaroff came around the corner. Snape 
had his wand out and was blasting rosebushes apart, 
his expression most ill-natured. Squeals issued from 
many of the bushes, and dark shapes emerged from 
them. 

“Ten points from Ravenclaw, Fawcett!” Snape snarled 
as a girl ran past him. “And ten points from Hufflepuff 
too, Stebbins!” as a boy went rushing after her. “And 
what are you two doing?” he added, catching sight of 
Harry and Ron on the path ahead. Karkaroff, Harry 
saw, looked slightly discomposed to see them 
standing there. His hand went nervously to his 
goatee, and he began winding it around his finger. 

“We’re walking,” Ron told Snape shortly. “Not against 
the law, is it?” 

“Keep walking, then!” Snape snarled, and he brushed 
past them, his long black cloak billowing out behind 



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him. Karkaroff hurried away after Snape. Harry and 
Ron continued down the path. 

“What’s got Karkaroff all worried?” Ron muttered. 

“And since when have he and Snape been on first- 
name terms?” said Harry slowly. 

They had reached a large stone reindeer now, over 
which they could see the sparkling jets of a tall 
fountain. The shadowy outlines of two enormous 
people were visible on a stone bench, watching the 
water in the moonlight. And then Harry heard Hagrid 
speak. 

“Momen’ I saw yeh, I knew,” he was saying, in an 
oddly husky voice. 

Harry and Ron froze. This didn’t sound like the sort of 
scene they ought to walk in on, somehow. . . . Harry 
looked around, back up the path, and saw Fleur 
Delacour and Roger Davies standing half-concealed in 
a rosebush nearby. He tapped Ron on the shoulder 
and jerked his head toward them, meaning that they 
could easily sneak off that way without being noticed 
(Fleur and Davies looked very busy to Harry), but 
Ron, eyes widening in horror at the sight of Fleur, 
shook his head vigorously, and pulled Harry deeper 
into the shadows behind the reindeer. 

“What did you know, ’Agrid?” said Madame Maxime, a 
purr in her low voice. 

Harry definitely didn’t want to listen to this; he knew 
Hagrid would hate to be overheard in a situation like 
this (he certainly would have) — if it had been 
possible he would have put his fingers in his ears and 
hummed loudly, but that wasn’t really an option. 
Instead he tried to interest himself in a beetle 
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crawling along the stone reindeer’s back, but the 
beetle just wasn’t interesting enough to block out 
Hagrid’s next words. 

“I jus’ knew ... knew you were like me. ... Was it yer 
mother or yer father?” 

“I — I don’t know what you mean, ’Agrid. ...” 

“It was my mother,” said Hagrid quietly. “She was one 
o’ the las’ ones in Britain. ’Course, I can’ remember 
her too well ... she left, see. When I was abou’ three. 
She wasn’ really the maternal sort. Well ... it’s not in 
their natures, is it? Dunno what happened to her ... 
might be dead fer all I know. ...” 

Madame Maxime didn’t say anything. And Harry, in 
spite of himself, took his eyes off the beetle and 
looked over the top of the reindeer’s antlers, listening. 

. . . He had never heard Hagrid talk about his 
childhood before. 

“Me dad was broken-hearted when she wen’. Tiny 
little bloke, my dad was. By the time I was six I could 
lift him up an’ put him on top o’ the dresser if he 
annoyed me. Used ter make him laugh. ...” Hagrid’s 
deep voice broke. Madame Maxime was listening, 
motionless, apparently staring at the silvery fountain. 
“Dad raised me ... but he died, o’ course, jus’ after I 
started school. Sorta had ter make me own way after 
that. Dumbledore was a real help, mind. Very kind ter 
me, he was. ...” 

Hagrid pulled out a large spotted silk handkerchief 
and blew his nose heavily. 

“So ... anyway ... enough abou’ me. What about you? 
Which side you got it on?” 



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But Madame Maxime had suddenly got to her feet. 

“It is chilly,” she said — but whatever the weather 
was doing, it was nowhere near as cold as her voice. 

“I think I will go in now.” 

“Eh?” said Hagrid blankly. “No, don’ go! I’ve — I’ve 
never met another one before!” 

“Anuzzer what, precisely?” said Madame Maxime, her 
tone icy. 

Harry could have told Hagrid it was best not to 
answer; he stood there in the shadows gritting his 
teeth, hoping against hope he wouldn’t — but it was 
no good. 

“Another half-giant, o’ course!” said Hagrid. 

“ ’Ow dare you!” shrieked Madame Maxime. Her voice 
exploded through the peaceful night air like a 
foghorn; behind him, Harry heard Fleur and Roger fall 
out of their rosebush. “I ’ave nevair been more 
insulted in my life! ’Alf-giant? Moi? I ’ave — I ’ave big 
bones!” 

She stormed away; great multicolored swarms of 
fairies rose into the air as she passed, angrily pushing 
aside bushes. Hagrid was still sitting on the bench, 
staring after her. It was much too dark to make out 
his expression. Then, after about a minute, he stood 
up and strode away, not back to the castle, but off 
out into the dark grounds in the direction of his 
cabin. 

“C’mon,” Harry said, very quietly to Ron. “Let’s go. ...” 
But Ron didn’t move. 



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“What’s up?” said Harry, looking at him. 

Ron looked around at Harry, his expression very 
serious indeed. 

“Did you know?” he whispered. “About Hagrid being 
half-giant?” 

“No,” Harry said, shrugging. “So what?” 

He knew immediately, from the look Ron was giving 
him, that he was once again revealing his ignorance 
of the wizarding world. Brought up by the Dursleys, 
there were many things that wizards took for granted 
that were revelations to Harry, but these surprises 
had become fewer with each successive year. Now, 
however, he could tell that most wizards would not 
have said “So what?” upon finding out that one of 
their friends had a giantess for a mother. 

“I’ll explain inside,” said Ron quietly, “c’mon. ...” 

Fleur and Roger Davies had disappeared, probably 
into a more private clump of bushes. Harry and Ron 
returned to the Great Hall. Parvati and Padma were 
now sitting at a distant table with a whole crowd of 
Beauxbatons boys, and Hermione was once more 
dancing with Krum. Harry and Ron sat down at a 
table far removed from the dance floor. 

“So?” Harry prompted Ron. “What’s the problem with 
giants?” 

“Well, they’re ... they’re ...” Ron struggled for words. 
"... not very nice,” he finished lamely. 

“Who cares?” Harry said. “There’s nothing wrong with 
Hagrid!” 



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“I know there isn’t, but ... blimey, no wonder he keeps 
it quiet,” Ron said, shaking his head. “I always 
thought he’d got in the way of a bad Engorgement 
Charm when he was a kid or something. Didn’t like to 
mention it. ...” 

“But what’s it matter if his mother was a giantess?” 
said Harry. 

“Well ... no one who knows him will care, ’cos they’ll 
know he’s not dangerous,” said Ron slowly. “But ... 
Harry, they’re just vicious, giants. It’s like Hagrid 
said, it’s in their natures, they’re like trolls ... they 
just like killing, everyone knows that. There aren’t 
any left in Britain now, though.” 

“What happened to them?” 

“Well, they were dying out anyway, and then loads got 
themselves killed by Aurors. There ’re supposed to be 
giants abroad, though. ... They hide out in mountains 
mostly. ...” 

“I don’t know who Maxime thinks she’s kidding,” 

Harry said, watching Madame Maxime sitting alone at 
the judges’ table, looking very somber. “If Hagrid ’s 
half-giant, she definitely is. Big bones ... the only 
thing that’s got bigger bones than her is a dinosaur.” 

Harry and Ron spent the rest of the ball discussing 
giants in their corner, neither of them having any 
inclination to dance. Harry tried not to watch Cho 
and Cedric too much; it gave him a strong desire to 
kick something. 

When the Weird Sisters finished playing at midnight, 
everyone gave them a last, loud round of applause 
and started to wend their way into the entrance hall. 
Many people were expressing the wish that the ball 

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could have gone on longer, but Harry was perfectly 
happy to be going to bed; as far as he was concerned, 
the evening hadn’t been much fun. 

Out in the entrance hall, Harry and Ron saw 
Hermione saying good night to Krum before he went 
back to the Durmstrang ship. She gave Ron a very 
cold look and swept past him up the marble staircase 
without speaking. Harry and Ron followed her, but 
halfway up the staircase Harry heard someone calling 
him. 

“Hey — Harry!” 

It was Cedric Diggory. Harry could see Cho waiting for 
him in the entrance hall below. 

“Yeah?” said Harry coldly as Cedric ran up the stairs 
toward him. 

Cedric looked as though he didn’t want to say 
whatever it was in front of Ron, who shrugged, 
looking bad-tempered, and continued to climb the 
stairs. 

“Listen ...” Cedric lowered his voice as Ron 
disappeared. “I owe you one for telling me about the 
dragons. You know that golden egg? Does yours wail 
when you open it?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. 

“Well ... take a bath, okay?” 

“What?” 

“Take a bath, and — er — take the egg with you, and 
— er — just mull things over in the hot water. It’ll 
help you think. ... Trust me.” 

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Harry stared at him. 

“Tell you what,” Cedric said, “use the prefects’ 
bathroom. Fourth door to the left of that statue of 
Boris the Bewildered on the fifth floor. Password’s 
‘pine fresh. ’ Gotta go . . . want to say good night — ” 

He grinned at Harry again and hurried back down the 
stairs to Cho. 

Harry walked back to Gryffindor Tower alone. That 
had been extremely strange advice. Why would a bath 
help him to work out what the wailing egg meant? 
Was Cedric pulling his leg? Was he trying to make 
Harry look like a fool, so Cho would like him even 
more by comparison? 

The Fat Lady and her friend Vi were snoozing in the 
picture over the portrait hole. Harry had to yell “Fairy 
lights!” before he woke them up, and when he did, 
they were extremely irritated. He climbed into the 
common room and found Ron and Hermione having a 
blazing row. Standing ten feet apart, they were 
bellowing at each other, each scarlet in the face. 

“Well, if you don’t like it, you know what the solution 
is, don’t you?” yelled Hermione; her hair was coming 
down out of its elegant bun now, and her face was 
screwed up in anger. 

“Oh yeah?” Ron yelled back. “What’s that?” 

“Next time there’s a ball, ask me before someone else 
does, and not as a last resort!” 

Ron mouthed soundlessly like a goldfish out of water 
as Hermione turned on her heel and stormed up the 
girls’ staircase to bed. Ron turned to look at Harry. 



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“Well,” he sputtered, looking thunderstruck, “well — 
that just proves — completely missed the point — ” 

Harry didn’t say anything. He liked being back on 
speaking terms with Ron too much to speak his mind 
right now — but he somehow thought that Hermione 
had gotten the point much better than Ron had. 



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RITA SKEBTER’S SCOOP 

Everybody got up late on Boxing Day. The Gryffindor 
common room was much quieter than it had been 
lately, many yawns punctuating the lazy 
conversations. Hermione’s hair was bushy again; she 
confessed to Harry that she had used liberal amounts 
of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion on it for the ball, “but it’s 
way too much bother to do every day,” she said 
matter-of-factly, scratching a purring Crookshanks 
behind the ears. 

Ron and Hermione seemed to have reached an 
unspoken agreement not to discuss their argument. 
They were being quite friendly to each other, though 
oddly formal. Ron and Harry wasted no time in telling 
Hermione about the conversation they had overheard 
between Madame Maxime and Hagrid, but Hermione 
didn’t seem to find the news that Hagrid was a half- 
giant nearly as shocking as Ron did. 

“Well, I thought he must be,” she said, shrugging. “I 
knew he couldn’t be pure giant because they’re about 
twenty feet tall. But honestly, all this hysteria about 

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giants. They can’t all be horrible. ... It’s the same sort 
of prejudice that people have toward werewolves. ... 

It’s just bigotry, isn’t it?” 

Ron looked as though he would have liked to reply 
scathingly, but perhaps he didn’t want another row, 
because he contented himself with shaking his head 
disbelievingly while Hermione wasn’t looking. 

It was time now to think of the homework they had 
neglected during the first week of the holidays. 
Everybody seemed to be feeling rather flat now that 
Christmas was over — everybody except Harry, that 
is, who was starting (once again) to feel slightly 
nervous. 

The trouble was that February the twenty-fourth 
looked a lot closer from this side of Christmas, and he 
still hadn’t done anything about working out the clue 
inside the golden egg. He therefore started taking the 
egg out of his trunk every time he went up to the 
dormitory, opening it, and listening intently, hoping 
that this time it would make some sense. He strained 
to think what the sound reminded him of, apart from 
thirty musical saws, but he had never heard anything 
else like it. He closed the egg, shook it vigorously, and 
opened it again to see if the sound had changed, but 
it hadn’t. He tried asking the egg questions, shouting 
over all the wailing, but nothing happened. He even 
threw the egg across the room — though he hadn’t 
really expected that to help. 

Harry had not forgotten the hint that Cedric had 
given him, but his less-than-friendly feelings toward 
Cedric just now meant that he was keen not to take 
his help if he could avoid it. In any case, it seemed to 
him that if Cedric had really wanted to give Harry a 
hand, he would have been a lot more explicit. He, 
Harry, had told Cedric exactly what was coming in 
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the first task — and Cedric’s idea of a fair exchange 
had been to tell Harry to take a bath. Well, he didn’t 
need that sort of rubbishy help — not from someone 
who kept walking down corridors hand in hand with 
Cho, anyway. And so the first day of the new term 
arrived, and Harry set off to lessons, weighed down 
with books, parchment, and quills as usual, but also 
with the lurking worry of the egg heavy in his 
stomach, as though he were carrying that around 
with him too. 

Snow was still thick upon the grounds, and the 
greenhouse windows were covered in condensation so 
thick that they couldn’t see out of them in Herbology. 
Nobody was looking forward to Care of Magical 
Creatures much in this weather, though as Ron said, 
the skrewts would probably warm them up nicely, 
either by chasing them, or blasting off so forcefully 
that Hagrid’s cabin would catch fire. 

When they arrived at Hagrid’s cabin, however, they 
found an elderly witch with closely cropped gray hair 
and a very prominent chin standing before his front 
door. 

“Hurry up, now, the bell rang five minutes ago,” she 
barked at them as they struggled toward her through 
the snow. 

“Who ’re you?” said Ron, staring at her. “Where’s 
Hagrid?” 

“My name is Professor Grubbly-Plank,” she said 
briskly. “I am your temporary Care of Magical 
Creatures teacher.” 

“Where’s Hagrid?” Harry repeated loudly. 



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“He is indisposed,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank 
shortly. 

Soft and unpleasant laughter reached Harry’s ears. 

He turned; Draco Malfoy and the rest of the 
Slytherins were joining the class. All of them looked 
gleeful, and none of them looked surprised to see 
Professor Grubbly-Plank. 

“This way, please,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, and 
she strode off around the paddock where the 
Beauxbatons horses were shivering. Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione followed her, looking back over their 
shoulders at Hagrid’s cabin. All the curtains were 
closed. Was Hagrid in there, alone and ill? 

“What’s wrong with Hagrid?” Harry said, hurrying to 
catch up with Professor Grubbly-Plank. 

“Never you mind,” she said as though she thought he 
was being nosy. 

“I do mind, though,” said Harry hotly. “What’s up with 
him?” 

Professor Grubbly-Plank acted as though she couldn’t 
hear him. She led them past the paddock where the 
huge Beauxbatons horses were standing, huddled 
against the cold, and toward a tree on the edge of the 
forest, where a large and beautiful unicorn was 
tethered. 

Many of the girls “ooooohed!” at the sight of the 
unicorn. 

“Oh it’s so beautiful!” whispered Lavender Brown. 
“How did she get it? They’re supposed to be really 
hard to catch!” 



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The unicorn was so brightly white it made the snow 
all around look gray. It was pawing the ground 
nervously with its golden hooves and throwing back 
its horned head. 

“Boys keep back!” barked Professor Grubbly-Plank, 
throwing out an arm and catching Harry hard in the 
chest. “They prefer the woman’s touch, unicorns. 
Girls to the front, and approach with care, come on, 
easy does it. ...” 

She and the girls walked slowly forward toward the 
unicorn, leaving the boys standing near the paddock 
fence, watching. The moment Professor Grubbly- 
Plank was out of earshot, Harry turned to Ron. 

“What d’you reckon’s wrong with him? You don’t 
think a skrewt — ?” 

“Oh he hasn’t been attacked, Potter, if that’s what 
you’re thinking,” said Malfoy softly. “No, he’s just too 
ashamed to show his big, ugly face.” 

“What d’you mean?” said Harry sharply. 

Malfoy put his hand inside the pocket of his robes 
and pulled out a folded page of newsprint. 

“There you go,” he said. “Hate to break it to you, 
Potter. ...” 

He smirked as Harry snatched the page, unfolded it, 
and read it, with Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville 
looking over his shoulder. It was an article topped 
with a picture of Hagrid looking extremely shifty. 

DUMBLEDORE’S GIANT MISTAKE 



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Albus Dumbledore, eccentric Headmaster of Hogwarts 
School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has never been 
afraid to make controversial staff appointments, writes 
Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. In September of 
this year, he hired Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody, the 
notoriously jinx-happy ex-Auror, to teach Defense 
Against the Dark Arts, a decision that caused many 
raised eyebrows at the Ministry of Magic, given 
Moody’s well-known habit of attacking anybody who 
makes a sudden movement in his presence. Mad-Eye 
Moody, however, looks responsible and kindly when 
set beside the part-human Dumbledore employs to 
teach Care of Magical Creatures. 

Rubeus Hagrid, who admits to being expelled from 
Hogwarts in his third year, has enjoyed the position of 
gamekeeper at the school ever since, a job secured for 
him by Dumbledore. Last year, however, Hagrid used 
his mysterious influence over the headmaster to 
secure the additional post of Care of Magical 
Creatures teacher, over the heads of many better- 
qualified candidates. 

An alarmingly large and ferocious-looking man, 

Hagrid has been using his newfound authority to 
terrify the students in his care with a succession of 
horrific creatures. While Dumbledore turns a blind 
eye, Hagrid has maimed several pupils during a series 
of lessons that many admit to being “very 
frightening.” 

“I was attacked by a hippogriff, and my friend Vincent 
Crabbe got a bad bite off a flobberworm,” says Draco 
Malfoy, a fourth-year student. “We all hate Hagrid, 
but we’re just too scared to say anything.” 

Hagrid has no intention of ceasing his campaign of 
intimidation, however. In conversation with a Daily 
Prophet reporter last month, he admitted breeding 

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creatures he has dubbed “Blast-Ended Skrewts, ” 
highly dangerous crosses between manticores and fire- 
crabs. The creation of new breeds of magical creature 
is, of course, an activity usually closely observed by 
the Department for the Regulation and Control of 
Magical Creatures. Hagrid, however, considers himself 
to be above such petty restrictions. 

“I was just having some fun,” he says, before hastily 
changing the subject. 

As if this were not enough, the Daily Prophet has now 
unearthed evidence that Hagrid is not — as he has 
always pretended — a pure-blood wizard. He is not, in 
fact, even pure human. His mother, we can exclusively 
reveal, is none other than the giantess Fridwulfa, 
whose whereabouts are currently unknown. 

Bloodthirsty and brutal, the giants brought 
themselves to the point of extinction by warring 
amongst themselves during the last century. The 
handful that remained joined the ranks of He-Who- 
Must-Not-Be-Named, and were responsible for some 
of the worst mass Muggle killings of his reign of 
terror. 

While many of the giants who served He-Who-Must- 
Not-Be-Named were killed by Aurors working against 
the Dark Side, Fridwulfa was not among them. It is 
possible she escaped to one of the giant communities 
still existing in foreign mountain ranges. If his antics 
during Care of Magical Creatures lessons are any 
guide, however, Fridwulfa’s son appears to have 
inherited her brutal nature. 

In a bizarre twist, Hagrid is reputed to have developed 
a close friendship with the boy who brought around 
You-Know- Who’s fall from power — thereby driving 
Hagrid ’s own mother, like the rest of You-Know- Who’s 

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supporters, into hiding. Perhaps Harry Potter is 
unaware of the unpleasant truth about his large 
friend — but Albus Dumbledore surely has a duty to 
ensure that Harry Potter, along with his fellow 
students, is warned about the dangers of associating 
with part-giants. 



Harry finished reading and looked up at Ron, whose 
mouth was hanging open. 

“How did she find out?” he whispered. 

But that wasn’t what was bothering Harry. 

“What d’you mean, “we all hate Hagrid’?” Harry spat 
at Malfoy. “What’s this rubbish about him” — he 
pointed at Crabbe — “getting a bad bite off a 
flobberworm? They haven’t even got teeth!” 

Crabbe was sniggering, apparently very pleased with 
himself. 

“Well, I think this should put an end to the oaf’s 
teaching career,” said Malfoy, his eyes glinting. “Half- 
giant ... and there was me thinking he’d just 
swallowed a bottle of Skele-Gro when he was young. 

... None of the mummies and daddies are going to like 
this at all. ... They’ll be worried he’ll eat their kids, ha, 
ha. ...” 

“You — ” 

“Are you paying attention over there?” 

Professor Grubbly-Plank’s voice carried over to the 
boys; the girls were all clustered around the unicorn 
now, stroking it. Harry was so angry that the Daily 

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Prophet article shook in his hands as he turned to 
stare unseeingly at the unicorn, whose many magical 
properties Professor Grubbly-Plank was now 
enumerating in a loud voice, so that the boys could 
hear too. 

“I hope she stays, that woman!” said Parvati Patil 
when the lesson had ended and they were all heading 
back to the castle for lunch. “That’s more what I 
thought Care of Magical Creatures would be like . . . 
proper creatures like unicorns, not monsters. ...” 

“What about Hagrid?” Harry said angrily as they went 
up the steps. 

“What about him?” said Parvati in a hard voice. “He 
can still be gamekeeper, can’t he?” 

Parvati had been very cool toward Harry since the 
ball. He supposed that he ought to have paid her a bit 
more attention, but she seemed to have had a good 
time all the same. She was certainly telling anybody 
who would listen that she had made arrangements to 
meet the boy from Beauxbatons in Hogsmeade on the 
next weekend trip. 

“That was a really good lesson,” said Hermione as 
they entered the Great Hall. “I didn’t know half the 
things Professor Grubbly-Plank told us about uni — ” 

“Look at this!” Harry snarled, and he shoved the Daily 
Prophet article under Hermione ’s nose. 

Hermione ’s mouth fell open as she read. Her reaction 
was exactly the same as Ron’s. 

“How did that horrible Skeeter woman find out? You 
don’t think Hagrid told her?” 



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“No,” said Harry, leading the way over to the 
Gryffindor table and throwing himself into a chair, 
furious. “He never even told us, did he? I reckon she 
was so mad he wouldn’t give her loads of horrible 
stuff about me, she went ferreting around to get him 
back.” 

“Maybe she heard him telling Madame Maxime at the 
ball,” said Hermione quietly. 

“We’d have seen her in the garden!” said Ron. 
“Anyway, she’s not supposed to come into school 
anymore, Hagrid said Dumbledore banned her. ...” 

“Maybe she’s got an Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry, 
ladling chicken casserole onto his plate and splashing 
it everywhere in his anger. “Sort of thing she’d do, 
isn’t it, hide in bushes listening to people.” 

“Like you and Ron did, you mean,” said Hermione. 

“We weren’t trying to hear him!” said Ron indignantly. 
“We didn’t have any choice! The stupid prat, talking 
about his giantess mother where anyone could have 
heard him!” 

“We’ve got to go and see him,” said Harry. “This 
evening, after Divination. Tell him we want him back 
... you do want him back?” he shot at Hermione. 

“I — well, I’m not going to pretend it didn’t make a 
nice change, having a proper Care of Magical 
Creatures lesson for once — but I do want Hagrid 
back, of course I do!” Hermione added hastily, 
quailing under Harry’s furious stare. 

So that evening after dinner, the three of them left the 
castle once more and went down through the frozen 



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grounds to Hagrid’s cabin. They knocked, and Fang’s 
booming barks answered. 

“Hagrid, it’s us!” Harry shouted, pounding on the 
door. “Open up! 

Hagrid didn’t answer. They could hear Fang 
scratching at the door, whining, but it didn’t open. 
They hammered on it for ten more minutes; Ron even 
went and banged on one of the windows, but there 
was no response. 

“What’s he avoiding us for?” Hermione said when they 
had finally given up and were walking back to the 
school. “He surely doesn’t think we’d care about him 
being half-giant?” 

But it seemed that Hagrid did care. They didn’t see a 
sign of him all week. He didn’t appear at the staff 
table at mealtimes, they didn’t see him going about 
his gamekeeper duties on the grounds, and Professor 
Grubbly-Plank continued to take the Care of Magical 
Creatures classes. Malfoy was gloating at every 
possible opportunity. 

“Missing your half-breed pal?” he kept whispering to 
Harry whenever there was a teacher around, so that 
he was safe from Harry’s retaliation. “Missing the 
elephant-man?” 

There was a Hogsmeade visit halfway through 
January. Hermione was very surprised that Harry 
was going to go. 

“I just thought you’d want to take advantage of the 
common room being quiet,” she said. “Really get to 
work on that egg.” 



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“Oh I — I reckon I’ve got a pretty good idea what it’s 
about now,” Harry lied. 

“Have you really?” said Hermione, looking impressed. 
“Well done!” 

Harry’s insides gave a guilty squirm, but he ignored 
them. He still had five weeks to work out that egg 
clue, after all, and that was ages ... whereas if he 
went into Hogsmeade, he might run into Hagrid, and 
get a chance to persuade him to come back. 

He, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together on 
Saturday and set off through the cold, wet grounds 
toward the gates. As they passed the Durmstrang 
ship moored in the lake, they saw Viktor Krum 
emerge onto the deck, dressed in nothing but 
swimming trunks. He was very skinny indeed, but 
apparently a lot tougher than he looked, because he 
climbed up onto the side of the ship, stretched out his 
arms, and dived, right into the lake. 

“He’s mad!” said Harry, staring at Krum’s dark head 
as it bobbed out into the middle of the lake. “It must 
be freezing, it’s January!” 

“It’s a lot colder where he comes from,” said 
Hermione. “I suppose it feels quite warm to him.” 

“Yeah, but there’s still the giant squid,” said Ron. He 
didn’t sound anxious — if anything, he sounded 
hopeful. Hermione noticed his tone of voice and 
frowned. 

“He’s really nice, you know,” she said. “He’s not at all 
like you’d think, coming from Durmstrang. He likes it 
much better here, he told me.” 



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Ron said nothing. He hadn’t mentioned Viktor Krum 
since the ball, but Harry had found a miniature arm 
under his bed on Boxing Day, which had looked very 
much as though it had been snapped off a small 
model figure wearing Bulgarian Quidditch robes. 

Harry kept his eyes skinned for a sign of Hagrid all 
the way down the slushy High Street, and suggested a 
visit to the Three Broomsticks once he had 
ascertained that Hagrid was not in any of the shops. 

The pub was as crowded as ever, but one quick look 
around at all the tables told Harry that Hagrid wasn’t 
there. Heart sinking, he went up to the bar with Ron 
and Hermione, ordered three butter-beers from 
Madam Rosmerta, and thought gloomily that he 
might just as well have stayed behind and listened to 
the egg wailing after all. 

“Doesn’t he ever go into the office?” Hermione 
whispered suddenly. “Look!” 

She pointed into the mirror behind the bar, and Harry 
saw Ludo Bagman reflected there, sitting in a 
shadowy corner with a bunch of goblins. Bagman was 
talking very fast in a low voice to the goblins, all of 
whom had their arms crossed and were looking rather 
menacing. 

It was indeed odd, Harry thought, that Bagman was 
here at the Three Broomsticks on a weekend when 
there was no Triwizard event, and therefore no 
judging to be done. He watched Bagman in the 
mirror. He was looking strained again, quite as 
strained as he had that night in the forest before the 
Dark Mark had appeared. But just then Bagman 
glanced over at the bar, saw Harry, and stood up. 



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“In a moment, in a moment!” Harry heard him say 
brusquely to the goblins, and Bagman hurried 
through the pub toward Harry, his boyish grin back 
in place. 

“Harry!” he said. “How are you? Been hoping to run 
into you! Everything going all right?” 

“Fine, thanks,” said Harry. 

“Wonder if I could have a quick, private word, Harry?” 
said Bagman eagerly. “You couldn’t give us a 
moment, you two, could you?” 

“Er — okay,” said Ron, and he and Hermione went off 
to find a table. 

Bagman led Harry along the bar to the end furthest 
from Madam Rosmerta. 

“Well, I just thought I’d congratulate you again on 
your splendid performance against that Horntail, 
Harry,” said Bagman. “Really superb.” 

“Thanks,” said Harry, but he knew this couldn’t be all 
that Bagman wanted to say, because he could have 
congratulated Harry in front of Ron and Hermione. 
Bagman didn’t seem in any particular rush to spill 
the beans, though. Harry saw him glance into the 
mirror over the bar at the goblins, who were all 
watching him and Harry in silence through their 
dark, slanting eyes. 

“Absolute nightmare,” said Bagman to Harry in an 
undertone, noticing Harry watching the goblins too. 
“Their English isn’t too good ... it’s like being back 
with all the Bulgarians at the Quidditch World Cup ... 
but at least they used sign language another human 
could recognize. This lot keep gabbling in 
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Gobbledegook . . . and I only know one word of 
Gobbledegook. Bladvak. It means ‘pickax.’ I don’t like 
to use it in case they think I’m threatening them.” 

He gave a short, booming laugh. 

“What do they want?” Harry said, noticing how the 
goblins were still watching Bagman very closely. 

“Er — well ...” said Bagman, looking suddenly 
nervous. “They ... er ... they’re looking for Barry 
Crouch.” 

“Why are they looking for him here?” said Harry. “He’s 
at the Ministry in London, isn’t he?” 

“Er ... as a matter of fact, I’ve no idea where he is,” 
said Bagman. “He’s sort of ... stopped coming to work. 
Been absent for a couple of weeks now. Young Percy, 
his assistant, says he’s ill. Apparently he’s just been 
sending instructions in by owl. But would you mind 
not mentioning that to anyone, Harry? Because Rita 
Skeeter’s still poking around everywhere she can, and 
I’m willing to bet she’d work up Barty’s illness into 
something sinister. Probably say he’s gone missing 
like Bertha Jorkins.” 

“Have you heard anything about Bertha Jorkins?” 
Harry asked. 

“No,” said Bagman, looking strained again. “I’ve got 
people looking, of course ...” (About time, thought 
Harry) “and it’s all very strange. She definitely arrived 
in Albania, because she met her second cousin there. 
And then she left the cousin’s house to go south and 
see an aunt . . . and she seems to have vanished 
without trace en route. Blowed if I can see where 
she’s got to ... she doesn’t seem the type to elope, for 
instance ... but still. ... What are we doing, talking 
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about goblins and Bertha Jorkins? I really wanted to 
ask you” — he lowered his voice — “how are you 
getting on with your golden egg?” 

“Er ... not bad,” Harry said untruthfully. 

Bagman seemed to know he wasn’t being honest. 

“Listen, Harry,” he said (still in a very low voice), “I 
feel very bad about all this . . . you were thrown into 
this tournament, you didn’t volunteer for it... and if 
...” (his voice was so quiet now, Harry had to lean 
closer to listen) “if I can help at all ... a prod in the 
right direction ... I’ve taken a liking to you ... the way 
you got past that dragon! ... well, just say the word.” 

Harry stared up into Bagman’s round, rosy face and 
his wide, baby-blue eyes. 

“We’re supposed to work out the clues alone, aren’t 
we?” he said, careful to keep his voice casual and not 
sound as though he was accusing the head of the 
Department of Magical Games and Sports of breaking 
the rules. 

“Well ... well, yes,” said Bagman impatiently, “but — 
come on, Harry — we all want a Hogwarts victory, 
don’t we?” 

“Have you offered Cedric help?” Harry said. 

The smallest of frowns creased Bagman’s smooth 
face. “No, I haven’t,” he said. “I — well, like I say, I’ve 
taken a liking to you. Just thought I’d offer ...” 

“Well, thanks,” said Harry, “but I think I’m nearly 
there with the egg . . . couple more days should crack 
it.” 



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He wasn’t entirely sure why he was refusing 
Bagman’s help, except that Bagman was almost a 
stranger to him, and accepting his assistance would 
feel somehow much more like cheating than asking 
advice from Ron, Hermione, or Sirius. 

Bagman looked almost affronted, but couldn’t say 
much more as Fred and George turned up at that 
point. 

“Hello, Mr. Bagman,” said Fred brightly. “Can we buy 
you a drink?” 

“Er ... no,” said Bagman, with a last disappointed 
glance at Harry, “no, thank you, boys ...” 

Fred and George looked quite as disappointed as 
Bagman, who was surveying Harry as though he had 
let him down badly. 

“Well, I must dash,” he said. “Nice seeing you all. 

Good luck, Harry.” 

He hurried out of the pub. The goblins all slid off their 
chairs and exited after him. Harry went to rejoin Ron 
and Hermione. 

“What did he want?” Ron said, the moment Harry had 
sat down. 

“He offered to help me with the golden egg,” said 
Harry. 

“He shouldn’t be doing that!” said Hermione, looking 
very shocked. “He’s one of the judges! And anyway, 
you’ve already worked it out — haven’t you?” 

“Er ... nearly,” said Harry. 



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“Well, I don’t think Dumbledore would like it if he 
knew Bagman was trying to persuade you to cheat!” 
said Hermione, still looking deeply disapproving. “I 
hope he’s trying to help Cedric as much!” 

“He’s not, I asked,” said Harry. 

“Who cares if Diggory’s getting help?” said Ron. Harry 
privately agreed. 

“Those goblins didn’t look very friendly,” said 
Hermione, sipping her butterbeer. “What were they 
doing here?” 

“Looking for Crouch, according to Bagman,” said 
Harry. “He’s still ill. Hasn’t been into work.” 

“Maybe Percy’s poisoning him,” said Ron. “Probably 
thinks if Crouch snuffs it he’ll be made head of the 
Department of International Magical Cooperation.” 

Hermione gave Ron a don’t -joke-about-things-like- 
that look, and said, “Funny, goblins looking for Mr. 
Crouch. . . . They’d normally deal with the Department 
for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.” 

“Crouch can speak loads of different languages, 
though,” said Harry. “Maybe they need an 
interpreter.” 

“Worrying about poor ’ickle goblins, now, are you?” 
Ron asked Hermione. “Thinking of starting up 
S.P.U.G. or something? Society for the Protection of 
Ugly Goblins?” 

“Ha, ha, ha,” said Hermione sarcastically. “Goblins 
don’t need protection. Haven’t you been listening to 
what Professor Binns has been telling us about goblin 
rebellions?” 

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“No,” said Harry and Ron together. 

“Well, they’re quite capable of dealing with wizards,” 
said Hermione, taking another sip of butterbeer. 
“They’re very clever. They’re not like house-elves, who 
never stick up for themselves.” 

“Uh-oh,” said Ron, staring at the door. 

Rita Skeeter had just entered. She was wearing 
banana-yellow robes today; her long nails were 
painted shocking pink, and she was accompanied by 
her paunchy photographer. She bought drinks, and 
she and the photographer made their way through 
the crowds to a table nearby, Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione glaring at her as she approached. She was 
talking fast and looking very satisfied about 
something. 

"... didn’t seem very keen to talk to us, did he, Bozo? 
Now, why would that be, do you think? And what’s he 
doing with a pack of goblins in tow anyway? Showing 
them the sights . . . what nonsense ... he was always a 
bad liar. Reckon something’s up? Think we should do 
a bit of digging? ‘Disgraced Ex-Head of Magical 
Games and Sports, Ludo Bagman ...’ Snappy start to 
a sentence, Bozo — we just need to find a story to fit 
it — ” 



“Trying to ruin someone else’s life?” said Harry loudly. 

A few people looked around. Rita Skeeter ’s eyes 
widened behind her jeweled spectacles as she saw 
who had spoken. 

“Harry!” she said, beaming. “How lovely! Why don’t 
you come and join — ?” 



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“I wouldn’t come near you with a ten-foot 
broomstick,” said Harry furiously. “What did you do 
that to Hagrid for, eh?” 

Rita Skeeter raised her heavily penciled eyebrows. 

“Our readers have a right to the truth, Harry. I am 
merely doing my — ” 

“Who cares if he’s half- giant?” Harry shouted. “There’s 
nothing wrong with him!” 

The whole pub had gone very quiet. Madam Rosmerta 
was staring over from behind the bar, apparently 
oblivious to the fact that the flagon she was filling 
with mead was overflowing. 

Rita Skeeter’s smile flickered very slightly, but she 
hitched it back almost at once; she snapped open her 
crocodile-skin handbag, pulled out her Quick-Quotes 
Quill, and said, “How about giving me an interview 
about the Hagrid you know, Harry? The man behind 
the muscles? Your unlikely friendship and the 
reasons behind it. Would you call him a father 
substitute?” 

Hermione stood up very abruptly, her butterbeer 
clutched in her hand as though it were a grenade. 

“You horrible woman,” she said, through gritted teeth, 
“you don’t care, do you, anything for a story, and 
anyone will do, won’t they? Even Ludo Bagman — ” 

“Sit down, you silly little girl, and don’t talk about 
things you don’t understand,” said Rita Skeeter 
coldly, her eyes hardening as they fell on Hermione. “I 
know things about Ludo Bagman that would make 
your hair curl . . . not that it needs it — ” she added, 
eyeing Hermione ’s bushy hair. 

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“Let’s go,” said Hermione, “c’mon, Harry — Ron ...” 



They left; many people were staring at them as they 
went. Harry glanced back as they reached the door. 
Rita Skeeter’s Quick-Quotes Quill was out; it was 
zooming backward and forward over a piece of 
parchment on the table. 

“She’ll be after you next, Hermione,” said Ron in a low 
and worried voice as they walked quickly back up the 
street. 

“Let her try!” said Hermione defiantly; she was 
shaking with rage. “I’ll show her! Silly little girl, am I? 
Oh, I’ll get her back for this. First Harry, then Hagrid 



“You don’t want to go upsetting Rita Skeeter,” said 
Ron nervously. “I’m serious, Hermione, she’ll dig up 
something on you — ” 

“My parents don’t read the Daily Prophet She can’t 
scare me into hiding!” said Hermione, now striding 
along so fast that it was all Harry and Ron could do to 
keep up with her. The last time Harry had seen 
Hermione in a rage like this, she had hit Draco Malfoy 
around the face. “And Hagrid isn’t hiding anymore! 

He should never have let that excuse for a human 
being upset him! Come on!” 

Breaking into a run, she led them all the way back up 
the road, through the gates flanked by winged boars, 
and up through the grounds to Hagrid ’s cabin. 

The curtains were still drawn, and they could hear 
Fang barking as they approached. 

“Hagrid!” Hermione shouted, pounding on his front 
door. “Hagrid, that’s enough! We know you’re in there! 

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Nobody cares if your mum was a giantess, Hagrid! 

You can’t let that foul Skeeter woman do this to you! 
Hagrid, get out here, you’re just being — ” 

The door opened. Hermione said, “About t — !” and 
then stopped, very suddenly, because she had found 
herself face-to-face, not with Hagrid, but with Albus 
Dumbledore. 

“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly, smiling down at 
them. 

“We — er — we wanted to see Hagrid,” said Hermione 
in a rather small voice. 

“Yes, I surmised as much,” said Dumbledore, his eyes 
twinkling. “Why don’t you come in?” 

“Oh ... um ... okay,” said Hermione. 

She, Ron, and Harry went into the cabin; Fang 
launched himself upon Harry the moment he entered, 
barking madly and trying to lick his ears. Harry 
fended off Fang and looked around. 

Hagrid was sitting at his table, where there were two 
large mugs of tea. He looked a real mess. His face was 
blotchy, his eyes swollen, and he had gone to the 
other extreme where his hair was concerned; far from 
trying to make it behave, it now looked like a wig of 
tangled wire. 

“Hi, Hagrid,” said Harry. 

Hagrid looked up. 

“ ’Lo,” he said in a very hoarse voice. 



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“More tea, I think,” said Dumbledore, closing the door 
behind Harry, Ron, and Hermione, drawing out his 
wand, and twiddling it; a revolving tea tray appeared 
in midair along with a plate of cakes. Dumbledore 
magicked the tray onto the table, and everybody sat 
down. There was a slight pause, and then 
Dumbledore said, “Did you by any chance hear what 
Miss Granger was shouting, Hagrid?” 

Hermione went slightly pink, but Dumbledore smiled 
at her and continued, “Hermione, Harry, and Ron still 
seem to want to know you, judging by the way they 
were attempting to break down the door.” 

“Of course we still want to know you!” Harry said, 
staring at Hagrid. “You don’t think anything that 
Skeeter cow — sorry, Professor,” he added quickly, 
looking at Dumbledore. 

“I have gone temporarily deaf and haven’t any idea 
what you said, Harry,” said Dumbledore, twiddling 
his thumbs and staring at the ceiling. 

“Er — right,” said Harry sheepishly. “I just meant — 
Hagrid, how could you think we’d care what that — 
woman — wrote about you?” 

Two fat tears leaked out of Hagrid ’s beetle-black eyes 
and fell slowly into his tangled beard. 

“Living proof of what I’ve been telling you, Hagrid,” 
said Dumbledore, still looking carefully up at the 
ceiling. “I have shown you the letters from the 
countless parents who remember you from their own 
days here, telling me in no uncertain terms that if I 
sacked you, they would have something to say about 
it — ” 



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“Not all of ’em,” said Hagrid hoarsely. “Not all of ’em 
wan’ me ter stay.” 

“Really, Hagrid, if you are holding out for universal 
popularity, I’m afraid you will be in this cabin for a 
very long time,” said Dumbledore, now peering sternly 
over his half-moon spectacles. “Not a week has 
passed since I became headmaster of this school 
when I haven’t had at least one owl complaining 
about the way I run it. But what should I do? 
Barricade myself in my study and refuse to talk to 
anybody?” 

“Yeh — yeh’re not half-giant!” said Hagrid croakily. 

“Hagrid, look what I’ve got for relatives!” Harry said 
furiously. “Look at the Dursleys!” 

“An excellent point,” said Professor Dumbledore. “My 
own brother, Aberforth, was prosecuted for practicing 
inappropriate charms on a goat. It was all over the 
papers, but did Aberforth hide? No, he did not! He 
held his head high and went about his business as 
usual! Of course, I’m not entirely sure he can read, so 
that may not have been bravery. ...” 

“Come back and teach, Hagrid,” said Hermione 
quietly, “please come back, we really miss you.” 

Hagrid gulped. More tears leaked out down his cheeks 
and into his tangled beard. 

Dumbledore stood up. “I refuse to accept your 
resignation, Hagrid, and I expect you back at work on 
Monday,” he said. “You will join me for breakfast at 
eight-thirty in the Great Hall. No excuses. Good 
afternoon to you all.” 



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Dumbledore left the cabin, pausing only to scratch 
Fang’s ears. When the door had shut behind him, 
Hagrid began to sob into his dustbin-lid-sized hands. 
Hermione kept patting his arm, and at last, Hagrid 
looked up, his eyes very red indeed, and said, “Great 
man, Dumbledore ... great man ...” 

“Yeah, he is,” said Ron. “Can I have one of these 
cakes, Hagrid?” 

“Help yerself,” said Hagrid, wiping his eyes on the 
back of his hand. “Ar, he’s righ’, o’ course — yeh’re all 
righ’ ... I bin stupid ... my ol’ dad woulda bin 
ashamed o’ the way I’ve bin behavin’. ...” More tears 
leaked out, but he wiped them away more forcefully, 
and said, “Never shown you a picture of my old dad, 
have I? Here ...” 

Hagrid got up, went over to his dresser, opened a 
drawer, and pulled out a picture of a short wizard 
with Hagrid’s crinkled black eyes, beaming as he sat 
on top of Hagrid’s shoulder. Hagrid was a good seven 
or eight feet tall, judging by the apple tree beside him, 
but his face was beardless, young, round, and smooth 
— he looked hardly older than eleven. 

“Tha’ was taken jus’ after I got inter Hogwarts,” 

Hagrid croaked. “Dad was dead chuffed ... thought I 
migh’ not be a wizard, see, ’cos me mum ... well, 
anyway. ’Course, I never was great shakes at magic, 
really ... but at least he never saw me expelled. Died, 
see, in me second year. ... 

“Dumbledore was the one who stuck up for me after 
Dad went. Got me the gamekeeper job ... trusts 
people, he does. Gives ’em second chances ... tha’s 
what sets him apar’ from other heads, see. He’ll 
accept anyone at Hogwarts, s’long as they’ve got the 
talent. Knows people can turn out okay even if their 
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families weren’ ... well ... all tha’ respectable. But 
some don’ understand that. There’s some who’d 
always hold it against yeh ... there’s some who’d even 
pretend they just had big bones rather than stand up 
an’ say — I am what I am, an’ I’m not ashamed. 

‘Never be ashamed,’ my ol’ dad used ter say, ‘there’s 
some wholl hold it against you, but they’re not worth 
botherin’ with.’ An’ he was right. I’ve bin an idiot. I’m 
not botherin’ with her no more, I promise yeh that. 

Big bones ... I’ll give her big bones.” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another 
nervously; Harry would rather have taken fifty Blast- 
Ended Skrewts for a walk than admit to Hagrid that 
he had overheard him talking to Madame Maxime, 
but Hagrid was still talking, apparently unaware that 
he had said anything odd. 

“Yeh know wha’, Harry?” he said, looking up from the 
photograph of his father, his eyes very bright, “when I 
firs’ met you, you reminded me o’ me a bit. Mum an’ 
Dad gone, an’ you was feelin’ like yeh wouldn’ fit in at 
Hogwarts, remember? Not sure yeh were really up to 
it ... an’ now look at yeh, Harry! School champion!” 

He looked at Harry for a moment and then said, very 
seriously, “Yeh know what I’d love, Harry? I’d love yeh 
ter win, I really would. It’d show ’em all ... yeh don’ 
have ter be pureblood ter do it. Yeh don’ have ter be 
ashamed of what yeh are. It’d show ’em Dumbledore’s 
the one who’s got it righ’, lettin’ anyone in as long as 
they can do magic. How you doin’ with that egg, 
Harry?” 

“Great,” said Harry. “Really great.” 

Hagrid ’s miserable face broke into a wide, watery 
smile. 



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“Tha’s my boy ... you show ’em, Harry, you show ’em. 
Beat ’em all.” 

Lying to Hagrid wasn’t quite like lying to anyone else. 
Harry went back to the castle later that afternoon 
with Ron and Hermione, unable to banish the image 
of the happy expression on Hagrid’s whiskery face as 
he had imagined Harry winning the tournament. The 
incomprehensible egg weighed more heavily than ever 
on Harry’s conscience that evening, and by the time 
he had got into bed, he had made up his mind — it 
was time to shelve his pride and see if Cedric’s hint 
was worth anything. 



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THE EGG AND THE EYE 

As Harry had no idea how long a bath he would need 
to work out the secret of the golden egg, he decided to 
do it at night, when he would be able to take as much 
time as he wanted. Reluctant though he was to accept 
more favours from Cedric, he also decided to use the 
prefects’ bathroom; far fewer people were allowed in 
there, so it was much less likely that he would be 
disturbed. 

Harry planned his excursion carefully, because he 
had been caught out of bed and out-of-bounds by 
Filch the caretaker in the middle of the night once 
before, and had no desire to repeat the experience. 

The Invisibility Cloak would, of course, be essential, 
and as an added precaution, Harry thought he would 
take the Marauder’s Map, which, next to the cloak, 
was the most useful aid to rule-breaking Harry 
owned. The map showed the whole of Hogwarts, 
including its many shortcuts and secret passageways 
and, most important of all, it revealed the people 
inside the castle as minuscule, labeled dots, moving 
around the corridors, so that Harry would be 
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forewarned if somebody was approaching the 
bathroom. 



On Thursday night, Harry sneaked up to bed, put on 
the cloak, crept back downstairs, and, just as he had 
done on the night when Hagrid had shown him the 
dragons, waited for the portrait hole to open. This 
time it was Ron who waited outside to give the Fat 
Lady the password (“banana fritters”). “Good luck,” 
Ron muttered, climbing into the room as Harry crept 
out past him. 

It was awkward moving under the cloak tonight, 
because Harry had the heavy egg under one arm and 
the map held in front of his nose with the other. 
However, the moonlit corridors were empty and silent, 
and by checking the map at strategic intervals, Harry 
was able to ensure that he wouldn’t run into anyone 
he wanted to avoid. When he reached the statue of 
Boris the Bewildered, a lost-looking wizard with his 
gloves on the wrong hands, he located the right door, 
leaned close to it, and muttered the password, “Pine 
fresh,” just as Cedric had told him. 

The door creaked open. Harry slipped inside, bolted 
the door behind him, and pulled off the Invisibility 
Cloak, looking around. 

His immediate reaction was that it would be worth 
becoming a prefect just to be able to use this 
bathroom. It was softly lit by a splendid candle-filled 
chandelier, and everything was made of white marble, 
including what looked like an empty, rectangular 
swimming pool sunk into the middle of the floor. 

About a hundred golden taps stood all around the 
pool’s edges, each with a differently colored jewel set 
into its handle. There was also a diving board. Long 
white linen curtains hung at the windows; a large pile 
of fluffy white towels sat in a corner, and there was a 
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single golden-framed painting on the wall. It featured 
a blonde mermaid who was fast asleep on a rock, her 
long hair over her face. It fluttered every time she 
snored. 

Harry moved forward, looking around, his footsteps 
echoing off the walls. Magnificent though the 
bathroom was — and quite keen though he was to try 
out a few of those taps — now he was here he 
couldn’t quite suppress the feeling that Cedric might 
have been having him on. How on earth was this 
supposed to help solve the mystery of the egg? 
Nevertheless, he put one of the fluffy towels, the 
cloak, the map, and the egg at the side of the 
swimming-pool-sized bath, then knelt down and 
turned on a few of the taps. 

He could tell at once that they carried different sorts 
of bubble bath mixed with the water, though it wasn’t 
bubble bath as Harry had ever experienced it. One 
tap gushed pink and blue bubbles the size of 
footballs; another poured ice-white foam so thick that 
Harry thought it would have supported his weight if 
he’d cared to test it; a third sent heavily perfumed 
purple clouds hovering over the surface of the water. 
Harry amused himself for a while turning the taps on 
and off, particularly enjoying the effect of one whose 
jet bounced off the surface of the water in large arcs. 
Then, when the deep pool was full of hot water, foam, 
and bubbles, which took a very short time 
considering its size, Harry turned off all the taps, 
pulled off his pajamas, slippers, and dressing gown, 
and slid into the water. 

It was so deep that his feet barely touched the 
bottom, and he actually did a couple of lengths before 
swimming back to the side and treading water, 
staring at the egg. Highly enjoyable though it was to 
swim in hot and foamy water with clouds of different- 
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colored steam wafting all around him, no stroke of 
brilliance came to him, no sudden burst of 
understanding. 

Harry stretched out his arms, lifted the egg in his wet 
hands, and opened it. The wailing, screeching sound 
filled the bathroom, echoing and reverberating off the 
marble walls, but it sounded just as 
incomprehensible as ever, if not more so with all the 
echoes. He snapped it shut again, worried that the 
sound would attract Filch, wondering whether that 
hadn’t been Cedric’s plan — and then, making him 
jump so badly that he dropped the egg, which 
clattered away across the bathroom floor, someone 
spoke. 

“I’d try putting it in the water, if I were you.” 

Harry had swallowed a considerable amount of 
bubbles in shock. He stood up, sputtering, and saw 
the ghost of a very glum-looking girl sitting cross- 
legged on top of one of the taps. It was Moaning 
Myrtle, who was usually to be heard sobbing in the S- 
bend of a toilet three floors below. 

“Myrtle!” Harry said in outrage, “I’m — I’m not 
wearing anything!” 

The foam was so dense that this hardly mattered, but 
he had a nasty feeling that Myrtle had been spying on 
him from out of one of the taps ever since he had 
arrived. 

“I closed my eyes when you got in,” she said, blinking 
at him through her thick spectacles. “You haven’t 
been to see me for ages.” 

“Yeah ... well ...” said Harry, bending his knees 
slightly, just to make absolutely sure Myrtle couldn’t 

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see anything but his head, “I’m not supposed to come 
into your bathroom, am I? It’s a girls’ one.” 



“You didn’t used to care,” said Myrtle miserably. “You 
used to be in there all the time.” 

This was true, though only because Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione had found Myrtle’s out-of-order toilets a 
convenient place to brew Polyjuice Potion in secret — 
a forbidden potion that had turned him and Ron into 
living replicas of Crabbe and Goyle for an hour, so 
that they could sneak into the Slytherin common 
room. 

“I got told off for going in there,” said Harry, which 
was half-true; Percy had once caught him coming out 
of Myrtle’s bathroom. “I thought I’d better not come 
back after that.” 

“Oh ... I see ...” said Myrtle, picking at a spot on her 
chin in a morose sort of way. “Well... anyway ... I’d try 
the egg in the water. That’s what Cedric Diggory did.” 

“Have you been spying on him too?” said Harry 
indignantly. “What d’you do, sneak up here in the 
evenings to watch the prefects take baths?” 

“Sometimes,” said Myrtle, rather slyly, “but I’ve never 
come out to speak to anyone before.” 

“I’m honored,” said Harry darkly. “You keep your eyes 
shut!” 

He made sure Myrtle had her glasses well covered 
before hoisting himself out of the bath, wrapping the 
towel firmly around his waist, and going to retrieve 
the egg. Once he was back in the water, Myrtle peered 
through her fingers and said, “Go on, then . . . open it 
under the water!” 

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Harry lowered the egg beneath the foamy surface and 
opened it ... and this time, it did not wail. A gurgling 
song was coming out of it, a song whose words he 
couldn’t distinguish through the water. 

“You need to put your head under too,” said Myrtle, 
who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying bossing him 
around. “Go on!” 

Harry took a great breath and slid under the surface 
— and now, sitting on the marble bottom of the 
bubble-filled bath, he heard a chorus of eerie voices 
singing to him from the open egg in his hands: 

“Come seek us where our voices sound, 

We cannot sing above the ground, 

And while you’re searching ponder this: 

We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss, 

An hour long you’ll have to look, 

And to recover what we took, 

But past an hour — the prospect’s black, 

Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back.” 

Harry let himself float back upward and broke the 
bubbly surface, shaking his hair out of his eyes. 

“Hear it?” said Myrtle. 

“Yeah ... ‘Come seek us where our voices sound ...’ 
and if I need persuading . . . hang on, I need to listen 
again. ...” 



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He sank back beneath the water. It took three more 
underwater renditions of the egg’s song before Harry 
had it memorized; then he trod water for a while, 
thinking hard, while Myrtle sat and watched him. 

“I’ve got to go and look for people who can’t use their 
voices above the ground. ...” he said slowly. “Er ... 
who could that be?” 

“Slow, aren’t you?” 

He had never seen Moaning Myrtle so cheerful, apart 
from the day when a dose of Polyjuice Potion had 
given Hermione the hairy face and tail of a cat. Harry 
stared around the bathroom, thinking ... if the voices 
could only be heard underwater, then it made sense 
for them to belong to underwater creatures. He ran 
this theory past Myrtle, who smirked at him. 

“Well, that’s what Diggory thought,” she said. “He lay 
there talking to himself for ages about it. Ages and 
ages ... nearly all the bubbles had gone. ...” 

“Underwater ...” Harry said slowly. “Myrtle ... what 
lives in the lake, apart from the giant squid?” 

“Oh all sorts,” she said. “I sometimes go down there 
... sometimes don’t have any choice, if someone 
flushes my toilet when I’m not expecting it. ...” 

Trying not to think about Moaning Myrtle zooming 
down a pipe to the lake with the contents of a toilet, 
Harry said, “Well, does anything in there have a 
human voice? Hang on — ” 

Harry’s eyes had fallen on the picture of the snoozing 
mermaid on the wall. 

“Myrtle, there aren’t merpeople in there, are there?” 

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“Oooh, very good,” she said, her thick glasses 
twinkling, “it took Diggory much longer than that! 

And that was with her awake too” — Myrtle jerked her 
head toward the mermaid with an expression of great 
dislike on her glum face — “giggling and showing off 
and flashing her fins. ...” 

“That’s it, isn’t it?” said Harry excitedly. “The second 
task’s to go and find the merpeople in the lake and . . . 
and ...” 

But he suddenly realized what he was saying, and he 
felt the excitement drain out of him as though 
someone had just pulled a plug in his stomach. He 
wasn’t a very good swimmer; he’d never had much 
practice. Dudley had had lessons in his youth, but 
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, no doubt hoping 
that Harry would drown one day, hadn’t bothered to 
give him any. A couple of lengths of this bath were all 
very well, but that lake was very large, and very deep 
. . . and merpeople would surely live right at the 
bottom. ... 

“Myrtle,” Harry said slowly, “how am I supposed to 
breathe ?” 

At this, Myrtle’s eyes filled with sudden tears again. 

“Tactless!” she muttered, groping in her robes for a 
handkerchief. 

“What’s tactless?” said Harry, bewildered. 

“Talking about breathing in front of me!” she said 
shrilly, and her voice echoed loudly around the 
bathroom. “When I can’t ... when I haven’t ... not for 
ages ...” 



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She buried her face in her handkerchief and sniffed 
loudly. Harry remembered how touchy Myrtle had 
always been about being dead, but none of the other 
ghosts he knew made such a fuss about it. 

“Sorry,” he said impatiently. “I didn’t mean — I just 
forgot ...” 

“Oh yes, very easy to forget Myrtle’s dead,” said 
Myrtle, gulping, looking at him out of swollen eyes. 
“Nobody missed me even when I was alive. Took them 
hours and hours to find my body — I know, I was 
sitting there waiting for them. Olive Hornby came into 
the bathroom — ‘Are you in here again, sulking, 
Myrtle?’ she said, ‘because Professor Dippet asked me 
to look for you — ’ And then she saw my body . . . 
ooooh, she didn’t forget it until her dying day, I made 
sure of that . . . followed her around and reminded her, 
I did. I remember at her brother’s wedding — ” 

But Harry wasn’t listening; he was thinking about the 
merpeople’s song again. “We’ve taken what you’ll 
sorely miss.” That sounded as though they were going 
to steal something of his, something he had to get 
back. What were they going to take? 

“ — and then, of course, she went to the Ministry of 
Magic to stop me stalking her, so I had to come back 
here and live in my toilet.” 

“Good,” said Harry vaguely. “Well, I’m a lot further on 
than I was. ... Shut your eyes again, will you? I’m 
getting out.” 

He retrieved the egg from the bottom of the bath, 
climbed out, dried himself, and pulled on his pajamas 
and dressing gown again. 



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“Will you come and visit me in my bathroom again 
sometime?” Moaning Myrtle asked mournfully as 
Harry picked up the Invisibility Cloak. 

“Er ... I’ll try,” Harry said, though privately thinking 
the only way he’d be visiting Myrtle’s bathroom again 
was if every other toilet in the castle got blocked. “See 
you, Myrtle ... thanks for your help.” 

“ ’Bye, ’bye,” she said gloomily, and as Harry put on 
the Invisibility Cloak he saw her zoom back up the 
tap. 

Out in the dark corridor, Harry examined the 
Marauder’s Map to check that the coast was still 
clear. Yes, the dots belonging to Filch and his cat, 

Mrs. Norris, were safely in their office ... nothing else 
seemed to be moving apart from Peeves, though he 
was bouncing around the trophy room on the floor 
above. ... Harry had taken his first step back toward 
Gryffindor Tower when something else on the map 
caught his eye ... something distinctly odd. 

Peeves was not the only thing that was moving. A 
single dot was flitting around a room in the bottom 
left-hand corner — Snape’s office. But the dot wasn’t 
labeled “Severus Snape” ... it was Bartemius Crouch. 

Harry stared at the dot. Mr. Crouch was supposed to 
be too ill to go to work or to come to the Yule Ball — 
so what was he doing, sneaking into Hogwarts at one 
o’clock in the morning? Harry watched closely as the 
dot moved around and around the room, pausing 
here and there. ... 

Harry hesitated, thinking . . . and then his curiosity got 
the better of him. He turned and set off in the 
opposite direction toward the nearest staircase. He 
was going to see what Crouch was up to. 

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Harry walked down the stairs as quietly as possible, 
though the faces in some of the portraits still turned 
curiously at the squeak of a floorboard, the rustle of 
his pajamas. He crept along the corridor below, 
pushed aside a tapestry about halfway along, and 
proceeded down a narrower staircase, a shortcut that 
would take him down two floors. He kept glancing 
down at the map, wondering ... It just didn’t seem in 
character, somehow, for correct, law-abiding Mr. 
Crouch to be sneaking around somebody else’s office 
this late at night. ... 

And then, halfway down the staircase, not thinking 
about what he was doing, not concentrating on 
anything but the peculiar behavior of Mr. Crouch, 
Harry’s leg suddenly sank right through the trick step 
Neville always forgot to jump. He gave an ungainly 
wobble, and the golden egg, still damp from the bath, 
slipped from under his arm. He lurched forward to try 
and catch it, but too late; the egg fell down the long 
staircase with a bang as loud as a bass drum on 
every step — the Invisibility Cloak slipped — Harry 
snatched at it, and the Marauder’s Map fluttered out 
of his hand and slid down six stairs, where, sunk in 
the step to above his knee, he couldn’t reach it. 

The golden egg fell through the tapestry at the bottom 
of the staircase, burst open, and began wailing loudly 
in the corridor below. Harry pulled out his wand and 
struggled to touch the Marauder’s Map, to wipe it 
blank, but it was too far away to reach — 

Pulling the cloak back over himself Harry 
straightened up, listening hard with his eyes screwed 
up with fear ... and, almost immediately — 

“PEEVES!” 



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It was the unmistakable hunting cry of Filch the 
caretaker. Harry could hear his rapid, shuffling 
footsteps coming nearer and nearer, his wheezy voice 
raised in fury. 

“What’s this racket? Wake up the whole castle, will 
you? I’ll have you, Peeves, I’ll have you, you’ll ... and 
what is this?” 

Filch ’s footsteps halted; there was a clink of metal on 
metal and the wailing stopped — Filch had picked up 
the egg and closed it. Harry stood very still, one leg 
still jammed tightly in the magical step, listening. Any 
moment now, Filch was going to pull aside the 
tapestry, expecting to see Peeves . . . and there would 
be no Peeves ... but if he came up the stairs, he would 
spot the Marauder’s Map ... and Invisibility Cloak or 
not, the map would show “Harry Potter” standing 
exactly where he was. 

“Egg?” Filch said quietly at the foot of the stairs. “My 
sweet!” — Mrs. Norris was obviously with him — “This 
is a Triwizard clue! This belongs to a school 
champion!” 

Harry felt sick; his heart was hammering very fast — 

“PEEVES!” Filch roared gleefully. “You’ve been 
stealing!” 

He ripped back the tapestry below, and Harry saw his 
horrible, pouchy face and bulging, pale eyes staring 
up the dark and (to Filch) deserted staircase. 

“Hiding, are you?” he said softly. “I’m coming to get 
you, Peeves. ... You’ve gone and stolen a Tri wizard 
clue, Peeves. ... Dumbledore’ll have you out of here 
for this, you filthy, pilfering poltergeist. ...” 



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Filch started to climb the stairs, his scrawny, dust- 
colored cat at his heels. Mrs. Norris’s lamp-like eyes, 
so very like her master’s, were fixed directly upon 
Harry. He had had occasion before now to wonder 
whether the Invisibility Cloak worked on cats. ... Sick 
with apprehension, he watched Filch drawing nearer 
and nearer in his old flannel dressing gown — he 
tried desperately to pull his trapped leg free, but it 
merely sank a few more inches — any second now, 
Filch was going to spot the map or walk right into him 



“Filch? What’s going on?” 

Filch stopped a few steps below Harry and turned. At 
the foot of the stairs stood the only person who could 
make Harry’s situation worse: Snape. He was wearing 
a long gray nightshirt and he looked livid. 

“It’s Peeves, Professor,” Filch whispered malevolently. 
“He threw this egg down the stairs.” 

Snape climbed up the stairs quickly and stopped 
beside Filch. Harry gritted his teeth, convinced his 
loudly thumping heart would give him away at any 
second. ... 

“Peeves?” said Snape softly, staring at the egg in 
Filch’s hands. “But Peeves couldn’t get into my office. 



“This egg was in your office, Professor?” 

“Of course not,” Snape snapped. “I heard banging and 
wailing — ” 

“Yes, Professor, that was the egg — ” 

“ — I was coming to investigate — ” 

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“ — Peeves threw it, Professor — ” 

“ — and when I passed my office, I saw that the 
torches were lit and a cupboard door was ajar! 
Somebody has been searching it!” 

“But Peeves couldn’t — ” 

“I know he couldn’t, Filch!” Snape snapped again. “I 
seal my office with a spell none but a wizard could 
break!” Snape looked up the stairs, straight through 
Harry, and then down into the corridor below. “I want 
you to come and help me search for the intruder, 
Filch.” 

“I — yes, Professor — but — ” 

Filch looked yearningly up the stairs, right through 
Harry, who could see that he was very reluctant to 
forgo the chance of cornering Peeves. Go, Harry 
pleaded with him silently, go with Snape ... go ... Mrs. 
Norris was peering around Filch ’s legs. ... Harry had 
the distinct impression that she could smell him. ... 
Why had he filled that bath with so much perfumed 
foam? 

“The thing is, Professor,” said Filch plaintively, “the 
headmaster will have to listen to me this time. Peeves 
has been stealing from a student, it might be my 
chance to get him thrown out of the castle once and 
for all — ” 

“Filch, I don’t give a damn about that wretched 
poltergeist; it’s my office that’s — ” 

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. 

Snape stopped talking very abruptly. He and Filch 
both looked down at the foot of the stairs. Harry saw 

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Mad-Eye Moody limp into sight through the narrow 
gap between their heads. Moody was wearing his old 
traveling cloak over his nightshirt and leaning on his 
staff as usual. 

“Pajama party, is it?” he growled up the stairs. 

“Professor Snape and I heard noises, Professor,” said 
Filch at once. “Peeves the Poltergeist, throwing things 
around as usual — and then Professor Snape 
discovered that someone had broken into his off — ” 

“Shut up!” Snape hissed to Filch. 

Moody took a step closer to the foot of the stairs. 

Harry saw Moody’s magical eye travel over Snape, and 
then, unmistakably, onto himself. 

Harry’s heart gave a horrible jolt. Moody could see 
through Invisibility Cloaks ... he alone could see the 
full strangeness of the scene: Snape in his nightshirt, 
Filch clutching the egg, and he, Harry, trapped in the 
stairs behind them. Moody’s lopsided gash of a mouth 
opened in surprise. For a few seconds, he and Harry 
stared straight into each other’s eyes. Then Moody 
closed his mouth and turned his blue eye upon Snape 
again. 

“Did I hear that correctly, Snape?” he asked slowly. 
“Someone broke into your office?” 

“It is unimportant,” said Snape coldly. 

“On the contrary,” growled Moody, “it is very 
important. Who’d want to break into your office?” 

“A student, I daresay,” said Snape. Harry could see a 
vein flickering horribly on Snape ’s greasy temple. “It 
has happened before. Potion ingredients have gone 

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missing from my private store cupboard ... students 
attempting illicit mixtures, no doubt. ...” 

“Reckon they were after potion ingredients, eh?” said 
Moody. “Not hiding anything else in your office, are 
you?” 

Harry saw the edge of Snape ’s sallow face turn a 
nasty brick color, the vein in his temple pulsing more 
rapidly. 

“You know I’m hiding nothing, Moody,” he said in a 
soft and dangerous voice, “as you’ve searched my 
office pretty thoroughly yourself.” 

Moody’s face twisted into a smile. “Auror’s privilege, 
Snape. Dumbledore told me to keep an eye — ” 

“Dumbledore happens to trust me,” said Snape 
through clenched teeth. “I refuse to believe that he 
gave you orders to search my office!” 

“ ’Course Dumbledore trusts you,” growled Moody. 
“He’s a trusting man, isn’t he? Believes in second 
chances. But me — I say there are spots that don’t 
come off, Snape. Spots that never come off, d’you 
know what I mean?” 

Snape suddenly did something very strange. He 
seized his left forearm convulsively with his right 
hand, as though something on it had hurt him. 

Moody laughed. “Get back to bed, Snape.” 

“You don’t have the authority to send me anywhere!” 
Snape hissed, letting go of his arm as though angry 
with himself. “I have as much right to prowl this 
school after dark as you do!” 



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“Prowl away,” said Moody, but his voice was full of 
menace. “I look forward to meeting you in a dark 
corridor some time. ... You’ve dropped something, by 
the way. ...” 

With a stab of horror, Harry saw Moody point at the 
Marauder’s Map, still lying on the staircase six steps 
below him. As Snape and Filch both turned to look at 
it, Harry threw caution to the winds; he raised his 
arms under the cloak and waved furiously at Moody 
to attract his attention, mouthing “It’s mine! Mine!” 

Snape had reached out for it, a horrible expression of 
dawning comprehension on his face — 

“Accio Parchments 

The map flew up into the air, slipped through Snape ’s 
outstretched fingers, and soared down the stairs into 
Moody’s hand. 

“My mistake,” Moody said calmly. “It’s mine — 
must’ve dropped it earlier — ” 

But Snape ’s black eyes were darting from the egg in 
Filch’s arms to the map in Moody’s hand, and Harry 
could tell he was putting two and two together, as 
only Snape could. ... 

“Potter,” he said quietly. 

“What’s that?” said Moody calmly, folding up the map 
and pocketing it. 

“Potter!” Snape snarled, and he actually turned his 
head and stared right at the place where Harry was, 
as though he could suddenly see him. “That egg is 
Potter’s egg. That piece of parchment belongs to 



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Potter. I have seen it before, I recognize it! Potter is 
here! Potter, in his Invisibility Cloak!” 

Snape stretched out his hands like a blind man and 
began to move up the stairs; Harry could have sworn 
his over-large nostrils were dilating, trying to sniff 
Harry out — trapped, Harry leaned backward, trying 
to avoid Snape’s fingertips, but any moment now — 

“There’s nothing there, Snape!” barked Moody, “but 
I’ll be happy to tell the headmaster how quickly your 
mind jumped to Harry Potter!” 

“Meaning what?” Snape turned again to look at 
Moody, his hands still outstretched, inches from 
Harry’s chest. 

“Meaning that Dumbledore’s very interested to know 
who’s got it in for that boy!” said Moody, limping 
nearer still to the foot of the stairs. “And so am I, 
Snape ... very interested. ...” The torchlight flickered 
across his mangled face, so that the scars, and the 
chunk missing from his nose, looked deeper and 
darker than ever. 

Snape was looking down at Moody, and Harry 
couldn’t see the expression on his face. For a 
moment, nobody moved or said anything. Then Snape 
slowly lowered his hands. 

“I merely thought,” said Snape, in a voice of forced 
calm, “that if Potter was wandering around after 
hours again ... it’s an unfortunate habit of his ... he 
should be stopped. For — for his own safety.” 

“Ah, I see,” said Moody softly. “Got Potter’s best 
interests at heart, have you?” 



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There was a pause. Snape and Moody were still 
staring at each other. Mrs. Norris gave a loud meow, 
still peering around Filch’s legs, looking for the source 
of Harry’s bubble-bath smell. 

“I think I will go back to bed,” Snape said curtly. 

“Best idea you’ve had all night,” said Moody. “Now, 
Filch, if you’ll just give me that egg — ” 

“No!” said Filch, clutching the egg as though it were 
his firstborn son. “Professor Moody, this is evidence of 
Peeves’ treachery!” 

“It’s the property of the champion he stole it from,” 
said Moody. “Hand it over, now.” 

Snape swept downstairs and passed Moody without 
another word. Filch made a chirruping noise to Mrs. 
Norris, who stared blankly at Harry for a few more 
seconds before turning and following her master. Still 
breathing very fast, Harry heard Snape walking away 
down the corridor; Filch handed Moody the egg and 
disappeared from view too, muttering to Mrs. Norris. 
“Never mind, my sweet ... we’ll see Dumbledore in the 
morning ... tell him what Peeves was up to. ...” 

A door slammed. Harry was left staring down at 
Moody, who placed his staff on the bottommost stair 
and started to climb laboriously toward him, a dull 
clunk on every other step. 

“Close shave, Potter,” he muttered. 

“Yeah ... I — er ... thanks,” said Harry weakly. 

“What is this thing?” said Moody, drawing the 
Marauders Map out of his pocket and unfolding it. 



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“Map of Hogwarts,” said Harry, hoping Moody was 
going to pull him out of the staircase soon; his leg 
was really hurting him. 

“Merlin’s beard,” Moody whispered, staring at the 
map, his magical eye going haywire. “This ... this is 
some map, Potter!” 

“Yeah, it’s ... quite useful,” Harry said. His eyes were 
starting to water from the pain. “Er — Professor 
Moody, d’you think you could help me — ?” 

“What? Oh! Yes ... yes, of course ...” 

Moody took hold of Harry’s arms and pulled; Harry’s 
leg came free of the trick step, and he climbed onto 
the one above it. Moody was still gazing at the map. 

“Potter ...” he said slowly, “you didn’t happen, by any 
chance, to see who broke into Snape’s office, did you? 
On this map, I mean?” 

“Er ... yeah, I did ...” Harry admitted. “It was Mr. 
Crouch.” 

Moody’s magical eye whizzed over the entire surface of 
the map. He looked suddenly alarmed. 

“Crouch?” he said. “You’re — you’re sure, Potter?” 

“Positive,” said Harry. 

“Well, he’s not here anymore,” said Moody, his eye 
still whizzing over the map. “Crouch ... that’s very — 
very interesting. ...” 

He said nothing for almost a minute, still staring at 
the map. Harry could tell that this news meant 
something to Moody and very much wanted to know 

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what it was. He wondered whether he dared ask. 
Moody scared him slightly ... yet Moody had just 
helped him avoid an awful lot of trouble. ... 

“Er ... Professor Moody ... why d’you reckon Mr. 
Crouch wanted to look around S nape’s office?” 

Moody’s magical eye left the map and fixed, quivering, 
upon Harry. It was a penetrating glare, and Harry had 
the impression that Moody was sizing him up, 
wondering whether to answer or not, or how much to 
tell him. 

“Put it this way, Potter,” Moody muttered finally, “they 
say old Mad-Eye’s obsessed with catching Dark 
wizards ... but I’m nothing — nothing — compared to 
Barty Crouch.” 

He continued to stare at the map. Harry was burning 
to know more. 

“Professor Moody?” he said again. “D’you think ... 
could this have anything to do with . . . maybe Mr. 
Crouch thinks there’s something going on. ...” 

“Like what?” said Moody sharply. 

Harry wondered how much he dare say. He didn’t 
want Moody to guess that he had a source of 
information outside Hogwarts; that might lead to 
tricky questions about Sirius. 

“I don’t know,” Harry muttered, “odd stuff’s been 
happening lately, hasn’t it? It’s been in the Daily 
Prophet ... the Dark Mark at the World Cup, and the 
Death Eaters and everything. ...” 

Both of Moody’s mismatched eyes widened. 



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“You’re a sharp boy, Potter,” he said. His magical eye 
roved back to the Marauder’s Map. “Crouch could be 
thinking along those lines,” he said slowly. “Very 
possible ... there have been some funny rumors flying 
around lately — helped along by Rita Skeeter, of 
course. It’s making a lot of people nervous, I reckon.” 

A grim smile twisted his lopsided mouth. “Oh if 
there’s one thing I hate,” he muttered, more to himself 
than to Harry, and his magical eye was fixed on the 
left-hand corner of the map, “it’s a Death Eater who 
walked free. ...” 

Harry stared at him. Could Moody possibly mean 
what Harry thought he meant? 

“And now I want to ask you a question, Potter,” said 
Moody in a more businesslike tone. 

Harry’s heart sank; he had thought this was coming. 
Moody was going to ask where he had got this map, 
which was a very dubious magical object — and the 
story of how it had fallen into his hands incriminated 
not only him, but his own father, Fred and George 
Weasley, and Professor Lupin, their last Defense 
Against the Dark Arts teacher. Moody waved the map 
in front of Harry, who braced himself — 

“Can I borrow this?” 

“Oh!” said Harry. 

He was very fond of his map, but on the other hand, 
he was extremely relieved that Moody wasn’t asking 
where he’d got it, and there was no doubt that he 
owed Moody a favor. 

“Yeah, okay.” 



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“Good boy,” growled Moody. “I can make good use of 
this ... this might be exactly what I’ve been looking 
for. ... Right, bed, Potter, come on, now. ...” 

They climbed to the top of the stairs together, Moody 
still examining the map as though it was a treasure 
the like of which he had never seen before. They 
walked in silence to the door of Moody’s office, where 
he stopped and looked up at Harry. 

“You ever thought of a career as an Auror, Potter?” 

“No,” said Harry, taken aback. 

“You want to consider it,” said Moody, nodding and 
looking at Harry thoughtfully. “Yes, indeed ... and 
incidentally ... I’m guessing you weren’t just taking 
that egg for a walk tonight?” 

“Er — no,” said Harry, grinning. “I’ve been working 
out the clue.” 

Moody winked at him, his magical eye going haywire 
again. 

“Nothing like a nighttime stroll to give you ideas, 
Potter. ... See you in the morning. ...” 

He went back into his office, staring down at the 
Marauder’s Map again, and closed the door behind 
him. 

Harry walked slowly back to Gryffindor Tower, lost in 
thought about Snape, and Crouch, and what it all 
meant. ... Why was Crouch pretending to be ill, if he 
could manage to get to Hogwarts when he wanted to? 
What did he think Snape was concealing in his office? 



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And Moody thought he, Harry, ought to be an Auror! 
Interesting idea . . . but somehow, Harry thought, as 
he got quietly into his four-poster ten minutes later, 
the egg and the cloak now safely back in his trunk, he 
thought he’d like to check how scarred the rest of 
them were before he chose it as a career. 



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THE SECOND TASK 

“You said you’d already worked out that egg clue!” 
said Hermione indignantly. 

“Keep your voice down!” said Harry crossly. “I just 
need to — sort of fine-tune it, all right?” 

He, Ron, and Hermione were sitting at the very back 
of the Charms class with a table to themselves. They 
were supposed to be practicing the opposite of the 
Summoning Charm today — the Banishing Charm. 
Owing to the potential for nasty accidents when 
objects kept flying across the room, Professor Flitwick 
had given each student a stack of cushions on which 
to practice, the theory being that these wouldn’t hurt 
anyone if they went off target. It was a good theory, 
but it wasn’t working very well. Neville’s aim was so 
poor that he kept accidentally sending much heavier 
things flying across the room — Professor Flitwick, for 
instance. 

“Just forget the egg for a minute, all right?” Harry 
hissed as Professor Flitwick went whizzing resignedly 

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past them, landing on top of a large cabinet. “I’m 
trying to tell you about Snape and Moody. ...” 

This class was an ideal cover for a private 
conversation, as everyone was having far too much 
fun to pay them any attention. Harry had been 
recounting his adventures of the previous night in 
whispered installments for the last half hour. 

“Snape said Moody’s searched his office as well?” Ron 
whispered, his eyes alight with interest as he 
Banished a cushion with a sweep of his wand (it 
soared into the air and knocked Parvati’s hat off). 
“What ... d’you reckon Moody’s here to keep an eye on 
Snape as well as Karkaroff?” 

“Well, I dunno if that’s what Dumbledore asked him 
to do, but he’s definitely doing it,” said Harry, waving 
his wand without paying much attention, so that his 
cushion did an odd sort of belly flop off the desk. 
“Moody said Dumbledore only lets Snape stay here 
because he’s giving him a second chance or 
something. ...” 

“What?” said Ron, his eyes widening, his next cushion 
spinning high into the air, ricocheting off the 
chandelier, and dropping heavily onto Flitwick’s desk. 
“Harry . . . maybe Moody thinks Snape put your name 
in the Goblet of Fire!” 

“Oh Ron,” said Hermione, shaking her head 
sceptically, “we thought Snape was trying to kill 
Harry before, and it turned out he was saving Harry’s 
life, remember?” 

She Banished a cushion and it flew across the room 
and landed in the box they were all supposed to be 
aiming at. Harry looked at Hermione, thinking ... it 
was true that Snape had saved his life once, but the 

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odd thing was, Snape definitely loathed him, just as 
he’d loathed Harry’s father when they had been at 
school together. Snape loved taking points from 
Harry, and had certainly never missed an opportunity 
to give him punishments, or even to suggest that he 
should be suspended from the school. 

“I don’t care what Moody says,” Hermione went on. 
“Dumbledore’s not stupid. He was right to trust 
Hagrid and Professor Lupin, even though loads of 
people wouldn’t have given them jobs, so why 
shouldn’t he be right about Snape, even if Snape is a 
bit — ” 



“ — evil,” said Ron promptly. “Come on, Hermione, 
why are all these Dark wizard catchers searching his 
office, then?” 

“Why has Mr. Crouch been pretending to be ill?” said 
Hermione, ignoring Ron. “It’s a bit funny, isn’t it, that 
he can’t manage to come to the Yule Ball, but he can 
get up here in the middle of the night when he wants 
to?” 

“You just don’t like Crouch because of that elf, 
Winky,” said Ron, sending a cushion soaring into the 
window. 

“You just want to think Snape’s up to something,” 
said Hermione, sending her cushion zooming neatly 
into the box. 

“I just want to know what Snape did with his first 
chance, if he’s on his second one,” said Harry grimly, 
and his cushion, to his very great surprise, flew 
straight across the room and landed neatly on top of 
Hermione ’s. 



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Obedient to Sirius’s wish of hearing about anything 
odd at Hogwarts, Harry sent him a letter by brown 
owl that night, explaining all about Mr. Crouch 
breaking into Snape’s office, and Moody and Snape’s 
conversation. Then Harry turned his attention in 
earnest to the most urgent problem facing him: how 
to survive underwater for an hour on the twenty- 
fourth of February. 

Ron quite liked the idea of using the Summoning 
Charm again — Harry had explained about Aqua- 
Lungs, and Ron couldn’t see why Harry shouldn’t 
Summon one from the nearest Muggle town. 

Hermione squashed this plan by pointing out that, in 
the unlikely event that Harry managed to learn how 
to operate an Aqua-Lung within the set limit of an 
hour, he was sure to be disqualified for breaking the 
International Code of Wizarding Secrecy — it was too 
much to hope that no Muggles would spot an Aqua- 
Lung zooming across the countryside to Hogwarts. 

“Of course, the ideal solution would be for you to 
Transfigure yourself into a submarine or something,” 
Hermione said. “If only we’d done human 
Transfiguration already! But I don’t think we start 
that until sixth year, and it can go badly wrong if you 
don’t know what you’re doing. ...” 

“Yeah, I don’t fancy walking around with a periscope 
sticking out of my head,” said Harry. “I s’pose I could 
always attack someone in front of Moody; he might do 
it for me. ...” 

“I don’t think he’d let you choose what you wanted to 
be turned into, though,” said Hermione seriously. 

“No, I think your best chance is some sort of charm.” 

So Harry, thinking that he would soon have had 
enough of the library to last him a lifetime, buried 

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himself once more among the dusty volumes, looking 
for any spell that might enable a human to survive 
without oxygen. However, though he, Ron, and 
Hermione searched through their lunchtimes, 
evenings, and whole weekends — though Harry asked 
Professor McGonagall for a note of permission to use 
the Restricted Section, and even asked the irritable, 
vulture-like librarian, Madam Pince, for help — they 
found nothing whatsoever that would enable Harry to 
spend an hour underwater and live to tell the tale. 

Familiar flutterings of panic were starting to disturb 
Harry now, and he was finding it difficult to 
concentrate in class again. The lake, which Harry had 
always taken for granted as just another feature of 
the grounds, drew his eyes whenever he was near a 
classroom window, a great, iron-gray mass of chilly 
water, whose dark and icy depths were starting to 
seem as distant as the moon. 

Just as it had before he faced the Horntail, time was 
slipping away as though somebody had bewitched the 
clocks to go extra-fast. There was a week to go before 
February the twenty-fourth (there was still time) ... 
there were five days to go (he was bound to find 
something soon) ... three days to go (please let me find 
something . . . please) . . . 

With two days left, Harry started to go off food again. 
The only good thing about breakfast on Monday was 
the return of the brown owl he had sent to Sirius. He 
pulled off the parchment, unrolled it, and saw the 
shortest letter Sirius had ever written to him. 

Send date of next Hogsmeade weekend by return owl. 

Harry turned the parchment over and looked at the 
back, hoping to see something else, but it was blank. 



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“Weekend after next,” whispered Hermione, who had 
read the note over Harry’s shoulder. “Here — take my 
quill and send this owl back straight away.” 

Harry scribbled the dates down on the back of 
Sirius’s letter, tied it onto the brown owl’s leg, and 
watched it take flight again. What had he expected? 
Advice on how to survive underwater? He had been so 
intent on telling Sirius all about Snape and Moody he 
had completely forgotten to mention the egg’s clue. 

“What’s he want to know about the next Hogsmeade 
weekend for?” said Ron. 

“Dunno,” said Harry dully. The momentary happiness 
that had flared inside him at the sight of the owl had 
died. “Come on ... Care of Magical Creatures.” 

Whether Hagrid was trying to make up for the Blast- 
Ended Skrewts, or because there were now only two 
skrewts left, or because he was trying to prove he 
could do anything that Professor Grubbly-Plank 
could, Harry didn’t know, but Hagrid had been 
continuing her lessons on unicorns ever since he’d 
returned to work. It turned out that Hagrid knew 
quite as much about unicorns as he did about 
monsters, though it was clear that he found their lack 
of poisonous fangs disappointing. 

Today he had managed to capture two unicorn foals. 
Unlike full-grown unicorns, they were pure gold. 
Parvati and Lavender went into transports of delight 
at the sight of them, and even Pansy Parkinson had 
to work hard to conceal how much she liked them. 

“Easier ter spot than the adults,” Hagrid told the 
class. “They turn silver when they’re abou’ two years 
old, an’ they grow horns at aroun’ four. Don’ go pure 
white till they’re full grown, ’round about seven. 

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They’re a bit more trustin’ when they’re babies ... don’ 
mind boys so much. ... C’mon, move in a bit, yeh can 
pat ’em if yeh want ... give ’em a few o’ these sugar 
lumps. ... 

“You okay, Harry?” Hagrid muttered, moving aside 
slightly, while most of the others swarmed around the 
baby unicorns. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. 

“Jus’ nervous, eh?” said Hagrid. 

“Bit,” said Harry. 

“Harry,” said Hagrid, clapping a massive hand on his 
shoulder, so that Harry’s knees buckled under its 
weight, “I’d’ve bin worried before I saw yeh take on 
tha’ Horntail, but I know now yeh can do anythin’ yeh 
set yer mind ter. I’m not worried at all. Yeh’re goin’ ter 
be fine. Got yer clue worked out, haven’ yeh?” 

Harry nodded, but even as he did so, an insane urge 
to confess that he didn’t have any idea how to survive 
at the bottom of the lake for an hour came over him. 
He looked up at Hagrid — perhaps he had to go into 
the lake sometimes, to deal with the creatures in it? 
He looked after everything else on the grounds, after 
all — 

“Yeh’re goin’ ter win,” Hagrid growled, patting Harry’s 
shoulder again, so that Harry actually felt himself 
sink a couple of inches into the soft ground. “I know 
it. I can feel it. Yeh’re goin’ ter win, Harry.” 

Harry just couldn’t bring himself to wipe the happy, 
confident smile off Hagrid ’s face. Pretending he was 
interested in the young unicorns, he forced a smile in 



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return, and moved forward to pat them with the 
others. 



By the evening before the second task, Harry felt as 
though he were trapped in a nightmare. He was fully 
aware that even if, by some miracle, he managed to 
find a suitable spell, he’d have a real job mastering it 
overnight. How could he have let this happen? Why 
hadn’t he got to work on the egg’s clue sooner? Why 
had he ever let his mind wander in class — what if a 
teacher had once mentioned how to breathe 
underwater? 

He sat with Hermione and Ron in the library as the 
sun set outside, tearing feverishly through page after 
page of spells, hidden from one another by the 
massive piles of books on the desk in front of each of 
them. Harry’s heart gave a huge leap every time he 
saw the word “water” on a page, but more often than 
not it was merely “Take two pints of water, half a 
pound of shredded mandrake leaves, and a newt ...” 

“I don’t reckon it can be done,” said Ron’s voice flatly 
from the other side of the table. “There’s nothing. 
Nothing. Closest was that thing to dry up puddles and 
ponds, that Drought Charm, but that was nowhere 
near powerful enough to drain the lake.” 

“There must be something,” Hermione muttered, 
moving a candle closer to her. Her eyes were so tired 
she was poring over the tiny print of Olde and 
Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes with her nose 
about an inch from the page. “They’d never have set a 
task that was undoable.” 

“They have,” said Ron. “Harry, just go down to the 
lake tomorrow, right, stick your head in, yell at the 
merpeople to give back whatever they’ve nicked, and 
see if they chuck it out. Best you can do, mate.” 

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“There’s a way of doing it!” Hermione said crossly. 
“There just has to be!” 

She seemed to be taking the library’s lack of useful 
information on the subject as a personal insult; it had 
never failed her before. 

“I know what I should have done,” said Harry, resting, 
facedown, on Saucy Tricks for Tricky Sorts. “I 
should’ve learned to be an Animagus like Sirius.” 

An Animagus was a wizard who could transform into 
an animal. 

“Yeah, you could’ve turned into a goldfish any time 
you wanted!” said Ron. 

“Or a frog,” yawned Harry. He was exhausted. 

“It takes years to become an Animagus, and then you 
have to register yourself and everything,” said 
Hermione vaguely, now squinting down the index of 
Weird Wizarding Dilemmas and Their Solutions. 
“Professor McGonagall told us, remember ... you’ve 
got to register yourself with the Improper Use of Magic 
Office ... what animal you become, and your 
markings, so you can’t abuse it. ...” 

“Hermione, I was joking,” said Harry wearily. “I know I 
haven’t got a chance of turning into a frog by 
tomorrow morning. ...” 

“Oh this is no use,” Hermione said, snapping shut 
Weird Wizarding Dilemmas. “Who on earth wants to 
make their nose hair grow into ringlets?” 

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Fred Weasley’s voice. “Be a 
talking point, wouldn’t it?” 



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Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked up. Fred and 
George had just emerged from behind some 
bookshelves. 

“What’re you two doing here?” Ron asked. 

“Looking for you,” said George. “McGonagall wants 
you, Ron. And you, Hermione.” 

“Why?” said Hermione, looking surprised. 

“Dunno ... she was looking a bit grim, though,” said 
Fred. 

“We’re supposed to take you down to her office,” said 
George. 

Ron and Hermione stared at Harry, who felt his 
stomach drop. Was Professor McGonagall about to tell 
Ron and Hermione off? Perhaps she’d noticed how 
much they were helping him, when he ought to be 
working out how to do the task alone? 

“Well meet you back in the common room,” Hermione 
told Harry as she got up to go with Ron — both of 
them looked very anxious. “Bring as many of these 
books as you can, okay?” 

“Right,” said Harry uneasily. 

By eight o’clock, Madam Pince had extinguished all 
the lamps and came to chivvy Harry out of the library. 
Staggering under the weight of as many books as he 
could carry, Harry returned to the Gryffindor common 
room, pulled a table into a corner, and continued to 
search. There was nothing in Madcap Magic for 
Wacky Warlocks . . . nothing in A Guide to Medieval 
Sorcery . . . not one mention of underwater exploits in 
An Anthology of Eighteenth-Century Charms, or in 
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Dreadful Denizens of the Deep, or Powers You Never 
Knew You Had and What to Do with Them Now You’ve 
Wised Up. 

Crookshanks crawled into Harry’s lap and curled up, 
purring deeply. The common room emptied slowly 
around Harry. People kept wishing him luck for the 
next morning in cheery, confident voices like Hagrid’s, 
all of them apparently convinced that he was about to 
pull off another stunning performance like the one he 
had managed in the first task. Harry couldn’t answer 
them, he just nodded, feeling as though there were a 
golfball stuck in his throat. By ten to midnight, he 
was alone in the room with Crookshanks. He had 
searched all the remaining books, and Ron and 
Hermione had not come back. 

It’s over, he told himself. You can’t do it. You’ll just 
have to go down to the lake in the morning and tell 
the judges. ... 

He imagined himself explaining that he couldn’t do 
the task. He pictured Bagman’s look of round-eyed 
surprise, Karkaroff’s satisfied, yellow-toothed smile. 

He could almost hear Fleur Delacour saying “I knew it 
... ’e is too young, ’e is only a little boy.” He saw Malfoy 
flashing his POTTER STINKS badge at the front of the 
crowd, saw Hagrid’s crestfallen, disbelieving face. ... 

Forgetting that Crookshanks was on his lap, Harry 
stood up very suddenly; Crookshanks hissed angrily 
as he landed on the floor, gave Harry a disgusted 
look, and stalked away with his bottlebrush tail in the 
air, but Harry was already hurrying up the spiral 
staircase to his dormitory. . . . He would grab the 
Invisibility Cloak and go back to the library, he’d stay 
there all night if he had to. ... 



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“Lumos,” Harry whispered fifteen minutes later as he 
opened the library door. 

Wand tip alight, he crept along the bookshelves, 
pulling down more books — books of hexes and 
charms, books on merpeople and water monsters, 
books on famous witches and wizards, on magical 
inventions, on anything at all that might include one 
passing reference to underwater survival. He carried 
them over to a table, then set to work, searching them 
by the narrow beam of his wand, occasionally 
checking his watch. ... 

One in the morning . . . two in the morning . . . the only 
way he could keep going was to tell himself, over and 
over again, next book ...in the next one . . . the next one 



The mermaid in the painting in the prefects’ 
bathroom was laughing. Harry was bobbing like a 
cork in bubbly water next to her rock, while she held 
his Firebolt over his head. 

“Come and get it!” she giggled maliciously. “Come on, 
jump!” 

“I can’t,” Harry panted, snatching at the Firebolt, and 
struggling not to sink. “Give it to me!” 

But she just poked him painfully in the side with the 
end of the broomstick, laughing at him. 

“That hurts — get off — ouch — ” 

“Harry Potter must wake up, sir!” 

“Stop poking me — ” 



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“Dobby must poke Harry Potter, sir, he must wake 
up!” 

Harry opened his eyes. He was still in the library; the 
Invisibility Cloak had slipped off his head as he’d 
slept, and the side of his face was stuck to the pages 
of Where There’s a Wand, There’s a Way. He sat up, 
straightening his glasses, blinking in the bright 
daylight. 

“Harry Potter needs to hurry!” squeaked Dobby. “The 
second task starts in ten minutes, and Harry Potter 



“Ten minutes?” Harry croaked. “Ten — ten minutes?” 

He looked down at his watch. Dobby was right. It was 
twenty past nine. A large, dead weight seemed to fall 
through Harry’s chest into his stomach. 

“Hurry, Harry Potter!” squeaked Dobby, plucking at 
Harry’s sleeve. “You is supposed to be down by the 
lake with the other champions, sir!” 

“It’s too late, Dobby,” Harry said hopelessly. “I’m not 
doing the task, I don’t know how — ” 

“Harry Potter will do the task!” squeaked the elf. 
“Dobby knew Harry had not found the right book, so 
Dobby did it for him!” 

“What?” said Harry. “But you don’t know what the 
second task is — ” 

“Dobby knows, sir! Harry Potter has to go into the 
lake and find his Wheezy — ” 

“Find my what?” 



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“ — and take his Wheezy back from the merpeople!” 



“What’s a Wheezy?” 

“Your Wheezy, sir, your Wheezy — Wheezy who is 
giving Dobby his sweater!” 

Dobby plucked at the shrunken maroon sweater he 
was now wearing over his shorts. 

“What?” Harry gasped. “They’ve got ... they’ve got 
Ron?” 

“The thing Harry Potter will miss most, sir!” squeaked 
Dobby. “ ‘But past an hour — ’ ” 

“ — ‘the prospect’s black,’ ” Harry recited, staring, 
horror-struck, at the elf. “ ‘Too late, it’s gone, it won’t 
come back.’ Dobby — what’ve I got to do?” 

“You has to eat this, sir!” squeaked the elf, and he put 
his hand in the pocket of his shorts and drew out a 
ball of what looked like slimy, grayish-green rat tails. 
“Right before you go into the lake, sir — gillyweed!” 

“What’s it do?” said Harry, staring at the gillyweed. 

“It will make Harry Potter breathe underwater, sir!” 

“Dobby,” said Harry frantically, “listen — are you sure 
about this?” 

He couldn’t quite forget that the last time Dobby had 
tried to “help” him, he had ended up with no bones in 
his right arm. 

“Dobby is quite sure, sir!” said the elf earnestly. 
“Dobby hears things, sir, he is a house-elf, he goes all 
over the castle as he lights the fires and mops the 

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floors. Dobby heard Professor McGonagall and 
Professor Moody in the staffroom, talking about the 
next task. . . . Dobby cannot let Harry Potter lose his 
Wheezy!” 

Harry’s doubts vanished. Jumping to his feet he 
pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, stuffed it into his bag, 
grabbed the gillyweed, and put it into his pocket, then 
tore out of the library with Dobby at his heels. 

“Dobby is supposed to be in the kitchens, sir!” Dobby 
squealed as they burst into the corridor. “Dobby will 
be missed — good luck, Harry Potter, sir, good luck!” 

“See you later, Dobby!” Harry shouted, and he 
sprinted along the corridor and down the stairs, three 
at a time. 

The entrance hall contained a few last-minute 
stragglers, all leaving the Great Hall after breakfast 
and heading through the double oak doors to watch 
the second task. They stared as Harry flashed past, 
sending Colin and Dennis Creevey flying as he leapt 
down the stone steps and out onto the bright, chilly 
grounds. 

As he pounded down the lawn he saw that the seats 
that had encircled the dragons’ enclosure in 
November were now ranged along the opposite bank, 
rising in stands that were packed to the bursting 
point and reflected in the lake below. The excited 
babble of the crowd echoed strangely across the water 
as Harry ran flat-out around the other side of the lake 
toward the judges, who were sitting at another gold- 
draped table at the water’s edge. Cedric, Fleur, and 
Krum were beside the judges’ table, watching Harry 
sprint toward them. 



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‘Tm ... here ...” Harry panted, skidding to a halt in 
the mud and accidentally splattering Fleur’s robes. 

“Where have you been?” said a bossy, disapproving 
voice. “The task’s about to start!” 

Harry looked around. Percy Weasley was sitting at the 
judges’ table — Mr. Crouch had failed to turn up 
again. 

“Now, now, Percy!” said Ludo Bagman, who was 
looking intensely relieved to see Harry. “Let him catch 
his breath!” 

Dumbledore smiled at Harry, but Karkaroff and 
Madame Maxime didn’t look at all pleased to see him. 
... It was obvious from the looks on their faces that 
they had thought he wasn’t going to turn up. 

Harry bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for 
breath; he had a stitch in his side that felt as though 
he had a knife between his ribs, but there was no 
time to get rid of it; Ludo Bagman was now moving 
among the champions, spacing them along the bank 
at intervals of ten feet. Harry was on the very end of 
the line, next to Krum, who was wearing swimming 
trunks and was holding his wand ready. 

“All right, Harry?” Bagman whispered as he moved 
Harry a few feet farther away from Krum. “Know what 
you’re going to do?” 

“Yeah,” Harry panted, massaging his ribs. 

Bagman gave Harry’s shoulder a quick squeeze and 
returned to the judges’ table; he pointed his wand at 
his throat as he had done at the World Cup, said, 
“Sonorusl” and his voice boomed out across the dark 
water toward the stands. 

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“Well, all our champions are ready for the second 
task, which will start on my whistle. They have 
precisely an hour to recover what has been taken 
from them. On the count of three, then. One ... two ... 
three!” 

The whistle echoed shrilly in the cold, still air; the 
stands erupted with cheers and applause; without 
looking to see what the other champions were doing, 
Harry pulled off his shoes and socks, pulled the 
handful of gillyweed out of his pocket, stuffed it into 
his mouth, and waded out into the lake. 

It was so cold he felt the skin on his legs searing as 
though this were fire, not icy water. His sodden robes 
weighed him down as he walked in deeper; now the 
water was over his knees, and his rapidly numbing 
feet were slipping over silt and flat, slimy stones. He 
was chewing the gillyweed as hard and fast as he 
could; it felt unpleasantly slimy and rubbery, like 
octopus tentacles. Waist-deep in the freezing water he 
stopped, swallowed, and waited for something to 
happen. 

He could hear laughter in the crowd and knew he 
must look stupid, walking into the lake without 
showing any sign of magical power. The part of him 
that was still dry was covered in goose pimples; half 
immersed in the icy water, a cruel breeze lifting his 
hair, Harry started to shiver violently. He avoided 
looking at the stands; the laughter was becoming 
louder, and there were catcalls and jeering from the 
Slytherins. ... 

Then, quite suddenly, Harry felt as though an 
invisible pillow had been pressed over his mouth and 
nose. He tried to draw breath, but it made his head 
spin; his lungs were empty, and he suddenly felt a 
piercing pain on either side of his neck — 

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Harry clapped his hands around his throat and felt 
two large slits just below his ears, flapping in the cold 
air. ... He had gills. Without pausing to think, he did 
the only thing that made sense — he flung himself 
forward into the water. 

The first gulp of icy lake water felt like the breath of 
life. His head had stopped spinning; he took another 
great gulp of water and felt it pass smoothly through 
his gills, sending oxygen back to his brain. He 
stretched out his hands in front of him and stared at 
them. They looked green and ghostly under the water, 
and they had become webbed. He twisted around and 
looked at his bare feet — they had become elongated 
and the toes were webbed too: It looked as though he 
had sprouted flippers. 

The water didn’t feel icy anymore either ... on the 
contrary, he felt pleasantly cool and very light. ... 
Harry struck out once more, marveling at how far and 
fast his flipper-like feet propelled him through the 
water, and noticing how clearly he could see, and how 
he no longer seemed to need to blink. He had soon 
swum so far into the lake that he could no longer see 
the bottom. He flipped over and dived into its depths. 

Silence pressed upon his ears as he soared over a 
strange, dark, foggy landscape. He could only see ten 
feet around him, so that as he sped through the water 
new scenes seemed to loom suddenly out of the 
oncoming darkness: forests of rippling, tangled black 
weed, wide plains of mud littered with dull, 
glimmering stones. He swam deeper and deeper, out 
toward the middle of the lake, his eyes wide, staring 
through the eerily gray-lit water around him to the 
shadows beyond, where the water became opaque. 

Small fish flickered past him like silver darts. Once or 
twice he thought he saw something larger moving 

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ahead of him, but when he got nearer, he discovered 
it to be nothing but a large, blackened log, or a dense 
clump of weed. There was no sign of any of the other 
champions, merpeople, Ron — nor, thankfully, the 
giant squid. 

Light green weed stretched ahead of him as far as he 
could see, two feet deep, like a meadow of very 
overgrown grass. Harry was staring unblinkingly 
ahead of him, trying to discern shapes through the 
gloom . . . and then, without warning, something 
grabbed hold of his ankle. 

Harry twisted his body around and saw a grindylow, a 
small, horned water demon, poking out of the weed, 
its long fingers clutched tightly around Harry’s leg, its 
pointed fangs bared — Harry stuck his webbed hand 
quickly inside his robes and fumbled for his wand. By 
the time he had grasped it, two more grindylows had 
risen out of the weed, had seized handfuls of Harry’s 
robes, and were attempting to drag him down. 

“Relashio\” Harry shouted, except that no sound came 
out. ... A large bubble issued from his mouth, and his 
wand, instead of sending sparks at the grindylows, 
pelted them with what seemed to be a jet of boiling 
water, for where it struck them, angry red patches 
appeared on their green skin. Harry pulled his ankle 
out of the grindylows grip and swam, as fast as he 
could, occasionally sending more jets of hot water 
over his shoulder at random; every now and then he 
felt one of the grindylows snatch at his foot again, 
and he kicked out, hard; finally, he felt his foot 
connect with a horned skull, and looking back, saw 
the dazed grindylow floating away, cross-eyed, while 
its fellows shook their fists at Harry and sank back 
into the weed. 



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Harry slowed down a little, slipped his wand back 
inside his robes, and looked around, listening again. 
He turned full circle in the water, the silence pressing 
harder than ever against his eardrums. He knew he 
must be even deeper in the lake now, but nothing was 
moving but the rippling weed. 

“How are you getting on?” 

Harry thought he was having a heart attack. He 
whipped around and saw Moaning Myrtle floating 
hazily in front of him, gazing at him through her 
thick, pearly glasses. 

“Myrtle!” Harry tried to shout — but once again, 
nothing came out of his mouth but a very large 
bubble. Moaning Myrtle actually giggled. 

“You want to try over there!” she said, pointing. “I 
won’t come with you. ... I don’t like them much, they 
always chase me when I get too close. ...” 

Harry gave her the thumbs-up to show his thanks 
and set off once more, careful to swim a bit higher 
over the weed to avoid any more grindylows that 
might be lurking there. 

He swam on for what felt like at least twenty minutes. 
He was passing over vast expanses of black mud now, 
which swirled murkily as he disturbed the water. 
Then, at long last, he heard a snatch of haunting 
mersong. 

“An hour long you’ll have to look, 

And to recover what we took ...” 

Harry swam faster and soon saw a large rock emerge 
out of the muddy water ahead. It had paintings of 

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merpeople on it; they were carrying spears and 
chasing what looked like the giant squid. Harry swam 
on past the rock, following the mersong. 

"... your time’s half gone, so tarry not 

Lest what you seek stays here to rot. ...” 

A cluster of crude stone dwellings stained with algae 
loomed suddenly out of the gloom on all sides. Here 
and there at the dark windows, Harry saw faces ... 
faces that bore no resemblance at all to the painting 
of the mermaid in the prefects’ bathroom. ... 

The merpeople had grayish skin and long, wild, dark 
green hair. Their eyes were yellow, as were their 
broken teeth, and they wore thick ropes of pebbles 
around their necks. They leered at Harry as he swam 
past; one or two of them emerged from their caves to 
watch him better, their powerful, silver fish tails 
beating the water, spears clutched in their hands. 

Harry sped on, staring around, and soon the 
dwellings became more numerous; there were 
gardens of weed around some of them, and he even 
saw a pet grindylow tied to a stake outside one door. 
Merpeople were emerging on all sides now, watching 
him eagerly, pointing at his webbed hands and gills, 
talking behind their hands to one another. Harry sped 
around a corner and a very strange sight met his 
eyes. 

A whole crowd of merpeople was floating in front of 
the houses that lined what looked like a mer-version 
of a village square. A choir of merpeople was singing 
in the middle, calling the champions toward them, 
and behind them rose a crude sort of statue; a 
gigantic merperson hewn from a boulder. Four people 
were bound tightly to the tail of the stone merperson. 
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Ron was tied between Hermione and Cho Chang. 
There was also a girl who looked no older than eight, 
whose clouds of silvery hair made Harry feel sure that 
she was Fleur Delacour’s sister. All four of them 
appeared to be in a very deep sleep. Their heads were 
lolling onto their shoulders, and fine streams of 
bubbles kept issuing from their mouths. 

Harry sped toward the hostages, half expecting the 
merpeople to lower their spears and charge at him, 
but they did nothing. The ropes of weed tying the 
hostages to the statue were thick, slimy, and very 
strong. For a fleeting second he thought of the knife 
Sirius had bought him for Christmas — locked in his 
trunk in the castle a quarter of a mile away, no use to 
him whatsoever. 

He looked around. Many of the merpeople 
surrounding them were carrying spears. He swam 
swiftly toward a seven-foot-tall merman with a long 
green beard and a choker of shark fangs and tried to 
mime a request to borrow the spear. The merman 
laughed and shook his head. 

“We do not help,” he said in a harsh, croaky voice. 

“Come ON\” Harry said fiercely (but only bubbles 
issued from his mouth), and he tried to pull the spear 
away from the merman, but the merman yanked it 
back, still shaking his head and laughing. 

Harry swirled around, staring about. Something 
sharp ... anything ... 

There were rocks littering the lake bottom. He dived 
and snatched up a particularly jagged one and 
returned to the statue. He began to hack at the ropes 
binding Ron, and after several minutes’ hard work, 
they broke apart. Ron floated, unconscious, a few 
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inches above the lake bottom, drifting a little in the 
ebb of the water. 

Harry looked around. There was no sign of any of the 
other champions. What were they playing at? Why 
didn’t they hurry up? He turned back to Hermione, 
raised the jagged rock, and began to hack at her 
bindings too — 

At once, several pairs of strong gray hands seized 
him. Half a dozen mermen were pulling him away 
from Hermione, shaking their green-haired heads, 
and laughing. 

“You take your own hostage,” one of them said to 
him. “Leave the others ...” 

“No way!” said Harry furiously — but only two large 
bubbles came out. 

“Your task is to retrieve your own friend . . . leave the 
others ...” 

“She’s my friend too!” Harry yelled, gesturing toward 
Hermione, an enormous silver bubble emerging 
soundlessly from his lips. “And I don’t want them to 
die either!” 

Cho’s head was on Hermione ’s shoulder; the small 
silver-haired girl was ghostly green and pale. Harry 
struggled to fight off the mermen, but they laughed 
harder than ever, holding him back. Harry looked 
wildly around. Where were the other champions? 
Would he have time to take Ron to the surface and 
come back down for Hermione and the others? Would 
he be able to find them again? He looked down at his 
watch to see how much time was left — it had 
stopped working. 



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But then the merpeople around him pointed excitedly 
over his head. Harry looked up and saw Cedric 
swimming toward them. There was an enormous 
bubble around his head, which made his features 
look oddly wide and stretched. 

“Got lost!” he mouthed, looking panic-stricken. “Fleur 
and Krum’re coming now!” 

Feeling enormously relieved, Harry watched Cedric 
pull a knife out of his pocket and cut Cho free. He 
pulled her upward and out of sight. 

Harry looked around, waiting. Where were Fleur and 
Krum? Time was getting short, and according to the 
song, the hostages would be lost after an hour. . . . 

The merpeople started screeching animatedly. Those 
holding Harry loosened their grip, staring behind 
them. Harry turned and saw something monstrous 
cutting through the water toward them: a human 
body in swimming trunks with the head of a shark. . . . 
It was Krum. He appeared to have transfigured 
himself — but badly. 

The shark-man swam straight to Hermione and began 
snapping and biting at her ropes; the trouble was that 
Krum’s new teeth were positioned very awkwardly for 
biting anything smaller than a dolphin, and Harry 
was quite sure that if Krum wasn’t careful, he was 
going to rip Hermione in half. Darting forward, Harry 
hit Krum hard on the shoulder and held up the 
jagged stone. Krum seized it and began to cut 
Hermione free. Within seconds, he had done it; he 
grabbed Hermione around the waist, and without a 
backward glance, began to rise rapidly with her 
toward the surface. 



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Now what? Harry thought desperately. If he could be 
sure that Fleur was coming. ... But still no sign. 

There was nothing to be done except . . . 

He snatched up the stone, which Krum had dropped, 
but the mermen now closed in around Ron and the 
little girl, shaking their heads at him. Harry pulled 
out his wand. 

“Get out of the way!” 

Only bubbles flew out of his mouth, but he had the 
distinct impression that the mermen had understood 
him, because they suddenly stopped laughing. Their 
yellowish eyes were fixed upon Harry’s wand, and 
they looked scared. There might be a lot more of them 
than there were of him, but Harry could tell, by the 
looks on their faces, that they knew no more magic 
than the giant squid did. 

“You’ve got until three!” Harry shouted; a great 
stream of bubbles burst from him, but he held up 
three fingers to make sure they got the message. “One 
...” (he put down a finger) “two ...” (he put down a 
second one) — 

They scattered. Harry darted forward and began to 
hack at the ropes binding the small girl to the statue, 
and at last she was free. He seized the little girl 
around the waist, grabbed the neck of Ron’s robes, 
and kicked off from the bottom. 

It was very slow work. He could no longer use his 
webbed hands to propel himself forward; he worked 
his flippers furiously, but Ron and Fleur’s sister were 
like potato-filled sacks dragging him back down. ... 

He fixed his eyes skyward, though he knew he must 
still be very deep, the water above him was so dark. 

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Merpeople were rising with him. He could see them 
swirling around him with ease, watching him struggle 
through the water. ... Would they pull him back down 
to the depths when the time was up? Did they 
perhaps eat humans? Harry’s legs were seizing up 
with the effort to keep swimming; his shoulders were 
aching horribly with the effort of dragging Ron and 
the girl. ... 

He was drawing breath with extreme difficulty. He 
could feel pain on the sides of his neck again ... he 
was becoming very aware of how wet the water was in 
his mouth . . . yet the darkness was definitely thinning 
now ... he could see daylight above him. ... 

He kicked hard with his flippers and discovered that 
they were nothing more than feet . . . water was 
flooding through his mouth into his lungs ... he was 
starting to feel dizzy, but he knew light and air were 
only ten feet above him ... he had to get there ... he 
had to . . . 

Harry kicked his legs so hard and fast it felt as 
though his muscles were screaming in protest; his 
very brain felt waterlogged, he couldn’t breathe, he 
needed oxygen, he had to keep going, he could not 
stop — 

And then he felt his head break the surface of the 
lake; wonderful, cold, clear air was making his wet 
face sting; he gulped it down, feeling as though he 
had never breathed properly before, and, panting, 
pulled Ron and the little girl up with him. All around 
him, wild, green-haired heads were emerging out of 
the water with him, but they were smiling at him. 

The crowd in the stands was making a great deal of 
noise; shouting and screaming, they all seemed to be 
on their feet; Harry had the impression they thought 

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that Ron and the little girl might be dead, but they 
were wrong ... both of them had opened their eyes; 
the girl looked scared and confused, but Ron merely 
expelled a great spout of water, blinked in the bright 
light, turned to Harry, and said, “Wet, this, isn’t it?” 
Then he spotted Fleur’s sister. “What did you bring 
her for?” 

“Fleur didn’t turn up, I couldn’t leave her,” Harry 
panted. 

“Harry, you prat,” said Ron, “you didn’t take that song 
thing seriously, did you? Dumbledore wouldn’t have 
let any of us drown!” 

“The song said — ” 

“It was only to make sure you got back inside the time 
limit!” said Ron. “I hope you didn’t waste time down 
there acting the hero!” 

Harry felt both stupid and annoyed. It was all very 
well for Ron; he’d been asleep, he hadn’t felt how 
eerie it was down in the lake, surrounded by spear- 
carrying merpeople who’d looked more than capable 
of murder. 

“C’mon,” Harry said shortly, “help me with her, I don’t 
think she can swim very well.” 

They pulled Fleur’s sister through the water, back 
toward the bank where the judges stood watching, 
twenty merpeople accompanying them like a guard of 
honor, singing their horrible screechy songs. 

Harry could see Madam Pomfrey fussing over 
Hermione, Krum, Cedric, and Cho, all of whom were 
wrapped in thick blankets. Dumbledore and Ludo 
Bagman stood beaming at Harry and Ron from the 

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bank as they swam nearer, but Percy, who looked 
very white and somehow much younger than usual, 
came splashing out to meet them. Meanwhile 
Madame Maxime was trying to restrain Fleur 
Delacour, who was quite hysterical, fighting tooth and 
nail to return to the water. 

“Gabrielle! Gabrielle\ Is she alive ? Is she ’urt?” 

“She’s fine!” Harry tried to tell her, but he was so 
exhausted he could hardly talk, let alone shout. 

Percy seized Ron and was dragging him back to the 
bank (“Gerroff, Percy, I’m all right!”); Dumbledore and 
Bagman were pulling Harry upright; Fleur had broken 
free of Madame Maxime and was hugging her sister. 

“It was ze grindylows . . . zey attacked me ... oh 
Gabrielle, I thought ... I thought ...” 

“Come here, you,” said Madam Pomfrey. She seized 
Harry and pulled him over to Hermione and the 
others, wrapped him so tightly in a blanket that he 
felt as though he were in a straitjacket, and forced a 
measure of very hot potion down his throat. Steam 
gushed out of his ears. 

“Harry, well done!” Hermione cried. “You did it, you 
found out how all by yourself!” 

“Well — ” said Harry. He would have told her about 
Dobby, but he had just noticed Karkaroff watching 
him. He was the only judge who had not left the table; 
the only judge not showing signs of pleasure and 
relief that Harry, Ron, and Fleur’s sister had got back 
safely. “Yeah, that’s right,” said Harry, raising his 
voice slightly so that Karkaroff could hear him. 



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“You haff a water beetle in your hair, Herm-own- 
ninny,” said Krum. Harry had the impression that 
Krum was drawing her attention back onto himself; 
perhaps to remind her that he had just rescued her 
from the lake, but Hermione brushed away the beetle 
impatiently and said, “You’re well outside the time 
limit, though, Harry. . . . Did it take you ages to find 
us?” 

“No ... I found you okay. ...” 

Harry’s feeling of stupidity was growing. Now he was 
out of the water, it seemed perfectly clear that 
Dumbledore’s safety precautions wouldn’t have 
permitted the death of a hostage just because their 
champion hadn’t turned up. Why hadn’t he just 
grabbed Ron and gone? He would have been first 
back. ... Cedric and Krum hadn’t wasted time 
worrying about anyone else; they hadn’t taken the 
mersong seriously. ... 

Dumbledore was crouching at the water’s edge, deep 
in conversation with what seemed to be the chief 
merperson, a particularly wild and ferocious-looking 
female. He was making the same sort of screechy 
noises that the merpeople made when they were 
above water; clearly, Dumbledore could speak 
Mermish. Finally he straightened up, turned to his 
fellow judges, and said, “A conference before we give 
the marks, I think.” 

The judges went into a huddle. Madam Pomfrey had 
gone to rescue Ron from Percy’s clutches; she led him 
over to Harry and the others, gave him a blanket and 
some Pepperup Potion, then went to fetch Fleur and 
her sister. Fleur had many cuts on her face and arms 
and her robes were torn, but she didn’t seem to care, 
nor would she allow Madam Pomfrey to clean them. 



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“Look after Gabrielle,” she told her, and then she 
turned to Harry. “You saved ’er,” she said 
breathlessly. “Even though she was not your ’ostage.” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, who was now heartily wishing 
he’d left all three girls tied to the statue. 

Fleur bent down, kissed Harry twice on each cheek 
(he felt his face burn and wouldn’t have been 
surprised if steam was coming out of his ears again), 
then said to Ron, “And you too — you ’elped — ” 

“Yeah,” said Ron, looking extremely hopeful, “yeah, a 
bit — ” 



Fleur swooped down on him too and kissed him. 
Hermione looked simply furious, but just then, Ludo 
Bagman’s magically magnified voice boomed out 
beside them, making them all jump, and causing the 
crowd in the stands to go very quiet. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our decision. 
Merchieftainess Murcus has told us exactly what 
happened at the bottom of the lake, and we have 
therefore decided to award marks out of fifty for each 
of the champions, as follows. ... 

“Fleur Delacour, though she demonstrated excellent 
use of the Bubble-Head Charm, was attacked by 
grindylows as she approached her goal, and failed to 
retrieve her hostage. We award her twenty-five 
points.” 

Applause from the stands. 

“I deserved zero,” said Fleur throatily, shaking her 
magnificent head. 



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“Cedric Diggory, who also used the Bubble-Head 
Charm, was first to return with his hostage, though 
he returned one minute outside the time limit of an 
hour.” Enormous cheers from the Hufflepuffs in the 
crowd; Harry saw Cho give Cedric a glowing look. “We 
therefore award him forty-seven points.” 

Harry’s heart sank. If Cedric had been outside the 
time limit, he most certainly had been. 

“Viktor Krum used an incomplete form of 
Transfiguration, which was nevertheless effective, and 
was second to return with his hostage. We award him 
forty points.” 

Karkaroff clapped particularly hard, looking very 
superior. 

“Harry Potter used gillyweed to great effect,” Bagman 
continued. “He returned last, and well outside the 
time limit of an hour. However, the Merchieftainess 
informs us that Mr. Potter was first to reach the 
hostages, and that the delay in his return was due to 
his determination to return all hostages to safety, not 
merely his own.” 

Ron and Hermione both gave Harry half-exasperated, 
half-commiserating looks. 

“Most of the judges,” and here, Bagman gave 
Karkaroff a very nasty look, “feel that this shows 
moral fiber and merits full marks. However ... Mr. 
Potter’s score is forty-five points.” 

Harry’s stomach leapt — he was now tying for first 
place with Cedric. Ron and Hermione, caught by 
surprise, stared at Harry, then laughed and started 
applauding hard with the rest of the crowd. 



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“There you go, Harry!” Ron shouted over the noise. 
“You weren’t being thick after all — you were showing 
moral fiber!” 

Fleur was clapping very hard too, but Krum didn’t 
look happy at all. He attempted to engage Hermione 
in conversation again, but she was too busy cheering 
Harry to listen. 

“The third and final task will take place at dusk on 
the twenty-fourth of June,” continued Bagman. “The 
champions will be notified of what is coming precisely 
one month beforehand. Thank you all for your 
support of the champions.” 

It was over, Harry thought dazedly, as Madam 
Pomfrey began herding the champions and hostages 
back to the castle to get into dry clothes ... it was 
over, he had got through ... he didn’t have to worry 
about anything now until June the twenty-fourth. ... 

Next time he was in Hogsmeade, Harry decided as he 
walked back up the stone steps into the castle, he 
was going to buy Dobby a pair of socks for every day 
of the year. 



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PADFOOT RETURNS 

One of the best things about the aftermath of the 
second task was that everybody was very keen to hear 
details of what had happened down in the lake, which 
meant that Ron was getting to share Harry’s limelight 
for once. Harry noticed that Ron’s version of events 
changed subtly with every retelling. At first, he gave 
what seemed to be the truth; it tallied with 
Hermione’s story, anyway — Dumbledore had put all 
the hostages into a bewitched sleep in Professor 
McGonagall’s office, first assuring them that they 
would be quite safe, and would awake when they were 
back above the water. One week later, however, Ron 
was telling a thrilling tale of kidnap in which he 
struggled single-handedly against fifty heavily armed 
merpeople who had to beat him into submission 
before tying him up. 

“But I had my wand hidden up my sleeve,” he assured 
Padma Patil, who seemed to be a lot keener on Ron 
now that he was getting so much attention and was 
making a point of talking to him every time they 



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passed in the corridors. “I could’ve taken those mer- 
idiots any time I wanted.” 

“What were you going to do, snore at them?” said 
Hermione waspishly. People had been teasing her so 
much about being the thing that Viktor Krum would 
most miss that she was in a rather tetchy mood. 

Ron’s ears went red, and thereafter, he reverted to the 
bewitched sleep version of events. 

As they entered March the weather became drier, but 
cruel winds skinned their hands and faces every time 
they went out onto the grounds. There were delays in 
the post because the owls kept being blown off 
course. The brown owl that Harry had sent to Sirius 
with the dates of the Hogsmeade weekend turned up 
at breakfast on Friday morning with half its feathers 
sticking up the wrong way; Harry had no sooner torn 
off Sirius’s reply than it took flight, clearly afraid it 
was going to be sent outside again. 

Sirius’s letter was almost as short as the previous 
one. 

Be at stile at end of road out of Hogsmeade (past 
Dervish and Banges) at two o’clock on Saturday 
afternoon. Bring as much food as you can. 

“He hasn’t come back to Hogsmeade?” said Ron 
incredulously. 

“It looks like it, doesn’t it?” said Hermione. 

“I can’t believe him,” said Harry tensely, “if he’s 
caught ...” 



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“Made it so far, though, hasn’t he?” said Ron. “And 
it’s not like the place is swarming with dementors 
anymore.” 

Harry folded up the letter, thinking. If he was honest 
with himself, he really wanted to see Sirius again. He 
therefore approached the final lesson of the afternoon 
— double Potions — feeling considerably more 
cheerful than he usually did when descending the 
steps to the dungeons. 

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing in a huddle 
outside the classroom door with Pansy Parkinson’s 
gang of Slytherin girls. All of them were looking at 
something Harry couldn’t see and sniggering heartily. 
Pansy’s pug-like face peered excitedly around Goyle ’s 
broad back as Harry, Ron, and Hermione approached. 

“There they are, there they are!” she giggled, and the 
knot of Slytherins broke apart. Harry saw that Pansy 
had a magazine in her hands — Witch Weekly. The 
moving picture on the front showed a curly-haired 
witch who was smiling toothily and pointing at a large 
sponge cake with her wand. 

“You might find something to interest you in there, 
Granger!” Pansy said loudly, and she threw the 
magazine at Hermione, who caught it, looking 
startled. At that moment, the dungeon door opened, 
and Snape beckoned them all inside. 

Hermione, Harry, and Ron headed for a table at the 
back of the dungeon as usual. Once Snape had 
turned his back on them to write up the ingredients 
of today’s potion on the blackboard, Hermione hastily 
rifled through the magazine under the desk. At last, 
in the center pages, Hermione found what they were 
looking for. Harry and Ron leaned in closer. A color 
photograph of Harry headed a short piece entitled: 
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Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache 



A boy like no other, perhaps — yet a boy suffering all 
the usual pangs of adolescence, writes Rita Skeeter. 
Deprived of love since the tragic demise of his parents, 
fourteen-year-old Harry Potter thought he had found 
solace in his steady girlfriend at Hogwarts, Muggle- 
born Hermione Granger. Little did he know that he 
would shortly be suffering yet another emotional blow 
in a life already littered with personal loss. 

Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to 
have a taste for famous wizards that Harry alone 
cannot satisfy. Since the arrival at Hogwarts of Viktor 
Krum, Bulgarian Seeker and hero of the last World 
Quidditch Cup, Miss Granger has been toying with 
both boys’ affections. Krum, who is openly smitten 
with the devious Miss Granger, has already invited 
her to visit him in Bulgaria over the summer holidays, 
and insists that he has “never felt this way about any 
other girl.” 

However, it might not be Miss Granger’s doubtful 
natural charms that have captured these unfortunate 
boys’ interest. 

“She’s really ugly,” says Pansy Parkinson, a pretty 
and vivacious fourth-year student, “but she’d be well 
up to making a Love Potion, she’s quite brainy. I 
think that’s how she’s doing it.” 

Love Potions are, of course, banned at Hogwarts, and 
no doubt Albus Dumbledore will want to investigate 
these claims. In the meantime, Harry Potter’s well- 
wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his 
heart on a worthier candidate. 

“I told you!” Ron hissed at Hermione as she stared 
down at the article. “I told you not to annoy Rita 

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Skeeter! She’s made you out to be some sort of — of 
scarlet woman!” 

Hermione stopped looking astonished and snorted 
with laughter. “ Scarlet woman?” she repeated, 
shaking with suppressed giggles as she looked 
around at Ron. 

“It’s what my mum calls them,” Ron muttered, his 
ears going red. 

“If that’s the best Rita can do, she’s losing her touch,” 
said Hermione, still giggling, as she threw Witch 
Weekly onto the empty chair beside her. “What a pile 
of old rubbish.” 

She looked over at the Slytherins, who were all 
watching her and Harry closely across the room to see 
if they had been upset by the article. Hermione gave 
them a sarcastic smile and a wave, and she, Harry, 
and Ron started unpacking the ingredients they 
would need for their Wit-Sharpening Potion. 

“There’s something funny, though,” said Hermione 
ten minutes later, holding her pestle suspended over 
a bowl of scarab beetles. “How could Rita Skeeter 
have known ... ?” 

“Known what?” said Ron quickly. “You haven’t been 
mixing up Love Potions, have you?” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Hermione snapped, starting to 
pound up her beetles again. “No, it’s just ... how did 
she know Viktor asked me to visit him over the 
summer?” 

Hermione blushed scarlet as she said this and 
determinedly avoided Ron’s eyes. 



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“What?” said Ron, dropping his pestle with a loud 
clunk. 



“He asked me right after he’d pulled me out of the 
lake,” Hermione muttered. “After he’d got rid of his 
shark’s head. Madam Pomfrey gave us both blankets 
and then he sort of pulled me away from the judges 
so they wouldn’t hear, and he said, if I wasn’t doing 
anything over the summer, would I like to — ” 

“And what did you say?” said Ron, who had picked up 
his pestle and was grinding it on the desk, a good six 
inches from his bowl, because he was looking at 
Hermione. 

“And he did say he’d never felt the same way about 
anyone else,” Hermione went on, going so red now 
that Harry could almost feel the heat coming from 
her, “but how could Rita Skeeter have heard him? 

She wasn’t there ... or was she? Maybe she has got an 
Invisibility Cloak; maybe she sneaked onto the 
grounds to watch the second task. ...” 

“And what did you say?” Ron repeated, pounding his 
pestle down so hard that it dented the desk. 

“Well, I was too busy seeing whether you and Harry 
were okay to — ” 

“Fascinating though your social life undoubtedly is, 
Miss Granger,” said an icy voice right behind them, 
and all three of them jumped, “I must ask you not to 
discuss it in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor.” 

Snape had glided over to their desk while they were 
talking. The whole class was now looking around at 
them; Malfoy took the opportunity to flash POTTER 
STINKS across the dungeon at Harry. 



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“Ah . . . reading magazines under the table as well?” 
Snape added, snatching up the copy of Witch Weekly. 
“A further ten points from Gryffindor ... oh but of 
course ...” Snape’s black eyes glittered as they fell on 
Rita Skeeter’s article. “Potter has to keep up with his 
press cuttings. ...” 

The dungeon rang with the Slytherins’ laughter, and 
an unpleasant smile curled Snape’s thin mouth. To 
Harry’s fury, he began to read the article aloud. 

“ ‘Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache . . . dear, dear, 

Potter, what’s ailing you now? ‘A boy like no other, 
perhaps ...’ ” 

Harry could feel his face burning. Snape was pausing 
at the end of every sentence to allow the Slytherins a 
hearty laugh. The article sounded ten times worse 
when read by Snape. Even Hermione was blushing 
scarlet now. 

“ ‘. . . Harry Potter’s well-wishers must hope that, next 
time, he bestows his heart upon a worthier candidate.’ 
How very touching,” sneered Snape, rolling up the 
magazine to continued gales of laughter from the 
Slytherins. “Well, I think I had better separate the 
three of you, so you can keep your minds on your 
potions rather than on your tangled love lives. 
Weasley, you stay here. Miss Granger, over there, 
beside Miss Parkinson. Potter — that table in front of 
my desk. Move. Now.” 

Furious, Harry threw his ingredients and his bag into 
his cauldron and dragged it up to the front of the 
dungeon to the empty table. Snape followed, sat down 
at his desk and watched Harry unload his cauldron. 
Determined not to look at Snape, Harry resumed the 
mashing of his scarab beetles, imagining each one to 
have Snape’s face. 

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“All this press attention seems to have inflated your 
already over-large head, Potter,” said Snape quietly, 
once the rest of the class had settled down again. 

Harry didn’t answer. He knew Snape was trying to 
provoke him; he had done this before. No doubt he 
was hoping for an excuse to take a round fifty points 
from Gryffindor before the end of the class. 

“You might be laboring under the delusion that the 
entire wizarding world is impressed with you,” Snape 
went on, so quietly that no one else could hear him 
(Harry continued to pound his scarab beetles, even 
though he had already reduced them to a very fine 
powder), “but I don’t care how many times your 
picture appears in the papers. To me, Potter, you are 
nothing but a nasty little boy who considers rules to 
be beneath him.” 

Harry tipped the powdered beetles into his cauldron 
and started cutting up his ginger roots. His hands 
were shaking slightly out of anger, but he kept his 
eyes down, as though he couldn’t hear what Snape 
was saying to him. 

“So I give you fair warning, Potter,” Snape continued 
in a softer and more dangerous voice, “pint-sized 
celebrity or not — if I catch you breaking into my 
office one more time — ” 

“I haven’t been anywhere near your office!” said Harry 
angrily, forgetting his feigned deafness. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Snape hissed, his fathomless black 
eyes boring into Harry’s. “Boomslang skin. Gillyweed. 
Both come from my private stores, and I know who 
stole them.” 



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Harry stared back at Snape, determined not to blink 
or to look guilty. In truth, he hadn’t stolen either of 
these things from Snape. Hermione had taken the 
boomslang skin back in their second year — they had 
needed it for the Polyjuice Potion — and while Snape 
had suspected Harry at the time, he had never been 
able to prove it. Dobby, of course, had stolen the 
gillyweed. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry lied 
coldly. 

“You were out of bed on the night my office was 
broken into!” Snape hissed. “I know it, Potter! Now, 
Mad-Eye Moody might have joined your fan club, but 
I will not tolerate your behavior! One more nighttime 
stroll into my office, Potter, and you will pay!” 

“Right,” said Harry coolly, turning back to his ginger 
roots. “I’ll bear that in mind if I ever get the urge to go 
in there.” 

Snape’s eyes flashed. He plunged a hand into the 
inside of his black robes. For one wild moment, Harry 
thought Snape was about to pull out his wand and 
curse him — then he saw that Snape had drawn out a 
small crystal bottle of a completely clear potion. Harry 
stared at it. 

“Do you know what this is, Potter?” Snape said, his 
eyes glittering dangerously again. 

“No,” said Harry, with complete honesty this time. 

“It is Veritaserum — a Truth Potion so powerful that 
three drops would have you spilling your innermost 
secrets for this entire class to hear,” said Snape 
viciously. “Now, the use of this potion is controlled by 
very strict Ministry guidelines. But unless you watch 
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your step, you might just find that my hand slips” — 
he shook the crystal bottle slightly — “right over your 
evening pumpkin juice. And then, Potter ... then we’ll 
find out whether you’ve been in my office or not.” 

Harry said nothing. He turned back to his ginger 
roots once more, picked up his knife, and started 
slicing them again. He didn’t like the sound of that 
Truth Potion at all, nor would he put it past Snape to 
slip him some. He repressed a shudder at the thought 
of what might come spilling out of his mouth if Snape 
did it . . . quite apart from landing a whole lot of people 
in trouble — Hermione and Dobby for a start — there 
were all the other things he was concealing . . . like the 
fact that he was in contact with Sirius . . . and — his 
insides squirmed at the thought — how he felt about 
Cho. ... He tipped his ginger roots into the cauldron 
too, and wondered whether he ought to take a leaf out 
of Moody’s book and start drinking only from a 
private hip flask. 

There was a knock on the dungeon door. 

“Enter,” said Snape in his usual voice. 

The class looked around as the door opened. 

Professor Karkaroff came in. Everyone watched him 
as he walked up toward Snape ’s desk. He was 
twisting his finger around his goatee and looking 
agitated. 

“We need to talk,” said Karkaroff abruptly when he 
had reached Snape. He seemed so determined that 
nobody should hear what he was saying that he was 
barely opening his lips; it was as though he were a 
rather poor ventriloquist. Harry kept his eyes on his 
ginger roots, listening hard. 



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“I’ll talk to you after my lesson, Karkaroff,” Snape 
muttered, but Karkaroff interrupted him. 

“I want to talk now, while you can’t slip off, Severus. 
You’ve been avoiding me.” 

“After the lesson,” Snape snapped. 

Under the pretext of holding up a measuring cup to 
see if he’d poured out enough armadillo bile, Harry 
sneaked a sidelong glance at the pair of them. 
Karkaroff looked extremely worried, and Snape looked 
angry. 

Karkaroff hovered behind Snape ’s desk for the rest of 
the double period. He seemed intent on preventing 
Snape from slipping away at the end of class. Keen to 
hear what Karkaroff wanted to say, Harry deliberately 
knocked over his bottle of armadillo bile with two 
minutes to go to the bell, which gave him an excuse 
to duck down behind his cauldron and mop up while 
the rest of the class moved noisily toward the door. 

“What’s so urgent?” he heard Snape hiss at Karkaroff. 

“This,” said Karkaroff, and Harry, peering around the 
edge of his cauldron, saw Karkaroff pull up the left- 
hand sleeve of his robe and show Snape something on 
his inner forearm. 

“Well?” said Karkaroff, still making every effort not to 
move his lips. “Do you see? It’s never been this clear, 
never since — ” 

“Put it away!” snarled Snape, his black eyes sweeping 
the classroom. 

“But you must have noticed — ” Karkaroff began in an 
agitated voice. 

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“We can talk later, Karkaroff!” spat Snape. “Potter! 
What are you doing?” 

“Clearing up my armadillo bile, Professor,” said Harry 
innocently, straightening up and showing Snape the 
sodden rag he was holding. 

Karkaroff turned on his heel and strode out of the 
dungeon. He looked both worried and angry. Not 
wanting to remain alone with an exceptionally angry 
Snape, Harry threw his books and ingredients back 
into his bag and left at top speed to tell Ron and 
Hermione what he had just witnessed. 

They left the castle at noon the next day to find a 
weak silver sun shining down upon the grounds. The 
weather was milder than it had been all year, and by 
the time they arrived in Hogsmeade, all three of them 
had taken off their cloaks and thrown them over their 
shoulders. The food Sirius had told them to bring was 
in Harry’s bag; they had sneaked a dozen chicken 
legs, a loaf of bread, and a flask of pumpkin juice 
from the lunch table. 

They went into Gladrags Wizardwear to buy a present 
for Dobby, where they had fun selecting the most 
lurid socks they could find, including a pair patterned 
with flashing gold and silver stars, and another that 
screamed loudly when they became too smelly. Then, 
at half past one, they made their way up the High 
Street, past Dervish and Banges, and out toward the 
edge of the village. 

Harry had never been in this direction before. The 
winding lane was leading them out into the wild 
countryside around Hogsmeade. The cottages were 
fewer here, and their gardens larger; they were 
walking toward the foot of the mountain in whose 
shadow Hogsmeade lay. Then they turned a corner 
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and saw a stile at the end of the lane. Waiting for 
them, its front paws on the topmost bar, was a very 
large, shaggy black dog, which was carrying some 
newspapers in its mouth and looking very familiar. . . . 

“Hello, Sirius,” said Harry when they had reached 
him. 

The black dog sniffed Harry’s bag eagerly, wagged its 
tail once, then turned and began to trot away from 
them across the scrubby patch of ground that rose to 
meet the rocky foot of the mountain. Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione climbed over the stile and followed. 

Sirius led them to the very foot of the mountain, 
where the ground was covered with boulders and 
rocks. It was easy for him, with his four paws, but 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were soon out of breath. 
They followed Sirius higher, up onto the mountain 
itself. For nearly half an hour they climbed a steep, 
winding, and stony path, following Sirius’s wagging 
tail, sweating in the sun, the shoulder straps of 
Harry’s bag cutting into his shoulders. 

Then, at last, Sirius slipped out of sight, and when 
they reached the place where he had vanished, they 
saw a narrow fissure in the rock. They squeezed into 
it and found themselves in a cool, dimly lit cave. 
Tethered at the end of it, one end of his rope around a 
large rock, was Buckbeak the hippogriff. Half gray 
horse, half giant eagle, Buckbeak’s fierce orange eye 
flashed at the sight of them. All three of them bowed 
low to him, and after regarding them imperiously for a 
moment, Buckbeak bent his scaly front knees and 
allowed Hermione to rush forward and stroke his 
feathery neck. Harry, however, was looking at the 
black dog, which had just turned into his godfather. 



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Sirius was wearing ragged gray robes; the same ones 
he had been wearing when he had left Azkaban. His 
black hair was longer than it had been when he had 
appeared in the fire, and it was untidy and matted 
once more. He looked very thin. 

“Chicken!” he said hoarsely after removing the old 
Daily Prophets from his mouth and throwing them 
down onto the cave floor. 

Harry pulled open his bag and handed over the 
bundle of chicken legs and bread. 

“Thanks,” said Sirius, opening it, grabbing a 
drumstick, sitting down on the cave floor, and tearing 
off a large chunk with his teeth. “I’ve been living off 
rats mostly. Can’t steal too much food from 
Hogsmeade; I’d draw attention to myself.” 

He grinned up at Harry, but Harry returned the grin 
only reluctantly. 

“What’re you doing here, Sirius?” he said. 

“Fulfilling my duty as godfather,” said Sirius, gnawing 
on the chicken bone in a very doglike way. “Don’t 
worry about it, I’m pretending to be a lovable stray.” 

He was still grinning, but seeing the anxiety in 
Harry’s face, said more seriously, “I want to be on the 
spot. Your last letter ... well, let’s just say things are 
getting fishier. I’ve been stealing the paper every time 
someone throws one out, and by the looks of things, 
I’m not the only one who’s getting worried.” 

He nodded at the yellowing Daily Prophets on the cave 
floor, and Ron picked them up and unfolded them. 
Harry, however, continued to stare at Sirius. 



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“What if they catch you? What if you’re seen?” 

“You three and Dumbledore are the only ones around 
here who know I’m an Animagus,” said Sirius, 
shrugging, and continuing to devour the chicken leg. 

Ron nudged Harry and passed him the Daily 
Prophets. There were two: The first bore the headline 
Mystery Illness of Bartemius Crouch, the second, 
Ministry Witch Still Missing — Minister of Magic Now 
Personally Involved. 

Harry scanned the story about Crouch. Phrases 
jumped out at him: hasn’t been seen in public since 
November ... house appears deserted ... St. Mungo’s 
Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries decline 
comment . . . Ministry refuses to confirm rumors of 
critical illness. . . . 

“They’re making it sound like he’s dying,” said Harry 
slowly. “But he can’t be that ill if he managed to get 
up here. ...” 

“My brother’s Crouch’s personal assistant,” Ron 
informed Sirius. “He says Crouch is suffering from 
overwork.” 

“Mind you, he did look ill, last time I saw him up 
close,” said Harry slowly, still reading the story. “The 
night my name came out of the goblet. ...” 

“Getting his comeuppance for sacking Winky, isn’t 
he?” said Hermione, an edge to her voice. She was 
stroking Buckbeak, who was crunching up Sirius’s 
chicken bones. “I bet he wishes he hadn’t done it now 
— bet he feels the difference now she’s not there to 
look after him.” 



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“Hermione’s obsessed with house-elfs,” Ron muttered 
to Sirius, casting Hermione a dark look. Sirius, 
however, looked interested. 

“Crouch sacked his house-elf?” 

“Yeah, at the Quidditch World Cup,” said Harry, and 
he launched into the story of the Dark Mark’s 
appearance, and Winky being found with Harry’s 
wand clutched in her hand, and Mr. Crouch’s fury. 
When Harry had finished, Sirius was on his feet again 
and had started pacing up and down the cave. 

“Let me get this straight,” he said after a while, 
brandishing a fresh chicken leg. “You first saw the elf 
in the Top Box. She was saving Crouch a seat, right?” 

“Right,” said Harry, Ron, and Hermione together. 

“But Crouch didn’t turn up for the match?” 

“No,” said Harry. “I think he said he’d been too busy.” 

Sirius paced all around the cave in silence. Then he 
said, “Harry, did you check your pockets for your 
wand after you’d left the Top Box?” 

“Erm ...” Harry thought hard. “No,” he said finally. “I 
didn’t need to use it before we got in the forest. And 
then I put my hand in my pocket, and all that was in 
there were my Omnioculars.” He stared at Sirius. “Are 
you saying whoever conjured the Mark stole my wand 
in the Top Box?” 

“It’s possible,” said Sirius. 

“Winky didn’t steal that wand!” Hermione insisted. 



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“The elf wasn’t the only one in that box,” said Sirius, 
his brow furrowed as he continued to pace. “Who else 
was sitting behind you?” 

“Loads of people,” said Harry. “Some Bulgarian 
ministers ... Cornelius Fudge ... the Malfoys ...” 

“The Malfoys!” said Ron suddenly, so loudly that his 
voice echoed all around the cave, and Buckbeak 
tossed his head nervously. “I bet it was Lucius 
Malfoy!” 

“Anyone else?” said Sirius. 

“No one,” said Harry. 

“Yes, there was, there was Ludo Bagman,” Hermione 
reminded him. 

“Oh yeah ...” 

“I don’t know anything about Bagman except that he 
used to be Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps,” said 
Sirius, still pacing. “What’s he like?” 

“He’s okay,” said Harry. “He keeps offering to help me 
with the Triwizard Tournament.” 

“Does he, now?” said Sirius, frowning more deeply. “I 
wonder why he’d do that?” 

“Says he’s taken a liking to me,” said Harry. 

“Hmm,” said Sirius, looking thoughtful. 

“We saw him in the forest just before the Dark Mark 
appeared,” Hermione told Sirius. “Remember?” she 
said to Harry and Ron. 



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“Yeah, but he didn’t stay in the forest, did he?” said 
Ron. “The moment we told him about the riot, he 
went off to the campsite.” 

“How d’you know?” Hermione shot back. “How d’you 
know where he Disapparated to?” 

“Come off it,” said Ron incredulously. “Are you saying 
you reckon Ludo Bagman conjured the Dark Mark?” 

“It’s more likely he did it than Winky,” said Hermione 
stubbornly. 

“Told you,” said Ron, looking meaningfully at Sirius, 
“told you she’s obsessed with house — ” 

But Sirius held up a hand to silence Ron. 

“When the Dark Mark had been conjured, and the elf 
had been discovered holding Harry’s wand, what did 
Crouch do?” 

“Went to look in the bushes,” said Harry, “but there 
wasn’t anyone else there.” 

“Of course,” Sirius muttered, pacing up and down, “of 
course, he’d want to pin it on anyone but his own elf 
. . . and then he sacked her?” 

“Yes,” said Hermione in a heated voice, “he sacked 
her, just because she hadn’t stayed in her tent and let 
herself get trampled — ” 

“Hermione, will you give it a rest with the elf!” said 
Ron. 

Sirius shook his head and said, “She’s got the 
measure of Crouch better than you have, Ron. If you 



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want to know what a man’s like, take a good look at 
how he treats his inferiors, not his equals.” 

He ran a hand over his unshaven face, evidently 
thinking hard. 

“All these absences of Barty Crouch’s ... he goes to 
the trouble of making sure his house-elf saves him a 
seat at the Quidditch World Cup, but doesn’t bother 
to turn up and watch. He works very hard to reinstate 
the Triwizard Tournament, and then stops coming to 
that too. ... It’s not like Crouch. If he’s ever taken a 
day off work because of illness before this, I’ll eat 
Buckbeak.” 

“D’you know Crouch, then?” said Harry. 

Sirius’s face darkened. He suddenly looked as 
menacing as he had the night when Harry first met 
him, the night when Harry still believed Sirius to be a 
murderer. 

“Oh I know Crouch all right,” he said quietly. “He was 
the one who gave the order for me to be sent to 
Azkaban — without a trial.” 

“What?” said Ron and Hermione together. 

“You’re kidding!” said Harry. 

“No, I’m not,” said Sirius, taking another great bite of 
chicken. “Crouch used to be Head of the Department 
of Magical Law Enforcement, didn’t you know?” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione shook their heads. 

“He was tipped for the next Minister of Magic,” said 
Sirius. “He’s a great wizard, Barty Crouch, powerfully 
magical — and power-hungry. Oh never a Voldemort 

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supporter,” he said, reading the look on Harry’s face. 
“No, Barty Crouch was always very outspoken against 
the Dark Side. But then a lot of people who were 
against the Dark Side ... well, you wouldn’t 
understand ... you’re too young. ...” 

“That’s what my dad said at the World Cup,” said 
Ron, with a trace of irritation in his voice. “Try us, 
why don’t you?” 

A grin flashed across Sirius’s thin face. 

“All right, I’ll try you. ...” He walked once up the cave, 
back again, and then said, “Imagine that Voldemort’s 
powerful now. You don’t know who his supporters 
are, you don’t know who’s working for him and who 
isn’t; you know he can control people so that they do 
terrible things without being able to stop themselves. 
You’re scared for yourself, and your family, and your 
friends. Every week, news comes of more deaths, 
more disappearances, more torturing ... the Ministry 
of Magic’s in disarray, they don’t know what to do, 
they’re trying to keep everything hidden from the 
Muggles, but meanwhile, Muggles are dying too. 

Terror everywhere ... panic ... confusion ... that’s how 
it used to be. 

“Well, times like that bring out the best in some 
people and the worst in others. Crouch’s principles 
might’ve been good in the beginning — I wouldn’t 
know. He rose quickly through the Ministry, and he 
started ordering very harsh measures against 
Voldemort’s supporters. The Aurors were given new 
powers — powers to kill rather than capture, for 
instance. And I wasn’t the only one who was handed 
straight to the dementors without trial. Crouch fought 
violence with violence, and authorized the use of the 
Unforgivable Curses against suspects. I would say he 
became as ruthless and cruel as many on the Dark 
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Side. He had his supporters, mind you — plenty of 
people thought he was going about things the right 
way, and there were a lot of witches and wizards 
clamoring for him to take over as Minister of Magic. 
When Voldemort disappeared, it looked like only a 
matter of time until Crouch got the top job. But then 
something rather unfortunate happened. ...” Sirius 
smiled grimly. “Crouch’s own son was caught with a 
group of Death Eaters who’d managed to talk their 
way out of Azkaban. Apparently they were trying to 
find Voldemort and return him to power.” 

“Crouch’s son was caught?” gasped Hermione. 

“Yep,” said Sirius, throwing his chicken bone to 
Buckbeak, flinging himself back down on the ground 
beside the loaf of bread, and tearing it in half. “Nasty 
little shock for old Barty, I’d imagine. Should have 
spent a bit more time at home with his family, 
shouldn’t he? Ought to have left the office early once 
in a while ... gotten to know his own son.” 

He began to wolf down large pieces of bread. 

“ Was his son a Death Eater?” said Harry. 

“No idea,” said Sirius, still stuffing down bread. “I was 
in Azkaban myself when he was brought in. This is 
mostly stuff I’ve found out since I got out. The boy 
was definitely caught in the company of people I’d bet 
my life were Death Eaters — but he might have been 
in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like the 
house-elf.” 

“Did Crouch try and get his son off?” Hermione 
whispered. 

Sirius let out a laugh that was much more like a 
bark. 

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“Crouch let his son off? I thought you had the 
measure of him, Hermione! Anything that threatened 
to tarnish his reputation had to go; he had dedicated 
his whole life to becoming Minister of Magic. You saw 
him dismiss a devoted house-elf because she 
associated him with the Dark Mark again — doesn’t 
that tell you what he’s like? Crouch’s fatherly 
affection stretched just far enough to give his son a 
trial, and by all accounts, it wasn’t much more than 
an excuse for Crouch to show how much he hated the 
boy ... then he sent him straight to Azkaban.” 

“He gave his own son to the dementors?” asked Harry 
quietly. 

“That’s right,” said Sirius, and he didn’t look remotely 
amused now. “I saw the dementors bringing him in, 
watched them through the bars in my cell door. He 
can’t have been more than nineteen. They took him 
into a cell near mine. He was screaming for his 
mother by nightfall. He went quiet after a few days, 
though . . . they all went quiet in the end . . . except 
when they shrieked in their sleep. ...” 

For a moment, the deadened look in Sirius’s eyes 
became more pronounced than ever, as though 
shutters had closed behind them. 

“So he’s still in Azkaban?” Harry said. 

“No,” said Sirius dully. “No, he’s not in there anymore. 
He died about a year after they brought him in.” 

“He died?” 

“He wasn’t the only one,” said Sirius bitterly. “Most go 
mad in there, and plenty stop eating in the end. They 
lose the will to live. You could always tell when a 
death was coming, because the dementors could 

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sense it, they got excited. That boy looked pretty 
sickly when he arrived. Crouch being an important 
Ministry member, he and his wife were allowed a 
deathbed visit. That was the last time I saw Barty 
Crouch, half carrying his wife past my cell. She died 
herself, apparently, shortly afterward. Grief. Wasted 
away just like the boy. Crouch never came for his 
son’s body. The dementors buried him outside the 
fortress; I watched them do it.” 

Sirius threw aside the bread he had just lifted to his 
mouth and instead picked up the flask of pumpkin 
juice and drained it. 

“So old Crouch lost it all, just when he thought he 
had it made,” he continued, wiping his mouth with 
the back of his hand. “One moment, a hero, poised to 
become Minister of Magic . . . next, his son dead, his 
wife dead, the family name dishonored, and, so I’ve 
heard since I escaped, a big drop in popularity. Once 
the boy had died, people started feeling a bit more 
sympathetic toward the son and started asking how a 
nice young lad from a good family had gone so badly 
astray. The conclusion was that his father never 
cared much for him. So Cornelius Fudge got the top 
job, and Crouch was shunted sideways into the 
Department of International Magical Cooperation.” 

There was a long silence. Harry was thinking of the 
way Crouch’s eyes had bulged as he’d looked down at 
his disobedient house-elf back in the wood at the 
Quidditch World Cup. This, then, must have been 
why Crouch had overreacted to Winky being found 
beneath the Dark Mark. It had brought back 
memories of his son, and the old scandal, and his fall 
from grace at the Ministry. 

“Moody says Crouch is obsessed with catching Dark 
wizards,” Harry told Sirius. 

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“Yeah, I’ve heard it’s become a bit of a mania with 
him,” said Sirius, nodding. “If you ask me, he still 
thinks he can bring back the old popularity by 
catching one more Death Eater.” 

“And he sneaked up here to search Snape’s office!” 
said Ron triumphantly, looking at Hermione. 

“Yes, and that doesn’t make sense at all,” said Sirius. 

“Yeah, it does!” said Ron excitedly, but Sirius shook 
his head. 

“Listen, if Crouch wants to investigate Snape, why 
hasn’t he been coming to judge the tournament? It 
would be an ideal excuse to make regular visits to 
Hogwarts and keep an eye on him.” 

“So you think Snape could be up to something, then?” 
asked Harry, but Hermione broke in. 

“Look, I don’t care what you say, Dumbledore trusts 
Snape — ” 

“Oh give it a rest, Hermione,” said Ron impatiently. “I 
know Dumbledore ’s brilliant and everything, but that 
doesn’t mean a really clever Dark wizard couldn’t fool 
him — ” 



“Why did Snape save Harry’s life in the first year, 
then? Why didn’t he just let him die?” 

“I dunno — maybe he thought Dumbledore would 
kick him out — ” 

“What d’you think, Sirius?” Harry said loudly, and 
Ron and Hermione stopped bickering to listen. 



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“I think they’ve both got a point,” said Sirius, looking 
thoughtfully at Ron and Hermione. “Ever since I 
found out Snape was teaching here, I’ve wondered 
why Dumbledore hired him. Snape ’s always been 
fascinated by the Dark Arts, he was famous for it at 
school. Slimy, oily, greasy-haired kid, he was,” Sirius 
added, and Harry and Ron grinned at each other. 
“Snape knew more curses when he arrived at school 
than half the kids in seventh year, and he was part of 
a gang of Slytherins who nearly all turned out to be 
Death Eaters.” 

Sirius held up his fingers and began ticking off 
names. 

“Rosier and Wilkes — they were both killed by Aurors 
the year before Voldemort fell. The Lestranges — 
they’re a married couple — they’re in Azkaban. Avery 

— from what I’ve heard he wormed his way out of 
trouble by saying he’d been acting under the Imperius 
Curse — he’s still at large. But as far as I know, 

Snape was never even accused of being a Death Eater 

— not that that means much. Plenty of them were 
never caught. And Snape ’s certainly clever and 
cunning enough to keep himself out of trouble.” 

“Snape knows Karkaroff pretty well, but he wants to 
keep that quiet,” said Ron. 

“Yeah, you should’ve seen Snape’s face when 
Karkaroff turned up in Potions yesterday!” said Harry 
quickly. “Karkaroff wanted to talk to Snape, he says 
Snape’s been avoiding him. Karkaroff looked really 
worried. He showed Snape something on his arm, but 
I couldn’t see what it was.” 

“He showed Snape something on his arm?” said 
Sirius, looking frankly bewildered. He ran his fingers 
distractedly through his filthy hair, then shrugged 

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again. “Well, I’ve no idea what that’s about ... but if 
Karkaroff’s genuinely worried, and he’s going to 
Snape for answers ...” 

Sirius stared at the cave wall, then made a grimace of 
frustration. 

“There’s still the fact that Dumbledore trusts Snape, 
and I know Dumbledore trusts where a lot of other 
people wouldn’t, but I just can’t see him letting Snape 
teach at Hogwarts if he’d ever worked for Voldemort.” 

“Why are Moody and Crouch so keen to get into 
Snape ’s office then?” said Ron stubbornly. 

“Well,” said Sirius slowly, “I wouldn’t put it past Mad- 
Eye to have searched every single teacher’s office 
when he got to Hogwarts. He takes his Defense 
Against the Dark Arts seriously, Moody. I’m not sure 
he trusts anyone at all, and after the things he’s seen, 
it’s not surprising. I’ll say this for Moody, though, he 
never killed if he could help it. Always brought people 
in alive where possible. He was tough, but he never 
descended to the level of the Death Eaters. Crouch, 
though ... he’s a different matter ... is he really ill? If 
he is, why did he make the effort to drag himself up to 
Snape ’s office? And if he’s not ... what’s he up to? 
What was he doing at the World Cup that was so 
important he didn’t turn up in the Top Box? What’s 
he been doing while he should have been judging the 
tournament?” 

Sirius lapsed into silence, still staring at the cave 
wall. Buckbeak was ferreting around on the rocky 
floor, looking for bones he might have overlooked. 
Finally, Sirius looked up at Ron. 



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“You say your brother’s Crouch’s personal assistant? 
Any chance you could ask him if he’s seen Crouch 
lately?” 

“I can try,” said Ron doubtfully. “Better not make it 
sound like I reckon Crouch is up to anything dodgy, 
though. Percy loves Crouch.” 

“And you might try and find out whether they’ve got 
any leads on Bertha Jorkins while you’re at it,” said 
Sirius, gesturing to the second copy of the Daily 
Prophet. 

“Bagman told me they hadn’t,” said Harry. 

“Yes, he’s quoted in the article in there,” said Sirius, 
nodding at the paper. “Blustering on about how bad 
Bertha’s memory is. Well, maybe she’s changed since 
I knew her, but the Bertha I knew wasn’t forgetful at 
all — quite the reverse. She was a bit dim, but she 
had an excellent memory for gossip. It used to get her 
into a lot of trouble; she never knew when to keep her 
mouth shut. I can see her being a bit of a liability at 
the Ministry of Magic ... maybe that’s why Bagman 
didn’t bother to look for her for so long. ...” 

Sirius heaved an enormous sigh and rubbed his 
shadowed eyes. 

“What’s the time?” 

Harry checked his watch, then remembered it hadn’t 
been working since it had spent over an hour in the 
lake. 

“It’s half past three,” said Hermione. 

“You’d better get back to school,” Sirius said, getting 
to his feet. “Now listen ...” He looked particularly hard 

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at Harry. “I don’t want you lot sneaking out of school 
to see me, all right? Just send notes to me here. I still 
want to hear about anything odd. But you’re not to go 
leaving Hogwarts without permission; it would be an 
ideal opportunity for someone to attack you.” 

“No one’s tried to attack me so far, except a dragon 
and a couple of grindylows,” Harry said, but Sirius 
scowled at him. 

“I don’t care ... I’ll breathe freely again when this 
tournament’s over, and that’s not until June. And 
don’t forget, if you’re talking about me among 
yourselves, call me Snuffles, okay?” 

He handed Harry the empty napkin and flask and 
went to pat Buckbeak good-bye. “I’ll walk to the edge 
of the village with you,” said Sirius, “see if I can 
scrounge another paper.” 

He transformed into the great black dog before they 
left the cave, and they walked back down the 
mountainside with him, across the boulder-strewn 
ground, and back to the stile. Here he allowed each of 
them to pat him on the head, before turning and 
setting off at a run around the outskirts of the village. 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way back into 
Hogsmeade and up toward Hogwarts. 

“Wonder if Percy knows all that stuff about Crouch?” 
Ron said as they walked up the drive to the castle. 
“But maybe he doesn’t care ... it’d probably just make 
him admire Crouch even more. Yeah, Percy loves 
rules. He’d just say Crouch was refusing to break 
them for his own son.” 

“Percy would never throw any of his family to the 
dementors,” said Hermione severely. 



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“I don’t know,” said Ron. “If he thought we were 
standing in the way of his career . . . Percy’s really 
ambitious, you know. ...” 

They walked up the stone steps into the entrance 
hall, where the delicious smells of dinner wafted 
toward them from the Great Hall. 

“Poor old Snuffles,” said Ron, breathing deeply. “He 
must really like you, Harry. ... Imagine having to live 
off rats.” 



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THE MADNESS OF MR. CROUCH 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione went up to the Owlery 
after breakfast on Sunday to send a letter to Percy, 
asking, as Sirius had suggested, whether he had seen 
Mr. Crouch lately. They used Hedwig, because it had 
been so long since she’d had a job. When they had 
watched her fly out of sight through the Owlery 
window, they proceeded down to the kitchen to give 
Dobby his new socks. 

The house-elves gave them a very cheery welcome, 
bowing and curtsying and bustling around making 
tea again. Dobby was ecstatic about his present. 

“Harry Potter is too good to Dobby!” he squeaked, 
wiping large tears out of his enormous eyes. 

“You saved my life with that gillyweed, Dobby, you 
really did,” said Harry. 

“No chance of more of those eclairs, is there?” said 
Ron, who was looking around at the beaming and 
bowing house-elves. 

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“You’ve just had breakfast!” said Hermione irritably, 
but a great silver platter of eclairs was already 
zooming toward them, supported by four elves. 

“We should get some stuff to send up to Snuffles,” 
Harry muttered. 

“Good idea,” said Ron. “Give Pig something to do. You 
couldn’t give us a bit of extra food, could you?” he 
said to the surrounding elves, and they bowed 
delightedly and hurried off to get some more. 

“Dobby, where’s Winky?” said Hermione, who was 
looking around. 

“Winky is over there by the fire, miss,” said Dobby 
quietly, his ears drooping slightly. 

“Oh dear,” said Hermione as she spotted Winky. 

Harry looked over at the fireplace too. Winky was 
sitting on the same stool as last time, but she had 
allowed herself to become so filthy that she was not 
immediately distinguishable from the smoke- 
blackened brick behind her. Her clothes were ragged 
and unwashed. She was clutching a bottle of 
butterbeer and swaying slightly on her stool, staring 
into the fire. As they watched her, she gave an 
enormous hiccup. 

“Winky is getting through six bottles a day now,” 
Dobby whispered to Harry. 

“Well, it’s not strong, that stuff,” Harry said. 

But Dobby shook his head. “ Tis strong for a house- 
elf, sir,” he said. 



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Winky hiccuped again. The elves who had brought the 
eclairs gave her disapproving looks as they returned 
to work. 

“Winky is pining, Harry Potter,” Dobby whispered 
sadly. “Winky wants to go home. Winky still thinks 
Mr. Crouch is her master, sir, and nothing Dobby 
says will persuade her that Professor Dumbledore is 
her master now.” 

“Hey, Winky,” said Harry, struck by a sudden 
inspiration, walking over to her, and bending down, 
“you don’t know what Mr. Crouch might be up to, do 
you? Because he’s stopped turning up to judge the 
Triwizard Tournament.” 

Winky’s eyes flickered. Her enormous pupils focused 
on Harry. She swayed slightly again and then said, “M 
— Master is stopped — hie — coming?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, “we haven’t seen him since the 
first task. The Daily Prophet’s saying he’s ill.” 

Winky swayed some more, staring blurrily at Harry. 

“Master — hie — ill?” 

Her bottom lip began to tremble. 

“But we’re not sure if that’s true,” said Hermione 
quickly. 

“Master is needing his — hie — Winky!” whimpered 
the elf. “Master cannot — hie — manage — hie — all 
by himself. ...” 

“Other people manage to do their own housework, 
you know, Winky,” Hermione said severely. 



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“Winky — hie — is not only — hie — doing housework 
for Mr. Crouch!” Winky squeaked indignantly, 
swaying worse than ever and slopping butterbeer 
down her already heavily stained blouse. “Master is — 
hie — trusting Winky with — hie — the most 
important — hie — the most secret — ” 

“What?” said Harry. 

But Winky shook her head very hard, spilling more 
butterbeer down herself. 

“Winky keeps — hie — her master’s secrets,” she said 
mutinously, swaying very heavily now, frowning up at 
Harry with her eyes crossed. “You is — hie — nosing, 
you is.” 

“Winky must not talk like that to Harry Potter!” said 
Dobby angrily. “Harry Potter is brave and noble and 
Harry Potter is not nosy!” 

“He is nosing — hie — into my master’s — hie — 
private and secret — hie — Winky is a good house-elf 
— hie — Winky keeps her silence — hie — people 
trying to — hie — pry and poke — hie — ” 

Winky’s eyelids drooped and suddenly, without 
warning, she slid off her stool into the hearth, snoring 
loudly. The empty bottle of butterbeer rolled away 
across the stone-flagged floor. Half a dozen house- 
elves came hurrying forward, looking disgusted. One 
of them picked up the bottle; the others covered 
Winky with a large checked tablecloth and tucked the 
ends in neatly, hiding her from view. 

“We is sorry you had to see that, sirs and miss!” 
squeaked a nearby elf, shaking his head and looking 
very ashamed. “We is hoping you will not judge us all 
by Winky, sirs and miss!” 

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“She’s unhappy!” said Hermione, exasperated. “Why 
don’t you try and cheer her up instead of covering her 
up?” 

“Begging your pardon, miss,” said the house-elf, 
bowing deeply again, “but house-elves has no right to 
be unhappy when there is work to be done and 
masters to be served.” 

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Hermione cried. “Listen to me, 
all of you! You’ve got just as much right as wizards to 
be unhappy! You’ve got the right to wages and 
holidays and proper clothes, you don’t have to do 
everything you’re told — look at Dobby!” 

“Miss will please keep Dobby out of this,” Dobby 
mumbled, looking scared. The cheery smiles had 
vanished from the faces of the house-elves around the 
kitchen. They were suddenly looking at Hermione as 
though she were mad and dangerous. 

“We has your extra food!” squeaked an elf at Harry’s 
elbow, and he shoved a large ham, a dozen cakes, and 
some fruit into Harry’s arms. “Good-bye!” 

The house-elves crowded around Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione and began shunting them out of the 
kitchen, many little hands pushing in the smalls of 
their backs. 

“Thank you for the socks, Harry Potter!” Dobby called 
miserably from the hearth, where he was standing 
next to the lumpy tablecloth that was Winky. 

“You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you, 
Hermione?” said Ron angrily as the kitchen door 
slammed shut behind them. “They won’t want us 
visiting them now! We could’ve tried to get more stuff 
out of Winky about Crouch!” 

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“Oh as if you care about that!” scoffed Hermione. “You 
only like coming down here for the food!” 

It was an irritable sort of day after that. Harry got so 
tired of Ron and Hermione sniping at each other over 
their homework in the common room that he took 
Sirius’s food up to the Owlery that evening on his 
own. 

Pigwidgeon was much too small to carry an entire 
ham up to the mountain by himself, so Harry enlisted 
the help of two school screech owls as well. When 
they had set off into the dusk, looking extremely odd 
carrying the large package between them, Harry 
leaned on the windowsill, looking out at the grounds, 
at the dark, rustling treetops of the Forbidden Forest, 
and the rippling sails of the Durmstrang ship. An 
eagle owl flew through the coil of smoke rising from 
Hagrid’s chimney; it soared toward the castle, around 
the Owlery, and out of sight. Looking down, Harry 
saw Hagrid digging energetically in front of his cabin. 
Harry wondered what he was doing; it looked as 
though he were making a new vegetable patch. As he 
watched, Madame Maxime emerged from the 
Beauxbatons carriage and walked over to Hagrid. She 
appeared to be trying to engage him in conversation. 
Hagrid leaned upon his spade, but did not seem keen 
to prolong their talk, because Madame Maxime 
returned to the carriage shortly afterward. 

Unwilling to go back to Gryffindor Tower and listen to 
Ron and Hermione snarling at each other, Harry 
watched Hagrid digging until the darkness swallowed 
him and the owls around Harry began to awake, 
swooshing past him into the night. 

By breakfast the next day Ron’s and Hermione’s bad 
moods had burnt out, and to Harry’s relief, Ron’s 
dark predictions that the house-elves would send 

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substandard food up to the Gryffindor table because 
Hermione had insulted them proved false; the bacon, 
eggs, and kippers were quite as good as usual. 

When the post owls arrived, Hermione looked up 
eagerly; she seemed to be expecting something. 

“Percy won’t’ve had time to answer yet,” said Ron. “We 
only sent Hedwig yesterday.” 

“No, it’s not that,” said Hermione. “I’ve taken out a 
subscription to the Daily Prophet I’m getting sick of 
finding everything out from the Slytherins.” 

“Good thinking!” said Harry, also looking up at the 
owls. “Hey, Hermione, I think you’re in luck — ” 

A gray owl was soaring down toward Hermione. 

“It hasn’t got a newspaper, though,” she said, looking 
disappointed. “It’s — ” 

But to her bewilderment, the gray owl landed in front 
of her plate, closely followed by four barn owls, a 
brown owl, and a tawny. 

“How many subscriptions did you take out?” said 
Harry, seizing Hermione ’s goblet before it was 
knocked over by the cluster of owls, all of whom were 
jostling close to her, trying to deliver their own letter 
first. 

“What on earth — ?” Hermione said, taking the letter 
from the gray owl, opening it, and starting to read. 

“Oh really!” she sputtered, going rather red. 

“What’s up?” said Ron. 

“It’s — oh how ridiculous — ” 

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She thrust the letter at Harry, who saw that it was 
not handwritten, but composed from pasted letters 
that seemed to have been cut out of the Daily Prophet. 

You are a WickEd giRL. HarRy PotTER desErves 

BeTteR. GO back wherE you cAMe from mUGgle. 

“They’re all like it!” said Hermione desperately, 
opening one letter after another. “ ‘Harry Potter can do 
much better than the likes of you. ...’ ‘You deserve to 
be boiled in frog spawn. ...’ Ouch!” 

She had opened the last envelope, and yellowish- 
green liquid smelling strongly of petrol gushed over 
her hands, which began to erupt in large yellow boils. 

“Undiluted bubotuber pus!” said Ron, picking up the 
envelope gingerly and sniffing it. 

“Ow!” said Hermione, tears starting in her eyes as she 
tried to rub the pus off her hands with a napkin, but 
her fingers were now so thickly covered in painful 
sores that it looked as though she were wearing a pair 
of thick, knobbly gloves. 

“You’d better get up to the hospital wing,” said Harry 
as the owls around Hermione took flight. “We’ll tell 
Professor Sprout where you’ve gone. ...” 

“I warned her!” said Ron as Hermione hurried out of 
the Great Hall, cradling her hands. “I warned her not 
to annoy Rita Skeeter! Look at this one ...” He read 
out one of the letters Hermione had left behind: “ ‘I 
read in Witch Weekly about how you are playing 
Harry Potter false and that boy has had enough 
hardship and I will be sending you a curse by next 



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post as soon as I can find a big enough envelope.’ 
Blimey, she’d better watch out for herself.” 

Hermione didn’t turn up for Herbology. As Harry and 
Ron left the greenhouse for their Care of Magical 
Creatures class, they saw Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle 
descending the stone steps of the castle. Pansy 
Parkinson was whispering and giggling behind them 
with her gang of Slytherin girls. Catching sight of 
Harry, Pansy called, “Potter, have you split up with 
your girlfriend? Why was she so upset at breakfast?” 

Harry ignored her; he didn’t want to give her the 
satisfaction of knowing how much trouble the Witch 
Weekly article had caused. 

Hagrid, who had told them last lesson that they had 
finished with unicorns, was waiting for them outside 
his cabin with a fresh supply of open crates at his 
feet. Harry’s heart sank at the sight of the crates — 
surely not another skrewt hatching? — but when he 
got near enough to see inside, he found himself 
looking at a number of fluffy black creatures with 
long snouts. Their front paws were curiously flat, like 
spades, and they were blinking up at the class, 
looking politely puzzled at all the attention. 

“These’re nifflers,” said Hagrid, when the class had 
gathered around. “Yeh find ’em down mines mostly. 
They like sparkly stuff. ... There yeh go, look.” 

One of the nifflers had suddenly leapt up and 
attempted to bite Pansy Parkinson’s watch off her 
wrist. She shrieked and jumped backward. 

“Useful little treasure detectors,” said Hagrid happily. 
“Thought we’d have some fun with ’em today. See over 
there?” He pointed at the large patch of freshly turned 
earth Harry had watched him digging from the Owlery 

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window. “I’ve buried some gold coins. I’ve got a prize 
fer whoever picks the niffler that digs up most. Jus’ 
take off all yer valuables, an’ choose a niffler, an’ get 
ready ter set ’em loose.” 

Harry took off his watch, which he was only wearing 
out of habit, as it didn’t work anymore, and stuffed it 
into his pocket. Then he picked up a niffler. It put its 
long snout in Harry’s ear and sniffed enthusiastically. 
It was really quite cuddly. 

“Hang on,” said Hagrid, looking down into the crate, 
“there’s a spare niffler here ... who’s missin’? Where’s 
Hermione?” 

“She had to go to the hospital wing,” said Ron. 

“Well explain later,” Harry muttered; Pansy 
Parkinson was listening. 

It was easily the most fun they had ever had in Care 
of Magical Creatures. The nifflers dived in and out of 
the patch of earth as though it were water, each 
scurrying back to the student who had released it and 
spitting gold into their hands. Ron’s was particularly 
efficient; it had soon filled his lap with coins. 

“Can you buy these as pets, Hagrid?” he asked 
excitedly as his niffler dived back into the soil, 
splattering his robes. 

“Yer mum wouldn’ be happy, Ron,” said Hagrid, 
grinning. “They wreck houses, nifflers. I reckon 
they’ve nearly got the lot, now,” he added, pacing 
around the patch of earth while the nifflers continued 
to dive. “I on’y buried a hundred coins. Oh there 
y’are, Hermione!” 



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Hermione was walking toward them across the lawn. 
Her hands were very heavily bandaged and she looked 
miserable. Pansy Parkinson was watching her 
beadily. 

“Well, let’s check how yeh’ve done!” said Hagrid. 
“Count yer coins! An’ there’s no point tryin’ ter steal 
any, Goyle,” he added, his beetle-black eyes 
narrowed. “It’s leprechaun gold. Vanishes after a few 
hours.” 

Goyle emptied his pockets, looking extremely sulky. It 
turned out that Ron’s niffler had been most 
successful, so Hagrid gave him an enormous slab of 
Honeydukes chocolate for a prize. The bell rang 
across the grounds for lunch; the rest of the class set 
off back to the castle, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
stayed behind to help Hagrid put the nifflers back in 
their boxes. Harry noticed Madame Maxime watching 
them out of her carriage window. 

“What yeh done ter your hands, Hermione?” said 
Hagrid, looking concerned. 

Hermione told him about the hate mail she had 
received that morning, and the envelope full of 
bubotuber pus. 

“Aaah, don’ worry,” said Hagrid gently, looking down 
at her. “I got some o’ those letters an’ all, after Rita 
Skeeter wrote abou’ me mum. ‘Yeh’re a monster an’ 
yeh should be put down.’ ‘Yer mother killed innocent 
people an’ if you had any decency you’d jump in a 
lake. ’ ” 

“No!” said Hermione, looking shocked. 

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, heaving the niffler crates over by 
his cabin wall. “They’re jus’ nutters, Hermione. Don’ 

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open ’em if yeh get any more. Chuck ’em straigh’ in 
the fire.” 



“You missed a really good lesson,” Harry told 
Hermione as they headed back toward the castle. 
“They’re good, nifflers, aren’t they, Ron?” 

Ron, however, was frowning at the chocolate Hagrid 
had given him. He looked thoroughly put out about 
something. 

“What’s the matter?” said Harry. “Wrong flavor?” 

“No,” said Ron shortly. “Why didn’t you tell me about 
the gold?” 

“What gold?” said Harry. 

“The gold I gave you at the Quidditch World Cup,” 
said Ron. “The leprechaun gold I gave you for my 
Omnioculars. In the Top Box. Why didn’t you tell me 
it disappeared?” 

Harry had to think for a moment before he realized 
what Ron was talking about. 

“Oh ...” he said, the memory coming back to him at 
last. “I dunno ... I never noticed it had gone. I was 
more worried about my wand, wasn’t I?” 

They climbed the steps into the entrance hall and 
went into the Great Hall for lunch. 

“Must be nice,” Ron said abruptly, when they had sat 
down and started serving themselves roast beef and 
Yorkshire puddings. “To have so much money you 
don’t notice if a pocketful of Galleons goes missing.” 



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“Listen, I had other stuff on my mind that night!” said 
Harry impatiently. “We all did, remember?” 



“I didn’t know leprechaun gold vanishes,” Ron 
muttered. “I thought I was paying you back. You 
shouldn’t ’ve given me that Chudley Cannon hat for 
Christmas.” 

“Forget it, all right?” said Harry. 

Ron speared a roast potato on the end of his fork, 
glaring at it. Then he said, “I hate being poor.” 

Harry and Hermione looked at each other. Neither of 
them really knew what to say. 

“It’s rubbish,” said Ron, still glaring down at his 
potato. “I don’t blame Fred and George for trying to 
make some extra money. Wish I could. Wish I had a 
niffler.” 

“Well, we know what to get you next Christmas,” said 
Hermione brightly. Then, when Ron continued to look 
gloomy, she said, “Come on, Ron, it could be worse. 

At least your fingers aren’t full of pus.” Hermione was 
having a lot of difficulty managing her knife and fork, 
her fingers were so stiff and swollen. “I hate that 
Skeeter woman!” she burst out savagely. “I’ll get her 
back for this if it’s the last thing I do!” 



Hate mail continued to arrive for Hermione over the 
following week, and although she followed Hagrid’s 
advice and stopped opening it, several of her ill- 
wishers sent Howlers, which exploded at the 
Gryffindor table and shrieked insults at her for the 
whole Hall to hear. Even those people who didn’t read 
Witch Weekly knew all about the supposed Harry- 
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Krum-Hermione triangle now. Harry was getting sick 
of telling people that Hermione wasn’t his girlfriend. 

“It’ll die down, though,” he told Hermione, “if we just 
ignore it. ... People got bored with that stuff she wrote 
about me last time — ” 

“I want to know how she’s listening into private 
conversations when she’s supposed to be banned 
from the grounds!” said Hermione angrily. 

Hermione hung back in their next Defense Against 
the Dark Arts lesson to ask Professor Moody 
something. The rest of the class was very eager to 
leave; Moody had given them such a rigorous test of 
hex-deflection that many of them were nursing small 
injuries. Harry had such a bad case of Twitchy Ears, 
he had to hold his hands clamped over them as he 
walked away from the class. 

“Well, Rita’s definitely not using an Invisibility Cloak!” 
Hermione panted five minutes later, catching up with 
Harry and Ron in the entrance hall and pulling 
Harry’s hand away from one of his wiggling ears so 
that he could hear her. “Moody says he didn’t see her 
anywhere near the judges’ table at the second task, or 
anywhere near the lake!” 

“Hermione, is there any point in telling you to drop 
this?” said Ron. 

“No!” said Hermione stubbornly. “I want to know how 
she heard me talking to Viktor! And how she found 
out about Hagrid’s mum!” 

“Maybe she had you bugged,” said Harry. 

“Bugged?” said Ron blankly. “What ... put fleas on her 
or something?” 

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Harry started explaining about hidden microphones 
and recording equipment. Ron was fascinated, but 
Hermione interrupted them. 

“Aren’t you two ever going to read Hogwarts, A 
History?” 

“What’s the point?” said Ron. “You know it by heart, 
we can just ask you.” 

“All those substitutes for magic Muggles use — 
electricity, computers, and radar, and all those things 
— they all go haywire around Hogwarts, there’s too 
much magic in the air. No, Rita’s using magic to 
eavesdrop, she must be. ... If I could just find out 
what it is ... ooh, if it’s illegal, I’ll have her ...” 

“Haven’t we got enough to worry about?” Ron asked 
her. “Do we have to start a vendetta against Rita 
Skeeter as well?” 

“I’m not asking you to help!” Hermione snapped. “I’ll 
do it on my own!” 

She marched back up the marble staircase without a 
backward glance. Harry was quite sure she was going 
to the library. 

“What’s the betting she comes back with a box of / 
Hate Rita Skeeter badges?” said Ron. 

Hermione, however, did not ask Harry and Ron to 
help her pursue vengeance against Rita Skeeter, for 
which they were both grateful, because their workload 
was mounting ever higher in the days before the 
Easter holidays. Harry frankly marveled at the fact 
that Hermione could research magical methods of 
eavesdropping as well as everything else they had to 
do. He was working flat-out just to get through all 
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their homework, though he made a point of sending 
regular food packages up to the cave in the mountain 
for Sirius; after last summer, Harry had not forgotten 
what it felt like to be continually hungry. He enclosed 
notes to Sirius, telling him that nothing out of the 
ordinary had happened, and that they were still 
waiting for an answer from Percy. 

Hedwig didn’t return until the end of the Easter 
holidays. Percy’s letter was enclosed in a package of 
Easter eggs that Mrs. Weasley had sent. Both Harry’s 
and Ron’s were the size of dragon eggs and full of 
homemade toffee. Hermione’s, however, was smaller 
than a chicken egg. Her face fell when she saw it. 

“Your mum doesn’t read Witch Weekly, by any 
chance, does she, Ron?” she asked quietly. 

“Yeah,” said Ron, whose mouth was full of toffee. 

“Gets it for the recipes.” 

Hermione looked sadly at her tiny egg. 

“Don’t you want to see what Percy’s written?” Harry 
asked her hastily. 

Percy’s letter was short and irritated. 

As I am constantly telling the Daily Prophet, Mr. 

Crouch is taking a well-deserved break. He is sending 
in regular owls with instructions. No, I haven’t actually 
seen him, but I think I can be trusted to know my own 
superior’s handwriting. I have quite enough to do at 
the moment without trying to quash these ridiculous 
rumors. Please don’t bother me again unless it’s 
something important. Happy Easter. 

The start of the summer term would normally have 
meant that Harry was training hard for the last 

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Quidditch match of the season. This year, however, it 
was the third and final task in the Triwizard 
Tournament for which he needed to prepare, but he 
still didn’t know what he would have to do. Finally, in 
the last week of May, Professor McGonagall held him 
back in Transfiguration. 

“You are to go down to the Quidditch field tonight at 
nine o’clock, Potter,” she told him. “Mr. Bagman will 
be there to tell the champions about the third task.” 

So at half past eight that night, Harry left Ron and 
Hermione in Gryffindor Tower and went downstairs. 
As he crossed the entrance hall, Cedric came up from 
the Hufflepuff common room. 

“What d’you reckon it’s going to be?” he asked Harry 
as they went together down the stone steps, out into 
the cloudy night. “Fleur keeps going on about 
underground tunnels; she reckons we’ve got to find 
treasure.” 

“That wouldn’t be too bad,” said Harry, thinking that 
he would simply ask Hagrid for a niffler to do the job 
for him. 

They walked down the dark lawn to the Quidditch 
stadium, turned through a gap in the stands, and 
walked out onto the field. 

“What’ve they done to it?” Cedric said indignantly, 
stopping dead. 

The Quidditch field was no longer smooth and flat. It 
looked as though somebody had been building long, 
low walls all over it that twisted and crisscrossed in 
every direction. 



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“They’re hedges!” said Harry, bending to examine the 
nearest one. 



“Hello there!” called a cheery voice. 

Ludo Bagman was standing in the middle of the field 
with Krum and Fleur. Harry and Cedric made their 
way toward them, climbing over the hedges. Fleur 
beamed at Harry as he came nearer. Her attitude 
toward him had changed completely since he had 
saved her sister from the lake. 

“Well, what d’you think?” said Bagman happily as 
Harry and Cedric climbed over the last hedge. 
“Growing nicely, aren’t they? Give them a month and 
Hagrid’ll have them twenty feet high. Don’t worry,” he 
added, grinning, spotting the less-than-happy 
expressions on Harry’s and Cedric’s faces, “you’ll have 
your Quidditch field back to normal once the task is 
over! Now, I imagine you can guess what we’re 
making here?” 

No one spoke for a moment. Then — 

“Maze,” grunted Krum. 

“That’s right!” said Bagman. “A maze. The third task’s 
really very straightforward. The Triwizard Cup will be 
placed in the center of the maze. The first champion 
to touch it will receive full marks.” 

“We seemply ’ave to get through the maze?” said 
Fleur. 

“There will be obstacles,” said Bagman happily, 
bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Hagrid is providing 
a number of creatures . . . then there will be spells that 
must be broken ... all that sort of thing, you know. 
Now, the champions who are leading on points will 
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get a head start into the maze.” Bagman grinned at 
Harry and Cedric. “Then Mr. Krum will enter ... then 
Miss Delacour. But you 11 all be in with a fighting 
chance, depending how well you get past the 
obstacles. Should be fun, eh?” 

Harry, who knew only too well the kind of creatures 
that Hagrid was likely to provide for an event like this, 
thought it was unlikely to be any fun at all. However, 
he nodded politely like the other champions. 

“Very well ... if you haven’t got any questions, we’ll go 
back up to the castle, shall we, it’s a bit chilly. ...” 

Bagman hurried alongside Harry as they began to 
wend their way out of the growing maze. Harry had 
the feeling that Bagman was going to start offering to 
help him again, but just then, Krum tapped Harry on 
the shoulder. 

“Could I haff a vord?” 

“Yeah, all right,” said Harry, slightly surprised. 

“Vill you valk vith me?” 

“Okay,” said Harry curiously. 

Bagman looked slightly perturbed. 

“I’ll wait for you, Harry, shall I?” 

“No, it’s okay, Mr. Bagman,” said Harry, suppressing 
a smile, “I think I can find the castle on my own, 
thanks.” 

Harry and Krum left the stadium together, but Krum 
did not set a course for the Durmstrang ship. Instead, 
he walked toward the forest. 

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“What ’re we going this way for?” said Harry as they 
passed Hagrid’s cabin and the illuminated 
Beauxbatons carriage. 

“Don’t vant to be overheard,” said Krum shortly. 

When at last they had reached a quiet stretch of 
ground a short way from the Beauxbatons horses’ 
paddock, Krum stopped in the shade of the trees and 
turned to face Harry. 

“I vant to know,” he said, glowering, “vot there is 
between you and Hermy-own-ninny.” 

Harry, who from Krum’s secretive manner had 
expected something much more serious than this, 
stared up at Krum in amazement. 

“Nothing,” he said. But Krum glowered at him, and 
Harry, somehow struck anew by how tall Krum was, 
elaborated. “We’re friends. She’s not my girlfriend and 
she never has been. It’s just that Skeeter woman 
making things up.” 

“Hermy-own-ninny talks about you very often,” said 
Krum, looking suspiciously at Harry. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, “because we’re friends.” 

He couldn’t quite believe he was having this 
conversation with Viktor Krum, the famous 
International Quidditch player. It was as though the 
eighteen-year-old Krum thought he, Harry, was an 
equal — a real rival — 

“You haff never ... you haff not ...” 

“No,” said Harry very firmly. 



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Krum looked slightly happier. He stared at Harry for a 
few seconds, then said, “You fly very veil. I vos 
votching at the first task.” 

“Thanks,” said Harry, grinning broadly and suddenly 
feeling much taller himself. “I saw you at the 
Quidditch World Cup. The Wronski Feint, you really 



But something moved behind Krum in the trees, and 
Harry, who had some experience of the sort of thing 
that lurked in the forest, instinctively grabbed Krum’s 
arm and pulled him around. 

“Vot is it?” 

Harry shook his head, staring at the place where he’d 
seen movement. He slipped his hand inside his robes, 
reaching for his wand. 

Suddenly a man staggered out from behind a tall oak. 
For a moment, Harry didn’t recognize him ... then he 
realized it was Mr. Crouch. 

He looked as though he had been traveling for days. 
The knees of his robes were ripped and bloody, his 
face scratched; he was unshaven and gray with 
exhaustion. His neat hair and mustache were both in 
need of a wash and a trim. His strange appearance, 
however, was nothing to the way he was behaving. 
Muttering and gesticulating, Mr. Crouch appeared to 
be talking to someone that he alone could see. He 
reminded Harry vividly of an old tramp he had seen 
once when out shopping with the Dursleys. That man 
too had been conversing wildly with thin air; Aunt 
Petunia had seized Dudley’s hand and pulled him 
across the road to avoid him; Uncle Vernon had then 
treated the family to a long rant about what he would 
like to do with beggars and vagrants. 

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“Vosn’t he a judge?” said Krum, staring at Mr. 

Crouch. “Isn’t he vith your Ministry?” 

Harry nodded, hesitated for a moment, then walked 
slowly toward Mr. Crouch, who did not look at him, 
but continued to talk to a nearby tree. 

"... and when you’ve done that, Weatherby, send an 
owl to Dumbledore confirming the number of 
Durmstrang students who will be attending the 
tournament, Karkaroff has just sent word there will 
be twelve. ...” 

“Mr. Crouch?” said Harry cautiously. 

"... and then send another owl to Madame Maxime, 
because she might want to up the number of 
students she’s bringing, now Karkaroff’s made it a 
round dozen ... do that, Weatherby, will you? Will 
you? Will...” 

Mr. Crouch’s eyes were bulging. He stood staring at 
the tree, muttering soundlessly at it. Then he 
staggered sideways and fell to his knees. 

“Mr. Crouch?” Harry said loudly. “Are you all right?” 

Crouch’s eyes were rolling in his head. Harry looked 
around at Krum, who had followed him into the trees, 
and was looking down at Crouch in alarm. 

“Vot is wrong with him?” 

“No idea,” Harry muttered. “Listen, you’d better go 
and get someone — ” 

“Dumbledore!” gasped Mr. Crouch. He reached out 
and seized a handful of Harry’s robes, dragging him 



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closer, though his eyes were staring over Harry’s 
head. “I need ... see ... Dumbledore. ...” 

“Okay,” said Harry, “if you get up, Mr. Crouch, we can 
go up to the — ” 

“I’ve done ... stupid ... thing ...” Mr. Crouch breathed. 
He looked utterly mad. His eyes were rolling and 
bulging, and a trickle of spittle was sliding down his 
chin. Every word he spoke seemed to cost him a 
terrible effort. “Must ... tell ... Dumbledore ...” 

“Get up, Mr. Crouch,” said Harry loudly and clearly. 
“Get up, I’ll take you to Dumbledore!” 

Mr. Crouch’s eyes rolled forward onto Harry. 

“Who ... you?” he whispered. 

“I’m a student at the school,” said Harry, looking 
around at Krum for some help, but Krum was 
hanging back, looking extremely nervous. 

“You’re not ... his?” whispered Crouch, his mouth 
sagging. 

“No,” said Harry, without the faintest idea what 
Crouch was talking about. 

“Dumbledore ’s?” 

“That’s right,” said Harry. 

Crouch was pulling him closer; Harry tried to loosen 
Crouch’s grip on his robes, but it was too powerful. 

“Warn ... Dumbledore ...” 



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“I’ll get Dumbledore if you let go of me,” said Harry. 
“Just let go, Mr. Crouch, and I’ll get him. ...” 

“Thank you, Weatherby, and when you have done 
that, I would like a cup of tea. My wife and son will be 
arriving shortly, we are attending a concert tonight 
with Mr. and Mrs. Fudge.” 

Crouch was now talking fluently to a tree again, and 
seemed completely unaware that Harry was there, 
which surprised Harry so much he didn’t notice that 
Crouch had released him. 

“Yes, my son has recently gained twelve O.W.L.s, 
most satisfactory, yes, thank you, yes, very proud 
indeed. Now, if you could bring me that memo from 
the Andorran Minister of Magic, I think I will have 
time to draft a response. ...” 

“You stay here with him!” Harry said to Krum. “I’ll get 
Dumbledore, I’ll be quicker, I know where his office is 



“He is mad,” said Krum doubtfully, staring down at 
Crouch, who was still gabbling to the tree, apparently 
convinced it was Percy. 

“Just stay with him,” said Harry, starting to get up, 
but his movement seemed to trigger another abrupt 
change in Mr. Crouch, who seized him hard around 
the knees and pulled Harry back to the ground. 

“Don’t ... leave ... me!” he whispered, his eyes bulging 
again. “I ... escaped . . . must warn . . . must tell . . . see 
Dumbledore . . . my fault ... all my fault . . . Bertha . . . 
dead ... all my fault . . . my son . . . my fault . . . tell 
Dumbledore . . . Harry Potter . . . the Dark Lord . . . 
stronger ... Harry Potter ...” 



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“I’ll get Dumbledore if you let me go, Mr. Crouch!” 
said Harry. He looked furiously around at Krum. 

“Help me, will you?” 

Looking extremely apprehensive, Krum moved 
forward and squatted down next to Mr. Crouch. 

“Just keep him here,” said Harry, pulling himself free 
of Mr. Crouch. “I’ll be back with Dumbledore.” 

“Hurry, von’t you?” Krum called after him as Harry 
sprinted away from the forest and up through the 
dark grounds. They were deserted; Bagman, Cedric, 
and Fleur had disappeared. Harry tore up the stone 
steps, through the oak front doors, and off up the 
marble staircase, toward the second floor. 

Five minutes later he was hurtling toward a stone 
gargoyle standing halfway along an empty corridor. 

“Sher — sherbet lemon!” he panted at it. 

This was the password to the hidden staircase to 
Dumbledore ’s office — or at least, it had been two 
years ago. The password had evidently changed, 
however, for the stone gargoyle did not spring to life 
and jump aside, but stood frozen, glaring at Harry 
malevolently. 

“Move!” Harry shouted at it. “C’mon!” 

But nothing at Hogwarts had ever moved just because 
he shouted at it; he knew it was no good. He looked 
up and down the dark corridor. Perhaps Dumbledore 
was in the staffroom? He started running as fast as 
he could toward the staircase — 

“POTTER!” 



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Harry skidded to a halt and looked around. Snape 
had just emerged from the hidden staircase behind 
the stone gargoyle. The wall was sliding shut behind 
him even as he beckoned Harry back toward him. 

“What are you doing here, Potter?” 

“I need to see Professor Dumbledore!” said Harry, 
running back up the corridor and skidding to a 
standstill in front of Snape instead. “It’s Mr. Crouch 
... he’s just turned up ... he’s in the forest ... he’s 
asking — ” 

“What is this rubbish?” said Snape, his black eyes 
glittering. “What are you talking about?” 

“Mr. Crouch!” Harry shouted. “From the Ministry! 

He’s ill or something — he’s in the forest, he wants to 
see Dumbledore! Just give me the password up to — ” 

“The headmaster is busy, Potter,” said Snape, his thin 
mouth curling into an unpleasant smile. 

“I’ve got to tell Dumbledore!” Harry yelled. 

“Didn’t you hear me, Potter?” 

Harry could tell Snape was thoroughly enjoying 
himself, denying Harry the thing he wanted when he 
was so panicky. 

“Look,” said Harry angrily, “Crouch isn’t right — he’s 
— he’s out of his mind — he says he wants to warn — 



The stone wall behind Snape slid open. Dumbledore 
was standing there, wearing long green robes and a 
mildly curious expression. “Is there a problem?” he 
said, looking between Harry and Snape. 

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“Professor!” Harry said, sidestepping Snape before 
Snape could speak, “Mr. Crouch is here — he’s down 
in the forest, he wants to speak to you!” 

Harry expected Dumbledore to ask questions, but to 
his relief, Dumbledore did nothing of the sort. 

“Lead the way,” he said promptly, and he swept off 
along the corridor behind Harry, leaving Snape 
standing next to the gargoyle and looking twice as 
ugly. 

“What did Mr. Crouch say, Harry?” said Dumbledore 
as they walked swiftly down the marble staircase. 

“Said he wants to warn you ... said he’s done 
something terrible ... he mentioned his son . . . and 
Bertha Jorkins ... and — and Voldemort ... something 
about Voldemort getting stronger. ...” 

“Indeed,” said Dumbledore, and he quickened his 
pace as they hurried out into the pitch-darkness. 

“He’s not acting normally,” Harry said, hurrying along 
beside Dumbledore. “He doesn’t seem to know where 
he is. He keeps talking like he thinks Percy Weasley’s 
there, and then he changes, and says he needs to see 
you. ... I left him with Viktor Krum.” 

“You did?” said Dumbledore sharply, and he began to 
take longer strides still, so that Harry was running to 
keep up. “Do you know if anybody else saw Mr. 
Crouch?” 

“No,” said Harry. “Krum and I were talking, Mr. 
Bagman had just finished telling us about the third 
task, we stayed behind, and then we saw Mr. Crouch 
coming out of the forest — ” 



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“Where are they?” said Dumbledore as the 
Beauxbatons carriage emerged from the darkness. 

“Over here,” said Harry, moving in front of 
Dumbledore, leading the way through the trees. He 
couldn’t hear Crouch’s voice anymore, but he knew 
where he was going; it hadn’t been much past the 
Beauxbatons carriage ... somewhere around here. ... 

“Viktor?” Harry shouted. 

No one answered. 

“They were here,” Harry said to Dumbledore. “They 
were definitely somewhere around here. ...” 

“Lumos,” Dumbledore said, lighting his wand and 
holding it up. 

Its narrow beam traveled from black trunk to black 
trunk, illuminating the ground. And then it fell upon 
a pair of feet. 

Harry and Dumbledore hurried forward. Krum was 
sprawled on the forest floor. He seemed to be 
unconscious. There was no sign at all of Mr. Crouch. 
Dumbledore bent over Krum and gently lifted one of 
his eyelids. 

“Stunned,” he said softly. His half-moon glasses 
glittered in the wandlight as he peered around at the 
surrounding trees. 

“Should I go and get someone?” said Harry. “Madam 
Pomfrey?” 

“No,” said Dumbledore swiftly. “Stay here.” 



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He raised his wand into the air and pointed it in the 
direction of Hagrid ’s cabin. Harry saw something 
silvery dart out of it and streak away through the 
trees like a ghostly bird. Then Dumbledore bent over 
Krum again, pointed his wand at him, and muttered, 
“Renneruate.” 

Krum opened his eyes. He looked dazed. When he saw 
Dumbledore, he tried to sit up, but Dumbledore put a 
hand on his shoulder and made him lie still. 

“He attacked me!” Krum muttered, putting a hand up 
to his head. “The old madman attacked me! I vos 
looking around to see vare Potter had gone and he 
attacked from behind!” 

“Lie still for a moment,” Dumbledore said. 

The sound of thunderous footfalls reached them, and 
Hagrid came panting into sight with Fang at his 
heels. He was carrying his crossbow. 

“Professor Dumbledore!” he said, his eyes widening. 
“Harry — what the — ?” 

“Hagrid, I need you to fetch Professor Karkaroff,” said 
Dumbledore. “His student has been attacked. When 
you’ve done that, kindly alert Professor Moody — ” 

“No need, Dumbledore,” said a wheezy growl. “I’m 
here.” 

Moody was limping toward them, leaning on his staff, 
his wand lit. 

“Damn leg,” he said furiously. “Would’ve been here 
quicker ... what’s happened? Snape said something 
about Crouch — ” 



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“Crouch?” said Hagrid blankly. 

“Karkaroff, please, Hagrid!” said Dumbledore sharply. 

“Oh yeah ... right y’are, Professor ...” said Hagrid, and 
he turned and disappeared into the dark trees, Fang 
trotting after him. 

“I don’t know where Barty Crouch is,” Dumbledore 
told Moody, “but it is essential that we find him.” 

“I’m onto it,” growled Moody, and he pulled out his 
wand and limped off into the forest. 

Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke again until they 
heard the unmistakable sounds of Hagrid and Fang 
returning. Karkaroff was hurrying along behind them. 
He was wearing his sleek silver furs, and he looked 
pale and agitated. 

“What is this?” he cried when he saw Krum on the 
ground and Dumbledore and Harry beside him. 
“What’s going on?” 

“I vos attacked!” said Krum, sitting up now and 
rubbing his head. “Mr. Crouch or votever his name — 



“Crouch attacked you? Crouch attacked you? The 
Triwizard judge?” 

“Igor,” Dumbledore began, but Karkaroff had drawn 
himself up, clutching his furs around him, looking 
livid. 

“Treachery!” he bellowed, pointing at Dumbledore. “It 
is a plot! You and your Ministry of Magic have lured 
me here under false pretenses, Dumbledore! This is 
not an equal competition! First you sneak Potter into 

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the tournament, though he is underage! Now one of 
your Ministry friends attempts to put my champion 
out of action! I smell double-dealing and corruption in 
this whole affair, and you, Dumbledore, you, with 
your talk of closer international wizarding links, of 
rebuilding old ties, of forgetting old differences — 
here’s what I think of you!” 

Karkaroff spat onto the ground at Dumbledore’s feet. 
In one swift movement, Hagrid seized the front of 
Karkaroff’s furs, lifted him into the air, and slammed 
him against a nearby tree. 

“Apologize!” Hagrid snarled as Karkaroff gasped for 
breath, Hagrid’s massive fist at his throat, his feet 
dangling in midair. 

“Hagrid, no\” Dumbledore shouted, his eyes flashing. 

Hagrid removed the hand pinning Karkaroff to the 
tree, and Karkaroff slid all the way down the trunk 
and slumped in a huddle at its roots; a few twigs and 
leaves showered down upon his head. 

“Kindly escort Harry back up to the castle, Hagrid,” 
said Dumbledore sharply. 

Breathing heavily, Hagrid gave Karkaroff a glowering 
look. 

“Maybe I’d better stay here, Headmaster. ...” 

“You will take Harry back to school, Hagrid,” 
Dumbledore repeated firmly. “Take him right up to 
Gryffindor Tower. And Harry — I want you to stay 
there. Anything you might want to do — any owls you 
might want to send — they can wait until morning, do 
you understand me?” 



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“Er — yes,” said Harry, staring at him. How had 
Dumbledore known that, at that very moment, he had 
been thinking about sending Pigwidgeon straight to 
Sirius, to tell him what had happened? 

“Ill leave Fang with yeh, Headmaster,” Hagrid said, 
staring menacingly at Karkaroff, who was still 
sprawled at the foot of the tree, tangled in furs and 
tree roots. “Stay, Fang. C’mon, Harry.” 

They marched in silence past the Beauxbatons 
carriage and up toward the castle. 

“How dare he,” Hagrid growled as they strode past the 
lake. “How dare he accuse Dumbledore. Like 
Dumbledore ’d do anythin’ like that. Like Dumbledore 
wanted you in the tournament in the firs’ place. 
Worried! I dunno when I seen Dumbledore more 
worried than he’s bin lately. An’ you!” Hagrid 
suddenly said angrily to Harry, who looked up at him, 
taken aback. “What were yeh doin’, wanderin’ off with 
ruddy Krum? He’s from Durmstrang, Harry! Coulda 
jinxed yeh right there, couldn’ he? Hasn’ Moody 
taught yeh nothin’? ’Magine lettin’ him lure yeh off on 
yer own — ” 

“Krum’s all right!” said Harry as they climbed the 
steps into the entrance hall. “He wasn’t trying to jinx 
me, he just wanted to talk about Hermione — ” 

“I’ll be havin’ a few words with her, an’ all,” said 
Hagrid grimly, stomping up the stairs. “The less you 
lot ’ave ter do with these foreigners, the happier yeh’ll 
be. Yeh can’ trust any of ’em.” 

“You were getting on all right with Madame Maxime,” 
Harry said, annoyed. 



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“Don’ you talk ter me abou’ her!” said Hagrid, and he 
looked quite frightening for a moment. “I’ve got her 
number now! Tryin’ ter get back in me good books, 
tryin’ ter get me ter tell her what’s cornin’ in the third 
task. Ha! You can’ trust any of ’em!” 

Hagrid was in such a bad mood, Harry was quite glad 
to say good-bye to him in front of the Fat Lady. He 
clambered through the portrait hole into the common 
room and hurried straight for the corner where Ron 
and Hermione were sitting, to tell them what had 
happened. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




z? 




THE DREAM 

“It comes down to this,” said Hermione, rubbing her 
forehead. “Either Mr. Crouch attacked Viktor, or 
somebody else attacked both of them when Viktor 
wasn’t looking.” 

“It must’ve been Crouch,” said Ron at once. “That’s 
why he was gone when Harry and Dumbledore got 
there. He’d done a runner.” 

“I don’t think so,” said Harry, shaking his head. “He 
seemed really weak — I don’t reckon he was up to 
Disapparating or anything.” 

“You can’t Disapparate on the Hogwarts grounds, 
haven’t I told you enough times?” said Hermione. 

“Okay ... how’s this for a theory,” said Ron excitedly. 
“Krum attacked Crouch — no, wait for it — and then 
Stunned himself!” 

“And Mr. Crouch evaporated, did he?” said Hermione 
coldly. 

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“Oh yeah ...” 



It was daybreak. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had crept 
out of their dormitories very early and hurried up to 
the Owlery together to send a note to Sirius. Now they 
were standing looking out at the misty grounds. All 
three of them were puffy-eyed and pale because they 
had been talking late into the night about Mr. 

Crouch. 

“Just go through it again, Harry,” said Hermione. 
“What did Mr. Crouch actually say?” 

“I’ve told you, he wasn’t making much sense,” said 
Harry. “He said he wanted to warn Dumbledore about 
something. He definitely mentioned Bertha Jorkins, 
and he seemed to think she was dead. He kept saying 
stuff was his fault. ... He mentioned his son.” 

“Well, that was his fault,” said Hermione testily. 

“He was out of his mind,” said Harry. “Half the time 
he seemed to think his wife and son were still alive, 
and he kept talking to Percy about work and giving 
him instructions.” 

“And ... remind me what he said about You-Know- 
Who?” said Ron tentatively. 

“I’ve told you,” Harry repeated dully. “He said he’s 
getting stronger.” 

There was a pause. Then Ron said in a falsely 
confident voice, “But he was out of his mind, like you 
said, so half of it was probably just raving. ...” 

“He was sanest when he was trying to talk about 
Voldemort,” said Harry, and Ron winced at the sound 
of the name. “He was having real trouble stringing 

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two words together, but that was when he seemed to 
know where he was, and know what he wanted to do. 
He just kept saying he had to see Dumbledore.” 

Harry turned away from the window and stared up 
into the rafters. The many perches were half-empty; 
every now and then, another owl would swoop in 
through one of the windows, returning from its night’s 
hunting with a mouse in its beak. 

“If Snape hadn’t held me up,” Harry said bitterly, “we 
might’ve got there in time. The headmaster is busy, 
Potter ... what’s this rubbish, Potter?’ Why couldn’t he 
have just got out of the way?” 

“Maybe he didn’t want you to get there!” said Ron 
quickly. “Maybe — hang on — how fast d’you reckon 
he could’ve gotten down to the forest? D’you reckon 
he could’ve beaten you and Dumbledore there?” 

“Not unless he can turn himself into a bat or 
something,” said Harry. 

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Ron muttered. 

“We need to see Professor Moody,” said Hermione. 

“We need to find out whether he found Mr. Crouch.” 

“If he had the Marauder’s Map on him, it would’ve 
been easy,” said Harry. 

“Unless Crouch was already outside the grounds,” 
said Ron, “because it only shows up to the 
boundaries, doesn’t — ” 

“Shh!” said Hermione suddenly. 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




Somebody was climbing the steps up to the Owlery. 
Harry could hear two voices arguing, coming closer 
and closer. 

“ — that’s blackmail, that is, we could get into a lot of 
trouble for that — ” 

“ — we’ve tried being polite; it’s time to play dirty, like 
him. He wouldn’t like the Ministry of Magic knowing 
what he did — ” 

“I’m telling you, if you put that in writing, it’s 
blackmail!” 

“Yeah, and you won’t be complaining if we get a nice 
fat payoff, will you?” 

The Owlery door banged open. Fred and George came 
over the threshold, then froze at the sight of Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione. 

“What’re you doing here?” Ron and Fred said at the 
same time. 

“Sending a letter,” said Harry and George in unison. 
“What, at this time?” said Hermione and Fred. 

Fred grinned. 

“Fine — we won’t ask you what you’re doing, if you 
don’t ask us,” he said. 

He was holding a sealed envelope in his hands. Harry 
glanced at it, but Fred, whether accidentally or on 
purpose, shifted his hand so that the name on it was 
covered. 



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“Well, don’t let us hold you up,” Fred said, making a 
mock bow and pointing at the door. 

Ron didn’t move. “Who’re you blackmailing?” he said. 

The grin vanished from Fred’s face. Harry saw George 
half glance at Fred, before smiling at Ron. 

“Don’t be stupid, I was only joking,” he said easily. 

“Didn’t sound like that,” said Ron. 

Fred and George looked at each other. Then Fred said 
abruptly, “I’ve told you before, Ron, keep your nose 
out if you like it the shape it is. Can’t see why you 
would, but — ” 

“It’s my business if you’re blackmailing someone,” 
said Ron. “George’s right, you could end up in serious 
trouble for that.” 

“Told you, I was joking,” said George. He walked over 
to Fred, pulled the letter out of his hands, and began 
attaching it to the leg of the nearest barn owl. “You’re 
starting to sound a bit like our dear older brother, 
you are, Ron. Carry on like this and you’ll be made a 
prefect.” 

“No, I won’t!” said Ron hotly. 

George carried the barn owl over to the window and it 
took off. George turned around and grinned at Ron. 

“Well, stop telling people what to do then. See you 
later.” 

He and Fred left the Owlery. Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione stared at one another. 



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“You don’t think they know something about all this, 
do you?” Hermione whispered. “About Crouch and 
everything?” 

“No,” said Harry. “If it was something that serious, 
they’d tell someone. They’d tell Dumbledore.” 

Ron, however, was looking uncomfortable. 

“What’s the matter?” Hermione asked him. 

“Well ...” said Ron slowly, “I dunno if they would. 
They’re ... they’re obsessed with making money lately, 

I noticed it when I was hanging around with them — 
when — you know — ” 

“We weren’t talking.” Harry finished the sentence for 
him. “Yeah, but blackmail ...” 

“It’s this joke shop idea they’ve got,” said Ron. “I 
thought they were only saying it to annoy Mum, but 
they really mean it, they want to start one. They’ve 
only got a year left at Hogwarts, they keep going on 
about how it’s time to think about their future, and 
Dad can’t help them, and they need gold to get 
started.” 

Hermione was looking uncomfortable now. 

“Yes, but ... they wouldn’t do anything against the law 
to get gold.” 

“Wouldn’t they?” said Ron, looking skeptical. “I dunno 
... they don’t exactly mind breaking rules, do they?” 

“Yes, but this is the law,” said Hermione, looking 
scared. “This isn’t some silly school rule. ... They’ll get 
a lot more than detention for blackmail! Ron ... maybe 
you’d better tell Percy. ...” 

Page | 629 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




“Are you mad?” said Ron. “Tell Percy? He’d probably 
do a Crouch and turn them in.” He stared at the 
window through which Fred and Georges owl had 
departed, then said, “Come on, let’s get some 
breakfast.” 

“D’you think it’s too early to go and see Professor 
Moody?” Hermione said as they went down the spiral 
staircase. 

“Yes,” said Harry. “He’d probably blast us through the 
door if we wake him at the crack of dawn; he’ll think 
we’re trying to attack him while he’s asleep. Let’s give 
it till break.” 

History of Magic had rarely gone so slowly. Harry kept 
checking Ron’s watch, having finally discarded his 
own, but Ron’s was moving so slowly he could have 
sworn it had stopped working too. All three of them 
were so tired they could happily have put their heads 
down on the desks and slept; even Hermione wasn’t 
taking her usual notes, but was sitting with her head 
on her hand, gazing at Professor Binns with her eyes 
out of focus. 

When the bell finally rang, they hurried out into the 
corridors toward the Dark Arts classroom and found 
Professor Moody leaving it. He looked as tired as they 
felt. The eyelid of his normal eye was drooping, giving 
his face an even more lopsided appearance than 
usual. 

“Professor Moody?” Harry called as they made their 
way toward him through the crowd. 

“Hello, Potter,” growled Moody. His magical eye 
followed a couple of passing first years, who sped up, 
looking nervous; it rolled into the back of Moody’s 



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head and watched them around the corner before he 
spoke again. 



“Come in here.” 

He stood back to let them into his empty classroom, 
limped in after them, and closed the door. 

“Did you find him?” Harry asked without preamble. 
“Mr. Crouch?” 

“No,” said Moody. He moved over to his desk, sat 
down, stretched out his wooden leg with a slight 
groan, and pulled out his hip flask. 

“Did you use the map?” Harry said. 

“Of course,” said Moody, taking a swig from his flask. 
“Took a leaf out of your book, Potter. Summoned it 
from my office into the forest. He wasn’t anywhere on 
there.” 

“So he did Disapparate?” said Ron. 

“You can’t Disapparate on the grounds, Ron\” said 
Hermione. “There are other ways he could have 
disappeared, aren’t there, Professor?” 

Moody’s magical eye quivered as it rested on 
Hermione. “You’re another one who might think about 
a career as an Auror,” he told her. “Mind works the 
right way, Granger.” 

Hermione flushed pink with pleasure. 

“Well, he wasn’t invisible,” said Harry. “The map 
shows invisible people. He must’ve left the grounds, 
then.” 

Page | 631 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




“But under his own steam?” said Hermione eagerly, 

“or because someone made him?” 

“Yeah, someone could’ve — could’ve pulled him onto a 
broom and flown off with him, couldn’t they?” said 
Ron quickly, looking hopefully at Moody as if he too 
wanted to be told he had the makings of an Auror. 

“We can’t rule out kidnap,” growled Moody. 

“So,” said Ron, “d’you reckon he’s somewhere in 
Hogsmeade?” 

“Could be anywhere,” said Moody, shaking his head. 
“Only thing we know for sure is that he’s not here.” 

He yawned widely, so that his scars stretched, and 
his lopsided mouth revealed a number of missing 
teeth. Then he said, “Now, Dumbledore’s told me you 
three fancy yourselves as investigators, but there’s 
nothing you can do for Crouch. The Ministry’ll be 
looking for him now, Dumbledore’s notified them. 
Potter, you just keep your mind on the third task.” 

“What?” said Harry. “Oh yeah ...” 

He hadn’t given the maze a single thought since he’d 
left it with Krum the previous night. 

“Should be right up your street, this one,” said 
Moody, looking up at Harry and scratching his 
scarred and stubbly chin. “From what Dumbledore’s 
said, you’ve managed to get through stuff like this 
plenty of times. Broke your way through a series of 
obstacles guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone in your first 
year, didn’t you?” 

“We helped,” Ron said quickly. “Me and Hermione 
helped.” 

Page | 632 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




Moody grinned. 



“Well, help him practice for this one, and I’ll be very 
surprised if he doesn’t win,” said Moody. “In the 
meantime ... constant vigilance, Potter. Constant 
vigilance.” He took another long draw from his hip 
flask, and his magical eye swiveled onto the window. 
The topmost sail of the Durmstrang ship was visible 
through it. 

“You two,” counseled Moody, his normal eye on Ron 
and Hermione, “you stick close to Potter, all right? I’m 
keeping an eye on things, but all the same ... you can 
never have too many eyes out.” 



•k k k 



Sirius sent their owl back the very next morning. It 
fluttered down beside Harry at the same moment that 
a tawny owl landed in front of Hermione, clutching a 
copy of the Daily Prophet in its beak. She took the 
newspaper, scanned the first few pages, said, “Ha! 

She hasn’t got wind of Crouch!” then joined Ron and 
Harry in reading what Sirius had to say on the 
mysterious events of the night before last. 

Harry — what do you think you are playing at, 
walking off into the forest with Viktor Krum? I want 
you to swear, by return owl, that you are not going to 
go walking with anyone else at night. There is 
somebody highly dangerous at Hogwarts. It is clear to 
me that they wanted to stop Crouch from seeing 
Dumbledore and you were probably feet away from 
them in the dark. You could have been killed. 

Your name didn’t get into the Goblet of Fire by 
accident. If someone’s trying to attack you, they’re on 

Page | 633 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




their last chance. Stay close to Ron and Hermione, do 
not leave Gryffindor Tower after hours, and arm 
yourself for the third task. Practice Stunning and 
Disarming. A few hexes wouldn’t go amiss either. 
There’s nothing you can do about Crouch. Keep your 
head down and look after yourself. I’m waiting for your 
letter giving me your word you won’t stray out-of- 
bounds again. 

Sirius 

“Who’s he, to lecture me about being out-of-bounds?” 
said Harry in mild indignation as he folded up Sirius’s 
letter and put it inside his robes. “After all the stuff he 
did at school!” 

“He’s worried about you!” said Hermione sharply. 

“Just like Moody and Hagrid! So listen to them!” 

“No one’s tried to attack me all year,” said Harry. “No 
one’s done anything to me at all — ” 

“Except put your name in the Goblet of Fire,” said 
Hermione. “And they must’ve done that for a reason, 
Harry. Snuffles is right. Maybe they’ve been biding 
their time. Maybe this is the task they’re going to get 
you.” 

“Look,” said Harry impatiently, “let’s say Sirius is 
right, and someone Stunned Krum to kidnap Crouch. 
Well, they would’ve been in the trees near us, 
wouldn’t they? But they waited till I was out of the 
way until they acted, didn’t they? So it doesn’t look 
like I’m their target, does it?” 

“They couldn’t have made it look like an accident if 
they’d murdered you in the forest!” said Hermione. 
“But if you die during a task — ” 



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“They didn’t care about attacking Krum, did they?” 
said Harry. “Why didn’t they just polish me off at the 
same time? They could’ve made it look like Krum and 
I had a duel or something.” 

“Harry, I don’t understand it either,” said Hermione 
desperately. “I just know there are a lot of odd things 
going on, and I don’t like it. ... Moody’s right — Sirius 
is right — you’ve got to get in training for the third 
task, straight away. And you make sure you write 
back to Sirius and promise him you’re not going to go 
sneaking off alone again.” 

The Hogwarts grounds never looked more inviting 
than when Harry had to stay indoors. For the next 
few days he spent all of his free time either in the 
library with Hermione and Ron, looking up hexes, or 
else in empty classrooms, which they sneaked into to 
practice. Harry was concentrating on the Stunning 
Spell, which he had never used before. The trouble 
was that practicing it involved certain sacrifices on 
Ron’s and Hermione ’s part. 

“Can’t we kidnap Mrs. Norris?” Ron suggested on 
Monday lunchtime as he lay flat on his back in the 
middle of their Charms classroom, having just been 
Stunned and reawoken by Harry for the fifth time in a 
row. “Let’s Stun her for a bit. Or you could use 
Dobby, Harry, I bet he’d do anything to help you. I’m 
not complaining or anything” — he got gingerly to his 
feet, rubbing his backside — “but I’m aching all over. 



“Well, you keep missing the cushions, don’t you!” said 
Hermione impatiently, rearranging the pile of 
cushions they had used for the Banishing Spell, 
which Flitwick had left in a cabinet. “Just try and fall 
backward!” 



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“Once you’re Stunned, you can’t aim too well, 
Hermione!” said Ron angrily. “Why don’t you take a 
turn?” 

“Well, I think Harry’s got it now, anyway,” said 
Hermione hastily. “And we don’t have to worry about 
Disarming, because he’s been able to do that for ages. 
... I think we ought to start on some of these hexes 
this evening.” 

She looked down the list they had made in the 
library. 

“I like the look of this one,” she said, “this 
Impediment Curse. Should slow down anything that’s 
trying to attack you, Harry. We’ll start with that one.” 

The bell rang. They hastily shoved the cushions back 
into Flitwick’s cupboard and slipped out of the 
classroom. 

“See you at dinner!” said Hermione, and she set off for 
Arithmancy, while Harry and Ron headed toward 
North Tower, and Divination. Broad strips of dazzling 
gold sunlight fell across the corridor from the high 
windows. The sky outside was so brightly blue it 
looked as though it had been enameled. 

“It’s going to be boiling in Trelawney’s room, she never 
puts out that fire,” said Ron as they started up the 
staircase toward the silver ladder and the trapdoor. 

He was quite right. The dimly lit room was 
swelteringly hot. The fumes from the perfumed fire 
were heavier than ever. Harry’s head swam as he 
made his way over to one of the curtained windows. 
While Professor Trelawney was looking the other way, 
disentangling her shawl from a lamp, he opened it an 
inch or so and settled back in his chintz armchair, so 
Page | 636 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




that a soft breeze played across his face. It was 
extremely comfortable. 

“My dears,” said Professor Trelawney, sitting down in 
her winged armchair in front of the class and peering 
around at them all with her strangely enlarged eyes, 
“we have almost finished our work on planetary 
divination. Today, however, will be an excellent 
opportunity to examine the effects of Mars, for he is 
placed most interestingly at the present time. If you 
will all look this way, I will dim the lights. ...” 

She waved her wand and the lamps went out. The fire 
was the only source of light now. Professor Trelawney 
bent down and lifted, from under her chair, a 
miniature model of the solar system, contained within 
a glass dome. It was a beautiful thing; each of the 
moons glimmered in place around the nine planets 
and the fiery sun, all of them hanging in thin air 
beneath the glass. Harry watched lazily as Professor 
Trelawney began to point out the fascinating angle 
Mars was making to Neptune. The heavily perfumed 
fumes washed over him, and the breeze from the 
window played across his face. He could hear an 
insect humming gently somewhere behind the 
curtain. His eyelids began to droop. ... 

He was riding on the back of an eagle owl, soaring 
through the clear blue sky toward an old, ivy-covered 
house set high on a hillside. Lower and lower they 
flew, the wind blowing pleasantly in Harry’s face, until 
they reached a dark and broken window in the upper 
story of the house and entered. Now they were flying 
along a gloomy passageway, to a room at the very end 
. . . through the door they went, into a dark room 
whose windows were boarded up. ... 

Harry had left the owl’s back ... he was watching, 
now, as it fluttered across the room, into a chair with 

Page | 637 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




its back to him. ... There were two dark shapes on the 
floor beside the chair . . . both of them were stirring. . . . 

One was a huge snake . . . the other was a man ... a 
short, balding man, a man with watery eyes and a 
pointed nose ... he was wheezing and sobbing on the 
hearth rug. . . . 

“You are in luck, Wormtail,” said a cold, high-pitched 
voice from the depths of the chair in which the owl 
had landed. “You are very fortunate indeed. Your 
blunder has not ruined everything. He is dead.” 

“My Lord!” gasped the man on the floor. “My Lord, I 
am ... 1 am so pleased ... and so sorry. ...” 

“Nagini,” said the cold voice, “you are out of luck. 1 
will not be feeding Wormtail to you, after all ... but 
never mind, never mind . . . there is still Harry Potter. 



The snake hissed. Harry could see its tongue 
fluttering. 

“Now, Wormtail,” said the cold voice, “perhaps one 
more little reminder why I will not tolerate another 
blunder from you. ...” 

“My Lord ... no ... I beg you ...” 

The tip of a wand emerged from around the back of 
the chair, ft was pointing at Wormtail. 

“Crucio\” said the cold voice. 

Wormtail screamed, screamed as though every nerve 
in his body were on fire, the screaming filled Harry’s 
ears as the scar on his forehead seared with pain; he 



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was yelling too. ... Voldemort would hear him, would 
know he was there. ... 



“Harry! Harry\” 

Harry opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of 
Professor Trelawney’s room with his hands over his 
face. His scar was still burning so badly that his eyes 
were watering. The pain had been real. The whole 
class was standing around him, and Ron was 
kneeling next to him, looking terrified. 

“You all right?” he said. 

“Of course he isn’t!” said Professor Trelawney, looking 
thoroughly excited. Her great eyes loomed over Harry, 
gazing at him. “What was it, Potter? A premonition? 
An apparition? What did you see?” 

“Nothing,” Harry lied. He sat up. He could feel himself 
shaking. He couldn’t stop himself from looking 
around, into the shadows behind him; Voldemort’s 
voice had sounded so close. ... 

“You were clutching your scar!” said Professor 
Trelawney. “You were rolling on the floor, clutching 
your scar! Come now, Potter, I have experience in 
these matters!” 

Harry looked up at her. 

“I need to go to the hospital wing, I think,” he said. 
“Bad headache.” 

“My dear, you were undoubtedly stimulated by the 
extraordinary clairvoyant vibrations of my room!” said 
Professor Trelawney “If you leave now, you may lose 
the opportunity to see further than you have ever — ” 

Page | 639 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




“I don’t want to see anything except a headache cure,” 
said Harry. 

He stood up. The class backed away. They all looked 
unnerved. 

“See you later,” Harry muttered to Ron, and he picked 
up his bag and headed for the trapdoor, ignoring 
Professor Trelawney, who was wearing an expression 
of great frustration, as though she had just been 
denied a real treat. 

When Harry reached the bottom of her stepladder, 
however, he did not set off for the hospital wing. He 
had no intention whatsoever of going there. Sirius 
had told him what to do if his scar hurt him again, 
and Harry was going to follow his advice: He was 
going straight to Dumbledore’s office. He marched 
down the corridors, thinking about what he had seen 
in the dream ... it had been as vivid as the one that 
had awoken him on Privet Drive. ... He ran over the 
details in his mind, trying to make sure he could 
remember them. ... He had heard Voldemort accusing 
Wormtail of making a blunder ... but the owl had 
brought good news, the blunder had been repaired, 
somebody was dead ... so Wormtail was not going to 
be fed to the snake ... he, Harry, was going to be fed 
to it instead. ... 

Harry had walked right past the stone gargoyle 
guarding the entrance to Dumbledore’s office without 
noticing. He blinked, looked around, realized what he 
had done, and retraced his steps, stopping in front of 
it. Then he remembered that he didn’t know the 
password. 

“Sherbet lemon?” he tried tentatively. 

The gargoyle did not move. 

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“Okay,” said Harry, staring at it, “Pear Drop. Er — 
Licorice Wand. Fizzing Whizbee. Drooble’s Best 
Blowing Gum. Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans ... oh 
no, he doesn’t like them, does he? ... oh just open, 
can’t you?” he said angrily. “I really need to see him, 
it’s urgent!” 

The gargoyle remained immovable. 

Harry kicked it, achieving nothing but an excruciating 
pain in his big toe. 

“Chocolate Frog!” he yelled angrily, standing on one 
leg. “Sugar Quill! Cockroach Cluster!” 

The gargoyle sprang to life and jumped aside. Harry 
blinked. 

“Cockroach Cluster?” he said, amazed. “I was only 
joking. ...” 

He hurried through the gap in the walls and stepped 
onto the foot of a spiral stone staircase, which moved 
slowly upward as the doors closed behind him, taking 
him up to a polished oak door with a brass door 
knocker. 

He could hear voices from inside the office. He 
stepped off the moving staircase and hesitated, 
listening. 

“Dumbledore, I’m afraid I don’t see the connection, 
don’t see it at all!” It was the voice of the Minister of 
Magic, Cornelius Fudge. “Ludo says Bertha’s perfectly 
capable of getting herself lost. I agree we would have 
expected to have found her by now, but all the same, 
we’ve no evidence of foul play, Dumbledore, none at 
all. As for her disappearance being linked with Barty 
Crouch’s!” 

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“And what do you thinks happened to Barty Crouch, 
Minister?” said Moody’s growling voice. 

“I see two possibilities, Alastor,” said Fudge. “Either 
Crouch has finally cracked — more than likely, I’m 
sure you’ll agree, given his personal history — lost his 
mind, and gone wandering off somewhere — ” 

“He wandered extremely quickly, if that is the case, 
Cornelius,” said Dumbledore calmly. 

“Or else — well ...” Fudge sounded embarrassed. 

“Well, I’ll reserve judgment until after I’ve seen the 
place where he was found, but you say it was just 
past the Beauxbatons carriage? Dumbledore, you 
know what that woman is?” 

“I consider her to be a very able headmistress — and 
an excellent dancer,” said Dumbledore quietly. 

“Dumbledore, come!” said Fudge angrily. “Don’t you 
think you might be prejudiced in her favor because of 
Hagrid? They don’t all turn out harmless — if, indeed, 
you can call Hagrid harmless, with that monster 
fixation he’s got — ” 

“I no more suspect Madame Maxime than Hagrid,” 
said Dumbledore, just as calmly. “I think it possible 
that it is you who are prejudiced, Cornelius.” 

“Can we wrap up this discussion?” growled Moody. 

“Yes, yes, let’s go down to the grounds, then,” said 
Fudge impatiently. 

“No, it’s not that,” said Moody, “it’s just that Potter 
wants a word with you, Dumbledore. He’s just outside 
the door.” 



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THE PENSIEVE 

The door of the office opened. 

“Hello, Potter,” said Moody. “Come in, then.” 

Harry walked inside. He had been inside 
Dumbledore’s office once before; it was a very 
beautiful, circular room, lined with pictures of 
previous headmasters and headmistresses of 
Hogwarts, all of whom were fast asleep, their chests 
rising and falling gently. 

Cornelius Fudge was standing beside Dumbledore’s 
desk, wearing his usual pinstriped cloak and holding 
his lime-green bowler hat. 

“Harry!” said Fudge jovially, moving forward. “How are 
you?” 

“Fine,” Harry lied. 



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“We were just talking about the night when Mr. 
Crouch turned up on the grounds,” said Fudge. “It 
was you who found him, was it not?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. Then, feeling it was pointless to 
pretend that he hadn’t overheard what they had been 
saying, he added, “I didn’t see Madame Maxime 
anywhere, though, and she’d have a job hiding, 
wouldn’t she?” 

Dumbledore smiled at Harry behind Fudge’s back, his 
eyes twinkling. 

“Yes, well,” said Fudge, looking embarrassed, “we’re 
about to go for a short walk on the grounds, Harry, if 
you’ll excuse us ... perhaps if you just go back to your 
class — ” 

“I wanted to talk to you, Professor,” Harry said 
quickly, looking at Dumbledore, who gave him a swift, 
searching look. 

“Wait here for me, Harry,” he said. “Our examination 
of the grounds will not take long.” 

They trooped out in silence past him and closed the 
door. After a minute or so, Harry heard the clunks of 
Moody’s wooden leg growing fainter in the corridor 
below. He looked around. 

“Hello, Fawkes,” he said. 

Fawkes, Professor Dumbledore’s phoenix, was 
standing on his golden perch beside the door. The 
size of a swan, with magnificent scarlet-and-gold 
plumage, he swished his long tail and blinked 
benignly at Harry. 



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Harry sat down in a chair in front of Dumbledore’s 
desk. For several minutes, he sat and watched the old 
headmasters and headmistresses snoozing in their 
frames, thinking about what he had just heard, and 
running his fingers over his scar. It had stopped 
hurting now. 

He felt much calmer, somehow, now that he was in 
Dumbledore’s office, knowing he would shortly be 
telling him about the dream. Harry looked up at the 
walls behind the desk. The patched and ragged 
Sorting Hat was standing on a shelf. A glass case next 
to it held a magnificent silver sword with large rubies 
set into the hilt, which Harry recognized as the one he 
himself had pulled out of the Sorting Hat in his 
second year. The sword had once belonged to Godric 
Gryffindor, founder of Harry’s House. He was gazing 
at it, remembering how it had come to his aid when 
he had thought all hope was lost, when he noticed a 
patch of silvery light, dancing and shimmering on the 
glass case. He looked around for the source of the 
light and saw a sliver of silver-white shining brightly 
from within a black cabinet behind him, whose door 
had not been closed properly. Harry hesitated, 
glanced at Fawkes, then got up, walked across the 
office, and pulled open the cabinet door. 

A shallow stone basin lay there, with odd carvings 
around the edge: runes and symbols that Harry did 
not recognize. The silvery light was coming from the 
basin’s contents, which were like nothing Harry had 
ever seen before. He could not tell whether the 
substance was liquid or gas. It was a bright, whitish 
silver, and it was moving ceaselessly; the surface of it 
became ruffled like water beneath wind, and then, 
like clouds, separated and swirled smoothly. It looked 
like light made liquid — or like wind made solid — 
Harry couldn’t make up his mind. 



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He wanted to touch it, to find out what it felt like, but 
nearly four years’ experience of the magical world told 
him that sticking his hand into a bowl full of some 
unknown substance was a very stupid thing to do. He 
therefore pulled his wand out of the inside of his 
robes, cast a nervous look around the office, looked 
back at the contents of the basin, and prodded them. 

The surface of the silvery stuff inside the basin began 
to swirl very fast. 

Harry bent closer, his head right inside the cabinet. 
The silvery substance had become transparent; it 
looked like glass. He looked down into it, expecting to 
see the stone bottom of the basin — and saw instead 
an enormous room below the surface of the 
mysterious substance, a room into which he seemed 
to be looking through a circular window in the ceiling. 

The room was dimly lit; he thought it might even be 
underground, for there were no windows, merely 
torches in brackets such as the ones that illuminated 
the walls of Hogwarts. Lowering his face so that his 
nose was a mere inch away from the glassy 
substance, Harry saw that rows and rows of witches 
and wizards were seated around every wall on what 
seemed to be benches rising in levels. An empty chair 
stood in the very center of the room. There was 
something about the chair that gave Harry an 
ominous feeling. Chains encircled the arms of it, as 
though its occupants were usually tied to it. 

Where was this place? It surely wasn’t Hogwarts; he 
had never seen a room like that here in the castle. 
Moreover, the crowd in the mysterious room at the 
bottom of the basin was comprised of adults, and 
Harry knew there were not nearly that many teachers 
at Hogwarts. They seemed, he thought, to be waiting 
for something; even though he could only see the tops 
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of their hats, all of their faces seemed to be pointing 
in one direction, and none of them were talking to one 
another. 

The basin being circular, and the room he was 
observing square, Harry could not make out what was 
going on in the corners of it. He leaned even closer, 
tilting his head, trying to see . . . 

The tip of his nose touched the strange substance 
into which he was staring. 

Dumbledore’s office gave an almighty lurch — Harry 
was thrown forward and pitched headfirst into the 
substance inside the basin — 

But his head did not hit the stone bottom. He was 
falling through something icy-cold and black; it was 
like being sucked into a dark whirlpool — 

And suddenly, Harry found himself sitting on a bench 
at the end of the room inside the basin, a bench 
raised high above the others. He looked up at the 
high stone ceiling, expecting to see the circular 
window through which he had just been staring, but 
there was nothing there but dark, solid stone. 

Breathing hard and fast, Harry looked around him. 
Not one of the witches and wizards in the room (and 
there were at least two hundred of them) was looking 
at him. Not one of them seemed to have noticed that a 
fourteen-year- old boy had just dropped from the 
ceiling into their midst. Harry turned to the wizard 
next to him on the bench and uttered a loud cry of 
surprise that reverberated around the silent room. 

He was sitting right next to Albus Dumbledore. 



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“Professor!” Harry said in a kind of strangled whisper. 
“I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to — I was just looking at 
that basin in your cabinet — I — where are we?” 

But Dumbledore didn’t move or speak. He ignored 
Harry completely. Like every other wizard on the 
benches, he was staring into the far corner of the 
room, where there was a door. 

Harry gazed, nonplussed, at Dumbledore, then 
around at the silently watchful crowd, then back at 
Dumbledore. And then it dawned on him. ... 

Once before, Harry had found himself somewhere that 
nobody could see or hear him. That time, he had 
fallen through a page in an enchanted diary, right 
into somebody else’s memory ... and unless he was 
very much mistaken, something of the sort had 
happened again. ... 

Harry raised his right hand, hesitated, and then 
waved it energetically in front of Dumbledore ’s face. 
Dumbledore did not blink, look around at Harry, or 
indeed move at all. And that, in Harry’s opinion, 
settled the matter. Dumbledore wouldn’t ignore him 
like that. He was inside a memory, and this was not 
the present-day Dumbledore. Yet it couldn’t be that 
long ago . . . the Dumbledore sitting next to him now 
was silver-haired, just like the present-day 
Dumbledore. But what was this place? What were all 
these wizards waiting for? 

Harry looked around more carefully. The room, as he 
had suspected when observing it from above, was 
almost certainly underground — more of a dungeon 
than a room, he thought. There was a bleak and 
forbidding air about the place; there were no pictures 
on the walls, no decorations at all; just these serried 
rows of benches, rising in levels all around the room, 
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all positioned so that they had a clear view of that 
chair with the chains on its arms. 

Before Harry could reach any conclusions about the 
place in which they were, he heard footsteps. The 
door in the corner of the dungeon opened and three 
people entered — or at least one man, flanked by two 
dementors. 

Harry’s insides went cold. The dementors — tall, 
hooded creatures whose faces were concealed — were 
gliding slowly toward the chair in the center of the 
room, each grasping one of the man’s arms with their 
dead and rotten-looking hands. The man between 
them looked as though he was about to faint, and 
Harry couldn’t blame him ... he knew the dementors 
could not touch him inside a memory, but he 
remembered their power only too well. The watching 
crowd recoiled slightly as the dementors placed the 
man in the chained chair and glided back out of the 
room. The door swung shut behind them. 

Harry looked down at the man now sitting in the 
chair and saw that it was Karkaroff. 

Unlike Dumbledore, Karkaroff looked much younger; 
his hair and goatee were black. He was not dressed in 
sleek furs, but in thin and ragged robes. He was 
shaking. Even as Harry watched, the chains on the 
arms of the chair glowed suddenly gold and snaked 
their way up Karkaroff’s arms, binding him there. 

“Igor Karkaroff,” said a curt voice to Harry’s left. 

Harry looked around and saw Mr. Crouch standing 
up in the middle of the bench beside him. Crouch’s 
hair was dark, his face was much less lined, he 
looked fit and alert. “You have been brought from 
Azkaban to present evidence to the Ministry of Magic. 



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You have given us to understand that you have 
important information for us.” 

Karkaroff straightened himself as best he could, 
tightly bound to the chair. 

“I have, sir,” he said, and although his voice was very 
scared, Harry could still hear the familiar unctuous 
note in it. “I wish to be of use to the Ministry. I wish 
to help. I — I know that the Ministry is trying to — to 
round up the last of the Dark Lord’s supporters. I am 
eager to assist in any way I can. ...” 

There was a murmur around the benches. Some of 
the wizards and witches were surveying Karkaroff 
with interest, others with pronounced mistrust. Then 
Harry heard, quite distinctly, from Dumbledore’s 
other side, a familiar, growling voice saying, “Filth.” 

Harry leaned forward so that he could see past 
Dumbledore. Mad-Eye Moody was sitting there — 
except that there was a very noticeable difference in 
his appearance. He did not have his magical eye, but 
two normal ones. Both were looking down upon 
Karkaroff, and both were narrowed in intense dislike. 

“Crouch is going to let him out,” Moody breathed 
quietly to Dumbledore. “He’s done a deal with him. 
Took me six months to track him down, and Crouch 
is going to let him go if he’s got enough new names. 
Let’s hear his information, I say, and throw him 
straight back to the dementors.” 

Dumbledore made a small noise of dissent through 
his long, crooked nose. 

“Ah, I was forgetting ... you don’t like the dementors, 
do you, Albus?” said Moody with a sardonic smile. 



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“No,” said Dumbledore calmly, “I’m afraid I don’t. I 
have long felt the Ministry is wrong to ally itself with 
such creatures.” 

“But for filth like this ...” Moody said softly. 

“You say you have names for us, Karkaroff,” said Mr. 
Crouch. “Let us hear them, please.” 

“You must understand,” said Karkaroff hurriedly, 

“that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named operated always in 
the greatest secrecy. . . . He preferred that we — I 
mean to say, his supporters — and I regret now, very 
deeply, that I ever counted myself among them — ” 

“Get on with it,” sneered Moody. 

“ — we never knew the names of every one of our 
fellows — He alone knew exactly who we all were — ” 

“Which was a wise move, wasn’t it, as it prevented 
someone like you, Karkaroff, from turning all of them 
in,” muttered Moody. 

“Yet you say you have some names for us?” said Mr. 
Crouch. 

“I — I do,” said Karkaroff breathlessly. “And these 
were important supporters, mark you. People I saw 
with my own eyes doing his bidding. I give this 
information as a sign that I fully and totally renounce 
him, and am filled with a remorse so deep I can 
barely — ” 

“These names are?” said Mr. Crouch sharply. 
Karkaroff drew a deep breath. 



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“There was Antonin Dolohov,” he said. “I — I saw him 
torture countless Muggles and — and non-supporters 
of the Dark Lord.” 



“And helped him do it,” murmured Moody. 

“We have already apprehended Dolohov,” said 
Crouch. “He was caught shortly after yourself.” 

“Indeed?” said Karkaroff, his eyes widening. “I — I am 
delighted to hear it!” 

But he didn’t look it. Harry could tell that this news 
had come as a real blow to him. One of his names 
was worthless. 

“Any others?” said Crouch coldly. 

“Why, yes ... there was Rosier,” said Karkaroff 
hurriedly. “Evan Rosier.” 

“Rosier is dead,” said Crouch. “He was caught shortly 
after you were too. He preferred to fight rather than 
come quietly and was killed in the struggle.” 

“Took a bit of me with him, though,” whispered 
Moody to Harry’s right. Harry looked around at him 
once more, and saw him indicating the large chunk 
out of his nose to Dumbledore. 

“No — no more than Rosier deserved!” said Karkaroff, 
a real note of panic in his voice now. Harry could see 
that he was starting to worry that none of his 
information would be of any use to the Ministry. 
Karkaroff’s eyes darted toward the door in the corner, 
behind which the dementors undoubtedly still stood, 
waiting. 

“Any more?” said Crouch. 

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“Yes!” said Karkaroff. “There was Travers — he helped 
murder the McKinnons! Mulciber — he specialized in 
the Imperius Curse, forced countless people to do 
horrific things! Rookwood, who was a spy, and passed 
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named useful information from 
inside the Ministry itself!” 

Harry could tell that, this time, Karkaroff had struck 
gold. The watching crowd was all murmuring 
together. 

“Rookwood?” said Mr. Crouch, nodding to a witch 
sitting in front of him, who began scribbling upon her 
piece of parchment. “Augustus Rookwood of the 
Department of Mysteries?” 

“The very same,” said Karkaroff eagerly. “I believe he 
used a network of well-placed wizards, both inside the 
Ministry and out, to collect information — ” 

“But Travers and Mulciber we have,” said Mr. Crouch. 
“Very well, Karkaroff, if that is all, you will be 
returned to Azkaban while we decide — ” 

“Not yet!” cried Karkaroff, looking quite desperate. 
“Wait, I have more!” 

Harry could see him sweating in the torchlight, his 
white skin contrasting strongly with the black of his 
hair and beard. 

“Snape!” he shouted. “Severus Snape!” 

“Snape has been cleared by this council,” said Crouch 
disdainfully. “He has been vouched for by Albus 
Dumbledore.” 



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“No!” shouted Karkaroff, straining at the chains that 
bound him to the chair. “I assure you! Severus Snape 
is a Death Eater!” 

Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. 

“I have given evidence already on this matter,” he said 
calmly. “Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater. 
However, he rejoined our side before Lord Voldemort’s 
downfall and turned spy for us, at great personal risk. 
He is now no more a Death Eater than I am.” 

Harry turned to look at Mad-Eye Moody. He was 
wearing a look of deep skepticism behind 
Dumbledore ’s back. 

“Very well, Karkaroff,” Crouch said coldly, “you have 
been of assistance. I shall review your case. You will 
return to Azkaban in the meantime. ...” 

Mr. Crouch’s voice faded. Harry looked around; the 
dungeon was dissolving as though it were made of 
smoke; everything was fading; he could see only his 
own body — all else was swirling darkness. ... 

And then, the dungeon returned. Harry was sitting in 
a different seat, still on the highest bench, but now to 
the left side of Mr. Crouch. The atmosphere seemed 
quite different: relaxed, even cheerful. The witches 
and wizards all around the walls were talking to one 
another, almost as though they were at some sort of 
sporting event. Harry noticed a witch halfway up the 
rows of benches opposite. She had short blonde hair, 
was wearing magenta robes, and was sucking the end 
of an acid-green quill. It was, unmistakably, a 
younger Rita Skeeter. Harry looked around; 
Dumbledore was sitting beside him again, wearing 
different robes. Mr. Crouch looked more tired and 



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somehow fiercer, gaunter. ... Harry understood. It was 
a different memory, a different day ... a different trial. 

The door in the corner opened, and Ludo Bagman 
walked into the room. 

This was not, however, a Ludo Bagman gone to seed, 
but a Ludo Bagman who was clearly at the height of 
his Quidditch-playing fitness. His nose wasn’t broken 
now; he was tall and lean and muscular. Bagman 
looked nervous as he sat down in the chained chair, 
but it did not bind him there as it had bound 
Karkaroff, and Bagman, perhaps taking heart from 
this, glanced around at the watching crowd, waved at 
a couple of them, and managed a small smile. 

“Ludo Bagman, you have been brought here in front 
of the Council of Magical Law to answer charges 
relating to the activities of the Death Eaters,” said Mr. 
Crouch. “We have heard the evidence against you, 
and are about to reach our verdict. Do you have 
anything to add to your testimony before we 
pronounce judgment?” 

Harry couldn’t believe his ears. Ludo Bagman, a 
Death Eater? 

“Only,” said Bagman, smiling awkwardly, “well — I 
know I’ve been a bit of an idiot — ” 

One or two wizards and witches in the surrounding 
seats smiled indulgently. Mr. Crouch did not appear 
to share their feelings. He was staring down at Ludo 
Bagman with an expression of the utmost severity 
and dislike. 

“You never spoke a truer word, boy,” someone 
muttered dryly to Dumbledore behind Harry. He 
looked around and saw Moody sitting there again. “If I 

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didn’t know he’d always been dim, I’d have said some 
of those Bludgers had permanently affected his brain. 



“Ludovic Bagman, you were caught passing 
information to Lord Voldemort’s supporters,” said Mr. 
Crouch. “For this, I suggest a term of imprisonment 
in Azkaban lasting no less than — ” 

But there was an angry outcry from the surrounding 
benches. Several of the witches and wizards around 
the walls stood up, shaking their heads, and even 
their fists, at Mr. Crouch. 

“But I’ve told you, I had no idea!” Bagman called 
earnestly over the crowd’s babble, his round blue eyes 
widening. “None at all! Old Rookwood was a friend of 
my dad’s ... never crossed my mind he was in with 
You-Know-Who! I thought I was collecting information 
for our side! And Rookwood kept talking about getting 
me a job in the Ministry later on ... once my 
Quidditch days are over, you know ... I mean, I can’t 
keep getting hit by Bludgers for the rest of my life, 
can I?” 

There were titters from the crowd. 

“It will be put to the vote,” said Mr. Crouch coldly. He 
turned to the right-hand side of the dungeon. “The 
jury will please raise their hands ... those in favor of 
imprisonment ...” 

Harry looked toward the right-hand side of the 
dungeon. Not one person raised their hand. Many of 
the witches and wizards around the walls began to 
clap. One of the witches on the jury stood up. 

“Yes?” barked Crouch. 



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“We’d just like to congratulate Mr. Bagman on his 
splendid performance for England in the Quidditch 
match against Turkey last Saturday,” the witch said 
breathlessly. 

Mr. Crouch looked furious. The dungeon was ringing 
with applause now. Bagman got to his feet and 
bowed, beaming. 

“Despicable,” Mr. Crouch spat at Dumbledore, sitting 
down as Bagman walked out of the dungeon. 
“Rookwood get him a job indeed. ... The day Ludo 
Bagman joins us will be a sad day indeed for the 
Ministry. ...” 

And the dungeon dissolved again. When it had 
returned, Harry looked around. He and Dumbledore 
were still sitting beside Mr. Crouch, but the 
atmosphere could not have been more different. There 
was total silence, broken only by the dry sobs of a 
frail, wispy-looking witch in the seat next to Mr. 
Crouch. She was clutching a handkerchief to her 
mouth with trembling hands. Harry looked up at 
Crouch and saw that he looked gaunter and grayer 
than ever before. A nerve was twitching in his temple. 

“Bring them in,” he said, and his voice echoed 
through the silent dungeon. 

The door in the corner opened yet again. Six 
dementors entered this time, flanking a group of four 
people. Harry saw the people in the crowd turn to 
look up at Mr. Crouch. A few of them whispered to 
one another. 

The dementors placed each of the four people in the 
four chairs with chained arms that now stood on the 
dungeon floor. There was a thickset man who stared 
blankly up at Crouch; a thinner and more nervous- 

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looking man, whose eyes were darting around the 
crowd; a woman with thick, shining dark hair and 
heavily hooded eyes, who was sitting in the chained 
chair as though it were a throne; and a boy in his late 
teens, who looked nothing short of petrified. He was 
shivering, his straw-colored hair all over his face, his 
freckled skin milk-white. The wispy little witch beside 
Crouch began to rock backward and forward in her 
seat, whimpering into her handkerchief. 

Crouch stood up. He looked down upon the four in 
front of him, and there was pure hatred in his face. 

“You have been brought here before the Council of 
Magical Law,” he said clearly, “so that we may pass 
judgment on you, for a crime so heinous — ” 

“Father,” said the boy with the straw-colored hair. 
“Father ... please ...” 

“ — that we have rarely heard the like of it within this 
court,” said Crouch, speaking more loudly, drowning 
out his son’s voice. “We have heard the evidence 
against you. The four of you stand accused of 
capturing an Auror — Frank Longbottom — and 
subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse, believing him 
to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your 
exiled master, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named — ” 

“Father, I didn’t!” shrieked the boy in chains below. “I 
didn’t, I swear it, Father, don’t send me back to the 
dementors — ” 

“You are further accused,” bellowed Mr. Crouch, “of 
using the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom’s 
wife, when he would not give you information. You 
planned to restore He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to 
power, and to resume the lives of violence you 



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presumably led while he was strong. I now ask the 
jury — ” 

“Mother!” screamed the boy below, and the wispy little 
witch beside Crouch began to sob, rocking backward 
and forward. “Mother, stop him, Mother, I didn’t do it, 
it wasn’t me!” 

“I now ask the jury,” shouted Mr. Crouch, “to raise 
their hands if they believe, as I do, that these crimes 
deserve a life sentence in Azkaban!” 

In unison, the witches and wizards along the right- 
hand side of the dungeon raised their hands. The 
crowd around the walls began to clap as it had for 
Bagman, their faces full of savage triumph. The boy 
began to scream. 

“No! Mother, no! I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it, I didn’t 
know! Don’t send me there, don’t let him!” 

The dementors were gliding back into the room. The 
boys’ three companions rose quietly from their seats; 
the woman with the heavy-lidded eyes looked up at 
Crouch and called, “The Dark Lord will rise again, 
Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait! He will 
rise again and will come for us, he will reward us 
beyond any of his other supporters! We alone were 
faithful! We alone tried to find him!” 

But the boy was trying to fight off the dementors, 
even though Harry could see their cold, draining 
power starting to affect him. The crowd was jeering, 
some of them on their feet, as the woman swept out of 
the dungeon, and the boy continued to struggle. 

“I’m your son!” he screamed up at Crouch. “I’m your 
son!” 



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“You are no son of mine!” bellowed Mr. Crouch, his 
eyes bulging suddenly. “I have no son!” 

The wispy witch beside him gave a great gasp and 
slumped in her seat. She had fainted. Crouch 
appeared not to have noticed. 

“Take them away!” Crouch roared at the dementors, 
spit flying from his mouth. “Take them away, and 
may they rot there!” 

“Father! Father, I wasn’t involved! No! No! Father, 
please!” 

“I think, Harry, it is time to return to my office,” said 
a quiet voice in Harry’s ear. 

Harry started. He looked around. Then he looked on 
his other side. 

There was an Albus Dumbledore sitting on his right, 
watching Crouch’s son being dragged away by the 
dementors — and there was an Albus Dumbledore on 
his left, looking right at him. 

“Come,” said the Dumbledore on his left, and he put 
his hand under Harry’s elbow. Harry felt himself 
rising into the air; the dungeon dissolved around him; 
for a moment, all was blackness, and then he felt as 
though he had done a slow-motion somersault, 
suddenly landing flat on his feet, in what seemed like 
the dazzling light of Dumbledore ’s sunlit office. The 
stone basin was shimmering in the cabinet in front of 
him, and Albus Dumbledore was standing beside 
him. 

“Professor,” Harry gasped, “I know I shouldn’t’ve — I 
didn’t mean — the cabinet door was sort of open and 



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“I quite understand,” said Dumbledore. He lifted the 
basin, carried it over to his desk, placed it upon the 
polished top, and sat down in the chair behind it. He 
motioned for Harry to sit down opposite him. 

Harry did so, staring at the stone basin. The contents 
had returned to their original, silvery-white state, 
swirling and rippling beneath his gaze. 

“What is it?” Harry asked shakily. 

“This? It is called a Pensieve,” said Dumbledore. “I 
sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, 
that I simply have too many thoughts and memories 
crammed into my mind.” 

“Er,” said Harry, who couldn’t truthfully say that he 
had ever felt anything of the sort. 

“At these times,” said Dumbledore, indicating the 
stone basin, “I use the Pensieve. One simply siphons 
the excess thoughts from one’s mind, pours them into 
the basin, and examines them at one’s leisure. It 
becomes easier to spot patterns and links, you 
understand, when they are in this form.” 

“You mean . . . that stuff’s your thoughts?” Harry said, 
staring at the swirling white substance in the basin. 

“Certainly,” said Dumbledore. “Let me show you.” 

Dumbledore drew his wand out of the inside of his 
robes and placed the tip into his own silvery hair, 
near his temple. When he took the wand away, hair 
seemed to be clinging to it — but then Harry saw that 
it was in fact a glistening strand of the same strange 
silvery-white substance that filled the Pensieve. 
Dumbledore added this fresh thought to the basin, 
and Harry, astonished, saw his own face swimming 
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around the surface of the bowl. Dumbledore placed 
his long hands on either side of the Pensieve and 
swirled it, rather as a gold prospector would pan for 
fragments of gold . . . and Harry saw his own face 
change smoothly into Snape’s, who opened his mouth 
and spoke to the ceiling, his voice echoing slightly. 

“It’s coming back ... Karkaroff’s too ... stronger and 
clearer than ever ...” 

“A connection I could have made without assistance,” 
Dumbledore sighed, “but never mind.” He peered over 
the top of his half-moon spectacles at Harry, who was 
gaping at Snape’s face, which was continuing to swirl 
around the bowl. “I was using the Pensieve when Mr. 
Fudge arrived for our meeting and put it away rather 
hastily. Undoubtedly I did not fasten the cabinet door 
properly. Naturally, it would have attracted your 
attention.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled. 

Dumbledore shook his head. “Curiosity is not a sin,” 
he said. “But we should exercise caution with our 
curiosity ... yes, indeed ...” 

Frowning slightly, he prodded the thoughts within the 
basin with the tip of his wand. Instantly, a figure rose 
out of it, a plump, scowling girl of about sixteen, who 
began to revolve slowly, with her feet still in the basin. 
She took no notice whatsoever of Harry or Professor 
Dumbledore. When she spoke, her voice echoed as 
Snape’s had done, as though it were coming from the 
depths of the stone basin. “He put a hex on me, 
Professor Dumbledore, and I was only teasing him, 
sir. I only said I’d seen him kissing Florence behind 
the greenhouses last Thursday. ...” 



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“But why, Bertha,” said Dumbledore sadly, looking up 
at the now silently revolving girl, “why did you have to 
follow him in the first place?” 

“Bertha?” Harry whispered, looking up at her. “Is that 
— was that Bertha Jorkins?” 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore, prodding the thoughts in the 
basin again; Bertha sank back into them, and they 
became silvery and opaque once more. “That was 
Bertha as I remember her at school.” 

The silvery light from the Pensieve illuminated 
Dumbledore’s face, and it struck Harry suddenly how 
very old he was looking. He knew, of course, that 
Dumbledore was getting on in years, but somehow he 
never really thought of Dumbledore as an old man. 

“So, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Before you got 
lost in my thoughts, you wanted to tell me 
something.” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “Professor — I was in Divination 
just now, and — er — I fell asleep.” 

He hesitated here, wondering if a reprimand was 
coming, but Dumbledore merely said, “Quite 
understandable. Continue.” 

“Well, I had a dream,” said Harry. “A dream about 
Lord Voldemort. He was torturing Wormtail ... you 
know who Wormtail — ” 

“I do know,” said Dumbledore promptly. “Please 
continue.” 

“Voldemort got a letter from an owl. He said 
something like, Wormtail’s blunder had been 
repaired. He said someone was dead. Then he said, 

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Wormtail wouldn’t be fed to the snake — there was a 
snake beside his chair. He said — he said he’d be 
feeding me to it, instead. Then he did the Cruciatus 
Curse on Wormtail — and my scar hurt,” Harry said. 
“It woke me up, it hurt so badly.” 

Dumbledore merely looked at him. 

“Er — that’s all,” said Harry. 

“I see,” said Dumbledore quietly. “I see. Now, has your 
scar hurt at any other time this year, excepting the 
time it woke you up over the summer?” 

“No, I — how did you know it woke me up over the 
summer?” said Harry, astonished. 

“You are not Sirius’s only correspondent,” said 
Dumbledore. “I have also been in contact with him 
ever since he left Hogwarts last year. It was I who 
suggested the mountainside cave as the safest place 
for him to stay.” 

Dumbledore got up and began walking up and down 
behind his desk. Every now and then, he placed his 
wand tip to his temple, removed another shining 
silver thought, and added it to the Pensieve. The 
thoughts inside began to swirl so fast that Harry 
couldn’t make out anything clearly: It was merely a 
blur of color. 

“Professor?” he said quietly, after a couple of minutes. 

Dumbledore stopped pacing and looked at Harry. 

“My apologies,” he said quietly. He sat back down at 
his desk. 

“D’you — d’you know why my scar’s hurting me?” 

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Dumbledore looked very intently at Harry for a 
moment, and then said, “I have a theory, no more 
than that. ... It is my belief that your scar hurts both 
when Lord Voldemort is near you, and when he is 
feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred.” 

“But ... why?” 

“Because you and he are connected by the curse that 
failed,” said Dumbledore. “That is no ordinary scar.” 

“So you think . . . that dream . . . did it really happen?” 

“It is possible,” said Dumbledore. “I would say — 
probable. Harry — did you see Voldemort?” 

“No,” said Harry. “Just the back of his chair. But — 
there wouldn’t have been anything to see, would 
there? I mean, he hasn’t got a body, has he? But ... 
but then how could he have held the wand?” Harry 
said slowly. 

“How indeed?” muttered Dumbledore. “How indeed 



Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke for a while. 
Dumbledore was gazing across the room, and, every 
now and then, placing his wand tip to his temple and 
adding another shining silver thought to the seething 
mass within the Pensieve. 

“Professor,” Harry said at last, “do you think he’s 
getting stronger?” 

“Voldemort?” said Dumbledore, looking at Harry over 
the Pensieve. It was the characteristic, piercing look 
Dumbledore had given him on other occasions, and 
always made Harry feel as though Dumbledore were 
seeing right through him in a way that even Moody’s 
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magical eye could not. “Once again, Harry, I can only 
give you my suspicions.” 

Dumbledore sighed again, and he looked older, and 
wearier, than ever. 

“The years of Voldemort’s ascent to power,” he said, 
“were marked with disappearances. Bertha Jorkins 
has vanished without a trace in the place where 
Voldemort was certainly known to be last. Mr. Crouch 
too has disappeared ... within these very grounds. 

And there was a third disappearance, one which the 
Ministry, I regret to say, do not consider of any 
importance, for it concerns a Muggle. His name was 
Frank Bryce, he lived in the village where Voldemort’s 
father grew up, and he has not been seen since last 
August. You see, I read the Muggle newspapers, 
unlike most of my Ministry friends.” 

Dumbledore looked very seriously at Harry. 

“These disappearances seem to me to be linked. The 
Ministry disagrees — as you may have heard, while 
waiting outside my office.” 

Harry nodded. Silence fell between them again, 
Dumbledore extracting thoughts every now and then. 
Harry felt as though he ought to go, but his curiosity 
held him in his chair. 

“Professor?” he said again. 

“Yes, Harry?” said Dumbledore. 

“Er . . . could I ask you about . . . that court thing I was 
in ... in the Pensieve?” 



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“You could,” said Dumbledore heavily. “I attended it 
many times, but some trials come back to me more 
clearly than others ... particularly now. ...” 

“You know — you know the trial you found me in? 

The one with Crouch’s son? Well ... were they talking 
about Neville’s parents?” 

Dumbledore gave Harry a very sharp look. “Has 
Neville never told you why he has been brought up by 
his grandmother?” he said. 

Harry shook his head, wondering, as he did so, how 
he could have failed to ask Neville this, in almost four 
years of knowing him. 

“Yes, they were talking about Neville’s parents,” said 
Dumbledore. “His father, Frank, was an Auror just 
like Professor Moody. He and his wife were tortured 
for information about Voldemort’s whereabouts after 
he lost his powers, as you heard.” 

“So they’re dead?” said Harry quietly. 

“No,” said Dumbledore, his voice full of a bitterness 
Harry had never heard there before. “They are insane. 
They are both in St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical 
Maladies and Injuries. I believe Neville visits them, 
with his grandmother, during the holidays. They do 
not recognize him.” 

Harry sat there, horror-struck. He had never known 
... never, in four years, bothered to find out ... 

“The Longbottoms were very popular,” said 
Dumbledore. “The attacks on them came after 
Voldemort’s fall from power, just when everyone 
thought they were safe. Those attacks caused a wave 
of fury such as I have never known. The Ministry was 
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under great pressure to catch those who had done it. 
Unfortunately, the Longbottoms’ evidence was — 
given their condition — none too reliable.” 

“Then Mr. Crouch’s son might not have been 
involved?” said Harry slowly. 

Dumbledore shook his head. 

“As to that, I have no idea.” 

Harry sat in silence once more, watching the contents 
of the Pensieve swirl. There were two more questions 
he was burning to ask . . . but they concerned the guilt 
of living people. ... 

“Er,” he said, “Mr. Bagman ...” 

"... has never been accused of any Dark activity 
since,” said Dumbledore calmly. 

“Right,” said Harry hastily, staring at the contents of 
the Pensieve again, which were swirling more slowly 
now that Dumbledore had stopped adding thoughts. 
“And ... er ...” 

But the Pensieve seemed to be asking his question for 
him. Snape’s face was swimming on the surface 
again. Dumbledore glanced down into it, and then up 
at Harry. 

“No more has Professor Snape,” he said. 

Harry looked into Dumbledore ’s light blue eyes, and 
the thing he really wanted to know spilled out of his 
mouth before he could stop it. 

“What made you think he’d really stopped supporting 
Voldemort, Professor?” 

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Dumbledore held Harry’s gaze for a few seconds, and 
then said, “That, Harry, is a matter between Professor 
Snape and myself.” 

Harry knew that the interview was over; Dumbledore 
did not look angry, yet there was a finality in his tone 
that told Harry it was time to go. He stood up, and so 
did Dumbledore. 

“Harry,” he said as Harry reached the door. “Please do 
not speak about Neville’s parents to anybody else. He 
has the right to let people know, when he is ready.” 

“Yes, Professor,” said Harry, turning to go. 

“And — ” 

Harry looked back. Dumbledore was standing over 
the Pensieve, his face lit from beneath by its silvery 
spots of light, looking older than ever. He stared at 
Harry for a moment, and then said, “Good luck with 
the third task.” 



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THE THIRD TASK 

“Dumbledore reckons You- Know- Who’s getting 
stronger again as well?” Ron whispered. 

Everything Harry had seen in the Pensieve, nearly 
everything Dumbledore had told and shown him 
afterward, he had now shared with Ron and 
Hermione — and, of course, with Sirius, to whom 
Harry had sent an owl the moment he had left 
Dumbledore’s office. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat 
up late in the common room once again that night, 
talking it all over until Harry’s mind was reeling, until 
he understood what Dumbledore had meant about a 
head becoming so full of thoughts that it would have 
been a relief to siphon them off. 

Ron stared into the common room fire. Harry thought 
he saw Ron shiver slightly, even though the evening 
was warm. 

“And he trusts Snape?” Ron said. “He really trusts 
Snape, even though he knows he was a Death Eater?” 



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“Yes,” said Harry. 



Hermione had not spoken for ten minutes. She was 
sitting with her forehead in her hands, staring at her 
knees. Harry thought she too looked as though she 
could have done with a Pensieve. 

“Rita Skeeter,” she muttered finally. 

“How can you be worrying about her now?” said Ron, 
in utter disbelief. 

“I’m not worrying about her,” Hermione said to her 
knees. “I’m just thinking ... remember what she said 
to me in the Three Broomsticks? ‘I know things about 
Ludo Bagman that would make your hair curl.’ This 
is what she meant, isn’t it? She reported his trial, she 
knew he’d passed information to the Death Eaters. 
And Winky too, remember ... ‘Ludo Bagman’s a bad 
wizard.’ Mr. Crouch would have been furious he got 
off, he would have talked about it at home.” 

“Yeah, but Bagman didn’t pass information on 
purpose, did he?” 

Hermione shrugged. 

“And Fudge reckons Madame Maxime attacked 
Crouch?” Ron said, turning back to Harry. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but he’s only saying that because 
Crouch disappeared near the Beauxbatons carriage.” 

“We never thought of her, did we?” said Ron slowly. 
“Mind you, she’s definitely got giant blood, and she 
doesn’t want to admit it — ” 

“Of course she doesn’t,” said Hermione sharply, 
looking up. “Look what happened to Hagrid when Rita 

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found out about his mother. Look at Fudge, jumping 
to conclusions about her, just because she’s part 
giant. Who needs that sort of prejudice? I’d probably 
say I had big bones if I knew that’s what I’d get for 
telling the truth.” 

Hermione looked at her watch. “We haven’t done any 
practicing!” she said, looking shocked. “We were going 
to do the Impediment Curse! We’ll have to really get 
down to it tomorrow! Come on, Harry, you need to get 
some sleep.” 

Harry and Ron went slowly upstairs to their 
dormitory. As Harry pulled on his pajamas, he looked 
over at Neville’s bed. True to his word to Dumbledore, 
he had not told Ron and Hermione about Neville’s 
parents. As Harry took off his glasses and climbed 
into his four-poster, he imagined how it must feel to 
have parents still living but unable to recognize you. 
He often got sympathy from strangers for being an 
orphan, but as he listened to Neville’s snores, he 
thought that Neville deserved it more than he did. 
Lying in the darkness, Harry felt a rush of anger and 
hate toward the people who had tortured Mr. and 
Mrs. Longbottom. ... He remembered the jeers of the 
crowd as Crouch’s son and his companions had been 
dragged from the court by the dementors. ... He 
understood how they had felt. ... Then he 
remembered the milk-white face of the screaming boy 
and realized with a jolt that he had died a year later. 



It was Voldemort, Harry thought, staring up at the 
canopy of his bed in the darkness, it all came back to 
Voldemort. ... He was the one who had torn these 
families apart, who had ruined all these lives. ... 

Ron and Hermione were supposed to be studying for 
their exams, which would finish on the day of the 

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third task, but they were putting most of their efforts 
into helping Harry prepare. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Hermione said shortly when 
Harry pointed this out to them and said he didn’t 
mind practicing on his own for a while, “at least we’ll 
get top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts. We’d 
never have found out about all these hexes in class.” 

“Good training for when we’re all Aurors,” said Ron 
excitedly, attempting the Impediment Curse on a 
wasp that had buzzed into the room and making it 
stop dead in midair. 

The mood in the castle as they entered June became 
excited and tense again. Everyone was looking 
forward to the third task, which would take place a 
week before the end of term. Harry was practicing 
hexes at every available moment. He felt more 
confident about this task than either of the others. 
Difficult and dangerous though it would undoubtedly 
be, Moody was right: Harry had managed to find his 
way past monstrous creatures and enchanted 
barriers before now, and this time he had some 
notice, some chance to prepare himself for what lay 
ahead. 

Tired of walking in on Harry, Hermione, and Ron all 
over the school, Professor McGonagall had given them 
permission to use the empty Transfiguration 
classroom at lunchtimes. Harry had soon mastered 
the Impediment Curse, a spell to slow down and 
obstruct attackers; the Reductor Curse, which would 
enable him to blast solid objects out of his way; and 
the Four-Point Spell, a useful discovery of Hermione’s 
that would make his wand point due north, therefore 
enabling him to check whether he was going in the 
right direction within the maze. He was still having 
trouble with the Shield Charm, though. This was 
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supposed to cast a temporary, invisible wall around 
himself that deflected minor curses; Hermione 
managed to shatter it with a well-placed Jelly-Legs 
Jinx, and Harry wobbled around the room for ten 
minutes afterward before she had looked up the 
counter-jinx. 

“You’re still doing really well, though,” Hermione said 
encouragingly, looking down her list and crossing off 
those spells they had already learned. “Some of these 
are bound to come in handy.” 

“Come and look at this,” said Ron, who was standing 
by the window. He was staring down onto the 
grounds. “What’s Malfoy doing?” 

Harry and Hermione went to see. Malfoy, Crabbe, and 
Goyle were standing in the shadow of a tree below. 
Crabbe and Goyle seemed to be keeping a lookout; 
both were smirking. Malfoy was holding his hand up 
to his mouth and speaking into it. 

“He looks like he’s using a walkie-talkie,” said Harry 
curiously. 

“He can’t be,” said Hermione, “I’ve told you, those 
sorts of things don’t work around Hogwarts. Come on, 
Harry,” she added briskly, turning away from the 
window and moving back into the middle of the room, 
“let’s try that Shield Charm again.” 



Sirius was sending daily owls now. Like Hermione, he 
seemed to want to concentrate on getting Harry 
through the last task before they concerned 
themselves with anything else. He reminded Harry in 
every letter that whatever might be going on outside 



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the walls of Hogwarts was not Harry’s responsibility, 
nor was it within his power to influence it. 



If Voldemort is really getting stronger again, he wrote, 
my priority is to ensure your safety. He cannot hope to 
lay hands on you while you are under Dumbledore’s 
protection, but all the same, take no risks : Concentrate 
on getting through that maze safely, and then we can 
turn our attention to other matters. 

Harry’s nerves mounted as June the twenty-fourth 
drew closer, but they were not as bad as those he had 
felt before the first and second tasks. For one thing, 
he was confident that, this time, he had done 
everything in his power to prepare for the task. For 
another, this was the final hurdle, and however well 
or badly he did, the tournament would at last be over, 
which would be an enormous relief. 

Breakfast was a very noisy affair at the Gryffindor 
table on the morning of the third task. The post owls 
appeared, bringing Harry a good-luck card from 
Sirius. It was only a piece of parchment, folded over 
and bearing a muddy paw print on its front, but 
Harry appreciated it all the same. A screech owl 
arrived for Hermione, carrying her morning copy of 
the Daily Prophet as usual. She unfolded the paper, 
glanced at the front page, and spat out a mouthful of 
pumpkin juice all over it. 

“What?” said Harry and Ron together, staring at her. 

“Nothing,” said Hermione quickly, trying to shove the 
paper out of sight, but Ron grabbed it. He stared at 
the headline and said, “No way. Not today. That old 
cow.” 

“What?” said Harry. “Rita Skeeter again?” 

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“No,” said Ron, and just like Hermione, he attempted 
to push the paper out of sight. 



“It’s about me, isn’t it?” said Harry. 

“No,” said Ron, in an entirely unconvincing tone. 

But before Harry could demand to see the paper, 
Draco Malfoy shouted across the Great Hall from the 
Slytherin table. 

“Hey, Potter! Potteri How’s your head? You feeling all 
right? Sure you’re not going to go berserk on us?” 

Malfoy was holding a copy of the Daily Prophet too. 
Slytherins up and down the table were sniggering, 
twisting in their seats to see Harry’s reaction. 

“Let me see it,” Harry said to Ron. “Give it here.” 

Very reluctantly, Ron handed over the newspaper. 
Harry turned it over and found himself staring at his 
own picture, beneath the banner headline: 

HARRY POTTER 

“DISTURBED AND DANGEROUS” 

The boy who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is 
unstable and possibly dangerous, writes Rita Skeeter, 
Special Correspondent. Alarming evidence has 
recently come to light about Harry Potter’s strange 
behavior, which casts doubts upon his suitability to 
compete in a demanding competition like the Triwizard 
Tournament, or even to attend Hogwarts School. 

Potter, the Daily Prophet can exclusively reveal, 
regularly collapses at school, and is often heard to 
complain of pain in the scar on his forehead (relic of the 

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curse with which You-Know-Who attempted to kill him). 
On Monday last, midway through a Divination lesson, 
your Daily Prophet reporter witnessed Potter storming 
from the class, claiming that his scar was hurting too 
badly to continue studying. 

It is possible, say top experts at St. Mungo’s Hospital 
for Magical Maladies and Injuries, that Potter’s brain 
was affected by the attack inflicted upon him by You- 
Know-Who, and that his insistence that the scar is 
still hurting is an expression of his deep-seated 
confusion. 

“He might even be pretending,” said one specialist. 
“This could be a plea for attention.” 

The Daily Prophet, however, has unearthed worrying 
facts about Harry Potter thatAlbus Dumbledore, 
Headmaster of Hogwarts, has carefully concealed from 
the wizarding public. 

“Potter can speak Parseltongue, ” reveals Draco Malfoy, 
a Hogwarts fourth year. “There were a lot of attacks 
on students a couple of years ago, and most people 
thought Potter was behind them after they saw him 
lose his temper at a dueling club and set a snake on 
another boy. It was all hushed up, though. But he’s 
made friends with werewolves and giants too. We 
think he’d do anything for a bit of power.” 

Parseltongue, the ability to converse with snakes, has 
long been considered a Dark Art. Indeed, the most 
famous Parselmouth of our times is none other than 
You-Know-Who himself. A member of the Dark Force 
Defense League, who wished to remain unnamed, 
stated that he would regard any wizard who could 
speak Parseltongue “as worthy of investigation. 
Personally, I would be highly suspicious of anybody 
who could converse with snakes, as serpents are 
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often used in the worst kinds of Dark Magic, and are 
historically associated with evildoers.” Similarly, 
“anyone who seeks out the company of such vicious 
creatures as werewolves and giants would appear to 
have a fondness for violence.” 

Albus Dumbledore should surely consider whether a 
boy such as this should be allowed to compete in the 
Triwizard Tournament. Some fear that Potter might 
resort to the Dark Arts in his desperation to win the 
tournament, the third task of which takes place this 
evening. 

“Gone off me a bit, hasn’t she?” said Harry lightly, 
folding up the paper. 

Over at the Slytherin table, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle 
were laughing at him, tapping their heads with their 
fingers, pulling grotesquely mad faces, and waggling 
their tongues like snakes. 

“How did she know your scar hurt in Divination?” 

Ron said. “There’s no way she was there, there’s no 
way she could’ve heard — ” 

“The window was open,” said Harry. “I opened it to 
breathe.” 

“You were at the top of North Tower!” Hermione said. 
“Your voice couldn’t have carried all the way down to 
the grounds!” 

“Well, you’re the one who’s supposed to be 
researching magical methods of bugging!” said Harry. 
“You tell me how she did it!” 

“I’ve been trying!” said Hermione. “But I ... but ...” 



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An odd, dreamy expression suddenly came over 
Hermione ’s face. She slowly raised a hand and ran 
her fingers through her hair. 

“Are you all right?” said Ron, frowning at her. 

“Yes,” said Hermione breathlessly. She ran her fingers 
through her hair again, and then held her hand up to 
her mouth, as though speaking into an invisible 
walkie-talkie. Harry and Ron stared at each other. 

“I’ve had an idea,” Hermione said, gazing into space. 

“I think I know . . . because then no one would be able 
to see ... even Moody ... and she’d have been able to 
get onto the window ledge ... but she’s not allowed ... 
she’s definitely not allowed ... I think we’ve got her! 
Just give me two seconds in the library — just to 
make sure!” 

With that, Hermione seized her school bag and 
dashed out of the Great Hall. 

“Oi!” Ron called after her. “We’ve got our History of 
Magic exam in ten minutes! Blimey,” he said, turning 
back to Harry, “she must really hate that Skeeter 
woman to risk missing the start of an exam. What’re 
you going to do in Binns’s class — read again?” 

Exempt from the end-of-term tests as a Triwizard 
champion, Harry had been sitting in the back of every 
exam class so far, looking up fresh hexes for the third 
task. 

“S’pose so,” Harry said to Ron; but just then, 

Professor McGonagall came walking alongside the 
Gryffindor table toward him. 

“Potter, the champions are congregating in the 
chamber off the Hall after breakfast,” she said. 

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“But the task’s not till tonight!” said Harry, 
accidentally spilling scrambled eggs down his front, 
afraid he had mistaken the time. 

“I’m aware of that, Potter,” she said. “The champions’ 
families are invited to watch the final task, you know. 
This is simply a chance for you to greet them.” 

She moved away. Harry gaped after her. 

“She doesn’t expect the Dursleys to turn up, does 
she?” he asked Ron blankly. 

“Dunno,” said Ron. “Harry, I’d better hurry, I’m going 
to be late for Binns. See you later.” 

Harry finished his breakfast in the emptying Great 
Hall. He saw Fleur Delacour get up from the 
Ravenclaw table and join Cedric as he crossed to the 
side chamber and entered. Krum slouched off to join 
them shortly afterward. Harry stayed where he was. 

He really didn’t want to go into the chamber. He had 
no family — no family who would turn up to see him 
risk his life, anyway. But just as he was getting up, 
thinking that he might as well go up to the library 
and do a spot more hex research, the door of the side 
chamber opened, and Cedric stuck his head out. 

“Harry, come on, they’re waiting for you!” 

Utterly perplexed, Harry got up. The Dursleys 
couldn’t possibly be here, could they? He walked 
across the Hall and opened the door into the 
chamber. 

Cedric and his parents were just inside the door. 
Viktor Krum was over in a corner, conversing with his 
dark-haired mother and father in rapid Bulgarian. He 
had inherited his father’s hooked nose. On the other 

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side of the room, Fleur was jabbering away in French 
to her mother. Fleur’s little sister, Gabrielle, was 
holding her mother’s hand. She waved at Harry, who 
waved back, grinning. Then he saw Mrs. Weasley and 
Bill standing in front of the fireplace, beaming at him. 

“Surprise!” Mrs. Weasley said excitedly as he smiled 
broadly and walked over to them. “Thought we’d come 
and watch you, Harry!” She bent down and kissed 
him on the cheek. 

“You all right?” said Bill, grinning at Harry and 
shaking his hand. “Charlie wanted to come, but he 
couldn’t get time off. He said you were incredible 
against the Horntail.” 

Fleur Delacour, Harry noticed, was eyeing Bill with 
great interest over her mother’s shoulder. Harry could 
tell she had no objection whatsoever to long hair or 
earrings with fangs on them. 

“This is really nice of you,” Harry muttered to Mrs. 
Weasley. “I thought for a moment — the Dursleys — ” 

“Hmm,” said Mrs. Weasley, pursing her lips. She had 
always refrained from criticizing the Dursleys in front 
of Harry, but her eyes flashed every time they were 
mentioned. 

“It’s great being back here,” said Bill, looking around 
the chamber (Violet, the Fat Lady’s friend, winked at 
him from her frame). “Haven’t seen this place for five 
years. Is that picture of the mad knight still around? 
Sir Cadogan?” 

“Oh yeah,” said Harry, who had met Sir Cadogan the 
previous year. 

“And the Fat Lady?” said Bill. 

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“She was here in my time,” said Mrs. Weasley. “She 
gave me such a telling off one night when I got back 
to the dormitory at four in the morning — ” 

“What were you doing out of your dormitory at four in 
the morning?” said Bill, surveying his mother with 
amazement. 

Mrs. Weasley grinned, her eyes twinkling. 

“Your father and I had been for a nighttime stroll,” 
she said. “He got caught by Apollyon Pringle — he 
was the caretaker in those days — your father’s still 
got the marks.” 

“Fancy giving us a tour, Harry?” said Bill. 

“Yeah, okay,” said Harry, and they made their way 
back toward the door into the Great Hall. As they 
passed Amos Diggory, he looked around. 

“There you are, are you?” he said, looking Harry up 
and down. “Bet you’re not feeling quite as full of 
yourself now Cedric’s caught you up on points, are 
you?” 

“What?” said Harry. 

“Ignore him,” said Cedric in a low voice to Harry, 
frowning after his father. “He’s been angry ever since 
Rita Skeeter’s article about the Triwizard Tournament 
— you know, when she made out you were the only 
Hogwarts champion.” 

“Didn’t bother to correct her, though, did he?” said 
Amos Diggory, loudly enough for Harry to hear as he 
started to walk out of the door with Mrs. Weasley and 
Bill. “Still ... you’ll show him, Ced. Beaten him once 
before, haven’t you?” 

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“Rita Skeeter goes out of her way to cause trouble, 
Amos!” Mrs. Weasley said angrily. “I would have 
thought you’d know that, working at the Ministry!” 

Mr. Diggory looked as though he was going to say 
something angry, but his wife laid a hand on his arm, 
and he merely shrugged and turned away. 

Harry had a very enjoyable morning walking over the 
sunny grounds with Bill and Mrs. Weasley, showing 
them the Beauxbatons carriage and the Durmstrang 
ship. Mrs. Weasley was intrigued by the Whomping 
Willow, which had been planted after she had left 
school, and reminisced at length about the 
gamekeeper before Hagrid, a man called Ogg. 

“How’s Percy?” Harry asked as they walked around 
the greenhouses. 

“Not good,” said Bill. 

“He’s very upset,” said Mrs. Weasley, lowering her 
voice and glancing around. “The Ministry wants to 
keep Mr. Crouch’s disappearance quiet, but Percy’s 
been hauled in for questioning about the instructions 
Mr. Crouch has been sending in. They seem to think 
there’s a chance they weren’t genuinely written by 
him. Percy’s been under a lot of strain. They’re not 
letting him fill in for Mr. Crouch as the fifth judge 
tonight. Cornelius Fudge is going to be doing it.” 

They returned to the castle for lunch. 

“Mum — Bill!” said Ron, looking stunned, as he 
joined the Gryffindor table. “What ’re you doing here?” 

“Come to watch Harry in the last task!” said Mrs. 
Weasley brightly. “I must say, it makes a lovely 
change, not having to cook. How was your exam?” 

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“Oh ... okay,” said Ron. “Couldn’t remember all the 
goblin rebels’ names, so I invented a few. It’s all 
right,” he said, helping himself to a Cornish pasty, 
while Mrs. Weasley looked stern, “they’re all called 
stuff like Bodrod the Bearded and Urg the Unclean; it 
wasn’t hard.” 

Fred, George, and Ginny came to sit next to them too, 
and Harry was having such a good time he felt almost 
as though he were back at the Burrow; he had 
forgotten to worry about that evening’s task, and not 
until Hermione turned up, halfway through lunch, 
did he remember that she had had a brainwave about 
Rita Skeeter. 

“Are you going to tell us — ?” 

Hermione shook her head warningly and glanced at 
Mrs. Weasley. 

“Hello, Hermione,” said Mrs. Weasley, much more 
stiffly than usual. 

“Hello,” said Hermione, her smile faltering at the cold 
expression on Mrs. Weasley’s face. 

Harry looked between them, then said, “Mrs. Weasley, 
you didn’t believe that rubbish Rita Skeeter wrote in 
Witch Weekly, did you? Because Hermione ’s not my 
girlfriend.” 

“Oh!” said Mrs. Weasley. “No — of course I didn’t!” 

But she became considerably warmer toward 
Hermione after that. 

Harry, Bill, and Mrs. Weasley whiled away the 
afternoon with a long walk around the castle, and 
then returned to the Great Hall for the evening feast. 

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Ludo Bagman and Cornelius Fudge had joined the 
staff table now. Bagman looked quite cheerful, but 
Cornelius Fudge, who was sitting next to Madame 
Maxime, looked stern and was not talking. Madame 
Maxime was concentrating on her plate, and Harry 
thought her eyes looked red. Hagrid kept glancing 
along the table at her. 

There were more courses than usual, but Harry, who 
was starting to feel really nervous now, didn’t eat 
much. As the enchanted ceiling overhead began to 
fade from blue to a dusky purple, Dumbledore rose to 
his feet at the staff table, and silence fell. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes’ time, I will be 
asking you to make your way down to the Quidditch 
field for the third and final task of the Triwizard 
Tournament. Will the champions please follow Mr. 
Bagman down to the stadium now.” 

Harry got up. The Gryffindors all along the table were 
applauding him; the Weasleys and Hermione all 
wished him good luck, and he headed off out of the 
Great Hall with Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor. 

“Feeling all right, Harry?” Bagman asked as they went 
down the stone steps onto the grounds. “Confident?” 

“I’m okay,” said Harry. It was sort of true; he was 
nervous, but he kept running over all the hexes and 
spells he had been practicing in his mind as they 
walked, and the knowledge that he could remember 
them all made him feel better. 

They walked onto the Quidditch field, which was now 
completely unrecognizable. A twenty-foot-high hedge 
ran all the way around the edge of it. There was a gap 
right in front of them: the entrance to the vast maze. 
The passage beyond it looked dark and creepy. 

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Five minutes later, the stands had begun to fill; the 
air was full of excited voices and the rumbling of feet 
as the hundreds of students filed into their seats. The 
sky was a deep, clear blue now, and the first stars 
were starting to appear. Hagrid, Professor Moody, 
Professor McGonagall, and Professor Flitwick came 
walking into the stadium and approached Bagman 
and the champions. They were wearing large, red, 
luminous stars on their hats, all except Hagrid, who 
had his on the back of his moleskin vest. 

“We are going to be patrolling the outside of the 
maze,” said Professor McGonagall to the champions. 
“If you get into difficulty, and wish to be rescued, 
send red sparks into the air, and one of us will come 
and get you, do you understand?” 

The champions nodded. 

“Off you go, then!” said Bagman brightly to the four 
patrollers. 

“Good luck, Harry,” Hagrid whispered, and the four of 
them walked away in different directions, to station 
themselves around the maze. Bagman now pointed 
his wand at his throat, muttered, “ Sonorus,” and his 
magically magnified voice echoed into the stands. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the 
Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me 
remind you how the points currently stand! Tied in 
first place, with eighty-five points each — Mr. Cedric 
Diggory and Mr. Harry Potter, both of Hogwarts 
School!” The cheers and applause sent birds from the 
Forbidden Forest fluttering into the darkening sky. 

“In second place, with eighty points — Mr. Viktor 
Krum, of Durmstrang Institute!” More applause. “And 
in third place — Miss Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons 
Academy!” 

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Harry could just make out Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Ron, 
and Hermione applauding Fleur politely, halfway up 
the stands. He waved up at them, and they waved 
back, beaming at him. 

“So ... on my whistle, Harry and Cedric!” said 
Bagman. “Three — two — one — ” 

He gave a short blast on his whistle, and Harry and 
Cedric hurried forward into the maze. 

The towering hedges cast black shadows across the 
path, and, whether because they were so tall and 
thick or because they had been enchanted, the sound 
of the surrounding crowd was silenced the moment 
they entered the maze. Harry felt almost as though he 
were underwater again. He pulled out his wand, 
muttered, “Lumos,” and heard Cedric do the same 
just behind him. 

After about fifty yards, they reached a fork. They 
looked at each other. 

“See you,” Harry said, and he took the left one, while 
Cedric took the right. 

Harry heard Bagman’s whistle for the second time. 
Krum had entered the maze. Harry sped up. His 
chosen path seemed completely deserted. He turned 
right, and hurried on, holding his wand high over his 
head, trying to see as far ahead as possible. Still, 
there was nothing in sight. 

Bagman’s whistle blew in the distance for the third 
time. All of the champions were now inside. 

Harry kept looking behind him. The old feeling that 
he was being watched was upon him. The maze was 



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growing darker with every passing minute as the sky 
overhead deepened to navy. He reached a second fork. 

“ Point Me,” he whispered to his wand, holding it flat in 
his palm. 

The wand spun around once and pointed toward his 
right, into solid hedge. That way was north, and he 
knew that he needed to go northwest for the center of 
the maze. The best he could do was to take the left 
fork and go right again as soon as possible. 

The path ahead was empty too, and when Harry 
reached a right turn and took it, he again found his 
way unblocked. Harry didn’t know why, but the lack 
of obstacles was unnerving him. Surely he should 
have met something by now? It felt as though the 
maze were luring him into a false sense of security. 
Then he heard movement right behind him. He held 
out his wand, ready to attack, but its beam fell only 
upon Cedric, who had just hurried out of a path on 
the right-hand side. Cedric looked severely shaken. 
The sleeve of his robe was smoking. 

“Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts!” he hissed. “They’re 
enormous — I only just got away!” 

He shook his head and dived out of sight, along 
another path. Keen to put plenty of distance between 
himself and the skrewts, Harry hurried off again. 
Then, as he turned a corner, he saw ... a dementor 
gliding toward him. Twelve feet tall, its face hidden by 
its hood, its rotting, scabbed hands outstretched, it 
advanced, sensing its way blindly toward him. Harry 
could hear its rattling breath; he felt clammy coldness 
stealing over him, but knew what he had to do. ... 

He summoned the happiest thought he could, 
concentrated with all his might on the thought of 

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getting out of the maze and celebrating with Ron and 
Hermione, raised his wand, and cried, “Expecto 
Patronum).” 

A silver stag erupted from the end of Harry’s wand 
and galloped toward the dementor, which fell back 
and tripped over the hem of its robes. ... Harry had 
never seen a dementor stumble. 

“Hang on!” he shouted, advancing in the wake of his 
silver Patronus. “You’re a boggart! Riddikulusl” 

There was a loud crack, and the shape-shifter 
exploded in a wisp of smoke. The silver stag faded 
from sight. Harry wished it could have stayed, he 
could have used some company . . . but he moved on, 
quickly and quietly as possible, listening hard, his 
wand held high once more. 

Left . . . right . . . left again . . . Twice he found himself 
facing dead ends. He did the Four-Point Spell again 
and found that he was going too far east. He turned 
back, took a right turn, and saw an odd golden mist 
floating ahead of him. 

Harry approached it cautiously, pointing the wand’s 
beam at it. This looked like some kind of 
enchantment. He wondered whether he might be able 
to blast it out of the way. 

“Reductol” he said. 

The spell shot straight through the mist, leaving it 
intact. He supposed he should have known better; the 
Reductor Curse was for solid objects. What would 
happen if he walked through the mist? Was it worth 
chancing it, or should he double back? 



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He was still hesitating when a scream shattered the 
silence. 



“Fleur?” Harry yelled. 

There was silence. He stared all around him. What 
had happened to her? Her scream seemed to have 
come from somewhere ahead. He took a deep breath 
and ran through the enchanted mist. 

The world turned upside down. Harry was hanging 
from the ground, with his hair on end, his glasses 
dangling off his nose, threatening to fall into the 
bottomless sky. He clutched them to the end of his 
nose and hung there, terrified. It felt as though his 
feet were glued to the grass, which had now become 
the ceiling. Below him the dark, star-spangled 
heavens stretched endlessly. He felt as though if he 
tried to move one of his feet, he would fall away from 
the earth completely. 

Think , he told himself, as all the blood rushed to his 
head, think ... 

But not one of the spells he had practiced had been 
designed to combat a sudden reversal of ground and 
sky. Did he dare move his foot? He could hear the 
blood pounding in his ears. He had two choices — try 
and move, or send up red sparks, and get rescued 
and disqualified from the task. 

He shut his eyes, so he wouldn’t be able to see the 
view of endless space below him, and pulled his right 
foot as hard as he could away from the grassy ceiling. 

Immediately, the world righted itself. Harry fell 
forward onto his knees onto the wonderfully solid 
ground. He felt temporarily limp with shock. He took 
a deep, steadying breath, then got up again and 

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hurried forward, looking back over his shoulder as he 
ran away from the golden mist, which twinkled 
innocently at him in the moonlight. 

He paused at a junction of two paths and looked 
around for some sign of Fleur. He was sure it had 
been she who had screamed. What had she met? Was 
she all right? There was no sign of red sparks — did 
that mean she had got herself out of trouble, or was 
she in such trouble that she couldn’t reach her 
wand? Harry took the right fork with a feeling of 
increasing unease ... but at the same time, he 
couldn’t help thinking, One champion down ... 

The cup was somewhere close by, and it sounded as 
though Fleur was no longer in the running. He’d got 
this far, hadn’t he? What if he actually managed to 
win? Fleetingly, and for the first time since he’d found 
himself champion, he saw again that image of 
himself, raising the Triwizard Cup in front of the rest 
of the school. ... 

He met nothing for ten minutes, but kept running 
into dead ends. Twice he took the same wrong 
turning. Finally, he found a new route and started to 
jog along it, his wandlight waving, making his shadow 
flicker and distort on the hedge walls. Then he 
rounded another corner and found himself facing a 
Blast-Ended Skrewt. 

Cedric was right — it was enormous. Ten feet long, it 
looked more like a giant scorpion than anything. Its 
long sting was curled over its back. Its thick armor 
glinted in the light from Harry’s wand, which he 
pointed at it. 

“Stupefy'.” 



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The spell hit the skrewt’s armor and rebounded; 

Harry ducked just in time, but could smell burning 
hair; it had singed the top of his head. The skrewt 
issued a blast of fire from its end and flew forward 
toward him. 

“ Impedimental ” Harry yelled. The spell hit the skrewt’s 
armor again and ricocheted off; Harry staggered back 
a few paces and fell over. a IMPEDIMENT A\” 

The skrewt was inches from him when it froze — he 
had managed to hit it on its fleshy, shell-less 
underside. Panting, Harry pushed himself away from 
it and ran, hard, in the opposite direction — the 
Impediment Curse was not permanent; the skrewt 
would be regaining the use of its legs at any moment. 

He took a left path and hit a dead end, a right, and 
hit another; forcing himself to stop, heart hammering, 
he performed the Four-Point Spell again, 
backtracked, and chose a path that would take him 
northwest. 

He had been hurrying along the new path for a few 
minutes, when he heard something in the path 
running parallel to his own that made him stop dead. 

“What are you doing?” yelled Cedric’s voice. “What the 
hell d’you think you’re doing?” 

And then Harry heard Krum’s voice. 

“ Crucio \ ” 

The air was suddenly full of Cedric’s yells. Horrified, 
Harry began sprinting up his path, trying to find a 
way into Cedric’s. When none appeared, he tried the 
Reductor Curse again. It wasn’t very effective, but it 
burned a small hole in the hedge through which 
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Harry forced his leg, kicking at the thick brambles 
and branches until they broke and made an opening; 
he struggled through it, tearing his robes, and looking 
to his right, saw Cedric jerking and twitching on the 
ground, Krum standing over him. 

Harry pulled himself up and pointed his wand at 
Krum just as Krum looked up. Krum turned and 
began to run. 

“ Stupefy]” Harry yelled. 

The spell hit Krum in the back; he stopped dead in 
his tracks, fell forward, and lay motionless, facedown 
in the grass. Harry dashed over to Cedric, who had 
stopped twitching and was lying there panting, his 
hands over his face. 

“Are you all right?” Harry said roughly, grabbing 
Cedric’s arm. 

“Yeah,” panted Cedric. “Yeah ... I don’t believe it ... he 
crept up behind me. ... I heard him, I turned around, 
and he had his wand on me. ...” 

Cedric got up. He was still shaking. He and Harry 
looked down at Krum. 

“I can’t believe this ... I thought he was all right,” 
Harry said, staring at Krum. 

“So did I,” said Cedric. 

“Did you hear Fleur scream earlier?” said Harry. 

“Yeah,” said Cedric. “You don’t think Krum got her 
too?” 

“I don’t know,” said Harry slowly. 

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“Should we leave him here?” Cedric muttered. 



“No,” said Harry. “I reckon we should send up red 
sparks. Someone’ll come and collect him ... otherwise 
he’ll probably be eaten by a skrewt.” 

“He’d deserve it,” Cedric muttered, but all the same, 
he raised his wand and shot a shower of red sparks 
into the air, which hovered high above Krum, marking 
the spot where he lay. 

Harry and Cedric stood there in the darkness for a 
moment, looking around them. Then Cedric said, 

“Well ... I s’pose we’d better go on . ...” 

“What?” said Harry. “Oh ... yeah ... right ...” 

It was an odd moment. He and Cedric had been 
briefly united against Krum — now the fact that they 
were opponents came back to Harry. The two of them 
proceeded up the dark path without speaking, then 
Harry turned left, and Cedric right. Cedric’s footsteps 
soon died away. 

Harry moved on, continuing to use the Four-Point 
Spell, making sure he was moving in the right 
direction. It was between him and Cedric now. His 
desire to reach the cup first was now burning 
stronger than ever, but he could hardly believe what 
he’d just seen Krum do. The use of an Unforgivable 
Curse on a fellow human being meant a life term in 
Azkaban, that was what Moody had told them. Krum 
surely couldn’t have wanted the Triwizard Cup that 
badly. ... Harry sped up. 

Every so often he hit more dead ends, but the 
increasing darkness made him feel sure he was 
getting near the heart of the maze. Then, as he strode 
down a long, straight path, he saw movement once 

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again, and his beam of wandlight hit an extraordinary 
creature, one which he had only seen in picture form, 
in his Monster Book of Monsters. 

It was a sphinx. It had the body of an over-large lion: 
great clawed paws and a long yellowish tail ending in 
a brown tuft. Its head, however, was that of a woman. 
She turned her long, almond-shaped eyes upon Harry 
as he approached. He raised his wand, hesitating. 

She was not crouching as if to spring, but pacing 
from side to side of the path, blocking his progress. 
Then she spoke, in a deep, hoarse voice. 

“You are very near your goal. The quickest way is past 
me.” 

“So ... so will you move, please?” said Harry, knowing 
what the answer was going to be. 

“No,” she said, continuing to pace. “Not unless you 
can answer my riddle. Answer on your first guess — I 
let you pass. Answer wrongly — I attack. Remain 
silent — I will let you walk away from me unscathed.” 

Harry’s stomach slipped several notches. It was 
Hermione who was good at this sort of thing, not him. 
He weighed his chances. If the riddle was too hard, he 
could keep silent, get away from the sphinx 
unharmed, and try and find an alternative route to 
the center. 

“Okay,” he said. “Can I hear the riddle?” 

The sphinx sat down upon her hind legs, in the very 
middle of the path, and recited: 

“First think of the person who lives in disguise, 



Who deals in secrets and tells naught but lies. 

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Next, tell me what’s always the last thing to mend, 

The middle of middle and end of the end? 

And finally give me the sound often heard 
During the search for a hard-to-find word. 

Now string them together, and answer me this, 

Which creature would you be unwilling to kiss?” 

Harry gaped at her. 

“Could I have it again . . . more slowly?” he asked 
tentatively. 

She blinked at him, smiled, and repeated the poem. 

“All the clues add up to a creature I wouldn’t want to 
kiss?” Harry asked. 

She merely smiled her mysterious smile. Harry took 
that for a “yes.” Harry cast his mind around. There 
were plenty of animals he wouldn’t want to kiss; his 
immediate thought was a Blast-Ended Skrewt, but 
something told him that wasn’t the answer. He’d have 
to try and work out the clues. ... 

“A person in disguise,” Harry muttered, staring at her, 
“who lies ... er ... that’d be a — an imposter. No, 
that’s not my guess! A — a spy? I’ll come back to that 
. . . could you give me the next clue again, please?” 

She repeated the next lines of the poem. 

“ The last thing to mend,’ ” Harry repeated. “Er ... no 
idea ... ‘middle of middle’ ... could I have the last bit 
again?” 

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She gave him the last four lines. 

“ The sound often heard during the search for a hard- 
to-find word,’ ” said Harry. “Er ... that’d be ... er ... 
hang on — ‘er’! Er’s a sound!” 

The sphinx smiled at him. 

“Spy ... er ... spy ... er ...” said Harry, pacing up and 
down. “A creature I wouldn’t want to kiss ... a spiderl” 

The sphinx smiled more broadly. She got up, 
stretched her front legs, and then moved aside for 
him to pass. 

“Thanks!” said Harry, and, amazed at his own 
brilliance, he dashed forward. 

He had to be close now, he had to be. ... His wand 
was telling him he was bang on course; as long as he 
didn’t meet anything too horrible, he might have a 
chance. ... 

Harry broke into a run. He had a choice of paths up 
ahead. “Point Mel” he whispered again to his wand, 
and it spun around and pointed him to the right- 
hand one. He dashed up this one and saw light 
ahead. 

The Triwizard Cup was gleaming on a plinth a 
hundred yards away. Suddenly a dark figure hurtled 
out onto the path in front of him. 

Cedric was going to get there first. Cedric was 
sprinting as fast as he could toward the cup, and 
Harry knew he would never catch up, Cedric was 
much taller, had much longer legs — 



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Then Harry saw something immense over a hedge to 
his left, moving quickly along a path that intersected 
with his own; it was moving so fast Cedric was about 
to run into it, and Cedric, his eyes on the cup, had 
not seen it — 

“Cedric!” Harry bellowed. “On your left!” 

Cedric looked around just in time to hurl himself past 
the thing and avoid colliding with it, but in his haste, 
he tripped. Harry saw Cedric’s wand fly out of his 
hand as a gigantic spider stepped into the path and 
began to bear down upon Cedric. 

“Stupefy'.” Harry yelled; the spell hit the spider’s 
gigantic, hairy black body, but for all the good it did, 
he might as well have thrown a stone at it; the spider 
jerked, scuttled around, and ran at Harry instead. 

“ Stupefy ! Impedimenta ! Stupefy !” 

But it was no use — the spider was either so large, or 
so magical, that the spells were doing no more than 
aggravating it. Harry had one horrifying glimpse of 
eight shining black eyes and razor-sharp pincers 
before it was upon him. 

He was lifted into the air in its front legs; struggling 
madly, he tried to kick it; his leg connected with the 
pincers and next moment he was in excruciating 
pain. He could hear Cedric yelling “Stupefy'.” too, but 
his spell had no more effect than Harry’s — Harry 
raised his wand as the spider opened its pincers once 
more and shouted “ Expelliarmus'.” 

It worked — the Disarming Spell made the spider 
drop him, but that meant that Harry fell twelve feet 
onto his already injured leg, which crumpled beneath 
him. Without pausing to think, he aimed high at the 

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spider’s underbelly, as he had done with the skrewt, 
and shouted “Stupefyl” just as Cedric yelled the same 
thing. 

The two spells combined did what one alone had not: 
The spider keeled over sideways, flattening a nearby 
hedge, and strewing the path with a tangle of hairy 
legs. 

“Harry!” he heard Cedric shouting. “You all right? Did 
it fall on you?” 

“No,” Harry called back, panting. He looked down at 
his leg. It was bleeding freely. He could see some sort 
of thick, gluey secretion from the spider’s pincers on 
his torn robes. He tried to get up, but his leg was 
shaking badly and did not want to support his weight. 
He leaned against the hedge, gasping for breath, and 
looked around. 

Cedric was standing feet from the Triwizard Cup, 
which was gleaming behind him. 

“Take it, then,” Harry panted to Cedric. “Go on, take 
it. You’re there.” 

But Cedric didn’t move. He merely stood there, 
looking at Harry. Then he turned to stare at the cup. 
Harry saw the longing expression on his face in its 
golden light. Cedric looked around at Harry again, 
who was now holding onto the hedge to support 
himself. Cedric took a deep breath. 

“You take it. You should win. That’s twice you’ve 
saved my neck in here.” 

“That’s not how it’s supposed to work,” Harry said. He 
felt angry; his leg was very painful, he was aching all 
over from trying to throw off the spider, and after all 

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his efforts, Cedric had beaten him to it, just as he’d 
beaten Harry to ask Cho to the ball. “The one who 
reaches the cup first gets the points. That’s you. I’m 
telling you, I’m not going to win any races on this leg.” 

Cedric took a few paces nearer to the Stunned spider, 
away from the cup, shaking his head. 

“No,” he said. 

“Stop being noble,” said Harry irritably. “Just take it, 
then we can get out of here.” 

Cedric watched Harry steadying himself, holding tight 
to the hedge. 

“You told me about the dragons,” Cedric said. “I 
would’ve gone down in the first task if you hadn’t told 
me what was coming.” 

“I had help on that too,” Harry snapped, trying to mop 
up his bloody leg with his robes. “You helped me with 
the egg — we’re square.” 

“I had help on the egg in the first place,” said Cedric. 

“We’re still square,” said Harry, testing his leg 
gingerly; it shook violently as he put weight on it; he 
had sprained his ankle when the spider had dropped 
him. 

“You should’ve got more points on the second task,” 
said Cedric mulishly. “You stayed behind to get all the 
hostages. I should’ve done that.” 

“I was the only one who was thick enough to take that 
song seriously!” said Harry bitterly. “Just take the 
cup!” 



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“No,” said Cedric. 



He stepped over the spider’s tangled legs to join 
Harry, who stared at him. Cedric was serious. He was 
walking away from the sort of glory Hufflepuff House 
hadn’t had in centuries. 

“Go on,” Cedric said. He looked as though this was 
costing him every ounce of resolution he had, but his 
face was set, his arms were folded, he seemed 
decided. 

Harry looked from Cedric to the cup. For one shining 
moment, he saw himself emerging from the maze, 
holding it. He saw himself holding the Triwizard Cup 
aloft, heard the roar of the crowd, saw Cho’s face 
shining with admiration, more clearly than he had 
ever seen it before ... and then the picture faded, and 
he found himself staring at Cedric’s shadowy, 
stubborn face. 

“Both of us,” Harry said. 

“What?” 

“Well take it at the same time. It’s still a Hogwarts 
victory. We’ll tie for it.” 

Cedric stared at Harry. He unfolded his arms. 

“You — you sure?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah ... we’ve helped each other 
out, haven’t we? We both got here. Let’s just take it 
together.” 

For a moment, Cedric looked as though he couldn’t 
believe his ears; then his face split in a grin. 

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“You’re on,” he said. “Come here.” 

He grabbed Harry’s arm below the shoulder and 
helped Harry limp toward the plinth where the cup 
stood. When they had reached it, they both held a 
hand out over one of the cup’s gleaming handles. 

“On three, right?” said Harry. “One — two — three — ” 

He and Cedric both grasped a handle. 

Instantly, Harry felt a jerk somewhere behind his 
navel. His feet had left the ground. He could not 
unclench the hand holding the Triwizard Cup; it was 
pulling him onward in a howl of wind and swirling 
color, Cedric at his side. 



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FLESH, BLOOD, AND BONE 

Harry felt his feet slam into the ground; his injured 
leg gave way, and he fell forward; his hand let go of 
the Triwizard Cup at last. He raised his head. 

“Where are we?” he said. 

Cedric shook his head. He got up, pulled Harry to his 
feet, and they looked around. 

They had left the Hogwarts grounds completely; they 
had obviously traveled miles — perhaps hundreds of 
miles — for even the mountains surrounding the 
castle were gone. They were standing instead in a 
dark and overgrown graveyard; the black outline of a 
small church was visible beyond a large yew tree to 
their right. A hill rose above them to their left. Harry 
could just make out the outline of a fine old house on 
the hillside. 

Cedric looked down at the Triwizard Cup and then up 
at Harry. 



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“Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?” he 
asked. 

“Nope,” said Harry. He was looking around the 
graveyard. It was completely silent and slightly eerie. 
“Is this supposed to be part of the task?” 

“I dunno,” said Cedric. He sounded slightly nervous. 
“Wands out, d’you reckon?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, glad that Cedric had made the 
suggestion rather than him. 

They pulled out their wands. Harry kept looking 
around him. He had, yet again, the strange feeling 
that they were being watched. 

“Someone’s coming,” he said suddenly. 

Squinting tensely through the darkness, they watched 
the figure drawing nearer, walking steadily toward 
them between the graves. Harry couldn’t make out a 
face, but from the way it was walking and holding its 
arms, he could tell that it was carrying something. 
Whoever it was, he was short, and wearing a hooded 
cloak pulled up over his head to obscure his face. And 
— several paces nearer, the gap between them closing 
all the time — Harry saw that the thing in the 
person’s arms looked like a baby ... or was it merely a 
bundle of robes? 

Harry lowered his wand slightly and glanced sideways 
at Cedric. Cedric shot him a quizzical look. They both 
turned back to watch the approaching figure. 

It stopped beside a towering marble headstone, only 
six feet from them. For a second, Harry and Cedric 
and the short figure simply looked at one another. 



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And then, without warning, Harry’s scar exploded 
with pain. It was agony such as he had never felt in 
all his life; his wand slipped from his fingers as he put 
his hands over his face; his knees buckled; he was on 
the ground and he could see nothing at all; his head 
was about to split open. 

From far away, above his head, he heard a high, cold 
voice say, “Kill the spare.” 

A swishing noise and a second voice, which screeched 
the words to the night: “Avada KedavraV’ 

A blast of green light blazed through Harry’s eyelids, 
and he heard something heavy fall to the ground 
beside him; the pain in his scar reached such a pitch 
that he retched, and then it diminished; terrified of 
what he was about to see, he opened his stinging 
eyes. 

Cedric was lying spread-eagled on the ground beside 
him. He was dead. 

For a second that contained an eternity, Harry stared 
into Cedric’s face, at his open gray eyes, blank and 
expressionless as the windows of a deserted house, at 
his half-open mouth, which looked slightly surprised. 
And then, before Harry’s mind had accepted what he 
was seeing, before he could feel anything but numb 
disbelief, he felt himself being pulled to his feet. 

The short man in the cloak had put down his bundle, 
lit his wand, and was dragging Harry toward the 
marble headstone. Harry saw the name upon it 
flickering in the wandlight before he was forced 
around and slammed against it. 

TOM RIDDLE 



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The cloaked man was now conjuring tight cords 
around Harry, tying him from neck to ankles to the 
headstone. Harry could hear shallow, fast breathing 
from the depths of the hood; he struggled, and the 
man hit him — hit him with a hand that had a finger 
missing. And Harry realized who was under the hood. 
It was Wormtail. 

“You!” he gasped. 

But Wormtail, who had finished conjuring the ropes, 
did not reply; he was busy checking the tightness of 
the cords, his fingers trembling uncontrollably, 
fumbling over the knots. Once sure that Harry was 
bound so tightly to the headstone that he couldn’t 
move an inch, Wormtail drew a length of some black 
material from the inside of his cloak and stuffed it 
roughly into Harry’s mouth; then, without a word, he 
turned from Harry and hurried away. Harry couldn’t 
make a sound, nor could he see where Wormtail had 
gone; he couldn’t turn his head to see beyond the 
headstone; he could see only what was right in front 
of him. 

Cedric’s body was lying some twenty feet away. Some 
way beyond him, glinting in the starlight, lay the 
Triwizard Cup. Harry’s wand was on the ground at 
Cedric’s feet. The bundle of robes that Harry had 
thought was a baby was close by, at the foot of the 
grave. It seemed to be stirring fretfully. Harry watched 
it, and his scar seared with pain again . . . and he 
suddenly knew that he didn’t want to see what was in 
those robes ... he didn’t want that bundle opened. ... 

He could hear noises at his feet. He looked down and 
saw a gigantic snake slithering through the grass, 
circling the headstone where he was tied. Wormtail’s 
fast, wheezy breathing was growing louder again. It 
sounded as though he was forcing something heavy 
Page | 706 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




across the ground. Then he came back within Harry’s 
range of vision, and Harry saw him pushing a stone 
cauldron to the foot of the grave. It was full of what 
seemed to be water — Harry could hear it slopping 
around — and it was larger than any cauldron Harry 
had ever used; a great stone belly large enough for a 
full-grown man to sit in. 

The thing inside the bundle of robes on the ground 
was stirring more persistently, as though it was trying 
to free itself. Now Wormtail was busying himself at 
the bottom of the cauldron with a wand. Suddenly 
there were crackling flames beneath it. The large 
snake slithered away into the darkness. 

The liquid in the cauldron seemed to heat very fast. 
The surface began not only to bubble, but to send out 
fiery sparks, as though it were on fire. Steam was 
thickening, blurring the outline of Wormtail tending 
the fire. The movements beneath the robes became 
more agitated. And Harry heard the high, cold voice 
again. 

“Hurry\” 

The whole surface of the water was alight with sparks 
now. It might have been encrusted with diamonds. 

“It is ready, Master.” 

“Now ...” said the cold voice. 

Wormtail pulled open the robes on the ground, 
revealing what was inside them, and Harry let out a 
yell that was strangled in the wad of material blocking 
his mouth. 

It was as though Wormtail had flipped over a stone 
and revealed something ugly, slimy, and blind — but 

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worse, a hundred times worse. The thing Wormtail 
had been carrying had the shape of a crouched 
human child, except that Harry had never seen 
anything less like a child. It was hairless and scaly - 
looking, a dark, raw, reddish black. Its arms and legs 
were thin and feeble, and its face — no child alive 
ever had a face like that — flat and snakelike, with 
gleaming red eyes. 

The thing seemed almost helpless; it raised its thin 
arms, put them around Wormtail’s neck, and 
Wormtail lifted it. As he did so, his hood fell back, 
and Harry saw the look of revulsion on Wormtail’s 
weak, pale face in the firelight as he carried the 
creature to the rim of the cauldron. For one moment, 
Harry saw the evil, flat face illuminated in the sparks 
dancing on the surface of the potion. And then 
Wormtail lowered the creature into the cauldron; 
there was a hiss, and it vanished below the surface; 
Harry heard its frail body hit the bottom with a soft 
thud. 

Let it drown, Harry thought, his scar burning almost 
past endurance, please ... let it drown. ... 

Wormtail was speaking. His voice shook; he seemed 
frightened beyond his wits. He raised his wand, 
closed his eyes, and spoke to the night. 

“Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew 
your son!” 

The surface of the grave at Harry’s feet cracked. 
Horrified, Harry watched as a fine trickle of dust rose 
into the air at Wormtail’s command and fell softly into 
the cauldron. The diamond surface of the water broke 
and hissed; it sent sparks in all directions and turned 
a vivid, poisonous-looking blue. 



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And now Wormtail was whimpering. He pulled a long, 
thin, shining silver dagger from inside his cloak. His 
voice broke into petrified sobs. 

“ Flesh — of the servant — w-willingly given — you will 
— revive — your master.” 

He stretched his right hand out in front of him — the 
hand with the missing finger. He gripped the dagger 
very tightly in his left hand and swung it upward. 

Harry realized what Wormtail was about to do a 
second before it happened — he closed his eyes as 
tightly as he could, but he could not block the scream 
that pierced the night, that went through Harry as 
though he had been stabbed with the dagger too. He 
heard something fall to the ground, heard Wormtail’s 
anguished panting, then a sickening splash, as 
something was dropped into the cauldron. Harry 
couldn’t stand to look ... but the potion had turned a 
burning red; the light of it shone through Harry’s 
closed eyelids... 

Wormtail was gasping and moaning with agony. Not 
until Harry felt Wormtail’s anguished breath on his 
face did he realize that Wormtail was right in front of 
him. 

“B-blood of the enemy ... forcibly taken ... you will ... 
resurrect your foe.” 

Harry could do nothing to prevent it, he was tied too 
tightly. ... Squinting down, struggling hopelessly at 
the ropes binding him, he saw the shining silver 
dagger shaking in Wormtail’s remaining hand. He felt 
its point penetrate the crook of his right arm and 
blood seeping down the sleeve of his torn robes. 
Wormtail, still panting with pain, fumbled in his 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




pocket for a glass vial and held it to Harry’s cut, so 
that a dribble of blood fell into it. 

He staggered back to the cauldron with Harry’s blood. 
He poured it inside. The liquid within turned, 
instantly, a blinding white. Wormtail, his job done, 
dropped to his knees beside the cauldron, then 
slumped sideways and lay on the ground, cradling the 
bleeding stump of his arm, gasping and sobbing. 

The cauldron was simmering, sending its diamond 
sparks in all directions, so blindingly bright that it 
turned all else to velvety blackness. Nothing 
happened. ... 

Let it have drowned, Harry thought, let it have gone 
wrong. ... 

And then, suddenly, the sparks emanating from the 
cauldron were extinguished. A surge of white steam 
billowed thickly from the cauldron instead, 
obliterating everything in front of Harry, so that he 
couldn’t see Wormtail or Cedric or anything but vapor 
hanging in the air. . . It’s gone wrong, he thought . . . it’s 
drowned . . . please . . . please let it be dead. . . 

But then, through the mist in front of him, he saw, 
with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, 
tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the 
cauldron. 

“Robe me,” said the high, cold voice from behind the 
steam, and Wormtail, sobbing and moaning, still 
cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the 
black robes from the ground, got to his feet, reached 
up, and pulled them one-handed over his master’s 
head. 



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The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at 
Harry . . . and Harry stared back into the face that had 
haunted his nightmares for three years. Whiter than a 
skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that 
was flat as a snake’s with slits for nostrils ... 

Lord Voldemort had risen again. 



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THE DEATH EATERS 

Voldemort looked away from Harry and began 
examining his own body. His hands were like large, 
pale spiders; his long white fingers caressed his own 
chest, his arms, his face; the red eyes, whose pupils 
were slits, like a cat’s, gleamed still more brightly 
through the darkness. He held up his hands and 
flexed the fingers, his expression rapt and exultant. 

He took not the slightest notice of Wormtail, who lay 
twitching and bleeding on the ground, nor of the great 
snake, which had slithered back into sight and was 
circling Harry again, hissing. Voldemort slipped one of 
those unnaturally long-fingered hands into a deep 
pocket and drew out a wand. He caressed it gently 
too; and then he raised it, and pointed it at Wormtail, 
who was lifted off the ground and thrown against the 
headstone where Harry was tied; he fell to the foot of 
it and lay there, crumpled up and crying. Voldemort 
turned his scarlet eyes upon Harry, laughing a high, 
cold, mirthless laugh. 

Wormtail’s robes were shining with blood now; he had 
wrapped the stump of his arm in them. 

Page | 712 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 



“My Lord ...” he choked, “my Lord ... you promised ... 
you did promise ...” 

“Hold out your arm,” said Voldemort lazily. 

“Oh Master ... thank you, Master ...” 

He extended the bleeding stump, but Voldemort 
laughed again. 

“The other arm, Wormtail.” 

“Master, please ... please ...” 

Voldemort bent down and pulled out Wormtail’s left 
arm; he forced the sleeve of Wormtail’s robes up past 
his elbow, and Harry saw something upon the skin 
there, something like a vivid red tattoo — a skull with 
a snake protruding from its mouth — the image that 
had appeared in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup: 
the Dark Mark. Voldemort examined it carefully, 
ignoring Wormtail’s uncontrollable weeping. 

“It is back,” he said softly, “they will all have noticed it 
... and now, we shall see ... now we shall know ...” 

He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on 
Wormtail’s arm. 

The scar on Harry’s forehead seared with a sharp 
pain again, and Wormtail let out a fresh howl; 
Voldemort removed his fingers from Wormtail’s mark, 
and Harry saw that it had turned jet black. 

A look of cruel satisfaction on his face, Voldemort 
straightened up, threw back his head, and stared 
around at the dark graveyard. 



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“How many will be brave enough to return when they 
feel it?” he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed 
upon the stars. “And how many will be foolish enough 
to stay away?” 

He began to pace up and down before Harry and 
Wormtail, eyes sweeping the graveyard all the while. 
After a minute or so, he looked down at Harry again, 
a cruel smile twisting his snakelike face. 

“You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late 
father,” he hissed softly. “A Muggle and a fool ... very 
like your dear mother. But they both had their uses, 
did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a 
child . . . and I killed my father, and see how useful he 
has proved himself, in death. ...” 

Voldemort laughed again. Up and down he paced, 
looking all around him as he walked, and the snake 
continued to circle in the grass. 

“You see that house upon the hillside, Potter? My 
father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived here 
in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned 
her when she told him what she was. ... He didn’t like 
magic, my father . . . 

“He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before 
I was even born, Potter, and she died giving birth to 
me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage ... 
but I vowed to find him ... I revenged myself upon 
him, that fool who gave me his name . . . Tom Riddle. 



Still he paced, his red eyes darting from grave to 
grave. 



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“Listen to me, reliving family history ...” he said 
quietly, “why, I am growing quite sentimental. ... But 
look, Harry! My true family returns. ...” 

The air was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks. 
Between graves, behind the yew tree, in every 
shadowy space, wizards were Apparating. All of them 
were hooded and masked. And one by one they moved 
forward . . . slowly, cautiously, as though they could 
hardly believe their eyes. Voldemort stood in silence, 
waiting for them. Then one of the Death Eaters fell to 
his knees, crawled toward Voldemort, and kissed the 
hem of his black robes. 

“Master ... Master ...” he murmured. 

The Death Eaters behind him did the same; each of 
them approaching Voldemort on his knees and 
kissing his robes, before backing away and standing 
up, forming a silent circle, which enclosed Tom 
Riddle’s grave, Harry, Voldemort, and the sobbing and 
twitching heap that was Wormtail. Yet they left gaps 
in the circle, as though waiting for more people. 
Voldemort, however, did not seem to expect more. He 
looked around at the hooded faces, and though there 
was no wind, a rustling seemed to run around the 
circle, as though it had shivered. 

“Welcome, Death Eaters,” said Voldemort quietly. 
“Thirteen years ... thirteen years since last we met. 

Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday. 

... We are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or 
are we?” 

He put back his terrible face and sniffed, his slit-like 
nostrils widening. 

“I smell guilt,” he said. “There is a stench of guilt 
upon the air.” 

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A second shiver ran around the circle, as though each 
member of it longed, but did not dare, to step back 
from him. 

“I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers 
intact — such prompt appearances! — and I ask 
myself . . . why did this band of wizards never come to 
the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal 
loyalty?” 

No one spoke. No one moved except Wormtail, who 
was upon the ground, still sobbing over his bleeding 
arm. 

“And I answer myself,” whispered Voldemort, “they 
must have believed me broken, they thought I was 
gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they 
pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment. 



“And then I ask myself, but how could they have 
believed I would not rise again? They, who knew the 
steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal 
death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of 
my power in the times when I was mightier than any 
wizard living? 

“And I answer myself, perhaps they believed a still 
greater power could exist, one that could vanquish 
even Lord Voldemort ... perhaps they now pay 
allegiance to another . . . perhaps that champion of 
commoners, of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus 
Dumbledore?” 

At the mention of Dumbledore’s name, the members 
of the circle stirred, and some muttered and shook 
their heads. Voldemort ignored them. 



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“It is a disappointment to me ... I confess myself 
disappointed. ...” 

One of the men suddenly flung himself forward, 
breaking the circle. Trembling from head to foot, he 
collapsed at Voldemort’s feet. 

“Master!” he shrieked, “Master, forgive me! Forgive us 
all!” 

Voldemort began to laugh. He raised his wand. 

“ Cruciol ” 

The Death Eater on the ground writhed and shrieked; 
Harry was sure the sound must carry to the houses 
around. ... Let the police come, he thought desperately 
... anyone ... anything ... 



Voldemort raised his wand. The tortured Death Eater 
lay flat upon the ground, gasping. 

“Get up, Avery,” said Voldemort softly. “Stand up. You 
ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget. 
Thirteen long years ... I want thirteen years’ 
repayment before I forgive you. Wormtail here has 
paid some of his debt already, have you not, 
Wormtail?” 

He looked down at Wormtail, who continued to sob. 

“You returned to me, not out of loyalty, but out of fear 
of your old friends. You deserve this pain, Wormtail. 
You know that, don’t you?” 

“Yes, Master,” moaned Wormtail, “please, Master ... 
please ...” 



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“Yet you helped return me to my body,” said 
Voldemort coolly, watching Wormtail sob on the 
ground. “Worthless and traitorous as you are, you 
helped me . . . and Lord Voldemort rewards his 
helpers. ...” 

Voldemort raised his wand again and whirled it 
through the air. A streak of what looked like molten 
silver hung shining in the wand’s wake. Momentarily 
shapeless, it writhed and then formed itself into a 
gleaming replica of a human hand, bright as 
moonlight, which soared downward and fixed itself 
upon Wormtail’s bleeding wrist. 

Wormtail’s sobbing stopped abruptly. His breathing 
harsh and ragged, he raised his head and stared in 
disbelief at the silver hand, now attached seamlessly 
to his arm, as though he were wearing a dazzling 
glove. He flexed the shining fingers, then, trembling, 
picked up a small twig on the ground and crushed it 
into powder. 

“My Lord,” he whispered. “Master ... it is beautiful ... 
thank you ... thank you. ...” 

He scrambled forward on his knees and kissed the 
hem of Voldemort’s robes. 

“May your loyalty never waver again, Wormtail,” said 
Voldemort. 

“No, my Lord ... never, my Lord ...” 

Wormtail stood up and took his place in the circle, 
staring at his powerful new hand, his face still 
shining with tears. Voldemort now approached the 
man on Wormtail’s right. 



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“Lucius, my slippery friend,” he whispered, halting 
before him. “I am told that you have not renounced 
the old ways, though to the world you present a 
respectable face. You are still ready to take the lead in 
a spot of Muggle-torture, I believe? Yet you never tried 
to find me, Lucius. ... Your exploits at the Quidditch 
World Cup were fun, I daresay ... but might not your 
energies have been better directed toward finding and 
aiding your master?” 

“My Lord, I was constantly on the alert,” came Lucius 
Malfoy’s voice swiftly from beneath the hood. “Had 
there been any sign from you, any whisper of your 
whereabouts, I would have been at your side 
immediately, nothing could have prevented me — ” 

“And yet you ran from my Mark, when a faithful 
Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer?” said 
Voldemort lazily, and Mr. Malfoy stopped talking 
abruptly. “Yes, I know all about that, Lucius. ... You 
have disappointed me. ... I expect more faithful 
service in the future.” 

“Of course, my Lord, of course. ... You are merciful, 
thank you. ...” 

Voldemort moved on, and stopped, staring at the 
space — large enough for two people — that 
separated Malfoy and the next man. 

“The Lestranges should stand here,” said Voldemort 
quietly. “But they are entombed in Azkaban. They 
were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than 
renounce me. ... When Azkaban is broken open, the 
Lestranges will be honored beyond their dreams. The 
dementors will join us ... they are our natural allies ... 
we will recall the banished giants ... I shall have all 
my devoted servants returned to me, and an army of 
creatures whom all fear. ...” 

Page | 719 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




He walked on. Some of the Death Eaters he passed in 
silence, but he paused before others and spoke to 
them. 

“Macnair . . . destroying dangerous beasts for the 
Ministry of Magic now, Wormtail tells me? You shall 
have better victims than that soon, Macnair. Lord 
Voldemort will provide. ...” 

“Thank you, Master ... thank you,” murmured 
Macnair. 

“And here” — Voldemort moved on to the two largest 
hooded figures — “we have Crabbe . . . you will do 
better this time, will you not, Crabbe? And you, 
Goyle?” 

They bowed clumsily, muttering dully. 

“Yes, Master ...” 

“We will, Master. ...” 

“The same goes for you, Nott,” said Voldemort quietly 
as he walked past a stooped figure in Mr. Goyle ’s 
shadow. 

“My Lord, I prostrate myself before you, I am your 
most faithful — ” 

“That will do,” said Voldemort. 

He had reached the largest gap of all, and he stood 
surveying it with his blank, red eyes, as though he 
could see people standing there. 

“And here we have six missing Death Eaters . . . three 
dead in my service. One, too cowardly to return ... he 
will pay. One, who I believe has left me forever ... he 

Page | 720 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




will be killed, of course ... and one, who remains my 
most faithful servant, and who has already reentered 
my service.” 

The Death Eaters stirred, and Harry saw their eyes 
dart sideways at one another through their masks. 

“He is at Hogwarts, that faithful servant, and it was 
through his efforts that our young friend arrived here 
tonight. ... 

“Yes,” said Voldemort, a grin curling his lipless mouth 
as the eyes of the circle flashed in Harry’s direction. 
“Harry Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing 
party. One might go so far as to call him my guest of 
honor.” 

There was a silence. Then the Death Eater to the right 
of Wormtail stepped forward, and Lucius Malfoy’s 
voice spoke from under the mask. 

“Master, we crave to know . . . we beg you to tell us . . . 
how you have achieved this . . . this miracle . . . how 
you managed to return to us. ...” 

“Ah, what a story it is, Lucius,” said Voldemort. “And 
it begins — and ends — with my young friend here.” 

He walked lazily over to stand next to Harry, so that 
the eyes of the whole circle were upon the two of 
them. The snake continued to circle. 

“You know, of course, that they have called this boy 
my downfall?” Voldemort said softly, his red eyes 
upon Harry, whose scar began to burn so fiercely that 
he almost screamed in agony. “You all know that on 
the night I lost my powers and my body, I tried to kill 
him. His mother died in the attempt to save him — 
and unwittingly provided him with a protection I 
Page | 721 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




admit I had not foreseen. ... I could not touch the 
boy.” 

Voldemort raised one of his long white fingers and put 
it very close to Harry’s cheek. 

“His mother left upon him the traces of her sacrifice. 

. . . This is old magic, I should have remembered it, I 
was foolish to overlook it . . . but no matter. I can 
touch him now.” 

Harry felt the cold tip of the long white finger touch 
him, and thought his head would burst with the pain. 
Voldemort laughed softly in his ear, then took the 
finger away and continued addressing the Death 
Eaters. 

“I miscalculated, my friends, I admit it. My curse was 
deflected by the woman’s foolish sacrifice, and it 
rebounded upon myself. Aaah . . . pain beyond pain, 
my friends; nothing could have prepared me for it. I 
was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less 
than the meanest ghost ... but still, I was alive. What 
I was, even I do not know ... I, who have gone further 
than anybody along the path that leads to 
immortality. You know my goal — to conquer death. 
And now, I was tested, and it appeared that one or 
more of my experiments had worked . . . for I had not 
been killed, though the curse should have done it. 
Nevertheless, I was as powerless as the weakest 
creature alive, and without the means to help myself 
. . . for I had no body, and every spell that might have 
helped me required the use of a wand. ... 

“I remember only forcing myself, sleeplessly, 
endlessly, second by second, to exist. ... I settled in a 
faraway place, in a forest, and I waited. ... Surely, one 
of my faithful Death Eaters would try and find me . . . 
one of them would come and perform the magic I 
Page | 722 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




could not, to restore me to a body . . . but I waited in 
vain. ...” 

The shiver ran once more around the circle of 
listening Death Eaters. Voldemort let the silence 
spiral horribly before continuing. 

“Only one power remained to me. I could possess the 
bodies of others. But I dared not go where other 
humans were plentiful, for I knew that the Aurors 
were still abroad and searching for me. I sometimes 
inhabited animals — snakes, of course, being my 
preference — but I was little better off inside them 
than as pure spirit, for their bodies were ill adapted to 
perform magic ... and my possession of them 
shortened their lives; none of them lasted long. ... 

“Then . . . four years ago . . . the means for my return 
seemed assured. A wizard — young, foolish, and 
gullible — wandered across my path in the forest I 
had made my home. Oh, he seemed the very chance I 
had been dreaming of . . . for he was a teacher at 
Dumbledore’s school ... he was easy to bend to my 
will ... he brought me back to this country, and after 
a while, I took possession of his body, to supervise 
him closely as he carried out my orders. But my plan 
failed. I did not manage to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone. I 
was not to be assured immortal life. I was thwarted ... 
thwarted, once again, by Harry Potter. ...” 

Silence once more; nothing was stirring, not even the 
leaves on the yew tree. The Death Eaters were quite 
motionless, the glittering eyes in their masks fixed 
upon Voldemort, and upon Harry. 

“The servant died when I left his body, and I was left 
as weak as ever I had been,” Voldemort continued. “I 
returned to my hiding place far away, and I will not 
pretend to you that I didn’t then fear that I might 

Page | 723 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




never regain my powers. ... Yes, that was perhaps my 
darkest hour ... I could not hope that I would be sent 
another wizard to possess ... and I had given up hope, 
now, that any of my Death Eaters cared what had 
become of me. ...” 

One or two of the masked wizards in the circle moved 
uncomfortably, but Voldemort took no notice. 

“And then, not even a year ago, when I had almost 
abandoned hope, it happened at last ... a servant 
returned to me. Wormtail here, who had faked his 
own death to escape justice, was driven out of hiding 
by those he had once counted friends, and decided to 
return to his master. He sought me in the country 
where it had long been rumored I was hiding . . . 
helped, of course, by the rats he met along the way. 
Wormtail has a curious affinity with rats, do you not, 
Wormtail? His filthy little friends told him there was a 
place, deep in an Albanian forest, that they avoided, 
where small animals like themselves had met their 
deaths by a dark shadow that possessed them. ... 

“But his journey back to me was not smooth, was it, 
Wormtail? For, hungry one night, on the edge of the 
very forest where he had hoped to find me, he 
foolishly stopped at an inn for some food . . . and who 
should he meet there, but one Bertha Jorkins, a 
witch from the Ministry of Magic. 

“Now see the way that fate favors Lord Voldemort. 

This might have been the end of Wormtail, and of my 
last hope for regeneration. But Wormtail — displaying 
a presence of mind I would never have expected from 
him — convinced Bertha Jorkins to accompany him 
on a nighttime stroll. He overpowered her ... he 
brought her to me. And Bertha Jorkins, who might 
have ruined all, proved instead to be a gift beyond my 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




wildest dreams . . . for — with a little persuasion — she 
became a veritable mine of information. 

“She told me that the Triwizard Tournament would be 
played at Hogwarts this year. She told me that she 
knew of a faithful Death Eater who would be only too 
willing to help me, if I could only contact him. She 
told me many things . . . but the means I used to break 
the Memory Charm upon her were powerful, and 
when I had extracted all useful information from her, 
her mind and body were both damaged beyond repair. 
She had now served her purpose. I could not possess 
her. I disposed of her.” 

Voldemort smiled his terrible smile, his red eyes 
blank and pitiless. 

“Wormtail’s body, of course, was ill adapted for 
possession, as all assumed him dead, and would 
attract far too much attention if noticed. However, he 
was the able-bodied servant I needed, and, poor 
wizard though he is, Wormtail was able to follow the 
instructions I gave him, which would return me to a 
rudimentary, weak body of my own, a body I would be 
able to inhabit while awaiting the essential 
ingredients for true rebirth ... a spell or two of my 
own invention ... a little help from my dear Nagini,” 
Voldemort’s red eyes fell upon the continually circling 
snake, “a potion concocted from unicorn blood, and 
the snake venom Nagini provided ... I was soon 
returned to an almost human form, and strong 
enough to travel. 

“There was no hope of stealing the Sorcerer’s Stone 
anymore, for I knew that Dumbledore would have 
seen to it that it was destroyed. But I was willing to 
embrace mortal life again, before chasing immortality. 
I set my sights lower ... I would settle for my old body 
back again, and my old strength. 

Page | 725 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




“I knew that to achieve this — it is an old piece of 
Dark Magic, the potion that revived me tonight — I 
would need three powerful ingredients. Well, one of 
them was already at hand, was it not, Wormtail? 

Flesh given by a servant. ... 

“My father’s bone, naturally, meant that we would 
have to come here, where he was buried. But the 
blood of a foe ... Wormtail would have had me use any 
wizard, would you not, Wormtail? Any wizard who 
had hated me ... as so many of them still do. But I 
knew the one I must use, if I was to rise again, more 
powerful than I had been when I had fallen. I wanted 
Harry Potter’s blood. I wanted the blood of the one 
who had stripped me of power thirteen years ago . . . 
for the lingering protection his mother once gave him 
would then reside in my veins too. ... 

“But how to get at Harry Potter? For he has been 
better protected than I think even he knows, 
protected in ways devised by Dumbledore long ago, 
when it fell to him to arrange the boy’s future. 
Dumbledore invoked an ancient magic, to ensure the 
boy’s protection as long as he is in his relations’ care. 
Not even I can touch him there. ... Then, of course, 
there was the Quidditch World Cup. ... I thought his 
protection might be weaker there, away from his 
relations and Dumbledore, but I was not yet strong 
enough to attempt kidnap in the midst of a horde of 
Ministry wizards. And then, the boy would return to 
Hogwarts, where he is under the crooked nose of that 
Muggle-loving fool from morning until night. So how 
could I take him? 

“Why ... by using Bertha Jorkins’s information, of 
course. Use my one faithful Death Eater, stationed at 
Hogwarts, to ensure that the boy’s name was entered 
into the Goblet of Fire. Use my Death Eater to ensure 
that the boy won the tournament — that he touched 
Page | 726 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




the Triwizard Cup first — the cup which my Death 
Eater had turned into a Portkey, which would bring 
him here, beyond the reach of Dumbledore’s help and 
protection, and into my waiting arms. And here he is 
... the boy you all believed had been my downfall...” 

Voldemort moved slowly forward and turned to face 
Harry. He raised his wand. 

“Crucio\” 

It was pain beyond anything Harry had ever 
experienced; his very bones were on fire; his head was 
surely splitting along his scar; his eyes were rolling 
madly in his head; he wanted it to end ... to black out 
...to die ... 

And then it was gone. He was hanging limply in the 
ropes binding him to the headstone of Voldemort’s 
father, looking up into those bright red eyes through 
a kind of mist. The night was ringing with the sound 
of the Death Eaters’ laughter. 

“You see, I think, how foolish it was to suppose that 
this boy could ever have been stronger than me,” said 
Voldemort. “But I want there to be no mistake in 
anybody’s mind. Harry Potter escaped me by a lucky 
chance. And I am now going to prove my power by 
killing him, here and now, in front of you all, when 
there is no Dumbledore to help him, and no mother to 
die for him. I will give him his chance. He will be 
allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt 
which of us is the stronger. Just a little longer, 
Nagini,” he whispered, and the snake glided away 
through the grass to where the Death Eaters stood 
watching. 

“Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his 
wand.” 

Page | 727 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 






PRIORI INCANTATEM 

Wormtail approached Harry, who scrambled to find 
his feet, to support his own weight before the ropes 
were untied. Wormtail raised his new silver hand, 
pulled out the wad of material gagging Harry, and 
then, with one swipe, cut through the bonds tying 
Harry to the gravestone. 

There was a split second, perhaps, when Harry might 
have considered running for it, but his injured leg 
shook under him as he stood on the overgrown grave, 
as the Death Eaters closed ranks, forming a tighter 
circle around him and Voldemort, so that the gaps 
where the missing Death Eaters should have stood 
were filled. Wormtail walked out of the circle to the 
place where Cedric’s body lay and returned with 
Harry’s wand, which he thrust roughly into Harry’s 
hand without looking at him. Then Wormtail resumed 
his place in the circle of watching Death Eaters. 

“You have been taught how to duel, Harry Potter?” 
said Voldemort softly, his red eyes glinting through 
the darkness. 

Page | 728 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 



At these words Harry remembered, as though from a 
former life, the dueling club at Hogwarts he had 
attended briefly two years ago. ... All he had learned 
there was the Disarming Spell, “ Expelliarmus” ... and 
what use would it be to deprive Voldemort of his 
wand, even if he could, when he was surrounded by 
Death Eaters, outnumbered by at least thirty to one? 
He had never learned anything that could possibly fit 
him for this. He knew he was facing the thing against 
which Moody had always warned . . . the un-blockable 
Avada Kedavra curse — and Voldemort was right — 
his mother was not here to die for him this time. ... 

He was quite unprotected. ... 

“We bow to each other, Harry,” said Voldemort, 
bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face 
upturned to Harry. “Come, the niceties must be 
observed. ... Dumbledore would like you to show 
manners. ... Bow to death, Harry. ...” 

The Death Eaters were laughing again. Voldemort’s 
lipless mouth was smiling. Harry did not bow. He was 
not going to let Voldemort play with him before killing 
him ... he was not going to give him that satisfaction. 



“I said, bow,” Voldemort said, raising his wand — and 
Harry felt his spine curve as though a huge, invisible 
hand were bending him ruthlessly forward, and the 
Death Eaters laughed harder than ever. 

“Very good,” said Voldemort softly, and as he raised 
his wand the pressure bearing down upon Harry lifted 
too. “And now you face me, like a man ... straight- 
backed and proud, the way your father died. ... 

“And now — we duel.” 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




Voldemort raised his wand, and before Harry could do 
anything to defend himself, before he could even 
move, he had been hit again by the Cruciatus Curse. 
The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he no 
longer knew where he was. ... White-hot knives were 
piercing every inch of his skin, his head was surely 
going to burst with pain, he was screaming more 
loudly than he’d ever screamed in his life — 

And then it stopped. Harry rolled over and scrambled 
to his feet; he was shaking as uncontrollably as 
Wormtail had done when his hand had been cut off; 
he staggered sideways into the wall of watching Death 
Eaters, and they pushed him away, back toward 
Voldemort. 

“A little break,” said Voldemort, the slit-like nostrils 
dilating with excitement, “a little pause . . . That hurt, 
didn’t it, Harry? You don’t want me to do that again, 
do you?” 

Harry didn’t answer. He was going to die like Cedric, 
those pitiless red eyes were telling him so ... he was 
going to die, and there was nothing he could do about 
it... but he wasn’t going to play along. He wasn’t going 
to obey Voldemort ... he wasn’t going to beg. ... 

“I asked you whether you want me to do that again,” 
said Voldemort softly. “Answer me! ImperioV’ 

And Harry felt, for the third time in his life, the 
sensation that his mind had been wiped of all 
thought. ... Ah, it was bliss, not to think, it was as 
though he were floating, dreaming ... just answer no 
. . . say no ... just answer no. . . . 

I will not, said a stronger voice, in the back of his 
head, I won’t answer. ... 



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Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




Just answer no. ... 



I won’t do it, I won’t say it. ... 

Just answer no. ... 

“I WONT!” 

And these words burst from Harry’s mouth; they 
echoed through the graveyard, and the dream state 
was lifted as suddenly as though cold water had been 
thrown over him — back rushed the aches that the 
Cruciatus Curse had left all over his body — back 
rushed the realization of where he was, and what he 
was facing. ... 

“You won’t?” said Voldemort quietly, and the Death 
Eaters were not laughing now. “You won’t say no? 
Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before 
you die. ... Perhaps another little dose of pain?” 

Voldemort raised his wand, but this time Harry was 
ready; with the reflexes born of his Quidditch 
training, he flung himself sideways onto the ground; 
he rolled behind the marble headstone of Voldemort’s 
father, and he heard it crack as the curse missed 
him. 

“We are not playing hide-and-seek, Harry,” said 
Voldemort’s soft, cold voice, drawing nearer, as the 
Death Eaters laughed. “You cannot hide from me. 

Does this mean you are tired of our duel? Does this 
mean that you would prefer me to finish it now, 

Harry? Come out, Harry . . . come out and play, then 
...it will be quick ... it might even be painless ... I 
would not know ... I have never died. ...” 

Harry crouched behind the headstone and knew the 
end had come. There was no hope ... no help to be 

Page | 731 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire -J.K. Rowling 




had. And as he heard Voldemort draw nearer still, he 
knew one thing only, and it was beyond fear or 
reason: He was not going to die crouching here like a 
child playing hide-and-seek; he was not going to die 
kneeling at Voldemort’s feet ... he was going to die 
upright like his father, and he was going to die trying 
to defend himself, even if no defense was possible. ... 

Before Voldemort could stick his snakelike face 
around the headstone, Harry stood up ... he gripped 
his wand tightly in his hand, thrust it out in front of 
him, and threw himself around the headstone, facing 
Voldemort. 

Voldemort was ready. As Harry shouted, 

“ ExpelliarmusV’ Voldemort cried, “Avada KedavraV’ 

A jet of green light issued from Voldemort’s wand just 
as a jet of red light blasted from Harry’s — they met 
in midair — and suddenly Harry’s wand was vibrating 
as though an electric charge were surging through it; 
his hand seized up around it; he couldn’t have 
released it if he’d wanted to — and a narrow beam of 
light connected the two wands, neither red nor green, 
but bright, deep gold. Harry, following the beam with 
his astonished gaze, saw that Voldemort’s long white 
fingers too were gripping a wand that was shaking 
and vibrating. 

And then — nothing could have prepared Harry for 
this — he felt his feet lift from the ground. He and 
Voldemort were both being raised into the air, their 
wands still connected by that thread of shimmering 
golden light. They glided away from the tombstone of 
Voldemort’s father and then came to rest on a patch 
of ground that was clear and free of graves. ... The 
Death Eaters were shouting; they were asking 
Voldemort for instructions; they were closing in, 
reforming the circle around Harry and Voldemort, the 
Page | 732 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




snake slithering at their heels, some of them drawing 
their wands — 



The golden thread connecting Harry and Voldemort 
splintered; though the wands remained connected, a 
thousand more beams arced high over Harry and 
Voldemort, crisscrossing all around them, until they 
were enclosed in a golden, dome-shaped web, a cage 
of light, beyond which the Death Eaters circled like 
jackals, their cries strangely muffled now. ... 

“Do nothing!” Voldemort shrieked to the Death 
Eaters, and Harry saw his red eyes wide with 
astonishment at what was happening, saw him 
fighting to break the thread of light still connecting 
his wand with Harry’s; Harry held onto his wand 
more tightly, with both hands, and the golden thread 
remained unbroken. “Do nothing unless I command 
you!” Voldemort shouted to the Death Eaters. 

And then an unearthly and beautiful sound filled the 
air. ... It was coming from every thread of the light- 
spun web vibrating around Harry and Voldemort. It 
was a sound Harry recognized, though he had heard 
it only once before in his life: phoenix song. 

It was the sound of hope to Harry . . . the most 
beautiful and welcome thing he had ever heard in his 
life. ... He felt as though the song were inside him 
instead of just around him. ... It was the sound he 
connected with Dumbledore, and it was almost as 
though a friend were speaking in his ear. . . . 

Don’t break the connection. 

I know, Harry told the music, I know I mustn’t ... but 
no sooner had he thought it, than the thing became 
much harder to do. His wand began to vibrate more 
powerfully than ever . . . and now the beam between 

Page | 733 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire -J.K. Rowling 




him and Voldemort changed too ... it was as though 
large beads of light were sliding up and down the 
thread connecting the wands — Harry felt his wand 
give a shudder under his hand as the light beads 
began to slide slowly and steadily his way. . . . The 
direction of the beam’s movement was now toward 
him, from Voldemort, and he felt his wand shudder 
angrily. ... 

As the closest bead of light moved nearer to Harry’s 
wand tip, the wood beneath his fingers grew so hot he 
feared it would burst into flame. The closer that bead 
moved, the harder Harry’s wand vibrated; he was sure 
his wand would not survive contact with it; it felt as 
though it was about to shatter under his fingers — 

He concentrated every last particle of his mind upon 
forcing the bead back toward Voldemort, his ears full 
of phoenix song, his eyes furious, fixed ... and slowly, 
very slowly, the beads quivered to a halt, and then, 
just as slowly, they began to move the other way ... 
and it was Voldemort ’s wand that was vibrating extra- 
hard now ... Voldemort who looked astonished, and 
almost fearful. ... 

One of the beads of light was quivering, inches from 
the tip of Voldemort’s wand. Harry didn’t understand 
why he was doing it, didn’t know what it might 
achieve . . . but he now concentrated as he had never 
done in his life on forcing that bead of light right back 
into Voldemort’s wand ... and slowly ... very slowly ... 
it moved along the golden thread ... it trembled for a 
moment... and then it connected. ... 

At once, Voldemort’s wand began to emit echoing 
screams of pain ... then — Voldemort’s red eyes 
widened with shock — a dense, smoky hand flew out 
of the tip of it and vanished . . . the ghost of the hand 
he had made Wormtail ... more shouts of pain ... and 
Page | 734 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire - J.K. Rowling 




then something much larger began to blossom from 
Voldemort’s wand tip, a great, grayish something, 
that looked as though it were made of the solidest, 
densest smoke. ... It was a head ... now a chest and 
arms . . . the torso of Cedric Diggory. 

If ever Harry might have released his wand from 
shock, it would have been then, but instinct kept him 
clutching his wand tightly, so that the thread of 
golden light remained unbroken, even though the 
thick gray ghost of Cedric Diggory (was it a ghost? it 
looked so solid) emerged in its entirety from the end of 
Voldemort’s wand, as though it were squeezing itself 
out of a very narrow tunnel . . . and this shade of 
Cedric stood up, and looked up and down the golden 
thread of light, and spoke. 

“Hold on, Harry,” it said. 

Its voice was distant and echoing. Harry looked at 
Voldemort . . . his wide red eyes were still shocked . . . 
he had no more expected this than Harry had . . . and, 
very dimly, Harry heard the frightened yells of the 
Death Eaters, prowling around the edges of the 
golden dome. ... 

More screams of pain from the wand . . . and then 
something else emerged from its tip . . . the dense 
shadow of a second head, quickly followed by arms 
and torso ... an old man Harry had seen only in a 
dream was now pushing himself out of the end of the 
wand just as Cedric had done ... and his ghost, or his 
shadow, or whatever it was, fell next to Cedric’s, and 
surveyed Harry and Voldemort, and the golden web, 
and the connected wands, with mild surprise, leaning 
on his walking stick. . . . 



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“He was a real wizard, then?” the old man said, his 
eyes on Voldemort. “Killed me, that one did. ... You 
fight him, boy. ...” 

But already, yet another head was emerging . . . and 
this head, gray as a smoky statue, was a woman’s. ... 
Harry, both arms shaking now as he fought to keep 
his wand still, saw her drop to the ground and 
straighten up like the others, staring. ... 

The shadow of Bertha Jorkins surveyed the battle 
before her with wide eyes. 

“Don’t let go, now!” she cried, and her voice echoed 
like Cedric’s as though from very far away. “Don’t let 
him get you, Harry — don’t let go!” 

She and the other two shadowy figures began to pace 
around the inner walls of the golden web, while the 
Death Eaters flitted around the outside of it ... and 
Voldemort’s dead victims whispered as they circled 
the duelers, whispered words of encouragement to 
Harry, and hissed words Harry couldn’t hear to 
Voldemort. 

And now another head was emerging from the tip of 
Voldemort’s wand ... and Harry knew when he saw it 
who it would be ... he knew, as though he had 
expected it from the moment when Cedric had 
appeared from the wand . . . knew, because the woman 
was the one he’d thought of more than any other 
tonight. ... 

The smoky shadow of a young woman with long hair 
fell to the ground as Bertha had done, straightened 
up, and looked at him ... and Harry, his arms shaking 
madly now, looked back into the ghostly face of his 
mother. 



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“Your father’s coming ...” she said quietly. “Hold on 
for your father ... it will be all right ... hold on. ...” 

And he came . . . first his head, then his body . . . tall 
and untidy-haired like Harry, the smoky, shadowy 
form of James Potter blossomed from the end of 
Voldemort’s wand, fell to the ground, and 
straightened like his wife. He walked close to Harry, 
looking down at him, and he spoke in the same 
distant, echoing voice as the others, but quietly, so 
that Voldemort, his face now livid with fear as his 
victims prowled around him, could not hear. . . . 

“When the connection is broken, we will linger for 
only moments . . . but we will give you time . . . you 
must get to the Portkey, it will return you to Hogwarts 
... do you understand, Harry?” 

“Yes,” Harry gasped, fighting now to keep a hold on 
his wand, which was slipping and sliding beneath his 
fingers. 

“Harry ...” whispered the figure of Cedric, “take my 
body back, will you? Take my body back to my 
parents. ...” 

“I will,” said Harry, his face screwed up with the effort 
of holding the wand. 

“Do it now,” whispered his father’s voice, “be ready to 
run ... do it now. ...” 

“NOW!” Harry yelled; he didn’t think he could have 
held on for another moment anyway — he pulled his 
wand upward with an almighty wrench, and the 
golden thread broke; the cage of light vanished, the 
phoenix song died — but the shadowy figures of 
Voldemort’s victims did not disappear — they were 



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closing in upon Voldemort, shielding Harry from his 
gaze — 

And Harry ran as he had never run in his life, 
knocking two stunned Death Eaters aside as he 
passed; he zigzagged behind headstones, feeling their 
curses following him, hearing them hit the 
headstones — he was dodging curses and graves, 
pelting toward Cedric’s body, no longer aware of the 
pain in his leg, his whole being concentrated on what 
he had to do — 

“Stun him\” he heard Voldemort scream. 

Ten feet from Cedric, Harry dived behind a marble 
angel to avoid the jets of red light and saw the tip of 
its wing shatter as the spells hit it. Gripping his wand 
more tightly, he dashed out from behind the angel — 

“Impedimental” he bellowed, pointing his wand wildly 
over his shoulder at the Death Eaters running at him. 

From a muffled yell, he thought he had stopped at 
least one of them, but there was no time to stop and 
look; he jumped over the cup and dived as he heard 
more wand blasts behind him; more jets of light flew 
over his head as he fell, stretching out his hand to 
grab Cedric’s arm — 

“Stand aside! I will kill him! He is mine!” shrieked 
Voldemort. 

Harry’s hand had closed on Cedric’s wrist; one 
tombstone stood between him and Voldemort, but 
Cedric was too heavy to carry, and the cup was out of 
reach — 



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Voldemort’s red eyes flamed in the darkness. Harry 
saw his mouth curl into a smile, saw him raise his 
wand. 

“Acciol” Harry yelled, pointing his wand at the 
Triwizard Cup. 

It flew into the air and soared toward him. Harry 
caught it by the handle — 

He heard Voldemort’s scream of fury at the same 
moment that he felt the jerk behind his navel that 
meant the Portkey had worked — it was speeding him 
away in a whirl of wind and color, and Cedric along 
with him. ... They were going back. 



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VERITASERUM 

Harry felt himself slam flat into the ground; his face 
was pressed into grass; the smell of it filled his 
nostrils. He had closed his eyes while the Portkey 
transported him, and he kept them closed now. He 
did not move. All the breath seemed to have been 
knocked out of him; his head was swimming so badly 
he felt as though the ground beneath him were 
swaying like the deck of a ship. To hold himself 
steady, he tightened his hold on the two things he 
was still clutching: the smooth, cold handle of the Tri- 
wizard Cup and Cedric’s body. He felt as though he 
would slide away into the blackness gathering at the 
edges of his brain if he let go of either of them. Shock 
and exhaustion kept him on the ground, breathing in 
the smell of the grass, waiting ... waiting for someone 
to do something . . . something to happen . . . and all 
the while, his scar burned dully on his forehead. ... 

A torrent of sound deafened and confused him; there 
were voices everywhere, footsteps, screams. ... He 
remained where he was, his face screwed up against 



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the noise, as though it were a nightmare that would 
pass. ... 

Then a pair of hands seized him roughly and turned 
him over. 

“Harry! HarryV’ 

He opened his eyes. 

He was looking up at the starry sky, and Albus 
Dumbledore was crouched over him. The dark 
shadows of a crowd of people pressed in around 
them, pushing nearer; Harry felt the ground beneath 
his head reverberating with their footsteps. 

He had come back to the edge of the maze. He could 
see the stands rising above him, the shapes of people 
moving in them, the stars above. 

Harry let go of the cup, but he clutched Cedric to him 
even more tightly. He raised his free hand and seized 
Dumbledore ’s wrist, while Dumbledore ’s face swam in 
and out of focus. 

“He’s back,” Harry whispered. “He’s back. Voldemort.” 

“What’s going on? What’s happened?” 

The face of Cornelius Fudge appeared upside down 
over Harry; it looked white, appalled. 

“My God — Diggory!” it whispered. “Dumbledore — 
he’s dead!” 

The words were repeated, the shadowy figures 
pressing in on them gasped it to those around them 
. . . and then others shouted it — screeched it — into 



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the night — “He’s dead!” “He’s dead!” “Cedric Diggory! 
Dead).” 



“Harry, let go of him,” he heard Fudge’s voice say, and 
he felt fingers trying to pry him from Cedric’s limp 
body, but Harry wouldn’t let him go. Then 
Dumbledore’s face, which was still blurred and 
misted, came closer. 

“Harry, you can’t help him now. It’s over. Let go.” 

“He wanted me to bring him back,” Harry muttered — 
it seemed important to explain this. “He wanted me to 
bring him back to his parents. ...” 

“That’s right, Harry ... just let go now. ...” 

Dumbledore bent down, and with extraordinary 
strength for a man so old and thin, raised Harry from 
the ground and set him on his feet. Harry swayed. His 
head was pounding. His injured leg would no longer 
support his weight. The crowd around them jostled, 
fighting to get closer, pressing darkly in on him — 
“What’s happened?” “What’s wrong with him?” 

“Dig gory’s dead\” 

“He’ll need to go to the hospital wing!” Fudge was 
saying loudly. “He’s ill, he’s injured — Dumbledore, 
Diggory’s parents, they’re here, they’re in the stands. 



“I’ll take Harry, Dumbledore, I’ll take him — ” 

“No, I would prefer — ” 

“Dumbledore, Amos Diggory’s running ... he’s coming 
over. ... Don’t you think you should tell him — before 
he sees — ?” 

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“Harry, stay here — ” 



Girls were screaming, sobbing hysterically. . . . The 
scene flickered oddly before Harry’s eyes. ... 

“It’s all right, son, I’ve got you ... come on ... hospital 
wing ...” 

“Dumbledore said stay,” said Harry thickly, the 
pounding in his scar making him feel as though he 
was about to throw up; his vision was blurring worse 
than ever. 

“You need to lie down. ... Come on now. ...” 

Someone larger and stronger than he was was half 
pulling, half carrying him through the frightened 
crowd. Harry heard people gasping, screaming, and 
shouting as the man supporting him pushed a path 
through them, taking him back to the castle. Across 
the lawn, past the lake and the Durmstrang ship, 
Harry heard nothing but the heavy breathing of the 
man helping him walk. 

“What happened, Harry?” the man asked at last as he 
lifted Harry up the stone steps. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. 

It was Mad-Eye Moody. 

“Cup was a Portkey,” said Harry as they crossed the 
entrance hall. “Took me and Cedric to a graveyard ... 
and Voldemort was there ... Lord Voldemort ...” 

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Up the marble stairs ... 

“The Dark Lord was there? What happened then?” 

“Killed Cedric ... they killed Cedric. ...” 

“And then?” 

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Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Along the corridor . . . 

“Made a potion ... got his body back. ...” 

“The Dark Lord got his body back? He’s returned?” 
“And the Death Eaters came ... and then we dueled. 



“You dueled with the Dark Lord?” 

“Got away . . . my wand . . . did something funny. ... I 
saw my mum and dad ... they came out of his wand. 



“In here, Harry ... in here, and sit down. ... You’ll be 
all right now ... drink this. ...” 

Harry heard a key scrape in a lock and felt a cup 
being pushed into his hands. 

“Drink it ... you’ll feel better ... come on, now, Harry, I 
need to know exactly what happened. ...” 

Moody helped tip the stuff down Harry’s throat; he 
coughed, a peppery taste burning his throat. Moody’s 
office came into sharper focus, and so did Moody 
himself. ... He looked as white as Fudge had looked, 
and both eyes were fixed unblinkingly upon Harry’s 
face. 

“Voldemort’s back, Harry? You’re sure he’s back? How 
did he do it?” 

“He took stuff from his father’s grave, and from 
Wormtail, and me,” said Harry. His head felt clearer; 
his scar wasn’t hurting so badly; he could now see 
Moody’s face distinctly, even though the office was 



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dark. He could still hear screaming and shouting 
from the distant Quidditch field. 



“What did the Dark Lord take from you?” said Moody. 

“Blood,” said Harry, raising his arm. His sleeve was 
ripped where Wormtail’s dagger had torn it. 

Moody let out his breath in a long, low hiss. 

“And the Death Eaters? They returned?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “Loads of them ...” 

“How did he treat them?” Moody asked quietly. “Did 
he forgive them?” 

But Harry had suddenly remembered. He should have 
told Dumbledore, he should have said it straightaway 



“There’s a Death Eater at Hogwarts! There’s a Death 
Eater here — they put my name in the Goblet of Fire, 
they made sure I got through to the end — ” 

Harry tried to get up, but Moody pushed him back 
down. 

“I know who the Death Eater is,” he said quietly. 

“Karkaroff?” said Harry wildly. “Where is he? Have 
you got him? Is he locked up?” 

“Karkaroff?” said Moody with an odd laugh. 

“Karkaroff fled tonight, when he felt the Dark Mark 
burn upon his arm. He betrayed too many faithful 
supporters of the Dark Lord to wish to meet them . . . 
but I doubt he will get far. The Dark Lord has ways of 
tracking his enemies.” 

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“Karkaroff’s gone? He ran away? But then — he didn’t 
put my name in the goblet?” 



“No,” said Moody slowly. “No, he didn’t. It was I who 
did that.” 

Harry heard, but didn’t believe. 

“No, you didn’t,” he said. “You didn’t do that ... you 
can’t have done ...” 

“I assure you I did,” said Moody, and his magical eye 
swung around and fixed upon the door, and Harry 
knew he was making sure that there was no one 
outside it. At the same time, Moody drew out his 
wand and pointed it at Harry. 

“He forgave them, then?” he said. “The Death Eaters 
who went free? The ones who escaped Azkaban?” 

“What?” said Harry. 

He was looking at the wand Moody was pointing at 
him. This was a bad joke, it had to be. 

“I asked you,” said Moody quietly, “whether he forgave 
the scum who never even went to look for him. Those 
treacherous cowards who wouldn’t even brave 
Azkaban for him. The faithless, worthless bits of filth 
who were brave enough to cavort in masks at the 
Quidditch World Cup, but fled at the sight of the Dark 
Mark when I fired it into the sky.” 

“ You fired . . . What are you talking about ... ?” 

“I told you, Harry ... I told you. If there’s one thing I 
hate more than any other, it’s a Death Eater who 
walked free. They turned their backs on my master 
when he needed them most. I expected him to punish 

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them. I expected him to torture them. Tell me he hurt 
them, Harry. ...” Moody’s face was suddenly lit with 
an insane smile. “Tell me he told them that I, I alone 
remained faithful . . . prepared to risk everything to 
deliver to him the one thing he wanted above all ... 
you.” 

“You didn’t ... it — it can’t be you. ...” 

“Who put your name in the Goblet of Fire, under the 
name of a different school? I did. Who frightened off 
every person I thought might try to hurt you or 
prevent you from winning the tournament? I did. Who 
nudged Hagrid into showing you the dragons? I did. 
Who helped you see the only way you could beat the 
dragon? I did.” 

Moody’s magical eye had now left the door. It was 
fixed upon Harry. His lopsided mouth leered more 
widely than ever. 

“It hasn’t been easy, Harry, guiding you through these 
tasks without arousing suspicion. I have had to use 
every ounce of cunning I possess, so that my hand 
would not be detectable in your success. Dumbledore 
would have been very suspicious if you had managed 
everything too easily. As long as you got into that 
maze, preferably with a decent head start — then, I 
knew, I would have a chance of getting rid of the 
other champions and leaving your way clear. But I 
also had to contend with your stupidity. The second 
task . . . that was when I was most afraid we would 
fail. I was keeping watch on you, Potter. I knew you 
hadn’t worked out the egg’s clue, so I had to give you 
another hint — ” 

“You didn’t,” Harry said hoarsely. “Cedric gave me the 
clue — ” 



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“Who told Cedric to open it underwater? I did. I 
trusted that he would pass the information on to you. 
Decent people are so easy to manipulate, Potter. I was 
sure Cedric would want to repay you for telling him 
about the dragons, and so he did. But even then, 
Potter, even then you seemed likely to fail. I was 
watching all the time ... all those hours in the library. 
Didn’t you realize that the book you needed was in 
your dormitory all along? I planted it there early on, I 
gave it to the Longbottom boy, don’t you remember? 
Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean. It would 
have told you all you needed to know about gillyweed. 

I expected you to ask everyone and anyone you could 
for help. Longbottom would have told you in an 
instant. But you did not ... you did not. ... You have a 
streak of pride and independence that might have 
ruined all. 

“So what could I do? Feed you information from 
another innocent source. You told me at the Yule Ball 
a house-elf called Dobby had given you a Christmas 
present. I called the elf to the staffroom to collect 
some robes for cleaning. I staged a loud conversation 
with Professor McGonagall about the hostages who 
had been taken, and whether Potter would think to 
use gillyweed. And your little elf friend ran straight to 
Snape’s office and then hurried to find you. ...” 

Moody’s wand was still pointing directly at Harry’s 
heart. Over his shoulder, foggy shapes were moving in 
the Foe-Glass on the wall. 

“You were so long in that lake, Potter, I thought you 
had drowned. But luckily, Dumbledore took your 
idiocy for nobility, and marked you high for it. I 
breathed again. 

“You had an easier time of it than you should have in 
that maze tonight, of course,” said Moody. “I was 

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patrolling around it, able to see through the outer 
hedges, able to curse many obstacles out of your way. 
I Stunned Fleur Delacour as she passed. I put the 
Imperius Curse on Krum, so that he would finish 
Diggory and leave your path to the cup clear.” 

Harry stared at Moody. He just didn’t see how this 
could be. ... Dumbledore’s friend, the famous Auror 
. . . the one who had caught so many Death Eaters . . . 

It made no sense ... no sense at all. ... 

The foggy shapes in the Foe-Glass were sharpening, 
had become more distinct. Harry could see the 
outlines of three people over Moody’s shoulder, 
moving closer and closer. But Moody wasn’t watching 
them. His magical eye was upon Harry. 

“The Dark Lord didn’t manage to kill you, Potter, and 
he so wanted to,” whispered Moody. “Imagine how he 
will reward me when he finds I have done it for him. I 
gave you to him — the thing he needed above all to 
regenerate — and then I killed you for him. I will be 
honored beyond all other Death Eaters. I will be his 
dearest, his closest supporter ... closer than a son. ...” 

Moody’s normal eye was bulging, the magical eye 
fixed upon Harry. The door was barred, and Harry 
knew he would never reach his own wand in time. ... 

“The Dark Lord and I,” said Moody, and he looked 
completely insane now, towering over Harry, leering 
down at him, “have much in common. Both of us, for 
instance, had very disappointing fathers ... very 
disappointing indeed. Both of us suffered the 
indignity, Harry, of being named after those fathers. 
And both of us had the pleasure . . . the very great 
pleasure ... of killing our fathers to ensure the 
continued rise of the Dark Order!” 



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“You’re mad,” Harry said — he couldn’t stop himself 
— “you’re mad!” 



“Mad, am I?” said Moody, his voice rising 
uncontrollably. “We’ll see! We’ll see who’s mad, now 
that the Dark Lord has returned, with me at his side! 
He is back, Harry Potter, you did not conquer him — 
and now — I conquer you!” 

Moody raised his wand, he opened his mouth; Harry 
plunged his own hand into his robes — 

“Stupefy\” There was a blinding flash of red light, and 
with a great splintering and crashing, the door of 
Moody’s office was blasted apart — 

Moody was thrown backward onto the office floor. 
Harry, still staring at the place where Moody’s face 
had been, saw Albus Dumbledore, Professor Snape, 
and Professor McGonagall looking back at him out of 
the Foe-Glass. He looked around and saw the three of 
them standing in the doorway, Dumbledore in front, 
his wand outstretched. 

At that moment, Harry fully understood for the first 
time why people said Dumbledore was the only wizard 
Voldemort had ever feared. The look upon 
Dumbledore ’s face as he stared down at the 
unconscious form of Mad-Eye Moody was more 
terrible than Harry could have ever imagined. There 
was no benign smile upon Dumbledore ’s face, no 
twinkle in the eyes behind the spectacles. There was 
cold fury in every line of the ancient face; a sense of 
power radiated from Dumbledore as though he were 
giving off burning heat. 

He stepped into the office, placed a foot underneath 
Moody’s unconscious body, and kicked him over onto 
his back, so that his face was visible. Snape followed 

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him, looking into the Foe-Glass, where his own face 
was still visible, glaring into the room. Professor 
McGonagall went straight to Harry. 

“Come along, Potter,” she whispered. The thin line of 
her mouth was twitching as though she was about to 
cry. “Come along ... hospital wing ...” 

“No,” said Dumbledore sharply. 

“Dumbledore, he ought to — look at him — he’s been 
through enough tonight — ” 

“He will stay, Minerva, because he needs to 
understand,” said Dumbledore curtly. “Understanding 
is the first step to acceptance, and only with 
acceptance can there be recovery. He needs to know 
who has put him through the ordeal he has suffered 
tonight, and why.” 

“Moody,” Harry said. He was still in a state of 
complete disbelief. “How can it have been Moody?” 

“This is not Alastor Moody,” said Dumbledore quietly. 
“You have never known Alastor Moody. The real 
Moody would not have removed you from my sight 
after what happened tonight. The moment he took 
you, I knew — and I followed.” 

Dumbledore bent down over Moody’s limp form and 
put a hand inside his robes. He pulled out Moody’s 
hip flask and a set of keys on a ring. Then he turned 
to Professors McGonagall and Snape. 

“Severus, please fetch me the strongest Truth Potion 
you possess, and then go down to the kitchens and 
bring up the house-elf called Winky. Minerva, kindly 
go down to Hagrid’s house, where you will find a large 
black dog sitting in the pumpkin patch. Take the dog 
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up to my office, tell him I will be with him shortly, 
then come back here.” 

If either Snape or McGonagall found these 
instructions peculiar, they hid their confusion. Both 
turned at once and left the office. Dumbledore walked 
over to the trunk with seven locks, fitted the first key 
in the lock, and opened it. It contained a mass of 
spell-books. Dumbledore closed the trunk, placed a 
second key in the second lock, and opened the trunk 
again. The spellbooks had vanished; this time it 
contained an assortment of broken Sneako-scopes, 
some parchment and quills, and what looked like a 
silvery Invisibility Cloak. Harry watched, astounded, 
as Dumbledore placed the third, fourth, fifth, and 
sixth keys in their respective locks, reopening the 
trunk, and each time revealing different contents. 
Then he placed the seventh key in the lock, threw 
open the lid, and Harry let out a cry of amazement. 

He was looking down into a kind of pit, an 
underground room, and lying on the floor some ten 
feet below, apparently fast asleep, thin and starved in 
appearance, was the real Mad-Eye Moody. His 
wooden leg was gone, the socket that should have 
held the magical eye looked empty beneath its lid, 
and chunks of his grizzled hair were missing. Harry 
stared, thunderstruck, between the sleeping Moody in 
the trunk and the unconscious Moody lying on the 
floor of the office. 

Dumbledore climbed into the trunk, lowered himself, 
and fell lightly onto the floor beside the sleeping 
Moody. He bent over him. 

“Stunned — controlled by the Imperius Curse — very 
weak,” he said. “Of course, they would have needed to 
keep him alive. Harry, throw down the imposter’s 



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cloak — he’s freezing. Madam Pomfrey will need to see 
him, but he seems in no immediate danger.” 

Harry did as he was told; Dumbledore covered Moody 
in the cloak, tucked it around him, and clambered 
out of the trunk again. Then he picked up the hip 
flask that stood upon the desk, unscrewed it, and 
turned it over. A thick glutinous liquid splattered onto 
the office floor. 

“Polyjuice Potion, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “You see 
the simplicity of it, and the brilliance. For Moody 
never does drink except from his hip flask, he’s well 
known for it. The imposter needed, of course, to keep 
the real Moody close by, so that he could continue 
making the potion. You see his hair ...” Dumbledore 
looked down on the Moody in the trunk. “The 
imposter has been cutting it off all year, see where it 
is uneven? But I think, in the excitement of tonight, 
our fake Moody might have forgotten to take it as 
frequently as he should have done ... on the hour . . . 
every hour. ... We shall see.” 

Dumbledore pulled out the chair at the desk and sat 
down upon it, his eyes fixed upon the unconscious 
Moody on the floor. Harry stared at him too. Minutes 
passed in silence. ... 

Then, before Harry’s very eyes, the face of the man on 
the floor began to change. The scars were 
disappearing, the skin was becoming smooth; the 
mangled nose became whole and started to shrink. 
The long mane of grizzled gray hair was withdrawing 
into the scalp and turning the color of straw. 
Suddenly, with a loud clunk, the wooden leg fell away 
as a normal leg regrew in its place; next moment, the 
magical eyeball had popped out of the man’s face as a 
real eye replaced it; it rolled away across the floor and 
continued to swivel in every direction. 

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Harry saw a man lying before him, pale-skinned, 
slightly freckled, with a mop of fair hair. He knew who 
he was. He had seen him in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, 
had watched him being led away from court by the 
dementors, trying to convince Mr. Crouch that he was 
innocent . . . but he was lined around the eyes now 
and looked much older. . . . 

There were hurried footsteps outside in the corridor. 
Snape had returned with Winky at his heels. 

Professor McGonagall was right behind them. 

“Crouch!” Snape said, stopping dead in the doorway. 
“Barty Crouch!” 

“Good heavens,” said Professor McGonagall, stopping 
dead and staring down at the man on the floor. 

Filthy, disheveled, Winky peered around Snape’s legs. 
Her mouth opened wide and she let out a piercing 
shriek. 

“Master Barty, Master Barty, what is you doing here?” 

She flung herself forward onto the young man’s chest. 

“You is killed him! You is killed him! You is killed 
Master’s son!” 

“He is simply Stunned, Winky,” said Dumbledore. 
“Step aside, please. Severus, you have the potion?” 

Snape handed Dumbledore a small glass bottle of 
completely clear liquid: the Veritaserum with which 
he had threatened Harry in class. Dumbledore got up, 
bent over the man on the floor, and pulled him into a 
sitting position against the wall beneath the Foe- 
Glass, in which the reflections of Dumbledore, Snape, 
and McGonagall were still glaring down upon them 
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all. Winky remained on her knees, trembling, her 
hands over her face. Dumbledore forced the man’s 
mouth open and poured three drops inside it. Then 
he pointed his wand at the man’s chest and said, 
“Rennervate.” 

Crouch’s son opened his eyes. His face was slack, his 
gaze unfocused. Dumbledore knelt before him, so that 
their faces were level. 

“Can you hear me?” Dumbledore asked quietly. 

The man’s eyelids flickered. 

“Yes,” he muttered. 

“I would like you to tell us,” said Dumbledore softly, 
“how you came to be here. How did you escape from 
Azkaban?” 

Crouch took a deep, shuddering breath, then began 
to speak in a flat, expressionless voice. 

“My mother saved me. She knew she was dying. She 
persuaded my father to rescue me as a last favor to 
her. He loved her as he had never loved me. He 
agreed. They came to visit me. They gave me a draft of 
Polyjuice Potion containing one of my mother’s hairs. 
She took a draft of Polyjuice Potion containing one of 
my hairs. We took on each other’s appearance.” 

Winky was shaking her head, trembling. 

“Say no more, Master Barty, say no more, you is 
getting your father into trouble!” 

But Crouch took another deep breath and continued 
in the same flat voice. 



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“The dementors are blind. They sensed one healthy, 
one dying person entering Azkaban. They sensed one 
healthy, one dying person leaving it. My father 
smuggled me out, disguised as my mother, in case 
any prisoners were watching through their doors. 

“My mother died a short while afterward in Azkaban. 
She was careful to drink Polyjuice Potion until the 
end. She was buried under my name and bearing my 
appearance. Everyone believed her to be me.” 

The man’s eyelids flickered. 

“And what did your father do with you, when he had 
got you home?” said Dumbledore quietly. 

“Staged my mother’s death. A quiet, private funeral. 
That grave is empty. The house-elf nursed me back to 
health. Then I had to be concealed. I had to be 
controlled. My father had to use a number of spells to 
subdue me. When I had recovered my strength, I 
thought only of finding my master ... of returning to 
his service.” 

“How did your father subdue you?” said Dumbledore. 

“The Imperius Curse,” Crouch said. “I was under my 
father’s control. I was forced to wear an Invisibility 
Cloak day and night. I was always with the house-elf. 
She was my keeper and caretaker. She pitied me. She 
persuaded my father to give me occasional treats. 
Rewards for my good behavior.” 

“Master Barty, Master Barty,” sobbed Winky through 
her hands. “You isn’t ought to tell them, we is getting 
in trouble. ...” 



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“Did anybody ever discover that you were still alive?” 
said Dumbledore softly. “Did anyone know except 
your father and the house-elf?” 

“Yes,” said Crouch, his eyelids flickering again. “A 
witch in my father’s office. Bertha Jorkins. She came 
to the house with papers for my father’s signature. He 
was not at home. Winky showed her inside and 
returned to the kitchen, to me. But Bertha Jorkins 
heard Winky talking to me. She came to investigate. 
She heard enough to guess who was hiding under the 
Invisibility Cloak. My father arrived home. She 
confronted him. He put a very powerful Memory 
Charm on her to make her forget what she’d found 
out. Too powerful. He said it damaged her memory 
permanently.” 

“Why is she coming to nose into my master’s private 
business?” sobbed Winky. “Why isn’t she leaving us 
be?” 

“Tell me about the Quidditch World Cup,” said 
Dumbledore. 

“Winky talked my father into it,” said Crouch, still in 
the same monotonous voice. “She spent months 
persuading him. I had not left the house for years. I 
had loved Quidditch. Let him go, she said. He will be 
in his Invisibility Cloak. He can watch. Let him smell 
fresh air for once. She said my mother would have 
wanted it. She told my father that my mother had 
died to give me freedom. She had not saved me for a 
life of imprisonment. He agreed in the end. 

“It was carefully planned. My father led me and Winky 
up to the Top Box early in the day. Winky was to say 
that she was saving a seat for my father. I was to sit 
there, invisible. When everyone had left the box, we 



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would emerge. Winky would appear to be alone. 
Nobody would ever know. 

“But Winky didn’t know that I was growing stronger. I 
was starting to fight my father’s Imperius Curse. 

There were times when I was almost myself again. 
There were brief periods when I seemed outside his 
control. It happened, there, in the Top Box. It was like 
waking from a deep sleep. I found myself out in 
public, in the middle of the match, and I saw, in front 
of me, a wand sticking out of a boy’s pocket. I had not 
been allowed a wand since before Azkaban. I stole it. 
Winky didn’t know. Winky is frightened of heights. 

She had her face hidden.” 

“Master Barty, you bad boy!” whispered Winky, tears 
trickling between her fingers. 

“So you took the wand,” said Dumbledore, “and what 
did you do with it?” 

“We went back to the tent,” said Crouch. “Then we 
heard them. We heard the Death Eaters. The ones 
who had never been to Azkaban. The ones who had 
never suffered for my master. They had turned their 
backs on him. They were not enslaved, as I was. They 
were free to seek him, but they did not. They were 
merely making sport of Muggles. The sound of their 
voices awoke me. My mind was clearer than it had 
been in years. I was angry. I had the wand. I wanted 
to attack them for their disloyalty to my master. My 
father had left the tent; he had gone to free the 
Muggles. Winky was afraid to see me so angry. She 
used her own brand of magic to bind me to her. She 
pulled me from the tent, pulled me into the forest, 
away from the Death Eaters. I tried to hold her back. I 
wanted to return to the campsite. I wanted to show 
those Death Eaters what loyalty to the Dark Lord 



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meant, and to punish them for their lack of it. I used 
the stolen wand to cast the Dark Mark into the sky. 

“Ministry wizards arrived. They shot Stunning Spells 
everywhere. One of the spells came through the trees 
where Winky and I stood. The bond connecting us 
was broken. We were both Stunned. 

“When Winky was discovered, my father knew I must 
be nearby. He searched the bushes where she had 
been found and felt me lying there. He waited until 
the other Ministry members had left the forest. He put 
me back under the Imperius Curse and took me 
home. He dismissed Winky. She had failed him. She 
had let me acquire a wand. She had almost let me 
escape.” 

Winky let out a wail of despair. 

“Now it was just Father and I, alone in the house. And 
then ... and then ...” Crouch’s head rolled on his 
neck, and an insane grin spread across his face. “My 
master came for me. 

“He arrived at our house late one night in the arms of 
his servant Wormtail. My master had found out that I 
was still alive. He had captured Bertha Jorkins in 
Albania. He had tortured her. She told him a great 
deal. She told him about the Triwizard Tournament. 
She told him the old Auror, Moody, was going to teach 
at Hogwarts. He tortured her until he broke through 
the Memory Charm my father had placed upon her. 
She told him I had escaped from Azkaban. She told 
him my father kept me imprisoned to prevent me from 
seeking my master. And so my master knew that I 
was still his faithful servant — perhaps the most 
faithful of all. My master conceived a plan, based 
upon the information Bertha had given him. He 



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needed me. He arrived at our house near midnight. 

My father answered the door.” 

The smile spread wider over Crouch’s face, as though 
recalling the sweetest memory of his life. Winky’s 
petrified brown eyes were visible through her fingers. 
She seemed too appalled to speak. 

“It was very quick. My father was placed under the 
Imperius Curse by my master. Now my father was the 
one imprisoned, controlled. My master forced him to 
go about his business as usual, to act as though 
nothing was wrong. And I was released. I awoke. I 
was myself again, alive as I hadn’t been in years.” 

“And what did Lord Voldemort ask you to do?” said 
Dumbledore. 

“He asked me whether I was ready to risk everything 
for him. I was ready. It was my dream, my greatest 
ambition, to serve him, to prove myself to him. He 
told me he needed to place a faithful servant at 
Hogwarts. A servant who would guide Harry Potter 
through the Triwizard Tournament without appearing 
to do so. A servant who would watch over Harry 
Potter. Ensure he reached the Triwizard Cup. Turn 
the cup into a Portkey, which would take the first 
person to touch it to my master. But first — ” 

“You needed Alastor Moody,” said Dumbledore. His 
blue eyes were blazing, though his voice remained 
calm. 

“Wormtail and I did it. We had prepared the Polyjuice 
Potion beforehand. We journeyed to his house. Moody 
put up a struggle. There was a commotion. We 
managed to subdue him just in time. Forced him into 
a compartment of his own magical trunk. Took some 
of his hair and added it to the potion. I drank it; I 
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became Moody’s double. I took his leg and his eye. I 
was ready to face Arthur Weasley when he arrived to 
sort out the Muggles who had heard a disturbance. I 
made the dustbins move around the yard. I told 
Arthur Weasley I had heard intruders in my yard, 
who had set off the dustbins. Then I packed up 
Moody’s clothes and Dark detectors, put them in the 
trunk with Moody, and set off for Hogwarts. I kept 
him alive, under the Imperius Curse. I wanted to be 
able to question him. To find out about his past, learn 
his habits, so that I could fool even Dumbledore. I 
also needed his hair to make the Polyjuice Potion. The 
other ingredients were easy. I stole boom-slang skin 
from the dungeons. When the Potions master found 
me in his office, I said I was under orders to search 
it.” 

“And what became of Wormtail after you attacked 
Moody?” said Dumbledore. 

“Wormtail returned to care for my master, in my 
father’s house, and to keep watch over my father.” 

“But your father escaped,” said Dumbledore. 

“Yes. After a while he began to fight the Imperius 
Curse just as I had done. There were periods when he 
knew what was happening. My master decided it was 
no longer safe for my father to leave the house. He 
forced him to send letters to the Ministry instead. He 
made him write and say he was ill. But Wormtail 
neglected his duty. He was not watchful enough. My 
father escaped. My master guessed that he was 
heading for Hogwarts. My father was going to tell 
Dumbledore everything, to confess. He was going to 
admit that he had smuggled me from Azkaban. 

“My master sent me word of my father’s escape. He 
told me to stop him at all costs. So I waited and 

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watched. I used the map I had taken from Harry 
Potter. The map that had almost mined everything.” 

“Map?” said Dumbledore quickly. “What map is this?” 

“Potter’s map of Hogwarts. Potter saw me on it. Potter 
saw me stealing more ingredients for the Polyjuice 
Potion from Snape’s office one night. He thought I was 
my father. We have the same first name. I took the 
map from Potter that night. I told him my father 
hated Dark wizards. Potter believed my father was 
after Snape. 

“For a week I waited for my father to arrive at 
Hogwarts. At last, one evening, the map showed my 
father entering the grounds. I pulled on my Invisibility 
Cloak and went down to meet him. He was walking 
around the edge of the forest. Then Potter came, and 
Krum. I waited. I could not hurt Potter; my master 
needed him. Potter ran to get Dumbledore. I Stunned 
Krum. I killed my father.” 

“iVoooo!” wailed Winky. “Master Barty, Master Barty, 
what is you saying?” 

“You killed your father,” Dumbledore said, in the 
same soft voice. “What did you do with the body?” 

“Carried it into the forest. Covered it with the 
Invisibility Cloak. I had the map with me. I watched 
Potter run into the castle. He met Snape. Dumbledore 
joined them. I watched Potter bringing Dumbledore 
out of the castle. I walked back out of the forest, 
doubled around behind them, went to meet them. I 
told Dumbledore Snape had told me where to come. 

“Dumbledore told me to go and look for my father. I 
went back to my father’s body. Watched the map. 
When everyone was gone, I Transfigured my father’s 

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body. He became a bone ... I buried it, while wearing 
the Invisibility Cloak, in the freshly dug earth in front 
of Hagrid’s cabin.” 

There was complete silence now, except for Winky’s 
continued sobs. Then Dumbledore said, “And tonight 



“I offered to carry the Triwizard Cup into the maze 
before dinner,” whispered Barty Crouch. “Turned it 
into a Portkey. My master’s plan worked. He is 
returned to power and I will be honored by him 
beyond the dreams of wizards.” 

The insane smile lit his features once more, and his 
head drooped onto his shoulder as Winky wailed and 
sobbed at his side. 



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THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

Dumbledore stood up. He stared down at Barty 
Crouch for a moment with disgust on his face. Then 
he raised his wand once more and ropes flew out of it, 
ropes that twisted themselves around Barty Crouch, 
binding him tightly. He turned to Professor 
McGonagall. 

“Minerva, could I ask you to stand guard here while I 
take Harry upstairs?” 

“Of course,” said Professor McGonagall. She looked 
slightly nauseous, as though she had just watched 
someone being sick. However, when she drew out her 
wand and pointed it at Barty Crouch, her hand was 
quite steady. 

“Severus” — Dumbledore turned to Snape — “please 
tell Madam Pomfrey to come down here; we need to 
get Alastor Moody into the hospital wing. Then go 
down into the grounds, find Cornelius Fudge, and 
bring him up to this office. He will undoubtedly want 



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to question Crouch himself. Tell him I will be in the 
hospital wing in half an hour’s time if he needs me.” 

Snape nodded silently and swept out of the room. 

“Harry?” Dumbledore said gently. 

Harry got up and swayed again; the pain in his leg, 
which he had not noticed all the time he had been 
listening to Crouch, now returned in full measure. He 
also realized that he was shaking. Dumbledore 
gripped his arm and helped him out into the dark 
corridor. 

“I want you to come up to my office first, Harry,” he 
said quietly as they headed up the passageway. 

“Sirius is waiting for us there.” 

Harry nodded. A kind of numbness and a sense of 
complete unreality were upon him, but he did not 
care; he was even glad of it. He didn’t want to have to 
think about anything that had happened since he had 
first touched the Triwizard Cup. He didn’t want to 
have to examine the memories, fresh and sharp as 
photographs, which kept flashing across his mind. 
Mad-Eye Moody, inside the trunk. Wormtail, slumped 
on the ground, cradling his stump of an arm. 
Voldemort, rising from the steaming cauldron. Cedric 
. . . dead . . . Cedric, asking to be returned to his 
parents. ... 

“Professor,” Harry mumbled, “where are Mr. and Mrs. 
Diggory?” 

“They are with Professor Sprout,” said Dumbledore. 
His voice, which had been so calm throughout the 
interrogation of Barty Crouch, shook very slightly for 
the first time. “She was Head of Cedric’s house, and 
knew him best.” 

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They had reached the stone gargoyle. Dumbledore 
gave the password, it sprang aside, and he and Harry 
went up the moving spiral staircase to the oak door. 
Dumbledore pushed it open. Sirius was standing 
there. His face was white and gaunt as it had been 
when he had escaped Azkaban. In one swift moment, 
he had crossed the room. 

“Harry, are you all right? I knew it — I knew 
something like this — what happened?” 

His hands shook as he helped Harry into a chair in 
front of the desk. 

“What happened?” he asked more urgently. 

Dumbledore began to tell Sirius everything Barty 
Crouch had said. Harry was only half listening. So 
tired every bone in his body was aching, he wanted 
nothing more than to sit here, undisturbed, for hours 
and hours, until he fell asleep and didn’t have to 
think or feel anymore. 

There was a soft rush of wings. Fawkes the phoenix 
had left his perch, flown across the office, and landed 
on Harry’s knee. 

“ ’Lo, Fawkes,” said Harry quietly. He stroked the 
phoenix’s beautiful scarlet-and-gold plumage. Fawkes 
blinked peacefully up at him. There was something 
comforting about his warm weight. 

Dumbledore stopped talking. He sat down opposite 
Harry, behind his desk. He was looking at Harry, who 
avoided his eyes. Dumbledore was going to question 
him. He was going to make Harry relive everything. 

“I need to know what happened after you touched the 
Portkey in the maze, Harry,” said Dumbledore. 

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“We can leave that till morning, can’t we, 
Dumbledore?” said Sirius harshly. He had put a hand 
on Harry’s shoulder. “Let him have a sleep. Let him 
rest.” 

Harry felt a rush of gratitude toward Sirius, but 
Dumbledore took no notice of Sirius’s words. He 
leaned forward toward Harry. Very unwillingly, Harry 
raised his head and looked into those blue eyes. 

“If I thought I could help you,” Dumbledore said 
gently, “by putting you into an enchanted sleep and 
allowing you to postpone the moment when you 
would have to think about what has happened 
tonight, I would do it. But I know better. Numbing the 
pain for a while will make it worse when you finally 
feel it. You have shown bravery beyond anything I 
could have expected of you. I ask you to demonstrate 
your courage one more time. I ask you to tell us what 
happened.” 

The phoenix let out one soft, quavering note. It 
shivered in the air, and Harry felt as though a drop of 
hot liquid had slipped down his throat into his 
stomach, warming him, and strengthening him. 

He took a deep breath and began to tell them. As he 
spoke, visions of everything that had passed that 
night seemed to rise before his eyes; he saw the 
sparkling surface of the potion that had revived 
Voldemort; he saw the Death Eaters Apparating 
between the graves around them; he saw Cedric’s 
body, lying on the ground beside the cup. 

Once or twice, Sirius made a noise as though about to 
say something, his hand still tight on Harry’s 
shoulder, but Dumbledore raised his hand to stop 
him, and Harry was glad of this, because it was easier 
to keep going now he had started. It was even a relief; 
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he felt almost as though something poisonous were 
being extracted from him. It was costing him every bit 
of determination he had to keep talking, yet he sensed 
that once he had finished, he would feel better. 

When Harry told of Wormtail piercing his arm with 
the dagger, however, Sirius let out a vehement 
exclamation and Dumbledore stood up so quickly that 
Harry started. Dumbledore walked around the desk 
and told Harry to stretch out his arm. Harry showed 
them both the place where his robes were torn and 
the cut beneath them. 

“He said my blood would make him stronger than if 
he’d used someone else’s,” Harry told Dumbledore. 

“He said the protection my — my mother left in me — 
he’d have it too. And he was right — he could touch 
me without hurting himself, he touched my face.” 

For a fleeting instant, Harry thought he saw a gleam 
of something like triumph in Dumbledore ’s eyes. But 
next second, Harry was sure he had imagined it, for 
when Dumbledore had returned to his seat behind 
the desk, he looked as old and weary as Harry had 
ever seen him. 

“Very well,” he said, sitting down again. “Voldemort 
has overcome that particular barrier. Harry, continue, 
please.” 

Harry went on; he explained how Voldemort had 
emerged from the cauldron, and told them all he 
could remember of Voldemort’s speech to the Death 
Eaters. Then he told how Voldemort had untied him, 
returned his wand to him, and prepared to duel. 

But when he reached the part where the golden beam 
of light had connected his and Voldemort’s wands, he 
found his throat obstructed. He tried to keep talking, 

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but the memories of what had come out of 
Voldemort’s wand were flooding into his mind. He 
could see Cedric emerging, see the old man, Bertha 
Jorkins ... his father ... his mother ... 

He was glad when Sirius broke the silence. 

“The wands connected?” he said, looking from Harry 
to Dumbledore. “Why?” 

Harry looked up at Dumbledore again, on whose face 
there was an arrested look. 

“Priori Incantatem,” he muttered. 

His eyes gazed into Harry’s and it was almost as 
though an invisible beam of understanding shot 
between them. 

“The Reverse Spell effect?” said Sirius sharply. 

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore. “Harry’s wand and 
Voldemort’s wand share cores. Each of them contains 
a feather from the tail of the same phoenix. This 
phoenix, in fact,” he added, and he pointed at the 
scarlet-and-gold bird, perching peacefully on Harry’s 
knee. 

“My wand’s feather came from Fawkes?” Harry said, 
amazed. 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Mr. Ollivander wrote to tell 
me you had bought the second wand, the moment 
you left his shop four years ago.” 

“So what happens when a wand meets its brother?” 
said Sirius. 



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“They will not work properly against each other,” said 
Dumbledore. “If, however, the owners of the wands 
force the wands to do battle ... a very rare effect will 
take place. One of the wands will force the other to 
regurgitate spells it has performed — in reverse. The 
most recent first ... and then those which preceded it. 



He looked interrogatively at Harry, and Harry nodded. 

“Which means,” said Dumbledore slowly, his eyes 
upon Harry’s face, “that some form of Cedric must 
have reappeared.” 

Harry nodded again. 

“Diggory came back to life?” said Sirius sharply. 

“No spell can reawaken the dead,” said Dumbledore 
heavily. “All that would have happened is a kind of 
reverse echo. A shadow of the living Cedric would 
have emerged from the wand . . . am I correct, Harry?” 

“He spoke to me,” Harry said. He was suddenly 
shaking again. “The ... the ghost Cedric, or whatever 
he was, spoke.” 

“An echo,” said Dumbledore, “which retained Cedric’s 
appearance and character. I am guessing other such 
forms appeared ... less recent victims of Voldemort’s 
wand. ...” 

“An old man,” Harry said, his throat still constricted. 
“Bertha Jorkins. And ...” 

“Your parents?” said Dumbledore quietly. 

“Yes,” said Harry. 



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Sirius’s grip on Harry’s shoulder was now so tight it 
was painful. 

“The last murders the wand performed,” said 
Dumbledore, nodding. “In reverse order. More would 
have appeared, of course, had you maintained the 
connection. Very well, Harry, these echoes, these 
shadows . . . what did they do?” 

Harry described how the figures that had emerged 
from the wand had prowled the edges of the golden 
web, how Voldemort had seemed to fear them, how 
the shadow of Harry’s father had told him what to do, 
how Cedric’s had made its final request. 

At this point, Harry found he could not continue. He 
looked around at Sirius and saw that he had his face 
in his hands. 

Harry suddenly became aware that Fawkes had left 
his knee. The phoenix had fluttered to the floor. It 
was resting its beautiful head against Harry’s injured 
leg, and thick, pearly tears were falling from its eyes 
onto the wound left by the spider. The pain vanished. 
The skin mended. His leg was repaired. 

“I will say it again,” said Dumbledore as the phoenix 
rose into the air and resettled itself upon the perch 
beside the door. “You have shown bravery beyond 
anything I could have expected of you tonight, Harry. 
You have shown bravery equal to those who died 
fighting Voldemort at the height of his powers. You 
have shouldered a grown wizard’s burden and found 
yourself equal to it — and you have now given us all 
that we have a right to expect. You will come with me 
to the hospital wing. I do not want you returning to 
the dormitory tonight. A Sleeping Potion, and some 
peace ... Sirius, would you like to stay with him?” 



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Sirius nodded and stood up. He transformed back 
into the great black dog and walked with Harry and 
Dumbledore out of the office, accompanying them 
down a flight of stairs to the hospital wing. 

When Dumbledore pushed open the door, Harry saw 
Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Ron, and Hermione grouped 
around a harassed-looking Madam Pomfrey. They 
appeared to be demanding to know where Harry was 
and what had happened to him. All of them whipped 
around as Harry, Dumbledore, and the black dog 
entered, and Mrs. Weasley let out a kind of muffled 
scream. 

“Harry! Oh Harry!” 

She started to hurry toward him, but Dumbledore 
moved between them. 

“Molly,” he said, holding up a hand, “please listen to 
me for a moment. Harry has been through a terrible 
ordeal tonight. He has just had to relive it for me. 
What he needs now is sleep, and peace, and quiet. If 
he would like you all to stay with him,” he added, 
looking around at Ron, Hermione, and Bill too, “you 
may do so. But I do not want you questioning him 
until he is ready to answer, and certainly not this 
evening.” 

Mrs. Weasley nodded. She was very white. She 
rounded on Ron, Hermione, and Bill as though they 
were being noisy, and hissed, “Did you hear? He 
needs quiet!” 

“Headmaster,” said Madam Pomfrey, staring at the 
great black dog that was Sirius, “may I ask what — ?” 

“This dog will be remaining with Harry for a while,” 
said Dumbledore simply. “I assure you, he is 

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extremely well trained. Harry — I will wait while you 
get into bed.” 

Harry felt an inexpressible sense of gratitude to 
Dumbledore for asking the others not to question 
him. It wasn’t as though he didn’t want them there; 
but the thought of explaining it all over again, the 
idea of reliving it one more time, was more than he 
could stand. 

“I will be back to see you as soon as I have met with 
Fudge, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “I would like you to 
remain here tomorrow until I have spoken to the 
school.” He left. 

As Madam Pomfrey led Harry to a nearby bed, he 
caught sight of the real Moody lying motionless in a 
bed at the far end of the room. His wooden leg and 
magical eye were lying on the bedside table. 

“Is he okay?” Harry asked. 

“He’ll be fine,” said Madam Pomfrey, giving Harry 
some pajamas and pulling screens around him. He 
took off his robes, pulled on the pajamas, and got into 
bed. Ron, Hermione, Bill, Mrs. Weasley, and the black 
dog came around the screen and settled themselves 
in chairs on either side of him. Ron and Hermione 
were looking at him almost cautiously, as though 
scared of him. 

“I’m all right,” he told them. “Just tired.” 

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes filled with tears as she smoothed 
his bedcovers unnecessarily. 

Madam Pomfrey, who had bustled off to her office, 
returned holding a small bottle of some purple potion 
and a goblet. 

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“You’ll need to drink all of this, Harry,” she said. “It’s 
a potion for dreamless sleep.” 

Harry took the goblet and drank a few mouthfuls. He 
felt himself becoming drowsy at once. Everything 
around him became hazy; the lamps around the 
hospital wing seemed to be winking at him in a 
friendly way through the screen around his bed; his 
body felt as though it was sinking deeper into the 
warmth of the feather matress. Before he could finish 
the potion, before he could say another word, his 
exhaustion had carried him off to sleep. 

Harry woke up, so warm, so very sleepy, that he 
didn’t open his eyes, wanting to drop off again. The 
room was still dimly lit; he was sure it was still 
nighttime and had a feeling that he couldn’t have 
been asleep very long. 

Then he heard whispering around him. 

“They’ll wake him if they don’t shut up!” 

“What are they shouting about? Nothing else can 
have happened, can it?” 

Harry opened his eyes blearily Someone had removed 
his glasses. He could see the fuzzy outlines of Mrs. 
Weasley and Bill close by. Mrs. Weasley was on her 
feet. 

“That’s Fudge’s voice,” she whispered. “And that’s 
Minerva McGonagall’s, isn’t it? But what are they 
arguing about?” 

Now Harry could hear them too: people shouting and 
running toward the hospital wing. 



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“Regrettable, but all the same, Minerva — ” Cornelius 
Fudge was saying loudly. 

“You should never have brought it inside the castle!” 
yelled Professor McGonagall. “When Dumbledore 
finds out — ” 

Harry heard the hospital doors burst open. Unnoticed 
by any of the people around his bed, all of whom were 
staring at the door as Bill pulled back the screens, 
Harry sat up and put his glasses back on. 

Fudge came striding up the ward. Professors 
McGonagall and Snape were at his heels. 

“Where’s Dumbledore?” Fudge demanded of Mrs. 
Weasley. 

“He’s not here,” said Mrs. Weasley angrily. “This is a 
hospital wing, Minister, don’t you think you’d do 
better to — ” 

But the door opened, and Dumbledore came sweeping 
up the ward. 

“What has happened?” said Dumbledore sharply, 
looking from Fudge to Professor McGonagall. “Why 
are you disturbing these people? Minerva, I’m 
surprised at you — I asked you to stand guard over 
Barty Crouch — ” 

“There is no need to stand guard over him anymore, 
Dumbledore!” she shrieked. “The Minister has seen to 
that!” 

Harry had never seen Professor McGonagall lose 
control like this. There were angry blotches of color in 
her cheeks, and her hands were balled into fists; she 
was trembling with fury. 

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“When we told Mr. Fudge that we had caught the 
Death Eater responsible for tonight’s events,” said 
Snape, in a low voice, “he seemed to feel his personal 
safety was in question. He insisted on summoning a 
dementor to accompany him into the castle. He 
brought it up to the office where Barty Crouch — ” 

“I told him you would not agree, Dumbledore!” 
Professor McGonagall fumed. “I told him you would 
never allow dementors to set foot inside the castle, 
but — ” 

“My dear woman!” roared Fudge, who likewise looked 
angrier than Harry had ever seen him, “as Minister of 
Magic, it is my decision whether I wish to bring 
protection with me when interviewing a possibly 
dangerous — ” 

But Professor McGonagall’s voice drowned Fudge’s. 

“The moment that — that thing entered the room,” 
she screamed, pointing at Fudge, trembling all over, 
“it swooped down on Crouch and — and — ” 

Harry felt a chill in his stomach as Professor 
McGonagall struggled to find words to describe what 
had happened. He did not need her to finish her 
sentence. He knew what the dementor must have 
done. It had administered its fatal kiss to Barty 
Crouch. It had sucked his soul out through his 
mouth. He was worse than dead. 

“By all accounts, he is no loss!” blustered Fudge. “It 
seems he has been responsible for several deaths!” 

“But he cannot now give testimony, Cornelius,” said 
Dumbledore. He was staring hard at Fudge, as 
though seeing him plainly for the first time. “He 



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cannot give evidence about why he killed those 
people.” 



“Why he killed them? Well, that’s no mystery, is it?” 
blustered Fudge. “He was a raving lunatic! From what 
Minerva and Severus have told me, he seems to have 
thought he was doing it all on You-Know- Who’s 
instructions!” 

“Lord Voldemort was giving him instructions, 
Cornelius,” Dumbledore said. “Those people’s deaths 
were mere by-products of a plan to restore Voldemort 
to full strength again. The plan succeeded. Voldemort 
has been restored to his body.” 

Fudge looked as though someone had just swung a 
heavy weight into his face. Dazed and blinking, he 
stared back at Dumbledore as if he couldn’t quite 
believe what he had just heard. He began to sputter, 
still goggling at Dumbledore. 

“You-Know- Who ... returned? Preposterous. Come 
now, Dumbledore ...” 

“As Minerva and Severus have doubtless told you,” 
said Dumbledore, “we heard Barry Crouch confess. 
Under the influence of Veritaserum, he told us how 
he was smuggled out of Azkaban, and how Voldemort 
— learning of his continued existence from Bertha 
Jorkins — went to free him from his father and used 
him to capture Harry. The plan worked, I tell you. 
Crouch has helped Voldemort to return.” 

“See here, Dumbledore,” said Fudge, and Harry was 
astonished to see a slight smile dawning on his face, 
“you — you can’t seriously believe that. You-Know- 
Who — back? Come now, come now . . . certainly, 
Crouch may have believed himself to be acting upon 

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You-Know- Who’s orders — but to take the word of a 
lunatic like that, Dumbledore ...” 

“When Harry touched the Triwizard Cup tonight, he 
was transported straight to Voldemort,” said 
Dumbledore steadily. “He witnessed Lord Voldemort’s 
rebirth. I will explain it all to you if you will step up to 
my office.” 

Dumbledore glanced around at Harry and saw that he 
was awake, but shook his head and said, “I am afraid 
I cannot permit you to question Harry tonight.” 

Fudge’s curious smile lingered. He too glanced at 
Harry, then looked back at Dumbledore, and said, 
“You are — er — prepared to take Harry’s word on 
this, are you, Dumbledore?” 

There was a moment’s silence, which was broken by 
Sirius growling. His hackles were raised, and he was 
baring his teeth at Fudge. 

“Certainly, I believe Harry,” said Dumbledore. His 
eyes were blazing now. “I heard Crouch’s confession, 
and I heard Harry’s account of what happened after 
he touched the Triwizard Cup; the two stories make 
sense, they explain everything that has happened 
since Bertha Jorkins disappeared last summer.” 

Fudge still had that strange smile on his face. Once 
again, he glanced at Harry before answering. 

“You are prepared to believe that Lord Voldemort has 
returned, on the word of a lunatic murderer, and a 
boy who ... well ...” 

Fudge shot Harry another look, and Harry suddenly 
understood. 



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“You’ve been reading Rita Skeeter, Mr. Fudge,” he 
said quietly. 

Ron, Hermione, Mrs. Weasley, and Bill all jumped. 
None of them had realized that Harry was awake. 

Fudge reddened slightly, but a defiant and obstinate 
look came over his face. 

“And if I have?” he said, looking at Dumbledore. “If I 
have discovered that you’ve been keeping certain facts 
about the boy very quiet? A Parselmouth, eh? And 
having funny turns all over the place — ” 

“I assume that you are referring to the pains Harry 
has been experiencing in his scar?” said Dumbledore 
coolly. 

“You admit that he has been having these pains, 
then?” said Fudge quickly. “Headaches? Nightmares? 
Possibly — hallucinations?” 

“Listen to me, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, taking a 
step toward Fudge, and once again, he seemed to 
radiate that indefinable sense of power that Harry 
had felt after Dumbledore had Stunned young 
Crouch. “Harry is as sane as you or I. That scar upon 
his forehead has not addled his brains. I believe it 
hurts him when Lord Voldemort is close by, or feeling 
particularly murderous.” 

Fudge had taken half a step back from Dumbledore, 
but he looked no less stubborn. 

“You’ll forgive me, Dumbledore, but I’ve never heard 
of a curse scar acting as an alarm bell before. ...” 

“Look, I saw Voldemort come back!” Harry shouted. 

He tried to get out of bed again, but Mrs. Weasley 

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forced him back. “I saw the Death Eaters! I can give 
you their names! Lucius Malfoy — ” 

Snape made a sudden movement, but as Harry 
looked at him, Snape’s eyes flew back to Fudge. 

“Malfoy was cleared!” said Fudge, visibly affronted. “A 
very old family — donations to excellent causes — ” 

“Macnair!” Harry continued. 

“Also cleared! Now working for the Ministry!” 

“Avery — Nott — Crabbe — Goyle — ” 

“You are merely repeating the names of those who 
were acquitted of being Death Eaters thirteen years 
ago!” said Fudge angrily. “You could have found those 
names in old reports of the trials! For heaven’s sake, 
Dumbledore — the boy was full of some crackpot 
story at the end of last year too — his tales are getting 
taller, and you’re still swallowing them — the boy can 
talk to snakes, Dumbledore, and you still think he’s 
trustworthy?” 

“You fool!” Professor McGonagall cried. “Cedric 
Diggory! Mr. Crouch! These deaths were not the 
random work of a lunatic!” 

“I see no evidence to the contrary!” shouted Fudge, 
now matching her anger, his face purpling. “It seems 
to me that you are all determined to start a panic that 
will destabilize everything we have worked for these 
last thirteen years!” 

Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had 
always thought of Fudge as a kindly figure, a little 
blustering, a little pompous, but essentially good- 
natured. But now a short, angry wizard stood before 

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him, refusing, point-blank, to accept the prospect of 
disruption in his comfortable and ordered world — to 
believe that Voldemort could have risen. 

“Voldemort has returned,” Dumbledore repeated. “If 
you accept that fact straightaway, Fudge, and take 
the necessary measures, we may still be able to save 
the situation. The first and most essential step is to 
remove Azkaban from the control of the dementors — ” 

“Preposterous!” shouted Fudge again. “Remove the 
dementors? I’d be kicked out of office for suggesting 
it! Half of us only feel safe in our beds at night 
because we know the dementors are standing guard 
at Azkaban!” 

“The rest of us sleep less soundly in our beds, 
Cornelius, knowing that you have put Lord 
Voldemort ’s most dangerous supporters in the care of 
creatures who will join him the instant he asks them!” 
said Dumbledore. “They will not remain loyal to you, 
Fudge! Voldemort can offer them much more scope 
for their powers and their pleasures than you can! 
With the dementors behind him, and his old 
supporters returned to him, you will be hard-pressed 
to stop him regaining the sort of power he had 
thirteen years ago!” 

Fudge was opening and closing his mouth as though 
no words could express his outrage. 

“The second step you must take — and at once,” 
Dumbledore pressed on, “is to send envoys to the 
giants.” 

“Envoys to the giants?” Fudge shrieked, finding his 
tongue again. “What madness is this?” 



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“Extend them the hand of friendship, now, before it is 
too late,” said Dumbledore, “or Voldemort will 
persuade them, as he did before, that he alone among 
wizards will give them their rights and their freedom!” 

“You — you cannot be serious!” Fudge gasped, 
shaking his head and retreating further from 
Dumbledore. “If the magical community got wind that 
I had approached the giants — people hate them, 
Dumbledore — end of my career — ” 

“You are blinded,” said Dumbledore, his voice rising 
now, the aura of power around him palpable, his eyes 
blazing once more, “by the love of the office you hold, 
Cornelius! You place too much importance, and you 
always have done, on the so-called purity of blood! 

You fail to recognize that it matters not what someone 
is born, but what they grow to be! Your dementor has 
just destroyed the last remaining member of a pure- 
blood family as old as any — and see what that man 
chose to make of his life! I tell you now — take the 
steps I have suggested, and you will be remembered, 
in office or out, as one of the bravest and greatest 
Ministers of Magic we have ever known. Fail to act — 
and history will remember you as the man who 
stepped aside and allowed Voldemort a second chance 
to destroy the world we have tried to rebuild!” 

“Insane,” whispered Fudge, still backing away. “Mad 



And then there was silence. Madam Pomfrey was 
standing frozen at the foot of Harry’s bed, her hands 
over her mouth. Mrs. Weasley was still standing over 
Harry, her hand on his shoulder to prevent him from 
rising. Bill, Ron, and Hermione were staring at Fudge. 

“If your determination to shut your eyes will carry you 
as far as this, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, “we have 

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reached a parting of the ways. You must act as you 
see fit. And I — I shall act as I see fit.” 

Dumbledore ’s voice carried no hint of a threat; it 
sounded like a mere statement, but Fudge bristled as 
though Dumbledore were advancing upon him with a 
wand. 

“Now, see here, Dumbledore,” he said, waving a 
threatening finger. “I’ve given you free rein, always. 

I’ve had a lot of respect for you. I might not have 
agreed with some of your decisions, but I’ve kept 
quiet. There aren’t many who’d have let you hire 
werewolves, or keep Hagrid, or decide what to teach 
your students without reference to the Ministry. But if 
you’re going to work against me — ” 

“The only one against whom I intend to work,” said 
Dumbledore, “is Lord Voldemort. If you are against 
him, then we remain, Cornelius, on the same side.” 

It seemed Fudge could think of no answer to this. He 
rocked backward and forward on his small feet for a 
moment and spun his bowler hat in his hands. 

Finally, he said, with a hint of a plea in his voice, “He 
can’t be back, Dumbledore, he just can’t be ...” 

Snape strode forward, past Dumbledore, pulling up 
the left sleeve of his robes as he went. He stuck out 
his forearm and showed it to Fudge, who recoiled. 

“There,” said Snape harshly. “There. The Dark Mark. 

It is not as clear as it was an hour or so ago, when it 
burned black, but you can still see it. Every Death 
Eater had the sign burned into him by the Dark Lord. 
It was a means of distinguishing one another, and his 
means of summoning us to him. When he touched 
the Mark of any Death Eater, we were to Disapparate, 
and Apparate, instantly, at his side. This Mark has 
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been growing clearer all year. Karkaroff’s too. Why do 
you think Karkaroff fled tonight? We both felt the 
Mark burn. We both knew he had returned. Karkaroff 
fears the Dark Lord’s vengeance. He betrayed too 
many of his fellow Death Eaters to be sure of a 
welcome back into the fold.” 

Fudge stepped back from Snape too. He was shaking 
his head. He did not seem to have taken in a word 
Snape had said. He stared, apparently repelled by the 
ugly mark on Snape ’s arm, then looked up at 
Dumbledore and whispered, “I don’t know what you 
and your staff are playing at, Dumbledore, but I have 
heard enough. I have no more to add. I will be in 
touch with you tomorrow, Dumbledore, to discuss the 
running of this school. I must return to the Ministry.” 

He had almost reached the door when he paused. He 
turned around, strode back down the dormitory, and 
stopped at Harry’s bed. 

“Your winnings,” he said shortly, taking a large bag of 
gold out of his pocket and dropping it onto Harry’s 
bedside table. “One thousand Galleons. There should 
have been a presentation ceremony, but under the 
circumstances ...” 

He crammed his bowler hat onto his head and walked 
out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The 
moment he had disappeared, Dumbledore turned to 
look at the group around Harry’s bed. 

“There is work to be done,” he said. “Molly ... am I 
right in thinking that I can count on you and 
Arthur?” 

“Of course you can,” said Mrs. Weasley. She was 
white to the lips, but she looked resolute. “We know 
what Fudge is. It’s Arthur’s fondness for Muggles that 

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has held him back at the Ministry all these years. 
Fudge thinks he lacks proper wizarding pride.” 

“Then I need to send a message to Arthur,” said 
Dumbledore. “All those that we can persuade of the 
truth must be notified immediately, and he is well 
placed to contact those at the Ministry who are not as 
shortsighted as Cornelius.” 

“Ill go to Dad,” said Bill, standing up. “Ill go now.” 

“Excellent,” said Dumbledore. “Tell him what has 
happened. Tell him I will be in direct contact with him 
shortly. He will need to be discreet, however. If Fudge 
thinks I am interfering at the Ministry — ” 

“Leave it to me,” said Bill. 

He clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder, kissed his 
mother on the cheek, pulled on his cloak, and strode 
quickly from the room. 

“Minerva,” said Dumbledore, turning to Professor 
McGonagall, “I want to see Hagrid in my office as 
soon as possible. Also — if she will consent to come — 
Madame Maxime.” 

Professor McGonagall nodded and left without a word. 

“Poppy,” Dumbledore said to Madam Pomfrey, “would 
you be very kind and go down to Professor Moody’s 
office, where I think you will find a house-elf called 
Winky in considerable distress? Do what you can for 
her, and take her back to the kitchens. I think Dobby 
will look after her for us.” 

“Very — very well,” said Madam Pomfrey, looking 
startled, and she too left. 



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Dumbledore made sure that the door was closed, and 
that Madam Pomfrey’s footsteps had died away, 
before he spoke again. 

“And now,” he said, “it is time for two of our number 
to recognize each other for what they are. Sirius ... if 
you could resume your usual form.” 

The great black dog looked up at Dumbledore, then, 
in an instant, turned back into a man. 

Mrs. Weasley screamed and leapt back from the bed. 

“Sirius Black!” she shrieked, pointing at him. 

“Mum, shut up!” Ron yelled. “It’s okay!” 

Snape had not yelled or jumped backward, but the 
look on his face was one of mingled fury and horror. 

“Him!” he snarled, staring at Sirius, whose face 
showed equal dislike. “What is he doing here?” 

“He is here at my invitation,” said Dumbledore, 
looking between them, “as are you, Severus. I trust 
you both. It is time for you to lay aside your old 
differences and trust each other.” 

Harry thought Dumbledore was asking for a near 
miracle. Sirius and Snape were eyeing each other 
with the utmost loathing. 

“I will settle, in the short term,” said Dumbledore, 
with a bite of impatience in his voice, “for a lack of 
open hostility. You will shake hands. You are on the 
same side now. Time is short, and unless the few of 
us who know the truth do not stand united, there is 
no hope for any of us.” 



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Very slowly — but still glaring at each other as 
though each wished the other nothing but ill — Sirius 
and Snape moved toward each other and shook 
hands. They let go extremely quickly. 

“That will do to be going on with,” said Dumbledore, 
stepping between them once more. “Now I have work 
for each of you. Fudge’s attitude, though not 
unexpected, changes everything. Sirius, I need you to 
set off at once. You are to alert Remus Lupin, Arabella 
Figg, Mundungus Fletcher — the old crowd. Lie low at 
Lupins for a while; I will contact you there.” 

“But — ” said Harry. 

He wanted Sirius to stay. He did not want to have to 
say goodbye again so quickly. 

“You’ll see me very soon, Harry,” said Sirius, turning 
to him. “I promise you. But I must do what I can, you 
understand, don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah ... of course I do.” 

Sirius grasped his hand briefly, nodded to 
Dumbledore, transformed again into the black dog, 
and ran the length of the room to the door, whose 
handle he turned with a paw. Then he was gone. 

“Severus,” said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, “you 
know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready ... if 
you are prepared ...” 

“I am,” said Snape. 

He looked slightly paler than usual, and his cold, 
black eyes glittered strangely. 



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“Then good luck,” said Dumbledore, and he watched, 
with a trace of apprehension on his face, as Snape 
swept wordlessly after Sirius. 

It was several minutes before Dumbledore spoke 
again. 

“I must go downstairs,” he said finally. “I must see the 
Diggorys. Harry — take the rest of your potion. I will 
see all of you later.” 

Harry slumped back against his pillows as 
Dumbledore disappeared. Hermione, Ron, and Mrs. 
Weasley were all looking at him. None of them spoke 
for a very long time. 

“You’ve got to take the rest of your potion, Harry,” 

Mrs. Weasley said at last. Her hand nudged the sack 
of gold on his bedside cabinet as she reached for the 
bottle and the goblet. “You have a good long sleep. Try 
and think about something else for a while . . . think 
about what you’re going to buy with your winnings!” 

“I don’t want that gold,” said Harry in an 
expressionless voice. “You have it. Anyone can have 
it. I shouldn’t have won it. It should’ve been Cedric’s.” 

The thing against which he had been fighting on and 
off ever since he had come out of the maze was 
threatening to overpower him. He could feel a 
burning, prickling feeling in the inner corners of his 
eyes. He blinked and stared up at the ceiling. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley whispered. 

“I told him to take the cup with me,” said Harry. 

Now the burning feeling was in his throat too. He 
wished Ron would look away. 

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Mrs. Weasley set the potion down on the bedside 
cabinet, bent down, and put her arms around Harry. 
He had no memory of ever being hugged like this, as 
though by a mother. The full weight of everything he 
had seen that night seemed to fall in upon him as 
Mrs. Weasley held him to her. His mother’s face, his 
father’s voice, the sight of Cedric, dead on the ground 
all started spinning in his head until he could hardly 
bear it, until he was screwing up his face against the 
howl of misery fighting to get out of him. 

There was a loud slamming noise, and Mrs. Weasley 
and Harry broke apart. Hermione was standing by the 
window. She was holding something tight in her 
hand. 

“Sorry,” she whispered. 

“Your potion, Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley quickly, 
wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. 

Harry drank it in one gulp. The effect was 
instantaneous. Heavy, irresistible waves of dreamless 
sleep broke over him; he fell back onto his pillows and 
thought no more. 



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THE BEGINNING 

When he looked back, even a month later, Harry 
found he had only scattered memories of the next few 
days. It was as though he had been through too much 
to take in any more. The recollections he did have 
were very painful. The worst, perhaps, was the 
meeting with the Diggorys that took place the 
following morning. 

They did not blame him for what had happened; on 
the contrary, both thanked him for returning Cedric’s 
body to them. Mr. Diggory sobbed through most of 
the interview. Mrs. Diggory ’s grief seemed to be 
beyond tears. 

“He suffered very little then,” she said, when Harry 
had told her how Cedric had died. “And after all, 

Amos ... he died just when he’d won the tournament. 
He must have been happy.” 

When they got to their feet, she looked down at Harry 
and said, “You look after yourself, now.” 

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Harry seized the sack of gold on the bedside table. 

“You take this,” he muttered to her. “It should’ve been 
Cedric’s, he got there first, you take it — ” 

But she backed away from him. 

“Oh no, it’s yours, dear, I couldn’t ... you keep it.” 

Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower the following 
evening. From what Hermione and Ron told him, 
Dumbledore had spoken to the school that morning 
at breakfast. He had merely requested that they leave 
Harry alone, that nobody ask him questions or badger 
him to tell the story of what had happened in the 
maze. Most people, he noticed, were skirting him in 
the corridors, avoiding his eyes. Some whispered 
behind their hands as he passed. He guessed that 
many of them had believed Rita Skeeter’s article 
about how disturbed and possibly dangerous he was. 
Perhaps they were formulating their own theories 
about how Cedric had died. He found he didn’t care 
very much. He liked it best when he was with Ron 
and Hermione and they were talking about other 
things, or else letting him sit in silence while they 
played chess. He felt as though all three of them had 
reached an understanding they didn’t need to put 
into words; that each was waiting for some sign, some 
word, of what was going on outside Hogwarts — and 
that it was useless to speculate about what might be 
coming until they knew anything for certain. The only 
time they touched upon the subject was when Ron 
told Harry about a meeting Mrs. Weasley had had 
with Dumbledore before going home. 

“She went to ask him if you could come straight to us 
this summer,” he said. “But he wants you to go back 
to the Dursleys, at least at first.” 



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“Why?” said Harry. 

“She said Dumbledore’s got his reasons,” said Ron, 
shaking his head darkly. “I suppose we’ve got to trust 
him, haven’t we?” 

The only person apart from Ron and Hermione that 
Harry felt able to talk to was Hagrid. As there was no 
longer a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, they 
had those lessons free. They used the one on 
Thursday afternoon to go down and visit Hagrid in his 
cabin. It was a bright and sunny day; Fang bounded 
out of the open door as they approached, barking and 
wagging his tail madly. 

“Who’s that?” called Hagrid, coming to the door. 

“ Harry\” 

He strode out to meet them, pulled Harry into a one- 
armed hug, ruffled his hair, and said, “Good ter see 
yeh, mate. Good ter see yeh.” 

They saw two bucket-size cups and saucers on the 
wooden table in front of the fireplace when they 
entered Hagrid ’s cabin. 

“Bin havin’ a cuppa with Olympe,” Hagrid said. “She’s 
jus’ left.” 

“Who?” said Ron curiously. 

“Madame Maxime, o’ course!” said Hagrid. 

“You two made up, have you?” said Ron. 

“Dunno what yeh’re talkin’ about,” said Hagrid airily, 
fetching more cups from the dresser. When he had 
made tea and offered around a plate of doughy 



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cookies, he leaned back in his chair and surveyed 
Harry closely through his beetle-black eyes. 

“You all righ’?” he said gruffly. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. 

“No, yeh’re not,” said Hagrid. “ ’Course yeh’re not. But 
yeh will be.” 

Harry said nothing. 

“Knew he was goin’ ter come back,” said Hagrid, and 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked up at him, shocked. 
“Known it fer years, Harry. Knew he was out there, 
bidin’ his time. It had ter happen. Well, now it has, 
an’ we’ll jus’ have ter get on with it. We’ll fight. Migh’ 
be able ter stop him before he gets a good hold. That’s 
Dumbledore’s plan, anyway. Great man, Dumbledore. 
’S long as we’ve got him, I’m not too worried.” 

Hagrid raised his bushy eyebrows at the disbelieving 
expressions on their faces. 

“No good sittin’ worryin’ abou’ it,” he said. “What’s 
cornin’ will come, an’ we’ll meet it when it does. 
Dumbledore told me wha’ you did, Harry.” 

Hagrid’s chest swelled as he looked at Harry. 

“Yeh did as much as yer father would’ve done, an’ I 
can’ give yeh no higher praise than that.” 

Harry smiled back at him. It was the first time he’d 
smiled in days. “What’s Dumbledore asked you to do, 
Hagrid?” he asked. “He sent Professor McGonagall to 
ask you and Madame Maxime to meet him — that 
night.” 



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“Got a little job fer me over the summer,” said Hagrid. 
“Secret, though. I’m not s’pposed ter talk abou’ it, no, 
not even ter you lot. Olympe — Madame Maxime ter 
you — might be cornin’ with me. I think she will. 
Think I got her persuaded.” 

“Is it to do with Voldemort?” 

Hagrid flinched at the sound of the name. 

“Migh’ be,” he said evasively. “Now ... who’d like ter 
come an’ visit the las’ skrewt with me? I was jokin’ — 
jokin’!” he added hastily, seeing the looks on their 
faces. 



k k k 



It was with a heavy heart that Harry packed his trunk 
up in the dormitory on the night before his return to 
Privet Drive. He was dreading the Leaving Feast, 
which was usually a cause for celebration, when the 
winner of the Inter-House Championship would be 
announced. He had avoided being in the Great Hall 
when it was full ever since he had left the hospital 
wing, preferring to eat when it was nearly empty to 
avoid the stares of his fellow students. 

When he, Ron, and Hermione entered the Hall, they 
saw at once that the usual decorations were missing. 
The Great Hall was normally decorated with the 
winning House’s colors for the Leaving Feast. Tonight, 
however, there were black drapes on the wall behind 
the teachers’ table. Harry knew instantly that they 
were there as a mark of respect to Cedric. 

The real Mad-Eye Moody was at the staff table now, 
his wooden leg and his magical eye back in place. He 
was extremely twitchy, jumping every time someone 



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spoke to him. Harry couldn’t blame him; Moody’s fear 
of attack was bound to have been increased by his 
ten-month imprisonment in his own trunk. Professor 
Karkaroff’s chair was empty. Harry wondered, as he 
sat down with the other Gryffindors, where Karkaroff 
was now, and whether Voldemort had caught up with 
him. 

Madame Maxime was still there. She was sitting next 
to Hagrid. They were talking quietly together. Further 
along the table, sitting next to Professor McGonagall, 
was Snape. His eyes lingered on Harry for a moment 
as Harry looked at him. His expression was difficult to 
read. He looked as sour and unpleasant as ever. 

Harry continued to watch him, long after Snape had 
looked away. 

What was it that Snape had done on Dumbledore’s 
orders, the night that Voldemort had returned? And 
why ... why ... was Dumbledore so convinced that 
Snape was truly on their side? He had been their spy, 
Dumbledore had said so in the Pensieve. Snape had 
turned spy against Voldemort, “at great personal 
risk.” Was that the job he had taken up again? Had 
he made contact with the Death Eaters, perhaps? 
Pretended that he had never really gone over to 
Dumbledore, that he had been, like Voldemort 
himself, biding his time? 

Harry’s musings were ended by Professor 
Dumbledore, who stood up at the staff table. The 
Great Hall, which in any case had been less noisy 
than it usually was at the Leaving Feast, became very 
quiet. 

“The end,” said Dumbledore, looking around at them 
all, “of another year.” 



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He paused, and his eyes fell upon the Hufflepuff 
table. Theirs had been the most subdued table before 
he had gotten to his feet, and theirs were still the 
saddest and palest faces in the Hall. 

“There is much that I would like to say to you all 
tonight,” said Dumbledore, “but I must first 
acknowledge the loss of a very fine person, who 
should be sitting here,” he gestured toward the 
Hufflepuffs, “enjoying our feast with us. I would like 
you all, please, to stand, and raise your glasses, to 
Cedric Diggory.” 

They did it, all of them; the benches scraped as 
everyone in the Hall stood, and raised their goblets, 
and echoed, in one loud, low, rumbling voice, “Cedric 
Diggory.” 

Harry caught a glimpse of Cho through the crowd. 
There were tears pouring silently down her face. He 
looked down at the table as they all sat down again. 

“Cedric was a person who exemplified many of the 
qualities that distinguish Hufflepuff house,” 
Dumbledore continued. “He was a good and loyal 
friend, a hard worker, he valued fair play. His death 
has affected you all, whether you knew him well or 
not. I think that you have the right, therefore, to 
know exactly how it came about.” 

Harry raised his head and stared at Dumbledore. 

“Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort.” 

A panicked whisper swept the Great Hall. People were 
staring at Dumbledore in disbelief, in horror. He 
looked perfectly calm as he watched them mutter 
themselves into silence. 



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“The Ministry of Magic,” Dumbledore continued, “does 
not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of 
your parents will be horrified that I have done so — 
either because they will not believe that Lord 
Voldemort has returned, or because they think I 
should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my 
belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable 
to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric 
died as the result of an accident, or some sort of 
blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory.” 

Stunned and frightened, every face in the Hall was 
turned toward Dumbledore now ... or almost every 
face. Over at the Slytherin table, Harry saw Draco 
Malfoy muttering something to Crabbe and Goyle. 
Harry felt a hot, sick swoop of anger in his stomach. 
He forced himself to look back at Dumbledore. 

“There is somebody else who must be mentioned in 
connection with Cedric’s death,” Dumbledore went 
on. “I am talking, of course, about Harry Potter.” 

A kind of ripple crossed the Great Hall as a few heads 
turned in Harry’s direction before flicking back to face 
Dumbledore. 

“Harry Potter managed to escape Lord Voldemort,” 
said Dumbledore. “He risked his own life to return 
Cedric’s body to Hogwarts. He showed, in every 
respect, the sort of bravery that few wizards have ever 
shown in facing Lord Voldemort, and for this, I honor 
him.” 

Dumbledore turned gravely to Harry and raised his 
goblet once more. Nearly everyone in the Great Hall 
followed suit. They murmured his name, as they had 
murmured Cedric’s, and drank to him. But through a 
gap in the standing figures, Harry saw that Malfoy, 
Crabbe, Goyle, and many of the other Slytherins had 
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remained defiantly in their seats, their goblets 
untouched. Dumbledore, who after all possessed no 
magical eye, did not see them. 

When everyone had once again resumed their seats, 
Dumbledore continued, “The Triwizard Tournament’s 
aim was to further and promote magical 
understanding. In the light of what has happened — 
of Lord Voldemort’s return — such ties are more 
important than ever before.” 

Dumbledore looked from Madame Maxime and 
Hagrid, to Fleur Delacour and her fellow Beauxbatons 
students, to Viktor Krum and the Durmstrangs at the 
Slytherin table. Krum, Harry saw, looked wary, 
almost frightened, as though he expected Dumbledore 
to say something harsh. 

“Every guest in this Hall,” said Dumbledore, and his 
eyes lingered upon the Durmstrang students, “will be 
welcomed back here at any time, should they wish to 
come. I say to you all, once again — in the light of 
Lord Voldemort’s return, we are only as strong as we 
are united, as weak as we are divided. Lord 
Voldemort’s gift for spreading discord and enmity is 
very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally 
strong bond of friendship and trust. Differences of 
habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are 
identical and our hearts are open. 

“It is my belief — and never have I so hoped that I am 
mistaken — that we are all facing dark and difficult 
times. Some of you in this Hall have already suffered 
directly at the hands of Lord Voldemort. Many of your 
families have been torn asunder. A week ago, a 
student was taken from our midst. 

“Remember Cedric. Remember, if the time should 
come when you have to make a choice between what 

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is right and what is easy, remember what happened 
to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because 
he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. 
Remember Cedric Diggory.” 

Harry’s trunk was packed; Hedwig was back in her 
cage on top of it. He, Ron, and Hermione were waiting 
in the crowded entrance hall with the rest of the 
fourth years for the carriages that would take them 
back to Hogsmeade station. It was another beautiful 
summer’s day. He supposed that Privet Drive would 
be hot and leafy, its flower beds a riot of color, when 
he arrived there that evening. The thought gave him 
no pleasure at all. 

“ ’Arry!” 

He looked around. Fleur Delacour was hurrying up 
the stone steps into the castle. Beyond her, far across 
the grounds, Harry could see Hagrid helping Madame 
Maxime to back two of the giant horses into their 
harness. The Beauxbatons carriage was about to take 
off. 

“We will see each uzzer again, I ’ope,” said Fleur as 
she reached him, holding out her hand. “I am ’oping 
to get a job ’ere, to improve my Eenglish.” 

“It’s very good already,” said Ron in a strangled sort of 
voice. Fleur smiled at him; Hermione scowled. 

“Good-bye, ’Arry,” said Fleur, turning to go. “It ’az 
been a pleasure meeting you!” 

Harry’s spirits couldn’t help but lift slightly as he 
watched Fleur hurry back across the lawns to 
Madame Maxime, her silvery hair rippling in the 
sunlight. 



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“Wonder how the Durmstrang students are getting 
back,” said Ron. “D’you reckon they can steer that 
ship without Karkaroff?” 

“Karkaroff did not steer,” said a gruff voice. “He 
stayed in his cabin and let us do the vork.” 

Krum had come to say good-bye to Hermione. 

“Could I have a vord?” he asked her. 

“Oh ... yes ... all right,” said Hermione, looking 
slightly flustered, and following Krum through the 
crowd and out of sight. 

“You’d better hurry up!” Ron called loudly after her. 
“The carriages’ll be here in a minute!” 

He let Harry keep a watch for the carriages, however, 
and spent the next few minutes craning his neck over 
the crowd to try and see what Krum and Hermione 
might be up to. They returned quite soon. Ron stared 
at Hermione, but her face was quite impassive. 

“I liked Diggory,” said Krum abruptly to Harry. “He 
vos alvays polite to me. Alvays. Even though I vos 
from Durmstrang — with Karkaroff,” he added, 
scowling. 

“Have you got a new headmaster yet?” said Harry. 

Krum shrugged. He held out his hand as Fleur had 
done, shook Harry’s hand, and then Ron’s. Ron 
looked as though he was suffering some sort of 
painful internal struggle. Krum had already started 
walking away when Ron burst out, “Can I have your 
autograph?” 



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Hermione turned away, smiling at the horseless 
carriages that were now trundling toward them up the 
drive, as Krum, looking surprised but gratified, signed 
a fragment of parchment for Ron. 



The weather could not have been more different on 
the journey back to King’s Cross than it had been on 
their way to Hogwarts the previous September. There 
wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione had managed to get a compartment to 
themselves. Pigwidgeon was once again hidden under 
Ron’s dress robes to stop him from hooting 
continually; Hedwig was dozing, her head under her 
wing, and Crookshanks was curled up in a spare seat 
like a large, furry ginger cushion. Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione talked more fully and freely than they had 
all week as the train sped them southward. Harry felt 
as though Dumbledore’s speech at the Leaving Feast 
had unblocked him, somehow. It was less painful to 
discuss what had happened now. They broke off their 
conversation about what action Dumbledore might be 
taking, even now, to stop Voldemort only when the 
lunch trolley arrived. 

When Hermione returned from the trolley and put her 
money back into her schoolbag, she dislodged a copy 
of the Daily Prophet that she had been carrying in 
there. Harry looked at it, unsure whether he really 
wanted to know what it might say, but Hermione, 
seeing him looking at it, said calmly, “There’s nothing 
in there. You can look for yourself, but there’s 
nothing at all. I’ve been checking every day. Just a 
small piece the day after the third task saying you 
won the tournament. They didn’t even mention 
Cedric. Nothing about any of it. If you ask me, Fudge 
is forcing them to keep quiet.” 



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“He’ll never keep Rita quiet,” said Harry. “Not on a 
story like this.” 

“Oh, Rita hasn’t written anything at all since the third 
task,” said Hermione in an oddly constrained voice. 
“As a matter of fact,” she added, her voice now 
trembling slightly, “Rita Skeeter isn’t going to be 
writing anything at all for a while. Not unless she 
wants me to spill the beans on her.” 

“What are you talking about?” said Ron. 

“I found out how she was listening in on private 
conversations when she wasn’t supposed to be 
coming onto the grounds,” said Hermione in a rush. 

Harry had the impression that Hermione had been 
dying to tell them this for days, but that she had 
restrained herself in light of everything else that had 
happened. 

“How was she doing it?” said Harry at once. 

“How did you find out?” said Ron, staring at her. 

“Well, it was you, really, who gave me the idea, 

Harry,” she said. 

“Did I?” said Harry, perplexed. “How?” 

“Bugging,” said Hermione happily. 

“But you said they didn’t work — ” 

“Oh not electronic bugs,” said Hermione. “No, you see 
... Rita Skeeter” — Hermione ’s voice trembled with 
quiet triumph — “is an unregistered Animagus. She 
can turn — ” 



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Hermione pulled a small sealed glass jar out of her 
bag. 

“ — into a beetle.” 

“You’re kidding,” said Ron. “You haven’t ... she’s not 



“Oh yes she is,” said Hermione happily, brandishing 
the jar at them. 

Inside were a few twigs and leaves and one large, fat 
beetle. 

“That’s never — you’re kidding — ” Ron whispered, 
lifting the jar to his eyes. 

“No, I’m not,” said Hermione, beaming. “I caught her 
on the windowsill in the hospital wing. Look very 
closely, and you 11 notice the markings around her 
antennae are exactly like those foul glasses she 
wears.” 

Harry looked and saw that she was quite right. He 
also remembered something. 

“There was a beetle on the statue the night we heard 
Hagrid telling Madame Maxime about his mum!” 

“Exactly,” said Hermione. “And Viktor pulled a beetle 
out of my hair after we’d had our conversation by the 
lake. And unless I’m very much mistaken, Rita was 
perched on the windowsill of the Divination class the 
day your scar hurt. She’s been buzzing around for 
stories all year.” 

“When we saw Malfoy under that tree ...” said Ron 
slowly. 



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“He was talking to her, in his hand,” said Hermione. 
“He knew, of course. That’s how she’s been getting all 
those nice little interviews with the Slytherins. They 
wouldn’t care that she was doing something illegal, as 
long as they were giving her horrible stuff about us 
and Hagrid.” 

Hermione took the glass jar back from Ron and 
smiled at the beetle, which buzzed angrily against the 
glass. 

“I’ve told her I’ll let her out when we get back to 
London,” said Hermione. “I’ve put an Unbreakable 
Charm on the jar, you see, so she can’t transform. 

And I’ve told her she’s to keep her quill to herself for a 
whole year. See if she can’t break the habit of writing 
horrible lies about people.” 

Smiling serenely, Hermione placed the beetle back 
inside her schoolbag. 

The door of the compartment slid open. 

“Very clever, Granger,” said Draco Malfoy. 

Crabbe and Goyle were standing behind him. All 
three of them looked more pleased with themselves, 
more arrogant and more menacing, than Harry had 
ever seen them. 

“So,” said Malfoy slowly, advancing slightly into the 
compartment and looking slowly around at them, a 
smirk quivering on his lips. “You caught some 
pathetic reporter, and Potter’s Dumbledore’s favorite 
boy again. Big deal.” 

His smirk widened. Crabbe and Goyle leered. 



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“Trying not to think about it, are we?” said Malfoy 
softly, looking around at all three of them. “Trying to 
pretend it hasn’t happened?” 

“Get out,” said Harry. 

He had not been this close to Malfoy since he had 
watched him muttering to Crabbe and Goyle during 
Dumbledore’s speech about Cedric. He could feel a 
kind of ringing in his ears. His hand gripped his wand 
under his robes. 

“You’ve picked the losing side, Potter! I warned you! I 
told you you ought to choose your company more 
carefully, remember? When we met on the train, first 
day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with 
riffraff like this!” He jerked his head at Ron and 
Hermione. “Too late now, Potter! They’ll be the first to 
go, now the Dark Lord’s back! Mudbloods and 
Muggle-lovers first! Well — second — Diggory was the 
f— ” 

It was as though someone had exploded a box of 
fireworks within the compartment. Blinded by the 
blaze of the spells that had blasted from every 
direction, deafened by a series of bangs, Harry 
blinked and looked down at the floor. 

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were all lying unconscious 
in the doorway. He, Ron, and Hermione were on their 
feet, all three of them having used a different hex. Nor 
were they the only ones to have done so. 

“Thought we’d see what those three were up to,” said 
Fred matter-of-factly, stepping onto Goyle and into 
the compartment. He had his wand out, and so did 
George, who was careful to tread on Malfoy as he 
followed Fred inside. 



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“Interesting effect,” said George, looking down at 
Crabbe. “Who used the Furnunculus Curse?” 

“Me,” said Harry. 

“Odd,” said George lightly. “I used Jelly-Legs. Looks 
as though those two shouldn’t be mixed. He seems to 
have sprouted little tentacles all over his face. Well, 
let’s not leave them here, they don’t add much to the 
decor.” 

Ron, Harry, and George kicked, rolled, and pushed 
the unconscious Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle — each of 
whom looked distinctly the worse for the jumble of 
jinxes with which they had been hit — out into the 
corridor, then came back into the compartment and 
rolled the door shut. 

“Exploding Snap, anyone?” said Fred, pulling out a 
pack of cards. 

They were halfway through their fifth game when 
Harry decided to ask them. 

“You going to tell us, then?” he said to George. “Who 
you were blackmailing?” 

“Oh,” said George darkly. “ That 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Fred, shaking his head 
impatiently. “It wasn’t anything important. Not now, 
anyway.” 

“We’ve given up,” said George, shrugging. 

But Harry, Ron, and Hermione kept on asking, and 
finally, Fred said, “All right, all right, if you really 
want to know ... it was Ludo Bagman.” 



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“Bagman?” said Harry sharply. “Are you saying he 
was involved in — ” 

“Nah,” said George gloomily. “Nothing like that. 

Stupid git. He wouldn’t have the brains.” 

“Well, what, then?” said Ron. 

Fred hesitated, then said, “You remember that bet we 
had with him at the Quidditch World Cup? About how 
Ireland would win, but Krum would get the Snitch?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry and Ron slowly. 

“Well, the git paid us in leprechaun gold he’d caught 
from the Irish mascots.” 

“So?” 

“So,” said Fred impatiently, “it vanished, didn’t it? By 
next morning, it had gone!” 

“But — it must’ve been an accident, mustn’t it?” said 
Hermione. 

George laughed very bitterly. 

“Yeah, that’s what we thought, at first. We thought if 
we just wrote to him, and told him he’d made a 
mistake, he’d cough up. But nothing doing. Ignored 
our letter. We kept trying to talk to him about it at 
Hogwarts, but he was always making some excuse to 
get away from us.” 

“In the end, he turned pretty nasty,” said Fred. “Told 
us we were too young to gamble, and he wasn’t giving 
us anything.” 



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“So we asked for our money back,” said George 
glowering. 

“He didn’t refuse!” gasped Hermione. 

“Right in one,” said Fred. 

“But that was all your savings!” said Ron. 

“Tell me about it,” said George. “ ’Course, we found 
out what was going on in the end. Lee Jordan’s dad 
had had a bit of trouble getting money off Bagman as 
well. Turns out he’s in big trouble with the goblins. 
Borrowed loads of gold off them. A gang of them 
cornered him in the woods after the World Cup and 
took all the gold he had, and it still wasn’t enough to 
cover all his debts. They followed him all the way to 
Hogwarts to keep an eye on him. He’s lost everything 
gambling. Hasn’t got two Galleons to rub together. 
And you know how the idiot tried to pay the goblins 
back?” 

“How?” said Harry. 

“He put a bet on you, mate,” said Fred. “Put a big bet 
on you to win the tournament. Bet against the 
goblins.” 

“So that’s why he kept trying to help me win!” said 
Harry. “Well — I did win, didn’t I? So he can pay you 
your gold!” 

“Nope,” said George, shaking his head. “The goblins 
play as dirty as him. They say you drew with Diggory, 
and Bagman was betting you’d win outright. So 
Bagman had to run for it. He did run for it right after 
the third task.” 



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George sighed deeply and started dealing out the 
cards again. 

The rest of the journey passed pleasantly enough; 
Harry wished it could have gone on all summer, in 
fact, and that he would never arrive at King’s Cross . . . 
but as he had learned the hard way that year, time 
will not slow down when something unpleasant lies 
ahead, and all too soon, the Hogwarts Express was 
pulling in at platform nine and three-quarters. The 
usual confusion and noise filled the corridors as the 
students began to disembark. Ron and Hermione 
struggled out past Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, 
carrying their trunks. Harry, however, stayed put. 

“Fred — George — wait a moment.” 

The twins turned. Harry pulled open his trunk and 
drew out his Triwizard winnings. 

“Take it,” he said, and he thrust the sack into 
George’s hands. 

“What?” said Fred, looking flabbergasted. 

“Take it,” Harry repeated firmly. “I don’t want it.” 

“You’re mental,” said George, trying to push it back at 
Harry. 

“No, I’m not,” said Harry. “You take it, and get 
inventing. It’s for the joke shop.” 

“He is mental,” Fred said in an almost awed voice. 

“Listen,” said Harry firmly. “If you don’t take it, I’m 
throwing it down the drain. I don’t want it and I don’t 
need it. But I could do with a few laughs. We could all 



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do with a few laughs. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to 
need them more than usual before long.” 

“Harry,” said George weakly, weighing the money bag 
in his hands, “there’s got to be a thousand Galleons 
in here.” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, grinning. “Think how many 
Canary Creams that is.” 

The twins stared at him. 

“Just don’t tell your mum where you got it ... 
although she might not be so keen for you to join the 
Ministry anymore, come to think of it. ...” 

“Harry,” Fred began, but Harry pulled out his wand. 

“Look,” he said flatly, “take it, or I’ll hex you. I know 
some good ones now. Just do me one favor, okay? 

Buy Ron some different dress robes and say they’re 
from you.” 

He left the compartment before they could say 
another word, stepping over Malfoy, Crabbe, and 
Goyle, who were still lying on the floor, covered in hex 
marks. 

Uncle Vernon was waiting beyond the barrier. Mrs. 
Weasley was close by him. She hugged Harry very 
tightly when she saw him and whispered in his ear, “I 
think Dumbledore will let you come to us later in the 
summer. Keep in touch, Harry.” 

“See you, Harry,” said Ron, clapping him on the back. 

“ ’Bye, Harry!” said Hermione, and she did something 
she had never done before, and kissed him on the 
cheek. 

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“Harry — thanks,” George muttered, while Fred 
nodded fervently at his side. 

Harry winked at them, turned to Uncle Vernon, and 
followed him silently from the station. There was no 
point worrying yet, he told himself, as he got into the 
back of the Dursleys’ car. 

As Hagrid had said, what would come, would come... 
and he would have to meet it when it did. 



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HARRY 

POTTER 




I 




DUDLEY DEMENTED 

The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to 
a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square 
houses of Privet Drive. Cars that were usually 
gleaming stood dusty in their drives and lawns that 
were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing; 
the use of hosepipes had been banned due to 
drought. Deprived of their usual car-washing and 
lawn-mowing pursuits, the inhabitants of Privet Drive 
had retreated into the shade of their cool houses, 
windows thrown wide in the hope of tempting in a 
nonexistent breeze. The only person left outdoors was 
a teenage boy who was lying flat on his back in a 
flower bed outside number four. 

He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who 
had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone 
who has grown a lot in a short space of time. His 
jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt baggy and 
faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away 
from the uppers. Harry Potter’s appearance did not 
endear him to the neighbors, who were the sort of 
people who thought scruffiness ought to be 
Page | 2 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 



punishable by law, but as he had hidden himself 
behind a large hydrangea bush this evening he was 
quite invisible to passersby. In fact, the only way he 
would be spotted was if his Uncle Vernon or Aunt 
Petunia stuck their heads out of the living room 
window and looked straight down into the flower bed 
below. 

On the whole, Harry thought he was to be 
congratulated on his idea of hiding here. He was not, 
perhaps, very comfortable lying on the hot, hard 
earth, but on the other hand, nobody was glaring at 
him, grinding their teeth so loudly that he could not 
hear the news, or shooting nasty questions at him, as 
had happened every time he had tried sitting down in 
the living room and watching television with his aunt 
and uncle. 

Almost as though this thought had fluttered through 
the open window, Vernon Dursley, Harry’s uncle, 
suddenly spoke. “Glad to see the boy’s stopped trying 
to butt in. Where is he anyway?” 

“I don’t know,” said Aunt Petunia unconcernedly. “Not 
in the house.” 

Uncle Vernon grunted. 

“Watching the news ...” he said scathingly. “I’d like to 
know what he’s really up to. As if a normal boy cares 
what’s on the news — Dudley hasn’t got a clue what’s 
going on, doubt he knows who the Prime Minister is! 
Anyway, it’s not as if there ’d be anything about his lot 
on our news — ” 

“Vernon, shh\” said Aunt Petunia. “The window’s 
open!” 

“Oh — yes — sorry, dear ...” 

Page | 3 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




The Dursleys fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle 
about Fruit ’N Bran breakfast cereal while he watched 
Mrs. Figg, a batty, cat-loving old lady from nearby 
Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past. She was frowning 
and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased that 
he was concealed behind the bush; Mrs. Figg had 
recently taken to asking him around for tea whenever 
she met him in the street. She had rounded the 
corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon’s 
voice floated out of the window again. 

“Dudders out for tea?” 

“At the Polkisses’,” said Aunt Petunia fondly. “He’s got 
so many little friends, he’s so popular ...” 

Harry repressed a snort with difficulty. The Dursleys 
really were astonishingly stupid about their son, 
Dudley; they had swallowed all his dim-witted lies 
about having tea with a different member of his gang 
every night of the summer holidays. Harry knew 
perfectly well that Dudley had not been to tea 
anywhere; he and his gang spent every evening 
vandalizing the play park, smoking on street corners, 
and throwing stones at passing cars and children. 
Harry had seen them at it during his evening walks 
around Little Whinging; he had spent most of the 
holidays wandering the streets, scavenging 
newspapers from bins along the way. 

The opening notes of the music that heralded the 
seven o’clock news reached Harry’s ears and his 
stomach turned over. Perhaps tonight — after a 
month of waiting — would be the night — 

“Record numbers of stranded holidaymakers fill 
airports as the Spanish baggage-handlers’ strike 
reaches its second week — ” 



Page | 4 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




“Give ’em a lifelong siesta, I would,” snarled Uncle 
Vernon over the end of the newsreader’s sentence, 
but no matter: Outside in the flower bed, Harry’s 
stomach seemed to unclench. If anything had 
happened, it would surely have been the first item on 
the news; death and destruction were more important 
than stranded holidaymakers... 

He let out a long, slow breath and stared up at the 
brilliant blue sky. Every day this summer had been 
the same: the tension, the expectation, the temporary 
relief, and then mounting tension again . . . and 
always, growing more insistent all the time, the 
question of why nothing had happened yet... 

He kept listening, just in case there was some small 
clue, not recognized for what it really was by the 
Muggles — an unexplained disappearance, 
perhaps, or some strange accident ... but the 
baggage-handlers’ strike was followed by news on the 
drought in the Southeast (“I hope he’s listening next 
door!” bellowed Uncle Vernon, “with his sprinklers on 
at three in the morning!”); then a helicopter that had 
almost crashed in a field in Surrey, then a famous 
actress’s divorce from her famous husband (“as if 
we’re interested in their sordid affairs,” sniffed Aunt 
Petunia, who had followed the case obsessively in 
every magazine she could lay her bony hands on). 

Harry closed his eyes against the now blazing evening 
sky as the newsreader said, “And finally, Bungy the 
budgie has found a novel way of keeping cool this 
summer. Bungy, who lives at the Five Feathers in 
Barnsley, has learned to water-ski! Mary Dorkins 
went to find out more...” 

Harry opened his eyes again. If they had reached 
water-skiing budgerigars, there was nothing else 
worth hearing. He rolled cautiously onto his front and 

Page | 5 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




raised himself onto his knees and elbows, preparing 
to crawl out from under the window. 

He had moved about two inches when several things 
happened in very quick succession. 

A loud, echoing crack broke the sleepy silence like a 
gunshot; a cat streaked out from under a parked car 
and flew out of sight; a shriek, a bellowed oath, and 
the sound of breaking china came from the Dursleys’ 
living room, and as though Harry had been waiting 
for this signal, he jumped to his feet, at the same time 
pulling from the waistband of his jeans a thin wooden 
wand as if he were unsheathing a sword. But before 
he could draw himself up to full height, the top of his 
head collided with the Dursleys’ open window, and 
the resultant crash made Aunt Petunia scream even 
louder. 

Harry felt as if his head had been split in two; eyes 
streaming, he swayed, trying to focus on the street 
and spot the source of the noise, but he had barely 
staggered upright again when two large purple hands 
reached through the open window and closed tightly 
around his throat. 

“Put — it — away\” Uncle Vernon snarled into Harry’s 
ear. “Now\ Before — anyone — sees!” 

“Get — off — me!” Harry gasped; for a few seconds 
they struggled, Harry pulling at his uncle’s sausage- 
like fingers with his left hand, his right maintaining a 
firm grip on his raised wand. Then, as the pain in the 
top of Harry’s head gave a particularly nasty throb, 
Uncle Vernon yelped and released Harry as though he 
had received an electric shock — some invisible force 
seemed to have surged through his nephew, making 
him impossible to hold. 



Page | 6 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




Panting, Harry fell forward over the hydrangea bush, 
straightened up, and stared around. There was no 
sign of what had caused the loud cracking noise, but 
there were several faces peering through various 
nearby windows. Harry stuffed his wand hastily back 
into his jeans and tried to look innocent. 

“Lovely evening!” shouted Uncle Vernon, waving at 
Mrs. Number Seven, who was glaring from behind her 
net curtains. “Did you hear that car backfire just 
now? Gave Petunia and me quite a turn!” 

He continued to grin in a horrible, manic way until all 
the curious neighbors had disappeared from their 
various windows, then the grin became a grimace of 
rage as he beckoned Harry back toward him. 

Harry moved a few steps closer, taking care to stop 
just short of the point at which Uncle Vernon’s 
outstretched hands could resume their strangling. 

“What the devil do you mean by it, boy?” asked Uncle 
Vernon in a croaky voice that trembled with fury. 

“What do I mean by what?” said Harry coldly. He kept 
looking left and right up the street, still hoping to see 
the person who had made the cracking noise. 

“Making a racket like a starting pistol right outside 
our — ” 

“I didn’t make that noise,” said Harry firmly. 

Aunt Petunia’s thin, horsey face now appeared beside 
Uncle Vernon’s wide, purple one. She looked livid. 

“Why were you lurking under our window?” 



Page | 7 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“Yes — yes, good point, Petunia! What were you doing 
under our window, boy?” 

“Listening to the news,” said Harry in a resigned 
voice. 

His aunt and uncle exchanged looks of outrage. 

“Listening to the news! Again?” 

“Well, it changes every day, you see,” said Harry. 

“Don’t you be clever with me, boy! I want to know 
what you’re really up to — and don’t give me any 
more of this listening to the news tosh! You know 
perfectly well that your lot ...” 

“Careful, Vernon!” breathed Aunt Petunia, and Uncle 
Vernon lowered his voice so that Harry could barely 
hear him, "... that your lot don’t get on our news!” 

“That’s all you know,” said Harry. 

The Dursleys goggled at him for a few seconds, then 
Aunt Petunia said, “You’re a nasty little liar. What are 
all those — ” she too lowered her voice so that Harry 
had to lip-read the next word, “ — owls — doing if 
they’re not bringing you news?” 

“Aha!” said Uncle Vernon in a triumphant whisper. 
“Get out of that one, boy! As if we didn’t know you get 
all your news from those pestilential birds!” 

Harry hesitated for a moment. It cost him something 
to tell the truth this time, even though his aunt and 
uncle could not possibly know how bad Harry felt at 
admitting it. 



Page | 8 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“The owls ... aren’t bringing me news,” said Harry 
tonelessly. 

“I don’t believe it,” said Aunt Petunia at once. 

“No more do I,” said Uncle Vernon forcefully. 

“We know you’re up to something funny,” said Aunt 
Petunia. 

“We’re not stupid, you know,” said Uncle Vernon. 

“Well, that’s news to me,” said Harry, his temper 
rising, and before the Dursleys could call him back, 
he had wheeled about, crossed the front lawn, 
stepped over the low garden wall, and was striding off 
up the street. 

He was in trouble now and he knew it. He would have 
to face his aunt and uncle later and pay the price for 
his rudeness, but he did not care very much just at 
the moment; he had much more pressing matters on 
his mind. 

Harry was sure that the cracking noise had been 
made by someone Apparating or Disapparating. It 
was exactly the sound Dobby the house-elf made 
when he vanished into thin air. Was it possible that 
Dobby was here in Privet Drive? Could Dobby be 
following him right at this very moment? As this 
thought occurred he wheeled around and stared back 
down Privet Drive, but it appeared to be completely 
deserted again and Harry was sure that Dobby did 
not know how to become invisible... 

He walked on, hardly aware of the route he was 
taking, for he had pounded these streets so often 
lately that his feet carried him to his favorite haunts 
automatically. Every few steps he glanced back over 

Page | 9 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




his shoulder. Someone magical had been near him as 
he lay among Aunt Petunias dying begonias, he was 
sure of it. Why hadn’t they spoken to him, why hadn’t 
they made contact, why were they hiding now? 

And then, as his feeling of frustration peaked, his 
certainty leaked away. 

Perhaps it hadn’t been a magical sound after all. 
Perhaps he was so desperate for the tiniest sign of 
contact from the world to which he belonged that he 
was simply overreacting to perfectly ordinary noises. 
Could he be sure it hadn’t been the sound of 
something breaking inside a neighbor’s house? 

Harry felt a dull, sinking sensation in his stomach 
and, before he knew it, the feeling of hopelessness 
that had plagued him all summer rolled over him 
once again... 

Tomorrow morning he would be awoken by the alarm 
at five o’clock so that he could pay the owl that 
delivered the Daily Prophet — but was there any point 
in continuing to take it? Harry merely glanced at the 
front page before throwing it aside these days; when 
the idiots who ran the paper finally realized that 
Voldemort was back it would be headline news, and 
that was the only kind Harry cared about. 

If he was lucky, there would also be owls carrying 
letters from his best friends, Ron and Hermione, 
though any expectation he had had that their letters 
would bring him news had long since been dashed. 

“We can’t say much about you-know-what, 
obviously...” “We’ve been told not to say anything 
important in case our letters go astray...” “We’re quite 
busy but I can’t give you details here...” “There’s a fair 



Page | 10 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




amount going on, we’ll tell you everything when we see 
you...” 

But when were they going to see him? Nobody seemed 
too bothered with a precise date. Hermione had 
scribbled, “I expect we’ll be seeing you quite soon” 
inside his birthday card, but how soon was soon? As 
far as Harry could tell from the vague hints in their 
letters, Hermione and Ron were in the same place, 
presumably at Ron’s parents’ house. He could hardly 
bear to think of the pair of them having fun at the 
Burrow when he was stuck in Privet Drive. In fact, he 
was so angry at them that he had thrown both their 
birthday presents of Honeydukes chocolates away 
unopened, though he had regretted this after eating 
the wilting salad Aunt Petunia had provided for 
dinner that night. 

And what were Ron and Hermione busy with? Why 
wasn’t he, Harry, busy? Hadn’t he proved himself 
capable of handling much more than they? Had they 
all forgotten what he had done? Hadn’t it been he who 
had entered that graveyard and watched Cedric being 
murdered and been tied to that tombstone and nearly 
killed ... ? 

Don’t think about that, Harry told himself sternly for 
the hundredth time that summer. It was bad enough 
that he kept revisiting the graveyard in his 
nightmares, without dwelling on it in his waking 
moments too. 

He turned a corner into Magnolia Crescent; halfway 
along he passed the narrow alleyway down the side of 
a garage where he had first clapped eyes on his 
godfather. Sirius, at least, seemed to understand how 
Harry was feeling; admittedly his letters were just as 
empty of proper news as Ron and Hermione’s, but at 



Page | 11 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




least they contained words of caution and consolation 
instead of tantalizing hints: 

“ I know this must be frustrating for you...” “Keep your 
nose clean and everything will be okay...” “Be careful 
and don’t do anything rash...” 

Well, thought Harry, as he crossed Magnolia 
Crescent, turned into Magnolia Road, and headed 
toward the darkening play park, he had (by and large) 
done as Sirius advised; he had at least resisted the 
temptation to tie his trunk to his broomstick and set 
off for the Burrow by himself. In fact Harry thought 
his behavior had been very good considering how 
frustrated and angry he felt at being stuck in Privet 
Drive this long, reduced to hiding in flower beds in 
the hope of hearing something that might point to 
what Lord Voldemort was doing. Nevertheless, it was 
quite galling to be told not to be rash by a man who 
had served twelve years in the wizard prison, 

Azkaban, escaped, attempted to commit the murder 
he had been convicted for in the first place, then gone 
on the run with a stolen hippogriff. . . 

Harry vaulted over the locked park gate and set off 
across the parched grass. The park was as empty as 
the surrounding streets. When he reached the swings 
he sank onto the only one that Dudley and his friends 
had not yet managed to break, coiled one arm around 
the chain, and stared moodily at the ground. He 
would not be able to hide in the Dursleys’ flower bed 
again. Tomorrow he would have to think of some 
fresh way of listening to the news. In the meantime, 
he had nothing to look forward to but another 
restless, disturbed night, because even when he 
escaped nightmares about Cedric he had unsettling 
dreams about long dark corridors, all finishing in 
dead ends and locked doors, which he supposed had 
something to do with the trapped feeling he had when 
Page | 12 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




he was awake. Often the old scar on his forehead 
prickled uncomfortably, but he did not fool himself 
that Ron or Hermione or Sirius would find that very 
interesting anymore... In the past his scar hurting 
had warned that Voldemort was getting stronger 
again, but now that Voldemort was back they would 
probably remind him that its regular irritation was 
only to be expected... Nothing to worry about ... old 
news ... 

The injustice of it all welled up inside him so that he 
wanted to yell with fury. If it hadn’t been for him, 
nobody would even have known Voldemort was back! 
And his reward was to be stuck in Little Whinging for 
four solid weeks, completely cut off from the magical 
world, reduced to squatting among dying begonias so 
that he could hear about water-skiing budgerigars! 
How could Dumbledore have forgotten him so easily? 
Why had Ron and Hermione got together without 
inviting him along too? How much longer was he 
supposed to endure Sirius telling him to sit tight and 
be a good boy; or resist the temptation to write to the 
stupid Daily Prophet and point out that Voldemort 
had returned? These furious thoughts whirled around 
in Harry’s head, and his insides writhed with anger as 
a sultry, velvety night fell around him, the air full of 
the smell of warm, dry grass and the only sound that 
of the low grumble of traffic on the road beyond the 
park railings. 

He did not know how long he had sat on the swing 
before the sound of voices interrupted his musings 
and he looked up. The street-lamps from the 
surrounding roads were casting a misty glow strong 
enough to silhouette a group of people making their 
way across the park. One of them was singing a loud, 
crude song. The others were laughing. A soft ticking 
noise came from several expensive racing bikes that 
they were wheeling along. 

Page | 13 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




Harry knew who those people were. The figure in front 
was unmistakably his cousin, Dudley Dursley, 
wending his way home, accompanied by his faithful 
gang. 

Dudley was as vast as ever, but a year’s hard dieting 
and the discovery of a new talent had wrought quite a 
change in his physique. As Uncle Vernon delightedly 
told anyone who would listen, Dudley had recently 
become the Junior Heavyweight Inter-School Boxing 
Champion of the Southeast. “The noble sport,” as 
Uncle Vernon called it, had made Dudley even more 
formidable than he had seemed to Harry in the 
primary school days when he had served as Dudley’s 
first punching bag. Harry was not remotely afraid of 
his cousin anymore but he still didn’t think that 
Dudley learning to punch harder and more accurately 
was cause for celebration. Neighborhood children all 
around were terrified of him — even more terrified 
than they were of “that Potter boy,” who, they had 
been warned, was a hardened hooligan who attended 
St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal 
Boys. 

Harry watched the dark figures crossing the grass 
and wondered whom they had been beating up 
tonight. Look round, Harry found himself thinking as 
he watched them. Come on ... look round ... I’m sitting 
here all alone... Come and have ago... 

If Dudley’s friends saw him sitting here, they would 
be sure to make a beeline for him, and what would 
Dudley do then? He wouldn’t want to lose face in 
front of the gang, but he’d be terrified of provoking 
Harry. . . It would be really fun to watch Dudley’s 
dilemma; to taunt him, watch him, with him 
powerless to respond . . . and if any of the others tried 
hitting Harry, Harry was ready — he had his wand . . . 
let them try ... He’d love to vent some of his 
Page | 14 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




frustration on the boys who had once made his life 
hell — 



But they did not turn around, they did not see him, 
they were almost at the railings. Harry mastered the 
impulse to call after them... Seeking a fight was not a 
smart move... He must not use magic... He would be 
risking expulsion again... 

Dudley’s gang’s voices died; they were out of sight, 
heading along Magnolia Road. 

There you go, Sirius, Harry thought dully. Nothing 
rash. Kept my nose clean. Exactly the opposite of what 
you’d have done ... 

He got to his feet and stretched. Aunt Petunia and 
Uncle Vernon seemed to feel that whenever Dudley 
turned up was the right time to be home, and anytime 
after that was much too late. Uncle Vernon had 
threatened to lock Harry in the shed if he came home 
after Dudley again, so, stifling a yawn, still scowling, 
Harry set off toward the park gate. 

Magnolia Road, like Privet Drive, was full of large, 
square houses with perfectly manicured lawns, all 
owned by large, square owners who drove very clean 
cars similar to Uncle Vernon’s. Harry preferred Little 
Whinging by night, when the curtained windows 
made patches of jewel-bright colors in the darkness 
and he ran no danger of hearing disapproving 
mutters about his “delinquent” appearance when he 
passed the householders. He walked quickly, so that 
halfway along Magnolia Road Dudley’s gang came into 
view again; they were saying their farewells at the 
entrance to Magnolia Crescent. Harry stepped into 
the shadow of a large lilac tree and waited. 



Page | 15 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




"... squealed like a pig, didn’t he?” Malcolm was 
saying, to guffaws from the others. 

“Nice right hook, Big D,” said Piers. 

“Same time tomorrow?” said Dudley. 

“Round at my place, my parents are out,” said 
Gordon. 

“See you then,” said Dudley. 

“Bye Dud!” 

“See ya, Big D!” 

Harry waited for the rest of the gang to move on 
before setting off again. When their voices had faded 
once more he headed around the corner into Magnolia 
Crescent and by walking very quickly he soon came 
within hailing distance of Dudley, who was strolling 
along at his ease, humming tunelessly. 

“Hey, Big D!” 

Dudley turned. 

“Oh,” he grunted. “It’s you.” 

“How long have you been ‘Big D’ then?” said Harry. 

“Shut it,” snarled Dudley, turning away again. 

“Cool name,” said Harry, grinning and falling into 
step beside his cousin. “But you’ll always be Ickle 
Diddykins to me.” 

“I said, SHUT IT!” said Dudley, whose ham-like hands 
had curled into fists. 

Page | 16 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“Don’t the boys know that’s what your mum calls 
you?” 

“Shut your face.” 

“You don’t tell her to shut her face. What about 
‘popkin’ and ‘Dinky Diddydums,’ can I use them 
then?” 

Dudley said nothing. The effort of keeping himself 
from hitting Harry seemed to be demanding all his 
self-control. 

“So who’ve you been beating up tonight?” Harry 
asked, his grin fading. “Another ten-year-old? I know 
you did Mark Evans two nights ago — ” 

“He was asking for it,” snarled Dudley. 

“Oh yeah?” 

“He cheeked me.” 

“Yeah? Did he say you look like a pig that’s been 
taught to walk on its hind legs? ’Cause that’s not 
cheek, Dud, that’s true ...” 

A muscle was twitching in Dudley’s jaw. It gave Harry 
enormous satisfaction to know how furious he was 
making Dudley; he felt as though he was siphoning 
off his own frustration into his cousin, the only outlet 
he had. 

They turned right down the narrow alleyway where 
Harry had first seen Sirius and which formed a 
shortcut between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria 
Walk. It was empty and much darker than the streets 
it linked because there were no streetlamps. Their 



Page | 17 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




footsteps were muffled between garage walls on one 
side and a high fence on the other. 

“Think you’re a big man carrying that thing, don’t 
you?” Dudley said after a few seconds. 

“What thing?” 

“That — that thing you’re hiding.” 

Harry grinned again. 

“Not as stupid as you look, are you, Dud? But I s’pose 
if you were, you wouldn’t be able to walk and talk at 
the same time...” 

Harry pulled out his wand. He saw Dudley look 
sideways at it. 

“You’re not allowed,” Dudley said at once. “I know 
you’re not. You’d get expelled from that freak school 
you go to.” 

“How d’you know they haven’t changed the rules, Big 
D?” 

“They haven’t,” said Dudley, though he didn’t sound 
completely convinced. Harry laughed softly. 

“You haven’t got the guts to take me on without that 
thing, have you?” Dudley snarled. 

“Whereas you just need four mates behind you before 
you can beat up a ten-year-old. You know that boxing 
title you keep banging on about? How old was your 
opponent? Seven? Eight?” 

“He was sixteen for your information,” snarled 
Dudley, “and he was out cold for twenty minutes after 

Page | 18 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




I’d finished with him and he was twice as heavy as 
you. You just wait till I tell Dad you had that thing 
out — ” 

“Running to Daddy now, are you? Is his ickle boxing 
champ frightened of nasty Harry’s wand?” 

“Not this brave at night, are you?” sneered Dudley. 

“This is night, Diddykins. That’s what we call it when 
it goes all dark like this.” 

“I mean when you’re in bed!” Dudley snarled. 

He had stopped walking. Harry stopped too, staring at 
his cousin. From the little he could see of Dudley’s 
large face, he was wearing a strangely triumphant 
look. 

“What d’you mean, I’m not brave in bed?” said Harry, 
completely nonplussed. “What — am I supposed to be 
frightened of pillows or something?” 

“I heard you last night,” said Dudley breathlessly. 
“Talking in your sleep. Moaning.” 

“What d’you mean?” Harry said again, but there was 
a cold, plunging sensation in his stomach. He had 
revisited the graveyard last night in his dreams. 

Dudley gave a harsh bark of laughter then adopted a 
high-pitched, whimpering voice. “ ‘Don’t kill Cedric! 
Don’t kill Cedric!’ Who’s Cedric — your boyfriend?” 

“I — you’re lying — ” said Harry automatically. But his 
mouth had gone dry. He knew Dudley wasn’t lying — 
how else would he know about Cedric? 



Page | 19 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“ T)ad! Help me, Dad! He’s going to kill me, Dad! Boo- 
hoo!”’ 

“Shut up,” said Harry quietly. “Shut up, Dudley, I’m 
warning you!” 

“ ‘Come and help me, Dad! Mum, come and help me! 
He’s killed Cedric! Dad, help me! He’s going to — ’ 
Don’t you point that thing at me\” 

Dudley backed into the alley wall. Harry was pointing 
the wand directly at Dudley’s heart. Harry could feel 
fourteen years’ hatred of Dudley pounding in his 
veins — what wouldn’t he give to strike now, to jinx 
Dudley so thoroughly he’d have to crawl home like an 
insect, struck dumb, sprouting feelers — 

“Don’t ever talk about that again,” Harry snarled. 
“D’you understand me?” 

“Point that thing somewhere else!” 

“I said, do you understand me?” 

“Point it somewhere else\” 

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” 

“GET THAT THING AWAY FROM — ” 

Dudley gave an odd, shuddering gasp, as though he 
had been doused in icy water. 

Something had happened to the night. The star- 
strewn indigo sky was suddenly pitch-black and 
lightless — the stars, the moon, the misty streetlamps 
at either end of the alley had vanished. The distant 
grumble of cars and the whisper of trees had gone. 

The balmy evening was suddenly piercingly, bitingly 
Page | 20 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




cold. They were surrounded by total, impenetrable, 
silent darkness, as though some giant hand had 
dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire alleyway, 
blinding them. 

For a split second Harry thought he had done magic 
without meaning to, despite the fact that he’d been 
resisting as hard as he could — then his reason 
caught up with his senses — he didn’t have the power 
to turn off the stars. He turned his head this way and 
that, trying to see something, but the darkness 
pressed on his eyes like a weightless veil. 

Dudley’s terrified voice broke in Harry’s ear. 

“W-what are you d-doing? St-stop it!” 

“I’m not doing anything! Shut up and don’t move!” 

“I c-can’t see! I’ve g-gone blind! I — ” 

“I said shut up!” 

Harry stood stock-still, turning his sightless eyes left 
and right. The cold was so intense that he was 
shivering all over; goose bumps had erupted up his 
arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck were 
standing up — he opened his eyes to their fullest 
extent, staring blankly around, unseeing . . . 

It was impossible... They couldn’t be here... Not in 
Little Whinging ... He strained his ears... He would 
hear them before he saw them... 

“I’ll t-tell Dad!” Dudley whimpered. “W-where are you? 
What are you d-do — ?” 

“Will you shut up?” Harry hissed, “I’m trying to lis — ” 



Page | 21 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




But he fell silent. He had heard just the thing he had 
been dreading. 



There was something in the alleyway apart from 
themselves, something that was drawing long, hoarse, 
rattling breaths. Harry felt a horrible jolt of dread as 
he stood trembling in the freezing air. 

“C-cut it out! Stop doing it! Ill h-hit you, I swear I 
will!” 

“Dudley, shut — ” 

WHAM 

A fist made contact with the side of Harry’s head, 
lifting Harry off his feet. Small white lights popped in 
front of Harry’s eyes; for the second time in an hour 
he felt as though his head had been cleaved in two; 
next moment he had landed hard on the ground, and 
his wand had flown out of his hand. 

“You moron, Dudley!” Harry yelled, his eyes watering 
with pain, as he scrambled to his hands and knees, 
now feeling around frantically in the blackness. He 
heard Dudley blundering away, hitting the alley fence, 
stumbling. 

“DUDLEY, COME BACK! YOU’RE RUNNING RIGHT 
AT IT!” 

There was a horrible squealing yell, and Dudley’s 
footsteps stopped. At the same moment, Harry felt a 
creeping chill behind him that could mean only one 
thing. There was more than one. 

“DUDLEY, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! WHATEVER 
YOU DO, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! Wand!” Harry 

Page | 22 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




muttered frantically, his hands flying over the ground 
like spiders. “Where’s — wand — come on — Lumosl” 

He said the spell automatically, desperate for light to 
help him in his search — and to his disbelieving 
relief, light flared inches from his right hand — the 
wand tip had ignited. Harry snatched it up, 
scrambled to his feet, and turned around. 

His stomach turned over. 

A towering, hooded figure was gliding smoothly 
toward him, hovering over the ground, no feet or face 
visible beneath its robes, sucking on the night as it 
came. 

Stumbling backward, Harry raised his wand. 

“Expecto Patronurrd” 

A silvery wisp of vapor shot from the tip of the wand 
and the dementor slowed, but the spell hadn’t worked 
properly; tripping over his feet, Harry retreated 
farther as the dementor bore down upon him, panic 
fogging his brain — concentrate — 

A pair of gray, slimy, scabbed hands slid from inside 
the dementor’s robes, reaching for him. A rushing 
noise filled Harry’s ears. 

“Expecto PatronumV’ 

His voice sounded dim and distant... Another wisp of 
silver smoke, feebler than the last, drifted from the 
wand — he couldn’t do it anymore, he couldn’t work 
the spell — 

There was laughter inside his own head, shrill, high- 
pitched laughter... He could smell the dementor’s 

Page | 23 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




putrid, death-cold breath, filling his own lungs, 
drowning him — Think ... something happy... 

But there was no happiness in him... The dementor’s 
icy fingers were closing on his throat — the high- 
pitched laughter was growing louder and louder, and 
a voice spoke inside his head — “Bow to death, 

Harry. . . It might even be painless. . . I would not 
know... I have never died...” 

He was never going to see Ron and Hermione again — 

And their faces burst clearly into his mind as he 
fought for breath — 

“EXPECTO PATRONUM” 

An enormous silver stag erupted from the tip of 
Harry’s wand; its antlers caught the dementor in the 
place where the heart should have been; it was 
thrown backward, weightless as darkness, and as the 
stag charged, the dementor swooped away, batlike 
and defeated. 

“THIS WAY!” Harry shouted at the stag. Wheeling 
around, he sprinted down the alleyway, holding the lit 
wand aloft. “DUDLEY? DUDLEY!” 

He had run barely a dozen steps when he reached 
them: Dudley was curled on the ground, his arms 
clamped over his face; a second dementor was 
crouching low over him, gripping his wrists in its 
slimy hands, prizing them slowly, almost lovingly 
apart, lowering its hooded head toward Dudley’s face 
as though about to kiss him... 

“GET IT!” Harry bellowed, and with a rushing, roaring 
sound, the silver stag he had conjured came galloping 
back past him. The dementor’s eyeless face was 

Page | 24 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




barely an inch from Dudley’s when the silver antlers 
caught it; the thing was thrown up into the air and, 
like its fellow, it soared away and was absorbed into 
the darkness. The stag cantered to the end of the 
alleyway and dissolved into silver mist. 

Moon, stars, and streetlamps burst back into life. A 
warm breeze swept the alleyway. Trees rustled in 
neighboring gardens and the mundane rumble of cars 
in Magnolia Crescent filled the air again. Harry stood 
quite still, all his senses vibrating, taking in the 
abrupt return to normality. After a moment he 
became aware that his T-shirt was sticking to him; he 
was drenched in sweat. 

He could not believe what had just happened. 
Dementors here, in Little Whinging . . . 

Dudley lay curled up on the ground, whimpering and 
shaking. Harry bent down to see whether he was in a 
fit state to stand up, but then heard loud, running 
footsteps behind him; instinctively raising his wand 
again, he spun on his heel to face the newcomer. 

Mrs. Figg, their batty old neighbor, came panting into 
sight. Her grizzled gray hair was escaping from its 
hairnet, a clanking string shopping bag was swinging 
from her wrist, and her feet were halfway out of her 
tartan carpet slippers. Harry made to stow his wand 
hurriedly out of sight, but — 

“Don’t put it away, idiot boy!” she shrieked. “What if 
there are more of them around? Oh, I’m going to kill 
Mundungus Fletcher!” 



Page | 25 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 





A PECK OF OWLS 

“What?” said Harry blankly. 

“He left!” said Mrs. Figg, wringing her hands. “Left to 
see someone about a batch of cauldrons that fell off 
the back of a broom! I told him I’d flay him alive if he 
went, and now look! Dementors! It’s just lucky I put 
Mr. Tibbies on the case! But we haven’t got time to 
stand around! Hurry, now, we’ve got to get you back! 
Oh, the trouble this is going to cause! I will kill him!” 

“But — ” 

The revelation that his batty old cat-obsessed 
neighbor knew what dementors were was almost as 
big a shock to Harry as meeting two of them down the 
alleyway. “You’re — you’re a witch?” 

“I’m a Squib, as Mundungus knows full well, so how 
on earth was I supposed to help you fight off 
dementors? He left you completely without cover 
when I warned him — ” 



Page | 26 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 



“This bloke Mundungus has been following me? Hang 
on — it was him). He Disapparated from the front of 
my house!” 

“Yes, yes, yes, but luckily I’d stationed Mr. Tibbies 
under a car just in case, and Mr. Tibbies came and 
warned me, but by the time I got to your house you’d 
gone — and now — oh, what’s Dumbledore going to 
say? You!” she shrieked at Dudley, still supine on the 
alley floor. “Get your fat bottom off the ground, 
quick!” 

“You know Dumbledore?” said Harry, staring at her. 

“Of course I know Dumbledore, who doesn’t know 
Dumbledore? But come on — I’ll be no help if they 
come back, I’ve never so much as Transfigured a 
teabag — ” 

She stooped down, seized one of Dudley’s massive 
arms in her wizened hands, and tugged. 

“Get up, you useless lump, get up!” 

But Dudley either could not or would not move. He 
was still on the ground, trembling and ashen-faced, 
his mouth shut very tight. 

“I’ll do it.” Harry took hold of Dudley’s arm and 
heaved: With an enormous effort he managed to hoist 
Dudley to his feet. Dudley seemed to be on the point 
of fainting: His small eyes were rolling in their sockets 
and sweat was beading his face; the moment Harry let 
go of him he swayed dangerously. 

“Hurry up!” said Mrs. Figg hysterically. 

Harry pulled one of Dudley’s massive arms around 
his own shoulders and dragged him toward the road, 

Page | 27 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




sagging slightly under his weight. Mrs. Figg tottered 
along in front of them, peering anxiously around the 
corner. 

“Keep your wand out,” she told Harry, as they entered 
Wisteria Walk. “Never mind the Statute of Secrecy 
now, there’s going to be hell to pay anyway, we might 
as well be hanged for a dragon as an egg. Talk about 
the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery ... 
This was exactly what Dumbledore was afraid of — 
what’s that at the end of the street? Oh, it’s just Mr. 
Prentice... Don’t put your wand away, boy, don’t I 
keep telling you I’m no use?” 

It was not easy to hold a wand steady and carry 
Dudley along at the same time. Harry gave his cousin 
an impatient dig in the ribs, but Dudley seemed to 
have lost all desire for independent movement. He 
was slumped on Harry’s shoulder, his large feet 
dragging along the ground. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re a Squib?” Harry asked 
Mrs. Figg, panting with the effort to keep walking. “All 
those times I came round your house — why didn’t 
you say anything?” 

“Dumbledore ’s orders. I was to keep an eye on you 
but not say anything, you were too young. I’m sorry I 
gave you such a miserable time, but the Dursleys 
would never have let you come if they’d thought you 
enjoyed it. It wasn’t easy, you know... But oh my 
word,” she said tragically, wringing her hands once 
more, “when Dumbledore hears about this — how 
could Mundungus have left, he was supposed to be 
on duty until midnight — where is he? How am I 
going to tell Dumbledore what’s happened, I can’t 
Apparate — ” 



Page | 28 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“I’ve got an owl, you can borrow her,” Harry groaned, 
wondering whether his spine was going to snap under 
Dudley’s weight. 

“Harry, you don’t understand! Dumbledore will need 
to act as quickly as possible, the Ministry have their 
own ways of detecting underage magic, they’ll know 
already, you mark my words — ” 

“But I was getting rid of dementors, I had to use 
magic — they’re going to be more worried what 
dementors were doing floating around Wisteria Walk, 
surely?” 

“Oh my dear, I wish it were so but I’m afraid — 
MUNDUNGUS FLETCHER, I AM GOING TO KILL 
YOU!” 

There was a loud crack and a strong smell of mingled 
drink and stale tobacco filled the air as a squat, 
unshaven man in a tattered overcoat materialized 
right in front of them. He had short bandy legs, long 
straggly ginger hair, and bloodshot baggy eyes that 
gave him the doleful look of a basset hound; he was 
also clutching a silvery bundle that Harry recognized 
at once as an Invisibility Cloak. 

“ ’S’ up, Figgy?” he said, staring from Mrs. Figg to 
Harry and Dudley. “What ’appened to staying 
undercover?” 

“I’ll give you undercover!” cried Mrs. Figg. “Dementors, 
you useless, skiving sneak thief!” 

“Dementors?” repeated Mundungus, aghast. 
“Dementors here?” 



Page | 29 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“Yes, here, you worthless pile of bat droppings, here!” 
shrieked Mrs. Figg. “Dementors attacking the boy on 
your watch!” 

“Blimey,” said Mundungus weakly, looking from Mrs. 
Figg to Harry and back again. “Blimey, I ...” 

“And you off buying stolen cauldrons! Didn’t I tell you 
not to go? Didn’t i?” 

“I — well, I — ” Mundungus looked deeply 
uncomfortable. “It ... it was a very good business 
opportunity, see ...” 

Mrs. Figg raised the arm from which her string bag 
dangled and whacked Mundungus around the face 
and neck with it; judging by the clanking noise it 
made it was full of cat food. 

“Ouch — gerroff — gerroff, you mad old bat! 

Someone’s gotta tell Dumbledore!” 

“Yes — they — have!” yelled Mrs. Figg, still swinging 
the bag of cat food at every bit of Mundungus she 
could reach. “And — it — had — better — be — you — 
and — you — can — tell — him — why — you — 
weren’t — there — to — help!” 

“Keep your ’airnet on!” said Mundungus, his arms 
over his head, cowering. “I’m going, I’m going!” 

And with another loud crack, he vanished. 

“I hope Dumbledore murders him!” said Mrs. Figg 
furiously. “Now come on, Harry, what are you waiting 
for?” 

Harry decided not to waste his remaining breath on 
pointing out that he could barely walk under Dudley’s 

Page | 30 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




bulk. He gave the semiconscious Dudley a heave and 
staggered onward. 

“I’ll take you to the door,” said Mrs. Figg, as they 
turned into Privet Drive. “Just in case there are more 
of them around... Oh my word, what a catastrophe ... 
and you had to fight them off yourself . . . and 
Dumbledore said we were to keep you from doing 
magic at all costs... Well, it’s no good crying over 
spilled potion, I suppose ... but the cat’s among the 
pixies now ...” 

“So,” Harry panted, “Dumbledore ’s ... been having ... 
me followed?” 

“Of course he has,” said Mrs. Figg impatiently. “Did 
you expect him to let you wander around on your own 
after what happened in June? Good Lord, boy, they 
told me you were intelligent... Right ... get inside and 
stay there,” she said as they reached number four. “I 
expect someone will be in touch with you soon 
enough.” 

“What are you going to do?” asked Harry quickly. 

“I’m going straight home,” said Mrs. Figg, staring 
around the dark street and shuddering. “I’ll need to 
wait for more instructions. Just stay in the house. 
Good night.” 

“Hang on, don’t go yet! I want to know — ” 

But Mrs. Figg had already set off at a trot, carpet 
slippers flopping, string bag clanking. 

“Wait!” Harry shouted after her; he had a million 
questions to ask anyone who was in contact with 
Dumbledore; but within seconds Mrs. Figg was 
swallowed by the darkness. Scowling, Harry 

Page | 31 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




readjusted Dudley on his shoulder and made his 
slow, painful way up number four’s garden path. 

The hall light was on. Harry stuck his wand back 
inside the waistband of his jeans, rang the bell, and 
watched Aunt Petunia’s outline grow larger and 
larger, oddly distorted by the rippling glass in the 
front door. 

“Diddy! About time too, I was getting quite — quite — 
Diddy, what’s the matter?” 

Harry looked sideways at Dudley and ducked out 
from under his arm just in time. Dudley swayed for a 
moment on the spot, his face pale green, then he 
opened his mouth at last and vomited all over the 
doormat. 

“DIDDY! Diddy, what’s the matter with you? Vernon? 
VERNON!” 

Harry’s uncle came galumphing out of the living 
room, walrus mustache blowing hither and thither as 
it always did when he was agitated. He hurried 
forward to help Aunt Petunia negotiate a weak-kneed 
Dudley over the threshold while avoiding stepping in 
the pool of sick. 

“He’s ill, Vernon!” 

“What is it, son? What’s happened? Did Mrs. Polkiss 
give you something foreign for tea?” 

“Why are you all covered in dirt, darling? Have you 
been lying on the ground?” 

“Hang on — you haven’t been mugged, have you, 
son?” 



Page | 32 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




Aunt Petunia screamed. 



“Phone the police, Vernon! Phone the police! Diddy, 
darling, speak to Mummy! What did they do to you?” 

In all the kerfuffle, nobody seemed to have noticed 
Harry, which suited him perfectly. He managed to slip 
inside just before Uncle Vernon slammed the door 
and while the Dursleys made their noisy progress 
down the hall toward the kitchen, Harry moved 
carefully and quietly toward the stairs. 

“Who did it, son? Give us names. Well get them, don’t 
worry.” 

“Shh! He’s trying to say something, Vernon! What is 
it, Diddy? Tell Mummy!” 

Harry’s foot was on the bottommost stair when 
Dudley found his voice. 

“Him” 

Harry froze, foot on the stair, face screwed up, braced 
for the explosion. 

“BOY! COME HERE!” 

With a feeling of mingled dread and anger, Harry 
removed his foot slowly from the stair and turned to 
follow the Dursleys. 

The scrupulously clean kitchen had an oddly unreal 
glitter after the darkness outside. Aunt Petunia was 
ushering Dudley into a chair; he was still very green 
and clammy looking. Uncle Vernon was standing in 
front of the draining board, glaring at Harry through 
tiny, narrowed eyes. 



Page | 33 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“What have you done to my son?” he said in a 
menacing growl. 



“Nothing,” said Harry, knowing perfectly well that 
Uncle Vernon wouldn’t believe him. 

“What did he do to you, Diddy?” Aunt Petunia said in 
a quavering voice, now sponging sick from the front of 
Dudley’s leather jacket. “Was it — was it you-know- 
what, darling? Did he use — his thing?” 

Slowly, tremulously, Dudley nodded. 

“I didn’t!” Harry said sharply, as Aunt Petunia let out 
a wail and Uncle Vernon raised his fists. “I didn’t do 
anything to him, it wasn’t me, it was — ” 

But at that precise moment a screech owl swooped in 
through the kitchen window. Narrowly missing the 
top of Uncle Vernon’s head, it soared across the 
kitchen, dropped the large parchment envelope it was 
carrying in its beak at Harry’s feet, and turned 
gracefully, the tips of its wings just brushing the top 
of the fridge, then zoomed outside again and off 
across the garden. 

“OWLS!” bellowed Uncle Vernon, the well-worn vein in 
his temple pulsing angrily as he slammed the kitchen 
window shut. “OWLS AGAIN! I WILL NOT HAVE ANY 
MORE OWLS IN MY HOUSE!” 

But Harry was already ripping open the envelope and 
pulling out the letter inside, his heart pounding 
somewhere in the region of his Adam’s apple. 

Dear Mr. Potter, 

We have received intelligence that you performed the 
Patronus Charm at twenty-three minutes past nine this 

Page | 34 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




evening in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the 
presence of a Muggle. 

The severity of this breach of the Decree for the 
Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has 
resulted in your expulsion from Hog warts School of 
Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will 
be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy 
your wand. 

As you have already received an official warning for a 
previous offense under section 13 of the International 
Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy, we regret 
to inform you that your presence is required at a 
disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9 a. m. 
on August 12th. 

Hoping you are well, 

Yours sincerely, 

Mafalda Hopkirk 

IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE 
Ministry of Magic 

Harry read the letter through twice. He was only 
vaguely aware of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia 
talking in the vicinity. Inside his head, all was icy and 
numb. One fact had penetrated his consciousness 
like a paralyzing dart. He was expelled from 
Hogwarts. It was all over. He was never going back. 

He looked up at the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon was 
purple-faced, shouting, his fists still raised; Aunt 
Petunia had her arms around Dudley, who was 
retching again. 



Page | 35 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




Harry’s temporarily stupefied brain seemed to 
reawaken. Ministry representatives will be calling at 
your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand. 
There was only one thing for it. He would have to run 
— now. Where he was going to go, Harry didn’t know, 
but he was certain of one thing: At Hogwarts or 
outside it, he needed his wand. In an almost 
dreamlike state, he pulled his wand out and turned to 
leave the kitchen. 

“Where d’you think you’re going?” yelled Uncle 
Vernon. When Harry didn’t reply, he pounded across 
the kitchen to block the doorway into the hall. “I 
haven’t finished with you, boy!” 

“Get out of the way,” said Harry quietly. 

“You’re going to stay here and explain how my son — ” 

“If you don’t get out of the way I’m going to jinx you,” 
said Harry, raising the wand. 

“You can’t pull that one on me!” snarled Uncle 
Vernon. “I know you’re not allowed to use it outside 
that madhouse you call a school!” 

“The madhouse has chucked me out,” said Harry. “So 
I can do whatever I like. You’ve got three seconds. 

One — two — ” 

A resounding CRACK filled the kitchen; Aunt Petunia 
screamed, Uncle Vernon yelled and ducked, but for 
the third time that night Harry was staring for the 
source of a disturbance he had not made. He spotted 
it at once: A dazed and ruffled-looking barn owl was 
sitting outside on the kitchen sill, having just collided 
with the closed window. 



Page | 36 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




Ignoring Uncle Vernon’s anguished yell of “OWLS!” 
Harry crossed the room at a run and wrenched the 
window open again. The owl stuck out its leg, to 
which a small roll of parchment was tied, shook its 
feathers, and took off the moment Harry had pulled 
off the letter. Hands shaking, Harry unfurled the 
second message, which was written very hastily and 
blotchily in black ink. 

Harry — 

Dumbledore’s just arrived at the Ministry, and he’s 
trying to sort it all out. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR AUNT 
AND UNCLE’S HOUSE. DO NOT DO ANYMORE 
MAGIC. DO NOT SURRENDER YOUR WAND. 

Arthur Weasley 

Dumbledore was trying to sort it all out... What did 
that mean? How much power did Dumbledore have to 
override the Ministry of Magic? Was there a chance 
that he might be allowed back to Hogwarts, then? A 
small shoot of hope burgeoned in Harry’s chest, 
almost immediately strangled by panic — how was he 
supposed to refuse to surrender his wand without 
doing magic? He’d have to duel with the Ministry 
representatives, and if he did that, he’d be lucky to 
escape Azkaban, let alone expulsion. 

His mind was racing. . . He could run for it and risk 
being captured by the Ministry, or stay put and wait 
for them to find him here. He was much more 
tempted by the former course, but he knew that Mr. 
Weasley had his best interests at heart ... and, after 
all, Dumbledore had sorted out much worse than this 
before... 

“Right,” Harry said, “I’ve changed my mind, I’m 
staying.” 

Page | 37 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




He flung himself down at the kitchen table and faced 
Dudley and Aunt Petunia. The Dursleys appeared 
taken aback at his abrupt change of mind. Aunt 
Petunia glanced despairingly at Uncle Vernon. The 
vein in Uncle Vernon’s purple temple was throbbing 
worse than ever. 

“Who are all these ruddy owls from?” he growled. 

“The first one was from the Ministry of Magic, 
expelling me,” said Harry calmly; he was straining his 
ears to catch noises outside in case the Ministry 
representatives were approaching, and it was easier 
and quieter to answer Uncle Vernon’s questions than 
to have him start raging and bellowing. “The second 
one was from my friend Ron’s dad, he works at the 
Ministry.” 

“Ministry of Magic?” bellowed Uncle Vernon. “People 
like you in government? Oh this explains everything, 
everything, no wonder the country’s going to the 
dogs...” 

When Harry did not respond, Uncle Vernon glared at 
him, then spat, “And why have you been expelled?” 

“Because I did magic.” 

“AHA!” roared Uncle Vernon, slamming his fist down 
on the top of the fridge, which sprang open; several of 
Dudley’s low-fat snacks toppled out and burst on the 
floor. “So you admit it! What did you do to Dudley?” 

“Nothing,” said Harry, slightly less calmly. “That 
wasn’t me — ” 

“Was,” muttered Dudley unexpectedly, and Uncle 
Vernon and Aunt Petunia instantly made flapping 



Page | 38 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




gestures at Harry to quiet him while they both bent 
low over Dudley. 

“Go on, son,” said Uncle Vernon, “what did he do?” 

“Tell us, darling,” whispered Aunt Petunia. 

“Pointed his wand at me,” Dudley mumbled. 

“Yeah, I did, but I didn’t use — ” Harry began angrily, 
but ... 

“SHUT UP!” roared Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia in 
unison. “Go on, son,” repeated Uncle Vernon, 
mustache blowing about furiously. 

“All dark,” Dudley said hoarsely, shuddering. 
“Everything dark. And then I h-heard . . . things. Inside 
m-my head ...” 

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia exchanged looks of 
utter horror. If their least favorite thing in the world 
was magic, closely followed by neighbors who cheated 
more than they did on the hosepipe ban, people who 
heard voices were definitely in the bottom ten. They 
obviously thought Dudley was losing his mind. 

“What sort of things did you hear, popkin?” breathed 
Aunt Petunia, very white-faced and with tears in her 
eyes. 

But Dudley seemed incapable of saying. He 
shuddered again and shook his large blond head, and 
despite the sense of numb dread that had settled on 
Harry since the arrival of the first owl, he felt a 
certain curiosity. Dementors caused a person to relive 
the worst moments of their life... What would spoiled, 
pampered, bullying Dudley have been forced to hear? 



Page | 39 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“How come you fell over, son?” said Uncle Vernon in 
an unnaturally quiet voice, the kind of voice he would 
adopt at the bedside of a very ill person. 

“T-tripped,” said Dudley shakily. “And then — ” 

He gestured at his massive chest. Harry understood: 
Dudley was remembering the clammy cold that filled 
the lungs as hope and happiness were sucked out of 
you. 

“Horrible,” croaked Dudley. “Cold. Really cold.” 

“Okay,” said Uncle Vernon in a voice of forced calm, 
while Aunt Petunia laid an anxious hand on Dudley’s 
forehead to feel his temperature. “What happened 
then, Dudders?” 

“Felt ... felt ... felt ... as if... as if ...” 

“As if you’d never be happy again,” Harry supplied 
tonelessly. 

“Yes,” Dudley whispered, still trembling. 

“So,” said Uncle Vernon, voice restored to full and 
considerable volume as he straightened up. “So you 
put some crackpot spell on my son so he’d hear 
voices and believe he was — was doomed to misery, 
or something, did you?” 

“How many times do I have to tell you?” said Harry, 
temper and voice rising together. “It wasn’t me\ It was 
a couple of dementors!” 

“A couple of — what’s this codswallop?” 

“De — men — tors,” said Harry slowly and clearly. 
“Two of them.” 

Page | 40 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




“And what the ruddy hell are dementors?” 



“They guard the wizard prison, Azkaban,” said Aunt 
Petunia. 

Two seconds’ ringing silence followed these words and 
then Aunt Petunia clapped her hand over her mouth 
as though she had let slip a disgusting swear word. 
Uncle Vernon was goggling at her. Harry’s brain 
reeled. Mrs. Figg was one thing — but Aunt Petunia? 

“How d’you know that?” he asked her, astonished. 

Aunt Petunia looked quite appalled with herself. She 
glanced at Uncle Vernon in fearful apology, then 
lowered her hand slightly to reveal her horsey teeth. 

“I heard — that awful boy — telling her about them — 
years ago,” she said jerkily. 

“If you mean my mum and dad, why don’t you use 
their names?” said Harry loudly, but Aunt Petunia 
ignored him. She seemed horribly flustered. 

Harry was stunned. Except for one outburst years 
ago, in the course of which Aunt Petunia had 
screamed that Harry’s mother had been a freak, he 
had never heard her mention her sister. He was 
astounded that she had remembered this scrap of 
information about the magical world for so long, when 
she usually put all her energies into pretending it 
didn’t exist. 

Uncle Vernon opened his mouth, closed it again, 
opened it once more, shut it, then, apparently 
struggling to remember how to talk, opened it for a 
third time and croaked, “So — so — they — er — they 
— er — they actually exist, do they — er — dementy- 
whatsits?” 

Page | 41 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




Aunt Petunia nodded. 



Uncle Vernon looked from Aunt Petunia to Dudley to 
Harry as if hoping somebody was going to shout 
“April Fool!” When nobody did, he opened his mouth 
yet again, but was spared the struggle to find more 
words by the arrival of the third owl of the evening, 
which zoomed through the still-open window like a 
feathery cannonball and landed with a clatter on the 
kitchen table, causing all three of the Dursleys to 
jump with fright. Harry tore a second official-looking 
envelope from the owl’s beak and ripped it open as 
the owl swooped back out into the night. 

“Enough — effing — owls ...” muttered Uncle Vernon 
distractedly, stomping over to the window and 
slamming it shut again. 

Dear Mr. Potter, 

Further to our letter of approximately twenty-two 
minutes ago, the Ministry of Magic has revised its 
decision to destroy your wand forthwith. You may 
retain your wand until your disciplinary hearing on 
12th August, at which time an official decision will be 
taken. 

Following discussions with the Headmaster of 
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the 
Ministry has agreed that the question of your expulsion 
will also be decided at that time. You should therefore 
consider yourself suspended from school pending 
further inquiries. 

With best wishes, 

Yours sincerely, 

Mafalda Hopkirk 

Page | 42 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE 



Ministry of Magic 

Harry read this letter through three times in quick 
succession. The miserable knot in his chest loosened 
slightly at the thought that he was not definitely 
expelled, though his fears were by no means 
banished. Everything seemed to hang on this hearing 
on the twelfth of August. 

“Well?” said Uncle Vernon, recalling Harry to his 
surroundings. “What now? Have they sentenced you 
to anything? Do your lot have the death penalty?” he 
added as a hopeful afterthought. 

“I’ve got to go to a hearing,” said Harry. 

“And they’ll sentence you there?” 

“I suppose so.” 

“I won’t give up hope, then,” said Uncle Vernon 
nastily. 

“Well, if that’s all,” said Harry, getting to his feet. He 
was desperate to be alone, to think, perhaps to send a 
letter to Ron, Hermione, or Sirius. 

“NO, IT RUDDY WELL IS NOT ALL!” bellowed Uncle 
Vernon. “SIT BACK DOWN!” 

“What now?” said Harry impatiently. 

“DUDLEY!” roared Uncle Vernon. “I want to know 
exactly what happened to my son!” 

“FINE!” yelled Harry, and in his temper, red and gold 
sparks shot out of the end of his wand, still clutched 

Page | 43 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




in his hand. All three Dursleys flinched, looking 
terrified. 

“Dudley and I were in the alleyway between Magnolia 
Crescent and Wisteria Walk,” said Harry, speaking 
fast, fighting to control his temper. “Dudley thought 
he’d be smart with me, I pulled out my wand but 
didn’t use it. Then two dementors turned up — ” 

“But what ARE dementoids?” asked Uncle Vernon 
furiously. “What do they DO?” 

“I told you — they suck all the happiness out of you,” 
said Harry, “and if they get the chance, they kiss you 



“Kiss you?” said Uncle Vernon, his eyes popping 
slightly. “Kiss you?” 

“It’s what they call it when they suck the soul out of 
your mouth.” 

Aunt Petunia uttered a soft scream. 

“His soul? They didn’t take — he’s still got his — ” 

She seized Dudley by the shoulders and shook him, 
as though testing to see whether she could hear his 
soul rattling around inside him. 

“Of course they didn’t get his soul, you’d know if they 
had,” said Harry, exasperated. 

“Fought ’em off, did you, son?” said Uncle Vernon 
loudly, with the appearance of a man struggling to 
bring the conversation back onto a plane he 
understood. “Gave ’em the old one-two, did you?” 



Page | 44 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




“You can’t give a dementor the old one-two,” said 
Harry through clenched teeth. 

“Why’s he all right, then?” blustered Uncle Vernon. 
“Why isn’t he all empty, then?” 

“Because I used the Patronus — ” 

WHOOSH. With a clattering, a whirring of wings, and 
a soft fall of dust, a fourth owl came shooting out of 
the kitchen fireplace. 

“FOR GOD’S SAKE!” roared Uncle Vernon, pulling 
great clumps of hair out of his mustache, something 
he hadn’t been driven to in a long time. “I WILL NOT 
HAVE OWLS HERE, I WILL NOT TOLERATE THIS, I 
TELL YOU!” 

But Harry was already pulling a roll of parchment 
from the owl’s leg. He was so convinced that this 
letter had to be from Dumbledore, explaining 
everything — the dementors, Mrs. Figg, what the 
Ministry was up to, how he, Dumbledore, intended to 
sort everything out — that for the first time in his life 
he was disappointed to see Sirius’s handwriting. 
Ignoring Uncle Vernon’s ongoing rant about owls and 
narrowing his eyes against a second cloud of dust as 
the most recent owl took off back up the chimney, 
Harry read Sirius’s message. 

Arthur’s just told us what’s happened. 

Don’t leave the house again, whatever you do. 

Harry found this such an inadequate response to 
everything that had happened tonight that he turned 
the piece of parchment over, looking for the rest of the 
letter, but there was nothing there. 



Page | 45 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




And now his temper was rising again. Wasn’t 
anybody going to say “well done” for fighting off two 
dementors single-handedly? Both Mr. Weasley and 
Sirius were acting as though he’d misbehaved and 
they were saving their tellings-off until they could 
ascertain how much damage had been done. 

“ — a peck, I mean, pack of owls shooting in and out 
of my house and I won’t have it, boy, I won’t — ” 

“I can’t stop the owls coming,” Harry snapped, 
crushing Sirius’s letter in his fist. 

“I want the truth about what happened tonight!” 
barked Uncle Vernon. “If it was demenders who hurt 
Dudley, how come you’ve been expelled? You did you- 
know-what, you’ve admitted it!” 

Harry took a deep, steadying breath. His head was 
beginning to ache again. He wanted more than 
anything to get out of the kitchen, away from the 
Dursleys. 

“I did the Patronus Charm to get rid of the 
dementors,” he said, forcing himself to remain calm. 
“It’s the only thing that works against them.” 

“But what were dementoids doing in Little Whinging?” 
said Uncle Vernon in tones of outrage. 

“Couldn’t tell you,” said Harry wearily. “No idea.” 

His head was pounding in the glare of the strip 
lighting now. His anger was ebbing away. He felt 
drained, exhausted. The Dursleys were all staring at 
him. 

“It’s you,” said Uncle Vernon forcefully. “It’s got 
something to do with you, boy, I know it. Why else 

Page | 46 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




would they turn up here? Why else would they be 
down that alleyway? You’ve got to be the only — the 
only — ” Evidently he couldn’t bring himself to say the 
word “wizard.” “The only you-know-what for miles.” 

“I don’t know why they were here...” 

But at these words of Uncle Vernon’s, Harry’s 
exhausted brain ground back into action. Why had 
the dementors come to Little Whinging? How could it 
be coincidence that they had arrived in the alleyway 
where Harry was? Had they been sent? Had the 
Ministry of Magic lost control of the dementors, had 
they deserted Azkaban and joined Voldemort, as 
Dumbledore had predicted they would? 

“These demembers guard some weirdos’ prison?” said 
Uncle Vernon, lumbering in the wake of Harry’s train 
of thought. 

“Yes,” said Harry. 

If only his head would stop hurting, if only he could 
just leave the kitchen and get to his dark bedroom 
and think... 

“Oho! They were coming to arrest you!” said Uncle 
Vernon, with the triumphant air of a man reaching an 
unassailable conclusion. “That’s it, isn’t it, boy? 

You’re on the run from the law!” 

“Of course I’m not,” said Harry, shaking his head as 
though to scare off a fly, his mind racing now. 

“Then why — ?” 

“He must have sent them,” said Harry quietly, more to 
himself than to Uncle Vernon. 



Page | 47 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




“What’s that? Who must have sent them?” 

“Lord Voldemort,” said Harry. 

He registered dimly how strange it was that the 
Dursleys, who flinched, winced, and squawked if they 
heard words like “wizard,” “magic,” or “wand,” could 
hear the name of the most evil wizard of all time 
without the slightest tremor. 

“Lord — hang on,” said Uncle Vernon, his face 
screwed up, a look of dawning comprehension in his 
piggy eyes. “I’ve heard that name ... that was the one 
who ...” 

“Murdered my parents, yes,” Harry said. 

“But he’s gone,” said Uncle Vernon impatiently, 
without the slightest sign that the murder of Harry’s 
parents might be a painful topic to anybody. “That 
giant bloke said so. He’s gone.” 

“He’s back,” said Harry heavily. 

It felt very strange to be standing here in Aunt 
Petunia’s surgically clean kitchen, beside the top-of- 
the-range fridge and the wide-screen television, and 
talking calmly of Lord Voldemort to Uncle Vernon. 

The arrival of the dementors in Little Whinging 
seemed to have caused a breach in the great, invisible 
wall that divided the relentlessly non-magical world of 
Privet Drive and the world beyond. Harry’s two lives 
had somehow become fused and everything had been 
turned upside down: The Dursleys were asking for 
details about the magical world and Mrs. Figg knew 
Albus Dumbledore; dementors were soaring around 
Little Whinging and he might never go back to 
Hogwarts. Harry’s head throbbed more painfully. 



Page | 48 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




“Back?” whispered Aunt Petunia. 

She was looking at Harry as she had never looked at 
him before. And all of a sudden, for the very first time 
in his life, Harry fully appreciated that Aunt Petunia 
was his mother’s sister. He could not have said why 
this hit him so very powerfully at this moment. All he 
knew was that he was not the only person in the 
room who had an inkling of what Lord Voldemort 
being back might mean. Aunt Petunia had never in 
her life looked at him like that before. Her large, pale 
eyes (so unlike her sister’s) were not narrowed in 
dislike or anger: They were wide and fearful. The 
furious pretense that Aunt Petunia had maintained 
all Harry’s life — that there was no magic and no 
world other than the world she inhabited with Uncle 
Vernon — seemed to have fallen away. 

“Yes,” Harry said, talking directly to Aunt Petunia 
now. “He came back a month ago. I saw him.” 

Her hands found Dudley’s massive leather-clad 
shoulders and clutched them. 

“Hang on,” said Uncle Vernon, looking from his wife 
to Harry and back again, apparently dazed and 
confused by the unprecedented understanding that 
seemed to have sprung up between them. “Hang on. 
This Lord Voldything’s back, you say.” 

“Yes.” 

“The one who murdered your parents.” 

“Yes.” 

“And now he’s sending dismembers after you?” 

“Looks like it,” said Harry. 

Page | 49 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




“I see,” said Uncle Vernon, looking from his white- 
faced wife to Harry and hitching up his trousers. He 
seemed to be swelling, his great purple face stretching 
before Harry’s eyes. “Well, that settles it,” he said, his 
shirt front straining as he inflated himself, “you can 
get out of this house, boy\” 

“What?” said Harry. 

“You heard me — OUT!” Uncle Vernon bellowed, and 
even Aunt Petunia and Dudley jumped. “OUT! OUT! I 
should’ve done it years ago! Owls treating the place 
like a rest home, puddings exploding, half the lounge 
destroyed, Dudley’s tail, Marge bobbing around on 
the ceiling, and that flying Ford Anglia — OUT! OUT! 
You’ve had it! You’re history! You’re not staying here if 
some loony’s after you, you’re not endangering my 
wife and son, you’re not bringing trouble down on us, 
if you’re going the same way as your useless parents, 
I’ve had it! OUT!” 

Harry stood rooted to the spot. The letters from the 
Ministry, Mr. Weasley, and Sirius were crushed in his 
left hand. Don’t leave the house again, whatever you 
do. DO NOT LEA VE YOUR A UNT AND UNCLE’S 
HOUSE. 

“You heard me!” said Uncle Vernon, bending forward 
now, so that his massive purple face came closer to 
Harry’s, so that Harry actually felt flecks of spit hit 
his face. “Get going! You were all keen to leave half an 
hour ago! I’m right behind you! Get out and never 
darken our doorstep again! Why we ever kept you in 
the first place I don’t know. Marge was right, it should 
have been the orphanage, we were too damn soft for 
our own good, thought we could squash it out of you, 
thought we could turn you normal, but you’ve been 
rotten from the beginning, and I’ve had enough — 
OWLS!” 

Page | 50 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




The fifth owl zoomed down the chimney so fast it 
actually hit the floor before zooming into the air again 
with a loud screech. Harry raised his hand to seize 
the letter, which was in a scarlet envelope, but it 
soared straight over his head, flying directly at Aunt 
Petunia, who let out a scream and ducked, her arms 
over her face. The owl dropped the red envelope on 
her head, turned, and flew straight up the chimney 
again. 

Harry darted forward to pick up the letter, but Aunt 
Petunia beat him to it. 

“You can open it if you like,” said Harry, “but I’ll hear 
what it says anyway. That’s a Howler.” 

“Let go of it, Petunia!” roared Uncle Vernon. “Don’t 
touch it, it could be dangerous!” 

“It’s addressed to me,” said Aunt Petunia in a shaking 
voice. “It’s addressed to me, Vernon, look! Mrs. 

Petunia Dursley, The Kitchen, Number Four, Privet 
Drive — ” 

She caught her breath, horrified. The red envelope 
had begun to smoke. 

“Open it!” Harry urged her. “Get it over with! It’ll 
happen anyway — ” 

“No — ” 



Aunt Petunia’s hand was trembling. She looked wildly 
around the kitchen as though looking for an escape 
route, but too late — the envelope burst into flames. 
Aunt Petunia screamed and dropped it. 



Page | 51 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




An awful voice filled the kitchen, echoing in the 
confined space, issuing from the burning letter on the 
table. 



“REMEMBER MY LAST, PETUNIA.” 

Aunt Petunia looked as though she might faint. She 
sank into the chair beside Dudley, her face in her 
hands. The remains of the envelope smoldered into 
ash in the silence. 

“What is this?” Uncle Vernon said hoarsely. “What — 

I don’t — Petunia?” 

Aunt Petunia said nothing. Dudley was staring 
stupidly at his mother, his mouth hanging open. The 
silence spiraled horribly. Harry was watching his 
aunt, utterly bewildered, his head throbbing fit to 
burst. 

“Petunia, dear?” said Uncle Vernon timidly. “P- 
Petunia?” 

She raised her head. She was still trembling. She 
swallowed. 

“The boy — the boy will have to stay, Vernon,” she 
said weakly. 

“W-what?” 

“He stays,” she said. She was not looking at Harry. 

She got to her feet again. 

“He ... but Petunia ...” 

“If we throw him out, the neighbors will talk,” she 
said. She was regaining her usual brisk, snappish 
manner rapidly, though she was still very pale. 

Page | 52 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




“They’ll ask awkward questions, they’ll want to know 
where he’s gone. We’ll have to keep him.” 

Uncle Vernon was deflating like an old tire. 

“But Petunia, dear — ” 

Aunt Petunia ignored him. She turned to Harry. 

“You’re to stay in your room,” she said. “You’re not to 
leave the house. Now get to bed.” 

Harry didn’t move. 

“Who was that Howler from?” 

“Don’t ask questions,” Aunt Petunia snapped. 

“Are you in touch with wizards?” 

“I told you to get to bed!” 

“What did it mean? Remember the last what?” 

“Go to bed!” 

“How come — ?” 

“YOU HEARD YOUR AUNT, NOW GET TO BED!” 



Page | 53 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 






THE ADVANCED GUARD 

“Fve just been attacked by dementors and I might be 
expelled from Hogwarts. I want to know what’s going 
on and when I’m going to get out of here. ” 

Harry copied these words onto three separate pieces 
of parchment the moment he reached the desk in his 
dark bedroom. He addressed the first to Sirius, the 
second to Ron, and the third to Hermione. His owl, 
Hedwig, was off hunting; her cage stood empty on the 
desk. Harry paced the bedroom waiting for her to 
come back, his head pounding, his brain too busy for 
sleep even though his eyes stung and itched with 
tiredness. His back ached from carrying Dudley 
home, and the two lumps on his head where the 
window and Dudley had hit him were throbbing 
painfully. 

Up and down he paced, consumed with anger and 
frustration, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists, 
casting angry looks out at the empty, star-strewn sky 
every time he passed the window. Dementors sent to 
get him, Mrs. Figg and Mundungus Fletcher tailing 
Page | 54 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 



him in secret, then suspension from Hogwarts and a 
hearing at the Ministry of Magic — and still no one 
was telling him what was going on. 

And what, what, had that Howler been about? Whose 
voice had echoed so horribly, so menacingly, through 
the kitchen? 

Why was he still trapped here without information? 
Why was everyone treating him like some naughty 
kid? Don’t do any more magic, stay in the house... 

He kicked his school trunk as he passed it, but far 
from relieving his anger he felt worse, as he now had 
a sharp pain in his toe to deal with in addition to the 
pain in the rest of his body. 

Just as he limped past the window, Hedwig soared 
through it with a soft rustle of wings like a small 
ghost. 

“About time!” Harry snarled, as she landed lightly on 
top of her cage. “You can put that down, IVe got work 
for you!” 

Hedwig’s large round amber eyes gazed reproachfully 
at him over the dead frog clamped in her beak. 

“Come here,” said Harry, picking up the three small 
rolls of parchment and a leather thong and tying the 
scrolls to her scaly leg. “Take these straight to Sirius, 
Ron, and Hermione and don’t come back here without 
good long replies. Keep pecking them till they’ve 
written decent-length answers if you’ve got to. 
Understand?” 

Hedwig gave a muffled hooting noise, beak still full of 
frog. 



Page | 55 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“Get going, then,” said Harry. 

She took off immediately. The moment she’d gone, 
Harry threw himself down onto his bed without 
undressing and stared at the dark ceiling. In addition 
to every other miserable feeling, he now felt guilty 
that he’d been irritable with Hedwig; she was the only 
friend he had at number four, Privet Drive. But he’d 
make it up to her when she came back with Sirius’s, 
Ron’s, and Hermione’s answers. 

They were bound to write back quickly; they couldn’t 
possibly ignore a dementor attack. He’d probably 
wake up tomorrow to three fat letters full of sympathy 
and plans for his immediate removal to the Burrow. 
And with that comforting idea, sleep rolled over him, 
stifling all further thought. 

•k Jc k 



But Hedwig didn’t return next morning. Harry spent 
the day in his bedroom, leaving it only to go to the 
bathroom. Three times that day Aunt Petunia shoved 
food into his room through the cat flap Uncle Vernon 
had installed three summers ago. Every time Harry 
heard her approaching he tried to question her about 
the Howler, but he might as well have interrogated 
the doorknob for all the answers he got. Otherwise 
the Dursleys kept well clear of his bedroom. Harry 
couldn’t see the point of forcing his company on 
them; another row would achieve nothing except 
perhaps making him so angry he’d perform more 
illegal magic. 

So it went on for three whole days. Harry was filled 
alternately with restless energy that made him unable 
to settle to anything, during which he paced his 
bedroom again, furious at the whole lot of them for 



Page | 56 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




leaving him to stew in this mess, and with a lethargy 
so complete that he could lie on his bed for an hour 
at a time, staring dazedly into space, aching with 
dread at the thought of the Ministry hearing. 

What if they ruled against him? What if he was 
expelled and his wand was snapped in half? What 
would he do, where would he go? He could not return 
to living full-time with the Dursleys, not now that he 
knew the other world, the one to which he really 
belonged... Was it possible that he might be able to 
move into Sirius’s house, as Sirius had suggested a 
year ago, before he had been forced to flee from the 
Ministry himself? Would he be allowed to live there 
alone, given that he was still underage? Or would the 
matter of where he went next be decided for him; had 
his breach of the International Statute of Secrecy 
been severe enough to land him in a cell in Azkaban? 
Whenever this thought occurred, Harry invariably slid 
off his bed and began pacing again. 

On the fourth night after Hedwig’s departure Harry 
was lying in one of his apathetic phases, staring at 
the ceiling, his exhausted mind quite blank, when his 
uncle entered his bedroom. Harry looked slowly 
around at him. Uncle Vernon was wearing his best 
suit and an expression of enormous smugness. 

“We’re going out,” he said. 

“Sorry?” 

“We — that is to say, your aunt, Dudley, and I — are 
going out.” 

“Fine,” said Harry dully, looking back at the ceiling. 

“You are not to leave your bedroom while we are 
away.” 

Page | 57 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




“Okay.” 



“You are not to touch the television, the stereo, or any 
of our possessions.” 

“Right.” 

“You are not to steal food from the fridge.” 

“Okay.” 

“I am going to lock your door.” 

“You do that.” 

Uncle Vernon glared at Harry, clearly suspicious of 
this lack of argument, then stomped out of the room 
and closed the door behind him. Harry heard the key 
turn in the lock and Uncle Vernon’s footsteps walking 
heavily down the stairs. A few minutes later he heard 
the slamming of car doors, the rumble of an engine, 
and the unmistakable sound of the car sweeping out 
of the drive. 

Harry had no particular feeling about the Dursleys 
leaving. It made no difference to him whether they 
were in the house or not. He could not even summon 
the energy to get up and turn on his bedroom light. 
The room grew steadily darker around him as he lay 
listening to the night sounds through the window he 
kept open all the time, waiting for the blessed 
moment when Hedwig returned. 

The empty house creaked around him. The pipes 
gurgled. Harry lay there in a kind of stupor, thinking 
of nothing, suspended in misery. 

And then, quite distinctly, he heard a crash in the 
kitchen below. 

Page | 58 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix -J.K. Rowling 




He sat bolt upright, listening intently. The Dursleys 
couldn’t be back, it was much too soon, and in any 
case he hadn’t heard their car. 

There was silence for a few seconds, and then he 
heard voices. 

Burglars, he thought, sliding off the bed onto his feet 
— but a split second later it occurred to him that 
burglars would keep their voices down, and whoever 
was moving around in the kitchen was certainly not 
troubling to do so. 

He snatched up his wand from his bedside table and 
stood facing his bedroom door, listening with all his 
might. Next moment he jumped as the lock gave a 
loud click and his door swung open. 

Harry stood motionless, staring through the open 
door at the dark upstairs landing, straining his ears 
for further sounds, but none came. He hesitated for a 
moment and then moved swiftly and silently out of 
his room to the head of the stairs. 

His heart shot upward into his throat. There were 
people standing in the shadowy hall below, 
silhouetted against the streetlight glowing through 
the glass door; eight or nine of them, all, as far as he 
could see, looking up at him. 

“Lower your wand, boy, before you take someone’s eye 
out,” said a low, growling voice. 

Harry’s heart was thumping uncontrollably. He knew 
that voice, but he did not lower his wand. 

“Professor Moody?” he said uncertainly. 



Page | 59 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“I don’t know so much about ‘Professor,’ ” growled the 
voice, “never got round to much teaching, did I? Get 
down here, we want to see you properly.” 

Harry lowered his wand slightly but did not relax his 
grip on it, nor did he move. He had very good reason 
to be suspicious. He had recently spent nine months 
in what he had thought was Mad-Eye Moody’s 
company only to find out that it wasn’t Moody at all, 
but an impostor; an impostor, moreover, who had 
tried to kill Harry before being unmasked. But before 
he could make a decision about what to do next, a 
second, slightly hoarse voice floated upstairs. 

“It’s all right, Harry. We’ve come to take you away.” 

Harry’s heart leapt. He knew that voice too, though he 
hadn’t heard it for more than a year. 

“P-Professor Lupin?” he said disbelievingly. “Is that 
you?” 

“Why are we all standing in the dark?” said a third 
voice, this one completely unfamiliar, a woman’s. 
“Lumos.” 

A wand tip flared, illuminating the hall with magical 
light. Harry blinked. The people below were crowded 
around the foot of the stairs, gazing intently up at 
him, some craning their heads for a better look. 

Remus Lupin stood nearest to him. Though still quite 
young, Lupin looked tired and rather ill; he had more 
gray hair than when Harry had said good-bye to him, 
and his robes were more patched and shabbier than 
ever. Nevertheless, he was smiling broadly at Harry, 
who tried to smile back through his shock. 



Page | 60 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“Oooh, he looks just like I thought he would,” said the 
witch who was holding her lit wand aloft. She looked 
the youngest there; she had a pale heart-shaped face, 
dark twinkling eyes, and short spiky hair that was a 
violent shade of violet. “Wotcher, Harry!” 

“Yeah, I see what you mean, Remus,” said a bald 
black wizard standing farthest back; he had a deep, 
slow voice and wore a single gold hoop in his ear. “He 
looks exactly like James.” 

“Except the eyes,” said a wheezy-voiced, silver-haired 
wizard at the back. “Lily’s eyes.” 

Mad-Eye Moody, who had long grizzled gray hair and 
a large chunk missing from his nose, was squinting 
suspiciously at Harry through his mismatched eyes. 
One of the eyes was small, dark, and beady, the other 
large, round, and electric blue — the magical eye that 
could see through walls, doors, and the back of 
Moody’s own head. 

“Are you quite sure it’s him, Lupin?” he growled. “It’d 
be a nice lookout if we bring back some Death Eater 
impersonating him. We ought to ask him something 
only the real Potter would know. Unless anyone 
brought any Veritaserum?” 

“Harry, what form does your Patronus take?” said 
Lupin. 

“A stag,” said Harry nervously. 

“That’s him, Mad-Eye,” said Lupin. 

Harry descended the stairs, very conscious of 
everybody still staring at him, stowing his wand into 
the back pocket of his jeans as he came. 



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“Don’t put your wand there, boy!” roared Moody. 
“What if it ignited? Better wizards than you have lost 
buttocks, you know!” 

“Who d’you know who’s lost a buttock?” the violet- 
haired woman asked Mad-Eye interestedly. 

“Never you mind, you just keep your wand out of your 
back pocket!” growled Mad-Eye. “Elementary wand 
safety, nobody bothers about it anymore...” He 
stumped off toward the kitchen. “And I saw that,” he 
added irritably, as the woman rolled her eyes at the 
ceiling. 

Lupin held out his hand and shook Harry’s. 

“How are you?” he asked, looking at Harry closely. 
“F-fine ...” 

Harry could hardly believe this was real. Four weeks 
with nothing, not the tiniest hint of a plan to remove 
him from Privet Drive, and suddenly a whole bunch of 
wizards was standing matter-of-factly in the house as 
though this were a long-standing arrangement. He 
glanced at the people surrounding Lupin; they were 
still gazing avidly at him. He felt very conscious of the 
fact that he had not combed his hair for four days. 

“I’m — you’re really lucky the Dursleys are out ...” he 
mumbled. 

“Lucky, ha!” said the violet-haired woman. “It was me 
that lured them out of the way. Sent a letter by 
Muggle post telling them they’d been short-listed for 
the All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn 
Competition. They’re heading off to the prize-giving 
right now... Or they think they are.” 



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Harry had a fleeting vision of Uncle Vernon’s face 
when he realized there was no All-England Best-Kept 
Suburban Lawn Competition. 

“We are leaving, aren’t we?” he asked. “Soon?” 

“Almost at once,” said Lupin, “we’re just waiting for 
the all-clear.” 

“Where are we going? The Burrow?” Harry asked 
hopefully. 

“Not the Burrow, no,” said Lupin, motioning Harry 
toward the kitchen; the little knot of wizards followed, 
all still eyeing Harry curiously. “Too risky. We’ve set 
up headquarters somewhere undetectable. It’s taken 
a while...” 

Mad-Eye Moody was now sitting at the kitchen table 
swigging from a hip flask, his magical eye spinning in 
all directions, taking in the Dursleys’ many labor- 
saving appliances. 

“This is Alastor Moody, Harry,” Lupin continued, 
pointing toward Moody. 

“Yeah, I know,” said Harry uncomfortably; it felt odd 
to be introduced to somebody he’d thought he’d 
known for a year. 

“And this is Nymphadora — ” 

“ Don’t call me Nymphadora, Remus,” said the young 
witch with a shudder. “It’s Tonks.” 

“ — Nymphadora Tonks, who prefers to be known by 
her surname only,” finished Lupin. 



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“So would you if your fool of a mother had called you 
‘Nymphadora, ’ ” muttered Tonks. 

“And this is Kingsley Shacklebolt” — he indicated the 
tall black wizard, who bowed — “Elphias Doge” — the 
wheezy-voiced wizard nodded — “Dedalus Diggle — ” 

“We’ve met before,” squeaked the excitable Diggle, 
dropping his top hat. 

“ — Emmeline Vance” — a stately looking witch in an 
emerald-green shawl inclined her head — “Sturgis 
Podmore” — a square-jawed wizard with thick, straw- 
colored hair winked — “and Hestia Jones.” A pink- 
cheeked, black-haired witch waved from next to the 
toaster. 

Harry inclined his head awkwardly at each of them as 
they were introduced. He wished they would look at 
something other than him; it was as though he had 
suddenly been ushered onstage. He also wondered 
why so many of them were there. 

“A surprising number of people volunteered to come 
and get you,” said Lupin, as though he had read 
Harry’s mind; the corners of his mouth twitched 
slightly. 

“Yeah, well, the more the better,” said Moody darkly. 
“We’re your guard, Potter.” 

“We’re just waiting for the signal to tell us it’s safe to 
set off,” said Lupin, glancing out of the kitchen 
window. “We’ve got about fifteen minutes.” 

“Very clean, aren’t they, these Muggles?” said the 
witch called Tonks, who was looking around the 
kitchen with great interest. “My dad’s Muggle-born 



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and he’s a right old slob. I suppose it varies, just like 
with wizards?” 

“Er — yeah,” said Harry. “Look” — he turned back to 
Lupin — “what’s going on, I haven’t heard anything 
from anyone, what’s Vol — ?” 

Several of the witches and wizards made odd hissing 
noises; Dedalus Diggle dropped his hat again, and 
Moody growled, “Shut up\” 

“What?” said Harry. 

“We’re not discussing anything here, it’s too risky,” 
said Moody, turning his normal eye on Harry; his 
magical eye remained pointing up at the ceiling. 
“Damn it,” he added angrily, putting a hand up to the 
magical eye, “it keeps sticking — ever since that scum 
wore it — ” 

And with a nasty squelching sound much like a 
plunger being pulled from a sink, he popped out his 
eye. 

“Mad-Eye, you do know that’s disgusting, don’t you?” 
said Tonks conversationally. 

“Get me a glass of water, would you, Harry?” asked 
Moody. 

Harry crossed to the dishwasher, took out a clean 
glass, and filled it with water at the sink, still watched 
eagerly by the band of wizards. Their relentless 
staring was starting to annoy him. 

“Cheers,” said Moody, when Harry handed him the 
glass. He dropped the magical eyeball into the water 
and prodded it up and down; the eye whizzed around, 



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staring at them all in turn. “I want three-hundred- 
and-sixty degrees visibility on the return journey.” 

“How’re we getting — wherever we’re going?” Harry 
asked. 

“Brooms,” said Lupin. “Only way. You’re too young to 
Apparate, they’ll be watching the Floo Network, and 
it’s more than our life’s worth to set up an 
unauthorized Portkey.” 

“Remus says you’re a good flier,” said Kingsley 
Shacklebolt in his deep voice. 

“He’s excellent,” said Lupin, who was checking his 
watch. “Anyway, you’d better go and get packed, 
Harry, we want to be ready to go when the signal 
comes.” 

“I’ll come and help you,” said Tonks brightly. 

She followed Harry back into the hall and up the 
stairs, looking around with much curiosity and 
interest. 

“Funny place,” she said, “it’s a bit too clean, d’you 
know what I mean? Bit unnatural. Oh, this is better,” 
she added, as they entered Harry’s bedroom and he 
turned on the light. 

His room was certainly much messier than the rest of 
the house. Confined to it for four days in a very bad 
mood, Harry had not bothered tidying up after 
himself. Most of the books he owned were strewn over 
the floor where he’d tried to distract himself with each 
in turn and thrown it aside. Hedwig’s cage needed 
cleaning out and was starting to smell, and his trunk 
lay open, revealing a jumbled mixture of Muggle 



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clothes and wizard’s robes that had spilled onto the 
floor around it. 

Harry started picking up books and throwing them 
hastily into his trunk. Tonks paused at his open 
wardrobe to look critically at her reflection in the 
mirror on the inside of the door. 

“You know, I don’t think purple’s really my color,” she 
said pensively, tugging at a lock of spiky hair. “D’you 
think it makes me look a bit peaky?” 

“Er — ” said Harry, looking up at her over the top of 
Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland. 

“Yeah, it does,” said Tonks decisively. She screwed up 
her eyes in a strained expression as though she were 
struggling to remember something. A second later, 
her hair had turned bubble-gum pink. 

“How did you do that?” said Harry, gaping at her as 
she opened her eyes again. 

“I’m a Metamorphmagus,” she said, looking back at 
her reflection and turning her head so that she could 
see her hair from all directions. “It means I can 
change my appearance at will,” she added, spotting 
Harry’s puzzled expression in the mirror behind her. 

“I was born one. I got top marks in Concealment and 
Disguise during Auror training without any study at 
all, it was great.” 

“You’re an Auror?” said Harry, impressed. Being a 
Dark wizard catcher was the only career he’d ever 
considered after Hogwarts. 

“Yeah,” said Tonks, looking proud. “Kingsley is as 
well; he’s a bit higher up than I am, though. I only 
qualified a year ago. Nearly failed on Stealth and 

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Tracking, I’m dead clumsy, did you hear me break 
that plate when we arrived downstairs?” 



“Can you learn how to be a Metamorphmagus?” Harry 
asked her, straightening up, completely forgetting 
about packing. 

Tonks chuckled. 

“Bet you wouldn’t mind hiding that scar sometimes, 
eh?” 

Her eyes found the lightning-shaped scar on Harry’s 
forehead. 

“No, I wouldn’t mind,” Harry mumbled, turning away. 
He did not like people staring at his scar. 

“Well, you 11 have to learn the hard way, I’m afraid,” 
said Tonks. “Metamorphmagi are really rare, they’re 
born, not made. Most wizards need to use a wand or 
potions to change their appearance... But we’ve got to 
get going, Harry, we’re supposed to be packing,” she 
added guiltily, looking around at all the mess on the 
floor. 

“Oh — yeah,” said Harry, grabbing up a few more 
books. 

“Don’t be stupid, it’ll be much quicker if I — pack).” 
cried Tonks, waving her wand in a long, sweeping 
movement over the floor. 

Books, clothes, telescope, and scales all soared into 
the air and flew pell-mell into the trunk. 

“It’s not very neat,” said Tonks, walking over to the 
trunk and looking down at the jumble inside. “My 
mum’s got this knack of getting stuff to fit itself in 

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neatly — she even gets the socks to fold themselves — 
but I’ve never mastered how she does it — it’s a kind 
of flick — ” 

She flicked her wand hopefully; one of Harry’s socks 
gave a feeble sort of wiggle and flopped back on top of 
the mess within. 

“Ah, well,” said Tonks, slamming the trunk’s lid shut, 
“at least it’s all in. That could do with a bit of 
cleaning, too — Scourgify — ” She pointed her wand at 
Hedwig’s cage; a few feathers and droppings 
vanished. “Well, that’s a bit better — I’ve never quite 
got the hang of these sort of householdy spells. Right 
— got everything? Cauldron? Broom? Wow! A 
Firebolt?” 

Her eyes widened as they fell on the broomstick in 
Harry’s right hand. It was his pride and joy, a gift 
from Sirius, an international standard broomstick. 

“And I’m still riding a Comet Two Sixty,” said Tonks 
enviously. “Ah well ... wand still in your jeans? Both 
buttocks still on? Okay, let’s go. Locomotor Trunk.” 

Harry’s trunk rose a few inches into the air. Holding 
her wand like a conductor’s baton, Tonks made it 
hover across the room and out of the door ahead of 
them, Hedwig’s cage in her left hand. Harry followed 
her down the stairs carrying his broomstick. 

Back in the kitchen, Moody had replaced his eye, 
which was spinning so fast after its cleaning it made 
Harry feel sick. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Sturgis 
Podmore were examining the microwave and Hestia 
Jones was laughing at a potato peeler she had come 
across while rummaging in the drawers. Lupin was 
sealing a letter addressed to the Dursleys. 



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“Excellent,” said Lupin, looking up as Tonks and 
Harry entered. “We’ve got about a minute, I think. We 
should probably get out into the garden so we’re 
ready. Harry, I’ve left a letter telling your aunt and 
uncle not to worry — ” 

“They won’t,” said Harry. 

“That you’re safe — ” 

“That’ll just depress them.” 

“ — and you’ll see them next summer.” 

“Do I have to?” 

Lupin smiled but made no answer. 

“Come here, boy,” said Moody gruffly, beckoning 
Harry toward him with his wand. “I need to 
Disillusion you.” 

“You need to what?” said Harry nervously. 

“Disillusionment Charm,” said Moody, raising his 
wand. “Lupin says you’ve got an Invisibility Cloak, 
but it won’t stay on while we’re flying; this’ll disguise 
you better. Here you go — ” 

He rapped Harry hard on the top of the head and 
Harry felt a curious sensation as though Moody had 
just smashed an egg there; cold trickles seemed to be 
running down his body from the point the wand had 
struck. 

“Nice one, Mad-Eye,” said Tonks appreciatively, 
staring at Harry’s midriff. 



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Harry looked down at his body, or rather, what had 
been his body, for it didn’t look anything like his 
anymore. It was not invisible; it had simply taken on 
the exact color and texture of the kitchen unit behind 
him. He seemed to have become a human chameleon. 

“Come on,” said Moody, unlocking the back door with 
his wand. 

They all stepped outside onto Uncle Vernon’s 
beautifully kept lawn. 

“Clear night,” grunted Moody, his magical eye 
scanning the heavens. “Could’ve done with a bit more 
cloud cover. Right, you,” he barked at Harry, “we’re 
going to be flying in close formation. Tonks’ll be right 
in front of you, keep close on her tail. Lupin’ll be 
covering you from below. I’m going to be behind you. 
The rest’ll be circling us. We don’t break ranks for 
anything, got me? If one of us is killed — ” 

“Is that likely?” Harry asked apprehensively, but 
Moody ignored him. 

“ — the others keep flying, don’t stop, don’t break 
ranks. If they take out all of us and you survive, 

Harry, the rear guard are standing by to take over; 
keep flying east and they’ll join you.” 

“Stop being so cheerful, Mad-Eye, he’ll think we’re not 
taking this seriously,” said Tonks, as she strapped 
Harry’s trunk and Hedwig’s cage into a harness 
hanging from her broom. 

“I’m just telling the boy the plan,” growled Moody. 
“Our job’s to deliver him safely to headquarters and if 
we die in the attempt — ” 



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“No one’s going to die,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt in 
his deep, calming voice. 

“Mount your brooms, that’s the first signal!” said 
Lupin sharply, pointing into the sky. 

Far, far above them, a shower of bright red sparks 
had flared among the stars. Harry recognized them at 
once as wand sparks. He swung his right leg over his 
Firebolt, gripped its handle tightly, and felt it 
vibrating very slightly, as though it was as keen as he 
was to be up in the air once more. 

“Second signal, let’s go!” said Lupin loudly, as more 
sparks, green this time, exploded high above them. 

Harry kicked off hard from the ground. The cool night 
air rushed through his hair as the neat square 
gardens of Privet Drive fell away, shrinking rapidly 
into a patchwork of dark greens and blacks, and 
every thought of the Ministry hearing was swept from 
his mind as though the rush of air had blown it out of 
his head. He felt as though his heart was going to 
explode with pleasure; he was flying again, flying 
away from Privet Drive as he’d been fantasizing about 
all summer, he was going home... For a few glorious 
moments, all his problems seemed to recede into 
nothing, insignificant in the vast, starry sky. 

“Hard left, hard left, there’s a Muggle looking up!” 
shouted Moody from behind him. Tonks swerved and 
Harry followed her, watching his trunk swinging 
wildly beneath her broom. “We need more height... 
Give it another quarter of a mile!” 

Harry’s eyes watered in the chill as they soared 
upward; he could see nothing below now but tiny 
pinpricks of light that were car headlights and 
streetlamps. Two of those tiny lights might belong to 

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Uncle Vernon’s car... The Dursleys would be heading 
back to their empty house right now, full of rage 
about the nonexistent lawn competition . . . and Harry 
laughed aloud at the thought, though his voice was 
drowned by the flapping of the others’ robes, the 
creaking of the harness holding his trunk and the 
cage, the whoosh of the wind in their ears as they 
sped through the air. He had not felt this alive in a 
month, or this happy... 

“Bearing south!” shouted Mad-Eye. “Town ahead!” 

They soared right, so that they did not pass directly 
over the glittering spiderweb of lights below. 

“Bear southeast and keep climbing, there’s some low 
cloud ahead we can lose ourselves in!” called Moody. 

“We’re not going through clouds!” shouted Tonks 
angrily. “We’ll get soaked, Mad-Eye!” 

Harry was relieved to hear her say this; his hands 
were growing numb on the Firebolt’s handle. He 
wished he had thought to put on a coat; he was 
starting to shiver. 

They altered their course every now and then 
according to Mad-Eye ’s instructions. Harry’s eyes 
were screwed up against the rush of icy wind that 
was starting to make his ears ache. He could 
remember being this cold on a broom only once 
before, during the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff 
in his third year, which had taken place in a storm. 
The guard around him was circling continuously like 
giant birds of prey. Harry lost track of time. He 
wondered how long they had been flying; it felt like an 
hour at least. 



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“Turning southwest!” yelled Moody. “We want to avoid 
the motorway!” 

Harry was now so chilled that he thought longingly 
for a moment of the snug, dry interiors of the cars 
streaming along below, then, even more longingly, of 
traveling by Floo powder; it might be uncomfortable to 
spin around in fireplaces but it was at least warm in 
the flames... Kingsley Shacklebolt swooped around 
him, bald pate and earring gleaming slightly in the 
moonlight... Now Emmeline Vance was on his right, 
her wand out, her head turning left and right . . . then 
she too swooped over him, to be replaced by Sturgis 
Podmore... 

“We ought to double back for a bit, just to make sure 
we’re not being followed!” Moody shouted. 

“ARE YOU MAD, MAD-EYE?” Tonks screamed from 
the front. “We’re all frozen to our brooms! If we keep 
going off course we’re not going to get there until next 
week! We’re nearly there now!” 

“Time to start the descent!” came Lupin’s voice. 
“Follow Tonks, Harry!” 

Harry followed Tonks into a dive. They were heading 
for the largest collection of lights he had yet seen, a 
huge, sprawling, crisscrossing mass, glittering in lines 
and grids, interspersed with patches of deepest black. 
Lower and lower they flew, until Harry could see 
individual headlights and streetlamps, chimneys, and 
television aerials. He wanted to reach the ground very 
much, though he felt sure that someone would have 
to unfreeze him from his broom. 

“Here we go!” called Tonks, and a few seconds later 
she had landed. 



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Harry touched down right behind her and 
dismounted on a patch of unkempt grass in the 
middle of a small square. Tonks was already 
unbuckling Harry’s trunk. Shivering, Harry looked 
around. The grimy fronts of the surrounding houses 
were not welcoming; some of them had broken 
windows, glimmering dully in the light from the 
street-lamps, paint was peeling from many of the 
doors, and heaps of rubbish lay outside several sets 
of front steps. 

“Where are we?” Harry asked, but Lupin said quietly, 
“In a minute.” 

Moody was rummaging in his cloak, his gnarled 
hands clumsy with cold. 

“Got it,” he muttered, raising what looked like a silver 
cigarette lighter into the air and clicking it. 

The nearest streetlamp went out with a pop. He 
clicked the un-lighter again; the next lamp went out. 
He kept clicking until every lamp in the square was 
extinguished and the only light in the square came 
from curtained windows and the sickle moon 
overhead. 

“Borrowed it from Dumbledore,” growled Moody, 
pocketing the Put-Outer. “That’ll take care of any 
Muggles looking out of the window, see? Now, come 
on, quick.” 

He took Harry by the arm and led him from the patch 
of grass, across the road, and onto the pavement. 
Lupin and Tonks followed, carrying Harry’s trunk 
between them, the rest of the guard, all with their 
wands out, flanking them. 



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The muffled pounding of a stereo was coming from an 
upper window in the nearest house. A pungent smell 
of rotting rubbish came from the pile of bulging bin- 
bags just inside the broken gate. 

“Here,” Moody muttered, thrusting a piece of 
parchment toward Harry’s Disillusioned hand and 
holding his lit wand close to it, so as to illuminate the 
writing. “Read quickly and memorize.” 

Harry looked down at the piece of paper. The narrow 
handwriting was vaguely familiar. It said: 

The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may he 
found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London. 



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NUMBER TWELVE, GRIMMAULD 
PLACE 

“What’s the Order of the — ?” Harry began. 

“Not here, boy!” snarled Moody. “Wait till we’re 
inside!” 

He pulled the piece of parchment out of Harry’s hand 
and set fire to it with his wand tip. As the message 
curled into flames and floated to the ground, Harry 
looked around at the houses again. They were 
standing outside number eleven; he looked to the left 
and saw number ten; to the right, however, was 
number thirteen. 

“But where’s — ?” 

“Think about what you’ve just memorized,” said Lupin 
quietly. 

Harry thought, and no sooner had he reached the 
part about number twelve, Grimmauld Place, than a 



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battered door emerged out of nowhere between 
numbers eleven and thirteen, followed swiftly by dirty 
walls and grimy windows. It was as though an extra 
house had inflated, pushing those on either side out 
of its way. Harry gaped at it. The stereo in number 
eleven thudded on. Apparently the Muggles inside 
hadn’t even felt anything. 

“Come on, hurry,” growled Moody, prodding Harry in 
the back. 

Harry walked up the worn stone steps, staring at the 
newly materialized door. Its black paint was shabby 
and scratched. The silver door knocker was in the 
form of a twisted serpent. There was no keyhole or 
letterbox. 

Lupin pulled out his wand and tapped the door once. 
Harry heard many loud, metallic clicks and what 
sounded like the clatter of a chain. The door creaked 
open. 

“Get in quick, Harry,” Lupin whispered. “But don’t go 
far inside and don’t touch anything.” 

Harry stepped over the threshold into the almost total 
darkness of the hall. He could smell damp, dust, and 
a sweetish, rotting smell; the place had the feeling of 
a derelict building. He looked over his shoulder and 
saw the others filing in behind him, Lupin and Tonks 
carrying his trunk and Hedwig’s cage. Moody was 
standing on the top step and releasing the balls of 
light the Put-Outer had stolen from the street-lamps; 
they flew back to their bulbs and the square beyond 
glowed momentarily with orange light before Moody 
limped inside and closed the front door, so that the 
darkness in the hall became complete. 

“Here — ” 

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He rapped Harry hard over the head with his wand; 
Harry felt as though something hot was trickling 
down his back this time and knew that the 
Disillusionment Charm must have lifted. 

“Now stay still, everyone, while I give us a bit of light 
in here,” Moody whispered. 

The others’ hushed voices were giving Harry an odd 
feeling of foreboding; it was as though they had just 
entered the house of a dying person. He heard a soft 
hissing noise and then old-fashioned gas lamps 
sputtered into life all along the walls, casting a 
flickering insubstantial light over the peeling 
wallpaper and threadbare carpet of a long, gloomy 
hallway, where a cobwebby chandelier glimmered 
overhead and age-blackened portraits hung crooked 
on the walls. Harry heard something scuttling behind 
the baseboard. Both the chandelier and the 
candelabra on a rickety table nearby were shaped like 
serpents. 

There were hurried footsteps and Ron’s mother, Mrs. 
Weasley, emerged from a door at the far end of the 
hall. She was beaming in welcome as she hurried 
toward them, though Harry noticed that she was 
rather thinner and paler than she had been last time 
he had seen her. 

“Oh, Harry, it’s lovely to see you!” she whispered, 
pulling him into a rib-cracking hug before holding 
him at arm’s length and examining him critically. 
“You’re looking peaky; you need feeding up, but you’ll 
have to wait a bit for dinner, I’m afraid...” 

She turned to the gang of wizards behind him and 
whispered urgently, “He’s just arrived, the meeting’s 
started...” 



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The wizards behind Harry all made noises of interest 
and excitement and began filing past Harry toward 
the door through which Mrs. Weasley had just come; 
Harry made to follow Lupin, but Mrs. Weasley held 
him back. 

“No, Harry, the meeting’s only for members of the 
Order. Ron and Hermione are upstairs, you can wait 
with them until the meeting’s over and then we’ll have 
dinner. And keep your voice down in the hall,” she 
added in an urgent whisper. 

“Why?” 

“I don’t want to wake anything up.” 

“What d’you — ?” 

“I’ll explain later, I’ve got to hurry, I’m supposed to be 
at the meeting — I’ll just show you where you’re 
sleeping.” 

Pressing her finger to her lips, she led him on tiptoes 
past a pair of long, moth-eaten curtains, behind 
which Harry supposed there must be another door, 
and after skirting a large umbrella stand that looked 
as though it had been made from a severed troll’s leg, 
they started up the dark staircase, passing a row of 
shrunken heads mounted on plaques on the wall. A 
closer look showed Harry that the heads belonged to 
house-elves. All of them had the same rather 
snoutlike nose. 

Harry’s bewilderment deepened with every step he 
took. What on earth were they doing in a house that 
looked as though it belonged to the Darkest of 
wizards? 

“Mrs. Weasley, why — ?” 

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“Ron and Hermione will explain everything, dear, I’ve 
really got to dash,” Mrs. Weasley whispered 
distractedly. “There” — they had reached the second 
landing — “you’re the door on the right. I’ll call you 
when it’s over.” 

And she hurried off downstairs again. 

Harry crossed the dingy landing, turned the bedroom 
doorknob, which was shaped like a serpent’s head, 
and opened the door. 

He caught a brief glimpse of a gloomy high-ceilinged, 
twin-bedded room, then there was a loud twittering 
noise, followed by an even louder shriek, and his 
vision was completely obscured by a large quantity of 
very bushy hair — Hermione had thrown herself onto 
him in a hug that nearly knocked him flat, while 
Ron’s tiny owl, Pigwidgeon, zoomed excitedly round 
and round their heads. 

“HARRY! Ron, he’s here, Harry’s here! We didn’t hear 
you arrive! Oh, how are you? Are you all right? Have 
you been furious with us? I bet you have, I know our 
letters were useless — but we couldn’t tell you 
anything, Dumbledore made us swear we wouldn’t, 
oh, we’ve got so much to tell you, and you’ve got to 
tell us — the dementors! When we heard — and that 
Ministry hearing — it’s just outrageous, I’ve looked it 
all up, they can’t expel you, they just can’t, there’s 
provision in the Decree for the Restriction of 
Underage Sorcery for the use of magic in life- 
threatening situations — ” 

“Let him breathe, Hermione,” said Ron, grinning, 
closing the door behind Harry. He seemed to have 
grown several more inches during their month apart, 
making him taller and more gangly looking than ever, 



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though the long nose, bright red hair, and freckles 
were the same. 

Hermione, still beaming, let go of Harry, but before 
she could say another word there was a soft 
whooshing sound and something white soared from 
the top of a dark wardrobe and landed gently on 
Harry’s shoulder. 

“Hedwig!” 

The snowy owl clicked her beak and nibbled his ear 
affectionately as Harry stroked her feathers. 

“She’s been in a right state,” said Ron. “Pecked us 
half to death when she brought your last letters, look 
at this — ” 

He showed Harry the index finger of his right hand, 
which sported a half-healed but clearly deep cut. 

“Oh yeah,” Harry said. “Sorry about that, but I 
wanted answers, you know...” 

“We wanted to give them to you, mate,” said Ron. 
“Hermione was going spare, she kept saying you’d do 
something stupid if you were stuck all on your own 
without news, but Dumbledore made us — ” 

“ — swear not to tell me,” said Harry. “Yeah, 
Hermione’s already said.” 

The warm glow that had flared inside him at the sight 
of his two best friends was extinguished as something 
icy flooded the pit of his stomach. All of a sudden — 
after yearning to see them for a solid month — he felt 
he would rather Ron and Hermione left him alone. 



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There was a strained silence in which Harry stroked 
Hedwig automatically, not looking at either of the 
others. 

“He seemed to think it was best,” said Hermione 
rather breathlessly. “Dumbledore, I mean.” 

“Right,” said Harry. He noticed that her hands too 
bore the marks of Hedwig’s beak and found that he 
was not at all sorry. 

“I think he thought you were safest with the Muggles 
— ” Ron began. 

“Yeah?” said Harry, raising his eyebrows. “Have either 
of you been attacked by dementors this summer?” 

“Well, no — but that’s why he’s had people from the 
Order of the Phoenix tailing you all the time — ” 

Harry felt a great jolt in his guts as though he had 
just missed a step going downstairs. So everyone had 
known he was being followed except him. 

“Didn’t work that well, though, did it?” said Harry, 
doing his utmost to keep his voice even. “Had to look 
after myself after all, didn’t I?” 

“He was so angry,” said Hermione in an almost 
awestruck voice. “Dumbledore. We saw him. When he 
found out Mundungus had left before his shift had 
ended. He was scary.” 

“Well, I’m glad he left,” Harry said coldly. “If he 
hadn’t, I wouldn’t have done magic and Dumbledore 
would probably have left me at Privet Drive all 
summer.” 



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“Aren’t you ... aren’t you worried about the Ministry of 
Magic hearing?” said Hermione quietly. 

“No,” Harry lied defiantly. He walked away from them, 
looking around, with Hedwig nestled contentedly on 
his shoulder, but this room was not likely to raise his 
spirits. It was dank and dark. A blank stretch of 
canvas in an ornate picture frame was all that 
relieved the bareness of the peeling walls and as 
Harry passed it he thought he heard someone lurking 
out of sight snigger. 

“So why’s Dumbledore been so keen to keep me in the 
dark?” Harry asked, still trying hard to keep his voice 
casual. “Did you — er — bother to ask him at all?” 

He glanced up just in time to see them exchanging a 
look that told him he was behaving just as they had 
feared he would. It did nothing to improve his temper. 

“We told Dumbledore we wanted to tell you what was 
going on,” said Ron. “We did, mate. But he’s really 
busy now, we’ve only seen him twice since we came 
here and he didn’t have much time, he just made us 
swear not to tell you important stuff when we wrote, 
he said the owls might be intercepted — ” 

“He could still’ve kept me informed if he’d wanted to,” 
Harry said shortly. “You’re not telling me he doesn’t 
know ways to send messages without owls.” 

Hermione glanced at Ron and then said, “I thought 
that too. But he didn’t want you to know anything.” 

“Maybe he thinks I can’t be trusted,” said Harry, 
watching their expressions. 

“Don’t be thick,” said Ron, looking highly 
disconcerted. 

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“Or that I can’t take care of myself — ” 



“Of course he doesn’t think that!” said Hermione 
anxiously. 

“So how come I have to stay at the Dursleys’ while 
you two get to join in everything that’s going on 
here?” said Harry, the words tumbling over one 
another in a rush, his voice growing louder with every 
word. “How come you two are allowed to know 
everything that’s going on — ?” 

“We’re not!” Ron interrupted. “Mum won’t let us near 
the meetings, she says we’re too young — ” 

But before he knew it, Harry was shouting. 

“SO YOU HAVEN’T BEEN IN THE MEETINGS, BIG 
DEAL! YOUVE STILL BEEN HERE, HAVEN T YOU? 
YOUVE STILL BEEN TOGETHER! ME, IVE BEEN 
STUCK AT THE DURSLEYS’ FOR A MONTH! AND IVE 
HANDLED MORE THAN YOU TWOVE EVER 
MANAGED AND DUMBLEDORE KNOWS IT — WHO 
SAVED THE SORCERER’S STONE? WHO GOT RID 
OF RIDDLE? WHO SAVED BOTH YOUR SKINS FROM 
THE DEMENTORS?” 

Every bitter and resentful thought that Harry had had 
in the past month was pouring out of him; his 
frustration at the lack of news, the hurt that they had 
all been together without him, his fury at being 
followed and not told about it: All the feelings he was 
half-ashamed of finally burst their boundaries. 

Hedwig took fright at the noise and soared off on top 
of the wardrobe again; Pigwidgeon twittered in alarm 
and zoomed even faster around their heads. 

“WHO HAD TO GET PAST DRAGONS AND SPHINXES 
AND EVERY OTHER FOUL THING LAST YEAR? WHO 

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SAW HIM COME BACK? WHO HAD TO ESCAPE 
FROM HIM? ME!” 



Ron was standing there with his mouth half-open, 
clearly stunned and at a loss for anything to say, 
while Hermione looked on the verge of tears. 

“BUT WHY SHOULD I KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON? 
WHY SHOULD ANYONE BOTHER TO TELL ME 
WHAT’S BEEN HAPPENING?” 



“Harry, we wanted to tell you, we really did — ” 
Hermione began. 



“CANTVE WANTED TO THAT MUCH, CAN YOU, OR 
YOU’D HAVE SENT ME AN OWL, BUT DUMBLEDORE 
MADE YOU SWEAR — ” 



“Well, he did — ” 

“FOUR WEEKS IVE BEEN STUCK IN PRIVET DRIVE, 
NICKING PAPERS OUT OF BINS TO TRY AND FIND 
OUT WHAT’S BEEN GOING ON — ” 



“We wanted to — ” 

“I SUPPOSE YOUVE BEEN HAVING A REAL LAUGH, 
HAVENT YOU, ALL HOLED UP HERE TOGETHER — ” 

“No, honest — ” 

“Harry, we’re really sorry!” said Hermione desperately, 
her eyes now sparkling with tears. “You’re absolutely 
right, Harry — I’d be furious if it was me!” 

Harry glared at her, still breathing deeply, then 
turned away from them again, pacing up and down. 
Hedwig hooted glumly from the top of the wardrobe. 



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There was a long pause, broken only by the mournful 
creak of the floorboards below Harry’s feet. 

“What is this place anyway?” he shot at Ron and 
Hermione. 

“Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix,” said Ron 
at once. 

“Is anyone going to bother telling me what the Order 
of the Phoenix — ?” 

“It’s a secret society,” said Hermione quickly. 
“Dumbledore’s in charge, he founded it. It’s the people 
who fought against You-Know-Who last time.” 

“Who’s in it?” said Harry, coming to a halt with his 
hands in his pockets. 

“Quite a few people — ” 

“ — we’ve met about twenty of them,” said Ron, “but 
we think there are more...” 

Harry glared at them. 

“ Well?” he demanded, looking from one to the other. 
“Er,” said Ron. “Well what?” 

“Voldemorti” said Harry furiously, and both Ron and 
Hermione winced. “What’s happening? What’s he up 
to? Where is he? What are we doing to stop him?” 

“We’ve told you, the Order don’t let us in on their 
meetings,” said Hermione nervously. “So we don’t 
know the details — but we’ve got a general idea — ” 
she added hastily, seeing the look on Harry’s face. 



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“Fred and George have invented Extendable Ears, 
see,” said Ron. “They’re really useful.” 



“Extendable — ?” 

“Ears, yeah. Only we’ve had to stop using them lately 
because Mum found out and went berserk. Fred and 
George had to hide them all to stop Mum binning 
them. But we got a good bit of use out of them before 
Mum realized what was going on. We know some of 
the Order are following known Death Eaters, keeping 
tabs on them, you know — ” 

“ — some of them are working on recruiting more 
people to the Order — ” said Hermione. 

“ — and some of them are standing guard over 
something,” said Ron. “They’re always talking about 
guard duty.” 

“Couldn’t have been me, could it?” said Harry 
sarcastically. 

“Oh yeah,” said Ron, with a look of dawning 
comprehension. 

Harry snorted. He walked around the room again, 
looking anywhere but at Ron and Hermione. “So what 
have you two been doing, if you’re not allowed in 
meetings?” he demanded. “You said you’d been busy.” 

“We have,” said Hermione quickly. “We’ve been 
decontaminating this house, it’s been empty for ages 
and stuff’s been breeding in here. We’ve managed to 
clean out the kitchen, most of the bedrooms, and I 
think we’re doing the drawing room tomo — AARGH!” 

With two loud cracks, Fred and George, Ron’s elder 
twin brothers, had materialized out of thin air in the 

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middle of the room. Pigwidgeon twittered more wildly 
than ever and zoomed off to join Hedwig on top of the 
wardrobe. 

“Stop doing that!” Hermione said weakly to the twins, 
who were as vividly red-haired as Ron, though 
stockier and slightly shorter. 

“Hello, Harry,” said George, beaming at him. “We 
thought we heard your dulcet tones.” 

“You don’t want to bottle up your anger like that, 
Harry, let it all out,” said Fred, also beaming. “There 
might be a couple of people fifty miles away who 
didn’t hear you.” 

“You two passed your Apparation tests, then?” asked 
Harry grumpily. 

“With distinction,” said Fred, who was holding what 
looked like a piece of very long, flesh-colored string. 

“It would have taken you about thirty seconds longer 
to walk down the stairs,” said Ron. 

“Time is Galleons, little brother,” said Fred. “Anyway, 
Harry, you’re interfering with reception. Extendable 
Ears,” he added in response to Harry’s raised 
eyebrows, holding up the string, which Harry now 
saw was trailing out onto the landing. “We’re trying to 
hear what’s going on downstairs.” 

“You want to be careful,” said Ron, staring at the ear. 
“If Mum sees one of them again ...” 

“It’s worth the risk, that’s a major meeting they’re 
having,” said Fred. 



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The door opened and a long mane of red hair 
appeared. 

“Oh hello, Harry!” said Ron’s younger sister, Ginny, 
brightly. “I thought I heard your voice.” 

Turning to Fred and George she said, “It’s no go with 
the Extendable Ears, she’s gone and put an 
Imperturbable Charm on the kitchen door.” 

“How d’you know?” said George, looking crestfallen. 

“Tonks told me how to find out,” said Ginny. “You just 
chuck stuff at the door and if it can’t make contact 
the door’s been Imperturbed. I’ve been flicking 
Dungbombs at it from the top of the stairs and they 
just soar away from it, so there’s no way the 
Extendable Ears will be able to get under the gap.” 

Fred heaved a deep sigh. “Shame. I really fancied 
finding out what old Snape’s been up to.” 

“Snape?” said Harry quickly. “Is he here?” 

“Yeah,” said George, carefully closing the door and 
sitting down on one of the beds; Fred and Ginny 
followed. “Giving a report. Top secret.” 

“Git,” said Fred idly. 

“He’s on our side now,” said Hermione reprovingly. 

Ron snorted. “Doesn’t stop him being a git. The way 
he looks at us when he sees us...” 

“Bill doesn’t like him either,” said Ginny, as though 
that settled the matter. 



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Harry was not sure his anger had abated yet; but his 
thirst for information was now overcoming his urge to 
keep shouting. He sank onto the bed opposite the 
others. 

“Is Bill here?” he asked. “I thought he was working in 
Egypt.” 

“He applied for a desk job so he could come home and 
work for the Order,” said Fred. “He says he misses the 
tombs, but,” he smirked, “there are compensations...” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“Remember old Fleur Delacour?” said George. “She’s 
got a job at Gringotts to eemprove ’er Eeenglish — ” 

“ — and Bill’s been giving her a lot of private lessons,” 
sniggered Fred. 

“Charlie’s in the Order too,” said George, “but he’s 
still in Romania, Dumbledore wants as many foreign 
wizards brought in as possible, so Charlie’s trying to 
make contacts on his days off.” 

“Couldn’t Percy do that?” Harry asked. The last he 
had heard, the third Weasley brother was working in 
the Department of International Magical Cooperation 
at the Ministry of Magic. 

At these words all the Weasleys and Hermione 
exchanged darkly significant looks. 

“Whatever you do, don’t mention Percy in front of 
Mum and Dad,” Ron told Harry in a tense voice. 

“Why not?” 



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“Because every time Percy’s name’s mentioned, Dad 
breaks whatever he’s holding and Mum starts crying,” 
Fred said. 

“It’s been awful,” said Ginny sadly. 

“I think we’re well shut of him,” said George with an 
uncharacteristically ugly look on his face. 

“What’s happened?” Harry said. 

“Percy and Dad had a row,” said Fred. “I’ve never seen 
Dad row with anyone like that. It’s normally Mum 
who shouts...” 

“It was the first week back after term ended,” said 
Ron. “We were about to come and join the Order. 
Percy came home and told us he’d been promoted.” 

“You’re kidding?” said Harry. 

Though he knew perfectly well that Percy was highly 
ambitious, Harry’s impression was that Percy had not 
made a great success of his first job at the Ministry of 
Magic. Percy had committed the fairly large oversight 
of failing to notice that his boss was being controlled 
by Lord Voldemort (not that the Ministry had believed 
that — they all thought that Mr. Crouch had gone 
mad). 

“Yeah, we were all surprised,” said George, “because 
Percy got into a load of trouble about Crouch, there 
was an inquiry and everything. They said Percy ought 
to have realized Crouch was off his rocker and 
informed a superior. But you know Percy, Crouch left 
him in charge, he wasn’t going to complain...” 

“So how come they promoted him?” 



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“That’s exactly what we wondered,” said Ron, who 
seemed very keen to keep normal conversation going 
now that Harry had stopped yelling. “He came home 
really pleased with himself — even more pleased than 
usual if you can imagine that — and told Dad he’d 
been offered a position in Fudge’s own office. A really 
good one for someone only a year out of Hogwarts — 
Junior Assistant to the Minister. He expected Dad to 
be all impressed, I think.” 

“Only Dad wasn’t,” said Fred grimly. 

“Why not?” said Harry. 

“Well, apparently Fudge has been storming round the 
Ministry checking that nobody’s having any contact 
with Dumbledore,” said George. 

“Dumbledore’s name’s mud with the Ministry these 
days, see,” said Fred. “They all think he’s just making 
trouble saying You-Know- Who’s back.” 

“Dad says Fudge has made it clear that anyone who’s 
in league with Dumbledore can clear out their desks,” 
said George. 

“Trouble is, Fudge suspects Dad, he knows he’s 
friendly with Dumbledore, and he’s always thought 
Dad’s a bit of a weirdo because of his Muggle 
obsession — ” 

“But what’s this got to do with Percy?” asked Harry, 
confused. 

“I’m coming to that. Dad reckons Fudge only wants 
Percy in his office because he wants to use him to spy 
on the family — and Dumbledore.” 



Harry let out a low whistle. 

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“Bet Percy loved that.” 

Ron laughed in a hollow sort of way. 

“He went completely berserk. He said — well, he said 
loads of terrible stuff. He said he’s been having to 
struggle against Dad’s lousy reputation ever since he 
joined the Ministry and that Dad’s got no ambition 
and that’s why we’ve always been — you know — not 
had a lot of money, I mean — ” 

“ What?” said Harry in disbelief, as Ginny made a 
noise like an angry cat. 

“I know,” said Ron in a low voice. “And it got worse. 

He said Dad was an idiot to run around with 
Dumbledore, that Dumbledore was heading for big 
trouble and Dad was going to go down with him, and 
that he — Percy — knew where his loyalty lay and it 
was with the Ministry. And if Mum and Dad were 
going to become traitors to the Ministry he was going 
to make sure everyone knew he didn’t belong to our 
family anymore. And he packed his bags the same 
night and left. He’s living here in London now.” 

Harry swore under his breath. He had always liked 
Percy least of Ron’s brothers, but he had never 
imagined he would say such things to Mr. Weasley. 

“Mum’s been in a right state,” said Ron. “You know — 
crying and stuff. She came up to London to try and 
talk to Percy but he slammed the door in her face. I 
dunno what he does if he meets Dad at work — 
ignores him, I s’pose.” 

“But Percy must know Voldemort’s back,” said Harry 
slowly. “He’s not stupid, he must know your mum 
and dad wouldn’t risk everything without proof — ” 



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“Yeah, well, your name got dragged into the row,” said 
Ron, shooting Harry a furtive look. “Percy said the 
only evidence was your word and ... I dunno ... he 
didn’t think it was good enough.” 

“Percy takes the Daily Prophet seriously,” said 
Hermione tartly, and the others all nodded. 

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked, looking 
around at them all. They were all regarding him 
warily. 

“Haven’t — haven’t you been getting the Daily 
Prophet?” Hermione asked nervously. 

“Yeah, I have!” said Harry. 

“Have you — er — been reading it thoroughly?” 
Hermione asked still more anxiously. 

“Not cover to cover,” said Harry defensively. “If they 
were going to report anything about Voldemort it 
would be headline news, wouldn’t it!” 

The others flinched at the sound of the name. 
Hermione hurried on, “Well, you’d need to read it 
cover to cover to pick it up, but they — um — they 
mention you a couple of times a week.” 

“But I’d have seen — ” 

“Not if you’ve only been reading the front page, you 
wouldn’t,” said Hermione, shaking her head. “I’m not 
talking about big articles. They just slip you in, like 
you’re a standing joke.” 

“What d’you — ?” 



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“It’s quite nasty, actually,” said Hermione in a voice of 
forced calm. “They’re just building on Rita’s stuff.” 

“But she’s not writing for them anymore, is she?” 

“Oh no, she’s kept her promise — not that she’s got 
any choice,” Hermione added with satisfaction. “But 
she laid the foundation for what they’re trying to do 
now.” 

“Which is what?” said Harry impatiently. 

“Okay, you know she wrote that you were collapsing 
all over the place and saying your scar was hurting 
and all that?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, who was not likely to forget Rita 
Skeeter’s stories about him in a hurry. 

“Well, they’re writing about you as though you’re this 
deluded, attention-seeking person who thinks he’s a 
great tragic hero or something,” said Hermione, very 
fast, as though it would be less unpleasant for Harry 
to hear these facts quickly. “They keep slipping in 
snide comments about you. If some far-fetched story 
appears they say something like ‘a tale worthy of 
Harry Potter’ and if anyone has a funny accident or 
anything it’s let’s hope he hasn’t got a scar on his 
forehead or we’ll be asked to worship him next — ’ ” 

“I don’t want anyone to worship — ” Harry began 
hotly. 

“I know you don’t,” said Hermione quickly, looking 
frightened. “I know, Harry. But you see what they’re 
doing? They want to turn you into someone nobody 
will believe. Fudge is behind it, I’ll bet anything. They 
want wizards on the street to think you’re just some 
stupid boy who’s a bit of a joke, who tells ridiculous 
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tall stories because he loves being famous and wants 
to keep it going.” 

“I didn’t ask — I didn’t want — Voldemort killed my 
parentsV’ Harry spluttered. “I got famous because he 
murdered my family but couldn’t kill me! Who wants 
to be famous for that? Don’t they think I’d rather it’d 
never — ” 

“We know, Harry,” said Ginny earnestly. 

“And of course, they didn’t report a word about the 
dementors attacking you,” said Hermione. “Someone’s 
told them to keep that quiet. That should’ve been a 
really big story, out-of-control dementors. They 
haven’t even reported that you broke the International 
Statute of Secrecy — we thought they would, it would 
tie in so well with this image of you as some stupid 
show-off — we think they’re biding their time until 
you’re expelled, then they’re really going to go to town 
— I mean, if you’re expelled, obviously,” she went on 
hastily, “you really shouldn’t be, not if they abide by 
their own laws, there’s no case against you.” 

They were back on the hearing and Harry did not 
want to think about it. He cast around for another 
change of subject, but was saved the necessity of 
finding one by the sound of footsteps coming up the 
stairs. 

“Uh-oh.” 

Fred gave the Extendable Ear a hearty tug; there was 
another loud crack and he and George vanished. 
Seconds later, Mrs. Weasley appeared in the bedroom 
doorway. 

“The meeting’s over, you can come down and have 
dinner now, everyone’s dying to see you, Harry. And 

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who’s left all those Dungbombs outside the kitchen 
door?” 



“Crookshanks,” said Ginny unblushingly. “He loves 
playing with them.” 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Weasley, “I thought it might have 
been Kreacher, he keeps doing odd things like that. 
Now don’t forget to keep your voices down in the hall. 
Ginny, your hands are filthy, what have you been 
doing? Go and wash them before dinner, please...” 

Ginny grimaced at the others and followed her mother 
out of the room, leaving Harry alone with Ron and 
Hermione again. Both of them were watching him 
apprehensively, as though they feared that he would 
start shouting again now that everyone else had gone. 
The sight of them looking so nervous made him feel 
slightly ashamed. 

“Look ...” he muttered, but Ron shook his head, and 
Hermione said quietly, “We knew you’d be angry, 
Harry, we really don’t blame you, but you’ve got to 
understand, we did try and persuade Dumbledore — ” 

“Yeah, I know,” said Harry grudgingly. 

He cast around for a topic to change the subject from 
Dumbledore — the very thought of him made Harry’s 
insides burn with anger again. 

“Who’s Kreacher?” he asked. 

“The house-elf who lives here,” said Ron. “Nutter. 
Never met one like him.” 

Hermione frowned at Ron. 

“He’s not a nutter, Ron — ” 

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“His life’s ambition is to have his head cut off and 
stuck up on a plaque just like his mother,” said Ron 
irritably. “Is that normal, Hermione?” 

“Well — well, if he is a bit strange, it’s not his fault — ” 

Ron rolled his eyes at Harry. 

“Hermione still hasn’t given up on spew — ” 

“It’s not ‘spew’!” said Hermione heatedly. “It’s the 
Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, and it’s 
not just me, Dumbledore says we should be kind to 
Kreacher too — ” 

“Yeah, yeah,” said Ron. “C’mon, I’m starving.” 

He led the way out of the door and onto the landing, 
but before they could descend the stairs — “Hold it!” 
Ron breathed, flinging out an arm to stop Harry and 
Hermione walking any farther. “They’re still in the 
hall, we might be able to hear something — ” 

The three of them looked cautiously over the 
banisters. The gloomy hallway below was packed with 
witches and wizards, including all of Harry’s guard. 
They were whispering excitedly together. In the very 
center of the group Harry saw the dark, greasy-haired 
head and prominent nose of his least favorite teacher 
at Hogwarts, Professor Snape. Harry leaned farther 
over the banisters. He was very interested in what 
Snape was doing for the Order of the Phoenix. . . 

A thin piece of flesh-colored string descended in front 
of Harry’s eyes. Looking up he saw Fred and George 
on the landing above, cautiously lowering the 
Extendable Ear toward the dark knot of people below. 
A moment later, however, they began to move toward 
the front door and out of sight. 

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“Dammit,” Harry heard Fred whisper, as he hoisted 
the Extendable Ear back up again. 

They heard the front door open and then close. 

“Snape never eats here,” Ron told Harry quietly. 
“Thank God. C’mon.” 

“And don’t forget to keep your voice down in the hall, 
Harry,” Hermione whispered. 

As they passed the row of house-elf heads on the wall 
they saw Lupin, Mrs. Weasley, and Tonks at the front 
door, magically sealing its many locks and bolts 
behind those who had just left. 

“We’re eating down in the kitchen,” Mrs. Weasley 
whispered, meeting them at the bottom of the stairs. 
“Harry, dear, if youll just tiptoe across the hall, it’s 
through this door here — ” 

CRASH. 

“Tonksl” cried Mrs. Weasley exasperatedly, turning to 
look behind her. 

“I’m sorry!” wailed Tonks, who was lying flat on the 
floor. “It’s that stupid umbrella stand, that’s the 
second time I’ve tripped over — ” 

But the rest of her words were drowned by a horrible, 
earsplitting, bloodcurdling screech. 

The moth-eaten velvet curtains Harry had passed 
earlier had flown apart, but there was no door behind 
them. For a split second, Harry thought he was 
looking through a window, a window behind which an 
old woman in a black cap was screaming and 
screaming as though she was being tortured — then 
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he realized it was simply a life-size portrait, but the 
most realistic, and the most unpleasant, he had ever 
seen in his life. 

The old woman was drooling, her eyes were rolling, 
the yellowing skin of her face stretched taut as she 
screamed, and all along the hall behind them, the 
other portraits awoke and began to yell too, so that 
Harry actually screwed up his eyes at the noise and 
clapped his hands over his ears. 

Lupin and Mrs. Weasley darted forward and tried to 
tug the curtains shut over the old woman, but they 
would not close and she screeched louder than ever, 
brandishing clawed hands as though trying to tear at 
their faces. 

“Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! Half- 
breeds, mutants, freaks, begone from this place! How 
dare you befoul the house of my fathers — ” 

Tonks apologized over and over again, at the same 
time dragging the huge, heavy troll’s leg back off the 
floor. Mrs. Weasley abandoned the attempt to close 
the curtains and hurried up and down the hall, 
Stunning all the other portraits with her wand. Then 
a man with long black hair came charging out of a 
door facing Harry. 

“Shut up, you horrible old hag, shut UP!” he roared, 
seizing the curtain Mrs. Weasley had abandoned. 

The old woman’s face blanched. 

“Yooooul” she howled, her eyes popping at the sight of 
the man. “Blood traitor, abomination, shame of my 
fleshl” 



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“I said — shut — UP!” roared the man, and with a 
stupendous effort he and Lupin managed to force the 
curtains closed again. 

The old woman’s screeches died and an echoing 
silence fell. 

Panting slightly and sweeping his long dark hair out 
of his eyes, Harry’s godfather, Sirius, turned to face 
him. 

“Hello, Harry,” he said grimly, “I see you’ve met my 
mother.” 



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5 




THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX 

“Your — ?” 

“My dear old mum, yeah,” said Sirius. “We’ve been 
trying to get her down for a month but we think she 
put a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of the 
canvas. Let’s get downstairs, quick, before they all 
wake up again.” 

“But what’s a portrait of your mother doing here?” 
Harry asked, bewildered, as they went through the 
door from the hall and led the way down a flight of 
narrow stone steps, the others just behind them. 

“Hasn’t anyone told you? This was my parents’ 
house,” said Sirius. “But I’m the last Black left, so it’s 
mine now. I offered it to Dumbledore for headquarters 
— about the only useful thing I’ve been able to do.” 

Harry, who had expected a better welcome, noted how 
hard and bitter Sirius’s voice sounded. He followed 
his godfather to the bottom of the stairs and through 
a door leading into the basement kitchen. 

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It was scarcely less gloomy than the hall above, a 
cavernous room with rough stone walls. Most of the 
light was coming from a large fire at the far end of the 
room. A haze of pipe smoke hung in the air like battle 
fumes, through which loomed the menacing shapes of 
heavy iron pots and pans hanging from the dark 
ceiling. Many chairs had been crammed into the room 
for the meeting and a long wooden table stood in the 
middle of the room, littered with rolls of parchment, 
goblets, empty wine bottles, and a heap of what 
appeared to be rags. Mr. Weasley and his eldest son, 
Bill, were talking quietly with their heads together at 
the end of the table. 

Mrs. Weasley cleared her throat. Her husband, a thin, 
balding, red-haired man, who wore horn-rimmed 
glasses, looked around and jumped to his feet. 

“Harry!” Mr. Weasley said, hurrying forward to greet 
him and shaking his hand vigorously. “Good to see 
you!” 

Over his shoulder Harry saw Bill, who still wore his 
long hair in a ponytail, hastily rolling up the lengths 
of parchment left on the table. 

“Journey all right, Harry?” Bill called, trying to gather 
up twelve scrolls at once. “Mad-Eye didn’t make you 
come via Greenland, then?” 

“He tried,” said Tonks, striding over to help Bill and 
immediately sending a candle toppling onto the last 
piece of parchment. “Oh no — sorry — ” 

“Here, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley, sounding 
exasperated, and she repaired the parchment with a 
wave of her wand: In the flash of light caused by Mrs. 
Weasley’s charm, Harry caught a glimpse of what 
looked like the plan of a building. 

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Mrs. Weasley had seen him looking. She snatched the 
plan off the table and stuffed it into Bill’s heavily 
laden arms. 

“This sort of thing ought to be cleared away promptly 
at the end of meetings,” she snapped before sweeping 
off toward an ancient dresser from which she started 
unloading dinner plates. 

Bill took out his wand, muttered “Evanescol” and the 
scrolls vanished. 

“Sit down, Harry,” said Sirius. “You’ve met 
Mundungus, haven’t you?” 

The thing Harry had taken to be a pile of rags gave a 
prolonged, grunting snore and then jerked awake. 

“Some’n say m’ name?” Mundungus mumbled 
sleepily. “I ’gree with Sirius...” 

He raised a very grubby hand in the air as though 
voting, his droopy, bloodshot eyes unfocused. Ginny 
giggled. 

“The meeting’s over, Dung,” said Sirius, as they all sat 
down around him at the table. “Harry’s arrived.” 

“Eh?” said Mundungus, peering balefully at Harry 
through his matted ginger hair. “Blimey, so ’e ’as. 

Yeah ... you all right, ’arry?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. 

Mundungus fumbled nervously in his pockets, still 
staring at Harry, and pulled out a grimy black pipe. 

He stuck it in his mouth, ignited the end of it with his 
wand, and took a deep pull on it. Great billowing 
clouds of greenish smoke obscured him in seconds. 
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“Owe you a ’pology,” grunted a voice from the middle 
of the smelly cloud. 

“For the last time, Mundungus,” called Mrs. Weasley, 
“will you please not smoke that thing in the kitchen, 
especially not when we’re about to eat!” 

“Ah,” said Mundungus. “Right. Sorry, Molly.” 

The cloud of smoke vanished as Mundungus stowed 
his pipe back in his pocket, but an acrid smell of 
burning socks lingered. 

“And if you want dinner before midnight I’ll need a 
hand,” Mrs. Weasley said to the room at large. “No, 
you can stay where you are, Harry dear, you’ve had a 
long journey — ” 

“What can I do, Molly?” said Tonks enthusiastically, 
bounding forward. 

Mrs. Weasley hesitated, looking apprehensive. 

“Er — no, it’s all right, Tonks, you have a rest too, 
you’ve done enough today — ” 

“No, no, I want to help!” said Tonks brightly, knocking 
over a chair as she hurried toward the dresser from 
which Ginny was collecting cutlery. 

Soon a series of heavy knives were chopping meat 
and vegetables of their own accord, supervised by Mr. 
Weasley, while Mrs. Weasley stirred a cauldron 
dangling over the fire and the others took out plates, 
more goblets, and food from the pantry. Harry was 
left at the table with Sirius and Mundungus, who was 
still blinking mournfully at him. 

“Seen old Figgy since?” he asked. 

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“No,” said Harry, “I haven’t seen anyone.” 



“See, I wouldn’t ’ave left,” said Mundungus, leaning 
forward, a pleading note in his voice, “but I ’ad a 
business opportunity — ” 

Harry felt something brush against his knees and 
started, but it was only Crookshanks, Hermione’s 
bandy-legged ginger cat, who wound himself once 
around Harry’s legs, purring, then jumped onto 
Sirius’s lap and curled up. Sirius scratched him 
absentmindedly behind the ears as he turned, still 
grim-faced, to Harry. 

“Had a good summer so far?” 

“No, it’s been lousy,” said Harry. 

For the first time, something like a grin flitted across 
Sirius’s face. 

“Don’t know what you’re complaining about, myself.” 

“ What?” said Harry incredulously. 

“Personally, I’d have welcomed a dementor attack. A 
deadly struggle for my soul would have broken the 
monotony nicely. You think you’ve had it bad, at least 
you’ve been able to get out and about, stretch your 
legs, get into a few fights... I’ve been stuck inside for a 
month.” 

“How come?” asked Harry, frowning. 

“Because the Ministry of Magic’s still after me, and 
Voldemort will know all about me being an Animagus 
by now, Wormtail will have told him, so my big 
disguise is useless. There’s not much I can do for the 
Order of the Phoenix ... or so Dumbledore feels.” 

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There was something about the slightly flattened tone 
of voice in which Sirius uttered Dumbledore’s name 
that told Harry that Sirius was not very happy with 
the headmaster either. Harry felt a sudden upsurge of 
affection for his godfather. 

“At least you’ve known what’s been going on,” he said 
bracingly. 

“Oh yeah,” said Sirius sarcastically. “Listening to 
Snape’s reports, having to take all his snide hints that 
he’s out there risking his life while I’m sat on my 
backside here having a nice comfortable time . . . 
asking me how the cleaning’s going — ” 

“What cleaning?” asked Harry. 

“Trying to make this place fit for human habitation,” 
said Sirius, waving a hand around the dismal 
kitchen. “No one’s lived here for ten years, not since 
my dear mother died, unless you count her old 
house-elf, and he’s gone round the twist, hasn’t 
cleaned anything in ages — ” 

“Sirius?” said Mundungus, who did not appear to 
have paid any attention to this conversation, but had 
been minutely examining an empty goblet. “This solid 
silver, mate?” 

“Yes,” said Sirius, surveying it with distaste. “Finest 
fifteenth-century goblin-wrought silver, embossed 
with the Black family crest.” 

“That’d come off, though,” muttered Mundungus, 
polishing it with his cuff. 

“Fred — George — NO, JUST CARRY THEM!” Mrs. 
Weasley shrieked. 



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Harry, Sirius, and Mundungus looked around and, a 
split second later, dived away from the table. Fred 
and George had bewitched a large cauldron of stew, 
an iron flagon of butterbeer, and a heavy wooden 
breadboard, complete with knife, to hurtle through 
the air toward them. The stew skidded the length of 
the table and came to a halt just before the end, 
leaving a long black burn on the wooden surface, the 
flagon of butterbeer fell with a crash, spilling its 
contents everywhere, and the bread knife slipped off 
the board and landed, point down and quivering 
ominously, exactly where Sirius’s right hand had 
been seconds before. 

“FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!” screamed Mrs. Weasley. 
“THERE WAS NO NEED — IVE HAD ENOUGH OF 
THIS — JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE ALLOWED TO USE 
MAGIC NOW YOU DONT HAVE TO WHIP YOUR 
WANDS OUT FOR EVERY TINY LITTLE THING!” 

“We were just trying to save a bit of time!” said Fred, 
hurrying forward and wrenching the bread knife out 
of the table. “Sorry Sirius, mate — didn’t mean to — ” 

Harry and Sirius were both laughing. Mundungus, 
who had toppled backward off his chair, was swearing 
as he got to his feet. Crookshanks had given an angry 
hiss and shot off under the dresser, from whence his 
large yellow eyes glowed in the darkness. 

“Boys,” Mr. Weasley said, lifting the stew back into 
the middle of the table, “your mother’s right, you’re 
supposed to show a sense of responsibility now you’ve 
come of age — ” 

“ — none of your brothers caused this sort of trouble!” 
Mrs. Weasley raged at the twins, slamming a fresh 
flagon of butterbeer onto the table and spilling almost 
as much again. “Bill didn’t feel the need to Apparate 

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every few feet! Charlie didn’t Charm everything he 
met! Percy — ” 

She stopped dead, catching her breath with a 
frightened look at her husband, whose expression 
was suddenly wooden. 

“Let’s eat,” said Bill quickly. 

“It looks wonderful, Molly,” said Lupin, ladling stew 
onto a plate for her and handing it across the table. 

For a few minutes there was silence but for the chink 
of plates and cutlery and the scraping of chairs as 
everyone settled down to their food. Then Mrs. 

Weasley turned to Sirius and said, “I’ve been meaning 
to tell you, there’s something trapped in that writing 
desk in the drawing room, it keeps rattling and 
shaking. Of course, it could just be a boggart, but I 
thought we ought to ask Alastor to have a look at it 
before we let it out.” 

“Whatever you like,” said Sirius indifferently. 

“The curtains in there are full of doxies too,” Mrs. 
Weasley went on. “I thought we might try and tackle 
them tomorrow.” 

“I look forward to it,” said Sirius. Harry heard the 
sarcasm in his voice, but he was not sure that anyone 
else did. 

Opposite Harry, Tonks was entertaining Hermione 
and Ginny by transforming her nose between 
mouthfuls. Screwing up her eyes each time with the 
same pained expression she had worn back in Harry’s 
bedroom, her nose swelled to a beaklike protuberance 
like Snape’s, shrank to something resembling a 
button mushroom, and then sprouted a great deal of 
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hair from each nostril. Apparently this was a regular 
mealtime entertainment, because after a while 
Hermione and Ginny started requesting their favorite 
noses. 

“Do that one like a pig snout, Tonks ...” 

Tonks obliged, and Harry, looking up, had the fleeting 
impression that a female Dudley was grinning at him 
from across the table. 

Mr. Weasley, Bill, and Lupin were having an intense 
discussion about goblins. 

“They’re not giving anything away yet,” said Bill. “I 
still can’t work out whether they believe he’s back or 
not. ’Course, they might prefer not to take sides at all. 
Keep out of it.” 

“I’m sure they’d never go over to You-Know-Who,” 
said Mr. Weasley, shaking his head. “They’ve suffered 
losses too. Remember that goblin family he murdered 
last time, somewhere near Nottingham?” 

“I think it depends what they’re offered,” said Lupin. 
“And I’m not talking about gold; if they’re offered 
freedoms we’ve been denying them for centuries 
they’re going to be tempted. Have you still not had 
any luck with Ragnok, Bill?” 

“He’s feeling pretty anti-wizard at the moment,” said 
Bill. “He hasn’t stopped raging about the Bagman 
business, he reckons the Ministry did a cover-up, 
those goblins never got their gold from him, you know 



A gale of laughter from the middle of the table 
drowned the rest of Bill’s words. Fred, George, Ron, 
and Mundungus were rolling around in their seats. 

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"... and then,” choked Mundungus, tears running 
down his face, “and then, if you’ll believe it, ’e says to 
me, ’e says, ‘’ere, Dung, where didja get all them toads 
from? ’Cos some son of a Bludger’s gone and nicked 
all mine!’ And I says, ‘Nicked all your toads, Will, 
what next? So you’ll be wanting some more, then?’ 
And if you’ll believe me, lads, the gormless gargoyle 
buys all ’is own toads back orf me for twice what ’e 
paid in the first place — ■” 

“I don’t think we need to hear any more of your 
business dealings, thank you very much, 
Mundungus,” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, as Ron 
slumped forward onto the table, howling with 
laughter. 

“Beg pardon, Molly,” said Mundungus at once, wiping 
his eyes and winking at Harry. “But, you know, Will 
nicked ’em orf Warty Harris in the first place so I 
wasn’t really doing nothing wrong — ” 

“I don’t know where you learned about right and 
wrong, Mundungus, but you seem to have missed a 
few crucial lessons,” said Mrs. Weasley coldly. 

Fred and George buried their faces in their goblets of 
butterbeer; George was hiccuping. For some reason, 
Mrs. Weasley threw a very nasty look at Sirius before 
getting to her feet and going to fetch a large rhubarb 
crumble for pudding. Harry looked round at his 
godfather. 

“Molly doesn’t approve of Mundungus,” said Sirius in 
an undertone. 

“How come he’s in the Order?” Harry said very 
quietly. 



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“He’s useful,” Sirius muttered. “Knows all the crooks 
— well, he would, seeing as he’s one himself. But he’s 
also very loyal to Dumbledore, who helped him out of 
a tight spot once. It pays to have someone like Dung 
around, he hears things we don’t. But Molly thinks 
inviting him to stay for dinner is going too far. She 
hasn’t forgiven him for slipping off duty when he was 
supposed to be tailing you.” 

Three helpings of rhubarb crumble and custard later 
and the waistband on Harry’s jeans was feeling 
uncomfortably tight (which was saying something, as 
the jeans had once been Dudley’s). He lay down his 
spoon in a lull in the general conversation. Mr. 
Weasley was leaning back in his chair, looking replete 
and relaxed, Tonks was yawning widely, her nose now 
back to normal, and Ginny, who had lured 
Crookshanks out from under the dresser, was sitting 
cross-legged on the floor, rolling butterbeer corks for 
him to chase. 

“Nearly time for bed, I think,” said Mrs. Weasley on a 
yawn. 

“Not just yet, Molly,” said Sirius, pushing away his 
empty plate and turning to look at Harry. “You know, 
I’m surprised at you. I thought the first thing you’d do 
when you got here would be to start asking questions 
about Voldemort.” 

The atmosphere in the room changed with the 
rapidity Harry associated with the arrival of 
dementors. Where seconds before it had been sleepily 
relaxed, it was now alert, even tense. A frisson had 
gone around the table at the mention of Voldemort’s 
name. Lupin, who had been about to take a sip of 
wine, lowered his goblet slowly, looking wary. 



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“I did!” said Harry indignantly. “I asked Ron and 
Hermione but they said we’re not allowed in the 
Order, so — ” 

“And they’re quite right,” said Mrs. Weasley. “You’re 
too young.” 

She was sitting bolt upright in her chair, her fists 
clenched upon its arms, every trace of drowsiness 
gone. 

“Since when did someone have to be in the Order of 
the Phoenix to ask questions?” asked Sirius. “Harry’s 
been trapped in that Muggle house for a month. He’s 
got the right to know what’s been happen — ” 

“Hang on!” interrupted George loudly. 

“How come Harry gets his questions answered?” said 
Fred angrily. 

“ We’ve been trying to get stuff out of you for a month 
and you haven’t told us a single stinking thing!” said 
George. 

“ ‘You’re too young, you’re not in the Order,’ ” said 
Fred, in a high-pitched voice that sounded uncannily 
like his mother’s. “Harry’s not even of age!” 

“It’s not my fault you haven’t been told what the 
Order’s doing,” said Sirius calmly. “That’s your 
parents’ decision. Harry, on the other hand — ” 

“It’s not down to you to decide what’s good for Harry!” 
said Mrs. Weasley sharply. Her normally kindly face 
looked dangerous. “You haven’t forgotten what 
Dumbledore said, I suppose?” 



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“Which bit?” Sirius asked politely, but with an air as 
though readying himself for a fight. 

“The bit about not telling Harry more than he needs 
to know,” said Mrs. Weasley, placing a heavy 
emphasis on the last three words. 

Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George’s heads turned from 
Sirius to Mrs. Weasley as though following a tennis 
rally. Ginny was kneeling amid a pile of abandoned 
butterbeer corks, watching the conversation with her 
mouth slightly open. Lupin’s eyes were fixed on 
Sirius. 

“I don’t intend to tell him more than he needs to 
know, Molly,” said Sirius. “But as he was the one who 
saw Voldemort come back” (again, there was a 
collective shudder around the table at the name), “he 
has more right than most to — ” 

“He’s not a member of the Order of the Phoenix!” said 
Mrs. Weasley. “He’s only fifteen and — ” 

“ — and he’s dealt with as much as most in the 
Order,” said Sirius, “and more than some — ” 

“No one’s denying what he’s done!” said Mrs. Weasley, 
her voice rising, her fists trembling on the arms of her 
chair. “But he’s still — ” 

“He’s not a child!” said Sirius impatiently. 

“He’s not an adult either!” said Mrs. Weasley, the 
color rising in her cheeks. “He’s not James, Sirius!” 

“I’m perfectly clear who he is, thanks, Molly,” said 
Sirius coldly. 



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‘Tm not sure you are!” said Mrs. Weasley. 

“Sometimes, the way you talk about him, it’s as 
though you think you’ve got your best friend back!” 

“What’s wrong with that?” said Harry. 

“What’s wrong, Harry, is that you are not your father, 
however much you might look like him!” said Mrs. 
Weasley, her eyes still boring into Sirius. “You are still 
at school and adults responsible for you should not 
forget it!” 

“Meaning I’m an irresponsible godfather?” demanded 
Sirius, his voice rising. 

“Meaning you’ve been known to act rashly, Sirius, 
which is why Dumbledore keeps reminding you to 
stay at home and — ” 

“We’ll leave my instructions from Dumbledore out of 
this, if you please!” said Sirius loudly. 

“Arthur!” said Mrs. Weasley, rounding on her 
husband. “Arthur, back me up!” 

Mr. Weasley did not speak at once. He took off his 
glasses and cleaned them slowly on his robes, not 
looking at his wife. Only when he had replaced them 
carefully on his nose did he say, “Dumbledore knows 
the position has changed, Molly. He accepts that 
Harry will have to be filled in to a certain extent now 
that he is staying at headquarters — ” 

“Yes, but there’s a difference between that and 
inviting him to ask whatever he likes!” 

“Personally,” said Lupin quietly, looking away from 
Sirius at last, as Mrs. Weasley turned quickly to him, 
hopeful that finally she was about to get an ally, “I 

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think it better that Harry gets the facts — not all the 
facts, Molly, but the general picture — from us, rather 
than a garbled version from ... others.” 

His expression was mild, but Harry felt sure that 
Lupin, at least, knew that some Extendable Ears had 
survived Mrs. Weasley’s purge. 

“Well,” said Mrs. Weasley, breathing deeply and 
looking around the table for support that did not 
come, “well ... I can see I’m going to be overruled. I’ll 
just say this: Dumbledore must have had his reasons 
for not wanting Harry to know too much, and 
speaking as someone who has got Harry’s best 
interests at heart — ” 

“He’s not your son,” said Sirius quietly. 

“He’s as good as,” said Mrs. Weasley fiercely. “Who 
else has he got?” 

“He’s got me!” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Weasley, her lip curling. “The thing 
is, it’s been rather difficult for you to look after him 
while you’ve been locked up in Azkaban, hasn’t it?” 

Sirius started to rise from his chair. 

“Molly, you’re not the only person at this table who 
cares about Harry,” said Lupin sharply. “Sirius, sit 
down.” 

Mrs. Weasley’s lower lip was trembling. Sirius sank 
slowly back into his chair, his face white. 

“I think Harry ought to be allowed a say in this,” 

Lupin continued. “He’s old enough to decide for 
himself.” 

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“I want to know what’s been going on,” Harry said at 
once. 

He did not look at Mrs. Weasley. He had been touched 
by what she had said about his being as good as a 
son, but he was also impatient at her mollycoddling. . . 
Sirius was right, he was not a child. 

“Very well,” said Mrs. Weasley, her voice cracking. 
“Ginny — Ron — Hermione — Fred — George — I 
want you out of this kitchen, now.” 

There was instant uproar. 

“We’re of age!” Fred and George bellowed together. 

“If Harry’s allowed, why can’t I?” shouted Ron. 

“Mum, I want to!” wailed Ginny. 

“NO!” shouted Mrs. Weasley, standing up, her eyes 
overbright. “I absolutely forbid — ” 

“Molly, you can’t stop Fred and George,” said Mr. 
Weasley wearily. “They are of age — ” 

“They’re still at school — ” 

“But they’re legally adults now,” said Mr. Weasley in 
the same tired voice. 

Mrs. Weasley was now scarlet in the face. 

“I — oh, all right then, Fred and George can stay, but 
Ron — ” 

“Harry’ll tell me and Hermione everything you say 
anyway!” said Ron hotly. “Won’t — won’t you?” he 
added uncertainly, meeting Harry’s eyes. 

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For a split second, Harry considered telling Ron that 
he wouldn’t tell him a single word, that he could try a 
taste of being kept in the dark and see how he liked 
it. But the nasty impulse vanished as they looked at 
each other. 

“ ’Course I will,” Harry said. Ron and Hermione 
beamed. 

“Fine!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “Fine! Ginny — BED!” 

Ginny did not go quietly. They could hear her raging 
and storming at her mother all the way up the stairs, 
and when she reached the hall Mrs. Black’s 
earsplitting shrieks were added to the din. Lupin 
hurried off to the portrait to restore calm. It was only 
after he had returned, closing the kitchen door 
behind him and taking his seat at the table again, 
that Sirius spoke. 

“Okay, Harry ... what do you want to know?” 

Harry took a deep breath and asked the question that 
had been obsessing him for a month. 

“Where’s Voldemort? What’s he doing? I’ve been trying 
to watch the Muggle news,” he said, ignoring the 
renewed shudders and winces at the name, “and 
there hasn’t been anything that looks like him yet, no 
funny deaths or anything — ” 

“That’s because there haven’t been any suspicious 
deaths yet,” said Sirius, “not as far as we know, 
anyway... And we know quite a lot.” 

“More than he thinks we do anyway,” said Lupin. 



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“How come he’s stopped killing people?” Harry asked. 
He knew that Voldemort had murdered more than 
once in the last year alone. 

“Because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself 
at the moment,” said Sirius. “It would be dangerous 
for him. His comeback didn’t come off quite the way 
he wanted it to, you see. He messed it up.” 

“Or rather, you messed it up for him,” said Lupin with 
a satisfied smile. 

“How?” Harry asked perplexedly. 

“You weren’t supposed to survive!” said Sirius. 
“Nobody apart from his Death Eaters was supposed to 
know he’d come back. But you survived to bear 
witness.” 

“And the very last person he wanted alerted to his 
return the moment he got back was Dumbledore,” 
said Lupin. “And you made sure Dumbledore knew at 
once.” 

“How has that helped?” Harry asked. 

“Are you kidding?” said Bill incredulously. 
“Dumbledore was the only one You-Know-Who was 
ever scared of!” 

“Thanks to you, Dumbledore was able to recall the 
Order of the Phoenix about an hour after Voldemort 
returned,” said Sirius. 

“So what’s the Order been doing?” said Harry, looking 
around at them all. 

“Working as hard as we can to make sure Voldemort 
can’t carry out his plans,” said Sirius. 

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“How d’you know what his plans are?” Harry asked 
quickly. 



“Dumbledore’s got a shrewd idea,” said Lupin, “and 
Dumbledore’s shrewd ideas normally turn out to be 
accurate.” 

“So what does Dumbledore reckon he’s planning?” 

“Well, firstly, he wants to build up his army again,” 
said Sirius. “In the old days he had huge numbers at 
his command; witches and wizards he’d bullied or 
bewitched into following him, his faithful Death 
Eaters, a great variety of Dark creatures. You heard 
him planning to recruit the giants; well, they’ll be just 
one group he’s after. He’s certainly not going to try 
and take on the Ministry of Magic with only a dozen 
Death Eaters.” 

“So you’re trying to stop him getting more followers?” 
“We’re doing our best,” said Lupin. 

“How?” 

“Well, the main thing is to try and convince as many 
people as possible that You-Know-Who really has 
returned, to put them on their guard,” said Bill. “It’s 
proving tricky, though.” 

“Why?” 

“Because of the Ministry’s attitude,” said Tonks. “You 
saw Cornelius Fudge after You-Know-Who came back, 
Harry. Well, he hasn’t shifted his position at all. He’s 
absolutely refusing to believe it’s happened.” 

“But why?” said Harry desperately. “Why’s he being 
so stupid? If Dumbledore — ” 

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“Ah, well, you’ve put your finger on the problem,” said 
Mr. Weasley with a wry smile. “Dumbledore.” 

“Fudge is frightened of him, you see,” said Tonks 
sadly. 

“Frightened of Dumbledore?” said Harry 
incredulously. 

“Frightened of what he’s up to,” said Mr. Weasley. 
“You see, Fudge thinks Dumbledore’s plotting to 
overthrow him. He thinks Dumbledore wants to be 
Minister of Magic.” 

“But Dumbledore doesn’t want — ” 

“Of course he doesn’t,” said Mr. Weasley. “He’s never 
wanted the Minister’s job, even though a lot of people 
wanted him to take it when Millicent Bagnold retired. 
Fudge came to power instead, but he’s never quite 
forgotten how much popular support Dumbledore 
had, even though Dumbledore never applied for the 
job.” 

“Deep down, Fudge knows Dumbledore’s much 
cleverer than he is, a much more powerful wizard, 
and in the early days of his Ministry he was forever 
asking Dumbledore for help and advice,” said Lupin. 
“But it seems that he’s become fond of power now, 
and much more confident. He loves being Minister of 
Magic, and he’s managed to convince himself that 
he’s the clever one and Dumbledore’s simply stirring 
up trouble for the sake of it.” 

“How can he think that?” said Harry angrily. “How 
can he think Dumbledore would just make it all up — 
that I’d make it all up?” 



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“Because accepting that Voldemort’s back would 
mean trouble like the Ministry hasn’t had to cope 
with for nearly fourteen years,” said Sirius bitterly. 
“Fudge just can’t bring himself to face it. It’s so much 
more comfortable to convince himself Dumbledore’s 
lying to destabilize him.” 

“You see the problem,” said Lupin. “While the 
Ministry insists there is nothing to fear from 
Voldemort, it’s hard to convince people he’s back, 
especially as they really don’t want to believe it in the 
first place. What’s more, the Ministry’s leaning heavily 
on the Daily Prophet not to report any of what they’re 
calling Dumbledore’s rumormongering, so most of the 
Wizarding community are completely unaware 
anything’s happened, and that makes them easy 
targets for the Death Eaters if they’re using the 
Imperius Curse.” 

“But you’re telling people, aren’t you?” said Harry, 
looking around at Mr. Weasley, Sirius, Bill, 
Mundungus, Lupin, and Tonks. “You’re letting people 
know he’s back?” 

They all smiled humorlessly. 

“Well, as everyone thinks I’m a mad mass murderer 
and the Ministry’s put a ten-thousand-Galleon price 
on my head, I can hardly stroll up the street and start 
handing out leaflets, can I?” said Sirius restlessly. 

“And I’m not a very popular dinner guest with most of 
the community,” said Lupin. “It’s an occupational 
hazard of being a werewolf.” 

“Tonks and Arthur would lose their jobs at the 
Ministry if they started shooting their mouths off,” 
said Sirius, “and it’s very important for us to have 



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spies inside the Ministry, because you can bet 
Voldemort will have them.” 

“We’ve managed to convince a couple of people, 
though,” said Mr. Weasley. “Tonks here, for one — 
she’s too young to have been in the Order of the 
Phoenix last time, and having Aurors on our side is a 
huge advantage — Kingsley Shacklebolt’s been a real 
asset too. He’s in charge of the hunt for Sirius, so he’s 
been feeding the Ministry information that Sirius is in 
Tibet.” 

“But if none of you’s putting the news out that 
Voldemort ’s back — ” Harry began. 

“Who said none of us was putting the news out?” said 
Sirius. “Why d’you think Dumbledore’s in such 
trouble?” 

“What d’you mean?” Harry asked. 

“They’re trying to discredit him,” said Lupin. “Didn’t 
you see the Daily Prophet last week? They reported 
that he’d been voted out of the Chairmanship of the 
International Confederation of Wizards because he’s 
getting old and losing his grip, but it’s not true, he 
was voted out by Ministry wizards after he made a 
speech announcing Voldemort’s return. They’ve 
demoted him from Chief Warlock on the Wizengamot 
— that’s the Wizard High Court — and they’re talking 
about taking away his Order of Merlin, First Class, 
too.” 

“But Dumbledore says he doesn’t care what they do 
as long as they don’t take him off the Chocolate Frog 
cards,” said Bill, grinning. 

“It’s no laughing matter,” said Mr. Weasley shortly. “If 
he carries on defying the Ministry like this, he could 

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end up in Azkaban and the last thing we want is 
Dumbledore locked up. While You-Know-Who knows 
Dumbledore’s out there and wise to what he’s up to, 
he’s going to go cautiously for a while. If 
Dumbledore’s out of the way — well, You-Know-Who 
will have a clear field.” 

“But if Voldemort’s trying to recruit more Death 
Eaters, it’s bound to get out that he’s come back, isn’t 
it?” asked Harry desperately. 

“Voldemort doesn’t march up to people’s houses and 
bang on their front doors, Harry,” said Sirius. “He 
tricks, jinxes, and blackmails them. He’s well- 
practiced at operating in secrecy. In any case, 
gathering followers is only one thing he’s interested 
in, he’s got other plans too, plans he can put into 
operation very quietly indeed, and he’s concentrating 
on them at the moment.” 

“What’s he after apart from followers?” Harry asked 
swiftly. 

He thought he saw Sirius and Lupin exchange the 
most fleeting of looks before Sirius said, “Stuff he can 
only get by stealth.” 

When Harry continued to look puzzled, Sirius said, 
“Like a weapon. Something he didn’t have last time.” 

“When he was powerful before?” 

“Yes.” 

“Like what kind of weapon?” said Harry. “Something 
worse than the Avada Kedavra — ?” 

“That’s enough.” 



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Mrs. Weasley spoke from the shadows beside the 
door. Harry had not noticed her return from taking 
Ginny upstairs. Her arms were crossed and she 
looked furious. 

“I want you in bed, now. All of you,” she added, 
looking around at Fred, George, Ron, and Hermione. 

“You can’t boss us — ” Fred began. 

“Watch me,” snarled Mrs. Weasley. She was trembling 
slightly as she looked at Sirius. “You’ve given Harry 
plenty of information. Any more and you might just 
as well induct him into the Order straightaway.” 

“Why not?” said Harry quickly. “I’ll join, I want to join, 
I want to fight — ” 

“No.” 

It was not Mrs. Weasley who spoke this time, but 
Lupin. 

“The Order is comprised only of overage wizards,” he 
said. “Wizards who have left school,” he added, as 
Fred and George opened their mouths. “There are 
dangers involved of which you can have no idea, any 
of you ... I think Molly’s right, Sirius. We’ve said 
enough.” 

Sirius half-shrugged but did not argue. Mrs. Weasley 
beckoned imperiously to her sons and Hermione. One 
by one they stood up and Harry, recognizing defeat, 
followed suit. 



Page | 126Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 







THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT 
HOUSE OF BLACK 

Mrs. Weasley followed them upstairs looking grim. 

“I want you all to go straight to bed, no talking,” she 
said as they reached the first landing. “We’ve got a 
busy day tomorrow. I expect Ginny’s asleep,” she 
added to Hermione, “so try not to wake her up.” 

“Asleep, yeah, right,” said Fred in an undertone, after 
Hermione bade them good night and they were 
climbing to the next floor. “If Ginny’s not lying awake 
waiting for Hermione to tell her everything they said 
downstairs, then I’m a flobberworm...” 

“All right, Ron, Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley on the 
second landing, pointing them into their bedroom. 

“Off to bed with you.” 

“ ’Night,” Harry and Ron said to the twins. 

“Sleep tight,” said Fred, winking. 

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Mrs. Weasley closed the door behind Harry with a 
sharp snap. The bedroom looked, if anything, even 
danker and gloomier than it had on first sight. The 
blank picture on the wall was now breathing very 
slowly and deeply, as though its invisible occupant 
was asleep. Harry put on his pajamas, took off his 
glasses, and climbed into his chilly bed while Ron 
threw Owl Treats up on top of the wardrobe to pacify 
Hedwig and Pigwidgeon, who were clattering around 
and rustling their wings restlessly. 

“We can’t let them out to hunt every night,” Ron 
explained as he pulled on his maroon pajamas. 
“Dumbledore doesn’t want too many owls swooping 
around the square, thinks it’ll look suspicious. Oh 
yeah ... I forgot...” 

He crossed to the door and bolted it. 

“What ’re you doing that for?” 

“Kreacher,” said Ron as he turned off the light. “First 
night I was here he came wandering in at three in the 
morning. Trust me, you don’t want to wake up and 
find him prowling around your room. Anyway ...” He 
got into his bed, settled down under the covers, then 
turned to look at Harry in the darkness. Harry could 
see his outline by the moonlight filtering in through 
the grimy window. “What d’you reckon?” 

Harry didn’t need to ask what Ron meant. 

“Well, they didn’t tell us much we couldn’t have 
guessed, did they?” he said, thinking of all that had 
been said downstairs. “I mean, all they’ve really said 
is that the Order’s trying to stop people joining Vol — ” 

There was a sharp intake of breath from Ron. 



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“ — demort” said Harry firmly. “When are you going to 
start using his name? Sirius and Lupin do.” 



Ron ignored this last comment. “Yeah, you’re right,” 
he said. “We already knew nearly everything they told 
us, from using the Extendable Ears. The only new bit 
was — ” 

Crack. 

“OUCH!” 

“Keep your voice down, Ron, or Mum’ll be back up 
here.” 

“You two just Apparated on my knees!” 

“Yeah, well, it’s harder in the dark — ” 

Harry saw the blurred outlines of Fred and George 
leaping down from Ron’s bed. There was a groan of 
bedsprings and Harry’s mattress descended a few 
inches as George sat down near his feet. 

“So, got there yet?” said George eagerly. 

“The weapon Sirius mentioned?” said Harry. 

“Let slip, more like,” said Fred with relish, now sitting 
next to Ron. “We didn’t hear about that on the old 
Extendables, did we?” 

“What d’you reckon it is?” said Harry. 

“Could be anything,” said Fred. 

“But there can’t be anything worse than the Avada 
Kedavra curse, can there?” said Ron. “What’s worse 
than death?” 

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“Maybe it’s something that can kill loads of people at 
once,” suggested George. 

“Maybe it’s some particularly painful way of killing 
people,” said Ron fearfully. 

“He’s got the Cruciatus Curse for causing pain,” said 
Harry. “He doesn’t need anything more efficient than 
that.” 

There was a pause and Harry knew that the others, 
like him, were wondering what horrors this weapon 
could perpetrate. 

“So who d’you thinks got it now?” asked George. 

“I hope it’s our side,” said Ron, sounding slightly 
nervous. 

“If it is, Dumbledore’s probably keeping it,” said Fred. 

“Where?” said Ron quickly. “Hogwarts?” 

“Bet it is!” said George. “That’s where he hid the 
Sorcerer’s Stone!” 

“A weapon’s going to be a lot bigger than the Stone, 
though!” said Ron. 

“Not necessarily,” said Fred. 

“Yeah, size is no guarantee of power,” said George. 
“Look at Ginny.” 

“What d’you mean?” said Harry. 

“You’ve never been on the receiving end of one of her 
Bat-Bogey Hexes, have you?” 



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“Shhh!” said Fred, half-rising from the bed. “Listen!” 



They fell silent. Footsteps were coming up the stairs 
again. 

“Mum,” said George, and without further ado there 
was a loud crack and Harry felt the weight vanish 
from the end of his bed. A few seconds later and they 
heard the floorboard creak outside their door; Mrs. 
Weasley was plainly listening to see whether they 
were talking or not. 

Hedwig and Pigwidgeon hooted dolefully. The 
floorboard creaked again and they heard her heading 
upstairs to check on Fred and George. 

“She doesn’t trust us at all, you know,” said Ron 
regretfully. 

Harry was sure he would not be able to fall asleep; 
the evening had been so packed with things to think 
about that he fully expected to lie awake for hours 
mulling it all over. He wanted to continue talking to 
Ron, but Mrs. Weasley was now creaking back 
downstairs again, and once she had gone he distinctly 
heard others making their way upstairs... In fact, 
many-legged creatures were cantering softly up and 
down outside the bedroom door, and Hagrid, the Care 
of Magical Creatures teacher, was saying, “Beauties, 
aren’ they, eh, Harry? We’ll be study in’ weapons this 
term...” And Harry saw that the creatures had 
cannons for heads and were wheeling to face him... 

He ducked... 

The next thing he knew, he was curled in a warm ball 
under his bedclothes, and George’s loud voice was 
filling the room. 



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“Mum says get up, your breakfast is in the kitchen 
and then she needs you in the drawing room, there 
are loads more doxies than she thought and she’s 
found a nest of dead puffskeins under the sofa.” 

Half an hour later, Harry and Ron, who had dressed 
and breakfasted quickly, entered the drawing room, a 
long, high-ceilinged room on the first floor with olive- 
green walls covered in dirty tapestries. The carpet 
exhaled little clouds of dust every time someone put 
their foot on it and the long, moss-green velvet 
curtains were buzzing as though swarming with 
invisible bees. It was around these that Mrs. Weasley, 
Hermione, Ginny, Fred, and George were grouped, all 
looking rather peculiar, as they had tied cloths over 
their noses and mouths. Each of them was also 
holding a large bottle of black liquid with a nozzle at 
the end. 

“Cover your faces and take a spray,” Mrs. Weasley 
said to Harry and Ron the moment she saw them, 
pointing to two more bottles of black liquid standing 
on a spindle-legged table. “It’s Doxycide. I’ve never 
seen an infestation this bad — what that house-elf’s 
been doing for the last ten years — ” 

Hermione ’s face was half concealed by a tea towel but 
Harry distinctly saw her throw a reproachful look at 
Mrs. Weasley at these words. 

“Kreacher’s really old, he probably couldn’t manage — 



“You’d be surprised what Kreacher can manage when 
he wants to, Hermione,” said Sirius, who had just 
entered the room carrying a bloodstained bag of what 
appeared to be dead rats. “I’ve just been feeding 
Buckbeak,” he added, in reply to Harry’s inquiring 



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look. “I keep him upstairs in my mother’s bedroom. 
Anyway ... this writing desk ...” 

He dropped the bag of rats onto an armchair, then 
bent over to examine the locked cabinet which, Harry 
now noticed for the first time, was shaking slightly. 

“Well, Molly, I’m pretty sure this is a boggart,” said 
Sirius, peering through the keyhole, “but perhaps we 
ought to let Mad-Eye have a shifty at it before we let it 
out — knowing my mother it could be something 
much worse.” 

“Right you are, Sirius,” said Mrs. Weasley. 

They were both speaking in carefully light, polite 
voices that told Harry quite plainly that neither had 
forgotten their disagreement of the night before. 

A loud, clanging bell sounded from downstairs, 
followed at once by the cacophony of screams and 
wails that had been triggered the previous night by 
Tonks knocking over the umbrella stand. 

“I keep telling them not to ring the doorbell!” said 
Sirius exasperatedly, hurrying back out of the room. 
They heard him thundering down the stairs as Mrs. 
Black’s screeches echoed up through the house once 
more: “Stains of dishonor, filthy half-breeds, blood 
traitors, children of filth ...” 

“Close the door, please, Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley. 

Harry took as much time as he dared to close the 
drawing room door; he wanted to listen to what was 
going on downstairs. Sirius had obviously managed to 
shut the curtains over his mother’s portrait because 
she had stopped screaming. He heard Sirius walking 
down the hall, then the clattering of the chain on the 
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front door, and then a deep voice he recognized as 
Kingsley Shacklebolt’s saying, “Hestia’s just relieved 
me, so she’s got Moody’s cloak now, thought I’d leave 
a report for Dumbledore...” 

Feeling Mrs. Weasley’s eyes on the back of his head, 
Harry regretfully closed the drawing room door and 
rejoined the doxy party. 

Mrs. Weasley was bending over to check the page on 
doxies in Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household 
Pests, which was lying open on the sofa. 

“Right, you lot, you need to be careful, because doxies 
bite and their teeth are poisonous. I’ve got a bottle of 
antidote here, but I’d rather nobody needed it.” 

She straightened up, positioned herself squarely in 
front of the curtains, and beckoned them all forward. 

“When I say the word, start spraying immediately,” 
she said. “They’ll come flying out at us, I expect, but it 
says on the sprays one good squirt will paralyze them. 
When they’re immobilized, just throw them in this 
bucket.” 

She stepped carefully out of their line of fire and 
raised her own spray. “All right — squirti” 

Harry had been spraying only a few seconds when a 
fully grown doxy came soaring out of a fold in the 
material, shiny beetlelike wings whirring, tiny needle- 
sharp teeth bared, its fairylike body covered with 
thick black hair and its four tiny fists clenched with 
fury. Harry caught it full in the face with a blast of 
Doxycide; it froze in midair and fell, with a 
surprisingly loud thunk, onto the worn carpet below. 
Harry picked it up and threw it in the bucket. 



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“Fred, what are you doing?” said Mrs. Weasley 
sharply. “Spray that at once and throw it away!” 

Harry looked around. Fred was holding a struggling 
doxy between his forefinger and thumb. 

“Right-o,” Fred said brightly, spraying the doxy 
quickly in the face so that it fainted, but the moment 
Mrs. Weasley’s back was turned he pocketed it with a 
wink. 

“We want to experiment with doxy venom for our 
Skiving Snack-boxes,” George told Harry under his 
breath. 

Deftly spraying two doxies at once as they soared 
straight for his nose, Harry moved closer to George 
and muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “What 
are Skiving Snackboxes?” 

“Range of sweets to make you ill,” George whispered, 
keeping a wary eye on Mrs. Weasley’s back. “Not 
seriously ill, mind, just ill enough to get you out of a 
class when you feel like it. Fred and I have been 
developing them this summer. They’re double-ended, 
color-coded chews. If you eat the orange half of the 
Puking Pastilles, you throw up. Moment you’ve been 
rushed out of the lesson for the hospital wing, you 
swallow the purple half — ” 

“ ‘ — which restores you to full fitness, enabling you to 
pursue the leisure activity of your own choice during 
an hour that would otherwise have been devoted to 
unprofitable boredom.’ That’s what we’re putting in 
the adverts, anyway,” whispered Fred, who had edged 
over out of Mrs. Weasley’s line of vision and was now 
sweeping a few stray doxies from the floor and adding 
them to his pocket. “But they still need a bit of work. 
At the moment our testers are having a bit of trouble 
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stopping puking long enough to swallow the purple 
end.” 



“Testers?” 

“Us,” said Fred. “We take it in turns. George did the 
Fainting Fancies — we both tried the Nosebleed 
Nougat — ” 

“Mum thought we’d been dueling,” said George. 

“Joke shop still on, then?” Harry muttered, 
pretending to be adjusting the nozzle on his spray. 

“Well, we haven’t had a chance to get premises yet,” 
said Fred, dropping his voice even lower as Mrs. 
Weasley mopped her brow with her scarf before 
returning to the attack, “so we’re running it as a mail- 
order service at the moment. We put advertisements 
in the Daily Prophet last week.” 

“All thanks to you, mate,” said George. “But don’t 
worry ... Mum hasn’t got a clue. She won’t read the 
Daily Prophet anymore, ’cause of it telling lies about 
you and Dumbledore.” 

Harry grinned. He had forced the Weasley twins to 
take the thousand-Galleon prize money he had won 
in the Triwizard Tournament to help them realize 
their ambition to open a joke shop, but he was still 
glad to know that his part in furthering their plans 
was unknown to Mrs. Weasley, who did not think that 
running a joke shop was a suitable career for two of 
her sons. 

The de-doxying of the curtains took most of the 
morning. It was past midday when Mrs. Weasley 
finally removed her protective scarf, sank into a 
sagging armchair, and sprang up again with a cry of 

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disgust, having sat on the bag of dead rats. The 
curtains were no longer buzzing; they hung limp and 
damp from the intensive spraying; unconscious 
doxies lay crammed in the bucket at the foot of them 
beside a bowl of their black eggs, at which 
Crookshanks was now sniffing and Fred and George 
were shooting covetous looks. 

“I think well tackle those after lunch.” 

Mrs. Weasley pointed at the dusty glass-fronted 
cabinets standing on either side of the mantelpiece. 
They were crammed with an odd assortment of 
objects: a selection of rusty daggers, claws, a coiled 
snakeskin, a number of tarnished silver boxes 
inscribed with languages Harry could not understand 
and, least pleasant of all, an ornate crystal bottle with 
a large opal set into the stopper, full of what Harry 
was quite sure was blood. 

The clanging doorbell rang again. Everyone looked at 
Mrs. Weasley. 

“Stay here,” she said firmly, snatching up the bag of 
rats as Mrs. Blacks screeches started up again from 
down below. “I’ll bring up some sandwiches.” 

She left the room, closing the door carefully behind 
her. At once, everyone dashed over to the window to 
look down onto the doorstep. They could see the top 
of an unkempt gingery head and a stack of 
precariously balanced cauldrons. 

“Mundungus!” said Hermione. “What’s he brought all 
those cauldrons for?” 

“Probably looking for a safe place to keep them,” said 
Harry. “Isn’t that what he was doing the night he was 



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supposed to be tailing me? Picking up dodgy 
cauldrons?” 



“Yeah, you’re right!” said Fred, as the front door 
opened; Mundungus heaved his cauldrons through it 
and disappeared from view. “Blimey, Mum won’t like 
that...” 

He and George crossed to the door and stood beside 
it, listening intently. Mrs. Black’s screaming had 
stopped again. 

“Mundungus is talking to Sirius and Kingsley,” Fred 
muttered, frowning with concentration. “Can’t hear 
properly ... d’you reckon we can risk the Extendable 
Ears?” 

“Might be worth it,” said George. “I could sneak 
upstairs and get a pair — ” 

But at that precise moment there was an explosion of 
sound from downstairs that rendered Extendable 
Ears quite unnecessary. All of them could hear 
exactly what Mrs. Weasley was shouting at the top of 
her voice. 

“WE ARE NOT RUNNING A HIDEOUT FOR STOLEN 
GOODS!” 

“I love hearing Mum shouting at someone else,” said 
Fred, with a satisfied smile on his face as he opened 
the door an inch or so to allow Mrs. Weasley ’s voice to 
permeate the room better. “It makes such a nice 
change.” 

COMPLETELY IRRESPONSIBLE, AS IF WE 
HAVENT GOT ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT 
WITHOUT YOU DRAGGING STOLEN CAULDRONS 
INTO THE HOUSE — ” 

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“The idiots are letting her get into her stride,” said 
George, shaking his head. “You’ve got to head her off 
early, otherwise she builds up a head of steam and 
goes on for hours. And she’s been dying to have a go 
at Mundungus ever since he sneaked off when he was 
supposed to be following you, Harry — and there goes 
Sirius’s mum again — ” 

Mrs. Weasley’s voice was lost amid fresh shrieks and 
screams from the portraits in the hall. George made 
to shut the door to drown the noise, but before he 
could do so, a house-elf edged into the room. 

Except for the filthy rag tied like a loincloth around 
its middle, it was completely naked. It looked very old. 
Its skin seemed to be several times too big for it and 
though it was bald like all house-elves, there was a 
quantity of white hair growing out of its large, batlike 
ears. Its eyes were a bloodshot and watery gray, and 
its fleshy nose was large and rather snoutlike. 

The elf took absolutely no notice of Harry and the 
rest. Acting as though it could not see them, it 
shuffled hunchbacked, slowly and doggedly, toward 
the far end of the room, muttering under its breath all 
the while in a hoarse, deep voice like a bullfrog’s, "... 
Smells like a drain and a criminal to boot, but she’s 
no better, nasty old blood traitor with her brats 
messing up my Mistress’s house, oh my poor 
Mistress, if she knew, if she knew the scum they’ve let 
in her house, what would she say to old Kreacher, oh 
the shame of it, Mudbloods and werewolves and 
traitors and thieves, poor old Kreacher, what can he 
do...” 

“Hello, Kreacher,” said Fred very loudly, closing the 
door with a snap. 



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The house-elf froze in his tracks, stopped muttering, 
and then gave a very pronounced and very 
unconvincing start of surprise. 

“Kreacher did not see Young Master,” he said, turning 
around and bowing to Fred. Still facing the carpet, he 
added, perfectly audibly, “Nasty little brat of a blood 
traitor it is.” 

“Sorry?” said George. “Didn’t catch that last bit.” 

“Kreacher said nothing,” said the elf, with a second 
bow to George, adding in a clear undertone, “and 
there’s its twin, unnatural little beasts they are.” 

Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or not. The elf 
straightened up, eyeing them all very malevolently, 
and apparently convinced that they could not hear 
him as he continued to mutter. 

"... and there’s the Mudblood, standing there bold as 
brass, oh if my Mistress knew, oh how she’d cry, and 
there’s a new boy, Kreacher doesn’t know his name, 
what is he doing here, Kreacher doesn’t know ...” 

“This is Harry, Kreacher,” said Hermione tentatively. 
“Harry Potter.” 

Kreacher’s pale eyes widened and he muttered faster 
and more furiously than ever. 

“The Mudblood is talking to Kreacher as though she 
is my friend, if Kreacher’s Mistress saw him in such 
company, oh what would she say — ” 

“Don’t call her a Mudblood!” said Ron and Ginny 
together, very angrily. 



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“It doesn’t matter,” Hermione whispered, “he’s not in 
his right mind, he doesn’t know what he’s — ” 

“Don’t kid yourself, Hermione, he knows exactly what 
he’s saying,” said Fred, eyeing Kreacher with great 
dislike. 

Kreacher was still muttering, his eyes on Harry. 

“Is it true? Is it Harry Potter? Kreacher can see the 
scar, it must be true, that’s that boy who stopped the 
Dark Lord, Kreacher wonders how he did it — ” 

“Don’t we all, Kreacher?” said Fred. 

“What do you want anyway?” George asked. 

Kreacher ’s huge eyes darted onto George. 

“Kreacher is cleaning,” he said evasively. 

“A likely story,” said a voice behind Harry. 

Sirius had come back; he was glowering at the elf 
from the doorway. The noise in the hall had abated; 
perhaps Mrs. Weasley and Mundungus had moved 
their argument down into the kitchen. At the sight of 
Sirius, Kreacher flung himself into a ridiculously low 
bow that flattened his snoutlike nose on the floor. 

“Stand up straight,” said Sirius impatiently. “Now, 
what are you up to?” 

“Kreacher is cleaning,” the elf repeated. “Kreacher 
lives to serve the noble house of Black — ” 

“ — and it’s getting blacker every day, it’s filthy,” said 
Sirius. 



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“Master always liked his little joke,” said Kreacher, 
bowing again, and continuing in an undertone, 
“Master was a nasty ungrateful swine who broke his 
mother’s heart — ” 

“My mother didn’t have a heart, Kreacher,” Sirius 
snapped. “She kept herself alive out of pure spite.” 

Kreacher bowed again and said, “Whatever Master 
says,” then muttered furiously, “Master is not fit to 
wipe slime from his mother’s boots, oh my poor 
Mistress, what would she say if she saw Kreacher 
serving him, how she hated him, what a 
disappointment he was — ” 

“I asked you what you were up to,” said Sirius coldly. 
“Every time you show up pretending to be cleaning, 
you sneak something off to your room so we can’t 
throw it out.” 

“Kreacher would never move anything from its proper 
place in Master’s house,” said the elf, then muttered 
very fast, “Mistress would never forgive Kreacher if 
the tapestry was thrown out, seven centuries it’s been 
in the family, Kreacher must save it, Kreacher will not 
let Master and the blood traitors and the brats 
destroy it — ” 

“I thought it might be that,” said Sirius, casting a 
disdainful look at the opposite wall. “She’ll have put 
another Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of it, 

I don’t doubt, but if I can get rid of it I certainly will. 
Now go away, Kreacher.” 

It seemed that Kreacher did not dare disobey a direct 
order; nevertheless, the look he gave Sirius as he 
shuffled out past him was redolent of deepest loathing 
and he muttered all the way out of the room. 



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“ — comes back from Azkaban ordering Kreacher 
around, oh my poor Mistress, what would she say if 
she saw the house now, scum living in it, her 
treasures thrown out, she swore he was no son of 
hers and he’s back, they say he’s a murderer too — ” 

“Keep muttering and I will be a murderer!” said Sirius 
irritably, and he slammed the door shut on the elf. 

“Sirius, he’s not right in the head,” said Hermione 
pleadingly, “I don’t think he realizes we can hear 
him.” 

“He’s been alone too long,” said Sirius, “taking mad 
orders from my mother’s portrait and talking to 
himself, but he was always a foul little — ” 

“If you just set him free,” said Hermione hopefully, 
“maybe — ” 

“We can’t set him free, he knows too much about the 
Order,” said Sirius curtly. “And anyway, the shock 
would kill him. You suggest to him that he leaves this 
house, see how he takes it.” 

Sirius walked across the room, where the tapestry 
Kreacher had been trying to protect hung the length 
of the wall. Harry and the others followed. 

The tapestry looked immensely old; it was faded and 
looked as though doxies had gnawed it in places; 
nevertheless, the golden thread with which it was 
embroidered still glinted brightly enough to show 
them a sprawling family tree dating back (as far as 
Harry could tell) to the Middle Ages. Large words at 
the very top of the tapestry read: 

THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK 



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“TOUJOURS PUR” 



“You’re not on here!” said Harry, after scanning the 
bottom of the tree. 

“I used to be there,” said Sirius, pointing at a small, 
round, charred hole in the tapestry, rather like a 
cigarette burn. “My sweet old mother blasted me off 
after I ran away from home — Kreacher’s quite fond of 
muttering the story under his breath.” 

“You ran away from home?” 

“When I was about sixteen,” said Sirius. “I’d had 
enough.” 

“Where did you go?” asked Harry, staring at him. 

“Your dad’s place,” said Sirius. “Your grandparents 
were really good about it; they sort of adopted me as a 
second son. Yeah, I camped out at your dad’s during 
the school holidays, and then when I was seventeen I 
got a place of my own, my Uncle Alphard had left me 
a decent bit of gold — he’s been wiped off here too, 
that’s probably why — anyway, after that I looked 
after myself. I was always welcome at Mr. and Mrs. 
Potter’s for Sunday lunch, though.” 

“But . . . why did you ... ?” 

“Leave?” Sirius smiled bitterly and ran a hand 
through his long, unkempt hair. “Because I hated the 
whole lot of them: my parents, with their pure-blood 
mania, convinced that to be a Black made you 
practically royal . . . my idiot brother, soft enough to 
believe them ... that’s him.” 



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Sirius jabbed a finger at the very bottom of the tree, 
at the name REGULUS BLACK. A date of death (some 
fifteen years previously) followed the date of birth. 

“He was younger than me,” said Sirius, “and a much 
better son, as I was constantly reminded.” 

“But he died,” said Harry. 

“Yeah,” said Sirius. “Stupid idiot ... he joined the 
Death Eaters.” 

“You’re kidding!” 

“Come on, Harry, haven’t you seen enough of this 
house to tell what kind of wizards my family were?” 
said Sirius testily. 

“Were — were your parents Death Eaters as well?” 

“No, no, but believe me, they thought Voldemort had 
the right idea, they were all for the purification of the 
Wizarding race, getting rid of Muggle-borns and 
having purebloods in charge. They weren’t alone 
either, there were quite a few people, before 
Voldemort showed his true colors, who thought he 
had the right idea about things... They got cold feet 
when they saw what he was prepared to do to get 
power, though. But I bet my parents thought Regulus 
was a right little hero for joining up at first.” 

“Was he killed by an Auror?” Harry asked tentatively. 

“Oh no,” said Sirius. “No, he was murdered by 
Voldemort. Or on Voldemort’s orders, more likely, I 
doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed 
by Voldemort in person. From what I found out after 
he died, he got in so far, then panicked about what he 
was being asked to do and tried to back out. Well, you 
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don’t just hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It’s 
a lifetime of service or death.” 

“Lunch,” said Mrs. Weasley’s voice. 

She was holding her wand high in front of her, 
balancing a huge tray loaded with sandwiches and 
cake on its tip. She was very red in the face and still 
looked angry. The others moved over to her, eager for 
some food, but Harry remained with Sirius, who had 
bent closer to the tapestry. 

“I haven’t looked at this for years. There’s Phineas 
Nigellus ... my great-great-grandfather, see? Least 
popular headmaster Hogwarts ever had . . . and 
Araminta Meliflua . . . cousin of my mother’s . . . tried to 
force through a Ministry Bill to make Muggle-hunting 
legal . . . and dear Aunt Elladora . . . she started the 
family tradition of beheading house-elves when they 
got too old to carry tea trays ... of course, anytime the 
family produced someone halfway decent they were 
disowned. I see Tonks isn’t on here. Maybe that’s why 
Kreacher won’t take orders from her — he’s supposed 
to do whatever anyone in the family asks him...” 

“You and Tonks are related?” Harry asked, surprised. 

“Oh yeah, her mother, Andromeda, was my favorite 
cousin,” said Sirius, examining the tapestry carefully. 
“No, Andromeda’s not on here either, look — ” 

He pointed to another small round burn mark 
between two names, Bellatrix and Narcissa. 

“Andromeda’s sisters are still here because they made 
lovely, respectable pure-blood marriages, but 
Andromeda married a Muggle-born, Ted Tonks, so — ” 



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Sirius mimed blasting the tapestry with a wand and 
laughed sourly. Harry, however, did not laugh; he was 
too busy staring at the names to the right of 
Andromeda’s burn mark. A double line of gold 
embroidery linked Narcissa Black with Lucius Malfoy, 
and a single vertical gold line from their names led to 
the name Draco. 

“You’re related to the Malfoys!” 

“The pure-blood families are all interrelated,” said 
Sirius. “If you’re only going to let your sons and 
daughters marry purebloods your choice is very 
limited, there are hardly any of us left. Molly and I are 
cousins by marriage and Arthur’s something like my 
second cousin once removed. But there’s no point 
looking for them on here — if ever a family was a 
bunch of blood traitors it’s the Weasleys.” 

But Harry was now looking at the name to the left of 
Andromeda’s burn: Bellatrix Black, which was 
connected by a double line to Rodolphus Lestrange. 

“Lestrange ...” Harry said aloud. The name had 
stirred something in his memory; he knew it from 
somewhere, but for a moment he couldn’t think 
where, though it gave him an odd, creeping sensation 
in the pit of his stomach. 

“They’re in Azkaban,” said Sirius shortly. 

Harry looked at him curiously. 

“Bellatrix and her husband Rodolphus came in with 
Barty Crouch, Junior,” said Sirius in the same 
brusque voice. “Rodolphus ’s brother, Rabastan, was 
with them too.” 



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And Harry remembered: He had seen Bellatrix 
Lestrange inside Dumbledore’s Pensieve, the strange 
device in which thoughts and memories could be 
stored: a tall dark woman with heavy-lidded eyes, 
who had stood at her trial and proclaimed her 
continuing allegiance to Lord Voldemort, her pride 
that she had tried to find him after his downfall and 
her conviction that she would one day be rewarded 
for her loyalty. 

“You never said she was your — ” 

“Does it matter if she’s my cousin?” snapped Sirius. 
“As far as I’m concerned, they’re not my family. She’s 
certainly not my family. I haven’t seen her since I was 
your age, unless you count a glimpse of her coming in 
to Azkaban. D’you think I’m proud of having relatives 
like her?” 

“Sorry,” said Harry quickly, “I didn’t mean — I was 
just surprised, that’s all — ” 

“It doesn’t matter, don’t apologize,” Sirius mumbled at 
once. He turned away from the tapestry, his hands 
deep in his pockets. “I don’t like being back here,” he 
said, staring across the drawing room. “I never 
thought I’d be stuck in this house again.” 

Harry understood completely. He knew how he would 
feel if forced, when he was grown up and thought he 
was free of the place forever, to return and live at 
number four, Privet Drive. 

“It’s ideal for headquarters, of course,” Sirius said. 

“My father put every security measure known to 
Wizard-kind on it when he lived here. It’s Unplottable, 
so Muggles could never come and call — as if they’d 
have wanted to — and now Dumbledore’s added his 
protection, you’d be hard put to find a safer house 
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anywhere. Dumbledore’s Secret-Keeper for the Order, 
you know — nobody can find headquarters unless he 
tells them personally where it is — that note Moody 
showed you last night, that was from Dumbledore...” 
Sirius gave a short, barklike laugh. “If my parents 
could see the use it was being put to now ... well, my 
mother’s portrait should give you some idea...” 

He scowled for a moment, then sighed. 

“I wouldn’t mind if I could just get out occasionally 
and do something useful. I’ve asked Dumbledore 
whether I can escort you to your hearing — as 
Snuffles, obviously — so I can give you a bit of moral 
support, what d’you think?” 

Harry felt as though his stomach had sunk through 
the dusty carpet. He had not thought about the 
hearing once since dinner the previous evening; in the 
excitement of being back with the people he liked 
best, of hearing everything that was going on, it had 
completely flown his mind. At Sirius’s words, 
however, the crushing sense of dread returned to 
him. He stared at Hermione and the Weasleys, all 
tucking into their sandwiches, and thought how he 
would feel if they went back to Hogwarts without him. 

“Don’t worry,” Sirius said. Harry looked up and 
realized that Sirius had been watching him. “I’m sure 
they’re going to clear you, there’s definitely something 
in the International Statute of Secrecy about being 
allowed to use magic to save your own life.” 

“But if they do expel me,” said Harry, quietly, “can I 
come back here and live with you?” 

Sirius smiled sadly. 

“We’ll see.” 

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“I’d feel a lot better about the hearing if I knew I didn’t 
have to go back to the Dursleys,” Harry pressed him. 



“They must be bad if you prefer this place,” said 
Sirius gloomily. 

“Hurry up, you two, or there won’t be any food left,” 
Mrs. Weasley called. 

Sirius heaved another great sigh, cast a dark look at 
the tapestry, and he and Harry went to join the 
others. 

Harry tried his best not to think about the hearing 
while they emptied the glass cabinets that afternoon. 
Fortunately for him, it was a job that required a lot of 
concentration, as many of the objects in there seemed 
very reluctant to leave their dusty shelves. Sirius 
sustained a bad bite from a silver snuffbox; within 
seconds, his bitten hand had developed an 
unpleasant crusty covering like a tough brown glove. 

“It’s okay,” he said, examining the hand with interest 
before tapping it lightly with his wand and restoring 
its skin to normal, “must be Wartcap powder in 
there.” 

He threw the box aside into the sack where they were 
depositing the debris from the cabinets; Harry saw 
George wrap his own hand carefully in a cloth 
moments later and sneak the box into his already 
doxy-filled pocket. 

They found an unpleasant-looking silver instrument, 
something like a many-legged pair of tweezers, which 
scuttled up Harry’s arm like a spider when he picked 
it up, and attempted to puncture his skin; Sirius 
seized it and smashed it with a heavy book entitled 
Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. There was a 
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musical box that emitted a faintly sinister, tinkling 
tune when wound, and they all found themselves 
becoming curiously weak and sleepy until Ginny had 
the sense to slam the lid shut; also a heavy locket 
that none of them could open, a number of ancient 
seals and, in a dusty box, an Order of Merlin, First 
Class, that had been awarded to Sirius’s grandfather 
for “Services to the Ministry.” 

“It means he gave them a load of gold,” said Sirius 
contemptuously, throwing the medal into the rubbish 
sack. 

Several times, Kreacher sidled into the room and 
attempted to smuggle things away under his 
loincloth, muttering horrible curses every time they 
caught him at it. When Sirius wrested a large golden 
ring bearing the Black crest from his grip Kreacher 
actually burst into furious tears and left the room 
sobbing under his breath and calling Sirius names 
Harry had never heard before. 

“It was my father’s,” said Sirius, throwing the ring 
into the sack. “Kreacher wasn’t quite as devoted to 
him as to my mother, but I still caught him snogging 
a pair of my father’s old trousers last week.” 

Mrs. Weasley kept them all working very hard over 
the next few days. The drawing room took three days 
to decontaminate; finally the only undesirable things 
left in it were the tapestry of the Black family tree, 
which resisted all their attempts to remove it from the 
wall, and the rattling writing desk; Moody had not 
dropped by headquarters yet, so they could not be 
sure what was inside it. 

They moved from the drawing room to a dining room 
on the ground floor where they found spiders large as 
saucers lurking in the dresser (Ron left the room 

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hurriedly to make a cup of tea and did not return for 
an hour and a half) . The china, which bore the Black 
crest and motto, was all thrown unceremoniously into 
a sack by Sirius, and the same fate met a set of old 
photographs in tarnished silver frames, all of whose 
occupants squealed shrilly as the glass covering them 
smashed. 

Snape might refer to their work as “cleaning,” but in 
Harry’s opinion they were really waging war on the 
house, which was putting up a very good fight, aided 
and abetted by Kreacher. The house-elf kept 
appearing wherever they were congregated, his 
muttering becoming more and more offensive as he 
attempted to remove anything he could from the 
rubbish sacks. Sirius went as far as to threaten him 
with clothes, but Kreacher fixed him with a watery 
stare and said, “Master must do as Master wishes,” 
before turning away and muttering very loudly, “but 
Master will not turn Kreacher away, no, because 
Kreacher knows what they are up to, oh yes, he is 
plotting against the Dark Lord, yes, with these 
Mudbloods and traitors and scum...” 

At which Sirius, ignoring Hermione’s protests, seized 
Kreacher by the back of his loincloth and threw him 
bodily from the room. 

The doorbell rang several times a day, which was the 
cue for Sirius’s mother to start shrieking again, and 
for Harry and the others to attempt to eavesdrop on 
the visitor, though they gleaned very little from the 
brief glimpses and snatches of conversation they were 
able to sneak before Mrs. Weasley recalled them to 
their tasks. Snape flitted in and out of the house 
several times more, though to Harry’s relief they never 
came face-to-face; he also caught sight of his 
Transfiguration teacher, Professor McGonagall, 



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looking very odd in a Muggle dress and coat, though 
she also seemed too busy to linger. 

Sometimes, however, the visitors stayed to help; 

Tonks joined them for a memorable afternoon in 
which they found a murderous old ghoul lurking in 
an upstairs toilet, and Lupin, who was staying in the 
house with Sirius but who left it for long periods to do 
mysterious work for the Order, helped them repair a 
grandfather clock that had developed the unpleasant 
habit of shooting heavy bolts at passersby. 
Mundungus redeemed himself slightly in Mrs. 
Weasley’s eyes by rescuing Ron from an ancient set of 
purple robes that had tried to strangle him when he 
removed them from their wardrobe. 

Despite the fact that he was still sleeping badly, still 
having dreams about corridors and locked doors that 
made his scar prickle, Harry was managing to have 
fun for the first time all summer. As long as he was 
busy he was happy; when the action abated, however, 
whenever he dropped his guard, or lay exhausted in 
bed watching blurred shadows move across the 
ceiling, the thought of the looming Ministry hearing 
returned to him. Fear jabbed at his insides like 
needles as he wondered what was going to happen to 
him if he was expelled. The idea was so terrible that 
he did not dare voice it aloud, not even to Ron and 
Hermione, who, though he often saw them whispering 
together and casting anxious looks in his direction, 
followed his lead in not mentioning it. Sometimes he 
could not prevent his imagination showing him a 
faceless Ministry official who was snapping his wand 
in two and ordering him back to the Dursleys’ ... but 
he would not go. He was determined on that. He 
would come back here to Grimmauld Place and live 
with Sirius. 



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He felt as though a brick had dropped into his 
stomach when Mrs. Weasley turned to him during 
dinner on Wednesday evening and said quietly, “I’ve 
ironed your best clothes for tomorrow morning, 

Harry, and I want you to wash your hair tonight too. 

A good first impression can work wonders.” 

Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Ginny all stopped 
talking and looked over at him. Harry nodded and 
tried to keep eating his chops, but his mouth had 
become so dry he could not chew. 

“How am I getting there?” he asked Mrs. Weasley, 
trying to sound unconcerned. 

“Arthur’s taking you to work with him,” said Mrs. 
Weasley gently. 

Mr. Weasley smiled encouragingly at Harry across the 
table. 

“You can wait in my office until it’s time for the 
hearing,” he said. 

Harry looked over at Sirius, but before he could ask 
the question, Mrs. Weasley had answered it. 

“Professor Dumbledore doesn’t think it’s a good idea 
for Sirius to go with you, and I must say I — ” 

“ — think he’s quite right,” said Sirius through 
clenched teeth. 

Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips. 

“When did Dumbledore tell you that?” Harry said, 
staring at Sirius. 



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“He came last night, when you were in bed,” said Mr. 
Weasley. 

Sirius stabbed moodily at a potato with his fork. 
Harry dropped his own eyes to his plate. The thought 
that Dumbledore had been in the house on the eve of 
his hearing and not asked to see him made him feel, 
if that were possible, even worse. 



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7 




THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC 

Harry awoke at half-past five the next morning as 
abruptly and completely as if somebody had yelled in 
his ear. For a few moments he lay immobile as the 
prospect of the hearing filled every tiny particle of his 
brain, then, unable to bear it, he leapt out of bed and 
put on his glasses. Mrs. Weasley had laid out his 
freshly laundered jeans and T-shirt at the foot of his 
bed. Harry scrambled into them. The blank picture on 
the wall sniggered again. 

Ron was lying sprawled on his back with his mouth 
wide open, fast asleep. He did not stir as Harry 
crossed the room, stepped out onto the landing, and 
closed the door softly behind him. Trying not to think 
of the next time he would see Ron, when they might 
no longer be fellow students at Hogwarts, Harry 
walked quietly down the stairs, past the heads of 
Kreacher’s ancestors, and into the kitchen. 

He had expected it to be empty, but it was not. When 
he reached the door he heard the soft rumble of 
voices on the other side and when he pushed it open 

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he saw Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Sirius, Lupin, and 
Tonks sitting there almost as though they were 
waiting for him. All were fully dressed except Mrs. 
Weasley, who was wearing a quilted, purple dressing 
gown. She leapt to her feet the moment he entered. 

“Breakfast,” she said as she pulled out her wand and 
hurried over to the fire. 

“M-m-morning, Harry,” yawned Tonks. Her hair was 
blonde and curly this morning. “Sleep all right?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. 

“I’ve b-b-been up all night,” she said, with another 
shuddering yawn. “Come and sit down...” 

She drew out a chair, knocking over the one beside it 
in the process. 

“What do you want, Harry?” Mrs. Weasley called. 
“Porridge? Muffins? Kippers? Bacon and eggs? 

Toast?” 

“Just — just toast, thanks,” said Harry. 

Lupin glanced at Harry, then said to Tonks, “What 
were you saying about Scrimgeour?” 

“Oh ... yeah ... well, we need to be a bit more careful, 
he’s been asking Kingsley and me funny questions...” 

Harry felt vaguely grateful that he was not required to 
join in the conversation. His insides were squirming. 
Mrs. Weasley placed a couple of pieces of toast and 
marmalade in front of him; he tried to eat, but it was 
like chewing carpet. Mrs. Weasley sat down on his 
other side and started fussing with his T-shirt, 



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tucking in the label and smoothing out creases across 
the shoulders. He wished she wouldn’t. 

"... and I’ll have to tell Dumbledore I can’t do night 
duty tomorrow, I’m just t-t-too tired,” Tonks finished, 
yawning hugely again. 

“I’ll cover for you,” said Mr. Weasley. “I’m okay, I’ve 
got a report to finish anyway...” 

Mr. Weasley was not wearing wizard’s robes but a 
pair of pinstriped trousers and an old bomber jacket. 
He turned from Tonks to Harry. 

“How are you feeling?” 

Harry shrugged. 

“It’ll all be over soon,” Mr. Weasley said bracingly. “In 
a few hours’ time you’ll be cleared.” 

Harry said nothing. 

“The hearing’s on my floor, in Amelia Bones ’s office. 
She’s Head of the Department of Magical Law 
Enforcement and she’s the one who’ll be questioning 
you.” 

“Amelia Bones is okay, Harry,” said Tonks earnestly. 
“She’s fair, she’ll hear you out.” 

Harry nodded, still unable to think of anything to say. 

“Don’t lose your temper,” said Sirius abruptly. “Be 
polite and stick to the facts.” 

Harry nodded again. 



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“The law’s on your side,” said Lupin quietly. “Even 
underage wizards are allowed to use magic in life- 
threatening situations.” 

Something very cold trickled down the back of Harry’s 
neck; for a moment he thought someone was putting 
a Disillusionment Charm on him again, then he 
realized that Mrs. Weasley was attacking his hair with 
a wet comb. She pressed hard on the top of his head. 

“Doesn’t it ever lie flat?” she said desperately. 

Harry shook his head. 

Mr. Weasley checked his watch and looked up at 
Harry. 

“I think we’ll go now,” he said. “We’re a bit early, but I 
think you’ll be better off there than hanging around 
here.” 

“Okay,” said Harry automatically, dropping his toast 
and getting to his feet. 

“You’ll be all right, Harry,” said Tonks, patting him on 
the arm. 

“Good luck,” said Lupin. “I’m sure it will be fine.” 

“And if it’s not,” said Sirius grimly, “I’ll see to Amelia 
Bones for you...” 

Harry smiled weakly. Mrs. Weasley hugged him. 

“We’ve all got our fingers crossed,” she said. 

“Right,” said Harry. “Well ... see you later then.” 



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He followed Mr. Weasley upstairs and along the hall. 
He could hear Sirius’s mother grunting in her sleep 
behind her curtains. Mr. Weasley unbolted the door 
and they stepped out into the cold, gray dawn. 

“You don’t normally walk to work, do you?” Harry 
asked him, as they set off briskly around the square. 

“No, I usually Apparate,” said Mr. Weasley, “but 
obviously you can’t, and I think it’s best we arrive in a 
thoroughly non-magical fashion . . . makes a better 
impression, given what you’re being disciplined for...” 

Mr. Weasley kept his hand inside his jacket as they 
walked. Harry knew it was clenched around his wand. 
The run-down streets were almost deserted, but when 
they arrived at the miserable little Underground 
station they found it already full of early morning 
commuters. As ever when he found himself in close 
proximity to Muggles going about their daily business, 
Mr. Weasley was hard put to contain his enthusiasm. 

“Simply fabulous,” he whispered, indicating the 
automatic ticket machines. “Wonderfully ingenious.” 

“They’re out of order,” said Harry, pointing at the 
sign. 

“Yes, but even so ...” said Mr. Weasley, beaming 
fondly at them. 

They bought their tickets instead from a sleepy- 
looking guard (Harry handled the transaction, as Mr. 
Weasley was not very good with Muggle money) and 
five minutes later they were boarding an Underground 
train that rattled them off toward the center of 
London. Mr. Weasley kept anxiously checking and 
rechecking the Underground map above the windows. 



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“Four stops, Harry ... three stops left now ... two 
stops to go, Harry ...” 

They got off at a station in the very heart of London, 
swept from the train in a tide of besuited men and 
women carrying briefcases. Up the escalator they 
went, through the ticket barrier (Mr. Weasley 
delighted with the way the stile swallowed his ticket), 
and emerged onto a broad street lined with imposing- 
looking buildings, already full of traffic. 

“Where are we?” said Mr. Weasley blankly, and for 
one heart-stopping moment Harry thought they had 
gotten off at the wrong station despite Mr. Weasley’s 
continual references to the map; but a second later he 
said, “Ah yes ... this way, Harry,” and led him down a 
side road. 

“Sorry,” he said, “but I never come by train and it all 
looks rather different from a Muggle perspective. As a 
matter of fact I’ve never even used the visitor’s 
entrance before.” 

The farther they walked, the smaller and less 
imposing the buildings became, until finally they 
reached a street that contained several rather 
shabby-looking offices, a pub, and an overflowing 
dumpster. Harry had expected a rather more 
impressive location for the Ministry of Magic. 

“Here we are,” said Mr. Weasley brightly, pointing at 
an old red telephone box, which was missing several 
panes of glass and stood before a heavily graffittied 
wall. “After you, Harry.” 

He opened the telephone box door. 

Harry stepped inside, wondering what on earth this 
was about. Mr. Weasley folded himself in beside Harry 

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and closed the door. It was a tight fit; Harry was 
jammed against the telephone apparatus, which was 
hanging crookedly from the wall as though a vandal 
had tried to rip it off. Mr. Weasley reached past Harry 
for the receiver. 

“Mr. Weasley, I think this might be out of order too,” 
Harry said. 

“No, no, I’m sure it’s fine,” said Mr. Weasley, holding 
the receiver above his head and peering at the dial. 
“Let’s see ... six ...” he dialed the number, “two ... four 
... and another four ... and another two ...” 

As the dial whirred smoothly back into place, a cool 
female voice sounded inside the telephone box, not 
from the receiver in Mr. Weasley’s hand, but as loudly 
and plainly as though an invisible woman were 
standing right beside them. 

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your 
name and business.” 

“Er ...” said Mr. Weasley, clearly uncertain whether he 
should talk into the receiver or not; he compromised 
by holding the mouthpiece to his ear, “Arthur 
Weasley, Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, here to 
escort Harry Potter, who has been asked to attend a 
disciplinary hearing...” 

“Thank you,” said the cool female voice. “Visitor, 
please take the badge and attach it to the front of 
your robes.” 

There was a click and a rattle, and Harry saw 
something slide out of the metal chute where 
returned coins usually appeared. He picked it up: It 
was a square silver badge with Harry Potter, 



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Disciplinary Hearing on it. He pinned it to the front of 
his T-shirt as the female voice spoke again. 

“Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to 
a search and present your wand for registration at the 
security desk, which is located at the far end of the 
Atrium.” 

The floor of the telephone box shuddered. They were 
sinking slowly into the ground. Harry watched 
apprehensively as the pavement rose up past the 
glass windows of the telephone box until darkness 
closed over their heads. Then he could see nothing at 
all; he could only hear a dull grinding noise as the 
telephone box made its way down through the earth. 
After about a minute, though it felt much longer to 
Harry, a chink of golden light illuminated his feet 
and, widening, rose up his body, until it hit him in 
the face and he had to blink to stop his eyes from 
watering. 

“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day,” 
said the woman’s voice. 

The door of the telephone box sprang open and Mr. 
Weasley stepped out of it, followed by Harry, whose 
mouth had fallen open. 

They were standing at one end of a very long and 
splendid hall with a highly polished, dark wood floor. 
The peacock-blue ceiling was inlaid with gleaming 
golden symbols that were continually moving and 
changing like some enormous heavenly notice board. 
The walls on each side were paneled in shiny dark 
wood and had many gilded fireplaces set into them. 
Every few seconds a witch or wizard would emerge 
from one of the left-hand fireplaces with a soft 
whoosh ; on the right-hand side, short queues of 



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wizards were forming before each fireplace, waiting to 
depart. 

Halfway down the hall was a fountain. A group of 
golden statues, larger than life-size, stood in the 
middle of a circular pool. Tallest of them all was a 
noble-looking wizard with his wand pointing straight 
up in the air. Grouped around him were a beautiful 
witch, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf. The last 
three were all looking adoringly up at the witch and 
wizard. Glittering jets of water were flying from the 
ends of the two wands, the point of the centaur’s 
arrow, the tip of the goblin’s hat, and each of the 
house-elf’s ears, so that the tinkling hiss of falling 
water was added to the pops and cracks of 
Apparators and the clatter of footsteps as hundreds of 
witches and wizards, most of whom were wearing 
glum, early-morning looks, strode toward a set of 
golden gates at the far end of the hall. 

“This way,” said Mr. Weasley. 

They joined the throng, wending their way between 
the Ministry workers, some of whom were carrying 
tottering piles of parchment, others battered 
briefcases, still others reading the Daily Prophet as 
they walked. As they passed the fountain Harry saw 
silver Sickles and bronze Knuts glinting up at him 
from the bottom of the pool. A small, smudged sign 
beside it read: 

All proceeds from the Fountain of Magical Brethren will 
be given to 

St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries 

If I’m not expelled from Hogwarts, I’ll put in ten 
Galleons, Harry found himself thinking desperately. 



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“Over here, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, and they 
stepped out of the stream of Ministry employees 
heading for the golden gates, toward a desk on the 
left, over which hung a sign saying SECURITY. A 
badly shaven wizard in peacock-blue robes looked up 
as they approached and put down his Daily Prophet. 

“I’m escorting a visitor,” said Mr. Weasley, gesturing 
toward Harry. 

“Step over here,” said the wizard in a bored voice. 

Harry walked closer to him and the wizard held up a 
long golden rod, thin and flexible as a car aerial, and 
passed it up and down Harry’s front and back. 

“Wand,” grunted the security wizard at Harry, putting 
down the golden instrument and holding out his 
hand. 

Harry produced his wand. The wizard dropped it onto 
a strange brass instrument, which looked something 
like a set of scales with only one dish. It began to 
vibrate. A narrow strip of parchment came speeding 
out of a slit in the base. The wizard tore this off and 
read the writing upon it. 

“Eleven inches, phoenix-feather core, been in use four 
years. That correct?” 

“Yes,” said Harry nervously. 

“I keep this,” said the wizard, impaling the slip of 
parchment on a small brass spike. “You get this 
back,” he added, thrusting the wand at Harry. 

“Thank you.” 

“Hang on...” said the wizard slowly. 

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His eyes had darted from the silver visitor’s badge on 
Harry’s chest to his forehead. 

“Thank you, Eric,” said Mr. Weasley firmly, and 
grasping Harry by the shoulder, he steered him away 
from the desk and back into the stream of wizards 
and witches walking through the golden gates. 

Jostled slightly by the crowd, Harry followed Mr. 
Weasley through the gates into the smaller hall 
beyond, where at least twenty lifts stood behind 
wrought golden grilles. Harry and Mr. Weasley joined 
the crowd around one of them. A big, bearded wizard 
holding a large cardboard box stood nearby. The box 
was emitting rasping noises. 

“All right, Arthur?” said the wizard, nodding at Mr. 
Weasley. 

“What’ve you got there, Bob?” asked Mr. Weasley, 
looking at the box. 

“We’re not sure,” said the wizard seriously. “We 
thought it was a bog-standard chicken until it started 
breathing fire. Looks like a serious breach of the Ban 
on Experimental Breeding to me.” 

With a great jangling and clattering a lift descended in 
front of them; the golden grille slid back and Harry 
and Mr. Weasley moved inside it with the rest of the 
crowd. Harry found himself jammed against the back 
wall of the lift. Several witches and wizards were 
looking at him curiously; he stared at his feet to avoid 
catching anyone’s eye, flattening his fringe as he did 
so. The grilles slid shut with a crash and the lift 
ascended slowly, chains rattling all the while, while 
the same cool female voice Harry had heard in the 
telephone box rang out again. 



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“Level seven, Department of Magical Games and 
Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch 
League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and 
Ludicrous Patents Office.” 

The lift doors opened; Harry glimpsed an untidy- 
looking corridor, with various posters of Quidditch 
teams tacked lopsidedly on the walls; one of the 
wizards in the lift, who was carrying an armful of 
broomsticks, extricated himself with difficulty and 
disappeared down the corridor. The doors closed, the 
lift juddered upward again, and the woman’s voice 
said, “Level six, Department of Magical Transport, 
incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom 
Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparation 
Test Center.” 

Once again the lift doors opened and four or five 
witches and wizards got out; at the same time, several 
paper airplanes swooped into the lift. Harry stared up 
at them as they flapped idly around above his head; 
they were a pale violet color and he could see 
MINISTRY OF MAGIC stamped along the edges of 
their wings. 

“Just Interdepartmental memos,” Mr. Weasley 
muttered to him. “We used to use owls, but the mess 
was unbelievable ... droppings all over the desks ...” 

As they clattered upward again, the memos flapped 
around the swaying lamp in the lift’s ceiling. 

“Level five, Department of International Magical 
Cooperation, incorporating the International Magical 
Trading Standards Body, the International Magical 
Office of Law, and the International Confederation of 
Wizards, British Seats.” 



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When the doors opened, two of the memos zoomed 
out with a few more witches and wizards, but several 
more memos zoomed in, so that the light from the 
lamp in the ceiling flickered and flashed as they 
darted around it. 

“Level four, Department for the Regulation and 
Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, 
Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and 
Pest Advisory Bureau.” 

“ ’S’cuse,” said the wizard carrying the fire-breathing 
chicken and he left the lift pursued by a little flock of 
memos. The doors clanged shut yet again. 

“Level three, Department of Magical Accidents and 
Catastrophes, including the Accidental Magic 
Reversal Squad, Obliviator Headquarters, and 
Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee.” 

Everybody left the lift on this floor except Mr. 

Weasley, Harry, and a witch who was reading an 
extremely long piece of parchment that was trailing 
on the ground. The remaining memos continued to 
soar around the lamp as the lift juddered upward 
again, and then the doors opened and the voice said, 
“Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, 
including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror 
Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration 
Services.” 

“This is us, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, and they 
followed the witch out of the lift into a corridor lined 
with doors. “My office is on the other side of the floor.” 

“Mr. Weasley,” said Harry, as they passed a window 
through which sunlight was streaming, “aren’t we 
underground?” 



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“Yes, we are,” said Mr. Weasley, “those are enchanted 
windows; Magical Maintenance decide what weather 
we’re getting every day. We had two months of 
hurricanes last time they were angling for a pay 
raise... Just round here, Harry.” 

They turned a corner, walked through a pair of heavy 
oak doors, and emerged in a cluttered, open area 
divided into cubicles, which were buzzing with talk 
and laughter. Memos were zooming in and out of 
cubicles like miniature rockets. A lopsided sign on the 
nearest cubicle read AUROR HEADQUARTERS. 

Harry looked surreptitiously through the doorways as 
they passed. The Aurors had covered their cubicle 
walls with everything from pictures of wanted wizards 
and photographs of their families, to posters of their 
favorite Quidditch teams and articles from the Daily 
Prophet A scarlet-robed man with a ponytail longer 
than Bill’s was sitting with his boots up on his desk, 
dictating a report to his quill. A little farther along, a 
witch with a patch over her eye was talking over the 
top of her cubicle wall to Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

“Morning, Weasley,” said Kingsley carelessly, as they 
drew nearer. “I’ve been wanting a word with you, have 
you got a second?” 

“Yes, if it really is a second,” said Mr. Weasley, “I’m in 
rather a hurry.” 

They were talking to each other as though they hardly 
knew each other, and when Harry opened his mouth 
to say hello to Kingsley, Mr. Weasley stood on his 
foot. They followed Kingsley along the row and into 
the very last cubicle. 

Harry received a slight shock; Sirius’s face was 
blinking down at him from every direction. Newspaper 

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cuttings and old photographs — even the one of 
Sirius being best man at the Potters’ wedding — 
papered the walls. The only Sirius-free space was a 
map of the world in which little red pins were glowing 
like jewels. 

“Here,” said Kingsley brusquely to Mr. Weasley, 
shoving a sheaf of parchment into his hand, “I need 
as much information as possible on flying Muggle 
vehicles sighted in the last twelve months. We’ve 
received information that Black might still be using 
his old motorcycle.” 

Kingsley tipped Harry an enormous wink and added, 
in a whisper, “Give him the magazine, he might find it 
interesting.” Then he said in normal tones, “And don’t 
take too long, Weasley, the delay on that firelegs 
report held our investigation up for a month.” 

“If you had read my report you would know that the 
term is ‘firearms,’ ” said Mr. Weasley coolly. “And I’m 
afraid you’ll have to wait for information on 
motorcycles, we’re extremely busy at the moment.” He 
dropped his voice and said, “If you can get away 
before seven, Molly’s making meatballs.” 

He beckoned to Harry and led him out of Kingsley’s 
cubicle, through a second set of oak doors, into 
another passage, turned left, marched along another 
corridor, turned right into a dimly lit and distinctly 
shabby corridor, and finally reached a dead end, 
where a door on the left stood ajar, revealing a broom 
cupboard, and a door on the right bore a tarnished 
brass plaque reading MISUSE OF MUGGLE 
ARTIFACTS. 

Mr. Weasley’s dingy office seemed to be slightly 
smaller than the broom cupboard. Two desks had 
been crammed inside it and there was barely room to 

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move around them because of all the overflowing 
filing cabinets lining the walls, on top of which were 
tottering piles of files. The little wall space available 
bore witness to Mr. Weasley’s obsessions; there were 
several posters of cars, including one of a dismantled 
engine, two illustrations of postboxes he seemed to 
have cut out of Muggle children’s books, and a 
diagram showing how to wire a plug. 

Sitting on top of Mr. Weasley’s overflowing in-tray was 
an old toaster that was hiccuping in a disconsolate 
way and a pair of empty leather gloves that were 
twiddling their thumbs. A photograph of the Weasley 
family stood beside the in-tray. Harry noticed that 
Percy appeared to have walked out of it. 

“We haven’t got a window,” said Mr. Weasley 
apologetically, taking off his bomber jacket and 
placing it on the back of his chair. “We’ve asked, but 
they don’t seem to think we need one. Have a seat, 
Harry, doesn’t look as if Perkins is in yet.” 

Harry squeezed himself into the chair behind 
Perkins’s desk while Mr. Weasley rifled through the 
sheaf of parchment Kingsley Shacklebolt had given 
him. 

“Ah,” he said, grinning, as he extracted a copy of a 
magazine entitled The Quibbler from its midst, “yes 
...” He flicked through it. “Yes, he’s right, I’m sure 
Sirius will find that very amusing — oh dear, what’s 
this now?” 

A memo had just zoomed in through the open door 
and fluttered to rest on top of the hiccuping toaster. 
Mr. Weasley unfolded it and read aloud, “ Third 
regurgitating public toilet reported in Bethnal Green, 
kindly investigate immediately. ’ This is getting 
ridiculous...” 

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“A regurgitating toilet?” 



“Anti-Muggle pranksters,” said Mr. Weasley, frowning. 
“We had two last week, one in Wimbledon, one in 
Elephant and Castle. Muggles are pulling the flush 
and instead of everything disappearing — well, you 
can imagine. The poor things keep calling in those — 
those pumbles, I think they’re called — you know, the 
ones who mend pipes and things — ” 

“Plumbers?” 

“ — exactly, yes, but of course they’re flummoxed. I 
only hope we can catch whoever’s doing it.” 

“Will it be Aurors who catch them?” 

“Oh no, this is too trivial for Aurors, it’ll be the 
ordinary Magical Law Enforcement Patrol — ah, 

Harry, this is Perkins.” 

A stooped, timid-looking old wizard with fluffy white 
hair had just entered the room, panting. 

“Oh Arthur!” he said desperately, without looking at 
Harry. “Thank goodness, I didn’t know what to do for 
the best, whether to wait here for you or not, I’ve just 
sent an owl to your home but you’ve obviously missed 
it — an urgent message came ten minutes ago — ” 

“I know about the regurgitating toilet,” said Mr. 
Weasley. 

“No, no, it’s not the toilet, it’s the Potter boy’s hearing 
— they’ve changed the time and venue — it starts at 
eight o’clock now and it’s down in old Courtroom Ten 



“Down in old — but they told me — Merlin’s beard — ” 

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Mr. Weasley looked at his watch, let out a yelp, and 
leapt from his chair. 

“Quick, Harry, we should have been there five 
minutes ago!” 

Perkins flattened himself against the filing cabinets as 
Mr. Weasley left the office at a run, Harry on his 
heels. 

“Why have they changed the time?” Harry said 
breathlessly as they hurtled past the Auror cubicles; 
people poked out their heads and stared as they 
streaked past. Harry felt as though he had left all his 
insides back at Perkins’s desk. 

“I’ve no idea, but thank goodness we got here so early, 
if you’d missed it it would have been catastrophic!” 

Mr. Weasley skidded to a halt beside the lifts and 
jabbed impatiently at the down button. 

“Come ON!” 

The lift clattered into view and they hurried inside. 
Every time it stopped Mr. Weasley cursed furiously 
and pummelled the number nine button. 

“Those courtrooms haven’t been used in years,” said 
Mr. Weasley angrily. “I can’t think why they’re doing it 
down there — unless — but no ...” 

A plump witch carrying a smoking goblet entered the 
lift at that moment, and Mr. Weasley did not 
elaborate. 

“The Atrium,” said the cool female voice and the 
golden grilles slid open, showing Harry a distant 
glimpse of the golden statues in the fountain. The 

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plump witch got out and a sallow-skinned wizard with 
a very mournful face got in. 



“Morning, Arthur,” he said in a sepulchral voice as 
the lift began to descend. “Don’t often see you down 
here...” 

“Urgent business, Bode,” said Mr. Weasley, who was 
bouncing on the balls of his feet and throwing 
anxious looks over at Harry. 

“Ah, yes,” said Bode, surveying Harry unblinkingly. 

“Of course.” 

Harry barely had emotion to spare for Bode, but his 
unfaltering gaze did not make him feel any more 
comfortable. 

“Department of Mysteries,” said the cool female voice, 
and left it at that. 

“Quick, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley as the lift doors 
rattled open, and they sped up a corridor that was 
quite different from those above. The walls were bare; 
there were no windows and no doors apart from a 
plain black one set at the very end of the corridor. 
Harry expected them to go through it, but instead Mr. 
Weasley seized him by the arm and dragged him to 
the left, where there was an opening leading to a flight 
of steps. 

“Down here, down here,” panted Mr. Weasley, taking 
two steps at a time. “The lift doesn’t even come down 
this far ... why they’re doing it there ...” 

They reached the bottom of the steps and ran along 
yet another corridor, which bore a great resemblance 
to that which led to Snape’s dungeon at Hogwarts, 
with rough stone walls and torches in brackets. The 

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doors they passed here were heavy wooden ones with 
iron bolts and keyholes. 

“Courtroom ... ten ... I think ... we’re nearly ... yes.” 

Mr. Weasley stumbled to a halt outside a grimy dark 
door with an immense iron lock and slumped against 
the wall, clutching at a stitch in his chest. 

“Go on,” he panted, pointing his thumb at the door. 
“Get in there.” 

“Aren’t — aren’t you coming with — ?” 

“No, no, I’m not allowed. Good luck!” 

Harry’s heart was beating a violent tattoo against his 
Adam’s apple. He swallowed hard, turned the heavy 
iron door handle, and stepped inside the courtroom. 



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8 




THE HEARING 

Harry gasped; he could not help himself. The large 
dungeon he had entered was horribly familiar. He had 
not only seen it before, he had been here before: This 
was the place he had visited inside Dumbledore’s 
Pensieve, the place where he had watched the 
Lestranges sentenced to life imprisonment in 
Azkaban. 

The walls were made of dark stone, dimly lit by 
torches. Empty benches rose on either side of him, 
but ahead, in the highest benches of all, were many 
shadowy figures. They had been talking in low voices, 
but as the heavy door swung closed behind Harry an 
ominous silence fell. 

A cold male voice rang across the courtroom. 

“You’re late.” 

“Sorry,” said Harry nervously. “I-I didn’t know the 
time had changed.” 



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“That is not the Wizengamot’s fault,” said the voice. 
“An owl was sent to you this morning. Take your 
seat.” 

Harry dropped his gaze to the chair in the center of 
the room, the arms of which were covered in chains. 
He had seen those chains spring to life and bind 
whoever sat between them. His footsteps echoed 
loudly as he walked across the stone floor. When he 
sat gingerly on the edge of the chair the chains 
clinked rather threateningly but did not bind him. 
Feeling rather sick he looked up at the people seated 
at the bench above. 

There were about fifty of them, all, as far as he could 
see, wearing plum-colored robes with an elaborately 
worked silver W on the left-hand side of the chest and 
all staring down their noses at him, some with very 
austere expressions, others looks of frank curiosity. 

In the very middle of the front row sat Cornelius 
Fudge, the Minister of Magic. Fudge was a portly man 
who often sported a lime-green bowler hat, though 
today he had dispensed with it; he had dispensed too 
with the indulgent smile he had once worn when he 
spoke to Harry. A broad, square-jawed witch with 
very short gray hair sat on Fudge’s left; she wore a 
monocle and looked forbidding. On Fudge’s right was 
another witch, but she was sitting so far back on the 
bench that her face was in shadow. 

“Very well,” said Fudge. “The accused being present 
— finally — let us begin. Are you ready?” he called 
down the row. 

“Yes, sir,” said an eager voice Harry knew. Ron’s 
brother Percy was sitting at the very end of the front 
bench. Harry looked at Percy, expecting some sign of 
recognition from him, but none came. Percy’s eyes, 

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behind his horn-rimmed glasses, were fixed on his 
parchment, a quill poised in his hand. 



“Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August,” said 
Fudge in a ringing voice, and Percy began taking 
notes at once, “into offenses committed under the 
Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage 
Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy by 
Harry James Potter, resident at number four, Privet 
Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. 

“Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of 
Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department 
of Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Jane Umbridge, 
Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. Court Scribe, 
Percy Ignatius Weasley — ” 

“ — Witness for the defense, Albus Percival Wulfric 
Brian Dumbledore,” said a quiet voice from behind 
Harry, who turned his head so fast he cricked his 
neck. 

Dumbledore was striding serenely across the room 
wearing long midnight-blue robes and a perfectly 
calm expression. His long silver beard and hair 
gleamed in the torchlight as he drew level with Harry 
and looked up at Fudge through the half-moon 
spectacles that rested halfway down his very crooked 
nose. 

The members of the Wizengamot were muttering. All 
eyes were now on Dumbledore. Some looked annoyed, 
others slightly frightened; two elderly witches in the 
back row, however, raised their hands and waved in 
welcome. 

A powerful emotion had risen in Harry’s chest at the 
sight of Dumbledore, a fortified, hopeful feeling rather 
like that which phoenix song gave him. He wanted to 

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catch Dumbledore’s eye, but Dumbledore was not 
looking his way; he was continuing to look up at the 
obviously flustered Fudge. 

“Ah,” said Fudge, who looked thoroughly 
disconcerted. “Dumbledore. Yes. You — er — got our 

— er — message that the time and — er — place of 
the hearing had been changed, then?” 

“I must have missed it,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. 
“However, due to a lucky mistake I arrived at the 
Ministry three hours early, so no harm done.” 

“Yes — well — I suppose well need another chair — I 

— Weasley, could you — ?” 

“Not to worry, not to worry,” said Dumbledore 
pleasantly; he took out his wand, gave it a little flick, 
and a squashy chintz armchair appeared out of 
nowhere next to Harry. Dumbledore sat down, put the 
tips of his long fingers together, and looked at Fudge 
over them with an expression of polite interest. The 
Wizengamot was still muttering and fidgeting 
restlessly; only when Fudge spoke again did they 
settle down. 

“Yes,” said Fudge again, shuffling his notes. “Well, 
then. So. The charges. Yes.” 

He extricated a piece of parchment from the pile 
before him, took a deep breath, and read, “The 
charges against the accused are as follows: That he 
did knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness of 
the illegality of his actions, having received a previous 
written warning from the Ministry of Magic on a 
similar charge, produce a Patronus Charm in a 
Muggle-inhabited area, in the presence of a Muggle, 
on August the second at twenty-three minutes past 
nine, which constitutes an offense under paragraph C 
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of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of 
Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also under section 
thirteen of the International Confederation of Wizards’ 
Statute of Secrecy. 

“You are Harry James Potter, of number four, Privet 
Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?” Fudge said, glaring at 
Harry over the top of his parchment. 

“Yes,” Harry said. 

“You received an official warning from the Ministry for 
using illegal magic three years ago, did you not?” 

“Yes, but — ” 

“And yet you conjured a Patronus on the night of the 
second of August?” said Fudge. 

“Yes,” said Harry, “but — ” 

“Knowing that you are not permitted to use magic 
outside school while you are under the age of 
seventeen?” 

“Yes, but — ” 

“Knowing that you were in an area full of Muggles?” 
“Yes, but — ” 

“Fully aware that you were in close proximity to a 
Muggle at the time? 

“Yes,” said Harry angrily, “but I only used it because 
we were — ” 

The witch with the monocle on Fudge’s left cut across 
him in a booming voice. 

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“You produced a fully fledged Patronus?” 



“Yes,” said Harry, “because — ” 

“A corporeal Patronus?” 

“A — what?” said Harry. 

“Your Patronus had a clearly defined form? I mean to 
say, it was more than vapor or smoke?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, feeling both impatient and slightly 
desperate, “it’s a stag, it’s always a stag.” 

“Always?” boomed Madam Bones. “You have 
produced a Patronus before now?” 

“Yes” said Harry, “I’ve been doing it for over a year — 



“And you are fifteen years old?” 

“Yes, and — ” 

“You learned this at school?” 

“Yes, Professor Lupin taught me in my third year, 
because of the — ” 

“Impressive,” said Madam Bones, staring down at 
him, “a true Patronus at that age ... very impressive 
indeed.” 

Some of the wizards and witches around her were 
muttering again; a few nodded, but others were 
frowning and shaking their heads. 

“It’s not a question of how impressive the magic was,” 
said Fudge in a testy voice. “In fact, the more 

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impressive the worse it is, I would have thought, given 
that the boy did it in plain view of a Muggle!” 



Those who had been frowning now murmured in 
agreement, but it was the sight of Percy’s 
sanctimonious little nod that goaded Harry into 
speech. 

“I did it because of the dementors!” he said loudly, 
before anyone could interrupt him again. 

He had expected more muttering, but the silence that 
fell seemed to be somehow denser than before. 

“Dementors?” said Madam Bones after a moment, 
raising her thick eyebrows so that her monocle looked 
in danger of falling out. “What do you mean, boy?” 

“I mean there were two dementors down that alleyway 
and they went for me and my cousin!” 

“Ah,” said Fudge again, smirking unpleasantly as he 
looked around at the Wizengamot, as though inviting 
them to share the joke. “Yes. Yes, I thought we’d be 
hearing something like this.” 

“Dementors in Little Whinging?” Madam Bones said 
in tones of great surprise. “I don’t understand — ” 

“Don’t you, Amelia?” said Fudge, still smirking. “Let 
me explain. He’s been thinking it through and decided 
dementors would make a very nice little cover story, 
very nice indeed. Muggles can’t see dementors, can 
they, boy? Highly convenient, highly convenient ... so 
it’s just your word and no witnesses...” 

“I’m not lying!” said Harry loudly, over another 
outbreak of muttering from the court. “There were two 
of them, coming from opposite ends of the alley, 

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everything went dark and cold and my cousin felt 
them and ran for it — ” 

“Enough, enough!” said Fudge with a very 
supercilious look on his face. “I’m sorry to interrupt 
what I’m sure would have been a very well-rehearsed 
story — ” 

Dumbledore cleared his throat. The Wizengamot fell 
silent again. 

“We do, in fact, have a witness to the presence of 
dementors in that alleyway,” he said, “other than 
Dudley Dursley, I mean.” 

Fudge’s plump face seemed to slacken, as though 
somebody had let air out of it. He stared down at 
Dumbledore for a moment or two, then, with the 
appearance of a man pulling himself back together, 
said, “We haven’t got time to listen to more 
taradiddles, I’m afraid, Dumbledore. I want this dealt 
with quickly — ” 

“I may be wrong,” said Dumbledore pleasantly, “but I 
am sure that under the Wizengamot Charter of 
Rights, the accused has the right to present witnesses 
for his or her case? Isn’t that the policy of the 
Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Madam 
Bones?” he continued, addressing the witch in the 
monocle. 

“True,” said Madam Bones. “Perfectly true.” 

“Oh, very well, very well,” snapped Fudge. “Where is 
this person?” 

“I brought her with me,” said Dumbledore. “She’s just 
outside the door. Should I — ?” 



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“No — Weasley, you go,” Fudge barked at Percy, who 
got up at once, hurried down the stone steps from the 
judge’s balcony, and hastened past Dumbledore and 
Harry without glancing at them. 

A moment later, Percy returned, followed by Mrs. 

Figg. She looked scared and more batty than ever. 
Harry wished she had thought to change out of her 
carpet slippers. 

Dumbledore stood up and gave Mrs. Figg his chair, 
conjuring a second one for himself. 

“Full name?” said Fudge loudly, when Mrs. Figg had 
perched herself nervously on the very edge of her 
seat. 

“Arabella Doreen Figg,” said Mrs. Figg in her quavery 
voice. 

“And who exactly are you?” said Fudge, in a bored 
and lofty voice. 

“I’m a resident of Little Whinging, close to where 
Harry Potter lives,” said Mrs. Figg. 

“We have no record of any witch or wizard living in 
Little Whinging other than Harry Potter,” said Madam 
Bones at once. “That situation has always been 
closely monitored, given ... given past events.” 

“I’m a Squib,” said Mrs. Figg. “So you wouldn’t have 
me registered, would you?” 

“A Squib, eh?” said Fudge, eyeing her suspiciously. 
“We’ll be checking that. You’ll leave details of your 
parentage with my assistant, Weasley. Incidentally, 
can Squibs see dementors?” he added, looking left 
and right along the bench where he sat. 

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“Yes, we can!” said Mrs. Figg indignantly. 



Fudge looked back down at her, his eyebrows raised. 
“Very well,” he said coolly. “What is your story?” 

“I had gone out to buy cat food from the corner shop 
at the end of Wisteria Walk, shortly after nine on the 
evening of the second of August,” gabbled Mrs. Figg at 
once, as though she had learned what she was saying 
by heart, “when I heard a disturbance down the 
alleyway between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria 
Walk. On approaching the mouth of the alleyway I 
saw dementors running — ” 

“Running?” said Madam Bones sharply. “Dementors 
don’t run, they glide.” 

“That’s what I meant to say,” said Mrs. Figg quickly, 
patches of pink appearing in her withered cheeks. 
“Gliding along the alley toward what looked like two 
boys.” 

“What did they look like?” said Madam Bones, 
narrowing her eyes so that the monocle’s edges 
disappeared into her flesh. 

“Well, one was very large and the other one rather 
skinny — ” 

“No, no,” said Madam Bones impatiently, “the 
dementors ... describe them.” 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Figg, the pink flush creeping up her 
neck now. “They were big. Big and wearing cloaks.” 

Harry felt a horrible sinking in the pit of his stomach. 
Whatever Mrs. Figg said to the contrary, it sounded to 
him as though the most she had ever seen was a 
picture of a dementor, and a picture could never 

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convey the truth of what these beings were like: the 
eerie way they moved, hovering inches over the 
ground, or the rotting smell of them, or that terrible, 
rattling noise they made as they sucked on the 
surrounding air ... A dumpy wizard with a large black 
mustache in the second row leaned close to his 
neighbor, a frizzy-haired witch, and whispered 
something in her ear. She smirked and nodded. 

“Big and wearing cloaks,” repeated Madam Bones 
coolly, while Fudge snorted derisively. “I see. Anything 
else?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Figg. “I felt them. Everything went 
cold, and this was a very warm summer’s night, mark 
you. And I felt ... as though all happiness had gone 
from the world . . . and I remembered . . . dreadful 
things...” 

Her voice shook and died. 

Madam Bones’ eyes widened slightly. Harry could see 
red marks under her eyebrow where the monocle had 
dug into it. 

“What did the dementors do?” she asked, and Harry 
felt a rush of hope. 

“They went for the boys,” said Mrs. Figg, her voice 
stronger and more confident now, the pink flush 
ebbing away from her face. “One of them had fallen. 
The other was backing away, trying to repel the 
dementor. That was Harry. He tried twice and 
produced silver vapor. On the third attempt, he 
produced a Patronus, which charged down the first 
dementor and then, with his encouragement, chased 
away the second from his cousin. And that ... that 
was what happened,” Mrs. Figg finished, somewhat 
lamely. 

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Madam Bones looked down at Mrs. Figg in silence; 
Fudge was not looking at her at all, but fidgeting with 
his papers. Finally he raised his eyes and said, rather 
aggressively “That’s what you saw, is it?” 

“That was what happened,” Mrs. Figg repeated. 

“Very well,” said Fudge. “You may go.” 

Mrs. Figg cast a frightened look from Fudge to 
Dumbledore, then got up and shuffled off toward the 
door again. Harry heard it thud shut behind her. 

“Not a very convincing witness,” said Fudge loftily. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Madam Bones in her 
booming voice. “She certainly described the effects of 
a dementor attack very accurately. And I can’t 
imagine why she would say they were there if they 
weren’t — ” 

“But dementors wandering into a Muggle suburb and 
just happening to come across a wizard?” snorted 
Fudge. “The odds on that must be very, very long, 
even Bagman wouldn’t have bet — ” 

“Oh, I don’t think any of us believe the dementors 
were there by coincidence,” said Dumbledore lightly. 

The witch sitting to the right of Fudge with her face in 
shadow moved slightly, but everyone else was quite 
still and silent. 

“And what is that supposed to mean?” asked Fudge 
icily. 

“It means that I think they were ordered there,” said 
Dumbledore. 



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“I think we might have a record of it if someone had 
ordered a pair of dementors to go strolling through 
Little Whinging!” barked Fudge. 

“Not if the dementors are taking orders from someone 
other than the Ministry of Magic these days,” said 
Dumbledore calmly. “I have already given you my 
views on this matter, Cornelius.” 

“Yes, you have,” said Fudge forcefully, “and I have no 
reason to believe that your views are anything other 
than bilge, Dumbledore. The dementors remain in 
place in Azkaban and are doing everything we ask 
them to.” 

“Then,” said Dumbledore, quietly but clearly, “we 
must ask ourselves why somebody within the 
Ministry ordered a pair of dementors into that 
alleyway on the second of August.” 

In the complete silence that greeted these words, the 
witch to the right of Fudge leaned forward so that 
Harry saw her for the first time. 

He thought she looked just like a large, pale toad. She 
was rather squat with a broad, flabby face, as little 
neck as Uncle Vernon, and a very wide, slack mouth. 
Her eyes were large, round, and slightly bulging. Even 
the little black velvet bow perched on top of her short 
curly hair put him in mind of a large fly she was 
about to catch on a long sticky tongue. 

“The Chair recognizes Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior 
Undersecretary to the Minister,” said Fudge. 

The witch spoke in a fluttery, girlish, high-pitched 
voice that took Harry aback; he had been expecting a 
croak. 



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“I’m sure I must have misunderstood you, Professor 
Dumbledore,” she said with a simper that left her big, 
round eyes as cold as ever. “So silly of me. But it 
sounded for a teensy moment as though you were 
suggesting that the Ministry of Magic had ordered an 
attack on this boy!” 

She gave a silvery laugh that made the hairs on the 
back of Harry’s neck stand up. A few other members 
of the Wizengamot laughed with her. It could not have 
been plainer that not one of them was really amused. 

“If it is true that the dementors are taking orders only 
from the Ministry of Magic, and it is also true that two 
dementors attacked Harry and his cousin a week ago, 
then it follows logically that somebody at the Ministry 
might have ordered the attacks,” said Dumbledore 
politely. “Of course, these particular dementors may 
have been outside Ministry control — ” 

“There are no dementors outside Ministry control!” 
snapped Fudge, who had turned brick red. 

Dumbledore inclined his head in a little bow. 

“Then undoubtedly the Ministry will be making a full 
inquiry into why two dementors were so very far from 
Azkaban and why they attacked without 
authorization.” 

“It is not for you to decide what the Ministry of Magic 
does or does not do, Dumbledore!” snapped Fudge, 
now a shade of magenta of which Uncle Vernon would 
have been proud. 

“Of course it isn’t,” said Dumbledore mildly. “I was 
merely expressing my confidence that this matter will 
not go uninvestigated.” 



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He glanced at Madam Bones, who readjusted her 
monocle and stared back at him, frowning slightly. 

“I would remind everybody that the behavior of these 
dementors, if indeed they are not figments of this 
boy’s imagination, is not the subject of this hearing!” 
said Fudge. “We are here to examine Harry Potter’s 
offenses under the Decree for the Reasonable 
Restriction of Underage Sorcery!” 

“Of course we are,” said Dumbledore, “but the 
presence of dementors in that alleyway is highly 
relevant. Clause seven of the Decree states that magic 
may be used before Muggles in exceptional 
circumstances, and as those exceptional 
circumstances include situations that threaten the 
life of the wizard or witch himself, or witches, wizards, 
or Muggles present at the time of the — ” 

“We are familiar with clause seven, thank you very 
much!” snarled Fudge. 

“Of course you are,” said Dumbledore courteously. 
“Then we are in agreement that Harry’s use of the 
Patronus Charm in these circumstances falls 
precisely into the category of exceptional 
circumstances it describes?” 

“If there were dementors, which I doubt — ” 

“You have heard from an eyewitness,” Dumbledore 
interrupted. “If you still doubt her truthfulness, call 
her back, question her again. I am sure she would not 
object.” 

“I — that — not — ” blustered Fudge, fiddling with the 
papers before him. “It’s — I want this over with today, 
Dumbledore!” 



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“But naturally, you would not care how many times 
you heard from a witness, if the alternative was a 
serious miscarriage of justice,” said Dumbledore. 

“Serious miscarriage, my hat!” said Fudge at the top 
of his voice. “Have you ever bothered to tot up the 
number of cock-and-bull stories this boy has come 
out with, Dumbledore, while trying to cover up his 
flagrant misuse of magic out of school? I suppose 
you’ve forgotten the Hover Charm he used three years 
ago -” 

“That wasn’t me, it was a house-elf!” said Harry. 

“YOU SEE?” roared Fudge, gesturing flamboyantly in 
Harry’s direction. “A house-elf! In a Muggle house! I 
ask you — ” 

“The house-elf in question is currently in the employ 
of Hogwarts School,” said Dumbledore. “I can 
summon him here in an instant to give evidence if 
you wish.” 

“I — not — I haven’t got time to listen to house-elves! 
Anyway, that’s not the only — he blew up his aunt, 
for God’s sake!” Fudge shouted, banging his fist on 
the judge’s bench and upsetting a bottle of ink. 

“And you very kindly did not press charges on that 
occasion, accepting, I presume, that even the best 
wizards cannot always control their emotions,” said 
Dumbledore calmly, as Fudge attempted to scrub the 
ink off his notes. 

“And I haven’t even started on what he gets up to at 
school — ” 

“ — but as the Ministry has no authority to punish 
Hogwarts students for misdemeanors at school, 

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Harry’s behavior there is not relevant to this inquiry,” 
said Dumbledore, politely as ever, but now with a 
suggestion of coolness behind his words. 

“Oho!” said Fudge. “Not our business what he does at 
school, eh? You think so?” 

“The Ministry does not have the power to expel 
Hogwarts students, Cornelius, as I reminded you on 
the night of the second of August,” said Dumbledore. 
“Nor does it have the right to confiscate wands until 
charges have been successfully proven, again, as I 
reminded you on the night of the second of August. In 
your admirable haste to ensure that the law is 
upheld, you appear, inadvertently I am sure, to have 
overlooked a few laws yourself.” 

“Laws can be changed,” said Fudge savagely. 

“Of course they can,” said Dumbledore, inclining his 
head. “And you certainly seem to be making many 
changes, Cornelius. Why, in the few short weeks 
since I was asked to leave the Wizengamot, it has 
already become the practice to hold a full criminal 
trial to deal with a simple matter of underage magic!” 

A few of the wizards above them shifted 
uncomfortably in their seats. Fudge turned a slightly 
deeper shade of puce. The toadlike witch on his right, 
however, merely gazed at Dumbledore, her face quite 
expressionless. 

“As far as I am aware, however,” Dumbledore 
continued, “there is no law yet in place that says this 
court’s job is to punish Harry for every bit of magic he 
has ever performed. He has been charged with a 
specific offense and he has presented his defense. All 
he and I can do now is to await your verdict.” 



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Dumbledore put his fingertips together again and said 
no more. Fudge glared at him, evidently incensed. 
Harry glanced sideways at Dumbledore, seeking 
reassurance; he was not at all sure that Dumbledore 
was right in telling the Wizengamot, in effect, that it 
was about time they made a decision. Again, however, 
Dumbledore seemed oblivious to Harry’s attempt to 
catch his eye. He continued to look up at the benches 
where the entire Wizengamot had fallen into urgent, 
whispered conversations. 

Harry looked at his feet. His heart, which seemed to 
have swollen to an unnatural size, was thumping 
loudly under his ribs. He had expected the hearing to 
last longer than this. He was not at all sure that he 
had made a good impression. He had not really said 
very much. He ought to have explained more fully 
about the dementors, about how he had fallen over, 
about how both he and Dudley had nearly been 
kissed... 

Twice he looked up at Fudge and opened his mouth to 
speak, but his swollen heart was now constricting his 
air passages and both times he merely took a deep 
breath and looked back at his shoes. 

Then the whispering stopped. Harry wanted to look 
up at the judges, but found that it was really much, 
much easier to keep examining his laces. 

“Those in favor of clearing the accused of all 
charges?” said Madam Bones ’s booming voice. 

Harry’s head jerked upward. There were hands in the 
air, many of them . . . more than half! Breathing very 
fast, he tried to count, but before he could finish 
Madam Bones had said, “And those in favor of 
conviction?” 



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Fudge raised his hand; so did half a dozen others, 
including the witch on his right and the heavily 
mustached wizard and the frizzy-haired witch in the 
second row. 

Fudge glanced around at them all, looking as though 
there was something large stuck in his throat, then 
lowered his own hand. He took two deep breaths and 
then said, in a voice distorted by suppressed rage, 
“Very well, very well ... cleared of all charges.” 

“Excellent,” said Dumbledore briskly, springing to his 
feet, pulling out his wand, and causing the two chintz 
armchairs to vanish. “Well, I must be getting along. 
Good day to you all.” 

And without looking once at Harry, he swept from the 
dungeon. 



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THE WOES OF MRS. WEASLEY 

Dumbledore’s abrupt departure took Harry 
completely by surprise. He remained sitting where he 
was in the chained chair, struggling with his feelings 
of shock and relief. The Wizengamot were all getting 
to their feet, talking, and gathering up their papers 
and packing them away. Harry stood up. Nobody 
seemed to be paying him the slightest bit of attention 
except the toadlike witch on Fudge’s right, who was 
now gazing down at him instead of at Dumbledore. 
Ignoring her, he tried to catch Fudge’s eye, or Madam 
Bones’s, wanting to ask whether he was free to go, 
but Fudge seemed quite determined not to notice 
Harry, and Madam Bones was busy with her 
briefcase, so he took a few tentative steps toward the 
exit and when nobody called him back, broke into a 
very fast walk. 

He took the last few steps at a run, wrenched open 
the door, and almost collided with Mr. Weasley, who 
was standing right outside, looking pale and 
apprehensive. 



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“Dumbledore didn’t say — ” 



“Cleared,” Harry said, pulling the door closed behind 
him, “of all charges!” 

Beaming, Mr. Weasley seized Harry by the shoulders. 

“Harry, that’s wonderful! Well, of course, they couldn’t 
have found you guilty, not on the evidence, but even 
so, I can’t pretend I wasn’t — ” 

But Mr. Weasley broke off, because the courtroom 
door had just opened again. The Wizengamot were 
filing out. 

“Merlin’s beard,” said Mr. Weasley wonderingly, 
pulling Harry aside to let them all pass, “you were 
tried by the full court?” 

“I think so,” said Harry quietly. 

One or two of the passing wizards nodded to Harry as 
they passed and a few, including Madam Bones, said, 
“Morning, Arthur,” to Mr. Weasley, but most averted 
their eyes. Cornelius Fudge and the toadlike witch 
were almost the last to leave the dungeon. Fudge 
acted as though Mr. Weasley and Harry were part of 
the wall, but again, the witch looked almost 
appraisingly at Harry as she passed. Last of all to 
pass was Percy. Like Fudge, he completely ignored his 
father and Harry; he marched past clutching a large 
roll of parchment and a handful of spare quills, his 
back rigid and his nose in the air. The lines around 
Mr. Weasley’s mouth tightened slightly, but other 
than this he gave no sign that he had noticed his 
third son. 

“I’m going to take you straight back so you can tell 
the others the good news,” he said, beckoning Harry 

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forward as Percy’s heels disappeared up the stairs to 
the ninth level. I’ll drop you off on the way to that 
toilet in Bethnal Green. Come on...” 



“So what will you have to do about the toilet?” Harry 
asked, grinning. Everything suddenly seemed five 
times funnier than usual. It was starting to sink in: 
He was cleared, he was going hack to Hogwarts. 

“Oh, it’s a simple enough anti-jinx,” said Mr. Weasley 
as they mounted the stairs, “but it’s not so much 
having to repair the damage, it’s more the attitude 
behind the vandalism, Harry. Muggle-baiting might 
strike some wizards as funny, but it’s an expression 
of something much deeper and nastier, and I for one 



Mr. Weasley broke off in mid-sentence. They had just 
reached the ninth-level corridor, and Cornelius Fudge 
was standing a few feet away from them, talking 
quietly to a tall man with sleek blond hair and a 
pointed, pale face. 

The second man turned at the sound of their 
footsteps. He too broke off in mid-conversation, his 
cold gray eyes narrowed and fixed upon Harry’s face. 

“Well, well, well ... Patronus Potter,” said Lucius 
Malfoy coolly. 

Harry felt winded, as though he had just walked into 
something heavy. He had last seen those cool gray 
eyes through slits in a Death Eater’s hood, and last 
heard that man’s voice jeering in a dark graveyard 
while Lord Voldemort tortured him. He could not 
believe that Lucius Malfoy dared look him in the face; 
he could not believe that he was here, in the Ministry 
of Magic, or that Cornelius Fudge was talking to him, 



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when Harry had told Fudge mere weeks ago that 
Malfoy was a Death Eater. 

“The Minister was just telling me about your lucky 
escape, Potter,” drawled Mr. Malfoy. “Quite 
astonishing, the way you continue to wriggle out of 
very tight holes... Snakelike, in fact ...” 

Mr. Weasley gripped Harry’s shoulder in warning. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, “yeah, I’m good at escaping...” 

Lucius Malfoy raised his eyes to Mr. Weasley’s face. 

“And Arthur Weasley too! What are you doing here, 
Arthur?” 

“I work here,” said Mr. Weasley shortly. 

“Not here, surely?” said Mr. Malfoy, raising his 
eyebrows and glancing toward the door over Mr. 
Weasley’s shoulder. “I thought you were up on the 
second floor. . . Don’t you do something that involves 
sneaking Muggle artifacts home and bewitching 
them?” 

“No,” said Mr. Weasley curtly, his fingers now biting 
into Harry’s shoulder. 

“What are you doing here anyway?” Harry asked 
Lucius Malfoy. 

“I don’t think private matters between myself and the 
Minister are any concern of yours, Potter,” said 
Malfoy, smoothing the front of his robes; Harry 
distinctly heard the gentle clinking of what sounded 
like a full pocket of gold. “Really, just because you are 
Dumbledore’s favorite boy, you must not expect the 



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same indulgence from the rest of us... Shall we go up 
to your office, then, Minister?” 

“Certainly,” said Fudge, turning his back on Harry 
and Mr. Weasley. “This way, Lucius.” 

They strode off together, talking in low voices. Mr. 
Weasley did not let go of Harry’s shoulder until they 
had disappeared into the lift. 

“Why wasn’t he waiting outside Fudge’s office if 
they’ve got business to do together?” Harry burst out 
furiously. “What was he doing down here?” 

“Trying to sneak down to the courtroom, if you ask 
me,” said Mr. Weasley, looking extremely agitated as 
he glanced over his shoulder as though making sure 
they could not be overheard. “Trying to find out 
whether you’d been expelled or not. I’ll leave a note 
for Dumbledore when I drop you off, he ought to 
know Malfoy’s been talking to Fudge again.” 

“What private business have they got together 
anyway?” 

“Gold, I expect,” said Mr. Weasley angrily. “Malfoy’s 
been giving generously to all sorts of things for 
years... Gets him in with the right people ... then he 
can ask favors ... delay laws he doesn’t want passed 
... Oh, he’s very well connected, Lucius Malfoy...” 

The lift arrived; it was empty except for a flock of 
memos that flapped around Mr. Weasley’s head as he 
pressed the button for the Atrium and the doors 
clanged shut; he waved them away irritably. 

“Mr. Weasley,” said Harry slowly, “if Fudge is meeting 
Death Eaters like Malfoy, if he’s seeing them alone, 



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how do we know they haven’t put the Imperius Curse 
on him?” 

“Don’t think it hadn’t occurred to us, Harry,” 
muttered Mr. Weasley. “But Dumbledore thinks 
Fudge is acting of his own accord at the moment — 
which, as Dumbledore says, is not a lot of comfort... 
Best not talk about it anymore just now, Harry...” 

The doors slid open and they stepped out into the 
now almost-deserted Atrium. Eric the security man 
was hidden behind his Daily Prophet again. They had 
walked straight past the golden fountain before Harry 
remembered. 

“Wait...” he told Mr. Weasley, and pulling his money 
bag from his pocket, he turned back to the fountain. 

He looked up into the handsome wizard’s face, but up 
close, Harry thought he looked rather weak and 
foolish. The witch was wearing a vapid smile like a 
beauty contestant, and from what Harry knew of 
goblins and centaurs, they were most unlikely to be 
caught staring this soppily at humans of any 
description. Only the house-elf’s attitude of creeping 
servility looked convincing. With a grin at the thought 
of what Hermione would say if she could see the 
statue of the elf, Harry turned his money bag upside 
down and emptied not just ten Galleons, but the 
whole contents into the pool at the statues’ feet. 

“I knew it!” yelled Ron, punching the air. “You always 
get away with stuff!” 

“They were bound to clear you,” said Hermione, who 
had looked positively faint with anxiety when Harry 
had entered the kitchen and was now holding a 
shaking hand over her eyes. “There was no case 
against you, none at all...” 

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“Everyone seems quite relieved, though, considering 
they all knew I’d get off,” said Harry, smiling. 

Mrs. Weasley was wiping her face on her apron, and 
Fred, George, and Ginny were doing a kind of war 
dance to a chant that went “He got off, he got off he 
got off — ” 

“That’s enough, settle down!” shouted Mr. Weasley, 
though he too was smiling. “Listen, Sirius, Lucius 
Malfoy was at the Ministry — ” 

“What?” said Sirius sharply. 

“He got off he got off he got off — ” 

“Be quiet, you three! Yes, we saw him talking to 
Fudge on level nine, then they went up to Fudge’s 
office together. Dumbledore ought to know.” 

“Absolutely,” said Sirius. “We’ll tell him, don’t worry.” 

“Well, I’d better get going, there’s a vomiting toilet in 
Bethnal Green waiting for me. Molly, I’ll be late, I’m 
covering for Tonks, but Kingsley might be dropping in 
for dinner — ” 

“He got off he got off he got off — ” 

“That’s enough — Fred — George — Ginny!” said Mrs. 
Weasley, as Mr. Weasley left the kitchen. “Harry dear, 
come and sit down, have some lunch, you hardly ate 
breakfast...” 

Ron and Hermione sat themselves down opposite him 
looking happier than they had done since he had first 
arrived at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, and 
Harry’s feeling of giddy relief, which had been 
somewhat dented by his encounter with Lucius 
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Malfoy, swelled again. The gloomy house seemed 
warmer and more welcoming all of a sudden; even 
Kreacher looked less ugly as he poked his snoutlike 
nose into the kitchen to investigate the source of all 
the noise. 

“ ’Course, once Dumbledore turned up on your side, 
there was no way they were going to convict you,” 
said Ron happily, now dishing great mounds of 
mashed potatoes onto everyone’s plates. 

“Yeah, he swung it for me,” said Harry. He felt that it 
would sound highly ungrateful, not to mention 
childish, to say, “I wish he’d talked to me, though. Or 
even looked at me.” 

And as he thought this, the scar on his forehead 
burned so badly that he clapped his hand to it. 

“What’s up?” said Hermione, looking alarmed. 

“Scar,” Harry mumbled. “But it’s nothing... It happens 
all the time now...” 

None of the others had noticed a thing; all of them 
were now helping themselves to food while gloating 
over Harry’s narrow escape; Fred, George, and Ginny 
were still singing. Hermione looked rather anxious, 
but before she could say anything, Ron said happily, 

“I bet Dumbledore turns up this evening to celebrate 
with us, you know.” 

“I don’t think he’ll be able to, Ron,” said Mrs. Weasley, 
setting a huge plate of roast chicken down in front of 
Harry. “He’s really very busy at the moment.” 

“HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF—” 

“SHUT UP!” roared Mrs. Weasley. 

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Over the next few days Harry could not help noticing 
that there was one person within number twelve, 
Grimmauld Place, who did not seem wholly overjoyed 
that he would be returning to Hogwarts. Sirius had 
put up a very good show of happiness on first hearing 
the news, wringing Harry’s hand and beaming just 
like the rest of them; soon, however, he was moodier 
and surlier than before, talking less to everybody, 
even Harry, and spending increasing amounts of time 
shut up in his mother’s room with Buckbeak. 

“Don’t you go feeling guilty!” said Hermione sternly, 
after Harry had confided some of his feelings to her 
and Ron while they scrubbed out a moldy cupboard 
on the third floor a few days later. “You belong at 
Hogwarts and Sirius knows it. Personally, I think he’s 
being selfish.” 

“That’s a bit harsh, Hermione,” said Ron, frowning as 
he attempted to prize off a bit of mold that had 
attached itself firmly to his finger, “you wouldn’t want 
to be stuck inside this house without company.” 

“He’ll have company!” said Hermione. “It’s 
headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix, isn’t it? He 
just got his hopes up that Harry would be coming to 
live here with him.” 

“I don’t think that’s true,” said Harry, wringing out 
his cloth. “He wouldn’t give me a straight answer 
when I asked him if I could.” 

“He just didn’t want to get his own hopes up even 
more,” said Hermione wisely. “And he probably felt a 
bit guilty himself, because I think a part of him was 
really hoping you’d be expelled. Then you’d both be 
outcasts together.” 



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“Come off it!” said Harry and Ron together, but 
Hermione merely shrugged. 

“Suit yourselves. But I sometimes think Ron’s mum’s 
right, and Sirius gets confused about whether you’re 
you or your father, Harry.” 

“So you think he’s touched in the head?” said Harry 
heatedly. 

“No, I just think he’s been very lonely for a long time,” 
said Hermione simply. 

At this point Mrs. Weasley entered the bedroom 
behind them. 

“Still not finished?” she said, poking her head into the 
cupboard. 

“I thought you might be here to tell us to have a 
break!” said Ron bitterly. “D’you know how much 
mold we’ve got rid of since we arrived here?” 

“You were so keen to help the Order,” said Mrs. 
Weasley, “you can do your bit by making 
headquarters fit to live in.” 

“I feel like a house-elf,” grumbled Ron. 

“Well, now that you understand what dreadful lives 
they lead, perhaps you’ll be a bit more active in 
S.P.E.W.!” said Hermione hopefully, as Mrs. Weasley 
left them to it again. “You know, maybe it wouldn’t be 
a bad idea to show people exactly how horrible it is to 
clean all the time — we could do a sponsored scrub of 
Gryffindor common room, all proceeds to S.P.E.W., it 
would raise awareness as well as funds — ” 



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“I’ll sponsor you to shut up about spew,” Ron 
muttered irritably, but only so Harry could hear him. 

Harry found himself daydreaming about Hogwarts 
more and more as the end of the holidays 
approached; he could not wait to see Hagrid again, to 
play Quidditch, even to stroll across the vegetable 
patches to the Herbology greenhouses. It would be a 
treat just to leave this dusty, musty house, where half 
of the cupboards were still bolted shut and Kreacher 
wheezed insults out of the shadows as you passed, 
though Harry was careful not to say any of this within 
earshot of Sirius. 

The fact was that living at the headquarters of the 
anti-Voldemort movement was not nearly as 
interesting or exciting as Harry would have expected 
before he’d experienced it. Though members of the 
Order of the Phoenix came and went regularly, 
sometimes staying for meals, sometimes only for a few 
minutes’ whispered conversation, Mrs. Weasley made 
sure that Harry and the others were kept well out of 
earshot (whether Extendable or normal) and nobody, 
not even Sirius, seemed to feel that Harry needed to 
know anything more than he had heard on the night 
of his arrival. 

On the very last day of the holidays Harry was 
sweeping up Hedwig’s owl droppings from the top of 
the wardrobe when Ron entered their bedroom 
carrying a couple of envelopes. 

“Booklists have arrived,” he said, throwing one of the 
envelopes up to Harry, who was standing on a chair. 
“About time, I thought they’d forgotten, they usually 
come much earlier than this...” 

Harry swept the last of the droppings into a rubbish 
bag and threw the bag over Ron’s head into the 

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wastepaper basket in the corner, which swallowed it 
and belched loudly. He then opened his letter: It 
contained two pieces of parchment, one the usual 
reminder that term started on the first of September, 
the other telling him which books he would need for 
the coming year. 

“Only two new ones,” he said, reading the list. “The 
Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5, by Miranda 
Goshawk and Defensive Magical Theory, by Wilbert 
Slinkhard.” 

Crack. 

Fred and George Apparated right beside Harry. He 
was so used to them doing this by now that he didn’t 
even fall off his chair. 

“We were just wondering who assigned the Slinkhard 
book,” said Fred conversationally. 

“Because it means Dumbledore’s found a new 
Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” said George. 

“And about time too,” said Fred. 

“What d’you mean?” Harry asked, jumping down 
beside them. 

“Well, we overheard Mum and Dad talking on the 
Extendable Ears a few weeks back,” Fred told Harry, 
“and from what they were saying, Dumbledore was 
having real trouble finding anyone to do the job this 
year.” 

“Not surprising, is it, when you look at what’s 
happened to the last four?” said George. 



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“One sacked, one dead, one’s memory removed, and 
one locked in a trunk for nine months,” said Harry, 
counting them off on his fingers. “Yeah, I see what 
you mean.” 

“What’s up with you, Ron?” asked Fred. 

Ron did not answer. Harry looked around. Ron was 
standing very still with his mouth slightly open, 
gaping at his letter from Hogwarts. 

“What’s the matter?” said Fred impatiently, moving 
around Ron to look over his shoulder at the 
parchment. 

Fred’s mouth fell open too. 

“Prefect?” he said, staring incredulously at the letter. 
“Prefect?” 

George leapt forward, seized the envelope in Ron’s 
other hand, and turned it upside down. Harry saw 
something scarlet and gold fall into George’s palm. 

“No way,” said George in a hushed voice. 

“There’s been a mistake,” said Fred, snatching the 
letter out of Ron’s grasp and holding it up to the light 
as though checking for a watermark. “No one in their 
right mind would make Ron a prefect...” 

The twins’ heads turned in unison and both of them 
stared at Harry. 

“We thought you were a cert!” said Fred in a tone that 
suggested Harry had tricked them in some way. 

“We thought Dumbledore was bound to pick you!” 
said George indignantly. 

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“Winning the Triwizard and everything!” said Fred. 

“I suppose all the mad stuff must’ve counted against 
him,” said George to Fred. 

“Yeah,” said Fred slowly. “Yeah, you’ve caused too 
much trouble, mate. Well, at least one of you’s got 
their priorities right.” 

He strode over to Harry and clapped him on the back 
while giving Ron a scathing look. 

“Prefect ... ickle Ronnie the prefect ...” 

“Oh, Mum’s going to be revolting,” groaned George, 
thrusting the prefect badge back at Ron as though it 
might contaminate him. 

Ron, who still had not said a word, took the badge, 
stared at it for a moment, and then held it out to 
Harry as though asking mutely for confirmation that 
it was genuine. Harry took it. A large P was 
superimposed on the Gryffindor lion. He had seen a 
badge just like this on Percy’s chest on his very first 
day at Hogwarts. 

The door banged open. Hermione came tearing into 
the room, her cheeks flushed and her hair flying. 
There was an envelope in her hand. 

“Did you — did you get — ?” 

She spotted the badge in Harry’s hand and let out a 
shriek. 

“I knew it!” she said excitedly, brandishing her letter. 
“Me too, Harry, me too!” 



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“No,” said Harry quickly, pushing the badge back into 
Ron’s hand. “It’s Ron, not me.” 



“It — what?” 

“Ron’s prefect, not me,” Harry said. 

“Ron?” said Hermione, her jaw dropping. “But ... are 
you sure? I mean — ” 

She turned red as Ron looked around at her with a 
defiant expression on his face. 

“It’s my name on the letter,” he said. 

“I ...” said Hermione, looking thoroughly bewildered. 

“I ... well ... wow! Well done, Ron! That’s really — ” 

“Unexpected,” said George, nodding. 

“No,” said Hermione, blushing harder than ever, “no, 
it’s not ... Ron’s done loads of ... he’s really ...” 

The door behind her opened a little wider and Mrs. 
Weasley backed into the room carrying a pile of 
freshly laundered robes. 

“Ginny said the booklists had come at last,” she said, 
glancing around at all the envelopes as she made her 
way over to the bed and started sorting the robes into 
two piles. “If you give them to me I’ll take them over to 
Diagon Alley this afternoon and get your books while 
you’re packing. Ron, I’ll have to get you more 
pajamas, these are at least six inches too short, I 
can’t believe how fast you’re growing ... what color 
would you like?” 

“Get him red and gold to match his badge,” said 
George, smirking. 

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“Match his what?” said Mrs. Weasley absently, rolling 
up a pair of maroon socks and placing them on Ron’s 
pile. 

“His badge,” said Fred, with the air of getting the 
worst over quickly. “His lovely shiny new prefect’s 
badge.” 

Fred’s words took a moment to penetrate Mrs. 
Weasley’s preoccupation about pajamas. 

“His ... but ... Ron, you’re not... ?” 

Ron held up his badge. 

Mrs. Weasley let out a shriek just like Hermione’s. 

“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it! Oh, Ron, how 
wonderful! A prefect! That’s everyone in the family!” 

“What are Fred and I, next-door neighbors?” said 
George indignantly, as his mother pushed him aside 
and flung her arms around her youngest son. 

“Wait until your father hears! Ron, I’m so proud of 
you, what wonderful news, you could end up Head 
Boy just like Bill and Percy, it’s the first step! Oh, 
what a thing to happen in the middle of all this worry, 
I’m just thrilled, oh Ronnie — ” 

Fred and George were both making loud retching 
noises behind her back but Mrs. Weasley did not 
notice; arms tight around Ron’s neck, she was kissing 
him all over his face, which had turned a brighter 
scarlet than his badge. 

“Mum ... don’t ... Mum, get a grip...” he muttered, 
trying to push her away. 



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She let go of him and said breathlessly, “Well, what 
will it be? We gave Percy an owl, but you’ve already 
got one, of course.” 

“W-what do you mean?” said Ron, looking as though 
he did not dare believe his ears. 

“You’ve got to have a reward for this!” said Mrs. 
Weasley fondly. “How about a nice new set of dress 
robes?” 

“We’ve already bought him some,” said Fred sourly, 
who looked as though he sincerely regretted this 
generosity. 

“Or a new cauldron, Charlie’s old one’s rusting 
through, or a new rat, you always liked Scabbers — ” 

“Mum,” said Ron hopefully, “can I have a new 
broom?” 

Mrs. Weasley’s face fell slightly; broomsticks were 
expensive. 

“Not a really good one!” Ron hastened to add. “Just — 
just a new one for a change ...” 

Mrs. Weasley hesitated, then smiled. 

“Of course you can... Well, I’d better get going if I’ve 
got a broom to buy too. I’ll see you all later... Little 
Ronnie, a prefect! And don’t forget to pack your 
trunks... A prefect ... Oh, I’m all of a dither!” 

She gave Ron yet another kiss on the cheek, sniffed 
loudly, and bustled from the room. 

Fred and George exchanged looks. 



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“You don’t mind if we don’t kiss you, do you, Ron?” 
said Fred in a falsely anxious voice. 

“We could curtsy, if you like,” said George. 

“Oh, shut up,” said Ron, scowling at them. 

“Or what?” said Fred, an evil grin spreading across 
his face. “Going to put us in detention?” 

“I’d love to see him try,” sniggered George. 

“He could if you don’t watch out!” said Hermione 
angrily, at which Fred and George burst out laughing 
and Ron muttered, “Drop it, Hermione.” 

“We’re going to have to watch our step, George,” said 
Fred, pretending to tremble, “with these two on our 
case...” 

“Yeah, it looks like our law-breaking days are finally 
over,” said George, shaking his head. 

And with another loud crack, the twins Disapparated. 

“Those two!” said Hermione furiously, staring up at 
the ceiling, through which they could now hear Fred 
and George roaring with laughter in the room 
upstairs. “Don’t pay any attention to them, Ron, 
they’re only jealous!” 

“I don’t think they are,” said Ron doubtfully, also 
looking up at the ceiling. “They’ve always said only 
prats become prefects... Still,” he added on a happier 
note, “they’ve never had new brooms! I wish I could go 
with Mum and choose... She’ll never be able to afford 
a Nimbus, but there’s the new Cleansweep out, that’d 
be great... Yeah, I think I’ll go and tell her I like the 
Cleansweep, just so she knows...” 

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He dashed from the room, leaving Harry and 
Hermione alone. 

For some reason, Harry found that he did not want to 
look at Hermione. He turned to his bed, picked up the 
pile of clean robes Mrs. Weasley had laid upon it, and 
crossed the room to his trunk. 

“Harry?” said Hermione tentatively. 

“Well done,” said Harry, so heartily it did not sound 
like his voice at all, and still not looking at her. 
“Brilliant. Prefect. Great.” 

“Thanks,” said Hermione. “Erm — Harry — could I 
borrow Hedwig so I can tell Mum and Dad? They’ll be 
really pleased — I mean, prefect is something they 
can understand — ” 

“Yeah, no problem,” said Harry, still in the horrible 
hearty voice that did not belong to him. “Take her!” 

He leaned over his trunk, laid the robes on the 
bottom of it, and pretended to be rummaging for 
something while Hermione crossed to the wardrobe 
and called Hedwig down. A few moments passed; 
Harry heard the door close but remained bent double, 
listening; the only sounds he could hear were the 
blank picture on the wall sniggering again and the 
wastepaper basket in the corner coughing up the owl 
droppings. 

He straightened up and looked behind him. Hermione 
and Hedwig had gone. Harry returned slowly to his 
bed and sank onto it, gazing unseeingly at the foot of 
the wardrobe. 

He had forgotten completely about prefects being 
chosen in the fifth year. He had been too anxious 

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about the possibility of being expelled to spare a 
thought for the fact that badges must be winging their 
way toward certain people. But if he had remembered 
... if he had thought about it . . . what would he have 
expected? 

Not this, said a small and truthful voice inside his 
head. 

Harry screwed up his face and buried it in his hands. 
He could not lie to himself; if he had known the 
prefect badge was on its way, he would have expected 
it to come to him, not Ron. Did this make him as 
arrogant as Draco Malfoy? Did he think himself 
superior to everyone else? Did he really believe he was 
better than Ron? 

No, said the small voice defiantly. 

Was that true? Harry wondered, anxiously probing 
his own feelings. 

I’m better at Quidditch, said the voice. But I’m not 
better at anything else. 

That was definitely true, Harry thought; he was no 
better than Ron in lessons. But what about outside 
lessons? What about those adventures he, Ron, and 
Hermione had had together since they had started at 
Hogwarts, often risking much worse than expulsion? 

Well, Ron and Hermione were with me most of the 
time, said the voice in Harry’s head. 

Not all the time, though, Harry argued with himself. 
They didn’t fight Quirrell with me. They didn’t take on 
Riddle and the basilisk. They didn’t get rid of all those 
dementors the night Sirius escaped. They weren’t in 
that graveyard with me, the night Voldemort returned... 
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And the same feeling of ill usage that had 
overwhelmed him on the night he had arrived rose 
again. I’ve definitely done more, Harry thought 
indignantly. I’ve done more than either of them\ 

But maybe, said the small voice fairly, maybe 
Dumbledore doesn’t choose prefects because they’ve 
got themselves into a load of dangerous situations... 
Maybe he chooses them for other reasons... Ron must 
have something you don’t... 

Harry opened his eyes and stared through his fingers 
at the wardrobe’s clawed feet, remembering what Fred 
had said. 

“No one in their right mind would make Ron a 
prefect...” 

Harry gave a small snort of laughter. A second later 
he felt sickened with himself. 

Ron had not asked Dumbledore to give him the 
prefect badge. This was not Ron’s fault. Was he, 

Harry, Ron’s best friend in the world, going to sulk 
because he didn’t have a badge, laugh with the twins 
behind Ron’s back, ruin this for Ron when, for the 
first time, he had beaten Harry at something? 

At this point Harry heard Ron’s footsteps on the stairs 
again. He stood up, straightened his glasses, and 
hitched a grin onto his face as Ron bounded back 
through the door. 

“Just caught her!” he said happily. “She says she’ll 
get the Cleansweep if she can.” 

“Cool,” Harry said, and he was relieved to hear that 
his voice had stopped sounding hearty. “Listen — Ron 
— well done, mate.” 

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The smile faded off Ron’s face. 



“I never thought it would be me!” he said, shaking his 
head, “I thought it would be you!” 

“Nah, I’ve caused too much trouble,” Harry said, 
echoing Fred. 

“Yeah,” said Ron, “yeah, I suppose... Well, we’d better 
get our trunks packed, hadn’t we?” 

It was odd how widely their possessions seemed to 
have scattered themselves since they had arrived. It 
took them most of the afternoon to retrieve their 
books and belongings from all over the house and 
stow them back inside their school trunks. Harry 
noticed that Ron kept moving his prefect’s badge 
around, first placing it on his bedside table, then 
putting it into his jeans pocket, then taking it out and 
laying it on his folded robes, as though to see the 
effect of the red on the black. Only when Fred and 
George dropped in and offered to attach it to his 
forehead with a Permanent Sticking Charm did he 
wrap it tenderly in his maroon socks and lock it in his 
trunk. 

Mrs. Weasley returned from Diagon Alley around six 
o’clock, laden with books and carrying a long package 
wrapped in thick brown paper that Ron took from her 
with a moan of longing. 

“Never mind unwrapping it now, people are arriving 
for dinner, I want you all downstairs,” she said, but 
the moment she was out of sight Ron ripped off the 
paper in a frenzy and examined every inch of his new 
broom, an ecstatic expression on his face. 

Down in the basement Mrs. Weasley had hung a 
scarlet banner over the heavily laden dinner table, 

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which read CONGRATULATIONS RON AND 
HERMIONE — NEW PREFECTS. She looked in a 
better mood than Harry had seen her all holiday. 

“I thought we’d have a little party, not a sit-down 
dinner,” she told Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, 
and Ginny as they entered the room. “Your father and 
Bill are on their way, Ron, I’ve sent them both owls 
and they’re thrilled,” she added, beaming. 

Fred rolled his eyes. 

Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, and Kingsley Shacklebolt were 
already there and Mad-Eye Moody stumped in shortly 
after Harry had got himself a butterbeer. 

“Oh, Alastor, I am glad you’re here,” said Mrs. 

Weasley brightly, as Mad-Eye shrugged off his 
traveling cloak. “We’ve been wanting to ask you for 
ages — could you have a look in the writing desk in 
the drawing room and tell us what’s inside it? We 
haven’t wanted to open it just in case it’s something 
really nasty.” 

“No problem, Molly ...” 

Moody’s electric-blue eye swiveled upward and stared 
fixedly through the ceiling of the kitchen. 

“Drawing room ...” he growled, as the pupil 
contracted. “Desk in the corner? Yeah, I see it... Yeah, 
it’s a boggart... Want me to go up and get rid of it, 
Molly?” 

“No, no, I’ll do it myself later,” beamed Mrs. Weasley. 
“You have your drink. We’re having a little bit of a 
celebration, actually...” She gestured at the scarlet 
banner. “Fourth prefect in the family!” she said 
fondly, ruffling Ron’s hair. 

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“Prefect, eh?” growled Moody, his normal eye on Ron 
and his magical eye swiveling around to gaze into the 
side of his head. Harry had the very uncomfortable 
feeling it was looking at him and moved away toward 
Sirius and Lupin. 

“Well, congratulations,” said Moody, still glaring at 
Ron with his normal eye, “authority figures always 
attract trouble, but I suppose Dumbledore thinks you 
can withstand most major jinxes or he wouldn’t have 
appointed you...” 

Ron looked rather startled at this view of the matter 
but was saved the trouble of responding by the arrival 
of his father and eldest brother. Mrs. Weasley was in 
such a good mood she did not even complain that 
they had brought Mundungus with them too; he was 
wearing a long overcoat that seemed oddly lumpy in 
unlikely places and declined the offer to remove it and 
put it with Moody’s traveling cloak. 

“Well, I think a toast is in order,” said Mr. Weasley, 
when everyone had a drink. He raised his goblet. “To 
Ron and Hermione, the new Gryffindor prefects!” 

Ron and Hermione beamed as everyone drank to 
them and then applauded. 

“I was never a prefect myself,” said Tonks brightly 
from behind Harry as everybody moved toward the 
table to help themselves to food. Her hair was tomato- 
red and waist length today; she looked like Ginny’s 
older sister. “My Head of House said I lacked certain 
necessary qualities.” 

“Like what?” said Ginny, who was choosing a baked 
potato. 

“Like the ability to behave myself,” said Tonks. 

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Ginny laughed; Hermione looked as though she did 
not know whether to smile or not and compromised 
by taking an extra large gulp of butterbeer and 
choking on it. 

“What about you, Sirius?” Ginny asked, thumping 
Hermione on the back. 

Sirius, who was right beside Harry, let out his usual 
barklike laugh. 

“No one would have made me a prefect, I spent too 
much time in detention with James. Lupin was the 
good boy, he got the badge.” 

“I think Dumbledore might have hoped that I would 
be able to exercise some control over my best friends,” 
said Lupin. “I need scarcely say that I failed dismally.” 

Harry’s mood suddenly lifted. His father had not been 
a prefect either. All at once the party seemed much 
more enjoyable; he loaded up his plate, feeling 
unusually fond of everyone in the room. 

Ron was rhapsodizing about his new broom to 
anybody who would listen. 

"... naught to seventy in ten seconds, not bad, is it? 
When you think the Comet Two Ninety’s only naught 
to sixty and that’s with a decent tailwind according to 
Which Broomstick?” 

Hermione was talking very earnestly to Lupin about 
her view of elf rights. 

“I mean, it’s the same kind of nonsense as werewolf 
segregation, isn’t it? It all stems from this horrible 
thing wizards have of thinking they’re superior to 
other creatures...” 

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Mrs. Weasley and Bill were having their usual 
argument about Bill’s hair. 

"... getting really out of hand, and you’re so good- 
looking, it would look much better shorter, wouldn’t 
it, Harry?” 

“Oh — I dunno — ” said Harry, slightly alarmed at 
being asked his opinion; he slid away from them in 
the direction of Fred and George, who were huddled 
in a corner with Mundungus. 

Mundungus stopped talking when he saw Harry, but 
Fred winked and beckoned Harry closer. 

“It’s okay,” he told Mundungus, “we can trust Harry, 
he’s our financial backer.” 

“Look what Dung’s gotten us,” said George, holding 
out his hand to Harry. It was full of what looked like 
shriveled black pods. A faint rattling noise was 
coming from them, even though they were completely 
stationary. 

“Venomous Tentacula seeds,” said George. “We need 
them for the Skiving Snackboxes but they’re a Class 
C Non-Tradeable Substance so we’ve been having a 
bit of trouble getting hold of them.” 

“Ten Galleons the lot, then, Dung?” said Fred. 

“Wiv all the trouble I went to to get ’em?” said 
Mundungus, his saggy, bloodshot eyes stretching 
even wider. “I’m sorry, lads, but I’m not taking a Knut 
under twenty.” 

“Dung likes his little joke,” Fred said to Harry. 



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“Yeah, his best one so far has been six Sickles for a 
bag of knarl quills,” said George. 

“Be careful,” Harry warned them quietly. 

“What?” said Fred. “Mum’s busy cooing over Prefect 
Ron, we’re okay.” 

“But Moody could have his eye on you,” Harry pointed 
out. 

Mundungus looked nervously over his shoulder. 

“Good point, that,” he grunted. “All right, lads, ten it 
is, if you’ll take ’em quick.” 

“Cheers, Harry!” said Fred delightedly, when 
Mundungus had emptied his pockets into the twins’ 
outstretched hands and scuttled off toward the food. 
“We’d better get these upstairs...” 

Harry watched them go, feeling slightly uneasy. It had 
just occurred to him that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would 
want to know how Fred and George were financing 
their joke shop business when, as was inevitable, 
they finally found out about it. Giving the twins his 
Tri-wizard winnings had seemed a simple thing to do 
at the time, but what if it led to another family row 
and a Percy-like estrangement? Would Mrs. Weasley 
still feel that Harry was as good as her son if she 
found out he had made it possible for Fred and 
George to start a career she thought quite 
unsuitable? 

Standing where the twins had left him with nothing 
but a guilty weight in the pit of his stomach for 
company, Harry caught the sound of his own name. 
Kingsley Shacklebolt’s deep voice was audible even 
over the surrounding chatter. 

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"... why Dumbledore didn’t make Potter a prefect?” 
said Kingsley. 

“He’ll have had his reasons,” replied Lupin. 

“But it would’ve shown confidence in him. It’s what 
I’d’ve done,” persisted Kingsley, “ ’specially with the 
Daily Prophet having a go at him every few days...” 

Harry did not look around; he did not want Lupin or 
Kingsley to know he had heard. He followed 
Mundungus back toward the table, though not 
remotely hungry. His pleasure in the party had 
evaporated as quickly as it had come; he wished he 
were upstairs in bed. 

Mad-Eye Moody was sniffing at a chicken leg with 
what remained of his nose; evidently he could not 
detect any trace of poison, because he then tore a 
strip off it with his teeth. 

"... the handle’s made of Spanish oak with anti-jinx 
varnish and in-built vibration control — ” Ron was 
saying to Tonks. 

Mrs. Weasley yawned widely. 

“Well, I think I’ll sort out that boggart before I turn 
in... Arthur, I don’t want this lot up too late, all right? 
’Night, Harry, dear.” 

She left the kitchen. Harry set down his plate and 
wondered whether he could follow her without 
attracting attention. 

“You all right, Potter?” grunted Moody. 

“Yeah, fine,” lied Harry. 



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Moody took a swig from his hip flask, his electric blue 
eye staring sideways at Harry. 

“Come here, I’ve got something that might interest 
you,” he said. 

From an inner pocket of his robes Moody pulled a 
very tattered old Wizarding photograph. 

“Original Order of the Phoenix,” growled Moody. 
“Found it last night when I was looking for my spare 
Invisibility Cloak, seeing as Podmore hasn’t had the 
manners to return my best one... Thought people 
might like to see it.” 

Harry took the photograph. A small crowd of people, 
some waving at him, others lifting their glasses, 
looked back up at him. 

“There’s me,” said Moody unnecessarily, pointing at 
himself. The Moody in the picture was unmistakable, 
though his hair was slightly less gray and his nose 
was intact. “And there’s Dumbledore beside me, 
Dedalus Diggle on the other side ... That’s Marlene 
McKinnon, she was killed two weeks after this was 
taken, they got her whole family. That’s Frank and 
Alice Longbottom — ” 

Harry’s stomach, already uncomfortable, clenched as 
he looked at Alice Longbottom; he knew her round, 
friendly face very well, even though he had never met 
her, because she was the image of her son, Neville. 

“Poor devils,” growled Moody. “Better dead than what 
happened to them ... and that’s Emmeline Vance, 
you’ve met her, and that there’s Lupin, obviously ... 
Benjy Fenwick, he copped it too, we only ever found 
bits of him ... shift aside there,” he added, poking the 
picture, and the little photographic people edged 
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sideways, so that those who were partially obscured 
could move to the front. 



“That’s Edgar Bones ... brother of Amelia Bones, they 
got him and his family too, he was a great wizard ... 
Sturgis Podmore, blimey, he looks young ... Caradoc 
Dearborn, vanished six months after this, we never 
found his body ... Hagrid, of course, looks exactly the 
same as ever ... Elphias Doge, you’ve met him, I’d 
forgotten he used to wear that stupid hat . . . Gideon 
Prewett, it took five Death Eaters to kill him and his 
brother Fabian, they fought like heroes ... budge 
along, budge along ...” 

The little people in the photograph jostled among 
themselves, and those hidden right at the back 
appeared at the forefront of the picture. 

“That’s Dumbledore’s brother, Aberforth, only time I 
ever met him, strange bloke ... That’s Dorcas 
Meadowes, Voldemort killed her personally ... Sirius, 
when he still had short hair ... and ... there you go, 
thought that would interest you!” 

Harry’s heart turned over. His mother and father were 
beaming up at him, sitting on either side of a small, 
watery-eyed man Harry recognized at once as 
Wormtail: He was the one who had betrayed their 
whereabouts to Voldemort and so helped bring about 
their deaths. 

“Eh?” said Moody. 

Harry looked up into Moody’s heavily scarred and 
pitted face. Evidently Moody was under the 
impression he had just given Harry a bit of a treat. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, attempting to grin again. “Er ... 
listen, I’ve just remembered, I haven’t packed my ...” 

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He was spared the trouble of inventing an object he 
had not packed; Sirius had just said, “What’s that 
you’ve got there, Mad-Eye?” and Moody had turned 
toward him. Harry crossed the kitchen, slipped 
through the door and up the stairs before anyone 
could call him back. 

He did not know why he had received such a shock; 
he had seen his parents’ pictures before, after all, and 
he had met Wormtail ... but to have them sprung on 
him like that, when he was least expecting it ... No 
one would like that, he thought angrily. . . 

And then, to see them surrounded by all those other 
happy faces ... Benjy Fenwick, who had been found in 
bits, and Gideon Prewett, who had died like a hero, 
and the Longbottoms, who had been tortured into 
madness ... all waving happily out of the photograph 
forevermore, not knowing that they were doomed... 
Well, Moody might find that interesting ... he, Harry, 
found it disturbing... 

Harry tiptoed up the stairs in the hall past the stuffed 
elf heads, glad to be on his own again, but as he 
approached the first landing he heard noises. 
Someone was sobbing in the drawing room. 

“Hello?” Harry said. 

There was no answer but the sobbing continued. He 
climbed the remaining stairs two at a time, walked 
across the landing, and opened the drawing-room 
door. 

Someone was cowering against the dark wall, her 
wand in her hand, her whole body shaking with sobs. 
Sprawled on the dusty old carpet in a patch of 
moonlight, clearly dead, was Ron. 



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All the air seemed to vanish from Harry’s lungs; he 
felt as though he were falling through the floor; his 
brain turned icy cold — Ron dead, no, it couldn’t be 



But wait a moment, it couldn’t be — Ron was 
downstairs — 

“Mrs. Weasley?” Harry croaked. 

“ R-r-riddikulus\” Mrs. Weasley sobbed, pointing her 
shaking wand at Ron’s body. 

Crack. 

Ron’s body turned into Bill’s, spread-eagled on his 
back, his eyes wide open and empty. Mrs. Weasley 
sobbed harder than ever. 

“ R-riddikulus\” she sobbed again. 

Crack. 

Mr. Weasley’s body replaced Bill’s, his glasses askew, 
a trickle of blood running down his face. 

“No!” Mrs. Weasley moaned. “No ... riddikulus\ 
Riddikulusl RIDDIKULUSl” 

Crack. Dead twins. Crack. Dead Percy. Crack. Dead 
Harry ... 

“Mrs. Weasley, just get out of here!” shouted Harry, 
staring down at his own dead body on the floor. “Let 
someone else — ” 

“What’s going on?” 



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Lupin had come running into the room, closely 
followed by Sirius, with Moody stumping along behind 
them. Lupin looked from Mrs. Weasley to the dead 
Harry on the floor and seemed to understand in an 
instant. Pulling out his own wand he said, very firmly 
and clearly, “ RiddikulusV’ 

Harry’s body vanished. A silvery orb hung in the air 
over the spot where it had lain. Lupin waved his wand 
once more and the orb vanished in a puff of smoke. 

“Oh — oh — oh!” gulped Mrs. Weasley, and she broke 
into a storm of crying, her face in her hands. 

“Molly,” said Lupin bleakly, walking over to her, 

“Molly, don’t ...” 

Next second she was sobbing her heart out on Lupin’s 
shoulder. 

“Molly, it was just a boggart,” he said soothingly, 
patting her on the head. “Just a stupid boggart ...” 

“I see them d-d-dead all the time!” Mrs. Weasley 
moaned into his shoulder. “All the t-t-time! I d-d- 
dream about it ...” 

Sirius was staring at the patch of carpet where the 
boggart, pretending to be Harry’s body, had lain. 
Moody was looking at Harry, who avoided his gaze. He 
had a funny feeling Moody’s magical eye had followed 
him all the way out of the kitchen. 

“D-d-don’t tell Arthur,” Mrs. Weasley was gulping 
now, mopping her eyes frantically with her cuffs. “I d- 
d-don’t want him to know... Being silly ...” 

Lupin handed her a handkerchief and she blew her 
nose. 

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“Harry, I’m so sorry, what must you think of me?” she 
said shakily. “Not even able to get rid of a boggart ...” 

“Don’t be stupid,” said Harry, trying to smile. 

“I’m just s-s-so worried,” she said, tears spilling out of 
her eyes again. “Half the f-f-family’s in the Order, it’ll 
b-b-be a miracle if we all come through this... and P- 
P-Percy’s not talking to us... What if something d-d- 
dreadful happens and we had never m-m-made up? 
And what’s going to happen if Arthur and I get killed, 
who’s g-g-going to look after Ron and Ginny?” 

“Molly, that’s enough,” said Lupin firmly. “This isn’t 
like last time. The Order is better prepared, we’ve got 
a head start, we know what Voldemort’s up to — ” 

Mrs. Weasley gave a little squeak of fright at the 
sound of the name. 

“Oh, Molly, come on, it’s about time you got used to 
hearing it — look, I can’t promise no one’s going to get 
hurt, nobody can promise that, but we’re much better 
off than we were last time, you weren’t in the Order 
then, you don’t understand, last time we were 
outnumbered twenty to one by the Death Eaters and 
they were picking us off one by one...” 

Harry thought of the photograph again, of his parents’ 
beaming faces. He knew Moody was still watching 
him. 

“Don’t worry about Percy,” said Sirius abruptly. “He’ll 
come round. It’s a matter of time before Voldemort 
moves into the open; once he does, the whole 
Ministry’s going to be begging us to forgive them. And 
I’m not sure I’ll be accepting their apology,” he added 
bitterly. 



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“And as for who’s going to look after Ron and Ginny if 
you and Arthur died,” said Lupin, smiling slightly, 
“what do you think we’d do, let them starve?” 

Mrs. Weasley smiled tremulously. 

“Being silly,” she muttered again, mopping her eyes. 

But Harry, closing his bedroom door behind him 
some ten minutes later, could not think Mrs. Weasley 
silly. He could still see his parents beaming up at him 
from the tattered old photograph, unaware that their 
lives, like so many of those around them, were 
drawing to a close. The image of the boggart posing as 
the corpse of each member of Mrs. Weasley’s family in 
turn kept flashing before his eyes. 

Without warning, the scar on his forehead seared 
with pain again and his stomach churned horribly. 

“Cut it out,” he said firmly, rubbing the scar as the 
pain receded again. 

“First sign of madness, talking to your own head,” 
said a sly voice from the empty picture on the wall. 

Harry ignored it. He felt older than he had ever felt in 
his life, and it seemed extraordinary to him that 
barely an hour ago he had been worried about a joke 
shop and who had gotten a prefect’s badge. 



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10 




LUNA LOVEGOOD 

Harry had a troubled night’s sleep. His parents wove 
in and out of his dreams, never speaking; Mrs. 
Weasley sobbed over Kreacher’s dead body watched 
by Ron and Hermione, who were wearing crowns, and 
yet again Harry found himself walking down a 
corridor ending in a locked door. He awoke abruptly 
with his scar prickling to find Ron already dressed 
and talking to him. 

"... better hurry up, Mum’s going ballistic, she says 
we’re going to miss the train...” 

There was a lot of commotion in the house. From 
what he heard as he dressed at top speed, Harry 
gathered that Fred and George had bewitched their 
trunks to fly downstairs to save the bother of carrying 
them, with the result that they had hurtled straight 
into Ginny and knocked her down two flights of stairs 
into the hall; Mrs. Black and Mrs. Weasley were both 
screaming at the top of their voices. 



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COULD HAVE DONE HER A SERIOUS INJURY, 
YOU IDIOTS — ” 

FILTHY HALF-BREEDS, BESMIRCHING THE 
HOUSE OF MY FATHERS — ” 

Hermione came hurrying into the room looking 
flustered just as Harry was putting on his trainers; 
Hedwig was swaying on her shoulder, and she was 
carrying a squirming Crookshanks in her arms. 

“Mum and Dad just sent Hedwig back” — the owl 
fluttered obligingly over and perched on top of her 
cage — “are you ready yet?” 

“Nearly — Ginny all right?” Harry asked, shoving on 
his glasses. 

“Mrs. Weasley’s patched her up,” said Hermione. “But 
now Mad-Eye’s complaining that we can’t leave unless 
Sturgis Podmore’s here, otherwise the guard will be 
one short.” 

“Guard?” said Harry. “We have to go to King’s Cross 
with a guard?” 

“ You have to go to King’s Cross with a guard,” 
Hermione corrected him. 

“Why?” said Harry irritably. “I thought Voldemort was 
supposed to be lying low, or are you telling me he’s 
going to jump out from behind a dustbin to try and do 
me in?” 

“I don’t know, it’s just what Mad-Eye says,” said 
Hermione distractedly, looking at her watch. “But if 
we don’t leave soon we’re definitely going to miss the 
train...” 



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“WILL YOU LOT GET DOWN HERE NOW, PLEASE!” 
Mrs. Weasley bellowed and Hermione jumped as 
though scalded and hurried out of the room. Harry 
seized Hedwig, stuffed her unceremoniously into her 
cage, and set off downstairs after Hermione, dragging 
his trunk. 

Mrs. Black’s portrait was howling with rage but 
nobody was bothering to close the curtains over her; 
all the noise in the hall was bound to rouse her again 
anyway. 

“Harry, you’re to come with me and Tonks,” shouted 
Mrs. Weasley over the repeated screeches of 
“MUDBLOODSl SCUM CREATURES OF DIRV.” “Leave 
your trunk and your owl, Alastor’s going to deal with 
the luggage... Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sirius, 
Dumbledore said no!” 

A bearlike black dog had appeared at Harry’s side as 
Harry clambered over the various trunks cluttering 
the hall to get to Mrs. Weasley. 

“Oh honestly ...” said Mrs. Weasley despairingly, 
“well, on your own head be it!” 

She wrenched open the front door and stepped out 
into the weak September sunlight. Harry and the dog 
followed her. The door slammed behind them and 
Mrs. Black’s screeches were cut off instantly. 

“Where’s Tonks?” Harry said, looking around as they 
went down the stone steps of number twelve, which 
vanished the moment they reached the pavement. 

“She’s waiting for us just up here,” said Mrs. Weasley 
stiffly, averting her eyes from the lolloping black dog 
beside Harry. 



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An old woman greeted them on the corner. She had 
tightly curled gray hair and wore a purple hat shaped 
like a porkpie. 

“Wotcher, Harry,” she said, winking. “Better hurry up, 
hadn’t we, Molly?” she added, checking her watch. 

“I know, I know,” moaned Mrs. Weasley, lengthening 
her stride, “but Mad-Eye wanted to wait for Sturgis... 
If only Arthur could have got us cars from the 
Ministry again ... but Fudge wouldn’t let him borrow 
so much as an empty ink bottle these days... How 
Muggles can stand traveling without magic ...” 

But the great black dog gave a joyful bark and 
gamboled around them, snapping at pigeons, and 
chasing its own tail. Harry couldn’t help laughing. 
Sirius had been trapped inside for a very long time. 
Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips in an almost Aunt 
Petunia-ish way. 

It took them twenty minutes to reach King’s Cross by 
foot and nothing more eventful happened during that 
time than Sirius scaring a couple of cats for Harry’s 
entertainment. Once inside the station they lingered 
casually beside the barrier between platforms nine 
and ten until the coast was clear, then each of them 
leaned against it in turn and fell easily through onto 
platform nine and three quarters, where the Hogwarts 
Express stood belching sooty steam over a platform 
packed with departing students and their families. 
Harry inhaled the familiar smell and felt his spirits 
soar. . . He was really going back. . . 

“I hope the others make it in time,” said Mrs. Weasley 
anxiously, staring behind her at the wrought-iron 
arch spanning the platform, through which new 
arrivals would come. 



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“Nice dog, Harry!” called a tall boy with dreadlocks. 

“Thanks, Lee,” said Harry, grinning, as Sirius wagged 
his tail frantically. 

“Oh good,” said Mrs. Weasley, sounding relieved, 
“here’s Alas tor with the luggage, look ...” 

A porter’s cap pulled low over his mismatched eyes, 
Moody came limping through the archway pushing a 
cart full of their trunks. 

“All okay,” he muttered to Mrs. Weasley and Tonks. 
“Don’t think we were followed...” 

Seconds later, Mr. Weasley emerged onto the platform 
with Ron and Hermione. They had almost unloaded 
Moody’s luggage cart when Fred, George, and Ginny 
turned up with Lupin. 

“No trouble?” growled Moody. 

“Nothing,” said Lupin. 

“I’ll still be reporting Sturgis to Dumbledore,” said 
Moody. “That’s the second time he’s not turned up in 
a week. Getting as unreliable as Mundungus.” 

“Well, look after yourselves,” said Lupin, shaking 
hands all round. He reached Harry last and gave him 
a clap on the shoulder. “You too, Harry. Be careful.” 

“Yeah, keep your head down and your eyes peeled,” 
said Moody, shaking Harry’s hand too. “And don’t 
forget, all of you — careful what you put in writing. If 
in doubt, don’t put it in a letter at all.” 



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“It’s been great meeting all of you,” said Tonks, 
hugging Hermione and Ginny. “We’ll see you soon, I 
expect.” 

A warning whistle sounded; the students still on the 
platform started hurrying onto the train. 

“Quick, quick,” said Mrs. Weasley distractedly, 
hugging them at random and catching Harry twice. 
“Write... Be good... If you’ve forgotten anything we’ll 
send it on... Onto the train, now, hurry...” 

For one brief moment, the great black dog reared onto 
its hind legs and placed its front paws on Harry’s 
shoulders, but Mrs. Weasley shoved Harry away 
toward the train door hissing, “For heaven’s sake act 
more like a dog, Sirius!” 

“See you!” Harry called out of the open window as the 
train began to move, while Ron, Hermione, and Ginny 
waved beside him. The figures of Tonks, Lupin, 

Moody, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shrank rapidly but 
the black dog was bounding alongside the window, 
wagging its tail; blurred people on the platform were 
laughing to see it chasing the train, and then they 
turned the corner, and Sirius was gone. 

“He shouldn’t have come with us,” said Hermione in a 
worried voice. 

“Oh lighten up,” said Ron, “he hasn’t seen daylight for 
months, poor bloke.” 

“Well,” said Fred, clapping his hands together, “can’t 
stand around chatting all day, we’ve got business to 
discuss with Lee. See you later,” and he and George 
disappeared down the corridor to the right. 



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The train was gathering still more speed, so that the 
houses outside the window flashed past and they 
swayed where they stood. 

“Shall we go and find a compartment, then?” Harry 
asked Ron and Hermione. 

Ron and Hermione exchanged looks. 

“Er,” said Ron. 

“We’re — well — Ron and I are supposed to go into 
the prefect carriage,” Hermione said awkwardly. 

Ron wasn’t looking at Harry; he seemed to have 
become intensely interested in the fingernails on his 
left hand. 

“Oh,” said Harry. “Right. Fine.” 

“I don’t think we’ll have to stay there all journey,” said 
Hermione quickly. “Our letters said we just get 
instructions from the Head Boy and Girl and then 
patrol the corridors from time to time.” 

“Fine,” said Harry again. “Well, I-I might see you later, 
then.” 

“Yeah, definitely,” said Ron, casting a shifty, anxious 
look at Harry. “It’s a pain having to go down there, I’d 
rather — but we have to — I mean, I’m not enjoying 
it, I’m not Percy,” he finished defiantly. 

“I know you’re not,” said Harry and he grinned. But 
as Hermione and Ron dragged their trunks, 
Crookshanks, and a caged Pigwidgeon off toward the 
engine end of the train, Harry felt an odd sense of 
loss. He had never traveled on the Hogwarts Express 
without Ron. 

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“Come on,” Ginny told him, “if we get a move on we’ll 
be able to save them places.” 

“Right,” said Harry, picking up Hedwig’s cage in one 
hand and the handle of his trunk in the other. They 
struggled off down the corridor, peering through the 
glass-paneled doors into the compartments they 
passed, which were already full. Harry could not help 
noticing that a lot of people stared back at him with 
great interest and that several of them nudged their 
neighbors and pointed him out. After he had met this 
behavior in five consecutive carriages he remembered 
that the Daily Prophet had been telling its readers all 
summer what a lying show-off he was. He wondered 
bleakly whether the people now staring and 
whispering believed the stories. 

In the very last carriage they met Neville Longbottom, 
Harry’s fellow fifth-year Gryffindor, his round face 
shining with the effort of pulling his trunk along and 
maintaining a one-handed grip on his struggling toad, 
Trevor. 

“Hi, Harry,” he panted. “Hi, Ginny... Everywhere ’s 
full... I can’t find a seat...” 

“What are you talking about?” said Ginny, who had 
squeezed past Neville to peer into the compartment 
behind him. “There’s room in this one, there’s only 
Loony Lovegood in here — ” 

Neville mumbled something about not wanting to 
disturb anyone. 

“Don’t be silly,” said Ginny, laughing, “she’s all right.” 

She slid the door open and pulled her trunk inside it. 
Harry and Neville followed. 



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“Hi, Luna,” said Ginny. “Is it okay if we take these 
seats?” 

The girl beside the window looked up. She had 
straggly, waist-length, dirty-blond hair, very pale 
eyebrows, and protuberant eyes that gave her a 
permanently surprised look. Harry knew at once why 
Neville had chosen to pass this compartment by. The 
girl gave off an aura of distinct dottiness. Perhaps it 
was the fact that she had stuck her wand behind her 
left ear for safekeeping, or that she had chosen to 
wear a necklace of butterbeer caps, or that she was 
reading a magazine upside down. Her eyes ranged 
over Neville and came to rest on Harry. She nodded. 

“Thanks,” said Ginny, smiling at her. 

Harry and Neville stowed the three trunks and 
Hedwig’s cage in the luggage rack and sat down. The 
girl called Luna watched them over her upside-down 
magazine, which was called The Quibbler. She did not 
seem to need to blink as much as normal humans. 

She stared and stared at Harry, who had taken the 
seat opposite her and now wished he had not. 

“Had a good summer, Luna?” Ginny asked. 

“Yes,” said Luna dreamily, without taking her eyes off 
Harry. “Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you know. You’re 
Harry Potter,” she added. 

“I know I am,” said Harry. 

Neville chuckled. Luna turned her pale eyes upon him 
instead. 

“And I don’t know who you are.” 

“I’m nobody,” said Neville hurriedly. 

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“No you’re not,” said Ginny sharply. “Neville 
Longbottom — Luna Lovegood. Luna’s in my year, but 
in Ravenclaw.” 

“ Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure,” said 
Luna in a singsong voice. 

She raised her upside-down magazine high enough to 
hide her face and fell silent. Harry and Neville looked 
at each other with their eyebrows raised. Ginny 
suppressed a giggle. 

The train rattled onward, speeding them out into 
open country. It was an odd, unsettled sort of day; 
one moment the carriage was full of sunlight and the 
next they were passing beneath ominously gray 
clouds. 

“Guess what I got for my birthday?” said Neville. 

“Another Remembrall?” said Harry, remembering the 
marblelike device Neville’s grandmother had sent him 
in an effort to improve his abysmal memory. 

“No,” said Neville, “I could do with one, though, I lost 
the old one ages ago... No, look at this...” 

He dug the hand that was not keeping a firm grip on 
Trevor into his schoolbag and after a little bit of 
rummaging pulled out what appeared to be a small 
gray cactus in a pot, except that it was covered with 
what looked like boils rather than spines. 

“Mimbulus mimbletonia,” he said proudly. 

Harry stared at the thing. It was pulsating slightly, 
giving it the rather sinister look of some diseased 
internal organ. 



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“It’s really, really rare,” said Neville, beaming. “I don’t 
know if there’s one in the greenhouse at Hogwarts, 
even. I can’t wait to show it to Professor Sprout. My 
great-uncle Algie got it for me in Assyria. I’m going to 
see if I can breed from it.” 

Harry knew that Neville’s favorite subject was 
Herbology, but for the life of him he could not see 
what he would want with this stunted little plant. 

“Does it — er — do anything?” he asked. 

“Loads of stuff!” said Neville proudly. “It’s got an 
amazing defensive mechanism — hold Trevor for 
me...” 

He dumped the toad into Harry’s lap and took a quill 
from his schoolbag. Luna Lovegood’s popping eyes 
appeared over the top of her upside-down magazine 
again, watching what Neville was doing. Neville held 
the Mimbulus mimbletonia up to his eyes, his tongue 
between his teeth, chose his spot, and gave the plant 
a sharp prod with the tip of his quill. 

Liquid squirted from every boil on the plant, thick, 
stinking, dark-green jets of it; they hit the ceiling, the 
windows, and spattered Luna Lovegood’s magazine. 
Ginny, who had flung her arms up in front of her face 
just in time, merely looked as though she was 
wearing a slimy green hat, but Harry, whose hands 
had been busy preventing the escape of Trevor, 
received a face full. It smelled like rancid manure. 

Neville, whose face and torso were also drenched, 
shook his head to get the worst out of his eyes. 

“S-sorry,” he gasped. “I haven’t tried that before... 
Didn’t realize it would be quite so ... Don’t worry, 



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though, Stinksap’s not poisonous,” he added 
nervously, as Harry spat a mouthful onto the floor. 



At that precise moment the door of their compartment 
slid open. 

“Oh ... hello, Harry,” said a nervous voice. “Um ... bad 
time?” 

Harry wiped the lenses of his glasses with his Trevor- 
free hand. A very pretty girl with long, shiny black 
hair was standing in the doorway smiling at him: Cho 
Chang, the Seeker on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. 

“Oh ... hi,” said Harry blankly. 

“Um ...” said Cho. “Well ... just thought I’d say hello 
... ’bye then.” 

She closed the door again, rather pink in the face, 
and departed. Harry slumped back in his seat and 
groaned. He would have liked Cho to discover him 
sitting with a group of very cool people laughing their 
heads off at a joke he had just told; he would not 
have chosen to be sitting with Neville and Loony 
Lovegood, clutching a toad and dripping in Stinksap. 

“Never mind,” said Ginny bracingly. “Look, we can get 
rid of all this easily.” She pulled out her wand. 

“ Scour gif yY’ 

The Stinksap vanished. 

“Sorry,” said Neville again, in a small voice. 

Ron and Hermione did not turn up for nearly an 
hour, by which time the food trolley had already gone 
by. Harry, Ginny, and Neville had finished their 
Pumpkin Pasties and were busy swapping Chocolate 

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Frog cards when the compartment door slid open and 
they walked in, accompanied by Crookshanks and a 
shrilly hooting Pigwidgeon in his cage. 

“I’m starving,” said Ron, stowing Pigwidgeon next to 
Hedwig, grabbing a Chocolate Frog from Harry and 
throwing himself into the seat next to him. He ripped 
open the wrapper, bit off the Frog’s head, and leaned 
back with his eyes closed as though he had had a 
very exhausting morning. 

“Well, there are two fifth-year prefects from each 
House,” said Hermione, looking thoroughly 
disgruntled as she took her seat. “Boy and girl from 
each.” 

“And guess who’s a Slytherin prefect?” said Ron, still 
with his eyes closed. 

“Malfoy,” replied Harry at once, his worst fear 
confirmed. 

“ ’Course,” said Ron bitterly, stuffing the rest of the 
Frog into his mouth and taking another. 

“And that complete cow Pansy Parkinson,” said 
Hermione viciously. “How she got to be a prefect when 
she’s thicker than a concussed troll ...” 

“Who’s Hufflepuff?” Harry asked. 

“Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott,” said Ron 
thickly. 

“And Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil for 
Ravenclaw,” said Hermione. 

“You went to the Yule Ball with Padma Patil,” said a 
vague voice. 

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Everyone turned to look at Luna Lovegood, who was 
gazing un-blinkingly at Ron over the top of The 
Quibbler. He swallowed his mouthful of Frog. 

“Yeah, I know I did,” he said, looking mildly 
surprised. 

“She didn’t enjoy it very much,” Luna informed him. 
“She doesn’t think you treated her very well, because 
you wouldn’t dance with her. I don’t think I’d have 
minded,” she added thoughtfully, “I don’t like dancing 
very much.” 

She retreated behind The Quibbler again. Ron stared 
at the cover with his mouth hanging open for a few 
seconds, then looked around at Ginny for some kind 
of explanation, but Ginny had stuffed her knuckles in 
her mouth to stop herself giggling. Ron shook his 
head, bemused, then checked his watch. 

“We’re supposed to patrol the corridors every so 
often,” he told Harry and Neville, “and we can give out 
punishments if people are misbehaving. I can’t wait to 
get Crabbe and Goyle for something...” 

“You’re not supposed to abuse your position, Ron!” 
said Hermione sharply. 

“Yeah, right, because Malfoy won’t abuse it at all,” 
said Ron sarcastically. 

“So you’re going to descend to his level?” 

“No, I’m just going to make sure I get his mates before 
he gets mine.” 

“For heaven’s sake, Ron — ” 



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“I’ll make Goyle do lines, it’ll kill him, he hates 
writing,” said Ron happily. He lowered his voice to 
Goyle ’s low grunt and, screwing up his face in a look 
of pained concentration, mimed writing in midair. “I 
... must ... not ... look ... like ... a ... baboon’s ... 
backside...” 

Everyone laughed, but nobody laughed harder than 
Luna Lovegood. She let out a scream of mirth that 
caused Hedwig to wake up and flap her wings 
indignantly and Crookshanks to leap up into the 
luggage rack, hissing. She laughed so hard that her 
magazine slipped out of her grasp, slid down her legs, 
and onto the floor. 

“That was funny\” 

Her prominent eyes swam with tears as she gasped 
for breath, staring at Ron. Utterly nonplussed, he 
looked around at the others, who were now laughing 
at the expression on Ron’s face and at the ludicrously 
prolonged laughter of Luna Lovegood, who was 
rocking backward and forward, clutching her sides. 

“Are you taking the mickey?” said Ron, frowning at 
her. 

“Baboon’s ... backside!” she choked, holding her ribs. 

Everyone else was watching Luna laughing, but 
Harry, glancing at the magazine on the floor, noticed 
something that made him dive for it. Upside down it 
had been hard to tell what the picture on the front 
was, but Harry now realized it was a fairly bad 
cartoon of Cornelius Fudge; Harry only recognized 
him because of the lime-green bowler hat. One of 
Fudge’s hands was clenched around a bag of gold; the 
other hand was throttling a goblin. The cartoon was 
captioned: How Far Will Fudge Go to Gain Gringotts? 
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Beneath this were listed the titles of other articles 
inside the magazine. 

CORRUPTION IN THE QUIDDITCH LEAGUE: 

How the Tornados Are Taking Control 
SECRETS OF THE ANCIENT RUNES REVEALED 
SIRIUS BLACK: Villain or Victim? 

“Can I have a look at this?” Harry asked Luna eagerly. 

She nodded, still gazing at Ron, breathless with 
laughter. 

Harry opened the magazine and scanned the index; 
until this moment he had completely forgotten the 
magazine Kingsley had handed Mr. Weasley to give to 
Sirius, but it must have been this edition of The 
Quibbler. He found the page and turned excitedly to 
the article. 

This too was illustrated by a rather bad cartoon; in 
fact, Harry would not have known it was supposed to 
be Sirius if it hadn’t been captioned. Sirius was 
standing on a pile of human bones with his wand out. 
The headline on the article read: 

SIRIUS - Black As He’s Painted? 

Notorious Mass Murderer OR Innocent Singing 
Sensation? 

Harry had to read this sentence several times before 
he was convinced that he had not misunderstood it. 
Since when had Sirius been a singing sensation? 



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For fourteen years Sirius Black has been believed 
guilty of the mass murder of twelve innocent Muggles 
and one wizard. Black’s audacious escape from 
Azkaban two years ago has led to the widest manhunt 
ever conducted by the Ministry of Magic. None of us 
has ever questioned that he deserves to be recaptured 
and handed back to the dementors. 

BUT DOES HE? 

Startling new evidence has recently come to light that 
Sirius Black may not have committed the crimes for 
which he was sent to Azkaban. In fact, says Doris 
Purkiss, of 18 Acanthia Way, Little Norton, Black may 
not even have been present at the killings. 

“What people don’t realize is that Sirius Black is a 
false name, ” says Mrs. Purkiss. “The man people 
believe to be Sirius Black is actually Stubby 
Boardman, lead singer of the popular singing group 
The Hobgoblins, who retired from public life after being 
struck in the ear by a turnip at a concert in Little 
Norton Church Hall nearly fifteen years ago. I 
recognized him the moment I saw his picture in the 
paper. Now, Stubby couldn’t possibly have committed 
those crimes, because on the day in question he 
happened to be enjoying a romantic candlelit dinner 
with me. I have written to the Minister of Magic and am 
expecting him to give Stubby, alias Sirius, a full pardon 
any day now. ” 

Harry finished reading and stared at the page in 
disbelief. Perhaps it was a joke, he thought, perhaps 
the magazine often printed spoof items. He flicked 
back a few pages and found the piece on Fudge. 

Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, denied that 
he had any plans to take over the running of the 
Wizarding Bank, Gringotts, when he was elected 

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Minister of Magic five years ago. Fudge has always 
insisted that he wants nothing more than to 
“cooperate peacefully” with the guardians of our gold. 

BUT DOES HE? 

Sources close to the Minister have recently disclosed 
that Fudge’s dearest ambition is to seize control of the 
goblin gold supplies and that he will not hesitate to 
use force if need be. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time, either,” said a Ministry 
insider. “Cornelius ‘Goblin-Crusher’ Fudge, that’s what 
his friends call him, if you could hear him when he 
thinks no one’s listening, oh, he’s always talking about 
the goblins he’s had done in; he’s had them drowned, 
he’s had them dropped off buildings, he’s had them 
poisoned, he’s had them cooked in pies...” 



Harry did not read any further. Fudge might have 
many faults but Harry found it extremely hard to 
imagine him ordering goblins to be cooked in pies. He 
flicked through the rest of the magazine. Pausing 
every few pages he read an accusation that the 
Tutshill Tornados were winning the Quidditch League 
by a combination of blackmail, illegal broom- 
tampering, and torture; an interview with a wizard 
who claimed to have flown to the moon on a 
Cleansweep Six and brought back a bag of moon frogs 
to prove it; and an article on ancient runes, which at 
least explained why Luna had been reading The 
Quibbler upside down. According to the magazine, if 
you turned the runes on their heads they revealed a 
spell to make your enemy’s ears turn into kumquats. 
In fact, compared to the rest of the articles in The 
Quibbler, the suggestion that Sirius might really be 
the lead singer of The Hobgoblins was quite sensible. 
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“Anything good in there?” asked Ron as Harry closed 
the magazine. 

“Of course not,” said Hermione scathingly, before 
Harry could answer, “ The Quibbler’s rubbish, 
everyone knows that.” 

“Excuse me,” said Luna; her voice had suddenly lost 
its dreamy quality. “My father’s the editor.” 

“I — oh,” said Hermione, looking embarrassed. “Well 
... it’s got some interesting ... I mean, it’s quite ...” 

“I’ll have it back, thank you,” said Luna coldly, and 
leaning forward she snatched it out of Harry’s hands. 
Rifling through it to page fifty-seven, she turned it 
resolutely upside down again and disappeared behind 
it, just as the compartment door opened for the third 
time. Harry looked around; he had expected this, but 
that did not make the sight of Draco Malfoy smirking 
at him from between his cronies Crabbe and Goyle 
any more enjoyable. 

“What?” he said aggressively, before Malfoy could 
open his mouth. 

“Manners, Potter, or I’ll have to give you a detention,” 
drawled Malfoy, whose sleek blond hair and pointed 
chin were just like his father’s. “You see, I, unlike 
you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, 
unlike you, have the power to hand out 
punishments.” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but you, unlike me, are a git, so 
get out and leave us alone.” 

Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville laughed. Malfoy’s 
lip curled. 



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“Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to 
Weasley, Potter?” he asked. 

“Shut up, Malfoy,” said Hermione sharply. 

“I seem to have touched a nerve,” said Malfoy, 
smirking. “Well, just watch yourself, Potter, because 
I’ll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of 
line.” 

“Get out!” said Hermione, standing up. 

Sniggering, Malfoy gave Harry a last malicious look 
and departed, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering in his 
wake. Hermione slammed the compartment door 
behind them and turned to look at Harry, who knew 
at once that she, like him, had registered what Malfoy 
had said and been just as unnerved by it. 

“Chuck us another Frog,” said Ron, who had clearly 
noticed nothing. 

Harry could not talk freely in front of Neville and 
Luna. He exchanged another nervous look with 
Hermione and then stared out of the window. 

He had thought Sirius coming with him to the station 
was a bit of a laugh, but suddenly it seemed reckless, 
if not downright dangerous... Hermione had been 
right... Sirius should not have come. What if Mr. 
Malfoy had noticed the black dog and told Draco, 
what if he had deduced that the Weasleys, Lupin, 
Tonks, and Moody knew where Sirius was hiding? Or 
had Malfoy’s use of the word “dogging” been a 
coincidence? 

The weather remained undecided as they traveled 
farther and farther north. Rain spattered the windows 
in a halfhearted way, then the sun put in a feeble 

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appearance before clouds drifted over it once more. 
When darkness fell and lamps came on inside the 
carriages, Luna rolled up The Quibbler, put it 
carefully away in her bag, and took to staring at 
everyone in the compartment instead. 

Harry was sitting with his forehead pressed against 
the train window, trying to get a first distant glimpse 
of Hogwarts, but it was a moonless night and the 
rain-streaked window was grimy. 

“We’d better change,” said Hermione at last. She and 
Ron pinned their prefect badges carefully to their 
chests. Harry saw Ron checking how it looked in the 
black window. 

At last the train began to slow down and they heard 
the usual racket up and down it as everybody 
scrambled to get their luggage and pets assembled, 
ready for departure. Ron and Hermione were 
supposed to supervise all this; they disappeared from 
the carriage again, leaving Harry and the others to 
look after Crookshanks and Pigwidgeon. 

“I’ll carry that owl, if you like,” said Luna to Harry, 
reaching out for Pigwidgeon as Neville stowed Trevor 
carefully in an inside pocket. 

“Oh — er — thanks,” said Harry, handing her the 
cage and hoisting Hedwig’s more securely into his 
arms. 

They shuffled out of the compartment feeling the first 
sting of the night air on their faces as they joined the 
crowd in the corridor. Slowly they moved toward the 
doors. Harry could smell the pine trees that lined the 
path down to the lake. He stepped down onto the 
platform and looked around, listening for the familiar 
call of “Firs’ years over here ... firs’ years ...” 

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But it did not come. Instead a quite different voice, a 
brisk female one, was calling, “First years line up over 
here, please! All first years to me!” 

A lantern came swinging toward Harry and by its light 
he saw the prominent chin and severe haircut of 
Professor Grubbly-Plank, the witch who had taken 
over Hagrid ’s Care of Magical Creatures lessons for a 
while the previous year. 

“Where’s Hagrid?” he said out loud. 

“I don’t know,” said Ginny, “but we’d better get out of 
the way, we’re blocking the door.” 

“Oh yeah ...” 

Harry and Ginny became separated as they moved off 
along the platform and out through the station. 
Jostled by the crowd, Harry squinted through the 
darkness for a glimpse of Hagrid; he had to be here, 
Harry had been relying on it — seeing Hagrid again 
had been one of the things to which he had been 
looking forward most. But there was no sign of him at 
all. 

He can’t have left, Harry told himself as he shuffled 
slowly through a narrow doorway onto the road 
outside with the rest of the crowd. He’s just got a cold 
or something... 

He looked around for Ron or Hermione, wanting to 
know what they thought about the reappearance of 
Professor Grubbly-Plank, but neither of them was 
anywhere near him, so he allowed himself to be 
shunted forward onto the dark rain-washed road 
outside Hogsmeade station. 



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Here stood the hundred or so horseless stagecoaches 
that always took the students above first year up to 
the castle. Harry glanced quickly at them, turned 
away to keep a lookout for Ron and Hermione, then 
did a double take. 

The coaches were no longer horseless. There were 
creatures standing between the carriage shafts; if he 
had had to give them a name, he supposed he would 
have called them horses, though there was something 
reptilian about them, too. They were completely 
fleshless, their black coats clinging to their skeletons, 
of which every bone was visible. Their heads were 
dragonish, and their pupil-less eyes white and 
staring. Wings sprouted from each wither — vast, 
black leathery wings that looked as though they 
ought to belong to giant bats. Standing still and quiet 
in the gloom, the creatures looked eerie and sinister. 
Harry could not understand why the coaches were 
being pulled by these horrible horses when they were 
quite capable of moving along by themselves. 

“Where’s Pig?” said Ron’s voice, right behind Harry. 

“That Luna girl was carrying him,” said Harry, 
turning quickly, eager to consult Ron about Hagrid. 
“Where d’you reckon — ” 

“ — Hagrid is? I dunno,” said Ron, sounding worried. 
“He’d better be okay...” 

A short distance away, Draco Malfoy, followed by a 
small gang of cronies including Crabbe, Goyle, and 
Pansy Parkinson, was pushing some timid-looking 
second years out of the way so that they could get a 
coach to themselves. Seconds later Hermione emerged 
panting from the crowd. 



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“Malfoy was being absolutely foul to a first year back 
there, I swear I’m going to report him, he’s only had 
his badge three minutes and he’s using it to bully 
people worse than ever... Where’s Crookshanks?” 

“Ginny’s got him,” said Harry. “There she is...” 

Ginny had just emerged from the crowd, clutching a 
squirming Crookshanks. 

“Thanks,” said Hermione, relieving Ginny of the cat. 
“Come on, let’s get a carriage together before they all 
fillup...” 

“I haven’t got Pig yet!” Ron said, but Hermione was 
already heading off toward the nearest unoccupied 
coach. Harry remained behind with Ron. 

“What are those things, d’you reckon?” he asked Ron, 
nodding at the horrible horses as the other students 
surged past them. 

“What things?” 

“Those horse — ” 

Luna appeared holding Pigwidgeon’s cage in her 
arms; the tiny owl was twittering excitedly as usual. 

“Here you are,” she said. “He’s a sweet little owl, isn’t 
he?” 

“Er ... yeah ... He’s all right,” said Ron gruffly. “Well, 
come on then, let’s get in... what were you saying, 
Harry?” 

“I was saying, what are those horse things?” Harry 
said, as he, Ron, and Luna made for the carriage in 
which Hermione and Ginny were already sitting. 

Page | 253Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“What horse things?” 



“The horse things pulling the carriages!” said Harry 
impatiently; they were, after all, about three feet from 
the nearest one; it was watching them with empty 
white eyes. Ron, however, gave Harry a perplexed 
look. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“I’m talking about — look!” 

Harry grabbed Ron’s arm and wheeled him about so 
that he was face-to-face with the winged horse. Ron 
stared straight at it for a second, then looked back at 
Harry. 

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” 

“At the — there, between the shafts! Harnessed to the 
coach! It’s right there in front — ” 

But as Ron continued to look bemused, a strange 
thought occurred to Harry. 

“Can’t ... can’t you see them?” 

“See what?” 

“Can’t you see what’s pulling the carriages?” 

Ron looked seriously alarmed now. 

“Are you feeling all right, Harry?” 

“I ... yeah ...” 

Harry felt utterly bewildered. The horse was there in 
front of him, gleaming solidly in the dim light issuing 

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from the station windows behind them, vapor rising 
from its nostrils in the chilly night air. Yet unless Ron 
was faking — and it was a very feeble joke if he was — 
Ron could not see it at all. 

“Shall we get in, then?” said Ron uncertainly, looking 
at Harry as though worried about him. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah, go on ...” 

“It’s all right,” said a dreamy voice from beside Harry 
as Ron vanished into the coach’s dark interior. 

“You’re not going mad or anything. I can see them 
too.” 

“Can you?” said Harry desperately, turning to Luna. 
He could see the bat-winged horses reflected in her 
wide, silvery eyes. 

“Oh yes,” said Luna, “I’ve been able to see them ever 
since my first day here. They’ve always pulled the 
carriages. Don’t worry. You’re just as sane as I am.” 

Smiling faintly, she climbed into the musty interior of 
the carriage after Ron. Not altogether reassured, 

Harry followed her. 



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XX 




THE SORTING HAT’S NEW SONG 

Harry did not want to tell the others that he and Luna 
were having the same hallucination, if that was what 
it was, so he said nothing about the horses as he sat 
down inside the carriage and slammed the door 
behind him. Nevertheless, he could not help watching 
the silhouettes of the horses moving beyond the 
window. 

“Did everyone see that Grubbly-Plank woman?” asked 
Ginny. “What’s she doing back here? Hagrid can’t 
have left, can he?” 

“I’ll be quite glad if he has,” said Luna. “He isn’t a 
very good teacher, is he?” 

“Yes, he is!” said Harry, Ron, and Ginny angrily. 

Harry glared at Hermione; she cleared her throat and 
quickly said, “Erm ... yes ... he’s very good.” 

“Well, we think he’s a bit of a joke in Ravenclaw,” said 
Luna, unfazed. 

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“You’ve got a rubbish sense of humor then,” Ron 
snapped, as the wheels below them creaked into 
motion. 

Luna did not seem perturbed by Ron’s rudeness; on 
the contrary, she simply watched him for a while as 
though he were a mildly interesting television 
program. 

Rattling and swaying, the carriages moved in convoy 
up the road. When they passed between the tall stone 
pillars topped with winged boars on either side of the 
gates to the school grounds, Harry leaned forward to 
try and see whether there were any lights on in 
Hagrid’s cabin by the Forbidden Forest, but the 
grounds were in complete darkness. Hogwarts Castle, 
however, loomed ever closer: a towering mass of 
turrets, jet-black against the dark sky, here and there 
a window blazing fiery bright above them. 

The carriages jingled to a halt near the stone steps 
leading up to the oak front doors and Harry got out of 
the carriage first. He turned again to look for lit 
windows down by the forest, but there was definitely 
no sign of life within Hagrid’s cabin. Unwillingly, 
because he had half hoped they would have vanished, 
he turned his eyes instead upon the strange, skeletal 
creatures standing quietly in the chill night air, their 
blank white eyes gleaming. 

Harry had once before had the experience of seeing 
something that Ron could not, but that had been a 
reflection in a mirror, something much more 
insubstantial than a hundred very solid-looking 
beasts strong enough to pull a fleet of carriages. If 
Luna was to be believed, the beasts had always been 
there but invisible; why, then, could Harry suddenly 
see them, and why could Ron not? 



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“Are you coming or what?” said Ron beside him. 



“Oh ... yeah,” said Harry quickly, and they joined the 
crowd hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. 

The entrance hall was ablaze with torches and 
echoing with footsteps as the students crossed the 
flagged stone floor for the double doors to the right, 
leading to the Great Hall and the start-of-term feast. 

The four long House tables in the Great Hall were 
filling up under the starless black ceiling, which was 
just like the sky they could glimpse through the high 
windows. Candles floated in midair all along the 
tables, illuminating the silvery ghosts who were 
dotted about the Hall and the faces of the students 
talking eagerly to one another, exchanging summer 
news, shouting greetings at friends from other 
Houses, eyeing one another’s new haircuts and robes. 
Again Harry noticed people putting their heads 
together to whisper as he passed; he gritted his teeth 
and tried to act as though he neither noticed nor 
cared. 

Luna drifted away from them at the Ravenclaw table. 
The moment they reached Gryffindor’s, Ginny was 
hailed by some fellow fourth years and left to sit with 
them; Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville found seats 
together about halfway down the table between Nearly 
Headless Nick, the Gryffindor House ghost, and 
Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, the last two of 
whom gave Harry airy, overly friendly greetings that 
made him quite sure they had stopped talking about 
him a split second before. He had more important 
things to worry about, however: He was looking over 
the students’ heads to the staff table that ran along 
the top wall of the Hall. 

“He’s not there.” 

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Ron and Hermione scanned the staff table too, though 
there was no real need; Hagrid’s size made him 
instantly obvious in any lineup. 

“He can’t have left,” said Ron, sounding slightly 
anxious. 

“Of course he hasn’t,” said Harry firmly. 

“You don’t think he’s ... hurt, or anything, do you?” 
said Hermione uneasily. 

“No,” said Harry at once. 

“But where is he, then?” 

There was a pause, then Harry said very quietly, so 
that Neville, Parvati, and Lavender could not hear, 
“Maybe he’s not back yet. You know — from his 
mission — the thing he was doing over the summer 
for Dumbledore.” 

“Yeah ... yeah, that’ll be it,” said Ron, sounding 
reassured, but Hermione bit her lip, looking up and 
down the staff table as though hoping for some 
conclusive explanation of Hagrid’s absence. 

“Who’s that?” she said sharply, pointing toward the 
middle of the staff table. 

Harry’s eyes followed hers. They lit first upon 
Professor Dumbledore, sitting in his high-backed 
golden chair at the center of the long staff table, 
wearing deep-purple robes scattered with silvery stars 
and a matching hat. Dumbledore’s head was inclined 
toward the woman sitting next to him, who was 
talking into his ear. She looked, Harry thought, like 
somebody’s maiden aunt: squat, with short, curly, 
mouse-brown hair in which she had placed a horrible 
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pink Alice band that matched the fluffy pink cardigan 
she wore over her robes. Then she turned her face 
slightly to take a sip from her goblet and he saw, with 
a shock of recognition, a pallid, toadlike face and a 
pair of prominent, pouchy eyes. 

“It’s that Umbridge woman!” 

“Who?” said Hermione. 

“She was at my hearing, she works for Fudge!” 

“Nice cardigan,” said Ron, smirking. 

“She works for Fudge?” Hermione repeated, frowning. 
“What on earth’s she doing here, then?” 

“Dunno ...” 

Hermione scanned the staff table, her eyes narrowed. 

“No,” she muttered, “no, surely not ...” 

Harry did not understand what she was talking about 
but did not ask; his attention had just been caught by 
Professor Grubbly-Plank who had just appeared 
behind the staff table; she worked her way along to 
the very end and took the seat that ought to have 
been Hagrid’s. That meant that the first years must 
have crossed the lake and reached the castle, and 
sure enough, a few seconds later, the doors from the 
entrance hall opened. A long line of scared-looking 
first years entered, led by Professor McGonagall, who 
was carrying a stool on which sat an ancient wizard’s 
hat, heavily patched and darned with a wide rip near 
the frayed brim. 

The buzz of talk in the Great Hall faded away. The 
first years lined up in front of the staff table facing the 

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rest of the students, and Professor McGonagall placed 
the stool carefully in front of them, then stood back. 

The first years’ faces glowed palely in the candlelight. 
A small boy right in the middle of the row looked as 
though he was trembling. Harry recalled, fleetingly, 
how terrified he had felt when he had stood there, 
waiting for the unknown test that would determine to 
which House he belonged. 

The whole school waited with bated breath. Then the 
rip near the hat’s brim opened wide like a mouth and 
the Sorting Hat burst into song: 

In times of old when I was new 
And Hogwarts barely started 
The founders of our noble school 
Thought never to be parted: 

United by a common goal, 

They had the selfsame yearning, 

To make the world’s best magic school 
And pass along their learning. 

“Together we will build and teach!” 

The four good friends decided 
And never did they dream that they 
Might someday be divided, 

For were there such friends anywhere 
As Slytherin and Gryffndor? 

Unless it was the second pair 
Of Huffepuff and Ravenclaw? 

So how could it have gone so wrong? 

How could such friendships fail? 

Why, I was there and so can tell 
The whole sad, sorry tale. 

Said Slytherin, “We’ll teach just those 
Whose ancestry is purest.” 

Said Ravenclaw, “We’ll teach those whose 
Intelligence is surest.” 

Said Gryffindor, “We’ll teach all those 

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With brave deeds to their name,” 

Said Hufflepuff, “111 teach the lot, 

And treat them just the same.” 

These differences caused little strife 
When first they came to light, 

For each of the four founders had 
A House in which they might 
Take only those they wanted, so, 

For instance, Slytherin 
Took only pure-blood wizards 
Of great cunning, just like him, 

And only those of sharpest mind 
Were taught by Ravenclaw 
While the bravest and the boldest 
Went to daring Gryffindor. 

Good Hufflepuff she took the rest, 

And taught them all she knew, 

Thus the Houses and their founders 
Retained friendships firm and true. 

So Hogwarts worked in harmony 
For several happy years, 

But then discord crept among us 
Feeding on our faults and fears. 

The Houses that, like pillars four, 

Had once held up our school, 

Now turned upon each other and, 

Divided, sought to rule. 

And for a while it seemed the school 
Must meet an early end, 

What with dueling and with fighting 
And the clash of friend on friend 
And at last there came a morning 
When old Slytherin departed 
And though the fighting then died out 
He left us quite downhearted. 

And never since the founders four 
Were whittled down to three 
Have the Houses been united 
As they once were meant to be. 

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And now the Sorting Hat is here 
And you all know the score: 

I sort you into Houses 
Because that is what I’m for, 

But this year I’ll go further, 

Listen closely to my song: 

Though condemned I am to split you 
Still I worry that it’s wrong, 

Though I must fulfill my duty 
And must quarter every year 
Still I wonder whether sorting 
May not bring the end I fear. 

Oh, know the perils, read the signs, 

The warning history shows, 

For our Hogwarts is in danger 
From external, deadly foes 
And we must unite inside her 
Or we’ll crumble from within. 

I have told you, I have warned you... 

Let the Sorting now begin. 

The hat became motionless once more; applause 
broke out, though it was punctured, for the first time 
in Harry’s memory, with muttering and whispers. All 
across the Great Hall students were exchanging 
remarks with their neighbors and Harry, clapping 
along with everyone else, knew exactly what they were 
talking about. 

“Branched out a bit this year, hasn’t it?” said Ron, his 
eyebrows raised. 

“Too right it has,” said Harry. 

The Sorting Hat usually confined itself to describing 
the different qualities looked for by each of the four 
Hogwarts Houses and its own role in sorting them; 
Harry could not remember it ever trying to give the 
school advice before. 

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“I wonder if it’s ever given warnings before?” said 
Hermione, sounding slightly anxious. 



“Yes, indeed,” said Nearly Headless Nick 
knowledgeably, leaning across Neville toward her 
(Neville winced, it was very uncomfortable to have a 
ghost lean through you). “The hat feels itself honor- 
bound to give the school due warning whenever it 
feels — ” 

But Professor McGonagall, who was waiting to read 
out the list of first years’ names, was giving the 
whispering students the sort of look that scorches. 
Nearly Headless Nick placed a see-through finger to 
his lips and sat primly upright again as the muttering 
came to an abrupt end. With a last frowning look that 
swept the four House tables, Professor McGonagall 
lowered her eyes to her long piece of parchment and 
called out, 

“Abercrombie, Euan.” 

The terrified-looking boy Harry had noticed earlier 
stumbled forward and put the hat on his head; it was 
only prevented from falling right down to his 
shoulders by his very prominent ears. The hat 
considered for a moment, then the rip near the brim 
opened again and shouted, “ GR YFFIND OR ! ” 

Harry clapped loudly with the rest of Gryffindor 
House as Euan Abercrombie staggered to their table 
and sat down, looking as though he would like very 
much to sink through the floor and never be looked at 
again. 

Slowly the long line of first years thinned; in the 
pauses between the names and the Sorting Hat’s 
decisions, Harry could hear Ron’s stomach rumbling 
loudly. Finally, “Zeller, Rose” was sorted into 

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Hufflepuff, and Professor McGonagall picked up the 
hat and stool and marched them away as Professor 
Dumbledore rose to his feet. 

Harry was somehow soothed to see Dumbledore 
standing before them all, whatever his recent bitter 
feelings toward his headmaster. Between the absence 
of Hagrid and the presence of those dragonish horses, 
he had felt that his return to Hogwarts, so long 
anticipated, was full of unexpected surprises like 
jarring notes in a familiar song. But this, at least, was 
how it was supposed to be: their headmaster rising to 
greet them all before the start-of-term feast. 

“To our newcomers,” said Dumbledore in a ringing 
voice, his arms stretched wide and a beaming smile 
on his lips, “welcome! To our old hands — welcome 
back! There is a time for speech making, but this is 
not it. Tuck in!” 

There was an appreciative laugh and an outbreak of 
applause as Dumbledore sat down neatly and threw 
his long beard over his shoulder so as to keep it out of 
the way of his plate — for food had appeared out of 
nowhere, so that the five long tables were groaning 
under joints and pies and dishes of vegetables, bread, 
sauces, and flagons of pumpkin juice. 

“Excellent,” said Ron, with a kind of groan of longing, 
and he seized the nearest plate of chops and began 
piling them onto his plate, watched wistfully by 
Nearly Headless Nick. 

“What were you saying before the Sorting?” Hermione 
asked the ghost. “About the hat giving warnings?” 

“Oh yes,” said Nick, who seemed glad of a reason to 
turn away from Ron, who was now eating roast 
potatoes with almost indecent enthusiasm. “Yes, I 

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have heard the hat give several warnings before, 
always at times when it detects periods of great 
danger for the school. And always, of course, its 
advice is the same: Stand together, be strong from 
within.” 

“Ow kunnit nofe skusin danger ifzat?” said Ron. 

His mouth was so full Harry thought it was quite an 
achievement for him to make any noise at all. 

“I beg your pardon?” said Nearly Headless Nick 
politely, while Hermione looked revolted. Ron gave an 
enormous swallow and said, “How can it know if the 
school’s in danger if it’s a hat?” 

“I have no idea,” said Nearly Headless Nick. “Of 
course, it lives in Dumbledore’s office, so I daresay it 
picks things up there.” 

“And it wants all the Houses to be friends?” said 
Harry, looking over at the Slytherin table, where 
Draco Malfoy was holding court. “Fat chance.” 

“Well, now, you shouldn’t take that attitude,” said 
Nick reprovingly. “Peaceful cooperation, that’s the 
key. We ghosts, though we belong to separate Houses, 
maintain links of friendship. In spite of the 
competitiveness between Gryffindor and Slytherin, I 
would never dream of seeking an argument with the 
Bloody Baron.” 

“Only because you’re terrified of him,” said Ron. 

Nearly Headless Nick looked highly affronted. 

“Terrified? I hope I, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy- 
Porpington, have never been guilty of cowardice in my 
life! The noble blood that runs in my veins — ” 

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“What blood?” asked Ron. “Surely you haven’t still got 
— ?” 

“It’s a figure of speech!” said Nearly Headless Nick, 
now so annoyed his head was trembling ominously on 
his partially severed neck. “I assume I am still allowed 
to enjoy the use of whichever words I like, even if the 
pleasures of eating and drinking are denied me! But I 
am quite used to students poking fun at my death, I 
assure you!” 

“Nick, he wasn’t really laughing at you!” said 
Hermione, throwing a furious look at Ron. 

Unfortunately, Ron’s mouth was packed to exploding 
point again and all he could manage was “node 
iddum eentup sechew,” which Nick did not seem to 
think constituted an adequate apology. Rising into 
the air, he straightened his feathered hat and swept 
away from them to the other end of the table, coming 
to rest between the Creevey brothers, Colin and 
Dennis. 

“Well done, Ron,” snapped Hermione. 

“What?” said Ron indignantly, having managed, 
finally, to swallow his food. “I’m not allowed to ask a 
simple question?” 

“Oh forget it,” said Hermione irritably, and the pair of 
them spent the rest of the meal in huffy silence. 

Harry was too used to their bickering to bother trying 
to reconcile them; he felt it was a better use of his 
time to eat his way steadily through his steak-and- 
kidney pie, then a large plateful of his favorite treacle 
tart. 



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When all the students had finished eating and the 
noise level in the hall was starting to creep upward 
again, Dumbledore got to his feet once more. Talking 
ceased immediately as all turned to face the 
headmaster. Harry was feeling pleasantly drowsy 
now. His four-poster bed was waiting somewhere 
above, wonderfully warm and soft... 

“Well, now that we are all digesting another 
magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your 
attention for the usual start-of-term notices,” said 
Dumbledore. “First years ought to know that the 
forest in the grounds is out of bounds to students — 
and a few of our older students ought to know by now 
too.” (Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged smirks.) 

“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he 
tells me is the four hundred and sixty-second time, to 
remind you all that magic is not permitted in 
corridors between classes, nor are a number of other 
things, all of which can be checked on the extensive 
list now fastened to Mr. Filch’s office door. 

“We have had two changes in staffing this year. We 
are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly- 
Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures 
lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor 
Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts 
teacher.” 

There was a round of polite but fairly unenthusiastic 
applause during which Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
exchanged slightly panicked looks; Dumbledore had 
not said for how long Grubbly-Plank would be 
teaching. 

Dumbledore continued, “Tryouts for the House 
Quidditch teams will take place on the — ” 



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He broke off, looking inquiringly at Professor 
Umbridge. As she was not much taller standing than 
sitting, there was a moment when nobody understood 
why Dumbledore had stopped talking, but then 
Professor Umbridge said, “Hem, hem,” and it became 
clear that she had got to her feet and was intending to 
make a speech. 

Dumbledore only looked taken aback for a moment, 
then he sat back down smartly and looked alertly at 
Professor Umbridge as though he desired nothing 
better than to listen to her talk. Other members of 
staff were not as adept at hiding their surprise. 
Professor Sprout’s eyebrows had disappeared into her 
flyaway hair, and Professor McGonagall’s mouth was 
as thin as Harry had ever seen it. No new teacher had 
ever interrupted Dumbledore before. Many of the 
students were smirking; this woman obviously did not 
know how things were done at Hogwarts. 

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Professor Umbridge 
simpered, “for those kind words of welcome.” 

Her voice was high-pitched, breathy, and little-girlish 
and again, Harry felt a powerful rush of dislike that 
he could not explain to himself; all he knew was that 
he loathed everything about her, from her stupid 
voice to her fluffy pink cardigan. She gave another 
little throat-clearing cough (“Hem, hem”) and 
continued: “Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I 
must say!” She smiled, revealing very pointed teeth. 
“And to see such happy little faces looking back at 
me!” 

Harry glanced around. None of the faces he could see 
looked happy; on the contrary, they all looked rather 
taken aback at being addressed as though they were 
five years old. 



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“I am very much looking forward to getting to know 
you all, and I’m sure well be very good friends!” 

Students exchanged looks at this; some of them were 
barely concealing grins. 

“I’ll be her friend as long as I don’t have to borrow 
that cardigan,” Parvati whispered to Lavender, and 
both of them lapsed into silent giggles. 

Professor Umbridge cleared her throat again (“Hem, 
hem”), but when she continued, some of the 
breathiness had vanished from her voice. She 
sounded much more businesslike and now her words 
had a dull learned-by-heart sound to them. 

“The Ministry of Magic has always considered the 
education of young witches and wizards to be of vital 
importance. The rare gifts with which you were born 
may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by 
careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the 
Wizarding community must be passed down through 
the generations lest we lose them forever. The 
treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our 
ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished 
by those who have been called to the noble profession 
of teaching.” 

Professor Umbridge paused here and made a little 
bow to her fellow staff members, none of whom bowed 
back. Professor McGonagall’s dark eyebrows had 
contracted so that she looked positively hawklike, and 
Harry distinctly saw her exchange a significant glance 
with Professor Sprout as Umbridge gave another little 
“Hem, hem” and went on with her speech. 

“Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has 
brought something new to the weighty task of 
governing this historic school, and that is as it should 

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be, for without progress there will be stagnation and 
decay. There again, progress for progress’s sake must 
be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions 
often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between 
old and new, between permanence and change, 
between tradition and innovation ...” 

Harry found his attentiveness ebbing, as though his 
brain was slipping in and out of tune. The quiet that 
always filled the Hall when Dumbledore was speaking 
was breaking up as students put their heads 
together, whispering and giggling. Over at the 
Ravenclaw table, Cho Chang was chatting animatedly 
with her friends. A few seats along from Cho, Luna 
Lovegood had got out The Quibbler again. Meanwhile 
at the Hufflepuff table, Ernie Macmillan was one of 
the few still staring at Professor Umbridge, but he was 
glassy-eyed and Harry was sure he was only 
pretending to listen in an attempt to live up to the 
new prefect’s badge gleaming on his chest. 

Professor Umbridge did not seem to notice the 
restlessness of her audience. Harry had the 
impression that a full-scale riot could have broken 
out under her nose and she would have plowed on 
with her speech. The teachers, however, were still 
listening very attentively, and Hermione seemed to be 
drinking in every word Umbridge spoke, though 
judging by her expression, they were not at all to her 
taste. 

"... because some changes will be for the better, while 
others will come, in the fullness of time, to be 
recognized as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some 
old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas 
others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. 
Let us move forward, then, into a new era of 
openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on 
preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting 
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what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we 
find practices that ought to be prohibited.” 

She sat down. Dumbledore clapped. The staff followed 
his lead, though Harry noticed that several of them 
brought their hands together only once or twice 
before stopping. A few students joined in, but most 
had been taken unawares by the end of the speech, 
not having listened to more than a few words of it, 
and before they could start applauding properly, 
Dumbledore had stood up again. 

“Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was 
most illuminating,” he said, bowing to her. “Now — as 
I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will be held ...” 

“Yes, it certainly was illuminating,” said Hermione in 
a low voice. 

“You’re not telling me you enjoyed it?” Ron said 
quietly, turning a glazed face upon Hermione. “That 
was about the dullest speech I’ve ever heard, and I 
grew up with Percy.” 

“I said illuminating, not enjoyable,” said Hermione. “It 
explained a lot.” 

“Did it?” said Harry in surprise. “Sounded like a load 
of waffle to me.” 

“There was some important stuff hidden in the 
waffle,” said Hermione grimly. 

“Was there?” said Ron blankly. 

“How about ‘progress for progress’s sake must be 
discouraged’? How about ‘pruning wherever we find 
practices that ought to be prohibited’?” 



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“Well, what does that mean?” said Ron impatiently. 



“Ill tell you what it means,” said Hermione ominously. 
“It means the Ministry’s interfering at Hogwarts.” 

There was a great clattering and banging all around 
them; Dumbledore had obviously just dismissed the 
school, because everyone was standing up ready to 
leave the Hall. Hermione jumped up, looking 
flustered. 

“Ron, we’re supposed to show the first years where to 
go!” 

“Oh yeah,” said Ron, who had obviously forgotten. 
“Hey — hey you lot! Midgets!” 

“Ron\” 

“Well, they are, they’re titchy...” 

“I know, but you can’t call them midgets... First 
years!” Hermione called commandingly along the 
table. “This way, please!” 

A group of new students walked shyly up the gap 
between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, all of 
them trying hard not to lead the group. They did 
indeed seem very small; Harry was sure he had not 
appeared that young when he had arrived here. He 
grinned at them. A blond boy next to Euan 
Abercrombie looked petrified, nudged Euan, and 
whispered something in his ear. Euan Abercrombie 
looked equally frightened and stole a horrified look at 
Harry, who felt the grin slide off his face like 
Stinksap. 

“See you later,” he said to Ron and Hermione and he 
made his way out of the Great Hall alone, doing 

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everything he could to ignore more whispering, 
staring, and pointing as he passed. He kept his eyes 
fixed ahead as he wove his way through the crowd in 
the entrance hall, then he hurried up the marble 
staircase, took a couple of concealed shortcuts, and 
had soon left most of the crowds behind. 

He had been stupid not to expect this, he thought 
angrily, as he walked through much emptier upstairs 
corridors. Of course everyone was staring at him: He 
had emerged from the Triwizard maze two months ago 
clutching the dead body of a fellow student and 
claiming to have seen Lord Voldemort return to 
power. There had not been time last term to explain 
himself before everyone went home, even if he had felt 
up to giving the whole school a detailed account of the 
terrible events in that graveyard. 

He had reached the end of the corridor to the 
Gryffindor common room and had come to a halt in 
front of the portrait of the Fat Lady before he realized 
that he did not know the new password. 

“Er ...” he said glumly, staring up at the Fat Lady, 
who smoothed the folds of her pink satin dress and 
looked sternly back at him. 

“No password, no entrance,” she said loftily. 

“Harry, I know it!” someone panted from behind him, 
and he turned to see Neville jogging toward him. 
“Guess what it is? I’m actually going to be able to 
remember it for once — ” He waved the stunted little 
cactus he had shown them on the train. “Mimbulus 
mimbletonio 1” 

“Correct,” said the Fat Lady, and her portrait swung 
open toward them like a door, revealing a circular 



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hole in the wall behind, through which Harry and 
Neville now climbed. 

The Gryffindor common room looked as welcoming as 
ever, a cozy circular tower room full of dilapidated 
squashy armchairs and rickety old tables. A fire was 
crackling merrily in the grate and a few people were 
warming their hands before going up to their 
dormitories; on the other side of the room Fred and 
George Weasley were pinning something up on the 
notice board. Harry waved good night to them and 
headed straight for the door to the boys’ dormitories; 
he was not in much of a mood for talking at the 
moment. Neville followed him. 

Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan had reached the 
dormitory first and were in the process of covering the 
walls beside their beds with posters and photographs. 
They had been talking as Harry pushed open the door 
but stopped abruptly the moment they saw him. 

Harry wondered whether they had been talking about 
him, then whether he was being paranoid. 

“Hi,” he said, moving across to his own trunk and 
opening it. 

“Hey, Harry,” said Dean, who was putting on a pair of 
pajamas in the West Ham colors. “Good holiday?” 

“Not bad,” muttered Harry, as a true account of his 
holiday would have taken most of the night to relate 
and he could not face it. “You?” 

“Yeah, it was okay,” chuckled Dean. “Better than 
Seamus’s anyway, he was just telling me.” 

“Why, what happened, Seamus?” Neville asked as he 
placed his Mimbulus mimbletonia tenderly on his 
bedside cabinet. 

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Seamus did not answer immediately; he was making 
rather a meal of ensuring that his poster of the 
Kenmare Kestrels Quidditch team was quite straight. 
Then he said, with his back still turned to Harry, “Me 
mam didn’t want me to come back.” 

“What?” said Harry, pausing in the act of pulling off 
his robes. 

“She didn’t want me to come back to Hogwarts.” 

Seamus turned away from his poster and pulled his 
own pajamas out of his trunk, still not looking at 
Harry. 

“But — why?” said Harry, astonished. He knew that 
Seamus’s mother was a witch and could not 
understand, therefore, why she should have come 
over so Dursley-ish. 

Seamus did not answer until he had finished 
buttoning his pajamas. 

“Well,” he said in a measured voice, “I suppose ... 
because of you.” 

“What d’you mean?” said Harry quickly. His heart was 
beating rather fast. He felt vaguely as though 
something was closing in on him. 

“Well,” said Seamus again, still avoiding Harry’s eyes, 
“she ... er ... well, it’s not just you, it’s Dumbledore 
too ...” 

“She believes the Daily Prophet?” said Harry. “She 
thinks I’m a liar and Dumbledore ’s an old fool?” 

Seamus looked up at him. “Yeah, something like 
that.” 

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Harry said nothing. He threw his wand down onto his 
bedside table, pulled off his robes, stuffed them 
angrily into his trunk, and pulled on his pajamas. He 
was sick of it; sick of being the person who was stared 
at and talked about all the time. If any of them knew, 
if any of them had the faintest idea what it felt like to 
be the one all these things had happened to ... Mrs. 
Finnigan had no idea, the stupid woman, he thought 
savagely. 

He got into bed and made to pull the hangings closed 
around him, but before he could do so, Seamus said, 
“Look . . . what did happen that night when . . . you 
know, when . . . with Cedric Diggory and all?” 

Seamus sounded nervous and eager at the same time. 
Dean, who had been bending over his trunk, trying to 
retrieve a slipper, went oddly still and Harry knew he 
was listening hard. 

“What are you asking me for?” Harry retorted. “Just 
read the Daily Prophet like your mother, why don’t 
you? That’ll tell you all you need to know.” 

“Don’t you have a go at my mother,” snapped 
Seamus. 

“I’ll have a go at anyone who calls me a liar,” said 
Harry. 

“Don’t talk to me like that!” 

“I’ll talk to you how I want,” said Harry, his temper 
rising so fast he snatched his wand back from his 
bedside table. “If you’ve got a problem sharing a 
dormitory with me, go and ask McGonagall if you can 
be moved, stop your mummy worrying — ” 

“Leave my mother out of this, Potter!” 

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“What’s going on?” 

Ron had appeared in the doorway. His wide eyes 
traveled from Harry, who was kneeling on his bed 
with his wand pointing at Seamus, to Seamus, who 
was standing there with his fists raised. 

“He’s having a go at my mother!” Seamus yelled. 

“What?” said Ron. “Harry wouldn’t do that — we met 
your mother, we liked her...” 

“That’s before she started believing every word the 
stinking Daily Prophet writes about me!” said Harry at 
the top of his voice. 

“Oh,” said Ron, comprehension dawning across his 
freckled face. “Oh ... right.” 

“You know what?” said Seamus heatedly, casting 
Harry a venomous look. “He’s right, I don’t want to 
share a dormitory with him anymore, he’s a 
madman.” 

“That’s out of order, Seamus,” said Ron, whose ears 
were starting to glow red, always a danger sign. 

“Out of order, am I?” shouted Seamus, who in 
contrast with Ron was turning paler. “You believe all 
the rubbish he’s come out with about You-Know-Who, 
do you, you reckon he’s telling the truth?” 

“Yeah, I do!” said Ron angrily. 

“Then you’re mad too,” said Seamus in disgust. 

“Yeah? Well unfortunately for you, pal, I’m also a 
prefect!” said Ron, jabbing himself in the chest with a 



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finger. “So unless you want detention, watch your 
mouth!” 

Seamus looked for a few seconds as though detention 
would be a reasonable price to pay to say what was 
going through his mind; but with a noise of contempt 
he turned on his heel, vaulted into bed, and pulled 
the hangings shut with such violence that they were 
ripped from the bed and fell in a dusty pile to the 
floor. Ron glared at Seamus, then looked at Dean and 
Neville. 

“Anyone else’s parents got a problem with Harry?” he 
said aggressively. 

“My parents are Muggles, mate,” said Dean, 
shrugging. “They don’t know nothing about no deaths 
at Hogwarts, because I’m not stupid enough to tell 
them.” 

“You don’t know my mother, she’ll weasel anything 
out of anyone!” Seamus snapped at him. “Anyway, 
your parents don’t get the Daily Prophet, they don’t 
know our headmaster’s been sacked from the 
Wizengamot and the International Confederation of 
Wizards because he’s losing his marbles — ” 

“My gran says that’s rubbish,” piped up Neville. “She 
says it’s the Daily Prophet that’s going downhill, not 
Dumbledore. She’s canceled our subscription. We 
believe Harry,” he said simply. He climbed into bed 
and pulled the covers up to his chin, looking owlishly 
over them at Seamus. “My gran’s always said You- 
Know-Who would come back one day. She says if 
Dumbledore says he’s back, he’s back.” 

Harry felt a rush of gratitude toward Neville. Nobody 
else said anything. Seamus got out his wand, repaired 
the bed hangings, and vanished behind them. Dean 

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got into bed, rolled over, and fell silent. Neville, who 
appeared to have nothing more to say either, was 
gazing fondly at his moonlit cactus. 

Harry lay back on his pillows while Ron bustled 
around the next bed, putting his things away. He felt 
shaken by the argument with Seamus, whom he had 
always liked very much. How many more people were 
going to suggest that he was lying or unhinged? 

Had Dumbledore suffered like this all summer, as 
first the Wizengamot, then the International 
Confederation of Wizards had thrown him from their 
ranks? Was it anger at Harry, perhaps, that had 
stopped Dumbledore getting in touch with him for 
months? The two of them were in this together, after 
all; Dumbledore had believed Harry, announced his 
version of events to the whole school and then to the 
wider Wizarding community. Anyone who thought 
Harry was a liar had to think that Dumbledore was 
too or else that Dumbledore had been hoodwinked... 

They’ll know we’re right in the end, thought Harry 
miserably, as Ron got into bed and extinguished the 
last candle in the dormitory. But he wondered how 
many attacks like Seamus’s he would have to endure 
before that time came. 



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PROFESSOR UMBRIDGE 

Seamus dressed at top speed next morning and left 
the dormitory before Harry had even put on his socks. 

“Does he think hell turn into a nutter if he stays in a 
room with me too long?” asked Harry loudly, as the 
hem of Seamus’s robes whipped out of sight. 

“Don’t worry about it, Harry,” Dean muttered, 
hoisting his school-bag onto his shoulder. “He’s just 
...” But apparently he was unable to say exactly what 
Seamus was, and after a slightly awkward pause 
followed him out of the room. 

Neville and Ron both gave Harry it’s-his-problem-not- 
yours looks, but Harry was not much consoled. How 
much more of this was he going to have to take? 

“What’s the matter?” asked Hermione five minutes 
later, catching up with Harry and Ron halfway across 
the common room as they all headed toward 



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breakfast. “You look absolutely — oh for heaven’s 
sake.” 



She was staring at the common room notice board, 
where a large new sign had been put up. 

GALLONS OF GALLEONS! 

Pocket money failing to keep pace with your 
outgoings? 

Like to earn a little extra gold? 



Contact Fred and George Weasley, 

Gryffindor common room, 

for simple, part-time, virtually painless jobs 

(WE REGRET THAT ALL WORK IS UNDERTAKEN AT 
APPLICANT’S OWN RISK) 

“They are the limit,” said Hermione grimly, taking 
down the sign, which Fred and George had pinned up 
over a poster giving the date of the first Hogsmeade 
weekend in October. “We’ll have to talk to them, Ron.” 

Ron looked positively alarmed. 

“Why?” 

“Because we’re prefects!” said Hermione, as they 
climbed out through the portrait hole. “It’s up to us to 
stop this kind of thing!” 

Ron said nothing; Harry could tell from his glum 
expression that the prospect of stopping Fred and 

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George doing exactly what they liked was not one that 
he found inviting. 

“Anyway, what’s up, Harry?” Hermione continued, as 
they walked down a flight of stairs lined with portraits 
of old witches and wizards, all of whom ignored them, 
being engrossed in their own conversation. “You look 
really angry about something.” 

“Seamus reckons Harry’s lying about You-Know- 
Who,” said Ron succinctly, when Harry did not 
respond. 

Hermione, whom Harry had expected to react angrily 
on his behalf, sighed. 

“Yes, Lavender thinks so too,” she said gloomily. 

“Been having a nice little chat with her about whether 
or not I’m a lying, attention-seeking prat, have you?” 
Harry said loudly. 

“No,” said Hermione calmly, “I told her to keep her big 
fat mouth shut about you, actually. And it would be 
quite nice if you stopped jumping down Ron’s and my 
throats, Harry, because if you haven’t noticed, we’re 
on your side.” 

There was a short pause. 

“Sorry,” said Harry in a low voice. 

“That’s quite all right,” said Hermione with dignity. 
Then she shook her head. “Don’t you remember what 
Dumbledore said at the end-of-term feast last year?” 

Harry and Ron both looked at her blankly, and 
Hermione sighed again. 



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“About You-Know-Who. He said, ‘His gift for spreading 
discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only 
by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and 
trust — ’ ” 

“How do you remember stuff like that?” asked Ron, 
looking at her in admiration. 

“I listen, Ron,” said Hermione with a touch of 
asperity. 

“So do I, but I still couldn’t tell you exactly what — ” 

“The point,” Hermione pressed on loudly, “is that this 
sort of thing is exactly what Dumbledore was talking 
about. You-Know- Who’s only been back two months, 
and we’ve started fighting among ourselves. And the 
Sorting Hat’s warning was the same — stand 
together, be united — ” 

“And Harry said it last night,” retorted Ron, “if that 
means we’re supposed to get matey with the 
Slytherins, fat chance.” 

“Well, I think it’s a pity we’re not trying for a bit of 
inter-House unity,” said Hermione crossly. 

They had reached the foot of the marble staircase. A 
line of fourth-year Ravenclaws was crossing the 
entrance hall; they caught sight of Harry and hurried 
to form a tighter group, as though frightened he 
might attack stragglers. 

“Yeah, we really ought to be trying to make friends 
with people like that,” said Harry sarcastically. 

They followed the Ravenclaws into the Great Hall, 
looking instinctively at the staff table as they entered. 
Professor Grubbly-Plank was chatting to Professor 

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Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher, and Hagrid was once 
again conspicuous only by his absence. The 
enchanted ceiling above them echoed Harry’s mood; it 
was a miserable rain-cloud gray. 

“Dumbledore didn’t even mention how long that 
Grubbly-Plank woman’s staying,” he said, as they 
made their way across to the Gryffindor table. 

“Maybe ...” said Hermione thoughtfully. 

“What?” said both Harry and Ron together. 

“Well ... maybe he didn’t want to draw attention to 
Hagrid not being here.” 

“What d’you mean, draw attention to it?” said Ron, 
half laughing. “How could we not notice?” 

Before Hermione could answer, a tall black girl with 
long, braided hair had marched up to Harry. 

“Hi, Angelina.” 

“Hi,” she said briskly, “good summer?” And without 
waiting for an answer, “Listen, I’ve been made 
Gryffindor Quidditch Captain.” 

“Nice one,” said Harry, grinning at her; he suspected 
Angelina’s pep talks might not be as long-winded as 
Oliver Wood’s had been, which could only be an 
improvement. 

“Yeah, well, we need a new Keeper now Oliver’s left. 
Tryouts are on Friday at five o’clock and I want the 
whole team there, all right? Then we can see how the 
new person’ll fit in.” 



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“Okay,” said Harry, and she smiled at him and 
departed. 

“I’d forgotten Wood had left,” said Hermione vaguely, 
sitting down beside Ron and pulling a plate of toast 
toward her. “I suppose that will make quite a 
difference to the team?” 

“I s’pose,” said Harry, taking the bench opposite. “He 
was a good Keeper...” 

“Still, it won’t hurt to have some new blood, will it?” 
said Ron. 

With a whoosh and a clatter, hundreds of owls came 
soaring in through the upper windows. They 
descended all over the Hall, bringing letters and 
packages to their owners and showering the 
breakfasters with droplets of water; it was clearly 
raining hard outside. Hedwig was nowhere to be seen, 
but Harry was hardly surprised; his only 
correspondent was Sirius, and he doubted Sirius 
would have anything new to tell him after only 
twenty-four hours apart. Hermione, however, had to 
move her orange juice aside quickly to make way for a 
large damp barn owl bearing a sodden Daily Prophet 
in its beak. 

“What are you still getting that for?” said Harry 
irritably, thinking of Seamus, as Hermione placed a 
Knut in the leather pouch on the owl’s leg and it took 
off again. “I’m not bothering ... load of rubbish.” 

“It’s best to know what the enemy are saying,” said 
Hermione darkly, and she unfurled the newspaper 
and disappeared behind it, not emerging until Harry 
and Ron had finished eating. 



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“Nothing,” she said simply, rolling up the newspaper 
and laying it down by her plate. “Nothing about you 
or Dumbledore or anything.” 

Professor McGonagall was now moving along the table 
handing out schedules. 

“Look at today!” groaned Ron. “History of Magic, 
double Potions, Divination, and double Defense 
Against the Dark Arts ... Binns, Snape, Trelawney, 
and that Umbridge woman all in one day! I wish Fred 
and George ’d hurry up and get those Skiving 
Snackboxes sorted...” 

“Do mine ears deceive me?” said Fred, arriving with 
George and squeezing onto the bench beside Harry. 
“Hogwarts prefects surely don’t wish to skive off 
lessons?” 

“Look what we’ve got today,” said Ron grumpily, 
shoving his schedule under Fred’s nose. “That’s the 
worst Monday I’ve ever seen.” 

“Fair point, little bro,” said Fred, scanning the 
column. “You can have a bit of Nosebleed Nougat 
cheap if you like.” 

“Why’s it cheap?” said Ron suspiciously. 

“Because you’ll keep bleeding till you shrivel up, we 
haven’t got an antidote yet,” said George, helping 
himself to a kipper. 

“Cheers,” said Ron moodily, pocketing his schedule, 
“but I think I’ll take the lessons.” 

“And speaking of your Skiving Snackboxes,” said 
Hermione, eyeing Fred and George beadily, “you can’t 
advertise for testers on the Gryffindor notice board.” 

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“Says who?” said George, looking astonished. 

“Says me,” said Hermione. “And Ron.” 

“Leave me out of it,” said Ron hastily. 

Hermione glared at him. Fred and George sniggered. 

“You’ll be singing a different tune soon enough, 
Hermione,” said Fred, thickly buttering a crumpet. 
“You’re starting your fifth year, you’ll be begging us 
for a Snackbox before long.” 

“And why would starting fifth year mean I want a 
Skiving Snackbox?” asked Hermione. 

“Fifth year’s O.W.L. year,” said George. 

“So?” 

“So you’ve got your exams coming up, haven’t you? 
They’ll be keeping your noses so hard to that 
grindstone they’ll be rubbed raw,” said Fred with 
satisfaction. 

“Half our year had minor breakdowns coming up to 
O.W.L.s,” said George happily. “Tears and tantrums 
... Patricia Stimpson kept coming over faint...” 

“Kenneth Towler came out in boils, d’you remember?” 
said Fred reminiscently. 

“That’s ’cause you put Bulbadox Powder in his 
pajamas,” said George. 

“Oh yeah,” said Fred, grinning. “I’d forgotten... Hard 
to keep track sometimes, isn’t it?” 



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“Anyway, it’s a nightmare of a year, the fifth,” said 
George. “If you care about exam results anyway. Fred 
and I managed to keep our spirits up somehow.” 

“Yeah ... you got, what was it, three O.W.L.s each?” 
said Ron. 

“Yep,” said Fred unconcernedly. “But we feel our 
futures lie outside the world of academic 
achievement.” 

“We seriously debated whether we were going to 
bother coming back for our seventh year,” said 
George brightly, “now that we’ve got — ” 

He broke off at a warning look from Harry, who knew 
George had been about to mention the Triwizard 
winnings he had given them. 

“ — now that we’ve got our O.W.L.s,” George said 
hastily. “I mean, do we really need N.E.W.T.s? But we 
didn’t think Mum could take us leaving school early, 
not on top of Percy turning out to be the world’s 
biggest prat.” 

“We’re not going to waste our last year here, though,” 
said Fred, looking affectionately around at the Great 
Hall. “We’re going to use it to do a bit of market 
research, find out exactly what the average Hogwarts 
student requires from his joke shop, carefully 
evaluate the results of our research, and then 
produce the products to fit the demand.” 

“But where are you going to get the gold to start a 
joke shop?” asked Hermione skeptically. “You’re going 
to need all the ingredients and materials — and 
premises too, I suppose...” 



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Harry did not look at the twins. His face felt hot; he 
deliberately dropped his fork and dived down to 
retrieve it. He heard Fred say overhead, “Ask us no 
questions and well tell you no lies, Hermione. C’mon, 
George, if we get there early we might be able to sell a 
few Extendable Ears before Herbology.” 

Harry emerged from under the table to see Fred and 
George walking away, each carrying a stack of toast. 

“What did that mean?” said Hermione, looking from 
Harry to Ron. “ ‘Ask us no questions ...’ Does that 
mean they’ve already got some gold to start a joke 
shop?” 

“You know, I’ve been wondering about that,” said 
Ron, his brow furrowed. “They bought me a new set of 
dress robes this summer, and I couldn’t understand 
where they got the Galleons...” 

Harry decided it was time to steer the conversation 
out of these dangerous waters. 

“D’you reckon it’s true this year’s going to be really 
tough? Because of the exams?” 

“Oh yeah,” said Ron. “Bound to be, isn’t it? O.W.L.s 
are really important, affect the jobs you can apply for 
and everything. We get career advice too, later this 
year, Bill told me. So you can choose what N.E.W.T.s 
you want to do next year.” 

“D’you know what you want to do after Hogwarts?” 
Harry asked the other two, as they left the Great Hall 
shortly afterward and set off toward their History of 
Magic classroom. 

“Not really,” said Ron slowly. “Except ... well ...” 



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He looked slightly sheepish. 



“What?” Harry urged him. 

“Well, it’d be cool to be an Auror,” said Ron in an 
offhand voice. 

“Yeah, it would,” said Harry fervently. 

“But they’re, like, the elite,” said Ron. “You’ve got to 
be really good. What about you, Hermione?” 

“I don’t know,” said Hermione. “I think I’d really like 
to do something worthwhile.” 

“An Auror’s worthwhile!” said Harry. 

“Yes, it is, but it’s not the only worthwhile thing,” said 
Hermione thoughtfully. “I mean, if I could take 
S.P.E.W. further ...” 

Harry and Ron carefully avoided looking at each 
other. 

History of Magic was by common consent the most 
boring subject ever devised by Wizard-kind. Professor 
Binns, their ghost teacher, had a wheezy, droning 
voice that was almost guaranteed to cause severe 
drowsiness within ten minutes, five in warm weather. 
He never varied the form of their lessons, but lectured 
them without pausing while they took notes, or 
rather, gazed sleepily into space. Harry and Ron had 
so far managed to scrape passes in this subject only 
by copying Hermione’s notes before exams; she alone 
seemed able to resist the soporific power of Binns ’s 
voice. 

Today they suffered through three quarters of an 
hour’s droning on the subject of giant wars. Harry 

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heard just enough within the first ten minutes to 
appreciate dimly that in another teacher’s hands this 
subject might have been mildly interesting, but then 
his brain disengaged, and he spent the remaining 
thirty-five minutes playing hangman on a corner of 
his parchment with Ron, while Hermione shot them 
filthy looks out of the corner of her eye. 

“How would it be,” she asked them coldly as they left 
the classroom for break (Binns drifting away through 
the blackboard), “if I refused to lend you my notes 
this year?” 

“We’d fail our O.W.L.s,” said Ron. “If you want that on 
your conscience, Hermione ...” 

“Well, you’d deserve it,” she snapped. “You don’t even 
try to listen to him, do you?” 

“We do try,” said Ron. “We just haven’t got your 
brains or your memory or your concentration — 
you’re just cleverer than we are — is it nice to rub it 
in?” 



“Oh, don’t give me that rubbish,” said Hermione, but 
she looked slightly mollified as she led the way out 
into the damp courtyard. 

A fine misty drizzle was falling, so that the people 
standing in huddles around the yard looked blurred 
at the edges. Harry, Ron, and Hermione chose a 
secluded corner under a heavily dripping balcony, 
turning up the collars of their robes against the chilly 
September air and talking about what Snape was 
likely to set them in the first lesson of the year. They 
had got as far as agreeing that it was likely to be 
something extremely difficult, just to catch them off 
guard after a two-month holiday, when someone 
walked around the corner toward them. 

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“Hello, Harry!” 



It was Cho Chang and what was more, she was on 
her own again. This was most unusual: Cho was 
almost always surrounded by a gang of giggling girls; 
Harry remembered the agony of trying to get her by 
herself to ask her to the Yule Ball. 

“Hi,” said Harry, feeling his face grow hot. At least 
you’re not covered in Stinksap this time, he told 
himself. Cho seemed to be thinking along the same 
lines. 

“You got that stuff off, then?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, trying to grin as though the 
memory of their last meeting was funny as opposed to 
mortifying. “So did you ... er ... have a good summer?” 

The moment he had said this he wished he hadn’t: 
Cedric had been Cho’s boyfriend and the memory of 
his death must have affected her holiday almost as 
badly as it had affected Harry’s... Something seemed 
to tauten in her face, but she said, “Oh, it was all 
right, you know...” 

“Is that a Tornados badge?” Ron demanded suddenly, 
pointing at the front of Cho’s robes, to which a sky- 
blue badge emblazoned with a double gold T was 
pinned. “You don’t support them, do you?” 

“Yeah, I do,” said Cho. 

“Have you always supported them, or just since they 
started winning the league?” said Ron, in what Harry 
considered an unnecessarily accusatory tone of voice. 

“I’ve supported them since I was six,” said Cho coolly. 
“Anyway ... see you, Harry.” 

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She walked away. Hermione waited until Cho was 
halfway across the courtyard before rounding on Ron. 



“You are so tactless!” 

“What? I only asked her if — ” 

“Couldn’t you tell she wanted to talk to Harry on her 
own?” 

“So? She could’ve done, I wasn’t stopping — ” 

“What on earth were you attacking her about her 
Quidditch team for?” 

“Attacking? I wasn’t attacking her, I was only — ” 

“Who cares if she supports the Tornados?” 

“Oh, come on, half the people you see wearing those 
badges only bought them last season — ” 

“But what does it matter?” 

“It means they’re not real fans, they’re just jumping 
on the bandwagon — ” 

“That’s the bell,” said Harry listlessly, because Ron 
and Hermione were bickering too loudly to hear it. 
They did not stop arguing all the way down to Snape’s 
dungeon, which gave Harry plenty of time to reflect 
that between Neville and Ron he would be lucky ever 
to have two minutes’ conversation with Cho that he 
could look back on without wanting to leave the 
country. 

And yet, he thought, as they joined the queue lining 
up outside Snape’s classroom door, she had chosen 
to come and talk to him, hadn’t she? She had been 

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Cedric’s girlfriend; she could easily have hated Harry 
for coming out of the Triwizard maze alive when 
Cedric had died, yet she was talking to him in a 
perfectly friendly way, not as though she thought him 
mad, or a liar, or in some horrible way responsible for 
Cedric’s death... Yes, she had definitely chosen to 
come and talk to him, and that made the second time 
in two days . . . and at this thought, Harry’s spirits 
rose. Even the ominous sound of Snape’s dungeon 
door creaking open did not puncture the small, 
hopeful bubble that seemed to have swelled in his 
chest. He filed into the classroom behind Ron and 
Hermione and followed them to their usual table at 
the back, ignoring the huffy, irritable noises now 
issuing from both of them. 

“Settle down,” said Snape coldly, shutting the door 
behind him. 

There was no real need for the call to order; the 
moment the class had heard the door close, quiet had 
fallen and all fidgeting stopped. Snape’s mere 
presence was usually enough to ensure a class’s 
silence. 

“Before we begin today’s lesson,” said Snape, 
sweeping over to his desk and staring around at them 
all, “I think it appropriate to remind you that next 
June you will be sitting an important examination, 
during which you will prove how much you have 
learned about the composition and use of magical 
potions. Moronic though some of this class 
undoubtedly are, I expect you to scrape an 
‘Acceptable’ in your O.W.L., or suffer my ... 
displeasure.” 

His gaze lingered this time upon Neville, who gulped. 



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“After this year, of course, many of you will cease 
studying with me,” Snape went on. “I take only the 
very best into my N.E.W.T. Potions class, which 
means that some of us will certainly be saying good- 
bye.” 

His eyes rested on Harry and his lip curled. Harry 
glared back, feeling a grim pleasure at the idea that 
he would be able to give up Potions after fifth year. 

“But we have another year to go before that happy 
moment of farewell,” said Snape softly, “so whether 
you are intending to attempt N.E.W.T. or not, I advise 
all of you to concentrate your efforts upon 
maintaining the high-pass level I have come to expect 
from my O.W.L. students. 

“Today we will be mixing a potion that often comes up 
at Ordinary Wizarding Level: the Draught of Peace, a 
potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. Be 
warned: If you are too heavy-handed with the 
ingredients you will put the drinker into a heavy and 
sometimes irreversible sleep, so you will need to pay 
close attention to what you are doing.” On Harry’s 
left, Hermione sat up a little straighter, her 
expression one of the utmost attentiveness. “The 
ingredients and method” — Snape flicked his wand — 
“are on the blackboard” — (they appeared there) — 
“you will find everything you need” — he flicked his 
wand again — “in the store cupboard” — (the door of 
the said cupboard sprang open) — “you have an hour 
and a half... Start.” 

Just as Harry, Ron, and Hermione had predicted, 
Snape could hardly have set them a more difficult, 
fiddly potion. The ingredients had to be added to the 
cauldron in precisely the right order and quantities; 
the mixture had to be stirred exactly the right number 
of times, firstly in clockwise, then in counterclockwise 
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directions; the heat of the flames on which it was 
simmering had to be lowered to exactly the right level 
for a specific number of minutes before the final 
ingredient was added. 

“A light silver vapor should now be rising from your 
potion,” called Snape, with ten minutes left to go. 

Harry, who was sweating profusely, looked 
desperately around the dungeon. His own cauldron 
was issuing copious amounts of dark gray steam; 
Ron’s was spitting green sparks. Seamus was 
feverishly prodding the flames at the base of his 
cauldron with the tip of his wand, as they had gone 
out. The surface of Hermione’s potion, however, was a 
shimmering mist of silver vapor, and as Snape swept 
by he looked down his hooked nose at it without 
comment, which meant that he could find nothing to 
criticize. At Harry’s cauldron, however, Snape 
stopped, looking down at Harry with a horrible smirk 
on his face. 

“Potter, what is this supposed to be?” 

The Slytherins at the front of the class all looked up 
eagerly; they loved hearing Snape taunt Harry. 

“The Draught of Peace,” said Harry tensely. 

“Tell me, Potter,” said Snape softly, “can you read?” 

Draco Malfoy laughed. 

“Yes, I can,” said Harry, his fingers clenched tightly 
around his wand. 

“Read the third line of the instructions for me, Potter.” 



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Harry squinted at the blackboard; it was not easy to 
make out the instructions through the haze of 
multicolored steam now filling the dungeon. 

“ ‘Add powdered moonstone, stir three times 
counterclockwise, allow to simmer for seven minutes, 
then add two drops of syrup of hellebore.’ ” 

His heart sank. He had not added syrup of hellebore, 
but had proceeded straight to the fourth line of the 
instructions after allowing his potion to simmer for 
seven minutes. 

“Did you do everything on the third line, Potter?” 

“No,” said Harry very quietly. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“No,” said Harry, more loudly. “I forgot the 
hellebore...” 

“I know you did, Potter, which means that this mess 
is utterly worthless. Evanesco.” 

The contents of Harry’s potion vanished; he was left 
standing foolishly beside an empty cauldron. 

“Those of you who have managed to read the 
instructions, fill one flagon with a sample of your 
potion, label it clearly with your name, and bring it up 
to my desk for testing,” said Snape. “Homework: 
twelve inches of parchment on the properties of 
moonstone and its uses in potion-making, to be 
handed in on Thursday.” 

While everyone around him filled their flagons, Harry 
cleared away his things, seething. His potion had 
been no worse than Ron’s, which was now giving off a 

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foul odor of bad eggs, or Neville’s, which had achieved 
the consistency of just-mixed cement and which 
Neville was now having to gouge out of his cauldron, 
yet it was he, Harry, who would be receiving zero 
marks for the day’s work. He stuffed his wand back 
into his bag and slumped down onto his seat, 
watching everyone else march up to Snape’s desk 
with filled and corked flagons. When at long last the 
bell rang, Harry was first out of the dungeon and had 
already started his lunch by the time Ron and 
Hermione joined him in the Great Hall. The ceiling 
had turned an even murkier gray during the morning. 
Rain was lashing the high windows. 

“That was really unfair,” said Hermione consolingly, 
sitting down next to Harry and helping herself to 
shepherd’s pie. “Your potion wasn’t nearly as bad as 
Goyle’s, when he put it in his flagon the whole thing 
shattered and set his robes on fire.” 

“Yeah, well,” said Harry, glowering at his plate, “since 
when has Snape ever been fair to me?” 

Neither of the others answered; all three of them 
knew that Snape and Harry’s mutual enmity had 
been absolute from the moment Harry had set foot in 
Hogwarts. 

“I did think he might be a bit better this year,” said 
Hermione in a disappointed voice. “I mean ... you 
know ...” She looked carefully around; there were half 
a dozen empty seats on either side of them and 
nobody was passing the table. "... Now he’s in the 
Order and everything.” 

“Poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots,” said 
Ron sagely. “Anyway, I’ve always thought Dumbledore 
was cracked trusting Snape, where’s the evidence he 
ever really stopped working for You-Know-Who?” 

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“I think Dumbledore’s probably got plenty of evidence, 
even if he doesn’t share it with you, Ron,” snapped 
Hermione. 

“Oh, shut up, the pair of you,” said Harry heavily, as 
Ron opened his mouth to argue back. Hermione and 
Ron both froze, looking angry and offended. “Can’t 
you give it a rest?” he said. “You’re always having a go 
at each other, it’s driving me mad.” And abandoning 
his shepherd’s pie, he swung his schoolbag back over 
his shoulder and left them sitting there. 

He walked up the marble staircase two steps at a 
time, past the many students hurrying toward lunch. 
The anger that had just flared so unexpectedly still 
blazed inside him, and the vision of Ron and 
Hermione ’s shocked faces afforded him a sense of 
deep satisfaction. Serve them right, he thought. Why 
can’t they give it a rest? ... Bickering all the time ... It’s 
enough to drive anyone up the wall. . . 

He passed the large picture of Sir Cadogan the knight 
on a landing; Sir Cadogan drew his sword and 
brandished it fiercely at Harry, who ignored him. 

“Come back, you scurvy dog, stand fast and fight!” 
yelled Sir Cadogan in a muffled voice from behind his 
visor, but Harry merely walked on, and when Sir 
Cadogan attempted to follow him by running into a 
neighboring picture, he was rebuffed by its 
inhabitant, a large and angry-looking wolfhound. 

Harry spent the rest of the lunch hour sitting alone 
underneath the trapdoor at the top of North Tower, 
and consequently he was the first to ascend the silver 
ladder that led to Sibyll Trelawney’s classroom when 
the bell rang. 



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Divination was Harry’s least favorite class after 
Potions, which was due mainly to Professor 
Trelawney’s habit of predicting his premature death 
every few lessons. A thin woman, heavily draped in 
shawls and glittering with strings of beads, she 
always reminded Harry of some kind of insect, with 
her glasses hugely magnifying her eyes. She was busy 
putting copies of battered, leather-bound books on 
each of the spindly little tables with which her room 
was littered when Harry entered the room, but so dim 
was the light cast by the lamps covered by scarves 
and the low-burning, sickly-scented fire that she 
appeared not to notice him as he took a seat in the 
shadows. The rest of the class arrived over the next 
five minutes. Ron emerged from the trapdoor, looked 
around carefully, spotted Harry and made directly for 
him, or as directly as he could while having to wend 
his way between tables, chairs, and overstuffed poufs. 

“Hermione and me have stopped arguing,” he said, 
sitting down beside Harry. 

“Good,” grunted Harry. 

“But Hermione says she thinks it would be nice if you 
stopped taking out your temper on us,” said Ron. 

“I’m not — ” 

“I’m just passing on the message,” said Ron, talking 
over him. “But I reckon she’s right. It’s not our fault 
how Seamus and Snape treat you.” 

“I never said it — ” 

“Good day,” said Professor Trelawney in her usual 
misty, dreamy voice, and Harry broke off, feeling both 
annoyed and slightly ashamed of himself again. “And 
welcome back to Divination. I have, of course, been 

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following your fortunes most carefully over the 
holidays, and am delighted to see that you have all 
returned to Hogwarts safely — as, of course, I knew 
you would. 

“You will find on the tables before you copies of The 
Dream Oracle, by Inigo Imago. Dream interpretation is 
a most important means of divining the future and 
one that may very probably be tested in your O.W.L. 
Not, of course, that I believe examination passes or 
failures are of the remotest importance when it comes 
to the sacred art of divination. If you have the Seeing 
Eye, certificates and grades matter very little. 

However, the headmaster likes you to sit the 
examination, so ...” 

Her voice trailed away delicately, leaving them all in 
no doubt that Professor Trelawney considered her 
subject above such sordid matters as examinations. 

“Turn, please, to the introduction and read what 
Imago has to say on the matter of dream 
interpretation. Then divide into pairs. Use The Dream 
Oracle to interpret each other’s most recent dreams. 
Carry on.” 

The one good thing to be said for this lesson was that 
it was not a double period. By the time they had all 
finished reading the introduction of the book, they 
had barely ten minutes left for dream interpretation. 
At the table next to Harry and Ron, Dean had paired 
up with Neville, who immediately embarked on a long- 
winded explanation of a nightmare involving a pair of 
giant scissors wearing his grandmother’s best hat; 
Harry and Ron merely looked at each other glumly. 

“I never remember my dreams,” said Ron. “You say 
one.” 



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“You must remember one of them,” said Harry 
impatiently. 

He was not going to share his dreams with anyone. 

He knew perfectly well what his regular nightmare 
about a graveyard meant, he did not need Ron or 
Professor Trelawney or the stupid Dream Oracle to tell 
him that... 

“Well, I had one that I was playing Quidditch the 
other night,” said Ron, screwing up his face in an 
effort to remember. “What d’you reckon that means?” 

“Probably that you’re going to be eaten by a giant 
marshmallow or something,” said Harry, turning the 
pages of The Dream Oracle without interest. 

It was very dull work looking up bits of dreams in the 
Oracle and Harry was not cheered up when Professor 
Trelawney set them the task of keeping a dream diary 
for a month as homework. When the bell went, he 
and Ron led the way back down the ladder, Ron 
grumbling loudly. 

“D’you realize how much homework we’ve got 
already? Binns set us a foot-and-a-half-long essay on 
giant wars, Snape wants a foot on the use of 
moonstones, and now we’ve got a month’s dream 
diary from Trelawney! Fred and George weren’t wrong 
about O.W.L. year, were they? That Umbridge woman 
had better not give us any...” 

When they entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts 
classroom they found Professor Umbridge already 
seated at the teacher’s desk, wearing the fluffy pink 
cardigan of the night before and the black velvet bow 
on top of her head. Harry was again reminded forcibly 
of a large fly perched unwisely on top of an even 
larger toad. 

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The class was quiet as it entered the room; Professor 
Umbridge was, as yet, an unknown quantity and 
nobody knew yet how strict a disciplinarian she was 
likely to be. 

“Well, good afternoon!” she said when finally the 
whole class had sat down. 

A few people mumbled “Good afternoon,” in reply. 

“Tut, tut,” said Professor Umbridge. “That won’t do, 
now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply ‘Good 
afternoon, Professor Umbridge.’ One more time, 
please. Good afternoon, class!” 

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” they chanted 
back at her. 

“There, now,” said Professor Umbridge sweetly. “That 
wasn’t too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills 
out, please.” 

Many of the class exchanged gloomy looks; the order 
“wands away” had never yet been followed by a lesson 
they had found interesting. Harry shoved his wand 
back inside his bag and pulled out quill, ink, and 
parchment. Professor Umbridge opened her handbag, 
extracted her own wand, which was an unusually 
short one, and tapped the blackboard sharply with it; 
words appeared on the board at once: 

Defense Against the Dark Arts 

A Return to Basic Principles. 

“Well now, your teaching in this subject has been 
rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn’t it?” stated 
Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her 
hands clasped neatly in front of her. “The constant 

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changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to 
have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has 
unfortunately resulted in your being far below the 
standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year. 

“You will be pleased to know, however, that these 
problems are now to be rectified. We will be following 
a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry- 
approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy 
down the following, please.” 

She rapped the blackboard again; the first message 
vanished and was replaced by: 

Course aims: 

1. Understanding the principles underlying 
defensive magic. 

2. Learning to recognize situations in which 
defensive magic can legally be used. 

3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context 
for practical use. 

For a couple of minutes the room was full of the 
sound of scratching quills on parchment. When 
everyone had copied down Professor Umbridge’s three 
course aims she said, “Has everybody got a copy of 
Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?” 

There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the 
class. 

“I think well try that again,” said Professor Umbridge. 
“When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply 
‘Yes, Professor Umbridge,’ or ‘No, Professor 
Umbridge.’ So, has everyone got a copy of Defensive 
Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?” 

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“Yes, Professor Umbridge,” rang through the room. 



“Good,” said Professor Umbridge. “I should like you to 
turn to page five and read chapter one, ‘Basics for 
Beginners.’ There will be no need to talk.” 

Professor Umbridge left the blackboard and settled 
herself in the chair behind the teacher’s desk, 
observing them all with those pouchy toad’s eyes. 
Harry turned to page five of his copy of Defensive 
Magical Theory and started to read. 

It was desperately dull, quite as bad as listening to 
Professor Binns. He felt his concentration sliding 
away from him; he had soon read the same line half a 
dozen times without taking in more than the first few 
words. Several silent minutes passed. Next to him, 

Ron was absent-mindedly turning his quill over and 
over in his fingers, staring at the same spot on the 
page. Harry looked right and received a surprise to 
shake him out of his torpor. Hermione had not even 
opened her copy of Defensive Magical Theory. She was 
staring fixedly at Professor Umbridge with her hand 
in the air. 

Harry could not remember Hermione ever neglecting 
to read when instructed to, or indeed resisting the 
temptation to open any book that came under her 
nose. He looked at her questioningly, but she merely 
shook her head slightly to indicate that she was not 
about to answer questions, and continued to stare at 
Professor Umbridge, who was looking just as 
resolutely in another direction. 

After several more minutes had passed, however, 
Harry was not the only one watching Hermione. The 
chapter they had been instructed to read was so 
tedious that more and more people were choosing to 
watch Hermione’s mute attempt to catch Professor 
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Umbridge’s eye than to struggle on with “Basics for 
Beginners.” 

When more than half the class were staring at 
Hermione rather than at their books, Professor 
Umbridge seemed to decide that she could ignore the 
situation no longer. 

“Did you want to ask something about the chapter, 
dear?” she asked Hermione, as though she had only 
just noticed her. 

“Not about the chapter, no,” said Hermione. 

“Well, we’re reading just now,” said Professor 
Umbridge, showing her small, pointed teeth. “If you 
have other queries we can deal with them at the end 
of class.” 

“I’ve got a query about your course aims,” said 
Hermione. 

Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows. 

“And your name is — ?” 

“Hermione Granger,” said Hermione. 

“Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are 
perfectly clear if you read them through carefully,” 
said Professor Umbridge in a voice of determined 
sweetness. 

“Well, I don’t,” said Hermione bluntly. “There’s 
nothing written up there about using defensive 
spells.” 



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There was a short silence in which many members of 
the class turned their heads to frown at the three 
course aims still written on the blackboard. 

“ Using defensive spells?” Professor Umbridge repeated 
with a little laugh. “Why, I can’t imagine any situation 
arising in my classroom that would require you to use 
a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren’t 
expecting to be attacked during class?” 

“We’re not going to use magic?” Ron ejaculated loudly. 

“Students raise their hands when they wish to speak 
in my class, Mr. — ?” 

“Weasley,” said Ron, thrusting his hand into the air. 

Professor Umbridge, smiling still more widely, turned 
her back on him. Harry and Hermione immediately 
raised their hands too. Professor Umbridge’s pouchy 
eyes lingered on Harry for a moment before she 
addressed Hermione. 

“Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something 
else?” 

“Yes,” said Hermione. “Surely the whole point of 
Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive 
spells?” 

“Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss 
Granger?” asked Professor Umbridge in her falsely 
sweet voice. 

“No, but — ” 

“Well then, I’m afraid you are not qualified to decide 
what the Svhole point’ of any class is. Wizards much 
older and cleverer than you have devised our new 

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program of study. You will be learning about 
defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way — ” 

“What use is that?” said Harry loudly. “If we’re going 
to be attacked it won’t be in a — ” 

“Hand, Mr. Potter!” sang Professor Umbridge. 

Harry thrust his fist in the air. Professor Umbridge 
promptly turned away from him again, but now 
several other people had their hands up too. 

“And your name is?” Professor Umbridge said to 
Dean. 

“Dean Thomas.” 

“Well, Mr. Thomas?” 

“Well, it’s like Harry said, isn’t it?” said Dean. “If we’re 
going to be attacked, it won’t be risk-free — ” 

“I repeat,” said Professor Umbridge, smiling in a very 
irritating fashion at Dean, “do you expect to be 
attacked during my classes?” 

“No, but — ” 

Professor Umbridge talked over him. 

“I do not wish to criticize the way things have been 
run in this school,” she said, an unconvincing smile 
stretching her wide mouth, “but you have been 
exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this 
class, very irresponsible indeed — not to mention,” 
she gave a nasty little laugh, “extremely dangerous 
half-breeds.” 



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“If you mean Professor Lupin,” piped up Dean 
Thomas angrily, “he was the best we ever — ” 

“Hand, Mr. Thomas! As I was saying — you have been 
introduced to spells that have been complex, 
inappropriate to your age group, and potentially 
lethal. You have been frightened into believing that 
you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day — 



“No we haven’t,” Hermione said, “we just — ” 

“Your hand is not up, Miss Grangeii” 

Hermione put up her hand; Professor Umbridge 
turned away from her. 

“It is my understanding that my predecessor not only 
performed illegal curses in front of you, he actually 
performed them on you — ” 

“Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn’t he?” said 
Dean Thomas hotly. “Mind you, we still learned loads 



“Your hand is not up, Mr. ThomasY trilled Professor 
Umbridge. “Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a 
theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to 
get you through your examination, which, after all, is 
what school is all about. And your name is?” she 
added, staring at Parvati, whose hand had just shot 
up. 

“Parvati Patil, and isn’t there a practical bit in our 
Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.? Aren’t we 
supposed to show that we can actually do the 
countercurses and things?” 



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“As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, 
there is no reason why you should not be able to 
perform the spells under carefully controlled 
examination conditions,” said Professor Umbridge 
dismissively. 

“Without ever practicing them before?” said Parvati 
incredulously. “Are you telling us that the first time 
we’ll get to do the spells will be during our exam?” 

“I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard 
enough — ” 

“And what good’s theory going to be in the real 
world?” said Harry loudly, his fist in the air again. 

Professor Umbridge looked up. 

“This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world,” she 
said softly. 

“So we’re not supposed to be prepared for what’s 
waiting out there?” 

“There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter.” 

“Oh yeah?” said Harry. His temper, which seemed to 
have been bubbling just beneath the surface all day, 
was reaching boiling point. 

“Who do you imagine wants to attack children like 
yourselves?” inquired Professor Umbridge in a 
horribly honeyed voice. 

“Hmm, let’s think ...” said Harry in a mock thoughtful 
voice, “maybe Lord Voldemort?” 

Ron gasped; Lavender Brown uttered a little scream; 
Neville slipped sideways off his stool. Professor 

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Umbridge, however, did not flinch. She was staring at 
Harry with a grimly satisfied expression on her face. 



“Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter.” 

The classroom was silent and still. Everyone was 
staring at either Umbridge or Harry. 

“Now, let me make a few things quite plain.” 

Professor Umbridge stood up and leaned toward 
them, her stubby-fingered hands splayed on her desk. 

“You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has 
returned from the dead — ” 

“He wasn’t dead,” said Harry angrily, “but yeah, he’s 
returned!” 

“Mr.-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-House-ten- 
points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself,” said 
Professor Umbridge in one breath without looking at 
him. “As I was saying, you have been informed that a 
certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a 
lie.” 

“It is NOT a lie!” said Harry. “I saw him, I fought him!” 

“Detention, Mr. Potter!” said Professor Umbridge 
triumphantly. “Tomorrow evening. Five o’clock. My 
office. I repeat, this is a lie. The Ministry of Magic 
guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark 
wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and 
see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming 
you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like 
to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. 
And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page 
five, ‘Basics for Beginners.’ ” 

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Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk again. 
Harry, however, stood up. Everyone was staring at 
him; Seamus looked half-scared, half-fascinated. 

“Harry, no!” Hermione whispered in a warning voice, 
tugging at his sleeve, but Harry jerked his arm out of 
her reach. 

“So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of 
his own accord, did he?” Harry asked, his voice 
shaking. 

There was a collective intake of breath from the class, 
for none of them, apart from Ron and Hermione, had 
ever heard Harry talk about what had happened on 
the night that Cedric had died. They stared avidly 
from Harry to Professor Umbridge, who had raised 
her eyes and was staring at him without a trace of a 
fake smile on her face. 

“Cedric Diggory’s death was a tragic accident,” she 
said coldly. 

“It was murder,” said Harry. He could feel himself 
shaking. He had hardly talked to anyone about this, 
least of all thirty eagerly listening classmates. 
“Voldemort killed him, and you know it.” 

Professor Umbridge’s face was quite blank. For a 
moment he thought she was going to scream at him. 
Then she said, in her softest, most sweetly girlish 
voice, “Come here, Mr. Potter, dear.” 

He kicked his chair aside, strode around Ron and 
Hermione and up to the teacher’s desk. He could feel 
the rest of the class holding its breath. He felt so 
angry he did not care what happened next. 



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Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink 
parchment out of her handbag, stretched it out on the 
desk, dipped her quill into a bottle of ink, and started 
scribbling, hunched over so that Harry could not see 
what she was writing. Nobody spoke. After a minute 
or so she rolled up the parchment and tapped it with 
her wand; it sealed itself seamlessly so that he could 
not open it. 

“Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear,” said 
Professor Umbridge, holding out the note to him. 

He took it from her without saying a word and left the 
room, not even looking back at Ron and Hermione, 
and slamming the classroom door shut behind him. 
He walked very fast along the corridor, the note to 
McGonagall clutched tight in his hand, and turning a 
corner walked slap into Peeves the Poltergeist, a wide- 
faced little man floating on his back in midair, 
juggling several inkwells. 

“Why, it’s Potty Wee Potter!” cackled Peeves, allowing 
two of the inkwells to fall to the ground where they 
smashed and spattered the walls with ink; Harry 
jumped backward out of the way with a snarl. 

“Get out of it, Peeves.” 

“Oooh, Crackpot’s feeling cranky,” said Peeves, 
pursuing Harry along the corridor, leering as he 
zoomed along above him. “What is it this time, my 
fine Potty friend? Hearing voices? Seeing visions? 
Speaking in” — Peeves blew a gigantic raspberry — 
“tongues?” 

“I said, leave me ALONE!” Harry shouted, running 
down the nearest flight of stairs, but Peeves merely 
slid down the banister on his back beside him. 



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“Oh, most think he’s barking, the Potty wee lad, 

But some are more kindly and think he’s just sad, 

But Peevesy knows better and says that he’s mad — ” 
“SHUT UP!” 

A door to his left flew open and Professor McGonagall 
emerged from her office looking grim and slightly 
harassed. 

“What on earth are you shouting about, Potter?” she 
snapped, as Peeves cackled gleefully and zoomed out 
of sight. “Why aren’t you in class?” 

“I’ve been sent to see you,” said Harry stiffly. 

“Sent? What do you mean, sent?” 

He held out the note from Professor Umbridge. 
Professor McGonagall took it from him, frowning, slit 
it open with a tap of her wand, stretched it out, and 
began to read. Her eyes zoomed from side to side 
behind their square spectacles as she read what 
Umbridge had written, and with each line they 
became narrower. 

“Come in here, Potter.” 

He followed her inside her study. The door closed 
automatically behind him. 

“Well?” said Professor McGonagall, rounding on him. 
“Is this true?” 

“Is what true?” Harry asked, rather more aggressively 
than he had intended. “Professor?” he added in an 
attempt to sound more polite. 

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“Is it true that you shouted at Professor Umbridge?” 
“Yes,” said Harry. 

“You called her a liar?” 

“Yes.” 

“You told her He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back?” 
“Yes.” 

Professor McGonagall sat down behind her desk, 
frowning at Harry. Then she said, “Have a biscuit, 
Potter.” 

“Have — what?” 

“Have a biscuit,” she repeated impatiently, indicating 
a tartan tin of cookies lying on top of one of the piles 
of papers on her desk. “And sit down.” 

There had been a previous occasion when Harry, 
expecting to be caned by Professor McGonagall, had 
instead been appointed by her to the Gryffindor 
Quidditch team. He sank into a chair opposite her 
and helped himself to a Ginger Newt, feeling just as 
confused and wrong-footed as he had done on that 
occasion. 

Professor McGonagall set down Professor Umbridge’s 
note and looked very seriously at Harry. 

“Potter, you need to be careful.” 

Harry swallowed his mouthful of Ginger Newt and 
stared at her. Her tone of voice was not at all what he 
was used to; it was not brisk, crisp, and stern; it was 



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low and anxious and somehow much more human 
than usual. 

“Misbehavior in Dolores Umbridge’s class could cost 
you much more than House points and a detention.” 

“What do you — ?” 

“Potter, use your common sense,” snapped Professor 
McGonagall, with an abrupt return to her usual 
manner. “You know where she comes from, you must 
know to whom she is reporting.” 

The bell rang for the end of the lesson. Overhead and 
all around came the elephantine sounds of hundreds 
of students on the move. 

“It says here she’s given you detention every evening 
this week, starting tomorrow,” Professor McGonagall 
said, looking down at Umbridge’s note again. 

“Every evening this week!” Harry repeated, horrified. 
“But, Professor, couldn’t you — ?” 

“No, I couldn’t,” said Professor McGonagall flatly. 

“But — ” 

“She is your teacher and has every right to give you 
detention. You will go to her room at five o’clock 
tomorrow for the first one. Just remember: Tread 
carefully around Dolores Umbridge.” 

“But I was telling the truth!” said Harry, outraged. 
“Voldemort’s back, you know he is, Professor 
Dumbledore knows he is — ” 

“For heaven’s sake, Potter!” said Professor 
McGonagall, straightening her glasses angrily (she 

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had winced horribly when he had used Voldemort’s 
name). “Do you really think this is about truth or 
lies? It’s about keeping your head down and your 
temper under control!” 

She stood up, nostrils wide and mouth very thin, and 
he stood too. 

“Have another biscuit,” she said irritably, thrusting 
the tin at him. 

“No, thanks,” said Harry coldly. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. 

He took one. 

“Thanks,” he said grudgingly. 

“Didn’t you listen to Dolores Umbridge’s speech at the 
start-of-term feast, Potter?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah ... she said ... progress will 
be prohibited or ... well, it meant that ... that the 
Ministry of Magic is trying to interfere at Hogwarts.” 

Professor McGonagall eyed him for a moment, then 
sniffed, walked around her desk, and held open the 
door for him. 

“Well, I’m glad you listen to Hermione Granger at any 
rate,” she said, pointing him out of her office. 



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DETENTION WITH DOLORES 

Dinner in the Great Hall that night was not a pleasant 
experience for Harry. The news about his shouting 
match with Umbridge seemed to have traveled 
exceptionally fast even by Hogwarts standards. He 
heard whispers all around him as he sat eating 
between Ron and Hermione. The funny thing was that 
none of the whisperers seemed to mind him 
overhearing what they were saying about him — on 
the contrary, it was as though they were hoping he 
would get angry and start shouting again, so that 
they could hear his story firsthand. 

“He says he saw Cedric Diggory murdered...” 

“He reckons he dueled with You-Know-Who...” 

“Come off it...” 

“Who does he think he’s kidding?” 

“Pur - lease ...” 



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“What I don’t get,” said Harry in a shaking voice, 
laying down his knife and fork (his hands were 
trembling too much to hold them steady), “is why they 
all believed the story two months ago when 
Dumbledore told them...” 

“The thing is, Harry, I’m not sure they did,” said 
Hermione grimly. “Oh, let’s get out of here.” 

She slammed down her own knife and fork; Ron 
looked sadly at his half-finished apple pie but 
followed suit. People stared at them all the way out of 
the Hall. 

“What d’you mean, you’re not sure they believed 
Dumbledore?” Harry asked Hermione when they 
reached the first-floor landing. 

“Look, you don’t understand what it was like after it 
happened,” said Hermione quietly. “You arrived back 
in the middle of the lawn clutching Cedric’s dead 
body... None of us saw what happened in the maze... 
We just had Dumbledore’s word for it that You-Know- 
Who had come back and killed Cedric and fought 
you.” 

“Which is the truth!” said Harry loudly. 

“I know it is, Harry, so will you please stop biting my 
head off?” said Hermione wearily. “It’s just that before 
the truth could sink in, everyone went home for the 
summer, where they spent two months reading about 
how you’re a nutcase and Dumbledore’s going senile!” 

Rain pounded on the windowpanes as they strode 
along the empty corridors back to Gryffindor Tower. 
Harry felt as though his first day had lasted a week, 
but he still had a mountain of homework to do before 
bed. A dull pounding pain was developing over his 
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right eye. He glanced out of a rain-washed window at 
the dark grounds as they turned into the Fat Lady’s 
corridor. There was still no light in Hagrid’s cabin. 

“Mimbulus mimbletonia,” said Hermione, before the 
Fat Lady could ask. The portrait swung open to reveal 
the hole behind and the three of them scrambled 
back through it. 

The common room was almost empty; nearly everyone 
was still down at dinner. Crookshanks uncoiled 
himself from an armchair and trotted to meet them, 
purring loudly, and when Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
took their three favorite chairs at the fireside he leapt 
lightly into Hermione ’s lap and curled up there like a 
furry ginger cushion. Harry gazed into the flames, 
feeling drained and exhausted. 

“How can Dumbledore have let this happen?” 
Hermione cried suddenly, making Harry and Ron 
jump; Crookshanks leapt off her, looking affronted. 
She pounded the arms of her chair in fury, so that 
bits of stuffing leaked out of the holes. “How can he 
let that terrible woman teach us? And in our O.W.L. 
year too!” 

“Well, we’ve never had great Defense Against the Dark 
Arts teachers, have we?” said Harry. “You know what 
it’s like, Hagrid told us, nobody wants the job, they 
say it’s jinxed.” 

“Yes, but to employ someone who’s actually refusing 
to let us do magic! What’s Dumbledore playing at?” 

“And she’s trying to get people to spy for her,” said 
Ron darkly. “Remember when she said she wanted us 
to come and tell her if we hear anyone saying You- 
Know- Who’s back?” 



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“Of course she’s here to spy on us all, that’s obvious, 
why else would Fudge have wanted her to come?” 
snapped Hermione. 

“Don’t start arguing again,” said Harry wearily, as 
Ron opened his mouth to retaliate. “Can’t we just ... 
Let’s just do that homework, get it out of the way...” 

They collected their schoolbags from a corner and 
returned to the chairs by the fire. People were coming 
back from dinner now. Harry kept his face averted 
from the portrait hole, but could still sense the stares 
he was attracting. 

“Shall we do Snape’s stuff first?” said Ron, dipping 
his quill into his ink. “ ‘The properties ...of moonstone 
... and its uses ...in potion-making ...’ ” he muttered, 
writing the words across the top of his parchment as 
he spoke them. “There.” He underlined the title, then 
looked up expectantly at Hermione. 

“So what are the properties of moonstone and its uses 
in potion-making?” 

But Hermione was not listening; she was squinting 
over into the far corner of the room, where Fred, 
George, and Lee Jordan were now sitting at the center 
of a knot of innocent-looking first years, all of whom 
were chewing something that seemed to have come 
out of a large paper bag that Fred was holding. 

“No, I’m sorry, they’ve gone too far,” she said, 
standing up and looking positively furious. “Come on, 
Ron.” 

“I — what?” said Ron, plainly playing for time. “No — 
come on, Hermione — we can’t tell them off for giving 
out sweets...” 



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“You know perfectly well that those are bits of 
Nosebleed Nougat or — or Puking Pastilles or — ” 

“Fainting Fancies?” Harry suggested quietly. 

One by one, as though hit over the heads with 
invisible mallets, the first years were slumping 
unconscious in their seats; some slid right onto the 
floor, others merely hung over the arms of their 
chairs, their tongues lolling out. Most of the people 
watching were laughing; Hermione, however, squared 
her shoulders and marched directly over to where 
Fred and George now stood with clipboards, closely 
observing the unconscious first years. Ron rose 
halfway out of his chair, hovered uncertainly for a 
moment or two, then muttered to Harry, “She’s got it 
under control,” before sinking as low in his chair as 
his lanky frame permitted. 

“That’s enough!” Hermione said forcefully to Fred and 
George, both of whom looked up in mild surprise. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” said George, nodding, “this 
dosage looks strong enough, doesn’t it?” 

“I told you this morning, you can’t test your rubbish 
on students!” 

“We’re paying them!” said Fred indignantly. 

“I don’t care, it could be dangerous!” 

“Rubbish,” said Fred. 

“Calm down, Hermione, they’re fine!” said Lee 
reassuringly as he walked from first year to first year, 
inserting purple sweets into their open mouths. 

“Yeah, look, they’re coming round now,” said George. 

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A few of the first years were indeed stirring. Several 
looked so shocked to find themselves lying on the 
floor, or dangling off their chairs, that Harry was sure 
Fred and George had not warned them what the 
sweets were going to do. 

“Feel all right?” said George kindly to a small dark- 
haired girl lying at his feet. 

“I-I think so,” she said shakily. 

“Excellent,” said Fred happily, but the next second 
Hermione had snatched both his clipboard and the 
paper bag of Fainting Fancies from his hands. 

“It is NOT excellent!” 

“ ’Course it is, they’re alive, aren’t they?” said Fred 
angrily. 

“You can’t do this, what if you made one of them 
really ill?” 

“We’re not going to make them ill, we’ve already tested 
them all on ourselves, this is just to see if everyone 
reacts the same — ” 

“If you don’t stop doing it, I’m going to — ” 

“Put us in detention?” said Fred in an I’d-like-to-see- 
you-try-it voice. 

“Make us write lines?” said George, smirking. 

Onlookers all over the room were laughing. Hermione 
drew herself up to her full height; her eyes were 
narrowed and her bushy hair seemed to crackle with 
electricity. 



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“No,” she said, her voice quivering with anger, “but I 
will write to your mother.” 



“You wouldn’t,” said George, horrified, taking a step 
back from her. 

“Oh, yes, I would,” said Hermione grimly. “I can’t stop 
you eating the stupid things yourselves, but you’re 
not giving them to first years.” 

Fred and George looked thunderstruck. It was clear 
that as far as they were concerned, Hermione ’s threat 
was way below the belt. With a last threatening look 
at them, she thrust Fred’s clipboard and the bag of 
Fancies back into his arms and stalked back to her 
chair by the fire. 

Ron was now so low in his seat that his nose was 
roughly level with his knees. 

“Thank you for your support, Ron,” Hermione said 
acidly. 

“You handled it fine by yourself,” Ron mumbled. 

Hermione stared down at her blank piece of 
parchment for a few seconds, then said edgily, “Oh, 
it’s no good, I can’t concentrate now. I’m going to 
bed.” 

She wrenched her bag open; Harry thought she was 
about to put her books away, but instead she pulled 
out two misshapen woolly objects, placed them 
carefully on a table by the fireplace, covered them 
with a few screwed-up bits of parchment and a 
broken quill, and stood back to admire the effect. 

“What in the name of Merlin are you doing?” said 
Ron, watching her as though fearful for her sanity. 

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“They’re hats for house-elves,” she said briskly, now 
stuffing her books back into her bag. “I did them over 
the summer. I’m a really slow knitter without magic, 
but now I’m back at school I should be able to make 
lots more.” 

“You’re leaving out hats for the house-elves?” said 
Ron slowly. “And you’re covering them up with 
rubbish first?” 

“Yes,” said Hermione defiantly, swinging her bag onto 
her back. 

“That’s not on,” said Ron angrily. “You’re trying to 
trick them into picking up the hats. You’re setting 
them free when they might not want to be free.” 

“Of course they want to be free!” said Hermione at 
once, though her face was turning pink. “Don’t you 
dare touch those hats, Ron!” 

She left. Ron waited until she had disappeared 
through the door to the girls’ dormitories, then 
cleared the rubbish off the woolly hats. 

“They should at least see what they’re picking up,” he 
said firmly. “Anyway ...” He rolled up the parchment 
on which he had written the title of Snape’s essay. 
“There’s no point trying to finish this now, I can’t do it 
without Hermione, I haven’t got a clue what you’re 
supposed to do with moonstones, have you?” 

Harry shook his head, noticing as he did so that the 
ache in his right temple was getting worse. He 
thought of the long essay on giant wars and the pain 
stabbed at him sharply. Knowing perfectly well that 
he would regret not finishing his homework tonight 
when the morning came, he piled his books back into 
his bag. 

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‘Tm going to bed too.” 

He passed Seamus on the way to the door leading to 
the dormitories, but did not look at him. Harry had a 
fleeting impression that Seamus had opened his 
mouth to speak, but sped up, and reached the 
soothing peace of the stone spiral staircase without 
having to endure any more provocation. 

The following day dawned just as leaden and rainy as 
the previous one. Hagrid was still absent from the 
staff table at breakfast. 

“But on the plus side, no Snape today,” said Ron 
bracingly. 

Hermione yawned widely and poured herself some 
coffee. She looked mildly pleased about something, 
and when Ron asked her what she had to be so happy 
about, she simply said, “The hats have gone. Seems 
the house-elves do want freedom after all.” 

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Ron told her cuttingly. “They 
might not count as clothes. They didn’t look anything 
like hats to me, more like woolly bladders.” 

Hermione did not speak to him all morning. 

Double Charms was succeeded by double 
Transfiguration. Professor Flitwick and Professor 
McGonagall both spent the first fifteen minutes of 
their lessons lecturing the class on the importance of 
O.W.L.s. 

“What you must remember,” said little Professor 
Flitwick squeakily, perched as ever on a pile of books 
so that he could see over the top of his desk, “is that 
these examinations may influence your futures for 
many years to come! If you have not already given 
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serious thought to your careers, now is the time to do 
so. And in the meantime, I’m afraid, we shall be 
working harder than ever to ensure that you all do 
yourselves justice!” 

They then spent more than an hour reviewing 
Summoning Charms, which according to Professor 
Flitwick were bound to come up in their O.W.L., and 
he rounded off the lesson by setting them their largest 
amount of Charms homework ever. 

It was the same, if not worse, in Transfiguration. 

“You cannot pass an O.W.L.,” said Professor 
McGonagall grimly, “without serious application, 
practice, and study. I see no reason why everybody in 
this class should not achieve an O.W.L. in 
Transfiguration as long as they put in the work.” 
Neville made a sad little disbelieving noise. “Yes, you 
too, Longbottom,” said Professor McGonagall. “There’s 
nothing wrong with your work except lack of 
confidence. So ... today we are starting Vanishing 
Spells. These are easier than Conjuring Spells, which 
you would not usually attempt until N.E.W.T. level, 
but they are still among the most difficult magic you 
will be tested on in your O.W.L.” 

She was quite right; Harry found the Vanishing Spells 
horribly difficult. By the end of a double period, 
neither he nor Ron had managed to vanish the snails 
on which they were practicing, though Ron said 
hopefully that he thought his looked a bit paler. 
Hermione, on the other hand, successfully vanished 
her snail on the third attempt, earning her a ten-point 
bonus for Gryffindor from Professor McGonagall. She 
was the only person not given homework; everybody 
else was told to practice the spell overnight, ready for 
a fresh attempt on their snails the following 
afternoon. 

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Now panicking slightly about the amount of 
homework they had to do, Harry and Ron spent their 
lunch hour in the library looking up the uses of 
moonstones in potion-making. Still angry about Ron’s 
slur on her woolly hats, Hermione did not join them. 
By the time they reached Care of Magical Creatures in 
the afternoon, Harry’s head was aching again. 

The day had become cool and breezy, and, as they 
walked down the sloping lawn toward Hagrid’s cabin 
on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, they felt the 
occasional drop of rain on their faces. Professor 
Grubbly-Plank stood waiting for the class some ten 
yards from Hagrid’s front door, a long trestle table in 
front of her laden with many twigs. As Harry and Ron 
reached her, a loud shout of laughter sounded behind 
them; turning, they saw Draco Malfoy striding toward 
them, surrounded by his usual gang of Slytherin 
cronies. He had clearly just said something highly 
amusing, because Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy Parkinson, 
and the rest continued to snigger heartily as they 
gathered around the trestle table. Judging by the fact 
that all of them kept looking over at Harry, he was 
able to guess the subject of the joke without too much 
difficulty. 

“Everyone here?” barked Professor Grubbly-Plank, 
once all the Slytherins and Gryffindors had arrived. 
“Let’s crack on then — who can tell me what these 
things are called?” 

She indicated the heap of twigs in front of her. 
Hermione ’s hand shot into the air. Behind her back, 
Malfoy did a buck-toothed imitation of her jumping 
up and down in eagerness to answer a question. 

Pansy Parkinson gave a shriek of laughter that turned 
almost at once into a scream, as the twigs on the 
table leapt into the air and revealed themselves to be 
what looked like tiny pixieish creatures made of wood, 
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each with knobbly brown arms and legs, two twiglike 
fingers at the end of each hand, and a funny, flat, 
barklike face in which a pair of beetle-brown eyes 
glittered. 

“Oooooh!” said Parvati and Lavender, thoroughly 
irritating Harry: Anyone would have thought that 
Hagrid never showed them impressive creatures; 
admittedly the flobberworms had been a bit dull, but 
the salamanders and hippogriffs had been interesting 
enough, and the Blast-Ended Skrewts perhaps too 
much so. 

“Kindly keep your voices down, girls!” said Professor 
Grubbly-Plank sharply, scattering a handful of what 
looked like brown rice among the stick-creatures, who 
immediately fell upon the food. “So — anyone know 
the names of these creatures? Miss Granger?” 

“Bowtruckles,” said Hermione. “They’re tree- 
guardians, usually live in wand-trees.” 

“Five points for Gryffindor,” said Professor Grubbly- 
Plank. “Yes, these are bowtruckles and, as Miss 
Granger rightly says, they generally live in trees 
whose wood is of wand quality. Anybody know what 
they eat?” 

“Wood lice,” said Hermione promptly, which explained 
why what Harry had taken for grains of brown rice 
were moving. “But fairy eggs if they can get them.” 

“Good girl, take another five points. So whenever you 
need leaves or wood from a tree in which a 
bowtruckle lodges, it is wise to have a gift of wood lice 
ready to distract or placate it. They may not look 
dangerous, but if angered they will gouge out human 
eyes with their fingers, which, as you can see, are 
very sharp and not at all desirable near the eyeballs. 
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So if you’d like to gather closer, take a few wood lice 
and a bowtruckle — I have enough here for one 
between three — you can study them more closely. I 
want a sketch from each of you with all body parts 
labeled by the end of the lesson.” 

The class surged forward around the trestle table. 
Harry deliberately circled around the back so that he 
ended up right next to Professor Grubbly-Plank. 

“Where’s Hagrid?” he asked her, while everyone else 
was choosing bowtruckles. 

“Never you mind,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank 
repressively, which had been her attitude last time 
Hagrid had failed to turn up for a class too. Smirking 
all over his pointed face, Draco Malfoy leaned across 
Harry and seized the largest bowtruckle. 

“Maybe,” said Malfoy in an undertone, so that only 
Harry could hear him, “the stupid great oaf’s got 
himself badly injured.” 

“Maybe you will if you don’t shut up,” said Harry out 
of the side of his mouth. 

“Maybe he’s been messing with stuff that’s too big for 
him, if you get my drift.” 

Malfoy walked away, smirking over his shoulder at 
Harry, who suddenly felt sick. Did Malfoy know 
something? His father was a Death Eater, after all; 
what if he had information about Hagrid ’s fate that 
had not yet reached the Order’s ears? He hurried 
back around the table to Ron and Hermione, who 
were squatting on the grass some distance away and 
attempting to persuade a bowtruckle to remain still 
long enough to draw it. Harry pulled out parchment 



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and quill, crouched down beside the others, and 
related in a whisper what Malfoy had just said. 

“Dumbledore would know if something had happened 
to Hagrid,” said Hermione at once. “It’s just playing 
into Malfoy’s hands to look worried, it tells him we 
don’t know exactly what’s going on. We’ve got to 
ignore him, Harry. Here, hold the bowtruckle for a 
moment, just so I can draw its face...” 

“Yes,” came Malfoy’s clear drawl from the group 
nearest them, “Father was talking to the Minister just 
a couple of days ago, you know, and it sounds as 
though the Ministry’s really determined to crack down 
on substandard teaching in this place. So even if that 
overgrown moron does show up again, he’ll probably 
be sent packing straight away.” 

“OUCH!” 

Harry had gripped the bowtruckle so hard that it had 
almost snapped; it had just taken a great retaliatory 
swipe at his hand with its sharp fingers, leaving two 
long deep cuts there. Harry dropped it; Crabbe and 
Goyle, who had already been guffawing at the idea of 
Hagrid being sacked, laughed still harder as the 
bowtruckle set off at full tilt toward the forest, a little, 
moving stickman soon swallowed up by the tree roots. 
When the bell echoed distantly over the grounds 
Harry rolled up his bloodstained bowtruckle picture 
and marched off to Herbology with his hand wrapped 
in a handkerchief of Hermione ’s and Malfoy’s derisive 
laughter still ringing in his ears. 

“If he calls Hagrid a moron one more time ...” snarled 
Harry. 



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“Harry, don’t go picking a row with Malfoy, don’t 
forget, he’s a prefect now, he could make life difficult 
for you...” 

“Wow, I wonder what it’d be like to have a difficult 
life?” said Harry sarcastically. Ron laughed, but 
Hermione frowned. Together they traipsed across the 
vegetable patch. The sky still appeared unable to 
make up its mind whether it wanted to rain or not. 

“I just wish Hagrid would hurry up and get back, 
that’s all,” said Harry in a low voice, as they reached 
the greenhouses. “And don’t say that Grubbly-Plank 
woman’s a better teacher!” he added threateningly. 

“I wasn’t going to,” said Hermione calmly. 

“Because she’ll never be as good as Hagrid,” said 
Harry firmly, fully aware that he had just experienced 
an exemplary Care of Magical Creatures lesson and 
was thoroughly annoyed about it. 

The door of the nearest greenhouse opened and some 
fourth years spilled out of it, including Ginny. 

“Hi,” she said brightly as she passed. A few seconds 
later, Luna Lovegood emerged, trailing behind the rest 
of the class, a smudge of earth on her nose and her 
hair tied in a knot on the top of her head. When she 
saw Harry, her prominent eyes seemed to bulge 
excitedly and she made a beeline straight for him. 
Many of his classmates turned curiously to watch. 
Luna took a great breath and then said, without so 
much as a preliminary hello: “I believe He-Who-Must- 
Not-Be-Named is back, and I believe you fought him 
and escaped from him.” 

“Er — right,” said Harry awkwardly. Luna was 
wearing what looked like a pair of orange radishes for 

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earrings, a fact that Parvati and Lavender seemed to 
have noticed, as they were both giggling and pointing 
at her earlobes. 

“You can laugh!” Luna said, her voice rising, 
apparently under the impression that Parvati and 
Lavender were laughing at what she had said rather 
than what she was wearing. “But people used to 
believe there were no such things as the Blibbering 
Humdinger or the Crumple-Horned Snorkack!” 

“Well, they were right, weren’t they?” said Hermione 
impatiently. “There weren’t any such things as the 
Blibbering Humdinger or the Crumple-Horned 
Snorkack.” 

Luna gave her a withering look and flounced away, 
radishes swinging madly. Parvati and Lavender were 
not the only ones hooting with laughter now. 

“D’you mind not offending the only people who believe 
me?” Harry asked Hermione as they made their way 
into class. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harry, you can do better than 
her,” said Hermione. “Ginny’s told me all about her, 
apparently she’ll only believe in things as long as 
there’s no proof at all. Well, I wouldn’t expect 
anything else from someone whose father runs The 
Quibbler.” 

Harry thought of the sinister winged horses he had 
seen on the night he had arrived and how Luna had 
said she could see them too. His spirits sank slightly. 
Had she been lying? But before he could devote much 
more thought to the matter, Ernie Macmillan had 
stepped up to him. 



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“I want you to know, Potter,” he said in a loud, 
carrying voice, “that it’s not only weirdos who support 
you. I personally believe you one hundred percent. My 
family have always stood firm behind Dumbledore, 
and so do I.” 

“Er — thanks very much, Ernie,” said Harry, taken 
aback but pleased. Ernie might be pompous on 
occasions like these, but Harry was in a mood to 
deeply appreciate a vote of confidence from somebody 
who was not wearing radishes in their ears. Ernie’s 
words had certainly wiped the smile from Lavender 
Brown’s face and, as he turned to talk to Ron and 
Hermione, Harry caught Seamus’s expression, which 
looked both confused and defiant. 

To nobody’s surprise, Professor Sprout started their 
lesson by lecturing them about the importance of 
O.W.L.s. Harry wished all the teachers would stop 
doing this; he was starting to get an anxious, twisted 
feeling in his stomach every time he remembered how 
much homework he had to do, a feeling that 
worsened dramatically when Professor Sprout gave 
them yet another essay at the end of class. Tired and 
smelling strongly of dragon dung, Professor Sprout’s 
preferred brand of fertilizer, the Gryffindors trooped 
back up to the castle an hour and a half later, none of 
them talking very much; it had been another long 
day. 

As Harry was starving, and he had his first detention 
with Umbridge at five o’clock, he headed straight for 
dinner without dropping off his bag in Gryffindor 
Tower so that he could bolt something down before 
facing whatever she had in store for him. He had 
barely reached the entrance of the Great Hall, 
however, when a loud and angry voice said, “Oy, 
Potter!” 



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“What now?” he muttered wearily, turning to face 
Angelina Johnson, who looked as though she was in a 
towering temper. 

“I’ll tell you what now,” she said, marching straight 
up to him and poking him hard in the chest with her 
finger. “How come you’ve landed yourself in detention 
for five o’clock on Friday?” 

“What?” said Harry. “Why ... oh yeah, Keeper tryouts!” 

“Now he remembers!” snarled Angelina. “Didn’t I tell 
you I wanted to do a tryout with the whole team, and 
find someone who fitted in with everyone? Didn’t I tell 
you I’d booked the Quidditch pitch specially? And 
now you’ve decided you’re not going to be there!” 

“I didn’t decide not to be there!” said Harry, stung by 
the injustice of these words. “I got detention from that 
Umbridge woman, just because I told her the truth 
about You-Know-Who — ” 

“Well, you can just go straight to her and ask her to 
let you off on Friday,” said Angelina fiercely, “and I 
don’t care how you do it, tell her You-Know-Who ’s a 
figment of your imagination if you like, just make sure 
you’re therel” 

She stormed away. 

“You know what?” Harry said to Ron and Hermione as 
they entered the Great Hall. “I think we’d better check 
with Puddlemere United whether Oliver Wood’s been 
killed during a training session, because she seems to 
be channeling his spirit.” 

“What d’you reckon are the odds of Umbridge letting 
you off on Friday?” said Ron skeptically, as they sat 
down at the Gryffindor table. 

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“Less than zero,” said Harry glumly, tipping lamb 
chops onto his plate and starting to eat. “Better try, 
though, hadn’t I? I’ll offer to do two more detentions 
or something, I dunno...” He swallowed a mouthful of 
potato and added, “I hope she doesn’t keep me too 
long this evening. You realize we’ve got to write three 
essays, practice Vanishing Spells for McGonagall, 
work out a countercharm for Flitwick, finish the 
bowtruckle drawing, and start that stupid dream 
diary for Trelawney?” 

Ron moaned and for some reason glanced up at the 
ceiling. 

“And it looks like it’s going to rain.” 

“What’s that got to do with our homework?” said 
Hermione, her eyebrows raised. 

“Nothing,” said Ron at once, his ears reddening. 

At five to five Harry bade the other two good-bye and 
set off for Umbridge’s office on the third floor. When 
he knocked on the door she said, “Come in,” in a 
sugary voice. He entered cautiously, looking around. 

He had known this office under three of its previous 
occupants. In the days when Gilderoy Lockhart had 
lived here it had been plastered in beaming portraits 
of its owner. When Lupin had occupied it, it was likely 
you would meet some fascinating Dark creature in a 
cage or tank if you came to call. In the impostor 
Moody’s days it had been packed with various 
instruments and artifacts for the detection of 
wrongdoing and concealment. 

Now, however, it looked totally unrecognizable. The 
surfaces had all been draped in lacy covers and 
cloths. There were several vases full of dried flowers, 

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each residing on its own doily, and on one of the walls 
was a collection of ornamental plates, each decorated 
with a large technicolor kitten wearing a different bow 
around its neck. These were so foul that Harry stared 
at them, transfixed, until Professor Umbridge spoke 
again. 

“Good evening, Mr. Potter.” 

Harry started and looked around. He had not noticed 
her at first because she was wearing a luridly 
flowered set of robes that blended only too well with 
the tablecloth on the desk behind her. 

“Evening,” Harry said stiffly. 

“Well, sit down,” she said, pointing toward a small 
table draped in lace beside which she had drawn up a 
straight-backed chair. A piece of blank parchment lay 
on the table, apparently waiting for him. 

“Er,” said Harry, without moving. “Professor 
Umbridge? Er — before we start, I-I wanted to ask 
you a ... a favor.” 

Her bulging eyes narrowed. 

“Oh yes?” 

“Well I’m ... I’m on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. 

And I was supposed to be at the tryouts for the new 
Keeper at five o’clock on Friday and I was — was 
wondering whether I could skip detention that night 
and do it — do it another night ... instead ...” 

He knew long before he reached the end of his 
sentence that it was no good. 



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“Oh no,” said Umbridge, smiling so widely that she 
looked as though she had just swallowed a 
particularly juicy fly. “Oh no, no, no. This is your 
punishment for spreading evil, nasty, attention- 
seeking stories, Mr. Potter, and punishments 
certainly cannot be adjusted to suit the guilty one’s 
convenience. No, you will come here at five o’clock 
tomorrow, and the next day, and on Friday too, and 
you will do your detentions as planned. I think it 
rather a good thing that you are missing something 
you really want to do. It ought to reinforce the lesson I 
am trying to teach you.” 

Harry felt the blood surge to his head and heard a 
thumping noise in his ears. So he told evil, nasty, 
attention-seeking stories, did he? 

She was watching him with her head slightly to one 
side, still smiling widely, as though she knew exactly 
what he was thinking and was waiting to see whether 
he would start shouting again. With a massive effort 
Harry looked away from her, dropped his schoolbag 
beside the straight-backed chair, and sat down. 

“There,” said Umbridge sweetly, “we’re getting better 
at controlling our temper already, aren’t we? Now, you 
are going to be doing some lines for me, Mr. Potter. 

No, not with your quill,” she added, as Harry bent 
down to open his bag. “You’re going to be using a 
rather special one of mine. Here you are.” 

She handed him a long, thin black quill with an 
unusually sharp point. 

“I want you to write ‘ I must not tell lies,’ ” she told him 
softly. 

“How many times?” Harry asked, with a creditable 
imitation of politeness. 

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“Oh, as long as it takes for the message to sink in,” 
said Umbridge sweetly. “Off you go.” 

She moved over to her desk, sat down, and bent over 
a stack of parchment that looked like essays for 
marking. Harry raised the sharp black quill and then 
realized what was missing. 

“You haven’t given me any ink,” he said. 

“Oh, you won’t need ink,” said Professor Umbridge 
with the merest suggestion of a laugh in her voice. 

Harry placed the point of the quill on the paper and 
wrote: I must not tell lies. 

He let out a gasp of pain. The words had appeared on 
the parchment in what appeared to be shining red 
ink. At the same time, the words had appeared on the 
back of Harry’s right hand, cut into his skin as 
though traced there by a scalpel — yet even as he 
stared at the shining cut, the skin healed over again, 
leaving the place where it had been slightly redder 
than before but quite smooth. 

Harry looked around at Umbridge. She was watching 
him, her wide, toadlike mouth stretched in a smile. 

“Yes?” 

“Nothing,” said Harry quietly. 

He looked back at the parchment, placed the quill 
upon it once more, wrote I must not tell lies, and felt 
the searing pain on the back of his hand for a second 
time; once again the words had been cut into his 
skin, once again they healed over seconds later. 



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And on it went. Again and again Harry wrote the 
words on the parchment in what he soon came to 
realize was not ink, but his own blood. And again and 
again the words were cut into the back of his hand, 
healed, and then reappeared the next time he set quill 
to parchment. 

Darkness fell outside Umbridge’s window. Harry did 
not ask when he would be allowed to stop. He did not 
even check his watch. He knew she was watching him 
for signs of weakness and he was not going to show 
any, not even if he had to sit here all night, cutting 
open his own hand with this quill... 

“Come here,” she said, after what seemed hours. 

He stood up. His hand was stinging painfully. When 
he looked down at it he saw that the cut had healed, 
but that the skin there was red raw. 

“Hand,” she said. 

He extended it. She took it in her own. Harry 
repressed a shudder as she touched him with her 
thick, stubby fingers on which she wore a number of 
ugly old rings. 

“Tut, tut, I don’t seem to have made much of an 
impression yet,” she said, smiling. “Well, we’ll just 
have to try again tomorrow evening, won’t we? You 
may go.” 

Harry left her office without a word. The school was 
quite deserted; it was surely past midnight. He 
walked slowly up the corridor then, when he had 
turned the corner and was sure that she would not 
hear him, broke into a run. 



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He had not had time to practice Vanishing Spells, had 
not written a single dream in his dream diary, and 
had not finished the drawing of the bowtruckle, nor 
had he written his essays. He skipped breakfast next 
morning to scribble down a couple of made-up 
dreams for Divination, their first lesson, and was 
surprised to find a disheveled Ron keeping him 
company. 

“How come you didn’t do it last night?” Harry asked, 
as Ron stared wildly around the common room for 
inspiration. Ron, who had been fast asleep when 
Harry got back to the dormitory, muttered something 
about “doing other stuff,” bent low over his 
parchment, and scrawled a few words. 

“That’ll have to do,” he said, slamming the diary shut, 
“I’ve said I dreamed I was buying a new pair of shoes, 
she can’t make anything weird out of that, can she?” 

They hurried off to North Tower together. 

“How was detention with Umbridge, anyway? What 
did she make you do?” 

Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second, then said, 
“Lines.” 

“That’s not too bad, then, eh?” said Ron. 

“Nope,” said Harry. 

“Hey — I forgot — did she let you off for Friday?” 

“No,” said Harry. 

Ron groaned sympathetically. 



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It was another bad day for Harry; he was one of the 
worst in Transfiguration, not having practiced 
Vanishing Spells at all. He had to give up his lunch 
hour to complete the picture of the bowtruckle, and 
meanwhile, Professors McGonagall, Grubbly-Plank, 
and Sinistra gave them yet more homework, which he 
had no prospect of finishing that evening because of 
his second detention with Umbridge. To cap it all, 
Angelina Johnson tracked him down at dinner again 
and, on learning that he would not be able to attend 
Friday’s Keeper tryouts, told him she was not at all 
impressed by his attitude and that she expected 
players who wished to remain on the team to put 
training before their other commitments. 

“I’m in detention!” Harry yelled after her as she 
stalked away. “D’you think I’d rather be stuck in a 
room with that old toad or playing Quidditch?” 

“At least it’s only lines,” said Hermione consolingly, as 
Harry sank back onto his bench and looked down at 
his steak-and-kidney pie, which he no longer fancied 
very much. “It’s not as if it’s a dreadful punishment, 
really...” 

Harry opened his mouth, closed it again, and nodded. 
He was not really sure why he was not telling Ron 
and Hermione exactly what was happening in 
Umbridge ’s room: He only knew that he did not want 
to see their looks of horror; that would make the 
whole thing seem worse and therefore more difficult 
to face. He also felt dimly that this was between 
himself and Umbridge, a private battle of wills, and he 
was not going to give her the satisfaction of hearing 
that he had complained about it. 

“I can’t believe how much homework we’ve got,” said 
Ron miserably. 



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“Well, why didn’t you do any last night?” Hermione 
asked him. “Where were you anyway?” 



“I was ... I fancied a walk,” said Ron shiftily. 

Harry had the distinct impression that he was not 
alone in concealing things at the moment. 

k k k 



The second detention was just as bad as the previous 
one. The skin on the back of Harry’s hand became 
irritated more quickly now, red and inflamed; Harry 
thought it unlikely to keep healing as effectively for 
long. Soon the cut would remain etched in his hand 
and Umbridge would, perhaps, be satisfied. He let no 
moan of pain escape him, however, and from the 
moment of entering the room to the moment of his 
dismissal, again past midnight, he said nothing but 
“Good evening” and “Good night.” 

His homework situation, however, was now desperate, 
and when he returned to the Gryffindor common 
room he did not, though exhausted, go to bed, but 
opened his books and began Snape’s moonstone 
essay. It was half-past two by the time he had 
finished it. He knew he had done a poor job, but there 
was no help for it; unless he had something to give in 
he would be in detention with Snape next. He then 
dashed off answers to the questions Professor 
McGonagall had set them, cobbled together 
something on the proper handling of bowtruckles for 
Professor Grubbly-Plank, and staggered up to bed, 
where he fell fully clothed on top of the bed covers 
and fell asleep immediately. 

Thursday passed in a haze of tiredness. Ron seemed 
very sleepy too, though Harry could not see why he 

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should be. Harry’s third detention passed in the same 
way as the previous two, except that after two hours 
the words “I must not tell lies” did not fade from the 
back of Harry’s hand, but remained scratched there, 
oozing droplets of blood. The pause in the pointed 
quill’s scratching made Professor Umbridge look up. 

“Ah,” she said softly, moving around her desk to 
examine his hand herself. “Good. That ought to serve 
as a reminder to you, oughtn’t it? You may leave for 
tonight.” 

“Do I still have to come back tomorrow?” said Harry, 
picking up his schoolbag with his left hand rather 
than his smarting right. 

“Oh yes,” said Professor Umbridge, smiling widely as 
before. “Yes, I think we can etch the message a little 
deeper with another evening’s work.” 

He had never before considered the possibility that 
there might be another teacher in the world he hated 
more than Snape, but as he walked back toward 
Gryffindor Tower he had to admit he had found a 
contender. She’s evil, he thought, as he climbed a 
staircase to the seventh floor, she’s an evil, twisted, 
mad, old — 

“Ron?” 

He had reached the top of the stairs, turned right, 
and almost walked into Ron, who was lurking behind 
a statue of Lachlan the Lanky, clutching his 
broomstick. He gave a great leap of surprise when he 
saw Harry and attempted to hide his new Cleansweep 
Eleven behind his back. 

“What are you doing?” 



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“Er — nothing. What are you doing?” 

Harry frowned at him. 

“Come on, you can tell me! What are you hiding here 
for?” 

“I’m — I’m hiding from Fred and George, if you must 
know,” said Ron. “They just went past with a bunch 
of first years, I bet they’re testing stuff on them again, 

I mean, they can’t do it in the common room now, can 
they, not with Hermione there.” 

He was talking in a very fast, feverish way. 

“But what have you got your broom for, you haven’t 
been flying, have you?” Harry asked. 

“I — well — well, okay, I’ll tell you, but don’t laugh, all 
right?” Ron said defensively, turning redder with 
every second. “I-I thought I’d try out for Gryffindor 
Keeper now I’ve got a decent broom. There. Go on. 
Laugh.” 

“I’m not laughing,” said Harry. Ron blinked. “It’s a 
brilliant idea! It’d be really cool if you got on the team! 
I’ve never seen you play Keeper, are you good?” 

“I’m not bad,” said Ron, who looked immensely 
relieved at Harry’s reaction. “Charlie, Fred, and 
George always made me Keep for them when they 
were training during the holidays.” 

“So you’ve been practicing tonight?” 

“Every evening since Tuesday ... just on my own, 
though, I’ve been trying to bewitch Quaffles to fly at 
me, but it hasn’t been easy and I don’t know how 
much use it’ll be.” Ron looked nervous and anxious. 

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“Fred and George are going to laugh themselves 
stupid when I turn up for the tryouts. They haven’t 
stopped taking the mickey out of me since I got made 
a prefect.” 

“I wish I was going to be there,” said Harry bitterly, as 
they set off together toward the common room. 

“Yeah, so do — Harry, what’s that on the back of your 
hand?” 

Harry, who had just scratched his nose with his free 
right hand, tried to hide it, but had as much success 
as Ron with his Cleans weep. 

“It’s just a cut — it’s nothing — it’s — ” 

But Ron had grabbed Harry’s forearm and pulled the 
back of Harry’s hand up level with his eyes. There 
was a pause, during which he stared at the words 
carved into the skin, then he released Harry, looking 
sick. 

“I thought you said she was giving you lines?” 

Harry hesitated, but after all, Ron had been honest 
with him, so he told Ron the truth about the hours he 
had been spending in Umbridge’s office. 

“The old hag!” Ron said in a revolted whisper as they 
came to a halt in front of the Fat Lady, who was 
dozing peacefully with her head against her frame. 
“She’s sick! Go to McGonagall, say something!” 

“No,” said Harry at once. “I’m not giving her the 
satisfaction of knowing she’s got to me.” 

“Got to you? You can’t let her get away with this!” 



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“I don’t know how much power McGonagall’s got over 
her,” said Harry. 

“Dumbledore, then, tell Dumbledore!” 

“No,” said Harry flatly. 

“Why not?” 

“He’s got enough on his mind,” said Harry, but that 
was not the true reason. He was not going to go to 
Dumbledore for help when Dumbledore had not 
spoken to him once since last June. 

“Well, I reckon you should — ” Ron began, but he was 
interrupted by the Fat Lady, who had been watching 
them sleepily and now burst out, “Are you going to 
give me the password or will I have to stay awake all 
night waiting for you to finish your conversation?” 

Friday dawned sullen and sodden as the rest of the 
week. Though Harry glanced toward the staff table 
automatically when he entered the Great Hall, it was 
without real hope of seeing Hagrid and he turned his 
mind immediately to his more pressing problems, 
such as the mountainous pile of homework he had to 
do and the prospect of yet another detention with 
Umbridge. 

Two things sustained Harry that day. One was the 
thought that it was almost the weekend; the other 
was that, dreadful though his final detention with 
Umbridge was sure to be, he had a distant view of the 
Quidditch pitch from her window and might, with 
luck, be able to see something of Ron’s tryout. These 
were rather feeble rays of light, it was true, but Harry 
was grateful for anything that might lighten his 
present darkness; he had never had a worse first 
week of term at Hogwarts. 

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At five o’clock that evening he knocked on Professor 
Umbridge’s office door for what he sincerely hoped 
would be the final time, was told to enter and did so. 
The blank parchment lay ready for him on the lace- 
covered table, the pointed black quill beside it. 

“You know what to do, Mr. Potter,” said Umbridge, 
smiling sweetly over at him. 

Harry picked up the quill and glanced through the 
window. If he just shifted his chair an inch or so to 
the right . . . On the pretext of shifting himself closer to 
the table he managed it. He now had a distant view of 
the Gryffindor Quidditch team soaring up and down 
the pitch, while half a dozen black figures stood at the 
foot of the three high goalposts, apparently awaiting 
their turn to Keep. It was impossible to tell which one 
was Ron at this distance. 

I must not tell lies, Harry wrote. The cut in the back of 
his right hand opened and began to bleed afresh. 

I must not tell lies. The cut dug deeper, stinging and 
smarting. 

I must not tell lies. Blood trickled down his wrist. 

He chanced another glance out of the window. 
Whoever was defending the goalposts now was doing 
a very poor job indeed. Katie Bell scored twice in the 
few seconds Harry dared watch. Hoping very much 
that the Keeper wasn’t Ron, he dropped his eyes back 
to the parchment dotted with blood. 

I must not tell lies. 

I must not tell lies. 



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He looked up whenever he thought he could risk it, 
when he could hear the scratching of Umbridge’s quill 
or the opening of a desk drawer. The third person to 
try out was pretty good, the fourth was terrible, the 
fifth dodged a Bludger exceptionally well but then 
fumbled an easy save. The sky was darkening so that 
Harry doubted he would be able to watch the sixth 
and seventh people at all. 

I must not tell lies. 

I must not tell lies. 

The parchment was now shining with drops of blood 
from the back of his hand, which was searing with 
pain. When he next looked up, night had fallen and 
the Quidditch pitch was no longer visible. 

“Let’s see if you’ve gotten the message yet, shall we?” 
said Umbridge’s soft voice half an hour later. 

She moved toward him, stretching out her short be- 
ringed fingers for his arm. And then, as she took hold 
of him to examine the words now cut into his skin, 
pain seared, not across the back of his hand, but 
across the scar on his forehead. At the same time, he 
had a most peculiar sensation somewhere around his 
midriff. 

He wrenched his arm out of her grip and leapt to his 
feet, staring at her. She looked back at him, a smile 
stretching her wide, slack mouth. 

“Yes, it hurts, doesn’t it?” she said softly. 

He did not answer. His heart was thumping very hard 
and fast. Was she talking about his hand or did she 
know what he had just felt in his forehead? 



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“Well, I think I’ve made my point, Mr. Potter. You may 
go.” 

He caught up his schoolbag and left the room as 
quickly as he could. 

Stay calm, he told himself as he sprinted up the 
stairs. Stay calm, it doesn’t necessarily mean what 
you think it means... 

“ Mimbulus mimbletoniaV ’ he gasped at the Fat Lady, 
who swung forward once more. 

A roar of sound greeted him. Ron came running 
toward him, beaming all over his face and slopping 
butterbeer down his front from the goblet he was 
clutching. 

“Harry, I did it, I’m in, I’m Keeper!” 

“What? Oh — brilliant!” said Harry, trying to smile 
naturally, while his heart continued to race and his 
hand throbbed and bled. 

“Have a butterbeer.” Ron pressed a bottle onto him. “I 
can’t believe it — where’s Hermione gone?” 

“She’s there,” said Fred, who was also swigging 
butterbeer, and pointed to an armchair by the fire. 
Hermione was dozing in it, her drink tipping 
precariously in her hand. 

“Well, she said she was pleased when I told her,” said 
Ron, looking slightly put out. 

“Let her sleep,” said George hastily. It was a few 
moments before Harry noticed that several of the first 
years gathered around them bore unmistakable signs 
of recent nosebleeds. 

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“Come here, Ron, and see if Oliver’s old robes fit you,” 
called Katie Bell. “We can take off his name and put 
yours on instead...” 

As Ron moved away, Angelina came striding up to 
Harry. 

“Sorry I was a bit short with you earlier, Potter,” she 
said abruptly. “It’s stressful, this managing lark, you 
know, I’m starting to think I was a bit hard on Wood 
sometimes.” She was watching Ron over the rim of 
her goblet with a slight frown on her face. 

“Look, I know he’s your best mate, but he’s not 
fabulous,” she said bluntly. “I think with a bit of 
training he’ll be all right, though. He comes from a 
family of good Quidditch players. I’m banking on him 
turning out to have a bit more talent than he showed 
today, to be honest. Vicky Frobisher and Geoffrey 
Hooper both flew better this evening, but Hooper’s a 
real whiner, he’s always moaning about something or 
other, and Vicky’s involved in all sorts of societies, 
she admitted herself that if training clashed with her 
Charm Club she’d put Charms first. Anyway, we’re 
having a practice session at two o’clock tomorrow, so 
just make sure you’re there this time. And do me a 
favor and help Ron as much as you can, okay?” 

He nodded and Angelina strolled back to Alicia 
Spinnet. Harry moved over to sit next to Hermione, 
who awoke with a jerk as he put down his bag. 

“Oh, Harry, it’s you... Good about Ron, isn’t it?” she 
said blearily. “I’m just so — so — so tired,” she 
yawned. “I was up until one o’clock making more 
hats. They’re disappearing like mad!” 



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And sure enough, now that he looked, Harry saw that 
there were woolly hats concealed all around the room 
where unwary elves might accidentally pick them up. 

“Great,” said Harry distractedly; if he did not tell 
somebody soon, he would burst. “Listen, Hermione, I 
was just up in Umbridge’s office and she touched my 
arm ...” 

Hermione listened closely. When Harry had finished 
she said slowly, “You’re worried that You-Know- Who’s 
controlling her like he controlled Quirrell?” 

“Well,” said Harry, dropping his voice, “it’s a 
possibility, isn’t it?” 

“I suppose so,” said Hermione, though she sounded 
unconvinced. “But I don’t think he can be possessing 
her the way he possessed Quirrell, I mean, he’s 
properly alive again now, isn’t he, he’s got his own 
body, he wouldn’t need to share someone else’s. He 
could have her under the Imperius Curse, I 
suppose...” 

Harry watched Fred, George, and Lee Jordan juggling 
empty butterbeer bottles for a moment. Then 
Hermione said, “But last year your scar hurt when 
nobody was touching you, and didn’t Dumbledore say 
it had to do with what You- Know- Who was feeling at 
the time? I mean, maybe this hasn’t got anything to 
do with Umbridge at all, maybe it’s just coincidence it 
happened while you were with her?” 

“She’s evil,” said Harry flatly. “Twisted.” 

“She’s horrible, yes, but ... Harry, I think you ought to 
tell Dumbledore your scar hurt.” 



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It was the second time in two days he had been 
advised to go to Dumbledore and his answer to 
Hermione was just the same as his answer to Ron. 

“I’m not bothering him with this. Like you just said, 
it’s not a big deal. It’s been hurting on and off all 
summer — it was just a bit worse tonight, that’s all — 



“Harry, I’m sure Dumbledore would want to be 
bothered by this — ” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, before he could stop himself, 
“that’s the only bit of me Dumbledore cares about, 
isn’t it, my scar?” 

“Don’t say that, it’s not true!” 

“I think I’ll write and tell Sirius about it, see what he 
thinks — ” 

“Harry, you can’t put something like that in a letter!” 
said Hermione, looking alarmed. “Don’t you 
remember, Moody told us to be careful what we put in 
writing! We just can’t guarantee owls aren’t being 
intercepted anymore!” 

“All right, all right, I won’t tell him, then!” said Harry 
irritably. He got to his feet. “I’m going to bed. Tell Ron 
for me, will you?” 

“Oh no,” said Hermione, looking relieved, “if you’re 
going that means I can go without being rude too, I’m 
absolutely exhausted and I want to make some more 
hats tomorrow. Listen, you can help me if you like, 
it’s quite fun, I’m getting better, I can do patterns and 
bobbles and all sorts of things now.” 



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Harry looked into her face, which was shining with 
glee, and tried to look as though he was vaguely 
tempted by this offer. 

“Er ... no, I don’t think I will, thanks,” he said. “Er — 
not tomorrow. I’ve got loads of homework to do...” 

And he traipsed off to the boys’ stairs, leaving her 
looking slightly disappointed behind him. 



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PERCY AND PADFOOT 

Harry was the first to awake in his dormitory next 
morning. He lay for a moment watching dust swirl in 
the chink of sunlight falling through the gap in his 
four-poster’s hangings and savored the thought that 
it was Saturday. The first week of term seemed to 
have dragged on forever, like one gigantic History of 
Magic lesson. 

Judging by the sleepy silence and the freshly minted 
look of that beam of sunlight, it was just after 
daybreak. He pulled open the curtains around his 
bed, got up, and started to dress. The only sound 
apart from the distant twittering of birds was the 
slow, deep breathing of his fellow Gryffindors. He 
opened his schoolbag carefully, pulled out parchment 
and quill, and headed out of the dormitory for the 
common room. 

Making straight for his favorite squashy old armchair 
beside the now extinct fire, Harry settled himself 
down comfortably and unrolled his parchment while 
looking around the room. The detritus of crumpled-up 

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bits of parchment, old Gobstones, empty ingredient 
jars, and candy wrappers that usually covered the 
common room at the end of each day was gone, as 
were all Hermione’s elf hats. Wondering vaguely how 
many elves had now been set free whether they 
wanted to be or not, Harry uncorked his ink bottle, 
dipped his quill into it, and then held it suspended an 
inch above the smooth yellowish surface of his 
parchment, thinking hard... But after a minute or so 
he found himself staring into the empty grate, at a 
complete loss for what to say. 

He could now appreciate how hard it had been for 
Ron and Hermione to write him letters over the 
summer. How was he supposed to tell Sirius 
everything that had happened over the past week and 
pose all the questions he was burning to ask without 
giving potential letter-thieves a lot of information he 
did not want them to have? 

He sat quite motionless for a while, gazing into the 
fireplace, then, finally coming to a decision, he dipped 
his quill into the ink bottle once more and set it 
resolutely upon the parchment. 

Dear Snuffles, 

Hope you’re okay, the first week back here’s been 
terrible, I’m really glad it’s the weekend. 

We’ve got a new Defense Against the Dark Arts 
teacher, Professor Umbridge. She’s nearly as nice as 
your mum. I’m writing because that thing I wrote to 
you about last summer happened again last night 
when I was doing a detention with Umbridge. 

We’re all missing our biggest friend, we hope he’ll be 
back soon. 



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Please write back quickly. 

Best, 

Harry 

Harry reread this letter several times, trying to see it 
from the point of view of an outsider. He could not see 
how they would know what he was talking about — or 
who he was talking to — just from reading this letter. 
He did hope Sirius would pick up the hint about 
Hagrid and tell them when he might be back: Harry 
did not want to ask directly in case it drew too much 
attention to what Hagrid might be up to while he was 
not at Hogwarts. 

Considering it was a very short letter it had taken a 
long time to write; sunlight had crept halfway across 
the room while he had been working on it, and he 
could now hear distant sounds of movement from the 
dormitories above. Sealing the parchment carefully he 
climbed through the portrait hole and headed off for 
the Owlery. 

“I would not go that way if I were you,” said Nearly 
Headless Nick, drifting disconcertingly through a wall 
just ahead of him as he walked down the passage. 
“Peeves is planning an amusing joke on the next 
person to pass the bust of Paracelsus halfway down 
the corridor.” 

“Does it involve Paracelsus falling on top of the 
person’s head?” asked Harry. 

“Funnily enough, it does,” said Nearly Headless Nick 
in a bored voice. “Subtlety has never been Peeves ’s 
strong point. I’m off to try and find the Bloody 
Baron... He might be able to put a stop to it... See 
you, Harry...” 

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“Yeah, ’bye,” said Harry and instead of turning right, 
he turned left, taking a longer but safer route up to 
the Owlery. His spirits rose as he walked past window 
after window showing brilliantly blue sky; he had 
training later, he would be back on the Quidditch 
pitch at last — 

Something brushed his ankles. He looked down and 
saw the caretaker’s skeletal gray cat, Mrs. Norris, 
slinking past him. She turned lamplike yellow eyes 
upon him for a moment before disappearing behind a 
statue of Wilfred the Wistful. 

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” Harry called after 
her. She had the unmistakable air of a cat that was 
off to report to her boss, yet Harry could not see why; 
he was perfectly entitled to walk up to the Owlery on 
a Saturday morning. 

The sun was high in the sky now and when Harry 
entered the Owlery the glassless windows dazzled his 
eyes; thick silvery beams of sunlight crisscrossed the 
circular room in which hundreds of owls nestled on 
rafters, a little restless in the early morning light, 
some clearly just returned from hunting. The straw- 
covered floor crunched a little as he stepped across 
tiny animal bones, craning his neck for a sight of 
Hedwig. 

“There you are,” he said, spotting her somewhere near 
the very top of the vaulted ceiling. “Get down here, 

I’ve got a letter for you.” 

With a low hoot she stretched her great white wings 
and soared down onto his shoulder. 

“Right, I know this says ‘Snuffles’ on the outside,” he 
told her, giving her the letter to clasp in her beak and, 



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without knowing exactly why, whispering, “but it’s for 
Sirius, okay?” 

She blinked her amber eyes once and he took that to 
mean that she understood. 

“Safe flight, then,” said Harry and he carried her to 
one of the windows; with a moment’s pressure on his 
arm Hedwig took off into the blindingly bright sky. He 
watched her until she became a tiny black speck and 
vanished, then switched his gaze to Hagrid’s hut, 
clearly visible from this window, and just as clearly 
uninhabited, the chimney smokeless, the curtains 
drawn. 

The treetops of the Forbidden Forest swayed in a light 
breeze. Harry watched them, savoring the fresh air on 
his face, thinking about Quidditch later ... and then 
he saw it. A great, reptilian winged horse, just like the 
ones pulling the Hogwarts carriages, with leathery 
black wings spread wide like a pterodactyl’s, rose up 
out of the trees like a grotesque, giant bird. It soared 
in a great circle and then plunged once more into the 
trees. The whole thing had happened so quickly Harry 
could hardly believe what he had seen, except that 
his heart was hammering madly. 

The Owlery door opened behind him. He leapt in 
shock, and turning quickly, saw Cho Chang holding a 
letter and a parcel in her hands. 

“Hi,” said Harry automatically. 

“Oh ... hi,” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t think 
anyone would be up here this early. . . I only 
remembered five minutes ago, it’s my mum’s 
birthday.” 



She held up the parcel. 

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“Right,” said Harry. His brain seemed to have 
jammed. He wanted to say something funny and 
interesting, but the memory of that terrible winged 
horse was fresh in his mind. 

“Nice day,” he said, gesturing to the windows. His 
insides seemed to shrivel with embarrassment. The 
weather. He was talking about the weather... 

“Yeah,” said Cho, looking around for a suitable owl. 
“Good Quidditch conditions. I haven’t been out all 
week, have you?” 

“No,” said Harry. 

Cho had selected one of the school barn owls. She 
coaxed it down onto her arm where it held out an 
obliging leg so that she could attach the parcel. 

“Hey, has Gryffindor got a new Keeper yet?” she 
asked. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “It’s my friend Ron Weasley, d’you 
know him?” 

“The Tornado-hater?” said Cho rather coolly. “Is he 
any good?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, “I think so. I didn’t see his tryout, 
though, I was in detention.” 

Cho looked up, the parcel only half-attached to the 
owl’s legs. 

“That Umbridge woman’s foul,” she said in a low 
voice. “Putting you in detention just because you told 
the truth about how — how — how he died. Everyone 
heard about it, it was all over the school. You were 
really brave standing up to her like that.” 

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Harry’s insides reinflated so rapidly he felt as though 
he might actually float a few inches off the dropping- 
strewn floor. Who cared about a stupid flying horse, 
Cho thought he had been really brave... For a 
moment he considered accidentally-on-purpose 
showing her his cut hand as he helped her tie her 
parcel onto her owl... But the very instant that this 
thrilling thought occurred, the Owlery door opened 
again. 

Filch, the caretaker, came wheezing into the room. 
There were purple patches on his sunken, veined 
cheeks, his jowls were aquiver and his thin gray hair 
disheveled; he had obviously run here. Mrs. Norris 
came trotting at his heels, gazing up at the owls 
overhead and mewing hungrily. There was a restless 
shifting of wings from above, and a large brown owl 
snapped his beak in a menacing fashion. 

“Aha!” said Filch, taking a flat-footed step toward 
Harry, his pouchy cheeks trembling with anger. “I’ve 
had a tip-off that you are intending to place a massive 
order for Dungbombs!” 

Harry folded his arms and stared at the caretaker. 

“Who told you I was ordering Dungbombs?” 

Cho was looking from Harry to Filch, also frowning; 
the barn owl on her arm, tired of standing on one leg, 
gave an admonitory hoot but she ignored it. 

“I have my sources,” said Filch in a self-satisfied hiss. 
“Now hand over whatever it is you’re sending.” 

Feeling immensely thankful that he had not dawdled 
in posting off the letter, Harry said, “I can’t, it’s gone.” 

“Gone?” said Filch, his face contorting with rage. 

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“Gone,” said Harry calmly. 



Filch opened his mouth furiously, mouthed for a few 
seconds, then raked Harry’s robes with his eyes. “How 
do I know you haven’t got it in your pocket?” 

“Because — ” 

“I saw him send it,” said Cho angrily. 

Filch rounded on her. 

“You saw him — ?” 

“That’s right, I saw him,” she said fiercely. 

There was a moment’s pause in which Filch glared at 
Cho and Cho glared right back, then the caretaker 
turned and shuffled back toward the door. He 
stopped with his hand on the handle and looked back 
at Harry. 

“If I get so much as a whiff of a Dungbomb ...” 

He stumped off down the stairs. Mrs. Norris cast a 
last longing look at the owls and followed him. 

Harry and Cho looked at each other. 

“Thanks,” Harry said. 

“No problem,” said Cho, finally fixing the parcel to the 
barn owl’s other leg, her face slightly pink. “You 
weren’t ordering Dungbombs, were you?” 

“No,” said Harry. 

“I wonder why he thought you were, then?” she said, 
as she carried the owl to the window. 

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Harry shrugged; he was quite as mystified by that as 
she was, though, oddly, it was not bothering him very 
much at the moment. 

They left the Owlery together. At the entrance of a 
corridor that led toward the west wing of the castle, 
Cho said, “I’m going this way. Well, I’ll ... I’ll see you 
around, Harry.” 

“Yeah ... see you.” 

She smiled at him and departed. He walked on, 
feeling quietly elated. He had managed to have an 
entire conversation with her and not embarrassed 
himself once... You were really brave standing up to 
her like that... She had called him brave... She did not 
hate him for being alive... 

Of course, she had preferred Cedric, he knew that... 
Though if he’d only asked her to the ball before Cedric 
had, things might have turned out differently... She 
had seemed sincerely sorry that she had to refuse 
when Harry had asked her. . . 

“Morning,” Harry said brightly to Ron and Hermione, 
joining them at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. 

“What are you looking so pleased about?” said Ron, 
eyeing Harry in surprise. 

“Erm ... Quidditch later,” said Harry happily, pulling 
a large platter of bacon and eggs toward him. 

“Oh ... yeah ...” said Ron. He put down the bit of toast 
he was eating and took a large swig of pumpkin juice. 
Then he said, “Listen ... you don’t fancy going out a 
bit earlier with me, do you? Just to — er — give me 
some practice before training? So I can, you know, get 
my eye in a bit ...” 

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“Yeah, okay,” said Harry. 



“Look, I don’t think you should,” said Hermione 
seriously, “you’re both really behind on homework as 



it — ” 



But she broke off; the morning post was arriving and, 
as usual, the Daily Prophet was soaring toward her in 
the beak of a screech owl, which landed perilously 
close to the sugar bowl and held out a leg; Hermione 
pushed a Knut into its leather pouch, took the 
newspaper, and scanned the front page critically as 
the owl took off again. 

“Anything interesting?” said Ron; Harry smiled — he 
knew Ron was keen to get her off the subject of 
homework. 

“No,” she sighed, “just some guff about the bass 
player in the Weird Sisters getting married...” 

She opened the paper and disappeared behind it. 
Harry devoted himself to another helping of eggs and 
bacon; Ron was staring up at the high windows, 
looking slightly preoccupied. 

“Wait a moment,” said Hermione suddenly. “Oh no ... 
Sirius!” 

“What’s happened?” said Harry, and he snatched at 
the paper so violently that it ripped down the middle 
so that he and Hermione were holding half each. 

“ ‘The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a 
reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass 
murderer . . . blah blah blah ...is currently hiding in 
London\ ’ ” Hermione read from her half in an 
anguished whisper. 



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“Lucius Malfoy, I’ll bet anything,” said Harry in a low, 
furious voice. “He did recognize Sirius on the 
platform...” 

“What?” said Ron, looking alarmed. “You didn’t say — 



“Shh!” said the other two. 

"... ‘Ministry warns Wizarding community that Black is 
very dangerous . . . killed thirteen people . . . broke out of 
Azkaban ...’ the usual rubbish,” Hermione concluded, 
laying down her half of the paper and looking fearfully 
at Harry and Ron. “Well, he just won’t be able to leave 
the house again, that’s all,” she whispered. 
“Dumbledore did warn him not to.” 

Harry looked down glumly at the bit of the Prophet he 
had torn off. Most of the page was devoted to an 
advertisement for Madame Malkin’s Robes for All 
Occasions, which was apparently having a sale. 

“Hey!” he said, flattening it down so Hermione and 
Ron could both see it. “Look at this!” 

“I’ve got all the robes I want,” said Ron. 

“No,” said Harry, “look ... this little piece here ...” 

Ron and Hermione bent closer to read it; the item was 
barely an inch long and placed right at the bottom of 
a column. It was headlined: 

TRESPASS AT MINISTRY 

Sturgis Podmore, 38, of number two, Laburnum 
Gardens, Clapham, has appeared in front of the 
Wizengamot charged with trespass and attempted 
robbery at the Ministry of Magic on 31st August. 

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Podmore was arrested by Ministry of Magic watch- 
wizard Eric Munch, who found him attempting to 
force his way through a top-security door at one 
o’clock in the morning. Podmore, who refused to 
speak in his own defense, was convicted on both 
charges and sentenced to six months in Azkaban. 

“Sturgis Podmore?” said Ron slowly, “but he’s that 
bloke who looks like his head’s been thatched, isn’t 
he? He’s one of the Ord — ” 

“Ron, shh\” said Hermione, casting a terrified look 
around them. 

“Six months in Azkaban!” whispered Harry, shocked. 
“Just for trying to get through a door!” 

“Don’t be silly, it wasn’t just for trying to get through 
a door — what on earth was he doing at the Ministry 
of Magic at one o’clock in the morning?” breathed 
Hermione. 

“D’you reckon he was doing something for the Order?” 
Ron muttered. 

“Wait a moment...” said Harry slowly. “Sturgis was 
supposed to come and see us off, remember?” 

The other two looked at him. 

“Yeah, he was supposed to be part of our guard going 
to King’s Cross, remember? And Moody was all 
annoyed because he didn’t turn up, so that doesn’t 
seem like he was supposed to be on a iob for them, 
does it?” 

“Well, maybe they didn’t expect him to get caught,” 
said Hermione. 



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“It could be a frame-up!” Ron exclaimed excitedly. “No 
— listen!” he went on, dropping his voice dramatically 
at the threatening look on Hermione’s face. “The 
Ministry suspects he’s one of Dumbledore’s lot so — I 
dunno — they lured him to the Ministry, and he 
wasn’t trying to get through a door at all! Maybe 
they’ve just made something up to get him!” 

There was a pause while Harry and Hermione 
considered this. Harry thought it seemed far-fetched; 
Hermione, on the other hand, looked rather 
impressed and said, “Do you know, I wouldn’t be at 
all surprised if that were true.” 

She folded up her half of the newspaper thoughtfully. 
When Harry laid down his knife and fork she seemed 
to come out of a reverie. 

“Right, well, I think we should tackle that essay for 
Sprout on Self-Fertilizing Shrubs first, and if we’re 
lucky we’ll be able to start McGonagall’s Inanimatus 
Conjurus before lunch...” 

Harry felt a small twinge of guilt at the thought of the 
pile of homework awaiting him upstairs, but the sky 
was a clear, exhilarating blue, and he had not been 
on his Firebolt for a week... 

“I mean, we can do it tonight,” said Ron, as he and 
Harry walked down the sloping lawns toward the 
Quidditch pitch, their broomsticks over their 
shoulders, Hermione’s dire warnings that they would 
fail all their O.W.L.s still ringing in their ears. “And 
we’ve got tomorrow. She gets too worked up about 
work, that’s her trouble...” There was a pause and he 
added, in a slightly more anxious tone, “D’you think 
she meant it when she said we weren’t copying from 
her?” 



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“Yeah, I do,” said Harry. “Still, this is important too, 
we’ve got to practice if we want to stay on the 
Quidditch team...” 

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Ron in a heartened tone. 

“And we have got plenty of time to do it all...” 

Harry glanced over to his right as they approached 
the Quidditch pitch, to where the trees of the 
Forbidden Forest were swaying darkly. Nothing flew 
out of them; the sky was empty but for a few distant 
owls fluttering around the Owlery Tower. He had 
enough to worry about; the flying horse wasn’t doing 
him any harm: He pushed it out of his mind. 

They collected balls from the cupboard in the 
changing room and set to work, Ron guarding the 
three tall goalposts, Harry playing Chaser and trying 
to get the Quaffle past Ron. Harry thought Ron was 
pretty good; he blocked three-quarters of the goals 
Harry attempted to put past him and played better 
the longer they practiced. After a couple of hours they 
returned to the school, where they ate lunch, during 
which Hermione made it quite clear that she thought 
they were irresponsible, then returned to the 
Quidditch pitch for the real training session. All their 
teammates but Angelina were already in the changing 
room when they entered. 

“All right, Ron?” said George, winking at him. 

“Yeah,” said Ron, who had become quieter and 
quieter all the way down to the pitch. 

“Ready to show us all up, Ickle Prefect?” said Fred, 
emerging tousle-haired from the neck of his Quidditch 
robes, a slightly malicious grin on his face. 



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“Shut up,” said Ron, stony-faced, pulling on his own 
team robes for the first time. They fitted him well 
considering they had been Oliver Wood’s, who was 
rather broader in the shoulder. 

“Okay everyone,” said Angelina, entering from the 
Captain’s office, already changed. “Let’s get to it; 

Alicia and Fred, if you can just bring the ball crate 
out for us. Oh, and there are a couple of people out 
there watching but I want you to just ignore them, all 
right?” 

Something in her would-be casual voice made Harry 
think he might know who the uninvited spectators 
were, and sure enough, when they left the changing 
room for the bright sunlight of the pitch it was to a 
storm of catcalls and jeers from the Slytherin 
Quidditch team and assorted hangers-on, who were 
grouped halfway up the empty stands and whose 
voices echoed loudly around the stadium. 

“What’s that Weasley’s riding?” Malfoy called in his 
sneering drawl. “Why would anyone put a Flying 
Charm on a moldy old log like that?” 

Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson guffawed and 
shrieked with laughter. Ron mounted his broom and 
kicked off from the ground and Harry followed him, 
watching his ears turn red from behind. 

“Ignore them,” he said, accelerating to catch up with 
Ron. “We’ll see who’s laughing after we play them...” 

“Exactly the attitude I want, Harry,” said Angelina 
approvingly, soaring around them with the Quaffle 
under her arm and slowing to hover on the spot in 
front of her airborne team. “Okay everyone, we’re 
going to start with some passes just to warm up, the 
whole team please — ” 

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“Hey, Johnson, what’s with that hairstyle anyway?” 
shrieked Pansy Parkinson from below. “Why would 
anyone want to look like they’ve got worms coming 
out of their head?” 

Angelina swept her long braided hair out of her face 
and said calmly, “Spread out, then, and let’s see what 
we can do...” 

Harry reversed away from the others to the far side of 
the pitch. Ron fell back toward the opposite goal. 
Angelina raised the Quaffle with one hand and threw 
it hard to Fred, who passed to George, who passed to 
Harry, who passed to Ron, who dropped it. 

The Slytherins, led by Malfoy, roared and screamed 
with laughter. Ron, who had pelted toward the 
ground to catch the Quaffle before it landed, pulled 
out of the dive untidily, so that he slipped sideways 
on his broom, and returned to playing height, 
blushing. Harry saw Fred and George exchange looks, 
but uncharacteristically neither of them said 
anything, for which he was grateful. 

“Pass it on, Ron,” called Angelina, as though nothing 
had happened. 

Ron threw the Quaffle to Alicia, who passed back to 
Harry, who passed to George... 

“Hey, Potter, how’s your scar feeling?” called Malfoy. 
“Sure you don’t need a lie-down? It must be, what, a 
whole week since you were in the hospital wing, that’s 
a record for you, isn’t it?” 

Fred passed to Angelina; she reverse passed to Harry, 
who had not been expecting it, but caught it in the 
very tips of his fingers and passed it quickly to Ron, 
who lunged for it and missed by inches. 

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“Come on now, Ron,” said Angelina crossly, as Ron 
dived for the ground again, chasing the Quaffle. “Pay 
attention.” 

It would have been hard to say whether Ron’s face or 
the Quaffle was a deeper scarlet when he returned 
again to playing height. Malfoy and the rest of the 
Slytherin team were howling with laughter. 

On his third attempt, Ron caught the Quaffle; 
perhaps out of relief he passed it on so 
enthusiastically that it soared straight through Katie’s 
outstretched hands and hit her hard in the face. 

“Sorry!” Ron groaned, zooming forward to see whether 
he had done any damage. 

“Get back in position, she’s fine!” barked Angelina. 
“But as you’re passing to a teammate, do try not to 
knock her off her broom, won’t you? We’ve got 
Bludgers for that!” 

Katie’s nose was bleeding. Down below the Slytherins 
were stamping their feet and jeering. Fred and George 
converged on Katie. 

“Here, take this,” Fred told her, handing her 
something small and purple from out of his pocket. 
“It’ll clear it up in no time.” 

“All right,” called Angelina, “Fred, George, go and get 
your bats and a Bludger; Ron, get up to the goalposts, 
Harry, release the Snitch when I say so. We’re going 
to aim for Ron’s goal, obviously.” 

Harry zoomed off after the twins to fetch the Snitch. 

“Ron’s making a right pig’s ear of things, isn’t he?” 
muttered George, as the three of them landed at the 

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crate containing the balls and opened it to extract one 
of the Bludgers and the Snitch. 

“He’s just nervous,” said Harry. “He was fine when I 
was practicing with him this morning.” 

“Yeah, well, I hope he hasn’t peaked too soon,” said 
Fred gloomily. 

They returned to the air. When Angelina blew her 
whistle, Harry released the Snitch and Fred and 
George let fly the Bludger; from that moment on, 

Harry was barely aware of what the others were 
doing. It was his job to recapture the tiny fluttering 
golden ball that was worth a hundred and fifty points 
to the Seeker’s team and doing so required enormous 
speed and skill. He accelerated, rolling and swerving 
in and out of the Chasers, the warm autumn air 
whipping his face and the distant yells of the 
Slytherins so much meaningless roaring in his ears... 
But too soon, the whistle brought him to a halt again. 

“Stop — stop - STOP!” screamed Angelina. “Ron — 
you’re not covering your middle post!” 

Harry looked around at Ron, who was hovering in 
front of the left-hand hoop, leaving the other two 
completely unprotected. 

“Oh ... sorry ...” 

“You keep shifting around while you’re watching the 
Chasers!” said Angelina. “Either stay in center 
position until you have to move to defend a hoop, or 
else circle the hoops, but don’t drift vaguely off to one 
side, that’s how you let in the last three goals!” 

“Sorry ...” Ron repeated, his red face shining like a 
beacon against the bright blue sky. 

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“And Katie, can’t you do something about that 
nosebleed?” 

“It’s just getting worse!” said Katie thickly, attempting 
to stem the flow with her sleeve. 

Harry glanced around at Fred, who was looking 
anxious and checking his pockets. He saw Fred pull 
out something purple, examine it for a second, and 
then look around at Katie, evidently horrorstruck. 

“Well, let’s try again,” said Angelina. She was ignoring 
the Slytherins, who had now set up a chant of 
“ Gryffindor are losers, Gryffindor are losers,” but there 
was a certain rigidity about her seat on the broom 
nevertheless. 

This time they had been flying for barely three 
minutes when Angelina’s whistle sounded. Harry, 
who had just sighted the Snitch circling the opposite 
goalpost, pulled up feeling distinctly aggrieved. 

“What now?” he said impatiently to Alicia, who was 
nearest. 

“Katie,” she said shortly. 

Harry turned and saw Angelina, Fred, and George all 
flying as fast as they could toward Katie. Harry and 
Alicia sped toward her too. It was plain that Angelina 
had stopped training just in time; Katie was now 
chalk- white and covered in blood. 

“She needs the hospital wing,” said Angelina. 

“We’ll take her,” said Fred. “She — er — might have 
swallowed a Blood Blisterpod by mistake — ” 



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“Well, there’s no point continuing with no Beaters and 
a Chaser gone,” said Angelina glumly, as Fred and 
George zoomed off toward the castle supporting Katie 
between them. “Come on, let’s go and get changed.” 

The Slytherins continued to chant as they trailed 
back into the changing rooms. 

“How was practice?” asked Hermione rather coolly 
half an hour later, as Harry and Ron climbed through 
the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room. 

“It was — ” Harry began. 

“Completely lousy,” said Ron in a hollow voice, 
sinking into a chair beside Hermione. She looked up 
at Ron and her frostiness seemed to melt. 

“Well, it was only your first one,” she said consolingly, 
“it’s bound to take time to — ” 

“Who said it was me who made it lousy?” snapped 
Ron. 

“No one,” said Hermione, looking taken aback, “I 
thought — ” 

“You thought I was bound to be rubbish?” 

“No, of course I didn’t! Look, you said it was lousy so I 
just — ” 

“I’m going to get started on some homework,” said 
Ron angrily and stomped off to the staircase to the 
boys’ dormitories and vanished from sight. Hermione 
turned to Harry. 

“ Was he lousy?” 



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“No,” said Harry loyally. 

Hermione raised her eyebrows. 

“Well, I suppose he could’ve played better,” Harry 
muttered, “but it was only the first training session, 
like you said...” 

Neither Harry nor Ron seemed to make much 
headway with their homework that night. Harry knew 
Ron was too preoccupied with how badly he had 
performed at Quidditch practice and he himself was 
having difficulty in getting the chant of “Gryffindor are 
losers” out of his head. 

They spent the whole of Sunday in the common room, 
buried in their books while the room around them 
filled up, then emptied: It was another clear, fine day 
and most of their fellow Gryffindors spent the day out 
in the grounds, enjoying what might well be some of 
the last sunshine that year. By the evening Harry felt 
as though somebody had been beating his brain 
against the inside of his skull. 

“You know, we probably should try and get more 
homework done during the week,” Harry muttered to 
Ron, as they finally laid aside Professor McGonagall’s 
long essay on the Inanimatus Conjurus spell and 
turned miserably to Professor Sinistra ’s equally long 
and difficult essay about Jupiter’s moons. 

“Yeah,” said Ron, rubbing slightly bloodshot eyes and 
throwing his fifth spoiled bit of parchment into the 
fire beside them. “Listen ... shall we just ask 
Hermione if we can have a look at what she’s done?” 

Harry glanced over at her; she was sitting with 
Crookshanks on her lap and chatting merrily to 
Ginny as a pair of knitting needles flashed in midair 

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in front of her, now knitting a pair of shapeless elf 
socks. 



“No,” he said heavily, “you know she won’t let us.” 

And so they worked on while the sky outside the 
windows became steadily darker; slowly, the crowd in 
the common room began to thin again. At half-past 
eleven, Hermione wandered over to them, yawning. 

“Nearly done?” 

“No,” said Ron shortly. 

“Jupiter’s biggest moon is Ganymede, not Callisto,” 
she said, pointing over Ron’s shoulder at a line in his 
Astronomy essay, “and it’s Io that’s got the volcanos.” 

“Thanks,” snarled Ron, scratching out the offending 
sentences. 

“Sorry, I only — ” 

“Yeah, well, if you’ve just come over here to criticize — 



“Ron — ” 

“I haven’t got time to listen to a sermon, all right, 
Hermione, I’m up to my neck in it here — ” 

“No — look!” 

Hermione was pointing to the nearest window. Harry 
and Ron both looked over. A handsome screech owl 
was standing on the windowsill, gazing into the room 
at Ron. 



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“Isn’t that Hermes?” said Hermione, sounding 
amazed. 

“Blimey, it is!” said Ron quietly, throwing down his 
quill and getting to his feet. “What’s Percy writing to 
me for?” 

He crossed to the window and opened it; Hermes flew 
inside, landed upon Ron’s essay, and held out a leg to 
which a letter was attached. Ron took it off and the 
owl departed at once, leaving inky footprints across 
Ron’s drawing of the moon Io. 

“That’s definitely Percy’s handwriting,” said Ron, 
sinking back into his chair and staring at the words 
on the outside of the scroll: To Ronald Weasley, 
Gryffindor House, Hogwarts. He looked up at the 
other two. “What d’you reckon?” 

“Open it!” said Hermione eagerly. Harry nodded. 

Ron unrolled the scroll and began to read. The farther 
down the parchment his eyes traveled, the more 
pronounced became his scowl. When he had finished 
reading, he looked disgusted. He thrust the letter at 
Harry and Hermione, who leaned toward each other 
to read it together: 

Dear Ron, 

I have only just heard (from no less a person than the 
Minister of Magic himself, who has it from your new 
teacher, Professor Umbridge) that you have become a 
Hogwarts prefect 

I was most pleasantly surprised when I heard this 
news and must firstly offer my congratulations. I must 
admit that I have always been afraid that you would 
take what we might call the “Fred and George ” route, 

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rather than following in my footsteps, so you can 
imagine my feelings on hearing you have stopped 
flouting authority and have decided to shoulder some 
real responsibility. 

But I want to give you more than congratulations, Ron, 

I want to give you some advice, which is why I am 
sending this at night rather than by the usual morning 
post Hopefully you will be able to read this away from 
prying eyes and avoid awkward questions. 

From something the Minister let slip when telling me 
you are now a prefect, I gather that you are still seeing 
a lot of Harry Potter. I must tell you, Ron, that nothing 
could put you in danger of losing your badge more than 
continued fraternization with that boy. Yes, I am sure 
you are surprised to hear this — no doubt you will say 
that Potter has always been Dumbledore’s favorite — 
but I feel bound to tell you that Dumbledore may not be 
in charge at Hogwarts much longer and the people who 
count have a very different — and probably more 
accurate — view of Potters behavior. I shall say no 
more here, but if you look at the Daily Prophet 
tomorrow you will get a good idea of the way the wind 
is blowing — and see if you can spot yours truly! 

Seriously, Ron, you do not want to be tarred with the 
same brush as Potter, it could be very damaging to 
your future prospects, and I am talking here about life 
after school too. As you must be aware, given that our 
father escorted him to court, Potter had a disciplinary 
hearing this summer in front of the whole Wizengamot 
and he did not come out of it looking too good. He got 
off on a mere technicality if you ask me and many of 
the people I’ve spoken to remain convinced of his guilt. 

It may be that you are afraid to sever ties with Potter 
— I know that he can be unbalanced and, for all I 
know, violent — but if you have any worries about this, 

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or have spotted anything else in Potter’s behavior that 
is troubling you, I urge you to speak to Dolores 
Umbridge, a really delightful woman, who I know will 
be only too happy to advise you. 

This leads me to my other bit of advice. As I have 
hinted above, Dumbledore’s regime at Hog warts may 
soon be over. Your loyalty, Ron, should be not to him, 
but to the school and the Ministry. I am very sorry to 
hear that so far Professor Umbridge is encountering 
very little cooperation from staff as she strives to make 
those necessary changes within Hogwarts that the 
Ministry so ardently desires (although she should find 
this easier from next week — again, see the Prophet 
tomorrow!). I shall say only this — a student who 
shows himself willing to help Professor Umbridge now 
may be very well placed for Head Boy ship in a couple 
of years! 

I am sorry that I was unable to see more of you over 
the summer. It pains me to criticize our parents, but I 
am afraid I can no longer live under their roof while 
they remain mixed up with the dangerous crowd 
around Dumbledore (if you are writing to Mother at any 
point, you might tell her that a certain Sturgis Podmore, 
who is a great friend of Dumbledore’s, has recently 
been sent to Azkaban for trespass at the Ministry. 
Perhaps that will open their eyes to the kind of petty 
criminals with whom they are currently rubbing 
shoulders). I count myself very lucky to have escaped 
the stigma of association with such people — the 
Minister really could not be more gracious to me — and 
I do hope, Ron, that you will not allow family ties to 
blind you to the misguided nature of our parents’ 
beliefs and actions either. I sincerely hope that, in time, 
they will realize how mistaken they were and I shall, 
of course, be ready to accept a full apology when that 
day comes. 



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Please think over what I have said most carefully, 
particularly the bit about Harry Potter, and 
congratulations again on becoming prefect. 

Your brother, 

Percy 

Harry looked up at Ron. 

“Well,” he said, trying to sound as though he found 
the whole thing a joke, “if you want to — er — what is 
it?” (He checked Percy’s letter.) “Oh yeah — ‘sever ties’ 
with me, I swear I won’t get violent.” 

“Give it back,” said Ron, holding out his hand. “He is 
— ” Ron said jerkily, tearing Percy’s letter in half, “the 
world’s” — he tore it into quarters — “biggest” — he 
tore it into eighths — “git.” He threw the pieces into 
the fire. 

“Come on, we’ve got to get this finished some time 
before dawn,” he said briskly to Harry, pulling 
Professor Sinistra ’s essay back toward him. 

Hermione was looking at Ron with an odd expression 
on her face. 

“Oh, give them here,” she said abruptly. 

“What?” said Ron. 

“Give them to me, I’ll look through them and correct 
them,” she said. 

“Are you serious? Ah, Hermione, you’re a lifesaver,” 
said Ron, “what can I — ?” 



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“What you can say is, ‘We promise well never leave 
our homework this late again,’ ” she said, holding out 
both hands for their essays, but she looked slightly 
amused all the same. 

“Thanks a million, Hermione,” said Harry weakly, 
passing over his essay and sinking back into his 
armchair, rubbing his eyes. 

It was now past midnight and the common room was 
deserted but for the three of them and Crookshanks. 
The only sound was that of Hermione’s quill 
scratching out sentences here and there on their 
essays and the ruffle of pages as she checked various 
facts in the reference books strewn across the table. 
Harry was exhausted. He also felt an odd, sick, empty 
feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with 
tiredness and everything to do with the letter now 
curling blackly in the heart of the fire. 

He knew that half the people inside Hogwarts thought 
him strange, even mad; he knew that the Daily 
Prophet had been making snide allusions to him for 
months, but there was something about seeing it 
written down like that in Percy’s writing, about 
knowing that Percy was advising Ron to drop him and 
even to tell tales on him to Umbridge, that made his 
situation real to him as nothing else had. He had 
known Percy for four years, had stayed in his house 
during the summers, shared a tent with him during 
the Quidditch World Cup, had even been awarded full 
marks by him in the second task of the Triwizard 
Tournament last year, yet now, Percy thought him 
unbalanced and possibly violent. 

And with a surge of sympathy for his godfather, Harry 
thought that Sirius was probably the only person he 
knew who could really understand how he felt at the 
moment, because Sirius was in the same situation; 

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nearly everyone in the Wizarding world thought Sirius 
a dangerous murderer and a great Voldemort 
supporter and he had had to live with that knowledge 
for fourteen years... 

Harry blinked. He had just seen something in the fire 
that could not have been there. It had flashed into 
sight and vanished immediately. No ... it could not 
have been... He had imagined it because he had been 
thinking about Sirius... 

“Okay, write that down,” Hermione said to Ron, 
pushing his essay and a sheet covered in her own 
writing back to Ron, “and then copy out this 
conclusion that I’ve written for you.” 

“Hermione, you are honestly the most wonderful 
person I’ve ever met,” said Ron weakly, “and if I’m 
ever rude to you again — ” 

“ — I’ll know you’re back to normal,” said Hermione. 
“Harry, yours is okay except for this bit at the end, I 
think you must have misheard Professor Sinistra, 
Europa’s covered in ice, not mice — Harry?” 

Harry had slid off his chair onto his knees and was 
now crouching on the singed and threadbare 
hearthrug, gazing into the flames. 

“Er — Harry?” said Ron uncertainly. “Why are you 
down there?” 

“Because I’ve just seen Sirius’s head in the fire,” said 
Harry. 

He spoke quite calmly; after all, he had seen Sirius’s 
head in this very fire the previous year and talked to 
it too. Nevertheless, he could not be sure that he had 
really seen it this time... It had vanished so quickly... 

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“Sirius’s head?” Hermione repeated. “You mean like 
when he wanted to talk to you during the Triwizard 
Tournament? But he wouldn’t do that now, it would 
be too — Siriusl” 

She gasped, gazing at the fire; Ron dropped his quill. 
There in the middle of the dancing flames sat Sirius’s 
head, long dark hair falling around his grinning face. 

“I was starting to think you’d go to bed before 
everyone else had disappeared,” he said. “I’ve been 
checking every hour.” 

“You’ve been popping into the fire every hour?” Harry 
said, half laughing. 

“Just for a few seconds to check if the coast was clear 
yet.” 

“But what if you’d been seen?” said Hermione 
anxiously. 

“Well, I think a girl — first year by the look of her — 
might’ve got a glimpse of me earlier, but don’t worry,” 
Sirius said hastily, as Hermione clapped a hand to 
her mouth. “I was gone the moment she looked back 
at me and I’ll bet she just thought I was an oddly 
shaped log or something.” 

“But Sirius, this is taking an awful risk — ” Hermione 
began. 

“You sound like Molly,” said Sirius. “This was the only 
way I could come up with of answering Harry’s letter 
without resorting to a code — and codes are 
breakable.” 

At the mention of Harry’s letter, Hermione and Ron 
had both turned to stare at him. 

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“You didn’t say you’d written to Sirius!” said 
Hermione accusingly. 



“I forgot,” said Harry, which was perfectly true; his 
meeting with Cho in the Owlery had driven everything 
before it out of his mind. “Don’t look at me like that, 
Hermione, there was no way anyone would have got 
secret information out of it, was there, Sirius?” 

“No, it was very good,” said Sirius, smiling. “Anyway, 
we’d better be quick, just in case we’re disturbed — 
your scar.” 

“What about — ?” Ron began, but Hermione said 
quickly, “We’ll tell you afterward, go on, Sirius.” 

“Well, I know it can’t be fun when it hurts, but we 
don’t think it’s anything to really worry about. It kept 
aching all last year, didn’t it?” 

“Yeah, and Dumbledore said it happened whenever 
Voldemort was feeling a powerful emotion,” said 
Harry, ignoring, as usual, Ron and Hermione ’s 
winces. “So maybe he was just, I dunno, really angry 
or something the night I had that detention.” 

“Well, now he’s back it’s bound to hurt more often,” 
said Sirius. 

“So you don’t think it had anything to do with 
Umbridge touching me when I was in detention with 
her?” Harry asked. 

“I doubt it,” said Sirius. “I know her by reputation and 
I’m sure she’s no Death Eater — ” 

“She’s foul enough to be one,” said Harry darkly and 
Ron and Hermione nodded vigorously in agreement. 

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“Yes, but the world isn’t split into good people and 
Death Eaters,” said Sirius with a wry smile. “I know 
she’s a nasty piece of work, though — you should 
hear Remus talk about her.” 

“Does Lupin know her?” asked Harry quickly, 
remembering Umbridge’s comments about dangerous 
half-breeds during her first lesson. 

“No,” said Sirius, “but she drafted a bit of anti- 
werewolf legislation two years ago that makes it 
almost impossible for him to get a job.” 

Harry remembered how much shabbier Lupin looked 
these days and his dislike of Umbridge deepened even 
further. 

“What’s she got against werewolves?” said Hermione 
angrily. 

“Scared of them, I expect,” said Sirius, smiling at her 
indignation. “Apparently she loathes part-humans; 
she campaigned to have mer-people rounded up and 
tagged last year too. Imagine wasting your time and 
energy persecuting merpeople when there are little 
toerags like Kreacher on the loose — ” 

Ron laughed but Hermione looked upset. 

“Sirius!” she said reproachfully. “Honestly, if you 
made a bit of an effort with Kreacher I’m sure he’d 
respond, after all, you are the only member of his 
family he’s got left, and Professor Dumbledore said — ” 

“So what are Umbridge’s lessons like?” Sirius 
interrupted. “Is she training you all to kill half- 
breeds?” 



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“No,” said Harry, ignoring Hermione’s affronted look 
at being cut off in her defense of Kreacher. “She’s not 
letting us use magic at all!” 

“All we do is read the stupid textbook,” said Ron. 

“Ah, well, that figures,” said Sirius. “Our information 
from inside the Ministry is that Fudge doesn’t want 
you trained in combat.” 

“ Trained in combat?” repeated Harry incredulously. 
“What does he think we’re doing here, forming some 
sort of wizard army?” 

“That’s exactly what he thinks you’re doing,” said 
Sirius, “or rather, that’s exactly what he’s afraid 
Dumbledore’s doing — forming his own private army, 
with which he will be able to take on the Ministry of 
Magic.” 

There was a pause at this, then Ron said, “That’s the 
stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, including all the stuff 
that Luna Lovegood comes out with.” 

“So we’re being prevented from learning Defense 
Against the Dark Arts because Fudge is scared we’ll 
use spells against the Ministry?” said Hermione, 
looking furious. 

“Yep,” said Sirius. “Fudge thinks Dumbledore will 
stop at nothing to seize power. He’s getting more 
paranoid about Dumbledore by the day. It’s a matter 
of time before he has Dumbledore arrested on some 
trumped-up charge.” 

This reminded Harry of Percy’s letter. 



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“D’you know if there’s going to be anything about 
Dumbledore in the Daily Prophet tomorrow? Only 
Ron’s brother Percy reckons there will be — ” 

“I don’t know,” said Sirius, “I haven’t seen anyone 
from the Order all weekend, they’re all busy. It’s just 
been Kreacher and me here...” 

There was a definite note of bitterness in Sirius’s 
voice. 

“So you haven’t had any news about Hagrid, either?” 

“Ah ...” said Sirius, “well, he was supposed to be back 
by now, no one’s sure what’s happened to him.” Then, 
seeing their stricken faces, he added quickly, “But 
Dumbledore’s not worried, so don’t you three get 
yourselves in a state; I’m sure Hagrid’s fine.” 

“But if he was supposed to be back by now ...” said 
Hermione in a small, worried voice. 

“Madame Maxime was with him, we’ve been in touch 
with her and she says they got separated on the 
journey home — but there’s nothing to suggest he’s 
hurt or — well, nothing to suggest he’s not perfectly 
okay.” 

Unconvinced, Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged 
worried looks. 

“Listen, don’t go asking too many questions about 
Hagrid,” said Sirius hastily, “it’ll just draw even more 
attention to the fact that he’s not back, and I know 
Dumbledore doesn’t want that. Hagrid’s tough, he’ll 
be okay.” And when they did not appear cheered by 
this, Sirius added, “When’s your next Hogsmeade 
weekend anyway? I was thinking, we got away with 



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the dog disguise at the station, didn’t we? I thought I 
could — ” 



“NO!” said Harry and Hermione together, very loudly. 

“Sirius, didn’t you see the Daily Prophet?” said 
Hermione anxiously. 

“Oh that,” said Sirius, grinning, “they’re always 
guessing where I am, they haven’t really got a clue — ” 

“Yeah, but we think this time they have,” said Harry. 
“Something Malfoy said on the train made us think he 
knew it was you, and his father was on the platform, 
Sirius — you know, Lucius Malfoy — so don’t come 
up here, whatever you do, if Malfoy recognizes you 
again — ” 

“All right, all right, I’ve got the point,” said Sirius. He 
looked most displeased. “Just an idea, thought you 
might like to get together — ” 

“I would, I just don’t want you chucked back in 
Azkaban!” said Harry. 

There was a pause in which Sirius looked out of the 
fire at Harry, a crease between his sunken eyes. 

“You’re less like your father than I thought,” he said 
finally, a definite coolness in his voice. “The risk 
would’ve been what made it fun for James.” 

“Look — ” 

“Well, I’d better get going, I can hear Kreacher coming 
down the stairs,” said Sirius, but Harry was sure he 
was lying. “I’ll write to tell you a time I can make it 
back into the fire, then, shall I? If you can stand to 
risk it?” 

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There was a tiny pop, and the place where Sirius’s 
head had been was flickering flame once more. 



Page | 390Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 






THE HOGWARTS HIGH INQUISITOR 

They had expected to have to comb Hermione’s Daily 
Prophet carefully next morning to find the article 
Percy had mentioned in his letter. However, the 
departing delivery owl had barely cleared the top of 
the milk jug when Hermione let out a huge gasp and 
flattened the newspaper to reveal a large photograph 
of Dolores Umbridge, smiling widely and blinking 
slowly at them from beneath the headline: 

MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM 

DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST-EVER 
“HIGH INQUISITOR” 

“ “High Inquisitor’?” said Harry darkly, his half-eaten 
bit of toast slipping from his fingers. “What does that 
mean?” 

Hermione read aloud: 

“In a surprise move last night the Ministry of Magic 
passed new legislation giving itself an unprecedented 

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level of control at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and 
Wizardry. 

“ ‘The Minister has been growing uneasy about goings- 
on at Hogwarts for some time,’ said Junior Assistant to 
the Minister, Percy Weasley. ‘He is now responding to 
concerns voiced by anxious parents, who feel the 
school may be moving in a direction they do not 
approve.’ 

“This is not the first time in recent weeks Fudge has 
used new laws to effect improvements at the 
Wizarding school. As recently as August 30th 
Educational Decree Twenty -two was passed, to ensure 
that, in the event of the current headmaster being 
unable to provide a candidate for a teaching post, the 
Ministry should select an appropriate person. 

“ ‘That’s how Dolores Umbridge came to be appointed 
to the teaching staff at Hogwarts,’ said Weasley last 
night. ‘Dumbledore couldn’t find anyone, so the 
Minister put in Umbridge and of course, she’s been an 
immediate success — ’ ” 

“She’s been a WHAT?” said Harry loudly. 

“Wait, there’s more,” said Hermione grimly. 

“ ‘ — an immediate success, totally revolutionizing the 
teaching of Defense Against the Dark Arts and 
providing the Minister with on-the-ground feedback 
about what’s really happening at Hogwarts.’ 

“It is this last function that the Ministry has now 
formalized with the passing of Educational Decree 
Twenty-three, which creates the new position of 
‘Hogwarts High Inquisitor.’ 



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“ ‘This is an exciting new phase in the Minister’s plan 
to get to grips with what some are calling the “falling 
standards” at Hog warts,’ said Weasley. ‘The Inquisitor 
will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and 
make sure that they are coming up to scratch. 

Professor Umbridge has been offered this position in 
addition to her own teaching post, and we are 
delighted to say that she has accepted.’ 

“The Ministry’s new moves have received enthusiastic 
support from parents of students at Hogwarts. 

“ ‘I feel much easier in my mind now that I know that 
Dumbledore is being subjected to fair and objective 
evaluation,’ said Mr. Lucius Malfoy, 41, speaking from 
his Wiltshire mansion last night. ‘Many of us with our 
children’s best interests at heart have been concerned 
about some of Dumbledore’s eccentric decisions in the 
last few years and will be glad to know that the 
Ministry is keeping an eye on the situation.’ 

“Among those ‘eccentric decisions’ are undoubtedly the 
controversial staff appointments previously described 
in this newspaper, which have included the hiring of 
werewolf Remus Lupin, half giant Rubeus Hagrid, and 
delusional ex-Auror ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody. 

“Rumors abound, of course, that Albus Dumbledore, 
once Supreme Mugwump of the International 
Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the 
Wizengamot, is no longer up to the task of managing 
the prestigious school of Hogwarts. 

“ ‘I think the appointment of the Inquisitor is a first step 
toward ensuring that Hogwarts has a headmaster in 
whom we can all repose confidence,’ said a Ministry 
insider last night. 



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“Wizengamot elders Gris elda M archbanks and Tiberius 
Ogden have resigned in protest at the introduction of 
the post of Inquisitor to Hogwarts. 

“ ‘Hogwarts is a school, not an outpost of Cornelius 
Fudge’s office,’ said Madam Marchbanks. ‘This is a 
further disgusting attempt to discredit Albus 
Dumbledore.’ (For a full account of Madam 
Marchbanks’ alleged links to subversive goblin groups, 
turn to page 17].” 

Hermione finished reading and looked across the 
table at the other two. 

“So now we know how we ended up with Umbridge! 
Fudge passed this ‘Educational Decree’ and forced 
her on us! And now he’s given her the power to 
inspect other teachers!” Hermione was breathing fast 
and her eyes were very bright. “I can’t believe this. It’s 
outrageous...” 

“I know it is,” said Harry. He looked down at his right 
hand, clenched upon the tabletop, and saw the faint 
white outline of the words Umbridge had forced him 
to cut into his skin. 

But a grin was unfurling on Ron’s face. 

“What?” said Harry and Hermione together, staring at 
him. 

“Oh, I can’t wait to see McGonagall inspected,” said 
Ron happily. “Umbridge won’t know what’s hit her.” 

“Well, come on,” said Hermione, jumping up, “we’d 
better get going, if she’s inspecting Binns’s class we 
don’t want to be late...” 



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But Professor Umbridge was not inspecting their 
History of Magic lesson, which was just as dull as the 
previous Monday, nor was she in Snape’s dungeon 
when they arrived for double Potions, where Harry’s 
moonstone essay was handed back to him with a 
large, spiky black D scrawled in an upper corner. 

“I have awarded you the grades you would have 
received if you presented this work in your O.W.L,” 
said Snape with a smirk, as he swept among them, 
passing back their homework. “This should give you a 
realistic idea of what to expect in your examination.” 

Snape reached the front of the class and turned to 
face them. 

“The general standard of this homework was abysmal. 
Most of you would have failed had this been your 
examination. I expect to see a great deal more effort 
for this week’s essay on the various varieties of venom 
antidotes, or I shall have to start handing out 
detentions to those dunces who get D’s.” 

He smirked as Malfoy sniggered and said in a 
carrying whisper, “Some people got D’s? Ha!” 

Harry realized that Hermione was looking sideways to 
see what grade he had received; he slid his 
moonstone essay back into his bag as quickly as 
possible, feeling that he would rather keep that 
information private. 

Determined not to give Snape an excuse to fail him 
this lesson, Harry read and reread every line of the 
instructions on the blackboard at least three times 
before acting on them. His Strengthening Solution 
was not precisely the clear turquoise shade of 
Hermione ’s but it was at least blue rather than pink, 
like Neville’s, and he delivered a flask of it to Snape’s 
Page | 395Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




desk at the end of the lesson with a feeling of mingled 
defiance and relief. 

“Well, that wasn’t as bad as last week, was it?” said 
Hermione, as they climbed the steps out of the 
dungeon and made their way across the entrance hall 
toward lunch. “And the homework didn’t go too badly 
either, did it?” 

When neither Ron nor Harry answered, she pressed 
on, “I mean, all right, I didn’t expect the top grade, 
not if he’s marking to O.W.L. standard, but a pass is 
quite encouraging at this stage, wouldn’t you say?” 

Harry made a noncommittal noise in his throat. 

“Of course, a lot can happen between now and the 
exam, we’ve got plenty of time to improve, but the 
grades we’re getting now are a sort of baseline, aren’t 
they? Something we can build on ...” 

They sat down together at the Gryffindor table. 

“Obviously, I’d have been thrilled if I’d gotten an O — ” 

“Hermione,” said Ron sharply, “if you want to know 
what grades we got, ask.” 

“I don’t — I didn’t mean — well, if you want to tell me 



“I got a P,” said Ron, ladling soup into his bowl. 
“Happy?” 

“Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Fred, 
who had just arrived at the table with George and Lee 
Jordan and was sitting down on Harry’s right. 
“Nothing wrong with a good healthy P.” 



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“But,” said Hermione, “doesn’t P stand for ...” 

“ Boor,’ yeah,” said Lee Jordan. “Still, better than D, 
isn’t it? ‘Dreadful’?” 

Harry felt his face grow warm and faked a small 
coughing fit over his roll. When he emerged from this 
he was sorry to find that Hermione was still in full 
flow about O.W.L. grades. 

“So top grade’s O for ‘Outstanding,’ ” she was saying, 
“and then there’s A — ” 

“No, E,” George corrected her, “E for ‘Exceeds 
Expectations.’ And I’ve always thought Fred and I 
should’ve got E in everything, because we exceeded 
expectations just by turning up for the exams.” 

They all laughed except Hermione, who plowed on, 

“So after E, it’s A for ‘Acceptable,’ and that’s the last 
pass grade, isn’t it?” 

“Yep,” said Fred, dunking an entire roll in his soup, 
transferring it to his mouth, and swallowing it whole. 

“Then you get P for ‘Poor’ ” — Ron raised both his 
arms in mock celebration — “and D for ‘Dreadful.’ ” 

“And then T,” George reminded him. 

“T?” asked Hermione, looking appalled. “Even lower 
than a D? What on earth does that stand for?” 

“ Troll,’ ” said George promptly. 

Harry laughed again, though he was not sure whether 
or not George was joking. He imagined trying to 
conceal from Hermione that he had received T’s in all 



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his O.W.L.s and immediately resolved to work harder 
from now on. 

“You lot had an inspected lesson yet?” Fred asked 
them. 

“No,” said Hermione at once, “have you?” 

“Just now, before lunch,” said George. “Charms.” 

“What was it like?” Harry and Hermione asked 
together. 

Fred shrugged. 

“Not that bad. Umbridge just lurked in the corner 
making notes on a clipboard. You know what 
Flitwick’s like, he treated her like a guest, didn’t seem 
to bother him at all. She didn’t say much. Asked 
Alicia a couple of questions about what the classes 
are normally like, Alicia told her they were really 
good, that was it.” 

“I can’t see old Flitwick getting marked down,” said 
George, “he usually gets everyone through their 
exams all right.” 

“Who’ve you got this afternoon?” Fred asked Harry. 
“Trelawney — ” 

“A T if ever I saw one — ” 

“ — and Umbridge herself.” 

“Well, be a good boy and keep your temper with 
Umbridge today,” said George. “Angelina’ll do her nut 
if you miss any more Quidditch practices.” 



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But Harry did not have to wait for Defense Against 
the Dark Arts to meet Professor Umbridge. He was 
pulling out his dream diary in a seat at the very back 
of the shadowy Divination room when Ron elbowed 
him in the ribs and, looking round, he saw Professor 
Umbridge emerging through the trapdoor in the floor. 
The class, which had been talking cheerily, fell silent 
at once. The abrupt fall in the noise level made 
Professor Trelawney, who had been wafting about 
handing out Dream Oracles, look round. 

“Good afternoon, Professor Trelawney,” said Professor 
Umbridge with her wide smile. “You received my note, 

I trust? Giving the time and date of your inspection?” 

Professor Trelawney nodded curtly and, looking very 
disgruntled, turned her back on Professor Umbridge 
and continued to give out books. Still smiling, 
Professor Umbridge grasped the back of the nearest 
armchair and pulled it to the front of the class so that 
it was a few inches behind Professor Trelawney’s seat. 
She then sat down, took her clipboard from her 
flowery bag, and looked up expectantly, waiting for 
the class to begin. 

Professor Trelawney pulled her shawls tight about her 
with slightly trembling hands and surveyed the class 
through her hugely magnifying lenses. “We shall be 
continuing our study of prophetic dreams today,” she 
said in a brave attempt at her usual mystic tones, 
though her voice shook slightly. “Divide into pairs, 
please, and interpret each other’s latest nighttime 
visions with the aid of the Oracle.” 

She made as though to sweep back to her seat, saw 
Professor Umbridge sitting right beside it, and 
immediately veered left toward Parvati and Lavender, 
who were already deep in discussion about Parvati’s 
most recent dream. 

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Harry opened his copy of The Dream Oracle, watching 
Umbridge covertly. She was making notes on her 
clipboard now. After a few minutes she got to her feet 
and began to pace the room in Trelawney’s wake, 
listening to her conversations with students and 
posing questions here and there. Harry bent his head 
hurriedly over his book. 

“Think of a dream, quick,” he told Ron, “in case the 
old toad comes our way.” 

“I did it last time,” Ron protested, “it’s your turn, you 
tell me one.” 

“Oh, I dunno ...” said Harry desperately, who could 
not remember dreaming anything at all over the last 
few days. “Let’s say I dreamed I was ... drowning 
Snape in my cauldron. Yeah, that’ll do...” 

Ron chortled as he opened his Dream Oracle. 

“Okay, we’ve got to add your age to the date you had 
the dream, the number of letters in the subject ... 
would that be ‘drowning’ or ‘cauldron’ or ‘Snape’?” 

“It doesn’t matter, pick any of them,” said Harry, 
chancing a glance behind him. Professor Umbridge 
was now standing at Professor Trelawney’s shoulder 
making notes while the Divination teacher questioned 
Neville about his dream diary. 

“What night did you dream this again?” Ron said, 
immersed in calculations. 

“I dunno, last night, whenever you like,” Harry told 
him, trying to listen to what Umbridge was saying to 
Professor Trelawney. They were only a table away 
from him and Ron now. Professor Umbridge was 



Page | 400Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




making another note on her clipboard and Professor 
Trelawney was looking extremely put out. 

“Now,” said Umbridge, looking up at Trelawney, 
“you’ve been in this post how long, exactly?” 

Professor Trelawney scowled at her, arms crossed and 
shoulders hunched as though wishing to protect 
herself as much as possible from the indignity of the 
inspection. After a slight pause in which she seemed 
to decide that the question was not so offensive that 
she could reasonably ignore it, she said in a deeply 
resentful tone, “Nearly sixteen years.” 

“Quite a period,” said Professor Umbridge, making a 
note on her clipboard. “So it was Professor 
Dumbledore who appointed you?” 

“That’s right,” said Professor Trelawney shortly. 

Professor Umbridge made another note. 

“And you are a great-great-granddaughter of the 
celebrated Seer Cassandra Trelawney?” 

“Yes,” said Professor Trelawney, holding her head a 
little higher. 

Another note on the clipboard. 

“But I think — correct me if I am mistaken — that 
you are the first in your family since Cassandra to be 
possessed of second sight?” 

“These things often skip — er — three generations,” 
said Professor Trelawney. 

Professor Umbridge’s toadlike smile widened. 



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“Of course,” she said sweetly, making yet another 
note. “Well, if you could just predict something for 
me, then?” 

She looked up inquiringly, still smiling. Professor 
Trelawney had stiffened as though unable to believe 
her ears. 

“I don’t understand you,” said Professor Trelawney, 
clutching convulsively at the shawl around her 
scrawny neck. 

“I’d like you to make a prediction for me,” said 
Professor Umbridge very clearly. 

Harry and Ron were not the only people watching and 
listening sneakily from behind their books now; most 
of the class were staring transfixed at Professor 
Trelawney as she drew herself up to her full height, 
her beads and bangles clinking. 

“The Inner Eye does not See upon command!” she 
said in scandalized tones. 

“I see,” said Professor Umbridge softly, making yet 
another note on her clipboard. 

“I — but — but ... wait\” said Professor Trelawney 
suddenly, in an attempt at her usual ethereal voice, 
though the mystical effect was ruined somewhat by 
the way it was shaking with anger. “I ... I think I do 
see something ... something that concerns you... Why, 
I sense something . . . something dark . . . some grave 
peril ...” 

Professor Trelawney pointed a shaking finger at 
Professor Umbridge who continued to smile blandly at 
her, eyebrows raised. 



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“I am afraid ... I am afraid that you are in grave 
danger!” Professor Trelawney finished dramatically. 



There was a pause. Professor Umbridge’s eyebrows 
were still raised. 

“Right,” she said softly, scribbling on her clipboard 
once more. “Well, if that’s really the best you can do 



She turned away, leaving Professor Trelawney 
standing rooted to the spot, her chest heaving. Harry 
caught Ron’s eye and knew that Ron was thinking 
exactly the same as he was: They both knew that 
Professor Trelawney was an old fraud, but on the 
other hand, they loathed Umbridge so much that they 
felt very much on Trelawney’s side — until she 
swooped down on them a few seconds later, that was. 

“Well?” she said, snapping her long fingers under 
Harry’s nose, uncharacteristically brisk. “Let me see 
the start you’ve made on your dream diary, please.” 

And by the time she had interpreted Harry’s dreams 
at the top of her voice (all of which, even the ones that 
involved eating porridge, apparently foretold a 
gruesome and early death), he was feeling much less 
sympathetic toward her. All the while, Professor 
Umbridge stood a few feet away, making notes on that 
clipboard, and when the bell rang she descended the 
silver ladder first so that she was waiting for them all 
when they reached their Defense Against the Dark 
Arts lesson ten minutes later. 

She was humming and smiling to herself when they 
entered the room. Harry and Ron told Hermione, who 
had been in Arithmancy, exactly what had happened 
in Divination while they all took out their copies of 
Defensive Magical Theory, but before Hermione could 
Page | 403Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




ask any questions Professor Umbridge had called 
them all to order and silence fell. 

“Wands away,” she instructed them all smilingly, and 
those people who had been hopeful enough to take 
them out sadly returned them to their bags. “As we 
finished chapter one last lesson, I would like you all 
to turn to page nineteen today and commence chapter 
two, ‘Common Defensive Theories and Their 
Derivation. ’ There will be no need to talk.” 

Still smiling her wide, self-satisfied smile, she sat 
down at her desk. The class gave an audible sigh as it 
turned, as one, to page nineteen. Harry wondered 
dully whether there were enough chapters in the book 
to keep them reading through all this year’s lessons 
and was on the point of checking the contents when 
he noticed that Hermione had her hand in the air 
again. 

Professor Umbridge had noticed too, and what was 
more, she seemed to have worked out a strategy for 
just such an eventuality. Instead of trying to pretend 
she had not noticed Hermione, she got to her feet and 
walked around the front row of desks until they were 
face-to-face, then she bent down and whispered, so 
that the rest of the class could not hear, “What is it 
this time, Miss Granger?” 

“I’ve already read chapter two,” said Hermione. 

“Well then, proceed to chapter three.” 

“I’ve read that too. I’ve read the whole book.” 

Professor Umbridge blinked but recovered her poise 
almost instantly. 



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“Well, then, you should be able to tell me what 
Slinkhard says about counterjinxes in chapter 
fifteen.” 



“He says that counterjinxes are improperly named,” 
said Hermione promptly. “He says ‘counterjinx’ is just 
a name people give their jinxes when they want to 
make them sound more acceptable.” 

Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows, and Harry 
knew she was impressed against her will. 

“But I disagree,” Hermione continued. 

Professor Umbridge’s eyebrows rose a little higher and 
her gaze became distinctly colder. 

“You disagree?” 

“Yes, I do,” said Hermione, who, unlike Umbridge, 
was not whispering, but speaking in a clear, carrying 
voice that had by now attracted the rest of the class’s 
attention. “Mr. Slinkhard doesn’t like jinxes, does he? 
But I think they can be very useful when they’re used 
defensively.” 

“Oh, you do, do you?” said Professor Umbridge, 
forgetting to whisper and straightening up. “Well, I’m 
afraid it is Mr. Slinkhard ’s opinion, and not yours, 
that matters within this classroom, Miss Granger.” 

“But — ” Hermione began. 

“That is enough,” said Professor Umbridge. She 
walked back to the front of the class and stood before 
them, all the jauntiness she had shown at the 
beginning of the lesson gone. “Miss Granger, I am 
going to take five points from Gryffindor House.” 

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There was an outbreak of muttering at this. 

“What for?” said Harry angrily. 

“Don’t you get involved!” Hermione whispered 
urgently to him. 

“For disrupting my class with pointless 
interruptions,” said Professor Umbridge smoothly. “I 
am here to teach you using a Ministry-approved 
method that does not include inviting students to give 
their opinions on matters about which they 
understand very little. Your previous teachers in this 
subject may have allowed you more license, but as 
none of them — with the possible exception of 
Professor Quirrell, who did at least appear to have 
restricted himself to age-appropriate subjects — 
would have passed a Ministry inspection — ” 

“Yeah, Quirrell was a great teacher,” said Harry 
loudly, “there was just that minor drawback of him 
having Lord Voldemort sticking out of the back of his 
head.” 

This pronouncement was followed by one of the 
loudest silences Harry had ever heard. Then — 

“I think another week’s detentions would do you some 
good, Mr. Potter,” said Umbridge sleekly. 

k k k 



The cut on the back of Harry’s hand had barely 
healed and by the following morning, it was bleeding 
again. He did not complain during the evening’s 
detention; he was determined not to give Umbridge 
the satisfaction; over and over again he wrote I must 



Page | 406Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




not tell lies and not a sound escaped his lips, though 
the cut deepened with every letter. 

The very worst part of this second week’s worth of 
detentions was, just as George had predicted, 
Angelina’s reaction. She cornered him just as he 
arrived at the Gryffindor table for breakfast on 
Tuesday and shouted so loudly that Professor 
McGonagall came sweeping down upon the pair of 
them from the staff table. 

“Miss Johnson, how dare you make such a racket in 
the Great Hall! Five points from Gryffindor!” 

“But Professor — he’s gone and landed himself in 
detention again — ” 

“What’s this, Potter?” said Professor McGonagall 
sharply, rounding on Harry. “Detention? From 
whom?” 

“From Professor Umbridge,” muttered Harry, not 
meeting Professor McGonagall’s beady, square-framed 
eyes. 

“Are you telling me,” she said, lowering her voice so 
that the group of curious Ravenclaws behind them 
could not hear, “that after the warning I gave you last 
Monday you lost your temper in Professor Umbridge’s 
class again?” 

“Yes,” Harry muttered, speaking to the floor. 

“Potter, you must get a grip on yourself! You are 
heading for serious trouble! Another five points from 
Gryffindor!” 



Page | 407Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“But — what? Professor, no!” Harry said, furious at 
this injustice. “I’m already being punished by her, 
why do you have to take points as well?” 

“Because detentions do not appear to have any effect 
on you whatsoever!” said Professor McGonagall tartly. 
“No, not another word of complaint, Potter! And as for 
you, Miss Johnson, you will confine your shouting 
matches to the Quidditch pitch in future or risk 
losing the team Captaincy!” 

She strode back toward the staff table. Angelina gave 
Harry a look of deepest disgust and stalked away, 
upon which Harry flung himself onto the bench 
beside Ron, fuming. 

“She’s taken points off Gryffindor because I’m having 
my hand sliced open every night! How is that fair, 
how?” 

“I know, mate,” said Ron sympathetically, tipping 
bacon onto Harry’s plate, “she’s bang out of order.” 

Hermione, however, merely rustled the pages of her 
Daily Prophet and said nothing. 

“You think McGonagall was right, do you?” said Harry 
angrily to the picture of Cornelius Fudge obscuring 
Hermione ’s face. 

“I wish she hadn’t taken points from you, but I think 
she’s right to warn you not to lose your temper with 
Umbridge,” said Hermione’s voice, while Fudge 
gesticulated forcefully from the front page, clearly 
giving some kind of speech. 

Harry did not speak to Hermione all through Charms, 
but when they entered Transfiguration he forgot his 
anger; Professor Umbridge and her clipboard were 

Page | 408Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




sitting in a corner and the sight of her drove the 
memory of breakfast right out of his head. 

“Excellent,” whispered Ron, as they sat down in their 
usual seats. “Let’s see Umbridge get what she 
deserves.” 

Professor McGonagall marched into the room without 
giving the slightest indication that she knew Professor 
Umbridge was there. 

“That will do,” she said and silence fell immediately. 
“Mr. Finnigan, kindly come here and hand back the 
homework — Miss Brown, please take this box of 
mice — don’t be silly, girl, they won’t hurt you — and 
hand one to each student — ” 

“Hem, hem,” said Professor Umbridge, employing the 
same silly little cough she had used to interrupt 
Dumbledore on the first night of term. Professor 
McGonagall ignored her. Seamus handed back 
Harry’s essay; Harry took it without looking at him 
and saw, to his relief, that he had managed an A. 

“Right then, everyone, listen closely — Dean Thomas, 
if you do that to the mouse again I shall put you in 
detention — most of you have now successfully 
vanished your snails and even those who were left 
with a certain amount of shell have the gist of the 
spell. Today we shall be — ” 

“Hem, hem,” said Professor Umbridge. 

“Yes?” said Professor McGonagall, turning round, her 
eyebrows so close together they seemed to form one 
long, severe line. 



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“I was just wondering, Professor, whether you 
received my note telling you of the date and time of 
your inspec — ” 

“Obviously I received it, or I would have asked you 
what you are doing in my classroom,” said Professor 
McGonagall, turning her back firmly on Professor 
Umbridge. Many of the students exchanged looks of 
glee. “As I was saying, today we shall be practicing 
the altogether more difficult vanishment of mice. Now, 
the Vanishing Spell — ” 

“Hem, hem.” 

“I wonder,” said Professor McGonagall in cold fury, 
turning on Professor Umbridge, “how you expect to 
gain an idea of my usual teaching methods if you 
continue to interrupt me? You see, I do not generally 
permit people to talk when I am talking.” 

Professor Umbridge looked as though she had just 
been slapped in the face. She did not speak, but 
straightened the parchment on her clipboard and 
began scribbling furiously. Looking supremely 
unconcerned, Professor McGonagall addressed the 
class once more. 

“As I was saying, the Vanishing Spell becomes more 
difficult with the complexity of the animal to be 
vanished. The snail, as an invertebrate, does not 
present much of a challenge; the mouse, as a 
mammal, offers a much greater one. This is not, 
therefore, magic you can accomplish with your mind 
on your dinner. So — you know the incantation, let 
me see what you can do...” 

“How she can lecture me about not losing my temper 
with Umbridge!” Harry said to Ron under his voice, 



Page | 410Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




but he was grinning; his anger with Professor 
McGonagall had quite evaporated. 

Professor Umbridge did not follow Professor 
McGonagall around the class as she had followed 
Professor Trelawney; perhaps she thought that 
Professor McGonagall would not permit it. She did, 
however, take many more notes while she sat in her 
corner, and when Professor McGonagall finally told 
them all to pack away, rose with a grim expression on 
her face. 

“Well, it’s a start,” said Ron, holding up a long, 
wriggling mouse tail and dropping it back into the box 
Lavender was passing around. 

As they filed out of the classroom, Harry saw 
Professor Umbridge approach the teacher’s desk; he 
nudged Ron, who nudged Hermione in turn, and the 
three of them deliberately fell back to eavesdrop. 

“How long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?” 
Professor Umbridge asked. 

“Thirty-nine years this December,” said Professor 
McGonagall brusquely, snapping her bag shut. 

Professor Umbridge made a note. 

“Very well,” she said, “you will receive the results of 
your inspection in ten days’ time.” 

“I can hardly wait,” said Professor McGonagall in a 
coldly indifferent voice, and she strode off toward the 
door. “Hurry up, you three,” she added, sweeping 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione before her. Harry could not 
help giving her a faint smile and could have sworn he 
received one in return. 



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He had thought that the next time he would see 
Umbridge would be in his detention that evening, but 
he was wrong. When they walked down the lawns 
toward the forest for Care of Magical Creatures, they 
found her and her clipboard waiting for them beside 
Professor Grubbly-Plank. 

“You do not usually take this class, is that correct?” 
Harry heard her ask as they arrived at the trestle 
table where the group of captive bowtruckles were 
scrabbling around for wood lice like so many living 
twigs. 

“Quite correct,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, hands 
behind her back and bouncing on the balls of her 
feet. “I am a substitute teacher standing in for 
Professor Hagrid.” 

Harry exchanged uneasy looks with Ron and 
Hermione. Malfoy was whispering with Crabbe and 
Goyle; he would surely love this opportunity to tell 
tales on Hagrid to a member of the Ministry. 

“Hmm,” said Professor Umbridge, dropping her voice, 
though Harry could still hear her quite clearly, “I 
wonder — the headmaster seems strangely reluctant 
to give me any information on the matter — can you 
tell me what is causing Professor Hagrid’s very 
extended leave of absence?” 

Harry saw Malfoy look up eagerly. 

“ ’Fraid I can’t,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank 
breezily. “Don’t know anything more about it than 
you do. Got an owl from Dumbledore, would I like a 
couple of weeks teaching work, accepted — that’s as 
much as I know. Well ... shall I get started then?” 



Page | 412Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“Yes, please do,” said Professor Umbridge, scribbling 
upon her clipboard. 

Umbridge took a different tack in this class and 
wandered among the students, questioning them on 
magical creatures. Most people were able to answer 
well and Harry’s spirits lifted somewhat; at least the 
class was not letting Hagrid down. 

“Overall,” said Professor Umbridge, returning to 
Professor Grubbly-Plank’s side after a lengthy 
interrogation of Dean Thomas, “how do you, as a 
temporary member of staff — an objective outsider, I 
suppose you might say — how do you find Hogwarts? 
Do you feel you receive enough support from the 
school management?” 

“Oh, yes, Dumbledore’s excellent,” said Professor 
Grubbly-Plank heartily. “No, I’m very happy with the 
way things are run, very happy indeed.” 

Looking politely incredulous, Umbridge made a tiny 
note on her clipboard and went on, “And what are you 
planning to cover with this class this year — 
assuming, of course, that Professor Hagrid does not 
return?” 

“Oh, I’ll take them through the creatures that most 
often come up in O.W.L.,” said Professor Grubbly- 
Plank. “Not much left to do — they’ve studied 
unicorns and nifflers, I thought we’d cover porlocks 
and kneazles, make sure they can recognize crups 
and knarls, you know...” 

“Well, you seem to know what you’re doing, at any 
rate,” said Professor Umbridge, making a very obvious 
tick on her clipboard. Harry did not like the emphasis 
she put on “you” and liked it even less when she put 



Page | 413Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




her next question to Goyle: “Now, I hear there have 
been injuries in this class?” 

Goyle gave a stupid grin. Malfoy hastened to answer 
the question. 

“That was me,” he said. “I was slashed by a 
hippogriff.” 

“A hippogriff?” said Professor Umbridge, now 
scribbling frantically. 

“Only because he was too stupid to listen to what 
Hagrid told him to do,” said Harry angrily. 

Both Ron and Hermione groaned. Professor Umbridge 
turned her head slowly in Harry’s direction. 

“Another night’s detention, I think,” she said softly. 
“Well, thank you very much, Professor Grubbly-Plank, 
I think that’s all I need here. You will be receiving the 
results of your inspection within ten days.” 

“Jolly good,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, and 
Professor Umbridge set off back across the lawn to 
the castle. 



ie ie ie 



It was nearly midnight when Harry left Umbridge’s 
office that night, his hand now bleeding so severely 
that it was staining the scarf he had wrapped around 
it. He expected the common room to be empty when 
he returned, but Ron and Hermione had sat up 
waiting for him. He was pleased to see them, 
especially as Hermione was disposed to be 
sympathetic rather than critical. 



Page | 414Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“Here,” she said anxiously, pushing a small bowl of 
yellow liquid toward him, “soak your hand in that, it’s 
a solution of strained and pickled murtlap tentacles, 
it should help.” 

Harry placed his bleeding, aching hand into the bowl 
and experienced a wonderful feeling of relief. 
Crookshanks curled around his legs, purring loudly, 
and then leapt into his lap and settled down. 

“Thanks,” he said gratefully, scratching behind 
Crookshanks ’s ears with his left hand. 

“I still reckon you should complain about this,” said 
Ron in a low voice. 

“No,” said Harry flatly. 

“McGonagall would go nuts if she knew — ” 

“Yeah, she probably would,” said Harry. “And how 
long d’you reckon it’d take Umbridge to pass another 
Decree saying anyone who complains about the High 
Inquisitor gets sacked immediately?” 

Ron opened his mouth to retort but nothing came out 
and after a moment he closed it again in a defeated 
sort of way. 

“She’s an awful woman,” said Hermione in a small 
voice. “Awful. You know, I was just saying to Ron 
when you came in ... we’ve got to do something about 
her.” " 

“I suggested poison,” said Ron grimly. 

“No ... I mean, something about what a dreadful 
teacher she is, and how we’re not going to learn any 
defense from her at all,” said Hermione. 

Page | 415Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“Well, what can we do about that?” said Ron, 
yawning. “ ’S too late, isn’t it? She got the job, she’s 
here to stay, Fudge’ll make sure of that.” 

“Well,” said Hermione tentatively. “You know, I was 
thinking today...” She shot a slightly nervous look at 
Harry and then plunged on, “I was thinking that — 
maybe the time’s come when we should just — just 
do it ourselves.” 

“Do what ourselves?” said Harry suspiciously, still 
floating his hand in the essence of murtlap tentacles. 

“Well — learn Defense Against the Dark Arts 
ourselves,” said Hermione. 

“Come off it,” groaned Ron. “You want us to do extra 
work? D’you realize Harry and I are behind on 
homework again and it’s only the second week?” 

“But this is much more important than homework!” 
said Hermione. 

Harry and Ron goggled at her. 

“I didn’t think there was anything in the universe 
more important than homework,” said Ron. 

“Don’t be silly, of course there is!” said Hermione, and 
Harry saw, with an ominous feeling, that her face was 
suddenly alight with the kind of fervor that S.P.E.W. 
usually inspired in her. “It’s about preparing 
ourselves, like Harry said in Umbridge’s first lesson, 
for what’s waiting out there. It’s about making sure 
we really can defend ourselves. If we don’t learn 
anything for a whole year — ” 

“We can’t do much by ourselves,” said Ron in a 
defeated voice. “I mean, all right, we can go and look 

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jinxes up in the library and try and practice them, I 
suppose — ” 

“No, I agree, we’ve gone past the stage where we can 
just learn things out of books,” said Hermione. “We 
need a teacher, a proper one, who can show us how 
to use the spells and correct us if we’re going wrong.” 

“If you’re talking about Lupin ...” Harry began. 

“No, no, I’m not talking about Lupin,” said Hermione. 
“He’s too busy with the Order and anyway, the most 
we could see him is during Hogsmeade weekends and 
that’s not nearly often enough.” 

“Who, then?” said Harry, frowning at her. 

Hermione heaved a very deep sigh. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” she said. “I’m talking about you, 
Harry.” 

There was a moment’s silence. A light night breeze 
rattled the windowpanes behind Ron and the fire 
guttered. 

“About me what?” said Harry. 

“I’m talking about you teaching us Defense Against 
the Dark Arts.” 

Harry stared at her. Then he turned to Ron, ready to 
exchange the exasperated looks they sometimes 
shared when Hermione elaborated on far-fetched 
schemes like S.P.E.W. To Harry’s consternation, 
however, Ron did not look exasperated. He was 
frowning slightly, apparently thinking. Then he said, 
“That’s an idea.” 



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“What’s an idea?” said Harry. 

“You,” said Ron. “Teaching us to do it.” 

“But ...” 

Harry was grinning now, sure the pair of them were 
pulling his leg. 

“But I’m not a teacher, I can’t — ” 

“Harry, you’re the best in the year at Defense Against 
the Dark Arts,” said Hermione. 

“Me?” said Harry, now grinning more broadly than 
ever. “No I’m not, you’ve beaten me in every test — ” 

“Actually, I haven’t,” said Hermione coolly. “You beat 
me in our third year — the only year we both sat the 
test and had a teacher who actually knew the subject 
But I’m not talking about test results, Harry. Look 
what you’ve done\” 

“How d’you mean?” 

“You know what, I’m not sure I want someone this 
stupid teaching me,” Ron said to Hermione, smirking 
slightly. He turned to Harry. “Let’s think,” he said, 
pulling a face like Goyle concentrating. “Uh . . . first 
year — you saved the Stone from You-Know-Who.” 

“But that was luck,” said Harry, “that wasn’t skill — ” 

“Second year,” Ron interrupted, “you killed the 
basilisk and destroyed Riddle.” 

“Yeah, but if Fawkes hadn’t turned up I — ” 



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“Third year,” said Ron, louder still, “you fought off 
about a hundred dementors at once — ” 

“You know that was a fluke, if the Time-Turner hadn’t 
?? 



“Last year,” Ron said, almost shouting now, “you 
fought off You-Know-Who again — ” 

“Listen to me!” said Harry, almost angrily, because 
Ron and Hermione were both smirking now. “Just 
listen to me, all right? It sounds great when you say it 
like that, but all that stuff was luck — I didn’t know 
what I was doing half the time, I didn’t plan any of it, 

I just did whatever I could think of, and I nearly 
always had help — ” 

Ron and Hermione were still smirking and Harry felt 
his temper rise; he wasn’t even sure why he was 
feeling so angry. 

“Don’t sit there grinning like you know better than I 
do, I was there, wasn’t I?” he said heatedly. “I know 
what went on, all right? And I didn’t get through any 
of that because I was brilliant at Defense Against the 
Dark Arts, I got through it all because — because 
help came at the right time, or because I guessed 
right — but I just blundered through it all, I didn’t 
have a clue what I was doing — STOP LAUGHING!” 

The bowl of murtlap essence fell to the floor and 
smashed. He became aware that he was on his feet, 
though he couldn’t remember standing up. 
Crookshanks streaked away under a sofa; Ron and 
Hermione ’s smiles had vanished. 

“ You don’t know what it’s likel You — neither of you 
— you’ve never had to face him, have you? You think 
it’s just memorizing a bunch of spells and throwing 

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them at him, like you’re in class or something? The 
whole time you know there’s nothing between you 
and dying except your own — your own brain or guts 
or whatever — like you can think straight when you 
know you’re about a second from being murdered, or 
tortured, or watching your friends die — they’ve never 
taught us that in their classes, what it’s like to deal 
with things like that — and you two sit there acting 
like I’m a clever little boy to be standing here, alive, 
like Diggory was stupid, like he messed up — you just 
don’t get it, that could just as easily have been me, it 
would have been if Voldemort hadn’t needed me — ” 

“We weren’t saying anything like that, mate,” said 
Ron, looking aghast. “We weren’t having a go at 
Diggory, we didn’t — you’ve got the wrong end of the 



He looked helplessly at Hermione, whose face was 
stricken. 

“Harry,” she said timidly, “don’t you see? This ... this 
is exactly why we need you... We need to know what 
it’s r-really like ... facing him ... facing V-Voldemort.” 

It was the first time she had ever said Voldemort’s 
name, and it was this, more than anything else, that 
calmed Harry. Still breathing hard, he sank back into 
his chair, becoming aware as he did so that his hand 
was throbbing horribly again. He wished he had not 
smashed the bowl of murtlap essence. 

“Well ... think about it,” said Hermione quietly. 
“Please?” 

Harry could not think of anything to say. He was 
feeling ashamed of his outburst already. He nodded, 
hardly aware of what he was agreeing to. 



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Hermione stood up. 

“Well, I’m off to bed,” she said in a voice that was 
clearly as natural as she could make it. “Erm ... 
’night.” 

Ron had gotten to his feet too. 

“Coming?” he said awkwardly to Harry. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “In ... in a minute. I’ll just clear 
this up.” 

He indicated the smashed bowl on the floor. Ron 
nodded and left. 

“Reparo,” Harry muttered, pointing his wand at the 
broken pieces of china. They flew back together, good 
as new, but there was no returning the murtlap 
essence to the bowl. 

He was suddenly so tired that he was tempted to sink 
back into his armchair and sleep there, but instead 
he got to his feet and followed Ron upstairs. His 
restless night was punctuated once more by dreams 
of long corridors and locked doors, and he awoke next 
day with his scar prickling again. 



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IN THE HOG’S HEAD 

Hermione made no mention of Harry giving Defense 
Against the Dark Arts lessons for two whole weeks 
after her original suggestion. Harry’s detentions with 
Umbridge were finally over (he doubted whether the 
words now etched on the back of his hand would ever 
fade entirely); Ron had had four more Quidditch 
practices and not been shouted at during the last 
two; and all three of them had managed to vanish 
their mice in Transfiguration (Hermione had actually 
progressed to vanishing kittens), before the subject 
was broached again, on a wild, blustery evening at 
the end of September, when the three of them were 
sitting in the library, looking up potion ingredients for 
Snape. 

“I was wondering,” Hermione said suddenly, “whether 
you’d thought any more about Defense Against the 
Dark Arts, Harry.” 

“ ’Course I have,” said Harry grumpily. “Can’t forget it, 
can we, with that hag teaching us — ” 



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“I meant the idea Ron and I had” — Ron cast her an 
alarmed, threatening kind of look; she frowned at him 
— “oh, all right, the idea / had, then — about you 
teaching us.” 

Harry did not answer at once. He pretended to be 
perusing a page of Asiatic Anti-Venoms, because he 
did not want to say what was in his mind. 

The fact was that he had given the matter a great deal 
of thought over the past fortnight. Sometimes it 
seemed an insane idea, just as it had on the night 
Hermione had proposed it, but at others, he had 
found himself thinking about the spells that had 
served him best in his various encounters with Dark 
creatures and Death Eaters — found himself, in fact, 
subconsciously planning lessons... 

“Well,” he said slowly, when he could not pretend to 
find Asiatic anti-venoms interesting much longer, 
“yeah, I — I’ve thought about it a bit.” 

“And?” said Hermione eagerly. 

“I dunno,” said Harry, playing for time. He looked up 
at Ron. 

“I thought it was a good idea from the start,” said 
Ron, who seemed keener to join in this conversation 
now that he was sure that Harry was not going to 
start shouting again. 

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. 

“You did listen to what I said about a load of it being 
luck, didn’t you?” 

“Yes, Harry,” said Hermione gently, “but all the same, 
there’s no point pretending that you’re not good at 

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Defense Against the Dark Arts, because you are. You 
were the only person last year who could throw off the 
Imperius Curse completely, you can produce a 
Patronus, you can do all sorts of stuff that full-grown 
wizards can’t, Viktor always said — ” 

Ron looked around at her so fast he appeared to crick 
his neck; rubbing it, he said, “Yeah? What did Vicky 
say?” 

“Ho ho,” said Hermione in a bored voice. “He said 
Harry knew how to do stuff even he didn’t, and he 
was in the final year at Durmstrang.” 

Ron was looking at Hermione suspiciously. 

“You’re not still in contact with him, are you?” 

“So what if I am?” said Hermione coolly, though her 
face was a little pink. “I can have a pen pal if I — ” 

“He didn’t only want to be your pen pal,” said Ron 
accusingly. 

Hermione shook her head exasperatedly and, ignoring 
Ron, who was continuing to watch her, said to Harry, 
“Well, what do you think? Will you teach us?” 

“Just you and Ron, yeah?” 

“Well,” said Hermione, now looking a mite anxious 
again. “Well ... now, don’t fly off the handle again, 
Harry, please... But I really think you ought to teach 
anyone who wants to learn. I mean, we’re talking 
about defending ourselves against V-Voldemort — oh, 
don’t be pathetic, Ron — it doesn’t seem fair if we 
don’t offer the chance to other people.” 



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Harry considered this for a moment, then said, “Yeah, 
but I doubt anyone except you two would want to be 
taught by me. I’m a nutter, remember?” 

“Well, I think you might be surprised how many 
people would be interested in hearing what you’ve got 
to say,” said Hermione seriously. “Look,” she leaned 
toward him; Ron, who was still watching her with a 
frown on his face, leaned forward to listen too, “you 
know the first weekend in October’s a Hogsmeade 
weekend? How would it be if we tell anyone who’s 
interested to meet us in the village and we can talk it 
over?” 

“Why do we have to do it outside school?” said Ron. 

“Because,” said Hermione, returning to the diagram of 
the Chinese Chomping Cabbage she was copying, “I 
don’t think Umbridge would be very happy if she 
found out what we were up to.” 

Harry had been looking forward to the weekend trip 
into Hogsmeade, but there was one thing worrying 
him. Sirius had maintained a stony silence since he 
had appeared in the fire at the beginning of 
September; Harry knew they had made him angry by 
saying that they did not want him to come — but he 
still worried from time to time that Sirius might throw 
caution to the winds and turn up anyway. What were 
they going to do if the great black dog came bounding 
up the street toward them in Hogsmeade, perhaps 
under the nose of Draco Malfoy? 

“Well, you can’t blame him for wanting to get out and 
about,” said Ron, when Harry discussed his fears 
with him and Hermione. “I mean, he’s been on the 
run for over two years, hasn’t he, and I know that 
can’t have been a laugh, but at least he was free, 



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wasn’t he? And now he’s just shut up all the time 
with that lunatic elf.” 

Hermione scowled at Ron, but otherwise ignored the 
slight on Kreacher. 

“The trouble is,” she said to Harry, “until V-Voldemort 
— oh for heaven’s sake, Ron — comes out into the 
open, Sirius is going to have to stay hidden, isn’t he? I 
mean, the stupid Ministry isn’t going to realize Sirius 
is innocent until they accept that Dumbledore’s been 
telling the truth about him all along. And once the 
fools start catching real Death Eaters again it’ll be 
obvious Sirius isn’t one ... I mean, he hasn’t got the 
Mark, for one thing.” 

“I don’t reckon he’d be stupid enough to turn up,” 
said Ron bracingly. “Dumbledore’d go mad if he did 
and Sirius listens to Dumbledore even if he doesn’t 
like what he hears.” 

When Harry continued to look worried, Hermione 
said, “Listen, Ron and I have been sounding out 
people who we thought might want to learn some 
proper Defense Against the Dark Arts, and there are a 
couple who seem interested. We’ve told them to meet 
us in Hogsmeade.” 

“Right,” said Harry vaguely, his mind still on Sirius. 

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Hermione said quietly. “You’ve 
got enough on your plate without Sirius too.” 

She was quite right, of course; he was barely keeping 
up with his homework, though he was doing much 
better now that he was no longer spending every 
evening in detention with Umbridge. Ron was even 
further behind with his work than Harry, because 
while they both had Quidditch practices twice a week, 
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Ron also had prefect duties. However, Hermione, who 
was taking more subjects than either of them, had 
not only finished all her homework but was also 
finding time to knit more elf clothes. Harry had to 
admit that she was getting better; it was now almost 
always possible to distinguish between the hats and 
the socks. 

The morning of the Hogsmeade visit dawned bright 
but windy. After breakfast they queued up in front of 
Filch, who matched their names to the long list of 
students who had permission from their parents or 
guardian to visit the village. With a slight pang, Harry 
remembered that if it hadn’t been for Sirius, he would 
not have been going at all. 

When Harry reached Filch, the caretaker gave a great 
sniff as though trying to detect a whiff of something 
from Harry. Then he gave a curt nod that set his jowls 
aquiver again and Harry walked on, out onto the 
stone steps and the cold, sunlit day. 

“Er — why was Filch sniffing you?” asked Ron, as he, 
Harry, and Hermione set off at a brisk pace down the 
wide drive to the gates. 

“I suppose he was checking for the smell of 
Dungbombs,” said Harry with a small laugh. “I forgot 
to tell you ...” 

And he recounted the story of sending his letter to 
Sirius and Filch bursting in seconds later, demanding 
to see the letter. To his slight surprise, Hermione 
found this story highly interesting, much more, 
indeed, than he did himself. 

“He said he was tipped off you were ordering 
Dungbombs? But who had tipped him off?” 



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“I dunno,” said Harry, shrugging. “Maybe Malfoy, he’d 
think it was a laugh.” 

They walked between the tall stone pillars topped 
with winged boars and turned left onto the road into 
the village, the wind whipping their hair into their 
eyes. 

“Malfoy?” said Hermione, very skeptically. “Well ... yes 
... maybe ...” 

And she remained deep in thought all the way into 
the outskirts of Hogsmeade. 

“Where are we going anyway?” Harry asked. “The 
Three Broomsticks?” 

“Oh — no,” said Hermione, coming out of her reverie, 
“no, it’s always packed and really noisy. I’ve told the 
others to meet us in the Hog’s Head, that other pub, 
you know the one, it’s not on the main road. I think 
it’s a bit ... you know ... dodgy ... but students don’t 
normally go in there, so I don’t think we’ll be 
overheard.” 

They walked down the main street past Zonko’s Joke 
Shop, where they were unsurprised to see Fred, 
George, and Lee Jordan, past the post office, from 
which owls issued at regular intervals, and turned up 
a side street at the top of which stood a small inn. A 
battered wooden sign hung from a rusty bracket over 
the door, with a picture upon it of a wild boar’s 
severed head leaking blood onto the white cloth 
around it. The sign creaked in the wind as they 
approached. All three of them hesitated outside the 
door. 

“Well, come on,” said Hermione slightly nervously. 
Harry led the way inside. 

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It was not at all like the Three Broomsticks, whose 
large bar gave an impression of gleaming warmth and 
cleanliness. The Hog’s Head bar comprised one small, 
dingy, and very dirty room that smelled strongly of 
something that might have been goats. The bay 
windows were so encrusted with grime that very little 
daylight could permeate the room, which was lit 
instead with the stubs of candles sitting on rough 
wooden tables. The floor seemed at first glance to be 
earthy, though as Harry stepped onto it he realized 
that there was stone beneath what seemed to be the 
accumulated filth of centuries. 

Harry remembered Hagrid mentioning this pub in his 
first year: “Yeh get a lot o’ funny folk in the Hog’s 
Head,” he had said, explaining how he had won a 
dragons egg from a hooded stranger there. At the time 
Harry had wondered why Hagrid had not found it odd 
that the stranger kept his face hidden throughout 
their encounter; now he saw that keeping your face 
hidden was something of a fashion in the Hog’s Head. 
There was a man at the bar whose whole head was 
wrapped in dirty gray bandages, though he was still 
managing to gulp endless glasses of some smoking, 
fiery substance through a slit over his mouth. Two 
figures shrouded in hoods sat at a table in one of the 
windows; Harry might have thought them dementors 
if they had not been talking in strong Yorkshire 
accents; in a shadowy corner beside the fireplace sat 
a witch with a thick, black veil that fell to her toes. 
They could just see the tip of her nose because it 
caused the veil to protrude slightly. 

“I don’t know about this, Hermione,” Harry muttered, 
as they crossed to the bar. He was looking 
particularly at the heavily veiled witch. “Has it 
occurred to you Umbridge might be under that?” 

Hermione cast an appraising eye at the veiled figure. 

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“Umbridge is shorter than that woman,” she said 
quietly. “And anyway, even if Umbridge does come in 
here there’s nothing she can do to stop us, Harry, 
because I’ve double- and triple-checked the school 
rules. We’re not out-of-bounds; I specifically asked 
Professor Flitwick whether students were allowed to 
come in the Hog’s Head, and he said yes, but he 
advised me strongly to bring our own glasses. And I’ve 
looked up everything I can think of about study 
groups and homework groups and they’re definitely 
allowed. I just don’t think it’s a good idea if we parade 
what we’re doing.” 

“No,” said Harry dryly, “especially as it’s not exactly a 
homework group you’re planning, is it?” 

The barman sidled toward them out of a back room. 
He was a grumpy-looking old man with a great deal of 
long gray hair and beard. He was tall and thin and 
looked vaguely familiar to Harry. 

“What?” he grunted. 

“Three butterbeers, please,” said Hermione. 

The man reached beneath the counter and pulled up 
three very dusty, very dirty bottles, which he 
slammed on the bar. 

“Six Sickles,” he said. 

“I’ll get them,” said Harry quickly, passing over the 
silver. The barman’s eyes traveled over Harry, resting 
for a fraction of a second on his scar. Then he turned 
away and deposited Harry’s money in an ancient 
wooden till whose drawer slid open automatically to 
receive it. Harry, Ron, and Hermione retreated to the 
farthest table from the bar and sat down, looking 
around, while the man in the dirty gray bandages 
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rapped the counter with his knuckles and received 
another smoking drink from the barman. 



“You know what?” Ron murmured, looking over at the 
bar with enthusiasm. “We could order anything we 
liked in here, I bet that bloke would sell us anything, 
he wouldn’t care. I’ve always wanted to try firewhisky 



“You — are — a — prefect,” snarled Hermione. 

“Oh,” said Ron, the smile fading from his face. “Yeah 



“So who did you say is supposed to be meeting us?” 
Harry asked, wrenching open the rusty top of his 
butterbeer and taking a swig. 

“Just a couple of people,” Hermione repeated, 
checking her watch and then looking anxiously 
toward the door. “I told them to be here about now 
and I’m sure they all know where it is — oh look, this 
might be them now — ” 

The door of the pub had opened. A thick band of 
dusty sunlight split the room in two for a moment 
and then vanished, blocked by the incoming rush of a 
crowd of people. 

First came Neville with Dean and Lavender, who were 
closely followed by Parvati and Padma Patil with 
(Harry’s stomach did a back flip) Cho and one of her 
usually giggling girlfriends, then (on her own and 
looking so dreamy that she might have walked in by 
accident) Luna Lovegood; then Katie Bell, Alicia 
Spinnet, and Angelina Johnson, Colin and Dennis 
Creevey, Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, 
Hannah Abbott, and a Hufflepuff girl with a long plait 
down her back whose name Harry did not know; 

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three Ravenclaw boys he was pretty sure were called 
Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, and Terry Boot; 
Ginny, followed by a tall skinny blond boy with an 
upturned nose whom Harry recognized vaguely as 
being a member of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and 
bringing up the rear, Fred and George Weasley with 
their friend Lee Jordan, all three of whom were 
carrying large paper bags crammed with Zonko’s 
merchandise. 

“A couple of people?” said Harry hoarsely to 
Hermione. “A couple of people ?” 

“Yes, well, the idea seemed quite popular,” said 
Hermione happily. “Ron, do you want to pull up some 
more chairs?” 

The barman had frozen in the act of wiping out a 
glass with a rag so filthy it looked as though it had 
never been washed. Possibly he had never seen his 
pub so full. 

“Hi,” said Fred, reaching the bar first and counting 
his companions quickly. “Could we have . . . twenty- 
five butterbeers, please?” 

The barman glared at him for a moment, then, 
throwing down his rag irritably as though he had 
been interrupted in something very important, he 
started passing up dusty butterbeers from under the 
bar. 

“Cheers,” said Fred, handing them out. “Cough up, 
everyone, I haven’t got enough gold for all of these...” 

Harry watched numbly as the large chattering group 
took their beers from Fred and rummaged in their 
robes to find coins. He could not imagine what all 
these people had turned up for until the horrible 

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thought occurred to him that they might be expecting 
some kind of speech, at which he rounded on 
Hermione. 

“What have you been telling people?” he said in a low 
voice. “What are they expecting?” 

“I’ve told you, they just want to hear what you’ve got 
to say,” said Hermione soothingly; but Harry 
continued to look at her so furiously that she added 
quickly, “You don’t have to do anything yet, I’ll speak 
to them first.” 

“Hi, Harry,” said Neville, beaming and taking a seat 
opposite Harry. 

Harry tried to smile back, but did not speak; his 
mouth was exceptionally dry. Cho had just smiled at 
him and sat down on Ron’s right. Her friend, who had 
curly reddish-blonde hair, did not smile, but gave 
Harry a thoroughly mistrustful look that told Harry 
plainly that, given her way, she would not be here at 
all. 

In twos and threes the new arrivals settled around 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione, some looking rather 
excited, others curious, Luna Lovegood gazing 
dreamily into space. When everybody had pulled up a 
chair, the chatter died out. Every eye was upon 
Harry. 

“Er,” said Hermione, her voice slightly higher than 
usual out of nerves. “Well — er — hi.” 

The group focused its attention on her instead, 
though eyes continued to dart back regularly to 
Harry. 



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“Well ... erm ... well, you know why you’re here. Erm 
... well, Harry here had the idea — I mean” — Harry 
had thrown her a sharp look — “I had the idea — that 
it might be good if people who wanted to study 
Defense Against the Dark Arts — and I mean, really 
study it, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is 
doing with us” — (Hermione’s voice became suddenly 
much stronger and more confident) — “because 
nobody could call that Defense Against the Dark Arts” 
— “Hear, hear,” said Anthony Goldstein, and 
Hermione looked heartened — “well, I thought it 
would be good if we, well, took matters into our own 
hands.” 

She paused, looked sideways at Harry, and went on, 
“And by that I mean learning how to defend ourselves 
properly, not just theory but the real spells — ” 

“You want to pass your Defense Against the Dark Arts 
O.W.L. too though, I bet?” said Michael Corner. 

“Of course I do,” said Hermione at once. “But I want 
more than that, I want to be properly trained in 
Defense because ... because ...” She took a great 
breath and finished, “Because Lord Voldemort’s 
back.” 

The reaction was immediate and predictable. Cho’s 
friend shrieked and slopped butterbeer down herself, 
Terry Boot gave a kind of involuntary twitch, Padma 
Patil shuddered, and Neville gave an odd yelp that he 
managed to turn into a cough. All of them, however, 
looked fixedly, even eagerly, at Harry. 

“Well ... that’s the plan anyway,” said Hermione. “If 
you want to join us, we need to decide how we’re 
going to — ” 



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“Where’s the proof You-Know- Who’s back?” said the 
blond Hufflepuff player in a rather aggressive voice. 

“Well, Dumbledore believes it — ” Hermione began. 

“You mean, Dumbledore believes him,” said the blond 
boy, nodding at Harry. 

“Who are you?” said Ron rather rudely. 

“Zacharias Smith,” said the boy, “and I think we’ve 
got the right to know exactly what makes him say 
You-Know-Who’s back.” 

“Look,” said Hermione, intervening swiftly, “that’s 
really not what this meeting was supposed to be 
about — ” 

“It’s okay, Hermione,” said Harry. 

It had just dawned upon him why there were so many 
people there. He felt that Hermione should have seen 
this coming. Some of these people — maybe even 
most of them — had turned up in the hope of hearing 
Harry’s story firsthand. 

“What makes me say You-Know-Who’s back?” he 
asked, looking Zacharias straight in the face. “I saw 
him. But Dumbledore told the whole school what 
happened last year, and if you didn’t believe him, you 
don’t believe me, and I’m not wasting an afternoon 
trying to convince anyone.” 

The whole group seemed to have held its breath while 
Harry spoke. Harry had the impression that even the 
barman was listening in. He was wiping the same 
glass with the filthy rag; it was becoming steadily 
dirtier. 



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Zacharias said dismissively, “All Dumbledore told us 
last year was that Cedric Diggory got killed by You- 
Know-Who and that you brought Diggory’s body back 
to Hogwarts. He didn’t give us details, he didn’t tell us 
exactly how Diggory got murdered, I think we’d all 
like to know — ” 

“If you’ve come to hear exactly what it looks like when 
Voldemort murders someone I can’t help you,” Harry 
said. His temper, always so close to the surface these 
days, was rising again. He did not take his eyes from 
Zacharias Smith’s aggressive face, determined not to 
look at Cho. “I don’t want to talk about Cedric 
Diggory, all right? So if that’s what you’re here for, 
you might as well clear out.” 

He cast an angry look in Hermione’s direction. This 
was, he felt, all her fault; she had decided to display 
him like some sort of freak and of course they had all 
turned up to see just how wild his story was... But 
none of them left their seats, not even Zacharias 
Smith, though he continued to gaze intently at Harry. 

“So,” said Hermione, her voice very high-pitched 
again. “So ... like I was saying ... if you want to learn 
some defense, then we need to work out how we’re 
going to do it, how often we’re going to meet, and 
where we’re going to — ” 

“Is it true,” interrupted the girl with the long plait 
down her back, looking at Harry, “that you can 
produce a Patronus?” 

There was a murmur of interest around the group at 
this. 

“Yeah,” said Harry slightly defensively. 

“A corporeal Patronus?” 

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The phrase stirred something in Harry’s memory. 



“Er — you don’t know Madam Bones, do you?” he 
asked. 

The girl smiled. 

“She’s my auntie,” she said. “I’m Susan Bones. She 
told me about your hearing. So — is it really true? 

You make a stag Patronus?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. 

“Blimey, Harry!” said Lee, looking deeply impressed. “I 
never knew that!” 

“Mum told Ron not to spread it around,” said Fred, 
grinning at Harry. “She said you got enough attention 
as it was.” 

“She’s not wrong,” mumbled Harry and a couple of 
people laughed. The veiled witch sitting alone shifted 
very slightly in her seat. 

“And did you kill a basilisk with that sword in 
Dumbledore’s office?” demanded Terry Boot. “That’s 
what one of the portraits on the wall told me when I 
was in there last year...” 

“Er — yeah, I did, yeah,” said Harry. 

Justin Finch-Fletchley whistled, the Creevey brothers 
exchanged awestruck looks, and Lavender Brown said 
“wow” softly. Harry was feeling slightly hot around the 
collar now; he was determinedly looking anywhere 
but at Cho. 

“And in our first year,” said Neville to the group at 
large, “he saved that Sorcerous Stone — ” 

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“Sorcerer’s,” hissed Hermione. 

“Yes, that, from You-Know-Who,” finished Neville. 

Hannah Abbott’s eyes were as round as Galleons. 

“And that’s not to mention,” said Cho (Harry’s eyes 
snapped onto her, she was looking at him, smiling; 
his stomach did another somersault), “all the tasks he 
had to get through in the Triwizard Tournament last 
year — getting past dragons and merpeople and 
acromantulas and things...” 

There was a murmur of impressed agreement around 
the table. 

Harry’s insides were squirming. He was trying to 
arrange his face so that he did not look too pleased 
with himself. The fact that Cho had just praised him 
made it much, much harder for him to say the thing 
he had sworn to himself he would tell them. 

“Look,” he said and everyone fell silent at once, “I ... I 
don’t want to sound like I’m trying to be modest or 
anything, but ... I had a lot of help with all that 
stuff...” 

“Not with the dragon, you didn’t,” said Michael Corner 
at once. “That was a seriously cool bit of flying...” 

“Yeah, well — ” said Harry, feeling it would be churlish 
to disagree. 

“And nobody helped you get rid of those dementors 
this summer,” said Susan Bones. 

“No,” said Harry, “no, okay, I know I did bits of it 
without help, but the point I’m trying to make is — ” 



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“Are you trying to weasel out of showing us any of 
this stuff?” said Zacharias Smith. 

“Here’s an idea,” said Ron loudly, before Harry could 
speak, “why don’t you shut your mouth?” 

Perhaps the word “weasel” had affected Ron 
particularly strongly; in any case, he was now looking 
at Zacharias as though he would like nothing better 
than to thump him. Zacharias flushed. 

“Well, we’ve all turned up to learn from him, and now 
he’s telling us he can’t really do any of it,” he said. 

“That’s not what he said,” snarled Fred Weasley. 

“Would you like us to clean out your ears for you?” 
inquired George, pulling a long and lethal-looking 
metal instrument from inside one of the Zonko’s bags. 

“Or any part of your body, really, we’re not fussy 
where we stick this,” said Fred. 

“Yes, well,” said Hermione hastily, “moving on ... the 
point is, are we agreed we want to take lessons from 
Harry?” 

There was a murmur of general agreement. Zacharias 
folded his arms and said nothing, though perhaps 
this was because he was too busy keeping an eye on 
the instrument in George’s hand. 

“Right,” said Hermione, looking relieved that 
something had at last been settled. “Well, then, the 
next question is how often we do it. I really don’t 
think there’s any point in meeting less than once a 
week — ” 



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“Hang on,” said Angelina, “we need to make sure this 
doesn’t clash with our Quidditch practice.” 

“No,” said Cho, “nor with ours.” 

“Nor ours,” added Zacharias Smith. 

“I’m sure we can find a night that suits everyone,” 
said Hermione, slightly impatiently, “but you know, 
this is rather important, we’re talking about learning 
to defend ourselves against V-Voldemort’s Death 
Eaters — ” 

“Well said!” barked Ernie Macmillan, whom Harry had 
been expecting to speak long before this. “Personally I 
think this is really important, possibly more 
important than anything else we’ll do this year, even 
with our O.W.L.s coming up!” 

He looked around impressively, as though waiting for 
people to cry, “Surely not!” When nobody spoke, he 
went on, “I, personally, am at a loss to see why the 
Ministry has foisted such a useless teacher upon us 
at this critical period. Obviously they are in denial 
about the return of You-Know-Who, but to give us a 
teacher who is trying to actively prevent us from 
using defensive spells — ” 

“We think the reason Umbridge doesn’t want us 
trained in Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said 
Hermione, “is that she’s got some ... some mad idea 
that Dumbledore could use the students in the school 
as a kind of private army. She thinks he’d mobilize us 
against the Ministry.” 

Nearly everybody looked stunned at this news; 
everybody except Luna Lovegood, who piped up, 

“Well, that makes sense. After all, Cornelius Fudge 
has got his own private army.” 

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“What?” said Harry, completely thrown by this 
unexpected piece of information. 

“Yes, he’s got an army of heliopaths,” said Luna 
solemnly. 

“No, he hasn’t,” snapped Hermione. 

“Yes, he has,” said Luna. 

“What are heliopaths?” asked Neville, looking blank. 

“They’re spirits of fire,” said Luna, her protuberant 
eyes widening so that she looked madder than ever. 
“Great tall flaming creatures that gallop across the 
ground burning everything in front of — ” 

“They don’t exist, Neville,” said Hermione tartly. 

“Oh yes they do!” said Luna angrily. 

“I’m sorry, but where’s the proof of that?” snapped 
Hermione. 

“There are plenty of eyewitness accounts, just 
because you’re so narrow-minded you need to have 
everything shoved under your nose before you — ” 

“Hem, hem,” said Ginny in such a good imitation of 
Professor Umbridge that several people looked around 
in alarm and then laughed. “Weren’t we trying to 
decide how often we’re going to meet and get Defense 
lessons?” 

“Yes,” said Hermione at once, “yes, we were, you’re 
right...” 

“Well, once a week sounds cool,” said Lee Jordan. 



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“As long as — ” began Angelina. 



“Yes, yes, we know about the Quidditch,” said 
Hermione in a tense voice. “Well, the other thing to 
decide is where we’re going to meet...” 

This was rather more difficult; the whole group fell 
silent. 

“Library?” suggested Katie Bell after a few moments. 

“I can’t see Madam Pince being too chuffed with us 
doing jinxes in the library,” said Harry. 

“Maybe an unused classroom?” said Dean. 

“Yeah,” said Ron, “McGonagall might let us have hers, 
she did when Harry was practicing for the 
Tri wizard...” 

But Harry was pretty certain that McGonagall would 
not be so accommodating this time. For all that 
Hermione had said about study and homework 
groups being allowed, he had the distinct feeling this 
one might be considered a lot more rebellious. 

“Right, well, we’ll try to find somewhere,” said 
Hermione. “We’ll send a message round to everybody 
when we’ve got a time and a place for the first 
meeting.” 

She rummaged in her bag and produced parchment 
and a quill, then hesitated, rather as though she was 
steeling herself to say something. 

“I-I think everybody should write their name down, 
just so we know who was here. But I also think,” she 
took a deep breath, “that we all ought to agree not to 
shout about what we’re doing. So if you sign, you’re 

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agreeing not to tell Umbridge — or anybody else 
what we’re up to.” 



Fred reached out for the parchment and cheerfully 
put down his signature, but Harry noticed at once 
that several people looked less than happy at the 
prospect of putting their names on the list. 

“Er ...” said Zacharias slowly, not taking the 
parchment that George was trying to pass him. “Well 
... I’m sure Ernie will tell me when the meeting is.” 

But Ernie was looking rather hesitant about signing 
too. Hermione raised her eyebrows at him. 

“I — well, we are prefects,” Ernie burst out. “And if 
this list was found ... well, I mean to say ... you said 
yourself, if Umbridge finds out ...” 

“You just said this group was the most important 
thing you’d do this year,” Harry reminded him. 

“I — yes,” said Ernie, “yes, I do believe that, it’s just 



“Ernie, do you really think I’d leave that list lying 
around?” said Hermione testily. 

“No. No, of course not,” said Ernie, looking slightly 
less anxious. “I — yes, of course I’ll sign.” 

Nobody raised objections after Ernie, though Harry 
saw Cho’s friend give her a rather reproachful look 
before adding her name. When the last person — 
Zacharias — had signed, Hermione took the 
parchment back and slipped it carefully into her bag. 
There was an odd feeling in the group now. It was as 
though they had just signed some kind of contract. 

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“Well, time’s ticking on,” said Fred briskly, getting to 
his feet. “George, Lee, and I have got items of a 
sensitive nature to purchase, we’ll be seeing you all 
later.” 

In twos and threes the rest of the group took their 
leave too. Cho made rather a business of fastening 
the catch on her bag before leaving, her long dark 
curtain of hair swinging forward to hide her face, but 
her friend stood beside her, arms folded, clicking her 
tongue, so that Cho had little choice but to leave with 
her. As her friend ushered her through the door, Cho 
looked back and waved at Harry. 

“Well, I think that went quite well,” said Hermione 
happily, as she, Harry, and Ron walked out of the 
Hog’s Head into the bright sunlight a few moments 
later, Harry and Ron still clutching their bottles of 
butterbeer. 

“That Zacharias bloke’s a wart,” said Ron, who was 
glowering after the figure of Smith just discernible in 
the distance. 

“I don’t like him much either,” admitted Hermione, 
“but he overheard me talking to Ernie and Hannah at 
the Hufflepuff table and he seemed really interested 
in coming, so what could I say? But the more people 
the better really — I mean, Michael Corner and his 
friends wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t been going 
out with Ginny — ” 

Ron, who had been draining the last few drops from 
his butterbeer bottle, gagged and sprayed butterbeer 
down his front. 

“He’s WHAT?” said Ron, outraged, his ears now 
resembling curls of raw beef. “She’s going out with — 



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my sister’s going — what d’you mean, Michael 
Corner?” 

“Well, that’s why he and his friends came, I think — 
well, they’re obviously interested in learning defense, 
but if Ginny hadn’t told Michael what was going on — 



“When did this — when did she — ?” 

“They met at the Yule Ball and they got together at 
the end of last year,” said Hermione composedly. They 
had turned into the High Street and she paused 
outside Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop, where there was a 
handsome display of pheasant-feather quills in the 
window. “Hmm ... I could do with a new quill.” 

She turned into the shop. Harry and Ron followed 
her. 

“Which one was Michael Corner?” Ron demanded 
furiously. 

“The dark one,” said Hermione. 

“I didn’t like him,” said Ron at once. 

“Big surprise,” said Hermione under her breath. 

“But,” said Ron, following Hermione along a row of 
quills in copper pots, “I thought Ginny fancied Harry!” 

Hermione looked at him rather pityingly and shook 
her head. 

“Ginny used to fancy Harry, but she gave up on him 
months ago. Not that she doesn’t like you, of course,” 
she added kindly to Harry while she examined a long 
black-and-gold quill. 

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Harry, whose head was still full of Cho’s parting wave, 
did not find this subject quite as interesting as Ron, 
who was positively quivering with indignation, but it 
did bring something home to him that until now he 
had not really registered. 

“So that’s why she talks now?” he asked Hermione. 
“She never used to talk in front of me.” 

“Exactly,” said Hermione. “Yes, I think I’ll have this 
one...” 

She went up to the counter and handed over fifteen 
Sickles and two Knuts, Ron still breathing down her 
neck. 

“Ron,” she said severely as she turned and trod on his 
feet, “this is exactly why Ginny hasn’t told you she’s 
seeing Michael, she knew you’d take it badly. So don’t 
harp on about it, for heaven’s sake.” 

“What d’you mean, who’s taking anything badly? I’m 
not going to harp on about anything ...” 

Ron continued to chunter under his breath all the 
way down the street. Hermione rolled her eyes at 
Harry and then said in an undertone, while Ron was 
muttering imprecations about Michael Corner, “And 
talking about Michael and Ginny . . . what about Cho 
and you?” 

“What d’you mean?” said Harry quickly. 

It was as though boiling water was rising rapidly 
inside him; a burning sensation that was causing his 
face to smart in the cold — had he been that obvious? 

“Well,” said Hermione, smiling slightly, “she just 
couldn’t keep her eyes off you, could she?” 

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Harry had never before appreciated just how beautiful 
the village of Hogsmeade was. 



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EDUCATIONAL DECREE NUMBER 
TWENTY-FOUR 

Harry felt happier for the rest of the weekend than he 
had done all term. He and Ron spent much of Sunday 
catching up with all their homework again, and 
although this could hardly be called fun, the last 
burst of autumn sunshine persisted, so rather than 
sitting hunched over tables in the common room, they 
took their work outside and lounged in the shade of a 
large beech tree on the edge of the lake. Hermione, 
who of course was up to date with all her work, 
brought more wool outside with her and bewitched 
her knitting needles so that they flashed and clicked 
in midair beside her, producing more hats and 
scarves. 

The knowledge that they were doing something to 
resist Umbridge and the Ministry, and that he was a 
key part of the rebellion, gave Harry a feeling of 
immense satisfaction. He kept reliving Saturday’s 
meeting in his mind: all those people, coming to him 
to learn Defense Against the Dark Arts . . . and the 
looks on their faces as they had heard some of the 



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things he had done . . . and Cho praising his 
performance in the Triwizard Tournament... The 
knowledge that all those people did not think him a 
lying weirdo, but someone to be admired, buoyed him 
up so much that he was still cheerful on Monday 
morning, despite the imminent prospect of all his 
least favorite classes. 

He and Ron headed downstairs from their dormitory 
together, discussing Angelina’s idea that they were to 
work on a new move called the Sloth Grip Roll during 
that night’s Quidditch practice, and not until they 
were halfway across the sunlit common room did they 
notice the addition to the room that had already 
attracted the attention of a small group of people. 

A large sign had been affixed to the Gryffindor notice 
board, so large that it covered everything else on there 
— the lists of secondhand spellbooks for sale, the 
regular reminders of school rules from Argus Filch, 
the Quidditch team training schedule, the offers to 
barter certain Chocolate Frog cards for others, the 
Weasleys’ new advertisement for testers, the dates of 
the Hogsmeade weekends, and the lost-and-found 
notices. The new sign was printed in large black 
letters and there was a highly official-looking seal at 
the bottom beside a neat and curly signature. 



— BY ORDER OF — 

THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS 

All Student Organizations, Societies, Teams, Groups, 
and Clubs are henceforth disbanded. 



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An Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club is 
hereby defined as a regular meeting of three or more 
students. 

Permission to re-form may be sought from the High 
Inquisitor (Professor Umbridge). 

No Student Organization, Society, Team, Group, or 
Club may exist without the knowledge and approval 
of the High Inquisitor. 

Any student found to have formed, or to belong to, an 
Organization, Society, Team, Group, or Club that has 
not been approved by the High Inquisitor will be 
expelled. 

The above is in accordance with 
Educational Decree Number Twenty-four. 

Signed: 

Dolores Jane Umbridge 
HIGH INQUISITOR 

Harry and Ron read the notice over the heads of some 
anxious-looking second years. 

“Does this mean they’re going to shut down the 
Gobstones Club?” one of them asked his friend. 

“I reckon you’ll be okay with Gobstones,” Ron said 
darkly, making the second year jump. “I don’t think 
we’re going to be as lucky, though, do you?” he asked 
Harry as the second years hurried away. 



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Harry was reading the notice through again. The 
happiness that had filled him since Saturday was 
gone. His insides were pulsing with rage. 

“This isn’t a coincidence,” he said, his hands forming 
fists. “She knows.” 

“She can’t,” said Ron at once. 

“There were people listening in that pub. And let’s 
face it, we don’t know how many of the people who 
turned up we can trust... Any of them could have run 
off and told Umbridge...” 

And he had thought they believed him, thought they 
even admired him . . . 

“Zacharias Smith!” said Ron at once, punching a fist 
into his hand. “Or — I thought that Michael Corner 
had a really shifty look too — ” 

“I wonder if Hermione’s seen this yet?” Harry said, 
looking around at the door to the girls’ dormitories. 

“Let’s go and tell her,” said Ron. He bounded forward, 
pulled open the door, and set off up the spiral 
staircase. 

He was on the sixth stair when it happened. There 
was a loud, wailing, klaxonlike sound and the steps 
melted together to make a long, smooth stone slide. 
There was a brief moment when Ron tried to keep 
running, arms working madly like windmills, then he 
toppled over backward and shot down the newly 
created slide, coming to rest on his back at Harry’s 
feet. 



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“Er — I don’t think we’re allowed in the girls’ 
dormitories,” said Harry, pulling Ron to his feet and 
trying not to laugh. 

Two fourth-year girls came zooming gleefully down 
the stone slide. 

“Oooh, who tried to get upstairs?” they giggled 
happily, leaping to their feet and ogling Harry and 
Ron. 

“Me,” said Ron, who was still rather disheveled. “I 
didn’t realize that would happen. It’s not fair!” he 
added to Harry, as the girls headed off for the portrait 
hole, still giggling madly. “Hermione’s allowed in our 
dormitory, how come we’re not allowed — ?” 

“Well, it’s an old-fashioned rule,” said Hermione, who 
had just slid neatly onto a rug in front of them and 
was now getting to her feet, “but it says in Hogwarts, 
A History that the founders thought boys were less 
trustworthy than girls. Anyway, why were you trying 
to get in there?” 

“To see you — look at this!” said Ron, dragging her 
over to the notice board. 

Hermione’s eyes slid rapidly down the notice. Her 
expression became stony. 

“Someone must have blabbed to her!” Ron said 
angrily. 

“They can’t have done,” said Hermione in a low voice. 

“You’re so naive,” said Ron, “you think just because 
you’re all honorable and trustworthy — ” 



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“No, they can’t have done because I put a jinx on that 
piece of parchment we all signed,” said Hermione 
grimly. “Believe me, if anyone’s run off and told 
Umbridge, well know exactly who they are and they 
will really regret it.” 

“What’ll happen to them?” said Ron eagerly. 

“Well, put it this way,” said Hermione, “it’ll make 
Eloise Midgen’s acne look like a couple of cute 
freckles. Come on, let’s get down to breakfast and see 
what the others think. . . I wonder whether this has 
been put up in all the Houses?” 

It was immediately apparent on entering the Great 
Hall that Umbridge’s sign had not only appeared in 
Gryffindor Tower. There was a peculiar intensity 
about the chatter and an extra measure of movement 
in the Hall as people scurried up and down their 
tables conferring on what they had read. Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione had barely taken their seats when 
Neville, Dean, Fred, George, and Ginny descended 
upon them. 

“Did you see it?” 

“D’you reckon she knows?” 

“What are we going to do?” 

They were all looking at Harry. He glanced around to 
make sure there were no teachers near them. 

“We’re going to do it anyway, of course,” he said 
quietly. 

“Knew you’d say that,” said George, beaming and 
thumping Harry on the arm. 



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“The prefects as well?” said Fred, looking quizzically 
at Ron and Hermione. 

“Of course,” said Hermione coolly. 

“Here comes Ernie and Hannah Abbott,” said Ron, 
looking over his shoulder. “And those Ravenclaw 
blokes and Smith ... and no one looks very spotty.” 

Hermione looked alarmed. 

“Never mind spots, the idiots can’t come over here 
now, it’ll look really suspicious — sit down!” she 
mouthed to Ernie and Hannah, gesturing frantically 
to them to rejoin the Hufflepuff table. “Later! We’ll — 
talk — to — you — lateri” 

“I’ll tell Michael,” said Ginny impatiently, swinging 
herself off her bench. “The fool, honestly ...” 

She hurried off toward the Ravenclaw table; Harry 
watched her go. Cho was sitting not far away, talking 
to the curly-haired friend she had brought along to 
the Hog’s Head. Would Umbridge’s notice scare her off 
meeting them again? 

But the full repercussions of the sign were not felt 
until they were leaving the Great Hall for History of 
Magic. 

“Harry! Ron\” 

It was Angelina and she was hurrying toward them 
looking perfectly desperate. 

“It’s okay,” said Harry quietly, when she was near 
enough to hear him. “We’re still going to — ” 



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“You realize she’s including Quidditch in this?” 
Angelina said over him. “We have to go and ask 
permission to re-form the Gryffindor team!” 

“What?” said Harry. 

“No way,” said Ron, appalled. 

“You read the sign, it mentions teams too! So listen, 
Harry ... I am saying this for the last time... Please, 
please don’t lose your temper with Umbridge again or 
she might not let us play anymore!” 

“Okay, okay,” said Harry, for Angelina looked as 
though she was on the verge of tears. “Don’t worry, I’ll 
behave myself...” 

“Bet Umbridge is in History of Magic,” said Ron 
grimly, as they set off for Binns’s lesson. “She hasn’t 
inspected Binns yet... Bet you anything she’s there...” 

But he was wrong; the only teacher present when 
they entered was Professor Binns, floating an inch or 
so above his chair as usual and preparing to continue 
his monotonous drone on giant wars. Harry did not 
even attempt to follow what he was saying today; he 
doodled idly on his parchment ignoring Hermione’s 
frequent glares and nudges, until a particularly 
painful poke in the ribs made him look up angrily. 

“What?” 

She pointed at the window. Harry looked around. 
Hedwig was perched on the narrow window ledge, 
gazing through the thick glass at him, a letter tied to 
her leg. Harry could not understand it; they had just 
had breakfast, why on earth hadn’t she delivered the 
letter then, as usual? Many of his classmates were 
pointing out Hedwig to each other too. 

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“Oh, I’ve always loved that owl, she’s so beautiful,” 
Harry heard Lavender sigh to Parvati. 



He glanced around at Professor Binns who continued 
to read his notes, serenely unaware that the class’s 
attention was even less focused upon him than usual. 
Harry slipped quietly off his chair, crouched down, 
and hurried along the row to the window, where he 
slid the catch and opened it very slowly. 

He had expected Hedwig to hold out her leg so that he 
could remove the letter and then fly off to the Owlery, 
but the moment the window was open wide enough 
she hopped inside, hooting dolefully. He closed the 
window with an anxious glance at Professor Binns, 
crouched low again, and sped back to his seat with 
Hedwig on his shoulder. He regained his seat, 
transferred Hedwig to his lap, and made to remove 
the letter tied to her leg. 

It was only then that he realized that Hedwig’s 
feathers were oddly ruffled; some were bent the wrong 
way, and she was holding one of her wings at an odd 
angle. 

“She’s hurt!” Harry whispered, bending his head low 
over her. Hermione and Ron leaned in closer; 
Hermione even put down her quill. “Look — there’s 
something wrong with her wing — ” 

Hedwig was quivering; when Harry made to touch the 
wing she gave a little jump, all her feathers on end as 
though she was inflating herself, and gazed at him 
reproachfully. 

“Professor Binns,” said Harry loudly, and everyone in 
the class turned to look at him. “I’m not feeling well.” 



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Professor Binns raised his eyes from his notes, 
looking amazed, as always, to find the room in front 
of him full of people. 

“Not feeling well?” he repeated hazily. 

“Not at all well,” said Harry firmly, getting to his feet 
while concealing Hedwig behind his back. “So I think 
I’ll need to go to the hospital wing.” 

“Yes,” said Professor Binns, clearly very much wrong- 
footed. “Yes ... yes, hospital wing ... well, off you go, 
then, Perkins ...” 

Once outside the room Harry returned Hedwig to his 
shoulder and hurried off up the corridor, pausing to 
think only when he was out of sight of Binns’s door. 
His first choice of somebody to cure Hedwig would 
have been Hagrid, of course, but as he had no idea 
where Hagrid was, his only remaining option was to 
find Professor Grubbly-Plank and hope she would 
help. 

He peered out of a window at the blustery, overcast 
grounds. There was no sign of her anywhere near 
Hagrid’s cabin; if she was not teaching, she was 
probably in the staffroom. He set off downstairs, 
Hedwig hooting feebly as she swayed on his shoulder. 

Two stone gargoyles flanked the staffroom door. As 
Harry approached, one of them croaked, “You should 
be in class, sunny Jim.” 

“This is urgent,” said Harry curtly. 

“Ooooh, urgent, is it?” said the other gargoyle in a 
high-pitched voice. “Well, that’s put us in our place, 
hasn’t it?” 



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Harry knocked; he heard footsteps and then the door 
opened and he found himself face-to-face with 
Professor McGonagall. 

“You haven’t been given another detention!” she said 
at once, her square spectacles flashing alarmingly. 

“No, Professor!” said Harry hastily. 

“Well then, why are you out of class?” 

“It’s urgent, apparently,” said the second gargoyle 
snidely. 

“I’m looking for Professor Grubbly-Plank,” Harry 
explained. “It’s my owl, she’s injured.” 

“Injured owl, did you say?” 

Professor Grubbly-Plank appeared at Professor 
McGonagall’s shoulder, smoking a pipe and holding a 
copy of the Daily Prophet 

“Yes,” said Harry, lifting Hedwig carefully off his 
shoulder, “she turned up after the other post owls 
and her wing’s all funny, look — ” 

Professor Grubbly-Plank stuck her pipe firmly 
between her teeth and took Hedwig from Harry while 
Professor McGonagall watched. 

“Hmm,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, her pipe 
waggling slightly as she talked. “Looks like 
something’s attacked her. Can’t think what would 
have done it, though... Thestrals will sometimes go for 
birds, of course, but Hagrid’s got the Hogwarts 
thestrals well trained not to touch owls ...” 



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Harry neither knew nor cared what thestrals were, he 
just wanted to know that Hedwig was going to be all 
right. Professor McGonagall, however, looked sharply 
at Harry and said, “Do you know how far this owl’s 
traveled, Potter?” 

“Er,” said Harry. “From London, I think.” 

He met her eyes briefly and knew that she understood 
“London” to mean “number twelve, Grimmauld Place” 
by the way her eyebrows had joined in the middle. 

Professor Grubbly-Plank pulled a monocle out of the 
inside of her robes and screwed it into her eye to 
examine Hedwig’s wing closely. “I should be able to 
sort this out if you leave her with me, Potter,” she 
said. “She shouldn’t be flying long distances for a few 
days, in any case.” 

“Er — right — thanks,” said Harry, just as the bell 
rang for break. 

“No problem,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank gruffly, 
turning back into the staffroom. 

“Just a moment, Wilhelmina!” said Professor 
McGonagall. “Potter’s letter!” 

“Oh yeah!” said Harry, who had momentarily 
forgotten the scroll tied to Hedwig’s leg. Professor 
Grubbly-Plank handed it over and then disappeared 
into the staffroom carrying Hedwig, who was staring 
at Harry as though unable to believe he would give 
her away like this. Feeling slightly guilty, he turned to 
go, but Professor McGonagall called him back. 

“Potter!” 

“Yes, Professor?” 

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She glanced up and down the corridor; there were 
students coming from both directions. 

“Bear in mind,” she said quickly and quietly, her eyes 
on the scroll in his hand, “that channels of 
communication in and out of Hogwarts may be being 
watched, won’t you?” 

“I — ” said Harry, but the flood of students rolling 
along the corridor was almost upon him. Professor 
McGonagall gave him a curt nod and retreated into 
the staffroom, leaving Harry to be swept out into the 
courtyard with the crowd. Here he spotted Ron and 
Hermione already standing in a sheltered corner, 
their cloak collars turned up against the wind. Harry 
slit open the scroll as he hurried toward them and 
found five words in Sirius’s handwriting: 

Today, same time, same place. 

“Is Hedwig okay?” asked Hermione anxiously, the 
moment he was within earshot. 

“Where did you take her?” asked Ron. 

“To Grubbly-Plank,” said Harry. “And I met 
McGonagall... Listen...” 

And he told them what Professor McGonagall had 
said. To his surprise, neither of the others looked 
shocked; on the contrary, they exchanged significant 
looks. 

“What?” said Harry, looking from Ron to Hermione 
and back again. 

“Well, I was just saying to Ron ... what if someone 
had tried to intercept Hedwig? I mean, she’s never 
been hurt on a flight before, has she?” 

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“Who’s the letter from anyway?” asked Ron, taking 
the note from Harry. 

“Snuffles,” said Harry quietly. 

“ ‘Same time, same place’? Does he mean the fire in 
the common room?” 

“Obviously,” said Hermione, also reading the note. 

She looked uneasy. “I just hope nobody else has read 
this...” 

“But it was still sealed and everything,” said Harry, 
trying to convince himself as much as her. “And 
nobody would understand what it meant if they didn’t 
know where we’d spoken to him before, would they?” 

“I don’t know,” said Hermione anxiously, hitching her 
bag back over her shoulder as the bell rang again. “It 
wouldn’t be exactly difficult to reseal the scroll by 
magic... And if anyone’s watching the Floo Network ... 
but I don’t really see how we can warn him not to 
come without that being intercepted too!” 

They trudged down the stone steps to the dungeons 
for Potions, all three of them lost in thought, but as 
they reached the bottom of the stairs they were 
recalled to themselves by the voice of Draco Malfoy, 
who was standing just outside Snape’s classroom 
door, waving around an official-looking piece of 
parchment and talking much louder than was 
necessary so that they could hear every word. 

“Yeah, Umbridge gave the Slytherin Quidditch team 
permission to continue playing straightaway, I went 
to ask her first thing this morning. Well, it was pretty 
much automatic, I mean, she knows my father really 
well, he’s always popping in and out of the Ministry... 



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It’ll be interesting to see whether Gryffindor are 
allowed to keep playing, wont it?” 

“Don’t rise,” Hermione whispered imploringly to Harry 
and Ron, who were both watching Malfoy, faces set 
and fists clenched. “It’s what he wants...” 

“I mean,” said Malfoy, raising his voice a little more, 
his gray eyes glittering malevolently in Harry and 
Ron’s direction, “if it’s a question of influence with the 
Ministry, I don’t think they’ve got much chance... 

From what my father says, they’ve been looking for an 
excuse to sack Arthur Weasley for years... And as for 
Potter ... My father says it’s a matter of time before 
the Ministry has him carted off to St. Mungo’s... 
apparently they’ve got a special ward for people whose 
brains have been addled by magic...” 

Malfoy made a grotesque face, his mouth sagging 
open and his eyes rolling. Crabbe and Goyle gave 
their usual grunts of laughter, Pansy Parkinson 
shrieked with glee. 

Something collided hard with Harry’s shoulder, 
knocking him sideways. A split second later he 
realized that Neville had just charged past him, 
heading straight for Malfoy. 

“Neville, no!” 

Harry leapt forward and seized the back of Neville’s 
robes; Neville struggled frantically, his fists flailing, 
trying desperately to get at Malfoy who looked, for a 
moment, extremely shocked. 

“Help me!” Harry flung at Ron, managing to get an 
arm around Neville’s neck and dragging him 
backward, away from the Slytherins. Crabbe and 
Goyle were now flexing their arms, closing in front of 

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Malfoy, ready for the fight. Ron hurried forward and 
seized Neville’s arms; together, he and Harry 
succeeded in dragging Neville back into the Gryffindor 
line. Neville’s face was scarlet; the pressure Harry was 
exerting on his throat rendered him quite 
incomprehensible, but odd words spluttered from his 
mouth. 

“Not... funny ... don’t ... Mungo’s ... show ... him ...” 

The dungeon door opened. Snape appeared there. His 
black eyes swept up the Gryffindor line to the point 
where Harry and Ron were wrestling with Neville. 

“Fighting, Potter, Weasley, Longbottom?” Snape said 
in his cold, sneering voice. “Ten points from 
Gryffindor. Release Longbottom, Potter, or it will be 
detention. Inside, all of you.” 

Harry let go of Neville, who stood panting and glaring 
at him. 

“I had to stop you,” Harry gasped, picking up his bag. 
“Crabbe and Goyle would’ve torn you apart.” 

Neville said nothing, he merely snatched up his own 
bag and stalked off into the dungeon. 

“What in the name of Merlin,” said Ron slowly, as 
they followed Neville, “was that about?” 

Harry did not answer. He knew exactly why the 
subject of people who were in St. Mungo’s because of 
magical damage to their brains was highly distressing 
to Neville, but he had sworn to Dumbledore that he 
would not tell anyone Neville’s secret. Even Neville did 
not know that Harry knew. 



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Harry, Ron, and Hermione took their usual seats at 
the back of the class and pulled out parchment, 
quills, and their copies of One Thousand Magical 
Herbs and Fungi. The class around them was 
whispering about what Neville had just done, but 
when Snape closed the dungeon door with an echoing 
bang everybody fell silent immediately. 

“You will notice,” said Snape in his low, sneering 
voice, “that we have a guest with us today.” 

He gestured toward the dim corner of the dungeon, 
and Harry saw Professor Umbridge sitting there, 
clipboard on her knee. He glanced sideways at Ron 
and Hermione, his eyebrows raised. Snape and 
Umbridge, the two teachers he hated most ... it was 
hard to decide which he wanted to triumph over the 
other. 

“We are continuing with our Strengthening Solutions 
today, you will find your mixtures as you left them 
last lesson, if correctly made they should have 
matured well over the weekend — instructions” — he 
waved his wand again — “on the board. Carry on.” 

Professor Umbridge spent the first half hour of the 
lesson making notes in her corner. Harry was very 
interested in hearing her question Snape, so 
interested, that he was becoming careless with his 
potion again. 

“Salamander blood, Harry!” Hermione moaned, 
grabbing his wrist to prevent him adding the wrong 
ingredient for the third time. “Not pomegranate juice!” 

“Right,” said Harry vaguely, putting down the bottle 
and continuing to watch the corner. Umbridge had 
just gotten to her feet. “Ha,” he said softly, as she 



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strode between two lines of desks toward Snape, who 
was bending over Dean Thomas’s cauldron. 

“Well, the class seems fairly advanced for their level,” 
she said briskly to Snape ’s back. “Though I would 
question whether it is advisable to teach them a 
potion like the Strengthening Solution. I think the 
Ministry would prefer it if that was removed from the 
syllabus.” 

Snape straightened up slowly and turned to look at 
her. 

“Now ... how long have you been teaching at 
Hogwarts?” she asked, her quill poised over her 
clipboard. 

“Fourteen years,” Snape replied. His expression was 
unfathomable. His eyes on Snape, Harry added a few 
drops to his potion; it hissed menacingly and turned 
from turquoise to orange. 

“You applied first for the Defense Against the Dark 
Arts post, I believe?” Professor Umbridge asked 
Snape. 

“Yes,” said Snape quietly. 

“But you were unsuccessful?” 

Snape ’s lip curled. 

“Obviously.” 

Professor Umbridge scribbled on her clipboard. 

“And you have applied regularly for the Defense 
Against the Dark Arts post since you first joined the 
school, I believe?” 

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“Yes,” said Snape quietly, barely moving his lips. He 
looked very angry. 

“Do you have any idea why Dumbledore has 
consistently refused to appoint you?” asked 
Umbridge. 

“I suggest you ask him,” said Snape jerkily. 

“Oh I shall,” said Professor Umbridge with a sweet 
smile. 

“I suppose this is relevant?” Snape asked, his black 
eyes narrowed. 

“Oh yes,” said Professor Umbridge. “Yes, the Ministry 
wants a thorough understanding of teachers’ — er — 
backgrounds...” 

She turned away, walked over to Pansy Parkinson 
and began questioning her about the lessons. Snape 
looked around at Harry and their eyes met for a 
second. Harry hastily dropped his gaze to his potion, 
which was now congealing foully and giving off a 
strong smell of burned rubber. 

“No marks again, then, Potter,” said Snape 
maliciously, emptying Harry’s cauldron with a wave of 
his wand. “You will write me an essay on the correct 
composition of this potion, indicating how and why 
you went wrong, to be handed in next lesson, do you 
understand?” 

“Yes,” said Harry furiously. Snape had already given 
them homework, and he had Quidditch practice this 
evening; this would mean another couple of sleepless 
nights. It did not seem possible that he had awoken 
that morning feeling very happy. All he felt now was a 
fervent desire for this day to end as soon as possible. 
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“Maybe I’ll skive off Divination,” he said glumly as 
they stood again in the courtyard after lunch, the 
wind whipping at the hems of robes and brims of 
hats. “I’ll pretend to be ill and do Snape’s essay 
instead, then I won’t have to stay up half the night...” 

“You can’t skive off Divination,” said Hermione 
severely. 

“Hark who’s talking, you walked out of Divination, 
you hate Trelawney!” said Ron indignantly. 

“I don’t hate her,” said Hermione loftily. “I just think 
she’s an absolutely appalling teacher and a real old 
fraud... But Harry’s already missed History of Magic 
and I don’t think he ought to miss anything else 
today!” 

There was too much truth in this to ignore, so half an 
hour later Harry took his seat in the hot, over- 
perfumed atmosphere of the Divination classroom 
feeling angry at everybody. Professor Trelawney was 
handing out copies of The Dream Oracle yet again; he 
would surely be much better employed doing Snape’s 
punishment essay than sitting here trying to find 
meaning in a lot of made-up dreams. 

It seemed, however, that he was not the only person 
in Divination who was in a temper. Professor 
Trelawney slammed a copy of the Oracle down on the 
table between Harry and Ron and swept away, her 
lips pursed; she threw the next copy of the Oracle at 
Seamus and Dean, narrowly avoiding Seamus’s head, 
and thrust the final one into Neville’s chest with such 
force that he slipped off his pouf. 

“Well, carry on!” said Professor Trelawney loudly, her 
voice high pitched and somewhat hysterical. “You 



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know what to do! Or am I such a substandard teacher 
that you have never learned how to open a book?” 

The class stared perplexedly at her and then at each 
other. Harry, however, thought he knew what was the 
matter. As Professor Trelawney flounced back to the 
high-backed teacher’s chair, her magnified eyes full of 
angry tears, he leaned his head closer to Ron’s and 
muttered, “I think she’s got the results of her 
inspection back.” 

“Professor?” said Parvati Patil in a hushed voice (she 
and Lavender had always rather admired Professor 
Trelawney). “Professor, is there anything — er — 
wrong?” 

“Wrong!” cried Professor Trelawney in a voice 
throbbing with emotion. “Certainly not! I have been 
insulted, certainly... Insinuations have been made 
against me... Unfounded accusations levelled ... but 
no, there is nothing wrong, certainly not...” 

She took a great shuddering breath and looked away 
from Parvati, angry tears spilling from under her 
glasses. 

“I say nothing,” she choked, “of sixteen years’ devoted 
service... It has passed, apparently, unnoticed... But I 
shall not be insulted, no, I shall not!” 

“But Professor, who’s insulting you?” asked Parvati 
timidly. 

“The establishment!” said Professor Trelawney in a 
deep, dramatic, wavering voice. “Yes, those with eyes 
too clouded by the Mundane to See as I See, to Know 
as I Know ... Of course, we Seers have always been 
feared, always persecuted... It is — alas — our fate...” 



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She gulped, dabbed at her wet cheeks with the end of 
her shawl, and then pulled a small, embroidered 
handkerchief from her sleeve, into which she blew her 
nose very hard with a sound like Peeves blowing a 
raspberry. Ron sniggered. Lavender shot him a 
disgusted look. 

“Professor,” said Parvati, “do you mean ... is it 
something Professor Umbridge ... ?” 

“Do not speak to me about that woman!” cried 
Professor Trelawney, leaping to her feet, her beads 
rattling and her spectacles flashing. “Kindly continue 
with your work!” 

And she spent the rest of the lesson striding among 
them, tears still leaking from behind her glasses, 
muttering what sounded like threats under her 
breath. 

"... may well choose to leave ... the indignity of it ... on 
probation ... we shall see ... how she dares ...” 

“You and Umbridge have got something in common,” 
Harry told Hermione quietly when they met again in 
Defense Against the Dark Arts. “She obviously 
reckons Trelawney’s an old fraud too... Looks like 
she’s put her on probation.” 

Umbridge entered the room as he spoke, wearing her 
black velvet bow and an expression of great 
smugness. 

“Good afternoon, class.” 

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” they chanted 
drearily. 

“Wands away, please ...” 

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But there was no answering flurry of movement this 
time; nobody had bothered to take out their wands. 

“Please turn to page thirty-four of Defensive Magical 
Theory and read the third chapter, entitled The Case 
for Non-Offensive Responses to Magical Attack.’ There 
will be — ” 

“ — no need to talk,” Harry, Ron, and Hermione said 
together under their breaths. 

“No Quidditch practice,” said Angelina in hollow tones 
when Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the common 
room that night after dinner. 

“But I kept my temper!” said Harry, horrified. “I didn’t 
say anything to her, Angelina, I swear, I — ” 

“I know, I know,” said Angelina miserably. “She just 
said she needed a bit of time to consider.” 

“Consider what?” said Ron angrily. “She’s given the 
Slytherins permission, why not us?” 

But Harry could imagine how much Umbridge was 
enjoying holding the threat of no Gryffindor Quidditch 
team over their heads and could easily understand 
why she would not want to relinquish that weapon 
over them too soon. 

“Well,” said Hermione, “look on the bright side — at 
least now you’ll have time to do Snape’s essay!” 

“That’s a bright side, is it?” snapped Harry, while Ron 
stared incredulously at Hermione. “No Quidditch 
practice and extra Potions?” 

Harry slumped down into a chair, dragged his Potions 
essay reluctantly from his bag, and set to work. 

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It was very hard to concentrate; even though he knew 
that Sirius was not due in the fire until much later he 
could not help glancing into the flames every few 
minutes just in case. There was also an incredible 
amount of noise in the room: Fred and George 
appeared finally to have perfected one type of Skiving 
Snackbox, which they were taking turns to 
demonstrate to a cheering and whooping crowd. 

First, Fred would take a bite out of the orange end of 
a chew, at which he would vomit spectacularly into a 
bucket they had placed in front of them. Then he 
would force down the purple end of the chew, at 
which the vomiting would immediately cease. Lee 
Jordan, who was assisting the demonstration, was 
lazily vanishing the vomit at regular intervals with the 
same Vanishing Spell Snape kept using on Harry’s 
potions. 

What with the regular sounds of retching, cheering, 
and Fred and George taking advance orders from the 
crowd, Harry was finding it exceptionally difficult to 
focus on the correct method for Strengthening 
Solutions. Hermione was not helping matters; the 
cheers and sound of vomit hitting the bottom of Fred 
and George’s bucket were punctuated by loud and 
disapproving sniffs that Harry found, if anything, 
more distracting. 

“Just go and stop them, then!” he said irritably, after 
crossing out the wrong weight of powdered griffin 
claw for the fourth time. 

“I can’t, they’re not technically doing anything wrong,” 
said Hermione through gritted teeth. “They’re quite 
within their rights to eat the foul things themselves, 
and I can’t find a rule that says the other idiots aren’t 
entitled to buy them, not unless they’re proven to be 



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dangerous in some way, and it doesn’t look as though 
they are...” 

She, Harry, and Ron watched George projectile-vomit 
into the bucket, gulp down the rest of the chew, and 
straighten up, beaming with his arms wide to 
protracted applause. 

“You know, I don’t get why Fred and George only got 
three O.W.L.s each,” said Harry, watching as Fred, 
George, and Lee collected gold from the eager crowd. 
“They really know their stuff...” 

“Oh, they only know flashy stuff that’s no real use to 
anyone,” said Hermione disparagingly. 

“No real use?” said Ron in a strained voice. 

“Hermione, they’ve got about twenty-six Galleons 
already...” 

It was a long while before the crowd around the 
Weasleys dispersed, and then Fred, Lee, and George 
sat up counting their takings even longer, so that it 
was well past midnight when Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione finally had the common room to themselves 
again. At long last, Fred closed the doorway to the 
boys’ dormitories behind him, rattling his box of 
Galleons ostentatiously so that Hermione scowled. 
Harry, who was making very little progress with his 
Potions essay, decided to give it up for the night. As 
he put his books away, Ron, who was dozing lightly in 
an armchair, gave a muffled grunt, awoke, looked 
blearily into the fire and said, “Sirius!” 

Harry whipped around; Sirius’s untidy dark head was 
sitting in the fire again. 

“Hi,” he said, grinning. 



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“Hi,” chorused Harry, Ron, and Hermione, all three 
kneeling down upon the hearthrug. Crookshanks 
purred loudly and approached the fire, trying, despite 
the heat, to put his face close to Sirius’s. 

“How’re things?” said Sirius. 

“Not that good,” said Harry, as Hermione pulled 
Crookshanks back to stop him singeing his whiskers. 
“The Ministry’s forced through another decree, which 
means we’re not allowed to have Quidditch teams — ” 

“ — or secret Defense Against the Dark Arts groups?” 
said Sirius. 

There was a short pause. 

“How did you know about that?” Harry demanded. 

“You want to choose your meeting places more 
carefully,” said Sirius, grinning still more broadly. 
“The Hog’s Head, I ask you ...” 

“Well, it was better than the Three Broomsticks!” said 
Hermione defensively. “That’s always packed with 
people — ” 

“ — which means you’d have been harder to overhear,” 
said Sirius. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Hermione.” 

“Who overheard us?” Harry demanded. 

“Mundungus, of course,” said Sirius, and when they 
all looked puzzled he laughed. “He was the witch 
under the veil.” 

“That was Mundungus?” Harry said, stunned. “What 
was he doing in the Hog’s Head?” 



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“What do you think he was doing?” said Sirius 
impatiently. “Keeping an eye on you, of course.” 

“I’m still being followed?” asked Harry angrily. 

“Yeah, you are,” said Sirius, “and just as well, isn’t it, 
if the first thing you’re going to do on your weekend 
off is organize an illegal defense group.” 

But he looked neither angry nor worried; on the 
contrary, he was looking at Harry with distinct pride. 

“Why was Dung hiding from us?” asked Ron, 
sounding disappointed. “We’d’ve liked to’ve seen him.” 

“He was banned from the Hog’s Head twenty years 
ago,” said Sirius, “and that barman’s got a long 
memory. We lost Moody’s spare Invisibility Cloak 
when Sturgis was arrested, so Dung’s been dressing 
as a witch a lot lately... Anyway ... First of all, Ron — 
I’ve sworn to pass on a message from your mother.” 

“Oh yeah?” said Ron, sounding apprehensive. 

“She says on no account whatsoever are you to take 
part in an illegal secret Defense Against the Dark Arts 
group. She says you’ll be expelled for sure and your 
future will be ruined. She says there will be plenty of 
time to learn how to defend yourself later and that 
you are too young to be worrying about that right 
now. She also” — Sirius’s eyes turned to the other two 
— “advises Harry and Hermione not to proceed with 
the group, though she accepts that she has no 
authority over either of them and simply begs them to 
remember that she has their best interests at heart. 
She would have written all this to you, but if the owl 
had been intercepted you’d all have been in real 
trouble, and she can’t say it for herself because she’s 
on duty tonight.” 

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“On duty doing what?” said Ron quickly. 

“Never you mind, just stuff for the Order,” said Sirius. 
“So it’s fallen to me to be the messenger and make 
sure you tell her I passed it all on, because I don’t 
think she trusts me to.” 

There was another pause in which Crookshanks, 
mewing, attempted to paw Sirius’s head, and Ron 
fiddled with a hole in the hearthrug. 

“So you want me to say I’m not going to take part in 
the defense group?” he muttered finally. 

“Me? Certainly not!” said Sirius, looking surprised. “I 
think it’s an excellent idea!” 

“You do?” said Harry, his heart lifting. 

“Of course I do!” said Sirius. “D’you think your father 
and I would’ve lain down and taken orders from an 
old hag like Umbridge?” 

“But — last term all you did was tell me to be careful 
and not take risks — ” 

“Last year all the evidence was that someone inside 
Hogwarts was trying to kill you, Harry!” said Sirius 
impatiently. “This year we know that there’s someone 
outside Hogwarts who’d like to kill us all, so I think 
learning to defend yourselves properly is a very good 
idea!” 

“And if we do get expelled?” Hermione asked, a 
quizzical look on her face. 

“Hermione, this whole thing was your idea!” said 
Harry, staring at her. 



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“I know it was... I just wondered what Sirius 
thought,” she said, shrugging. 

“Well, better expelled and able to defend yourselves 
than sitting safely in school without a clue,” said 
Sirius. 

“Hear, hear,” said Harry and Ron enthusiastically. 

“So,” said Sirius, “how are you organizing this group? 
Where are you meeting?” 

“Well, that’s a bit of a problem now,” said Harry. 
“Dunno where we’re going to be able to go...” 

“How about the Shrieking Shack?” suggested Sirius. 

“Hey, that’s an idea!” said Ron excitedly, but 
Hermione made a skeptical noise and all three of 
them looked at her, Sirius’s head turning in the 
flames. 

“Well, Sirius, it’s just that there were only four of you 
meeting in the Shrieking Shack when you were at 
school,” said Hermione, “and all of you could 
transform into animals and I suppose you could all 
have squeezed under a single Invisibility Cloak if 
you’d wanted to. But there are twenty-eight of us and 
none of us is an Animagus, so we wouldn’t need so 
much an Invisibility Cloak as an Invisibility Marquee 



“Fair point,” said Sirius, looking slightly crestfallen. 
“Well, I’m sure you’ll come up with somewhere... 
There used to be a pretty roomy secret passageway 
behind that big mirror on the fourth floor, you might 
have enough space to practice jinxes in there — ” 



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“Fred and George told me it’s blocked,” said Harry, 
shaking his head. “Caved in or something.” 

“Oh ...” said Sirius, frowning. “Well, 111 have a think 
and get back to — ” 

He broke off. His face was suddenly tense, alarmed. 
He turned sideways, apparently looking into the solid 
brick wall of the fireplace. 

“Sirius?” said Harry anxiously. 

But he had vanished. Harry gaped at the flames for a 
moment, then turned to look at Ron and Hermione. 

“Why did he — ?” 

Hermione gave a horrified gasp and leapt to her feet, 
still staring at the fire. 

A hand had appeared amongst the flames, groping as 
though to catch hold of something; a stubby, short- 
fingered hand covered in ugly old-fashioned rings... 

The three of them ran for it; at the door of the boys’ 
dormitory Harry looked back. Umbridge’s hand was 
still making snatching movements amongst the 
flames, as though she knew exactly where Sirius’s 
hair had been moments before and was determined to 
seize it. 



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DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY 

“Umbridge has been reading your mail, Harry. There’s 
no other explanation.” 

“You think Umbridge attacked Hedwig?” he said, 
outraged. 

“I’m almost certain of it,” said Hermione grimly. 

“Watch your frog, it’s escaping.” 

Harry pointed his wand at the bullfrog that had been 
hopping hopefully toward the other side of the table 
— “Acciol ” — and it zoomed gloomily back into his 
hand. 

Charms was always one of the best lessons in which 
to enjoy a private chat: There was generally so much 
movement and activity that the danger of being 
overheard was very slight. Today, with the room full of 
croaking bullfrogs and cawing ravens, and with a 
heavy downpour of rain clattering and pounding 
against the classroom windows, Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione ’s whispered discussion about how 
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Umbridge had nearly caught Sirius went quite 
unnoticed. 

“I’ve been suspecting this ever since Filch accused 
you of ordering Dungbombs, because it seemed such 
a stupid lie,” Hermione whispered. “I mean, once your 
letter had been read, it would have been quite clear 
you weren’t ordering them, so you wouldn’t have been 
in trouble at all — it’s a bit of a feeble joke, isn’t it? 
But then I thought, what if somebody just wanted an 
excuse to read your mail? Well then, it would be a 
perfect way for Umbridge to manage it — tip off Filch, 
let him do the dirty work and confiscate the letter, 
then either find a way of stealing it from him or else 
demand to see it — I don’t think Filch would object, 
when’s he ever stuck up for a student’s rights? Harry, 
you’re squashing your frog.” 

Harry looked down; he was indeed squeezing his 
bullfrog so tightly its eyes were popping; he replaced 
it hastily upon the desk. 

“It was a very, very close call last night,” said 
Hermione. “I just wonder if Umbridge knows how 
close it was. Silenciol” 

The bullfrog on which she was practicing her 
Silencing Charm was struck dumb mid-croak and 
glared at her reproachfully. 

“If she’d caught Snuffles ...” 

Harry finished the sentence for her. 

“He’d probably be back in Azkaban this morning.” He 
waved his wand without really concentrating; his 
bullfrog swelled like a green balloon and emitted a 
high-pitched whistle. 



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“Silenciol” said Hermione hastily, pointing her wand 
at Harry’s frog, which deflated silently before them. 
“Well, he mustn’t do it again, that’s all. I just don’t 
know how we’re going to let him know. We can’t send 
him an owl.” 

“I don’t reckon he’ll risk it again,” said Ron. “He’s not 
stupid, he knows she nearly got him. Silenciol” 

The large and ugly raven in front of him let out a 
derisive caw. 

“ Silenciol SILENCIO” 

The raven cawed more loudly. 

“It’s the way you’re moving your wand,” said 
Hermione, watching Ron critically. “You don’t want to 
wave it, it’s more a sharp jab.” 

“Ravens are harder than frogs,” said Ron testily. 

“Fine, let’s swap,” said Hermione, seizing Ron’s raven 
and replacing it with her own fat bullfrog. “Silencio\” 
The raven continued to open and close its sharp beak, 
but no sound came out. 

“Very good, Miss Granger!” said Professor Flitwick’s 
squeaky little voice and Harry, Ron, and Hermione all 
jumped. “Now, let me see you try, Mr. Weasley!” 

“Wha — ? Oh — oh, right,” said Ron, very flustered. 
“Er — Silenciol” 

He jabbed at the bullfrog so hard that he poked it in 
the eye; the frog gave a deafening croak and leapt off 
the desk. 



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It came as no surprise to any of them that Harry and 
Ron were given additional practice of the Silencing 
Charm for homework. 

They were allowed to remain inside over break due to 
the downpour outside. They found seats in a noisy 
and overcrowded classroom on the first floor in which 
Peeves was floating dreamily up near the chandelier, 
occasionally blowing an ink pellet at the top of 
somebody’s head. They had barely sat down when 
Angelina came struggling toward them through the 
groups of gossiping students. 

“I’ve got permission!” she said. “To re-form the 
Quidditch team!” 

“Excellent.” said Ron and Harry together. 

“Yeah,” said Angelina, beaming. “I went to 
McGonagall and I think she might have appealed to 
Dumbledore — anyway, Umbridge had to give in. Ha! 
So I want you down at the pitch at seven o’clock 
tonight, all right, because we’ve got to make up time, 
you realize we’re only three weeks away from our first 
match?” 

She squeezed away from them, narrowly dodged an 
ink pellet from Peeves, which hit a nearby first year 
instead, and vanished from sight. 

Ron’s smile slipped slightly as he looked out of the 
window, which was now opaque with hammering 
rain. 

“Hope this clears up ... What’s up with you, 
Hermione?” 



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She too was gazing at the window, but not as though 
she really saw it. Her eyes were unfocused and there 
was a frown on her face. 

“Just thinking ...” she said, still frowning at the rain- 
washed window. 

“About Siri . . . Snuffles?” said Harry. 

“No ... not exactly ...” said Hermione slowly. “More ... 
wondering ... I suppose we’re doing the right thing ... 

I think ... aren’t we? 

Harry and Ron looked at each other. 

“Well, that clears that up,” said Ron. “It would’ve been 
really annoying if you hadn’t explained yourself 
properly.” 

Hermione looked at him as though she had only just 
realized he was there. 

“I was just wondering,” she said, her voice stronger 
now, “whether we’re doing the right thing, starting 
this Defense Against the Dark Arts group.” 

“What!” said Harry and Ron together. 

“Hermione, it was your idea in the first place!” said 
Ron indignantly. 

“I know,” said Hermione, twisting her fingers together. 
“But after talking to Snuffles ...” 

“But he’s all for it!” said Harry. 

“Yes,” said Hermione, staring at the window again. 
“Yes, that’s what made me think maybe it wasn’t a 
good idea after all...” 

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Peeves floated over them on his stomach, peashooter 
at the ready; automatically all three of them lifted 
their bags to cover their heads until he had passed. 

“Let’s get this straight,” said Harry angrily, as they 
put their bags back on the floor, “Sirius agrees with 
us, so you don’t think we should do it anymore?” 

Hermione looked tense and rather miserable. Now 
staring at her own hands she said, “Do you honestly 
trust his judgment?” 

“Yes, I do!” said Harry at once. “He’s always given us 
great advice!” 

An ink pellet whizzed past them, striking Katie Bell 
squarely in the ear. Hermione watched Katie leap to 
her feet and start throwing things at Peeves; it was a 
few moments before Hermione spoke again and it 
sounded as though she was choosing her words very 
carefully. 

“You don’t think he has become ... sort of ... reckless 
... since he’s been cooped up in Grimmauld Place? 

You don’t think he’s ... kind of ... living through us?” 

“What d’you mean, ‘living through us’?” Harry 
retorted. 

“I mean ... well, I think he’d love to be forming secret 
defense societies right under the nose of someone 
from the Ministry... I think he’s really frustrated at 
how little he can do where he is ... so I think he’s 
keen to kind of ... egg us on.” 

Ron looked utterly perplexed. 

“Sirius is right,” he said, “you do sound just like my 
mother.” 

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Hermione bit her lip and did not answer. The bell 
rang just as Peeves swooped down upon Katie and 
emptied an entire ink bottle over her head. 

The weather did not improve as the day wore on, so 
that at seven o’clock that evening, when Harry and 
Ron went down to the Quidditch pitch for practice, 
they were soaked through within minutes, their feet 
slipping and sliding on the sodden grass. The sky was 
a deep, thundery gray and it was a relief to gain the 
warmth and light of the changing rooms, even if they 
knew the respite was only temporary. They found 
Fred and George debating whether to use one of their 
own Skiving Snackboxes to get out of flying. 

“ — but I bet she’d know what we’d done,” Fred said 
out of the corner of his mouth. “If only I hadn’t offered 
to sell her some Puking Pastilles yesterday — ” 

“We could try the Fever Fudge,” George muttered, “no 
one’s seen that yet — ” 

“Does it work?” inquired Ron hopefully, as the 
hammering of rain on the roof intensified and wind 
howled around the building. 

“Well, yeah,” said Fred, “your temperature’ll go right 
up — ” 



“ — but you get these massive pus-filled boils too,” 
said George, “and we haven’t worked out how to get 
rid of them yet.” 

“I can’t see any boils,” said Ron, staring at the twins. 

“No, well, you wouldn’t,” said Fred darkly, “they’re not 
in a place we generally display to the public — ” 



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“ — but they make sitting on a broom a right pain in 
the — ” 



“All right, everyone, listen up,” said Angelina loudly, 
emerging from the Captain’s office. “I know it’s not 
ideal weather, but there’s a good chance we’ll be 
playing Slytherin in conditions like this so it’s a good 
idea to work out how we’re going to cope with them. 
Harry, didn’t you do something to your glasses to stop 
the rain fogging them up when we played Hufflepuff 
in that storm?” 

“Hermione did it,” said Harry. He pulled out his wand, 
tapped his glasses and said, “Imperviusl” 

“I think we all ought to try that,” said Angelina. “If we 
could just keep the rain off our faces it would really 
help visibility — all together, come on — Imperviusl 
Okay. Let’s go.” 

They all stowed their wands back in the inside 
pockets of their robes, shouldered their brooms, and 
followed Angelina out of the changing rooms. 

They squelched through the deepening mud to the 
middle of the pitch; visibility was still very poor even 
with the Impervius Charm; light was fading fast and 
curtains of rain were sweeping the grounds. 

“All right, on my whistle,” shouted Angelina. 

Harry kicked off from the ground, spraying mud in all 
directions, and shot upward, the wind pulling him 
slightly off course. He had no idea how he was going 
to see the Snitch in this weather; he was having 
enough difficulty seeing the one Bludger with which 
they were practicing; a minute into the practice it 
almost unseated him and he had to use the Sloth 
Grip Roll to avoid it. Unfortunately Angelina did not 
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see this; in fact, she did not appear to be able to see 
anything; none of them had a clue what the others 
were doing. The wind was picking up; even at a 
distance Harry could hear the swishing, pounding 
sounds of the rain pummeling the surface of the lake. 

Angelina kept them at it for nearly an hour before 
conceding defeat. She led her sodden and disgruntled 
team back into the changing rooms, insisting that the 
practice had not been a waste of time, though without 
any real conviction in her voice. Fred and George were 
looking particularly annoyed; both were bandy-legged 
and winced with every movement. Harry could hear 
them complaining in low voices as he toweled his hair 
dry. 

“I think a few of mine have ruptured,” said Fred in a 
hollow voice. 

“Mine haven’t,” said George, wincing. “They’re 
throbbing like mad ... feel bigger if anything ...” 

“OUCH!” said Harry. 

He pressed the towel to his face, his eyes screwed 
tight with pain. The scar on his forehead had seared 
again, more painfully than in months. 

“What’s up?” said several voices. 

Harry emerged from behind his towel; the changing 
room was blurred because he was not wearing his 
glasses; but he could still tell that everyone’s face was 
turned toward him. 

“Nothing,” he muttered, “I — poked myself in the eye, 
that’s all...” 



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But he gave Ron a significant look and the two of 
them hung back as the rest of the team filed back 
outside, muffled in their cloaks, their hats pulled low 
over their ears. 

“What happened?” said Ron, the moment that Alicia 
had disappeared through the door. “Was it your 
scar?” 

Harry nodded. 

“But ...” Looking scared, Ron strode across to the 
window and stared out into the rain, “He — he can’t 
be near us now, can he?” 

“No,” Harry muttered, sinking onto a bench and 
rubbing his forehead. “He’s probably miles away. It 
hurt because ... he’s ... angry.” 

Harry had not meant to say that at all, and heard the 
words as though a stranger had spoken them — yet 
he knew at once that they were true. He did not know 
how he knew it, but he did; Voldemort, wherever he 
was, whatever he was doing, was in a towering 
temper. 

“Did you see him?” said Ron, looking horrified. “Did 
you . . . get a vision, or something?” 

Harry sat quite still, staring at his feet, allowing his 
mind and his memory to relax in the aftermath of the 
pain... 

A confused tangle of shapes, a howling rush of voices 



“He wants something done, and it’s not happening 
fast enough,” he said. 



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Again, he felt surprised to hear the words coming out 
of his mouth, and yet quite certain that they were 
true. 

“But ... how do you know?” said Ron. 

Harry shook his head and covered his eyes with his 
hands, pressing down upon them with his palms. 
Little stars erupted in them. He felt Ron sit down on 
the bench beside him and knew Ron was staring at 
him. 

“Is this what it was about last time?” said Ron in a 
hushed voice. “When your scar hurt in Umbridge’s 
office? You-Know-Who was angry?” 

Harry shook his head. 

“What is it, then?” 

Harry was thinking himself back. He had been 
looking into Umbridge’s face... His scar had hurt ... 
and he had had that odd feeling in his stomach ... a 
strange, leaping feeling ... a happy feeling... But, of 
course, he had not recognized it for what it was, as he 
had been feeling so miserable himself. . . 

“Last time, it was because he was pleased,” he said. 
“Really pleased. 

“He thought ... something good was going to happen. 
And the night before we came back to Hogwarts ...” 

He thought back to the moment when his scar had 
hurt so badly in his and Ron’s bedroom in 
Grimmauld Place. “He was furious...” 

He looked around at Ron, who was gaping at him. 



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“You could take over from Trelawney, mate,” he said 
in an awed voice. 

“I’m not making prophecies,” said Harry. 

“No, you know what you’re doing?” Ron said, 
sounding both scared and impressed. “Harry, you’re 
reading You-Know-Who’s mind...” 

“No,” said Harry, shaking his head. “It’s more like ... 
his mood, I suppose. I’m just getting flashes of what 
mood he’s in... Dumbledore said something like this 
was happening last year. . . He said that when 
Voldemort was near me, or when he was feeling 
hatred, I could tell. Well, now I’m feeling it when he’s 
pleased too...” 

There was a pause. The wind and rain lashed at the 
building. 

“You’ve got to tell someone,” said Ron. 

“I told Sirius last time.” 

“Well, tell him about this time!” 

“Can’t, can I?” said Harry grimly. “Umbridge is 
watching the owls and the fires, remember?” 

“Well then, Dumbledore — ” 

“I’ve just told you, he already knows,” said Harry 
shortly, getting to his feet, taking his cloak off his peg, 
and swinging it around himself. “There’s no point 
telling him again.” 

Ron did up the fastening of his own cloak, watching 
Harry thoughtfully. 



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“Dumbledore’d want to know,” he said. 



Harry shrugged. 

“C’mon ... we’ve still got Silencing Charms to practice 



They hurried back through the dark grounds, sliding 
and stumbling up the muddy lawns, not talking. 

Harry was thinking hard. What was it that Voldemort 
wanted done that was not happening quickly enough? 

“He’s got other plans ... plans he can put into operation 
very quietly indeed . . . stuff he can only get by stealth 
... like a weapon. Something he didn’t have last time.” 

He had not thought about those words in weeks; he 
had been too absorbed in what was going on at 
Hogwarts, too busy dwelling on the ongoing battles 
with Umbridge, the injustice of all the Ministry 
interference... But now they came back to him and 
made him wonder... Voldemort’s anger would make 
sense if he was no nearer laying hands on the 
weapon, whatever it was... Had the Order thwarted 
him, stopped him from seizing it? Where was it kept? 
Who had it now? 

“Mimbulus mimbletonia,” said Ron’s voice and Harry 
came back to his senses just in time to clamber 
through the portrait hole into the common room. 

It appeared that Hermione had gone to bed early, 
leaving Crookshanks curled in a nearby chair and an 
assortment of knobbly, knitted elf hats lying on a 
table by the fire. Harry was rather grateful that she 
was not around because he did not much want to 
discuss his scar hurting and have her urge him to go 
to Dumbledore too. Ron kept throwing him anxious 
glances, but Harry pulled out his Potions book and 
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set to work to finish his essay, though he was only 
pretending to concentrate and, by the time that Ron 
said he was going to bed too, had written hardly 
anything. 

Midnight came and went while Harry was reading and 
rereading a passage about the uses of scurvy-grass, 
lovage, and sneezewort and not taking in a word of 
it... 

These plantes are moste efficacious in the inflaming 
of the braine, and are therefore much used in 
Confusing and Befuddlement Draughts, where the 
wizard is desirous of producing hot-headedness and 
recklessness... 

... Hermione said Sirius was becoming reckless 
cooped up in Grimmauld Place... 

. . . moste efficacious in the inflaming of the braine, and 
are therefore much used . . . 

. . . the Daily Prophet would think his brain was 
inflamed if they found out that he knew what 
Voldemort was feeling ... 

. . . therefore much used in Confusing and 
Befuddlement Draughts . . . 

. . . confusing was the word, all right; why did he know 
what Voldemort was feeling? What was this weird 
connection between them, which Dumbledore had 
never been able to explain satisfactorily? 

. . . where the wizard is desirous . . . 

. . . how he would like to sleep . . . 

...of producing hot-headedness . . . 

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... It was warm and comfortable in his armchair 
before the fire, with the rain still beating heavily on 
the windowpanes and Crookshanks purring and the 
crackling of the flames... 

The book slipped from Harry’s slack grip and landed 
with a dull thud on the hearthrug. His head fell 
sideways... 

He was walking once more along a windowless 
corridor, his footsteps echoing in the silence. As the 
door at the end of the passage loomed larger his heart 
beat fast with excitement... If he could only open it ... 
enter beyond . . . 

He stretched out his hand... His fingertips were 
inches from it... 

“Harry Potter, sir!” 

He awoke with a start. The candles had all been 
extinguished in the common room, but there was 
something moving close by. 

“Whozair?” said Harry, sitting upright in his chair. 

The fire was almost extinguished, the room very dark. 

“Dobby has your owl, sir!” said a squeaky voice. 

“Dobby?” said Harry thickly, peering through the 
gloom toward the source of the voice. 

Dobby the house-elf was standing beside the table on 
which Hermione had left her half a dozen knitted 
hats. His large, pointed ears were now sticking out 
from beneath what looked like all the hats that 
Hermione had ever knitted; he was wearing one on 
top of the other, so that his head seemed elongated by 



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two or three feet, and on the very topmost bobble sat 
Hedwig, hooting serenely and obviously cured. 



“Dobby volunteered to return Harry Potter’s owl!” said 
the elf squeakily, with a look of positive adoration on 
his face. “Professor Grubbly-Plank says she is all well 
now, sir!” 

He sank into a deep bow so that his pencil-like nose 
brushed the threadbare surface of the hearthrug and 
Hedwig gave an indignant hoot and fluttered onto the 
arm of Harry’s chair. 

“Thanks, Dobby!” said Harry, stroking Hedwig’s head 
and blinking hard, trying to rid himself of the image 
of the door in his dream... It had been very vivid... 
Looking back at Dobby, he noticed that the elf was 
also wearing several scarves and innumerable socks, 
so that his feet looked far too big for his body. 

“Er . . . have you been taking all the clothes 
Hermione’s been leaving out?” 

“Oh no, sir,” said Dobby happily, “Dobby has been 
taking some for Winky too, sir.” 

“Yeah, how is Winky?” asked Harry. 

Dobby’s ears drooped slightly. 

“Winky is still drinking lots, sir,” he said sadly, his 
enormous round green eyes, large as tennis balls, 
downcast. “She still does not care for clothes, Harry 
Potter. Nor do the other house-elves. None of them 
will clean Gryffindor Tower anymore, not with the 
hats and socks hidden everywhere, they finds them 
insulting, sir. Dobby does it all himself, sir, but 
Dobby does not mind, sir, for he always hopes to meet 
Harry Potter and tonight, sir, he has got his wish!” 
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Dobby sank into a deep bow again. “But Harry Potter 
does not seem happy,” Dobby went on, straightening 
up again and looking timidly at Harry. “Dobby heard 
him muttering in his sleep. Was Harry Potter having 
bad dreams?” 

“Not really bad,” said Harry, yawning and rubbing his 
eyes. “I’ve had worse.” 

The elf surveyed Harry out of his vast, orblike eyes. 
Then he said very seriously, his ears drooping, 

“Dobby wishes he could help Harry Potter, for Harry 
Potter set Dobby free and Dobby is much, much 
happier now...” 

Harry smiled. 

“You can’t help me, Dobby, but thanks for the offer...” 

He bent and picked up his Potions book. He’d have to 
try and finish the essay tomorrow. He closed the book 
and as he did so the firelight illuminated the thin 
white scars on the back of his hand — the result of 
his detention with Umbridge. 

“Wait a moment — there is something you can do for 
me, Dobby,” said Harry slowly. 

The elf looked around, beaming. 

“Name it, Harry Potter, sir!” 

“I need to find a place where twenty-eight people can 
practice Defense Against the Dark Arts without being 
discovered by any of the teachers. Especially,” Harry 
clenched his hand on the book, so that the scars 
shone pearly white, “Professor Umbridge.” 



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He expected the elf’s smile to vanish, his ears to 
droop; he expected him to say that this was 
impossible, or else that he would try, but his hopes 
were not high... What he had not expected was for 
Dobby to give a little skip, his ears waggling happily, 
and clap his hands together. 

“Dobby knows the perfect place, sir!” he said happily. 
“Dobby heard tell of it from the other house-elves 
when he came to Hogwarts, sir. It is known by us as 
the Come and Go Room, sir, or else as the Room of 
Requirement!” 

“Why?” said Harry curiously. 

“Because it is a room that a person can only enter,” 
said Dobby seriously, “when they have real need of it. 
Sometimes it is there, and sometimes it is not, but 
when it appears, it is always equipped for the seeker’s 
needs. Dobby has used it, sir,” said the elf, dropping 
his voice and looking guilty, “when Winky has been 
very drunk. He has hidden her in the Room of 
Requirement and he has found antidotes to 
butterbeer there, and a nice elf-sized bed to settle her 
on while she sleeps it off, sir... And Dobby knows Mr. 
Filch has found extra cleaning materials there when 
he has run short, sir, and — ” 

“ — and if you really needed a bathroom,” said Harry, 
suddenly remembering something Dumbledore had 
said at the Yule Ball the previous Christmas, “would 
it fill itself with chamber pots?” 

“Dobby expects so, sir,” said Dobby, nodding 
earnestly. “It is a most amazing room, sir.” 

“How many people know about it?” said Harry, sitting 
up straighter in his chair. 



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“Very few, sir. Mostly people stumbles across it when 
they needs it, sir, but often they never finds it again, 
for they do not know that it is always there waiting to 
be called into service, sir.” 

“It sounds brilliant,” said Harry, his heart racing. “It 
sounds perfect, Dobby. When can you show me where 
it is?” 



“Anytime, Harry Potter, sir,” said Dobby, looking 
delighted at Harry’s enthusiasm. “We could go now, if 
you like!” 

For a moment Harry was tempted to go now; he was 
halfway out of his seat, intending to hurry upstairs 
for his Invisibility Cloak when, not for the first time, a 
voice very much like Hermione’s whispered in his ear: 
reckless. It was, after all, very late, he was exhausted 
and had Snape’s essay to finish. 

“Not tonight, Dobby,” said Harry reluctantly, sinking 
back into his chair. “This is really important... I don’t 
want to blow it, it’ll need proper planning... Listen, 
can you just tell me exactly where this Room of 
Requirement is and how to get in there?” 

Their robes billowed and swirled around them as they 
splashed across the flooded vegetable patch to double 
Herbology, where they could hardly hear what 
Professor Sprout was saying over the hammering of 
raindrops hard as hailstones on the greenhouse roof. 
The afternoon’s Care of Magical Creatures lesson was 
to be relocated from the storm-swept grounds to a 
free classroom on the ground floor and, to their 
intense relief, Angelina sought out her team at lunch 
to tell them that Quidditch practice was canceled. 

“Good,” said Harry quietly, when she told him, 
“because we’ve found somewhere to have our first 

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Defense meeting. Tonight, eight o’clock, seventh floor 
opposite that tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy being 
clubbed by those trolls. Can you tell Katie and 
Alicia?” 

She looked slightly taken aback but promised to tell 
the others; Harry returned hungrily to his sausages 
and mash. When he looked up to take a drink of 
pumpkin juice, he found Hermione watching him. 

“What?” he said thickly. 

“Well ... it’s just that Dobby’s plans aren’t always that 
safe. Don’t you remember when he lost you all the 
bones in your arm?” 

“This room isn’t just some mad idea of Dobby’s; 
Dumbledore knows about it too, he mentioned it to 
me at the Yule Ball.” 

Hermione’s expression cleared. 

“Dumbledore told you about it?” 

“Just in passing,” said Harry, shrugging. 

“Oh well, that’s all right then,” said Hermione briskly 
and she raised no more objections. 

Together with Ron they had spent most of the day 
seeking out those people who had signed their names 
to the list in the Hog’s Head and telling them where to 
meet that evening. Somewhat to Harry’s 
disappointment, it was Ginny who managed to find 
Cho Chang and her friend first; however, by the end 
of dinner he was confident that the news had been 
passed to every one of the twenty-five people who had 
turned up in the Hog’s Head. 



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At half-past seven Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the 
Gryffindor common room, Harry clutching a certain 
piece of aged parchment in his hand. Fifth years were 
allowed to be out in the corridors until nine o’clock, 
but all three of them kept looking around nervously 
as they made their way up to the seventh floor. 

“Hold it,” said Harry warningly, unfolding the piece of 
parchment at the top of the last staircase, tapping it 
with his wand, and muttering, “I solemnly swear that 
I am up to no good.” 

A map of Hogwarts appeared upon the blank surface 
of the parchment. Tiny black moving dots, labeled 
with names, showed where various people were. 

“Filch is on the second floor,” said Harry, holding the 
map close to his eyes and scanning it closely, “and 
Mrs. Norris is on the fourth.” 

“And Umbridge?” said Hermione anxiously. 

“In her office,” said Harry, pointing. “Okay, let’s go.” 

They hurried along the corridor to the place Dobby 
had described to Harry, a stretch of blank wall 
opposite an enormous tapestry depicting Barnabas 
the Barmy’s foolish attempt to train trolls for the 
ballet. 

“Okay,” said Harry quietly, while a moth-eaten troll 
paused in his relentless clubbing of the would-be 
ballet teacher to watch. “Dobby said to walk past this 
bit of wall three times, concentrating hard on what we 
need.” 

They did so, turning sharply at the window just 
beyond the blank stretch of wall, then at the man-size 
vase on its other side. Ron had screwed up his eyes in 

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concentration, Hermione was whispering something 
under her breath, Harry’s fists were clenched as he 
stared ahead of him. 

We need somewhere to learn to fight... he thought. 

Just give us a place to practice ... somewhere they 
can’t find us ... 

“Harry,” said Hermione sharply, as they wheeled 
around after their third walk past. 

A highly polished door had appeared in the wall. Ron 
was staring at it, looking slightly wary. Harry reached 
out, seized the brass handle, pulled open the door, 
and led the way into a spacious room lit with 
flickering torches like those that illuminated the 
dungeons eight floors below. 

The walls were lined with wooden bookcases, and 
instead of chairs there were large silk cushions on the 
floor. A set of shelves at the far end of the room 
carried a range of instruments such as Sneakoscopes, 
Secrecy Sensors, and a large, cracked Foe-Glass that 
Harry was sure had hung, the previous year, in the 
fake Moody’s office. 

“These will be good when we’re practicing Stunning,” 
said Ron enthusiastically, prodding one of the 
cushions with his foot. 

“And just look at these books!” said Hermione 
excitedly, running a finger along the spines of the 
large leather-bound tomes. “A Compendium of 
Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions ... The 
Dark Arts Outsmarted ... Self-Defensive Spellwork ... 
wow ...” She looked around at Harry, her face 
glowing, and he saw that the presence of hundreds of 
books had finally convinced Hermione that what they 



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were doing was right. “Harry, this is wonderful, 
there’s everything we need here!” 

And without further ado she slid Jinxes for the Jinxed 
from its shelf, sank onto the nearest cushion, and 
began to read. 

There was a gentle knock on the door. Harry looked 
around; Ginny, Neville, Lavender, Parvati, and Dean 
had arrived. 

“Whoa,” said Dean, staring around, impressed. “What 
is this place?” 

Harry began to explain, but before he had finished 
more people had arrived, and he had to start all over 
again. By the time eight o’clock arrived, every cushion 
was occupied. Harry moved across to the door and 
turned the key protruding from the lock; it clicked in 
a satisfyingly loud way and everybody fell silent, 
looking at him. Hermione carefully marked her page 
of Jinxes for the Jinxed and set the book aside. 

“Well,” said Harry, slightly nervously. “This is the 
place we’ve found for practices, and you’ve — er — 
obviously found it okay — ” 

“It’s fantastic!” said Cho, and several people 
murmured their agreement. 

“It’s bizarre,” said Fred, frowning around at it. “We 
once hid from Filch in here, remember, George? But it 
was just a broom cupboard then...” 

“Hey, Harry, what’s this stuff?” asked Dean from the 
rear of the room, indicating the Sneakoscopes and the 
Foe-Glass. 



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“Dark Detectors,” said Harry, stepping between the 
cushions to reach them. “Basically they all show 
when Dark wizards or enemies are around, but you 
don’t want to rely on them too much, they can be 
fooled...” 

He gazed for a moment into the cracked Foe-Glass; 
shadowy figures were moving around inside it, though 
none was recognizable. He turned his back on it. 

“Well, I’ve been thinking about the sort of stuff we 
ought to do first and — er — ” He noticed a raised 
hand. “What, Hermione?” 

“I think we ought to elect a leader,” said Hermione. 

“Harry’s leader,” said Cho at once, looking at 
Hermione as though she were mad, and Harry’s 
stomach did yet another back flip. 

“Yes, but I think we ought to vote on it properly,” said 
Hermione, unperturbed. “It makes it formal and it 
gives him authority. So — everyone who thinks Harry 
ought to be our leader?” 

Everybody put up their hands, even Zacharias Smith, 
though he did it very halfheartedly. 

“Er — right, thanks,” said Harry, who could feel his 
face burning. “And — what, Hermione?” 

“I also think we ought to have a name,” she said 
brightly, her hand still in the air. “It would promote a 
feeling of team spirit and unity, don’t you think?” 

“Can we be the Anti-Umbridge League?” said Angelina 
hopefully. 



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“Or the Ministry of Magic Are Morons Group?” 
suggested Fred. 

“I was thinking,” said Hermione, frowning at Fred, 
“more of a name that didn’t tell everyone what we 
were up to, so we can refer to it safely outside 
meetings.” 

“The Defense Association?” said Cho. “The D.A. for 
short, so nobody knows what we’re talking about?” 

“Yeah, the D.A.’s good,” said Ginny. “Only let’s make 
it stand for Dumbledore’s Army because that’s the 
Ministry’s worst fear, isn’t it?” 

There was a good deal of appreciative murmuring and 
laughter at this. 

“All in favor of the D.A.?” said Hermione bossily, 
kneeling up on her cushion to count. “That’s a 
majority — motion passed!” 

She pinned the piece of paper with all of their names 
on it on the wall and wrote DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY 
across the top in large letters. 

“Right,” said Harry, when she had sat down again, 
“shall we get practicing then? I was thinking, the first 
thing we should do is Expelliarmus, you know, the 
Disarming Charm. I know it’s pretty basic but I’ve 
found it really useful — ” 

“Oh please,” said Zacharias Smith, rolling his eyes 
and folding his arms. “I don’t think Expelliarmus is 
exactly going to help us against You-Know-Who, do 
you?” 

“I’ve used it against him,” said Harry quietly. “It saved 
my life last June.” 

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Smith opened his mouth stupidly. The rest of the 
room was very quiet. 

“But if you think it’s beneath you, you can leave,” 
Harry said. 

Smith did not move. Nor did anybody else. 

“Okay,” said Harry, his mouth slightly drier than 
usual with all those eyes upon him, “I reckon we 
should all divide into pairs and practice.” 

It felt very odd to be issuing instructions, but not 
nearly as odd as seeing them followed. Everybody got 
to their feet at once and divided up. Predictably, 
Neville was left partnerless. 

“You can practice with me,” Harry told him. “Right — 
on the count of three, then — one, two, three — ” 

The room was suddenly full of shouts of 
“Expelliarmusl”: Wands flew in all directions, missed 
spells hit books on shelves and sent them flying into 
the air. Harry was too quick for Neville, whose wand 
went spinning out of his hand, hit the ceiling in a 
shower of sparks, and landed with a clatter on top of 
a bookshelf, from which Harry retrieved it with a 
Summoning Charm. Glancing around he thought he 
had been right to suggest that they practice the 
basics first; there was a lot of shoddy spellwork going 
on; many people were not succeeding in disarming 
their opponents at all, but merely causing them to 
jump backward a few paces or wince as the feeble 
spell whooshed over them. 

“Expelliarmusl” said Neville, and Harry, caught 
unawares, felt his wand fly out of his hand. 



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“I DID IT!” said Neville gleefully. “I’ve never done it 
before — I DID IT!” 



“Good one!” said Harry encouragingly, deciding not to 
point out that in a real duel situation Neville’s 
opponent was unlikely to be staring in the opposite 
direction with his wand held loosely at his side. 
“Listen, Neville, can you take it in turns to practice 
with Ron and Hermione for a couple of minutes so I 
can walk around and see how the rest are doing?” 

Harry moved off into the middle of the room. 
Something very odd was happening to Zacharias 
Smith; every time he opened his mouth to disarm 
Anthony Goldstein, his own wand would fly out of his 
hand, yet Anthony did not seem to be making a 
sound. Harry did not have to look far for the solution 
of the mystery, however; Fred and George were 
several feet from Smith and taking it in turns to point 
their wands at his back. 

“Sorry, Harry,” said George hastily, when Harry 
caught his eye. “Couldn’t resist ...” 

Harry walked around the other pairs, trying to correct 
those who were doing the spell wrong. Ginny was 
teamed with Michael Corner; she was doing very well, 
whereas Michael was either very bad or unwilling to 
jinx her. Ernie Macmillan was flourishing his wand 
unnecessarily, giving his partner time to get in under 
his guard; the Creevey brothers were enthusiastic but 
erratic and mainly responsible for all the books 
leaping off the shelves around them. Luna Lovegood 
was similarly patchy, occasionally sending Justin 
Finch-Fletchley’s wand spinning out of his hand, at 
other times merely causing his hair to stand on end. 

“Okay, stop!” Harry shouted. “Stop\ STOP.” 

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I need a whistle, he thought, and immediately spotted 
one lying on top of the nearest row of books. He 
caught it up and blew hard. Everyone lowered their 
wands. 

“That wasn’t bad,” said Harry, “but there’s definite 
room for improvement.” Zacharias Smith glared at 
him. “Let’s try again...” 

He moved off around the room again, stopping here 
and there to make suggestions. Slowly the general 
performance improved. He avoided going near Cho 
and her friend for a while, but after walking twice 
around every other pair in the room felt he could not 
ignore them any longer. 

“Oh no,” said Cho rather wildly as he approached. 

“ Expelliarmiousl I mean, Exnellimellius\ I — oh, sorry, 
Marietta!” 

Her curly-haired friend’s sleeve had caught fire; 
Marietta extinguished it with her own wand and 
glared at Harry as though it was his fault. 

“You made me nervous, I was doing all right before 
then!” Cho told Harry ruefully. 

“That was quite good,” Harry lied, but when she 
raised her eyebrows he said, “Well, no, it was lousy, 
but I know you can do it properly, I was watching 
from over there...” 

She laughed. Her friend Marietta looked at them 
rather sourly and turned away. 

“Don’t mind her,” Cho muttered. “She doesn’t really 
want to be here but I made her come with me. Her 
parents have forbidden her to do anything that might 



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upset Umbridge, you see — her mum works for the 
Ministry.” 

“What about your parents?” asked Harry. 

“Well, they’ve forbidden me to get on the wrong side of 
Umbridge too,” said Cho, drawing herself up proudly. 
“But if they think I’m not going to fight You-Know- 
Who after what happened to Cedric — ” 

She broke off, looking rather confused, and an 
awkward silence fell between them; Terry Boot’s wand 
went whizzing past Harry’s ear and hit Alicia Spinnet 
hard on the nose. 

“Well, my father is very supportive of any anti- 
Ministry action!” said Luna Lovegood proudly from 
just behind Harry; evidently she had been 
eavesdropping on his conversation while Justin 
Finch-Fletchley attempted to disentangle himself from 
the robes that had flown up over his head. “He’s 
always saying he’d believe anything of Fudge, I mean, 
the number of goblins Fudge has had assassinated! 
And of course he uses the Department of Mysteries to 
develop terrible poisons, which he feeds secretly to 
anybody who disagrees with him. And then there’s his 
Umgubular Slashkilter — ” 

“Don’t ask,” Harry muttered to Cho as she opened her 
mouth, looking puzzled. She giggled. 

“Hey, Harry,” Hermione called from the other end of 
the room, “have you checked the time?” 

He looked down at his watch and received a shock — 
it was already ten past nine, which meant they 
needed to get back to their common rooms 
immediately or risk being caught and punished by 
Filch for being out-of-bounds. He blew his whistle; 
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everybody stopped shouting, “ Expelliarmusl” and the 
last couple of wands clattered to the floor. 

“Well, that was pretty good,” said Harry, “but we’ve 
overrun, we’d better leave it here. Same time, same 
place next week?” 

“Sooner!” said Dean Thomas eagerly and many people 
nodded in agreement. 

Angelina, however, said quickly, “The Quidditch 
season’s about to start, we need team practices too!” 

“Let’s say next Wednesday night, then,” said Harry, 
“and we can decide on additional meetings then... 
Come on, we’d better get going...” 

He pulled out the Marauder’s Map again and checked 
it carefully for signs of teachers on the seventh floor. 
He let them all leave in threes and fours, watching 
their tiny dots anxiously to see that they returned 
safely to their dormitories: the Hufflepuffs to the 
basement corridor that also led to the kitchens, the 
Ravenclaws to a tower on the west side of the castle, 
and the Gryffindors along the corridor to the seventh 
floor and the Fat Lady’s portrait. 

“That was really, really good, Harry,” said Hermione, 
when finally it was just her, Harry, and Ron left. 

“Yeah, it was!” said Ron enthusiastically, as they 
slipped out of the door and watched it melt back into 
stone behind them. “Did you see me disarm 
Hermione, Harry?” 

“Only once,” said Hermione, stung. “I got you loads 
more than you got me — ” 



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“I did not only get you once, I got you at least three 
times — ” 

“Well, if you’re counting the one where you tripped 
over your own feet and knocked the wand out of my 
hand — ” 

They argued all the way back to the common room, 
but Harry was not listening to them. He had one eye 
on the Marauder’s Map, but he was also thinking of 
how Cho had said he made her nervous... 



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THE LION AND THE SERPENT 

Harry felt as though he were carrying some kind of 
talisman inside his chest over the following two 
weeks, a glowing secret that supported him through 
Umbridge’s classes and even made it possible for him 
to smile blandly as he looked into her horrible bulging 
eyes. He and the D.A. were resisting her under her 
very nose, doing the very thing that she and the 
Ministry most feared, and whenever he was supposed 
to be reading Wilbert Slinkhard’s book during her 
lessons he dwelled instead on satisfying memories of 
their most recent meetings, remembering how Neville 
had successfully disarmed Hermione, how Colin 
Creevey had mastered the Impediment Jinx after 
three meetings’ hard effort, how Parvati Patil had 
produced such a good Reductor Curse that she had 
reduced the table carrying all the Sneakoscopes to 
dust. 

He was finding it almost impossible to fix a regular 
night of the week for D.A. meetings, as they had to 
accommodate three separate Quidditch teams’ 
practices, which were often rearranged depending on 

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the weather conditions; but Harry was not sorry 
about this, he had a feeling that it was probably 
better to keep the timing of their meetings 
unpredictable. If anyone was watching them, it would 
be hard to make out a pattern. 

Hermione soon devised a very clever method of 
communicating the time and date of the next meeting 
to all the members in case they needed to change it at 
short notice, because it would look so suspicious if 
people from different Houses were seen crossing the 
Great Hall to talk to each other too often. She gave 
each of the members of the D.A. a fake Galleon (Ron 
became very excited when he saw the basket at first, 
convinced that she was actually giving out gold). 

“You see the numerals around the edge of the coins?” 
Hermione said, holding one up for examination at the 
end of their fourth meeting. The coin gleamed fat and 
yellow in the light from the torches. “On real Galleons 
that’s just a serial number referring to the goblin who 
cast the coin. On these fake coins, though, the 
numbers will change to reflect the time and date of 
the next meeting. The coins will grow hot when the 
date changes, so if you’re carrying them in a pocket 
you’ll be able to feel them. We take one each, and 
when Harry sets the date of the next meeting he’ll 
change the numbers on his coin, and because I’ve put 
a Protean Charm on them, they’ll all change to mimic 
his.” 

A blank silence greeted Hermione ’s words. She looked 
around at all the faces upturned to her, rather 
disconcerted. 

“Well — I thought it was a good idea,” she said 
uncertainly, “I mean, even if Umbridge asked us to 
turn out our pockets, there’s nothing fishy about 



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carrying a Galleon, is there? But ... well, if you don’t 
want to use them ...” 

“You can do a Protean Charm?” said Terry Boot. 

“Yes,” said Hermione. 

“But that’s ... that’s N.E.W.T. standard, that is,” he 
said weakly. 

“Oh,” said Hermione, trying to look modest. “Oh ... 
well ... yes, I suppose it is...” 

“How come you’re not in Ravenclaw?” he demanded, 
staring at Hermione with something close to wonder. 
“With brains like yours?” 

“Well, the Sorting Hat did seriously consider putting 
me in Ravenclaw during my Sorting,” said Hermione 
brightly, “but it decided on Gryffindor in the end. So 
does that mean we’re using the Galleons?” 

There was a murmur of assent and everybody moved 
forward to collect one from the basket. Harry looked 
sideways at Hermione. 

“You know what these remind me of?” 

“No, what’s that?” 

“The Death Eaters’ scars. Voldemort touches one of 
them, and all their scars burn, and they know they’ve 
got to join him.” 

“Well ... yes,” said Hermione quietly. “That is where I 
got the idea ... but you’ll notice I decided to engrave 
the date on bits of metal rather than on our members’ 
skin...” 



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“Yeah ... I prefer your way,” said Harry, grinning, as 
he slipped his Galleon into his pocket. “I suppose the 
only danger with these is that we might accidentally 
spend them.” 

“Fat chance,” said Ron, who was examining his own 
fake Galleon with a slightly mournful air. “I haven’t 
got any real Galleons to confuse it with.” 

As the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor 
versus Slytherin, drew nearer, their D.A. meetings 
were put on hold because Angelina insisted on almost 
daily practices. The fact that the Quidditch Cup had 
not been held for so long added considerably to the 
interest and excitement surrounding the forthcoming 
game. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were taking a 
lively interest in the outcome, for they, of course, 
would be playing both teams over the coming year; 
and the Heads of House of the competing teams, 
though they attempted to disguise it under a decent 
pretense of sportsmanship, were determined to see 
their side’s victory. Harry realized how much 
Professor McGonagall cared about beating Slytherin 
when she abstained from giving them homework in 
the week leading up to the match. 

“I think you’ve got enough to be getting on with at the 
moment,” she said loftily. Nobody could quite believe 
their ears until she looked directly at Harry and Ron 
and said grimly, “I’ve become accustomed to seeing 
the Quidditch Cup in my study, boys, and I really 
don’t want to have to hand it over to Professor Snape, 
so use the extra time to practice, won’t you?” 

Snape was no less obviously partisan: He had booked 
the Quidditch pitch for Slytherin practice so often 
that the Gryffindors had difficulty getting on it to 
play. He was also turning a deaf ear to the many 
reports of Slytherin attempts to hex Gryffindor 
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players in the corridors. When Alicia Spinnet turned 
up in the hospital wing with her eyebrows growing so 
thick and fast that they obscured her vision and 
obstructed her mouth, Snape insisted that she must 
have attempted a Hair-Thickening Charm on herself 
and refused to listen to the fourteen eyewitnesses who 
insisted that they had seen the Slytherin Keeper, 

Miles Bletchley, hit her from behind with a jinx while 
she worked in the library. 

Harry felt optimistic about Gryffindor’s chances; they 
had, after all, never lost to Malfoy’s team. Admittedly 
Ron was still not performing to Wood’s standard, but 
he was working extremely hard to improve. His 
greatest weakness was a tendency to lose confidence 
when he made a blunder; if he let in one goal he 
became flustered and was therefore likely to miss 
more. On the other hand, Harry had seen Ron make 
some truly spectacular saves when he was on form: 
During one memorable practice, he had hung one- 
handed from his broom and kicked the Quaffle so 
hard away from the goal hoop that it soared the 
length of the pitch and through the center hoop at the 
other end. The rest of the team felt this save 
compared favorably with one made recently by Barry 
Ryan, the Irish International Keeper, against Poland’s 
top Chaser, Ladislaw Zamojski. Even Fred had said 
that Ron might yet make him and George proud, and 
that they were seriously considering admitting that he 
was related to them, something he assured Ron they 
had been trying to deny for four years. 

The only thing really worrying Harry was how much 
Ron was allowing the tactics of the Slytherin team to 
upset him before they even got onto the pitch. Harry, 
of course, had endured their snide comments for 
more than four years, so whispers of, “Hey, Potty, I 
heard Warrington’s sworn to knock you off your 
broom on Saturday,” far from chilling his blood, made 
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him laugh. “Warrington’s aim’s so pathetic I’d be 
more worried if he was aiming for the person next to 
me,” he retorted, which made Ron and Hermione 
laugh and wiped the smirk off Pansy Parkinson’s face. 

But Ron had never endured a relentless campaign of 
insults, jeers, and intimidation. When Slytherins, 
some of them seventh years and considerably larger 
than he was, muttered as they passed in the 
corridors, “Got your bed booked in the hospital wing, 
Weasley?” he did not laugh, but turned a delicate 
shade of green. When Draco Malfoy imitated Ron 
dropping the Quaffle (which he did whenever they 
were within sight of each other), Ron’s ears glowed 
red and his hands shook so badly that he was likely 
to drop whatever he was holding at the time too. 

October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds 
and driving rain and November arrived, cold as frozen 
iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy drafts 
that bit at exposed hands and faces. The skies and 
the ceiling of the Great Hall turned a pale, pearly 
gray, the mountains around Hogwarts became 
snowcapped, and the temperature in the castle 
dropped so far that many students wore their thick 
protective dragon skin gloves in the corridors between 
lessons. 

The morning of the match dawned bright and cold. 
When Harry awoke he looked around at Ron’s bed 
and saw him sitting bolt upright, his arms around his 
knees, staring fixedly into space. 

“You all right?” said Harry. 

Ron nodded but did not speak. Harry was reminded 
forcibly of the time that Ron had accidentally put a 
slug- vomiting charm on himself. He looked just as 



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pale and sweaty as he had done then, not to mention 
as reluctant to open his mouth. 



“You just need some breakfast,” Harry said bracingly. 
“C’mon.” 

The Great Hall was filling up fast when they arrived, 
the talk louder and the mood more exuberant than 
usual. As they passed the Slytherin table there was 
an upsurge of noise; Harry looked around and saw 
that nearly everyone there was wearing, in addition to 
the usual green-and-silver scarves and hats, silver 
badges in the shape of what seemed to be crowns. For 
some reason many of them waved at Ron, laughing 
uproariously. Harry tried to see what was written on 
the badges as he walked by, but he was too 
concerned to get Ron past their table quickly to linger 
long enough to read them. 

They received a rousing welcome at the Gryffindor 
table, where everyone was wearing red and gold, but 
far from raising Ron’s spirits the cheers seemed to 
sap the last of his morale; he collapsed onto the 
nearest bench looking as though he were facing his 
final meal. 

“I must’ve been mental to do this,” he said in a croaky 
whisper. “Mental.” 

“Don’t be thick,” said Harry firmly, passing him a 
choice of cereals. “You’re going to be fine. It’s normal 
to be nervous.” 

“I’m rubbish,” croaked Ron. “I’m lousy. I can’t play to 
save my life. What was I thinking?” 

“Get a grip,” said Harry sternly. “Look at that save 
you made with your foot the other day, even Fred and 
George said it was brilliant — ” 

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Ron turned a tortured face to Harry. 



“That was an accident,” he whispered miserably. “I 
didn’t mean to do it — I slipped off my broom when 
none of you were looking and I was trying to get back 
on and I kicked the Quaffle by accident.” 

“Well,” said Harry, recovering quickly from this 
unpleasant surprise, “a few more accidents like that 
and the game’s in the bag, isn’t it?” 

Hermione and Ginny sat down opposite them wearing 
red-and-gold scarves, gloves, and rosettes. 

“How’re you feeling?” Ginny asked Ron, who was now 
staring into the dregs of milk at the bottom of his 
empty cereal bowl as though seriously considering 
attempting to drown himself in them. 

“He’s just nervous,” said Harry. 

“Well, that’s a good sign, I never feel you perform as 
well in exams if you’re not a bit nervous,” said 
Hermione heartily. 

“Hello,” said a vague and dreamy voice from behind 
them. Harry looked up: Luna Lovegood had drifted 
over from the Ravenclaw table. Many people were 
staring at her and a few openly laughing and 
pointing; she had managed to procure a hat shaped 
like a life-size lion’s head, which was perched 
precariously on her head. 

“I’m supporting Gryffindor,” said Luna, pointing 
unnecessarily at her hat. “Look what it does...” 

She reached up and tapped the hat with her wand. It 
opened its mouth wide and gave an extremely realistic 
roar that made everyone in the vicinity jump. 

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“It’s good, isn’t it?” said Luna happily. “I wanted to 
have it chewing up a serpent to represent Slytherin, 
you know, but there wasn’t time. Anyway ... good 
luck, Ronald!” 

She drifted away. They had not quite recovered from 
the shock of Luna’s hat before Angelina came 
hurrying toward them, accompanied by Katie and 
Alicia, whose eyebrows had mercifully been returned 
to normal by Madam Pomfrey. 

“When you’re ready,” she said, “we’re going to go 
straight down to the pitch, check out conditions and 
change.” 

“We’ll be there in a bit,” Harry assured her. “Ron’s 
just got to have some breakfast.” 

It became clear after ten minutes, however, that Ron 
was not capable of eating anything more and Harry 
thought it best to get him down to the changing 
rooms. As they rose from the table, Hermione got up 
too, and taking Harry’s arm, she drew him to one 
side. 

“Don’t let Ron see what’s on those Slytherins’ 
badges,” she whispered urgently. 

Harry looked questioningly at her, but she shook her 
head warningly; Ron had just ambled over to them, 
looking lost and desperate. 

“Good luck, Ron,” said Hermione, standing on tiptoe 
and kissing him on the cheek. “And you, Harry — ” 

Ron seemed to come to himself slightly as they 
walked back across the Great Hall. He touched the 
spot on his face where Hermione had kissed him, 
looking puzzled, as though he was not quite sure 

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what had just happened. He seemed too distracted to 
notice much around him, but Harry cast a curious 
glance at the crown-shaped badges as they passed 
the Slytherin table, and this time he made out the 
words etched onto them: 

WEASLEY 

IS OUR KING 

With an unpleasant feeling that this could mean 
nothing good, he hurried Ron across the entrance 
hall, down the stone steps, and out into the icy air. 

The frosty grass crunched under their feet as they 
hurried down the sloping lawns toward the stadium. 
There was no wind at all and the sky was a uniform 
pearly white, which meant that visibility would be 
good without the drawback of direct sunlight in the 
eyes. Harry pointed out these encouraging factors to 
Ron as they walked, but he was not sure that Ron 
was listening. 

Angelina had changed already and was talking to the 
rest of the team when they entered. Harry and Ron 
pulled on their robes (Ron attempted to do his up 
back-to-front for several minutes before Alicia took 
pity on him and went to help) and then sat down to 
listen to the pre-match talk while the babble of voices 
outside grew steadily louder as the crowd came 
pouring out of the castle toward the pitch. 

“Okay, Eve only just found out the final lineup for 
Slytherin,” said Angelina, consulting a piece of 
parchment. “Last year’s Beaters, Derrick and Bole, 
have left now, but it looks as though Montague’s 
replaced them with the usual gorillas, rather than 
anyone who can fly particularly well. They’re two 



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blokes called Crabbe and Goyle, I don’t know much 
about them — ” 

“We do,” said Harry and Ron together. 

“Well, they don’t look bright enough to tell one end of 
a broom from another,” said Angelina, pocketing her 
parchment, “but then I was always surprised Derrick 
and Bole managed to find their way onto the pitch 
without signposts.” 

“Crabbe and Goyle are in the same mold,” Harry 
assured her. 

They could hear hundreds of footsteps mounting the 
banked benches of the spectators’ stands now. Some 
people were singing, though Harry could not make 
out the words. He was starting to feel nervous, but he 
knew his butterflies were as nothing to Ron’s, who 
was clutching his stomach and staring straight ahead 
again, his jaw set and his complexion pale gray. 

“It’s time,” said Angelina in a hushed voice, looking at 
her watch. “C’mon everyone ... good luck.” 

The team rose, shouldered their brooms, and 
marched in single file out of the changing room and 
into the dazzling sunlight. A roar of sound greeted 
them in which Harry could still hear singing, though 
it was muffled by the cheers and whistles. 

The Slytherin team were standing waiting for them. 
They too were wearing those silver crown-shaped 
badges. The new captain, Montague, was built along 
the same lines as Dudley, with massive forearms like 
hairy hams. Behind him lurked Crabbe and Goyle, 
almost as large, blinking stupidly in the sunlight, 
swinging their new Beaters’ bats. Malfoy stood to one 
side, the sunlight gleaming on his white-blond head. 
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He caught Harry’s eye and smirked, tapping the 
crown-shaped badge on his chest. 

“Captains shake hands,” ordered the umpire, Madam 
Hooch, as Angelina and Montague reached each 
other. Harry could tell that Montague was trying to 
crush Angelina’s fingers, though she did not wince. 
“Mount your brooms...” 

Madam Hooch placed her whistle in her mouth and 
blew. 

The balls were released and the fourteen players shot 
upward; out of the corner of his eye Harry saw Ron 
streak off toward the goal hoops. He zoomed higher, 
dodging a Bludger, and set off on a wide lap of the 
pitch, gazing around for a glint of gold; on the other 
side of the stadium, Draco Malfoy was doing exactly 
the same. 

“And it’s Johnson, Johnson with the Quaffle, what a 
player that girl is, I’ve been saying it for years but she 
still won’t go out with me — ” 

“JORDAN!” yelled Professor McGonagall. 

“Just a fun fact, Professor, adds a bit of interest — 
and she’s ducked Warrington, she’s passed 
Montague, she’s — ouch — been hit from behind by a 
Bludger from Crabbe... Montague catches the Quaffle, 
Montague heading back up the pitch and — nice 
Bludger there from George Weasley, that’s a Bludger 
to the head for Montague, he drops the Quaffle, 
caught by Katie Bell, Katie Bell of Gryffindor reverse 
passes to Alicia Spinnet and Spinnet’s away — ” 

Lee Jordan’s commentary rang through the stadium 
and Harry listened as hard as he could through the 



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wind whistling in his ears and the din of the crowd, 
all yelling and booing and singing — 

“ — dodges Warrington, avoids a Bludger — close call, 
Alicia — and the crowd are loving this, just listen to 
them, what’s that they’re singing?” 

And as Lee paused to listen the song rose loud and 
clear from the sea of green and silver in the Slytherin 
section of the stands: 

Weasley cannot save a thing, 

He cannot block a single ring, 

That’s why Slytherins all sing: 

Weasley is our King. 

Weasley was born in a bin, 

He always lets the Quaffle in, 

Weasley will make sure we win, 

Weasley is our King. 

“ — and Alicia passes back to Angelina!” Lee shouted, 
and as Harry swerved, his insides boiling at what he 
had just heard, he knew Lee was trying to drown out 
the sound of the singing. “Come on now, Angelina — 
looks like she’s got just the Keeper to beat! — SHE 
SHOOTS — SHE — aaaah ...” 

Bletchley, the Slytherin Keeper, had saved the goal; 
he threw the Quaffle to Warrington who sped off with 
it, zigzagging in between Alicia and Katie; the singing 
from below grew louder and louder as he drew nearer 
and nearer Ron — 

Weasley is our King, 

Weasley is our King, 

He always lets the Quaffle in, 

Weasley is our King. 



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Harry could not help himself: Abandoning his search 
for the Snitch, he turned his Firebolt toward Ron, a 
lone figure at the far end of the pitch, hovering before 
the three goal hoops while the massive Warrington 
pelted toward him ... 

“ — and it’s Warrington with the Quaffle, Warrington 
heading for goal, he’s out of Bludger range with just 
the Keeper ahead — ” 

A great swell of song rose from the Slytherin stands 
below: 

Weasley cannot save a thing, 

He cannot block a single ring . . . 

“ — so it’s the first test for new Gryffindor Keeper, 
Weasley, brother of Beaters, Fred and George, and a 
promising new talent on the team — come on, Ron!” 

But the scream of delight came from the Slytherin 
end: Ron had dived wildly, his arms wide, and the 
Quaffle had soared between them, straight through 
Ron’s central hoop. 

“Slytherin score!” came Lee’s voice amid the cheering 
and booing from the crowds below. “So that’s ten-nil 
to Slytherin — bad luck, Ron ...” 

The Slytherins sang even louder: 

WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN, 

HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN ... 

“ — and Gryffindor back in possession and it’s Katie 
Bell tanking up the pitch — ” cried Lee valiantly, 
though the singing was now so deafening that he 
could hardly make himself heard above it. 



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WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN, 

WEASLEY IS OUR KING . . . 

“Harry, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” screamed Angelina, 
soaring past him to keep up with Katie. “GET 
GOING!” 

Harry realized that he had been stationary in midair 
for more than a minute, watching the progress of the 
match without sparing a thought for the whereabouts 
of the Snitch; horrified, he went into a dive and 
started circling the pitch again, staring around, trying 
to ignore the chorus now thundering through the 
stadium: 

WEASLEY IS OUR KING, 

WEASLEY IS OUR KING . . . 

There was no sign of the Snitch anywhere he looked; 
Malfoy was still circling the stadium just like Harry. 
They passed midway around the pitch going in 
opposite directions and Harry heard Malfoy singing 
loudly, 

WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN . . . 

“ — and it’s Warrington again,” bellowed Lee, “who 
passes to Pucey, Pucey’s off past Spinnet, come on 
now Angelina, you can take him — turns out you 
can’t — but nice Bludger from Fred Weasley, I mean, 
George Weasley, oh who cares, one of them anyway, 
and Warrington drops the Quaffle and Katie Bell — er 
— drops it too — so that’s Montague with the Quaffle, 
Slytherin Captain Montague takes the Quaffle, and 
he’s off up the pitch, come on now Gryffindor, block 
him!” 

Harry zoomed around the end of the stadium behind 
the Slytherin goal hoops, willing himself not to look at 

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what was going on at Ron’s end; as he sped past the 
Slytherin Keeper, he heard Bletchley singing along 
with the crowd below, 

WEASLEY CANNOT SAVE A THING . . . 

“ — and Pucey’s dodged Alicia again, and he’s heading 
straight for goal, stop it, Ron!” 

Harry did not have to look to see what had happened: 
There was a terrible groan from the Gryffindor end, 
coupled with fresh screams and applause from the 
Slytherins. Looking down, Harry saw the pug-faced 
Pansy Parkinson right at the front of the stands, her 
back to the pitch as she conducted the Slytherin 
supporters who were roaring: 

THAT’S WHY SLYTHERINS ALL SING: 

WEASLEY IS OUR KING. 

But twenty-nil was nothing, there was still time for 
Gryffindor to catch up or catch the Snitch, a few goals 
and they would be in the lead as usual, Harry 
assured himself, bobbing and weaving through the 
other players in pursuit of something shiny that 
turned out to be Montague’s watch strap... 

But Ron let in two more goals. There was an edge of 
panic in Harry’s desire to find the Snitch now. If he 
could just get it soon and finish the game quickly ... 

“ — and Katie Bell of Gryffindor dodges Pucey, ducks 
Montague, nice swerve, Katie, and she throws to 
Johnson, Angelina Johnson takes the Quaffle, she’s 
past Warrington, she’s heading for goal, come on now 
Angelina — GRYFFINDOR SCORE! It’s forty-ten, forty- 
ten to Slytherin and Pucey has the Quaffle...” 



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Harry could hear Luna’s ludicrous lion hat roaring 
amidst the Gryffindor cheers and felt heartened; only 
thirty points in it, that was nothing, they could pull 
back easily. Harry ducked a Bludger that Crabbe had 
sent rocketing in his direction and resumed his 
frantic scouring of the pitch for the Snitch, keeping 
one eye on Malfoy in case he showed signs of having 
spotted it, but Malfoy, like him, was continuing to 
soar around the stadium, searching fruitlessly . . . 

“ — Pucey throws to Warrington, Warrington to 
Montague, Montague back to Pucey — Johnson 
intervenes, Johnson takes the Quaffle, Johnson to 
Bell, this looks good — I mean bad — Bell’s hit by a 
Bludger from Goyle of Slytherin and it’s Pucey in 
possession again ...” 

WEASLEY WAS BORN IN A BIN, 

HE ALWAYS LETS THE QUAFFLE IN, 

WEASLEY WILL MAKE SURE WE WIN — 

But Harry had seen it at last: The tiny fluttering 
Golden Snitch was hovering feet from the ground at 
the Slytherin end of the pitch. 

He dived... 

In a matter of seconds, Malfoy was streaking out of 
the sky on Harry’s left, a green-and-silver blur lying 
flat on his broom... 

The Snitch skirted the foot of one of the goal hoops 
and scooted off toward the other side of the stands; 
its change of direction suited Malfoy, who was nearer. 
Harry pulled his Firebolt around, he and Malfoy were 
now neck and neck . . . 



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Feet from the ground, Harry lifted his right hand from 
his broom, stretching toward the Snitch ... to his 
right, Malfoy’s arm extended too, reaching, groping ... 

It was over in two breathless, desperate, windswept 
seconds — Harry’s fingers closed around the tiny, 
struggling ball — Malfoy’s fingernails scrabbled the 
back of Harry’s hand hopelessly — Harry pulled his 
broom upward, holding the struggling ball in his 
hand and the Gryffindor spectators screamed their 
approval... 

They were saved, it did not matter that Ron had let in 
those goals, nobody would remember as long as 
Gryffindor had won — 

WHAM 

A Bludger hit Harry squarely in the small of the back 
and he flew forward off his broom; luckily he was only 
five or six feet above the ground, having dived so low 
to catch the Snitch, but he was winded all the same 
as he landed flat on his back on the frozen pitch. He 
heard Madam Hooch’s shrill whistle, an uproar in the 
stands compounded of catcalls, angry yells and 
jeering, a thud, then Angelina’s frantic voice. 

“Are you all right?” 

“ ’Course I am,” said Harry grimly, taking her hand 
and allowing her to pull him to his feet. Madam 
Hooch was zooming toward one of the Slytherin 
players above him, though he could not see who it 
was at this angle. 

“It was that thug, Crabbe,” said Angelina angrily. “He 
whacked the Bludger at you the moment he saw you’d 
got the Snitch — but we won, Harry, we won!” 



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Harry heard a snort from behind him and turned 
around, still holding the Snitch tightly in his hand: 
Draco Malfoy had landed close by; white-faced with 
fury, he was still managing to sneer. 

“Saved Weasley’s neck, haven’t you?” he said to 
Harry. “I’ve never seen a worse Keeper ... but then he 
was born in a bin... Did you like my lyrics, Potter?” 

Harry did not answer; he turned away to meet the 
rest of the team who were now landing one by one, 
yelling and punching the air in triumph, all except 
Ron, who had dismounted from his broom over by the 
goalposts and was making his way slowly back to the 
changing rooms alone. 

“We wanted to write another couple of verses!” Malfoy 
called, as Katie and Alicia hugged Harry. “But we 
couldn’t find rhymes for fat and ugly — we wanted to 
sing about his mother, see — ” 

“Talk about sour grapes,” said Angelina, casting 
Malfoy a disgusted look. 

“ — we couldn’t fit in useless loser either — for his 
father, you know — ” 

Fred and George had realized what Malfoy was talking 
about. Halfway through shaking Harry’s hand they 
stiffened, looking around at Malfoy. 

“Leave it,” said Angelina at once, taking Fred by the 
arm. “Leave it, Fred, let him yell, he’s just sore he 
lost, the jumped-up little — ” 

“ — but you like the Weasleys, don’t you, Potter?” said 
Malfoy, sneering. “Spend holidays there and 
everything, don’t you? Can’t see how you stand the 



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stink, but I suppose when you’ve been dragged up by 
Muggles even the Weasleys’ hovel smells okay — ” 

Harry grabbed hold of George; meanwhile it was 
taking the combined efforts of Angelina, Alicia, and 
Katie to stop Fred leaping on Malfoy, who was 
laughing openly. Harry looked around for Madam 
Hooch, but she was still berating Crabbe for his illegal 
Bludger attack. 

“Or perhaps,” said Malfoy, leering as he backed away, 
“you can remember what your mother’s house stank 
like, Potter, and Weasley’s pigsty reminds you of it — ” 

Harry was not aware of releasing George, all he knew 
was that a second later both of them were sprinting at 
Malfoy. He had completely forgotten the fact that all 
the teachers were watching: All he wanted to do was 
cause Malfoy as much pain as possible. With no time 
to draw out his wand, he merely drew back the fist 
clutching the Snitch and sank it as hard as he could 
into Malfoy’s stomach — 

“Harry! HARRY! GEORGE! 1VO!” 

He could hear girls’ voices screaming, Malfoy yelling, 
George swearing, a whistle blowing, and the bellowing 
of the crowd around him, but he did not care, not 
until somebody in the vicinity yelled “ IMPEDIMENTA !” 
and only when he was knocked over backward by the 
force of the spell did he abandon the attempt to 
punch every inch of Malfoy he could reach... 

“What do you think you’re doing?” screamed Madam 
Hooch, as Harry leapt to his feet again; it was she 
who had hit him with the Impediment Jinx. She was 
holding her whistle in one hand and a wand in the 
other, her broom lay abandoned several feet away. 
Malfoy was curled up on the ground, whimpering and 
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moaning, his nose bloody; George was sporting a 
swollen lip; Fred was still being forcibly restrained by 
the three Chasers, and Crabbe was cackling in the 
background. “I’ve never seen behavior like it — back 
up to the castle, both of you, and straight to your 
Head of House’s office! Go! Now\” 

Harry and George marched off the pitch, both 
panting, neither saying a word to each other. The 
howling and jeering of the crowd grew fainter and 
fainter until they reached the entrance hall, where 
they could hear nothing except the sound of their own 
footsteps. Harry became aware that something was 
still struggling in his right hand, the knuckles of 
which he had bruised against Malfoy’s jaw; looking 
down he saw the Snitch’s silver wings protruding 
from between his fingers, struggling for release. 

They had barely reached the door of Professor 
McGonagall’s office when she came marching along 
the corridor behind them. She was wearing a 
Gryffindor scarf, but tore it from her throat with 
shaking hands as she strode toward them, looking 
livid. 

“In!” she said furiously, pointing to the door. Harry 
and George entered. She strode around behind her 
desk and faced them, quivering with rage as she 
threw the Gryffindor scarf aside onto the floor. 

“Well?” she said. “I have never seen such a disgraceful 
exhibition. Two onto one! Explain yourselves!” 

“Malfoy provoked us,” said Harry stiffly. 

“Provoked you?” shouted Professor McGonagall, 
slamming a fist onto her desk so that her tartan 
biscuit tin slid sideways off it and burst open, littering 
the floor with Ginger Newts. “He’d just lost, hadn’t he, 

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of course he wanted to provoke you! But what on 
earth he can have said that justified what you two — ” 

“He insulted my parents,” snarled George. “And 
Harry’s mother.” 

“But instead of leaving it to Madam Hooch to sort out, 
you two decided to give an exhibition of Muggle 
dueling, did you?” bellowed Professor McGonagall. 
“Have you any idea what you’ve — ?” 

“Hem, hem.” 

George and Harry both spun around. Dolores 
Umbridge was standing in the doorway wrapped in a 
green tweed cloak that greatly enhanced her 
resemblance to a giant toad, and smiling in the 
horribly sickly, ominous way that Harry had come to 
associate with imminent misery. 

“May I help, Professor McGonagall?” asked Professor 
Umbridge in her most poisonously sweet voice. 

Blood rushed into Professor McGonagall’s face. 

“Help?” she repeated in a constricted voice. “What do 
you mean, ‘help’?” 

Professor Umbridge moved forward into the office, still 
smiling her sickly smile. 

“Why, I thought you might be grateful for a little extra 
authority.” 

Harry would not have been surprised to see sparks fly 
from Professor McGonagall’s nostrils. 

“You thought wrong,” she said, turning her back on 
Umbridge. “Now, you two had better listen closely. I 

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do not care what provocation Malfoy offered you, I do 
not care if he insulted every family member you 
possess, your behavior was disgusting and I am 
giving each of you a week’s worth of detention! Do not 
look at me like that, Potter, you deserve it! And if 
either of you ever — ” 

“Hem, hem.” 

Professor McGonagall closed her eyes as though 
praying for patience as she turned her face toward 
Professor Umbridge again. 

“ Yes?” 

“I think they deserve rather more than detentions,” 
said Umbridge, smiling still more broadly. 

Professor McGonagall’s eyes flew open. “But 
unfortunately,” she said, with an attempt at a 
reciprocal smile that made her look as though she 
had lockjaw, “it is what I think that counts, as they 
are in my House, Dolores.” 

“Well, actually, Minerva,” simpered Umbridge, “I think 
you’ll find that what I think does count. Now, where 
is it? Cornelius just sent it... I mean,” she gave a little 
false laugh as she rummaged in her handbag, “the 
Minister just sent it... Ah yes ...” 

She had pulled out a piece of parchment that she now 
unfurled, clearing her throat fussily before starting to 
read what it said. 

“Hem, hem ... ‘Educational Decree Number Twenty- 
five ...’” 

“Not another one!” exclaimed Professor McGonagall 
violently. 

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“Well, yes,” said Umbridge, still smiling. “As a matter 
of fact, Minerva, it was you who made me see that we 
needed a further amendment... You remember how 
you overrode me, when I was unwilling to allow the 
Gryffindor Quidditch team to re-form? How you took 
the case to Dumbledore, who insisted that the team 
be allowed to play? Well, now, I couldn’t have that. I 
contacted the Minister at once, and he quite agreed 
with me that the High Inquisitor has to have the 
power to strip pupils of privileges, or she — that is to 
say, I — would have less authority than common 
teachers! And you see now, don’t you, Minerva, how 
right I was in attempting to stop the Gryffindor team 
re-forming? Dreadful tempers . . . Anyway, I was 
reading out our amendment ... hem, hem ... The High 
Inquisitor will henceforth have supreme authority 
over all punishments, sanctions, and removal of 
privileges pertaining to the students of Hogwarts, and 
the power to alter such punishments, sanctions, and 
removals of privileges as may have been ordered by 
other staff members. Signed, Cornelius Fudge, 
Minister of Magic, Order of Merlin First Class, etc., 
etc...’” 

She rolled up the parchment and put it back into her 
handbag, still smiling. 

“So ... I really think I will have to ban these two from 
playing Quidditch ever again,” she said, looking from 
Harry to George and back again. 

Harry felt the Snitch fluttering madly in his hand. 

“Ban us?” he said, and his voice sounded strangely 
distant. “From playing ... ever again?” 

“Yes, Mr. Potter, I think a lifelong ban ought to do the 
trick,” said Umbridge, her smile widening still further 
as she watched him struggle to comprehend what she 

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had said. “You and Mr. Weasley here. And I think, to 
be safe, this young man’s twin ought to be stopped 
too — if his teammates had not restrained him, I feel 
sure he would have attacked young Mr. Malfoy as 
well. I will want their broomsticks confiscated, of 
course; I shall keep them safely in my office, to make 
sure there is no infringement of my ban. But I am not 
unreasonable, Professor McGonagall,” she continued, 
turning back to Professor McGonagall who was now 
standing as still as though carved from ice, staring at 
her. “The rest of the team can continue playing, I saw 
no signs of violence from any of them. Well ... good 
afternoon to you.” And with a look of the utmost 
satisfaction Umbridge left the room, leaving a 
horrified silence in her wake. 

“Banned,” said Angelina in a hollow voice, late that 
evening in the common room. “ Banned . No Seeker 
and no Beaters . . . What on earth are we going to do?” 

It did not feel as though they had won the match at 
all. Everywhere Harry looked there were disconsolate 
and angry faces; the team themselves were slumped 
around the fire, all apart from Ron, who had not been 
seen since the end of the match. 

“It’s just so unfair,” said Alicia numbly. “I mean, what 
about Crabbe and that Bludger he hit after the 
whistle had been blown? Has she banned him?” 

“No,” said Ginny miserably; she and Hermione were 
sitting on either side of Harry. “He just got lines, I 
heard Montague laughing about it at dinner.” 

“And banning Fred when he didn’t even do anything!” 
said Alicia furiously, pummeling her knee with her 
fist. 



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“It’s not my fault I didn’t,” said Fred, with a very ugly 
look on his face. “I would’ve pounded the little 
scumbag to a pulp if you three hadn’t been holding 
me back.” 

Harry stared miserably at the dark window. Snow was 
falling. The Snitch he had caught earlier was now 
zooming around and around the common room; 
people were watching its progress as though 
hypnotized and Crookshanks was leaping from chair 
to chair, trying to catch it. 

“I’m going to bed,” said Angelina, getting slowly to her 
feet. 

“Maybe this will all turn out to have been a bad 
dream... Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and find we 
haven’t played yet...” 

She was soon followed by Alicia and Katie. Fred and 
George sloped off to bed some time later, glowering at 
everyone they passed, and Ginny went not long after 
that. Only Harry and Hermione were left beside the 
fire. 

“Have you seen Ron?” Hermione asked in a low voice. 
Harry shook his head. 

“I think he’s avoiding us,” said Hermione. “Where do 
you think he — ?” 

But at that precise moment, there was a creaking 
sound behind them as the Fat Lady swung forward 
and Ron came clambering through the portrait hole. 
He was very pale indeed and there was snow in his 
hair. When he saw Harry and Hermione he stopped 
dead in his tracks. 



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“Where have you been?” said Hermione anxiously, 
springing up. 



“Walking,” Ron mumbled. He was still wearing his 
Quidditch things. 

“You look frozen,” said Hermione. “Come and sit 
down!” 

Ron walked to the fireside and sank into the chair 
farthest from Harry’s, not looking at him. The stolen 
Snitch zoomed over their heads. 

“I’m sorry,” Ron mumbled, looking at his feet. 

“What for?” said Harry. 

“For thinking I can play Quidditch,” said Ron. “I’m 
going to resign first thing tomorrow.” 

“If you resign,” said Harry testily, “there’ll only be 
three players left on the team.” And when Ron looked 
puzzled, he said, “I’ve been given a lifetime ban. So’ve 
Fred and George.” 

“What?” Ron yelped. 

Hermione told him the full story; Harry could not bear 
to tell it again. When she had finished, Ron looked 
more anguished than ever. 

“This is all my fault — ” 

“You didn’t make me punch Malfoy,” said Harry 
angrily. 

“ — if I wasn’t so lousy at Quidditch — ” 

“ — it’s got nothing to do with that — ” 

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“ — it was that song that wound me up — ” 

“ — it would’ve wound anyone up — ” 

Hermione got up and walked to the window, away 
from the argument, watching the snow swirling down 
against the pane. 

“Look, drop it, will you!” Harry burst out. “It’s bad 
enough without you blaming yourself for everything!” 

Ron said nothing but sat gazing miserably at the 
damp hem of his robes. After a while he said in a dull 
voice, “This is the worst I’ve ever felt in my life.” 

“Join the club,” said Harry bitterly. 

“Well,” said Hermione, her voice trembling slightly. “I 
can think of one thing that might cheer you both up.” 

“Oh yeah?” said Harry skeptically. 

“Yeah,” said Hermione, turning away from the pitch- 
black, snow-flecked window, a broad smile spreading 
across her face. “Hagrid’s back.” 



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HAGRID’S TALE 

Harry sprinted up to the boys’ dormitory to fetch the 
Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder’s Map from his 
trunk; he was so quick that he and Ron were ready to 
leave at least five minutes before Hermione hurried 
back down from the girls’ dormitories, wearing scarf, 
gloves, and one of her own knobbly elf hats. 

“Well, it’s cold out there!” she said defensively, as Ron 
clicked his tongue impatiently. 

They crept through the portrait hole and covered 
themselves hastily in the cloak — Ron had grown so 
much he now needed to crouch to prevent his feet 
showing — then, moving slowly and cautiously, they 
proceeded down the many staircases, pausing at 
intervals to check the map for signs of Filch or Mrs. 
Norris. They were lucky; they saw nobody but Nearly 
Headless Nick, who was gliding along absentmindedly 
humming something that sounded horribly like 
“Weasley Is Our King.” They crept across the entrance 
hall and then out into the silent, snowy grounds. 

With a great leap of his heart, Harry saw little golden 
squares of light ahead and smoke coiling up from 

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Hagrid’s chimney. He set off at a quick march, the 
other two jostling and bumping along behind him, 
and they crunched excitedly through the thickening 
snow until at last they reached the wooden front door; 
when Harry raised his fist and knocked three times, a 
dog started barking frantically inside. 

“Hagrid, it’s us!” Harry called through the keyhole. 

“Shoulda known!” said a gruff voice. 

They beamed at one another under the cloak; they 
could tell that Hagrid’s voice was pleased. “Bin home 
three seconds ... Out the way, Fang ... Out the way, 
yeh dozy dog ...” 

The bolt was drawn back, the door creaked open, and 
Hagrid’s head appeared in the gap. 

Hermione screamed. 

“Merlin’s beard, keep it down!” said Hagrid hastily, 
staring wildly over their heads. “Under that cloak, are 
yeh? Well, get in, get in!” 

“I’m sorry!” Hermione gasped, as the three of them 
squeezed past Hagrid into the house and pulled the 
cloak off themselves so he could see them. “I just — 
oh, Hagrid).” 

“It’s nuthin’, it’s nuthin’!” said Hagrid hastily, 
shutting the door behind them and hurrying to close 
all the curtains, but Hermione continued to gaze up 
at him in horror. 

Hagrid’s hair was matted with congealed blood, and 
his left eye had been reduced to a puffy slit amid a 
mass of purple-and-black bruises. There were many 
cuts on his face and hands, some of them still 

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bleeding, and he was moving gingerly, which made 
Harry suspect broken ribs. It was obvious that he had 
only just got home; a thick black traveling cloak lay 
over the back of a chair and a haversack large enough 
to carry several small children leaned against the wall 
inside the door. Hagrid himself, twice the size of a 
normal man and three times as broad, was now 
limping over to the fire and placing a copper kettle 
over it. 

“What happened to you?” Harry demanded, while 
Fang danced around them all, trying to lick their 
faces. 

“Told yeh, nuthin said Hagrid firmly. “Want a 
cuppa?” 

“Come off it,” said Ron, “you’re in a right state!” 

“I’m tellin’yeh, I’m fine,” said Hagrid, straightening 
up and turning to beam at them all, but wincing. 
“Blimey, it’s good ter see you three again — had good 
summers, did yeh?” 

“Hagrid, you’ve been attacked!” said Ron. 

“Fer the las’ time, it’s nuthin’!” said Hagrid firmly. 

“Would you say it was nothing if one of us turned up 
with a pound of mince instead of a face?” Ron 
demanded. 

“You ought to go and see Madam Pomfrey, Hagrid,” 
said Hermione anxiously. “Some of those cuts look 
nasty.” 

“I’m dealin’ with it, all righ’?” said Hagrid repressively. 



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He walked across to the enormous wooden table that 
stood in the middle of his cabin and twitched aside a 
tea towel that had been lying on it. Underneath was a 
raw, bloody, green-tinged steak slightly larger than 
the average car tire. 

“You’re not going to eat that, are you, Hagrid?” said 
Ron, leaning in for a closer look. “It looks poisonous.” 

“It’s s ’posed ter look like that, it’s dragon meat,” 
Hagrid said. “An’ I didn’ get it ter eat.” 

He picked up the steak and slapped it over the left 
side of his face. Greenish blood trickled down into his 
beard as he gave a soft moan of satisfaction. 

“Tha’s better. It helps with the stingin’, yeh know.” 

“So are you going to tell us what’s happened to you?” 
Harry asked. 

“Can’, Harry. Top secret. More’n me job’s worth ter 
tell yeh that.” 

“Did the giants beat you up, Hagrid?” asked Hermione 
quietly. 

Hagrid’s fingers slipped on the dragon steak, and it 
slid squelchily onto his chest. 

“Giants?” said Hagrid, catching the steak before it 
reached his belt and slapping it back over his face. 
“Who said anythin’ abou’ giants? Who yeh bin talkin’ 
to? Who’s told yeh what I’ve — who’s said I’ve bin — 
eh?” 

“We guessed,” said Hermione apologetically. 



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“Oh, yeh did, did yeh?” said Hagrid, fixing her sternly 
with the eye that was not hidden by the steak. 

“It was kind of ... obvious,” said Ron. Harry nodded. 

Hagrid glared at them, then snorted, threw the steak 
onto the table again and strode back to the kettle, 
which was now whistling. 

“Never known kids like you three fer knowin’ more’n 
yeh oughta,” he muttered, splashing boiling water 
into three of his bucket-shaped mugs. “An’ I’m not 
complimentin’ yeh, neither. Nosy, some’d call it. 
Interferin’.” 

But his beard twitched. 

“So you have been to look for giants?” said Harry, 
grinning as he sat down at the table. 

Hagrid set tea in front of each of them, sat down, 
picked up his steak again, and slapped it back over 
his face. 

“Yeah, all righ’,” he grunted, “I have.” 

“And you found them?” said Hermione in a hushed 
voice. 

“Well, they’re not that difficult ter find, ter be honest,” 
said Hagrid. “Pretty big, see.” 

“Where are they?” said Ron. 

“Mountains,” said Hagrid unhelpfully. 

“So why don’t Muggles — ?” 



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“They do,” said Hagrid darkly. “O’ny their deaths are 
always put down ter mountaineerin’ accidents, aren’ 
they?” 

He adjusted the steak a little so that it covered the 
worst of the bruising. 

“Come on, Hagrid, tell us what you’ve been up to!” 
said Ron. “Tell us about being attacked by the giants 
and Harry can tell you about being attacked by the 
dementors — ” 

Hagrid choked in his mug and dropped his steak at 
the same time; a large quantity of spit, tea, and 
dragon blood was sprayed over the table as Hagrid 
coughed and spluttered and the steak slid, with a soft 
splat, onto the floor. 

“Whadda yeh mean, attacked by dementors?” growled 
Hagrid. 

“Didn’t you know?” Hermione asked him, wide-eyed. 

“I don’ know anything that’s been happenin’ since I 
left. I was on a secret mission, wasn’ I, didn’ wan’ 
owls followin’ me all over the place — ruddy 
dementors! Yeh’re not serious?” 

“Yeah, I am, they turned up in Little Whinging and 
attacked my cousin and me, and then the Ministry of 
Magic expelled me — ” 

“WHAT?” 

“ — and I had to go to a hearing and everything, but 
tell us about the giants first.” 

“You were expelled?” 



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“Tell us about your summer and I’ll tell you about 
mine.” 

Hagrid glared at him through his one open eye. Harry 
looked right back, an expression of innocent 
determination on his face. 

“Oh, all righ’,” Hagrid said in a resigned voice. 

He bent down and tugged the dragon steak out of 
Fang’s mouth. 

“Oh, Hagrid, don’t, it’s not hygien — ” Hermione 
began, but Hagrid had already slapped the meat back 
over his swollen eye. He took another fortifying gulp of 
tea and then said, “Well, we set off righ’ after term 
ended — ” 

“Madame Maxime went with you, then?” Hermione 
interjected. 

“Yeah, tha’s right,” said Hagrid, and a softened 
expression appeared on the few inches of face that 
were not obscured by beard or green steak. “Yeah, it 
was jus’ the pair of us. An’ I’ll tell yeh this, she’s not 
afraid of roughin’ it, Olympe. Yeh know, she’s a fine, 
well-dressed woman, an’ knowin’ where we was goin’ I 
wondered ’ow she’d feel abou’ clamberin’ over 
boulders an’ sleepin’ in caves an’ tha’, bu’ she never 
complained once.” 

“You knew where you were going?” Harry asked. “You 
knew where the giants were?” 

“Well, Dumbledore knew, an’ he told us,” said Hagrid. 

“Are they hidden?” asked Ron. “Is it a secret, where 
they are?” 



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“Not really,” said Hagrid, shaking his shaggy head. 

“It’s jus’ that mos’ wizards aren’ bothered where they 
are, s’ long as it’s a good long way away. But where 
they are’s very difficult ter get ter, fer humans 
anyway, so we needed Dumbledore’s instructions. 
Took us abou’ a month ter get there — ” 

“A month?” said Ron, as though he had never heard of 
a journey lasting such a ridiculously long time. “But 
— why couldn’t you just grab a Portkey or 
something?” 

There was an odd expression in Hagrid’s unobscured 
eye as he squinted at Ron; it was almost pitying. 

“We’re bein’ watched, Ron,” he said gruffly. 

“What d’you mean?” 

“Yeh don’ understand,” said Hagrid. “The Ministry’s 
keepin’ an eye on Dumbledore an’ anyone they 
reckon’s in league with him, an’ — ” 

“We know about that,” said Harry quickly, keen to 
hear the rest of Hagrid’s story. “We know about the 
Ministry watching Dumbledore — ” 

“So you couldn’t use magic to get there?” asked Ron, 
looking thunderstruck. “You had to act like Muggles 
all the way?” 

“Well, not exactly all the way,” said Hagrid cagily. “We 
jus’ had ter be careful, ’cause Olympe an’ me, we 
stick out a bit — ” 

Ron made a stifled noise somewhere between a snort 
and a sniff and hastily took a gulp of tea. 



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“ — so we’re not hard ter follow. We was pretendin’ we 
was goin’ on holiday together, so we got inter France 
an’ we made like we was headin’ fer where Olympe’s 
school is, ’cause we knew we was bein’ tailed by 
someone from the Ministry. We had to go slow, ’cause 
I’m not really s ’posed ter use magic an’ we knew the 
Ministry’d be lookin’ fer a reason ter run us in. But 
we managed ter give the berk tailin’ us the slip round 
abou’ Dee-John — ” 

“Ooooh, Dijon?” said Hermione excitedly. “I’ve been 
there on holiday, did you see — ?” 

She fell silent at the look on Ron’s face. 

“We chanced a bit o’ magic after that, and it wasn’ a 
bad journey. Ran inter a couple o’ mad trolls on the 
Polish border, an’ I had a sligh’ disagreement with a 
vampire in a pub in Minsk, but apart from tha’, 
couldn’t’a bin smoother. 

“An’ then we reached the place, an’ we started 
trekkin’ up through the mountains, lookin’ fer signs 
of ’em . . . 

“We had ter lay off the magic once we got near ’em. 
Partly ’cause they don’ like wizards an’ we didn’ want 
ter put their backs up too soon, and partly ’cause 
Dumbledore had warned us You-Know-Who was 
bound ter be after the giants an’ all. Said it was odds 
on he’d sent a messenger off ter them already. Told us 
ter be very careful of drawin’ attention ter ourselves 
as we got nearer in case there was Death Eaters 
around.” 

Hagrid paused for a long draft of tea. 

“Go on!” said Harry urgently. 



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“Found ’em,” said Hagrid baldly. “Went over a ridge 
one nigh’ an’ there they was, spread ou’ underneath 
us. Little fires burnin’ below an’ huge shadows ... It 
was like watchin’ bits o’ the mountain movin’.” 

“How big are they?” asked Ron in a hushed voice. 

“ T3out twenty feet,” said Hagrid casually. “Some o’ 
the bigger ones mighta bin twenty-five.” 

“And how many were there?” asked Harry. 

“I reckon abou’ seventy or eighty,” said Hagrid. 

“Is that all?” said Hermione. 

“Yep,” said Hagrid sadly, “eighty left, an’ there was 
loads once, musta bin a hundred diff’rent tribes from 
all over the world. But they’ve bin dyin’ out fer ages. 
Wizards killed a few, o’ course, but mostly they killed 
each other, an’ now they’re dyin’ out faster than ever. 
They’re not made ter live bunched up together like 
tha’. Dumbledore says it’s our fault, it was the 
wizards who forced ’em to go an’ made ’em live a good 
long way from us an’ they had no choice but ter stick 
together fer their own protection.” 

“So,” said Harry, “you saw them and then what?” 

“Well, we waited till morning, didn’ want ter go 
sneakin’ up on ’em in the dark, fer our own safety,” 
said Hagrid. “ ’Bout three in the mornin’ they fell 
asleep jus’ where they was sittin’. We didn’ dare sleep. 
Fer one thing, we wanted ter make sure none of ’em 
woke up an’ came up where we were, an’ fer another, 
the snorin’ was unbelievable. Caused an avalanche 
near mornin’. 

“Anyway, once it was light we wen’ down ter see ’em.” 

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“Just like that?” said Ron, looking awestruck. “You 
just walked right into a giant camp?” 

“Well, Dumbledore’d told us how ter do it,” said 
Hagrid. “Give the Gurg gifts, show some respect, yeh 
know.” 

“Give the what gifts?” asked Harry. 

“Oh, the Gurg — means the chief.” 

“How could you tell which one was the Gurg?” asked 
Ron. 

Hagrid grunted in amusement. 

“No problem,” he said. “He was the biggest, the 
ugliest, an’ the laziest. Sittin’ there waitin’ ter be 
brought food by the others. Dead goats an’ such like. 
Name o’ Karkus. I’d put him at twenty-two, twenty- 
three feet, an’ the weight of a couple o’ bull elephants. 
Skin like rhino hide an’ all.” 

“And you just walked up to him?” said Hermione 
breathlessly. 

“Well ... down ter him, where he was lyin’ in the 
valley. They was in this dip between four pretty high 
mountains, see, beside a mountain lake, an’ Karkus 
was lyin’ by the lake roarin’ at the others ter feed him 
an’ his wife. Olympe an’ I went down the 
mountainside — ” 

“But didn’t they try and kill you when they saw you?” 
asked Ron incredulously. 

“It was def’nitely on some of their minds,” said 
Hagrid, shrugging, “but we did what Dumbledore told 
us ter do, which was ter hold our gift up high an’ 

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keep our eyes on the Gurg an’ ignore the others. So 
tha’s what we did. An’ the rest of ’em went quiet an’ 
watched us pass an’ we got right up ter Karkus’s feet 
an’ we bowed an’ put our present down in front o’ 
him.” 

“What do you give a giant?” asked Ron eagerly. 

“Food?” 

“Nah, he can get food all righ’ fer himself,” said 
Hagrid. “We took him magic. Giants like magic, jus’ 
don’t like us usin’ it against ’em. Anyway, that firs’ 
day we gave him a branch o’ Gubraithian fire.” 

Hermione said “wow” softly, but Harry and Ron both 
frowned in puzzlement. 

“A branch of — ?” 

“Everlasting fire,” said Hermione irritably, “you ought 
to know that by now, Professor Flitwick’s mentioned it 
at least twice in class!” 

“Well anyway,” said Hagrid quickly, intervening before 
Ron could answer back, “Dumbledore’d bewitched 
this branch to burn evermore, which isn’ somethin’ 
any wizard could do, an’ so I lies it down in the snow 
by Karkus’s feet and says, ‘A gift to the Gurg of the 
giants from Albus Dumbledore, who sends his 
respectful greetings.’ ” 

“And what did Karkus say?” asked Harry eagerly. 
“Nothin’,” said Hagrid. “Didn’ speak English.” 

“You’re kidding!” 

“Didn’ matter,” said Hagrid imperturbably, 
“Dumbledore had warned us tha’ migh’ happen. 

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Karkus knew enough to yell fer a couple o’ giants who 
knew our lingo an’ they translated fer us.” 



“And did he like the present?” asked Ron. 

“Oh yeah, it went down a storm once they understood 
what it was,” said Hagrid, turning his dragon steak 
over to press the cooler side to his swollen eye. “Very 
pleased. So then I said, Altars Dumbledore asks the 
Gurg to speak with his messenger when he returns 
tomorrow with another gift.’ ” 

“Why couldn’t you speak to them that day?” asked 
Hermione. 

“Dumbledore wanted us ter take it very slow,” said 
Hagrid. “Let ’em see we kept our promises. We’ll come 
back tomorrow with another present, an’ then we do 
come back with another present — gives a good 
impression, see? An’ gives them time ter test out the 
firs’ present an’ find out it’s a good one, an’ get ’em 
eager fer more. In any case, giants like Karkus — 
overload ’em with information an’ they’ll kill yeh jus’ 
to simplify things. So we bowed outta the way an’ 
went off an’ found ourselves a nice little cave ter 
spend that night in, an’ the followin’ mornin’ we went 
back an’ this time we found Karkus sittin’ up waitin’ 
fer us lookin’ all eager.” 

“And you talked to him?” 

“Oh yeah. Firs’ we presented him with a nice battle 
helmet — goblin-made an’ indestructible, yeh know — 
an’ then we sat down an’ we talked.” 

“What did he say?” 

“Not much,” said Hagrid. “Listened mostly. But there 
were good signs. He’d heard o’ Dumbledore, heard 

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he’d argued against the killin’ of the last giants in 
Britain. Karkus seemed ter be quite int’rested in what 
Dumbledore had ter say. An’ a few o’ the others, 
’specially the ones who had some English, they 
gathered round an’ listened too. We were hopeful 
when we left that day. Promised ter come back next 
day with another present. 

“But that night it all wen’ wrong.” 

“What d’you mean?” said Ron quickly. 

“Well, like I say, they’re not meant ter live together, 
giants,” said Hagrid sadly. “Not in big groups like 
that. They can’ help themselves, they half kill each 
other every few weeks. The men fight each other an’ 
the women fight each other, the remnants of the old 
tribes fight each other, an’ that’s even without 
squabbles over food an’ the best fires an’ sleepin’ 
spots. Yeh’d think, seein’ as how their whole race is 
abou’ finished, they’d lay off each other, but ...” 

Hagrid sighed deeply 

“That night a fight broke out, we saw it from the 
mouth of our cave, lookin’ down on the valley. Went 
on fer hours, yeh wouldn’ believe the noise. An’ when 
the sun came up the snow was scarlet an’ his head 
was lyin’ at the bottom o’ the lake.” 

“Whose head?” gasped Hermione. 

“Karkus’s,” said Hagrid heavily. “There was a new 
Gurg, Golgomath.” He sighed deeply. “Well, we hadn’ 
bargained on a new Gurg two days after we’d made 
friendly contact with the firs’ one, an’ we had a funny 
feelin’ Golgomath wouldn’ be so keen ter listen to us, 
but we had ter try.” 



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“You went to speak to him?” asked Ron incredulously. 
“After you’d watched him rip off another giant’s 
head?” 

“ ’Course we did,” said Hagrid, “we hadn’ gone all that 
way ter give up after two days! We wen’ down with the 
next present we’d meant ter give ter Karkus. 

“I knew it was no go before I’d opened me mouth. He 
was sitting there wearin’ Karkus ’s helmet, leerin’ at 
us as we got nearer. He’s massive, one o’ the biggest 
ones there. Black hair an’ matchin’ teeth an’ a 
necklace o’ bones. Human-lookin’ bones, some of ’em. 
Well, I gave it a go — held out a great roll o’ dragon 
skin — an’ said A gift fer the Gurg of the giants — ’ 
Nex’ thing I knew, I was hangin’ upside down in the 
air by me feet, two of his mates had grabbed me.” 

Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth. 

“How did you get out of that?” asked Harry. 

“Wouldn’ta done if Olympe hadn’ bin there,” said 
Hagrid. “She pulled out her wand an’ did some o’ the 
fastes’ spellwork I’ve ever seen. Ruddy marvelous. Hit 
the two holdin’ me right in the eyes with 
Conjunctivitus Curses an’ they dropped me 
straightaway — bu’ we were in trouble then, ’cause 
we’d used magic against ’em, an’ that’s what giants 
hate abou’ wizards. We had ter leg it an’ we knew 
there was no way we was going ter be able ter march 
inter camp again.” 

“Blimey, Hagrid,” said Ron quietly. 

“So how come it’s taken you so long to get home if you 
were only there for three days?” asked Hermione. 



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“We didn’ leave after three days!” said Hagrid, looking 
outraged. “Dumbledore was relyin’ on us!” 



“But you’ve just said there was no way you could go 
back!” 

“Not by daylight, we couldn’, no. We just had ter 
rethink a bit. Spent a couple o’ days lyin’ low up in 
the cave an’ watchin’. An’ wha’ we saw wasn’ good.” 

“Did he rip off more heads?” asked Hermione, 
sounding squeamish. 

“No,” said Hagrid. “I wish he had.” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“I mean we soon found out he didn’ object ter all 
wizards — just us.” 

“Death Eaters?” said Harry quickly. 

“Yep,” said Hagrid darkly. “Couple of ’em were visitin’ 
him ev’ry day, bringin’ gifts ter the Gurg, an’ he wasn’ 
dangling them upside down.” 

“How d’you know they were Death Eaters?” said Ron. 

“Because I recognized one of ’em,” Hagrid growled. 
“Macnair, remember him? Bloke they sent ter kill 
Buckbeak? Maniac, he is. Likes killin’ as much as 
Golgomath, no wonder they were gettin’ on so well.” 

“So Macnair’s persuaded the giants to join You-Know- 
Who?” said Hermione desperately. 

“Hold yer hippogriffs, I haven’ finished me story yet!” 
said Hagrid indignantly, who, considering he had not 
wanted to tell them anything in the first place, now 

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seemed to be rather enjoying himself. “Me an’ Olympe 
talked it over an’ we agreed, jus’ ’cause the Gurg 
looked like favorin’ You-Know-Who didn’ mean all of 
’em would. We had ter try an’ persuade some o’ the 
others, the ones who hadn’ wanted Golgomath as 
Gurg.” 

“How could you tell which ones they were?” asked 
Ron. 

“Well, they were the ones bein’ beaten to a pulp, 
weren’ they?” said Hagrid patiently. “The ones with 
any sense were keepin’ outta Golgomath ’s way, hidin’ 
out in caves roun’ the gully jus’ like we were. So we 
decided we’d go pokin’ round the caves by night an’ 
see if we couldn’ persuade a few o’ them.” 

“You went poking around dark caves looking for 
giants?” said Ron with awed respect in his voice. 

“Well, it wasn’ the giants who worried us most,” said 
Hagrid. “We were more concerned abou’ the Death 
Eaters. Dumbledore had told us before we wen’ not 
ter tangle with ’em if we could avoid it, an’ the trouble 
was they knew we was around — ’spect Golgomath 
told him abou’ us. At night when the giants were 
sleepin’ an’ we wanted ter be creepin’ inter the caves, 
Macnair an’ the other one were sneakin’ round the 
mountains lookin’ fer us. I was hard put to stop 
Olympe jumpin’ out at them,” said Hagrid, the 
corners of his mouth lifting his wild beard. “She was 
rarin’ ter attack ’em... she’s somethin’ when she’s 
roused, Olympe... Fiery, yeh know ... ’spect it’s the 
French in her ...” 

Hagrid gazed misty-eyed into the fire. Harry allowed 
him thirty seconds’ reminiscence before clearing his 
throat loudly. 



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“So what happened? Did you ever get near any of the 
other giants?” 

“What? Oh ... oh yeah, we did. Yeah, on the third 
night after Karkus was killed, we crept outta the cave 
we’d bin hidin’ in and headed back down inter the 
gully, keepin’ our eyes skinned fer the Death Eaters. 
Got inside a few o’ the caves, no go — then, in abou’ 
the sixth one, we found three giants hidin’.” 

“Cave must’ve been cramped,” said Ron. 

“Wasn’ room ter swing a kneazle,” said Hagrid. 

“Didn’t they attack you when they saw you?” asked 
Hermione. 

“Probably woulda done if they’d bin in any condition,” 
said Hagrid, “but they was badly hurt, all three o’ 
them. Golgomath’s lot had beaten ’em unconscious; 
they’d woken up an’ crawled inter the nearest shelter 
they could find. Anyway, one o’ them had a bit of 
English an’ ’e translated fer the others, an’ what we 
had ter say didn’ seem ter go down too badly. So we 
kep’ goin’ back, visitin’ the wounded... I reckon we 
had abou’ six or seven o’ them convinced at one 
poin’.” 

“Six or seven?” said Ron eagerly. “Well that’s not bad 
— are they going to come over here and start fighting 
You-Know-Who with us?” 

But Hermione said, “What do you mean ‘at one point,’ 
Hagrid?” 

Hagrid looked at her sadly. 



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“Golgomath’s lot raided the caves. The ones tha’ 
survived didn’ wan’ no more ter to do with us after 
that.” 

“So ... so there aren’t any giants coming?” said Ron, 
looking disappointed. 

“Nope,” said Hagrid, heaving a deep sigh as he turned 
over his steak again and applied the cooler side to his 
face, “but we did wha’ we meant ter do, we gave ’em 
Dumbledore’s message an’ some o’ them heard it an’ I 
’spect some o’ them’ll remember it. Jus’ maybe, them 
that don’ want ter stay around Golgomath’ll move 
outta the mountains, an’ there’s gotta be a chance 
they’ll remember Dumbledore’s friendly to ’em... 

Could be they’ll come ...” 

Snow was filling up the window now. Harry became 
aware that the knees of his robes were soaked 
through; Fang was drooling with his head in Harry’s 
lap. 

“Hagrid?” said Hermione quietly after a while. 

“Mmm?” 

“Did you ... was there any sign of ... did you hear 
anything about your . . . your . . . mother while you were 
there?” 

Hagrid’s unobscured eye rested upon her, and 
Hermione looked rather scared. 

“I’m sorry ... I ... forget it — ” 

“Dead,” Hagrid grunted. “Died years ago. They told 
me.” 



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“Oh ... I’m ... I’m really sorry,” said Hermione in a 
very small voice. 



Hagrid shrugged his massive shoulders. “No need,” he 
said shortly. “Can’ remember her much. Wasn’ a great 
mother.” 

They were silent again. Hermione glanced nervously 
at Harry and Ron, plainly wanting them to speak. 

“But you still haven’t explained how you got in this 
state, Hagrid,” Ron said, gesturing toward Hagrid’s 
bloodstained face. 

“Or why you’re back so late,” said Harry. “Sirius says 
Madame Maxime got back ages ago — ” 

“Who attacked you?” said Ron. 

“I haven’ bin attacked!” said Hagrid emphatically. “I — 



But the rest of his words were drowned in a sudden 
outbreak of rapping on the door. Hermione gasped; 
her mug slipped through her fingers and smashed on 
the floor; Fang yelped. All four of them stared at the 
window beside the doorway. The shadow of somebody 
small and squat rippled across the thin curtain. 

“It’s her\” Ron whispered. 

“Get under here!” Harry said quickly; seizing the 
Invisibility Cloak he whirled it over himself and 
Hermione while Ron tore around the table and dived 
beneath the cloak as well. Huddled together they 
backed away into a corner. Fang was barking madly 
at the door. Hagrid looked thoroughly confused. 

“Hagrid, hide our mugs!” 

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Hagrid seized Harry’s and Ron’s mugs and shoved 
them under the cushion in Fang’s basket. Fang was 
now leaping up at the door; Hagrid pushed him out of 
the way with his foot and pulled it open. 

Professor Umbridge was standing in the doorway 
wearing her green tweed cloak and a matching hat 
with earflaps. Lips pursed, she leaned back so as to 
see Hagrid’s face; she barely reached his navel. 

“So,” she said slowly and loudly, as though speaking 
to somebody deaf. “You’re Hagrid, are you?” 

Without waiting for an answer she strolled into the 
room, her bulging eyes rolling in every direction. 

“Get away,” she snapped, waving her handbag at 
Fang, who had bounded up to her and was 
attempting to lick her face. 

“Er — I don’ want ter be rude,” said Hagrid, staring at 
her, “but who the ruddy hell are you?” 

“My name is Dolores Umbridge.” 

Her eyes were sweeping the cabin. Twice they stared 
directly into the corner where Harry stood, 
sandwiched between Ron and Hermione. 

“Dolores Umbridge?” Hagrid said, sounding 
thoroughly confused. “I thought you were one o’ them 
Ministry — don’ you work with Fudge?” 

“I was Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, yes,” 
said Umbridge, now pacing around the cabin, taking 
in every tiny detail within, from the haversack against 
the wall to the abandoned traveling cloak. “I am now 
the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher — ” 



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“Tha’s brave of yeh,” said Hagrid, “there’s not many’d 
take tha’ job anymore — ” 

“ — and Hogwarts High Inquisitor,” said Umbridge, 
giving no sign that she had heard him. 

“Wha’s that?” said Hagrid, frowning. 

“Precisely what I was going to ask,” said Umbridge, 
pointing at the broken shards of china on the floor 
that had been Hermione’s mug. 

“Oh,” said Hagrid, with a most unhelpful glance 
toward the corner where Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
stood hidden, “oh, tha’ was ... was Fang. He broke a 
mug. So I had ter use this one instead.” 

Hagrid pointed to the mug from which he had been 
drinking, one hand still clamped over the dragon 
steak pressed to his eye. Umbridge stood facing him 
now, taking in every detail of his appearance instead 
of the cabin’s. 

“I heard voices,” she said quietly. 

“I was talkin’ ter Fang,” said Hagrid stoutly. 

“And was he talking back to you?” 

“Well ... in a manner o’ speakin’,” said Hagrid, looking 
uncomfortable. “I sometimes say Fang’s near enough 
human — ” 

“There are three sets of footprints in the snow leading 
from the castle doors to your cabin,” said Umbridge 
sleekly. 

Hermione gasped; Harry clapped a hand over her 
mouth. Luckily, Fang was sniffing loudly around the 

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hem of Professor Umbridge’s robes, and she did not 
appear to have heard. 

“Well, I on’y jus’ got back,” said Hagrid, waving an 
enormous hand at the haversack. “Maybe someone 
came ter call earlier an’ I missed em. 

“There are no footsteps leading away from your cabin 
door.” 

“Well I ... I don’ know why that’d be...” said Hagrid, 
tugging nervously at his beard and again glancing 
toward the corner where Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
stood, as though asking for help. “Erm ...” 

Umbridge wheeled around and strode the length of 
the cabin, looking around carefully. She bent and 
peered under the bed. She opened Hagrid ’s 
cupboards. She passed within two inches of where 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood pressed against the 
wall; Harry actually pulled in his stomach as she 
walked by. After looking carefully inside the 
enormous cauldron Hagrid used for cooking she 
wheeled around again and said, “What has happened 
to you? How did you sustain those injuries?” 

Hagrid hastily removed the dragon steak from his 
face, which in Harry’s opinion was a mistake, because 
the black-and-purple bruising all around his eye was 
now clearly visible, not to mention the large amount 
of fresh and congealed blood on his face. “Oh, I ... had 
a bit of an accident,” he said lamely. 

“What sort of accident?” 

“I-I tripped.” 

“You tripped,” she repeated coolly. 



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“Yeah, tha’s right. Over ... over a friends broomstick. I 
don’ fly, meself. Well, look at the size o’ me, I don’ 
reckon there’s a broomstick that’d hold me. Friend o’ 
mine breeds Abraxan horses, I dunno if you’ve ever 
seen ’em, big beasts, winged, yeh know, I’ve had a bit 
of a ride on one o’ them an’ it was — ” 

“Where have you been?” asked Umbridge, cutting 
coolly through Hagrid’s babbling. 

“Where ’ve I ... ?” 

“Been, yes,” she said. “Term started more than two 
months ago. Another teacher has had to cover your 
classes. None of your colleagues has been able to give 
me any information as to your whereabouts. You left 
no address. Where have you been?” 

There was a pause in which Hagrid stared at her with 
his newly uncovered eye. Harry could almost hear his 
brain working furiously. 

“I — I’ve been away for me health,” he said. 

“For your health,” said Umbridge. Her eyes traveled 
over Hagrid’s discolored and swollen face; dragon 
blood dripped gently onto his waistcoat in the silence. 
“I see.” 

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, “bit o’ — o’ fresh air, yeh know — 



“Yes, as gamekeeper fresh air must be so difficult to 
come by,” said Umbridge sweetly. The small patch of 
Hagrid’s face that was not black or purple flushed. 

“Well — change o’ scene, yeh know — ” 

“Mountain scenery?” said Umbridge swiftly. 

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She knows, Harry thought desperately. 

“Mountains?” Hagrid repeated, clearly thinking fast. 
“Nope, South of France fer me. Bit o’ sun an’ ... an’ 
sea.” 

“Really?” said Umbridge. “You don’t have much of a 
tan.” 

“Yeah ... well ... sensitive skin,” said Hagrid, 
attempting an ingratiating smile. Harry noticed that 
two of his teeth had been knocked out. Umbridge 
looked at him coldly; his smile faltered. Then she 
hoisted her handbag a little higher into the crook of 
her arm and said, “I shall, of course, be informing the 
Minister of your late return.” 

“Righ’,” said Hagrid, nodding. 

“You ought to know too that as High Inquisitor it is 
my unfortunate but necessary duty to inspect my 
fellow teachers. So I daresay we shall meet again soon 
enough.” 

She turned sharply and marched back to the door. 

“You’re inspectin’ us?” Hagrid echoed blankly, looking 
after her. 

“Oh yes,” said Umbridge softly, looking back at him 
with her hand on the door handle. “The Ministry is 
determined to weed out unsatisfactory teachers, 
Hagrid. Good night.” 

She left, closing the door behind her with a snap. 
Harry made to pull off the Invisibility Cloak but 
Hermione seized his wrist. 



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“Not yet,” she breathed in his ear. “She might not be 
gone yet.” 

Hagrid seemed to be thinking the same way; he 
stumped across the room and pulled back the curtain 
an inch or so. 

“She’s goin’ back ter the castle,” he said in a low 
voice. “Blimey ... inspectin’ people, is she?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, pulling the cloak off. “Trelawney’s 
on probation already...” 

“Um ... what sort of thing are you planning to do with 
us in class, Hagrid?” asked Hermione. 

“Oh, don’ you worry abou’ that, I’ve got a great load o’ 
lessons planned,” said Hagrid enthusiastically, 
scooping up his dragon steak from the table and 
slapping it over his eye again. “I’ve bin keepin’ a 
couple o’ creatures saved fer yer O.W.L. year, you 
wait, they’re somethin’ really special.” 

“Erm . . . special in what way?” asked Hermione 
tentatively. 

“I’m not sayin’,” said Hagrid happily. “I don’ want ter 
spoil the surprise.” 

“Look, Hagrid,” said Hermione urgently, dropping all 
pretense, “Professor Umbridge won’t be at all happy if 
you bring anything to class that’s too dangerous — ” 

“Dangerous?” said Hagrid, looking genially bemused. 
“Don’ be silly, I wouldn’ give yeh anythin’ dangerous! I 
mean, all righ’, they can look after themselves — ” 

“Hagrid, you’ve got to pass Umbridge’s inspection, 
and to do that it would really be better if she saw you 

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teaching us how to look after porlocks, how to tell the 
difference between knarls and hedgehogs, stuff like 
that!” said Hermione earnestly. 

“But tha’s not very interestin’, Hermione,” said 
Hagrid. “The stuff I’ve got’s much more impressive, 

I’ve bin bringin’ ’em on fer years, I reckon I’ve got the 
on’y domestic herd in Britain — ” 

“Hagrid ... please ...” said Hermione, a note of real 
desperation in her voice. “Umbridge is looking for any 
excuse to get rid of teachers she thinks are too close 
to Dumbledore. Please, Hagrid, teach us something 
dull that’s bound to come up in our O.W.L...” 

But Hagrid merely yawned widely and cast a one-eyed 
look of longing toward the vast bed in the corner. 

“Lis’en, it’s bin a long day an’ it’s late,” he said, 
patting Hermione gently on the shoulder, so that her 
knees gave way and hit the floor with a thud. “Oh — 
sorry — ” He pulled her back up by the neck of her 
robes. “Look, don’ you go worryin’ abou’ me, I promise 
yeh I’ve got really good stuff planned fer yer lessons 
now I’m back... Now you lot had better get back up to 
the castle, an’ don’ forget ter wipe yer footprints out 
behind yeh!” 

“I dunno if you got through to him,” said Ron a short 
while later when, having checked that the coast was 
clear, they walked back up to the castle through the 
thickening snow, leaving no trace behind them due to 
the Obliteration Charm Hermione was performing as 
they went. 

“Then I’ll go back again tomorrow,” said Hermione 
determinedly. “I’ll plan his lessons for him if I have to. 
I don’t care if she throws out Trelawney but she’s not 
taking Hagrid!” 

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THE EYE OF THE SNAKE 

Hermione plowed her way back to Hagrid’s cabin 
through two feet of snow on Sunday morning. Harry 
and Ron wanted to go with her, but their mountain of 
homework had reached an alarming height again, so 
they grudgingly remained in the common room, trying 
to ignore the gleeful shouts drifting up from the 
grounds outside, where students were enjoying 
themselves skating on the frozen lake, tobogganing, 
and worst of all, bewitching snowballs to zoom up to 
Gryffindor Tower and rap hard on the windows. 

“Oy!” bellowed Ron, finally losing patience and 
sticking his head out of the window, “I am a prefect 
and if one more snowball hits this window — OUCH!” 

He withdrew his head sharply, his face covered in 
snow. 

“It’s Fred and George,” he said bitterly, slamming the 
window behind him. “Gits ...” 



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Hermione returned from Hagrid’s just before lunch, 
shivering slightly, her robes damp to the knees. 



“So?” said Ron, looking up when she entered. “Got all 
his lessons planned for him?” 

“Well, I tried,” she said dully, sinking into a chair 
beside Harry. She pulled out her wand and gave it a 
complicated little wave so that hot air streamed out of 
the tip; she then pointed this at her robes, which 
began to steam as they dried out. “He wasn’t even 
there when I arrived, I was knocking for at least half 
an hour. And then he came stumping out of the forest 



Harry groaned. The Forbidden Forest was teeming 
with the kind of creatures most likely to get Hagrid 
the sack. “What’s he keeping in there? Did he say?” 
asked Harry. 

“No,” said Hermione miserably. “He says he wants 
them to be a surprise. I tried to explain about 
Umbridge, but he just doesn’t get it. He kept saying 
nobody in their right mind would rather study knarls 
than chimaeras — oh I don’t think he’s got a 
chimaera,” she added at the appalled look on Harry 
and Ron’s faces, “but that’s not for lack of trying from 
what he said about how hard it is to get eggs... I don’t 
know how many times I told him he’d be better off 
following Grubbly-Plank’s plan, I honestly don’t think 
he listened to half of what I said. He’s in a bit of a 
funny mood, you know. He still won’t say how he got 
all those injuries...” 

Hagrid’s reappearance at the staff table at breakfast 
next day was not greeted by enthusiasm from all 
students. Some, like Fred, George, and Lee, roared 
with delight and sprinted up the aisle between the 
Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables to wring Hagrid’s 
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enormous hand; others, like Parvati and Lavender, 
exchanged gloomy looks and shook their heads. Harry 
knew that many of them preferred Professor Grubbly- 
Plank’s lessons, and the worst of it was that a very 
small, unbiased part of him knew that they had good 
reason: Grubbly-Plank’s idea of an interesting class 
was not one where there was a risk that somebody 
might have their head ripped off. 

It was with a certain amount of apprehension that 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione headed down to Hagrid’s 
on Tuesday, heavily muffled against the cold. Harry 
was worried, not only about what Hagrid might have 
decided to teach them, but also about how the rest of 
the class, particularly Malfoy and his cronies, would 
behave if Umbridge was watching them. 

However, the High Inquisitor was nowhere to be seen 
as they struggled through the snow toward Hagrid, 
who stood waiting for them on the edge of the forest. 
He did not present a reassuring sight; the bruises 
that had been purple on Saturday night were now 
tinged with green and yellow and some of his cuts still 
seemed to be bleeding. Harry could not understand 
this: Had Hagrid perhaps been attacked by some 
creature whose venom prevented the wounds it 
inflicted from healing? As though to complete the 
ominous picture, Hagrid was carrying what looked 
like half a dead cow over his shoulder. 

“We’re workin’ in here today!” Hagrid called happily to 
the approaching students, jerking his head back at 
the dark trees behind him. “Bit more sheltered! 
Anyway, they prefer the dark...” 

“What prefers the dark?” Harry heard Malfoy say 
sharply to Crabbe and Goyle, a trace of panic in his 
voice. “What did he say prefers the dark — did you 
hear?” 

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Harry remembered the only occasion on which Malfoy 
had entered the forest before now; he had not been 
very brave then either. He smiled to himself; after the 
Quidditch match anything that caused Malfoy 
discomfort was all right with him. 

“Ready?” said Hagrid happily, looking around at the 
class. “Right, well, I’ve bin savin’ a trip inter the forest 
fer yer fifth year. Thought we’d go an’ see these 
creatures in their natural habitat. Now, what we’re 
studyin’ today is pretty rare, I reckon I’m probably the 
on’y person in Britain who’s managed ter train ’em — ” 

“And you’re sure they’re trained, are you?” said 
Malfoy, the panic in his voice even more pronounced 
now. “Only it wouldn’t be the first time you’d brought 
wild stuff to class, would it?” 

The Slytherins murmured agreement and a few 
Gryffindors looked as though they thought Malfoy had 
a fair point too. 

“ ’Course they’re trained,” said Hagrid, scowling and 
hoisting the dead cow a little higher on his shoulder. 

“So what happened to your face, then?” demanded 
Malfoy. 

“Mind yer own business!” said Hagrid, angrily. “Now if 
yeh’ve finished askin’ stupid questions, follow me!” 

He turned and strode straight into the forest. Nobody 
seemed much disposed to follow. Harry glanced at 
Ron and Hermione, who sighed but nodded, and the 
three of them set off after Hagrid, leading the rest of 
the class. 

They walked for about ten minutes until they reached 
a place where the trees stood so closely together that 

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it was as dark as twilight and there was no snow on 
the ground at all. Hagrid deposited his half a cow with 
a grunt on the ground, stepped back, and turned to 
face his class again, most of whom were creeping 
toward him from tree to tree, peering around 
nervously as though expecting to be set upon at any 
moment. 

“Gather roun’, gather roun’,” said Hagrid 
encouragingly. “Now, they’ll be attracted by the smell 
o’ the meat but I’m goin’ ter give ’em a call anyway, 
’cause they’ll like ter know it’s me...” 

He turned, shook his shaggy head to get the hair out 
of his face, and gave an odd, shrieking cry that 
echoed through the dark trees like the call of some 
monstrous bird. Nobody laughed; most of them 
looked too scared to make a sound. 

Hagrid gave the shrieking cry again. A minute passed 
in which the class continued to peer nervously over 
their shoulders and around trees for a first glimpse of 
whatever it was that was coming. And then, as Hagrid 
shook his hair back for a third time and expanded his 
enormous chest, Harry nudged Ron and pointed into 
the black space between two gnarled yew trees. 

A pair of blank, white, shining eyes were growing 
larger through the gloom and a moment later the 
dragonish face, neck, and then skeletal body of a 
great, black, winged horse emerged from the 
darkness. It looked around at the class for a few 
seconds, swishing its long black tail, then bowed its 
head and began to tear flesh from the dead cow with 
its pointed fangs. 

A great wave of relief broke over Harry. Here at last 
was proof that he had not imagined these creatures, 
that they were real: Hagrid knew about them too. He 

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looked eagerly at Ron, but Ron was still staring 
around into the trees and after a few seconds he 
whispered, “Why doesn’t Hagrid call again?” 

Most of the rest of the class were wearing expressions 
as confused and nervously expectant as Ron’s and 
were still gazing everywhere but at the horse standing 
feet from them. There were only two other people who 
seemed to be able to see them: a stringy Slytherin boy 
standing just behind Goyle was watching the horse 
eating with an expression of great distaste on his face, 
and Neville, whose eyes were following the swishing 
progress of the long black tail. 

“Oh, an’ here comes another one!” said Hagrid 
proudly, as a second black horse appeared out of the 
dark trees, folded its leathery wings closer to its body, 
and dipped its head to gorge on the meat. “Now ... put 
yer hands up, who can see ’em?” 

Immensely pleased to feel that he was at last going to 
understand the mystery of these horses, Harry raised 
his hand. Hagrid nodded at him. 

“Yeah ... yeah, I knew you’d be able ter, Harry,” he 
said seriously. “An’ you too, Neville, eh? An’ — ” 

“Excuse me,” said Malfoy in a sneering voice, “but 
what exactly are we supposed to be seeing?” 

For answer, Hagrid pointed at the cow carcass on the 
ground. The whole class stared at it for a few seconds, 
then several people gasped and Parvati squealed. 
Harry understood why: Bits of flesh stripping 
themselves away from the bones and vanishing into 
thin air had to look very odd indeed. 



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“What’s doing it?” Parvati demanded in a terrified 
voice, retreating behind the nearest tree. “What’s 
eating it?” 

“Thestrals,” said Hagrid proudly and Hermione gave a 
soft “oh!” of comprehension at Harry’s shoulder. 
“Hogwarts has got a whole herd of ’em in here. Now, 
who knows — ?” 

“But they’re really, really unlucky!” interrupted 
Parvati, looking alarmed. “They’re supposed to bring 
all sorts of horrible misfortune on people who see 
them. Professor Trelawney told me once — ” 

“No, no, no,” said Hagrid, chuckling, “tha’s jus’ 
superstition, that is, they aren’ unlucky, they’re dead 
clever an’ useful! ’Course, this lot don’ get a lot o’ 
work, it’s mainly jus’ pullin’ the school carriages 
unless Dumbledore’s takin’ a long journey an’ don’ 
want ter Apparate — an’ here’s another couple, look 



Two more horses came quietly out of the trees, one of 
them passing very close to Parvati, who shivered and 
pressed herself closer to the tree, saying, “I think I felt 
something, I think it’s near me!” 

“Don’ worry, it won’ hurt yeh,” said Hagrid patiently. 
“Righ’, now, who can tell me why some o’ you can see 
them an’ some can’t?” 

Hermione raised her hand. 

“Go on then,” said Hagrid, beaming at her. 

“The only people who can see thestrals,” she said, 

“are people who have seen death.” 



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“Tha’s exactly right,” said Hagrid solemnly, “ten 
points ter Gryffindor. Now, thestrals — ” 

“Hem, hem.” 

Professor Umbridge had arrived. She was standing a 
few feet away from Harry, wearing her green hat and 
cloak again, her clipboard at the ready. Hagrid, who 
had never heard Umbridge ’s fake cough before, was 
gazing in some concern at the closest thestral, 
evidently under the impression that it had made the 
sound. 

“Hem, hem.” 

“Oh hello!” Hagrid said, smiling, having located the 
source of the noise. 

“You received the note I sent to your cabin this 
morning?” said Umbridge, in the same loud, slow 
voice she had used with him earlier, as though she 
was addressing somebody both foreign and very slow. 
“Telling you that I would be inspecting your lesson?” 

“Oh yeah,” said Hagrid brightly. “Glad yeh found the 
place all righ’! Well, as you can see — or, I dunno — 
can you? We’re doin’ thestrals today — ” 

“I’m sorry?” said Umbridge loudly, cupping her hand 
around her ear and frowning. “What did you say?” 

Hagrid looked a little confused. 

“Er — thestralsl” he said loudly. “Big — er — winged 
horses, yeh know!” 

He flapped his gigantic arms hopefully. Professor 
Umbridge raised her eyebrows at him and muttered 



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as she made a note on her clipboard, “ ‘has ... to ... 
resort ... to ... crude . . . sign . . . language ” 

“Well ... anyway ...” said Hagrid, turning back to the 
class and looking slightly flustered. “Erm ... what was 
I sayin’?” 

“ ‘Appears ... to ... have . . . poor . . . short . . . term . . . 
memory ” muttered Umbridge, loudly enough for 
everyone to hear her. Draco Malfoy looked as though 
Christmas had come a month early; Hermione, on the 
other hand, had turned scarlet with suppressed rage. 

“Oh yeah,” said Hagrid, throwing an uneasy glance at 
Umbridge’s clipboard, but plowing on valiantly. “Yeah, 
I was gonna tell yeh how come we got a herd. Yeah, 
so, we started off with a male an’ five females. This 
one,” he patted the first horse to have appeared, 

“name o’ Tenebrus, he’s my special favorite, firs’ one 
born here in the forest — ” 

“Are you aware,” Umbridge said loudly, interrupting 
him, “that the Ministry of Magic has classified 
thestrals as ‘dangerous’?” 

Harry’s heart sank like a stone, but Hagrid merely 
chuckled. 

“Thestrals aren’ dangerous! All righ, they might take a 
bite outta you if yeh really annoy them — ” 

“ ‘Shows . . . signs ... of ... pleasure ... at ... idea ...of 
... violence ... ‘ ” muttered Umbridge, scribbling on her 
clipboard again. 

“No — come on!” said Hagrid, looking a little anxious 
now. “I mean, a dog’ll bite if yeh bait it, won’ it — but 
thestrals have jus’ got a bad reputation because o’ the 



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death thing — people used ter think they were bad 
omens, didn’ they? Jus’ didn’ understand, did they?” 



Umbridge did not answer; she finished writing her 
last note, then looked up at Hagrid and said, again 
very loudly and slowly, “Please continue teaching as 
usual. I am going to walk” — she mimed walking — 
Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were having silent fits of 
laughter — “among the students” — she pointed 
around at individual members of the class — “and 
ask them questions.” She pointed at her mouth to 
indicate talking. 

Hagrid stared at her, clearly at a complete loss to 
understand why she was acting as though he did not 
understand normal English. Hermione had tears of 
fury in her eyes now. 

“You hag, you evil hag!” she whispered, as Umbridge 
walked toward Pansy Parkinson. “I know what you’re 
doing, you awful, twisted, vicious — ” 

“Erm ... anyway,” said Hagrid, clearly struggling to 
regain the flow of his lesson, “so — thestrals. Yeah. 
Well, there’s loads o’ good stuff abou’ them...” 

“Do you find,” said Professor Umbridge in a ringing 
voice to Pansy Parkinson, “that you are able to 
understand Professor Hagrid when he talks?” 

Just like Hermione, Pansy had tears in her eyes, but 
these were tears of laughter; indeed, her answer was 
almost incoherent because she was trying to suppress 
her giggles. “No ... because ... well ... it sounds ... like 
grunting a lot of the time...” 

Umbridge scribbled on her clipboard. The few 
unbruised bits of Hagrid ’s face flushed, but he tried 
to act as though he had not heard Pansy’s answer. 

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“Er ... yeah ... good stuff abou’ thestrals. Well, once 
they’re tamed, like this lot, yehll never be lost again. 
‘Mazin’ senses o’ direction, jus’ tell ’em where yeh 
want ter go — ” 

“Assuming they can understand you, of course,” said 
Malfoy loudly, and Pansy Parkinson collapsed in a fit 
of renewed giggles. Professor Umbridge smiled 
indulgently at them and then turned to Neville. 

“You can see the thestrals, Longbottom, can you?” 
she said. 

Neville nodded. 

“Whom did you see die?” she asked, her tone 
indifferent. 

“My ... my grandad,” said Neville. 

“And what do you think of them?” she said, waving 
her stubby hand at the horses, who by now had 
stripped a great deal of the carcass down to bone. 

“Erm,” said Neville nervously, with a glance at Hagrid. 
“Well, they’re ... er ... okay...” 

“ ‘Students ... are ... too ... intimidated ... to ... admit 
... they ... are ... frightened...’ ” muttered Umbridge, 
making another note on her clipboard. 

“No!” said Neville, looking upset, “no, I’m not scared of 
them — !” 

“It’s quite all right,” said Umbridge, patting Neville on 
the shoulder with what she evidently intended to be 
an understanding smile, though it looked more like a 
leer to Harry. “Well, Hagrid,” she turned to look up at 
him again, speaking once more in that loud, slow 
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voice, “I think I’ve got enough to be getting along 
with... You will receive” — she mimed taking 
something from the air in front of her — “the results 
of your inspection” — she pointed at the clipboard — 
“in ten days’ time.” She held up ten stubby little 
fingers, then, her smile wider and more toadlike than 
ever before beneath her green hat, she bustled from 
their midst, leaving Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson in 
fits of laughter, Hermione actually shaking with fury, 
and Neville looking confused and upset. 

“That foul, lying, twisting old gargoyle!” stormed 
Hermione half an hour later, as they made their way 
back up to the castle through the channels they had 
made earlier in the snow. “You see what she’s up to? 
It’s her thing about half-breeds all over again — she’s 
trying to make out Hagrid’s some kind of dim-witted 
troll, just because he had a giantess for a mother — 
and oh, it’s not fair, that really wasn’t a bad lesson at 
all — I mean, all right, if it had been Blast-Ended 
Skrewts again, but thestrals are fine — in fact, for 
Hagrid, they’re really good!” 

“Umbridge said they’re dangerous,” said Ron. 

“Well, it’s like Hagrid said, they can look after 
themselves,” said Hermione impatiently, “and I 
suppose a teacher like Grubbly-Plank wouldn’t 
usually show them to us before N.E.W.T. level, but, 
well, they are very interesting, aren’t they? The way 
some people can see them and some can’t! I wish I 
could.” 

“Do you?” Harry asked her quietly. 

She looked horrorstruck. 

“Oh Harry — I’m sorry — no, of course I don’t — that 
was a really stupid thing to say — ” 

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“It’s okay,” he said quickly, “don’t worry...” 



“I’m surprised so many people could see them,” said 
Ron. “Three in a class — ” 

“Yeah, Weasley, we were just wondering,” said a 
malicious voice nearby. Unheard by any of them in 
the muffling snow, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were 
walking along right behind them. “D’you reckon if you 
saw someone snuff it you’d be able to see the Quaffle 
better?” 

He, Crabbe, and Goyle roared with laughter as they 
pushed past on their way to the castle and then broke 
into a chorus of “Weasley Is Our King.” Ron’s ears 
turned scarlet. 

“Ignore them, just ignore them,” intoned Hermione, 
pulling out her wand and performing the charm to 
produce hot air again, so that she could melt them an 
easier path through the untouched snow between 
them and the greenhouses. 

December arrived, bringing with it more snow and a 
positive avalanche of homework for the fifth years. 

Ron and Hermione ’s prefect duties also became more 
and more onerous as Christmas approached. They 
were called upon to supervise the decoration of the 
castle (“You try putting up tinsel when Peeves has got 
the other end and is trying to strangle you with it,” 
said Ron), to watch over first and second years 
spending their break times inside because of the 
bitter cold (“And they’re cheeky little snotrags, you 
know, we definitely weren’t that rude when we were in 
first year,” said Ron), and to patrol the corridors in 
shifts with Argus Filch, who suspected that the 
holiday spirit might show itself in an outbreak of 
wizard duels (“He’s got dung for brains, that one,” 
said Ron furiously). They were so busy that Hermione 
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had stopped knitting elf hats and was fretting that 
she was down to her last three. 

“All those poor elves I haven’t set free yet, having to 
stay over during Christmas because there aren’t 
enough hats!” 

Harry, who had not had the heart to tell her that 
Dobby was taking everything she made, bent lower 
over his History of Magic essay. In any case, he did 
not want to think about Christmas. For the first time 
in his school career, he very much wanted to spend 
the holidays away from Hogwarts. Between his 
Quidditch ban and worry about whether or not 
Hagrid was going to be put on probation, he felt 
highly resentful toward the place at the moment. The 
only thing he really looked forward to were the D.A. 
meetings, and they would have to stop over the 
holidays, as nearly everybody in the D.A. would be 
spending the time with their families. Hermione was 
going skiing with her parents, something that greatly 
amused Ron, who had never before heard of Muggles 
strapping narrow strips of wood to their feet to slide 
down mountains. Ron, meanwhile, was going home to 
the Burrow. Harry endured several days of jealousy 
before Ron said, in response to Harry asking how Ron 
was going to get home for Christmas, “But you’re 
coming too! Didn’t I say? Mum wrote and told me to 
invite you weeks ago!” 

Hermione rolled her eyes, but Harry’s spirits soared: 
The thought of Christmas at the Burrow was truly 
wonderful, only slightly marred by Harry’s guilty 
feeling that he would not be able to spend the holiday 
with Sirius. He wondered whether he could possibly 
persuade Mrs. Weasley to invite his godfather for the 
festivities too, but apart from the fact that he doubted 
whether Dumbledore would permit Sirius to leave 
Grimmauld Place, he could not help but feel that Mrs. 
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Weasley might not want him; they were so often at 
loggerheads. Sirius had not contacted Harry at all 
since his last appearance in the fire, and although 
Harry knew that with Umbridge on the constant 
watch it would be unwise to attempt to contact him, 
he did not like to think of Sirius alone in his mother’s 
old house, perhaps pulling a lonely cracker with 
Kreacher. 

Harry arrived early in the Room of Requirement for 
the last D.A. meeting before the holidays and was 
very glad he had, because when the lamps burst into 
light he saw that Dobby had taken it upon himself to 
decorate the place for Christmas. He could tell the elf 
had done it, because nobody else would have strung a 
hundred golden baubles from the ceiling, each 
showing a picture of Harry’s face and bearing the 
legend HAVE A VERY HARRY CHRISTMAS! 

Harry had only just managed to get the last of them 
down before the door creaked open and Luna 
Lovegood entered, looking dreamy as always. 

“Hello,” she said vaguely, looking around at what 
remained of the decorations. “These are nice, did you 
put them up?” 

“No,” said Harry, “it was Dobby the house-elf.” 

“Mistletoe,” said Luna dreamily, pointing at a large 
clump of white berries placed almost over Harry’s 
head. He jumped out from under it. “Good thinking,” 
said Luna very seriously. “It’s often infested with 
nargles.” 

Harry was saved the necessity of asking what nargles 
were by the arrival of Angelina, Katie, and Alicia. All 
three of them were breathless and looked very cold. 



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“Well,” said Angelina dully, pulling off her cloak and 
throwing it into a corner, “we’ve replaced you.” 



“Replaced me?” said Harry blankly. 

“You and Fred and George,” she said impatiently. 
“We’ve got another Seeker!” 

“Who?” said Harry quickly. 

“Ginny Weasley,” said Katie. 

Harry gaped at her. 

“Yeah, I know,” said Angelina, pulling out her wand 
and flexing her arm. “But she’s pretty good, actually. 
Nothing on you, of course,” she said, throwing him a 
very dirty look, “but as we can’t have you ...” 

Harry bit back the retort he was longing to utter: Did 
she imagine for a second that he did not regret his 
expulsion from the team a hundred times more than 
she did? 

“And what about the Beaters?” he asked, trying to 
keep his voice even. 

“Andrew Kirke,” said Alicia without enthusiasm, “and 
Jack Sloper. Neither of them are brilliant, but 
compared with the rest of the idiots who turned up 



The arrival of Ron, Hermione, and Neville brought this 
depressing discussion to an end and within five 
minutes, the room was full enough to prevent him 
seeing Angelina’s burning, reproachful looks. 

“Okay,” he said, calling them all to order. “I thought 
this evening we should just go over the things we’ve 

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done so far, because it’s the last meeting before the 
holidays and there’s no point starting anything new 
right before a three-week break — ” 

“We’re not doing anything new?” said Zacharias 
Smith, in a disgruntled whisper loud enough to carry 
through the room. “If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have 
come...” 

“We’re all really sorry Harry didn’t tell you, then,” said 
Fred loudly. 

Several people sniggered. Harry saw Cho laughing 
and felt the familiar swooping sensation in his 
stomach, as though he had missed a step going 
downstairs. 

“We can practice in pairs,” said Harry. “Well start 
with the Impediment Jinx, just for ten minutes, then 
we can get out the cushions and try Stunning again.” 

They all divided up obediently; Harry partnered 
Neville as usual. The room was soon full of 
intermittent cries of “ Impedimental ” People froze for a 
minute or so, during which their partners would stare 
aimlessly around the room watching other pairs at 
work, then would unfreeze and take their turn at the 
jinx. 

Neville had improved beyond all recognition. After a 
while, when Harry had unfrozen three times in a row, 
he had Neville join Ron and Hermione again so that 
he could walk around the room and watch the others. 
When he passed Cho she beamed at him; he resisted 
the temptation to walk past her several more times. 

After ten minutes on the Impediment Jinx, they laid 
out cushions all over the floor and started practicing 
Stunning again. Space was really too confined to 

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allow them all to work this spell at once; half the 
group observed the others for a while, then swapped 
over. Harry felt himself positively swelling with pride 
as he watched them all. True, Neville did Stun Padma 
Patil rather than Dean, at whom he had been aiming, 
but it was a much closer miss than usual, and 
everybody else had made enormous progress. 

At the end of an hour, Harry called a halt. 

“You’re getting really good,” he said, beaming around 
at them. “When we get back from the holidays we can 
start doing some of the big stuff — maybe even 
Patronuses.” 

There was a murmur of excitement. The room began 
to clear in the usual twos and threes; most people 
wished Harry a Happy Christmas as they went. 

Feeling cheerful, he collected up the cushions with 
Ron and Hermione and stacked them neatly away. 

Ron and Hermione left before he did; he hung back a 
little, because Cho was still there and he was hoping 
to receive a Merry Christmas from her. 

“No, you go on,” he heard her say to her friend 
Marietta, and his heart gave a jolt that seemed to take 
it into the region of his Adam’s apple. 

He pretended to be straightening the cushion pile. He 
was quite sure they were alone now and waited for 
her to speak. Instead, he heard a hearty sniff. 

He turned and saw Cho standing in the middle of the 
room, tears pouring down her face. 

“Wha — ?” 



He didn’t know what to do. She was simply standing 
there, crying silently. 

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“What’s up?” he said feebly. 



She shook her head and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. 
“I’m — sorry,” she said thickly. “I suppose ... it’s just 
... learning all this stuff... It just makes me ... wonder 
whether ... if he’d known it all ... he’d still be alive...” 

Harry’s heart sank right back past its usual spot and 
settled somewhere around his navel. He ought to have 
known. She wanted to talk about Cedric. 

“He did know this stuff,” Harry said heavily. “He was 
really good at it, or he could never have got to the 
middle of that maze. But if Voldemort really wants to 
kill you, you don’t stand a chance.” 

She hiccuped at the sound of Voldemort’s name, but 
stared at Harry without flinching. 

“ You survived when you were just a baby,” she said 
quietly. 

“Yeah, well,” said Harry wearily, moving toward the 
door, “I dunno why, nor does anyone else, so it’s 
nothing to be proud of.” 

“Oh don’t go!” said Cho, sounding tearful again. “I’m 
really sorry to get all upset like this... I didn’t mean 
to...” 

She hiccuped again. She was very pretty even when 
her eyes were red and puffy. Harry felt thoroughly 
miserable. He’d have been so pleased just with a 
Merry Christmas... 

“I know it must be horrible for you,” she said, 
mopping her eyes on her sleeve again. “Me 
mentioning Cedric, when you saw him die... I suppose 
you just want to forget about it...” 

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Harry did not say anything to this; it was quite true, 
but he felt heartless saying it. 

“You’re a r-really good teacher, you know,” said Cho, 
with a watery smile. “I’ve never been able to Stun 
anything before.” 

“Thanks,” said Harry awkwardly. 

They looked at each other for a long moment. Harry 
felt a burning desire to run from the room and, at the 
same time, a complete inability to move his feet. 

“Mistletoe,” said Cho quietly, pointing at the ceiling 
over his head. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. His mouth was very dry. “It’s 
probably full of nargles, though.” 

“What are nargles?” 

“No idea,” said Harry. She had moved closer. His 
brain seemed to have been Stunned. “You’d have to 
ask Loony. Luna, I mean.” 

Cho made a funny noise halfway between a sob and a 
laugh. She was even nearer him now. He could have 
counted the freckles on her nose. 

“I really like you, Harry.” 

He could not think. A tingling sensation was 
spreading throughout him, paralyzing his arms, legs, 
and brain. 

She was much too close. He could see every tear 
clinging to her eyelashes... 



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He returned to the common room half an hour later to 
find Hermione and Ron in the best seats by the fire; 
nearly everybody else had gone to bed. Hermione was 
writing a very long letter; she had already filled half a 
roll of parchment, which was dangling from the edge 
of the table. Ron was lying on the hearthrug, trying to 
finish his Transfiguration homework. 

“What kept you?” he asked, as Harry sank into the 
armchair next to Hermione ’s. 

Harry did not answer. He was in a state of shock. Half 
of him wanted to tell Ron and Hermione what had 
just happened, but the other half wanted to take the 
secret with him to the grave. 

“Are you all right, Harry?” Hermione asked, peering at 
him over the tip of her quill. 

Harry gave a halfhearted shrug. In truth, he didn’t 
know whether he was all right or not. “What’s up?” 
said Ron, hoisting himself up on his elbow to get a 
clearer view of Harry. “What’s happened?” 

Harry didn’t quite know how to set about telling them, 
and still wasn’t sure whether he wanted to. Just as he 
had decided not to say anything, Hermione took 
matters out of his hands. 

“Is it Cho?” she asked in a businesslike way. “Did she 
corner you after the meeting?” 

Numbly surprised, Harry nodded. Ron sniggered, 
breaking off when Hermione caught his eye. 

“So — er — what did she want?” he asked in a mock 
casual voice. 



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“She — ” Harry began, rather hoarsely; he cleared his 
throat and tried again. “She — er — ” 



“Did you kiss?” asked Hermione briskly. 

Ron sat up so fast that he sent his ink bottle flying all 
over the rug. Disregarding this completely he stared 
avidly at Harry. 

“Well?” he demanded. 

Harry looked from Ron’s expression of mingled 
curiosity and hilarity to Hermione’s slight frown, and 
nodded. 

“HA!” 

Ron made a triumphant gesture with his fist and 
went into a raucous peal of laughter that made 
several timid-looking second years over beside the 
window jump. A reluctant grin spread over Harry’s 
face as he watched Ron rolling around on the 
hearthrug. Hermione gave Ron a look of deep disgust 
and returned to her letter. 

“Well?” Ron said finally, looking up at Harry. “How 
was it?” 

Harry considered for a moment. 

“Wet,” he said truthfully. 

Ron made a noise that might have indicated 
jubilation or disgust, it was hard to tell. 

“Because she was crying,” Harry continued heavily. 

“Oh,” said Ron, his smile fading slightly. “Are you that 
bad at kissing?” 

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“Dunno,” said Harry, who hadn’t considered this, and 
immediately felt rather worried. “Maybe I am.” 



“Of course you’re not,” said Hermione absently, still 
scribbling away at her letter. 

“How do you know?” said Ron in a sharp voice. 

“Because Cho spends half her time crying these 
days,” said Hermione vaguely. “She does it at 
mealtimes, in the loos, all over the place.” 

“You’d think a bit of kissing would cheer her up,” said 
Ron, grinning. 

“Ron,” said Hermione in a dignified voice, dipping the 
point of her quill into her ink pot, “you are the most 
insensitive wart I have ever had the misfortune to 
meet.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Ron 
indignantly. “What sort of person cries while 
someone’s kissing them?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, slightly desperately, “who does?” 

Hermione looked at the pair of them with an almost 
pitying expression on her face. 

“Don’t you understand how Cho’s feeling at the 
moment?” she asked. 

“No,” said Harry and Ron together. 

Hermione sighed and laid down her quill. 

“Well, obviously, she’s feeling very sad, because of 
Cedric dying. Then I expect she’s feeling confused 
because she liked Cedric and now she likes Harry, 

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and she can’t work out who she likes best. Then she’ll 
be feeling guilty, thinking it’s an insult to Cedric’s 
memory to be kissing Harry at all, and she’ll be 
worrying about what everyone else might say about 
her if she starts going out with Harry. And she 
probably can’t work out what her feelings toward 
Harry are anyway, because he was the one who was 
with Cedric when Cedric died, so that’s all very mixed 
up and painful. Oh, and she’s afraid she’s going to be 
thrown off the Ravenclaw Quidditch team because 
she’s been flying so badly.” 

A slightly stunned silence greeted the end of this 
speech, then Ron said, “One person can’t feel all that 
at once, they’d explode.” 

“Just because you’ve got the emotional range of a 
teaspoon doesn’t mean we all have,” said Hermione 
nastily, picking up her quill again. 

“She was the one who started it,” said Harry. “I 
wouldn’t’ve — she just sort of came at me — and next 
thing she’s crying all over me — I didn’t know what to 
do — ” 



“Don’t blame you, mate,” said Ron, looking alarmed at 
the very thought. 

“You just had to be nice to her,” said Hermione, 
looking up anxiously. “You were, weren’t you?” 

“Well,” said Harry, an unpleasant heat creeping up 
his face, “I sort of — patted her on the back a bit.” 

Hermione looked as though she was restraining 
herself from rolling her eyes with extreme difficulty. 

“Well, I suppose it could have been worse,” she said. 
“Are you going to see her again?” 

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“I’ll have to, won’t I?” said Harry. “We’ve got D.A. 
meetings, haven’t we?” 



“You know what I mean,” said Hermione impatiently. 

Harry said nothing. Hermione ’s words opened up a 
whole new vista of frightening possibilities. He tried to 
imagine going somewhere with Cho — Hogsmeade, 
perhaps — and being alone with her for hours at a 
time. Of course, she would have been expecting him 
to ask her out after what had just happened... The 
thought made his stomach clench painfully. 

“Oh well,” said Hermione distantly, buried in her 
letter once more, “you’ll have plenty of opportunities 
to ask her...” 

“What if he doesn’t want to ask her?” said Ron, who 
had been watching Harry with an unusually shrewd 
expression on his face. 

“Don’t be silly,” said Hermione vaguely, “Harry’s liked 
her for ages, haven’t you, Harry?” 

He did not answer. Yes, he had liked Cho for ages, 
but whenever he had imagined a scene involving the 
two of them it had always featured a Cho who was 
enjoying herself, as opposed to a Cho who was 
sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder. 

“Who ’re you writing the novel to anyway?” Ron asked 
Hermione, trying to read the bit of parchment now 
trailing on the floor. Hermione hitched it up out of 
sight. 

“Viktor.” 

“Krum?” 

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“How many other Viktors do we know?” 



Ron said nothing, but looked disgruntled. They sat in 
silence for another twenty minutes, Ron finishing his 
Transfiguration essay with many snorts of impatience 
and crossings-out, Hermione writing steadily to the 
very end of the parchment, rolling it up carefully and 
sealing it, and Harry staring into the fire, wishing 
more than anything that Sirius’s head would appear 
there and give him some advice about girls. But the 
fire merely crackled lower and lower, until the red-hot 
embers crumbled into ash and, looking around, Harry 
saw that they were, yet again, the last in the common 
room. 

“Well, ’night,” said Hermione, yawning widely, and 
she set off up the girls’ staircase. 

“What does she see in Krum?” Ron demanded as he 
and Harry climbed the boys’ stairs. 

“Well,” said Harry, considering the matter, “I s’pose 
he’s older, isn’t he ... and he’s an international 
Quidditch player...” 

“Yeah, but apart from that,” said Ron, sounding 
aggravated. “I mean he’s a grouchy git, isn’t he?” 

“Bit grouchy, yeah,” said Harry, whose thoughts were 
still on Cho. 

They pulled off their robes and put on pajamas in 
silence; Dean, Seamus, and Neville were already 
asleep. Harry put his glasses on his bedside table and 
got into bed but did not pull the hangings closed 
around his four-poster; instead he stared at the patch 
of starry sky visible through the window next to 
Neville’s bed. If he had known, this time last night, 

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that in twenty-four hours’ time he would have kissed 
Cho Chang ... 



“ ’Night,” grunted Ron, from somewhere to his right. 

“ ’Night,” said Harry. 

Maybe next time ... if there was a next time ... she’d 
be a bit happier. He ought to have asked her out; she 
had probably been expecting it and was now really 
angry with him ... or was she lying in bed, still crying 
about Cedric? He did not know what to think. 
Hermione’s explanation had made it all seem more 
complicated rather than easier to understand. 

That’s what they should teach us here, he thought, 
turning over onto his side, how girls’ brains work ... 
it’d be more useful than Divination anyway... 

Neville snuffled in his sleep. An owl hooted 
somewhere out in the night. 

Harry dreamed he was back in the D.A. room. Cho 
was accusing him of luring her there under false 
pretenses; she said that he had promised her a 
hundred and fifty Chocolate Frog cards if she showed 
up. Harry protested... Cho shouted, “ Cedric gave me 
loads of Chocolate Frog cards, look\” And she pulled 
out fistfuls of cards from inside her robes and threw 
them into the air, and then turned into Hermione, 
who said, “You did promise her, you know, Harry... I 
think you’d better give her something else instead... 
How about your Firebolt?” And Harry was protesting 
that he could not give Cho his Firebolt because 
Umbridge had it, and anyway the whole thing was 
ridiculous, he’d only come to the D.A. room to put up 
some Christmas baubles shaped like Dobby’s head... 

The dream changed... 

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His body felt smooth, powerful, and flexible. He was 
gliding between shining metal bars, across dark, cold 
stone... He was flat against the floor, sliding along on 
his belly... It was dark, yet he could see objects 
around him shimmering in strange, vibrant colors... 
He was turning his head... At first glance, the corridor 
was empty . . . but no ... a man was sitting on the floor 
ahead, his chin drooping onto his chest, his outline 
gleaming in the dark. . . 

Harry put out his tongue... He tasted the man’s scent 
on the air. . . He was alive but drowsing . . . sitting in 
front of a door at the end of the corridor . . . 

Harry longed to bite the man . . . but he must master 
the impulse... He had more important work to do... 

But the man was stirring ... a silvery cloak fell from 
his legs as he jumped to his feet; and Harry saw his 
vibrant, blurred outline towering above him, saw a 
wand withdrawn from a belt... He had no choice... He 
reared high from the floor and struck once, twice, 
three times, plunging his fangs deeply into the man’s 
flesh, feeling his ribs splinter beneath his jaws, feeling 
the warm gush of blood... 

The man was yelling in pain ... then he fell silent... He 
slumped backward against the wall... Blood was 
splattering onto the floor... 

His forehead hurt terribly. . . It was aching fit to 
burst... 

“Harry! HARRY!” 

He opened his eyes. Every inch of his body was 
covered in icy sweat; his bedcovers were twisted all 
around him like a straitjacket; he felt as though a 
white-hot poker was being applied to his forehead. 

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“Harryl” 



Ron was standing over him looking extremely 
frightened. There were more figures at the foot of 
Harry’s bed. He clutched his head in his hands; the 
pain was blinding him... He rolled right over and 
vomited over the edge of the mattress. 

“He’s really ill,” said a scared voice. “Should we call 
someone?” 

“Harry! Harryl” 

He had to tell Ron, it was very important that he tell 
him... Taking great gulps of air, Harry pushed himself 
up in bed, willing himself not to throw up again, the 
pain half-blinding him. 

“Your dad,” he panted, his chest heaving. “Your dad’s 
... been attacked...” 

“What?” said Ron uncomprehendingly. 

“Your dad! He’s been bitten, it’s serious, there was 
blood everywhere...” 

“I’m going for help,” said the same scared voice, and 
Harry heard footsteps running out of the dormitory. 

“Harry, mate,” said Ron uncertainly, “you ... you were 
just dreaming...” 

“No!” said Harry furiously; it was crucial that Ron 
understand. “It wasn’t a dream ... not an ordinary 
dream... I was there, I saw it... I did it...” 

He could hear Seamus and Dean muttering but did 
not care. The pain in his forehead was subsiding 
slightly, though he was still sweating and shivering 

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feverishly. He retched again and Ron leapt backward 
out of the way. 

“Harry, you’re not well,” he said shakily. “Neville’s 
gone for help...” 

“I’m fine!” Harry choked, wiping his mouth on his 
pajamas and shaking uncontrollably. “There’s nothing 
wrong with me, it’s your dad you’ve got to worry 
about — we need to find out where he is — he’s 
bleeding like mad — I was — it was a huge snake...” 

He tried to get out of bed but Ron pushed him back 
into it; Dean and Seamus were still whispering 
somewhere nearby. Whether one minute passed or 
ten, Harry did not know; he simply sat there shaking, 
feeling the pain recede very slowly from his scar. . . 
Then there were hurried footsteps coming up the 
stairs, and he heard Neville’s voice again. 

“Over here, Professor ...” 

Professor McGonagall came hurrying into the 
dormitory in her tartan dressing gown, her glasses 
perched lopsidedly on the bridge of her bony nose. 

“What is it, Potter? Where does it hurt?” 

He had never been so pleased to see her; it was a 
member of the Order of the Phoenix he needed now, 
not someone fussing over him and prescribing useless 
potions. 

“It’s Ron’s dad,” he said, sitting up again. “He’s been 
attacked by a snake and it’s serious, I saw it happen.” 

“What do you mean, you saw it happen?” said 
Professor McGonagall, her dark eyebrows contracting. 



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“I don’t know... I was asleep and then I was there...” 

“You mean you dreamed this?” 

“No!” said Harry angrily. Would none of them 
understand? “I was having a dream at first about 
something completely different, something stupid . . . 
and then this interrupted it. It was real, I didn’t 
imagine it, Mr. Weasley was asleep on the floor and 
he was attacked by a gigantic snake, there was a load 
of blood, he collapsed, someone’s got to find out 
where he is...” 

Professor McGonagall was gazing at him through her 
lopsided spectacles as though horrified at what she 
was seeing. 

“I’m not lying, and I’m not mad!” Harry told her, his 
voice rising to a shout. “I tell you, I saw it happen!” 

“I believe you, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall 
curtly. “Put on your dressing-gown — we’re going to 
see the headmaster.” 



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& 



ST. MUNGO’S HOSPITAL FOR 
MAGICAL MALADIES AND INJURIES 

Harry was so relieved that she was taking him 
seriously that he did not hesitate, but jumped out of 
bed at once, pulled on his dressing gown, and pushed 
his glasses back onto his nose. 

“Weasley, you ought to come too,” said Professor 
McGonagall. 

They followed Professor McGonagall past the silent 
figures of Neville, Dean, and Seamus, out of the 
dormitory, down the spiral stairs into the common 
room, through the portrait hole, and off along the Fat 
Lady’s moonlit corridor. Harry felt as though the 
panic inside him might spill over at any moment; he 
wanted to run, to yell for Dumbledore. Mr. Weasley 
was bleeding as they walked along so sedately, and 
what if those fangs (Harry tried hard not to think “my 
fangs”) had been poisonous? They passed Mrs. Norris, 
who turned her lamplike eyes upon them and hissed 
faintly, but Professor McGonagall said, “Shoo!” Mrs. 



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Norris slunk away into the shadows, and in a few 
minutes they had reached the stone gargoyle 
guarding the entrance to Dumbledore’s office. 

“Fizzing Whizbee,” said Professor McGonagall. 

The gargoyle sprang to life and leapt aside; the wall 
behind it split in two to reveal a stone staircase that 
was moving continuously upward like a spiral 
escalator. The three of them stepped onto the moving 
stairs; the wall closed behind them with a thud, and 
they were moving upward in tight circles until they 
reached the highly polished oak door with the brass 
knocker shaped like a griffin. 

Though it was now well past midnight, there were 
voices coming from inside the room, a positive babble 
of them. It sounded as though Dumbledore was 
entertaining at least a dozen people. 

Professor McGonagall rapped three times with the 
griffin knocker, and the voices ceased abruptly as 
though someone had switched them all off. The door 
opened of its own accord and Professor McGonagall 
led Harry and Ron inside. 

The room was in half darkness; the strange silver 
instruments standing on tables were silent and still 
rather than whirring and emitting puffs of smoke as 
they usually did. The portraits of old headmasters 
and headmistresses covering the walls were all 
snoozing in their frames. Behind the door, a 
magnificent red-and-gold bird the size of a swan 
dozed on its perch with its head under its wing. 

“Oh, it’s you, Professor McGonagall ... and ... ah.” 

Dumbledore was sitting in a high-backed chair 
behind his desk; he leaned forward into the pool of 

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candlelight illuminating the papers laid out before 
him. He was wearing a magnificently embroidered 
purple-and-gold dressing gown over a snowy-white 
nightshirt, but seemed wide awake, his penetrating 
light-blue eyes fixed intently upon Professor 
McGonagall. 

“Professor Dumbledore, Potter has had a ... well, a 
nightmare,” said Professor McGonagall. “He says ...” 

“It wasn’t a nightmare,” said Harry quickly. 

Professor McGonagall looked around at Harry, 
frowning slightly. 

“Very well, then, Potter, you tell the headmaster about 
it.” ~ 

“I ... well, I was asleep...” said Harry and even in his 
terror and his desperation to make Dumbledore 
understand he felt slightly irritated that the 
headmaster was not looking at him, but examining 
his own interlocked fingers. “But it wasn’t an ordinary 
dream ... it was real... I saw it happen...” He took a 
deep breath, “Ron’s dad — Mr. Weasley — has been 
attacked by a giant snake.” 

The words seemed to reverberate in the air after he 
had said them, slightly ridiculous, even comic. There 
was a pause in which Dumbledore leaned back and 
stared meditatively at the ceiling. Ron looked from 
Harry to Dumbledore, white-faced and shocked. 

“How did you see this?” Dumbledore asked quietly, 
still not looking at Harry. 

“Well ... I don’t know,” said Harry, rather angrily — 
what did it matter? “Inside my head, I suppose — ” 



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“You misunderstand me,” said Dumbledore, still in 
the same calm tone. “I mean ... can you remember — 
er — where you were positioned as you watched this 
attack happen? Were you perhaps standing beside 
the victim, or else looking down on the scene from 
above?” 

This was such a curious question that Harry gaped at 
Dumbledore; it was almost as though he knew ... 

“I was the snake,” he said. “I saw it all from the 
snake’s point of view...” 

Nobody else spoke for a moment, then Dumbledore, 
now looking at Ron, who was still whey-faced, said in 
a new and sharper voice, “Is Arthur seriously 
injured?” 

“ Yes” said Harry emphatically — why were they all so 
slow on the uptake, did they not realize how much a 
person bled when fangs that long pierced their side? 
And why could Dumbledore not do him the courtesy 
of looking at him? 

But Dumbledore stood up so quickly that Harry 
jumped, and addressed one of the old portraits 
hanging very near the ceiling. 

“Everard?” he said sharply. “And you too, Dilys!” 

A sallow-faced wizard with short, black bangs and an 
elderly witch with long silver ringlets in the frame 
beside him, both of whom seemed to have been in the 
deepest of sleeps, opened their eyes immediately. 

“You were listening?” said Dumbledore. 

The wizard nodded, the witch said, “Naturally.” 



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“The man has red hair and glasses,” said 
Dumbledore. “Everard, you will need to raise the 
alarm, make sure he is found by the right people — ” 

Both nodded and moved sideways out of their frames, 
but instead of emerging in neighboring pictures (as 
usually happened at Hogwarts), neither reappeared; 
one frame now contained nothing but a backdrop of 
dark curtain, the other a handsome leather armchair. 
Harry noticed that many of the other headmasters 
and mistresses on the walls, though snoring and 
drooling most convincingly, kept sneaking peeks at 
him under their eyelids, and he suddenly understood 
who had been talking when they had knocked. 

“Everard and Dilys were two of Hogwarts ’s most 
celebrated Heads,” Dumbledore said, now sweeping 
around Harry, Ron, and Professor McGonagall and 
approaching the magnificent sleeping bird on his 
perch beside the door. “Their renown is such that 
both have portraits hanging in other important 
Wizarding institutions. As they are free to move 
between their own portraits they can tell us what may 
be happening elsewhere...” 

“But Mr. Weasley could be anywhere!” said Harry. 

“Please sit down, all three of you,” said Dumbledore, 
as though Harry had not spoken. “Everard and Dilys 
may not be back for several minutes... Professor 
McGonagall, if you could draw up extra chairs ...” 

Professor McGonagall pulled her wand from the 
pocket of her dressing gown and waved it; three 
chairs appeared out of thin air, straight-backed and 
wooden, quite unlike the comfortable chintz 
armchairs that Dumbledore had conjured back at 
Harry’s hearing. Harry sat down, watching 
Dumbledore over his shoulder. Dumbledore was now 
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stroking Fawkes’s plumed golden head with one 
finger. The phoenix awoke immediately. He stretched 
his beautiful head high and observed Dumbledore 
through bright, dark eyes. 

“We will need,” said Dumbledore very quietly to the 
bird, “a warning.” 

There was a flash of fire and the phoenix had gone. 

Dumbledore now swooped down upon one of the 
fragile silver instruments whose function Harry had 
never known, carried it over to his desk, sat down 
facing them again, and tapped it gently with the tip of 
his wand. 

The instrument tinkled into life at once with rhythmic 
clinking noises. Tiny puffs of pale green smoke issued 
from the minuscule silver tube at the top. 

Dumbledore watched the smoke closely, his brow 
furrowed, and after a few seconds, the tiny puffs 
became a steady stream of smoke that thickened and 
coiled in the air... A serpent’s head grew out of the 
end of it, opening its mouth wide. Harry wondered 
whether the instrument was confirming his story: He 
looked eagerly at Dumbledore for a sign that he was 
right, but Dumbledore did not look up. 

“Naturally, naturally,” murmured Dumbledore 
apparently to himself, still observing the stream of 
smoke without the slightest sign of surprise. “But in 
essence divided?” 

Harry could make neither head nor tail of this 
question. The smoke serpent, however, split itself 
instantly into two snakes, both coiling and 
undulating in the dark air. With a look of grim 
satisfaction Dumbledore gave the instrument another 
gentle tap with his wand: The clinking noise slowed 
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and died, and the smoke serpents grew faint, became 
a formless haze, and vanished. 

Dumbledore replaced the instrument upon its spindly 
little table; Harry saw many of the old headmasters in 
the portraits follow him with their eyes, then, realizing 
that Harry was watching them, hastily pretend to be 
sleeping again. Harry wanted to ask what the strange 
silver instrument was for, but before he could do so, 
there was a shout from the top of the wall to their 
right; the wizard called Everard had reappeared in his 
portrait, panting slightly. 

“Dumbledore!” 

“What news?” said Dumbledore at once. 

“I yelled until someone came running,” said the 
wizard, who was mopping his brow on the curtain 
behind him, “said I’d heard something moving 
downstairs — they weren’t sure whether to believe me 
but went down to check — you know there are no 
portraits down there to watch from. Anyway, they 
carried him up a few minutes later. He doesn’t look 
good, he’s covered in blood, I ran along to Elfrida 
Cragg’s portrait to get a good view as they left — ” 

“Good,” said Dumbledore as Ron made a convulsive 
movement, “I take it Dilys will have seen him arrive, 
then — ” 

And moments later, the silver-ringletted witch had 
reappeared in her picture too; she sank, coughing, 
into her armchair and said, “Yes, they’ve taken him to 
St. Mungo’s, Dumbledore... They carried him past 
under my portrait... He looks bad...” 

“Thank you,” said Dumbledore. He looked around at 
Professor McGonagall. 

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“Minerva, I need you to go and wake the other 
Weasley children.” 

“Of course...” 

Professor McGonagall got up and moved swiftly to the 
door; Harry cast a sideways glance at Ron, who was 
now looking terrified. 

“And Dumbledore — what about Molly?” said 
Professor McGonagall, pausing at the door. 

“That will be a job for Fawkes when he has finished 
keeping a lookout for anybody approaching,” said 
Dumbledore. “But she may already know ... that 
excellent clock of hers ...” 

Harry knew Dumbledore was referring to the clock 
that told, not the time, but the whereabouts and 
conditions of the various Weasley family members, 
and with a pang he thought that Mr. Weasley’s hand 
must, even now, be pointing at “mortal peril.” But it 
was very late... Mrs. Weasley was probably asleep, not 
watching the clock. . . And he felt cold as he 
remembered Mrs. Weasley’s boggart turning into Mr. 
Weasley’s lifeless body, his glasses askew, blood 
running down his face... But Mr. Weasley wasn’t 
going to die... He couldn’t... 

Dumbledore was now rummaging in a cupboard 
behind Harry and Ron. He emerged from it carrying a 
blackened old kettle, which he placed carefully upon 
his desk. He raised his wand and murmured “Portus”; 
for a moment the kettle trembled, glowing with an odd 
blue light, then it quivered to a rest, as solidly black 
as ever. 

Dumbledore marched over to another portrait, this 
time of a clever-looking wizard with a pointed beard, 

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who had been painted wearing the Slytherin colors of 
green and silver and was apparently sleeping so 
deeply that he could not hear Dumbledore ’s voice 
when he attempted to rouse him. 

“Phineas. Phineas.” 

And now the subjects of the portraits lining the room 
were no longer pretending to be asleep; they were 
shifting around in their frames, the better to watch 
what was happening. When the clever-looking wizard 
continued to feign sleep, some of them shouted his 
name too. 

“Phineas! Phineas ! PHINEAS!” 

He could not pretend any longer; he gave a theatrical 
jerk and opened his eyes wide. 

“Did someone call?” 

“I need you to visit your other portrait again, 
Phineas,” said Dumbledore. “IVe got another 
message.” 

“Visit my other portrait?” said Phineas in a reedy 
voice, giving a long, fake yawn (his eyes traveling 
around the room and focusing upon Harry). “Oh no, 
Dumbledore, I am too tired tonight...” 

Something about Phineas ’s voice was familiar to 
Harry. Where had he heard it before? But before he 
could think, the portraits on the surrounding walls 
broke into a storm of protest. 

“Insubordination, sir!” roared a corpulent, red-nosed 
wizard, brandishing his fists. “Dereliction of duty!” 



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“We are honor-bound to give service to the present 
Headmaster of Hogwarts!” cried a frail-looking old 
wizard whom Harry recognized as Dumbledore’s 
predecessor, Armando Dippet. “Shame on you, 
Phineas!” 

“Shall I persuade him, Dumbledore?” called a gimlet- 
eyed witch, raising an unusually thick wand that 
looked not unlike a birch rod. 

“Oh, very well,” said the wizard called Phineas, eyeing 
this wand slightly apprehensively, “though he may 
well have destroyed my picture by now, he’s done 
most of the family — ” 

“Sirius knows not to destroy your portrait,” said 
Dumbledore, and Harry realized immediately where 
he had heard Phineas ’s voice before: issuing from the 
apparently empty frame in his bedroom in Grimmauld 
Place. “You are to give him the message that Arthur 
Weasley has been gravely injured and that his wife, 
children, and Harry Potter will be arriving at his 
house shortly. Do you understand?” 

“Arthur Weasley, injured, wife and children and Harry 
Potter coming to stay,” recited Phineas in a bored 
voice. “Yes, yes ... very well...” 

He sloped away into the frame of the portrait and 
disappeared from view at the very moment that the 
study door opened again. Fred, George, and Ginny 
were ushered inside by Professor McGonagall, all 
three of them looking disheveled and shocked, still in 
their night things. 

“Harry — what’s going on?” asked Ginny, who looked 
frightened. “Professor McGonagall says you saw Dad 
hurt — ” 



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“Your father has been injured in the course of his 
work for the Order of the Phoenix,” said Dumbledore 
before Harry could speak. “He has been taken to St. 
Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I 
am sending you back to Sirius’s house, which is 
much more convenient for the hospital than the 
Burrow. You will meet your mother there.” 

“How’re we going?” asked Fred, looking shaken. “Floo 
powder?” 

“No,” said Dumbledore, “Floo powder is not safe at the 
moment, the Network is being watched. You will be 
taking a Portkey.” He indicated the old kettle lying 
innocently on his desk. “We are just waiting for 
Phineas Nigellus to report back... I wish to be sure 
that the coast is clear before sending you — ” 

There was a flash of flame in the very middle of the 
office, leaving behind a single golden feather that 
floated gently to the floor. 

“It is Fawkes’s warning,” said Dumbledore, catching 
the feather as it fell. “She must know you’re out of 
your beds... Minerva, go and head her off — tell her 
any story — ” 

Professor McGonagall was gone in a swish of tartan. 

“He says he’ll be delighted,” said a bored voice behind 
Dumbledore; the wizard called Phineas had 
reappeared in front of his Slytherin banner. “My 
great-great-grandson has always had odd taste in 
houseguests...” 

“Come here, then,” Dumbledore said to Harry and the 
Weasleys. “And quickly, before anyone else joins us 



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Harry and the others gathered around Dumbledore’s 
desk. 

“You have all used a Portkey before?” asked 
Dumbledore, and they nodded, each reaching out to 
touch some part of the blackened kettle. “Good. On 
the count of three then ... one ... two ...” 

It happened in a fraction of a second: In the 
infinitesimal pause before Dumbledore said “three,” 
Harry looked up at him — they were very close 
together — and Dumbledore’s clear blue gaze moved 
from the Portkey to Harry’s face. 

At once, Harry’s scar burned white-hot, as though the 
old wound had burst open again — and unbidden, 
unwanted, but terrifyingly strong, there rose within 
Harry a hatred so powerful he felt, for that instant, 
that he would like nothing better than to strike — to 
bite — to sink his fangs into the man before him — 

“... three.” 

He felt a powerful jerk behind his navel, the ground 
vanished from beneath his feet, his hand was glued to 
the kettle; he was banging into the others as all sped 
forward in a swirl of colors and a rush of wind, the 
kettle pulling them onward and then — 

His feet hit the ground so hard that his knees 
buckled, the kettle clattered to the ground and 
somewhere close at hand a voice said, “Back again, 
the blood traitor brats, is it true their father’s dying ... 
?” 

“OUT!” roared a second voice. 

Harry scrambled to his feet and looked around; they 
had arrived in the gloomy basement kitchen of 

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number twelve, Grimmauld Place. The only sources of 
light were the fire and one guttering candle, which 
illuminated the remains of a solitary supper. Kreacher 
was disappearing through the door to the hall, 
looking back at them malevolently as he hitched up 
his loincloth; Sirius was hurrying toward them all, 
looking anxious. He was unshaven and still in his day 
clothes; there was also a slightly Mundungus-like 
whiff of stale drink about him. 

“What’s going on?” he said, stretching out a hand to 
help Ginny up. “Phineas Nigellus said Arthur’s been 
badly injured — ” 

“Ask Harry,” said Fred. 

“Yeah, I want to hear this for myself,” said George. 

The twins and Ginny were staring at him. Kreacher’s 
footsteps had stopped on the stairs outside. 

“It was — ” Harry began; this was even worse than 
telling McGonagall and Dumbledore. “I had a — a 
kind of — vision...” 

And he told them all that he had seen, though he 
altered the story so that it sounded as though he had 
watched from the sidelines as the snake attacked, 
rather than from behind the snake’s own eyes... Ron, 
who was still very white, gave him a fleeting look, but 
did not speak. When Harry had finished, Fred, 

George, and Ginny continued to stare at him for a 
moment. Harry did not know whether he was 
imagining it or not, but he fancied there was 
something accusatory in their looks. Well, if they were 
going to blame him for just seeing the attack, he was 
glad he had not told them that he had been inside the 
snake at the time... 



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“Is Mum here?” said Fred, turning to Sirius. 



“She probably doesn’t even know what’s happened 
yet,” said Sirius. “The important thing was to get you 
away before Umbridge could interfere. I expect 
Dumbledore’s letting Molly know now.” 

“We’ve got to go to St. Mungo’s,” said Ginny urgently. 
She looked around at her brothers; they were of 
course still in their pajamas. “Sirius, can you lend us 
cloaks or anything — ?” 

“Hang on, you can’t go tearing off to St. Mungo’s!” 
said Sirius. 

“ ’Course we can go to St. Mungo’s if we want,” said 
Fred, with a mulish expression, “he’s our dad!” 

“And how are you going to explain how you knew 
Arthur was attacked before the hospital even let his 
wife know?” 

“What does that matter?” said George hotly. 

“It matters because we don’t want to draw attention 
to the fact that Harry is having visions of things that 
are happening hundreds of miles away!” said Sirius 
angrily. “Have you any idea what the Ministry would 
make of that information?” 

Fred and George looked as though they could not care 
less what the Ministry made of anything. Ron was still 
white-faced and silent. Ginny said, “Somebody else 
could have told us... We could have heard it 
somewhere other than Harry...” 

“Like who?” said Sirius impatiently. “Listen, your 
dad’s been hurt while on duty for the Order and the 
circumstances are fishy enough without his children 

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knowing about it seconds after it happened, you 
could seriously damage the Order’s — ” 

“We don’t care about the dumb Order!” shouted Fred. 

“It’s our dad dying we’re talking about!” yelled George. 

“Your father knew what he was getting into, and he 
won’t thank you for messing things up for the Order!” 
said Sirius angrily in his turn. “This is how it is — 
this is why you’re not in the Order — you don’t 
understand — there are things worth dying for!” 

“Easy for you to say, stuck here!” bellowed Fred. “I 
don’t see you risking your neck!” 

The little color remaining in Sirius’s face drained from 
it. He looked for a moment as though he would quite 
like to hit Fred, but when he spoke, it was in a voice 
of determined calm. “I know it’s hard, but we’ve all got 
to act as though we don’t know anything yet. We’ve 
got to stay put, at least until we hear from your 
mother, all right?” 

Fred and George still looked mutinous. Ginny, 
however, took a few steps over to the nearest chair 
and sank into it. Harry looked at Ron, who made a 
funny movement somewhere between a nod and 
shrug, and they sat down too. The twins glared at 
Sirius for another minute, then took seats on either 
side of Ginny. 

“That’s right,” said Sirius encouragingly, “come on, 
let’s all ... let’s all have a drink while we’re waiting. 
Accio Butterbeeri” 

He raised his wand as he spoke and half a dozen 
bottles came flying toward them out of the pantry, 
skidded along the table, scattering the debris of 

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Sirius’s meal, and stopped neatly in front of the six of 
them. They all drank, and for a while the only sounds 
were those of the crackling of the kitchen fire and the 
soft thud of their bottles on the table. 

Harry was only drinking to have something to do with 
his hands. His stomach was full of horrible hot, 
bubbling guilt. They would not be here if it were not 
for him; they would all still be asleep in bed. And it 
was no good telling himself that by raising the alarm 
he had ensured that Mr. Weasley was found, because 
there was also the inescapable business of it being he 
who had attacked Mr. Weasley in the first place... 

Don’t be stupid, you haven’t got fangs, he told himself, 
trying to keep calm, though the hand on his 
butterbeer bottle was shaking. You were lying in bed, 
you weren’t attacking anyone... 

But then, what just happened in Dumbledore’s office ? 
he asked himself. I felt like I wanted to attack 
Dumbledore too... 

He put the bottle down on the table a little harder 
than he meant to, so that it slopped over onto the 
table. No one took any notice. Then a burst of fire in 
midair illuminated the dirty plates in front of them 
and as they gave cries of shock, a scroll of parchment 
fell with a thud onto the table, accompanied by a 
single golden phoenix tail feather. 

“Fawkes!” said Sirius at once, snatching up the 
parchment. “That’s not Dumbledore’s writing — it 
must be a message from your mother — here — ” 

He thrust the letter into George’s hand, who ripped it 
open and read aloud, “ Dad is still alive. I am setting 
out for St. Mungo’s now. Stay where you are. I will 
send news as soon as I can. Mum.” 

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George looked around the table. 



“Still alive ...” he said slowly. “But that makes it 
sound ...” 

He did not need to finish the sentence. It sounded to 
Harry too as though Mr. Weasley was hovering 
somewhere between life and death. Still exceptionally 
pale, Ron stared at the back of his mother’s letter as 
though it might speak words of comfort to him. Fred 
pulled the parchment out of George’s hands and read 
it for himself, then looked up at Harry, who felt his 
hand shaking on his butterbeer bottle again and 
clenched it more tightly to stop the trembling. 

If Harry had ever sat through a longer night than this 
one he could not remember it. Sirius suggested once 
that they all go to bed, but without any real 
conviction, and the Weasleys’ looks of disgust were 
answer enough. They mostly sat in silence around the 
table, watching the candle wick sinking lower and 
lower into liquid wax, now and then raising bottles to 
their lips, speaking only to check the time, to wonder 
aloud what was happening, and to reassure one 
another that if there was bad news, they would know 
straightaway, for Mrs. Weasley must long since have 
arrived at St. Mungo’s. 

Fred fell into a doze, his head sagging sideways onto 
his shoulder. Ginny was curled like a cat on her 
chair, but her eyes were open; Harry could see them 
reflecting the firelight. Ron was sitting with his head 
in his hands, whether awake or asleep it was 
impossible to tell. And he and Sirius looked at each 
other every so often, intruders upon the family grief, 
waiting ... waiting ... 

And then, at ten past five in the morning by Ron’s 
watch, the kitchen door swung open and Mrs. 

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Weasley entered the kitchen. She was extremely pale, 
but when they all turned to look at her, Fred, Ron, 
and Harry half-rising from their chairs, she gave a 
wan smile. 

“He’s going to be all right,” she said, her voice weak 
with tiredness. “He’s sleeping. We can all go and see 
him later. Bill’s sitting with him now, he’s going to 
take the morning off work.” 

Fred fell back into his chair with his hands over his 
face. George and Ginny got up, walked swiftly over to 
their mother, and hugged her. Ron gave a very shaky 
laugh and downed the rest of his butterbeer in one. 

“Breakfast!” said Sirius loudly and joyfully, jumping 
to his feet. “Where’s that accursed house-elf? 

Kreacher! KREACHER!” 

But Kreacher did not answer the summons. 

“Oh, forget it, then,” muttered Sirius, counting the 
people in front of him. “So it’s breakfast for — let’s see 
— seven ... Bacon and eggs, I think, and some tea, 
and toast — ” 

Harry hurried over to the stove to help. He did not 
want to intrude upon the Weasleys’ happiness, and 
he dreaded the moment when Mrs. Weasley would 
ask him to recount his vision. However, he had barely 
taken plates from the dresser when Mrs. Weasley 
lifted them out of his hands and pulled him into a 
hug. 

“I don’t know what would have happened if it hadn’t 
been for you, Harry,” she said in a muffled voice. 

“They might not have found Arthur for hours, and 
then it would have been too late, but thanks to you 
he’s alive and Dumbledore’s been able to think up a 
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good cover story for Arthur being where he was, 
you’ve no idea what trouble he would have been in 
otherwise, look at poor Sturgis...” 

Harry could hardly stand her gratitude, but 
fortunately she soon released him to turn to Sirius 
and thank him for looking after her children through 
the night. Sirius said that he was very pleased to have 
been able to help, and hoped they would all stay with 
him as long as Mr. Weasley was in hospital. 

“Oh, Sirius, I’m so grateful... They think hell be there 
a little while and it would be wonderful to be nearer 
...Of course, that might mean we’re here for 
Christmas...” 

“The more the merrier!” said Sirius with such obvious 
sincerity that Mrs. Weasley beamed at him, threw on 
an apron, and began to help with breakfast. 

“Sirius,” Harry muttered, unable to stand it a moment 
longer. “Can I have a quick word? Er — now?” 

He walked into the dark pantry and Sirius followed. 
Without preamble Harry told his godfather every 
detail of the vision he had had, including the fact that 
he himself had been the snake who had attacked Mr. 
Weasley. 

When he paused for breath, Sirius said, “Did you tell 
Dumbledore this?” 

“Yes,” said Harry impatiently, “but he didn’t tell me 
what it meant. Well, he doesn’t tell me anything 
anymore...” 

“I’m sure he would have told you if it was anything to 
worry about,” said Sirius steadily. 



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“But that’s not all,” said Harry in a voice only a little 
above a whisper. “Sirius, I ... I think I’m going mad... 
Back in Dumbledore’s office, just before we took the 
Portkey . . . for a couple of seconds there I thought I 
was a snake, I felt like one — my scar really hurt 
when I was looking at Dumbledore — Sirius, I wanted 
to attack him — ” 

He could only see a sliver of Sirius’s face; the rest was 
in darkness. 

“It must have been the aftermath of the vision, that’s 
all,” said Sirius. “You were still thinking of the dream 
or whatever it was and — ” 

“It wasn’t that,” said Harry, shaking his head. “It was 
like something rose up inside me, like there’s a snake 
inside me — ” 

“You need to sleep,” said Sirius firmly. “You’re going 
to have breakfast and then go upstairs to bed, and 
then you can go and see Arthur after lunch with the 
others. You’re in shock, Harry; you’re blaming 
yourself for something you only witnessed, and it’s 
lucky you did witness it or Arthur might have died. 
Just stop worrying...” 

He clapped Harry on the shoulder and left the pantry, 
leaving Harry standing alone in the dark. 

Everyone but Harry spent the rest of the morning 
sleeping. He went up to the bedroom he had shared 
with Ron over the summer, but while Ron crawled 
into bed and was asleep within minutes, Harry sat 
fully clothed, hunched against the cold metal bars of 
the bedstead, keeping himself deliberately 
uncomfortable, determined not to fall into a doze, 
terrified that he might become the serpent again in 
his sleep and awake to find that he had attacked Ron, 
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or else slithered through the house after one of the 
others... 

When Ron woke up, Harry pretended to have enjoyed 
a refreshing nap too. Their trunks arrived from 
Hogwarts while they were eating lunch, so that they 
could dress as Muggles for the trip to St. Mungo’s. 
Everybody except Harry was riotously happy and 
talkative as they changed out of their robes into jeans 
and sweatshirts, and they greeted Tonks and Mad- 
Eye, who had turned up to escort them across 
London, gleefully laughing at the bowler hat Mad-Eye 
was wearing at an angle to conceal his magical eye 
and assuring him, truthfully, that Tonks, whose hair 
was short and bright pink again, would attract far 
less attention on the underground. 

Tonks was very interested in Harry’s vision of the 
attack on Mr. Weasley, something he was not 
remotely interested in discussing. 

“There isn’t any Seer blood in your family, is there?” 
she inquired curiously, as they sat side by side on a 
train rattling toward the heart of the city. 

“No,” said Harry, thinking of Professor Trelawney and 
feeling insulted. 

“No,” said Tonks musingly, “no, I suppose it’s not 
really prophecy you’re doing, is it? I mean, you’re not 
seeing the future, you’re seeing the present... It’s odd, 
isn’t it? Useful, though ...” 

Harry did not answer; fortunately they got out at the 
next stop, a station in the very heart of London, and 
in the bustle of leaving the train he was able to allow 
Fred and George to get between himself and Tonks, 
who was leading the way. They all followed her up the 
escalator, Moody clunking along at the back of the 
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group, his bowler tilted low and one gnarled hand 
stuck in between the buttons of his coat, clutching 
his wand. Harry thought he sensed the concealed eye 
staring hard at him; trying to deflect more questions 
about his dream he asked Mad-Eye where St. 

Mungo’s was hidden. 

“Not far from here,” grunted Moody as they stepped 
out into the wintry air on a broad store-lined street 
packed with Christmas shoppers. He pushed Harry a 
little ahead of him and stumped along just behind; 
Harry knew the eye was rolling in all directions under 
the tilted hat. “Wasn’t easy to find a good location for 
a hospital. Nowhere in Diagon Alley was big enough 
and we couldn’t have it underground like the Ministry 
— unhealthy. In the end they managed to get hold of 
a building up here. Theory was sick wizards could 
come and go and just blend in with the crowd...” 

He seized Harry’s shoulder to prevent them being 
separated by a gaggle of shoppers plainly intent on 
nothing but making it into a nearby shop full of 
electrical gadgets. 

“Here we go,” said Moody a moment later. 

They had arrived outside a large, old-fashioned, red 
brick department store called Purge and Dowse Ltd. 
The place had a shabby, miserable air; the window 
displays consisted of a few chipped dummies with 
their wigs askew, standing at random and modeling 
fashions at least ten years out of date. Large signs on 
all the dusty doors read CLOSED FOR 
REFURBISHMENT. Harry distinctly heard a large 
woman laden with plastic shopping bags say to her 
friend as they passed, “It’s never open, that place...” 

“Right,” said Tonks, beckoning them forward to a 
window displaying nothing but a particularly ugly 

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female dummy whose false eyelashes were hanging off 
and who was modeling a green nylon pinafore dress. 
“Everybody ready?” 

They nodded, clustering around her; Moody gave 
Harry another shove between the shoulder blades to 
urge him forward and Tonks leaned close to the glass, 
looking up at the very ugly dummy and said, her 
breath steaming up the glass, “Wotcher ... We’re here 
to see Arthur Weasley.” 

For a split second, Harry thought how absurd it was 
for Tonks to expect the dummy to hear her talking 
that quietly through a sheet of glass, when there were 
buses rumbling along behind her and all the racket of 
a street full of shoppers. Then he reminded himself 
that dummies could not hear anyway. Next second 
his mouth opened in shock as the dummy gave a tiny 
nod, beckoned its jointed finger, and Tonks had 
seized Ginny and Mrs. Weasley by the elbows, 
stepped right through the glass and vanished. 

Fred, George, and Ron stepped after them; Harry 
glanced around at the jostling crowd; not one of them 
seemed to have a glance to spare for window displays 
as ugly as Purge and Dowse Ltd.’s, nor did any of 
them seem to have noticed that six people had just 
melted into thin air in front of them. 

“C’mon,” growled Moody, giving Harry yet another 
poke in the back and together they stepped forward 
through what felt like a sheet of cool water, emerging 
quite warm and dry on the other side. 

There was no sign of the ugly dummy or the space 
where she had stood. They had arrived in what 
seemed to be a crowded reception area where rows of 
witches and wizards sat upon rickety wooden chairs, 
some looking perfectly normal and perusing out-of- 
P a g e | 617Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




date copies of Witch Weekly, others sporting gruesome 
disfigurements such as elephant trunks or extra 
hands sticking out of their chests. The room was 
scarcely less quiet than the street outside, for many of 
the patients were making very peculiar noises. A 
sweaty-faced witch in the center of the front row, who 
was fanning herself vigorously with a copy of the 
Daily Prophet, kept letting off a high-pitched whistle 
as steam came pouring out of her mouth, and a 
grubby-looking warlock in the corner clanged like a 
bell every time he moved, and with each clang his 
head vibrated horribly, so that he had to seize himself 
by the ears and hold it steady. 

Witches and wizards in lime-green robes were walking 
up and down the rows, asking questions and making 
notes on clipboards like Umbridge’s. Harry noticed 
the emblem embroidered on their chests: a wand and 
bone, crossed. 

“Are they doctors?” he asked Ron quietly. 

“Doctors?” said Ron, looking startled. “Those Muggle 
nutters that cut people up? Nah, they’re Healers.” 

“Over here!” called Mrs. Weasley over the renewed 
clanging of the warlock in the corner, and they 
followed her to the queue in front of a plump blonde 
witch seated at a desk marked inquiries. The wall 
behind her was covered in notices and posters saying 
things like A CLEAN CAULDRON KEEPS POTIONS 
FROM BECOMING POISONS and ANTIDOTES ARE 
ANTI-DONTS UNLESS APPROVED BY A QUALIFIED 
HEALER. 

There was also a large portrait of a witch with long 
silver ringlets that was labelled 

DILYS DERWENT 

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ST. MUNGO’S HEALER 1722-1741 



HEADMISTRESS OF HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF 

WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, I74I-I768 

Dilys was eyeing the Weasley party as though 
counting them; when Harry caught her eye she gave a 
tiny wink, walked sideways out of her portrait, and 
vanished. 

Meanwhile, at the front of the queue, a young wizard 
was performing an odd on-the-spot jig and trying, in 
between yelps of pain, to explain his predicament to 
the witch behind the desk. 

“It’s these — ouch — shoes my brother gave me — ow 
— they’re eating my — OUCH — feet — look at them, 
there must be some kind of — AARGH — jinx on them 
and I can’t — AAAAARGH — get them off — ” 

He hopped from one foot to the other as though 
dancing on hot coals. 

“The shoes don’t prevent you reading, do they?” said 
the blonde witch irritably, pointing at a large sign to 
the left of her desk. “You want Spell Damage, fourth 
floor. Just like it says on the floor guide. Next!” 

The wizard hobbled and pranced sideways out of the 
way, the Weasley party moved forward a few steps 
and Harry read the floor guide: 

ARTIFACT ACCIDENTS Ground Floor 

(Cauldron explosion, wand backfiring, broom crashes, 
etc.) 



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CREATURE-INDUCED INJURIES 



First Floor 



(Bites, stings, burns, embedded spines, etc.) 

MAGICAL BUGS Second Floor 

(Contagious maladies, e.g., dragon pox, vanishing 
sickness, scrofungulus) 

POTION AND PLANT POISONING .... Third Floor 

(Rashes, regurgitation, uncontrollable giggling, etc.) 

SPELL DAMAGE Fourth Floor 

(Unliftable jinxes, hexes, and incorrectly applied 
charms, etc.) 

VISITORS’ TEAROOM AND HOSPITAL SHOP... .Fifth 
Floor 

If you are unsure where to go, incapable, of normal 
speech, or unable to remember why you are here, our 
Welcome Witch will be pleased to help. 

A very old, stooped wizard with a hearing trumpet 
had shuffled to the front of the queue now. 

“I’m here to see Broderick Bode!” he wheezed. 

“Ward forty-nine, but I’m afraid you’re wasting your 
time,” said the witch dismissively “He’s completely 
addled, you know, still thinks he’s a teapot... Next!” 

A harassed-looking wizard was holding his small 
daughter tightly by the ankle while she flapped 
around his head using the immensely large, feathery 
wings that had sprouted right out the back of her 
romper suit. 

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“Fourth floor,” said the witch in a bored voice, without 
asking, and the man disappeared through the double 
doors beside the desk, holding his daughter like an 
oddly shaped balloon. “Next!” 

Mrs. Weasley moved forward to the desk. 

“Hello,” she said. “My husband, Arthur Weasley, was 
supposed to be moved to a different ward this 
morning, could you tell us — ?” 

“Arthur Weasley?” said the witch, running her finger 
down a long list in front of her. “Yes, first floor, 
second door on the right, Dai Llewellyn ward.” 

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Come on, you lot.” 

They followed through the double doors and along the 
narrow corridor beyond, which was lined with more 
portraits of famous Healers and lit by crystal bubbles 
full of candles that floated up on the ceiling, looking 
like giant soapsuds. More witches and wizards in 
lime-green robes walked in and out of the doors they 
passed; a foul-smelling yellow gas wafted into the 
passageway as they passed one door, and every now 
and then they heard distant wailing. They climbed a 
flight of stairs and entered the “Creature-Induced 
Injuries” corridor, where the second door on the right 
bore the words “DANGEROUS” DAI LLEWELLYN 
WARD: SERIOUS BITES. Underneath this was a card 
in a brass holder on which had been handwritten 
Healer-in-Charge: Hippocrates Smethwyck, Trainee 
Healer: Augustus Pye. 

“Well wait outside, Molly,” Tonks said. “Arthur won’t 
want too many visitors at once... It ought to be just 
the family first.” 



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Mad-Eye growled his approval of this idea and set 
himself with his back against the corridor wall, his 
magical eye spinning in all directions. Harry drew 
back too, but Mrs. Weasley reached out a hand and 
pushed him through the door, saying, “Don’t be silly, 
Harry, Arthur wants to thank you...” 

The ward was small and rather dingy as the only 
window was narrow and set high in the wall facing 
the door. Most of the light came from more shining 
crystal bubbles clustered in the middle of the ceiling. 
The walls were of panelled oak and there was a 
portrait of a rather vicious-looking wizard on the wall, 
captioned URQUHART RACKHARROW, 1612-1697, 
INVENTOR OF THE ENTRAIL- EXPELLING CURSE. 

There were only three patients. Mr. Weasley was 
occupying the bed at the far end of the ward beside 
the tiny window. Harry was pleased and relieved to 
see that he was propped up on several pillows and 
reading the Daily Prophet by the solitary ray of 
sunlight falling onto his bed. He looked around as 
they walked toward him and, seeing whom it was, 
beamed. 

“Hello!” he called, throwing the Prophet aside. “Bill 
just left, Molly, had to get back to work, but he says 
he’ll drop in on you later...” 

“How are you, Arthur?” asked Mrs. Weasley, bending 
down to kiss his cheek and looking anxiously into his 
face. “You’re still looking a bit peaky...” 

“I feel absolutely fine,” said Mr. Weasley brightly, 
holding out his good arm to give Ginny a hug. “If they 
could only take the bandages off, I’d be fit to go 
home.” 

“Why can’t they take them off, Dad?” asked Fred. 

Page | 622Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“Well, I start bleeding like mad every time they try,” 
said Mr. Weasley cheerfully, reaching across for his 
wand, which lay on his bedside cabinet, and waving it 
so that six extra chairs appeared at his bedside to 
seat them all. “It seems there was some rather 
unusual kind of poison in that snake’s fangs that 
keeps wounds open... They’re sure they’ll find an 
antidote, though, they say they’ve had much worse 
cases than mine, and in the meantime I just have to 
keep taking a Blood-Replenishing Potion every hour. 
But that fellow over there,” he said, dropping his voice 
and nodding toward the bed opposite in which a man 
lay looking green and sickly and staring at the ceiling. 
“Bitten by a werewolf, poor chap. No cure at all.” 

“A werewolf?” whispered Mrs. Weasley, looking 
alarmed. “Is he safe in a public ward? Shouldn’t he be 
in a private room?” 

“It’s two weeks till full moon,” Mr. Weasley reminded 
her quietly. “They’ve been talking to him this 
morning, the Healers, you know, trying to persuade 
him he’ll be able to lead an almost normal life. I said 
to him — didn’t mention names, of course — but I 
said I knew a werewolf personally, very nice man, who 
finds the condition quite easy to manage...” 

“What did he say?” asked George. 

“Said he’d give me another bite if I didn’t shut up,” 
said Mr. Weasley sadly. “And that woman over there,” 
he indicated the only other occupied bed, which was 
right beside the door, “won’t tell the Healers what bit 
her, which makes us all think it must have been 
something she was handling illegally. Whatever it was 
took a real chunk out of her leg, very nasty smell 
when they take off the dressings.” 



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“So, you going to tell us what happened, Dad?” asked 
Fred, pulling his chair closer to the bed. 

“Well, you already know, don’t you?” said Mr. 

Weasley, with a significant smile at Harry. “It’s very 
simple — I’d had a very long day, dozed off, got 
sneaked up on, and bitten.” 

“Is it in the Prophet, you being attacked?” asked Fred, 
indicating the newspaper Mr. Weasley had cast aside. 

“No, of course not,” said Mr. Weasley, with a slightly 
bitter smile, “the Ministry wouldn’t want everyone to 
know a dirty great serpent got — ” 

“Arthur!” said Mrs. Weasley warningly. 

“ — got — er — me,” Mr. Weasley said hastily, though 
Harry was quite sure that was not what he had meant 
to say. 

“So where were you when it happened, Dad?” asked 
George. 

“That’s my business,” said Mr. Weasley, though with 
a small smile. He snatched up the Daily Prophet, 
shook it open again and said, “I was just reading 
about Willy Widdershins’s arrest when you arrived. 
You know Willy turned out to be behind those 
regurgitating toilets last summer? One of his jinxes 
backfired, the toilet exploded, and they found him 
lying unconscious in the wreckage covered from head 
to foot in — ” 

“When you say you were ‘on duty,’ ” Fred interrupted 
in a low voice, “what were you doing?” 



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“You heard your father,” whispered Mrs. Weasley, “we 
are not discussing this here! Go on about Willy 
Widdershins, Arthur — ” 

“Well, don’t ask me how, but he actually got off on the 
toilet charge,” said Mr. Weasley grimly. “I can only 
suppose gold changed hands — ” 

“You were guarding it, weren’t you?” said George 
quietly. “The weapon? The thing You-Know- Who’s 
after?” 

“George, be quiet!” snapped Mrs. Weasley. 

“Anyway,” said Mr. Weasley in a raised voice, “this 
time Willy’s been caught selling biting doorknobs to 
Muggles, and I don’t think he’ll be able to worm his 
way out of it because according to this article, two 
Muggles have lost fingers and are now in St. Mungo’s 
for emergency bone regrowth and memory 
modification. Just think of it, Muggles in St. Mungo’s! 
I wonder which ward they’re in?” 

And he looked eagerly around as though hoping to 
see a signpost. 

“Didn’t you say You-Know- Who’s got a snake, Harry?” 
asked Fred, looking at his father for a reaction. “A 
massive one? You saw it the night he returned, didn’t 
you?” 

“That’s enough,” said Mrs. Weasley crossly. “Mad-Eye 
and Tonks are outside, Arthur, they want to come 
and see you. And you lot can wait outside,” she added 
to her children and Harry. “You can come and say 
good-bye afterward. Go on...” 



Page | 625Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




They trooped back into the corridor. Mad-Eye and 
Tonks went in and closed the door of the ward behind 
them. Fred raised his eyebrows. 

“Fine,” he said coolly, rummaging in his pockets, “be 
like that. Don’t tell us anything.” 

“Looking for these?” said George, holding out what 
looked like a tangle of flesh-colored string. 

“You read my mind,” said Fred, grinning. “Let’s see if 
St. Mungo’s puts Imperturbable Charms on its ward 
doors, shall we?” 

He and George disentangled the string and separated 
five Extendable Ears from each other. Fred and 
George handed them around. Harry hesitated to take 
one. 

“Go on, Harry, take it! You saved Dad’s life, if 
anyone’s got the right to eavesdrop on him it’s you...” 

Grinning in spite of himself, Harry took the end of the 
string and inserted it into his ear as the twins had 
done. 

“Okay, go!” Fred whispered. 

The flesh-colored strings wriggled like long skinny 
worms, then snaked under the door. For a few 
seconds Harry could hear nothing, then he heard 
Tonks whispering as clearly as though she were 
standing right beside him. 

"... they searched the whole area but they couldn’t 
find the snake anywhere, it just seems to have 
vanished after it attacked you, Arthur... But You- 
Know-Who can’t have expected a snake to get in, can 
he?” 

Page | 626Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“I reckon he sent it as a lookout,” growled Moody, “ 
’cause he’s not had any luck so far, has he? No, I 
reckon he’s trying to get a clearer picture of what he’s 
facing and if Arthur hadn’t been there the beast 
would’ve had much more time to look around. So 
Potter says he saw it all happen?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Weasley. She sounded rather uneasy. 
“You know, Dumbledore seems almost to have been 
waiting for Harry to see something like this...” 

“Yeah, well,” said Moody, “there’s something funny 
about the Potter kid, we all know that.” 

“Dumbledore seemed worried about Harry when I 
spoke to him this morning,” whispered Mrs. Weasley. 

“ ’Course he’s worried,” growled Moody. “The boy’s 
seeing things from inside You-Know- Who’s snake... 
Obviously, Potter doesn’t realize what that means, but 
if You- Know- Who’s possessing him — ” 

Harry pulled the Extendable Ear out of his own, his 
heart hammering very fast and heat rushing up his 
face. He looked around at the others. They were all 
staring at him, the strings still trailing from their 
ears, looking suddenly fearful. 



Page | 627Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 






CHRISTMAS ON THE CLOSED WARD 

Was this why Dumbledore would no longer meet 
Harry’s eyes? Did he expect to see Voldemort staring 
out of them, afraid, perhaps, that their vivid green 
might turn suddenly to scarlet, with catlike slits for 
pupils? Harry remembered how the snakelike face of 
Voldemort had once forced itself out of the back of 
Professor Quirrell’s head, and he ran his hand over 
the back of his own, wondering what it would feel like 
if Voldemort burst out of his skull... 

He felt dirty, contaminated, as though he were 
carrying some deadly germ, unworthy to sit on the 
underground train back from the hospital with 
innocent, clean people whose minds and bodies were 
free of the taint of Voldemort... He had not merely 
seen the snake, he had been the snake, he knew it 
now. . . 

And then a truly terrible thought occurred to him, a 
memory bobbing to the surface of his mind, one that 
made his insides writhe and squirm like serpents... 



Page | 628Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 



“What’s he after apart from followers?” 

“Stuff he can only get by stealth ... like a weapon. 
Something he didn’t have last time.” 

I’m the weapon, Harry thought, and it was as though 
poison were pumping through his veins, chilling him, 
bringing him out in a sweat as he swayed with the 
train through the dark tunnel. I’m the one Voldemort’s 
trying to use, that’s why they’ve got guards around me 
everywhere I go, it’s not for my protection, it’s for other 
people’s, only it’s not working, they can’t have 
someone on me all the time at Hogwarts... I did attack 
Mr. Weasley last night, it was me, Voldemort made me 
do it and he could be inside me, listening to my 
thoughts right now... 

“Are you all right, Harry, dear?” whispered Mrs. 
Weasley, leaning across Ginny to speak to him as the 
train rattled along through its dark tunnel. “You don’t 
look very well. Are you feeling sick?” 

They were all watching him. He shook his head 
violently and stared up at an advertisement for home 
insurance. 

“Harry, dear, are you sure you’re all right?” said Mrs. 
Weasley in a worried voice, as they walked around the 
unkempt patch of grass in the middle of Grimmauld 
Place. “You look ever so pale... Are you sure you slept 
this morning? You go upstairs to bed right now, and 
you can have a couple of hours’ sleep before dinner, 
all right?” 

He nodded; here was a ready-made excuse not to talk 
to any of the others, which was precisely what he 
wanted, so when she opened the front door he 
proceeded straight past the troll’s leg umbrella stand 



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and up the stairs and hurried into his and Ron’s 
bedroom. 

Here he began to pace up and down, past the two 
beds and Phineas Nigellus’s empty portrait, his brain 
teeming and seething with questions and ever more 
dreadful ideas... 

How had he become a snake? Perhaps he was an 
Animagus... No, he couldn’t be, he would know... 
perhaps Voldemort was an Animagus... Yes, thought 
Harry, that would fit, he would turn into a snake of 
course ... and when he’s possessing me, then we both 
transform... That still doesn’t explain how come I got to 
London and back to my bed in the space of about five 
minutes, though... But then Voldemort’ s about the most 
powerful wizard in the world, apart from Dumbledore, 
it’s probably no problem at all to him to transport 
people like that... 

And then, with a terrible stab of panic he thought, but 
this is insane — if Voldemort’s possessing me, I’m 
giving him a clear view into the headquarters of the 
Order of the Phoenix right now! He’ll know who’s in the 
Order and where Sirius is ... and I’ve heard loads of 
stuff I shouldn’t have, everything Sirius told me the 
first night I was here... 

There was only one thing for it: He would have to 
leave Grimmauld Place straightaway. He would spend 
Christmas at Hogwarts without the others, which 
would keep them safe over the holidays at least... But 
no, that wouldn’t do, there were still plenty of people 
at Hogwarts to maim and injure, what if it was 
Seamus, Dean, or Neville next time? He stopped his 
pacing and stood staring at Phineas Nigellus’s empty 
frame. A leaden sensation was settling in the pit of his 
stomach. He had no alternative: He was going to have 



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to return to Privet Drive, cut himself off from other 
wizards entirely... 



Well, if he had to do it, he thought, there was no point 
hanging around. Trying with all his might not to think 
how the Dursleys were going to react when they found 
him on their doorstep six months earlier than they 
had expected, he strode over to his trunk, slammed 
the lid shut and locked it, then glanced around 
automatically for Hedwig before remembering that she 
was still at Hogwarts — well, her cage would be one 
less thing to carry — he seized one end of his trunk 
and had dragged it halfway toward the door when a 
sneaky voice said, “Running away, are we?” 

He looked around. Phineas Nigellus had appeared 
upon the canvas of his portrait and was leaning 
against the frame, watching Harry with an amused 
expression on his face. 

“Not running away, no,” said Harry shortly, dragging 
his trunk a few more feet across the room. 

“I thought,” said Phineas Nigellus, stroking his 
pointed beard, “that to belong in Gryffindor House 
you were supposed to be brave? It looks to me as 
though you would have been better off in my own 
house. We Slytherins are brave, yes, but not stupid. 
For instance, given the choice, we will always choose 
to save our own necks.” 

“It’s not my own neck I’m saving,” said Harry tersely, 
tugging the trunk over a patch of particularly uneven, 
moth-eaten carpet right in front of the door. 

“Oh I see,” said Phineas Nigellus, still stroking his 
beard. “This is no cowardly flight — you are being 
noble.” 

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Harry ignored him. His hand was on the doorknob 
when Phineas Nigellus said lazily, “I have a message 
for you from Albus Dumbledore.” 

Harry spun around. 

“What is it?” 

“Stay where you are.” 

“I haven’t moved!” said Harry, his hand still upon the 
doorknob. “So what’s the message?” 

“I have just given it to you, dolt,” said Phineas 
Nigellus smoothly. “Dumbledore says, ‘Stay where 
you are. ’ ” 

“Why?” said Harry eagerly, dropping the end of his 
trunk. “Why does he want me to stay? What else did 
he say?” 

“Nothing whatsoever,” said Phineas Nigellus, raising a 
thin black eyebrow as though he found Harry 
impertinent. 

Harry’s temper rose to the surface like a snake 
rearing from long grass. He was exhausted, he was 
confused beyond measure, he had experienced terror, 
relief, and then terror again in the last twelve hours, 
and still Dumbledore did not want to talk to him! 

“So that’s it, is it?” he said loudly. “Stay there? That’s 
all anyone could tell me after I got attacked by those 
dementors too! Just stay put while the grown-ups 
sort it out, Harry! We won’t bother telling you 
anything, though, because your tiny little brain might 
not be able to cope with it!” 



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“You know,” said Phineas Nigellus, even more loudly 
than Harry, “this is precisely why I loathed being a 
teacher! Young people are so infernally convinced that 
they are absolutely right about everything. Has it not 
occurred to you, my poor puffed-up popinjay, that 
there might be an excellent reason why the 
headmaster of Hogwarts is not confiding every tiny 
detail of his plans to you? Have you never paused, 
while feeling hard-done-by, to note that following 
Dumbledore ’s orders has never yet led you into harm? 
No. No, like all young people, you are quite sure that 
you alone feel and think, you alone recognize danger, 
you alone are the only one clever enough to realize 
what the Dark Lord may be planning...” 

“He is planning something to do with me, then?” said 
Harry swiftly. 

“Did I say that?” said Phineas Nigellus, idly examining 
his silk gloves. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have 
better things to do than to listen to adolescent 
agonizing... Good day to you...” 

And he strolled into his frame and out of sight. 

“Fine, go then!” Harry bellowed at the empty frame. 
“And tell Dumbledore thanks for nothing!” 

The empty canvas remained silent. Fuming, Harry 
dragged his trunk back to the foot of his bed, then 
threw himself facedown upon the moth-eaten covers, 
his eyes shut, his body heavy and aching. . . 

He felt he had journeyed miles and miles... It seemed 
impossible that less than twenty-four hours ago Cho 
Chang had been approaching him under the 
mistletoe... He was so tired... He was scared to sleep 
... yet he did not know how long he could fight it... 
Dumbledore had told him to stay... That must mean 
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he was allowed to sleep... But he was scared... What if 
it happened again ... ? 

He was sinking into shadows... 

It was as though a film in his head had been waiting 
to start. He was walking down a deserted corridor 
toward a plain black door, past rough stone walls, 
torches, and an open doorway onto a flight of stone 
steps leading downstairs on the left... 

He reached the black door but could not open it... He 
stood gazing at it, desperate for entry. . . Something he 
wanted with all his heart lay beyond... A prize beyond 
his dreams... If only his scar would stop prickling ... 
then he would be able to think more clearly. . . 

“Harry,” said Ron’s voice, from far, far away, “Mum 
says dinner’s ready, but she’ll save you something if 
you want to stay in bed...” 

Harry opened his eyes, but Ron had already left the 
room. 

He doesn’t want to be on his own with me, Harry 
thought. Not after what he heard Moody say ... 

He supposed none of them would want him there 
anymore now that they knew what was inside him... 

He would not go down to dinner; he would not inflict 
his company upon them. He turned over onto his 
other side and after a while dropped back off to sleep, 
waking much later in the early hours of the morning, 
with his insides aching with hunger, and Ron snoring 
in the next bed. Squinting around the room he saw 
the dark outline of Phineas Nigellus standing again in 
his portrait and it occurred to Harry that Dumbledore 



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had probably set Phineas Nigellus to watch over him, 
in case he attacked somebody else. 

The feeling of being unclean intensified. He half 
wished he had not obeyed Dumbledore and stayed... 

If this was how life was going to be in Grimmauld 
Place from now on, maybe he would be better off in 
Privet Drive after all. 

Everybody else spent the following morning putting 
up Christmas decorations. Harry could not remember 
Sirius ever being in such a good mood; he was 
actually singing carols, apparently delighted that he 
was to have company over Christmas. Harry could 
hear his voice echoing up through the floor in the cold 
and empty drawing room where he was sitting alone, 
watching the sky outside the windows growing whiter, 
threatening snow, all the time feeling a savage 
pleasure that he was giving the others the 
opportunity to keep talking about him, as they were 
bound to be doing. When he heard Mrs. Weasley 
calling his name softly up the stairs around 
lunchtime he retreated farther upstairs and ignored 
her. 

It was around six o’clock in the evening that the 
doorbell rang and Mrs. Black started screaming 
again. Assuming that Mundungus or some other 
Order member had come to call, Harry merely settled 
himself more comfortably against the wall of 
Buckbeak the hippogriff’s room where he was hiding, 
trying to ignore how hungry he felt as he fed 
Buckbeak dead rats. It came as a slight shock when 
somebody hammered hard on the door a few minutes 
later. 

“I know you’re in there,” said Hermione’s voice. “Will 
you please come out? I want to talk to you.” 



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“What are you doing here?” Harry asked her, pulling 
open the door, as Buckbeak resumed his scratching 
at the straw-strewn floor for any fragments of rat he 
might have dropped. “I thought you were skiing with 
your mum and dad.” 

“Well, to tell the truth, skiing’s not really my thing,” 
said Hermione. “So I’ve come for Christmas.” There 
was snow in her hair and her face was pink with cold. 
“But don’t tell Ron that, I told him it’s really good 
because he kept laughing so much. Anyway, Mum 
and Dad are a bit disappointed, but I’ve told them 
that everyone who’s serious about the exams is 
staying at Hogwarts to study. They want me to do 
well, they’ll understand. Anyway,” she said briskly, 
“let’s go to your bedroom, Ron’s mum’s lit a fire in 
there and she’s sent up sandwiches.” 

Harry followed her back to the second floor. When he 
entered the bedroom he was rather surprised to see 
both Ron and Ginny waiting for them, sitting on Ron’s 
bed. 

“I came on the Knight Bus,” said Hermione airily, 
pulling off her jacket before Harry had time to speak. 
“Dumbledore told me what had happened first thing 
this morning, but I had to wait for term to end 
officially before setting off. Umbridge is already livid 
that you lot disappeared right under her nose, even 
though Dumbledore told her Mr. Weasley was in St. 
Mungo’s, and he’d given you all permission to visit. So 



She sat down next to Ginny, and the two girls and 
Ron looked up at Harry. 

“How’re you feeling?” asked Hermione. 

“Fine,” said Harry stiffly. 

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“Oh, don’t lie, Harry,” she said impatiently. “Ron and 
Ginny say you’ve been hiding from everyone since you 
got back from St. Mungo’s.” 

“They do, do they?” said Harry, glaring at Ron and 
Ginny. Ron looked down at his feet but Ginny seemed 
quite unabashed. 

“Well, you have!” she said. “And you won’t look at any 
of us!” 

“It’s you lot who won’t look at me!” said Harry angrily. 

“Maybe you’re taking it in turns to look and keep 
missing each other,” suggested Hermione, the corners 
of her mouth twitching. 

“Very funny,” snapped Harry, turning away. 

“Oh, stop feeling all misunderstood,” said Hermione 
sharply. “Look, the others have told me what you 
overheard last night on the Extendable Ears — ” 

“Yeah?” growled Harry, his hands deep in his pockets 
as he watched the snow now falling thickly outside. 
“All been talking about me, have you? Well, I’m 
getting used to it...” 

“We wanted to talk to you, Harry,” said Ginny, “but as 
you’ve been hiding ever since we got back — ” 

“I didn’t want anyone to talk to me,” said Harry, who 
was feeling more and more nettled. 

“Well, that was a bit stupid of you,” said Ginny 
angrily, “seeing as you don’t know anyone but me 
who’s been possessed by You-Know-Who, and I can 
tell you how it feels.” 



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Harry remained quite still as the impact of these 
words hit him. Then he turned on the spot to face 
her. 



“I forgot,” he said. 

“Lucky you,” said Ginny coolly. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, and he meant it. “So ... so do 
you think I’m being possessed, then?” 

“Well, can you remember everything you’ve been 
doing?” Ginny asked. “Are there big blank periods 
where you don’t know what you’ve been up to?” 

Harry racked his brains. 

“No,” he said. 

“Then You-Know-Who hasn’t ever possessed you,” 
said Ginny simply. “When he did it to me, I couldn’t 
remember what I’d been doing for hours at a time. I’d 
find myself somewhere and not know how I got there.” 

Harry hardly dared believe her, yet his heart was 
lightening almost in spite of himself. 

“That dream I had about your dad and the snake, 
though — ” 

“Harry, you’ve had these dreams before,” Hermione 
said. “You had flashes of what Voldemort was up to 
last year.” 

“This was different,” said Harry, shaking his head. “I 
was inside that snake. It was like I was the snake... 
What if Voldemort somehow transported me to 
London — ?” 

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“One day,” said Hermione, sounding thoroughly 
exasperated, “you’ll read Hogwarts, A History, and 
perhaps that will remind you that you can’t Apparate 
or Disapparate inside Hogwarts. Even Voldemort 
couldn’t just make you fly out of your dormitory, 
Harry.” 

“You didn’t leave your bed, mate,” said Ron. “I saw 
you thrashing around in your sleep about a minute 
before we could wake you up...” 

Harry started pacing up and down the room again, 
thinking. What they were all saying was not only 
comforting, it made sense... Without really thinking 
he took a sandwich from the plate on the bed and 
crammed it hungrily into his mouth... 

I’m not the weapon after all, thought Harry. His heart 
swelled with happiness and relief, and he felt like 
joining in as they heard Sirius tramping past their 
door toward Buckbeak’s room, singing “God Rest Ye 
Merry, Hippogriffs” at the top of his voice. 

How could he have dreamed of returning to Privet 
Drive for Christmas? Sirius’s delight at having the 
house full again, and especially at having Harry back, 
was infectious. He was no longer their sullen host of 
the summer; now he seemed determined that 
everyone should enjoy themselves as much, if not 
more, than they would have done at Hogwarts, and he 
worked tirelessly in the run-up to Christmas Day, 
cleaning and decorating with their help, so that by 
the time they all went to bed on Christmas Eve the 
house was barely recognizable. The tarnished 
chandeliers were no longer hung with cobwebs but 
with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers; 
magical snow glittered in heaps over the threadbare 
carpets; a great Christmas tree, obtained by 
Mundungus and decorated with live fairies, blocked 
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Sirius’s family tree from view; and even the stuffed elf 
heads on the hall wall wore Father Christmas hats 
and beards. 

Harry awoke on Christmas morning to find a stack of 
presents at the foot of his bed and Ron already 
halfway through opening his own, rather larger, pile. 

“Good haul this year,” he informed Harry through a 
cloud of paper. “Thanks for the Broom Compass, it’s 
excellent, beats Hermione’s — she’s got me a 
homework planner — ” 

Harry sorted through his presents and found one with 
Hermione’s handwriting on it. She had given him too 
a book that resembled a diary, except that it said 
things like “Do it today or later you’ll pay\” every time 
he opened a page. 

Sirius and Lupin had given Harry a set of excellent 
books entitled Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use 
Against the Dark Arts, which had superb, moving 
color illustrations of all the counterjinxes and hexes it 
described. Harry flicked through the first volume 
eagerly; he could see it was going to be highly useful 
in his plans for the D.A. Hagrid had sent a furry 
brown wallet that had fangs, which were presumably 
supposed to be an antitheft device, but unfortunately 
prevented Harry putting any money in without getting 
his fingers ripped off. Tonks’s present was a small, 
working model of a Firebolt, which Harry watched fly 
around the room, wishing he still had his full-size 
version; Ron had given him an enormous box of 
Every-Flavor Beans; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley the usual 
hand-knitted jumper and some mince pies; and 
Dobby, a truly dreadful painting that Harry suspected 
had been done by the elf himself. He had just turned 
it upside down to see whether it looked better that 



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way when, with a loud crack, Fred and George 
Apparated at the foot of his bed. 



“Merry Christmas,” said George. “Don’t go downstairs 
for a bit.” 

“Why not?” said Ron. 

“Mum’s crying again,” said Fred heavily. “Percy sent 
back his Christmas jumper.” 

“Without a note,” added George. “Hasn’t asked how 
Dad is or visited him or anything...” 

“We tried to comfort her,” said Fred, moving around 
the bed to look at Harry’s portrait. “Told her Percy’s 
nothing more than a humongous pile of rat droppings 



“ — didn’t work,” said George, helping himself to a 
Chocolate Frog. “So Lupin took over. Best let him 
cheer her up before we go down for breakfast, I 
reckon.” 

“What’s that supposed to be anyway?” asked Fred, 
squinting at Dobby’s painting. “Looks like a gibbon 
with two black eyes.” 

“It’s Harry!” said George, pointing at the back of the 
picture. “Says so on the back!” 

“Good likeness,” said Fred, grinning. Harry threw his 
new homework diary at him; it hit the wall opposite 
and fell to the floor where it said happily, “If you’ve 
dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s then you may do 
whatever you pleasel” 

They got up and dressed; they could hear various 
inhabitants of the house calling “Merry Christmas” to 

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each other. On their way downstairs they met 
Hermione. “Thanks for the book, Harry!” she said 
happily. “I’ve been wanting that New Theory of 
Numerology for ages! And that perfume is really 
unusual, Ron.” 

“No problem,” said Ron. “Who’s that for anyway?” he 
added, nodding at the neatly wrapped present she 
was carrying. 

“Kreacher,” said Hermione brightly. 

“It had better not be clothes!” said Ron warningly. 
“You know what Sirius said, Kreacher knows too 
much, we can’t set him free!” 

“It isn’t clothes,” said Hermione, “although if I had my 
way I’d certainly give him something to wear other 
than that filthy old rag. No, it’s a patchwork quilt, I 
thought it would brighten up his bedroom.” 

“What bedroom?” said Harry, dropping his voice to a 
whisper as they were passing the portrait of Sirius’s 
mother. 

“Well, Sirius says it’s not so much a bedroom, more a 
kind of — den,” said Hermione. “Apparently he sleeps 
under the boiler in that cupboard off the kitchen.” 

Mrs. Weasley was the only person in the basement 
when they arrived there. She was standing at the 
stove and sounded as though she had a bad head 
cold when she wished them Merry Christmas, and 
they all averted their eyes. 

“So, this is Kreacher’s bedroom?” said Ron, strolling 
over to a dingy door in the corner opposite the pantry 
which Harry had never seen open. 



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“Yes,” said Hermione, now sounding a little nervous. 
“Er ... I think we’d better knock ...” 

Ron rapped the door with his knuckles but there was 
no reply. 

“He must be sneaking around upstairs,” he said, and 
without further ado pulled open the door. “Urgh.” 

Harry peered inside. Most of the cupboard was taken 
up with a very large and old-fashioned boiler, but in 
the foot’s space underneath the pipes Kreacher had 
made himself something that looked like a nest. A 
jumble of assorted rags and smelly old blankets were 
piled on the floor and the small dent in the middle of 
it showed where Kreacher curled up to sleep every 
night. Here and there among the material were stale 
bread crusts and moldy old bits of cheese. In a far 
corner glinted small objects and coins that Harry 
guessed Kreacher had saved, magpielike, from 
Sirius’s purge of the house, and he had also managed 
to retrieve the silver-framed family photographs that 
Sirius had thrown away over the summer. Their glass 
might be shattered, but still the little black-and-white 
people inside them peered haughtily up at him, 
including — he felt a little jolt in his stomach — the 
dark, heavy-lidded woman whose trial he had 
witnessed in Dumbledore’s Pensieve: Bellatrix 
Lestrange. By the looks of it, hers was Kreacher ’s 
favorite photograph; he had placed it to the fore of all 
the others and had mended the glass clumsily with 
Spellotape. 

“I think I’ll just leave his present here,” said 
Hermione, laying the package neatly in the middle of 
the depression in the rags and blankets and closing 
the door quietly. “He’ll find it later, that’ll be fine...” 



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“Come to think of it,” said Sirius, emerging from the 
pantry carrying a large turkey as they closed the 
cupboard door, “has anyone actually seen Kreacher 
lately?” 

“I haven’t seen him since the night we came back 
here,” said Harry. “You were ordering him out of the 
kitchen.” 

“Yeah ...” said Sirius, frowning. “You know, I think 
that’s the last time I saw him, too... He must be 
hiding upstairs somewhere...” 

“He couldn’t have left, could he?” said Harry. “I mean, 
when you said ‘out,’ maybe he thought you meant, get 
out of the house?” 

“No, no, house-elves can’t leave unless they’re given 
clothes, they’re tied to their family’s house,” said 
Sirius. 

“They can leave the house if they really want to,” 

Harry contradicted him. “Dobby did, he left the 
Malfoys’ to give me warnings two years ago. He had to 
punish himself afterward, but he still managed it.” 

Sirius looked slightly disconcerted for a moment, then 
said, “I’ll look for him later, I expect I’ll find him 
upstairs crying his eyes out over my mother’s old 
bloomers or something... Of course, he might have 
crawled into the airing cupboard and died... But I 
mustn’t get my hopes up...” 

Fred, George, and Ron laughed; Hermione, however, 
looked reproachful. 

Once they had had their Christmas lunch, the 
Weasleys and Harry and Hermione were planning to 
pay Mr. Weasley another visit, escorted by Mad-Eye 

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and Lupin. Mundungus turned up in time for 
Christmas pudding and trifle, having managed to 
“borrow” a car for the occasion, as the Underground 
did not run on Christmas Day. The car, which Harry 
doubted very much had been taken with the 
knowledge or consent of its owner, had had a similar 
Enlarging Spell put upon it as the Weasleys’ old Ford 
Anglia; although normally proportioned outside, ten 
people with Mundungus driving were able to fit into it 
quite comfortably. Mrs. Weasley hesitated at the point 
of getting inside; Harry knew that her disapproval of 
Mundungus was battling with her dislike of traveling 
without magic; finally the cold outside and her 
children’s pleading triumphed, and she settled herself 
into the backseat between Fred and Bill with good 
grace. 

The journey to St. Mungo’s was quite quick, as there 
was very little traffic on the roads. A small trickle of 
witches and wizards were creeping furtively up the 
otherwise deserted street to visit the hospital. Harry 
and the others got out of the car, and Mundungus 
drove off around the corner to wait for them; they 
strolled casually toward the window where the 
dummy in green nylon stood, then, one by one, 
stepped through the glass. 

The reception area looked pleasantly festive: The 
crystal orbs that illuminated St. Mungo’s had been 
turned to red and gold so that they became gigantic, 
glowing Christmas baubles; holly hung around every 
doorway, and shining white Christmas trees covered 
in magical snow and icicles glittered in every corner, 
each topped with a gleaming gold star. It was less 
crowded than the last time they had been there, 
although halfway across the room Harry found 
himself shunted aside by a witch with a walnut 
jammed up her left nostril. 



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“Family argument, eh?” smirked the blonde witch 
behind the desk. “You’re the third I’ve seen today ... 
Spell Damage, fourth floor ...” 

They found Mr. Weasley propped up in bed with the 
remains of his turkey dinner on a tray in his lap and 
a rather sheepish expression on his face. 

“Everything all right, Arthur?” asked Mrs. Weasley, 
after they had all greeted Mr. Weasley and handed 
over their presents. 

“Fine, fine,” said Mr. Weasley, a little too heartily. 

“You — er — haven’t seen Healer Smethwyck, have 
you?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Weasley suspiciously, “why?” 

“Nothing, nothing,” said Mr. Weasley airily, starting to 
unwrap his pile of gifts. “Well, everyone had a good 
day? What did you all get for Christmas? Oh, Harry — 
this is absolutely wonderful — ” 

For he had just opened Harry’s gift of fuse-wire and 
screwdrivers. Mrs. Weasley did not seem entirely 
satisfied with Mr. Weasley’s answer. As her husband 
leaned over to shake Harry’s hand, she peered at the 
bandaging under his nightshirt. 

“Arthur,” she said, with a snap in her voice like a 
mousetrap, “you’ve had your bandages changed. Why 
have you had your bandages changed a day early, 
Arthur? They told me they wouldn’t need doing until 
tomorrow.” 

“What?” said Mr. Weasley, looking rather frightened 
and pulling the bed covers higher up his chest. “No, 
no — it’s nothing — it’s — I — ” 



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He seemed to deflate under Mrs. Weasley’s piercing 
gaze. 

“Well — now don’t get upset, Molly, but Augustus Pye 
had an idea... He’s the Trainee Healer, you know, 
lovely young chap and very interested in . . . um . . . 
complementary medicine... I mean, some of these old 
Muggle remedies ... well, they’re called stitches, Molly, 
and they work very well on — on Muggle wounds — ” 

Mrs. Weasley let out an ominous noise somewhere 
between a shriek and a snarl. Lupin strolled away 
from the bed and over to the werewolf, who had no 
visitors and was looking rather wistfully at the crowd 
around Mr. Weasley; Bill muttered something about 
getting himself a cup of tea and Fred and George leapt 
up to accompany him, grinning. 

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Mrs. Weasley, her 
voice growing louder with every word and apparently 
unaware that her fellow visitors were scurrying for 
cover, “that you have been messing about with 
Muggle remedies?” 

“Not messing about, Molly, dear,” said Mr. Weasley 
imploringly. “It was just — just something Pye and I 
thought we’d try — only, most unfortunately — well, 
with these particular kinds of wounds — it doesn’t 
seem to work as well as we’d hoped — ” 

“Meaning?” 

“Well ... well, I don’t know whether you know what — 
what stitches are?” 

“It sounds as though you’ve been trying to sew your 
skin back together,” said Mrs. Weasley with a snort of 
mirthless laughter, “but even you, Arthur, wouldn’t 
be that stupid — ” 

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“I fancy a cup of tea too,” said Harry, jumping to his 
feet. 



Hermione, Ron, and Ginny almost sprinted to the 
door with him. As it swung closed behind them, they 
heard Mrs. Weasley shriek, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, 
THAT’S THE GENERAL IDEA?” 

“Typical Dad,” said Ginny, shaking her head as they 
set off up the corridor. “Stitches ... I ask you ...” 

“Well, you know, they do work well on non-magical 
wounds,” said Hermione fairly. “I suppose something 
in that snake’s venom dissolves them or something... 
I wonder where the tearoom is?” 

“Fifth floor,” said Harry, remembering the sign over 
the Welcome Witch’s desk. 

They walked along the corridor through a set of 
double doors and found a rickety staircase lined with 
more portraits of brutal-looking Healers. As they 
climbed it, the various Healers called out to them, 
diagnosing odd complaints and suggesting horrible 
remedies. Ron was seriously affronted when a 
medieval wizard called out that he clearly had a bad 
case of spattergroit. 

“And what’s that supposed to be?” he asked angrily, 
as the Healer pursued him through six more 
portraits, shoving the occupants out of the way. 

“ Tis a most grievous affliction of the skin, young 
master, that will leave you pockmarked and more 
gruesome even than you are now — ” 

“Watch who you’re calling gruesome!” said Ron, his 
ears turning red. 



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“The only remedy is to take the liver of a toad, bind it 
tight about your throat, stand naked by the full moon 
in a barrel of eels’ eyes — ” 

“I have not got spattergroit!” 

“But the unsightly blemishes upon your visage, young 
master — ” 

“They’re freckles!” said Ron furiously. “Now get back 
in your own picture and leave me alone!” 

He rounded on the others, who were all keeping 
determinedly straight faces. 

“What floor’s this?” 

“I think it’s the fifth,” said Hermione. 

“Nah, it’s the fourth,” said Harry, “one more — ” 

But as he stepped onto the landing he came to an 
abrupt halt, staring at the small window set into the 
double doors that marked the start of a corridor 
signposted SPELL DAMAGE. A man was peering out 
at them all with his nose pressed against the glass. 

He had wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a 
broad vacant smile that revealed dazzlingly white 
teeth. 

“Blimey!” said Ron, also staring at the man. 

“Oh my goodness,” said Hermione suddenly, sounding 
breathless. “Professor Lockhart!” 

Their ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher 
pushed open the doors and moved toward them, 
wearing a long lilac dressing gown. 



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“Well, hello there!” he said. “I expect you’d like my 
autograph, would you?” 

“Hasn’t changed much, has he?” Harry muttered to 
Ginny, who grinned. 

“Er — how are you, Professor?” said Ron, sounding 
slightly guilty. It had been Ron’s malfunctioning wand 
that had damaged Professor Lockhart’s memory so 
badly that he had landed here in the first place, 
though, as Lockhart had been attempting to 
permanently wipe Harry and Ron’s memories at the 
time, Harry’s sympathy was limited. 

“I’m very well indeed, thank you!” said Lockhart 
exuberantly, pulling a rather battered peacock-feather 
quill from his pocket. “Now, how many autographs 
would you like? I can do joined-up writing now, you 
know!” 

“Er — we don’t want any at the moment, thanks,” 
said Ron, raising his eyebrows at Harry, who asked, 
“Professor, should you be wandering around the 
corridors? Shouldn’t you be in a ward?” 

The smile faded slowly from Lockhart’s face. For a few 
moments he gazed intently at Harry, then he said, 
“Haven’t we met?” 

“Er ... yeah, we have,” said Harry. “You used to teach 
us at Hogwarts, remember?” 

“Teach?” repeated Lockhart, looking faintly unsettled. 
“Me? Did I?” 

And then the smile reappeared upon his face so 
suddenly it was rather alarming. “Taught you 
everything you know, I expect, did I? Well, how about 
those autographs, then? Shall we say a round dozen, 

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you can give them to all your little friends then and 
nobody will be left out!” 



But just then a head poked out of a door at the far 
end of the corridor and a voice said, “Gilderoy, you 
naughty boy, where have you wandered off to?” 

A motherly looking Healer wearing a tinsel wreath in 
her hair came bustling up the corridor, smiling 
warmly at Harry and the others. 

“Oh Gilderoy, you’ve got visitors! How lovely, and on 
Christmas Day too! Do you know, he never gets 
visitors, poor lamb, and I can’t think why, he’s such a 
sweetie, aren’t you?” 

“We’re doing autographs!” Gilderoy told the Healer 
with another glittering smile. “They want loads of 
them, won’t take no for an answer! I just hope we’ve 
got enough photographs!” 

“Listen to him,” said the Healer, taking Lockhart’s 
arm and beaming fondly at him as though he were a 
precocious two-year-old. “He was rather well known a 
few years ago; we very much hope that this liking for 
giving autographs is a sign that his memory might be 
coming back a little bit. Will you step this way? He’s 
in a closed ward, you know, he must have slipped out 
while I was bringing in the Christmas presents, the 
door’s usually kept locked ... not that he’s dangerous! 
But,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “bit of a 
danger to himself, bless him... Doesn’t know who he 
is, you see, wanders off and can’t remember how to 
get back. . . It is nice of you to have come to see him — 



“Er,” said Ron, gesturing uselessly at the floor above, 
“actually, we were just — er — ” 

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But the Healer was smiling expectantly at them, and 
Ron’s feeble mutter of “going to have a cup of tea” 
trailed away into nothingness. They looked at one 
another rather hopelessly and then followed Lockhart 
and his Healer along the corridor. 

“Let’s not stay long,” Ron said quietly. 

The Healer pointed her wand at the door of the Janus 
Thickey ward and muttered “Alohomora.” The door 
swung open and she led the way inside, keeping a 
firm grasp on Gilderoy’s arm until she had settled 
him into an armchair beside his bed. 

“This is our long-term resident ward,” she informed 
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny in a low voice. “For 
permanent spell damage, you know. Of course, with 
intensive remedial potions and charms and a bit of 
luck, we can produce some improvement... Gilderoy 
does seem to be getting back some sense of himself, 
and we’ve seen a real improvement in Mr. Bode, he 
seems to be regaining the power of speech very well, 
though he isn’t speaking any language we recognize 
yet... Well, I must finish giving out the Christmas 
presents, I’ll leave you all to chat...” 

Harry looked around; this ward bore unmistakable 
signs of being a permanent home to its residents. 

They had many more personal effects around their 
beds than in Mr. Weasley’s ward; the wall around 
Gilderoy’s headboard, for instance, was papered with 
pictures of himself, all beaming toothily and waving at 
the new arrivals. He had autographed many of them 
to himself in disjointed, childish writing. The moment 
he had been deposited in his chair by the Healer, 
Gilderoy pulled a fresh stack of photographs toward 
him, seized a quill, and started signing them all 
feverishly. 



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“You can put them in envelopes,” he said to Ginny, 
throwing the signed pictures into her lap one by one 
as he finished them. “I am not forgotten, you know, 
no, I still receive a very great deal of fan mail... Gladys 
Gudgeon writes weekly... I just wish I knew why...” 

He paused, looking faintly puzzled, then beamed 
again and returned to his signing with renewed vigor. 
“I suspect it is simply my good looks...” 

A sallow-skinned, mournful-looking wizard lay in the 
bed opposite, staring at the ceiling; he was mumbling 
to himself and seemed quite unaware of anything 
around him. Two beds along was a woman whose 
entire head was covered in fur; Harry remembered 
something similar happening to Hermione during 
their second year, although fortunately the damage, 
in her case, had not been permanent. At the far end 
of the ward flowery curtains had been drawn around 
two beds to give the occupants and their visitors some 
privacy. 

“Here you are, Agnes,” said the Healer brightly to the 
furry-faced woman, handing her a small pile of 
Christmas presents. “See, not forgotten, are you? And 
your son’s sent an owl to say he’s visiting tonight, so 
that’s nice, isn’t it?” 

Agnes gave several loud barks. 

“And look, Broderick, you’ve been sent a potted plant 
and a lovely calendar with a different fancy hippogriff 
for each month, they’ll brighten things up, won’t 
they?” said the Healer, bustling along to the 
mumbling man, setting a rather ugly plant with long, 
swaying tentacles on the bedside cabinet and fixing 
the calendar to the wall with her wand. “And — oh, 
Mrs. Longbottom, are you leaving already?” 



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Harry’s head spun round. The curtains had been 
drawn back from the two beds at the end of the ward 
and two visitors were walking back down the aisle 
between the beds: a formidable-looking old witch 
wearing a long green dress, a moth-eaten fox fur, and 
a pointed hat decorated with what was unmistakably 
a stuffed vulture and, trailing behind her looking 
thoroughly depressed — Neville. 

With a sudden rush of understanding, Harry realized 
who the people in the end beds must be. He cast 
around wildly for some means of distracting the 
others so that Neville could leave the ward unnoticed 
and unquestioned, but Ron had looked up at the 
sound of the name “Longbottom” too, and before 
Harry could stop him had called, “Neville\” 

Neville jumped and cowered as though a bullet had 
narrowly missed him. 

“It’s us, Neville!” said Ron brightly, getting to his feet. 
“Have you seen? Lockhart’s here! Who’ve you been 
visiting?” 

“Friends of yours, Neville, dear?” said Neville’s 
grandmother graciously, bearing down upon them all. 

Neville looked as though he would rather be anywhere 
in the world but here. A dull purple flush was 
creeping up his plump face and he was not making 
eye contact with any of them. 

“Ah, yes,” said his grandmother, looking closely at 
Harry and sticking out a shriveled, clawlike hand for 
him to shake. “Yes, yes, I know who you are, of 
course. Neville speaks most highly of you.” 



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“Er — thanks,” said Harry, shaking hands. Neville did 
not look at him, but stared at his own feet, the color 
deepening in his face all the while. 

“And you two are clearly Weasleys,” Mrs. Longbottom 
continued, proffering her hand regally to Ron and 
Ginny in turn. “Yes, I know your parents — not well, 
of course — but fine people, fine people ... and you 
must be Hermione Granger?” 

Hermione looked rather startled that Mrs. 

Longbottom knew her name, but shook hands all the 
same. 

“Yes, Neville’s told me all about you. Helped him out 
of a few sticky spots, haven’t you? He’s a good boy,” 
she said, casting a sternly appraising look down her 
rather bony nose at Neville, “but he hasn’t got his 
father’s talent, I’m afraid to say...” And she jerked her 
head in the direction of the two beds at the end of the 
ward, so that the stuffed vulture on her hat trembled 
alarmingly. 

“What?” said Ron, looking amazed (Harry wanted to 
stamp on Ron’s foot, but that sort of thing was much 
harder to bring off unnoticed when you were wearing 
jeans rather than robes). “Is that your dad down the 
end, Neville?” 

“What’s this?” said Mrs. Longbottom sharply. “Haven’t 
you told your friends about your parents, Neville?” 

Neville took a deep breath, looked up at the ceiling, 
and shook his head. Harry could not remember ever 
feeling sorrier for anyone, but he could not think of 
any way of helping Neville out of the situation. 

“Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of!” said Mrs. 
Longbottom angrily. “You should be proud, Neville, 

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proud). They didn’t give their health and their sanity 
so their only son would be ashamed of them, you 
know!” 

“I’m not ashamed,” said Neville very faintly, still 
looking anywhere but at Harry and the others. Ron 
was now standing on tiptoe to look over at the 
inhabitants of the two beds. 

“Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it!” said Mrs. 
Longbottom. “My son and his wife,” she said, turning 
haughtily to Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, “were 
tortured into insanity by You-Know- Who’s followers.” 

Hermione and Ginny both clapped their hands over 
their mouths. Ron stopped craning his neck to catch 
a glimpse of Neville’s parents and looked mortified. 

“They were Aurors, you know, and very well respected 
within the Wizarding community,” Mrs. Longbottom 
went on. “Highly gifted, the pair of them. I — yes, 

Alice dear, what is it?” 

Neville’s mother had come edging down the ward in 
her nightdress. She no longer had the plump, happy- 
looking face Harry had seen in Moody’s old 
photograph of the original Order of the Phoenix. Her 
face was thin and worn now, her eyes seemed 
overlarge, and her hair, which had turned white, was 
wispy and dead-looking. She did not seem to want to 
speak, or perhaps she was not able to, but she made 
timid motions toward Neville, holding something in 
her outstretched hand. 

“Again?” said Mrs. Longbottom, sounding slightly 
weary. “Very well, Alice dear, very well — Neville, take 
it, whatever it is...” 



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But Neville had already stretched out his hand, into 
which his mother dropped an empty Droobles 
Blowing Gum wrapper. 

“Very nice, dear,” said Neville’s grandmother in a 
falsely cheery voice, patting his mother on the 
shoulder. But Neville said quietly, “Thanks Mum.” 

His mother tottered away, back up the ward, 
humming to herself. Neville looked around at the 
others, his expression defiant, as though daring them 
to laugh, but Harry did not think he’d ever found 
anything less funny in his life. 

“Well, we’d better get back,” sighed Mrs. Longbottom, 
drawing on long green gloves. “Very nice to have met 
you all. Neville, put that wrapper in the bin, she must 
have given you enough of them to paper your 
bedroom by now...” 

But as they left, Harry was sure he saw Neville slip 
the wrapper into his pocket. 

The door closed behind them. 

“I never knew,” said Hermione, who looked tearful. 
“Nor did I,” said Ron rather hoarsely. 

“Nor me,” whispered Ginny. 

They all looked at Harry. 

“I did,” he said glumly. “Dumbledore told me but I 
promised I wouldn’t mention it ... that’s what 
Bellatrix Lestrange got sent to Azkaban for, using the 
Cruciatus Curse on Neville’s parents until they lost 
their minds.” 



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“Bellatrix Lestrange did that?” whispered Hermione, 
horrified. “That woman Kreacher’s got a photo of in 
his den?” 



There was a long silence, broken by Lockhart’s angry 
voice. “Look, I didn’t learn joined-up writing for 
nothing, you know!” 



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OCCLUMENCY 

Kreacher, it transpired, had been lurking in the attic. 
Sirius said he had found him up there, covered in 
dust, no doubt looking for more relics of the Black 
family to hide in his cupboard. Though Sirius seemed 
satisfied with this story, it made Harry uneasy. 
Kreacher seemed to be in a better mood on his 
reappearance, his bitter muttering had subsided 
somewhat, and he submitted to orders more docilely 
than usual, though once or twice Harry caught the 
house-elf staring avidly at him, always looking quickly 
away when he saw that Harry had noticed. 

Harry did not mention his vague suspicions to Sirius, 
whose cheerfulness was evaporating fast now that 
Christmas was over. As the date of their departure 
back to Hogwarts drew nearer, he became more and 
more prone to what Mrs. Weasley called “fits of the 
sullens,” in which he would become taciturn and 
grumpy, often withdrawing to Buckbeak’s room for 
hours at a time. His gloom seeped through the house, 
oozing under doorways like some noxious gas, so that 
all of them became infected by it. 

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Harry did not want to leave Sirius all alone again with 
only Kreacher for company. In fact, for the first time 
in his life, he was not looking forward to returning to 
Hogwarts. Going back to school would mean placing 
himself once again under the tyranny of Dolores 
Umbridge, who had no doubt managed to force 
through another dozen decrees in their absence. Then 
there was no Quidditch to look forward to now that he 
had been banned; there was every likelihood that 
their burden of homework would increase as the 
exams drew even nearer; Dumbledore remained as 
remote as ever; in fact, if it had not been for the D.A., 
Harry felt he might have gone to Sirius and begged 
him to let him leave Hogwarts and remain in 
Grimmauld Place. 

Then, on the very last day of the holidays, something 
happened that made Harry positively dread his return 
to school. 

“Harry dear,” said Mrs. Weasley, poking her head into 
his and Ron’s bedroom, where the pair of them were 
playing wizard chess watched by Hermione, Ginny, 
and Crookshanks, “could you come down to the 
kitchen? Professor Snape would like a word with 
you.” 

Harry did not immediately register what she had said; 
one of his castles was engaged in a violent tussle with 
a pawn of Ron’s, and he was egging it on 
enthusiastically. 

“Squash him — squash him, he’s only a pawn, you 
idiot — sorry, Mrs. Weasley, what did you say?” 

“Professor Snape, dear. In the kitchen. He’d like a 
word.” 



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Harry’s mouth fell open in horror. He looked around 
at Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, all of whom were 
gaping back at him. Crookshanks, whom Hermione 
had been restraining with difficulty for the past 
quarter of an hour, leapt gleefully upon the board and 
set the pieces running for cover, squealing at the top 
of their voices. 

“Snape?” said Harry blankly. 

“Professor Snape, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley 
reprovingly. “Now come on, quickly, he says he can’t 
stay long.” 

“What’s he want with you?” said Ron, looking 
unnerved as Mrs. Weasley withdrew from the room. 

“You haven’t done anything, have you?” 

“No!” said Harry indignantly, racking his brains to 
think what he could have done that would make 
Snape pursue him to Grimmauld Place. Had his last 
piece of homework perhaps earned a T? 

He pushed open the kitchen door a minute or two 
later to find Sirius and Snape both seated at the long 
kitchen table, glaring in opposite directions. The 
silence between them was heavy with mutual dislike. 

A letter lay open on the table in front of Sirius. 

“Er,” said Harry to announce his presence. 

Snape looked around at him, his face framed between 
curtains of greasy black hair. 

“Sit down, Potter.” 

“You know,” said Sirius loudly, leaning back on his 
rear chair legs and speaking to the ceiling, “I think I’d 

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prefer it if you didn’t give orders here, Snape. It’s my 
house, you see.” 

An ugly flush suffused Snape ’s pallid face. Harry sat 
down in a chair beside Sirius, facing Snape across the 
table. 

“I was supposed to see you alone, Potter,” said Snape, 
the familiar sneer curling his mouth, “but Black — ” 

“I’m his godfather,” said Sirius, louder than ever. 

“I am here on Dumbledore’s orders,” said Snape, 
whose voice, by contrast, was becoming more and 
more quietly waspish, “but by all means stay, Black, I 
know you like to feel ... involved.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Sirius, letting 
his chair fall back onto all four legs with a loud bang. 

“Merely that I am sure you must feel — ah — 
frustrated by the fact that you can do nothing useful,” 
Snape laid a delicate stress on the word, “for the 
Order.” 

It was Sirius’s turn to flush. Snape ’s lip curled in 
triumph as he turned to Harry. 

“The headmaster has sent me to tell you, Potter, that 
it is his wish for you to study Occlumency this term.” 

“Study what?” said Harry blankly. 

Snape’s sneer became more pronounced. 

“Occlumency, Potter. The magical defense of the mind 
against external penetration. An obscure branch of 
magic, but a highly useful one.” 



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Harry’s heart began to pump very fast indeed. 

Defense against external penetration? But he was not 
being possessed, they had all agreed on that... 

“Why do I have to study Occlu — thing?” he blurted 
out. 

“Because the headmaster thinks it a good idea,” said 
Snape smoothly. “You will receive private lessons 
once a week, but you will not tell anybody what you 
are doing, least of all Dolores Umbridge. You 
understand?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “Who’s going to be teaching me?” 
Snape raised an eyebrow. 

“I am,” he said. 

Harry had the horrible sensation that his insides were 
melting. Extra lessons with Snape — what on earth 
had he done to deserve this? He looked quickly 
around at Sirius for support. 

“Why can’t Dumbledore teach Harry?” asked Sirius 
aggressively. “Why you?” 

“I suppose because it is a headmaster’s privilege to 
delegate less enjoyable tasks,” said Snape silkily. “I 
assure you I did not beg for the job.” He got to his 
feet. “I will expect you at six o’clock on Monday 
evening, Potter. My office. If anybody asks, you are 
taking Remedial Potions. Nobody who has seen you in 
my classes could deny you need them.” 

He turned to leave, his black traveling cloak billowing 
behind him. 



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“Wait a moment,” said Sirius, sitting up straighter in 
his chair. 

Snape turned back to face them, sneering. 

“I am in rather a hurry, Black ... unlike you, I do not 
have unlimited leisure time...” 

“I’ll get to the point, then,” said Sirius, standing up. 

He was rather taller than Snape who, Harry noticed, 
had balled his fist in the pocket of his cloak over what 
Harry was sure was the handle of his wand. “If I hear 
you’re using these Occlumency lessons to give Harry 
a hard time, you’ll have me to answer to.” 

“How touching,” Snape sneered. “But surely you have 
noticed that Potter is very like his father?” 

“Yes, I have,” said Sirius proudly. 

“Well then, you’ll know he’s so arrogant that criticism 
simply bounces off him,” Snape said sleekly. 

Sirius pushed his chair roughly aside and strode 
around the table toward Snape, pulling out his wand 
as he went; Snape whipped out his own. They were 
squaring up to each other, Sirius looking livid, Snape 
calculating, his eyes darting from Sirius’s wand tip to 
his face. 

“Sirius!” said Harry loudly, but Sirius appeared not to 
hear him. 

“I’ve warned you, Snivellus,” said Sirius, his face 
barely a foot from Snape ’s, “I don’t care if Dumbledore 
thinks you’ve reformed, I know better — ” 

“Oh, but why don’t you tell him so?” whispered 
Snape. “Or are you afraid he might not take the 

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advice of a man who has been hiding inside his 
mother’s house for six months very seriously?” 

“Tell me, how is Lucius Malfoy these days? I expect 
he’s delighted his lapdog’s working at Hogwarts, isn’t 
he?” 

“Speaking of dogs,” said Snape softly, “did you know 
that Lucius Malfoy recognized you last time you 
risked a little jaunt outside? Clever idea, Black, 
getting yourself seen on a safe station platform . . . 
gave you a cast-iron excuse not to leave your hidey- 
hole in future, didn’t it?” 

Sirius raised his wand. 

“NO!” Harry yelled, vaulting over the table and trying 
to get in between them, “Sirius, don’t — ” 

“Are you calling me a coward?” roared Sirius, trying to 
push Harry out of the way, but Harry would not 
budge. 

“Why, yes, I suppose I am,” said Snape. 

“Harry — get — out — of — it!” snarled Sirius, 
pushing him out of the way with his free hand. 

The kitchen door opened and the entire Weasley 
family, plus Hermione, came inside, all looking very 
happy, with Mr. Weasley walking proudly in their 
midst dressed in a pair of striped pajamas covered by 
a mackintosh. 

“Cured!” he announced brightly to the kitchen at 
large. “Completely cured!” 

He and all the other Weasleys froze on the threshold, 
gazing at the scene in front of them, which was also 

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suspended in mid-action, both Sirius and Snape 
looking toward the door with their wands pointing 
into each other’s faces and Harry immobile between 
them, a hand stretched out to each of them, trying to 
force them apart. 

“Merlin’s beard,” said Mr. Weasley, the smile sliding 
off his face, “what’s going on here?” 

Both Sirius and Snape lowered their wands. Harry 
looked from one to the other. Each wore an 
expression of utmost contempt, yet the unexpected 
entrance of so many witnesses seemed to have 
brought them to their senses. Snape pocketed his 
wand and swept back across the kitchen, passing the 
Weasleys without comment. At the door he looked 
back. 

“Six o’clock Monday evening, Potter.” 

He was gone. Sirius glared after him, his wand at his 
side. 

“But what’s been going on?” asked Mr. Weasley again. 

“Nothing, Arthur,” said Sirius, who was breathing 
heavily as though he had just run a long distance. 
“Just a friendly little chat between two old school 
friends...” With what looked like an enormous effort, 
he smiled. “So ... you’re cured? That’s great news, 
really great...” 

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Weasley, leading her 
husband forward into a chair. “Healer Smethwyck 
worked his magic in the end, found an antidote to 
whatever that snake’s got in its fangs, and Arthur’s 
learned his lesson about dabbling in Muggle 
medicine, haven’t you, dear?” she added, rather 
menacingly. 

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“Yes, Molly dear,” said Mr. Weasley meekly. 

That night’s meal should have been a cheerful one 
with Mr. Weasley back amongst them; Harry could 
tell Sirius was trying to make it so, yet when his 
godfather was not forcing himself to laugh loudly at 
Fred and George’s jokes or offering everyone more 
food, his face fell back into a moody, brooding 
expression. Harry was separated from him by 
Mundungus and Mad-Eye, who had dropped in to 
offer Mr. Weasley their congratulations; he wanted to 
talk to Sirius, to tell him that he should not listen to a 
word Snape said, that Snape was goading him 
deliberately and that the rest of them did not think 
Sirius was a coward for doing as Dumbledore told 
him and remaining in Grimmauld Place, but he had 
no opportunity to do so, and wondered occasionally, 
eyeing the ugly look on Sirius’s face, whether he 
would have dared to even if he had the chance. 

Instead he told Ron and Hermione under his voice 
about having to take Occlumency lessons with Snape. 

“Dumbledore wants to stop you having those dreams 
about Voldemort,” said Hermione at once. “Well, you 
won’t be sorry not to have them anymore, will you?” 

“Extra lessons with Snape?” said Ron, sounding 
aghast. “I’d rather have the nightmares!” 

They were to return to Hogwarts on the Knight Bus 
the following day, escorted once again by Tonks and 
Lupin, both of whom were eating breakfast in the 
kitchen when Harry, Ron, and Hermione arrived there 
next morning. The adults seemed to have been 
midway through a whispered conversation when the 
door opened; all of them looked around hastily and 
fell silent. 



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After a hurried breakfast they pulled on jackets and 
scarves against the chilly gray January morning. 

Harry had an unpleasant constricted sensation in his 
chest; he did not want to say good-bye to Sirius. He 
had a bad feeling about this parting; he did not know 
when they would next see each other and felt that it 
was incumbent upon him to say something to Sirius 
to stop him doing anything stupid — Harry was 
worried that Snape’s accusation of cowardice had 
stung Sirius so badly he might even now be planning 
some foolhardy trip beyond Grimmauld Place. Before 
he could think of what to say, however, Sirius had 
beckoned him to his side. 

“I want you to take this,” he said quietly, thrusting a 
badly wrapped package roughly the size of a 
paperback book into Harry’s hands. 

“What is it?” Harry asked. 

“A way of letting me know if Snape’s giving you a hard 
time. No, don’t open it in here!” said Sirius, with a 
wary look at Mrs. Weasley, who was trying to 
persuade the twins to wear hand-knitted mittens. “I 
doubt Molly would approve — but I want you to use it 
if you need me, all right?” 

“Okay,” said Harry, stowing the package away in the 
inside pocket of his jacket, but he knew he would 
never use whatever it was. It would not be he, Harry, 
who lured Sirius from his place of safety, no matter 
how foully Snape treated him in their forthcoming 
Occlumency classes. 

“Let’s go, then,” said Sirius, clapping Harry on the 
shoulder and smiling grimly, and before Harry could 
say anything else, they were heading upstairs, 
stopping before the heavily chained and bolted front 
door, surrounded by Weasleys. 

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“Good-bye, Harry, take care,” said Mrs. Weasley, 
hugging him. 

“See you Harry, and keep an eye out for snakes for 
me!” said Mr. Weasley genially, shaking his hand. 

“Right — yeah,” said Harry distractedly. It was his 
last chance to tell Sirius to be careful; he turned, 
looked into his godfather’s face and opened his mouth 
to speak, but before he could do so Sirius was giving 
him a brief, one-armed hug. He said gruffly, “Look 
after yourself, Harry,” and next moment Harry found 
himself being shunted out into the icy winter air, with 
Tonks (today heavily disguised as a tall, tweedy 
woman with iron-gray hair) chivvying him down the 
steps. 

The door of number twelve slammed shut behind 
them. They followed Lupin down the front steps. As 
he reached the pavement, Harry looked around. 
Number twelve was shrinking rapidly as those on 
either side of it stretched sideways, squeezing it out of 
sight; one blink later, it had gone. 

“Come on, the quicker we get on the bus the better,” 
said Tonks, and Harry thought there was 
nervousness in the glance she threw around the 
square. Lupin flung out his right arm. 

BANG. 

A violently purple, triple-decker bus had appeared out 
of thin air in front of them, narrowly avoiding the 
nearest lamppost, which jumped backward out of its 
way. 

A thin, pimply, jug-eared youth in a purple uniform 
leapt down onto the pavement and said, “Welcome to 
the — ” 

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“Yes, yes, we know, thank you,” said Tonks swiftly. 
“On, on, get on — 

And she shoved Harry forward toward the steps, past 
the conductor, who goggled at Harry as he passed. 

“ ’Ere — it’s ’Arry — !” 



“If you shout his name I will curse you into oblivion,” 
muttered Tonks menacingly, now shunting Ginny and 
Hermione forward. 

“I’ve always wanted to go on this thing,” said Ron 
happily, joining Harry on board and looking around. 

It had been evening the last time Harry had traveled 
by Knight Bus and its three decks had been full of 
brass bedsteads. Now, in the early morning, it was 
crammed with an assortment of mismatched chairs 
grouped haphazardly around windows. Some of these 
appeared to have fallen over when the bus stopped 
abruptly in Grimmauld Place; a few witches and 
wizards were still getting to their feet, grumbling, and 
somebody’s shopping bag had slid the length of the 
bus; an unpleasant mixture of frog spawn, 
cockroaches, and custard creams was scattered all 
over the floor. 

“Looks like we’ll have to split up,” said Tonics briskly, 
looking around for empty chairs. “Fred, George, and 
Ginny, if you just take those seats at the back ... 
Remus can stay with you...” 

She, Harry, Ron, and Hermione proceeded up to the 
very top deck, where there were two chairs at the very 
front of the bus and two at the back. Stan Shunpike, 
the conductor, followed Harry and Ron eagerly to the 
back. Heads turned as Harry passed and when he sat 



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down, he saw all the faces flick back to the front 
again. 

As Harry and Ron handed Stan eleven Sickles each, 
the bus set off again, swaying ominously. It rumbled 
around Grimmauld Square, weaving on and off the 
pavement, then, with another tremendous BANG, 
they were all flung backward; Ron’s chair toppled 
right over and Pigwidgeon, who had been on his lap, 
burst out of his cage and flew twittering wildly up to 
the front of the bus where he fluttered down upon 
Hermione’s shoulder instead. Harry, who had 
narrowly avoided falling by seizing a candle bracket, 
looked out of the window: they were now speeding 
down what appeared to be a motorway. 

“Just outside Birmingham,” said Stan happily, 
answering Harry’s unasked question as Ron struggled 
up from the floor. “You keepin’ well, then, ’Arry? I 
seen your name in the paper loads over the summer, 
but it weren’t never nuffink very nice... I said to Ern, I 
said, ‘’e didn’t seem like a nutter when we met ’im, 
just goes to show, dunnit?’ ” 

He handed over their tickets and continued to gaze, 
enthralled, at Harry; apparently Stan did not care 
how nutty somebody was if they were famous enough 
to be in the paper. The Knight Bus swayed 
alarmingly, overtaking a line of cars on the inside. 
Looking toward the front of the bus Harry saw 
Hermione cover her eyes with her hands, Pigwidgeon 
still swaying happily on her shoulder. 

BANG. 

Chairs slid backward again as the Knight Bus jumped 
from the Birmingham motorway to a quiet country 
lane full of hairpin bends. Hedgerows on either side of 
the road were leaping out of their way as they 

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mounted the verges. From here they moved to a main 
street in the middle of a busy town, then to a viaduct 
surrounded by tall hills, then to a windswept road 
between high-rise flats, each time with a loud BANG. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” muttered Ron, picking 
himself up from the floor for the sixth time, “I never 
want to ride on here again.” 

“Listen, it’s ’Ogwarts stop after this,” said Stan 
brightly, swaying toward them. “That bossy woman 
up front ’oo got on with you, she’s given us a little tip 
to move you up the queue. We’re just gonna let 
Madam Marsh off first, though — ” There was more 
retching from downstairs, followed by a horrible 
spattering sound. “She’s not feeling ’er best.” 

A few minutes later the Knight Bus screeched to a 
halt outside a small pub, which squeezed itself out of 
the way to avoid a collision. They could hear Stan 
ushering the unfortunate Madam Marsh out of the 
bus and the relieved murmurings of her fellow 
passengers on the second deck. The bus moved on 
again, gathering speed, until — 

BANG. 

They were rolling through a snowy Hogsmeade. Harry 
caught a glimpse of the Hog’s Head down its side 
street, the severed boar’s head sign creaking in the 
wintry wind. Flecks of snow hit the large window at 
the front of the bus. At last they rolled to a halt 
outside the gates to Hogwarts. 

Lupin and Tonks helped them off the bus with their 
luggage and then got off to say good-bye. Harry 
glanced up at the three decks of the Knight Bus and 
saw all the passengers staring down at them, noses 
flat against the windows. 

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“You’ll be safe once you’re in the grounds,” said 
Tonks, casting a careful eye around at the deserted 
road. “Have a good term, okay?” 

“Look after yourselves,” said Lupin, shaking hands all 
round and reaching Harry last. “And listen ...” He 
lowered his voice while the rest of them exchanged 
last-minute good-byes with Tonks, “Harry, I know you 
don’t like Snape, but he is a superb Occlumens and 
we all — Sirius included — want you to learn to 
protect yourself, so work hard, all right?” 

“Yeah, all right,” said Harry heavily, looking up into 
Lupin’s prematurely lined face. “See you, then ...” 

The six of them struggled up the slippery drive toward 
the castle dragging their trunks. Hermione was 
already talking about knitting a few elf hats before 
bedtime. Harry glanced back when they reached the 
oak front doors; the Knight Bus had already gone, 
and he half-wished, given what was coming the 
following day, that he was still on board. 

Harry spent most of the next day dreading the 
evening. His morning Potions lesson did nothing to 
dispel his trepidation, as Snape was as unpleasant as 
ever, and Harry’s mood was further lowered by the 
fact that members of the D.A. were continually 
approaching him in the corridors between classes, 
asking hopefully whether there would be a meeting 
that night. 

“I’ll let you know when the next one is,” Harry said 
over and over again, “but I can’t do it tonight, I’ve got 
to go to — er — Remedial Potions...” 

“You take Remedial Potions?” asked Zacharias Smith 
superciliously, having cornered Harry in the entrance 



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hall after lunch. “Good Lord, you must be terrible, 
Snape doesn’t usually give extra lessons, does he?” 

As Smith strode away in an annoyingly buoyant 
fashion, Ron glared after him. 

“Shall I jinx him? I can still get him from here,” he 
said, raising his wand and taking aim between 
Smith’s shoulder blades. 

“Forget it,” said Harry dismally. “It’s what everyone’s 
going to think, isn’t it? That I’m really stup — ” 

“Hi, Harry,” said a voice behind him. He turned 
around and found Cho standing there. 

“Oh,” said Harry as his stomach leapt uncomfortably. 
“Hi.” 

“We’ll be in the library, Harry,” said Hermione firmly, 
and she seized Ron above the elbow and dragged him 
off toward the marble staircase. 

“Had a good Christmas?” asked Cho. 

“Yeah, not bad,” said Harry. 

“Mine was pretty quiet,” said Cho. For some reason, 
she was looking rather embarrassed. “Erm ... there’s 
another Hogsmeade trip next month, did you see the 
notice?” 

“What? Oh no, I haven’t checked the notice board 
since I got back...” 

“Yes, it’s on Valentine’s Day...” 

“Right,” said Harry, wondering why she was telling 
him this. “Well, I suppose you want to — ?” 

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“Only if you do,” she said eagerly. 

Harry stared. He had been about to say “I suppose 
you want to know when the next D.A. meeting is?” 
but her response did not seem to fit. 

“I — er — ” he said. 

“Oh, it’s okay if you don’t,” she said, looking 
mortified. “Don’t worry. I-I’ll see you around.” 

She walked away. Harry stood staring after her, his 
brain working frantically. Then something clunked 
into place. 

“Cho! Hey — CHO!” 

He ran after her, catching her halfway up the marble 
staircase. 

“Er — d’you want to come into Hogsmeade with me on 
Valentine’s Day?” 

“Oooh, yes!” she said, blushing crimson and beaming 
at him. 

“Right ... well ... that’s settled then,” said Harry, and 
feeling that the day was not going to be a complete 
loss after all, he headed off to the library to pick up 
Ron and Hermione before their afternoon lessons, 
walking in a rather bouncy way himself. 

By six o’clock that evening, however, even the glow of 
having successfully asked out Cho Chang was 
insufficient to lighten the ominous feelings that 
intensified with every step Harry took toward Snape’s 
office. 



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He paused outside the door when he reached it, 
wishing he were almost anywhere else, then, taking a 
deep breath, knocked, and entered. 

It was a shadowy room lined with shelves bearing 
hundreds of glass jars in which floated slimy bits of 
animals and plants, suspended in variously colored 
potions. In a corner stood the cupboard full of 
ingredients that Snape had once accused Harry — not 
without reason — of robbing. Harry’s attention was 
drawn toward the desk, however, where a shallow 
stone basin engraved with runes and symbols lay in a 
pool of candlelight. Harry recognized it at once — 
Dumbledore’s Pensieve. Wondering what on earth it 
was doing here, he jumped when Snape’s cold voice 
came out of the corner. 

“Shut the door behind you, Potter.” 

Harry did as he was told with the horrible feeling that 
he was imprisoning himself as he did so. When he 
turned back to face the room Snape had moved into 
the light and was pointing silently at the chair 
opposite his desk. Harry sat down and so did Snape, 
his cold black eyes fixed unblinkingly upon Harry, 
dislike etched in every line of his face. 

“Well, Potter, you know why you are here,” he said. 
“The headmaster has asked me to teach you 
Occlumency. I can only hope that you prove more 
adept at it than Potions.” 

“Right,” said Harry tersely. 

“This may not be an ordinary class, Potter,” said 
Snape, his eyes narrowed malevolently, “but I am still 
your teacher and you will therefore call me ‘sir’ or 
‘Professor’ at all times.” 



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“Yes ... sir,” said Harry. 



“Now, Occlumency. As I told you back in your dear 
godfather’s kitchen, this branch of magic seals the 
mind against magical intrusion and influence.” 

“And why does Professor Dumbledore think I need it, 
sir?” said Harry, looking directly into Snape’s dark, 
cold eyes and wondering whether he would answer. 

Snape looked back at him for a moment and then 
said contemptuously, “Surely even you could have 
worked that out by now, Potter? The Dark Lord is 
highly skilled at Legilimency — ” 

“What’s that? Sir?” 

“It is the ability to extract feelings and memories from 
another person’s mind — ” 

“He can read minds?” said Harry quickly, his worst 
fears confirmed. 

“You have no subtlety, Potter,” said Snape, his dark 
eyes glittering. “You do not understand fine 
distinctions. It is one of the shortcomings that makes 
you such a lamentable potion-maker.” 

Snape paused for a moment, apparently to savor the 
pleasure of insulting Harry, before continuing, “Only 
Muggles talk of ‘mind reading. ’ The mind is not a 
book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure. 
Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be 
perused by any invader. The mind is a complex and 
many-layered thing, Potter ... or at least, most minds 
are...” He smirked. “It is true, however, that those 
who have mastered Legilimency are able, under 
certain conditions, to delve into the minds of their 
victims and to interpret their findings correctly. The 
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Dark Lord, for instance, almost always knows when 
somebody is lying to him. Only those skilled at 
Occlumency are able to shut down those feelings and 
memories that contradict the lie, and so utter 
falsehoods in his presence without detection.” 

Whatever Snape said, Legilimency sounded like mind 
reading to Harry and he did not like the sound of it at 
all. 

“So he could know what we’re thinking right now? 
Sir?” 

“The Dark Lord is at a considerable distance and the 
walls and grounds of Hogwarts are guarded by many 
ancient spells and charms to ensure the bodily and 
mental safety of those who dwell within them,” said 
Snape. “Time and space matter in magic, Potter. Eye 
contact is often essential to Legilimency.” 

“Well then, why do I have to learn Occlumency?” 

Snape eyed Harry, tracing his mouth with one long, 
thin finger as he did so. 

“The usual rules do not seem to apply with you, 
Potter. The curse that failed to kill you seems to have 
forged some kind of connection between you and the 
Dark Lord. The evidence suggests that at times, when 
your mind is most relaxed and vulnerable — when 
you are asleep, for instance — you are sharing the 
Dark Lord’s thoughts and emotions. The headmaster 
thinks it inadvisable for this to continue. He wishes 
me to teach you how to close your mind to the Dark 
Lord.” 

Harry’s heart was pumping fast again. None of this 
added up. 



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“But why does Professor Dumbledore want to stop it?” 
he asked abruptly. “I don’t like it much, but it’s been 
useful, hasn’t it? I mean ... I saw that snake attack 
Mr. Weasley and if I hadn’t, Professor Dumbledore 
wouldn’t have been able to save him, would he? Sir?” 

Snape stared at Harry for a few moments, still tracing 
his mouth with his finger. When he spoke again, it 
was slowly and deliberately, as though he weighed 
every word. 

“It appears that the Dark Lord has been unaware of 
the connection between you and himself until very 
recently. Up till now it seems that you have been 
experiencing his emotions and sharing his thoughts 
without his being any the wiser. However, the vision 
you had shortly before Christmas — ” 

“The one with the snake and Mr. Weasley?” 

“Do not interrupt me, Potter,” said Snape in a 
dangerous voice. “As I was saying ... the vision you 
had shortly before Christmas represented such a 
powerful incursion upon the Dark Lord’s thoughts — ” 

“I saw inside the snake’s head, not his!” 

“I thought I just told you not to interrupt me, Potter?” 

But Harry did not care if Snape was angry; at last he 
seemed to be getting to the bottom of this business. 

He had moved forward in his chair so that, without 
realizing it, he was perched on the very edge, tense as 
though poised for flight. 

“How come I saw through the snake’s eyes if it’s 
Voldemort’s thoughts I’m sharing?” 

“Do not say the Dark Lord’s name\” spat Snape. 

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There was a nasty silence. They glared at each other 
across the Pensieve. 

“Professor Dumbledore says his name,” said Harry 
quietly. 

“Dumbledore is an extremely powerful wizard,” Snape 
muttered. “While he may feel secure enough to use 
the name ... the rest of us ...” He rubbed his left 
forearm, apparently unconsciously, on the spot where 
Harry knew the Dark Mark was burned into his skin. 

“I just wanted to know,” Harry began again, forcing 
his voice back to politeness, “why — ” 

“You seem to have visited the snake’s mind because 
that was where the Dark Lord was at that particular 
moment,” snarled Snape. “He was possessing the 
snake at the time and so you dreamed you were 
inside it too...” 

“And Vol — he — realized I was there?” 

“It seems so,” said Snape coolly. 

“How do you know?” said Harry urgently. “Is this just 
Professor Dumbledore guessing, or — ?” 

“I told you,” said Snape, rigid in his chair, his eyes 
slits, “to call me ‘sir.’ ” 

“Yes, sir,” said Harry impatiently, “but how do you 
know — ?” 

“It is enough that we know,” said Snape repressively. 
“The important point is that the Dark Lord is now 
aware that you are gaining access to his thoughts and 
feelings. He has also deduced that the process is 
likely to work in reverse; that is to say, he has 
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realized that he might be able to access your thoughts 
and feelings in return — ” 

“And he might try and make me do things?” asked 
Harry. “Sir?” he added hurriedly. 

“He might,” said Snape, sounding cold and 
unconcerned. “Which brings us back to Occlumency.” 

Snape pulled out his wand from an inside pocket of 
his robes and Harry tensed in his chair, but Snape 
merely raised the wand to his temple and placed its 
tip into the greasy roots of his hair. When he 
withdrew it, some silvery substance came away, 
stretching from temple to wand like a thick gossamer 
strand, which broke as he pulled the wand away from 
it and fell gracefully into the Pensieve, where it 
swirled silvery white, neither gas nor liquid. Twice 
more Snape raised the wand to his temple and 
deposited the silvery substance into the stone basin, 
then, without offering any explanation of his behavior, 
he picked up the Pensieve carefully, removed it to a 
shelf out of their way and returned to face Harry with 
his wand held at the ready. 

“Stand up and take out your wand, Potter.” 

Harry got to his feet feeling nervous. They faced each 
other with the desk between them. 

“You may use your wand to attempt to disarm me, or 
defend yourself in any other way you can think of,” 
said Snape. 

“And what are you going to do?” Harry asked, eyeing 
Snape ’s wand apprehensively. 

“I am about to attempt to break into your mind,” said 
Snape softly. “We are going to see how well you resist. 

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I have been told that you have already shown 
aptitude at resisting the Imperius Curse... You will 
find that similar powers are needed for this... Brace 
yourself, now... LegilimensV’ 

Snape had struck before Harry was ready, before 
Harry had even begun to summon any force of 
resistance: the office swam in front of his eyes and 
vanished, image after image was racing through his 
mind like a flickering film so vivid it blinded him to 
his surroundings... 

He was five, watching Dudley riding a new red bicycle, 
and his heart was bursting with jealousy... He was 
nine, and Ripper the bulldog was chasing him up a 
tree and the Dursleys were laughing below on the 
lawn. . . He was sitting under the Sorting Hat, and it 
was telling him he would do well in Slytherin... 
Hermione was lying in the hospital wing, her face 
covered with thick black hair. . . A hundred dementors 
were closing in on him beside the dark lake... Cho 
Chang was drawing nearer to him under the 
mistletoe... 

No, said a voice in Harry’s head, as the memory of 
Cho drew nearer, you’re not watching that, you’re not 
watching it, it’s private — 

He felt a sharp pain in his knee. Snape ’s office had 
come back into view and he realized that he had 
fallen to the floor; one of his knees had collided 
painfully with the leg of Snape ’s desk. He looked up at 
Snape, who had lowered his wand and was rubbing 
his wrist. There was an angry weal there, like a 
scorch mark. 

“Did you mean to produce a Stinging Hex?” asked 
Snape coolly. 



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“No,” said Harry bitterly, getting up from the floor. 

“I thought not,” said Snape contemptuously. “You let 
me get in too far. You lost control.” 

“Did you see everything I saw?” Harry asked, unsure 
whether he wanted to hear the answer. 

“Flashes of it,” said Snape, his lip curling. “To whom 
did the dog belong?” 

“My Aunt Marge,” Harry muttered, hating Snape. 

“Well, for a first attempt that was not as poor as it 
might have been,” said Snape, raising his wand once 
more. “You managed to stop me eventually, though 
you wasted time and energy shouting. You must 
remain focused. Repel me with your brain and you 
will not need to resort to your wand.” 

“I’m trying,” said Harry angrily, “but you’re not telling 
me how!” 

“Manners, Potter,” said Snape dangerously. “Now, I 
want you to close your eyes.” 

Harry threw him a filthy look before doing as he was 
told. He did not like the idea of standing there with 
his eyes shut while Snape faced him, carrying a 
wand. 

“Clear your mind, Potter,” said Snape ’s cold voice. 
“Let go of all emotion...” 

But Harry’s anger at Snape continued to pound 
through his veins like venom. Let go of his anger? He 
could as easily detach his legs... 



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“You’re not doing it, Potter... You will need more 
discipline than this... Focus, now...” 

Harry tried to empty his mind, tried not to think, or 
remember, or feel... 

“Let’s go again ... on the count of three ... one — two 
— three — Legilimensl” 

A great black dragon was rearing in front of him... His 
father and mother were waving at him out of an 
enchanted mirror. . . Cedric Diggory was lying on the 
ground with blank eyes staring at him... 

“NOOOOOOO!” 

He was on his knees again, his face buried in his 
hands, his brain aching as though someone had been 
trying to pull it from his skull. 

“Get up!” said Snape sharply. “Get up! You are not 
trying, you are making no effort, you are allowing me 
access to memories you fear, handing me weapons!” 

Harry stood up again, his heart thumping wildly as 
though he had really just seen Cedric dead in the 
graveyard. Snape looked paler than usual, and 
angrier, though not nearly as angry as Harry was. 

“I — am — making — an — effort,” he said through 
clenched teeth. 

“I told you to empty yourself of emotion!” 

“Yeah? Well, I’m finding that hard at the moment,” 
Harry snarled. 

“Then you will find yourself easy prey for the Dark 
Lord!” said Snape savagely. “Fools who wear their 

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hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control 
their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and 
allow themselves to be provoked this easily — weak 
people, in other words — they stand no chance 
against his powers! He will penetrate your mind with 
absurd ease, Potter!” 

“I am not weak,” said Harry in a low voice, fury now 
pumping through him so that he thought he might 
attack Snape in a moment. 

“Then prove it! Master yourself!” spat Snape. “Control 
your anger, discipline your mind! We shall try again! 
Get ready, now! Legilimens\” 

He was watching Uncle Vernon hammering the letter 
box shut... A hundred dementors were drifting across 
the lake in the grounds toward him... He was running 
along a windowless passage with Mr. Weasley... They 
were drawing nearer to the plain black door at the 
end of the corridor. . . Harry expected to go through it 
. . . but Mr. Weasley led him off to the left, down a 
flight of stone steps... 

“I KNOW! I KNOW!” 

He was on all fours again on Snape’s office floor, his 
scar was prickling unpleasantly, but the voice that 
had just issued from his mouth was triumphant. He 
pushed himself up again to find Snape staring at him, 
his wand raised. It looked as though, this time, Snape 
had lifted the spell before Harry had even tried to 
fight back. 

“What happened then, Potter?” he asked, eyeing 
Harry intently. 

“I saw — I remembered,” Harry panted. “I’ve just 
realized ...” 

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“Realized what?” asked Snape sharply. 

Harry did not answer at once; he was still savoring 
the moment of blinding realization as he rubbed his 
forehead... 

He had been dreaming about a windowless corridor 
ending in a locked door for months, without once 
realizing that it was a real place. Now, seeing the 
memory again, he knew that all along he had been 
dreaming about the corridor down which he had run 
with Mr. Weasley on the twelfth of August as they 
hurried to the courtrooms in the Ministry. It was the 
corridor leading to the Department of Mysteries, and 
Mr. Weasley had been there the night that he had 
been attacked by Voldemort’s snake... 

He looked up at Snape. 

“What’s in the Department of Mysteries?” 

“What did you say?” Snape asked quietly and Harry 
saw, with deep satisfaction, that Snape was 
unnerved. 

“I said, what’s in the Department of Mysteries, sir?” 
Harry said. 

“And why,” said Snape slowly, “would you ask such a 
thing?” 

“Because,” said Harry, watching Snape closely for a 
reaction, “that corridor I’ve just seen — I’ve been 
dreaming about it for months — I’ve just recognized it 
— it leads to the Department of Mysteries . . . and I 
think Voldemort wants something from — ” 

“I have told you not to say the Dark Lord’s name\” 



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They glared at each other. Harry’s scar seared again, 
but he did not care. Snape looked agitated. When he 
spoke again he sounded as though he was trying to 
appear cool and unconcerned. 

“There are many things in the Department of 
Mysteries, Potter, few of which you would understand 
and none of which concern you, do I make myself 
plain?” 

“Yes,” Harry said, still rubbing his prickling scar, 
which was becoming more painful. 

“I want you back here same time on Wednesday, and 
we will continue work then.” 

“Fine,” said Harry. He was desperate to get out of 
Snape ’s office and find Ron and Hermione. 

“You are to rid your mind of all emotion every night 
before sleep — empty it, make it blank and calm, you 
understand?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, who was barely listening. 

“And be warned, Potter ... I shall know if you have not 
practiced ...” 

“Right,” Harry mumbled. He picked up his schoolbag, 
swung it over his shoulder, and hurried toward the 
office door. As he opened it he glanced back at Snape, 
who had his back to Harry and was scooping his own 
thoughts out of the Pensieve with the tip of his wand 
and replacing them carefully inside his own head. 
Harry left without another word, closing the door 
carefully behind him, his scar still throbbing 
painfully. 



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Harry found Ron and Hermione in the library, where 
they were working on Umbridge’s most recent ream of 
homework. Other students, nearly all of them fifth 
years, sat at lamp-lit tables nearby, noses close to 
books, quills scratching feverishly, while the sky 
outside the mullioned windows grew steadily blacker. 
The only other sound was the slight squeaking of one 
of Madam Pince’s shoes as the librarian prowled the 
aisles menacingly, breathing down the necks of those 
touching her precious books. 

Harry felt shivery; his scar was still aching, he felt 
almost feverish. When he sat down opposite Ron and 
Hermione he caught sight of himself in the window 
opposite. He was very white, and his scar seemed to 
be showing up more clearly than usual. 

“How did it go?” Hermione whispered, and then, 
looking concerned, “Are you all right, Harry?” 

“Yeah ... fine ... I dunno,” said Harry impatiently, 
wincing as pain shot through his scar again. “Listen 
... I’ve just realized something...” 

And he told them what he had just seen and deduced. 

“So ... so, are you saying ...” whispered Ron, as 
Madam Pince swept past, squeaking slightly, “that the 
weapon — the thing You-Know- Who’s after — is in 
the Ministry of Magic?” 

“In the Department of Mysteries, it’s got to be,” Harry 
whispered. “I saw that door when your dad took me 
down to the courtrooms for my hearing and it’s 
definitely the same one he was guarding when the 
snake bit him.” 

Hermione let out a long, slow sigh. “Of course,” she 
breathed. 

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“Of course what?” said Ron rather impatiently. 

“Ron, think about it... Sturgis Podmore was trying to 
get through a door at the Ministry of Magic... It must 
have been that one, it’s too much of a coincidence!” 

“How come Sturgis was trying to break in when he’s 
on our side?” said Ron. 

“Well, I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “That is a bit 
odd...” 

“So what’s in the Department of Mysteries?” Harry 
asked Ron. “Has your dad ever mentioned anything 
about it?” 

“I know they call the people who work in there 
‘Unspeakables,’ ” said Ron, frowning. “Because no one 
really seems to know what they do in there... Weird 
place to have a weapon ...” 

“It’s not weird at all, it makes perfect sense,” said 
Hermione. “It will be something top secret that the 
Ministry has been developing, I expect... Harry, are 
you sure you’re all right?” 

For Harry had just run both his hands hard over his 
forehead as though trying to iron it. 

“Yeah ... fine ...” he said, lowering his hands, which 
were trembling. “I just feel a bit ... I don’t like 
Occlumency much...” 

“I expect anyone would feel shaky if they’d had their 
mind attacked over and over again,” said Hermione 
sympathetically. “Look, let’s get back to the common 
room, well be a bit more comfortable there...” 



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But the common room was packed and full of shrieks 
of laughter and excitement; Fred and George were 
demonstrating their latest bit of joke shop 
merchandise. 

“Headless Hats!” shouted George, as Fred waved a 
pointed hat decorated with a fluffy pink feather at the 
watching students. “Two Galleons each — watch 
Fred, now!” 

Fred swept the hat onto his head, beaming. For a 
second he merely looked rather stupid, then both hat 
and head vanished. 

Several girls screamed, but everyone else was roaring 
with laughter. 

“And off again!” shouted George, and Fred’s hand 
groped for a moment in what seemed to be thin air 
over his shoulder; then his head reappeared as he 
swept the pink-feathered hat from it again. 

“How do those hats work, then?” said Hermione, 
distracted from her homework and watching Fred and 
George. “I mean, obviously it’s some kind of 
Invisibility Spell, but it’s rather clever to have 
extended the field of invisibility beyond the 
boundaries of the charmed object... I’d imagine the 
charm wouldn’t have a very long life though...” 

Harry did not answer; he was still feeling ill. 

“I’m going to have to do this tomorrow,” he muttered, 
pushing the books he had just taken out of his bag 
back inside it. 

“Well, write it in your homework planner then!” said 
Hermione encouragingly. “So you don’t forget!” 



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Harry and Ron exchanged looks as he reached into 
his bag, withdrew the planner and opened it 
tentatively. 

“ Don’t leave it till later, you big second-rateri” chided 
the book as Harry scribbled down Umbridge’s 
homework. Hermione beamed at it. 

“I think 111 go to bed,” said Harry, stuffing the 
homework planner back into his bag and making a 
mental note to drop it in the fire the first opportunity 
he got. 

He walked across the common room, dodging George, 
who tried to put a Headless Hat on him, and reached 
the peace and cool of the stone staircase to the boys’ 
dormitories. He was feeling sick again, just as he had 
the night he had had the vision of the snake, but 
thought that if he could just lie down for a while he 
would be all right. 

He opened the door of his dormitory and was one step 
inside it when he experienced pain so severe he 
thought that someone must have sliced into the top of 
his head. He did not know where he was, whether he 
was standing or lying down, he did not even know his 
own name... 

Maniacal laughter was ringing in his ears... He was 
happier than he had been in a very long time... 
Jubilant, ecstatic, triumphant ... A wonderful, 
wonderful thing had happened... 

“Harry? HARRY!” 

Someone had hit him around the face. The insane 
laughter was punctuated with a cry of pain. The 
happiness was draining out of him, but the laughter 
continued... 

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He opened his eyes and as he did so, he became 
aware that the wild laughter was coming out of his 
own mouth. The moment he realized this, it died 
away; Harry lay panting on the floor, staring up at the 
ceiling, the scar on his forehead throbbing horribly. 
Ron was bending over him, looking very worried. 

“What happened?” he said. 

“I ... dunno ...” Harry gasped, sitting up again. “He’s 
really happy ... really happy ...” 

“You-Know-Who is?” 

“Something good’s happened,” mumbled Harry. He 
was shaking as badly as he had done after seeing the 
snake attack Mr. Weasley and felt very sick. 
“Something he’s been hoping for.” 

The words came, just as they had back in the 
Gryffindor changing room, as though a stranger was 
speaking them through Harry’s mouth, yet he knew 
they were true. He took deep breaths, willing himself 
not to vomit all over Ron. He was very glad that Dean 
and Seamus were not here to watch this time. 

“Hermione told me to come and check on you,” said 
Ron in a low voice, helping Harry to his feet. “She 
says your defenses will be low at the moment, after 
Snape’s been fiddling around with your mind... Still, I 
suppose it’ll help in the long run, won’t it?” 

He looked doubtfully at Harry as he helped him 
toward bed. Harry nodded without any conviction and 
slumped back on his pillows, aching all over from 
having fallen to the floor so often that evening, his 
scar still prickling painfully. He could not help feeling 
that his first foray into Occlumency had weakened his 
mind’s resistance rather than strengthening it, and 
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he wondered, with a feeling of great trepidation, what 
had happened to make Lord Voldemort the happiest 
he had been in fourteen years. 



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THE BEETLE AT BAY 

Harry’s question was answered the very next 
morning. When Hermione’s Daily Prophet arrived she 
smoothed it out, gazed for a moment at the front 
page, and then gave a yelp that caused everyone in 
the vicinity to stare at her. 

“What?” said Harry and Ron together. 

For an answer she spread the newspaper on the table 
in front of them and pointed at ten black-and-white 
photographs that filled the whole of the front page, 
nine showing wizards’ faces and the tenth, a witch’s. 
Some of the people in the photographs were silently 
jeering; others were tapping their fingers on the frame 
of their pictures, looking insolent. Each picture was 
captioned with a name and the crime for which the 
person had been sent to Azkaban. 

Antonin Dolohov, read the legend beneath a wizard 
with a long, pale, twisted face who was sneering up at 
Harry, convicted of the brutal murders of Gideon and 
Fabian Prewett. 

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Augustus Rookwood, said the caption beneath a 
pockmarked man with greasy hair who was leaning 
against the edge of his picture, looking bored, 
convicted of leaking Ministry of Magic Secrets to He- 
Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. 

But Harry’s eyes were drawn to the picture of the 
witch. Her face had leapt out at him the moment he 
had seen the page. She had long, dark hair that 
looked unkempt and straggly in the picture, though 
he had seen it sleek, thick, and shining. She glared 
up at him through heavily lidded eyes, an arrogant, 
disdainful smile playing around her thin mouth. Like 
Sirius, she retained vestiges of great good looks, but 
something — perhaps Azkaban — had taken most of 
her beauty. 

Bellatrix Lestrange, convicted of the torture and 
permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice 
Longbottom. 

Hermione nudged Harry and pointed at the headline 
over the pictures, which Harry, concentrating on 
Bellatrix, had not yet read. 

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN 

MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS “RALLYING POINT” 

FOR OLD DEATH EATERS 

“Black?” said Harry loudly. “Not — ?” 

“ Shhh\ ” whispered Hermione desperately. “Not so loud 
— just read it!” 

The Ministry of Magic announced late last night that 
there has been a mass breakout from Azkaban. 



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Speaking to reporters in his private office, Cornelius 
Fudge, Minister of Magic, confirmed that ten high- 
security prisoners escaped in the early hours of 
yesterday evening, and that he has already informed 
the Muggle Prime Minister of the dangerous nature of 
these individuals. 

“We find ourselves, most unfortunately, in the same 
position we were two and a half years ago when the 
murderer Sirius Black escaped, ” said Fudge last night. 
“Nor do we think the two breakouts are unrelated. An 
escape of this magnitude suggests outside help, and 
we must remember that Black, as the first person ever 
to break out of Azkaban, would be ideally placed to 
help others follow in his footsteps. We think it likely 
that these individuals, who include Black’s cousin, 
Bellatrix Lestrange, have rallied around Black as their 
leader. We are, however, doing all we can to round up 
the criminals and beg the magical community to remain 
alert and cautious. On no account should any of these 
individuals be approached. ” 

“There you are, Harry,” said Ron, looking awestruck. 
“That’s why he was happy last night...” 

“I don’t believe this,” snarled Harry, “Fudge is blaming 
the breakout on Sirius?” 

“What other options does he have?” said Hermione 
bitterly. “He can hardly say, ‘Sorry everyone, 
Dumbledore warned me this might happen, the 
Azkaban guards have joined Lord Voldemort’ — stop 
whimpering, Ron — ‘and now Voldemort’s worst 
supporters have broken out too.’ I mean, he’s spent a 
good six months telling everyone you and Dumbledore 
are liars, hasn’t he?” 

Hermione ripped open the newspaper and began to 
read the report inside while Harry looked around the 

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Great Hall. He could not understand why his fellow 
students were not looking scared or at least 
discussing the terrible piece of news on the front 
page, but very few of them took the newspaper every 
day like Hermione. There they all were, talking about 
homework and Quidditch and who knew what other 
rubbish, and outside these walls ten more Death 
Eaters had swollen Voldemort’s ranks... 

He glanced up at the staff table. It was a different 
story here: Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall 
were deep in conversation, both looking extremely 
grave. Professor Sprout had the Prophet propped 
against a bottle of ketchup and was reading the front 
page with such concentration that she was not 
noticing the gentle drip of egg yolk falling into her lap 
from her stationary spoon. Meanwhile, at the far end 
of the table, Professor Umbridge was tucking into a 
bowl of porridge. For once her pouchy toad’s eyes 
were not sweeping the Great Hall looking for 
misbehaving students. She scowled as she gulped 
down her food and every now and then she shot a 
malevolent glance up the table to where Dumbledore 
and McGonagall were talking so intently. 

“Oh my — ” said Hermione wonderingly, still staring at 
the newspaper. 

“What now?” said Harry quickly; he was feeling 
jumpy. 

“It’s ... horrible,” said Hermione, looking shaken. She 
folded back page ten of the newspaper and handed it 
back to Harry and Ron. 

TRAGIC DEMISE OF 

MINISTRY OF MAGIC WORKER 



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St. Mungo’s Hospital promised a full inquiry last 
night after Ministry of Magic worker Broderick Bode, 
49, was discovered dead in his bed, strangled by a 
potted-plant. Healers called to the scene were unable 
to revive Mr. Bode, who had been injured in a 
workplace accident some weeks prior to his death. 

Healer Miriam Strout, who was in charge of Mr. 

Bode’s ward at the time of the incident, has been 
suspended on full pay and was unavailable for 
comment yesterday, but a spokeswizard for the 
hospital said in a statement, “St. Mungo’s deeply 
regrets the death of Mr. Bode, whose health was 
improving steadily prior to this tragic accident. 

“We have strict guidelines on the decorations 
permitted on our wards but it appears that Healer 
Strout, busy over the Christmas period, overlooked 
the dangers of the plant on Mr. Bode’s bedside table. 
As his speech and mobility improved, Healer Strout 
encouraged Mr. Bode to look after the plant himself, 
unaware that it was not an innocent Flitterbloom, but 
a cutting of Devil’s Snare, which, when touched by 
the convalescent Mr. Bode, throttled him instantly. 

“St. Mungo’s is as yet unable to account for the 
presence of the plant on the ward and asks any witch 
or wizard with information to come forward.” 

“Bode ...” said Ron. “Bode. It rings a bell...” 

“We saw him,” Hermione whispered. “In St. Mungo’s, 
remember? He was in the bed opposite Lockhart’s, 
just lying there, staring at the ceiling. And we saw the 
Devil’s Snare arrive. She — the Healer — said it was a 
Christmas present...” 

Harry looked back at the story. A feeling of horror was 
rising like bile in his throat. 

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“How come we didn’t recognize Devil’s Snare ... ? 
We’ve seen it before ... we could’ve stopped this from 
happening ...” 

“Who expects Devil’s Snare to turn up in a hospital 
disguised as a potted plant?” said Ron sharply. “It’s 
not our fault, whoever sent it to the bloke is to blame! 
They must be a real prat, why didn’t they check what 
they were buying?” 

“Oh come on, Ron!” said Hermione shakily, “I don’t 
think anyone could put Devil’s Snare in a pot and not 
realize it tries to kill whoever touches it? This — this 
was murder... A clever murder, as well... If the plant 
was sent anonymously, how’s anyone ever going to 
find out who did it?” 

Harry was not thinking about Devil’s Snare. He was 
remembering taking the lift down to the ninth level of 
the Ministry on the day of his hearing, and the 
sallow-faced man who had got in on the Atrium level. 

“I met Bode,” he said slowly. “I saw him at the 
Ministry with your dad ...” 

Ron’s mouth fell open. 

“I’ve heard Dad talk about him at home! He was an 
Unspeakable — he worked in the Department of 
Mysteries!” 

They looked at one another for a moment, then 
Hermione pulled the newspaper back toward her, 
closed it, glared for a moment at the pictures of the 
ten escaped Death Eaters on the front, then leapt to 
her feet. 

“Where are you going?” said Ron, startled. 



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“To send a letter,” said Hermione, swinging her bag 
onto her shoulder. “It ... well, I don’t know whether ... 
but it’s worth trying ... and I’m the only one who can 



“I hate it when she does that,” grumbled Ron as he 
and Harry got up from the table and made their own, 
slower way out of the Great Hall. “Would it kill her to 
tell us what she’s up to for once? It’d take her about 
ten more seconds — hey, Hagrid!” 

Hagrid was standing beside the doors into the 
entrance hall, waiting for a crowd of Ravenclaws to 
pass. He was still as heavily bruised as he had been 
on the day he had come back from his mission to the 
giants and there was a new cut right across the 
bridge of his nose. 

“All righ’, you two?” he said, trying to muster a smile 
but managing only a kind of pained grimace. 

“Are you okay, Hagrid?” asked Harry, following him as 
he lumbered after the Ravenclaws. 

“Fine, fine,” said Hagrid with a feeble assumption of 
airiness; he waved a hand and narrowly missed 
concussing a frightened-looking Professor Vector, who 
was passing. “Jus’ busy, yeh know, usual stuff — 
lessons ter prepare — couple o’ salamanders got scale 
rot — an’ I’m on probation,” he mumbled. 

“ You’re on probation?” said Ron very loudly, so that 
many students passing looked around curiously. 
“Sorry — I mean — you’re on probation?” he 
whispered. 

“Yeah,” said Hagrid. “ ’S’no more’n I expected, ter tell 
yeh the truth. Yeh migh’ not’ve picked up on it, bu’ 
that inspection didn’ go too well, yeh know ... 

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anyway,” he sighed deeply. “Bes’ go an mb a bit more 
chili powder on them salamanders or their tails’ll be 
hangin’ off ’em next. See yeh, Harry ... Ron ...” 

He trudged away, out the front doors and down the 
stone steps into the damp grounds. Harry watched 
him go, wondering how much more bad news he 
could stand. 

The fact that Hagrid was now on probation became 
common knowledge within the school over the next 
few days, but to Harry’s indignation, hardly anybody 
appeared to be upset about it; indeed, some people, 
Draco Malfoy prominent among them, seemed 
positively gleeful. As for the freakish death of an 
obscure Department of Mysteries employee in St. 
Mungo’s, Harry, Ron, and Hermione seemed to be the 
only people who knew or cared. There was only one 
topic of conversation in the corridors now: the ten 
escaped Death Eaters, whose story had finally filtered 
through the school from those few people who read 
the newspapers. Rumors were flying that some of the 
convicts had been spotted in Hogsmeade, that they 
were supposed to be hiding out in the Shrieking 
Shack and that they were going to break into 
Hogwarts, just as Sirius Black had done. 

Those who came from Wizarding families had grown 
up hearing the names of these Death Eaters spoken 
with almost as much fear as Voldemort’s; the crimes 
they had committed during the days of Voldemort’s 
reign of terror were legendary. There were relatives of 
their victims among the Hogwarts students, who now 
found themselves the unwilling objects of a gruesome 
sort of reflected fame as they walked the corridors: 
Susan Bones, who had an uncle, aunt, and cousins 
who had all died at the hands of one of the ten, said 
miserably during Herbology that she now had a good 
idea what it felt like to be Harry. 

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“And I don’t know how you stand it, it’s horrible,” she 
said bluntly, dumping far too much dragon manure 
on her tray of Screechsnap seedlings, causing them to 
wriggle and squeak in discomfort. 

It was true that Harry was the subject of much 
renewed muttering and pointing in the corridors these 
days, yet he thought he detected a slight difference in 
the tone of the whisperers’ voices. They sounded 
curious rather than hostile now, and once or twice he 
was sure he overheard snatches of conversation that 
suggested that the speakers were not satisfied with 
the Prophet’s version of how and why ten Death 
Eaters had managed to break out of Azkaban fortress. 
In their confusion and fear, these doubters now 
seemed to be turning to the only other explanation 
available to them, the one that Harry and 
Dumbledore had been expounding since the previous 
year. 

It was not only the students’ mood that had changed. 
It was now quite common to come across two or three 
teachers conversing in low, urgent whispers in the 
corridors, breaking off their conversations the 
moment they saw students approaching. 

“They obviously can’t talk freely in the staffroom 
anymore,” said Hermione in a low voice, as she, 

Harry, and Ron passed Professors McGonagall, 
Flitwick, and Sprout huddled together outside the 
Charms classroom one day. “Not with Umbridge 
there.” 

“Reckon they know anything new?” said Ron, gazing 
back over his shoulder at the three teachers. 

“If they do, we’re not going to hear about it, are we?” 
said Harry angrily. “Not after Decree ... What number 
are we on now?” 

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For new signs had appeared on the house notice 
boards the morning after news of the Azkaban 
breakout: 

— BY ORDER OF — 

THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS 

Teachers are hereby banned from giving students any 
information that is not strictly related to the subjects 
they are paid to teach. 

The above is in accordance with 

Educational Decree Number Twenty-six. 

Signed: 

Dolores Jane Umbridge 
HIGH INQUISITOR 

This latest decree had been the subject of a great 
number of jokes among the students. Lee Jordan had 
pointed out to Umbridge that by the terms of the new 
rule she was not allowed to tell Fred and George off 
for playing Exploding Snap in the back of the class. 

“Exploding Snap’s got nothing to do with Defense 
Against the Dark Arts, Professor! That’s not 
information relating to your subject!” 

When Harry next saw Lee, the back of his hand was 
bleeding rather badly. Harry recommended essence of 
murtlap. 

Harry had thought that the breakout from Azkaban 
might have humbled Umbridge a little, that she might 



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have been abashed at the catastrophe that had 
occurred right under her beloved Fudge’s nose. It 
seemed, however, to have only intensified her furious 
desire to bring every aspect of life at Hogwarts under 
her personal control. She seemed determined at the 
very least to achieve a sacking before long, and the 
only question was whether it would be Professor 
Trelawney or Hagrid who went first. 

Every single Divination and Care of Magical Creatures 
lesson was now conducted in the presence of 
Umbridge and her clipboard. She lurked by the fire in 
the heavily perfumed tower room, interrupting 
Professor Trelawney’s increasingly hysterical talks 
with difficult questions about Ornithomancy and 
Heptomology, insisting that she predict students’ 
answers before they gave them and demanding that 
she demonstrate her skill at the crystal ball, the tea 
leaves, and the rune stones in turn. Harry thought 
that Professor Trelawney might soon crack under the 
strain; several times he passed her in the corridors (in 
itself a very unusual occurrence as she generally 
remained in her tower room), muttering wildly to 
herself, wringing her hands, and shooting terrified 
glances over her shoulder, all the time giving off a 
powerful smell of cooking sherry. If he had not been 
so worried about Hagrid, he would have felt sorry for 
her — but if one of them was to be ousted out of a 
job, there could be only one choice for Harry as to 
who should remain. 

Unfortunately, Harry could not see that Hagrid was 
putting up a better show than Trelawney. Though he 
seemed to be following Hermione’s advice and had 
shown them nothing more frightening than a crup, a 
creature indistinguishable from a Jack Russell terrier 
except for its forked tail, since before Christmas, he 
also seemed to have lost his nerve. He was oddly 
distracted and jumpy in lessons, losing the thread of 
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what he was saying while talking to the class, 
answering questions wrongly and glancing anxiously 
at Umbridge all the time. He was also more distant 
with Harry, Ron, and Hermione than he had ever 
been before, expressly forbidding them to visit him 
after dark. 

“If she catches yeh, it’ll be all of our necks on the 
line,” he told them flatly, and with no desire to do 
anything that jeopardized his job further, they 
abstained from walking down to his hut in the 
evenings. It seemed to Harry that Umbridge was 
steadily depriving him of everything that made his life 
at Hogwarts worth living: visits to Hagrid’s house, 
letters from Sirius, his Firebolt, and Quidditch. He 
took his revenge the only way he had: redoubling his 
efforts for the D.A. 

Harry was pleased to see that all of them, even 
Zacharias Smith, had been spurred to work harder 
than ever by the news that ten more Death Eaters 
were now on the loose, but in nobody was this 
improvement more pronounced than in Neville. The 
news of his parents’ attacker’s escape had wrought a 
strange and even slightly alarming change in him. He 
had not once mentioned his meeting with Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione on the closed ward in St. Mungo’s, and 
taking their lead from him, they had kept quiet about 
it too. Nor had he said anything on the subject of 
Bellatrix and her fellow torturers’ escape; in fact, he 
barely spoke during D.A. meetings anymore, but 
worked relentlessly on every new jinx and 
countercurse Harry taught them, his plump face 
screwed up in concentration, apparently indifferent to 
injuries or accidents, working harder than anyone 
else in the room. He was improving so fast it was 
quite unnerving and when Harry taught them the 
Shield Charm, a means of deflecting minor jinxes so 



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that they rebounded upon the attacker, only 
Hermione mastered the charm faster than Neville. 

In fact Harry would have given a great deal to be 
making as much progress at Occlumency as Neville 
was making during D.A. meetings. Harry’s sessions 
with Snape, which had started badly enough, were 
not improving; on the contrary, Harry felt he was 
getting worse with every lesson. 

Before he had started studying Occlumency, his scar 
had prickled occasionally, usually during the night, or 
else following one of those strange flashes of 
Voldemort’s thoughts or moods that he experienced 
every now and then. Nowadays, however, his scar 
hardly ever stopped prickling, and he often felt 
lurches of annoyance or cheerfulness that were 
unrelated to what was happening to him at the time, 
which were always accompanied by a particularly 
painful twinge from his scar. He had the horrible 
impression that he was slowly turning into a kind of 
aerial that was tuned in to tiny fluctuations in 
Voldemort’s mood, and he was sure he could date this 
increased sensitivity firmly from his first Occlumency 
lesson with Snape. What was more, he was now 
dreaming about walking down the corridor toward the 
entrance to the Department of Mysteries almost every 
night, dreams that always culminated in him 
standing longingly in front of the plain black door. 

“Maybe it’s a bit like an illness,” said Hermione, 
looking concerned when Harry confided in her and 
Ron. “A fever or something. It has to get worse before 
it gets better.” 

“It’s lessons with Snape that are making it worse,” 
said Harry flatly. “I’m getting sick of my scar hurting, 
and I’m getting bored walking down that corridor 
every night.” He rubbed his forehead angrily. “I just 

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wish the door would open, I’m sick of standing staring 
at it — ” 

“That’s not funny,” said Hermione sharply. 
“Dumbledore doesn’t want you to have dreams about 
that corridor at all, or he wouldn’t have asked Snape 
to teach you Occlumency. You’re just going to have to 
work a bit harder in your lessons.” 

“I am working!” said Harry, nettled. “You try it 
sometime, Snape trying to get inside your head, it’s 
not a bundle of laughs, you know!” 

“Maybe ...” said Ron slowly. 

“Maybe what?” said Hermione rather snappishly. 

“Maybe it’s not Harry’s fault he can’t close his mind,” 
said Ron darkly. 

“What do you mean?” said Hermione. 

“Well, maybe Snape isn’t really trying to help Harry...” 

Harry and Hermione stared at him. Ron looked darkly 
and meaningfully from one to the other. 

“Maybe,” he said again in a lower voice, “he’s actually 
trying to open Harry’s mind a bit wider . . . make it 
easier for You-Know — ” 

“Shut up, Ron,” said Hermione angrily. “How many 
times have you suspected Snape, and when have you 
ever been right? Dumbledore trusts him, he works for 
the Order, that ought to be enough.” 

“He used to be a Death Eater,” said Ron stubbornly. 
“And we’ve never seen proof that he really swapped 
sides...” 

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“Dumbledore trusts him,” Hermione repeated. “And if 
we can’t trust Dumbledore, we can’t trust anyone.” 

With so much to worry about and so much to do — 
startling amounts of homework that frequently kept 
the fifth years working until past midnight, secret 
D.A. meetings, and regular classes with Snape — 
January seemed to be passing alarmingly fast. Before 
Harry knew it, February had arrived, bringing with it 
wetter and warmer weather and the prospect of the 
second Hogsmeade visit of the year. Harry had had 
very little time to spare on conversations with Cho 
since they had agreed to visit the village together, but 
suddenly found himself facing a Valentine’s Day 
spent entirely in her company. 

On the morning of the fourteenth he dressed 
particularly carefully. He and Ron arrived at breakfast 
just in time for the arrival of the post owls. Hedwig 
was not there — not that he had expected her — but 
Hermione was tugging a letter from the beak of an 
unfamiliar brown owl as they sat down. 

“And about time! If it hadn’t come today ...” she said 
eagerly, tearing open the envelope and pulling out a 
small piece of parchment. Her eyes sped from left to 
right as she read through the message and a grimly 
pleased expression spread across her face. 

“Listen, Harry,” she said, looking up at him. “This is 
really important... Do you think you could meet me in 
the Three Broomsticks around midday?” 

“Well ... I dunno,” said Harry dubiously. “Cho might 
be expecting me to spend the whole day with her. We 
never said what we were going to do.” 

“Well, bring her along if you must,” said Hermione 
urgently. “But will you come?” 

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“Well ... all right, but why?” 



“I haven’t got time to tell you now, I’ve got to answer 
this quickly — ” 

And she hurried out of the Great Hall, the letter 
clutched in one hand and a piece of uneaten toast in 
the other. 

“Are you coming?” Harry asked Ron, but he shook his 
head, looking glum. 

“I can’t come into Hogsmeade at all, Angelina wants a 
full day’s training. Like it’s going to help — we’re the 
worst team I’ve ever seen. You should see Sloper and 
Kirke, they’re pathetic, even worse than I am.” He 
heaved a great sigh. “I dunno why Angelina won’t just 
let me resign...” 

“It’s because you’re good when you’re on form, that’s 
why,” said Harry irritably. 

He found it very hard to be sympathetic to Ron’s 
plight when he himself would have given almost 
anything to be playing in the forthcoming match 
against Hufflepuff. Ron seemed to notice Harry’s tone, 
because he did not mention Quidditch again during 
breakfast, and there was a slight frostiness in the way 
they said good-bye to each other shortly afterward. 
Ron departed for the Quidditch pitch and Harry, after 
attempting to flatten his hair while staring at his 
reflection in the back of a teaspoon, proceeded alone 
to the entrance hall to meet Cho, feeling very 
apprehensive and wondering what on earth they were 
going to talk about. 

She was waiting for him a little to the side of the oak 
front doors, looking very pretty with her hair tied 
back in a long ponytail. Harry’s feet seemed to be too 

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big for his body as he walked toward her, and he was 
suddenly horribly aware of his arms and how stupid 
they looked swinging at his sides. 

“Hi,” said Cho slightly breathlessly. 

“Hi,” said Harry. 

They stared at each other for a moment, then Harry 
said, “Well — er — shall we go, then?” 

“Oh — yes ...” 

They joined the queue of people being signed out by 
Filch, occasionally catching each other’s eye and 
grinning shiftily, but not talking to each other. Harry 
was relieved when they reached the fresh air, finding 
it easier to walk along in silence than just stand there 
looking awkward. It was a fresh, breezy sort of day 
and as they passed the Quidditch stadium, Harry 
glimpsed Ron and Ginny skimming over the stands 
and felt a horrible pang that he was not up there with 
them... 

“You really miss it, don’t you?” said Cho. 

He looked around and saw her watching him. 

“Yeah,” sighed Harry. “I do.” 

“Remember the first time we played against each 
other, in the third year?” she asked him. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, grinning. “You kept blocking me.” 

“And Wood told you not to be a gentleman and knock 
me off my broom if you had to,” said Cho, smiling 
reminiscently. “I heard he got taken on by Pride of 
Portree, is that right?” 

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“Nah, it was Puddlemere United, I saw him at the 
World Cup last year.” 

“Oh, I saw you there too, remember? We were on the 
same campsite. It was really good, wasn’t it?” 

The subject of the Quidditch World Cup carried them 
all the way down the drive and out through the gates. 
Harry could hardly believe how easy it was to talk to 
her, no more difficult, in fact, than talking to Ron and 
Hermione, and he was just starting to feel confident 
and cheerful when a large gang of Slytherin girls 
passed them, including Pansy Parkinson. 

“Potter and Chang!” screeched Pansy to a chorus of 
snide giggles. “Urgh, Chang, I don’t think much of 
your taste... At least Diggory was good-looking!” 

They sped up, talking and shrieking in a pointed 
fashion with many exaggerated glances back at Harry 
and Cho, leaving an embarrassed silence in their 
wake. Harry could think of nothing else to say about 
Quidditch, and Cho, slightly flushed, was watching 
her feet. 

“So ... where d’you want to go?” Harry asked as they 
entered Hogsmeade. The High Street was full of 
students ambling up and down, peering into the shop 
windows and messing about together on the 
pavements. 

“Oh ... I don’t mind,” said Cho, shrugging. “Um ... 
shall we just have a look in the shops or something?” 

They wandered toward Dervish and Banges. A large 
poster had been stuck up in the window and a few 
Hogsmeaders were looking at it. They moved aside 
when Harry and Cho approached and Harry found 
himself staring once more at the ten pictures of the 
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escaped Death Eaters. The poster (“By Order of the 
Ministry of Magic”) offered a thousand-Galleon reward 
to any witch or wizard with information relating to the 
recapture of any of the convicts pictured. 

“It’s funny, isn’t it,” said Cho in a low voice, also 
gazing up at the pictures of the Death Eaters. 
“Remember when that Sirius Black escaped, and 
there were dementors all over Hogsmeade looking for 
him? And now ten Death Eaters are on the loose and 
there aren’t dementors anywhere...” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, tearing his eyes away from 
Bellatrix Lestrange’s face to glance up and down the 
High Street. “Yeah, it is weird...” 

He was not sorry that there were no dementors 
nearby, but now he came to think of it, their absence 
was highly significant. They had not only let the 
Death Eaters escape, they were not bothering to look 
for them... It looked as though they really were 
outside Ministry control now. 

The ten escaped Death Eaters were staring out of 
every shop window he and Cho passed. It started to 
rain as they passed Scrivenshaft’s; cold, heavy drops 
of water kept hitting Harry’s face and the back of his 
neck. 

“Um ... d’you want to get a coffee?” said Cho 
tentatively, as the rain began to fall more heavily. 

“Yeah, all right,” said Harry, looking around. “Where 
— ?” 

“Oh, there’s a really nice place just up here, haven’t 
you ever been to Madam Puddifoot’s?” she said 
brightly, and she led him up a side road and into a 
small tea shop that Harry had never noticed before. It 

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was a cramped, steamy little place where everything 
seemed to have been decorated with frills or bows. 
Harry was reminded unpleasantly of Umbridge’s 
office. 

“Cute, isn’t it?” said Cho happily. 

“Er ... yeah,” said Harry untruthfully. 

“Look, she’s decorated it for Valentine’s Day!” said 
Cho, indicating a number of golden cherubs that were 
hovering over each of the small, circular tables, 
occasionally throwing pink confetti over the 
occupants. 

“Aaah ...” 

They sat down at the last remaining table, which was 
situated in the steamy window. Roger Davies, the 
Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain, was sitting about a 
foot and a half away with a pretty blonde girl. They 
were holding hands. The sight made Harry feel 
uncomfortable, particularly when, looking around the 
tea shop, he saw that it was full of nothing but 
couples, all of them holding hands. Perhaps Cho 
would expect him to hold her hand. 

“What can I get you, m’dears?” said Madam 
Puddifoot, a very stout woman with a shiny black 
bun, squeezing between their table and Roger 
Davies’s with great difficulty. 

“Two coffees, please,” said Cho. 

In the time it took for their coffees to arrive, Roger 
Davies and his girlfriend started kissing over their 
sugar bowl. Harry wished they wouldn’t; he felt that 
Davies was setting a standard with which Cho would 
soon expect him to compete. He felt his face growing 
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hot and tried staring out of the window, but it was so 
steamed up he could not see the street outside. To 
postpone the moment when he had to look at Cho he 
stared up at the ceiling as though examining the 
paintwork and received a handful of confetti in the 
face from their hovering cherub. 

After a few more painful minutes Cho mentioned 
Umbridge; Harry seized on the subject with relief and 
they passed a few happy moments abusing her, but 
the subject had already been so thoroughly canvassed 
during D.A. meetings it did not last very long. Silence 
fell again. Harry was very conscious of the slurping 
noises coming from the table next door and cast 
wildly around for something else to say. 

“Er ... listen, d’you want to come with me to the Three 
Broomsticks at lunchtime? I’m meeting Hermione 
Granger there.” 

Cho raised her eyebrows. 

“You’re meeting Hermione Granger? Today?” 

“Yeah. Well, she asked me to, so I thought I would. 
D’you want to come with me? She said it wouldn’t 
matter if you did.” 

“Oh ... well ... that was nice of her.” 

But Cho did not sound as though she thought it was 
nice at all; on the contrary, her tone was cold and all 
of a sudden she looked rather forbidding. 

A few more minutes passed in total silence, Harry 
drinking his coffee so fast that he would soon need a 
fresh cup. Next door, Roger Davies and his girlfriend 
seemed glued together by the lips. 



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Cho’s hand was lying on the table beside her coffee, 
and Harry was feeling a mounting pressure to take 
hold of it. Just do it, he told himself, as a fount of 
mingled panic and excitement surged up inside his 
chest. Just reach out and grab it... Amazing how much 
more difficult it was to extend his arm twelve inches 
and touch her hand than to snatch a speeding Snitch 
from midair ... 

But just as he moved his hand forward, Cho took 
hers off the table. She was now watching Roger 
Davies kissing his girlfriend with a mildly interested 
expression. 

“He asked me out, you know,” she said in a quiet 
voice. “A couple of weeks ago. Roger. I turned him 
down, though.” 

Harry, who had grabbed the sugar bowl to excuse his 
sudden lunging movement across the table, could not 
think why she was telling him this. If she wished she 
were sitting at the table next door being heartily 
kissed by Roger Davies, why had she agreed to come 
out with him? 

He said nothing. Their cherub threw another handful 
of confetti over them; some of it landed in the last 
cold dregs of coffee Harry had been about to drink. 

“I came in here with Cedric last year,” said Cho. 

In the second or so it took for him to take in what she 
had said, Harry’s insides had become glacial. He 
could not believe she wanted to talk about Cedric 
now, while kissing couples surrounded them and a 
cherub floated over their heads. 

Cho’s voice was rather higher when she spoke again. 



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“I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages... Did Cedric — 
did he m-m-mention me at all before he died?” 

This was the very last subject on earth Harry wanted 
to discuss, and least of all with Cho. 

“Well — no — ” he said quietly. “There — there wasn’t 
time for him to say anything. Erm ... so ... d’you ... 
d’you get to see a lot of Quidditch in the holidays? 

You support the Tornados, right?” 

His voice sounded falsely bright and cheery. To his 
horror, he saw that her eyes were swimming with 
tears again, just as they had been after the last D.A. 
meeting before Christmas. 

“Look,” he said desperately, leaning in so that nobody 
else could overhear, “let’s not talk about Cedric right 
now... Let’s talk about something else...” 

But this, apparently, was quite the wrong thing to 
say. 

“I thought,” she said, tears spattering down onto the 
table. “I thought you’d u-u-understand! I need to talk 
about it! Surely you n-need to talk about it t-too! I 
mean, you saw it happen, d-didn’t you?” 

Everything was going nightmarishly wrong; Roger 
Davies’ girlfriend had even unglued herself to look 
around at Cho crying. 

“Well — I have talked about it,” Harry said in a 
whisper, “to Ron and Hermione, but — ” 

“Oh, you’ll talk to Hermione Granger!” she said 
shrilly, her face now shining with tears, and several 
more kissing couples broke apart to stare. “But you 
won’t talk to me! P-perhaps it would be best if we just 

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... just p-paid and you went and met up with 
Hermione G-Granger, like you obviously want to!” 

Harry stared at her, utterly bewildered, as she seized 
a frilly napkin and dabbed at her shining face with it. 

“Cho?” he said weakly, wishing Roger would seize his 
girlfriend and start kissing her again to stop her 
goggling at him and Cho. 

“Go on, leave!” she said, now crying into the napkin. 

“I don’t know why you asked me out in the first place 
if you’re going to make arrangements to meet other 
girls right after me... How many are you meeting after 
Hermione?” 

“It’s not like that!” said Harry, and he was so relieved 
at finally understanding what she was annoyed about 
that he laughed, which he realized a split second too 
late was a mistake. 

Cho sprang to her feet. The whole tearoom was quiet, 
and everybody was watching them now. 

“I’ll see you around, Harry,” she said dramatically, 
and hiccuping slightly she dashed to the door, 
wrenched it open, and hurried off into the pouring 
rain. 

“Cho!” Harry called after her, but the door had 
already swung shut behind her with a tuneful tinkle. 

There was total silence within the tea shop. Every eye 
was upon Harry. He threw a Galleon down onto the 
table, shook pink confetti out of his eyes, and 
followed Cho out of the door. 

It was raining hard now, and she was nowhere to be 
seen. He simply did not understand what had 

Page | 717Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




happened; half an hour ago they had been getting 
along fine. 

“Women!” he muttered angrily, sloshing down the 
rain-washed street with his hands in his pockets. 
“What did she want to talk about Cedric for anyway? 
Why does she always want to drag up a subject that 
makes her act like a human hosepipe?” 

He turned right and broke into a splashy run, and 
within minutes he was turning into the doorway of 
the Three Broomsticks. He knew he was too early to 
meet Hermione, but he thought it likely there would 
be someone in here with whom he could spend the 
intervening time. He shook his wet hair out of his 
eyes and looked around. Hagrid was sitting alone in a 
corner, looking morose. 

“Hi, Hagrid!” he said, when he had squeezed through 
the crammed tables and pulled up a chair beside him. 

Hagrid jumped and looked down at Harry as though 
he barely recognized him. Harry saw that he had two 
fresh cuts on his face and several new bruises. 

“Oh, it’s you, Harry,” said Hagrid. “You all righ’?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” lied Harry; in fact, next to this 
battered and mournful-looking Hagrid, he felt he did 
not have much to complain about. “Er — are you 
okay?” 

“Me?” said Hagrid. “Oh yeah, I’m grand, Harry, 
grand...” 

He gazed into the depths of his pewter tankard, which 
was the size of a large bucket, and sighed. Harry did 
not know what to say to him. They sat side by side in 



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silence for a moment. Then Hagrid said abruptly, “In 
the same boat, you an’ me, aren’ we, Harry?” 

“Er — ” said Harry. 

“Yeah ... I’ve said it before... Both outsiders, like,” 
said Hagrid, nodding wisely. “An’ both orphans. Yeah 
... both orphans.” 

He took a great swig from his tankard. 

“Makes a diff’rence, havin’ a decent family,” he said. 
“Me dad was decent. An’ your mum an’ dad were 
decent. If they’d lived, life woulda bin diff’rent, eh?” 

“Yeah ... I s’pose,” said Harry cautiously. Hagrid 
seemed to be in a very strange mood. 

“Family,” said Hagrid gloomily. “Whatever yeh say, 
blood’s important...” 

And he wiped a trickle of it out of his eye. 

“Hagrid,” said Harry, unable to stop himself, “where 
are you getting all these injuries?” 

“Eh?” said Hagrid, looking startled. “Wha’ injuries?” 

“All those!” said Harry, pointing at Hagrid ’s face. 

“Oh ... tha’s jus’ normal bumps an’ bruises, Harry,” 
said Hagrid dismissively. “I got a rough job.” 

He drained his tankard, set it back upon the table, 
and got to his feet. 

“I’ll be seein’yeh, Harry... Take care now...” 



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And he lumbered out of the pub looking wretched and 
then disappeared into the torrential rain. Harry 
watched him go, feeling miserable. Hagrid was 
unhappy and he was hiding something, but he 
seemed determined not to accept help. What was 
going on? But before Harry could think about the 
matter any further, he heard a voice calling his name. 

“Harry! Harry, over here!” 

Hermione was waving at him from the other side of 
the room. He got up and made his way toward her 
through the crowded pub. He was still a few tables 
away when he realized that Hermione was not alone; 
she was sitting at a table with the unlikeliest pair of 
drinking mates he could ever have imagined: Luna 
Lovegood and none other than Rita Skeeter, ex- 
journalist on the Daily Prophet and one of Hermione’s 
least favorite people in the world. 

“You’re early!” said Hermione, moving along to give 
him room to sit down. “I thought you were with Cho, I 
wasn’t expecting you for another hour at least!” 

“Cho?” said Rita at once, twisting around in her seat 
to stare avidly at Harry. “A girl?” 

She snatched up her crocodile-skin handbag and 
groped within it. 

“It’s none of your business if Harry’s been with a 
hundred girls,” Hermione told Rita coolly. “So you can 
put that away right now.” 

Rita had been on the point of withdrawing an acid- 
green quill from her bag. Looking as though she had 
been forced to swallow Stinksap, she snapped her bag 
shut again. 



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“What are you up to?” Harry asked, sitting down and 
staring from Rita to Luna to Hermione. 



“Little Miss Perfect was just about to tell me when you 
arrived,” said Rita, taking a large slurp of her drink. “I 
suppose I’m allowed to talk to him, am I?” she shot at 
Hermione. 

“Yes, I suppose you are,” said Hermione coldly. 

Unemployment did not suit Rita. The hair that had 
once been set in elaborate curls now hung lank and 
unkempt around her face. The scarlet paint on her 
two-inch talons was chipped and there were a couple 
of false jewels missing from her winged glasses. She 
took another great gulp of her drink and said out of 
the corner of her mouth, “Pretty girl, is she, Harry?” 

“One more word about Harry’s love life and the deal’s 
off and that’s a promise,” said Hermione irritably. 

“What deal?” said Rita, wiping her mouth on the back 
of her hand. “You haven’t mentioned a deal yet, Miss 
Prissy, you just told me to turn up. Oh, one of these 
days ...” She took a deep shuddering breath. 

“Yes, yes, one of these days you’ll write more horrible 
stories about Harry and me,” said Hermione 
indifferently. “Find someone who cares, why don’t 
you?” 

“They’ve run plenty of horrible stories about Harry 
this year without my help,” said Rita, shooting a 
sideways look at him over the top of her glass and 
adding in a rough whisper, “How has that made you 
feel, Harry? Betrayed? Distraught? Misunderstood?” 

“He feels angry, of course,” said Hermione in a hard, 
clear voice. “Because he’s told the Minister of Magic 

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the truth and the Minister’s too much of an idiot to 
believe him.” 

“So you actually stick to it, do you, that He-Who- 
Must-Not-Be-Named is back?” said Rita, lowering her 
glass and subjecting Harry to a piercing stare while 
her finger strayed longingly to the clasp of the 
crocodile bag. “You stand by all this garbage 
Dumbledore’s been telling everybody about You- 
Know-Who returning and you being the sole witness 
— ?” 

“I wasn’t the sole witness,” snarled Harry. “There were 
a dozen-odd Death Eaters there as well. Want their 
names?” 

“I’d love them,” breathed Rita, now fumbling in her 
bag once more and gazing at him as though he was 
the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. “A great 
bold headline: ‘Potter Accuses ...’A subheading: 

‘Harry Potter Names Death Eaters Still Among Us.’ And 
then, beneath a nice big photograph of you: 

‘Disturbed teenage survivor of You-Know-Who’s attack, 
Harry Potter, 1 5, caused outrage yesterday by 
accusing respectable and prominent members of the 
Wizarding community of being Death Eaters...’ ” 

The Quick-Quotes Quill was actually in her hand and 
halfway to her mouth when the rapturous expression 
died out of her face. 

“But of course,” she said, lowering the quill and 
looking daggers at Hermione, “Little Miss Perfect 
wouldn’t want that story out there, would she?” 

“As a matter of fact,” said Hermione sweetly, “that’s 
exactly what Little Miss Perfect does want.” 



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Rita stared at her. So did Harry. Luna, on the other 
hand, sang, “Weasley Is Our King” dreamily under her 
breath and stirred her drink with a cocktail onion on 
a stick. 

“You want me to report what he says about He-Who- 
Must-Not-Be-Named?” Rita asked Hermione in a 
hushed voice. 

“Yes, I do,” said Hermione. “The true story. All the 
facts. Exactly as Harry reports them. Hell give you all 
the details, hell tell you the names of the 
undiscovered Death Eaters he saw there, hell tell you 
what Voldemort looks like now — oh, get a grip on 
yourself,” she added contemptuously, throwing a 
napkin across the table, for at the sound of 
Voldemort’s name, Rita had jumped so badly that she 
had slopped half her glass of firewhisky down herself. 

Rita blotted the front of her grubby raincoat, still 
staring at Hermione. Then she said baldly, “The 
Prophet wouldn’t print it. In case you haven’t noticed, 
nobody believes his cock-and-bull story. Everyone 
thinks he’s delusional. Now, if you let me write the 
story from that angle — ” 

“We don’t need another story about how Harry’s lost 
his marbles!” said Hermione angrily. “We’ve had 
plenty of those already, thank you! I want him given 
the opportunity to tell the truth!” 

“There’s no market for a story like that,” said Rita 
coldly. 

“You mean the Prophet won’t print it because Fudge 
won’t let them,” said Hermione irritably. 

Rita gave Hermione a long, hard look. Then, leaning 
forward across the table toward her, she said in a 

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businesslike tone, “All right, Fudge is leaning on the 
Prophet, but it comes to the same thing. They won’t 
print a story that shows Harry in a good light. Nobody 
wants to read it. It’s against the public mood. This 
last Azkaban breakout has got people quite worried 
enough. People just don’t want to believe You-Know- 
Who’s back.” 

“So the Daily Prophet exists to tell people what they 
want to hear, does it?” said Hermione scathingly. 

Rita sat up straight again, her eyebrows raised, and 
drained her glass of firewhisky. 

“The Prophet exists to sell itself, you silly girl,” she 
said coldly. 

“My dad thinks it’s an awful paper,” said Luna, 
chipping into the conversation unexpectedly. Sucking 
on her cocktail onion, she gazed at Rita with her 
enormous, protuberant, slightly mad eyes. “He 
publishes important stories that he thinks the public 
needs to know. He doesn’t care about making money.” 

Rita looked disparagingly at Luna. 

“I’m guessing your father runs some stupid little 
village newsletter?” she said. “ Twenty-five Ways to 
Mingle with Muggles’ and the dates of the next Bring- 
and-Fly Sale?” 

“No,” said Luna, dipping her onion back into her 
gillywater, “he’s the editor of The Quibbler.” 

Rita snorted so loudly that people at a nearby table 
looked around in alarm. 



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“ ‘Important stories he thinks the public needs to 
know’?” she said witheringly. “I could manure my 
garden with the contents of that rag.” 

“Well, this is your chance to raise the tone of it a bit, 
isn’t it?” said Hermione pleasantly. “Luna says her 
father’s quite happy to take Harry’s interview. That’s 
who’ll be publishing it.” 

Rita stared at them both for a moment and then let 
out a great whoop of laughter. 

“ The Quibbleii” she said, cackling. “You think people 
will take him seriously if he’s published in The 
Quibbler?” 

“Some people won’t,” said Hermione in a level voice. 
“But the Daily Prophet’s version of the Azkaban 
breakout had some gaping holes in it. I think a lot of 
people will be wondering whether there isn’t a better 
explanation of what happened, and if there’s an 
alternative story available, even if it is published in a” 
— she glanced sideways at Luna, “in a — well, an 
unusual magazine — I think they might be rather 
keen to read it.” 

Rita did not say anything for a while, but eyed 
Hermione shrewdly, her head a little to one side. 

“All right, let’s say for a moment I’ll do it,” she said 
abruptly. “What kind of fee am I going to get?” 

“I don’t think Daddy exactly pays people to write for 
the magazine,” said Luna dreamily. “They do it 
because it’s an honor, and, of course, to see their 
names in print.” 



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Rita Skeeter looked as though the taste of Stinksap 
was strong in her mouth again as she rounded on 
Hermione. “I’m supposed to do this for free?” 

“Well, yes,” said Hermione calmly, taking a sip of her 
drink. “Otherwise, as you very well know, I will inform 
the authorities that you are an unregistered 
Animagus. Of course, the Prophet might give you 
rather a lot for an insider’s account of life in 
Azkaban...” 

Rita looked as though she would have liked nothing 
better than to seize the paper umbrella sticking out of 
Hermione ’s drink and thrust it up her nose. 

“I don’t suppose I’ve got any choice, have I?” said Rita, 
her voice shaking slightly. She opened her crocodile 
bag once more, withdrew a piece of parchment, and 
raised her Quick-Quotes Quill. 

“Daddy will be pleased,” said Luna brightly. A muscle 
twitched in Rita’s jaw. 

“Okay, Harry?” said Hermione, turning to him. “Ready 
to tell the public the truth?” 

“I suppose,” said Harry, watching Rita balancing the 
Quick-Quotes Quill at the ready on the parchment 
between them. 

“Fire away, then, Rita,” said Hermione serenely, 
fishing a cherry out of the bottom of her glass. 



Page | 726Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 







SEEN AND UNFORESEEN 

Luna said vaguely that she did not know how soon 
Rita’s interview with Harry would appear in The 
Quibbler, that her father was expecting a lovely long 
article on recent sightings of Crumple-Horned 
Snorkacks. “And, of course, that’ll be a very 
important story, so Harry’s might have to wait for the 
following issue,” said Luna. 

Harry had not found it an easy experience to talk 
about the night when Voldemort had returned. Rita 
had pressed him for every little detail, and he had 
given her everything he could remember, knowing 
that this was his one big opportunity to tell the world 
the truth. He wondered how people would react to the 
story. He guessed that it would confirm a lot of people 
in the view that he was completely insane, not least 
because his story would be appearing alongside utter 
rubbish about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. But the 
breakout of Bellatrix Lestrange and her fellow Death 
Eaters had given Harry a burning desire to do 
something, whether it worked or not... 



Page | 727Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 



“Can’t wait to see what Umbridge thinks of you going 
public,” said Dean, sounding awestruck at dinner on 
Monday night. Seamus was shoveling down large 
amounts of chicken-and-ham pie on Dean’s other 
side, but Harry knew he was listening. 

“It’s the right thing to do, Harry,” said Neville, who 
was sitting opposite him. He was rather pale, but 
went on in a low voice, “It must have been ... tough ... 
talking about it... Was it?” 

“Yeah,” mumbled Harry, “but people have got to know 
what Voldemort’s capable of, haven’t they?” 

“That’s right,” said Neville, nodding, “and his Death 
Eaters too ... People should know...” 

Neville left his sentence hanging and returned to his 
baked potato. Seamus looked up, but when he caught 
Harry’s eye he looked quickly back at his plate again. 
After a while Dean, Seamus, and Neville departed for 
the common room, leaving Harry and Hermione at the 
table waiting for Ron, who had not yet had dinner 
because of Quidditch practice. 

Cho Chang walked into the hall with her friend 
Marietta. Harry’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, 
but she did not look over at the Gryffindor table and 
sat down with her back to him. 

“Oh, I forgot to ask you,” said Hermione brightly, 
glancing over at the Ravenclaw table, “what happened 
on your date with Cho? How come you were back so 
early?” 

“Er ... well, it was ...” said Harry, pulling a dish of 
rhubarb crumble toward him and helping himself to 
seconds, “a complete fiasco, now that you mention it.” 



Page | 728Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




And he told her what had happened in Madam 
Puddifoot’s Tea Shop. 



"... so then,” he finished several minutes later, as the 
final bit of crumble disappeared, “she jumps up, 
right, and says ‘111 see you around, Harry,’ and runs 
out of the place!” He put down his spoon and looked 
at Hermione. “I mean, what was all that about? What 
was going on?” 

Hermione glanced over at the back of Cho’s head and 
sighed. “Oh, Harry,” she said sadly. “Well, I’m sorry, 
but you were a bit tactless.” 

“Me, tactless?” said Harry, outraged. “One minute we 
were getting on fine, next minute she was telling me 
that Roger Davies asked her out, and how she used to 
go and snog Cedric in that stupid tea shop — how 
was I supposed to feel about that?” 

“Well, you see,” said Hermione, with the patient air of 
one explaining that one plus one equals two to an 
overemotional toddler, “you shouldn’t have told her 
that you wanted to meet me halfway through your 
date.” 

“But, but,” spluttered Harry, “but — you told me to 
meet you at twelve and to bring her along, how was I 
supposed to do that without telling her — ?” 

“You should have told her differently” said Hermione, 
still with that maddeningly patient air. “You should 
have said it was really annoying, but I’d made you 
promise to come along to the Three Broomsticks, and 
you really didn’t want to go, you’d much rather spend 
the whole day with her, but unfortunately you 
thought you really ought to meet me and would she 
please, please come along with you, and hopefully 
you’d be able to get away more quickly? And it might 
Page | 729Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think 
I am too,” Hermione added as an afterthought. 

“But I don’t think you’re ugly,” said Harry, bemused. 

Hermione laughed. 

“Harry, you’re worse than Ron... Well, no, you’re not,” 
she sighed, as Ron himself came stumping into the 
Hall splattered with mud and looking grumpy. “Look 
— you upset Cho when you said you were going to 
meet me, so she tried to make you jealous. It was her 
way of trying to find out how much you liked her.” 

“Is that what she was doing?” said Harry as Ron 
dropped onto the bench opposite them and pulled 
every dish within reach toward himself. “Well, 
wouldn’t it have been easier if she’d just asked me 
whether I liked her better than you?” 

“Girls don’t often ask questions like that,” said 
Hermione. 

“Well, they should!” said Harry forcefully. “Then I 
could’ve just told her I fancy her, and she wouldn’t 
have had to get herself all worked up again about 
Cedric dying!” 

“I’m not saying what she did was sensible,” said 
Hermione, as Ginny joined them, just as muddy as 
Ron and looking equally disgruntled. “I’m just trying 
to make you see how she was feeling at the time.” 

“You should write a book,” Ron told Hermione as he 
cut up his potatoes, “translating mad things girls do 
so boys can understand them.” 

“Yeah,” said Harry fervently, looking over at the 
Ravenclaw table. Cho had just got up; still not looking 

Page | 730Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




at him, she left the Great Hall. Feeling rather 
depressed, he looked back at Ron and Ginny. “So, 
how was Quidditch practice?” 

“It was a nightmare,” said Ron in a surly voice. 

“Oh come on,” said Hermione, looking at Ginny, “I’m 
sure it wasn’t that — ” 

“Yes, it was,” said Ginny. “It was appalling. Angelina 
was nearly in tears by the end of it.” 

Ron and Ginny went off for baths after dinner; Harry 
and Hermione returned to the busy Gryffindor 
common room and their usual pile of homework. 
Harry had been struggling with a new star chart for 
Astronomy for half an hour when Fred and George 
turned up. 

“Ron and Ginny not here?” asked Fred, looking 
around as he pulled up a chair and, when Harry 
shook his head, he said, “Good. We were watching 
their practice. They’re going to be slaughtered. They’re 
complete rubbish without us.” 

“Come on, Ginny’s not bad,” said George fairly, sitting 
down next to Fred. “Actually, I dunno how she got so 
good, seeing how we never let her play with us...” 

“She’s been breaking into your broom shed in the 
garden since the age of six and taking each of your 
brooms out in turn when you weren’t looking,” said 
Hermione from behind her tottering pile of Ancient 
Rune books. 

“Oh,” said George, looking mildly impressed. “Well — 
that’d explain it.” 



Page | 731Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“Has Ron saved a goal yet?” asked Hermione, peering 
over the top of Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms. 

“Well, he can do it if he doesn’t think anyone’s 
watching him,” said Fred, rolling his eyes. “So all we 
have to do is ask the crowd to turn their backs and 
talk among themselves every time the Quaffle goes up 
his end on Saturday.” 

He got up again and moved restlessly to the window, 
staring out across the dark grounds. 

“You know, Quidditch was about the only thing in 
this place worth staying for.” 

Hermione cast him a stern look. 

“You’ve got exams coming!” 

“Told you already, we’re not fussed about N.E.W.T.s,” 
said Fred. “The Snackboxes are ready to roll, we 
found out how to get rid of those boils, just a couple 
of drops of murtlap essence sorts them, Lee put us 
onto it...” 

George yawned widely and looked out disconsolately 
at the cloudy night sky. 

“I dunno if I even want to watch this match. If 
Zacharias Smith beats us I might have to kill myself.” 

“Kill him, more like,” said Fred firmly. 

“That’s the trouble with Quidditch,” said Hermione 
absentmindedly, once again bent over her Rune 
translation, “it creates all this bad feeling and tension 
between the Houses.” 



Page | 732Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




She looked up to find her copy of Spellman’s 
Syllabary and caught Fred, George, and Harry looking 
at her with expressions of mingled disgust and 
incredulity on their faces. 

“Well, it does!” she said impatiently. “It’s only a game, 
isn’t it?” 

“Hermione,” said Harry, shaking his head, “you’re 
good on feelings and stuff, but you just don’t 
understand about Quidditch.” 

“Maybe not,” she said darkly, returning to her 
translation again, “but at least my happiness doesn’t 
depend on Ron’s goalkeeping ability.” 

And though Harry would rather have jumped off the 
Astronomy Tower than admit it to her, by the time he 
had watched the game the following Saturday he 
would have given any number of Galleons not to care 
about Quidditch either. 

The very best thing you could say about the match 
was that it was short; the Gryffindor spectators had 
to endure only twenty-two minutes of agony. It was 
hard to say what the worst thing was: Harry thought 
it was a close-run contest between Ron’s fourteenth 
failed save, Sloper missing the Bludger but hitting 
Angelina in the mouth with his bat, and Kirke 
shrieking and falling backward off his broom as 
Zacharias Smith zoomed at him carrying the Quaffle. 
The miracle was that Gryffindor only lost by ten 
points: Ginny managed to snatch the Snitch from 
right under Hufflepuff Seeker Summerby’s nose, so 
that the final score was two hundred and forty versus 
two hundred and thirty. 



Page | 733Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“Good catch,” Harry told Ginny back in the common 
room, where the atmosphere closely resembled that of 
a particularly dismal funeral. 

“I was lucky,” she shrugged. “It wasn’t a very fast 
Snitch and Summerby’s got a cold, he sneezed and 
closed his eyes at exactly the wrong moment. Anyway, 
once you’re back on the team — ” 

“Ginny, I’ve got a lifelong ban.” 

“You’re banned as long as Umbridge is in the school,” 
Ginny corrected him. “There’s a difference. Anyway, 
once you’re back, I think I’ll try out for Chaser. 
Angelina and Alicia are both leaving next year and I 
prefer goal-scoring to Seeking anyway.” 

Harry looked over at Ron, who was hunched in a 
corner, staring at his knees, a bottle of butterbeer 
clutched in his hand. 

“Angelina still won’t let him resign,” Ginny said, as 
though reading Harry’s mind. “She says she knows 
he’s got it in him.” 

Harry liked Angelina for the faith she was showing in 
Ron, but at the same time thought it would really be 
kinder to let him leave the team. Ron had left the 
pitch to another booming chorus of “Weasley Is Our 
King” sung with great gusto by the Slytherins, who 
were now favorites to win the Quidditch Cup. 

Fred and George wandered over. 

“I haven’t got the heart to take the mickey out of him, 
even,” said Fred, looking over at Ron’s crumpled 
figure. “Mind you ... when he missed the fourteenth 



Page | 734Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




He made wild motions with his arms as though doing 
an upright doggy-paddle. 



“Well, I’ll save it for parties, eh?” 

Ron dragged himself up to bed shortly after this. Out 
of respect for his feelings, Harry waited a while before 
going up to the dormitory himself, so that Ron could 
pretend to be asleep if he wanted to. Sure enough, 
when Harry finally entered the room Ron was snoring 
a little too loudly to be entirely plausible. 

Harry got into bed, thinking about the match. It had 
been immensely frustrating watching from the 
sidelines. He was quite impressed by Ginny’s 
performance but he felt that if he had been playing he 
could have caught the Snitch sooner... There had 
been a moment when it had been fluttering near 
Kirke’s ankle; if she hadn’t hesitated, she might have 
been able to scrape a win for Gryffindor. . . 

Umbridge had been sitting a few rows below Harry 
and Hermione. Once or twice she had turned squatly 
in her seat to look at him, her wide toad’s mouth 
stretched in what he thought had been a gloating 
smile. The memory of it made him feel hot with anger 
as he lay there in the dark. After a few minutes, 
however, he remembered that he was supposed to be 
emptying his mind of all emotion before he slept, as 
Snape kept instructing him at the end of every 
Occlumency lesson. 

He tried for a moment or two, but the thought of 
Snape on top of memories of Umbridge merely 
increased his sense of grumbling resentment, and he 
found himself focusing instead on how much he 
loathed the pair of them. Slowly, Ron’s snores died 
away, replaced by the sound of deep, slow breathing. 

It took Harry much longer to get to sleep; his body 
Page | 735Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




was tired, but it took his brain a long time to close 
down. 



He dreamed that Neville and Professor Sprout were 
waltzing around the Room of Requirement while 
Professor McGonagall played the bagpipes. He 
watched them happily for a while, then decided to go 
and find the other members of the D.A... 

But when he left the room he found himself facing, 
not the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, but a torch 
burning in its bracket on a stone wall. He turned his 
head slowly to the left. There, at the far end of the 
windowless passage, was a plain, black door. 

He walked toward it with a sense of mounting 
excitement. He had the strangest feeling that this 
time he was going to get lucky at last, and find the 
way to open it... He was feet from it and saw with a 
leap of excitement that there was a glowing strip of 
faint blue light down the right-hand side... The door 
was ajar... He stretched out his hand to push it wide 
and — 

Ron gave a loud, rasping, genuine snore, and Harry 
awoke abruptly with his right hand stretched in front 
of him in the darkness, to open a door that was 
hundreds of miles away. He let it fall with a feeling of 
mingled disappointment and guilt. He knew he 
should not have seen the door, but at the same time, 
felt so consumed with curiosity about what was 
behind it that he could not help feeling annoyed with 
Ron... If he could have saved his snore for just 
another minute . . . 



k k k 



Page | 736Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




They entered the Great Hall for breakfast at exactly 
the same moment as the post owls on Monday 
morning. Hermione was not the only person eagerly 
awaiting her Daily Prophet: Nearly everyone was eager 
for more news about the escaped Death Eaters, who, 
despite many reported sightings, had still not been 
caught. She gave the delivery owl a Knut and 
unfolded the newspaper eagerly while Harry helped 
himself to orange juice; as he had only received one 
note during the entire year he was sure, when the 
first owl landed with a thud in front of him, that it 
had made a mistake. 

“Who ’re you after?” he asked it, languidly removing 
his orange juice from underneath its beak and 
leaning forward to see the recipient’s name and 
address: 

Harry Potter 

Great Hall 

Hogwarts School 

Frowning, he made to take the letter from the owl, but 
before he could do so, three, four, five more owls had 
fluttered down beside it and were jockeying for 
position, treading in the butter, knocking over the 
salt, and each attempting to give him their letters 
first. 

“What’s going on?” Ron asked in amazement, as the 
whole of Gryffindor table leaned forward to watch as 
another seven owls landed amongst the first ones, 
screeching, hooting, and flapping their wings. 

“Harry!” said Hermione breathlessly, plunging her 
hands into the feathery mass and pulling out a 



Page | 737Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




screech owl bearing a long, cylindrical package. “I 
think I know what this means — open this one first!” 



Harry ripped off the brown packaging. Out rolled a 
tightly furled copy of March’s edition of The Quibbler. 
He unrolled it to see his own face grinning sheepishly 
at him from the front cover. In large red letters across 
his picture were the words: 

HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST: 

THE TRUTH ABOUT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE- 
NAMED 

AND THE NIGHT I SAW HIM RETURN 

“It’s good, isn’t it?” said Luna, who had drifted over to 
the Gryffindor table and now squeezed herself onto 
the bench between Fred and Ron. “It came out 
yesterday, I asked Dad to send you a free copy. I 
expect all these,” she waved a hand at the assembled 
owls still scrabbling around on the table in front of 
Harry, “are letters from readers.” 

“That’s what I thought,” said Hermione eagerly, 
“Harry, d’you mind if we — ?” 

“Help yourself,” said Harry, feeling slightly bemused. 

Ron and Hermione both started ripping open 
envelopes. 

“This one’s from a bloke who thinks you’re off your 
rocker,” said Ron, glancing down his letter. “Ah well 



“This woman recommends you try a good course of 
Shock Spells at St. Mungo’s,” said Hermione, looking 
disappointed and crumpling up a second. 

Page | 738Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“This one looks okay, though,” said Harry slowly, 
scanning a long letter from a witch in Paisley. “Hey, 
she says she believes me!” 

“This one’s in two minds,” said Fred, who had joined 
in the letter-opening with enthusiasm. “Says you 
don’t come across as a mad person, but he really 
doesn’t want to believe You-Know- Who’s back so he 
doesn’t know what to think now... Blimey, what a 
waste of parchment ...” 

“Here’s another one you’ve convinced, Harry!” said 
Hermione excitedly. “ ‘Having read your side of the 
story I am forced to the conclusion that the Daily 
Prophet has treated you very unfairly. . . Little though I 
want to think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has 
returned, I am forced to accept that you are telling 
the truth...’ Oh this is wonderful!” 

“Another one who thinks you’re barking,” said Ron, 
throwing a crumpled letter over his shoulder, “but 
this one says you’ve got her converted, and she now 
thinks you’re a real hero — she’s put in a photograph 
too — wow — ” 

“What is going on here?” said a falsely sweet, girlish 
voice. 

Harry looked up with his hands full of envelopes. 
Professor Umbridge was standing behind Fred and 
Luna, her bulging toad’s eyes scanning the mess of 
owls and letters on the table in front of Harry. Behind 
her he saw many of the students watching them 
avidly. 

“Why have you got all these letters, Mr. Potter?” she 
asked slowly. 



Page | 739Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“Is that a crime now?” said Fred loudly. “Getting 
mail?” 

“Be careful, Mr. Weasley, or I shall have to put you in 
detention,” said Umbridge. “Well, Mr. Potter?” 

Harry hesitated, but he did not see how he could keep 
what he had done quiet; it was surely only a matter of 
time before a copy of The Quibbler came to Umbridge’s 
attention. 

“People have written to me because I gave an 
interview,” said Harry. “About what happened to me 
last June.” 

For some reason he glanced up at the staff table as he 
said this. He had the strangest feeling that 
Dumbledore had been watching him a second before, 
but when he looked, Dumbledore seemed to be 
absorbed in conversation with Professor Flitwick. 

“An interview?” repeated Umbridge, her voice thinner 
and higher than ever. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean a reporter asked me questions and I 
answered them,” said Harry. “Here — ” 

And he threw the copy of The Quibbler at her. She 
caught it and stared down at the cover. Her pale, 
doughy face turned an ugly, patchy violet. 

“When did you do this?” she asked, her voice 
trembling slightly. 

“Last Hogsmeade weekend,” said Harry. 

She looked up at him, incandescent with rage, the 
magazine shaking in her stubby fingers. 



Page | 740Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“There will be no more Hogsmeade trips for you, Mr. 
Potter,” she whispered. “How you dare ... how you 
could ...” She took a deep breath. “I have tried again 
and again to teach you not to tell lies. The message, 
apparently, has still not sunk in. Fifty points from 
Gryffindor and another week’s worth of detentions.” 

She stalked away, clutching The Quibbler to her 
chest, the eyes of many students following her. 

By mid-morning enormous signs had been put up all 
over the school, not just on House notice boards, but 
in the corridors and classrooms too. 

— BY ORDER OF — 

THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS 

Any student found in possession of the magazine The 
Quibbler will be expelled. 

The above is in accordance with 

Educational Decree Number Twenty-seven. 

Signed: 

Dolores Jane Umbridge 
HIGH INQUISITOR 

For some reason, every time Hermione caught sight of 
one of these signs she beamed with pleasure. 

“What exactly are you so happy about?” Harry asked 
her. 



Page | 741Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“Oh Harry, don’t you see?” Hermione breathed. “If she 
could have done one thing to make absolutely sure 
that every single person in this school will read your 
interview, it was banning it!” 

And it seemed that Hermione was quite right. By the 
end of that day, though Harry had not seen so much 
as a corner of The Quibbler anywhere in the school, 
the whole place seemed to be quoting the interview at 
each other; Harry heard them whispering about it as 
they queued up outside classes, discussing it over 
lunch and in the back of lessons, while Hermione 
even reported that every occupant of the cubicles in 
the girls’ toilets had been talking about it when she 
nipped in there before Ancient Runes. 

“And then they spotted me, and obviously they know I 
know you, so they were bombarding me with 
questions,” Hermione told Harry, her eyes shining, 
“and Harry, I think they believe you, I really do, I 
think you’ve finally got them convinced!” 

Meanwhile Professor Umbridge was stalking the 
school, stopping students at random and demanding 
that they turn out their books and pockets. Harry 
knew she was looking for copies of The Quibbler, but 
the students were several steps ahead of her. The 
pages carrying Harry’s interview had been bewitched 
to resemble extracts from textbooks if anyone but 
themselves read it, or else wiped magically blank until 
they wanted to peruse it again. Soon it seemed that 
every single person in the school had read it. 

The teachers were, of course, forbidden from 
mentioning the interview by Educational Decree 
Number Twenty-six, but they found ways to express 
their feelings about it all the same. Professor Sprout 
awarded Gryffindor twenty points when Harry passed 
her a watering can; a beaming Professor Flitwick 
Page | 742Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




pressed a box of squeaking sugar mice on him at the 
end of Charms, said “Shh\” and hurried away; and 
Professor Trelawney broke into hysterical sobs during 
Divination and announced to the startled class, and a 
very disapproving Umbridge, that Harry was not going 
to suffer an early death after all, but would live to a 
ripe old age, become Minister of Magic, and have 
twelve children. 

But what made Harry happiest was Cho catching up 
with him as he was hurrying along to Transfiguration 
the next day. Before he knew what had happened her 
hand was in his and she was breathing in his ear, 

“I’m really, really sorry. That interview was so brave 
...it made me cry.” 

He was sorry to hear she had shed even more tears 
over it, but very glad they were on speaking terms 
again, and even more pleased when she gave him a 
swift kiss on the cheek and hurried off again. And 
unbelievably, no sooner had he arrived outside 
Transfiguration than something just as good 
happened: Seamus stepped out of the queue to face 
him. 

“I just wanted to say,” he mumbled, squinting at 
Harry’s left knee, “I believe you. And I’ve sent a copy 
of that magazine to me mam.” 

If anything more was needed to complete Harry’s 
happiness, it was Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle’s 
reactions. He saw them with their heads together 
later that afternoon in the library, together with a 
weedy-looking boy Hermione whispered was called 
Theodore Nott. They looked around at Harry as he 
browsed the shelves for the book he needed on Partial 
Vanishment, and Goyle cracked his knuckles 
threateningly and Malfoy whispered something 
undoubtedly malevolent to Crabbe. Harry knew 
Page | 743Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




perfectly well why they were acting like this: He had 
named all of their fathers as Death Eaters. 

“And the best bit is,” whispered Hermione gleefully as 
they left the library, “they can’t contradict you, 
because they can’t admit they’ve read the article!” 

To cap it all, Luna told him over dinner that no copy 
of The Quibbler had ever sold out faster. 

“Dad’s reprinting!” she told Harry, her eyes popping 
excitedly. “He can’t believe it, he says people seem 
even more interested in this than the Crumple- 
Horned Snorkacks!” 

Harry was a hero in the Gryffindor common room that 
night; daringly, Fred and George had put an 
Enlargement Charm on the front cover of The 
Quibbler and hung it on the wall, so that Harry’s giant 
head gazed down upon the proceedings, occasionally 
saying things like “The Ministry are morons” and “Eat 
dung, Umbridge” in a booming voice. Hermione did 
not find this very amusing; she said it interfered with 
her concentration, and ended up going to bed early 
out of irritation. Harry had to admit that the poster 
was not quite as funny after an hour or two, 
especially when the talking spell had started to wear 
off, so that it merely shouted disconnected words like 
“Dung” and “Umbridge” at more and more frequent 
intervals in a progressively higher voice. In fact it 
started to make his head ache and his scar began 
prickling uncomfortably again. To disappointed 
moans from the many people who were sitting around 
him, asking him to relive his interview for the 
umpteenth time, he announced that he too needed an 
early night. 

The dormitory was empty when he reached it. He 
rested his forehead for a moment against the cool 

Page | 744Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




glass of the window beside his bed; it felt soothing 
against his scar. Then he undressed and got into bed, 
wishing his headache would go away. He also felt 
slightly sick. He rolled over onto his side, closed his 
eyes, and fell asleep almost at once... 

He was standing in a dark, curtained room lit by a 
single branch of candles. His hands were clenched on 
the back of a chair in front of him. They were long- 
fingered and white as though they had not seen 
sunlight for years and looked like large, pale spiders 
against the dark velvet of the chair. 

Beyond the chair, in a pool of light cast upon the floor 
by the candles, knelt a man in black robes. 

“I have been badly advised, it seems,” said Harry, in a 
high, cold voice that pulsed with anger. 

“Master, I crave your pardon...” croaked the man 
kneeling on the floor. The back of his head glimmered 
in the candlelight. He seemed to be trembling. 

“I do not blame you, Rookwood,” said Harry in that 
cold, cruel voice. 

He relinquished his grip upon the chair and walked 
around it, closer to the man cowering upon the floor, 
until he stood directly over him in the darkness, 
looking down from a far greater height than usual. 

“You are sure of your facts, Rookwood?” asked Harry. 

“Yes, My Lord, yes ... I used to work in the 
department after — after all...” 

“Avery told me Bode would be able to remove it.” 



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“Bode could never have taken it, Master. . . Bode would 
have known he could not... Undoubtedly that is why 
he fought so hard against Malfoy’s Imperius Curse...” 

“Stand up, Rookwood,” whispered Harry. 

The kneeling man almost fell over in his haste to 
obey. His face was pockmarked; the scars were 
thrown into relief by the candlelight. He remained a 
little stooped when standing, as though halfway 
through a bow, and he darted terrified looks up at 
Harry’s face. 

“You have done well to tell me this,” said Harry. “Very 
well ... I have wasted months on fruitless schemes, it 
seems... But no matter ... We begin again, from now. 
You have Lord Voldemort’s gratitude, Rookwood...” 

“My Lord ... yes, My Lord,” gasped Rookwood, his 
voice hoarse with relief. 

“I shall need your help. I shall need all the 
information you can give me.” 

“Of course, My Lord, of course ... anything ...” 

“Very well ... you may go. Send Avery to me.” 

Rookwood scurried backward, bowing, and 
disappeared through a door. 

Left alone in the dark room, Harry turned toward the 
wall. A cracked, age-spotted mirror hung on the wall 
in the shadows. Harry moved toward it. His reflection 
grew larger and clearer in the darkness... A face 
whiter than a skull . . . red eyes with slits for pupils . . . 

“NOOOOOOOOO!” 



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“What?” yelled a voice nearby. 



Harry flailed around madly, became entangled in the 
hangings, and fell out of his bed. For a few seconds 
he did not know where he was; he was convinced that 
he was about to see the white, skull-like face looming 
at him out of the dark again, then Ron’s voice spoke 
very near to him. 

“Will you stop acting like a maniac, and I can get you 
out of here!” 

Ron wrenched the hangings apart, and Harry stared 
up at him in the moonlight, as he lay flat on his back, 
his scar searing with pain. Ron looked as though he 
had just been getting ready for bed; one arm was out 
of his robes. 

“Has someone been attacked again?” asked Ron, 
pulling Harry roughly to his feet. “Is it Dad? Is it that 
snake?” 

“No — everyone’s fine — ” gasped Harry, whose 
forehead felt as though it was on fire again. “Well ... 
Avery isn’t... He’s in trouble... He gave him the wrong 
information... He’s really angry...” 

Harry groaned and sank, shaking, onto his bed, 
rubbing his scar. 

“But Rookwood’s going to help him now... He’s on the 
right track again...” 

“What are you talking about?” said Ron, sounding 
scared. “D’you mean ... did you just see You-Know- 
Who?” 

“I was You-Know-Who,” said Harry, and he stretched 
out his hands in the darkness and held them up to 

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his face to check that they were no longer deathly 
white and long-fingered. “He was with Rookwood, he’s 
one of the Death Eaters who escaped from Azkaban, 
remember? Rookwood’s just told him Bode couldn’t 
have done it...” 

“Done what?” 

“Remove something. . . He said Bode would have 
known he couldn’t have done it... Bode was under the 
Imperius Curse... I think he said Malfoy’s dad put it 
on him...” 

“Bode was bewitched to remove something?” Ron 
said. “But — Harry, that’s got to be — ” 

“The weapon,” Harry finished the sentence for him. “I 
know.” 

The dormitory door opened; Dean and Seamus came 
in. Harry swung his legs back into bed. He did not 
want to look as though anything odd had just 
happened, seeing as Seamus had only just stopped 
thinking Harry was a nutter. 

“Did you say,” murmured Ron, putting his head close 
to Harry’s on the pretense of helping himself to water 
from the jug on his bedside table, “that you were You- 
Know-Who?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry quietly. 

Ron took an unnecessarily large gulp of water. Harry 
saw it spill over his chin onto his chest. 

“Harry,” he said, as Dean and Seamus clattered 
around noisily, pulling off their robes, and talking, 
“you’ve got to tell — ” 



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“I haven’t got to tell anyone,” said Harry shortly. “I 
wouldn’t have seen it at all if I could do Occlumency. 
I’m supposed to have learned to shut this stuff out. 
That’s what they want.” 

By “they” he meant Dumbledore. He got back into bed 
and rolled over onto his side with his back to Ron and 
after a while he heard Ron’s mattress creak as he lay 
back down too. His scar began to burn; he bit hard on 
his pillow to stop himself making a noise. Somewhere, 
he knew, Avery was being punished... 

Harry and Ron waited until break next morning to tell 
Hermione exactly what had happened. They wanted 
to be absolutely sure they could not be overheard. 
Standing in their usual corner of the cool and breezy 
courtyard, Harry told her every detail of the dream he 
could remember. When he had finished, she said 
nothing at all for a few moments, but stared with a 
kind of painful intensity at Fred and George, who 
were both headless and selling their magical hats 
from under their cloaks on the other side of the yard. 

“So that’s why they killed him,” she said quietly, 
withdrawing her gaze from Fred and George at last. 
“When Bode tried to steal this weapon, something 
funny happened to him. I think there must be 
defensive spells on it, or around it, to stop people 
from touching it. That’s why he was in St. Mungo’s, 
his brain had gone all funny and he couldn’t talk. But 
remember what the Healer told us? He was 
recovering. And they couldn’t risk him getting better, 
could they? I mean, the shock of whatever happened 
when he touched that weapon probably made the 
Imperius Curse lift. Once he’d got his voice back, he’d 
explain what he’d been doing, wouldn’t he? They 
would have known he’d been sent to steal the 
weapon. Of course, it would have been easy for 



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Lucius Malfoy to put the curse on him. Never out of 
the Ministry, is he?” 

“He was even hanging around that day I had my 
hearing,” said Harry. “In the — hang on ...” he said 
slowly. “He was in the Department of Mysteries 
corridor that day! Your dad said he was probably 
trying to sneak down and find out what happened in 
my hearing, but what if — ” 

“Sturgis,” gasped Hermione, looking thunderstruck. 

“Sorry?” said Ron, looking bewildered. 

“Sturgis Podmore,” said Hermione, breathlessly. 
“Arrested for trying to get through a door. Lucius 
Malfoy got him too. I bet he did it the day you saw 
him there, Harry. Sturgis had Moody’s Invisibility 
Cloak, right? So what if he was standing guard by the 
door, invisible, and Malfoy heard him move, or 
guessed he was there, or just did the Imperius Curse 
on the off chance that a guard was there? So when 
Sturgis next had an opportunity — probably when it 
was his turn on guard duty again — he tried to get 
into the department to steal the weapon for Voldemort 
— Ron, be quiet — but he got caught and sent to 
Azkaban...” 

She gazed at Harry. 

“And now Rookwood’s told Voldemort how to get the 
weapon?” 

“I didn’t hear all the conversation, but that’s what it 
sounded like,” said Harry. “Rookwood used to work 
there... Maybe Voldemort’ll send Rookwood to do it?” 



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Hermione nodded, apparently still lost in thought. 
Then, quite abruptly, she said, “But you shouldn’t 
have seen this at all, Harry.” 

“What?” he said, taken aback. 

“You’re supposed to be learning how to close your 
mind to this sort of thing,” said Hermione, suddenly 
stern. 

“I know I am,” said Harry. “But — ” 

“Well, I think we should just try and forget what you 
saw,” said Hermione firmly. “And you ought to put in 
a bit more effort on your Occlumency from now on.” 

Harry was so angry with her that he did not talk to 
her for the rest of the day, which proved to be another 
bad one. When people were not discussing the 
escaped Death Eaters in the corridors today, they 
were laughing at Gryffindor’s abysmal performance in 
their match against Hufflepuff; the Slytherins were 
singing “Weasley Is Our King” so loudly and 
frequently that by sundown Filch had banned it from 
the corridors out of sheer irritation. 

The week did not improve as it progressed: Harry 
received two more D’s in Potions, was still on 
tenterhooks that Hagrid might get the sack, and 
could not stop himself from dwelling on the dream in 
which he had seen Voldemort, though he did not 
bring it up with Ron and Hermione again because he 
did not want another telling-off from Hermione. He 
wished very much that he could have talked to Sirius 
about it, but that was out of the question, so he tried 
to push the matter to the back of his mind. 

Unfortunately, the back of his mind was no longer the 
secure place it had once been. 

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“Get up, Potter.” 



A couple of weeks after his dream of Rookwood, Harry 
was to be found, yet again, kneeling on the floor of 
Snape’s office, trying to clear his head. He had just 
been forced, yet again, to relive a stream of very early 
memories he had not even realized he still had, most 
of them concerning humiliations Dudley and his gang 
had inflicted upon him in primary school. 

“That last memory,” said Snape. “What was it?” 

“I don’t know,” said Harry, getting wearily to his feet. 
He was finding it increasingly difficult to disentangle 
separate memories from the rush of images and 
sound that Snape kept calling forth. “You mean the 
one where my cousin tried to make me stand in the 
toilet?” 

“No,” said Snape softly. “I mean the one concerning a 
man kneeling in the middle of a darkened room...” 

“It’s ... nothing,” said Harry. 

Snape’s dark eyes bored into Harry’s. Remembering 
what Snape had said about eye contact being crucial 
to Legilimency, Harry blinked and looked away. 

“How do that man and that room come to be inside 
your head, Potter?” said Snape. 

“It — ” said Harry, looking everywhere but at Snape, 

“it was — just a dream I had.” 

“A dream,” repeated Snape. 

There was a pause during which Harry stared fixedly 
at a large dead frog suspended in a purple liquid in 
its jar. 

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“You do know why we are here, don’t you, Potter?” 
said Snape in a low, dangerous voice. “You do know 
why I am giving up my evenings to this tedious job?” 

“Yes,” said Harry stiffly. 

“Remind me why we are here, Potter.” 

“So I can learn Occlumency,” said Harry, now glaring 
at a dead eel. 

“Correct, Potter. And dim though you may be” — 
Harry looked back at Snape, hating him — “I would 
have thought that after two months’ worth of lessons 
you might have made some progress. How many other 
dreams about the Dark Lord have you had?” 

“Just that one,” lied Harry. 

“Perhaps,” said Snape, his dark, cold eyes narrowing 
slightly, “perhaps you actually enjoy having these 
visions and dreams, Potter. Maybe they make you feel 
special — important?” 

“No, they don’t,” said Harry, his jaw set and his 
fingers clenched tightly around the handle of his 
wand. 

“That is just as well, Potter,” said Snape coldly, 
“because you are neither special nor important, and it 
is not up to you to find out what the Dark Lord is 
saying to his Death Eaters.” 

“No — that’s your job, isn’t it?” Harry shot at him. 

He had not meant to say it; it had burst out of him in 
temper. For a long moment they stared at each other, 
Harry convinced he had gone too far. But there was a 



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curious, almost satisfied expression on Snape’s face 
when he answered. 



“Yes, Potter,” he said, his eyes glinting. “That is my 
job. Now, if you are ready, we will start again...” 

He raised his wand. “One — two — three — 
LegilimensV’ 

A hundred dementors were swooping toward Harry 
across the lake in the grounds... He screwed up his 
face in concentration... They were coming closer... He 
could see the dark holes beneath their hoods . . . yet 
he could also see Snape standing in front of him, his 
eyes fixed upon Harry’s face, muttering under his 
breath... And somehow, Snape was growing clearer, 
and the dementors were growing fainter . . . 

Harry raised his own wand. 

“Protegol” 

Snape staggered; his wand flew upward, away from 
Harry — and suddenly Harry’s mind was teeming 
with memories that were not his — a hook-nosed man 
was shouting at a cowering woman, while a small 
dark-haired boy cried in a corner. . . A greasy-haired 
teenager sat alone in a dark bedroom, pointing his 
wand at the ceiling, shooting down flies... A girl was 
laughing as a scrawny boy tried to mount a bucking 
broomstick — 

“ENOUGH!” 

Harry felt as though he had been pushed hard in the 
chest; he took several staggering steps backward, hit 
some of the shelves covering Snape’s walls and heard 
something crack. Snape was shaking slightly, very 
white in the face. 

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The back of Harry’s robes were damp. One of the jars 
behind him had broken when he fell against it; the 
pickled slimy thing within was swirling in its draining 
potion. 

“Reparo\” hissed Snape, and the jar sealed itself once 
more. “Well, Potter ... that was certainly an 
improvement...” Panting slightly, Snape straightened 
the Pensieve in which he had again stored some of his 
thoughts before starting the lesson, almost as though 
checking that they were still there. “I don’t remember 
telling you to use a Shield Charm . . . but there is no 
doubt that it was effective...” 

Harry did not speak; he felt that to say anything 
might be dangerous. He was sure he had just broken 
into Snape’s memories, that he had just seen scenes 
from Snape’s childhood, and it was unnerving to 
think that the crying little boy who had watched his 
parents shouting was actually standing in front of 
him with such loathing in his eyes... 

“Let’s try again, shall we?” said Snape. 

Harry felt a thrill of dread: He was about to pay for 
what had just happened, he was sure of it. They 
moved back into position with the desk between 
them, Harry feeling he was going to find it much 
harder to empty his mind this time... 

“On the count of three, then,” said Snape, raising his 
wand once more. “One — two — ” 

Harry did not have time to gather himself together 
and attempt to clear his mind, for Snape had already 
cried “ Legilimens\” 

He was hurtling along the corridor toward the 
Department of Mysteries, past the blank stone walls, 

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past the torches — the plain black door was growing 
ever larger; he was moving so fast he was going to 
collide with it, he was feet from it and he could see 
that chink of faint blue light again — 

The door had flown open! He was through it at last, 
inside a black-walled, black-floored circular room lit 
with blue-flamed candles, and there were more doors 
all around him — he needed to go on — but which 
door ought he to take — ? 

“POTTER!” 

Harry opened his eyes. He was flat on his back again 
with no memory of having gotten there; he was also 
panting as though he really had run the length of the 
Department of Mysteries corridor, really had sprinted 
through the black door and found the circular room... 

“Explain yourself!” said Snape, who was standing over 
him, looking furious. 

“I ... dunno what happened,” said Harry truthfully, 
standing up. There was a lump on the back of his 
head from where he had hit the ground and he felt 
feverish. “I’ve never seen that before. I mean, I told 
you, I’ve dreamed about the door ... but it’s never 
opened before...” 

“You are not working hard enough!” 

For some reason, Snape seemed even angrier than he 
had done two minutes before, when Harry had seen 
into his own memories. 

“You are lazy and sloppy, Potter, it is small wonder 
that the Dark Lord — ” 



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“Can you tell me something, sir?” said Harry, firing up 
again. “Why do you call Voldemort the Dark Lord, I’ve 
only ever heard Death Eaters call him that — ” 

Snape opened his mouth in a snarl — and a woman 
screamed from somewhere outside the room. 

Snape’s head jerked upward; he was gazing at the 
ceiling. 

“What the — ?” he muttered. 

Harry could hear a muffled commotion coming from 
what he thought might be the entrance hall. Snape 
looked around at him, frowning. 

“Did you see anything unusual on your way down 
here, Potter?” 

Harry shook his head. Somewhere above them, the 
woman screamed again. Snape strode to his office 
door, his wand still held at the ready, and swept out 
of sight. Harry hesitated for a moment, then followed. 

The screams were indeed coming from the entrance 
hall; they grew louder as Harry ran toward the stone 
steps leading up from the dungeons. When he 
reached the top he found the entrance hall packed. 
Students had come flooding out of the Great Hall, 
where dinner was still in progress, to see what was 
going on. Others had crammed themselves onto the 
marble staircase. Harry pushed forward through a 
knot of tall Slytherins and saw that the onlookers had 
formed a great ring, some of them looking shocked, 
others even frightened. Professor McGonagall was 
directly opposite Harry on the other side of the hall; 
she looked as though what she was watching made 
her feel faintly sick. 



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Professor Trelawney was standing in the middle of the 
entrance hall with her wand in one hand and an 
empty sherry bottle in the other, looking utterly mad. 
Her hair was sticking up on end, her glasses were 
lopsided so that one eye was magnified more than the 
other; her innumerable shawls and scarves were 
trailing haphazardly from her shoulders, giving the 
impression that she was falling apart at the seams. 
Two large trunks lay on the floor beside her, one of 
them upside down; it looked very much as though it 
had been thrown down the stairs after her. Professor 
Trelawney was staring, apparently terrified, at 
something Harry could not see but that seemed to be 
standing at the foot of the stairs. 

“No!” she shrieked. “NO! This cannot be happening... 

It cannot ... I refuse to accept it!” 

“You didn’t realize this was coming?” said a high 
girlish voice, sounding callously amused, and Harry, 
moving slightly to his right, saw that Trelawney’s 
terrifying vision was nothing other than Professor 
Umbridge. “Incapable though you are of predicting 
even tomorrow’s weather, you must surely have 
realized that your pitiful performance during my 
inspections, and lack of any improvement, would 
make it inevitable you would be sacked?” 

“You c-can’t!” howled Professor Trelawney, tears 
streaming down her face from behind her enormous 
lenses, “you c-can’t sack me! I’ve b-been here sixteen 
years! H-Hogwarts is m-my h-home!” 

“It was your home,” said Professor Umbridge, and 
Harry was revolted to see the enjoyment stretching 
her toadlike face as she watched Professor Trelawney 
sink, sobbing uncontrollably, onto one of her trunks, 
“until an hour ago, when the Minister of Magic 
countersigned the order for your dismissal. Now 
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kindly remove yourself from this hall. You are 
embarrassing us.” 

But she stood and watched, with an expression of 
gloating enjoyment, as Professor Trelawney 
shuddered and moaned, rocking backward and 
forward on her trunk in paroxysms of grief. Harry 
heard a sob to his left and looked around. Lavender 
and Parvati were both crying silently, their arms 
around each other. Then he heard footsteps. 

Professor McGonagall had broken away from the 
spectators, marched straight up to Professor 
Trelawney and was patting her firmly on the back 
while withdrawing a large handkerchief from within 
her robes. 

“There, there, Sibyll ... Calm down... Blow your nose 
on this... It’s not as bad as you think, now... You are 
not going to have to leave Hogwarts...” 

“Oh really, Professor McGonagall?” said Umbridge in 
a deadly voice, taking a few steps forward. “And your 
authority for that statement is . . . ?” 

“That would be mine,” said a deep voice. 

The oak front doors had swung open. Students beside 
them scuttled out of the way as Dumbledore appeared 
in the entrance. What he had been doing out in the 
grounds Harry could not imagine, but there was 
something impressive about the sight of him framed 
in the doorway against an oddly misty night. Leaving 
the doors wide behind him, he strode forward through 
the circle of onlookers toward the place where 
Professor Trelawney sat, tearstained and trembling, 
upon her trunk, Professor McGonagall alongside her. 

“Yours, Professor Dumbledore?” said Umbridge with a 
singularly unpleasant little laugh. “I’m afraid you do 

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not understand the position. I have here” — she 
pulled a parchment scroll from within her robes — 

“an Order of Dismissal signed by myself and the 
Minister of Magic. Under the terms of Educational 
Decree Number Twenty-three, the High Inquisitor of 
Hogwarts has the power to inspect, place upon 
probation, and sack any teacher she — that is to say, 

I — feel is not performing up to the standard required 
by the Ministry of Magic. I have decided that Professor 
Trelawney is not up to scratch. I have dismissed her.” 

To Harry’s very great surprise, Dumbledore continued 
to smile. He looked down at Professor Trelawney, who 
was still sobbing and choking on her trunk, and said, 
“You are quite right, of course, Professor Umbridge. 

As High Inquisitor you have every right to dismiss my 
teachers. You do not, however, have the authority to 
send them away from the castle. I am afraid,” he went 
on, with a courteous little bow, “that the power to do 
that still resides with the headmaster, and it is my 
wish that Professor Trelawney continue to live at 
Hogwarts.” 

At this, Professor Trelawney gave a wild little laugh in 
which a hiccup was barely hidden. 

“No — no, I’ll g-go, Dumbledore! I sh-shall 1-leave 
Hogwarts and s-seek my fortune elsewhere — ” 

“No,” said Dumbledore sharply. “It is my wish that 
you remain, Sibyll.” 

He turned to Professor McGonagall. 

“Might I ask you to escort Sibyll back upstairs, 
Professor McGonagall?” 

“Of course,” said McGonagall. “Up you get, Sibyll...” 



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Professor Sprout came hurrying forward out of the 
crowd and grabbed Professor Trelawney’s other arm. 
Together they guided her past Umbridge and up the 
marble stairs. Professor Flitwick went scurrying after 
them, his wand held out before him; he squeaked, 
“Locomotor trunksl” and Professor Trelawney’s luggage 
rose into the air and proceeded up the staircase after 
her, Professor Flitwick bringing up the rear. 

Professor Umbridge was standing stock-still, staring 
at Dumbledore, who continued to smile benignly. 

“And what,” she said in a whisper that nevertheless 
carried all around the entrance hall, “are you going to 
do with her once I appoint a new Divination teacher 
who needs her lodgings?” 

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” said Dumbledore 
pleasantly. “You see, I have already found us a new 
Divination teacher, and he will prefer lodgings on the 
ground floor.” 

“You’ve found — ?” said Umbridge shrilly. “You’ve 
found? Might I remind you, Dumbledore, that under 
Educational Decree Twenty-two — ” 

“ — the Ministry has the right to appoint a suitable 
candidate if — and only if — the headmaster is 
unable to find one,” said Dumbledore. “And I am 
happy to say that on this occasion I have succeeded. 
May I introduce you?” 

He turned to face the open front doors, through which 
night mist was now drifting. Harry heard hooves. 
There was a shocked murmur around the hall and 
those nearest the doors hastily moved even farther 
backward, some of them tripping over in their haste 
to clear a path for the newcomer. 



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Through the mist came a face Harry had seen once 
before on a dark, dangerous night in the Forbidden 
Forest: white-blond hair and astonishingly blue eyes, 
the head and torso of a man joined to the palomino 
body of a horse. 

“This is Firenze,” said Dumbledore happily to a 
thunderstruck Umbridge. “I think you 11 find him 
suitable.” 



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THE CENTAUR AND THE SNEAK 

“I’ll bet you wish you hadn’t given up Divination now, 
don’t you, Hermione?” asked Parvati, smirking. 

It was breakfast time a few days after the sacking of 
Professor Trelawney, and Parvati was curling her 
eyelashes around her wand and examining the effect 
in the back of her spoon. They were to have their first 
lesson with Firenze that morning. 

“Not really,” said Hermione indifferently, who was 
reading the Daily Prophet “I’ve never really liked 
horses.” 

She turned a page of the newspaper, scanning its 
columns. 

“He’s not a horse, he’s a centaur!” said Lavender, 
sounding shocked. 

“A gorgeous centaur ...” sighed Parvati. 



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“Either way, he’s still got four legs,” said Hermione 
coolly. “Anyway, I thought you two were all upset that 
Trelawney had gone?” 

“We are!” Lavender assured her. “We went up to her 
office to see her, we took her some daffodils — not the 
honking ones that Sprout’s got, nice ones...” 

“How is she?” asked Harry. 

“Not very good, poor thing,” said Lavender 
sympathetically. “She was crying and saying she’d 
rather leave the castle forever than stay here if 
Umbridge is still here, and I don’t blame her. 

Umbridge was horrible to her, wasn’t she?” 

“I’ve got a feeling Umbridge has only just started 
being horrible,” said Hermione darkly. 

“Impossible,” said Ron, who was tucking into a large 
plate of eggs and bacon. “She can’t get any worse 
than she’s been already.” 

“You mark my words, she’s going to want revenge on 
Dumbledore for appointing a new teacher without 
consulting her,” said Hermione, closing the 
newspaper. “Especially another part-human. You saw 
the look on her face when she saw Firenze...” 

After breakfast Hermione departed for her Arithmancy 
class and Harry and Ron followed Parvati and 
Lavender into the entrance hall, heading for 
Divination. 

“Aren’t we going up to North Tower?” asked Ron, 
looking puzzled, as Parvati bypassed the marble 
staircase. 

Parvati looked scornfully over her shoulder at him. 

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“How d’you expect Firenze to climb that ladder? We’re 
in classroom eleven now, it was on the notice board 
yesterday.” 

Classroom eleven was situated in the ground-floor 
corridor leading off the entrance hall on the opposite 
side to the Great Hall. Harry knew it to be one of 
those classrooms that were never used regularly, and 
that it therefore had the slightly neglected feeling of a 
cupboard or storeroom. When he entered it right 
behind Ron, and found himself right in the middle of 
a forest clearing, he was therefore momentarily 
stunned. 

“What the — ?” 

The classroom floor had become springily mossy and 
trees were growing out of it; their leafy branches 
fanned across the ceiling and windows, so that the 
room was full of slanting shafts of soft, dappled, green 
light. The students who had already arrived were 
sitting on the earthy floor with their backs resting 
against tree trunks or boulders, arms wrapped 
around their knees or folded tightly across their 
chests, looking rather nervous. In the middle of the 
room, where there were no trees, stood Firenze. 

“Harry Potter,” he said, holding out a hand when 
Harry entered. 

“Er — hi,” said Harry, shaking hands with the 
centaur, who surveyed him unblinkingly through 
those astonishingly blue eyes but did not smile. “Er — 
good to see you ...” 

“And you,” said the centaur, inclining his white-blond 
head. “It was foretold that we would meet again.” 



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Harry noticed that there was the shadow of a hoof- 
shaped bruise on Firenze’s chest. As he turned to join 
the rest of the class upon the floor, he saw that they 
were all looking at him with awe, apparently deeply 
impressed that he was on speaking terms with 
Firenze, whom they seemed to find intimidating. 

When the door was closed and the last student had 
sat down upon a tree stump beside the wastepaper 
basket, Firenze gestured around the room. 

“Professor Dumbledore has kindly arranged this 
classroom for us,” said Firenze, when everyone had 
settled down, “in imitation of my natural habitat. I 
would have preferred to teach you in the Forbidden 
Forest, which was — until Monday — my home ... but 
this is not possible.” 

“Please — er — sir — ” said Parvati breathlessly, 
raising her hand, “why not? We’ve been in there with 
Hagrid, we’re not frightened!” 

“It is not a question of your bravery,” said Firenze, 
“but of my position. I can no longer return to the 
forest. My herd has banished me.” 

“Herd?” said Lavender in a confused voice, and Harry 
knew she was thinking of cows. “What — oh!” 
Comprehension dawned on her face. “There are more 
of you?” she said, stunned. 

“Did Hagrid breed you, like the thestrals?” asked 
Dean eagerly. 

Firenze turned his head very slowly to face Dean, who 
seemed to realize at once that he had said something 
very offensive. 



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“I didn’t — I meant — sorry,” he finished in a hushed 
voice. 

“Centaurs are not the servants or playthings of 
humans,” said Firenze quietly. There was a pause, 
then Parvati raised her hand again. 

“Please, sir ... why have the other centaurs banished 
you?” 

“Because I have agreed to work for Professor 
Dumbledore,” said Firenze. “They see this as a 
betrayal of our kind.” 

Harry remembered how, nearly four years ago, the 
centaur Bane had shouted at Firenze for allowing 
Harry to ride to safety upon his back, calling him a 
“common mule.” He wondered whether it had been 
Bane who had kicked Firenze in the chest. 

“Let us begin,” said Firenze. He swished his long 
palomino tail, raised his hand toward the leafy 
canopy overhead then lowered it slowly, and as he did 
so, the light in the room dimmed, so that they now 
seemed to be sitting in a forest clearing by twilight, 
and stars emerged upon the ceiling. There were oohs 
and gasps, and Ron said audibly, “Blimey!” 

“Lie back upon the floor,” said Firenze in his calm 
voice, “and observe the heavens. Here is written, for 
those who can see, the fortune of our races.” 

Harry stretched out on his back and gazed upward at 
the ceiling. A twinkling red star winked at him from 
overhead. 

“I know that you have learned the names of the 
planets and their moons in Astronomy,” said Firenze’s 
calm voice, “and that you have mapped the stars’ 

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progress through the heavens. Centaurs have 
unraveled the mysteries of these movements over 
centuries. Our findings teach us that the future may 
be glimpsed in the sky above us...” 

“Professor Trelawney did Astrology with us!” said 
Parvati excitedly, raising her hand in front of her so 
that it stuck up in the air as she lay on her back. 
“Mars causes accidents and burns and things like 
that, and when it makes an angle to Saturn, like now” 
— she drew a right angle in the air above her — “that 
means that people need to be extra careful when 
handling hot things — ” 

“That,” said Firenze calmly, “is human nonsense.” 

Parvati’s hand fell limply to her side. 

“Trivial hurts, tiny human accidents,” said Firenze, as 
his hooves thudded over the mossy floor. “These are 
of no more significance than the scurryings of ants to 
the wide universe, and are unaffected by planetary 
movements.” 

“Professor Trelawney — ” began Parvati, in a hurt and 
indignant voice. 

“ — is a human,” said Firenze simply. “And is 
therefore blinkered and fettered by the limitations of 
your kind.” 

Harry turned his head very slightly to look at Parvati. 
She looked very offended, as did several of the people 
surrounding her. 

“Sibyll Trelawney may have Seen, I do not know,” 
continued Firenze, and Harry heard the swishing of 
his tail again as he walked up and down before them, 
“but she wastes her time, in the main, on the self- 

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flattering nonsense humans call fortune-telling. I, 
however, am here to explain the wisdom of centaurs, 
which is impersonal and impartial. We watch the 
skies for the great tides of evil or change that are 
sometimes marked there. It may take ten years to be 
sure of what we are seeing.” 

Firenze pointed to the red star directly above Harry. 

“In the past decade, the indications have been that 
Wizard-kind is living through nothing more than a 
brief calm between two wars. Mars, bringer of battle, 
shines brightly above us, suggesting that the fight 
must break out again soon. How soon, centaurs may 
attempt to divine by the burning of certain herbs and 
leaves, by the observation of fume and flame...” 

It was the most unusual lesson Harry had ever 
attended. They did indeed burn sage and mallowsweet 
there on the classroom floor, and Firenze told them to 
look for certain shapes and symbols in the pungent 
fumes, but he seemed perfectly unconcerned that not 
one of them could see any of the signs he described, 
telling them that humans were hardly ever good at 
this, that it took centaurs years and years to become 
competent, and finished by telling them that it was 
foolish to put too much faith in such things anyway, 
because even centaurs sometimes read them wrongly. 
He was nothing like any human teacher Harry had 
ever had. His priority did not seem to be to teach 
them what he knew, but rather to impress upon them 
that nothing, not even centaurs’ knowledge, was 
foolproof. 

“He’s not very definite on anything, is he?” said Ron 
in a low voice, as they put out their mallowsweet fire. 
“I mean, I could do with a few more details about this 
war we’re about to have, couldn’t you?” 



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The bell rang right outside the classroom door and 
everyone jumped; Harry had completely forgotten that 
they were still inside the castle, quite convinced that 
he was really in the forest. The class filed out, looking 
slightly perplexed; Harry and Ron were on the point of 
following them when Firenze called, “Harry Potter, a 
word, please.” 

Harry turned. The centaur advanced a little toward 
him. Ron hesitated. 

“You may stay,” Firenze told him. “But close the door, 
please.” 

Ron hastened to obey. 

“Harry Potter, you are a friend of Hagrid’s, are you 
not?” said the centaur. 

“Yes,” said Harry. 

“Then give him a warning from me. His attempt is not 
working. He would do better to abandon it.” 

“His attempt is not working?” Harry repeated blankly. 

“And he would do better to abandon it,” said Firenze, 
nodding. “I would warn Hagrid myself, but I am 
banished — it would be unwise for me to go too near 
the forest now — Hagrid has troubles enough, 
without a centaurs’ battle.” 

“But — what’s Hagrid attempting to do?” said Harry 
nervously. 

Firenze looked at Harry impassively. 

“Hagrid has recently rendered me a great service,” 
said Firenze, “and he has long since earned my 

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respect for the care he shows all living creatures. I 
shall not betray his secret. But he must be brought to 
his senses. The attempt is not working. Tell him, 
Harry Potter. Good day to you.” 



The happiness Harry had felt in the aftermath of The 
Quibbler interview had long since evaporated. As a 
dull March blurred into a squally April, his life 
seemed to have become one long series of worries and 
problems again. 

Umbridge had continued attending all Care of Magical 
Creatures lessons, so it had been very difficult to 
deliver Firenze’s warning to Hagrid. At last Harry had 
managed it by pretending he had lost his copy of 
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and 
doubling back after class one day. When he passed on 
Firenze’s message, Hagrid gazed at him for a moment 
through his puffy, blackened eyes, apparently taken 
aback. Then he seemed to pull himself together. 

“Nice bloke, Firenze,” he said gruffly, “but he don’ 
know what he’s talkin’ abou’ on this. The attemp’s 
cornin’ on fine.” 

“Hagrid, what’re you up to?” asked Harry seriously. 
“Because you’ve got to be careful, Umbridge has 
already sacked Trelawney and if you ask me, she’s on 
a roll. If you’re doing anything you shouldn’t be — ” 

“There’s things more importan’ than keepin’ a job,” 
said Hagrid, though his hands shook slightly as he 
said this and a basin full of knarl droppings crashed 
to the floor. “Don’ worry abou’ me, Harry, jus’ get 
along now, there’s a good lad...” 



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Harry had no choice but to leave Hagrid mopping up 
the dung all over his floor, but he felt thoroughly 
dispirited as he trudged back up to the castle. 

Meanwhile, as the teachers and Hermione persisted 
in reminding them, the O.W.L.s were drawing ever 
nearer. All the fifth years were suffering from stress to 
some degree, but Hannah Abbott became the first to 
receive a Calming Draught from Madam Pomfrey after 
she burst into tears during Herbology and sobbed 
that she was too stupid to take exams and wanted to 
leave school now. 

If it had not been for the D.A. lessons, Harry thought 
he would have been extremely unhappy. He 
sometimes felt that he was living for the hours he 
spent in the Room of Requirement, working hard but 
thoroughly enjoying himself at the same time, 
swelling with pride as he looked around at his fellow 
D.A. members and saw how far they had come. 

Indeed, Harry sometimes wondered how Umbridge 
was going to react when all the members of the D.A. 
received “Outstanding” in their Defense Against the 
Dark Arts O.W.L.s. 

They had finally started work on Patronuses, which 
everybody had been very keen to practice, though as 
Harry kept reminding them, producing a Patronus in 
the middle of a brightly lit classroom when they were 
not under threat was very different to producing it 
when confronted by something like a dementor. 

“Oh, don’t be such a killjoy,” said Cho brightly, 
watching her silvery swan-shaped Patronus soar 
around the Room of Requirement during their last 
lesson before Easter. “They’re so pretty!” 

“They’re not supposed to be pretty, they’re supposed 
to protect you,” said Harry patiently. “What we really 

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need is a boggart or something; that’s how I learned, I 
had to conjure a Patronus while the boggart was 
pretending to be a dementor — ” 

“But that would be really scary!” said Lavender, who 
was shooting puffs of silver vapor out of the end of 
her wand. “And I still — can’t — do it!” she added 
angrily. 

Neville was having trouble too. His face was screwed 
up in concentration, but only feeble wisps of silver 
smoke issued from his wand tip. 

“You’ve got to think of something happy,” Harry 
reminded him. 

“I’m trying,” said Neville miserably, who was trying so 
hard his round face was actually shining with sweat. 

“Harry, I think I’m doing it!” yelled Seamus, who had 
been brought along to his first ever D.A. meeting by 
Dean. “Look — ah — it’s gone... But it was definitely 
something hairy, Harry!” 

Hermione’s Patronus, a shining silver otter, was 
gamboling around her. 

“They are sort of nice, aren’t they?” she said, looking 
at it fondly. 

The door of the Room of Requirement opened and 
then closed again; Harry looked around to see who 
had entered, but there did not seem to be anybody 
there. It was a few moments before he realized that 
the people close to the door had fallen silent. Next 
thing he knew, something was tugging at his robes 
somewhere near the knee. He looked down and saw, 
to his very great astonishment, Dobby the house-elf 
peering up at him from beneath his usual eight hats. 
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“Hi, Dobby!” he said. “What are you — what’s wrong?” 

For the elf’s eyes were wide with terror and he was 
shaking. The members of the D.A. closest to Harry 
had fallen silent now: Everybody in the room was 
watching Dobby. The few Patronuses people had 
managed to conjure faded away into silver mist, 
leaving the room looking much darker than before. 

“Harry Potter, sir ...” squeaked the elf, trembling from 
head to foot, “Harry Potter, sir ... Dobby has come to 
warn you . . . but the house-elves have been warned 
not to tell ...” 

He ran headfirst at the wall: Harry, who had some 
experience of Dobby’s habits of self-punishment, 
made to seize him, but Dobby merely bounced off the 
stone, cushioned by his eight hats. Hermione and a 
few of the other girls let out squeaks of fear and 
sympathy. 

“What’s happened, Dobby?” Harry asked, grabbing 
the elf’s tiny arm and holding him away from 
anything with which he might seek to hurt himself. 

“Harry Potter ... she ... she ...” 

Dobby hit himself hard on the nose with his free fist: 
Harry seized that too. 

“Who’s ‘she,’ Dobby?” 

But he thought he knew — surely only one “she” 
could induce such fear in Dobby? The elf looked up at 
him, slightly cross-eyed, and mouthed wordlessly. 

“Umbridge?” asked Harry, horrified. 



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Dobby nodded, then tried to bang his head off Harry’s 
knees; Harry held him at bay. 



“What about her? Dobby — she hasn’t found out 
about this — about us — about the D.A.?” 

He read the answer in the elf’s stricken face. His 
hands held fast by Harry, the elf tried to kick himself 
and fell to the floor. 

“Is she coming?” Harry asked quietly. 

Dobby let out a howl, and began beating his bare feet 
hard on the floor. “Yes, Harry Potter, yes!” 

Harry straightened up and looked around at the 
motionless, terrified people gazing at the thrashing 
elf. 

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?” Harry bellowed. 
“RUN!” 

They all pelted toward the exit at once, forming a 
scrum at the door, then people burst through; Harry 
could hear them sprinting along the corridors and 
hoped they had the sense not to try and make it all 
the way to their dormitories. It was only ten to nine, if 
they just took refuge in the library or the Owlery, 
which were both nearer — 

“Harry, come on!” shrieked Hermione from the center 
of the knot of people now fighting to get out. 

He scooped up Dobby, who was still attempting to do 
himself serious injury, and ran with the elf in his 
arms to join the back of the queue. 

“Dobby — this is an order — get back down to the 
kitchen with the other elves, and if she asks you 

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whether you warned me, lie and say no!” said Harry. 
“And I forbid you to hurt yourself!” he added, 
dropping the elf as he made it over the threshold at 
last and slamming the door behind him. 

“Thank you, Harry Potter!” squeaked Dobby, and he 
streaked off. Harry glanced left and right, the others 
were all moving so fast that he caught only glimpses 
of flying heels at either end of the corridor before they 
vanished. He started to run right; there was a boys’ 
bathroom up ahead, he could pretend he’d been in 
there all the time if he could just reach it — 

“AAARGH!” 

Something caught him around the ankles and he fell 
spectacularly, skidding along on his front for six feet 
before coming to a halt. Someone behind him was 
laughing. He rolled over onto his back and saw Malfoy 
concealed in a niche beneath an ugly dragon-shaped 
vase. 

“Trip Jinx, Potter!” he said. “Hey, Professor — 
PROFESSOR! I’ve got one!” 

Umbridge came bustling around the far corner, 
breathless but wearing a delighted smile. 

“It’s him!” she said jubilantly at the sight of Harry on 
the floor. “Excellent, Draco, excellent, oh, very good — 
fifty points to Slytherin! I’ll take him from here... 

Stand up, Potter!” 

Harry got to his feet, glaring at the pair of them. He 
had never seen Umbridge looking so happy. She 
seized his arm in a vicelike grip and turned, beaming 
broadly, to Malfoy. “You hop along and see if you can 
round up anymore of them, Draco,” she said. “Tell the 
others to look in the library — anybody out of breath 
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— check the bathrooms, Miss Parkinson can do the 
girls’ ones — off you go — and you,” she added in her 
softest, most dangerous voice, as Malfoy walked away. 
“You can come with me to the headmaster’s office, 
Potter.” 

They were at the stone gargoyle within minutes. Harry 
wondered how many of the others had been caught. 

He thought of Ron — Mrs. Weasley would kill him — 
and of how Hermione would feel if she was expelled 
before she could take her O.W.L.s. And it had been 
Seamus’s very first meeting ... and Neville had been 
getting so good... 

“Fizzing Whizbee,” sang Umbridge, and the stone 
gargoyle jumped aside, the wall behind split open, 
and they ascended the moving stone staircase. They 
reached the polished door with the griffin knocker, 
but Umbridge did not bother to knock, she strode 
straight inside, still holding tight to Harry. 

The office was full of people. Dumbledore was sitting 
behind his desk, his expression serene, the tips of his 
long fingers together. Professor McGonagall stood 
rigidly beside him, her face extremely tense. Cornelius 
Fudge, Minister of Magic, was rocking backward and 
forward on his toes beside the fire, apparently 
immensely pleased with the situation. Kingsley 
Shacklebolt and a tough-looking wizard Harry did not 
recognize with very short, wiry hair were positioned 
on either side of the door like guards, and the 
freckled, bespectacled form of Percy Weasley hovered 
excitedly beside the wall, a quill and a heavy scroll of 
parchment in his hands, apparently poised to take 
notes. 

The portraits of old headmasters and mistresses were 
not shamming sleep tonight. All of them were 
watching what was happening below, alert and 

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serious. As Harry entered, a few flitted into 
neighboring frames and whispered urgently into their 
neighbors’ ears. 

Harry pulled himself free of Umbridge’s grasp as the 
door swung shut behind them. Cornelius Fudge was 
glaring at him with a kind of vicious satisfaction upon 
his face. 

“Well,” he said. “Well, well, well ...” 

Harry replied with the dirtiest look he could muster. 
His heart drummed madly inside him, but his brain 
was oddly cool and clear. 

“He was heading back to Gryffindor Tower,” said 
Umbridge. There was an indecent excitement in her 
voice, the same callous pleasure Harry had heard as 
she watched Professor Trelawney dissolving with 
misery in the entrance hall. “The Malfoy boy cornered 
him.” 

“Did he, did he?” said Fudge appreciatively. “I must 
remember to tell Lucius. Well, Potter ... I expect you 
know why you are here?” 

Harry fully intended to respond with a defiant “yes”: 
His mouth had opened and the word was half formed 
when he caught sight of Dumbledore’s face. 
Dumbledore was not looking directly at Harry; his 
eyes were fixed upon a point just over his shoulder, 
but as Harry stared at him, he shook his head a 
fraction of an inch to each side. 

Harry changed direction mid- word. 

“Yeh — no.” 

“I beg your pardon?” said Fudge. 

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“No,” said Harry, firmly. 

“You don’t know why you are here?” 

“No, I don’t,” said Harry. 

Fudge looked incredulously from Harry to Professor 
Umbridge; Harry took advantage of his momentary 
inattention to steal another quick look at 
Dumbledore, who gave the carpet the tiniest of nods 
and the shadow of a wink. 

“So you have no idea,” said Fudge in a voice positively 
sagging with sarcasm, “why Professor Umbridge has 
brought you to this office? You are not aware that you 
have broken any school rules?” 

“School rules?” said Harry. “No.” 

“Or Ministry decrees?” amended Fudge angrily. 

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Harry blandly. 

His heart was still hammering very fast. It was almost 
worth telling these lies to watch Fudge’s blood 
pressure rising, but he could not see how on earth he 
would get away with them. If somebody had tipped off 
Umbridge about the D.A. then he, the leader, might 
as well be packing his trunk right now. 

“So it’s news to you, is it,” said Fudge, his voice now 
thick with anger, “that an illegal student organization 
has been discovered within this school?” 

“Yes, it is,” said Harry, hoisting an unconvincing look 
of innocent surprise onto his face. 



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“I think, Minister,” said Umbridge silkily from beside 
him, “we might make better progress if I fetch our 
informant.” 

“Yes, yes, do,” said Fudge, nodding, and he glanced 
maliciously at Dumbledore as Umbridge left the room. 
“There’s nothing like a good witness, is there, 
Dumbledore?” 

“Nothing at all, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore gravely, 
inclining his head. 

There was a wait of several minutes, in which nobody 
looked at each other, then Harry heard the door open 
behind him. Umbridge moved past him into the room, 
gripping by the shoulder Cho’s curly-haired friend 
Marietta, who was hiding her face in her hands. 

“Don’t be scared, dear, don’t be frightened,” said 
Professor Umbridge softly, patting her on the back, 
“it’s quite all right, now. You have done the right 
thing. The minister is very pleased with you. He’ll be 
telling your mother what a good girl you’ve been. 
Marietta’s mother, Minister,” she added, looking up at 
Fudge, “is Madam Edgecombe from the Department of 
Magical Transportation. Floo Network office — she’s 
been helping us police the Hogwarts fires, you know.” 

“Jolly good, jolly good!” said Fudge heartily. “Like 
mother, like daughter, eh? Well, come on, now, dear, 
look up, don’t be shy, let’s hear what you’ve got to — 
galloping gargoyles!” 

As Marietta raised her head, Fudge leapt backward in 
shock, nearly landing himself in the fire. He cursed 
and stamped on the hem of his cloak, which had 
started to smoke, and Marietta gave a wail and pulled 
the neck of her robes right up to her eyes, but not 
before the whole room had seen that her face was 
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horribly disfigured by a series of close- set purple 
pustules that had spread across her nose and cheeks 
to form the word “SNEAK.” 



“Never mind the spots now, dear,” said Umbridge 
impatiently, “just take your robes away from your 
mouth and tell the Minister — ” 

But Marietta gave another muffled wail and shook her 
head frantically. 

“Oh, very well, you silly girl, I’ll tell him,” snapped 
Umbridge. She hitched her sickly smile back onto her 
face and said, “Well, Minister, Miss Edgecombe here 
came to my office shortly after dinner this evening 
and told me she had something she wanted to tell me. 
She said that if I proceeded to a secret room on the 
seventh floor, sometimes known as the Room of 
Requirement, I would find out something to my 
advantage. I questioned her a little further and she 
admitted that there was to be some kind of meeting 
there. Unfortunately at that point this hex,” she 
waved impatiently at Marietta’s concealed face, “came 
into operation and upon catching sight of her face in 
my mirror the girl became too distressed to tell me 
any more.” 

“Well, now,” said Fudge, fixing Marietta with what he 
evidently imagined was a kind and fatherly look. “It is 
very brave of you, my dear, coming to tell Professor 
Umbridge, you did exactly the right thing. Now, will 
you tell me what happened at this meeting? What was 
its purpose? Who was there?” 

But Marietta would not speak. She merely shook her 
head again, her eyes wide and fearful. 



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“Haven’t we got a counterjinx for this?” Fudge asked 
Umbridge impatiently, gesturing at Marietta’s face. 

“So she can speak freely?” 

“I have not yet managed to find one,” Umbridge 
admitted grudgingly, and Harry felt a surge of pride in 
Hermione’s jinxing ability. “But it doesn’t matter if 
she won’t speak, I can take up the story from here. 

“You will remember, Minister, that I sent you a report 
back in October that Potter had met a number of 
fellow students in the Hog’s Head in Hogsmeade — ” 

“And what is your evidence for that?” cut in Professor 
McGonagall. 

“I have testimony from Willy Widdershins, Minerva, 
who happened to be in the bar at the time. He was 
heavily bandaged, it is true, but his hearing was quite 
unimpaired,” said Umbridge smugly. “He heard every 
word Potter said and hastened straight to the school 
to report to me — ” 

“Oh, so that’s why he wasn’t prosecuted for setting up 
all those regurgitating toilets!” said Professor 
McGonagall, raising her eyebrows. “What an 
interesting insight into our justice system!” 

“Blatant corruption!” roared the portrait of the 
corpulent, red-nosed wizard on the wall behind 
Dumbledore’s desk. “The Ministry did not cut deals 
with petty criminals in my day, no sir, they did not!” 

“Thank you, Fortescue, that will do,” said 
Dumbledore softly. 

“The purpose of Potter’s meeting with these students,” 
continued Professor Umbridge, “was to persuade 
them to join an illegal society, whose aim was to learn 

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spells and curses the Ministry has decided are 
inappropriate for school-age — ” 

“I think you 11 find you’re wrong there, Dolores,” said 
Dumbledore quietly, peering at her over the half- 
moon spectacles perched halfway down his crooked 
nose. 

Harry stared at him. He could not see how 
Dumbledore was going to talk him out of this one; if 
Willy Widdershins had indeed heard every word he 
said in the Hog’s Head there was simply no escaping 
it. 

“Oho!” said Fudge, bouncing up and down on the 
balls of his feet again. “Yes, do let’s hear the latest 
cock-and-bull story designed to pull Potter out of 
trouble! Go on, then, Dumbledore, go on — Willy 
Widdershins was lying, was he? Or was it Potter’s 
identical twin in the Hog’s Head that day? Or is there 
the usual simple explanation involving a reversal of 
time, a dead man coming back to life, and a couple of 
invisible dementors?” 

Percy Weasley let out a hearty laugh. 

“Oh, very good, Minister, very good!” 

Harry could have kicked him. Then he saw, to his 
astonishment, that Dumbledore was smiling gently 
too. 

“Cornelius, I do not deny — and nor, I am sure, does 
Harry — that he was in the Hog’s Head that day, nor 
that he was trying to recruit students to a Defense 
Against the Dark Arts group. I am merely pointing out 
that Dolores is quite wrong to suggest that such a 
group was, at that time, illegal. If you remember, the 
Ministry decree banning all student societies was not 
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put into effect until two days after Harry’s Hogsmeade 
meeting, so he was not breaking any rules in the 
Hog’s Head at all.” 

Percy looked as though he had been struck in the 
face by something very heavy. Fudge remained 
motionless in mid-bounce, his mouth hanging open. 

Umbridge recovered first. 

“That’s all very fine, Headmaster,” she said, smiling 
sweetly. “But we are now nearly six months on from 
the introduction of Educational Decree Number 
Twenty-four. If the first meeting was not illegal, all 
those that have happened since most certainly are.” 

“Well,” said Dumbledore, surveying her with polite 
interest over the top of his interlocked fingers, “they 
certainly would be, if they had continued after the 
decree came into effect. Do you have any evidence 
that these meetings continued?” 

As Dumbledore spoke, Harry heard a rustle behind 
him and rather thought Kingsley whispered 
something. He could have sworn too that he felt 
something brush against his side, a gentle something 
like a draft or bird wings, but looking down he saw 
nothing there. 

“Evidence?” repeated Umbridge with that horrible 
wide toadlike smile. “Have you not been listening, 
Dumbledore? Why do you think Miss Edgecombe is 
here?” 

“Oh, can she tell us about six months’ worth of 
meetings?” said Dumbledore, raising his eyebrows. “I 
was under the impression that she was merely 
reporting a meeting tonight.” 



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“Miss Edgecombe,” said Umbridge at once, “tell us 
how long these meetings have been going on, dear. 
You can simply nod or shake your head, I’m sure that 
won’t make the spots worse. Have they been 
happening regularly over the last six months?” 

Harry felt a horrible plummeting in his stomach. This 
was it, they had hit a dead end of solid evidence that 
not even Dumbledore would be able to shift aside... 

“Just nod or shake your head, dear,” Umbridge said 
coaxingly to Marietta. “Come on, now, that won’t 
activate the jinx further...” 

Everyone in the room was gazing at the top of 
Marietta’s face. Only her eyes were visible between 
the pulled up robes and her curly fringe. Perhaps it 
was a trick of the firelight, but her eyes looked oddly 
blank. And then — to Harry’s utter amazement — 
Marietta shook her head. 

Umbridge looked quickly at Fudge and then back at 
Marietta. 

“I don’t think you understood the question, did you, 
dear? I’m asking whether you’ve been going to these 
meetings for the past six months? You have, haven’t 
you?” 

Again, Marietta shook her head. 

“What do you mean by shaking your head, dear?” 
said Umbridge in a testy voice. 

“I would have thought her meaning was quite clear,” 
said Professor McGonagall harshly. “There have been 
no secret meetings for the past six months. Is that 
correct, Miss Edgecombe?” 



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Marietta nodded. 



“But there was a meeting tonight!” said Umbridge 
furiously. “There was a meeting, Miss Edgecombe, 
you told me about it, in the Room of Requirement! 

And Potter was the leader, was he not, Potter 
organized it, Potter — why are you shaking your head, 
girl?” 

“Well, usually when a person shakes their head,” said 
McGonagall coldly, “they mean ‘no.’ So unless Miss 
Edgecombe is using a form of sign language as yet 
unknown to humans — ” 

Professor Umbridge seized Marietta, pulled her 
around to face her, and began shaking her very hard. 
A split second later Dumbledore was on his feet, his 
wand raised. Kingsley started forward and Umbridge 
leapt back from Marietta, waving her hands in the air 
as though they had been burned. 

“I cannot allow you to manhandle my students, 
Dolores,” said Dumbledore, and for the first time, he 
looked angry. 

“You want to calm yourself, Madam Umbridge,” said 
Kingsley in his deep, slow voice. “You don’t want to 
get yourself into trouble now.” 

“No,” said Umbridge breathlessly, glancing up at the 
towering figure of Kingsley. “I mean, yes — you’re 
right, Shacklebolt — I — I forgot myself.” 

Marietta was standing exactly where Umbridge had 
released her. She seemed neither perturbed by 
Umbridge’s sudden attack, nor relieved by her 
release. She was still clutching her robe up to her 
oddly blank eyes, staring straight ahead of her. A 
sudden suspicion connected to Kingsley’s whisper 
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and the thing he had felt shoot past him sprang into 
Harry’s mind. 



“Dolores,” said Fudge, with the air of trying to settle 
something once and for all, “the meeting tonight — 
the one we know definitely happened — ” 

“Yes,” said Umbridge, pulling herself together, “yes ... 
well, Miss Edgecombe tipped me off and I proceeded 
at once to the seventh floor, accompanied by certain 
trustworthy students, so as to catch those in the 
meeting red-handed. It appears that they were 
forewarned of my arrival, however, because when we 
reached the seventh floor they were running in every 
direction. It does not matter, however. I have all their 
names here, Miss Parkinson ran into the Room of 
Requirement for me to see if they had left anything 
behind... We needed evidence and the room provided 



And to Harry’s horror, she withdrew from her pocket 
the list of names that had been pinned upon the 
Room of Requirement’s wall and handed it to Fudge. 

“The moment I saw Potter’s name on the list, I knew 
what we were dealing with,” she said softly. 

“Excellent,” said Fudge, a smile spreading across his 
face. “Excellent, Dolores. And ... by thunder ...” 

He looked up at Dumbledore, who was still standing 
beside Marietta, his wand held loosely in his hand. 

“See what they’ve named themselves?” said Fudge 
quietly. “Dumbledore’sArmy.” 

Dumbledore reached out and took the piece of 
parchment from Fudge. He gazed at the heading 
scribbled by Hermione months before and for a 

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moment seemed unable to speak. Then he looked up, 
smiling. 



“Well, the game is up,” he said simply. “Would you 
like a written confession from me, Cornelius — or will 
a statement before these witnesses suffice?” 

Harry saw McGonagall and Kingsley look at each 
other. There was fear in both faces. He did not 
understand what was going on, and neither, 
apparently, did Fudge. 

“Statement?” said Fudge slowly. “What — I don’t — ?” 

“Dumbledore’s Army, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, 
still smiling as he waved the list of names before 
Fudge’s face. “Not Potter’s Army. Dumbledore’s Army.” 

“But — but — ” 

Understanding blazed suddenly in Fudge’s face. He 
took a horrified step backward, yelped, and jumped 
out of the fire again. 

“You?” he whispered, stamping again on his 
smoldering cloak. 

“That’s right,” said Dumbledore pleasantly. 

“You organized this?” 

“I did,” said Dumbledore. 

“You recruited these students for — for your army?” 

“Tonight was supposed to be the first meeting,” said 
Dumbledore, nodding. “Merely to see whether they 
would be interested in joining me. I see now that it 
was a mistake to invite Miss Edgecombe, of course.” 

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Marietta nodded. Fudge looked from her to 
Dumbledore, his chest swelling. 



“Then you have been plotting against me!” he yelled. 
“That’s right,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. 

“NO!” shouted Harry. 

Kingsley flashed a look of warning at him, 

McGonagall widened her eyes threateningly, but it 
had suddenly dawned upon Harry what Dumbledore 
was about to do, and he could not let it happen. 

“No — Professor Dumbledore!” 

“Be quiet, Harry, or I am afraid you will have to leave 
my office,” said Dumbledore calmly. 

“Yes, shut up, Potter!” barked Fudge, who was still 
ogling Dumbledore with a kind of horrified delight. 
“Well, well, well — I came here tonight expecting to 
expel Potter and instead — ” 

“Instead you get to arrest me,” said Dumbledore, 
smiling. “It’s like losing a Knut and finding a Galleon, 
isn’t it?” 

“Weasley!” cried Fudge, now positively quivering with 
delight, “Weasley, have you written it all down, 
everything he’s said, his confession, have you got it?” 

“Yes, sir, I think so, sir!” said Percy eagerly, whose 
nose was splattered with ink from the speed of his 
note-taking. 

“The bit about how he’s been trying to build up an 
army against the Ministry, how he’s been working to 
destabilize me?” 

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“Yes, sir, I’ve got it, yes!” said Percy, scanning his 
notes joyfully. 

“Very well, then,” said Fudge, now radiant with glee. 
“Duplicate your notes, Weasley, and send a copy to 
the Daily Prophet at once. If we send a fast owl we 
should make the morning edition!” Percy dashed from 
the room, slamming the door behind him, and Fudge 
turned back to Dumbledore. “You will now be 
escorted back to the Ministry, where you will be 
formally charged and then sent to Azkaban to await 
trial!” 

“Ah,” said Dumbledore gently, “yes. Yes, I thought we 
might hit that little snag.” 

“Snag?” said Fudge, his voice still vibrating with joy. 

“I see no snag, Dumbledore!” 

“Well,” said Dumbledore apologetically, “I’m afraid I 
do.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Well — it’s just that you seem to be laboring under 
the delusion that I am going to — what is the phrase? 
‘Come quietly. ’ I am afraid I am not going to come 
quietly at all, Cornelius. I have absolutely no 
intention of being sent to Azkaban. I could break out, 
of course — but what a waste of time, and frankly, I 
can think of a whole host of things I would rather be 
doing.” 

Umbridge’s face was growing steadily redder, she 
looked as though she was being filled with boiling 
water. Fudge stared at Dumbledore with a very silly 
expression on his face, as though he had just been 
stunned by a sudden blow and could not quite believe 
it had happened. He made a small choking noise and 
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then looked around at Kingsley and the man with 
short gray hair, who alone of everyone in the room 
had remained entirely silent so far. The latter gave 
Fudge a reassuring nod and moved forward a little, 
away from the wall. Harry saw his hand drift, almost 
casually, toward his pocket. 

“Don’t be silly, Dawlish,” said Dumbledore kindly. 

“I’m sure you are an excellent Auror, I seem to 
remember that you achieved ‘Outstanding’ in all your 
N.E.W.T.s, but if you attempt to — er — ‘bring me in’ 
by force, I will have to hurt you.” 

The man called Dawlish blinked, looking rather 
foolish. He looked toward Fudge again, but this time 
seemed to be hoping for a clue as to what to do next. 

“So,” sneered Fudge, recovering himself, “you intend 
to take on Dawlish, Shacklebolt, Dolores, and myself 
single-handed, do you, Dumbledore?” 

“Merlin’s beard, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “Not 
unless you are foolish enough to force me to.” 

“He will not be single-handed!” said Professor 
McGonagall loudly, plunging her hand inside her 
robes. 

“Oh yes he will, Minerva!” said Dumbledore sharply. 
“Hogwarts needs you!” 

“Enough of this rubbish!” said Fudge, pulling out his 
own wand. “Dawlish! Shacklebolt! Take him ). ” 

A streak of silver light flashed around the room. There 
was a bang like a gunshot, and the floor trembled. A 
hand grabbed the scruff of Harry’s neck and forced 
him down on the floor as a second silver flash went 
off — several of the portraits yelled, Fawkes 
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screeched, and a cloud of dust filled the air. Coughing 
in the dust, Harry saw a dark figure fall to the ground 
with a crash in front of him. There was a shriek and a 
thud and somebody cried, “No!” Then the sound of 
breaking glass, frantically scuffling footsteps, a groan 

— and silence. 

Harry struggled around to see who was half- 
strangling him and saw Professor McGonagall 
crouched beside him. She had forced both him and 
Marietta out of harm’s way. Dust was still floating 
gently down through the air onto them. Panting 
slightly, Harry saw a very tall figure moving toward 
them. 

“Are you all right?” said Dumbledore. 

“Yes!” said Professor McGonagall, getting up and 
dragging Harry and Marietta with her. 

The dust was clearing. The wreckage of the office 
loomed into view: Dumbledore’s desk had been 
overturned, all of the spindly tables had been 
knocked to the floor, their silver instruments in 
pieces. Fudge, Umbridge, Kingsley, and Dawlish lay 
motionless on the floor. Fawkes the phoenix soared in 
wide circles above them, singing softly. 

“Unfortunately, I had to hex Kingsley too, or it would 
have looked very suspicious,” said Dumbledore in a 
low voice. “He was remarkably quick on the uptake, 
modifying Miss Edgecombe’s memory like that while 
everyone was looking the other way — thank him for 
me, won’t you, Minerva? 

“Now, they will all awake very soon and it will be best 
if they do not know that we had time to communicate 

— you must act as though no time has passed, as 



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though they were merely knocked to the ground, they 
will not remember — ” 

“Where will you go, Dumbledore?” whispered 
Professor McGonagall. “Grimmauld Place?” 

“Oh no,” said Dumbledore with a grim smile. “I am 
not leaving to go into hiding. Fudge will soon wish 
he’d never dislodged me from Hogwarts, I promise 
you...” 

“Professor Dumbledore ...” Harry began. 

He did not know what to say first: how sorry he was 
that he had started the D.A. in the first place and 
caused all this trouble, or how terrible he felt that 
Dumbledore was leaving to save him from expulsion? 
But Dumbledore cut him off before he could say 
another word. 

“Listen to me, Harry,” he said urgently, “you must 
study Occlumency as hard as you can, do you 
understand me? Do everything Professor Snape tells 
you and practice it particularly every night before 
sleeping so that you can close your mind to bad 
dreams — you will understand why soon enough, but 
you must promise me — ” 

The man called Dawlish was stirring. Dumbledore 
seized Harry’s wrist. 

“Remember — close your mind — ” 

But as Dumbledore ’s fingers closed over Harry’s skin, 
a pain shot through the scar on his forehead, and he 
felt again that terrible, snakelike longing to strike 
Dumbledore, to bite him, to hurt him — 

“ — you will understand,” whispered Dumbledore. 

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Fawkes circled the office and swooped low over him. 
Dumbledore released Harry, raised his hand, and 
grasped the phoenix’s long golden tail. There was a 
flash of fire and the pair of them had gone. 

“Where is he?” yelled Fudge, pushing himself up from 
the ground. “Where is he?” 

“I don’t know!” shouted Kingsley, also leaping to his 
feet. 

“Well, he can’t have Disapparated!” cried Umbridge. 
“You can’t inside this school — ” 

“The stairs!” cried Dawlish, and he flung himself upon 
the door, wrenched it open, and disappeared, followed 
closely by Kingsley and Umbridge. Fudge hesitated, 
then got to his feet slowly, brushing dust from his 
front. There was a long and painful silence. 

“Well, Minerva,” said Fudge nastily, straightening his 
torn shirtsleeve, “I’m afraid this is the end of your 
friend Dumbledore.” 

“You think so, do you?” said Professor McGonagall 
scornfully. 

Fudge seemed not to hear her. He was looking around 
at the wrecked office. A few of the portraits hissed at 
him; one or two even made rude hand gestures. 

“You’d better get those two off to bed,” said Fudge, 
looking back at Professor McGonagall with a 
dismissive nod toward Harry and Marietta. 

She said nothing, but marched Harry and Marietta to 
the door. As it swung closed behind them, Harry 
heard Phineas Nigellus’s voice. 



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“You know, Minister, I disagree with Dumbledore on 
many counts ... but you cannot deny he’s got style...” 



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SNAPE’S WORST MEMORY 

— BY ORDER OF — 

THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC 

Dolores Jane Umbridge (High Inquisitor) has replaced 
Albus Dumbledore as Head of Hogwarts School of 
Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

The above is in accordance with 

Educational Decree Number Twenty-eight. 

Signed: 

Cornelius Oswald Fudge 
MINISTER OF MAGIC 

The notices had gone up all over the school overnight, 
but they did not explain how every single person 
within the castle seemed to know that Dumbledore 



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had overcome two Aurors, the High Inquisitor, the 
Minister of Magic, and his Junior Assistant to escape. 
No matter where Harry went within the castle next 
day, the sole topic of conversation was Dumbledore’s 
flight, and though some of the details might have 
gone awry in the retelling (Harry overheard one 
second-year girl assuring another that Fudge was 
now lying in St. Mungo’s with a pumpkin for a head), 
it was surprising how accurate the rest of their 
information was. Everybody seemed aware, for 
instance, that Harry and Marietta were the only 
students to have witnessed the scene in Dumbledore’s 
office, and as Marietta was now in the hospital wing, 
Harry found himself besieged with requests to give a 
firsthand account wherever he went. 

“Dumbledore will be back before long,” said Ernie 
Macmillan confidently on the way back from 
Herbology after listening intently to Harry’s story. 
“They couldn’t keep him away in our second year and 
they won’t be able to this time. The Fat Friar told me 
...” He dropped his voice conspiratorially, so that 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione had to lean closer to him 
to hear, "... that Umbridge tried to get back into his 
office last night after they’d searched the castle and 
grounds for him. Couldn’t get past the gargoyle. The 
Head’s office has sealed itself against her.” Ernie 
smirked. “Apparently she had a right little tantrum...” 

“Oh, I expect she really fancied herself sitting up 
there in the Head’s office,” said Hermione viciously, as 
they walked up the stone steps into the entrance hall. 
“Lording it over all the other teachers, the stupid 
puffed-up, power-crazy old — ” 

“Now, do you really want to finish that sentence, 
Granger?” 



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Draco Malfoy had slid out from behind the door, 
followed by Crabbe and Goyle. His pale, pointed face 
was alight with malice. 

“Afraid I’m going to have to dock a few points from 
Gryffindor and Hufflepuff,” he drawled. 

“It’s only teachers that can dock points from Houses, 
Malfoy,” said Ernie at once. 

“Yeah, we’re prefects too, remember?” snarled Ron. 

“I know prefects can’t dock points, Weasel King,” 
sneered Malfoy; Crabbe and Goyle sniggered. “But 
members of the Inquisitorial Squad — ” 

“The what?” said Hermione sharply. 

“The Inquisitorial Squad, Granger,” said Malfoy, 
pointing toward a tiny silver I upon his robes just 
beneath his prefect’s badge. “A select group of 
students who are supportive of the Ministry of Magic, 
hand-picked by Professor Umbridge. Anyway, 
members of the Inquisitorial Squad do have the power 
to dock points... So, Granger, I’ll have five from you 
for being rude about our new headmistress... 
Macmillan, five for contradicting me... Five because I 
don’t like you, Potter ... Weasley, your shirt’s 
untucked, so I’ll have another five for that... Oh yeah, 

I forgot, you’re a Mudblood, Granger, so ten for 
that...” 

Ron pulled out his wand, but Hermione pushed it 
away, whispering, “Don’t!” 

“Wise move, Granger,” breathed Malfoy. “New Head, 
new times ... Be good now, Potty ... Weasel King ...” 



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He strode away, laughing heartily with Crabbe and 
Goyle. 

“He was bluffing,” said Ernie, looking appalled. “He 
can’t be allowed to dock points ... that would be 
ridiculous... It would completely undermine the 
prefect system...” 

But Harry, Ron, and Hermione had turned 
automatically toward the giant hourglasses set in 
niches along the wall behind them, which recorded 
the House points. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw had been 
neck and neck in the lead that morning. Even as they 
watched, stones flew upward, reducing the amounts 
in the lower bulbs. In fact, the only glass that seemed 
unchanged was the emerald-filled one of Slytherin. 

“Noticed, have you?” said Fred’s voice. 

He and George had just come down the marble 
staircase and joined Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ernie 
in front of the hourglasses. 

“Malfoy just docked us all about fifty points,” said 
Harry furiously, as they watched several more stones 
fly upward from the Gryffindor hourglass. 

“Yeah, Montague tried to do us during break,” said 
George. 

“What do you mean, ‘tried’?” said Ron quickly. 

“He never managed to get all the words out,” said 
Fred, “due to the fact that we forced him headfirst 
into that Vanishing Cabinet on the first floor.” 

Hermione looked very shocked. 

“But you’ll get into terrible trouble!” 

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“Not until Montague reappears, and that could take 
weeks, I dunno where we sent him,” said Fred coolly. 
“Anyway ... we’ve decided we don’t care about getting 
into trouble anymore.” 

“Have you ever?” asked Hermione. 

“ ’Course we have,” said George. “Never been expelled, 
have we?” 

“We’ve always known where to draw the line,” said 
Fred. 

“We might have put a toe across it occasionally,” said 
George. 

“But we’ve always stopped short of causing real 
mayhem,” said Fred. 

“But now?” said Ron tentatively. 

“Well, now — ” said George. 

“ — what with Dumbledore gone — ” said Fred. 

“ — we reckon a bit of mayhem — ” said George. 

“ — is exactly what our dear new Head deserves,” said 
Fred. 

“You mustn’t!” whispered Hermione. “You really 
mustn’t! She’d love a reason to expel you!” 

“You don’t get it, Hermione, do you?” said Fred, 
smiling at her. “We don’t care about staying anymore. 
We’d walk out right now if we weren’t determined to 
do our bit for Dumbledore first. So anyway,” he 
checked his watch, “phase one is about to begin. I’d 
get in the Great Hall for lunch if I were you, that way 

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the teachers will see you can’t have had anything to 
do with it.” 

“Anything to do with what?” said Hermione anxiously. 

“You’ll see,” said George. “Run along, now.” 

Fred and George turned away and disappeared in the 
swelling crowd descending the stairs toward lunch. 
Looking highly disconcerted, Ernie muttered 
something about unfinished Transfiguration 
homework and scurried away. 

“I think we should get out of here, you know,” said 
Hermione nervously. “Just in case ...” 

“Yeah, all right,” said Ron, and the three of them 
moved toward the doors to the Great Hall, but Harry 
had barely glimpsed today’s ceiling of scudding white 
clouds when somebody tapped him on the shoulder 
and, turning, he found himself almost nose to nose 
with Filch, the caretaker. He took several hasty steps 
backward; Filch was best viewed at a distance. 

“The headmistress would like to see you, Potter,” he 
leered. 

“I didn’t do it,” said Harry stupidly, thinking of 
whatever Fred and George were planning. Filch’s 
jowls wobbled with silent laughter. 

“Guilty conscience, eh?” he wheezed. “Follow me...” 

Harry glanced back at Ron and Hermione, who were 
both looking worried. He shrugged and followed Filch 
back into the entrance hall, against the tide of hungry 
students. 



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Filch seemed to be in an extremely good mood; he 
hummed creakily under his breath as they climbed 
the marble staircase. As they reached the first landing 
he said, “Things are changing around here, Potter.” 

“I’ve noticed,” said Harry coldly. 

“Yerse ... I’ve been telling Dumbledore for years and 
years he’s too soft with you all,” said Filch, chuckling 
nastily. “You filthy little beasts would never have 
dropped Stinkpellets if you’d known I had it in my 
power to whip you raw, would you, now? Nobody 
would have thought of throwing Fanged Frisbees 
down the corridors if I could’ve strung you up by the 
ankles in my office, would they? But when 
Educational Decree Twenty-nine comes in, Potter, I’ll 
be allowed to do them things... And she’s asked the 
Minister to sign an order for the expulsion of Peeves... 
Oh, things are going to be very different around here 
with her in charge...” 

Umbridge had obviously gone to some lengths to get 
Filch on her side, Harry thought, and the worst of it 
was that he would probably prove an important 
weapon; his knowledge of the school’s secret 
passageways and hiding places was probably second 
only to the Weasley twins. 

“Here we are,” he said, leering down at Harry as he 
rapped three times upon Professor Umbridge’s door 
and pushed it open. “The Potter boy to see you, 
ma’am.” 

Umbridge’s office, so very familiar to Harry from his 
many detentions, was the same as usual except for 
the large wooden block lying across the front of her 
desk on which golden letters spelled the word 
HEADMISTRESS; also his Firebolt, and Fred’s and 
George’s Clean-sweeps, which he saw with a pang 
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were now chained and padlocked to a stout iron peg 
in the wall behind the desk. Umbridge was sitting 
behind the desk, busily scribbling upon some of her 
pink parchment, but looked up and smiled widely at 
their entrance. 

“Thank you, Argus,” she said sweetly. 

“Not at all, ma’am, not at all,” said Filch, bowing as 
low as his rheumatism would permit, and exiting 
backward. 

“Sit,” said Umbridge curtly, pointing toward a chair, 
and Harry sat. She continued to scribble for a few 
moments. He watched some of the foul kittens 
gamboling around the plates over her head, 
wondering what fresh horror she had in store for him. 

“Well now,” she said finally, setting down her quill 
and looking like a toad about to swallow a 
particularly juicy fly. “What would you like to drink?” 

“What?” said Harry, quite sure he had misheard her. 

“To drink, Mr. Potter,” she said, smiling still more 
widely. “Tea? Coffee? Pumpkin juice?” 

As she named each drink, she gave her short wand a 
wave, and a cup or glass of it appeared upon her 
desk. 

“Nothing, thank you,” said Harry. 

“I wish you to have a drink with me,” she said, her 
voice becoming more dangerously sweet. “Choose 
one.” 

“Fine ... tea then,” said Harry, shrugging. 



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She got up and made quite a performance of adding 
milk with her back to him. She then bustled around 
the desk with it, smiling in sinisterly sweet fashion. 

“There,” she said, handing it to him. “Drink it before it 
gets cold, won’t you? Well, now, Mr. Potter ... I 
thought we ought to have a little chat, after the 
distressing events of last night.” 

He said nothing. She settled herself back into her seat 
and waited. When several long moments had passed 
in silence, she said gaily, “You’re not drinking up!” 

He raised the cup to his lips and then, just as 
suddenly, lowered it. One of the horrible painted 
kittens behind Umbridge had great round blue eyes 
just like Mad-Eye Moody’s magical one, and it had 
just occurred to Harry what Mad-Eye would say if he 
ever heard that Harry had drunk anything offered by 
a known enemy. 

“What’s the matter?” said Umbridge, who was still 
watching him. “Do you want sugar?” 

“No,” said Harry. 

He raised the cup to his lips again and pretended to 
take a sip, though keeping his mouth tightly closed. 
Umbridge’s smile widened. 

“Good,” she whispered. “Very good. Now then ...” She 
leaned forward a little. “Where is Albus Dumbledore?” 

“No idea,” said Harry promptly. 

“Drink up, drink up,” she said, still smiling. “Now, 

Mr. Potter, let us not play childish games. I know that 
you know where he has gone. You and Dumbledore 



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have been in this together from the beginning. 
Consider your position, Mr. Potter...” 

“I don’t know where he is.” 

Harry pretended to drink again. 

“Very well,” said Umbridge, looking displeased. “In 
that case, you will kindly tell me the whereabouts of 
Sirius Black.” 

Harry’s stomach turned over and his hand holding 
the teacup shook so that the cup rattled in its saucer. 
He tilted the cup to his mouth with his lips pressed 
together, so that some of the hot liquid trickled down 
onto his robes. 

“I don’t know,” he said a little too quickly. 

“Mr. Potter,” said Umbridge, “let me remind you that 
it was I who almost caught the criminal Black in the 
Gryffindor fire in October. I know perfectly well it was 
you he was meeting and if I had had any proof neither 
of you would be at large today, I promise you. I 
repeat, Mr. Potter ... Where is Sirius Black?” 

“No idea,” said Harry loudly. “Haven’t got a clue.” 

They stared at each other so long that Harry felt his 
eyes watering. Then she stood up. 

“Very well, Potter, I will take your word for it this 
time, but be warned: The might of the Ministry stands 
behind me. All channels of communication in and out 
of this school are being monitored. A Floo Network 
Regulator is keeping watch over every fire in Hogwarts 
— except my own, of course. My Inquisitorial Squad 
is opening and reading all owl post entering and 
leaving the castle. And Mr. Filch is observing all 
Page | 805Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




secret passages in and out of the castle. If I find a 
shred of evidence ...” 



BOOM! 

The very floor of the office shook; Umbridge slipped 
sideways, clutching her desk for support, looking 
shocked. 

“What was — ?” 

She was gazing toward the door; Harry took the 
opportunity to empty his almost full cup of tea into 
the nearest vase of dried flowers. He could hear 
people running and screaming several floors below. 

“Back to lunch with you, Potter!” cried Umbridge, 
raising her wand and dashing out of the office. Harry 
gave her a few seconds’ start then hurried after her to 
see what the source of all the uproar was. 

It was not difficult to find. One floor down, 
pandemonium reigned. Somebody (and Harry had a 
very shrewd idea who) had set off what seemed to be 
an enormous crate of enchanted fireworks. 

Dragons comprised entirely of green-and-gold sparks 
were soaring up and down the corridors, emitting 
loud fiery blasts and bangs as they went. Shocking- 
pink Catherine wheels five feet in diameter were 
whizzing lethally through the air like so many flying 
saucers. Rockets with long tails of brilliant silver stars 
were ricocheting off the walls. Sparklers were writing 
swearwords in midair of their own accord. 

Firecrackers were exploding like mines everywhere 
Harry looked, and instead of burning themselves out, 
fading from sight, or fizzling to a halt, these 
pyrotechnical miracles seemed to be gaining in energy 
and momentum the longer he watched. 

Page | 806Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




Filch and Umbridge were standing, apparently 
transfixed with horror, halfway down the stairs. As 
Harry watched, one of the larger Catherine wheels 
seemed to decide that what it needed was more room 
to maneuver; it whirled toward Umbridge and Filch 
with a sinister voheeeeeeeeee. Both adults yelled with 
fright and ducked and it soared straight out of the 
window behind them and off across the grounds. 
Meanwhile, several of the dragons and a large purple 
bat that was smoking ominously took advantage of 
the open door at the end of the corridor to escape 
toward the second floor. 

“Hurry, Filch, hurry!” shrieked Umbridge. “They’ll be 
all over the school unless we do something — 

Stupefy]” 

A jet of red light shot out of the end of her wand and 
hit one of the rockets. Instead of freezing in midair, it 
exploded with such force that it blasted a hole in a 
painting of a soppy-looking witch in the middle of a 
meadow — she ran for it just in time, reappearing 
seconds later squashed into the painting next door, 
where a couple of wizards playing cards stood up 
hastily to make room for her. 

“Don’t Stun them, Filch!” shouted Umbridge angrily, 
for all the world as though it had been his suggestion. 

“Right you are, Headmistress!” wheezed Filch, who 
was a Squib and could no more have Stunned the 
fireworks than swallowed them. He dashed to a 
nearby cupboard, pulled out a broom, and began 
swatting at the fireworks in midair; within seconds 
the head of the broom was ablaze. 

Harry had seen enough. Laughing, he ducked down 
low, ran to a door he knew was concealed behind a 
tapestry a little way along the corridor and slipped 

Page | 807Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




through it to find Fred and George hiding just behind 
it, listening to Umbridge’s and Filch’s yells and 
quaking with suppressed mirth. 

“Impressive,” Harry said quietly, grinning. “Very 
impressive ... You’ll put Dr. Filibuster out of business, 
no problem...” 

“Cheers,” whispered George, wiping tears of laughter 
from his face. “Oh, I hope she tries Vanishing them 
next... They multiply by ten every time you try...” 

The fireworks continued to burn and to spread all 
over the school that afternoon. Though they caused 
plenty of disruption, particularly the firecrackers, the 
other teachers did not seem to mind them very much. 

“Dear, dear,” said Professor McGonagall sardonically, 
as one of the dragons soared around her classroom, 
emitting loud bangs and exhaling flame. “Miss Brown, 
would you mind running along to the headmistress 
and informing her that we have an escaped firework 
in our classroom?” 

The upshot of it all was that Professor Umbridge 
spent her first afternoon as headmistress running all 
over the school answering the summonses of the 
other teachers, none of whom seemed able to rid their 
rooms of the fireworks without her. When the final 
bell rang and the students were heading back to 
Gryffindor Tower with their bags, Harry saw, with 
immense satisfaction, a disheveled and soot- 
blackened Umbridge tottering sweaty-faced from 
Professor Flitwick’s classroom. 

“Thank you so much, Professor!” said Professor 
Flitwick in his squeaky little voice. “I could have got 
rid of the sparklers myself, of course, but I wasn’t 
sure whether I had the authority...” 

Page | 808Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




Beaming, he closed his classroom door in her snarling 
face. 

Fred and George were heroes that night in the 
Gryffindor common room. Even Hermione fought her 
way through the excited crowd around them to 
congratulate them. 

“They were wonderful fireworks,” she said admiringly. 

“Thanks,” said George, looking both surprised and 
pleased. “Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-Bangs. Only thing 
is, we used our whole stock, we’re going to have to 
start again from scratch now...” 

“It was worth it, though,” said Fred, who was taking 
orders from clamoring Gryffindors. “If you want to 
add your name to the waiting list, Hermione, it’s five 
Galleons for your Basic Blaze box and twenty for the 
Deflagration Deluxe...” 

Hermione returned to the table where Harry and Ron 
were sitting staring at their schoolbags as though 
hoping their homework might spring out of it and 
start doing itself. 

“Oh, why don’t we have a night off?” said Hermione 
brightly, as a silver-tailed Weasley rocket zoomed past 
the window. “After all, the Easter holidays start on 
Friday, we’ll have plenty of time then...” 

“Are you feeling all right?” Ron asked, staring at her 
in disbelief. 

“Now you mention it,” said Hermione happily, “d’you 
know ... I think I’m feeling a bit ... rebellious.” 

Harry could still hear the distant bangs of escaped 
firecrackers when he and Ron went up to bed an hour 

Page | 809Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




later, and as he got undressed a sparkler floated past 
the tower, still resolutely spelling out the word POO. 

He got into bed, yawning. With his glasses off, the 
occasional fire-work still passing the window became 
blurred, looking like sparkling clouds, beautiful and 
mysterious against the black sky. He turned onto his 
side, wondering how Umbridge was feeling about her 
first day in Dumbledore’s job, and how Fudge would 
react when he heard that the school had spent most 
of the day in a state of advanced disruption... Smiling 
to himself, he closed his eyes... 

The whizzes and bangs of escaped fireworks in the 
grounds seemed to be growing more distant ... or 
perhaps he, Harry, was simply speeding away from 
them... 

He had fallen right into the corridor leading to the 
Department of Mysteries. He was speeding toward the 
plain black door... Let it open... Let it open... 

It did. He was inside the circular room lined with 
doors... He crossed it, placed his hand upon an 
identical door, and it swung inward... 

Now he was in a long, rectangular room full of an odd, 
mechanical clicking. There were dancing flecks of 
light on the walls but he did not pause to 
investigate... He had to go on... 

There was a door at the far end... It too opened at his 
touch... 

And now he was in a dimly lit room as high and wide 
as a church, full of nothing but rows and rows of 
towering shelves, each laden with small, dusty, spun- 
glass spheres... Now Harry’s heart was beating fast 
with excitement... He knew where to go... He ran 
Page | 810Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




forward, but his footsteps made no noise in the 
enormous, deserted room... 

There was something in this room he wanted very, 
very much... 

Something he wanted... or somebody else wanted... 

His scar was hurting. . . 

BANG! Harry awoke instantly, confused and angry. 
The dark dormitory was full of the sound of laughter. 

“Cool!” said Seamus, who was silhouetted against the 
window. 

“I think one of those Catherine wheels hit a rocket 
and it’s like they mated, come and see!” 

Harry heard Ron and Dean scramble out of bed for a 
better look. He lay quite still and silent while the pain 
in his scar subsided and disappointment washed over 
him. He felt as though a wonderful treat had been 
snatched from him at the very last moment... He had 
got so close that time... 

Glittering, pink-and-silver winged piglets were now 
soaring past the windows of Gryffindor Tower. Harry 
lay and listened to the appreciative whoops of 
Gryffindors in the dormitories below them. His 
stomach gave a sickening jolt as he remembered that 
he had Occlumency the following evening. . . 

Harry spent the whole of the next day dreading what 
Snape was going to say if he found out how much 
farther into the Department of Mysteries he had 
penetrated during his last dream. With a surge of 
guilt he realized that he had not practiced 
Occlumency once since their last lesson: There had 
Page | 811Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




been too much going on since Dumbledore had left. 

He was sure he would not have been able to empty 
his mind even if he had tried. He doubted, however, 
whether Snape would accept that excuse... 

He attempted a little last-minute practice during 
classes that day, but it was no good, Hermione kept 
asking him what was wrong whenever he fell silent 
trying to rid himself of all thought and emotion and, 
after all, the best moment to empty his brain was not 
while teachers were firing review questions at the 
class. 

Resigned to the worst, he set off for Snape ’s office 
after dinner. Halfway across the entrance hall, 
however, Cho came hurrying up to him. 

“Over here,” said Harry, glad of a reason to postpone 
his meeting with Snape and beckoning her across to 
the corner of the entrance hall where the giant 
hourglasses stood. Gryffindor’s was now almost 
empty. “Are you okay? Umbridge hasn’t been asking 
you about the D.A., has she?” 

“Oh no,” said Cho hurriedly. “No, it was only ... Well, I 
just wanted to say ... Harry, I never dreamed Marietta 
would tell...” 

“Yeah, well,” said Harry moodily. He did feel Cho 
might have chosen her friends a bit more carefully. It 
was small consolation that the last he had heard, 
Marietta was still up in the hospital wing and Madam 
Pomfrey had not been able to make the slightest 
improvement to her pimples. 

“She’s a lovely person really,” said Cho. “She just 
made a mistake — ” 



Harry looked at her incredulously. 

Page | 812Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“A lovely person who made a mistake? She sold us all 
out, including you!” 

“Well ... we all got away, didn’t we?” said Cho 
pleadingly. “You know, her mum works for the 
Ministry, it’s really difficult for her — ” 

“Ron’s dad works for the Ministry too!” Harry said 
furiously. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, he hasn’t 
got ‘sneak’ written across his face — ” 

“That was a really horrible trick of Hermione 
Granger’s,” said Cho fiercely. “She should have told 
us she’d jinxed that list — ” 

“I think it was a brilliant idea,” said Harry coldly. Cho 
flushed and her eyes grew brighter. 

“Oh yes, I forgot — of course, if it was darling 
Hermione’s idea — ” 

“Don’t start crying again,” said Harry warningly. 

“I wasn’t going to!” she shouted. 

“Yeah ... well ... good,” he said. “I’ve got enough to 
cope with at the moment.” 

“Go and cope with it then!” she said furiously, turning 
on her heel and stalking off. 

Fuming, Harry descended the stairs to Snape’s 
dungeon, and though he knew from experience how 
much easier it would be for Snape to penetrate his 
mind if he arrived angry and resentful, he succeeded 
in nothing but thinking of a few more good things he 
should have said to Cho about Marietta before 
reaching the dungeon door. 



Page | 813Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“You’re late, Potter,” said Snape coldly, as Harry 
closed the door behind him. 

Snape was standing with his back to Harry, removing, 
as usual, certain of his thoughts and placing them 
carefully in Dumbledore’s Pensieve. He dropped the 
last silvery strand into the stone basin and turned to 
face Harry. 

“So,” he said. “Have you been practicing?” 

“Yes,” Harry lied, looking carefully at one of the legs of 
Snape’s desk. 

“Well, we’ll soon find out, won’t we?” said Snape 
smoothly. “Wand out, Potter.” 

Harry moved into his usual position, facing Snape 
with the desk between them. His heart was pumping 
fast with anger at Cho and anxiety about how much 
Snape was about to extract from his mind. 

“On the count of three then,” said Snape lazily. “One 
— two — ” 

Snape’s office door banged open and Draco Malfoy 
sped in. 

“Professor Snape, sir — oh — sorry — ” 

Malfoy was looking at Snape and Harry in some 
surprise. 

“It’s all right, Draco,” said Snape, lowering his wand. 
“Potter is here for a little Remedial Potions.” 

Harry had not seen Malfoy look so gleeful since 
Umbridge had turned up to inspect Hagrid. 



Page | 814Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“I didn’t know,” he said, leering at Harry, who knew 
his face was burning. He would have given a great 
deal to be able to shout the truth at Malfoy — or, even 
better, to hit him with a good curse. 

“Well, Draco, what is it?” asked Snape. 

“It’s Professor Umbridge, sir — she needs your help,” 
said Malfoy. “They’ve found Montague, sir. He’s 
turned up jammed inside a toilet on the fourth floor.” 

“How did he get in there?” demanded Snape. 

“I don’t know, sir, he’s a bit confused...” 

“Very well, very well — Potter,” said Snape, “we shall 
resume this lesson tomorrow evening instead.” 

He turned and swept from his office. Malfoy mouthed 
“Remedial Potions?” at Harry behind Snape ’s back 
before following him. 

Seething, Harry replaced his wand inside his robes 
and made to leave the room. At least he had twenty- 
four more hours in which to practice; he knew he 
ought to feel grateful for the narrow escape, though it 
was hard that it came at the expense of Malfoy telling 
the whole school that he needed Remedial Potions... 

He was at the office door when he saw it: a patch of 
shivering light dancing on the door frame. He 
stopped, looking at it, reminded of something... Then 
he remembered: It was a little like the lights he had 
seen in his dream last night, the lights in the second 
room he had walked through on his journey through 
the Department of Mysteries. 

He turned around. The light was coming from the 
Pensieve sitting on Snape ’s desk. The silver- white 

Page | 815Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




contents were ebbing and swirling within. Snape’s 
thoughts . . . things he did not want Harry to see if he 
broke through Snape’s defenses accidentally... 

Harry gazed at the Pensieve, curiosity welling inside 
him... What was it that Snape was so keen to hide 
from Harry? 

The silvery lights shivered on the wall... Harry took 
two steps toward the desk, thinking hard. Could it 
possibly be information about the Department of 
Mysteries that Snape was determined to keep from 
him? 

Harry looked over his shoulder, his heart now 
pumping harder and faster than ever. How long would 
it take Snape to release Montague from the toilet? 
Would he come straight back to his office afterward, 
or accompany Montague to the hospital wing? Surely 
the latter . . . Montague was Captain of the Slytherin 
Quidditch team, Snape would want to make sure he 
was all right... 

Harry walked the remaining few feet to the Pensieve 
and stood over it, gazing into its depths. He hesitated, 
listening, then pulled out his wand again. The office 
and the corridor beyond were completely silent. He 
gave the contents of the Pensieve a small prod with 
the end of his wand. 

The silvery stuff within began to swirl very fast. Harry 
leaned forward over it and saw that it had become 
transparent. He was, once again, looking down into a 
room as though through a circular window in the 
ceiling... In fact, unless he was much mistaken, he 
was looking down upon the Great Hall... 

His breath was actually fogging the surface of Snape’s 
thoughts... His brain seemed to be in limbo... It would 

Page | 816Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




be insane to do the thing that he was so strongly 
tempted to do... He was trembling... Snape could be 
back at any moment ... but Harry thought of Cho’s 
anger, of Malfoy’s jeering face, and a reckless daring 
seized him. 

He took a great gulp of breath and plunged his face 
into the surface of Snape’s thoughts. At once, the 
floor of the office lurched, tipping Harry headfirst into 
the Pensieve... 

He was falling through cold blackness, spinning 
furiously as he went, and then — 

He was standing in the middle of the Great Hall, but 
the four House tables were gone. Instead there were 
more than a hundred smaller tables, all facing the 
same way, at each of which sat a student, head bent 
low, scribbling on a roll of parchment. The only sound 
was the scratching of quills and the occasional rustle 
as somebody adjusted their parchment. It was clearly 
exam time. 

Sunshine was streaming through the high windows 
onto the bent heads, which shone chestnut and 
copper and gold in the bright light. Harry looked 
around carefully. Snape had to be here somewhere... 
This was his memory. . . 

And there he was, at a table right behind Harry. 

Harry stared. Snape-the-teenager had a stringy, pallid 
look about him, like a plant kept in the dark. His hair 
was lank and greasy and was flopping onto the table, 
his hooked nose barely half an inch from the surface 
of the parchment as he scribbled. Harry moved 
around behind Snape and read the heading of the 
examination paper: 

DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS — 

Page | 817Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL 



So Snape had to be fifteen or sixteen, around Harry’s 
own age. His hand was flying across the parchment; 
he had written at least a foot more than his closest 
neighbors, and yet his writing was minuscule and 
cramped. 

“Five more minutes!” 

The voice made Harry jump; turning, he saw the top 
of Professor Flitwick’s head moving between the desks 
a short distance away. Professor Flitwick was walking 
past a boy with untidy black hair . . . very untidy black 
hair. . . 

Harry moved so quickly that, had he been solid, he 
would have knocked desks flying. Instead he seemed 
to slide, dreamlike, across two aisles and up a third. 
The back of the black-haired boy’s head drew nearer 
and nearer. . . He was straightening up now, putting 
down his quill, pulling his roll of parchment toward 
him so as to reread what he had written... 

Harry stopped in front of the desk and gazed down at 
his fifteen-year- old father. 

Excitement exploded in the pit of his stomach: It was 
as though he was looking at himself but with 
deliberate mistakes. James’s eyes were hazel, his 
nose was slightly longer than Harry’s, and there was 
no scar on his forehead, but they had the same thin 
face, same mouth, same eyebrows. James’s hair 
stuck up at the back exactly as Harry’s did, his hands 
could have been Harry’s, and Harry could tell that 
when James stood up, they would be within an inch 
of each other’s heights. 



Page | 818Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




James yawned hugely and rumpled up his hair, 
making it even messier than it had been. Then, with a 
glance toward Professor Flitwick, he turned in his 
seat and grinned at a boy sitting four seats behind 
him. 

With another shock of excitement, Harry saw Sirius 
give James the thumbs-up. Sirius was lounging in his 
chair at his ease, tilting it back on two legs. He was 
very good-looking; his dark hair fell into his eyes with 
a sort of casual elegance neither James’s nor Harry’s 
could ever have achieved, and a girl sitting behind 
him was eyeing him hopefully, though he didn’t seem 
to have noticed. And two seats along from this girl — 
Harry’s stomach gave another pleasurable squirm — 
was Remus Lupin. He looked rather pale and peaky 
(was the full moon approaching?) and was absorbed 
in the exam: As he reread his answers he scratched 
his chin with the end of his quill, frowning slightly. 

So that meant Wormtail had to be around here 
somewhere too . . . and sure enough, Harry spotted 
him within seconds: a small, mousy-haired boy with a 
pointed nose. Wormtail looked anxious; he was 
chewing his fingernails, staring down at his paper, 
scuffing the ground with his toes. Every now and then 
he glanced hopefully at his neighbor’s paper. Harry 
stared at Wormtail for a moment, then back at 
James, who was now doodling on a bit of scrap 
parchment. He had drawn a Snitch and was now 
tracing the letters L. E. What did they stand for? 

“Quills down, please!” squeaked Professor Flitwick. 
“That means you too, Stebbins! Please remain seated 
while I collect your parchment! Acciol” 

More than a hundred rolls of parchment zoomed into 
the air and into Professor Flitwick’s outstretched 
arms, knocking him backward off his feet. Several 

Page | 819Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




people laughed. A couple of students at the front 
desks got up, took hold of Professor Flitwick beneath 
the elbows, and lifted him onto his feet again. 

“Thank you ... thank you,” panted Professor Flitwick. 
“Very well, everybody, you’re free to go!” 

Harry looked down at his father, who had hastily 
crossed out the L. E. he had been embellishing, 
jumped to his feet, stuffed his quill and the exam 
question paper into his bag, which he slung over his 
back, and stood waiting for Sirius to join him. 

Harry looked around and glimpsed Snape a short way 
away, moving between the tables toward the doors 
into the entrance hall, still absorbed in his own 
examination paper. Round-shouldered yet angular, he 
walked in a twitchy manner that recalled a spider, his 
oily hair swinging about his face. 

A gang of chattering girls separated Snape from 
James and Sirius, and by planting himself in the 
midst of this group, Harry managed to keep Snape in 
sight while straining his ears to catch the voices of 
James and his friends. 

“Did you like question ten, Moony?” asked Sirius as 
they emerged into the entrance hall. 

“Loved it,” said Lupin briskly. “ ‘Give five signs that 
identify the werewolf.’ Excellent question.” 

“D’you think you managed to get all the signs?” said 
James in tones of mock concern. 

“Think I did,” said Lupin seriously, as they joined the 
crowd thronging around the front doors eager to get 
out into the sunlit grounds. “One: He’s sitting on my 



Page | 820Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




chair. Two: He’s wearing my clothes. Three: His 
name’s Remus Lupin ...” 



Wormtail was the only one who didn’t laugh. 

“I got the snout shape, the pupils of the eyes, and the 
tufted tail,” he said anxiously, “but I couldn’t think 
what else — ” 

“How thick are you, Wormtail?” said James 
impatiently. “You run round with a werewolf once a 
month — ” 

“Keep your voice down,” implored Lupin. 

Harry looked anxiously behind him again. Snape 
remained close by, still buried in his examination 
questions; but this was Snape’s memory, and Harry 
was sure that if Snape chose to wander off in a 
different direction once outside in the grounds, he, 
Harry, would not be able to follow James any farther. 
To his intense relief, however, when James and his 
three friends strode off down the lawn toward the 
lake, Snape followed, still poring over the paper and 
apparently with no fixed idea of where he was going. 
By jogging a little ahead of him, Harry managed to 
maintain a close watch on James and the others. 

“Well, I thought that paper was a piece of cake,” he 
heard Sirius say. “I’ll be surprised if I don’t get 
Outstanding on it at least.” 

“Me too,” said James. He put his hand in his pocket 
and took out a struggling Golden Snitch. 

“Where ’d you get that?” 

“Nicked it,” said James casually. He started playing 
with the Snitch, allowing it to fly as much as a foot 

Page | 821Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




away and seizing it again; his reflexes were excellent. 
Wormtail watched him in awe. 

They stopped in the shade of the very same beech tree 
on the edge of the lake where Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione had spent a Sunday finishing their 
homework, and threw themselves down on the grass. 

Harry looked over his shoulder yet again and saw, to 
his delight, that Snape had settled himself on the 
grass in the dense shadows of a clump of bushes. He 
was as deeply immersed in the O.W.L. paper as ever, 
which left Harry free to sit down on the grass between 
the beech and the bushes and watch the foursome 
under the tree. 

The sunlight was dazzling on the smooth surface of 
the lake, on the bank of which the group of laughing 
girls who had just left the Great Hall were sitting with 
shoes and socks off, cooling their feet in the water. 

Lupin had pulled out a book and was reading. Sirius 
stared around at the students milling over the grass, 
looking rather haughty and bored, but very 
handsomely so. James was still playing with the 
Snitch, letting it zoom farther and farther away, 
almost escaping but always grabbed at the last 
second. Wormtail was watching him with his mouth 
open. Every time James made a particularly difficult 
catch, Wormtail gasped and applauded. After five 
minutes of this, Harry wondered why James didn’t 
tell Wormtail to get a grip on himself, but James 
seemed to be enjoying the attention. Harry noticed his 
father had a habit of rumpling up his hair as though 
to make sure it did not get too tidy, and also that he 
kept looking over at the girls by the water’s edge. 

“Put that away, will you?” said Sirius finally, as 
James made a fine catch and Wormtail let out a 

Page | 822Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




cheer. “Before Wormtail wets himself from 
excitement.” 

Wormtail turned slightly pink but James grinned. 

“If it bothers you,” he said, stuffing the Snitch back in 
his pocket. Harry had the distinct impression that 
Sirius was the only one for whom James would have 
stopped showing off. 

“I’m bored,” said Sirius. “Wish it was full moon.” 

“You might,” said Lupin darkly from behind his book. 
“We’ve still got Transfiguration, if you’re bored you 
could test me... Here.” He held out his book. 

Sirius snorted. “I don’t need to look at that rubbish, I 
know it all.” 

“This’ll liven you up, Padfoot,” said James quietly. 
“Look who it is...” 

Sirius’s head turned. He had become very still, like a 
dog that has scented a rabbit. 

“Excellent,” he said softly. “ Snivellus.” 

Harry turned to see what Sirius was looking at. 

Snape was on his feet again, and was stowing the 
O.W.L. paper in his bag. As he emerged from the 
shadows of the bushes and set off across the grass, 
Sirius and James stood up. Lupin and Wormtail 
remained sitting: Lupin was still staring down at his 
book, though his eyes were not moving and a faint 
frown line had appeared between his eyebrows. 
Wormtail was looking from Sirius and James to 
Snape with a look of avid anticipation on his face. 



Page | 823Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“All right, Snivellus?” said James loudly. 



Snape reacted so fast it was as though he had been 
expecting an attack: Dropping his bag, he plunged his 
hand inside his robes, and his wand was halfway into 
the air when James shouted, “ ExpelliarmusV’ 

Snape ’s wand flew twelve feet into the air and fell with 
a little thud in the grass behind him. Sirius let out a 
bark of laughter. 

“ Impedimental ” he said, pointing his wand at Snape, 
who was knocked off his feet, halfway through a dive 
toward his own fallen wand. 

Students all around had turned to watch. Some of 
them had gotten to their feet and were edging nearer 
to watch. Some looked apprehensive, others 
entertained. 

Snape lay panting on the ground. James and Sirius 
advanced on him, wands up, James glancing over his 
shoulder at the girls at the water’s edge as he went. 
Wormtail was on his feet now, watching hungrily, 
edging around Lupin to get a clearer view. 

“How’d the exam go, Snivelly?” said James. 

“I was watching him, his nose was touching the 
parchment,” said Sirius viciously. “There’ll be great 
grease marks all over it, they won’t be able to read a 
word.” 

Several people watching laughed; Snape was clearly 
unpopular. Wormtail sniggered shrilly. Snape was 
trying to get up, but the jinx was still operating on 
him; he was struggling, as though bound by invisible 
ropes. 

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“You — wait,” he panted, staring up at James with an 
expression of purest loathing. “You — wait...” 

“Wait for what?” said Sirius coolly. “What’re you going 
to do, Snivelly, wipe your nose on us?” 

Snape let out a stream of mixed swearwords and 
hexes, but his wand being ten feet away nothing 
happened. 

“Wash out your mouth,” said James coldly. 

“ Scourgifyl” 

Pink soap bubbles streamed from Snape’s mouth at 
once; the froth was covering his lips, making him gag, 
choking him — 

“Leave him ALONE!” 

James and Sirius looked around. James’s free hand 
jumped to his hair again. 

It was one of the girls from the lake edge. She had 
thick, dark red hair that fell to her shoulders and 
startlingly green almond-shaped eyes — Harry’s eyes. 

Harry’s mother ... 

“All right, Evans?” said James, and the tone of his 
voice was suddenly pleasant, deeper, more mature. 

“Leave him alone,” Lily repeated. She was looking at 
James with every sign of great dislike. “What’s he 
done to you?” 

“Well,” said James, appearing to deliberate the point, 
“it’s more the fact that he exists, if you know what I 
mean...” 



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Many of the surrounding watchers laughed, Sirius 
and Wormtail included, but Lupin, still apparently 
intent on his book, didn’t, and neither did Lily. 

“You think you’re funny,” she said coldly. “But you’re 
just an arrogant, bullying toerag, Potter. Leave him 
alone.” 

“I will if you go out with me, Evans,” said James 
quickly. “Go on ... Go out with me, and I’ll never lay a 
wand on old Snivelly again.” 

Behind him, the Impediment Jinx was wearing off. 
Snape was beginning to inch toward his fallen wand, 
spitting out soapsuds as he crawled. 

“I wouldn’t go out with you if it was a choice between 
you and the giant squid,” said Lily. 

“Bad luck, Prongs,” said Sirius briskly, turning back 
to Snape. “OY!” 

But too late; Snape had directed his wand straight at 
James; there was a flash of light and a gash appeared 
on the side of James’s face, spattering his robes with 
blood. James whirled about; a second flash of light 
later, Snape was hanging upside down in the air, his 
robes falling over his head to reveal skinny, pallid legs 
and a pair of graying underpants. 

Many people in the small crowd watching cheered. 
Sirius, James, and Wormtail roared with laughter. 

Lily, whose furious expression had twitched for an 
instant as though she was going to smile, said, “Let 
him down!” 

“Certainly,” said James and he jerked his wand 
upward. Snape fell into a crumpled heap on the 

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ground. Disentangling himself from his robes, he got 
quickly to his feet, wand up, but Sirius said, 

“Petrificus Totalusl” and Snape keeled over again at 
once, rigid as a board. 

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” Lily shouted. She had her own 
wand out now. James and Sirius eyed it warily. 

“Ah, Evans, don’t make me hex you,” said James 
earnestly. 

“Take the curse off him, then!” 

James sighed deeply, then turned to Snape and 
muttered the countercurse. 

“There you go,” he said, as Snape struggled to his feet 
again, “you’re lucky Evans was here, Snivellus — ” 

“I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like 
her!” 

Lily blinked. “Fine,” she said coolly. “I won’t bother in 
future. And I’d wash your pants if I were you, 
Snivellus.” 

“Apologize to Evans!” James roared at Snape, his 
wand pointed threateningly at him. 

“I don’t want you to make him apologize,” Lily 
shouted, rounding on James. “You’re as bad as he 
is...” 

“What?” yelped James. “I’d NEVER call you a — you- 
know-what!” 

“Messing up your hair because you think it looks cool 
to look like you’ve just got off your broomstick, 
showing off with that stupid Snitch, walking down 

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corridors and hexing anyone who annoys you just 
because you can — I’m surprised your broomstick 
can get off the ground with that fat head on it. You 
make me SICK.” 

She turned on her heel and hurried away. 

“Evans!” James shouted after her, “Hey, EVANS!” 

But she didn’t look back. 

“What is it with her?” said James, trying and failing to 
look as though this was a throwaway question of no 
real importance to him. 

“Reading between the lines, I’d say she thinks you’re 
a bit conceited, mate,” said Sirius. 

“Right,” said James, who looked furious now, “right — 



There was another flash of light, and Snape was once 
again hanging upside down in the air. 

“Who wants to see me take off Snivelly’s pants?” 

But whether James really did take off Snape’s pants, 
Harry never found out. A hand had closed tight over 
his upper arm, closed with a pincerlike grip. Wincing, 
Harry looked around to see who had hold of him, and 
saw, with a thrill of horror, a fully grown, adult-sized 
Snape standing right beside him, white with rage. 

“Having fun?” 

Harry felt himself rising into the air. The summer’s 
day evaporated around him, he was floating upward 
through icy blackness, Snape’s hand still tight upon 
his upper arm. Then, with a swooping feeling as 

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though he had turned head over heels in midair, his 
feet hit the stone floor of Snape’s dungeon, and he 
was standing again beside the Pensieve on Snape’s 
desk in the shadowy, present-day Potions master’s 
study. 

“So,” said Snape, gripping Harry’s arm so tightly 
Harry’s hand was starting to feel numb. “So ... been 
enjoying yourself, Potter?” 

“N-no ...” said Harry, trying to free his arm. 

It was scary: Snape’s lips were shaking, his face was 
white, his teeth were bared. 

“Amusing man, your father, wasn’t he?” said Snape, 
shaking Harry so hard that his glasses slipped down 
his nose. 

“I — didn’t — ” 

Snape threw Harry from him with all his might. Harry 
fell hard onto the dungeon floor. 

“You will not tell anybody what you saw!” Snape 
bellowed. 

“No,” said Harry, getting to his feet as far from Snape 
as he could. “No, of course I w — ” 

“Get out, get out, I don’t want to see you in this office 
ever again!” 

And as Harry hurtled toward the door, ajar of dead 
cockroaches exploded over his head. He wrenched the 
door open and flew away up the corridor, stopping 
only when he had put three floors between himself 
and Snape. There he leaned against the wall, panting, 
and rubbing his bruised arm. 

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He had no desire at all to return to Gryffindor Tower 
so early, nor to tell Ron and Hermione what he had 
just seen. What was making Harry feel so horrified 
and unhappy was not being shouted at or having jars 
thrown at him — it was that he knew how it felt to be 
humiliated in the middle of a circle of onlookers, knew 
exactly how Snape had felt as his father had taunted 
him, and that judging from what he had just seen, his 
father had been every bit as arrogant as Snape had 
always told him. 



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CAREER ADVICE 

“But why haven’t you got Occlumency lessons 
anymore?” said Hermione, frowning. 

“I’ve told you,” Harry muttered. “Snape reckons I can 
carry on by myself now I’ve got the basics...” 

“So you’ve stopped having funny dreams?” said 
Hermione skeptically. 

“Pretty much,” said Harry, not looking at her. 

“Well, I don’t think Snape should stop until you’re 
absolutely sure you can control them!” said Hermione 
indignantly. “Harry, I think you should go back to 
him and ask — ” 

“No,” said Harry forcefully. “Just drop it, Hermione, 
okay?” 

It was the first day of the Easter holidays and 
Hermione, as was her custom, had spent a large part 
of the day drawing up study schedules for the three of 

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them. Harry and Ron had let her do it — it was easier 
than arguing with her and, in any case, they might 
come in useful. 

Ron had been startled to discover that there were only 
six weeks left until their exams. 

“How can that come as a shock?” Hermione 
demanded, as she tapped each little square on Ron’s 
schedule with her wand so that it flashed a different 
color according to its subject. 

“I dunno ...” said Ron, “there’s been a lot going on...” 

“Well, there you are,” she said, handing him his 
schedule, “if you follow that you should do fine.” 

Ron looked down it gloomily, but then brightened. 

“You’ve given me an evening off every week!” 

“That’s for Quidditch practice,” said Hermione. 

The smile faded from Ron’s face. 

“What’s the point?” he said. “We’ve got about as much 
chance of winning the Quidditch Cup this year as 
Dad’s got of becoming Minister of Magic...” 

Hermione said nothing. She was looking at Harry, 
who was staring blankly at the opposite wall of the 
common room while Crookshanks pawed at his hand, 
trying to get his ears scratched. 

“What’s wrong, Harry?” 

“What?” he said quickly. “Nothing ...” 



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He seized his copy of Defensive Magical Theory and 
pretended to be looking something up in the index. 
Crookshanks gave him up as a bad job and slunk 
away under Hermione’s chair. 

“I saw Cho earlier,” said Hermione tentatively, “and 
she looked really miserable too... Have you two had a 
row again?” 

“Wha — oh yeah, we have,” said Harry, seizing 
gratefully on the excuse. 

“What about?” 

“That sneak friend of hers, Marietta,” said Harry. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t blame you!” said Ron angrily, 
setting down his study schedule. “If it hadn’t been for 
her ...” 

Ron went into a rant about Marietta Edgecombe, 
which Harry found helpful. All he had to do was look 
angry, nod, and say “yeah” and “that’s right” 
whenever Ron drew breath, leaving his mind free to 
dwell, ever more miserably, on what he had seen in 
the Pensieve. 

He felt as though the memory of it was eating him 
from inside. He had been so sure that his parents had 
been wonderful people that he never had the slightest 
difficulty in disbelieving Snape’s aspersions on his 
father’s character. Hadn’t people like Hagrid and 
Sirius told Harry how wonderful his father had been? 

( Yeah, well, look what Sirius was like himself, said a 
nagging voice inside Harry’s head... He was as bad, 
wasn’t he?) Yes, he had once overheard Professor 
McGonagall saying that his father and Sirius had 
been troublemakers at school, but she had described 
them as forerunners of the Weasley twins, and Harry 
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could not imagine Fred and George dangling someone 
upside down for the fun of it ... not unless they really 
loathed them . . . Perhaps Malfoy, or somebody who 
really deserved it . . . 

Harry tried to make a case for Snape having deserved 
what he had suffered at James’s hands — but hadn’t 
Lily asked, “What’s he done to you?” And hadn’t 
James replied, “It’s more the fact that he exists, if you 
know what I mean?” Hadn’t James started it all 
simply because Sirius said he was bored? Harry 
remembered Lupin saying back in Grimmauld Place 
that Dumbledore had made him prefect in the hope 
that he would be able to exercise some control over 
James and Sirius... But in the Pensieve, he had sat 
there and let it all happen... 

Harry reminded himself that Lily had intervened; his 
mother had been decent, yet the memory of the look 
on her face as she had shouted at James disturbed 
him quite as much as anything else. She had clearly 
loathed James and Harry simply could not 
understand how they could have ended up married. 
Once or twice he even wondered whether James had 
forced her into it... 

For nearly five years the thought of his father had 
been a source of comfort, of inspiration. Whenever 
someone had told him he was like James he had 
glowed with pride inside. And now ... now he felt cold 
and miserable at the thought of him. 

The weather grew breezier, brighter, and warmer as 
the holidays passed, but Harry was stuck with the 
rest of the fifth and seventh years, who were all 
trapped inside, traipsing back and forth to the library. 
Harry pretended that his bad mood had no other 
cause but the approaching exams, and as his fellow 



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Gryffindors were sick of studying themselves, his 
excuse went unchallenged. 

“Harry, I’m talking to you, can you hear me?” 

“Huh?” 

He looked around. Ginny Weasley, looking very 
windswept, had joined him at the library table where 
he had been sitting alone. It was late on Sunday 
evening; Hermione had gone back to Gryffindor Tower 
to review Ancient Runes; Ron had Quidditch practice. 

“Oh hi,” said Harry, pulling his books back toward 
him. “How come you’re not at practice?” 

“It’s over,” said Ginny. “Ron had to take Jack Sloper 
up to the hospital wing.” 

“Why?” 

“Well, we’re not sure, but we think he knocked himself 
out with his own bat.” She sighed heavily. “Anyway ... 
a package just arrived, it’s only just got through 
Umbridge’s new screening process...” 

She hoisted a box wrapped in brown paper onto the 
table; it had clearly been unwrapped and carelessly 
rewrapped, and there was a scribbled note across it in 
red ink, reading INSPECTED AND PASSED BY THE 
HOGWARTS HIGH INQUISITOR. 

“It’s Easter eggs from Mum,” said Ginny. “There’s one 
for you... There you go...” 

She handed him a handsome chocolate egg decorated 
with small, iced Snitches and, according to the 
packaging, containing a bag of Fizzing Whizbees. 



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Harry looked at it for a moment, then, to his horror, 
felt a hard lump rise in his throat. 



“Are you okay, Harry?” asked Ginny quietly. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Harry gruffly. The lump in his 
throat was painful. He did not understand why an 
Easter egg should have made him feel like this. 

“You seem really down lately,” Ginny persisted. “You 
know, I’m sure if you just talked to Cho ...” 

“It’s not Cho I want to talk to,” said Harry brusquely. 

“Who is it, then?” asked Ginny. 



He glanced around to make quite sure that nobody 
was listening; Madam Pince was several shelves away, 
stamping out a pile of books for a frantic-looking 
Hannah Abbott. 

“I wish I could talk to Sirius,” he muttered. “But I 
know I can’t.” 

More to give himself something to do than because he 
really wanted any, Harry unwrapped his Easter egg, 
broke off a large bit, and put it into his mouth. 

“Well,” said Ginny slowly, helping herself to a bit of 
egg too, “if you really want to talk to Sirius, I expect 
we could think of a way to do it...” 

“Come on,” said Harry hopelessly. “With Umbridge 
policing the fires and reading all our mail?” 

“The thing about growing up with Fred and George,” 
said Ginny thoughtfully, “is that you sort of start 

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thinking anything’s possible if you’ve got enough 
nerve.” 

Harry looked at her. Perhaps it was the effect of the 
chocolate — Lupin had always advised eating some 
after encounters with dementors — or simply because 
he had finally spoken aloud the wish that had been 
burning inside him for a week, but he felt a bit more 
hopeful... 

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?” 

“Oh damn,” whispered Ginny, jumping to her feet. “I 
forgot—” 

Madam Pince was swooping down upon them, her 
shriveled face contorted with rage. 

“ Chocolate in the library\” she screamed. “Out — out 
— OUT!” 

And whipping out her wand, she caused Harry’s 
books, bag, and ink bottle to chase him and Ginny 
from the library, whacking them repeatedly over the 
head as they ran. 

As though to underline the importance of their 
upcoming examinations, a batch of pamphlets, 
leaflets, and notices concerning various Wizarding 
careers appeared on the tables in Gryffindor Tower 
shortly before the end of the holidays, along with yet 
another notice on the board, which read: 

CAREER ADVICE 

All fifth years will be required to attend a short 
meeting with their Head of House during the first 
week of the Summer term, in which they will be given 



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the opportunity to discuss their future careers. Times 
of individual appointments are listed below. 



Harry looked down the list and found that he was 
expected in Professor McGonagall’s office at half-past 
two on Monday, which would mean missing most of 
Divination. He and the other fifth years spent a 
considerable part of the final weekend of the Easter 
break reading all the career information that had 
been left there for their perusal. 

“Well, I don’t fancy Healing,” said Ron on the last 
evening of the holidays. He was immersed in a leaflet 
that carried the crossed bone-and-wand emblem of 
St. Mungo’s on its front. “It says here you need at 
least an E at N.E.W.T. level in Potions, Herbology, 
Transfiguration, Charms, and Defense Against the 
Dark Arts. I mean ... blimey... Don’t want much, do 
they?” 

“Well, it’s a very responsible job, isn’t it?” said 
Hermione absently. She was poring over a bright 
pink-and-orange leaflet that was headed SO YOU 
THINK YOU’D LIKE TO WORK IN MUGGLE 
RELATIONS? “You don’t seem to need many 
qualifications to liaise with Muggles... All they want is 
an O.W.L. in Muggle Studies... ‘Much more important 
is your enthusiasm, patience, and a good sense offunV 



“You’d need more than a good sense of fun to liaise 
with my uncle,” said Harry darkly. “Good sense of 
when to duck, more like ...” He was halfway through 
a pamphlet on Wizard banking. “Listen to this: 

“ ‘Are you seeking a challenging career involving travel, 
adventure, and substantial, danger-related treasure 
bonuses? Then consider a position with Gringotts 
Wizarding Bank, who are currently recruiting Curse- 

P a g e | 838Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




Breakers for thrilling opportunities abroad...’ They 
want Arithmancy, though... You could do it, 
Hermione!” 

“I don’t much fancy banking,” said Hermione vaguely, 
now immersed in HAVE YOU GOT WHAT IT TAKES 
TO TRAIN SECURITY TROLLS? 

“Hey,” said a voice in Harry’s ear. He looked around; 
Fred and George had come to join them. “Ginny’s had 
a word with us about you,” said Fred, stretching out 
his legs on the table in front of them and causing 
several booklets on careers with the Ministry of Magic 
to slide off onto the floor. “She says you need to talk 
to Sirius?” 

“What?” said Hermione sharply, freezing with her 
hand halfway toward picking up MAKE A BANG AT 
THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL ACCIDENTS AND 
CATASTROPHES. 

“Yeah ...” said Harry, trying to sound casual, “yeah, I 
thought I’d like — ” 

“Don’t be so ridiculous,” said Hermione, straightening 
up and looking at him as though she could not 
believe her eyes. “With Umbridge groping around in 
the fires and frisking all the owls?” 

“Well, we think we can find a way around that,” said 
George, stretching and smiling. “It’s a simple matter 
of causing a diversion. Now, you might have noticed 
that we have been rather quiet on the mayhem front 
during the Easter holidays?” 

“What was the point, we asked ourselves, of 
disrupting leisure time?” continued Fred. “No point at 
all, we answered ourselves. And of course, we’d have 



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messed up people’s studying too, which would be the 
very last thing we’d want to do.” 

He gave Hermione a sanctimonious little nod. She 
looked rather taken aback by this thoughtfulness. 

“But it’s business as usual from tomorrow,” Fred 
continued briskly. “And if we’re going to be causing a 
bit of uproar, why not do it so that Harry can have his 
chat with Sirius?” 

“Yes, but still,” said Hermione with an air of 
explaining something very simple to somebody very 
obtuse, “even if you do cause a diversion, how is 
Harry supposed to talk to him?” 

“Umbridge’s office,” said Harry quietly. 

He had been thinking about it for a fortnight and 
could think of no alternative; Umbridge herself had 
told him that the only fire that was not being watched 
was her own. 

“Are — you — insane?” said Hermione in a hushed 
voice. 

Ron had lowered his leaflet on jobs in the cultivated 
fungus trade and was watching the conversation 
warily. 

“I don’t think so,” said Harry, shrugging. 

“And how are you going to get in there in the first 
place?” 

Harry was ready for this question. 

“Sirius’s knife,” he said. 



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“Excuse me?” 



“Christmas before last Sirius gave me a knife that’ll 
open any lock,” said Harry. “So even if she’s 
bewitched the door so Alohomora won’t work, which I 
bet she has — ” 

“What do you think about this?” Hermione demanded 
of Ron, and Harry was reminded irresistibly of Mrs. 
Weasley appealing to her husband during Harry’s first 
dinner in Grimmauld Place. 

“I dunno,” said Ron, looking alarmed at being asked 
to give an opinion. “If Harry wants to do it, it’s up to 
him, isn’t it?” 

“Spoken like a true friend and Weasley,” said Fred, 
clapping Ron hard on the back. “Right, then. We’re 
thinking of doing it tomorrow, just after lessons, 
because it should cause maximum impact if 
everybody’s in the corridors — Harry, we’ll set it off in 
the east wing somewhere, draw her right away from 
her own office — I reckon we should be able to 
guarantee you, what, twenty minutes?” he said, 
looking at George. 

“Easy,” said George. 

“What sort of diversion is it?” asked Ron. 

“You’ll see, little bro,” said Fred, as he and George got 
up again. “At least, you will if you trot along to 
Gregory the Smarmy’s corridor round about five 
o’clock tomorrow.” 

Harry awoke very early the next day, feeling almost as 
anxious as he had done on the morning of his hearing 
at the Ministry of Magic. It was not only the prospect 
of breaking into Umbridge’s office and using her fire 

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to speak to Sirius that was making him feel nervous, 
though that was certainly bad enough — today also 
happened to be the first time he would be in close 
proximity with Snape since Snape had thrown him 
out of his office, as they had Potions that day. 

After lying in bed for a while thinking about the day 
ahead, Harry got up very quietly and moved across to 
the window beside Neville’s bed, staring out on a truly 
glorious morning. The sky was a clear, misty, 
opalescent blue. Directly ahead of him, Harry could 
see the towering beech tree below which his father 
had once tormented Snape. He was not sure what 
Sirius could possibly say to him that would make up 
for what he had seen in the Pensieve, but he was 
desperate to hear Sirius’s own account of what had 
happened, to know of any mitigating factors there 
might have been, any excuse at all for his father’s 
behavior. . . 

Something caught Harry’s attention: movement on 
the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Harry squinted into 
the sun and saw Hagrid emerging from between the 
trees. He seemed to be limping. As Harry watched, 
Hagrid staggered to the door of his cabin and 
disappeared inside it. Harry watched the cabin for 
several minutes. Hagrid did not emerge again, but 
smoke furled from the chimney, so Hagrid could not 
be so badly injured that he was unequal to stoking 
the fire... 

Harry turned away from the window, headed back to 
his trunk, and started to dress. 

With the prospect of forcing entry into Umbridge’s 
office ahead, Harry had never expected the day to be a 
restful one, but he had not reckoned on Hermione’s 
almost continual attempts to dissuade him from what 
he was planning to do at five o’clock. For the first time 
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ever, she was at least as inattentive to Professor 
Binns in History of Magic as Harry and Ron were, 
keeping up a stream of whispered admonitions that 
Harry tried very hard to ignore. 

"... and if she does catch you there, apart from being 
expelled, shell be able to guess you’ve been talking to 
Snuffles and this time I expect she’ll force you to 
drink Veritaserum and answer her questions...” 

“Hermione,” said Ron in a low and indignant voice, 
“are you going to stop telling Harry off and listen to 
Binns, or am I going to have to take notes instead?” 

“You take notes for a change, it won’t kill you!” 

By the time they reached the dungeons, neither Harry 
nor Ron was speaking to Hermione any longer. 
Undeterred, she took advantage of their silence to 
maintain an uninterrupted flow of dire warnings, all 
uttered under her breath in a vehement hiss that 
caused Seamus to waste five whole minutes checking 
his cauldron for leaks. 

Snape, meanwhile, seemed to have decided to act as 
though Harry were invisible. Harry was, of course, 
well used to this tactic, as it was one of Uncle 
Vernon’s favorites, and on the whole was grateful he 
had to suffer nothing worse. In fact, compared to 
what he usually had to endure from Snape in the way 
of taunts and snide remarks, he found the new 
approach something of an improvement and was 
pleased to find that when left well alone, he was able 
to concoct an Invigoration Draught quite easily. At the 
end of the lesson he scooped some of the potion into a 
flask, corked it, and took it up to Snape’s desk for 
marking, feeling that he might at last have scraped an 
E. 



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He had just turned away when he heard a smashing 
noise; Malfoy gave a gleeful yell of laughter. Harry 
whipped around again. His potion sample lay in 
pieces on the floor, and Snape was watching him with 
a look of gloating pleasure. 

“Whoops,” he said softly. “Another zero, then, Potter 



Harry was too incensed to speak. He strode back to 
his cauldron, intending to fill another flask and force 
Snape to mark it, but saw to his horror that the rest 
of the contents had vanished. 

“I’m sorry!” said Hermione with her hands over her 
mouth. “I’m really sorry, Harry, I thought you’d 
finished, so I cleared up!” 

Harry could not bring himself to answer. When the 
bell rang he hurried out of the dungeon without a 
backward glance and made sure that he found 
himself a seat between Neville and Seamus for lunch 
so that Hermione could not start nagging him about 
using Umbridge’s office again. 

He was in such a bad mood by the time that he got to 
Divination that he had quite forgotten his career 
appointment with Professor McGonagall, 
remembering only when Ron asked him why he 
wasn’t in her office. He hurtled back upstairs and 
arrived out of breath, only a few minutes late. 

“Sorry, Professor,” he panted, as he closed the door. “I 
forgot...” 

“No matter, Potter,” she said briskly, but as she 
spoke, somebody else sniffed from the corner. Harry 
looked around. 



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Professor Umbridge was sitting there, a clipboard on 
her knee, a fussy little pie-frill around her neck, and a 
small, horribly smug smile on her face. 

“Sit down, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall tersely. 
Her hands shook slightly as she shuffled the many 
pamphlets littering her desk. 

Harry sat down with his back to Umbridge and did 
his best to pretend he could not hear the scratching 
of her quill on her clipboard. 

“Well, Potter, this meeting is to talk over any career 
ideas you might have, and to help you decide which 
subjects you should continue into sixth and seventh 
years,” said Professor McGonagall. “Have you had any 
thoughts about what you would like to do after you 
leave Hogwarts?” 

“Er,” said Harry. 

He was finding the scratching noise from behind him 
very distracting. 

“Yes?” Professor McGonagall prompted Harry. 

“Well, I thought of, maybe, being an Auror,” Harry 
mumbled. 

“You’d need top grades for that,” said Professor 
McGonagall, extracting a small, dark leaflet from 
under the mass on her desk and opening it. “They ask 
for a minimum of five N.E.W.T.s, and nothing under 
‘Exceeds Expectations’ grade, I see. Then you would 
be required to undergo a stringent series of character 
and aptitude tests at the Auror office. It’s a difficult 
career path, Potter; they only take the best. In fact, I 
don’t think anybody has been taken on in the last 
three years.” 

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At this moment Professor Umbridge gave a very tiny 
cough, as though she was trying to see how quietly 
she could do it. Professor McGonagall ignored her. 

“You’ll want to know which subjects you ought to 
take, I suppose?” she went on, talking a little more 
loudly than before. 

“Yes,” said Harry. “Defense Against the Dark Arts, I 
suppose?” 

“Naturally,” said Professor McGonagall crisply. “I 
would also advise — ” 

Professor Umbridge gave another cough, a little more 
audible this time. Professor McGonagall closed her 
eyes for a moment, opened them again, and 
continued as though nothing had happened. 

“I would also advise Transfiguration, because Aurors 
frequently need to Transfigure or Untransfigure in 
their work. And I ought to tell you now, Potter, that I 
do not accept students into my N.E.W.T. classes 
unless they have achieved ‘Exceeds Expectations’ or 
higher at Ordinary Wizarding Level. I’d say you’re 
averaging ‘Acceptable’ at the moment, so you’ll need 
to put in some good hard work before the exams to 
stand a chance of continuing. Then you ought to do 
Charms, always useful, and Potions. Yes, Potter, 
Potions,” she added, with the merest flicker of a smile. 
“Poisons and antidotes are essential study for Aurors. 
And I must tell you that Professor Snape absolutely 
refuses to take students who get anything other than 
‘Outstanding’ in their O.W.L.s, so — ” 

Professor Umbridge gave her most pronounced cough 
yet. 



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“May I offer you a cough drop, Dolores?” Professor 
McGonagall asked curtly, without looking at Professor 
Umbridge. 

“Oh no, thank you very much,” said Umbridge, with 
that simpering laugh Harry hated so much. “I just 
wondered whether I could make the teensiest 
interruption, Minerva?” 

“I daresay you 11 find you can,” said Professor 
McGonagall through tightly gritted teeth. 

“I was just wondering whether Mr. Potter has quite 
the temperament for an Auror?” said Professor 
Umbridge sweetly. 

“Were you?” said Professor McGonagall haughtily. 
“Well, Potter,” she continued, as though there had 
been no interruption, “if you are serious in this 
ambition, I would advise you to concentrate hard on 
bringing your Transfiguration and Potions up to 
scratch. I see Professor Flitwick has graded you 
between Acceptable’ and ‘Exceeds Expectations’ for 
the last two years, so your Charm work seems 
satisfactory; as for Defense Against the Dark Arts, 
your marks have been generally high, Professor Lupin 
in particular thought you — are you quite sure you 
wouldn’t like a cough drop, Dolores?” 

“Oh, no need, thank you, Minerva,” simpered 
Professor Umbridge, who had just coughed her 
loudest yet. “I was just concerned that you might not 
have Harry’s most recent Defense Against the Dark 
Arts marks in front of you. I’m quite sure I slipped in 
a note ...” 

“What, this thing?” said Professor McGonagall in a 
tone of revulsion, as she pulled a sheet of pink 
parchment from between the leaves of Harry’s folder. 

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She glanced down it, her eyebrows slightly raised, 
then placed it back into the folder without comment. 

“Yes, as I was saying, Potter, Professor Lupin thought 
you showed a pronounced aptitude for the subject, 
and obviously for an Auror — ” 

“Did you not understand my note, Minerva?” asked 
Professor Umbridge in honeyed tones, quite forgetting 
to cough. 

“Of course I understood it,” said Professor 
McGonagall, her teeth clenched so tightly that the 
words came out a little muffled. 

“Well, then, I am confused... I’m afraid I don’t quite 
understand how you can give Mr. Potter false hope 
that — ” 

“False hope?” repeated Professor McGonagall, still 
refusing to look round at Professor Umbridge. “He has 
achieved high marks in all his Defense Against the 
Dark Arts tests — ” 

“I’m terribly sorry to have to contradict you, Minerva, 
but as you will see from my note, Harry has been 
achieving very poor results in his classes with me — ” 

“I should have made my meaning plainer,” said 
Professor McGonagall, turning at last to look 
Umbridge directly in the eyes. “He has achieved high 
marks in all Defense Against the Dark Arts tests set 
by a competent teacher.” 

Professor Umbridge’s smile vanished as suddenly as a 
lightbulb blowing. She sat back in her chair, turned a 
sheet on her clipboard, and began scribbling very fast 
indeed, her bulging eyes rolling from side to side. 



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Professor McGonagall turned back to Harry, her thin 
nostrils flared, her eyes burning. 

“Any questions, Potter?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “What sort of character and 
aptitude tests do the Ministry do on you, if you get 
enough N.E.W.T.s?” 

“Well, you’ll need to demonstrate the ability to react 
well to pressure and so forth,” said Professor 
McGonagall, “perseverance and dedication, because 
Auror training takes a further three years, not to 
mention very high skills in practical defense. It will 
mean a lot more study even after you’ve left school, so 
unless you’re prepared to — ” 

“I think you’ll also find,” said Umbridge, her voice 
very cold now, “that the Ministry looks into the 
records of those applying to be Aurors. Their criminal 
records.” 

“ — unless you’re prepared to take even more exams 
after Hogwarts, you should really look at another — ” 

“ — which means that this boy has as much chance of 
becoming an Auror as Dumbledore has of ever 
returning to this school.” 

“A very good chance, then,” said Professor 
McGonagall. 

“Potter has a criminal record,” said Umbridge loudly. 

“Potter has been cleared of all charges,” said Professor 
McGonagall, even more loudly. 

Professor Umbridge stood up. She was so short that 
this did not make a great deal of difference, but her 

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fussy, simpering demeanor had given place to a hard 
fury that made her broad, flabby face look oddly 
sinister. 

“Potter has no chance whatsoever of becoming an 
Auror!” 

Professor McGonagall got to her feet too, and in her 
case this was a much more impressive move. She 
towered over Professor Umbridge. 

“Potter,” she said in ringing tones, “I will assist you to 
become an Auror if it is the last thing I do! If I have to 
coach you nightly I will make sure you achieve the 
required results!” 

“The Minister of Magic will never employ Harry 
Potter!” said Umbridge, her voice rising furiously. 

“There may well be a new Minister of Magic by the 
time Potter is ready to join!” shouted Professor 
McGonagall. 

“Aha!” shrieked Professor Umbridge, pointing a 
stubby finger at McGonagall. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Of 
course! That’s what you want, isn’t it, Minerva 
McGonagall? You want Cornelius Fudge replaced by 
Albus Dumbledore! You think you’ll be where I am, 
don’t you, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and 
headmistress to boot!” 

“You are raving,” said Professor McGonagall, superbly 
disdainful. “Potter, that concludes our career 
consultation.” 

Harry swung his bag over his shoulder and hurried 
out of the room, not daring to look at Umbridge. He 
could hear her and Professor McGonagall continuing 



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to shout at each other all the way back along the 
corridor. 

Professor Umbridge was still breathing as though she 
had just run a race when she strode into their 
Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson that afternoon. 

“I hope you’ve thought better of what you were 
planning to do, Harry,” Hermione whispered, the 
moment they had opened their books to chapter 
thirty- four (“Non-Retaliation and Negotiation”). 
“Umbridge looks like she’s in a really bad mood 
already...” 

Every now and then Umbridge shot glowering looks at 
Harry, who kept his head down, staring at Defensive 
Magical Theory, his eyes unfocused, thinking... 

He could just imagine Professor McGonagall’s 
reaction if he were caught trespassing in Professor 
Umbridge’s office mere hours after she had vouched 
for him. . . There was nothing to stop him simply going 
back to Gryffindor Tower and hoping that sometime 
during the next summer holiday he would have a 
chance to ask Sirius about the scene he had 
witnessed in the Pensieve... Nothing, except that the 
thought of taking this sensible course of action made 
him feel as though a lead weight had dropped into his 
stomach... And then there was the matter of Fred and 
George, whose diversion was already planned, not to 
mention the knife Sirius had given him, which was 
currently residing in his schoolbag along with his 
father’s old Invisibility Cloak... 

But the fact remained that if he were caught . . . 

“Dumbledore sacrificed himself to keep you in school, 
Harry!” whispered Hermione, raising her book to hide 



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her face from Umbridge. “And if you get thrown out 
today it will all have been for nothing!” 



He could abandon the plan and simply learn to live 
with the memory of what his father had done on a 
summer’s day more than twenty years ago... 

And then he remembered Sirius in the fire upstairs in 
the Gryffindor common room... ’’You ’re less like your 
father than I thought... The risk would’ve been what 
made it fun for James...” 

But did he want to be like his father anymore? 

“Harry, don’t do it, please don’t do it!” Hermione said 
in anguished tones as the bell rang at the end of the 
class. 

He did not answer; he did not know what to do. Ron 
seemed determined to give neither his opinion nor his 
advice. He would not look at Harry, though when 
Hermione opened her mouth to try dissuading Harry 
some more, he said in a low voice, “Give it a rest, 
okay? He can make up his own mind.” 

Harry’s heart beat very fast as he left the classroom. 
He was halfway along the corridor outside when he 
heard the unmistakable sounds of a diversion going 
off in the distance. There were screams and yells 
reverberating from somewhere above them. People 
exiting the classrooms all around Harry were stopping 
in their tracks and looking up at the ceiling fearfully 



Then Umbridge came pelting out of her classroom as 
fast as her short legs would carry her. Pulling out her 
wand, she hurried off in the opposite direction: It was 
now or never. 



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“Harry — please!” said Hermione weakly. 



But he had made up his mind — hitching his bag 
more securely onto his shoulder he set off at a run, 
weaving in and out of students now hurrying in the 
opposite direction, off to see what all the fuss was 
about in the east wing... 

Harry reached the corridor where Umbridge’s office 
was situated and found it deserted. Dashing behind a 
large suit of armor whose helmet creaked around to 
watch him, he pulled open his bag, seized Sirius’s 
knife, and donned the Invisibility Cloak. He then 
crept slowly and carefully back out from behind the 
suit of armor and along the corridor until he reached 
Umbridge’s door. 

He inserted the blade of the magical knife into the 
crack around it and moved it gently up and down, 
then withdrew it. There was a tiny click, and the door 
swung open. He ducked inside the office, closed the 
door quickly behind him, and looked around. 

It was empty; nothing was moving except the horrible 
kittens on the plates continuing to frolic on the wall 
above the confiscated broomsticks. 

Harry pulled off his cloak and, striding over to the 
fireplace, found what he was looking for within 
seconds: a small box containing glittering Floo 
powder. 

He crouched down in front of the empty grate, his 
hands shaking. He had never done this before, 
though he thought he knew how it must work. 
Sticking his head into the fireplace, he took a large 
pinch of powder and dropped it onto the logs stacked 
neatly beneath him. They exploded at once into 
emerald-green flames. 

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“Number twelve, Grimmauld Place!” Harry said loudly 
and clearly. 



It was one of the most curious sensations he had ever 
experienced; he had traveled by Floo powder before, of 
course, but then it had been his entire body that had 
spun around and around in the flames through the 
network of Wizarding fireplaces that stretched over 
the country: This time, his knees remained firm upon 
the cold floor of Umbridge’s office, and only his head 
hurtled through the emerald fire... 

And then, abruptly as it had begun, the spinning 
stopped. Feeling rather sick and as though he was 
wearing an exceptionally hot muffler around his head, 
Harry opened his eyes to find that he was looking up 
out of the kitchen fireplace at the long, wooden table, 
where a man sat poring over a piece of parchment. 

“Sirius?” 

The man jumped and looked around. It was not 
Sirius, but Lupin. 

“Harry!” he said, looking thoroughly shocked. “What 
are you — what’s happened, is everything all right?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I just wondered — I mean, I just 
fancied a — a chat with Sirius.” 

“I’ll call him,” said Lupin, getting to his feet, still 
looking perplexed. “He went upstairs to look for 
Kreacher, he seems to be hiding in the attic again...” 

And Harry saw Lupin hurry out of the kitchen. Now 
he was left with nothing to look at but the chair and 
table legs. He wondered why Sirius had never 
mentioned how very uncomfortable it was to speak 
out of the fire — his knees were already objecting 
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painfully to their prolonged contact with Umbridge’s 
hard stone floor. 



Lupin returned with Sirius at his heels moments 
later. 

“What is it?” said Sirius urgently, sweeping his long 
dark hair out of his eyes and dropping to the ground 
in front of the fire, so that he and Harry were on a 
level; Lupin knelt down too, looking very concerned. 
“Are you all right? Do you need help?” 

“No,” said Harry, “it’s nothing like that... I just wanted 
to talk ... about my dad...” 

They exchanged a look of great surprise, but Harry 
did not have time to feel awkward or embarrassed; his 
knees were becoming sorer by the second, and he 
guessed that five minutes had already passed from 
the start of the diversion — George had only 
guaranteed him twenty. He therefore plunged 
immediately into the story of what he had seen in the 
Pensieve. 

When he had finished, neither Sirius nor Lupin spoke 
for a moment. Then Lupin said quietly, “I wouldn’t 
like you to judge your father on what you saw there, 
Harry. He was only fifteen — ” 

“I’m fifteen!” said Harry heatedly. 

“Look, Harry,” said Sirius placatingly, “James and 
Snape hated each other from the moment they set 
eyes on each other, it was just one of those things, 
you can understand that, can’t you? I think James 
was everything Snape wanted to be — he was 
popular, he was good at Quidditch, good at pretty 
much everything. And Snape was just this little 
oddball who was up to his eyes in the Dark Arts and 
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James — whatever else he may have appeared to you, 
Harry — always hated the Dark Arts.” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but he just attacked Snape for no 
good reason, just because — well, just because you 
said you were bored,” he finished with a slightly 
apologetic note in his voice. 

“I’m not proud of it,” said Sirius quickly. 

Lupin looked sideways at Sirius and then said, “Look, 
Harry, what you’ve got to understand is that your 
father and Sirius were the best in the school at 
whatever they did — everyone thought they were the 
height of cool — if they sometimes got a bit carried 
away — ” 

“If we were sometimes arrogant little berks, you 
mean,” said Sirius. 

Lupin smiled. 

“He kept messing up his hair,” said Harry in a pained 
voice. 

Sirius and Lupin laughed. 

“I’d forgotten he used to do that,” said Sirius 
affectionately. 

“Was he playing with the Snitch?” said Lupin eagerly. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, watching uncomprehendingly as 
Sirius and Lupin beamed reminiscently. “Well ... I 
thought he was a bit of an idiot.” 

“Of course he was a bit of an idiot!” said Sirius 
bracingly. “We were all idiots! Well — not Moony so 



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much,” he said fairly, looking at Lupin, but Lupin 
shook his head. 

“Did I ever tell you to lay off Snape?” he said. “Did I 
ever have the guts to tell you I thought you were out 
of order?” 

“Yeah, well,” said Sirius, “you made us feel ashamed 
of ourselves sometimes... That was something...” 

“And,” said Harry doggedly, determined to say 
everything that was on his mind now he was here, “he 
kept looking over at the girls by the lake, hoping they 
were watching him!” 

“Oh, well, he always made a fool of himself whenever 
Lily was around,” said Sirius, shrugging. “He couldn’t 
stop himself showing off whenever he got near her.” 

“How come she married him?” Harry asked miserably. 
“She hated him!” 

“Nah, she didn’t,” said Sirius. 

“She started going out with him in seventh year,” said 
Lupin. 

“Once James had deflated his head a bit,” said Sirius. 

“And stopped hexing people just for the fun of it,” said 
Lupin. 

“Even Snape?” said Harry. 

“Well,” said Lupin slowly, “Snape was a special case. I 
mean, he never lost an opportunity to curse James, 
so you couldn’t really expect James to take that lying 
down, could you?” 



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“And my mum was okay with that?” 

“She didn’t know too much about it, to tell you the 
truth,” said Sirius. “I mean, James didn’t take Snape 
on dates with her and jinx him in front of her, did 
he?” 

Sirius frowned at Harry, who was still looking 
unconvinced. 

“Look,” he said, “your father was the best friend I ever 
had, and he was a good person. A lot of people are 
idiots at the age of fifteen. He grew out of it.” 

“Yeah, okay,” said Harry heavily. “I just never thought 
I’d feel sorry for Snape.” 

“Now you mention it,” said Lupin, a faint crease 
between his eyebrows, “how did Snape react when he 
found you’d seen all this?” 

“He told me he’d never teach me Occlumency again,” 
said Harry indifferently, “like that’s a big disappoint 



“He WHAT?” shouted Sirius, causing Harry to jump 
and inhale a mouthful of ashes. 

“Are you serious, Harry?” said Lupin quickly. “He’s 
stopped giving you lessons?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, surprised at what he considered a 
great overreaction. “But it’s okay, I don’t care, it’s a 
bit of a relief to tell you the — ” 

“I’m coming up there to have a word with Snape!” said 
Sirius forcefully and he actually made to stand up, 
but Lupin wrenched him back down again. 



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“If anyone’s going to tell Snape it will be me!” he said 
firmly. “But Harry, first of all, you’re to go back to 
Snape and tell him that on no account is he to stop 
giving you lessons — when Dumbledore hears — ” 

“I can’t tell him that, he’d kill me!” said Harry, 
outraged. “You didn’t see him when we got out of the 
Pensieve — ” 

“Harry, there is nothing so important as you learning 
Occlumency!” said Lupin sternly. “Do you understand 
me? Nothing!” 

“Okay, okay,” said Harry, thoroughly discomposed, 
not to mention annoyed. “I’ll ... I’ll try and say 
something to him... But it won’t be ...” 

He fell silent. He could hear distant footsteps. 

“Is that Kreacher coming downstairs?” 

“No,” said Sirius, glancing behind him. “It must be 
somebody your end ...” 

Harry’s heart skipped several beats. 

“I’d better go!” he said hastily and he pulled his head 
backward out of Grimmauld Place’s fire. For a 
moment his head seemed to be revolving on his 
shoulders, and then he found himself kneeling in 
front of Umbridge’s fire with his head firmly back on, 
watching the emerald flames flicker and die. 

“Quickly, quickly!” he heard a wheezy voice mutter 
right outside the office door. “Ah, she’s left it open...” 

Harry dived for the Invisibility Cloak and had just 
managed to pull it back over himself when Filch burst 
into the office. He looked absolutely delighted about 

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something and was talking to himself feverishly as he 
crossed the room, pulled open a drawer in Umbridge’s 
desk, and began rifling through the papers inside it. 

“Approval for Whipping . . . Approval for Whipping ... I 
can do it at last... They’ve had it coming to them for 
years...” 

He pulled out a piece of parchment, kissed it, then 
shuffled rapidly back out of the door, clutching it to 
his chest. 

Harry leapt to his feet and, making sure that he had 
his bag and the Invisibility Cloak was completely 
covering him, he wrenched open the door and hurried 
out of the office after Filch, who was hobbling along 
faster than Harry had ever seen him go. 

One landing down from Umbridge’s office and Harry 
thought it was safe to become visible again; he pulled 
off the cloak, shoved it in his bag and hurried 
onward. There was a great deal of shouting and 
movement coming from the entrance hall. He ran 
down the marble staircase and found what looked like 
most of the school assembled there. 

It was just like the night when Trelawney had been 
sacked. Students were standing all around the walls 
in a great ring (some of them, Harry noticed, covered 
in a substance that looked very like Stinksap); 
teachers and ghosts were also in the crowd. 

Prominent among the onlookers were members of the 
Inquisitorial Squad, who were all looking 
exceptionally pleased with themselves, and Peeves, 
who was bobbing overhead, gazed down upon Fred 
and George, who stood in the middle of the floor with 
the unmistakable look of two people who had just 
been cornered. 



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“So!” said Umbridge triumphantly, whom Harry 
realized was standing just a few stairs in front of him, 
once more looking down upon her prey. “So . . . you 
think it amusing to turn a school corridor into a 
swamp, do you?” 

“Pretty amusing, yeah,” said Fred, looking back up at 
her without the slightest sign of fear. 

Filch elbowed his way closer to Umbridge, almost 
crying with happiness. 

“I’ve got the form, Headmistress,” he said hoarsely, 
waving the piece of parchment Harry had just seen 
him take from her desk. “I’ve got the form and I’ve got 
the whips waiting... Oh, let me do it now...” 

“Very good, Argus,” she said. “You two,” she went on, 
gazing down at Fred and George, “are about to learn 
what happens to wrongdoers in my school.” 

“You know what?” said Fred. “I don’t think we are.” 

He turned to his twin. 

“George,” said Fred, “I think we’ve outgrown full-time 
education.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling that way myself,” said George 
lightly. 

“Time to test our talents in the real world, d’you 
reckon?” asked Fred. 

“Definitely,” said George. 

And before Umbridge could say a word, they raised 
their wands and said together, “Accio BroomsV’ 



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Harry heard a loud crash somewhere in the distance. 
Looking to his left he ducked just in time — Fred and 
George’s broomsticks, one still trailing the heavy 
chain and iron peg with which Umbridge had fastened 
them to the wall, were hurtling along the corridor 
toward their owners. They turned left, streaked down 
the stairs, and stopped sharply in front of the twins, 
the chain clattering loudly on the flagged stone floor. 

“We won’t be seeing you,” Fred told Professor 
Umbridge, swinging his leg over his broomstick. 

“Yeah, don’t bother to keep in touch,” said George, 
mounting his own. 

Fred looked around at the assembled students, and 
at the silent, watchful crowd. 

“If anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as 
demonstrated upstairs, come to number ninety-three, 
Diagon Alley — Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes,” he 
said in a loud voice. “Our new premises!” 

“Special discounts to Hogwarts students who swear 
they’re going to use our products to get rid of this old 
bat,” added George, pointing at Professor Umbridge. 

“STOP THEM!” shrieked Umbridge, but it was too late. 
As the Inquisitorial Squad closed in, Fred and George 
kicked off from the floor, shooting fifteen feet into the 
air, the iron peg swinging dangerously below. Fred 
looked across the hall at the poltergeist bobbing on 
his level above the crowd. 

“Give her hell from us, Peeves.” 

And Peeves, whom Harry had never seen take an 
order from a student before, swept his belled hat from 
his head and sprang to a salute as Fred and George 

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wheeled about to tumultuous applause from the 
students below and sped out of the open front doors 
into the glorious sunset. 



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GRAWP 

The story of Fred and George’s flight to freedom was 
retold so often over the next few days that Harry 
could tell it would soon become the stuff of Hogwarts 
legend. Within a week, even those who had been 
eyewitnesses were half- convinced that they had seen 
the twins dive-bomb Umbridge on their brooms, 
pelting her with Dungbombs before zooming out of 
the doors. In the immediate aftermath of their 
departure there was a great wave of talk about 
copying them, so that Harry frequently heard 
students saying things like, “Honestly, some days I 
just feel like jumping on my broom and leaving this 
place,” or else, “One more lesson like that and I might 
just do a Weasley...” 

Fred and George had made sure that nobody was 
likely to forget them very soon. For one thing, they 
had not left instructions on how to remove the swamp 
that now filled the corridor on the fifth floor of the 
east wing. Umbridge and Filch had been observed 
trying different means of removing it but without 
success. Eventually the area was roped off and Filch, 
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gnashing his teeth furiously, was given the task of 
punting students across it to their classrooms. Harry 
was certain that teachers like McGonagall or Flitwick 
could have removed the swamp in an instant, but just 
as in the case of Fred and George’s Wildfire Whiz- 
Bangs, they seemed to prefer to watch Umbridge 
struggle. 

Then there were the two large broom-shaped holes in 
Umbridge ’s office door, through which Fred and 
George’s Cleansweeps had smashed to rejoin their 
masters. Filch fitted a new door and removed Harry’s 
Firebolt to the dungeons where, it was rumored, 
Umbridge had set an armed security troll to guard it. 
However, her troubles were far from over. 

Inspired by Fred and George’s example, a great 
number of students were now vying for the newly 
vacant positions of Troublemakers-in-Chief. In spite 
of the new door, somebody managed to slip a hairy- 
snouted niffler into Umbridge ’s office, which promptly 
tore the place apart in its search for shiny objects, 
leapt on Umbridge on her re-entrance, and tried to 
gnaw the rings off her stubby fingers. Dungbombs 
and Stinkpellets were dropped so frequently in the 
corridors that it became the new fashion for students 
to perform Bubble-Head Charms on themselves 
before leaving lessons, which ensured them a supply 
of fresh clean air, even though it gave them all the 
peculiar appearance of wearing upside-down goldfish 
bowls on their heads. 

Filch prowled the corridors with a horsewhip ready in 
his hands, desperate to catch miscreants, but the 
problem was that there were now so many of them 
that he did not know which way to turn. The 
Inquisitorial Squad were attempting to help him, but 
odd things kept happening to its members. 

Warrington of the Slytherin Quidditch team reported 
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to the hospital wing with a horrible skin complaint 
that made him look as though he had been coated in 
cornflakes. Pansy Parkinson, to Hermione’s delight, 
missed all her lessons the following day, as she had 
sprouted antlers. 

Meanwhile it became clear just how many Skiving 
Snackboxes Fred and George had managed to sell 
before leaving Hogwarts. Umbridge only had to enter 
her classroom for the students assembled there to 
faint, vomit, develop dangerous fevers, or else spout 
blood from both nostrils. Shrieking with rage and 
frustration she attempted to trace the mysterious 
symptoms to their source, but the students told her 
stubbornly they were suffering “Umbridge-itis.” After 
putting four successive classes in detention and 
failing to discover their secret she was forced to give 
up and allow the bleeding, swooning, sweating, and 
vomiting students to leave her classes in droves. 

But not even the users of the Snackboxes could 
compete with that master of chaos, Peeves, who 
seemed to have taken Fred’s parting words deeply to 
heart. Cackling madly, he soared through the school, 
upending tables, bursting out of blackboards, and 
toppling statues and vases. Twice he shut Mrs. Norris 
inside suits of armor, from which she was rescued, 
yowling loudly, by the furious caretaker. He smashed 
lanterns and snuffed out candles, juggled burning 
torches over the heads of screaming students, caused 
neatly stacked piles of parchment to topple into fires 
or out of windows, flooded the second floor when he 
pulled off all the taps in the bathrooms, dropped a 
bag of tarantulas in the middle of the Great Hall 
during breakfast and, whenever he fancied a break, 
spent hours at a time floating along after Umbridge 
and blowing loud raspberries every time she spoke. 



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None of the staff but Filch seemed to be stirring 
themselves to help her. Indeed, a week after Fred and 
George’s departure Harry witnessed Professor 
McGonagall walking right past Peeves, who was 
determinedly loosening a crystal chandelier, and 
could have sworn he heard her tell the poltergeist out 
of the corner of her mouth, “It unscrews the other 
way.” 

To cap matters, Montague had still not recovered from 
his sojourn in the toilet. He remained confused and 
disorientated and his parents were to be observed one 
Tuesday morning striding up the front drive, looking 
extremely angry. 

“Should we say something?” said Hermione in a 
worried voice, pressing her cheek against the Charms 
window so that she could see Mr. and Mrs. Montague 
marching inside. “About what happened to him? In 
case it helps Madam Pomfrey cure him?” 

“ ’Course not, he’ll recover,” said Ron indifferently. 

“Anyway, more trouble for Umbridge, isn’t it?” said 
Harry in a satisfied voice. 

He and Ron both tapped the teacups they were 
supposed to be charming with their wands. Harry’s 
spouted four very short legs that would not reach the 
desk and wriggled pointlessly in midair. Ron’s grew 
four very thin spindly legs that hoisted the cup off the 
desk with great difficulty, trembled for a few seconds, 
then folded, causing the cup to crack into two. 

“Reparo\” said Hermione quickly, mending Ron’s cup 
with a wave of her wand. “That’s all very well, but 
what if Montague’s permanently injured?” 



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“Who cares?” said Ron irritably, while his teacup 
stood drunkenly again, trembling violently at the 
knees. “Montague shouldn’t have tried to take all 
those points from Gryffindor, should he? If you want 
to worry about anyone, Hermione, worry about me!” 

“You?” she said, catching her teacup as it scampered 
happily away across the desk on four sturdy little 
willow-patterned legs and replacing it in front of her. 
“Why should I be worried about you?” 

“When Mum’s next letter finally gets through 
Umbridge’s screening process,” said Ron bitterly, now 
holding his cup up while its frail legs tried feebly to 
support its weight, “I’m going to be in deep trouble. I 
wouldn’t be surprised if she’s sent a Howler again.” 

“But — ” 

“It’ll be my fault Fred and George left, you wait,” said 
Ron darkly. “She’ll say I should’ve stopped them 
leaving, I should’ve grabbed the ends of their brooms 
and hung on or something... Yeah, it’ll be all my 
fault...” 

“Well, if she does say that it’ll be very unfair, you 
couldn’t have done anything! But I’m sure she won’t, I 
mean, if it’s really true they’ve got premises in Diagon 
Alley now, they must have been planning this for 
ages...” 

“Yeah, but that’s another thing, how did they get 
premises?” said Ron, hitting his teacup so hard with 
his wand that its legs collapsed again and it lay 
twitching before him. “It’s a bit dodgy, isn’t it? They’ll 
need loads of Galleons to afford the rent on a place in 
Diagon Alley, she’ll want to know what they’ve been 
up to, to get their hands on that sort of gold...” 



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“Well, yes, that occurred to me too,” said Hermione, 
allowing her teacup to jog in neat little circles around 
Harry’s, whose stubby little legs were still unable to 
touch the desktop. “I’ve been wondering whether 
Mundungus has persuaded them to sell stolen goods 
or something awful...” 

“He hasn’t,” said Harry curtly. 

“How do you know?” said Ron and Hermione together. 

“Because — ” Harry hesitated, but the moment to 
confess finally seemed to have come. There was no 
good to be gained in keeping silent if it meant anyone 
suspected that Fred and George were criminals. 
“Because they got the gold from me. I gave them my 
Triwizard winnings last June.” 

There was a shocked silence, then Hermione’s teacup 
jogged right over the edge of the desk and smashed on 
the floor. 

“Oh, Harry, you didn’t” she said. 

“Yes, I did,” said Harry mutinously. “And I don’t regret 
it either — I didn’t need the gold, and they’ll be great 
at a joke shop...” 

“But this is excellent!” said Ron, looking thrilled. “It’s 
all your fault, Harry — Mum can’t blame me at all! 

Can I tell her?” 

“Yeah, I suppose you’d better,” said Harry dully. “ 
’Specially if she thinks they’re receiving stolen 
cauldrons or something...” 

Hermione said nothing at all for the rest of the lesson, 
but Harry had a shrewd suspicion that her self- 
restraint was bound to crack before long. Sure 

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enough, once they had left the castle for break and 
were standing around in the weak May sunshine, she 
fixed Harry with a beady eye and opened her mouth 
with a determined air. 

Harry interrupted her before she had even started. 

“It’s no good nagging me, it’s done,” he said firmly. 
“Fred and George have got the gold — spent a good 
bit of it too, by the sounds of it — and I can’t get it 
back from them and I don’t want to. So save your 
breath, Hermione.” 

“I wasn’t going to say anything about Fred and 
George!” she said in an injured voice. 

Ron snorted disbelievingly and Hermione threw him a 
very dirty look. 

“No, I wasn’t!” she said angrily. “As a matter of fact, I 
was going to ask Harry when he’s going to go back to 
Snape and ask for Occlumency lessons again!” 

Harry’s heart sank. Once they had exhausted the 
subject of Fred and George’s dramatic departure, 
which admittedly had taken many hours, Ron and 
Hermione had wanted to hear news of Sirius. As 
Harry had not confided in them the reason he had 
wanted to talk to Sirius in the first place, it had been 
hard to think of things to tell them. He had ended up 
saying to them truthfully that Sirius wanted Harry to 
resume Occlumency lessons. He had been regretting 
this ever since; Hermione would not let the subject 
drop and kept reverting to it when Harry least 
expected it. 

“You can’t tell me you’ve stopped having funny 
dreams,” Hermione said now, “because Ron told me 
last night you were muttering in your sleep again...” 

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Harry threw Ron a furious look. Ron had the grace to 
look ashamed of himself. 

“You were only muttering a bit,” he mumbled 
apologetically. “Something about ‘just a bit farther.’ ” 

“I dreamed I was watching you lot play Quidditch,” 
Harry lied brutally. “I was trying to get you to stretch 
out a bit farther to grab the Quaffle.” 

Ron’s ears went red. Harry felt a kind of vindictive 
pleasure: He had not, of course, dreamed anything of 
the sort. 

Last night he had once again made the journey along 
the Department of Mysteries corridor. He had passed 
through the circular room, then the room full of 
clicking and dancing light, until he found himself 
again inside that cavernous room full of shelves on 
which were ranged dusty glass spheres... 

He had hurried straight toward row number ninety- 
seven, turned left, and ran along it... It had probably 
been then that he had spoken aloud... Just a bit 
farther . . . for he could feel his conscious self 
struggling to wake . . . and before he had reached the 
end of the row, he had found himself lying in bed 
again, gazing up at the canopy of his four-poster. 

“You are trying to block your mind, aren’t you?” said 
Hermione, looking beadily at Harry. “You are keeping 
going with your Occlumency?” 

“Of course I am,” said Harry, trying to sound as 
though this question was insulting, but not quite 
meeting her eye. The truth was that he was so 
intensely curious about what was hidden in that 
room full of dusty orbs that he was quite keen for the 
dreams to continue. 

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The problem was that with just under a month to go 
until the exams and every free moment devoted to 
studying, his mind seemed saturated with 
information when he went to bed so that he found it 
very difficult to get to sleep at all. When he did, his 
overwrought brain presented him most nights with 
stupid dreams about the exams. He also suspected 
that part of his mind — the part that often spoke in 
Hermione’s voice — now felt guilty on the occasions it 
strayed down that corridor ending in the black door, 
and sought to wake him before he could reach 
journey’s end. 

“You know,” said Ron, whose ears were still flaming 
red, “if Montague doesn’t recover before Slytherin play 
Hufflepuff, we might be in with a chance of winning 
the Cup.” 

“Yeah, I s’pose so,” said Harry, glad of a change of 
subject. 

“I mean, we’ve won one, lost one — if Slytherin lose to 
Hufflepuff next Saturday — ” 

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Harry, losing track of what 
he was agreeing to: Cho Chang had just walked 
across the courtyard, determinedly not looking at 
him. 

The final match of the Quidditch season, Gryffindor 
versus Ravenclaw, was to take place on the last 
weekend of May. Although Slytherin had been 
narrowly defeated by Hufflepuff in their last match, 
Gryffindor was not daring to hope for victory, due 
mainly (though of course nobody said it to him) to 
Ron’s abysmal goalkeeping record. He, however, 
seemed to have found a new optimism. 



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“I mean, I can’t get any worse, can I?” he told Harry 
and Hermione grimly over breakfast on the morning 
of the match. “Nothing to lose now, is there?” 

“You know,” said Hermione, as she and Harry walked 
down to the pitch a little later in the midst of a very 
excitable crowd, “I think Ron might do better without 
Fred and George around. They never exactly gave him 
a lot of confidence...” 

Luna Lovegood overtook them with what appeared to 
be a live eagle perched on top of her head. 

“Oh gosh, I forgot!” said Hermione, watching the eagle 
flapping its wings as Luna walked serenely past a 
group of cackling and pointing Slytherins. “Cho will 
be playing, won’t she?” 

Harry, who had not forgotten this, merely grunted. 

They found seats in the topmost row of the stands. It 
was a fine, clear day. Ron could not wish for better, 
and Harry found himself hoping against hope that 
Ron would not give the Slytherins cause for more 
rousing choruses of “Weasley Is Our King.” 

Lee Jordan, who had been very dispirited since Fred 
and George had left, was commentating as usual. As 
the teams zoomed out onto the pitches he named the 
players with something less than his usual gusto. 

"... Bradley ... Davies ... Chang,” he said, and Harry 
felt his stomach perform, less of a back flip, more a 
feeble lurch as Cho walked out onto the pitch, her 
shiny black hair rippling in the slight breeze. He was 
not sure what he wanted to happen anymore, except 
that he could not stand any more rows. Even the 
sight of her chatting animatedly to Roger Davies as 



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they prepared to mount their brooms caused him only 
a slight twinge of jealousy. 

“And they’re off!” said Lee. “And Davies takes the 
Quaffle immediately, Ravenclaw Captain Davies with 
the Quaffle, he dodges Johnson, he dodges Bell, he 
dodges Spinnet as well... He’s going straight for goal! 
He’s going to shoot — and — and — ” Lee swore very 
loudly. “And he’s scored.” 

Harry and Hermione groaned with the rest of the 
Gryffindors. Predictably, horribly, the Slytherins on 
the other side of the stands began to sing: 

Weasley cannot save a thing, 

He cannot block a single ring . . . 

“Harry,” said a hoarse voice in Harry’s ear. “Hermione 



Harry looked around and saw Hagrid’s enormous 
bearded face sticking between the seats; apparently 
he had squeezed his way all along the row behind, for 
the first and second years he had just passed had a 
ruffled, flattened look about them. For some reason, 
Hagrid was bent double as though anxious not to be 
seen, though he was still at least four feet taller than 
everybody else. 

“Listen,” he whispered, “can yeh come with me? Now? 
While ev’ryone’s watchin’ the match?” 

“Er ... can’t it wait, Hagrid?” asked Harry. “Till the 
match is over? 

“No,” said Hagrid. “No, Harry, it’s gotta be now ... 
while ev’ryone’s lookin’ the other way... Please?” 



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Hagrid’s nose was gently dripping blood. His eyes 
were both blackened. Harry had not seen him this 
close up since his return to the school; he looked 
utterly woebegone. 

“ ’Course,” said Harry at once, “ ’course we’ll come...” 

He and Hermione edged back along their row of seats, 
causing much grumbling among the students who 
had to stand up for them. The people in Hagrid’s row 
were not complaining, merely attempting to make 
themselves as small as possible. 

“I ’ppreciate this, you two, I really do,” said Hagrid as 
they reached the stairs. He kept looking around 
nervously as they descended toward the lawn below. 

“I jus’ hope she doesn’ notice us goin’...” 

“You mean Umbridge?” said Harry. “She won’t, she’s 
got her whole Inquisitorial Squad sitting with her, 
didn’t you see? She must be expecting trouble at the 
match.” 

“Yeah, well, a bit o’ trouble wouldn’ hurt,” said 
Hagrid, pausing to peer around the edge of the stands 
to make sure the stretch of lawn between there and 
his cabin was deserted. “Give us more time ...” 

“What is it, Hagrid?” said Hermione, looking up at 
him with a concerned expression on her face as they 
hurried across the lawn toward the edge of the forest. 

“Yeh — yeh’ll see in a mo’,” said Hagrid, looking over 
his shoulder as a great roar rose from the stands 
behind them. “Hey — did someone jus’ score?” 

“It’ll be Ravenclaw,” said Harry heavily. 



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“Good ... good ...” said Hagrid distractedly. “Tha’s 
good...” 

They had to jog to keep up with him as he strode 
across the lawn, looking around with every other step. 
When they reached his cabin, Hermione turned 
automatically left toward the front door; Hagrid, 
however, walked straight past it into the shade of the 
trees on the outermost edge of the forest, where he 
picked up a crossbow that was leaning against a tree. 
When he realized they were no longer with him, he 
turned. 

“We’re goin’ in here,” he said, jerking his shaggy head 
behind him. 

“Into the forest?” said Hermione, perplexed. 

“Yeah,” said Hagrid. “C’mon now, quick, before we’re 
spotted!” 

Harry and Hermione looked at each other, then 
ducked into the cover of the trees behind Hagrid, who 
was already striding away from them into the green 
gloom, his crossbow over his arm. Harry and 
Hermione ran to catch up with him. 

“Hagrid, why are you armed?” said Harry. 

“Jus’ a precaution,” said Hagrid, shrugging his 
massive shoulders. 

“You didn’t bring your crossbow the day you showed 
us the thestrals,” said Hermione timidly. 

“Nah, well, we weren’ goin’ in so far then,” said 
Hagrid. “An’ anyway, tha’ was before Firenze left the 
forest, wasn’ it?” 



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“Why does Firenze leaving make a difference?” asked 
Hermione curiously. 



“ ’Cause the other centaurs are good an’ riled at me, 
tha’s why,” said Hagrid quietly, glancing around. 
“They used ter be — well, yeh couldn’ call ’em friendly 
— but we got on all righ’. Kept ’emselves to ’emselves, 
bu’ always turned up if I wanted a word. Not anymore 



He sighed deeply. 

“Firenze said that they’re angry because he went to 
work for Dumbledore?” Harry asked, tripping on a 
protruding root because he was busy watching 
Hagrid ’s profile. 

“Yeah,” said Hagrid heavily. “Well, angry doesn’ cover 
it. Ruddy livid. If I hadn’ stepped in, I reckon they’d ’ve 
kicked Firenze ter death — ” 

“They attacked him?” said Hermione, sounding 
shocked. 

“Yep,” said Hagrid gruffly, forcing his way through 
several low-hanging branches. “He had half the herd 
onto him — ” 

“And you stopped it?” said Harry, amazed and 
impressed. “By yourself?” 

“ ’Course I did, couldn’t stand by an’ watch ’em kill 
him, could I?” said Hagrid. “Lucky I was passin’, 
really ... an’ I’d’ve thought Firenze mighta 
remembered tha’ before he started sendin’ me stupid 
warnin’s!” he added hotly and unexpectedly. 

Harry and Hermione looked at each other, startled, 
but Hagrid, scowling, did not elaborate. 

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“Anyway,” he said, breathing a little more heavily 
than usual, “since then the other centaurs Ve bin livid 
with me an’ the trouble is, they’ve got a lot of 
influence in the forest... Cleverest creatures in here 



“Is that why we’re here, Hagrid?” asked Hermione. 
“The centaurs?” 

“Ah no,” said Hagrid, shaking his head dismissively, 
“no, it’s not them... Well, o’ course, they could 
complicate the problem, yeah... But yeh’ll see what I 
mean in a bit...” 

On this incomprehensible note he fell silent and 
forged a little ahead, taking one stride for every three 
of theirs, so that they had great trouble keeping up 
with him. 

The path was becoming increasingly overgrown and 
the trees grew so closely together as they walked 
farther and farther into the forest that it was as dark 
as dusk. They were soon a long way past the clearing 
where Hagrid had shown them the thestrals, but 
Harry felt no sense of unease until Hagrid stepped 
unexpectedly off the path and began wending his way 
in and out of trees toward the dark heart of the forest. 

“Hagrid?” said Harry, fighting his way through thickly 
knotted brambles over which Hagrid had stepped 
easily and remembering very vividly what had 
happened to him on the other occasions he had 
stepped off the forest path. “Where are we going?” 

“Bit further,” said Hagrid over his shoulder. “C’mon, 
Harry... We need ter keep together now...” 

It was a great struggle to keep up with Hagrid, what 
with branches and thickets of thorn through which 

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Hagrid marched as easily as though they were 
cobwebs, but which snagged Harry and Hermione’s 
robes, frequently entangling them so severely that 
they had to stop for minutes at a time to free 
themselves. Harry’s arms and legs were soon covered 
in small cuts and scratches. They were so deep in the 
forest now that sometimes all Harry could see of 
Hagrid in the gloom was a massive dark shape ahead 
of him. Any sound seemed threatening in the muffled 
silence. The breaking of a twig echoed loudly and the 
tiniest rustle of movement, though it might have been 
made by an innocent sparrow, caused Harry to peer 
through the gloom for a culprit. It occurred to him 
that he had never managed to get this far into the 
forest without meeting some kind of creature — their 
absence struck him as rather ominous. 

“Hagrid, would it be all right if we lit our wands?” said 
Hermione quietly. 

“Er ... all righ’,” Hagrid whispered back. “In fact ...” 

He stopped suddenly and turned around; Hermione 
walked right into him and was knocked over 
backward. Harry caught her just before she hit the 
forest floor. 

“Maybe we bes’ jus’ stop fer a momen’, so I can ... fill 
yeh in,” said Hagrid. “Before we ge’ there, like.” 

“Good!” said Hermione, as Harry set her back on her 
feet. They both murmured “Lumos\” and their wand 
tips ignited. Hagrid ’s face swam through the gloom by 
the light of the two wavering beams and Harry saw 
that he looked nervous and sad again. 

“Righ,” said Hagrid. “Well ... see ... the thing is ...” 

He took a great breath. 

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“Well, there’s a good chance I’m goin’ ter be gettin’ the 
sack any day now,” he said. 



Harry and Hermione looked at each other, then back 
at him. 

“But you’ve lasted this long — ” Hermione said 
tentatively. “What makes you think — ” 

“Umbridge reckons it was me that put tha’ niffler in 
her office.” 

“And was it?” said Harry, before he could stop 
himself. 

“No, it ruddy well wasn’!” said Hagrid indignantly. 
“On’y anythin’ ter do with magical creatures an’ she 
thinks it’s got somethin’ ter do with me. Yeh know 
she’s bin lookin’ fer a chance ter get rid of me ever 
since I got back. I don’ wan’ ter go, o’ course, but if it 
wasn’ fer ... well ... the special circumstances I’m 
abou’ ter explain to yeh, I’d leave righ now, before 
she’s go’ the chance ter do it in front o’ the whole 
school, like she did with Trelawney.” 

Harry and Hermione both made noises of protest, but 
Hagrid overrode them with a wave of one of his 
enormous hands. 

“It’s not the end o’ the world, I’ll be able ter help 
Dumbledore once I’m outta here, I can be useful ter 
the Order. An’ you lot’ll have Grubbly-Plank, yeh’ll — 
yeh’ll get through yer exams fine...” His voice 
trembled and broke. 

“Don’ worry abou’ me,” he said hastily, as Hermione 
made to pat his arm. He pulled his enormous spotted 
handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and 
mopped his eyes with it. “Look, I wouldn’ be tellin’ yer 

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this at all if I didn’ have ter. See, if I go ... well, I can’ 
leave withou’ ... withou’ fellin’ someone ... because I’ll 
— I’ll need you two ter help me. An’ Ron, if he’s 
willin’.” 

“Of course well help you,” said Harry at once. “What 
do you want us to do?” 

Hagrid gave a great sniff and patted Harry wordlessly 
on the shoulder with such force that Harry was 
knocked sideways into a tree. 

“I knew yeh’d say yes,” said Hagrid into his 
handkerchief, “but I won’ ... never ... forget ... Well ... 
c’mon ... jus’ a little bit further through here ... Watch 
yerselves, now, there’s nettles...” 

They walked on in silence for another fifteen minutes. 
Harry had opened his mouth to ask how much farther 
they had to go when Hagrid threw out his right arm to 
signal that they should stop. 

“Really easy,” he said softly. “Very quiet, now ...” 

They crept forward and Harry saw that they were 
facing a large, smooth mound of earth nearly as tall 
as Hagrid that he thought, with a jolt of dread, was 
sure to be the lair of some enormous animal. Trees 
had been ripped up at the roots all around the 
mound, so that it stood on a bare patch of ground 
surrounded by heaps of trunks and boughs that 
formed a kind of fence or barricade, behind which 
Harry, Hermione, and Hagrid now stood. 

“Sleepin’,” breathed Hagrid. 

Sure enough, Harry could hear a distant, rhythmic 
rumbling that sounded like a pair of enormous lungs 
at work. He glanced sideways at Hermione, who was 

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gazing at the mound with her mouth slightly open. 

She looked utterly terrified. 

“Hagrid,” she said in a whisper barely audible over 
the sound of the sleeping creature, “who is he?” 

Harry found this an odd question... “What is it?” was 
the one he had been planning on asking. 

“Hagrid, you told us,” said Hermione, her wand now 
shaking in her hand, “you told us none of them 
wanted to come!” 

Harry looked from her to Hagrid and then, as 
realization hit him, he looked back at the mound with 
a small gasp of horror. 

The great mound of earth, on which he, Hermione, 
and Hagrid could easily have stood, was moving 
slowly up and down in time with the deep, grunting 
breathing. It was not a mound at all. It was the 
curved back of what was clearly . . . 

“Well — no — he didn’ want ter come,” said Hagrid, 
sounding desperate. “But I had ter bring him, 
Hermione, I had ter!” 

“But why?” asked Hermione, who sounded as though 
she wanted to cry. “Why — what — oh, Hagrid\” 

“I knew if I jus’ got him back,” said Hagrid, sounding 
close to tears himself, “an’ — an’ taught him a few 
manners — I’d be able ter take him outside an’ show 
ev’ryone he’s harmless!” 

“Harmless!” said Hermione shrilly, and Hagrid made 
frantic hushing noises with his hands as the 
enormous creature before them grunted loudly and 
shifted in its sleep. “He’s been hurting you all this 

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time, hasn’t he? That’s why you’ve had all these 
injuries!” 

“He don’ know his own strength!” said Hagrid 
earnestly. “An’ he’s gettin’ better, he’s not fightin’ so 
much anymore — ” 

“So this is why it took you two months to get home!” 
said Hermione distractedly. “Oh Hagrid, why did you 
bring him back if he didn’t want to come, wouldn’t he 
have been happier with his own people?” 

“They were all bullyin’ him, Hermione, ’cause he’s so 
small!” said Hagrid. 

“Small?” said Hermione. “Small?” 

“Hermione, I couldn’ leave him,” said Hagrid, tears 
now trickling down his bruised face into his beard. 
“See — he’s my brother!” 

Hermione simply stared at him, her mouth open. 

“Hagrid, when you say ‘brother,’ ” said Harry slowly, 
“do you mean — ?” 

“Well — half-brother,” amended Hagrid. “Turns out 
me mother took up with another giant when she left 
me dad, an’ she went an’ had Grawp here — ” 

“Grawp?” said Harry. 

“Yeah ... well, tha’s what it sounds like when he says 
his name,” said Hagrid anxiously. “He don’ speak a lot 
of English... I’ve bin tryin’ ter teach him... Anyway, 
she don’ seem ter have liked him much more’n she 
liked me... See, with giantesses, what counts is 
producin’ good big kids, and he’s always been a bit on 
the runty side fer a giant — on’y sixteen foot — ” 

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“Oh yes, tiny!” said Hermione, with a kind of 
hysterical sarcasm. “Absolutely minuscule!” 

“He was bein’ kicked around by all o’ them — I jus’ 
couldn’ leave him — ” 

“Did Madame Maxime want to bring him back?” 
asked Harry. 

“She — well, she could see it was right importan’ ter 
me,” said Hagrid, twisting his enormous hands. “Bu’ 
— bu’ she got a bit tired of him after a while, I must 
admit ... so we split up on the journey home... She 
promised not ter tell anyone though...” 

“How on earth did you get him back without anyone 
noticing?” said Harry. 

“Well, tha’s why it took so long, see,” said Hagrid. 
“Could on’y travel by nigh an’ through wild country 
an’ stuff. ’Course, he covers the ground pretty well 
when he wants ter, but he kep’ wantin’ ter go back...” 

“Oh Hagrid, why on earth didn’t you let him!” said 
Hermione, flopping down onto a ripped-up tree and 
burying her face in her hands. “What do you think 
you’re going to do with a violent giant who doesn’t 
even want to be here!” 

“Well, now — Violent’ — tha’s a bit harsh,” said 
Hagrid, still twisting his hands agitatedly. “I’ll admit 
he mighta taken a couple o’ swings at me when he’s 
bin in a bad mood, but he’s gettin’ better, loads 
better, settlin’ down well...” 

“What are those ropes for, then?” Harry asked. 

He had just noticed ropes thick as saplings stretching 
from around the trunks of the largest nearby trees 

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toward the place where Grawp lay curled on the 
ground with his back to them. 

“You have to keep him tied up?” said Hermione 
faintly. 

“Well ... yeah ...” said Hagrid, looking anxious. “See — 
it’s like I say — he doesn’ really know his strength — ” 

Harry understood now why there had been such a 
suspicious lack of any other living creature in this 
part of the forest. 

“So what is it you want Harry and Ron and me to do?” 
Hermione asked apprehensively. 

“Look after him,” said Hagrid croakily. “After I’m 
gone.” 

Harry and Hermione exchanged miserable looks, 

Harry uncomfortably aware that he had already 
promised Hagrid that he would do whatever he asked. 

“What — what does that involve, exactly?” Hermione 
inquired. 

“Not food or anythin’!” said Hagrid eagerly. “He can 
get his own food, no problem. Birds an’ deer an’ stuff 
... No, it’s company he needs. If I jus’ knew someone 
was carryin’ on tryin’ ter help him a bit ... teachin’ 
him, yeh know ...” 

Harry said nothing, but turned to look back at the 
gigantic form lying asleep on the ground in front of 
them. Grawp had his back to them. Unlike Hagrid, 
who simply looked like a very oversize human, Grawp 
looked strangely misshapen. What Harry had taken to 
be a vast mossy boulder to the left of the great 
earthen mound he now recognized as Grawp ’s head. 
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It was much larger in proportion to the body than a 
human head, almost perfectly round and covered with 
tightly curling, close-growing hair the color of 
bracken. The rim of a single large, fleshy ear was 
visible on top of the head, which seemed to sit, rather 
like Uncle Vernon’s, directly upon the shoulders with 
little or no neck in between. The back, under what 
looked like a dirty brownish smock comprised of 
animal skins sewn roughly together, was very broad, 
and as Grawp slept, it seemed to strain a little at the 
rough seams of the skins. The legs were curled up 
under the body; Harry could see the soles of 
enormous, filthy, bare feet, large as sledges, resting 
one on top of the other on the earthy forest floor. 

“You want us to teach him,” Harry said in a hollow 
voice. He now understood what Firenze’s warning had 
meant. His attempt is not working. He would do better 
to abandon it. Of course, the other creatures who lived 
in the forest would have heard Hagrid’s fruitless 
attempts to teach Grawp English... 

“Yeah — even if yeh jus’ talk ter him a bit,” said 
Hagrid hopefully. “ ’Cause I reckon, if he can talk ter 
people, he’ll understand more that we all like him 
really, an’ want him to stay...” 

Harry looked at Hermione, who peered back at him 
from between the fingers over her face. 

“Kind of makes you wish we had Norbert back, 
doesn’t it?” he said and she gave a very shaky laugh. 

“Yeh’ll do it, then?” said Hagrid, who did not seem to 
have caught what Harry had just said. 

“We’ll ...” said Harry, already bound by his promise. 
“We’ll try, Hagrid...” 



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“I knew I could count on yeh, Harry,” Hagrid said, 
beaming in a very watery way and dabbing at his face 
with his handkerchief again. “An’ I don’ wan’ yeh ter 
put yerself out too much, like... I know yeh’ve got 
exams... If yeh could jus’ nip down here in yer 
Invisibility Cloak maybe once a week an’ have a little 
chat with him ... I’ll wake him up, then — introduce 
you — ” 

“Wha — no!” said Hermione, jumping up, “Hagrid, no, 
don’t wake him, really, we don’t need — ” 

But Hagrid had already stepped over the great trunk 
in front of them and was proceeding toward Grawp. 
When he was around ten feet away, he lifted a long, 
broken bough from the ground, smiled reassuringly 
over his shoulder at Harry and Hermione, and then 
poked Grawp hard in the middle of the back with the 
end of the bough. 

The giant gave a roar that echoed around the silent 
forest. Birds in the treetops overhead rose twittering 
from their perches and soared away. In front of Harry 
and Hermione, meanwhile, the gigantic Grawp was 
rising from the ground, which shuddered as he placed 
an enormous hand upon it to push himself onto his 
knees and turned his head to see who and what had 
disturbed him. 

“All righ’, Grawpy?” said Hagrid in a would-be cheery 
voice, backing away with the long bough raised, ready 
to poke Grawp again. “Had a nice sleep, eh?” 

Harry and Hermione retreated as far as they could 
while still keeping the giant within their sights. Grawp 
knelt between two trees he had not yet uprooted. 

They looked up into his startlingly huge face, which 
resembled a gray full moon swimming in the gloom of 
the clearing. It was as though the features had been 
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hewn onto a great stone ball. The nose was stubby 
and shapeless, the mouth lopsided and full of 
misshapen yellow teeth the size of half-bricks. The 
small eyes were a muddy greenish-brown and just 
now were half gummed together with sleep. Grawp 
raised dirty knuckles as big as cricket balls to his 
eyes, rubbed vigorously, then, without warning, 
pushed himself to his feet with surprising speed and 
agility. 

“Oh my ...” Harry heard Hermione squeal, terrified, 
beside him. 

The trees to which the other ends of the ropes around 
Grawp’s wrists and ankles were attached creaked 
ominously. He was, as Hagrid had said, at least 
sixteen feet tall. Gazing blearily around, he reached 
out a hand the size of a beach umbrella, seized a 
bird’s nest from the upper branches of a towering 
pine and turned it upside down with a roar of 
apparent displeasure that there was no bird in it — 
eggs fell like grenades toward the ground and Hagrid 
threw his arms over his head to protect himself. 

“Anyway, Grawpy,” shouted Hagrid, looking up 
apprehensively in case of further falling eggs, “I’ve 
brought some friends ter meet yeh. Remember, I told 
yeh I might? Remember, when I said I might have ter 
go on a little trip an’ leave them ter look after yeh fer 
a bit? Remember that, Grawpy?” 

But Grawp merely gave another low roar; it was hard 
to say whether he was listening to Hagrid or whether 
he even recognized the sounds Hagrid was making as 
speech. He had now seized the top of the pine tree 
and was pulling it toward him, evidently for the 
simple pleasure of seeing how far it would spring 
back when he let go. 



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“Now, Grawpy, don’ do that!” shouted Hagrid. “Tha’s 
how you ended up pullin’ up the others — ” 

And sure enough, Harry could see the earth around 
the tree’s roots beginning to crack. 

“I got company fer yeh!” Hagrid shouted. “Company, 
see! Look down, yeh big buffoon, I brought yeh some 
friends!” 

“Oh Hagrid, don’t,” moaned Hermione, but Hagrid 
had already raised the bough again and gave Grawp’s 
knee a sharp poke. 

The giant let go of the top of the pine tree, which 
swayed menacingly and deluged Hagrid with a rain of 
needles, and looked down. 

“This,” said Hagrid, hastening over to where Harry 
and Hermione stood, “is Harry, Grawp! Harry Potter! 
He migh’ be cornin’ ter visit yeh if I have ter go away, 
understand?” 

The giant had only just realized that Harry and 
Hermione were there. They watched, in great 
trepidation, as he lowered his huge boulder of a head 
so that he could peer blearily at them. 

“An’ this is Hermione, see? Her — ” Hagrid hesitated. 
Turning to Hermione he said, “Would yeh mind if he 
called yeh Hermy, Hermione? On’y it’s a difficult 
name fer him ter remember...” 

“No, not at all,” squeaked Hermione. 

“This is Hermy, Grawp! An’ she’s gonna be cornin’ an’ 
all! Is’n tha’ nice? Eh? Two friends fer yeh ter — 
GRAWPY, NO!” 



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Grawp’s hand had shot out of nowhere toward 
Hermione — Harry seized her and pulled her 
backward behind the tree, so that Grawp’s fist 
scraped the trunk but closed on thin air. 

“BAD BOY, GRAWPY!” Harry heard Hagrid yelling, as 
Hermione clung to Harry behind the tree, shaking 
and whimpering. “VERY BAD BOY! YEH DON’ GRAB 

— OUCH!” 

Harry poked his head out from around the trunk and 
saw Hagrid lying on his back, his hand over his nose. 
Grawp, apparently losing interest, had straightened 
up again and was again engaged in pulling back the 
pine as far as it would go. 

“Righ’,” said Hagrid thickly, getting up with one hand 
pinching his bleeding nose and the other grasping his 
crossbow. “Well ... there yeh are... Yeh’ve met him an’ 

— an’ now he’ll know yeh when yeh come back. Yeah 
...well...” 

He looked up at Grawp, who was now pulling back 
the pine with an expression of detached pleasure on 
his boulderish face; the roots were creaking as he 
ripped them away from the ground... 

“Well, I reckon tha’s enough fer one day,” said Hagrid. 
“We’ll — er — we’ll go back now, shall we?” 

Harry and Hermione nodded. Hagrid shouldered his 
crossbow again and, still pinching his nose, led the 
way back into the trees. 

Nobody spoke for a while, not even when they heard 
the distant crash that meant Grawp had pulled over 
the pine tree at last. Hermione’s face was pale and 
set. Harry could not think of a single thing to say. 
What on earth was going to happen when somebody 
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found out that Hagrid had hidden Grawp in the 
forest? And he had promised that he, Ron, and 
Hermione would continue Hagrid’s totally pointless 
attempts to civilize the giant... How could Hagrid, 
even with his immense capacity to delude himself 
that fanged monsters were lovably harmless, fool 
himself that Grawp would ever be fit to mix with 
humans? 

“Hold it,” said Hagrid abruptly, just as Harry and 
Hermione were struggling through a patch of thick 
knotgrass behind him. He pulled an arrow out of the 
quiver over his shoulder and fitted it into the 
crossbow. Harry and Hermione raised their wands; 
now that they had stopped walking, they too could 
hear movement close by. 

“Oh blimey,” said Hagrid quietly. 

“I thought that we told you, Hagrid,” said a deep male 
voice, “that you are no longer welcome here?” 

A man’s naked torso seemed for an instant to be 
floating toward them through the dappled green half- 
light. Then they saw that his waist joined smoothly 
with a horse’s chestnut body. This centaur had a 
proud, high-cheekboned face and long black hair. 

Like Hagrid, he was armed: A quiverful of arrows and 
a long bow were slung over his shoulders. 

“How are yeh, Magorian?” said Hagrid warily. 

The trees behind the centaur rustled and four or five 
more emerged behind him. Harry recognized the 
black-bodied and bearded Bane, whom he had met 
nearly four years ago on the same night he had met 
Firenze. Bane gave no sign that he had ever seen 
Harry before. 



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“So,” he said, with a nasty inflection in his voice, 
before turning immediately to Magorian. “We agreed, I 
think, what we would do if this human showed his 
face in the forest again?” 

“ This human’ now, am I?” said Hagrid testily. “Jus’ 
fer stoppin’ all of yeh committin’ murder?” 

“You ought not to have meddled, Hagrid,” said 
Magorian. “Our ways are not yours, nor are our laws. 
Firenze has betrayed and dishonored us.” 

“I dunno how yeh work that out,” said Hagrid 
impatiently. “He’s done nothin’ except help Albus 
Dumbledore — ” 

“Firenze has entered into servitude to humans,” said 
a gray centaur with a hard, deeply lined face. 

“ Servitude !” said Hagrid scathingly. “He’s doin’ 
Dumbledore a favor is all — ” 

“He is peddling our knowledge and secrets among 
humans,” said Magorian quietly. “There can be no 
return from such disgrace.” 

“If yeh say so,” said Hagrid, shrugging, “but 
personally I think yeh ’re makin’ a big mistake — ” 

“As are you, human,” said Bane, “coming back into 
our forest when we warned you — ” 

“Now, you listen ter me,” said Hagrid angrily. “I’ll have 
less of the ‘our’ forest, if it’s all the same ter you. It’s 
not up ter you who comes an’ goes in here — ” 

“No more is it up to you, Hagrid,” said Magorian 
smoothly. “I shall let you pass today because you are 
accompanied by your young — ” 

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“They’re not his!” interrupted Bane contemptuously. 
“Students, Magorian, from up at the school! They 
have probably already profited from the traitor 
F irenze ’s teachings ...” 

“Nevertheless,” said Magorian calmly, “the slaughter 
of foals is a terrible crime... We do not touch the 
innocent. Today, Hagrid, you pass. Henceforth, stay 
away from this place. You forfeited the friendship of 
the centaurs when you helped the traitor Firenze 
escape us.” 

“I won’ be kept outta the fores’ by a bunch of mules 
like you!” said Hagrid loudly. 

“Hagrid,” said Hermione in a high-pitched and 
terrified voice, as both Bane and the gray centaur 
pawed at the ground, “let’s go, please lets go! 

Hagrid moved forward, but his crossbow was still 
raised and his eyes were still fixed threateningly upon 
Magorian. 

“We know what you are keeping in the forest, Hagrid!” 
Magorian called after them, as the centaurs slipped 
out of sight. “And our tolerance is waning!” 

Hagrid turned and gave every appearance of wanting 
to walk straight back to Magorian again. 

“You’ll tolerate him as long as he’s here, it’s as much 
his forest as yours!” he yelled, while Harry and 
Hermione both pushed with all their might against 
Hagrid ’s moleskin waistcoat in an effort to keep him 
moving forward. Still scowling, he looked down; his 
expression changed to mild surprise at the sight of 
them both pushing him. He seemed not to have felt it. 



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“Calm down, you two,” he said, turning to walk on 
while they panted along behind him. “Ruddy old nags 
though, eh?” 

“Hagrid,” said Hermione breathlessly, skirting the 
patch of nettles they had passed on their way there, 
“if the centaurs don’t want humans in the forest, it 
doesn’t really look as though Harry and I will be able 



“Ah, you heard what they said,” said Hagrid 
dismissively “They wouldn’t hurt foals — I mean, 
kids. Anyway, we can’ let ourselves be pushed around 
by that lot...” 

“Nice try,” Harry murmured to Hermione, who looked 
crestfallen. 

At last they rejoined the path and after another ten 
minutes, the trees began to thin. They were able to 
see patches of clear blue sky again and hear, in the 
distance, the definite sounds of cheering and 
shouting. 

“Was that another goal?” asked Hagrid, pausing in 
the shelter of the trees as the Quidditch stadium 
came into view. “Or d’you reckon the match is over?” 

“I don’t know,” said Hermione miserably. Harry saw 
that she looked much the worse for wear; her hair 
was full of bits of twig and leaves, her robes were 
ripped in several places and there were numerous 
scratches on her face and arms. He knew he could 
look little better. 

“I reckon it’s over, yeh know!” said Hagrid, still 
squinting toward the stadium. “Look — there’s people 
cornin’ out already — if you two hurry yeh ’ll be able 



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ter blend in with the crowd an’ no one’ll know you 
weren’t there!” 



“Good idea,” said Harry. “Well ... see you later, then, 
Hagrid...” 

“I don’t believe him,” said Hermione in a very 
unsteady voice, the moment they were out of earshot 
of Hagrid. “I don’t believe him. I really don’t believe 
him...” 

“Calm down,” said Harry. 

“Calm down!” she said feverishly. “A giant! A giant in 
the forest! And we’re supposed to give him English 
lessons! Always assuming, of course, we can get past 
the herd of murderous centaurs on the way in and 
out! I — don’t — believe — him!” 

“We haven’t got to do anything yet!” Harry tried to 
reassure her in a quiet voice, as they joined a stream 
of jabbering Hufflepuffs heading back toward the 
castle. “He’s not asking us to do anything unless he 
gets chucked out and that might not even happen — ” 

“Oh come off it, Harry!” said Hermione angrily, 
stopping dead in her tracks so that the people behind 
her had to swerve to avoid her. “Of course he’s going 
to be chucked out and to be perfectly honest, after 
what we’ve just seen, who can blame Umbridge?” 

There was a pause in which Harry glared at her, and 
her eyes filled slowly with tears. 

“You didn’t mean that,” said Harry quietly. 

“No ... well ... all right ... I didn’t,” she said, wiping 
her eyes angrily. “But why does he have to make life 
so difficult for himself — for us?” 

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“I dunno — ” 



Weasley is our King, 

Weasley is our King, 

He didn’t let the Quaffle in, 

Weasley is our King . . . 

“And I wish they’d stop singing that stupid song,” said 
Hermione miserably, “haven’t they gloated enough?” 

A great tide of students was moving up the sloping 
lawns from the pitch. 

“Oh, let’s get in before we have to meet the 
Slytherins,” said Hermione. 

Weasley can save anything, 

He never leaves a single ring 
That’s why Gryffindors all sing: 

Weasley is our King. 

“Hermione ...” said Harry slowly. 

The song was growing louder, but it was issuing not 
from a crowd of green-and-silver-clad Slytherins, but 
from a mass of red and gold moving slowly toward the 
castle, which was bearing a solitary figure upon its 
many shoulders... 

Weasley is our King, 

Weasley is our King, 

He didn’t let the Quaffle in, 

Weasley is our King . . . 

“No!” said Hermione in a hushed voice. 

“YES!” said Harry loudly. 



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“HARRY! HERMIONE!” yelled Ron, waving the silver 
Quidditch Cup in the air and looking quite beside 
himself. “WE DID IT! WE WON!” 



They beamed up at him as he passed; there was a 
scrum at the door of the castle and Ron’s head got 
rather badly bumped on the lintel, but nobody 
seemed to want to put him down. Still singing, the 
crowd squeezed itself into the entrance hall and out of 
sight. Harry and Hermione watched them go, 
beaming, until the last echoing strains of “Weasley Is 
Our King” died away. Then they turned to each other, 
their smiles fading. 

“We’ll save our news till tomorrow, shall we?” said 
Harry. 

“Yes, all right,” said Hermione wearily. “I’m not in any 
hurry...” 

They climbed the steps together. At the front doors 
both instinctively looked back at the Forbidden 
Forest. Harry was not sure whether it was his 
imagination or not, but he rather thought he saw a 
small cloud of birds erupting into the air over the 
treetops in the distance, almost as though the tree in 
which they had been nesting had just been pulled up 
by the roots. 



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O.W.L.S 



Ron’s euphoria at helping Gryffindor scrape the 
Quidditch Cup was such that he could not settle to 
anything next day. All he wanted to do was talk over 
the match and Harry and Hermione found it very 
difficult to find an opening in which to mention 
Grawp — not that either of them tried very hard; 
neither was keen to be the one to bring Ron back to 
reality in quite such a brutal fashion. As it was 
another fine, warm day, they persuaded him to join 
them in studying under the beech tree on the edge of 
the lake, where they stood less chance of being 
overheard than in the common room. Ron was not 
particularly keen on this idea at first; he was 
thoroughly enjoying being patted on the back by 
Gryffindors walking past his chair, not to mention the 
occasional outbursts of “Weasley Is Our King,” but 
agreed after a while that some fresh air might do him 
good. 

They spread their books out in the shade of the beech 
tree and sat down while Ron talked them through his 



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first save of the match for what felt like the dozenth 
time. 

“Well, I mean, I’d already let in that one of Davies’s, 
so I wasn’t feeling that confident, but I dunno, when 
Bradley came toward me, just out of nowhere, I 
thought — you can do this\ And I had about a second 
to decide which way to fly, you know, because he 
looked like he was aiming for the right goal hoop — 
my right, obviously, his left — but I had a funny 
feeling that he was feinting, and so I took the chance 
and flew left — his right, I mean — and — well — you 
saw what happened,” he concluded modestly, 
sweeping his hair back quite unnecessarily so that it 
looked interestingly windswept and glancing around 
to see whether the people nearest to them — a bunch 
of gossiping third-year Hufflepuffs — had heard him. 
“And then, when Chambers came at me about five 
minutes later — what?” Ron said, stopping mid- 
sentence at the look on Harry’s face. “Why are you 
grinning?” 

“I’m not,” said Harry quickly, looking down at his 
Transfiguration notes and attempting to straighten 
his face. The truth was that Ron had just reminded 
Harry forcibly of another Gryffindor Quidditch player 
who had once sat rumpling his hair under this very 
tree. “I’m just glad we won, that’s all.” 

“Yeah,” said Ron slowly, savoring the words, “we won. 
Did you see the look on Chang’s face when Ginny got 
the Snitch right out from under her nose?” 

“I suppose she cried, did she?” said Harry bitterly. 

“Well, yeah — more out of temper than anything, 
though ...” Ron frowned slightly. “But you saw her 
chuck her broom away when she got back to the 
ground, didn’t you?” 

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“Er — ” said Harry. 

“Well, actually ... no, Ron,” said Hermione with a 
heavy sigh, putting down her book and looking at him 
apologetically. “As a matter of fact, the only bit of the 
match Harry and I saw was Davies’s first goal.” 

Ron’s carefully ruffled hair seemed to wilt with 
disappointment. 

“You didn’t watch?” he said faintly, looking from one 
to the other. “You didn’t see me make any of those 
saves?” 

“Well — no,” said Hermione, stretching out a 
placatory hand toward him. “But Ron, we didn’t want 
to leave — we had to!” 

“Yeah?” said Ron, whose face was growing rather red. 
“How come?” 

“It was Hagrid,” said Harry. “He decided to tell us why 
he’s been covered in injuries ever since he got back 
from the giants. He wanted us to go into the forest 
with him, we had no choice, you know how he gets... 
Anyway ...” 

The story was told in five minutes, by the end of 
which Ron’s indignation had been replaced by a look 
of total incredulity. 

“He brought one back and hid it in the forest?” 

“Yep,” said Harry grimly. 

“No,” said Ron, as though by saying this he could 
make it untrue. “No, he can’t have...” 



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“Well, he has,” said Hermione firmly. “Grawp’s about 
sixteen feet tall, enjoys ripping up twenty-foot pine 
trees, and knows me,” she snorted, “as Hermy.” 

Ron gave a nervous laugh. 

“And Hagrid wants us to . . . ?” 

“Teach him English, yeah,” said Harry. 

“He’s lost his mind,” said Ron in an almost awed 
voice. 

“Yes,” said Hermione irritably, turning a page of 
Intermediate Transfiguration and glaring at a series of 
diagrams showing an owl turning into a pair of opera 
glasses. “Yes, I’m starting to think he has. But 
unfortunately, he made Harry and me promise.” 

“Well, you’re just going to have to break your promise, 
that’s all,” said Ron firmly. “I mean, come on ... We’ve 
got exams and we’re about that far,” he held up his 
hand to show thumb and forefinger a millimeter 
apart, “from being chucked out as it is. And anyway 
... remember Norbert? Remember Aragog? Have we 
ever come off better for mixing with any of Hagrid ’s 
monster mates?” 

“I know, it’s just that — we promised,” said Hermione 
in a small voice. 

Ron smoothed his hair flat again, looking 
preoccupied. 

“Well,” he sighed, “Hagrid hasn’t been sacked yet, has 
he? He’s hung on this long, maybe he’ll hang on till 
the end of term and we won’t have to go near Grawp 
at all.” 



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The castle grounds were gleaming in the sunlight as 
though freshly painted; the cloudless sky smiled at 
itself in the smoothly sparkling lake, the satin-green 
lawns rippled occasionally in a gentle breeze: June 
had arrived, but to the fifth years this meant only one 
thing: Their O.W.L.s were upon them at last. 

Their teachers were no longer setting them 
homework; lessons were devoted to reviewing those 
topics their teachers thought most likely to come up 
in the exams. The purposeful, feverish atmosphere 
drove nearly everything but the O.W.L.s from Harry’s 
mind, though he did wonder occasionally during 
Potions lessons whether Lupin had ever told Snape 
that he must continue giving Harry Occlumency 
tuition: If he had, then Snape had ignored Lupin as 
thoroughly as he was now ignoring Harry. This suited 
Harry very well; he was quite busy and tense enough 
without extra classes with Snape, and to his relief 
Hermione was much too preoccupied these days to 
badger him about Occlumency. She was spending a 
lot of time muttering to herself and had not laid out 
any elf clothes for days. 

She was not the only person acting oddly as the 
O.W.L.s drew steadily nearer. Ernie Macmillan had 
developed an irritating habit of interrogating people 
about their study habits. 

“How many hours d’you think you’re doing a day?” he 
demanded of Harry and Ron as they queued outside 
Herbology, a manic gleam in his eyes. 

“I dunno,” said Ron. “A few ...” 

“More or less than eight?” 

“Less, I s’pose,” said Ron, looking slightly alarmed. 



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‘Tm doing eight,” said Ernie, puffing out his chest. 
“Eight or nine. I’m getting an hour in before breakfast 
every day. Eight’s my average. I can do ten on a good 
weekend day. I did nine and a half on Monday. Not so 
good on Tuesday — only seven and a quarter. Then 
on Wednesday — ■” 

Harry was deeply thankful that Professor Sprout 
ushered them into greenhouse three at that point, 
forcing Ernie to abandon his recital. 

Meanwhile Draco Malfoy had found a different way to 
induce panic. 

“Of course, it’s not what you know,” he was heard to 
tell Crabbe and Goyle loudly outside Potions a few 
days before the exams were to start, “it’s who you 
know. Now, Father’s been friendly with the head of 
the Wizarding Examinations Authority for years — old 
Griselda Marchbanks — we’ve had her round for 
dinner and everything...” 

“Do you think that’s true?” Hermione whispered to 
Harry and Ron, looking frightened. 

“Nothing we can do about it if it is,” said Ron 
gloomily. 

“I don’t think it’s true,” said Neville quietly from 
behind them. “Because Griselda Marchbanks is a 
friend of my gran’s, and she’s never mentioned the 
Malfoys.” 

“What’s she like, Neville?” asked Hermione at once. 

“Is she strict?” 

“Bit like Gran, really,” said Neville in a subdued voice. 



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“Knowing her won’t hurt your chances though, will 
it?” Ron told him encouragingly. 

“Oh, I don’t think it will make any difference,” said 
Neville, still more miserably. “Gran’s always telling 
Professor Marchbanks I’m not as good as my dad... 
Well ... you saw what she’s like at St. Mungo’s...” 

Neville looked fixedly at the floor. Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione glanced at one another, but didn’t know 
what to say. It was the first time that Neville had 
acknowledged that they had met at the Wizarding 
hospital. 

Meanwhile a flourishing black-market trade in aids to 
concentration, mental agility, and wakefulness had 
sprung up among the fifth and seventh years. Harry 
and Ron were much tempted by the bottle of 
Baruffio’s Brain Elixir offered to them by Ravenclaw 
sixth year Eddie Carmichael, who swore it was solely 
responsible for the nine “Outstanding” O.W.L.s he 
had gained the previous summer and was offering the 
whole pint for a mere twelve Galleons. Ron assured 
Harry he would reimburse him for his half the 
moment he left Hogwarts and got a job, but before 
they could close the deal, Hermione had confiscated 
the bottle from Carmichael and poured the contents 
down a toilet. 

“Hermione, we wanted to buy that!” shouted Ron. 

“Don’t be stupid,” she snarled. “You might as well 
take Harold Dingle’s powdered dragon claw and have 
done with it.” 

“Dingle’s got powdered dragon claw?” said Ron 
eagerly. 



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“Not anymore,” said Hermione. “I confiscated that too. 
None of these things actually works you know — ” 

“Dragon claw does work!” said Ron. “It’s supposed to 
be incredible, really gives your brain a boost, you 
come over all cunning for a few hours — Hermione, 
let me have a pinch, go on, it can’t hurt — ” 

“This stuff can,” said Hermione grimly. “I’ve had a 
look at it, and it’s actually dried doxy droppings.” 

This information took the edge off Harry and Ron’s 
desire for brain stimulants. 

They received their examination schedules and details 
of the procedure for O.W.L.s during their next 
Transfiguration lesson. 

“As you can see,” Professor McGonagall told the class 
while they copied down the dates and times of their 
exams from the blackboard, “your O.W.L.s are spread 
over two successive weeks. You will sit the theory 
exams in the mornings and the practice in the 
afternoons. Your practical Astronomy examination 
will, of course, take place at night. 

“Now, I must warn you that the most stringent Anti- 
Cheating Charms have been applied to your 
examination papers. Auto-Answer Quills are banned 
from the examination hall, as are Remembralls, 
Detachable Cribbing Cuffs, and Self- Correcting Ink. 
Every year, I am afraid to say, seems to harbor at 
least one student who thinks that he or she can get 
around the Wizarding Examinations Authority’s rules. 
I can only hope that it is nobody in Gryffindor. Our 
new — headmistress” — Professor McGonagall 
pronounced the word with the same look on her face 
that Aunt Petunia had whenever she was 
contemplating a particularly stubborn bit of dirt — 
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“has asked the Heads of House to tell their students 
that cheating will be punished most severely — 
because, of course, your examination results will 
reflect upon the headmistress’s new regime at the 
school...” 

Professor McGonagall gave a tiny sigh. Harry saw the 
nostrils of her sharp nose flare. 

“However, that is no reason not to do your very best. 
You have your own futures to think about.” 

“Please, Professor,” said Hermione, her hand in the 
air, “when will we find out our results?” 

“An owl will be sent to you some time in July,” said 
Professor McGonagall. 

“Excellent,” said Dean Thomas in an audible whisper, 
“so we don’t have to worry about it till the holidays...” 

Harry imagined sitting in his bedroom in Privet Drive 
in six weeks’ time, waiting for his O.W.L. results. 

Well, he thought, at least he would be sure of one bit 
of post next summer... 

Their first exam, Theory of Charms, was scheduled for 
Monday morning. Harry agreed to test Hermione after 
lunch on Sunday but regretted it almost at once. She 
was very agitated and kept snatching the book back 
from him to check that she had gotten the answer 
completely right, finally hitting him hard on the nose 
with the sharp edge of Achievements in Charming. 

“Why don’t you just do it yourself?” he said firmly, 
handing the book back to her, his eyes watering. 

Meanwhile Ron was reading two years of Charms 
notes with his fingers in his ears, his lips moving 

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soundlessly; Seamus was lying flat on his back on the 
floor, reciting the definition of a Substantive Charm, 
while Dean checked it against The Standard Book of 
Spells, Grade 5; and Parvati and Lavender, who were 
practicing basic locomotion charms, were making 
their pencil cases race each other around the edge of 
the table. 

Dinner was a subdued affair that night. Harry and 
Ron did not talk much, but ate with gusto, having 
studied hard all day. Hermione on the other hand 
kept putting down her knife and fork and diving 
under the table for her bag, from which she would 
seize a book to check some fact or figure. Ron was 
just telling her that she ought to eat a decent meal or 
she would not sleep that night, when her fork slid 
from her limp fingers and landed with a loud tinkle on 
her plate. 

“Oh, my goodness,” she said faintly, staring into the 
entrance hall. “Is that them? Is that the examiners?” 

Harry and Ron whipped around on their bench. 
Through the doors to the Great Hall they could see 
Umbridge standing with a small group of ancient- 
looking witches and wizards. Umbridge, Harry was 
pleased to see, looked rather nervous. 

“Shall we go and have a closer look?” said Ron. 

Harry and Hermione nodded and they hastened 
toward the double doors into the entrance hall, 
slowing down as they stepped over the threshold to 
walk sedately past the examiners. Harry thought 
Professor Marchbanks must be the tiny, stooped 
witch with a face so lined it looked as though it had 
been draped in cobwebs; Umbridge was speaking to 
her very deferentially. Professor Marchbanks seemed 



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to be a little deaf; she was answering Umbridge very 
loudly considering that they were only a foot apart. 

“Journey was fine, journey was fine, we’ve made it 
plenty of times before!” she said impatiently. “Now, I 
haven’t heard from Dumbledore lately!” she added, 
peering around the hall as though hopeful he might 
suddenly emerge from a broom cupboard. “No idea 
where he is, I suppose?” 

“None at all,” said Umbridge, shooting a malevolent 
look at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who were now 
dawdling around the foot of the stairs as Ron 
pretended to do up his shoelace. “But I daresay the 
Ministry of Magic will track him down soon enough...” 

“I doubt it,” shouted tiny Professor Marchbanks, “not 
if Dumbledore doesn’t want to be found! I should 
know... Examined him personally in Transfiguration 
and Charms when he did N.E.W.T.s ... Did things 
with a wand I’d never seen before ...” 

“Yes ... well ...” said Professor Umbridge as Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione dragged their feet up the marble 
staircase as slowly as they dared, “let me show you to 
the staffroom ... I daresay you’d like a cup of tea after 
your journey...” 

It was an uncomfortable sort of an evening. Everyone 
was trying to do some last-minute studying but 
nobody seemed to be getting very far. Harry went to 
bed early but then lay awake for what felt like hours. 
He remembered his careers consultation and 
McGonagall’s furious declaration that she would help 
him become an Auror if it was the last thing she did... 
He wished he had expressed a more achievable 
ambition now that exam time was here... He knew 
that he was not the only one lying awake, but none of 



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the others in the dormitory spoke and finally, one by 
one, they fell asleep. 

None of the fifth years talked very much at breakfast 
next day either. Parvati was practicing incantations 
under her breath while the salt cellar in front of her 
twitched, Hermione was rereading Achievement in 
Charming so fast that her eyes appeared blurred, and 
Neville kept dropping his knife and fork and knocking 
over the marmalade. 

Once breakfast was over, the fifth and seventh years 
milled around in the entrance hall while the other 
students went off to lessons. Then, at half-past nine, 
they were called forward class by class to reenter the 
Great Hall, which was now arranged exactly as Harry 
had seen it in the Pensieve when his father, Sirius, 
and Snape had been taking their O.W.L.s. The four 
House tables had been removed and replaced instead 
with many tables for one, all facing the staff-table end 
of the Hall where Professor McGonagall stood facing 
them. When they were all seated and quiet she said, 
“You may begin,” and turned over an enormous 
hourglass on the desk beside her, on which were also 
spare quills, ink bottles, and rolls of parchment. 

Harry turned over his paper, his heart thumping 
hard... Three rows to his right and four seats ahead, 
Hermione was already scribbling. . . He lowered his 
eyes to the first question: a) Give the incantation, and 
b) describe the wand movement required to make 
objects fly... 

Harry had a fleeting memory of a club soaring high 
into the air and landing loudly on the thick skull of a 
troll... Smiling slightly, he bent over the paper and 
began to write... 



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“Well, it wasn’t too bad, was it?” asked Hermione 
anxiously in the entrance hall two hours later, still 
clutching the exam paper. “I’m not sure I did myself 
justice on Cheering Charms, I just ran out of time — 
did you put in the countercharm for hiccups? I wasn’t 
sure whether I ought to, it felt like too much — and 
on question twenty-three — ” 

“Hermione,” said Ron sternly, “we’ve been through 
this before... We’re not going through every exam 
afterward, it’s bad enough doing them once.” 

The fifth years ate lunch with the rest of the school 
(the four House tables reappeared over the lunch 
hour) and then trooped off into the small chamber 
beside the Great Hall, where they were to wait until 
called for their practical examination. As small groups 
of students were called forward in alphabetical order, 
those left behind muttered incantations and practiced 
wand movements, occasionally poking one another in 
the back or eye by mistake. 

Hermione’s name was called. Trembling, she left the 
chamber with Anthony Goldstein, Gregory Goyle, and 
Daphne Greengrass. Students who had already been 
tested did not return afterward, so Harry and Ron 
had no idea how Hermione had done. 

“She’ll be fine — remember she got a hundred and 
twelve percent on one of our Charms tests?” said Ron. 

Ten minutes later, Professor Flitwick called, 
“Parkinson, Pansy — Patil, Padma — Patil, Parvati — 
Potter, Harry.” 

“Good luck,” said Ron quietly. Harry walked into the 
Great Hall, clutching his wand so tightly his hand 
shook. 



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“Professor Tofty is free, Potter,” squeaked Professor 
Flitwick, who was standing just inside the door. He 
pointed Harry toward what looked like the very oldest 
and baldest examiner, who was sitting behind a small 
table in a far corner, a short distance from Professor 
Marchbanks, who was halfway through testing Draco 
Malfoy. 

“Potter, is it?” said Professor Tofty, consulting his 
notes and peering over his pince-nez at Harry as he 
approached. “The famous Potter?” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry distinctly saw 
Malfoy throw a scathing look over at him; the wine 
glass Malfoy had been levitating fell to the floor and 
smashed. Harry could not suppress a grin. Professor 
Tofty smiled back at him encouragingly. 

“That’s it,” he said in his quavery old voice, “no need 
to be nervous... Now, if I could ask you to take this 
eggcup and make it do some cartwheels for me...” 

On the whole Harry thought it went rather well; his 
Levitation Charm was certainly much better than 
Malfoy’s had been, though he wished he had not 
mixed up the incantations for Color- Change and 
Growth Charms, so that the rat he was supposed to 
be turning orange swelled shockingly and was the size 
of a badger before Harry could rectify his mistake. He 
was glad Hermione had not been in the Hall at the 
time and neglected to mention it to her afterward. He 
could tell Ron, though; Ron had caused a dinner plate 
to mutate into a large mushroom and had no idea 
how it had happened. 

There was no time to relax that night — they went 
straight to the common room after dinner and 
submerged themselves in studying for Transfiguration 



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next day. Harry went to bed, his head buzzing with 
complex spell models and theories. 

He forgot the definition of a Switching Spell during his 
written exam next morning, but thought his practical 
could have been a lot worse. At least he managed to 
vanish the whole of his iguana, whereas poor Hannah 
Abbott lost her head completely at the next table and 
somehow managed to multiply her ferret into a flock 
of flamingos, causing the examination to be halted for 
ten minutes while the birds were captured and 
carried out of the Hall. 

They had their Herbology exam on Wednesday (other 
than a small bite from a Fanged Geranium, Harry felt 
he had done reasonably well) and then, on Thursday, 
Defense Against the Dark Arts. Here, for the first 
time, Harry felt sure he had passed. He had no 
problem with any of the written questions and took 
particular pleasure, during the practical examination, 
in performing all the counterjinxes and defensive 
spells right in front of Umbridge, who was watching 
coolly from near the doors into the entrance hall. 

“Oh bravo!” cried Professor Tofty, who was examining 
Harry again, when Harry demonstrated a perfect 
boggart banishing spell. “Very good indeed! Well, I 
think that’s all, Potter ... unless ...” 

He leaned forward a little. 

“I heard, from my dear friend Tiberius Ogden, that 
you can produce a Patronus? For a bonus point ... ?” 

Harry raised his wand, looked directly at Umbridge, 
and imagined her being sacked. 

“Expecto Patronum).” 



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The silver stag erupted from the end of his wand and 
cantered the length of the hall. All of the examiners 
looked around to watch its progress and when it 
dissolved into silver mist, Professor Tofty clapped his 
veined and knotted hands enthusiastically. 

“Excellent!” he said. “Very well, Potter, you may go!” 

As Harry passed Umbridge beside the door their eyes 
met. There was a nasty smile playing around her 
wide, slack mouth, but he did not care. Unless he was 
very much mistaken (and he was not planning on 
saying it to anybody, in case he was), he had just 
achieved an “Outstanding” O.W.L. 

On Friday, Harry and Ron had a day off while 
Hermione sat her Ancient Runes exam, and as they 
had the whole weekend in front of them, they 
permitted themselves a break from studying. They 
stretched and yawned beside the open window, 
through which warm summer air wafted over them as 
they played a desultory game of wizard chess. Harry 
could see Hagrid in the distance, teaching a class on 
the edge of the forest. He was trying to guess what 
creatures they were examining — he thought it must 
be unicorns, because the boys seemed to be standing 
back a little — when the portrait hole opened and 
Hermione clambered in, looking thoroughly bad 
tempered. 

“How were the runes?” said Ron, yawning and 
stretching. 

“I mistranslated ‘ehwaz,’ ” said Hermione furiously. “It 
means ‘partnership,’ not ‘defense,’ I mixed it up with 
‘eihwaz.’ ” 

“Ah well,” said Ron lazily, “that’s only one mistake, 
isn’t it, you’ll still get — ” 

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“Oh shut up,” said Hermione angrily, “it could be the 
one mistake that makes the difference between a pass 
and a fail. And what’s more, someone’s put another 
niffler in Umbridge’s office, I don’t know how they got 
it through that new door, but I just walked past there 
and Umbridge is shrieking her head off — by the 
sound of it, it tried to take a chunk out of her leg — ” 

“Good,” said Harry and Ron together. 

“It is not good!” said Hermione hotly. “She thinks it’s 
Hagrid doing it, remember? And we do not want 
Hagrid chucked out!” 

“He’s teaching at the moment, she can’t blame him,” 
said Harry, gesturing out of the window. 

“Oh, you’re so naive sometimes, Harry, you really 
think Umbridge will wait for proof?” said Hermione, 
who seemed determined to be in a towering temper, 
and she swept off toward the girls’ dormitories, 
banging the door behind her. 

“Such a lovely, sweet-tempered girl,” said Ron, very 
quietly, prodding his queen forward so that she could 
begin beating up one of Harry’s knights. 

Hermione ’s bad mood persisted for most of the 
weekend, though Harry and Ron found it quite easy 
to ignore as they spent most of Saturday and Sunday 
studying for Potions on Monday, the exam to which 
Harry was looking forward least and which he was 
sure would be the one that would be the downfall of 
his ambitions to become an Auror. Sure enough, he 
found the written exam difficult, though he thought 
he might have got full marks on the question about 
Polyjuice Potion: He could describe its effects 
extremely accurately, having taken it illegally in his 
second year. 

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The afternoon practical was not as dreadful as he had 
expected it to be. With Snape absent from the 
proceedings he found that he was much more relaxed 
than he usually was while making potions. Neville, 
who was sitting very near Harry, also looked happier 
than Harry had ever seen him during a Potions class. 
When Professor Marchbanks said, “Step away from 
your cauldrons, please, the examination is over,” 
Harry corked his sample flask feeling that he might 
not have achieved a good grade but that he had, with 
luck, avoided a fail. 

“Only four exams left,” said Parvati Patil wearily as 
they headed back to Gryffindor common room. 

“Only!” said Hermione snappishly. “I’ve got 
Arithmancy and it’s probably the toughest subject 
there is!” 

Nobody was foolish enough to snap back, so she was 
unable to vent her spleen on any of them and was 
reduced to telling off some first years for giggling too 
loudly in the common room. 

Harry was determined to perform well in Tuesday’s 
Care of Magical Creatures exam so as not to let 
Hagrid down. The practical examination took place in 
the afternoon on the lawn on the edge of the 
Forbidden Forest, where students were required to 
correctly identify the knarl hidden among a dozen 
hedgehogs (the trick was to offer them all milk in 
turn: knarls, highly suspicious creatures whose quills 
had many magical properties, generally went berserk 
at what they saw as an attempt to poison them); then 
demonstrate correct handling of a bowtruckle, feed 
and clean a fire-crab without sustaining serious 
burns, and choose, from a wide selection of food, the 
diet they would give a sick unicorn. 



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Harry could see Hagrid watching anxiously out of his 
cabin window. When Harry’s examiner, a plump little 
witch this time, smiled at him and told him he could 
leave, Harry gave Hagrid a fleeting thumbs-up before 
heading back up to the castle. 

The Astronomy theory exam on Wednesday morning 
went well enough; Harry was not convinced he had 
got the names of all of Jupiter’s moons right, but was 
at least confident that none of them was inhabited by 
mice. They had to wait until evening for their practical 
Astronomy; the afternoon was devoted instead to 
Divination. 

Even by Harry’s low standards in Divination, the 
exam went very badly. He might as well have tried to 
see moving pictures in the desktop as in the 
stubbornly blank crystal ball; he lost his head 
completely during tea-leaf reading, saying it looked to 
him as though Professor Marchbanks would shortly 
be meeting a round, dark, soggy stranger, and 
rounded off the whole fiasco by mixing up the life and 
head lines on her palm and informing her that she 
ought to have died the previous Tuesday. 

“Well, we were always going to fail that one,” said Ron 
gloomily as they ascended the marble staircase. He 
had just made Harry feel rather better by telling him 
how he told the examiner in detail about the ugly 
man with a wart on his nose in his crystal ball, only 
to look up and realize he had been describing his 
examiner’s reflection. 

“We shouldn’t have taken the stupid subject in the 
first place,” said Harry. 

“Still, at least we can give it up now.” 



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“Yeah,” said Harry. “No more pretending we care what 
happens when Jupiter and Uranus get too friendly ...” 

“And from now on, I don’t care if my tea leaves spell 
die, Ron, die — I’m just chucking them in the bin 
where they belong.” 

Harry laughed just as Hermione came running up 
behind them. He stopped laughing at once, in case it 
annoyed her. 

“Well, I think I’ve done all right in Arithmancy,” she 
said, and Harry and Ron both sighed with relief. “Just 
time for a quick look over our star charts before 
dinner, then ...” 

When they reached the top of the Astronomy Tower at 
eleven o’clock they found a perfect night for 
stargazing, cloudless and still. The grounds were 
bathed in silvery moonlight, and there was a slight 
chill in the air. Each of them set up his or her 
telescope and, when Professor Marchbanks gave the 
word, proceeded to fill in the blank star chart he or 
she had been given. 

Professors Marchbanks and Tofty strolled among 
them, watching as they entered the precise positions 
of the stars and planets they were observing. All was 
quiet except for the rustle of parchment, the 
occasional creak of a telescope as it was adjusted on 
its stand, and the scribbling of many quills. Half an 
hour passed, then an hour; the little squares of 
reflected gold light flickering on the ground below 
started to vanish as lights in the castle windows were 
extinguished. 

As Harry completed the constellation Orion on his 
chart, however, the front doors of the castle opened 
directly below the parapet where he was standing, so 

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that light spilled down the stone steps a little way 
across the lawn. Harry glanced down as he made a 
slight adjustment to the position of his telescope and 
saw five or six elongated shadows moving over the 
brightly lit grass before the doors swung shut and the 
lawn became a sea of darkness once more. 

Harry put his eye back to his telescope and refocused 
it, now examining Venus. He looked down at his chart 
to enter the planet there, but something distracted 
him. Pausing with his quill suspended over the 
parchment, he squinted down into the shadowy 
grounds and saw half a dozen figures walking over 
the lawn. If they had not been moving, and the 
moonlight had not been gilding the tops of their 
heads, they would have been indistinguishable from 
the dark ground on which they stood. Even at this 
distance, Harry had a funny feeling that he 
recognized the walk of the squattest among them, 
who seemed to be leading the group. 

He could not think why Umbridge would be taking a 
stroll outside past midnight, much less accompanied 
by five others. Then somebody coughed behind him, 
and he remembered that he was halfway through an 
exam. He had quite forgotten Venus’s position — 
jamming his eye to his telescope, he found it again 
and was again on the point of entering it on his chart 
when, alert for any odd sound, he heard a distant 
knock that echoed through the deserted grounds, 
followed immediately by the muffled barking of a large 
dog. 

He looked up, his heart hammering. There were lights 
on in Hagrid’s windows and the people he had 
observed crossing the lawn were now silhouetted 
against them. The door opened and he distinctly saw 
six tiny but sharply defined figures walk over the 



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threshold. The door closed again and there was 
silence. 

Harry felt very uneasy. He glanced around to see 
whether Ron or Hermione had noticed what he had, 
but Professor Marchbanks came walking behind him 
at that moment, and not wanting to appear as though 
he was sneaking looks at anyone else’s work, he 
hastily bent over his star chart and pretended to be 
adding notes to it while really peering over the top of 
the parapet toward Hagrid’s cabin. Figures were now 
moving across the cabin windows, temporarily 
blocking the light. 

He could feel Professor Marchbanks’s eyes on the 
back of his neck and pressed his eye again to his 
telescope, staring up at the moon though he had 
marked its position an hour ago, but as Professor 
Marchbanks moved on he heard a roar from the 
distant cabin that echoed through the darkness right 
to the top of the Astronomy Tower. Several of the 
people around Harry ducked out from behind their 
telescopes and peered instead in the direction of 
Hagrid’s cabin. 

Professor Tofty gave another dry little cough. 

“Try and concentrate, now, boys and girls,” he said 
softly. 

Most people returned to their telescopes. Harry looked 
to his left. Hermione was gazing transfixed at 
Hagrid’s. 

“Ahem — twenty minutes to go,” said Professor Tofty. 

Hermione jumped and returned at once to her star 
chart; Harry looked down at his own and noticed that 



Page | 919Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




he had mislabelled Venus as Mars. He bent to correct 
it. 

There was a loud BANG from the grounds. Several 
people said “Ouch!” as they poked themselves in the 
face with the ends of their telescopes, hastening to 
see what was going on below. 

Hagrid’s door had burst open and by the light flooding 
out of the cabin they saw him quite clearly, a massive 
figure roaring and brandishing his fists, surrounded 
by six people, all of whom, judging by the tiny threads 
of red light they were casting in his direction, seemed 
to be attempting to Stun him. 

“No!” cried Hermione. 

“My dear!” said Professor Tofty in a scandalized voice. 
“This is an examination!” 

But nobody was paying the slightest attention to their 
star charts anymore: Jets of red light were still flying 
beside Hagrid’s cabin, yet somehow they seemed to be 
bouncing off him. He was still upright and still, as far 
as Harry could see, fighting. Cries and yells echoed 
across the grounds; a man yelled, “Be reasonable, 
Hagrid!” and Hagrid roared, “Reasonable be damned, 
yeh won’ take me like this, Dawlish!” 

Harry could see the tiny outline of Fang, attempting 
to defend Hagrid, leaping at the wizards surrounding 
him until a Stunning Spell caught him and he fell to 
the ground. Hagrid gave a howl of fury, lifted the 
culprit bodily from the ground, and threw him: The 
man flew what looked like ten feet and did not get up 
again. Hermione gasped, both hands over her mouth; 
Harry looked around at Ron and saw that he too was 
looking scared. None of them had ever seen Hagrid in 
a real temper before... 

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“Look!” squealed Parvati, who was leaning over the 
parapet and pointing to the foot of the castle where 
the front doors seemed to have opened again; more 
light had spilled out onto the dark lawn and a single 
long black shadow was now rippling across the lawn. 

“Now, really!” said Professor Tofty anxiously. “Only 
sixteen minutes left, you know!” 

But nobody paid him the slightest attention: They 
were watching the person now sprinting toward the 
battle beside Hagrid’s cabin. 

“How dare you!” the figure shouted as she ran. “How 
dare you!” 

“It’s McGonagall!” whispered Hermione. 

“Leave him alone! Alone, I say!” said Professor 
McGonagall’s voice through the darkness. “On what 
grounds are you attacking him? He has done nothing, 
nothing to warrant such — ” 

Hermione, Parvati, and Lavender all screamed. No 
fewer than four Stunners had shot from the figures 
around the cabin toward Professor McGonagall. 
Halfway between cabin and castle the red beams 
collided with her. For a moment she looked luminous, 
illuminated by an eerie red glow, then was lifted right 
off her feet, landed hard on her back, and moved no 
more. 

“Galloping gargoyles!” shouted Professor Tofty, who 
seemed to have forgotten the exam completely. “Not 
so much as a warning! Outrageous behavior!” 

“COWARDS!” bellowed Hagrid, his voice carrying 
clearly to the top of the tower, and several lights 



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flickered back on inside the castle. “RUDDY 
COWARDS! HAVE SOME O’ THAT — AN’ THAT — ” 

“Oh my — ” gasped Hermione. 

Hagrid took two massive swipes at his closest 
attackers; judging by their immediate collapse, they 
had been knocked cold. Harry saw him double over 
and thought for a moment that he had finally been 
overcome by a spell, but on the contrary, next 
moment Hagrid was standing again with what 
appeared to be a sack on his back — then Harry 
realized that Fang’s limp body was draped around his 
shoulders. 

“Get him, get him!” screamed Umbridge, but her 
remaining helper seemed highly reluctant to go within 
reach of Hagrid ’s fists. Indeed, he was backing away 
so fast he tripped over one of his unconscious 
colleagues and fell over. Hagrid had turned and 
begun to run with Fang still hung around his neck; 
Umbridge sent one last Stunning Spell after him but 
it missed, and Hagrid, running full-pelt toward the 
distant gates, disappeared into the darkness. 

There was a long minute’s quivering silence, 
everybody gazing openmouthed into the grounds. 
Then Professor Tofty’s voice said feebly, “Um ... five 
minutes to go, everybody ...” 

Though he had only filled in two-thirds of his chart, 
Harry was desperate for the end of the exam. When it 
came at last he, Ron, and Hermione forced their 
telescopes haphazardly back into their holders and 
dashed back down the spiral staircase. None of the 
students were going to bed — they were all talking 
loudly and excitedly at the foot of the stairs about 
what they had witnessed. 



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“That evil woman!” gasped Hermione, who seemed to 
be having difficulty talking due to rage. “Trying to 
sneak up on Hagrid in the dead of night!” 

“She clearly wanted to avoid another scene like 
Trelawney’s,” said Ernie Macmillan sagely, squeezing 
over to join them. 

“Hagrid did well, didn’t he?” said Ron, who looked 
more alarmed than impressed. “How come all the 
spells bounced off him?” 

“It’ll be his giant blood,” said Hermione shakily. “It’s 
very hard to Stun a giant, they’re like trolls, really 
tough... But poor Professor McGonagall... Four 
Stunners straight in the chest, and she’s not exactly 
young, is she?” 

“Dreadful, dreadful,” said Ernie, shaking his head 
pompously. “Well, I’m off to bed... ’Night, all ...” 

People around them were drifting away, still talking 
excitedly about what they had just seen. 

“At least they didn’t get to take Hagrid off to 
Azkaban,” said Ron. “I ’spect he’s gone to join 
Dumbledore, hasn’t he?” 

“I suppose so,” said Hermione, who looked tearful. 
“Oh, this is awful, I really thought Dumbledore would 
be back before long, but now we’ve lost Hagrid too...” 

They traipsed back to the Gryffindor common room to 
find it full. The commotion out in the grounds had 
woken several people, who had hastened to rouse 
their friends. Seamus and Dean, who had arrived 
ahead of Harry, Ron, and Hermione, were now telling 
everyone what they had heard from the top of the 
Astronomy Tower. 

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“But why sack Hagrid now?” asked Angelina Johnson, 
shaking her head. “It’s not like Trelawney, he’s been 
teaching much better than usual this year!” 

“Umbridge hates part-humans,” said Hermione 
bitterly, flopping down into an armchair. “She was 
always going to try and get Hagrid out.” 

“And she thought Hagrid was putting nifflers in her 
office,” piped up Katie Bell. 

“Oh blimey,” said Lee Jordan, covering his mouth. 

“It’s me’s been putting the nifflers in her office, Fred 
and George left me a couple, I’ve been levitating them 
in through her window...” 

“She’d have sacked him anyway,” said Dean. “He was 
too close to Dumbledore.” 

“That’s true,” said Harry, sinking into an armchair 
beside Hermione ’s. 

“I just hope Professor McGonagall’s all right,” said 
Lavender tearfully. 

“They carried her back up to the castle, we watched 
through the dormitory window,” said Colin Creevey. 
“She didn’t look very well...” 

“Madam Pomfrey will sort her out,” said Alicia 
Spinnet firmly. “She’s never failed yet.” 

It was nearly four in the morning before the common 
room cleared. Harry felt wide awake — the image of 
Hagrid sprinting away into the dark was haunting 
him. He was so angry with Umbridge he could not 
think of a punishment bad enough for her, though 
Ron’s suggestion of having her fed to a box of starving 
Blast-Ended Skrewts had its merits. He fell asleep 
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contemplating hideous revenges and arose from bed 
three hours later feeling distinctly unrested. 



Their final exam, History of Magic, was not to take 
place until that afternoon. Harry would very much 
have liked to go back to bed after breakfast, but he 
had been counting on the morning for a spot of last- 
minute studying, so instead he sat with his head in 
his hands by the common room window, trying hard 
not to doze off as he read through some of the notes 
stacked three-and-a-half feet high that Hermione had 
lent him. 

The fifth years entered the Great Hall at two o’clock 
and took their places in front of their overturned 
examination papers. Harry felt exhausted. He just 
wanted this to be over so that he could go and sleep. 
Then tomorrow, he and Ron were going to go down to 
the Quidditch pitch — he was going to have a fly on 
Ron’s broom and savor their freedom from studying... 

“Turn over your papers,” said Professor Marchbanks 
from the front of the Hall, flicking over the giant 
hourglass. “You may begin...” 

Harry stared fixedly at the first question. It was 
several seconds before it occurred to him that he had 
not taken in a word of it; there was a wasp buzzing 
distractingly against one of the high windows. Slowly, 
tortuously, he began to write an answer. 

He was finding it very difficult to remember names 
and kept confusing dates. He simply skipped question 
four: In your opinion, did wand legislation contribute 
to, or lead to better control of, goblin riots of the 
eighteenth century? thinking that he would go back to 
it if he had time at the end. He had a stab at question 
five: How was the Statute of Secrecy breached in 1 749 
and what measures were introduced to prevent a 
Page | 925Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




recurrence? but had a nagging suspicion that he had 
missed several important points. He had a feeling 
vampires had come into the story somewhere... 

He looked ahead for a question he could definitely 
answer and his eyes alighted upon number ten. 

Describe the circumstances that led to the Formation 
of the International Confederation of Wizards and 
explain why the warlocks of Liechtenstein refused to 
join. 

I know this, Harry thought, though his brain felt 
torpid and slack. He could visualize a heading, in 
Hermione’s handwriting: The Formation of the 
International Confederation of Wizards. . . He had read 
these notes only this morning... 

He began to write, looking up now and again to check 
the large hourglass on the desk beside Professor 
Marchbanks. He was sitting right behind Parvati 
Patil, whose long dark hair fell below the back of her 
chair. Once or twice he found himself staring at the 
tiny golden lights that glistened in it when she moved 
her head very slightly and had to give his own head a 
little shake to clear it. 

... the first Supreme Mugwump of the International 
Confederation of Wizards was Pierre Bonaccord, but 
his appointment was contested by the Wizarding 
community of Liechtenstein, because — 

All around Harry quills were scratching on parchment 
like scurrying, burrowing rats. The sun was very hot 
on the back of his head. What was it that Bonaccord 
had done to offend the wizards of Liechtenstein? 

Harry had a feeling it had something to do with 
trolls... He gazed blankly at the back of Parvati ’s head 
again. If he could only perform Legilimency and open 
Page | 926Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




a window in the back of her head and see what it was 
about trolls that had caused the breach between 
Pierre Bonaccord and Liechtenstein... 



Harry closed his eyes and buried his face in his 
hands, so that the glowing red of his eyelids grew 
dark and cool. Bonaccord had wanted to stop troll- 
hunting and give the trolls rights . . . but Liechtenstein 
was having problems with a tribe of particularly 
vicious mountain trolls... That was it... 

He opened his eyes; they stung and watered at the 
sight of the blazing- white parchment. Slowly he wrote 
two lines about the trolls then read through what he 
had done so far. It did not seem very informative or 
detailed, yet he was sure Hermione’s notes on the 
confederation had gone on for pages and pages... 

He closed his eyes again, trying to see them, trying to 
remember. . . The confederation had met for the first 
time in France, yes, he had written that already... 

Goblins had tried to attend and been ousted... He had 
written that too... 

And nobody from Liechtenstein had wanted to come 



Think, he told himself, his face in his hands, while all 
around him quills scratched out never-ending 
answers and the sand trickled through the hourglass 
at the front... 

He was walking along the cool, dark corridor to the 
Department of Mysteries again, walking with a firm 
and purposeful tread, breaking occasionally into a 
run, determined to reach his destination at last... The 
black door swung open for him as usual, and here he 
was in the circular room with its many doors... 

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Straight across the stone floor and through the 
second door . . . patches of dancing light on the walls 
and floor and that odd mechanical clicking, but no 
time to explore, he must hurry... 

He jogged the last few feet to the third door, which 
swung open just like the others... 

Once again he was in the cathedral-sized room full of 
shelves and glass spheres... His heart was beating 
very fast now... He was going to get there this time... 
When he reached number ninety-seven he turned left 
and hurried along the aisle between two rows... 

But there was a shape on the floor at the very end, a 
black shape moving upon the floor like a wounded 
animal... Harry’s stomach contracted with fear ... with 
excitement... 

A voice issued from his own mouth, a high, cold voice 
empty of any human kindness, “Take it for me... Lift it 
down, now... I cannot touch it ... but you can...” 

The black shape upon the floor shifted a little. Harry 
saw a long-fingered white hand clutching a wand rise 
on the end of his own arm . . . heard the high, cold 
voice say, “ Cruciol ” 

The man on the floor let out a scream of pain, 
attempted to stand but fell back, writhing. Harry was 
laughing. He raised his wand, the curse lifted, and 
the figure groaned and became motionless. 

“Lord Voldemort is waiting...” 

Very slowly, his arms trembling, the man on the 
ground raised his shoulders a few inches and lifted 
his head. His face was bloodstained and gaunt, 
twisted in pain yet rigid with defiance... 

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“You’ll have to kill me,” whispered Sirius. 

“Undoubtedly I shall in the end,” said the cold voice. 
“But you will fetch it for me first, Black... You think 
you have felt pain thus far? Think again... We have 
hours ahead of us and nobody to hear you scream...” 

But somebody screamed as Voldemort lowered his 
wand again; somebody yelled and fell sideways off a 
hot desk onto the cold stone floor. Harry hit the 
ground and awoke, still yelling, his scar on fire, as the 
Great Hall erupted all around him. 



Page | 929Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 






OUT OF THE FIRE 

“I’m not going... I don’t need the hospital wing... I 
don’t want ...” 

He was gibbering, trying to pull away from Professor 
Tofty, who was looking at him with much concern, 
and who had just helped Harry out into the entrance 
hall while the students all around them stared. 

“I’m — I’m fine, sir,” Harry stammered, wiping the 
sweat from his face. “Really ... I just fell asleep... Had 
a nightmare ...” 

“Pressure of examinations!” said the old wizard 
sympathetically, patting Harry shakily on the 
shoulder. “It happens, young man, it happens! Now, a 
cooling drink of water, and perhaps you will be ready 
to return to the Great Hall? The examination is nearly 
over, but you may be able to round off your last 
answer nicely?” 

“Yes,” said Harry wildly. “I mean ... no ... I’ve done — 
done as much as I can, I think...” 

Page | 930Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 



“Very well, very well,” said the old wizard gently. “I 
shall go and collect your examination paper, and I 
suggest that you go and have a nice lie down...” 

“I’ll do that,” said Harry, nodding vigorously. “Thanks 
very much.” 

He waited for the second when the old man’s heels 
disappeared over the threshold into the Great Hall, 
then ran up the marble staircase and then more 
staircases toward the hospital wing, hurtling along 
the corridors so fast that the portraits he passed 
muttered reproaches, and burst through the double 
doors like a hurricane, causing Madam Pomfrey, who 
had been spooning some bright blue liquid into 
Montague’s open mouth, to shriek in alarm. 

“Potter, what do you think you’re doing?” 

“I need to see Professor McGonagall,” gasped Harry, 
the breath tearing his lungs. “Now ... It’s urgent...” 

“She’s not here, Potter,” said Madam Pomfrey sadly. 
“She was transferred to St. Mungo’s this morning. 
Four Stunning Spells straight to the chest at her age? 
It’s a wonder they didn’t kill her.” 

“She’s ... gone?” said Harry, stunned. 

The bell rang just outside the dormitory, and he 
heard the usual distant rumbling of students starting 
to flood out into the corridors above and below him. 
He remained quite still, looking at Madam Pomfrey. 
Terror was rising inside him. 

There was nobody left to tell. Dumbledore had gone, 
Hagrid had gone, but he had always expected 
Professor McGonagall to be there, irascible and 



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inflexible, perhaps, but always dependably, solidly 
present... 

“I don’t wonder you’re shocked, Potter,” said Madam 
Pomfrey with a kind of fierce approval in her face. “As 
if one of them could have Stunned Minerva 
McGonagall face on by daylight! Cowardice, that’s 
what it was... Despicable cowardice ... If I wasn’t 
worried what would happen to you students without 
me, I’d resign in protest...” 

“Yes,” said Harry blankly. 

He strode blindly from the hospital wing into the 
teeming corridor where he stood, buffeted by the 
crowd, the panic expanding inside him like poison gas 
so that his head swam and he could not think what to 
do... 

Ron and Hermione, said a voice in his head. 

He was running again, pushing students out of the 
way, oblivious to their angry protests and shouts. He 
sprinted back down two floors and was at the top of 
the marble staircase when he saw them hurrying 
toward him. 

“Harry!” said Hermione at once, looking very 
frightened. “What happened? Are you all right? Are 
you ill?” 

“Where have you been?” demanded Ron. 

“Come with me,” Harry said quickly. “Come on, I’ve 
got to tell you something...” 

He led them along the first-floor corridor, peering 
through doorways, and at last found an empty 
classroom into which he dived, closing the door 

Page | 932Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




behind Ron and Hermione the moment they were 
inside and leaning against it, facing them. 

“Voldemort’s got Sirius.” 

“What?” 

“How d’you — ?” 

“Saw it. Just now. When I fell asleep in the exam.” 

“But — but where? How?” said Hermione, whose face 
was white. 

“I dunno how,” said Harry. “But I know exactly where. 
There’s a room in the Department of Mysteries full of 
shelves covered in these little glass balls, and they’re 
at the end of row ninety-seven ... He’s trying to use 
Sirius to get whatever it is he wants from in there... 
He’s torturing him... Says he’ll end by killing him ...” 

Harry found his voice was shaking, as were his knees. 
He moved over to a desk and sat down on it, trying to 
master himself. 

“How’re we going to get there?” he asked them. 

There was a moment’s silence. Then Ron said, “G-get 
there?” 

“Get to the Department of Mysteries, so we can rescue 
Sirius!” Harry said loudly. 

“But — Harry ...” said Ron weakly. 

“What? What?” said Harry. 



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He could not understand why they were both gaping 
at him as though he was asking them something 
unreasonable. 

“Harry,” said Hermione in a rather frightened voice, 

“er . . . how . . . how did Voldemort get into the Ministry 
of Magic without anybody realizing he was there?” 

“How do I know?” bellowed Harry. “The question is 
how we’re going to get in there!” 

“But ... Harry, think about this,” said Hermione, 
taking a step toward him, “it’s five o’clock in the 
afternoon... The Ministry of Magic must be full of 
workers... How would Voldemort and Sirius have got 
in without being seen? Harry . . . they’re probably the 
two most wanted wizards in the world... You think 
they could get into a building full of Aurors 
undetected?” 

“I dunno, Voldemort used an Invisibility Cloak or 
something!” Harry shouted. “Anyway, the Department 
of Mysteries has always been completely empty 
whenever I’ve been — ” 

“You’ve never been there, Harry,” said Hermione 
quietly. “You’ve dreamed about the place, that’s all.” 

“They’re not normal dreams!” Harry shouted in her 
face, standing up and taking a step closer to her in 
turn. He wanted to shake her. “How d’you explain 
Ron’s dad then, what was all that about, how come I 
knew what had happened to him?” 

“He’s got a point,” said Ron quietly, looking at 
Hermione. 

“But this is just — just so unlikely\” said Hermione 
desperately. “Harry, how on earth could Voldemort 

Page | 934Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




have got hold of Sirius when he’s been in Grimmauld 
Place all the time?” 

“Sirius might’ve cracked and just wanted some fresh 
air,” said Ron, sounding worried. “He’s been 
desperate to get out of that house for ages — ” 

“But why,” Hermione persisted, “why on earth would 
Voldemort want to use Sirius to get the weapon, or 
whatever the thing is?” 

“I dunno, there could be loads of reasons!” Harry 
yelled at her. “Maybe Sirius is just someone 
Voldemort doesn’t care about seeing hurt — ” 

“You know what, I’ve just thought of something,” said 
Ron in a hushed voice. “Sirius’s brother was a Death 
Eater, wasn’t he? Maybe he told Sirius the secret of 
how to get the weapon!” 

“Yeah — and that’s why Dumbledore’s been so keen 
to keep Sirius locked up all the time!” said Harry. 

“Look, I’m sorry,” cried Hermione, “but neither of you 
are making sense, and we’ve got no proof for any of 
this, no proof Voldemort and Sirius are even there — ” 

“Hermione, Harry’s seen them!” said Ron, rounding 
on her. 

“Okay,” she said, looking frightened yet determined, 
“I’ve just got to say this...” 

“What?” 

“You ... This isn’t a criticism, Harry! But you do ... 
sort of ... I mean — don’t you think you’ve got a bit of 
a — a — saving-people-thing?” she said. 



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He glared at her. “And what’s that supposed to mean, 
a ‘saving-people-thing’?” 

“Well ... you ...” She looked more apprehensive than 
ever. “I mean . . . last year, for instance ... in the lake 
... during the Tournament ... you shouldn’t have ... I 
mean, you didn’t need to save that little Delacour 
girl... You got a bit ... carried away ...” 

A wave of hot, prickly anger swept Harry’s body — 
how could she remind him of that blunder now? 

"... I mean, it was really great of you and everything,” 
said Hermione quickly, looking positively petrified at 
the look on Harry’s face. “Everyone thought it was a 
wonderful thing to do — ” 

“That’s funny,” said Harry in a trembling voice, 
“because I definitely remember Ron saying I’d wasted 
time acting the hero... Is that what you think this is? 
You reckon I want to act the hero again?” 

“No, no, no!” said Hermione, looking aghast. “That’s 
not what I mean at all!” 

“Well, spit out what you’ve got to say, because we’re 
wasting time here!” Harry shouted. 

“I’m trying to say — Voldemort knows you, Harry! He 
took Ginny down into the Chamber of Secrets to lure 
you there, it’s the kind of thing he does, he knows 
you’re the — the sort of person who’d go to Sirius’s 
aid! What if he’s just trying to get you into the 
Department of Myst — ?” 

“Hermione, it doesn’t matter if he’s done it to get me 
there or not — they’ve taken McGonagall to St. 
Mungo’s, there isn’t anyone left from the Order at 



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Hogwarts who we can tell, and if we don’t go, Sirius is 
dead!” 



“But Harry — what if your dream was — was just 
that, a dream?” 

Harry let out a roar of frustration. Hermione actually 
stepped back from him, looking alarmed. 

“You don’t get it!” Harry shouted at her. “I’m not 
having nightmares, I’m not just dreaming! What d’you 
think all the Occlumency was for, why d’you think 
Dumbledore wanted me prevented from seeing these 
things? Because they’re REAL, Hermione — Sirius is 
trapped — I’ve seen him — Voldemort’s got him, and 
no one else knows, and that means we’re the only 
ones who can save him, and if you don’t want to do it, 
fine, but I’m going, understand? And if I remember 
rightly, you didn’t have a problem with my saving - 
people-thing when it was you I was saving from the 
dementors, or” — he rounded on Ron — “when it was 
your sister I was saving from the basilisk — ” 

“I never said I had a problem!” said Ron heatedly. 

“But Harry, you’ve just said it,” said Hermione 
fiercely. “Dumbledore wanted you to learn to shut 
these things out of your mind, if you’d done 
Occlumency properly you’d never have seen this — ” 

“IF YOU THINK I’M JUST GOING TO ACT LIKE I 
HAVEN T SEEN — ” 

“Sirius told you there was nothing more important 
than you learning to close your mind!” 

“WELL, I EXPECT HE’D SAY SOMETHING 
DIFFERENT IF HE KNEW WHAT I’D JUST — ” 

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The classroom door opened. Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione whipped around. Ginny walked in, looking 
curious, followed by Luna, who as usual looked as 
though she had drifted in accidentally. 

“Hi,” said Ginny uncertainly. “We recognized Harry’s 
voice — what are you yelling about?” 

“Never you mind,” said Harry roughly. 

Ginny raised her eyebrows. 

“There’s no need to take that tone with me,” she said 
coolly. “I was only wondering whether I could help.” 

“Well, you can’t,” said Harry shortly. 

“You’re being rather rude, you know,” said Luna 
serenely. 

Harry swore and turned away. The very last thing he 
wanted now was a conversation with Luna Lovegood. 

“Wait,” said Hermione suddenly. “Wait ... Harry, they 
can help.” 

Harry and Ron looked at her. 

“Listen,” she said urgently, “Harry, we need to 
establish whether Sirius really has left headquarters 



“I’ve told you, I saw — ” 

“Harry, I’m begging you, please!” said Hermione 
desperately. “Please let’s just check that Sirius isn’t at 
home before we go charging off to London — if we find 
out he’s not there then I swear I won’t try and stop 



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you, I’ll come, I’ll d-do whatever it takes to try and 
save him — ” 

“Sirius is being tortured NOW!” shouted Harry. “We 
haven’t got time to waste — ” 

“But if this is a trick of V-Voldemort’s — Harry, we’ve 
got to check, we’ve got to — ” 

“How?” Harry demanded. “How’re we going to check?” 

“We’ll have to use Umbridge’s fire and see if we can 
contact him,” said Hermione, who looked positively 
terrified at the thought. “Well draw Umbridge away 
again, but we’ll need lookouts, and that’s where we 
can use Ginny and Luna.” 

Though clearly struggling to understand what was 
going on, Ginny said immediately, “Yeah, well do it,” 
and Luna said, “When you say ‘Sirius,’ are you 
talking about Stubby Boardman?” 

Nobody answered her. 

“Okay,” Harry said aggressively to Hermione, “Okay, if 
you can think of a way of doing this quickly, I’m with 
you, otherwise I’m going to the Department of 
Mysteries right now — ” 

“The Department of Mysteries?” said Luna, looking 
mildly surprised. “But how are you going to get 
there?” 

Again, Harry ignored her. 

“Right,” said Hermione, twisting her hands together 
and pacing up and down between the desks. “Right ... 
well ... One of us has to go and find Umbridge and — 
and send her off in the wrong direction, keep her 

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away from her office. They could tell her — I don’t 
know — that Peeves is up to something awful as 
usual...” 



“I’ll do it,” said Ron at once. “I’ll tell her Peeves is 
smashing up the Transfiguration department or 
something, it’s miles away from her office. Come to 
think of it, I could probably persuade Peeves to do it if 
I met him on the way...” 

It was a mark of the seriousness of the situation that 
Hermione made no objection to the smashing up of 
the Transfiguration department. 

“Okay,” she said, her brow furrowed as she continued 
to pace. “Now, we need to keep students away from 
her office while we force entry, or some Slytherin’s 
bound to go and tip her off...” 

“Luna and I can stand at either end of the corridor,” 
said Ginny promptly, “and warn people not to go 
down there because someone’s let off a load of 
Garroting Gas.” Hermione looked surprised at the 
readiness with which Ginny had come up with this 
lie. Ginny shrugged and said, “Fred and George were 
planning to do it before they left.” 

“Okay,” said Hermione, “well then, Harry, you and I 
will be under the Invisibility Cloak, and we’ll sneak 
into the office and you can talk to Sirius — ” 

“He’s not there, Hermione!” 

“I mean, you can — can check whether Sirius is at 
home or not while I keep watch, I don’t think you 
should be in there alone, Lee’s already proved the 
window’s a weak spot, sending those nifflers through 
it.” 

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Even through his anger and impatience Harry 
recognized Hermione ’s offer to accompany him into 
Umbridge’s office as a sign of solidarity and loyalty. 

“I ... okay, thanks,” he muttered. 

“Right, well, even if we do all of that, I don’t think 
we’re going to be able to bank on more than five 
minutes,” said Hermione, looking relieved that Harry 
seemed to have accepted the plan, “not with Filch and 
the wretched Inquisitorial Squad floating around.” 

“Five minutes’ll be enough,” said Harry. “C’mon, let’s 
go 



“Now?” said Hermione, looking shocked. 

“Of course now!” said Harry angrily. “What did you 
think, we’re going to wait until after dinner or 
something? Hermione, Sirius is being tortured right 
now\” 

“I — oh all right,” she said desperately. “You go and 
get the Invisibility Cloak and we’ll meet you at the end 
of Umbridge’s corridor, okay?” 

Harry did not answer, but flung himself out of the 
room and began to fight his way through the milling 
crowds outside. Two floors up he met Seamus and 
Dean, who hailed him jovially and told him they were 
planning a dusk-till-dawn end-of-exams celebration 
in the common room. Harry barely heard them. He 
scrambled through the portrait hole while they were 
still arguing about how many black-market 
butterbeers they would need and was climbing back 
out of it, the Invisibility Cloak and Sirius’s knife 
secure in his bag, before they noticed he had left 
them. 



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“Harry, d’you want to chip in a couple of Galleons? 
Harold Dingle reckons he could sell us some 
firewhisky...” 

But Harry was already tearing away back along the 
corridor, and a couple of minutes later was jumping 
the last few stairs to join Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and 
Luna, who were huddled together at the end of 
Umbridge’s corridor. 

“Got it,” he panted. “Ready to go, then?” 

“All right,” whispered Hermione as a gang of loud 
sixth years passed them. “So Ron — you go and head 
Umbridge off... Ginny, Luna, if you can start moving 
people out of the corridor. . . Harry and I will get the 
cloak on and wait until the coast is clear...” 

Ron strode away, his bright red hair visible right to 
the end of the passage. Meanwhile, Ginny’s equally 
vivid head bobbed between the jostling students 
surrounding them in the other direction, trailed by 
Luna’s blonde one. 

“Get over here,” muttered Hermione, tugging at 
Harry’s wrist and pulling him back into a recess 
where the ugly stone head of a medieval wizard stood 
muttering to itself on a column. “Are — are you sure 
you’re okay, Harry? You’re still very pale...” 

“I’m fine,” he said shortly, tugging the Invisibility 
Cloak from out of his bag. In truth, his scar was 
aching, but not so badly that he thought Voldemort 
had yet dealt Sirius a fatal blow. It had hurt much 
worse than this when Voldemort had been punishing 
Avery. . . 



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“Here,” he said. He threw the Invisibility Cloak over 
both of them and they stood listening carefully over 
the Latin mumblings of the bust in front of them. 

“You can’t come down here!” Ginny was calling to the 
crowd. “No, sorry, you’re going to have to go round by 
the swiveling staircase, someone’s let off Garroting 
Gas just along here — ” 

They could hear people complaining; one surly voice 
said, “I can’t see no gas ...” 

“That’s because it’s colorless,” said Ginny in a 
convincingly exasperated voice, “but if you want to 
walk through it, carry on, then we’ll have your body 
as proof for the next idiot who didn’t believe us...” 

Slowly the crowd thinned. The news about the 
Garroting Gas seemed to have spread — people were 
not coming this way anymore. When at last the 
surrounding area was quite clear, Hermione said 
quietly, “I think that’s as good as we’re going to get, 
Harry — come on, let’s do it.” 

Together they moved forward, covered by the cloak. 
Luna was standing with her back to them at the far 
end of the corridor. As they passed Ginny, Hermione 
whispered, “Good one ... don’t forget the signal ...” 

“What’s the signal?” muttered Harry, as they 
approached Umbridge’s door. 

“A loud chorus of Weasley Is Our King’ if they see 
Umbridge coming,” replied Hermione, as Harry 
inserted the blade of Sirius’s knife in the crack 
between door and wall. The lock clicked open, and 
they entered the office. 



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The garish kittens were basking in the late afternoon 
sunshine warming their plates, but otherwise the 
office was as still and empty as last time. Hermione 
breathed a sigh of relief. 

“I thought she might have added extra security after 
the second niffler...” 

They pulled off the cloak. Hermione hurried over to 
the window and stood out of sight, peering down into 
the grounds with her wand out. Harry dashed over to 
the fireplace, seized the pot of Floo powder, and threw 
a pinch into the grate, causing emerald flames to 
burst into life there. He knelt down quickly, thrust his 
head into the dancing fire, and cried, “Number twelve, 
Grimmauld Place!” 

His head began to spin as though he had just got off a 
fairground ride though his knees remained firmly 
planted upon the cold office floor. He kept his eyes 
screwed up against the whirling ash, and when the 
spinning stopped, he opened them to find himself 
looking out upon the long, cold kitchen of Grimmauld 
Place. 

There was nobody there. He had expected this, yet 
was not prepared for the molten wave of dread and 
panic that seemed to burst through his stomach floor 
at the sight of the deserted room. 

“Sirius?” he shouted. “Sirius, are you there?” 

His voice echoed around the room, but there was no 
answer except a tiny scuffing sound to the right of the 
fire. 

“Who’s there?” he called, wondering whether it was 
just a mouse. 



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Kreacher the house-elf came creeping into view. He 
looked highly delighted about something, though he 
seemed to have recently sustained a nasty injury to 
both hands, which were heavily bandaged. 

“It’s the Potter boy’s head in the fire,” Kreacher 
informed the empty kitchen, stealing furtive, oddly 
triumphant glances at Harry. “What has he come for, 
Kreacher wonders?” 

“Where’s Sirius, Kreacher?” Harry demanded. 

The house-elf gave a wheezy chuckle. “Master has 
gone out, Harry Potter.” 

“Where’s he gone? Where’s he gone, Kreacher?” 
Kreacher merely cackled. 

“I’m warning you!” said Harry, fully aware that his 
scope for inflicting punishment upon Kreacher was 
almost nonexistent in this position. “What about 
Lupin? Mad-Eye? Any of them, are any of them here?” 

“Nobody here but Kreacher!” said the elf gleefully, and 
turning away from Harry he began to walk slowly 
toward the door at the end of the kitchen. “Kreacher 
thinks he will have a little chat with his Mistress now, 
yes, he hasn’t had a chance in a long time, Kreacher’s 
Master has been keeping him away from her — ” 

“Where has Sirius gone?” Harry yelled after the elf. 
“Kreacher, has he gone to the Department of 
Mysteries?” 

Kreacher stopped in his tracks. Harry could just 
make out the back of his bald head through the forest 
of chair legs before him. 



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“Master does not tell poor Kreacher where he is 
going,” said the elf quietly. 

“But you know!” shouted Harry. “Don’t you? You 
know where he is!” 

There was a moment’s silence, then the elf let out his 
loudest cackle yet. “Master will not come back from 
the Department of Mysteries!” he said gleefully. 
“Kreacher and his Mistress are alone again!” 

And he scurried forward and disappeared through the 
door to the hall. 

“You — !” 



But before he could utter a single curse or insult, 
Harry felt a great pain at the top of his head. He 
inhaled a lot of ash and, choking, found himself being 
dragged backward through the flames until, with a 
horrible abruptness, he was staring up into the wide, 
pallid face of Professor Umbridge, who had dragged 
him backward out of the fire by the hair and was now 
bending his neck back as far as it would go as though 
she was going to slit his throat. 

“You think,” she whispered, bending Harry’s neck 
back even farther, so that he was looking up at the 
ceiling above him, “that after two nifflers I was going 
to let one more foul, scavenging little creature enter 
my office without my knowledge? I had Stealth 
Sensoring Spells placed all around my doorway after 
the last one got in, you foolish boy. Take his wand,” 
she barked at someone he could not see, and he felt a 
hand grope inside the chest pocket of his robes and 
remove the wand. “Hers too ...” 



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Harry heard a scuffle over by the door and knew that 
Hermione had just had her wand wrested from her as 
well. 

“I want to know why you are in my office,” said 
Umbridge, shaking the fist clutching his hair so that 
he staggered. 

“I was — trying to get my Firebolt!” Harry croaked. 

“Liar.” She shook his head again. “Your Firebolt is 
under strict guard in the dungeons, as you very well 
know, Potter. You had your head in my fire. With 
whom have you been communicating?” 

“No one — ” said Harry, trying to pull away from her. 
He felt several hairs part company with his scalp. 

“LiaA” shouted Umbridge. She threw him from her, 
and he slammed into the desk. Now he could see 
Hermione pinioned against the wall by Millicent 
Bulstrode. Malfoy was leaning on the windowsill, 
smirking as he threw Harry’s wand into the air one- 
handed and then caught it again. 

There was a commotion outside and several large 
Slytherins entered, each gripping Ron, Ginny, Luna, 
and — to Harry’s bewilderment — Neville, who was 
trapped in a stranglehold by Crabbe and looked in 
imminent danger of suffocation. All four of them had 
been gagged. 

“Got ’em all,” said Warrington, shoving Ron roughly 
forward into the room. “ That one.” he poked a thick 
finger at Neville, “tried to stop me taking her,” he 
pointed at Ginny, who was trying to kick the shins of 
the large Slytherin girl holding her, “so I brought him 
along too.” 



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“Good, good,” said Umbridge, watching Ginny’s 
struggles. “Well, it looks as though Hogwarts will 
shortly be a Weasley-free zone, doesn’t it?” 

Malfoy laughed loudly and sycophantically. Umbridge 
gave her wide, complacent smile and settled herself 
into a chintz-covered armchair, blinking up at her 
captives like a toad in a flowerbed. 

“So, Potter,” she said. “You stationed lookouts around 
my office and you sent this buffoon,” she nodded at 
Ron, and Malfoy laughed even louder, “to tell me the 
poltergeist was wreaking havoc in the Transfiguration 
department when I knew perfectly well that he was 
busy smearing ink on the eyepieces of all the school 
telescopes, Mr. Filch having just informed me so. 

“Clearly, it was very important for you to talk to 
somebody. Was it Albus Dumbledore? Or the half- 
breed, Hagrid? I doubt it was Minerva McGonagall, I 
hear she is still too ill to talk to anyone...” 

Malfoy and a few of the other members of the 
Inquisitorial Squad laughed some more at that. Harry 
found he was so full of rage and hatred he was 
shaking. 

“It’s none of your business who I talk to,” he snarled. 

Umbridge’s slack face seemed to tighten. 

“Very well,” she said in her most dangerous and 
falsely sweet voice. “Very well, Mr. Potter ... I offered 
you the chance to tell me freely. You refused. I have 
no alternative but to force you. Draco — fetch 
Professor Snape.” 

Malfoy stowed Harry’s wand inside his robes and left 
the room smirking, but Harry hardly noticed. He had 

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just realized something; he could not believe he had 
been so stupid as to forget it. He had thought that all 
the members of the Order, all those who could help 
him save Sirius, were gone — but he had been wrong. 
There was still a member of the Order of the Phoenix 
at Hogwarts — Snape. 

There was silence in the office except for the 
fidgetings and scufflings resultant from the 
Slytherins’ efforts to keep Ron and the others under 
control. Ron’s lip was bleeding onto Umbridge’s carpet 
as he struggled against Warrington’s half nelson. 
Ginny was still trying to stamp on the feet of the 
sixth-year girl who had both her upper arms in a tight 
grip. Neville was turning steadily more purple in the 
face while tugging at Crabbe’s arms, and Hermione 
was attempting vainly to throw Millicent Bulstrode off 
her. Luna, however, stood limply by the side of her 
captor, gazing vaguely out of the window as though 
rather bored by the proceedings. 

Harry looked back at Umbridge, who was watching 
him closely. He kept his face deliberately smooth and 
blank as footsteps were heard in the corridor outside 
and Draco Malfoy came back into the room, holding 
open the door for Snape. 

“You wanted to see me, Headmistress?” said Snape, 
looking around at all the pairs of struggling students 
with an expression of complete indifference. 

“Ah, Professor Snape,” said Umbridge, smiling widely 
and standing up again. “Yes, I would like another 
bottle of Veritaserum, as quick as you can, please.” 

“You took my last bottle to interrogate Potter,” he 
said, observing her coolly through his greasy curtains 
of black hair. “Surely you did not use it all? I told you 
that three drops would be sufficient.” 

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Umbridge flushed. 

“You can make some more, can’t you?” she said, her 
voice becoming more sweetly girlish as it always did 
when she was furious. 

“Certainly,” said Snape, his lip curling. “It takes a full 
moon cycle to mature, so I should have it ready for 
you in around a month.” 

“A month?” squawked Umbridge, swelling toadishly. 

“A month? But I need it this evening, Snape! I have 
just found Potter using my fire to communicate with a 
person or persons unknown!” 

“Really?” said Snape, showing his first, faint sign of 
interest as he looked around at Harry. “Well, it 
doesn’t surprise me. Potter has never shown much 
inclination to follow school rules.” 

His cold, dark eyes were boring into Harry’s, who met 
his gaze unflinchingly, concentrating hard on what he 
had seen in his dream, willing Snape to read it in his 
mind, to understand . . . 

“I wish to interrogate him!” shouted Umbridge angrily, 
and Snape looked away from Harry back into her 
furiously quivering face. “I wish you to provide me 
with a potion that will force him to tell me the truth!” 

“I have already told you,” said Snape smoothly, “that I 
have no further stocks of Veritaserum. Unless you 
wish to poison Potter — and I assure you I would 
have the greatest sympathy with you if you did — I 
cannot help you. The only trouble is that most 
venoms act too fast to give the victim much time for 
truth-telling...” 



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Snape looked back at Harry, who stared at him, 
frantic to communicate without words. 

Voldemort’s got Sirius in the Department of Mysteries, 
he thought desperately. Voldemort’s got Sirius — 

“You are on probation!” shrieked Professor Umbridge, 
and Snape looked back at her, his eyebrows slightly 
raised. “You are being deliberately unhelpful! I 
expected better, Lucius Malfoy always speaks most 
highly of you! Now get out of my office!” 

Snape gave her an ironic bow and turned to leave. 
Harry knew his last chance of letting the Order know 
what was going on was walking out of the door. 

“He’s got Padfoot!” he shouted. “He’s got Padfoot at 
the place where it’s hidden!” 

Snape had stopped with his hand on Umbridge’s door 
handle. 

“Padfoot?” cried Professor Umbridge, looking eagerly 
from Harry to Snape. “What is Padfoot? Where what is 
hidden? What does he mean, Snape?” 

Snape looked around at Harry. His face was 
inscrutable. Harry could not tell whether he had 
understood or not, but he did not dare speak more 
plainly in front of Umbridge. 

“I have no idea,” said Snape coldly. “Potter, when I 
want nonsense shouted at me I shall give you a 
Babbling Beverage. And Crabbe, loosen your hold a 
little, if Longbottom suffocates it will mean a lot of 
tedious paperwork, and I am afraid I shall have to 
mention it on your reference if ever you apply for a 
job.” 



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He closed the door behind him with a snap, leaving 
Harry in a state of worse turmoil than before: Snape 
had been his very last hope. He looked at Umbridge, 
who seemed to be feeling the same way; her chest was 
heaving with rage and frustration. 

“Very well,” she said, and she pulled out her wand. 
“Very well ... I am left with no alternative... This is 
more than a matter of school discipline... This is an 
issue of Ministry security... Yes ... yes ...” 

She seemed to be talking herself into something. She 
was shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot, 
staring at Harry, beating her wand against her empty 
palm and breathing heavily. Harry felt horribly 
powerless without his own wand as he watched her. 

“You are forcing me, Potter... I do not want to,” said 
Umbridge, still moving restlessly on the spot, “but 
sometimes circumstances justify the use ... I am sure 
the Minister will understand that I had no choice...” 

Malfoy was watching her with a hungry expression on 
his face. 

“The Cruciatus Curse ought to loosen your tongue,” 
said Umbridge quietly. 

“No!” shrieked Hermione. “Professor Umbridge — it’s 
illegal” — but Umbridge took no notice. There was a 
nasty, eager, excited look on her face that Harry had 
never seen before. She raised her wand. 

“The Minister wouldn’t want you to break the law, 
Professor Umbridge!” cried Hermione. 

“What Cornelius doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” said 
Umbridge, who was now panting slightly as she 
pointed her wand at different parts of Harry’s body in 

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turn, apparently trying to decide what would hurt the 
most. “He never knew I ordered dementors after 
Potter last summer, but he was delighted to be given 
the chance to expel him, all the same...” 

“It was you?” gasped Harry. “ You sent the dementors 
after me?” 

“ Somebody had to act,” breathed Umbridge, as her 
wand came to rest pointing directly at Harry’s 
forehead. “They were all bleating about silencing you 
somehow — discrediting you — but I was the one who 
actually did something about it... Only you wriggled 
out of that one, didn’t you, Potter? Not today, though, 
not now ...” 

And taking a deep breath, she cried, “Cruc — ” 

“NO!” shouted Hermione in a cracked voice from 
behind Millicent Bulstrode. “No — Harry — Harry, 
well have to tell her!” 

“No way!” yelled Harry, staring at the little of 
Hermione he could see. 

“We’ll have to, Harry, shell force it out of you anyway, 
what’s ... what’s the point... ?” 

And Hermione began to cry weakly into the back of 
Millicent Bulstrode ’s robes. Millicent stopped trying to 
squash her against the wall immediately and dodged 
out of her way looking disgusted. 

“Well, well, well!” said Umbridge, looking triumphant. 
“Little Miss Question-All is going to give us some 
answers! Come on then, girl, come on!” 

“Er — my — nee — no!” shouted Ron through his gag. 



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Ginny was staring at Hermione as though she had 
never seen her before; Neville, still choking for breath, 
was gazing at her too. But Harry had just noticed 
something. Though Hermione was sobbing 
desperately into her hands, there was no trace of a 
tear... 

“I’m — I’m sorry everyone,” said Hermione. “But — I 
can’t stand it — ■” 

“That’s right, that’s right, girl!” said Umbridge, seizing 
Hermione by the shoulders, thrusting her into the 
abandoned chintz chair and leaning over her. “Now 
then ... with whom was Potter communicating just 
now?” 

“Well,” gulped Hermione into her hands, “well, he was 
trying to speak to Professor Dumbledore...” 

Ron froze, his eyes wide; Ginny stopped trying to 
stamp on her Slytherin captor’s toes; even Luna 
looked mildly surprised. Fortunately, the attention of 
Umbridge and her minions was focused too 
exclusively upon Hermione to notice these suspicious 
signs. 

“Dumbledore?” said Umbridge eagerly. “You know 
where Dumbledore is, then?” 

“Well ... no!” sobbed Hermione. “We’ve tried the Leaky 
Cauldron in Diagon Alley and the Three Broomsticks 
and even the Hog’s Head — ” 

“Idiot girl, Dumbledore won’t be sitting in a pub when 
the whole Ministry’s looking for him!” shouted 
Umbridge, disappointment etched in every sagging 
line of her face. 



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“But — but we needed to tell him something 
important!” wailed Hermione, holding her hands more 
tightly over her face, not, Harry knew, out of anguish, 
but to disguise the continued absence of tears. 

“Yes?” said Umbridge with a sudden resurgence of 
excitement. “What was it you wanted to tell him?” 

“We ... we wanted to tell him it’s r-ready!” choked 
Hermione. 

“What’s ready?” demanded Umbridge, and now she 
grabbed Hermione ’s shoulders again and shook her 
slightly. “What’s ready, girl?” 

“The ... the weapon,” said Hermione. 

“Weapon? Weapon?” said Umbridge, and her eyes 
seemed to pop with excitement. “You have been 
developing some method of resistance? A weapon you 
could use against the Ministry? On Professor 
Dumbledore’s orders, of course?” 

“Y-y-yes,” gasped Hermione. “But he had to leave 
before it was finished and n-n-now we’ve finished it 
for him, and we c-c-can’t find him t-t-to tell him!” 

“What kind of weapon is it?” said Umbridge harshly, 
her stubby hands still tight on Hermione ’s shoulders. 

“We don’t r-r-really understand it,” said Hermione, 
sniffing loudly. “We j-j-just did what P-P-Professor 
Dumbledore told us t-t-to do ...” 

Umbridge straightened up, looking exultant. 

“Lead me to the weapon,” she said. 



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‘Tm not showing ... them,” said Hermione shrilly, 
looking around at the Slytherins through her fingers. 

“It is not for you to set conditions,” said Professor 
Umbridge harshly. 

“Fine,” said Hermione, now sobbing into her hands 
again, “fine ... let them see it, I hope they use it on 
you! In fact, I wish you’d invite loads and loads of 
people to come and see! Th-that would serve you right 
— oh, I’d love it if the wh-whole school knew where it 
was, and how to u-use it, and then if you annoy any 
of them they’ll be able to s-sort you out!” 

These words had a powerful impact on Umbridge. She 
glanced swiftly and suspiciously around at her 
Inquisitorial Squad, her bulging eyes resting for a 
moment on Malfoy, who was too slow to disguise the 
look of eagerness and greed that had appeared on his 
face. 

Umbridge contemplated Hermione for another long 
moment and then spoke in what she clearly thought 
was a motherly voice. “All right, dear, let’s make it 
just you and me ... and we’ll take Potter too, shall we? 
Get up, now — ” 

“Professor,” said Malfoy eagerly, “Professor Umbridge, 

I think some of the squad should come with you to 
look after — ” 

“I am a fully qualified Ministry official, Malfoy, do you 
really think I cannot manage two wandless teenagers 
alone?” asked Umbridge sharply. “In any case, it does 
not sound as though this weapon is something that 
schoolchildren should see. You will remain here until 
I return and make sure none of these” — she gestured 
around at Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Luna — “escape.” 



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“All right,” said Malfoy, looking sulky and 
disappointed. 

“And you two can go ahead of me and show me the 
way,” said Umbridge, pointing at Harry and Hermione 
with her wand. “Lead on...” 



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FIGHT AND FLIGHT 

Harry had no idea what Hermione was planning, or 
even whether she had a plan. He walked half a pace 
behind her as they headed down the corridor outside 
Umb ridge’s office, knowing it would look very 
suspicious if he appeared not to know where they 
were going. He did not dare attempt to talk to her; 
Umbridge was walking so closely behind them that he 
could hear her ragged breathing. 

Hermione led the way down the stairs into the 
entrance hall. The din of loud voices and the clatter of 
cutlery on plates echoed from out of the double doors 
to the Great Hall. It seemed incredible to Harry that 
twenty feet away were people who were enjoying 
dinner, celebrating the end of exams, not a care in the 
world... 

Hermione walked straight out of the oak front doors 
and down the stone steps into the balmy evening air. 
The sun was falling toward the tops of the trees in the 
Forbidden Forest now as Hermione marched 
purposefully across the grass, Umbridge jogging to 
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keep up. Their long dark shadows rippled over the 
grass behind them like cloaks. 



“It’s hidden in Hagrid’s hut, is it?” said Umbridge 
eagerly in Harry’s ear. 

“Of course not,” said Hermione scathingly. “Hagrid 
might have set it off accidentally.” 

“Yes,” said Umbridge, whose excitement seemed to be 
mounting. “Yes, he would have done, of course, the 
great half-breed oaf...” 

She laughed. Harry felt a strong urge to swing around 
and seize her by the throat, but resisted. His scar was 
throbbing in the soft evening air but it had not yet 
burned white-hot, as he knew it would if Voldemort 
had moved in for the kill... 

“Then ... where is it?” asked Umbridge, with a hint of 
uncertainty in her voice as Hermione continued to 
stride toward the forest. 

“In there, of course,” said Hermione, pointing into the 
dark trees. “It had to be somewhere that students 
weren’t going to find it accidentally, didn’t it?” 

“Of course,” said Umbridge, though she sounded a 
little apprehensive now. “Of course ... very well, then 
... you two stay ahead of me.” 

“Can we have your wand, then, if we’re going first?” 
Harry asked her. 

“No, I don’t think so, Mr. Potter,” said Umbridge 
sweetly, poking him in the back with it. “The Ministry 
places a rather higher value on my life than yours, I’m 
afraid.” 

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As they reached the cool shade of the first trees, 

Harry tried to catch Hermione ’s eye; walking into the 
forest without wands seemed to him to be more 
foolhardy than anything they had done so far this 
evening. She, however, merely gave Umbridge a 
contemptuous glance and plunged straight into the 
trees, moving at such a pace that Umbridge, with her 
shorter legs, had difficulty in keeping up. 

“Is it very far in?” Umbridge asked, as her robe ripped 
on a bramble. 

“Oh yes,” said Hermione. “Yes, it’s well hidden.” 

Harry’s misgivings increased. Hermione was not 
taking the path they had followed to visit Grawp, but 
the one he had followed three years ago to the lair of 
the monster Aragog. Hermione had not been with him 
on that occasion; he doubted she had any idea what 
danger lay at the end of it. 

“Er — are you sure this is the right way?” he asked 
her pointedly. 

“Oh yes,” she said in a steely voice, crashing through 
the undergrowth with what he thought was a wholly 
unnecessary amount of noise. Behind them, 

Umbridge tripped over a fallen sapling. Neither of 
them paused to help her up again; Hermione merely 
strode on, calling loudly over her shoulder, “It’s a bit 
further in!” 

“Hermione, keep your voice down,” Harry muttered, 
hurrying to catch up with her. “Anything could be 
listening in here — ” 

“I want us heard,” she answered quietly, as Umbridge 
jogged noisily after them. “You’ll see...” 



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They walked on for what seemed a long time, until 
they were once again so deep into the forest that the 
dense tree canopy blocked out all light. Harry had the 
feeling he had had before in the forest, one of being 
watched by unseen eyes... 

“How much further?” demanded Umbridge angrily 
from behind him. 

“Not far now!” shouted Hermione, as they emerged 
into a dim, dank clearing. “Just a little bit — ” 

An arrow flew through the air and landed with a 
menacing thud in the tree just over her head. The air 
was suddenly full of the sound of hooves. Harry could 
feel the forest floor trembling; Umbridge gave a little 
scream and pushed him in front of her like a shield — 

He wrenched himself free of her and turned. Around 
fifty centaurs were emerging on every side, their bows 
raised and loaded, pointing at Harry, Hermione, and 
Umbridge, who backed slowly into the center of the 
clearing, Umbridge uttering odd little whimpers of 
terror. Harry looked sideways at Hermione. She was 
wearing a triumphant smile. 

“Who are you?” said a voice. 

Harry looked left. The chestnut-bodied centaur called 
Magorian was walking toward them out of the circle; 
his bow, like the others’, was raised. On Harry’s right, 
Umbridge was still whimpering, her wand trembling 
violently as she pointed it at the advancing centaur. 

“I asked you who are you, human,” said Magorian 
roughly. 

“I am Dolores Umbridge!” said Umbridge in a high- 
pitched, terrified voice. “Senior Undersecretary to the 

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Minister of Magic and Headmistress and High 
Inquisitor of Hogwarts!” 



“You are from the Ministry of Magic?” said Magorian, 
as many of the centaurs in the surrounding circle 
shifted restlessly. 

“That’s right!” said Umbridge in an even higher voice. 
“So be very careful! By the laws laid down by the 
Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical 
Creatures, any attack by half-breeds such as 
yourselves on a human — ” 

“ What did you call us?” shouted a wild-looking black 
centaur, whom Harry recognized as Bane. There was 
a great deal of angry muttering and tightening of 
bowstrings around them. 

“Don’t call them that!” Hermione said furiously, but 
Umbridge did not appear to have heard her. Still 
pointing her shaking wand at Magorian, she 
continued, “Law Fifteen B states clearly that ‘Any 
attack by a magical creature who is deemed to have 
near-human intelligence, and therefore considered 
responsible for its actions — ’ ” 

“ ‘Near-human intelligence’?” repeated Magorian, as 
Bane and several others roared with rage and pawed 
the ground. “We consider that a great insult, human! 
Our intelligence, thankfully, far outstrips your own — 



“What are you doing in our forest?” bellowed the 
hard-faced gray centaur whom Harry and Hermione 
had seen on their last trip into the forest. “Why are 
you here?” 

“Your forest?” said Umbridge, shaking now not only 
with fright but also, it seemed, with indignation. “I 

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would remind you that you live here only because the 
Ministry of Magic permits you certain areas of land — 



An arrow flew so close to her head that it caught at 
her mousy hair in passing. She let out an earsplitting 
scream and threw her hands over her head while 
some of the centaurs bellowed their approval and 
others laughed raucously. The sound of their wild, 
neighing laughter echoing around the dimly lit 
clearing and the sight of their pawing hooves was 
extremely unnerving. 

“Whose forest is it now, human?” bellowed Bane. 

“Filthy half-breeds!” she screamed, her hands still 
tight over her head. “Beasts! Uncontrolled animals!” 

“Be quiet!” shouted Hermione, but it was too late — 
Umbridge pointed her wand at Magorian and 
screamed, “ Incarcerousl” 

Ropes flew out of midair like thick snakes, wrapping 
themselves tightly around the centaur’s torso and 
trapping his arms. He gave a cry of rage and reared 
onto his hind legs, attempting to free himself, while 
the other centaurs charged. 

Harry grabbed Hermione and pulled her to the 
ground. Facedown on the forest floor he knew a 
moment of terror as hooves thundered around him, 
but the centaurs leapt over and around them, 
bellowing and screaming with rage. 

“Nooooo!” he heard Umbridge shriek. “Noooooo ... I 
am Senior Undersecretary ... you cannot ... unhand 
me, you animals ... nooooo!” 



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He saw a flash of red light and knew that she had 
attempted to Stun one of them — then she screamed 
very loudly. Lifting his head a few inches, Harry saw 
that Umbridge had been seized from behind by Bane 
and lifted high into the air, wriggling and yelling with 
fright. Her wand fell from her hand to the ground and 
Harry’s heart leapt, if he could just reach it — 

But as he stretched out a hand toward it, a centaur’s 
hoof descended upon the wand and it broke cleanly in 
half. 

“Now!” roared a voice in Harry’s ear and a thick hairy 
arm descended from thin air and dragged him 
upright; Hermione too had been pulled to her feet. 
Over the plunging, many-colored backs and heads of 
the centaurs Harry saw Umbridge being borne away 
through the trees by Bane, still screaming nonstop; 
her voice grew fainter and fainter until they could no 
longer hear it over the trampling of hooves 
surrounding them. 

“And these?” said the hard-faced, gray centaur 
holding Hermione. 

“They are young,” said a slow, doleful voice from 
behind Harry. “We do not attack foals.” 

“They brought her here, Ronan,” replied the centaur 
who had such a firm grip on Harry. “And they are not 
so young... He is nearing manhood, this one...” 

He shook Harry by the neck of his robes. 

“Please,” said Hermione breathlessly, “please, don’t 
attack us, we don’t think like her, we aren’t Ministry 
of Magic employees! We only came in here because we 
hoped you’d drive her off for us — ” 



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Harry knew at once from the look on the face of the 
gray centaur holding Hermione that she had made a 
terrible mistake in saying this. The gray centaur 
threw back his head, his back legs stamping 
furiously, and bellowed, “You see, Ronan? They 
already have the arrogance of their kind! So we were 
to do your dirty work, were we, human girl? We were 
to act as your servants, drive away your enemies like 
obedient hounds?” 

“No!” said Hermione in a horrorstruck squeak. “Please 
— I didn’t mean that! I just hoped you’d be able to — 
to help us — ” 

But she seemed to be going from bad to worse. 

“We do not help humans!” snarled the centaur 
holding Harry, tightening his grip and rearing a little 
at the same time, so that Harry’s feet left the ground 
momentarily. “We are a race apart and proud to be 
so... We will not permit you to walk from here, 
boasting that we did your bidding!” 

“We’re not going to say anything like that!” Harry 
shouted. “We know you didn’t do anything because 
we wanted you to — ” 

But nobody seemed to be listening to him. A bearded 
centaur toward the back of the crowd shouted, “They 
came here unasked, they must pay the 
consequences!” 

A roar of approval met these words and a dun-colored 
centaur shouted, “They can join the woman!” 

“You said you didn’t hurt the innocent!” shouted 
Hermione, real tears sliding down her face now. “We 
haven’t done anything to hurt you, we haven’t used 



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wands or threats, we just want to go back to school, 
please let us go back — ” 

“We are not all like the traitor Firenze, human girl!” 
shouted the gray centaur, to more neighing roars of 
approval from his fellows. “Perhaps you thought us 
pretty talking horses? We are an ancient people who 
will not stand wizard invasions and insults! We do not 
recognize your laws, we do not acknowledge your 
superiority, we are — ” 

But they did not hear what else centaurs were, for at 
that moment there came a crashing noise on the edge 
of the clearing so loud that all of them — Harry, 
Hermione, and the fifty or so centaurs filling the 
clearing — looked around. Harry’s centaur let him fall 
to the ground again as his hands flew to his bow and 
quiver of arrows; Hermione had been dropped too, 
and Harry hurried toward her as two thick tree 
trunks parted ominously and the monstrous form of 
Grawp the giant appeared in the gap. 

The centaurs nearest him backed into those behind. 
The clearing was now a forest of bows and arrows 
waiting to be fired, all pointing upward at the 
enormous grayish face now looming over them from 
just beneath the thick canopy of branches. Grawp ’s 
lopsided mouth was gaping stupidly. They could see 
his bricklike yellow teeth glimmering in the half-light, 
his dull sludge-colored eyes narrowed as he squinted 
down at the creatures at his feet. Broken ropes trailed 
from both ankles. 

He opened his mouth even wider. 

“Hagger.” 

Harry did not know what “hagger” meant, or what 
language it was from, nor did he much care — he was 

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watching Grawp ’s feet, which were almost as long as 
Harry’s whole body. Hermione gripped his arm tightly; 
the centaurs were quite silent, staring up at the giant, 
whose huge, round head moved from side to side as 
he continued to peer amongst them as though looking 
for something he had dropped. 

“Haggeii” he said again, more insistently. 

“Get away from here, giant!” called Magorian. “You 
are not welcome among us!” 

These words seemed to make no impression 
whatsoever on Grawp. He stooped a little (the 
centaurs’ arms tensed on their bows) and then 
bellowed, “HAGGER!” 

A few of the centaurs looked worried now. Hermione, 
however, gave a gasp. 

“Harry!” she whispered. “I think he’s trying to say 
‘Hagrid’!” 



At this precise moment Grawp caught sight of them, 
the only two humans in a sea of centaurs. He lowered 
his head another foot or so, staring intently at them. 
Harry could feel Hermione shaking as Grawp opened 
his mouth wide again and said, in a deep, rumbling 
voice, “Hermy.” 

“Goodness,” said Hermione, gripping Harry’s arm so 
tightly it was growing numb and looking as though 
she was about to faint, “he — he remembered!” 

“HERMY!” roared Grawp. “WHERE HAGGER?” 

“I don’t know!” squealed Hermione, terrified. “I’m 
sorry, Grawp, I don’t know!” 



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“GRAWP WANT HAGGER!” 



One of the giant’s massive hands swooped down upon 
them — Hermione let out a real scream, ran a few 
steps backward and fell over. Wandless, Harry braced 
himself to punch, kick, bite, or whatever else it took 
as the hand flew toward him and knocked a snow- 
white centaur off his legs. 

It was what the centaurs had been waiting for — 
Grawp’s outstretched fingers were a foot from Harry 
when fifty arrows went soaring through the air at the 
giant, peppering his enormous face, causing him to 
howl with pain and rage and straighten up again, 
rubbing his face with his enormous hands, breaking 
off the arrow shafts but forcing the heads in still 
deeper. 

He yelled and stamped his enormous feet and the 
centaurs scattered out of the way. Pebble-sized 
droplets of Grawp’s blood showered Harry as he 
pulled Hermione to her feet and the pair of them ran 
as fast as they could for the shelter of the trees. Once 
there they looked back — Grawp was snatching 
blindly at the centaurs as blood ran all down his face; 
they were retreating in disorder, galloping away 
through the trees on the other side of the clearing. As 
Harry and Hermione watched, Grawp gave another 
roar of fury and plunged after them, smashing more 
trees aside as he went. 

“Oh no,” said Hermione, quaking so badly that her 
knees gave way. “Oh, that was horrible. And he might 
kill them all...” 

“I’m not that fussed, to be honest,” said Harry 
bitterly. 



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The sounds of the galloping centaurs and the 
blundering giant were growing fainter and fainter. As 
Harry listened to them his scar gave another great 
throb and a wave of terror swept over him. 

They had wasted so much time — they were even 
further from rescuing Sirius than they had been when 
he had had the vision. Not only had Harry managed 
to lose his wand but they were stuck in the middle of 
the Forbidden Forest with no means of transport 
whatsoever. 

“Smart plan,” he spat at Hermione, keen to release 
some of his fury. “Really smart plan. Where do we go 
from here?” 

“We need to get back up to the castle,” said Hermione 
faintly. 

“By the time we’ve done that, Sirius 11 probably be 
dead!” said Harry, kicking a nearby tree in temper; 
there was a high-pitched chattering overhead and he 
looked up to see an angry bowtruckle flexing its long 
twiglike fingers at him. 

“Well, we can’t do anything without wands,” said 
Hermione hopelessly, dragging herself up again. 
“Anyway, Harry, how exactly were you planning to get 
all the way to London?” 

“Yeah, we were just wondering that,” said a familiar 
voice from behind her. 

Harry and Hermione moved instinctively together, 
peering through the trees, as Ron came into sight, 
with Ginny, Neville, and Luna hurrying along behind 
him. All of them looked a little the worse for wear — 
there were several long scratches running the length 
of Ginny’s cheek, a large purple lump was swelling 
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above Neville’s right eye, Ron’s lip was bleeding worse 
than ever — but all were looking rather pleased with 
themselves. 

“So,” said Ron, pushing aside a low-hanging branch 
and holding out Harry’s wand, “had any ideas?” 

“How did you get away?” asked Harry in amazement, 
taking his wand from Ron. 

“Couple of Stunners, a Disarming Charm, Neville 
brought off a really nice little Impediment Jinx,” said 
Ron airily, now handing back Hermione’s wand too. 
“But Ginny was best, she got Malfoy — Bat-Bogey Hex 
— it was superb, his whole face was covered in the 
great flapping things. Anyway, we saw you heading 
into the forest out of the window and followed. 

What’ve you done with Umbridge?” 

“She got carried away,” said Harry. “By a herd of 
centaurs.” 

“And they left you behind?” asked Ginny, looking 
astonished. 

“No, they got chased off by Grawp,” said Harry. 

“Who’s Grawp?” Luna asked interestedly. 

“Hagrid’s little brother,” said Ron promptly. “Anyway, 
never mind that now. Harry, what did you find out in 
the fire? Has You-Know-Who got Sirius or — ?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, as his scar gave another painful 
prickle, “and I’m sure Sirius is still alive, but I can’t 
see how we’re going to get there to help him.” 

They all fell silent, looking rather scared. The problem 
facing them seemed insurmountable. 

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“Well, we’ll have to fly, won’t we?” said Luna in the 
closest thing to a matter-of-fact voice Harry had ever 
heard her use. 



“Okay,” said Harry irritably, rounding on her, “first of 
all, “we’ aren’t doing anything if you’re including 
yourself in that, and second of all, Ron’s the only one 
with a broomstick that isn’t being guarded by a 
security troll, so — ” 

“I’ve got a broom!” said Ginny. 

“Yeah, but you’re not coming,” said Ron angrily. 

“Excuse me, but I care what happens to Sirius as 
much as you do!” said Ginny, her jaw set so that her 
resemblance to Fred and George was suddenly 
striking. 

“You’re too — ” Harry began. 

“I’m three years older than you were when you fought 
You-Know-Who over the Sorcerer’s Stone,” she said 
fiercely, “and it’s because of me Malfoy’s stuck back 
in Umbridge’s office with giant flying bogeys attacking 
him — ” 



“Yeah, but — ” 

“We were all in the D.A. together,” said Neville quietly. 
“It was all supposed to be about fighting You-Know- 
Who, wasn’t it? And this is the first chance we’ve had 
to do something real — or was that all just a game or 
something?” 

“No — of course it wasn’t — ” said Harry impatiently. 

“Then we should come too,” said Neville simply. “We 
want to help.” 

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“That’s right,” said Luna, smiling happily. 



Harry’s eyes met Ron’s. He knew that Ron was 
thinking exactly what he was: If he could have chosen 
any members of the D.A. in addition to himself, Ron, 
and Hermione to join him in the attempt to rescue 
Sirius, he would not have picked Ginny, Neville, or 
Luna. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,” said Harry 
frustratedly, “because we still don’t know how to get 
there — ” 

“I thought we’d settled that?” said Luna maddeningly. 
“We’re flying!” 

“Look,” said Ron, barely containing his anger, “you 
might be able to fly without a broomstick but the rest 
of us can’t sprout wings whenever we — ” 

“There are other ways of flying than with 
broomsticks,” said Luna serenely. 

“I s’pose we’re going to ride on the back of the Kacky 
Snorgle or whatever it is?” Ron demanded. 

“The Crumple-Horned Snorkack can’t fly,” said Luna 
in a dignified voice, “but they can, and Hagrid says 
they’re very good at finding places their riders are 
looking for.” 

Harry whirled around. Standing between two trees, 
their white eyes gleaming eerily, were two thestrals, 
watching the whispered conversation as though they 
understood every word. 

“Yes!” he whispered, moving toward them. They 
tossed their reptilian heads, throwing back long black 
manes, and Harry stretched out his hand eagerly and 

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patted the nearest one’s shining neck. How could he 
ever have thought them ugly? 

“Is it those mad horse things?” said Ron uncertainly, 
staring at a point slightly to the left of the thestral 
Harry was patting. “Those ones you can’t see unless 
you’ve watched someone snuff it?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. 

“How many?” 

“Just two.” 

“Well, we need three,” said Hermione, who was still 
looking a little shaken, but determined just the same. 

“Four, Hermione,” said Ginny, scowling. 

“I think there are six of us, actually,” said Luna 
calmly, counting. 

“Don’t be stupid, we can’t all go!” said Harry angrily. 
“Look, you three” — he pointed at Neville, Ginny, and 
Luna — “you’re not involved in this, you’re not — ” 

They burst into more protests. His scar gave another, 
more painful, twinge. Every moment they delayed was 
precious; he did not have time to argue. 

“Okay, fine, it’s your choice,” he said curtly. “But 
unless we can find more thestrals you’re not going to 
be able — ” 

“Oh, more of them will come,” said Ginny confidently, 
who like Ron was squinting in quite the wrong 
direction, apparently under the impression that she 
was looking at the horses. 



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“What makes you think that?” 

“Because in case you hadn’t noticed, you and 
Hermione are both covered in blood,” she said coolly, 
“and we know Hagrid lures thestrals with raw meat, 
so that’s probably why these two turned up in the 
first place...” 

Harry felt a soft tug on his robes at that moment and 
looked down to see the closest thestral licking his 
sleeve, which was damp with Grawp’s blood. 

“Okay, then,” he said, a bright idea occurring. “Ron 
and I will take these two and go ahead, and Hermione 
can stay here with you three and she’ll attract more 
thestrals — ” 

“I’m not staying behind!” said Hermione furiously. 

“There’s no need,” said Luna, smiling. “Look, here 
come more now... You two must really smell...” 

Harry turned. No fewer than six or seven thestrals 
were picking their way through the trees now, their 
great leathery wings folded tight to their bodies, their 
eyes gleaming through the darkness. He had no 
excuse now... 

“All right,” he said angrily, “pick one and get on, 
then.” 



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THE DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES 

Harry wound his hand tightly into the mane of the 
nearest thestral, placed a foot on a stump nearby, 
and scrambled clumsily onto the horse’s silken back. 
It did not object, but twisted its head around, fangs 
bared, and attempted to continue its eager licking of 
his robes. 

He found there was a way of lodging his knees behind 
the wing joints that made him feel more secure and 
looked around at the others. Neville had heaved 
himself over the back of the next thestral and was 
now attempting to swing one short leg over the 
creature’s back. Luna was already in place, sitting 
sidesaddle and adjusting her robes as though she did 
this every day. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, however, 
were still standing motionless on the spot, 
openmouthed and staring. 

“What?” he said. 

“How’re we supposed to get on?” said Ron faintly. 
“When we can’t see the things?” 

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“Oh it’s easy,” said Luna, sliding obligingly from her 
thestral and marching over to him, Hermione, and 
Ginny. “Come here...” 

She pulled them over to the other thestrals standing 
around and one by one managed to help them onto 
the backs of their mounts. All three looked extremely 
nervous as she wound their hands into the horses’ 
manes and told them to grip tightly before getting 
back onto her own steed. 

“This is mad,” Ron said faintly, moving his free hand 
gingerly up and down his horse’s neck. “Mad ... if I 
could just see it — ” 

“You’d better hope it stays invisible,” said Harry 
darkly. “We all ready, then?” 

They all nodded and he saw five pairs of knees tighten 
beneath their robes. 

“Okay ...” 

He looked down at the back of his thestral’s glossy 
black head and swallowed. “Ministry of Magic, 
visitors’ entrance, London, then,” he said uncertainly. 
“Er ... if you know ... where to go ...” 

For a moment his thestral did nothing at all. Then, 
with a sweeping movement that nearly unseated him, 
the wings on either side extended, the horse crouched 
slowly and then rocketed upward so fast and so 
steeply that Harry had to clench his arms and legs 
tightly around the horse to avoid sliding backward 
over its bony rump. He closed his eyes and put his 
face down into the horse’s silky mane as they burst 
through the topmost branches of the trees and soared 
out into a bloodred sunset. 



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Harry did not think he had ever moved so fast: The 
thestral streaked over the castle, its wide wings 
hardly beating. The cooling air was slapping Harry’s 
face; eyes screwed up against the rushing wind, he 
looked around and saw his five fellows soaring along 
behind him, each of them bent as low as possible into 
the neck of their thestral to protect themselves from 
its slipstream. 

They were over the Hogwarts grounds, they had 
passed Hogsmeade. Harry could see mountains and 
gullies below them. In the falling darkness Harry saw 
small collections of lights as they passed over more 
villages, then a winding road on which a single car 
was beetling its way home through the hills... 

“This is bizarre!” Harry heard Ron yell from 
somewhere behind him, and he imagined how it must 
feel to be speeding along at this height with no visible 
means of support... 

Twilight fell: The sky turned to a light, dusky purple 
littered with tiny silver stars, and soon it was only the 
lights of Muggle towns that gave them any clue of how 
far from the ground they were or how very fast they 
were traveling. Harry’s arms were wrapped tightly 
around his horse’s neck as he willed it to go even 
faster. How much time had elapsed since he had seen 
Sirius lying on the Department of Mysteries floor? 

How much longer would he be able to resist 
Voldemort? All Harry knew for sure was that Sirius 
had neither done as Voldemort wanted, nor died, for 
he was convinced that either outcome would cause 
him to feel Voldemort’s jubilation or fury course 
through his own body, making his scar sear as 
painfully as it had on the night Mr. Weasley was 
attacked... 



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On they flew through the gathering darkness; Harry’s 
face felt stiff and cold, his legs numb from gripping 
the thestral’s sides so tightly, but he did not dare 
shift positions lest he slip... He was deaf from the 
thundering in his ears and his mouth was dry and 
frozen from the rush of cold night air. He had lost all 
sense of how far they had come; all his faith was in 
the beast below him, still streaking purposefully 
through the night, barely flapping its wings as it sped 
ever onward... 

If they were too late . . . 

He’s still alive, he’s still fighting, I can feel it... 

If Voldemort decided Sirius was not going to crack ... 
I’d know... 

Harry’s stomach gave a jolt. The thestral’s head was 
suddenly pointing toward the ground and he had 
actually slid forward a few inches along its neck. They 
were descending at last... He heard one of the girls 
shriek behind him and twisted around dangerously 
but could see no sign of a falling body. . . Presumably 
they had received a shock from the change of 
position, just as he had... 

And now bright orange lights were growing larger and 
rounder on all sides. They could see the tops of 
buildings, streams of headlights like luminous insect 
eyes, squares of pale yellow that were windows. Quite 
suddenly, it seemed, they were hurtling toward the 
pavement. Harry gripped the thestral with every last 
ounce of his strength, braced for a sudden impact, 
but the horse touched the dark ground as lightly as a 
shadow and Harry slid from his back, looking around 
at the street where the overflowing dumpster still 
stood a short way from the vandalized telephone box, 
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both drained of color in the flat orange glare of the 
streetlights. 

Ron landed a short way away and toppled 
immediately off his thestral onto the pavement. 

“Never again,” he said, struggling to his feet. He made 
as though to stride away from his thestral, but, 
unable to see it, collided with its hindquarters and 
almost fell over again. “Never, ever again ... that was 
the worst — ” 

Hermione and Ginny touched down on either side of 
him. Both slid off their mounts a little more gracefully 
than Ron, though with similar expressions of relief at 
being back on firm ground. Neville jumped down, 
shaking, but Luna dismounted smoothly. 

“Where do we go from here, then?” she asked Harry in 
a politely interested voice, as though this was all a 
rather interesting day- trip. 

“Over here,” he said. He gave his thestral a quick, 
grateful pat, then led the way quickly to the battered 
telephone box and opened the door. “Come on\” he 
urged the others as they hesitated. 

Ron and Ginny marched in obediently; Hermione, 
Neville, and Luna squashed themselves in after them; 
Harry took one glance back at the thestrals, now 
foraging for scraps of rotten food inside the dumpster, 
then forced himself into the box after Luna. 

“Whoever’s nearest the receiver, dial six two four four 
two!” he said. 

Ron did it, his arm bent bizarrely to reach the dial. As 
it whirred back into place the cool female voice 



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sounded inside the box, “Welcome to the Ministry of 
Magic. Please state your name and business.” 

“Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger,” 

Harry said very quickly, “Ginny Weasley, Neville 
Longbottom, Luna Lovegood ... We’re here to save 
someone, unless your Ministry can do it first!” 

“Thank you,” said the cool female voice. “Visitors, 
please take the badges and attach them to the front of 
your robes.” 

Half a dozen badges slid out of the metal chute where 
returned coins usually appeared. Hermione scooped 
them up and handed them mutely to Harry over 
Ginny ’s head; he glanced at the topmost one. 

HARRY POTTER 
RESCUE MISSION 

“Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to 
a search and present your wand for registration at the 
security desk, which is located at the far end of the 
Atrium.” 

“Fine!” Harry said loudly, as his scar gave another 
throb. “Now can we move?” 

The floor of the telephone box shuddered and the 
pavement rose up past the glass windows of the 
telephone box. The scavenging thestrals were sliding 
out of sight, blackness closed over their heads, and 
with a dull grinding noise they sank down into the 
depths of the Ministry of Magic. 

A chink of soft golden light hit their feet and, 
widening, rose up their bodies. Harry bent his knees 



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and held his wand as ready as he could in such 
cramped conditions, peering through the glass to see 
whether anybody was waiting for them in the Atrium, 
but it seemed to be completely empty. The light was 
dimmer than it had been by day. There were no fires 
burning under the mantelpieces set into the walls, 
but he saw as the lift slid smoothly to a halt that 
golden symbols continued to twist sinuously in the 
dark blue ceiling. 

“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant 
evening,” said the woman’s voice. 

The door of the telephone box burst open; Harry 
toppled out of it, followed by Neville and Luna. The 
only sound in the Atrium was the steady rush of 
water from the golden fountain, where jets from the 
wands of the witch and wizard, the point of the 
centaur’s arrow, the tip of the goblin’s hat, and the 
house-elf’s ears continued to gush into the 
surrounding pool. 

“Come on,” said Harry quietly and the six of them 
sprinted off down the hall, Harry in the lead, past the 
fountain, toward the desk where the security man 
who had weighed Harry’s wand had sat and which 
was now deserted. 

Harry felt sure that there ought to be a security 
person there, sure that their absence was an ominous 
sign, and his feeling of foreboding increased as they 
passed through the golden gates to the lifts. He 
pressed the nearest down button and a lift clattered 
into sight almost immediately, the golden grilles slid 
apart with a great, echoing clanking, and they dashed 
inside. Harry stabbed the number nine button, the 
grilles closed with a bang, and the lift began to 
descend, jangling and rattling. Harry had not realized 
how noisy the lifts were on the day that he had come 
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with Mr. Weasley — he was sure that the din would 
raise every security person within the building, yet 
when the lift halted, the cool female voice said, 
“Department of Mysteries,” and the grilles slid open 
again, they stepped out into the corridor where 
nothing was moving but the nearest torches, 
flickering in the rush of air from the lift. 

Harry turned toward the plain black door. After 
months and months of dreaming about it, he was 
here at last... 

“Let’s go,” he whispered, and he led the way down the 
corridor, Luna right behind him, gazing around with 
her mouth slightly open. 

“Okay, listen,” said Harry, stopping again within six 
feet of the door. “Maybe . . . maybe a couple of people 
should stay here as a — as a lookout, and — ” 

“And how’re we going to let you know something’s 
coming?” asked Ginny, her eyebrows raised. “You 
could be miles away.” 

“We’re coming with you, Harry,” said Neville. 

“Let’s get on with it,” said Ron firmly. 

Harry still did not want to take them all with him, but 
it seemed he had no choice. He turned to face the 
door and walked forward. Just as it had in his dream, 
it swung open and he marched forward, leading the 
others over the threshold. 

They were standing in a large, circular room. 
Everything in here was black including the floor and 
ceiling — identical, unmarked, handle-less black 
doors were set at intervals all around the black walls, 
interspersed with branches of candles whose flames 
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burned blue, their cool, shimmering light reflected in 
the shining marble floor so that it looked as though 
there was dark water underfoot. 

“Someone shut the door,” Harry muttered. 

He regretted giving this order the moment Neville had 
obeyed it. Without the long chink of light from the 
torch-lit corridor behind them, the place became so 
dark that for a moment the only things they could see 
were the bunches of shivering blue flames on the 
walls and their ghostly reflections in the floor below. 

In his dream, Harry had always walked purposefully 
across this room to the door immediately opposite the 
entrance and walked on. But there were around a 
dozen doors here. Just as he was gazing ahead at the 
doors opposite him, trying to decide which was the 
right one, there was a great rumbling noise and the 
candles began to move sideways. The circular wall 
was rotating. 

Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm as though frightened 
the floor might move too, but it did not. For a few 
seconds the blue flames around them were blurred to 
resemble neon lines as the wall sped around and 
then, quite as suddenly as it had started, the 
rumbling stopped and everything became stationary 
once again. 

Harry’s eyes had blue streaks burned into them; it 
was all he could see. 

“What was that about?” whispered Ron fearfully. 

“I think it was to stop us knowing which door we 
came in from,” said Ginny in a hushed voice. 



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Harry realized at once that she was right: He could no 
sooner have picked the exit from the other doors than 
located an ant upon the jet-black floor. Meanwhile, 
the door through which they needed to proceed could 
be any of the dozen surrounding them. 

“How’re we going to get back out?” said Neville 
uncomfortably. 

“Well, that doesn’t matter now,” said Harry forcefully, 
blinking to try and erase the blue lines from his 
vision, and clutching his wand tighter than ever. “We 
won’t need to get out till we’ve found Sirius — ” 

“Don’t go calling for him, though!” Hermione said 
urgently, but Harry had never needed her advice less; 
his instinct was to keep as quiet as possible for the 
time being. 

“Where do we go, then, Harry?” Ron asked. 

“I don’t — ” Harry began. He swallowed. “In the 
dreams I went through the door at the end of the 
corridor from the lifts into a dark room — that’s this 
one — and then I went through another door into a 
room that kind of ... glitters. We should try a few 
doors,” he said hastily. “I’ll know the right way when I 
see it. C’mon.” 

He marched straight at the door now facing him, the 
others following close behind him, set his left hand 
against its cool, shining surface, raised his wand, 
ready to strike the moment it opened, and pushed. It 
swung open easily. 

After the darkness of the first room, the lamps 
hanging low on golden chains from this ceiling gave 
the impression that this long rectangular room was 
much brighter, though there were no glittering, 

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shimmering lights such as Harry had seen in his 
dreams. The place was quite empty except for a few 
desks and, in the very middle of the room, an 
enormous glass tank of deep-green water, big enough 
for all of them to swim in, which contained a number 
of pearly white objects that were drifting around lazily 
in the liquid. 

“What’re those things?” whispered Ron. 

“Dunno,” said Harry. 

“Are they fish?” breathed Ginny. 

“Aquavirius maggots!” said Luna excitedly. “Dad said 
the Ministry were breeding — ” 

“No,” said Hermione. She sounded odd. She moved 
forward to look through the side of the tank. “They’re 
brains.” 

“Brains?” 

“Yes ... I wonder what they’re doing with them?” 

Harry joined her at the tank. Sure enough, there 
could be no mistake now that he saw them at close 
quarters. Glimmering eerily they drifted in and out of 
sight in the depths of the green water, looking 
something like slimy cauliflowers. 

“Let’s get out of here,” said Harry. “This isn’t right, we 
need to try another door — ” 

“There are doors here too,” said Ron, pointing around 
the walls. Harry’s heart sank; how big was this place? 



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“In my dream I went through that dark room into the 
second one,” he said. “I think we should go back and 
try from there.” 

So they hurried back into the dark, circular room; the 
ghostly shapes of the brains were now swimming 
before Harry’s eyes instead of the blue candle flames. 

“Wait!” said Hermione sharply, as Luna made to close 
the door of the brain room behind them. “ FlagrateV’ 

She drew with her wand in midair and a fiery X 
appeared on the door. No sooner had the door clicked 
shut behind them than there was a great rumbling, 
and once again the wall began to revolve very fast, but 
now there was a great red-gold blur in amongst the 
faint blue, and when all became still again, the fiery 
cross still burned, showing the door they had already 
tried. 

“Good thinking,” said Harry. “Okay, let’s try this one 



Again he strode directly at the door facing him and 
pushed it open, his wand still raised, the others at his 
heels. 

This room was larger than the last, dimly lit and 
rectangular, and the center of it was sunken, forming 
a great stone pit some twenty feet below them. They 
were standing on the topmost tier of what seemed to 
be stone benches running all around the room and 
descending in steep steps like an amphitheater, or the 
courtroom in which Harry had been tried by the 
Wizengamot. Instead of a chained chair, however, 
there was a raised stone dais in the center of the 
lowered floor, and upon this dais stood a stone 
archway that looked so ancient, cracked, and 
crumbling that Harry was amazed the thing was still 
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standing. Unsupported by any surrounding wall, the 
archway was hung with a tattered black curtain or 
veil which, despite the complete stillness of the cold 
surrounding air, was fluttering very slightly as though 
it had just been touched. 

“Who’s there?” said Harry, jumping down onto the 
bench below. There was no answering voice, but the 
veil continued to flutter and sway. 

“Careful!” whispered Hermione. 

Harry scrambled down the benches one by one until 
he reached the stone bottom of the sunken pit. His 
footsteps echoed loudly as he walked slowly toward 
the dais. The pointed archway looked much taller 
from where he stood now than when he had been 
looking down on it from above. Still the veil swayed 
gently, as though somebody had just passed through 
it. 

“Sirius?” Harry spoke again, but much more quietly 
now that he was nearer. 

He had the strangest feeling that there was someone 
standing right behind the veil on the other side of the 
archway. Gripping his wand very tightly, he edged 
around the dais, but there was nobody there. All that 
could be seen was the other side of the tattered black 
veil. 

“Let’s go,” called Hermione from halfway up the stone 
steps. “This isn’t right, Harry, come on, let’s go...” 

She sounded scared, much more scared than she had 
in the room where the brains swam, yet Harry 
thought the archway had a kind of beauty about it, 
old though it was. The gently rippling veil intrigued 



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him; he felt a very strong inclination to climb up on 
the dais and walk through it. 

“Harry, let’s go, okay?” said Hermione more forcefully. 

“Okay,” he said, but he did not move. He had just 
heard something. There were faint whispering, 
murmuring noises coming from the other side of the 
veil. 

“What are you saying?” he said very loudly, so that 
the words echoed all around the surrounding stone 
benches. 

“Nobody’s talking, Harry!” said Hermione, now moving 
over to him. 

“Someone’s whispering behind there,” he said, moving 
out of her reach and continuing to frown at the veil. 

“Is that you, Ron?” 

“I’m here, mate,” said Ron, appearing around the side 
of the archway. 

“Can’t anyone else hear it?” Harry demanded, for the 
whispering and murmuring was becoming louder; 
without really meaning to put it there, he found his 
foot was on the dais. 

“I can hear them too,” breathed Luna, joining them 
around the side of the archway and gazing at the 
swaying veil. “There are people in there\” 

“What do you mean, ‘in there’?” demanded Hermione, 
jumping down from the bottom step and sounding 
much angrier than the occasion warranted. “There 
isn’t any ‘in there,’ it’s just an archway, there’s no 
room for anybody to be there — Harry, stop it, come 
away — ” 

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She grabbed his arm and pulled, but he resisted. 

“Harry, we are supposed to be here for Sirius!” she 
said in a high-pitched, strained voice. 

“Sirius,” Harry repeated, still gazing, mesmerized, at 
the continuously swaying veil. “Yeah ...” 

And then something slid back into place in his brain: 
Sirius, captured, bound, and tortured, and he was 
staring at this archway. . . 

He took several paces back from the dais and 
wrenched his eyes from the veil. 

“Let’s go,” he said. 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to — well, come on, 
then!” said Hermione, and she led the way back 
around the dais. On the other side, Ginny and Neville 
were staring, apparently entranced, at the veil too. 
Without speaking, Hermione took hold of Ginny’s 
arm, Ron Neville’s, and they marched them firmly 
back to the lowest stone bench and clambered all the 
way back up to the door. 

“What d’you reckon that arch was?” Harry asked 
Hermione as they regained the dark circular room. 

“I don’t know, but whatever it was, it was dangerous,” 
she said firmly, again inscribing a fiery cross upon 
the door. 

Once more the wall spun and became still again. 
Harry approached a door at random and pushed. It 
did not move. 

“What’s wrong?” said Hermione. 



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“It’s ... locked ...” said Harry, throwing his weight at 
the door, but it did not budge. 



“This is it, then, isn’t it?” said Ron excitedly, joining 
Harry in the attempt to force the door open. “Bound 
to be!” 

“Get out of the way!” said Hermione sharply. She 
pointed her wand at the place where a lock would 
have been on an ordinary door and said, “Alohomora\” 

Nothing happened. 

“Sirius’s knife!” said Harry, and he pulled it out from 
inside his robes and slid it into the crack between the 
door and the wall. The others all watched eagerly as 
he ran it from top to bottom, withdrew it, and then 
flung his shoulder again at the door. It remained as 
firmly shut as ever. What was more, when Harry 
looked down at the knife, he saw that the blade had 
melted. 

“Right, we’re leaving that room,” said Hermione 
decisively. 

“But what if that’s the one?” said Ron, staring at it 
with a mixture of apprehension and longing. 

“It can’t be, Harry could get through all the doors in 
his dream,” said Hermione, marking the door with 
another fiery cross as Harry replaced the now-useless 
handle of Sirius’s knife in his pocket. 

“You know what could be in there?” said Luna 
eagerly, as the wall started to spin yet again. 

“Something blibbering, no doubt,” said Hermione 
under her breath, and Neville gave a nervous little 
laugh. 

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The wall slid back to a halt and Harry, with a feeling 
of increasing desperation, pushed the next door open. 

“This is it!” 

He knew it at once by the beautiful, dancing, 
diamond-sparkling light. As Harry’s eyes became 
more accustomed to the brilliant glare he saw clocks 
gleaming from every surface, large and small, 
grandfather and carriage, hanging in spaces between 
the bookcases or standing on desks ranging the 
length of the room, so that a busy, relentless ticking 
filled the place like thousands of minuscule, 
marching footsteps. The source of the dancing, 
diamond-bright light was a towering crystal bell jar 
that stood at the far end of the room. 

“This way!” 

Harry’s heart was pumping frantically now that he 
knew they were on the right track. He led the way 
forward down the narrow space between the lines of 
the desks, heading, as he had done in his dream, for 
the source of the light, the crystal bell jar quite as tall 
as he was that stood on a desk and appeared to be 
full of a billowing, glittering wind. 

“Oh look).” said Ginny, as they drew nearer, pointing 
at the very heart of the bell jar. 

Drifting along in the sparkling current inside was a 
tiny, jewel-bright egg. As it rose in the jar it cracked 
open and a hummingbird emerged, which was carried 
to the very top of the jar, but as it fell on the draft, its 
feathers became bedraggled and damp again, and by 
the time it had been borne back to the bottom of the 
jar it had been enclosed once more in its egg. 



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“Keep going!” said Harry sharply, because Ginny 
showed signs of wanting to stop and watch the egg’s 
progress back into a bird. 

“You dawdled enough by that old arch!” she said 
crossly, but followed him past the bell jar to the only 
door behind it. 

“This is it,” Harry said again, and his heart was now 
pumping so hard and fast he felt it must interfere 
with his speech. “It’s through here — ” 

He glanced around at them all. They had their wands 
out and looked suddenly serious and anxious. He 
looked back at the door and pushed. It swung open. 

They were there, they had found the place: high as a 
church and full of nothing but towering shelves 
covered in small, dusty, glass orbs. They glimmered 
dully in the light issuing from more candle brackets 
set at intervals along the shelves. Like those in the 
circular room behind them, their flames were burning 
blue. The room was very cold. 

Harry edged forward and peered down one of the 
shadowy aisles between two rows of shelves. He could 
not hear anything nor see the slightest sign of 
movement. 

“You said it was row ninety-seven,” whispered 
Hermione. 

“Yeah,” breathed Harry, looking up at the end of the 
closest row. Beneath the branch of blue-glowing 
candles protruding from it glimmered the silver figure 
53 . 

“We need to go right, I think,” whispered Hermione, 
squinting to the next row. “Yes ... that’s fifty-four...” 

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“Keep your wands out,” Harry said softly. 

They crept forward, staring behind them as they went 
on down the long alleys of shelves, the farther ends of 
which were in near total darkness. Tiny, yellowing 
labels had been stuck beneath each glass orb on the 
shelf. Some of them had a weird, liquid glow; others 
were as dull and dark within as blown lightbulbs. 

They passed row eighty-four ... eighty-five ... Harry 
was listening hard for the slightest sound of 
movement, but Sirius might be gagged now, or else 
unconscious ... or, said an unbidden voice inside his 
head, he might already be dead... 

I’d have felt it, he told himself, his heart now 
hammering against his Adam’s apple. I’d already 
know... 

“Ninety-seven!” whispered Hermione. 

They stood grouped around the end of the row, gazing 
down the alley beside it. There was nobody there. 

“He’s right down at the end,” said Harry, whose 
mouth had become slightly dry. “You can’t see 
properly from here...” 

And he led them forward, between the towering rows 
of glass balls, some of which glowed softly as they 
passed... 

“He should be near here,” whispered Harry, convinced 
that every step was going to bring the ragged form of 
Sirius into view upon the darkened floor. “Anywhere 
here ... really close ...” 

“Harry?” said Hermione tentatively, but he did not 
want to respond. His mouth was very dry now. 

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“Somewhere about ... here ...” he said. 



They had reached the end of the row and emerged 
into more dim candlelight. There was nobody there at 
all. All was echoing, dusty silence. 

“He might be ...” Harry whispered hoarsely, peering 
down the alley next door. “Or maybe ...” He hurried to 
look down the one beyond that. 

“Harry?” said Hermione again. 

“What?” he snarled. 

“I ... I don’t think Sirius is here.” 

Nobody spoke. Harry did not want to look at any of 
them. He felt sick. He did not understand why Sirius 
was not here. He had to be here. This was where he, 
Harry, had seen him... 

He ran up the space at the end of the rows, staring 
down them. Empty aisle after empty aisle flickered 
past. He ran the other way, back past his staring 
companions. There was no sign of Sirius anywhere, 
nor any hint of a struggle. 

“Harry?” Ron called. 

“What?” 

He did not want to hear what Ron had to say, did not 
want to hear Ron tell him he had been stupid, or 
suggest that they ought to go back to Hogwarts. But 
the heat was rising in his face and he felt as though 
he would like to skulk down here in the darkness for 
a long while before facing the brightness of the Atrium 
above and the others’ accusing stares... 



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“Have you seen this?” said Ron. 



“What?” said Harry, but eagerly this time — it had to 
be a sign that Sirius had been there, a clue — he 
strode back to where they were all standing, a little 
way down row ninety-seven, but found nothing except 
Ron staring at one of the dusty glass spheres on the 
shelves. 

“What?” Harry repeated glumly. 

“It’s — it’s got your name on,” said Ron. 

Harry moved a little closer. Ron was pointing at one of 
the small glass spheres that glowed with a dull inner 
light, though it was very dusty and appeared not to 
have been touched for many years. 

“My name?” said Harry blankly. 

He stepped forward. Not as tall as Ron, he had to 
crane his neck to read the yellowish label affixed to 
the shelf right beneath the dusty glass ball. In spidery 
writing was written a date of some sixteen years 
previously, and below that: 

S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D. 

Dark Lord 

and (?) Harry Potter 

Harry stared at it. 

“What is it?” Ron asked, sounding unnerved. “What’s 
your name doing down here?” 

He glanced along at the other labels on that stretch of 
shelf. 

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‘Tm not here,” he said, sounding perplexed. “None of 
the rest of us are here...” 

“Harry, I don’t think you should touch it,” said 
Hermione sharply, as he stretched out his hand. 

“Why not?” he said. “It’s something to do with me, 
isn’t it?” 

“Don’t, Harry,” said Neville suddenly. Harry looked 
around at him. Neville’s round face was shining 
slightly with sweat. He looked as though he could not 
take much more suspense. 

“It’s got my name on,” said Harry. 

And feeling slightly reckless, he closed his fingers 
around the dusty ball’s surface. He had expected it to 
feel cold, but it did not. On the contrary, it felt as 
though it had been lying in the sun for hours, as 
though the glow of light within was warming it. 
Expecting, even hoping, that something dramatic was 
going to happen, something exciting that might make 
their long and dangerous journey worthwhile after all, 
he lifted the glass ball down from its shelf and stared 
at it. 

Nothing whatsoever happened. The others moved in 
closer around Harry, gazing at the orb as he brushed 
it free of the clogging dust. 

And then, from right behind them, a drawling voice 
said, “Very good, Potter. Now turn around, nice and 
slowly, and give that to me.” 



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35 




BEYOND THE VEIL 

Black shapes were emerging out of thin air all around 
them, blocking their way left and right; eyes glinted 
through slits in hoods, a dozen lit wand tips were 
pointing directly at their hearts. Ginny gave a gasp of 
horror. 

“To me, Potter,” repeated the drawling voice of Lucius 
Malfoy as he held out his hand, palm up. 

Harry’s insides plummeted sickeningly. They were 
trapped and outnumbered two to one. 

“To me,” said Malfoy yet again. 

“Where’s Sirius?” Harry said. 

Several of the Death Eaters laughed. A harsh female 
voice from the midst of the shadowy figures to Harry’s 
left said triumphantly, “The Dark Lord always 
knows!” 



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“Always,” echoed Malfoy softly. “Now, give me the 
prophecy, Potter.” 



“I want to know where Sirius is!” 

“I want to know where Sirius is!” mimicked the woman 
to his left. 

She and her fellow Death Eaters had closed in so that 
they were mere feet away from Harry and the others, 
the light from their wands dazzling Harry’s eyes. 

“You’ve got him,” said Harry, ignoring the rising panic 
in his chest, the dread he had been fighting since 
they had first entered the ninety-seventh row. “He’s 
here. I know he is.” 

“The little baby woke up fwightened and fort what it 
dweamed was twoo,” said the woman in a horrible, 
mock-baby voice. Harry felt Ron stir beside him. 

“Don’t do anything,” he muttered. “Not yet — ” 

The woman who had mimicked him let out a raucous 
scream of laughter. 

“You hear him? You hear him? Giving instructions to 
the other children as though he thinks of fighting us!” 

“Oh, you don’t know Potter as I do, Bellatrix,” said 
Malfoy softly. “He has a great weakness for heroics; 
the Dark Lord understands this about him. Now give 
me the prophecy, Potter.” 

“I know Sirius is here,” said Harry, though panic was 
causing his chest to constrict and he felt as though 
he could not breathe properly. “I know you’ve got 
him!” 

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More of the Death Eaters laughed, though the woman 
still laughed loudest of all. 

“It’s time you learned the difference between life and 
dreams, Potter,” said Malfoy. “Now give me the 
prophecy, or we start using wands.” 

“Go on, then,” said Harry, raising his own wand to 
chest height. As he did so, the five wands of Ron, 
Hermione, Neville, Ginny, and Luna rose on either 
side of him. The knot in Harry’s stomach tightened. If 
Sirius really was not here, he had led his friends to 
their deaths for no reason at all... 

But the Death Eaters did not strike. 

“Hand over the prophecy and no one need get hurt,” 
said Malfoy coolly. 

It was Harry’s turn to laugh. 

“Yeah, right!” he said. “I give you this — prophecy, is 
it? And you’ll just let us skip off home, will you?” 

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the 
female Death Eater shrieked, “Accio Proph — ” 

Harry was just ready for her. He shouted “Protego\” 
before she had finished her spell, and though the 
glass sphere slipped to the tips of his fingers he 
managed to cling on to it. 

“Oh, he knows how to play, little bitty baby Potter,” 
she said, her mad eyes staring through the slits in 
her hood. “Very well, then — ” 

“I TOLD YOU, NO!” Lucius Malfoy roared at the 
woman. “If you smash it — !” 



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Harry’s mind was racing. The Death Eaters wanted 
this dusty spun-glass sphere. He had no interest in it. 
He just wanted to get them all out of this alive, make 
sure that none of his friends paid a terrible price for 
his stupidity ... 

The woman stepped forward, away from her fellows, 
and pulled off her hood. Azkaban had hollowed 
Bellatrix Lestrange’s face, making it gaunt and skull- 
like, but it was alive with a feverish, fanatical glow. 

“You need more persuasion?” she said, her chest 
rising and falling rapidly. “Very well — take the 
smallest one,” she ordered the Death Eaters beside 
her. “Let him watch while we torture the little girl. I’ll 
do it.” 

Harry felt the others close in around Ginny. He 
stepped sideways so that he was right in front of her, 
the prophecy held up to his chest. 

“You’ll have to smash this if you want to attack any of 
us,” he told Bellatrix. “I don’t think your boss will be 
too pleased if you come back without it, will he?” 

She did not move; she merely stared at him, the tip of 
her tongue moistening her thin mouth. 

“So,” said Harry, “what kind of prophecy are we 
talking about anyway?” 

He could not think what to do but to keep talking. 
Neville’s arm was pressed against his, and he could 
feel him shaking. He could feel one of the other’s 
quickened breath on the back of his head. He was 
hoping they were all thinking hard about ways to get 
out of this, because his mind was blank. 



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“What kind of prophecy?” repeated Bellatrix, the grin 
fading from her face. “You jest, Harry Potter.” 



“Nope, not jesting,” said Harry, his eyes flicking from 
Death Eater to Death Eater, looking for a weak link, a 
space through which they could escape. “How come 
Voldemort wants it?” 

Several of the Death Eaters let out low hisses. 

“You dare speak his name?” whispered Bellatrix. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, maintaining his tight grip on the 
glass ball, expecting another attempt to bewitch it 
from him. “Yeah, IVe got no problem saying Vol — ” 

“Shut your mouth!” Bellatrix shrieked. “You dare 
speak his name with your unworthy lips, you dare 
besmirch it with your half-blood’s tongue, you dare — 



“Did you know he’s a half-blood too?” said Harry 
recklessly. Hermione gave a little moan in his ear. 
“Voldemort? Yeah, his mother was a witch but his 
dad was a Muggle — or has he been telling you lot 
he’s pureblood?” 

“STUPEF — ” 

“iVO!” 

A jet of red light had shot from the end of Bellatrix 
Lestrange’s wand, but Malfoy had deflected it. His 
spell caused hers to hit the shelf a foot to the left of 
Harry and several of the glass orbs there shattered. 

Two figures, pearly white as ghosts, fluid as smoke, 
unfurled themselves from the fragments of broken 
glass upon the floor and each began to speak. Their 

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voices vied with each other, so that only fragments of 
what they were saying could be heard over Malfoy and 
Bellatrix’s shouts. 



"... at the Solstice will come a new ...” said the figure 
of an old, bearded man. 

“DO NOT ATTACK! WE NEED THE PROPHECY!” 

“He dared — he dares — ” shrieked Bellatrix 
incoherently. “ — He stands there — filthy half-blood 



“WAIT UNTIL WEVE GOT THE PROPHECY!” bawled 
Malfoy. 

"... and none will come after ...” said the figure of a 
young woman. 

The two figures that had burst from the shattered 
spheres had melted into thin air. Nothing remained of 
them or their erstwhile homes but fragments of glass 
upon the floor. They had, however, given Harry an 
idea. The problem was going to be conveying it to the 
others. 

“You haven’t told me what’s so special about this 
prophecy I’m supposed to be handing over,” he said, 
playing for time. He moved his foot slowly sideways, 
feeling around for someone else’s. 

“Do not play games with us, Potter,” said Malfoy. 

“I’m not playing games,” said Harry, half his mind on 
the conversation, half on his wandering foot. And 
then he found someone’s toes and pressed down upon 
them. A sharp intake of breath behind him told him 
they were Hermione’s. 

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“What?” she whispered. 

“Dumbledore never told you that the reason you bear 
that scar was hidden in the bowels of the Department 
of Mysteries?” said Malfoy sneeringly. 

“I — what?” said Harry, and for a moment he quite 
forgot his plan. “What about my scar?” 

“ What?” whispered Hermione more urgently behind 
him. 

“Can this be?” said Malfoy, sounding maliciously 
delighted; some of the Death Eaters were laughing 
again, and under cover of their laughter, Harry hissed 
to Hermione, moving his lips as little as possible, 
“Smash shelves — ” 

“Dumbledore never told you?” Malfoy repeated. “Well, 
this explains why you didn’t come earlier, Potter, the 
Dark Lord wondered why — ” 

“ — when I say go — ” 

“ — you didn’t come running when he showed you the 
place where it was hidden in your dreams. He 
thought natural curiosity would make you want to 
hear the exact wording...” 

“Did he?” said Harry. Behind him he felt rather than 
heard Hermione passing his message to the others 
and he sought to keep talking, to distract the Death 
Eaters. “So he wanted me to come and get it, did he? 
Why?” 

“Why?” Malfoy sounded incredulously delighted. 
“Because the only people who are permitted to 
retrieve a prophecy from the Department of Mysteries, 
Potter, are those about whom it was made, as the 

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Dark Lord discovered when he attempted to use 
others to steal it for him.” 

“And why did he want to steal a prophecy about me?” 

“About both of you, Potter, about both of you ... 
Haven’t you ever wondered why the Dark Lord tried to 
kill you as a baby?” 

Harry stared into the slitted eyeholes through which 
Malfoy’s gray eyes were gleaming. Was this prophecy 
the reason Harry’s parents had died, the reason he 
carried his lightning-bolt scar? Was the answer to all 
of this clutched in his hand? 

“Someone made a prophecy about Voldemort and 
me?” he said quietly, gazing at Lucius Malfoy, his 
fingers tightening over the warm glass sphere in his 
hand. It was hardly larger than a Snitch and still 
gritty with dust. “And he’s made me come and get it 
for him? Why couldn’t he come and get it himself?” 

“Get it himself?” shrieked Bellatrix on a cackle of mad 
laughter. “The Dark Lord, walk into the Ministry of 
Magic, when they are so sweetly ignoring his return? 
The Dark Lord, reveal himself to the Aurors, when at 
the moment they are wasting their time on my dear 
cousin?” 

“So he’s got you doing his dirty work for him, has 
he?” said Harry. “Like he tried to get Sturgis to steal it 
— and Bode?” 

“Very good, Potter, very good ...” said Malfoy slowly. 
“But the Dark Lord knows you are not unintell — ” 

“NOW!” yelled Harry. 



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Five different voices behind him bellowed “REDUCTOl” 
Five curses flew in five different directions and the 
shelves opposite them exploded as they hit. The 
towering structure swayed as a hundred glass 
spheres burst apart, pearly-white figures unfurled 
into the air and floated there, their voices echoing 
from who knew what long-dead past amid the torrent 
of crashing glass and splintered wood now raining 
down upon the floor — 

“RUN!” Harry yelled, and as the shelves swayed 
precariously and more glass spheres began to pour 
from above, he seized a handful of Hermione’s robes 
and dragged her forward, one arm over his head as 
chunks of shelf and shards of glass thundered down 
upon them. A Death Eater lunged forward through 
the cloud of dust and Harry elbowed him hard in the 
masked face. They were all yelling, there were cries of 
pain, thunderous crashes as the shelves collapsed 
upon themselves, weirdly echoing fragments of the 
Seers unleashed from their spheres — 

Harry found the way ahead clear and saw Ron, 

Ginny, and Luna sprint past him, their arms over 
their heads. Something heavy struck him on the side 
of the face but he merely ducked his head and 
sprinted onward; a hand caught him by the shoulder; 
he heard Hermione shout “Stupefy\” and the hand 
released him at once. 

They were at the end of row ninety-seven; Harry 
turned right and began to sprint in earnest. He could 
hear footsteps right behind him and Hermione’s voice 
urging Neville on. The door through which they had 
come was ajar straight ahead, Harry could see the 
glittering light of the bell jar, he pelted through it, the 
prophecy still clutched tight and safe in his hand, 
waited for the others to hurtle over the threshold 
before slamming the door behind them — 

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“ Colloportus\” gasped Hermione and the door sealed 
itself with an odd squelching noise. 

“Where — where are the others?” gasped Harry. 

He had thought that Ron, Luna, and Ginny had been 
ahead of them, that they would be waiting in this 
room, but there was nobody there. 

“They must have gone the wrong way!” whispered 
Hermione, terror in her face. 

“Listen!” whispered Neville. 

Footsteps and shouts echoed from behind the door 
they had just sealed. Harry put his ear close to the 
door to listen and heard Lucius Malfoy roar: “Leave 
Nott, leave him, I say, the Dark Lord will not care for 
Nott’s injuries as much as losing that prophecy — 
Jugson, come back here, we need to organize! Well 
split into pairs and search, and don’t forget, be gentle 
with Potter until we’ve got the prophecy, you can kill 
the others if necessary — Bellatrix, Rodolphus, you 
take the left, Crabbe, Rabastan, go right — Jugson, 
Dolohov, the door straight ahead — Macnair and 
Avery, through here — Rookwood, over there — 
Mulciber, come with me!” 

“What do we do?” Hermione asked Harry, trembling 
from head to foot. 

“Well, we don’t stand here waiting for them to find us, 
for a start,” said Harry. “Let’s get away from this 
door...” 

They ran, quietly as they could, past the shimmering 
bell jar where the tiny egg was hatching and 
unhatching, toward the exit into the circular hallway 
at the far end of the room. They were almost there 

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when Harry heard something large and heavy collide 
with the door Hermione had charmed shut. 

“Stand aside!” said a rough voice. “Alohomora\” 

As the door flew open, Harry, Hermione, and Neville 
dived under desks. They could see the bottom of the 
two Death Eaters’ robes drawing nearer, their feet 
moving rapidly. 

“They might’ve run straight through to the hall,” said 
the rough voice. 

“Check under the desks,” said another. 

Harry saw the knees of the Death Eaters bend. Poking 
his wand out from under the desk he shouted, 
“STUPEFY]” 

A jet of red light hit the nearest Death Eater; he fell 
backward into a grandfather clock and knocked it 
over. The second Death Eater, however, had leapt 
aside to avoid Harry’s spell and now pointed his own 
wand at Hermione, who had crawled out from under 
the desk to get a better aim. 

“Avada — ” 

Harry launched himself across the floor and grabbed 
the Death Eater around the knees, causing him to 
topple and his aim to go awry. Neville overturned his 
desk in his anxiety to help; pointing his wand wildly 
at the struggling pair he cried, “EXPELLIARMUS\” 

Both Harry’s and the Death Eater’s wands flew out of 
their hands and soared back toward the entrance to 
the Hall of Prophecy; both scrambled to their feet and 
charged after them, the Death Eater in front and 



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Harry hot on his heels, Neville bringing up the rear, 
plainly horrors truck at what he had done. 



“Get out of the way, Harry!” yelled Neville, clearly 
determined to repair the damage. 

Harry flung himself sideways as Neville took aim 
again and shouted, “ STUPEFY !” 

The jet of red light flew right over the Death Eater’s 
shoulder and hit a glass-fronted cabinet on the wall 
full of variously shaped hourglasses. The cabinet fell 
to the floor and burst apart, glass flying everywhere, 
then sprang back up onto the wall, fully mended, 
then fell down again, and shattered — 

The Death Eater had snatched up his wand, which 
lay on the floor beside the glittering bell jar. Harry 
ducked down behind another desk as the man turned 
— his mask had slipped so that he could not see, he 
ripped it off with his free hand and shouted, “STUP — 



“STUPEFY]” screamed Hermione, who had just caught 
up with them. The jet of red light hit the Death Eater 
in the middle of his chest; he froze, his arm still 
raised, his wand fell to the floor with a clatter and he 
collapsed backward toward the bell jar. Harry 
expected to hear a clunk, for the man to hit solid glass 
and slide off the jar onto the floor, but instead, his 
head sank through the surface of the bell jar as 
though it was nothing but a soap bubble and he came 
to rest, sprawled on his back on the table, with his 
head lying inside the jar full of glittering wind. 

“Accio Wand\” cried Hermione. Harry’s wand flew from 
a dark corner into her hand and she threw it to him. 

“Thanks,” he said, “right, let’s get out of — ” 

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“Look out!” said Neville, horrified, staring at the Death 
Eater’s head in the bell jar. 

All three of them raised their wands again, but none 
of them struck. They were all gazing, openmouthed, 
appalled, at what was happening to the man’s head. 

It was shrinking very fast, growing balder and balder, 
the black hair and stubble retracting into his skull, 
his cheeks smooth, his skull round and covered with 
a peachlike fuzz... 

A baby’s head now sat grotesquely on top of the thick, 
muscled neck of the Death Eater as he struggled to 
get up again. But even as they watched, their mouths 
open, the head began to swell to its previous 
proportions again, thick black hair was sprouting 
from the pate and chin... 

“It’s time,” said Hermione in an awestruck voice. 

“ Time ...” 

The Death Eater shook his ugly head again, trying to 
clear it, but before he could pull himself together 
again, it began to shrink back to babyhood once 
more... 

There was a shout from a room nearby, then a crash 
and a scream. 

“RON?” Harry yelled, turning quickly from the 
monstrous transformation taking place before them. 
“GINNY? LUNA?” 

“Harry!” Hermione screamed. 

The Death Eater had pulled his head out of the bell 
jar. His appearance was utterly bizarre, his tiny 
baby’s head bawling loudly while his thick arms 

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flailed dangerously in all directions, narrowly missing 
Harry, who ducked. Harry raised his wand but to his 
amazement Hermione seized his arm. 

“You can’t hurt a baby!” 

There was no time to argue the point. Harry could 
hear more footsteps growing louder from the Hall of 
Prophecy they had just left and knew, too late, that 
he ought not to have shouted and given away their 
position. 

“Come on!” he said again, and leaving the ugly baby- 
headed Death Eater staggering behind them, they 
took off for the door that stood ajar at the other end of 
the room, leading back into the black hallway. 

They had run halfway toward it when Harry saw 
through the open door two more Death Eaters 
running across the black room toward them. Veering 
left he burst instead into a small, dark, cluttered 
office and slammed the door behind them. 

“Collo — ” began Hermione, but before she could 
complete the spell the door had burst open again and 
the two Death Eaters had come hurtling inside. With 
a cry of triumph, both yelled, “ IMPEDIMENT A\” 

Harry, Hermione, and Neville were all knocked 
backward off their feet. Neville was thrown over the 
desk and disappeared from view, Hermione smashed 
into a bookcase and was promptly deluged in a 
cascade of heavy books; the back of Harry’s head 
slammed into the stone wall behind him, tiny lights 
burst in front of his eyes, and for a moment he was 
too dizzy and bewildered to react. 

“WEVE GOT HIM!” yelled the Death Eater nearest 
Harry, “IN AN OFFICE OFF — ” 

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“ Silenciol ” cried Hermione, and the man’s voice was 
extinguished. He continued to mouth through the 
hole in his mask, but no sound came out; he was 
thrust aside by his fellow. 

“Petrificus Totalusl” shouted Harry, as the second 
Death Eater raised his wand. His arms and legs 
snapped together and he fell forward, facedown onto 
the rug at Harry’s feet, stiff as a board and unable to 
move at all. 

“Well done, Ha — ” 

But the Death Eater Hermione had just struck dumb 
made a sudden slashing movement with his wand 
from which flew a streak of what looked like purple 
flame. It passed right across Hermione’s chest; she 
gave a tiny “oh!” as though of surprise and then 
crumpled onto the floor where she lay motionless. 

“HERMIONE!” 

Harry fell to his knees beside her as Neville crawled 
rapidly toward her from under the desk, his wand 
held up in front of him. The Death Eater kicked out 
hard at Neville’s head as he emerged — his foot broke 
Neville’s wand in two and connected with his face — 
Neville gave a howl of pain and recoiled, clutching his 
mouth and nose. Harry twisted around, his own wand 
held high, and saw that the Death Eater had ripped 
off his mask and was pointing his wand directly at 
Harry, who recognized the long, pale, twisted face 
from the Daily Prophet: Antonin Dolohov, the wizard 
who had murdered the Prewetts. 

Dolohov grinned. With his free hand, he pointed from 
the prophecy still clutched in Harry’s hand, to 
himself, then at Hermione. Though he could no longer 



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speak his meaning could not have been clearer: Give 
me the prophecy, or you get the same as her... 



“Like you won’t kill us all the moment I hand it over 
anyway!” said Harry. 

A whine of panic inside his head was preventing him 
thinking properly. He had one hand on Hermione’s 
shoulder, which was still warm, yet did not dare look 
at her properly. Don’t let her be dead, don’t let her be 
dead, it’s my fault if she’s dead... 

“Whaddever you do, Harry,” said Neville fiercely from 
under the desk, lowering his hands to show a clearly 
broken nose and blood pouring down his mouth and 
chin, “don’d gib it to him!” 

Then there was a crash outside the door, and Dolohov 
looked over his shoulder — the baby-headed Death 
Eater had appeared in the doorway, his head bawling, 
his great fists still flailing uncontrollably at everything 
around him. 

Harry seized his chance: “PETRIFICUS TOT ALU S\” 

The spell hit Dolohov before he could block it, and he 
toppled forward across his comrade, both of them 
rigid as boards and unable to move an inch. 

“Hermione,” Harry said at once, shaking her as the 
baby-headed Death Eater blundered out of sight 
again. “Hermione, wake up...” 

“Whaddid he do to her?” said Neville, crawling out 
from under the desk again to kneel at her other side, 
blood streaming from his rapidly swelling nose. “I 
dunno...” 

Neville groped for Hermione’s wrist. 

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“Dat’s a pulse, Harry, I’b sure id is...” 



Such a powerful wave of relief swept through Harry 
that for a moment he felt light-headed. 

“She’s alive?” 

“Yeah, I dink so...” 

There was a pause in which Harry listened hard for 
the sounds of more footsteps, but all he could hear 
were the whimpers and blunderings of the baby 
Death Eater in the next room. 

“Neville, we’re not far from the exit,” Harry whispered. 
“We’re right next to that circular room... If we can just 
get you across it and find the right door before any 
more Death Eaters come, I’ll bet you can get 
Hermione up the corridor and into the lift... Then you 
could find someone... Raise the alarm ...” 

“And whad are you going do do?” said Neville, 
mopping his bleeding nose with his sleeve and 
frowning at Harry. 

“I’ve got to find the others,” said Harry. 

“Well, I’b going do find dem wid you,” said Neville 
firmly. 

“But Hermione — ” 

“We’ll dake her wid us,” said Neville firmly. “I’ll carry 
her — you’re bedder at fighding dem dan I ab — ” 

He stood up and seized one of Hermione’s arms, 
glared at Harry, who hesitated, then grabbed the 
other and helped hoist Hermione’s limp form over 
Neville’s shoulders. 

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“Wait,” said Harry, snatching up Hermione’s wand 
from the floor and shoving it into Nevilles hand, 

“you’d better take this...” 

Neville kicked aside the broken fragments of his own 
wand as they walked slowly toward the door. 

“My gran’s going do kill be,” said Neville thickly, blood 
spattering from his nose as he spoke, “dat was by 
dad’s old wand...” 

Harry stuck his head out of the door and looked 
around cautiously. The baby-headed Death Eater was 
screaming and banging into things, toppling 
grandfather clocks and overturning desks, bawling 
and confused, while the glass cabinet that Harry now 
suspected had contained Time-Turners continued to 
fall, shatter, and repair itself on the wall behind them. 

“He’s never going to notice us,” he whispered. “C’mon 
... keep close behind me...” 

They crept out of the office and back toward the door 
into the black hallway, which now seemed completely 
deserted. They walked a few steps forward, Neville 
tottering slightly due to Hermione’s weight. The door 
of the Time Room swung shut behind them, and the 
walls began to rotate once more. The recent blow on 
the back of Harry’s head seemed to have unsteadied 
him; he narrowed his eyes, swaying slightly, until the 
walls stopped moving again. With a sinking heart 
Harry saw that Hermione’s fiery crosses had faded 
from the doors. 

“So which way d’you reck — ?” 

But before they could make a decision as to which 
way to try, a door to their right sprang open and three 
people fell out of it. 

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“Ron!” croaked Harry, dashing toward them. “Ginny 
— are you all — ?” 

“Harry,” said Ron, giggling weakly, lurching forward, 
seizing the front of Harry’s robes and gazing at him 
with unfocused eyes. “There you are... Ha ha ha ... 
You look funny, Harry... You’re all messed up... 

Ron’s face was very white and something dark was 
trickling from the corner of his mouth. Next moment 
his knees had given way, but he still clutched the 
front of Harry’s robes, so that Harry was pulled into a 
kind of bow. 

“Ginny?” Harry said fearfully. “What happened?” 

But Ginny shook her head and slid down the wall into 
a sitting position, panting and holding her ankle. 

“I think her ankle’s broken, I heard something crack,” 
whispered Luna, who was bending over her and who 
alone seemed to be unhurt. “Four of them chased us 
into a dark room full of planets, it was a very odd 
place, some of the time we were just floating in the 
dark — ” 

“Harry, we saw Uranus up close!” said Ron, still 
giggling feebly. “Get it, Harry? We saw Uranus — ha 
ha ha — ” 

A bubble of blood grew at the corner of Ron’s mouth 
and burst. 

“Anyway, one of them grabbed Ginny’s foot, I used the 
Reductor Curse and blew up Pluto in his face, but ...” 

Luna gestured hopelessly at Ginny, who was 
breathing in a very shallow way, her eyes still closed. 



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“And what about Ron?” said Harry fearfully, as Ron 
continued to giggle, still hanging off the front of 
Harry’s robes. 

“I don’t know what they hit him with,” said Luna 
sadly, “but he’s gone a bit funny, I could hardly get 
him along at all...” 

“Harry,” said Ron, pulling Harry’s ear down to his 
mouth and still giggling weakly, “you know who this 
girl is, Harry? She’s Loony ... Loony Lovegood ... ha 
ha ha...” 

“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Harry firmly. 

“Luna, can you help Ginny?” 

“Yes,” said Luna, sticking her wand behind her ear for 
safekeeping, putting an arm around Ginny’s waist 
and pulling her up. 

“It’s only my ankle, I can do it myself!” said Ginny 
impatiently, but next moment she had collapsed 
sideways and grabbed Luna for support. Harry pulled 
Ron’s arm over his shoulder just as, so many months 
ago, he had pulled Dudley’s. He looked around: They 
had a one-in-twelve chance of getting the exit right 
the first time — 

He heaved Ron toward a door; they were within a few 
feet of it when another door across the hall burst 
open and three Death Eaters sped into the hall, led by 
Bellatrix Lestrange. 

“ There they are!” she shrieked. 

Stunning Spells shot across the room: Harry smashed 
his way through the door ahead, flung Ron 
unceremoniously from him, and ducked back to help 
Neville in with Hermione. They were all over the 

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threshold just in time to slam the door against 
Bellatrix. 



“ Colloportus\” shouted Harry, and he heard three 
bodies slam into the door on the other side. 

“It doesn’t matter!” said a man’s voice. “There are 
other ways in — WEVE GOT THEM, THEY’RE HERE!” 

Harry spun around. They were back in the Brain 
Room and, sure enough, there were doors all around 
the walls. He could hear footsteps in the hall behind 
them as more Death Eaters came running to join the 
first. 

“Luna — Neville — help me!” 

The three of them tore around the room, sealing the 
doors as they went: Harry crashed into a table and 
rolled over the top of it in his haste to reach the next 
door. 

“ Colloportusl” 

There were footsteps running along behind the doors; 

every now and then another heavy body would launch 

itself against one, so it creaked and shuddered. Luna 

and Neville were bewitching the doors along the 

opposite wall — then, as Harry reached the very top of 

the room, he heard Luna cry, “Collo — aaaaaaaaargh 
?? 



He turned in time to see her flying through the air. 

Five Death Eaters were surging into the room through 
the door she had not reached in time; Luna hit a 
desk, slid over its surface and onto the floor on the 
other side where she lay sprawled, as still as 
Hermione. 

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“Get Potter!” shrieked Bellatrix, and she ran at him. 
He dodged her and sprinted back up the room; he 
was safe as long as they thought they might hit the 
prophecy — 

“Hey!” said Ron, who had staggered to his feet and 
was now tottering drunkenly toward Harry, giggling. 
“Hey, Harry, there are brains in here, ha ha ha, isn’t 
that weird, Harry?” 

“Ron, get out of the way, get down — ” 

But Ron had already pointed his wand at the tank. 

“Honest, Harry, they’re brains — look — Accio Brain\” 

The scene seemed momentarily frozen. Harry, Ginny, 
and Neville and each of the Death Eaters turned in 
spite of themselves to watch the top of the tank as a 
brain burst from the green liquid like a leaping fish. 
For a moment it seemed suspended in midair, then it 
soared toward Ron, spinning as it came, and what 
looked like ribbons of moving images flew from it, 
unraveling like rolls of film — 

“Ha ha ha, Harry, look at it — ” said Ron, watching it 
disgorge its gaudy innards. “Harry, come and touch 
it, bet it’s weird — ” 

“RON, NO!” 

Harry did not know what would happen if Ron 
touched the tentacles of thought now flying behind 
the brain, but he was sure it would not be anything 
good. He darted forward but Ron had already caught 
the brain in his outstretched hands. 



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The moment they made contact with his skin, the 
tentacles began wrapping themselves around Ron’s 
arms like ropes. 

“Harry, look what’s happen — no — no, I don’t like it 
— no, stop — stop — ” 

But the thin ribbons were spinning around Ron’s 
chest now. He tugged and tore at them as the brain 
was pulled tight against him like an octopus’s body. 

“Diffindol” yelled Harry, trying to sever the feelers 
wrapping themselves tightly around Ron before his 
eyes, but they would not break. Ron fell over, still 
thrashing against his bonds. 

“Harry, it’ll suffocate him!” screamed Ginny, 
immobilized by her broken ankle on the floor — then 
a jet of red light flew from one of the Death Eater’s 
wands and hit her squarely in the face. She keeled 
over sideways and lay there unconscious. 

“ STUBEFYl” shouted Neville, wheeling around and 
waving Hermione’s wand at the oncoming Death 
Eaters. “STUBEFY, STUBEFYl” 

But nothing happened — one of the Death Eaters 
shot their own Stunning Spell at Neville; it missed 
him by inches. Harry and Neville were now the only 
two left fighting the five Death Eaters, two of whom 
sent streams of silver light like arrows past them that 
left craters in the wall behind them. Harry ran for it 
as Bellatrix Lestrange sprinted right at him. Holding 
the prophecy high above his head he sprinted back 
up the room; all he could think of doing was to draw 
the Death Eaters away from the others. 

It seemed to have worked. They streaked after him, 
knocking chairs and tables flying but not daring to 

Page | 1019Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




bewitch him in case they hurt the prophecy, and he 
dashed through the only door still open, the one 
through which the Death Eaters themselves had 
come. Inwardly praying that Neville would stay with 
Ron — find some way of releasing him — he ran a few 
feet into the new room and felt the floor vanish — 

He was falling down steep stone step after steep stone 
step, bouncing on every tier until at last, with a crash 
that knocked all the breath out of his body, he landed 
flat on his back in the sunken pit where the stone 
archway stood on its dais. The whole room was 
ringing with the Death Eaters’ laughter. He looked up 
and saw the five who had been in the Brain Room 
descending toward him, while as many more emerged 
through other doorways and began leaping from 
bench to bench toward him. Harry got to his feet 
though his legs were trembling so badly they barely 
supported him. The prophecy was still miraculously 
unbroken in his left hand, his wand clutched tightly 
in his right. He backed away, looking around, trying 
to keep all the Death Eaters within his sights. The 
back of his legs hit something solid; he had reached 
the dais where the archway stood. He climbed 
backward onto it. 

The Death Eaters all halted, gazing at him. Some were 
panting as hard as he was. One was bleeding badly; 
Dolohov, freed of the full Body-Bind, was leering, his 
wand pointing straight at Harry’s face. 

“Potter, your race is run,” drawled Lucius Malfoy, 
pulling off his mask. “Now hand me the prophecy like 
a good boy...” 

“Let — let the others go, and I’ll give it to you!” said 
Harry desperately. 

A few of the Death Eaters laughed. 

Page | 1020Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“You are not in a position to bargain, Potter,” said 
Lucius Malfoy, his pale face flushed with pleasure. 

“You see, there are ten of us and only one of you ... or 
hasn’t Dumbledore ever taught you how to count?” 

“He’s dot alone!” shouted a voice from above them. 

“He’s still god be!” 

Harry’s heart sank. Neville was scrambling down the 
stone benches toward them, Hermione’s wand held 
fast in his trembling hand. 

“Neville — no — go back to Ron — ” 

“STUBEFYl” Neville shouted again, pointing his wand 
at each Death Eater in turn, “STUBEFYl. STUBE — ” 

One of the largest Death Eaters seized Neville from 
behind, pinioning his arms to his sides. He struggled 
and kicked; several of the Death Eaters laughed. 

“It’s Longbottom, isn’t it?” sneered Lucius Malfoy. 

“Well, your grandmother is used to losing family 
members to our cause... Your death will not come as 
a great shock...” 

“Longbottom?” repeated Bellatrix, and a truly evil 
smile lit her gaunt face. “Why, I have had the 
pleasure of meeting your parents, boy...” 

“I DOE YOU HAB!” roared Neville, and he fought so 
hard against his captor’s encircling grip that the 
Death Eater shouted, “Someone Stun him!” 

“No, no, no,” said Bellatrix. She looked transported, 
alive with excitement as she glanced at Harry, then 
back at Neville. “No, let’s see how long Longbottom 
lasts before he cracks like his parents... Unless Potter 
wants to give us the prophecy — ” 

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“DON’D GIB ID DO DEM!” roared Neville, who seemed 
beside himself, kicking and writhing as Bellatrix drew 
nearer to him and his captor, her wand raised. 

“DON’D GIB ID DO DEM, HARRY!” 

Bellatrix raised her wand. “Cruciol” 

Neville screamed, his legs drawn up to his chest so 
that the Death Eater holding him was momentarily 
holding him off the ground. The Death Eater dropped 
him and he fell to the floor, twitching and screaming 
in agony. 

“That was just a taster!” said Bellatrix, raising her 
wand so that Neville’s screams stopped and he lay 
sobbing at her feet. She turned and gazed up at 
Harry. “Now, Potter, either give us the prophecy, or 
watch your little friend die the hard way!” 

Harry did not have to think; there was no choice. The 
prophecy was hot with the heat from his clutching 
hand as he held it out. Malfoy jumped forward to take 
it. 

Then, high above them, two more doors burst open 
and five more people sprinted into the room: Sirius, 
Lupin, Moody, Tonks, and Kingsley. 

Malfoy turned and raised his wand, but Tonks had 
already sent a Stunning Spell right at him. Harry did 
not wait to see whether it had made contact, but 
dived off the dais out of the way. The Death Eaters 
were completely distracted by the appearance of the 
members of the Order, who were now raining spells 
down upon them as they jumped from step to step 
toward the sunken floor: Through the darting bodies, 
the flashes of light, Harry could see Neville crawling 
along. He dodged another jet of red light and flung 
himself flat on the ground to reach Neville. 

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“Are you okay?” he yelled, as another spell soared 
inches over their heads. 



“Yes,” said Neville, trying to pull himself up. 

“And Ron?” 

“I dink he’s all right — he was still fighding the brain 
when I left — ” 

The stone floor between them exploded as a spell hit 
it, leaving a crater right where Neville’s hand had 
been seconds before. Both scrambled away from the 
spot, then a thick arm came out of nowhere, seized 
Harry around the neck and pulled him upright, so 
that his toes were barely touching the floor. 

“Give it to me,” growled a voice in his ear, “give me the 
prophecy — ” 

The man was pressing so tightly on Harry’s windpipe 
that he could not breathe — through watering eyes he 
saw Sirius dueling with a Death Eater some ten feet 
away. Kingsley was fighting two at once; Tonks, still 
halfway up the tiered seats, was firing spells down at 
Bellatrix — nobody seemed to realize that Harry was 
dying... He turned his wand backward toward the 
man’s side, but had no breath to utter an incantation, 
and the man’s free hand was groping toward the hand 
in which Harry was grasping the prophecy — 

“AARGH!” 

Neville had come lunging out of nowhere: Unable to 
articulate a spell, he had jabbed Hermione’s wand 
hard into the eyehole of the Death Eater’s mask. The 
man relinquished Harry at once with a howl of pain 
and Harry whirled around to face him and gasped, 
“STUPEFY]” 

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The Death Eater keeled over backward and his mask 
slipped off. It was Macnair, Buckbeak’s would-be 
killer, one of his eyes now swollen and bloodshot. 

“Thanks!” Harry said to Neville, pulling him aside as 
Sirius and his Death Eater lurched past, dueling so 
fiercely that their wands were blurs. Then Harry’s foot 
made contact with something round and hard and he 
slipped — for a moment he thought he had dropped 
the prophecy, then saw Moody’s magic eye spinning 
away across the floor. 

Its owner was lying on his side, bleeding from the 
head, and his attacker was now bearing down upon 
Harry and Neville: Dolohov, his long pale face twisted 
with glee. 

“Tarantallegrcd” he shouted, his wand pointing at 
Neville, whose legs went immediately into a kind of 
frenzied tap dance, unbalancing him and causing him 
to fall to the floor again. “Now, Potter — ” 

He made the same slashing movement with his wand 
that he had used on Hermione just as Harry yelled, 
“Protego\” 

Harry felt something streak across his face like a 
blunt knife but the force of it knocked him sideways, 
and he fell over Neville’s jerking legs, but the Shield 
Charm had stopped the worst of the spell. 

Dolohov raised his wand again. “Accio Proph — ” 

Sirius hurtled out of nowhere, rammed Dolohov with 
his shoulder, and sent him flying out of the way. The 
prophecy had again flown to the tips of Harry’s fingers 
but he had managed to cling to it. Now Sirius and 
Dolohov were dueling, their wands flashing like 
swords, sparks flying from their wand tips — 

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Dolohov drew back his wand to make the same 
slashing movement he had used on Harry and 
Hermione. Springing up, Harry yelled, “Petrificus 
Totalusl” Once again, Dolohov’s arms and legs 
snapped together and he keeled over backward, 
landing with a crash on his back. 

“Nice one!” shouted Sirius, forcing Harry’s head down 
as a pair of Stunning Spells flew toward them. “Now I 
want you to get out of — ” 

They both ducked again. A jet of green light had 
narrowly missed Sirius; across the room Harry saw 
Tonks fall from halfway up the stone steps, her limp 
form toppling from stone seat to stone seat, and 
Bellatrix, triumphant, running back toward the fray. 

“Harry, take the prophecy, grab Neville, and run!” 
Sirius yelled, dashing to meet Bellatrix. Harry did not 
see what happened next: Kingsley swayed across his 
field of vision, battling with the pockmarked 
Rookwood, now mask-less; another jet of green light 
flew over Harry’s head as he launched himself toward 
Neville — 

“Can you stand?” he bellowed in Neville’s ear, as 
Neville’s legs jerked and twitched uncontrollably. “Put 
your arm round my neck — ” 

Neville did so — Harry heaved — Neville’s legs were 
still flying in every direction, they would not support 
him and then, out of nowhere, a man lunged at them. 
Both fell backward, Neville’s legs waving wildly like an 
overturned beetle’s, Harry with his left arm held up in 
the air to try and save the small glass ball from being 
smashed. 



Page | 1025Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“The prophecy, give me the prophecy, Potter!” snarled 
Lucius Malfoy’s voice in his ear, and Harry felt the tip 
of Malfoy’s wand pressing hard between his ribs. 

“No — get — off — me ... Neville — catch it!” 

Harry flung the prophecy across the floor, Neville 
spun himself around on his back and scooped the 
ball to his chest. Malfoy pointed the wand instead at 
Neville, but Harry jabbed his own wand back over his 
shoulder and yelled, “Impedimental” 

Malfoy was blasted off his back. As Harry scrambled 
up again he looked around and saw Malfoy smash 
into the dais on which Sirius and Bellatrix were now 
dueling. Malfoy aimed his wand at Harry and Neville 
again, but before he could draw breath to strike, 
Lupin had jumped between them. 

“Harry, round up the others and GO!” 

Harry seized Neville by the shoulder of his robes and 
lifted him bodily onto the first tier of stone steps. 
Neville’s legs twitched and jerked and would not 
support his weight. Harry heaved again with all the 
strength he possessed and they climbed another step 



A spell hit the stone bench at Harry’s heel. It 
crumbled away and he fell back to the step below: 
Neville sank to the ground, his legs still jerking and 
thrashing, and thrust the prophecy into his pocket. 

“Come on!” said Harry desperately, hauling at 
Neville’s robes. “Just try and push with your legs — ” 

He gave another stupendous heave and Neville’s robes 
tore all along the left seam — the small spun-glass 
ball dropped from his pocket and before either of 

Page | 1026Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




them could catch it, one of Neville’s floundering feet 
kicked it. It flew some ten feet to their right and 
smashed on the step beneath them. As both of them 
stared at the place where it had broken, appalled at 
what had happened, a pearly-white figure with hugely 
magnified eyes rose into the air, unnoticed by any but 
them. Harry could see its mouth moving, but in all 
the crashes and screams and yells surrounding them, 
not one word of the prophecy could he hear. The 
figure stopped speaking and dissolved into 
nothingness. 

“Harry, I’b sorry!” cried Neville, his face anguished as 
his legs continued to flounder, “I’b so sorry, Harry, I 
didn’d bean do — ■” 

“It doesn’t matter!” Harry shouted. “Just try and 
stand, let’s get out of — ” 

“ Dubbledorel” said Neville, his sweaty face suddenly 
transported, staring over Harry’s shoulder. 

“What?” 

“DUBBLEDORE!” 

Harry turned to look where Neville was staring. 

Directly above them, framed in the doorway from the 
Brain Room, stood Albus Dumbledore, his wand aloft, 
his face white and furious. Harry felt a kind of electric 
charge surge through every particle of his body — 
they were saved. 

Dumbledore sped down the steps past Neville and 
Harry, who had no more thought of leaving. 
Dumbledore was already at the foot of the steps when 
the Death Eaters nearest realized he was there. There 
were yells; one of the Death Eaters ran for it, 
scrabbling like a monkey up the stone steps opposite. 
Page | 1027Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




Dumbledore’s spell pulled him back as easily and 
effortlessly as though he had hooked him with an 
invisible line — 



Only one couple were still battling, apparently 
unaware of the new arrival. Harry saw Sirius duck 
Bellatrix’s jet of red light: He was laughing at her. 
“Come on, you can do better than that!” he yelled, his 
voice echoing around the cavernous room. 

The second jet of light hit him squarely on the chest. 

The laughter had not quite died from his face, but his 
eyes widened in shock. 

Harry released Neville, though he was unaware of 
doing so. He was jumping down the steps again, 
pulling out his wand, as Dumbledore turned to the 
dais too. 

It seemed to take Sirius an age to fall. His body 
curved in a graceful arc as he sank backward through 
the ragged veil hanging from the arch... 

And Harry saw the look of mingled fear and surprise 
on his godfather’s wasted, once-handsome face as he 
fell through the ancient doorway and disappeared 
behind the veil, which fluttered for a moment as 
though in a high wind and then fell back into place. 

Harry heard Bellatrix Lestrange’s triumphant scream, 
but knew it meant nothing — Sirius had only just 
fallen through the archway, he would reappear from 
the other side any second... 

But Sirius did not reappear. 

“SIRIUS!” Harry yelled, “SIRIUS!” 

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He had reached the floor, his breath coming in 
searing gasps. Sirius must be just behind the curtain, 
he, Harry, would pull him back out again... 

But as he reached the ground and sprinted toward 
the dais, Lupin grabbed Harry around the chest, 
holding him back. 

“There’s nothing you can do, Harry — ” 

“Get him, save him, he’s only just gone through!” 

“It’s too late, Harry — ” 

“We can still reach him — ” 

Harry struggled hard and viciously, but Lupin would 
not let go... 

“There’s nothing you can do, Harry ... nothing... He’s 
gone.” 



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THE ONLY ONE HE EVER FEARED 

“He hasn’t gone!” Harry yelled. 

He did not believe it, he would not believe it; still he 
fought Lupin with every bit of strength he had: Lupin 
did not understand, people hid behind that curtain, 
he had heard them whispering the first time he had 
entered the room — Sirius was hiding, simply lurking 
out of sight — 

“SIRIUS!” he bellowed, “SIRIUS!” 

“He can’t come back, Harry,” said Lupin, his voice 
breaking as he struggled to contain Harry. “He can’t 
come back, because he’s d — ” 

“HE — IS — NOT — DEAD!” roared Harry. “SIRIUS!” 

There was movement going on around them, pointless 
bustling, the flashes of more spells. To Harry it was 
meaningless noise, the deflected curses flying past 
them did not matter, nothing mattered except that 
Lupin stop pretending that Sirius, who was standing 
Page | 1030Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 



feet from them behind that old curtain, was not going 
to emerge at any moment, shaking back his dark hair 
and eager to reenter the battle — 

Lupin dragged Harry away from the dais, Harry still 
staring at the archway, angry at Sirius now for 
keeping him waiting — 

But some part of him realized, even as he fought to 
break free from Lupin, that Sirius had never kept him 
waiting before... Sirius had risked everything, always, 
to see Harry, to help him... If Sirius was not 
reappearing out of that archway when Harry was 
yelling for him as though his life depended on it, the 
only possible explanation was that he could not come 
back. . . That he really was . . . 

Dumbledore had most of the remaining Death Eaters 
grouped in the middle of the room, seemingly 
immobilized by invisible ropes. Mad-Eye Moody had 
crawled across the room to where Tonks lay and was 
attempting to revive her. Behind the dais there were 
still flashes of light, grunts, and cries — Kingsley had 
run forward to continue Sirius’s duel with Bellatrix. 

“Harry?” 

Neville had slid down the stone benches one by one to 
the place where Harry stood. Harry was no longer 
struggling against Lupin, who maintained a 
precautionary grip on his arm nevertheless. 

“Harry ... I’b really sorry...” said Neville. His legs were 
still dancing uncontrollably. “Was dat man — was 
Sirius Black a — a friend of yours?” 

Harry nodded. 



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“Here,” said Lupin quietly, and pointing his wand at 
Neville’s legs he said, “Finite.” The spell was lifted. 
Neville’s legs fell back onto the floor and remained 
still. Lupin’s face was pale. “Let’s — let’s find the 
others. Where are they all, Neville?” 

Lupin turned away from the archway as he spoke. It 
sounded as though every word was causing him pain. 

“Dey’re all back dere,” said Neville. “A brain addacked 
Ron bud I dink he’s all righd — and Herbione’s 
unconscious, bud we could feel a bulse — ” 

There was a loud bang and a yell from behind the 
dais. Harry saw Kingsley, yelling in pain, hit the 
ground. Bellatrix Lestrange turned tail and ran as 
Dumbledore whipped around. He aimed a spell at her 
but she deflected it. She was halfway up the steps 
now — 

“Harry — no!” cried Lupin, but Harry had already 
ripped his arm from Lupin’s slackened grip. 

“SHE KILLED SIRIUS!” bellowed Harry. “SHE KILLED 
HIM — I’LL KILL HER!” 

And he was off, scrambling up the stone benches. 
People were shouting behind him but he did not care. 
The hem of Bellatrix’s robes whipped out of sight 
ahead and they were back in the room where the 
brains were swimming. . . 

She aimed a curse over her shoulder. The tank rose 
into the air and tipped. Harry was deluged in the foul- 
smelling potion within. The brains slipped and slid 
over him and began spinning their long, colored 
tentacles, but he shouted, “Wingardium Levioscd” and 
they flew into the air away from him. Slipping and 
sliding he ran on toward the door. He leapt over Luna, 
Page | 1032Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




who was groaning on the floor, past Ginny, who said, 
“Harry — what — ?” past Ron, who giggled feebly, and 
Hermione, who was still unconscious. He wrenched 
open the door into the circular black hall and saw 
Bellatrix disappearing through a door on the other 
side of the room — beyond her was the corridor 
leading back to the lifts. 

He ran, but she had slammed the door behind her 
and the walls had begun to rotate again. Once more 
he was surrounded by streaks of blue light from the 
whirling candelabra. 

“Where’s the exit?” he shouted desperately, as the 
wall rumbled to a halt again. “Where’s the way out?” 

The room seemed to have been waiting for him to ask. 
The door right behind him flew open, and the corridor 
toward the lifts stretched ahead of him, torch- lit and 
empty. He ran... 

He could hear a lift clattering ahead of him. He 
sprinted up the passageway, swung around the 
corner, and slammed his fist onto the button to call a 
second lift. It jangled and banged lower and lower; the 
grilles slid open and Harry dashed inside, now 
hammering the button marked Atrium. The doors slid 
shut and he was rising. . . 

He forced his way out of the lift before the grilles were 
fully open and looked around. Bellatrix was almost at 
the telephone lift at the other end of the hall, but she 
looked back as he sprinted toward her, and aimed 
another spell at him. He dodged behind the Fountain 
of Magical Brethren; the spell zoomed past him and 
hit the wrought gold gates at the other end of the 
Atrium so that they rang like bells. There were no 
more footsteps. She had stopped running. He 
crouched behind the statues, listening. 

Page | 1033Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




“ Come out, come out, little HarryV’ she called in her 
mock-baby voice, which echoed off the polished 
wooden floors. “What did you come after me for, then? 

I thought you were here to avenge my dear cousin!” 

“I am!” shouted Harry, and a score of ghostly Harry’s 
seemed to chorus I am\ I am\ I am\ all around the 
room. 

“Aaaaaah . . . did you love him, little baby Potter?” 

Hatred rose in Harry such as he had never known 
before. He flung himself out from behind the fountain 
and bellowed “CrucioV’ 

Bellatrix screamed. The spell had knocked her off her 
feet, but she did not writhe and shriek with pain as 
Neville had — she was already on her feet again, 
breathless, no longer laughing. Harry dodged behind 
the golden fountain again — her counterspell hit the 
head of the handsome wizard, which was blown off 
and landed twenty feet away, gouging long scratches 
into the wooden floor. 

“Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, 
boy?” she yelled. She had abandoned her baby voice 
now. “You need to mean them, Potter! You need to 
really want to cause pain — to enjoy it — righteous 
anger won’t hurt me for long — I’ll show you how it is 
done, shall I? I’ll give you a lesson — ” 

Harry had been edging around the fountain on the 
other side. She screamed, “Cruciol” and he was forced 
to duck down again as the centaur’s arm, holding its 
bow, spun off and landed with a crash on the floor a 
short distance from the golden wizard’s head. 

“Potter, you cannot win against me!” she cried. He 
could hear her moving to the right, trying to get a 

Page | 1034Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




clear shot of him. He backed around the statue away 
from her, crouching behind the centaur’s legs, his 
head level with the house-elf’s. “I was and am the 
Dark Lord’s most loyal servant, I learned the Dark 
Arts from him, and I know spells of such power that 
you, pathetic little boy, can never hope to compete — ” 

“Stupefy\” yelled Harry. He had edged right around to 
where the goblin stood beaming up at the now 
headless wizard and taken aim at her back as she 
peered around the fountain for him. She reacted so 
fast he barely had time to duck. 

“Protegol” 

The jet of red light, his own Stunning Spell, bounced 
back at him. Harry scrambled back behind the 
fountain, and one of the goblin’s ears went flying 
across the room. 

“Potter, I am going to give you one chance!” shouted 
Bellatrix. “Give me the prophecy — roll it out toward 
me now — and I may spare your life!” 

“Well, you’re going to have to kill me, because it’s 
gone!” Harry roared — and as he shouted it, pain 
seared across his forehead. His scar was on fire 
again, and he felt a surge of fury that was quite 
unconnected with his own rage. “And he knows!” said 
Harry with a mad laugh to match Bellatrix ’s own. 

“Your dear old mate Voldemort knows it’s gone! He’s 
not going to be happy with you, is he?” 

“What? What do you mean?” she cried, and for the 
first time there was fear in her voice. 

“The prophecy smashed when I was trying to get 
Neville up the steps! What do you think Voldemort’ll 
say about that, then?” 

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His scar seared and burned... The pain of it was 
making his eyes stream... 



“LIAR!” she shrieked, but he could hear the terror 
behind the anger now. “YOU’VE GOT IT, POTTER, 
AND YOU WILL GIVE IT TO ME — Accio Prophecy ! 
ACCIO PROPHECY !” 

Harry laughed again because he knew it would 
incense her, the pain building in his head so badly he 
thought his skull might burst. He waved his empty 
hand from behind the one-eared goblin and withdrew 
it quickly as she sent another jet of green light flying 
at him. 

“Nothing there!” he shouted. “Nothing to summon! It 
smashed and nobody heard what it said, tell your 
boss that — ” 

“No!” she screamed. “It isn’t true, you’re lying — 
MASTER, I TRIED, I TRIED — DO NOT PUNISH ME 



“Don’t waste your breath!” yelled Harry, his eyes 
screwed up against the pain in his scar, now more 
terrible than ever. “He can’t hear you from here!” 

“Can’t I, Potter?” said a high, cold voice. 

Harry opened his eyes. 

Tall, thin, and black-hooded, his terrible snakelike 
face white and gaunt, his scarlet, slit-pupiled eyes 
staring ... Lord Voldemort had appeared in the middle 
of the hall, his wand pointing at Harry who stood 
frozen, quite unable to move. 

“So you smashed my prophecy?” said Voldemort 
softly, staring at Harry with those pitiless red eyes. 

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“No, Bella, he is not lying... I see the truth looking at 
me from within his worthless mind... Months of 
preparation, months of effort . . . and my Death Eaters 
have let Harry Potter thwart me again...” 

“Master, I am sorry, I knew not, I was fighting the 
Animagus Black!” sobbed Bellatrix, flinging herself 
down at Voldemort’s feet as he paced slowly nearer. 
“Master, you should know — ” 

“Be quiet, Bella,” said Voldemort dangerously. “I shall 
deal with you in a moment. Do you think I have 
entered the Ministry of Magic to hear your sniveling 
apologies?” 

“But Master — he is here — he is below — ” 

Voldemort paid no attention. 

“I have nothing more to say to you, Potter,” he said 
quietly. “You have irked me too often, for too long. 
AVADA KEDAVRAl” 

Harry had not even opened his mouth to resist. His 
mind was blank, his wand pointing uselessly at the 
floor. 

But the headless golden statue of the wizard in the 
fountain had sprung alive, leaping from its plinth, 
and landed on the floor with a crash between Harry 
and Voldemort. The spell merely glanced off its chest 
as the statue flung out its arms, protecting Harry. 

“What — ?” said Voldemort, staring around. And then 
he breathed, “Dumbledore!” 

Harry looked behind him, his heart pounding. 
Dumbledore was standing in front of the golden gates. 



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Voldemort raised his wand and sent another jet of 
green light at Dumbledore, who turned and was gone 
in a whirling of his cloak; next second he had 
reappeared behind Voldemort and waved his wand 
toward the remnants of the fountain; the other 
statues sprang to life too. The statue of the witch ran 
at Bellatrix, who screamed and sent spells streaming 
uselessly off its chest, before it dived at her, pinning 
her to the floor. Meanwhile, the goblin and the house- 
elf scuttled toward the fireplaces set along the wall, 
and the one-armed centaur galloped at Voldemort, 
who vanished and reappeared beside the pool. The 
headless statue thrust Harry backward, away from 
the fight, as Dumbledore advanced on Voldemort and 
the golden centaur cantered around them both. 

“It was foolish to come here tonight, Tom,” said 
Dumbledore calmly. “The Aurors are on their way — ” 

“By which time I shall be gone, and you dead!” spat 
Voldemort. He sent another Killing Curse at 
Dumbledore but missed, instead hitting the security 
guards desk, which burst into flame. 

Dumbledore flicked his own wand. The force of the 
spell that emanated from it was such that Harry, 
though shielded by his stone guard, felt his hair 
stand on end as it passed, and this time Voldemort 
was forced to conjure a shining silver shield out of 
thin air to deflect it. The spell, whatever it was, 
caused no visible damage to the shield, though a 
deep, gonglike note reverberated from it, an oddly 
chilling sound... 

“You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore?” called 
Voldemort, his scarlet eyes narrowed over the top of 
the shield. “Above such brutality, are you?” 



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“We both know that there are other ways of 
destroying a man, Tom,” Dumbledore said calmly, 
continuing to walk toward Voldemort as though he 
had not a fear in the world, as though nothing had 
happened to interrupt his stroll up the hall. “Merely 
taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit — ” 

“There is nothing worse than death, Dumbledore!” 
snarled Voldemort. 

“You are quite wrong,” said Dumbledore, still closing 
in upon Voldemort and speaking as lightly as though 
they were discussing the matter over drinks. Harry 
felt scared to see him walking along, undefended, 
shieldless. He wanted to cry out a warning, but his 
headless guard kept shunting him backward toward 
the wall, blocking his every attempt to get out from 
behind it. “Indeed, your failure to understand that 
there are things much worse than death has always 
been your greatest weakness — ” 

Another jet of green light flew from behind the silver 
shield. This time it was the one-armed centaur, 
galloping in front of Dumbledore, that took the blast 
and shattered into a hundred pieces, but before the 
fragments had even hit the floor, Dumbledore had 
drawn back his wand and waved it as though 
brandishing a whip. A long thin flame flew from the 
tip; it wrapped itself around Voldemort, shield and all. 
For a moment, it seemed Dumbledore had won, but 
then the fiery rope became a serpent, which 
relinquished its hold upon Voldemort at once and 
turned, hissing furiously, to face Dumbledore. 

Voldemort vanished. The snake reared from the floor, 
ready to strike — 



There was a burst of flame in midair above 
Dumbledore just as Voldemort reappeared, standing 

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on the plinth in the middle of the pool where so 
recently the five statues had stood. 



“Look outi” Harry yelled. 

But even as he shouted, one more jet of green light 
had flown at Dumbledore from Voldemort’s wand and 
the snake had struck — 

Fawkes swooped down in front of Dumbledore, 
opened his beak wide, and swallowed the jet of green 
light whole. He burst into flame and fell to the floor, 
small, wrinkled, and flightless. At the same moment, 
Dumbledore brandished his wand in one, long, fluid 
movement — the snake, which had been an instant 
from sinking its fangs into him, flew high into the air 
and vanished in a wisp of dark smoke; the water in 
the pool rose up and covered Voldemort like a cocoon 
of molten glass — 

For a few seconds Voldemort was visible only as a 
dark, rippling, faceless figure, shimmering and 
indistinct upon the plinth, clearly struggling to throw 
off the suffocating mass — 

Then he was gone, and the water fell with a crash 
back into its pool, slopping wildly over the sides, 
drenching the polished floor. 

“MASTER!” screamed Bellatrix. 

Sure it was over, sure Voldemort had decided to flee, 
Harry made to run out from behind his statue guard, 
but Dumbledore bellowed, “Stay where you are, 

Harry!” 

For the first time, Dumbledore sounded frightened. 
Harry could not see why. The hall was quite empty 
but for themselves, the sobbing Bellatrix still trapped 

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under her statue, and the tiny baby Fawkes croaking 
feebly on the floor — 

And then Harry’s scar burst open. He knew he was 
dead: it was pain beyond imagining, pain past 
endurance — 

He was gone from the hall, he was locked in the coils 
of a creature with red eyes, so tightly bound that 
Harry did not know where his body ended and the 
creature’s began. They were fused together, bound by 
pain, and there was no escape — 

And when the creature spoke, it used Harry’s mouth, 
so that in his agony he felt his jaw move... 

“ Kill me now, Dumbledore...” 

Blinded and dying, every part of him screaming for 
release, Harry felt the creature use him again... 

“If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy...” 

Let the pain stop, thought Harry. Let him kill us... End 
it, Dumbledore... Death is nothing compared to this... 

And I’ll see Sirius again... 

And as Harry’s heart filled with emotion, the 
creature’s coils loosened, the pain was gone, Harry 
was lying facedown on the floor, his glasses gone, 
shivering as though he lay upon ice, not wood... 

And there were voices echoing through the hall, more 
voices than there should have been: Harry opened his 
eyes, saw his glasses lying at the heel of the headless 
statue that had been guarding him, but which now 
lay flat on its back, cracked and immobile. He put 



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them on and raised his head an inch to find 
Dumbledore’s crooked nose inches from his own. 



“Are you all right, Harry?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, shaking so violently he could not 
hold his head up properly. “Yeah, I’m — where’s 
Voldemort, where — who are all these — what’s — ” 

The Atrium was full of people. The floor was reflecting 
emerald-green flames that had burst into life in all 
the fireplaces along one wall, and a stream of witches 
and wizards was emerging from them. As Dumbledore 
pulled him back to his feet, Harry saw the tiny gold 
statues of the house-elf and the goblin leading a 
stunned-looking Cornelius Fudge forward. 

“He was there!” shouted a scarlet-robed man with a 
ponytail, who was pointing at a pile of golden rubble 
on the other side of the hall, where Bellatrix had lain 
trapped moments before. “I saw him, Mr. Fudge, I 
swear, it was You-Know-Who, he grabbed a woman 
and Disapparated!” 

“I know, Williamson, I know, I saw him too!” gibbered 
Fudge, who was wearing pajamas under his 
pinstriped cloak and was gasping as though he had 
just run miles. “Merlin’s beard — here — here! — in 
the Ministry of Magic! — great heavens above — it 
doesn’t seem possible — my word — how can this 
be?” 

“If you proceed downstairs into the Department of 
Mysteries, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, apparently 
satisfied that Harry was all right, and walking forward 
so that the newcomers realized he was there for the 
first time (a few of them raised their wands, others 
simply looked amazed; the statues of the elf and 
goblin applauded and Fudge jumped so much that 
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his slipper-clad feet left the floor), “you will find 
several escaped Death Eaters contained in the Death 
Chamber, bound by an Anti-Disapparation Jinx and 
awaiting your decision as to what to do with them.” 

“Dumbledore!” gasped Fudge, apparently beside 
himself with amazement. “You — here — I — I — ” 

He looked wildly around at the Aurors he had brought 
with him, and it could not have been clearer that he 
was in half a mind to cry, “Seize him!” 

“Cornelius, I am ready to fight your men — and win 
again!” said Dumbledore in a thunderous voice. “But 
a few minutes ago you saw proof, with your own eyes, 
that I have been telling you the truth for a year. Lord 
Voldemort has returned, you have been chasing the 
wrong men for twelve months, and it is time you 
listened to sense!” 

“I — don’t — well — ” blustered Fudge, looking around 
as though hoping somebody was going to tell him 
what to do. When nobody did, he said, “Very well — 
Dawlish! Williamson! Go down to the Department of 
Mysteries and see ... Dumbledore, you — you will 
need to tell me exactly — the Fountain of Magical 
Brethren — what happened?” he added in a kind of 
whimper, staring around at the floor, where the 
remains of the statues of the witch, wizard, and 
centaur now lay scattered. 

“We can discuss that after I have sent Harry back to 
Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore. 

“Harry — Harry Potter?” 

Fudge spun around and stared at Harry, who was 
still standing against the wall beside the fallen statue 



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that had been guarding him during Dumbledore and 
Voldemort’s duel. 

“He-here?” said Fudge. “Why — what’s all this 
about?” 

“I shall explain everything,” repeated Dumbledore, 
“when Harry is back at school.” 

He walked away from the pool to the place where the 
golden wizard’s head lay on the floor. He pointed his 
wand at it and muttered, “Portus.” The head glowed 
blue and trembled noisily against the wooden floor for 
a few seconds, then became still once more. 

“Now see here, Dumbledore!” said Fudge, as 
Dumbledore picked up the head and walked back to 
Harry carrying it. “You haven’t got authorization for 
that Portkey! You can’t do things like that right in 
front of the Minister of Magic, you — you — ” 

His voice faltered as Dumbledore surveyed him 
magisterially over his half-moon spectacles. 

“You will give the order to remove Dolores Umbridge 
from Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore. “You will tell your 
Aurors to stop searching for my Care of Magical 
Creatures teacher so that he can return to work. I will 
give you ...” Dumbledore pulled a watch with twelve 
hands from his pocket and glanced at it, “half an 
hour of my time tonight, in which I think we shall be 
more than able to cover the important points of what 
has happened here. After that, I shall need to return 
to my school. If you need more help from me you are, 
of course, more than welcome to contact me at 
Hogwarts. Letters addressed to the headmaster will 
find me.” 



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Fudge goggled worse than ever. His mouth was open 
and his round face grew pinker under his rumpled 
gray hair. 

“I — you — ” 

Dumbledore turned his back on him. 

“Take this Portkey, Harry.” 

He held out the golden head of the statue, and Harry 
placed his hand upon it, past caring what he did next 
or where he went. 

“I shall see you in half an hour,” said Dumbledore 
quietly. “One ... two ... three ...” 

Harry felt the familiar sensation of a hook being 
jerked behind his navel. The polished wooden floor 
was gone from beneath his feet; the Atrium, Fudge, 
and Dumbledore had all disappeared, and he was 
flying forward in a whirlwind of color and sound. . . 



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THE LOST PROPHECY 

Harry’s feet hit solid ground again; his knees buckled 
a little and the golden wizard’s head fell with a 
resounding clunk to the floor. He looked around and 
saw that he had arrived in Dumbledore’s office. 

Everything seemed to have repaired itself during the 
headmaster’s absence. The delicate silver instruments 
stood again upon the spindle-legged tables, puffing 
and whirring serenely. The portraits of the 
headmasters and headmistresses were snoozing in 
their frames, heads lolling back in armchairs or 
against the edge of their pictures. Harry looked 
through the window. There was a cool line of pale 
green along the horizon: Dawn was approaching. 

The silence and the stillness, broken only by the 
occasional grunt or snuffle of a sleeping portrait, was 
unbearable to him. If his surroundings could have 
reflected the feelings inside him, the pictures would 
have been screaming in pain. He walked around the 
quiet, beautiful office, breathing quickly, trying not to 
think. But he had to think... There was no escape... 
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It was his fault Sirius had died; it was all his fault. If 
he, Harry, had not been stupid enough to fall for 
Voldemort’s trick, if he had not been so convinced 
that what he had seen in his dream was real, if he 
had only opened his mind to the possibility that 
Voldemort was, as Hermione had said, banking on 
Harry’s love of playing the hero . . . 

It was unbearable, he would not think about it, he 
could not stand it... There was a terrible hollow inside 
him he did not want to feel or examine, a dark hole 
where Sirius had been, where Sirius had vanished. 

He did not want to have to be alone with that great, 
silent space, he could not stand it — 

A picture behind him gave a particularly loud 
grunting snore, and a cool voice said, “Ah ... Harry 
Potter ...” 

Phineas Nigellus gave a long yawn, stretching his 
arms as he watched Harry with shrewd, narrow eyes. 

“And what brings you here in the early hours of the 
morning?” said Phineas. “This office is supposed to be 
barred to all but the rightful headmaster. Or has 
Dumbledore sent you here? Oh, don’t tell me ...” He 
gave another shuddering yawn. “Another message for 
my worthless great-great-grandson?” 

Harry could not speak. Phineas Nigellus did not know 
that Sirius was dead, but Harry could not tell him. To 
say it aloud would be to make it final, absolute, 
irretrievable. 

A few more of the portraits had stirred now. Terror of 
being interrogated made Harry stride across the room 
and seize the doorknob. 



It would not turn. He was shut in. 

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“I hope this means,” said the corpulent, red-nosed 
wizard who hung on the wall behind Dumbledore’s 
desk, “that Dumbledore will soon be back with us?” 

Harry turned. The wizard was eyeing him with great 
interest. Harry nodded. He tugged again on the 
doorknob behind his back, but it remained 
immovable. 

“Oh good,” said the wizard. “It has been very dull 
without him, very dull indeed.” 

He settled himself on the thronelike chair on which he 
had been painted and smiled benignly upon Harry. 

“Dumbledore thinks very highly of you, as I am sure 
you know,” he said comfortably. “Oh yes. Holds you 
in great esteem.” 

The guilt filling the whole of Harry’s chest like some 
monstrous, weighty parasite now writhed and 
squirmed. Harry could not stand this, he could not 
stand being Harry anymore... He had never felt more 
trapped inside his own head and body, never wished 
so intensely that he could be somebody — anybody — 
else... 

The empty fireplace burst into emerald-green flame, 
making Harry leap away from the door, staring at the 
man spinning inside the grate. As Dumbledore’s tall 
form unfolded itself from the fire, the wizards and 
witches on the surrounding walls jerked awake. Many 
of them gave cries of welcome. 

“Thank you,” said Dumbledore softly. 

He did not look at Harry at first, but walked over to 
the perch beside the door and withdrew, from an 
inside pocket of his robes, the tiny, ugly, featherless 

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Fawkes, whom he placed gently on the tray of soft 
ashes beneath the golden post where the full-grown 
Fawkes usually stood. 

“Well, Harry,” said Dumbledore, finally turning away 
from the baby bird, “you will be pleased to hear that 
none of your fellow students are going to suffer 
lasting damage from the night’s events.” 

Harry tried to say “Good,” but no sound came out. It 
seemed to him that Dumbledore was reminding him 
of the amount of damage he had caused by his 
actions tonight, and although Dumbledore was for 
once looking at him directly, and though his 
expression was kindly rather than accusatory, Harry 
could not bear to meet his eyes. 

“Madam Pomfrey is patching everybody up now,” said 
Dumbledore. “Nymphadora Tonks may need to spend 
a little time in St. Mungo’s, but it seems that she will 
make a full recovery.” 

Harry contented himself with nodding at the carpet, 
which was growing lighter as the sky outside grew 
paler. He was sure that all the portraits around the 
room were listening eagerly to every word Dumbledore 
spoke, wondering where Dumbledore and Harry had 
been and why there had been injuries. 

“I know how you are feeling, Harry,” said Dumbledore 
very quietly. 

“No, you don’t,” said Harry, and his voice was 
suddenly loud and strong. White-hot anger leapt 
inside him. Dumbledore knew nothing about his 
feelings. 

“You see, Dumbledore?” said Phineas Nigellus slyly. 
“Never try to understand the students. They hate it. 

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They would much rather be tragically misunderstood, 
wallow in self-pity, stew in their own — ” 

“That’s enough, Phineas,” said Dumbledore. 

Harry turned his back on Dumbledore and stared 
determinedly out of the opposite window. He could 
see the Quidditch stadium in the distance. Sirius had 
appeared there once, disguised as the shaggy black 
dog, so he could watch Harry play. . . He had probably 
come to see whether Harry was as good as James had 
been... Harry had never asked him... 

“There is no shame in what you are feeling, Harry,” 
said Dumbledore ’s voice. “On the contrary ... the fact 
that you can feel pain like this is your greatest 
strength.” 

Harry felt the white-hot anger lick his insides, blazing 
in the terrible emptiness, filling him with the desire to 
hurt Dumbledore for his calmness and his empty 
words. 

“My greatest strength, is it?” said Harry, his voice 
shaking as he stared out at the Quidditch stadium, 
no longer seeing it. “You haven’t got a clue... You 
don’t know ...” 

“What don’t I know?” asked Dumbledore calmly. 

It was too much. Harry turned around, shaking with 
rage. 

“I don’t want to talk about how I feel, all right?” 

“Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! 
This pain is part of being human — ” 



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“THEN — I — DONT — WANT — TO-BE — 
HUMAN!” Harry roared, and he seized one of the 
delicate silver instruments from the spindle-legged 
table beside him and flung it across the room. It 
shattered into a hundred tiny pieces against the wall. 
Several of the pictures let out yells of anger and 
fright, and the portrait of Armando Dippet said, 
a Reallyl” 

“I DONT CARE!” Harry yelled at them, snatching up a 
lunascope and throwing it into the fireplace. “I’VE 
HAD ENOUGH, IVE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I 
WANT IT TO END, I DONT CARE ANYMORE — ” 

He seized the table on which the silver instrument 
had stood and threw that too. It broke apart on the 
floor and the legs rolled in different directions. 

“You do care,” said Dumbledore. He had not flinched 
or made a single move to stop Harry demolishing his 
office. His expression was calm, almost detached. 

“You care so much you feel as though you will bleed 
to death with the pain of it.” 

“I — DONT!” Harry screamed, so loudly that he felt 
his throat might tear, and for a second he wanted to 
rush at Dumbledore and break him too; shatter that 
calm old face, shake him, hurt him, make him feel 
some tiny part of the horror inside Harry. 

“Oh yes, you do,” said Dumbledore, still more calmly. 
“You have now lost your mother, your father, and the 
closest thing to a parent you have ever known. Of 
course you care.” 

“YOU DONT KNOW HOW I FEEL!” Harry roared. 

“YOU — STANDING THERE — YOU — ” 



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But words were no longer enough, smashing things 
was no more help. He wanted to run, he wanted to 
keep running and never look back, he wanted to be 
somewhere he could not see the clear blue eyes 
staring at him, that hatefully calm old face. He ran to 
the door, seized the doorknob again, and wrenched at 
it. 

But the door would not open. 

Harry turned back to Dumbledore. 

“Let me out,” he said. He was shaking from head to 
foot. 

“No,” said Dumbledore simply. 

For a few seconds they stared at each other. 

“Let me out,” Harry said again. 

“No,” Dumbledore repeated. 

“If you don’t — if you keep me in here — if you don’t 
let me — ” 

“By all means continue destroying my possessions,” 
said Dumbledore serenely. “I daresay I have too 
many.” 

He walked around his desk and sat down behind it, 
watching Harry. 

“Let me out,” Harry said yet again, in a voice that was 
cold and almost as calm as Dumbledore ’s. 

“Not until I have had my say,” said Dumbledore. 



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“Do you — do you think I want to — do you think I 
give a — I DONT CARE WHAT YOUVE GOT TO SAY!” 
Harry roared. “I don’t want to hear anything you’ve 
got to say!” 

“You will,” said Dumbledore sadly. “Because you are 
not nearly as angry with me as you ought to be. If you 
are to attack me, as I know you are close to doing, I 
would like to have thoroughly earned it.” 

“What are you talking — ?” 

“It is my fault that Sirius died,” said Dumbledore 
clearly. “Or I should say almost entirely my fault — I 
will not be so arrogant as to claim responsibility for 
the whole. Sirius was a brave, clever, and energetic 
man, and such men are not usually content to sit at 
home in hiding while they believe others to be in 
danger. Nevertheless, you should never have believed 
for an instant that there was any necessity for you to 
go to the Department of Mysteries tonight. If I had 
been open with you, Harry, as I should have been, 
you would have known a long time ago that 
Voldemort might try and lure you to the Department 
of Mysteries, and you would never have been tricked 
into going there tonight. And Sirius would not have 
had to come after you. That blame lies with me, and 
with me alone.” 

Harry was still standing with his hand on the 
doorknob but he was unaware of it. He was gazing at 
Dumbledore, hardly breathing, listening yet barely 
understanding what he was hearing. 

“Please sit down,” said Dumbledore. It was not an 
order, it was a request. 



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Harry hesitated, then walked slowly across the room 
now littered with silver cogs and fragments of wood 
and took the seat facing Dumbledore ’s desk. 

“Am I to understand,” said Phineas Nigellus slowly 
from Harry’s left, “that my great-great-grandson — 
the last of the Blacks — is dead?” 

“Yes, Phineas,” said Dumbledore. 

“I don’t believe it,” said Phineas brusquely. 

Harry turned his head in time to see Phineas 
marching out of his portrait and knew that he had 
gone to visit his other painting in Grimmauld Place. 
He would walk, perhaps, from portrait to portrait, 
calling for Sirius through the house... 

“Harry, I owe you an explanation,” said Dumbledore. 
“An explanation of an old man’s mistakes. For I see 
now that what I have done, and not done, with regard 
to you, bears all the hallmarks of the failings of age. 
Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels. But old 
men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young 
... and I seem to have forgotten lately...” 

The sun was rising properly now. There was a rim of 
dazzling orange visible over the mountains and the 
sky above it was colorless and bright. The light fell 
upon Dumbledore, upon the silver of his eyebrows 
and beard, upon the lines gouged deeply into his face. 

“I guessed, fifteen years ago,” said Dumbledore, 

“when I saw the scar upon your forehead, what it 
might mean. I guessed that it might be the sign of a 
connection forged between you and Voldemort.” 



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“You’ve told me this before, Professor,” said Harry 
bluntly. He did not care about being rude. He did not 
care about anything very much anymore. 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore apologetically. “Yes, but you 
see — it is necessary to start with your scar. For it 
became apparent, shortly after you rejoined the 
magical world, that I was correct, and that your scar 
was giving you warnings when Voldemort was close to 
you, or else feeling powerful emotion.” 

“I know,” said Harry wearily. 

“And this ability of yours — to detect Voldemort’s 
presence, even when he is disguised, and to know 
what he is feeling when his emotions are roused — 
has become more and more pronounced since 
Voldemort returned to his own body and his full 
powers.” 

Harry did not bother to nod. He knew all of this 
already. 

“More recently,” said Dumbledore, “I became 
concerned that Voldemort might realize that this 
connection between you exists. Sure enough, there 
came a time when you entered so far into his mind 
and thoughts that he sensed your presence. I am 
speaking, of course, of the night when you witnessed 
the attack on Mr. Weasley.” 

“Yeah, Snape told me,” Harry muttered. 

“Professor Snape, Harry,” Dumbledore corrected him 
quietly. “But did you not wonder why it was not I who 
explained this to you? Why I did not teach you 
Occlumency? Why I had not so much as looked at 
you for months?” 



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Harry looked up. He could see now that Dumbledore 
looked sad and tired. 

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled. “Yeah, I wondered.” 

“You see,” continued Dumbledore heavily. “I believed 
it could not be long before Voldemort attempted to 
force his way into your mind, to manipulate and 
misdirect your thoughts, and I was not eager to give 
him more incentives to do so. I was sure that if he 
realized that our relationship was — or had ever been 
— closer than that of headmaster and pupil, he would 
seize his chance to use you as a means to spy on me. 

I feared the uses to which he would put you, the 
possibility that he might try and possess you. Harry, I 
believe I was right to think that Voldemort would have 
made use of you in such a way. On those rare 
occasions when we had close contact, I thought I saw 
a shadow of him stir behind your eyes... I was trying, 
in distancing myself from you, to protect you. An old 
man’s mistake ...” 

Harry remembered the feeling that a dormant snake 
had risen in him, ready to strike, on those occasions 
when he and Dumbledore made eye contact. 

“Voldemort’s aim in possessing you, as he 
demonstrated tonight, would not have been my 
destruction. It would have been yours. He hoped, 
when he possessed you briefly a short while ago, that 
I would sacrifice you in the hope of killing him.” 

He sighed deeply. Harry was letting the words wash 
over him. He would have been so interested to know 
all this a few months ago, and now it was 
meaningless compared to the gaping chasm inside 
him that was the loss of Sirius, none of it mattered ... 



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“Sirius told me that you felt Voldemort awake inside 
you the very night that you had the vision of Arthur 
Weasley’s attack. I knew at once that my worst fears 
were correct: Voldemort from that point had realized 
he could use you. In an attempt to arm you against 
Voldemort’s assaults on your mind, I arranged 
Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape.” 

He paused. Harry watched the sunlight, which was 
sliding slowly across the polished surface of 
Dumbledore’s desk, illuminate a silver ink pot and a 
handsome scarlet quill. Harry could tell that the 
portraits all around them were awake and listening 
raptly to Dumbledore’s explanation. He could hear 
the occasional rustle of robes, the slight clearing of a 
throat. Phineas Nigellus had still not returned... 

“Professor Snape discovered,” Dumbledore resumed, 
“that you had been dreaming about the door to the 
Department of Mysteries for months. Voldemort, of 
course, had been obsessed with the possibility of 
hearing the prophecy ever since he regained his body, 
and as he dwelled on the door, so did you, though 
you did not know what it meant. 

“And then you saw Rookwood, who worked in the 
Department of Mysteries before his arrest, telling 
Voldemort what we had known all along — that the 
prophecies held in the Ministry of Magic are heavily 
protected. Only the people to whom they refer can lift 
them from the shelves without suffering madness. In 
this case, either Voldemort himself would have to 
enter the Ministry of Magic and risk revealing himself 
at last — or else you would have to take it for him. It 
became a matter of even greater urgency that you 
should master Occlumency.” 

“But I didn’t,” muttered Harry. He said it aloud to try 
and ease the dead weight of guilt inside him; a 

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confession must surely relieve some of the terrible 
pressure squeezing his heart. “I didn’t practice, I 
didn’t bother, I could’ve stopped myself having those 
dreams, Hermione kept telling me to do it, if I had 
he’d never have been able to show me where to go, 
and — Sirius wouldn’t — Sirius wouldn’t — ” 

Something was erupting inside Harry’s head: a need 
to justify himself, to explain — 

“I tried to check if he’d really taken Sirius, I went to 
Umbridge’s office, I spoke to Kreacher in the fire, and 
he said Sirius wasn’t there, he said he’d gone!” 

“Kreacher lied,” said Dumbledore calmly. “You are not 
his master, he could lie to you without even needing 
to punish himself. Kreacher intended you to go to the 
Ministry of Magic.” 

“He — he sent me on purpose?” 

“Oh yes. Kreacher, I am afraid, has been serving more 
than one master for months.” 

“How?” said Harry blankly. “He hasn’t been out of 
Grimmauld Place for years.” 

“Kreacher seized his opportunity shortly before 
Christmas,” said Dumbledore, “when Sirius, 
apparently, shouted at him to ‘get out.’ He took Sirius 
at his word and interpreted this as an order to leave 
the house. He went to the only Black family member 
for whom he had any respect left... Black’s cousin 
Narcissa, sister of Bellatrix and wife of Lucius 
Malfoy.” 

“How do you know all this?” Harry said. His heart was 
beating very fast. He felt sick. He remembered 
worrying about Kreacher’s odd absence over 

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Christmas, remembered him turning up again in the 
attic... 

“Kreacher told me last night,” said Dumbledore. “You 
see, when you gave Professor Snape that cryptic 
warning, he realized that you had had a vision of 
Sirius trapped in the bowels of the Department of 
Mysteries. He, like you, attempted to contact Sirius at 
once. I should explain that members of the Order of 
the Phoenix have more reliable methods of 
communicating than the fire in Dolores Umbridge’s 
office. Professor Snape found that Sirius was alive 
and safe in Grimmauld Place. 

“When, however, you did not return from your trip 
into the forest with Dolores Umbridge, Professor 
Snape grew worried that you still believed Sirius to be 
a captive of Lord Voldemort’s. He alerted certain 
Order members at once.” 

Dumbledore heaved a great sigh and then said, 
“Alastor Moody, Nymphadora Tonks, Kingsley 
Shacklebolt, and Remus Lupin were at headquarters 
when he made contact. All agreed to go to your aid at 
once. Professor Snape requested that Sirius remain 
behind, as he needed somebody to remain at 
headquarters to tell me what had happened, for I was 
due there at any moment. In the meantime he, 
Professor Snape, intended to search the forest for 
you. 

“But Sirius did not wish to remain behind while the 
others went to search for you. He delegated to 
Kreacher the task of telling me what had happened. 
And so it was that when I arrived in Grimmauld Place 
shortly after they had all left for the Ministry, it was 
the elf who told me — laughing fit to burst — where 
Sirius had gone.” 



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“He was laughing?” said Harry in a hollow voice. 

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore. “You see, Kreacher was 
not able to betray us totally. He is not Secret-Keeper 
for the Order, he could not give the Malfoys our 
whereabouts or tell them any of the Order’s 
confidential plans that he had been forbidden to 
reveal. He was bound by the enchantments of his 
kind, which is to say that he could not disobey a 
direct order from his master, Sirius. But he gave 
Narcissa information of the sort that is very valuable 
to Voldemort, yet must have seemed much too trivial 
for Sirius to think of banning him from repeating it.” 

“Like what?” said Harry. 

“Like the fact that the person Sirius cared most about 
in the world was you,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Like 
the fact that you were coming to regard Sirius as a 
mixture of father and brother. Voldemort knew 
already, of course, that Sirius was in the Order, that 
you knew where he was — but Kreacher’s information 
made him realize that the one person whom you 
would go to any lengths to rescue was Sirius Black.” 

Harry’s lips were cold and numb. 

“So . . . when I asked Kreacher if Sirius was there last 
night ...” 

“The Malfoys — undoubtedly on Voldemort’s 
instructions — had told him he must find a way of 
keeping Sirius out of the way once you had seen the 
vision of Sirius being tortured. Then, if you decided to 
check whether Sirius was at home or not, Kreacher 
would be able to pretend he was not. Kreacher 
injured Buckbeak the hippogriff yesterday, and at the 
moment when you made your appearance in the fire, 
Sirius was upstairs trying to tend to him.” 

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There seemed to be very little air in Harry’s lungs, his 
breathing was quick and shallow. 

“And Kreacher told you all this . . . and laughed?” he 
croaked. 

“He did not wish to tell me,” said Dumbledore. “But I 
am a sufficiently accomplished Legilimens myself to 
know when I am being lied to and I — persuaded him 

— to tell me the full story, before I left for the 
Department of Mysteries.” 

“And,” whispered Harry, his hands curled in cold fists 
on his knees, “and Hermione kept telling us to be nice 
to him — ” 

“She was quite right, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “I 
warned Sirius when we adopted twelve Grimmauld 
Place as our headquarters that Kreacher must be 
treated with kindness and respect. I also told him 
that Kreacher could be dangerous to us. I do not 
think that Sirius took me very seriously, or that he 
ever saw Kreacher as a being with feelings as acute as 
a humans — ” 

“Don’t you blame — don’t you — talk — about Sirius 
like — ” Harry’s breath was constricted, he could not 
get the words out properly. But the rage that had 
subsided so briefly had flared in him again; he would 
not let Dumbledore criticize Sirius. “Kreacher ’s a lying 

— foul — he deserved — ” 

“Kreacher is what he has been made by wizards, 
Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Yes, he is to be pitied. His 
existence has been as miserable as your friend 
Dobby’s. He was forced to do Sirius’s bidding, 
because Sirius was the last of the family to which he 
was enslaved, but he felt no true loyalty to him. And 



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whatever Kreacher’s faults, it must be admitted that 
Sirius did nothing to make Kreacher’s lot easier — ” 

“DON’T TALK ABOUT SIRIUS LIKE THAT!” Harry 
yelled. 

He was on his feet again, furious, ready to fly at 
Dumbledore, who had plainly not understood Sirius 
at all, how brave he was, how much he had suffered 



“What about Snape?” Harry spat. “You’re not talking 
about him, are you? When I told him Voldemort had 
Sirius he just sneered at me as usual — ” 

“Harry, you know that Professor Snape had no choice 
but to pretend not to take you seriously in front of 
Dolores Umbridge,” said Dumbledore steadily, “but as 
I have explained, he informed the Order as soon as 
possible about what you had said. It was he who 
deduced where you had gone when you did not return 
from the forest. It was he too who gave Professor 
Umbridge fake Veritaserum when she was attempting 
to force you to tell of Sirius’s whereabouts...” 

Harry disregarded this; he felt a savage pleasure in 
blaming Snape, it seemed to be easing his own sense 
of dreadful guilt, and he wanted to hear Dumbledore 
agree with him. 

“Snape — Snape g-goaded Sirius about staying in the 
house — he made out Sirius was a coward — ” 

“Sirius was much too old and clever to have allowed 
such feeble taunts to hurt him,” said Dumbledore. 

“Snape stopped giving me Occlumency lessons!” 

Harry snarled. “He threw me out of his office!” 



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“I am aware of it,” said Dumbledore heavily. “I have 
already said that it was a mistake for me not to teach 
you myself, though I was sure, at the time, that 
nothing could have been more dangerous than to 
open your mind even further to Voldemort while in 
my presence — ” 

“Snape made it worse, my scar always hurt worse 
after lessons with him — ” Harry remembered Ron’s 
thoughts on the subject and plunged on. “How do you 
know he wasn’t trying to soften me up for Voldemort, 
make it easier for him to get inside my — ” 

“I trust Severus Snape,” said Dumbledore simply. 

“But I forgot — another old man’s mistake — that 
some wounds run too deep for the healing. I thought 
Professor Snape could overcome his feelings about 
your father — I was wrong.” 

“But that’s okay, is it?” yelled Harry, ignoring the 
scandalized faces and disapproving mutterings of the 
portraits covering the walls. “It’s okay for Snape to 
hate my dad, but it’s not okay for Sirius to hate 
Kreacher?” 

“Sirius did not hate Kreacher,” said Dumbledore. “He 
regarded him as a servant unworthy of much interest 
or notice. Indifference and neglect often do much 
more damage than outright dislike... The fountain we 
destroyed tonight told a lie. We wizards have 
mistreated and abused our fellows for too long, and 
we are now reaping our reward.” 

“SO SIRIUS DESERVED WHAT HE GOT, DID HE?” 
Harry yelled. 

“I did not say that, nor will you ever hear me say it,” 
Dumbledore replied quietly. “Sirius was not a cruel 
man, he was kind to house-elves in general. He had 

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no love for Kreacher, because Kreacher was a living 
reminder of the home Sirius had hated.” 

“Yeah, he did hate it!” said Harry, his voice cracking, 
turning his back on Dumbledore and walking away. 
The sun was bright inside the room now, and the eyes 
of all the portraits followed him as he walked, without 
realizing what he was doing, without seeing the office 
at all. “You made him stay shut up in that house and 
he hated it, that’s why he wanted to get out last night 



“I was trying to keep Sirius alive,” said Dumbledore 
quietly. 

“People don’t like being locked up!” Harry said 
furiously, rounding on him. “You did it to me all last 
summer — ” 

Dumbledore closed his eyes and buried his face in his 
long-fingered hands. Harry watched him, but this 
uncharacteristic sign of exhaustion, or sadness, or 
whatever it was from Dumbledore, did not soften him. 
On the contrary, he felt even angrier that Dumbledore 
was showing signs of weakness. He had no business 
being weak when Harry wanted to rage and storm at 
him. 

Dumbledore lowered his hands and surveyed Harry 
through his half-moon glasses. 

“It is time,” he said, “for me to tell you what I should 
have told you five years ago, Harry. Please sit down. I 
am going to tell you everything. I ask only a little 
patience. You will have your chance to rage at me — 
to do whatever you like — when I have finished. I will 
not stop you.” 



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Harry glared at him for a moment, then flung himself 
back into the chair opposite Dumbledore and waited. 
Dumbledore stared for a moment at the sunlit 
grounds outside the window, then looked back at 
Harry and said, “Five years ago you arrived at 
Hogwarts, Harry, safe and whole, as I had planned 
and intended. Well — not quite whole. You had 
suffered. I knew you would when I left you on your 
aunt and uncle’s doorstep. I knew I was condemning 
you to ten dark and difficult years.” 

He paused. Harry said nothing. 

“You might ask — and with good reason — why it had 
to be so. Why could some Wizarding family not have 
taken you in? Many would have done so more than 
gladly, would have been honored and delighted to 
raise you as a son. 

“My answer is that my priority was to keep you alive. 
You were in more danger than perhaps anyone but 
myself realized. Voldemort had been vanquished 
hours before, but his supporters — and many of them 
are almost as terrible as he — were still at large, 
angry, desperate, and violent. And I had to make my 
decision too with regard to the years ahead. Did I 
believe that Voldemort was gone forever? No. I knew 
not whether it would be ten, twenty, or fifty years 
before he returned, but I was sure he would do so, 
and I was sure too, knowing him as I have done, that 
he would not rest until he killed you. 

“I knew that Voldemort ’s knowledge of magic is 
perhaps more extensive than any wizard alive. I knew 
that even my most complex and powerful protective 
spells and charms were unlikely to be invincible if he 
ever returned to full power. 



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“But I knew too where Voldemort was weak. And so I 
made my decision. You would be protected by an 
ancient magic of which he knows, which he despises, 
and which he has always, therefore, underestimated 
— to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact 
that your mother died to save you. She gave you a 
lingering protection he never expected, a protection 
that flows in your veins to this day. I put my trust, 
therefore, in your mother’s blood. I delivered you to 
her sister, her only remaining relative.” 

“She doesn’t love me,” said Harry at once. “She 
doesn’t give a damn — ” 

“But she took you,” Dumbledore cut across him. “She 
may have taken you grudgingly, furiously, 
unwillingly, bitterly, yet still she took you, and in 
doing so, she sealed the charm I placed upon you. 

Your mother’s sacrifice made the bond of blood the 
strongest shield I could give you.” 

“I still don’t — ” 

“While you can still call home the place where your 
mother’s blood dwells, there you cannot be touched or 
harmed by Voldemort. He shed her blood, but it lives 
on in you and her sister. Her blood became your 
refuge. You need return there only once a year, but as 
long as you can still call it home, there he cannot 
hurt you. Your aunt knows this. I explained what I 
had done in the letter I left, with you, on her 
doorstep. She knows that allowing you houseroom 
may well have kept you alive for the past fifteen 
years.” 

“Wait,” said Harry. “Wait a moment.” 

He sat up straighter in his chair, staring at 
Dumbledore. 

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“You sent that Howler. You told her to remember — it 
was your voice — ” 

“I thought,” said Dumbledore, inclining his head 
slightly, “that she might need reminding of the pact 
she had sealed by taking you. I suspected the 
dementor attack might have awoken her to the 
dangers of having you as a surrogate son.” 

“It did,” said Harry quietly. “Well — my uncle more 
than her. He wanted to chuck me out, but after the 
Howler came she — she said I had to stay.” He stared 
at the floor for a moment, then said, “But what’s this 
got to do with ...” 

He could not say Sirius’s name. 

“Five years ago, then,” continued Dumbledore, as 
though he had not paused in his story, “you arrived 
at Hogwarts, neither as happy nor as well nourished 
as I would have liked, perhaps, yet alive and healthy. 
You were not a pampered little prince, but as normal 
a boy as I could have hoped under the circumstances. 
Thus far, my plan was working well. 

“And then ... well, you will remember the events of 
your first year at Hogwarts quite as clearly as I do. 

You rose magnificently to the challenge that faced 
you, and sooner — much sooner — than I had 
anticipated, you found yourself face-to-face with 
Voldemort. You survived again. You did more. You 
delayed his return to full power and strength. You 
fought a man’s fight. I was ... prouder of you than I 
can say. 

“Yet there was a flaw in this wonderful plan of mine,” 
said Dumbledore. “An obvious flaw that I knew, even 
then, might be the undoing of it all. And yet, knowing 
how important it was that my plan should succeed, I 

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told myself that I would not permit this flaw to min it. 

I alone could prevent this, so I alone must be strong. 
And here was my first test, as you lay in the hospital 
wing, weak from your struggle with Voldemort.” 

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” said Harry. 

“Don’t you remember asking me, as you lay in the 
hospital wing, why Voldemort had tried to kill you 
when you were a baby?” 

Harry nodded. 

“Ought I to have told you then?” 

Harry stared into the blue eyes and said nothing, but 
his heart was racing again. 

“You do not see the flaw in the plan yet? No ... 
perhaps not. Well, as you know, I decided not to 
answer you. Eleven, I told myself, was much too 
young to know. I had never intended to tell you when 
you were eleven. The knowledge would be too much at 
such a young age. 

“I should have recognized the danger signs then. I 
should have asked myself why I did not feel more 
disturbed that you had already asked me the question 
to which I knew, one day, I must give a terrible 
answer. I should have recognized that I was too happy 
to think that I did not have to do it on that particular 
day. . . You were too young, much too young. 

“And so we entered your second year at Hogwarts. 

And once again you met challenges even grown 
wizards have never faced. Once again you acquitted 
yourself beyond my wildest dreams. You did not ask 
me again, however, why Voldemort had left that mark 
upon you. We discussed your scar, oh yes... We came 
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very, very close to the subject. Why did I not tell you 
everything? 

“Well, it seemed to me that twelve was, after all, 
hardly better than eleven to receive such information. 

I allowed you to leave my presence, bloodstained, 
exhausted but exhilarated, and if I felt a twinge of 
unease that I ought, perhaps, have told you then, it 
was swiftly silenced. You were still so young, you see, 
and I could not find it in me to spoil that night of 
triumph... 

“Do you see, Harry? Do you see the flaw in my 
brilliant plan now? I had fallen into the trap I had 
foreseen, that I had told myself I could avoid, that I 
must avoid.” 

“I don’t — ” 

“I cared about you too much,” said Dumbledore 
simply. “I cared more for your happiness than your 
knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than 
my plan, more for your life than the lives that might 
be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted 
exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act. 

“Is there a defense? I defy anyone who has watched 
you as I have — and I have watched you more closely 
than you can have imagined — not to want to save 
you more pain than you had already suffered. What 
did I care if numbers of nameless and faceless people 
and creatures were slaughtered in the vague future, if 
in the here and now you were alive, and well, and 
happy? I never dreamed that I would have such a 
person on my hands. 

“We entered your third year. I watched from afar as 
you struggled to repel dementors, as you found 
Sirius, learned what he was and rescued him. Was I 

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to tell you then, at the moment when you had 
triumphantly snatched your godfather from the jaws 
of the Ministry? But now, at the age of thirteen, my 
excuses were running out. Young you might be, but 
you had proved you were exceptional. My conscience 
was uneasy, Harry. I knew the time must come 
soon... 

“But you came out of the maze last year, having 
watched Cedric Diggory die, having escaped death so 
narrowly yourself . . . and I did not tell you, though I 
knew, now Voldemort had returned, I must do it 
soon. And now, tonight, I know you have long been 
ready for the knowledge I have kept from you for so 
long, because you have proved that I should have 
placed the burden upon you before this. My only 
defense is this: I have watched you struggling under 
more burdens than any student who has ever passed 
through this school, and I could not bring myself to 
add another — the greatest one of all.” 

Harry waited, but Dumbledore did not speak. 

“I still don’t understand.” 

“Voldemort tried to kill you when you were a child 
because of a prophecy made shortly before your birth. 
He knew the prophecy had been made, though he did 
not know its full contents. He set out to kill you when 
you were still a baby, believing he was fulfilling the 
terms of the prophecy. He discovered, to his cost, that 
he was mistaken, when the curse intended to kill you 
backfired. And so, since his return to his body, and 
particularly since your extraordinary escape from him 
last year, he has been determined to hear that 
prophecy in its entirety. This is the weapon he has 
been seeking so assiduously since his return: the 
knowledge of how to destroy you.” 



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The sun had risen fully now. Dumbledore’s office was 
bathed in it. The glass case in which the sword of 
Godric Gryffindor resided gleamed white and opaque, 
the fragments of the instruments Harry had thrown to 
the floor glistened like raindrops, and behind him, the 
baby Fawkes made soft chirruping noises in his nest 
of ashes. 

“The prophecy’s smashed,” Harry said blankly. “I was 
pulling Neville up those benches in the — the room 
where the archway was, and I ripped his robes and it 
fell...” 

“The thing that smashed was merely the record of the 
prophecy kept by the Department of Mysteries. But 
the prophecy was made to somebody, and that person 
has the means of recalling it perfectly.” 

“Who heard it?” asked Harry, though he thought he 
knew the answer already. 

“I did,” said Dumbledore. “On a cold, wet night 
sixteen years ago, in a room above the bar at the 
Hog’s Head Inn. I had gone there to see an applicant 
for the post of Divination teacher, though it was 
against my inclination to allow the subject of 
Divination to continue at all. The applicant, however, 
was the great-great-granddaughter of a very famous, 
very gifted Seer, and I thought it common politeness 
to meet her. I was disappointed. It seemed to me that 
she had not a trace of the gift herself. I told her, 
courteously I hope, that I did not think she would be 
suitable for the post. I turned to leave.” 

Dumbledore got to his feet and walked past Harry to 
the black cabinet that stood beside Fawkes’s perch. 

He bent down, slid back a catch, and took from inside 
it the shallow stone basin, carved with runes around 
the edges, in which Harry had seen his father 
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tormenting Snape. Dumbledore walked back to the 
desk, placed the Pensieve upon it, and raised his 
wand to his own temple. From it, he withdrew silvery, 
gossamer-fine strands of thought clinging to the 
wand, and deposited them in the basin. He sat back 
down behind his desk and watched his thoughts swirl 
and drift inside the Pensieve for a moment. Then, 
with a sigh, he raised his wand and prodded the 
silvery substance with its tip. 

A figure rose out of it, draped in shawls, her eyes 
magnified to enormous size behind her glasses, and 
she revolved slowly, her feet in the basin. But when 
Sibyll Trelawney spoke, it was not in her usual 
ethereal, mystic voice, but in the harsh, hoarse tones 
Harry had heard her use once before. 

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord 
approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied 
him, born as the seventh month dies . . . and the Dark 
Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have 
power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die 
at the hand of the other for neither can live while the 
other survives... The one with the power to vanquish 
the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month 
dies...” 

The slowly revolving Professor Trelawney sank back 
into the silver mass below and vanished. 

The silence within the office was absolute. Neither 
Dumbledore nor Harry nor any of the portraits made 
a sound. Even Fawkes had fallen silent. 

“Professor Dumbledore?” Harry said very quietly, for 
Dumbledore, still staring at the Pensieve, seemed 
completely lost in thought. “It ... did that mean ... 
What did that mean?” 



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“It meant,” said Dumbledore, “that the person who 
has the only chance of conquering Lord Voldemort for 
good was born at the end of July, nearly sixteen years 
ago. This boy would be born to parents who had 
already defied Voldemort three times.” 

Harry felt as though something was closing in upon 
him. His breathing seemed difficult again. 

“It means — me?” 

Dumbledore surveyed him for a moment through his 
glasses. 

“The odd thing is, Harry,” he said softly, “that it may 
not have meant you at all. Sibyll’s prophecy could 
have applied to two wizard boys, both born at the end 
of July that year, both of whom had parents in the 
Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having 
narrowly escaped Voldemort three times. One, of 
course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom.” 

“But then . . . but then, why was it my name on the 
prophecy and not Neville’s?” 

“The official record was relabeled after Voldemort ’s 
attack on you as a child,” said Dumbledore. “It 
seemed plain to the keeper of the Hall of Prophecy 
that Voldemort could only have tried to kill you 
because he knew you to be the one to whom Sibyll 
was referring.” 

“Then — it might not be me?” said Harry. 

“I am afraid,” said Dumbledore slowly, looking as 
though every word cost him a great effort, “that there 
is no doubt that it is you.” 



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“But you said — Neville was born at the end of July 
too — and his mum and dad — ” 

“You are forgetting the next part of the prophecy, the 
final identifying feature of the boy who could 
vanquish Voldemort... Voldemort himself would ‘mark 
him as his equal.’ And so he did, Harry. He chose 
you, not Neville. He gave you the scar that has proved 
both blessing and curse.” 

“But he might have chosen wrong!” said Harry. “He 
might have marked the wrong person!” 

“He chose the boy he thought most likely to be a 
danger to him,” said Dumbledore. “And notice this, 
Harry. He chose, not the pureblood (which, according 
to his creed, is the only kind of wizard worth being or 
knowing), but the half-blood, like himself. He saw 
himself in you before he had ever seen you, and in 
marking you with that scar, he did not kill you, as he 
intended, but gave you powers, and a future, which 
have fitted you to escape him not once, but four times 
so far — something that neither your parents, nor 
Neville’s parents, ever achieved.” 

“Why did he do it, then?” said Harry, who felt numb 
and cold. “Why did he try and kill me as a baby? He 
should have waited to see whether Neville or I looked 
more dangerous when we were older and tried to kill 
whoever it was then — ” 

“That might, indeed, have been the more practical 
course,” said Dumbledore, “except that Voldemort’s 
information about the prophecy was incomplete. The 
Hog’s Head Inn, which Sibyll chose for its cheapness, 
has long attracted, shall we say, a more interesting 
clientele than the Three Broomsticks. As you and 
your friends found out to your cost, and I to mine 
that night, it is a place where it is never safe to 
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assume you are not being overheard. Of course, I had 
not dreamed, when I set out to meet Sibyll Trelawney, 
that I would hear anything worth overhearing. My — 
our — one stroke of good fortune was that the 
eavesdropper was detected only a short way into the 
prophecy and thrown from the building.” 

“So he only heard ... ?” 

“He heard only the first part, the part foretelling the 
birth of a boy in July to parents who had thrice defied 
Voldemort. Consequently, he could not warn his 
master that to attack you would be to risk 
transferring power to you — again marking you as his 
equal. So Voldemort never knew that there might be 
danger in attacking you, that it might be wise to wait 
or to learn more. He did not know that you would 
have ‘power the Dark Lord knows not’ — ” 

“But I don’t!” said Harry in a strangled voice. “I 
haven’t any powers he hasn’t got, I couldn’t fight the 
way he did tonight, I can’t possess people or — or kill 
them — ” 

“There is a room in the Department of Mysteries,” 
interrupted Dumbledore, “that is kept locked at all 
times. It contains a force that is at once more 
wonderful and more terrible than death, than human 
intelligence, than forces of nature. It is also, perhaps, 
the most mysterious of the many subjects for study 
that reside there. It is the power held within that 
room that you possess in such quantities and which 
Voldemort has not at all. That power took you to save 
Sirius tonight. That power also saved you from 
possession by Voldemort, because he could not bear 
to reside in a body so full of the force he detests. In 
the end, it mattered not that you could not close your 
mind. It was your heart that saved you.” 



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Harry closed his eyes. If he had not gone to save 
Sirius, Sirius would not have died... More to stave off 
the moment when he would have to think of Sirius 
again, Harry asked, without caring much about the 
answer, “The end of the prophecy ... it was something 
about ... ‘neither can live...’ ” 

“ ‘... while the other survives,’ ” said Dumbledore. 

“So,” said Harry, dredging up the words from what felt 
like a deep well of despair inside him, “so does that 
mean that . . . that one of us has got to kill the other 
one ... in the end?” 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. 

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Somewhere 
far beyond the office walls, Harry could hear the 
sound of voices, students heading down to the Great 
Hall for an early breakfast, perhaps. It seemed 
impossible that there could be people in the world 
who still desired food, who laughed, who neither knew 
nor cared that Sirius Black was gone forever. Sirius 
seemed a million miles away already, even if a part of 
Harry still believed that if he had only pulled back 
that veil, he would have found Sirius looking back at 
him, greeting him, perhaps, with his laugh like a 
bark. . . 

“I feel I owe you another explanation, Harry,” said 
Dumbledore hesitantly. “You may, perhaps, have 
wondered why I never chose you as a prefect? I must 
confess ... that I rather thought ... you had enough 
responsibility to be going on with.” 

Harry looked up at him and saw a tear trickling down 
Dumbledore ’s face into his long silver beard. 



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THE SECOND WAR BEGINS 

HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED RETURNS 

In a brief statement Friday night, Minister of Magic 
Cornelius Fudge confirmed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be 
Named has returned to this country and is active 
once more. 

“It is with great regret that I must confirm that the 
wizard styling himself Lord — well, you know who I 
mean — is alive and among us again,” said Fudge, 
looking tired and flustered as he addressed reporters. 
“It is with almost equal regret that we report the mass 
revolt of the dementors of Azkaban, who have shown 
themselves averse to continuing in the Ministry’s 
employ. We believe that the dementors are currently 
taking direction from Lord — Thingy. 

“We urge the magical population to remain vigilant The 
Ministry is currently publishing guides to elementary 
home and personal defense that will be delivered free 
to all Wizarding homes within the coming month. ” 



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The Minister’s statement was met with dismay and 
alarm from the Wizarding community, which as 
recently as last Wednesday was receiving Ministry 
assurances that there was “no truth whatsoever in 
these persistent rumors that You-Know-Who is 
operating amongst us once more.” 

Details of the events that led to the Ministry 
turnaround are still hazy, though it is believed that 
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and a select band of 
followers (known as Death Eaters) gained entry to the 
Ministry of Magic itself on Thursday evening. 

Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated headmaster of 
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 
reinstated member of the International Confederation 
of Wizards, and reinstated Chief Warlock of the 
Wizengamot, was unavailable for comment last night. 
He has insisted for a year that You-Know-Who was 
not dead, as was widely hoped and believed, but 
recruiting followers once more for a fresh attempt to 
seize power. Meanwhile the Boy Who Lived — 

“There you are, Harry, I knew they’d drag you into it 
somehow,” said Hermione, looking over the top of the 
paper at him. 

They were in the hospital wing. Harry was sitting on 
the end of Ron’s bed and they were both listening to 
Hermione read the front page of the Sunday Prophet. 
Ginny, whose ankle had been mended in a trice by 
Madam Pomfrey, was curled up at the foot of 
Hermione’s bed; Neville, whose nose had likewise 
been returned to its normal size and shape, was in a 
chair between the two beds; and Luna, who had 
dropped in to visit clutching the latest edition of The 
Quibbler, was reading the magazine upside down and 
apparently not taking in a word Hermione was saying. 



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“He’s ‘the Boy Who Lived’ again now, though, isn’t 
he?” said Ron darkly. “Not such a show-off maniac 
anymore, eh?” 

He helped himself to a handful of Chocolate Frogs 
from the immense pile on his bedside cabinet, threw a 
few to Harry, Ginny, and Neville, and ripped off the 
wrapper of his own with his teeth. There were still 
deep welts on his forearms where the brain’s tentacles 
had wrapped around him. According to Madam 
Pomfrey, thoughts could leave deeper scarring than 
almost anything else, though since she had started 
applying copious amounts of Dr. Ubbly’s Oblivious 
Unction, there seemed to be some improvement. 

“Yes, they’re very complimentary about you now, 
Harry,” said Hermione, now scanning down the 
article. “ ‘A lone voice of truth ... perceived as 
unbalanced, yet never wavered in his story . . . forced to 
bear ridicule and slander ...’ Hmmm,” said Hermione, 
frowning, “I notice they don’t mention the fact that it 
was them doing all the ridiculing and slandering, 
though...” 

She winced slightly and put a hand to her ribs. The 
curse Dolohov had used on her, though less effective 
than it would have been had he been able to say the 
incantation aloud, had nevertheless caused, in 
Madam Pomfrey’s words, “quite enough damage to be 
going on with.” Hermione was having to take ten 
different types of potion every day and although she 
was improving greatly, was already bored with the 
hospital wing. 

“ ‘You-Know- Who’s Last Attempt to Take Over, pages 
two to four, What the Ministry Should Have Told Us, 
page five, Why Nobody Listened to Albus Dumbledore, 
pages six to eight, Exclusive Interview with Harry 
Potter, page nine ...’ Well,” said Hermione, folding up 
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the newspaper and throwing it aside, “it’s certainly 
given them lots to write about. And that interview 
with Harry isn’t exclusive, it’s the one that was in The 
Quibbler months ago...” 

“Daddy sold it to them,” said Luna vaguely, turning a 
page of The Quibbler. “He got a very good price for it 
too, so we’re going to go on an expedition to Sweden 
this summer and see if we can catch a Crumple- 
Horned Snorkack.” 

Hermione seemed to struggle with herself for a 
moment, then said, “That sounds lovely.” 

Ginny caught Harry’s eye and looked away quickly, 
grinning. 

“So anyway,” said Hermione, sitting up a little 
straighter and wincing again, “what’s going on in 
school?” 

“Well, Flitwick’s got rid of Fred and George’s swamp,” 
said Ginny. “He did it in about three seconds. But he 
left a tiny patch under the window and he’s roped it 
off—” 

“Why?” said Hermione, looking startled. 

“Oh, he just says it was a really good bit of magic,” 
said Ginny, shrugging. 

“I think he left it as a monument to Fred and George,” 
said Ron through a mouthful of chocolate. “They sent 
me all these, you know,” he told Harry, pointing at 
the small mountain of Frogs beside him. “Must be 
doing all right out of that joke shop, eh?” 

Hermione looked rather disapproving and asked, “So 
has all the trouble stopped now Dumbledore’s back?” 

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“Yes,” said Neville, “everything’s settled right back 
down again.” 

“I s’pose Filch is happy, is he?” asked Ron, propping a 
Chocolate Frog card featuring Dumbledore against his 
water jug. 

“Not at all,” said Ginny. “He’s really, really miserable, 
actually...” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He 
keeps saying Umbridge was the best thing that ever 
happened to Hogwarts...” 

All six of them looked around. Professor Umbridge 
was lying in a bed opposite them, gazing up at the 
ceiling. Dumbledore had strode alone into the forest 
to rescue her from the centaurs. How he had done it 
— how he had emerged from the trees supporting 
Professor Umbridge without so much as a scratch on 
him — nobody knew, and Umbridge was certainly not 
telling. Since she had returned to the castle she had 
not, as far as any of them knew, uttered a single 
word. Nobody really knew what was wrong with her 
either. Her usually neat mousy hair was very untidy 
and there were bits of twig and leaf in it, but 
otherwise she seemed to be quite unscathed. 

“Madam Pomfrey says she’s just in shock,” whispered 
Hermione. 

“Sulking, more like,” said Ginny 

“Yeah, she shows signs of life if you do this,” said 
Ron, and with his tongue he made soft clip-clopping 
noises. Umbridge sat bolt upright, looking wildly 
around. 

“Anything wrong, Professor?” called Madam Pomfrey, 
poking her head around her office door. 



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“No ... no ...” said Umbridge, sinking back into her 
pillows, “no, I must have been dreaming...” 

Hermione and Ginny muffled their laughter in the 
bedclothes. 

“Speaking of centaurs,” said Hermione, when she had 
recovered a little, “who’s Divination teacher now? Is 
Firenze staying?” 

“He’s got to,” said Harry, “the other centaurs won’t 
take him back, will they?” 

“It looks like he and Trelawney are both going to 
teach,” said Ginny. 

“Bet Dumbledore wishes he could’ve got rid of 
Trelawney for good,” said Ron, now munching on his 
fourteenth Frog. “Mind you, the whole subjects 
useless if you ask me, Firenze isn’t a lot better...” 

“How can you say that?” Hermione demanded. “After 
we’ve just found out that there are real prophecies?” 

Harry’s heart began to race. He had not told Ron, 
Hermione, or anyone else what the prophecy had 
contained. Neville had told them it had smashed while 
Harry was pulling him up the steps in the Death 
Room, and Harry had not yet corrected this 
impression. He was not ready to see their expressions 
when he told them that he must be either murderer 
or victim, there was no other way... 

“It is a pity it broke,” said Hermione quietly, shaking 
her head. 

“Yeah, it is,” said Ron. “Still, at least You-Know-Who 
never found out what was in it either — where are 



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you going?” he added, looking both surprised and 
disappointed as Harry stood up. 

“Er — Hagrid’s,” said Harry. “You know, he just got 
back and I promised I’d go down and see him and tell 
him how you two are...” 

“Oh all right then,” said Ron grumpily, looking out of 
the dormitory window at the patch of bright blue sky 
beyond. “Wish we could come ...” 

“Say hello to him for us!” called Hermione, as Harry 
proceeded down the ward. “And ask him what’s 
happening about ... about his little friend!” 

Harry gave a wave of his hand to show he had heard 
and understood as he left the dormitory. 

The castle seemed very quiet even for a Sunday. 
Everybody was clearly out in the sunny grounds, 
enjoying the end of their exams and the prospect of a 
last few days of term unhampered by studying or 
homework. Harry walked slowly along the deserted 
corridor, peering out of windows as he went. He could 
see people messing around in the air over the 
Quidditch pitch and a couple of students swimming 
in the lake, accompanied by the giant squid. 

He was finding it hard at the moment to decide 
whether he wanted to be with people or not. 

Whenever he was in company he wanted to get away, 
and whenever he was alone he wanted company. He 
thought he might really go and visit Hagrid, though; 
he had not talked to him properly since he had 
returned... 

Harry had just descended the last marble step into 
the entrance hall when Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle 
emerged from a door on the right that Harry knew led 

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down to the Slytherin common room. Harry stopped 
dead; so did Malfoy and the others. For a few 
moments, the only sounds were the shouts, laughter, 
and splashes drifting into the hall from the grounds 
through the open front doors. 

Malfoy glanced around. Harry knew he was checking 
for signs of teachers. Then he looked back at Harry 
and said in a low voice, “You’re dead, Potter.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Funny,” he said, “you’d 
think I’d have stopped walking around...” 

Malfoy looked angrier than Harry had ever seen him. 
He felt a kind of detached satisfaction at the sight of 
his pale, pointed face contorted with rage. 

“You’re going to pay,” said Malfoy in a voice barely 
louder than a whisper. “I’m going to make you pay for 
what you’ve done to my father...” 

“Well, I’m terrified now,” said Harry sarcastically. “I 
s’pose Lord Voldemort’s just a warm-up act compared 
to you three — what’s the matter?” he said, for 
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had all looked stricken at 
the sound of the name. “He’s your dad’s mate, isn’t 
he? Not scared of him, are you?” 

“You think you’re such a big man, Potter,” said 
Malfoy, advancing now, Crabbe and Goyle flanking 
him. “You wait. I’ll have you. You can’t land my father 
in prison — ” 

“I thought I just had,” said Harry. 

“The dementors have left Azkaban,” said Malfoy 
quietly. “Dad and the others’ll be out in no time...” 



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“Yeah, I expect they will,” said Harry. “Still, at least 
everyone knows what scumbags they are now — ” 

Malfoy’s hand flew toward his wand, but Harry was 
too quick for him. He had drawn his own wand before 
Malfoy’s fingers had even entered the pocket of his 
robes. 

“Potter!” 

The voice rang across the entrance hall; Snape had 
emerged from the staircase leading down to his office, 
and at the sight of him Harry felt a great rush of 
hatred beyond anything he felt toward Malfoy . . . 
Whatever Dumbledore said, he would never forgive 
Snape ... never ... 

“What are you doing, Potter?” said Snape coldly as 
ever, as he strode over to the four of them. 

“I’m trying to decide what curse to use on Malfoy, sir,” 
said Harry fiercely. 

Snape stared at him. 

“Put that wand away at once,” he said curtly. “Ten 
points from Gryff — ” 

Snape looked toward the giant hourglasses on the 
walls and gave a sneering smile. 

“Ah. I see there are no longer any points left in the 
Gryffindor hourglass to take away. In that case, 

Potter, we will simply have to — ” 

“Add some more?” 

Professor McGonagall had just stumped up the stone 
steps into the castle. She was carrying a tartan 

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carpetbag in one hand and leaning heavily on a 
walking stick with her other, but otherwise looked 
quite well. 

“Professor McGonagall!” said Snape, striding forward. 
“Out of St. Mungo’s, I see!” 

“Yes, Professor Snape,” said Professor McGonagall, 
shrugging off her traveling cloak, “I’m quite as good as 
new. You two — Crabbe — Goyle — ” 

She beckoned them forward imperiously and they 
came, shuffling their large feet and looking awkward. 

“Here,” said Professor McGonagall, thrusting her 
carpetbag into Crabbe ’s chest and her cloak into 
Goyle’s, “take these up to my office for me.” 

They turned and stumped away up the marble 
staircase. 

“Right then,” said Professor McGonagall, looking up 
at the hourglasses on the wall, “well, I think Potter 
and his friends ought to have fifty points apiece for 
alerting the world to the return of You- Know- Who! 
What say you, Professor Snape?” 

“What?” snapped Snape, though Harry knew he had 
heard perfectly well. “Oh — well — I suppose ...” 

“So that’s fifty each for Potter, the two Weasleys, 
Longbottom, and Miss Granger,” said Professor 
McGonagall, and a shower of rubies fell down into the 
bottom bulb of Gryffindor’s hourglass as she spoke. 

“Oh — and fifty for Miss Lovegood, I suppose,” she 
added, and a number of sapphires fell into 
Ravenclaw’s glass. “Now, you wanted to take ten from 
Mr. Potter, I think, Professor Snape — so there we 
are...” 

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A few rubies retreated into the upper bulb, leaving a 
respectable amount below nevertheless. 



“Well, Potter, Malfoy, I think you ought to be outside 
on a glorious day like this,” Professor McGonagall 
continued briskly. 

Harry did not need telling twice. He thrust his wand 
back inside his robes and headed straight for the 
front doors without another glance at Snape and 
Malfoy. 

The hot sun hit him with a blast as he walked across 
the lawns toward Hagrid’s cabin. Students lying 
around on the grass sunbathing, talking, reading the 
Sunday Prophet, and eating sweets looked up at him 
as he passed. Some called out to him, or else waved, 
clearly eager to show that they, like the Prophet, had 
decided he was something of a hero. Harry said 
nothing to any of them. He had no idea how much 
they knew of what had happened three days ago, but 
he had so far avoided being questioned and preferred 
it that way. 

He thought at first when he knocked on Hagrid’s 
cabin door that he was out, but then Fang came 
charging around the corner and almost bowled him 
over with the enthusiasm of his welcome. Hagrid, it 
transpired, was picking runner beans in his back 
garden. 

“All righ’, Harry!” he said, beaming, when Harry 
approached the fence. “Come in, come in, we’ll have a 
cup o’ dandelion juice... 

“How’s things?” Hagrid asked him, as they settled 
down at his wooden table with a glass apiece of iced 
juice. “You — er — feelin’ all righ’, are yeh?” 

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Harry knew from the look of concern on Hagrid’s face 
that he was not referring to Harry’s physical well- 
being. 

“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, because he could not 
bear to discuss the thing that he knew was in 
Hagrid’s mind. “So, where’ve you been?” 

“Bin hidin’ out in the mountains,” said Hagrid. “Up in 
a cave, like Sirius did when he — ” 

Hagrid broke off, cleared his throat gruffly, looked at 
Harry, and took a long draft of juice. 

“Anyway, back now,” he said feebly. 

“You — you look better,” said Harry, who was 
determined to keep the conversation moving away 
from Sirius. 

“Wha?” said Hagrid, raising a massive hand and 
feeling his face. “Oh — oh yeah. Well, Grawpy’s loads 
better behaved now, loads. Seemed right pleased ter 
see me when I got back, ter tell yeh the truth. He’s a 
good lad, really... I’ve bin thinkin’ abou’ tryin’ ter find 
him a lady friend, actually...” 

Harry would normally have tried to persuade Hagrid 
out of this idea at once. The prospect of a second 
giant taking up residence in the forest, possibly even 
wilder and more brutal than Grawp, was positively 
alarming, but somehow Harry could not muster the 
energy necessary to argue the point. He was starting 
to wish he was alone again, and with the idea of 
hastening his departure he took several large gulps of 
his dandelion juice, half emptying his glass. 



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“Ev’ryone knows you’ve bin tellin’ the truth now, 
Harry,” said Hagrid softly and unexpectedly. “Tha’s 
gotta be better, hasn’ it?” 

Harry shrugged. 

“Look ...” Hagrid leaned toward him across the table, 
“I knew Sirius longer ’n you did... He died in battle, 
an’ tha’s the way he’d’ve wanted ter go — ” 

“He didn’t want to go at all!” said Harry angrily. 

Hagrid bowed his great shaggy head. 

“Nah, I don’ reckon he did,” he said quietly. “But still, 
Harry ... he was never one ter sit around at home an’ 
let other people do the fightin’. He couldn’ have lived 
with himself if he hadn’ gone ter help — ” 

Harry leapt up again. 

“I’ve got to go and visit Ron and Hermione in the 
hospital wing,” he said mechanically. 

“Oh,” said Hagrid, looking rather upset. “Oh ... all 
righ then, Harry ... Take care of yerself then, an’ drop 
back in if yeh’ve got a mo...” 

“Yeah ... right ...” 

Harry crossed to the door as fast as he could and 
pulled it open. He was out in the sunshine again 
before Hagrid had finished saying goodbye and 
walked away across the lawn. Once again, people 
called out to him as he passed. He closed his eyes for 
a few moments, wishing they would all vanish, that 
he could open his eyes and find himself alone in the 
grounds... 



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A few days ago, before his exams had finished and he 
had seen the vision Voldemort had planted in his 
mind, he would have given almost anything for the 
Wizarding world to know that he had been telling the 
truth, for them to believe that Voldemort was back 
and know that he was neither a liar nor mad. Now, 
however ... 

He walked a short way around the lake, sat down on 
its bank, sheltered from the gaze of passersby behind 
a tangle of shrubs, and stared out over the gleaming 
water, thinking... 

Perhaps the reason he wanted to be alone was 
because he had felt isolated from everybody since his 
talk with Dumbledore. An invisible barrier separated 
him from the rest of the world. He was — he had 
always been — a marked man. It was just that he had 
never really understood what that meant... 

And yet sitting here on the edge of the lake, with the 
terrible weight of grief dragging at him, with the loss 
of Sirius so raw and fresh inside, he could not muster 
any great sense of fear. It was sunny and the grounds 
around him were full of laughing people, and even 
though he felt as distant from them as though he 
belonged to a different race, it was still very hard to 
believe as he sat here that his life must include, or 
end in, murder... 

He sat there for a long time, gazing out at the water, 
trying not to think about his godfather or to 
remember that it was directly across from here, on 
the opposite bank, that Sirius had collapsed trying to 
fend off a hundred dementors... 

The sun had fallen before he realized that he was 
cold. He got up and returned to the castle, wiping his 
face on his sleeve as he went. 

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Ron and Hermione left the hospital wing completely 
cured three days before the end of term. Hermione 
showed signs of wanting to talk about Sirius, but Ron 
tended to make hushing noises every time she 
mentioned his name. Harry was not sure whether or 
not he wanted to talk about his godfather yet; his 
wishes varied with his mood. He knew one thing, 
though: Unhappy as he felt at the moment, he would 
greatly miss Hogwarts in a few days’ time when he 
was back at number four, Privet Drive. Even though 
he now understood exactly why he had to return 
there every summer, he did not feel any better about 
it. Indeed, he had never dreaded his return more. 

Professor Umbridge left Hogwarts the day before the 
end of term. It seemed that she had crept out of the 
hospital wing during dinnertime, evidently hoping to 
depart undetected, but unfortunately for her, she met 
Peeves on the way, who seized his last chance to do 
as Fred had instructed and chased her gleefully from 
the premises, whacking her alternately with a walking 
stick and a sock full of chalk. Many students ran out 
into the entrance hall to watch her running away 
down the path, and the Heads of Houses tried only 
halfheartedly to restrain their pupils. Indeed, 

Professor McGonagall sank back into her chair at the 
staff table after a few feeble remonstrances and was 
clearly heard to express a regret that she could not 
run cheering after Umbridge herself, because Peeves 
had borrowed her walking stick. 

Their last evening at school arrived; most people had 
finished packing and were already heading down to 
the end-of-term feast, but Harry had not even started. 

“Just do it tomorrow!” said Ron, who was waiting by 
the door of their dormitory. “Come on, I’m starving...” 

“I won’t be long... Look, you go ahead...” 

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But when the dormitory door closed behind Ron, 
Harry made no effort to speed up his packing. The 
very last thing he wanted to do was to attend the end- 
of-term feast. He was worried that Dumbledore would 
make some reference to him in his speech. He was 
sure to mention Voldemort’s return; he had talked to 
them about it last year, after all... 

Harry pulled some crumpled robes out of the very 
bottom of his trunk to make way for folded ones and, 
as he did so, noticed a badly wrapped package lying 
in a corner of it. He could not think what it was doing 
there. He bent down, pulled it out from underneath 
his trainers, and examined it. 

He realized what it was within seconds. Sirius had 
given it to him just inside the front door of twelve 
Grimmauld Place. Use it if you need me, all right? 

Harry sank down onto his bed and unwrapped the 
package. Out fell a small, square mirror. It looked old; 
it was certainly dirty. Harry held it up to his face and 
saw his own reflection looking back at him. 

He turned the mirror over. There on the reverse side 
was a scribbled note from Sirius. 

This is a two-way mirror. I’ve got the other. If you need 
to speak to me, just say my name into it; you’ll appear 
in my mirror and I’ll be able to talk in yours. James 
and I used to use them when we were in separate 
detentions. 

And Harry’s heart began to race. He remembered 
seeing his dead parents in the Mirror of Erised four 
years ago. He was going to be able to talk to Sirius 
again, right now, he knew it — 



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He looked around to make sure there was nobody else 
there; the dormitory was quite empty. He looked back 
at the mirror, raised it in front of his face with 
trembling hands, and said, loudly and clearly, 

“Sirius.” 

His breath misted the surface of the glass. He held 
the mirror even closer, excitement flooding through 
him, but the eyes blinking back at him through the 
fog were definitely his own. 

He wiped the mirror clear again and said, so that 
every syllable rang clearly through the room, “Sirius 
Black!” 

Nothing happened. The frustrated face looking back 
out of the mirror was still, definitely, his own... 

Sirius didn’t have his mirror on him when he went 
through the archway, said a small voice in Harry’s 
head. That’s why it’s not working... 

Harry remained quite still for a moment, then hurled 
the mirror back into the trunk where it shattered. He 
had been convinced, for a whole, shining minute, that 
he was going to see Sirius, talk to him again... 

Disappointment was burning in his throat. He got up 
and began throwing his things pell-mell into the 
trunk on top of the broken mirror — 

But then an idea struck him... A better idea than a 
mirror ... A much bigger, more important idea . . . How 
had he never thought of it before — why had he never 
asked? 

He was sprinting out of the dormitory and down the 
spiral staircase, hitting the walls as he ran and barely 
noticing. He hurtled across the empty common room, 

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through the portrait hole and off along the corridor, 
ignoring the Fat Lady, who called after him, “The feast 
is about to start, you know, you’re cutting it very 
fine!” 

But Harry had no intention of going to the feast . . . 

How could it be that the place was full of ghosts 
whenever you didn’t need one, yet now ... 

He ran down staircases and along corridors and met 
nobody either alive or dead. They were all, clearly, in 
the Great Hall. Outside his Charms classroom he 
came to a halt, panting and thinking disconsolately 
that he would have to wait until later, until after the 
end of the feast . . . 

But just as he had given up hope he saw it — a 
translucent somebody drifting across the end of the 
corridor. 

“Hey — hey Nick! NICK!” 

The ghost stuck its head back out of the wall, 
revealing the extravagantly plumed hat and 
dangerously wobbling head of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy- 
Porpington. 

“Good evening,” he said, withdrawing the rest of his 
body from the solid stone and smiling at Harry. “I am 
not the only one who is late, then? Though,” he 
sighed, “in rather different senses, of course ...” 

“Nick, can I ask you something?” 

A most peculiar expression stole over Nearly Headless 
Nick’s face as he inserted a finger in the stiff ruff at 
his neck and tugged it a little straighter, apparently to 
give himself thinking time. He desisted only when his 

Page | 1094Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




partially severed neck seemed about to give way 
completely. 



“Er — now, Harry?” said Nick, looking discomforted. 
“Can’t it wait until after the feast?” 

“No — Nick — please,” said Harry, “I really need to 
talk to you. Can we go in here?” 

Harry opened the door of the nearest classroom and 
Nearly Headless Nick sighed. 

“Oh very well,” he said, looking resigned. “I can’t 
pretend I haven’t been expecting it.” 

Harry was holding the door open for him, but he 
drifted through the wall instead. 

“Expecting what?” Harry asked, as he closed the door. 

“You to come and find me,” said Nick, now gliding 
over to the window and looking out at the darkening 
grounds. “It happens, sometimes ... when somebody 
has suffered a ... loss.” 

“Well,” said Harry, refusing to be deflected. “You were 
right, I’ve — I’ve come to find you.” 

Nick said nothing. 

“It’s — ” said Harry, who was finding this more 
awkward than he had anticipated, “it’s just — you’re 
dead. But you’re still here, aren’t you?” 

Nick sighed and continued to gaze out at the grounds. 

“That’s right, isn’t it?” Harry urged him. “You died, 
but I’m talking to you... You can walk around 
Hogwarts and everything, can’t you?” 

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“Yes,” said Nearly Headless Nick quietly, “I walk and 
talk, yes.” 

“So, you came back, didn’t you?” said Harry urgently. 
“People can come back, right? As ghosts. They don’t 
have to disappear completely. Well?” he added 
impatiently, when Nick continued to say nothing. 

Nearly Headless Nick hesitated, then said, “Not 
everyone can come back as a ghost.” 

“What d’you mean?” said Harry quickly. 

“Only ... only wizards.” 

“Oh,” said Harry, and he almost laughed with relief. 
“Well, that’s okay then, the person I’m asking about is 
a wizard. So he can come back, right?” 

Nick turned away from the window and looked 
mournfully at Harry. “He won’t come back.” 

“Who?” 

“Sirius Black,” said Nick. 

“But you did!” said Harry angrily. “You came back — 
you’re dead and you didn’t disappear — ” 

“Wizards can leave an imprint of themselves upon the 
earth, to walk palely where their living selves once 
trod,” said Nick miserably. “But very few wizards 
choose that path.” 

“Why not?” said Harry. “Anyway — it doesn’t matter 
— Sirius won’t care if it’s unusual, he’ll come back, I 
know he will!” 



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And so strong was his belief that Harry actually 
turned his head to check the door, sure, for a split 
second, that he was going to see Sirius, pearly white 
and transparent but beaming, walking through it 
toward him. 

“He will not come back,” repeated Nick quietly. “He 
will have ... gone on.” 

“What d’you mean, ‘gone on’?” said Harry quickly. 
“Gone on where? Listen — what happens when you 
die, anyway? Where do you go? Why doesn’t everyone 
come back? Why isn’t this place full of ghosts? Why 
— ?” 

“I cannot answer,” said Nick. 

“You’re dead, aren’t you?” said Harry exasperatedly. 
“Who can answer better than you?” 

“I was afraid of death,” said Nick. “I chose to remain 
behind. I sometimes wonder whether I oughtn’t to 
have ... Well, that is neither here nor there... In fact, I 
am neither here nor there...” He gave a small sad 
chuckle. “I know nothing of the secrets of death, 

Harry, for I chose my feeble imitation of life instead. I 
believe learned wizards study the matter in the 
Department of Mysteries — ” 

“Don’t talk to me about that place!” said Harry 
fiercely. 

“I am sorry not to have been more help,” said Nick 
gently. “Well ... well, do excuse me ... the feast, you 
know ...” 

And he left the room, leaving Harry there alone, 
gazing blankly at the wall through which Nick had 
disappeared. 

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Harry felt almost as though he had lost his godfather 
all over again in losing the hope that he might be able 
to see or speak to him once more. He walked slowly 
and miserably back up through the empty castle, 
wondering whether he would ever feel cheerful again. 

He had turned the corner toward the Fat Lady’s 
corridor when he saw somebody up ahead fastening a 
note to a board on the wall. A second glance showed 
him that it was Luna. There were no good hiding 
places nearby, she was bound to have heard his 
footsteps, and in any case, Harry could hardly muster 
the energy to avoid anyone at the moment. 

“Hello,” said Luna vaguely, glancing around at him as 
she stepped back from the notice. 

“How come you’re not at the feast?” Harry asked. 

“Well, I’ve lost most of my possessions,” said Luna 
serenely. “People take them and hide them, you know. 
But as it’s the last night, I really do need them back, 
so I’ve been putting up signs.” 

She gestured toward the notice board, upon which, 
sure enough, she had pinned a list of all her missing 
books and clothes, with a plea for their return. 

An odd feeling rose in Harry — an emotion quite 
different from the anger and grief that had filled him 
since Sirius’s death. It was a few moments before he 
realized that he was feeling sorry for Luna. 

“How come people hide your stuff?” he asked her, 
frowning. 

“Oh ... well ...” She shrugged. “I think they think I’m a 
bit odd, you know. Some people call me ‘Loony’ 
Lovegood, actually.” 

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Harry looked at her and the new feeling of pity 
intensified rather painfully. 

“That’s no reason for them to take your things,” he 
said flatly. “D’you want help finding them?” 

“Oh no,” she said, smiling at him. “They’ll come back, 
they always do in the end. It was just that I wanted to 
pack tonight. Anyway ... why aren’t you at the feast?” 

Harry shrugged. “Just didn’t feel like it.” 

“No,” said Luna, observing him with those oddly 
misty, protuberant eyes. “I don’t suppose you do. 

That man the Death Eaters killed was your godfather, 
wasn’t he? Ginny told me.” 

Harry nodded curtly, but found that for some reason 
he did not mind Luna talking about Sirius. He had 
just remembered that she too could see thestrals. 

“Have you ...” he began. “I mean, who ... has anyone 
you’ve known ever died?” 

“Yes,” said Luna simply, “my mother. She was a quite 
extraordinary witch, you know, but she did like to 
experiment and one of her spells went rather badly 
wrong one day. I was nine.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled. 

“Yes, it was rather horrible,” said Luna 
conversationally. “I still feel very sad about it 
sometimes. But I’ve still got Dad. And anyway, it’s not 
as though I’ll never see Mum again, is it?” 

“Er — isn’t it?” said Harry uncertainly. 



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She shook her head in disbelief. “Oh, come on. You 
heard them, just behind the veil, didn’t you?” 

“You mean ...” 

“In that room with the archway. They were just 
lurking out of sight, that’s all. You heard them.” 

They looked at each other. Luna was smiling slightly. 
Harry did not know what to say, or to think. Luna 
believed so many extraordinary things . . . yet he had 
been sure he had heard voices behind the veil too... 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help you look for 
your stuff?” he said. 

“Oh no,” said Luna. “No, I think I’ll just go down and 
have some pudding and wait for it all to turn up... It 
always does in the end... Well, have a nice holiday, 
Harry.” 

“Yeah ... yeah, you too.” 

She walked away from him, and as he watched her 
go, he found that the terrible weight in his stomach 
seemed to have lessened slightly. 

The journey home on the Hogwarts Express next day 
was eventful in several ways. Firstly, Malfoy, Crabbe, 
and Goyle, who had clearly been waiting all week for 
the opportunity to strike without teacher witnesses, 
attempted to ambush Harry halfway down the train 
as he made his way back from the toilet. The attack 
might have succeeded had it not been for the fact that 
they unwittingly chose to stage the attack right 
outside a compartment full of D.A. members, who saw 
what was happening through the glass and rose as 
one to rush to Harry’s aid. By the time Ernie 
Macmillan, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, Justin 
Page | llOOHarry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




Finch-Fletchley, Anthony Goldstein, and Terry Boot 
had finished using a wide variety of the hexes and 
jinxes Harry had taught them, Malfoy, Crabbe, and 
Goyle resembled nothing so much as three gigantic 
slugs squeezed into Hogwarts uniforms as Harry, 

Ernie, and Justin hoisted them into the luggage rack 
and left them there to ooze. 

“I must say, I’m looking forward to seeing Malfoy’s 
mother’s face when he gets off the train,” said Ernie 
with some satisfaction, as he watched Malfoy squirm 
above him. Ernie had never quite got over the 
indignity of Malfoy docking points from Hufflepuff 
during his brief spell as a member of the Inquisitorial 
Squad. 

“Goyle’s mum’ll be really pleased, though,” said Ron, 
who had come to investigate the source of the 
commotion. “He’s loads betterlooking now... Anyway, 
Harry, the food trolley’s just stopped if you want 
anything...” 

Harry thanked the others and accompanied Ron back 
to their compartment, where he bought a large pile of 
Cauldron Cakes and Pumpkin Pasties. Hermione was 
reading the Daily Prophet again, Ginny was doing a 
quiz in The Quibbler, and Neville was stroking his 
Mimbulus mimbletonia, which had grown a great deal 
over the year and now made odd crooning noises 
when touched. 

Harry and Ron whiled away most of the journey 
playing wizard chess while Hermione read out 
snippets from the Prophet It was now full of articles 
about how to repel dementors, attempts by the 
Ministry to track down Death Eaters, and hysterical 
letters claiming that the writer had seen Lord 
Voldemort walking past their house that very 
morning. . . 

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“It hasn’t really started yet,” sighed Hermione 
gloomily, folding up the newspaper again. “But it 
won’t be long now...” 

“Hey, Harry,” said Ron, nodding toward the glass 
window onto the corridor. 

Harry looked around. Cho was passing, accompanied 
by Marietta Edgecombe, who was wearing a balaclava. 
His and Cho’s eyes met for a moment. Cho blushed 
and kept walking. Harry looked back down at the 
chessboard just in time to see one of his pawns 
chased off its square by Ron’s knight. 

“What’s — er — going on with you and her anyway?” 
Ron asked quietly. 

“Nothing,” said Harry truthfully. 

“I — er — heard she’s going out with someone else 
now,” said Hermione tentatively. 

Harry was surprised to find that this information did 
not hurt at all. Wanting to impress Cho seemed to 
belong to a past that was no longer quite connected 
with him. So much of what he had wanted before 
Sirius’s death felt that way these days... The week 
that had elapsed since he had last seen Sirius seemed 
to have lasted much, much longer: It stretched across 
two universes, the one with Sirius in it, and the one 
without. 

“You’re well out of it, mate,” said Ron forcefully. “I 
mean, she’s quite good-looking and all that, but you 
want someone a bit more cheerful.” 

“She’s probably cheerful enough with someone else,” 
said Harry, shrugging. 



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“Who’s she with now anyway?” Ron asked Hermione, 
but it was Ginny who answered. 

“Michael Corner,” she said. 

“Michael — but — ” said Ron, craning around in his 
seat to stare at her. “But you were going out with 
him!” 

“Not anymore,” said Ginny resolutely. “He didn’t like 
Gryffindor beating Ravenclaw at Quidditch and got 
really sulky, so I ditched him and he ran off to 
comfort Cho instead.” She scratched her nose 
absently with the end of her quill, turned The 
Quibbler upside down, and began marking her 
answers. Ron looked highly delighted. 

“Well, I always thought he was a bit of an idiot,” he 
said, prodding his queen forward toward Harry’s 
quivering castle. “Good for you. Just choose someone 
— better — next time.” 

He cast Harry an oddly furtive look as he said it. 

“Well, I’ve chosen Dean Thomas, would you say he’s 
better?” asked Ginny vaguely. 

“WHAT?” shouted Ron, upending the chessboard. 
Crookshanks went plunging after the pieces and 
Hedwig and Pigwidgeon twittered and hooted angrily 
from overhead. 

As the train slowed down in the approach to King’s 
Cross, Harry thought he had never wanted to leave it 
less. He even wondered fleetingly what would happen 
if he simply refused to get off, but remained 
stubbornly sitting there until the first of September, 
when it would take him back to Hogwarts. When it 
finally puffed to a standstill, however, he lifted down 
Page | 1103Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J.K. Rowling 




Hedwig’s cage and prepared to drag his trunk from 
the train as usual. 

When the ticket inspector signaled to him, Ron, and 
Hermione that it was safe to walk through the 
magical barrier between platforms nine and ten, 
however, he found a surprise awaiting him on the 
other side: a group of people standing there to greet 
him whom he had not expected at all. 

There was Mad-Eye Moody, looking quite as sinister 
with his bowler hat pulled low over his magical eye as 
he would have done without it, his gnarled hands 
clutching a long staff, his body wrapped in a 
voluminous traveling cloak. Tonks stood just behind 
him, her bright bubble-gum-pink hair gleaming in the 
sunlight filtering through the dirty glass station 
ceiling, wearing heavily patched jeans and a bright 
purple T-shirt bearing the legend THE WEIRD 
SISTERS. Next to Tonks was Lupin, his face pale, his 
hair graying, a long and threadbare overcoat covering 
a shabby jumper and trousers. At the front of the 
group stood Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, dressed in their 
Muggle best, and Fred and George, who were both 
wearing brand-new jackets in some lurid green, scaly 
material. 

“Ron, Ginny!” called Mrs. Weasley, hurrying forward 
and hugging her children tightly. “Oh, and Harry dear 
— how are you?” 

“Fine,” lied Harry, as she pulled him into a tight 
embrace. Over her shoulder he saw Ron goggling at 
the twins’ new clothes. 

“What are they supposed to be?” he asked, pointing at 
the jackets. 



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“Finest dragon skin, little bro,” said Fred, giving his 
zip a little tweak. “Business is booming and we 
thought we’d treat ourselves.” 

“Hello, Harry,” said Lupin, as Mrs. Weasley let go of 
Harry and turned to greet Hermione. 

“Hi,” said Harry. “I didn’t expect ... what are you all 
doing here?” 

“Well,” said Lupin with a slight smile, “we thought we 
might have a little chat with your aunt and uncle 
before letting them take you home.” 

“I dunno if that’s a good idea,” said Harry at once. 

“Oh, I think it is,” growled Moody, who had limped a 
little closer. “That’ll be them, will it, Potter?” 

He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder; his 
magical eye was evidently peering through the back of 
his head and his bowler hat. Harry leaned an inch or 
so to the left to see where Mad-Eye was pointing and 
there, sure enough, were the three Dursleys, who 
looked positively appalled to see Harry’s reception 
committee. 

“Ah, Harry!” said Mr. Weasley, turning from 
Hermione’s parents, whom he had been greeting 
enthusiastically, and who were taking it in turns to 
hug Hermione. “Well — shall we do it, then?” 

“Yeah, I reckon so, Arthur,” said Moody. 

He and Mr. Weasley took the lead across the station 
toward the place where the Dursleys stood, 
apparently rooted to the floor. Hermione disengaged 
herself gently from her mother to join the group. 



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“Good afternoon,” said Mr. Weasley pleasantly to 
Uncle Vernon, coming to a halt right in front of him. 
“You might remember me, my name’s Arthur 
Weasley.” 

As Mr. Weasley had singlehandedly demolished most 
of the Dursleys’ living room two years previously, 

Harry would have been very surprised if Uncle Vernon 
had forgotten him. Sure enough, Uncle Vernon turned 
a deeper shade of puce and glared at Mr. Weasley, 
but chose not to say anything, partly, perhaps, 
because the Dursleys were outnumbered two to one. 
Aunt Petunia looked both frightened and 
embarrassed. She kept glancing around, as though 
terrified somebody she knew would see her in such 
company. Dudley, meanwhile, seemed to be trying to 
look small and insignificant, a feat at which he was 
failing extravagantly. 

“We thought we’d just have a few words with you 
about Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, still smiling. 

“Yeah,” growled Moody. “About how he’s treated when 
he’s at your place.” 

Uncle Vernon’s mustache seemed to bristle with 
indignation. Possibly because the bowler hat gave him 
the entirely mistaken impression that he was dealing 
with a kindred spirit, he addressed himself to Moody. 

“I am not aware that it is any of your business what 
goes on in my house — ” 

“I expect what you’re not aware of would fill several 
books, Dursley,” growled Moody. 

“Anyway, that’s not the point,” interjected Tonks, 
whose pink hair seemed to offend Aunt Petunia more 
than all the rest put together, for she closed her eyes 

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rather than look at her. “The point is, if we find out 
you’ve been horrible to Harry — ” 

“ — and make no mistake, we’ll hear about it,” added 
Lupin pleasantly. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Weasley, “even if you won’t let Harry 
use the fellytone — ” 

“ Telephone ,” whispered Hermione. 

“Yeah, if we get any hint that Potter’s been mistreated 
in any way, you’ll have us to answer to,” said Moody. 

Uncle Vernon swelled ominously. His sense of outrage 
seemed to outweigh even his fear of this bunch of 
oddballs. 

“Are you threatening me, sir?” he said, so loudly that 
passersby actually turned to stare. 

“Yes, I am,” said Mad-Eye, who seemed rather pleased 
that Uncle Vernon had grasped this fact so quickly. 

“And do I look like the kind of man who can be 
intimidated?” barked Uncle Vernon. 

“Well ...” said Moody, pushing back his bowler hat to 
reveal his sinisterly revolving magical eye. Uncle 
Vernon leapt backward in horror and collided 
painfully with a luggage trolley. “Yes, I’d have to say 
you do, Dursley.” 

He turned from Uncle Vernon to Harry. “So, Potter ... 
give us a shout if you need us. If we don’t hear from 
you for three days in a row, well send someone 
along...” 



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Aunt Petunia whimpered piteously. It could not have 
been plainer that she was thinking of what the 
neighbors would say if they caught sight of these 
people marching up the garden path. 

“ T3ye, then, Potter,” said Moody, grasping Harry’s 
shoulder for a moment with a gnarled hand. 

“Take care, Harry,” said Lupin quietly. “Keep in 
touch.” 

“Harry, we’ll have you away from there as soon as we 
can,” Mrs. Weasley whispered, hugging him again. 

“We’ll see you soon, mate,” said Ron anxiously, 
shaking Harry’s hand. 

“Really soon, Harry,” said Hermione earnestly. “We 
promise.” 

Harry nodded. He somehow could not find words to 
tell them what it meant to him, to see them all ranged 
there, on his side. Instead he smiled, raised a hand in 
farewell, turned around, and led the way out of the 
station toward the sunlit street, with Uncle Vernon, 
Aunt Petunia, and Dudley hurrying along in his wake. 



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* J 



/ 




THE OTHER MINISTER 

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

The Prime Minister’s pulse quickened at the very 
thought of these accusations, for they were neither 
fair nor true. How on earth was his government 

Page | 2 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 



supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing? It 
was outrageous for anybody to suggest that they were 
not spending enough on bridges. The bridge was 
fewer than ten years old, and the best experts were at 
a loss to explain why it had snapped cleanly in two, 
sending a dozen cars into the watery depths of the 
river below. And how dare anyone suggest that it was 
lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very 
nasty and well-publicized murders? Or that the 
government should have somehow foreseen the freak 
hurricane in the West Country that had caused so 
much damage to both people and property? And was 
it his fault that one of his Junior Ministers, Herbert 
Chorley, had chosen this week to act so peculiarly 
that he was now going to be spending a lot more time 
with his family? 

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

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

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



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Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

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

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

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

“Er,” said the Prime Minister, “listen. ... It’s not a very 
good time for me. ... I’m waiting for a telephone call, 
you see . . . from the President of — ” 

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

“But I really was rather hoping to speak — ” 

“We shall arrange for the President to forget to call. 

He will telephone tomorrow night instead,” said the 
little man. “Kindly respond immediately to Mr. 

Fudge.” 

“I ... oh ... very well,” said the Prime Minister weakly. 
“Yes, I’ll see Fudge.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Had a bad one too, have you?” asked the Prime 
Minister stiffly, hoping to convey by this that he had 



Page | 5 



Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




quite enough on his plate already without any extra 
helpings from Fudge. 



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

“You — er — your — I mean to say, some of your 
people were — were involved in those — those things, 
were they?” 

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

“I ...” hesitated the Prime Minister. 

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

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

Naturally, he had thought that the long campaign and 
the strain of the election had caused him to go mad. 
He had been utterly terrified to find a portrait talking 

Page | 6 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince -J.K. Rowling 




to him, though this had been nothing to how he felt 
when a self-proclaimed wizard had bounced out of the 
fireplace and shaken his hand. He had remained 
speechless throughout Fudge’s kindly explanation 
that there were witches and wizards still living in 
secret all over the world and his reassurances that he 
was not to bother his head about them as the 
Ministry of Magic took responsibility for the whole 
Wizarding community and prevented the non-magical 
population from getting wind of them. It was, said 
Fudge, a difficult job that encompassed everything 
from regulations on responsible use of broomsticks to 
keeping the dragon population under control (the 
Prime Minister remembered clutching the desk for 
support at this point). Fudge had then patted the 
shoulder of the still-dumbstruck Prime Minister in a 
fatherly sort of way. 

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

At this, the Prime Minister had found his voice at last. 
“You’re — you’re not a hoax, then?” 

It had been his last, desperate hope. 

“No,” said Fudge gently. “No, I’m afraid I’m not. Look.” 

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



Page | 7 



Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




“But,” said the Prime Minister breathlessly, watching 
his teacup chewing on the corner of his next speech, 
“but why — why has nobody told me — ?” 

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

“But then,” bleated the Prime Minister, “why hasn’t a 
former Prime Minister warned me — ?” 

At this, Fudge had actually laughed. 

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

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

The shock had taken a little while to wear off. For a 
time, he had tried to convince himself that Fudge had 
indeed been a hallucination brought on by lack of 
sleep during his grueling election campaign. In a vain 
attempt to rid himself of all reminders of this 
uncomfortable encounter, he had given the gerbil to 
his delighted niece and instructed his private 
secretary to take down the portrait of the ugly little 
man who had announced Fudge’s arrival. To the 
Prime Minister’s dismay, however, the portrait had 
proved impossible to remove. When several 
carpenters, a builder or two, an art historian, and the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer had all tried 
unsuccessfully to prise it from the wall, the Prime 
Page | 8 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




Minister had abandoned the attempt and simply 
resolved to hope that the thing remained motionless 
and silent for the rest of his term in office. 
Occasionally he could have sworn he saw out of the 
corner of his eye the occupant of the painting 
yawning, or else scratching his nose; even, once or 
twice, simply walking out of his frame and leaving 
nothing but a stretch of muddy-brown canvas behind. 
However, he had trained himself not to look at the 
picture very much, and always to tell himself firmly 
that his eyes were playing tricks on him when 
anything like this happened. 

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

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



Page | 9 



Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

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

“ He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named\” snarled Fudge. 

“I’m sorry. ... You think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be- 
Named is still alive, then?” 

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

But they had seen each other again. Less than a year 
later a harassed-looking Fudge had appeared out of 
thin air in the cabinet room to inform the Prime 
Minister that there had been a spot of bother at the 
Kwidditch (or that was what it had sounded like) 
World Cup and that several Muggles had been 
“involved,” but that the Prime Minister was not to 
worry, the fact that You-Know- Who’s Mark had been 
seen again meant nothing; Fudge was sure it was an 
Page | 10 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




isolated incident, and the Muggle Liaison Office was 
dealing with all memory modifications as they spoke. 

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

“I — what — dragons?” spluttered the Prime Minister. 

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

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

“A mass breakout?” repeated the Prime Minister 
hoarsely. 

“No need to worry, no need to worry!” shouted Fudge, 
already with one foot in the flames. “We’ll have them 
rounded up in no time — just thought you ought to 
know!” 

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

Whatever the press and the opposition might say, the 
Prime Minister was not a foolish man. It had not 
escaped his notice that, despite Fudge’s assurances 
at their first meeting, they were now seeing rather a 
lot of each other, nor that Fudge was becoming more 
Page | 11 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




flustered with each visit. Little though he liked to 
think about the Minister of Magic (or, as he always 
called Fudge in his head, the Other Minister), the 
Prime Minister could not help but fear that the next 
time Fudge appeared it would be with graver news 
still. The sight, therefore, of Fudge stepping out of the 
fire once more, looking disheveled and fretful and 
sternly surprised that the Prime Minister did not 
know exactly why he was there, was about the worst 
thing that had happened in the course of this 
extremely gloomy week. 

“How should I know what’s going on in the — er — 
Wizarding community?” snapped the Prime Minister 
now. “I have a country to run and quite enough 
concerns at the moment without — ” 

“We have the same concerns,” Fudge interrupted. 

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

“What do you ... I’m afraid I ... What?” blustered the 
Prime Minister. 

Fudge took a great, deep breath and said, “Prime 
Minister, I am very sorry to have to tell you that he’s 
back. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back.” 

“Back? When you say ‘back’ ... he’s alive? I mean — ” 

The Prime Minister groped in his memory for the 
details of that horrible conversation of three years 
previously, when Fudge had told him about the 
wizard who was feared above all others, the wizard 

Page | 12 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




who had committed a thousand terrible crimes before 
his mysterious disappearance fifteen years earlier. 

“Yes, alive,” said Fudge. “That is — I don’t know — is 
a man alive if he can’t be killed? I don’t really 
understand it, and Dumbledore won’t explain 
properly — but anyway, he’s certainly got a body and 
is walking and talking and killing, so I suppose, for 
the purposes of our discussion, yes, he’s alive.” 

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

“Is Serious Black with — er — He-Who-Must-Not-Be- 
Named?” 

“Black? Black?” said Fudge distractedly, turning his 
bowler rapidly in his fingers. “Sirius Black, you 
mean? Merlin’s beard, no. Black’s dead. Turns out we 
were — er — mistaken about Black. He was innocent 
after all. And he wasn’t in league with He-Who-Must- 
Not-Be-Named either. I mean,” he added defensively, 
spinning the bowler hat still faster, “all the evidence 
pointed — we had more than fifty eyewitnesses — but 
anyway, as I say, he’s dead. Murdered, as a matter of 
fact. On Ministry of Magic premises. There’s going to 
be an inquiry, actually. ...” 

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



Page | 13 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




While the Prime Minister surreptitiously touched the 
wood of his desk, Fudge continued, “But Black’s by- 
the-by now. The point is, we’re at war, Prime Minister, 
and steps must be taken.” 

“At war?” repeated the Prime Minister nervously. 
“Surely that’s a little bit of an overstatement?” 

“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has now been joined by 
those of his followers who broke out of Azkaban in 
January,” said Fudge, speaking more and more 
rapidly and twirling his bowler so fast that it was a 
lime-green blur. “Since they have moved into the 
open, they have been wreaking havoc. The Brockdale 
Bridge — he did it, Prime Minister, he threatened a 
mass Muggle killing unless I stood aside for him and 



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

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

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

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



Page | 14 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




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

“That was no hurricane,” said Fudge miserably. 

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

“It was the Death Eaters,” said Fudge. “He-Who-Must- 
Not-Be-Named’s followers. And ... and we suspect 
giant involvement.” 

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

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

“You don’t say!” said the Prime Minister furiously. 

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

“Losing who?” 



Page | 15 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




“Amelia Bones. Head of the Department of Magical 
Law Enforcement. We think He-Who-Must-Not-Be- 
Named may have murdered her in person, because 
she was a very gifted witch and — and all the 
evidence was that she put up a real fight.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Page | 16 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




“They did,” said Fudge wearily. “But not anymore. 
They’ve deserted the prison and joined He-Who-Must- 
Not-Be-Named. I won’t pretend that wasn’t a blow.” 

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

“That’s right. And they’re breeding. That’s what’s 
causing all this mist.” 

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

“Now see here, Fudge — you’ve got to do something! 
It’s your responsibility as Minister of Magic!” 

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

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

“I’m very sorry,” he said finally. “If there’s anything I 
can do?” 

“It’s very kind of you, Prime Minister, but there is 
nothing. I was sent here tonight to bring you up to 
date on recent events and to introduce you to my 

Page | 17 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




successor. I rather thought he’d be here by now, but 
of course, he’s very busy at the moment, with so 
much going on.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Prime Minister’s first, foolish thought was that 
Rufus Scrimgeour looked rather like an old lion. 

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There were streaks of gray in his mane of tawny hair 
and his bushy eyebrows; he had keen yellowish eyes 
behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a certain 
rangy, loping grace even though he walked with a 
slight limp. There was an immediate impression of 
shrewdness and toughness; the Prime Minister 
thought he understood why the Wizarding community 
preferred Scrimgeour to Fudge as a leader in these 
dangerous times. 

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

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

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

“Er — yes,” said the Prime Minister. “And if you don’t 
mind, I’d rather that door remained unlocked.” 

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

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

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



Page | 19 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




‘Tm not getting rid of Kingsley Shacklebolt, if that’s 
what you’re suggesting!” said the Prime Minister 
hotly. “He’s highly efficient, gets through twice the 
work the rest of them — ” 

“That’s because he’s a wizard,” said Scrimgeour, 
without a flicker of a smile. “A highly trained Auror, 
who has been assigned to you for your protection.” 

“Now, wait a moment!” declared the Prime Minister. 
“You can’t just put your people into my office, I decide 
who works for me — ” 

“I thought you were happy with Shacklebolt?” said 
Scrimgeour coldly. 

“I am — that’s to say, I was — ” 

“Then there’s no problem, is there?” said Scrimgeour. 

“I ... well, as long as Shacklebolt’s work continues to 
be ... er ... excellent,” said the Prime Minister lamely, 
but Scrimgeour barely seemed to hear him. 

“Now, about Herbert Chorley, your Junior Minister,” 
he continued. “The one who has been entertaining the 
public by impersonating a duck.” 

“What about him?” asked the Prime Minister. 

“He has clearly reacted to a poorly performed 
Imperius Curse,” said Scrimgeour. “It’s addled his 
brains, but he could still be dangerous.” 

“He’s only quacking!” said the Prime Minister weakly. 
“Surely a bit of a rest . . . Maybe go easy on the drink 



Page | 20 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




“A team of Healers from St. Mungo’s Hospital for 
Magical Maladies and Injuries are examining him as 
we speak. So far he has attempted to strangle three of 
them,” said Scrimgeour. “I think it best that we 
remove him from Muggle society for a while.” 

“I ... well ... He’ll be all right, won’t he?” said the 
Prime Minister anxiously. 

Scrimgeour merely shrugged, already moving back 
toward the fireplace. 

“Well, that’s really all I had to say. I will keep you 
posted of developments, Prime Minister — or, at least, 
I shall probably be too busy to come personally, in 
which case I shall send Fudge here. He has consented 
to stay on in an advisory capacity.” 

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

“But for heaven’s sake — you’re wizards'. You can do 
magic ! Surely you can sort out — well — anything !” 

Scrimgeour turned slowly on the spot and exchanged 
an incredulous look with Fudge, who really did 
manage a smile this time as he said kindly, “The 
trouble is, the other side can do magic too, Prime 
Minister.” 

And with that, the two wizards stepped one after the 
other into the bright green fire and vanished. 



Page | 21 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 






SPINNER’S END 

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

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

With a second and louder pop, another hooded figure 
materialized. 

“Wait!” 



Page | 22 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 



The harsh cry startled the fox, now crouching almost 
flat in the undergrowth. It leapt from its hiding place 
and up the bank. There was a flash of green light, a 
yelp, and the fox fell back to the ground, dead. 

The second figure turned over the animal with its toe. 

“Just a fox,” said a woman’s voice dismissively from 
under the hood. “I thought perhaps an Auror — 

Cissy, wait!” 

But her quarry, who had paused and looked back at 
the flash of light, was already scrambling up the bank 
the fox had just fallen down. 

“Cissy — Narcissa — listen to me — ” 

The second woman caught the first and seized her 
arm, but the other wrenched it away. 

“Go back, Bella!” 

“You must listen to me!” 

“I’ve listened already. I’ve made my decision. Leave me 
alone!” 

The woman named Narcissa gained the top of the 
bank, where a line of old railings separated the river 
from a narrow, cobbled street. The other woman, 

Bella, followed at once. Side by side they stood 
looking across the road at the rows and rows of 
dilapidated brick houses, their windows dull and 
blind in the darkness. 

“He lives here?” asked Bella in a voice of contempt. 
“Here? In this Muggle dunghill? We must be the first 
of our kind ever to set foot — ” 



Page | 23 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




But Narcissa was not listening; she had slipped 
through a gap in the rusty railings and was already 
hurrying across the road. 

“Cissy, wait\” 

Bella followed, her cloak streaming behind, and saw 
Narcissa darting through an alley between the houses 
into a second, almost identical street. Some of the 
streetlamps were broken; the two women were 
running between patches of light and deep darkness. 
The pursuer caught up with her prey just as she 
turned another corner, this time succeeding in 
catching hold of her arm and swinging her around so 
that they faced each other. 

“Cissy, you must not do this, you can’t trust him — ” 

“The Dark Lord trusts him, doesn’t he?” 

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

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

“Cissy, your own sister? You wouldn’t — ” 

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



Page | 24 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




“Narcisscd” 



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

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

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

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

“Severus,” she said in a strained whisper. “May I 
speak to you? It’s urgent.” 

“But of course.” 



Page | 25 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




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

“Snape,” she said curtly as she passed him. 

“Bellatrix,” he replied, his thin mouth curling into a 
slightly mocking smile as he closed the door with a 
snap behind them. 

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

Snape gestured Narcissa to the sofa. She threw off 
her cloak, cast it aside, and sat down, staring at her 
white and trembling hands clasped in her lap. 

Bellatrix lowered her hood more slowly. Dark as her 
sister was fair, with heavily lidded eyes and a strong 
jaw, she did not take her gaze from Snape as she 
moved to stand behind Narcissa. 

“So, what can I do for you?” Snape asked, settling 
himself in the armchair opposite the two sisters. 

“We ... we are alone, aren’t we?” Narcissa asked 
quietly. 

“Yes, of course. Well, Wormtail’s here, but we’re not 
counting vermin, are we?” 

He pointed his wand at the wall of books behind him 
and with a bang, a hidden door flew open, revealing a 

Page | 26 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




narrow staircase upon which a small man stood 
frozen. 

“As you have clearly realized, Wormtail, we have 
guests,” said Snape lazily. 

The man crept, hunchbacked, down the last few steps 
and moved into the room. He had small, watery eyes, 
a pointed nose, and wore an unpleasant simper. His 
left hand was caressing his right, which looked as 
though it was encased in a bright silver glove. 

“Narcissa!” he said, in a squeaky voice. “And Bellatrix! 
How charming — ” 

“Wormtail will get us drinks, if you’d like them,” said 
Snape. “And then he will return to his bedroom.” 

Wormtail winced as though Snape had thrown 
something at him. 

“I am not your servant!” he squeaked, avoiding 
Snape ’s eye. 

“Really? I was under the impression that the Dark 
Lord placed you here to assist me.” 

“To assist, yes — but not to make you drinks and — 
and clean your house!” 

“I had no idea, Wormtail, that you were craving more 
dangerous assignments,” said Snape silkily. “This can 
be easily arranged: I shall speak to the Dark Lord — ” 

“I can speak to him myself if I want to!” 

“Of course you can,” said Snape, sneering. “But in the 
meantime, bring us drinks. Some of the elf-made wine 
will do.” 

Page | 27 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




Wormtail hesitated for a moment, looking as though 
he might argue, but then turned and headed through 
a second hidden door. They heard banging and a 
clinking of glasses. Within seconds he was back, 
bearing a dusty bottle and three glasses upon a tray. 
He dropped these on the rickety table and scurried 
from their presence, slamming the book-covered door 
behind him. 

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

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

The sisters copied him. Snape refilled their glasses. 

As Narcissa took her second drink she said in a rush, 
“Severus, I’m sorry to come here like this, but I had to 
see you. I think you are the only one who can help me 



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

“My apologies,” said Snape. “He has lately taken to 
listening at doors, I don’t know what he means by it. 

... You were saying, Narcissa?” 

She took a great, shuddering breath and started 
again. 

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

Page | 28 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




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

“ ‘Present company’?” repeated Snape sardonically. 
“And what am I to understand by that, Bellatrix?” 

“That I don’t trust you, Snape, as you very well 
know!” 

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

“Narcissa, I think we ought to hear what Bellatrix is 
bursting to say; it will save tedious interruptions. 

Well, continue, Bellatrix,” said Snape. “Why is it that 
you do not trust me?” 

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

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

Snape smiled. 

Page | 29 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




“Before I answer you — oh yes, Bellatrix, I am going 
to answer! You can carry my words back to the others 
who whisper behind my back, and carry false tales of 
my treachery to the Dark Lord! Before I answer you, I 
say, let me ask a question in turn. Do you really think 
that the Dark Lord has not asked me each and every 
one of those questions? And do you really think that, 
had I not been able to give satisfactory answers, I 
would be sitting here talking to you?” 

She hesitated. 

“I know he believes you, but ...” 

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

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

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

“You ask why I did not attempt to find him when he 
vanished. For the same reason that Avery, Yaxley, the 
Carrows, Greyback, Lucius” — he inclined his head 
slightly to Narcissa — “and many others did not 
attempt to find him. I believed him finished. I am not 
proud of it, I was wrong, but there it is. ... If he had 



Page | 30 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




not forgiven we who lost faith at that time, he would 
have very few followers left.” 

“He’d have me!” said Bellatrix passionately. “I, who 
spent many years in Azkaban for him!” 

“Yes, indeed, most admirable,” said Snape in a bored 
voice. “Of course, you weren’t a lot of use to him in 
prison, but the gesture was undoubtedly fine — ” 

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

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

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

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

“But you stayed — ” 

“Yes, Bellatrix, I stayed,” said Snape, betraying a hint 
of impatience for the first time. “I had a comfortable 
job that I preferred to a stint in Azkaban. They were 
rounding up the Death Eaters, you know. 
Dumbledore’s protection kept me out of jail; it was 
Page | 31 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince -J.K. Rowling 




most convenient and I used it. I repeat: The Dark 
Lord does not complain that I stayed, so I do not see 
why you do. 

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

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

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

“Correct. I returned two hours later. I returned on 
Dumbledore’s orders.” 

“On Dumbledore’s — ?” she began, in tones of 
outrage. 

“Think!” said Snape, impatient again. “Think! By 
waiting two hours, just two hours, I ensured that I 
could remain at Hogwarts as a spy! By allowing 
Dumbledore to think that I was only returning to the 
Dark Lord’s side because I was ordered to, I have 
been able to pass information on Dumbledore and the 
Order of the Phoenix ever since! Consider, Bellatrix: 
Page | 32 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




The Dark Mark had been growing stronger for 
months. I knew he must be about to return, all the 
Death Eaters knew! I had plenty of time to think 
about what I wanted to do, to plan my next move, to 
escape like Karkaroff, didn’t I? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Page | 33 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

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

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

He inclined his head and toasted her. Her expression 
did not soften. 

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

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

“He ... lately, we ... I am asking you, Snape!” 



Page | 34 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

“I do not claim it; I had no idea of his plans; I have 
already confessed that I thought the Dark Lord dead. 

I am merely trying to explain why the Dark Lord is 
not sorry that Potter survived, at least until a year 
ago. ...” 

“But why did you keep him alive?” 

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

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



Page | 35 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




would have been a fool to risk it with Dumbledore 
close at hand.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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



Page | 36 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned around to face Narcissa, frowning. 

“It so happens that I know of the plan,” he said in a 
low voice. “I am one of the few the Dark Lord has told. 
Nevertheless, had I not been in on the secret, 

Narcissa, you would have been guilty of great 
treachery to the Dark Lord.” 

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

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

“Certainly,” said Snape. “But what help do you 
require, Narcissa? If you are imagining I can persuade 



Page | 37 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




the Dark Lord to change his mind, I am afraid there is 
no hope, none at all.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s why he’s chosen Draco, isn’t it?” she 
persisted. “To punish Lucius?” 

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

“But he won’t succeed!” sobbed Narcissa. “How can 
he, when the Dark Lord himself — ?” 

Bellatrix gasped; Narcissa seemed to lose her nerve. 

“I only meant ... that nobody has yet succeeded. ... 
Severus ... please ... You are, you have always been, 
Draco’s favorite teacher. ... You are Lucius’s old 
friend. ... I beg you. ... You are the Dark Lord’s 

Page | 38 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




favorite, his most trusted advisor. ... Will you speak to 
him, persuade him — ?” 

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

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

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

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

“In other words, it doesn’t matter to him if Draco is 
killed!” 

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



Page | 39 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




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



“My only son ... my only son ...” 

“You should be proud!” said Bellatrix ruthlessly. “If I 
had sons, I would be glad to give them up to the 
service of the Dark Lord!” 

Narcissa gave a little scream of despair and clutched 
at her long blonde hair. Snape stooped, seized her by 
the arms, lifted her up, and steered her back onto the 
sofa. He then poured her more wine and forced the 
glass into her hand. 

“Narcissa, that’s enough. Drink this. Listen to me.” 

She quieted a little; slopping wine down herself, she 
took a shaky sip. 

“It might be possible ... for me to help Draco.” 

She sat up, her face paper-white, her eyes huge. 

“Severus — oh, Severus — you would help him? 

Would you look after him, see he comes to no harm?” 

“I can try.” 

She flung away her glass; it skidded across the table 
as she slid off the sofa into a kneeling position at 
Snape ’s feet, seized his hand in both of hers, and 
pressed her lips to it. 

“If you are there to protect him ... Severus, will you 
swear it? Will you make the Unbreakable Vow?” 

“The Unbreakable Vow?” 

Page | 40 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince -J.K. Rowling 




Snape’s expression was blank, unreadable. Bellatrix, 
however, let out a cackle of triumphant laughter. 

“Aren’t you listening, Narcissa? Oh, he’ll try, I’m sure. 
... The usual empty words, the usual slithering out of 
action ... oh, on the Dark Lord’s orders, of course!” 

Snape did not look at Bellatrix. His black eyes were 
fixed upon Narcissa’s tear-filled blue ones as she 
continued to clutch his hand. 

“Certainly, Narcissa, I shall make the Unbreakable 
Vow,” he said quietly. “Perhaps your sister will 
consent to be our Bonder.” 

Bellatrix’s mouth fell open. Snape lowered himself so 
that he was kneeling opposite Narcissa. Beneath 
Bellatrix’s astonished gaze, they grasped right hands. 

“You will need your wand, Bellatrix,” said Snape 
coldly. 

She drew it, still looking astonished. 

“And you will need to move a little closer,” he said. 

She stepped forward so that she stood over them, and 
placed the tip of her wand on their linked hands. 

Narcissa spoke. 

“Will you, Severus, watch over my son, Draco, as he 
attempts to fulfill the Dark Lord’s wishes?” 

“I will,” said Snape. 

A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from the wand 
and wound its way around their hands like a red-hot 
wire. 

Page | 41 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince -J.K. Rowling 




“And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him 
from harm?” 

“I will,” said Snape. 

A second tongue of flame shot from the wand and 
interlinked with the first, making a fine, glowing 
chain. 

“And, should it prove necessary ... if it seems Draco 
will fail ...” whispered Narcissa (Snape’s hand 
twitched within hers, but he did not draw away), “will 
you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has 
ordered Draco to perform?” 

There was a moment’s silence. Bellatrix watched, her 
wand upon their clasped hands, her eyes wide. 

“I will,” said Snape. 

Bellatrix’s astounded face glowed red in the blaze of a 
third tongue of flame, which shot from the wand, 
twisted with the others, and bound itself thickly 
around their clasped hands, like a rope, like a fiery 
snake. 



Page | 42 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




3 




WILL AND WON’T 

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

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

HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE? 



Page | 43 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 



Rumors continue to fly about the mysterious recent 
disturbance at the Ministry of Magic, during which 
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was sighted once more. 

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

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

Though Ministry spokeswizards have hitherto refused 
even to confirm the existence of such a place, a 
growing number of the Wizarding community believe 
that the Death Eaters now serving sentences in 
Azkaban for trespass and attempted theft were 
attempting to steal a prophecy. The nature of that 
prophecy is unknown, although speculation is rife 
that it concerns Harry Potter, the only person ever 
known to have survived the Killing Curse, and who is 
also known to have been at the Ministry on the night 
in question. Some are going so far as to call Potter 
“the Chosen One,” believing that the prophecy names 
him as the only one who will be able to rid us of He- 
Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. 

The current whereabouts of the prophecy, if it exists, 
are unknown, although (ctd. page 2, column 5) 

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

SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDS FUDGE 

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

Page | 44 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




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

Scrimgeour’s representatives admitted that he had met 
with Dumbledore at once upon taking possession of the 
top job, but refused to comment on the topics under 
discussion. Albus Dumbledore is known to (ctd. page 
3, column 2) 

To the left of this paper sat another, which had been 
folded so that a story bearing the title MINISTRY 
GUARANTEES STUDENTS’ SAFETY was visible. 

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

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

Most seem reassured by the new Minister’s tough 
stand on student safety. Said Mrs. Augusta 
Longbottom, “My grandson, Neville — a good friend of 
Harry Potter’s, incidentally, who fought the Death 
Eaters alongside him at the Ministry in June and — 
Page | 45 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

— ISSUED ON BEHALF OF — 

THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC 

PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY 

AGAINST DARK FORCES 

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

1. You are advised not to leave the house alone. 

2. Particular care should be taken during the 
hours of darkness. Wherever possible, arrange to 
complete journeys before night has fallen. 

3. Review the security arrangements around your 
house, making sure that all family members are 
aware of emergency measures such as Shield and 



Page | 46 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




Disillusionment Charms, and, in the case of underage 
family members, Side-Along-Apparition. 

4. Agree on security questions with close friends 
and family so as to detect Death Eaters masquerading 
as others by use of the Polyjuice Potion (see page 2). 

5. Should you feel that a family member, 
colleague, friend, or neighbor is acting in a strange 
manner, contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad 
at once. They may have been put under the Imperius 
Curse (see page 4). 

6. Should the Dark Mark appear over any dwelling 
place or other building, DO NOT ENTER, but contact 
the Auror office immediately. 

7. Unconfirmed sightings suggest that the Death 
Eaters may now be using Inferi (see page 10). Any 
sighting of an Inferius, or encounter with same, 
should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY. 

Harry grunted in his sleep and his face slid down the 
window an inch or so, making his glasses still more 
lopsided, but he did not wake up. An alarm clock, 
repaired by Harry several years ago, ticked loudly on 
the sill, showing one minute to eleven. Beside it, held 
in place by Harry’s relaxed hand, was a piece of 
parchment covered in thin, slanting writing. Harry 
had read this letter so often since its arrival three 
days ago that although it had been delivered in a 
tightly furled scroll, it now lay quite flat. 

Dear Harry, 

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

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

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

I am, yours most sincerely, 

Albus Dumbledore 

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

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



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

Harry awoke as though the sudden darkness were an 
alarm. Hastily straightening his glasses and 
unsticking his cheek from the glass, he pressed his 
nose against the window instead and squinted down 
at the pavement. A tall figure in a long, billowing 
cloak was walking up the garden path. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, good evening Harry,” said Dumbledore, looking 
up at him through his half-moon glasses with a most 
satisfied expression. “Excellent, excellent.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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“Aren’t — aren’t we leaving, sir?” Harry asked 
anxiously. 

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

“You will, will you?” 

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

“Yes,” said Dumbledore simply, “I shall.” 

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

“We may as well be comfortable,” said Dumbledore 
pleasantly. 

As he replaced his wand in his pocket, Harry saw that 
his hand was blackened and shriveled; it looked as 
though his flesh had been burned away. 

“Sir — what happened to your — ?” 

“Later, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Please sit down.” 

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



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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

“You can keep using it as headquarters,” said Harry. 

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

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

“Why?” 

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



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

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

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

“No,” he said. 

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

“But how are you going to find out if I’m allowed to 
own it?” 

“Fortunately,” said Dumbledore, “there is a simple 
test.” 

He placed his empty glass on a small table beside his 
chair, but before he could do anything else, Uncle 

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Vernon shouted, “ Will you get these ruddy things off 
us?” 

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

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Dumbledore politely, and he 
raised his wand again. All three glasses vanished. 

“But it would have been better manners to drink it, 
you know.” 

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

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

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

“Kreacher,” finished Dumbledore. 



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“Kreacher won’t, Kreacher won’t, Kreacher won’t!” 
croaked the house-elf, quite as loudly as Uncle 
Vernon, stamping his long, gnarled feet and pulling 
his ears. “Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh yes, 
Kreacher belongs to the Blacks, Kreacher wants his 
new mistress, Kreacher won’t go to the Potter brat, 
Kreacher won’t, won’t, won’t — ” 

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

“I don’t care,” said Harry again, looking with disgust 
at the writhing, stamping house-elf. “I don’t want 
him.” 

“Won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t — ” 

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

“Won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t — ” 

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

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

“Won’t, won’t, won’t, WON’T.” 



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

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

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

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

“Not if you don’t want to,” said Dumbledore. “If I 
might make a suggestion, you could send him to 
Hogwarts to work in the kitchen there. In that way, 
the other house-elves could keep an eye on him.” 

“Yeah,” said Harry in relief, “yeah, I’ll do that. Er — 
Kreacher — I want you to go to Hogwarts and work in 
the kitchens there with the other house-elves.” 

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

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



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“No,” said Harry at once, “he can stay with Hagrid. I 
think Buckbeak would prefer that.” 

“Hagrid will be delighted,” said Dumbledore, smiling. 
“He was thrilled to see Buckbeak again. Incidentally, 
we have decided, in the interests of Buckbeak’s 
safety, to rechristen him ‘Witherwings’ for the time 
being, though I doubt that the Ministry would ever 
guess he is the hippogriff they once sentenced to 
death. Now, Harry, is your trunk packed?” 

“Erm ...” 

“Doubtful that I would turn up?” Dumbledore 
suggested shrewdly. 

“I’ll just go and — er — finish off,” said Harry hastily, 
hurrying to pick up his fallen telescope and trainers. 

It took him a little over ten minutes to track down 
everything he needed; at last he had managed to 
extract his Invisibility Cloak from under the bed, 
screwed the top back on his jar of color-change ink, 
and forced the lid of his trunk shut on his cauldron. 
Then, heaving his trunk in one hand and holding 
Hedwig’s cage in the other, he made his way back 
downstairs. 

He was disappointed to discover that Dumbledore was 
not waiting in the hall, which meant that he had to 
return to the living room. 

Nobody was talking. Dumbledore was humming 
quietly, apparently quite at his ease, but the 
atmosphere was thicker than cold custard, and Harry 
did not dare look at the Dursleys as he said, 

“Professor — I’m ready now.” 



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“Good,” said Dumbledore. “Just one last thing, then.” 
And he turned to speak to the Dursleys once more. 

“As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in 
a year’s time — ” 

“No,” said Aunt Petunia, speaking for the first time 
since Dumbledore’s arrival. 

“I’m sorry?” said Dumbledore politely. 

“No, he doesn’t. He’s a month younger than Dudley, 
and Dudders doesn’t turn eighteen until the year after 
next.” 

“Ah,” said Dumbledore pleasantly, “but in the 
Wizarding world, we come of age at seventeen.” 

Uncle Vernon muttered, “Preposterous,” but 
Dumbledore ignored him. 

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

“Well, Harry ... time for us to be off,” said Dumbledore 
at last, standing up and straightening his long black 
cloak. “Until we meet again,” he said to the Dursleys, 
who looked as though that moment could wait forever 



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as far as they were concerned, and after doffing his 
hat, he swept from the room. 

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

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

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

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



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HORACE SLUGHORN 

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

Dumbledore, however, seemed completely relaxed. 

“Keep your wand at the ready, Harry,” he said 
brightly. 

“But I thought I’m not allowed to use magic outside 
school, sir?” 



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“If there is an attack,” said Dumbledore, “I give you 
permission to use any counterjinx or curse that might 
occur to you. However, I do not think you need worry 
about being attacked tonight.” 

“Why not, sir?” 

“You are with me,” said Dumbledore simply. “This will 
do, Harry.” 

He came to an abrupt halt at the end of Privet Drive. 

“You have not, of course, passed your Apparition 
Test,” he said. 

“No,” said Harry. “I thought you had to be seventeen?” 

“You do,” said Dumbledore. “So you will need to hold 
on to my arm very tightly. My left, if you don’t mind — 
as you have noticed, my wand arm is a little fragile at 
the moment.” 

Harry gripped Dumbledore’s proffered forearm. 

“Very good,” said Dumbledore. “Well, here we go.” 

Harry felt Dumbledore’s arm twist away from him and 
redoubled his grip; the next thing he knew, everything 
went black; he was being pressed very hard from all 
directions; he could not breathe, there were iron 
bands tightening around his chest; his eyeballs were 
being forced back into his head; his eardrums were 
being pushed deeper into his skull and then — 

He gulped great lungfuls of cold night air and opened 
his streaming eyes. He felt as though he had just 
been forced through a very tight rubber tube. It was a 
few seconds before he realized that Privet Drive had 
vanished. He and Dumbledore were now standing in 
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what appeared to be a deserted village square, in the 
center of which stood an old war memorial and a few 
benches. His comprehension catching up with his 
senses, Harry realized that he had just Apparated for 
the first time in his life. 

“Are you all right?” asked Dumbledore, looking down 
at him solicitously. “The sensation does take some 
getting used to.” 

“I’m fine,” said Harry, rubbing his ears, which felt as 
though they had left Privet Drive rather reluctantly. 
“But I think I might prefer brooms. ...” 

Dumbledore smiled, drew his traveling cloak a little 
more tightly around his neck, and said, “This way.” 

He set off at a brisk pace, past an empty inn and a 
few houses. According to a clock on a nearby church, 
it was almost midnight. 

“So tell me, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Your scar ... 
has it been hurting at all?” 

Harry raised a hand unconsciously to his forehead 
and rubbed the lightning-shaped mark. 

“No,” he said, “and IVe been wondering about that. I 
thought it would be burning all the time now 
Voldemort’s getting so powerful again.” 

He glanced up at Dumbledore and saw that he was 
wearing a satisfied expression. 

“I, on the other hand, thought otherwise,” said 
Dumbledore. “Lord Voldemort has finally realized the 
dangerous access to his thoughts and feelings you 
have been enjoying. It appears that he is now 
employing Occlumency against you.” 

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“Well, I’m not complaining,” said Harry, who missed 
neither the disturbing dreams nor the startling 
flashes of insight into Voldemort’s mind. 

They turned a corner, passing a telephone box and a 
bus shelter. Harry looked sideways at Dumbledore 
again. “Professor?” 

“Harry?” 

“Er — where exactly are we?” 

“This, Harry, is the charming village of Budleigh 
Babberton.” 

“And what are we doing here?” 

“Ah yes, of course, I haven’t told you,” said 
Dumbledore. “Well, I have lost count of the number of 
times I have said this in recent years, but we are, 
once again, one member of staff short. We are here to 
persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of 
retirement and return to Hogwarts.” 

“How can I help with that, sir?” 

“Oh, I think we’ll find a use for you,” said Dumbledore 
vaguely. “Left here, Harry.” 

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

“Professor, why couldn’t we just Apparate directly into 
your old colleague’s house?” 



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“Because it would be quite as rude as kicking down 
the front door,” said Dumbledore. “Courtesy dictates 
that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity of denying 
us entry. In any case, most Wizarding dwellings are 
magically protected from unwanted Apparators. At 
Hogwarts, for instance — ” 

“ — you can’t Apparate anywhere inside the buildings 
or grounds,” said Harry quickly. “Hermione Granger 
told me.” 

“And she is quite right. We turn left again.” 

The church clock chimed midnight behind them. 

Harry wondered why Dumbledore did not consider it 
rude to call on his old colleague so late, but now that 
conversation had been established, he had more 
pressing questions to ask. 

“Sir, I saw in the Daily Prophet that Fudge has been 
sacked. ...” 

“Correct,” said Dumbledore, now turning up a steep 
side street. “He has been replaced, as I am sure you 
also saw, by Rufus Scrimgeour, who used to be Head 
of the Auror office.” 

“Is he ... Do you think he’s good?” asked Harry. 

“An interesting question,” said Dumbledore. “He is 
able, certainly. A more decisive and forceful 
personality than Cornelius.” 

“Yes, but I meant — ” 

“I know what you meant. Rufus is a man of action 
and, having fought Dark wizards for most of his 
working life, does not underestimate Lord Voldemort.” 



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Harry waited, but Dumbledore did not say anything 
about the disagreement with Scrimgeour that the 
Daily Prophet had reported, and he did not have the 
nerve to pursue the subject, so he changed it. “And ... 
sir ... I saw about Madam Bones.” 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore quietly. “A terrible loss. She 
was a great witch. Just up here, I think — ouch.” 

He had pointed with his injured hand. 

“Professor, what happened to your — ?” 

“I have no time to explain now,” said Dumbledore. “It 
is a thrilling tale, I wish to do it justice.” 

He smiled at Harry, who understood that he was not 
being snubbed, and that he had permission to keep 
asking questions. 

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

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

“Not really.” 

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

“I didn’t ...” Harry began, not entirely sure whether he 
was being reprimanded or not. 

“For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry ... 
although of course, if I were a Death Eater, I would 

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have been sure to research my own jam preferences 
before impersonating myself.” 

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

“They are corpses,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Dead 
bodies that have been bewitched to do a Dark 
wizard’s bidding. Inferi have not been seen for a long 
time, however, not since Voldemort was last powerful. 

. . . He killed enough people to make an army of them, 
of course. This is the place, Harry, just here. ...” 

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

“Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear.” 

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

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

“Wand out and follow me, Harry,” he said quietly. 

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

“Lumos.” 



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

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

“Not pretty, is it?” he said heavily. “Yes, something 
horrible has happened here.” 

Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the 
room, scrutinizing the wreckage at his feet. Harry 
followed, gazing around, half-scared of what he might 
see hidden behind the wreck of the piano or the 
overturned sofa, but there was no sign of a body. 

“Maybe there was a fight and — and they dragged him 
off, Professor?” Harry suggested, trying not to imagine 
how badly wounded a man would have to be to leave 
those stains spattered halfway up the walls. 

“I don’t think so,” said Dumbledore quietly, peering 
behind an overstuffed armchair lying on its side. 

“You mean he’s — ?” 



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“Still here somewhere? Yes.” 



And without warning, Dumbledore swooped, plunging 
the tip of his wand into the seat of the overstuffed 
armchair, which yelled, “Ouch!” 

“Good evening, Horace,” said Dumbledore, 
straightening up again. 

Harry’s jaw dropped. Where a split second before 
there had been an armchair, there now crouched an 
enormously fat, bald, old man who was massaging his 
lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an 
aggrieved and watery eye. 

“There was no need to stick the wand in that hard,” 
he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. “It hurt.” 

The wandlight sparkled on his shiny pate, his 
prominent eyes, his enormous, silver, walruslike 
mustache, and the highly polished buttons on the 
maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of 
lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached 
Dumbledore ’s chin. 

“What gave it away?” he grunted as he staggered to 
his feet, still rubbing his lower belly. He seemed 
remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been 
discovered pretending to be an armchair. 

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

The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast 
forehead. 

“The Dark Mark,” he muttered. “Knew there was 
something ... ah well. Wouldn’t have had time 

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anyway, I’d only just put the finishing touches to my 
upholstery when you entered the room.” 

He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his 
mustache flutter. 

“Would you like my assistance clearing up?” asked 
Dumbledore politely. 

“Please,” said the other. 

They stood back to back, the tall thin wizard and the 
short round one, and waved their wands in one 
identical sweeping motion. 

The furniture flew back to its original places; 
ornaments reformed in midair, feathers zoomed into 
their cushions; torn books repaired themselves as 
they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared 
onto side tables and reignited; a vast collection of 
splintered silver picture frames flew glittering across 
the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon 
a desk; rips, cracks, and holes healed everywhere, 
and the walls wiped themselves clean. 

“What kind of blood was that, incidentally?” asked 
Dumbledore loudly over the chiming of the newly 
unsmashed grandfather clock. 

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

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

“Yes, dragon,” repeated the wizard conversationally. 
“My last bottle, and prices are sky-high at the 
moment. Still, it might be reusable.” 



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

“Hmm. Bit dusty.” 

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

“Oho,” he said, his large round eyes flying to Harry’s 
forehead and the lightning-shaped scar it bore. “Ohol” 

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

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

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

“I suppose we can have a drink, at least?” asked 
Dumbledore. “For old time’s sake?” 

Slughorn hesitated. 

“All right then, one drink,” he said ungraciously. 

Dumbledore smiled at Harry and directed him toward 
a chair not unlike the one that Slughorn had so 
recently impersonated, which stood right beside the 
newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp. 
Harry took the seat with the distinct impression that 
Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to keep him as 
visible as possible. Certainly when Slughorn, who had 
been busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face 
the room again, his eyes fell immediately upon Harry. 
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“Hmpf,” he said, looking away quickly as though 
frightened of hurting his eyes. “Here — ” He gave a 
drink to Dumbledore, who had sat down without 
invitation, thrust the tray at Harry, and then sank 
into the cushions of the repaired sofa and a 
disgruntled silence. His legs were so short they did 
not touch the floor. 

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

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

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

Slughorn said, half irritably, half proudly, “Two. 

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

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

“You’re not yet as old as I am, Horace,” said 
Dumbledore. 



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“Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement 
yourself,” said Slughorn bluntly. His pale gooseberry 
eyes had found Dumbledore ’s injured hand. 

“Reactions not what they were, I see.” 

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

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

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

“What would the Death Eaters want with a poor 
broken-down old buffer like me?” demanded 
Slughorn. 

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

Slughorn eyed Dumbledore balefully for a moment, 
then muttered, “I haven’t given them the chance. I’ve 
been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place 
more than a week. Move from Muggle house to 

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Muggle house — the owners of this place are on 
holiday in the Canary Islands — it’s been very 
pleasant, I’ll be sorry to leave. It’s quite easy once you 
know how, one simple Freezing Charm on these 
absurd burglar alarms they use instead of 
Sneakoscopes and make sure the neighbors don’t 
spot you bringing in the piano.” 

“Ingenious,” said Dumbledore. “But it sounds a rather 
tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in 
search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to 
Hogwarts — ” 

“If you’re going to tell me my life would be more 
peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your 
breath, Albus! I might have been in hiding, but some 
funny rumors have reached me since Dolores 
Umbridge left! If that’s how you treat teachers these 
days — ” 

“Professor Umbridge ran afoul of our centaur herd,” 
said Dumbledore. “I think you, Horace, would have 
known better than to stride into the forest and call a 
horde of angry centaurs ‘filthy half-breeds.’ ” 

“That’s what she did, did she?” said Slughorn. “Idiotic 
woman. Never liked her.” 

Harry chuckled and both Dumbledore and Slughorn 
looked round at him. 

“Sorry,” Harry said hastily. “It’s just — I didn’t like 
her either.” 

Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly. 

“Are you leaving?” asked Slughorn at once, looking 
hopeful. 



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“No, I was wondering whether I might use your 
bathroom,” said Dumbledore. 

“Oh,” said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. “Second on 
the left down the hall.” 

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

“Don’t think I don’t know why he’s brought you,” he 
said abruptly. 

Harry merely looked at Slughorn. Slughorn ’s watery 
eyes slid over Harry’s scar, this time taking in the rest 
of his face. 

“You look very like your father.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been told,” said Harry. 

“Except for your eyes. You’ve got — ” 

“My mother’s eyes, yeah.” Harry had heard it so often 
he found it a bit wearing. 

“Hmpf. Yes, well. You shouldn’t have favorites as a 
teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your 
mother,” Slughorn added, in answer to Harry’s 
questioning look. “Lily Evans. One of the brightest I 
ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I 
used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. 
Very cheeky answers I used to get back too.” 

“Which was your House?” 



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“I was Head of Slytherin,” said Slughorn. “Oh, now,” 
he went on quickly, seeing the expression on Harry’s 
face and wagging a stubby finger at him, “don’t go 
holding that against me! You’ll be Gryffindor like her, 

I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families. Not 
always, though. Ever heard of Sirius Black? You must 
have done — been in the papers for the last couple of 
years — died a few weeks ago — ” 

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

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

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

“Your mother was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn’t 
believe it when I found out. Thought she must have 
been pure-blood, she was so good.” 

“One of my best friends is Muggle-born,” said Harry, 
“and she’s the best in our year.” 

“Funny how that sometimes happens, isn’t it?” said 
Slughorn. 

“Not really,” said Harry coldly. 

Slughorn looked down at him in surprise. “You 
mustn’t think I’m prejudiced!” he said. “No, no, no! 
Haven’t I just said your mother was one of my all-time 
favorite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in 

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the year after her too — now Head of the Goblin 
Liaison Office, of course — another Muggle-born, a 
very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside 
information on the goings-on at Gringotts!” 

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

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

This thought seemed to cheer him up enormously. 

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

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

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



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

“Still . . . the prudent wizard keeps his head down in 
such times. All very well for Dumbledore to talk, but 
taking up a post at Hogwarts just now would be 
tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the 
Order of the Phoenix! And while I’m sure they’re very 
admirable and brave and all the rest of it, I don’t 
personally fancy the mortality rate — ” 

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

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

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

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

“Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named 
has never sought a fight with Dumbledore,” he 
muttered grudgingly. “And I suppose one could argue 

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that as I have not joined the Death Eaters, He-Who- 
Must-Not-Be-Named can hardly count me a friend ... 
in which case, I might well be safer a little closer to 
Albus. ... I cannot pretend that Amelia Bones’s death 
did not shake me. ... If she, with all her Ministry 
contacts and protection ...” 

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

“Oh, there you are, Albus,” he said. “You’ve been a 
very long time. Upset stomach?” 

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

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

“You’re leaving?” 

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

“Lost... ?” 

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

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

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“Yes ... well ... very gracious ... as I say ...” 



“Good-bye, then.” 

“Bye,” said Harry. 

They were at the front door when there was a shout 
from behind them. 

“All right, all right, 111 do it!” 

Dumbledore turned to see Slughorn standing 
breathless in the doorway to the sitting room. 

“You will come out of retirement?” 

“Yes, yes,” said Slughorn impatiently. “I must be mad, 
but yes.” 

“Wonderful,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “Then, 
Horace, we shall see you on the first of September.” 

“Yes, I daresay you will,” grunted Slughorn. 

As they set off down the garden path, Slughorn ’s voice 
floated after them, “111 want a pay rise, Dumbledore!” 

Dumbledore chuckled. The garden gate swung shut 
behind them, and they set off back down the hill 
through the dark and the swirling mist. 

“Well done, Harry,” said Dumbledore. 

“I didn’t do anything,” said Harry in surprise. 

“Oh yes you did. You showed Horace exactly how 
much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did 
you like him?” 



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“Er ...” 



Harry wasn’t sure whether he liked Slughorn or not. 
He supposed he had been pleasant in his way, but he 
had also seemed vain and, whatever he said to the 
contrary, much too surprised that a Muggle-born 
should make a good witch. 

“Horace,” said Dumbledore, relieving Harry of the 
responsibility to say any of this, “likes his comfort. He 
also likes the company of the famous, the successful, 
and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he 
influences these people. He has never wanted to 
occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat — 
more room to spread out, you see. He used to 
handpick favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their 
ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm 
or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for 
choosing those who would go on to become 
outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a 
kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, 
making introductions, forging useful contacts 
between members, and always reaping some kind of 
benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite 
crystalized pineapple or the chance to recommend the 
next junior member of the Goblin Liaison Office.” 

Harry had a sudden and vivid mental image of a great 
swollen spider, spinning a web around it, twitching a 
thread here and there to bring its large and juicy flies 
a little closer. 

“I tell you all this,” Dumbledore continued, “not to 
turn you against Horace — or, as we must now call 
him, Professor Slughorn — but to put you on your 
guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Harry. 
You would be the jewel of his collection; ‘the Boy Who 
Lived’ ... or, as they call you these days, ‘the Chosen 
One.’” 

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

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

“This will do, Harry. If you will grasp my arm.” 

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

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

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

“I hope you will forgive me for mentioning it, Harry, 
but I am pleased and a little proud at how well you 
seem to be coping after everything that happened at 



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the Ministry. Permit me to say that I think Sirius 
would have been proud of you.” 

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

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

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

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

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



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



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

“I’ll make sure I take as many Death Eaters with me 
as I can, and Voldemort too if I can manage it.” 

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” said Harry again. “And now everyone knows 
that I’m the one — ” 

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



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

“No,” said Harry. 

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

“I didn’t want — ” 

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

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

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

“Yes. I think it is time that I took a greater hand in 
your education.” 

“What will you be teaching me, sir?” 

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” said Dumbledore 
airily. 



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Harry waited hopefully, but Dumbledore did not 
elaborate, so he asked something else that had been 
bothering him slightly. 

“If I’m having lessons with you, I won’t have to do 
Occlumency lessons with Snape, will I?” 

“Professor Snape, Harry — and no, you will not.” 

“Good,” said Harry in relief, “because they were a — ” 

He stopped, careful not to say what he really thought. 

“I think the word ‘fiasco’ would be a good one here,” 
said Dumbledore, nodding. 

Harry laughed. 

“Well, that means I won’t see much of Professor 
Snape from now on,” he said, “because he won’t let 
me carry on Potions unless I get ‘Outstanding’ in my 
O.W.L., which I know I haven’t.” 

“Don’t count your owls before they are delivered,” said 
Dumbledore gravely. “Which, now I think of it, ought 
to be some time later today. Now, two more things, 
Harry, before we part. 

“Firstly, I wish you to keep your Invisibility Cloak with 
you at all times from this moment onward. Even 
within Hogwarts itself. Just in case, you understand 
me?” 

Harry nodded. 

“And lastly, while you stay here, the Burrow has been 
given the highest security the Ministry of Magic can 
provide. These measures have caused a certain 
amount of inconvenience to Arthur and Molly — all 

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their post, for instance, is being searched at the 
Ministry before being sent on. They do not mind in 
the slightest, for their only concern is your safety. 
However, it would be poor repayment if you risked 
your neck while staying with them.” 

“I understand,” said Harry quickly. 

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



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AN EXCESS OF PHLEGM 

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

“Who’s there?” said a nervous voice he recognized as 
Mrs. Weasley’s. “Declare yourself!” 

“It is I, Dumbledore, bringing Harry.” 

The door opened at once. There stood Mrs. Weasley, 
short, plump, and wearing an old green dressing 
gown. 

“Harry, dear! Gracious, Albus, you gave me a fright, 
you said not to expect you before morning!” 

“We were lucky,” said Dumbledore, ushering Harry 
over the threshold. “Slughorn proved much more 

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persuadable than I had expected. Harry’s doing, of 
course. Ah, hello, Nymphadora!” 

Harry looked around and saw that Mrs. Weasley was 
not alone, despite the lateness of the hour. A young 
witch with a pale, heart-shaped face and mousy 
brown hair was sitting at the table clutching a large 
mug between her hands. 

“Hello, Professor,” she said. “Wotcher, Harry.” 

“Hi, Tonks.” 

Harry thought she looked drawn, even ill, and there 
was something forced in her smile. Certainly her 
appearance was less colorful than usual without her 
customary shade of bubble-gum-pink hair. 

“I’d better be off,” she said quickly, standing up and 
pulling her cloak around her shoulders. “Thanks for 
the tea and sympathy, Molly.” 

“Please don’t leave on my account,” said Dumbledore 
courteously, “I cannot stay, I have urgent matters to 
discuss with Rufus Scrimgeour.” 

“No, no, I need to get going,” said Tonks, not meeting 
Dumbledore’s eyes. “ ’Night — ” 

“Dear, why not come to dinner at the weekend, 

Remus and Mad-Eye are coming — ?” 

“No, really, Molly ... thanks anyway ... Good night, 
everyone.” 

Tonks hurried past Dumbledore and Harry into the 
yard; a few paces beyond the doorstep, she turned on 
the spot and vanished into thin air. Harry noticed 
that Mrs. Weasley looked troubled. 

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“Well, I shall see you at Hogwarts, Harry,” said 
Dumbledore. “Take care of yourself. Molly, your 
servant.” 

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

“You’re like Ron,” she sighed, looking him up and 
down. “Both of you look as though you’ve had 
Stretching Jinxes put on you. I swear Ron’s grown 
four inches since I last bought him school robes. Are 
you hungry, Harry?” 

“Yeah, I am,” said Harry, suddenly realizing just how 
hungry he was. 

“Sit down, dear, I’ll knock something up.” 

As Harry sat down, a furry ginger cat with a squashed 
face jumped onto his knees and settled there, 
purring. 

“So Hermione’s here?” he asked happily as he tickled 
Crookshanks behind the ears. 

“Oh yes, she arrived the day before yesterday,” said 
Mrs. Weasley, rapping a large iron pot with her wand. 
It bounced onto the stove with a loud clang and began 
to bubble at once. “Everyone’s in bed, of course, we 
didn’t expect you for hours. Here you are — ” 

She tapped the pot again; it rose into the air, flew 
toward Harry, and tipped over; Mrs. Weasley slid a 
bowl neatly beneath it just in time to catch the 
stream of thick, steaming onion soup. 



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“Bread, dear?” 



“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley.” 

She waved her wand over her shoulder; a loaf of 
bread and a knife soared gracefully onto the table; as 
the loaf sliced itself and the soup pot dropped back 
onto the stove, Mrs. Weasley sat down opposite him. 

“So you persuaded Horace Slughorn to take the job?” 

Harry nodded, his mouth so full of hot soup that he 
could not speak. 

“He taught Arthur and me,” said Mrs. Weasley. “He 
was at Hogwarts for ages, started around the same 
time as Dumbledore, I think. Did you like him?” 

His mouth now full of bread, Harry shrugged and 
gave a noncommittal jerk of the head. 

“I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Weasley, nodding 
wisely. “Of course he can be charming when he wants 
to be, but Arthur’s never liked him much. The 
Ministry’s littered with Slughorn’s old favorites, he 
was always good at giving leg ups, but he never had 
much time for Arthur — didn’t seem to think he was 
enough of a highflier. Well, that just shows you, even 
Slughorn makes mistakes. I don’t know whether 
Ron’s told you in any of his letters — it’s only just 
happened — but Arthur’s been promoted!” 

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

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



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“You are sweet,” beamed Mrs. Weasley, possibly 
taking his watering eyes for emotion at the news. 

“Yes, Rufus Scrimgeour has set up several new offices 
in response to the present situation, and Arthur’s 
heading the Office for the Detection and Confiscation 
of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. 
It’s a big job, he’s got ten people reporting to him 
now!” 

“What exactly — ?” 

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

“Is Mr. Weasley still at work?” Harry asked. 

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



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

“It’s been like that for a while now,” said Mrs. 

Weasley, in an unconvincingly casual voice, “ever 
since You-Know-Who came back into the open. I 
suppose everybody’s in mortal danger now. ... I don’t 
think it can be just our family ... but I don’t know 
anyone else who’s got a clock like this, so I can’t 
check. Oh!” 

With a sudden exclamation she pointed at the clock’s 
face. Mr. Weasley’s hand had switched to “traveling.” 

“He’s coming!” 

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

“Yes,” came Mr. Weasley’s weary voice. “But I would 
say that even if I were a Death Eater, dear. Ask the 
question!” 

“Oh, honestly ...” 

“Molly!” 

“All right, all right . . . What is your dearest ambition?” 

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“To find out how airplanes stay up.” 

Mrs. Weasley nodded and turned the doorknob, but 
apparently Mr. Weasley was holding tight to it on the 
other side, because the door remained firmly shut. 

“Molly! I’ve got to ask you your question first!” 

“Arthur, really, this is just silly. ...” 

“What do you like me to call you when we’re alone 
together?” 

Even by the dim light of the lantern Harry could tell 
that Mrs. Weasley had turned bright red; he himself 
felt suddenly warm around the ears and neck, and 
hastily gulped soup, clattering his spoon as loudly as 
he could against the bowl. 

“Mollywobbles,” whispered a mortified Mrs. Weasley 
into the crack at the edge of the door. 

“Correct,” said Mr. Weasley. “Now you can let me in.” 

Mrs. Weasley opened the door to reveal her husband, 
a thin, balding, red-haired wizard wearing horn- 
rimmed spectacles and a long and dusty traveling 
cloak. 

“I still don’t see why we have to go through that every 
time you come home,” said Mrs. Weasley, still pink in 
the face as she helped her husband out of his cloak. 

“I mean, a Death Eater might have forced the answer 
out of you before impersonating you!” 

“I know, dear, but it’s Ministry procedure, and I have 
to set an example. Something smells good — onion 
soup?” 



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Mr. Weasley turned hopefully in the direction of the 
table. 

“Harry! We didn’t expect you until morning!” 

They shook hands, and Mr. Weasley dropped into the 
chair beside Harry as Mrs. Weasley set a bowl of soup 
in front of him too. 

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

“And what really happens when you put them on?” 

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

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

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

“So is that why you’re late, Metamorph-Medals?” 

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

Harry stifled a yawn behind his hand. 



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

“Why, where are they?” 

“Oh, they’re in Diagon Alley, sleeping in the little flat 
over their joke shop as they’re so busy,” said Mrs. 
Weasley. “I must say, I didn’t approve at first, but 
they do seem to have a bit of a flair for business! 

Come on, dear, your trunk’s already up there.” 

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

“G’night, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley. 

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

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

Hedwig hooted happily at Harry from her perch on top 
of a large wardrobe, then took off through the 
window; Harry knew she had been waiting to see him 
before going hunting. Harry bade Mrs. Weasley good 

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night, put on pajamas, and got into one of the beds. 
There was something hard inside the pillowcase. He 
groped inside it and pulled out a sticky purple-and- 
orange sweet, which he recognized as a Puking 
Pastille. Smiling to himself, he rolled over and was 
instantly asleep. 

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

“Wuzzgoinon?” 

“We didn’t know you were here already!” said a loud 
and excited voice, and he received a sharp blow to the 
top of the head. 

“Ron, don’t hit him!” said a girl’s voice reproachfully. 

Harry’s hand found his glasses and he shoved them 
on, though the light was so bright he could hardly see 
anyway. A long, looming shadow quivered in front of 
him for a moment; he blinked and Ron Weasley came 
into focus, grinning down at him. 

“All right?” 

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

“Not bad,” said Ron, pulling over a cardboard box and 
sitting on it. “When did you get here? Mum’s only just 
told us!” 

“About one o’clock this morning.” 

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“Were the Muggles all right? Did they treat you okay?” 

“Same as usual,” said Harry, as Hermione perched 
herself on the edge of his bed, “they didn’t talk to me 
much, but I like it better that way. How’re you, 
Hermione?” 

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

“Don’t worry about that, Mum’s bringing you up a 
tray; she reckons you look underfed,” said Ron, 
rolling his eyes. “So, what’s been going on?” 

“Nothing much, I’ve just been stuck at my aunt and 
uncle’s, haven’t I?” 

“Come off it!” said Ron. “You’ve been off with 
Dumbledore!” 

“It wasn’t that exciting. He just wanted me to help 
him persuade this old teacher to come out of 
retirement. His name’s Horace Slughorn.” 

“Oh,” said Ron, looking disappointed. “We thought — ” 

Hermione flashed a warning look at Ron, and Ron 
changed tack at top speed. 

“ — we thought it’d be something like that.” 

“You did?” said Harry, amused. 



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“Yeah ... yeah, now Umbridge has left, obviously we 
need a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, 
don’t we? So, er, what’s he like?” 

“He looks a bit like a walrus, and he used to be Head 
of Slytherin,” said Harry. “Something wrong, 
Hermione?” 

She was watching him as though expecting strange 
symptoms to manifest themselves at any moment. 

She rearranged her features hastily in an 
unconvincing smile. 

“No, of course not! So, um, did Slughorn seem like 
he’ll be a good teacher?” 

“Dunno,” said Harry. “He can’t be worse than 
Umbridge, can he?” 

“I know someone who’s worse than Umbridge,” said a 
voice from the doorway. Ron’s younger sister slouched 
into the room, looking irritable. “Hi, Harry.” 

“What’s up with you?” Ron asked. 

“It’s her,” said Ginny, plonking herself down on 
Harry’s bed. “She’s driving me mad.” 

“What’s she done now?” asked Hermione 
sympathetically. 

“It’s the way she talks to me — you’d think I was 
about three!” 

“I know,” said Hermione, dropping her voice. “She’s so 
full of herself.” 

Harry was astonished to hear Hermione talking about 
Mrs. Weasley like this and could not blame Ron for 

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saying angrily, “Can’t you two lay off her for five 
seconds?” 

“Oh, that’s right, defend her,” snapped Ginny. “We all 
know you can’t get enough of her.” 

This seemed an odd comment to make about Ron’s 
mother. Starting to feel that he was missing 
something, Harry said, “Who are you — ?” 

But his question was answered before he could finish 
it. The bedroom door flew open again, and Harry 
instinctively yanked the bedcovers up to his chin so 
hard that Hermione and Ginny slid off the bed onto 
the floor. 

A young woman was standing in the doorway, a 
woman of such breathtaking beauty that the room 
seemed to have become strangely airless. She was tall 
and willowy with long blonde hair and appeared to 
emanate a faint, silvery glow. To complete this vision 
of perfection, she was carrying a heavily laden 
breakfast tray. 

“ ’Arry,” she said in a throaty voice. “Eet ’as been too 
long!” 

As she swept over the threshold toward him, Mrs. 
Weasley was revealed, bobbing along in her wake, 
looking rather cross. 

“There was no need to bring up the tray, I was just 
about to do it myself!” 

“Eet was no trouble,” said Fleur Delacour, setting the 
tray across Harry’s knees and then swooping to kiss 
him on each cheek: He felt the places where her 
mouth had touched him burn. “I ’ave been longing to 
see ’im. You remember my seester, Gabrielle? She 
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never stops talking about ’Ariy Potter. She will be 
delighted to see you again.” 



“Oh ... is she here too?” Harry croaked. 

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

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

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

“Bill and I are going to be married!” 

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

She swooped down upon him and kissed him again. 

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

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

Mrs. Weasley made a noise that sounded like “tchah!” 

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“Mum hates her,” said Ginny quietly. 

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

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

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

“Including you and Dad,” said Ginny slyly. 

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

“A cow,” said Ginny, nodding. “But Bill’s not that 
down-to-earth. He’s a Curse-Breaker, isn’t he, he 
likes a bit of adventure, a bit of glamour. ... I expect 
that’s why he’s gone for Phlegm.” 

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

Looking careworn, she left the room. Ron still seemed 
slightly punch-drunk; he was shaking his head 



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experimentally like a dog trying to rid its ears of 
water. 

“Don’t you get used to her if she’s staying in the same 
house?” Harry asked. 

“Well, you do,” said Ron, “but if she jumps out at you 
unexpectedly, like then ...” 

“It’s pathetic,” said Hermione furiously, striding away 
from Ron as far as she could go and turning to face 
him with her arms folded once she had reached the 
wall. 

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

“How’s she going to manage that?” asked Harry. 

“She keeps trying to get Tonks round for dinner. I 
think she’s hoping Bill will fall for Tonks instead. I 
hope he does, I’d much rather have her in the family.” 

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

“She’s a damn sight nicer than Phlegm,” said Ginny 

“And she’s more intelligent, she’s an Auror!” said 
Hermione from the corner. 

“Fleur’s not stupid, she was good enough to enter the 
Triwizard Tournament,” said Harry. 



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“Not you as well!” said Hermione bitterly. 



“I suppose you like the way Phlegm says ‘’Arry,’ do 
you?” asked Ginny scornfully. 

“No,” said Harry, wishing he hadn’t spoken, “I was 
just saying, Phlegm — I mean, Fleur — ” 

“I’d much rather have Tonks in the family,” said 
Ginny. “At least she’s a laugh.” 

“She hasn’t been much of a laugh lately,” said Ron. 
“Every time I’ve seen her she’s looked more like 
Moaning Myrtle.” 

“That’s not fair,” snapped Hermione. “She still hasn’t 
got over what happened . . . you know ... I mean, he 
was her cousin!” 

Harry’s heart sank. They had arrived at Sirius. He 
picked up a fork and began shoveling scrambled eggs 
into his mouth, hoping to deflect any invitation to join 
in this part of the conversation. 

“Tonks and Sirius barely knew each other!” said Ron. 
“Sirius was in Azkaban half her life and before that 
their families never met — ” 

“That’s not the point,” said Hermione. “She thinks it 
was her fault he died!” 

“How does she work that one out?” asked Harry, in 
spite of himself. 

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

“That’s stupid,” said Ron. 

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“It’s survivor’s guilt,” said Hermione. “I know Lupin’s 
tried to talk her round, but she’s still really down. 
She’s actually having trouble with her 
Metamorphosing! ” 

“With her — ?” 

“She can’t change her appearance like she used to,” 
explained Hermione. “I think her powers must have 
been affected by shock, or something.” 

“I didn’t know that could happen,” said Harry. 

“Nor did I,” said Hermione, “but I suppose if you’re 
really depressed ...” 

The door opened again and Mrs. Weasley popped her 
head in. “Ginny,” she whispered, “come downstairs 
and help me with the lunch.” 

“I’m talking to this lot!” said Ginny, outraged. 

“Now!” said Mrs. Weasley, and withdrew. 

“She only wants me there so she doesn’t have to be 
alone with Phlegm!” said Ginny crossly. She swung 
her long red hair around in a very good imitation of 
Fleur and pranced across the room with her arms 
held aloft like a ballerina. 

“You lot had better come down quickly too,” she said 
as she left. 

Harry took advantage of the temporary silence to eat 
more breakfast. Hermione was peering into Fred and 
George’s boxes, though every now and then she cast 
sideways looks at Harry. Ron, who was now helping 
himself to Harry’s toast, was still gazing dreamily at 
the door. 

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“What’s this?” Hermione asked eventually, holding up 
what looked like a small telescope. 

“Dunno,” said Ron, “but if Fred and George’ve left it 
here, it’s probably not ready for the joke shop yet, so 
be careful.” 

“Your mum said the shop’s going well,” said Harry. 
“Said Fred and George have got a real flair for 
business.” 

“That’s an understatement,” said Ron. “They’re raking 
in the Galleons! I can’t wait to see the place, we 
haven’t been to Diagon Alley yet, because Mum says 
Dad’s got to be there for extra security and he’s been 
really busy at work, but it sounds excellent.” 

“And what about Percy?” asked Harry; the third- 
eldest Weasley brother had fallen out with the rest of 
the family. “Is he talking to your mum and dad 
again?” 

“Nope,” said Ron. 

“But he knows your dad was right all along now 
about Voldemort being back — ” 

“Dumbledore says people find it far easier to forgive 
others for being wrong than being right,” said 
Hermione. “I heard him telling your mum, Ron.” 

“Sounds like the sort of mental thing Dumbledore 
would say,” said Ron. 

“He’s going to be giving me private lessons this year,” 
said Harry conversationally. 

Ron choked on his bit of toast, and Hermione gasped. 



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“You kept that quiet!” said Ron. 

“I only just remembered,” said Harry honestly. “He 
told me last night in your broom shed.” 

“Blimey ... private lessons with Dumbledore!” said 
Ron, looking impressed. “I wonder why he’s ... ?” 

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

Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke. Harry had the 
impression that both had frozen. He continued, still 
speaking to his fork, “You know, the one they were 
trying to steal at the Ministry.” 

“Nobody knows what it said, though,” said Hermione 
quickly. “It got smashed.” 

“Although the Prophet says — ” began Ron, but 
Hermione said, “Shh!” 

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

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

“Hermione!” shouted Harry and Ron; the breakfast 
tray slid to the floor with a crash. 

Hermione emerged, coughing, out of the smoke, 
clutching the telescope and sporting a brilliantly 
purple black eye. 

“I squeezed it and it — it punched me!” she gasped. 

And sure enough, they now saw a tiny fist on a long 
spring protruding from the end of the telescope. 

“Don’t worry,” said Ron, who was plainly trying not to 
laugh, “Mumll fix that, she’s good at healing minor 
injuries — ” 

“Oh well, never mind that now!” said Hermione 
hastily. “Harry, oh, Harry ...” 

She sat down on the edge of his bed again. 

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

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

“When we heard Dumbledore was collecting you in 
person, we thought he might be telling you something 

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or showing you something to do with the prophecy,” 
said Ron eagerly. “And we were kind of right, weren’t 
we? He wouldn’t be giving you lessons if he thought 
you were a goner, wouldn’t waste his time — he must 
think you’ve got a chance!” 

“That’s true,” said Hermione. “I wonder what he’ll 
teach you, Harry? Really advanced defensive magic, 
probably ... powerful countercurses ... anti-jinxes ...” 

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

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

“Can’t be long now, it’s been a month,” said Ron. 

“Hang on,” said Harry, as another part of last night’s 
conversation came back to him. “I think Dumbledore 
said our O.W.L. results would be arriving today!” 

“Today?” shrieked Hermione. “Today? But why didn’t 
you — oh my God — you should have said — ” 

She leapt to her feet. 

“I’m going to see whether any owls have come. ...” 



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

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

“It’ll be Fred and George’s idea of a funny joke, 
making sure it can’t come off,” said Ginny 

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

“You won’t, dear, we’ll find an antidote, don’t worry,” 
said Mrs. Weasley soothingly. 

“Bill told me ’ow Fred and George are very amusing!” 
said Fleur, smiling serenely. 

“Yes, I can hardly breathe for laughing,” snapped 
Hermione. 

She jumped up and started walking round and round 
the kitchen, twisting her fingers together. 

“Mrs. Weasley, you’re quite, quite sure no owls have 
arrived this morning?” 

“Yes, dear, I’d have noticed,” said Mrs. Weasley 
patiently. “But it’s barely nine, there’s still plenty of 
time. ...” 

“I know I messed up Ancient Runes,” muttered 
Hermione feverishly, “I definitely made at least one 

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serious mistranslation. And the Defense Against the 
Dark Arts practical was no good at all. I thought 
Transfiguration went all right at the time, but looking 
back — ” 

“Hermione, will you shut up, you’re not the only one 
who’s nervous!” barked Ron. “And when you’ve got 
your eleven ‘Outstanding’ O.W.L.s ...” 

“Don’t, don’t, don’t!” said Hermione, flapping her 
hands hysterically. “I know I’ve failed everything!” 

“What happens if we fail?” Harry asked the room at 
large, but it was again Hermione who answered. 

“We discuss our options with our Head of House, I 
asked Professor McGonagall at the end of last term.” 

Harry’s stomach squirmed. He wished he had eaten 
less breakfast. 

“At Beauxbatons,” said Fleur complacently, “we ’ad a 
different way of doing things. I think eet was better. 
We sat our examinations after six years of study, not 
five, and then — ” 

Fleur’s words were drowned in a scream. Hermione 
was pointing through the kitchen window. Three 
black specks were clearly visible in the sky, growing 
larger all the time. 

“They’re definitely owls,” said Ron hoarsely, jumping 
up to join Hermione at the window. 

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

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

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She gripped both Harry and Ron tightly around the 
elbows. 



The owls were flying directly at the Burrow, three 
handsome tawnies, each of which, it became clear as 
they flew lower over the path leading up to the house, 
was carrying a large square envelope. 

“Oh no\” squealed Hermione. 

Mrs. Weasley squeezed past them and opened the 
kitchen window. One, two, three, the owls soared 
through it and landed on the table in a neat line. All 
three of them lifted their right legs. 

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

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

ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL RESULTS 



Pass Grades Fail Grades 

Outstanding (O) Poor (P) 

Exceeds Expectations (E) Dreadful (D) 

Acceptable (A) Troll (T) 

Harry James Potter has achieved: 

Astronomy A 

Care of Magical Creatures E 

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Charms E 

Defense Against the Dark ArtsO 
Divination P 

Herbology E 

History of Magic D 

Potions E 

Transfiguration E 



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

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

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

Harry glanced down Ron’s grades: There were no 
“Outstandings” there. ... 

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

“Well done!” said Mrs. Weasley proudly, ruffling Ron’s 
hair. “Seven O.W.L.s, that’s more than Fred and 
George got together!” 



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“Hermione?” said Ginny tentatively, for Hermione still 
hadn’t turned around. “How did you do?” 

“I — not bad,” said Hermione in a small voice. 

“Oh, come off it,” said Ron, striding over to her and 
whipping her results out of her hand. “Yep — nine 
‘Outstandings’ and one ‘Exceeds Expectations’ at 
Defense Against the Dark Arts.” He looked down at 
her, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You’re actually 
disappointed, aren’t you?” 

Hermione shook her head, but Harry laughed. 

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

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

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



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6 




DRACO’S DETOUR 

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

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



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

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

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

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

“Dragged off, by the look of his place.” 

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

“Who knows? He must’ve upset them somehow. He 
was a good man, Florean.” 

“Talking of Diagon Alley,” said Mr. Weasley, “looks 
like Ollivander’s gone too.” 

“The wandmaker?” said Ginny, looking startled. 

“That’s the one. Shop’s empty. No sign of a struggle. 
No one knows whether he left voluntarily or was 
kidnapped.” 

“But wands — what’ll people do for wands?” 

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“They’ll make do with other makers,” said Lupin. “But 
Ollivander was the best, and if the other side have got 
him it’s not so good for us.” 

The day after this rather gloomy birthday tea, their 
letters and booklists arrived from Hogwarts. Harry’s 
included a surprise: He had been made Quidditch 
Captain. 

“That gives you equal status with prefects!” cried 
Hermione happily. “You can use our special bathroom 
now and everything!” 

“Wow, I remember when Charlie wore one of these,” 
said Ron, examining the badge with glee. “Harry, this 
is so cool, you’re my Captain — if you let me back on 
the team, I suppose, ha ha. ...” 

“Well, I don’t suppose we can put off a trip to Diagon 
Alley much longer now you’ve got these,” sighed Mrs. 
Weasley, looking down Ron’s booklist. “We’ll go on 
Saturday as long as your father doesn’t have to go 
into work again. I’m not going there without him.” 

“Mum, d’you honestly think You-Know- Who’s going to 
be hiding behind a bookshelf in Flourish and Blotts?” 
sniggered Ron. 

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

“No, I wanna come, I want to see Fred and George’s 
shop!” said Ron hastily. 

“Then you just buck up your ideas, young man, 
before I decide you’re too immature to come with us!” 
said Mrs. Weasley angrily, snatching up her clock, all 

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nine hands of which were still pointing at “mortal 
peril,” and balancing it on top of a pile of just- 
laundered towels. “And that goes for returning to 
Hogwarts as well!” 

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

“Blimey ... you can’t even make a joke round here 
anymore. ...” 

But Ron was careful not to be flippant about 
Voldemort over the next few days. Saturday dawned 
without any more outbursts from Mrs. Weasley, 
though she seemed very tense at breakfast. Bill, who 
would be staying at home with Fleur (much to 
Hermione and Ginny’s pleasure), passed a full money 
bag across the table to Harry. 

“Where’s mine?” demanded Ron at once, his eyes 
wide. 

“That’s already Harry’s, idiot,” said Bill. “I got it out of 
your vault for you, Harry, because it’s taking about 
five hours for the public to get to their gold at the 
moment, the goblins have tightened security so 
much. Two days ago Arkie Philpott had a Probity 
Probe stuck up his ... Well, trust me, this way’s 
easier.” 

“Thanks, Bill,” said Harry, pocketing his gold. 

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



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

“It’s good Dad can get us these again,” said Ron 
appreciatively, stretching luxuriously as the car 
moved smoothly away from the Burrow, Bill and Fleur 
waving from the kitchen window. He, Harry, 

Hermione, and Ginny were all sitting in roomy 
comfort in the wide backseat. 

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

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

“Here you are, then,” said the driver, a surprisingly 
short while later, speaking for the first time as he 
slowed in Charing Cross Road and stopped outside 
the Leaky Cauldron. “I’m to wait for you, any idea 
how long you 11 be?” 

“A couple of hours, I expect,” said Mr. Weasley. “Ah, 
good, he’s here!” 



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

“Harry!” he boomed, sweeping Harry into a bone- 
crushing hug the moment Harry had stepped out of 
the car. “Buckbeak — Witherwings, I mean — yeh 
should see him, Harry, he’s so happy ter be back in 
the open air — ” 

“Glad he’s pleased,” said Harry, grinning as he 
massaged his ribs. “We didn’t know ‘security’ meant 
you!” 

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

The Leaky Cauldron was, for the first time in Harry’s 
memory, completely empty. Only Tom the landlord, 
wizened and toothless, remained of the old crowd. He 
looked up hopefully as they entered, but before he 
could speak, Hagrid said importantly, “Jus’ passin’ 
through today, Tom, sure yeh understand, Hogwarts 
business, yeh know.” 

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



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winding cobbled street. They stepped through the 
entrance and paused, looking around. 

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

AMULETS 

Effective Against Werewolves, Dementors, and Inferi 

A seedy-looking little wizard was rattling armfuls of 
silver symbols on chains at passersby. 

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

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

“Yes, but don’t go arresting anyone now, dear, we’re 
in a hurry,” said Mrs. Weasley, nervously consulting a 
list. “I think we’d better do Madam Malkin’s first, 
Hermione wants new dress robes, and Ron’s showing 

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much too much ankle in his school robes, and you 
must need new ones too, Harry, you’ve grown so 
much — come on, everyone — ” 

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

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

“Don’ fret, they’ll be fine with me, Molly,” said Hagrid 
soothingly, waving an airy hand the size of a dustbin 
lid. Mrs. Weasley did not look entirely convinced, but 
allowed the separation, scurrying off toward Flourish 
and Blotts with her husband and Ginny while Harry, 
Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid set off for Madam 
Malkin’s. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Watch where you’re sticking that pin, will you!” 

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

“If you’re wondering what the smell is, Mother, a 
Mudblood just walked in,” said Draco Malfoy. 

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

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



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“That’s quite enough!” said Madam Malkin sharply, 
looking over her shoulder for support. “Madam — 
please — ” 

Narcissa Malfoy strolled out from behind the clothes 
rack. 

“Put those away,” she said coldly to Harry and Ron. 

“If you attack my son again, I shall ensure that it is 
the last thing you ever do.” 

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

Madam Malkin squealed and clutched at her heart. 

“Really, you shouldn’t accuse — dangerous thing to 
say — wands away, please!” 

But Harry did not lower his wand. Narcissa Malfoy 
smiled unpleasantly. 

“I see that being Dumbledore’s favorite has given you 
a false sense of security, Harry Potter. But 
Dumbledore won’t always be there to protect you.” 

Harry looked mockingly all around the shop. “Wow ... 
look at that ... he’s not here now! So why not have a 
go? They might be able to find you a double cell in 
Azkaban with your loser of a husband!” 

Malfoy made an angry movement toward Harry, but 
stumbled over his overlong robe. Ron laughed loudly. 

“Don’t you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!” 
Malfoy snarled. 

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“It’s all right, Draco,” said Narcissa, restraining him 
with her thin white fingers upon his shoulder. “I 
expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I 
am reunited with Lucius.” 

Harry raised his wand higher. 

“Harry, no!” moaned Hermione, grabbing his arm and 
attempting to push it down by his side. “Think. ... 

You mustn’t. ... You’ll be in such trouble. ...” 

Madam Malkin dithered for a moment on the spot, 
then seemed to decide to act as though nothing was 
happening in the hope that it wouldn’t. She bent 
toward Malfoy, who was still glaring at Harry. 

“I think this left sleeve could come up a little bit more, 
dear, let me just — ” 

“Ouch!” bellowed Malfoy, slapping her hand away. 
“Watch where you’re putting your pins, woman! 
Mother — I don’t think I want these anymore — ” 

He pulled the robes over his head and threw them 
onto the floor at Madam Malkin’s feet. 

“You’re right, Draco,” said Narcissa, with a 
contemptuous glance at Hermione, “now I know the 
kind of scum that shops here. ... We’ll do better at 
Twilfitt and Tatting’s.” 

And with that, the pair of them strode out of the 
shop, Malfoy taking care to bang as hard as he could 
into Ron on the way out. 

“Well, reallyl” said Madam Malkin, snatching up the 
fallen robes and moving the tip of her wand over them 
like a vacuum cleaner, so that it removed all the dust. 



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She was distracted all through the fitting of Ron’s and 
Harry’s new robes, tried to sell Hermione wizard’s 
dress robes instead of witch’s, and when she finally 
bowed them out of the shop it was with an air of 
being glad to see the back of them. 

“Got ev’rything?” asked Hagrid brightly when they 
reappeared at his side. 

“Just about,” said Harry. “Did you see the Malfoys?” 

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, unconcerned. “Bu’ they wouldn’ 
dare make trouble in the middle o’ Diagon Alley, 
Harry. Don’ worry abou’ them.” 

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

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

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

“We really haven’t got too long,” Mrs. Weasley said. 

“So we’ll just have a quick look around and then back 
to the car. We must be close, that’s number ninety- 
two ... ninety-four ...” 



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“Whoa,” said Ron, stopping in his tracks. 

Set against the dull, poster-muffled shop fronts 
around them, Fred and George’s windows hit the eye 
like a firework display. Casual passersby were looking 
back over their shoulders at the windows, and a few 
rather stunned-looking people had actually come to a 
halt, transfixed. The left-hand window was dazzlingly 
full of an assortment of goods that revolved, popped, 
flashed, bounced, and shrieked; Harry’s eyes began to 
water just looking at it. The right-hand window was 
covered with a gigantic poster, purple like those of the 
Ministry, but emblazoned with flashing yellow letters: 

WHY ARE YOU WORRYING ABOUT 

YOU-KNOW-WHO? 

YOU SHOULD BE WORRYING ABOUT 
U-NO-POO— 

THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION 
THAT’S GRIPPING THE NATION! 

Harry started to laugh. He heard a weak sort of moan 
beside him and looked around to see Mrs. Weasley 
gazing, dumbfounded, at the poster. Her lips moved 
silently, mouthing the name “U-No-Poo.” 

“They’ll be murdered in their beds!” she whispered. 

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

And he and Harry led the way into the shop. It was 
packed with customers; Harry could not get near the 

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shelves. He stared around, looking up at the boxes 
piled to the ceiling: Here were the Skiving Snackboxes 
that the twins had perfected during their last, 
unfinished year at Hogwarts; Harry noticed that the 
Nosebleed Nougat was most popular, with only one 
battered box left on the shelf. There were bins full of 
trick wands, the cheapest merely turning into rubber 
chickens or pairs of briefs when waved, the most 
expensive beating the unwary user around the head 
and neck, and boxes of quills, which came in Self- 
Inking, Spell-Checking, and Smart-Answer varieties. 

A space cleared in the crowd, and Harry pushed his 
way toward the counter, where a gaggle of delighted 
ten-year-olds was watching a tiny little wooden man 
slowly ascending the steps to a real set of gallows, 
both perched on a box that read: REUSABLE 
HANGMAN — SPELL IT OR HE’LL SWING! 

“ ‘Patented Daydream Charms . . . ’ ” 

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

“ ‘One simple incantation and you will enter a top- 
quality, highly realistic, thirty-minute daydream, easy 
to fit into the average school lesson and virtually 
undetectable (side effects include vacant expression 
and minor drooling). Not for sale to under-sixteens.’ 
You know,” said Hermione, looking up at Harry, “that 
really is extraordinary magic!” 

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



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

“How are you, Harry?” They shook hands. “And 
what’s happened to your eye, Hermione?” 

“Your punching telescope,” she said ruefully. 

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

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

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

Hermione looked nervous. “It is safe, isn’t it?” she 
asked. 

“ ’Course it is,” said Fred bracingly. “Come on, Harry, 
I’ll give you a tour.” 

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

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

Fred’s twin shook Harry’s hand energetically. 



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“Giving him the tour? Come through the back, Harry, 
that’s where we’re making the real money — pocket 
anything, you, and you’ll pay in more than GalleonsV’ 
he added warningly to a small boy who hastily 
whipped his hand out of the tub labeled EDIBLE 
DARK MARKS — THEY’LL MAKE ANYONE SICK! 

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

“We’ve just developed this more serious line,” said 
Fred. “Funny how it happened ...” 

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

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

“So we’ve expanded into a range of Shield Cloaks, 
Shield Gloves ...” 

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

“And then we thought we’d get into the whole area of 
Defense Against the Dark Arts, because it’s such a 
money spinner,” continued George enthusiastically. 
“This is cool. Look, Instant Darkness Powder, we’re 



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importing it from Peru. Handy if you want to make a 
quick escape.” 

“And our Decoy Detonators are just walking off the 
shelves, look,” said Fred, pointing at a number of 
weird-looking black horn-type objects that were 
indeed attempting to scurry out of sight. “You just 
drop one surreptitiously and it’ll run off and make a 
nice loud noise out of sight, giving you a diversion if 
you need one. 

“Handy,” said Harry, impressed. 

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

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

“There’s a customer out here looking for a joke 
cauldron, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley,” she said. 

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

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

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

“You don’t pay here,” said Fred firmly, waving away 
Harry’s gold. 

“But — ” 



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“You gave us our start-up loan, we haven’t forgotten,” 
said George sternly. “Take whatever you like, and just 
remember to tell people where you got it, if they ask.” 

George swept off through the curtain to help with the 
customers, and Fred led Harry back into the main 
part of the shop to find Hermione and Ginny still 
poring over the Patented Daydream Charms. 

“Haven’t you girls found our special WonderWitch 
products yet?” asked Fred. “Follow me, ladies. ...” 

Near the window was an array of violently pink 
products around which a cluster of excited girls was 
giggling enthusiastically. Hermione and Ginny both 
hung back, looking wary. 

“There you go,” said Fred proudly. “Best range of love 
potions you’ll find anywhere.” 

Ginny raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Do they work?” 
she asked. 

“Certainly they work, for up to twenty-four hours at a 
time depending on the weight of the boy in question 



“ — and the attractiveness of the girl,” said George, 
reappearing suddenly at their side. “But we’re not 
selling them to our sister,” he added, becoming 
suddenly stern, “not when she’s already got about five 
boys on the go from what we’ve — ” 

“Whatever you’ve heard from Ron is a big fat lie,” said 
Ginny calmly, leaning forward to take a small pink 
pot off the shelf. “What’s this?” 

“Guaranteed ten-second pimple vanisher,” said Fred. 
“Excellent on everything from boils to blackheads, but 

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don’t change the subject. Are you or are you not 
currently going out with a boy called Dean Thomas?” 

“Yes, I am,” said Ginny. “And last time I looked, he 
was definitely one boy, not five. What are those?” 

She was pointing at a number of round balls of fluff 
in shades of pink and purple, all rolling around the 
bottom of a cage and emitting high-pitched squeaks. 

“Pygmy Puffs,” said George. “Miniature puffskeins, we 
can’t breed them fast enough. So what about Michael 
Corner?” 

“I dumped him, he was a bad loser,” said Ginny, 
putting a finger through the bars of the cage and 
watching the Pygmy Puffs crowd around it. “They’re 
really cute!” 

“They’re fairly cuddly, yes,” conceded Fred. “But 
you’re moving through boyfriends a bit fast, aren’t 
you?” 

Ginny turned to look at him, her hands on her hips. 
There was such a Mrs. Weasley-ish glare on her face 
that Harry was surprised Fred didn’t recoil. 

“It’s none of your business. And I’ll thank you,” she 
added angrily to Ron, who had just appeared at 
George’s elbow, laden with merchandise, “not to tell 
tales about me to these two!” 

“That’s three Galleons, nine Sickles, and a Knut,” said 
Fred, examining the many boxes in Ron’s arms. 
“Cough up.” 

“I’m your brother!” 



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“And that’s our stuff you’re nicking. Three Galleons, 
nine Sickles. I’ll knock off the Knut.” 

“But I haven’t got three Galleons, nine Sickles!” 

“You’d better put it back then, and mind you put it on 
the right shelves.” 

Ron dropped several boxes, swore, and made a rude 
hand gesture at Fred that was unfortunately spotted 
by Mrs. Weasley, who had chosen that moment to 
appear. 

“If I see you do that again I’ll jinx your fingers 
together,” she said sharply. 

“Mum, can I have a Pygmy Puff?” said Ginny at once. 
“A what?” said Mrs. Weasley warily. 

“Look, they’re so sweet. ...” 

Mrs. Weasley moved aside to look at the Pygmy Puffs, 
and Harry, Ron, and Hermione momentarily had an 
unimpeded view out of the window. Draco Malfoy was 
hurrying up the street alone. As he passed Weasleys’ 
Wizard Wheezes, he glanced over his shoulder. 
Seconds later, he moved beyond the scope of the 
window and they lost sight of him. 

“Wonder where his mummy is?” said Harry, frowning. 

“Given her the slip by the looks of it,” said Ron. 

“Why, though?” said Hermione. 

Harry said nothing; he was thinking too hard. 

Narcissa Malfoy would not have let her precious son 
out of her sight willingly; Malfoy must have made a 

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real effort to free himself from her clutches. Harry, 
knowing and loathing Malfoy, was sure the reason 
could not be innocent. 

He glanced around. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were 
bending over the Pygmy Puffs. Mr. Weasley was 
delightedly examining a pack of Muggle marked 
playing cards. Fred and George were both helping 
customers. On the other side of the glass, Hagrid was 
standing with his back to them, looking up and down 
the street. 

“Get under here, quick,” said Harry, pulling his 
Invisibility Cloak out of his bag. 

“Oh — I don’t know, Harry,” said Hermione, looking 
uncertainly toward Mrs. Weasley. 

“Come on\” said Ron. 

She hesitated for a second longer, then ducked under 
the cloak with Harry and Ron. Nobody noticed them 
vanish; they were all too interested in Fred and 
George’s products. Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
squeezed their way out of the door as quickly as they 
could, but by the time they gained the street, Malfoy 
had disappeared just as successfully as they had. 

“He was going in that direction,” murmured Harry as 
quietly as possible, so that the humming Hagrid 
would not hear them. “C’mon.” 

They scurried along, peering left and right, through 
shop windows and doors, until Hermione pointed 
ahead. 

“That’s him, isn’t it?” she whispered. “Turning left?” 
“Big surprise,” whispered Ron. 

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For Malfoy had glanced around, then slid into 
Knockturn Alley and out of sight. 



“Quick, or we’ll lose him,” said Harry, speeding up. 

“Our feet’ll be seen!” said Hermione anxiously, as the 
cloak flapped a little around their ankles; it was much 
more difficult hiding all three of them under the cloak 
nowadays. 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Harry impatiently. “Just 
hurry!” 

But Knockturn Alley, the side street devoted to the 
Dark Arts, looked completely deserted. They peered 
into windows as they passed, but none of the shops 
seemed to have any customers at all. Harry supposed 
it was a bit of a giveaway in these dangerous and 
suspicious times to buy Dark artifacts — or at least, 
to be seen buying them. 

Hermione gave his arm a hard pinch. 

“Ouch!” 

“Shh! Look! He’s in there!” she breathed in Harry’s 
ear. 

They had drawn level with the only shop in 
Knockturn Alley that Harry had ever visited, Borgin 
and Burkes, which sold a wide variety of sinister 
objects. There in the midst of the cases full of skulls 
and old bottles stood Draco Malfoy with his back to 
them, just visible beyond the very same large black 
cabinet in which Harry had once hidden to avoid 
Malfoy and his father. Judging by the movements of 
Malfoy’s hands, he was talking animatedly. The 
proprietor of the shop, Mr. Borgin, an oily-haired, 



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stooping man, stood facing Malfoy. He was wearing a 
curious expression of mingled resentment and fear. 



“If only we could hear what they’re saying!” said 
Hermione. 

“We can!” said Ron excitedly. “Hang on — damn — ” 

He dropped a couple more of the boxes he was still 
clutching as he fumbled with the largest. 

“Extendable Ears, look!” 

“Fantastic!” said Hermione, as Ron unraveled the 
long, fleshcolored strings and began to feed them 
toward the bottom of the door. “Oh, I hope the door 
isn’t Imperturbable — ” 

“No!” said Ron gleefully. “Listen!” 

They put their heads together and listened intently to 
the ends of the strings, through which Malfoy’s voice 
could be heard loud and clear, as though a radio had 
been turned on. 

"... you know how to fix it?” 

“Possibly,” said Borgin, in a tone that suggested he 
was unwilling to commit himself. “I’ll need to see it, 
though. Why don’t you bring it into the shop?” 

“I can’t,” said Malfoy. “It’s got to stay put. I just need 
you to tell me how to do it.” 

Harry saw Borgin lick his lips nervously. 

“Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very 
difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn’t guarantee 
anything.” 

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“No?” said Malfoy, and Harry knew, just by his tone, 
that Malfoy was sneering. “Perhaps this will make you 
more confident.” 

He moved toward Borgin and was blocked from view 
by the cabinet. Harry, Ron, and Hermione shuffled 
sideways to try and keep him in sight, but all they 
could see was Borgin, looking very frightened. 

“Tell anyone,” said Malfoy, “and there will be 
retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He’s a family 
friend. He’ll be dropping in from time to time to make 
sure you’re giving the problem your full attention.” 

“There will be no need for — ” 

“I’ll decide that,” said Malfoy. “Well, I’d better be off. 
And don’t forget to keep that one safe, I’ll need it.” 

“Perhaps you’d like to take it now?” 

“No, of course I wouldn’t, you stupid little man, how 
would I look carrying that down the street? Just don’t 
sell it.” 

“Of course not ... sir.” 

Borgin made a bow as deep as the one Harry had 
once seen him give Lucius Malfoy. 

“Not a word to anyone, Borgin, and that includes my 
mother, understand?” 

“Naturally, naturally,” murmured Borgin, bowing 
again. 

Next moment, the bell over the door tinkled loudly as 
Malfoy stalked out of the shop looking very pleased 
with himself. He passed so close to Harry, Ron, and 

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Hermione that they felt the cloak flutter around their 
knees again. Inside the shop, Borgin remained frozen; 
his unctuous smile had vanished; he looked worried. 

“What was that about?” whispered Ron, reeling in the 
Extendable Ears. 

“Dunno,” said Harry, thinking hard. “He wants 
something mended . . . and he wants to reserve 
something in there. ... Could you see what he pointed 
at when he said ‘that one’?” 

“No, he was behind that cabinet — ” 

“You two stay here,” whispered Hermione. 

“What are you — ?” 

But Hermione had already ducked out from under the 
cloak. She checked her hair in the reflection in the 
glass, then marched into the shop, setting the bell 
tinkling again. Ron hastily fed the Extendable Ears 
back under the door and passed one of the strings to 
Harry. 

“Hello, horrible morning, isn’t it?” Hermione said 
brightly to Borgin, who did not answer, but cast her a 
suspicious look. Humming cheerily, Hermione strolled 
through the jumble of objects on display. 

“Is this necklace for sale?” she asked, pausing beside 
a glass-fronted case. 

“If you’ve got one and a half thousand Galleons,” said 
Mr. Borgin coldly. 

“Oh — er — no, I haven’t got quite that much,” said 
Hermione, walking on. “And ... what about this lovely 
— um — skull?” 

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“Sixteen Galleons.” 



“So it’s for sale, then? It isn’t being ... kept for 
anyone?” 

Mr. Borgin squinted at her. Harry had the nasty 
feeling he knew exactly what Hermione was up to. 
Apparently Hermione felt she had been rumbled too 
because she suddenly threw caution to the winds. 

“The thing is, that — er — boy who was in here just 
now, Draco Malfoy, well, he’s a friend of mine, and I 
want to get him a birthday present, but if he’s already 
reserved anything, I obviously don’t want to get him 
the same thing, so ... um ...” 

It was a pretty lame story in Harry’s opinion, and 
apparently Borgin thought so too. 

“Out,” he said sharply. “Get out!” 

Hermione did not wait to be asked twice, but hurried 
to the door with Borgin at her heels. As the bell 
tinkled again, Borgin slammed the door behind her 
and put up the closed sign. 

“Ah well,” said Ron, throwing the cloak back over 
Hermione. “Worth a try, but you were a bit obvious — 



“Well, next time you can show me how it’s done, 
Master of Mystery!” she snapped. 

Ron and Hermione bickered all the way back to 
Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, where they were forced to 
stop so that they could dodge undetected around a 
very anxious-looking Mrs. Weasley and Hagrid, who 
had clearly noticed their absence. Once in the shop, 
Harry whipped off the Invisibility Cloak, hid it in his 
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bag, and joined in with the other two when they 
insisted, in answer to Mrs. Weasley’s accusations, 
that they had been in the back room all along, and 
that she could not have looked properly. 



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7 




THE SLUG CLUB 

Harry spent a lot of the last week of the holidays 
pondering the meaning of Malfoy’s behavior in 
Knockturn Alley. What disturbed him most was the 
satisfied look on Malfoy’s face as he had left the shop. 
Nothing that made Malfoy look that happy could be 
good news. To his slight annoyance, however, neither 
Ron nor Hermione seemed quite as curious about 
Malfoy’s activities as he was; or at least, they seemed 
to get bored of discussing it after a few days. 

“Yes, I’ve already agreed it was fishy, Harry,” said 
Hermione a little impatiently. She was sitting on the 
windowsill in Fred and George’s room with her feet up 
on one of the cardboard boxes and had only 
grudgingly looked up from her new copy of Advanced 
Rune Translation. “But haven’t we agreed there could 
be a lot of explanations?” 

“Maybe he’s broken his Hand of Glory,” said Ron 
vaguely, as he attempted to straighten his 



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broomstick’s bent tail twigs. “Remember that 
shriveled-up arm Malfoy had?” 

“But what about when he said, ‘Don’t forget to keep 
that one safe’?” asked Harry for the umpteenth time. 
“That sounded to me like Borgin’s got another one of 
the broken objects, and Malfoy wants both.” 

“You reckon?” said Ron, now trying to scrape some 
dirt off his broom handle. 

“Yeah, I do,” said Harry. When neither Ron nor 
Hermione answered, he said, “Malfoy’s father’s in 
Azkaban. Don’t you think Malfoy’d like revenge?” 

Ron looked up, blinking. 

“Malfoy, revenge? What can he do about it?” 

“That’s my point, I don’t know!” said Harry, 
frustrated. “But he’s up to something and I think we 
should take it seriously. His father’s a Death Eater 
and — ” 

Harry broke off, his eyes fixed on the window behind 
Hermione, his mouth open. A startling thought had 
just occurred to him. 

“Harry?” said Hermione in an anxious voice. “What’s 
wrong?” 

“Your scar’s not hurting again, is it?” asked Ron 
nervously. 

“He’s a Death Eater,” said Harry slowly. “He’s 
replaced his father as a Death Eater!” 



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There was a silence; then Ron erupted in laughter. 
“Malfoy? He’s sixteen, Harry! You think You-Know- 
Who would let Malfoy join?” 

“It seems very unlikely, Harry,” said Hermione in a 
repressive sort of voice. “What makes you think — ?” 

“In Madam Malkin’s. She didn’t touch him, but he 
yelled and jerked his arm away from her when she 
went to roll up his sleeve. It was his left arm. He’s 
been branded with the Dark Mark.” 

Ron and Hermione looked at each other. 

“Well ...” said Ron, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. 

“I think he just wanted to get out of there, Harry,” 
said Hermione. 

“He showed Borgin something we couldn’t see,” Harry 
pressed on stubbornly. “Something that seriously 
scared Borgin. It was the Mark, I know it — he was 
showing Borgin who he was dealing with, you saw 
how seriously Borgin took him!” 

Ron and Hermione exchanged another look. 

“I’m not sure, Harry. ...” 

“Yeah, I still don’t reckon You-Know-Who would let 
Malfoy join. ...” 

Annoyed, but absolutely convinced he was right, 

Harry snatched up a pile of filthy Quidditch robes and 
left the room; Mrs. Weasley had been urging them for 
days not to leave their washing and packing until the 
last moment. On the landing he bumped into Ginny, 
who was returning to her room carrying a pile of 
freshly laundered clothes. 

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“I wouldn’t go in the kitchen just now,” she warned 
him. “There’s a lot of Phlegm around.” 



“I’ll be careful not to slip in it.” Harry smiled. 

Sure enough, when he entered the kitchen it was to 
find Fleur sitting at the kitchen table, in full flow 
about plans for her wedding to Bill, while Mrs. 
Weasley kept watch over a pile of self-peeling sprouts, 
looking bad-tempered. 

“... Bill and I ’ave almost decided on only two 
bridesmaids, Ginny and Gabrielle will look very sweet 
togezzer. I am theenking of dressing zem in pale gold 
— pink would of course be ’orrible with Ginny’s ’air — 



“Ah, Harry!” said Mrs. Weasley loudly, cutting across 
Fleur’s monologue. “Good, I wanted to explain about 
the security arrangements for the journey to 
Hogwarts tomorrow. We’ve got Ministry cars again, 
and there will be Aurors waiting at the station — ” 

“Is Tonks going to be there?” asked Harry, handing 
over his Quidditch things. 

“No, I don’t think so, she’s been stationed somewhere 
else from what Arthur said.” 

“She has let ’erself go, zat Tonks,” Fleur mused, 
examining her own stunning reflection in the back of 
a teaspoon. “A big mistake if you ask — ” 

“Yes, thank you,” said Mrs. Weasley tartly, cutting 
across Fleur again. “You’d better get on, Harry, I want 
the trunks ready tonight, if possible, so we don’t have 
the usual last-minute scramble.” 



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And in fact, their departure the following morning was 
smoother than usual. The Ministry cars glided up to 
the front of the Burrow to find them waiting, trunks 
packed; Hermione’s cat, Crookshanks, safely enclosed 
in his traveling basket; and Hedwig; Ron’s owl, 
Pigwidgeon; and Ginny’s new purple Pygmy Puff, 
Arnold, in cages. 

“Au revoir, ’Ariy,” said Fleur throatily, kissing him 
good-bye. Ron hurried forward, looking hopeful, but 
Ginny stuck out her foot and Ron fell, sprawling in 
the dust at Fleur’s feet. Furious, red-faced, and dirt- 
spattered, he hurried into the car without saying 
good-bye. 

There was no cheerful Hagrid waiting for them at 
King’s Cross Station. Instead, two grim-faced, 
bearded Aurors in dark Muggle suits moved forward 
the moment the cars stopped and, flanking the party, 
marched them into the station without speaking. 

“Quick, quick, through the barrier,” said Mrs. 

Weasley, who seemed a little flustered by this austere 
efficiency. “Harry had better go first, with — ” 

She looked inquiringly at one of the Aurors, who 
nodded briefly, seized Harry’s upper arm, and 
attempted to steer him toward the barrier between 
platforms nine and ten. 

“I can walk, thanks,” said Harry irritably, jerking his 
arm out of the Auror’s grip. He pushed his trolley 
directly at the solid barrier, ignoring his silent 
companion, and found himself, a second later, 
standing on platform nine and three-quarters, where 
the scarlet Hogwarts Express stood belching steam 
over the crowd. 



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Hermione and the Weasleys joined him within 
seconds. Without waiting to consult his grim-faced 
Auror, Harry motioned to Ron and Hermione to follow 
him up the platform, looking for an empty 
compartment. 

“We can’t, Harry,” said Hermione, looking apologetic. 
“Ron and I’ve got to go to the prefects’ carriage first 
and then patrol the corridors for a bit.” 

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” said Harry. 

“You’d better get straight on the train, all of you, 
you’ve only got a few minutes to go,” said Mrs. 
Weasley, consulting her watch. “Well, have a lovely 
term, Ron. ...” 

“Mr. Weasley, can I have a quick word?” said Harry, 
making up his mind on the spur of the moment. 

“Of course,” said Mr. Weasley, who looked slightly 
surprised, but followed Harry out of earshot of the 
others nevertheless. 

Harry had thought it through carefully and come to 
the conclusion that, if he was to tell anyone, Mr. 
Weasley was the right person; firstly, because he 
worked at the Ministry and was therefore in the best 
position to make further investigations, and secondly, 
because he thought that there was not too much risk 
of Mr. Weasley exploding with anger. 

He could see Mrs. Weasley and the grim-faced Auror 
casting the pair of them suspicious looks as they 
moved away. 

“When we were in Diagon Alley,” Harry began, but Mr. 
Weasley forestalled him with a grimace. 



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“Am I about to discover where you, Ron, and 
Hermione disappeared to while you were supposed to 
be in the back room of Fred and George’s shop?” 

“How did you — ?” 

“Harry, please. You’re talking to the man who raised 
Fred and George.” 

“Er ... yeah, all right, we weren’t in the back room.” 

“Very well, then, let’s hear the worst.” 

“Well, we followed Draco Malfoy. We used my 
Invisibility Cloak.” 

“Did you have any particular reason for doing so, or 
was it a mere whim?” 

“Because I thought Malfoy was up to something,” said 
Harry, disregarding Mr. Weasley’s look of mingled 
exasperation and amusement. “He’d given his mother 
the slip and I wanted to know why.” 

“Of course you did,” said Mr. Weasley, sounding 
resigned. “Well? Did you find out why?” 

“He went into Borgin and Burkes,” said Harry, “and 
started bullying the bloke in there, Borgin, to help 
him fix something. And he said he wanted Borgin to 
keep something else for him. He made it sound like it 
was the same kind of thing that needed fixing. Like 
they were a pair. And ...” 

Harry took a deep breath. 

“There’s something else. We saw Malfoy jump about a 
mile when Madam Malkin tried to touch his left arm. I 



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think he’s been branded with the Dark Mark. I think 
he’s replaced his father as a Death Eater.” 

Mr. Weasley looked taken aback. After a moment he 
said, “Harry, I doubt whether You-Know-Who would 
allow a sixteen-year-old — ” 

“Does anyone really know what You-Know-Who would 
or wouldn’t do?” asked Harry angrily. “Mr. Weasley, 
I’m sorry, but isn’t it worth investigating? If Malfoy 
wants something fixing, and he needs to threaten 
Borgin to get it done, it’s probably something Dark or 
dangerous, isn’t it?” 

“I doubt it, to be honest, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley 
slowly. “You see, when Lucius Malfoy was arrested, 
we raided his house. We took away everything that 
might have been dangerous.” 

“I think you missed something,” said Harry 
stubbornly. 

“Well, maybe,” said Mr. Weasley, but Harry could tell 
that Mr. Weasley was humoring him. 

There was a whistle behind them; nearly everyone 
had boarded the train and the doors were closing. 

“You’d better hurry,” said Mr. Weasley, as Mrs. 
Weasley cried, “Harry, quickly!” 

He hurried forward and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley helped 
him load his trunk onto the train. 

“Now, dear, you’re coming to us for Christmas, it’s all 
fixed with Dumbledore, so we’ll see you quite soon,” 
said Mrs. Weasley through the window, as Harry 
slammed the door shut behind him and the train 



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began to move. “You make sure you look after 
yourself and — ” 



The train was gathering speed. 

“ — be good and — ” 

She was jogging to keep up now. 
stay safe!” 

Harry waved until the train had turned a corner and 
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were lost to view, then turned 
to see where the others had got to. He supposed Ron 
and Hermione were cloistered in the prefects’ 
carriage, but Ginny was a little way along the 
corridor, chatting to some friends. He made his way 
toward her, dragging his trunk. 

People stared shamelessly as he approached. They 
even pressed their faces against the windows of their 
compartments to get a look at him. He had expected 
an upswing in the amount of gaping and gawping he 
would have to endure this term after all the “Chosen 
One” rumors in the Daily Prophet, but he did not 
enjoy the sensation of standing in a very bright 
spotlight. He tapped Ginny on the shoulder. 

“Fancy trying to find a compartment?” 

“I can’t, Harry, I said I’d meet Dean,” said Ginny 
brightly. “See you later.” 

“Right,” said Harry. He felt a strange twinge of 
annoyance as she walked away, her long red hair 
dancing behind her; he had become so used to her 
presence over the summer that he had almost 
forgotten that Ginny did not hang around with him, 
Ron, and Hermione while at school. Then he blinked 
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and looked around: He was surrounded by 
mesmerized girls. 

“Hi, Harry!” said a familiar voice from behind him. 

“Neville!” said Harry in relief, turning to see a round- 
faced boy struggling toward him. 

“Hello, Harry,” said a girl with long hair and large 
misty eyes, who was just behind Neville. 

“Luna, hi, how are you?” 

“Very well, thank you,” said Luna. She was clutching 
a magazine to her chest; large letters on the front 
announced that there was a pair of free Spectrespecs 
inside. 

“Quibbler still going strong, then?” asked Harry, who 
felt a certain fondness for the magazine, having given 
it an exclusive interview the previous year. 

“Oh yes, circulation’s well up,” said Luna happily. 

“Let’s find seats,” said Harry, and the three of them 
set off along the train through hordes of silently 
staring students. At last they found an empty 
compartment, and Harry hurried inside gratefully. 

“They’re even staring at us!” said Neville, indicating 
himself and Luna. “Because we’re with you!” 

“They’re staring at you because you were at the 
Ministry too,” said Harry, as he hoisted his trunk into 
the luggage rack. “Our little adventure there was all 
over the Daily Prophet, you must’ve seen it.” 

“Yes, I thought Gran would be angry about all the 
publicity,” said Neville, “but she was really pleased. 

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Says I’m starting to live up to my dad at long last. She 
bought me a new wand, look!” 



He pulled it out and showed it to Harry. 

“Cherry and unicorn hair,” he said proudly. “We think 
it was one of the last Ollivander ever sold, he 
vanished next day — oi, come back here, Trevor!” 

And he dived under the seat to retrieve his toad as it 
made one of its frequent bids for freedom. 

“Are we still doing D.A. meetings this year, Harry?” 
asked Luna, who was detaching a pair of psychedelic 
spectacles from the middle of The Quibbler. 

“No point now we’ve got rid of Umbridge, is there?” 
said Harry, sitting down. Neville bumped his head 
against the seat as he emerged from under it. He 
looked most disappointed. 

“I liked the D.A.! I learned loads with you!” 

“I enjoyed the meetings too,” said Luna serenely. “It 
was like having friends.” 

This was one of those uncomfortable things Luna 
often said and which made Harry feel a squirming 
mixture of pity and embarrassment. Before he could 
respond, however, there was a disturbance outside 
their compartment door; a group of fourth-year girls 
was whispering and giggling together on the other 
side of the glass. 

“You ask him!” 

“No, you!” 

“I’ll do it!” 

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And one of them, a bold-looking girl with large dark 
eyes, a prominent chin, and long black hair pushed 
her way through the door. 

“Hi, Harry, I’m Romilda, Romilda Vane,” she said 
loudly and confidently. “Why don’t you join us in our 
compartment? You don’t have to sit with them,” she 
added in a stage whisper, indicating Neville’s bottom, 
which was sticking out from under the seat again as 
he groped around for Trevor, and Luna, who was now 
wearing her free Spectrespecs, which gave her the 
look of a demented, multicolored owl. 

“They’re friends of mine,” said Harry coldly. 

“Oh,” said the girl, looking very surprised. “Oh. 

Okay.” 

And she withdrew, sliding the door closed behind her. 

“People expect you to have cooler friends than us,” 
said Luna, once again displaying her knack for 
embarrassing honesty. 

“You are cool,” said Harry shortly. “None of them was 
at the Ministry. They didn’t fight with me.” 

“That’s a very nice thing to say,” beamed Luna. Then 
she pushed her Spectrespecs farther up her nose and 
settled down to read The Quibbler. 

“We didn’t face him, though,” said Neville, emerging 
from under the seat with fluff and dust in his hair 
and a resigned-looking Trevor in his hand. “You did. 
You should hear my gran talk about you. ‘That Harry 
Potter’s got more backbone than the whole Ministry of 
Magic put together*.’ She’d give anything to have you 
as a grandson. ...” 



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Harry laughed uncomfortably and changed the 
subject to O.W.L. results as soon as he could. While 
Neville recited his grades and wondered aloud 
whether he would be allowed to take a 
Transfiguration N.E.W.T. with only an “Acceptable,” 
Harry watched him without really listening. 

Neville’s childhood had been blighted by Voldemort 
just as much as Harry’s had, but Neville had no idea 
how close he had come to having Harry’s destiny. The 
prophecy could have referred to either of them, yet, 
for his own inscrutable reasons, Voldemort had 
chosen to believe that Harry was the one meant. 

Had Voldemort chosen Neville, it would be Neville 
sitting opposite Harry bearing the lightning-shaped 
scar and the weight of the prophecy. ... Or would it? 
Would Neville’s mother have died to save him, as Lily 
had died for Harry? Surely she would. ... But what if 
she had been unable to stand between her son and 
Voldemort? Would there then have been no “Chosen 
One” at all? An empty seat where Neville now sat and 
a scarless Harry who would have been kissed good- 
bye by his own mother, not Ron’s? 

“You all right, Harry? You look funny,” said Neville. 

Harry started. “Sorry — I — ” 

“Wrackspurt got you?” asked Luna sympathetically, 
peering at Harry through her enormous colored 
spectacles. 

“I — what?” 

“A Wrackspurt ... They’re invisible. They float in 
through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy,” she 
said. “I thought I felt one zooming around in here.” 



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She flapped her hands at thin air, as though beating 
off large invisible moths. Harry and Neville caught 
each other’s eyes and hastily began to talk of 
Quidditch. 

The weather beyond the train windows was as patchy 
as it had been all summer; they passed through 
stretches of the chilling mist, then out into weak, 
clear sunlight. It was during one of the clear spells, 
when the sun was visible almost directly overhead, 
that Ron and Hermione entered the compartment at 
last. 

“Wish the lunch trolley would hurry up, I’m starving,” 
said Ron longingly, slumping into the seat beside 
Harry and rubbing his stomach. “Hi, Neville. Hi, 

Luna. Guess what?” he added, turning to Harry. 
“Malfoy’s not doing prefect duty. He’s just sitting in 
his compartment with the other Slytherins, we saw 
him when we passed.” 

Harry sat up straight, interested. It was not like 
Malfoy to pass up the chance to demonstrate his 
power as prefect, which he had happily abused all the 
previous year. 

“What did he do when he saw you?” 

“The usual,” said Ron indifferently, demonstrating a 
rude hand gesture. “Not like him, though, is it? Well 
— that is” — he did the hand gesture again — “but 
why isn’t he out there bullying first years? 

“Dunno,” said Harry, but his mind was racing. Didn’t 
this look as though Malfoy had more important things 
on his mind than bullying younger students? 



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“Maybe he preferred the Inquisitorial Squad,” said 
Hermione. “Maybe being a prefect seems a bit tame 
after that.” 



“I don’t think so,” said Harry. “I think he’s — ” 

But before he could expound on his theory, the 
compartment door slid open again and a breathless 
third -year girl stepped inside. 

“I’m supposed to deliver these to Neville Longbottom 
and Harry P-Potter,” she faltered, as her eyes met 
Harry’s and she turned scarlet. She was holding out 
two scrolls of parchment tied with violet ribbon. 
Perplexed, Harry and Neville took the scroll addressed 
to each of them and the girl stumbled back out of the 
compartment. 

“What is it?” Ron demanded, as Harry unrolled his. 
“An invitation,” said Harry. 

Harry, 

I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of 
lunch in compartment C. 

Sincerely, 

Professor H. E. F. Slug horn 

“Who’s Professor Slughorn?” asked Neville, looking 
perplexedly at his own invitation. 

“New teacher,” said Harry. “Well, I suppose we’ll have 
to go, won’t we?” 

“But what does he want me for?” asked Neville 
nervously, as though he was expecting detention. 

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“No idea,” said Harry, which was not entirely true, 
though he had no proof yet that his hunch was 
correct. “Listen,” he added, seized by a sudden brain 
wave, “let’s go under the Invisibility Cloak, then we 
might get a good look at Malfoy on the way, see what 
he’s up to.” 

This idea, however, came to nothing: The corridors, 
which were packed with people on the lookout for the 
lunch trolley, were impossible to negotiate while 
wearing the cloak. Harry stowed it regretfully back in 
his bag, reflecting that it would have been nice to 
wear it just to avoid all the staring, which seemed to 
have increased in intensity even since he had last 
walked down the train. Every now and then, students 
would hurtle out of their compartments to get a better 
look at him. The exception was Cho Chang, who 
darted into her compartment when she saw Harry 
coming. As Harry passed the window, he saw her 
deep in determined conversation with her friend 
Marietta, who was wearing a very thick layer of 
makeup that did not entirely obscure the odd 
formation of pimples still etched across her face. 
Smirking slightly, Harry pushed on. 

When they reached compartment C, they saw at once 
that they were not Slughorn’s only invitees, although 
judging by the enthusiasm of Slughorn’s welcome, 
Harry was the most warmly anticipated. 

“Harry, m’boy!” said Slughorn, jumping up at the 
sight of him so that his great velvet-covered belly 
seemed to fill all the remaining space in the 
compartment. His shiny bald head and great silvery 
mustache gleamed as brightly in the sunlight as the 
golden buttons on his waistcoat. “Good to see you, 
good to see you! And you must be Mr. Longbottom!” 



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Neville nodded, looking scared. At a gesture from 
Slughorn, they sat down opposite each other in the 
only two empty seats, which were nearest the door. 
Harry glanced around at their fellow guests. He 
recognized a Slytherin from their year, a tall black boy 
with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes; there 
were also two seventh-year boys Harry did not know 
and, squashed in the corner beside Slughorn and 
looking as though she was not entirely sure how she 
had got there, Ginny. 

“Now, do you know everyone?” Slughorn asked Harry 
and Neville. “Blaise Zabini is in your year, of course — 



Zabini did not make any sign of recognition or 
greeting, nor did Harry or Neville: Gryffindor and 
Slytherin students loathed each other on principle. 

“This is Cormac McLaggen, perhaps you’ve come 
across each other — ? No?” 

McLaggen, a large, wiry-haired youth, raised a hand, 
and Harry and Neville nodded back at him. 

“ — and this is Marcus Belby, I don’t know whether — 
?” 

Belby, who was thin and nervous-looking, gave a 
strained smile. 

“ — and this charming young lady tells me she knows 
you!” Slughorn finished. 

Ginny grimaced at Harry and Neville from behind 
Slughorn’s back. 

“Well now, this is most pleasant,” said Slughorn 
cozily. “A chance to get to know you all a little better. 

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Here, take a napkin. I’ve packed my own lunch; the 
trolley, as I remember it, is heavy on licorice wands, 
and a poor old man’s digestive system isn’t quite up 
to such things. ... Pheasant, Belby?” 

Belby started and accepted what looked like half a 
cold pheasant. 

“I was just telling young Marcus here that I had the 
pleasure of teaching his Uncle Damocles,” Slughorn 
told Harry and Neville, now passing around a basket 
of rolls. “Outstanding wizard, outstanding, and his 
Order of Merlin most well-deserved. Do you see much 
of your uncle, Marcus?” 

Unfortunately, Belby had just taken a large mouthful 
of pheasant; in his haste to answer Slughorn he 
swallowed too fast, turned purple, and began to 
choke. 

“Anapneo,” said Slughorn calmly, pointing his wand 
at Belby, whose airway seemed to clear at once. 

“Not ... not much of him, no,” gasped Belby, his eyes 
streaming. 

“Well, of course, I daresay he’s busy,” said Slughorn, 
looking questioningly at Belby. “I doubt he invented 
the Wolfsbane Potion without considerable hard 
work!” 

“I suppose ...” said Belby, who seemed afraid to take 
another bite of pheasant until he was sure that 
Slughorn had finished with him. “Er ... he and my 
dad don’t get on very well, you see, so I don’t really 
know much about ...” 

His voice tailed away as Slughorn gave him a cold 
smile and turned to McLaggen instead. 

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“Now, you, Cormac,” said Slughorn, “I happen to 
know you see a lot of your Uncle Tiberius, because he 
has a rather splendid picture of the two of you 
hunting nogtails in, I think, Norfolk?” 

“Oh, yeah, that was fun, that was,” said McLaggen. 
“We went with Bertie Higgs and Rufus Scrimgeour — 
this was before he became Minister, obviously — ” 

“Ah, you know Bertie and Rufus too?” beamed 
Slughorn, now offering around a small tray of pies; 
somehow, Belby was missed out. “Now tell me ...” 

It was as Harry had suspected. Everyone here seemed 
to have been invited because they were connected to 
somebody well-known or influential — everyone 
except Ginny. Zabini, who was interrogated after 
McLaggen, turned out to have a famously beautiful 
witch for a mother (from what Harry could make out, 
she had been married seven times, each of her 
husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds 
of gold). It was Neville’s turn next: This was a very 
uncomfortable ten minutes, for Neville’s parents, well- 
known Aurors, had been tortured into insanity by 
Bellatrix Lestrange and a couple of Death Eater 
cronies. At the end of Neville’s interview, Harry had 
the impression that Slughorn was reserving judgment 
on Neville, yet to see whether he had any of his 
parents’ flair. 

“And now,” said Slughorn, shifting massively in his 
seat with the air of a compere introducing his star 
act. “Harry Potter! Where to begin? I feel I barely 
scratched the surface when we met over the summer!” 
He contemplated Harry for a moment as though he 
was a particularly large and succulent piece of 
pheasant, then said, “ The Chosen One,’ they’re 
calling you now!” 



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Harry said nothing. Belby, McLaggen, and Zabini 
were all staring at him. 



“Of course,” said Slughorn, watching Harry closely, 
“there have been rumors for years. ... I remember 
when — well — after that terrible night — Lily — 
James — and you survived — and the word was that 
you must have powers beyond the ordinary — ” 

Zabini gave a tiny little cough that was clearly 
supposed to indicate amused skepticism. An angry 
voice burst out from behind Slughorn. 

“Yeah, Zabini, because you’re so talented ... at posing. 



“Oh dear!” chuckled Slughorn comfortably, looking 
around at Ginny, who was glaring at Zabini around 
Slughorn ’s great belly. “You want to be careful, Blaise! 
I saw this young lady perform the most marvelous 
Bat-Bogey Hex as I was passing her carriage! I 
wouldn’t cross her!” 

Zabini merely looked contemptuous. 

“Anyway,” said Slughorn, turning back to Harry. 

“Such rumors this summer. Of course, one doesn’t 
know what to believe, the Prophet has been known to 
print inaccuracies, make mistakes — but there seems 
little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there 
was quite a disturbance at the Ministry and that you 
were there in the thick of it all!” 

Harry, who could not see any way out of this without 
flatly lying, nodded but still said nothing. Slughorn 
beamed at him. 

“So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so 
fond — you were there, then? But the rest of the 

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stories — so sensational, of course, one doesn’t know 
quite what to believe — this fabled prophecy, for 
instance — ” 

“We never heard a prophecy,” said Neville, turning 
geranium pink as he said it. 

“That’s right,” said Ginny staunchly. “Neville and I 
were both there too, and all this ‘Chosen One’ rubbish 
is just the Prophet making things up as usual.” 

“You were both there too, were you?” said Slughorn 
with great interest, looking from Ginny to Neville, but 
both of them sat clamlike before his encouraging 
smile. 

“Yes . . . well ... it is true that the Prophet often 
exaggerates, of course. ...” Slughorn said, sounding a 
little disappointed. “I remember dear Gwenog telling 
me (Gwenog Jones, I mean, of course, Captain of the 
Holyhead Harpies) — ” 

He meandered off into a long-winded reminiscence, 
but Harry had the distinct impression that Slughorn 
had not finished with him, and that he had not been 
convinced by Neville and Ginny. 

The afternoon wore on with more anecdotes about 
illustrious wizards Slughorn had taught, all of whom 
had been delighted to join what he called the “Slug 
Club” at Hogwarts. Harry could not wait to leave, but 
couldn’t see how to do so politely. Finally the train 
emerged from yet another long misty stretch into a 
red sunset, and Slughorn looked around, blinking in 
the twilight. 

“Good gracious, it’s getting dark already! I didn’t 
notice that they’d lit the lamps! You’d better go and 
change into your robes, all of you. McLaggen, you 

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must drop by and borrow that book on nogtails. 

Harry, Blaise — any time you’re passing. Same goes 
for you, miss,” he twinkled at Ginny. “Well, off you go, 
off you go!” 

As he pushed past Harry into the darkening corridor, 
Zabini shot him a filthy look that Harry returned with 
interest. He, Ginny, and Neville followed Zabini back 
along the train. 

“I’m glad that’s over,” muttered Neville. “Strange man, 
isn’t he?” 

“Yeah, he is a bit,” said Harry, his eyes on Zabini. 
“How come you ended up in there, Ginny?” 

“He saw me hex Zacharias Smith,” said Ginny. “You 
remember that idiot from Hufflepuff who was in the 
D.A.? He kept on and on asking about what happened 
at the Ministry and in the end he annoyed me so 
much I hexed him — when Slughorn came in I 
thought I was going to get detention, but he just 
thought it was a really good hex and invited me to 
lunch! Mad, eh?” 

“Better reason for inviting someone than because 
their mother’s famous,” said Harry, scowling at the 
back of Zabini ’s head, “or because their uncle — ” 

But he broke off. An idea had just occurred to him, a 
reckless but potentially wonderful idea. ... In a 
minute’s time, Zabini was going to reenter the 
Slytherin sixth-year compartment and Malfoy would 
be sitting there, thinking himself unheard by anybody 
except fellow Slytherins. ... If Harry could only enter, 
unseen, behind him, what might he not see or hear? 
True, there was little of the journey left — Hogsmeade 
Station had to be less than half an hour away, 
judging by the wildness of the scenery flashing by the 
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windows — but nobody else seemed prepared to take 
Harry’s suspicions seriously, so it was down to him to 
prove them. 

“I’ll see you two later,” said Harry under his breath, 
pulling out his Invisibility Cloak and flinging it over 
himself. 

“But what’re you — ?” asked Neville. 

“Later!” whispered Harry, darting after Zabini as 
quietly as possible, though the rattling of the train 
made such caution almost pointless. 

The corridors were almost completely empty now. 
Nearly everyone had returned to their carriages to 
change into their school robes and pack up their 
possessions. Though he was as close as he could get 
to Zabini without touching him, Harry was not quick 
enough to slip into the compartment when Zabini 
opened the door. Zabini was already sliding it shut 
when Harry hastily stuck out his foot to prevent it 
closing. 

“What’s wrong with this thing?” said Zabini angrily as 
he smashed the sliding door repeatedly into Harry’s 
foot. 

Harry seized the door and pushed it open, hard; 
Zabini, still clinging on to the handle, toppled over 
sideways into Gregory Goyle’s lap, and in the ensuing 
ruckus, Harry darted into the compartment, leapt 
onto Zabini’s temporarily empty seat, and hoisted 
himself up into the luggage rack. It was fortunate that 
Goyle and Zabini were snarling at each other, drawing 
all eyes onto them, for Harry was quite sure his feet 
and ankles had been revealed as the cloak had 
flapped around them; indeed, for one horrible 
moment he thought he saw Malfoy’s eyes follow his 
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trainer as it whipped upward out of sight. But then 
Goyle slammed the door shut and flung Zabini off 
him; Zabini collapsed into his own seat looking 
ruffled, Vincent Crabbe returned to his comic, and 
Malfoy, sniggering, lay back down across two seats 
with his head in Pansy Parkinson’s lap. Harry lay 
curled uncomfortably under the cloak to ensure that 
every inch of him remained hidden, and watched 
Pansy stroke the sleek blond hair off Malfoy’s 
forehead, smirking as she did so, as though anyone 
would have loved to have been in her place. The 
lanterns swinging from the carriage ceiling cast a 
bright light over the scene: Harry could read every 
word of Crabbe’s comic directly below him. 

“So, Zabini,” said Malfoy, “what did Slughorn want?” 

“Just trying to make up to well-connected people,” 
said Zabini, who was still glowering at Goyle. “Not 
that he managed to find many.” 

This information did not seem to please Malfoy. 

“Who else had he invited?” he demanded. 

“McLaggen from Gryffindor,” said Zabini. 

“Oh yeah, his uncle’s big in the Ministry,” said 
Malfoy. 

“ — someone else called Belby, from Ravenclaw — ” 

“Not him, he’s a prat!” said Pansy. 

“ — and Longbottom, Potter, and that Weasley girl,” 
finished Zabini. 

Malfoy sat up very suddenly, knocking Pansy’s hand 
aside. 

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“He invited Longbottom?” 

“Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there,” said 
Zabini indifferently. 

“What’s Longbottom got to interest Slughorn?” 

Zabini shrugged. 

“Potter, precious Potter, obviously he wanted a look at 
‘the Chosen One,’ ” sneered Malfoy, “but that Weasley 
girl! What’s so special about her?” 

“A lot of boys like her,” said Pansy, watching Malfoy 
out of the corner of her eyes for his reaction. “Even 
you think she’s good-looking, don’t you, Blaise, and 
we all know how hard you are to please!” 

“I wouldn’t touch a filthy little blood traitor like her 
whatever she looked like,” said Zabini coldly, and 
Pansy looked pleased. Malfoy sank back across her 
lap and allowed her to resume the stroking of his 
hair. 

“Well, I pity Slughorn’s taste. Maybe he’s going a bit 
senile. Shame, my father always said he was a good 
wizard in his day. My father used to be a bit of a 
favorite of his. Slughorn probably hasn’t heard I’m on 
the train, or — ” 

“I wouldn’t bank on an invitation,” said Zabini. “He 
asked me about Nott’s father when I first arrived. 

They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he 
heard he’d been caught at the Ministry he didn’t look 
happy, and Nott didn’t get an invitation, did he? I 
don’t think Slughorn’s interested in Death Eaters.” 

Malfoy looked angry, but forced out a singularly 
humorless laugh. 

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“Well, who cares what he’s interested in? What is he, 
when you come down to it? Just some stupid 
teacher.” Malfoy yawned ostentatiously. “I mean, I 
might not even be at Hogwarts next year, what’s it 
matter to me if some fat old has-been likes me or 
not?” 

“What do you mean, you might not be at Hogwarts 
next year?” said Pansy indignantly, ceasing grooming 
Malfoy at once. 

“Well, you never know,” said Malfoy with the ghost of 
a smirk. “I might have — er — moved on to bigger and 
better things.” 

Crouched in the luggage rack under his cloak, Harry’s 
heart began to race. What would Ron and Hermione 
say about this? Crabbe and Goyle were gawping at 
Malfoy; apparently they had had no inkling of any 
plans to move on to bigger and better things. Even 
Zabini had allowed a look of curiosity to mar his 
haughty features. Pansy resumed the slow stroking of 
Malfoy’s hair, looking dumbfounded. 

“Do you mean — Him?” 

Malfoy shrugged. 

“Mother wants me to complete my education, but 
personally, I don’t see it as that important these days. 
I mean, think about it. ... When the Dark Lord takes 
over, is he going to care how many O.W.L.s or 
N.E.W.T.s anyone’s got? Of course he isn’t. ... It’ll be 
all about the kind of service he received, the level of 
devotion he was shown.” 

“And you think you’ll be able to do something for 
him?” asked Zabini scathingly. “Sixteen years old and 
not even fully qualified yet?” 

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“I’ve just said, haven’t I? Maybe he doesn’t care if I’m 
qualified. Maybe the job he wants me to do isn’t 
something that you need to be qualified for,” said 
Malfoy quietly. 

Crabbe and Goyle were both sitting with their mouths 
open like gargoyles. Pansy was gazing down at Malfoy 
as though she had never seen anything so awe- 
inspiring. 

“I can see Hogwarts,” said Malfoy, clearly relishing the 
effect he had created as he pointed out of the 
blackened window. “We’d better get our robes on.” 

Harry was so busy staring at Malfoy, he did not notice 
Goyle reaching up for his trunk; as he swung it down, 
it hit Harry hard on the side of the head. He let out an 
involuntary gasp of pain, and Malfoy looked up at the 
luggage rack, frowning. 

Harry was not afraid of Malfoy, but he still did not 
much like the idea of being discovered hiding under 
his Invisibility Cloak by a group of unfriendly 
Slytherins. Eyes still watering and head still 
throbbing, he drew his wand, careful not to 
disarrange the cloak, and waited, breath held. To his 
relief, Malfoy seemed to decide that he had imagined 
the noise; he pulled on his robes like the others, 
locked his trunk, and as the train slowed to a jerky 
crawl, fastened a thick new traveling cloak round his 
neck. 

Harry could see the corridors filling up again and 
hoped that Hermione and Ron would take his things 
out onto the platform for him; he was stuck where he 
was until the compartment had quite emptied. At last, 
with a final lurch, the train came to a complete halt. 
Goyle threw the door open and muscled his way out 



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into a crowd of second years, punching them aside; 
Crabbe and Zabini followed. 

“You go on,” Malfoy told Pansy, who was waiting for 
him with her hand held out as though hoping he 
would hold it. “I just want to check something.” 

Pansy left. Now Harry and Malfoy were alone in the 
compartment. People were filing past, descending 
onto the dark platform. Malfoy moved over to the 
compartment door and let down the blinds, so that 
people in the corridor beyond could not peer in. He 
then bent down over his trunk and opened it again. 

Harry peered down over the edge of the luggage rack, 
his heart pumping a little faster. What had Malfoy 
wanted to hide from Pansy? Was he about to see the 
mysterious broken object it was so important to 
mend? 

“Petrificus Totalusl” 

Without warning, Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry, 
who was instantly paralyzed. As though in slow 
motion, he toppled out of the luggage rack and fell, 
with an agonizing, floor-shaking crash, at Malfoy’s 
feet, the Invisibility Cloak trapped beneath him, his 
whole body revealed with his legs still curled absurdly 
into the cramped kneeling position. He couldn’t move 
a muscle; he could only gaze up at Malfoy, who 
smiled broadly. 

“I thought so,” he said jubilantly. “I heard Goyle’s 
trunk hit you. And I thought I saw something white 
flash through the air after Zabini came back. ...” 

His eyes lingered for a moment upon Harry’s trainers. 



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“You didn’t hear anything I care about, Potter. But 
while I’ve got you here ...” 

And he stamped, hard, on Harry’s face. Harry felt his 
nose break; blood spurted everywhere. 

“That’s from my father. Now, let’s see. ...” 

Malfoy dragged the cloak out from under Harry’s 
immobilized body and threw it over him. 

“I don’t reckon they’ll find you till the train’s back in 
London,” he said quietly. “See you around, Potter ... 
or not.” 

And taking care to tread on Harry’s fingers, Malfoy 
left the compartment. 



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SNAPE VICTORIOUS 

Harry could not move a muscle. He lay there beneath 
the Invisibility Cloak feeling the blood from his nose 
flow, hot and wet, over his face, listening to the voices 
and footsteps in the corridor beyond. His immediate 
thought was that someone, surely, would check the 
compartments before the train departed again. But at 
once came the dispiriting realization that even if 
somebody looked into the compartment, he would be 
neither seen nor heard. His best hope was that 
somebody else would walk in and step on him. 

Harry had never hated Malfoy more than as he lay 
there, like an absurd turtle on its back, blood 
dripping sickeningly into his open mouth. What a 
stupid situation to have landed himself in . . . and now 
the last few footsteps were dying away; everyone was 
shuffling along the dark platform outside; he could 
hear the scraping of trunks and the loud babble of 
talk. 



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Ron and Hermione would think that he had left the 
train without them. Once they arrived at Hogwarts 
and took their places in the Great Hall, looked up and 
down the Gryffindor table a few times, and finally 
realized that he was not there, he, no doubt, would be 
halfway back to London. 

He tried to make a sound, even a grunt, but it was 
impossible. Then he remembered that some wizards, 
like Dumbledore, could perform spells without 
speaking, so he tried to summon his wand, which had 
fallen out of his hand, by saying the words “Accio 
Wand\” over and over again in his head, but nothing 
happened. 

He thought he could hear the rustling of the trees 
that surrounded the lake, and the far-off hoot of an 
owl, but no hint of a search being made or even (he 
despised himself slightly for hoping it) panicked 
voices wondering where Harry Potter had gone. A 
feeling of hopelessness spread through him as he 
imagined the convoy of thestral-drawn carriages 
trundling up to the school and the muffled yells of 
laughter issuing from whichever carriage Malfoy was 
riding in, where he could be recounting his attack on 
Harry to Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson. 

The train lurched, causing Harry to roll over onto his 
side. Now he was staring at the dusty underside of 
the seats instead of the ceiling. The floor began to 
vibrate as the engine roared into life. The Express was 
leaving and nobody knew he was still on it. ... 

Then he felt his Invisibility Cloak fly off him and a 
voice overhead said, “Wotcher, Harry.” 

There was a flash of red light and Harry’s body 
unfroze; he was able to push himself into a more 
dignified sitting position, hastily wipe the blood off his 

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bruised face with the back of his hand, and raise his 
head to look up at Tonks, who was holding the 
Invisibility Cloak she had just pulled away. 

“We’d better get out of here, quickly,” she said, as the 
train windows became obscured with steam and they 
began to move out of the station. “Come on, we’ll 
jump.” 

Harry hurried after her into the corridor. She pulled 
open the train door and leapt onto the platform, 
which seemed to be sliding underneath them as the 
train gathered momentum. He followed her, staggered 
a little on landing, then straightened up in time to see 
the gleaming scarlet steam engine pick up speed, 
round the corner, and disappear from view. 

The cold night air was soothing on his throbbing 
nose. Tonks was looking at him; he felt angry and 
embarrassed that he had been discovered in such a 
ridiculous position. Silently she handed him back the 
Invisibility Cloak. 

“Who did it?” 

“Draco Malfoy,” said Harry bitterly. “Thanks for ... 
well ...” 

“No problem,” said Tonks, without smiling. From 
what Harry could see in the darkness, she was as 
mousy-haired and miserable-looking as she had been 
when he had met her at the Burrow. “I can fix your 
nose if you stand still.” 

Harry did not think much of this idea; he had been 
intending to visit Madam Pomfrey, the matron, in 
whom he had a little more confidence when it came to 
Healing Spells, but it seemed rude to say this, so he 
stayed stock-still and closed his eyes. 

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“Episkey,” said Tonks. 



Harry’s nose felt very hot, and then very cold. He 
raised a hand and felt it gingerly. It seemed to be 
mended. 

“Thanks a lot!” 

“You’d better put that cloak back on, and we can walk 
up to the school,” said Tonks, still unsmiling. As 
Harry swung the cloak back over himself, she waved 
her wand; an immense silvery four-legged creature 
erupted from it and streaked off into the darkness. 

“Was that a Patronus?” asked Harry, who had seen 
Dumbledore send messages like this. 

“Yes, I’m sending word to the castle that I’ve got you 
or they’ll worry. Come on, we’d better not dawdle.” 

They set off toward the lane that led to the school. 

“How did you find me?” 

“I noticed you hadn’t left the train and I knew you 
had that cloak. I thought you might be hiding for 
some reason. When I saw the blinds were drawn 
down on that compartment I thought I’d check.” 

“But what are you doing here, anyway?” Harry asked. 

“I’m stationed in Hogsmeade now, to give the school 
extra protection,” said Tonks. 

“Is it just you who’s stationed up here, or — ?” 

“No, Proudfoot, Savage, and Dawlish are here too.” 

“Dawlish, that Auror Dumbledore attacked last year?” 

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“That’s right.” 



They trudged up the dark, deserted lane, following the 
freshly made carriage tracks. Harry looked sideways 
at Tonks under his cloak. Last year she had been 
inquisitive (to the point of being a little annoying at 
times), she had laughed easily, she had made jokes. 
Now she seemed older and much more serious and 
purposeful. Was this all the effect of what had 
happened at the Ministry? He reflected uncomfortably 
that Hermione would have suggested he say 
something consoling about Sirius to her, that it 
hadn’t been her fault at all, but he couldn’t bring 
himself to do it. He was far from blaming her for 
Sirius’s death; it was no more her fault than anyone 
else’s (and much less than his), but he did not like 
talking about Sirius if he could avoid it. And so they 
tramped on through the cold night in silence, Tonks ’s 
long cloak whispering on the ground behind them. 

Having always traveled there by carriage, Harry had 
never before appreciated just how far Hogwarts was 
from Hogsmeade Station. With great relief he finally 
saw the tall pillars on either side of the gates, each 
topped with a winged boar. He was cold, he was 
hungry, and he was quite keen to leave this new, 
gloomy Tonks behind. But when he put out a hand to 
push open the gates, he found them chained shut. 

“Alohomora\” he said confidently, pointing his wand at 
the padlock, but nothing happened. 

“That won’t work on these,” said Tonks. “Dumbledore 
bewitched them himself.” 

Harry looked around. 

“I could climb a wall,” he suggested. 



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“No, you couldn’t,” said Tonks flatly. “Anti-intruder 
jinxes on all of them. Security’s been tightened a 
hundredfold this summer.” 

“Well then,” said Harry, starting to feel annoyed at her 
lack of helpfulness, “I suppose I’ll just have to sleep 
out here and wait for morning.” 

“Someone’s coming down for you,” said Tonks. “Look.” 

A lantern was bobbing at the distant foot of the 
castle. Harry was so pleased to see it he felt he could 
even endure Filch’s wheezy criticisms of his tardiness 
and rants about how his timekeeping would improve 
with the regular application of thumbscrews. It was 
not until the glowing yellow light was ten feet away 
from them, and Harry had pulled off his Invisibility 
Cloak so that he could be seen, that he recognized, 
with a rush of pure loathing, the uplit hooked nose 
and long, black, greasy hair of Severus Snape. 

“Well, well, well,” sneered Snape, taking out his wand 
and tapping the padlock once, so that the chains 
snaked backward and the gates creaked open. “Nice 
of you to turn up, Potter, although you have evidently 
decided that the wearing of school robes would 
detract from your appearance.” 

“I couldn’t change, I didn’t have my — ” Harry began, 
but Snape cut across him. 

“There is no need to wait, Nymphadora, Potter is quite 
— ah — safe in my hands.” 

“I meant Hagrid to get the message,” said Tonks, 
frowning. 

“Hagrid was late for the start-of-term feast, just like 
Potter here, so I took it instead. And incidentally,” 

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said Snape, standing back to allow Harry to pass him, 
“I was interested to see your new Patronus.” 

He shut the gates in her face with a loud clang and 
tapped the chains with his wand again, so that they 
slithered, clinking, back into place. 

“I think you were better off with the old one,” said 
Snape, the malice in his voice unmistakable. “The 
new one looks weak.” 

As Snape swung the lantern about, Harry saw, 
fleetingly, a look of shock and anger on Tonks’s face. 
Then she was covered in darkness once more. 

“Good night,” Harry called to her over his shoulder, as 
he began the walk up to the school with Snape. 
“Thanks for ... everything.” 

“See you, Harry.” 

Snape did not speak for a minute or so. Harry felt as 
though his body was generating waves of hatred so 
powerful that it seemed incredible that Snape could 
not feel them burning him. He had loathed Snape 
from their first encounter, but Snape had placed 
himself forever and irrevocably beyond the possibility 
of Harry’s forgiveness by his attitude toward Sirius. 
Whatever Dumbledore said, Harry had had time to 
think over the summer, and had concluded that 
Snape ’s snide remarks to Sirius about remaining 
safely hidden while the rest of the Order of the 
Phoenix were off fighting Voldemort had probably 
been a powerful factor in Sirius rushing off to the 
Ministry the night that he had died. Harry clung to 
this notion, because it enabled him to blame Snape, 
which felt satisfying, and also because he knew that if 
anyone was not sorry that Sirius was dead, it was the 
man now striding next to him in the darkness. 

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“Fifty points from Gryffindor for lateness, I think,” 
said Snape. “And, let me see, another twenty for your 
Muggle attire. You know, I don’t believe any House 
has ever been in negative figures this early in the 
term: We haven’t even started pudding. You might 
have set a record, Potter.” 

The fury and hatred bubbling inside Harry seemed to 
blaze white-hot, but he would rather have been 
immobilized all the way back to London than tell 
Snape why he was late. 

“I suppose you wanted to make an entrance, did 
you?” Snape continued. “And with no flying car 
available you decided that bursting into the Great 
Hall halfway through the feast ought to create a 
dramatic effect.” 

Still Harry remained silent, though he thought his 
chest might explode. He knew that Snape had come 
to fetch him for this, for the few minutes when he 
could needle and torment Harry without anyone else 
listening. 

They reached the castle steps at last and as the great 
oaken front doors swung open into the vast flagged 
entrance hall, a burst of talk and laughter and of 
tinkling plates and glasses greeted them through the 
doors standing open into the Great Hall. Harry 
wondered whether he could slip his Invisibility Cloak 
back on, thereby gaining his seat at the long 
Gryffindor table (which, inconveniently, was the 
farthest from the entrance hall) without being noticed. 
As though he had read Harry’s mind, however, Snape 
said, “No cloak. You can walk in so that everyone sees 
you, which is what you wanted, I’m sure.” 

Harry turned on the spot and marched straight 
through the open doors: anything to get away from 

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Snape. The Great Hall, with its four long House tables 
and its staff table set at the top of the room, was 
decorated as usual with floating candles that made 
the plates below glitter and glow. It was all a 
shimmering blur to Harry, however, who walked so 
fast that he was passing the Hufflepuff table before 
people really started to stare, and by the time they 
were standing up to get a good look at him, he had 
spotted Ron and Hermione, sped along the benches 
toward them, and forced his way in between them. 

“Where’ve you — blimey, what’ve you done to your 
face?” said Ron, goggling at him along with everyone 
else in the vicinity. 

“Why, what’s wrong with it?” said Harry, grabbing a 
spoon and squinting at his distorted reflection. 

“You’re covered in blood!” said Hermione. “Come here 



She raised her wand, said “Tergeol” and siphoned off 
the dried blood. 

“Thanks,” said Harry, feeling his now clean face. 
“How’s my nose looking?” 

“Normal,” said Hermione anxiously. “Why shouldn’t 
it? Harry, what happened? We’ve been terrified!” 

“I’ll tell you later,” said Harry curtly. He was very 
conscious that Ginny, Neville, Dean, and Seamus 
were listening in; even Nearly Headless Nick, the 
Gryffindor ghost, had come floating along the bench 
to eavesdrop. 

“But — ” said Hermione. 



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“Not now, Hermione,” said Harry, in a darkly 
significant voice. He hoped very much that they would 
all assume he had been involved in something heroic, 
preferably involving a couple of Death Eaters and a 
dementor. Of course, Malfoy would spread the story 
as far and wide as he could, but there was always a 
chance it wouldn’t reach too many Gryffindor ears. 

He reached across Ron for a couple of chicken legs 
and a handful of chips, but before he could take them 
they vanished, to be replaced with puddings. 

“You missed the Sorting, anyway,” said Hermione, as 
Ron dived for a large chocolate gateau. 

“Hat say anything interesting?” asked Harry, taking a 
piece of treacle tart. 

“More of the same, really ... advising us all to unite in 
the face of our enemies, you know.” 

“Dumbledore mentioned Voldemort at all?” 

“Not yet, but he always saves his proper speech for 
after the feast, doesn’t he? It can’t be long now.” 

“Snape said Hagrid was late for the feast — ” 

“You’ve seen Snape? How come?” said Ron between 
frenzied mouthfuls of gateau. 

“Bumped into him,” said Harry evasively. 

“Hagrid was only a few minutes late,” said Hermione. 
“Look, he’s waving at you, Harry.” 

Harry looked up at the staff table and grinned at 
Hagrid, who was indeed waving at him. Hagrid had 
never quite managed to comport himself with the 

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dignity of Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor 
House, the top of whose head came up to somewhere 
between Hagrid’s elbow and shoulder as they were 
sitting side by side, and who was looking 
disapprovingly at this enthusiastic greeting. Harry 
was surprised to see the Divination teacher, Professor 
Trelawney, sitting on Hagrid’s other side; she rarely 
left her tower room, and he had never seen her at the 
start-of-term feast before. She looked as odd as ever, 
glittering with beads and trailing shawls, her eyes 
magnified to enormous size by her spectacles. Having 
always considered her a bit of a fraud, Harry had 
been shocked to discover at the end of the previous 
term that it had been she who had made the 
prediction that caused Lord Voldemort to kill Harry’s 
parents and attack Harry himself. The knowledge had 
made him even less eager to find himself in her 
company, but thankfully, this year he would be 
dropping Divination. Her great beaconlike eyes 
swiveled in his direction; he hastily looked away 
toward the Slytherin table. Draco Malfoy was miming 
the shattering of a nose to raucous laughter and 
applause. Harry dropped his gaze to his treacle tart, 
his insides burning again. What he would not give to 
fight Malfoy one-on-one . . . 

“So what did Professor Slughorn want?” Hermione 
asked. 

“To know what really happened at the Ministry,” said 
Harry. 

“Him and everyone else here,” sniffed Hermione. 
“People were interrogating us about it on the train, 
weren’t they, Ron?” 

“Yeah,” said Ron. “All wanting to know if you really 
are ‘the Chosen One’ — ” 



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“There has been much talk on that very subject even 
amongst the ghosts,” interrupted Nearly Headless 
Nick, inclining his barely connected head toward 
Harry so that it wobbled dangerously on its ruff. “I am 
considered something of a Potter authority; it is 
widely known that we are friendly. I have assured the 
spirit community that I will not pester you for 
information, however. ‘Harry Potter knows that he 
can confide in me with complete confidence/ I told 
them. ‘I would rather die than betray his trust.’ ” 

“That’s not saying much, seeing as you’re already 
dead,” Ron observed. 

“Once again, you show all the sensitivity of a blunt 
axe,” said Nearly Headless Nick in affronted tones, 
and he rose into the air and glided back toward the 
far end of the Gryffindor table just as Dumbledore got 
to his feet at the staff table. The talk and laughter 
echoing around the Hall died away almost instantly. 

“The very best of evenings to you!” he said, smiling 
broadly, his arms opened wide as though to embrace 
the whole room. 

“What happened to his hand?” gasped Hermione. 

She was not the only one who had noticed. 
Dumbledore ’s right hand was as blackened and dead- 
looking as it had been on the night he had come to 
fetch Harry from the Dursleys. Whispers swept the 
room; Dumbledore, interpreting them correctly, 
merely smiled and shook his purple-and-gold sleeve 
over his injury. 

“Nothing to worry about,” he said airily. “Now ... to 
our new students, welcome, to our old students, 
welcome back! Another year full of magical education 
awaits you ...” 

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“His hand was like that when I saw him over the 
summer,” Harry whispered to Hermione. “I thought 
he’d have cured it by now, though ... or Madam 
Pomfrey would’ve done.” 

“It looks as if it’s died,” said Hermione, with a 
nauseated expression. “But there are some injuries 
you can’t cure ... old curses ... and there are poisons 
without antidotes. ...” 

"... and Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to say 
that there is a blanket ban on any joke items bought 
at the shop called Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. 

“Those wishing to play for their House Quidditch 
teams should give their names to their Heads of 
House as usual. We are also looking for new 
Quidditch commentators, who should do likewise. 

“We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff 
this year. Professor Slughorn” — Slughorn stood up, 
his bald head gleaming in the candlelight, his big 
waistcoated belly casting the table below into shadow 
— “is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to 
resume his old post of Potions master.” 

“Potions?” 

“Potions?” 

The word echoed all over the Hall as people wondered 
whether they had heard right. 

“Potions?” said Ron and Hermione together, turning 
to stare at Harry. “But you said — ” 

“Professor Snape, meanwhile,” said Dumbledore, 
raising his voice so that it carried over all the 



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muttering, “will be taking over the position of Defense 
Against the Dark Arts teacher.” 



“No!” said Harry, so loudly that many heads turned in 
his direction. He did not care; he was staring up at 
the staff table, incensed. How could Snape be given 
the Defense Against the Dark Arts job after all this 
time? Hadn’t it been widely known for years that 
Dumbledore did not trust him to do it? 

“But Harry, you said that Slughorn was going to be 
teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts!” said 
Hermione. 

“I thought he was!” said Harry, racking his brains to 
remember when Dumbledore had told him this, but 
now that he came to think of it, he was unable to 
recall Dumbledore ever telling him what Slughorn 
would be teaching. 

Snape, who was sitting on Dumbledore’s right, did 
not stand up at the mention of his name; he merely 
raised a hand in lazy acknowledgment of the applause 
from the Slytherin table, yet Harry was sure he could 
detect a look of triumph on the features he loathed so 
much. 

“Well, there’s one good thing,” he said savagely. 

“Snape ’ll be gone by the end of the year.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Ron. 

“That job’s jinxed. No one’s lasted more than a year. 

... Quirrell actually died doing it. ... Personally, I’m 
going to keep my fingers crossed for another death. 



“Harry!” said Hermione, shocked and reproachful. 

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“He might just go back to teaching Potions at the end 
of the year,” said Ron reasonably. “That Slughorn 
bloke might not want to stay long-term. Moody 
didn’t.” 

Dumbledore cleared his throat. Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione were not the only ones who had been 
talking; the whole Hall had erupted in a buzz of 
conversation at the news that Snape had finally 
achieved his heart’s desire. Seemingly oblivious to the 
sensational nature of the news he had just imparted, 
Dumbledore said nothing more about staff 
appointments, but waited a few seconds to ensure 
that the silence was absolute before continuing. 

“Now, as everybody in this Hall knows, Lord 
Voldemort and his followers are once more at large 
and gaining in strength.” 

The silence seemed to tauten and strain as 
Dumbledore spoke. Harry glanced at Malfoy. Malfoy 
was not looking at Dumbledore, but making his fork 
hover in midair with his wand, as though he found 
the headmaster’s words unworthy of his attention. 

“I cannot emphasize strongly enough how dangerous 
the present situation is, and how much care each of 
us at Hogwarts must take to ensure that we remain 
safe. The castle’s magical fortifications have been 
strengthened over the summer, we are protected in 
new and more powerful ways, but we must still guard 
scrupulously against carelessness on the part of any 
student or member of staff. I urge you, therefore, to 
abide by any security restrictions that your teachers 
might impose upon you, however irksome you might 
find them — in particular, the rule that you are not to 
be out of bed after hours. I implore you, should you 
notice anything strange or suspicious within or 
outside the castle, to report it to a member of staff 
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immediately. I trust you to conduct yourselves, 
always, with the utmost regard for your own and 
others’ safety.” 

Dumbledore’s blue eyes swept over the students 
before he smiled once more. 

“But now, your beds await, as warm and comfortable 
as you could possibly wish, and I know that your top 
priority is to be well-rested for your lessons tomorrow. 
Let us therefore say good night. Pip pip!” 

With the usual deafening scraping noise, the benches 
were moved back and the hundreds of students began 
to file out of the Great Hall toward their dormitories. 
Harry, who was in no hurry at all to leave with the 
gawping crowd, nor to get near enough to Malfoy to 
allow him to retell the story of the nose-stamping, 
lagged behind, pretending to retie the lace on his 
trainer, allowing most of the Gryffindors to draw 
ahead of him. Hermione had darted ahead to fulfill 
her prefect’s duty of shepherding the first years, but 
Ron remained with Harry. 

“What really happened to your nose?” he asked, once 
they were at the very back of the throng pressing out 
of the Hall, and out of earshot of anyone else. 

Harry told him. It was a mark of the strength of their 
friendship that Ron did not laugh. 

“I saw Malfoy miming something to do with a nose,” 
he said darkly. 

“Yeah, well, never mind that,” said Harry bitterly. 
“Listen to what he was saying before he found out I 
was there. ...” 



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Harry had expected Ron to be stunned by Malfoy’s 
boasts. With what Harry considered pure 
pigheadedness, however, Ron was unimpressed. 

“Come on, Harry, he was just showing off for 
Parkinson. ... What kind of mission would You-Know- 
Who have given him?” 

“How d’you know Voldemort doesn’t need someone at 
Hogwarts? It wouldn’t be the first — ” 

“I wish yeh’d stop sayin’ tha’ name, Harry,” said a 
reproachful voice behind them. Harry looked over his 
shoulder to see Hagrid shaking his head. 

“Dumbledore uses that name,” said Harry stubbornly. 

“Yeah, well, tha’s Dumbledore, innit?” said Hagrid 
mysteriously. “So how come yeh were late, Harry? I 
was worried.” 

“Got held up on the train,” said Harry. “Why were you 
late?” 

“I was with Grawp,” said Hagrid happily. “Los’ track o’ 
the time. He’s got a new home up in the mountains 
now, Dumbledore fixed it — nice big cave. He’s much 
happier than he was in the forest. We were havin’ a 
good chat.” 

“Really?” said Harry, taking care not to catch Ron’s 
eye; the last time he had met Hagrid’s half-brother, a 
vicious giant with a talent for ripping up trees by the 
roots, his vocabulary had comprised five words, two of 
which he was unable to pronounce properly. 

“Oh yeah, he’s really come on,” said Hagrid proudly. 
“Yeh’ll be amazed. I’m thinkin’ o’ trainin’ him up as 
me assistant.” 

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Ron snorted loudly, but managed to pass it off as a 
violent sneeze. They were now standing beside the 
oak front doors. 

“Anyway, I’ll see yeh tomorrow, firs’ lesson’s straight 
after lunch. Come early an’ yeh can say hello ter Buck 
— I mean, Witherwings!” 

Raising an arm in cheery farewell, he headed out of 
the front doors into the darkness. 

Harry and Ron looked at each other. Harry could tell 
that Ron was experiencing the same sinking feeling as 
himself. 

“You’re not taking Care of Magical Creatures, are 
you?” 

Ron shook his head. “And you’re not either, are you?” 

Harry shook his head too. 

“And Hermione,” said Ron, “she’s not, is she?” 

Harry shook his head again. Exactly what Hagrid 
would say when he realized his three favorite 
students had given up his subject, he did not like to 
think. 



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9 




THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE 

Harry and Ron met Hermione in the common room 
before breakfast next morning. Hoping for some 
support for his theory, Harry lost no time in telling 
Hermione what he had overheard Malfoy saying on 
the Hogwarts Express. 

“But he was obviously showing off for Parkinson, 
wasn’t he?” interjected Ron quickly, before Hermione 
could say anything. 

“Well,” she said uncertainly, “I don’t know. ... It would 
be like Malfoy to make himself seem more important 
than he is ... but that’s a big lie to tell. ...” 

“Exactly,” said Harry, but he could not press the 
point, because so many people were trying to listen in 
to his conversation, not to mention staring at him and 
whispering behind their hands. 

“It’s rude to point,” Ron snapped at a particularly 
minuscule first-year boy as they joined the queue to 
climb out of the portrait hole. The boy, who had been 

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muttering something about Harry behind his hand to 
his friend, promptly turned scarlet and toppled out of 
the hole in alarm. Ron sniggered. 

“I love being a sixth year. And we’re going to be 
getting free time this year. Whole periods when we 
can just sit up here and relax.” 

“We’re going to need that time for studying, Ron!” said 
Hermione, as they set off down the corridor. 

“Yeah, but not today,” said Ron. “Today’s going to be 
a real doss, I reckon.” 

“Hold it!” said Hermione, throwing out an arm and 
halting a passing fourth year, who was attempting to 
push past her with a lime-green disk clutched tightly 
in his hand. “Fanged Frisbees are banned, hand it 
over,” she told him sternly. The scowling boy handed 
over the snarling Frisbee, ducked under her arm, and 
took off after his friends. Ron waited for him to 
vanish, then tugged the Frisbee from Hermione ’s grip. 

“Excellent, I’ve always wanted one of these.” 

Hermione ’s remonstration was drowned by a loud 
giggle; Lavender Brown had apparently found Ron’s 
remark highly amusing. She continued to laugh as 
she passed them, glancing back at Ron over her 
shoulder. Ron looked rather pleased with himself. 

The ceiling of the Great Hall was serenely blue and 
streaked with frail, wispy clouds, just like the squares 
of sky visible through the high mullioned windows. 
While they tucked into porridge and eggs and bacon, 
Harry and Ron told Hermione about their 
embarrassing conversation with Hagrid the previous 
evening. 



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“But he can’t really think we’d continue Care of 
Magical Creatures!” she said, looking distressed. “I 
mean, when has any of us expressed ... you know ... 
any enthusiasm?” 

“That’s it, though, innit?” said Ron, swallowing an 
entire fried egg whole. “We were the ones who made 
the most effort in classes because we like Hagrid. But 
he thinks we liked the stupid subject D’you reckon 
anyone’s going to go on to N.E.W.T.?” 

Neither Harry nor Hermione answered; there was no 
need. They knew perfectly well that nobody in their 
year would want to continue Care of Magical 
Creatures. They avoided Hagrid’s eye and returned 
his cheery wave only halfheartedly when he left the 
staff table ten minutes later. 

After they had eaten, they remained in their places, 
awaiting Professor McGonagall’s descent from the 
staff table. The distribution of class schedules was 
more complicated than usual this year, for Professor 
McGonagall needed first to confirm that everybody 
had achieved the necessary O.W.L. grades to continue 
with their chosen N.E.W.T.s. 

Hermione was immediately cleared to continue with 
Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, 
Transfiguration, Herbology, Arithmancy, Ancient 
Runes, and Potions, and shot off to a first-period 
Ancient Runes class without further ado. Neville took 
a little longer to sort out; his round face was anxious 
as Professor McGonagall looked down his application 
and then consulted his O.W.L. results. 

“Herbology, fine,” she said. “Professor Sprout will be 
delighted to see you back with an ‘Outstanding’ 

O.W.L. And you qualify for Defense Against the Dark 
Arts with ‘Exceeds Expectations.’ But the problem is 

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Transfiguration. I’m sorry, Longbottom, but an 
Acceptable’ really isn’t good enough to continue to 
N.E.W.T level. I just don’t think you’d be able to cope 
with the coursework.” 

Neville hung his head. Professor McGonagall peered 
at him through her square spectacles. 

“Why do you want to continue with Transfiguration, 
anyway? I’ve never had the impression that you 
particularly enjoyed it.” 

Neville looked miserable and muttered something 
about “my grandmother wants.” 

“Hmph,” snorted Professor McGonagall. “It’s high time 
your grandmother learned to be proud of the 
grandson she’s got, rather than the one she thinks 
she ought to have — particularly after what happened 
at the Ministry.” 

Neville turned very pink and blinked confusedly; 
Professor McGonagall had never paid him a 
compliment before. 

“I’m sorry, Longbottom, but I cannot let you into my 
N.E.W.T. class. I see that you have an ‘Exceeds 
Expectations’ in Charms, however — why not try for a 
N.E.W.T. in Charms?” 

“My grandmother thinks Charms is a soft option,” 
mumbled Neville. 

“Take Charms,” said Professor McGonagall, “and I 
shall drop Augusta a line reminding her that just 
because she failed her Charms O.W.L., the subject is 
not necessarily worthless.” Smiling slightly at the look 
of delighted incredulity on Neville’s face, Professor 
McGonagall tapped a blank schedule with the tip of 
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her wand and handed it, now carrying details of his 
new classes, to Neville. 

Professor McGonagall turned next to Parvati Patil, 
whose first question was whether Firenze, the 
handsome centaur, was still teaching Divination. 

“He and Professor Trelawney are dividing classes 
between them this year,” said Professor McGonagall, 
a hint of disapproval in her voice; it was common 
knowledge that she despised the subject of 
Divination. “The sixth year is being taken by Professor 
Trelawney.” 

Parvati set off for Divination five minutes later looking 
slightly crestfallen. 

“So, Potter, Potter ...” said Professor McGonagall, 
consulting her notes as she turned to Harry. 

“Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, 
Transfiguration ... all fine. I must say, I was pleased 
with your Transfiguration mark, Potter, very pleased. 
Now, why haven’t you applied to continue with 
Potions? I thought it was your ambition to become an 
Auror?” 

“It was, but you told me I had to get an ‘Outstanding’ 
in my O.W.L., Professor.” 

“And so you did when Professor Snape was teaching 
the subject. Professor Slughorn, however, is perfectly 
happy to accept N.E.W.T students with ‘Exceeds 
Expectations’ at O.W.L. Do you wish to proceed with 
Potions?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, “but I didn’t buy the books or any 
ingredients or anything — ” 



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“I’m sure Professor Slughorn will be able to lend you 
some,” said Professor McGonagall. “Very well, Potter, 
here is your schedule. Oh, by the way — twenty 
hopefuls have already put down their names for the 
Gryffindor Quidditch team. I shall pass the list to you 
in due course and you can fix up trials at your 
leisure.” 

A few minutes later, Ron was cleared to do the same 
subjects as Harry, and the two of them left the table 
together. 

“Look,” said Ron delightedly, gazing at his schedule, 
“we’ve got a free period now ... and a free period after 
break ... and after lunch ... excellent.” 

They returned to the common room, which was empty 
apart from a half dozen seventh years, including Katie 
Bell, the only remaining member of the original 
Gryffindor Quidditch team that Harry had joined in 
his first year. 

“I thought you’d get that, well done,” she called over, 
pointing at the Captain’s badge on Harry’s chest. “Tell 
me when you call trials!” 

“Don’t be stupid,” said Harry, “you don’t need to try 
out, I’ve watched you play for five years. ...” 

“You mustn’t start off like that,” she said warningly. 
“For all you know, there’s someone much better than 
me out there. Good teams have been ruined before 
now because Captains just kept playing the old faces, 
or letting in their friends. ...” 

Ron looked a little uncomfortable and began playing 
with the Fanged Frisbee Hermione had taken from the 
fourth-year student. It zoomed around the common 
room, snarling and attempting to take bites of the 

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tapestry. Crookshanks’s yellow eyes followed it and he 
hissed when it came too close. 

An hour later they reluctantly left the sunlit common 
room for the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom 
four floors below. Hermione was already queuing 
outside, carrying an armful of heavy books and 
looking put-upon. 

“We got so much homework for Runes,” she said 
anxiously, when Harry and Ron joined her. “A fifteen- 
inch essay, two translations, and I’ve got to read 
these by Wednesday!” 

“Shame,” yawned Ron. 

“You wait,” she said resentfully. “I bet Snape gives us 
loads.” 

The classroom door opened as she spoke, and Snape 
stepped into the corridor, his sallow face framed as 
ever by two curtains of greasy black hair. Silence fell 
over the queue immediately. 

“Inside,” he said. 

Harry looked around as they entered. Snape had 
imposed his personality upon the room already; it 
was gloomier than usual, as curtains had been drawn 
over the windows, and was lit by candlelight. New 
pictures adorned the walls, many of them showing 
people who appeared to be in pain, sporting grisly 
injuries or strangely contorted body parts. Nobody 
spoke as they settled down, looking around at the 
shadowy, gruesome pictures. 

“I have not asked you to take out your books,” said 
Snape, closing the door and moving to face the class 
from behind his desk; Hermione hastily dropped her 

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copy of Confronting the Faceless back into her bag 
and stowed it under her chair. “I wish to speak to 
you, and I want your fullest attention.” 

His black eyes roved over their upturned faces, 
lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Harry’s 
than anyone else’s. 

“You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I 
believe.” 

You believe ... like you haven’t watched them all come 
and go, Snape, hoping you’d be next, thought Harry 
scathingly. 

“Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own 
methods and priorities. Given this confusion I am 
surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this 
subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you 
manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will 
be much more advanced.” 

Snape set off around the edge of the room, speaking 
now in a lower voice; the class craned their necks to 
keep him in view. 

“The Dark Arts,” said Snape, “are many, varied, ever- 
changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a 
many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is 
severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than 
before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, 
mutating, indestructible.” 

Harry stared at Snape. It was surely one thing to 
respect the Dark Arts as a dangerous enemy, another 
to speak of them, as Snape was doing, with a loving 
caress in his voice? 



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“Your defenses,” said Snape, a little louder, “must 
therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you 
seek to undo. These pictures” — he indicated a few of 
them as he swept past — “give a fair representation of 
what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the 
Cruciatus Curse” — he waved a hand toward a witch 
who was clearly shrieking in agony — “feel the 
Dementor’s Kiss” — a wizard lying huddled and 
blank-eyed, slumped against a wall — “or provoke the 
aggression of the Inferius” — a bloody mass upon the 
ground. 

“Has an Inferius been seen, then?” said Parvati Patil 
in a high-pitched voice. “Is it definite, is he using 
them?” 

“The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past,” said 
Snape, “which means you would be well-advised to 
assume he might use them again. Now ...” 

He set off again around the other side of the 
classroom toward his desk, and again, they watched 
him as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind 
him. 

"... you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of 
nonverbal spells. What is the advantage of a 
nonverbal spell?” 

Hermione’s hand shot into the air. Snape took his 
time looking around at everybody else, making sure 
he had no choice, before saying curtly, “Very well — 
Miss Granger?” 

“Your adversary has no warning about what kind of 
magic you’re about to perform,” said Hermione, 

“which gives you a split-second advantage.” 



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“An answer copied almost word for word from The 
Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six,” said Snape 
dismissively (over in the corner, Malfoy sniggered), 
“but correct in essentials. Yes, those who progress to 
using magic without shouting incantations gain an 
element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all 
wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of 
concentration and mind power which some” — his 
gaze lingered maliciously upon Harry once more — 
“lack.” 

Harry knew Snape was thinking of their disastrous 
Occlumency lessons of the previous year. He refused 
to drop his gaze, but glowered at Snape until Snape 
looked away. 

“You will now divide,” Snape went on, “into pairs. One 
partner will attempt to jinx the other without 
speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in 
equal silence. Carry on.” 

Although Snape did not know it, Harry had taught at 
least half the class (everyone who had been a member 
of the D.A.) how to perform a Shield Charm the 
previous year. None of them had ever cast the charm 
without speaking, however. A reasonable amount of 
cheating ensued; many people were merely 
whispering the incantation instead of saying it aloud. 
Typically, ten minutes into the lesson Hermione 
managed to repel Neville’s muttered Jelly-Legs Jinx 
without uttering a single word, a feat that would 
surely have earned her twenty points for Gryffindor 
from any reasonable teacher, thought Harry bitterly, 
but which Snape ignored. He swept between them as 
they practiced, looking just as much like an 
overgrown bat as ever, lingering to watch Harry and 
Ron struggling with the task. 



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Ron, who was supposed to be jinxing Harry, was 
purple in the face, his lips tightly compressed to save 
himself from the temptation of muttering the 
incantation. Harry had his wand raised, waiting on 
tenterhooks to repel a jinx that seemed unlikely ever 
to come. 

“Pathetic, Weasley,” said Snape, after a while. “Here 
— let me show you — ” 

He turned his wand on Harry so fast that Harry 
reacted instinctively; all thought of nonverbal spells 
forgotten, he yelled, “Protegol” 

His Shield Charm was so strong Snape was knocked 
off-balance and hit a desk. The whole class had 
looked around and now watched as Snape righted 
himself, scowling. 

“Do you remember me telling you we are practicing 
nonverbal spells, Potter?” 

“Yes,” said Harry stiffly. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“There’s no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor.” 

The words had escaped him before he knew what he 
was saying. Several people gasped, including 
Hermione. Behind Snape, however, Ron, Dean, and 
Seamus grinned appreciatively. 

“Detention, Saturday night, my office,” said Snape. “I 
do not take cheek from anyone, Potter ... not even ‘the 
Chosen One. ’ ” 

“That was brilliant, Harry!” chortled Ron, once they 
were safely on their way to break a short while later. 

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“You really shouldn’t have said it,” said Hermione, 
frowning at Ron. “What made you?” 



“He tried to jinx me, in case you didn’t notice!” fumed 
Harry. “I had enough of that during those 
Occlumency lessons! Why doesn’t he use another 
guinea pig for a change? What’s Dumbledore playing 
at, anyway, letting him teach Defense? Did you hear 
him talking about the Dark Arts? He loves them! All 
that unfixed, indestructible stuff — ” 

“Well,” said Hermione, “I thought he sounded a bit 
like you.” 

“Like me?” 

“Yes, when you were telling us what it’s like to face 
Voldemort. You said it wasn’t just memorizing a 
bunch of spells, you said it was just you and your 
brains and your guts — well, wasn’t that what Snape 
was saying? That it really comes down to being brave 
and quick-thinking?” 

Harry was so disarmed that she had thought his 
words as well worth memorizing as The Standard 
Book of Spells that he did not argue. 

“Harry! Hey, Harry!” 

Harry looked around; Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters 
on last year’s Gryffindor Quidditch team, was 
hurrying toward him holding a roll of parchment. 

“For you,” panted Sloper. “Listen, I heard you’re the 
new Captain. When’re you holding trials?” 

“I’m not sure yet,” said Harry, thinking privately that 
Sloper would be very lucky to get back on the team. 
“I’ll let you know.” 

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“Oh, right. I was hoping it’d be this weekend — ” 



But Harry was not listening; he had just recognized 
the thin, slanting writing on the parchment. Leaving 
Sloper in mid-sentence, he hurried away with Ron 
and Hermione, unrolling the parchment as he went. 

Dear Harry, 

I would like to start our private lessons this Saturday. 
Kindly come along to my office at 8 p.m. I hope you are 
enjoying your first day back at school. 

Yours sincerely, 

Albus Dumbledore 

P. S. I enjoy Acid Pops. 

“He enjoys Acid Pops?” said Ron, who had read the 
message over Harry’s shoulder and was looking 
perplexed. 

“It’s the password to get past the gargoyle outside his 
study,” said Harry in a low voice. “Ha! Snape’s not 
going to be pleased. ... I won’t be able to do his 
detention!” 

He, Ron, and Hermione spent the whole of break 
speculating on what Dumbledore would teach Harry. 
Ron thought it most likely to be spectacular jinxes 
and hexes of the type the Death Eaters would not 
know. Hermione said such things were illegal, and 
thought it much more likely that Dumbledore wanted 
to teach Harry advanced Defensive magic. After 
break, she went off to Arithmancy while Harry and 
Ron returned to the common room, where they 
grudgingly started Snape’s homework. This turned 
out to be so complex that they still had not finished 
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when Hermione joined them for their after-lunch free 
period (though she considerably speeded up the 
process). They had only just finished when the bell 
rang for the afternoon’s double Potions and they beat 
the familiar path down to the dungeon classroom that 
had, for so long, been Snape’s. 

When they arrived in the corridor they saw that there 
were only a dozen people progressing to N.E.W.T. 
level. Crabbe and Goyle had evidently failed to achieve 
the required O.W.L. grade, but four Slytherins had 
made it through, including Malfoy. Four Ravenclaws 
were there, and one Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan, 
whom Harry liked despite his rather pompous 
manner. 

“Harry,” Ernie said portentously, holding out his hand 
as Harry approached, “didn’t get a chance to speak in 
Defense Against the Dark Arts this morning. Good 
lesson, I thought, but Shield Charms are old hat, of 
course, for us old D.A. lags ... And how are you, Ron 
— Hermione?” 

Before they could say more than “fine,” the dungeon 
door opened and Slughorn’s belly preceded him out of 
the door. As they filed into the room, his great walrus 
mustache curved above his beaming mouth, and he 
greeted Harry and Zabini with particular enthusiasm. 

The dungeon was, most unusually, already full of 
vapors and odd smells. Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
sniffed interestedly as they passed large, bubbling 
cauldrons. The four Slytherins took a table together, 
as did the four Ravenclaws. This left Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione to share a table with Ernie. They chose the 
one nearest a gold-colored cauldron that was emitting 
one of the most seductive scents Harry had ever 
inhaled: Somehow it reminded him simultaneously of 
treacle tart, the woody smell of a broomstick handle, 
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and something flowery he thought he might have 
smelled at the Burrow. He found that he was 
breathing very slowly and deeply and that the potion’s 
fumes seemed to be filling him up like drink. A great 
contentment stole over him; he grinned across at Ron, 
who grinned back lazily. 

“Now then, now then, now then,” said Slughorn, 
whose massive outline was quivering through the 
many shimmering vapors. “Scales out, everyone, and 
potion kits, and don’t forget your copies of Advanced 
Potion-Making. ...” 

“Sir?” said Harry, raising his hand. 

“Harry, m’boy?” 

“I haven’t got a book or scales or anything — nor’s 
Ron — we didn’t realize we’d be able to do the 
N.E.W.T., you see — ” 

“Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall did mention ... not to 
worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use 
ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I’m 
sure we can lend you some scales, and we’ve got a 
small stock of old books here, they’ll do until you can 
write to Flourish and Blotts. ...” 

Slughorn strode over to a corner cupboard and, after 
a moment’s foraging, emerged with two very battered- 
looking copies of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius 
Borage, which he gave to Harry and Ron along with 
two sets of tarnished scales. 

“Now then,” said Slughorn, returning to the front of 
the class and inflating his already bulging chest so 
that the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to burst 
off, “I’ve prepared a few potions for you to have a look 
at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind 
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of thing you ought to be able to make after completing 
your N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of ’em, even 
if you haven’t made ’em yet. Anyone tell me what this 
one is?” 

He indicated the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table. 
Harry raised himself slightly in his seat and saw what 
looked like plain water boiling away inside it. 

Hermione’s well-practiced hand hit the air before 
anybody else’s; Slughorn pointed at her. 

“It’s Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion that 
forces the drinker to tell the truth,” said Hermione. 

“Very good, very good!” said Slughorn happily. “Now,” 
he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the 
Ravenclaw table, “this one here is pretty well known. 
... Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too ... Who 
can — ?” 

Hermione’s hand was fastest once more. 

“It’s Polyjuice Potion, sir,” she said. 

Harry too had recognized the slow-bubbling, mudlike 
substance in the second cauldron, but did not resent 
Hermione getting the credit for answering the 
question; she, after all, was the one who had 
succeeded in making it, back in their second year. 

“Excellent, excellent! Now, this one here ... yes, my 
dear?” said Slughorn, now looking slightly bemused, 
as Hermione’s hand punched the air again. 

“It’s Amortentia!” 



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“It is indeed. It seems almost foolish to ask,” said 
Slughorn, who was looking mightily impressed, “but I 
assume you know what it does?” 

“It’s the most powerful love potion in the world!” said 
Hermione. 

“Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its 
distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?” 

“And the steam rising in characteristic spirals,” said 
Hermione enthusiastically, “and it’s supposed to 
smell differently to each of us, according to what 
attracts us, and I can smell freshly mown grass and 
new parchment and — ” 

But she turned slightly pink and did not complete the 
sentence. 

“May I ask your name, my dear?” said Slughorn, 
ignoring Hermione’s embarrassment. 

“Hermione Granger, sir.” 

“Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to 
Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most 
Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?” 

“No, I don’t think so, sir. I’m Muggle-born, you see.” 

Harry saw Malfoy lean close to Nott and whisper 
something; both of them sniggered, but Slughorn 
showed no dismay; on the contrary, he beamed and 
looked from Hermione to Harry, who was sitting next 
to her. 

“Oho! ‘One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and 
she’s the best in our yeah’ I’m assuming this is the 
very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?” 

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“Yes, sir,” said Harry. 



“Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for 
Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” said Slughorn genially. 

Malfoy looked rather as he had done the time 
Hermione had punched him in the face. Hermione 
turned to Harry with a radiant expression and 
whispered, “Did you really tell him I’m the best in the 
year? Oh, Harry!” 

“Well, what’s so impressive about that?” whispered 
Ron, who for some reason looked annoyed. “You are 
the best in the year — I’d’ve told him so if he’d asked 
me!” 

Hermione smiled but made a “shhing” gesture, so that 
they could hear what Slughorn was saying. Ron 
looked slightly disgruntled. 

“Amortentia doesn’t really create love, of course. It is 
impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this 
will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. 
It is probably the most dangerous and powerful 
potion in this room — oh yes,” he said, nodding 
gravely at Malfoy and Nott, both of whom were 
smirking skeptically. “When you have seen as much 
of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power 
of obsessive love. ... 

“And now,” said Slughorn, “it is time for us to start 
work.” 

“Sir, you haven’t told us what’s in this one,” said 
Ernie Macmillan, pointing at a small black cauldron 
standing on Slughorn ’s desk. The potion within was 
splashing about merrily; it was the color of molten 
gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above 
the surface, though not a particle had spilled. 

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“Oho,” said Slughorn again. Harry was sure that 
Slughorn had not forgotten the potion at all, but had 
waited to be asked for dramatic effect. “Yes. That. 
Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most 
curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it,” he 
turned, smiling, to look at Hermione, who had let out 
an audible gasp, “that you know what Felix Felicis 
does, Miss Granger?” 

“It’s liquid luck,” said Hermione excitedly. “It makes 
you lucky!” 

The whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter. 
Now all Harry could see of Malfoy was the back of his 
sleek blond head, because he was at last giving 
Slughorn his full and undivided attention. 

“Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. 
Yes, it’s a funny little potion, Felix Felicis,” said 
Slughorn. “Desperately tricky to make, and 
disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, 
as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors 
tend to succeed ... at least until the effects wear off.” 

“Why don’t people drink it all the time, sir?” said 
Terry Boot eagerly. 

“Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, 
recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence,” said 
Slughorn. “Too much of a good thing, you know ... 
highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, 
and very occasionally ...” 

“Have you ever taken it, sir?” asked Michael Corner 
with great interest. 

“Twice in my life,” said Slughorn. “Once when I was 
twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two 



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tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect 
days.” 

He gazed dreamily into the distance. Whether he was 
playacting or not, thought Harry, the effect was good. 

“And that,” said Slughorn, apparently coming back to 
earth, “is what I shall be offering as a prize in this 
lesson.” 

There was silence in which every bubble and gurgle of 
the surrounding potions seemed magnified tenfold. 

“One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn, taking 
a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his 
pocket and showing it to them all. “Enough for twelve 
hours’ luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in 
everything you attempt. 

“Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a 
banned substance in organized competitions . . . 
sporting events, for instance, examinations, or 
elections. So the winner is to use it on an ordinary 
day only . . . and watch how that ordinary day becomes 
extraordinary! 

“So,” said Slughorn, suddenly brisk, “how are you to 
win my fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of 
Advanced Potion-Making. We have a little over an hour 
left to us, which should be time for you to make a 
decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know 
it is more complex than anything you have attempted 
before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from 
anybody. The person who does best, however, will win 
little Felix here. Off you go!” 

There was a scraping as everyone drew their 
cauldrons toward them and some loud clunks as 
people began adding weights to their scales, but 

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nobody spoke. The concentration within the room was 
almost tangible. Harry saw Malfoy riffling feverishly 
through his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. It could 
not have been clearer that Malfoy really wanted that 
lucky day. Harry bent swiftly over the tattered book 
Slughorn had lent him. 

To his annoyance he saw that the previous owner had 
scribbled all over the pages, so that the margins were 
as black as the printed portions. Bending low to 
decipher the ingredients (even here, the previous 
owner had made annotations and crossed things out) 
Harry hurried off toward the store cupboard to find 
what he needed. As he dashed back to his cauldron, 
he saw Malfoy cutting up valerian roots as fast as he 
could. 

Everyone kept glancing around at what the rest of the 
class was doing; this was both an advantage and a 
disadvantage of Potions, that it was hard to keep your 
work private. Within ten minutes, the whole place 
was full of bluish steam. Hermione, of course, seemed 
to have progressed furthest. Her potion already 
resembled the “smooth, black currant-colored liquid” 
mentioned as the ideal halfway stage. 

Having finished chopping his roots, Harry bent low 
over his book again. It was really very irritating, 
having to try and decipher the directions under all the 
stupid scribbles of the previous owner, who for some 
reason had taken issue with the order to cut up the 
sopophorous bean and had written in the alternative 
instruction: 

Crush with flat side of silver dagger, 
releases juice better than cutting. 



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“Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas 
Malfoy?” 

Harry looked up; Slughorn was just passing the 
Slytherin table. 

“Yes,” said Slughorn, without looking at Malfoy, “I 
was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it 
wasn’t unexpected, dragon pox at his age. ...” 

And he walked away. Harry bent back over his 
cauldron, smirking. He could tell that Malfoy had 
expected to be treated like Harry or Zabini; perhaps 
even hoped for some preferential treatment of the type 
he had learned to expect from Snape. It looked as 
though Malfoy would have to rely on nothing but 
talent to win the bottle of Felix Felicis. 

The sopophorous bean was proving very difficult to 
cut up. Harry turned to Hermione. 

“Can I borrow your silver knife?” 

She nodded impatiently, not taking her eyes off her 
potion, which was still deep purple, though according 
to the book ought to be turning a light shade of lilac 
by now. 

Harry crushed his bean with the flat side of the 
dagger. To his astonishment, it immediately exuded 
so much juice he was amazed the shriveled bean 
could have held it all. Hastily scooping it all into the 
cauldron he saw, to his surprise, that the potion 
immediately turned exactly the shade of lilac 
described by the textbook. 

His annoyance with the previous owner vanishing on 
the spot, Harry now squinted at the next line of 
instructions. According to the book, he had to stir 

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counterclockwise until the potion turned clear as 
water. According to the addition the previous owner 
had made, however, he ought to add a clockwise stir 
after every seventh counterclockwise stir. Could the 
old owner be right twice? 

Harry stirred counterclockwise, held his breath, and 
stirred once clockwise. The effect was immediate. The 
potion turned palest pink. 

“How are you doing that?” demanded Hermione, who 
was red-faced and whose hair was growing bushier 
and bushier in the fumes from her cauldron; her 
potion was still resolutely purple. 

“Add a clockwise stir — ” 

“No, no, the book says counterclockwise!” she 
snapped. 

Harry shrugged and continued what he was doing. 
Seven stirs counterclockwise, one clockwise, pause ... 
seven stirs counterclockwise, one stir clockwise ... 

Across the table, Ron was cursing fluently under his 
breath; his potion looked like liquid licorice. Harry 
glanced around. As far as he could see, no one else’s 
potion had turned as pale as his. He felt elated, 
something that had certainly never happened before 
in this dungeon. 

“And time’s ... up!” called Slughorn. “Stop stirring, 
please!” 

Slughorn moved slowly among the tables, peering into 
cauldrons. He made no comment, but occasionally 
gave the potions a stir or a sniff. At last he reached 
the table where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ernie 
were sitting. He smiled ruefully at the tarlike 
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substance in Ron’s cauldron. He passed over Ernie’s 
navy concoction. Hermione’s potion he gave an 
approving nod. Then he saw Harry’s, and a look of 
incredulous delight spread over his face. 

“The clear winner!” he cried to the dungeon. 

“Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it’s clear 
you’ve inherited your mother’s talent. She was a dab 
hand at Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here 
you are — one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and 
use it well!” 

Harry slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his 
inner pocket, feeling an odd combination of delight at 
the furious looks on the Slytherins’ faces and guilt at 
the disappointed expression on Hermione’s. Ron 
looked simply dumbfounded. 

“How did you do that?” he whispered to Harry as they 
left the dungeon. 

“Got lucky, I suppose,” said Harry, because Malfoy 
was within earshot. 

Once they were securely ensconced at the Gryffindor 
table for dinner, however, he felt safe enough to tell 
them. Hermione’s face became stonier with every 
word he uttered. 

“I s’pose you think I cheated?” he finished, aggravated 
by her expression. 

“Well, it wasn’t exactly your own work, was it?” she 
said stiffly. 

“He only followed different instructions to ours,” said 
Ron. “Could’ve been a catastrophe, couldn’t it? But he 
took a risk and it paid off.” He heaved a sigh. 
“Slughorn could’ve handed me that book, but no, I get 

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the one no one’s ever written on. Puked on, by the 
look of page fifty-two, but — ” 

“Hang on,” said a voice close by Harry’s left ear and 
he caught a sudden waft of that flowery smell he had 
picked up in Slughorn’s dungeon. He looked around 
and saw that Ginny had joined them. “Did I hear 
right? You’ve been taking orders from something 
someone wrote in a book, Harry?” 

She looked alarmed and angry. Harry knew what was 
on her mind at once. 

“It’s nothing,” he said reassuringly, lowering his voice. 
“It’s not like, you know, Riddle’s diary. It’s just an old 
textbook someone’s scribbled on.” 

“But you’re doing what it says?” 

“I just tried a few of the tips written in the margins, 
honestly, Ginny, there’s nothing funny — ” 

“Ginny’s got a point,” said Hermione, perking up at 
once. “We ought to check that there’s nothing odd 
about it. I mean, all these funny instructions, who 
knows?” 

“Hey!” said Harry indignantly, as she pulled his copy 
of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and raised 
her wand. 

“ Specialis Revelio\” she said, rapping it smartly on the 
front cover. 

Nothing whatsoever happened. The book simply lay 
there, looking old and dirty and dog-eared. 

“Finished?” said Harry irritably. “Or d’you want to 
wait and see if it does a few backflips?” 

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“It seems all right,” said Hermione, still staring at the 
book suspiciously. “I mean, it really does seem to be 
... just a textbook.” 

“Good. Then I’ll have it back,” said Harry, snatching it 
off the table, but it slipped from his hand and landed 
open on the floor. 

Nobody else was looking. Harry bent low to retrieve 
the book, and as he did so, he saw something 
scribbled along the bottom of the back cover in the 
same small, cramped handwriting as the instructions 
that had won him his bottle of Felix Felicis, now 
safely hidden inside a pair of socks in his trunk 
upstairs. 

This Book is the Property of the Half-Blood Prince. 



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10 




THE HOUSE OF GAUNT 

For the rest of the week’s Potions lessons Harry 
continued to follow the Half-Blood Prince’s 
instructions wherever they deviated from Libatius 
Borage’s, with the result that by their fourth lesson 
Slughorn was raving about Harry’s abilities, saying 
that he had rarely taught anyone so talented. Neither 
Ron nor Hermione was delighted by this. Although 
Harry had offered to share his book with both of 
them, Ron had more difficulty deciphering the 
handwriting than Harry did, and could not keep 
asking Harry to read aloud or it might look 
suspicious. Hermione, meanwhile, was resolutely 
plowing on with what she called the “official” 
instructions, but becoming increasingly bad-tempered 
as they yielded poorer results than the Prince’s. 

Harry wondered vaguely who the Half-Blood Prince 
had been. Although the amount of homework they 
had been given prevented him from reading the whole 
of his copy of Advanced Potion-Making, he had 
skimmed through it sufficiently to see that there was 

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barely a page on which the Prince had not made 
additional notes, not all of them concerned with 
potion-making. Here and there were directions for 
what looked like spells that the Prince had made up 
himself. 

“Or herself,” said Hermione irritably, overhearing 
Harry pointing some of these out to Ron in the 
common room on Saturday evening. “It might have 
been a girl. I think the handwriting looks more like a 
girl’s than a boy’s.” 

“The Half-Blood Prince, he was called,” Harry said. 
“How many girls have been Princes?” 

Hermione seemed to have no answer to this. She 
merely scowled and twitched her essay on The 
Principles of Re materialization away from Ron, who 
was trying to read it upside down. 

Harry looked at his watch and hurriedly put the old 
copy of Advanced Potion-Making back into his bag. 

“It’s five to eight, I’d better go, I’ll be late for 
Dumbledore.” 

“Ooooh!” gasped Hermione, looking up at once. “Good 
luck! We’ll wait up, we want to hear what he teaches 
you!” 

“Hope it goes okay,” said Ron, and the pair of them 
watched Harry leave through the portrait hole. 

Harry proceeded through deserted corridors, though 
he had to step hastily behind a statue when Professor 
Trelawney appeared around a corner, muttering to 
herself as she shuffled a pack of dirty-looking playing 
cards, reading them as she walked. 



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“Two of spades: conflict,” she murmured, as she 
passed the place where Harry crouched, hidden. 
“Seven of spades: an ill omen. Ten of spades: violence. 
Knave of spades: a dark young man, possibly 
troubled, one who dislikes the questioner — ” 

She stopped dead, right on the other side of Harry’s 
statue. 

“Well, that can’t be right,” she said, annoyed, and 
Harry heard her reshuffling vigorously as she set off 
again, leaving nothing but a whiff of cooking sherry 
behind her. Harry waited until he was quite sure she 
had gone, then hurried off again until he reached the 
spot in the seventh-floor corridor where a single 
gargoyle stood against the wall. 

“Acid Pops,” said Harry, and the gargoyle leapt aside; 
the wall behind it slid apart, and a moving spiral 
stone staircase was revealed, onto which Harry 
stepped, so that he was carried in smooth circles up 
to the door with the brass knocker that led to 
Dumbledore’s office. 

Harry knocked. 

“Come in,” said Dumbledore’s voice. 

“Good evening, sir,” said Harry, walking into the 
headmaster’s office. 

“Ah, good evening, Harry. Sit down,” said 
Dumbledore, smiling. “I hope you’ve had an enjoyable 
first week back at school?” 

“Yes, thanks, sir,” said Harry. 

“You must have been busy, a detention under your 
belt already!” 

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“Er,” began Harry awkwardly, but Dumbledore did 
not look too stern. 

“I have arranged with Professor Snape that you will 
do your detention next Saturday instead.” 

“Right,” said Harry, who had more pressing matters 
on his mind than S nape’s detention, and now looked 
around surreptitiously for some indication of what 
Dumbledore was planning to do with him this 
evening. The circular office looked just as it always 
did; the delicate silver instruments stood on spindle- 
legged tables, puffing smoke and whirring; portraits of 
previous headmasters and headmistresses dozed in 
their frames, and Dumbledore’s magnificent phoenix, 
Fawkes, stood on his perch behind the door, watching 
Harry with bright interest. It did not even look as 
though Dumbledore had cleared a space for dueling 
practice. 

“So, Harry,” said Dumbledore, in a businesslike voice. 
“You have been wondering, I am sure, what I have 
planned for you during these — for want of a better 
word — lessons?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, I have decided that it is time, now that you 
know what prompted Lord Voldemort to try and kill 
you fifteen years ago, for you to be given certain 
information.” 

There was a pause. 

“You said, at the end of last term, you were going to 
tell me everything,” said Harry. It was hard to keep a 
note of accusation from his voice. “Sir,” he added. 



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“And so I did,” said Dumbledore placidly. “I told you 
everything I know. From this point forth, we shall be 
leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying 
together through the murky marshes of memory into 
thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in, 

Harry, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey 
Belcher, who believed the time was ripe for a cheese 
cauldron.” 

“But you think you’re right?” said Harry. 

“Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you, I 
make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being — 
forgive me — rather cleverer than most men, my 
mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger.” 

“Sir,” said Harry tentatively, “does what you’re going 
to tell me have anything to do with the prophecy? Will 
it help me . . . survive?” 

“It has a very great deal to do with the prophecy,” said 
Dumbledore, as casually as if Harry had asked him 
about the next day’s weather, “and I certainly hope 
that it will help you to survive.” 

Dumbledore got to his feet and walked around the 
desk, past Harry, who turned eagerly in his seat to 
watch Dumbledore bending over the cabinet beside 
the door. When Dumbledore straightened up, he was 
holding a familiar shallow stone basin etched with 
odd markings around its rim. He placed the Pensieve 
on the desk in front of Harry. 

“You look worried.” 

Harry had indeed been eyeing the Pensieve with some 
apprehension. His previous experiences with the odd 
device that stored and revealed thoughts and 
memories, though highly instructive, had also been 

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uncomfortable. The last time he had disturbed its 
contents, he had seen much more than he would 
have wished. But Dumbledore was smiling. 

“This time, you enter the Pensieve with me ... and, 
even more unusually, with permission.” 

“Where are we going, sir?” 

“For a trip down Bob Ogden’s memory lane,” said 
Dumbledore, pulling from his pocket a crystal bottle 
containing a swirling silvery- white substance. 

“Who was Bob Ogden?” 

“He was employed by the Department of Magical Law 
Enforcement,” said Dumbledore. “He died some time 
ago, but not before I had tracked him down and 
persuaded him to confide these recollections to me. 

We are about to accompany him on a visit he made in 
the course of his duties. If you will stand, Harry ...” 

But Dumbledore was having difficulty pulling out the 
stopper of the crystal bottle: His injured hand seemed 
stiff and painful. 

“Shall — shall I, sir?” 

“No matter, Harry — ” 

Dumbledore pointed his wand at the bottle and the 
cork flew out. 

“Sir — how did you injure your hand?” Harry asked 
again, looking at the blackened fingers with a mixture 
of revulsion and pity. 

“Now is not the moment for that story, Harry. Not yet. 
We have an appointment with Bob Ogden.” 

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Dumbledore tipped the silvery contents of the bottle 
into the Pensieve, where they swirled and shimmered, 
neither liquid nor gas. 

“After you,” said Dumbledore, gesturing toward the 
bowl. 

Harry bent forward, took a deep breath, and plunged 
his face into the silvery substance. He felt his feet 
leave the office floor; he was falling, falling through 
whirling darkness and then, quite suddenly, he was 
blinking in dazzling sunlight. Before his eyes had 
adjusted, Dumbledore landed beside him. 

They were standing in a country lane bordered by 
high, tangled hedgerows, beneath a summer sky as 
bright and blue as a forget-me-not. Some ten feet in 
front of them stood a short, plump man wearing 
enormously thick glasses that reduced his eyes to 
molelike specks. He was reading a wooden signpost 
that was sticking out of the brambles on the left-hand 
side of the road. Harry knew this must be Ogden; he 
was the only person in sight, and he was also wearing 
the strange assortment of clothes so often chosen by 
inexperienced wizards trying to look like Muggles: in 
this case, a frock coat and spats over a striped one- 
piece bathing costume. Before Harry had time to do 
more than register his bizarre appearance, however, 
Ogden had set off at a brisk walk down the lane. 

Dumbledore and Harry followed. As they passed the 
wooden sign, Harry looked up at its two arms. The 
one pointing back the way they had come read: 

GREAT HANGLETON, 5 MILES. The arm pointing 
after Ogden said LITTLE HANGLETON, 1 MILE. 

They walked a short way with nothing to see but the 
hedgerows, the wide blue sky overhead and the 
swishing, frock-coated figure ahead. Then the lane 

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curved to the left and fell away, sloping steeply down 
a hillside, so that they had a sudden, unexpected 
view of a whole valley laid out in front of them. Harry 
could see a village, undoubtedly Little Hangleton, 
nestled between two steep hills, its church and 
graveyard clearly visible. Across the valley, set on the 
opposite hillside, was a handsome manor house 
surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawn. 

Ogden had broken into a reluctant trot due to the 
steep downward slope. Dumbledore lengthened his 
stride, and Harry hurried to keep up. He thought 
Little Hangleton must be their final destination and 
wondered, as he had done on the night they had 
found Slughorn, why they had to approach it from 
such a distance. He soon discovered that he was 
mistaken in thinking that they were going to the 
village, however. The lane curved to the right and 
when they rounded the corner, it was to see the very 
edge of Ogden’s frock coat vanishing through a gap in 
the hedge. 

Dumbledore and Harry followed him onto a narrow 
dirt track bordered by higher and wilder hedgerows 
than those they had left behind. The path was 
crooked, rocky, and potholed, sloping downhill like 
the last one, and it seemed to be heading for a patch 
of dark trees a little below them. Sure enough, the 
track soon opened up at the copse, and Dumbledore 
and Harry came to a halt behind Ogden, who had 
stopped and drawn his wand. 

Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast 
deep, dark, cool shadows, and it was a few seconds 
before Harry’s eyes discerned the building half-hidden 
amongst the tangle of trunks. It seemed to him a very 
strange location to choose for a house, or else an odd 
decision to leave the trees growing nearby, blocking 
all light and the view of the valley below. He wondered 
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whether it was inhabited; its walls were mossy and so 
many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were 
visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips 
reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with 
grime. Just as he had concluded that nobody could 
possibly live there, however, one of the windows was 
thrown open with a clatter, and a thin trickle of steam 
or smoke issued from it, as though somebody was 
cooking. 

Ogden moved forward quietly and, it seemed to Harry, 
rather cautiously. As the dark shadows of the trees 
slid over him, he stopped again, staring at the front 
door, to which somebody had nailed a dead snake. 

Then there was a rustle and a crack, and a man in 
rags dropped from the nearest tree, landing on his 
feet right in front of Ogden, who leapt backward so 
fast he stood on the tails of his frock coat and 
stumbled. 

“ You’re not welcome.” 

The man standing before them had thick hair so 
matted with dirt it could have been any color. Several 
of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and 
dark and stared in opposite directions. He might have 
looked comical, but he did not; the effect was 
frightening, and Harry could not blame Ogden for 
backing away several more paces before he spoke. 

“Er — good morning. I’m from the Ministry of Magic 



“ You’re not welcome.” 

“Er — I’m sorry — I don’t understand you,” said 
Ogden nervously. 



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Harry thought Ogden was being extremely dim; the 
stranger was making himself very clear in Harry’s 
opinion, particularly as he was brandishing a wand in 
one hand and a short and rather bloody knife in the 
other. 

“You understand him, I’m sure, Harry?” said 
Dumbledore quietly. 

“Yes, of course,” said Harry, slightly nonplussed. 

“Why can’t Ogden — ?” 

But as his eyes found the dead snake on the door 
again, he suddenly understood. 

“He’s speaking Parseltongue?” 

“Very good,” said Dumbledore, nodding and smiling. 

The man in rags was now advancing on Ogden, knife 
in one hand, wand in the other. 

“Now, look — ” Ogden began, but too late: There was a 
bang, and Ogden was on the ground, clutching his 
nose, while a nasty yellowish goo squirted from 
between his fingers. 

“Morfin!” said a loud voice. 

An elderly man had come hurrying out of the cottage, 
banging the door behind him so that the dead snake 
swung pathetically. This man was shorter than the 
first, and oddly proportioned; his shoulders were very 
broad and his arms overlong, which, with his bright 
brown eyes, short scrubby hair, and wrinkled face, 
gave him the look of a powerful, aged monkey. He 
came to a halt beside the man with the knife, who 
was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden 
on the ground. 

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“Ministry, is it?” said the older man, looking down at 
Ogden. 

“Correct!” said Ogden angrily, dabbing his face. “And 
you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?” 

“S’right,” said Gaunt. “Got you in the face, did he?” 

“Yes, he did!” snapped Ogden. 

“Should’ve made your presence known, shouldn’t 
you?” said Gaunt aggressively. “This is private 
property. Can’t just walk in here and not expect my 
son to defend himself.” 

“Defend himself against what, man?” said Ogden, 
clambering back to his feet. 

“Busybodies. Intruders. Muggles and filth.” 

Ogden pointed his wand at his own nose, which was 
still issuing large amounts of what looked like yellow 
pus, and the flow stopped at once. Mr. Gaunt spoke 
out of the corner of his mouth to Morfin. 

“Get in the house. Don’t argue.” 

This time, ready for it, Harry recognized Parseltongue; 
even while he could understand what was being said, 
he distinguished the weird hissing noise that was all 
Ogden could hear. Morfin seemed to be on the point 
of disagreeing, but when his father cast him a 
threatening look he changed his mind, lumbering 
away to the cottage with an odd rolling gait and 
slamming the front door behind him, so that the 
snake swung sadly again. 



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“It’s your son I’m here to see, Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, 
as he mopped the last of the pus from the front of his 
coat. “That was Morfin, wasn’t it?” 

“Ar, that was Morfin,” said the old man indifferently. 
“Are you pure-blood?” he asked, suddenly aggressive. 

“That’s neither here nor there,” said Ogden coldly, 
and Harry felt his respect for Ogden rise. Apparently 
Gaunt felt rather differently. He squinted into Ogden’s 
face and muttered, in what was clearly supposed to 
be an offensive tone, “Now I come to think about it, 

I’ve seen noses like yours down in the village.” 

“I don’t doubt it, if your son’s been let loose on them,” 
said Ogden. “Perhaps we could continue this 
discussion inside?” 

“Inside?” 

“Yes, Mr. Gaunt. I’ve already told you. I’m here about 
Morfin. We sent an owl — ” 

“I’ve no use for owls,” said Gaunt. “I don’t open 
letters.” 

“Then you can hardly complain that you get no 
warning of visitors,” said Ogden tartly. “I am here 
following a serious breach of Wizarding law, which 
occurred here in the early hours of this morning — ” 

“All right, all right, all right!” bellowed Gaunt. “Come 
in the bleeding house, then, and much good it’ll do 
you!” 

The house seemed to contain three tiny rooms. Two 
doors led off the main room, which served as kitchen 
and living room combined. Morfin was sitting in a 
filthy armchair beside the smoking fire, twisting a live 

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adder between his thick fingers and crooning softly at 
it in Parseltongue: 

Hissy, hissy, little snakey, 

Slither on the floor, 

You be good to Morfin 
Or hell nail you to the door. 

There was a scuffling noise in the corner beside the 
open window, and Harry realized that there was 
somebody else in the room, a girl whose ragged gray 
dress was the exact color of the dirty stone wall 
behind her. She was standing beside a steaming pot 
on a grimy black stove, and was fiddling around with 
the shelf of squalid-looking pots and pans above it. 
Her hair was lank and dull and she had a plain, pale, 
rather heavy face. Her eyes, like her brother’s, stared 
in opposite directions. She looked a little cleaner than 
the two men, but Harry thought he had never seen a 
more defeated-looking person. 

“M’daughter, Merope,” said Gaunt grudgingly, as 
Ogden looked inquiringly toward her. 

“Good morning,” said Ogden. 

She did not answer, but with a frightened glance at 
her father turned her back on the room and 
continued shifting the pots on the shelf behind her. 

“Well, Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, “to get straight to the 
point, we have reason to believe that your son, 

Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last 
night.” 

There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped 
one of the pots. 



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“Pick it up\” Gaunt bellowed at her. “That’s it, grub on 
the floor like some filthy Muggle, what’s your wand 
for, you useless sack of muck?” 

“Mr. Gaunt, please!” said Ogden in a shocked voice, 
as Merope, who had already picked up the pot, 
flushed blotchily scarlet, lost her grip on the pot 
again, drew her wand shakily from her pocket, 
pointed it at the pot, and muttered a hasty, inaudible 
spell that caused the pot to shoot across the floor 
away from her, hit the opposite wall, and crack in 
two. 

Morfin let out a mad cackle of laughter. Gaunt 
screamed, “Mend it, you pointless lump, mend it!” 

Merope stumbled across the room, but before she had 
time to raise her wand, Ogden had lifted his own and 
said firmly, “Reparo.” The pot mended itself instantly. 

Gaunt looked for a moment as though he was going to 
shout at Ogden, but seemed to think better of it: 
Instead, he jeered at his daughter, “Lucky the nice 
man from the Ministry’s here, isn’t it? Perhaps he’ll 
take you off my hands, perhaps he doesn’t mind dirty 
Squibs. ...” 

Without looking at anybody or thanking Ogden, 
Merope picked up the pot and returned it, hands 
trembling, to its shelf. She then stood quite still, her 
back against the wall between the filthy window and 
the stove, as though she wished for nothing more 
than to sink into the stone and vanish. 

“Mr. Gaunt,” Ogden began again, “as I’ve said: the 
reason for my visit — ” 



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“I heard you the first time!” snapped Gaunt. “And so 
what? Morfin gave a Muggle a bit of what was coming 
to him — what about it, then?” 

“Morfin has broken Wizarding law,” said Ogden 
sternly. 

“ ‘Morfin has broken Wizarding law.’ ” Gaunt imitated 
Ogden’s voice, making it pompous and singsong. 
Morfin cackled again. “He taught a filthy Muggle a 
lesson, that’s illegal now, is it?” 

“Yes,” said Ogden. “I’m afraid it is.” 

He pulled from an inside pocket a small scroll of 
parchment and unrolled it. 

“What’s that, then, his sentence?” said Gaunt, his 
voice rising angrily. 

“It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing — ” 

“Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are, 
summoning my son anywhere?” 

“I’m Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad,” 
said Ogden. 

“And you think we’re scum, do you?” screamed 
Gaunt, advancing on Ogden now, with a dirty yellow- 
nailed finger pointing at his chest. “Scum who’ll come 
running when the Ministry tells ’em to? Do you know 
who you’re talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do 
you? 

“I was under the impression that I was speaking to 
Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, looking wary, but standing 
his ground. 



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“That’s right!” roared Gaunt. For a moment, Harry 
thought Gaunt was making an obscene hand gesture, 
but then realized that he was showing Ogden the 
ugly, black- stoned ring he was wearing on his middle 
finger, waving it before Ogden’s eyes. “See this? See 
this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? 
Centuries it’s been in our family, that’s how far back 
we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much 
I’ve been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of 
arms engraved on the stone?” 

“I’ve really no idea,” said Ogden, blinking as the ring 
sailed within an inch of his nose, “and it’s quite 
beside the point, Mr. Gaunt. Your son has committed 



With a howl of rage, Gaunt ran toward his daughter. 
For a split second, Harry thought he was going to 
throttle her as his hand flew to her throat; next 
moment, he was dragging her toward Ogden by a gold 
chain around her neck. 

“See this?” he bellowed at Ogden, shaking a heavy 
gold locket at him, while Merope spluttered and 
gasped for breath. 

“I see it, I see it!” said Ogden hastily. 

“Slytherin’sl” yelled Gaunt. “Salazar Slytherin’s! We’re 
his last living descendants, what do you say to that, 
eh?” 

“Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!” said Ogden in alarm, but 
Gaunt had already released Merope; she staggered 
away from him, back to her corner, massaging her 
neck and gulping for air. 

“So!” said Gaunt triumphantly, as though he had just 
proved a complicated point beyond all possible 

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dispute. “Don’t you go talking to us as if we’re dirt on 
your shoes! Generations of purebloods, wizards all — 
more than you can say, I don’t doubt!” 

And he spat on the floor at Ogden’s feet. Morfin 
cackled again. Merope, huddled beside the window, 
her head bowed and her face hidden by her lank hair, 
said nothing. 

“Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden doggedly, “I am afraid that 
neither your ancestors nor mine have anything to do 
with the matter in hand. I am here because of Morfin, 
Morfin and the Muggle he accosted late last night. 

Our information” — he glanced down at his scroll of 
parchment — “is that Morfin performed a jinx or hex 
on the said Muggle, causing him to erupt in highly 
painful hives.” 

Morfin giggled. 

“ Be quiet, boy,” snarled Gaunt in Parseltongue, and 
Morfin fell silent again. 

“And so what if he did, then?” Gaunt said defiantly to 
Ogden. “I expect you’ve wiped the Muggle ’s filthy face 
clean for him, and his memory to boot — ” 

“That’s hardly the point, is it, Mr. Gaunt?” said 
Ogden. “This was an unprovoked attack on a 
defenseless — ” 

“Ar, I had you marked out as a Muggle-lover the 
moment I saw you,” sneered Gaunt, and he spat on 
the floor again. 

“This discussion is getting us nowhere,” said Ogden 
firmly. “It is clear from your son’s attitude that he 
feels no remorse for his actions.” He glanced down at 
his scroll of parchment again. “Morfin will attend a 

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hearing on the fourteenth of September to answer the 
charges of using magic in front of a Muggle and 
causing harm and distress to that same Mugg — ” 

Ogden broke off. The jingling, clopping sounds of 
horses and loud, laughing voices were drifting in 
through the open window. Apparently the winding 
lane to the village passed very close to the copse 
where the house stood. Gaunt froze, listening, his 
eyes wide. Morfin hissed and turned his face toward 
the sounds, his expression hungry. Merope raised her 
head. Her face, Harry saw, was starkly white. 

“My God, what an eyesore!” rang out a girl’s voice, as 
clearly audible through the open window as if she had 
stood in the room beside them. “Couldn’t your father 
have that hovel cleared away, Tom?” 

“It’s not ours,” said a young man’s voice. “Everything 
on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that 
cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his 
children. The son’s quite mad, you should hear some 
of the stories they tell in the village — ” 

The girl laughed. The jingling, clopping noises were 
growing louder and louder. Morfin made to get out of 
his armchair. 

“Keep your seat,” said his father warningly, in 
Parseltongue. 

“Tom,” said the girl’s voice again, now so close they 
were clearly right beside the house, “I might be wrong 
— but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?” 

“Good lord, you’re right!” said the man’s voice. “That’ll 
be the son, I told you he’s not right in the head. Don’t 
look at it, Cecilia, darling.” 



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The jingling and clopping sounds were now growing 
fainter again. 

“ ‘Darling,’ ” whispered Morfin in Parseltongue, 
looking at his sister. “ ‘Darling,’ he called her. So he 
wouldn’t have you anyway.” 

Merope was so white Harry felt sure she was going to 
faint. 

“What’s that?” said Gaunt sharply, also in 
Parseltongue, looking from his son to his daughter. 

“ What did you say, Morfin?” 

“She likes looking at that Muggle,” said Morfin, a 
vicious expression on his face as he stared at his 
sister, who now looked terrified. “Always in the 
garden when he passes, peering through the hedge at 
him, isn’t she? And last night — ” 

Merope shook her head jerkily, imploringly, but 
Morfin went on ruthlessly, “Hanging out of the 
window waiting for him to ride home, wasn’t she?” 

“Hanging out of the window to look at a Muggle?” said 
Gaunt quietly. 

All three of the Gaunts seemed to have forgotten 
Ogden, who was looking both bewildered and irritated 
at this renewed outbreak of incomprehensible hissing 
and rasping. 

“Is it true?” said Gaunt in a deadly voice, advancing a 
step or two toward the terrified girl. “My daughter — 
pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin — 
hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?” 

Merope shook her head frantically, pressing herself 
into the wall, apparently unable to speak. 

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“But I got him, FatheA” cackled Morfin. “I got him as 
he went by and he didn’t look so pretty with hives all 
over him, did he, Merope?” 

“You disgusting little Squib, you filthy little blood 
traitoA.” roared Gaunt, losing control, and his hands 
closed around his daughter’s throat. 

Both Harry and Ogden yelled “No!” at the same time; 
Ogden raised his wand and cried, “Relashiol” Gaunt 
was thrown backward, away from his daughter; he 
tripped over a chair and fell flat on his back. With a 
roar of rage, Morfin leapt out of his chair and ran at 
Ogden, brandishing his bloody knife and firing hexes 
indiscriminately from his wand. 

Ogden ran for his life. Dumbledore indicated that they 
ought to follow and Harry obeyed, Merope ’s screams 
echoing in his ears. 

Ogden hurtled up the path and erupted onto the main 
lane, his arms over his head, where he collided with 
the glossy chestnut horse ridden by a very handsome, 
dark-haired young man. Both he and the pretty girl 
riding beside him on a gray horse roared with 
laughter at the sight of Ogden, who bounced off the 
horse’s flank and set off again, his frock coat flying, 
covered from head to foot in dust, running pell-mell 
up the lane. 

“I think that will do, Harry,” said Dumbledore. He 
took Harry by the elbow and tugged. Next moment, 
they were both soaring weightlessly through 
darkness, until they landed squarely on their feet, 
back in Dumbledore ’s now twilit office. 

“What happened to the girl in the cottage?” said Harry 
at once, as Dumbledore lit extra lamps with a flick of 
his wand. “Merope, or whatever her name was?” 

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“Oh, she survived,” said Dumbledore, reseating 
himself behind his desk and indicating that Harry 
should sit down too. “Ogden Apparated back to the 
Ministry and returned with reinforcements within 
fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to 
fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the 
cottage, and subsequently convicted by the 
Wizengamot. Morfin, who already had a record of 
Muggle attacks, was sentenced to three years in 
Azkaban. Marvolo, who had injured several Ministry 
employees in addition to Ogden, received six months.” 

“Marvolo?” Harry repeated wonderingly. 

“That’s right,” said Dumbledore, smiling in approval. 

“I am glad to see you’re keeping up.” 

“That old man was — ?” 

“Voldemort’s grandfather, yes,” said Dumbledore. 
“Marvolo, his son, Morfin, and his daughter, Merope, 
were the last of the Gaunts, a very ancient Wizarding 
family noted for a vein of instability and violence that 
flourished through the generations due to their habit 
of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense coupled 
with a great liking for grandeur meant that the family 
gold was squandered several generations before 
Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor 
and poverty, with a very nasty temper, a fantastic 
amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of 
family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as 
his son, and rather more than his daughter.” 

“So Merope,” said Harry, leaning forward in his chair 
and staring at Dumbledore, “so Merope was ... Sir, 
does that mean she was ... Voldemort’s mother?” 



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“It does,” said Dumbledore. “And it so happens that 
we also had a glimpse of Voldemort’s father. I wonder 
whether you noticed?” 

“The Muggle Morfin attacked? The man on the 
horse?” 

“Very good indeed,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “Yes, 
that was Tom Riddle senior, the handsome Muggle 
who used to go riding past the Gaunt cottage and for 
whom Merope Gaunt cherished a secret, burning 
passion.” 

“And they ended up married?” Harry said in disbelief, 
unable to imagine two people less likely to fall in love. 

“I think you are forgetting,” said Dumbledore, “that 
Merope was a witch. I do not believe that her magical 
powers appeared to their best advantage when she 
was being terrorized by her father. Once Marvolo and 
Morfin were safely in Azkaban, once she was alone 
and free for the first time in her life, then, I am sure, 
she was able to give full rein to her abilities and to 
plot her escape from the desperate life she had led for 
eighteen years. 

“Can you not think of any measure Merope could 
have taken to make Tom Riddle forget his Muggle 
companion, and fall in love with her instead?” 

“The Imperius Curse?” Harry suggested. “Or a love 
potion?” 

“Very good. Personally, I am inclined to think that she 
used a love potion. I am sure it would have seemed 
more romantic to her, and I do not think it would 
have been very difficult, some hot day, when Riddle 
was riding alone, to persuade him to take a drink of 
water. In any case, within a few months of the scene 
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we have just witnessed, the village of Little Hangleton 
enjoyed a tremendous scandal. You can imagine the 
gossip it caused when the squire’s son ran off with 
the tramp’s daughter, Merope. 

“But the villagers’ shock was nothing to Marvolo’s. He 
returned from Azkaban, expecting to find his 
daughter dutifully awaiting his return with a hot meal 
ready on his table. Instead, he found a clear inch of 
dust and her note of farewell, explaining what she 
had done. 

“From all that I have been able to discover, he never 
mentioned her name or existence from that time 
forth. The shock of her desertion may have 
contributed to his early death — or perhaps he had 
simply never learned to feed himself. Azkaban had 
greatly weakened Marvolo, and he did not live to see 
Morfin return to the cottage.” 

“And Merope? She ... she died, didn’t she? Wasn’t 
Voldemort brought up in an orphanage?” 

“Yes, indeed,” said Dumbledore. “We must do a 
certain amount of guessing here, although I do not 
think it is difficult to deduce what happened. You see, 
within a few months of their runaway marriage, Tom 
Riddle reappeared at the manor house in Little 
Hangleton without his wife. The rumor flew around 
the neighborhood that he was talking of being 
‘hoodwinked’ and ‘taken in.’ What he meant, I am 
sure, is that he had been under an enchantment that 
had now lifted, though I daresay he did not dare use 
those precise words for fear of being thought insane. 
When they heard what he was saying, however, the 
villagers guessed that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle, 
pretending that she was going to have his baby, and 
that he had married her for this reason.” 



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“But she did have his baby.” 



“But not until a year after they were married. Tom 
Riddle left her while she was still pregnant.” 

“What went wrong?” asked Harry. “Why did the love 
potion stop working?” 

“Again, this is guesswork,” said Dumbledore, “but I 
believe that Merope, who was deeply in love with her 
husband, could not bear to continue enslaving him by 
magical means. I believe that she made the choice to 
stop giving him the potion. Perhaps, besotted as she 
was, she had convinced herself that he would by now 
have fallen in love with her in return. Perhaps she 
thought he would stay for the baby’s sake. If so, she 
was wrong on both counts. He left her, never saw her 
again, and never troubled to discover what became of 
his son.” 

The sky outside was inky black and the lamps in 
Dumbledore ’s office seemed to glow more brightly 
than before. 

“I think that will do for tonight, Harry,” said 
Dumbledore after a moment or two. 

“Yes, sir,” said Harry. 

He got to his feet, but did not leave. 

“Sir ... is it important to know all this about 
Voldemort’s past?” 

“Very important, I think,” said Dumbledore. 

“And it ... it’s got something to do with the prophecy?” 

“It has everything to do with the prophecy.” 

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“Right,” said Harry, a little confused, but reassured 
all the same. 

He turned to go, then another question occurred to 
him, and he turned back again. “Sir, am I allowed to 
tell Ron and Hermione everything you’ve told me?” 

Dumbledore considered him for a moment, then said, 
“Yes, I think Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have 
proved themselves trustworthy. But Harry, I am going 
to ask you to ask them not to repeat any of this to 
anybody else. It would not be a good idea if word got 
around how much I know, or suspect, about Lord 
Voldemort’s secrets.” 

“No, sir, I’ll make sure it’s just Ron and Hermione. 
Good night.” 

He turned away again, and was almost at the door 
when he saw it. Sitting on one of the little spindle- 
legged tables that supported so many frail-looking 
silver instruments, was an ugly gold ring set with a 
large, cracked, black stone. 

“Sir,” said Harry, staring at it. “That ring — ” 

“Yes?” said Dumbledore. 

“You were wearing it when we visited Professor 
Slughorn that night.” 

“So I was,” Dumbledore agreed. 

“But isn’t it ... sir, isn’t it the same ring Marvolo 
Gaunt showed Ogden?” 

Dumbledore bowed his head. “The very same.” 

“But how come — ? Have you always had it?” 

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“No, I acquired it very recently,” said Dumbledore. “A 
few days before I came to fetch you from your aunt 
and uncle’s, in fact.” 

“That would be around the time you injured your 
hand, then, sir?” 

“Around that time, yes, Harry.” 

Harry hesitated. Dumbledore was smiling. 

“Sir, how exactly — ?” 

“Too late, Harry! You shall hear the story another 
time. Good night.” 

“Good night, sir.” 



Page | 242 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 






HERMIONE’S HELPING HAND 

As Hermione had predicted, the sixth years’ free 
periods were not the hours of blissful relaxation Ron 
had anticipated, but times in which to attempt to 
keep up with the vast amount of homework they were 
being set. Not only were they studying as though they 
had exams every day, but the lessons themselves had 
become more demanding than ever before. Harry 
barely understood half of what Professor McGonagall 
said to them these days; even Hermione had had to 
ask her to repeat instructions once or twice. 
Incredibly, and to Hermione ’s increasing resentment, 
Harry’s best subject had suddenly become Potions, 
thanks to the Half-Blood Prince. 

Nonverbal spells were now expected, not only in 
Defense Against the Dark Arts, but in Charms and 
Transfiguration too. Harry frequently looked over at 
his classmates in the common room or at mealtimes 
to see them purple in the face and straining as 
though they had overdosed on U-No-Poo; but he knew 
that they were really struggling to make spells work 



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without saying incantations aloud. It was a relief to 
get outside into the greenhouses; they were dealing 
with more dangerous plants than ever in Herbology, 
but at least they were still allowed to swear loudly if 
the Venomous Tentacula seized them unexpectedly 
from behind. 

One result of their enormous workload and the frantic 
hours of practicing nonverbal spells was that Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione had so far been unable to find 
time to go and visit Hagrid. He had stopped coming to 
meals at the staff table, an ominous sign, and on the 
few occasions when they had passed him in the 
corridors or out in the grounds, he had mysteriously 
failed to notice them or hear their greetings. 

“We’ve got to go and explain,” said Hermione, looking 
up at Hagrid ’s huge empty chair at the staff table the 
following Saturday at breakfast. 

“We’ve got Quidditch tryouts this morning!” said Ron. 
“And we’re supposed to be practicing that Aguamenti 
Charm from Flitwick! Anyway, explain what? How are 
we going to tell him we hated his stupid subject?” 

“We didn’t hate it!” said Hermione. 

“Speak for yourself, I haven’t forgotten the skrewts,” 
said Ron darkly. “And I’m telling you now, we’ve had a 
narrow escape. You didn’t hear him going on about 
his gormless brother — we’d have been teaching 
Grawp how to tie his shoelaces if we’d stayed.” 

“I hate not talking to Hagrid,” said Hermione, looking 
upset. 

“Well go down after Quidditch,” Harry assured her. 

He too was missing Hagrid, although like Ron he 
thought that they were better off without Grawp in 

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their lives. “But trials might take all morning, the 
number of people who have applied.” He felt slightly 
nervous at confronting the first hurdle of his 
Captaincy. “I dunno why the team’s this popular all of 
a sudden.” 

“Oh, come on, Harry,” said Hermione, suddenly 
impatient. “It’s not Quidditch that’s popular, it’s you! 
You’ve never been more interesting, and frankly, 
you’ve never been more fanciable.” 

Ron gagged on a large piece of kipper. Hermione 
spared him one look of disdain before turning back to 
Harry. 

“Everyone knows you’ve been telling the truth now, 
don’t they? The whole Wizarding world has had to 
admit that you were right about Voldemort being back 
and that you really have fought him twice in the last 
two years and escaped both times. And now they’re 
calling you ‘the Chosen One’ — well, come on, can’t 
you see why people are fascinated by you?” 

Harry was finding the Great Hall very hot all of a 
sudden, even though the ceiling still looked cold and 
rainy. 

“And you’ve been through all that persecution from 
the Ministry when they were trying to make out you 
were unstable and a liar. You can still see the marks 
on the back of your hand where that evil woman 
made you write with your own blood, but you stuck to 
your story anyway. ...” 

“You can still see where those brains got hold of me in 
the Ministry, look,” said Ron, shaking back his 
sleeves. 



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“And it doesn’t hurt that you’ve grown about a foot 
over the summer either,” Hermione finished, ignoring 
Ron. 

“I’m tall,” said Ron inconsequentially. 

The post owls arrived, swooping down through rain- 
flecked windows, scattering everyone with droplets of 
water. Most people were receiving more post than 
usual; anxious parents were keen to hear from their 
children and to reassure them, in turn, that all was 
well at home. Harry had received no mail since the 
start of term; his only regular correspondent was now 
dead and although he had hoped that Lupin might 
write occasionally, he had so far been disappointed. 
He was very surprised, therefore, to see the snowy 
white Hedwig circling amongst all the brown and gray 
owls. She landed in front of him carrying a large, 
square package. A moment later, an identical package 
landed in front of Ron, crushing beneath it his 
minuscule and exhausted owl, Pigwidgeon. 

“Ha!” said Harry, unwrapping the parcel to reveal a 
new copy of Advanced Potion-Making, fresh from 
Flourish and Blotts. 

“Oh good,” said Hermione, delighted. “Now you can 
give that graffitied copy back.” 

“Are you mad?” said Harry. “I’m keeping it! Look, I’ve 
thought it out — ” 

He pulled the old copy of Advanced Potion-Making out 
of his bag and tapped the cover with his wand, 
muttering, “Diffindol” The cover fell off. He did the 
same thing with the brand-new book (Hermione 
looked scandalized). He then swapped the covers, 
tapped each, and said, “Reparo\” 



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There sat the Prince’s copy, disguised as a new book, 
and there sat the fresh copy from Flourish and Blotts, 
looking thoroughly secondhand. 

“I’ll give Slughorn back the new one, he can’t 
complain, it cost nine Galleons.” 

Hermione pressed her lips together, looking angry 
and disapproving, but was distracted by a third owl 
landing in front of her carrying that day’s copy of the 
Daily Prophet. She unfolded it hastily and scanned 
the front page. 

“Anyone we know dead?” asked Ron in a determinedly 
casual voice; he posed the same question every time 
Hermione opened her paper. 

“No, but there have been more dementor attacks,” 
said Hermione. “And an arrest.” 

“Excellent, who?” said Harry, thinking of Bellatrix 
Lestrange. 

“Stan Shunpike,” said Hermione. 

“What?” said Harry, startled. 

“ ‘Stanley Shunpike , conductor on the popular 
Wizarding conveyance the Knight Bus, has been 
arrested on suspicion of Death Eater activity. Mr. 
Shunpike, 21, was taken into custody late last night 
after a raid on his Clapham home ...’ ” 

“Stan Shunpike, a Death Eater?” said Harry, 
remembering the spotty youth he had first met three 
years before. “No way!” 

“He might have been put under the Imperius Curse,” 
said Ron reasonably. “You never can tell.” 

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“It doesn’t look like it,” said Hermione, who was still 
reading. “It says here he was arrested after he was 
overheard talking about the Death Eaters’ secret 
plans in a pub.” She looked up with a troubled 
expression on her face. “If he was under the Imperius 
Curse, he’d hardly stand around gossiping about 
their plans, would he?” 

“It sounds like he was trying to make out he knew 
more than he did,” said Ron. “Isn’t he the one who 
claimed he was going to become Minister of Magic 
when he was trying to chat up those veela?” 

“Yeah, that’s him,” said Harry. “I dunno what they’re 
playing at, taking Stan seriously.” 

“They probably want to look as though they’re doing 
something,” said Hermione, frowning. “People are 
terrified — you know the Patil twins’ parents want 
them to go home? And Eloise Midgen has already 
been withdrawn. Her father picked her up last night.” 

“What!” said Ron, goggling at Hermione. “But 
Hogwarts is safer than their homes, bound to be! 
We’ve got Aurors, and all those extra protective spells, 
and we’ve got Dumbledore!” 

“I don’t think we’ve got him all the time,” said 
Hermione very quietly, glancing toward the staff table 
over the top of the Prophet “Haven’t you noticed? His 
seat’s been empty as often as Hagrid’s this past 
week.” 

Harry and Ron looked up at the staff table. The 
headmaster’s chair was indeed empty. Now Harry 
came to think of it, he had not seen Dumbledore 
since their private lesson a week ago. 



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“I think he’s left the school to do something with the 
Order,” said Hermione in a low voice. “I mean ... it’s 
all looking serious, isn’t it? 

Harry and Ron did not answer, but Harry knew that 
they were all thinking the same thing. There had been 
a horrible incident the day before, when Hannah 
Abbott had been taken out of Herbology to be told her 
mother had been found dead. They had not seen 
Hannah since. 

When they left the Gryffindor table five minutes later 
to head down to the Quidditch pitch, they passed 
Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. Remembering what 
Hermione had said about the Patil twins’ parents 
wanting them to leave Hogwarts, Harry was 
unsurprised to see that the two best friends were 
whispering together, looking distressed. What did 
surprise him was that when Ron drew level with 
them, Parvati suddenly nudged Lavender, who looked 
around and gave Ron a wide smile. Ron blinked at 
her, then returned the smile uncertainly. His walk 
instantly became something more like a strut. Harry 
resisted the temptation to laugh, remembering that 
Ron had refrained from doing so after Malfoy had 
broken Harry’s nose; Hermione, however, looked cold 
and distant all the way down to the stadium through 
the cool, misty drizzle, and departed to find a place in 
the stands without wishing Ron good luck. 

As Harry had expected, the trials took most of the 
morning. Half of Gryffindor House seemed to have 
turned up, from first years who were nervously 
clutching a selection of the dreadful old school 
brooms, to seventh years who towered over the rest, 
looking coolly intimidating. The latter included a 
large, wiry-haired boy Harry recognized immediately 
from the Hogwarts Express. 



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“We met on the train, in old Sluggy’s compartment,” 
he said confidently, stepping out of the crowd to 
shake Harry’s hand. “Cormac McLaggen, Keeper.” 

“You didn’t try out last year, did you?” asked Harry, 
taking note of the breadth of McLaggen and thinking 
that he would probably block all three goal hoops 
without even moving. 

“I was in the hospital wing when they held the trials,” 
said McLaggen, with something of a swagger. “Ate a 
pound of doxy eggs for a bet.” 

“Right,” said Harry. “Well ... if you wait over there ...” 

He pointed over to the edge of the pitch, close to 
where Hermione was sitting. He thought he saw a 
flicker of annoyance pass over McLaggen’s face and 
wondered whether McLaggen expected preferential 
treatment because they were both “old Sluggy’s” 
favorites. 

Harry decided to start with a basic test, asking all 
applicants for the team to divide into groups of ten 
and fly once around the pitch. This was a good 
decision: The first ten was made up of first years and 
it could not have been plainer that they had hardly 
ever flown before. Only one boy managed to remain 
airborne for more than a few seconds, and he was so 
surprised he promptly crashed into one of the goal 
posts. 

The second group was comprised of ten of the silliest 
girls Harry had ever encountered, who, when he blew 
his whistle, merely fell about giggling and clutching 
one another. Romilda Vane was amongst them. When 
he told them to leave the pitch, they did so quite 
cheerfully and went to sit in the stands to heckle 
everyone else. 

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The third group had a pileup halfway around the 
pitch. Most of the fourth group had come without 
broomsticks. The fifth group were Hufflepuffs. 

“If there’s anyone else here who’s not from 
Gryffindor,” roared Harry, who was starting to get 
seriously annoyed, “leave now, please!” 

There was a pause, then a couple of little Ravenclaws 
went sprinting off the pitch, snorting with laughter. 

After two hours, many complaints, and several 
tantrums, one involving a crashed Comet Two Sixty 
and several broken teeth, Harry had found himself 
three Chasers: Katie Bell, returned to the team after 
an excellent trial; a new find called Demelza Robins, 
who was particularly good at dodging Bludgers; and 
Ginny Weasley, who had outflown all the competition 
and scored seventeen goals to boot. Pleased though 
he was with his choices, Harry had also shouted 
himself hoarse at the many complainers and was now 
enduring a similar battle with the rejected Beaters. 

“That’s my final decision and if you don’t get out of 
the way for the Keepers I’ll hex you,” he bellowed. 

Neither of his chosen Beaters had the old brilliance of 
Fred and George, but he was still reasonably pleased 
with them: Jimmy Peakes, a short but broad-chested 
third-year boy who had managed to raise a lump the 
size of an egg on the back of Harry’s head with a 
ferociously hit Bludger, and Ritchie Coote, who looked 
weedy but aimed well. They now joined Katie, 

Demelza, and Ginny in the stands to watch the 
selection of their last team member. 

Harry had deliberately left the trial of the Keepers 
until last, hoping for an emptier stadium and less 
pressure on all concerned. Unfortunately, however, all 

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the rejected players and a number of people who had 
come down to watch after a lengthy breakfast had 
joined the crowd by now, so that it was larger than 
ever. As each Keeper flew up to the goal hoops, the 
crowd roared and jeered in equal measure. Harry 
glanced over at Ron, who had always had a problem 
with nerves; Harry had hoped that winning their final 
match last term might have cured it, but apparently 
not: Ron was a delicate shade of green. 

None of the first five applicants saved more than two 
goals apiece. To Harry’s great disappointment, 

Cormac McLaggen saved four penalties out of five. On 
the last one, however, he shot off in completely the 
wrong direction; the crowd laughed and booed and 
McLaggen returned to the ground grinding his teeth. 

Ron looked ready to pass out as he mounted his 
Cleansweep Eleven. “Good luck!” cried a voice from 
the stands. Harry looked around, expecting to see 
Hermione, but it was Lavender Brown. He would have 
quite liked to have hidden his face in his hands, as 
she did a moment later, but thought that as the 
Captain he ought to show slightly more grit, and so 
turned to watch Ron do his trial. 

Yet he need not have worried: Ron saved one, two, 
three, four, five penalties in a row. Delighted, and 
resisting joining in the cheers of the crowd with 
difficulty, Harry turned to McLaggen to tell him that, 
most unfortunately, Ron had beaten him, only to find 
McLaggen’s red face inches from his own. He stepped 
back hastily. 

“His sister didn’t really try,” said McLaggen 
menacingly. There was a vein pulsing in his temple 
like the one Harry had often admired in Uncle 
Vernon’s. “She gave him an easy save.” 



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“Rubbish,” said Harry coldly. “That was the one he 
nearly missed.” 

McLaggen took a step nearer Harry, who stood his 
ground this time. 

“Give me another go.” 

“No,” said Harry. “You’ve had your go. You saved four. 
Ron saved five. Ron’s Keeper, he won it fair and 
square. Get out of my way.” 

He thought for a moment that McLaggen might punch 
him, but he contented himself with an ugly grimace 
and stormed away, growling what sounded like 
threats to thin air. 

Harry turned around to find his new team beaming at 
him. 

“Well done,” he croaked. “You flew really well — ” 

“You did brilliantly, Ron!” 

This time it really was Hermione running toward 
them from the stands; Harry saw Lavender walking 
off the pitch, arm in arm with Parvati, a rather 
grumpy expression on her face. Ron looked extremely 
pleased with himself and even taller than usual as he 
grinned at the team and at Hermione. 

After fixing the time of their first full practice for the 
following Thursday, Harry, Ron, and Hermione bade 
good-bye to the rest of the team and headed off 
toward Hagrid’s. A watery sun was trying to break 
through the clouds now and it had stopped drizzling 
at last. Harry felt extremely hungry; he hoped there 
would be something to eat at Hagrid’s. 



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“I thought I was going to miss that fourth penalty,” 
Ron was saying happily. “Tricky shot from Demelza, 
did you see, had a bit of spin on it — ” 

“Yes, yes, you were magnificent,” said Hermione, 
looking amused. 

“I was better than that McLaggen anyway,” said Ron 
in a highly satisfied voice. “Did you see him 
lumbering off in the wrong direction on his fifth? 
Looked like he’d been Confunded. ...” 

To Harry’s surprise, Hermione turned a very deep 
shade of pink at these words. Ron noticed nothing; he 
was too busy describing each of his other penalties in 
loving detail. 

The great gray hippogriff, Buckbeak, was tethered in 
front of Hagrid’s cabin. He clicked his razor-sharp 
beak at their approach and turned his huge head 
toward them. 

“Oh dear,” said Hermione nervously. “He’s still a bit 
scary, isn’t he?” 

“Come off it, you’ve ridden him, haven’t you?” said 
Ron. 

Harry stepped forward and bowed low to the 
hippogriff without breaking eye contact or blinking. 
After a few seconds, Buckbeak sank into a bow too. 

“How are you?” Harry asked him in a low voice, 
moving forward to stroke the feathery head. “Missing 
him? But you’re okay here with Hagrid, aren’t you?” 

“Oi!” said a loud voice. 



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Hagrid had come striding around the corner of his 
cabin wearing a large flowery apron and carrying a 
sack of potatoes. His enormous boarhound, Fang, 
was at his heels; Fang gave a booming bark and 
bounded forward. 

“Git away from him! Hell have yer fingers — oh. It’s 
yeh lot.” 

Fang was jumping up at Hermione and Ron, 
attempting to lick their ears. Hagrid stood and looked 
at them all for a split second, then turned and strode 
into his cabin, slamming the door behind him. 

“Oh dear!” said Hermione, looking stricken. 

“Don’t worry about it,” said Harry grimly. He walked 
over to the door and knocked loudly. 

“Hagrid! Open up, we want to talk to you!” 

There was no sound from within. 

“If you don’t open the door, we’ll blast it open!” Harry 
said, pulling out his wand. 

“Harry!” said Hermione, sounding shocked. “You can’t 
possibly — ” 

“Yeah, I can!” said Harry. “Stand back — ” 

But before he could say anything else, the door flew 
open again as Harry had known it would, and there 
stood Hagrid, glowering down at him and looking, 
despite the flowery apron, positively alarming. 

“I’m a teacher!” he roared at Harry. “A teacher, Potter! 
How dare yeh threaten ter break down my door!” 



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‘Tm sorry, sir,” said Harry, emphasizing the last word 
as he stowed his wand inside his robes. 

Hagrid looked stunned. “Since when have yeh called 
me ‘sir’?” 



“Since when have you called me ‘Potter’?” 

“Oh, very clever,” growled Hagrid. “Very amusin’. 
That’s me outsmarted, innit? All righ’, come in then, 
yeh ungrateful little ...” 

Mumbling darkly, he stood back to let them pass. 
Hermione scurried in after Harry, looking rather 
frightened. 

“Well?” said Hagrid grumpily, as Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione sat down around his enormous wooden 
table, Fang laying his head immediately upon Harry’s 
knee and drooling all over his robes. “What’s this? 
Feelin’ sorry for me? Reckon I’m lonely or summat?” 

“No,” said Harry at once. “We wanted to see you.” 

“We’ve missed you!” said Hermione tremulously. 

“Missed me, have yeh?” snorted Hagrid. “Yeah. Righ’.” 

He stomped around, brewing up tea in his enormous 
copper kettle, muttering all the while. Finally he 
slammed down three bucket-sized mugs of 
mahogany-brown tea in front of them and a plate of 
his rock cakes. Harry was hungry enough even for 
Hagrid’s cooking, and took one at once. 

“Hagrid,” said Hermione timidly, when he joined them 
at the table and started peeling his potatoes with a 
brutality that suggested that each tuber had done 



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him a great personal wrong, “we really wanted to 
carry on with Care of Magical Creatures, you know.” 



Hagrid gave another great snort. Harry rather thought 
some bogeys landed on the potatoes, and was 
inwardly thankful that they were not staying for 
dinner. 

“We did!” said Hermione. “But none of us could fit it 
into our schedules!” 

“Yeah. Righ’,” said Hagrid again. 

There was a funny squelching sound and they all 
looked around: Hermione let out a tiny shriek, and 
Ron leapt out of his seat and hurried around the table 
away from the large barrel standing in the corner that 
they had only just noticed. It was full of what looked 
like foot-long maggots, slimy, white, and writhing. 

“What are they, Hagrid?” asked Harry, trying to sound 
interested rather than revolted, but putting down his 
rock cake all the same. 

“Jus’ giant grubs,” said Hagrid. 

“And they grow into ... ?” said Ron, looking 
apprehensive. 

“They won’ grow inter nuthin’,” said Hagrid. “I got ’em 
ter feed ter Aragog.” 

And without warning, he burst into tears. 

“Hagrid!” cried Hermione, leaping up, hurrying 
around the table the long way to avoid the barrel of 
maggots, and putting an arm around his shaking 
shoulders. “What is it?” 

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“It’s ... him ...” gulped Hagrid, his beetle-black eyes 
streaming as he mopped his face with his apron. “It’s 
... Aragog. ... I think he’s dyin’. ... He got ill over the 
summer an’ he’s not gettin’ better. ... I don’ know 
what I’ll do if he ... if he ... We’ve bin tergether so 
long. ...” 

Hermione patted Hagrid’s shoulder, looking at a 
complete loss for anything to say. Harry knew how 
she felt. He had known Hagrid to present a vicious 
baby dragon with a teddy bear, seen him croon over 
giant scorpions with suckers and stingers, attempt to 
reason with his brutal giant of a half-brother, but this 
was perhaps the most incomprehensible of all his 
monster fancies: the gigantic talking spider, Aragog, 
who dwelled deep in the Forbidden Forest and which 
he and Ron had only narrowly escaped four years 
previously. 

“Is there — is there anything we can do?” Hermione 
asked, ignoring Ron’s frantic grimaces and head- 
shakings. 

“I don’ think there is, Hermione,” choked Hagrid, 
attempting to stem the flood of his tears. “See, the 
rest o’ the tribe ... Aragog’s family ... they’re gettin’ a 
bit funny now he’s ill ... bit restive ...” 

“Yeah, I think we saw a bit of that side of them,” said 
Ron in an undertone. 

"... I don’ reckon it’d be safe fer anyone but me ter go 
near the colony at the mo’,” Hagrid finished, blowing 
his nose hard on his apron and looking up. “But 
thanks fer offerin’, Hermione. ... It means a lot. ...” 

After that, the atmosphere lightened considerably, for 
although neither Harry nor Ron had shown any 
inclination to go and feed giant grubs to a murderous, 

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gargantuan spider, Hagrid seemed to take it for 
granted that they would have liked to have done and 
became his usual self once more. 

“Ar, I always knew yeh’d find it hard ter squeeze me 
inter yer timetables,” he said gruffly, pouring them 
more tea. “Even if yeh applied fer Time-Turners — ” 

“We couldn’t have done,” said Hermione. “We 
smashed the entire stock of Ministry Time-Turners 
when we were there last summer. It was in the Daily 
Prophet.” 

“Ar, well then,” said Hagrid. “There’s no way yeh 
could’ve done it. ... I’m sorry I’ve bin — yeh know — 
I’ve jus’ bin worried abou’ Aragog ... an’ I did wonder 
whether, if Professor Grubbly-Plank had bin teachin’ 
yeh 

At which all three of them stated categorically and 
untruthfully that Professor Grubbly-Plank, who had 
substituted for Hagrid a few times, was a dreadful 
teacher, with the result that by the time Hagrid waved 
them off the premises at dusk, he looked quite 
cheerful. 

“I’m starving,” said Harry, once the door had closed 
behind them and they were hurrying through the 
dark and deserted grounds; he had abandoned the 
rock cake after an ominous cracking noise from one 
of his back teeth. “And I’ve got that detention with 
Snape tonight, I haven’t got much time for dinner. ...” 

As they came into the castle they spotted Cormac 
McLaggen entering the Great Hall. It took him two 
attempts to get through the doors; he ricocheted off 
the frame on the first attempt. Ron merely guffawed 
gloatingly and strode off into the Hall after him, but 
Harry caught Hermione ’s arm and held her back. 

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“What?” said Hermione defensively. 



“If you ask me,” said Harry quietly, “McLaggen looks 
like he was Confunded this morning. And he was 
standing right in front of where you were sitting.” 

Hermione blushed. 

“Oh, all right then, I did it,” she whispered. “But you 
should have heard the way he was talking about Ron 
and Ginny! Anyway, he’s got a nasty temper, you saw 
how he reacted when he didn’t get in — you wouldn’t 
have wanted someone like that on the team.” 

“No,” said Harry. “No, I suppose that’s true. But 
wasn’t that dishonest, Hermione? I mean, you’re a 
prefect, aren’t you?” 

“Oh, be quiet,” she snapped, as he smirked. 

“What are you two doing?” demanded Ron, 
reappearing in the doorway to the Great Hall and 
looking suspicious. 

“Nothing,” said Harry and Hermione together, and 
they hurried after Ron. The smell of roast beef made 
Harry’s stomach ache with hunger, but they had 
barely taken three steps toward the Gryffindor table 
when Professor Slughorn appeared in front of them, 
blocking their path. 

“Harry, Harry, just the man I was hoping to see!” he 
boomed genially, twiddling the ends of his walrus 
mustache and puffing out his enormous belly. “I was 
hoping to catch you before dinner! What do you say to 
a spot of supper tonight in my rooms instead? We’re 
having a little party, just a few rising stars, I’ve got 
McLaggen coming and Zabini, the charming Melinda 
Bobbin — I don’t know whether you know her? Her 
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family owns a large chain of apothecaries — and, of 
course, I hope very much that Miss Granger will favor 
me by coming too.” 

Slughorn made Hermione a little bow as he finished 
speaking. It was as though Ron was not present; 
Slughorn did not so much as look at him. 

“I can’t come, Professor,” said Harry at once. “I’ve got 
a detention with Professor Snape.” 

“Oh dear!” said Slughorn, his face falling comically. 
“Dear, dear, I was counting on you, Harry! Well, now, 
I’ll just have to have a word with Severus and explain 
the situation. I’m sure I’ll be able to persuade him to 
postpone your detention. Yes, I’ll see you both later!” 

He bustled away out of the Hall. 

“He’s got no chance of persuading Snape,” said Harry, 
the moment Slughorn was out of earshot. “This 
detention’s already been postponed once; Snape did it 
for Dumbledore, but he won’t do it for anyone else.” 

“Oh, I wish you could come, I don’t want to go on my 
own!” said Hermione anxiously; Harry knew that she 
was thinking about McLaggen. 

“I doubt you’ll be alone, Ginny’ll probably be invited,” 
snapped Ron, who did not seem to have taken kindly 
to being ignored by Slughorn. 

After dinner they made their way back to Gryffindor 
Tower. The common room was very crowded, as most 
people had finished dinner by now, but they managed 
to find a free table and sat down; Ron, who had been 
in a bad mood ever since the encounter with 
Slughorn, folded his arms and frowned at the ceiling. 
Hermione reached out for a copy of the Evening 
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Prophet, which somebody had left abandoned on a 
chair. 

“Anything new?” said Harry. 

“Not really ...” Hermione had opened the newspaper 
and was scanning the inside pages. “Oh, look, your 
dad’s in here, Ron — he’s all right!” she added 
quickly, for Ron had looked around in alarm. “It just 
says he’s been to visit the Malfoys’ house. ‘This 
second search of the Death Eater’s residence does not 
seem to have yielded any results. Arthur Weasley of 
the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of 
Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects 
said that his team had been acting upon a confidential 
tip-off’” 

“Yeah, mine!” said Harry. “I told him at King’s Cross 
about Malfoy and that thing he was trying to get 
Borgin to fix! Well, if it’s not at their house, he must 
have brought whatever it is to Hogwarts with him — ” 

“But how can he have done, Harry?” said Hermione, 
putting down the newspaper with a surprised look. 
“We were all searched when we arrived, weren’t we?” 

“Were you?” said Harry, taken aback. “I wasn’t!” 

“Oh no, of course you weren’t, I forgot you were late. 

... Well, Filch ran over all of us with Secrecy Sensors 
when we got into the entrance hall. Any Dark object 
would have been found, I know for a fact Crabbe had 
a shrunken head confiscated. So you see, Malfoy can’t 
have brought in anything dangerous!” 

Momentarily stymied, Harry watched Ginny Weasley 
playing with Arnold the Pygmy Puff for a while before 
seeing a way around this objection. 



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“Someone’s sent it to him by owl, then,” he said. “His 
mother or someone.” 

“All the owls are being checked too,” said Hermione. 
“Filch told us so when he was jabbing those Secrecy 
Sensors everywhere he could reach.” 

Really stumped this time, Harry found nothing else to 
say. There did not seem to be any way Malfoy could 
have brought a dangerous or Dark object into the 
school. He looked hopefully at Ron, who was sitting 
with his arms folded, staring over at Lavender Brown. 

“Can you think of any way Malfoy — ?” 

“Oh, drop it, Harry,” said Ron. 

“Listen, it’s not my fault Slughorn invited Hermione 
and me to his stupid party, neither of us wanted to 
go, you know!” said Harry, firing up. 

“Well, as I’m not invited to any parties,” said Ron, 
getting to his feet again, “I think I’ll go to bed.” 

He stomped off toward the door to the boys’ 
dormitories, leaving Harry and Hermione staring after 
him. 

“Harry?” said the new Chaser, Demelza Robins, 
appearing suddenly at his shoulder. “I’ve got a 
message for you.” 

“From Professor Slughorn?” asked Harry, sitting up 
hopefully. 

“No ... from Professor Snape,” said Demelza. Harry’s 
heart sank. “He says you’re to come to his office at 
half past eight tonight to do your detention — er — no 
matter how many party invitations you’ve received. 

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And he wanted you to know you’ll be sorting out 
rotten flobberworms from good ones, to use in Potions 
and — and he says there’s no need to bring protective 
gloves.” 

“Right,” said Harry grimly. “Thanks a lot, Demelza.” 



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SILVER AND OPALS 

Where was Dumbledore, and what was he doing? 
Harry caught sight of the headmaster only twice over 
the next few weeks. He rarely appeared at meals 
anymore, and Harry was sure Hermione was right in 
thinking that he was leaving the school for days at a 
time. Had Dumbledore forgotten the lessons he was 
supposed to be giving Harry? Dumbledore had said 
that the lessons were leading to something to do with 
the prophecy; Harry had felt bolstered, comforted, 
and now he felt slightly abandoned. 

Halfway through October came their first trip of the 
term to Hogsmeade. Harry had wondered whether 
these trips would still be allowed, given the 
increasingly tight security measures around the 
school, but was pleased to know that they were going 
ahead; it was always good to get out of the castle 
grounds for a few hours. 

Harry woke early on the morning of the trip, which 
was proving stormy, and whiled away the time until 



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breakfast by reading his copy of Advanced Potion- 
Making. He did not usually lie in bed reading his 
textbooks; that sort of behavior, as Ron rightly said, 
was indecent in anybody except Hermione, who was 
simply weird that way. Harry felt, however, that the 
Half-Blood Prince’s copy of Advanced Potion-Making 
hardly qualified as a textbook. The more Harry pored 
over the book, the more he realized how much was in 
there, not only the handy hints and shortcuts on 
potions that were earning him such a glowing 
reputation with Slughorn, but also the imaginative 
little jinxes and hexes scribbled in the margins, which 
Harry was sure, judging by the crossings-out and 
revisions, that the Prince had invented himself. 

Harry had already attempted a few of the Prince’s self- 
invented spells. There had been a hex that caused 
toenails to grow alarmingly fast (he had tried this on 
Crabbe in the corridor, with very entertaining results); 
a jinx that glued the tongue to the roof of the mouth 
(which he had twice used, to general applause, on an 
unsuspecting Argus Filch); and, perhaps most useful 
of all, Muffliato, a spell that filled the ears of anyone 
nearby with an unidentifiable buzzing, so that lengthy 
conversations could be held in class without being 
overheard. The only person who did not find these 
charms amusing was Hermione, who maintained a 
rigidly disapproving expression throughout and 
refused to talk at all if Harry had used the Muffliato 
spell on anyone in the vicinity. 

Sitting up in bed, Harry turned the book sideways so 
as to examine more closely the scribbled instructions 
for a spell that seemed to have caused the Prince 
some trouble. There were many crossings-out and 
alterations, but finally, crammed into a corner of the 
page, the scribble: 

Levicorpus (nvbl) 

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While the wind and sleet pounded relentlessly on the 
windows, and Neville snored loudly, Harry stared at 
the letters in brackets. Nvbl ... that had to mean 
“nonverbal.” Harry rather doubted he would be able 
to bring off this particular spell; he was still having 
difficulty with nonverbal spells, something Snape had 
been quick to comment on in every D.A.D.A. class. On 
the other hand, the Prince had proved a much more 
effective teacher than Snape so far. 

Pointing his wand at nothing in particular, he gave it 
an upward flick and said Levicorpusl inside his head. 

“ Aaaaaaaargh ! ” 

There was a flash of light and the room was full of 
voices: Everyone had woken up as Ron had let out a 
yell. Harry sent Advanced Potion-Making flying in 
panic; Ron was dangling upside down in midair as 
though an invisible hook had hoisted him up by the 
ankle. 

“Sorry!” yelled Harry, as Dean and Seamus roared 
with laughter, and Neville picked himself up from the 
floor, having fallen out of bed. “Hang on — I’ll let you 
down — ” 

He groped for the potion book and riffled through it in 
a panic, trying to find the right page; at last he 
located it and deciphered one cramped word 
underneath the spell: Praying that this was the 
counter-jinx, Harry thought Liberacorpus\ with all his 
might. 

There was another flash of light, and Ron fell in a 
heap onto his mattress. 

“Sorry,” repeated Harry weakly, while Dean and 
Seamus continued to roar with laughter. 

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“Tomorrow,” said Ron in a muffled voice, “I’d rather 
you set the alarm clock.” 

By the time they had got dressed, padding themselves 
out with several of Mrs. Weasley’s hand-knitted 
sweaters and carrying cloaks, scarves, and gloves, 
Ron’s shock had subsided and he had decided that 
Harry’s new spell was highly amusing; so amusing, in 
fact, that he lost no time in regaling Hermione with 
the story as they sat down for breakfast. 

"... and then there was another flash of light and I 
landed on the bed again!” Ron grinned, helping 
himself to sausages. 

Hermione had not cracked a smile during this 
anecdote, and now turned an expression of wintry 
disapproval upon Harry. 

“Was this spell, by any chance, another one from that 
potion book of yours?” she asked. 

Harry frowned at her. 

“Always jump to the worst conclusion, don’t you?” 
“Was it?” 

“Well ... yeah, it was, but so what?” 

“So you just decided to try out an unknown, 
handwritten incantation and see what would 
happen?” 

“Why does it matter if it’s handwritten?” said Harry, 
preferring not to answer the rest of the question. 

“Because it’s probably not Ministry of Magic- 
approved,” said Hermione. “And also,” she added, as 

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Harry and Ron rolled their eyes, “because I’m starting 
to think this Prince character was a bit dodgy.” 



Both Harry and Ron shouted her down at once. 

“It was a laugh!” said Ron, upending a ketchup bottle 
over his sausages. “Just a laugh, Hermione, that’s 
all!” 

“Dangling people upside down by the ankle?” said 
Hermione. “Who puts their time and energy into 
making up spells like that?” 

“Fred and George,” said Ron, shrugging, “it’s their 
kind of thing. And, er — ” 

“My dad,” said Harry. He had only just remembered. 

“What?” said Ron and Hermione together. 

“My dad used this spell,” said Harry. “I — Lupin told 
me.” 

This last part was not true; in fact, Harry had seen 
his father use the spell on Snape, but he had never 
told Ron and Hermione about that particular 
excursion into the Pensieve. Now, however, a 
wonderful possibility occurred to him. Could the Half- 
Blood Prince possibly be — ? 

“Maybe your dad did use it, Harry,” said Hermione, 
“but he’s not the only one. We’ve seen a whole bunch 
of people use it, in case you’ve forgotten. Dangling 
people in the air. Making them float along, asleep, 
helpless.” 

Harry stared at her. With a sinking feeling, he too 
remembered the behavior of the Death Eaters at the 
Quidditch World Cup. Ron came to his aid. 

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“That was different,” he said robustly. “They were 
abusing it. Harry and his dad were just having a 
laugh. You don’t like the Prince, Hermione,” he added, 
pointing a sausage at her sternly, “because he’s better 
than you at Potions — ” 

“It’s got nothing to do with that!” said Hermione, her 
cheeks reddening. “I just think it’s very irresponsible 
to start performing spells when you don’t even know 
what they’re for, and stop talking about ‘the Prince’ as 
if it’s his title, I bet it’s just a stupid nickname, and it 
doesn’t seem as though he was a very nice person to 
me!” 

“I don’t see where you get that from,” said Harry 
heatedly. “If he’d been a budding Death Eater he 
wouldn’t have been boasting about being ‘half-blood,’ 
would he?” 

Even as he said it, Harry remembered that his father 
had been pure-blood, but he pushed the thought out 
of his mind; he would worry about that later. ... 

“The Death Eaters can’t all be pure-blood, there aren’t 
enough pure-blood wizards left,” said Hermione 
stubbornly. “I expect most of them are half-bloods 
pretending to be pure. It’s only Muggle-borns they 
hate, they’d be quite happy to let you and Ron join 
up.” 

“There is no way they’d let me be a Death Eater!” said 
Ron indignantly, a bit of sausage flying off the fork he 
was now brandishing at Hermione and hitting Ernie 
Macmillan on the head. “My whole family are blood 
traitors! That’s as bad as Muggle-borns to Death 
Eaters!” 



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“And they’d love to have me,” said Harry sarcastically. 
“We’d be best pals if they didn’t keep trying to do me 



in. 






This made Ron laugh; even Hermione gave a grudging 
smile, and a distraction arrived in the shape of Ginny. 

“Hey, Harry, I’m supposed to give you this.” 

It was a scroll of parchment with Harry’s name 
written upon it in familiar thin, slanting writing. 

“Thanks, Ginny ... It’s Dumbledore’s next lesson!” 
Harry told Ron and Hermione, pulling open the 
parchment and quickly reading its contents. “Monday 
evening!” He felt suddenly light and happy. “Want to 
join us in Hogsmeade, Ginny?” he asked. 

“I’m going with Dean — might see you there,” she 
replied, waving at them as she left. 

Filch was standing at the oak front doors as usual, 
checking off the names of people who had permission 
to go into Hogsmeade. The process took even longer 
than normal as Filch was triple-checking everybody 
with his Secrecy Sensor. 

“What does it matter if we’re smuggling Dark stuff 
OUT?” demanded Ron, eyeing the long thin Secrecy 
Sensor with apprehension. “Surely you ought to be 
checking what we bring back IN?” 

His cheek earned him a few extra jabs with the 
Sensor, and he was still wincing as they stepped out 
into the wind and sleet. 

The walk into Hogsmeade was not enjoyable. Harry 
wrapped his scarf over his lower face; the exposed 
part soon felt both raw and numb. The road to the 

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village was full of students bent double against the 
bitter wind. More than once Harry wondered whether 
they might not have had a better time in the warm 
common room, and when they finally reached 
Hogsmeade and saw that Zonko’s Joke Shop had 
been boarded up, Harry took it as confirmation that 
this trip was not destined to be fun. Ron pointed, with 
a thickly gloved hand, toward Honeydukes, which was 
mercifully open, and Harry and Hermione staggered 
in his wake into the crowded shop. 

“Thank God,” shivered Ron as they were enveloped by 
warm, toffee-scented air. “Let’s stay here all 
afternoon.” 

“Harry, m’boy!” said a booming voice from behind 
them. 

“Oh no,” muttered Harry. The three of them turned to 
see Professor Slughorn, who was wearing an 
enormous furry hat and an overcoat with matching 
fur collar, clutching a large bag of crystalized 
pineapple, and occupying at least a quarter of the 
shop. 

“Harry, that’s three of my little suppers you’ve missed 
now!” said Slughorn, poking him genially in the chest. 
“It won’t do, m’boy, I’m determined to have you! Miss 
Granger loves them, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” said Hermione helplessly, “they’re really — ” 

“So why don’t you come along, Harry?” demanded 
Slughorn. 

“Well, I’ve had Quidditch practice, Professor,” said 
Harry, who had indeed been scheduling practices 
every time Slughorn had sent him a little, violet 
ribbon-adorned invitation. This strategy meant that 

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Ron was not left out, and they usually had a laugh 
with Ginny, imagining Hermione shut up with 
McLaggen and Zabini. 

“Well, I certainly expect you to win your first match 
after all this hard work!” said Slughorn. “But a little 
recreation never hurt anybody. Now, how about 
Monday night, you can’t possibly want to practice in 
this weather. ...” 

“I can’t, Professor, I’ve got — er — an appointment 
with Professor Dumbledore that evening.” 

“Unlucky again!” cried Slughorn dramatically. “Ah, 
well ... you can’t evade me forever, Harry!” 

And with a regal wave, he waddled out of the shop, 
taking as little notice of Ron as though he had been a 
display of Cockroach Clusters. 

“I can’t believe you’ve wriggled out of another one,” 
said Hermione, shaking her head. “They’re not that 
bad, you know. ... They’re even quite fun sometimes. 
...” But then she caught sight of Ron’s expression. 

“Oh, look — they’ve got deluxe sugar quills — those 
would last hours!” 

Glad that Hermione had changed the subject, Harry 
showed much more interest in the new extra-large 
sugar quills than he would normally have done, but 
Ron continued to look moody and merely shrugged 
when Hermione asked him where he wanted to go 
next. 

“Let’s go to the Three Broomsticks,” said Harry. “It’ll 
be warm.” 

They bundled their scarves back over their faces and 
left the sweetshop. The bitter wind was like knives on 

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their faces after the sugary warmth of Honeydukes. 
The street was not very busy; nobody was lingering to 
chat, just hurrying toward their destinations. The 
exceptions were two men a little ahead of them, 
standing just outside the Three Broomsticks. One was 
very tall and thin; squinting through his rain-washed 
glasses Harry recognized the barman who worked in 
the other Hogsmeade pub, the Hog’s Head. As Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione drew closer, the barman drew his 
cloak more tightly around his neck and walked away, 
leaving the shorter man to fumble with something in 
his arms. They were barely feet from him when Harry 
realized who the man was. 

“Mundungus!” 

The squat, bandy-legged man with long, straggly, 
ginger hair jumped and dropped an ancient suitcase, 
which burst open, releasing what looked like the 
entire contents of a junk shop window. 

“Oh, ’ello, ’Arry,” said Mundungus Fletcher, with a 
most unconvincing stab at airiness. “Well, don’t let 
me keep ya.” 

And he began scrabbling on the ground to retrieve the 
contents of his suitcase with every appearance of a 
man eager to be gone. 

“Are you selling this stuff?” asked Harry, watching 
Mundungus grab an assortment of grubby-looking 
objects from the ground. 

“Oh, well, gotta scrape a living,” said Mundungus. 
“Gimme that!” 

Ron had stooped down and picked up something 
silver. 



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“Hang on,” Ron said slowly. “This looks familiar — ” 



“Thank you!” said Mundungus, snatching the goblet 
out of Ron’s hand and stuffing it back into the case. 
“Well, I’ll see you all — OUCH!” 

Harry had pinned Mundungus against the wall of the 
pub by the throat. Holding him fast with one hand, he 
pulled out his wand. 

“Harry!” squealed Hermione. 

“You took that from Sirius’s house,” said Harry, who 
was almost nose to nose with Mundungus and was 
breathing in an unpleasant smell of old tobacco and 
spirits. “That had the Black family crest on it.” 

“I — no — what — ?” spluttered Mundungus, who 
was slowly turning purple. 

“What did you do, go back the night he died and strip 
the place?” snarled Harry. 

“I — no — ” 

“Give it to me!” 

“Harry, you mustn’t!” shrieked Hermione, as 
Mundungus started to turn blue. 

There was a bang, and Harry felt his hands fly off 
Mundungus’s throat. Gasping and spluttering, 
Mundungus seized his fallen case, then — CRACK — 
he Disapparated. 

Harry swore at the top of his voice, spinning on the 
spot to see where Mundungus had gone. 

“COME BACK, YOU THIEVING — !” 

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“There’s no point, Harry.” 



Tonks had appeared out of nowhere, her mousy hair 
wet with sleet. 

“Mundungus will probably be in London by now. 
There’s no point yelling.” 

“He’s nicked Sirius’s stuff! Nicked it!” 

“Yes, but still,” said Tonks, who seemed perfectly 
untroubled by this piece of information. “You should 
get out of the cold.” 

She watched them go through the door of the Three 
Broomsticks. 

The moment he was inside, Harry burst out, “He was 
nicking Sirius’s stuff.” 

“I know, Harry, but please don’t shout, people are 
staring,” whispered Hermione. “Go and sit down, I’ll 
get you a drink.” 

Harry was still fuming when Hermione returned to 
their table a few minutes later holding three bottles of 
butterbeer. 

“Can’t the Order control Mundungus?” Harry 
demanded of the other two in a furious whisper. 

“Can’t they at least stop him stealing everything that’s 
not fixed down when he’s at headquarters?” 

“Shh!” said Hermione desperately, looking around to 
make sure nobody was listening; there were a couple 
of warlocks sitting close by who were staring at Harry 
with great interest, and Zabini was lolling against a 
pillar not far away. “Harry, I’d be annoyed too, I know 
it’s your things he’s stealing — ” 

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Harry gagged on his butterbeer; he had momentarily 
forgotten that he owned number twelve, Grimmauld 
Place. 

“Yeah, it’s my stuff!” he said. “No wonder he wasn’t 
pleased to see me! Well, I’m going to tell Dumbledore 
what’s going on, he’s the only one who scares 
Mundungus.” 

“Good idea,” whispered Hermione, clearly pleased that 
Harry was calming down. “Ron, what are you staring 
at?” 

“Nothing,” said Ron, hastily looking away from the 
bar, but Harry knew he was trying to catch the eye of 
the curvy and attractive barmaid, Madam Rosmerta, 
for whom he had long nursed a soft spot. 

“I expect ‘nothing’s’ in the back getting more 
firewhisky,” said Hermione waspishly. 

Ron ignored this jibe, sipping his drink in what he 
evidently considered to be a dignified silence. Harry 
was thinking about Sirius, and how he had hated 
those silver goblets anyway. Hermione drummed her 
fingers on the table, her eyes flickering between Ron 
and the bar. The moment Harry drained the last 
drops in his bottle she said, “Shall we call it a day 
and go back to school, then?” 

The other two nodded; it had not been a fun trip and 
the weather was getting worse the longer they stayed. 
Once again they drew their cloaks tightly around 
them, rearranged their scarves, pulled on their gloves, 
then followed Katie Bell and a friend out of the pub 
and back up the High Street. Harry’s thoughts 
strayed to Ginny as they trudged up the road to 
Hogwarts through the frozen slush. They had not met 
up with her, undoubtedly, thought Harry, because 
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she and Dean were cozily closeted in Madam 
Puddifoot’s Tea Shop, that haunt of happy couples. 
Scowling, he bowed his head against the swirling sleet 
and trudged on. 

It was a little while before Harry became aware that 
the voices of Katie Bell and her friend, which were 
being carried back to him on the wind, had become 
shriller and louder. Harry squinted at their indistinct 
figures. The two girls were having an argument about 
something Katie was holding in her hand. “It’s 
nothing to do with you, Leanne!” Harry heard Katie 
say. 

They rounded a corner in the lane, sleet coming thick 
and fast, blurring Harry’s glasses. Just as he raised a 
gloved hand to wipe them, Leanne made to grab hold 
of the package Katie was holding; Katie tugged it back 
and the package fell to the ground. 

At once, Katie rose into the air, not as Ron had done, 
suspended comically by the ankle, but gracefully, her 
arms outstretched, as though she was about to fly. 

Yet there was something wrong, something eerie. ... 
Her hair was whipped around her by the fierce wind, 
but her eyes were closed and her face was quite 
empty of expression. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and 
Leanne had all halted in their tracks, watching. 

Then, six feet above the ground, Katie let out a 
terrible scream. Her eyes flew open but whatever she 
could see, or whatever she was feeling, was clearly 
causing her terrible anguish. She screamed and 
screamed; Leanne started to scream too and seized 
Katie’s ankles, trying to tug her back to the ground. 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione rushed forward to help, 
but even as they grabbed Katie’s legs, she fell on top 
of them; Harry and Ron managed to catch her but she 
was writhing so much they could hardly hold her. 
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Instead they lowered her to the ground where she 
thrashed and screamed, apparently unable to 
recognize any of them. 

Harry looked around; the landscape seemed deserted. 

“Stay there!” he shouted at the others over the 
howling wind. “I’m going for help!” 

He began to sprint toward the school; he had never 
seen anyone behave as Katie had just behaved and 
could not think what had caused it; he hurtled 
around a bend in the lane and collided with what 
seemed to be an enormous bear on its hind legs. 

“Hagrid!” he panted, disentangling himself from the 
hedgerow into which he had fallen. 

“Harry!” said Hagrid, who had sleet trapped in his 
eyebrows and beard, and was wearing his great, 
shaggy beaverskin coat. “Jus’ bin visitin’ Grawp, he’s 
cornin’ on so well yeh wouldn’ — ” 

“Hagrid, someone’s hurt back there, or cursed, or 
something — ” 

“Wha?” said Hagrid, bending lower to hear what 
Harry was saying over the raging wind. 

“Someone’s been cursed!” bellowed Harry. 

“Cursed? Who’s bin cursed — not Ron? Hermione?” 

“No, it’s not them, it’s Katie Bell — this way ...” 

Together they ran back along the lane. It took them 
no time to find the little group of people around Katie, 
who was still writhing and screaming on the ground; 



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Ron, Hermione, and Leanne were all trying to quiet 
her. 

“Get back!” shouted Hagrid. “Lemme see her!” 

“Something’s happened to her!” sobbed Leanne. “I 
don’t know what — ” 

Hagrid stared at Katie for a second, then without a 
word, bent down, scooped her into his arms, and ran 
off toward the castle with her. Within seconds, Katie’s 
piercing screams had died away and the only sound 
was the roar of the wind. 

Hermione hurried over to Katie’s wailing friend and 
put an arm around her. 

“It’s Leanne, isn’t it?” 

The girl nodded. 

“Did it just happen all of a sudden, or — ?” 

“It was when that package tore,” sobbed Leanne, 
pointing at the now sodden brown-paper package on 
the ground, which had split open to reveal a greenish 
glitter. Ron bent down, his hand outstretched, but 
Harry seized his arm and pulled him back. 

“Don’t touch if!” 

He crouched down. An ornate opal necklace was 
visible, poking out of the paper. 

“I’ve seen that before,” said Harry, staring at the 
thing. “It was on display in Borgin and Burkes ages 
ago. The label said it was cursed. Katie must have 
touched it.” He looked up at Leanne, who had started 



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to shake uncontrollably. “How did Katie get hold of 
this?” 



“Well, that’s why we were arguing. She came back 
from the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks holding 
it, said it was a surprise for somebody at Hogwarts 
and she had to deliver it. She looked all funny when 
she said it. ... Oh no, oh no, I bet she’d been 
Imperiused and I didn’t realize!” 

Leanne shook with renewed sobs. Hermione patted 
her shoulder gently. 

“She didn’t say who’d given it to her, Leanne?” 

“No ... she wouldn’t tell me ... and I said she was 
being stupid and not to take it up to school, but she 
just wouldn’t listen and ... and then I tried to grab it 
from her . . . and — and — ” 

Leanne let out a wail of despair. 

“We’d better get up to school,” said Hermione, her 
arm still around Leanne. “We’ll be able to find out 
how she is. Come on. ...” 

Harry hesitated for a moment, then pulled his scarf 
from around his face and, ignoring Ron’s gasp, 
carefully covered the necklace in it and picked it up. 

“Well need to show this to Madam Pomfrey,” he said. 

As they followed Hermione and Leanne up the road, 
Harry was thinking furiously. They had just entered 
the grounds when he spoke, unable to keep his 
thoughts to himself any longer. 

“Malfoy knows about this necklace. It was in a case at 
Borgin and Burkes four years ago, I saw him having a 

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good look at it while I was hiding from him and his 
dad. This is what he was buying that day when we 
followed him! He remembered it and he went back for 
it!” 



“I — I dunno, Harry,” said Ron hesitantly. “Loads of 
people go to Borgin and Burkes ... and didn’t that girl 
say Katie got it in the girls’ bathroom?” 

“She said she came back from the bathroom with it, 
she didn’t necessarily get it in the bathroom itself — ” 

“McGonagall!” said Ron warningly. 

Harry looked up. Sure enough, Professor McGonagall 
was hurrying down the stone steps through swirling 
sleet to meet them. 

“Hagrid says you four saw what happened to Katie 
Bell — upstairs to my office at once, please! What’s 
that you’re holding, Potter?” 

“It’s the thing she touched,” said Harry. 

“Good lord,” said Professor McGonagall, looking 
alarmed as she took the necklace from Harry. “No, no, 
Filch, they’re with me!” she added hastily, as Filch 
came shuffling eagerly across the entrance hall 
holding his Secrecy Sensor aloft. “Take this necklace 
to Professor Snape at once, but be sure not to touch 
it, keep it wrapped in the scarf!” 

Harry and the others followed Professor McGonagall 
upstairs and into her office. The sleet-spattered 
windows were rattling in their frames, and the room 
was chilly despite the fire crackling in the grate. 
Professor McGonagall closed the door and swept 
around her desk to face Harry, Ron, Hermione, and 
the still sobbing Leanne. 

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“Well?” she said sharply. “What happened?” 



Haltingly, and with many pauses while she attempted 
to control her crying, Leanne told Professor 
McGonagall how Katie had gone to the bathroom in 
the Three Broomsticks and returned holding the 
unmarked package, how Katie had seemed a little 
odd, and how they had argued about the advisability 
of agreeing to deliver unknown objects, the argument 
culminating in the tussle over the parcel, which tore 
open. At this point, Leanne was so overcome, there 
was no getting another word out of her. 

“All right,” said Professor McGonagall, not unkindly, 
“go up to the hospital wing, please, Leanne, and get 
Madam Pomfrey to give you something for shock.” 

When she had left the room, Professor McGonagall 
turned back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. 

“What happened when Katie touched the necklace?” 

“She rose up in the air,” said Harry, before either Ron 
or Hermione could speak, “and then began to scream, 
and collapsed. Professor, can I see Professor 
Dumbledore, please?” 

“The headmaster is away until Monday, Potter,” said 
Professor McGonagall, looking surprised. 

“Away?” Harry repeated angrily. 

“Yes, Potter, away!” said Professor McGonagall tartly. 
“But anything you have to say about this horrible 
business can be said to me, I’m sure!” 

For a split second, Harry hesitated. Professor 
McGonagall did not invite confidences; Dumbledore, 
though in many ways more intimidating, still seemed 

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less likely to scorn a theory, however wild. This was a 
life-and-death matter, though, and no moment to 
worry about being laughed at. 

“I think Draco Malfoy gave Katie that necklace, 
Professor.” 

On one side of him, Ron rubbed his nose in apparent 
embarrassment; on the other, Hermione shuffled her 
feet as though quite keen to put a bit of distance 
between herself and Harry. 

“That is a very serious accusation, Potter,” said 
Professor McGonagall, after a shocked pause. “Do you 
have any proof?” 

“No,” said Harry, “but ...” and he told her about 
following Malfoy to Borgin and Burkes and the 
conversation they had overheard between him and 
Mr. Borgin. 

When he had finished speaking, Professor 
McGonagall looked slightly confused. 

“Malfoy took something to Borgin and Burkes for 
repair?” 

“No, Professor, he just wanted Borgin to tell him how 
to mend something, he didn’t have it with him. But 
that’s not the point, the thing is that he bought 
something at the same time, and I think it was that 
necklace — ” 

“You saw Malfoy leaving the shop with a similar 
package?” 

“No, Professor, he told Borgin to keep it in the shop 
for him — ” 



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“But Harry,” Hermione interrupted, “Borgin asked 
him if he wanted to take it with him, and Malfoy said 



no — 






“Because he didn’t want to touch it, obviously!” said 
Harry angrily. 

“What he actually said was, ‘How would I look 
carrying that down the street?’ ” said Hermione. 

“Well, he would look a bit of a prat carrying a 
necklace,” interjected Ron. 

“Oh, Ron,” said Hermione despairingly, “it would be 
all wrapped up, so he wouldn’t have to touch it, and 
quite easy to hide inside a cloak, so nobody would see 
it! I think whatever he reserved at Borgin and Burkes 
was noisy or bulky, something he knew would draw 
attention to him if he carried it down the street — and 
in any case,” she pressed on loudly, before Harry 
could interrupt, “I asked Borgin about the necklace, 
don’t you remember? When I went in to try and find 
out what Malfoy had asked him to keep, I saw it 
there. And Borgin just told me the price, he didn’t say 
it was already sold or anything — ” 

“Well, you were being really obvious, he realized what 
you were up to within about five seconds, of course 
he wasn’t going to tell you — anyway, Malfoy could’ve 
sent off for it since — ” 

“That’s enough!” said Professor McGonagall, as 
Hermione opened her mouth to retort, looking 
furious. “Potter, I appreciate you telling me this, but 
we cannot point the finger of blame at Mr. Malfoy 
purely because he visited the shop where this 
necklace might have been purchased. The same is 
probably true of hundreds of people — ” 



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“ — that’s what I said — ” muttered Ron. 



“ — and in any case, we have put stringent security 
measures in place this year. I do not believe that 
necklace can possibly have entered this school 
without our knowledge — ” 

“But — ” 

“ — and what is more,” said Professor McGonagall, 
with an air of awful finality, “Mr. Malfoy was not in 
Hogsmeade today.” 

Harry gaped at her, deflating. 

“How do you know, Professor?” 

“Because he was doing detention with me. He has 
now failed to complete his Transfiguration homework 
twice in a row. So, thank you for telling me your 
suspicions, Potter,” she said as she marched past 
them, “but I need to go up to the hospital wing now to 
check on Katie Bell. Good day to you all.” 

She held open her office door. They had no choice but 
to file past her without another word. 

Harry was angry with the other two for siding with 
McGonagall; nevertheless, he felt compelled to join in 
once they started discussing what had happened. 

“So who do you reckon Katie was supposed to give the 
necklace to?” asked Ron, as they climbed the stairs to 
the common room. 

“Goodness only knows,” said Hermione. “But whoever 
it was has had a narrow escape. No one could have 
opened that package without touching the necklace.” 



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“It could’ve been meant for loads of people,” said 
Harry. “Dumbledore — the Death Eaters would love to 
get rid of him, he must be one of their top targets. Or 
Slughorn — Dumbledore reckons Voldemort really 
wanted him and they can’t be pleased that he’s sided 
with Dumbledore. Or — ” 

“Or you,” said Hermione, looking troubled. 

“Couldn’t have been,” said Harry, “or Katie would’ve 
just turned around in the lane and given it to me, 
wouldn’t she? I was behind her all the way out of the 
Three Broomsticks. It would have made much more 
sense to deliver the parcel outside Hogwarts, what 
with Filch searching everyone who goes in and out. I 
wonder why Malfoy told her to take it into the castle?” 

“Harry, Malfoy wasn’t in Hogsmeade!” said Hermione, 
actually stamping her foot in frustration. 

“He must have used an accomplice, then,” said Harry. 
“Crabbe or Goyle — or, come to think of it, another 
Death Eater, he’ll have loads better cronies than 
Crabbe and Goyle now he’s joined up — ” 

Ron and Hermione exchanged looks that plainly said 
There’s no point arguing with him. 

“Dilligrout,” said Hermione firmly as they reached the 
Fat Lady. 

The portrait swung open to admit them to the 
common room. It was quite full and smelled of damp 
clothing; many people seemed to have returned from 
Hogsmeade early because of the bad weather. There 
was no buzz of fear or speculation, however: Clearly, 
the news of Katie’s fate had not yet spread. 



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“It wasn’t a very slick attack, really, when you stop 
and think about it,” said Ron, casually turfing a first 
year out of one of the good armchairs by the fire so 
that he could sit down. “The curse didn’t even make it 
into the castle. Not what you’d call foolproof.” 

“You’re right,” said Hermione, prodding Ron out of the 
chair with her foot and offering it to the first year 
again. “It wasn’t very well thought-out at all.” 

“But since when has Malfoy been one of the world’s 
great thinkers?” asked Harry. 

Neither Ron nor Hermione answered him. 



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THE SECRET RIDDLE 

Katie was removed to St. Mungo’s Hospital for 
Magical Maladies and Injuries the following day, by 
which time the news that she had been cursed had 
spread all over the school, though the details were 
confused and nobody other than Harry, Ron, 
Hermione, and Leanne seemed to know that Katie 
herself had not been the intended target. 

“Oh, and Malfoy knows, of course,” said Harry to Ron 
and Hermione, who continued their new policy of 
feigning deafness whenever Harry mentioned his 
Malfoy-Is-a-Death-Eater theory. 

Harry had wondered whether Dumbledore would 
return from wherever he had been in time for Monday 
night’s lesson, but having had no word to the 
contrary, he presented himself outside Dumbledore ’s 
office at eight o’clock, knocked, and was told to enter. 
There sat Dumbledore looking unusually tired; his 
hand was as black and burned as ever, but he smiled 
when he gestured to Harry to sit down. The Pensieve 



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was sitting on the desk again, casting silvery specks 
of light over the ceiling. 



“You have had a busy time while I have been away,” 
Dumbledore said. “I believe you witnessed Katie’s 
accident.” 

“Yes, sir. How is she?” 

“Still very unwell, although she was relatively lucky. 
She appears to have brushed the necklace with the 
smallest possible amount of skin: There was a tiny 
hole in her glove. Had she put it on, had she even 
held it in her ungloved hand, she would have died, 
perhaps instantly. Luckily Professor Snape was able 
to do enough to prevent a rapid spread of the curse — 



“Why him?” asked Harry quickly. “Why not Madam 
Pomfrey?” 

“Impertinent,” said a soft voice from one of the 
portraits on the wall, and Phineas Nigellus Black, 
Sirius’s great-great-grandfather, raised his head from 
his arms where he had appeared to be sleeping. “I 
would not have permitted a student to question the 
way Hogwarts operated in my day.” 

“Yes, thank you, Phineas,” said Dumbledore 
quellingly. “Professor Snape knows much more about 
the Dark Arts than Madam Pomfrey, Harry. Anyway, 
the St. Mungo’s staff are sending me hourly reports, 
and I am hopeful that Katie will make a full recovery 
in time.” 

“Where were you this weekend, sir?” Harry asked, 
disregarding a strong feeling that he might be 
pushing his luck, a feeling apparently shared by 
Phineas Nigellus, who hissed softly. 

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“I would rather not say just now,” said Dumbledore. 
“However, I shall tell you in due course.” 

“You will?” said Harry, startled. 

“Yes, I expect so,” said Dumbledore, withdrawing a 
fresh bottle of silver memories from inside his robes 
and uncorking it with a prod of his wand. 

“Sir,” said Harry tentatively, “I met Mundungus in 
Hogsmeade.” 

“Ah yes, I am already aware that Mundungus has 
been treating your inheritance with light-fingered 
contempt,” said Dumbledore, frowning a little. “He 
has gone to ground since you accosted him outside 
the Three Broomsticks; I rather think he dreads 
facing me. However, rest assured that he will not be 
making away with any more of Sirius’s old 
possessions.” 

“That mangy old half-blood has been stealing Black 
heirlooms?” said Phineas Nigellus, incensed; and he 
stalked out of his frame, undoubtedly to visit his 
portrait in number twelve, Grimmauld Place. 

“Professor,” said Harry, after a short pause, “did 
Professor McGonagall tell you what I told her after 
Katie got hurt? About Draco Malfoy?” 

“She told me of your suspicions, yes,” said 
Dumbledore. 

“And do you — ?” 

“I shall take all appropriate measures to investigate 
anyone who might have had a hand in Katie’s 
accident,” said Dumbledore. “But what concerns me 
now, Harry, is our lesson.” 

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Harry felt slightly resentful at this: If their lessons 
were so very important, why had there been such a 
long gap between the first and second? However, he 
said no more about Draco Malfoy, but watched as 
Dumbledore poured the fresh memories into the 
Pensieve and began swirling the stone basin once 
more between his long-fingered hands. 

“You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of 
Lord Voldemort’s beginnings at the point where the 
handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his 
witch wife, Merope, and returned to his family home 
in Little Hangleton. Merope was left alone in London, 
expecting the baby who would one day become Lord 
Voldemort.” 

“How do you know she was in London, sir?” 

“Because of the evidence of one Caractacus Burke,” 
said Dumbledore, “who, by an odd coincidence, 
helped found the very shop whence came the 
necklace we have just been discussing.” 

He swilled the contents of the Pensieve as Harry had 
seen him swill them before, much as a gold 
prospector sifts for gold. Up out of the swirling, silvery 
mass rose a little old man revolving slowly in the 
Pensieve, silver as a ghost but much more solid, with 
a thatch of hair that completely covered his eyes. 

“Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was 
brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, 
oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the 
gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in 
rags and pretty far along ... Going to have a baby, see. 
She said the locket had been Slytherin’s. Well, we 
hear that sort of story all the time, ‘Oh, this was 
Merlin’s, this was, his favorite teapot,’ but when I 
looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few 
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simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of 
course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn’t 
seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy 
to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!” 

Dumbledore gave the Pensieve an extra-vigorous 
shake and Caractacus Burke descended back into the 
swirling mass of memory from whence he had come. 

“He only gave her ten Galleons?” said Harry 
indignantly. 

“Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity,” 
said Dumbledore. “So we know that, near the end of 
her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London and in 
desperate need of gold, desperate enough to sell her 
one and only valuable possession, the locket that was 
one of Marvolo’s treasured family heirlooms.” 

“But she could do magic!” said Harry impatiently. 

“She could have got food and everything for herself by 
magic, couldn’t she?” 

“Ah,” said Dumbledore, “perhaps she could. But it is 
my belief — I am guessing again, but I am sure I am 
right — that when her husband abandoned her, 
Merope stopped using magic. I do not think that she 
wanted to be a witch any longer. Of course, it is also 
possible that her unrequited love and the attendant 
despair sapped her of her powers; that can happen. 

In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused 
to raise her wand even to save her own life.” 

“She wouldn’t even stay alive for her son?” 

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “Could you possibly 
be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?” 



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“No,” said Harry quickly, “but she had a choice, didn’t 
she, not like my mother — ” 

“Your mother had a choice too,” said Dumbledore 
gently. “Yes, Merope Riddle chose death in spite of a 
son who needed her, but do not judge her too 
harshly, Harry. She was greatly weakened by long 
suffering and she never had your mother’s courage. 
And now, if you will stand ...” 

“Where are we going?” Harry asked, as Dumbledore 
joined him at the front of the desk. 

“This time,” said Dumbledore, “we are going to enter 
my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail 
and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Harry ...” 

Harry bent over the Pensieve; his face broke the cool 
surface of the memory and then he was falling 
through darkness again. ... Seconds later, his feet hit 
firm ground; he opened his eyes and found that he 
and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old- 
fashioned London street. 

“There I am,” said Dumbledore brightly, pointing 
ahead of them to a tall figure crossing the road in 
front of a horse-drawn milk cart. 

This younger Albus Dumbledore ’s long hair and beard 
were auburn. Having reached their side of the street, 
he strode off along the pavement, drawing many 
curious glances due to the flamboyantly cut suit of 
plum velvet that he was wearing. 

“Nice suit, sir,” said Harry, before he could stop 
himself, but Dumbledore merely chuckled as they 
followed his younger self a short distance, finally 
passing through a set of iron gates into a bare 
courtyard that fronted a rather grim, square building 
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surrounded by high railings. He mounted the few 
steps leading to the front door and knocked once. 
After a moment or two, the door was opened by a 
scruffy girl wearing an apron. 

“Good afternoon. I have an appointment with a Mrs. 
Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?” 

“Oh,” said the bewildered-looking girl, taking in 
Dumbledore ’s eccentric appearance. “Um ... just a 
mo’ ... MRS. COLE!” she bellowed over her shoulder. 

Harry heard a distant voice shouting something in 
response. The girl turned back to Dumbledore. “Come 
in, she’s on ’er way.” 

Dumbledore stepped into a hallway tiled in black and 
white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly 
clean. Harry and the older Dumbledore followed. 
Before the front door had closed behind them, a 
skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying 
toward them. She had a sharp-featured face that 
appeared more anxious than unkind, and she was 
talking over her shoulder to another aproned helper 
as she walked toward Dumbledore. 

"... and take the iodine upstairs to Martha, Billy 
Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley’s 
oozing all over his sheets — chicken pox on top of 
everything else,” she said to nobody in particular, and 
then her eyes fell upon Dumbledore and she stopped 
dead in her tracks, looking as astonished as if a 
giraffe had just crossed her threshold. 

“Good afternoon,” said Dumbledore, holding out his 
hand. 

Mrs. Cole simply gaped. 



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“My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter 
requesting an appointment and you very kindly 
invited me here today.” 

Mrs. Cole blinked. Apparently deciding that 
Dumbledore was not a hallucination, she said feebly, 
“Oh yes. Well — well then — you’d better come into 
my room. Yes.” 

She led Dumbledore into a small room that seemed 
part sitting room, part office. It was as shabby as the 
hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched. 
She invited Dumbledore to sit on a rickety chair and 
seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing him 
nervously. 

“I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Tom 
Riddle and arrangements for his future,” said 
Dumbledore. 

“Are you family?” asked Mrs. Cole. 

“No, I am a teacher,” said Dumbledore. “I have come 
to offer Tom a place at my school.” 

“What school’s this, then?” 

“It is called Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore. 

“And how come you’re interested in Tom?” 

“We believe he has qualities we are looking for.” 

“You mean he’s won a scholarship? How can he have 
done? He’s never been entered for one.” 

“Well, his name has been down for our school since 
birth — ” 



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“Who registered him? His parents?” 



There was no doubt that Mrs. Cole was an 
inconveniently sharp woman. Apparently Dumbledore 
thought so too, for Harry now saw him slip his wand 
out of the pocket of his velvet suit, at the same time 
picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs. 
Cole’s desktop. 

“Here,” said Dumbledore, waving his wand once as he 
passed her the piece of paper, “I think this will make 
everything clear.” 

Mrs. Cole’s eyes slid out of focus and back again as 
she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment. 

“That seems perfectly in order,” she said placidly, 
handing it back. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of 
gin and two glasses that had certainly not been 
present a few seconds before. 

“Er — may I offer you a glass of gin?” she said in an 
extra-refined voice. 

“Thank you very much,” said Dumbledore, beaming. 

It soon became clear that Mrs. Cole was no novice 
when it came to gin drinking. Pouring both of them a 
generous measure, she drained her own glass in one 
gulp. Smacking her lips frankly, she smiled at 
Dumbledore for the first time, and he didn’t hesitate 
to press his advantage. 

“I was wondering whether you could tell me anything 
of Tom Riddle’s history? I think he was born here in 
the orphanage?” 

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Cole, helping herself to more 
gin. “I remember it clear as anything, because I’d just 

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started here myself. New Year’s Eve and bitter cold, 
snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not 
much older than I was myself at the time, came 
staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn’t the 
first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the 
hour. And she was dead in another hour.” 

Mrs. Cole nodded impressively and took another 
generous gulp of gin. 

“Did she say anything before she died?” asked 
Dumbledore. “Anything about the boy’s father, for 
instance?” 

“Now, as it happens, she did,” said Mrs. Cole, who 
seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin 
in her hand and an eager audience for her story. “I 
remember she said to me, ‘I hope he looks like his 
papa,’ and I won’t lie, she was right to hope it, 
because she was no beauty — and then she told me 
he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, 
for her father — yes, I know, funny name, isn’t it? We 
wondered whether she came from a circus — and she 
said the boy’s surname was to be Riddle. And she 
died soon after that without another word. 

“Well, we named him just as she’d said, it seemed so 
important to the poor girl, but no Tom nor Marvolo 
nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor 
any family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and 
he’s been here ever since.” 

Mrs. Cole helped herself, almost absentmindedly, to 
another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had 
appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she said, 
“He’s a funny boy.” 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I thought he might be.” 



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“He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you 
know. And then, when he got a little older, he was . . . 
odd.” 



“Odd in what way?” asked Dumbledore gently. 

“Well, he — ” 

But Mrs. Cole pulled up short, and there was nothing 
blurry or vague about the inquisitorial glance she 
shot Dumbledore over her gin glass. 

“He’s definitely got a place at your school, you say?” 

“Definitely,” said Dumbledore. 

“And nothing I say can change that?” 

“Nothing,” said Dumbledore. 

“You’ll be taking him away, whatever?” 

“Whatever,” repeated Dumbledore gravely. 

She squinted at him as though deciding whether or 
not to trust him. Apparently she decided she could, 
because she said in a sudden rush, “He scares the 
other children.” 

“You mean he is a bully?” asked Dumbledore. 

“I think he must be,” said Mrs. Cole, frowning 
slightly, “but it’s very hard to catch him at it. There 
have been incidents. ... Nasty things ...” 

Dumbledore did not press her, though Harry could 
tell that he was interested. She took yet another gulp 
of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still. 

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“Billy Stubbs’s rabbit ... well, Tom said he didn’t do it 
and I don’t see how he could have done, but even so, 
it didn’t hang itself from the rafters, did it?” 

“I shouldn’t think so, no,” said Dumbledore quietly. 

“But I’m jiggered if I know how he got up there to do 
it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day 
before. And then” — Mrs. Cole took another swig of 
gin, slopping a little over her chin this time — “on the 
summer outing — we take them out, you know, once 
a year, to the countryside or to the seaside — well, 
Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were never quite 
right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was 
that they’d gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He 
swore they’d just gone exploring, but something 
happened in there, I’m sure of it. And, well, there 
have been a lot of things, funny things. ...” 

She looked around at Dumbledore again, and though 
her cheeks were flushed, her gaze was steady. “I don’t 
think many people will be sorry to see the back of 
him.” 

“You understand, I’m sure, that we will not be 
keeping him permanently?” said Dumbledore. “He will 
have to return here, at the very least, every summer.” 

“Oh, well, that’s better than a whack on the nose with 
a rusty poker,” said Mrs. Cole with a slight hiccup. 

She got to her feet, and Harry was impressed to see 
that she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of 
the gin was now gone. “I suppose you’d like to see 
him?” 

“Very much,” said Dumbledore, rising too. 

She led him out of her office and up the stone stairs, 
calling out instructions and admonitions to helpers 

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and children as she passed. The orphans, Harry saw, 
were all wearing the same kind of grayish tunic. They 
looked reasonably well-cared for, but there was no 
denying that this was a grim place in which to grow 
up. 

“Here we are,” said Mrs. Cole, as they turned off the 
second landing and stopped outside the first door in a 
long corridor. She knocked twice and entered. 

“Tom? You’ve got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton — 
sorry, Dunderbore. He’s come to tell you — well, I’ll 
let him do it.” 

Harry and the two Dumbledores entered the room, 
and Mrs. Cole closed the door on them. It was a small 
bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe, 
a wooden chair, and an iron bedstead. A boy was 
sitting on top of the gray blankets, his legs stretched 
out in front of him, holding a book. 

There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle’s 
face. Merope had got her dying wish: He was his 
handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years 
old, dark-haired, and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly 
as he took in Dumbledore’s eccentric appearance. 
There was a moment’s silence. 

“How do you do, Tom?” said Dumbledore, walking 
forward and holding out his hand. 

The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook 
hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair 
beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather 
like a hospital patient and visitor. 

“I am Professor Dumbledore.” 



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“ ‘Professor?” repeated Riddle. He looked wary. “Is 
that like ‘doctor? What are you here for? Did she get 
you in to have a look at me?” 

He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole 
had just left. 

“No, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling. 

“I don’t believe you,” said Riddle. “She wants me 
looked at, doesn’t she? Tell the truth!” 

He spoke the last three words with a ringing force 
that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it 
sounded as though he had given it many times 
before. His eyes had widened and he was glaring at 
Dumbledore, who made no response except to 
continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds 
Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if anything, 
warier still. 

“Who are you?” 

“I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore 
and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come 
to offer you a place at my school — your new school, 
if you would like to come.” 

Riddle’s reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt 
from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, 
looking furious. 

“You can’t kid me! The asylum, that’s where you’re 
from, isn’t it? ‘Professor,’ yes, of course — well, I’m 
not going, see? That old cat’s the one who should be 
in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy 
Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, 
they’ll tell you!” 



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“I am not from the asylum,” said Dumbledore 
patiently. “I am a teacher and, if you will sit down 
calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if 
you would rather not come to the school, nobody will 
force you — ” 

“I’d like to see them try,” sneered Riddle. 

“Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, as though he had 
not heard Riddle’s last words, “is a school for people 
with special abilities — ” 

“I’m not mad!” 

“I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a 
school for mad people. It is a school of magic.” 

There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face 
expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and 
forth between each of Dumbledore’s, as though trying 
to catch one of them lying. 

“Magic?” he repeated in a whisper. 

“That’s right,” said Dumbledore. 

“It’s ... it’s magic, what I can do?” 

“What is it that you can do?” 

“All sorts,” breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was 
rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked 
fevered. “I can make things move without touching 
them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, 
without training them. I can make bad things happen 
to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I 
want to.” 



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His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat 
down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head 
bowed as though in prayer. 

“I knew I was different,” he whispered to his own 
quivering fingers. “I knew I was special. Always, I 
knew there was something.” 

“Well, you were quite right,” said Dumbledore, who 
was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently. 
“You are a wizard.” 

Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured: 

There was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some 
reason it did not make him better looking; on the 
contrary, his finely carved features seemed somehow 
rougher, his expression almost bestial. 

“Are you a wizard too?” 

“Yes, I am.” 

“Prove it,” said Riddle at once, in the same 
commanding tone he had used when he had said, 

“Tell the truth.” 

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “If, as I take it, you 
are accepting your place at Hogwarts — ” 

“Of course I am!” 

“Then you will address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir.’ ” 

Riddle’s expression hardened for the most fleeting 
moment before he said, in an unrecognizably polite 
voice, “I’m sorry, sir. I meant — please, Professor, 
could you show me — ?” 



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Harry was sure that Dumbledore was going to refuse, 
that he would tell Riddle there would be plenty of time 
for practical demonstrations at Hogwarts, that they 
were currently in a building full of Muggles and must 
therefore be cautious. To his great surprise, however, 
Dumbledore drew his wand from an inside pocket of 
his suit jacket, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in 
the corner, and gave the wand a casual flick. 

The wardrobe burst into flames. 

Riddle jumped to his feet; Harry could hardly blame 
him for howling in shock and rage; all his worldly 
possessions must be in there. But even as Riddle 
rounded on Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving 
the wardrobe completely undamaged. 

Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore; then, 
his expression greedy, he pointed at the wand. 

“Where can I get one of them?” 

“All in good time,” said Dumbledore. “I think there is 
something trying to get out of your wardrobe.” 

And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from 
inside it. For the first time, Riddle looked frightened. 

“Open the door,” said Dumbledore. 

Riddle hesitated, then crossed the room and threw 
open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above 
a rail of threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box 
was shaking and rattling as though there were several 
frantic mice trapped inside it. 

“Take it out,” said Dumbledore. 

Riddle took down the quaking box. He looked 
unnerved. 

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“Is there anything in that box that you ought not to 
have?” asked Dumbledore. 

Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, clear, calculating 
look. “Yes, I suppose so, sir,” he said finally, in an 
expressionless voice. 

“Open it,” said Dumbledore. 

Riddle took off the lid and tipped the contents onto 
his bed without looking at them. Harry, who had 
expected something much more exciting, saw a mess 
of small, everyday objects: a yo-yo, a silver thimble, 
and a tarnished mouth organ among them. Once free 
of the box, they stopped quivering and lay quite still 
upon the thin blankets. 

“You will return them to their owners with your 
apologies,” said Dumbledore calmly, putting his wand 
back into his jacket. “I shall know whether it has 
been done. And be warned: Thieving is not tolerated 
at Hogwarts.” 

Riddle did not look remotely abashed; he was still 
staring coldly and appraisingly at Dumbledore. At last 
he said in a colorless voice, “Yes, sir.” 

“At Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, “we teach you 
not only to use magic, but to control it. You have — 
inadvertently, I am sure — been using your powers in 
a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our 
school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, 
to allow your magic to run away with you. But you 
should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and 
the Ministry of Magic — yes, there is a Ministry — will 
punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new 
wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they 
abide by our laws.” 



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“Yes, sir,” said Riddle again. 



It was impossible to tell what he was thinking; his 
face remained quite blank as he put the little cache of 
stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When he 
had finished, he turned to Dumbledore and said 
baldly, “I haven’t got any money.” 

“That is easily remedied,” said Dumbledore, drawing a 
leather money-pouch from his pocket. “There is a 
fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to 
buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of 
your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but — ” 

“Where do you buy spellbooks?” interrupted Riddle, 
who had taken the heavy money bag without 
thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat 
gold Galleon. 

“In Diagon Alley,” said Dumbledore. “I have your list 
of books and school equipment with me. I can help 
you find everything — ” 

“You’re coming with me?” asked Riddle, looking up. 
“Certainly, if you — ” 

“I don’t need you,” said Riddle. “I’m used to doing 
things for myself, I go round London on my own all 
the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley — sir?” 
he added, catching Dumbledore ’s eye. 

Harry thought that Dumbledore would insist upon 
accompanying Riddle, but once again he was 
surprised. Dumbledore handed Riddle the envelope 
containing his list of equipment, and after telling 
Riddle exactly how to get to the Leaky Cauldron from 
the orphanage, he said, “You will be able to see it, 
although Muggles around you — non-magical people, 
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that is — will not. Ask for Tom the barman — easy 
enough to remember, as he shares your name — ” 

Riddle gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to 
displace an irksome fly. 

“You dislike the name Tom’?” 

“There are a lot of Toms,” muttered Riddle. Then, as 
though he could not suppress the question, as 
though it burst from him in spite of himself, he 
asked, “Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom 
Riddle too, they’ve told me.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Dumbledore, his voice 
gentle. 

“My mother can’t have been magic, or she wouldn’t 
have died,” said Riddle, more to himself than 
Dumbledore. “It must’ve been him. So — when I’ve got 
all my stuff — when do I come to this Hogwarts?” 

“All the details are on the second piece of parchment 
in your envelope,” said Dumbledore. “You will leave 
from King’s Cross Station on the first of September. 
There is a train ticket in there too.” 

Riddle nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held 
out his hand again. Taking it, Riddle said, “I can 
speak to snakes. I found out when we’ve been to the 
country on trips — they find me, they whisper to me. 
Is that normal for a wizard?” 

Harry could tell that he had withheld mention of this 
strangest power until that moment, determined to 
impress. 

“It is unusual,” said Dumbledore, after a moment’s 
hesitation, “but not unheard of.” 

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His tone was casual but his eyes moved curiously 
over Riddle’s face. They stood for a moment, man and 
boy, staring at each other. Then the handshake was 
broken; Dumbledore was at the door. 

“Good-bye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts.” 

“I think that will do,” said the white-haired 
Dumbledore at Harry’s side, and seconds later, they 
were soaring weightlessly through darkness once 
more, before landing squarely in the present-day 
office. 

“Sit down,” said Dumbledore, landing beside Harry. 

Harry obeyed, his mind still full of what he had just 
seen. 

“He believed it much quicker than I did — I mean, 
when you told him he was a wizard,” said Harry. “I 
didn’t believe Hagrid at first, when he told me.” 

“Yes, Riddle was perfectly ready to believe that he was 
— to use his word — ‘special,’ ” said Dumbledore. 

“Did you know — then?” asked Harry. 

“Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous 
Dark wizard of all time?” said Dumbledore. “No, I had 
no idea that he was to grow up to be what he is. 
However, I was certainly intrigued by him. I returned 
to Hogwarts intending to keep an eye upon him, 
something I should have done in any case, given that 
he was alone and friendless, but which, already, I felt 
I ought to do for others’ sake as much as his. 

“His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well- 
developed for such a young wizard and — most 
interestingly and ominously of all — he had already 

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discovered that he had some measure of control over 
them, and begun to use them consciously. And as 
you saw, they were not the random experiments 
typical of young wizards: He was already using magic 
against other people, to frighten, to punish, to 
control. The little stories of the strangled rabbit and 
the young boy and girl he lured into a cave were most 
suggestive. ... ‘I can make them hurt if I want to. ...”’ 

“And he was a Parselmouth,” interjected Harry. 

“Yes, indeed; a rare ability, and one supposedly 
connected with the Dark Arts, although as we know, 
there are Parselmouths among the great and the good 
too. In fact, his ability to speak to serpents did not 
make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for 
cruelty, secrecy, and domination. 

“Time is making fools of us again,” said Dumbledore, 
indicating the dark sky beyond the windows. “But 
before we part, I want to draw your attention to 
certain features of the scene we have just witnessed, 
for they have a great bearing on the matters we shall 
be discussing in future meetings. 

“Firstly, I hope you noticed Riddle’s reaction when I 
mentioned that another shared his first name, Tom’?” 

Harry nodded. 

“There he showed his contempt for anything that tied 
him to other people, anything that made him 
ordinary. Even then, he wished to be different, 
separate, notorious. He shed his name, as you know, 
within a few short years of that conversation and 
created the mask of ‘Lord Voldemort’ behind which he 
has been hidden for so long. 



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“I trust that you also noticed that Tom Riddle was 
already highly self-sufficient, secretive, and, 
apparently, friendless? He did not want help or 
companionship on his trip to Diagon Alley. He 
preferred to operate alone. The adult Voldemort is the 
same. You will hear many of his Death Eaters 
claiming that they are in his confidence, that they 
alone are close to him, even understand him. They 
are deluded. Lord Voldemort has never had a friend, 
nor do I believe that he has ever wanted one. 

“And lastly — I hope you are not too sleepy to pay 
attention to this, Harry — the young Tom Riddle liked 
to collect trophies. You saw the box of stolen articles 
he had hidden in his room. These were taken from 
victims of his bullying behavior, souvenirs, if you will, 
of particularly unpleasant bits of magic. Bear in mind 
this magpie-like tendency, for this, particularly, will 
be important later. 

“And now, it really is time for bed.” 

Harry got to his feet. As he walked across the room, 
his eyes fell upon the little table on which Marvolo 
Gaunt’s ring had rested last time, but the ring was no 
longer there. 

“Yes, Harry?” said Dumbledore, for Harry had come to 
a halt. 

“The ring’s gone,” said Harry, looking around. “But I 
thought you might have the mouth organ or 
something.” 

Dumbledore beamed at him, peering over the top of 
his half-moon spectacles. 

“Very astute, Harry, but the mouth organ was only 
ever a mouth organ.” 

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And on that enigmatic note he waved to Harry, who 
understood himself to be dismissed. 



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FELIX FELICIS 

Harry had Herbology first thing the following 
morning. He had been unable to tell Ron and 
Hermione about his lesson with Dumbledore over 
breakfast for fear of being overheard, but he filled 
them in as they walked across the vegetable patch 
toward the greenhouses. The weekend’s brutal wind 
had died out at last; the weird mist had returned and 
it took them a little longer than usual to find the 
correct greenhouse. 

“Wow, scary thought, the boy You-Know-Who,” said 
Ron quietly, as they took their places around one of 
the gnarled Snargaluff stumps that formed this term’s 
project, and began pulling on their protective gloves. 
“But I still don’t get why Dumbledore’s showing you 
all this. I mean, it’s really interesting and everything, 
but what’s the point?” 

“Dunno,” said Harry, inserting a gum shield. “But he 
says it’s all important and it’ll help me survive.” 



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“I think it’s fascinating,” said Hermione earnestly. “It 
makes absolute sense to know as much about 
Voldemort as possible. How else will you find out his 
weaknesses?” 

“So how was Slughorn’s latest party?” Harry asked 
her thickly through the gum shield. 

“Oh, it was quite fun, really,” said Hermione, now 
putting on protective goggles. “I mean, he drones on 
about famous ex-pupils a bit, and he absolutely 
fawns on McLaggen because he’s so well-connected, 
but he gave us some really nice food and he 
introduced us to Gwenog Jones.” 

“Gwenog Jones?” said Ron, his eyes widening under 
his own goggles. “The Gwenog Jones? Captain of the 
Holyhead Harpies?” 

“That’s right,” said Hermione. “Personally, I thought 
she was a bit full of herself, but — ” 

“Quite enough chat over here!” said Professor Sprout 
briskly, bustling over and looking stern. “You’re 
lagging behind, everybody else has started, and 
Neville’s already got his first pod!” 

They looked around; sure enough, there sat Neville 
with a bloody lip and several nasty scratches along 
the side of his face, but clutching an unpleasantly 
pulsating green object about the size of a grapefruit. 

“Okay, Professor, we’re starting now!” said Ron, 
adding quietly, when she had turned away again, 
“should’ve used Muffliato, Harry.” 

“No, we shouldn’t!” said Hermione at once, looking, as 
she always did, intensely cross at the thought of the 



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Half-Blood Prince and his spells. “Well, come on ... 
we’d better get going. ...” 



She gave the other two an apprehensive look; they all 
took deep breaths and then dived at the gnarled 
stump between them. 

It sprang to life at once; long, prickly, bramblelike 
vines flew out of the top and whipped through the air. 
One tangled itself in Hermione’s hair, and Ron beat it 
back with a pair of secateurs; Harry succeeded in 
trapping a couple of vines and knotting them 
together; a hole opened in the middle of all the 
tentaclelike branches; Hermione plunged her arm 
bravely into this hole, which closed like a trap around 
her elbow; Harry and Ron tugged and wrenched at 
the vines, forcing the hole to open again, and 
Hermione snatched her arm free, clutching in her 
fingers a pod just like Neville’s. At once, the prickly 
vines shot back inside, and the gnarled stump sat 
there looking like an innocently dead lump of wood. 

“You know, I don’t think I’ll be having any of these in 
my garden when I’ve got my own place,” said Ron, 
pushing his goggles up onto his forehead and wiping 
sweat from his face. 

“Pass me a bowl,” said Hermione, holding the 
pulsating pod at arm’s length; Harry handed one over 
and she dropped the pod into it with a look of disgust 
on her face. 

“Don’t be squeamish, squeeze it out, they’re best 
when they’re fresh!” called Professor Sprout. 

“Anyway,” said Hermione, continuing their 
interrupted conversation as though a lump of wood 
had not just attacked them, “Slughorn’s going to have 
a Christmas party, Harry, and there’s no way you’ll be 

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able to wriggle out of this one because he actually 
asked me to check your free evenings, so he could be 
sure to have it on a night you can come.” 

Harry groaned. Meanwhile, Ron, who was attempting 
to burst the pod in the bowl by putting both hands on 
it, standing up, and squashing it as hard as he could, 
said angrily, “And this is another party just for 
Slughorn’s favorites, is it?” 

“Just for the Slug Club, yes,” said Hermione. 

The pod flew out from under Ron’s fingers and hit the 
greenhouse glass, rebounding onto the back of 
Professor Sprout’s head and knocking off her old, 
patched hat. Harry went to retrieve the pod; when he 
got back, Hermione was saying, “Look, / didn’t make 
up the name ‘Slug Club’ — ” 

“ ‘Slug Club,’ ” repeated Ron with a sneer worthy of 
Malfoy. “It’s pathetic. Well, I hope you enjoy your 
party. Why don’t you try hooking up with McLaggen, 
then Slughorn can make you King and Queen Slug — 



“We’re allowed to bring guests,” said Hermione, who 
for some reason had turned a bright, boiling scarlet, 
“and I was going to ask you to come, but if you think 
it’s that stupid then I won’t bother!” 

Harry suddenly wished the pod had flown a little 
farther, so that he need not have been sitting here 
with the pair of them. Unnoticed by either, he seized 
the bowl that contained the pod and began to try and 
open it by the noisiest and most energetic means he 
could think of; unfortunately, he could still hear every 
word of their conversation. 



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“You were going to ask me?” asked Ron, in a 
completely different voice. 

“Yes,” said Hermione angrily. “But obviously if you’d 
rather I hooked up with McLaggen ...” 

There was a pause while Harry continued to pound 
the resilient pod with a trowel. 

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Ron, in a very quiet voice. 

Harry missed the pod, hit the bowl, and shattered it. 

“Reparo,” he said hastily, poking the pieces with his 
wand, and the bowl sprang back together again. The 
crash, however, appeared to have awoken Ron and 
Hermione to Harry’s presence. Hermione looked 
flustered and immediately started fussing about for 
her copy of Flesh-Eating Trees of the World to find out 
the correct way to juice Snargaluff pods; Ron, on the 
other hand, looked sheepish but also rather pleased 
with himself. 

“Hand that over, Harry,” said Hermione hurriedly. “It 
says we’re supposed to puncture them with 
something sharp. ...” 

Harry passed her the pod in the bowl; he and Ron 
both snapped their goggles back over their eyes and 
dived, once more, for the stump. 

It was not as though he was really surprised, thought 
Harry, as he wrestled with a thorny vine intent upon 
throttling him; he had had an inkling that this might 
happen sooner or later. But he was not sure how he 
felt about it. ... He and Cho were now too 
embarrassed to look at each other, let alone talk to 
each other; what if Ron and Hermione started going 
out together, then split up? Could their friendship 
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survive it? Harry remembered the few weeks when 
they had not been talking to each other in the third 
year; he had not enjoyed trying to bridge the distance 
between them. And then, what if they didn’t split up? 
What if they became like Bill and Fleur, and it 
became excruciatingly embarrassing to be in their 
presence, so that he was shut out for good? 

“Gotcha!” yelled Ron, pulling a second pod from the 
stump just as Hermione managed to burst the first 
one open, so that the bowl was full of tubers wriggling 
like pale green worms. 

The rest of the lesson passed without further mention 
of Slughorn’s party. Although Harry watched his two 
friends more closely over the next few days, Ron and 
Hermione did not seem any different except that they 
were a little politer to each other than usual. Harry 
supposed he would just have to wait to see what 
happened under the influence of butterbeer in 
Slughorn’s dimly lit room on the night of the party. In 
the meantime, however, he had more pressing 
worries. 

Katie Bell was still in St. Mungo’s Hospital with no 
prospect of leaving, which meant that the promising 
Gryffindor team Harry had been training so carefully 
since September was one Chaser short. He kept 
putting off replacing Katie in the hope that she would 
return, but their opening match against Slytherin was 
looming, and he finally had to accept that she would 
not be back in time to play. 

Harry did not think he could stand another full- 
House tryout. With a sinking feeling that had little to 
do with Quidditch, he cornered Dean Thomas after 
Transfiguration one day. Most of the class had 
already left, although several twittering yellow birds 
were still zooming around the room, all of Hermione ’s 
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creation; nobody else had succeeded in conjuring so 
much as a feather from thin air. 

“Are you still interested in playing Chaser?” 

“Wha — ? Yeah, of course!” said Dean excitedly. Over 
Dean’s shoulder, Harry saw Seamus Finnigan 
slamming his books into his bag, looking sour. One of 
the reasons why Harry would have preferred not to 
have to ask Dean to play was that he knew Seamus 
would not like it. On the other hand, he had to do 
what was best for the team, and Dean had outflown 
Seamus at the tryouts. 

“Well then, you’re in,” said Harry. “There’s a practice 
tonight, seven o’clock.” 

“Right,” said Dean. “Cheers, Harry! Blimey, I can’t 
wait to tell Ginny!” 

He sprinted out of the room, leaving Harry and 
Seamus alone together, an uncomfortable moment 
made no easier when a bird dropping landed on 
Seamus’s head as one of Hermione’s canaries whizzed 
over them. 

Seamus was not the only person disgruntled by the 
choice of Katie’s substitute. There was much 
muttering in the common room about the fact that 
Harry had now chosen two of his classmates for the 
team. As Harry had endured much worse mutterings 
than this in his school career, he was not particularly 
bothered, but all the same, the pressure was 
increasing to provide a win in the upcoming match 
against Slytherin. If Gryffindor won, Harry knew that 
the whole House would forget that they had criticized 
him and swear that they had always known it was a 
great team. If they lost ... well, Harry thought wryly, 
he had still endured worse mutterings. ... 

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Harry had no reason to regret his choice once he saw 
Dean fly that evening; he worked well with Ginny and 
Demelza. The Beaters, Peakes and Coote, were getting 
better all the time. The only problem was Ron. 

Harry had known all along that Ron was an 
inconsistent player who suffered from nerves and a 
lack of confidence, and unfortunately, the looming 
prospect of the opening game of the season seemed to 
have brought out all his old insecurities. After letting 
in half a dozen goals, most of them scored by Ginny, 
his technique became wilder and wilder, until he 
finally punched an oncoming Demelza Robins in the 
mouth. 

“It was an accident, I’m sorry, Demelza, really sorry!” 
Ron shouted after her as she zigzagged back to the 
ground, dripping blood everywhere. “I just — ” 

“Panicked,” Ginny said angrily, landing next to 
Demelza and examining her fat lip. “You prat, Ron, 
look at the state of her!” 

“I can fix that,” said Harry, landing beside the two 
girls, pointing his wand at Demelza’s mouth, and 
saying “Episkey.” “And Ginny, don’t call Ron a prat, 
you’re not the Captain of this team — ” 

“Well, you seemed too busy to call him a prat and I 
thought someone should — ” 

Harry forced himself not to laugh. 

“In the air, everyone, let’s go. ...” 

Overall it was one of the worst practices they had had 
all term, though Harry did not feel that honesty was 
the best policy when they were this close to the 
match. 

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“Good work, everyone, I think we’ll flatten Slytherin,” 
he said bracingly and the Chasers and Beaters left 
the changing room looking reasonably happy with 
themselves. 

“I played like a sack of dragon dung,” said Ron in a 
hollow voice when the door had swung shut behind 
Ginny. 

“No, you didn’t,” said Harry firmly. “You’re the best 
Keeper I tried out, Ron. Your only problem is nerves.” 

He kept up a relentless flow of encouragement all the 
way back to the castle, and by the time they reached 
the second floor, Ron was looking marginally more 
cheerful. When Harry pushed open the tapestry to 
take their usual shortcut up to Gryffindor Tower, 
however, they found themselves looking at Dean and 
Ginny, who were locked in a close embrace and 
kissing fiercely as though glued together. 

It was as though something large and scaly erupted 
into life in Harry’s stomach, clawing at his insides: 

Hot blood seemed to flood his brain, so that all 
thought was extinguished, replaced by a savage urge 
to jinx Dean into a jelly. Wrestling with this sudden 
madness, he heard Ron’s voice as though from a great 
distance away. 

“Oi!” 



Dean and Ginny broke apart and looked around. 
“What?” said Ginny. 

“I don’t want to find my own sister snogging people in 
public!” 



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“This was a deserted corridor till you came butting 
in!” said Ginny. 

Dean was looking embarrassed. He gave Harry a 
shifty grin that Harry did not return, as the newborn 
monster inside him was roaring for Dean’s instant 
dismissal from the team. 

“Er ... c’mon, Ginny,” said Dean, “let’s go back to the 
common room. ...” 

“You go!” said Ginny. “I want a word with my dear 
brother!” 

Dean left, looking as though he was not sorry to 
depart the scene. 

“Right,” said Ginny, tossing her long red hair out of 
her face and glaring at Ron, “let’s get this straight 
once and for all. It is none of your business who I go 
out with or what I do with them, Ron — ” 

“Yeah, it is!” said Ron, just as angrily. “D’you think I 
want people saying my sister’s a — ” 

“A what?” shouted Ginny, drawing her wand. “A what, 
exactly?” 

“He doesn’t mean anything, Ginny — ” said Harry 
automatically, though the monster was roaring its 
approval of Ron’s words. 

“Oh yes he does!” she said, flaring up at Harry. “Just 
because he’s never snogged anyone in his life, just 
because the best kiss he’s ever had is from our Auntie 
Muriel — ” 

“Shut your mouth!” bellowed Ron, bypassing red and 
turning maroon. 

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“No, I will not!” yelled Ginny, beside herself. “I’ve seen 
you with Phlegm, hoping shell kiss you on the cheek 
every time you see her, it’s pathetic! If you went out 
and got a bit of snogging done yourself, you wouldn’t 
mind so much that everyone else does it!” 

Ron had pulled out his wand too; Harry stepped 
swiftly between them. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Ron 
roared, trying to get a clear shot at Ginny around 
Harry, who was now standing in front of her with his 
arms outstretched. “Just because I don’t do it in 
public — !” 

Ginny screamed with derisive laughter, trying to push 
Harry out of the way. 

“Been kissing Pigwidgeon, have you? Or have you got 
a picture of Auntie Muriel stashed under your 
pillow?” 

“You—” 

A streak of orange light flew under Harry’s left arm 
and missed Ginny by inches; Harry pushed Ron up 
against the wall. 

“Don’t be stupid — ” 

“Harry’s snogged Cho Chang!” shouted Ginny, who 
sounded close to tears now. “And Hermione snogged 
Viktor Krum, it’s only you who acts like it’s something 
disgusting, Ron, and that’s because you’ve got about 
as much experience as a twelve-year-old!” 

And with that, she stormed away. Harry quickly let go 
of Ron; the look on his face was murderous. They 
both stood there, breathing heavily, until Mrs. Norris, 

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Filch ’s cat, appeared around the corner, which broke 
the tension. 



“C’mon,” said Harry, as the sound of Filch ’s shuffling 
feet reached their ears. 

They hurried up the stairs and along a seventh-floor 
corridor. “Oi, out of the way!” Ron barked at a small 
girl who jumped in fright and dropped a bottle of 
toadspawn. 

Harry hardly noticed the sound of shattering glass; he 
felt disoriented, dizzy; being struck by a lightning bolt 
must be something like this. It’s just because she’s 
Ron’s sister, he told himself. You just didn’t like seeing 
her kissing Dean because she’s Ron’s sister. ... 

But unbidden into his mind came an image of that 
same deserted corridor with himself kissing Ginny 
instead. ... The monster in his chest purred ... but 
then he saw Ron ripping open the tapestry curtain 
and drawing his wand on Harry, shouting things like 
“betrayal of trust” . . . “supposed to be my friend” . . . 

“D’you think Hermione did snog Krum?” Ron asked 
abruptly, as they approached the Fat Lady. Harry 
gave a guilty start and wrenched his imagination 
away from a corridor in which no Ron intruded, in 
which he and Ginny were quite alone — 

“What?” he said confusedly. “Oh ... er ...” 

The honest answer was “yes,” but he did not want to 
give it. However, Ron seemed to gather the worst from 
the look on Harry’s face. 

“Dilligrout,” he said darkly to the Fat Lady, and they 
climbed through the portrait hole into the common 
room. 

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Neither of them mentioned Ginny or Hermione again; 
indeed, they barely spoke to each other that evening 
and got into bed in silence, each absorbed in his own 
thoughts. 

Harry lay awake for a long time, looking up at the 
canopy of his four-poster and trying to convince 
himself that his feelings for Ginny were entirely elder- 
brotherly. They had lived, had they not, like brother 
and sister all summer, playing Quidditch, teasing 
Ron, and having a laugh about Bill and Phlegm? He 
had known Ginny for years now. ... It was natural 
that he should feel protective . . . natural that he 
should want to look out for her . . . want to rip Dean 
limb from limb for kissing her ... No ... he would have 
to control that particular brotherly feeling. . . . 

Ron gave a great grunting snore. 

She’s Ron’s sister, Harry told himself firmly. Ron’s 
sister. She’s out-of-bounds. He would not risk his 
friendship with Ron for anything. He punched his 
pillow into a more comfortable shape and waited for 
sleep to come, trying his utmost not to allow his 
thoughts to stray anywhere near Ginny. 

Harry awoke next morning feeling slightly dazed and 
confused by a series of dreams in which Ron had 
chased him with a Beater’s bat, but by midday he 
would have happily exchanged the dream Ron for the 
real one, who was not only cold-shouldering Ginny 
and Dean, but also treating a hurt and bewildered 
Hermione with an icy, sneering indifference. What 
was more, Ron seemed to have become, overnight, as 
touchy and ready to lash out as the average Blast- 
Ended Skrewt. Harry spent the day attempting to 
keep the peace between Ron and Hermione with no 
success; finally, Hermione departed for bed in high 
dudgeon, and Ron stalked off to the boys’ dormitory 
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after swearing angrily at several frightened first years 
for looking at him. 

To Harry’s dismay, Ron’s new aggression did not wear 
off over the next few days. Worse still, it coincided 
with an even deeper dip in his Keeping skills, which 
made him still more aggressive, so that during the 
final Quidditch practice before Saturday’s match, he 
failed to save every single goal the Chasers aimed at 
him, but bellowed at everybody so much that he 
reduced Demelza Robins to tears. 

“You shut up and leave her alone!” shouted Peakes, 
who was about two-thirds Ron’s height, though 
admittedly carrying a heavy bat. 

“ENOUGH!” bellowed Harry, who had seen Ginny 
glowering in Ron’s direction and, remembering her 
reputation as an accomplished caster of the Bat- 
Bogey Hex, soared over to intervene before things got 
out of hand. “Peakes, go and pack up the Bludgers. 
Demelza, pull yourself together, you played really well 
today. Ron ...” he waited until the rest of the team 
were out of earshot before saying it, “you’re my best 
mate, but carry on treating the rest of them like this 
and I’m going to kick you off the team.” 

He really thought for a moment that Ron might hit 
him, but then something much worse happened: Ron 
seemed to sag on his broom; all the fight went out of 
him and he said, “I resign. I’m pathetic.” 

“You’re not pathetic and you’re not resigning!” said 
Harry fiercely, seizing Ron by the front of his robes. 
“You can save anything when you’re on form, it’s a 
mental problem you’ve got!” 

“You calling me mental?” 



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“Yeah, maybe I am!” 

They glared at each other for a moment, then Ron 
shook his head wearily. “I know you haven’t got any 
time to find another Keeper, so I’ll play tomorrow, but 
if we lose, and we will, I’m taking myself off the team.” 

Nothing Harry said made any difference. He tried 
boosting Ron’s confidence all through dinner, but Ron 
was too busy being grumpy and surly with Hermione 
to notice. Harry persisted in the common room that 
evening, but his assertion that the whole team would 
be devastated if Ron left was somewhat undermined 
by the fact that the rest of the team was sitting in a 
huddle in a distant corner, clearly muttering about 
Ron and casting him nasty looks. Finally Harry tried 
getting angry again in the hope of provoking Ron into 
a defiant, and hopefully goal-saving, attitude, but this 
strategy did not appear to work any better than 
encouragement; Ron went to bed as dejected and 
hopeless as ever. 

Harry lay awake for a very long time in the darkness. 
He did not want to lose the upcoming match; not only 
was it his first as Captain, but he was determined to 
beat Draco Malfoy at Quidditch even if he could not 
yet prove his suspicions about him. Yet if Ron played 
as he had done in the last few practices, their 
chances of winning were very slim. ... 

If only there was something he could do to make Ron 
pull himself together . . . make him play at the top of 
his form . . . something that would ensure that Ron 
had a really good day. ... 

And the answer came to Harry in one, sudden, 
glorious stroke of inspiration. 



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Breakfast was the usual excitable affair next morning; 
the Slytherins hissed and booed loudly as every 
member of the Gryffindor team entered the Great 
Hall. Harry glanced at the ceiling and saw a clear, 
pale blue sky: a good omen. 

The Gryffindor table, a solid mass of red and gold, 
cheered as Harry and Ron approached. Harry grinned 
and waved; Ron grimaced weakly and shook his head. 

“Cheer up, Ron!” called Lavender. “I know you’ll be 
brilliant!” 

Ron ignored her. 

“Tea?” Harry asked him. “Coffee? Pumpkin juice?” 

“Anything,” said Ron glumly, taking a moody bite of 
toast. 

A few minutes later Hermione, who had become so 
tired of Ron’s recent unpleasant behavior that she 
had not come down to breakfast with them, paused 
on her way up the table. 

“How are you both feeling?” she asked tentatively, her 
eyes on the back of Ron’s head. 

“Fine,” said Harry, who was concentrating on handing 
Ron a glass of pumpkin juice. “There you go, Ron. 
Drink up.” 

Ron had just raised the glass to his lips when 
Hermione spoke sharply. 

“Don’t drink that, Ron!” 

Both Harry and Ron looked up at her. 



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“Why not?” said Ron. 



Hermione was now staring at Harry as though she 
could not believe her eyes. 

“You just put something in that drink.” 

“Excuse me?” said Harry. 

“You heard me. I saw you. You just tipped something 
into Ron’s drink. You’ve got the bottle in your hand 
right now!” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Harry, 
stowing the little bottle hastily in his pocket. 

“Ron, I warn you, don’t drink it!” Hermione said 
again, alarmed, but Ron picked up the glass, drained 
it in one gulp, and said, “Stop bossing me around, 
Hermione.” 

She looked scandalized. Bending low so that only 
Harry could hear her, she hissed, “You should be 
expelled for that. I’d never have believed it of you, 
Harry!” 

“Hark who’s talking,” he whispered back. “Confunded 
anyone lately?” 

She stormed up the table away from them. Harry 
watched her go without regret. Hermione had never 
really understood what a serious business Quidditch 
was. He then looked around at Ron, who was 
smacking his lips. 

“Nearly time,” said Harry blithely. 

The frosty grass crunched underfoot as they strode 
down to the stadium. 

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“Pretty lucky the weather’s this good, eh?” Harry 
asked Ron. 



“Yeah,” said Ron, who was pale and sick-looking. 

Ginny and Demelza were already wearing their 
Quidditch robes and waiting in the changing room. 

“Conditions look ideal,” said Ginny, ignoring Ron. 

“And guess what? That Slytherin Chaser Vaisey — he 
took a Bludger in the head yesterday during their 
practice, and he’s too sore to play! And even better 
than that — Malfoy’s gone off sick too!” 

“ What?” said Harry, wheeling around to stare at her. 
“He’s ill? What’s wrong with him?” 

“No idea, but it’s great for us,” said Ginny brightly. 
“They’re playing Harper instead; he’s in my year and 
he’s an idiot.” 

Harry smiled back vaguely, but as he pulled on his 
scarlet robes his mind was far from Quidditch. Malfoy 
had once before claimed he could not play due to 
injury, but on that occasion he had made sure the 
whole match was rescheduled for a time that suited 
the Slytherins better. Why was he now happy to let a 
substitute go on? Was he really ill, or was he faking? 

“Fishy, isn’t it?” he said in an undertone to Ron. 
“Malfoy not playing?” 

“Lucky, I call it,” said Ron, looking slightly more 
animated. “And Vaisey off too, he’s their best goal 
scorer, I didn’t fancy — hey!” he said suddenly, 
freezing halfway through pulling on his Keeper’s 
gloves and staring at Harry. 

“What?” 

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“I ... you ...” Ron had dropped his voice, he looked 
both scared and excited. “My drink ... my pumpkin 
juice ... you didn’t ... ?” 

Harry raised his eyebrows, but said nothing except, 
“Well be starting in about five minutes, you’d better 
get your boots on.” 

They walked out onto the pitch to tumultuous roars 
and boos. One end of the stadium was solid red and 
gold; the other, a sea of green and silver. Many 
Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had taken sides too: 
Amidst all the yelling and clapping Harry could 
distinctly hear the roar of Luna Lovegood’s famous 
lion-topped hat. 

Harry stepped up to Madam Hooch, the referee, who 
was standing ready to release the balls from the crate. 

“Captains shake hands,” she said, and Harry had his 
hand crushed by the new Slytherin Captain, 

Urquhart. “Mount your brooms. On the whistle ... 
three ... two ... one ...” 

The whistle sounded, Harry and the others kicked off 
hard from the frozen ground, and they were away. 

Harry soared around the perimeter of the grounds, 
looking around for the Snitch and keeping one eye on 
Harper, who was zigzagging far below him. Then a 
voice that was jarringly different to the usual 
commentator’s started up. 

“Well, there they go, and I think we’re all surprised to 
see the team that Potter’s put together this year. 

Many thought, given Ronald Weasley’s patchy 
performance as Keeper last year, that he might be off 
the team, but of course, a close personal friendship 
with the Captain does help. ...” 

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These words were greeted with jeers and applause 
from the Slytherin end of the pitch. Harry craned 
around on his broom to look toward the 
commentator’s podium. A tall, skinny blond boy with 
an upturned nose was standing there, talking into the 
magical megaphone that had once been Lee Jordan’s; 
Harry recognized Zacharias Smith, a Hufflepuff player 
whom he heartily disliked. 

“Oh, and here comes Slytherin ’s first attempt on goal, 
it’s Urquhart streaking down the pitch and — ” 

Harry’s stomach turned over. 

“ — Weasley saves it, well, he’s bound to get lucky 
sometimes, I suppose. ...” 

“That’s right, Smith, he is,” muttered Harry, grinning 
to himself, as he dived amongst the Chasers with his 
eyes searching all around for some hint of the elusive 
Snitch. 

With half an hour of the game gone, Gryffindor were 
leading sixty points to zero, Ron having made some 
truly spectacular saves, some by the very tips of his 
gloves, and Ginny having scored four of Gryffindor’s 
six goals. This effectively stopped Zacharias 
wondering loudly whether the two Weasleys were only 
there because Harry liked them, and he started on 
Peakes and Coote instead. 

“Of course, Coote isn’t really the usual build for a 
Beater,” said Zacharias loftily, “they’ve generally got a 
bit more muscle — ” 

“Hit a Bludger at him!” Harry called to Coote as he 
zoomed past, but Coote, grinning broadly, chose to 
aim the next Bludger at Harper instead, who was just 
passing Harry in the opposite direction. Harry was 

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pleased to hear the dull thunk that meant the 
Bludger had found its mark. 

It seemed as though Gryffindor could do no wrong. 
Again and again they scored, and again and again, at 
the other end of the pitch, Ron saved goals with 
apparent ease. He was actually smiling now, and 
when the crowd greeted a particularly good save with 
a rousing chorus of the old favorite “Weasley Is Our 
King,” he pretended to conduct them from on high. 

“Thinks he’s something special today, doesn’t he?” 
said a snide voice, and Harry was nearly knocked off 
his broom as Harper collided with him hard and 
deliberately. “Your blood-traitor pal ...” 

Madam Hooch’s back was turned, and though 
Gryffindors below shouted in anger, by the time she 
looked around, Harper had already sped off. His 
shoulder aching, Harry raced after him, determined to 
ram him back. . . . 

“And I think Harper of Slytherin’s seen the Snitch!” 
said Zacharias Smith through his megaphone. “Yes, 
he’s certainly seen something Potter hasn’t!” 

Smith really was an idiot, thought Harry, hadn’t he 
noticed them collide? But next moment, his stomach 
seemed to drop out of the sky — Smith was right and 
Harry was wrong: Harper had not sped upward at 
random; he had spotted what Harry had not: The 
Snitch was speeding along high above them, glinting 
brightly against the clear blue sky. 

Harry accelerated; the wind was whistling in his ears 
so that it drowned all sound of Smith’s commentary 
or the crowd, but Harper was still ahead of him, and 
Gryffindor was only a hundred points up; if Harper 



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got there first Gryffindor had lost . . . and now Harper 
was feet from it, his hand outstretched. ... 

“Oi, Harper!” yelled Harry in desperation. “How much 
did Malfoy pay you to come on instead of him?” 

He did not know what made him say it, but Harper 
did a double-take; he fumbled the Snitch, let it slip 
through his fingers, and shot right past it. Harry 
made a great swipe for the tiny, fluttering ball and 
caught it. 

“YES!” Harry yelled. Wheeling around, he hurtled 
back toward the ground, the Snitch held high in his 
hand. As the crowd realized what had happened, a 
great shout went up that almost drowned the sound 
of the whistle that signaled the end of the game. 

“Ginny, where ’re you going?” yelled Harry, who had 
found himself trapped in the midst of a mass midair 
hug with the rest of the team, but Ginny sped right 
on past them until, with an almighty crash, she 
collided with the commentator’s podium. As the 
crowd shrieked and laughed, the Gryffindor team 
landed beside the wreckage of wood under which 
Zacharias was feebly stirring; Harry heard Ginny 
saying blithely to an irate Professor McGonagall, 
“Forgot to brake, Professor, sorry.” 

Laughing, Harry broke free of the rest of the team and 
hugged Ginny, but let go very quickly. Avoiding her 
gaze, he clapped a cheering Ron on the back instead 
as, all enmity forgotten, the Gryffindor team left the 
pitch arm in arm, punching the air and waving to 
their supporters. 

The atmosphere in the changing room was jubilant. 



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“Party up in the common room, Seamus said!” yelled 
Dean exuberantly. “C’mon, Ginny, Demelza!” 

Ron and Harry were the last two in the changing 
room. They were just about to leave when Hermione 
entered. She was twisting her Gryffindor scarf in her 
hands and looked upset but determined. 

“I want a word with you, Harry.” She took a deep 
breath. “You shouldn’t have done it. You heard 
Slughorn, it’s illegal.” 

“What are you going to do, turn us in?” demanded 
Ron. 

“What are you two talking about?” asked Harry, 
turning away to hang up his robes so that neither of 
them would see him grinning. 

“You know perfectly well what we’re talking about!” 
said Hermione shrilly. “You spiked Ron’s juice with 
lucky potion at breakfast! Felix Felicis!” 

“No, I didn’t,” said Harry, turning back to face them 
both. 

“Yes you did, Harry, and that’s why everything went 
right, there were Slytherin players missing and Ron 
saved everything!” 

“I didn’t put it in!” said Harry, grinning broadly. He 
slipped his hand inside his jacket pocket and drew 
out the tiny bottle that Hermione had seen in his 
hand that morning. It was full of golden potion and 
the cork was still tightly sealed with wax. “I wanted 
Ron to think I’d done it, so I faked it when I knew you 
were looking.” He looked at Ron. “You saved 
everything because you felt lucky. You did it all 
yourself.” 

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He pocketed the potion again. 



“There really wasn’t anything in my pumpkin juice?” 
Ron said, astounded. “But the weather’s good ... and 
Vaisey couldn’t play. ... I honestly haven’t been given 
lucky potion?” 

Harry shook his head. Ron gaped at him for a 
moment, then rounded on Hermione, imitating her 
voice. “ You added Felix Felicis to Ron’s juice this 
morning, that’s why he saved every thing\ See! I can 
save goals without help, Hermione!” 

“I never said you couldn’t — Ron, you thought you’d 
been given it too!” 

But Ron had already strode past her out of the door 
with his broomstick over his shoulder. 

“Er,” said Harry into the sudden silence; he had not 
expected his plan to backfire like this, “shall ... shall 
we go up to the party, then?” 

“You go!” said Hermione, blinking back tears. “I’m 
sick of Ron at the moment, I don’t know what I’m 
supposed to have done. ...” 

And she stormed out of the changing room too. 

Harry walked slowly back up the grounds toward the 
castle through the crowd, many of whom shouted 
congratulations at him, but he felt a great sense of 
letdown; he had been sure that if Ron won the match, 
he and Hermione would be friends again immediately. 
He did not see how he could possibly explain to 
Hermione that what she had done to offend Ron was 
kiss Viktor Krum, not when the offense had occurred 
so long ago. 



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Harry could not see Hermione at the Gryffindor 
celebration party, which was in full swing when he 
arrived. Renewed cheers and clapping greeted his 
appearance, and he was soon surrounded by a mob of 
people congratulating him. What with trying to shake 
off the Creevey brothers, who wanted a blow-by-blow 
match analysis, and the large group of girls that 
encircled him, laughing at his least amusing 
comments and batting their eyelids, it was some time 
before he could try and find Ron. At last, he 
extricated himself from Romilda Vane, who was 
hinting heavily that she would like to go to Slughorn’s 
Christmas party with him. As he was ducking toward 
the drinks table, he walked straight into Ginny, 

Arnold the Pygmy Puff riding on her shoulder and 
Crookshanks mewing hopefully at her heels. 

“Looking for Ron?” she asked, smirking. “He’s over 
there, the filthy hypocrite.” 

Harry looked into the corner she was indicating. 

There, in full view of the whole room, stood Ron 
wrapped so closely around Lavender Brown it was 
hard to tell whose hands were whose. 

“It looks like he’s eating her face, doesn’t it?” said 
Ginny dispassionately. “But I suppose he’s got to 
refine his technique somehow. Good game, Harry.” 

She patted him on the arm; Harry felt a swooping 
sensation in his stomach, but then she walked off to 
help herself to more butterbeer. Crookshanks trotted 
after her, his yellow eyes fixed upon Arnold. 

Harry turned away from Ron, who did not look like he 
would be surfacing soon, just as the portrait hole was 
closing. With a sinking feeling, he thought he saw a 
mane of bushy brown hair whipping out of sight. 



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He darted forward, sidestepped Romilda Vane again, 
and pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady. The 
corridor outside seemed to be deserted. 

“Hermione?” 

He found her in the first unlocked classroom he tried. 
She was sitting on the teacher’s desk, alone except for 
a small ring of twittering yellow birds circling her 
head, which she had clearly just conjured out of 
midair. Harry could not help admiring her spell-work 
at a time like this. 

“Oh, hello, Harry,” she said in a brittle voice. “I was 
just practicing.” 

“Yeah ... they’re — er — really good. ...” said Harry. 

He had no idea what to say to her. He was just 
wondering whether there was any chance that she 
had not noticed Ron, that she had merely left the 
room because the party was a little too rowdy, when 
she said, in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, “Ron 
seems to be enjoying the celebrations.” 

“Er . . . does he?” said Harry. 

“Don’t pretend you didn’t see him,” said Hermione. 

“He wasn’t exactly hiding it, was — ?” 

The door behind them burst open. To Harry’s horror, 
Ron came in, laughing, pulling Lavender by the hand. 

“Oh,” he said, drawing up short at the sight of Harry 
and Hermione. 

“Oops!” said Lavender, and she backed out of the 
room, giggling. The door swung shut behind her. 



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There was a horrible, swelling, billowing silence. 
Hermione was staring at Ron, who refused to look at 
her, but said with an odd mixture of bravado and 
awkwardness, “Hi, Harry! Wondered where you’d got 
to!” 

Hermione slid off the desk. The little flock of golden 
birds continued to twitter in circles around her head 
so that she looked like a strange, feathery model of 
the solar system. 

“You shouldn’t leave Lavender waiting outside,” she 
said quietly. “She’ll wonder where you’ve gone.” 

She walked very slowly and erectly toward the door. 
Harry glanced at Ron, who was looking relieved that 
nothing worse had happened. 

“ Oppugno\” came a shriek from the doorway. 

Harry spun around to see Hermione pointing her 
wand at Ron, her expression wild: The little flock of 
birds was speeding like a hail of fat golden bullets 
toward Ron, who yelped and covered his face with his 
hands, but the birds attacked, pecking and clawing at 
every bit of flesh they could reach. 

“Gerremoffme!” he yelled, but with one last look of 
vindictive fury, Hermione wrenched open the door 
and disappeared through it. Harry thought he heard a 
sob before it slammed. 



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THE UNBREAKABLE VOW 

Snow was swirling against the icy windows once 
more; Christmas was approaching fast. Hagrid had 
already single-handedly delivered the usual twelve 
Christmas trees for the Great Hall; garlands of holly 
and tinsel had been twisted around the banisters of 
the stairs; everlasting candles glowed from inside the 
helmets of suits of armor and great bunches of 
mistletoe had been hung at intervals along the 
corridors. Large groups of girls tended to converge 
underneath the mistletoe bunches every time Harry 
went past, which caused blockages in the corridors; 
fortunately, however, Harry’s frequent nighttime 
wanderings had given him an unusually good 
knowledge of the castle’s secret passageways, so that 
he was able, without too much difficulty, to navigate 
mistletoe-free routes between classes. 

Ron, who might once have found the necessity of 
these detours a cause for jealousy rather than 
hilarity, simply roared with laughter about it all. 
Although Harry much preferred this new laughing, 



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joking Ron to the moody, aggressive model he had 
been enduring for the last few weeks, the improved 
Ron came at a heavy price. Firstly, Harry had to put 
up with the frequent presence of Lavender Brown, 
who seemed to regard any moment that she was not 
kissing Ron as a moment wasted; and secondly, 

Harry found himself once more the best friend of two 
people who seemed unlikely ever to speak to each 
other again. 

Ron, whose hands and forearms still bore scratches 
and cuts from Hermione’s bird attack, was taking a 
defensive and resentful tone. 

“She can’t complain,” he told Harry. “She snogged 
Krum. So she’s found out someone wants to snog me 
too. Well, it’s a free country. I haven’t done anything 
wrong.” 

Harry did not answer, but pretended to be absorbed 
in the book they were supposed to have read before 
Charms next morning (Quintessence: A Quest). 
Determined as he was to remain friends with both 
Ron and Hermione, he was spending a lot of time with 
his mouth shut tight. 

“I never promised Hermione anything,” Ron mumbled. 
“I mean, all right, I was going to go to Slughorn’s 
Christmas party with her, but she never said ... just 
as friends ... I’m a free agent. ...” 

Harry turned a page of Quintessence, aware that Ron 
was watching him. Ron’s voice tailed away in mutters, 
barely audible over the loud crackling of the fire, 
though Harry thought he caught the words “Krum” 
and “can’t complain” again. 

Hermione’s schedule was so full that Harry could only 
talk to her properly in the evenings, when Ron was, in 

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any case, so tightly wrapped around Lavender that he 
did not notice what Harry was doing. Hermione 
refused to sit in the common room while Ron was 
there, so Harry generally joined her in the library, 
which meant that their conversations were held in 
whispers. 

“He’s at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes,” 
said Hermione, while the librarian, Madam Pince, 
prowled the shelves behind them. “I really couldn’t 
care less.” 

She raised her quill and dotted an i so ferociously 
that she punctured a hole in her parchment. Harry 
said nothing. He thought his voice might soon vanish 
from lack of use. He bent a little lower over Advanced 
Potion-Making and continued to make notes on 
Everlasting Elixirs, occasionally pausing to decipher 
the Prince’s useful additions to Libatius Borage’s text. 

“And incidentally,” said Hermione, after a few 
moments, “you need to be careful.” 

“For the last time,” said Harry, speaking in a slightly 
hoarse whisper after three-quarters of an hour of 
silence, “I am not giving back this book, I’ve learned 
more from the Half-Blood Prince than Snape or 
Slughorn have taught me in — ” 

“I’m not talking about your stupid so-called Prince,” 
said Hermione, giving his book a nasty look as though 
it had been rude to her. “I’m talking about earlier. I 
went into the girls’ bathroom just before I came in 
here and there were about a dozen girls in there, 
including that Romilda Vane, trying to decide how to 
slip you a love potion. They’re all hoping they’re going 
to get you to take them to Slughorn ’s party, and they 
all seem to have bought Fred and George’s love 
potions, which I’m afraid to say probably work — ” 
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“Why didn’t you confiscate them then?” demanded 
Harry. It seemed extraordinary that Hermione’s mania 
for upholding rules could have abandoned her at this 
crucial juncture. 

“They didn’t have the potions with them in the 
bathroom,” said Hermione scornfully. “They were just 
discussing tactics. As I doubt whether even the Half- 
Blood Prince ” — she gave the book another nasty look 
— “could dream up an antidote for a dozen different 
love potions at once, I’d just invite someone to go with 
you, thatll stop all the others thinking they’ve still got 
a chance. It’s tomorrow night, they’re getting 
desperate.” 

“There isn’t anyone I want to invite,” mumbled Harry, 
who was still trying not to think about Ginny any 
more than he could help, despite the fact that she 
kept cropping up in his dreams in ways that made 
him devoutly thankful that Ron could not perform 
Legilimency. 

“Well, just be careful what you drink, because 
Romilda Vane looked like she meant business,” said 
Hermione grimly. 

She hitched up the long roll of parchment on which 
she was writing her Arithmancy essay and continued 
to scratch away with her quill. Harry watched her 
with his mind a long way away. 

“Hang on a moment,” he said slowly. “I thought Filch 
had banned anything bought at Weasleys’ Wizard 
Wheezes?” 

“And when has anyone ever paid attention to what 
Filch has banned?” asked Hermione, still 
concentrating on her essay. 



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“But I thought all the owls were being searched. So 
how come these girls are able to bring love potions 
into school?” 

“Fred and George send them disguised as perfumes 
and cough potions,” said Hermione. “It’s part of their 
Owl Order Service.” 

“You know a lot about it.” 

Hermione gave him the kind of nasty look she had 
just given his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. 

“It was all on the back of the bottles they showed 
Ginny and me in the summer,” she said coldly. “I 
don’t go around putting potions in people’s drinks ... 
or pretending to, either, which is just as bad. ...” 

“Yeah, well, never mind that,” said Harry quickly. 

“The point is, Filch is being fooled, isn’t he? These 
girls are getting stuff into the school disguised as 
something else! So why couldn’t Malfoy have brought 
the necklace into the school — ?” 

“Oh, Harry ... not that again ...” 

“Come on, why not?” demanded Harry. 

“Look,” sighed Hermione, “Secrecy Sensors detect 
jinxes, curses, and concealment charms, don’t they? 
They’re used to find Dark Magic and Dark objects. 
They’d have picked up a powerful curse, like the one 
on that necklace, within seconds. But something 
that’s just been put in the wrong bottle wouldn’t 
register — and anyway, love potions aren’t Dark or 
dangerous — ” 

“Easy for you to say,” muttered Harry, thinking of 
Romilda Vane. 

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“ — so it would be down to Filch to realize it wasn’t a 
cough potion, and he’s not a very good wizard, I doubt 
he can tell one potion from — ” 

Hermione stopped dead; Harry had heard it too. 
Somebody had moved close behind them among the 
dark bookshelves. They waited, and a moment later 
the vulturelike countenance of Madam Pince 
appeared around the corner, her sunken cheeks, her 
skin like parchment, and her long hooked nose 
illuminated unflatteringly by the lamp she was 
carrying. 

“The library is now closed,” she said. “Mind you 
return anything you have borrowed to the correct — 
what have you been doing to that book, you depraved 
boy?” 

“It isn’t the library’s, it’s mine!” said Harry hastily, 
snatching his copy of Advanced Potion-Making off the 
table as she lunged at it with a clawlike hand. 

“Despoiled!” she hissed. “Desecrated! Befouled!” 

“It’s just a book that’s been written on!” said Harry, 
tugging it out of her grip. 

She looked as though she might have a seizure; 
Hermione, who had hastily packed her things, 
grabbed Harry by the arm and frogmarched him 
away. 

“She’ll ban you from the library if you’re not careful. 
Why did you have to bring that stupid book?” 

“It’s not my fault she’s barking mad, Hermione. Or 
d’you think she overheard you being rude about 
Filch? I’ve always thought there might be something 
going on between them. ...” 

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“Oh, ha ha ...” 



Enjoying the fact that they could speak normally 
again, they made their way along the deserted, lamp- 
lit corridors back to the common room, arguing about 
whether or not Filch and Madam Pince were secretly 
in love with each other. 

“Baubles,” said Harry to the Fat Lady, this being the 
new, festive password. 

“Same to you,” said the Fat Lady with a roguish grin, 
and she swung forward to admit them. 

“Hi, Harry!” said Romilda Vane, the moment he had 
climbed through the portrait hole. “Fancy a 
gillywater?” 

Hermione gave him a “what-did-I-tell-you?” look over 
her shoulder. 

“No thanks,” said Harry quickly. “I don’t like it much.” 

“Well, take these anyway,” said Romilda, thrusting a 
box into his hands. “Chocolate Cauldrons, they’ve got 
firewhisky in them. My gran sent them to me, but I 
don’t like them.” 

“Oh — right — thanks a lot,” said Harry, who could 
not think what else to say. “Er — I’m just going over 
here with ...” 

He hurried off behind Hermione, his voice tailing 
away feebly. 

“Told you,” said Hermione succinctly. “Sooner you ask 
someone, sooner they’ll all leave you alone and you 
can — ” 



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But her face suddenly turned blank; she had just 
spotted Ron and Lavender, who were entwined in the 
same armchair. 

“Well, good night, Harry,” said Hermione, though it 
was only seven o’clock in the evening, and she left for 
the girls’ dormitory without another word. 

Harry went to bed comforting himself that there was 
only one more day of lessons to struggle through, 
plus Slughorn’s party, after which he and Ron would 
depart together for the Burrow. It now seemed 
impossible that Ron and Hermione would make up 
with each other before the holidays began, but 
perhaps, somehow, the break would give them time to 
calm down, think better of their behavior. . . . 

But his hopes were not high, and they sank still lower 
after enduring a Transfiguration lesson with them 
both next day. They had just embarked upon the 
immensely difficult topic of human Transfiguration; 
working in front of mirrors, they were supposed to be 
changing the color of their own eyebrows. Hermione 
laughed unkindly at Ron’s disastrous first attempt, 
during which he somehow managed to give himself a 
spectacular handlebar mustache; Ron retaliated by 
doing a cruel but accurate impression of Hermione 
jumping up and down in her seat every time Professor 
McGonagall asked a question, which Lavender and 
Parvati found deeply amusing and which reduced 
Hermione to the verge of tears again. She raced out of 
the classroom on the bell, leaving half her things 
behind; Harry, deciding that her need was greater 
than Ron’s just now, scooped up her remaining 
possessions and followed her. 

He finally tracked her down as she emerged from a 
girls’ bathroom on the floor below. She was 



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accompanied by Luna Lovegood, who was patting her 
vaguely on the back. 

“Oh, hello, Harry,” said Luna. “Did you know one of 
your eyebrows is bright yellow?” 

“Hi, Luna. Hermione, you left your stuff. ...” 

He held out her books. 

“Oh yes,” said Hermione in a choked voice, taking her 
things and turning away quickly to hide the fact that 
she was wiping her eyes on her pencil case. “Thank 
you, Harry. Well, I’d better get going. ...” 

And she hurried off, without giving Harry any time to 
offer words of comfort, though admittedly he could 
not think of any. 

“She’s a bit upset,” said Luna. “I thought at first it 
was Moaning Myrtle in there, but it turned out to be 
Hermione. She said something about that Ron 
Weasley. ...” 

“Yeah, they’ve had a row,” said Harry. 

“He says very funny things sometimes, doesn’t he?” 
said Luna, as they set off down the corridor together. 
“But he can be a bit unkind. I noticed that last year.” 

“I s’pose,” said Harry. Luna was demonstrating her 
usual knack of speaking uncomfortable truths; he 
had never met anyone quite like her. “So have you 
had a good term?” 

“Oh, it’s been all right,” said Luna. “A bit lonely 
without the D.A. Ginny’s been nice, though. She 
stopped two boys in our Transfiguration class calling 
me ‘Loony’ the other day — ” 

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“How would you like to come to Slughorn’s party with 
me tonight?” 

The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he could 
stop them; he heard himself say them as though it 
were a stranger speaking. 

Luna turned her protuberant eyes upon him in 
surprise. 

“Slughorn’s party? With you?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “We’re supposed to bring guests, 
so I thought you might like ... I mean ...” He was keen 
to make his intentions perfectly clear. “I mean, just as 
friends, you know. But if you don’t want to ...” 

He was already half hoping that she didn’t want to. 

“Oh, no, I’d love to go with you as friends!” said Luna, 
beaming as he had never seen her beam before. 
“Nobody’s ever asked me to a party before, as a friend! 
Is that why you dyed your eyebrow, for the party? 
Should I do mine too?” 

“No,” said Harry firmly, “that was a mistake. I’ll get 
Hermione to put it right for me. So, I’ll meet you in 
the entrance hall at eight o’clock then.” 

“AHA!” screamed a voice from overhead and both of 
them jumped; unnoticed by either of them, they had 
just passed right underneath Peeves, who was 
hanging upside down from a chandelier and grinning 
maliciously at them. 

“ Potty asked Loony to go to the partyl Potty lurves 
Loony ! Potty luuuuurves LooooooonyV’ 



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And he zoomed away, cackling and shrieking, “Potty 
loves Loony!” 

“Nice to keep these things private,” said Harry. And 
sure enough, in no time at all the whole school 
seemed to know that Harry Potter was taking Luna 
Lovegood to Slughorn’s party. 

“You could’ve taken anyonel” said Ron in disbelief 
over dinner. “Anyonel And you chose Loony 
Lovegood?” 

“Don’t call her that, Ron,” snapped Ginny, pausing 
behind Harry on her way to join friends. “I’m really 
glad you’re taking her, Harry, she’s so excited.” 

And she moved on down the table to sit with Dean. 
Harry tried to feel pleased that Ginny was glad he was 
taking Luna to the party, but could not quite manage 
it. A long way along the table, Hermione was sitting 
alone, playing with her stew. Harry noticed Ron 
looking at her furtively. 

“You could say sorry,” suggested Harry bluntly. 

“What, and get attacked by another flock of 
canaries?” muttered Ron. 

“What did you have to imitate her for?” 

“She laughed at my mustache!” 

“So did I, it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

But Ron did not seem to have heard; Lavender had 
just arrived with Parvati. Squeezing herself in 
between Harry and Ron, Lavender flung her arms 
around Ron’s neck. 



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“Hi, Harry,” said Parvati who, like him, looked faintly 
embarrassed and bored by the behavior of their two 
friends. 

“Hi,” said Harry. “How’re you? You’re staying at 
Hogwarts, then? I heard your parents wanted you to 
leave.” 

“I managed to talk them out of it for the time being,” 
said Parvati. “That Katie thing really freaked them 
out, but as there hasn’t been anything since ... Oh, 
hi, Hermione!” 

Parvati positively beamed. Harry could tell that she 
was feeling guilty for having laughed at Hermione in 
Transfiguration. He looked around and saw that 
Hermione was beaming back, if possible even more 
brightly. Girls were very strange sometimes. 

“Hi, Parvati!” said Hermione, ignoring Ron and 
Lavender completely. “Are you going to Slughorn’s 
party tonight?” 

“No invite,” said Parvati gloomily. “I’d love to go, 
though, it sounds like it’s going to be really good. ... 
You’re going, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, I’m meeting Cormac at eight, and we’re — ” 

There was a noise like a plunger being withdrawn 
from a blocked sink and Ron surfaced. Hermione 
acted as though she had not seen or heard anything. 

“ — we’re going up to the party together.” 

“Cormac?” said Parvati. “Cormac McLaggen, you 
mean?” 



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“That’s right,” said Hermione sweetly. “The one who 
almost ’ — she put a great deal of emphasis on the 
word — “became Gryffindor Keeper.” 

“Are you going out with him, then?” asked Parvati, 
wide-eyed. 

“Oh — yes — didn’t you know?” said Hermione, with a 
most un-Hermione-ish giggle. 

“No!” said Parvati, looking positively agog at this piece 
of gossip. “Wow, you like your Quidditch players, 
don’t you? First Krum, then McLaggen ...” 

“I like really good Quidditch players,” Hermione 
corrected her, still smiling. “Well, see you ... Got to go 
and get ready for the party. ...” 

She left. At once Lavender and Parvati put their heads 
together to discuss this new development, with 
everything they had ever heard about McLaggen, and 
all they had ever guessed about Hermione. Ron 
looked strangely blank and said nothing. Harry was 
left to ponder in silence the depths to which girls 
would sink to get revenge. 

When he arrived in the entrance hall at eight o’clock 
that night, he found an unusually large number of 
girls lurking there, all of whom seemed to be staring 
at him resentfully as he approached Luna. She was 
wearing a set of spangled silver robes that were 
attracting a certain amount of giggles from the 
onlookers, but otherwise she looked quite nice. Harry 
was glad, in any case, that she had left off her radish 
earrings, her butterbeer cork necklace, and her 
Spectrespecs. 

“Hi,” he said. “Shall we get going then?” 



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“Oh yes,” she said happily. “Where is the party?” 



“Slughorn’s office,” said Harry, leading her up the 
marble staircase away from all the staring and 
muttering. “Did you hear, there’s supposed to be a 
vampire coming?” 

“Rufus Scrimgeour?” asked Luna. 

“I — what?” said Harry, disconcerted. “You mean the 
Minister of Magic?” 

“Yes, he’s a vampire,” said Luna matter-of-factly. 
“Father wrote a very long article about it when 
Scrimgeour first took over from Cornelius Fudge, but 
he was forced not to publish by somebody from the 
Ministry. Obviously, they didn’t want the truth to get 
out!” 

Harry, who thought it most unlikely that Rufus 
Scrimgeour was a vampire, but who was used to Luna 
repeating her father’s bizarre views as though they 
were fact, did not reply; they were already 
approaching Slughorn’s office and the sounds of 
laughter, music, and loud conversation were growing 
louder with every step they took. 

Whether it had been built that way, or because he 
had used magical trickery to make it so, Slughorn’s 
office was much larger than the usual teacher’s 
study. The ceiling and walls had been draped with 
emerald, crimson, and gold hangings, so that it 
looked as though they were all inside a vast tent. The 
room was crowded and stuffy and bathed in the red 
light cast by an ornate golden lamp dangling from the 
center of the ceiling in which real fairies were 
fluttering, each a brilliant speck of light. Loud singing 
accompanied by what sounded like mandolins issued 
from a distant corner; a haze of pipe smoke hung over 
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several elderly warlocks deep in conversation, and a 
number of house-elves were negotiating their way 
squeakily through the forest of knees, obscured by 
the heavy silver platters of food they were bearing, so 
that they looked like little roving tables. 

“Harry, m’boy!” boomed Slughorn, almost as soon as 
Harry and Luna had squeezed in through the door. 
“Come in, come in, so many people I’d like you to 
meet!” 

Slughorn was wearing a tasseled velvet hat to match 
his smoking jacket. Gripping Harry’s arm so tightly he 
might have been hoping to Disapparate with him, 
Slughorn led him purposefully into the party; Harry 
seized Luna’s hand and dragged her along with him. 

“Harry, I’d like you to meet Eldred Worple, an old 
student of mine, author of Blood Brothers: My Life 
Amongst the Vampires — and, of course, his friend 
Sanguini.” 

Worple, who was a small, stout, bespectacled man, 
grabbed Harry’s hand and shook it enthusiastically; 
the vampire Sanguini, who was tall and emaciated 
with dark shadows under his eyes, merely nodded. He 
looked rather bored. A gaggle of girls was standing 
close to him, looking curious and excited. 

“Harry Potter, I am simply delighted!” said Worple, 
peering shortsightedly up into Harry’s face. “I was 
saying to Professor Slughorn only the other day, 
‘Where is the biography of Harry Potter for which we 
have all been waiting?’ ” 

“Er,” said Harry, “were you?” 

“Just as modest as Horace described!” said Worple. 
“But seriously” — his manner changed; it became 

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suddenly businesslike — “I would be delighted to 
write it myself — people are craving to know more 
about you, dear boy, craving! If you were prepared to 
grant me a few interviews, say in four- or five-hour 
sessions, why, we could have the book finished within 
months. And all with very little effort on your part, I 
assure you — ask Sanguini here if it isn’t quite — 
Sanguini, stay here\” added Worple, suddenly stern, 
for the vampire had been edging toward the nearby 
group of girls, a rather hungry look in his eye. “Here, 
have a pasty,” said Worple, seizing one from a passing 
elf and stuffing it into Sanguini’s hand before turning 
his attention back to Harry. 

“My dear boy, the gold you could make, you have no 
idea — ” 

“I’m definitely not interested,” said Harry firmly, “and 
I’ve just seen a friend of mine, sorry.” 

He pulled Luna after him into the crowd; he had 
indeed just seen a long mane of brown hair disappear 
between what looked like two members of the Weird 
Sisters. 

“Hermione! HermioneV’ 

“Harry! There you are, thank goodness! Hi, Luna!” 

“What’s happened to you?” asked Harry, for Hermione 
looked distinctly disheveled, rather as though she had 
just fought her way out of a thicket of Devil’s Snare. 

“Oh, I’ve just escaped — I mean, I’ve just left 
Cormac,” she said. “Under the mistletoe,” she added 
in explanation, as Harry continued to look 
questioningly at her. 



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“Serves you right for coming with him,” he told her 
severely. 



“I thought he’d annoy Ron most,” said Hermione 
dispassionately. “I debated for a while about 
Zacharias Smith, but I thought, on the whole — ” 

“ You considered Smith?” said Harry, revolted. 

“Yes, I did, and I’m starting to wish I’d chosen him, 
McLaggen makes Grawp look a gentleman. Let’s go 
this way, we’ll be able to see him coming, he’s so tall. 



The three of them made their way over to the other 
side of the room, scooping up goblets of mead on the 
way, realizing too late that Professor Trelawney was 
standing there alone. 

“Hello,” said Luna politely to Professor Trelawney. 

“Good evening, my dear,” said Professor Trelawney, 
focusing upon Luna with some difficulty. Harry could 
smell cooking sherry again. “I haven’t seen you in my 
classes lately. ...” 

“No, I’ve got Firenze this year,” said Luna. 

“Oh, of course,” said Professor Trelawney with an 
angry, drunken titter. “Or Dobbin, as I prefer to think 
of him. You would have thought, would you not, that 
now I am returned to the school Professor 
Dumbledore might have got rid of the horse? But no 
... we share classes. ... It’s an insult, frankly, an 
insult. Do you know ...” 

Professor Trelawney seemed too tipsy to have 
recognized Harry. Under cover of her furious 
criticisms of Firenze, Harry drew closer to Hermione 

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and said, “Let’s get something straight. Are you 
planning to tell Ron that you interfered at Keeper 
tryouts?” 

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Do you really think 
I’d stoop that low?” 

Harry looked at her shrewdly. “Hermione, if you can 
ask out McLaggen — ” 

“There’s a difference,” said Hermione with dignity. 

“I’ve got no plans to tell Ron anything about what 
might, or might not, have happened at Keeper 
tryouts.” 

“Good,” said Harry fervently. “Because he’ll just fall 
apart again, and we’ll lose the next match — ” 

“Quidditch!” said Hermione angrily. “Is that all boys 
care about? Cormac hasn’t asked me one single 
question about myself, no, I’ve just been treated to ‘A 
Hundred Great Saves Made by Cormac McLaggen’ 
nonstop ever since — oh no, here he comes!” 

She moved so fast it was as though she had 
Disapparated; one moment she was there, the next, 
she had squeezed between two guffawing witches and 
vanished. 

“Seen Hermione?” asked McLaggen, forcing his way 
through the throng a minute later. 

“No, sorry,” said Harry, and he turned quickly to join 
in Luna’s conversation, forgetting for a split second to 
whom she was talking. 

“Harry Potter!” said Professor Trelawney in deep, 
vibrant tones, noticing him for the first time. 



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“Oh, hello,” said Harry unenthusiastically. 



“My dear boy!” she said in a very carrying whisper. 
“The rumors! The stories! The Chosen One’! Of 
course, I have known for a very long time. ... The 
omens were never good, Harry. . . . But why have you 
not returned to Divination? For you, of all people, the 
subject is of the utmost importance!” 

“Ah, Sybill, we all think our subject’s most 
important!” said a loud voice, and Slughorn appeared 
at Professor Trelawney’s other side, his face very red, 
his velvet hat a little askew, a glass of mead in one 
hand and an enormous mince pie in the other. “But I 
don’t think I’ve ever known such a natural at 
Potions!” said Slughorn, regarding Harry with a fond, 
if bloodshot, eye. “Instinctive, you know — like his 
mother! I’ve only ever taught a few with this kind of 
ability, I can tell you that, Sybill — why even Severus 



And to Harry’s horror, Slughorn threw out an arm 
and seemed to scoop Snape out of thin air toward 
them. 

“Stop skulking and come and join us, Severus!” 
hiccuped Slughorn happily. “I was just talking about 
Harry’s exceptional potion-making! Some credit must 
go to you, of course, you taught him for five years!” 

Trapped, with Slughorn’s arm around his shoulders, 
Snape looked down his hooked nose at Harry, his 
black eyes narrowed. 

“Funny, I never had the impression that I managed to 
teach Potter anything at all.” 

“Well, then, it’s natural ability!” shouted Slughorn. 
“You should have seen what he gave me, first lesson, 

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Draught of Living Death — never had a student 
produce finer on a first attempt, I don’t think even 
you, Severus — ” 

“Really?” said Snape quietly, his eyes still boring into 
Harry, who felt a certain disquiet. The last thing he 
wanted was for Snape to start investigating the 
source of his newfound brilliance at Potions. 

“Remind me what other subjects you’re taking, 

Harry?” asked Slughorn. 

“Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, 
Transfiguration, Herbology ...” 

“All the subjects required, in short, for an Auror,” said 
Snape, with the faintest sneer. 

“Yeah, well, that’s what I’d like to do,” said Harry 
defiantly. 

“And a great one you’ll make too!” boomed Slughorn. 

“I don’t think you should be an Auror, Harry,” said 
Luna unexpectedly. Everybody looked at her. “The 
Aurors are part of the Rotfang Conspiracy, I thought 
everyone knew that. They’re working to bring down 
the Ministry of Magic from within using a 
combination of Dark Magic and gum disease.” 

Harry inhaled half his mead up his nose as he started 
to laugh. Really, it had been worth bringing Luna just 
for this. Emerging from his goblet, coughing, sopping 
wet but still grinning, he saw something calculated to 
raise his spirits even higher: Draco Malfoy being 
dragged by the ear toward them by Argus Filch. 

“Professor Slughorn,” wheezed Filch, his jowls aquiver 
and the maniacal light of mischief-detection in his 

Page | 359 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




bulging eyes, “I discovered this boy lurking in an 
upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to 
your party and to have been delayed in setting out. 

Did you issue him with an invitation?” 

Malfoy pulled himself free of Filch ’s grip, looking 
furious. 

“All right, I wasn’t invited!” he said angrily. “I was 
trying to gatecrash, happy?” 

“No, I’m not!” said Filch, a statement at complete odds 
with the glee on his face. “You’re in trouble, you are! 
Didn’t the headmaster say that nighttime prowling’s 
out, unless you’ve got permission, didn’t he, eh?” 

“That’s all right, Argus, that’s all right,” said 
Slughorn, waving a hand. “It’s Christmas, and it’s not 
a crime to want to come to a party. Just this once, 
we’ll forget any punishment; you may stay, Draco.” 

Filch ’s expression of outraged disappointment was 
perfectly predictable; but why, Harry wondered, 
watching him, did Malfoy look almost equally 
unhappy? And why was Snape looking at Malfoy as 
though both angry and . . . was it possible? ... a little 
afraid? 

But almost before Harry had registered what he had 
seen, Filch had turned and shuffled away, muttering 
under his breath; Malfoy had composed his face into 
a smile and was thanking Slughorn for his generosity, 
and Snape’s face was smoothly inscrutable again. 

“It’s nothing, nothing,” said Slughorn, waving away 
Malfoy ’s thanks. “I did know your grandfather, after 
all. ...” 



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“He always spoke very highly of you, sir,” said Malfoy 
quickly. “Said you were the best potion-maker he’d 
ever known. ...” 

Harry stared at Malfoy. It was not the sucking-up that 
intrigued him; he had watched Malfoy do that to 
Snape for a long time. It was the fact that Malfoy did, 
after all, look a little ill. This was the first time he had 
seen Malfoy close up for ages; he now saw that Malfoy 
had dark shadows under his eyes and a distinctly 
grayish tinge to his skin. 

“I’d like a word with you, Draco,” said Snape 
suddenly. 

“Oh, now, Severus,” said Slughorn, hiccuping again, 
“it’s Christmas, don’t be too hard — ” 

“I’m his Head of House, and I shall decide how hard, 
or otherwise, to be,” said Snape curtly. “Follow me, 
Draco.” 

They left, Snape leading the way, Malfoy looking 
resentful. Harry stood there for a moment, irresolute, 
then said, “I’ll be back in a bit, Luna — er — 
bathroom.” 

“All right,” she said cheerfully, and he thought he 
heard her, as he hurried off into the crowd, resume 
the subject of the Rotfang Conspiracy with Professor 
Trelawney, who seemed sincerely interested. 

It was easy, once out of the party, to pull his 
Invisibility Cloak out of his pocket and throw it over 
himself, for the corridor was quite deserted. What was 
more difficult was finding Snape and Malfoy. Harry 
ran down the corridor, the noise of his feet masked by 
the music and loud talk still issuing from Slughorn ’s 
office behind him. Perhaps Snape had taken Malfoy to 
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his office in the dungeons ... or perhaps he was 
escorting him back to the Slytherin common room. ... 
Harry pressed his ear against door after door as he 
dashed down the corridor until, with a great jolt of 
excitement, he crouched down to the keyhole of the 
last classroom in the corridor and heard voices. 

"... cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are 
expelled — ” 

“I didn’t have anything to do with it, all right?” 

“I hope you are telling the truth, because it was both 
clumsy and foolish. Already you are suspected of 
having a hand in it.” 

“Who suspects me?” said Malfoy angrily. “For the last 
time, I didn’t do it, okay? That Bell girl must’ve had 
an enemy no one knows about — don’t look at me like 
that! I know what you’re doing, I’m not stupid, but it 
won’t work — I can stop you!” 

There was a pause and then Snape said quietly, “Ah 
. . . Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency, 

I see. What thoughts are you trying to conceal from 
your master, Draco?” 

“I’m not trying to conceal anything from him, I just 
don’t want you butting in!” 

Harry pressed his ear still more closely against the 
keyhole. ... What had happened to make Malfoy speak 
to Snape like this — Snape, toward whom he had 
always shown respect, even liking? 

“So that is why you have been avoiding me this term? 
You have feared my interference? You realize that, 
had anybody else failed to come to my office when I 
had told them repeatedly to be there, Draco — ” 

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“So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!” 
jeered Malfoy. 

There was another pause. Then Snape said, “You 
know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of 
those things.” 

“You’d better stop telling me to come to your office 
then!” 

“Listen to me,” said Snape, his voice so low now that 
Harry had to push his ear very hard against the 
keyhole to hear. “I am trying to help you. I swore to 
your mother I would protect you. I made the 
Unbreakable Vow, Draco — ” 

“Looks like you 11 have to break it, then, because I 
don’t need your protection! It’s my job, he gave it to 
me and I’m doing it, I’ve got a plan and it’s going to 
work, it’s just taking a bit longer than I thought it 
would!” 

“What is your plan?” 

“It’s none of your business!” 

“If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist 
you — ” 

“I’ve got all the assistance I need, thanks, I’m not 
alone!” 

“You were certainly alone tonight, which was foolish 
in the extreme, wandering the corridors without 
lookouts or backup, these are elementary mistakes — 



“I would’ve had Crabbe and Goyle with me if you 
hadn’t put them in detention!” 

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“Keep your voice down!” spat Snape, for Malfoy’s voice 
had risen excitedly. “If your friends Crabbe and Goyle 
intend to pass their Defense Against the Dark Arts 
O.W.L. this time around, they will need to work a 
little harder than they are doing at pres — ” 

“What does it matter?” said Malfoy. “Defense Against 
the Dark Arts — it’s all just a joke, isn’t it, an act? 
Like any of us need protecting against the Dark Arts 



“It is an act that is crucial to success, Draco!” said 
Snape. “Where do you think I would have been all 
these years, if I had not known how to act? Now listen 
to me! You are being incautious, wandering around at 
night, getting yourself caught, and if you are placing 
your reliance in assistants like Crabbe and Goyle — ” 

“They’re not the only ones, I’ve got other people on my 
side, better people!” 

“Then why not confide in me, and I can — ” 

“I know what you’re up to! You want to steal my 
glory!” 

There was another pause, then Snape said coldly, 
“You are speaking like a child. I quite understand 
that your father’s capture and imprisonment has 
upset you, but — ” 

Harry had barely a second’s warning; he heard 
Malfoy’s footsteps on the other side of the door and 
flung himself out of the way just as it burst open; 
Malfoy was striding away down the corridor, past the 
open door of Slughorn’s office, around the distant 
corner, and out of sight. 



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Hardly daring to breathe, Harry remained crouched 
down as Snape emerged slowly from the classroom. 
His expression unfathomable, he returned to the 
party. Harry remained on the floor, hidden beneath 
the cloak, his mind racing. 



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A VERY FROSTY CHRISTMAS 

“So Snape was offering to help him? He was definitely 
offering to help him?” 

“If you ask that once more,” said Harry, “I’m going to 
stick this sprout — ” 

“I’m only checking!” said Ron. They were standing 
alone at the Burrow’s kitchen sink, peeling a 
mountain of sprouts for Mrs. Weasley. Snow was 
drifting past the window in front of them. 

“Yes, Snape was offering to help himl” said Harry. “He 
said he’d promised Malfoy’s mother to protect him, 
that he’d made an Unbreakable Oath or something — 



“An Unbreakable Vow?” said Ron, looking stunned. 
“Nah, he can’t have. ... Are you sure?” 

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Harry. “Why, what does it 
mean?” 



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“Well, you can’t break an Unbreakable Vow. ...” 

“I’d worked that much out for myself, funnily enough. 
What happens if you break it, then?” 

“You die,” said Ron simply. “Fred and George tried to 
get me to make one when I was about five. I nearly 
did too, I was holding hands with Fred and everything 
when Dad found us. He went mental,” said Ron, with 
a reminiscent gleam in his eyes. “Only time I’ve ever 
seen Dad as angry as Mum. Fred reckons his left 
buttock has never been the same since.” 

“Yeah, well, passing over Fred’s left buttock — ” 

“I beg your pardon?” said Fred’s voice as the twins 
entered the kitchen. 

“Aaah, George, look at this. They’re using knives and 
everything. Bless them.” 

“I’ll be seventeen in two and a bit months’ time,” said 
Ron grumpily, “and then I’ll be able to do it by magic!” 

“But meanwhile,” said George, sitting down at the 
kitchen table and putting his feet up on it, “we can 
enjoy watching you demonstrate the correct use of a 
— whoops-a-daisy!” 

“You made me do that!” said Ron angrily, sucking his 
cut thumb. “You wait, when I’m seventeen — ” 

“I’m sure you’ll dazzle us all with hitherto 
unsuspected magical skills,” yawned Fred. 

“And speaking of hitherto unsuspected skills, 

Ronald,” said George, “what is this we hear from 
Ginny about you and a young lady called — unless 
our information is faulty — Lavender Brown?” 

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Ron turned a little pink, but did not look displeased 
as he turned back to the sprouts. “Mind your own 
business.” 

“What a snappy retort,” said Fred. “I really don’t know 
how you think of them. No, what we wanted to know 
was . . . how did it happen?” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“Did she have an accident or something?” 

“What?” 

“Well, how did she sustain such extensive brain 
damage? Careful, now!” 

Mrs. Weasley entered the room just in time to see Ron 
throw the sprout knife at Fred, who had turned it into 
a paper airplane with one lazy flick of his wand. 

“Ronl” she said furiously. “Don’t you ever let me see 
you throwing knives again!” 

“I won’t,” said Ron, “let you see,” he added under his 
breath, as he turned back to the sprout mountain. 

“Fred, George, I’m sorry, dears, but Remus is arriving 
tonight, so Bill will have to squeeze in with you two.” 

“No problem,” said George. 

“Then, as Charlie isn’t coming home, that just leaves 
Harry and Ron in the attic, and if Fleur shares with 
Ginny — ” 

“ — that’ll make Ginny’s Christmas — ” muttered Fred. 



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“ — everyone should be comfortable. Well, they’ll have 
a bed, anyway,” said Mrs. Weasley, sounding slightly 
harassed. 



“Percy definitely not showing his ugly face, then?” 
asked Fred. 

Mrs. Weasley turned away before she answered. “No, 
he’s busy, I expect, at the Ministry.” 

“Or he’s the world’s biggest prat,” said Fred, as Mrs. 
Weasley left the kitchen. “One of the two. Well, let’s 
get going, then, George.” 

“What are you two up to?” asked Ron. “Can’t you help 
us with these sprouts? You could just use your wand 
and then well be free too!” 

“No, I don’t think we can do that,” said Fred seriously. 
“It’s very character-building stuff, learning to peel 
sprouts without magic, makes you appreciate how 
difficult it is for Muggles and Squibs — ” 

“ — and if you want people to help you, Ron,” added 
George, throwing the paper airplane at him, “I 
wouldn’t chuck knives at them. Just a little hint. 
We’re off to the village, there’s a very pretty girl 
working in the paper shop who thinks my card tricks 
are something marvelous ... almost like real magic. 



“Gits,” said Ron darkly, watching Fred and George 
setting off across the snowy yard. “Would’ve only 
taken them ten seconds and then we could’ve gone 
too.” 

“I couldn’t,” said Harry. “I promised Dumbledore I 
wouldn’t wander off while I’m staying here.” 

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“Oh yeah,” said Ron. He peeled a few more sprouts 
and then said, “Are you going to tell Dumbledore what 
you heard Snape and Malfoy saying to each other?” 

“Yep,” said Harry. “I’m going to tell anyone who can 
put a stop to it, and Dumbledore’s top of the list. I 
might have another word with your dad too.” 

“Pity you didn’t hear what Malfoy’s actually doing, 
though.” 

“I couldn’t have done, could I? That was the whole 
point, he was refusing to tell Snape.” 

There was silence for a moment or two, then Ron 
said, “ ’Course, you know what they’ll all say? Dad 
and Dumbledore and all of them? They’ll say Snape 
isn’t really trying to help Malfoy, he was just trying to 
find out what Malfoy’s up to.” 

“They didn’t hear him,” said Harry flatly. “No one’s 
that good an actor, not even Snape.” 

“Yeah ... I’m just saying, though,” said Ron. 

Harry turned to face him, frowning. “You think I’m 
right, though?” 

“Yeah, I do!” said Ron hastily. “Seriously, I do! But 
they’re all convinced Snape’s in the Order, aren’t 
they?” 

Harry said nothing. It had already occurred to him 
that this would be the most likely objection to his new 
evidence; he could hear Hermione now: Obviously, 
Harry, he was pretending to offer help so he could trick 
Malfoy into telling him what he’s doing. ... 



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This was pure imagination, however, as he had had 
no opportunity to tell Hermione what he had 
overheard. She had disappeared from Slughorn’s 
parry before he returned to it, or so he had been 
informed by an irate McLaggen, and she had already 
gone to bed by the time he returned to the common 
room. As he and Ron had left for the Burrow early the 
next day, he had barely had time to wish her a happy 
Christmas and to tell her that he had some very 
important news when they got back from the 
holidays. He was not entirely sure that she had heard 
him, though; Ron and Lavender had been saying a 
thoroughly nonverbal good-bye just behind him at the 
time. 

Still, even Hermione would not be able to deny one 
thing: Malfoy was definitely up to something, and 
Snape knew it, so Harry felt fully justified in saying “I 
told you so,” which he had done several times to Ron 
already. 

Harry did not get the chance to speak to Mr. Weasley, 
who was working very long hours at the Ministry, 
until Christmas Eve night. The Weasleys and their 
guests were sitting in the living room, which Ginny 
had decorated so lavishly that it was rather like 
sitting in a paper-chain explosion. Fred, George, 

Harry, and Ron were the only ones who knew that the 
angel on top of the tree was actually a garden gnome 
that had bitten Fred on the ankle as he pulled up 
carrots for Christmas dinner. Stupefied, painted gold, 
stuffed into a miniature tutu and with small wings 
glued to its back, it glowered down at them all, the 
ugliest angel Harry had ever seen, with a large bald 
head like a potato and rather hairy feet. 

They were all supposed to be listening to a Christmas 
broadcast by Mrs. Weasley’s favorite singer, Celestina 
Warbeck, whose voice was warbling out of the large 

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wooden wireless set. Fleur, who seemed to find 
Celestina very dull, was talking so loudly in the 
corner that a scowling Mrs. Weasley kept pointing her 
wand at the volume control, so that Celestina grew 
louder and louder. Under cover of a particularly jazzy 
number called “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love,” 
Fred and George started a game of Exploding Snap 
with Ginny. Ron kept shooting Bill and Fleur covert 
looks, as though hoping to pick up tips. Meanwhile, 
Remus Lupin, who was thinner and more ragged- 
looking than ever, was sitting beside the fire, staring 
into its depths as though he could not hear 
Celestina’s voice. 

Oh, come and stir my cauldron, 

And if you do it right, 

I’ll boil you up some hot strong love 
To keep you warm tonight. 

“We danced to this when we were eighteen!” said Mrs. 
Weasley, wiping her eyes on her knitting. “Do you 
remember, Arthur?” 

“Mphf?” said Mr. Weasley, whose head had been 
nodding over the satsuma he was peeling. “Oh yes . . . 
marvelous tune ...” 

With an effort, he sat up a little straighter and looked 
around at Harry, who was sitting next to him. 

“Sorry about this,” he said, jerking his head toward 
the wireless as Celestina broke into the chorus. “Be 
over soon.” 

“No problem,” said Harry, grinning. “Has it been busy 
at the Ministry?” 

“Very,” said Mr. Weasley. “I wouldn’t mind if we were 
getting anywhere, but of the three arrests we’ve made 

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in the last couple of months, I doubt that one of them 
is a genuine Death Eater — only don’t repeat that, 
Harry,” he added quickly, looking much more awake 
all of a sudden. 

“They’re not still holding Stan Shunpike, are they?” 
asked Harry. 

“I’m afraid so,” said Mr. Weasley. “I know 
Dumbledore’s tried appealing directly to Scrimgeour 
about Stan. ... I mean, anybody who has actually 
interviewed him agrees that he’s about as much a 
Death Eater as this satsuma . . . but the top levels 
want to look as though they’re making some progress, 
and ‘three arrests’ sounds better than ‘three mistaken 
arrests and releases’... but again, this is all top 
secret. ...” 

“I won’t say anything,” said Harry. He hesitated for a 
moment, wondering how best to embark on what he 
wanted to say; as he marshaled his thoughts, 
Celestina Warbeck began a ballad called “You 
Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me.” 

“Mr. Weasley, you know what I told you at the station 
when we were setting off for school?” 

“I checked, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley at once. “I went 
and searched the Malfoys’ house. There was nothing, 
either broken or whole, that shouldn’t have been 
there.” 

“Yeah, I know, I saw in the Prophet that you’d looked 
... but this is something different. ... Well, something 
more ...” 

And he told Mr. Weasley everything he had overheard 
between Malfoy and Snape. As Harry spoke, he saw 
Lupin’s head turn a little toward him, taking in every 

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word. When he had finished, there was silence, except 
for Celestina’s crooning. 

Oh, my poor heart, where has it gone? 

It’s left me for a spell . . . 

“Has it occurred to you, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, 
“that Snape was simply pretending — ?” 

“Pretending to offer help, so that he could find out 
what Malfoy’s up to?” said Harry quickly. “Yeah, I 
thought you’d say that. But how do we know?” 

“It isn’t our business to know,” said Lupin 
unexpectedly. He had turned his back on the fire now 
and faced Harry across Mr. Weasley. “It’s 
Dumbledore’s business. Dumbledore trusts Severus, 
and that ought to be good enough for all of us.” 

“But,” said Harry, “just say — just say Dumbledore’s 
wrong about Snape — ” 

“People have said it, many times. It comes down to 
whether or not you trust Dumbledore’s judgment. I 
do; therefore, I trust Severus.” 

“But Dumbledore can make mistakes,” argued Harry. 
“He says it himself. And you” — he looked Lupin 
straight in the eye — “do you honestly like Snape?” 

“I neither like nor dislike Severus,” said Lupin. “No, 
Harry, I am speaking the truth,” he added, as Harry 
pulled a skeptical expression. “We shall never be 
bosom friends, perhaps; after all that happened 
between James and Sirius and Severus, there is too 
much bitterness there. But I do not forget that during 
the year I taught at Hogwarts, Severus made the 
Wolfsbane Potion for me every month, made it 
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perfectly, so that I did not have to suffer as I usually 
do at the full moon.” 

“But he ‘accidentally’ let it slip that you’re a werewolf, 
so you had to leave!” said Harry angrily. 

Lupin shrugged. “The news would have leaked out 
anyway. We both know he wanted my job, but he 
could have wreaked much worse damage on me by 
tampering with the potion. He kept me healthy. I 
must be grateful.” 

“Maybe he didn’t dare mess with the potion with 
Dumbledore watching him!” said Harry. 

“You are determined to hate him, Harry,” said Lupin 
with a faint smile. “And I understand; with James as 
your father, with Sirius as your godfather, you have 
inherited an old prejudice. By all means tell 
Dumbledore what you have told Arthur and me, but 
do not expect him to share your view of the matter; do 
not even expect him to be surprised by what you tell 
him. It might have been on Dumbledore’s orders that 
Severus questioned Draco.” 

... and now you’ve torn it quite apart 

I’ll thank you to give back my heart! 

Celestina ended her song on a very long, high-pitched 
note and loud applause issued out of the wireless, 
which Mrs. Weasley joined in with enthusiastically. 

“Eez eet over?” said Fleur loudly. “Thank goodness, 
what an ’orrible — ” 

“Shall we have a nightcap, then?” asked Mr. Weasley 
loudly, leaping to his feet. “Who wants eggnog?” 



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“What have you been up to lately?” Harry asked 
Lupin, as Mr. Weasley bustled off to fetch the eggnog, 
and everybody else stretched and broke into 
conversation. 

“Oh, I’ve been underground,” said Lupin. “Almost 
literally. That’s why I haven’t been able to write, 

Harry; sending letters to you would have been 
something of a giveaway.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’ve been living among my fellows, my equals,” said 
Lupin. “Werewolves,” he added, at Harry’s look of 
incomprehension. “Nearly all of them are on 
Voldemort’s side. Dumbledore wanted a spy and here 
I was ... ready-made.” 

He sounded a little bitter, and perhaps realized it, for 
he smiled more warmly as he went on, “I am not 
complaining; it is necessary work and who can do it 
better than I? However, it has been difficult gaining 
their trust. I bear the unmistakable signs of having 
tried to live among wizards, you see, whereas they 
have shunned normal society and live on the margins, 
stealing — and sometimes killing — to eat.” 

“How come they like Voldemort?” 

“They think that, under his rule, they will have a 
better life,” said Lupin. “And it is hard to argue with 
Grey back out there. ...” 

“Who’s Grey back?” 

“You haven’t heard of him?” Lupin’s hands closed 
convulsively in his lap. “Fenrir Greyback is, perhaps, 
the most savage werewolf alive today. He regards it as 
his mission in life to bite and to contaminate as many 

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people as possible; he wants to create enough 
werewolves to overcome the wizards. Voldemort has 
promised him prey in return for his services. 

Greyback specializes in children. ... Bite them young, 
he says, and raise them away from their parents, 
raise them to hate normal wizards. Voldemort has 
threatened to unleash him upon people’s sons and 
daughters; it is a threat that usually produces good 
results.” 

Lupin paused and then said, “It was Greyback who 
bit me.” 

“What?” said Harry, astonished. “When — when you 
were a kid, you mean?” 

“Yes. My father had offended him. I did not know, for 
a very long time, the identity of the werewolf who had 
attacked me; I even felt pity for him, thinking that he 
had had no control, knowing by then how it felt to 
transform. But Greyback is not like that. At the full 
moon, he positions himself close to victims, ensuring 
that he is near enough to strike. He plans it all. And 
this is the man Voldemort is using to marshal the 
werewolves. I cannot pretend that my particular 
brand of reasoned argument is making much 
headway against Greyback’s insistence that we 
werewolves deserve blood, that we ought to revenge 
ourselves on normal people.” 

“But you are normal!” said Harry fiercely. “You’ve just 
got a — a problem — ” 

Lupin burst out laughing. “Sometimes you remind me 
a lot of James. He called it my ‘furry little problem’ in 
company. Many people were under the impression 
that I owned a badly behaved rabbit.” 



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He accepted a glass of eggnog from Mr. Weasley with 
a word of thanks, looking slightly more cheerful. 
Harry, meanwhile, felt a rush of excitement: This last 
mention of his father had reminded him that there 
was something he had been looking forward to asking 
Lupin. 

“Have you ever heard of someone called the Half- 
Blood Prince?” 

“The Half-Blood what?” 

“Prince,” said Harry, watching him closely for signs of 
recognition. 

“There are no Wizarding princes,” said Lupin, now 
smiling. “Is this a title you’re thinking of adopting? I 
should have thought being ‘the Chosen One’ would be 
enough.” 

“It’s nothing to do with me!” said Harry indignantly. 
“The Half-Blood Prince is someone who used to go to 
Hogwarts, I’ve got his old Potions book. He wrote 
spells all over it, spells he invented. One of them was 
Levicorpus — ” 

“Oh, that one had a great vogue during my time at 
Hogwarts,” said Lupin reminiscently. “There were a 
few months in my fifth year when you couldn’t move 
for being hoisted into the air by your ankle.” 

“My dad used it,” said Harry. “I saw him in the 
Pensieve, he used it on Snape.” 

He tried to sound casual, as though this was a 
throwaway comment of no real importance, but he 
was not sure he had achieved the right effect; Lupin’s 
smile was a little too understanding. 



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“Yes,” he said, “but he wasn’t the only one. As I say, it 
was very popular. ... You know how these spells come 
and go. ...” 

“But it sounds like it was invented while you were at 
school,” Harry persisted. 

“Not necessarily,” said Lupin. “Jinxes go in and out of 
fashion like everything else.” 

He looked into Harry’s face and then said quietly, 
“James was a pureblood, Harry, and I promise you, 
he never asked us to call him ‘Prince.’ ” 

Abandoning pretense, Harry said, “And it wasn’t 
Sirius? Or you?” 

“Definitely not.” 

“Oh.” Harry stared into the fire. “I just thought — 
well, he’s helped me out a lot in Potions classes, the 
Prince has.” 

“How old is this book, Harry?” 

“I dunno, I’ve never checked.” 

“Well, perhaps that will give you some clue as to when 
the Prince was at Hogwarts,” said Lupin. 

Shortly after this, Fleur decided to imitate Celestina 
singing “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love,” which 
was taken by everyone, once they had glimpsed Mrs. 
Weasley’s expression, to be the cue to go to bed. 

Harry and Ron climbed all the way up to Ron’s attic 
bedroom, where a camp bed had been added for 
Harry. 



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Ron fell asleep almost immediately, but Harry delved 
into his trunk and pulled out his copy of Advanced 
Potion-Making before getting into bed. There he turned 
its pages, searching, until he finally found, at the 
front of the book, the date that it had been published. 
It was nearly fifty years old. Neither his father, nor his 
father’s friends, had been at Hogwarts fifty years ago. 
Feeling disappointed, Harry threw the book back into 
his trunk, turned off the lamp, and rolled over, 
thinking of werewolves and Snape, Stan Shunpike 
and the Half-Blood Prince, and finally falling into an 
uneasy sleep full of creeping shadows and the cries of 
bitten children. ... 

“She’s got to be joking. ...” 

Harry woke with a start to find a bulging stocking 
lying over the end of his bed. He put on his glasses 
and looked around; the tiny window was almost 
completely obscured with snow and, in front of it, Ron 
was sitting bolt upright in bed and examining what 
appeared to be a thick gold chain. 

“What’s that?” asked Harry. 

“It’s from Lavender,” said Ron, sounding revolted. 

“She can’t honestly think I’d wear ...” 

Harry looked more closely and let out a shout of 
laughter. Dangling from the chain in large gold letters 
were the words: 

My Sweetheart 

“Nice,” he said. “Classy. You should definitely wear it 
in front of Fred and George.” 



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“If you tell them,” said Ron, shoving the necklace out 
of sight under his pillow, “I — I — 111 — ” 

“Stutter at me?” said Harry, grinning. “Come on, 
would I?” 

“How could she think I’d like something like that, 
though?” Ron demanded of thin air, looking rather 
shocked. 

“Well, think back,” said Harry. “Have you ever let it 
slip that you’d like to go out in public with the words 
‘My Sweetheart’ round your neck?” 

“Well ... we don’t really talk much,” said Ron. “It’s 
mainly ...” 

“Snogging,” said Harry. 

“Well, yeah,” said Ron. He hesitated a moment, then 
said, “Is Hermione really going out with McLaggen?” 

“I dunno,” said Harry. “They were at Slughorn’s party 
together, but I don’t think it went that well.” 

Ron looked slightly more cheerful as he delved deeper 
into his stocking. 

Harry’s presents included a sweater with a large 
Golden Snitch worked onto the front, hand-knitted by 
Mrs. Weasley, a large box of Weasleys’ Wizard 
Wheezes products from the twins, and a slightly 
damp, moldy-smelling package that came with a label 
reading TO MASTER, FROM KREACHER. 

Harry stared at it. “D’you reckon this is safe to open?” 
he asked. 



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“Can’t be anything dangerous, all our mail’s still 
being searched at the Ministry,” replied Ron, though 
he was eyeing the parcel suspiciously. 

“I didn’t think of giving Kreacher anything. Do people 
usually give their house-elves Christmas presents?” 
asked Harry, prodding the parcel cautiously. 

“Hermione would,” said Ron. “But let’s wait and see 
what it is before you start feeling guilty.” 

A moment later, Harry had given a loud yell and leapt 
out of his camp bed; the package contained a large 
number of maggots. 

“Nice,” said Ron, roaring with laughter. “Very 
thoughtful.” 

“I’d rather have them than that necklace,” said Harry, 
which sobered Ron up at once. 

Everybody was wearing new sweaters when they all 
sat down for Christmas lunch, everyone except Fleur 
(on whom, it appeared, Mrs. Weasley had not wanted 
to waste one) and Mrs. Weasley herself, who was 
sporting a brand-new midnight blue witch’s hat 
glittering with what looked like tiny starlike 
diamonds, and a spectacular golden necklace. 

“Fred and George gave them to me! Aren’t they 
beautiful?” 

“Well, we find we appreciate you more and more, 
Mum, now we’re washing our own socks,” said 
George, waving an airy hand. “Parsnips, Remus?” 

“Harry, you’ve got a maggot in your hair,” said Ginny 
cheerfully, leaning across the table to pick it out; 



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Harry felt goose bumps erupt up his neck that had 
nothing to do with the maggot. 

“ ’Ow ’orrible,” said Fleur, with an affected little 
shudder. 

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Ron. “Gravy, Fleur?” 

In his eagerness to help her, he knocked the gravy 
boat flying; Bill waved his wand and the gravy soared 
up in the air and returned meekly to the boat. 

“You are as bad as zat Tonks,” said Fleur to Ron, 
when she had finished kissing Bill in thanks. “She is 
always knocking — ” 

“I invited dear Tonks to come along today,” said Mrs. 
Weasley, setting down the carrots with unnecessary 
force and glaring at Fleur. “But she wouldn’t come. 
Have you spoken to her lately, Remus?” 

“No, I haven’t been in contact with anybody very 
much,” said Lupin. “But Tonks has got her own 
family to go to, hasn’t she?” 

“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Maybe. I got the 
impression she was planning to spend Christmas 
alone, actually.” 

She gave Lupin an annoyed look, as though it was all 
his fault she was getting Fleur for a daughter-in-law 
instead of Tonks, but Harry, glancing across at Fleur, 
who was now feeding Bill bits of turkey off her own 
fork, thought that Mrs. Weasley was fighting a long- 
lost battle. He was, however, reminded of a question 
he had with regard to Tonks, and who better to ask 
than Lupin, the man who knew all about Patronuses? 



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“Tonks’s Patronus has changed its form,” he told him. 
“Snape said so anyway. I didn’t know that could 
happen. Why would your Patronus change?” 

Lupin took his time chewing his turkey and 
swallowing before saying slowly, “Sometimes ... a 
great shock ... an emotional upheaval ...” 

“It looked big, and it had four legs,” said Harry, 
struck by a sudden thought and lowering his voice. 
“Hey ... it couldn’t be — ?” 

“Arthur!” said Mrs. Weasley suddenly. She had risen 
from her chair; her hand was pressed over her heart 
and she was staring out of the kitchen window. 
“Arthur — it’s Percy!” 

“What?” 

Mr. Weasley looked around. Everybody looked quickly 
at the window; Ginny stood up for a better look. 

There, sure enough, was Percy Weasley, striding 
across the snowy yard, his horn-rimmed glasses 
glinting in the sunlight. He was not, however, alone. 

“Arthur, he’s — he’s with the Minister!” 

And sure enough, the man Harry had seen in the 
Daily Prophet was following along in Percy’s wake, 
limping slightly, his mane of graying hair and his 
black cloak flecked with snow. Before any of them 
could say anything, before Mr. and Mrs. Weasley 
could do more than exchange stunned looks, the back 
door opened and there stood Percy. 

There was a moment’s painful silence. Then Percy 
said rather stiffly, “Merry Christmas, Mother.” 



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“Oh, Percy\” said Mrs. Weasley, and she threw herself 
into his arms. 



Rufus Scrimgeour paused in the doorway, leaning on 
his walking stick and smiling as he observed this 
affecting scene. 

“You must forgive this intrusion,” he said, when Mrs. 
Weasley looked around at him, beaming and wiping 
her eyes. “Percy and I were in the vicinity — working, 
you know — and he couldn’t resist dropping in and 
seeing you all.” 

But Percy showed no sign of wanting to greet any of 
the rest of the family. He stood, poker-straight and 
awkward-looking, and stared over everybody else’s 
heads. Mr. Weasley, Fred, and George were all 
observing him, stony-faced. 

“Please, come in, sit down, Minister!” fluttered Mrs. 
Weasley, straightening her hat. “Have a little purkey, 
or some tooding. ... I mean — ” 

“No, no, my dear Molly,” said Scrimgeour. Harry 
guessed that he had checked her name with Percy 
before they entered the house. “I don’t want to 
intrude, wouldn’t be here at all if Percy hadn’t wanted 
to see you all so badly. ...” 

“Oh, Perce!” said Mrs. Weasley tearfully, reaching up 
to kiss him. 

"... We’ve only looked in for five minutes, so I’ll have a 
stroll around the yard while you catch up with Percy. 
No, no, I assure you I don’t want to butt in! Well, if 
anybody cared to show me your charming garden . . . 
Ah, that young man’s finished, why doesn’t he take a 
stroll with me?” 

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The atmosphere around the table changed 
perceptibly. Everybody looked from Scrimgeour to 
Harry. Nobody seemed to find Scrimgeour s pretense 
that he did not know Harry’s name convincing, or find 
it natural that he should be chosen to accompany the 
Minister around the garden when Ginny, Fleur, and 
George also had clean plates. 

“Yeah, all right,” said Harry into the silence. 

He was not fooled; for all Scrimgeour’s talk that they 
had just been in the area, that Percy wanted to look 
up his family, this must be the real reason that they 
had come, so that Scrimgeour could speak to Harry 
alone. 

“It’s fine,” he said quietly, as he passed Lupin, who 
had half risen from his chair. “Fine,” he added, as Mr. 
Weasley opened his mouth to speak. 

“Wonderful!” said Scrimgeour, standing back to let 
Harry pass through the door ahead of him. “We’ll just 
take a turn around the garden, and Percy and I’ll be 
off. Carry on, everyone!” 

Harry walked across the yard toward the Weasleys’ 
overgrown, snow-covered garden, Scrimgeour limping 
slightly at his side. He had, Harry knew, been Head of 
the Auror office; he looked tough and battle-scarred, 
very different from portly Fudge in his bowler hat. 

“Charming,” said Scrimgeour, stopping at the garden 
fence and looking out over the snowy lawn and the 
indistinguishable plants. “Charming.” 

Harry said nothing. He could tell that Scrimgeour was 
watching him. 



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“I’ve wanted to meet you for a very long time,” said 
Scrimgeour, after a few moments. “Did you know 
that?” 

“No,” said Harry truthfully. 

“Oh yes, for a very long time. But Dumbledore has 
been very protective of you,” said Scrimgeour. 
“Natural, of course, natural, after what you’ve been 
through. ... Especially what happened at the Ministry 



He waited for Harry to say something, but Harry did 
not oblige, so he went on, “I have been hoping for an 
occasion to talk to you ever since I gained office, but 
Dumbledore has — most understandably, as I say — 
prevented this.” 

Still, Harry said nothing, waiting. 

“The rumors that have flown around!” said 
Scrimgeour. “Well, of course, we both know how these 
stories get distorted ... all these whispers of a 
prophecy ... of you being ‘the Chosen One’...” 

They were getting near it now, Harry thought, the 
reason Scrimgeour was here. 

"... I assume that Dumbledore has discussed these 
matters with you?” 

Harry deliberated, wondering whether he ought to lie 
or not. He looked at the little gnome prints all around 
the flowerbeds, and the scuffed-up patch that marked 
the spot where Fred had caught the gnome now 
wearing the tutu at the top of the Christmas tree. 
Finally, he decided on the truth ... or a bit of it. 

“Yeah, we’ve discussed it.” 

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“Have you, have you ...” said Scrimgeour. Harry could 
see, out of the corner of his eye, Scrimgeour squinting 
at him, so he pretended to be very interested in a 
gnome that had just poked its head out from 
underneath a frozen rhododendron. “And what has 
Dumbledore told you, Harry?” 

“Sorry, but that’s between us,” said Harry. He kept 
his voice as pleasant as he could, and Scrimgeour’s 
tone, too, was light and friendly as he said, “Oh, of 
course, if it’s a question of confidences, I wouldn’t 
want you to divulge ... no, no ... and in any case, does 
it really matter whether you are ‘the Chosen One’ or 
not?” ” 

Harry had to mull that one over for a few seconds 
before responding. “I don’t really know what you 
mean, Minister.” 

“Well, of course, to you it will matter enormously,” 
said Scrimgeour with a laugh. “But to the Wizarding 
community at large ... it’s all perception, isn’t it? It’s 
what people believe that’s important.” 

Harry said nothing. He thought he saw, dimly, where 
they were heading, but he was not going to help 
Scrimgeour get there. The gnome under the 
rhododendron was now digging for worms at its roots, 
and Harry kept his eyes fixed upon it. 

“People believe you are ‘the Chosen One,’ you see,” 
said Scrimgeour. “They think you quite the hero — 
which, of course, you are, Harry, chosen or not! How 
many times have you faced He-Who-Must-Not-Be- 
Named now? Well, anyway,” he pressed on, without 
waiting for a reply, “the point is, you are a symbol of 
hope for many, Harry. The idea that there is 
somebody out there who might be able, who might 
even be destined, to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be- 
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Named — well, naturally, it gives people a lift. And I 
can’t help but feel that, once you realize this, you 
might consider it, well, almost a duty, to stand 
alongside the Ministry, and give everyone a boost.” 

The gnome had just managed to get hold of a worm. It 
was now tugging very hard on it, trying to get it out of 
the frozen ground. Harry was silent so long that 
Scrimgeour said, looking from Harry to the gnome, 
“Funny little chaps, aren’t they? But what say you, 
Harry?” 

“I don’t exactly understand what you want,” said 
Harry slowly. “ ‘Stand alongside the Ministry’ ... What 
does that mean?” 

“Oh, well, nothing at all onerous, I assure you,” said 
Scrimgeour. “If you were to be seen popping in and 
out of the Ministry from time to time, for instance, 
that would give the right impression. And of course, 
while you were there, you would have ample 
opportunity to speak to Gawain Robards, my 
successor as Head of the Auror office. Dolores 
Umbridge has told me that you cherish an ambition 
to become an Auror. Well, that could be arranged very 
easily. ...” 

Harry felt anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach: So 
Dolores Umbridge was still at the Ministry, was she? 

“So basically,” he said, as though he just wanted to 
clarify a few points, “you’d like to give the impression 
that I’m working for the Ministry?” 

“It would give everyone a lift to think you were more 
involved, Harry,” said Scrimgeour, sounding relieved 
that Harry had cottoned on so quickly. “ The Chosen 
One,’ you know ... It’s all about giving people hope, 
the feeling that exciting things are happening. ...” 
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“But if I keep running in and out of the Ministry,” 
said Harry, still endeavoring to keep his voice friendly, 
“won’t that seem as though I approve of what the 
Ministry’s up to?” 

“Well,” said Scrimgeour, frowning slightly, “well, yes, 
that’s partly why we’d like — ” 

“No, I don’t think that’ll work,” said Harry pleasantly. 
“You see, I don’t like some of the things the Ministry’s 
doing. Locking up Stan Shunpike, for instance.” 

Scrimgeour did not speak for a moment but his 
expression hardened instantly. “I would not expect 
you to understand,” he said, and he was not as 
successful at keeping anger out of his voice as Harry 
had been. “These are dangerous times, and certain 
measures need to be taken. You are sixteen years old 



“Dumbledore’s a lot older than sixteen, and he doesn’t 
think Stan should be in Azkaban either,” said Harry. 
“You’re making Stan a scapegoat, just like you want 
to make me a mascot.” 

They looked at each other, long and hard. Finally 
Scrimgeour said, with no pretense at warmth, “I see. 
You prefer — like your hero, Dumbledore — to 
disassociate yourself from the Ministry?” 

“I don’t want to be used,” said Harry. 

“Some would say it’s your duty to be used by the 
Ministry!” 

“Yeah, and others might say it’s your duty to check 
that people really are Death Eaters before you chuck 
them in prison,” said Harry, his temper rising now. 
“You’re doing what Barty Crouch did. You never get it 

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right, you people, do you? Either we’ve got Fudge, 
pretending everything’s lovely while people get 
murdered right under his nose, or we’ve got you, 
chucking the wrong people into jail and trying to 
pretend you’ve got ‘the Chosen One’ working for you!” 

“So you’re not ‘the Chosen One’?” said Scrimgeour. 

“I thought you said it didn’t matter either way?” said 
Harry, with a bitter laugh. “Not to you anyway.” 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” said Scrimgeour quickly. 
“It was tactless — ” 

“No, it was honest,” said Harry. “One of the only 
honest things you’ve said to me. You don’t care 
whether I live or die, but you do care that I help you 
convince everyone you’re winning the war against 
Voldemort. I haven’t forgotten, Minister. ...” 

He raised his right fist. There, shining white on the 
back of his cold hand, were the scars which Dolores 
Umbridge had forced him to carve into his own flesh: / 
must not tell lies. 

“I don’t remember you rushing to my defense when I 
was trying to tell everyone Voldemort was back. The 
Ministry wasn’t so keen to be pals last year.” 

They stood in silence as icy as the ground beneath 
their feet. The gnome had finally managed to extricate 
his worm and was now sucking on it happily, leaning 
against the bottommost branches of the 
rhododendron bush. 

“What is Dumbledore up to?” said Scrimgeour 
brusquely. “Where does he go when he is absent from 
Hogwarts?” 



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“No idea,” said Harry. 

“And you wouldn’t tell me if you knew,” said 
Scrimgeour, “would you?” 

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Harry. 

“Well, then, I shall have to see whether I can’t find out 
by other means.” 

“You can try,” said Harry indifferently. “But you seem 
cleverer than Fudge, so I’d have thought you’d have 
learned from his mistakes. He tried interfering at 
Hogwarts. You might have noticed he’s not Minister 
anymore, but Dumbledore’s still headmaster. I’d leave 
Dumbledore alone, if I were you.” 

There was a long pause. 

“Well, it is clear to me that he has done a very good 
job on you,” said Scrimgeour, his eyes cold and hard 
behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Dumbledore’s man 
through and through, aren’t you, Potter?” 

“Yeah, I am,” said Harry. “Glad we straightened that 
out.” 

And turning his back on the Minister of Magic, he 
strode back toward the house. 



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A SLUGGISH MEMORY 

Late in the afternoon, a few days after New Year, 
Harry, Ron, and Ginny lined up beside the kitchen 
fire to return to Hogwarts. The Ministry had arranged 
this one-off connection to the Floo Network to return 
students quickly and safely to the school. Only Mrs. 
Weasley was there to say good-bye, as Mr. Weasley, 
Fred, George, Bill, and Fleur were all at work. Mrs. 
Weasley dissolved into tears at the moment of parting. 
Admittedly, it took very little to set her off lately; she 
had been crying on and off ever since Percy had 
stormed from the house on Christmas Day with his 
glasses splattered with mashed parsnip (for which 
Fred, George, and Ginny all claimed credit). 

“Don’t cry, Mum,” said Ginny, patting her on the back 
as Mrs. Weasley sobbed into her shoulder. “It’s okay. 



“Yeah, don’t worry about us,” said Ron, permitting his 
mother to plant a very wet kiss on his cheek, “or 



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about Percy. He’s such a prat, it’s not really a loss, is 
it?” 



Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever as she 
enfolded Harry in her arms. 

“Promise me you’ll look after yourself. ... Stay out of 
trouble. ...” 

“I always do, Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry. “I like a quiet 
life, you know me.” 

She gave a watery chuckle and stood back. “Be good, 
then, all of you. ...” 

Harry stepped into the emerald fire and shouted 
“Hogwarts!” He had one last fleeting view of the 
Weasleys’ kitchen and Mrs. Weasley’s tearful face 
before the flames engulfed him; spinning very fast, he 
caught blurred glimpses of other Wizarding rooms, 
which were whipped out of sight before he could get a 
proper look; then he was slowing down, finally 
stopping squarely in the fireplace in Professor 
McGonagall’s office. She barely glanced up from her 
work as he clambered out over the grate. 

“Evening, Potter. Try not to get too much ash on the 
carpet.” 

“No, Professor.” 

Harry straightened his glasses and flattened his hair 
as Ron came spinning into view. When Ginny had 
arrived, all three of them trooped out of McGonagall’s 
office and off toward Gryffindor Tower. Harry glanced 
out of the corridor windows as they passed; the sun 
was already sinking over grounds carpeted in deeper 
snow than had lain over the Burrow garden. In the 



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distance, he could see Hagrid feeding Buckbeak in 
front of his cabin. 



“Baubles,” said Ron confidently, when they reached 
the Fat Lady, who was looking rather paler than 
usual and winced at his loud voice. 

“No,” she said. 

“What d’you mean, ‘no’?” 

“There is a new password,” she said. “And please 
don’t shout.” 

“But we’ve been away, how’re we supposed to — ?” 
“Harry! Ginny!” 

Hermione was hurrying toward them, very pink-faced 
and wearing a cloak, hat, and gloves. 

“I got back a couple of hours ago, I’ve just been down 
to visit Hagrid and Buck — I mean Witherwings,” she 
said breathlessly. “Did you have a good Christmas?” 

“Yeah,” said Ron at once, “pretty eventful, Rufus 
Scrim — ” 

“I’ve got something for you, Harry,” said Hermione, 
neither looking at Ron nor giving any sign that she 
had heard him. “Oh, hang on — password. 
Abstinence.” 

“Precisely,” said the Fat Lady in a feeble voice, and 
swung forward to reveal the portrait hole. 

“What’s up with her?” asked Harry. 



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“Overindulged over Christmas, apparently,” said 
Hermione, rolling her eyes as she led the way into the 
packed common room. “She and her friend Violet 
drank their way through all the wine in that picture of 
drunk monks down by the Charms corridor. Anyway 



She rummaged in her pocket for a moment, then 
pulled out a scroll of parchment with Dumbledore’s 
writing on it. 

“Great,” said Harry, unrolling it at once to discover 
that his next lesson with Dumbledore was scheduled 
for the following night. “I’ve got loads to tell him — 
and you. Let’s sit down — ” 

But at that moment there was a loud squeal of “Won- 
Won!” and Lavender Brown came hurtling out of 
nowhere and flung herself into Ron’s arms. Several 
onlookers sniggered; Hermione gave a tinkling laugh 
and said, “There’s a table over here. ... Coming, 
Ginny?” 

“No, thanks, I said I’d meet Dean,” said Ginny, 
though Harry could not help noticing that she did not 
sound very enthusiastic. Leaving Ron and Lavender 
locked in a kind of vertical wrestling match, Harry led 
Hermione over to the spare table. 

“So how was your Christmas?” 

“Oh, fine,” she shrugged. “Nothing special. How was it 
at Won-Won’s?” 

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” said Harry. “Look, 

Hermione, can’t you — ?” 

“No, I can’t,” she said flatly. “So don’t even ask.” 



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“I thought maybe, you know, over Christmas — ” 



“It was the Fat Lady who drank a vat of five-hundred- 
year- old wine, Harry, not me. So what was this 
important news you wanted to tell me?” 

She looked too fierce to argue with at that moment, so 
Harry dropped the subject of Ron and recounted all 
that he had overheard between Malfoy and Snape. 
When he had finished, Hermione sat in thought for a 
moment and then said, “Don’t you think — ?” 

“ — he was pretending to offer help so that he could 
trick Malfoy into telling him what he’s doing?” 

“Well, yes,” said Hermione. 

“Ron’s dad and Lupin think so,” Harry said 
grudgingly. “But this definitely proves Malfoy’s 
planning something, you can’t deny that.” 

“No, I can’t,” she answered slowly. 

“And he’s acting on Voldemort’s orders, just like I 
said!” 

“Hmm . . . did either of them actually mention 
Voldemort’s name?” 

Harry frowned, trying to remember. “I’m not sure ... 
Snape definitely said your master,’ and who else 
would that be?” 

“I don’t know,” said Hermione, biting her lip. “Maybe 
his father?” 

She stared across the room, apparently lost in 
thought, not even noticing Lavender tickling Ron. 
“How’s Lupin?” 

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“Not great,” said Harry, and he told her all about 
Lupin’s mission among the werewolves and the 
difficulties he was facing. “Have you heard of this 
Fenrir Grey back?” 

“Yes, I have!” said Hermione, sounding startled. “And 
so have you, Harry!” 

“When, History of Magic? You know full well I never 
listened ...” 

“No, no, not History of Magic — Malfoy threatened 
Borgin with him!” said Hermione. “Back in Knockturn 
Alley, don’t you remember? He told Borgin that 
Grey back was an old family friend and that he’d be 
checking up on Borgin’s progress!” 

Harry gaped at her. “I forgot! But this proves Malfoy’s 
a Death Eater, how else could he be in contact with 
Greyback and telling him what to do?” 

“It is pretty suspicious,” breathed Hermione. “Unless 



“Oh, come on,” said Harry in exasperation, “you can’t 
get round this one!” 

“Well ... there is the possibility it was an empty 
threat.” 

“You’re unbelievable, you are,” said Harry, shaking 
his head. “We’ll see who’s right. ... You’ll be eating 
your words, Hermione, just like the Ministry. Oh 
yeah, I had a row with Rufus Scrimgeour as well. ...” 

And the rest of the evening passed amicably with both 
of them abusing the Minister of Magic, for Hermione, 
like Ron, thought that after all the Ministry had put 



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Harry through the previous year, they had a great 
deal of nerve asking him for help now. 

The new term started next morning with a pleasant 
surprise for the sixth years: a large sign had been 
pinned to the common room notice boards overnight. 

APPARITION LESSONS 

If you are seventeen years of age, or will turn 
seventeen on or before the 31st August next, you are 
eligible for a twelve-week course of Apparition Lessons 
from a Ministry of Magic Apparition instructor. Please 
sign below if you would like to participate. Cost: 12 
Galleons. 

Harry and Ron joined the crowd that was jostling 
around the notice and taking it in turns to write their 
names at the bottom. Ron was just taking out his 
quill to sign after Hermione when Lavender crept up 
behind him, slipped her hands over his eyes, and 
trilled, “Guess who, Won-Won?” Harry turned to see 
Hermione stalking off; he caught up with her, having 
no wish to stay behind with Ron and Lavender, but to 
his surprise, Ron caught up with them only a little 
way beyond the portrait hole, his ears bright red and 
his expression disgruntled. Without a word, Hermione 
sped up to walk with Neville. 

“So — Apparition,” said Ron, his tone making it 
perfectly plain that Harry was not to mention what 
had just happened. “Should be a laugh, eh?” 

“I dunno,” said Harry. “Maybe it’s better when you do 
it yourself, I didn’t enjoy it much when Dumbledore 
took me along for the ride.” 



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“I forgot you’d already done it. ... I’d better pass my 
test first time,” said Ron, looking anxious. “Fred and 
George did.” 

“Charlie failed, though, didn’t he?” 

“Yeah, but Charlie’s bigger than me” — Ron held his 
arms out from his body as though he was a gorilla — 
“so Fred and George didn’t go on about it much ... not 
to his face anyway ...” 

“When can we take the actual test?” 

“Soon as we’re seventeen. That’s only March for me!” 

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t be able to Apparate in here, 
not in the castle ...” 

“Not the point, is it? Everyone would know I could 
Apparate if I wanted.” 

Ron was not the only one to be excited at the prospect 
of Apparition. All that day there was much talk about 
the forthcoming lessons; a great deal of store was set 
by being able to vanish and reappear at will. 

“How cool will it be when we can just — ” Seamus 
clicked his fingers to indicate disappearance. “Me 
cousin Fergus does it just to annoy me, you wait till I 
can do it back ... He’ll never have another peaceful 
moment. ...” 

Lost in visions of this happy prospect, he flicked his 
wand a little too enthusiastically, so that instead of 
producing the fountain of pure water that was the 
object of today’s Charms lesson, he let out a hoselike 
jet that ricocheted off the ceiling and knocked 
Professor Flitwick flat on his face. 



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“Harry’s already Apparated,” Ron told a slightly 
abashed Seamus, after Professor Flitwick had dried 
himself off with a wave of his wand and set Seamus 
lines: “I am a wizard, not a baboon brandishing a 
stick.” “Dum — er — someone took him. Side-Along- 
Apparition, you know.” 

“Whoa!” whispered Seamus, and he, Dean, and 
Neville put their heads a little closer to hear what 
Apparition felt like. For the rest of the day, Harry was 
besieged with requests from the other sixth years to 
describe the sensation of Apparition. All of them 
seemed awed, rather than put off, when he told them 
how uncomfortable it was, and he was still answering 
detailed questions at ten to eight that evening, when 
he was forced to lie and say that he needed to return 
a book to the library, so as to escape in time for his 
lesson with Dumbledore. 

The lamps in Dumbledore ’s office were lit, the 
portraits of previous headmasters were snoring gently 
in their frames, and the Pensieve was ready upon the 
desk once more. Dumbledore ’s hands lay on either 
side of it, the right one as blackened and burnt- 
looking as ever. It did not seem to have healed at all 
and Harry wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time, 
what had caused such a distinctive injury, but did 
not ask; Dumbledore had said that he would know 
eventually and there was, in any case, another 
subject he wanted to discuss. But before Harry could 
say anything about Snape and Malfoy, Dumbledore 
spoke. 

“I hear that you met the Minister of Magic over 
Christmas?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “He’s not very happy with me.” 



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“No,” sighed Dumbledore. “He is not very happy with 
me either. We must try not to sink beneath our 
anguish, Harry, but battle on.” 

Harry grinned. 

“He wanted me to tell the Wizarding community that 
the Ministry’s doing a wonderful job.” 

Dumbledore smiled. 

“It was Fudge’s idea originally, you know. During his 
last days in office, when he was trying desperately to 
cling to his post, he sought a meeting with you, 
hoping that you would give him your support — ” 

“After everything Fudge did last year?” said Harry 
angrily. “After Umbridge?” 

“I told Cornelius there was no chance of it, but the 
idea did not die when he left office. Within hours of 
Scrimgeour’s appointment we met and he demanded 
that I arrange a meeting with you — ” 

“So that’s why you argued!” Harry blurted out. “It was 
in the Daily Prophet” 

“The Prophet is bound to report the truth 
occasionally,” said Dumbledore, “if only accidentally. 
Yes, that was why we argued. Well, it appears that 
Rufus found a way to corner you at last.” 

“He accused me of being ‘Dumbledore ’s man through 
and through.’ ” 

“How very rude of him.” 

“I told him I was.” 



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Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak and then 
closed it again. Behind Harry, Fawkes the phoenix let 
out a low, soft, musical cry. To Harry’s intense 
embarrassment, he suddenly realized that 
Dumbledore ’s bright blue eyes looked rather watery, 
and stared hastily at his own knees. When 
Dumbledore spoke, however, his voice was quite 
steady. 

“I am very touched, Harry.” 

“Scrimgeour wanted to know where you go when 
you’re not at Hogwarts,” said Harry, still looking 
fixedly at his knees. 

“Yes, he is very nosy about that,” said Dumbledore, 
now sounding cheerful, and Harry thought it safe to 
look up again. “He has even attempted to have me 
followed. Amusing, really. He set Dawlish to tail me. It 
wasn’t kind. I have already been forced to jinx 
Dawlish once; I did it again with the greatest regret.” 

“So they still don’t know where you go?” asked Harry, 
hoping for more information on this intriguing 
subject, but Dumbledore merely smiled over the top 
of his half-moon spectacles. 

“No, they don’t, and the time is not quite right for you 
to know either. Now, I suggest we press on, unless 
there’s anything else — ?” 

“There is, actually, sir,” said Harry. “It’s about Malfoy 
and Snape.” 

“Professor Snape, Harry.” 

“Yes, sir. I overheard them during Professor 
Slughorn’s party ... well, I followed them, actually. ...” 



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Dumbledore listened to Harry’s story with an 
impassive face. When Harry had finished he did not 
speak for a few moments, then said, “Thank you for 
telling me this, Harry, but I suggest that you put it 
out of your mind. I do not think that it is of great 
importance.” 

“Not of great importance?” repeated Harry 
incredulously. “Professor, did you understand — ?” 

“Yes, Harry, blessed as I am with extraordinary 
brainpower, I understood everything you told me,” 
said Dumbledore, a little sharply. “I think you might 
even consider the possibility that I understood more 
than you did. Again, I am glad that you have confided 
in me, but let me reassure you that you have not told 
me anything that causes me disquiet.” 

Harry sat in seething silence, glaring at Dumbledore. 
What was going on? Did this mean that Dumbledore 
had indeed ordered Snape to find out what Malfoy 
was doing, in which case he had already heard 
everything Harry had just told him from Snape? Or 
was he really worried by what he had heard, but 
pretending not to be? 

“So, sir,” said Harry, in what he hoped was a polite, 
calm voice, “you definitely still trust — ?” 

“I have been tolerant enough to answer that question 
already,” said Dumbledore, but he did not sound very 
tolerant anymore. “My answer has not changed.” 

“I should think not,” said a snide voice; Phineas 
Nigellus was evidently only pretending to be asleep. 
Dumbledore ignored him. 



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“And now, Harry, I must insist that we press on. I 
have more important things to discuss with you this 
evening.” 

Harry sat there feeling mutinous. How would it be if 
he refused to permit the change of subject, if he 
insisted upon arguing the case against Malfoy? As 
though he had read Harry’s mind, Dumbledore shook 
his head. 

“Ah, Harry, how often this happens, even between the 
best of friends! Each of us believes that what he has 
to say is much more important than anything the 
other might have to contribute!” 

“I don’t think what you’ve got to say is unimportant, 
sir,” said Harry stiffly. 

“Well, you are quite right, because it is not,” said 
Dumbledore briskly. “I have two more memories to 
show you this evening, both obtained with enormous 
difficulty, and the second of them is, I think, the most 
important I have collected.” 

Harry did not say anything to this; he still felt angry 
at the reception his confidences had received, but 
could not see what was to be gained by arguing 
further. 

“So,” said Dumbledore, in a ringing voice, “we meet 
this evening to continue the tale of Tom Riddle, whom 
we left last lesson poised on the threshold of his years 
at Hogwarts. You will remember how excited he was 
to hear that he was a wizard, that he refused my 
company on a trip to Diagon Alley, and that I, in turn, 
warned him against continued thievery when he 
arrived at school. 



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“Well, the start of the school year arrived and with it 
came Tom Riddle, a quiet boy in his secondhand 
robes, who lined up with the other first years to be 
sorted. He was placed in Slytherin House almost the 
moment that the Sorting Hat touched his head,” 
continued Dumbledore, waving his blackened hand 
toward the shelf over his head where the Sorting Hat 
sat, ancient and unmoving. “How soon Riddle learned 
that the famous founder of the House could talk to 
snakes, I do not know — perhaps that very evening. 
The knowledge can only have excited him and 
increased his sense of self-importance. 

“However, if he was frightening or impressing fellow 
Slytherins with displays of Parseltongue in their 
common room, no hint of it reached the staff. He 
showed no sign of outward arrogance or aggression at 
all. As an unusually talented and very good-looking 
orphan, he naturally drew attention and sympathy 
from the staff almost from the moment of his arrival. 
He seemed polite, quiet, and thirsty for knowledge. 
Nearly all were most favorably impressed by him.” 

“Didn’t you tell them, sir, what he’d been like when 
you met him at the orphanage?” asked Harry. 

“No, I did not. Though he had shown no hint of 
remorse, it was possible that he felt sorry for how he 
had behaved before and was resolved to turn over a 
fresh leaf. I chose to give him that chance.” 

Dumbledore paused and looked inquiringly at Harry, 
who had opened his mouth to speak. Here, again, was 
Dumbledore ’s tendency to trust people in spite of 
overwhelming evidence that they did not deserve it! 
But then Harry remembered something. . . . 

“But you didn’t really trust him, sir, did you? He told 
me . . . the Riddle who came out of that diary said, 

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‘Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the 
other teachers did.’ ” 

“Let us say that I did not take it for granted that he 
was trustworthy,” said Dumbledore. “I had, as I have 
already indicated, resolved to keep a close eye upon 
him, and so I did. I cannot pretend that I gleaned a 
great deal from my observations at first. He was very 
guarded with me; he felt, I am sure, that in the thrill 
of discovering his true identity he had told me a little 
too much. He was careful never to reveal as much 
again, but he could not take back what he had let slip 
in his excitement, nor what Mrs. Cole had confided in 
me. However, he had the sense never to try and 
charm me as he charmed so many of my colleagues. 

“As he moved up the school, he gathered about him a 
group of dedicated friends; I call them that, for want 
of a better term, although as I have already indicated, 
Riddle undoubtedly felt no affection for any of them. 
This group had a kind of dark glamour within the 
castle. They were a motley collection; a mixture of the 
weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some 
shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a 
leader who could show them more refined forms of 
cruelty. In other words, they were the forerunners of 
the Death Eaters, and indeed some of them became 
the first Death Eaters after leaving Hogwarts. 

“Rigidly controlled by Riddle, they were never detected 
in open wrongdoing, although their seven years at 
Hogwarts were marked by a number of nasty 
incidents to which they were never satisfactorily 
linked, the most serious of which was, of course, the 
opening of the Chamber of Secrets, which resulted in 
the death of a girl. As you know, Hagrid was wrongly 
accused of that crime. 



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“I have not been able to find many memories of Riddle 
at Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore, placing his withered 
hand on the Pensieve. “Few who knew him then are 
prepared to talk about him; they are too terrified. 
What I know, I found out after he had left Hogwarts, 
after much painstaking effort, after tracing those few 
who could be tricked into speaking, after searching 
old records and questioning Muggle and wizard 
witnesses alike. 

“Those whom I could persuade to talk told me that 
Riddle was obsessed with his parentage. This is 
understandable, of course; he had grown up in an 
orphanage and naturally wished to know how he 
came to be there. It seems that he searched in vain 
for some trace of Tom Riddle senior on the shields in 
the trophy room, on the lists of prefects in the old 
school records, even in the books of Wizarding 
history. Finally he was forced to accept that his father 
had never set foot in Hogwarts. I believe that it was 
then that he dropped the name forever, assumed the 
identity of Lord Voldemort, and began his 
investigations into his previously despised mother’s 
family — the woman whom, you will remember, he 
had thought could not be a witch if she had 
succumbed to the shameful human weakness of 
death. 

“All he had to go upon was the single name ‘Marvolo,’ 
which he knew from those who ran the orphanage 
had been his mother’s father’s name. Finally, after 
painstaking research through old books of Wizarding 
families, he discovered the existence of Slytherin’s 
surviving line. In the summer of his sixteenth year, he 
left the orphanage to which he returned annually and 
set off to find his Gaunt relatives. And now, Harry, if 
you will stand ...” 



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Dumbledore rose, and Harry saw that he was again 
holding a small crystal bottle filled with swirling, 
pearly memory. 

“I was very lucky to collect this,” he said, as he 
poured the gleaming mass into the Pensieve. “As you 
will understand when we have experienced it. Shall 
we?” 

Harry stepped up to the stone basin and bowed 
obediently until his face sank through the surface of 
the memory; he felt the familiar sensation of falling 
through nothingness and then landed upon a dirty 
stone floor in almost total darkness. 

It took him several seconds to recognize the place, by 
which time Dumbledore had landed beside him. The 
Gaunts’ house was now more indescribably filthy 
than anywhere Harry had ever seen. The ceiling was 
thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime; moldy 
and rotting food lay upon the table amidst a mass of 
crusted pots. The only light came from a single 
guttering candle placed at the feet of a man with hair 
and beard so overgrown Harry could see neither eyes 
nor mouth. He was slumped in an armchair by the 
fire, and Harry wondered for a moment whether he 
was dead. But then there came a loud knock on the 
door and the man jerked awake, raising a wand in his 
right hand and a short knife in his left. 

The door creaked open. There on the threshold, 
holding an old-fashioned lamp, stood a boy Harry 
recognized at once: tall, pale, dark-haired, and 
handsome — the teenage Voldemort. 

Voldemort’s eyes moved slowly around the hovel and 
then found the man in the armchair. For a few 
seconds they looked at each other, then the man 



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staggered upright, the many empty bottles at his feet 
clattering and tinkling across the floor. 

“YOU!” he bellowed. “YOU!” 

And he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife 
held aloft. 

“Stop.” 

Riddle spoke in Parseltongue. The man skidded into 
the table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor. He 
stared at Riddle. There was a long silence while they 
contemplated each other. The man broke it. 

“ You speak it?” 

“Yes, I speak it,” said Riddle. He moved forward into 
the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind 
him. Harry could not help but feel a resentful 
admiration for Voldemort’s complete lack of fear. His 
face merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, 
disappointment. 

“Where is Marvolo?” he asked. 

“Dead,” said the other. “Died years ago, didn’t he?” 
Riddle frowned. 

“ Who are you, then?” 

“I’m Morfin, ain’t 1?” 

“ Marvolo’ s son?” 

“ ’Course I am, then ...” 



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Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better 
to see Riddle, and Harry saw that he wore Marvolo’s 
black-stoned ring on his right hand. 

“I thought you was that Muggle,” whispered Morfin. 

“ You look mighty like that Muggle .” 

“What Muggle?” said Riddle sharply. 

“That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that 
Muggle what lives in the big house over the way,” said 
Morfin, and he spat unexpectedly upon the floor 
between them. “You look right like him. Riddle. But 
he’s older now, in ’e? He’s older’n you, now I think on 
it. ...” 

Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still 
clutching the edge of the table for support. “He come 
back, see,” he added stupidly. 

Voldemort was gazing at Morfin as though appraising 
his possibilities. Now he moved a little closer and 
said, “Riddle came back?” 

“Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth\” 
said Morfin, spitting on the floor again. “Robbed us, 
mind, before she ran off! Where’s the locket, eh, 
where’s Slytherin’s locket?” 

Voldemort did not answer. Morfin was working 
himself into a rage again; he brandished his knife and 
shouted, “Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And 
who’re you, coming here and asking questions about 
all that? It’s over, innit. ... It’s over. ...” 

He looked away, staggering slightly, and Voldemort 
moved forward. As he did so, an unnatural darkness 
fell, extinguishing Voldemort’s lamp and Morfin ’s 
candle, extinguishing everything. ... 

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Dumbledore’s fingers closed tightly around Harry’s 
arm and they were soaring back into the present 
again. The soft golden light in Dumbledore’s office 
seemed to dazzle Harry’s eyes after that impenetrable 
darkness. 

“Is that all?” said Harry at once. “Why did it go dark, 
what happened?” 

“Because Morfin could not remember anything from 
that point onward,” said Dumbledore, gesturing Harry 
back into his seat. “When he awoke next morning, he 
was lying on the floor, quite alone. Marvolo’s ring had 
gone. 

“Meanwhile, in the village of Little Hangleton, a maid 
was running along the High Street, screaming that 
there were three bodies lying in the drawing room of 
the big house: Tom Riddle Senior and his mother and 
father. 

“The Muggle authorities were perplexed. As far as I 
am aware, they do not know to this day how the 
Riddles died, for the Avada Kedavra curse does not 
usually leave any sign of damage. ... The exception 
sits before me,” Dumbledore added, with a nod to 
Harry’s scar. “The Ministry, on the other hand, knew 
at once that this was a wizard’s murder. They also 
knew that a convicted Muggle-hater lived across the 
valley from the Riddle house, a Muggle-hater who had 
already been imprisoned once for attacking one of the 
murdered people. 

“So the Ministry called upon Morfin. They did not 
need to question him, to use Veritaserum or 
Legilimency. He admitted to the murder on the spot, 
giving details only the murderer could know. He was 
proud, he said, to have killed the Muggles, had been 
awaiting his chance all these years. He handed over 
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his wand, which was proved at once to have been 
used to kill the Riddles. And he permitted himself to 
be led off to Azkaban without a fight. All that 
disturbed him was the fact that his father’s ring had 
disappeared. ‘He’ll kill me for losing it,’ he told his 
captors over and over again. ‘He’ll kill me for losing 
his ring. ’ And that, apparently, was all he ever said 
again. He lived out the remainder of his life in 
Azkaban, lamenting the loss of Marvolo’s last 
heirloom, and is buried beside the prison, alongside 
the other poor souls who have expired within its 
walls.” 

“So Voldemort stole Morfin’s wand and used it?” said 
Harry, sitting up straight. 

“That’s right,” said Dumbledore. “We have no 
memories to show us this, but I think we can be fairly 
sure what happened. Voldemort Stupefied his uncle, 
took his wand, and proceeded across the valley to ‘the 
big house over the way. ’ There he murdered the 
Muggle man who had abandoned his witch mother, 
and, for good measure, his Muggle grandparents, 
thus obliterating the last of the unworthy Riddle line 
and revenging himself upon the father who never 
wanted him. Then he returned to the Gaunt hovel, 
performed the complex bit of magic that would 
implant a false memory in his uncle’s mind, laid 
Morfin’s wand beside its unconscious owner, 
pocketed the ancient ring he wore, and departed.” 

“And Morfin never realized he hadn’t done it?” 

“Never,” said Dumbledore. “He gave, as I say, a full 
and boastful confession.” 

“But he had this real memory in him all the time!” 



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“Yes, but it took a great deal of skilled Legilimency to 
coax it out of him,” said Dumbledore, “and why 
should anybody delve further into Morfin’s mind 
when he had already confessed to the crime? 

However, I was able to secure a visit to Morfin in the 
last weeks of his life, by which time I was attempting 
to discover as much as I could about Voldemort’s 
past. I extracted this memory with difficulty. When I 
saw what it contained, I attempted to use it to secure 
Morfin’s release from Azkaban. Before the Ministry 
reached their decision, however, Morfin had died.” 

“But how come the Ministry didn’t realize that 
Voldemort had done all that to Morfin?” Harry asked 
angrily. “He was underage at the time, wasn’t he? I 
thought they could detect underage magic!” 

“You are quite right — they can detect magic, but not 
the perpetrator: You will remember that you were 
blamed by the Ministry for the Hover Charm that was, 
in fact, cast by — ” 

“Dobby,” growled Harry; this injustice still rankled. 

“So if you’re underage and you do magic inside an 
adult witch or wizard’s house, the Ministry won’t 
know?” 

“They will certainly be unable to tell who performed 
the magic,” said Dumbledore, smiling slightly at the 
look of great indignation on Harry’s face. “They rely 
on witch and wizard parents to enforce their 
offspring’s obedience while within their walls.” 

“Well, that’s rubbish,” snapped Harry. “Look what 
happened here, look what happened to Morfin!” 

“I agree,” said Dumbledore. “Whatever Morfin was, he 
did not deserve to die as he did, blamed for murders 



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he had not committed. But it is getting late, and I 
want you to see this other memory before we part. ...” 



Dumbledore took from an inside pocket another 
crystal phial and Harry fell silent at once, 
remembering that Dumbledore had said it was the 
most important one he had collected. Harry noticed 
that the contents proved difficult to empty into the 
Pensieve, as though they had congealed slightly; did 
memories go bad? 

“This will not take long,” said Dumbledore, when he 
had finally emptied the phial. “We shall be back 
before you know it. Once more into the Pensieve, then 



And Harry fell again through the silver surface, 
landing this time right in front of a man he recognized 
at once. 

It was a much younger Horace Slughorn. Harry was 
so used to him bald that he found the sight of 
Slughorn with thick, shiny, straw-colored hair quite 
disconcerting; it looked as though he had had his 
head thatched, though there was already a shiny 
Galleon-sized bald patch on his crown. His mustache, 
less massive than it was these days, was gingery- 
blond. He was not quite as rotund as the Slughorn 
Harry knew, though the golden buttons on his richly 
embroidered waistcoat were taking a fair amount of 
strain. His little feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, he 
was sitting well back in a comfortable winged 
armchair, one hand grasping a small glass of wine, 
the other searching through a box of crystalized 
pineapple. 

Harry looked around as Dumbledore appeared beside 
him and saw that they were standing in Slughorn ’s 
office. Half a dozen boys were sitting around 

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Slughorn, all on harder or lower seats than his, and 
all in their mid-teens. Harry recognized Voldemort at 
once. His was the most handsome face and he looked 
the most relaxed of all the boys. His right hand lay 
negligently upon the arm of his chair; with a jolt, 
Harry saw that he was wearing Marvolo’s gold-and- 
black ring; he had already killed his father. 

“Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is 
retiring?” he asked. 

“Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn’t tell you,” said 
Slughorn, wagging a reproving, sugar-covered finger 
at Riddle, though ruining the effect slightly by 
winking. “I must say, I’d like to know where you get 
your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half 
the staff, you are.” 

Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him 
admiring looks. 

“What with your uncanny ability to know things you 
shouldn’t, and your careful flattery of the people who 
matter — thank you for the pineapple, by the way, 
you’re quite right, it is my favorite — ” 

As several of the boys tittered, something very odd 
happened. The whole room was suddenly filled with a 
thick white fog, so that Harry could see nothing but 
the face of Dumbledore, who was standing beside 
him. Then Slughorn ’s voice rang out through the 
mist, unnaturally loudly, “ You’ll go wrong, boy, mark 
my words.” 

The fog cleared as suddenly as it had appeared and 
yet nobody made any allusion to it, nor did anybody 
look as though anything unusual had just happened. 
Bewildered, Harry looked around as a small golden 



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clock standing upon Slughorn’s desk chimed eleven 
o’clock. 

“Good gracious, is it that time already?” said 
Slughorn. “You’d better get going, boys, or we’ll all be 
in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow 
or it’s detention. Same goes for you, Avery.” 

Slughorn pulled himself out of his armchair and 
carried his empty glass over to his desk as the boys 
filed out. Voldemort, however, stayed behind. Harry 
could tell he had dawdled deliberately, wanting to be 
last in the room with Slughorn. 

“Look sharp, Tom,” said Slughorn, turning around 
and finding him still present. “You don’t want to be 
caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect ...” 

“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.” 

“Ask away, then, m’boy, ask away. ...” 

“Sir, I wondered what you know about . . . about 
Horcruxes?” 

And it happened all over again: The dense fog filled 
the room so that Harry could not see Slughorn or 
Voldemort at all; only Dumbledore, smiling serenely 
beside him. Then Slughorn’s voice boomed out again, 
just as it had done before. 

“I don’t know anything about Horcruxes and I wouldn’t 
tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once and don’t 
let me catch you mentioning them again\” 

“Well, that’s that,” said Dumbledore placidly beside 
Harry. “Time to go.” 



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And Harry’s feet left the floor to fall, seconds later, 
back onto the mg in front of Dumbledore’s desk. 



“That’s all there is?” said Harry blankly. 

Dumbledore had said that this was the most 
important memory of all, but he could not see what 
was so significant about it. Admittedly the fog, and 
the fact that nobody seemed to have noticed it, was 
odd, but other than that nothing seemed to have 
happened except that Voldemort had asked a 
question and failed to get an answer. 

“As you might have noticed,” said Dumbledore, 
reseating himself behind his desk, “that memory has 
been tampered with.” 

“Tampered with?” repeated Harry, sitting back down 
too. 

“Certainly,” said Dumbledore. “Professor Slughorn 
has meddled with his own recollections.” 

“But why would he do that?” 

“Because, I think, he is ashamed of what he 
remembers,” said Dumbledore. “He has tried to 
rework the memory to show himself in a better light, 
obliterating those parts which he does not wish me to 
see. It is, as you will have noticed, very crudely done, 
and that is all to the good, for it shows that the true 
memory is still there beneath the alterations. 

“And so, for the first time, I am giving you homework, 
Harry. It will be your job to persuade Professor 
Slughorn to divulge the real memory, which will 
undoubtedly be our most crucial piece of information 
of all.” 

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Harry stared at him. 

“But surely, sir,” he said, keeping his voice as 
respectful as possible, “you don’t need me — you 
could use Legilimency ... or Veritaserum. ...” 

“Professor Slughorn is an extremely able wizard who 
will be expecting both,” said Dumbledore. “He is 
much more accomplished at Occlumency than poor 
Morfin Gaunt, and I would be astonished if he has 
not carried an antidote to Veritaserum with him ever 
since I coerced him into giving me this travesty of a 
recollection. 

“No, I think it would be foolish to attempt to wrest the 
truth from Professor Slughorn by force, and might do 
much more harm than good; I do not wish him to 
leave Hogwarts. However, he has his weaknesses like 
the rest of us, and I believe that you are the one 
person who might be able to penetrate his defenses. It 
is most important that we secure the true memory, 
Harry. ... How important, we will only know when we 
have seen the real thing. So, good luck ... and good 
night.” 

A little taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, Harry 
got to his feet quickly. “Good night, sir.” 

As he closed the study door behind him, he distinctly 
heard Phineas Nigellus say, “I can’t see why the boy 
should be able to do it better than you, Dumbledore.” 

“I wouldn’t expect you to, Phineas,” replied 
Dumbledore, and Fawkes gave another low, musical 
cry. 



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BIRTHDAY SURPRISES 

The next day Harry confided in both Ron and 
Hermione the task that Dumbledore had set him, 
though separately, for Hermione still refused to 
remain in Ron’s presence longer than it took to give 
him a contemptuous look. 

Ron thought that Harry was unlikely to have any 
trouble with Slughorn at all. 

“He loves you,” he said over breakfast, waving an airy 
forkful of fried egg. “Won’t refuse you anything, will 
he? Not his little Potions Prince. Just hang back after 
class this afternoon and ask him.” 

Hermione, however, took a gloomier view. “He must 
be determined to hide what really happened if 
Dumbledore couldn’t get it out of him,” she said in a 
low voice, as they stood in the deserted, snowy 
courtyard at break. “Horcruxes ... Horcruxes ... I’ve 
never even heard of them. ...” 



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“You haven’t?” Harry was disappointed; he had hoped 
that Hermione might have been able to give him a 
clue as to what Horcruxes were. 



“They must be really advanced Dark Magic, or why 
would Voldemort have wanted to know about them? I 
think it’s going to be difficult to get the information, 
Harry, you’ll have to be very careful about how you 
approach Slughorn, think out a strategy. ...” 

“Ron reckons I should just hang back after Potions 
this afternoon. ...” 

“Oh, well, if Won-Won thinks that, you’d better do it,” 
she said, flaring up at once. “After all, when has Won- 
Won’s judgment ever been faulty?” 

“Hermione, can’t you — ?” 

“iVo!” she said angrily, and stormed away, leaving 
Harry alone and ankle-deep in snow. 

Potions lessons were uncomfortable enough these 
days, seeing as Harry, Ron, and Hermione had to 
share a desk. Today, Hermione moved her cauldron 
around the table so that she was close to Ernie, and 
ignored both Harry and Ron. 

“What’ve you done?” Ron muttered to Harry, looking 
at Hermione ’s haughty profile. 

But before Harry could answer, Slughorn was calling 
for silence from the front of the room. 

“Settle down, settle down, please! Quickly, now, lots 
of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott’s 
Third Law ... who can tell me — ? But Miss Granger 
can, of course!” 

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Hermione recited at top speed: “Golpalott’s-Third- 
Law-states-that-the-antidote-for-a-blended-poison- 
will-be-equal-to-more-than-the-sum-of-the-antidotes- 
for-each-of-the-separate-components.” 

“Precisely!” beamed Slughorn. “Ten points for 
Gryffindor! Now, if we accept Golpalott’s Third Law as 
true ...” 

Harry was going to have to take Slughorn ’s word for it 
that Golpalott’s Third Law was true, because he had 
not understood any of it. Nobody apart from 
Hermione seemed to be following what Slughorn said 
next either. 

"... which means, of course, that assuming we have 
achieved correct identification of the potion’s 
ingredients by Scarpin’s Revelaspell, our primary aim 
is not the relatively simple one of selecting antidotes 
to those ingredients in and of themselves, but to find 
that added component that will, by an almost 
alchemical process, transform these disparate 
elements — ” 

Ron was sitting beside Harry with his mouth half 
open, doodling absently on his new copy of Advanced 
Potion-Making. Ron kept forgetting that he could no 
longer rely on Hermione to help him out of trouble 
when he failed to grasp what was going on. 

"... and so,” finished Slughorn, “I want each of you to 
come and take one of these phials from my desk. You 
are to create an antidote for the poison within it 
before the end of the lesson. Good luck, and don’t 
forget your protective gloves!” 

Hermione had left her stool and was halfway toward 
Slughorn ’s desk before the rest of the class had 
realized it was time to move, and by the time Harry, 

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Ron, and Ernie returned to the table, she had already 
tipped the contents of her phial into her cauldron and 
was kindling a fire underneath it. 

“It’s a shame that the Prince won’t be able to help you 
much with this, Harry,” she said brightly as she 
straightened up. “You have to understand the 
principles involved this time. No shortcuts or cheats!” 

Annoyed, Harry uncorked the poison he had taken 
from Slughorn’s desk, which was a garish shade of 
pink, tipped it into his cauldron, and lit a fire 
underneath it. He did not have the faintest idea what 
he was supposed to do next. He glanced around at 
Ron, who was now standing there looking rather 
gormless, having copied everything Harry had done. 

“You sure the Prince hasn’t got any tips?” Ron 
muttered to Harry. 

Harry pulled out his trusty copy of Advanced Potion- 
Making and turned to the chapter on antidotes. There 
was Golpalott’s Third Law, stated word for word as 
Hermione had recited it, but not a single illuminating 
note in the Prince’s hand to explain what it meant. 
Apparently the Prince, like Hermione, had had no 
difficulty understanding it. 

“Nothing,” said Harry gloomily. 

Hermione was now waving her wand enthusiastically 
over her cauldron. Unfortunately, they could not copy 
the spell she was doing because she was now so good 
at nonverbal incantations that she did not need to say 
the words aloud. Ernie Macmillan, however, was 
muttering, “Specialis Reveliol” over his cauldron, 
which sounded impressive, so Harry and Ron 
hastened to imitate him. 



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It took Harry only five minutes to realize that his 
reputation as the best potion-maker in the class was 
crashing around his ears. Slughorn had peered 
hopefully into his cauldron on his first circuit of the 
dungeon, preparing to exclaim in delight as he 
usually did, and instead had withdrawn his head 
hastily, coughing, as the smell of bad eggs 
overwhelmed him. Hermione’s expression could not 
have been any smugger; she had loathed being 
outperformed in every Potions class. She was now 
decanting the mysteriously separated ingredients of 
her poison into ten different crystal phials. More to 
avoid watching this irritating sight than anything 
else, Harry bent over the Half-Blood Prince’s book and 
turned a few pages with unnecessary force. 

And there it was, scrawled right across a long list of 
antidotes: 

Just shove a bezoar down their throats. 

Harry stared at these words for a moment. Hadn’t he 
once, long ago, heard of bezoars? Hadn’t Snape 
mentioned them in their first-ever Potions lesson? “A 
stone taken from the stomach of a goat, which will 
protect from most poisons.” 

It was not an answer to the Golpalott problem, and 
had Snape still been their teacher, Harry would not 
have dared do it, but this was a moment for desperate 
measures. He hastened toward the store cupboard 
and rummaged within it, pushing aside unicorn 
horns and tangles of dried herbs until he found, at 
the very back, a small cardboard box on which had 
been scribbled the word bezoars. 

He opened the box just as Slughorn called, “Two 
minutes left, everyone!” Inside were half a dozen 



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shriveled brown objects, looking more like dried-up 
kidneys than real stones. Harry seized one, put the 
box back in the cupboard, and hurried back to his 
cauldron. 

“Time’s ... UP!” called Slughorn genially. “Well, let’s 
see how you’ve done! Blaise ... what have you got for 
me?” 

Slowly, Slughorn moved around the room, examining 
the various antidotes. Nobody had finished the task, 
although Hermione was trying to cram a few more 
ingredients into her bottle before Slughorn reached 
her. Ron had given up completely, and was merely 
trying to avoid breathing in the putrid fumes issuing 
from his cauldron. Harry stood there waiting, the 
bezoar clutched in a slightly sweaty hand. 

Slughorn reached their table last. He sniffed Ernie’s 
potion and passed on to Ron’s with a grimace. He did 
not linger over Ron’s cauldron, but backed away 
swiftly, retching slightly. 

“And you, Harry,” he said. “What have you got to 
show me?” 

Harry held out his hand, the bezoar sitting on his 
palm. 

Slughorn looked down at it for a full ten seconds. 
Harry wondered, for a moment, whether he was going 
to shout at him. Then he threw back his head and 
roared with laughter. 

“You’ve got nerve, boy!” he boomed, taking the bezoar 
and holding it up so that the class could see it. “Oh, 
you’re like your mother. ... Well, I can’t fault you. ... A 
bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these 
potions!” 

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Hermione, who was sweaty-faced and had soot on her 
nose, looked livid. Her half-finished antidote, 
comprising fifty-two ingredients, including a chunk of 
her own hair, bubbled sluggishly behind Slughorn, 
who had eyes for nobody but Harry. 

“And you thought of a bezoar all by yourself, did you, 
Harry?” she asked through gritted teeth. 

“That’s the individual spirit a real potion-maker 
needs!” said Slughorn happily, before Harry could 
reply. “Just like his mother, she had the same 
intuitive grasp of potion-making, it’s undoubtedly 
from Lily he gets it. ... Yes, Harry, yes, if you’ve got a 
bezoar to hand, of course that would do the trick . . . 
although as they don’t work on everything, and are 
pretty rare, it’s still worth knowing how to mix 
antidotes. ...” 

The only person in the room looking angrier than 
Hermione was Malfoy, who, Harry was pleased to see, 
had spilled something that looked like cat-sick over 
himself. Before either of them could express their fury 
that Harry had come top of the class by not doing any 
work, however, the bell rang. 

“Time to pack up!” said Slughorn. “And an extra ten 
points to Gryffindor for sheer cheek!” 

Still chuckling, he waddled back to his desk at the 
front of the dungeon. 

Harry dawdled behind, taking an inordinate amount 
of time to do up his bag. Neither Ron nor Hermione 
wished him luck as they left; both looked rather 
annoyed. At last Harry and Slughorn were the only 
two left in the room. 



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“Come on, now, Harry, you’ll be late for your next 
lesson,” said Slughorn affably, snapping the gold 
clasps shut on his dragon- skin briefcase. 

“Sir,” said Harry, reminding himself irresistibly of 
Voldemort, “I wanted to ask you something.” 

“Ask away, then, my dear boy, ask away. ...” 

“Sir, I wondered what you know about . . . about 
Horcruxes?” 

Slughorn froze. His round face seemed to sink in 
upon itself. He licked his lips and said hoarsely, 

“What did you say?” 

“I asked whether you know anything about 
Horcruxes, sir. You see — ” 

“Dumbledore put you up to this,” whispered 
Slughorn. His voice had changed completely. It was 
not genial anymore, but shocked, terrified. He 
fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a 
handkerchief, mopping his sweating brow. 
“Dumbledore’s shown you that — that memory. Well? 
Hasn’t he?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was 
best not to lie. 

“Yes, of course,” said Slughorn quietly, still dabbing 
at his white face. “Of course ... well, if you’ve seen 
that memory, Harry, you’ll know that I don’t know 
anything — anything” — he repeated the word 
forcefully — “about Horcruxes.” 

He seized his dragon-skin briefcase, stuffed his 
handkerchief back into his pocket, and marched to 
the dungeon door. 

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“Sir,” said Harry desperately, “I just thought there 
might be a bit more to the memory — ” 

“Did you?” said Slughorn. “Then you were wrong, 
weren’t you? WRONG!” 

He bellowed the last word and, before Harry could say 
another word, slammed the dungeon door behind 
him. 

Neither Ron nor Hermione was at all sympathetic 
when Harry told them of this disastrous interview. 
Hermione was still seething at the way Harry had 
triumphed without doing the work properly. Ron was 
resentful that Harry hadn’t slipped him a bezoar too. 

“It would’ve just looked stupid if we’d both done it!” 
said Harry irritably. “Look, I had to try and soften him 
up so I could ask him about Voldemort, didn’t I? Oh, 
will you get a grip\” he added in exasperation, as Ron 
winced at the sound of the name. 

Infuriated by his failure and by Ron’s and Hermione’s 
attitudes, Harry brooded for the next few days over 
what to do next about Slughorn. He decided that, for 
the time being, he would let Slughorn think that he 
had forgotten all about Horcruxes; it was surely best 
to lull him into a false sense of security before 
returning to the attack. 

When Harry did not question Slughorn again, the 
Potions master reverted to his usual affectionate 
treatment of him, and appeared to have put the 
matter from his mind. Harry awaited an invitation to 
one of his little evening parties, determined to accept 
this time, even if he had to reschedule Quidditch 
practice. Unfortunately, however, no such invitation 
arrived. Harry checked with Hermione and Ginny: 
Neither of them had received an invitation and nor, as 
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far as they knew, had anybody else. Harry could not 
help wondering whether this meant that Slughorn 
was not quite as forgetful as he appeared, simply 
determined to give Harry no additional opportunities 
to question him. 

Meanwhile, the Hogwarts library had failed Hermione 
for the first time in living memory. She was so 
shocked, she even forgot that she was annoyed at 
Harry for his trick with the bezoar. 

“I haven’t found one single explanation of what 
Horcruxes do!” she told him. “Not a single one! I’ve 
been right through the restricted section and even in 
the most horrible books, where they tell you how to 
brew the most gruesome potions — nothing! All I 
could find was this, in the introduction to Magick 
Moste Evile — listen — ‘Of the Horcrux, wickedest of 
magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give 
direction. ...’I mean, why mention it then?” she said 
impatiently, slamming the old book shut; it let out a 
ghostly wail. “Oh, shut up,” she snapped, stuffing it 
back into her bag. 

The snow melted around the school as February 
arrived, to be replaced by cold, dreary wetness. 
Purplish-gray clouds hung low over the castle and a 
constant fall of chilly rain made the lawns slippery 
and muddy. The upshot of this was that the sixth 
years’ first Apparition lesson, which was scheduled 
for a Saturday morning so that no normal lessons 
would be missed, took place in the Great Hall instead 
of in the grounds. 

When Harry and Hermione arrived in the Hall (Ron 
had come down with Lavender), they found that the 
tables had disappeared. Rain lashed against the high 
windows and the enchanted ceiling swirled darkly 
above them as they assembled in front of Professors 
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McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Sprout — the 
Heads of Houses — and a small wizard whom Harry 
took to be the Apparition instructor from the Ministry. 
He was oddly colorless, with transparent eyelashes, 
wispy hair, and an insubstantial air, as though a 
single gust of wind might blow him away. Harry 
wondered whether constant disappearances and 
reappearances had somehow diminished his 
substance, or whether this frail build was ideal for 
anyone wishing to vanish. 

“Good morning,” said the Ministry wizard, when all 
the students had arrived and the Heads of Houses 
had called for quiet. “My name is Wilkie Twycross and 
I shall be your Ministry Apparition instructor for the 
next twelve weeks. I hope to be able to prepare you for 
your Apparition Tests in this time — ” 

“Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!” barked Professor 
McGonagall. 

Everybody looked around. Malfoy had flushed a dull 
pink; he looked furious as he stepped away from 
Crabbe, with whom he appeared to have been having 
a whispered argument. Harry glanced quickly at 
Snape, who also looked annoyed, though Harry 
strongly suspected that this was less because of 
Malfoy’s rudeness than the fact that McGonagall had 
reprimanded one of his House. 

“ — by which time, many of you may be ready to take 
your tests,” Twycross continued, as though there had 
been no interruption. 

“As you may know, it is usually impossible to 
Apparate or Disapparate within Hogwarts. The 
headmaster has lifted this enchantment, purely 
within the Great Hall, for one hour, so as to enable 
you to practice. May I emphasize that you will not be 
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able to Apparate outside the walls of this Hall, and 
that you would be unwise to try. 

“I would like each of you to place yourselves now so 
that you have a clear five feet of space in front of 
you.” 

There was a great scrambling and jostling as people 
separated, banged into each other, and ordered 
others out of their space. The Heads of Houses moved 
among the students, marshaling them into position 
and breaking up arguments. 

“Harry, where are you going?” demanded Hermione. 

But Harry did not answer; he was moving quickly 
through the crowd, past the place where Professor 
Flitwick was making squeaky attempts to position a 
few Ravenclaws, all of whom wanted to be near the 
front, past Professor Sprout, who was chivying the 
Hufflepuffs into line, until, by dodging around Ernie 
Macmillan, he managed to position himself right at 
the back of the crowd, directly behind Malfoy, who 
was taking advantage of the general upheaval to 
continue his argument with Crabbe, standing five feet 
away and looking mutinous. 

“I don’t know how much longer, all right?” Malfoy 
shot at him, oblivious to Harry standing right behind 
him. “It’s taking longer than I thought it would.” 

Crabbe opened his mouth, but Malfoy appeared to 
second-guess what he was going to say. “Look, it’s 
none of your business what I’m doing, Crabbe, you 
and Goyle just do as you’re told and keep a lookout!” 

“I tell my friends what I’m up to, if I want them to 
keep a lookout for me,” Harry said, just loud enough 
for Malfoy to hear him. 

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Malfoy spun around on the spot, his hand flying to 
his wand, but at that precise moment the four Heads 
of House shouted, “Quiet!” and silence fell again. 
Malfoy turned slowly to face the front again. 

“Thank you,” said Twycross. “Now then ...” 

He waved his wand. Old-fashioned wooden hoops 
instantly appeared on the floor in front of every 
student. 

“The important things to remember when Apparating 
are the three D’s!” said Twycross. “Destination, 
Determination, Deliberation! 

“Step one: Fix your mind firmly upon the desired 
destination,” said Twycross. “In this case, the interior 
of your hoop. Kindly concentrate upon that 
destination now.” 

Everybody looked around furtively to check that 
everyone else was staring into their hoop, then hastily 
did as they were told. Harry gazed at the circular 
patch of dusty floor enclosed by his hoop and tried 
hard to think of nothing else. This proved impossible, 
as he couldn’t stop puzzling over what Malfoy was 
doing that needed lookouts. 

“Step two,” said Twycross, “focus your determination 
to occupy the visualized space! Let your yearning to 
enter it flood from your mind to every particle of your 
body!” 

Harry glanced around surreptitiously. A little way to 
his left, Ernie Macmillan was contemplating his hoop 
so hard that his face had turned pink; it looked as 
though he was straining to lay a Quaffle-sized egg. 
Harry bit back a laugh and hastily returned his gaze 
to his own hoop. 

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“Step three,” called Twycross, “and only when I give 
the command ... Turn on the spot, feeling your way 
into nothingness, moving with deliberation ,! On my 
command, now . . . one — ” 

Harry glanced around again; lots of people were 
looking positively alarmed at being asked to Apparate 
so quickly. 

“— two — ” 

Harry tried to fix his thoughts on his hoop again; he 
had already forgotten what the three D’s stood for. 

THREE!” 

Harry spun on the spot, lost balance, and nearly fell 
over. He was not the only one. The whole Hall was 
suddenly full of staggering people; Neville was flat on 
his back; Ernie Macmillan, on the other hand, had 
done a kind of pirouetting leap into his hoop and 
looked momentarily thrilled, until he caught sight of 
Dean Thomas roaring with laughter at him. 

“Never mind, never mind,” said Twycross dryly, who 
did not seem to have expected anything better. 

“Adjust your hoops, please, and back to your original 
positions. ...” 

The second attempt was no better than the first. The 
third was just as bad. Not until the fourth did 
anything exciting happen. There was a horrible 
screech of pain and everybody looked around, 
terrified, to see Susan Bones of Hufflepuff wobbling in 
her hoop with her left leg still standing five feet away 
where she had started. 

The Heads of House converged on her; there was a 
great bang and a puff of purple smoke, which cleared 

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to reveal Susan sobbing, reunited with her leg but 
looking horrified. 



“Splinching, or the separation of random body parts,” 
said Wilkie Twycross dispassionately, “occurs when 
the mind is insufficiently determined. You must 
concentrate continuously upon your destination , and 
move, without haste, but with deliberation ... thus.” 

Twycross stepped forward, turned gracefully on the 
spot with his arms outstretched, and vanished in a 
swirl of robes, reappearing at the back of the Hall. 

“Remember the three D’s,” he said, “and try again ... 
one — two — three — ” 

But an hour later, Susan’s Splinching was still the 
most interesting thing that had happened. Twycross 
did not seem discouraged. Fastening his cloak at his 
neck, he merely said, “Until next Saturday, 
everybody, and do not forget: Destination. 
Determination. Deliberation.” 

With that, he waved his wand, Vanishing the hoops, 
and walked out of the Hall accompanied by Professor 
McGonagall. Talk broke out at once as people began 
moving toward the entrance hall. 

“How did you do?” asked Ron, hurrying toward Harry. 
“I think I felt something the last time I tried — a kind 
of tingling in my feet.” 

“I expect your trainers are too small, Won-Won,” said 
a voice behind them, and Hermione stalked past, 
smirking. 

“I didn’t feel anything,” said Harry, ignoring this 
interruption. “But I don’t care about that now — ” 

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“What d’you mean, you don’t care? Don’t you want to 
learn to Apparate?” said Ron incredulously. 

“I’m not fussed, really, I prefer flying,” said Harry, 
glancing over his shoulder to see where Malfoy was, 
and speeding up as they came into the entrance hall. 
“Look, hurry up, will you, there’s something I want to 
do. ...” 

Perplexed, Ron followed Harry back to the Gryffindor 
Tower at a run. They were temporarily detained by 
Peeves, who had jammed a door on the fourth floor 
shut and was refusing to let anyone pass until they 
set fire to their own pants, but Harry and Ron simply 
turned back and took one of their trusted shortcuts. 
Within five minutes, they were climbing through the 
portrait hole. 

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing, then?” 
asked Ron, panting slightly. 

“Up here,” said Harry, and he crossed the common 
room and led the way through the door to the boys’ 
staircase. 

Their dormitory was, as Harry had hoped, empty. He 
flung open his trunk and began to rummage in it, 
while Ron watched impatiently. 

“Harry ...” 

“Malfoy ’s using Crabbe and Goyle as lookouts. He was 
arguing with Crabbe just now. I want to know — 
aha.” 

He had found it, a folded square of apparently blank 
parchment, which he now smoothed out and tapped 
with the tip of his wand. 



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“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good ... or Malfoy 
is anyway.” 

At once, the Marauder’s Map appeared on the 
parchment’s surface. Here was a detailed plan of 
every one of the castle’s floors and, moving around it, 
the tiny, labeled black dots that signified each of the 
castle’s occupants. 

“Help me find Malfoy,” said Harry urgently. 

He laid the map upon his bed, and he and Ron leaned 
over it, searching. 

“There!” said Ron, after a minute or so. “He’s in the 
Slytherin common room, look . . . with Parkinson and 
Zabini and Crabbe and Goyle ...” 

Harry looked down at the map, disappointed, but 
rallied almost at once. 

“Well, I’m keeping an eye on him from now on,” he 
said firmly. “And the moment I see him lurking 
somewhere with Crabbe and Goyle keeping watch 
outside, it’ll be on with the old Invisibility Cloak and 
off to find out what he’s — ” 

He broke off as Neville entered the dormitory, bringing 
with him a strong smell of singed material, and began 
rummaging in his trunk for a fresh pair of pants. 

Despite his determination to catch Malfoy out, Harry 
had no luck at all over the next couple of weeks. 
Although he consulted the map as often as he could, 
sometimes making unnecessary visits to the 
bathroom between lessons to search it, he did not 
once see Malfoy anywhere suspicious. Admittedly, he 
spotted Crabbe and Goyle moving around the castle 
on their own more often than usual, sometimes 
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remaining stationary in deserted corridors, but at 
these times Malfoy was not only nowhere near them, 
but impossible to locate on the map at all. This was 
most mysterious. Harry toyed with the possibility that 
Malfoy was actually leaving the school grounds, but 
could not see how he could be doing it, given the very 
high level of security now operating within the castle. 
He could only suppose that he was missing Malfoy 
amongst the hundreds of tiny black dots upon the 
map. As for the fact that Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle 
appeared to be going their different ways when they 
were usually inseparable, these things happened as 
people got older — Ron and Hermione, Harry reflected 
sadly, were living proof. 

February moved toward March with no change in the 
weather except that it became windy as well as wet. 

To general indignation, a sign went up on all common 
room notice boards that the next trip into Hogsmeade 
had been canceled. Ron was furious. 

“It was on my birthday!” he said. “I was looking 
forward to that!” 

“Not a big surprise, though, is it?” said Harry. “Not 
after what happened to Katie.” 

She had still not returned from St. Mungo’s. What 
was more, further disappearances had been reported 
in the Daily Prophet, including several relatives of 
students at Hogwarts. 

“But now all I’ve got to look forward to is stupid 
Apparition!” said Ron grumpily. “Big birthday treat ...” 

Three lessons on, Apparition was proving as difficult 
as ever, though a few more people had managed to 
Splinch themselves. Frustration was running high 
and there was a certain amount of ill-feeling toward 

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Wilkie Twycross and his three D’s, which had inspired 
a number of nicknames for him, the politest of which 
were Dogbreath and Dunghead. 

“Happy birthday, Ron,” said Harry, when they were 
woken on the first of March by Seamus and Dean 
leaving noisily for breakfast. “Have a present.” 

He threw the package across onto Ron’s bed, where it 
joined a small pile of them that must, Harry assumed, 
have been delivered by house-elves in the night. 

“Cheers,” said Ron drowsily and, as he ripped off the 
paper, Harry got out of bed, opened his own trunk, 
and began rummaging in it for the Marauder’s Map, 
which he hid after every use. He turfed out half the 
contents of his trunk before he found it hiding 
beneath the rolled-up socks in which he was still 
keeping his bottle of lucky potion, Felix Felicis. 

“Right,” he murmured, taking it back to bed with him, 
tapping it quietly and murmuring, “ I solemnly swear 
that I am up to no good,” so that Neville, who was 
passing the foot of his bed at the time, would not 
hear. 

“Nice one, Harry!” said Ron enthusiastically, waving 
the new pair of Quidditch Keeper’s gloves Harry had 
given him. 

“No problem,” said Harry absentmindedly, as he 
searched the Slytherin dormitory closely for Malfoy. 
“Hey ... I don’t think he’s in his bed. ...” 

Ron did not answer; he was too busy unwrapping 
presents, every now and then letting out an 
exclamation of pleasure. 



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“Seriously good haul this year!” he announced, 
holding up a heavy gold watch with odd symbols 
around the edge and tiny moving stars instead of 
hands. “See what Mum and Dad got me? Blimey, I 
think I’ll come of age next year too. ...” 

“Cool,” muttered Harry, sparing the watch a glance 
before peering more closely at the map. Where was 
Malfoy? He did not seem to be at the Slytherin table 
in the Great Hall, eating breakfast. ... He was 
nowhere near Snape, who was sitting in his study. ... 
He wasn’t in any of the bathrooms or in the hospital 
wing. ... 

“Want one?” said Ron thickly, holding out a box of 
Chocolate Cauldrons. 

“No thanks,” said Harry, looking up. “Malfoy’s gone 
again!” 

“Can’t have done,” said Ron, stuffing a second 
Cauldron into his mouth as he slid out of bed to get 
dressed. “Come on, if you don’t hurry up, you’ll have 
to Apparate on an empty stomach. ... Might make it 
easier, I suppose ...” Ron looked thoughtfully at the 
box of Chocolate Cauldrons, then shrugged and 
helped himself to a third. 

Harry tapped the map with his wand, muttered, 
“Mischief managed,” though it hadn’t been, and got 
dressed, thinking hard. There had to be an 
explanation for Malfoy’s periodic disappearances, but 
he simply could not think what it could be. The best 
way of finding out would be to tail him, but even with 
the Invisibility Cloak this was an impractical idea: 
Harry had lessons, Quidditch practice, homework, 
and Apparition; he could not follow Malfoy around 
school all day without his absence being remarked 
upon. 

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“Ready?” he said to Ron. 

He was halfway to the dormitory door when he 
realized that Ron had not moved, but was leaning on 
his bedpost, staring out of the rain-washed window 
with a strangely unfocused look on his face. 

“Ron? Breakfast.” 

“I’m not hungry.” 

Harry stared at him. 

“I thought you just said — ?” 

“Well, all right, I’ll come down with you,” sighed Ron, 
“but I don’t want to eat.” 

Harry scrutinized him suspiciously. 

“You’ve just eaten half a box of Chocolate Cauldrons, 
haven’t you?” 

“It’s not that,” Ron sighed again. “You ... you wouldn’t 
understand.” 

“Fair enough,” said Harry, albeit puzzled, as he 
turned to open the door. 

“Harry!” said Ron suddenly. 

“What?” 

“Harry, I can’t stand it!” 

“You can’t stand what?” asked Harry, now starting to 
feel definitely alarmed. Ron was rather pale and 
looked as though he was about to be sick. 



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“I can’t stop thinking about her!” said Ron hoarsely. 

Harry gaped at him. He had not expected this and 
was not sure he wanted to hear it. Friends they might 
be, but if Ron started calling Lavender “Lav-Lav,” he 
would have to put his foot down. 

“Why does that stop you having breakfast?” Harry 
asked, trying to inject a note of common sense into 
the proceedings. 

“I don’t think she knows I exist,” said Ron with a 
desperate gesture. 

“She definitely knows you exist,” said Harry, 
bewildered. “She keeps snogging you, doesn’t she?” 

Ron blinked. “Who are you talking about?” 

“Who are you talking about?” said Harry, with an 
increasing sense that all reason had dropped out of 
the conversation. 

“Romilda Vane,” said Ron softly, and his whole face 
seemed to illuminate as he said it, as though hit by a 
ray of purest sunlight. 

They stared at each other for almost a whole minute, 
before Harry said, “This is a joke, right? You’re 
joking.” 

“I think ... Harry, I think I love her,” said Ron in a 
strangled voice. 

“Okay,” said Harry, walking up to Ron to get a better 
look at the glazed eyes and the pallid complexion, 
“okay... Say that again with a straight face.” 



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“I love her,” repeated Ron breathlessly. “Have you 
seen her hair, it’s all black and shiny and silky ... and 
her eyes? Her big dark eyes? And her — ” 

“This is really funny and everything,” said Harry 
impatiently, “but joke’s over, all right? Drop it.” 

He turned to leave; he had got two steps toward the 
door when a crashing blow hit him on the right ear. 
Staggering, he looked around. Ron’s fist was drawn 
right back; his face was contorted with rage; he was 
about to strike again. 

Harry reacted instinctively; his wand was out of his 
pocket and the incantation sprang to mind without 
conscious thought: Levicorpus\ 

Ron yelled as his heel was wrenched upward once 
more; he dangled helplessly, upside down, his robes 
hanging off him. 

“ What was that for?” Harry bellowed. 

“You insulted her, Harry! You said it was a joke!” 
shouted Ron, who was slowly turning purple in the 
face as all the blood rushed to his head. 

“This is insane!” said Harry. “What’s got into — ?” 

And then he saw the box lying open on Ron’s bed, 
and the truth hit him with the force of a stampeding 
troll. 

“Where did you get those Chocolate Cauldrons?” 

“They were a birthday present!” shouted Ron, 
revolving slowly in midair as he struggled to get free. 

“I offered you one, didn’t I?” 



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“You just picked them up off the floor, didn’t you?” 



“They’d fallen off my bed, all right? Let me go!” 

“They didn’t fall off your bed, you prat, don’t you 
understand? They were mine, I chucked them out of 
my trunk when I was looking for the map, they’re the 
Chocolate Cauldrons Romilda gave me before 
Christmas, and they’re all spiked with love potion!” 

But only one word of this seemed to have registered 
with Ron. 

“Romilda?” he repeated. “Did you say Romilda? Harry 
— do you know her? Can you introduce me?” 

Harry stared at the dangling Ron, whose face now 
looked tremendously hopeful, and fought a strong 
desire to laugh. A part of him — the part closest to 
his throbbing right ear — was quite keen on the idea 
of letting Ron down and watching him run amok until 
the effects of the potion wore off. . . . But on the other 
hand, they were supposed to be friends, Ron had not 
been himself when he had attacked, and Harry 
thought that he would deserve another punching if he 
permitted Ron to declare undying love for Romilda 
Vane. 

“Yeah, I’ll introduce you,” said Harry, thinking fast. 
“I’m going to let you down now, okay?” 

He sent Ron crashing back to the floor (his ear did 
hurt quite a lot), but Ron simply bounded to his feet 
again, grinning. 

“She’ll be in Slughorn’s office,” said Harry confidently, 
leading the way to the door. 



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“Why will she be in there?” asked Ron anxiously, 
hurrying to keep up. 

“Oh, she has extra Potions lessons with him,” said 
Harry, inventing wildly. 

“Maybe I could ask if I can have them with her?” said 
Ron eagerly. 

“Great idea,” said Harry. 

Lavender was waiting beside the portrait hole, a 
complication Harry had not foreseen. 

“You’re late, Won-Won!” she pouted. “I’ve got you a 
birthday — ” 

“Leave me alone,” said Ron impatiently. “Harry’s going 
to introduce me to Romilda Vane.” 

And without another word to her, he pushed his way 
out of the portrait hole. Harry tried to make an 
apologetic face to Lavender, but it might have turned 
out simply amused, because she looked more 
offended than ever as the Fat Lady swung shut 
behind them. 

Harry had been slightly worried that Slughorn might 
be at breakfast, but he answered his office door at the 
first knock, wearing a green velvet dressing gown and 
matching nightcap and looking rather bleary-eyed. 

“Harry,” he mumbled. “This is very early for a call. ... I 
generally sleep late on a Saturday. ...” 

“Professor, I’m really sorry to disturb you,” said Harry 
as quietly as possible, while Ron stood on tiptoe, 
attempting to see past Slughorn into his room, “but 
my friend Ron’s swallowed a love potion by mistake. 

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You couldn’t make him an antidote, could you? I’d 
take him to Madam Pomfrey, but we’re not supposed 
to have anything from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and, 
you know ... awkward questions ...” 

“I’d have thought you could have whipped him up a 
remedy, Harry, an expert potioneer like you?” asked 
Slughorn. 

“Er,” said Harry, somewhat distracted by the fact that 
Ron was now elbowing him in the ribs in an attempt 
to force his way into the room, “well, I’ve never mixed 
an antidote for a love potion, sir, and by the time I get 
it right, Ron might’ve done something serious — ” 

Helpfully, Ron chose this moment to moan, “I can’t 
see her, Harry — is he hiding her?” 

“Was this potion within date?” asked Slughorn, now 
eyeing Ron with professional interest. “They can 
strengthen, you know, the longer they’re kept.” 

“That would explain a lot,” panted Harry, now 
positively wrestling with Ron to keep him from 
knocking Slughorn over. “It’s his birthday, Professor,” 
he added imploringly. 

“Oh, all right, come in, then, come in,” said Slughorn, 
relenting. “I’ve got the necessary here in my bag, it’s 
not a difficult antidote. ...” 

Ron burst through the door into Slughorn ’s 
overheated, crowded study, tripped over a tasseled 
footstool, regained his balance by seizing Harry 
around the neck, and muttered, “She didn’t see that, 
did she?” 



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“She’s not here yet,” said Harry, watching Slughorn 
opening his potion kit and adding a few pinches of 
this and that to a small crystal bottle. 

“That’s good,” said Ron fervently. “How do I look?” 

“Very handsome,” said Slughorn smoothly, handing 
Ron a glass of clear liquid. “Now drink that up, it’s a 
tonic for the nerves, keep you calm when she arrives, 
you know.” 

“Brilliant,” said Ron eagerly, and he gulped the 
antidote down noisily. 

Harry and Slughorn watched him. For a moment, Ron 
beamed at them. Then, very slowly, his grin sagged 
and vanished, to be replaced by an expression of 
utmost horror. 

“Back to normal, then?” said Harry, grinning. 
Slughorn chuckled. “Thanks a lot, Professor.” 

“Don’t mention it, m’boy, don’t mention it,” said 
Slughorn, as Ron collapsed into a nearby armchair, 
looking devastated. “Pick-me-up, that’s what he 
needs,” Slughorn continued, now bustling over to a 
table loaded with drinks. “I’ve got butterbeer, I’ve got 
wine, I’ve got one last bottle of this oak-matured mead 
. . . hmm . . . meant to give that to Dumbledore for 
Christmas ... ah, well ...” He shrugged. “He can’t miss 
what he’s never had! Why don’t we open it now and 
celebrate Mr. Weasley’s birthday? Nothing like a fine 
spirit to chase away the pangs of disappointed love. 



He chortled again, and Harry joined in. This was the 
first time he had found himself almost alone with 
Slughorn since his disastrous first attempt to extract 
the true memory from him. Perhaps, if he could just 

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keep Slughorn in a good mood . . . perhaps if they got 
through enough of the oak-matured mead . . . 

“There you are then,” said Slughorn, handing Harry 
and Ron a glass of mead each before raising his own. 
“Well, a very happy birthday, Ralph — ” 

“Ron — ” whispered Harry. 

But Ron, who did not appear to be listening to the 
toast, had already thrown the mead into his mouth 
and swallowed it. 

There was one second, hardly more than a heartbeat, 
in which Harry knew there was something terribly 
wrong and Slughorn, it seemed, did not. 

“ — and may you have many more — ” 

“Ron\” 

Ron had dropped his glass; he half-rose from his 
chair and then crumpled, his extremities jerking 
uncontrollably. Foam was dribbling from his mouth, 
and his eyes were bulging from their sockets. 

“Professor!” Harry bellowed. “Do something!” 

But Slughorn seemed paralyzed by shock. Ron 
twitched and choked: His skin was turning blue. 

“What — but — ” spluttered Slughorn. 

Harry leapt over a low table and sprinted toward 
Slughorn ’s open potion kit, pulling out jars and 
pouches, while the terrible sound of Ron’s gargling 
breath filled the room. Then he found it — the 
shriveled kidneylike stone Slughorn had taken from 
him in Potions. 

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He hurtled back to Ron’s side, wrenched open his 
jaw, and thrust the bezoar into his mouth. Ron gave a 
great shudder, a rattling gasp, and his body became 
limp and still. 



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ELF TAILS 

“So, all in all, not one of Ron’s better birthdays?” said 
Fred. 

It was evening; the hospital wing was quiet, the 
windows curtained, the lamps lit. Ron’s was the only 
occupied bed. Harry, Hermione, and Ginny were 
sitting around him; they had spent all day waiting 
outside the double doors, trying to see inside 
whenever somebody went in or out. Madam Pomfrey 
had only let them enter at eight o’clock. Fred and 
George had arrived at ten past. 

“This isn’t how we imagined handing over our 
present,” said George grimly, putting down a large 
wrapped gift on Ron’s bedside cabinet and sitting 
beside Ginny. 

“Yeah, when we pictured the scene, he was 
conscious,” said Fred. 

“There we were in Hogsmeade, waiting to surprise 
him — ” said George. 

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“You were in Hogsmeade?” asked Ginny, looking up. 

“We were thinking of buying Zonko’s,” said Fred 
gloomily. “A Hogsmeade branch, you know, but a fat 
lot of good it’ll do us if you lot aren’t allowed out at 
weekends to buy our stuff anymore. ... But never 
mind that now.” 

He drew up a chair beside Harry and looked at Ron’s 
pale face. 

“How exactly did it happen, Harry?” 

Harry retold the story he had already recounted, it felt 
like a hundred times to Dumbledore, to McGonagall, 
to Madam Pomfrey, to Hermione, and to Ginny. 

"... and then I got the bezoar down his throat and his 
breathing eased up a bit, Slughorn ran for help, 
McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey turned up, and they 
brought Ron up here. They reckon he’ll be all right. 
Madam Pomfrey says hell have to stay here a week or 
so ... keep taking essence of rue ...” 

“Blimey, it was lucky you thought of a bezoar,” said 
George in a low voice. 

“Lucky there was one in the room,” said Harry, who 
kept turning cold at the thought of what would have 
happened if he had not been able to lay hands on the 
little stone. 

Hermione gave an almost inaudible sniff. She had 
been exceptionally quiet all day. Having hurtled, 
white-faced, up to Harry outside the hospital wing 
and demanded to know what had happened, she had 
taken almost no part in Harry and Ginny’s obsessive 
discussion about how Ron had been poisoned, but 
merely stood beside them, clench-jawed and 
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frightened-looking, until at last they had been allowed 
in to see him. 

“Do Mum and Dad know?” Fred asked Ginny. 

“They’ve already seen him, they arrived an hour ago 
— they’re in Dumbledore’s office now, but they’ll be 
back soon. ...” 

There was a pause while they all watched Ron 
mumble a little in his sleep. 

“So the poison was in the drink?” said Fred quietly. 

“Yes,” said Harry at once; he could think of nothing 
else and was glad for the opportunity to start 
discussing it again. “Slughorn poured it out — ” 

“Would he have been able to slip something into Ron’s 
glass without you seeing?” 

“Probably,” said Harry, “but why would Slughorn 
want to poison Ron?” 

“No idea,” said Fred, frowning. “You don’t think he 
could have mixed up the glasses by mistake? Meaning 
to get you?” 

“Why would Slughorn want to poison Harry?” asked 
Ginny. 

“I dunno,” said Fred, “but there must be loads of 
people who’d like to poison Harry, mustn’t there? The 
Chosen One’ and all that?” 

“So you think Slughorn ’s a Death Eater?” said Ginny. 
“Anything’s possible,” said Fred darkly. 



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“He could be under the Imperius Curse,” said George. 

“Or he could be innocent,” said Ginny. “The poison 
could have been in the bottle, in which case it was 
probably meant for Slughorn himself.” 

“Who’d want to kill Slughorn?” 

“Dumbledore reckons Voldemort wanted Slughorn on 
his side,” said Harry. “Slughorn was in hiding for a 
year before he came to Hogwarts. And ...” He thought 
of the memory Dumbledore had not yet been able to 
extract from Slughorn. “And maybe Voldemort wants 
him out of the way, maybe he thinks he could be 
valuable to Dumbledore.” 

“But you said Slughorn had been planning to give 
that bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas,” Ginny 
reminded him. “So the poisoner could just as easily 
have been after Dumbledore.” 

“Then the poisoner didn’t know Slughorn very well,” 
said Hermione, speaking for the first time in hours 
and sounding as though she had a bad head cold. 
“Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there 
was a good chance he’d keep something that tasty for 
himself.” 

“Er-my-nee,” croaked Ron unexpectedly from between 
them. 

They all fell silent, watching him anxiously, but after 
muttering incomprehensibly for a moment he merely 
started snoring. 

The dormitory doors flew open, making them all 
jump: Hagrid came striding toward them, his hair 
rain-flecked, his bearskin coat flapping behind him, a 



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crossbow in his hand, leaving a trail of muddy 
dolphin-sized footprints all over the floor. 

“Bin in the forest all day!” he panted. “Aragog’s worse, 
I bin readin’ to him — didn’ get up ter dinner till jus’ 
now an’ then Professor Sprout told me abou’ Ron! 

How is he?” 

“Not bad,” said Harry. “They say he’ll be okay.” 

“No more than six visitors at a time!” said Madam 
Pomfrey, hurrying out of her office. 

“Hagrid makes six,” George pointed out. 

“Oh ... yes ...” said Madam Pomfrey, who seemed to 
have been counting Hagrid as several people due to 
his vastness. To cover her confusion, she hurried off 
to clear up his muddy footprints with her wand. 

“I don’ believe this,” said Hagrid hoarsely, shaking his 
great shaggy head as he stared down at Ron. “Jus’ 
don’ believe it ... Look at him lyin’ there. ... Who’d 
want ter hurt him, eh?” 

“That’s just what we were discussing,” said Harry. 

“We don’t know.” 

“Someone couldn’ have a grudge against the 
Gryffindor Quidditch team, could they?” said Hagrid 
anxiously. “Firs’ Katie, now Ron ...” 

“I can’t see anyone trying to bump off a Quidditch 
team,” said George. 

“Wood might’ve done the Slytherins if he could’ve got 
away with it,” said Fred fairly. 



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“Well, I don’t think it’s Quidditch, but I think there’s a 
connection between the attacks,” said Hermione 
quietly. 

“How d’you work that out?” asked Fred. 

“Well, for one thing, they both ought to have been 
fatal and weren’t, although that was pure luck. And 
for another, neither the poison nor the necklace 
seems to have reached the person who was supposed 
to be killed. Of course,” she added broodingly, “that 
makes the person behind this even more dangerous 
in a way, because they don’t seem to care how many 
people they finish off before they actually reach their 
victim.” 

Before anybody could respond to this ominous 
pronouncement, the dormitory doors opened again 
and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley hurried up the ward. They 
had done no more than satisfy themselves that Ron 
would make a full recovery on their last visit to the 
ward; now Mrs. Weasley seized hold of Harry and 
hugged him very tightly. “Dumbledore’s told us how 
you saved him with the bezoar,” she sobbed. “Oh, 
Harry, what can we say? You saved Ginny ... you 
saved Arthur ... now you’ve saved Ron ...” 

“Don’t be ... I didn’t ...” muttered Harry awkwardly. 

“Half our family does seem to owe you their lives, now 
I stop and think about it,” Mr. Weasley said in a 
constricted voice. “Well, all I can say is that it was a 
lucky day for the Weasleys when Ron decided to sit in 
your compartment on the Hogwarts Express, Harry.” 

Harry could not think of any reply to this and was 
almost glad when Madam Pomfrey reminded them 
that there were only supposed to be six visitors 
around Ron’s bed; he and Hermione rose at once to 

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leave and Hagrid decided to go with them, leaving Ron 
with his family. 

“It’s terrible,” growled Hagrid into his beard, as the 
three of them walked back along the corridor to the 
marble staircase. “All this new security, an’ kids are 
still gettin’ hurt. ... Dumbledore’s worried sick. ... He 
don’ say much, but I can tell. ...” 

“Hasn’t he got any ideas, Hagrid?” asked Hermione 
desperately. 

“I ’spect he’s got hundreds of ideas, brain like his,” 
said Hagrid. “But he doesn’ know who sent that 
necklace nor put poison in that wine, or they’d ’ve bin 
caught, wouldn’ they? Wha’ worries me,” said Hagrid, 
lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder 
(Harry, for good measure, checked the ceiling for 
Peeves), “is how long Hogwarts can stay open if kids 
are bein’ attacked. Chamber o’ Secrets all over again, 
isn’ it? There’ll be panic, more parents takin’ their 
kids outta school, an’ nex’ thing yeh know the board 
o’ governors ...” 

Hagrid stopped talking as the ghost of a long-haired 
woman drifted serenely past, then resumed in a 
hoarse whisper, "... the board o’ governors’ll be talkin’ 
about shuttin’ us up fer good.” 

“Surely not?” said Hermione, looking worried. 

“Gotta see it from their point o’ view,” said Hagrid 
heavily. “I mean, it’s always bin a bit of a risk sendin’ 
a kid ter Hogwarts, hasn’ it? Yer expect accidents, 
don’ yeh, with hundreds of underage wizards all 
locked up tergether, but attempted murder, tha’s 
diff’rent. ’S’no wonder Dumbledore’s angry with Sn — 



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Hagrid stopped in his tracks, a familiar, guilty 
expression on what was visible of his face above his 
tangled black beard. 

“What?” said Harry quickly. “Dumbledore’s angry with 
Snape?” 

“I never said tha’,” said Hagrid, though his look of 
panic could not have been a bigger giveaway. “Look at 
the time, it’s gettin’ on fer midnight, I need ter — ” 

“Hagrid, why is Dumbledore angry with Snape?” 

Harry asked loudly. 

“Shhhh!” said Hagrid, looking both nervous and 
angry. “Don’ shout stuff like that, Harry, d’yeh wan’ 
me ter lose me job? Mind, I don’ suppose yeh’d care, 
would yeh, not now yeh’ve given up Care of Mag — ” 

“Don’t try and make me feel guilty, it won’t work!” 
said Harry forcefully. “What’s Snape done?” 

“I dunno, Harry, I shouldn’ta heard it at all! I — well, I 
was cornin’ outta the forest the other evenin’ an’ I 
overheard ’em talking — well, arguin’. Didn’t like ter 
draw attention to meself, so I sorta skulked an’ tried 
not ter listen, but it was a — well, a heated discussion 
an’ it wasn’ easy ter block it out.” 

“Well?” Harry urged him, as Hagrid shuffled his 
enormous feet uneasily. 

“Well — I jus’ heard Snape sayin’ Dumbledore took 
too much fer granted an’ maybe he — Snape — didn’ 
wan’ ter do it anymore — ” 

“Do what?” 



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“I dunno, Harry, it sounded like Snape was feelin’ a 
bit overworked, tha’s all — anyway, Dumbledore told 
him flat out he’d agreed ter do it an’ that was all there 
was to it. Pretty firm with him. An’ then he said 
summat abou’ Snape makin’ investigations in his 
House, in Slytherin. Well, there’s nothin’ strange 
abou’ that!” Hagrid added hastily, as Harry and 
Hermione exchanged looks full of meaning. “All the 
Heads o’ Houses were asked ter look inter that 
necklace business — ” 

“Yeah, but Dumbledore ’s not having rows with the 
rest of them, is he?” said Harry. 

“Look,” Hagrid twisted his crossbow uncomfortably in 
his hands; there was a loud splintering sound and it 
snapped in two. “I know what yeh’re like abou’ Snape, 
Harry, an’ I don’ want yeh ter go readin’ more inter 
this than there is.” 

“Look out,” said Hermione tersely. 

They turned just in time to see the shadow of Argus 
Filch looming over the wall behind them before the 
man himself turned the corner, hunchbacked, his 
jowls aquiver. 

“Oho!” he wheezed. “Out of bed so late, this’ll mean 
detention!” 

“No it won’, Filch,” said Hagrid shortly. “They’re with 
me, aren’ they?” 

“And what difference does that make?” asked Filch 
obnoxiously. 

“I’m a ruddy teacher, aren’ I, yeh sneakin’ Squib!” 
said Hagrid, firing up at once. 



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There was a nasty hissing noise as Filch swelled with 
fury; Mrs. Norris had arrived, unseen, and was 
twisting herself sinuously around Filch’s skinny 
ankles. 

“Get goin’,” said Hagrid out of the corner of his 
mouth. 

Harry did not need telling twice; he and Hermione 
both hurried off; Hagrid’s and Filch’s raised voices 
echoed behind them as they ran. They passed Peeves 
near the turning into Gryffindor Tower, but he was 
streaking happily toward the source of the yelling, 
cackling and calling, 

When there’s strife and when there’s trouble 
Call on Peevsie, he’ll make double! 

The Fat Lady was snoozing and not pleased to be 
woken, but swung forward grumpily to allow them to 
clamber into the mercifully peaceful and empty 
common room. It did not seem that people knew 
about Ron yet; Harry was very relieved: He had been 
interrogated enough that day. Hermione bade him 
good night and set off for the girls’ dormitory. Harry, 
however, remained behind, taking a seat beside the 
fire and looking down into the dying embers. 

So Dumbledore had argued with Snape. In spite of all 
he had told Harry, in spite of his insistence that he 
trusted Snape completely, he had lost his temper with 
him. ... He did not think that Snape had tried hard 
enough to investigate the Slytherins ... or, perhaps, to 
investigate a single Slytherin: Malfoy? 

Was it because Dumbledore did not want Harry to do 
anything foolish, to take matters into his own hands, 
that he had pretended there was nothing in Harry’s 
suspicions? That seemed likely. It might even be that 

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Dumbledore did not want anything to distract Harry 
from their lessons, or from procuring that memory 
from Slughorn. Perhaps Dumbledore did not think it 
right to confide suspicions about his staff to sixteen- 
year-olds. ... 

“There you are, Potter!” 

Harry jumped to his feet in shock, his wand at the 
ready. He had been quite convinced that the common 
room was empty; he had not been at all prepared for 
a hulking figure to rise suddenly out of a distant 
chair. A closer look showed him that it was Cormac 
McLaggen. 

“I’ve been waiting for you to come back,” said 
McLaggen, disregarding Harry’s drawn wand. 

“Must’ve fallen asleep. Look, I saw them taking 
Weasley up to the hospital wing earlier. Didn’t look 
like he’ll be fit for next week’s match.” 

It took Harry a few moments to realize what 
McLaggen was talking about. 

“Oh ... right ... Quidditch,” he said, putting his wand 
back into the belt of his jeans and running a hand 
wearily through his hair. “Yeah ... he might not make 
it.” 

“Well, then, I’ll be playing Keeper, won’t I?” said 
McLaggen. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah, I suppose so. ...” 

He could not think of an argument against it; after 
all, McLaggen had certainly performed second-best in 
the trials. 



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“Excellent,” said McLaggen in a satisfied voice. “So 
when’s practice?” 

“What? Oh ... there’s one tomorrow evening.” 

“Good. Listen, Potter, we should have a talk 
beforehand. I’ve got some ideas on strategy you might 
find useful.” 

“Right,” said Harry unenthusiastically. “Well, I’ll hear 
them tomorrow, then. I’m pretty tired now ... see you 



The news that Ron had been poisoned spread quickly 
next day, but it did not cause the sensation that 
Katie’s attack had done. People seemed to think that 
it might have been an accident, given that he had 
been in the Potions master’s room at the time, and 
that as he had been given an antidote immediately 
there was no real harm done. In fact, the Gryffindors 
were generally much more interested in the upcoming 
Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, for many of them 
wanted to see Zacharias Smith, who played Chaser on 
the Hufflepuff team, punished soundly for his 
commentary during the opening match against 
Slytherin. 

Harry, however, had never been less interested in 
Quidditch; he was rapidly becoming obsessed with 
Draco Malfoy. Still checking the Marauder’s Map 
whenever he got a chance, he sometimes made 
detours to wherever Malfoy happened to be, but had 
not yet detected him doing anything out of the 
ordinary. And still there were those inexplicable times 
when Malfoy simply vanished from the map. ... 

But Harry did not get a lot of time to consider the 
problem, what with Quidditch practice, homework, 



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and the fact that he was now being dogged wherever 
he went by Cormac McLaggen and Lavender Brown. 

He could not decide which of them was more 
annoying. McLaggen kept up a constant stream of 
hints that he would make a better permanent Keeper 
for the team than Ron, and that now that Harry was 
seeing him play regularly he would surely come 
around to this way of thinking too; he was also keen 
to criticize the other players and provide Harry with 
detailed training schemes, so that more than once 
Harry was forced to remind him who was Captain. 

Meanwhile, Lavender kept sidling up to Harry to 
discuss Ron, which Harry found almost more wearing 
than McLaggen’s Quidditch lectures. At first, 

Lavender had been very annoyed that nobody had 
thought to tell her that Ron was in the hospital wing 
— “I mean, I am his girlfriend!” — but unfortunately 
she had now decided to forgive Harry this lapse of 
memory and was keen to have lots of in-depth chats 
with him about Ron’s feelings, a most uncomfortable 
experience that Harry would have happily forgone. 

“Look, why don’t you talk to Ron about all this?” 

Harry asked, after a particularly long interrogation 
from Lavender that took in everything from precisely 
what Ron had said about her new dress robes to 
whether or not Harry thought that Ron considered his 
relationship with Lavender to be “serious.” 

“Well, I would, but he’s always asleep when I go and 
see him!” said Lavender fretfully. 

“Is he?” said Harry, surprised, for he had found Ron 
perfectly alert every time he had been up to the 
hospital wing, both highly interested in the news of 
Dumbledore and Snape’s row and keen to abuse 
McLaggen as much as possible. 

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“Is Hermione Granger still visiting him?” Lavender 
demanded suddenly. 

“Yeah, I think so. Well, they’re friends, aren’t they?” 
said Harry uncomfortably. 

“Friends, don’t make me laugh,” said Lavender 
scornfully. “She didn’t talk to him for weeks after he 
started going out with me! But I suppose she wants to 
make up with him now he’s all interesting. ...” 

“Would you call getting poisoned being interesting?” 
asked Harry. “Anyway — sorry, got to go — there’s 
McLaggen coming for a talk about Quidditch,” said 
Harry hurriedly, and he dashed sideways through a 
door pretending to be solid wall and sprinted down 
the shortcut that would take him off to Potions where, 
thankfully, neither Lavender nor McLaggen could 
follow him. 

On the morning of the Quidditch match against 
Hufflepuff, Harry dropped in on the hospital wing 
before heading down to the pitch. Ron was very 
agitated; Madam Pomfrey would not let him go down 
to watch the match, feeling it would overexcite him. 

“So how’s McLaggen shaping up?” he asked Harry 
nervously, apparently forgetting that he had already 
asked the same question twice. 

“I’ve told you,” said Harry patiently, “he could be 
world-class and I wouldn’t want to keep him. He 
keeps trying to tell everyone what to do, he thinks he 
could play every position better than the rest of us. I 
can’t wait to be shot of him. And speaking of getting 
shot of people,” Harry added, getting to his feet and 
picking up his Firebolt, “will you stop pretending to 
be asleep when Lavender comes to see you? She’s 
driving me mad as well.” 

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“Oh,” said Ron, looking sheepish. “Yeah. All right.” 

“If you don’t want to go out with her anymore, just tell 
her,” said Harry. 

“Yeah ... well ... it’s not that easy, is it?” said Ron. He 
paused. “Hermione going to look in before the 
match?” he added casually. 

“No, she’s already gone down to the pitch with 
Ginny.” 

“Oh,” said Ron, looking rather glum. “Right. Well, 
good luck. Hope you hammer McLag — I mean, 
Smith.” 

“I’ll try,” said Harry, shouldering his broom. “See you 
after the match.” 

He hurried down through the deserted corridors; the 
whole school was outside, either already seated in the 
stadium or heading down toward it. He was looking 
out of the windows he passed, trying to gauge how 
much wind they were facing, when a noise ahead 
made him glance up and he saw Malfoy walking 
toward him, accompanied by two girls, both of whom 
looked sulky and resentful. 

Malfoy stopped short at the sight of Harry, then gave 
a short, humorless laugh and continued walking. 

“Where ’re you going?” Harry demanded. 

“Yeah, I’m really going to tell you, because it’s your 
business, Potter,” sneered Malfoy. “You’d better hurry 
up, they’ll be waiting for ‘the Chosen Captain’ — ‘the 
Boy Who Scored’ — whatever they call you these 
days.” 



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One of the girls gave an unwilling giggle. Harry stared 
at her. She blushed. Malfoy pushed past Harry and 
she and her friend followed at a trot, turning the 
corner and vanishing from view. 

Harry stood rooted on the spot and watched them 
disappear. This was infuriating; he was already 
cutting it fine to get to the match on time and yet 
there was Malfoy, skulking off while the rest of the 
school was absent: Harry’s best chance yet of 
discovering what Malfoy was up to. The silent seconds 
trickled past, and Harry remained where he was, 
frozen, gazing at the place where Malfoy had 
vanished. ... 

“Where have you been?” demanded Ginny, as Harry 
sprinted into the changing rooms. The whole team 
was changed and ready; Coote and Peakes, the 
Beaters, were both hitting their clubs nervously 
against their legs. 

“I met Malfoy,” Harry told her quietly, as he pulled his 
scarlet robes over his head. 

“So?” 

“So I wanted to know how come he’s up at the castle 
with a couple of girlfriends while everyone else is 
down here. ...” 

“Does it matter right now?” 

“Well, I’m not likely to find out, am I?” said Harry, 
seizing his Firebolt and pushing his glasses straight. 
“Come on then!” 

And without another word, he marched out onto the 
pitch to deafening cheers and boos. 



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There was little wind; the clouds were patchy; every 
now and then there were dazzling flashes of bright 
sunlight. 

“Tricky conditions!” McLaggen said bracingly to the 
team. “Coote, Peakes, you’ll want to fly out of the sun, 
so they don’t see you coming — ” 

“I’m the Captain, McLaggen, shut up giving them 
instructions,” said Harry angrily. “Just get up by the 
goal posts!” 

Once McLaggen had marched off, Harry turned to 
Coote and Peakes. 

“Make sure you do fly out of the sun,” he told them 
grudgingly. 

He shook hands with the Hufflepuff Captain, and 
then, on Madam Hooch’s whistle, kicked off and rose 
into the air, higher than the rest of his team, 
streaking around the pitch in search of the Snitch. If 
he could catch it good and early, there might be a 
chance he could get back up to the castle, seize the 
Marauder’s Map, and find out what Malfoy was doing. 



“And that’s Smith of Hufflepuff with the Quaffle,” said 
a dreamy voice, echoing over the grounds. “He did the 
commentary last time, of course, and Ginny Weasley 
flew into him, I think probably on purpose, it looked 
like it. Smith was being quite rude about Gryffindor, I 
expect he regrets that now he’s playing them — oh, 
look, he’s lost the Quaffle, Ginny took it from him, I 
do like her, she’s very nice. ...” 

Harry stared down at the commentator’s podium. 
Surely nobody in their right mind would have let 
Luna Lovegood commentate? But even from above 

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there was no mistaking that long, dirty-blonde hair, 
nor the necklace of butterbeer corks. ... Beside Luna, 
Professor McGonagall was looking slightly 
uncomfortable, as though she was indeed having 
second thoughts about this appointment. 

"... but now that big Hufflepuff player’s got the 
Quaffle from her, I can’t remember his name, it’s 
something like Bibble — no, Buggins — ” 

“It’s Cadwallader!” said Professor McGonagall loudly 
from beside Luna. The crowd laughed. 

Harry stared around for the Snitch; there was no sign 
of it. Moments later, Cadwallader scored. McLaggen 
had been shouting criticism at Ginny for allowing the 
Quaffle out of her possession, with the result that he 
had not noticed the large red ball soaring past his 
right ear. 

“McLaggen, will you pay attention to what you’re 
supposed to be doing and leave everyone else alone!” 
bellowed Harry, wheeling around to face his Keeper. 

“You’re not setting a great example!” McLaggen 
shouted back, red-faced and furious. 

“And Harry Potter’s now having an argument with his 
Keeper,” said Luna serenely, while both Hufflepuffs 
and Slytherins below in the crowd cheered and jeered. 
“I don’t think that’ll help him find the Snitch, but 
maybe it’s a clever ruse. ...” 

Swearing angrily, Harry spun round and set off 
around the pitch again, scanning the skies for some 
sign of the tiny, winged golden ball. 

Ginny and Demelza scored a goal apiece, giving the 
red-and-gold-clad supporters below something to 

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cheer about. Then Cadwallader scored again, making 
things level, but Luna did not seem to have noticed; 
she appeared singularly uninterested in such 
mundane things as the score, and kept attempting to 
draw the crowd’s attention to such things as 
interestingly shaped clouds and the possibility that 
Zacharias Smith, who had so far failed to maintain 
possession of the Quaffle for longer than a minute, 
was suffering from something called “Loser’s Lurgy.” 

“Seventy-forty to Hufflepuff!” barked Professor 
McGonagall into Luna’s megaphone. 

“Is it, already?” said Luna vaguely. “Oh, look! The 
Gryffindor Keeper’s got hold of one of the Beater’s 
bats.” 

Harry spun around in midair. Sure enough, 

McLaggen, for reasons best known to himself, had 
pulled Peakes ’s bat from him and appeared to be 
demonstrating how to hit a Bludger toward an 
oncoming Cadwallader. 

“ Will you give him back his bat and get back to the goal 
posts!” roared Harry, pelting toward McLaggen just as 
McLaggen took a ferocious swipe at the Bludger and 
mishit it. 

A blinding, sickening pain ... a flash of light . . . distant 
screams . . . and the sensation of falling down a long 
tunnel ... 

And the next thing Harry knew, he was lying in a 
remarkably warm and comfortable bed and looking 
up at a lamp that was throwing a circle of golden light 
onto a shadowy ceiling. He raised his head 
awkwardly. There on his left was a familiar-looking, 
freckly, red-haired person. 



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“Nice of you to drop in,” said Ron, grinning. 

Harry blinked and looked around. Of course: He was 
in the hospital wing. The sky outside was indigo 
streaked with crimson. The match must have finished 
hours ago ... as had any hope of cornering Malfoy. 
Harry’s head felt strangely heavy; he raised a hand 
and felt a stiff turban of bandages. 

“What happened?” 

“Cracked skull,” said Madam Pomfrey, bustling up 
and pushing him back against his pillows. “Nothing to 
worry about, I mended it at once, but I’m keeping you 
in overnight. You shouldn’t overexert yourself for a 
few hours.” 

“I don’t want to stay here overnight,” said Harry 
angrily, sitting up and throwing back his covers. “I 
want to find McLaggen and kill him.” 

“I’m afraid that would come under the heading of 
‘overexertion,’ ” said Madam Pomfrey, pushing him 
firmly back onto the bed and raising her wand in a 
threatening manner. “You will stay here until I 
discharge you, Potter, or I shall call the headmaster.” 

She bustled back into her office, and Harry sank back 
into his pillows, fuming. 

“D’you know how much we lost by?” he asked Ron 
through clenched teeth. 

“Well, yeah I do,” said Ron apologetically. “Final score 
was three hundred and twenty to sixty.” 

“Brilliant,” said Harry savagely. “Really brilliant! 

When I get hold of McLaggen — ” 



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“You don’t want to get hold of him, he’s the size of a 
troll,” said Ron reasonably. “Personally, I think there’s 
a lot to be said for hexing him with that toenail thing 
of the Prince’s. Anyway, the rest of the team might’ve 
dealt with him before you get out of here, they’re not 
happy. ...” 

There was a note of badly suppressed glee in Ron’s 
voice; Harry could tell he was nothing short of thrilled 
that McLaggen had messed up so badly. Harry lay 
there, staring up at the patch of light on the ceiling, 
his recently mended skull not hurting, precisely, but 
feeling slightly tender underneath all the bandaging. 

“I could hear the match commentary from here,” said 
Ron, his voice now shaking with laughter. “I hope 
Luna always commentates from now on. ... Loser’s 
Lurgy ...” 

But Harry was still too angry to see much humor in 
the situation, and after a while Ron’s snorts subsided. 

“Ginny came in to visit while you were unconscious,” 
he said, after a long pause, and Harry’s imagination 
zoomed into overdrive, rapidly constructing a scene in 
which Ginny, weeping over his lifeless form, confessed 
her feelings of deep attraction to him while Ron gave 
them his blessing. ... “She reckons you only just 
arrived on time for the match. How come? You left 
here early enough.” 

“Oh ...” said Harry, as the scene in his mind’s eye 
imploded. “Yeah ... well, I saw Malfoy sneaking off 
with a couple of girls who didn’t look like they wanted 
to be with him, and that’s the second time he’s made 
sure he isn’t down on the Quidditch pitch with the 
rest of the school; he skipped the last match too, 
remember?” Harry sighed. “Wish I’d followed him 
now, the match was such a fiasco. ...” 

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“Don’t be stupid,” said Ron sharply. “You couldn’t 
have missed a Quidditch match just to follow Malfoy, 
you’re the Captain!” 

“I want to know what he’s up to,” said Harry. “And 
don’t tell me it’s all in my head, not after what I 
overheard between him and Snape — ” 

“I never said it was all in your head,” said Ron, 
hoisting himself up on an elbow in turn and frowning 
at Harry, “but there’s no rule saying only one person 
at a time can be plotting anything in this place! You’re 
getting a bit obsessed with Malfoy, Harry. I mean, 
thinking about missing a match just to follow him ...” 

“I want to catch him at it!” said Harry in frustration. 

“I mean, where’s he going when he disappears off the 
map?” 

“I dunno . . . Hogsmeade?” suggested Ron, yawning. 

“I’ve never seen him going along any of the secret 
passageways on the map. I thought they were being 
watched now anyway?” 

“Well then, I dunno,” said Ron. 

Silence fell between them. Harry stared up at the 
circle of lamplight above him, thinking. . . . 

If only he had Rufus Scrimgeour’s power, he would 
have been able to set a tail upon Malfoy, but 
unfortunately Harry did not have an office full of 
Aurors at his command. ... He thought fleetingly of 
trying to set something up with the D.A., but there 
again was the problem that people would be missed 
from lessons; most of them, after all, still had full 
schedules. ... 



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There was a low, rumbling snore from Ron’s bed. 

After a while Madam Pomfrey came out of her office, 
this time wearing a thick dressing gown. It was 
easiest to feign sleep; Harry rolled over onto his side 
and listened to all the curtains closing themselves as 
she waved her wand. The lamps dimmed, and she 
returned to her office; he heard the door click behind 
her and knew that she was off to bed. 

This was, Harry reflected in the darkness, the third 
time that he had been brought to the hospital wing 
because of a Quidditch injury. Last time he had fallen 
off his broom due to the presence of dementors 
around the pitch, and the time before that, all the 
bones had been removed from his arm by the 
incurably inept Professor Lockhart. ... That had been 
his most painful injury by far ... he remembered the 
agony of regrowing an armful of bones in one night, a 
discomfort not eased by the arrival of an unexpected 
visitor in the middle of the — 

Harry sat bolt upright, his heart pounding, his 
bandage turban askew. He had the solution at last: 
There was a way to have Malfoy followed — how could 
he have forgotten, why hadn’t he thought of it before? 

But the question was, how to call him? What did you 
do? 

Quietly, tentatively, Harry spoke into the darkness. 
“Kreacher?” 

There was a very loud crack, and the sounds of 
scuffling and squeaks filled the silent room. Ron 
awoke with a yelp. 

“What’s going — ?” 



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Harry pointed his wand hastily at the door of Madam 
Pomfrey’s office and muttered, “MuffliatoV’ so that she 
would not come running. Then he scrambled to the 
end of his bed for a better look at what was going on. 

Two house-elves were rolling around on the floor in 
the middle of the dormitory, one wearing a shrunken 
maroon jumper and several woolly hats, the other, a 
filthy old rag strung over his hips like a loincloth. 
Then there was another loud bang, and Peeves the 
Poltergeist appeared in midair above the wrestling 
elves. 

“I was watching that, Potty!” he told Harry 
indignantly, pointing at the fight below, before letting 
out a loud cackle. “Look at the ickle creatures 
squabbling, bitey bitey, punchy punchy — ” 

“Kreacher will not insult Harry Potter in front of 
Dobby, no he won’t, or Dobby will shut Kreacher’s 
mouth for him!” cried Dobby in a high-pitched voice. 

“ — kicky, scratchy!” cried Peeves happily, now pelting 
bits of chalk at the elves to enrage them further. 
“Tweaky, pokey!” 

“Kreacher will say what he likes about his master, oh 
yes, and what a master he is, filthy friend of 
Mudbloods, oh, what would poor Kreacher’s mistress 
say — ?” 

Exactly what Kreacher’s mistress would have said 
they did not find out, for at that moment Dobby sank 
his knobbly little fist into Kreacher’s mouth and 
knocked out half of his teeth. Harry and Ron both 
leapt out of their beds and wrenched the two elves 
apart, though they continued to try and kick and 
punch each other, egged on by Peeves, who swooped 



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around the lamp squealing, “Stick your fingers up his 
nosey, draw his cork and pull his earsies — ” 

Harry aimed his wand at Peeves and said, “Langlockl” 
Peeves clutched at his throat, gulped, then swooped 
from the room making obscene gestures but unable to 
speak, owing to the fact that his tongue had just 
glued itself to the roof of his mouth. 

“Nice one,” said Ron appreciatively, lifting Dobby into 
the air so that his flailing limbs no longer made 
contact with Kreacher. “That was another Prince hex, 
wasn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, twisting Kreacher’s wizened arm 
into a half nelson. “Right — I’m forbidding you to fight 
each other! Well, Kreacher, you’re forbidden to fight 
Dobby. Dobby, I know I’m not allowed to give you 
orders — ” 

“Dobby is a free house-elf and he can obey anyone he 
likes and Dobby will do whatever Harry Potter wants 
him to do!” said Dobby, tears now streaming down his 
shriveled little face onto his jumper. 

“Okay then,” said Harry, and he and Ron both 
released the elves, who fell to the floor but did not 
continue fighting. 

“Master called me?” croaked Kreacher, sinking into a 
bow even as he gave Harry a look that plainly wished 
him a painful death. 

“Yeah, I did,” said Harry, glancing toward Madam 
Pomfrey’s office door to check that the Muffliato spell 
was still working; there was no sign that she had 
heard any of the commotion. “I’ve got a job for you.” 



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“Kreacher will do whatever Master wants,” said 
Kreacher, sinking so low that his lips almost touched 
his gnarled toes, “because Kreacher has no choice, 
but Kreacher is ashamed to have such a master, yes 



“Dobby will do it, Harry Potter!” squeaked Dobby, his 
tennis-ball-sized eyes still swimming in tears. “Dobby 
would be honored to help Harry Potter!” 

“Come to think of it, it would be good to have both of 
you,” said Harry. “Okay then ... I want you to tail 
Draco Malfoy.” 

Ignoring the look of mingled surprise and 
exasperation on Ron’s face, Harry went on, “I want to 
know where he’s going, who he’s meeting, and what 
he’s doing. I want you to follow him around the 
clock.” 

“Yes, Harry Potter!” said Dobby at once, his great eyes 
shining with excitement. “And if Dobby does it wrong, 
Dobby will throw himself off the topmost tower, Harry 
Potter!” 

“There won’t be any need for that,” said Harry hastily. 

“Master wants me to follow the youngest of the 
Malfoys?” croaked Kreacher. “Master wants me to spy 
upon the pure-blood great-nephew of my old 
mistress?” 

“That’s the one,” said Harry, foreseeing a great danger 
and determining to prevent it immediately. “And 
you’re forbidden to tip him off, Kreacher, or to show 
him what you’re up to, or to talk to him at all, or to 
write him messages or ... or to contact him in any 
way. Got it?” 



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He thought he could see Kreacher struggling to see a 
loophole in the instructions he had just been given 
and waited. After a moment or two, and to Harry’s 
great satisfaction, Kreacher bowed deeply again and 
said, with bitter resentment, “Master thinks of 
everything, and Kreacher must obey him even though 
Kreacher would much rather be the servant of the 
Malfoy boy, oh yes. ...” 

“That’s settled, then,” said Harry. “I’ll want regular 
reports, but make sure I’m not surrounded by people 
when you turn up. Ron and Hermione are okay. And 
don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. Just stick to 
Malfoy like a couple of wart plasters.” 



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LORD VOLDEMORT’S REQUEST 

Harry and Ron left the hospital wing first thing on 
Monday morning, restored to full health by the 
ministrations of Madam Pomfrey and now able to 
enjoy the benefits of having been knocked out and 
poisoned, the best of which was that Hermione was 
friends with Ron again. Hermione even escorted them 
down to breakfast, bringing with her the news that 
Ginny had argued with Dean. The drowsing creature 
in Harry’s chest suddenly raised its head, sniffing the 
air hopefully. 

“What did they row about?” he asked, trying to sound 
casual as they turned onto a seventh-floor corridor 
that was deserted but for a very small girl who had 
been examining a tapestry of trolls in tutus. She 
looked terrified at the sight of the approaching sixth 
years and dropped the heavy brass scales she was 
carrying. 

“It’s all right!” said Hermione kindly, hurrying forward 
to help her. “Here ...” 



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She tapped the broken scales with her wand and 
said, “Reparo.” The girl did not say thank you, but 
remained rooted to the spot as they passed and 
watched them out of sight; Ron glanced back at her. 

“I swear they’re getting smaller,” he said. 

“Never mind her,” said Harry, a little impatiently. 
“What did Ginny and Dean row about, Hermione?” 

“Oh, Dean was laughing about McLaggen hitting that 
Bludger at you,” said Hermione. 

“It must’ve looked funny,” said Ron reasonably. 

“It didn’t look funny at all!” said Hermione hotly. “It 
looked terrible and if Coote and Peakes hadn’t caught 
Harry he could have been very badly hurt!” 

“Yeah, well, there was no need for Ginny and Dean to 
split up over it,” said Harry, still trying to sound 
casual. “Or are they still together?” 

“Yes, they are — but why are you so interested?” 
asked Hermione, giving Harry a sharp look. 

“I just don’t want my Quidditch team messed up 
again!” he said hastily, but Hermione continued to 
look suspicious, and he was most relieved when a 
voice behind them called, “Harry!” giving him an 
excuse to turn his back on her. 

“Oh, hi, Luna.” 

“I went to the hospital wing to find you,” said Luna, 
rummaging in her bag. “But they said you’d left. ...” 

She thrust what appeared to be a green onion, a large 
spotted toadstool, and a considerable amount of what 

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looked like cat litter into Ron’s hands, finally pulling 
out a rather grubby scroll of parchment that she 
handed to Harry. 

"... I’ve been told to give you this.” 

It was a small roll of parchment, which Harry 
recognized at once as another invitation to a lesson 
with Dumbledore. 

“Tonight,” he told Ron and Hermione, once he had 
unrolled it. 

“Nice commentary last match!” said Ron to Luna as 
she took back the green onion, the toadstool, and the 
cat litter. Luna smiled vaguely. 

“You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?” she said. 
“Everyone says I was dreadful.” 

“No, I’m serious!” said Ron earnestly. “I can’t 
remember enjoying commentary more! What is this, 
by the way?” he added, holding the onionlike object 
up to eye level. 

“Oh, it’s a Gurdyroot,” she said, stuffing the cat litter 
and the toadstool back into her bag. “You can keep it 
if you like, I’ve got a few of them. They’re really 
excellent for warding off Gulping Plimpies.” 

And she walked away, leaving Ron chortling, still 
clutching the Gurdyroot. 

“You know, she’s grown on me, Luna,” he said, as 
they set off again for the Great Hall. “I know she’s 
insane, but it’s in a good — ” 



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He stopped talking very suddenly. Lavender Brown 
was standing at the foot of the marble staircase 
looking thunderous. 

“Hi,” said Ron nervously. 

“C’mon,” Harry muttered to Hermione, and they sped 
past, though not before they had heard Lavender say, 
“Why didn’t you tell me you were getting out today? 
And why was she with you?” 

Ron looked both sulky and annoyed when he 
appeared at breakfast half an hour later, and though 
he sat with Lavender, Harry did not see them 
exchange a word all the time they were together. 
Hermione was acting as though she was quite 
oblivious to all of this, but once or twice Harry saw an 
inexplicable smirk cross her face. All that day she 
seemed to be in a particularly good mood, and that 
evening in the common room she even consented to 
look over (in other words, finish writing) Harry’s 
Herbology essay, something she had been resolutely 
refusing to do up to this point, because she had 
known that Harry would then let Ron copy his work. 

“Thanks a lot, Hermione,” said Harry, giving her a 
hasty pat on the back as he checked his watch and 
saw that it was nearly eight o’clock. “Listen, I’ve got to 
hurry or I’ll be late for Dumbledore. ...” 

She did not answer, but merely crossed out a few of 
his feebler sentences in a weary sort of way. Grinning, 
Harry hurried out through the portrait hole and off to 
the headmaster’s office. The gargoyle leapt aside at 
the mention of toffee eclairs, and Harry took the spiral 
staircase two steps at a time, knocking on the door 
just as a clock within chimed eight. 



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“Enter,” called Dumbledore, but as Harry put out a 
hand to push the door, it was wrenched open from 
inside. There stood Professor Trelawney. 

“Aha!” she cried, pointing dramatically at Harry as 
she blinked at him through her magnifying 
spectacles. “So this is the reason I am to be thrown 
unceremoniously from your office, Dumbledore!” 

“My dear Sybill,” said Dumbledore in a slightly 
exasperated voice, “there is no question of throwing 
you unceremoniously from anywhere, but Harry does 
have an appointment, and I really don’t think there is 
any more to be said — ” 

“Very well,” said Professor Trelawney, in a deeply 
wounded voice. “If you will not banish the usurping 
nag, so be it. ... Perhaps I shall find a school where 
my talents are better appreciated. ...” 

She pushed past Harry and disappeared down the 
spiral staircase; they heard her stumble halfway 
down, and Harry guessed that she had tripped over 
one of her trailing shawls. 

“Please close the door and sit down, Harry,” said 
Dumbledore, sounding rather tired. 

Harry obeyed, noticing as he took his usual seat in 
front of Dumbledore ’s desk that the Pensieve lay 
between them once more, as did two more tiny crystal 
bottles full of swirling memory. 

“Professor Trelawney still isn’t happy Firenze is 
teaching, then?” Harry asked. 

“No,” said Dumbledore, “Divination is turning out to 
be much more trouble than I could have foreseen, 
never having studied the subject myself. I cannot ask 

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Firenze to return to the forest, where he is now an 
outcast, nor can I ask Sybill Trelawney to leave. 
Between ourselves, she has no idea of the danger she 
would be in outside the castle. She does not know — 
and I think it would be unwise to enlighten her — 
that she made the prophecy about you and 
Voldemort, you see.” 

Dumbledore heaved a deep sigh, then said, “But 
never mind my staffing problems. We have much 
more important matters to discuss. Firstly — have 
you managed the task I set you at the end of our 
previous lesson?” 

“Ah,” said Harry, brought up short. What with 
Apparition lessons and Quidditch and Ron being 
poisoned and getting his skull cracked and his 
determination to find out what Draco Malfoy was up 
to, Harry had almost forgotten about the memory 
Dumbledore had asked him to extract from Professor 
Slughorn. “Well, I asked Professor Slughorn about it 
at the end of Potions, sir, but, er, he wouldn’t give it 
to me.” 

There was a little silence. 

“I see,” said Dumbledore eventually, peering at Harry 
over the top of his half-moon spectacles and giving 
Harry the usual sensation that he was being X-rayed. 
“And you feel that you have exerted your very best 
efforts in this matter, do you? That you have 
exercised all of your considerable ingenuity? That you 
have left no depth of cunning unplumbed in your 
quest to retrieve the memory?” 

“Well,” Harry stalled, at a loss for what to say next. 

His single attempt to get hold of the memory suddenly 
seemed embarrassingly feeble. “Well ... the day Ron 
swallowed love potion by mistake I took him to 

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Professor Slughorn. I thought maybe if I got Professor 
Slughorn in a good enough mood — ” 

“And did that work?” asked Dumbledore. 

“Well, no, sir, because Ron got poisoned — ” 

“ — which, naturally, made you forget all about trying 
to retrieve the memory; I would have expected nothing 
else, while your best friend was in danger. Once it 
became clear that Mr. Weasley was going to make a 
full recovery, however, I would have hoped that you 
returned to the task I set you. I thought I made it 
clear to you how very important that memory is. 
Indeed, I did my best to impress upon you that it is 
the most crucial memory of all and that we will be 
wasting our time without it.” 

A hot, prickly feeling of shame spread from the top of 
Harry’s head all the way down his body. Dumbledore 
had not raised his voice, he did not even sound angry, 
but Harry would have preferred him to yell; this cold 
disappointment was worse than anything. 

“Sir,” he said, a little desperately, “it isn’t that I wasn’t 
bothered or anything, I’ve just had other — other 
things ...” 

“Other things on your mind,” Dumbledore finished 
the sentence for him. “I see.” 

Silence fell between them again, the most 
uncomfortable silence Harry had ever experienced 
with Dumbledore; it seemed to go on and on, 
punctuated only by the little grunting snores of the 
portrait of Armando Dippet over Dumbledore ’s head. 
Harry felt strangely diminished, as though he had 
shrunk a little since he had entered the room. When 
he could stand it no longer he said, “Professor 
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Dumbledore, I’m really sorry. I should have done 
more. ... I should have realized you wouldn’t have 
asked me to do it if it wasn’t really important.” 

“Thank you for saying that, Harry,” said Dumbledore 
quietly. “May I hope, then, that you will give this 
matter higher priority from now on? There will be 
little point in our meeting after tonight unless we 
have that memory.” 

“I’ll do it, sir, I’ll get it from him,” he said earnestly. 

“Then we shall say no more about it just now,” said 
Dumbledore more kindly, “but continue with our 
story where we left off. You remember where that 
was?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Harry quickly. “Voldemort killed his 
father and his grandparents and made it look as 
though his Uncle Morfin did it. Then he went back to 
Hogwarts and he asked ... he asked Professor 
Slughorn about Horcruxes,” he mumbled 
shamefacedly. 

“Very good,” said Dumbledore. “Now, you will 
remember, I hope, that I told you at the very outset of 
these meetings of ours that we would be entering the 
realms of guesswork and speculation?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Thus far, as I hope you agree, I have shown you 
reasonably firm sources of fact for my deductions as 
to what Voldemort did until the age of seventeen?” 

Harry nodded. 

“But now, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “now things 
become murkier and stranger. If it was difficult to find 

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evidence about the boy Riddle, it has been almost 
impossible to find anyone prepared to reminisce 
about the man Voldemort. In fact, I doubt whether 
there is a soul alive, apart from himself, who could 
give us a full account of his life since he left 
Hogwarts. However, I have two last memories that I 
would like to share with you.” Dumbledore indicated 
the two little crystal bottles gleaming beside the 
Pensieve. “I shall then be glad of your opinion as to 
whether the conclusions I have drawn from them 
seem likely.” 

The idea that Dumbledore valued his opinion this 
highly made Harry feel even more deeply ashamed 
that he had failed in the task of retrieving the Horcrux 
memory, and he shifted guiltily in his seat as 
Dumbledore raised the first of the two bottles to the 
light and examined it. 

“I hope you are not tired of diving into other people’s 
memories, for they are curious recollections, these 
two,” he said. “This first one came from a very old 
house-elf by the name of Hokey. Before we see what 
Hokey witnessed, I must quickly recount how Lord 
Voldemort left Hogwarts. 

“He reached the seventh year of his schooling with, as 
you might have expected, top grades in every 
examination he had taken. All around him, his 
classmates were deciding which jobs they were to 
pursue once they had left Hogwarts. Nearly everybody 
expected spectacular things from Tom Riddle, prefect, 
Head Boy, winner of the Award for Special Services to 
the School. I know that several teachers, Professor 
Slughorn amongst them, suggested that he join the 
Ministry of Magic, offered to set up appointments, put 
him in touch with useful contacts. He refused all 
offers. The next thing the staff knew, Voldemort was 
working at Borgin and Burkes.” 

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“At Borgin and Burkes?” Harry repeated, stunned. 



“At Borgin and Burkes,” repeated Dumbledore calmly. 
“I think you will see what attractions the place held 
for him when we have entered Hokey’s memory. But 
this was not Voldemort’s first choice of job. Hardly 
anyone knew of it at the time — I was one of the few 
in whom the then headmaster confided — but 
Voldemort first approached Professor Dippet and 
asked whether he could remain at Hogwarts as a 
teacher.” 

“He wanted to stay here? Why?” asked Harry, more 
amazed still. 

“I believe he had several reasons, though he confided 
none of them to Professor Dippet,” said Dumbledore. 
“Firstly, and very importantly, Voldemort was, I 
believe, more attached to this school than he has ever 
been to a person. Hogwarts was where he had been 
happiest; the first and only place he had felt at 
home.” 

Harry felt slightly uncomfortable at these words, for 
this was exactly how he felt about Hogwarts too. 

“Secondly, the castle is a stronghold of ancient magic. 
Undoubtedly Voldemort had penetrated many more of 
its secrets than most of the students who pass 
through the place, but he may have felt that there 
were still mysteries to unravel, stores of magic to tap. 

“And thirdly, as a teacher, he would have had great 
power and influence over young witches and wizards. 
Perhaps he had gained the idea from Professor 
Slughorn, the teacher with whom he was on best 
terms, who had demonstrated how influential a role a 
teacher can play. I do not imagine for an instant that 
Voldemort envisaged spending the rest of his life at 
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Hogwarts, but I do think that he saw it as a useful 
recruiting ground, and a place where he might begin 
to build himself an army.” 

“But he didn’t get the job, sir?” 

“No, he did not. Professor Dippet told him that he was 
too young at eighteen, but invited him to reapply in a 
few years, if he still wished to teach.” 

“How did you feel about that, sir?” asked Harry 
hesitantly. 

“Deeply uneasy,” said Dumbledore. “I had advised 
Armando against the appointment — I did not give 
the reasons I have given you, for Professor Dippet was 
very fond of Voldemort and convinced of his honesty. 
But I did not want Lord Voldemort back at this 
school, and especially not in a position of power.” 

“Which job did he want, sir? What subject did he 
want to teach?” 

Somehow, Harry knew the answer even before 
Dumbledore gave it. 

“Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was being taught at 
the time by an old Professor by the name of Galatea 
Merrythought, who had been at Hogwarts for nearly 
fifty years. 

“So Voldemort went off to Borgin and Burkes, and all 
the staff who had admired him said what a waste it 
was, a brilliant young wizard like that, working in a 
shop. However, Voldemort was no mere assistant. 
Polite and handsome and clever, he was soon given 
particular jobs of the type that only exist in a place 
like Borgin and Burkes, which specializes, as you 
know, Harry, in objects with unusual and powerful 
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properties. Voldemort was sent to persuade people to 
part with their treasures for sale by the partners, and 
he was, by all accounts, unusually gifted at doing 
this.” 

“I’ll bet he was,” said Harry, unable to contain 
himself. 

“Well, quite,” said Dumbledore, with a faint smile. 
“And now it is time to hear from Hokey the house-elf, 
who worked for a very old, very rich witch by the 
name of Hepzibah Smith.” 

Dumbledore tapped a bottle with his wand, the cork 
flew out, and he tipped the swirling memory into the 
Pensieve, saying as he did so, “After you, Harry.” 

Harry got to his feet and bent once more over the 
rippling silver contents of the stone basin until his 
face touched them. He tumbled through dark 
nothingness and landed in a sitting room in front of 
an immensely fat old lady wearing an elaborate ginger 
wig and a brilliant pink set of robes that flowed all 
around her, giving her the look of a melting iced cake. 
She was looking into a small jeweled mirror and 
dabbing rouge onto her already scarlet cheeks with a 
large powder puff, while the tiniest and oldest house- 
elf Harry had ever seen laced her fleshy feet into tight 
satin slippers. 

“Hurry up, Hokey!” said Hepzibah imperiously. “He 
said he’d come at four, it’s only a couple of minutes to 
and he’s never been late yet!” 

She tucked away her powder puff as the house-elf 
straightened up. The top of the elf’s head barely 
reached the seat of Hepzibah ’s chair, and her papery 
skin hung off her frame just like the crisp linen sheet 
she wore draped like a toga. 

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“How do I look?” said Hepzibah, turning her head to 
admire the various angles of her face in the mirror. 

“Lovely, madam,” squeaked Hokey. 

Harry could only assume that it was down in Hokey’s 
contract that she must lie through her teeth when 
asked this question, because Hepzibah Smith looked 
a long way from lovely in his opinion. 

A tinkling doorbell rang and both mistress and elf 
jumped. 

“Quick, quick, he’s here, Hokey!” cried Hepzibah and 
the elf scurried out of the room, which was so 
crammed with objects that it was difficult to see how 
anybody could navigate their way across it without 
knocking over at least a dozen things: There were 
cabinets full of little lacquered boxes, cases full of 
gold-embossed books, shelves of orbs and celestial 
globes, and many flourishing potted plants in brass 
containers. In fact, the room looked like a cross 
between a magical antique shop and a conservatory. 

The house-elf returned within minutes, followed by a 
tall young man Harry had no difficulty whatsoever in 
recognizing as Voldemort. He was plainly dressed in a 
black suit; his hair was a little longer than it had 
been at school and his cheeks were hollowed, but all 
of this suited him; he looked more handsome than 
ever. He picked his way through the cramped room 
with an air that showed he had visited many times 
before and bowed low over Hepzibah ’s fat little hand, 
brushing it with his lips. 

“I brought you flowers,” he said quietly, producing a 
bunch of roses from nowhere. 



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“You naughty boy, you shouldn’t have!” squealed old 
Hepzibah, though Harry noticed that she had an 
empty vase standing ready on the nearest little table. 
“You do spoil this old lady, Tom. ... Sit down, sit 
down. ... Where’s Hokey? Ah ...” 

The house-elf had come dashing back into the room 
carrying a tray of little cakes, which she set at her 
mistress’s elbow. 

“Help yourself, Tom,” said Hepzibah, “I know how you 
love my cakes. Now, how are you? You look pale. They 
overwork you at that shop, I’ve said it a hundred 
times. ...” 

Voldemort smiled mechanically and Hepzibah 
simpered. 

“Well, what’s your excuse for visiting this time?” she 
asked, batting her lashes. 

“Mr. Burke would like to make an improved offer for 
the goblin-made armor,” said Voldemort. “Five 
hundred Galleons, he feels it is a more than fair — ” 

“Now, now, not so fast, or I’ll think you’re only here 
for my trinkets!” pouted Hepzibah. 

“I am ordered here because of them,” said Voldemort 
quietly. “I am only a poor assistant, madam, who 
must do as he is told. Mr. Burke wishes me to inquire 



“Oh, Mr. Burke, phooey!” said Hepzibah, waving a 
little hand. “I’ve something to show you that I’ve never 
shown Mr. Burke! Can you keep a secret, Tom? Will 
you promise you won’t tell Mr. Burke I’ve got it? He’d 
never let me rest if he knew I’d shown it to you, and 
I’m not selling, not to Burke, not to anyone! But you, 
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Tom, you’ll appreciate it for its history, not how many 
Galleons you can get for it.” 

“I’d be glad to see anything Miss Hepzibah shows me,” 
said Voldemort quietly, and Hepzibah gave another 
girlish giggle. 

“I had Hokey bring it out for me. ... Hokey, where are 
you? I want to show Mr. Riddle our finest treasure. ... 
In fact, bring both, while you’re at it. ...” 

“Here, madam,” squeaked the house-elf, and Harry 
saw two leather boxes, one on top of the other, 
moving across the room as if of their own volition, 
though he knew the tiny elf was holding them over 
her head as she wended her way between tables, 
pouffes, and footstools. 

“Now,” said Hepzibah happily, taking the boxes from 
the elf, laying them in her lap, and preparing to open 
the topmost one, “I think you’ll like this, Tom. ... Oh, 
if my family knew I was showing you. ... They can’t 
wait to get their hands on this!” 

She opened the lid. Harry edged forward a little to get 
a better view and saw what looked like a small golden 
cup with two finely wrought handles. 

“I wonder whether you know what it is, Tom? Pick it 
up, have a good look!” whispered Hepzibah, and 
Voldemort stretched out a long-fingered hand and 
lifted the cup by one handle out of its snug silken 
wrappings. Harry thought he saw a red gleam in his 
dark eyes. His greedy expression was curiously 
mirrored on Hepzibah’s face, except that her tiny eyes 
were fixed upon Voldemort’s handsome features. 

“A badger,” murmured Voldemort, examining the 
engraving upon the cup. “Then this was ... ?” 

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“Helga Hufflepuff’s, as you very well know, you clever 
boy!” said Hepzibah, leaning forward with a loud 
creaking of corsets and actually pinching his hollow 
cheek. “Didn’t I tell you I was distantly descended? 
This has been handed down in the family for years 
and years. Lovely, isn’t it? And all sorts of powers it’s 
supposed to possess too, but I haven’t tested them 
thoroughly, I just keep it nice and safe in here. ...” 

She hooked the cup back off Voldemort’s long 
forefinger and restored it gently to its box, too intent 
upon settling it carefully back into position to notice 
the shadow that crossed Voldemort’s face as the cup 
was taken away. 

“Now then,” said Hepzibah happily, “where’s Hokey? 
Oh yes, there you are — take that away now, Hokey.” 

The elf obediently took the boxed cup, and Hepzibah 
turned her attention to the much flatter box in her 
lap. 

“I think you’ll like this even more, Tom,” she 
whispered. “Lean in a little, dear boy, so you can see. 
...Of course, Burke knows I’ve got this one, I bought 
it from him, and I daresay he’d love to get it back 
when I’m gone. ...” 

She slid back the fine filigree clasp and flipped open 
the box. There upon the smooth crimson velvet lay a 
heavy golden locket. 

Voldemort reached out his hand, without invitation 
this time, and held it up to the light, staring at it. 

“Slytherin’s mark,” he said quietly, as the light played 
upon an ornate, serpentine S. 



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“That’s right!” said Hepzibah, delighted, apparently, at 
the sight of Voldemort gazing at her locket, transfixed. 
“I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, but I couldn’t let 
it pass, not a real treasure like that, had to have it for 
my collection. Burke bought it, apparently, from a 
ragged-looking woman who seemed to have stolen it, 
but had no idea of its true value — ” 

There was no mistaking it this time: Voldemort’s eyes 
flashed scarlet at the words, and Harry saw his 
knuckles whiten on the locket’s chain. 

“ — I daresay Burke paid her a pittance but there you 
are. ... Pretty, isn’t it? And again, all kinds of powers 
attributed to it, though I just keep it nice and safe. ...” 

She reached out to take the locket back. For a 
moment, Harry thought Voldemort was not going to 
let go of it, but then it had slid through his fingers 
and was back in its red velvet cushion. 

“So there you are, Tom, dear, and I hope you enjoyed 
that!” 

She looked him full in the face and for the first time, 
Harry saw her foolish smile falter. 

“Are you all right, dear?” 

“Oh yes,” said Voldemort quietly. “Yes, I’m very well. 



“I thought — but a trick of the light, I suppose — ” 
said Hepzibah, looking unnerved, and Harry guessed 
that she too had seen the momentary red gleam in 
Voldemort’s eyes. “Here, Hokey, take these away and 
lock them up again. ... The usual enchantments ...” 



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“Time to leave, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly, and 
as the little elf bobbed away bearing the boxes, 
Dumbledore grasped Harry once again above the 
elbow and together they rose up through oblivion and 
back to Dumbledore ’s office. 

“Hepzibah Smith died two days after that little scene,” 
said Dumbledore, resuming his seat and indicating 
that Harry should do the same. “Hokey the house-elf 
was convicted by the Ministry of poisoning her 
mistress’s evening cocoa by accident.” 

“No way!” said Harry angrily. 

“I see we are of one mind,” said Dumbledore. 
“Certainly, there are many similarities between this 
death and that of the Riddles. In both cases, 
somebody else took the blame, someone who had a 
clear memory of having caused the death — ” 

“Hokey confessed?” 

“She remembered putting something in her mistress’s 
cocoa that turned out not to be sugar, but a lethal 
and little-known poison,” said Dumbledore. “It was 
concluded that she had not meant to do it, but being 
old and confused — ” 

“Voldemort modified her memory, just like he did with 
Morfin!” 

“Yes, that is my conclusion too,” said Dumbledore. 
“And, just as with Morfin, the Ministry was 
predisposed to suspect Hokey — ” 

“ — because she was a house-elf,” said Harry. He had 
rarely felt more in sympathy with the society 
Hermione had set up, S.P.E.W. 



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“Precisely,” said Dumbledore. “She was old, she 
admitted to having tampered with the drink, and 
nobody at the Ministry bothered to inquire further. As 
in the case of Morfin, by the time I traced her and 
managed to extract this memory, her life was almost 
over — but her memory, of course, proves nothing 
except that Voldemort knew of the existence of the 
cup and the locket. 

“By the time Hokey was convicted, Hepzibah’s family 
had realized that two of her greatest treasures were 
missing. It took them a while to be sure of this, for 
she had many hiding places, having always guarded 
her collection most jealously. But before they were 
sure beyond doubt that the cup and the locket were 
both gone, the assistant who had worked at Borgin 
and Burkes, the young man who had visited 
Hepzibah so regularly and charmed her so well, had 
resigned his post and vanished. His superiors had no 
idea where he had gone; they were as surprised as 
anyone at his disappearance. And that was the last 
that was seen or heard of Tom Riddle for a very long 
time. 

“Now,” said Dumbledore, “if you don’t mind, Harry, I 
want to pause once more to draw your attention to 
certain points of our story. Voldemort had committed 
another murder; whether it was his first since he 
killed the Riddles, I do not know, but I think it was. 
This time, as you will have seen, he killed not for 
revenge, but for gain. He wanted the two fabulous 
trophies that poor, besotted, old woman showed him. 
Just as he had once robbed the other children at his 
orphanage, just as he had stolen his Uncle Morfin ’s 
ring, so he ran off now with Hepzibah’s cup and 
locket.” 

“But,” said Harry, frowning, “it seems mad. ... Risking 
everything, throwing away his job, just for those ...” 

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“Mad to you, perhaps, but not to Voldemort,” said 
Dumbledore. “I hope you will understand in due 
course exactly what those objects meant to him, 
Harry, but you must admit that it is not difficult to 
imagine that he saw the locket, at least, as rightfully 
his.” 

“The locket maybe,” said Harry, “but why take the 
cup as well?” 

“It had belonged to another of Hogwarts’s founders,” 
said Dumbledore. “I think he still felt a great pull 
toward the school and that he could not resist an 
object so steeped in Hogwarts history. There were 
other reasons, I think. ... I hope to be able to 
demonstrate them to you in due course. 

“And now for the very last recollection I have to show 
you, at least until you manage to retrieve Professor 
Slughorn’s memory for us. Ten years separates 
Hokey’s memory and this one, ten years during which 
we can only guess at what Lord Voldemort was doing. 



Harry got to his feet once more as Dumbledore 
emptied the last memory into the Pensieve. 

“Whose memory is it?” he asked. 

“Mine,” said Dumbledore. 

And Harry dived after Dumbledore through the 
shifting silver mass, landing in the very office he had 
just left. There was Fawkes slumbering happily on his 
perch, and there behind the desk was Dumbledore, 
who looked very similar to the Dumbledore standing 
beside Harry, though both hands were whole and 
undamaged and his face was, perhaps, a little less 
lined. The one difference between the present-day 
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office and this one was that it was snowing in the 
past; bluish flecks were drifting past the window in 
the dark and building up on the outside ledge. 

The younger Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for 
something, and sure enough, moments after their 
arrival, there was a knock on the door and he said, 
“Enter.” 

Harry let out a hastily stifled gasp. Voldemort had 
entered the room. His features were not those Harry 
had seen emerge from the great stone cauldron 
almost two years ago: They were not as snakelike, the 
eyes were not yet scarlet, the face not yet masklike, 
and yet he was no longer handsome Tom Riddle. It 
was as though his features had been burned and 
blurred; they were waxy and oddly distorted, and the 
whites of the eyes now had a permanently bloody 
look, though the pupils were not yet the slits that 
Harry knew they would become. He was wearing a 
long black cloak, and his face was as pale as the 
snow glistening on his shoulders. 

The Dumbledore behind the desk showed no sign of 
surprise. Evidently this visit had been made by 
appointment. 

“Good evening, Tom,” said Dumbledore easily. “Won’t 
you sit down?” 

“Thank you,” said Voldemort, and he took the seat to 
which Dumbledore had gestured — the very seat, by 
the looks of it, that Harry had just vacated in the 
present. “I heard that you had become headmaster,” 
he said, and his voice was slightly higher and colder 
than it had been. “A worthy choice.” 

“I am glad you approve,” said Dumbledore, smiling. 
“May I offer you a drink?” 

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“That would be welcome,” said Voldemort. “I have 
come a long way.” 

Dumbledore stood and swept over to the cabinet 
where he now kept the Pensieve, but which then was 
full of bottles. Having handed Voldemort a goblet of 
wine and poured one for himself, he returned to the 
seat behind his desk. 

“So, Tom ... to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Voldemort did not answer at once, but merely sipped 
his wine. 

“They do not call me Tom’ anymore,” he said. “These 
days, I am known as — ” 

“I know what you are known as,” said Dumbledore, 
smiling pleasantly. “But to me, I’m afraid, you will 
always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the irritating things 
about old teachers. I am afraid that they never quite 
forget their charges’ youthful beginnings.” 

He raised his glass as though toasting Voldemort, 
whose face remained expressionless. Nevertheless, 
Harry felt the atmosphere in the room change subtly: 
Dumbledore’s refusal to use Voldemort’s chosen 
name was a refusal to allow Voldemort to dictate the 
terms of the meeting, and Harry could tell that 
Voldemort took it as such. 

“I am surprised you have remained here so long,” said 
Voldemort after a short pause. “I always wondered 
why a wizard such as yourself never wished to leave 
school.” 

“Well,” said Dumbledore, still smiling, “to a wizard 
such as myself, there can be nothing more important 
than passing on ancient skills, helping hone young 

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minds. If I remember correctly, you once saw the 
attraction of teaching too.” 

“I see it still,” said Voldemort. “I merely wondered why 
you — who are so often asked for advice by the 
Ministry, and who have twice, I think, been offered 
the post of Minister — ” 

“Three times at the last count, actually,” said 
Dumbledore. “But the Ministry never attracted me as 
a career. Again, something we have in common, I 
think.” 

Voldemort inclined his head, unsmiling, and took 
another sip of wine. Dumbledore did not break the 
silence that stretched between them now, but waited, 
with a look of pleasant expectancy, for Voldemort to 
talk first. 

“I have returned,” he said, after a little while, “later, 
perhaps, than Professor Dippet expected ... but I have 
returned, nevertheless, to request again what he once 
told me I was too young to have. I have come to you to 
ask that you permit me to return to this castle, to 
teach. I think you must know that I have seen and 
done much since I left this place. I could show and 
tell your students things they can gain from no other 
wizard.” 

Dumbledore considered Voldemort over the top of his 
own goblet for a while before speaking. 

“Yes, I certainly do know that you have seen and done 
much since leaving us,” he said quietly. “Rumors of 
your doings have reached your old school, Tom. I 
should be sorry to believe half of them.” 



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Voldemort ’s expression remained impassive as he 
said, “Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, 
spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore.” 

“You call it ‘greatness,’ what you have been doing, do 
you?” asked Dumbledore delicately. 

“Certainly,” said Voldemort, and his eyes seemed to 
burn red. “I have experimented; I have pushed the 
boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have 
ever been pushed — ” 

“Of some kinds of magic,” Dumbledore corrected him 
quietly. “Of some. Of others, you remain ... forgive me 
... woefully ignorant.” 

For the first time, Voldemort smiled. It was a taut 
leer, an evil thing, more threatening than a look of 
rage. 

“The old argument,” he said softly. “But nothing I 
have seen in the world has supported your famous 
pronouncements that love is more powerful than my 
kind of magic, Dumbledore.” 

“Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places,” 
suggested Dumbledore. 

“Well, then, what better place to start my fresh 
researches than here, at Hogwarts?” said Voldemort. 
“Will you let me return? Will you let me share my 
knowledge with your students? I place myself and my 
talents at your disposal. I am yours to command.” 

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “And what will 
become of those whom you command? What will 
happen to those who call themselves — or so rumor 
has it — the Death Eaters?” 



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Harry could tell that Voldemort had not expected 
Dumbledore to know this name; he saw Voldemort’s 
eyes flash red again and the slitlike nostrils flare. 

“My friends,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “will 
carry on without me, I am sure.” 

“I am glad to hear that you consider them friends,” 
said Dumbledore. “I was under the impression that 
they are more in the order of servants.” 

“You are mistaken,” said Voldemort. 

“Then if I were to go to the Hog’s Head tonight, I 
would not find a group of them — Nott, Rosier, 
Mulciber, Dolohov — awaiting your return? Devoted 
friends indeed, to travel this far with you on a snowy 
night, merely to wish you luck as you attempted to 
secure a teaching post.” 

There could be no doubt that Dumbledore ’s detailed 
knowledge of those with whom he was traveling was 
even less welcome to Voldemort; however, he rallied 
almost at once. 

“You are omniscient as ever, Dumbledore.” 

“Oh no, merely friendly with the local barmen,” said 
Dumbledore lightly. “Now, Tom ...” 

Dumbledore set down his empty glass and drew 
himself up in his seat, the tips of his fingers together 
in a very characteristic gesture. 

“Let us speak openly. Why have you come here 
tonight, surrounded by henchmen, to request a job 
we both know you do not want?” 



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Voldemort looked coldly surprised. “A job I do not 
want? On the contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very 
much.” 



“Oh, you want to come back to Hogwarts, but you do 
not want to teach any more than you wanted to when 
you were eighteen. What is it you’re after, Tom? Why 
not try an open request for once?” 

Voldemort sneered. “If you do not want to give me a 
job -” 



“Of course I don’t,” said Dumbledore. “And I don’t 
think for a moment you expected me to. Nevertheless, 
you came here, you asked, you must have had a 
purpose.” 

Voldemort stood up. He looked less like Tom Riddle 
than ever, his features thick with rage. “This is your 
final word?” 

“It is,” said Dumbledore, also standing. 

“Then we have nothing more to say to each other.” 

“No, nothing,” said Dumbledore, and a great sadness 
filled his face. “The time is long gone when I could 
frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you 
to make repayment for your crimes. But I wish I 
could, Tom. ... I wish I could. ...” 

For a second, Harry was on the verge of shouting a 
pointless warning: He was sure that Voldemort’s hand 
had twitched toward his pocket and his wand; but 
then the moment had passed, Voldemort had turned 
away, the door was closing, and he was gone. 

Harry felt Dumbledore ’s hand close over his arm 
again and moments later, they were standing together 

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on almost the same spot, but there was no snow 
building on the window ledge, and Dumbledore’s 
hand was blackened and dead-looking once more. 

“Why?” said Harry at once, looking up into 
Dumbledore’s face. “Why did he come back? Did you 
ever find out?” 

“I have ideas,” said Dumbledore, “but no more than 
that.” 

“What ideas, sir?” 

“I shall tell you, Harry, when you have retrieved that 
memory from Professor Slughorn,” said Dumbledore. 
“When you have that last piece of the jigsaw, 
everything will, I hope, be clear ... to both of us.” 

Harry was still burning with curiosity and even 
though Dumbledore had walked to the door and was 
holding it open for him, he did not move at once. 

“Was he after the Defense Against the Dark Arts job 
again, sir? He didn’t say. ...” 

“Oh, he definitely wanted the Defense Against the 
Dark Arts job,” said Dumbledore. “The aftermath of 
our little meeting proved that. You see, we have never 
been able to keep a Defense Against the Dark Arts 
teacher for longer than a year since I refused the post 
to Lord Voldemort.” 



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THE UNKNOWABLE ROOM 

Harry wracked his brains over the next week as to 
how he was to persuade Slughorn to hand over the 
true memory, but nothing in the nature of a brain 
wave occurred and he was reduced to doing what he 
did increasingly these days when at a loss: poring 
over his Potions book, hoping that the Prince would 
have scribbled something useful in a margin, as he 
had done so many times before. 

“You won’t find anything in there,” said Hermione 
firmly, late on Sunday evening. 

“Don’t start, Hermione,” said Harry. “If it hadn’t been 
for the Prince, Ron wouldn’t be sitting here now.” 

“He would if you’d just listened to Snape in our first 
year,” said Hermione dismissively. 

Harry ignored her. He had just found an incantation 
(“ Sectumsempral”) scrawled in a margin above the 
intriguing words “For Enemies,” and was itching to 



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try it out, but thought it best not to in front of 
Hermione. Instead, he surreptitiously folded down the 
corner of the page. 

They were sitting beside the fire in the common room; 
the only other people awake were fellow sixth years. 
There had been a certain amount of excitement earlier 
when they had come back from dinner to find a new 
sign on the notice board that announced the date for 
their Apparition Test. Those who would be seventeen 
on or before the first test date, the twenty-first of 
April, had the option of signing up for additional 
practice sessions, which would take place (heavily 
supervised) in Hogsmeade. 

Ron had panicked on reading this notice; he had still 
not managed to Apparate and feared he would not be 
ready for the test. Hermione, who had now achieved 
Apparition twice, was a little more confident, but 
Harry, who would not be seventeen for another four 
months, could not take the test whether ready or not. 

“At least you can Apparate, though!” said Ron tensely. 
“You’ll have no trouble come July!” 

“I’ve only done it once,” Harry reminded him; he had 
finally managed to disappear and rematerialize inside 
his hoop during their previous lesson. 

Having wasted a lot of time worrying aloud about 
Apparition, Ron was now struggling to finish a 
viciously difficult essay for Snape that Harry and 
Hermione had already completed. Harry fully 
expected to receive low marks on his, because he had 
disagreed with Snape on the best way to tackle 
dementors, but he did not care: Slughorn’s memory 
was the most important thing to him now. 



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‘Tm telling you, the stupid Prince isn’t going to be 
able to help you with this, Harry!” said Hermione, 
more loudly. “There’s only one way to force someone 
to do what you want, and that’s the Imperius Curse, 
which is illegal — ” 

“Yeah, I know that, thanks,” said Harry, not looking 
up from the book. “That’s why I’m looking for 
something different. Dumbledore says Veritaserum 
won’t do it, but there might be something else, a 
potion or a spell. ...” 

“You’re going about it the wrong way,” said Hermione. 
“Only you can get the memory, Dumbledore says. 

That must mean you can persuade Slughorn where 
other people can’t. It’s not a question of slipping him 
a potion, anyone could do that — ” 

“How d’you spell ‘belligerent’?” said Ron, shaking his 
quill very hard while staring at his parchment. “It 
can’t be B — U — M — ” 

“No, it isn’t,” said Hermione, pulling Ron’s essay 
toward her. “And ‘augury’ doesn’t begin O — R — G 
either. What kind of quill are you using?” 

“It’s one of Fred and George’s Spell-Check ones ... but 
I think the charm must be wearing off. ...” 

“Yes, it must,” said Hermione, pointing at the title of 
his essay, “because we were asked how we’d deal with 
dementors, not ‘Dugbogs,’ and I don’t remember you 
changing your name to ‘Roonil Wazlib’ either.” 

“Ah no!” said Ron, staring horror-struck at the 
parchment. “Don’t say I’ll have to write the whole 
thing out again!” 



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“It’s okay, we can fix it,” said Hermione, pulling the 
essay toward her and taking out her wand. 

“I love you, Hermione,” said Ron, sinking back in his 
chair, rubbing his eyes wearily. 

Hermione turned faintly pink, but merely said, “Don’t 
let Lavender hear you saying that.” 

“I won’t,” said Ron into his hands. “Or maybe I will ... 
then she’ll ditch me ...” 

“Why don’t you ditch her if you want to finish it?” 
asked Harry. 

“You haven’t ever chucked anyone, have you?” said 
Ron. “You and Cho just — ” 

“Sort of fell apart, yeah,” said Harry 

“Wish that would happen with me and Lavender,” 
said Ron gloomily, watching Hermione silently 
tapping each of his misspelled words with the end of 
her wand, so that they corrected themselves on the 
page. “But the more I hint I want to finish it, the 
tighter she holds on. It’s like going out with the giant 
squid.” 

“There,” said Hermione, some twenty minutes later, 
handing back Ron’s essay. 

“Thanks a million,” said Ron. “Can I borrow your quill 
for the conclusion?” 

Harry, who had found nothing useful in the Half- 
Blood Prince’s notes so far, looked around; the three 
of them were now the only ones left in the common 
room, Seamus having just gone up to bed cursing 
Snape and his essay. The only sounds were the 
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crackling of the fire and Ron scratching out one last 
paragraph on dementors using Hermione’s quill. 

Harry had just closed the Half-Blood Prince’s book, 
yawning, when — 

Crack. 

Hermione let out a little shriek; Ron spilled ink all 
over his freshly completed essay, and Harry said, 
“Kreacher!” 

The house-elf bowed low and addressed his own 
gnarled toes. 

“Master said he wanted regular reports on what the 
Malfoy boy is doing, so Kreacher has come to give — ” 

Crack. 

Dobby appeared alongside Kreacher, his tea-cozy hat 
askew. 

“Dobby has been helping too, Harry Potter!” he 
squeaked, casting Kreacher a resentful look. “And 
Kreacher ought to tell Dobby when he is coming to 
see Harry Potter so they can make their reports 
together!” 

“What is this?” asked Hermione, still looking shocked 
by these sudden appearances. “What’s going on, 
Harry?” 

Harry hesitated before answering, because he had not 
told Hermione about setting Kreacher and Dobby to 
tail Malfoy; house-elves were always such a touchy 
subject with her. 

“Well ... they’ve been following Malfoy for me,” he 
said. 

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“Night and day,” croaked Kreacher. 

“Dobby has not slept for a week, Harry Potter!” said 
Dobby proudly, swaying where he stood. 

Hermione looked indignant. 

“You haven’t slept, Dobby? But surely, Harry, you 
didn’t tell him not to — ” 

“No, of course I didn’t,” said Harry quickly. “Dobby, 
you can sleep, all right? But has either of you found 
out anything?” he hastened to ask, before Hermione 
could intervene again. 

“Master Malfoy moves with a nobility that befits his 
pure blood,” croaked Kreacher at once. “His features 
recall the fine bones of my mistress and his manners 
are those of — ” 

“Draco Malfoy is a bad boy!” squeaked Dobby angrily. 
“A bad boy who — who — ” 

He shuddered from the tassel of his tea cozy to the 
toes of his socks and then ran at the fire, as though 
about to dive into it; Harry, to whom this was not 
entirely unexpected, caught him around the middle 
and held him fast. For a few seconds Dobby 
struggled, then went limp. 

“Thank you, Harry Potter,” he panted. “Dobby still 
finds it difficult to speak ill of his old masters. ...” 

Harry released him; Dobby straightened his tea cozy 
and said defiantly to Kreacher, “But Kreacher should 
know that Draco Malfoy is not a good master to a 
house-elf!” 



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“Yeah, we don’t need to hear about you being in love 
with Malfoy,” Harry told Kreacher. “Let’s fast forward 
to where he’s actually been going.” 

Kreacher bowed again, looking furious, and then said, 
“Master Malfoy eats in the Great Hall, he sleeps in a 
dormitory in the dungeons, he attends his classes in 
a variety of — ” 

“Dobby, you tell me,” said Harry, cutting across 
Kreacher. “Has he been going anywhere he shouldn’t 
have?” 

“Harry Potter, sir,” squeaked Dobby, his great orblike 
eyes shining in the firelight, “the Malfoy boy is 
breaking no rules that Dobby can discover, but he is 
still keen to avoid detection. He has been making 
regular visits to the seventh floor with a variety of 
other students, who keep watch for him while he 
enters — ” 

“The Room of Requirement!” said Harry, smacking 
himself hard on the forehead with Advanced Potion- 
Making. Hermione and Ron stared at him. “That’s 
where he’s been sneaking off to! That’s where he’s 
doing ... whatever he’s doing! And I bet that’s why 
he’s been disappearing off the map — come to think 
of it, I’ve never seen the Room of Requirement on 
there!” 

“Maybe the Marauders never knew the room was 
there,” said Ron. 

“I think it’ll be part of the magic of the room,” said 
Hermione. “If you need it to be Unplottable, it will be.” 

“Dobby, have you managed to get in to have a look at 
what Malfoy’s doing?” said Harry eagerly. 



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“No, Harry Potter, that is impossible,” said Dobby. 



“No, it’s not,” said Harry at once. “Malfoy got into our 
headquarters there last year, so I’ll be able to get in 
and spy on him, no problem.” 

“But I don’t think you will, Harry,” said Hermione 
slowly. “Malfoy already knew exactly how we were 
using the room, didn’t he, because that stupid 
Marietta had blabbed. He needed the room to become 
the headquarters of the D.A., so it did. But you don’t 
know what the room becomes when Malfoy goes in 
there, so you don’t know what to ask it to transform 
into.” 

“There’ll be a way around that,” said Harry 
dismissively. “You’ve done brilliantly, Dobby.” 

“Kreacher’s done well too,” said Hermione kindly; but 
far from looking grateful, Kreacher averted his huge, 
bloodshot eyes and croaked at the ceiling, “The 
Mudblood is speaking to Kreacher, Kreacher will 
pretend he cannot hear — ” 

“Get out of it,” Harry snapped at him, and Kreacher 
made one last deep bow and Disapparated. “You’d 
better go and get some sleep too, Dobby.” 

“Thank you, Harry Potter, sir!” squeaked Dobby 
happily, and he too vanished. 

“How good’s this?” said Harry enthusiastically, 
turning to Ron and Hermione the moment the room 
was elf-free again. “We know where Malfoy’s going! 
We’ve got him cornered now!” 

“Yeah, it’s great,” said Ron glumly, who was 
attempting to mop up the sodden mass of ink that 
had recently been an almost completed essay. 

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Hermione pulled it toward her and began siphoning 
the ink off with her wand. 

“But what’s all this about him going up there with a 
Variety of students’?” said Hermione. “How many 
people are in on it? You wouldn’t think he’d trust lots 
of them to know what he’s doing. ...” 

“Yeah, that is weird,” said Harry, frowning. “I heard 
him telling Crabbe it wasn’t Crabbe’s business what 
he was doing ... so what’s he telling all these ... all 
these ...” 

Harry’s voice tailed away; he was staring at the fire. 

“God, I’ve been stupid,” he said quietly. “It’s obvious, 
isn’t it? There was a great vat of it down in the 
dungeon. ... He could’ve nicked some any time during 
that lesson. ...” 

“Nicked what?” said Ron. 

“Polyjuice Potion. He stole some of the Polyjuice 
Potion Slughorn showed us in our first Potions 
lesson. ... There aren’t a whole variety of students 
standing guard for Malfoy ... it’s just Crabbe and 
Goyle as usual. ... Yeah, it all fits!” said Harry, 
jumping up and starting to pace in front of the fire. 
“They’re stupid enough to do what they’re told even if 
he won’t tell them what he’s up to ... but he doesn’t 
want them to be seen lurking around outside the 
Room of Requirement, so he’s got them taking 
Polyjuice to make them look like other people. ... 
Those two girls I saw him with when he missed 
Quidditch — ha! Crabbe and Goyle!” 

“Do you mean to say,” said Hermione in a hushed 
voice, “that that little girl whose scales I repaired — ?” 



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“Yeah, of course!” said Harry loudly, staring at her. 
“Of course! Malfoy must’ve been inside the room at 
the time, so she — what am I talking about? — he 
dropped the scales to tell Malfoy not to come out, 
because there was someone there! And there was that 
girl who dropped the toadspawn too! We’ve been 
walking past him all the time and not realizing it!” 

“He’s got Crabbe and Goyle transforming into girls?” 
guffawed Ron. “Blimey ... No wonder they don’t look 
too happy these days. ... I’m surprised they don’t tell 
him to stuff it. ...” 

“Well, they wouldn’t, would they, if he’s shown them 
his Dark Mark?” said Harry. 

“Hmmm ... the Dark Mark we don’t know exists,” said 
Hermione skeptically, rolling up Ron’s dried essay 
before it could come to any more harm and handing it 
to him. 

“Well see,” said Harry confidently. 

“Yes, we will,” Hermione said, getting to her feet and 
stretching. “But, Harry, before you get all excited, I 
still don’t think you’ll be able to get into the Room of 
Requirement without knowing what’s there first. And 
I don’t think you should forget” — she heaved her bag 
onto her shoulder and gave him a very serious look — 
“that what you’re supposed to be concentrating on is 
getting that memory from Slughorn. Good night.” 

Harry watched her go, feeling slightly disgruntled. 
Once the door to the girls’ dormitories had closed 
behind her he rounded on Ron. 

“What d’you think?” 



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“Wish I could Disapparate like a house-elf,” said Ron, 
staring at the spot where Dobby had vanished. “I’d 
have that Apparition Test in the bag.” 

Harry did not sleep well that night. He lay awake for 
what felt like hours, wondering how Malfoy was using 
the Room of Requirement and what he, Harry, would 
see when he went in there the following day, for 
whatever Hermione said, Harry was sure that if 
Malfoy had been able to see the headquarters of the 
D.A., he would be able to see Malfoy ’s ... what could it 
be? A meeting place? A hideout? A storeroom? A 
workshop? Harry’s mind worked feverishly and his 
dreams, when he finally fell asleep, were broken and 
disturbed by images of Malfoy, who turned into 
Slughorn, who turned into Snape. ... 

Harry was in a state of great anticipation over 
breakfast the following morning; he had a free period 
before Defense Against the Dark Arts and was 
determined to spend it trying to get into the Room of 
Requirement. Hermione was rather ostentatiously 
showing no interest in his whispered plans for forcing 
entry into the room, which irritated Harry, because he 
thought she might be a lot of help if she wanted to. 

“Look,” he said quietly, leaning forward and putting a 
hand on the Daily Prophet, which she had just 
removed from a post owl, to stop her from opening it 
and vanishing behind it. “I haven’t forgotten about 
Slughorn, but I haven’t got a clue how to get that 
memory off him, and until I get a brain wave why 
shouldn’t I find out what Malfoy’s doing?” 

“I’ve already told you, you need to persuade 
Slughorn,” said Hermione. “It’s not a question of 
tricking him or bewitching him, or Dumbledore could 
have done it in a second. Instead of messing around 
outside the Room of Requirement” — she jerked the 
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Prophet out from under Harry’s hand and unfolded it 
to look at the front page — “you should go and find 
Slughorn and start appealing to his better nature.” 

“Anyone we know — ?” asked Ron, as Hermione 
scanned the headlines. 

“Yes!” said Hermione, causing both Harry and Ron to 
gag on their breakfast. “But it’s all right, he’s not 
dead — it’s Mundungus, he’s been arrested and sent 
to Azkaban! Something to do with impersonating an 
Inferius during an attempted burglary . . . and 
someone called Octavius Pepper has vanished. ... Oh, 
and how horrible, a nine-year-old boy has been 
arrested for trying to kill his grandparents, they think 
he was under the Imperius Curse. ...” 

They finished their breakfast in silence. Hermione set 
off immediately for Ancient Runes; Ron for the 
common room, where he still had to finish his 
conclusion on Snape’s dementor essay; and Harry for 
the corridor on the seventh floor and the stretch of 
wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy 
teaching trolls to do ballet. 

Harry slipped on his Invisibility Cloak once he had 
found an empty passage, but he need not have 
bothered. When he reached his destination he found 
it deserted. Harry was not sure whether his chances 
of getting inside the room were better with Malfoy 
inside it or out, but at least his first attempt was not 
going to be complicated by the presence of Crabbe or 
Goyle pretending to be an eleven-year-old girl. 

He closed his eyes as he approached the place where 
the Room of Requirement’s door was concealed. He 
knew what he had to do; he had become most 
accomplished at it last year. Concentrating with all 
his might he thought, I need to see what Malfoy ’s 
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doing in here. ... I need to see what Malfoy’s doing in 
here. ... I need to see what Malfoy’s doing in here. ... 

Three times he walked past the door; then, his heart 
pounding with excitement, he opened his eyes and 
faced it — 

But he was still looking at a stretch of mundanely 
blank wall. 

He moved forward and gave it an experimental push. 
The stone remained solid and unyielding. 

“Okay,” said Harry aloud. “Okay ... I thought the 
wrong thing. ...” 

He pondered for a moment then set off again, eyes 
closed, concentrating as hard as he could. 

I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps coming 
secretly. ... I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps 
coming secretly. . . . 

After three walks past, he opened his eyes 
expectantly. 

There was no door. 

“Oh, come off it,” he told the wall irritably. “That was 
a clear instruction. ... Fine ...” 

He thought hard for several minutes before striding 
off once more. 

I need you to become the place you become for Draco 
Malfoy. ... 

He did not immediately open his eyes when he had 
finished his patrolling; he was listening hard, as 

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though he might hear the door pop into existence. He 
heard nothing, however, except the distant twittering 
of birds outside. He opened his eyes. 

There was still no door. 

Harry swore. Someone screamed. He looked around to 
see a gaggle of first years running back around the 
corner, apparently under the impression that they 
had just encountered a particularly foulmouthed 
ghost. 

Harry tried every variation of “I need to see what 
Draco Malfoy is doing inside you” that he could think 
of for a whole hour, at the end of which he was forced 
to concede that Hermione might have had a point: 

The room simply did not want to open for him. 
Frustrated and annoyed, he set off for Defense 
Against the Dark Arts, pulling off his Invisibility Cloak 
and stuffing it into his bag as he went. 

“Late again, Potter,” said Snape coldly, as Harry 
hurried into the candlelit classroom. “Ten points from 
Gryffindor.” 

Harry scowled at Snape as he flung himself into the 
seat beside Ron; half the class was still on its feet, 
taking out books and organizing their things; he 
could not be much later than any of them. 

“Before we start, I want your dementor essays,” said 
Snape, waving his wand carelessly, so that twenty- 
five scrolls of parchment soared into the air and 
landed in a neat pile on his desk. “And I hope for your 
sakes they are better than the tripe I had to endure 
on resisting the Imperius Curse. Now, if you will all 
open your books to page — what is it, Mr. Finnigan?” 



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“Sir,” said Seamus, “I’ve been wondering, how do you 
tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost? 
Because there was something in the paper about an 
Inferius — ” 

“No, there wasn’t,” said Snape in a bored voice. 

“But sir, I heard people talking — ” 

“If you had actually read the article in question, Mr. 
Finnigan, you would have known that the so-called 
Inferius was nothing but a smelly sneak thief by the 
name of Mundungus Fletcher.” 

“I thought Snape and Mundungus were on the same 
side,” muttered Harry to Ron and Hermione. 
“Shouldn’t he be upset Mundungus has been arrest 



“But Potter seems to have a lot to say on the subject,” 
said Snape, pointing suddenly at the back of the 
room, his black eyes fixed on Harry “Let us ask Potter 
how we would tell the difference between an Inferius 
and a ghost.” 

The whole class looked around at Harry, who hastily 
tried to recall what Dumbledore had told him the 
night that they had gone to visit Slughorn. 

“Er — well — ghosts are transparent — ” he said. 

“Oh, very good,” interrupted Snape, his lip curling. 
“Yes, it is easy to see that nearly six years of magical 
education have not been wasted on you, Potter. 
‘Ghosts are transparent.’ ” 

Pansy Parkinson let out a high-pitched giggle. Several 
other people were smirking. Harry took a deep breath 
and continued calmly, though his insides were 

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boiling, “Yeah, ghosts are transparent, but Inferi are 
dead bodies, aren’t they? So they’d be solid — ” 

“A five-year-old could have told us as much,” sneered 
Snape. “The Inferius is a corpse that has been 
reanimated by a Dark wizard’s spells. It is not alive, it 
is merely used like a puppet to do the wizard’s 
bidding. A ghost, as I trust that you are all aware by 
now, is the imprint of a departed soul left upon the 
earth ... and of course, as Potter so wisely tells us, 
transparent.” 

“Well, what Harry said is the most useful if we’re 
trying to tell them apart!” said Ron. “When we come 
face-to-face with one down a dark alley, we’re going to 
be having a shufti to see if it’s solid, aren’t we, we’re 
not going to be asking, ‘Excuse me, are you the 
imprint of a departed soul?’ ” 

There was a ripple of laughter, instantly quelled by 
the look Snape gave the class. 

“Another ten points from Gryffindor,” said Snape. “I 
would expect nothing more sophisticated from you, 
Ronald Weasley, the boy so solid he cannot Apparate 
half an inch across a room.” 

“IVo!” whispered Hermione, grabbing Harry’s arm as 
he opened his mouth furiously. “There’s no point, 
you’ll just end up in detention again, leave it!” 

“Now open your books to page two hundred and 
thirteen,” said Snape, smirking a little, “and read the 
first two paragraphs on the Cruciatus Curse. ...” 

Ron was very subdued all through the class. When 
the bell sounded at the end of the lesson, Lavender 
caught up with Ron and Harry (Hermione 
mysteriously melted out of sight as she approached) 

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and abused Snape hotly for his jibe about Ron’s 
Apparition, but this seemed to merely irritate Ron, 
and he shook her off by making a detour into the 
boys’ bathroom with Harry. 

“Snape’s right, though, isn’t he?” said Ron, after 
staring into a cracked mirror for a minute or two. “I 
dunno whether it’s worth me taking the test. I just 
can’t get the hang of Apparition.” 

“You might as well do the extra practice sessions in 
Hogsmeade and see where they get you,” said Harry 
reasonably. “It’ll be more interesting than trying to get 
into a stupid hoop anyway. Then, if you’re still not — 
you know — as good as you’d like to be, you can 
postpone the test, do it with me over the summ — 
Myrtle, this is the boys’ bathroom!” 

The ghost of a girl had risen out of the toilet in a 
cubicle behind them and was now floating in midair, 
staring at them through thick, white, round glasses. 

“Oh,” she said glumly. “It’s you two.” 

“Who were you expecting?” said Ron, looking at her in 
the mirror. 

“Nobody,” said Myrtle, picking moodily at a spot on 
her chin. “He said he’d come back and see me, but 
then you said you’d pop in and visit me too” — she 
gave Harry a reproachful look — “and I haven’t seen 
you for months and months. I’ve learned not to expect 
too much from boys.” 

“I thought you lived in that girls’ bathroom?” said 
Harry, who had been careful to give the place a wide 
berth for some years now. 



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“I do,” she said, with a sulky little shrug, “but that 
doesn’t mean I can’t visit other places. I came and 
saw you in your bath once, remember?” 

“Vividly,” said Harry. 

“But I thought he liked me,” she said plaintively. 
“Maybe if you two left, he’d come back again. ... We 
had lots in common. ... I’m sure he felt it. ...” 

And she looked hopefully toward the door. 

“When you say you had lots in common,” said Ron, 
sounding rather amused now, “d’you mean he lives in 
an S-bend too?” 

“No,” said Myrtle defiantly, her voice echoing loudly 
around the old tiled bathroom. “I mean he’s sensitive, 
people bully him too, and he feels lonely and hasn’t 
got anybody to talk to, and he’s not afraid to show his 
feelings and cry!” 

“There’s been a boy in here crying?” said Harry 
curiously. “A young boy?” 

“Never you mind!” said Myrtle, her small, leaky eyes 
fixed on Ron, who was now definitely grinning. “I 
promised I wouldn’t tell anyone, and I’ll take his 
secret to the — ” 

“ — not the grave, surely?” said Ron with a snort. “The 
sewers, maybe ...” 

Myrtle gave a howl of rage and dived back into the 
toilet, causing water to slop over the sides and onto 
the floor. Goading Myrtle seemed to have put fresh 
heart into Ron. 



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“You’re right,” he said, swinging his schoolbag back 
over his shoulder, “I’ll do the practice sessions in 
Hogsmeade before I decide about taking the test.” 

And so the following weekend, Ron joined Hermione 
and the rest of the sixth years who would turn 
seventeen in time to take the test in a fortnight. Harry 
felt rather jealous watching them all get ready to go 
into the village; he missed making trips there, and it 
was a particularly fine spring day, one of the first 
clear skies they had seen in a long time. However, he 
had decided to use the time to attempt another 
assault on the Room of Requirement. 

“You’d do better,” said Hermione, when he confided 
this plan to Ron and her in the entrance hall, “to go 
straight to Slughorn’s office and try and get that 
memory from him.” 

“I’ve been trying!” said Harry crossly, which was 
perfectly true. He had lagged behind after every 
Potions lesson that week in an attempt to corner 
Slughorn, but the Potions master always left the 
dungeon so fast that Harry had not been able to catch 
him. Twice, Harry had gone to his office and knocked, 
but received no reply, though on the second occasion 
he was sure he had heard the quickly stifled sounds 
of an old gramophone. 

“He doesn’t want to talk to me, Hermione! He can tell 
I’ve been trying to get him on his own again, and he’s 
not going to let it happen!” 

“Well, you’ve just got to keep at it, haven’t you?” 

The short queue of people waiting to file past Filch, 
who was doing his usual prodding act with the 
Secrecy Sensor, moved forward a few steps and Harry 
did not answer in case he was overheard by the 

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caretaker. He wished Ron and Hermione both luck, 
then turned and climbed the marble staircase again, 
determined, whatever Hermione said, to devote an 
hour or two to the Room of Requirement. 

Once out of sight of the entrance hall, Harry pulled 
the Marauder’s Map and his Invisibility Cloak from 
his bag. Having concealed himself, he tapped the 
map, murmured, “ I solemnly swear that I am up to no 
good,” and scanned it carefully. 

As it was Sunday morning, nearly all the students 
were inside their various common rooms, the 
Gryffindors in one tower, the Ravenclaws in another, 
the Slytherins in the dungeons, and the Hufflepuffs in 
the basement near the kitchens. Here and there a 
stray person meandered around the library or up a 
corridor. . . . There were a few people out in the 
grounds ... and there, alone in the seventh-floor 
corridor, was Gregory Goyle. There was no sign of the 
Room of Requirement, but Harry was not worried 
about that; if Goyle was standing guard outside it, the 
room was open, whether the map was aware of it or 
not. He therefore sprinted up the stairs, slowing down 
only when he reached the corner into the corridor, 
when he began to creep, very slowly, toward the very 
same little girl, clutching her heavy brass scales, that 
Hermione had so kindly helped a fortnight before. He 
waited until he was right behind her before bending 
very low and whispering, “Hello ... you’re very pretty, 
aren’t you?” 

Goyle gave a high-pitched scream of terror, threw the 
scales up into the air, and sprinted away, vanishing 
from sight long before the sound of the scales 
smashing had stopped echoing around the corridor. 
Laughing, Harry turned to contemplate the blank wall 
behind which, he was sure, Draco Malfoy was now 
standing frozen, aware that someone unwelcome was 
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out there, but not daring to make an appearance. It 
gave Harry a most agreeable feeling of power as he 
tried to remember what form of words he had not yet 
tried. 

Yet this hopeful mood did not last long. Half an hour 
later, having tried many more variations of his 
request to see what Malfoy was up to, the wall was 
just as doorless as ever. Harry felt frustrated beyond 
belief; Malfoy might be just feet away from him, and 
there was still not the tiniest shred of evidence as to 
what he was doing in there. Losing his patience 
completely, Harry ran at the wall and kicked it. 

“OUCH!” 

He thought he might have broken his toe; as he 
clutched it and hopped on one foot, the Invisibility 
Cloak slipped off him. 

“Harry?” 

He spun around, one-legged, and toppled over. There, 
to his utter astonishment, was Tonks, walking toward 
him as though she frequently strolled up this 
corridor. 

“What’re you doing here?” he said, scrambling to his 
feet again; why did she always have to find him lying 
on the floor? 

“I came to see Dumbledore,” said Tonks. 

Harry thought she looked terrible: thinner than 
usual, her mouse-colored hair lank. 

“His office isn’t here,” said Harry, “it’s round the other 
side of the castle, behind the gargoyle — ” 



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“I know,” said Tonks. “He’s not there. Apparently he’s 
gone away again.” 

“Has he?” said Harry, putting his bruised foot gingerly 
back on the floor. “Hey — you don’t know where he 
goes, I suppose?” 

“No,” said Tonks. 

“What did you want to see him about?” 

“Nothing in particular,” said Tonks, picking, 
apparently unconsciously, at the sleeve of her robe. “I 
just thought he might know what’s going on. ... I’ve 
heard rumors ... people getting hurt ...” 

“Yeah, I know, it’s all been in the papers,” said Harry. 
“That little kid trying to kill his — ” 

“The Prophet’s often behind the times,” said Tonks, 
who didn’t seem to be listening to him. “You haven’t 
had any letters from anyone in the Order recently?” 

“No one from the Order writes to me anymore,” said 
Harry, “not since Sirius — ” 

He saw that her eyes had filled with tears. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered awkwardly. “I mean ... I miss 
him, as well. ...” 

“What?” said Tonks blankly, as though she had not 
heard him. “Well ... I’ll see you around, Harry ...” 

And she turned abruptly and walked back down the 
corridor, leaving Harry to stare after her. After a 
minute or so, he pulled the Invisibility Cloak on again 
and resumed his efforts to get into the Room of 
Requirement, but his heart was not in it. Finally, a 
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hollow feeling in his stomach and the knowledge that 
Ron and Hermione would soon be back for lunch 
made him abandon the attempt and leave the corridor 
to Malfoy who, hopefully, would be too afraid to leave 
for some hours to come. 

He found Ron and Hermione in the Great Hall, 
already halfway through an early lunch. 

“I did it — well, kind of!” Ron told Harry 
enthusiastically when he caught sight of him. “I was 
supposed to be Apparating to outside Madam 
Puddifoot’s Tea Shop and I overshot it a bit, ended up 
near Scrivenshaft’s, but at least I moved!” 

“Good one,” said Harry. “How’d you do, Hermione?” 

“Oh, she was perfect, obviously,” said Ron, before 
Hermione could answer. “Perfect deliberation, 
divination, and desperation or whatever the hell it is 
— we all went for a quick drink in the Three 
Broomsticks after and you should’ve heard Twycross 
going on about her — I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t 
pop the question soon — ” 

“And what about you?” asked Hermione, ignoring 
Ron. “Have you been up at the Room of Requirement 
all this time?” 

“Yep,” said Harry. “And guess who I ran into up 
there? Tonks!” 

“Tonks?” repeated Ron and Hermione together, 
looking surprised. 

“Yeah, she said she’d come to visit Dumbledore. ...” 

“If you ask me,” said Ron once Harry had finished 
describing his conversation with Tonks, “she’s 

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cracking up a bit. Losing her nerve after what 
happened at the Ministry.” 

“It’s a bit odd,” said Hermione, who for some reason 
looked very concerned. “She’s supposed to be 
guarding the school, why’s she suddenly abandoning 
her post to come and see Dumbledore when he’s not 
even here?” 

“I had a thought,” said Harry tentatively. He felt 
strange about voicing it; this was much more 
Hermione’s territory than his. “You don’t think she 
can have been . . . you know ... in love with Sirius?” 

Hermione stared at him. 

“What on earth makes you say that?” 

“I dunno,” said Harry, shrugging, “but she was nearly 
crying when I mentioned his name . . . and her 
Patronus is a big four-legged thing now. ... I wondered 
whether it hadn’t become ... you know ... him.” 

“It’s a thought,” said Hermione slowly. “But I still 
don’t know why she’d be bursting into the castle to 
see Dumbledore, if that’s really why she was here. ...” 

“Goes back to what I said, doesn’t it?” said Ron, who 
was now shoveling mashed potato into his mouth. 
“She’s gone a bit funny. Lost her nerve. Women,” he 
said wisely to Harry, “they’re easily upset.” 

“And yet,” said Hermione, coming out of her reverie, “I 
doubt you’d find a woman who sulked for half an 
hour because Madam Rosmerta didn’t laugh at their 
joke about the hag, the Healer, and the Mimbulus 
mimbletonia.” 

Ron scowled. 

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AFTER THE BURIAL 

Patches of bright blue sky were beginning to appear 
over the castle turrets, but these signs of approaching 
summer did not lift Harry’s mood. He had been 
thwarted, both in his attempts to find out what 
Malfoy was doing, and in his efforts to start a 
conversation with Slughorn that might lead, 
somehow, to Slughorn handing over the memory he 
had apparently suppressed for decades. 

“For the last time, just forget about Malfoy,” Hermione 
told Harry firmly. 

They were sitting with Ron in a sunny corner of the 
courtyard after lunch. Hermione and Ron were both 
clutching a Ministry of Magic leaflet — Common 
Apparition Mistakes and How to Avoid Them — for 
they were taking their tests that very afternoon, but 
by and large the leaflets had not proved soothing to 
the nerves. 



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Ron gave a start and tried to hide behind Hermione as 
a girl came around the corner. 

“It isn’t Lavender,” said Hermione wearily. 

“Oh, good,” said Ron, relaxing. 

“Harry Potter?” said the girl. “I was asked to give you 
this.” 

“Thanks ...” 

Harry’s heart sank as he took the small scroll of 
parchment. Once the girl was out of earshot he said, 
“Dumbledore said we wouldn’t be having any more 
lessons until I got the memory!” 

“Maybe he wants to check on how you’re doing?” 
suggested Hermione, as Harry unrolled the 
parchment; but rather than finding Dumbledore ’s 
long, narrow, slanted writing he saw an untidy 
sprawl, very difficult to read due to the presence of 
large blotches on the parchment where the ink had 
run. 



Dear Harry, Ron, and Hermione, 

Aragog died last night Harry and Ron, you met him, 
and you know how special he was. Hermione, I know 
you’d have liked him. It would mean a lot to me if 
you’d nip down for the burial later this evening. I’m 
planning on doing it round dusk, that was his favorite 
time of day. I know you’re not supposed to be out that 
late, but you can use the cloak. Wouldn’t ask, but I 
can’t face it alone. 



Hagrid 

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“Look at this,” said Harry, handing the note to 
Hermione. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, scanning it quickly 
and passing it to Ron, who read it through looking 
increasingly incredulous. 

“He’s mentaft” he said furiously. “That thing told its 
mates to eat Harry and me! Told them to help 
themselves! And now Hagrid expects us to go down 
there and cry over its horrible hairy body!” 

“It’s not just that,” said Hermione. “He’s asking us to 
leave the castle at night and he knows security’s a 
million times tighter and how much trouble we’d be in 
if we were caught.” 

“We’ve been down to see him by night before,” said 
Harry. 

“Yes, but for something like this?” said Hermione. 
“We’ve risked a lot to help Hagrid out, but after all — 
Aragog’s dead. If it were a question of saving him — ” 

“ — I’d want to go even less,” said Ron firmly. “You 
didn’t meet him, Hermione. Believe me, being dead 
will have improved him a lot.” 

Harry took the note back and stared down at all the 
inky blotches all over it. Tears had clearly fallen thick 
and fast upon the parchment. ... 

“Harry, you can’t be thinking of going,” said 
Hermione. “It’s such a pointless thing to get detention 
for.” 

Harry sighed. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I s’pose 
Hagrid ’ll have to bury Aragog without us.” 



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“Yes, he will,” said Hermione, looking relieved. “Look, 
Potions will be almost empty this afternoon, with us 
all off doing our tests. ... Try and soften Slughorn up 
a bit then!” 

“Fifty-seventh time lucky, you think?” said Harry 
bitterly. 

“Lucky,” said Ron suddenly. “Harry, that’s it — get 
lucky!” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“Use your lucky potion!” 

“Ron, that’s — that’s it!” said Hermione, sounding 
stunned. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of it?” 

Harry stared at them both. “Felix Felicis?” he said. “I 
dunno ... I was sort of saving it. ...” 

“What for?” demanded Ron incredulously. 

“What on earth is more important than this memory, 
Harry?” asked Hermione. 

Harry did not answer. The thought of that little golden 
bottle had hovered on the edges of his imagination for 
some time; vague and unformulated plans that 
involved Ginny splitting up with Dean, and Ron 
somehow being happy to see her with a new 
boyfriend, had been fermenting in the depths of his 
brain, unacknowledged except during dreams or the 
twilight time between sleeping and waking. . . . 

“Harry? Are you still with us?” asked Hermione. 

“Wha — ? Yeah, of course,” he said, pulling himself 
together. “Well ... okay. If I can’t get Slughorn to talk 

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this afternoon, I’ll take some Felix and have another 
go this evening.” 

“That’s decided, then,” said Hermione briskly, getting 
to her feet and performing a graceful pirouette. 
“Destination ... determination ... deliberation ...” she 
murmured. 

“Oh, stop that,” Ron begged her, “I feel sick enough as 
it is — quick, hide me!” 

“It isn’t Lavender!” said Hermione impatiently, as 
another couple of girls appeared in the courtyard and 
Ron dived behind her. 

“Cool,” said Ron, peering over Hermione’s shoulder to 
check. “Blimey, they don’t look happy, do they?” 

“They’re the Montgomery sisters and of course they 
don’t look happy, didn’t you hear what happened to 
their little brother?” said Hermione. 

“I’m losing track of what’s happening to everyone’s 
relatives, to be honest,” said Ron. 

“Well, their brother was attacked by a werewolf. The 
rumor is that their mother refused to help the Death 
Eaters. Anyway, the boy was only five and he died in 
St. Mungo’s, they couldn’t save him.” 

“He died?” repeated Harry, shocked. “But surely 
werewolves don’t kill, they just turn you into one of 
them?” 

“They sometimes kill,” said Ron, who looked 
unusually grave now. “I’ve heard of it happening 
when the werewolf gets carried away.” 

“What was the werewolf’s name?” said Harry quickly. 

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“Well, the rumor is that it was that Fenrir Greyback,” 
said Hermione. 

“I knew it — the maniac who likes attacking kids, the 
one Lupin told me about!” said Harry angrily. 

Hermione looked at him bleakly. 

“Harry, you’ve got to get that memory,” she said. “It’s 
all about stopping Voldemort, isn’t it? These dreadful 
things that are happening are all down to him. ...” 

The bell rang overhead in the castle and both 
Hermione and Ron jumped to their feet, looking 
terrified. 

“You’ll do fine,” Harry told them both, as they headed 
toward the entrance hall to meet the rest of the people 
taking their Apparition Test. “Good luck.” 

“And you too!” said Hermione with a significant look, 
as Harry headed off to the dungeons. 

There were only three of them in Potions that 
afternoon: Harry, Ernie, and Draco Malfoy. 

“All too young to Apparate just yet?” said Slughorn 
genially. “Not turned seventeen yet?” 

They shook their heads. 

“Ah well,” said Slughorn cheerily, “as we’re so few, 
we’ll do something fun. I want you all to brew me up 
something amusing!” 

“That sounds good, sir,” said Ernie sycophantically, 
rubbing his hands together. Malfoy, on the other 
hand, did not crack a smile. 



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“What do you mean, ‘something amusing?” he said 
irritably. 

“Oh, surprise me,” said Slughorn airily. 

Malfoy opened his copy of Advanced Potion-Making 
with a sulky expression. It could not have been 
plainer that he thought this lesson was a waste of 
time. Undoubtedly, Harry thought, watching him over 
the top of his own book, Malfoy was begrudging the 
time he could otherwise be spending in the Room of 
Requirement. 

Was it his imagination, or did Malfoy, like Tonks, look 
thinner? Certainly he looked paler; his skin still had 
that grayish tinge, probably because he so rarely saw 
daylight these days. But there was no air of 
smugness, excitement, or superiority; none of the 
swagger that he had had on the Hogwarts Express, 
when he had boasted openly of the mission he had 
been given by Voldemort. ... There could be only one 
conclusion, in Harry’s opinion: The mission, whatever 
it was, was going badly. 

Cheered by this thought, Harry skimmed through his 
copy of Advanced Potion-Making and found a heavily 
corrected Half-Blood Prince’s version of “An Elixir to 
Induce Euphoria,” which seemed not only to meet 
Slughorn ’s instructions, but which might (Harry’s 
heart leapt as the thought struck him) put Slughorn 
into such a good mood that he would be prepared to 
hand over that memory if Harry could persuade him 
to taste some. ... 

“Well, now, this looks absolutely wonderful,” said 
Slughorn an hour and a half later, clapping his hands 
together as he stared down into the sunshine yellow 
contents of Harry’s cauldron. “Euphoria, I take it? And 
what’s that I smell? Mmmm ... you’ve added just a 
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sprig of peppermint, haven’t you? Unorthodox, but 
what a stroke of inspiration, Harry, of course, that 
would tend to counterbalance the occasional side 
effects of excessive singing and nose-tweaking. ... I 
really don’t know where you get these brain waves, 
my boy . . . unless — ” 

Harry pushed the Half-Blood Prince’s book deeper 
into his bag with his foot. 

“ — it’s just your mother’s genes coming out in you!” 

“Oh ... yeah, maybe,” said Harry, relieved. 

Ernie was looking rather grumpy; determined to 
outshine Harry for once, he had most rashly invented 
his own potion, which had curdled and formed a kind 
of purple dumpling at the bottom of his cauldron. 
Malfoy was already packing up, sour-faced; Slughorn 
had pronounced his Hiccuping Solution merely 
“passable.” 

The bell rang and both Ernie and Malfoy left at once. 

“Sir,” Harry began, but Slughorn immediately glanced 
over his shoulder; when he saw that the room was 
empty but for himself and Harry, he hurried away as 
fast as he could. 

“Professor — Professor, don’t you want to taste my po 
— ?” called Harry desperately. 

But Slughorn had gone. Disappointed, Harry emptied 
the cauldron, packed up his things, left the dungeon, 
and walked slowly back upstairs to the common 
room. 

Ron and Hermione returned in the late afternoon. 



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“Harry!” cried Hermione as she climbed through the 
portrait hole. “Harry, I passed!” 

“Well done!” he said. “And Ron?” 

“He — he just failed,” whispered Hermione, as Ron 
came slouching into the room looking most morose. 
“It was really unlucky, a tiny thing, the examiner just 
spotted that he’d left half an eyebrow behind. ... How 
did it go with Slughorn?” 

“No joy,” said Harry, as Ron joined them. “Bad luck, 
mate, but you’ll pass next time — we can take it 
together.” 

“Yeah, I s’pose,” said Ron grumpily. “But half an 
eyebrow\ Like that matters!” 

“I know,” said Hermione soothingly, “it does seem 
really harsh. ...” 

They spent most of their dinner roundly abusing the 
Apparition examiner, and Ron looked fractionally 
more cheerful by the time they set off back to the 
common room, now discussing the continuing 
problem of Slughorn and the memory. 

“So, Harry — you going to use the Felix Felicis or 
what?” Ron demanded. 

“Yeah, I s’pose I’d better,” said Harry. “I don’t reckon 
I’ll need all of it, not twelve hours’ worth, it can’t take 
all night. ... I’ll just take a mouthful. Two or three 
hours should do it.” 

“It’s a great feeling when you take it,” said Ron 
reminiscently. “Like you can’t do anything wrong.” 



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“What are you talking about?” said Hermione, 
laughing. “You’ve never taken any!” 

“Yeah, but I thought I had, didn’t I?” said Ron, as 
though explaining the obvious. “Same difference 
really ...” 

As they had only just seen Slughorn enter the Great 
Hall and knew that he liked to take time over meals, 
they lingered for a while in the common room, the 
plan being that Harry should go to Slughorn ’s office 
once the teacher had had time to get back there. 
When the sun had sunk to the level of the treetops in 
the Forbidden Forest, they decided the moment had 
come, and after checking carefully that Neville, Dean, 
and Seamus were all in the common room, sneaked 
up to the boys’ dormitory. 

Harry took out the rolled-up socks at the bottom of 
his trunk and extracted the tiny, gleaming bottle. 

“Well, here goes,” said Harry, and he raised the little 
bottle and took a carefully measured gulp. 

“What does it feel like?” whispered Hermione. 

Harry did not answer for a moment. Then, slowly but 
surely, an exhilarating sense of infinite opportunity 
stole through him; he felt as though he could have 
done anything, anything at all ... and getting the 
memory from Slughorn seemed suddenly not only 
possible, but positively easy. ... 

He got to his feet, smiling, brimming with confidence. 

“Excellent,” he said. “Really excellent. Right ... I’m 
going down to Hagrid’s.” 



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“What?” said Ron and Hermione together, looking 
aghast. 

“No, Harry — you’ve got to go and see Slughorn, 
remember?” said Hermione. 

“No,” said Harry confidently. “I’m going to Hagrid’s, 

I’ve got a good feeling about going to Hagrid’s.” 

“You’ve got a good feeling about burying a giant 
spider?” asked Ron, looking stunned. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, pulling his Invisibility Cloak out of 
his bag. “I feel like it’s the place to be tonight, you 
know what I mean?” 

“No,” said Ron and Hermione together, both looking 
positively alarmed now. 

“This is Felix Felicis, I suppose?” said Hermione 
anxiously, holding up the bottle to the light. “You 
haven’t got another little bottle full of — I don’t know 



“Essence of Insanity?” suggested Ron, as Harry 
swung his cloak over his shoulders. 

Harry laughed, and Ron and Hermione looked even 
more alarmed. 

“Trust me,” he said. “I know what I’m doing ... or at 
least” — he strolled confidently to the door — “Felix 
does.” 

He pulled the Invisibility Cloak over his head and set 
off down the stairs, Ron and Hermione hurrying along 
behind him. At the foot of the stairs, Harry slid 
through the open door. 



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“What were you doing up there with her?” shrieked 
Lavender Brown, staring right through Harry at Ron 
and Hermione emerging together from the boys’ 
dormitories. Harry heard Ron spluttering behind him 
as he darted across the room away from them. 

Getting through the portrait hole was simple; as he 
approached it, Ginny and Dean came through it, and 
Harry was able to slip between them. As he did so, he 
brushed accidentally against Ginny. 

“Don’t push me, please, Dean,” she said, sounding 
annoyed. “You’re always doing that, I can get through 
perfectly well on my own. ...” 

The portrait swung closed behind Harry, but not 
before he had heard Dean make an angry retort. ... 

His feeling of elation increasing, Harry strode off 
through the castle. He did not have to creep along, for 
he met nobody on his way, but this did not surprise 
him in the slightest: This evening, he was the luckiest 
person at Hogwarts. 

Why he knew that going to Hagrid’s was the right 
thing to do, he had no idea. It was as though the 
potion was illuminating a few steps of the path at a 
time: He could not see the final destination, he could 
not see where Slughorn came in, but he knew that he 
was going the right way to get that memory. When he 
reached the entrance hall he saw that Filch had 
forgotten to lock the front door. Beaming, Harry threw 
it open and breathed in the smell of clean air and 
grass for a moment before walking down the steps 
into the dusk. 

It was when he reached the bottom step that it 
occurred to him how very pleasant it would be to pass 
the vegetable patch on his walk to Hagrid’s. It was not 
strictly on the way, but it seemed clear to Harry that 

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this was a whim on which he should act, so he 
directed his feet immediately toward the vegetable 
patch, where he was pleased, but not altogether 
surprised, to find Professor Slughorn in conversation 
with Professor Sprout. Harry lurked behind a low 
stone wall, feeling at peace with the world and 
listening to their conversation. 

“I do thank you for taking the time, Pomona,” 
Slughorn was saying courteously, “most authorities 
agree that they are at their most efficacious if picked 
at twilight.” 

“Oh, I quite agree,” said Professor Sprout warmly. 
“That enough for you?” 

“Plenty, plenty,” said Slughorn, who, Harry saw, was 
carrying an armful of leafy plants. “This should allow 
for a few leaves for each of my third years, and some 
to spare if anybody over-stews them. ... Well, good 
evening to you, and many thanks again!” 

Professor Sprout headed off into the gathering 
darkness in the direction of her greenhouses, and 
Slughorn directed his steps to the spot where Harry 
stood, invisible. 

Seized with an immediate desire to reveal himself, 
Harry pulled off the cloak with a flourish. 

“Good evening, Professor.” 

“Merlin’s beard, Harry, you made me jump,” said 
Slughorn, stopping dead in his tracks and looking 
wary. “How did you get out of the castle?” 

“I think Filch must’ve forgotten to lock the doors,” 
said Harry cheerfully, and was delighted to see 
Slughorn scowl. 

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“I’ll be reporting that man, he’s more concerned about 
litter than proper security if you ask me. ... But why 
are you out here, Harry?” 

“Well, sir, it’s Hagrid,” said Harry, who knew that the 
right thing to do just now was to tell the truth. “He’s 
pretty upset. ... But you won’t tell anyone, Professor? 

I don’t want trouble for him. ...” 

Slughorn’s curiosity was evidently aroused. “Well, I 
can’t promise that,” he said gruffly. “But I know that 
Dumbledore trusts Hagrid to the hilt, so I’m sure he 
can’t be up to anything very dreadful. ...” 

“Well, it’s this giant spider, he’s had it for years. ... It 
lived in the forest. ... It could talk and everything — ” 

“I heard rumors there were acromantulas in the 
forest,” said Slughorn softly, looking over at the mass 
of black trees. “It’s true, then?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “But this one, Aragog, the first one 
Hagrid ever got, it died last night. He’s devastated. He 
wants company while he buries it and I said I’d go.” 

“Touching, touching,” said Slughorn absentmindedly, 
his large droopy eyes fixed upon the distant lights of 
Hagrid ’s cabin. “But acromantula venom is very 
valuable ... If the beast only just died it might not yet 
have dried out. ... Of course, I wouldn’t want to do 
anything insensitive if Hagrid is upset . . . but if there 
was any way to procure some ... I mean, it’s almost 
impossible to get venom from an acromantula while 
it’s alive. ...” 

Slughorn seemed to be talking more to himself than 
Harry now. 



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"... seems an awful waste not to collect it ... might get 
a hundred Galleons a pint. ... To be frank, my salary 
is not large. ...” 

And now Harry saw clearly what was to be done. 

“Well,” he said, with a most convincing hesitancy, 
“well, if you wanted to come, Professor, Hagrid would 
probably be really pleased. ... Give Aragog a better 
send-off, you know ...” 

“Yes, of course,” said Slughorn, his eyes now 
gleaming with enthusiasm. “I tell you what, Harry, I’ll 
meet you down there with a bottle or two. ... We’ll 
drink the poor beast’s — well — not health — but 
we’ll send it off in style, anyway, once it’s buried. And 
I’ll change my tie, this one is a little exuberant for the 
occasion. ...” 

He bustled back into the castle, and Harry sped off to 
Hagrid ’s, delighted with himself. 

“Yeh came,” croaked Hagrid, when he opened the door 
and saw Harry emerging from the Invisibility Cloak in 
front of him. 

“Yeah — Ron and Hermione couldn’t, though,” said 
Harry. “They’re really sorry.” 

“Don’ — don’ matter ... He’d’ve bin touched yeh’re 
here, though, Harry. ...” 

Hagrid gave a great sob. He had made himself a black 
armband out of what looked like a rag dipped in boot 
polish, and his eyes were puffy, red, and swollen. 
Harry patted him consolingly on the elbow, which was 
the highest point of Hagrid he could easily reach. 

“Where are we burying him?” he asked. “The forest?” 

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“Blimey, no,” said Hagrid, wiping his streaming eyes 
on the bottom of his shirt. “The other spiders won’ let 
me anywhere near their webs now Aragog’s gone. 
Turns out it was on’y on his orders they didn’ eat me! 
Can yeh believe that, Harry?” 

The honest answer was “yes”; Harry recalled with 
painful ease the scene when he and Ron had come 
face-to-face with the acromantulas: They had been 
quite clear that Aragog was the only thing that 
stopped them from eating Hagrid. 

“Never bin an area o’ the forest I couldn’ go before!” 
said Hagrid, shaking his head. “It wasn’ easy, gettin’ 
Aragog’s body out o’ there, I can tell yeh — they 
usually eat their dead, see. ... But I wanted ter give 
’im a nice burial ... a proper send-off ...” 

He broke into sobs again and Harry resumed the 
patting of his elbow, saying as he did so (for the 
potion seemed to indicate that it was the right thing 
to do), “Professor Slughorn met me coming down 
here, Hagrid.” 

“Not in trouble, are yeh?” said Hagrid, looking up, 
alarmed. “Yeh shouldn’ be outta the castle in the 
evenin’, I know it, it’s my fault — ” 

“No, no, when he heard what I was doing he said he’d 
like to come and pay his last respects to Aragog too,” 
said Harry. “He’s gone to change into something more 
suitable, I think ... and he said he’d bring some 
bottles so we can drink to Aragog’s memory. . . . 

“Did he?” said Hagrid, looking both astonished and 
touched. “Tha’s — tha’s righ’ nice of him, that is, an’ 
not turnin’ yeh in either. I’ve never really had a lot ter 
do with Horace Slughorn before. ... Cornin’ ter see old 



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Aragog off, though, eh? Well ... he ’d’ve liked that, 
Aragog would. ...” 

Harry thought privately that what Aragog would have 
liked most about Slughorn was the ample amount of 
edible flesh he provided, but he merely moved to the 
rear window of Hagrid ’s hut, where he saw the rather 
horrible sight of the enormous dead spider lying on its 
back outside, its legs curled and tangled. 

“Are we going to bury him here, Hagrid, in your 
garden?” 

“Jus’ beyond the pumpkin patch, I thought,” said 
Hagrid in a choked voice. “I’ve already dug the — yeh 
know — grave. Jus’ thought we’d say a few nice 
things over him — happy memories, yeh know — ” 

His voice quivered and broke. There was a knock on 
the door, and he turned to answer it, blowing his nose 
on his great spotted handkerchief as he did so. 
Slughorn hurried over the threshold, several bottles 
in his arms, and wearing a somber black cravat. 

“Hagrid,” he said, in a deep, grave voice. “So very 
sorry to hear of your loss.” 

“Tha’s very nice of yeh,” said Hagrid. “Thanks a lot. 

An’ thanks fer not givin’ Harry detention neither. ...” 

“Wouldn’t have dreamed of it,” said Slughorn. “Sad 
night, sad night ... Where is the poor creature?” 

“Out here,” said Hagrid in a shaking voice. “Shall we 
— shall we do it, then?” 

The three of them stepped out into the back garden. 
The moon was glistening palely through the trees 
now, and its rays mingled with the light spilling from 

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Hagrid’s window to illuminate Aragog’s body lying on 
the edge of a massive pit beside a ten-foot-high 
mound of freshly dug earth. 

“Magnificent,” said Slughorn, approaching the 
spider’s head, where eight milky eyes stared blankly 
at the sky and two huge, curved pincers shone, 
motionless, in the moonlight. Harry thought he heard 
the tinkle of bottles as Slughorn bent over the 
pincers, apparently examining the enormous hairy 
head. 

“It’s not ev’ryone appreciates how beau’iful they are,” 
said Hagrid to Slughorn ’s back, tears leaking from the 
corners of his crinkled eyes. “I didn’ know yeh were 
int’rested in creatures like Aragog, Horace.” 

“Interested? My dear Hagrid, I revere them,” said 
Slughorn, stepping back from the body. Harry saw 
the glint of a bottle disappear beneath his cloak, 
though Hagrid, mopping his eyes once more, noticed 
nothing. “Now ... shall we proceed to the burial?” 

Hagrid nodded and moved forward. He heaved the 
gigantic spider into his arms and, with an enormous 
grunt, rolled it into the dark pit. It hit the bottom with 
a rather horrible, crunchy thud. Hagrid started to cry 
again. 

“Of course, it’s difficult for you, who knew him best,” 
said Slughorn, who like Harry could reach no higher 
than Hagrid’s elbow, but patted it all the same. “Why 
don’t I say a few words?” 

He must have got a lot of good quality venom from 
Aragog, Harry thought, for Slughorn wore a satisfied 
smirk as he stepped up to the rim of the pit and said, 
in a slow, impressive voice, “Farewell, Aragog, king of 
arachnids, whose long and faithful friendship those 
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who knew you won’t forget! Though your body will 
decay, your spirit lingers on in the quiet, web-spun 
places of your forest home. May your many-eyed 
descendants ever flourish and your human friends 
find solace for the loss they have sustained.” 

“Tha’ was ... tha’ was ... beau’iful!” howled Hagrid, 
and he collapsed onto the compost heap, crying 
harder than ever. 

“There, there,” said Slughorn, waving his wand so 
that the huge pile of earth rose up and then fell, with 
a muffled sort of crash, onto the dead spider, forming 
a smooth mound. “Let’s get inside and have a drink. 
Get on his other side, Harry. ... That’s it. ... Up you 
come, Hagrid ... Well done ...” 

They deposited Hagrid in a chair at the table. Fang, 
who had been skulking in his basket during the 
burial, now came padding softly across to them and 
put his heavy head into Harry’s lap as usual. 

Slughorn uncorked one of the bottles of wine he had 
brought. 

“I have had it all tested for poison,” he assured Harry, 
pouring most of the first bottle into one of Hagrid ’s 
bucket- sized mugs and handing it to Hagrid. “Had a 
house-elf taste every bottle after what happened to 
your poor friend Rupert.” 

Harry saw, in his mind’s eye, the expression on 
Hermione’s face if she ever heard about this abuse of 
house-elves, and decided never to mention it to her. 

“One for Harry ...” said Slughorn, dividing a second 
bottle between two mugs, "... and one for me. Well” — 
he raised his mug high — “to Aragog.” 

“Aragog,” said Harry and Hagrid together. 

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Both Slughorn and Hagrid drank deeply. Harry, 
however, with the way ahead illuminated for him by 
Felix Felicis, knew that he must not drink, so he 
merely pretended to take a gulp and then set the mug 
back on the table before him. 

“I had him from an egg, yeh know,” said Hagrid 
morosely. “Tiny little thing he was when he hatched. 
Bout the size of a Pekingese.” 

“Sweet,” said Slughorn. 

“Used ter keep him in a cupboard up at the school 
until ... well ...” 

Hagrid ’s face darkened and Harry knew why: Tom 
Riddle had contrived to have Hagrid thrown out of 
school, blamed for opening the Chamber of Secrets. 
Slughorn, however, did not seem to be listening; he 
was looking up at the ceiling, from which a number of 
brass pots hung, and also a long, silky skein of bright 
white hair. 

“That’s never unicorn hair, Hagrid?” 

“Oh, yeah,” said Hagrid indifferently. “Gets pulled out 
of their tails, they catch it on branches an’ stuff in the 
forest, yeh know ...” 

“But my dear chap, do you know how much that’s 
worth?” 

“I use it fer bindin’ on bandages an’ stuff if a creature 
gets injured,” said Hagrid, shrugging. “It’s dead useful 
... very strong, see.” 

Slughorn took another deep draught from his mug, 
his eyes moving carefully around the cabin now, 
looking, Harry knew, for more treasures that he might 

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be able to convert into a plentiful supply of oak- 
matured mead, crystalized pineapple, and velvet 
smoking jackets. He refilled Hagrid’s mug and his 
own, and questioned him about the creatures that 
lived in the forest these days and how Hagrid was 
able to look after them all. Hagrid, becoming 
expansive under the influence of the drink and 
Slughorn ’s flattering interest, stopped mopping his 
eyes and entered happily into a long explanation of 
bowtruckle husbandry. 

The Felix Felicis gave Harry a little nudge at this 
point, and he noticed that the supply of drink that 
Slughorn had brought was running out fast. Harry 
had not yet managed to bring off the Refilling Charm 
without saying the incantation aloud, but the idea 
that he might not be able to do it tonight was 
laughable: Indeed, Harry grinned to himself as, 
unnoticed by either Hagrid or Slughorn (now 
swapping tales of the illegal trade in dragon eggs) he 
pointed his wand under the table at the emptying 
bottles and they immediately began to refill. 

After an hour or so, Hagrid and Slughorn began 
making extravagant toasts: to Hogwarts, to 
Dumbledore, to elf-made wine, and to — 

“Harry Potter!” bellowed Hagrid, slopping some of his 
fourteenth bucket of wine down his chin as he 
drained it. 

“Yes, indeed,” cried Slughorn a little thickly, “Parry 
Otter, the Chosen Boy Who — well — something of 
that sort,” he mumbled, and drained his mug too. 

Not long after this, Hagrid became tearful again and 
pressed the whole unicorn tail upon Slughorn, who 
pocketed it with cries of, “To friendship! To generosity! 
To ten Galleons a hair!” 

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And for a while after that, Hagrid and Slughorn were 
sitting side by side, arms around each other, singing 
a slow sad song about a dying wizard called Odo. 

“Aaargh, the good die young,” muttered Hagrid, 
slumping low onto the table, a little cross-eyed, while 
Slughorn continued to warble the refrain. “Me dad 
was no age ter go ... nor were yer mum an’ dad, 
Harry...” 

Great fat tears oozed out of the corners of Hagrid ’s 
crinkled eyes again; he grasped Harry’s arm and 
shook it. 

“Bes’ wiz and witchard o’ their age I never knew ... 
terrible thing ... terrible thing ...” 

And Odo the hero, they bore him back home 
To the place that he’d known as a lad, 

sang Slughorn plaintively. 

They laid him to rest with his hat inside out 
And his wand snapped in two, which was sad. 

"... terrible,” Hagrid grunted, and his great shaggy 
head rolled sideways onto his arms and he fell asleep, 
snoring deeply. 

“Sorry,” said Slughorn with a hiccup. “Can’t carry a 
tune to save my life.” 

“Hagrid wasn’t talking about your singing,” said Harry 
quietly. “He was talking about my mum and dad 
dying.” 

“Oh,” said Slughorn, repressing a large belch. “Oh 
dear. Yes, that was — was terrible indeed. Terrible ... 
terrible ...” 

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He looked quite at a loss for what to say, and resorted 
to refilling their mugs. 



“I don’t — don’t suppose you remember it, Harry?” he 
asked awkwardly. 

“No — well, I was only one when they died,” said 
Harry, his eyes on the flame of the candle flickering in 
Hagrid’s heavy snores. “But I’ve found out pretty 
much what happened since. My dad died first. Did 
you know that?” 

“I — I didn’t,” said Slughorn in a hushed voice. 

“Yeah . . . Voldemort murdered him and then stepped 
over his body toward my mum,” said Harry. 

Slughorn gave a great shudder, but he did not seem 
able to tear his horrified gaze away from Harry’s face. 

“He told her to get out of the way,” said Harry 
remorselessly. “He told me she needn’t have died. He 
only wanted me. She could have run.” 

“Oh dear,” breathed Slughorn. “She could have ... she 
needn’t ... That’s awful. ...” 

“It is, isn’t it?” said Harry, in a voice barely more than 
a whisper. “But she didn’t move. Dad was already 
dead, but she didn’t want me to go too. She tried to 
plead with Voldemort ... but he just laughed. ...” 

“That’s enough!” said Slughorn suddenly, raising a 
shaking hand. “Really, my dear boy, enough ... I’m an 
old man ... I don’t need to hear ... I don’t want to hear 



“I forgot,” lied Harry, Felix Felicis leading him on. 

“You liked her, didn’t you?” 

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“Liked her?” said Slughorn, his eyes brimming with 
tears once more. “I don’t imagine anyone who met her 
wouldn’t have liked her. ... Very brave ... Very funny 
...It was the most horrible thing. ...” 

“But you won’t help her son,” said Harry. “She gave 
me her life, but you won’t give me a memory.” 

Hagrid’s rumbling snores filled the cabin. Harry 
looked steadily into Slughorn ’s tear-filled eyes. The 
Potions master seemed unable to look away. 

“Don’t say that,” he whispered. “It isn’t a question ... 

If it were to help you, of course ... but no purpose can 
be served ...” 

“It can,” said Harry clearly. “Dumbledore needs 
information. I need information.” 

He knew he was safe: Felix was telling him that 
Slughorn would remember nothing of this in the 
morning. Looking Slughorn straight in the eye, Harry 
leaned forward a little. 

“I am the Chosen One. I have to kill him. I need that 
memory.” 

Slughorn turned paler than ever; his shiny forehead 
gleamed with sweat. 

“You are the Chosen One?” 

“Of course I am,” said Harry calmly. 

“But then ... my dear boy ... you’re asking a great deal 
... you’re asking me, in fact, to aid you in your 
attempt to destroy — ” 



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“You don’t want to get rid of the wizard who killed Lily 
Evans?” 

“Harry, Harry, of course I do, but — ” 

“You’re scared he’ll find out you helped me?” 

Slughorn said nothing; he looked terrified. 

“Be brave like my mother, Professor. ...” 

Slughorn raised a pudgy hand and pressed his 
shaking fingers to his mouth; he looked for a moment 
like an enormously overgrown baby. 

“I am not proud ...” he whispered through his fingers. 
“I am ashamed of what — of what that memory 
shows. ... I think I may have done great damage that 
day. ...” 

“You’d cancel out anything you did by giving me the 
memory,” said Harry. “It would be a very brave and 
noble thing to do.” 

Hagrid twitched in his sleep and snored on. Slughorn 
and Harry stared at each other over the guttering 
candle. There was a long, long silence, but Felix 
Felicis told Harry not to break it, to wait. 

Then, very slowly, Slughorn put his hand in his 
pocket and pulled out his wand. He put his other 
hand inside his cloak and took out a small, empty 
bottle. Still looking into Harry’s eyes, Slughorn 
touched the tip of his wand to his temple and 
withdrew it, so that a long, silver thread of memory 
came away too, clinging to the wand tip. Longer and 
longer the memory stretched until it broke and 
swung, silvery bright, from the wand. Slughorn 
lowered it into the bottle where it coiled, then spread, 
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swirling like gas. He corked the bottle with a 
trembling hand and then passed it across the table to 
Harry. 

“Thank you very much, Professor.” 

“You’re a good boy,” said Professor Slughorn, tears 
trickling down his fat cheeks into his walrus 
mustache. “And you’ve got her eyes. ... Just don’t 
think too badly of me once you’ve seen it. ...” 

And he too put his head on his arms, gave a deep 
sigh, and fell asleep. 



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HORCRUXES 

Harry could feel the Felix Felicis wearing off as he 
crept back into the castle. The front door had 
remained unlocked for him, but on the third floor he 
met Peeves and only narrowly avoided detection by 
diving sideways through one of his shortcuts. By the 
time he got up to the portrait of the Fat Lady and 
pulled off his Invisibility Cloak, he was not surprised 
to find her in a most unhelpful mood. 

“What sort of time do you call this?” 

“I’m really sorry — I had to go out for something 
important — ” 

“Well, the password changed at midnight, so you’ll 
just have to sleep in the corridor, won’t you?” 

“You’re joking!” said Harry. “Why did it have to 
change at midnight?” 



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“That’s the way it is,” said the Fat Lady. “If you’re 
angry, go and take it up with the headmaster, he’s the 
one who’s tightened security.” 

“Fantastic,” said Harry bitterly, looking around at the 
hard floor. “Really brilliant. Yeah, I would go and take 
it up with Dumbledore if he was here, because he’s 
the one who wanted me to — ” 

“He is here,” said a voice behind Harry. “Professor 
Dumbledore returned to the school an hour ago.” 

Nearly Headless Nick was gliding toward Harry, his 
head wobbling as usual upon his ruff. 

“I had it from the Bloody Baron, who saw him arrive,” 
said Nick. “He appeared, according to the Baron, to be 
in good spirits, though a little tired, of course.” 

“Where is he?” said Harry, his heart leaping. 

“Oh, groaning and clanking up on the Astronomy 
Tower, it’s a favorite pastime of his — ” 

“Not the Bloody Baron — Dumbledore!” 

“Oh — in his office,” said Nick. “I believe, from what 
the Baron said, that he had business to attend to 
before turning in — ” 

“Yeah, he has,” said Harry, excitement blazing in his 
chest at the prospect of telling Dumbledore he had 
secured the memory. He wheeled about and sprinted 
off again, ignoring the Fat Lady who was calling after 
him. 

“Come back! All right, I lied! I was annoyed you woke 
me up! The password’s still ‘tapeworm’!” 



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But Harry was already hurtling back along the 
corridor and within minutes, he was saying “toffee 
eclairs” to Dumbledore’s gargoyle, which leapt aside, 
permitting Harry entrance onto the spiral staircase. 

“Enter,” said Dumbledore when Harry knocked. He 
sounded exhausted. 

Harry pushed open the door. There was Dumbledore’s 
office, looking the same as ever, but with black, star- 
strewn skies beyond the windows. 

“Good gracious, Harry,” said Dumbledore in surprise. 
“To what do I owe this very late pleasure?” 

“Sir — I’ve got it. I’ve got the memory from Slughorn.” 

Harry pulled out the tiny glass bottle and showed it to 
Dumbledore. For a moment or two, the headmaster 
looked stunned. Then his face split in a wide smile. 

“Harry, this is spectacular news! Very well done 
indeed! I knew you could do it!” 

All thought of the lateness of the hour apparently 
forgotten, he hurried around his desk, took the bottle 
with Slughorn’s memory in his uninjured hand, and 
strode over to the cabinet where he kept the Pensieve. 

“And now,” said Dumbledore, placing the stone basin 
upon his desk and emptying the contents of the bottle 
into it. “Now, at last, we shall see. Harry, quickly ...” 

Harry bowed obediently over the Pensieve and felt his 
feet leave the office floor. . . . Once again he fell 
through darkness and landed in Horace Slughorn’s 
office many years before. 



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There was the much younger Slughorn, with his 
thick, shiny, straw-colored hair and his gingery-blond 
mustache, sitting again in the comfortable winged 
armchair in his office, his feet resting upon a velvet 
pouffe, a small glass of wine in one hand, the other 
rummaging in a box of crystalized pineapple. And 
there were the half-dozen teenage boys sitting around 
Slughorn with Tom Riddle in the midst of them, 
Marvolo’s gold-and-black ring gleaming on his finger. 

Dumbledore landed beside Harry just as Riddle 
asked, “Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is 
retiring?” 

“Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn’t tell you,” said 
Slughorn, wagging his finger reprovingly at Riddle, 
though winking at the same time. “I must say, I’d like 
to know where you get your information, boy, more 
knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.” 

Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him 
admiring looks. 

“What with your uncanny ability to know things you 
shouldn’t, and your careful flattery of the people who 
matter — thank you for the pineapple, by the way, 
you’re quite right, it is my favorite — ” 

Several of the boys tittered again. 

“ — I confidently expect you to rise to Minister of 
Magic within twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep 
sending me pineapple, I have excellent contacts at the 
Ministry.” 

Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others laughed 
again. Harry noticed that he was by no means the 
eldest of the group of boys, but that they all seemed 
to look to him as their leader. 

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“I don’t know that politics would suit me, sir,” he said 
when the laughter had died away. “I don’t have the 
right kind of background, for one thing.” 

A couple of the boys around him smirked at each 
other. Harry was sure they were enjoying a private 
joke, undoubtedly about what they knew, or 
suspected, regarding their gang leader’s famous 
ancestor. 

“Nonsense,” said Slughorn briskly, “couldn’t be 
plainer you come from decent Wizarding stock, 
abilities like yours. No, you’ll go far, Tom, I’ve never 
been wrong about a student yet.” 

The small golden clock standing upon Slughorn ’s 
desk chimed eleven o’clock behind him and he looked 
around. 

“Good gracious, is it that time already? You’d better 
get going, boys, or we’ll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I 
want your essay by tomorrow or it’s detention. Same 
goes for you, Avery.” 

One by one, the boys filed out of the room. Slughorn 
heaved himself out of his armchair and carried his 
empty glass over to his desk. A movement behind him 
made him look around; Riddle was still standing 
there. 

“Look sharp, Tom, you don’t want to be caught out of 
bed out of hours, and you a prefect ...” 

“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.” 

“Ask away, then, m’boy, ask away. ...” 

“Sir, I wondered what you know about . . . about 
Horcruxes?” 

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Slughorn stared at him, his thick fingers 
absentmindedly caressing the stem of his wine glass. 

“Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?” 

But Harry could tell that Slughorn knew perfectly well 
that this was not schoolwork. 

“Not exactly, sir,” said Riddle. “I came across the term 
while reading and I didn’t fully understand it.” 

“No ... well ... you’d be hard-pushed to find a book at 
Hogwarts that’ll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom, 
that’s very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed,” said 
Slughorn. 

“But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, 
a wizard like you — sorry, I mean, if you can’t tell me, 
obviously — I just knew if anyone could tell me, you 
could — so I just thought I’d ask — ” 

It was very well done, thought Harry, the hesitancy, 
the casual tone, the careful flattery, none of it 
overdone. He, Harry, had had too much experience of 
trying to wheedle information out of reluctant people 
not to recognize a master at work. He could tell that 
Riddle wanted the information very, very much; 
perhaps had been working toward this moment for 
weeks. 

“Well,” said Slughorn, not looking at Riddle, but 
fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of 
crystalized pineapple, “well, it can’t hurt to give you 
an overview, of course. Just so that you understand 
the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in 
which a person has concealed part of their soul.” 

“I don’t quite understand how that works, though, 
sir,” said Riddle. 

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His voice was carefully controlled, but Harry could 
sense his excitement. 

“Well, you split your soul, you see,” said Slughorn, 
“and hide part of it in an object outside the body. 
Then, even if one’s body is attacked or destroyed, one 
cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound 
and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a 
form ...” 

Slughorn ’s face crumpled and Harry found himself 
remembering words he had heard nearly two years 
before: “ I was ripped from my body, I was less than 
spirit, less than the meanest ghost . . . but still, I was 
alive.” 

“... few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be 
preferable.” 

But Riddle’s hunger was now apparent; his 
expression was greedy, he could no longer hide his 
longing. 

“How do you split your soul?” 

“Well,” said Slughorn uncomfortably, “you must 
understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact 
and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is 
against nature.” 

“But how do you do it?” 

“By an act of evil — the supreme act of evil. By 
committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The 
wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the 
damage to his advantage: He would encase the torn 
portion — ” 

“Encase? But how — ?” 

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“There is a spell, do not ask me, I don’t know!” said 
Slughorn, shaking his head like an old elephant 
bothered by mosquitoes. “Do I look as though I have 
tried it — do I look like a killer?” 

“No, sir, of course not,” said Riddle quickly. “I’m sorry 
...I didn’t mean to offend ...” 

“Not at all, not at all, not offended,” said Slughorn 
gruffly. “It’s natural to feel some curiosity about these 
things. ... Wizards of a certain caliber have always 
been drawn to that aspect of magic. ...” 

“Yes, sir,” said Riddle. “What I don’t understand, 
though — just out of curiosity — I mean, would one 
Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul 
once? Wouldn’t it be better, make you stronger, to 
have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, 
isn’t seven the most powerfully magical number, 
wouldn’t seven — ?” 

“Merlin’s beard, Tom!” yelped Slughorn. “Seven! Isn’t 
it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in 
any case . . . bad enough to divide the soul . . . but to 
rip it into seven pieces ...” 

Slughorn looked deeply troubled now: He was gazing 
at Riddle as though he had never seen him plainly 
before, and Harry could tell that he was regretting 
entering into the conversation at all. 

“Of course,” he muttered, “this is all hypothetical, 
what we’re discussing, isn’t it? All academic ...” 

“Yes, sir, of course,” said Riddle quickly. 

“But all the same, Tom ... keep it quiet, what I’ve told 
— that’s to say, what we’ve discussed. People 
wouldn’t like to think we’ve been chatting about 

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Horcruxes. It’s a banned subject at Hogwarts, you 
know. ... Dumbledore’s particularly fierce about it. ...” 

“I won’t say a word, sir,” said Riddle, and he left, but 
not before Harry had glimpsed his face, which was 
full of that same wild happiness it had worn when he 
had first found out that he was a wizard, the sort of 
happiness that did not enhance his handsome 
features, but made them, somehow, less human. ... 

“Thank you, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Let us 
go. ...” ' 

When Harry landed back on the office floor 
Dumbledore was already sitting down behind his 
desk. Harry sat too and waited for Dumbledore to 
speak. 

“I have been hoping for this piece of evidence for a 
very long time,” said Dumbledore at last. “It confirms 
the theory on which I have been working, it tells me 
that I am right, and also how very far there is still to 
go. ...” 

Harry suddenly noticed that every single one of the 
old headmasters and headmistresses in the portraits 
around the walls was awake and listening in on their 
conversation. A corpulent, red-nosed wizard had 
actually taken out an ear trumpet. 

“Well, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “I am sure you 
understood the significance of what we just heard. At 
the same age as you are now, give or take a few 
months, Tom Riddle was doing all he could to find out 
how to make himself immortal.” 

“You think he succeeded then, sir?” asked Harry. “He 
made a Horcrux? And that’s why he didn’t die when 



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he attacked me? He had a Horcrux hidden 
somewhere? A bit of his soul was safe?” 

“A bit ... or more,” said Dumbledore. “You heard 
Voldemort: What he particularly wanted from Horace 
was an opinion on what would happen to the wizard 
who created more than one Horcrux, what would 
happen to the wizard so determined to evade death 
that he would be prepared to murder many times, rip 
his soul repeatedly, so as to store it in many, 
separately concealed Horcruxes. No book would have 
given him that information. As far as I know — as far, 
I am sure, as Voldemort knew — no wizard had ever 
done more than tear his soul in two.” 

Dumbledore paused for a moment, marshaling his 
thoughts, and then said, “Four years ago, I received 
what I considered certain proof that Voldemort had 
split his soul.” 

“Where?” asked Harry “How?” 

“You handed it to me, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “The 
diary, Riddle’s diary, the one giving instructions on 
how to reopen the Chamber of Secrets.” 

“I don’t understand, sir,” said Harry. 

“Well, although I did not see the Riddle who came out 
of the diary, what you described to me was a 
phenomenon I had never witnessed. A mere memory 
starting to act and think for itself? A mere memory, 
sapping the life out of the girl into whose hands it had 
fallen? No, something much more sinister had lived 
inside that book. ... a fragment of soul, I was almost 
sure of it. The diary had been a Horcrux. But this 
raised as many questions as it answered. 



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“What intrigued and alarmed me most was that that 
diary had been intended as a weapon as much as a 
safeguard.” 

“I still don’t understand,” said Harry. 

“Well, it worked as a Horcrux is supposed to work — 
in other words, the fragment of soul concealed inside 
it was kept safe and had undoubtedly played its part 
in preventing the death of its owner. But there could 
be no doubt that Riddle really wanted that diary read, 
wanted the piece of his soul to inhabit or possess 
somebody else, so that Slytherin’s monster would be 
unleashed again.” 

“Well, he didn’t want his hard work to be wasted,” 
said Harry. “He wanted people to know he was 
Slytherin’s heir, because he couldn’t take credit at the 
time.” 

“Quite correct,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “But don’t 
you see, Harry, that if he intended the diary to be 
passed to, or planted on, some future Hogwarts 
student, he was being remarkably blase about that 
precious fragment of his soul concealed within it. The 
point of a Horcrux is, as Professor Slughorn 
explained, to keep part of the self hidden and safe, 
not to fling it into somebody else’s path and run the 
risk that they might destroy it — as indeed happened: 
That particular fragment of soul is no more; you saw 
to that. 

“The careless way in which Voldemort regarded this 
Horcrux seemed most ominous to me. It suggested 
that he must have made — or been planning to make 
— more Horcruxes, so that the loss of his first would 
not be so detrimental. I did not wish to believe it, but 
nothing else seemed to make sense. 



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“Then you told me, two years later, that on the night 
that Voldemort returned to his body, he made a most 
illuminating and alarming statement to his Death 
Eaters. % who have gone further than anybody along 
the path that leads to immortality.’ That was what you 
told me he said. ‘Further than anybody,’ And I thought 
I knew what that meant, though the Death Eaters did 
not. He was referring to his Horcruxes, Horcruxes in 
the plural, Harry, which I do not believe any other 
wizard has ever had. Yet it fitted: Lord Voldemort has 
seemed to grow less human with the passing years, 
and the transformation he has undergone seemed to 
me to be only explicable if his soul was mutilated 
beyond the realms of what we might call ‘usual evil’ 



“So he’s made himself impossible to kill by murdering 
other people?” said Harry. “Why couldn’t he make a 
Sorcerer’s Stone, or steal one, if he was so interested 
in immortality?” 

“Well, we know that he tried to do just that, five years 
ago,” said Dumbledore. “But there are several reasons 
why, I think, a Sorcerer’s Stone would appeal less 
than Horcruxes to Lord Voldemort. 

“While the Elixir of Life does indeed extend life, it 
must be drunk regularly, for all eternity, if the drinker 
is to maintain their immortality. Therefore, Voldemort 
would be entirely dependent on the Elixir, and if it 
ran out, or was contaminated, or if the Stone was 
stolen, he would die just like any other man. 
Voldemort likes to operate alone, remember. I believe 
that he would have found the thought of being 
dependent, even on the Elixir, intolerable. Of course 
he was prepared to drink it if it would take him out of 
the horrible part-life to which he was condemned 
after attacking you, but only to regain a body. 
Thereafter, I am convinced, he intended to continue to 
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rely on his Horcruxes: He would need nothing more, if 
only he could regain a human form. He was already 
immortal, you see ... or as close to immortal as any 
man can be. 

“But now, Harry, armed with this information, the 
crucial memory you have succeeded in procuring for 
us, we are closer to the secret of finishing Lord 
Voldemort than anyone has ever been before. You 
heard him, Harry: ‘Wouldn’t it be better, make you 
stronger, to have your soul in more pieces ... isn’t 
seven the most powerfully magical number ...’ Isn’t 
seven the most powerfully magical number. Yes, I 
think the idea of a seven-part soul would greatly 
appeal to Lord Voldemort.” 

“He made seven Horcruxes?” said Harry, horror- 
struck, while several of the portraits on the walls 
made similar noises of shock and outrage. “But they 
could be anywhere in the world — hidden — buried or 
invisible — ” 

“I am glad to see you appreciate the magnitude of the 
problem,” said Dumbledore calmly. “But firstly, no, 
Harry, not seven Horcruxes: six. The seventh part of 
his soul, however maimed, resides inside his 
regenerated body. That was the part of him that lived 
a spectral existence for so many years during his 
exile; without that, he has no self at all. That seventh 
piece of soul will be the last that anybody wishing to 
kill Voldemort must attack — the piece that lives in 
his body.” 

“But the six Horcruxes, then,” said Harry, a little 
desperately, “how are we supposed to find them?” 

“You are forgetting . . . you have already destroyed one 
of them. And I have destroyed another.” 



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“You have?” said Harry eagerly. 



“Yes indeed,” said Dumbledore, and he raised his 
blackened, burned-looking hand. “The ring, Harry. 
Marvolo’s ring. And a terrible curse there was upon it 
too. Had it not been — forgive me the lack of seemly 
modesty — for my own prodigious skill, and for 
Professor Snape’s timely action when I returned to 
Hogwarts, desperately injured, I might not have lived 
to tell the tale. However, a withered hand does not 
seem an unreasonable exchange for a seventh of 
Voldemort’s soul. The ring is no longer a Horcrux.” 

“But how did you find it?” 

“Well, as you now know, for many years I have made 
it my business to discover as much as I can about 
Voldemort’s past life. I have traveled widely, visiting 
those places he once knew. I stumbled across the ring 
hidden in the ruin of the Gaunts’ house. It seems that 
once Voldemort had succeeded in sealing a piece of 
his soul inside it, he did not want to wear it anymore. 
He hid it, protected by many powerful enchantments, 
in the shack where his ancestors had once lived 
(Morfin having been carted off to Azkaban, of course), 
never guessing that I might one day take the trouble 
to visit the ruin, or that I might be keeping an eye 
open for traces of magical concealment. 

“However, we should not congratulate ourselves too 
heartily. You destroyed the diary and I the ring, but if 
we are right in our theory of a seven-part soul, four 
Horcruxes remain.” 

“And they could be anything?” said Harry. “They 
could be old tin cans or, I dunno, empty potion 
bottles. ...” 



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“You are thinking of Portkeys, Harry, which must be 
ordinary objects, easy to overlook. But would Lord 
Voldemort use tin cans or old potion bottles to guard 
his own precious soul? You are forgetting what I have 
showed you. Lord Voldemort liked to collect trophies, 
and he preferred objects with a powerful magical 
history. His pride, his belief in his own superiority, 
his determination to carve for himself a startling place 
in magical history; these things suggest to me that 
Voldemort would have chosen his Horcruxes with 
some care, favoring objects worthy of the honor.” 

“The diary wasn’t that special.” 

“The diary, as you have said yourself, was proof that 
he was the Heir of Slytherin; I am sure that 
Voldemort considered it of stupendous importance.” 

“So, the other Horcruxes?” said Harry. “Do you think 
you know what they are, sir?” 

“I can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “For the reasons 
I have already given, I believe that Lord Voldemort 
would prefer objects that, in themselves, have a 
certain grandeur. I have therefore trawled back 
through Voldemort’s past to see if I can find evidence 
that such artifacts have disappeared around him.” 

“The locket!” said Harry loudly. “Hufflepuff’s cup!” 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore, smiling, “I would be prepared 
to bet — perhaps not my other hand — but a couple 
of fingers, that they became Horcruxes three and 
four. The remaining two, assuming again that he 
created a total of six, are more of a problem, but I will 
hazard a guess that, having secured objects from 
Hufflepuff and Slytherin, he set out to track down 
objects owned by Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Four 
objects from the four founders would, I am sure, have 
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exerted a powerful pull over Voldemort’s imagination. 

I cannot answer for whether he ever managed to find 
anything of Ravenclaw’s. I am confident, however, 
that the only known relic of Gryffindor remains safe.” 

Dumbledore pointed his blackened fingers to the wall 
behind him, where a ruby-encrusted sword reposed 
within a glass case. 

“Do you think that’s why he really wanted to come 
back to Hogwarts, sir?” said Harry. “To try and find 
something from one of the other founders?” 

“My thoughts precisely,” said Dumbledore. “But 
unfortunately, that does not advance us much 
further, for he was turned away, or so I believe, 
without the chance to search the school. I am forced 
to conclude that he never fulfilled his ambition of 
collecting four founders’ objects. He definitely had two 
— he may have found three — that is the best we can 
do for now.” 

“Even if he got something of Ravenclaw’s or of 
Gryffindor’s, that leaves a sixth Horcrux,” said Harry, 
counting on his fingers. “Unless he got both?” 

“I don’t think so,” said Dumbledore. “I think I know 
what the sixth Horcrux is. I wonder what you will say 
when I confess that I have been curious for a while 
about the behavior of the snake, Nagini?” 

“The snake?” said Harry, startled. “You can use 
animals as Horcruxes?” 

“Well, it is inadvisable to do so,” said Dumbledore, 
“because to confide a part of your soul to something 
that can think and move for itself is obviously a very 
risky business. However, if my calculations are 
correct, Voldemort was still at least one Horcrux short 
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of his goal of six when he entered your parents’ house 
with the intention of killing you. 



“He seems to have reserved the process of making 
Horcruxes for particularly significant deaths. You 
would certainly have been that. He believed that in 
killing you, he was destroying the danger the 
prophecy had outlined. He believed he was making 
himself invincible. I am sure that he was intending to 
make his final Horcrux with your death. 

“As we know, he failed. After an interval of some 
years, however, he used Nagini to kill an old Muggle 
man, and it might then have occurred to him to turn 
her into his last Horcrux. She underlines the 
Slytherin connection, which enhances Lord 
Voldemort’s mystique; I think he is perhaps as fond of 
her as he can be of anything; he certainly likes to 
keep her close, and he seems to have an unusual 
amount of control over her, even for a Parselmouth.” 

“So,” said Harry, “the diary’s gone, the ring’s gone. 

The cup, the locket, and the snake are still intact, 
and you think there might be a Horcrux that was 
once Ravenclaw’s or Gryffindor’s?” 

“An admirably succinct and accurate summary, yes,” 
said Dumbledore, bowing his head. 

“So . . . are you still looking for them, sir? Is that where 
you’ve been going when you’ve been leaving the 
school?” 

“Correct,” said Dumbledore. “I have been looking for a 
very long time. I think ... perhaps ... I may be close to 
finding another one. There are hopeful signs.” 

“And if you do,” said Harry quickly, “can I come with 
you and help get rid of it?” 

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Dumbledore looked at Harry very intently for a 
moment before saying, “Yes, I think so.” 

“I can?” said Harry, thoroughly taken aback. 

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore, smiling slightly. “I think 
you have earned that right.” 

Harry felt his heart lift. It was very good not to hear 
words of caution and protection for once. The 
headmasters and headmistresses around the walls 
seemed less impressed by Dumbledore’s decision; 
Harry saw a few of them shaking their heads and 
Phineas Nigellus actually snorted. 

“Does Voldemort know when a Horcrux is destroyed, 
sir? Can he feel it?” Harry asked, ignoring the 
portraits. 

“A very interesting question, Harry. I believe not. I 
believe that Voldemort is now so immersed in evil, 
and these crucial parts of himself have been detached 
for so long, he does not feel as we do. Perhaps, at the 
point of death, he might be aware of his loss . . . but he 
was not aware, for instance, that the diary had been 
destroyed until he forced the truth out of Lucius 
Malfoy. When Voldemort discovered that the diary 
had been mutilated and robbed of all its powers, I am 
told that his anger was terrible to behold.” 

“But I thought he meant Lucius Malfoy to smuggle it 
into Hogwarts?” 

“Yes, he did, years ago, when he was sure he would 
be able to create more Horcruxes, but still Lucius was 
supposed to wait for Voldemort’s say-so, and he never 
received it, for Voldemort vanished shortly after giving 
him the diary. 



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“No doubt he thought that Lucius would not dare do 
anything with the Horcrux other than guard it 
carefully, but he was counting too much upon 
Lucius’s fear of a master who had been gone for years 
and whom Lucius believed dead. Of course, Lucius 
did not know what the diary really was. I understand 
that Voldemort had told him the diary would cause 
the Chamber of Secrets to reopen because it was 
cleverly enchanted. Had Lucius known he held a 
portion of his master’s soul in his hands, he would 
undoubtedly have treated it with more reverence — 
but instead he went ahead and carried out the old 
plan for his own ends: By planting the diary upon 
Arthur Weasley’s daughter, he hoped to discredit 
Arthur and get rid of a highly incriminating magical 
object in one stroke. Ah, poor Lucius ... what with 
Voldemort ’s fury about the fact that he threw away 
the Horcrux for his own gain, and the fiasco at the 
Ministry last year, I would not be surprised if he is 
not secretly glad to be safe in Azkaban at the 
moment.” 

Harry sat in thought for a moment, then asked, “So if 
all of his Horcruxes are destroyed, Voldemort could be 
killed?” 

“Yes, I think so,” said Dumbledore. “Without his 
Horcruxes, Voldemort will be a mortal man with a 
maimed and diminished soul. Never forget, though, 
that while his soul may be damaged beyond repair, 
his brain and his magical powers remain intact. It will 
take uncommon skill and power to kill a wizard like 
Voldemort even without his Horcruxes.” 

“But I haven’t got uncommon skill and power,” said 
Harry, before he could stop himself. 

“Yes, you have,” said Dumbledore firmly. “You have a 
power that Voldemort has never had. You can — ” 

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“I know!” said Harry impatiently. “I can love!” It was 
only with difficulty that he stopped himself adding, 
“Big deal!” 

“Yes, Harry, you can love,” said Dumbledore, who 
looked as though he knew perfectly well what Harry 
had just refrained from saying. “Which, given 
everything that has happened to you, is a great and 
remarkable thing. You are still too young to 
understand how unusual you are, Harry.” 

“So, when the prophecy says that I’ll have ‘power the 
Dark Lord knows not,’ it just means — love?” asked 
Harry, feeling a little let down. 

“Yes — just love,” said Dumbledore. “But Harry, never 
forget that what the prophecy says is only significant 
because Voldemort made it so. I told you this at the 
end of last year. Voldemort singled you out as the 
person who would be most dangerous to him — and 
in doing so, he made you the person who would be 
most dangerous to him!” 

“But it comes to the same — ” 

“No, it doesn’t!” said Dumbledore, sounding impatient 
now. Pointing at Harry with his black, withered hand, 
he said, “You are setting too much store by the 
prophecy!” 

“But,” spluttered Harry, “but you said the prophecy 
means — ” 

“If Voldemort had never heard of the prophecy, would 
it have been fulfilled? Would it have meant anything? 
Of course not! Do you think every prophecy in the 
Hall of Prophecy has been fulfilled?” 



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“But,” said Harry, bewildered, “but last year, you said 
one of us would have to kill the other — ” 

“Harry, Harry, only because Voldemort made a grave 
error, and acted on Professor Trelawney’s words! If 
Voldemort had never murdered your father, would he 
have imparted in you a furious desire for revenge? Of 
course not! If he had not forced your mother to die for 
you, would he have given you a magical protection he 
could not penetrate? Of course not, Harry! Don’t you 
see? Voldemort himself created his worst enemy, just 
as tyrants everywhere do! Have you any idea how 
much tyrants fear the people they oppress? All of 
them realize that, one day, amongst their many 
victims, there is sure to be one who rises against 
them and strikes back! Voldemort is no different! 
Always he was on the lookout for the one who would 
challenge him. He heard the prophecy and he leapt 
into action, with the result that he not only 
handpicked the man most likely to finish him, he 
handed him uniquely deadly weapons!” 

“But — ” 

“It is essential that you understand this!” said 
Dumbledore, standing up and striding about the 
room, his glittering robes swooshing in his wake; 
Harry had never seen him so agitated. “By attempting 
to kill you, Voldemort himself singled out the 
remarkable person who sits here in front of me, and 
gave him the tools for the job! It is Voldemort ’s fault 
that you were able to see into his thoughts, his 
ambitions, that you even understand the snakelike 
language in which he gives orders, and yet, Harry, 
despite your privileged insight into Voldemort’s world 
(which, incidentally, is a gift any Death Eater would 
kill to have), you have never been seduced by the 
Dark Arts, never, even for a second, shown the 



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slightest desire to become one of Voldemort’s 
followers!” 

“Of course I haven’t!” said Harry indignantly. “He 
killed my mum and dad!” 

“You are protected, in short, by your ability to love!” 
said Dumbledore loudly. “The only protection that can 
possibly work against the lure of power like 
Voldemort’s! In spite of all the temptation you have 
endured, all the suffering, you remain pure of heart, 
just as pure as you were at the age of eleven, when 
you stared into a mirror that reflected your heart’s 
desire, and it showed you only the way to thwart Lord 
Voldemort, and not immortality or riches. Harry, have 
you any idea how few wizards could have seen what 
you saw in that mirror? Voldemort should have 
known then what he was dealing with, but he did not! 

“But he knows it now. You have flitted into Lord 
Voldemort’s mind without damage to yourself, but he 
cannot possess you without enduring mortal agony, 
as he discovered in the Ministry. I do not think he 
understands why, Harry, but then, he was in such a 
hurry to mutilate his own soul, he never paused to 
understand the incomparable power of a soul that is 
untarnished and whole.” 

“But, sir,” said Harry, making valiant efforts not to 
sound argumentative, “it all comes to the same thing, 
doesn’t it? I’ve got to try and kill him, or — ” 

“Got to?” said Dumbledore. “Of course you’ve got to! 
But not because of the prophecy! Because you, 
yourself, will never rest until you’ve tried! We both 
know it! Imagine, please, just for a moment, that you 
had never heard that prophecy! How would you feel 
about Voldemort now? Think!” 



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Harry watched Dumbledore striding up and down in 
front of him, and thought. He thought of his mother, 
his father, and Sirius. He thought of Cedric Diggory. 
He thought of all the terrible deeds he knew Lord 
Voldemort had done. A flame seemed to leap inside 
his chest, searing his throat. 

“I’d want him finished,” said Harry quietly. “And I’d 
want to do it.” 

“Of course you would!” cried Dumbledore. “You see, 
the prophecy does not mean you have to do anything! 
But the prophecy caused Lord Voldemort to mark you 
as his equal. ... In other words, you are free to choose 
your way, quite free to turn your back on the 
prophecy! But Voldemort continues to set store by the 
prophecy. He will continue to hunt you . . . which 
makes it certain, really, that — ” 

“That one of us is going to end up killing the other,” 
said Harry. “Yes.” 

But he understood at last what Dumbledore had been 
trying to tell him. It was, he thought, the difference 
between being dragged into the arena to face a battle 
to the death and walking into the arena with your 
head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that 
there was little to choose between the two ways, but 
Dumbledore knew — and so do I, thought Harry, with 
a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents — that 
there was all the difference in the world. 



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SECTUMSEMPRA 

Exhausted but delighted with his night’s work, Harry 
told Ron and Hermione everything that had happened 
during next morning’s Charms lesson (having first 
cast the Muffliato spell upon those nearest them). 
They were both satisfyingly impressed by the way he 
had wheedled the memory out of Slughorn and 
positively awed when he told them about Voldemort’s 
Horcruxes and Dumbledore’s promise to take Harry 
along, should he find another one. 

“Wow,” said Ron, when Harry had finally finished 
telling them everything; Ron was waving his wand 
very vaguely in the direction of the ceiling without 
paying the slightest bit of attention to what he was 
doing. “Wow. You’re actually going to go with 
Dumbledore ... and try and destroy ... wow.” 

“Ron, you’re making it snow,” said Hermione 
patiently, grabbing his wrist and redirecting his wand 
away from the ceiling from which, sure enough, large 
white flakes had started to fall. Lavender Brown, 



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Harry noticed, glared at Hermione from a neighboring 
table through very red eyes, and Hermione 
immediately let go of Ron’s arm. 

“Oh yeah,” said Ron, looking down at his shoulders in 
vague surprise. “Sorry ... looks like we’ve all got 
horrible dandruff now. ...” 

He brushed some of the fake snow off Hermione ’s 
shoulder. Lavender burst into tears. Ron looked 
immensely guilty and turned his back on her. 

“We split up,” he told Harry out of the corner of his 
mouth. “Last night. When she saw me coming out of 
the dormitory with Hermione. Obviously she couldn’t 
see you, so she thought it had just been the two of 
us.” 



“Ah,” said Harry. “Well — you don’t mind it’s over, do 
you?” 

“No,” Ron admitted. “It was pretty bad while she was 
yelling, but at least I didn’t have to finish it.” 

“Coward,” said Hermione, though she looked amused. 
“Well, it was a bad night for romance all around. 
Ginny and Dean split up too, Harry.” 

Harry thought there was a rather knowing look in her 
eye as she told him that, but she could not possibly 
know that his insides were suddenly dancing the 
conga. Keeping his face as immobile and his voice as 
indifferent as he could, he asked, “How come?” 

“Oh, something really silly . . . She said he was always 
trying to help her through the portrait hole, like she 
couldn’t climb in herself ... but they’ve been a bit 
rocky for ages.” 



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Harry glanced over at Dean on the other side of the 
classroom. He certainly looked unhappy. 

“Of course, this puts you in a bit of a dilemma, 
doesn’t it?” said Hermione. 

“What d’you mean?” said Harry quickly. 

“The Quidditch team,” said Hermione. “If Ginny and 
Dean aren’t speaking ...” 

“Oh — oh yeah,” said Harry. 

“Flitwick,” said Ron in a warning tone. The tiny little 
Charms master was bobbing his way toward them, 
and Hermione was the only one who had managed to 
turn vinegar into wine; her glass flask was full of deep 
crimson liquid, whereas the contents of Harry’s and 
Ron’s were still murky brown. 

“Now, now, boys,” squeaked Professor Flitwick 
reproachfully. “A little less talk, a little more action ... 
Let me see you try. ...” 

Together they raised their wands, concentrating with 
all their might, and pointed them at their flasks. 
Harry’s vinegar turned to ice; Ron’s flask exploded. 

“Yes ... for homework,” said Professor Flitwick, 
reemerging from under the table and pulling shards 
of glass out of the top of his hat, “practice.” 

They had one of their rare joint free periods after 
Charms and walked back to the common room 
together. Ron seemed to be positively lighthearted 
about the end of his relationship with Lavender, and 
Hermione seemed cheery too, though when asked 
what she was grinning about she simply said, “It’s a 



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nice day.” Neither of them seemed to have noticed 
that a fierce battle was raging inside Harry’s brain: 

She’s Ron’s sister. 

But she’s ditched Dean! 

She’s still Ron’s sister. 

I’m his best mate! 

That’ll make it worse. 

If I talked to him first — 

He’d hit you. 

What if I don’t care? 

He’s your best mate\ 

Harry barely noticed that they were climbing through 
the portrait hole into the sunny common room, and 
only vaguely registered the small group of seventh 
years clustered together there, until Hermione cried, 
“Katie! You’re back! Are you okay?” 

Harry stared: It was indeed Katie Bell, looking 
completely healthy and surrounded by her jubilant 
friends. 

“I’m really well!” she said happily. “They let me out of 
St. Mungo’s on Monday, I had a couple of days at 
home with Mum and Dad and then came back here 
this morning. Leanne was just telling me about 
McLaggen and the last match, Harry. ...” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, “well, now you’re back and Ron’s 
fit, we’ll have a decent chance of thrashing 

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Ravenclaw, which means we could still be in the 
running for the Cup. Listen, Katie ...” 

He had to put the question to her at once; his 
curiosity even drove Ginny temporarily from his 
brain. He dropped his voice as Katie’s friends started 
gathering up their things; apparently they were late 
for Transfiguration. 

"... that necklace ... can you remember who gave it to 
you now?” 

“No,” said Katie, shaking her head ruefully. 
“Everyone’s been asking me, but I haven’t got a clue. 
The last thing I remember was walking into the ladies’ 
in the Three Broomsticks.” 

“You definitely went into the bathroom, then?” said 
Hermione. 

“Well, I know I pushed open the door,” said Katie, “so 
I suppose whoever Imperiused me was standing just 
behind it. After that, my memory’s a blank until 
about two weeks ago in St. Mungo’s. Listen, I’d better 
go, I wouldn’t put it past McGonagall to give me lines 
even if it is my first day back. ...” 

She caught up her bag and books and hurried after 
her friends, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione to sit 
down at a window table and ponder what she had told 
them. 

“So it must have been a girl or a woman who gave 
Katie the necklace,” said Hermione, “to be in the 
ladies’ bathroom.” 

“Or someone who looked like a girl or a woman,” said 
Harry. “Don’t forget, there was a cauldron full of 



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Polyjuice Potion at Hogwarts. We know some of it got 
stolen. ...” 

In his mind’s eye, he watched a parade of Crabbes 
and Goyles prance past, all transformed into girls. 

“I think I’m going to take another swig of Felix,” said 
Harry, “and have a go at the Room of Requirement 
again.” 

“That would be a complete waste of potion,” said 
Hermione flatly, putting down the copy of Spellman’s 
Syllabary she had just taken out of her bag. “Luck 
can only get you so far, Harry. The situation with 
Slughorn was different; you always had the ability to 
persuade him, you just needed to tweak the 
circumstances a bit. Luck isn’t enough to get you 
through a powerful enchantment, though. Don’t go 
wasting the rest of that potion! You’ll need all the luck 
you can get if Dumbledore takes you along with him 
...” She dropped her voice to a whisper. 

“Couldn’t we make some more?” Ron asked Harry, 
ignoring Hermione. “It’d be great to have a stock of it. 
... Have a look in the book ...” 

Harry pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out 
of his bag and looked up Felix Felicis. 

“Blimey, it’s seriously complicated,” he said, running 
an eye down the list of ingredients. “And it takes six 
months ... You’ve got to let it stew. ...” 

“Typical,” said Ron. 

Harry was about to put his book away again when he 
noticed the corner of a page folded down; turning to 
it, he saw the Sectumsempra spell, captioned “For 
Enemies,” that he had marked a few weeks 

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previously. He had still not found out what it did, 
mainly because he did not want to test it around 
Hermione, but he was considering trying it out on 
McLaggen next time he came up behind him 
unawares. 

The only person who was not particularly pleased to 
see Katie Bell back at school was Dean Thomas, 
because he would no longer be required to fill her 
place as Chaser. He took the blow stoically enough 
when Harry told him, merely grunting and shrugging, 
but Harry had the distinct feeling as he walked away 
that Dean and Seamus were muttering mutinously 
behind his back. 

The following fortnight saw the best Quidditch 
practices Harry had known as Captain. His team was 
so pleased to be rid of McLaggen, so glad to have 
Katie back at last, that they were flying extremely 
well. 

Ginny did not seem at all upset about the breakup 
with Dean; on the contrary, she was the life and soul 
of the team. Her imitations of Ron anxiously bobbing 
up and down in front of the goal posts as the Quaffle 
sped toward him, or of Harry bellowing orders at 
McLaggen before being knocked out cold, kept them 
all highly amused. Harry, laughing with the others, 
was glad to have an innocent reason to look at Ginny; 
he had received several more Bludger injuries during 
practice because he had not been keeping his eyes on 
the Snitch. 

The battle still raged inside his head: Ginny or Ron? 
Sometimes he thought that the post-Lavender Ron 
might not mind too much if he asked Ginny out, but 
then he remembered Ron’s expression when he had 
seen her kissing Dean, and was sure that Ron would 



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consider it base treachery if Harry so much as held 
her hand. ... 

Yet Harry could not help himself talking to Ginny, 
laughing with her, walking back from practice with 
her; however much his conscience ached, he found 
himself wondering how best to get her on her own. It 
would have been ideal if Slughorn had given another 
of his little parties, for Ron would not be around — 
but unfortunately, Slughorn seemed to have given 
them up. Once or twice Harry considered asking for 
Hermione’s help, but he did not think he could stand 
seeing the smug look on her face; he thought he 
caught it sometimes when Hermione spotted him 
staring at Ginny or laughing at her jokes. And to 
complicate matters, he had the nagging worry that if 
he didn’t do it, somebody else was sure to ask Ginny 
out soon: He and Ron were at least agreed on the fact 
that she was too popular for her own good. 

All in all, the temptation to take another gulp of Felix 
Felicis was becoming stronger by the day, for surely 
this was a case for, as Hermione put it, “tweaking the 
circumstances”? The balmy days slid gently through 
May, and Ron seemed to be there at Harry’s shoulder 
every time he saw Ginny. Harry found himself longing 
for a stroke of luck that would somehow cause Ron to 
realize that nothing would make him happier than his 
best friend and his sister falling for each other and to 
leave them alone together for longer than a few 
seconds. There seemed no chance of either while the 
final Quidditch game of the season was looming; Ron 
wanted to talk tactics with Harry all the time and had 
little thought for anything else. 

Ron was not unique in this respect; interest in the 
Gryffindor-Ravenclaw game was running extremely 
high throughout the school, for the match would 
decide the Championship, which was still wide open. 

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If Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw by a margin of three 
hundred points (a tall order, and yet Harry had never 
known his team to fly better) then they would win the 
Championship. If they won by less than three 
hundred points, they would come second to 
Ravenclaw; if they lost by a hundred points they 
would be third behind Hufflepuff and if they lost by 
more than a hundred, they would be in fourth place 
and nobody, Harry thought, would ever, ever let him 
forget that it had been he who had captained 
Gryffindor to their first bottom-of-the-table defeat in 
two centuries. 

The run-up to this crucial match had all the usual 
features: members of rival Houses attempting to 
intimidate opposing teams in the corridors; 
unpleasant chants about individual players being 
rehearsed loudly as they passed; the team members 
themselves either swaggering around enjoying all the 
attention or else dashing into bathrooms between 
classes to throw up. Somehow, the game had become 
inextricably linked in Harry’s mind with success or 
failure in his plans for Ginny. He could not help 
feeling that if they won by more than three hundred 
points, the scenes of euphoria and a nice loud after- 
match party might be just as good as a hearty swig of 
Felix Felicis. 

In the midst of all his preoccupations, Harry had not 
forgotten his other ambition: finding out what Malfoy 
was up to in the Room of Requirement. He was still 
checking the Marauder’s Map, and as he was unable 
to locate Malfoy on it, deduced that Malfoy was still 
spending plenty of time within the room. Although 
Harry was losing hope that he would ever succeed in 
getting inside the Room of Requirement, he attempted 
it whenever he was in the vicinity, but no matter how 
he reworded his request, the wall remained firmly 
doorless. 

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A few days before the match against Ravenclaw, 

Harry found himself walking down to dinner alone 
from the common room, Ron having rushed off into a 
nearby bathroom to throw up yet again, and 
Hermione having dashed off to see Professor Vector 
about a mistake she thought she might have made in 
her last Arithmancy essay. More out of habit than 
anything, Harry made his usual detour along the 
seventh-floor corridor, checking the Marauder’s Map 
as he went. For a moment he could not find Malfoy 
anywhere and assumed he must indeed be inside the 
Room of Requirement again, but then he saw Malfoy’s 
tiny, labeled dot standing in a boys’ bathroom on the 
floor below, accompanied, not by Crabbe or Goyle, 
but by Moaning Myrtle. 

Harry only stopped staring at this unlikely coupling 
when he walked right into a suit of armor. The loud 
crash brought him out of his reverie; hurrying from 
the scene lest Filch turn up, he dashed down the 
marble staircase and along the passageway below. 
Outside the bathroom, he pressed his ear against the 
door. He could not hear anything. He very quietly 
pushed the door open. 

Draco Malfoy was standing with his back to the door, 
his hands clutching either side of the sink, his white- 
blond head bowed. 

“Don’t,” crooned Moaning Myrtle’s voice from one of 
the cubicles. “Don’t ... tell me what’s wrong ... I can 
help you. ...” 

“No one can help me,” said Malfoy. His whole body 
was shaking. “I can’t do it. ... I can’t. ... It won’t work 
... and unless I do it soon ... he says he’ll kill me. ...” 

And Harry realized, with a shock so huge it seemed to 
root him to the spot, that Malfoy was crying — 

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actually crying — tears streaming down his pale face 
into the grimy basin. Malfoy gasped and gulped and 
then, with a great shudder, looked up into the 
cracked mirror and saw Harry staring at him over his 
shoulder. 

Malfoy wheeled around, drawing his wand. 
Instinctively, Harry pulled out his own. Malfoy’s hex 
missed Harry by inches, shattering the lamp on the 
wall beside him; Harry threw himself sideways, 
thought Levicorpus\ and flicked his wand, but Malfoy 
blocked the jinx and raised his wand for another — 

“No! No! Stop it!” squealed Moaning Myrtle, her voice 
echoing loudly around the tiled room. “Stop! STOP!” 

There was a loud bang and the bin behind Harry 
exploded; Harry attempted a Leg-Locker Curse that 
backfired off the wall behind Malfoy’s ear and 
smashed the cistern beneath Moaning Myrtle, who 
screamed loudly; water poured everywhere and Harry 
slipped as Malfoy, his face contorted, cried, “Cruci — ” 

“ SECTUMSEMPRAl” bellowed Harry from the floor, 
waving his wand wildly. 

Blood spurted from Malfoy’s face and chest as though 
he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He 
staggered backward and collapsed onto the 
waterlogged floor with a great splash, his wand falling 
from his limp right hand. 

“No — ” gasped Harry. 

Slipping and staggering, Harry got to his feet and 
plunged toward Malfoy, whose face was now shining 
scarlet, his white hands scrabbling at his blood- 
soaked chest. 



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“No — I didn’t — ” 



Harry did not know what he was saying; he fell to his 
knees beside Malfoy, who was shaking uncontrollably 
in a pool of his own blood. Moaning Myrtle let out a 
deafening scream: “MURDER! MURDER IN THE 
BATHROOM! MURDER!” 

The door banged open behind Harry and he looked 
up, terrified: Snape had burst into the room, his face 
livid. Pushing Harry roughly aside, he knelt over 
Malfoy, drew his wand, and traced it over the deep 
wounds Harry’s curse had made, muttering an 
incantation that sounded almost like song. The flow 
of blood seemed to ease; Snape wiped the residue 
from Malfoy’s face and repeated his spell. Now the 
wounds seemed to be knitting. 

Harry was still watching, horrified by what he had 
done, barely aware that he too was soaked in blood 
and water. Moaning Myrtle was still sobbing and 
wailing overhead. When Snape had performed his 
countercurse for the third time, he half-lifted Malfoy 
into a standing position. 

“You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain 
amount of scarring, but if you take dittany 
immediately we might avoid even that. ... Come. ...” 

He supported Malfoy across the bathroom, turning at 
the door to say in a voice of cold fury, “And you, 

Potter ... You wait here for me.” 

It did not occur to Harry for a second to disobey. He 
stood up slowly, shaking, and looked down at the wet 
floor. There were bloodstains floating like crimson 
flowers across its surface. He could not even find it in 
himself to tell Moaning Myrtle to be quiet, as she 



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continued to wail and sob with increasingly evident 
enjoyment. 



Snape returned ten minutes later. He stepped into the 
bathroom and closed the door behind him. 

“Go,” he said to Myrtle, and she swooped back into 
her toilet at once, leaving a ringing silence behind 
her. 

“I didn’t mean it to happen,” said Harry at once. His 
voice echoed in the cold, watery space. “I didn’t know 
what that spell did.” 

But Snape ignored this. “Apparently I underestimated 
you, Potter,” he said quietly. “Who would have 
thought you knew such Dark Magic? Who taught you 
that spell?” 

“I — read about it somewhere.” 

“Where?” 

“It was — a library book,” Harry invented wildly. “I 
can’t remember what it was call — ” 

“Liar,” said Snape. Harry’s throat went dry. He knew 
what Snape was going to do and he had never been 
able to prevent it. ... 

The bathroom seemed to shimmer before his eyes; he 
struggled to block out all thought, but try as he 
might, the Half-Blood Prince’s copy of Advanced 
Potion-Making swam hazily to the forefront of his 
mind. 

And then he was staring at Snape again, in the midst 
of this wrecked, soaked bathroom. He stared into 



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Snape’s black eyes, hoping against hope that Snape 
had not seen what he feared, but — 

“Bring me your schoolbag,” said Snape softly, “and all 
of your schoolbooks. All of them. Bring them to me 
here. Now!” 

There was no point arguing. Harry turned at once and 
splashed out of the bathroom. Once in the corridor, 
he broke into a run toward Gryffindor Tower. Most 
people were walking the other way; they gaped at him, 
drenched in water and blood, but he answered none 
of the questions fired at him as he ran past. 

He felt stunned; it was as though a beloved pet had 
turned suddenly savage; what had the Prince been 
thinking to copy such a spell into his book? And what 
would happen when Snape saw it? Would he tell 
Slughorn — Harry’s stomach churned — how Harry 
had been achieving such good results in Potions all 
year? Would he confiscate or destroy the book that 
had taught Harry so much . . . the book that had 
become a kind of guide and friend? Harry could not 
let it happen. ... He could not ... 

“Where Ve you — ? Why are you soaking — ? Is that 
blood?” 

Ron was standing at the top of the stairs, looking 
bewildered at the sight of Harry. 

“I need your book,” Harry panted. “Your Potions book. 
Quick ... give it to me ...” 

“But what about the Half-Blood — ” 

“I’ll explain later!” 



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Ron pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of 
his bag and handed it over; Harry sprinted off past 
him and back to the common room. Here, he seized 
his schoolbag, ignoring the amazed looks of several 
people who had already finished their dinner, threw 
himself back out of the portrait hole, and hurtled off 
along the seventh-floor corridor. 

He skidded to a halt beside the tapestry of dancing 
trolls, closed his eyes, and began to walk. 

I need a place to hide my book. ... I need a place to 
hide my book. ... I need a place to hide my book. . . . 

Three times he walked up and down in front of the 
stretch of blank wall. When he opened his eyes, there 
it was at last: the door to the Room of Requirement. 
Harry wrenched it open, flung himself inside, and 
slammed it shut. 

He gasped. Despite his haste, his panic, his fear of 
what awaited him back in the bathroom, he could not 
help but be overawed by what he was looking at. He 
was standing in a room the size of a large cathedral, 
whose high windows were sending shafts of light 
down upon what looked like a city with towering 
walls, built of what Harry knew must be objects 
hidden by generations of Hogwarts inhabitants. There 
were alleyways and roads bordered by teetering piles 
of broken and damaged furniture, stowed away, 
perhaps, to hide the evidence of mishandled magic, or 
else hidden by castle-proud house-elves. There were 
thousands and thousands of books, no doubt banned 
or graffitied or stolen. There were winged catapults 
and Fanged Frisbees, some still with enough life in 
them to hover halfheartedly over the mountains of 
other forbidden items; there were chipped bottles of 
congealed potions, hats, jewels, cloaks; there were 
what looked like dragon eggshells, corked bottles 
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whose contents still shimmered evilly, several rusting 
swords, and a heavy, bloodstained axe. 

Harry hurried forward into one of the many alleyways 
between all this hidden treasure. He turned right past 
an enormous stuffed troll, ran on a short way, took a 
left at the broken Vanishing Cabinet in which 
Montague had got lost the previous year, finally 
pausing beside a large cupboard that seemed to have 
had acid thrown at its blistered surface. He opened 
one of the cupboard’s creaking doors: It had already 
been used as a hiding place for something in a cage 
that had long since died; its skeleton had five legs. He 
stuffed the Half-Blood Prince’s book behind the cage 
and slammed the door. He paused for a moment, his 
heart thumping horribly, gazing around at all the 
clutter. ... Would he be able to find this spot again 
amidst all this junk? Seizing the chipped bust of an 
ugly old warlock from on top of a nearby crate, he 
stood it on top of the cupboard where the book was 
now hidden, perched a dusty old wig and a tarnished 
tiara on the statue’s head to make it more distinctive, 
then sprinted back through the alleyways of hidden 
junk as fast as he could go, back to the door, back 
out onto the corridor, where he slammed the door 
behind him, and it turned at once back into stone. 

Harry ran flat-out toward the bathroom on the floor 
below, cramming Ron’s copy of Advanced Potion- 
Making into his bag as he did so. A minute later, he 
was back in front of Snape, who held out his hand 
wordlessly for Harry’s schoolbag. Harry handed it 
over, panting, a searing pain in his chest, and waited. 

One by one, Snape extracted Harry’s books and 
examined them. Finally, the only book left was the 
Potions book, which he looked at very carefully before 
speaking. 



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“This is your copy of Advanced Potion-Making, is it, 
Potter?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, still breathing hard. 

“You’re quite sure of that, are you, Potter?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, with a touch more defiance. 

“This is the copy of Advanced Potion-Making that you 
purchased from Flourish and Blotts?” 

“Yes,” said Harry firmly. 

“Then why,” asked Snape, “does it have the name 
‘Roonil Wazlib’ written inside the front cover?” 

Harry’s heart missed a beat. “That’s my nickname,” 
he said. 

“Your nickname,” repeated Snape. 

“Yeah ... that’s what my friends call me,” said Harry. 

“I understand what a nickname is,” said Snape. The 
cold, black eyes were boring once more into Harry’s; 
he tried not to look into them. Close your mind. ... 
Close your mind. . . . But he had never learned how to 
do it properly. . . . 

“Do you know what I think, Potter?” said Snape, very 
quietly. “I think that you are a liar and a cheat and 
that you deserve detention with me every Saturday 
until the end of term. What do you think, Potter?” 

“I — I don’t agree, sir,” said Harry, still refusing to 
look into Snape ’s eyes. 



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“Well, we shall see how you feel after your 
detentions,” said Snape. “Ten o’clock Saturday 
morning, Potter. My office.” 

“But sir ...” said Harry, looking up desperately. 
“Quidditch ... the last match of the ...” 

“Ten o’clock,” whispered Snape, with a smile that 
showed his yellow teeth. “Poor Gryffindor ... fourth 
place this year, I fear ...” 

And he left the bathroom without another word, 
leaving Harry to stare into the cracked mirror, feeling 
sicker, he was sure, than Ron had ever felt in his life. 

“I won’t say ‘I told you so,’ ” said Hermione, an hour 
later in the common room. 

“Leave it, Hermione,” said Ron angrily. 

Harry had never made it to dinner; he had no appetite 
at all. He had just finished telling Ron, Hermione, and 
Ginny what had happened, not that there seemed to 
have been much need. The news had traveled very 
fast: Apparently Moaning Myrtle had taken it upon 
herself to pop up in every bathroom in the castle to 
tell the story; Malfoy had already been visited in the 
hospital wing by Pansy Parkinson, who had lost no 
time in vilifying Harry far and wide, and Snape had 
told the staff precisely what had happened. Harry had 
already been called out of the common room to 
endure fifteen highly unpleasant minutes in the 
company of Professor McGonagall, who had told him 
he was lucky not to have been expelled and that she 
supported wholeheartedly Snape ’s punishment of 
detention every Saturday until the end of term. 



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“I told you there was something wrong with that 
Prince person,” Hermione said, evidently unable to 
stop herself. “And I was right, wasn’t I?” 

“No, I don’t think you were,” said Harry stubbornly. 

He was having a bad enough time without Hermione 
lecturing him; the looks on the Gryffindor team’s 
faces when he had told them he would not be able to 
play on Saturday had been the worst punishment of 
all. He could feel Ginny’s eyes on him now but did not 
meet them; he did not want to see disappointment or 
anger there. He had just told her that she would be 
playing Seeker on Saturday and that Dean would be 
rejoining the team as Chaser in her place. Perhaps, if 
they won, Ginny and Dean would make up during the 
post-match euphoria. ... The thought went through 
Harry like an icy knife. ... 

“Harry,” said Hermione, “how can you still stick up 
for that book when that spell — ” 

“Will you stop harping on about the book!” snapped 
Harry. “The Prince only copied it out! It’s not like he 
was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he 
was making a note of something that had been used 
against him!” 

“I don’t believe this,” said Hermione. “You’re actually 
defending — ” 

“I’m not defending what I did!” said Harry quickly. “I 
wish I hadn’t done it, and not just because I’ve got 
about a dozen detentions. You know I wouldn’t’ve 
used a spell like that, not even on Malfoy, but you 
can’t blame the Prince, he hadn’t written ‘try this out, 
it’s really good’ — he was just making notes for 
himself, wasn’t he, not for anyone else. ...” 



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“Are you telling me,” said Hermione, “that you’re 
going to go back — ?” 

“And get the book? Yeah, I am,” said Harry forcefully. 
“Listen, without the Prince I’d never have won the 
Felix Felicis. I’d never have known how to save Ron 
from poisoning, I’d never have — ” 

“ — got a reputation for Potions brilliance you don’t 
deserve,” said Hermione nastily. 

“Give it a rest, Hermione!” said Ginny, and Harry was 
so amazed, so grateful, he looked up. “By the sound 
of it, Malfoy was trying to use an Unforgivable Curse, 
you should be glad Harry had something good up his 
sleeve!” 

“Well, of course I’m glad Harry wasn’t cursed!” said 
Hermione, clearly stung. “But you can’t call that 
Sectumsempra spell good, Ginny, look where it’s 
landed him! And I’d have thought, seeing what this 
has done to your chances in the match — ” 

“Oh, don’t start acting as though you understand 
Quidditch,” snapped Ginny, “you’ll only embarrass 
yourself.” 

Harry and Ron stared: Hermione and Ginny, who had 
always got on together very well, were now sitting 
with their arms folded, glaring in opposite directions. 
Ron looked nervously at Harry, then snatched up a 
book at random and hid behind it. Harry, however, 
little though he knew he deserved it, felt unbelievably 
cheerful all of a sudden, even though none of them 
spoke again for the rest of the evening. 

His lightheartedness was short-lived. There were 
Slytherin taunts to be endured next day, not to 
mention much anger from fellow Gryffindors, who 

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were most unhappy that their Captain had got 
himself banned from the final match of the season. By 
Saturday morning, whatever he might have told 
Hermione, Harry would have gladly exchanged all the 
Felix Felicis in the world to be walking down to the 
Quidditch pitch with Ron, Ginny, and the others. It 
was almost unbearable to turn away from the mass of 
students streaming out into the sunshine, all of them 
wearing rosettes and hats and brandishing banners 
and scarves, to descend the stone steps into the 
dungeons and walk until the distant sounds of the 
crowd were quite obliterated, knowing that he would 
not be able to hear a word of commentary or a cheer 
or groan. 

“Ah, Potter,” said Snape, when Harry had knocked on 
his door and entered the unpleasantly familiar office 
that Snape, despite teaching floors above now, had 
not vacated; it was as dimly lit as ever and the same 
slimy dead objects were suspended in colored potions 
all around the walls. Ominously, there were many 
cobwebbed boxes piled on a table where Harry was 
clearly supposed to sit; they had an aura of tedious, 
hard, and pointless work about them. 

“Mr. Filch has been looking for someone to clear out 
these old files,” said Snape softly. “They are the 
records of other Hogwarts wrongdoers and their 
punishments. Where the ink has grown faint, or the 
cards have suffered damage from mice, we would like 
you to copy out the crimes and punishments afresh 
and, making sure that they are in alphabetical order, 
replace them in the boxes. You will not use magic.” 

“Right, Professor,” said Harry, with as much contempt 
as he could put into the last three syllables. 

“I thought you could start,” said Snape, a malicious 
smile on his lips, “with boxes one thousand and 

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twelve to one thousand and fifty-six. You will find 
some familiar names in there, which should add 
interest to the task. Here, you see ...” 

He pulled out a card from one of the topmost boxes 
with a flourish and read, “ ‘James Potter and Sirius 
Black. Apprehended using an illegal hex upon Bertram 
Aubrey. Aubrey’s head twice normal size. Double 
detention.’ ” Snape sneered. “It must be such a 
comfort to think that, though they are gone, a record 
of their great achievements remains. ...” 

Harry felt the familiar boiling sensation in the pit of 
his stomach. Biting his tongue to prevent himself 
retaliating, he sat down in front of the boxes and 
pulled one toward him. 

It was, as Harry had anticipated, useless, boring 
work, punctuated (as Snape had clearly planned) with 
the regular jolt in the stomach that meant he had just 
read his father or Sirius’s names, usually coupled 
together in various petty misdeeds, occasionally 
accompanied by those of Remus Lupin and Peter 
Pettigrew. And while he copied out all their various 
offenses and punishments, he wondered what was 
going on outside, where the match would have just 
started . . . Ginny playing Seeker against Cho . . . 

Harry glanced again and again at the large clock 
ticking on the wall. It seemed to be moving half as 
fast as a regular clock; perhaps Snape had bewitched 
it to go extra slowly? He could not have been here for 
only half an hour ... an hour ... an hour and a half. . . . 

Harry’s stomach started rumbling when the clock 
showed half past twelve. Snape, who had not spoken 
at all since setting Harry his task, finally looked up at 
ten past one. 



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“I think that will do,” he said coldly. “Mark the place 
you have reached. You will continue at ten o’clock 
next Saturday.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Harry stuffed a bent card into the box at random and 
hurried out of the door before Snape could change his 
mind, racing back up the stone steps, straining his 
ears to hear a sound from the pitch, but all was quiet. 
...It was over, then. ... 

He hesitated outside the crowded Great Hall, then ran 
up the marble staircase; whether Gryffindor had won 
or lost, the team usually celebrated or commiserated 
in their own common room. 

“ Quid agis?” he said tentatively to the Fat Lady, 
wondering what he would find inside. 

Her expression was unreadable as she replied, “You’ll 
see.” 

And she swung forward. 

A roar of celebration erupted from the hole behind 
her. Harry gaped as people began to scream at the 
sight of him; several hands pulled him into the room. 

“We won!” yelled Ron, bounding into sight and 
brandishing the silver Cup at Harry. “We won! Four 
hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! We won!” 

Harry looked around; there was Ginny running 
toward him; she had a hard, blazing look in her face 
as she threw her arms around him. And without 
thinking, without planning it, without worrying about 
the fact that fifty people were watching, Harry kissed 
her. 

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After several long moments — or it might have been 
half an hour — or possibly several sunlit days — they 
broke apart. The room had gone very quiet. Then 
several people wolf-whistled and there was an 
outbreak of nervous giggling. Harry looked over the 
top of Ginny’s head to see Dean Thomas holding a 
shattered glass in his hand, and Romilda Vane 
looking as though she might throw something. 
Hermione was beaming, but Harry’s eyes sought Ron. 
At last he found him, still clutching the Cup and 
wearing an expression appropriate to having been 
clubbed over the head. For a fraction of a second they 
looked at each other, then Ron gave a tiny jerk of the 
head that Harry understood to mean, Well — if you 
must. 

The creature in his chest roaring in triumph, he 
grinned down at Ginny and gestured wordlessly out of 
the portrait hole. A long walk in the grounds seemed 
indicated, during which — if they had time — they 
might discuss the match. 



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THE SEER OVERHEARD 

The fact that Harry Potter was going out with Ginny 
Weasley seemed to interest a great number of people, 
most of them girls, yet Harry found himself newly and 
happily impervious to gossip over the next few weeks. 
After all, it made a very nice change to be talked 
about because of something that was making him 
happier than he could remember being for a very long 
time, rather than because he had been involved in 
horrific scenes of Dark Magic. 

“You’d think people had better things to gossip 
about,” said Ginny, as she sat on the common room 
floor, leaning against Harry’s legs and reading the 
Daily Prophet “Three dementor attacks in a week, and 
all Romilda Vane does is ask me if it’s true you’ve got 
a hippogriff tattooed across your chest.” 

Ron and Hermione both roared with laughter. Harry 
ignored them. 

“What did you tell her?” 



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“I told her it’s a Hungarian Horntail,” said Ginny, 
turning a page of the newspaper idly. “Much more 
macho.” 



“Thanks,” said Harry, grinning. “And what did you tell 
her Ron’s got?” 

“A Pygmy Puff, but I didn’t say where.” 

Ron scowled as Hermione rolled around laughing. 

“Watch it,” he said, pointing warningly at Harry and 
Ginny. “Just because I’ve given my permission doesn’t 
mean I can’t withdraw it — ” 

“ ‘Your permission,’ ” scoffed Ginny. “Since when did 
you give me permission to do anything? Anyway, you 
said yourself you’d rather it was Harry than Michael 
or Dean.” 

“Yeah, I would,” said Ron grudgingly. “And just as 
long as you don’t start snogging each other in public 



“You filthy hypocrite! What about you and Lavender, 
thrashing around like a pair of eels all over the 
place?” demanded Ginny. 

But Ron’s tolerance was not to be tested much as 
they moved into June, for Harry and Ginny’s time 
together was becoming increasingly restricted. 

Ginny’s O.W.L.s were approaching and she was 
therefore forced to study for hours into the night. On 
one such evening, when Ginny had retired to the 
library, and Harry was sitting beside the window in 
the common room, supposedly finishing his 
Herbology homework but in reality reliving a 
particularly happy hour he had spent down by the 
lake with Ginny at lunchtime, Hermione dropped into 
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the seat between him and Ron with an unpleasantly 
purposeful look on her face. 

“I want to talk to you, Harry.” 

“What about?” said Harry suspiciously. Only the 
previous day, Hermione had told him off for 
distracting Ginny when she ought to be working hard 
for her examinations. 

“The so-called Half-Blood Prince.” 

“Oh, not again,” he groaned. “Will you please drop it?” 

He had not dared to return to the Room of 
Requirement to retrieve his book, and his 
performance in Potions was suffering accordingly 
(though Slughorn, who approved of Ginny, had 
jocularly attributed this to Harry being lovesick). But 
Harry was sure that Snape had not yet given up hope 
of laying hands on the Prince’s book, and was 
determined to leave it where it was while Snape 
remained on the lookout. 

“I’m not dropping it,” said Hermione firmly, “until 
you’ve heard me out. Now, I’ve been trying to find out 
a bit about who might make a hobby of inventing 
Dark spells — ” 

“He didn’t make a hobby of it — ” 

“He, he — who says it’s a he?” 

“We’ve been through this,” said Harry crossly. “Prince, 
Hermione, PrinceV’ 

“Right!” said Hermione, red patches blazing in her 
cheeks as she pulled a very old piece of newsprint out 



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of her pocket and slammed it down on the table in 
front of Harry. “Look at that! Look at the picture!” 



Harry picked up the crumbling piece of paper and 
stared at the moving photograph, yellowed with age; 
Ron leaned over for a look too. The picture showed a 
skinny girl of around fifteen. She was not pretty; she 
looked simultaneously cross and sullen, with heavy 
brows and a long, pallid face. Underneath the 
photograph was the caption: EILEEN PRINCE, 
CAPTAIN OF THE HOGWARTS GOBSTONES TEAM. 

“So?” said Harry, scanning the short news item to 
which the picture belonged; it was a rather dull story 
about interschool competitions. 

“Her name was Eileen Prince. Prince, Harry.” 

They looked at each other, and Harry realized what 
Hermione was trying to say. He burst out laughing. 

“No way.” 

“What?” 

“You think she was the Half-Blood ... ? Oh, come on.” 

“Well, why not? Harry, there aren’t any real princes in 
the Wizarding world! It’s either a nickname, a made- 
up title somebody’s given themselves, or it could be 
their actual name, couldn’t it? No, listen! If, say, her 
father was a wizard whose surname was Prince, and 
her mother was a Muggle, then that would make her 
a “half-blood Prince’!” 

“Yeah, very ingenious, Hermione ...” 

“But it would! Maybe she was proud of being half a 
Prince!” 

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“Listen, Hermione, I can tell it’s not a girl. I can just 
tell.” 



“The truth is that you don’t think a girl would have 
been clever enough,” said Hermione angrily. 

“How can I have hung round with you for five years 
and not think girls are clever?” said Harry, stung by 
this. “It’s the way he writes, I just know the Prince 
was a bloke, I can tell. This girl hasn’t got anything to 
do with it. Where did you get this anyway?” 

“The library,” said Hermione predictably. “There’s a 
whole collection of old Prophets up there. Well, I’m 
going to find out more about Eileen Prince if I can.” 

“Enjoy yourself,” said Harry irritably. 

“I will,” said Hermione. “And the first place I’ll look,” 
she shot at him, as she reached the portrait hole, “is 
records of old Potions awards!” 

Harry scowled after her for a moment, then continued 
his contemplation of the darkening sky. 

“She’s just never got over you outperforming her in 
Potions,” said Ron, returning to his copy of A 
Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. 

“You don’t think I’m mad, wanting that book back, do 
you?” 

“ ’Course not,” said Ron robustly. “He was a genius, 
the Prince. Anyway ... without his bezoar tip ...” He 
drew his finger significantly across his own throat. “I 
wouldn’t be here to discuss it, would I? I mean, I’m 
not saying that spell you used on Malfoy was great — ” 

“Nor am I,” said Harry quickly. 

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“But he healed all right, didn’t he? Back on his feet in 
no time.” 

“Yeah,” said Harry; this was perfectly true, although 
his conscience squirmed slightly all the same. 

“Thanks to Snape ...” 

“You still got detention with Snape this Saturday?” 
Ron continued. 

“Yeah, and the Saturday after that, and the Saturday 
after that,” sighed Harry. “And he’s hinting now that if 
I don’t get all the boxes done by the end of term, we’ll 
carry on next year.” 

He was finding these detentions particularly irksome 
because they cut into the already limited time he 
could have been spending with Ginny. Indeed, he had 
frequently wondered lately whether Snape did not 
know this, for he was keeping Harry later and later 
every time, while making pointed asides about Harry 
having to miss the good weather and the varied 
opportunities it offered. 

Harry was shaken from these bitter reflections by the 
appearance at his side of Jimmy Peakes, who was 
holding out a scroll of parchment. 

“Thanks, Jimmy ... Hey, it’s from Dumbledore!” said 
Harry excitedly, unrolling the parchment and 
scanning it. “He wants me to go to his office as quick 
as I can!” 

They stared at each other. 

“Blimey,” whispered Ron. “You don’t reckon ... he 
hasn’t found ... ?” 



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“Better go and see, hadn’t I?” said Harry, jumping to 
his feet. 

He hurried out of the common room and along the 
seventh floor as fast as he could, passing nobody but 
Peeves, who swooped past in the opposite direction, 
throwing bits of chalk at Harry in a routine sort of 
way and cackling loudly as he dodged Harry’s 
defensive jinx. Once Peeves had vanished, there was 
silence in the corridors; with only fifteen minutes left 
until curfew, most people had already returned to 
their common rooms. 

And then Harry heard a scream and a crash. He 
stopped in his tracks, listening. 

“How — dare — you — aaaaargh!” 

The noise was coming from a corridor nearby; Harry 
sprinted toward it, his wand at the ready, hurtled 
around another corner, and saw Professor Trelawney 
sprawled upon the floor, her head covered in one of 
her many shawls, several sherry bottles lying beside 
her, one broken. 

“Professor — ” 

Harry hurried forward and helped Professor 
Trelawney to her feet. Some of her glittering beads 
had become entangled with her glasses. She hiccuped 
loudly, patted her hair, and pulled herself up on 
Harry’s helping arm. 

“What happened, Professor?” 

“You may well ask!” she said shrilly. “I was strolling 
along, brooding upon certain dark portents I happen 
to have glimpsed ...” 



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But Harry was not paying much attention. He had 
just noticed where they were standing: There on the 
right was the tapestry of dancing trolls, and on the 
left, that smoothly impenetrable stretch of stone wall 
that concealed — 

“Professor, were you trying to get into the Room of 
Requirement?” 

"... omens I have been vouchsafed — what?” She 
looked suddenly shifty. 

“The Room of Requirement,” repeated Harry. “Were 
you trying to get in there?” 

“I — well — I didn’t know students knew about — ” 

“Not all of them do,” said Harry. “But what happened? 
You screamed. ... It sounded as though you were 
hurt. ...” 

“I — well,” said Professor Trelawney, drawing her 
shawls around her defensively and staring down at 
him with her vastly magnified eyes. “I wished to — ah 
— deposit certain — um — personal items in the 
room. ...” And she muttered something about “nasty 
accusations.” 

“Right,” said Harry, glancing down at the sherry 
bottles. “But you couldn’t get in and hide them?” 

He found this very odd; the room had opened for him, 
after all, when he had wanted to hide the Half-Blood 
Prince’s book. 

“Oh, I got in all right,” said Professor Trelawney, 
glaring at the wall. “But there was somebody already 
in there.” 



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“Somebody in — ? Who?” demanded Harry. “Who was 
in there?” 

“I have no idea,” said Professor Trelawney, looking 
slightly taken aback at the urgency in Harry’s voice. “I 
walked into the room and I heard a voice, which has 
never happened before in all my years of hiding — of 
using the room, I mean.” 

“A voice? Saying what?” 

“I don’t know that it was saying anything,” said 
Professor Trelawney. “It was ... whooping.” 

“ Whooping?” 

“Gleefully,” she said, nodding. 

Harry stared at her. 

“Was it male or female?” 

“I would hazard a guess at male,” said Professor 
Trelawney. 

“And it sounded happy?” 

“Very happy,” said Professor Trelawney sniffily. 

“As though it was celebrating?” 

“Most definitely.” 

“And then — ?” 

“And then I called out Who’s there?’ ” 

“You couldn’t have found out who it was without 
asking?” Harry asked her, slightly frustrated. 

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“The Inner Eye,” said Professor Trelawney with 
dignity, straightening her shawls and many strands of 
glittering beads, “was fixed upon matters well outside 
the mundane realms of whooping voices.” 

“Right,” said Harry hastily; he had heard about 
Professor Trelawney’s Inner Eye all too often before. 
“And did the voice say who was there?” 

“No, it did not,” she said. “Everything went pitch- 
black and the next thing I knew, I was being hurled 
headfirst out of the room!” 

“And you didn’t see that coming?” said Harry, unable 
to help himself. 

“No, I did not, as I say, it was pitch — ” She stopped 
and glared at him suspiciously. 

“I think you’d better tell Professor Dumbledore,” said 
Harry. “He ought to know Malfoy’s celebrating — I 
mean, that someone threw you out of the room.” 

To his surprise, Professor Trelawney drew herself up 
at this suggestion, looking haughty. 

“The headmaster has intimated that he would prefer 
fewer visits from me,” she said coldly. “I am not one to 
press my company upon those who do not value it. If 
Dumbledore chooses to ignore the warnings the cards 
show — ” Her bony hand closed suddenly around 
Harry’s wrist. “Again and again, no matter how I lay 
them out — ” And she pulled a card dramatically from 
underneath her shawls. “ — the lightning-struck 
tower,” she whispered. “Calamity. Disaster. Coming 
nearer all the time ...” 

“Right,” said Harry again. “Well ... I still think you 
should tell Dumbledore about this voice, and 

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everything going dark and being thrown out of the 
room. ...” 

“You think so?” Professor Trelawney seemed to 
consider the matter for a moment, but Harry could 
tell that she liked the idea of retelling her little 
adventure. 

“I’m going to see him right now,” said Harry. “I’ve got 
a meeting with him. We could go together.” 

“Oh, well, in that case,” said Professor Trelawney with 
a smile. She bent down, scooped up her sherry 
bottles, and dumped them unceremoniously in a large 
blue-and-white vase standing in a nearby niche. 

“I miss having you in my classes, Harry,” she said 
soulfully as they set off together. “You were never 
much of a Seer ... but you were a wonderful Object 



Harry did not reply; he had loathed being the Object 
of Professor Trelawney’s continual predictions of 
doom. 

“I am afraid,” she went on, “that the nag — I’m sorry, 
the centaur — knows nothing of cartomancy. I asked 
him — one Seer to another — had he not, too, sensed 
the distant vibrations of coming catastrophe? But he 
seemed to find me almost comical. Yes, comical!” 

Her voice rose rather hysterically, and Harry caught a 
powerful whiff of sherry even though the bottles had 
been left behind. 

“Perhaps the horse has heard people say that I have 
not inherited my great-great-grandmother’s gift. 

Those rumors have been bandied about by the jealous 
for years. You know what I say to such people, Harry? 

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Would Dumbledore have let me teach at this great 
school, put so much trust in me all these years, had I 
not proved myself to him?” 

Harry mumbled something indistinct. 

“I well remember my first interview with Dumbledore,” 
went on Professor Trelawney, in throaty tones. “He 
was deeply impressed, of course, deeply impressed. ... 
I was staying at the Hog’s Head, which I do not 
advise, incidentally — bedbugs, dear boy — but funds 
were low. Dumbledore did me the courtesy of calling 
upon me in my room. He questioned me. ... I must 
confess that, at first, I thought he seemed ill-disposed 
toward Divination . . . and I remember I was starting to 
feel a little odd, I had not eaten much that day ... but 
then ...” 

And now Harry was paying attention properly for the 
first time, for he knew what had happened then: 
Professor Trelawney had made the prophecy that had 
altered the course of his whole life, the prophecy 
about him and Voldemort. 

"... but then we were rudely interrupted by Severus 
Snape!” 

“What?” 

“Yes, there was a commotion outside the door and it 
flew open, and there was that rather uncouth barman 
standing with Snape, who was waffling about having 
come the wrong way up the stairs, although I’m afraid 
that I myself rather thought he had been 
apprehended eavesdropping on my interview with 
Dumbledore — you see, he himself was seeking a job 
at the time, and no doubt hoped to pick up tips! Well, 
after that, you know, Dumbledore seemed much more 
disposed to give me a job, and I could not help 
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thinking, Harry, that it was because he appreciated 
the stark contrast between my own unassuming 
manners and quiet talent, compared to the pushing, 
thrusting young man who was prepared to listen at 
keyholes — Harry, dear?” 

She looked back over her shoulder, having only just 
realized that Harry was no longer with her; he had 
stopped walking and they were now ten feet from each 
other. 

“Harry?” she repeated uncertainly. 

Perhaps his face was white to make her look so 
concerned and frightened. Harry was standing stock- 
still as waves of shock crashed over him, wave after 
wave, obliterating everything except the information 
that had been kept from him for so long. . . . 

It was Snape who had overheard the prophecy. It was 
Snape who had carried the news of the prophecy to 
Voldemort. Snape and Peter Pettigrew together had 
sent Voldemort hunting after Lily and James and 
their son. ... 

Nothing else mattered to Harry just now. 

“Harry?” said Professor Trelawney again. “Harry — I 
thought we were going to see the headmaster 
together?” 

“You stay here,” said Harry through numb lips. 

“But dear ... I was going to tell him how I was 
assaulted in the Room of — ” 

“You stay here!” Harry repeated angrily. 



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She looked alarmed as he ran past her, around the 
corner into Dumbledore’s corridor, where the lone 
gargoyle stood sentry. Harry shouted the password at 
the gargoyle and ran up the moving spiral staircase 
three steps at a time. He did not knock upon 
Dumbledore’s door, he hammered; and the calm voice 
answered, “Enter” after Harry had already flung 
himself into the room. 

Fawkes the phoenix looked around, his bright black 
eyes gleaming with reflected gold from the sunset 
beyond the windows. Dumbledore was standing at the 
window looking out at the grounds, a long, black 
traveling cloak in his arms. 

“Well, Harry, I promised that you could come with 
me.” 

For a moment or two, Harry did not understand; the 
conversation with Trelawney had driven everything 
else out of his head and his brain seemed to be 
moving very slowly. 

“Come . . . with you ... ?” 

“Only if you wish it, of course.” 

“If I ...” 

And then Harry remembered why he had been eager 
to come to Dumbledore’s office in the first place. 
“You’ve found one? You’ve found a Horcrux?” 

“I believe so.” 

Rage and resentment fought shock and excitement: 
For several moments, Harry could not speak. 

“It is natural to be afraid,” said Dumbledore. 

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‘Tm not scared!” said Harry at once, and it was 
perfectly true; fear was one emotion he was not 
feeling at all. “Which Horcrux is it? Where is it?” 

“I am not sure which it is — though I think we can 
rule out the snake — but I believe it to be hidden in a 
cave on the coast many miles from here, a cave I have 
been trying to locate for a very long time: the cave in 
which Tom Riddle once terrorized two children from 
his orphanage on their annual trip; you remember?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “How is it protected?” 

“I do not know; I have suspicions that may be entirely 
wrong.” Dumbledore hesitated, then said, “Harry, I 
promised you that you could come with me, and I 
stand by that promise, but it would be very wrong of 
me not to warn you that this will be exceedingly 
dangerous.” 

“I’m coming,” said Harry, almost before Dumbledore 
had finished speaking. Boiling with anger at Snape, 
his desire to do something desperate and risky had 
increased tenfold in the last few minutes. This 
seemed to show on Harry’s face, for Dumbledore 
moved away from the window and looked more closely 
at Harry, a slight crease between his silver eyebrows. 

“What has happened to you?” 

“Nothing,” lied Harry promptly. 

“What has upset you?” 

“I’m not upset.” 

“Harry, you were never a good Occlumens — ” 



The word was the spark that ignited Harry’s fury. 

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“Snape!” he said, very loudly, and Fawkes gave a soft 
squawk behind them. “Snape’s what’s happened! He 
told Voldemort about the prophecy, it was him, he 
listened outside the door, Trelawney told me!” 

Dumbledore’s expression did not change, but Harry 
thought his face whitened under the bloody tinge cast 
by the setting sun. For a long moment, Dumbledore 
said nothing. “When did you find out about this?” he 
asked at last. 

“Just now!” said Harry, who was refraining from 
yelling with enormous difficulty. And then, suddenly, 
he could not stop himself. “AND YOU LET HIM 
TEACH HERE AND HE TOLD VOLDEMORT TO GO 
AFTER MY MUM AND DAD!” 

Breathing hard as though he was fighting, Harry 
turned away from Dumbledore, who still had not 
moved a muscle, and paced up and down the study, 
rubbing his knuckles in his hand and exercising 
every last bit of restraint to prevent himself knocking 
things over. He wanted to rage and storm at 
Dumbledore, but he also wanted to go with him to try 
and destroy the Horcrux; he wanted to tell him that 
he was a foolish old man for trusting Snape, but he 
was terrified that Dumbledore would not take him 
along unless he mastered his anger. ... 

“Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Please listen to 
me.” 

It was as difficult to stop his relentless pacing as to 
refrain from shouting. Harry paused, biting his lip, 
and looked into Dumbledore’s lined face. 

“Professor Snape made a terrible — ” 



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“Don’t tell me it was a mistake, sir, he was listening 
at the door!” 

“Please let me finish.” Dumbledore waited until Harry 
had nodded curtly, then went on. “Professor Snape 
made a terrible mistake. He was still in Lord 
Voldemort’s employ on the night he heard the first 
half of Professor Trelawney’s prophecy. Naturally, he 
hastened to tell his master what he had heard, for it 
concerned his master most deeply. But he did not 
know — he had no possible way of knowing — which 
boy Voldemort would hunt from then onward, or that 
the parents he would destroy in his murderous quest 
were people that Professor Snape knew, that they 
were your mother and father — ” 

Harry let out a yell of mirthless laughter. 

“He hated my dad like he hated Sirius! Haven’t you 
noticed, Professor, how the people Snape hates tend 
to end up dead?” 

“You have no idea of the remorse Professor Snape felt 
when he realized how Lord Voldemort had interpreted 
the prophecy, Harry. I believe it to be the greatest 
regret of his life and the reason that he returned — ” 

“But he’s a very good Occlumens, isn’t he, sir?” said 
Harry, whose voice was shaking with the effort of 
keeping it steady. “And isn’t Voldemort convinced that 
Snape’s on his side, even now? Professor ... how can 
you be sure Snape’s on our side?” 

Dumbledore did not speak for a moment; he looked as 
though he was trying to make up his mind about 
something. At last he said, “I am sure. I trust Severus 
Snape completely.” 



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Harry breathed deeply for a few moments in an effort 
to steady himself. It did not work. 

“Well, I don’t!” he said, as loudly as before. “He’s up to 
something with Draco Malfoy right now, right under 
your nose, and you still — ” 

“We have discussed this, Harry,” said Dumbledore, 
and now he sounded stern again. “I have told you my 
views.” 

“You’re leaving the school tonight, and I’ll bet you 
haven’t even considered that Snape and Malfoy might 
decide to — ” 

“To what?” asked Dumbledore, his eyebrows raised. 
“What is it that you suspect them of doing, precisely?” 

“I ... they’re up to something!” said Harry, and his 
hands curled into fists as he said it. “Professor 
Trelawney was just in the Room of Requirement, 
trying to hide her sherry bottles, and she heard 
Malfoy whooping, celebrating! He’s trying to mend 
something dangerous in there and if you ask me, he’s 
fixed it at last and you’re about to just walk out of 
school without — ” 

“Enough,” said Dumbledore. He said it quite calmly, 
and yet Harry fell silent at once; he knew that he had 
finally crossed some invisible line. “Do you think that 
I have once left the school unprotected during my 
absences this year? I have not. Tonight, when I leave, 
there will again be additional protection in place. 
Please do not suggest that I do not take the safety of 
my students seriously, Harry.” 

“I didn’t — ” mumbled Harry, a little abashed, but 
Dumbledore cut across him. 



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“I do not wish to discuss the matter any further.” 

Harry bit back his retort, scared that he had gone too 
far, that he had ruined his chance of accompanying 
Dumbledore, but Dumbledore went on, “Do you wish 
to come with me tonight?” 

“Yes,” said Harry at once. 

“Very well, then: Listen.” Dumbledore drew himself up 
to his full height. “I take you with me on one 
condition: that you obey any command I might give 
you at once, and without question.” 

“Of course.” 

“Be sure to understand me, Harry. I mean that you 
must follow even such orders as ‘run,’ ‘hide,’ or ‘go 
back.’ Do I have your word?” 

“I — yes, of course.” 

“If I tell you to hide, you will do so?” 

“Yes.” 

“If I tell you to flee, you will obey?” 

“Yes.” 

“If I tell you to leave me and save yourself, you will do 
as I tell you? 



“Harry?” 

They looked at each other for a moment. 



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“Yes, sir.” 



“Very good. Then I wish you to go and fetch your 
Invisibility Cloak and meet me in the entrance hall in 
five minutes’ time.” 

Dumbledore turned back to look out of the fiery 
window; the sun was now a ruby red glare along the 
horizon. Harry walked quickly from the office and 
down the spiral staircase. His mind was oddly clear 
all of a sudden. He knew what to do. 

Ron and Hermione were sitting together in the 
common room when he came back. “What does he 
want?” Hermione said at once. “Harry, are you okay?” 
she added anxiously. 

“I’m fine,” said Harry shortly, racing past them. He 
dashed up the stairs and into his dormitory, where he 
flung open his trunk and pulled out the Marauder’s 
Map and a pair of balled-up socks. Then he sped back 
down the stairs and into the common room, skidding 
to a halt where Ron and Hermione sat, looking 
stunned. 

“I’ve got to be quick,” Harry panted. “Dumbledore 
thinks I’m getting my Invisibility Cloak. Listen. ...” 

Quickly he told them where he was going and why. He 
did not pause either for Hermione ’s gasps of horror or 
for Ron’s hasty questions; they could work out the 
finer details for themselves later. 

“... so you see what this means?” Harry finished at a 
gallop. “Dumbledore won’t be here tonight, so 
Malfoy’s going to have another clear shot at whatever 
he’s up to. No, listen to me!” he hissed angrily, as both 
Ron and Hermione showed every sign of interrupting. 
“I know it was Malfoy celebrating in the Room of 
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Requirement. Here — ” He shoved the Marauder’s Map 
into Hermione’s hands. “You’ve got to watch him and 
you’ve got to watch Snape too. Use anyone else who 
you can rustle up from the D.A., Hermione, those 
contact Galleons will still work, right? Dumbledore 
says he’s put extra protection in the school, but if 
Snape ’s involved, he’ll know what Dumbledore ’s 
protection is, and how to avoid it — but he won’t be 
expecting you lot to be on the watch, will he?” 

“Harry — ” began Hermione, her eyes huge with fear. 

“I haven’t got time to argue,” said Harry curtly. “Take 
this as well — ” 

He thrust the socks into Ron’s hands. 

“Thanks,” said Ron. “Er — why do I need socks?” 

“You need what’s wrapped in them, it’s the Felix 
Felicis. Share it between yourselves and Ginny too. 
Say good-bye to her for me. I’d better go, 

Dumbledore ’s waiting — ” 

“No!” said Hermione, as Ron unwrapped the tiny little 
bottle of golden potion, looking awestruck. “We don’t 
want it, you take it, who knows what you’re going to 
be facing?” 

“I’ll be fine, I’ll be with Dumbledore,” said Harry. “I 
want to know you lot are okay. ... Don’t look like that, 
Hermione, I’ll see you later. ...” 

And he was off, hurrying back through the portrait 
hole and toward the entrance hall. 

Dumbledore was waiting beside the oaken front 
doors. He turned as Harry came skidding out onto the 



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topmost stone step, panting hard, a searing stitch in 
his side. 

“I would like you to wear your cloak, please,” said 
Dumbledore, and he waited until Harry had thrown it 
on before saying, “Very good. Shall we go?” 

Dumbledore set off at once down the stone steps, his 
own traveling cloak barely stirring in the still summer 
air. Harry hurried alongside him under the Invisibility 
Cloak, still panting and sweating rather a lot. 

“But what will people think when they see you 
leaving, Professor?” Harry asked, his mind on Malfoy 
and Snape. 

“That I am off into Hogsmeade for a drink,” said 
Dumbledore lightly. “I sometimes offer Rosmerta my 
custom, or else visit the Hog’s Head ... or I appear to. 
It is as good a way as any of disguising one’s true 
destination.” 

They made their way down the drive in the gathering 
twilight. The air was full of the smells of warm grass, 
lake water, and wood smoke from Hagrid’s cabin. It 
was difficult to believe that they were heading for 
anything dangerous or frightening. 

“Professor,” said Harry quietly, as the gates at the 
bottom of the drive came into view, “will we be 
Apparating?” 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “You can Apparate now, I 
believe?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, “but I haven’t got a license.” 



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He felt it best to be honest; what if he spoiled 
everything by turning up a hundred miles from where 
he was supposed to go? 

“No matter,” said Dumbledore, “I can assist you 
again.” 

They turned out of the gates into the twilit, deserted 
lane to Hogsmeade. Darkness descended fast as they 
walked, and by the time they reached the High Street 
night was falling in earnest. Lights twinkled from 
windows over shops and as they neared the Three 
Broomsticks they heard raucous shouting. 

“ — and stay out!” shouted Madam Rosmerta, forcibly 
ejecting a grubby-looking wizard. “Oh, hello, Albus ... 
You’re out late ...” 

“Good evening, Rosmerta, good evening ... forgive me, 
I’m off to the Hog’s Head. ... No offense, but I feel like 
a quieter atmosphere tonight. ...” 

A minute later they turned the corner into the side 
street where the Hog’s Head’s sign creaked a little, 
though there was no breeze. In contrast to the Three 
Broomsticks, the pub appeared to be completely 
empty. 

“It will not be necessary for us to enter,” muttered 
Dumbledore, glancing around. “As long as nobody 
sees us go ... now place your hand upon my arm, 
Harry. There is no need to grip too hard, I am merely 
guiding you. On the count of three ... One ... two ... 
three ...” 

Harry turned. At once, there was that horrible 
sensation that he was being squeezed through a thick 
rubber tube; he could not draw breath, every part of 
him was being compressed almost past endurance 

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and then, just when he thought he must suffocate, 
the invisible bands seemed to burst open, and he was 
standing in cool darkness, breathing in lungfuls of 
fresh, salty air. 



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THE CAVE 

Harry could smell salt and hear rushing waves; a 
light, chilly breeze ruffled his hair as he looked out at 
moonlit sea and star-strewn sky. He was standing 
upon a high outcrop of dark rock, water foaming and 
churning below him. He glanced over his shoulder. A 
towering cliff stood behind them, a sheer drop, black 
and faceless. A few large chunks of rock, such as the 
one upon which Harry and Dumbledore were 
standing, looked as though they had broken away 
from the cliff face at some point in the past. It was a 
bleak, harsh view, the sea and the rock unrelieved by 
any tree or sweep of grass or sand. 

“What do you think?” asked Dumbledore. He might 
have been asking Harry’s opinion on whether it was a 
good site for a picnic. 

“They brought the kids from the orphanage here?” 
asked Harry, who could not imagine a less cozy spot 
for a day trip. 



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“Not here, precisely,” said Dumbledore. “There is a 
village of sorts about halfway along the cliffs behind 
us. I believe the orphans were taken there for a little 
sea air and a view of the waves. No, I think it was only 
ever Tom Riddle and his youthful victims who visited 
this spot. No Muggle could reach this rock unless 
they were uncommonly good mountaineers, and boats 
cannot approach the cliffs, the waters around them 
are too dangerous. I imagine that Riddle climbed 
down; magic would have served better than ropes. 

And he brought two small children with him, 
probably for the pleasure of terrorizing them. I think 
the journey alone would have done it, don’t you?” 

Harry looked up at the cliff again and felt goose 
bumps. 

“But his final destination — and ours — lies a little 
farther on. Come.” 

Dumbledore beckoned Harry to the very edge of the 
rock where a series of jagged niches made footholds 
leading down to boulders that lay half-submerged in 
water and closer to the cliff. It was a treacherous 
descent and Dumbledore, hampered slightly by his 
withered hand, moved slowly. The lower rocks were 
slippery with seawater. Harry could feel flecks of cold 
salt spray hitting his face. 

“Lumos,” said Dumbledore, as he reached the boulder 
closest to the cliff face. A thousand flecks of golden 
light sparkled upon the dark surface of the water a 
few feet below where he crouched; the black wall of 
rock beside him was illuminated too. 

“You see?” said Dumbledore quietly, holding his wand 
a little higher. Harry saw a fissure in the cliff into 
which dark water was swirling. 



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“You will not object to getting a little wet?” 

“No,” said Harry. 

“Then take off your Invisibility Cloak — there is no 
need for it now — and let us take the plunge.” 

And with the sudden agility of a much younger man, 
Dumbledore slid from the boulder, landed in the sea, 
and began to swim, with a perfect breaststroke, 
toward the dark slit in the rock face, his lit wand held 
in his teeth. Harry pulled off his cloak, stuffed it into 
his pocket, and followed. 

The water was icy; Harry’s waterlogged clothes 
billowed around him and weighed him down. Taking 
deep breaths that filled his nostrils with the tang of 
salt and seaweed, he struck out for the shimmering, 
shrinking light now moving deeper into the cliff. 

The fissure soon opened into a dark tunnel that Harry 
could tell would be filled with water at high tide. The 
slimy walls were barely three feet apart and 
glimmered like wet tar in the passing light of 
Dumbledore ’s wand. A little way in, the passageway 
curved to the left, and Harry saw that it extended far 
into the cliff. He continued to swim in Dumbledore ’s 
wake, the tips of his benumbed fingers brushing the 
rough, wet rock. 

Then he saw Dumbledore rising out of the water 
ahead, his silver hair and dark robes gleaming. When 
Harry reached the spot he found steps that led into a 
large cave. He clambered up them, water streaming 
from his soaking clothes, and emerged, shivering 
uncontrollably, into the still and freezing air. 



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Dumbledore was standing in the middle of the cave, 
his wand held high as he turned slowly on the spot, 
examining the walls and ceiling. 

“Yes, this is the place,” said Dumbledore. 

“How can you tell?” Harry spoke in a whisper. 

“It has known magic,” said Dumbledore simply. 

Harry could not tell whether the shivers he was 
experiencing were due to his spine-deep coldness or 
to the same awareness of enchantments. He watched 
as Dumbledore continued to revolve on the spot, 
evidently concentrating on things Harry could not see. 

“This is merely the antechamber, the entrance hall,” 
said Dumbledore after a moment or two. “We need to 
penetrate the inner place. ... Now it is Lord 
Voldemort’s obstacles that stand in our way, rather 
than those nature made. ...” 

Dumbledore approached the wall of the cave and 
caressed it with his blackened fingertips, murmuring 
words in a strange tongue that Harry did not 
understand. Twice Dumbledore walked right around 
the cave, touching as much of the rough rock as he 
could, occasionally pausing, running his fingers 
backward and forward over a particular spot, until 
finally he stopped, his hand pressed flat against the 
wall. 

“Here,” he said. “We go on through here. The entrance 
is concealed.” 

Harry did not ask how Dumbledore knew. He had 
never seen a wizard work things out like this, simply 
by looking and touching; but Harry had long since 



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learned that bangs and smoke were more often the 
marks of ineptitude than expertise. 

Dumbledore stepped back from the cave wall and 
pointed his wand at the rock. For a moment, an 
arched outline appeared there, blazing white as 
though there was a powerful light behind the crack. 

“You’ve d-done it!” said Harry through chattering 
teeth, but before the words had left his lips the 
outline had gone, leaving the rock as bare and solid 
as ever. Dumbledore looked around. 

“Harry, I’m so sorry, I forgot,” he said; he now pointed 
his wand at Harry and at once, Harry’s clothes were 
as warm and dry as if they had been hanging in front 
of a blazing fire. 

“Thank you,” said Harry gratefully, but Dumbledore 
had already turned his attention back to the solid 
cave wall. He did not try any more magic, but simply 
stood there staring at it intently, as though something 
extremely interesting was written on it. Harry stayed 
quite still; he did not want to break Dumbledore’s 
concentration. Then, after two solid minutes, 
Dumbledore said quietly, “Oh, surely not. So crude.” 

“What is it, Professor?” 

“I rather think,” said Dumbledore, putting his 
uninjured hand inside his robes and drawing out a 
short silver knife of the kind Harry used to chop 
potion ingredients, “that we are required to make 
payment to pass.” 

“Payment?” said Harry. “You’ve got to give the door 
something?” 



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“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Blood, if I am not much 
mistaken.” 

“Blood?” 

“I said it was crude,” said Dumbledore, who sounded 
disdainful, even disappointed, as though Voldemort 
had fallen short of the standards Dumbledore 
expected. “The idea, as I am sure you will have 
gathered, is that your enemy must weaken him- or 
herself to enter. Once again, Lord Voldemort fails to 
grasp that there are much more terrible things than 
physical injury.” 

“Yeah, but still, if you can avoid it ...” said Harry, who 
had experienced enough pain not to be keen for more. 

“Sometimes, however, it is unavoidable,” said 
Dumbledore, shaking back the sleeve of his robes and 
exposing the forearm of his injured hand. 

“Professor!” protested Harry, hurrying forward as 
Dumbledore raised his knife. “Ill do it, I’m — ” 

He did not know what he was going to say — younger, 
fitter? But Dumbledore merely smiled. There was a 
flash of silver, and a spurt of scarlet; the rock face 
was peppered with dark, glistening drops. 

“You are very kind, Harry,” said Dumbledore, now 
passing the tip of his wand over the deep cut he had 
made in his own arm, so that it healed instantly, just 
as Snape had healed Malfoy’s wounds. “But your 
blood is worth more than mine. Ah, that seems to 
have done the trick, doesn’t it?” 

The blazing silver outline of an arch had appeared in 
the wall once more, and this time it did not fade 
away: The blood-spattered rock within it simply 

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vanished, leaving an opening into what seemed total 
darkness. 

“After me, I think,” said Dumbledore, and he walked 
through the archway with Harry on his heels, lighting 
his own wand hastily as he went. 

An eerie sight met their eyes: They were standing on 
the edge of a great black lake, so vast that Harry 
could not make out the distant banks, in a cavern so 
high that the ceiling too was out of sight. A misty 
greenish light shone far away in what looked like the 
middle of the lake; it was reflected in the completely 
still water below. The greenish glow and the light from 
the two wands were the only things that broke the 
otherwise velvety blackness, though their rays did not 
penetrate as far as Harry would have expected. The 
darkness was somehow denser than normal 
darkness. 

“Let us walk,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Be very 
careful not to step into the water. Stay close to me.” 

He set off around the edge of the lake, and Harry 
followed close behind him. Their footsteps made 
echoing, slapping sounds on the narrow rim of rock 
that surrounded the water. On and on they walked, 
but the view did not vary: on one side of them, the 
rough cavern wall, on the other, the boundless 
expanse of smooth, glassy blackness, in the very 
middle of which was that mysterious greenish glow. 
Harry found the place and the silence oppressive, 
unnerving. 

“Professor?” he said finally. “Do you think the 
Horcrux is here?” 

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore. “Yes, I’m sure it is. The 
question is, how do we get to it?” 

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“We couldn’t ... we couldn’t just try a Summoning 
Charm?” Harry said, sure that it was a stupid 
suggestion. But he was much keener than he was 
prepared to admit on getting out of this place as soon 
as possible. 

“Certainly we could,” said Dumbledore, stopping so 
suddenly that Harry almost walked into him. “Why 
don’t you do it?” 

“Me? Oh ... okay ...” 

Harry had not expected this, but cleared his throat 
and said loudly, wand aloft, “Accio Horcruxl” 

With a noise like an explosion, something very large 
and pale erupted out of the dark water some twenty 
feet away; before Harry could see what it was, it had 
vanished again with a crashing splash that made 
great, deep ripples on the mirrored surface. Harry 
leapt backward in shock and hit the wall; his heart 
was still thundering as he turned to Dumbledore. 

“What was that?” 

“Something, I think, that is ready to respond should 
we attempt to seize the Horcrux.” 

Harry looked back at the water. The surface of the 
lake was once more shining black glass: The ripples 
had vanished unnaturally fast; Harry’s heart, 
however, was still pounding. 

“Did you think that would happen, sir?” 

“I thought something would happen if we made an 
obvious attempt to get our hands on the Horcrux. 

That was a very good idea, Harry; much the simplest 
way of finding out what we are facing.” 

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“But we don’t know what the thing was,” said Harry, 
looking at the sinisterly smooth water. 



“What the things are, you mean,” said Dumbledore. “I 
doubt very much that there is only one of them. Shall 
we walk on?” 

“Professor?” 

“Yes, Harry?” 

“Do you think we’re going to have to go into the lake?” 

“Into it? Only if we are very unfortunate.” 

“You don’t think the Horcrux is at the bottom?” 

“Oh no ... I think the Horcrux is in the middle.” 

And Dumbledore pointed toward the misty green light 
in the center of the lake. 

“So we’re going to have to cross the lake to get to it?” 
“Yes, I think so.” 

Harry did not say anything. His thoughts were all of 
water monsters, of giant serpents, of demons, kelpies, 
and sprites. ... 

“Aha,” said Dumbledore, and he stopped again; this 
time, Harry really did walk into him; for a moment he 
toppled on the edge of the dark water, and 
Dumbledore’s uninjured hand closed tightly around 
his upper arm, pulling him back. “So sorry, Harry, I 
should have given warning. Stand back against the 
wall, please; I think I have found the place.” 



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Harry had no idea what Dumbledore meant; this 
patch of dark bank was exactly like every other bit as 
far as he could tell, but Dumbledore seemed to have 
detected something special about it. This time he was 
running his hand, not over the rocky wall, but 
through the thin air, as though expecting to find and 
grip something invisible. 

“Oho,” said Dumbledore happily, seconds later. His 
hand had closed in midair upon something Harry 
could not see. Dumbledore moved closer to the water; 
Harry watched nervously as the tips of Dumbledore ’s 
buckled shoes found the utmost edge of the rock rim. 
Keeping his hand clenched in midair, Dumbledore 
raised his wand with the other and tapped his fist 
with the point. 

Immediately a thick coppery green chain appeared 
out of thin air, extending from the depths of the water 
into Dumbledore ’s clenched hand. Dumbledore 
tapped the chain, which began to slide through his 
fist like a snake, coiling itself on the ground with a 
clinking sound that echoed noisily off the rocky walls, 
pulling something from the depths of the black water. 
Harry gasped as the ghostly prow of a tiny boat broke 
the surface, glowing as green as the chain, and 
floated, with barely a ripple, toward the place on the 
bank where Harry and Dumbledore stood. 

“How did you know that was there?” Harry asked in 
astonishment. 

“Magic always leaves traces,” said Dumbledore, as the 
boat hit the bank with a gentle bump, “sometimes 
very distinctive traces. I taught Tom Riddle. I know 
his style.” 

“Is ... is this boat safe?” 



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“Oh yes, I think so. Voldemort needed to create a 
means to cross the lake without attracting the wrath 
of those creatures he had placed within it in case he 
ever wanted to visit or remove his Horcrux.” 

“So the things in the water won’t do anything to us if 
we cross in Voldemort’s boat?” 

“I think we must resign ourselves to the fact that they 
will, at some point, realize we are not Lord Voldemort. 
Thus far, however, we have done well. They have 
allowed us to raise the boat.” 

“But why have they let us?” asked Harry, who could 
not shake off the vision of tentacles rising out of the 
dark water the moment they were out of sight of the 
bank. 

“Voldemort would have been reasonably confident 
that none but a very great wizard would have been 
able to find the boat,” said Dumbledore. “I think he 
would have been prepared to risk what was, to his 
mind, the most unlikely possibility that somebody 
else would find it, knowing that he had set other 
obstacles ahead that only he would be able to 
penetrate. We shall see whether he is right.” 

Harry looked down into the boat. It really was very 
small. 

“It doesn’t look like it was built for two people. Will it 
hold both of us? Will we be too heavy together?” 

Dumbledore chuckled. 

“Voldemort will not have cared about the weight, but 
about the amount of magical power that crossed his 
lake. I rather think an enchantment will have been 



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placed upon this boat so that only one wizard at a 
time will be able to sail in it.” 



“But then — ?” 

“I do not think you will count, Harry: You are 
underage and unqualified. Voldemort would never 
have expected a sixteen-year-old to reach this place: I 
think it unlikely that your powers will register 
compared to mine.” 

These words did nothing to raise Harry’s morale; 
perhaps Dumbledore knew it, for he added, 
“Voldemort’s mistake, Harry, Voldemort’s mistake ... 
Age is foolish and forgetful when it underestimates 
youth. ... Now, you first this time, and be careful not 
to touch the water.” 

Dumbledore stood aside and Harry climbed carefully 
into the boat. Dumbledore stepped in too, coiling the 
chain onto the floor. They were crammed in together; 
Harry could not comfortably sit, but crouched, his 
knees jutting over the edge of the boat, which began 
to move at once. There was no sound other than the 
silken rustle of the boat’s prow cleaving the water; it 
moved without their help, as though an invisible rope 
was pulling it onward toward the light in the center. 
Soon they could no longer see the walls of the cavern; 
they might have been at sea except that there were no 
waves. 

Harry looked down and saw the reflected gold of his 
wandlight sparkling and glittering on the black water 
as they passed. The boat was carving deep ripples 
upon the glassy surface, grooves in the dark mirror. 



And then Harry saw it, marble white, floating inches 
below the surface. 

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“Professor!” he said, and his startled voice echoed 
loudly over the silent water. 



“Harry?” 

“I think I saw a hand in the water — a human hand!” 

“Yes, I am sure you did,” said Dumbledore calmly. 

Harry stared down into the water, looking for the 
vanished hand, and a sick feeling rose in his throat. 

“So that thing that jumped out of the water — ?” 

But Harry had his answer before Dumbledore could 
reply; the wandlight had slid over a fresh patch of 
water and showed him, this time, a dead man lying 
faceup inches beneath the surface, his open eyes 
misted as though with cobwebs, his hair and his 
robes swirling around him like smoke. 

“There are bodies in here!” said Harry, and his voice 
sounded much higher than usual and most unlike his 
own. 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore placidly, “but we do not need 
to worry about them at the moment.” 

“At the moment?” Harry repeated, tearing his gaze 
from the water to look at Dumbledore. 

“Not while they are merely drifting peacefully below 
us,” said Dumbledore. “There is nothing to be feared 
from a body, Harry, any more than there is anything 
to be feared from the darkness. Lord Voldemort, who 
of course secretly fears both, disagrees. But once 
again he reveals his own lack of wisdom. It is the 
unknown we fear when we look upon death and 
darkness, nothing more.” 

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Harry said nothing; he did not want to argue, but he 
found the idea that there were bodies floating around 
them and beneath them horrible and, what was more, 
he did not believe that they were not dangerous. 

“But one of them jumped,” he said, trying to make his 
voice as level and calm as Dumbledore ’s. “When I 
tried to Summon the Horcrux, a body leapt out of the 
lake.” 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I am sure that once we take 
the Horcrux, we shall find them less peaceable. 
However, like many creatures that dwell in cold and 
darkness, they fear light and warmth, which we shall 
therefore call to our aid should the need arise. Fire, 
Harry,” Dumbledore added with a smile, in response 
to Harry’s bewildered expression. 

“Oh ... right ...” said Harry quickly. He turned his 
head to look at the greenish glow toward which the 
boat was still inexorably sailing. He could not pretend 
now that he was not scared. The great black lake, 
teeming with the dead ... It seemed hours and hours 
ago that he had met Professor Trelawney, that he had 
given Ron and Hermione Felix Felicis. ... He suddenly 
wished he had said a better good-bye to them . . . and 
he hadn’t seen Ginny at all. ... 

“Nearly there,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. 

Sure enough, the greenish light seemed to be growing 
larger at last, and within minutes, the boat had come 
to a halt, bumping gently into something that Harry 
could not see at first, but when he raised his 
illuminated wand he saw that they had reached a 
small island of smooth rock in the center of the lake. 



“Careful not to touch the water,” said Dumbledore 
again as Harry climbed out of the boat. 

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The island was no larger than Dumbledore ’s office, an 
expanse of flat dark stone on which stood nothing but 
the source of that greenish light, which looked much 
brighter when viewed close to. Harry squinted at it; at 
first, he thought it was a lamp of some kind, but then 
he saw that the light was coming from a stone basin 
rather like the Pensieve, which was set on top of a 
pedestal. 

Dumbledore approached the basin and Harry 
followed. Side by side, they looked down into it. The 
basin was full of an emerald liquid emitting that 
phosphorescent glow. 

“What is it?” asked Harry quietly. 

“I am not sure,” said Dumbledore. “Something more 
worrisome than blood and bodies, however.” 

Dumbledore pushed back the sleeve of his robe over 
his blackened hand, and stretched out the tips of his 
burned fingers toward the surface of the potion. 

“Sir, no, don’t touch — !” 

“I cannot touch,” said Dumbledore, smiling faintly. 
“See? I cannot approach any nearer than this. You 
try.” 

Staring, Harry put his hand into the basin and 
attempted to touch the potion. He met an invisible 
barrier that prevented him coming within an inch of 
it. No matter how hard he pushed, his fingers 
encountered nothing but what seemed to be solid and 
inflexible air. 

“Out of the way, please, Harry,” said Dumbledore. He 
raised his wand and made complicated movements 
over the surface of the potion, murmuring 

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soundlessly. Nothing happened, except perhaps that 
the potion glowed a little brighter. Harry remained 
silent while Dumbledore worked, but after a while 
Dumbledore withdrew his wand, and Harry felt it was 
safe to talk again. 

“You think the Horcrux is in there, sir?” 

“Oh yes.” Dumbledore peered more closely into the 
basin. Harry saw his face reflected, upside down, in 
the smooth surface of the green potion. “But how to 
reach it? This potion cannot be penetrated by hand, 
Vanished, parted, scooped up, or siphoned away, nor 
can it be Transfigured, Charmed, or otherwise made 
to change its nature.” 

Almost absentmindedly, Dumbledore raised his wand 
again, twirled it once in midair, and then caught the 
crystal goblet that he had conjured out of nowhere. 

“I can only conclude that this potion is supposed to 
be drunk.” 

“What?” said Harry. “No!” 

“Yes, I think so: Only by drinking it can I empty the 
basin and see what lies in its depths.” 

“But what if — what if it kills you?” 

“Oh, I doubt that it would work like that,” said 
Dumbledore easily. “Lord Voldemort would not want 
to kill the person who reached this island.” 

Harry couldn’t believe it. Was this more of 
Dumbledore ’s insane determination to see good in 
everyone? 



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“Sir,” said Harry, trying to keep his voice reasonable, 
“sir, this is Voldemort we’re — ” 

“I’m sorry, Harry; I should have said, he would not 
want to immediately kill the person who reached this 
island,” Dumbledore corrected himself. “He would 
want to keep them alive long enough to find out how 
they managed to penetrate so far through his 
defenses and, most importantly of all, why they were 
so intent upon emptying the basin. Do not forget that 
Lord Voldemort believes that he alone knows about 
his Horcruxes.” 

Harry made to speak again, but this time Dumbledore 
raised his hand for silence, frowning slightly at the 
emerald liquid, evidently thinking hard. 

“Undoubtedly,” he said, finally, “this potion must act 
in a way that will prevent me taking the Horcrux. It 
might paralyze me, cause me to forget what I am here 
for, create so much pain I am distracted, or render me 
incapable in some other way. This being the case, 
Harry, it will be your job to make sure I keep 
drinking, even if you have to tip the potion into my 
protesting mouth. You understand?” 

Their eyes met over the basin, each pale face lit with 
that strange, green light. Harry did not speak. Was 
this why he had been invited along — so that he 
could force-feed Dumbledore a potion that might 
cause him unendurable pain? 

“You remember,” said Dumbledore, “the condition on 
which I brought you with me?” 

Harry hesitated, looking into the blue eyes that had 
turned green in the reflected light of the basin. 

“But what if — ?” 

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“You swore, did you not, to follow any command I 
gave you?” 

“Yes, but — ” 

“I warned you, did I not, that there might be danger?” 
“Yes,” said Harry, “but — ” 

“Well, then,” said Dumbledore, shaking back his 
sleeves once more and raising the empty goblet, “you 
have my orders.” 

“Why can’t I drink the potion instead?” asked Harry 
desperately. 

“Because I am much older, much cleverer, and much 
less valuable,” said Dumbledore. “Once and for all, 
Harry, do I have your word that you will do all in your 
power to make me keep drinking?” 

“Couldn’t — ?” 

“Do I have it?” 

“But — ” 

“ Your word, Harry.” 

“I — all right, but — ” 

Before Harry could make any further protest, 
Dumbledore lowered the crystal goblet into the 
potion. For a split second, Harry hoped that he would 
not be able to touch the potion with the goblet, but 
the crystal sank into the surface as nothing else had; 
when the glass was full to the brim, Dumbledore lifted 
it to his mouth. 



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“Your good health, Harry.” 

And he drained the goblet. Harry watched, terrified, 
his hands gripping the rim of the basin so hard that 
his fingertips were numb. 

“Professor?” he said anxiously, as Dumbledore 
lowered the empty glass. “How do you feel?” 

Dumbledore shook his head, his eyes closed. Harry 
wondered whether he was in pain. Dumbledore 
plunged the glass blindly back into the basin, refilled 
it, and drank once more. 

In silence, Dumbledore drank three gobletsful of the 
potion. Then, halfway through the fourth goblet, he 
staggered and fell forward against the basin. His eyes 
were still closed, his breathing heavy. 

“Professor Dumbledore?” said Harry, his voice 
strained. “Can you hear me?” 

Dumbledore did not answer. His face was twitching 
as though he was deeply asleep, but dreaming a 
horrible dream. His grip on the goblet was slackening; 
the potion was about to spill from it. Harry reached 
forward and grasped the crystal cup, holding it 
steady. 

“Professor, can you hear me?” he repeated loudly, his 
voice echoing around the cavern. 

Dumbledore panted and then spoke in a voice Harry 
did not recognize, for he had never heard Dumbledore 
frightened like this. 

“I don’t want ... Don’t make me ...” 



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Harry stared into the whitened face he knew so well, 
at the crooked nose and half-moon spectacles, and 
did not know what to do. 

"... don’t like ... want to stop ...” moaned Dumbledore. 

“You ... you can’t stop, Professor,” said Harry. “You’ve 
got to keep drinking, remember? You told me you had 
to keep drinking. Here ...” 

Hating himself, repulsed by what he was doing, Harry 
forced the goblet back toward Dumbledore ’s mouth 
and tipped it, so that Dumbledore drank the 
remainder of the potion inside. 

“No ...” he groaned, as Harry lowered the goblet back 
into the basin and refilled it for him. “I don’t want to. 
...I don’t want to. ... Let me go. ...” 

“It’s all right, Professor,” said Harry, his hand 
shaking. “It’s all right, I’m here — ” 

“Make it stop, make it stop,” moaned Dumbledore. 

“Yes ... yes, this’ll make it stop,” lied Harry. He tipped 
the contents of the goblet into Dumbledore ’s open 
mouth. 

Dumbledore screamed; the noise echoed all around 
the vast chamber, across the dead black water. 

“No, no, no, no, I can’t, I can’t, don’t make me, I don’t 
want to. ...” 

“It’s all right, Professor, it’s all right!” said Harry 
loudly, his hands shaking so badly he could hardly 
scoop up the sixth gobletful of potion; the basin was 
now half empty. “Nothing’s happening to you, you’re 



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safe, it isn’t real, I swear it isn’t real — take this, now, 
take this. ...” 

And obediently, Dumbledore drank, as though it was 
an antidote Harry offered him, but upon draining the 
goblet, he sank to his knees, shaking uncontrollably. 

“It’s all my fault, all my fault,” he sobbed. “Please 
make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it 
stop and I’ll never, never again ...” 

“This will make it stop, Professor,” Harry said, his 
voice cracking as he tipped the seventh glass of 
potion into Dumbledore’s mouth. 

Dumbledore began to cower as though invisible 
torturers surrounded him; his flailing hand almost 
knocked the refilled goblet from Harry’s trembling 
hands as he moaned, “Don’t hurt them, don’t hurt 
them, please, please, it’s my fault, hurt me instead ...” 

“Here, drink this, drink this, you’ll be all right,” said 
Harry desperately, and once again Dumbledore 
obeyed him, opening his mouth even as he kept his 
eyes tight shut and shook from head to foot. 

And now he fell forward, screaming again, hammering 
his fists upon the ground, while Harry filled the ninth 
goblet. 

“Please, please, please, no ... not that, not that, I’ll do 
anything ...” 

“Just drink, Professor, just drink ...” 

Dumbledore drank like a child dying of thirst, but 
when he had finished, he yelled again as though his 
insides were on fire. “No more, please, no more ...” 



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Harry scooped up a tenth gobletful of potion and felt 
the crystal scrape the bottom of the basin. 



“We’re nearly there, Professor. Drink this, drink it. ...” 

He supported Dumbledore’s shoulders and again, 
Dumbledore drained the glass; then Harry was on his 
feet once more, refilling the goblet as Dumbledore 
began to scream in more anguish than ever, “I want 
to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want 
to die!” 

“Drink this, Professor. Drink this. ...” 

Dumbledore drank, and no sooner had he finished 
than he yelled, “KILL ME!” 

“This — this one will!” gasped Harry. “Just drink this 
... It’ll be over ... all over!” 

Dumbledore gulped at the goblet, drained every last 
drop, and then, with a great, rattling gasp, rolled over 
onto his face. 

“No!” shouted Harry, who had stood to refill the goblet 
again; instead he dropped the cup into the basin, 
flung himself down beside Dumbledore, and heaved 
him over onto his back; Dumbledore’s glasses were 
askew, his mouth agape, his eyes closed. “No,” said 
Harry, shaking Dumbledore, “no, you’re not dead, you 
said it wasn’t poison, wake up, wake up — 
Rennervatel” he cried, his wand pointing at 
Dumbledore’s chest; there was a flash of red light but 
nothing happened. “Renneruate — sir — please — ” 

Dumbledore’s eyelids flickered; Harry’s heart leapt. 

“Sir, are you — ?” 

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“Water,” croaked Dumbledore. 

“Water,” panted Harry. “Yes — ” 

He leapt to his feet and seized the goblet he had 
dropped in the basin; he barely registered the golden 
locket lying curled beneath it. 

“Aguamenti\” he shouted, jabbing the goblet with his 
wand. 

The goblet filled with clear water; Harry dropped to 
his knees beside Dumbledore, raised his head, and 
brought the glass to his lips — but it was empty. 
Dumbledore groaned and began to pant. 

“But I had some — wait — AguamentiV’ said Harry 
again, pointing his wand at the goblet. Once more, for 
a second, clear water gleamed within it, but as he 
approached Dumbledore ’s mouth, the water vanished 
again. 

“Sir, I’m trying, I’m trying!” said Harry desperately, 
but he did not think that Dumbledore could hear 
him; he had rolled onto his side and was drawing 
great, rattling breaths that sounded agonizing. 
“Aguamenti — Aguamenti — A GUAMENTP. ” 

The goblet filled and emptied once more. And now 
Dumbledore ’s breathing was fading. His brain 
whirling in panic, Harry knew, instinctively, the only 
way left to get water, because Voldemort had planned 
it so ... 

He flung himself over to the edge of the rock and 
plunged the goblet into the lake, bringing it up full to 
the brim of icy water that did not vanish. 



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“Sir — here!” Harry yelled, and lunging forward, he 
tipped the water clumsily over Dumbledore’s face. 

It was the best he could do, for the icy feeling on his 
arm not holding the cup was not the lingering chill of 
the water. A slimy white hand had gripped his wrist, 
and the creature to whom it belonged was pulling 
him, slowly, backward across the rock. The surface of 
the lake was no longer mirror-smooth; it was 
churning, and everywhere Harry looked, white heads 
and hands were emerging from the dark water, men 
and women and children with sunken, sightless eyes 
were moving toward the rock: an army of the dead 
rising from the black water. 

“Petrificus Totalusl” yelled Harry, struggling to cling to 
the smooth, soaked surface of the island as he 
pointed his wand at the Inferius that had his arm: It 
released him, falling backward into the water with a 
splash; he scrambled to his feet, but many more Inferi 
were already climbing onto the rock, their bony hands 
clawing at its slippery surface, their blank, frosted 
eyes upon him, trailing waterlogged rags, sunken 
faces leering. 

“Petrificus Totalusl” Harry bellowed again, backing 
away as he swiped his wand through the air; six or 
seven of them crumpled, but more were coming 
toward him. “Impedimental Incarcerousl ” 

A few of them stumbled, one or two of them bound in 
ropes, but those climbing onto the rock behind them 
merely stepped over or on the fallen bodies. Still 
slashing at the air with his wand, Harry yelled, 

“ Sectumsempral SECTUMSEMPRAl” 

But though gashes appeared in their sodden rags and 
their icy skin, they had no blood to spill: They walked 
on, unfeeling, their shrunken hands outstretched 

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toward him, and as he backed away still farther, he 
felt arms enclose him from behind, thin, fleshless 
arms cold as death, and his feet left the ground as 
they lifted him and began to carry him, slowly and 
surely, back to the water, and he knew there would 
be no release, that he would be drowned, and become 
one more dead guardian of a fragment of Voldemort’s 
shattered soul. ... 

But then, through the darkness, fire erupted: crimson 
and gold, a ring of fire that surrounded the rock so 
that the Inferi holding Harry so tightly stumbled and 
faltered; they did not dare pass through the flames to 
get to the water. They dropped Harry; he hit the 
ground, slipped on the rock, and fell, grazing his 
arms, but scrambled back up, raising his wand and 
staring around. 

Dumbledore was on his feet again, pale as any of the 
surrounding Inferi, but taller than any too, the fire 
dancing in his eyes; his wand was raised like a torch 
and from its tip emanated the flames, like a vast 
lasso, encircling them all with warmth. 

The Inferi bumped into each other, attempting, 
blindly, to escape the fire in which they were 
enclosed. ... 

Dumbledore scooped the locket from the bottom of 
the stone basin and stowed it inside his robes. 
Wordlessly, he gestured to Harry to come to his side. 
Distracted by the flames, the Inferi seemed unaware 
that their quarry was leaving as Dumbledore led 
Harry back to the boat, the ring of fire moving with 
them, around them, the bewildered Inferi 
accompanying them to the water’s edge, where they 
slipped gratefully back into their dark waters. 



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Harry, who was shaking all over, thought for a 
moment that Dumbledore might not be able to climb 
into the boat; he staggered a little as he attempted it; 
all his efforts seemed to be going into maintaining the 
ring of protective flame around them. Harry seized 
him and helped him back to his seat. Once they were 
both safely jammed inside again, the boat began to 
move back across the black water, away from the 
rock, still encircled by that ring of fire, and it seemed 
that the Inferi swarming below them did not dare 
resurface. 

“Sir,” panted Harry, “sir, I forgot — about fire — they 
were coming at me and I panicked — ” 

“Quite understandable,” murmured Dumbledore. 
Harry was alarmed to hear how faint his voice was. 

They reached the bank with a little bump and Harry 
leapt out, then turned quickly to help Dumbledore. 
The moment that Dumbledore reached the bank he 
let his wand hand fall; the ring of fire vanished, but 
the Inferi did not emerge again from the water. The 
little boat sank into the water once more; clanking 
and tinkling, its chain slithered back into the lake 
too. Dumbledore gave a great sigh and leaned against 
the cavern wall. 

“I am weak. ...” he said. 

“Don’t worry, sir,” said Harry at once, anxious about 
Dumbledore ’s extreme pallor and by his air of 
exhaustion. “Don’t worry, I’ll get us back. ... Lean on 
me, sir. ...” 

And pulling Dumbledore ’s uninjured arm around his 
shoulders, Harry guided his headmaster back around 
the lake, bearing most of his weight. 



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“The protection was ... after all ... well-designed,” said 
Dumbledore faintly. “One alone could not have done 
it. ... You did well, very well, Harry. ...” 

“Don’t talk now,” said Harry, fearing how slurred 
Dumbledore’s voice had become, how much his feet 
dragged. “Save your energy, sir. ... We’ll soon be out 
of here. ...” 

“The archway will have sealed again. ... My knife ...” 

“There’s no need, I got cut on the rock,” said Harry 
firmly. “Just tell me where. ...” 

“Here ...” 

Harry wiped his grazed forearm upon the stone: 
Having received its tribute of blood, the archway 
reopened instantly. They crossed the outer cave, and 
Harry helped Dumbledore back into the icy seawater 
that filled the crevice in the cliff. 

“It’s going to be all right, sir,” Harry said over and 
over again, more worried by Dumbledore’s silence 
than he had been by his weakened voice. “We’re 
nearly there. ... I can Apparate us both back. ... Don’t 
worry. ...” 

“I am not worried, Harry,” said Dumbledore, his voice 
a little stronger despite the freezing water. “I am with 
you.” 



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THE LIGHTNING-STRUCK TOWER 

Once back under the starry sky, Harry heaved 
Dumbledore onto the top of the nearest boulder and 
then to his feet. Sodden and shivering, Dumbledore’s 
weight still upon him, Harry concentrated harder 
than he had ever done upon his destination: 
Hogsmeade. Closing his eyes, gripping Dumbledore’s 
arm as tightly as he could, he stepped forward into 
that feeling of horrible compression. 

He knew it had worked before he opened his eyes: The 
smell of salt, the sea breeze had gone. He and 
Dumbledore were shivering and dripping in the 
middle of the dark High Street in Hogsmeade. For one 
horrible moment Harry’s imagination showed him 
more Inferi creeping toward him around the sides of 
shops, but he blinked and saw that nothing was 
stirring; all was still, the darkness complete but for a 
few streetlamps and lit upper windows. 



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“We did it, Professor!” Harry whispered with difficulty; 
he suddenly realized that he had a searing stitch in 
his chest. “We did it! We got the Horcrux!” 

Dumbledore staggered against him. For a moment, 
Harry thought that his inexpert Apparition had 
thrown Dumbledore off balance; then he saw his face, 
paler and damper than ever in the distant light of a 
streetlamp. 

“Sir, are you all right?” 

“I’ve been better,” said Dumbledore weakly, though 
the corners of his mouth twitched. “That potion ... 
was no health drink. ...” 

And to Harry’s horror, Dumbledore sank onto the 
ground. 

“Sir — it’s okay, sir, you’re going to be all right, don’t 
worry — ” 

He looked around desperately for help, but there was 
nobody to be seen and all he could think was that he 
must somehow get Dumbledore quickly to the 
hospital wing. 

“We need to get you up to the school, sir. ... Madam 
Pomfrey ...” 

“No,” said Dumbledore. “It is ... Professor Snape 
whom I need. ... But I do not think ... I can walk very 
far just yet. ...” 

“Right — sir, listen — I’m going to knock on a door, 
find a place you can stay — then I can run and get 
Madam — ” 



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“Severus,” said Dumbledore clearly. “I need Severus. 



“All right then, Snape — but I’m going to have to leave 
you for a moment so I can — ” 

Before Harry could make a move, however, he heard 
running footsteps. His heart leapt: Somebody had 
seen, somebody knew they needed help — and 
looking around he saw Madam Rosmerta scurrying 
down the dark street toward them on high-heeled, 
fluffy slippers, wearing a silk dressing gown 
embroidered with dragons. 

“I saw you Apparate as I was pulling my bedroom 
curtains! Thank goodness, thank goodness, I couldn’t 
think what to — but what’s wrong with Albus?” 

She came to a halt, panting, and stared down, wide- 
eyed, at Dumbledore. 

“He’s hurt,” said Harry. “Madam Rosmerta, can he 
come into the Three Broomsticks while I go up to the 
school and get help for him?” 

“You can’t go up there alone! Don’t you realize — 
haven’t you seen — ? 

“If you help me support him,” said Harry, not 
listening to her, “I think we can get him inside — ” 

“What has happened?” asked Dumbledore. 

“Rosmerta, what’s wrong?” 

“The — the Dark Mark, Albus.” 

And she pointed into the sky, in the direction of 
Hogwarts. Dread flooded Harry at the sound of the 
words. ... He turned and looked. 

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There it was, hanging in the sky above the school: the 
blazing green skull with a serpent tongue, the mark 
Death Eaters left behind whenever they had entered a 
building ... wherever they had murdered. ... 

“When did it appear?” asked Dumbledore, and his 
hand clenched painfully upon Harry’s shoulder as he 
struggled to his feet. 

“Must have been minutes ago, it wasn’t there when I 
put the cat out, but when I got upstairs — ” 

“We need to return to the castle at once,” said 
Dumbledore. “Rosmerta” — and though he staggered 
a little, he seemed wholly in command of the situation 
— “we need transport — brooms — ” 

“I’ve got a couple behind the bar,” she said, looking 
very frightened. “Shall I run and fetch — ?” 

“No, Harry can do it.” 

Harry raised his wand at once. 

“Accio Rosmerta’s Broomsl” 

A second later they heard a loud bang as the front 
door of the pub burst open; two brooms had shot out 
into the street and were racing each other to Harry’s 
side, where they stopped dead, quivering slightly at 
waist height. 

“Rosmerta, please send a message to the Ministry,” 
said Dumbledore, as he mounted the broom nearest 
him. “It might be that nobody within Hogwarts has 
yet realized anything is wrong. . . . Harry, put on your 
Invisibility Cloak.” 



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Harry pulled his Cloak out of his pocket and threw it 
over himself before mounting his broom: Madam 
Rosmerta was already tottering back toward her pub 
as Harry and Dumbledore kicked off from the ground 
and rose up into the air. As they sped toward the 
castle, Harry glanced sideways at Dumbledore, ready 
to grab him should he fall, but the sight of the Dark 
Mark seemed to have acted upon Dumbledore like a 
stimulant: He was bent low over his broom, his eyes 
fixed upon the Mark, his long silver hair and beard 
flying behind him on the night air. And Harry too 
looked ahead at the skull, and fear swelled inside him 
like a venomous bubble, compressing his lungs, 
driving all other discomfort from his mind. ... 

How long had they been away? Had Ron, Hermione, 
and Ginny’s luck run out by now? Was it one of them 
who had caused the Mark to be set over the school, or 
was it Neville, or Luna, or some other member of the 
D.A.? And if it was ... he was the one who had told 
them to patrol the corridors, he had asked them to 
leave the safety of their beds. ... Would he be 
responsible, again, for the death of a friend? 

As they flew over the dark, twisting lane down which 
they had walked earlier, Harry heard, over the 
whistling of the night air in his ears, Dumbledore 
muttering in some strange language again. He 
thought he understood why as he felt his broom 
shudder when they flew over the boundary wall into 
the grounds: Dumbledore was undoing the 
enchantments he himself had set around the castle 
so they could enter at speed. The Dark Mark was 
glittering directly above the Astronomy Tower, the 
highest of the castle. Did that mean the death had 
occurred there? 



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Dumbledore had already crossed the crenellated 
ramparts and was dismounting; Harry landed next to 
him seconds later and looked around. 

The ramparts were deserted. The door to the spiral 
staircase that led back into the castle was closed. 
There was no sign of a struggle, of a fight to the 
death, of a body. 

“What does it mean?” Harry asked Dumbledore, 
looking up at the green skull with its serpent’s tongue 
glinting evilly above them. “Is it the real Mark? Has 
someone definitely been — Professor?” 

In the dim green glow from the Mark, Harry saw 
Dumbledore clutching at his chest with his blackened 
hand. 

“Go and wake Severus,” said Dumbledore faintly but 
clearly. “Tell him what has happened and bring him 
to me. Do nothing else, speak to nobody else, and do 
not remove your cloak. I shall wait here.” 

“But — ” 

“You swore to obey me, Harry — go!” 

Harry hurried over to the door leading to the spiral 
staircase, but his hand had only just closed upon the 
iron ring of the door when he heard running footsteps 
on the other side. He looked around at Dumbledore, 
who gestured him to retreat. Harry backed away, 
drawing his wand as he did so. 

The door burst open and somebody erupted through 
it and shouted, “Expelliarmus\” 

Harry’s body became instantly rigid and immobile, 
and he felt himself fall back against the tower wall, 

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propped like an unsteady statue, unable to move or 
speak. He could not understand how it had happened 
— Expelliarmus was not a Freezing Charm — 

Then, by the light of the Mark, he saw Dumbledore ’s 
wand flying in an arc over the edge of the ramparts 
and understood. ... Dumbledore had wordlessly 
immobilized Harry, and the second he had taken to 
perform the spell had cost him the chance of 
defending himself. 

Standing against the ramparts, very white in the face, 
Dumbledore still showed no sign of panic or distress. 
He merely looked across at his disarmer and said, 
“Good evening, Draco.” 

Malfoy stepped forward, glancing around quickly to 
check that he and Dumbledore were alone. His eyes 
fell upon the second broom. 

“Who else is here?” 

“A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?” 

Harry saw Malfoy’s pale eyes shift back to 
Dumbledore in the greenish glare of the Mark. 

“No,” he said. “I’ve got backup. There are Death 
Eaters here in your school tonight.” 

“Well, well,” said Dumbledore, as though Malfoy was 
showing him an ambitious homework project. “Very 
good indeed. You found a way to let them in, did 
you?” 

“Yeah,” said Malfoy, who was panting. “Right under 
your nose and you never realized!” 



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“Ingenious,” said Dumbledore. “Yet ... forgive me ... 
where are they now? You seem unsupported.” 

“They met some of your guards. They’re having a fight 
down below. They won’t be long. ... I came on ahead. I 
— I’ve got a job to do.” 

“Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy,” 
said Dumbledore softly. 

There was silence. Harry stood imprisoned within his 
own invisible, paralyzed body, staring at the two of 
them, his ears straining to hear sounds of the Death 
Eaters’ distant fight, and in front of him, Draco 
Malfoy did nothing but stare at Albus Dumbledore, 
who, incredibly, smiled. 

“Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.” 

“How do you know?” said Malfoy at once. 

He seemed to realize how childish the words had 
sounded; Harry saw him flush in the Mark’s greenish 
light. 

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” said Malfoy 
more forcefully. “You don’t know what I’ve done!” 

“Oh yes, I do,” said Dumbledore mildly. “You almost 
killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley. You have been 
trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year. 
Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble 
attempts. ... So feeble, to be honest, that I wonder 
whether your heart has been really in it.” 

“It has been in it!” said Malfoy vehemently. “I’ve been 
working on it all year, and tonight — ” 



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Somewhere in the depths of the castle below Harry 
heard a muffled yell. Malfoy stiffened and glanced 
over his shoulder. 

“Somebody is putting up a good fight,” said 
Dumbledore conversationally. “But you were saying ... 
yes, you have managed to introduce Death Eaters 
into my school, which, I admit, I thought impossible. 

. . . How did you do it?” 

But Malfoy said nothing: He was still listening to 
whatever was happening below and seemed almost as 
paralyzed as Harry was. 

“Perhaps you ought to get on with the job alone,” 
suggested Dumbledore. “What if your backup has 
been thwarted by my guard? As you have perhaps 
realized, there are members of the Order of the 
Phoenix here tonight too. And after all, you don’t 
really need help. ... I have no wand at the moment. ... 

I cannot defend myself.” 

Malfoy merely stared at him. 

“I see,” said Dumbledore kindly, when Malfoy neither 
moved nor spoke. “You are afraid to act until they join 
you.” 

“I’m not afraid!” snarled Malfoy, though he still made 
no move to hurt Dumbledore. “It’s you who should be 
scared!” 

“But why? I don’t think you will kill me, Draco. Killing 
is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe. ... So tell 
me, while we wait for your friends ... how did you 
smuggle them in here? It seems to have taken you a 
long time to work out how to do it.” 



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Malfoy looked as though he was fighting down the 
urge to shout, or to vomit. He gulped and took several 
deep breaths, glaring at Dumbledore, his wand 
pointing directly at the latter’s heart. Then, as though 
he could not help himself, he said, “I had to mend 
that broken Vanishing Cabinet that no one’s used for 
years. The one Montague got lost in last year.” 

“Aaaah.” Dumbledore’s sigh was half a groan. He 
closed his eyes for a moment. “That was clever. ... 
There is a pair, I take it?” 

“In Borgin and Burkes,” said Malfoy, “and they make 
a kind of passage between them. Montague told me 
that when he was stuck in the Hogwarts one, he was 
trapped in limbo but sometimes he could hear what 
was going on at school, and sometimes what was 
going on in the shop, as if the cabinet was traveling 
between them, but he couldn’t make anyone hear 
him. ... In the end, he managed to Apparate out, even 
though he’d never passed his test. He nearly died 
doing it. Everyone thought it was a really good story, 
but I was the only one who realized what it meant — 
even Borgin didn’t know — I was the one who realized 
there could be a way into Hogwarts through the 
cabinets if I fixed the broken one.” 

“Very good,” murmured Dumbledore. “So the Death 
Eaters were able to pass from Borgin and Burkes into 
the school to help you. ... A clever plan, a very clever 
plan ... and, as you say, right under my nose.” 

“Yeah,” said Malfoy, who bizarrely seemed to draw 
courage and comfort from Dumbledore’s praise. 

“Yeah, it was!” 

“But there were times,” Dumbledore went on, “weren’t 
there, when you were not sure you would succeed in 
mending the cabinet? And you resorted to crude and 

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badly judged measures such as sending me a cursed 
necklace that was bound to reach the wrong hands . . 
poisoning mead there was only the slightest chance I 
might drink. ...” 

“Yeah, well, you still didn’t realize who was behind 
that stuff, did you?” sneered Malfoy, as Dumbledore 
slid a little down the ramparts, the strength in his 
legs apparently fading, and Harry struggled 
fruitlessly, mutely, against the enchantment binding 
him. 

“As a matter of fact, I did,” said Dumbledore. “I was 
sure it was you. 

“Why didn’t you stop me, then?” Malfoy demanded. 

“I tried, Draco. Professor Snape has been keeping 
watch over you on my orders — ” 

“He hasn’t been doing your orders, he promised my 
mother — ” 

“Of course that is what he would tell you, Draco, but 



“He’s a double agent, you stupid old man, he isn’t 
working for you, you just think he is!” 

“We must agree to differ on that, Draco. It so happens 
that I trust Professor Snape — ” 

“Well, you’re losing your grip, then!” sneered Malfoy. 
“He’s been offering me plenty of help — wanting all 
the glory for himself — wanting a bit of the action — 
What are you doing?’ ‘Did you do the necklace, that 
was stupid, it could have blown everything — ’ But I 
haven’t told him what I’ve been doing in the Room of 
Requirement, he’s going to wake up tomorrow and it’ll 
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all be over and he won’t be the Dark Lord’s favorite 
anymore, he’ll be nothing compared to me, nothing!” 



“Very gratifying,” said Dumbledore mildly. “We all like 
appreciation for our own hard work, of course. But 
you must have had an accomplice, all the same ... 
someone in Hogsmeade, someone who was able to 
slip Katie the — the — aaaah ...” 

Dumbledore closed his eyes again and nodded, as 
though he was about to fall asleep. "... of course ... 
Rosmerta. How long has she been under the Imperius 
Curse?” 

“Got there at last, have you?” Malfoy taunted. 

There was another yell from below, rather louder than 
the last. Malfoy looked nervously over his shoulder 
again, then back at Dumbledore, who went on: “So 
poor Rosmerta was forced to lurk in her own 
bathroom and pass that necklace to any Hogwarts 
student who entered the room unaccompanied? And 
the poisoned mead ... well, naturally, Rosmerta was 
able to poison it for you before she sent the bottle to 
Slughorn, believing that it was to be my Christmas 
present. ... Yes, very neat ... very neat ... Poor Mr. 
Filch would not, of course, think to check a bottle of 
Rosmerta’s. Tell me, how have you been 
communicating with Rosmerta? I thought we had all 
methods of communication in and out of the school 
monitored.” 

“Enchanted coins,” said Malfoy, as though he was 
compelled to keep talking, though his wand hand was 
shaking badly. “I had one and she had the other and I 
could send her messages — ” 

“Isn’t that the secret method of communication the 
group that called themselves Dumbledore ’s Army 

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used last year?” asked Dumbledore. His voice was 
light and conversational, but Harry saw him slip an 
inch lower down the wall as he said it. 

“Yeah, I got the idea from them,” said Malfoy, with a 
twisted smile. “I got the idea of poisoning the mead 
from the Mudblood Granger as well, I heard her 
talking in the library about Filch not recognizing 
potions.” 

“Please do not use that offensive word in front of me,” 
said Dumbledore. 

Malfoy gave a harsh laugh. “You care about me saying 
‘Mudblood’ when I’m about to kill you?” 

“Yes, I do,” said Dumbledore, and Harry saw his feet 
slide a little on the floor as he struggled to remain 
upright. “But as for being about to kill me, Draco, you 
have had several long minutes now, we are quite 
alone, I am more defenseless than you can have 
dreamed of finding me, and still you have not acted. 



Malfoy’s mouth contorted involuntarily, as though he 
had tasted something very bitter. 

“Now, about tonight,” Dumbledore went on, “I am a 
little puzzled about how it happened. ... You knew 
that I had left the school? But of course,” he 
answered his own question, “Rosmerta saw me 
leaving, she tipped you off using your ingenious 
coins, I’m sure.” 

“That’s right,” said Malfoy. “But she said you were 
just going for a drink, you’d be back. ...” 



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“Well, I certainly did have a drink ... and I came back 
... after a fashion,” mumbled Dumbledore. “So you 
decided to spring a trap for me?” 

“We decided to put the Dark Mark over the tower and 
get you to hurry up here, to see who’d been killed,” 
said Malfoy. “And it worked!” 

“Well ... yes and no ...” said Dumbledore. “But am I to 
take it, then, that nobody has been murdered?” 

“Someone’s dead,” said Malfoy, and his voice seemed 
to go up an octave as he said it. “One of your people 
...I don’t know who, it was dark. ... I stepped over the 
body. ... I was supposed to be waiting up here when 
you got back, only your Phoenix lot got in the way. ...” 

“Yes, they do that,” said Dumbledore. 

There was a bang and shouts from below, louder than 
ever; it sounded as though people were fighting on the 
actual spiral staircase that led to where Dumbledore, 
Malfoy, and Harry stood, and Harry’s heart thundered 
unheard in his invisible chest. ... Someone was dead. 

. . . Malfoy had stepped over the body . . . but who was 
it? 



“There is little time, one way or another,” said 
Dumbledore. “So let us discuss your options, Draco.” 

“My options!” said Malfoy loudly. “I’m standing here 
with a wand — I’m about to kill you — ” 

“My dear boy, let us have no more pretense about 
that. If you were going to kill me, you would have 
done it when you first disarmed me, you would not 
have stopped for this pleasant chat about ways and 
means.” 



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“I haven’t got any options!” said Malfoy, and he was 
suddenly white as Dumbledore. “I’ve got to do it! He’ll 
kill me! He’ll kill my whole family!” 

“I appreciate the difficulty of your position,” said 
Dumbledore. “Why else do you think I have not 
confronted you before now? Because I knew that you 
would have been murdered if Lord Voldemort realized 
that I suspected you.” 

Malfoy winced at the sound of the name. 

“I did not dare speak to you of the mission with which 
I knew you had been entrusted, in case he used 
Legilimency against you,” continued Dumbledore. 

“But now at last we can speak plainly to each other. 

... No harm has been done, you have hurt nobody, 
though you are very lucky that your unintentional 
victims survived. ... I can help you, Draco.” 

“No, you can’t,” said Malfoy, his wand hand shaking 
very badly indeed. “Nobody can. He told me to do it or 
he’ll kill me. I’ve got no choice.” 

“Come over to the right side, Draco, and we can hide 
you more completely than you can possibly imagine. 
What is more, I can send members of the Order to 
your mother tonight to hide her likewise. Your father 
is safe at the moment in Azkaban. ... When the time 
comes, we can protect him too. Come over to the right 
side, Draco ... you are not a killer. ...” 

Malfoy stared at Dumbledore. 

“But I got this far, didn’t I?” he said slowly. “They 
thought I’d die in the attempt, but I’m here ... and 
you’re in my power. ... I’m the one with the wand. ... 
You’re at my mercy. ...” 



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“No, Draco,” said Dumbledore quietly. “It is my mercy, 
and not yours, that matters now.” 

Malfoy did not speak. His mouth was open, his wand 
hand still trembling. Harry thought he saw it drop by 
a fraction — 

But suddenly footsteps were thundering up the stairs, 
and a second later Malfoy was buffeted out of the way 
as four people in black robes burst through the door 
onto the ramparts. Still paralyzed, his eyes staring 
unblinkingly, Harry gazed in terror upon four 
strangers: It seemed the Death Eaters had won the 
fight below. 

A lumpy-looking man with an odd lopsided leer gave a 
wheezy giggle. 

“Dumbledore cornered!” he said, and he turned to a 
stocky little woman who looked as though she could 
be his sister and who was grinning eagerly. 
“Dumbledore wandless, Dumbledore alone! Well done, 
Draco, well done!” 

“Good evening, Amycus,” said Dumbledore calmly, as 
though welcoming the man to a tea party. “And you’ve 
brought Alecto too. ... Charming ...” 

The woman gave an angry little titter. “Think your 
little jokes’ll help you on your deathbed then?” she 
jeered. 

“Jokes? No, no, these are manners,” replied 
Dumbledore. 

“Do it,” said the stranger standing nearest to Harry, a 
big, rangy man with matted gray hair and whiskers, 
whose black Death Eater’s robes looked 
uncomfortably tight. He had a voice like none that 

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Harry had ever heard: a rasping bark of a voice. Harry 
could smell a powerful mixture of dirt, sweat, and, 
unmistakably, of blood coming from him. His filthy 
hands had long yellowish nails. 

“Is that you, Fenrir?” asked Dumbledore. 

“That’s right,” rasped the other. “Pleased to see me, 
Dumbledore?” 

“No, I cannot say that I am.” 

Greyback grinned, showing pointed teeth. Blood 
trickled down his chin and he licked his lips slowly, 
obscenely. 

“But you know how much I like kids, Dumbledore.” 

“Am I to take it that you are attacking even without 
the full moon now? This is most unusual. ... You have 
developed a taste for human flesh that cannot be 
satisfied once a month?” 

“That’s right,” said Fenrir Greyback. “Shocks you 
that, does it, Dumbledore? Frightens you?” 

“Well, I cannot pretend it does not disgust me a little,” 
said Dumbledore. “And, yes, I am a little shocked that 
Draco here invited you, of all people, into the school 
where his friends live. ...” 

“I didn’t,” breathed Malfoy. He was not looking at 
Fenrir; he did not seem to want to even glance at him. 
“I didn’t know he was going to come — ” 

“I wouldn’t want to miss a trip to Hogwarts, 
Dumbledore,” rasped Greyback. “Not when there are 
throats to be ripped out... Delicious, delicious ...” 



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And he raised a yellow fingernail and picked at his 
front teeth, leering at Dumbledore. “I could do you for 
afters, Dumbledore.” 

“No,” said the fourth Death Eater sharply. He had a 
heavy, brutal-looking face. “We’ve got orders. Draco’s 
got to do it. Now, Draco, and quickly.” 

Malfoy was showing less resolution than ever. He 
looked terrified as he stared into Dumbledore ’s face, 
which was even paler, and rather lower than usual, 
as he had slid so far down the rampart wall. 

“He’s not long for this world anyway, if you ask me!” 
said the lopsided man, to the accompaniment of his 
sister’s wheezing giggles. “Look at him — what’s 
happened to you, then, Dumby?” 

“Oh, weaker resistance, slower reflexes, Amycus,” 
said Dumbledore. “Old age, in short ... One day, 
perhaps, it will happen to you ... if you are lucky. ...” 

“What’s that mean, then, what’s that mean?” yelled 
the Death Eater, suddenly violent. “Always the same, 
weren’t yeh, Dumby, talking and doing nothing, 
nothing. I don’t even know why the Dark Lord’s 
bothering to kill yer! Come on, Draco, do it!” 

But at that moment there were renewed sounds of 
scuffling from below and a voice shouted, “ They’ve 
blocked the stairs — Reductol REDUCTOl” 

Harry’s heart leapt: So these four had not eliminated 
all opposition, but merely broken through the fight to 
the top of the tower, and, by the sound of it, created a 
barrier behind them — 

“Now, Draco, quickly!” said the brutal-faced man 
angrily. 

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But Malfoy’s hand was shaking so badly that he could 
barely aim. 

“I’ll do it,” snarled Fenrir, moving toward Dumbledore 
with his hands outstretched, his teeth bared. 

“I said no!” shouted the brutal-faced man; there was a 
flash of light and the werewolf was blasted out of the 
way; he hit the ramparts and staggered, looking 
furious. Harry’s heart was hammering so hard it 
seemed impossible that nobody could hear him 
standing there, imprisoned by Dumbledore ’s spell — 
if he could only move, he could aim a curse from 
under the cloak — 

“Draco, do it or stand aside so one of us — ” screeched 
the woman, but at that precise moment, the door to 
the ramparts burst open once more and there stood 
Snape, his wand clutched in his hand as his black 
eyes swept the scene, from Dumbledore slumped 
against the wall, to the four Death Eaters, including 
the enraged werewolf, and Malfoy. 

“We’ve got a problem, Snape,” said the lumpy 
Amycus, whose eyes and wand were fixed alike upon 
Dumbledore, “the boy doesn’t seem able — ” 

But somebody else had spoken Snape’s name, quite 
softly. 

“Severus ...” 

The sound frightened Harry beyond anything he had 
experienced all evening. For the first time, 

Dumbledore was pleading. 

Snape said nothing, but walked forward and pushed 
Malfoy roughly out of the way. The three Death Eaters 



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fell back without a word. Even the werewolf seemed 
cowed. 

Snape gazed for a moment at Dumbledore, and there 
was revulsion and hatred etched in the harsh lines of 
his face. 

“Severus ... please ...” 

Snape raised his wand and pointed it directly at 
Dumbledore. 

“Avada KedavraV’ 

A jet of green light shot from the end of Snape’s wand 
and hit Dumbledore squarely in the chest. Harry’s 
scream of horror never left him; silent and unmoving, 
he was forced to watch as Dumbledore was blasted 
into the air. For a split second, he seemed to hang 
suspended beneath the shining skull, and then he fell 
slowly backward, like a great rag doll, over the 
battlements and out of sight. 



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FLIGHT OF THE PRINCE 

Harry felt as though he too were hurtling through 
space; it had not happened. ...It could not have 
happened. ... 

“Out of here, quickly,” said Snape. 

He seized Malfoy by the scruff of the neck and forced 
him through the door ahead of the rest; Greyback and 
the squat brother and sister followed, the latter both 
panting excitedly. As they vanished through the door, 
Harry realized he could move again. What was now 
holding him paralyzed against the wall was not magic, 
but horror and shock. He threw the Invisibility Cloak 
aside as the brutal-faced Death Eater, last to leave 
the tower top, was disappearing through the door. 

“Petrificus Totalusl” 

The Death Eater buckled as though hit in the back 
with something solid and fell to the ground, rigid as a 
waxwork, but he had barely hit the floor when Harry 



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was clambering over him and running down the 
darkened staircase. 

Terror tore at Harry’s heart. ... He had to get to 
Dumbledore and he had to catch Snape. ... Somehow 
the two things were linked. ... He could reverse what 
had happened if he had them both together. . . . 
Dumbledore could not have died. ... 

He leapt the last ten steps of the spiral staircase and 
stopped where he landed, his wand raised: The dimly 
lit corridor was full of dust; half the ceiling seemed to 
have fallen in; and a battle was raging before him, but 
even as he attempted to make out who was fighting 
whom, he heard the hated voice shout, “It’s over, time 
to go\” and saw Snape disappearing around the corner 
at the far end of the corridor; he and Malfoy seemed 
to have forced their way through the fight unscathed. 
As Harry plunged after them, one of the fighters 
detached themselves from the fray and flew at him: It 
was the werewolf, Fenrir. He was on top of Harry 
before Harry could raise his wand: Harry fell 
backward, with filthy matted hair in his face, the 
stench of sweat and blood filling his nose and mouth, 
hot greedy breath at his throat — 

“Petrificus Totalusl” 

Harry felt Fenrir collapse against him; with a 
stupendous effort he pushed the werewolf off and 
onto the floor as a jet of green light came flying 
toward him; he ducked and ran, headfirst, into the 
fight. His feet met something squashy and slippery on 
the floor and he stumbled: There were two bodies 
lying there, lying facedown in a pool of blood, but 
there was no time to investigate. Harry now saw red 
hair flying like flames in front of him: Ginny was 
locked in combat with the lumpy Death Eater, 
Amycus, who was throwing hex after hex at her while 
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she dodged them: Amycus was giggling, enjoying the 
sport: “Crucio — Crucio — you can’t dance forever, 
pretty — ” 

“Impedimenta).” yelled Harry. 

His jinx hit Amycus in the chest: He gave a piglike 
squeal of pain, was lifted off his feet and slammed 
into the opposite wall, slid down it, and fell out of 
sight behind Ron, Professor McGonagall, and Lupin, 
each of whom was battling a separate Death Eater. 
Beyond them, Harry saw Tonks fighting an enormous 
blond wizard who was sending curses flying in all 
directions, so that they ricocheted off the walls 
around them, cracking stone, shattering the nearest 
window — 

“Harry, where did you come from?” Ginny cried, but 
there was no time to answer her. He put his head 
down and sprinted forward, narrowly avoiding a blast 
that erupted over his head, showering them all in bits 
of wall. Snape must not escape, he must catch up 
with Snape — 

“Take that\” shouted Professor McGonagall, and Harry 
glimpsed the female Death Eater, Alecto, sprinting 
away down the corridor with her arms over her head, 
her brother right behind her. He launched himself 
after them but his foot caught on something, and next 
moment he was lying across someone’s legs. Looking 
around, he saw Neville’s pale, round face flat against 
the floor. 

“Neville, are you — ?” 

“M’all right,” muttered Neville, who was clutching his 
stomach, “Harry ... Snape ’n’ Malfoy ... ran past ...” 



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“I know, I’m on it!” said Harry, aiming a hex from the 
floor at the enormous blond Death Eater who was 
causing most of the chaos. The man gave a howl of 
pain as the spell hit him in the face: He wheeled 
around, staggered, and then pounded away after the 
brother and sister. Harry scrambled up from the floor 
and began to sprint along the corridor, ignoring the 
bangs issuing from behind him, the yells of the others 
to come back, and the mute call of the figures on the 
ground whose fate he did not yet know. ... 

He skidded around the corner, his trainers slippery 
with blood; Snape had an immense head start. Was it 
possible that he had already entered the cabinet in 
the Room of Requirement, or had the Order made 
steps to secure it, to prevent the Death Eaters 
retreating that way? He could hear nothing but his 
own pounding feet, his own hammering heart as he 
sprinted along the next empty corridor, but then 
spotted a bloody footprint that showed at least one of 
the fleeing Death Eaters was heading toward the front 
doors — perhaps the Room of Requirement was 
indeed blocked — 

He skidded around another corner and a curse flew 
past him; he dived behind a suit of armor that 
exploded. He saw the brother and sister running 
down the marble staircase ahead and aimed jinxes at 
them, but merely hit several bewigged witches in a 
portrait on the landing, who ran screeching into 
neighboring paintings. As he leapt the wreckage of 
armor, Harry heard more shouts and screams; other 
people within the castle seemed to have awoken. ... 

He pelted toward a shortcut, hoping to overtake the 
brother and sister and close in on Snape and Malfoy, 
who must surely have reached the grounds by now. 
Remembering to leap the vanishing step halfway 
down the concealed staircase, he burst through a 
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tapestry at the bottom and out into a corridor where a 
number of bewildered and pajama-clad Hufflepuffs 
stood. 

“Harry! We heard a noise, and someone said 
something about the Dark Mark — ” began Ernie 
Macmillan. 

“Out of the way!” yelled Harry, knocking two boys 
aside as he sprinted toward the landing and down the 
remainder of the marble staircase. The oak front 
doors had been blasted open, there were smears of 
blood on the flagstones, and several terrified students 
stood huddled against the walls, one or two still 
cowering with their arms over their faces. The giant 
Gryffindor hourglass had been hit by a curse, and the 
rubies within were still falling, with a loud rattle, onto 
the flagstones below. 

Harry flew across the entrance hall and out into the 
dark grounds: He could just make out three figures 
racing across the lawn, heading for the gates beyond 
which they could Disapparate — by the looks of them, 
the huge blond Death Eater and, some way ahead of 
him, Snape and Malfoy ... 

The cold night air ripped at Harry’s lungs as he tore 
after them; he saw a flash of light in the distance that 
momentarily silhouetted his quarry. He did not know 
what it was but continued to run, not yet near 
enough to get a good aim with a curse — 

Another flash, shouts, retaliatory jets of light, and 
Harry understood: Hagrid had emerged from his 
cabin and was trying to stop the Death Eaters 
escaping, and though every breath seemed to shred 
his lungs and the stitch in his chest was like fire, 
Harry sped up as an unbidden voice in his head said: 
not Hagrid . . . not Hagrid too . . . 

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Something caught Harry hard in the small of the back 
and he fell forward, his face smacking the ground, 
blood pouring out of both nostrils: He knew, even as 
he rolled over, his wand ready, that the brother and 
sister he had overtaken using his shortcut were 
closing in behind him. ... 

“Impedimenta).” he yelled as he rolled over again, 
crouching close to the dark ground, and miraculously 
his jinx hit one of them, who stumbled and fell, 
tripping up the other; Harry leapt to his feet and 
sprinted on after Snape. 

And now he saw the vast outline of Hagrid, 
illuminated by the light of the crescent moon revealed 
suddenly behind clouds; the blond Death Eater was 
aiming curse after curse at the gamekeeper; but 
Hagrid’s immense strength and the toughened skin 
he had inherited from his giantess mother seemed to 
be protecting him. Snape and Malfoy, however, were 
still running; they would soon be beyond the gates, 
able to Disapparate — 

Harry tore past Hagrid and his opponent, took aim at 
Snape’s back, and yelled, “Stupefy\” 

He missed; the jet of red light soared past Snape’s 
head; Snape shouted, “Run, Draco\” and turned. 
Twenty yards apart, he and Harry looked at each 
other before raising their wands simultaneously. 

“Cruc — ” 

But Snape parried the curse, knocking Harry 
backward off his feet before he could complete it; 
Harry rolled over and scrambled back up again as the 
huge Death Eater behind him yelled, “Incendiol” Harry 
heard an explosive bang and a dancing orange light 
spilled over all of them: Hagrid’s house was on fire. 
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“Fang’s in there, yer evil — !” Hagrid bellowed. 

“Cruc — ” yelled Harry for the second time, aiming for 
the figure ahead illuminated in the dancing firelight, 
but Snape blocked the spell again. Harry could see 
him sneering. 

“No Unforgivable Curses from you, Potter!” he 
shouted over the rushing of the flames, Hagrid’s yells, 
and the wild yelping of the trapped Fang. “You haven’t 
got the nerve or the ability — ” 

“Incarc — ” Harry roared, but Snape deflected the spell 
with an almost lazy flick of his arm. 

“Fight back!” Harry screamed at him. “Fight back, you 
cowardly — ” 

“Coward, did you call me, Potter?” shouted Snape. 
“Your father would never attack me unless it was four 
on one, what would you call him, I wonder?” 

“ Stupe — ” 

“Blocked again and again and again until you learn to 
keep your mouth shut and your mind closed, Potter!” 
sneered Snape, deflecting the curse once more. “Now 
come!” he shouted at the huge Death Eater behind 
Harry. “It is time to be gone, before the Ministry turns 
up — ” 



“Impedi — ” 

But before he could finish this jinx, excruciating pain 
hit Harry; he keeled over in the grass. Someone was 
screaming, he would surely die of this agony, Snape 
was going to torture him to death or madness — 



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“No!” roared Snape’s voice and the pain stopped as 
suddenly as it had started; Harry lay curled on the 
dark grass, clutching his wand and panting; 
somewhere overhead Snape was shouting, “Have you 
forgotten our orders? Potter belongs to the Dark Lord 
— we are to leave him! Go! Go!” 

And Harry felt the ground shudder under his face as 
the brother and sister and the enormous Death Eater 
obeyed, running toward the gates. Harry uttered an 
inarticulate yell of rage: In that instant, he cared not 
whether he lived or died. Pushing himself to his feet 
again, he staggered blindly toward Snape, the man he 
now hated as much as he hated Voldemort himself — 

“Sectum — !” 

Snape flicked his wand and the curse was repelled yet 
again; but Harry was mere feet away now and he 
could see Snape’s face clearly at last: He was no 
longer sneering or jeering; the blazing flames showed 
a face full of rage. Mustering all his powers of 
concentration, Harry thought, Levi — 

“No, Potter!” screamed Snape. There was a loud BANG 
and Harry was soaring backward, hitting the ground 
hard again, and this time his wand flew out of his 
hand. He could hear Hagrid yelling and Fang howling 
as Snape closed in and looked down on him where he 
lay, wandless and defenseless as Dumbledore had 
been. Snape’s pale face, illuminated by the flaming 
cabin, was suffused with hatred just as it had been 
before he had cursed Dumbledore. 

“You dare use my own spells against me, Potter? It 
was I who invented them — I, the Half-Blood Prince! 
And you’d turn my inventions on me, like your filthy 
father, would you? I don’t think so ... no!” 



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Harry had dived for his wand; Snape shot a hex at it 
and it flew feet away into the darkness and out of 
sight. 

“Kill me then,” panted Harry, who felt no fear at all, 
but only rage and contempt. “Kill me like you killed 
him, you coward — ” 

“DONT — ” screamed Snape, and his face was 
suddenly demented, inhuman, as though he was in 
as much pain as the yelping, howling dog stuck in the 
burning house behind them — “CALL ME COWARD!” 

And he slashed at the air: Harry felt a white-hot, 
whiplike something hit him across the face and was 
slammed backward into the ground. Spots of light 
burst in front of his eyes and for a moment all the 
breath seemed to have gone from his body, then he 
heard a rush of wings above him and something 
enormous obscured the stars. Buckbeak had flown at 
Snape, who staggered backward as the razor-sharp 
claws slashed at him. As Harry raised himself into a 
sitting position, his head still swimming from its last 
contact with the ground, he saw Snape running as 
hard as he could, the enormous beast flapping behind 
him and screeching as Harry had never heard him 
screech — 

Harry struggled to his feet, looking around groggily for 
his wand, hoping to give chase again, but even as his 
fingers fumbled in the grass, discarding twigs, he 
knew it would be too late, and sure enough, by the 
time he had located his wand, he turned only to see 
the hippogriff circling the gates. Snape had managed 
to Disapparate just beyond the school’s boundaries. 

“Hagrid,” muttered Harry, still dazed, looking around. 
“HAGRID?” 



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He stumbled toward the burning house as an 
enormous figure emerged from out of the flames 
carrying Fang on his back. With a cry of 
thankfulness, Harry sank to his knees; he was 
shaking in every limb, his body ached all over, and 
his breath came in painful stabs. 

“Yeh all righ’, Harry? Yeh all righ’? Speak ter me, 
Harry. ...” 

Hagrid’s huge, hairy face was swimming above Harry, 
blocking out the stars. Harry could smell burnt wood 
and dog hair; he put out a hand and felt Fang’s 
reassuringly warm and alive body quivering beside 
him. 

“I’m all right,” panted Harry. “Are you?” 

“ ’Course I am ... take more’n that ter finish me.” 

Hagrid put his hands under Harry’s arms and raised 
him up with such force that Harry’s feet momentarily 
left the ground before Hagrid set him upright again. 

He could see blood trickling down Hagrid’s cheek 
from a deep cut under one eye, which was swelling 
rapidly. 

“We should put out your house,” said Harry, “the 
charm’s ‘Aguamenti’ ...” 

“Knew it was summat like that,” mumbled Hagrid, 
and he raised a smoldering pink, flowery umbrella 
and said, “Aguamenti\” 

A jet of water flew out of the umbrella tip. Harry 
raised his wand arm, which felt like lead, and 
murmured “Aguamenti’ too: Together, he and Hagrid 
poured water on the house until the last flame was 
extinguished. 

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“S’not too bad,” said Hagrid hopefully a few minutes 
later, looking at the smoking wreck. “Nothin’ 
Dumbledore won’ be able to put righ’ ...” 

Harry felt a searing pain in his stomach at the sound 
of the name. In the silence and the stillness, horror 
rose inside him. 

“Hagrid ...” 

“I was bindin’ up a couple o’ bowtruckle legs when I 
heard ’em cornin’,” said Hagrid sadly, still staring at 
his wrecked cabin. “They’ll’ve bin burnt ter twigs, 
poor little things. ...” 

“Hagrid ...” 

“But what happened, Harry? I jus’ saw them Death 
Eaters runnin’ down from the castle, but what the 
ruddy hell was Snape doin’ with ’em? Where’s he gone 
— was he chasin’ them?” 

“He ...” Harry cleared his throat; it was dry from panic 
and the smoke. “Hagrid, he killed ...” 

“Killed?” said Hagrid loudly, staring down at Harry. 
“Snape killed? What’re yeh on abou’, Harry?” 

“Dumbledore,” said Harry. “Snape killed ... 
Dumbledore.” 

Hagrid simply looked at him, the little of his face that 
could be seen completely blank, uncomprehending. 

“Dumbledore wha’, Harry?” 

“He’s dead. Snape killed him. ...” 



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“Don’ say that,” said Hagrid roughly. “Snape kill 
Dumbledore — don’ be stupid, Harry. Wha’s made 
yeh say tha’?” 

“I saw it happen.” 

“Yeh couldn’ have.” 

“I saw it, Hagrid.” 

Hagrid shook his head; his expression was 
disbelieving but sympathetic, and Harry knew that 
Hagrid thought he had sustained a blow to the head, 
that he was confused, perhaps by the aftereffects of a 
jinx. ... 

“What musta happened was, Dumbledore musta told 
Snape ter go with them Death Eaters,” Hagrid said 
confidently. “I suppose he’s gotta keep his cover. 

Look, let’s get yeh back up ter the school. Come on, 
Harry. ...” 

Harry did not attempt to argue or explain. He was still 
shaking uncontrollably. Hagrid would find out soon 
enough, too soon. ... As they directed their steps back 
toward the castle, Harry saw that many of its 
windows were lit now. He could imagine, clearly, the 
scenes inside as people moved from room to room, 
telling each other that Death Eaters had got in, that 
the Mark was shining over Hogwarts, that somebody 
must have been killed. ... 

The oak front doors stood open ahead of them, light 
flooding out onto the drive and the lawn. Slowly, 
uncertainly, dressing-gowned people were creeping 
down the steps, looking around nervously for some 
sign of the Death Eaters who had fled into the night. 
Harry’s eyes, however, were fixed upon the ground at 
the foot of the tallest tower. He imagined that he 
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could see a black, huddled mass lying in the grass 
there, though he was really too far away to see 
anything of the sort. Even as he stared wordlessly at 
the place where he thought Dumbledore ’s body must 
lie, however, he saw people beginning to move toward 
it. 

“What’re they all lookin’ at?” said Hagrid, as he and 
Harry approached the castle front, Fang keeping as 
close as he could to their ankles. “Wha’s tha’, lyin’ on 
the grass?” Hagrid added sharply, heading now 
toward the foot of the Astronomy Tower, where a 
small crowd was congregating. “See it, Harry? Righ’ at 
the foot o’ the tower? Under where the Mark ... Blimey 
... yeh don’ think someone got thrown — ?” 

Hagrid fell silent, the thought apparently too horrible 
to express aloud. Harry walked alongside him, feeling 
the aches and pains in his face and his legs where the 
various hexes of the last half hour had hit him, 
though in an oddly detached way, as though 
somebody near him was suffering them. What was 
real and inescapable was the awful pressing feeling in 
his chest. ... 

He and Hagrid moved, dreamlike, through the 
murmuring crowd to the very front, where the 
dumbstruck students and teachers had left a gap. 

Harry heard Hagrid ’s moan of pain and shock, but he 
did not stop; he walked slowly forward until he 
reached the place where Dumbledore lay and 
crouched down beside him. He had known there was 
no hope from the moment that the full Body-Bind 
Curse Dumbledore had placed upon him lifted, 
known that it could have happened only because its 
caster was dead, but there was still no preparation for 
seeing him here, spread-eagled, broken: the greatest 
wizard Harry had ever, or would ever, meet. 

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Dumbledore’s eyes were closed; but for the strange 
angle of his arms and legs, he might have been 
sleeping. Harry reached out, straightened the half- 
moon spectacles upon the crooked nose, and wiped a 
trickle of blood from the mouth with his own sleeve. 
Then he gazed down at the wise old face and tried to 
absorb the enormous and incomprehensible truth: 
that never again would Dumbledore speak to him, 
never again could he help. ... 

The crowd murmured behind Harry. After what 
seemed like a long time, he became aware that he was 
kneeling upon something hard and looked down. 

The locket they had managed to steal so many hours 
before had fallen out of Dumbledore’s pocket. It had 
opened, perhaps due to the force with which it hit the 
ground. And although he could not feel more shock or 
horror or sadness than he felt already, Harry knew, 
as he picked it up, that there was something wrong. 



He turned the locket over in his hands. This was 
neither as large as the locket he remembered seeing 
in the Pensieve, nor were there any markings upon it, 
no sign of the ornate S that was supposed to be 
Slytherin’s mark. Moreover, there was nothing inside 
but for a scrap of folded parchment wedged tightly 
into the place where a portrait should have been. 

Automatically, without really thinking about what he 
was doing, Harry pulled out the fragment of 
parchment, opened it, and read by the light of the 
many wands that had now been lit behind him: 

To the Dark Lord 

I know I will be dead long before you read this 



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but I want you to know that it was I who discovered 
your secret 

I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it 
as soon as I can. 

I face death in the hope that when you meet your 
match, 

you will be mortal once more. 

R.A.B. 

Harry neither knew nor cared what the message 
meant. Only one thing mattered: This was not a 
Horcrux. Dumbledore had weakened himself by 
drinking that terrible potion for nothing. Harry 
crumpled the parchment in his hand, and his eyes 
burned with tears as behind him Fang began to howl. 



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z? 




THE PHOENIX LAMENT 

“C’mere, Harry ...” 

“No.” 

“Yeh can’ stay here, Harry. ... Come on, now. ...” 

“No.” 

He did not want to leave Dumbledore’s side, he did 
not want to move anywhere. Hagrid’s hand on his 
shoulder was trembling. Then another voice said, 
“Harry, come on.” 

A much smaller and warmer hand had enclosed his 
and was pulling him upward. He obeyed its pressure 
without really thinking about it. Only as he walked 
blindly back through the crowd did he realize, from a 
trace of flowery scent on the air, that it was Ginny 
who was leading him back into the castle. 
Incomprehensible voices battered him, sobs and 
shouts and wails stabbed the night, but Harry and 
Ginny walked on, back up the steps into the entrance 
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hall. Faces swam on the edges of Harry’s vision, 
people were peering at him, whispering, wondering, 
and Gryffindor rubies glistened on the floor like drops 
of blood as they made their way toward the marble 
staircase. 

“We’re going to the hospital wing,” said Ginny. 

“I’m not hurt,” said Harry. 

“It’s McGonagall’s orders,” said Ginny. “Everyone’s up 
there, Ron and Hermione and Lupin and everyone — ” 

Fear stirred in Harry’s chest again: He had forgotten 
the inert figures he had left behind. 

“Ginny, who else is dead?” 

“Don’t worry, none of us.” 

“But the Dark Mark — Malfoy said he stepped over a 
body — ” 

“He stepped over Bill, but it’s all right, he’s alive.” 

There was something in her voice, however, that 
Harry knew boded ill. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Of course I’m sure ... he’s a — a bit of a mess, that’s 
all. Greyback attacked him. Madam Pomfrey says he 
won’t — won’t look the same anymore. ...” 

Ginny ’s voice trembled a little. 

“We don’t really know what the aftereffects will be — I 
mean, Greyback being a werewolf, but not 
transformed at the time.” 

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“But the others . . . There were other bodies on the 
ground. ...” 

“Neville and Professor Flitwick are both hurt, but 
Madam Pomfrey says they’ll be all right. And a Death 
Eater’s dead, he got hit by a Killing Curse that huge 
blond one was firing off everywhere — Harry, if we 
hadn’t had your Felix potion, I think we’d all have 
been killed, but everything seemed to just miss us — ” 

They had reached the hospital wing. Pushing open 
the doors, Harry saw Neville lying, apparently asleep, 
in a bed near the door. Ron, Hermione, Luna, Tonks, 
and Lupin were gathered around another bed near 
the far end of the ward. At the sound of the doors 
opening, they all looked up. Hermione ran to Harry 
and hugged him; Lupin moved forward too, looking 
anxious. 

“Are you all right, Harry?” 

“I’m fine. ... How’s Bill?” 

Nobody answered. Harry looked over Hermione’s 
shoulder and saw an unrecognizable face lying on 
Bill’s pillow, so badly slashed and ripped that he 
looked grotesque. Madam Pomfrey was dabbing at his 
wounds with some harsh-smelling green ointment. 
Harry remembered how Snape had mended Malfoy’s 
Sectumsempra wounds so easily with his wand. 

“Can’t you fix them with a charm or something?” he 
asked the matron. 

“No charm will work on these,” said Madam Pomfrey. 
“I’ve tried everything I know, but there is no cure for 
werewolf bites.” 



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“But he wasn’t bitten at the full moon,” said Ron, who 
was gazing down into his brother’s face as though he 
could somehow force him to mend just by staring. 
“Greyback hadn’t transformed, so surely Bill won’t be 
a — a real — ?” 

He looked uncertainly at Lupin. 

“No, I don’t think that Bill will be a true werewolf,” 
said Lupin, “but that does not mean that there won’t 
be some contamination. Those are cursed wounds. 
They are unlikely ever to heal fully, and — and Bill 
might have some wolfish characteristics from now 
on.” 

“Dumbledore might know something that’d work, 
though,” Ron said. “Where is he? Bill fought those 
maniacs on Dumbledore’s orders, Dumbledore owes 
him, he can’t leave him in this state — ” 

“Ron — Dumbledore’s dead,” said Ginny. 

“No!” Lupin looked wildly from Ginny to Harry, as 
though hoping the latter might contradict her, but 
when Harry did not, Lupin collapsed into a chair 
beside Bill’s bed, his hands over his face. Harry had 
never seen Lupin lose control before; he felt as though 
he was intruding upon something private, indecent. 

He turned away and caught Ron’s eye instead, 
exchanging in silence a look that confirmed what 
Ginny had said. 

“How did he die?” whispered Tonks. “How did it 
happen?” 

“Snape killed him,” said Harry. “I was there, I saw it. 
We arrived back on the Astronomy Tower because 
that’s where the Mark was. ... Dumbledore was ill, he 
was weak, but I think he realized it was a trap when 

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we heard footsteps running up the stairs. He 
immobilized me, I couldn’t do anything, I was under 
the Invisibility Cloak — and then Malfoy came 
through the door and disarmed him — ” 

Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth and Ron 
groaned. Luna’s mouth trembled. 

“ — more Death Eaters arrived — and then Snape — 
and Snape did it. The Avada Kedavra.” Harry couldn’t 
go on. 

Madam Pomfrey burst into tears. Nobody paid her 
any attention except Ginny, who whispered, “Shh! 
Listen!” 

Gulping, Madam Pomfrey pressed her fingers to her 
mouth, her eyes wide. Somewhere out in the 
darkness, a phoenix was singing in a way Harry had 
never heard before: a stricken lament of terrible 
beauty. And Harry felt, as he had felt about phoenix 
song before, that the music was inside him, not 
without: It was his own grief turned magically to song 
that echoed across the grounds and through the 
castle windows. 

How long they all stood there, listening, he did not 
know, nor why it seemed to ease their pain a little to 
listen to the sound of their mourning, but it felt like a 
long time later that the hospital door opened again 
and Professor McGonagall entered the ward. Like all 
the rest, she bore marks of the recent battle: There 
were grazes on her face and her robes were ripped. 

“Molly and Arthur are on their way,” she said, and the 
spell of the music was broken: Everyone roused 
themselves as though coming out of trances, turning 
again to look at Bill, or else to rub their own eyes, 
shake their heads. “Harry, what happened? According 
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to Hagrid you were with Professor Dumbledore when 
he — when it happened. He says Professor Snape was 
involved in some — ” 

“Snape killed Dumbledore,” said Harry. 

She stared at him for a moment, then swayed 
alarmingly; Madam Pomfrey, who seemed to have 
pulled herself together, ran forward, conjuring a chair 
from thin air, which she pushed under McGonagall. 

“Snape,” repeated McGonagall faintly, falling into the 
chair. “We all wondered ... but he trusted ... always ... 
Snape ... I can’t believe it. ...” 

“Snape was a highly accomplished Occlumens,” said 
Lupin, his voice uncharacteristically harsh. “We 
always knew that.” 

“But Dumbledore swore he was on our side!” 
whispered Tonks. “I always thought Dumbledore 
must know something about Snape that we didn’t. ...” 

“He always hinted that he had an ironclad reason for 
trusting Snape,” muttered Professor McGonagall, now 
dabbing at the corners of her leaking eyes with a 
tartan- edged handkerchief. “I mean ... with Snape ’s 
history ... of course people were bound to wonder . . . 
but Dumbledore told me explicitly that Snape ’s 
repentance was absolutely genuine. ... Wouldn’t hear 
a word against him!” 

“I’d love to know what Snape told him to convince 
him,” said Tonks. 

“I know,” said Harry, and they all turned to look at 
him. “Snape passed Voldemort the information that 
made Voldemort hunt down my mum and dad. Then 
Snape told Dumbledore he hadn’t realized what he 

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was doing, he was really sorry he’d done it, sorry that 
they were dead.” 

They all stared at him. 

“And Dumbledore believed that?” said Lupin 
incredulously. “Dumbledore believed Snape was sorry 
James was dead? Snape hated James. ...” 

“And he didn’t think my mother was worth a damn 
either,” said Harry, “because she was Muggle-born. ... 
‘Mudblood,’ he called her. ...” 

Nobody asked how Harry knew this. All of them 
seemed to be lost in horrified shock, trying to digest 
the monstrous truth of what had happened. 

“This is all my fault,” said Professor McGonagall 
suddenly. She looked disoriented, twisting her wet 
handkerchief in her hands. “My fault. I sent Filius to 
fetch Snape tonight, I actually sent for him to come 
and help us! If I hadn’t alerted Snape to what was 
going on, he might never have joined forces with the 
Death Eaters. I don’t think he knew they were there 
before Filius told him, I don’t think he knew they were 
coming.” 

“It isn’t your fault, Minerva,” said Lupin firmly. “We 
all wanted more help, we were glad to think Snape 
was on his way. ...” 

“So when he arrived at the fight, he joined in on the 
Death Eaters’ side?” asked Harry, who wanted every 
detail of Snape ’s duplicity and infamy, feverishly 
collecting more reasons to hate him, to swear 
vengeance. 

“I don’t know exactly how it happened,” said Professor 
McGonagall distractedly. “It’s all so confusing. ... 

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Dumbledore had told us that he would be leaving the 
school for a few hours and that we were to patrol the 
corridors just in case ... Remus, Bill, and 
Nymphadora were to join us ... and so we patrolled. 

All seemed quiet. Every secret passageway out of the 
school was covered. We knew nobody could fly in. 
There were powerful enchantments on every entrance 
into the castle. I still don’t know how the Death 
Eaters can possibly have entered. ...” 

“I do,” said Harry, and he explained, briefly, about the 
pair of Vanishing Cabinets and the magical pathway 
they formed. “So they got in through the Room of 
Requirement.” 

Almost against his will he glanced from Ron to 
Hermione, both of whom looked devastated. 

“I messed up, Harry,” said Ron bleakly. “We did like 
you told us: We checked the Marauder’s Map and we 
couldn’t see Malfoy on it, so we thought he must be in 
the Room of Requirement, so me, Ginny, and Neville 
went to keep watch on it ... but Malfoy got past us.” 

“He came out of the room about an hour after we 
started keeping watch,” said Ginny. “He was on his 
own, clutching that awful shriveled arm — ” 

“His Hand of Glory,” said Ron. “Gives light only to the 
holder, remember?” 

“Anyway,” Ginny went on, “he must have been 
checking whether the coast was clear to let the Death 
Eaters out, because the moment he saw us he threw 
something into the air and it all went pitch-black — ” 

“ — Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder,” said Ron 
bitterly. “Fred and George’s. I’m going to be having a 



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word with them about who they let buy their 
products.” 

“We tried everything, Lumos, Incendio,” said Ginny. 
“Nothing would penetrate the darkness; all we could 
do was grope our way out of the corridor again, and 
meanwhile we could hear people rushing past us. 
Obviously Malfoy could see because of that hand 
thing and was guiding them, but we didn’t dare use 
any curses or anything in case we hit each other, and 
by the time we’d reached a corridor that was light, 
they’d gone.” 

“Luckily,” said Lupin hoarsely, “Ron, Ginny, and 
Neville ran into us almost immediately and told us 
what had happened. We found the Death Eaters 
minutes later, heading in the direction of the 
Astronomy Tower. Malfoy obviously hadn’t expected 
more people to be on the watch; he seemed to have 
exhausted his supply of Darkness Powder, at any 
rate. A fight broke out, they scattered and we gave 
chase. One of them, Gibbon, broke away and headed 
up the tower stairs — ” 

“To set off the Mark?” asked Harry. 

“He must have done, yes, they must have arranged 
that before they left the Room of Requirement,” said 
Lupin. “But I don’t think Gibbon liked the idea of 
waiting up there alone for Dumbledore, because he 
came running back downstairs to rejoin the fight and 
was hit by a Killing Curse that just missed me.” 

“So if Ron was watching the Room of Requirement 
with Ginny and Neville,” said Harry, turning to 
Hermione, “were you — ?” 

“Outside Snape’s office, yes,” whispered Hermione, 
her eyes sparkling with tears, “with Luna. We hung 

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around for ages outside it and nothing happened. ... 
We didn’t know what was going on upstairs, Ron had 
taken the map. ... It was nearly midnight when 
Professor Flitwick came sprinting down into the 
dungeons. He was shouting about Death Eaters in 
the castle, I don’t think he really registered that Luna 
and I were there at all, he just burst his way into 
Snape’s office and we heard him saying that Snape 
had to go back with him and help and then we heard 
a loud thump and Snape came hurtling out of his 
room and he saw us and — and — ” 

“What?” Harry urged her. 

“I was so stupid, Harry!” said Hermione in a high- 
pitched whisper. “He said Professor Flitwick had 
collapsed and that we should go and take care of him 
while he — while he went to help fight the Death 
Eaters — ” She covered her face in shame and 
continued to talk into her fingers, so that her voice 
was muffled. “We went into his office to see if we 
could help Professor Flitwick and found him 
unconscious on the floor ... and oh, it’s so obvious 
now, Snape must have Stupefied Flitwick, but we 
didn’t realize, Harry, we didn’t realize, we just let 
Snape go!” 

“It’s not your fault,” said Lupin firmly. “Hermione, 
had you not obeyed Snape and got out of the way, he 
probably would have killed you and Luna.” 

“So then he came upstairs,” said Harry, who was 
watching Snape running up the marble staircase in 
his mind’s eye, his black robes billowing behind him 
as ever, pulling his wand from under his cloak as he 
ascended, “and he found the place where you were all 
fighting. ...” 



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“We were in trouble, we were losing,” said Tonks in a 
low voice. “Gibbon was down, but the rest of the 
Death Eaters seemed ready to fight to the death. 
Neville had been hurt, Bill had been savaged by 
Greyback ... It was all dark . . . curses flying 
everywhere ... The Malfoy boy had vanished, he must 
have slipped past, up the stairs ... then more of them 
ran after him, but one of them blocked the stair 
behind them with some kind of curse. ... Neville ran 
at it and got thrown up into the air — ” 

“None of us could break through,” said Ron, “and that 
massive Death Eater was still firing off jinxes all over 
the place, they were bouncing off the walls and barely 
missing us. ...” 

“And then Snape was there,” said Tonks, “and then 
he wasn’t — ” 

“I saw him running toward us, but that huge Death 
Eater’s jinx just missed me right afterward and I 
ducked and lost track of things,” said Ginny. 

“I saw him run straight through the cursed barrier as 
though it wasn’t there,” said Lupin. “I tried to follow 
him, but was thrown back just like Neville. ...” 

“He must have known a spell we didn’t,” whispered 
McGonagall. “After all — he was the Defense Against 
the Dark Arts teacher. ... I just assumed that he was 
in a hurry to chase after the Death Eaters who’d 
escaped up to the tower. ...” 

“He was,” said Harry savagely, “but to help them, not 
to stop them ... and I’ll bet you had to have a Dark 
Mark to get through that barrier — so what happened 
when he came back down?” 



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“Well, the big Death Eater had just fired off a hex that 
caused half the ceiling to fall in, and also broke the 
curse blocking the stairs,” said Lupin. “We all ran 
forward — those of us who were still standing anyway 
— and then Snape and the boy emerged out of the 
dust — obviously, none of us attacked them — ” 

“We just let them pass,” said Tonks in a hollow voice. 
“We thought they were being chased by the Death 
Eaters — and next thing, the other Death Eaters and 
Greyback were back and we were fighting again — I 
thought I heard Snape shout something, but I don’t 
know what — ” 

“He shouted, ‘It’s over,’ ” said Harry. “He’d done what 
he’d meant to do.” 

They all fell silent. Fawkes’s lament was still echoing 
over the dark grounds outside. As the music 
reverberated upon the air, unbidden, unwelcome 
thoughts slunk into Harry’s mind. ... Had they taken 
Dumbledore’s body from the foot of the tower yet? 
What would happen to it next? Where would it rest? 
He clenched his fists tightly in his pockets. He could 
feel the small cold lump of the fake Horcrux against 
the knuckles of his right hand. 

The doors of the hospital wing burst open, making 
them all jump: Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were striding up 
the ward, Fleur just behind them, her beautiful face 
terrified. 

“Molly — Arthur — ” said Professor McGonagall, 
jumping up and hurrying to greet them. “I am so 
sorry — ” 

“Bill,” whispered Mrs. Weasley, darting past Professor 
McGonagall as she caught sight of Bill’s mangled face. 
“Oh, Bill'.” 

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Lupin and Tonks had got up hastily and retreated so 
that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could get nearer to the 
bed. Mrs. Weasley bent over her son and pressed her 
lips to his bloody forehead. 

“You said Greyback attacked him?” Mr. Weasley 
asked Professor McGonagall distractedly. “But he 
hadn’t transformed? So what does that mean? What 
will happen to Bill?” 

“We don’t yet know,” said Professor McGonagall, 
looking helplessly at Lupin. 

“There will probably be some contamination, Arthur,” 
said Lupin. “It is an odd case, possibly unique. ... We 
don’t know what his behavior might be like when he 
awakens. ...” 

Mrs. Weasley took the nasty-smelling ointment from 
Madam Pomfrey and began dabbing at Bill’s wounds. 

“And Dumbledore ...” said Mr. Weasley. “Minerva, is it 
true ... Is he really ... ?” 

As Professor McGonagall nodded, Harry felt Ginny 
move beside him and looked at her. Her slightly 
narrowed eyes were fixed upon Fleur, who was gazing 
down at Bill with a frozen expression on her face. 

“Dumbledore gone,” whispered Mr. Weasley, but Mrs. 
Weasley had eyes only for her eldest son; she began 
to sob, tears falling onto Bill’s mutilated face. 

“Of course, it doesn’t matter how he looks. ... It’s not 
r-really important . . . but he was a very handsome 
little b-boy . . . always very handsome . . . and he was g- 
going to be married!” 



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“And what do you mean by zat?” said Fleur suddenly 
and loudly. “What do you mean, ‘’e was going to be 
married?’ ” 

Mrs. Weasley raised her tear-stained face, looking 
startled. “Well — only that — ” 

“You theenk Bill will not wish to marry me anymore?” 
demanded Fleur. “You theenk, because of these bites, 
he will not love me?” 

“No, that’s not what I — ” 

“Because ’e will!” said Fleur, drawing herself up to her 
full height and throwing back her long mane of silver 
hair. “It would take more zan a werewolf to stop Bill 
loving me!” 

“Well, yes, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Weasley, “but I 
thought perhaps — given how — how he — ” 

“You thought I would not weesh to marry him? Or 
per’aps, you hoped?” said Fleur, her nostrils flaring. 
“What do I care how he looks? I am good-looking 
enough for both of us, I theenk! All these scars show 
is zat my husband is brave! And I shall do zat!” she 
added fiercely, pushing Mrs. Weasley aside and 
snatching the ointment from her. 

Mrs. Weasley fell back against her husband and 
watched Fleur mopping up Bill’s wounds with a most 
curious expression upon her face. Nobody said 
anything; Harry did not dare move. Like everybody 
else, he was waiting for the explosion. 

“Our Great-Auntie Muriel,” said Mrs. Weasley after a 
long pause, “has a very beautiful tiara — goblin-made 
— which I am sure I could persuade her to lend you 



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for the wedding. She is very fond of Bill, you know, 
and it would look lovely with your hair.” 



“Thank you,” said Fleur stiffly. “I am sure zat will be 
lovely.” 

And then, Harry did not quite see how it happened, 
both women were crying and hugging each other. 
Completely bewildered, wondering whether the world 
had gone mad, he turned around: Ron looked as 
stunned as he felt and Ginny and Hermione were 
exchanging startled looks. 

“You see!” said a strained voice. Tonks was glaring at 
Lupin. “She still wants to marry him, even though 
he’s been bitten! She doesn’t care!” 

“It’s different,” said Lupin, barely moving his lips and 
looking suddenly tense. “Bill will not be a full 
werewolf. The cases are completely — ” 

“But I don’t care either, I don’t care!” said Tonks, 
seizing the front of Lupin’s robes and shaking them. 
“I’ve told you a million times. ...” 

And the meaning of Tonks’s Patronus and her mouse- 
colored hair, and the reason she had come running to 
find Dumbledore when she had heard a rumor 
someone had been attacked by Greyback, all 
suddenly became clear to Harry; it had not been 
Sirius that Tonks had fallen in love with after all. 

“And I’ve told you a million times,” said Lupin, 
refusing to meet her eyes, staring at the floor, “that I 
am too old for you, too poor ... too dangerous. ...” 

“I’ve said all along you’re taking a ridiculous line on 
this, Remus,” said Mrs. Weasley over Fleur’s shoulder 
as she patted her on the back. 

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“I am not being ridiculous,” said Lupin steadily. 
“Tonks deserves somebody young and whole.” 

“But she wants you,” said Mr. Weasley, with a small 
smile. “And after all, Remus, young and whole men do 
not necessarily remain so.” 

He gestured sadly at his son, lying between them. 

“This is ... not the moment to discuss it,” said Lupin, 
avoiding everybody’s eyes as he looked around 
distractedly. “Dumbledore is dead. ...” 

“Dumbledore would have been happier than anybody 
to think that there was a little more love in the world,” 
said Professor McGonagall curtly, just as the hospital 
doors opened again and Hagrid walked in. 

The little of his face that was not obscured by hair or 
beard was soaking and swollen; he was shaking with 
tears, a vast, spotted handkerchief in his hand. 

“I’ve ... I’ve done it, Professor,” he choked. “M-moved 
him. Professor Sprout’s got the kids back in bed. 
Professor Flitwick’s lyin’ down, but he says he’ll be all 
righ’ in a jiffy, an’ Professor Slughorn says the 
Ministry’s bin informed.” 

“Thank you, Hagrid,” said Professor McGonagall, 
standing up at once and turning to look at the group 
around Bill’s bed. “I shall have to see the Ministry 
when they get here. Hagrid, please tell the Heads of 
Houses — Slughorn can represent Slytherin — that I 
want to see them in my office forthwith. I would like 
you to join us too.” 

As Hagrid nodded, turned, and shuffled out of the 
room again, she looked down at Harry. “Before I meet 



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them I would like a quick word with you, Harry. If 
you’ll come with me. ...” 

Harry stood up, murmured “See you in a bit” to Ron, 
Hermione, and Ginny, and followed Professor 
McGonagall back down the ward. The corridors 
outside were deserted and the only sound was the 
distant phoenix song. It was several minutes before 
Harry became aware that they were not heading for 
Professor McGonagall’s office, but for Dumbledore’s, 
and another few seconds before he realized that of 
course, she had been deputy headmistress. ... 
Apparently she was now headmistress ... so the room 
behind the gargoyle was now hers. 

In silence they ascended the moving spiral staircase 
and entered the circular office. He did not know what 
he had expected: that the room would be draped in 
black, perhaps, or even that Dumbledore’s body 
might be lying there. In fact, it looked almost exactly 
as it had done when he and Dumbledore had left it 
mere hours previously: the silver instruments 
whirring and puffing on their spindle-legged tables, 
Gryffindor’s sword in its glass case gleaming in the 
moonlight, the Sorting Hat on a shelf behind the 
desk. But Fawkes’s perch stood empty, he was still 
crying his lament to the grounds. And a new portrait 
had joined the ranks of the dead headmasters and 
headmistresses of Hogwarts: Dumbledore was 
slumbering in a golden frame over the desk, his half- 
moon spectacles perched upon his crooked nose, 
looking peaceful and untroubled. 

After glancing once at this portrait, Professor 
McGonagall made an odd movement as though 
steeling herself, then rounded the desk to look at 
Harry, her face taut and lined. 



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“Harry,” she said, “I would like to know what you and 
Professor Dumbledore were doing this evening when 
you left the school.” 

“I can’t tell you that, Professor,” said Harry. He had 
expected the question and had his answer ready. It 
had been here, in this very room, that Dumbledore 
had told him that he was to confide the contents of 
their lessons to nobody but Ron and Hermione. 

“Harry, it might be important,” said Professor 
McGonagall. 

“It is,” said Harry, “very, but he didn’t want me to tell 
anyone.” 

Professor McGonagall glared at him. “Potter” — Harry 
registered the renewed use of his surname — “in the 
light of Professor Dumbledore’s death, I think you 
must see that the situation has changed somewhat — 



“I don’t think so,” said Harry, shrugging. “Professor 
Dumbledore never told me to stop following his orders 
if he died.” 

“But — ” 

“There’s one thing you should know before the 
Ministry gets here, though. Madam Rosmerta’s under 
the Imperius Curse, she was helping Malfoy and the 
Death Eaters, that’s how the necklace and the 
poisoned mead — ” 

“Rosmerta?” said Professor McGonagall incredulously, 
but before she could go on, there was a knock on the 
door behind them and Professors Sprout, Flitwick, 
and Slughorn traipsed into the room, followed by 



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Hagrid, who was still weeping copiously, his huge 
frame trembling with grief. 

“Snape!” ejaculated Slughorn, who looked the most 
shaken, pale and sweating. “Snape! I taught him! I 
thought I knew him!” 

But before any of them could respond to this, a sharp 
voice spoke from high on the wall: A sallow-faced 
wizard with a short black fringe had just walked back 
into his empty canvas. 

“Minerva, the Minister will be here within seconds, he 
has just Disapparated from the Ministry.” 

“Thank you, Everard,” said Professor McGonagall, 
and she turned quickly to her teachers. 

“I want to talk about what happens to Hogwarts 
before he gets here,” she said quickly. “Personally, I 
am not convinced that the school should reopen next 
year. The death of the headmaster at the hands of one 
of our colleagues is a terrible stain upon Hogwarts ’s 
history. It is horrible.” 

“I am sure Dumbledore would have wanted the school 
to remain open,” said Professor Sprout. “I feel that if a 
single pupil wants to come, then the school ought to 
remain open for that pupil.” 

“But will we have a single pupil after this?” said 
Slughorn, now dabbing his sweating brow with a 
silken handkerchief. “Parents will want to keep their 
children at home and I can’t say I blame them. 
Personally, I don’t think we’re in more danger at 
Hogwarts than we are anywhere else, but you can’t 
expect mothers to think like that. They’ll want to keep 
their families together, it’s only natural.” 



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“I agree,” said Professor McGonagall. “And in any 
case, it is not true to say that Dumbledore never 
envisaged a situation in which Hogwarts might close. 
When the Chamber of Secrets reopened he considered 
the closure of the school — and I must say that 
Professor Dumbledore’s murder is more disturbing to 
me than the idea of Slytherin’s monster living 
undetected in the bowels of the castle. ...” 

“We must consult the governors,” said Professor 
Flitwick in his squeaky little voice; he had a large 
bruise on his forehead but seemed otherwise 
unscathed by his collapse in Snape’s office. “We must 
follow the established procedures. A decision should 
not be made hastily.” 

“Hagrid, you haven’t said anything,” said Professor 
McGonagall. “What are your views, ought Hogwarts to 
remain open?” 

Hagrid, who had been weeping silently into his large, 
spotted handkerchief throughout this conversation, 
now raised puffy red eyes and croaked, “I dunno, 
Professor ... that’s fer the Heads of House an’ the 
headmistress ter decide ...” 

“Professor Dumbledore always valued your views,” 
said Professor McGonagall kindly, “and so do I.” 

“Well, I’m stayin’,” said Hagrid, fat tears still leaking 
out of the corners of his eyes and trickling down into 
his tangled beard. “It’s me home, it’s bin me home 
since I was thirteen. An’ if there’s kids who wan’ me 
ter teach ’em, I’ll do it. But ... I dunno ... Hogwarts 
without Dumbledore ...” He gulped and disappeared 
behind his handkerchief once more, and there was 
silence. 



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“Very well,” said Professor McGonagall, glancing out 
of the window at the grounds, checking to see 
whether the Minister was yet approaching, “then I 
must agree with Filius that the right thing to do is to 
consult the governors, who will make the final 
decision. 

“Now, as to getting students home ... there is an 
argument for doing it sooner rather than later. We 
could arrange for the Hogwarts Express to come 
tomorrow if necessary — ” 

“What about Dumbledore’s funeral?” said Harry, 
speaking at last. 

“Well ...” said Professor McGonagall, losing a little of 
her briskness as her voice shook. “I — I know that it 
was Dumbledore’s wish to be laid to rest here, at 
Hogwarts — ” 

“Then that’s what’ll happen, isn’t it?” said Harry 
fiercely. 

“If the Ministry thinks it appropriate,” said Professor 
McGonagall. “No other headmaster or headmistress 
has ever been — ” 

“No other headmaster or headmistress ever gave more 
to this school,” growled Hagrid. 

“Hogwarts should be Dumbledore’s final resting 
place,” said Professor Flitwick. 

“Absolutely,” said Professor Sprout. 

“And in that case,” said Harry, “you shouldn’t send 
the students home until the funeral’s over. They’ll 
want to say — ” 



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The last word caught in his throat, but Professor 
Sprout completed the sentence for him. 



“Good-bye.” 

“Well said,” squeaked Professor Flitwick. “Well said 
indeed! Our students should pay tribute, it is fitting. 
We can arrange transport home afterward.” 

“Seconded,” barked Professor Sprout. 

“I suppose ... yes ...” said Slughorn in a rather 
agitated voice, while Hagrid let out a strangled sob of 
assent. 

“He’s coming,” said Professor McGonagall suddenly, 
gazing down into the grounds. “The Minister ... and 
by the looks of it, he’s brought a delegation ...” 

“Can I leave, Professor?” said Harry at once. 

He had no desire at all to see, or be interrogated by, 
Rufus Scrimgeour tonight. 

“You may,” said Professor McGonagall. “And quickly.” 

She strode toward the door and held it open for him. 
He sped down the spiral staircase and off along the 
deserted corridor; he had left his Invisibility Cloak at 
the top of the Astronomy Tower, but it did not matter; 
there was nobody in the corridors to see him pass, 
not even Filch, Mrs. Norris, or Peeves. He did not 
meet another soul until he turned into the passage 
leading to the Gryffindor common room. 

“Is it true?” whispered the Fat Lady as he approached 
her. “It is really true? Dumbledore — dead?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. 

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She let out a wail and, without waiting for the 
password, swung forward to admit him. 



As Harry had suspected it would be, the common 
room was jam-packed. The room fell silent as he 
climbed through the portrait hole. He saw Dean and 
Seamus sitting in a group nearby: This meant that 
the dormitory must be empty, or nearly so. Without 
speaking to anybody, without making eye contact at 
all, Harry walked straight across the room and 
through the door to the boys’ dormitories. 

As he had hoped, Ron was waiting for him, still fully 
dressed, sitting on his bed. Harry sat down on his 
own four-poster and for a moment, they simply stared 
at each other. 

“They’re talking about closing the school,” said Harry. 
“Lupin said they would,” said Ron. 

There was a pause. 

“So?” said Ron in a very low voice, as though he 
thought the furniture might be listening in. “Did you 
find one? Did you get it? A — a Horcrux?” 

Harry shook his head. All that had taken place 
around that black lake seemed like an old nightmare 
now; had it really happened, and only hours ago? 

“You didn’t get it?” said Ron, looking crestfallen. “It 
wasn’t there?” 

“No,” said Harry. “Someone had already taken it and 
left a fake in its place.” 

“Already taken — ?” 

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Wordlessly, Harry pulled the fake locket from his 
pocket, opened it, and passed it to Ron. The full story 
could wait. ... It did not matter tonight ... nothing 
mattered except the end, the end of their pointless 
adventure, the end of Dumbledore’s life. ... 

“R.A.B.,” whispered Ron, “but who was that?” 

“Dunno,” said Harry, lying back on his bed fully 
clothed and staring blankly upwards. He felt no 
curiosity at all about R.A.B.: He doubted that he 
would ever feel curious again. As he lay there, he 
became aware suddenly that the grounds were silent. 
Fawkes had stopped singing. 

And he knew, without knowing how he knew it, that 
the phoenix had gone, had left Hogwarts for good, just 
as Dumbledore had left the school, had left the world 
. . . had left Harry. 



Page | 709 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 






THE WHITE TOMB 

All lessons were suspended, all examinations 
postponed. Some students were hurried away from 
Hogwarts by their parents over the next couple of 
days — the Patil twins were gone before breakfast on 
the morning following Dumbledore’s death, and 
Zacharias Smith was escorted from the castle by his 
haughty-looking father. Seamus Finnigan, on the 
other hand, refused point-blank to accompany his 
mother home; they had a shouting match in the 
entrance hall that was resolved when she agreed that 
he could remain behind for the funeral. She had 
difficulty in finding a bed in Hogsmeade, Seamus told 
Harry and Ron, for wizards and witches were pouring 
into the village, preparing to pay their last respects to 
Dumbledore. 

Some excitement was caused among the younger 
students, who had never seen it before, when a 
powder-blue carriage the size of a house, pulled by a 
dozen giant winged palominos, came soaring out of 
the sky in the late afternoon before the funeral and 



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landed on the edge of the forest. Harry watched from 
a window as a gigantic and handsome olive-skinned, 
black-haired woman descended the carriage steps 
and threw herself into the waiting Hagrid’s arms. 
Meanwhile a delegation of Ministry officials, including 
the Minister of Magic himself, was being 
accommodated within the castle. Harry was diligently 
avoiding contact with any of them; he was sure that, 
sooner or later, he would be asked again to account 
for Dumbledore’s last excursion from Hogwarts. 

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were spending all 
of their time together. The beautiful weather seemed 
to mock them; Harry could imagine how it would have 
been if Dumbledore had not died, and they had had 
this time together at the very end of the year, Ginny’s 
examinations finished, the pressure of homework 
lifted . . . and hour by hour, he put off saying the thing 
that he knew he must say, doing what he knew was 
right to do, because it was too hard to forgo his best 
source of comfort. 

They visited the hospital wing twice a day: Neville had 
been discharged, but Bill remained under Madam 
Pomfrey’s care. His scars were as bad as ever — in 
truth, he now bore a distinct resemblance to Mad-Eye 
Moody, though thankfully with both eyes and legs — 
but in personality he seemed just the same as ever. 

All that appeared to have changed was that he now 
had a great liking for very rare steaks. 

"... so eet ees lucky ’e is marrying me,” said Fleur 
happily, plumping up Bill’s pillows, “because ze 
British overcook their meat, I ’ave always said this.” 

“I suppose I’m just going to have to accept that he 
really is going to marry her,” sighed Ginny later that 
evening, as she, Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat beside 



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the open window of the Gryffindor common room, 
looking out over the twilit grounds. 

“She’s not that bad,” said Harry. “Ugly, though,” he 
added hastily, as Ginny raised her eyebrows, and she 
let out a reluctant giggle. 

“Well, I suppose if Mum can stand it, I can.” 

“Anyone else we know died?” Ron asked Hermione, 
who was perusing the Evening Prophet. 

Hermione winced at the forced toughness in his voice. 
“No,” she said reprovingly, folding up the newspaper. 
“They’re still looking for Snape but no sign ...” 

“Of course there isn’t,” said Harry, who became angry 
every time this subject cropped up. “They won’t find 
Snape till they find Voldemort, and seeing as they’ve 
never managed to do that in all this time ...” 

“I’m going to go to bed,” yawned Ginny. “I haven’t 
been sleeping that well since . . . well ... I could do with 
some sleep.” 

She kissed Harry (Ron looked away pointedly), waved 
at the other two, and departed for the girls’ 
dormitories. The moment the door had closed behind 
her, Hermione leaned forward toward Harry with a 
most Hermione-ish look on her face. 

“Harry, I found something out this morning, in the 
library.” 

“R.A.B.?” said Harry, sitting up straight. 

He did not feel the way he had so often felt before, 
excited, curious, burning to get to the bottom of a 
mystery; he simply knew that the task of discovering 

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the truth about the real Horcrux had to be completed 
before he could move a little farther along the dark 
and winding path stretching ahead of him, the path 
that he and Dumbledore had set out upon together, 
and which he now knew he would have to journey 
alone. There might still be as many as four Horcruxes 
out there somewhere, and each would need to be 
found and eliminated before there was even a 
possibility that Voldemort could be killed. He kept 
reciting their names to himself, as though by listing 
them he could bring them within reach: the locket ... 
the cup . . . the snake . . . something of Gryffindor’s or 
Ravenclaw’s . . . the locket . . . the cup . . . the snake . . . 
something of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw’s ... 

This mantra seemed to pulse through Harry’s mind as 
he fell asleep at night, and his dreams were thick with 
cups, lockets, and mysterious objects that he could 
not quite reach, though Dumbledore helpfully offered 
Harry a rope ladder that turned to snakes the 
moment he began to climb. ... 

He had shown Hermione the note inside the locket 
the morning after Dumbledore ’s death, and although 
she had not immediately recognized the initials as 
belonging to some obscure wizard about whom she 
had been reading, she had since been rushing off to 
the library a little more often than was strictly 
necessary for somebody who had no homework to do. 

“No,” she said sadly, “I’ve been trying, Harry, but I 
haven’t found anything. ... There are a couple of 
reasonably well-known wizards with those initials — 
Rosalind Antigone Bungs . . . Rupert ‘Axebanger’ 
Brookstanton ... but they don’t seem to fit at all. 
Judging by that note, the person who stole the 
Horcrux knew Voldemort, and I can’t find a shred of 
evidence that Bungs or Axebanger ever had anything 



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to do with him. ... No, actually, it’s about ... well, 
Snape.” 

She looked nervous even saying the name again. 

“What about him?” asked Harry heavily, slumping 
back in his chair. 

“Well, it’s just that I was sort of right about the Half- 
Blood Prince business,” she said tentatively. 

“D’you have to rub it in, Hermione? How d’you think I 
feel about that now?” 

“No — no — Harry, I didn’t mean that!” she said 
hastily, looking around to check that they were not 
being overheard. “It’s just that I was right about 
Eileen Prince once owning the book. You see ... she 
was Snape ’s mother!” 

“I thought she wasn’t much of a looker,” said Ron. 
Hermione ignored him. 

“I was going through the rest of the old Prophets and 
there was a tiny announcement about Eileen Prince 
marrying a man called Tobias Snape, and then later 
an announcement saying that she’d given birth to a 



“ — murderer,” spat Harry. 

“Well ... yes,” said Hermione. “So ... I was sort of 
right. Snape must have been proud of being ‘half a 
Prince,’ you see? Tobias Snape was a Muggle from 
what it said in the Prophet” 

“Yeah, that fits,” said Harry. “He’d play up the pure- 
blood side so he could get in with Lucius Malfoy and 
the rest of them. ... He’s just like Voldemort. Pure- 

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blood mother, Muggle father . . . ashamed of his 
parentage, trying to make himself feared using the 
Dark Arts, gave himself an impressive new name — 
Lord Voldemort — the Half-Blood Prince — how could 
Dumbledore have missed — ?” 

He broke off, looking out the window. He could not 
stop himself dwelling upon Dumbledore ’s inexcusable 
trust in Snape ... but as Hermione had just 
inadvertently reminded him, he, Harry, had been 
taken in just the same. ... In spite of the increasing 
nastiness of those scribbled spells, he had refused to 
believe ill of the boy who had been so clever, who had 
helped him so much. ... 

Helped him ... it was an almost unendurable thought 
now. 

“I still don’t get why he didn’t turn you in for using 
that book,” said Ron. “He must’ve known where you 
were getting it all from.” 

“He knew,” said Harry bitterly. “He knew when I used 
Sectumsempra. He didn’t really need Legilimency. ... 
He might even have known before then, with 
Slughorn talking about how brilliant I was at Potions. 
... Shouldn’t have left his old book in the bottom of 
that cupboard, should he?” 

“But why didn’t he turn you in?” 

“I don’t think he wanted to associate himself with that 
book,” said Hermione. “I don’t think Dumbledore 
would have liked it very much if he’d known. And 
even if Snape pretended it hadn’t been his, Slughorn 
would have recognized his writing at once. Anyway, 
the book was left in Snape’s old classroom, and I’ll bet 
Dumbledore knew his mother was called ‘Prince.’ ” 



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“I should’ve shown the book to Dumbledore,” said 
Harry. “All that time he was showing me how 
Voldemort was evil even when he was at school, and I 
had proof Snape was too — ” 

“ ‘Evil’ is a strong word,” said Hermione quietly. 

“You were the one who kept telling me the book was 
dangerous!” 

“I’m trying to say, Harry, that you’re putting too much 
blame on yourself. I thought the Prince seemed to 
have a nasty sense of humor, but I would never have 
guessed he was a potential killer. ...” 

“None of us could’ve guessed Snape would ... you 
know,” said Ron. 

Silence fell between them, each of them lost in their 
own thoughts, but Harry was sure that they, like him, 
were thinking about the following morning, when 
Dumbledore’s body would be laid to rest. He had 
never attended a funeral before; there had been no 
body to bury when Sirius had died. He did not know 
what to expect and was a little worried about what he 
might see, about how he would feel. He wondered 
whether Dumbledore’s death would be more real to 
him once it was over. Though he had moments when 
the horrible fact of it threatened to overwhelm him, 
there were blank stretches of numbness where, 
despite the fact that nobody was talking about 
anything else in the whole castle, he still found it 
difficult to believe that Dumbledore had really gone. 
Admittedly he had not, as he had with Sirius, looked 
desperately for some kind of loophole, some way that 
Dumbledore would come back. . . . He felt in his pocket 
for the cold chain of the fake Horcrux, which he now 
carried with him everywhere, not as a talisman, but 



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as a reminder of what it had cost and what remained 
still to do. 

Harry rose early to pack the next day; the Hogwarts 
Express would be leaving an hour after the funeral. 
Downstairs, he found the mood in the Great Hall 
subdued. Everybody was wearing their dress robes 
and no one seemed very hungry. Professor 
McGonagall had left the thronelike chair in the middle 
of the staff table empty. Hagrid’s chair was deserted 
too; Harry thought that perhaps he had not been able 
to face breakfast, but Snape’s place had been 
unceremoniously filled by Rufus Scrimgeour. Harry 
avoided his yellowish eyes as they scanned the Hall; 
Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that Scrimgeour 
was looking for him. Among Scrimgeour’s entourage 
Harry spotted the red hair and horn-rimmed glasses 
of Percy Weasley. Ron gave no sign that he was aware 
of Percy, apart from stabbing pieces of kipper with 
unwonted venom. 

Over at the Slytherin table Crabbe and Goyle were 
muttering together. Hulking boys though they were, 
they looked oddly lonely without the tall, pale figure of 
Malfoy between them, bossing them around. Harry 
had not spared Malfoy much thought. His animosity 
was all for Snape, but he had not forgotten the fear in 
Malfoy’s voice on that tower top, nor the fact that he 
had lowered his wand before the other Death Eaters 
arrived. Harry did not believe that Malfoy would have 
killed Dumbledore. He despised Malfoy still for his 
infatuation with the Dark Arts, but now the tiniest 
drop of pity mingled with his dislike. Where, Harry 
wondered, was Malfoy now, and what was Voldemort 
making him do under threat of killing him and his 
parents? 

Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by a nudge in the 
ribs from Ginny. Professor McGonagall had risen to 

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her feet, and the mournful hum in the Hall died away 
at once. 

“It is nearly time,” she said. “Please follow your Heads 
of Houses out into the grounds. Gryffindors, after 
me.” 

They filed out from behind their benches in near 
silence. Harry glimpsed Slughorn at the head of the 
Slytherin column, wearing magnificent, long, emerald 
green robes embroidered with silver. He had never 
seen Professor Sprout, Head of the Hufflepuffs, 
looking so clean; there was not a single patch on her 
hat, and when they reached the entrance hall, they 
found Madam Pince standing beside Filch, she in a 
thick black veil that fell to her knees, he in an ancient 
black suit and tie reeking of mothballs. 

They were heading, as Harry saw when he stepped 
out onto the stone steps from the front doors, toward 
the lake. The warmth of the sun caressed his face as 
they followed Professor McGonagall in silence to the 
place where hundreds of chairs had been set out in 
rows. An aisle ran down the center of them: There 
was a marble table standing at the front, all chairs 
facing it. It was the most beautiful summer’s day. 

An extraordinary assortment of people had already 
settled into half of the chairs; shabby and smart, old 
and young. Most Harry did not recognize, but a few 
he did, including members of the Order of the 
Phoenix: Kingsley Shacklebolt; Mad-Eye Moody; 
Tonks, her hair miraculously returned to vividest 
pink; Remus Lupin, with whom she seemed to be 
holding hands; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley; Bill supported 
by Fleur and followed by Fred and George, who were 
wearing jackets of black dragon skin. Then there was 
Madame Maxime, who took up two and a half chairs 
on her own; Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron 
Page | 718 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




in London; Arabella Figg, Harry’s Squib neighbor; the 
hairy bass player from the Wizarding group the Weird 
Sisters; Ernie Prang, driver of the Knight Bus; Madam 
Malkin, of the robe shop in Diagon Alley; and some 
people whom Harry merely knew by sight, such as the 
barman of the Hog’s Head and the witch who pushed 
the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. The castle ghosts 
were there too, barely visible in the bright sunlight, 
discernible only when they moved, shimmering 
insubstantially on the gleaming air. 

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny filed into seats at 
the end of a row beside the lake. People were 
whispering to each other; it sounded like a breeze in 
the grass, but the birdsong was louder by far. The 
crowd continued to swell; with a great rush of 
affection for both of them, Harry saw Neville being 
helped into a seat by Luna. Neville and Luna alone of 
the D.A. had responded to Hermione ’s summons the 
night that Dumbledore had died, and Harry knew 
why: They were the ones who had missed the D.A. 
most . . . probably the ones who had checked their 
coins regularly in the hope that there would be 
another meeting. 

Cornelius Fudge walked past toward the front rows, 
his expression miserable, twirling his green bowler 
hat as usual; Harry next recognized Rita Skeeter, 
who, he was infuriated to see, had a notebook 
clutched in her red-taloned hand, and then, with a 
worse jolt of fury, Dolores Umbridge, an unconvincing 
expression of grief upon her toadlike face, a black 
velvet bow set atop her iron-colored curls. At the sight 
of the centaur Firenze, who was standing like a 
sentinel near the water’s edge, she gave a start and 
scurried hastily into a seat a good distance away. 

The staff was seated at last. Harry could see 
Scrimgeour looking grave and dignified in the front 

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row with Professor McGonagall. He wondered whether 
Scrimgeour or any of these important people were 
really sorry that Dumbledore was dead. But then he 
heard music, strange, otherworldly music, and he 
forgot his dislike of the Ministry in looking around for 
the source of it. He was not the only one: Many heads 
were turning, searching, a little alarmed. 

“In there,” whispered Ginny in Harry’s ear. 

And he saw them in the clear green sunlit water, 
inches below the surface, reminding him horribly of 
the Inferi: a chorus of merpeople singing in a strange 
language he did not understand, their pallid faces 
rippling, their purplish hair flowing all around them. 
The music made the hair on Harry’s neck stand up, 
and yet it was not unpleasant. It spoke very clearly of 
loss and of despair. As he looked down into the wild 
faces of the singers, he had the feeling that they, at 
least, were sorry for Dumbledore’s passing. Then 
Ginny nudged him again and he looked around. 

Hagrid was walking slowly up the aisle between the 
chairs. He was crying quite silently, his face gleaming 
with tears, and in his arms, wrapped in purple velvet 
spangled with golden stars, was what Harry knew to 
be Dumbledore’s body. A sharp pain rose in Harry’s 
throat at this sight: For a moment, the strange music 
and the knowledge that Dumbledore’s body was so 
close seemed to take all warmth from the day. Ron 
looked white and shocked. Tears were falling thick 
and fast into both Ginny ’s and Hermione’s laps. 

They could not see clearly what was happening at the 
front. Hagrid seemed to have placed the body 
carefully upon the table. Now he retreated down the 
aisle, blowing his nose with loud trumpeting noises 
that drew scandalized looks from some, including, 
Harry saw, Dolores Umbridge ... but Harry knew that 
Page | 720 Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince - J.K. Rowling 




Dumbledore would not have cared. He tried to make a 
friendly gesture to Hagrid as he passed, but Hagrid’s 
eyes were so swollen it was a wonder he could see 
where he was going. Harry glanced at the back row to 
which Hagrid was heading and realized what was 
guiding him, for there, dressed in a jacket and 
trousers each the size of a small marquee, was the 
giant Grawp, his great ugly boulderlike head bowed, 
docile, almost human. Hagrid sat down next to his 
half-brother, and Grawp patted Hagrid hard on the 
head, so that his chair legs sank into the ground. 
Harry had a wonderful momentary urge to laugh. But 
then the music stopped, and he turned to face the 
front again. 

A little tufty-haired man in plain black robes had got 
to his feet and stood now in front of Dumbledore ’s 
body. Harry could not hear what he was saying. Odd 
words floated back to them over the hundreds of 
heads. “Nobility of spirit” ... “intellectual contribution” 
... “greatness of heart” ... It did not mean very much. 

It had little to do with Dumbledore as Harry had 
known him. He suddenly remembered Dumbledore ’s 
idea of a few words, “nitwit,” “oddment,” “blubber,” 
and “tweak,” and again had to suppress a grin. ... 
What was the matter with him? 

There was a soft splashing noise to his left and he 
saw that the merpeople had broken the surface to 
listen too. He remembered Dumbledore crouching at 
the water’s edge two years ago, very close to where 
Harry now sat, and conversing in Mermish with the 
Merchieftainess. Harry wondered where Dumbledore 
had learned Mermish. There was so much he had 
never asked him, so much he should have said. ... 

And then, without warning, it swept over him, the 
dreadful truth, more completely and undeniably than 
it had until now. Dumbledore was dead, gone. ... He 

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clutched the cold locket in his hand so tightly that it 
hurt, but he could not prevent hot tears spilling from 
his eyes: He looked away from Ginny and the others 
and stared out over the lake, toward the forest, as the 
little man in black droned on. ... There was movement 
among the trees. The centaurs had come to pay their 
respects too. They did not move into the open but 
Harry saw them standing quite still, half hidden in 
shadow, watching the wizards, their bows hanging at 
their sides. And Harry remembered his first 
nightmarish trip into the forest, the first time he had 
ever encountered the thing that was then Voldemort, 
and how he had faced him, and how he and 
Dumbledore had discussed fighting a losing battle not 
long thereafter. It was important, Dumbledore said, to 
fight, and fight again, and keep fighting, for only then 
could evil be kept at bay, though never quite 
eradicated. ... 

And Harry saw very clearly as he sat there under the 
hot sun how people who cared about him had stood 
in front of him one by one, his mother, his father, his 
godfather, and finally Dumbledore, all determined to 
protect him; but now that was over. He could not let 
anybody else stand between him and Voldemort; he 
must abandon forever the illusion he ought to have 
lost at the age of one, that the shelter of a parent’s 
arms meant that nothing could hurt him. There was 
no waking from his nightmare, no comforting whisper 
in the dark that he was safe really, that it was all in 
his imagination; the last and greatest of his protectors 
had died, and he was more alone than he had ever 
been before. 

The little man in black had stopped speaking at last 
and resumed his seat. Harry waited for somebody else 
to get to their feet; he expected speeches, probably 
from the Minister, but nobody moved. 



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Then several people screamed. Bright, white flames 
had erupted around Dumbledore’s body and the table 
upon which it lay: Higher and higher they rose, 
obscuring the body. White smoke spiraled into the air 
and made strange shapes: Harry thought, for one 
heart- stopping moment, that he saw a phoenix fly 
joyfully into the blue, but next second the fire had 
vanished. In its place was a white marble tomb, 
encasing Dumbledore’s body and the table on which 
he had rested. 

There were a few more cries of shock as a shower of 
arrows soared through the air, but they fell far short 
of the crowd. It was, Harry knew, the centaurs’ 
tribute: He saw them turn tail and disappear back 
into the cool trees. Likewise, the merpeople sank 
slowly back into the green water and were lost from 
view. 

Harry looked at Ginny, Ron, and Hermione: Ron’s 
face was screwed up as though the sunlight were 
blinding him. Hermione ’s face was glazed with tears, 
but Ginny was no longer crying. She met Harry’s gaze 
with the same hard, blazing look that he had seen 
when she had hugged him after winning the 
Quidditch Cup in his absence, and he knew that at 
that moment they understood each other perfectly, 
and that when he told her what he was going to do 
now, she would not say, “Be careful,” or “Don’t do it,” 
but accept his decision, because she would not have 
expected anything less of him. And so he steeled 
himself to say what he had known he must say ever 
since Dumbledore had died. 

“Ginny, listen ...” he said very quietly, as the buzz of 
conversation grew louder around them and people 
began to get to their feet, “I can’t be involved with you 
anymore. We’ve got to stop seeing each other. We 
can’t be together.” 

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She said, with an oddly twisted smile, “It’s for some 
stupid, noble reason, isn’t it?” 

“It’s been like ... like something out of someone else’s 
life, these last few weeks with you,” said Harry. “But I 
can’t ... we can’t ... I’ve got things to do alone now.” 

She did not cry, she simply looked at him. 

“Voldemort uses people his enemies are close to. He’s 
already used you as bait once, and that was just 
because you’re my best friend’s sister. Think how 
much danger you’ll be in if we keep this up. He’ll 
know, hell find out. He’ll try and get to me through 
you.” 

“What if I don’t care?” said Ginny fiercely. 

“I care,” said Harry. “How do you think I’d feel if this 
was your funeral ... and it was my fault. ...” 

She looked away from him, over the lake. 

“I never really gave up on you,” she said. “Not really. I 
always hoped. ... Hermione told me to get on with life, 
maybe go out with some other people, relax a bit 
around you, because I never used to be able to talk if 
you were in the room, remember? And she thought 
you might take a bit more notice if I was a bit more — 
myself.” 

“Smart girl, that Hermione,” said Harry, trying to 
smile. “I just wish I’d asked you sooner. We could’ve 
had ages ... months ... years maybe. ...” 

“But you’ve been too busy saving the Wizarding 
world,” said Ginny, half laughing. “Well ... I can’t say 
I’m surprised. I knew this would happen in the end. I 



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knew you wouldn’t be happy unless you were hunting 
Voldemort. Maybe that’s why I like you so much.” 

Harry could not bear to hear these things, nor did he 
think his resolution would hold if he remained sitting 
beside her. Ron, he saw, was now holding Hermione 
and stroking her hair while she sobbed into his 
shoulder, tears dripping from the end of his own long 
nose. With a miserable gesture, Harry got up, turned 
his back on Ginny and on Dumbledore’s tomb, and 
walked away around the lake. Moving felt much more 
bearable than sitting still, just as setting out as soon 
as possible to track down the Horcruxes and kill 
Voldemort would feel better than waiting to do it. ... 

“Harry!” 

He turned. Rufus Scrimgeour was limping rapidly 
toward him around the bank, leaning on his walking 
stick. 

“I’ve been hoping to have a word ... do you mind if I 
walk a little way with you?” 

“No,” said Harry indifferently, and set off again. 

“Harry, this was a dreadful tragedy,” said Scrimgeour 
quietly. “I cannot tell you how appalled I was to hear 
of it. Dumbledore was a very great wizard. We had our 
disagreements, as you know, but no one knows better 
than I — ” 

“What do you want?” asked Harry flatly. 

Scrimgeour looked annoyed, but as before, hastily 
modified his expression to one of sorrowful 
understanding. 



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“You are, of course, devastated,” he said. “I know that 
you were very close to Dumbledore. I think you may 
have been his favorite pupil ever. The bond between 
the two of you — ” 

“What do you want?” Harry repeated, coming to a 
halt. 

Scrimgeour stopped too, leaned on his stick, and 
stared at Harry, his expression shrewd now. 

“The word is that you were with him when he left the 
school the night that he died.” 

“Whose word?” said Harry. 

“Somebody Stupefied a Death Eater on top of the 
tower after Dumbledore died. There were also two 
broomsticks up there. The Ministry can add two and 
two, Harry.” 

“Glad to hear it,” said Harry. “Well, where I went with 
Dumbledore and what we did is my business. He 
didn’t want people to know.” 

“Such loyalty is admirable, of course,” said 
Scrimgeour, who seemed to be restraining his 
irritation with difficulty, “but Dumbledore is gone, 
Harry. He’s gone.” 

“He will only be gone from the school when none here 
are loyal to him,” said Harry, smiling in spite of 
himself. 

“My dear boy . . . even Dumbledore cannot return from 
the — ” 

“I am not saying he can. You wouldn’t understand. 

But I’ve got nothing to tell you.” 

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Scrimgeour hesitated, then said, in what was 
evidently supposed to be a tone of delicacy, “The 
Ministry can offer you all sorts of protection, you 
know, Harry. I would be delighted to place a couple of 
my Aurors at your service — ” 

Harry laughed. “Voldemort wants to kill me himself, 
and Aurors won’t stop him. So thanks for the offer, 
but no thanks.” 

“So,” said Scrimgeour, his voice cold now, “the 
request I made of you at Christmas — ” 

“What request? Oh yeah . . . the one where I tell the 
world what a great job you’re doing in exchange for — ” 

“ — for raising everyone’s morale!” snapped 
Scrimgeour. 

Harry considered him for a moment. 

“Released Stan Shunpike yet?” 

Scrimgeour turned a nasty purple color highly 
reminiscent of Uncle Vernon. 

“I see you are — ” 

“Dumbledore’s man through and through,” said 
Harry. “That’s right.” 

Scrimgeour glared at him for another moment, then 
turned and limped away without another word. Harry 
could see Percy and the rest of the Ministry delegation 
waiting for him, casting nervous glances at the 
sobbing Hagrid and Grawp, who were still in their 
seats. Ron and Hermione were hurrying toward 
Harry, passing Scrimgeour going in the opposite 
direction. Harry turned and walked slowly on, waiting 
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for them to catch up, which they finally did in the 
shade of a beech tree under which they had sat in 
happier times. 

“What did Scrimgeour want?” Hermione whispered. 

“Same as he wanted at Christmas,” shrugged Harry. 
“Wanted me to give him inside information on 
Dumbledore and be the Ministry’s new poster boy.” 

Ron seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, 
then he said loudly to Hermione, “Look, let me go 
back and hit Percy!” 

“No,” she said firmly, grabbing his arm. 

“It’ll make me feel better!” 

Harry laughed. Even Hermione grinned a little, 
though her smile faded as she looked up at the castle. 

“I can’t bear the idea that we might never come back,” 
she said softly. “How can Hogwarts close?” 

“Maybe it won’t,” said Ron. “We’re not in any more 
danger here than we are at home, are we? 
Everywhere’s the same now. I’d even say Hogwarts is 
safer, there are more wizards inside to defend the 
place. What d’you reckon, Harry?” 

“I’m not coming back even if it does reopen,” said 
Harry. 

Ron gaped at him, but Hermione said sadly, “I knew 
you were going to say that. But then what will you 
do?” 



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‘Tm going back to the Dursleys’ once more, because 
Dumbledore wanted me to,” said Harry. “But it’ll be a 
short visit, and then I’ll be gone for good.” 

“But where will you go if you don’t come back to 
school?” 

“I thought I might go back to Godric’s Hollow,” Harry 
muttered. He had had the idea in his head ever since 
the night of Dumbledore’s death. “For me, it started 
there, all of it. I’ve just got a feeling I need to go there. 
And I can visit my parents’ graves, I’d like that.” 

“And then what?” said Ron. 

“Then I’ve got to track down the rest of the Horcruxes, 
haven’t I?” said Harry, his eyes upon Dumbledore’s 
white tomb, reflected in the water on the other side of 
the lake. “That’s what he wanted me to do, that’s why 
he told me all about them. If Dumbledore was right — 
and I’m sure he was — there are still four of them out 
there. I’ve got to find them and destroy them, and 
then I’ve got to go after the seventh bit of Voldemort’s 
soul, the bit that’s still in his body, and I’m the one 
who’s going to kill him. And if I meet Severus Snape 
along the way,” he added, “so much the better for me, 
so much the worse for him.” 

There was a long silence. The crowd had almost 
dispersed now, the stragglers giving the monumental 
figure of Grawp a wide berth as he cuddled Hagrid, 
whose howls of grief were still echoing across the 
water. 

“Well be there, Harry,” said Ron. 

“What?” 



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“At your aunt and uncle’s house,” said Ron. “And 
then well go with you wherever you’re going.” 

“No — ” said Harry quickly; he had not counted on 
this, he had meant them to understand that he was 
undertaking this most dangerous journey alone. 

“You said to us once before,” said Hermione quietly, 
“that there was time to turn back if we wanted to. 
We’ve had time, haven’t we? 

“We’re with you whatever happens,” said Ron. “But 
mate, you’re going to have to come round my mum 
and dad’s house before we do anything else, even 
Godric’s Hollow.” 

“Why?” 

“Bill and Fleur’s wedding, remember?” 

Harry looked at him, startled; the idea that anything 
as normal as a wedding could still exist seemed 
incredible and yet wonderful. 

“Yeah, we shouldn’t miss that,” he said finally. 

His hand closed automatically around the fake 
Horcrux, but in spite of everything, in spite of the 
dark and twisting path he saw stretching ahead for 
himself, in spite of the final meeting with Voldemort 
he knew must come, whether in a month, in a year, 
or in ten, he felt his heart lift at the thought that 
there was still one last golden day of peace left to 
enjoy with Ron and Hermione. 



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I 



* 

THE DARK LORD ASCENDING 

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

“News?” asked the taller of the two. 

“The best,” replied Severus Snape. 

The lane was bordered on the left by wild, low- 
growing brambles, on the right by a high, neatly 
manicured hedge. The men’s long cloaks flapped 
around their ankles as they marched. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The drawing room was full of silent people, sitting at a 
long and ornate table. The room’s usual furniture had 

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been pushed carelessly up against the walls. 
Illumination came from a roaring fire beneath a 
handsome marble mantelpiece surmounted by a 
gilded mirror. Snape and Yaxley lingered for a 
moment on the threshold. As their eyes grew 
accustomed to the lack of light, they were drawn 
upward to the strangest feature of the scene: an 
apparently unconscious human figure hanging upside 
down over the table, revolving slowly as if suspended 
by an invisible rope, and reflected in the mirror and in 
the bare, polished surface of the table below. None of 
the people seated underneath this singular sight was 
looking at it except for a pale young man sitting 
almost directly below it. He seemed unable to prevent 
himself from glancing upward every minute or so. 

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

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

“Severus, here,” said Voldemort, indicating the seat 
on his immediate right. “Yaxley — beside Dolohov.” 

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

“So?” 

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

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

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

“Good. Very good. And this information comes — ” 

“ — from the source we discussed,” said Snape. 

“My Lord.” 

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

“My Lord, I have heard differently.” 

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

Snape was smiling. 

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

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



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

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

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



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

“Where are they going to hide the boy next?” 

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

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



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




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

“My Lord, I have good news on that score. I have — 
with difficulty, and after great effort — suceeded in 
placing an Imperius Curse upon Pius Thicknesse.” 

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

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

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

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

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



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My Lord?” 

“Your wand, Lucius. I require your wand.” 



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

“What is it?” 

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“Elm, my Lord,” whispered Malfoy. 



“And the core?” 

“Dragon — dragon heartstring.” 

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

“Give you my wand, Lucius? My wand?” 

Some of the throng sniggered. 

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

“Nothing — nothing, my Lord!” 

“Such lies, Lucius ...” 

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

The huge snake emerged to climb slowly up 
Voldemort’s chair. It rose, seemingly endlessly, and 
came to rest across Voldemort’s shoulders: its neck 
the thickness of a man’s thigh; its eyes, with their 
vertical slits for pupils, unblinking. Voldemort stroked 

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the creature absently with long thin fingers, still 
looking at Lucius Malfoy. 

“Why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot? 

Is my return, my rise to power, not the very thing they 
professed to desire for so many years?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My Lord knows I speak nothing but the truth!” 



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




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



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

“I don’t know what you mean, my Lord.” 

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

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

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

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

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



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“Enough,” said Voldemort, stroking the angry snake. 
“Enough.” 

And the laughter died at once. 

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

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

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

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

“Do you recognize our guest, Severus?” asked 
Voldemort. 

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

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



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

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

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

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

“Severus ... please ... please ...” 

“Silence,” said Voldemort, with another twitch of 
Malfoy’s wand, and Charity fell silent as if gagged. 

“Not content with corrupting and polluting the minds 
of Wizarding children, last week Professor Burbage 
wrote an impassioned defense of Mudbloods in the 
Daily Prophet Wizards, she says, must accept these 
thieves of their knowledge and magic. The dwindling 
of the purebloods is, says Professor Burbage, a most 
desirable circumstance. ... She would have us all 
mate with Muggles ... or, no doubt, werewolves. ...” 

Nobody laughed this time: There was no mistaking 
the anger and contempt in Voldemort’s voice. For the 
third time, Charity Burbage revolved to face Snape. 
Tears were pouring from her eyes into her hair. Snape 

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looked back at her, quite impassive, as she turned 
slowly away from him again. 

“Avada Kedavra.” 

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

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



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 






IN MEMORIAM 

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

“What the — ?” 

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

It was stupid, pointless, irritating beyond belief that 
he still had four days left of being unable to perform 
magic . . . but he had to admit to himself that this 
jagged cut in his finger would have defeated him. He 

Page | 16 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows -J.K. Rowling 



had never learned how to repair wounds, and now he 
came to think of it — particularly in light of his 
immediate plans — this seemed a serious flaw in his 
magical education. Making a mental note to ask 
Hermione how it was done, he used a large wad of 
toilet paper to mop up as much of the tea as he could, 
before returning to his bedroom and slamming the 
door behind him. 

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

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

Harry sat up and examined the jagged piece on which 
he had cut himself, seeing nothing but his own bright 

Page | 17 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




green eye reflected back at him. Then he placed the 
fragment on top of that morning’s Daily Prophet, 
which lay unread on the bed, and attempted to stem 
the sudden upsurge of bitter memories, the stabs of 
regret and of longing the discovery of the broken 
mirror had occasioned, by attacking the rest of the 
rubbish in the trunk. 

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

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

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

Page | 18 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




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

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE REMEMBERED 

by Elphias Doge 

I met Albus Dumbledore at the age of eleven, on our 
first day at Hogwarts. Our mutual attraction was 
undoubtedly due to the fact that we both felt 
ourselves to be outsiders. I had contracted dragon 
pox shortly before arriving at school, and while I was 
no longer contagious, my pockmarked visage and 
greenish hue did not encourage many to approach 
me. For his part, Albus had arrived at Hogwarts 
under the burden of unwanted notoriety. Scarcely a 
year previously, his father, Percival, had been 
convicted of a savage and well-publicized attack upon 
three young Muggles. 

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



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




his determined support for Muggle rights gained him 
many enemies in subsequent years. 

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

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

Three years after we had started at Hogwarts, Albus’s 
brother, Aberforth, arrived at school. They were not 
alike; Aberforth was never bookish and, unlike Albus, 
preferred to settle arguments by dueling rather than 
through reasoned discussion. However, it is quite 
wrong to suggest, as some have, that the brothers 
were not friends. They rubbed along as comfortably as 
two such different boys could do. In fairness to 
Aberforth, it must be admitted that living in Albus’s 
Page | 20 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




shadow cannot have been an altogether comfortable 
experience. Being continually outshone was an 
occupational hazard of being his friend and cannot 
have been any more pleasurable as a brother. 

When Albus and I left Hogwarts we intended to take 
the then- traditional tour of the world together, visiting 
and observing foreign wizards, before pursuing our 
separate careers. However, tragedy intervened. On the 
very eve of our trip, Albus’s mother, Kendra, died, 
leaving Albus the head, and sole breadwinner, of the 
family. I postponed my departure long enough to pay 
my respects at Kendra’s funeral, then left for what 
was now to be a solitary journey. With a younger 
brother and sister to care for, and little gold left to 
them, there could no longer be any question of Albus 
accompanying me. 

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

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



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




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

Other quills will describe the triumphs of the following 
years. Dumbledore’s innumerable contributions to the 
store of Wizarding knowledge, including his discovery 
of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, will benefit 
generations to come, as will the wisdom he displayed 
in the many judgments he made while Chief Warlock of 
the Wizengamot. They say, still, that no Wizarding duel 
ever matched that between Dumbledore and 
Grindelwald in 1 945. Those who witnessed it have 
written of the terror and the awe they felt as they 
watched these two extraordinary wizards do battle. 
Dumbledore’s triumph, and its consequences for the 
Wizarding world, are considered a turning point in 
magical history to match the introduction of the 
International Statute of Secrecy or the downfall of He- 
Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. 

Albus Dumbledore was never proud or vain; he could 
find something to value in anyone, however 
apparently insignificant or wretched, and I believe 
that his early losses endowed him with great 
humanity and sympathy. I shall miss his friendship 
more than I can say, but my loss is as nothing 
compared to the Wizarding world’s. That he was the 
most inspiring and the best loved of all Hogwarts 
headmasters cannot be in question. He died as he 
lived: working always for the greater good and, to his 
last hour, as willing to stretch out a hand to a small 
Page | 22 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




boy with dragon pox as he was on the day that I met 
him. 

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

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

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

“ What do you see when you look in the mirror?” 



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“/? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks.” 

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

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

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

DUMBLEDORE — THE TRUTH AT LAST? 

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

HOW did Dumbledore really meet his end? 

Page | 24 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Page | 25 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




Skeeter throws back her head and laughs. 



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

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

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

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

“Now, come off it, Betty, I’m not giving away all the 
highlights before anybody’s bought the book!” laughs 
Skeeter. “But I can promise that anybody who still 
thinks Dumbledore was white as his beard is in for a 

Page | 26 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




rude awakening! Let’s just say that nobody hearing 
him rage against You-Know-Who would have dreamed 
that he dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in his youth! 
And for a wizard who spent his later years pleading 
for tolerance, he wasn’t exactly broad-minded when 
he was younger! Yes, Albus Dumbledore had an 
extremely murky past, not to mention that very fishy 
family, which he worked so hard to keep hushed up.” 

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

“Oh, Aberforth is just the tip of the dung heap, ” laughs 
Skeeter. “No, no, I’m talking about much worse than a 
brother with a fondness for fiddling about with goats, 
worse even than the Muggle-maiming father — 
Dumbledore couldn’t keep either of them quiet anyway, 
they were both charged by the Wizengamot. No, it’s the 
mother and the sister that intrigued me, and a little 
digging uncovered a positive nest of nastiness — but, 
as I say, you’ll have to wait for chapters nine to twelve 
for full details. All I can say now is, it’s no wonder 
Dumbledore never talked about how his nose got 
broken. ” 

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

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



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yes, we’ve developed a close bond,” says Skeeter. 
“Poor Potter has few real friends, and we met at one of 
the most testing moments of his life — the Triwizard 
Tournament. I am probably one of the only people 

Page | 28 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




alive who can say that they know the real Harry 
Potter.” 

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

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

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

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

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

Page | 29 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

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

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



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




3 




THE DURSLEYS DEPARTING 

The sound of the front door slamming echoed up the 
stairs and a voice yelled, “Oi! You!” 

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

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

Harry strolled downstairs, his hands deep in his jeans 
pockets. When he reached the living room he found 
all three Dursleys. They were dressed for traveling: 
Uncle Vernon in a fawn zip-up jacket, Aunt Petunia in 



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 



a neat salmon-colored coat, and Dudley, Harry’s 
large, blond, muscular cousin, in his leather jacket. 



“Yes?” asked Harry. 

“Sit down!” said Uncle Vernon. Harry raised his 
eyebrows. “Please!” added Uncle Vernon, wincing 
slightly as though the word was sharp in his throat. 

Harry sat. He thought he knew what was coming. His 
uncle began to pace up and down, Aunt Petunia and 
Dudley following his movements with anxious 
expressions. Finally, his large purple face crumpled 
with concentration, Uncle Vernon stopped in front of 
Harry and spoke. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. 

“What a surprise,” said Harry. 

“Don’t you take that tone — ” began Aunt Petunia in a 
shrill voice, but Vernon Dursley waved her down. 

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

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

Page | 32 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




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



— from — ” 



“Some of ‘my lot,’ right,” said Harry. 

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

“The house?” repeated Harry. “What house?” 

“ This house!” shrieked Uncle Vernon, the vein in his 
forehead starting to pulse. “Our house! House prices 
are skyrocketing around here! You want us out of the 
way and then you’re going to do a bit of hocus-pocus 
and before we know it the deeds will be in your name 
and — ” 

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

“Don’t you dare — !” squealed Aunt Petunia, but 
again, Vernon waved her down: Slights on his 
personal appearance were, it seemed, as nothing to 
the danger he had spotted. 

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

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

“You claim,” said Uncle Vernon, starting to pace yet 
again, “that this Lord Thing — ” 

Page | 33 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“ — Voldemort,” said Harry impatiently, “and we’ve 
been through this about a hundred times already. 

This isn’t a claim, it’s fact, Dumbledore told you last 
year, and Kingsley and Mr. Weasley — ” 

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

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

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

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

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

Page | 34 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“There is,” said Harry, surprised. 



“Well, then, why can’t they protect us? It seems to me 
that, as innocent victims, guilty of nothing more than 
harboring a marked man, we ought to qualify for 
government protection!” 

Harry laughed; he could not help himself. It was so 
very typical of his uncle to put his hopes in the 
establishment, even within this world that he 
despised and mistrusted. 

“You heard what Mr. Weasley and Kingsley said,” 
Harry replied. “We think the Ministry has been 
infiltrated.” 

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

“All right,” he said, stopping in front of Harry yet 
again. “All right, let’s say, for the sake of argument, 
we accept this protection. I still don’t see why we can’t 
have that Kingsley bloke.” 

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

“As I’ve told you,” he said through gritted teeth, 
“Kingsley is protecting the Mug — I mean, your Prime 
Minister.” 

“Exactly — he’s the best!” said Uncle Vernon, pointing 
at the blank television screen. The Dursleys had 
spotted Kingsley on the news, walking along 
discreetly behind the Muggle Prime Minister as he 
visited a hospital. This, and the fact that Kingsley had 
mastered the knack of dressing like a Muggle, not to 
Page | 35 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




mention a certain reassuring something in his slow, 
deep voice, had caused the Dursleys to take to 
Kingsley in a way that they had certainly not done 
with any other wizard, although it was true that they 
had never seen him with his earring in. 

“Well, he’s taken,” said Harry. “But Hestia Jones and 
Dedalus Diggle are more than up to the job — ” 

“If we’d even seen CVs ...” began Uncle Vernon, but 
Harry lost patience. Getting to his feet, he advanced 
on his uncle, now pointing at the TV set himself. 

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

Dudley’s hands jerked upward to cover his mouth. 
With his parents’ and Harry’s eyes upon him, he 
slowly lowered them again and asked, “There are . . . 
more of them?” 

“More?” laughed Harry. “More than the two that 
attacked us, you mean? Of course there are, there are 
hundreds, maybe thousands by this time, seeing as 
they feed off fear and despair — ” 

“All right, all right,” blustered Vernon Dursley. 

“You’ve made your point — ” 

“I hope so,” said Harry, “because once I’m seventeen, 
all of them — Death Eaters, dementors, maybe even 
Inferi — which means dead bodies enchanted by a 
Dark wizard — will be able to find you and will 

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certainly attack you. And if you remember the last 
time you tried to outrun wizards, I think you 11 agree 
you need help.” 

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

“Don’t you understand?” shouted Harry. “They will 
torture and kill you like they did my parents !” 

“Dad,” said Dudley in a loud voice, “Dad — I’m going 
with these Order people.” 

“Dudley,” said Harry, “for the first time in your life, 
you’re talking sense.” 

He knew that the battle was won. If Dudley was 
frightened enough to accept the Order’s help, his 
parents would accompany him: There could be no 
question of being separated from their Diddykins. 
Harry glanced at the carriage clock on the 
mantelpiece. 

“They’ll be here in about five minutes,” he said, and 
when none of the Dursleys replied, he left the room. 
The prospect of parting — probably forever — from 
his aunt, uncle, and cousin was one that he was able 
to contemplate quite cheerfully, but there was 
nevertheless a certain awkwardness in the air. What 
did you say to one another at the end of sixteen years’ 
solid dislike? 



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

“We’re leaving soon, really soon,” Harry told her. “And 
then you’ll be able to fly again.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Know how to — ? Of course I ruddy well know how to 
drive!” spluttered Uncle Vernon. 

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

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

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

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

“Can’t do it,” said Hestia tersely. “Mad-Eye will 
explain.” 

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

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

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

“Perhaps we should wait outside in the hall, 

Dedalus,” murmured Hestia. She clearly felt that it 
would be tactless for them to remain in the room 
while Harry and the Dursleys exchanged loving, 
possibly tearful farewells. 

“There’s no need,” Harry muttered, but Uncle Vernon 
made any further explanation unnecessary by saying 
loudly, 

“Well, this is good-bye, then, boy.” 

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

“Ready, Diddy?” asked Aunt Petunia, fussily checking 
the clasp of her handbag so as to avoid looking at 
Harry altogether. 

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

“Come along, then,” said Uncle Vernon. 

He had already reached the living room door when 
Dudley mumbled, “I don’t understand.” 

“What don’t you understand, popkin?” asked Aunt 
Petunia, looking up at her son. 

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

“Why isn’t he coming with us?” 

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

“What?” said Uncle Vernon loudly. 

“Why isn’t he coming too?” asked Dudley. 

“Well, he — he doesn’t want to,” said Uncle Vernon, 
turning to glare at Harry and adding, “You don’t want 
to, do you?” 

“Not in the slightest,” said Harry. 

“There you are,” Uncle Vernon told Dudley. “Now 
come on, we’re off.” 

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

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

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

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



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“But . . . surely you know where your nephew is 
going?” she asked, looking bewildered. 

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

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

“Off with some of our lot?” 

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

“It’s fine,” Harry assured her. “It doesn’t matter, 
honestly.” 

“Doesn’t matter?” repeated Hestia, her voice rising 
ominously. “Don’t these people realize what you’ve 
been through? What danger you are in? The unique 
position you hold in the hearts of the anti-Voldemort 
movement?” 

“Er — no, they don’t,” said Harry. “They think I’m a 
waste of space, actually, but I’m used to — ” 

“I don’t think you’re a waste of space.” 

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

Dudley had turned red. Harry was embarrassed and 
astonished himself. 

“Well ... er ... thanks, Dudley.” 

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

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

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

Aunt Petunia burst into tears. Hestia Jones gave her 
an approving look that changed to outrage as Aunt 
Petunia ran forward and embraced Dudley rather 
than Harry. 

“S-so sweet, Dudders ...” she sobbed into his massive 
chest. “S-such a lovely b-boy ... s-saying thank you 



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

“Yeah, but coming from Dudley that’s like ‘I love you,’ 
” said Harry, torn between annoyance and a desire to 
laugh as Aunt Petunia continued to clutch at Dudley 
as if he had just saved Harry from a burning building. 



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

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

“ — good luck. I hope we meet again. The hopes of the 
Wizarding world rest upon your shoulders.” 

“Oh,” said Harry, “right. Thanks.” 

“Farewell, Harry,” said Hestia, also clasping his hand. 
“Our thoughts go with you.” 

“I hope everything’s okay,” said Harry with a glance 
toward Aunt Petunia and Dudley. 

“Oh, I’m sure we shall end up the best of chums,” 
said Diggle brightly, waving his hat as he left the 
room. Hestia followed him. 

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

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

“Dunno,” muttered Dudley. “See you, Harry.” 



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“Yeah ...” said Harry, taking Dudley’s hand and 
shaking it. “Maybe. Take care, Big D.” 

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

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

“Good-bye,” said Harry. 

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



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 






THE SEVEN POTTERS 

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

Harry picked up Hedwig’s cage, his Firebolt, and his 
rucksack, gave his unnaturally tidy bedroom one last 
sweeping look, and then made his ungainly way back 
downstairs to the hall, where he deposited cage, 
broomstick, and bag near the foot of the stairs. The 
light was fading rapidly now, the hall full of shadows 
in the evening light. It felt most strange to stand here 
in the silence and know that he was about to leave 
the house for the last time. Long ago, when he had 
been left alone while the Dursleys went out to enjoy 
themselves, the hours of solitude had been a rare 
treat: Pausing only to sneak something tasty from the 
fridge, he had rushed upstairs to play on Dudley’s 

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computer, or put on the television and flicked through 
the channels to his heart’s content. It gave him an 
odd, empty feeling to remember those times; it was 
like remembering a younger brother whom he had 
lost. 

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



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

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

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

Page | 47 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

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

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

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

Harry led them all back into the kitchen where, 
laughing and chattering, they settled on chairs, sat 
themselves upon Aunt Petunia’s gleaming work 
surfaces, or leaned up against her spotless 
appliances: Ron, long and lanky; Hermione, her 
bushy hair tied back in a long plait; Fred and George, 
grinning identically; Bill, badly scarred and long- 
P a g e | 48 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




haired; Mr. Weasley, kind-faced, balding, his 
spectacles a little awry; Mad-Eye, battle-worn, one- 
legged, his bright blue magical eye whizzing in its 
socket; Tonks, whose short hair was her favorite 
shade of bright pink; Lupin, grayer, more lined; Fleur, 
slender and beautiful, with her long silvery blonde 
hair; Kingsley, bald, black, broad-shouldered; Hagrid, 
with his wild hair and beard, standing hunchbacked 
to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling; and 
Mundungus Fletcher, small, dirty, and hangdog, with 
his droopy basset hound’s eyes and matted hair. 
Harry’s heart seemed to expand and glow at the sight: 
He felt incredibly fond of all of them, even 
Mundungus, whom he had tried to strangle the last 
time they had met. 

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

“He can get along without me for one night,” said 
Kingsley. “You’re more important.” 

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

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

“I’m sorry you couldn’t be there, Harry, it was very 
quiet.” 

“That’s brilliant, congrat — ” 

“All right, all right, we’ll have time for a cozy catch-up 
later!” roared Moody over the hubbub, and silence fell 
in the kitchen. Moody dropped his sacks at his feet 
and turned to Harry. “As Dedalus probably told you, 
we had to abandon Plan A. Pius Thicknesse has gone 
Page | 49 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




over, which gives us a big problem. He’s made it an 
imprisonable offense to connect this house to the Floo 
Network, place a Portkey here, or Apparate in or out. 
All done in the name of your protection, to prevent 
You-Know-Who getting in at you. Absolutely 
pointless, seeing as your mother’s charm does that 
already. What he’s really done is to stop you getting 
out of here safely. 

“Second problem: You’re underage, which means 
you’ve still got the Trace on you.” 

“I don’t — ” 

“The Trace, the Trace!” said Mad-Eye impatiently. 

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

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

Harry could not help but agree with the unknown 
Thicknesse. 

“So what are we going to do?” 

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



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




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

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

Harry nodded. 

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

“I told them you’d take it like this,” said Hermione 
with a hint of complacency. 

“If you think I’m going to let six people risk their lives 

— !” 

“ — because it’s the first time for all of us,” said Ron. 

“This is different, pretending to be me — ” 

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



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




Harry did not smile. 



“You can’t do it if I don’t cooperate, you need me to 
give you some hair.” 

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

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

“Funny,” said Harry, “really amusing.” 

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

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

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

“But this is mad, there’s no need — ” 

“No need!” snarled Moody. “With You-Know-Who out 
there and half the Ministry on his side? Potter, if 
we’re lucky hell have swallowed the fake bait and 
he’ll be planning to ambush you on the thirtieth, but 
he’d be mad not to have a Death Eater or two keeping 
an eye out, it’s what I’d do. They might not be able to 
get at you or this house while your mother’s charm 
holds, but it’s about to break and they know the 
rough position of the place. Our only chance is to use 

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decoys. Even You-Know-Who can’t split himself into 
seven.” 

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

“So, Potter — some of your hair, if you please.” 

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

“Now!” barked Moody. 

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

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

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

“Ooh, you look much tastier than Crabbe and Goyle, 
Harry,” said Hermione, before catching sight of Ron’s 
raised eyebrows, blushing slightly, and saying, “Oh, 
you know what I mean — Goyle ’s potion looked like 
bogies.” 

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

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

“We’re one short,” said Lupin. 

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

“I’ve toldjer, I’d sooner be a protector,” said 
Mundungus. 

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

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

“Altogether, then ...” 

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

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



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Fred and George turned to each other and said 
together, “Wow — we’re identical!” 

“I dunno, though, I think I’m still better-looking,” said 
Fred, examining his reflection in the kettle. 

“Bah,” said Fleur, checking herself in the microwave 
door, “Bill, don’t look at me — I’m ’ideous.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Good,” said Moody, as at last seven dressed, 
bespectacled, and luggage-laden Harrys faced him. 



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“The pairs will be as follows: Mundungus will be 
traveling with me, by broom — ” 

“Why’m I with you?” grunted the Harry nearest the 
back door. 

“Because you’re the one that needs watching,” 
growled Moody, and sure enough, his magical eye did 
not waver from Mundungus as he continued, “Arthur 
and Fred — ” 

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

“Sorry, George — ” 

“I’m only yanking your wand, I’m Fred really — ” 

“Enough messing around!” snarled Moody. “The other 
one — George or Fred or whoever you are — you’re 
with Remus. Miss Delacour — ” 

“I’m taking Fleur on a thestral,” said Bill. “She’s not 
that fond of brooms.” 

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

“Miss Granger with Kingsley, again by thestral — ” 

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

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



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Ron did not look quite as pleased as Hermione. 



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

“That’s great,” said Harry, not altogether truthfully. 

“We think the Death Eaters will expect you to be on a 
broom,” said Moody, who seemed to guess how Harry 
was feeling. “Snape’s had plenty of time to tell them 
everything about you he’s never mentioned before, so 
if we do run into any Death Eaters, we’re betting 
they’ll choose one of the Potters who look at home on 
a broomstick. All right then,” he went on, tying up the 
sack with the fake Potters’ clothes in it and leading 
the way back to the door, “I make it three minutes 
until we’re supposed to leave. No point locking the 
back door, it won’t keep the Death Eaters out when 
they come looking. ... Come on. ...” 

Harry hurried into the hall to fetch his rucksack, 
Firebolt, and Hedwig’s cage before joining the others 
in the dark back garden. On every side broomsticks 
were leaping into hands; Hermione had already been 
helped up onto a great black thestral by Kingsley, 
Fleur onto the other by Bill. Hagrid was standing 
ready beside the motorbike, goggles on. 

“Is this it? Is this Sirius’s bike?” 

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

Harry could not help but feel a little humiliated as he 
got into the sidecar. It placed him several feet below 

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everybody else: Ron smirked at the sight of him 
sitting there like a child in a bumper car. Harry 
stuffed his rucksack and broomstick down by his feet 
and rammed Hedwig’s cage between his knees. It was 
extremely uncomfortable. 

“Arthur’s done a bit o’ tinkerin’,” said Hagrid, quite 
oblivious to Harry’s discomfort. He settled himself 
astride the motorcycle, which creaked slightly and 
sank inches into the ground. “It’s got a few tricks up 
its handlebars now. Tha’ one was my idea.” 

He pointed a thick finger at a purple button near the 
speedometer. 

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

“All right then,” said Moody. “Everyone ready, please; 

I want us all to leave at exactly the same time or the 
whole point of the diversion’s lost.” 

Everybody mounted their brooms. 

“Hold tight now, Ron,” said Tonks, and Harry saw 
Ron throw a furtive, guilty look at Lupin before 
placing his hands on either side of her waist. Hagrid 
kicked the motorbike into life: It roared like a dragon, 
and the sidecar began to vibrate. 

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

There was a great roar from the motorbike, and Harry 
felt the sidecar give a nasty lurch: He was rising 
through the air fast, his eyes watering slightly, hair 

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whipped back off his face. Around him brooms were 
soaring upward too; the long black tail of a thestral 
flicked past. His legs, jammed into the sidecar by 
Hedwig’s cage and his rucksack, were already sore 
and starting to go numb. So great was his discomfort 
that he almost forgot to take a last glimpse of number 
four, Privet Drive; by the time he looked over the edge 
of the sidecar he could no longer tell which one it 
was. Higher and higher they climbed into the sky — 

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

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

“No — HEDWIG!” 

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

“No — NO!” 

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

“Hedwig — Hedwig — ” 



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

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

“My job’s ter get you there safe, Harry!” bellowed 
Hagrid, and he opened the throttle. 

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

“Hold on, Harry, this’ll do for ’em!” roared Hagrid, and 
Harry looked up just in time to see Hagrid slamming 
a thick finger into a green button near the fuel gauge. 

A wall, a solid brick wall, erupted out of the exhaust 
pipe. Craning his neck, Harry saw it expand into 
being in midair. Three of the Death Eaters swerved 
and avoided it, but the fourth was not so lucky: He 
vanished from view and then dropped like a boulder 
from behind it, his broomstick broken into pieces. 
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One of his fellows slowed up to save him, but they 
and the airborne wall were swallowed by darkness as 
Hagrid leaned low over the handlebars and sped up. 

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

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

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

With an unmistakable bellowing roar, dragon fire 
burst from the exhaust, white-hot and blue, and the 
motorbike shot forward like a bullet with a sound of 
wrenching metal. Harry saw the Death Eaters swerve 
out of sight to avoid the deadly trail of flame, and at 
the same time felt the sidecar sway ominously: Its 
metal connections to the bike had splintered with the 
force of acceleration. 

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

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‘Tm on it, Harry, don’ worry!” Hagrid yelled, and from 
inside his jacket pocket he pulled his flowery pink 
umbrella. 

“Hagrid! No! Let me!” 

“REPAROl” 

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

In desperation Harry pointed his wand at the sidecar 
and shouted, “Wingardium Leviosal” 

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

“I’m cornin’, Harry!” Hagrid yelled from out of the 
darkness, but Harry could feel the sidecar beginning 
to sink again: Crouching as low as he could, he 
pointed at the middle of the oncoming figures and 
yelled, “Impedimental” 

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

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

“I’m cornin’, Harry, I’m cornin’!” 



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

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

“Harry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” moaned Hagrid, “I 
shouldn’ta tried ter repair it meself — yeh’ve got no 
room — ” 

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

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

“ ExpelliarmusV’ Harry yelled. 

“That’s him, it’s him, it’s the real one!” 

The hooded Death Eater’s shout reached Harry even 
above the thunder of the motorbike’s engine: Next 

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moment, both pursuers had fallen back and 
disappeared from view. 



“Harry, what’s happened?” bellowed Hagrid. 

“Where Ve they gone?” 

“I don’t know!” 

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

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

“Hagrid, do the dragon-fire thing again, let’s get out of 
here!” 

“Hold on tight, then, Harry!” 

There was a deafening, screeching roar again and the 
white-blue fire shot from the exhaust: Harry felt 
himself slipping backward off what little of the seat he 
had, Hagrid flung backward upon him, barely 
maintaining his grip on the handlebars — 

“I think we’ve lost ’em Harry, I think we’ve done it!” 
yelled Hagrid. 

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

“We’re nearly there, Harry, we’ve nearly made it!” 
shouted Hagrid. 

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

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

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

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

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

“NO!” 

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

Barely gripping the plummeting bike with his knees, 
Harry heard Voldemort scream, “Mine\” 



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

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

“Hagrid!” Harry called, holding on to the bike for dear 
life. “Hagrid — Accio Hagridl” 

The motorbike sped up, sucked toward the earth. 

Face level with the handlebars, Harry could see 
nothing but distant lights growing nearer and nearer: 
He was going to crash and there was nothing he could 
do about it. Behind him came another scream, “Your 
wand, Selwyn, give me your wand\” 

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

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



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5 




FALLEN WARRIOR 



“Hagrid?” 

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

“Hagrid? Hagrid, talk to me — ” 

But the dark mass did not stir. 

“Who’s there? Is it Potter? Are you Harry Potter?” 

Harry did not recognize the man’s voice. Then a 
woman shouted, “They’ve crashed, Ted! Crashed in 
the garden!” 



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Harry’s head was swimming. 



“Hagrid,” he repeated stupidly, and his knees 
buckled. 

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

“Hagrid?” 

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

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

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

“Voldemort — ” 

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

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

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“Death Eaters?” said Ted sharply. “What d’you mean, 
Death Eaters? I thought they didn’t know you were 
being moved tonight, I thought — ” 

“They knew,” said Harry. 

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

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

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

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

“Harry!” 

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

“Yeah, me too. I can’t believe — ” 



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

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

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

“Oh, I’m — I’m sorry.” 

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

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

“I don’t know,” said Harry. “We don’t know what 
happened to anyone else.” 

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

“The Portkey,” he said, remembering all of a sudden. 
“We’ve got to get back to the Burrow and find out — 
then well be able to send you word, or — or Tonks 
will, once she’s — ” 

“Dora’ll be okay, ’Dromeda,” said Ted. “She knows her 
stuff, she’s been in plenty of tight spots with the 
Aurors. The Portkey ’s through here,” he added to 



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Harry. “It’s supposed to leave in three minutes, if you 
want to take it.” 



“Yeah, we do,” said Harry. He seized his rucksack, 
swung it onto his shoulders. “I — ” 

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

“Ill tell Tonks — Dora — to send word, when she ... 
Thanks for patching us up, thanks for everything. I — 



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

“There you go, son. That’s the Portkey.” 

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

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

“Wait a moment,” said Hagrid, looking around. 

“Harry, where’s Hedwig?” 

“She ... she got hit,” said Harry. 

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

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

“Never mind,” he said gruffly. “Never mind. She had a 
great old life — ” 

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

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

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

“What d’you mean? Isn’t anyone else back?” Harry 
panted. 

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

“The Death Eaters were waiting for us,” Harry told 
her. “We were surrounded the moment we took off — 
they knew it was tonight — I don’t know what 
happened to anyone else, four of them chased us, it 
was all we could do to get away, and then Voldemort 
caught up with us — ” 



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

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

“Haven’t go’ any brandy, have yeh, Molly?” asked 
Hagrid a little shakily. “Fer medicinal purposes?” 

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

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

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

“Mum!” shouted Ginny, pointing to a spot several feet 
away. 

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

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

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

“Oi!” said Hagrid indignantly. “Le’ go of him! Le’ go of 
Harry!” 

Lupin ignored him. 

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

“A — a grindylow in a tank, wasn’t it?” 

Lupin released Harry and fell back against a kitchen 
cupboard. 

“Wha’ was tha’ about?” roared Hagrid. 

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

“So why aren’ you checkin’ me?” panted Hagrid, still 
struggling to fit through the door. 

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

“None of the Order would have told Voldemort we 
were moving tonight,” said Harry. The idea was 
dreadful to him, he could not believe it of any of them. 
“Voldemort only caught up with me toward the end, 
he didn’t know which one I was in the beginning. If 
he’d been in on the plan he’d have known from the 
start I was the one with Hagrid.” 

“Voldemort caught up with you?” said Lupin sharply. 
“What happened? How did you escape?” 

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

“They recognized you? But how? What had you 
done?” 

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

Lupin looked aghast. 

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



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

“Yes, Harry,” said Lupin with painful restraint, “and a 
great number of Death Eaters witnessed that 
happening! Forgive me, but it was a very unusual 
move then, under imminent threat of death. 

Repeating it tonight in front of Death Eaters who 
either witnessed or heard about the first occasion was 
close to suicidal!” 

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

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

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

“I won’t blast people out of my way just because 
they’re there,” said Harry. “That’s Voldemort’s job.” 

Lupin’s retort was lost: Finally succeeding in 
squeezing through the door, Hagrid staggered to a 
chair and sat down; it collapsed beneath him. 

Ignoring his mingled oaths and apologies, Harry 
addressed Lupin again. 

“Will George be okay?” 

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

“I think so, although there’s no chance of replacing 
his ear, not when it’s been cursed off — ” 

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

Two figures had appeared in the yard, and as Harry 
ran toward them he realized they were Hermione, now 
returning to her normal appearance, and Kingsley, 
both clutching a bent coat hanger. Hermione flung 
herself into Harry’s arms, but Kingsley showed no 
pleasure at the sight of any of them. Over Hermione ’s 
shoulder Harry saw him raise his wand and point it 
at Lupin’s chest. 

“The last words Albus Dumbledore spoke to the pair 
of us?” 

“ ‘Harry is the best hope we have. Trust him,’ ” said 
Lupin calmly. 

Kingsley turned his wand on Harry, but Lupin said, 
“It’s him, I’ve checked!” 

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

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

“Small comfort!” snarled Kingsley. “Who else is back?” 

“Only Harry, Hagrid, George, and me.” 



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Hermione stifled a little moan behind her hand. 



“What happened to you?” Lupin asked Kingsley. 

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

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

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

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

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

Kingsley let out a mirthless laugh. 

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

“He lost an ear,” said Lupin. 

“Lost an — ?” repeated Hermione in a high voice. 

“Snape’s work,” said Lupin. 

“ Snape ?” shouted Harry. “You didn’t say — ” 

“He lost his hood during the chase. Sectumsempra 
was always a specialty of Snape’s. I wish I could say 

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I’d paid him back in kind, but it was all I could do to 
keep George on the broom after he was injured, he 
was losing so much blood.” 

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

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

“How is he?” 

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

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Thank God.” 

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

“Hermione and Kingsley,” said Harry. 

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



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

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

“Arthur!” sobbed Mrs. Weasley. “Oh thank goodness!” 

“How is he?” 

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

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

“How do you feel, Georgie?” whispered Mrs. Weasley. 
George’s fingers groped for the side of his head. 
“Saintlike,” he murmured. 

“What’s wrong with him?” croaked Fred, looking 
terrified. “Is his mind affected?” 

“Saintlike,” repeated George, opening his eyes and 
looking up at his brother. “You see ... I’m holy. Hole v, 
Fred, geddit?” 

Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever. Color flooded 
Fred’s pale face. 



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“Pathetic,” he told George. “Pathetic! With the whole 
wide world of ear-related humor before you, you go for 
holey?” 

“Ah well,” said George, grinning at his tear-soaked 
mother. “You’ll be able to tell us apart now, anyway, 
Mum.” 

He looked around. 

“Hi, Harry — you are Harry, right?” 

“Yeah, I am,” said Harry, moving closer to the sofa. 

“Well, at least we got you back okay,” said George. 
“Why aren’t Ron and Bill huddled round my sickbed?” 

“They’re not back yet, George,” said Mrs. Weasley. 
George’s grin faded. 

Harry glanced at Ginny and motioned to her to 
accompany him back outside. As they walked through 
the kitchen she said in a low voice, “Ron and Tonks 
should be back by now. They didn’t have a long 
journey; Auntie Muriel’s not that far from here.” 

Harry said nothing. He had been trying to keep fear at 
bay ever since reaching the Burrow, but now it 
enveloped him, seeming to crawl over his skin, 
throbbing in his chest, clogging his throat. As they 
walked down the back steps into the dark yard, Ginny 
took his hand. 

Kingsley was striding backward and forward, glancing 
up at the sky every time he turned. Harry was 
reminded of Uncle Vernon pacing the living room a 
million years ago. Hagrid, Hermione, and Lupin stood 
shoulder to shoulder, gazing upward in silence. None 



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of them looked around when Harry and Ginny joined 
their silent vigil. 

The minutes stretched into what might as well have 
been years. The slightest breath of wind made them 
all jump and turn toward the whispering bush or tree 
in the hope that one of the missing Order members 
might leap unscathed from its leaves — 

And then a broom materialized directly above them 
and streaked toward the ground — 

“It’s them!” screamed Hermione. 

Tonks landed in a long skid that sent earth and 
pebbles everywhere. 

“Remus!” Tonks cried as she staggered off the broom 
into Lupin’s arms. His face was set and white: He 
seemed unable to speak. Ron tripped dazedly toward 
Harry and Hermione. 

“You’re okay,” he mumbled, before Hermione flew at 
him and hugged him tightly. 

“I thought — I thought — ” 

“ ’M all right,” said Ron, patting her on the back. “ ’M 
fine.” 

“Ron was great,” said Tonks warmly, relinquishing 
her hold on Lupin. “Wonderful. Stunned one of the 
Death Eaters, straight to the head, and when you’re 
aiming at a moving target from a flying broom — ” 

“You did?” said Hermione, gazing up at Ron with her 
arms still around his neck. 



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“Always the tone of surprise,” he said a little 
grumpily, breaking free. “Are we the last back?” 

“No,” said Ginny, “we’re still waiting for Bill and Fleur 
and Mad-Eye and Mundungus. I’m going to tell Mum 
and Dad you’re okay, Ron — ” 

She ran back inside. 

“So what kept you? What happened?” Lupin sounded 
almost angry at Tonks. 

“Bellatrix,” said Tonks. “She wants me quite as much 
as she wants Harry, Remus, she tried very hard to kill 
me. I just wish I’d got her, I owe Bellatrix. But we 
definitely injured Rodolphus. ... Then we got to Ron’s 
Auntie Muriel’s and we’d missed our Portkey and she 
was fussing over us — ” 

A muscle was jumping in Lupin’s jaw. He nodded, but 
seemed unable to say anything else. 

“So what happened to you lot?” Tonks asked, turning 
to Harry, Hermione, and Kingsley. 

They recounted the stories of their own journeys, but 
all the time the continued absence of Bill, Fleur, Mad- 
Eye, and Mundungus seemed to lie upon them like a 
frost, its icy bite harder and harder to ignore. 

“I’m going to have to get back to Downing Street, I 
should have been there an hour ago,” said Kingsley 
finally, after a last sweeping gaze at the sky. “Let me 
know when they’re back.” 

Lupin nodded. With a wave to the others, Kingsley 
walked away into the darkness toward the gate. Harry 
thought he heard the faintest pop as Kingsley 
Disapparated just beyond the Burrow’s boundaries. 

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Mr. and Mrs. Weasley came racing down the back 
steps, Ginny behind them. Both parents hugged Ron 
before turning to Lupin and Tonks. 

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Weasley, “for our sons.” 

“Don’t be silly, Molly,” said Tonks at once. 

“How’s George?” asked Lupin. 

“What’s wrong with him?” piped up Ron. 

“He’s lost — ” 

But the end of Mrs. Weasley ’s sentence was drowned 
in a general outcry: A thestral had just soared into 
sight and landed a few feet from them. Bill and Fleur 
slid from its back, windswept but unhurt. 

“Bill! Thank God, thank God — ” 

Mrs. Weasley ran forward, but the hug Bill bestowed 
upon her was perfunctory. Looking directly at his 
father, he said, “Mad-Eye’s dead.” 

Nobody spoke, nobody moved. Harry felt as though 
something inside him was falling, falling through the 
earth, leaving him forever. 

“We saw it,” said Bill; Fleur nodded, tear tracks 
glittering on her cheeks in the light from the kitchen 
window. “It happened just after we broke out of the 
circle: Mad-Eye and Dung were close by us, they were 
heading north too. Voldemort — he can fly — went 
straight for them. Dung panicked, I heard him cry 
out, Mad-Eye tried to stop him, but he Disapparated. 
Voldemort’s curse hit Mad-Eye full in the face, he fell 
backward off his broom and — there was nothing we 



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could do, nothing, we had half a dozen of them on our 
own tail — ” 



Bill’s voice broke. 

“Of course you couldn’t have done anything,” said 
Lupin. 

They all stood looking at each other. Harry could not 
quite comprehend it. Mad-Eye dead; it could not be. 

... Mad-Eye, so tough, so brave, the consummate 
survivor ... 

At last it seemed to dawn on everyone, though nobody 
said it, that there was no point waiting in the yard 
anymore, and in silence they followed Mr. and Mrs. 
Weasley back into the Burrow, and into the living 
room, where Fred and George were laughing together. 

“What’s wrong?” said Fred, scanning their faces as 
they entered. “What’s happened? Who’s — ?” 

“Mad-Eye,” said Mr. Weasley. “Dead.” 

The twins’ grins turned to grimaces of shock. Nobody 
seemed to know what to do. Tonks was crying silently 
into a handkerchief: She had been close to Mad-Eye, 
Harry knew, his favorite and his protegee at the 
Ministry of Magic. Hagrid, who had sat down on the 
floor in the corner where he had most space, was 
dabbing at his eyes with his tablecloth-sized 
handkerchief. 

Bill walked over to the sideboard and pulled out a 
bottle of fire-whisky and some glasses. 

“Here,” he said, and with a wave of his wand he sent 
twelve full glasses soaring through the room to each 
of them, holding the thirteenth aloft. “Mad-Eye.” 

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“Mad-Eye,” they all said, and drank. 

“Mad-Eye,” echoed Hagrid, a little late, with a hiccup. 

The firewhisky seared Harry’s throat. It seemed to 
burn feeling back into him, dispelling the numbness 
and sense of unreality, firing him with something that 
was like courage. 

“So Mundungus disappeared?” said Lupin, who had 
drained his own glass in one. 

The atmosphere changed at once. Everybody looked 
tense, watching Lupin, both wanting him to go on, it 
seemed to Harry, and slightly afraid of what they 
might hear. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Bill, “and I 
wondered that too, on the way back here, because 
they seemed to be expecting us, didn’t they? But 
Mundungus can’t have betrayed us. They didn’t know 
there would be seven Harrys, that confused them the 
moment we appeared, and in case you’ve forgotten, it 
was Mundungus who suggested that little bit of 
skullduggery. Why wouldn’t he have told them the 
essential point? I think Dung panicked, it’s as simple 
as that. He didn’t want to come in the first place, but 
Mad-Eye made him, and You-Know-Who went 
straight for them. It was enough to make anyone 
panic.” 

“You-Know-Who acted exactly as Mad-Eye expected 
him to,” sniffed Tonks. “Mad-Eye said he’d expect the 
real Harry to be with the toughest, most skilled 
Aurors. He chased Mad-Eye first, and when 
Mundungus gave them away he switched to Kingsley. 



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“Yes, and zat eez all very good,” snapped Fleur, “but 
still eet does not explain ’ow zey knew we were moving 
’Arry tonight, does eet? Somebody must ’ave been 
careless. Somebody let slip ze date to an outsider. It is 
ze only explanation for zem knowing ze date but not 
ze ’ole plan.” 

She glared around at them all, tear tracks still etched 
on her beautiful face, silently daring any of them to 
contradict her. Nobody did. The only sound to break 
the silence was that of Hagrid hiccuping from behind 
his handkerchief. Harry glanced at Hagrid, who had 
just risked his own life to save Harry’s — Hagrid, 
whom he loved, whom he trusted, who had once been 
tricked into giving Voldemort crucial information in 
exchange for a dragon’s egg. ... 

“No,” Harry said aloud, and they all looked at him, 
surprised: The firewhisky seemed to have amplified 
his voice. “I mean ... if somebody made a mistake,” 
Harry went on, “and let something slip, I know they 
didn’t mean to do it. It’s not their fault,” he repeated, 
again a little louder than he would usually have 
spoken. “We’ve got to trust each other. I trust all of 
you, I don’t think anyone in this room would ever sell 
me to Voldemort.” 

More silence followed his words. They were all looking 
at him; Harry felt a little hot again, and drank some 
more firewhisky for something to do. As he drank, he 
thought of Mad-Eye. Mad-Eye had always been 
scathing about Dumbledore’s willingness to trust 
people. 

“Well said, Harry,” said Fred unexpectedly. 

“Yeah, ’ear, ’ear,” said George, with half a glance at 
Fred, the corner of whose mouth twitched. 



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Lupin was wearing an odd expression as he looked at 
Harry. It was close to pitying. 

“You think I’m a fool?” demanded Harry. 

“No, I think you’re like James,” said Lupin, “who 
would have regarded it as the height of dishonor to 
mistrust his friends.” 

Harry knew what Lupin was getting at: that his father 
had been betrayed by his friend, Peter Pettigrew. He 
felt irrationally angry. He wanted to argue, but Lupin 
had turned away from him, set down his glass upon a 
side table, and addressed Bill, “There’s work to do. I 
can ask Kingsley whether — ” 

“No,” said Bill at once, “I’ll do it, I’ll come.” 

“Where are you going?” said Tonks and Fleur 
together. 

“Mad-Eye’s body,” said Lupin. “We need to recover it.” 

“Can’t it — ?” began Mrs. Weasley with an appealing 
look at Bill. 

“Wait?” said Bill. “Not unless you’d rather the Death 
Eaters took it?” 

Nobody spoke. Lupin and Bill said good-bye and left. 

The rest of them now dropped into chairs, all except 
for Harry, who remained standing. The suddenness 
and completeness of death was with them like a 
presence. 

“I’ve got to go too,” said Harry. 



Ten pairs of startled eyes looked at him. 

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“Don’t be silly, Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley. “What are 
you talking about?” 

“I can’t stay here.” 

He rubbed his forehead; it was prickling again, it had 
not hurt like this for more than a year. 

“You’re all in danger while I’m here. I don’t want — ” 

“But don’t be so silly!” said Mrs. Weasley. “The whole 
point of tonight was to get you here safely, and thank 
goodness it worked. And Fleur’s agreed to get married 
here rather than in France, we’ve arranged everything 
so that we can all stay together and look after you — ” 

She did not understand; she was making him feel 
worse, not better. 

“If Voldemort finds out I’m here — ” 

“But why should he?” asked Mrs. Weasley. 

“There are a dozen places you might be now, Harry,” 
said Mr. Weasley. “He’s got no way of knowing which 
safe house you’re in.” 

“It’s not me I’m worried for!” said Harry. 

“We know that,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, “but it 
would make our efforts tonight seem rather pointless 
if you left.” 

“Yer not goin’ anywhere,” growled Hagrid. “Blimey, 
Harry, after all we wen’ through ter get you here?” 

“Yeah, what about my bleeding ear?” said George, 
hoisting himself up on his cushions. 



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“I know that — ” 



“Mad-Eye wouldn’t want — ” 

“I KNOW!” Harry bellowed. 

He felt beleaguered and blackmailed: Did they think 
he did not know what they had done for him, didn’t 
they understand that it was for precisely that reason 
that he wanted to go now, before they had to suffer 
any more on his behalf? There was a long and 
awkward silence in which his scar continued to 
prickle and throb, and which was broken at last by 
Mrs. Weasley. 

“Where’s Hedwig, Harry?” she said coaxingly. “We can 
put her up with Pigwidgeon and give her something to 
eat.” 

His insides clenched like a fist. He could not tell her 
the truth. He drank the last of his firewhisky to avoid 
answering. 

“Wait till it gets out yeh did it again, Harry,” said 
Hagrid. “Escaped him, fought him off when he was 
right on top of yeh!” 

“It wasn’t me,” said Harry flatly. “It was my wand. My 
wand acted of its own accord.” 

After a few moments, Hermione said gently, “But 
that’s impossible, Harry. You mean that you did 
magic without meaning to; you reacted instinctively.” 

“No,” said Harry. “The bike was falling, I couldn’t have 
told you where Voldemort was, but my wand spun in 
my hand and found him and shot a spell at him, and 
it wasn’t even a spell I recognized. I’ve never made 
gold flames appear before.” 

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“Often,” said Mr. Weasley, “when you’re in a 
pressured situation you can produce magic you never 
dreamed of. Small children often find, before they’re 
trained — ” 

“It wasn’t like that,” said Harry through gritted teeth. 
His scar was burning: He felt angry and frustrated; he 
hated the idea that they were all imagining him to 
have power to match Voldemort’s. 

No one said anything. He knew that they did not 
believe him. Now that he came to think of it, he had 
never heard of a wand performing magic on its own 
before. 

His scar seared with pain; it was all he could do not 
to moan aloud. Muttering about fresh air, he set 
down his glass and left the room. 

As he crossed the dark yard, the great skeletal 
thestral looked up, rustled its enormous batlike 
wings, then resumed its grazing. Harry stopped at the 
gate into the garden, staring out at its overgrown 
plants, rubbing his pounding forehead and thinking 
of Dumbledore. 

Dumbledore would have believed him, he knew it. 
Dumbledore would have known how and why Harry’s 
wand had acted independently, because Dumbledore 
always had the answers; he had known about wands, 
had explained to Harry the strange connection that 
existed between his wand and Voldemort’s. ... But 
Dumbledore, like Mad-Eye, like Sirius, like his 
parents, like his poor owl, all were gone where Harry 
could never talk to them again. He felt a burning in 
his throat that had nothing to do with firewhisky . . . 



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And then, out of nowhere, the pain in his scar 
peaked. As he clutched his forehead and closed his 
eyes, a voice screamed inside his head. 



“ You told me the problem would be solved by using 
another’s wand\” 

And into his mind burst the vision of an emaciated 
old man lying in rags upon a stone floor, screaming, a 
horrible, drawn-out scream, a scream of unendurable 
agony. ... 

“No! No! I beg you, I beg you. ...” 

“You lied to Lord Voldemort, Ollivander!” 

“I did not. ... I swear I did not. ...” 

“You sought to help Potter, to help him escape me!” 

“I swear I did not. ... I believed a different wand would 
work. ...” 

“Explain, then, what happened. Lucius’s wand is 
destroyed!” 

“I cannot understand. ... The connection ... exists 
only ... between your two wands. ...” 

“Lies!” 

“Please ... I beg you. ...” 

And Harry saw the white hand raise its wand and felt 
Voldemort ’s surge of vicious anger, saw the frail old 
man on the floor writhe in agony — 

“Harry?” 

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It was over as quickly as it had come: Harry stood 
shaking in the darkness, clutching the gate into the 
garden, his heart racing, his scar still tingling. It was 
several moments before he realized that Ron and 
Hermione were at his side. 

“Harry, come back in the house,” Hermione 
whispered. “You aren’t still thinking of leaving?” 

“Yeah, you’ve got to stay, mate,” said Ron, thumping 
Harry on the back. 

“Are you all right?” Hermione asked, close enough 
now to look into Harry’s face. “You look awful!” 

“Well,” said Harry shakily, “I probably look better 
than Ollivander. ...” 

When he had finished telling them what he had seen, 
Ron looked appalled, but Hermione downright 
terrified. 

“But it was supposed to have stopped! Your scar — it 
wasn’t supposed to do this anymore! You mustn’t let 
that connection open up again — Dumbledore wanted 
you to close your mind!” 

When he did not reply, she gripped his arm. 

“Harry, he’s taking over the Ministry and the 
newspapers and half the Wizarding world! Don’t let 
him inside your head too!” 



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




6 




THE GHOUL IN PAJAMAS 

The shock of losing Mad-Eye hung over the house in 
the days that followed; Harry kept expecting to see 
him stumping in through the back door like the other 
Order members, who passed in and out to relay news. 
Harry felt that nothing but action would assuage his 
feelings of guilt and grief and that he ought to set out 
on his mission to find and destroy Horcruxes as soon 
as possible. 

“Well, you can’t do anything about the” — Ron 
mouthed the word Horcruxes — “till you’re seventeen. 
You’ve still got the Trace on you. And we can plan 
here as well as anywhere, can’t we? Or,” he dropped 
his voice to a whisper, “d’you reckon you already 
know where the You-Know-Whats are?” 

“No,” Harry admitted. 

“I think Hermione’s been doing a bit of research,” said 
Ron. “She said she was saving it for when you got 
here.” 



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 



They were sitting at the breakfast table; Mr. Weasley 
and Bill had just left for work. Mrs. Weasley had gone 
upstairs to wake Hermione and Ginny, while Fleur 
had drifted off to take a bath. 

“The Trace’ll break on the thirty- first,” said Harry. 
“That means I only need to stay here four days. Then 
I can — ” 

“Five days,” Ron corrected him firmly. “We’ve got to 
stay for the wedding. They’ll kill us if we miss it.” 

Harry understood “they” to mean Fleur and Mrs. 
Weasley. 

“It’s one extra day,” said Ron, when Harry looked 
mutinous. 

“Don’t they realize how important — ?” 

“ ’Course they don’t,” said Ron. “They haven’t got a 
clue. And now you mention it, I wanted to talk to you 
about that.” 

Ron glanced toward the door into the hall to check 
that Mrs. Weasley was not returning yet, then leaned 
in closer to Harry. 

“Mum’s been trying to get it out of Hermione and me. 
What we’re off to do. She’ll try you next, so brace 
yourself. Dad and Lupin ’ve both asked as well, but 
when we said Dumbledore told you not to tell anyone 
except us, they dropped it. Not Mum, though. She’s 
determined.” 

Ron’s prediction came true within hours. Shortly 
before lunch, Mrs. Weasley detached Harry from the 
others by asking him to help identify a lone man’s 
sock that she thought might have come out of his 

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rucksack. Once she had him cornered in the tiny 
scullery off the kitchen, she started. 

“Ron and Hermione seem to think that the three of 
you are dropping out of Hogwarts,” she began in a 
light, casual tone. 

“Oh,” said Harry. “Well, yeah. We are.” 

The mangle turned of its own accord in a corner, 
wringing out what looked like one of Mr. Weasley’s 
vests. 

“May I ask why you are abandoning your education?” 
said Mrs. Weasley. 

“Well, Dumbledore left me ... stuff to do,” mumbled 
Harry. “Ron and Hermione know about it, and they 
want to come too.” 

“What sort of ‘stuff’?” 

“I’m sorry, I can’t — ” 

“Well, frankly, I think Arthur and I have a right to 
know, and I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Granger would 
agree!” said Mrs. Weasley. Harry had been afraid of 
the “concerned parent” attack. He forced himself to 
look directly into her eyes, noticing as he did so that 
they were precisely the same shade of brown as 
Ginny’s. This did not help. 

“Dumbledore didn’t want anyone else to know, Mrs. 
Weasley. I’m sorry. Ron and Hermione don’t have to 
come, it’s their choice — ” 

“I don’t see that you have to go either!” she snapped, 
dropping all pretense now. “You’re barely of age, any 
of you! It’s utter nonsense, if Dumbledore needed 

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work doing, he had the whole Order at his command! 
Harry, you must have misunderstood him. Probably 
he was telling you something he wanted done, and 
you took it to mean that he wanted you — ” 

“I didn’t misunderstand,” said Harry flatly. “It’s got to 
be me.” 

He handed her back the single sock he was supposed 
to be identifying, which was patterned with golden 
bulrushes. 

“And that’s not mine, I don’t support Puddlemere 
United.” 

“Oh, of course not,” said Mrs. Weasley with a sudden 
and rather unnerving return to her casual tone. “I 
should have realized. Well, Harry, while we’ve still got 
you here, you won’t mind helping with the 
preparations for Bill and Fleur’s wedding, will you? 
There’s still so much to do.” 

“No — I — of course not,” said Harry, disconcerted by 
this sudden change of subject. 

“Sweet of you,” she replied, and she smiled as she left 
the scullery. 

From that moment on, Mrs. Weasley kept Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione so busy with preparations for the 
wedding that they hardly had any time to think. The 
kindest explanation of this behavior would have been 
that Mrs. Weasley wanted to distract them all from 
thoughts of Mad-Eye and the terrors of their recent 
journey. After two days of nonstop cutlery cleaning, of 
color-matching favors, ribbons, and flowers, of de- 
gnoming the garden and helping Mrs. Weasley cook 
vast batches of canapes, however, Harry started to 
suspect her of a different motive. All the jobs she 
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handed out seemed to keep him, Ron, and Hermione 
away from one another; he had not had a chance to 
speak to the two of them alone since the first night, 
when he had told them about Voldemort torturing 
Ollivander. 

“I think Mum thinks that if she can stop the three of 
you getting together and planning, she’ll be able to 
delay you leaving,” Ginny told Harry in an undertone, 
as they laid the table for dinner on the third night of 
his stay. 

“And then what does she think’s going to happen?” 
Harry muttered. “Someone else might kill off 
Voldemort while she’s holding us here making vol-au- 
vents?” 

He had spoken without thinking, and saw Ginny’s 
face whiten. 

“So it’s true?” she said. “That’s what you’re trying to 
do?” 

“I — not — I was joking,” said Harry evasively. 

They stared at each other, and there was something 
more than shock in Ginny’s expression. Suddenly 
Harry became aware that this was the first time that 
he had been alone with her since those stolen hours 
in secluded corners of the Hogwarts grounds. He was 
sure she was remembering them too. Both of them 
jumped as the door opened, and Mr. Weasley, 
Kingsley, and Bill walked in. 

They were often joined by other Order members for 
dinner now, because the Burrow had replaced 
number twelve, Grimmauld Place as the 
headquarters. Mr. Weasley had explained that after 
the death of Dumbledore, their Secret-Keeper, each of 
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the people to whom Dumbledore had confided 
Grimmauld Place’s location had become a Secret- 
Keeper in turn. 

“And as there are around twenty of us, that greatly 
dilutes the power of the Fidelius Charm. Twenty times 
as many opportunities for the Death Eaters to get the 
secret out of somebody. We can’t expect it to hold 
much longer.” 

“But surely Snape will have told the Death Eaters the 
address by now?” asked Harry. 

“Well, Mad-Eye set up a couple of curses against 
Snape in case he turns up there again. We hope 
they’ll be strong enough both to keep him out and to 
bind his tongue if he tries to talk about the place, but 
we can’t be sure. It would have been insane to keep 
using the place as headquarters now that its 
protection has become so shaky.” 

The kitchen was so crowded that evening it was 
difficult to maneuver knives and forks. Harry found 
himself crammed beside Ginny; the unsaid things 
that had just passed between them made him wish 
they had been separated by a few more people. He 
was trying so hard to avoid brushing her arm he 
could barely cut his chicken. 

“No news about Mad-Eye?” Harry asked Bill. 

“Nothing,” replied Bill. 

They had not been able to hold a funeral for Moody, 
because Bill and Lupin had failed to recover his body. 
It had been difficult to know where he might have 
fallen, given the darkness and the confusion of the 
battle. 



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“The Daily Prophet hasn’t said a word about him 
dying or about finding the body,” Bill went on. “But 
that doesn’t mean much. It’s keeping a lot quiet these 
days.” 

“And they still haven’t called a hearing about all the 
underage magic I used escaping the Death Eaters?” 
Harry called across the table to Mr. Weasley, who 
shook his head. 

“Because they know I had no choice or because they 
don’t want me to tell the world Voldemort attacked 
me?” 

“The latter, I think. Scrimgeour doesn’t want to admit 
that You-Know-Who is as powerful as he is, nor that 
Azkaban’s seen a mass breakout.” 

“Yeah, why tell the public the truth?” said Harry, 
clenching his knife so tightly that the faint scars on 
the back of his right hand stood out, white against his 
skin: I must not tell lies. 

“Isn’t anyone at the Ministry prepared to stand up to 
him?” asked Ron angrily. 

“Of course, Ron, but people are terrified,” Mr. Weasley 
replied, “terrified that they will be next to disappear, 
their children the next to be attacked! There are nasty 
rumors going around; I for one don’t believe the 
Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts resigned. She 
hasn’t been seen for weeks now. Meanwhile 
Scrimgeour remains shut up in his office all day: I 
just hope he’s working on a plan.” 

There was a pause in which Mrs. Weasley magicked 
the empty plates onto the work surface and served 
apple tart. 



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“We must decide ’ow you will be disguised, ’Arry,” said 
Fleur, once everyone had pudding. “For ze wedding,” 
she added, when he looked confused. “Of course, 
none of our guests are Death Eaters, but we cannot 
guarantee zat zey will not let something slip after zey 
’ave ’ad champagne.” 

From this, Harry gathered that she still suspected 
Hagrid. 

“Yes, good point,” said Mrs. Weasley from the top of 
the table, where she sat, spectacles perched on the 
end of her nose, scanning an immense list of jobs that 
she had scribbled on a very long piece of parchment. 
“Now, Ron, have you cleaned out your room yet?” 

“ Why?” exclaimed Ron, slamming his spoon down and 
glaring at his mother. “Why does my room have to be 
cleaned out? Harry and I are fine with it the way it is!” 

“We are holding your brother’s wedding here in a few 
days’ time, young man — ” 

“And are they getting married in my bedroom?” asked 
Ron furiously. “No! So why in the name of Merlin’s 
saggy left — ” 

“Don’t talk to your mother like that,” said Mr. Weasley 
firmly. “And do as you’re told.” 

Ron scowled at both his parents, then picked up his 
spoon and attacked the last few mouthfuls of his 
apple tart. 

“I can help, some of it’s my mess,” Harry told Ron, 
but Mrs. Weasley cut across him. 

“No, Harry, dear, I’d much rather you helped Arthur 
muck out the chickens, and Hermione, I’d be ever so 

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grateful if you’d change the sheets for Monsieur and 
Madame Delacour; you know they’re arriving at 
eleven tomorrow morning.” 

But as it turned out, there was very little to do for the 
chickens. “There’s no need to, er, mention it to Molly,” 
Mr. Weasley told Harry, blocking his access to the 
coop, “but, er, Ted Tonks sent me most of what was 
left of Sirius’s bike and, er, I’m hiding — that’s to say, 
keeping — it in here. Fantastic stuff: There’s an 
exhaust gaskin, as I believe it’s called, the most 
magnificent battery, and it’ll be a great opportunity to 
find out how brakes work. I’m going to try and put it 
all back together again when Molly’s not — I mean, 
when I’ve got time.” 

When they returned to the house, Mrs. Weasley was 
nowhere to be seen, so Harry slipped upstairs to 
Ron’s attic bedroom. 

“I’m doing it, I’m doing — ! Oh, it’s you,” said Ron in 
relief, as Harry entered the room. Ron lay back down 
on the bed, which he had evidently just vacated. The 
room was just as messy as it had been all week; the 
only change was that Hermione was now sitting in the 
far corner, her fluffy ginger cat, Crookshanks, at her 
feet, sorting books, some of which Harry recognized 
as his own, into two enormous piles. 

“Hi, Harry,” she said, as he sat down on his camp 
bed. 

“And how did you manage to get away?” 

“Oh, Ron’s mum forgot that she asked Ginny and me 
to change the sheets yesterday,” said Hermione. She 
threw Numerology and Grammatica onto one pile and 
The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts onto the other. 



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“We were just talking about Mad-Eye,” Ron told 
Harry. “I reckon he might have survived.” 

“But Bill saw him hit by the Killing Curse,” said 
Harry. 

“Yeah, but Bill was under attack too,” said Ron. “How 
can he be sure what he saw?” 

“Even if the Killing Curse missed, Mad-Eye still fell 
about a thousand feet,” said Hermione, now weighing 
Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland in her hand. 

“He could have used a Shield Charm — ” 

“Fleur said his wand was blasted out of his hand,” 
said Harry. 

“Well, all right, if you want him to be dead,” said Ron 
grumpily, punching his pillow into a more 
comfortable shape. 

“Of course we don’t want him to be dead!” said 
Hermione, looking shocked. “It’s dreadful that he’s 
dead! But we’re being realistic!” 

For the first time, Harry imagined Mad-Eye’s body, 
broken as Dumbledore’s had been, yet with that one 
eye still whizzing in its socket. He felt a stab of 
revulsion mixed with a bizarre desire to laugh. 

“The Death Eaters probably tidied up after 
themselves, that’s why no one’s found him,” said Ron 
wisely. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Like Barty Crouch, turned into a 
bone and buried in Hagrid’s front garden. They 
probably transfigured Moody and stuffed him — ” 



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“Don’t!” squealed Hermione. Startled, Harry looked 
over just in time to see her burst into tears over her 
copy of Spellman’s Syllabary. 

“Oh no,” said Harry, struggling to get up from the old 
camp bed. “Hermione, I wasn’t trying to upset — ” 

But with a great creaking of rusty bedsprings, Ron 
bounded off the bed and got there first. One arm 
around Hermione, he fished in his jeans pocket and 
withdrew a revolting-looking handkerchief that he 
had used to clean out the oven earlier. Hastily pulling 
out his wand, he pointed it at the rag and said, 

“ Tergeo .” 

The wand siphoned off most of the grease. Looking 
rather pleased with himself, Ron handed the slightly 
smoking handkerchief to Hermione. 

“Oh ... thanks, Ron. ... I’m sorry. ...” She blew her 
nose and hiccuped. “It’s just so awf-ful, isn’t it? R- 
right after Dumbledore ... I j-just n-never imagined 
Mad-Eye dying, somehow, he seemed so tough!” 

“Yeah, I know,” said Ron, giving her a squeeze. “But 
you know what he’d say to us if he was here?” 

“ ‘C-constant vigilance,’ ” said Hermione, mopping her 
eyes. 

“That’s right,” said Ron, nodding. “He’d tell us to learn 
from what happened to him. And what I’ve learned is 
not to trust that cowardly little squit, Mundungus.” 

Hermione gave a shaky laugh and leaned forward to 
pick up two more books. A second later, Ron had 
snatched his arm back from around her shoulders; 
she had dropped The Monster Book of Monsters on his 



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foot. The book had broken free from its restraining 
belt and snapped viciously at Ron’s ankle. 



“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Hermione cried as Harry 
wrenched the book from Ron’s leg and retied it shut. 

“What are you doing with all those books anyway?” 
Ron asked, limping back to his bed. 

“Just trying to decide which ones to take with us,” 
said Hermione. “When we’re looking for the 
Horcruxes.” 

“Oh, of course,” said Ron, clapping a hand to his 
forehead. “I forgot we’ll be hunting down Voldemort in 
a mobile library.” 

“Ha ha,” said Hermione, looking down at Spellman’s 
Syllabary. “I wonder ... will we need to translate 
runes? It’s possible. ... I think we’d better take it, to 
be safe.” 

She dropped the syllabary onto the larger of the two 
piles and picked up Hogwarts, A History. 

“Listen,” said Harry. 

He had sat up straight. Ron and Hermione looked at 
him with similar mixtures of resignation and defiance. 

“I know you said after Dumbledore’s funeral that you 
wanted to come with me,” Harry began. 

“Here he goes,” Ron said to Hermione, rolling his eyes. 

“As we knew he would,” she sighed, turning back to 
the books. “You know, I think I will take Hogwarts, A 
History. Even if we’re not going back there, I don’t 
think I’d feel right if I didn’t have it with — ” 

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“Listen!” said Harry again. 



“No, Harry, you listen,” said Hermione. “We’re coming 
with you. That was decided months ago — years, 
really.” 

“But — ” 

“Shut up,” Ron advised him. 

“ — are you sure you’ve thought this through?” Harry 
persisted. 

“Let’s see,” said Hermione, slamming Travels with 
Trolls onto the discarded pile with a rather fierce look. 
“I’ve been packing for days, so we’re ready to leave at 
a moment’s notice, which for your information has 
included doing some pretty difficult magic, not to 
mention smuggling Mad-Eye’s whole stock of 
Polyjuice Potion right under Ron’s mum’s nose. 

“I’ve also modified my parents’ memories so that 
they’re convinced they’re really called Wendell and 
Monica Wilkins, and that their life’s ambition is to 
move to Australia, which they have now done. That’s 
to make it more difficult for Voldemort to track them 
down and interrogate them about me — or you, 
because unfortunately, I’ve told them quite a bit 
about you. 

“Assuming I survive our hunt for the Horcruxes, I’ll 
find Mum and Dad and lift the enchantment. If I don’t 
— well, I think I’ve cast a good enough charm to keep 
them safe and happy. Wendell and Monica Wilkins 
don’t know that they’ve got a daughter, you see.” 

Hermione’s eyes were swimming with tears again. Ron 
got back off the bed, put his arm around her once 
more, and frowned at Harry as though reproaching 

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him for lack of tact. Harry could not think of anything 
to say, not least because it was highly unusual for 
Ron to be teaching anyone else tact. 

“I — Hermione, I’m sorry — I didn’t — ” 

“Didn’t realize that Ron and I know perfectly well 
what might happen if we come with you? Well, we do. 
Ron, show Harry what you’ve done.” 

“Nah, he’s just eaten,” said Ron. 

“Go on, he needs to know!” 

“Oh, all right. Harry, come here.” 

For the second time Ron withdrew his arm from 
around Hermione and stumped over to the door. 

“C’mon.” 

“Why?” Harry asked, following Ron out of the room 
onto the tiny landing. 

“ Descendo,” muttered Ron, pointing his wand at the 
low ceiling. A hatch opened right over their heads and 
a ladder slid down to their feet. A horrible, half- 
sucking, half-moaning sound came out of the square 
hole, along with an unpleasant smell like open drains. 

“That’s your ghoul, isn’t it?” asked Harry, who had 
never actually met the creature that sometimes 
disrupted the nightly silence. 

“Yeah, it is,” said Ron, climbing the ladder. “Come 
and have a look at him.” 

Harry followed Ron up the few short steps into the 
tiny attic space. His head and shoulders were in the 

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room before he caught sight of the creature curled up 
a few feet from him, fast asleep in the gloom with its 
large mouth wide open. 

“But it ... it looks ... do ghouls normally wear 
pajamas?” 

“No,” said Ron. “Nor have they usually got red hair or 
that number of pustules.” 

Harry contemplated the thing, slightly revolted. It was 
human in shape and size, and was wearing what, now 
that Harry’s eyes became used to the darkness, was 
clearly an old pair of Ron’s pajamas. He was also sure 
that ghouls were generally rather slimy and bald, 
rather than distinctly hairy and covered in angry 
purple blisters. 

“He’s me, see?” said Ron. 

“No,” said Harry. “I don’t.” 

“I’ll explain it back in my room, the smell’s getting to 
me,” said Ron. They climbed back down the ladder, 
which Ron returned to the ceiling, and rejoined 
Hermione, who was still sorting books. 

“Once we’ve left, the ghoul’s going to come and live 
down here in my room,” said Ron. “I think he’s really 
looking forward to it — well, it’s hard to tell, because 
all he can do is moan and drool — but he nods a lot 
when you mention it. Anyway, he’s going to be me 
with spattergroit. Good, eh?” 

Harry merely looked his confusion. 

“It is!” said Ron, clearly frustrated that Harry had not 
grasped the brilliance of the plan. “Look, when we 
three don’t turn up at Hogwarts again, everyone’s 

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going to think Hermione and I must be with you, 
right? Which means the Death Eaters will go straight 
for our families to see if they’ve got information on 
where you are.” 

“But hopefully it’ll look like I’ve gone away with Mum 
and Dad; a lot of Muggle-borns are talking about 
going into hiding at the moment,” said Hermione. 

“We can’t hide my whole family, it’ll look too fishy and 
they can’t all leave their jobs,” said Ron. “So we’re 
going to put out the story that I’m seriously ill with 
spattergroit, which is why I can’t go back to school. If 
anyone comes calling to investigate, Mum or Dad can 
show them the ghoul in my bed, covered in pustules. 
Spattergroit ’s really contagious, so they’re not going 
to want to go near him. It won’t matter that he can’t 
say anything, either, because apparently you can’t 
once the fungus has spread to your uvula.” 

“And your mum and dad are in on this plan?” asked 
Harry. 

“Dad is. He helped Fred and George transform the 
ghoul. Mum ... well, you’ve seen what she’s like. She 
won’t accept we’re going till we’ve gone.” 

There was silence in the room, broken only by gentle 
thuds as Hermione continued to throw books onto 
one pile or the other. Ron sat watching her, and Harry 
looked from one to the other, unable to say anything. 
The measures they had taken to protect their families 
made him realize, more than anything else could have 
done, that they really were going to come with him 
and that they knew exactly how dangerous that would 
be. He wanted to tell them what that meant to him, 
but he simply could not find words important enough. 



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Through the silence came the muffled sounds of Mrs. 
Weasley shouting from four floors below. 

“Ginny’s probably left a speck of dust on a poxy 
napkin ring,” said Ron. “I dunno why the Delacours 
have got to come two days before the wedding.” 

“Fleur’s sister’s a bridesmaid, she needs to be here for 
the rehearsal, and she’s too young to come on her 
own,” said Hermione, as she pored indecisively over 
Break with a Banshee. 

“Well, guests aren’t going to help Mum’s stress levels,” 
said Ron. 

“What we really need to decide,” said Hermione, 
tossing Defensive Magical Theory into the bin without 
a second glance and picking up An Appraisal of 
Magical Education in Europe, “is where we’re going 
after we leave here. I know you said you wanted to go 
to Godric’s Hollow first, Harry, and I understand why, 
but ... well ... shouldn’t we make the Horcruxes our 
priority?” 

“If we knew where any of the Horcruxes were, I’d 
agree with you,” said Harry, who did not believe that 
Hermione really understood his desire to return to 
Godric’s Hollow. His parents’ graves were only part of 
the attraction: He had a strong, though inexplicable, 
feeling that the place held answers for him. Perhaps it 
was simply because it was there that he had survived 
Voldemort’s Killing Curse; now that he was facing the 
challenge of repeating the feat, Harry was drawn to 
the place where it had happened, wanting to 
understand. 

“Don’t you think there’s a possibility that Voldemort’s 
keeping a watch on Godric’s Hollow?” Hermione 
asked. “He might expect you to go back and visit your 

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parents’ graves once you’re free to go wherever you 
like?” 



This had not occurred to Harry. While he struggled to 
find a counterargument, Ron spoke up, evidently 
following his own train of thought. 

“This R.A.B. person,” he said. “You know, the one who 
stole the real locket?” 

Hermione nodded. 

“He said in his note he was going to destroy it, didn’t 
he?” 

Harry dragged his rucksack toward him and pulled 
out the fake Horcrux in which R.A.B. ’s note was still 
folded. 

“ ‘ I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy 
it as soon as I can,’ ” Harry read out. 

“Well, what if he did finish it off?” said Ron. 

“Or she,” interposed Hermione. 

“Whichever,” said Ron, “it’d be one less for us to do!” 

“Yes, but we’re still going to have to try and trace the 
real locket, aren’t we?” said Hermione, “to find out 
whether or not it’s destroyed.” 

“And once we get hold of it, how do you destroy a 
Horcrux?” asked Ron. 

“Well,” said Hermione, “I’ve been researching that.” 

“How?” asked Harry. “I didn’t think there were any 
books on Horcruxes in the library?” 

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“There weren’t,” said Hermione, who had turned pink. 
“Dumbledore removed them all, but he — he didn’t 
destroy them.” 

Ron sat up straight, wide-eyed. 

“How in the name of Merlin’s pants have you 
managed to get your hands on those Horcrux books?” 

“It — it wasn’t stealing!” said Hermione, looking from 
Harry to Ron with a kind of desperation. “They were 
still library books, even if Dumbledore had taken 
them off the shelves. Anyway, if he really didn’t want 
anyone to get at them, I’m sure he would have made 
it much harder to — ” 

“Get to the point!” said Ron. 

“Well ... it was easy,” said Hermione in a small voice. 

“I just did a Summoning Charm. You know — Accio. 
And — they zoomed out of Dumbledore ’s study 
window right into the girls’ dormitory.” 

“But when did you do this?” Harry asked, regarding 
Hermione with a mixture of admiration and 
incredulity. 

“Just after his — Dumbledore’s — funeral,” said 
Hermione in an even smaller voice. “Right after we 
agreed we’d leave school and go and look for the 
Horcruxes. When I went back upstairs to get my 
things it — it just occurred to me that the more we 
knew about them, the better it would be ... and I was 
alone in there ... so I tried ... and it worked. They flew 
straight in through the open window and I — I packed 
them.” 

She swallowed and then said imploringly, “I can’t 
believe Dumbledore would have been angry, it’s not 

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as though we’re going to use the information to make 
a Horcrux, is it?” 

“Can you hear us complaining?” said Ron. “Where are 
these books anyway?” 

Hermione rummaged for a moment and then 
extracted from the pile a large volume, bound in faded 
black leather. She looked a little nauseated and held 
it as gingerly as if it were something recently dead. 

“This is the one that gives explicit instructions on how 
to make a Horcrux. Secrets of the Darkest Art — it’s a 
horrible book, really awful, full of evil magic. I wonder 
when Dumbledore removed it from the library. ... If he 
didn’t do it until he was headmaster, I bet Voldemort 
got all the instruction he needed from here.” 

“Why did he have to ask Slughorn how to make a 
Horcrux, then, if he’d already read that?” asked Ron. 

“He only approached Slughorn to find out what would 
happen if you split your soul into seven,” said Harry. 
“Dumbledore was sure Riddle already knew how to 
make a Horcrux by the time he asked Slughorn about 
them. I think you’re right, Hermione, that could easily 
have been where he got the information.” 

“And the more I’ve read about them,” said Hermione, 
“the more horrible they seem, and the less I can 
believe that he actually made six. It warns in this 
book how unstable you make the rest of your soul by 
ripping it, and that’s just by making one Horcrux!” 

Harry remembered what Dumbledore had said about 
Voldemort moving beyond “usual evil.” 

“Isn’t there any way of putting yourself back 
together?” Ron asked. 

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“Yes,” said Hermione with a hollow smile, “but it 
would be excruciatingly painful.” 

“Why? How do you do it?” asked Harry. 

“Remorse,” said Hermione. “You’ve got to really feel 
what you’ve done. There’s a footnote. Apparently the 
pain of it can destroy you. I can’t see Voldemort 
attempting it somehow, can you?” 

“No,” said Ron, before Harry could answer. “So does it 
say how to destroy Horcruxes in that book?” 

“Yes,” said Hermione, now turning the fragile pages as 
if examining rotting entrails, “because it warns Dark 
wizards how strong they have to make the 
enchantments on them. From all that I’ve read, what 
Harry did to Riddle’s diary was one of the few really 
foolproof ways of destroying a Horcrux.” 

“What, stabbing it with a basilisk fang?” asked Harry. 

“Oh well, lucky we’ve got such a large supply of 
basilisk fangs, then,” said Ron. “I was wondering 
what we were going to do with them.” 

“It doesn’t have to be a basilisk fang,” said Hermione 
patiently. “It has to be something so destructive that 
the Horcrux can’t repair itself. Basilisk venom only 
has one antidote, and it’s incredibly rare — -□ 

“ — phoenix tears,” said Harry, nodding. 

“Exactly,” said Hermione. “Our problem is that there 
are very few substances as destructive as basilisk 
venom, and they’re all dangerous to carry around 
with you. That’s a problem we’re going to have to 
solve, though, because ripping, smashing, or 



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crushing a Horcrux won’t do the trick. You’ve got to 
put it beyond magical repair.” 

“But even if we wreck the thing it lives in,” said Ron, 
“why can’t the bit of soul in it just go and live in 
something else?” 

“Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a 
human being.” 

Seeing that Harry and Ron looked thoroughly 
confused, Hermione hurried on, “Look, if I picked up 
a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, 

I wouldn’t damage your soul at all.” 

“Which would be a real comfort to me, I’m sure,” said 
Ron. Harry laughed. 

“It should be, actually! But my point is that whatever 
happens to your body, your soul will survive, 
untouched,” said Hermione. “But it’s the other way 
round with a Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside it 
depends on its container, its enchanted body, for 
survival. It can’t exist without it.” 

“That diary sort of died when I stabbed it,” said Harry, 
remembering ink pouring like blood from the 
punctured pages, and the screams of the piece of 
Voldemort’s soul as it vanished. 

“And once the diary was properly destroyed, the bit of 
soul trapped in it could no longer exist. Ginny tried to 
get rid of the diary before you did, flushing it away, 
but obviously it came back good as new.” 

“Hang on,” said Ron, frowning. “The bit of soul in that 
diary was possessing Ginny, wasn’t it? How does that 
work, then?” 



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“While the magical container is still intact, the bit of 
soul inside it can flit in and out of someone if they get 
too close to the object. I don’t mean holding it for too 
long, it’s nothing to do with touching it,” she added 
before Ron could speak. “I mean close emotionally. 
Ginny poured her heart out into that diary, she made 
herself incredibly vulnerable. You’re in trouble if you 
get too fond of or dependent on the Horcrux.” 

“I wonder how Dumbledore destroyed the ring?” said 
Harry. “Why didn’t I ask him? I never really ...” 

His voice tailed away: He was thinking of all the 
things he should have asked Dumbledore, and of 
how, since the headmaster had died, it seemed to 
Harry that he had wasted so many opportunities 
when Dumbledore had been alive, to find out more ... 
to find out everything. . . . 

The silence was shattered as the bedroom door flew 
open with a wall-shaking crash. Hermione shrieked 
and dropped Secrets of the Darkest Art; Crookshanks 
streaked under the bed, hissing indignantly; Ron 
jumped off the bed, skidded on a discarded Chocolate 
Frog wrapper, and smacked his head on the opposite 
wall; and Harry instinctively dived for his wand before 
realizing that he was looking up at Mrs. Weasley, 
whose hair was disheveled and whose face was 
contorted with rage. 

“I’m so sorry to break up this cozy little gathering,” 
she said, her voice trembling. “I’m sure you all need 
your rest . . . but there are wedding presents stacked 
in my room that need sorting out and I was under the 
impression that you had agreed to help.” 

“Oh yes,” said Hermione, looking terrified as she leapt 
to her feet, sending books flying in every direction, 

“we will ... we’re sorry ...” 

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With an anguished look at Harry and Ron, Hermione 
hurried out of the room after Mrs. Weasley. 

“It’s like being a house-elf,” complained Ron in an 
undertone, still massaging his head as he and Harry 
followed. “Except without the job satisfaction. The 
sooner this wedding’s over, the happier I’ll be.” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, “then we’ll have nothing to do 
except find Horcruxes. ... It’ll be like a holiday, won’t 
it?” 



Ron started to laugh, but at the sight of the enormous 
pile of wedding presents waiting for them in Mrs. 
Weasley’s room, stopped quite abruptly. 

The Delacours arrived the following morning at eleven 
o’clock. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were feeling 
quite resentful toward Fleur’s family by this time, and 
it was with ill grace that Ron stumped back upstairs 
to put on matching socks, and Harry attempted to 
flatten his hair. Once they had all been deemed smart 
enough, they trooped out into the sunny backyard to 
await the visitors. 

Harry had never seen the place looking so tidy. The 
rusty cauldrons and old Wellington boots that usually 
littered the steps by the back door were gone, 
replaced by two new Flutterby bushes standing either 
side of the door in large pots; though there was no 
breeze, the leaves waved lazily, giving an attractive 
rippling effect. The chickens had been shut away, the 
yard had been swept, and the nearby garden had 
been pruned, plucked, and generally spruced up, 
although Harry, who liked it in its overgrown state, 
thought that it looked rather forlorn without its usual 
contingent of capering gnomes. 



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He had lost track of how many security enchantments 
had been placed upon the Burrow by both the Order 
and the Ministry; all he knew was that it was no 
longer possible for anybody to travel by magic directly 
into the place. Mr. Weasley had therefore gone to 
meet the Delacours on top of a nearby hill, where they 
were to arrive by Portkey. The first sound of their 
approach was an unusually high-pitched laugh, 
which turned out to be coming from Mr. Weasley, who 
appeared at the gate moments later, laden with 
luggage and leading a beautiful blonde woman in 
long, leaf-green robes, who could only be Fleur’s 
mother. 

“Maman!” cried Fleur, rushing forward to embrace 
her. “Papa!” 

Monsieur Delacour was nowhere near as attractive as 
his wife; he was a head shorter and extremely plump, 
with a little, pointed black beard. However, he looked 
good-natured. Bouncing toward Mrs. Weasley on 
high-heeled boots, he kissed her twice on each cheek, 
leaving her flustered. 

“You ’ave been to much trouble,” he said in a deep 
voice. “Fleur tells us you ’ave been working very ’ard.” 

“Oh, it’s been nothing, nothing!” trilled Mrs. Weasley. 
“No trouble at all!” 

Ron relieved his feelings by aiming a kick at a gnome 
who was peering out from behind one of the new 
Flutterby bushes. 

“Dear lady!” said Monsieur Delacour, still holding 
Mrs. Weasley’s hand between his own two plump 
ones and beaming. “We are most honored at the 
approaching union of our two families! Let me present 
my wife, Apolline.” 

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Madame Delacour glided forward and stooped to kiss 
Mrs. Weasley too. 

“ Enchantee,” she said. “Your ’usband ’as been telling 
us such amusing stories!” 

Mr. Weasley gave a maniacal laugh; Mrs. Weasley 
threw him a look, upon which he became immediately 
silent and assumed an expression appropriate to the 
sickbed of a close friend. 

“And, of course, you ’ave met my leetle daughter, 
Gabrielle!” said Monsieur Delacour. Gabrielle was 
Fleur in miniature; eleven years old, with waist-length 
hair of pure, silvery blonde, she gave Mrs. Weasley a 
dazzling smile and hugged her, then threw Harry a 
glowing look, batting her eyelashes. Ginny cleared her 
throat loudly. 

“Well, come in, do!” said Mrs. Weasley brightly, and 
she ushered the Delacours into the house, with many 
“No, please!”s and “After you!”s and “Not at all!”s. 

The Delacours, it soon transpired, were helpful, 
pleasant guests. They were pleased with everything 
and keen to assist with the preparations for the 
wedding. Monsieur Delacour pronounced everything 
from the seating plan to the bridesmaids’ shoes 
“Charmanti” Madame Delacour was most 
accomplished at household spells and had the oven 
properly cleaned in a trice; Gabrielle followed her 
elder sister around, trying to assist in any way she 
could and jabbering away in rapid French. 

On the downside, the Burrow was not built to 
accommodate so many people. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley 
were now sleeping in the sitting room, having shouted 
down Monsieur and Madame Delacour’s protests and 
insisted they take their bedroom. Gabrielle was 
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sleeping with Fleur in Percy’s old room, and Bill 
would be sharing with Charlie, his best man, once 
Charlie arrived from Romania. Opportunities to make 
plans together became virtually nonexistent, and it 
was in desperation that Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
took to volunteering to feed the chickens just to 
escape the overcrowded house. 

“But she still won’t leave us alone!” snarled Ron, as 
their second attempt at a meeting in the yard was 
foiled by the appearance of Mrs. Weasley carrying a 
large basket of laundry in her arms. 

“Oh, good, you’ve fed the chickens,” she called as she 
approached them. “We’d better shut them away again 
before the men arrive tomorrow ... to put up the tent 
for the wedding,” she explained, pausing to lean 
against the henhouse. She looked exhausted. 
“Millamant’s Magic Marquees ... they’re very good, 
Bill’s escorting them. ... You’d better stay inside while 
they’re here, Harry. I must say it does complicate 
organizing a wedding, having all these security spells 
around the place.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Harry humbly. 

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear!” said Mrs. Weasley at once. “I 
didn’t mean — well, your safety’s much more 
important! Actually, I’ve been wanting to ask you how 
you want to celebrate your birthday, Harry. 

Seventeen, after all, it’s an important day. ...” 

“I don’t want a fuss,” said Harry quickly, envisaging 
the additional strain this would put on them all. 
“Really, Mrs. Weasley, just a normal dinner would be 
fine. ... It’s the day before the wedding. ...” 

“Oh, well, if you’re sure, dear. I’ll invite Remus and 
Tonks, shall I? And how about Hagrid?” 

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“That’d be great,” said Harry. “But please don’t go to 
loads of trouble.” 

“Not at all, not at all ... It’s no trouble. ...” 

She looked at him, a long, searching look, then smiled 
a little sadly, straightened up, and walked away. 

Harry watched as she waved her wand near the 
washing line, and the damp clothes rose into the air 
to hang themselves up, and suddenly he felt a great 
wave of remorse for the inconvenience and the pain 
he was giving her. 



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7 




THE WILL OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE 

He was walking along a mountain road in the cool 
blue light of dawn. Far below, swathed in mist, was 
the shadow of a small town. Was the man he sought 
down there, the man he needed so badly he could 
think of little else, the man who held the answer, the 
answer to his problem . . . ? 

“Oi, wake up.” 

Harry opened his eyes. He was lying again on the 
camp bed in Ron’s dingy attic room. The sun had not 
yet risen and the room was still shadowy. Pigwidgeon 
was asleep with his head under his tiny wing. The 
scar on Harry’s forehead was prickling. 

“You were muttering in your sleep.” 

“Was I?” 

“Yeah. ‘Gregorovitch.’ You kept saying ‘Gregorovitch.’ 



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Harry was not wearing his glasses; Ron’s face 
appeared slightly blurred. 



“Who’s Gregorovitch?” 

“I dunno, do I? You were the one saying it.” 

Harry rubbed his forehead, thinking. He had a vague 
idea he had heard the name before, but he could not 
think where. 

“I think Voldemort’s looking for him.” 

“Poor bloke,” said Ron fervently. 

Harry sat up, still rubbing his scar, now wide awake. 
He tried to remember exactly what he had seen in the 
dream, but all that came back was a mountainous 
horizon and the outline of the little village cradled in a 
deep valley. 

“I think he’s abroad.” 

“Who, Gregorovitch?” 

“Voldemort. I think he’s somewhere abroad, looking 
for Gregorovitch. It didn’t look like anywhere in 
Britain.” 

“You reckon you were seeing into his mind again?” 
Ron sounded worried. 

“Do me a favor and don’t tell Hermione,” said Harry. 
“Although how she expects me to stop seeing stuff in 
my sleep ...” 

He gazed up at little Pigwidgeon’s cage, thinking ... 
Why was the name “Gregorovitch” familiar? 

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“I think,” he said slowly, “he’s got something to do 
with Quidditch. There’s some connection, but I can’t 
— I can’t think what it is.” 

“Quidditch?” said Ron. “Sure you’re not thinking of 
Gorgovitch?” 

“Who?” 

“Dragomir Gorgovitch, Chaser, transferred to the 
Chudley Cannons for a record fee two years ago. 
Record holder for most Quaffle drops in a season.” 

“No,” said Harry. “I’m definitely not thinking of 
Gorgovitch.” 

“I try not to either,” said Ron. “Well, happy birthday 
anyway.” 

“Wow — that’s right, I forgot! I’m seventeen!” 

Harry seized the wand lying beside his camp bed, 
pointed it at the cluttered desk where he had left his 
glasses, and said, “Accio Glasses!” Although they were 
only around a foot away, there was something 
immensely satisfying about seeing them zoom toward 
him, at least until they poked him in the eye. 

“Slick,” snorted Ron. 

Reveling in the removal of his Trace, Harry sent Ron’s 
possessions flying around the room, causing 
Pigwidgeon to wake up and flutter excitedly around 
his cage. Harry also tried tying the laces of his 
trainers by magic (the resultant knot took several 
minutes to untie by hand) and, purely for the 
pleasure of it, turned the orange robes on Ron’s 
Chudley Cannons posters bright blue. 



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“I’d do your fly by hand, though,” Ron advised Harry, 
sniggering when Harry immediately checked it. 

“Here’s your present. Unwrap it up here, it’s not for 
my mother’s eyes.” 

“A book?” said Harry as he took the rectangular 
parcel. “Bit of a departure from tradition, isn’t it?” 

“This isn’t your average book,” said Ron. “It’s pure 
gold: Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches. 
Explains everything you need to know about girls. If 
only I’d had this last year I’d have known exactly how 
to get rid of Lavender and I would’ve known how to 
get going with ... Well, Fred and George gave me a 
copy, and I’ve learned a lot. You’d be surprised, it’s 
not all about wandwork, either.” 

When they arrived in the kitchen they found a pile of 
presents waiting on the table. Bill and Monsieur 
Delacour were finishing their breakfasts, while Mrs. 
Weasley stood chatting to them over the frying pan. 

“Arthur told me to wish you a happy seventeenth, 
Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley, beaming at him. “He had 
to leave early for work, but hell be back for dinner. 
That’s our present on top.” 

Harry sat down, took the square parcel she had 
indicated, and unwrapped it. Inside was a watch very 
like the one Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had given Ron for 
his seventeenth; it was gold, with stars circling 
around the face instead of hands. 

“It’s traditional to give a wizard a watch when he 
comes of age,” said Mrs. Weasley, watching him 
anxiously from beside the cooker. “I’m afraid that one 
isn’t new like Ron’s, it was actually my brother 
Fabian’s and he wasn’t terribly careful with his 
possessions, it’s a bit dented on the back, but — ” 
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The rest of her speech was lost; Harry had got up and 
hugged her. He tried to put a lot of unsaid things into 
the hug and perhaps she understood them, because 
she patted his cheek clumsily when he released her, 
then waved her wand in a slightly random way, 
causing half a pack of bacon to flop out of the frying 
pan onto the floor. 

“Happy birthday, Harry!” said Hermione, hurrying 
into the kitchen and adding her own present to the 
top of the pile. “It’s not much, but I hope you like it. 
What did you get him?” she added to Ron, who 
seemed not to hear her. 

“Come on, then, open Hermione’s!” said Ron. 

She had bought him a new Sneakoscope. The other 
packages contained an enchanted razor from Bill and 
Fleur (“Ah yes, zis will give you ze smoothest shave 
you will ever ’ave,” Monsieur Delacour assured him, 
“but you must tell it clearly what you want . . . 
ozzerwise you might find you ’ave a leetle less hair 
zan you would like. ...”), chocolates from the 
Delacours, and an enormous box of the latest 
Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes merchandise from Fred 
and George. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione did not linger at the table, 
as the arrival of Madame Delacour, Fleur, and 
Gabrielle made the kitchen uncomfortably crowded. 

“I’ll pack these for you,” Hermione said brightly, 
taking Harry’s presents out of his arms as the three of 
them headed back upstairs. “I’m nearly done, I’m just 
waiting for the rest of your underpants to come out of 
the wash, Ron — ” 

Ron’s splutter was interrupted by the opening of a 
door on the first-floor landing. 

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“Harry, will you come in here a moment?” 

It was Ginny. Ron came to an abrupt halt, but 
Hermione took him by the elbow and tugged him on 
up the stairs. Feeling nervous, Harry followed Ginny 
into her room. 

He had never been inside it before. It was small, but 
bright. There was a large poster of the Wizarding 
band the Weird Sisters on one wall, and a picture of 
Gwenog Jones, Captain of the all-witch Quidditch 
team the Holyhead Harpies, on the other. A desk 
stood facing the open window, which looked out over 
the orchard where he and Ginny had once played 
two-a-side Quidditch with Ron and Hermione, and 
which now housed a large, pearly white marquee. The 
golden flag on top was level with Ginny’s window. 

Ginny looked up into Harry’s face, took a deep breath, 
and said, “Happy seventeenth.” 

“Yeah ... thanks.” 

She was looking at him steadily; he, however, found it 
difficult to look back at her; it was like gazing into a 
brilliant light. 

“Nice view,” he said feebly, pointing toward the 
window. 

She ignored this. He could not blame her. 

“I couldn’t think what to get you,” she said. 

“You didn’t have to get me anything.” 

She disregarded this too. 



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“I didn’t know what would be useful. Nothing too big, 
because you wouldn’t be able to take it with you.” 

He chanced a glance at her. She was not tearful; that 
was one of the many wonderful things about Ginny, 
she was rarely weepy. He had sometimes thought that 
having six brothers must have toughened her up. 

She took a step closer to him. 

“So then I thought, I’d like you to have something to 
remember me by, you know, if you meet some veela 
when you’re off doing whatever you’re doing.” 

“I think dating opportunities are going to be pretty 
thin on the ground, to be honest.” 

“There’s the silver lining I’ve been looking for,” she 
whispered, and then she was kissing him as she had 
never kissed him before, and Harry was kissing her 
back, and it was blissful oblivion, better than 
firewhisky; she was the only real thing in the world, 
Ginny, the feel of her, one hand at her back and one 
in her long, sweet-smelling hair — 

The door banged open behind them and they jumped 
apart. 

“Oh,” said Ron pointedly. “Sorry.” 

“Ron!” Hermione was just behind him, slightly out of 
breath. There was a strained silence, then Ginny said 
in a flat little voice, 

“Well, happy birthday anyway, Harry.” 

Ron’s ears were scarlet; Hermione looked nervous. 
Harry wanted to slam the door in their faces, but it 
felt as though a cold draft had entered the room when 

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the door opened, and his shining moment had popped 
like a soap bubble. All the reasons for ending his 
relationship with Ginny, for staying well away from 
her, seemed to have slunk inside the room with Ron, 
and all happy forgetfulness was gone. 

He looked at Ginny, wanting to say something, 
though he hardly knew what, but she had turned her 
back on him. He thought that she might have 
succumbed, for once, to tears. He could not do 
anything to comfort her in front of Ron. 

“I’ll see you later,” he said, and followed the other two 
out of the bedroom. 

Ron marched downstairs, through the still-crowded 
kitchen and into the yard, and Harry kept pace with 
him all the way, Hermione trotting along behind them 
looking scared. 

Once he reached the seclusion of the freshly mown 
lawn, Ron rounded on Harry. 

“You ditched her. What are you doing now, messing 
her around?” 

“I’m not messing her around,” said Harry, as 
Hermione caught up with them. 

“Ron — ” 

But Ron held up a hand to silence her. 

“She was really cut up when you ended it — ” 

“So was I. You know why I stopped it, and it wasn’t 
because I wanted to.” 



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“Yeah, but you go snogging her now and she’s just 
going to get her hopes up again — ” 

“She’s not an idiot, she knows it can’t happen, she’s 
not expecting us to — to end up married, or — ” 

As he said it, a vivid picture formed in Harry’s mind of 
Ginny in a white dress, marrying a tall, faceless, and 
unpleasant stranger. In one spiraling moment it 
seemed to hit him: Her future was free and 
unencumbered, whereas his ... he could see nothing 
but Voldemort ahead. 

“If you keep groping her every chance you get — ” 

“It won’t happen again,” said Harry harshly. The day 
was cloudless, but he felt as though the sun had gone 
in. “Okay?” 

Ron looked half resentful, half sheepish; he rocked 
backward and forward on his feet for a moment, then 
said, “Right then, well, that’s ... yeah.” 

Ginny did not seek another one-to-one meeting with 
Harry for the rest of the day, nor by any look or 
gesture did she show that they had shared more than 
polite conversation in her room. Nevertheless, 

Charlie’s arrival came as a relief to Harry. It provided 
a distraction, watching Mrs. Weasley force Charlie 
into a chair, raise her wand threateningly, and 
announce that he was about to get a proper haircut. 

As Harry’s birthday dinner would have stretched the 
Burrow’s kitchen to breaking point even before the 
arrival of Charlie, Lupin, Tonks, and Hagrid, several 
tables were placed end to end in the garden. Fred and 
George bewitched a number of purple lanterns, all 
emblazoned with a large number 17, to hang in 
midair over the guests. Thanks to Mrs. Weasley’s 
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ministrations, George’s wound was neat and clean, 
but Harry was not yet used to the dark hole in the 
side of his head, despite the twins’ many jokes about 
it. 

Hermione made purple and gold streamers erupt from 
the end of her wand and drape themselves artistically 
over the trees and bushes. 

“Nice,” said Ron, as with one final flourish of her 
wand, Hermione turned the leaves on the crabapple 
tree to gold. “You’ve really got an eye for that sort of 
thing.” 

“Thank you, Ron!” said Hermione, looking both 
pleased and a little confused. Harry turned away, 
smiling to himself. He had a funny notion that he 
would find a chapter on compliments when he found 
time to peruse his copy of Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to 
Charm Witches; he caught Ginny’s eye and grinned at 
her before remembering his promise to Ron and 
hurriedly striking up a conversation with Monsieur 
Delacour. 

“Out of the way, out of the way!” sang Mrs. Weasley, 
coming through the gate with what appeared to be a 
giant, beach-ball-sized Snitch floating in front of her. 
Seconds later Harry realized that it was his birthday 
cake, which Mrs. Weasley was suspending with her 
wand, rather than risk carrying it over the uneven 
ground. When the cake had finally landed in the 
middle of the table, Harry said, “That looks amazing, 
Mrs. Weasley.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing, dear,” she said fondly. Over her 
shoulder, Ron gave Harry the thumbs-up and 
mouthed, Good one. 



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By seven o’clock all the guests had arrived, led into 
the house by Fred and George, who had waited for 
them at the end of the lane. Hagrid had honored the 
occasion by wearing his best, and horrible, hairy 
brown suit. Although Lupin smiled as he shook 
Harry’s hand, Harry thought he looked rather 
unhappy. It was all very odd; Tonks, beside him, 
looked simply radiant. 

“Happy birthday, Harry,” she said, hugging him 
tightly. 

“Seventeen, eh!” said Hagrid as he accepted a bucket- 
sized glass of wine from Fred. “Six years ter the day 
since we met, Harry, d’yeh remember it?” 

“Vaguely,” said Harry, grinning up at him. “Didn’t you 
smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig’s tail, 
and tell me I was a wizard?” 

“I forge’ the details,” Hagrid chortled. “All righ’, Ron, 
Hermione?” 

“We’re fine,” said Hermione. “How are you?” 

“Ar, not bad. Bin busy, we got some newborn 
unicorns, I’ll show yeh when yeh get back — ” Harry 
avoided Ron’s and Hermione’s gazes as Hagrid 
rummaged in his pocket. “Here, Harry — couldn’ 
think what ter get yeh, but then I remembered this.” 
He pulled out a small, slightly furry drawstring pouch 
with a long string, evidently intended to be worn 
around the neck. “Mokeskin. Hide anythin’ in there 
an’ no one but the owner can get it out. They’re rare, 
them.” 

“Hagrid, thanks!” 



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“ ’S’nothin’,” said Hagrid with a wave of a dustbin-lid- 
sized hand. “An’ there’s Charlie! Always liked him — 
hey! Charlie!” 

Charlie approached, running his hand slightly 
ruefully over his new, brutally short haircut. He was 
shorter than Ron, thickset, with a number of burns 
and scratches up his muscley arms. 

“Hi, Hagrid, how’s it going?” 

“Bin meanin’ ter write fer ages. How’s Norbert doin’?” 

“Norbert?” Charlie laughed. “The Norwegian 
Ridgeback? We call her Norberta now.” 

“Wha — Norbert’s a girl?” 

“Oh yeah,” said Charlie. 

“How can you tell?” asked Hermione. 

“They’re a lot more vicious,” said Charlie. He looked 
over his shoulder and dropped his voice. “Wish Dad 
would hurry up and get here. Mum’s getting edgy.” 

They all looked over at Mrs. Weasley. She was trying 
to talk to Madame Delacour while glancing repeatedly 
at the gate. 

“I think we’d better start without Arthur,” she called 
to the garden at large after a moment or two. “He 
must have been held up at — oh!” 

They all saw it at the same time: a streak of light that 
came flying across the yard and onto the table, where 
it resolved itself into a bright silver weasel, which 
stood on its hind legs and spoke with Mr. Weasley’s 
voice. 

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“Minister of Magic coming with me.” 

The Patronus dissolved into thin air, leaving Fleur’s 
family peering in astonishment at the place where it 
had vanished. 

“We shouldn’t be here,” said Lupin at once. “Harry — 
I’m sorry — I’ll explain another time — ” 

He seized Tonks’s wrist and pulled her away; they 
reached the fence, climbed over it, and vanished from 
sight. Mrs. Weasley looked bewildered. 

“The Minister — but why — ? I don’t understand — ” 

But there was no time to discuss the matter; a second 
later, Mr. Weasley had appeared out of thin air at the 
gate, accompanied by Rufus Scrimgeour, instantly 
recognizable by his mane of grizzled hair. 

The two newcomers marched across the yard toward 
the garden and the lantern- lit table, where everybody 
sat in silence, watching them draw closer. As 
Scrimgeour came within range of the lantern light, 
Harry saw that he looked much older than the last 
time they had met, scraggy and grim. 

“Sorry to intrude,” said Scrimgeour, as he limped to a 
halt before the table. “Especially as I can see that I 
am gate-crashing a party.” 

His eyes lingered for a moment on the giant Snitch 
cake. 

“Many happy returns.” 

“Thanks,” said Harry. 



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“I require a private word with you,” Scrimgeour went 
on. “Also with Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss 
Hermione Granger.” 

“Us?” said Ron, sounding surprised. “Why us?” 

“I shall tell you that when we are somewhere more 
private,” said Scrimgeour. “Is there such a place?” he 
demanded of Mr. Weasley. 

“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Weasley, who looked 
nervous. “The, er, sitting room, why don’t you use 
that?” 

“You can lead the way,” Scrimgeour said to Ron. 
“There will be no need for you to accompany us, 
Arthur.” 

Harry saw Mr. Weasley exchange a worried look with 
Mrs. Weasley as he, Ron, and Hermione stood up. As 
they led the way back to the house in silence, Harry 
knew that the other two were thinking the same as he 
was: Scrimgeour must, somehow, have learned that 
the three of them were planning to drop out of 
Hogwarts. 

Scrimgeour did not speak as they all passed through 
the messy kitchen and into the Burrow’s sitting room. 
Although the garden had been full of soft golden 
evening light, it was already dark in here: Harry 
flicked his wand at the oil lamps as he entered and 
they illuminated the shabby but cozy room. 
Scrimgeour sat himself in the sagging armchair that 
Mr. Weasley normally occupied, leaving Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione to squeeze side by side onto the sofa. 
Once they had done so, Scrimgeour spoke. 

“I have some questions for the three of you, and I 
think it will be best if we do it individually. If you two” 

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— he pointed at Harry and Hermione — “can wait 
upstairs, I will start with Ronald.” 

“We’re not going anywhere,” said Harry, while 
Hermione nodded vigorously. “You can speak to us 
together, or not at all.” 

Scrimgeour gave Harry a cold, appraising look. Harry 
had the impression that the Minister was wondering 
whether it was worthwhile opening hostilities this 
early. 

“Very well then, together,” he said, shrugging. He 
cleared his throat. “I am here, as I’m sure you know, 
because of Albus Dumbledore’s will.” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another. 

“A surprise, apparently! You were not aware then that 
Dumbledore had left you anything?” 

“A-all of us?” said Ron. “Me and Hermione too?” 

“Yes, all of—” 

But Harry interrupted. 

“Dumbledore died over a month ago. Why has it taken 
this long to give us what he left us?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Hermione, before Scrimgeour 
could answer. “They wanted to examine whatever he’s 
left us. You had no right to do that!” she said, and her 
voice trembled slightly. 

“I had every right,” said Scrimgeour dismissively. “The 
Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry 
the power to confiscate the contents of a will — ” 



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“That law was created to stop wizards passing on 
Dark artifacts,” said Hermione, “and the Ministry is 
supposed to have powerful evidence that the 
deceased’s possessions are illegal before seizing them! 
Are you telling me that you thought Dumbledore was 
trying to pass us something cursed?” 

“Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law, 
Miss Granger?” asked Scrimgeour. 

“No, I’m not,” retorted Hermione. “I’m hoping to do 
some good in the world!” 

Ron laughed. Scrimgeour ’s eyes flickered toward him 
and away again as Harry spoke. 

“So why have you decided to let us have our things 
now? Can’t think of a pretext to keep them?” 

“No, it’ll be because the thirty-one days are up,” said 
Hermione at once. “They can’t keep the objects longer 
than that unless they can prove they’re dangerous. 
Right?” 

“Would you say you were close to Dumbledore, 
Ronald?” asked Scrimgeour, ignoring Hermione. Ron 
looked startled. 

“Me? Not — not really ... It was always Harry who ...” 

Ron looked around at Harry and Hermione, to see 
Hermione giving him a stop-talking-now\ sort of look, 
but the damage was done: Scrimgeour looked as 
though he had heard exactly what he had expected, 
and wanted, to hear. He swooped like a bird of prey 
upon Ron’s answer. 

“If you were not very close to Dumbledore, how do you 
account for the fact that he remembered you in his 

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will? He made exceptionally few personal bequests. 
The vast majority of his possessions — his private 
library, his magical instruments, and other personal 
effects — were left to Hogwarts. Why do you think you 
were singled out?” 

“I ... dunno,” said Ron. “I ... when I say we weren’t 
close ... I mean, I think he liked me. ...” 

“You’re being modest, Ron,” said Hermione. 
“Dumbledore was very fond of you.” 

This was stretching the truth to breaking point; as far 
as Harry knew, Ron and Dumbledore had never been 
alone together, and direct contact between them had 
been negligible. However, Scrimgeour did not seem to 
be listening. He put his hand inside his cloak and 
drew out a drawstring pouch much larger than the 
one Hagrid had given Harry. From it, he removed a 
scroll of parchment which he unrolled and read 
aloud. 

“ ‘The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival 
Wulfric Brian Dumbledore’ ... Yes, here we are. ... ‘To 
Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the 
hope that he will remember me when he uses it.’ ” 

Scrimgeour took from the bag an object that Harry 
had seen before: It looked something like a silver 
cigarette lighter, but it had, he knew, the power to 
suck all light from a place, and restore it, with a 
simple click. Scrimgeour leaned forward and passed 
the Deluminator to Ron, who took it and turned it 
over in his fingers, looking stunned. 

“That is a valuable object,” said Scrimgeour, watching 
Ron. “It may even be unique. Certainly it is of 
Dumbledore’s own design. Why would he have left 
you an item so rare?” 

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Ron shook his head, looking bewildered. 

“Dumbledore must have taught thousands of 
students,” Scrimgeour persevered. “Yet the only ones 
he remembered in his will are you three. Why is that? 
To what use did he think you would put his 
Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?” 

“Put out lights, I s’pose,” mumbled Ron. “What else 
could I do with it?” 

Evidently Scrimgeour had no suggestions. After 
squinting at Ron for a moment or two, he turned back 
to Dumbledore’s will. 

“ To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of 
The Tales of Beedle the Bard, in the hope that she will 
find it entertaining and instructive.’ ” 

Scrimgeour now pulled out of the bag a small book 
that looked as ancient as the copy of Secrets of the 
Darkest Art upstairs. Its binding was stained and 
peeling in places. Hermione took it from Scrimgeour 
without a word. She held the book in her lap and 
gazed at it. Harry saw that the title was in runes; he 
had never learned to read them. As he looked, a tear 
splashed onto the embossed symbols. 

“Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book, 
Miss Granger?” asked Scrimgeour. 

“He ... he knew I liked books,” said Hermione in a 
thick voice, mopping her eyes with her sleeve. 

“But why that particular book?” 

“I don’t know. He must have thought I’d enjoy it.” 



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“Did you ever discuss codes, or any means of passing 
secret messages, with Dumbledore?” 



“No, I didn’t,” said Hermione, still wiping her eyes on 
her sleeve. “And if the Ministry hasn’t found any 
hidden codes in this book in thirty-one days, I doubt 
that I will.” 

She suppressed a sob. They were wedged together so 
tightly that Ron had difficulty extracting his arm to 
put it around Hermione ’s shoulders. Scrimgeour 
turned back to the will. 

“ ‘To Harry James Potter,’ ” he read, and Harry’s 
insides contracted with a sudden excitement, “ ‘I leave 
the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at 
Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of 
perseverance and skill.’ ” 

As Scrimgeour pulled out the tiny, walnut-sized 
golden ball, its silver wings fluttered rather feebly, 
and Harry could not help feeling a definite sense of 
anticlimax. 

“Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?” asked 
Scrimgeour. 

“No idea,” said Harry. “For the reasons you just read 
out, I suppose ... to remind me what you can get if 
you ... persevere and whatever it was.” 

“You think this a mere symbolic keepsake, then?” 

“I suppose so,” said Harry. “What else could it be?” 

“I’m asking the questions,” said Scrimgeour, shifting 
his chair a little closer to the sofa. Dusk was really 
falling outside now; the marquee beyond the windows 
towered ghostly white over the hedge. 

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“I notice that your birthday cake is in the shape of a 
Snitch,” Scrimgeour said to Harry. “Why is that?” 

Hermione laughed derisively. 

“Oh, it can’t be a reference to the fact Harry’s a great 
Seeker, that’s way too obvious,” she said. “There must 
be a secret message from Dumbledore hidden in the 
icing!” 

“I don’t think there’s anything hidden in the icing,” 
said Scrimgeour, “but a Snitch would be a very good 
hiding place for a small object. You know why, I’m 
sure?” 

Harry shrugged. Hermione, however, answered: Harry 
thought that answering questions correctly was such 
a deeply ingrained habit she could not suppress the 
urge. 

“Because Snitches have flesh memories,” she said. 

“What?” said Harry and Ron together; both 
considered Hermione ’s Quidditch knowledge 
negligible. 

“Correct,” said Scrimgeour. “A Snitch is not touched 
by bare skin before it is released, not even by the 
maker, who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment 
by which it can identify the first human to lay hands 
upon it, in case of a disputed capture. This Snitch” — 
he held up the tiny golden ball — “will remember your 
touch, Potter. It occurs to me that Dumbledore, who 
had prodigious magical skill, whatever his other 
faults, might have enchanted this Snitch so that it 
will open only for you.” 



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Harry’s heart was beating rather fast. He was sure 
that Scrimgeour was right. How could he avoid taking 
the Snitch with his bare hand in front of the Minister? 



“You don’t say anything,” said Scrimgeour. “Perhaps 
you already know what the Snitch contains?” 

“No,” said Harry, still wondering how he could appear 
to touch the Snitch without really doing so. If only he 
knew Legilimency, really knew it, and could read 
Hermione’s mind; he could practically hear her brain 
whirring beside him. 

“Take it,” said Scrimgeour quietly. 

Harry met the Minister’s yellow eyes and knew he had 
no option but to obey. He held out his hand, and 
Scrimgeour leaned forward again and placed the 
Snitch, slowly and deliberately, into Harry’s palm. 

Nothing happened. As Harry’s fingers closed around 
the Snitch, its tired wings fluttered and were still. 
Scrimgeour, Ron, and Hermione continued to gaze 
avidly at the now partially concealed ball, as if still 
hoping it might transform in some way. 

“That was dramatic,” said Harry coolly. Both Ron and 
Hermione laughed. 

“That’s all, then, is it?” asked Hermione, making to 
prise herself off the sofa. 

“Not quite,” said Scrimgeour, who looked bad- 
tempered now. “Dumbledore left you a second 
bequest, Potter.” 

“What is it?” asked Harry, excitement rekindling. 



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Scrimgeour did not bother to read from the will this 
time. 

“The sword of Godric Gryffindor,” he said. 

Hermione and Ron both stiffened. Harry looked 
around for a sign of the ruby-encrusted hilt, but 
Scrimgeour did not pull the sword from the leather 
pouch, which in any case looked much too small to 
contain it. 

“So where is it?” Harry asked suspiciously. 

“Unfortunately,” said Scrimgeour, “that sword was 
not Dumbledore ’s to give away. The sword of Godric 
Gryffindor is an important historical artifact, and as 
such, belongs — ” 

“It belongs to Harry!” said Hermione hotly. “It chose 
him, he was the one who found it, it came to him out 
of the Sorting Hat — ” 

“According to reliable historical sources, the sword 
may present itself to any worthy Gryffindor,” said 
Scrimgeour. “That does not make it the exclusive 
property of Mr. Potter, whatever Dumbledore may 
have decided.” Scrimgeour scratched his badly 
shaven cheek, scrutinizing Harry. “Why do you think 
— ?” 

“ — Dumbledore wanted to give me the sword?” said 
Harry, struggling to keep his temper. “Maybe he 
thought it would look nice on my wall.” 

“This is not a joke, Potter!” growled Scrimgeour. “Was 
it because Dumbledore believed that only the sword of 
Godric Gryffindor could defeat the Heir of Slytherin? 
Did he wish to give you that sword, Potter, because he 



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believed, as do many, that you are the one destined to 
destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” 

“Interesting theory,” said Harry. “Has anyone ever 
tried sticking a sword in Voldemort? Maybe the 
Ministry should put some people onto that, instead of 
wasting their time stripping down Deluminators or 
covering up breakouts from Azkaban. So is this what 
you’ve been doing, Minister, shut up in your office, 
trying to break open a Snitch? People are dying — I 
was nearly one of them — Voldemort chased me 
across three counties, he killed Mad-Eye Moody, but 
there’s been no word about any of that from the 
Ministry, has there? And you still expect us to 
cooperate with you!” 

“You go too far!” shouted Scrimgeour, standing up; 
Harry jumped to his feet too. Scrimgeour limped 
toward Harry and jabbed him hard in the chest with 
the point of his wand: It singed a hole in Harry’s T- 
shirt like a lit cigarette. 

“Oi!” said Ron, jumping up and raising his own wand, 
but Harry said, 

“No! D’you want to give him an excuse to arrest us?” 

“Remembered you’re not at school, have you?” said 
Scrimgeour, breathing hard into Harry’s face. 
“Remembered that I am not Dumbledore, who forgave 
your insolence and insubordination? You may wear 
that scar like a crown, Potter, but it is not up to a 
seventeen-year-old boy to tell me how to do my job! 

It’s time you learned some respect!” 

“It’s time you earned it,” said Harry. 



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The floor trembled; there was a sound of running 
footsteps, then the door to the sitting room burst 
open and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ran in. 

“We — we thought we heard — ” began Mr. Weasley, 
looking thoroughly alarmed at the sight of Harry and 
the Minister virtually nose to nose. 

“ — raised voices,” panted Mrs. Weasley. 

Scrimgeour took a couple of steps back from Harry, 
glancing at the hole he had made in Harry’s T-shirt. 
He seemed to regret his loss of temper. 

“It — it was nothing,” he growled. “I ... regret your 
attitude,” he said, looking Harry full in the face once 
more. “You seem to think that the Ministry does not 
desire what you — what Dumbledore — desired. We 
ought to be working together.” 

“I don’t like your methods, Minister,” said Harry. 
“Remember?” 

For the second time, he raised his right fist and 
displayed to Scrimgeour the scars that still showed 
white on the back of it, spelling I must not tell lies. 
Scrimgeour ’s expression hardened. He turned away 
without another word and limped from the room. Mrs. 
Weasley hurried after him; Harry heard her stop at 
the back door. After a minute or so she called, “He’s 
gone!” 

“What did he want?” Mr. Weasley asked, looking 
around at Harry, Ron, and Hermione as Mrs. Weasley 
came hurrying back to them. 

“To give us what Dumbledore left us,” said Harry. 
“They’ve only just released the contents of his will.” 



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Outside in the garden, over the dinner tables, the 
three objects Scrimgeour had given them were passed 
from hand to hand. Everyone exclaimed over the 
Deluminator and The Tales of Beedle the Bard and 
lamented the fact that Scrimgeour had refused to 
pass on the sword, but none of them could offer any 
suggestion as to why Dumbledore would have left 
Harry an old Snitch. As Mr. Weasley examined the 
Deluminator for the third or fourth time, Mrs. 

Weasley said tentatively, “Harry, dear, everyone’s 
awfully hungry, we didn’t like to start without you. ... 
Shall I serve dinner now?” 

They all ate rather hurriedly and then, after a hasty 
chorus of “Happy Birthday” and much gulping of 
cake, the party broke up. Hagrid, who was invited to 
the wedding the following day, but was far too bulky 
to sleep in the overstretched Burrow, left to set up a 
tent for himself in a neighboring field. 

“Meet us upstairs,” Harry whispered to Hermione, 
while they helped Mrs. Weasley restore the garden to 
its normal state. “After everyone’s gone to bed.” 

Up in the attic room, Ron examined his Deluminator, 
and Harry filled Hagrid’s mokeskin purse, not with 
gold, but with those items he most prized, apparently 
worthless though some of them were: the Marauder’s 
Map, the shard of Sirius’s enchanted mirror, and 
R.A.B.’s locket. He pulled the strings tight and slipped 
the purse around his neck, then sat holding the old 
Snitch and watching its wings flutter feebly. At last, 
Hermione tapped on the door and tiptoed inside. 

“ Muffliato,” she whispered, waving her wand in the 
direction of the stairs. 

“Thought you didn’t approve of that spell?” said Ron. 



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“Times change,” said Hermione. “Now, show us that 
Deluminator.” 

Ron obliged at once. Holding it up in front of him, he 
clicked it. The solitary lamp they had lit went out at 
once. 

“The thing is,” whispered Hermione through the dark, 
“we could have achieved that with Peruvian Instant 
Darkness Powder.” 

There was a small click, and the ball of light from the 
lamp flew back to the ceiling and illuminated them all 
once more. 

“Still, it’s cool,” said Ron, a little defensively. “And 
from what they said, Dumbledore invented it himself!” 

“I know, but surely he wouldn’t have singled you out 
in his will just to help us turn out the lights!” 

“D’you think he knew the Ministry would confiscate 
his will and examine everything he’d left us?” asked 
Harry. 

“Definitely,” said Hermione. “He couldn’t tell us in the 
will why he was leaving us these things, but that still 
doesn’t explain ...” 

"... why he couldn’t have given us a hint when he was 
alive?” asked Ron. 

“Well, exactly,” said Hermione, now flicking through 
The Tales of Beedle the Bard. “If these things are 
important enough to pass on right under the nose of 
the Ministry, you’d think he’d have let us know why 
... unless he thought it was obvious?” 



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“Thought wrong, then, didn’t he?” said Ron. “I always 
said he was mental. Brilliant and everything, but 
cracked. Leaving Harry an old Snitch — what the hell 
was that about?” 

“I’ve no idea,” said Hermione. “When Scrimgeour 
made you take it, Harry, I was so sure that something 
was going to happen!” 

“Yeah, well,” said Harry, his pulse quickening as he 
raised the Snitch in his fingers. “I wasn’t going to try 
too hard in front of Scrimgeour, was I?” 

“What do you mean?” asked Hermione. 

“The Snitch I caught in my first ever Quidditch 
match?” said Harry. “Don’t you remember?” 

Hermione looked simply bemused. Ron, however, 
gasped, pointing frantically from Harry to the Snitch 
and back again until he found his voice. 

“That was the one you nearly swallowed!” 

“Exactly,” said Harry, and with his heart beating fast, 
he pressed his mouth to the Snitch. 

It did not open. Frustration and bitter disappointment 
welled up inside him: He lowered the golden sphere, 
but then Hermione cried out. 

“Writing! There’s writing on it, quick, look!” 

He nearly dropped the Snitch in surprise and 
excitement. Hermione was quite right. Engraved upon 
the smooth golden surface, where seconds before 
there had been nothing, were five words written in the 
thin, slanting handwriting that Harry recognized as 
Dumbledore’s: 

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I open at the close. 

He had barely read them when the words vanished 
again. 

“ ‘I open at the close ...’ What’s that supposed to 
mean?” 

Hermione and Ron shook their heads, looking blank. 

“I open at the close ... at the close ... I open at the 
close ...” 

But no matter how often they repeated the words, 
with many different inflections, they were unable to 
wring any more meaning from them. 

“And the sword,” said Ron finally, when they had at 
last abandoned their attempts to divine meaning in 
the Snitch’s inscription. “Why did he want Harry to 
have the sword?” 

“And why couldn’t he just have told me?” Harry said 
quietly. “It was there, it was right there on the wall of 
his office during all our talks last year! If he wanted 
me to have it, why didn’t he just give it to me then?” 

He felt as though he were sitting in an examination 
with a question he ought to have been able to answer 
in front of him, his brain slow and unresponsive. Was 
there something he had missed in the long talks with 
Dumbledore last year? Ought he to know what it all 
meant? Had Dumbledore expected him to 
understand? 

“And as for this book,” said Hermione, “The Tales of 
Beedle the Bard ... I’ve never even heard of them!” 



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“You’ve never heard of The Tales of Beedle the Bard?” 
said Ron incredulously. “You’re kidding, right?” 



“No, I’m not!” said Hermione in surprise. “Do you 
know them, then?” 

“Well, of course I do!” 

Harry looked up, diverted. The circumstance of Ron 
having read a book that Hermione had not was 
unprecedented. Ron, however, looked bemused by 
their surprise. 

“Oh come on! All the old kids’ stories are supposed to 
be Beedle ’s, aren’t they? The Fountain of Fair 
Fortune’ ... The Wizard and the Hopping Pot’ ... 
‘Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump’ ...” 

“Excuse me?” said Hermione, giggling. “What was that 
last one? 

“Come off it!” said Ron, looking in disbelief from Harry 
to Hermione. “You must’ve heard of Babbitty Rabbitty 



“Ron, you know full well Harry and I were brought up 
by Muggles!” said Hermione. “We didn’t hear stories 
like that when we were little, we heard ‘Snow White 
and the Seven Dwarfs’ and ‘Cinderella’ — ” 

“What’s that, an illness?” asked Ron. 

“So these are children’s stories?” asked Hermione, 
bending again over the runes. 

“Yeah,” said Ron uncertainly, “I mean, that’s just 
what you hear, you know, that all these old stories 
came from Beedle. I dunno what they’re like in the 
original versions.” 

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“But I wonder why Dumbledore thought I should read 
them?” 



Something creaked downstairs. 

“Probably just Charlie, now Mum’s asleep, sneaking 
off to regrow his hair,” said Ron nervously. 

“All the same, we should get to bed,” whispered 
Hermione. “It wouldn’t do to oversleep tomorrow.” 

“No,” agreed Ron. “A brutal triple murder by the 
bridegroom’s mother might put a bit of a damper on 
the wedding. I’ll get the lights.” 

And he clicked the Deluminator once more as 
Hermione left the room. 



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THE WEDDING 



Three o’clock on the following afternoon found Harry, 
Ron, Fred, and George standing outside the great 
white marquee in the orchard, awaiting the arrival of 
the wedding guests. Harry had taken a large dose of 
Polyjuice Potion and was now the double of a 
redheaded Muggle boy from the local village, Ottery 
St. Catchpole, from whom Fred had stolen hairs using 
a Summoning Charm. The plan was to introduce 
Harry as “Cousin Barny” and trust to the great 
number of Weasley relatives to camouflage him. 

All four of them were clutching seating plans, so that 
they could help show people to the right seats. A host 
of white-robed waiters had arrived an hour earlier, 
along with a golden-jacketed band, and all of these 
wizards were currently sitting a short distance away 
under a tree; Harry could see a blue haze of pipe 
smoke issuing from the spot. 

Behind Harry, the entrance to the marquee revealed 
rows and rows of fragile golden chairs set on either 
side of a long purple carpet. The supporting poles 

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were entwined with white and gold flowers. Fred and 
George had fastened an enormous bunch of golden 
balloons over the exact point where Bill and Fleur 
would shortly become husband and wife. Outside, 
butterflies and bees were hovering lazily over the 
grass and hedgerow. Harry was rather uncomfortable. 
The Muggle boy whose appearance he was affecting 
was slightly fatter than him, and his dress robes felt 
hot and tight in the full glare of a summer’s day. 

“When I get married,” said Fred, tugging at the collar 
of his own robes, “I won’t be bothering with any of 
this nonsense. You can all wear what you like, and I’ll 
put a full Body-Bind Curse on Mum until it’s all 
over.” 

“She wasn’t too bad this morning, considering,” said 
George. “Cried a bit about Percy not being here, but 
who wants him? Oh blimey, brace yourselves — here 
they come, look.” 

Brightly colored figures were appearing, one by one, 
out of nowhere at the distant boundary of the yard. 
Within minutes a procession had formed, which 
began to snake its way up through the garden toward 
the marquee. Exotic flowers and bewitched birds 
fluttered on the witches’ hats, while precious gems 
glittered from many of the wizards’ cravats; a hum of 
excited chatter grew louder and louder, drowning the 
sound of the bees as the crowd approached the tent. 

“Excellent, I think I see a few veela cousins,” said 
George, craning his neck for a better look. “They’ll 
need help understanding our English customs, I’ll 
look after them. ...” 

“Not so fast, Your Holeyness,” said Fred, and darting 
past the gaggle of middle-aged witches heading the 
procession, he said, “Here — permettez-moi to assister 

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vous,” to a pair of pretty French girls, who giggled and 
allowed him to escort them inside. George was left to 
deal with the middle-aged witches and Ron took 
charge of Mr. Weasley’s old Ministry colleague 
Perkins, while a rather deaf old couple fell to Harry’s 
lot. 

“Wotcher,” said a familiar voice as he came out of the 
marquee again and found Tonks and Lupin at the 
front of the queue. She had turned blonde for the 
occasion. “Arthur told us you were the one with the 
curly hair. Sorry about last night,” she added in a 
whisper as Harry led them up the aisle. “The 
Ministry’s being very anti-werewolf at the moment 
and we thought our presence might not do you any 
favors.” 

“It’s fine, I understand,” said Harry, speaking more to 
Lupin than Tonks. Lupin gave him a swift smile, but 
as they turned away, Harry saw Lupin’s face fall again 
into lines of misery. He did not understand it, but 
there was no time to dwell on the matter: Hagrid was 
causing a certain amount of disruption. Having 
misunderstood Fred’s directions he had sat himself, 
not upon the magically enlarged and reinforced seat 
set aside for him in the back row, but on five seats 
that now resembled a large pile of golden 
matchsticks. 

While Mr. Weasley repaired the damage and Hagrid 
shouted apologies to anybody who would listen, Harry 
hurried back to the entrance to find Ron face-to-face 
with a most eccentric-looking wizard. Slightly cross- 
eyed, with shoulder-length white hair the texture of 
candyfloss, he wore a cap whose tassel dangled in 
front of his nose and robes of an eye-watering shade 
of egg-yolk yellow. An odd symbol, rather like a 
triangular eye, glistened from a golden chain around 
his neck. 

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“Xenophilius Lovegood,” he said, extending a hand to 
Harry, “my daughter and I live just over the hill, so 
kind of the good Weasleys to invite us. But I think 
you know my Luna?” he added to Ron. 

“Yes,” said Ron. “Isn’t she with you?” 

“She lingered in that charming little garden to say 
hello to the gnomes, such a glorious infestation! How 
few wizards realize just how much we can learn from 
the wise little gnomes — or, to give them their correct 
name, the Gernumbli gardensi.” 

“Ours do know a lot of excellent swear words,” said 
Ron, “but I think Fred and George taught them 
those.” 

He led a party of warlocks into the marquee as Luna 
rushed up. 

“Hello, Harry!” she said. 

“Er — my name’s Barny,” said Harry, flummoxed. 

“Oh, have you changed that too?” she asked brightly. 

“How did you know — ?” 

“Oh, just your expression,” she said. 

Like her father, Luna was wearing bright yellow 
robes, which she had accessorized with a large 
sunflower in her hair. Once you got over the 
brightness of it all, the general effect was quite 
pleasant. At least there were no radishes dangling 
from her ears. 

Xenophilius, who was deep in conversation with an 
acquaintance, had missed the exchange between 

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Luna and Harry. Bidding the wizard farewell, he 
turned to his daughter, who held up her finger and 
said, “Daddy, look — one of the gnomes actually bit 
me!” 

“How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously 
beneficial!” said Mr. Lovegood, seizing Luna’s 
outstretched finger and examining the bleeding 
puncture marks. “Luna, my love, if you should feel 
any burgeoning talent today — perhaps an 
unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaim in 
Mermish — do not repress it! You may have been 
gifted by the Gernumblies!” 

Ron, passing them in the opposite direction, let out a 
loud snort. 

“Ron can laugh,” said Luna serenely as Harry led her 
and Xenophilius toward their seats, “but my father 
has done a lot of research on Gernumbli magic.” 

“Really?” said Harry, who had long since decided not 
to challenge Luna or her father’s peculiar views. “Are 
you sure you don’t want to put anything on that bite, 
though?” 

“Oh, it’s fine,” said Luna, sucking her finger in a 
dreamy fashion and looking Harry up and down. “You 
look smart. I told Daddy most people would probably 
wear dress robes, but he believes you ought to wear 
sun colors to a wedding, for luck, you know.” 

As she drifted off after her father, Ron reappeared 
with an elderly witch clutching his arm. Her beaky 
nose, red-rimmed eyes, and feathery pink hat gave 
her the look of a bad-tempered flamingo. 

"... and your hair’s much too long, Ronald, for a 
moment I thought you were Ginevra. Merlin’s beard, 

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what is Xenophilius Lovegood wearing? He looks like 
an omelet. And who are you?” she barked at Harry. 

“Oh yeah, Auntie Muriel, this is our cousin Barny.” 

“Another Weasley? You breed like gnomes. Isn’t Harry 
Potter here? I was hoping to meet him. I thought he 
was a friend of yours, Ronald, or have you merely 
been boasting?” 

“No — he couldn’t come — ” 

“Hmm. Made an excuse, did he? Not as gormless as 
he looks in press photographs, then. I’ve just been 
instructing the bride on how best to wear my tiara,” 
she shouted at Harry. “Goblin-made, you know, and 
been in my family for centuries. She’s a good-looking 
girl, but still — French. Well, well, find me a good 
seat, Ronald, I am a hundred and seven and I ought 
not to be on my feet too long.” 

Ron gave Harry a meaningful look as he passed and 
did not reappear for some time: When next they met 
at the entrance, Harry had shown a dozen more 
people to their places. The marquee was nearly full 
now, and for the first time there was no queue 
outside. 

“Nightmare, Muriel is,” said Ron, mopping his 
forehead on his sleeve. “She used to come for 
Christmas every year, then, thank God, she took 
offense because Fred and George set off a Dung-bomb 
under her chair at dinner. Dad always says she’ll 
have written them out of her will — like they care, 
they’re going to end up richer than anyone in the 
family, rate they’re going. ... Wow,” he added, blinking 
rather rapidly as Hermione came hurrying toward 
them. “You look great!” 



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“Always the tone of surprise,” said Hermione, though 
she smiled. She was wearing a floaty, lilac-colored 
dress with matching high heels; her hair was sleek 
and shiny. “Your Great-Aunt Muriel doesn’t agree, I 
just met her upstairs while she was giving Fleur the 
tiara. She said, ‘Oh dear, is this the Muggle-born?’ 
and then, ‘Bad posture and skinny ankles.’ ” 

“Don’t take it personally, she’s rude to everyone,” said 
Ron. 

“Talking about Muriel?” inquired George, reemerging 
from the marquee with Fred. “Yeah, she’s just told me 
my ears are lopsided. Old bat. I wish old Uncle Bilius 
was still with us, though; he was a right laugh at 
weddings.” 

“Wasn’t he the one who saw a Grim and died twenty- 
four hours later?” asked Hermione. 

“Well, yeah, he went a bit odd toward the end,” 
conceded George. 

“But before he went loopy he was the life and soul of 
the party,” said Fred. “He used to down an entire 
bottle of firewhisky, then run onto the dance floor, 
hoist up his robes, and start pulling bunches of 
flowers out of his — ” 

“Yes, he sounds a real charmer,” said Hermione, 
while Harry roared with laughter. 

“Never married, for some reason,” said Ron. 

“You amaze me,” said Hermione. 

They were all laughing so much that none of them 
noticed the latecomer, a dark-haired young man with 
a large, curved nose and thick black eyebrows, until 

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he held out his invitation to Ron and said, with his 
eyes on Hermione, “You look vunderful.” 

“Viktor!” she shrieked, and dropped her small beaded 
bag, which made a loud thump quite disproportionate 
to its size. As she scrambled, blushing, to pick it up, 
she said, “I didn’t know you were — goodness — it’s 
lovely to see — how are you?” 

Ron’s ears had turned bright red again. After glancing 
at Krum’s invitation as if he did not believe a word of 
it, he said, much too loudly, “How come you’re here?” 

“Fleur invited me,” said Krum, eyebrows raised. 

Harry, who had no grudge against Krum, shook 
hands; then, feeling that it would be prudent to 
remove Krum from Ron’s vicinity, offered to show him 
his seat. 

“Your friend is not pleased to see me,” said Krum as 
they entered the now packed marquee. “Or is he a 
relative?” he added with a glance at Harry’s red curly 
hair. 

“Cousin,” Harry muttered, but Krum was not really 
listening. His appearance was causing a stir, 
particularly amongst the veela cousins: He was, after 
all, a famous Quidditch player. While people were still 
craning their necks to get a good look at him, Ron, 
Hermione, Fred, and George came hurrying down the 
aisle. 

“Time to sit down,” Fred told Harry, “or we’re going to 
get run over by the bride.” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione took their seats in the 
second row behind Fred and George. Hermione looked 
rather pink and Ron’s ears were still scarlet. After a 

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few moments he muttered to Harry, “Did you see he’s 
grown a stupid little beard?” 

Harry gave a noncommittal grunt. 

A sense of jittery anticipation had filled the warm 
tent, the general murmuring broken by occasional 
spurts of excited laughter. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley 
strolled up the aisle, smiling and waving at relatives; 
Mrs. Weasley was wearing a brand-new set of 
amethyst-colored robes with a matching hat. 

A moment later Bill and Charlie stood up at the front 
of the marquee, both wearing dress robes, with large 
white roses in their buttonholes; Fred wolf-whistled 
and there was an outbreak of giggling from the veela 
cousins. Then the crowd fell silent as music swelled 
from what seemed to be the golden balloons. 

“Ooooh!” said Hermione, swiveling around in her seat 
to look at the entrance. 

A great collective sigh issued from the assembled 
witches and wizards as Monsieur Delacour and Fleur 
came walking up the aisle, Fleur gliding, Monsieur 
Delacour bouncing and beaming. Fleur was wearing a 
very simple white dress and seemed to be emitting a 
strong, silvery glow. While her radiance usually 
dimmed everyone else by comparison, today it 
beautified everybody it fell upon. Ginny and Gabrielle, 
both wearing golden dresses, looked even prettier 
than usual, and once Fleur had reached him, Bill did 
not look as though he had ever met Fenrir Greyback. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said a slightly singsong 
voice, and with a slight shock, Harry saw the same 
small, tufty-haired wizard who had presided at 
Dumbledore’s funeral, now standing in front of Bill 



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and Fleur. “We are gathered here today to celebrate 
the union of two faithful souls ...” 

“Yes, my tiara sets off the whole thing nicely,” said 
Auntie Muriel in a rather carrying whisper. “But I 
must say, Ginevra’s dress is far too low cut.” 

Ginny glanced around, grinning, winked at Harry, 
then quickly faced the front again. Harry’s mind 
wandered a long way from the marquee, back to 
afternoons spent alone with Ginny in lonely parts of 
the school grounds. They seemed so long ago; they 
had always seemed too good to be true, as though he 
had been stealing shining hours from a normal 
person’s life, a person without a lightning-shaped 
scar on his forehead. ... 

“Do you, William Arthur, take Fleur Isabelle ... ?” 

In the front row, Mrs. Weasley and Madame Delacour 
were both sobbing quietly into scraps of lace. 
Trumpetlike sounds from the back of the marquee 
told everyone that Hagrid had taken out one of his 
own tablecloth-sized handkerchiefs. Hermione turned 
and beamed at Harry; her eyes too were full of tears. 

"... then I declare you bonded for life.” 

The tufty-haired wizard waved his wand high over the 
heads of Bill and Fleur and a shower of silver stars 
fell upon them, spiraling around their now entwined 
figures. As Fred and George led a round of applause, 
the golden balloons overhead burst: Birds of paradise 
and tiny golden bells flew and floated out of them, 
adding their songs and chimes to the din. 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” called the tufty-haired 
wizard. “If you would please stand up!” 



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They all did so, Auntie Muriel grumbling audibly; he 
waved his wand again. The seats on which they had 
been sitting rose gracefully into the air as the canvas 
walls of the marquee vanished, so that they stood 
beneath a canopy supported by golden poles, with a 
glorious view of the sunlit orchard and surrounding 
countryside. Next, a pool of molten gold spread from 
the center of the tent to form a gleaming dance floor; 
the hovering chairs grouped themselves around 
small, white-clothed tables, which all floated 
gracefully back to earth around it, and the golden- 
jacketed band trooped toward a podium. 

“Smooth,” said Ron approvingly as the waiters popped 
up on all sides, some bearing silver trays of pumpkin 
juice, butterbeer, and firewhisky, others tottering 
piles of tarts and sandwiches. 

“We should go and congratulate them!” said 
Hermione, standing on tiptoe to see the place where 
Bill and Fleur had vanished amid a crowd of well- 
wishers. 

“Well have time later,” shrugged Ron, snatching three 
butter-beers from a passing tray and handing one to 
Harry. “Hermione, cop hold, let’s grab a table. ... Not 
there! Nowhere near Muriel — ” 

Ron led the way across the empty dance floor, 
glancing left and right as he went: Harry felt sure that 
he was keeping an eye out for Krum. By the time they 
had reached the other side of the marquee, most of 
the tables were occupied: The emptiest was the one 
where Luna sat alone. 

“All right if we join you?” asked Ron. 

“Oh yes,” she said happily. “Daddy’s just gone to give 
Bill and Fleur our present.” 

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“What is it, a lifetime’s supply of Gurdyroots?” asked 
Ron. 

Hermione aimed a kick at him under the table, but 
caught Harry instead. Eyes watering in pain, Harry 
lost track of the conversation for a few moments. 

The band had begun to play. Bill and Fleur took to 
the dance floor first, to great applause; after a while, 
Mr. Weasley led Madame Delacour onto the floor, 
followed by Mrs. Weasley and Fleur’s father. 

“I like this song,” said Luna, swaying in time to the 
waltzlike tune, and a few seconds later she stood up 
and glided onto the dance floor, where she revolved 
on the spot, quite alone, eyes closed and waving her 
arms. 

“She’s great, isn’t she?” said Ron admiringly. “Always 
good value.” 

But the smile vanished from his face at once: Viktor 
Krum had dropped into Luna’s vacant seat. Hermione 
looked pleasurably flustered, but this time Krum had 
not come to compliment her. With a scowl on his face 
he said, “Who is that man in the yellow?” 

“That’s Xenophilius Lovegood, he’s the father of a 
friend of ours,” said Ron. His pugnacious tone 
indicated that they were not about to laugh at 
Xenophilius, despite the clear provocation. “Come and 
dance,” he added abruptly to Hermione. 

She looked taken aback, but pleased too, and got up. 
They vanished together into the growing throng on 
the dance floor. 

“Ah, they are together now?” asked Krum, 
momentarily distracted. 

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“Er — sort of,” said Harry. 

“Who are you?” Krum asked. 

“Barny Weasley.” 

They shook hands. 

“You, Barny — you know this man Lovegood veil?” 

“No, I only met him today. Why?” 

Krum glowered over the top of his drink, watching 
Xenophilius, who was chatting to several warlocks on 
the other side of the dance floor. 

“Because,” said Krum, “if he vos not a guest of 
Fleur’s, I vould duel him, here and now, for vearing 
that filthy sign upon his chest.” 

“Sign?” said Harry, looking over at Xenophilius too. 
The strange triangular eye was gleaming on his chest. 
“Why? What’s wrong with it?” 

“Grindelvald. That is Grindelvald’s sign.” 

“Grindelwald . . . the Dark wizard Dumbledore 
defeated?” 

“Exactly.” 

Krum’s jaw muscles worked as if he were chewing, 
then he said, “Grindelvald killed many people, my 
grandfather, for instance. Of course, he vos never 
poverful in this country, they said he feared 
Dumbledore — and rightly, seeing how he vos 
finished. But this” — he pointed a finger at 
Xenophilius — “this is his symbol, I recognized it at 
vunce: Grindelvald carved it into a vail at Durmstrang 

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ven he vos a pupil there. Some idiots copied it onto 
their books and clothes, thinking to shock, make 
themselves impressive — until those of us who had 
lost family members to Grindelvald taught them 
better.” 

Krum cracked his knuckles menacingly and glowered 
at Xenophilius. Harry felt perplexed. It seemed 
incredibly unlikely that Luna’s father was a supporter 
of the Dark Arts, and nobody else in the tent seemed 
to have recognized the triangular, runelike shape. 

“Are you — er — quite sure it’s Grindelwald’s — ?” 

“I am not mistaken,” said Krum coldly. “I valked past 
that sign for several years, I know it veil.” 

“Well, there’s a chance,” said Harry, “that Xenophilius 
doesn’t actually know what the symbol means. The 
Lovegoods are quite ... unusual. He could easily have 
picked it up somewhere and think it’s a cross section 
of the head of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack or 
something.” 

“The cross section of a vot?” 

“Well, I don’t know what they are, but apparently he 
and his daughter go on holiday looking for them. ...” 

Harry felt he was doing a bad job explaining Luna and 
her father. 

“That’s her,” he said, pointing at Luna, who was still 
dancing alone, waving her arms around her head like 
someone attempting to beat off midges. 

“Vy is she doing that?” asked Krum. 



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“Probably trying to get rid of a Wrackspurt,” said 
Harry, who recognized the symptoms. 

Krum did not seem to know whether or not Harry was 
making fun of him. He drew his wand from inside his 
robes and tapped it menacingly on his thigh; sparks 
flew out of the end. 

“Gregorovitch!” said Harry loudly, and Krum started, 
but Harry was too excited to care; the memory had 
come back to him at the sight of Krum’s wand: 
Ollivander taking it and examining it carefully before 
the Triwizard Tournament. 

“Vot about him?” asked Krum suspiciously. 

“He’s a wandmaker!” 

“I know that,” said Krum. 

“He made your wand! That’s why I thought — 
Quidditch — ” 

Krum was looking more and more suspicious. 

“How do you know Gregorovitch made my vand?” 

“I ... I read it somewhere, I think,” said Harry. “In a — 
a fan magazine,” he improvised wildly and Krum 
looked mollified. 

“I had not realized I ever discussed my vand with 
fans,” he said. 

“So ... er ... where is Gregorovitch these days?” 

Krum looked puzzled. 



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“He retired several years ago. I vos one of the last to 
purchase a Gregorovitch vand. They are the best — 
although I know, of course, that you Britons set much 
store by Ollivander.” 

Harry did not answer. He pretended to watch the 
dancers, like Krum, but he was thinking hard. So 
Voldemort was looking for a celebrated wandmaker, 
and Harry did not have to search far for a reason: It 
was surely because of what Harry’s wand had done 
on the night that Voldemort had pursued him across 
the skies. The holly and phoenix feather wand had 
conquered the borrowed wand, something that 
Ollivander had not anticipated or understood. Would 
Gregorovitch know better? Was he truly more skilled 
than Ollivander, did he know secrets of wands that 
Ollivander did not? 

“This girl is very nice-looking,” Krum said, recalling 
Harry to his surroundings. Krum was pointing at 
Ginny, who had just joined Luna. “She is also a 
relative of yours?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, suddenly irritated, “and she’s 
seeing someone. Jealous type. Big bloke. You 
wouldn’t want to cross him.” 

Krum grunted. 

“Vot,” he said, draining his goblet and getting to his 
feet again, “is the point of being an international 
Quidditch player if all the good-looking girls are 
taken?” 

And he strode off, leaving Harry to take a sandwich 
from a passing waiter and make his way around the 
edge of the crowded dance floor. He wanted to find 
Ron, to tell him about Gregorovitch, but Ron was 
dancing with Hermione out in the middle of the floor. 
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Harry leaned up against one of the golden pillars and 
watched Ginny, who was now dancing with Fred and 
George’s friend Lee Jordan, trying not to feel resentful 
about the promise he had given Ron. 

He had never been to a wedding before, so he could 
not judge how Wizarding celebrations differed from 
Muggle ones, though he was pretty sure that the 
latter would not involve a wedding cake topped with 
two model phoenixes that took flight when the cake 
was cut, or bottles of champagne that floated 
unsupported through the crowd. As evening drew in, 
and moths began to swoop under the canopy, now lit 
with floating golden lanterns, the revelry became 
more and more uncontained. Fred and George had 
long since disappeared into the darkness with a pair 
of Fleur’s cousins; Charlie, Hagrid, and a squat 
wizard in a purple porkpie hat were singing “Odo the 
Hero” in a corner. 

Wandering through the crowd so as to escape a 
drunken uncle of Ron’s who seemed unsure whether 
or not Harry was his son, Harry spotted an old wizard 
sitting alone at a table. His cloud of white hair made 
him look rather like an aged dandelion clock and was 
topped by a moth-eaten fez. He was vaguely familiar: 
Racking his brains, Harry suddenly realized that this 
was Elphias Doge, member of the Order of the 
Phoenix and the writer of Dumbledore’s obituary. 

Harry approached him. 

“May I sit down?” 

“Of course, of course,” said Doge; he had a rather 
high-pitched, wheezy voice. 

Harry leaned in. 



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“Mr. Doge, I’m Harry Potter.” 

Doge gasped. 

“My dear boy! Arthur told me you were here, 
disguised. ... I am so glad, so honored!” 

In a flutter of nervous pleasure Doge poured Harry a 
goblet of champagne. 

“I thought of writing to you,” he whispered, “after 
Dumbledore ... the shock ... and for you, I am sure 



Doge’s tiny eyes filled with sudden tears. 

“I saw the obituary you wrote for the Daily Prophet,” 
said Harry. “I didn’t realize you knew Professor 
Dumbledore so well.” 

“As well as anyone,” said Doge, dabbing his eyes with 
a napkin. “Certainly I knew him longest, if you don’t 
count Aberforth — and somehow, people never do 
seem to count Aberforth.” 

“Speaking of the Daily Prophet ... I don’t know 
whether you saw, Mr. Doge — ?” 

“Oh, please call me Elphias, dear boy.” 

“Elphias, I don’t know whether you saw the interview 
Rita Skeeter gave about Dumbledore?” 

Doge’s face flooded with angry color. 

“Oh yes, Harry, I saw it. That woman, or vulture 
might be a more accurate term, positively pestered me 
to talk to her. I am ashamed to say that I became 
rather rude, called her an interfering trout, which 

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resulted, as you may have seen, in aspersions cast 
upon my sanity.” 

“Well, in that interview,” Harry went on, “Rita Skeeter 
hinted that Professor Dumbledore was involved in the 
Dark Arts when he was young.” 

“Don’t believe a word of it!” said Doge at once. “Not a 
word, Harry! Let nothing tarnish your memories of 
Albus Dumbledore!” 

Harry looked into Doge’s earnest, pained face and felt, 
not reassured, but frustrated. Did Doge really think it 
was that easy, that Harry could simply choose not to 
believe? Didn’t Doge understand Harry’s need to be 
sure, to know everything? 

Perhaps Doge suspected Harry’s feelings, for he 
looked concerned and hurried on, “Harry, Rita 
Skeeter is a dreadful — ” 

But he was interrupted by a shrill cackle. 

“Rita Skeeter? Oh, I love her, always read her!” 

Harry and Doge looked up to see Auntie Muriel 
standing there, the plumes dancing on her hat, a 
goblet of champagne in her hand. “She’s written a 
book about Dumbledore, you know!” 

“Hello, Muriel,” said Doge. “Yes, we were just 
discussing — ” 

“You there! Give me your chair, I’m a hundred and 
seven!” 

Another redheaded Weasley cousin jumped off his 
seat, looking alarmed, and Auntie Muriel swung it 



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around with surprising strength and plopped herself 
down upon it between Doge and Harry. 

“Hello again, Barry, or whatever your name is,” she 
said to Harry. “Now, what were you saying about Rita 
Skeeter, Elphias? You know she’s written a biography 
of Dumbledore? I can’t wait to read it, I must 
remember to place an order at Flourish and Blotts!” 

Doge looked stiff and solemn at this, but Auntie 
Muriel drained her goblet and clicked her bony fingers 
at a passing waiter for a replacement. She took 
another large gulp of champagne, belched, and then 
said, “There’s no need to look like a pair of stuffed 
frogs! Before he became so respected and respectable 
and all that tosh, there were some mighty funny 
rumors about Albus!” 

“Ill-informed sniping,” said Doge, turning radish- 
colored again. 

“You would say that, Elphias,” cackled Auntie Muriel. 
“I noticed how you skated over the sticky patches in 
that obituary of yours!” 

“I’m sorry you think so,” said Doge, more coldly still. 

“I assure you I was writing from the heart.” 

“Oh, we all know you worshipped Dumbledore; I 
daresay you’ll still think he was a saint even if it does 
turn out that he did away with his Squib sister!” 

“Muriell” exclaimed Doge. 

A chill that had nothing to do with the iced 
champagne was stealing through Harry’s chest. 

“What do you mean?” he asked Muriel. “Who said his 
sister was a Squib? I thought she was ill?” 

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“Thought wrong, then, didn’t you, Barry!” said Auntie 
Muriel, looking delighted at the effect she had 
produced. “Anyway, how could you expect to know 
anything about it? It all happened years and years 
before you were even thought of, my dear, and the 
truth is that those of us who were alive then never 
knew what really happened. That’s why I can’t wait to 
find out what Skeeter’s unearthed! Dumbledore kept 
that sister of his quiet for a long time!” 

“Untrue!” wheezed Doge. “Absolutely untrue!” 

“He never told me his sister was a Squib,” said Harry, 
without thinking, still cold inside. 

“And why on earth would he tell you?” screeched 
Muriel, swaying a little in her seat as she attempted 
to focus upon Harry. 

“The reason Albus never spoke about Ariana,” began 
Elphias in a voice stiff with emotion, “is, I should have 
thought, quite clear. He was so devastated by her 
death — ” 

“Why did nobody ever see her, Elphias?” squawked 
Muriel. “Why did half of us never even know she 
existed, until they carried the coffin out of the house 
and held a funeral for her? Where was saintly Albus 
while Ariana was locked in the cellar? Off being 
brilliant at Hogwarts, and never mind what was going 
on in his own house!” 

“What d’you mean, locked in the cellar?” asked Harry. 
“What is this?” 

Doge looked wretched. Auntie Muriel cackled again 
and answered Harry. 



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“Dumbledore’s mother was a terrifying woman, simply 
terrifying. Muggle-born, though I heard she pretended 
otherwise — ” 

“She never pretended anything of the sort! Kendra 
was a fine woman,” whispered Doge miserably, but 
Auntie Muriel ignored him. 

“ — proud and very domineering, the sort of witch who 
would have been mortified to produce a Squib — ” 

“Ariana was not a Squib!” wheezed Doge. 

“So you say, Elphias, but explain, then, why she 
never attended Hogwarts!” said Auntie Muriel. She 
turned back to Harry. “In our day, Squibs were often 
hushed up, though to take it to the extreme of 
actually imprisoning a little girl in the house and 
pretending she didn’t exist — ” 

“I tell you, that’s not what happened!” said Doge, but 
Auntie Muriel steamrollered on, still addressing 
Harry. 

“Squibs were usually shipped off to Muggle schools 
and encouraged to integrate into the Muggle 
community . . . much kinder than trying to find them a 
place in the Wizarding world, where they must always 
be second class; but naturally Kendra Dumbledore 
wouldn’t have dreamed of letting her daughter go to a 
Muggle school — ” 

“Ariana was delicate!” said Doge desperately. “Her 
health was always too poor to permit her — ” 

“ — to permit her to leave the house?” cackled Muriel. 
“And yet she was never taken to St. Mungo’s and no 
Healer was ever summoned to see her!” 



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“Really, Muriel, how you can possibly know whether 



“For your information, Elphias, my cousin Lancelot 
was a Healer at St. Mungo’s at the time, and he told 
my family in strictest confidence that Ariana had 
never been seen there. All most suspicious, Lancelot 
thought!” 

Doge looked to be on the verge of tears. Auntie Muriel, 
who seemed to be enjoying herself hugely, snapped 
her fingers for more champagne. Numbly Harry 
thought of how the Dursleys had once shut him up, 
locked him away, kept him out of sight, all for the 
crime of being a wizard. Had Dumbledore’s sister 
suffered the same fate in reverse: imprisoned for her 
lack of magic? And had Dumbledore truly left her to 
her fate while he went off to Hogwarts, to prove 
himself brilliant and talented? 

“Now, if Kendra hadn’t died first,” Muriel resumed, 

“I’d have said that it was she who finished off Ariana 



“How can you, Muriel?” groaned Doge. “A mother kill 
her own daughter? Think what you are saying!” 

“If the mother in question was capable of imprisoning 
her daughter for years on end, why not?” shrugged 
Auntie Muriel. “But as I say, it doesn’t fit, because 
Kendra died before Ariana — of what, nobody ever 
seemed sure — ” 

“Oh, no doubt Ariana murdered her,” said Doge with 
a brave attempt at scorn. “Why not?” 

“Yes, Ariana might have made a desperate bid for 
freedom and killed Kendra in the struggle,” said 
Auntie Muriel thoughtfully. “Shake your head all you 

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like, Elphias! You were at Ariana’s funeral, were you 
not?” 

“Yes I was,” said Doge, through trembling lips. “And a 
more desperately sad occasion I cannot remember. 
Albus was heartbroken — ” 

“His heart wasn’t the only thing. Didn’t Aberforth 
break Albus ’s nose halfway through the service?” 

If Doge had looked horrified before this, it was 
nothing to how he looked now. Muriel might have 
stabbed him. She cackled loudly and took another 
swig of champagne, which dribbled down her chin. 

“How do you — ?” croaked Doge. 

“My mother was friendly with old Bathilda Bagshot,” 
said Auntie Muriel happily. “Bathilda described the 
whole thing to Mother while I was listening at the 
door. A coffin-side brawl! The way Bathilda told it, 
Aberforth shouted that it was all Albus ’s fault that 
Ariana was dead and then punched him in the face. 
According to Bathilda, Albus did not even defend 
himself, and that’s odd enough in itself, Albus could 
have destroyed Aberforth in a duel with both hands 
tied behind his back.” 

Muriel swigged yet more champagne. The recitation of 
these old scandals seemed to elate her as much as 
they horrified Doge. Harry did not know what to 
think, what to believe: He wanted the truth, and yet 
all Doge did was sit there and bleat feebly that Ariana 
had been ill. Harry could hardly believe that 
Dumbledore would not have intervened if such 
cruelty was happening inside his own house, and yet 
there was undoubtedly something odd about the 
story. 



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“And I’ll tell you something else,” Muriel said, 
hiccuping slightly as she lowered her goblet. “I think 
Bathilda has spilled the beans to Rita Skeeter. All 
those hints in Skeeter’s interview about an important 
source close to the Dumbledores — goodness knows 
she was there all through the Ariana business, and it 
would fit!” 

“Bathilda would never talk to Rita Skeeter!” whispered 
Doge. 

“Bathilda Bagshot?” Harry said. “The author of A 
History of Magic?” 

The name was printed on the front of one of Harry’s 
textbooks, though admittedly not one of the ones he 
had read most attentively. 

“Yes,” said Doge, clutching at Harry’s question like a 
drowning man at a life belt. “A most gifted magical 
historian and an old friend of Albus’s.” 

“Quite gaga these days, I’ve heard,” said Auntie 
Muriel cheerfully. 

“If that is so, it is even more dishonorable for Skeeter 
to have taken advantage of her,” said Doge, “and no 
reliance can be placed on anything Bathilda may have 
said!” 

“Oh, there are ways of bringing back memories, and 
I’m sure Rita Skeeter knows them all,” said Auntie 
Muriel. “But even if Bathilda’s completely cuckoo, I’m 
sure she’d still have old photographs, maybe even 
letters. She knew the Dumbledores for years. ... Well 
worth a trip to Godric’s Hollow, I’d have thought.” 

Harry, who had been taking a sip of butterbeer, 
choked. Doge banged him on the back as Harry 

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coughed, looking at Auntie Muriel through streaming 
eyes. Once he had control of his voice again, he 
asked, “Bathilda Bagshot lives in Godric’s Hollow?” 

“Oh yes, she’s been there forever! The Dumbledores 
moved there after Percival was imprisoned, and she 
was their neighbor.” 

“The Dumbledores lived in Godric’s Hollow?” 

“Yes, Barry, that’s what I just said,” said Auntie 
Muriel testily. 

Harry felt drained, empty. Never once, in six years, 
had Dumbledore told Harry that they had both lived 
and lost loved ones in Godric’s Hollow. Why? Were 
Lily and James buried close to Dumbledore ’s mother 
and sister? Had Dumbledore visited their graves, 
perhaps walked past Lily’s and James’s to do so? And 
he had never once told Harry . . . never bothered to say 



And why it was so important, Harry could not explain 
even to himself, yet he felt it had been tantamount to 
a lie not to tell him that they had this place and these 
experiences in common. He stared ahead of him, 
barely noticing what was going on around him, and 
did not realize that Hermione had appeared out of the 
crowd until she drew up a chair beside him. 

“I simply can’t dance anymore,” she panted, slipping 
off one of her shoes and rubbing the sole of her foot. 
“Ron’s gone looking to find more butterbeers. It’s a bit 
odd, I’ve just seen Viktor storming away from Luna’s 
father, it looked like they’d been arguing — ” She 
dropped her voice, staring at him. “Harry, are you 
okay?” 



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Harry did not know where to begin, but it did not 
matter. At that moment, something large and silver 
came falling through the canopy over the dance floor. 
Graceful and gleaming, the lynx landed lightly in the 
middle of the astonished dancers. Heads turned, as 
those nearest it froze absurdly in mid-dance. Then 
the Patronus’s mouth opened wide and it spoke in the 
loud, deep, slow voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are 
coming.” 



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9 




A PLACE TO HIDE 

Everything seemed fuzzy, slow. Harry and Hermione 
jumped to their feet and drew their wands. Many 
people were only just realizing that something strange 
had happened; heads were still turning toward the 
silver cat as it vanished. Silence spread outward in 
cold ripples from the place where the Patronus had 
landed. Then somebody screamed. 

Harry and Hermione threw themselves into the 
panicking crowd. Guests were sprinting in all 
directions; many were Disapparating; the protective 
enchantments around the Burrow had broken. 

“Ron!” Hermione cried. “Ron, where are you?” 

As they pushed their way across the dance floor, 
Harry saw cloaked and masked figures appearing in 
the crowd; then he saw Lupin and Tonks, their wands 
raised, and heard both of them shout, “Protego\”, a 
cry that was echoed on all sides — 



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“Ron! Ron!” Hermione called, half sobbing as she and 
Harry were buffeted by terrified guests: Harry seized 
her hand to make sure they weren’t separated as a 
streak of light whizzed over their heads, whether a 
protective charm or something more sinister he did 
not know — 

And then Ron was there. He caught hold of 
Hermione ’s free arm, and Harry felt her turn on the 
spot; sight and sound were extinguished as darkness 
pressed in upon him; all he could feel was Hermione’s 
hand as he was squeezed through space and time, 
away from the Burrow, away from the descending 
Death Eaters, away, perhaps, from Voldemort 
himself. ... 

“Where are we?” said Ron’s voice. 

Harry opened his eyes. For a moment he thought they 
had not left the wedding after all: They still seemed to 
be surrounded by people. 

“Tottenham Court Road,” panted Hermione. “Walk, 
just walk, we need to find somewhere for you to 
change.” 

Harry did as she asked. They half walked, half ran up 
the wide dark street thronged with late-night revelers 
and lined with closed shops, stars twinkling above 
them. A double-decker bus rumbled by and a group 
of merry pub-goers ogled them as they passed; Harry 
and Ron were still wearing dress robes. 

“Hermione, we haven’t got anything to change into,” 
Ron told her, as a young woman burst into raucous 
giggles at the sight of him. 



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“Why didn’t I make sure I had the Invisibility Cloak 
with me?” said Harry, inwardly cursing his own 
stupidity. “All last year I kept it on me and — ” 

“It’s okay, I’ve got the Cloak, I’ve got clothes for both 
of you,” said Hermione. “Just try and act naturally 
until — this will do.” 

She led them down a side street, then into the shelter 
of a shadowy alleyway. 

“When you say you’ve got the Cloak, and clothes ...” 
said Harry, frowning at Hermione, who was carrying 
nothing except her small beaded handbag, in which 
she was now rummaging. 

“Yes, they’re here,” said Hermione, and to Harry and 
Ron’s utter astonishment, she pulled out a pair of 
jeans, a sweatshirt, some maroon socks, and finally 
the silvery Invisibility Cloak. 

“How the ruddy hell — ?” 

“Undetectable Extension Charm,” said Hermione. 
“Tricky, but I think I’ve done it okay; anyway, I 
managed to fit everything we need in here.” She gave 
the fragile-looking bag a little shake and it echoed like 
a cargo hold as a number of heavy objects rolled 
around inside it. “Oh, damn, that’ll be the books,” she 
said, peering into it, “and I had them all stacked by 
subject. ... Oh well. ... Harry, you’d better take the 
Invisibility Cloak. Ron, hurry up and change. ...” 

“When did you do all this?” Harry asked as Ron 
stripped off his robes. 

“I told you at the Burrow, I’ve had the essentials 
packed for days, you know, in case we needed to 
make a quick getaway. I packed your rucksack this 

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morning, Harry, after you changed, and put it in here. 
... I just had a feeling. ...” 

“You’re amazing, you are,” said Ron, handing her his 
bundled-up robes. 

“Thank you,” said Hermione, managing a small smile 
as she pushed the robes into the bag. “Please, Harry, 
get that Cloak on!” 

Harry threw the Invisibility Cloak around his 
shoulders and pulled it up over his head, vanishing 
from sight. He was only just beginning to appreciate 
what had happened. 

“The others — everyone at the wedding — ” 

“We can’t worry about that now,” whispered 
Hermione. “It’s you they’re after, Harry, and we’ll just 
put everyone in even more danger by going back.” 

“She’s right,” said Ron, who seemed to know that 
Harry was about to argue, even if he could not see his 
face. “Most of the Order was there, they’ll look after 
everyone.” 

Harry nodded, then remembered that they could not 
see him, and said, “Yeah.” But he thought of Ginny, 
and fear bubbled like acid in his stomach. 

“Come on, I think we ought to keep moving,” said 
Hermione. 

They moved back up the side street and onto the 
main road again, where a group of men on the 
opposite side was singing and weaving across the 
pavement. 



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“Just as a matter of interest, why Tottenham Court 
Road?” Ron asked Hermione. 



“I’ve no idea, it just popped into my head, but I’m 
sure we’re safer out in the Muggle world, it’s not 
where they’ll expect us to be.” 

“True,” said Ron, looking around, “but don’t you feel a 
bit — exposed?” 

“Where else is there?” asked Hermione, cringing as 
the men on the other side of the road started wolf- 
whistling at her. “We can hardly book rooms at the 
Leaky Cauldron, can we? And Grimmauld Place is out 
if Snape can get in there. ... I suppose we could try 
my parents’ house, though I think there’s a chance 
they might check there. ... Oh, I wish they’d shut up!” 

“All right, darling?” the drunkest of the men on the 
other pavement was yelling. “Fancy a drink? Ditch 
ginger and come and have a pint!” 

“Let’s sit down somewhere,” Hermione said hastily as 
Ron opened his mouth to shout back across the road. 
“Look, this will do, in here!” 

It was a small and shabby all-night cafe. A light layer 
of grease lay on all the Formica- topped tables, but it 
was at least empty. Harry slipped into a booth first 
and Ron sat next to him opposite Hermione, who had 
her back to the entrance and did not like it: She 
glanced over her shoulder so frequently she appeared 
to have a twitch. Harry did not like being stationary; 
walking had given the illusion that they had a goal. 
Beneath the Cloak he could feel the last vestiges of 
Polyjuice leaving him, his hands returning to their 
usual length and shape. He pulled his glasses out of 
his pocket and put them on again. 

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After a minute or two, Ron said, “You know, we’re not 
far from the Leaky Cauldron here, it’s only in Charing 
Cross — ” 

“Ron, we can’t!” said Hermione at once. 

“Not to stay there, but to find out what’s going on!” 

“We know what’s going on! Voldemort’s taken over the 
Ministry, what else do we need to know?” 

“Okay, okay, it was just an idea!” 

They relapsed into a prickly silence. The gum-chewing 
waitress shuffled over and Hermione ordered two 
cappuccinos: As Harry was invisible, it would have 
looked odd to order him one. A pair of burly workmen 
entered the cafe and squeezed into the next booth. 
Hermione dropped her voice to a whisper. 

“I say we find a quiet place to Disapparate and head 
for the countryside. Once we’re there, we could send a 
message to the Order.” 

“Can you do that talking Patronus thing, then?” 
asked Ron. 

“I’ve been practicing and I think so,” said Hermione. 

“Well, as long as it doesn’t get them into trouble, 
though they might’ve been arrested already. God, 
that’s revolting,” Ron added after one sip of the 
foamy, grayish coffee. The waitress had heard; she 
shot Ron a nasty look as she shuffled off to take the 
new customers’ orders. The larger of the two 
workmen, who was blond and quite huge, now that 
Harry came to look at him, waved her away. She 
stared, affronted. 



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“Let’s get going, then, I don’t want to drink this 
muck,” said Ron. “Hermione, have you got Muggle 
money to pay for this?” 

“Yes, I took out all my Building Society savings before 
I came to the Burrow. I’ll bet all the change is at the 
bottom,” sighed Hermione, reaching for her beaded 
bag. 

The two workmen made identical movements, and 
Harry mirrored them without conscious thought: All 
three of them drew their wands. Ron, a few seconds 
late in realizing what was going on, lunged across the 
table, pushing Hermione sideways onto her bench. 

The force of the Death Eaters’ spells shattered the 
tiled wall where Ron’s head had just been, as Harry, 
still invisible, yelled, “Stupefyl” 

The great blond Death Eater was hit in the face by a 
jet of red light: He slumped sideways, unconscious. 
His companion, unable to see who had cast the spell, 
fired another at Ron: Shining black ropes flew from 
his wand-tip and bound Ron head to foot — the 
waitress screamed and ran for the door — Harry sent 
another Stunning Spell at the Death Eater with the 
twisted face who had tied up Ron, but the spell 
missed, rebounded on the window, and hit the 
waitress, who collapsed in front of the door. 

“Expulsol” bellowed the Death Eater, and the table 
behind which Harry was standing blew up: The force 
of the explosion slammed him into the wall and he felt 
his wand leave his hand as the Cloak slipped off him. 

“Petrificus TotalusV’ screamed Hermione from out of 
sight, and the Death Eater fell forward like a statue to 
land with a crunching thud on the mess of broken 
china, table, and coffee. Hermione crawled out from 



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underneath the bench, shaking bits of glass ashtray 
out of her hair and trembling all over. 

“D-diffindo,” she said, pointing her wand at Ron, who 
roared in pain as she slashed open the knee of his 
jeans, leaving a deep cut. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Ron, my 
hand’s shaking! Diffindol” 

The severed ropes fell away. Ron got to his feet, 
shaking his arms to regain feeling in them. Harry 
picked up his wand and climbed over all the debris to 
where the large blond Death Eater was sprawled 
across the bench. 

“I should’ve recognized him, he was there the night 
Dumbledore died,” he said. He turned over the darker 
Death Eater with his foot; the man’s eyes moved 
rapidly between Harry, Ron, and Hermione. 

“That’s Dolohov,” said Ron. “I recognize him from the 
old wanted posters. I think the big one’s Thorfinn 
Rowle.” 

“Never mind what they’re called!” said Hermione a 
little hysterically. “How did they find us? What are we 
going to do?” 

Somehow her panic seemed to clear Harry’s head. 

“Lock the door,” he told her, “and Ron, turn out the 
lights.” 

He looked down at the paralyzed Dolohov, thinking 
fast as the lock clicked and Ron used the 
Deluminator to plunge the cafe into darkness. Harry 
could hear the men who had jeered at Hermione 
earlier, yelling at another girl in the distance. 



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“What are we going to do with them?” Ron whispered 
to Harry through the dark; then, even more quietly, 
“Kill them? They’d kill us. They had a good go just 
now.” 

Hermione shuddered and took a step backward. 
Harry shook his head. 

“We just need to wipe their memories,” said Harry. 
“It’s better like that, it’ll throw them off the scent. If 
we killed them it’d be obvious we were here.” 

“You’re the boss,” said Ron, sounding profoundly 
relieved. “But I’ve never done a Memory Charm.” 

“Nor have I,” said Hermione, “but I know the theory.” 

She took a deep, calming breath, then pointed her 
wand at Dolohov’s forehead and said, “Obliviate.” 

At once, Dolohov’s eyes became unfocused and 
dreamy. 

“Brilliant!” said Harry, clapping her on the back. 
“Take care of the other one and the waitress while 
Ron and I clear up.” 

“Clear up?” said Ron, looking around at the partly 
destroyed cafe. “Why?” 

“Don’t you think they might wonder what’s happened 
if they wake up and find themselves in a place that 
looks like it’s just been bombed?” 

“Oh right, yeah ...” 

Ron struggled for a moment before managing to 
extract his wand from his pocket. 



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“It’s no wonder I can’t get it out, Hermione, you 
packed my old jeans, they’re tight.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” hissed Hermione, and as she 
dragged the waitress out of sight of the windows, 
Harry heard her mutter a suggestion as to where Ron 
could stick his wand instead. 

Once the cafe was restored to its previous condition, 
they heaved the Death Eaters back into their booth 
and propped them up facing each other. 

“But how did they find us?” Hermione asked, looking 
from one inert man to the other. “How did they know 
where we were?” 

She turned to Harry. 

“You — you don’t think you’ve still got your Trace on 
you, do you, Harry?” 

“He can’t have,” said Ron. “The Trace breaks at 
seventeen, that’s Wizarding law, you can’t put it on 
an adult.” 

“As far as you know,” said Hermione. “What if the 
Death Eaters have found a way to put it on a 
seventeen-year-old?” 

“But Harry hasn’t been near a Death Eater in the last 
twenty-four hours. Who’s supposed to have put a 
Trace back on him?” 

Hermione did not reply. Harry felt contaminated, 
tainted: Was that really how the Death Eaters had 
found them? 

“If I can’t use magic, and you can’t use magic near 
me, without us giving away our position — ” he began. 

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“We’re not splitting up!” said Hermione firmly. 



“We need a safe place to hide,” said Ron. “Give us 
time to think things through.” 

“Grimmauld Place,” said Harry. 

The other two gaped. 

“Don’t be silly, Harry, Snape can get in there!” 

“Ron’s dad said they’ve put up jinxes against him — 
and even if they haven’t worked,” he pressed on as 
Hermione began to argue, “so what? I swear, I’d like 
nothing better than to meet Snape!” 

“But — ” 

“Hermione, where else is there? It’s the best chance 
we’ve got. Snape’s only one Death Eater. If I’ve still 
got the Trace on me, we’ll have whole crowds of them 
on us wherever else we go.” 

She could not argue, though she looked as if she 
would have liked to. While she unlocked the cafe 
door, Ron clicked the Deluminator to release the 
cafe’s light. Then, on Harry’s count of three, they 
reversed the spells upon their three victims, and 
before the waitress or either of the Death Eaters could 
do more than stir sleepily, Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
had turned on the spot and vanished into the 
compressing darkness once more. 

Seconds later Harry’s lungs expanded gratefully and 
he opened his eyes: They were now standing in the 
middle of a familiar small and shabby square. Tall, 
dilapidated houses looked down on them from every 
side. Number twelve was visible to them, for they had 
been told of its existence by Dumbledore, its Secret- 
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Keeper, and they rushed toward it, checking every few 
yards that they were not being followed or observed. 
They raced up the stone steps, and Harry tapped the 
front door once with his wand. They heard a series of 
metallic clicks and the clatter of a chain, then the 
door swung open with a creak and they hurried over 
the threshold. 

As Harry closed the door behind them, the old- 
fashioned gas lamps sprang into life, casting 
flickering light along the length of the hallway. It 
looked just as Harry remembered it: eerie, 
cobwebbed, the outlines of the house-elf heads on the 
wall throwing odd shadows up the staircase. Long 
dark curtains concealed the portrait of Sirius’s 
mother. The only thing that was out of place was the 
troll’s leg umbrella stand, which was lying on its side 
as if Tonks had just knocked it over again. 

“I think somebody’s been in here,” Hermione 
whispered, pointing toward it. 

“That could’ve happened as the Order left,” Ron 
murmured back. 

“So where are these jinxes they put up against 
Snape?” Harry asked. 

“Maybe they’re only activated if he shows up?” 
suggested Ron. 

Yet they remained close together on the doormat, 
backs against the door, scared to move farther into 
the house. 

“Well, we can’t stay here forever,” said Harry, and he 
took a step forward. 

“Severus Snape?” 

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Mad-Eye Moody’s voice whispered out of the 
darkness, making all three of them jump back in 
fright. “We’re not Snape!” croaked Harry, before 
something whooshed over him like cold air and his 
tongue curled backward on itself, making it 
impossible to speak. Before he had time to feel inside 
his mouth, however, his tongue had unraveled again. 

The other two seemed to have experienced the same 
unpleasant sensation. Ron was making retching 
noises; Hermione stammered, “That m-must have b- 
been the T-Tongue-Tying Curse Mad-Eye set up for 
Snape!” 

Gingerly Harry took another step forward. Something 
shifted in the shadows at the end of the hall, and 
before any of them could say another word, a figure 
had risen up out of the carpet, tall, dust-colored, and 
terrible: Hermione screamed and so did Mrs. Black, 
her curtains flying open; the gray figure was gliding 
toward them, faster and faster, its waist-length hair 
and beard streaming behind it, its face sunken, 
fleshless, with empty eye sockets: Horribly familiar, 
dreadfully altered, it raised a wasted arm, pointing at 
Harry. 

“No!” Harry shouted, and though he had raised his 
wand no spell occurred to him. “No! It wasn’t us! We 
didn’t kill you — ” 

On the word kill, the figure exploded in a great cloud 
of dust: Coughing, his eyes watering, Harry looked 
around to see Hermione crouched on the floor by the 
door with her arms over her head, and Ron, who was 
shaking from head to foot, patting her clumsily on the 
shoulder and saying, “It’s all r-right. ... It’s g-gone. ...” 

Dust swirled around Harry like mist, catching the 
blue gaslight, as Mrs. Black continued to scream. 

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“Mudbloods, filth, stains of dishonor, taint of shame on 
the house of my fathers — ” 

“SHUT UP!” Harry bellowed, directing his wand at her, 
and with a bang and a burst of red sparks, the 
curtains swung shut again, silencing her. 

“That ... that was ...” Hermione whimpered, as Ron 
helped her to her feet. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but it wasn’t really him, was it? 
Just something to scare Snape.” 

Had it worked, Harry wondered, or had Snape already 
blasted the horror-figure aside as casually as he had 
killed the real Dumbledore? Nerves still tingling, he 
led the other two up the hall, half-expecting some new 
terror to reveal itself, but nothing moved except for a 
mouse skittering along the skirting board. 

“Before we go any farther, I think we’d better check,” 
whispered Hermione, and she raised her wand and 
said, “Homenum revelio.” 

Nothing happened. 

“Well, you’ve just had a big shock,” said Ron kindly. 
“What was that supposed to do?” 

“It did what I meant it to do!” said Hermione rather 
crossly. “That was a spell to reveal human presence, 
and there’s nobody here except us!” 

“And old Dusty,” said Ron, glancing at the patch of 
carpet from which the corpse-figure had risen. 

“Let’s go up,” said Hermione with a frightened look at 
the same spot, and she led the way up the creaking 
stairs to the drawing room on the first floor. 

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Hermione waved her wand to ignite the old gas lamps, 
then, shivering slightly in the drafty room, she 
perched on the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly around 
her. Ron crossed to the window and moved the heavy 
velvet curtain aside an inch. 

“Can’t see anyone out there,” he reported. “And you’d 
think, if Harry still had a Trace on him, they’d have 
followed us here. I know they can’t get in the house, 
but — what’s up, Harry?” 

Harry had given a cry of pain: His scar had burned 
again as something flashed across his mind like a 
bright light on water. He saw a large shadow and felt 
a fury that was not his own pound through his body, 
violent and brief as an electric shock. 

“What did you see?” Ron asked, advancing on Harry. 
“Did you see him at my place?” 

“No, I just felt anger — he’s really angry — ” 

“But that could be at the Burrow,” said Ron loudly. 
“What else? Didn’t you see anything? Was he cursing 
someone?” 

“No, I just felt anger — I couldn’t tell — ” 

Harry felt badgered, confused, and Hermione did not 
help as she said in a frightened voice, “Your scar, 
again? But what’s going on? I thought that 
connection had closed!” 

“It did, for a while,” muttered Harry; his scar was still 
painful, which made it hard to concentrate. “I — I 
think it’s started opening again whenever he loses 
control, that’s how it used to — ” 



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“But then you’ve got to close your mind!” said 
Hermione shrilly. “Harry, Dumbledore didn’t want you 
to use that connection, he wanted you to shut it 
down, that’s why you were supposed to use 
Occlumency! Otherwise Voldemort can plant false 
images in your mind, remember — ” 

“Yeah, I do remember, thanks,” said Harry through 
gritted teeth; he did not need Hermione to tell him 
that Voldemort had once used this selfsame 
connection between them to lead him into a trap, nor 
that it had resulted in Sirius’s death. He wished that 
he had not told them what he had seen and felt; it 
made Voldemort more threatening, as though he were 
pressing against the window of the room, and still the 
pain in his scar was building and he fought it: It was 
like resisting the urge to be sick. 

He turned his back on Ron and Hermione, pretending 
to examine the old tapestry of the Black family tree on 
the wall. Then Hermione shrieked: Harry drew his 
wand again and spun around to see a silver Patronus 
soar through the drawing room window and land 
upon the floor in front of them, where it solidified into 
the weasel that spoke with the voice of Ron’s father. 

“Family safe, do not reply, we are being watched.” 

The Patronus dissolved into nothingness. Ron let out 
a noise between a whimper and a groan and dropped 
onto the sofa: Hermione joined him, gripping his arm. 

“They’re all right, they’re all right!” she whispered, 
and Ron half laughed and hugged her. 

“Harry,” he said over Hermione’s shoulder, “I — ” 

“It’s not a problem,” said Harry, sickened by the pain 
in his head. “It’s your family, ’course you’re worried. 

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I’d feel the same way.” He thought of Ginny. “I do feel 
the same way.” 

The pain in his scar was reaching a peak, burning as 
it had done in the garden of the Burrow. Faintly he 
heard Hermione say, “I don’t want to be on my own. 
Could we use the sleeping bags I’ve brought and 
camp in here tonight?” 

He heard Ron agree. He could not fight the pain much 
longer: He had to succumb. 

“Bathroom,” he muttered, and he left the room as fast 
as he could without running. 

He barely made it: Bolting the door behind him with 
trembling hands, he grasped his pounding head and 
fell to the floor, then in an explosion of agony, he felt 
the rage that did not belong to him possess his soul, 
saw a long room lit only by firelight, and the great 
blond Death Eater on the floor, screaming and 
writhing, and a slighter figure standing over him, 
wand outstretched, while Harry spoke in a high, cold, 
merciless voice. 

“More, Rowle, or shall we end it and feed you to 
Nagini? Lord Voldemort is not sure that he will forgive 
this time. ... You called me back for this, to tell me 
that Harry Potter has escaped again? Draco, give 
Rowle another taste of our displeasure. ... Do it, or 
feel my wrath yourself!” 

A log fell in the fire: Flames reared, their light darting 
across a terrified, pointed white face — with a sense 
of emerging from deep water, Harry drew heaving 
breaths and opened his eyes. 

He was spread-eagled on the cold black marble floor, 
his nose inches from one of the silver serpent tails 

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that supported the large bathtub. He sat up. Malfoy’s 
gaunt, petrified face seemed branded on the inside of 
his eyes. Harry felt sickened by what he had seen, by 
the use to which Draco was now being put by 
Voldemort. 

There was a sharp rap on the door, and Harry jumped 
as Hermione’s voice rang out. 

“Harry, do you want your toothbrush? I’ve got it 
here.” 

“Yeah, great, thanks,” he said, fighting to keep his 
voice casual as he stood up to let her in. 



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10 




KREACHER’S TALE 

Harry woke early next morning, wrapped in a sleeping 
bag on the drawing room floor. A chink of sky was 
visible between the heavy curtains: It was the cool, 
clear blue of watered ink, somewhere between night 
and dawn, and everything was quiet except for Ron 
and Hermione’s slow, deep breathing. Harry glanced 
over at the dark shapes they made on the floor beside 
him. Ron had had a fit of gallantry and insisted that 
Hermione sleep on the cushions from the sofa, so that 
her silhouette was raised above his. Her arm curved 
to the floor, her fingers inches from Ron’s. Harry 
wondered whether they had fallen asleep holding 
hands. The idea made him feel strangely lonely. 

He looked up at the shadowy ceiling, the cobwebbed 
chandelier. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he had 
been standing in the sunlight at the entrance to the 
marquee, waiting to show in wedding guests. It 
seemed a lifetime away. What was going to happen 
now? He lay on the floor and he thought of the 
Horcruxes, of the daunting, complex mission 
Dumbledore had left him. ... Dumbledore ... 

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The grief that had possessed him since Dumbledore’s 
death felt different now. The accusations he had 
heard from Muriel at the wedding seemed to have 
nested in his brain like diseased things, infecting his 
memories of the wizard he had idolized. Could 
Dumbledore have let such things happen? Had he 
been like Dudley, content to watch neglect and abuse 
as long as it did not affect him? Could he have turned 
his back on a sister who was being imprisoned and 
hidden? 

Harry thought of Godric’s Hollow, of graves 
Dumbledore had never mentioned there; he thought 
of mysterious objects left without explanation in 
Dumbledore’s will, and resentment swelled in the 
darkness. Why hadn’t Dumbledore told him? Why 
hadn’t he explained? Had Dumbledore actually cared 
about Harry at all? Or had Harry been nothing more 
than a tool to be polished and honed, but not trusted, 
never confided in? 

Harry could not stand lying there with nothing but 
bitter thoughts for company. Desperate for something 
to do, for distraction, he slipped out of his sleeping 
bag, picked up his wand, and crept out of the room. 
On the landing he whispered, “Lumos,” and started to 
climb the stairs by wandlight. 

On the second landing was the bedroom in which he 
and Ron had slept last time they had been here; he 
glanced into it. The wardrobe doors stood open and 
the bedclothes had been ripped back. Harry 
remembered the overturned troll leg downstairs. 
Somebody had searched the house since the Order 
had left. Snape? Or perhaps Mundungus, who had 
pilfered plenty from this house both before and after 
Sirius died? Harry’s gaze wandered to the portrait 
that sometimes contained Phineas Nigellus Black, 
Sirius’s great-great-grandfather, but it was empty, 
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showing nothing but a stretch of muddy backdrop. 
Phineas Nigellus was evidently spending the night in 
the headmaster’s study at Hogwarts. 

Harry continued up the stairs until he reached the 
topmost landing, where there were only two doors. 

The one facing him bore a nameplate reading SIRIUS. 
Harry had never entered his godfather’s bedroom 
before. He pushed open the door, holding his wand 
high to cast light as widely as possible. The room was 
spacious and must once have been handsome. There 
was a large bed with a carved wooden headboard, a 
tall window obscured by long velvet curtains, and a 
chandelier thickly coated in dust with candle stubs 
still resting in its sockets, solid wax hanging in 
frostlike drips. A fine film of dust covered the pictures 
on the walls and the bed’s headboard; a spider’s web 
stretched between the chandelier and the top of the 
large wooden wardrobe, and as Harry moved deeper 
into the room, he heard a scurrying of disturbed mice. 

The teenage Sirius had plastered the walls with so 
many posters and pictures that little of the walls’ 
silvery-gray silk was visible. Harry could only assume 
that Sirius’s parents had been unable to remove the 
Permanent Sticking Charm that kept them on the 
wall, because he was sure they would not have 
appreciated their eldest son’s taste in decoration. 
Sirius seemed to have gone out of his way to annoy 
his parents. There were several large Gryffindor 
banners, faded scarlet and gold, just to underline his 
difference from all the rest of the Slytherin family. 
There were many pictures of Muggle motorcycles, and 
also (Harry had to admire Sirius’s nerve) several 
posters of bikini-clad Muggle girls; Harry could tell 
that they were Muggles because they remained quite 
stationary within their pictures, faded smiles and 
glazed eyes frozen on the paper. This was in contrast 
to the only Wizarding photograph on the walls, which 
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was a picture of four Hogwarts students standing arm 
in arm, laughing at the camera. 



With a leap of pleasure, Harry recognized his father; 
his untidy black hair stuck up at the back like 
Harry’s, and he too wore glasses. Beside him was 
Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant face 
so much younger and happier than Harry had ever 
seen it alive. To Sirius’s right stood Pettigrew, more 
than a head shorter, plump and watery-eyed, flushed 
with pleasure at his inclusion in this coolest of gangs, 
with the much-admired rebels that James and Sirius 
had been. On James’s left was Lupin, even then a 
little shabby-looking, but he had the same air of 
delighted surprise at finding himself liked and 
included ... or was it simply because Harry knew how 
it had been, that he saw these things in the picture? 
He tried to take it from the wall; it was his now, after 
all, Sirius had left him everything, but it would not 
budge. Sirius had taken no chances in preventing his 
parents from redecorating his room. 

Harry looked around at the floor. The sky outside was 
growing brighter: A shaft of light revealed bits of 
paper, books, and small objects scattered over the 
carpet. Evidently Sirius’s bedroom had been searched 
too, although its contents seemed to have been 
judged mostly, if not entirely, worthless. A few of the 
books had been shaken roughly enough to part 
company with their covers, and sundry pages littered 
the floor. 

Harry bent down, picked up a few of the pieces of 
paper, and examined them. He recognized one as part 
of an old edition of A History of Magic, by Bathilda 
Bagshot, and another as belonging to a motorcycle 
maintenance manual. The third was handwritten and 
crumpled. He smoothed it out. 



Page | 201 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




Dear Padfoot, 



Thank you, thank you, for Harry’s birthday present! It 
was his favorite by far. One year old and already 
zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so 
pleased with himself, I’m enclosing a picture so you 
can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the 
ground, but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a 
horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no 
complaints there). Of course, James thought it was so 
funny, says he’s going to be a great Quidditch player, 
but we’ve had to pack away all the ornaments and 
make sure we don’t take our eyes off him when he gets 
going. 

We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old 
Bathilda, who has always been sweet to us and who 
dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn’t come, 
but the Order’s got to come first, and Harry’s not old 
enough to know it’s his birthday anyway! James is 
getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to 
show it but I can tell — also, Dumbledore’s still got his 
Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If 
you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy 
was here last weekend, I thought he seemed down, 
but that was probably the news about the McKinnons; 

I cried all evening when I heard. 

Bathilda drops in most days, she’s a fascinating old 
thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore, 
I’m not sure he’d be pleased if he knew! I don’t know 
how much to believe, actually, because it seems 
incredible that Dumbledore 

Harry’s extremities seemed to have gone numb. He 
stood quite still, holding the miraculous paper in his 
nerveless fingers while inside him a kind of quiet 
eruption sent joy and grief thundering in equal 

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measure through his veins. Lurching to the bed, he 
sat down. 



He read the letter again, but could not take in any 
more meaning than he had done the first time, and 
was reduced to staring at the handwriting itself. She 
had made her “g”s the same way he did: He searched 
through the letter for every one of them, and each felt 
like a friendly little wave glimpsed from behind a veil. 
The letter was an incredible treasure, proof that Lily 
Potter had lived, really lived, that her warm hand had 
once moved across this parchment, tracing ink into 
these letters, these words, words about him, Harry, 
her son. 

Impatiently brushing away the wetness in his eyes, he 
reread the letter, this time concentrating on the 
meaning. It was like listening to a half-remembered 
voice. 

They had had a cat . . . perhaps it had perished, like 
his parents, at Godric’s Hollow ... or else fled when 
there was nobody left to feed it. ... Sirius had bought 
him his first broomstick. . . . His parents had known 
Bathilda Bagshot; had Dumbledore introduced them? 
DumblecLore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak ... There 
was something funny there. ... 

Harry paused, pondering his mother’s words. Why 
had Dumbledore taken James’s Invisibility Cloak? 
Harry distinctly remembered his headmaster telling 
him years before, “I don’t need a cloak to become 
invisible.” Perhaps some less gifted Order member 
had needed its assistance, and Dumbledore had acted 
as carrier? Harry passed on. ... 

Wormy was here . . . Pettigrew, the traitor, had seemed 
“down,” had he? Was he aware that he was seeing 
James and Lily alive for the last time? 

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And finally Bathilda again, who told incredible stories 
about Dumbledore. It seems incredible that 
Dumbledore — 

That Dumbledore what? But there were any number 
of things that would seem incredible about 
Dumbledore; that he had once received bottom marks 
in a Transfiguration test, for instance, or had taken 
up goat-charming like Aberforth. ... 

Harry got to his feet and scanned the floor: Perhaps 
the rest of the letter was here somewhere. He seized 
papers, treating them, in his eagerness, with as little 
consideration as the original searcher; he pulled open 
drawers, shook out books, stood on a chair to run his 
hand over the top of the wardrobe, and crawled under 
the bed and armchair. 

At last, lying facedown on the floor, he spotted what 
looked like a torn piece of paper under the chest of 
drawers. When he pulled it out, it proved to be most 
of the photograph Lily had described in her letter. A 
black-haired baby was zooming in and out of the 
picture on a tiny broom, roaring with laughter, and a 
pair of legs that must have belonged to James was 
chasing after him. Harry tucked the photograph into 
his pocket with Lily’s letter and continued to look for 
the second sheet. 

After another quarter of an hour, however, he was 
forced to conclude that the rest of his mother’s letter 
was gone. Had it simply been lost in the sixteen years 
that had elapsed since it had been written, or had it 
been taken by whoever had searched the room? Harry 
read the first sheet again, this time looking for clues 
as to what might have made the second sheet 
valuable. His toy broomstick could hardly be 
considered interesting to the Death Eaters. ... The 
only potentially useful thing he could see here was 
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possible information on Dumbledore. It seems 
incredible that Dumbledore — what? 

“Harry? Harry! HarryV’ 

“I’m here!” he called. “What’s happened?” 

There was a clatter of footsteps outside the door, and 
Hermione burst inside. 

“We woke up and didn’t know where you were!” she 
said breathlessly. She turned and shouted over her 
shoulder, “Ron! I’ve found him!” 

Ron’s annoyed voice echoed distantly from several 
floors below. 

“Good! Tell him from me he’s a git!” 

“Harry, don’t just disappear, please, we were terrified! 
Why did you come up here anyway?” She gazed 
around the ransacked room. “What have you been 
doing?” 

“Look what I’ve just found.” 

He held out his mother’s letter. Hermione took it and 
read it while Harry watched her. When she reached 
the end of the page she looked up at him. 

“Oh, Harry ...” 

“And there’s this too.” 

He handed her the torn photograph, and Hermione 
smiled at the baby zooming in and out of sight on the 
toy broom. 



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“I’ve been looking for the rest of the letter,” Harry 
said, “but it’s not here.” 

Hermione glanced around. 

“Did you make all this mess, or was some of it done 
when you got here?” 

“Someone had searched before me,” said Harry. 

“I thought so. Every room I looked into on the way up 
had been disturbed. What were they after, do you 
think?” 

“Information on the Order, if it was Snape.” 

“But you’d think he’d already have all he needed, I 
mean, he was in the Order, wasn’t he?” 

“Well then,” said Harry, keen to discuss his theory, 
“what about information on Dumbledore? The second 
page of this letter, for instance. You know this 
Bathilda my mum mentions, you know who she is?” 

“Who?” 

“Bathilda Bagshot, the author of — ” 

“A History of Magic,” said Hermione, looking 
interested. “So your parents knew her? She was an 
incredible magical historian.” 

“And she’s still alive,” said Harry, “and she lives in 
Godric’s Hollow, Ron’s Auntie Muriel was talking 
about her at the wedding. She knew Dumbledore ’s 
family too. Be pretty interesting to talk to, wouldn’t 
she?” 



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There was a little too much understanding in the 
smile Hermione gave him for Harry’s liking. He took 
back the letter and the photograph and tucked them 
inside the pouch around his neck, so as not to have 
to look at her and give himself away. 

“I understand why you’d love to talk to her about your 
mum and dad, and Dumbledore too,” said Hermione. 
“But that wouldn’t really help us in our search for the 
Horcruxes, would it?” Harry did not answer, and she 
rushed on, “Harry, I know you really want to go to 
Godric’s Hollow, but I’m scared, I’m scared at how 
easily those Death Eaters found us yesterday. It just 
makes me feel more than ever that we ought to avoid 
the place where your parents are buried, I’m sure 
they’d be expecting you to visit it.” 

“It’s not just that,” Harry said, still avoiding looking at 
her. “Muriel said stuff about Dumbledore at the 
wedding. I want to know the truth. ...” 

He told Hermione everything that Muriel had told 
him. When he had finished, Hermione said, “Of 
course, I can see why that’s upset you, Harry — ” 

“I’m not upset,” he lied, “I’d just like to know whether 
or not it’s true or — ” 

“Harry, do you really think you’ll get the truth from a 
malicious old woman like Muriel, or from Rita 
Skeeter? How can you believe them? You knew 
Dumbledore!” 

“I thought I did,” he muttered. 

“But you know how much truth there was in 
everything Rita wrote about you! Doge is right, how 
can you let these people tarnish your memories of 
Dumbledore?” 

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He looked away, trying not to betray the resentment 
he felt. There it was again: Choose what to believe. He 
wanted the truth. Why was everybody so determined 
that he should not get it? 

“Shall we go down to the kitchen?” Hermione 
suggested after a little pause. “Find something for 
breakfast?” 

He agreed, but grudgingly, and followed her out onto 
the landing and past the second door that led off it. 
There were deep scratch marks in the paintwork 
below a small sign that he had not noticed in the 
dark. He paused at the top of the stairs to read it. It 
was a pompous little sign, neatly lettered by hand, 
the sort of thing that Percy Weasley might have stuck 
on his bedroom door: 

Do Not Enter 

Without the Express Permission of 
Regulus Arcturus Black 

Excitement trickled through Harry, but he was not 
immediately sure why. He read the sign again. 
Hermione was already a flight of stairs below him. 

“Hermione,” he said, and he was surprised that his 
voice was so calm. “Come back up here.” 

“What’s the matter?” 

“R.A.B. I think I’ve found him.” 

There was a gasp, and then Hermione ran back up 
the stairs. 

“In your mum’s letter? But I didn’t see — ” 

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Harry shook his head, pointing at Regulus’s sign. She 
read it, then clutched Harry’s arm so tightly that he 
winced. 

“Sirius’s brother?” she whispered. 

“He was a Death Eater,” said Harry, “Sirius told me 
about him, he joined up when he was really young 
and then got cold feet and tried to leave — so they 
killed him.” 

“That fits!” gasped Hermione. “If he was a Death Eater 
he had access to Voldemort, and if he became 
disenchanted, then he would have wanted to bring 
Voldemort down!” 

She released Harry, leaned over the banister, and 
screamed, “Ron! RON! Get up here, quick!” 

Ron appeared, panting, a minute later, his wand 
ready in his hand. 

“What’s up? If it’s massive spiders again I want 
breakfast before I — ” 

He frowned at the sign on Regulus’s door, to which 
Hermione was silently pointing. 

“What? That was Sirius’s brother, wasn’t it? Regulus 
Arcturus ... Regulus ... R.A.B.l The locket — you don’t 
reckon — ?” 

“Let’s find out,” said Harry. He pushed the door: It 
was locked. Hermione pointed her wand at the handle 
and said, “Alohomora.” There was a click, and the 
door swung open. 

They moved over the threshold together, gazing 
around. Regulus’s bedroom was slightly smaller than 

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Sirius’s, though it had the same sense of former 
grandeur. Whereas Sirius had sought to advertise his 
difference from the rest of the family, Regulus had 
striven to emphasize the opposite. The Slytherin 
colors of emerald and silver were everywhere, draping 
the bed, the walls, and the windows. The Black family 
crest was painstakingly painted over the bed, along 
with its motto, TOU JOURS PUR. Beneath this was a 
collection of yellow newspaper cuttings, all stuck 
together to make a ragged collage. Hermione crossed 
the room to examine them. 

“They’re all about Voldemort,” she said. “Regulus 
seems to have been a fan for a few years before he 
joined the Death Eaters. ...” 

A little puff of dust rose from the bedcovers as she sat 
down to read the clippings. Harry, meanwhile, had 
noticed another photograph; a Hogwarts Quidditch 
team was smiling and waving out of the frame. He 
moved closer and saw the snakes emblazoned on 
their chests: Slytherins. Regulus was instantly 
recognizable as the boy sitting in the middle of the 
front row: He had the same dark hair and slightly 
haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller, 
slighter, and rather less handsome than Sirius had 
been. 

“He played Seeker,” said Harry. 

“What?” said Hermione vaguely; she was still 
immersed in Voldemort’s press clippings. 

“He’s sitting in the middle of the front row, that’s 
where the Seeker ... Never mind,” said Harry, realizing 
that nobody was listening: Ron was on his hands and 
knees, searching under the wardrobe. Harry looked 
around the room for likely hiding places and 
approached the desk. Yet again, somebody had 
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searched before them. The drawers’ contents had 
been turned over recently, the dust disturbed, but 
there was nothing of value there: old quills, out-of- 
date textbooks that bore evidence of being roughly 
handled, a recently smashed ink bottle, its sticky 
residue covering the contents of the drawer. 

“There’s an easier way,” said Hermione, as Harry 
wiped his inky fingers on his jeans. She raised her 
wand and said, “Accio Locked.” 

Nothing happened. Ron, who had been searching the 
folds of the faded curtains, looked disappointed. 

“Is that it, then? It’s not here?” 

“Oh, it could still be here, but under counter- 
enchantments,” said Hermione. “Charms to prevent it 
being summoned magically, you know.” 

“Like Voldemort put on the stone basin in the cave,” 
said Harry, remembering how he had been unable to 
Summon the fake locket. 

“How are we supposed to find it then?” asked Ron. 

“We search manually,” said Hermione. 

“That’s a good idea,” said Ron, rolling his eyes, and he 
resumed his examination of the curtains. 

They combed every inch of the room for more than an 
hour, but were forced, finally, to conclude that the 
locket was not there. 

The sun had risen now; its light dazzled them even 
through the grimy landing windows. 



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“It could be somewhere else in the house, though,” 
said Hermione in a rallying tone as they walked back 
downstairs: As Harry and Ron had become more 
discouraged, she seemed to have become more 
determined. “Whether he’d managed to destroy it or 
not, he’d want to keep it hidden from Voldemort, 
wouldn’t he? Remember all those awful things we had 
to get rid of when we were here last time? That clock 
that shot bolts at everyone and those old robes that 
tried to strangle Ron; Regulus might have put them 
there to protect the locket’s hiding place, even though 
we didn’t realize it at ... at ...” 

Harry and Ron looked at her. She was standing with 
one foot in midair, with the dumbstruck look of one 
who had just been Obliviated; her eyes had even 
drifted out of focus. 

"... at the time,” she finished in a whisper. 

“Something wrong?” asked Ron. 

“There was a locket.” 

“What?” said Harry and Ron together. 

“In the cabinet in the drawing room. Nobody could 
open it. And we ... we ...” 

Harry felt as though a brick had slid down through 
his chest into his stomach. He remembered: He had 
even handled the thing as they passed it around, each 
trying in turn to prise it open. It had been tossed into 
a sack of rubbish, along with the snuffbox of Wartcap 
powder and the music box that had made everyone 
sleepy. ... 

“Kreacher nicked loads of things back from us,” said 
Harry. It was the only chance, the only slender hope 

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left to them, and he was going to cling to it until 
forced to let go. “He had a whole stash of stuff in his 
cupboard in the kitchen. C’mon.” 

He ran down the stairs taking two steps at a time, the 
other two thundering along in his wake. They made 
so much noise that they woke the portrait of Sirius’s 
mother as they passed through the hall. 

“Filth). Mudbloods\ Scum)” she screamed after them as 
they dashed down into the basement kitchen and 
slammed the door behind them. 

Harry ran the length of the room, skidded to a halt at 
the door of Kreacher’s cupboard, and wrenched it 
open. There was the nest of dirty old blankets in 
which the house-elf had once slept, but they were no 
longer glittering with the trinkets Kreacher had 
salvaged. The only thing there was an old copy of 
Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. Refusing to 
believe his eyes, Harry snatched up the blankets and 
shook them. A dead mouse fell out and rolled 
dismally across the floor. Ron groaned as he threw 
himself into a kitchen chair; Hermione closed her 
eyes. 

“It’s not over yet,” said Harry, and he raised his voice 
and called, “ Kreacherl” 

There was a loud crack and the house-elf that Harry 
had so reluctantly inherited from Sirius appeared out 
of nowhere in front of the cold and empty fireplace: 
tiny, half human-sized, his pale skin hanging off him 
in folds, white hair sprouting copiously from his 
batlike ears. He was still wearing the filthy rag in 
which they had first met him, and the contemptuous 
look he bent upon Harry showed that his attitude to 
his change of ownership had altered no more than his 
outfit. 

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“Master,” croaked Kreacher in his bullfrog’s voice, and 
he bowed low, muttering to his knees, “back in my 
Mistress’s old house with the blood-traitor Weasley 
and the Mudblood — ” 

“I forbid you to call anyone ‘blood traitor’ or 
‘Mudblood,’ ” growled Harry. He would have found 
Kreacher, with his snoutlike nose and bloodshot eyes, 
a distinctly unlovable object even if the elf had not 
betrayed Sirius to Voldemort. 

“I’ve got a question for you,” said Harry, his heart 
beating rather fast as he looked down at the elf, “and 
I order you to answer it truthfully. Understand?” 

“Yes, Master,” said Kreacher, bowing low again: Harry 
saw his lips moving soundlessly, undoubtedly framing 
the insults he was now forbidden to utter. 

“Two years ago,” said Harry, his heart now 
hammering against his ribs, “there was a big gold 
locket in the drawing room upstairs. We threw it out. 
Did you steal it back?” 

There was a moment’s silence, during which Kreacher 
straightened up to look Harry full in the face. Then he 
said, “Yes.” 

“Where is it now?” asked Harry jubilantly as Ron and 
Hermione looked gleeful. 

Kreacher closed his eyes as though he could not bear 
to see their reactions to his next word. 

“Gone.” 

“Gone?” echoed Harry, elation flooding out of him. 
“What do you mean, it’s gone?” 



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The elf shivered. He swayed. 



“Kreacher,” said Harry fiercely, “I order you — ” 

“Mundungus Fletcher,” croaked the elf, his eyes still 
tight shut. “Mundungus Fletcher stole it all: Miss 
Bella’s and Miss Cissy’s pictures, my Mistress’s 
gloves, the Order of Merlin, First Class, the goblets 
with the family crest, and — and — ” 

Kreacher was gulping for air: His hollow chest was 
rising and falling rapidly, then his eyes flew open and 
he uttered a bloodcurdling scream. 

“ — and the locket, Master Regulus’s locket, Kreacher 
did wrong, Kreacher failed in his orders!” 

Harry reacted instinctively: As Kreacher lunged for 
the poker standing in the grate, he launched himself 
upon the elf, flattening him. Hermione’s scream 
mingled with Kreacher’s, but Harry bellowed louder 
than both of them: “Kreacher, I order you to stay 
still!” 

He felt the elf freeze and released him. Kreacher lay 
flat on the cold stone floor, tears gushing from his 
sagging eyes. 

“Harry, let him up!” Hermione whispered. 

“So he can beat himself up with the poker?” snorted 
Harry, kneeling beside the elf. “I don’t think so. Right, 
Kreacher, I want the truth: How do you know 
Mundungus Fletcher stole the locket?” 

“Kreacher saw him!” gasped the elf as tears poured 
over his snout and into his mouth full of graying 
teeth. “Kreacher saw him coming out of Kreacher’s 
cupboard with his hands full of Kreacher’s treasures. 

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Kreacher told the sneak thief to stop, but Mundungus 
Fletcher laughed and r-ran. ...” 

“You called the locket ‘Master Regulus ’s,’ ” said Harry. 
“Why? Where did it come from? What did Regulus 
have to do with it? Kreacher, sit up and tell me 
everything you know about that locket, and 
everything Regulus had to do with it!” 

The elf sat up, curled into a ball, placed his wet face 
between his knees, and began to rock backward and 
forward. When he spoke, his voice was muffled but 
quite distinct in the silent, echoing kitchen. 

“Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a 
bad boy and broke my Mistress’s heart with his 
lawless ways. But Master Regulus had proper pride; 
he knew what was due to the name of Black and the 
dignity of his pure blood. For years he talked of the 
Dark Lord, who was going to bring the wizards out of 
hiding to rule the Muggles and the Muggle-borns . . . 
and when he was sixteen years old, Master Regulus 
joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to 
serve ... 

“And one day, a year after he had joined, Master 
Regulus came down to the kitchen to see Kreacher. 
Master Regulus always liked Kreacher. And Master 
Regulus said ... he said ...” 

The old elf rocked faster than ever. 

"... he said that the Dark Lord required an elf.” 

“Voldemort needed an elf?” Harry repeated, looking 
around at Ron and Hermione, who looked just as 
puzzled as he did. 



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“Oh yes,” moaned Kreacher. “And Master Regulus had 
volunteered Kreacher. It was an honor, said Master 
Regulus, an honor for him and for Kreacher, who 
must be sure to do whatever the Dark Lord ordered 
him to do ... and then to c-come home.” 

Kreacher rocked still faster, his breath coming in 
sobs. 

“So Kreacher went to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord 
did not tell Kreacher what they were to do, but took 
Kreacher with him to a cave beside the sea. And 
beyond the cave there was a cavern, and in the 
cavern was a great black lake ...” 

The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stood up. 
Kreacher’s croaking voice seemed to come to him from 
across that dark water. He saw what had happened 
as clearly as though he had been present. 

"... There was a boat ...” 

Of course there had been a boat; Harry knew the 
boat, ghostly green and tiny, bewitched so as to carry 
one wizard and one victim toward the island in the 
center. This, then, was how Voldemort had tested the 
defenses surrounding the Horcrux: by borrowing a 
disposable creature, a house-elf ... 

“There was a b-basin full of potion on the island. The 
D-Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it. ...” 

The elf quaked from head to foot. 

“Kreacher drank, and as he drank, he saw terrible 
things. ... Kreacher’s insides burned. ... Kreacher 
cried for Master Regulus to save him, he cried for his 
Mistress Black, but the Dark Lord only laughed. ... 

He made Kreacher drink all the potion. ... He dropped 
Page | 217 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




a locket into the empty basin. ... He filled it with more 
potion. 

“And then the Dark Lord sailed away, leaving 
Kreacher on the island. ...” 

Harry could see it happening. He watched 
Voldemort’s white, snakelike face vanishing into 
darkness, those red eyes fixed pitilessly on the 
thrashing elf whose death would occur within 
minutes, whenever he succumbed to the desperate 
thirst that the burning potion caused its victim. ... 

But here, Harry’s imagination could go no further, for 
he could not see how Kreacher had escaped. 

“Kreacher needed water, he crawled to the island’s 
edge and he drank from the black lake ... and hands, 
dead hands, came out of the water and dragged 
Kreacher under the surface. ...” 

“How did you get away?” Harry asked, and he was not 
surprised to hear himself whispering. 

Kreacher raised his ugly head and looked at Harry 
with his great, bloodshot eyes. 

“Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back,” he 
said. 

“I know — but how did you escape the Inferi?” 

Kreacher did not seem to understand. 

“Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back,” he 
repeated. 

“I know, but — ” 



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“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it, Harry?” said Ron. “He 
Disapparated!” 

“But ... you couldn’t Apparate in and out of that 
cave,” said Harry, “otherwise Dumbledore — ” 

“Elf magic isn’t like wizard’s magic, is it?” said Ron. “I 
mean, they can Apparate and Disapparate in and out 
of Hogwarts when we can’t.” 

There was silence as Harry digested this. How could 
Voldemort have made such a mistake? But even as he 
thought this, Hermione spoke, and her voice was icy. 

“Of course, Voldemort would have considered the 
ways of house-elves far beneath his notice, just like 
all the purebloods who treat them like animals. ... It 
would never have occurred to him that they might 
have magic that he didn’t.” 

“The house-elf’s highest law is his Master’s bidding,” 
intoned Kreacher. “Kreacher was told to come home, 
so Kreacher came home. ...” 

“Well, then, you did what you were told, didn’t you?” 
said Hermione kindly. “You didn’t disobey orders at 
all!” 

Kreacher shook his head, rocking as fast as ever. 

“So what happened when you got back?” Harry asked. 
“What did Regulus say when you told him what had 
happened?” 

“Master Regulus was very worried, very worried,” 
croaked Kreacher. “Master Regulus told Kreacher to 
stay hidden and not to leave the house. And then ... it 
was a little while later . . . Master Regulus came to find 
Kreacher in his cupboard one night, and Master 
Page | 219 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




Regulus was strange, not as he usually was, 
disturbed in his mind, Kreacher could tell . . . and he 
asked Kreacher to take him to the cave, the cave 
where Kreacher had gone with the Dark Lord. ...” 

And so they had set off. Harry could visualize them 
quite clearly, the frightened old elf and the thin, dark 
Seeker who had so resembled Sirius. ... Kreacher 
knew how to open the concealed entrance to the 
underground cavern, knew how to raise the tiny boat; 
this time it was his beloved Regulus who sailed with 
him to the island with its basin of poison. ... 

“And he made you drink the potion?” said Harry, 
disgusted. 

But Kreacher shook his head and wept. Hermione’s 
hands leapt to her mouth: She seemed to have 
understood something. 

“M-Master Regulus took from his pocket a locket like 
the one the Dark Lord had,” said Kreacher, tears 
pouring down either side of his snoutlike nose. “And 
he told Kreacher to take it and, when the basin was 
empty, to switch the lockets. ...” 

Kreacher’s sobs came in great rasps now; Harry had 
to concentrate hard to understand him. 

“And he ordered — Kreacher to leave — without him. 
And he told Kreacher — to go home — and never to 
tell my Mistress — what he had done — but to 
destroy — the first locket. And he drank — all the 
potion — and Kreacher swapped the lockets — and 
watched ... as Master Regulus . . . was dragged 
beneath the water ... and ...” 

“Oh, Kreacher!” wailed Hermione, who was crying. 

She dropped to her knees beside the elf and tried to 

Page | 220 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




hug him. At once he was on his feet, cringing away 
from her, quite obviously repulsed. 

“The Mudblood touched Kreacher, he will not allow it, 
what would his Mistress say?” 

“I told you not to call her ‘Mudblood’!” snarled Harry, 
but the elf was already punishing himself: He fell to 
the ground and banged his forehead on the floor. 

“Stop him — stop him!” Hermione cried. “Oh, don’t 
you see now how sick it is, the way they’ve got to 
obey?” 

“Kreacher — stop, stop!” shouted Harry. 

The elf lay on the floor, panting and shivering, green 
mucus glistening around his snout, a bruise already 
blooming on his pallid forehead where he had struck 
himself, his eyes swollen and bloodshot and 
swimming in tears. Harry had never seen anything so 
pitiful. 

“So you brought the locket home,” he said 
relentlessly, for he was determined to know the full 
story. “And you tried to destroy it?” 

“Nothing Kreacher did made any mark upon it,” 
moaned the elf. “Kreacher tried everything, everything 
he knew, but nothing, nothing would work. ... So 
many powerful spells upon the casing, Kreacher was 
sure the way to destroy it was to get inside it, but it 
would not open. . . . Kreacher punished himself, he 
tried again, he punished himself, he tried again. 
Kreacher failed to obey orders, Kreacher could not 
destroy the locket! And his Mistress was mad with 
grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared, and 
Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, 



Page | 221 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




because Master Regulus had f-f-forbidden him to tell 
any of the f-f-family what happened in the c-cave. ...” 

Kreacher began to sob so hard that there were no 
more coherent words. Tears flowed down Hermione’s 
cheeks as she watched Kreacher, but she did not dare 
touch him again. Even Ron, who was no fan of 
Kreacher’s, looked troubled. Harry sat back on his 
heels and shook his head, trying to clear it. 

“I don’t understand you, Kreacher,” he said finally. 
“Voldemort tried to kill you, Regulus died to bring 
Voldemort down, but you were still happy to betray 
Sirius to Voldemort? You were happy to go to 
Narcissa and Bellatrix, and pass information to 
Voldemort through them. ...” 

“Harry, Kreacher doesn’t think like that,” said 
Hermione, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. 
“He’s a slave; house-elves are used to bad, even 
brutal treatment; what Voldemort did to Kreacher 
wasn’t that far out of the common way. What do 
wizard wars mean to an elf like Kreacher? He’s loyal 
to people who are kind to him, and Mrs. Black must 
have been, and Regulus certainly was, so he served 
them willingly and parroted their beliefs. I know what 
you’re going to say,” she went on as Harry began to 
protest, “that Regulus changed his mind . . . but he 
doesn’t seem to have explained that to Kreacher, does 
he? And I think I know why. Kreacher and Regulus ’s 
family were all safer if they kept to the old pure-blood 
line. Regulus was trying to protect them all.” 

“Sirius — ” 

“Sirius was horrible to Kreacher, Harry, and it’s no 
good looking like that, you know it’s true. Kreacher 
had been alone for a long time when Sirius came to 
live here, and he was probably starving for a bit of 

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affection. I’m sure ‘Miss Cissy’ and ‘Miss Bella’ were 
perfectly lovely to Kreacher when he turned up, so he 
did them a favor and told them everything they 
wanted to know. I’ve said all along that wizards would 
pay for how they treat house-elves. Well, Voldemort 
did ... and so did Sirius.” 

Harry had no retort. As he watched Kreacher sobbing 
on the floor, he remembered what Dumbledore had 
said to him, mere hours after Sirius’s death: I do not 
think Sirius ever saw Kreacher as a being with feelings 
as acute as a human’s. ... 

“Kreacher,” said Harry after a while, “when you feel 
up to it, er ... please sit up.” 

It was several minutes before Kreacher hiccuped 
himself into silence. Then he pushed himself into a 
sitting position again, rubbing his knuckles into his 
eyes like a small child. 

“Kreacher, I am going to ask you to do something,” 
said Harry. He glanced at Hermione for assistance. He 
wanted to give the order kindly, but at the same time, 
he could not pretend that it was not an order. 
However, the change in his tone seemed to have 
gained her approval: She smiled encouragingly. 

“Kreacher, I want you, please, to go and find 
Mundungus Fletcher. We need to find out where the 
locket — where Master Regulus’s locket is. It’s really 
important. We want to finish the work Master 
Regulus started, we want to — er — ensure that he 
didn’t die in vain.” 

Kreacher dropped his fists and looked up at Harry. 
“Find Mundungus Fletcher?” he croaked. 



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“And bring him here, to Grimmauld Place,” said 
Harry. “Do you think you could do that for us?” 

As Kreacher nodded and got to his feet, Harry had a 
sudden inspiration. He pulled out Hagrid’s purse and 
took out the fake Horcrux, the substitute locket in 
which Regulus had placed the note to Voldemort. 

“Kreacher, I’d, er, like you to have this,” he said, 
pressing the locket into the elf’s hand. “This belonged 
to Regulus and I’m sure he’d want you to have it as a 
token of gratitude for what you — ” 

“Overkill, mate,” said Ron as the elf took one look at 
the locket, let out a howl of shock and misery, and 
threw himself back onto the ground. 

It took them nearly half an hour to calm down 
Kreacher, who was so overcome to be presented with 
a Black family heirloom for his very own that he was 
too weak at the knees to stand properly. When finally 
he was able to totter a few steps they all accompanied 
him to his cupboard, watched him tuck up the locket 
safely in his dirty blankets, and assured him that 
they would make its protection their first priority 
while he was away. He then made two low bows to 
Harry and Ron, and even gave a funny little spasm in 
Hermione’s direction that might have been an attempt 
at a respectful salute, before Disapparating with the 
usual loud crack. 



Page | 224 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 






THE BRIBE 

If Kreacher could escape a lake full of Inferi, Harry 
was confident that the capture of Mundungus would 
take a few hours at most, and he prowled the house 
all morning in a state of high anticipation. However, 
Kreacher did not return that morning or even that 
afternoon. By nightfall, Harry felt discouraged and 
anxious, and a supper composed largely of moldy 
bread, upon which Hermione had tried a variety of 
unsuccessful Transfigurations, did nothing to help. 

Kreacher did not return the following day, nor the day 
after that. However, two cloaked men had appeared in 
the square outside number twelve, and they remained 
there into the night, gazing in the direction of the 
house that they could not see. 

“Death Eaters, for sure,” said Ron, as he, Harry, and 
Hermione watched from the drawing room windows. 
“Reckon they know we’re in here?” 



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“I don’t think so,” said Hermione, though she looked 
frightened, “or they’d have sent Snape in after us, 
wouldn’t they?” 

“D’you reckon he’s been in here and had his tongue 
tied by Moody’s curse?” asked Ron. 

“Yes,” said Hermione, “otherwise he’d have been able 
to tell that lot how to get in, wouldn’t he? But they’re 
probably watching to see whether we turn up. They 
know that Harry owns the house, after all.” 

“How do they — ?” began Harry. 

“Wizarding wills are examined by the Ministry, 
remember? They’ll know Sirius left you the place.” 

The presence of the Death Eaters outside increased 
the ominous mood inside number twelve. They had 
not heard a word from anyone beyond Grimmauld 
Place since Mr. Weasley’s Patronus, and the strain 
was starting to tell. Restless and irritable, Ron had 
developed an annoying habit of playing with the 
Deluminator in his pocket: This particularly 
infuriated Hermione, who was whiling away the wait 
for Kreacher by studying The Tales of Beedle the Bard 
and did not appreciate the way the lights kept 
flashing on and off. 

“Will you stop it!” she cried on the third evening of 
Kreacher’s absence, as all light was sucked from the 
drawing room yet again. 

“Sorry, sorry!” said Ron, clicking the Deluminator and 
restoring the lights. “I don’t know I’m doing it!” 

“Well, can’t you find something useful to occupy 
yourself?” 



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“What, like reading kids’ stories?” 

“Dumbledore left me this book, Ron — ” 

“ — and he left me the Deluminator, maybe I’m 
supposed to use it!” 

Unable to stand the bickering, Harry slipped out of 
the room unnoticed by either of them. He headed 
downstairs toward the kitchen, which he kept visiting 
because he was sure that was where Kreacher was 
most likely to reappear. Halfway down the flight of 
stairs into the hall, however, he heard a tap on the 
front door, then metallic clicks and the grinding of the 
chain. 

Every nerve in his body seemed to tauten: He pulled 
out his wand, moved into the shadows beside the 
decapitated elf heads, and waited. The door opened: 
He saw a glimpse of the lamplit square outside, and a 
cloaked figure edged into the hall and closed the door 
behind it. The intruder took a step forward, and 
Moody’s voice asked, “Severus Snape ?” Then the dust 
figure rose from the end of the hall and rushed him, 
raising its dead hand. 

“It was not I who killed you, Albus,” said a quiet voice. 

The jinx broke: The dust-figure exploded again, and it 
was impossible to make out the newcomer through 
the dense gray cloud it left behind. 

Harry pointed his wand into the middle of it. 

“Don’t move!” 

He had forgotten the portrait of Mrs. Black: At the 
sound of his yell, the curtains hiding her flew open 



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and she began to scream, “Mudbloods and filth 
dishonoring my house — ” 

Ron and Hermione came crashing down the stairs 
behind Harry, wands pointing, like his, at the 
unknown man now standing with his arms raised in 
the hall below. 

“Hold your fire, it’s me, Remus!” 

“Oh, thank goodness,” said Hermione weakly, 
pointing her wand at Mrs. Black instead; with a bang, 
the curtains swished shut again and silence fell. Ron 
too lowered his wand, but Harry did not. 

“Show yourself!” he called back. 

Lupin moved forward into the lamplight, hands still 
held high in a gesture of surrender. 

“I am Remus John Lupin, werewolf, sometimes known 
as Moony, one of the four creators of the Marauder’s 
Map, married to Nymphadora, usually known as 
Tonks, and I taught you how to produce a Patronus, 
Harry, which takes the form of a stag.” 

“Oh, all right,” said Harry, lowering his wand, “but I 
had to check, didn’t I?” 

“Speaking as your ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts 
teacher, I quite agree that you had to check. Ron, 
Hermione, you shouldn’t be quite so quick to lower 
your defenses.” 

They ran down the stairs toward him. Wrapped in a 
thick black traveling cloak, he looked exhausted, but 
pleased to see them. 

“No sign of Severus, then?” he asked. 

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“No,” said Harry. “What’s going on? Is everyone 
okay?” 

“Yes,” said Lupin, “but we’re all being watched. There 
are a couple of Death Eaters in the square outside — ” 

“We know — ” 

“I had to Apparate very precisely onto the top step 
outside the front door to be sure that they would not 
see me. They can’t know you’re in here or I’m sure 
they’d have more people out there; they’re staking out 
everywhere that’s got any connection with you, Harry. 
Let’s go downstairs, there’s a lot to tell you, and I 
want to know what happened after you left the 
Burrow.” 

They descended into the kitchen, where Hermione 
pointed her wand at the grate. A fire sprang up 
instantly: It gave the illusion of coziness to the stark 
stone walls and glistened off the long wooden table. 
Lupin pulled a few butterbeers from beneath his 
traveling cloak and they sat down. 

“I’d have been here three days ago but I needed to 
shake off the Death Eater tailing me,” said Lupin. “So, 
you came straight here after the wedding?” 

“No,” said Harry, “only after we ran into a couple of 
Death Eaters in a cafe on Tottenham Court Road.” 

Lupin slopped most of his butterbeer down his front. 

“ What ?” 

They explained what had happened; when they had 
finished, Lupin looked aghast. 



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“But how did they find you so quickly? It’s impossible 
to track anyone who Apparates, unless you grab hold 
of them as they disappear!” 

“And it doesn’t seem likely they were just strolling 
down Tottenham Court Road at the time, does it?” 
said Harry. 

“We wondered,” said Hermione tentatively, “whether 
Harry could still have the Trace on him?” 

“Impossible,” said Lupin. Ron looked smug, and 
Harry felt hugely relieved. “Apart from anything else, 
they’d know for sure Harry was here if he still had the 
Trace on him, wouldn’t they? But I can’t see how they 
could have tracked you to Tottenham Court Road, 
that’s worrying, really worrying.” 

He looked disturbed, but as far as Harry was 
concerned, that question could wait. 

“Tell us what happened after we left, we haven’t heard 
a thing since Ron’s dad told us the family were safe.” 

“Well, Kingsley saved us,” said Lupin. “Thanks to his 
warning most of the wedding guests were able to 
Disapparate before they arrived.” 

“Were they Death Eaters or Ministry people?” 
interjected Hermione. 

“A mixture; but to all intents and purposes they’re the 
same thing now,” said Lupin. “There were about a 
dozen of them, but they didn’t know you were there, 
Harry. Arthur heard a rumor that they tried to torture 
your whereabouts out of Scrimgeour before they killed 
him; if it’s true, he didn’t give you away.” 



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Harry looked at Ron and Hermione; their expressions 
reflected the mingled shock and gratitude he felt. He 
had never liked Scrimgeour much, but if what Lupin 
said was true, the man’s final act had been to try to 
protect Harry. 

“The Death Eaters searched the Burrow from top to 
bottom,” Lupin went on. “They found the ghoul, but 
didn’t want to get too close — and then they 
interrogated those of us who remained for hours. 

They were trying to get information on you, Harry, but 
of course nobody apart from the Order knew that you 
had been there. 

“At the same time that they were smashing up the 
wedding, more Death Eaters were forcing their way 
into every Order-connected house in the country. No 
deaths,” he added quickly, forestalling the question, 
“but they were rough. They burned down Dedalus 
Diggle’s house, but as you know he wasn’t there, and 
they used the Cruciatus Curse on Tonks’s family. 
Again, trying to find out where you went after you 
visited them. They’re all right — shaken, obviously, 
but otherwise okay.” 

“The Death Eaters got through all those protective 
charms?” Harry asked, remembering how effective 
these had been on the night he had crashed in 
Tonks’s parents’ garden. 

“What you’ve got to realize, Harry, is that the Death 
Eaters have got the full might of the Ministry on their 
side now,” said Lupin. “They’ve got the power to 
perform brutal spells without fear of identification or 
arrest. They managed to penetrate every defensive 
spell we’d cast against them, and once inside, they 
were completely open about why they’d come.” 



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“And are they bothering to give an excuse for 
torturing Harry’s whereabouts out of people?” asked 
Hermione, an edge to her voice. 

“Well,” said Lupin. He hesitated, then pulled out a 
folded copy of the Daily Prophet 

“Here,” he said, pushing it across the table to Harry, 
“you’ll know sooner or later anyway. That’s their 
pretext for going after you.” 

Harry smoothed out the paper. A huge photograph of 
his own face filled the front page. He read the 
headline over it: 

WANTED FOR QUESTIONING ABOUT 

THE DEATH OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE 

Ron and Hermione gave roars of outrage, but Harry 
said nothing. He pushed the newspaper away; he did 
not want to read any more: He knew what it would 
say. Nobody but those who had been on top of the 
tower when Dumbledore died knew who had really 
killed him and, as Rita Skeeter had already told the 
Wizarding world, Harry had been seen running from 
the place moments after Dumbledore had fallen. 

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Lupin said. 

“So Death Eaters have taken over the Daily Prophet 
too?” asked Hermione furiously. 

Lupin nodded. 

“But surely people realize what’s going on?” 

“The coup has been smooth and virtually silent,” said 
Lupin. “The official version of Scrimgeour’s murder is 

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that he resigned; he has been replaced by Pius 
Thicknesse, who is under the Imperius Curse.” 

“Why didn’t Voldemort declare himself Minister of 
Magic?” asked Ron. 

Lupin laughed. 

“He doesn’t need to, Ron. Effectively he is the 
Minister, but why should he sit behind a desk at the 
Ministry? His puppet, Thicknesse, is taking care of 
everyday business, leaving Voldemort free to extend 
his power beyond the Ministry. 

“Naturally many people have deduced what has 
happened: There has been such a dramatic change in 
Ministry policy in the last few days, and many are 
whispering that Voldemort must be behind it. 
However, that is the point: They whisper. They daren’t 
confide in each other, not knowing whom to trust; 
they are scared to speak out, in case their suspicions 
are true and their families are targeted. Yes, 

Voldemort is playing a very clever game. Declaring 
himself might have provoked open rebellion: 
Remaining masked has created confusion, 
uncertainty, and fear.” 

“And this dramatic change in Ministry policy,” said 
Harry, “involves warning the Wizarding world against 
me instead of Voldemort?” 

“That’s certainly part of it,” said Lupin, “and it is a 
masterstroke. Now that Dumbledore is dead, you — 
the Boy Who Lived — were sure to be the symbol and 
rallying point for any resistance to Voldemort. But by 
suggesting that you had a hand in the old hero’s 
death, Voldemort has not only set a price upon your 
head, but sown doubt and fear amongst many who 
would have defended you. 

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“Meanwhile, the Ministry has started moving against 
Muggle-borns.” 

Lupin pointed at the Daily Prophet 
“Look at page two.” 

Hermione turned the pages with much the same 
expression of distaste she had worn when handling 
Secrets of the Darkest Art 

“ ‘Muggle-born Register,’ ” she read aloud. “ ‘The 
Ministry of Magic is undertaking a survey of so-called 
“Muggle-borns,” the better to understand how they 
came to possess magical secrets. 

“ ‘Recent research undertaken by the Department of 
Mysteries reveals that magic can only be passed from 
person to person when Wizards reproduce. Where no 
proven Wizarding ancestry exists, therefore, the so- 
called Muggle-born is likely to have obtained magical 
power by theft or force. 

“ ‘The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers 
of magical power, and to this end has issued an 
invitation to every so-called Muggle-born to present 
themselves for interview by the newly appointed 
Muggle-born Registration Commission.’ ” 

“People won’t let this happen,” said Ron. 

“It is happening, Ron,” said Lupin. “Muggle-borns are 
being rounded up as we speak.” 

“But how are they supposed to have ‘stolen’ magic?” 
said Ron. “It’s mental, if you could steal magic there 
wouldn’t be any Squibs, would there?” 



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“I know,” said Lupin. “Nevertheless, unless you can 
prove that you have at least one close Wizarding 
relative, you are now deemed to have obtained your 
magical power illegally and must suffer the 
punishment.” 

Ron glanced at Hermione, then said, “What if 
purebloods and half-bloods swear a Muggle-born’s 
part of their family? I’ll tell everyone Hermione ’s my 
cousin — ” 

Hermione covered Ron’s hand with hers and squeezed 
it. 

“Thank you, Ron, but I couldn’t let you — ” 

“You won’t have a choice,” said Ron fiercely, gripping 
her hand back. “I’ll teach you my family tree so you 
can answer questions on it. 

Hermione gave a shaky laugh. 

“Ron, as we’re on the run with Harry Potter, the most 
wanted person in the country, I don’t think it matters. 
If I was going back to school it would be different. 
What’s Voldemort planning for Hogwarts?” she asked 
Lupin. 

“Attendance is now compulsory for every young witch 
and wizard,” he replied. “That was announced 
yesterday. It’s a change, because it was never 
obligatory before. Of course, nearly every witch and 
wizard in Britain has been educated at Hogwarts, but 
their parents had the right to teach them at home or 
send them abroad if they preferred. This way, 
Voldemort will have the whole Wizarding population 
under his eye from a young age. And it’s also another 
way of weeding out Muggle-borns, because students 
must be given Blood Status — meaning that they 
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have proven to the Ministry that they are of Wizard 
descent — before they are allowed to attend.” 

Harry felt sickened and angry: At this moment, 
excited eleven-year-olds would be poring over stacks 
of newly purchased spell-books, unaware that they 
would never see Hogwarts, perhaps never see their 
families again either. 

“It’s ... it’s ...” he muttered, struggling to find words 
that did justice to the horror of his thoughts, but 
Lupin said quietly, 

“I know.” 

Lupin hesitated. 

“I’ll understand if you can’t confirm this, Harry, but 
the Order is under the impression that Dumbledore 
left you a mission.” 

“He did,” Harry replied, “and Ron and Hermione are 
in on it and they’re coming with me.” 

“Can you confide in me what the mission is?” 

Harry looked into the prematurely lined face, framed 
in thick but graying hair, and wished that he could 
return a different answer. 

“I can’t, Remus, I’m sorry. If Dumbledore didn’t tell 
you I don’t think I can.” 

“I thought you’d say that,” said Lupin, looking 
disappointed. “But I might still be of some use to you. 
You know what I am and what I can do. I could come 
with you to provide protection. There would be no 
need to tell me exactly what you were up to.” 



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Harry hesitated. It was a very tempting offer, though 
how they would be able to keep their mission secret 
from Lupin if he were with them all the time he could 
not imagine. 

Hermione, however, looked puzzled. 

“But what about Tonks?” she asked. 

“What about her?” said Lupin. 

“Well,” said Hermione, frowning, “you’re married! How 
does she feel about you going away with us?” 

“Tonks will be perfectly safe,” said Lupin. “She’ll be at 
her parents’ house.” 

There was something strange in Lupin’s tone; it was 
almost cold. There was also something odd in the idea 
of Tonks remaining hidden at her parents’ house; she 
was, after all, a member of the Order and, as far as 
Harry knew, was likely to want to be in the thick of 
the action. 

“Remus,” said Hermione tentatively, “is everything all 
right . . . you know . . . between you and — ” 

“Everything is fine, thank you,” said Lupin pointedly. 

Hermione turned pink. There was another pause, an 
awkward and embarrassed one, and then Lupin said, 
with an air of forcing himself to admit something 
unpleasant, “Tonks is going to have a baby.” 

“Oh, how wonderful!” squealed Hermione. 

“Excellent!” said Ron enthusiastically. 

“Congratulations,” said Harry. 

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Lupin gave an artificial smile that was more like a 
grimace, then said, “So ... do you accept my offer? 

Will three become four? I cannot believe that 
Dumbledore would have disapproved, he appointed 
me your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, after 
all. And I must tell you that I believe that we are 
facing magic many of us have never encountered or 
imagined.” 

Ron and Hermione both looked at Harry. 

“Just — just to be clear,” he said. “You want to leave 
Tonks at her parents’ house and come away with us?” 

“She’ll be perfectly safe there, they’ll look after her,” 
said Lupin. He spoke with a finality bordering on 
indifference. “Harry, I’m sure James would have 
wanted me to stick with you.” 

“Well,” said Harry slowly, “I’m not. I’m pretty sure my 
father would have wanted to know why you aren’t 
sticking with your own kid, actually.” 

Lupin’s face drained of color. The temperature in the 
kitchen might have dropped ten degrees. Ron stared 
around the room as though he had been bidden to 
memorize it, while Hermione ’s eyes swiveled 
backward and forward from Harry to Lupin. 

“You don’t understand,” said Lupin at last. 

“Explain, then,” said Harry. 

Lupin swallowed. 

“I — I made a grave mistake in marrying Tonks. I did 
it against my better judgment and I have regretted it 
very much ever since.” 



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“I see,” said Harry, “so you’re just going to dump her 
and the kid and run off with us?” 

Lupin sprang to his feet: His chair toppled over 
backward, and he glared at them so fiercely that 
Harry saw, for the first time ever, the shadow of the 
wolf upon his human face. 

“Don’t you understand what I’ve done to my wife and 
my unborn child? I should never have married her, 
I’ve made her an outcast!” 

Lupin kicked aside the chair he had overturned. 

“You have only ever seen me amongst the Order, or 
under Dumbledore’s protection at Hogwarts! You 
don’t know how most of the Wizarding world sees 
creatures like me! When they know of my affliction, 
they can barely talk to me! Don’t you see what I’ve 
done? Even her own family is disgusted by our 
marriage, what parents want their only daughter to 
marry a werewolf? And the child — the child — ” 

Lupin actually seized handfuls of his own hair; he 
looked quite deranged. 

“My kind don’t usually breed! It will be like me, I am 
convinced of it — how can I forgive myself, when I 
knowingly risked passing on my own condition to an 
innocent child? And if, by some miracle, it is not like 
me, then it will be better off, a hundred times so, 
without a father of whom it must always be 
ashamed!” 

“Remus!” whispered Hermione, tears in her eyes. 
“Don’t say that — how could any child be ashamed of 
you?” 



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“Oh, I don’t know, Hermione,” said Harry. “I’d be 
pretty ashamed of him.” 

Harry did not know where his rage was coming from, 
but it had propelled him to his feet too. Lupin looked 
as though Harry had hit him. 

“If the new regime thinks Muggle-borns are bad,” 
Harry said, “what will they do to a half-werewolf 
whose father’s in the Order? My father died trying to 
protect my mother and me, and you reckon he’d tell 
you to abandon your kid to go on an adventure with 
us?” 

“How — how dare you?” said Lupin. “This is not about 
a desire for — for danger or personal glory — how 
dare you suggest such a — ” 

“I think you’re feeling a bit of a daredevil,” Harry said. 
“You fancy stepping into Sirius’s shoes — ” 

“Harry, no!” Hermione begged him, but he continued 
to glare into Lupin’s livid face. 

“I’d never have believed this,” Harry said. “The man 
who taught me to fight dementors — a coward.” 

Lupin drew his wand so fast that Harry had barely 
reached for his own; there was a loud bang and he 
felt himself flying backward as if punched; as he 
slammed into the kitchen wall and slid to the floor, he 
glimpsed the tail of Lupin’s cloak disappearing 
around the door. 

“Remus, Remus, come back!” Hermione cried, but 
Lupin did not respond. A moment later they heard the 
front door slam. 

“Harry!” wailed Hermione. “How could you?” 

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“It was easy,” said Harry. He stood up; he could feel a 
lump swelling where his head had hit the wall. He 
was still so full of anger he was shaking. 

“Don’t look at me like that!” he snapped at Hermione. 

“Don’t you start on her!” snarled Ron. 

“No — no — we mustn’t fight!” said Hermione, 
launching herself between them. 

“You shouldn’t have said that stuff to Lupin,” Ron 
told Harry. 

“He had it coming to him,” said Harry. Broken images 
were racing each other through his mind: Sirius 
falling through the veil; Dumbledore suspended, 
broken, in midair; a flash of green light and his 
mother’s voice, begging for mercy ... 

“Parents,” said Harry, “shouldn’t leave their kids 
unless — unless they’ve got to.” 

“Harry — ” said Hermione, stretching out a consoling 
hand, but he shrugged it off and walked away, his 
eyes on the fire Hermione had conjured. He had once 
spoken to Lupin out of that fireplace, seeking 
reassurance about James, and Lupin had consoled 
him. Now Lupin’s tortured white face seemed to swim 
in the air before him. He felt a sickening surge of 
remorse. Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke, but Harry 
felt sure that they were looking at each other behind 
his back, communicating silently. 

He turned around and caught them turning hurriedly 
away from each other. 

“I know I shouldn’t have called him a coward.” 



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“No, you shouldn’t,” said Ron at once. 



“But he’s acting like one.” 

“All the same ...” said Hermione. 

“I know,” said Harry. “But if it makes him go back to 
Tonks, it’ll be worth it, won’t it?” 

He could not keep the plea out of his voice. Hermione 
looked sympathetic, Ron uncertain. Harry looked 
down at his feet, thinking of his father. Would James 
have backed Harry in what he had said to Lupin, or 
would he have been angry at how his son had treated 
his old friend? 

The silent kitchen seemed to hum with the shock of 
the recent scene and with Ron and Hermione ’s 
unspoken reproaches. The Daily Prophet Lupin had 
brought was still lying on the table, Harry’s own face 
staring up at the ceiling from the front page. He 
walked over to it and sat down, opened the paper at 
random, and pretended to read. He could not take in 
the words; his mind was still too full of the encounter 
with Lupin. He was sure that Ron and Hermione had 
resumed their silent communications on the other 
side of the Prophet He turned a page loudly, and 
Dumbledore’s name leapt out at him. It was a 
moment or two before he took in the meaning of the 
photograph, which showed a family group. Beneath 
the photograph were the words: The Dumbledore 
family, left to right: Albus; Percival, holding newborn 
Ariana; Kendra; and Aberforth. 

His attention caught, Harry examined the picture 
more carefully. Dumbledore’s father, Percival, was a 
good-looking man with eyes that seemed to twinkle 
even in this faded old photograph. The baby, Ariana, 
was little longer than a loaf of bread and no more 
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distinctive-looking. The mother, Kendra, had jet-black 
hair pulled into a high bun. Her face had a carved 
quality about it. Harry thought of photos of Native 
Americans he’d seen as he studied her dark eyes, 
high cheekbones, and straight nose, formally 
composed above a high-necked silk gown. Albus and 
Aberforth wore matching lacy collared jackets and 
had identical, shoulder-length hairstyles. Albus 
looked several years older, but otherwise the two boys 
looked very alike, for this was before Albus ’s nose had 
been broken and before he started wearing glasses. 

The family looked quite happy and normal, smiling 
serenely up out of the newspaper. Baby Ariana’s arm 
waved vaguely out of her shawl. Harry looked above 
the picture and saw the headline: 

EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT FROM THE UPCOMING 
BIOGRAPHY OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE 

by Rita Skeeter 

Thinking that it could hardly make him feel any worse 
than he already did, Harry began to read: 

Proud and haughty, Kendra Dumbledore could not 
bear to remain in Mould-on-the-Wold after her 
husband Percival’s well-publicized arrest and 
imprisonment in Azkaban. She therefore decided to 
uproot the family and relocate to Godric’s Hollow, the 
village that was later to gain fame as the scene of 
Harry Potter’s strange escape from You-Know-Who. 

Like Mould-on-the-Wold, Godric’s Hollow was home to 
a number of Wizarding families, but as Kendra knew 
none of them, she would be spared the curiosity 
about her husband’s crime she had faced in her 
former village. By repeatedly rebuffing the friendly 



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advances of her new Wizarding neighbors, she soon 
ensured that her family was left well alone. 

“Slammed the door in my face when I went around to 
welcome her with a batch of homemade Cauldron 
Cakes,” says Bathilda Bagshot. “The first year they 
were there I only ever saw the two boys. Wouldn’t 
have known there was a daughter if I hadn’t been 
picking Plangentines by moonlight the winter after they 
moved in, and saw Kendra leading Ariana out into the 
back garden. Walked her round the lawn once, keeping 
a firm grip on her, then took her back inside. Didn’t 
know what to make of it. ” 

It seems that Kendra thought the move to Godric’s 
Hollow was the perfect opportunity to hide Ariana 
once and for all, something she had probably been 
planning for years. The timing was significant. Ariana 
was barely seven years old when she vanished from 
sight, and seven is the age by which most experts 
agree that magic will have revealed itself, if present. 
Nobody now alive remembers Ariana ever 
demonstrating even the slightest sign of magical 
ability. It seems clear, therefore, that Kendra made a 
decision to hide her daughter’s existence rather than 
suffer the shame of admitting that she had produced 
a Squib. Moving away from the friends and neighbors 
who knew Ariana would, of course, make imprisoning 
her all the easier. The tiny number of people who 
henceforth knew of Ariana’s existence could be 
counted upon to keep the secret, including her two 
brothers, who deflected awkward questions with the 
answer their mother had taught them: “My sister is 
too frail for school.” 

Next week: Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts — the 
Prizes and the Pretense. 



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Harry had been wrong: What he had read had indeed 
made him feel worse. He looked back at the 
photograph of the apparently happy family. Was it 
true? How could he find out? He wanted to go to 
Godric’s Hollow, even if Bathilda was in no fit state to 
talk to him; he wanted to visit the place where he and 
Dumbledore had both lost loved ones. He was in the 
process of lowering the newspaper, to ask Ron’s and 
Hermione’s opinions, when a deafening crack echoed 
around the kitchen. 

For the first time in three days Harry had forgotten all 
about Kreacher. His immediate thought was that 
Lupin had burst back into the room, and for a split 
second, he did not take in the mass of struggling 
limbs that had appeared out of thin air right beside 
his chair. He hurried to his feet as Kreacher 
disentangled himself and, bowing low to Harry, 
croaked, “Kreacher has returned with the thief 
Mundungus Fletcher, Master.” 

Mundungus scrambled up and pulled out his wand; 
Hermione, however, was too quick for him. 

“Expelliarmusl” 

Mundungus ’s wand soared into the air, and Hermione 
caught it. Wild-eyed, Mundungus dived for the stairs: 
Ron rugby-tackled him and Mundungus hit the stone 
floor with a muffled crunch. 

“What?” he bellowed, writhing in his attempts to free 
himself from Ron’s grip. “Wha’ve I done? Setting a 
bleedin’ ’ouse-elf on me, what are you playing at, 
wha’ve I done, lemme go, lemme go, or — ” 

“You’re not in much of a position to make threats,” 
said Harry. He threw aside the newspaper, crossed 
the kitchen in a few strides, and dropped to his knees 

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beside Mundungus, who stopped struggling and 
looked terrified. Ron got up, panting, and watched as 
Harry pointed his wand deliberately at Mundungus ’s 
nose. Mundungus stank of stale sweat and tobacco 
smoke: His hair was matted and his robes stained. 

“Kreacher apologizes for the delay in bringing the 
thief, Master,” croaked the elf. “Fletcher knows how to 
avoid capture, has many hidey-holes and 
accomplices. Nevertheless, Kreacher cornered the 
thief in the end.” 

“You’ve done really well, Kreacher,” said Harry, and 
the elf bowed low. 

“Right, we’ve got a few questions for you,” Harry told 
Mundungus, who shouted at once, 

“I panicked, okay? I never wanted to come along, no 
offense, mate, but I never volunteered to die for you, 
an’ that was bleedin’ You-Know-Who come flying at 
me, anyone woulda got outta there, I said all along I 
didn’t wanna do it — ” 

“For your information, none of the rest of us 
Disapparated,” said Hermione. 

“Well, you’re a bunch of bleedin’ ’eroes then, aren’t 
you, but I never pretended I was up for killing meself 



“We’re not interested in why you ran out on Mad- 
Eye,” said Harry, moving his wand a little closer to 
Mundungus’s baggy, bloodshot eyes. “We already 
knew you were an unreliable bit of scum.” 

“Well then, why the ’ell am I being ’unted down by 
’ouse-elves? Or is this about them goblets again? I 
ain’t got none of ’em left, or you could ’ave ’em — ” 

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“It’s not about the goblets either, although you’re 
getting warmer,” said Harry. “Shut up and listen.” 

It felt wonderful to have something to do, someone of 
whom he could demand some small portion of truth. 
Harry’s wand was now so close to the bridge of 
Mundungus’s nose that Mundungus had gone cross- 
eyed trying to keep it in view. 

“When you cleaned out this house of anything 
valuable,” Harry began, but Mundungus interrupted 
him again. 

“Sirius never cared about any of the junk — ” 

There was the sound of pattering feet, a blaze of 
shining copper, an echoing clang, and a shriek of 
agony: Kreacher had taken a run at Mundungus and 
hit him over the head with a saucepan. 

“Call ’im off, call ’im off, ’e should be locked up!” 
screamed Mundungus, cowering as Kreacher raised 
the heavy-bottomed pan again. 

“Kreacher, no!” shouted Harry. 

Kreacher’s thin arms trembled with the weight of the 
pan, still held aloft. 

“Perhaps just one more, Master Harry, for luck?” 

Ron laughed. 

“We need him conscious, Kreacher, but if he needs 
persuading you can do the honors,” said Harry. 

“Thank you very much, Master,” said Kreacher with a 
bow, and he retreated a short distance, his great pale 
eyes still fixed upon Mundungus with loathing. 

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“When you stripped this house of all the valuables 
you could find,” Harry began again, “you took a 
bunch of stuff from the kitchen cupboard. There was 
a locket there.” Harry’s mouth was suddenly dry: He 
could sense Ron and Hermione’s tension and 
excitement too. “What did you do with it?” 

“Why?” asked Mundungus. “Is it valuable?” 

“You’ve still got it!” cried Hermione. 

“No, he hasn’t,” said Ron shrewdly. “He’s wondering 
whether he should have asked more money for it.” 

“More?” said Mundungus. “That wouldn’t have been 
effing difficult ... bleedin’ gave it away, di’n’ I? No 
choice.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I was selling in Diagon Alley and she come up to me 
and asks if I’ve got a license for trading in magical 
artifacts. Bleedin’ snoop. She was gonna fine me, but 
she took a fancy to the locket an’ told me she’d take it 
and let me off that time, and to fink meself lucky.” 

“Who was this woman?” asked Harry. 

“I dunno, some Ministry hag.” 

Mundungus considered for a moment, brow wrinkled. 

“Little woman. Bow on top of ’er head.” 

He frowned and then added, “Looked like a toad.” 

Harry dropped his wand: It hit Mundungus on the 
nose and shot red sparks into his eyebrows, which 
ignited. 

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“Aguamenti\” screamed Hermione, and a jet of water 
streamed from her wand, engulfing a spluttering and 
choking Mundungus. 

Harry looked up and saw his own shock reflected in 
Ron’s and Hermione’s faces. The scars on the back of 
his right hand seemed to be tingling again. 



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MAGIC IS MIGHT 

As August wore on, the square of unkempt grass in 
the middle of Grimmauld Place shriveled in the sun 
until it was brittle and brown. The inhabitants of 
number twelve were never seen by anybody in the 
surrounding houses, and nor was number twelve 
itself. The Muggles who lived in Grimmauld Place had 
long since accepted the amusing mistake in the 
numbering that had caused number eleven to sit 
beside number thirteen. 

And yet the square was now attracting a trickle of 
visitors who seemed to find the anomaly most 
intriguing. Barely a day passed without one or two 
people arriving in Grimmauld Place with no other 
purpose, or so it seemed, than to lean against the 
railings facing numbers eleven and thirteen, watching 
the join between the two houses. The lurkers were 
never the same two days running, although they all 
seemed to share a dislike for normal clothing. Most of 
the Londoners who passed them were used to 
eccentric dressers and took little notice, though 
occasionally one of them might glance back, 

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wondering why anyone would wear such long cloaks 
in this heat. 

The watchers seemed to be gleaning little satisfaction 
from their vigil. Occasionally one of them started 
forward excitedly, as if they had seen something 
interesting at last, only to fall back looking 
disappointed. 

On the first day of September there were more people 
lurking in the square than ever before. Half a dozen 
men in long cloaks stood silent and watchful, gazing 
as ever at houses eleven and thirteen, but the thing 
for which they were waiting still appeared elusive. As 
evening drew in, bringing with it an unexpected gust 
of chilly rain for the first time in weeks, there 
occurred one of those inexplicable moments when 
they appeared to have seen something interesting. 

The man with the twisted face pointed and his closest 
companion, a podgy, pallid man, started forward, but 
a moment later they had relaxed into their previous 
state of inactivity, looking frustrated and 
disappointed. 

Meanwhile, inside number twelve, Harry had just 
entered the hall. He had nearly lost his balance as he 
Apparated onto the top step just outside the front 
door, and thought that the Death Eaters might have 
caught a glimpse of his momentarily exposed elbow. 
Shutting the front door carefully behind him, he 
pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, draped it over his 
arm, and hurried along the gloomy hallway toward 
the door that led to the basement, a stolen copy of the 
Daily Prophet clutched in his hand. 

The usual low whisper of “Severus Snape?” greeted 
him, the chill wind swept him, and his tongue rolled 
up for a moment. 



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“I didn’t kill you,” he said, once it had unrolled, then 
held his breath as the dusty jinx-figure exploded. He 
waited until he was halfway down the stairs to the 
kitchen, out of earshot of Mrs. Black and clear of the 
dust cloud, before calling, “I’ve got news, and you 
won’t like it.” 

The kitchen was almost unrecognizable. Every surface 
now shone: Copper pots and pans had been 
burnished to a rosy glow; the wooden tabletop 
gleamed; the goblets and plates already laid for 
dinner glinted in the light from a merrily blazing fire, 
on which a cauldron was simmering. Nothing in the 
room, however, was more dramatically different than 
the house-elf who now came hurrying toward Harry, 
dressed in a snowy-white towel, his ear hair as clean 
and fluffy as cotton wool, Regulus’s locket bouncing 
on his thin chest. 

“Shoes off, if you please, Master Harry, and hands 
washed before dinner,” croaked Kreacher, seizing the 
Invisibility Cloak and slouching off to hang it on a 
hook on the wall, beside a number of old-fashioned 
robes that had been freshly laundered. 

“What’s happened?” Ron asked apprehensively. He 
and Hermione had been poring over a sheaf of 
scribbled notes and hand-drawn maps that littered 
the end of the long kitchen table, but now they 
watched Harry as he strode toward them and threw 
down the newspaper on top of their scattered 
parchment. 

A large picture of a familiar, hook-nosed, black-haired 
man stared up at them all, beneath a headline that 
read: 

SEVERUS SNAPE CONFIRMED AS HOGWARTS 
HEADMASTER 

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“No!” said Ron and Hermione loudly. 

Hermione was quickest; she snatched up the 
newspaper and began to read the accompanying story 
out loud. 

“ ‘Severus Snape, long-standing Potions master at 
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was 
today appointed headmaster in the most important of 
several staffing changes at the ancient school. 
Following the resignation of the previous Muggle 
Studies teacher, Alecto Carrow will take over the post 
while her brother, Amycus, fills the position of Defense 
Against the Dark Arts professor. 

“ 7 welcome the opportunity to uphold our finest 
Wizarding traditions and values — ’ Like committing 
murder and cutting off people’s ears, I suppose! 

Snape, headmaster! Snape in Dumbledore’s study — 
Merlin’s pants!” she shrieked, making both Harry and 
Ron jump. She leapt up from the table and hurtled 
from the room, shouting as she went, “I’ll be back in a 
minute!” 

“ ‘Merlin’s pants?” repeated Ron, looking amused. 
“She must be upset.” He pulled the newspaper toward 
him and perused the article about Snape. 

“The other teachers won’t stand for this. McGonagall 
and Flitwick and Sprout all know the truth, they 
know how Dumbledore died. They won’t accept Snape 
as headmaster. And who are these Carrows?” 

“Death Eaters,” said Harry. “There are pictures of 
them inside. They were at the top of the tower when 
Snape killed Dumbledore, so it’s all friends together. 
And,” Harry went on bitterly, drawing up a chair, “I 
can’t see that the other teachers have got any choice 
but to stay. If the Ministry and Voldemort are behind 
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Snape it’ll be a choice between staying and teaching, 
or a nice few years in Azkaban — and that’s if they’re 
lucky. I reckon they’ll stay to try and protect the 
students.” 

Kreacher came bustling to the table with a large 
tureen in his hands, and ladled out soup into pristine 
bowls, whistling between his teeth as he did so. 

“Thanks, Kreacher,” said Harry, flipping over the 
Prophet so as not to have to look at Snape ’s face. 

“Well, at least we know exactly where Snape is now.” 

He began to spoon soup into his mouth. The quality 
of Kreacher’s cooking had improved dramatically ever 
since he had been given Regulus’s locket: Today’s 
French onion was as good as Harry had ever tasted. 

“There are still a load of Death Eaters watching the 
house,” he told Ron as he ate, “more than usual. It’s 
like they’re hoping we’ll march out carrying our 
school trunks and head off for the Hogwarts Express.” 

Ron glanced at his watch. 

“I’ve been thinking about that all day. It left nearly six 
hours ago. Weird, not being on it, isn’t it?” 

In his mind’s eye Harry seemed to see the scarlet 
steam engine as he and Ron had once followed it by 
air, shimmering between fields and hills, a rippling 
scarlet caterpillar. He was sure Ginny, Neville, and 
Luna were sitting together at this moment, perhaps 
wondering where he, Ron, and Hermione were, or 
debating how best to undermine Snape ’s new regime. 

“They nearly saw me coming back in just now,” Harry 
said. “I landed badly on the top step, and the Cloak 
slipped.” 

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“I do that every time. Oh, here she is,” Ron added, 
craning around in his seat to watch Hermione 
reentering the kitchen. “And what in the name of 
Merlin’s most baggy Y Fronts was that about?” 

“I remembered this,” Hermione panted. 

She was carrying a large, framed picture, which she 
now lowered to the floor before seizing her small, 
beaded bag from the kitchen sideboard. Opening it, 
she proceeded to force the painting inside, and 
despite the fact that it was patently too large to fit 
inside the tiny bag, within a few seconds it had 
vanished, like so much else, into the bag’s capacious 
depths. 

“Phineas Nigellus,” Hermione explained as she threw 
the bag onto the kitchen table with the usual 
sonorous, clanking crash. 

“Sorry?” said Ron, but Harry understood. The painted 
image of Phineas Nigellus Black was able to flit 
between his portrait in Grimmauld Place and the one 
that hung in the headmaster’s office at Hogwarts: the 
circular tower-top room where Snape was no doubt 
sitting right now, in triumphant possession of 
Dumbledore’s collection of delicate, silver magical 
instruments, the stone Pensieve, the Sorting Hat and, 
unless it had been moved elsewhere, the sword of 
Gryffindor. 

“Snape could send Phineas Nigellus to look inside this 
house for him,” Hermione explained to Ron as she 
resumed her seat. “But let him try it now, all Phineas 
Nigellus will be able to see is the inside of my 
handbag.” 

“Good thinking!” said Ron, looking impressed. 



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“Thank you,” smiled Hermione, pulling her soup 
toward her. “So, Harry, what else happened today?” 

“Nothing,” said Harry. “Watched the Ministry entrance 
for seven hours. No sign of her. Saw your dad, 
though, Ron. He looks fine.” 

Ron nodded his appreciation of this news. They had 
agreed that it was far too dangerous to try and 
communicate with Mr. Weasley while he walked in 
and out of the Ministry, because he was always 
surrounded by other Ministry workers. It was, 
however, reassuring to catch these glimpses of him, 
even if he did look very strained and anxious. 

“Dad always told us most Ministry people use the 
Floo Network to get to work,” Ron said. “That’s why 
we haven’t seen Umbridge, she’d never walk, she’d 
think she’s too important.” 

“And what about that funny old witch and that little 
wizard in the navy robes?” Hermione asked. 

“Oh yeah, the bloke from Magical Maintenance,” said 
Ron. 

“How do you know he works for Magical 
Maintenance?” Hermione asked, her soupspoon 
suspended in midair. 

“Dad said everyone from Magical Maintenance wears 
navy blue robes.” 

“But you never told us that!” 

Hermione dropped her spoon and pulled toward her 
the sheaf of notes and maps that she and Ron had 
been examining when Harry had entered the kitchen. 



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“There’s nothing in here about navy blue robes, 
nothing!” she said, flipping feverishly through the 
pages. 

“Well, does it really matter?” 

“Ron, it all matters! If we’re going to get into the 
Ministry and not give ourselves away when they’re 
bound to be on the lookout for intruders, every little 
detail matters! We’ve been over and over this, I mean, 
what’s the point of all these reconnaissance trips if 
you aren’t even bothering to tell us — ” 

“Blimey, Hermione, I forget one little thing — ” 

“You do realize, don’t you, that there’s probably no 
more dangerous place in the whole world for us to be 
right now than the Ministry of — ” 

“I think we should do it tomorrow,” said Harry. 

Hermione stopped dead, her jaw hanging; Ron choked 
a little over his soup. 

“Tomorrow?” repeated Hermione. “You aren’t serious, 
Harry?” 

“I am,” said Harry. “I don’t think we’re going to be 
much better prepared than we are now even if we 
skulk around the Ministry entrance for another 
month. The longer we put it off, the farther away that 
locket could be. There’s already a good chance 
Umbridge has chucked it away; the thing doesn’t 
open.” 

“Unless,” said Ron, “she’s found a way of opening it 
and she’s now possessed.” 



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“Wouldn’t make any difference to her, she was so evil 
in the first place,” Harry shrugged. 

Hermione was biting her lip, deep in thought. 

“We know everything important,” Harry went on, 
addressing Hermione. “We know they’ve stopped 
Apparition in and out of the Ministry. We know only 
the most senior Ministry members are allowed to 
connect their homes to the Floo Network now, 
because Ron heard those two Unspeakables 
complaining about it. And we know roughly where 
Umbridge’s office is, because of what you heard that 
bearded bloke saying to his mate — ” 

“ ‘I’ll be up on level one, Dolores wants to see me,’ ” 
Hermione recited immediately. 

“Exactly,” said Harry. “And we know you get in using 
those funny coins, or tokens, or whatever they are, 
because I saw that witch borrowing one from her 
friend — ” 

“But we haven’t got any!” 

“If the plan works, we will have,” Harry continued 
calmly. 

“I don’t know, Harry, I don’t know. ... There are an 
awful lot of things that could go wrong, so much 
relies on chance. ...” 

“That’ll be true even if we spend another three 
months preparing,” said Harry. “It’s time to act.” 

He could tell from Ron’s and Hermione’s faces that 
they were scared; he was not particularly confident 
himself, and yet he was sure the time had come to 
put their plan into operation. 

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They had spent the previous four weeks taking it in 
turns to don the Invisibility Cloak and spy on the 
official entrance to the Ministry, which Ron, thanks to 
Mr. Weasley, had known since childhood. They had 
tailed Ministry workers on their way in, eavesdropped 
on their conversations, and learned by careful 
observation which of them could be relied upon to 
appear, alone, at the same time every day. 
Occasionally there had been a chance to sneak a 
Daily Prophet out of somebody’s briefcase. Slowly they 
had built up the sketchy maps and notes now stacked 
in front of Hermione. 

“All right,” said Ron slowly, “let’s say we go for it 
tomorrow. ... I think it should just be me and Harry.” 

“Oh, don’t start that again!” sighed Hermione. “I 
thought we’d settled this.” 

“It’s one thing hanging around the entrances under 
the Cloak, but this is different, Hermione.” Ron 
jabbed a finger at a copy of the Daily Prophet dated 
ten days previously. “You’re on the list of Muggle- 
borns who didn’t present themselves for 
interrogation!” 

“And you’re supposed to be dying of spattergroit at 
the Burrow! If anyone shouldn’t go, it’s Harry, he’s got 
a ten-thousand-Galleon price on his head — ” 

“Fine, I’ll stay here,” said Harry. “Let me know if you 
ever defeat Voldemort, won’t you?” 

As Ron and Hermione laughed, pain shot through the 
scar on Harry’s forehead. His hand jumped to it: He 
saw Hermione’s eyes narrow, and he tried to pass off 
the movement by brushing his hair out of his eyes. 



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“Well, if all three of us go well have to Disapparate 
separately,” Ron was saying. “We can’t all fit under 
the Cloak anymore.” 

Harry’s scar was becoming more and more painful. 

He stood up. At once, Kreacher hurried forward. 

“Master has not finished his soup, would Master 
prefer the savory stew, or else the treacle tart to 
which Master is so partial?” 

“Thanks, Kreacher, but I’ll be back in a minute — er 
— bathroom.” 

Aware that Hermione was watching him suspiciously, 
Harry hurried up the stairs to the hall and then to the 
first landing, where he dashed into the bathroom and 
bolted the door again. Grunting with pain, he 
slumped over the black basin with its taps in the form 
of open-mouthed serpents and closed his eyes. ... 

He was gliding along a twilit street. The buildings on 
either side of him had high, timbered gables; they 
looked like gingerbread houses. 

He approached one of them, then saw the whiteness 
of his own long-fingered hand against the door. He 
knocked. He felt a mounting excitement. ... 

The door opened: A laughing woman stood there. Her 
face fell as she looked into Harry’s face: humor gone, 
terror replacing it. ... 

“Gregorovitch?” said a high, cold voice. 

She shook her head: She was trying to close the door. 
A white hand held it steady, prevented her shutting 
him out. ... 



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“I want Gregorovitch.” 

“Er wohnt hier nicht mehr\” she cried, shaking her 
head. “He no live here! He no live here! I know him 
not!” 

Abandoning the attempt to close the door, she began 
to back away down the dark hall, and Harry followed, 
gliding toward her, and his long-fingered hand had 
drawn his wand. 

“Where is he?” 

“Das weifi ich nichti He move! I know not, I know not!” 

He raised the wand. She screamed. Two young 
children came running into the hall. She tried to 
shield them with her arms. There was a flash of green 
light — 

“Harry! HARRY!” 

He opened his eyes; he had sunk to the floor. 
Hermione was pounding on the door again. 

“Harry, open up!” 

He had shouted out, he knew it. He got up and 
unbolted the door; Hermione toppled inside at once, 
regained her balance, and looked around 
suspiciously. Ron was right behind her, looking 
unnerved as he pointed his wand into the corners of 
the chilly bathroom. 

“What were you doing?” asked Hermione sternly. 

“What d’you think I was doing?” asked Harry with 
feeble bravado. 



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“You were yelling your head off!” said Ron. 

“Oh yeah ... I must’ve dozed off or — ” 

“Harry, please don’t insult our intelligence,” said 
Hermione, taking deep breaths. “We know your scar 
hurt downstairs, and you’re white as a sheet.” 

Harry sat down on the edge of the bath. 

“Fine. I’ve just seen Voldemort murdering a woman. 
By now he’s probably killed her whole family. And he 
didn’t need to. It was Cedric all over again, they were 
just there. ...” 

“Harry, you aren’t supposed to let this happen 
anymore!” Hermione cried, her voice echoing through 
the bathroom. “Dumbledore wanted you to use 
Occlumency! He thought the connection was 
dangerous — Voldemort can use it, Harry! What good 
is it to watch him kill and torture, how can it help?” 

“Because it means I know what he’s doing,” said 
Harry. 

“So you’re not even going to try to shut him out?” 

“Hermione, I can’t. You know I’m lousy at 
Occlumency, I never got the hang of it.” 

“You never really tried!” she said hotly. “I don’t get it, 
Harry — do you like having this special connection or 
relationship or what — whatever — ” 

She faltered under the look he gave her as he stood 

up. 



“Like it?” he said quietly. “Would you like it?” 



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“I — no — I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean — ” 

“I hate it, I hate the fact that he can get inside me, 
that I have to watch him when he’s most dangerous. 
But I’m going to use it.” 

“Dumbledore — ” 

“Forget Dumbledore. This is my choice, nobody else’s. 
I want to know why he’s after Gregorovitch.” 

“Who?” 

“He’s a foreign wandmaker,” said Harry. “He made 
Krum’s wand and Krum reckons he’s brilliant.” 

“But according to you,” said Ron, “Voldemort’s got 
Ollivander locked up somewhere. If he’s already got a 
wandmaker, what does he need another one for?” 

“Maybe he agrees with Krum, maybe he thinks 
Gregorovitch is better ... or else he thinks 
Gregorovitch will be able to explain what my wand did 
when he was chasing me, because Ollivander didn’t 
know.” 

Harry glanced into the cracked, dusty mirror and saw 
Ron and Hermione exchanging skeptical looks behind 
his back. 

“Harry, you keep talking about what your wand did,” 
said Hermione, “but you made it happen! Why are 
you so determined not to take responsibility for your 
own power?” 

“Because I know it wasn’t me! And so does Voldemort, 
Hermione! We both know what really happened!” 



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They glared at each other: Harry knew that he had 
not convinced Hermione and that she was marshaling 
counterarguments, against both his theory on his 
wand and the fact that he was permitting himself to 
see into Voldemort’s mind. To his relief, Ron 
intervened. 

“Drop it,” he advised her. “It’s up to him. And if we’re 
going to the Ministry tomorrow, don’t you reckon we 
should go over the plan?” 

Reluctantly, as the other two could tell, Hermione let 
the matter rest, though Harry was quite sure she 
would attack again at the first opportunity. In the 
meantime, they returned to the basement kitchen, 
where Kreacher served them all stew and treacle tart. 

They did not get to bed until late that night, after 
spending hours going over and over their plan until 
they could recite it, word perfect, to each other. 

Harry, who was now sleeping in Sirius’s room, lay in 
bed with his wandlight trained on the old photograph 
of his father, Sirius, Lupin, and Pettigrew, and 
muttered the plan to himself for another ten minutes. 
As he extinguished his wand, however, he was 
thinking not of Polyjuice Potion, Puking Pastilles, or 
the navy blue robes of Magical Maintenance; he 
thought of Gregorovitch the wandmaker, and how 
long he could hope to remain hidden while Voldemort 
sought him so determinedly. 

Dawn seemed to follow midnight with indecent haste. 

“You look terrible,” was Ron’s greeting as he entered 
the room to wake Harry. 

“Not for long,” said Harry, yawning. 



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They found Hermione downstairs in the kitchen. She 
was being served coffee and hot rolls by Kreacher and 
wearing the slightly manic expression that Harry 
associated with exam review. 

“Robes,” she said under her breath, acknowledging 
their presence with a nervous nod and continuing to 
poke around in her beaded bag, “Polyjuice Potion ... 
Invisibility Cloak ... Decoy Detonators ... You should 
each take a couple just in case. ... Puking Pastilles, 
Nosebleed Nougat, Extendable Ears ...” 

They gulped down their breakfast, then set off 
upstairs, Kreacher bowing them out and promising to 
have a steak-and-kidney pie ready for them when 
they returned. 

“Bless him,” said Ron fondly, “and when you think I 
used to fantasize about cutting off his head and 
sticking it on the wall.” 

They made their way onto the front step with 
immense caution: They could see a couple of puffy- 
eyed Death Eaters watching the house from across 
the misty square. 

Hermione Disapparated with Ron first, then came 
back for Harry. 

After the usual brief spell of darkness and near 
suffocation, Harry found himself in the tiny alleyway 
where the first phase of their plan was scheduled to 
take place. It was as yet deserted, except for a couple 
of large bins; the first Ministry workers did not 
usually appear here until at least eight o’clock. 

“Right then,” said Hermione, checking her watch. 

“She ought to be here in about five minutes. When 
I’ve Stunned her — ” 

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“Hermione, we know,” said Ron sternly. “And I 
thought we were supposed to open the door before 
she got here?” 

Hermione squealed. 

“I nearly forgot! Stand back — ” 

She pointed her wand at the padlocked and heavily 
graffitied fire door beside them, which burst open 
with a crash. The dark corridor behind it led, as they 
knew from their careful scouting trips, into an empty 
theater. Hermione pulled the door back toward her, to 
make it look as though it was still closed. 

“And now,” she said, turning back to face the other 
two in the alleyway, “we put on the Cloak again — ” 

“ — and we wait,” Ron finished, throwing it over 
Hermione ’s head like a blanket over a birdcage and 
rolling his eyes at Harry. 

Little more than a minute later, there was a tiny pop 
and a little Ministry witch with flyaway gray hair 
Apparated feet from them, blinking a little in the 
sudden brightness; the sun had just come out from 
behind a cloud. She barely had time to enjoy the 
unexpected warmth, however, before Hermione ’s 
silent Stunning Spell hit her in the chest and she 
toppled over. 

“Nicely done, Hermione,” said Ron, emerging from 
behind a bin beside the theater door as Harry took off 
the Invisibility Cloak. Together they carried the little 
witch into the dark passageway that led backstage. 
Hermione plucked a few hairs from the witch’s head 
and added them to a flask of muddy Polyjuice Potion 
she had taken from the beaded bag. Ron was 
rummaging through the little witch’s handbag. 

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“She’s Mafalda Hopkirk,” he said, reading a small 
card that identified their victim as an assistant in the 
Improper Use of Magic Office. “You’d better take this, 
Hermione, and here are the tokens.” 

He passed her several small golden coins, all 
embossed with the letters M.O.M., which he had 
taken from the witch’s purse. 

Hermione drank the Polyjuice Potion, which was now 
a pleasant heliotrope color, and within seconds stood 
before them, the double of Mafalda Hopkirk. As she 
removed Mafalda’s spectacles and put them on, Harry 
checked his watch. 

“We’re running late, Mr. Magical Maintenance will be 
here any second.” 

They hurried to close the door on the real Mafalda; 
Harry and Ron threw the Invisibility Cloak over 
themselves but Hermione remained in view, waiting. 
Seconds later there was another pop, and a small, 
ferrety-looking wizard appeared before them. 

“Oh, hello, Mafalda.” 

“Hello!” said Hermione in a quavery voice. “How are 
you today?” 

“Not so good, actually,” replied the little wizard, who 
looked thoroughly downcast. 

As Hermione and the wizard headed for the main 
road, Harry and Ron crept along behind them. 

“I’m sorry to hear you’re under the weather,” said 
Hermione, talking firmly over the little wizard as he 
tried to expound upon his problems; it was essential 



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to stop him from reaching the street. “Here, have a 
sweet.” 

“Eh? Oh, no thanks — ” 

“I insist!” said Hermione aggressively, shaking the bag 
of pastilles in his face. Looking rather alarmed, the 
little wizard took one. 

The effect was instantaneous. The moment the 
pastille touched his tongue, the little wizard started 
vomiting so hard that he did not even notice as 
Hermione yanked a handful of hairs from the top of 
his head. 

“Oh dear!” she said, as he splattered the alley with 
sick. “Perhaps you’d better take the day off!” 

“No — no!” He choked and retched, trying to continue 
on his way despite being unable to walk straight. “I 
must — today — must go — ” 

“But that’s just silly!” said Hermione, alarmed. “You 
can’t go to work in this state — I think you ought to 
go to St. Mungo’s and get them to sort you out!” 

The wizard had collapsed, heaving, onto all fours, still 
trying to crawl toward the main street. 

“You simply can’t go to work like this!” cried 
Hermione. 

At last he seemed to accept the truth of her words. 
Using a repulsed Hermione to claw his way back into 
a standing position, he turned on the spot and 
vanished, leaving nothing behind but the bag Ron 
had snatched from his hand as he went and some 
flying chunks of vomit. 



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“Urgh,” said Hermione, holding up the skirts of her 
robe to avoid the puddles of sick. “It would have made 
much less mess to Stun him too.” 

“Yeah,” said Ron, emerging from under the cloak 
holding the wizard’s bag, “but I still think a whole pile 
of unconscious bodies would have drawn more 
attention. Keen on his job, though, isn’t he? Chuck us 
the hair and the potion, then.” 

Within two minutes, Ron stood before them, as small 
and ferrety as the sick wizard, and wearing the navy 
blue robes that had been folded in his bag. 

“Weird he wasn’t wearing them today, wasn’t it, 
seeing how much he wanted to go? Anyway, I’m Reg 
Cattermole, according to the label in the back.” 

“Now wait here,” Hermione told Harry, who was still 
under the Invisibility Cloak, “and we’ll be back with 
some hairs for you.” 

He had to wait ten minutes, but it seemed much 
longer to Harry, skulking alone in the sick-splattered 
alleyway beside the door concealing the Stunned 
Mafalda. Finally Ron and Hermione reappeared. 

“We don’t know who he is,” Hermione said, passing 
Harry several curly black hairs, “but he’s gone home 
with a dreadful nosebleed! Here, he’s pretty tall, you’ll 
need bigger robes. ...” 

She pulled out a set of the old robes Kreacher had 
laundered for them, and Harry retired to take the 
potion and change. 

Once the painful transformation was complete he was 
more than six feet tall and, from what he could tell 
from his well-muscled arms, powerfully built. He also 

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had a beard. Stowing the Invisibility Cloak and his 
glasses inside his new robes, he rejoined the other 
two. 

“Blimey, that’s scary,” said Ron, looking up at Harry, 
who now towered over him. 

“Take one of Mafalda’s tokens,” Hermione told Harry, 
“and let’s go, it’s nearly nine.” 

They stepped out of the alleyway together. Fifty yards 
along the crowded pavement there were spiked black 
railings flanking two flights of steps, one labeled 
GENTLEMEN, the other LADIES. 

“See you in a moment, then,” said Hermione 
nervously, and she tottered off down the steps to 
LADIES. Harry and Ron joined a number of oddly 
dressed men descending into what appeared to be an 
ordinary underground public toilet, tiled in grimy 
black and white. 

“Morning, Reg!” called another wizard in navy blue 
robes as he let himself into a cubicle by inserting his 
golden token into a slot in the door. “Blooming pain in 
the bum, this, eh? Forcing us all to get to work this 
way! Who are they expecting to turn up, Harry 
Potter?” 

The wizard roared with laughter at his own wit. Ron 
gave a forced chuckle. 

“Yeah,” he said, “stupid, isn’t it?” 

And he and Harry let themselves into adjoining 
cubicles. 

To Harry’s left and right came the sound of flushing. 
He crouched down and peered through the gap at the 

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bottom of the cubicle, just in time to see a pair of 
booted feet climbing into the toilet next door. He 
looked left and saw Ron blinking at him. 

“We have to flush ourselves in?” he whispered. 

“Looks like it,” Harry whispered back; his voice came 
out deep and gravelly. 

They both stood up. Feeling exceptionally foolish, 
Harry clambered into the toilet. 

He knew at once that he had done the right thing; 
though he appeared to be standing in water, his 
shoes, feet, and robes remained quite dry. He reached 
up, pulled the chain, and next moment had zoomed 
down a short chute, emerging out of a fireplace into 
the Ministry of Magic. 

He got up clumsily; there was a lot more of his body 
than he was accustomed to. The great Atrium seemed 
darker than Harry remembered it. Previously a golden 
fountain had filled the center of the hall, casting 
shimmering spots of light over the polished wooden 
floor and walls. Now a gigantic statue of black stone 
dominated the scene. It was rather frightening, this 
vast sculpture of a witch and a wizard sitting on 
ornately carved thrones, looking down at the Ministry 
workers toppling out of fireplaces below them. 
Engraved in foot-high letters at the base of the statue 
were the words MAGIC IS MIGHT. 

Harry received a heavy blow on the back of the legs: 
Another wizard had just flown out of the fireplace 
behind him. 

“Out of the way, can’t y — oh, sorry, Runcorn!” 



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Clearly frightened, the balding wizard hurried away. 
Apparently the man whom Harry was impersonating, 
Runcorn, was intimidating. 

“Psst!” said a voice, and he looked around to see a 
wispy little witch and the ferrety wizard from Magical 
Maintenance gesturing to him from over beside the 
statue. Harry hastened to join them. 

“You got in all right, then?” Hermione whispered to 
Harry. 

“No, he’s still stuck in the bog,” said Ron. 

“Oh, very funny ... It’s horrible, isn’t it?” she said to 
Harry, who was staring up at the statue. “Have you 
seen what they’re sitting on? 

Harry looked more closely and realized that what he 
had thought were decoratively carved thrones were 
actually mounds of carved humans: hundreds and 
hundreds of naked bodies, men, women, and 
children, all with rather stupid, ugly faces, twisted 
and pressed together to support the weight of the 
handsomely robed wizards. 

“Muggles,” whispered Hermione. “In their rightful 
place. Come on, let’s get going.” 

They joined the stream of witches and wizards moving 
toward the golden gates at the end of the hall, looking 
around as surreptitiously as possible, but there was 
no sign of the distinctive figure of Dolores Umbridge. 
They passed through the gates and into a smaller 
hall, where queues were forming in front of twenty 
golden grilles housing as many lifts. They had barely 
joined the nearest one when a voice said, 

“Cattermole!” 



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They looked around: Harry’s stomach turned over. 
One of the Death Eaters who had witnessed 
Dumbledore’s death was striding toward them. The 
Ministry workers beside them fell silent, their eyes 
downcast; Harry could feel fear rippling through 
them. The man’s scowling, slightly brutish face was 
somehow at odds with his magnificent, sweeping 
robes, which were embroidered with much gold 
thread. Someone in the crowd around the lifts called 
sycophantically, “Morning, Yaxley!” Yaxley ignored 
them. 

“I requested somebody from Magical Maintenance to 
sort out my office, Cattermole. It’s still raining in 
there.” 

Ron looked around as though hoping somebody else 
would intervene, but nobody spoke. 

“Raining ... in your office? That’s — that’s not good, is 
it?” 



Ron gave a nervous laugh. Yaxley’s eyes widened. 

“You think it’s funny, Cattermole, do you?” 

A pair of witches broke away from the queue for the 
lift and bustled off. 

“No,” said Ron, “no, of course — ” 

“You realize that I am on my way downstairs to 
interrogate your wife, Cattermole? In fact, I’m quite 
surprised you’re not down there holding her hand 
while she waits. Already given her up as a bad job, 
have you? Probably wise. Be sure and marry a 
pureblood next time.” 



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Hermione had let out a little squeak of horror. Yaxley 
looked at her. She coughed feebly and turned away. 

“I — I — ” stammered Ron. 

“But if my wife were accused of being a Mudblood,” 
said Yaxley, “ — not that any woman I married would 
ever be mistaken for such filth — and the Head of the 
Department of Magical Law Enforcement needed a job 
doing, I would make it my priority to do that job, 
Cattermole. Do you understand me?” 

“Yes,” whispered Ron. 

“Then attend to it, Cattermole, and if my office is not 
completely dry within an hour, your wife’s Blood 
Status will be in even graver doubt than it is now.” 

The golden grille before them clattered open. With a 
nod and unpleasant smile to Harry, who was 
evidently expected to appreciate this treatment of 
Cattermole, Yaxley swept away toward another lift. 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered theirs, but nobody 
followed them: It was as if they were infectious. The 
grilles shut with a clang and the lift began to move 
upward. 

“What am I going to do?” Ron asked the other two at 
once; he looked stricken. “If I don’t turn up, my wife 
— I mean, Cattermole ’s wife — ” 

“Well come with you, we should stick together — ” 
began Harry, but Ron shook his head feverishly. 

“That’s mental, we haven’t got much time. You two 
find Umbridge, I’ll go and sort out Yaxley’s office — 
but how do I stop it raining?” 



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“Try Finite Incantatem,” said Hermione at once, “that 
should stop the rain if it’s a hex or curse; if it doesn’t, 
something’s gone wrong with an Atmospheric Charm, 
which will be more difficult to fix, so as an interim 
measure try Impervius to protect his belongings — ” 

“Say it again, slowly — ” said Ron, searching his 
pockets desperately for a quill, but at that moment 
the lift juddered to a halt. A disembodied female voice 
said, “Level four, Department for the Regulation and 
Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, 
Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and 
Pest Advisory Bureau,” and the grilles slid open again, 
admitting a couple of wizards and several pale violet 
paper airplanes that fluttered around the lamp in the 
ceiling of the lift. 

“Morning, Albert,” said a bushily whiskered man, 
smiling at Harry. He glanced over at Ron and 
Hermione as the lift creaked upward once more; 
Hermione was now whispering frantic instructions to 
Ron. The wizard leaned toward Harry, leering, and 
muttered, “Dirk Cresswell, eh? From Goblin Liaison? 
Nice one, Albert. I’m pretty confident I’ll get his job 
now!” 

He winked. Harry smiled back, hoping that this would 
suffice. The lift stopped; the grilles opened once more. 

“Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, 
including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror 
Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration 
Services,” said the disembodied witch’s voice. 

Harry saw Hermione give Ron a little push and he 
hurried out of the lift, followed by the other wizards, 
leaving Harry and Hermione alone. The moment the 
golden door had closed Hermione said, very fast, 
“Actually, Harry, I think I’d better go after him, I don’t 
Page | 275 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




think he knows what he’s doing and if he gets caught 
the whole thing — ” 



“Level one, Minister of Magic and Support Staff.” 

The golden grilles slid apart again and Hermione 
gasped. Four people stood before them, two of them 
deep in conversation: a longhaired wizard wearing 
magnificent robes of black and gold, and a squat, 
toadlike witch wearing a velvet bow in her short hair 
and clutching a clipboard to her chest. 



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THE MUGGLE-BORN REGISTRATION 
COMMISSION 

“Ah, Mafalda!” said Umbridge, looking at Hermione. 
“Travers sent you, did he?” 

“Y-yes,” squeaked Hermione. 

“Good, youll do perfectly well.” Umbridge spoke to the 
wizard in black and gold. “That’s that problem solved, 
Minister, if Mafalda can be spared for record-keeping 
we shall be able to start straightaway.” She consulted 
her clipboard. “Ten people today and one of them the 
wife of a Ministry employee! Tut, tut ... even here, in 
the heart of the Ministry!” She stepped into the lift 
beside Hermione, as did the two wizards who had 
been listening to Umbridge’s conversation with the 
Minister. “We’ll go straight down, Mafalda, you’ll find 
everything you need in the courtroom. Good morning, 
Albert, aren’t you getting out?” 

“Yes, of course,” said Harry in Runcorn’s deep voice. 



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Harry stepped out of the lift. The golden grilles 
clanged shut behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, 
Harry saw Hermione’s anxious face sinking back out 
of sight, a tall wizard on either side of her, Umbridge’s 
velvet hair-bow level with her shoulder. 

“What brings you up here, Runcorn?” asked the new 
Minister of Magic. His long black hair and beard were 
streaked with silver, and a great overhanging 
forehead shadowed his glinting eyes, putting Harry in 
mind of a crab looking out from beneath a rock. 

“Needed a quick word with,” Harry hesitated for a 
fraction of a second, “Arthur Weasley. Someone said 
he was up on level one.” 

“Ah,” said Pius Thicknesse. “Has he been caught 
having contact with an Undesirable?” 

“No,” said Harry, his throat dry. “No, nothing like 
that.” 

“Ah, well. It’s only a matter of time,” said Thicknesse. 
“If you ask me, the blood traitors are as bad as the 
Mudbloods. Good day, Runcorn.” 

“Good day, Minister.” 

Harry watched Thicknesse march away along the 
thickly carpeted corridor. The moment the Minister 
had passed out of sight, Harry tugged the Invisibility 
Cloak out from under his heavy black cloak, threw it 
over himself, and set off along the corridor in the 
opposite direction. Runcorn was so tall that Harry 
was forced to stoop to make sure his big feet were 
hidden. 

Panic pulsed in the pit of his stomach. As he passed 
gleaming wooden door after gleaming wooden door, 

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each bearing a small plaque with the owner’s name 
and occupation upon it, the might of the Ministry, its 
complexity, its impenetrability, seemed to force itself 
upon him so that the plan he had been carefully 
concocting with Ron and Hermione over the past four 
weeks seemed laughably childish. They had 
concentrated all their efforts on getting inside without 
being detected: They had not given a moment’s 
thought to what they would do if they were forced to 
separate. Now Hermione was stuck in court 
proceedings, which would undoubtedly last hours; 

Ron was struggling to do magic that Harry was sure 
was beyond him, a woman’s liberty possibly 
depending on the outcome; and he, Harry, was 
wandering around on the top floor when he knew 
perfectly well that his quarry had just gone down in 
the lift. 

He stopped walking, leaned against a wall, and tried 
to decide what to do. The silence pressed upon him: 
There was no bustling or talk or swift footsteps here; 
the purple-carpeted corridors were as hushed as 
though the Muffliato charm had been cast over the 
place. 

Her office must be up here, Harry thought. 

It seemed most unlikely that Umbridge would keep 
her jewelry in her office, but on the other hand it 
seemed foolish not to search it to make sure. He 
therefore set off along the corridor again, passing 
nobody but a frowning wizard who was murmuring 
instructions to a quill that floated in front of him, 
scribbling on a trail of parchment. 

Now paying attention to the names on the doors, 

Harry turned a corner. Halfway along the next 
corridor he emerged into a wide, open space where a 
dozen witches and wizards sat in rows at small desks 

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not unlike school desks, though much more highly 
polished and free from graffiti. Harry paused to watch 
them, for the effect was quite mesmerizing. They were 
all waving and twiddling their wands in unison, and 
squares of colored paper were flying in every direction 
like little pink kites. After a few seconds, Harry 
realized that there was a rhythm to the proceedings, 
that the papers all formed the same pattern; and after 
a few more seconds he realized that what he was 
watching was the creation of pamphlets — that the 
paper squares were pages, which, when assembled, 
folded, and magicked into place, fell into neat stacks 
beside each witch or wizard. 

Harry crept closer, although the workers were so 
intent on what they were doing that he doubted they 
would notice a carpet-muffled footstep, and he slid a 
completed pamphlet from the pile beside a young 
witch. He examined it beneath the Invisibility Cloak. 
Its pink cover was emblazoned with a golden title: 

MUDBLOODS 

and the Dangers They Pose to 
a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society 

Beneath the title was a picture of a red rose with a 
simpering face in the middle of its petals, being 
strangled by a green weed with fangs and a scowl. 
There was no author’s name upon the pamphlet, but 
again, the scars on the back of his right hand seemed 
to tingle as he examined it. Then the young witch 
beside him confirmed his suspicion as she said, still 
waving and twirling her wand, “Will the old hag be 
interrogating Mudbloods all day, does anyone know?” 



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“Careful,” said the wizard beside her, glancing around 
nervously; one of his pages slipped and fell to the 
floor. 

“What, has she got magic ears as well as an eye, 
now?” 

The witch glanced toward the shining mahogany door 
facing the space full of pamphlet-makers; Harry 
looked too, and rage reared in him like a snake. 

Where there might have been a peephole on a Muggle 
front door, a large, round eye with a bright blue iris 
had been set into the wood — an eye that was 
shockingly familiar to anybody who had known 
Alastor Moody. 

For a split second Harry forgot where he was and 
what he was doing there: He even forgot that he was 
invisible. He strode straight over to the door to 
examine the eye. It was not moving: It gazed blindly 
upward, frozen. The plaque beneath it read: 

DOLORES UMBRIDGE 

SENIOR UNDERSECRETARY TO THE MINISTER 

Below that, a slightly shinier new plaque read: 

HEAD OF THE MUGGLE-BORN 

REGISTRATION COMMISSION 

Harry looked back at the dozen pamphlet-makers: 
Though they were intent upon their work, he could 
hardly suppose that they would not notice if the door 
of an empty office opened in front of them. He 
therefore withdrew from an inner pocket an odd 
object with little waving legs and a rubber-bulbed 



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horn for a body. Crouching down beneath the Cloak, 
he placed the Decoy Detonator on the ground. 

It scuttled away at once through the legs of the 
witches and wizards in front of him. A few moments 
later, during which Harry waited with his hand upon 
the doorknob, there came a loud bang and a great 
deal of acrid black smoke billowed from a corner. The 
young witch in the front row shrieked: Pink pages 
flew everywhere as she and her fellows jumped up, 
looking around for the source of the commotion. 

Harry turned the doorknob, stepped into Umbridge’s 
office, and closed the door behind him. 

He felt he had stepped back in time. The room was 
exactly like Umbridge’s office at Hogwarts: Lace 
draperies, doilies, and dried flowers covered every 
available surface. The walls bore the same 
ornamental plates, each featuring a highly colored, 
beribboned kitten, gamboling and frisking with 
sickening cuteness. The desk was covered with a 
flouncy, flowered cloth. Behind Mad-Eye’s eye, a 
telescopic attachment enabled Umbridge to spy on 
the workers on the other side of the door. Harry took 
a look through it and saw that they were all still 
gathered around the Decoy Detonator. He wrenched 
the telescope out of the door, leaving a hole behind, 
pulled the magical eyeball out of it, and placed it in 
his pocket. Then he turned to face the room again, 
raised his wand, and murmured, “Accio Locket.” 

Nothing happened, but he had not expected it to; no 
doubt Umbridge knew all about protective charms 
and spells. He therefore hurried behind her desk and 
began pulling open the drawers. He saw quills and 
notebooks and Spellotape; enchanted paper clips that 
coiled snakelike from their drawer and had to be 
beaten back; a fussy little lace box full of spare hair 
bows and clips; but no sign of a locket. 

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There was a filing cabinet behind the desk: Harry set 
to searching it. Like Filch ’s filing cabinets at 
Hogwarts, it was full of folders, each labeled with a 
name. It was not until Harry reached the bottommost 
drawer that he saw something to distract him from 
his search: Mr. Weasley’s file. 

He pulled it out and opened it. 

ARTHUR WEASLEY 

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood, but with unacceptable 
pro-Muggle leanings. Known member of the Order of 
the Phoenix. 

FAMILY: Wife (pureblood), seven children, two 
youngest at Hogwarts. NB: Youngest son currently at 
home, seriously ill, Ministry inspectors have 
confirmed. 

SECURITY STATUS: TRACKED. All movements are 
being monitored. Strong likelihood Undesirable No. 1 
will contact (has stayed with Weasley family 
previously) 



“Undesirable Number One,” Harry muttered under his 
breath as he replaced Mr. Weasley’s folder and shut 
the drawer. He had an idea he knew who that was, 
and sure enough, as he straightened up and glanced 
around the office for fresh hiding places, he saw a 
poster of himself on the wall, with the words 
undesirable no. 1 emblazoned across his chest. A 
little pink note was stuck to it with a picture of a 
kitten in the corner. Harry moved across to read it 
and saw that Umbridge had written, “To be punished.” 



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Angrier than ever, he proceeded to grope in the 
bottoms of the vases and baskets of dried flowers, but 
was not at all surprised that the locket was not there. 
He gave the office one last sweeping look, and his 
heart skipped a beat. Dumbledore was staring at him 
from a small rectangular mirror, propped up on a 
bookcase beside the desk. 

Harry crossed the room at a run and snatched it up, 
but realized the moment he touched it that it was not 
a mirror at all. Dumbledore was smiling wistfully out 
of the front cover of a glossy book. Harry had not 
immediately noticed the curly green writing across his 
hat — The Life and Lies ofAlbus Dumbledore — nor 
the slightly smaller writing across his chest: “by Rita 
Skeeter, bestselling author of Armando Dippet: Master 
or Moron?” 

Harry opened the book at random and saw a full-page 
photograph of two teenage boys, both laughing 
immoderately with their arms around each other’s 
shoulders. Dumbledore, now with elbow-length hair, 
had grown a tiny wispy beard that recalled the one on 
Krum’s chin that had so annoyed Ron. The boy who 
roared in silent amusement beside Dumbledore had a 
gleeful, wild look about him. His golden hair fell in 
curls to his shoulders. Harry wondered whether it 
was a young Doge, but before he could check the 
caption, the door of the office opened. 

If Thicknesse had not been looking over his shoulder 
as he entered, Harry would not have had time to pull 
the Invisibility Cloak over himself. As it was, he 
thought Thicknesse might have caught a glimpse of 
movement, because for a moment or two he remained 
quite still, staring curiously at the place where Harry 
had just vanished. Perhaps deciding that all he had 
seen was Dumbledore scratching his nose on the 
front of the book, for Harry had hastily replaced it 
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upon the shelf, Thicknesse finally walked to the desk 
and pointed his wand at the quill standing ready in 
the ink pot. It sprang out and began scribbling a note 
to Umbridge. Very slowly, hardly daring to breathe, 
Harry backed out of the office into the open area 
beyond. 

The pamphlet-makers were still clustered around the 
remains of the Decoy Detonator, which continued to 
hoot feebly as it smoked. Harry hurried off up the 
corridor as the young witch said, “I bet it sneaked up 
here from Experimental Charms, they’re so careless, 
remember that poisonous duck?” 

Speeding back toward the lifts, Harry reviewed his 
options. It had never been likely that the locket was 
here at the Ministry, and there was no hope of 
bewitching its whereabouts out of Umbridge while she 
was sitting in a crowded court. Their priority now had 
to be to leave the Ministry before they were exposed, 
and try again another day. The first thing to do was to 
find Ron, and then they could work out a way of 
extracting Hermione from the courtroom. 

The lift was empty when it arrived. Harry jumped in 
and pulled off the Invisibility Cloak as it started its 
descent. To his enormous relief, when it rattled to a 
halt at level two, a soaking-wet and wild-eyed Ron got 
in. 



“M-morning,” he stammered to Harry as the lift set off 
again. 

“Ron, it’s me, Harry!” 

“Harry! Blimey, I forgot what you looked like — why 
isn’t Hermione with you?” 



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“She had to go down to the courtrooms with 
Umbridge, she couldn’t refuse, and — ” 

But before Harry could finish the lift had stopped 
again: The doors opened and Mr. Weasley walked 
inside, talking to an elderly witch whose blonde hair 
was teased so high it resembled an anthill. 

"... I quite understand what you’re saying, Wakanda, 
but I’m afraid I cannot be party to — ” 

Mr. Weasley broke off; he had noticed Harry. It was 
very strange to have Mr. Weasley glare at him with 
that much dislike. The lift doors closed and the four 
of them trundled downward once more. 

“Oh, hello, Reg,” said Mr. Weasley, looking around at 
the sound of steady dripping from Ron’s robes. “Isn’t 
your wife in for questioning today? Er — what’s 
happened to you? Why are you so wet?” 

“Yaxley’s office is raining,” said Ron. He addressed 
Mr. Weasley’s shoulder, and Harry felt sure he was 
scared that his father might recognize him if they 
looked directly into each other’s eyes. “I couldn’t stop 
it, so they’ve sent me to get Bernie — Pillsworth, I 
think they said — ” 

“Yes, a lot of offices have been raining lately,” said Mr. 
Weasley. “Did you try Meteolojinx Recanto? It worked 
for Bletchley.” 

“Meteolojinx Recanto?” whispered Ron. “No, I didn’t. 
Thanks, D — I mean, thanks, Arthur.” 

The lift doors opened; the old witch with the anthill 
hair left, and Ron darted past her out of sight. Harry 
made to follow him, but found his path blocked as 



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Percy Weasley strode into the lift, his nose buried in 
some papers he was reading. 



Not until the doors had clanged shut again did Percy 
realize he was in a lift with his father. He glanced up, 
saw Mr. Weasley, turned radish red, and left the lift 
the moment the doors opened again. For the second 
time, Harry tried to get out, but this time found his 
way blocked by Mr. Weasley’s arm. 

“One moment, Runcorn.” 

The lift doors closed and as they clanked down 
another floor, Mr. Weasley said, “I hear you laid 
information about Dirk Cresswell.” 

Harry had the impression that Mr. Weasley’s anger 
was no less because of the brush with Percy. He 
decided his best chance was to act stupid. 

“Sorry?” he said. 

“Don’t pretend, Runcorn,” said Mr. Weasley fiercely. 
“You tracked down the wizard who faked his family 
tree, didn’t you?” 

“I — so what if I did?” said Harry. 

“So Dirk Cresswell is ten times the wizard you are,” 
said Mr. Weasley quietly, as the lift sank ever lower. 
“And if he survives Azkaban, you 11 have to answer to 
him, not to mention his wife, his sons, and his friends 



“Arthur,” Harry interrupted, “you know you’re being 
tracked, don’t you?” 

“Is that a threat, Runcorn?” said Mr. Weasley loudly. 



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“No,” said Harry, “it’s a fact! They’re watching your 
every move — ” 

The lift doors opened. They had reached the Atrium. 
Mr. Weasley gave Harry a scathing look and swept 
from the lift. Harry stood there, shaken. He wished he 
was impersonating somebody other than Runcorn. ... 
The lift doors clanged shut. 

Harry pulled out the Invisibility Cloak and put it back 
on. He would try to extricate Hermione on his own 
while Ron was dealing with the raining office. When 
the doors opened, he stepped out into a torch-lit 
stone passageway quite different from the wood- 
paneled and carpeted corridors above. As the lift 
rattled away again, Harry shivered slightly, looking 
toward the distant black door that marked the 
entrance to the Department of Mysteries. 

He set off, his destination not the black door, but the 
doorway he remembered on the left-hand side, which 
opened onto the flight of stairs down to the court 
chambers. His mind grappled with possibilities as he 
crept down them: He still had a couple of Decoy 
Detonators, but perhaps it would be better to simply 
knock on the courtroom door, enter as Runcorn, and 
ask for a quick word with Mafalda? Of course, he did 
not know whether Runcorn was sufficiently important 
to get away with this, and even if he managed it, 
Hermione ’s non-reappearance might trigger a search 
before they were clear of the Ministry. . . . 

Lost in thought, he did not immediately register the 
unnatural chill that was creeping over him, as if he 
were descending into fog. It was becoming colder and 
colder with every step he took: a cold that reached 
right down into his throat and tore at his lungs. And 
then he felt that stealing sense of despair, of 
hopelessness, filling him, expanding inside him. ... 
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Dementors, he thought. 



And as he reached the foot of the stairs and turned to 
his right he saw a dreadful scene. The dark passage 
outside the courtrooms was packed with tall, black- 
hooded figures, their faces completely hidden, their 
ragged breathing the only sound in the place. The 
petrified Muggle-borns brought in for questioning sat 
huddled and shivering on hard wooden benches. Most 
of them were hiding their faces in their hands, 
perhaps in an instinctive attempt to shield themselves 
from the dementors’ greedy mouths. Some were 
accompanied by families, others sat alone. The 
dementors were gliding up and down in front of them, 
and the cold, and the hopelessness, and the despair 
of the place laid themselves upon Harry like a curse. 



Fight it, he told himself, but he knew that he could 
not conjure a Patronus here without revealing himself 
instantly. So he moved forward as silently as he 
could, and with every step he took numbness seemed 
to steal over his brain, but he forced himself to think 
of Hermione and of Ron, who needed him. 

Moving through the towering black figures was 
terrifying: The eyeless faces hidden beneath their 
hoods turned as he passed, and he felt sure that they 
sensed him, sensed, perhaps, a human presence that 
still had some hope, some resilience. ... 

And then, abruptly and shockingly amid the frozen 
silence, one of the dungeon doors on the left of the 
corridor was flung open and screams echoed out of it. 

“No, no, I’m half-blood, I’m half-blood, I tell you! My 
father was a wizard, he was, look him up, Arkie 
Alderton, he’s a well-known broomstick designer, look 

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him up, I tell you — get your hands off me, get your 
hands off—” 



“This is your final warning,” said Umbridge’s soft 
voice, magically magnified so that it sounded clearly 
over the man’s desperate screams. “If you struggle, 
you will be subjected to the Dementor’s Kiss.” 

The man’s screams subsided, but dry sobs echoed 
through the corridor. 

“Take him away,” said Umbridge. 

Two dementors appeared in the doorway of the 
courtroom, their rotting, scabbed hands clutching the 
upper arms of a wizard who appeared to be fainting. 
They glided away down the corridor with him, and the 
darkness they trailed behind them swallowed him 
from sight. 

“Next — Mary Cattermole,” called Umbridge. 

A small woman stood up; she was trembling from 
head to foot. Her dark hair was smoothed back into a 
bun and she wore long, plain robes. Her face was 
completely bloodless. As she passed the dementors, 
Harry saw her shudder. 

He did it instinctively, without any sort of plan, 
because he hated the sight of her walking alone into 
the dungeon: As the door began to swing closed, he 
slipped into the courtroom behind her. 

It was not the same room in which he had once been 
interrogated for improper use of magic. This one was 
much smaller, though the ceiling was quite as high; it 
gave the claustrophobic sense of being stuck at the 
bottom of a deep well. 

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There were more dementors in here, casting their 
freezing aura over the place; they stood like faceless 
sentinels in the corners farthest from the high, raised 
platform. Here, behind a balustrade, sat Umbridge, 
with Yaxley on one side of her, and Hermione, quite 
as white-faced as Mrs. Cattermole, on the other. At 
the foot of the platform, a bright-silver, long-haired 
cat prowled up and down, up and down, and Harry 
realized that it was there to protect the prosecutors 
from the despair that emanated from the dementors: 
That was for the accused to feel, not the accusers. 

“Sit down,” said Umbridge in her soft, silky voice. 

Mrs. Cattermole stumbled to the single seat in the 
middle of the floor beneath the raised platform. The 
moment she had sat down, chains clinked out of the 
arms of the chair and bound her there. 

“You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?” asked 
Umbridge. 

Mrs. Cattermole gave a single, shaky nod. 

“Married to Reginald Cattermole of the Magical 
Maintenance Department?” 

Mrs. Cattermole burst into tears. 

“I don’t know where he is, he was supposed to meet 
me here!” 

Umbridge ignored her. 

“Mother to Maisie, Ellie, and Alfred Cattermole?” 

Mrs. Cattermole sobbed harder than ever. 



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“They’re frightened, they think I might not come home 



“Spare us,” spat Yaxley. “The brats of Mudbloods do 
not stir our sympathies.” 

Mrs. Cattermole’s sobs masked Harry’s footsteps as 
he made his way carefully toward the steps that led 
up to the raised platform. The moment he had passed 
the place where the Patronus cat patrolled, he felt the 
change in temperature: It was warm and comfortable 
here. The Patronus, he was sure, was Umbridge’s, 
and it glowed brightly because she was so happy 
here, in her element, upholding the twisted laws she 
had helped to write. Slowly and very carefully he 
edged his way along the platform behind Umbridge, 
Yaxley, and Hermione, taking a seat behind the latter. 
He was worried about making Hermione jump. He 
thought of casting the Muffliato charm upon 
Umbridge and Yaxley, but even murmuring the word 
might cause Hermione alarm. Then Umbridge raised 
her voice to address Mrs. Cattermole, and Harry 
seized his chance. 

“I’m behind you,” he whispered into Hermione’s ear. 

As he had expected, she jumped so violently she 
nearly overturned the bottle of ink with which she 
was supposed to be recording the interview, but both 
Umbridge and Yaxley were concentrating upon Mrs. 
Cattermole, and this went unnoticed. 

“A wand was taken from you upon your arrival at the 
Ministry today, Mrs. Cattermole,” Umbridge was 
saying. “Eight-and-three-quarter inches, cherry, 
unicorn-hair core. Do you recognize that description?” 

Mrs. Cattermole nodded, mopping her eyes on her 
sleeve. 

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“Could you please tell us from which witch or wizard 
you took that wand?” 



“T-took?” sobbed Mrs. Cattermole. “I didn’t t-take it 
from anybody. I b-bought it when I was eleven years 
old. It — it — it — chose me.” 

She cried harder than ever. 

Umbridge laughed a soft girlish laugh that made 
Harry want to attack her. She leaned forward over the 
barrier, the better to observe her victim, and 
something gold swung forward too, and dangled over 
the void: the locket. 

Hermione had seen it; she let out a little squeak, but 
Umbridge and Yaxley, still intent upon their prey, 
were deaf to everything else. 

“No,” said Umbridge, “no, I don’t think so, Mrs. 
Cattermole. Wands only choose witches or wizards. 
You are not a witch. I have your responses to the 
questionnaire that was sent to you here — Mafalda, 
pass them to me.” 

Umbridge held out a small hand: She looked so 
toadlike at that moment that Harry was quite 
surprised not to see webs between the stubby fingers. 
Hermione ’s hands were shaking with shock. She 
fumbled in a pile of documents balanced on the chair 
beside her, finally withdrawing a sheaf of parchment 
with Mrs. Cattermole’s name on it. 

“That’s — that’s pretty, Dolores,” she said, pointing at 
the pendant gleaming in the ruffled folds of 
Umbridge’s blouse. 

“What?” snapped Umbridge, glancing down. “Oh yes 
— an old family heirloom,” she said, patting the locket 

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lying on her large bosom. “The S stands for Selwyn. ... 
I am related to the Selwyns. ... Indeed, there are few 
pure-blood families to whom I am not related. ... A 
pity,” she continued in a louder voice, flicking 
through Mrs. Cattermole’s questionnaire, “that the 
same cannot be said for you. ‘Parents’ professions: 
greengrocers.’ ” 

Yaxley laughed jeeringly. Below, the fluffy silver cat 
patrolled up and down, and the dementors stood 
waiting in the corners. 

It was Umbridge’s lie that brought the blood surging 
into Harry’s brain and obliterated his sense of caution 
— that the locket she had taken as a bribe from a 
petty criminal was being used to bolster her own 
pure-blood credentials. He raised his wand, not even 
troubling to keep it concealed beneath the Invisibility 
Cloak, and said, “Stupefyl” 

There was a flash of red light; Umbridge crumpled 
and her forehead hit the edge of the balustrade: Mrs. 
Cattermole’s papers slid off her lap onto the floor and, 
down below, the prowling silver cat vanished. Ice-cold 
air hit them like an oncoming wind: Yaxley, confused, 
looked around for the source of the trouble and saw 
Harry’s disembodied hand and wand pointing at him. 
He tried to draw his own wand, but too late: 

“Stupefyl” 

Yaxley slid to the ground to lie curled on the floor. 
“Harry!” 

“Hermione, if you think I was going to sit here and let 
her pretend — ” 

“Harry, Mrs. Cattermole!” 



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Harry whirled around, throwing off the Invisibility 
Cloak; down below, the dementors had moved out of 
their corners; they were gliding toward the woman 
chained to the chair: Whether because the Patronus 
had vanished or because they sensed that their 
masters were no longer in control, they seemed to 
have abandoned restraint. Mrs. Cattermole let out a 
terrible scream of fear as a slimy, scabbed hand 
grasped her chin and forced her face back. 

“EXPECTO PATRONUM” 

The silver stag soared from the tip of Harry’s wand 
and leaped toward the dementors, which fell back and 
melted into the dark shadows again. The stag’s light, 
more powerful and more warming than the cat’s 
protection, filled the whole dungeon as it cantered 
around and around the room. 

“Get the Horcrux,” Harry told Hermione. 

He ran back down the steps, stuffing the Invisibility 
Cloak back into his bag, and approached Mrs. 
Cattermole. 

“You?” she whispered, gazing into his face. “But — 
but Reg said you were the one who submitted my 
name for questioning!” 

“Did I?” muttered Harry, tugging at the chains 
binding her arms. “Well, I’ve had a change of heart. 
Diffindol” Nothing happened. “Hermione, how do I get 
rid of these chains?” 

“Wait, I’m trying something up here — ” 

“Hermione, we’re surrounded by dementors!” 



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“I know that, Harry, but if she wakes up and the 
locket’s gone — I need to duplicate it — Geminio\ 
There ... That should fool her. ...” 



Hermione came running downstairs. 

“Let’s see. ... Relashiol” 

The chains clinked and withdrew into the arms of the 
chair. Mrs. Cattermole looked just as frightened as 
ever before. 

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. 

“You’re going to leave here with us,” said Harry, 
pulling her to her feet. “Go home, grab your children, 
and get out, get out of the country if you’ve got to. 
Disguise yourselves and run. You’ve seen how it is, 
you won’t get anything like a fair hearing here.” 

“Harry,” said Hermione, “how are we going to get out 
of here with all those dementors outside the door?” 

“Patronuses,” said Harry, pointing his wand at his 
own: The stag slowed and walked, still gleaming 
brightly, toward the door. “As many as we can 
muster; do yours, Hermione.” 

“Expec — Expecto patronum,” said Hermione. Nothing 
happened. 

“It’s the only spell she ever has trouble with,” Harry 
told a completely bemused Mrs. Cattermole. “Bit 
unfortunate, really ... Come on, Hermione. ...” 

“Expecto patronum).” 

A silver otter burst from the end of Hermione ’s wand 
and swam gracefully through the air to join the stag. 

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“C’mon,” said Harry, and he led Hermione and Mrs. 
Cattermole to the door. 

When the Patronuses glided out of the dungeon there 
were cries of shock from the people waiting outside. 
Harry looked around; the dementors were falling back 
on both sides of them, melding into the darkness, 
scattering before the silver creatures. 

“It’s been decided that you should all go home and go 
into hiding with your families,” Harry told the waiting 
Muggle-borns, who were dazzled by the light of the 
Patronuses and still cowering slightly. “Go abroad if 
you can. Just get well away from the Ministry. That’s 
the — er — new official position. Now, if you’ll just 
follow the Patronuses, you’ll be able to leave from the 
Atrium.” 

They managed to get up the stone steps without being 
intercepted, but as they approached the lifts Harry 
started to have misgivings. If they emerged into the 
Atrium with a silver stag, an otter soaring alongside 
it, and twenty or so people, half of them accused 
Muggle-borns, he could not help feeling that they 
would attract unwanted attention. He had just 
reached this unwelcome conclusion when the lift 
clanged to a halt in front of them. 

“Reg!” screamed Mrs. Cattermole, and she threw 
herself into Ron’s arms. “Runcorn let me out, he 
attacked Umbridge and Yaxley, and he’s told all of us 
to leave the country, I think we’d better do it, Reg, I 
really do, let’s hurry home and fetch the children and 
— why are you so wet?” 

“Water,” muttered Ron, disengaging himself. “Harry, 
they know there are intruders inside the Ministry, 
something about a hole in Umbridge’s office door, I 
reckon we’ve got five minutes if that — ” 

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Hermione ’s Patronus vanished with a pop as she 
turned a horror-struck face to Harry. 

“Harry, if we’re trapped here — !” 

“We won’t be if we move fast,” said Harry. He 
addressed the silent group behind them, who were all 
gawping at him. 

“Who’s got wands?” 

About half of them raised their hands. 

“Okay, all of you who haven’t got wands need to 
attach yourself to somebody who has. We’ll need to be 
fast before they stop us. Come on.” 

They managed to cram themselves into two lifts. 
Harry’s Patronus stood sentinel before the golden 
grilles as they shut and the lifts began to rise. 

“Level eight,” said the witch’s cool voice, “Atrium.” 

Harry knew at once that they were in trouble. The 
Atrium was full of people moving from fireplace to 
fireplace, sealing them off. 

“Harry!” squeaked Hermione. “What are we going to — 
?” 

“STOP!” Harry thundered, and the powerful voice of 
Runcorn echoed through the Atrium: The wizards 
sealing the fireplaces froze. “Follow me,” he whispered 
to the group of terrified Muggle-borns, who moved 
forward in a huddle, shepherded by Ron and 
Hermione. 



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“What’s up, Albert?” said the same balding wizard 
who had followed Harry out of the fireplace earlier. He 
looked nervous. 



“This lot need to leave before you seal the exits,” said 
Harry with all the authority he could muster. 

The group of wizards in front of him looked at one 
another. 

“We’ve been told to seal all exits and not let anyone — 



“ Are you contradicting me?” Harry blustered. “Would 
you like me to have your family tree examined, like I 
had Dirk Cresswell’s?” 

“Sorry!” gasped the balding wizard, backing away. “I 
didn’t mean nothing, Albert, but I thought ... I 
thought they were in for questioning and ...” 

“Their blood is pure,” said Harry, and his deep voice 
echoed impressively through the hall. “Purer than 
many of yours, I daresay. Off you go,” he boomed to 
the Muggle-borns, who scurried forward into the 
fireplaces and began to vanish in pairs. The Ministry 
wizards hung back, some looking confused, others 
scared and resentful. Then: 

“Mary!” 

Mrs. Cattermole looked over her shoulder. The real 
Reg Cattermole, no longer vomiting but pale and wan, 
had just come running out of a lift. 

“R-Reg?” 

She looked from her husband to Ron, who swore 
loudly. 

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The balding wizard gaped, his head turning 
ludicrously from one Reg Cattermole to the other. 



“Hey — what’s going on? What is this?” 

“Seal the exit! SEAL IT!” 

Yaxley had burst out of another lift and was running 
toward the group beside the fireplaces, into which all 
of the Muggle-borns but Mrs. Cattermole had now 
vanished. As the balding wizard lifted his wand, Harry 
raised an enormous fist and punched him, sending 
him flying through the air. 

“He’s been helping Muggle-borns escape, Yaxley!” 
Harry shouted. 

The balding wizard’s colleagues set up an uproar, 
under cover of which Ron grabbed Mrs. Cattermole, 
pulled her into the still-open fireplace, and 
disappeared. Confused, Yaxley looked from Harry to 
the punched wizard, while the real Reg Cattermole 
screamed, “My wife! Who was that with my wife? 
What’s going on?” 

Harry saw Yaxley’s head turn, saw an inkling of the 
truth dawn in that brutish face. 

“Come on!” Harry shouted at Hermione; he seized her 
hand and they jumped into the fireplace together as 
Yaxley’s curse sailed over Harry’s head. They spun for 
a few seconds before shooting up out of a toilet into a 
cubicle. Harry flung open the door; Ron was standing 
there beside the sinks, still wrestling with Mrs. 
Cattermole. 

“Reg, I don’t understand — ” 

“Let go, I’m not your husband, you’ve got to go home!” 

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There was a noise in the cubicle behind them; Harry 
looked around; Yaxley had just appeared. 

“LET’S GO!” Harry yelled. He seized Hermione by the 
hand and Ron by the arm and turned on the spot. 

Darkness engulfed them, along with the sensation of 
compressing bands, but something was wrong. ... 
Hermione ’s hand seemed to be sliding out of his grip. 



He wondered whether he was going to suffocate; he 
could not breathe or see and the only solid things in 
the world were Ron’s arm and Hermione ’s fingers, 
which were slowly slipping away. . . . 

And then he saw the door of number twelve, 
Grimmauld Place, with its serpent door knocker, but 
before he could draw breath, there was a scream and 
a flash of purple light; Hermione ’s hand was suddenly 
vicelike upon his and everything went dark again. 



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THE THIEF 

Harry opened his eyes and was dazzled by gold and 
green; he had no idea what had happened, he only 
knew that he was lying on what seemed to be leaves 
and twigs. Struggling to draw breath into lungs that 
felt flattened, he blinked and realized that the gaudy 
glare was sunlight streaming through a canopy of 
leaves far above him. Then an object twitched close to 
his face. He pushed himself onto his hands and 
knees, ready to face some small, fierce creature, but 
saw that the object was Ron’s foot. Looking around, 
Harry saw that they and Hermione were lying on a 
forest floor, apparently alone. 

Harry’s first thought was of the Forbidden Forest, and 
for a moment, even though he knew how foolish and 
dangerous it would be for them to appear in the 
grounds of Hogwarts, his heart leapt at the thought of 
sneaking through the trees to Hagrid’s hut. However, 
in the few moments it took for Ron to give a low groan 
and Harry to start crawling toward him, he realized 
that this was not the Forbidden Forest: The trees 



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looked younger, they were more widely spaced, the 
ground clearer. 



He met Hermione, also on her hands and knees, at 
Ron’s head. The moment his eyes fell upon Ron, all 
other concerns fled Harry’s mind, for blood drenched 
the whole of Ron’s left side and his face stood out, 
grayish- white, against the leaf-strewn earth. The 
Polyjuice Potion was wearing off now: Ron was 
halfway between Cattermole and himself in 
appearance, his hair turning redder and redder as his 
face drained of the little color it had left. 

“What’s happened to him?” 

“Splinched,” said Hermione, her fingers already busy 
at Ron’s sleeve, where the blood was wettest and 
darkest. 

Harry watched, horrified, as she tore open Ron’s 
shirt. He had always thought of Splinching as 
something comical, but this . . . His insides crawled 
unpleasantly as Hermione laid bare Ron’s upper arm, 
where a great chunk of flesh was missing, scooped 
cleanly away as though by a knife. 

“Harry, quickly, in my bag, there’s a small bottle 
labeled ‘Essence of Dittany’ — ” 

“Bag — right — ” 

Harry sped to the place where Hermione had landed, 
seized the tiny beaded bag, and thrust his hand 
inside it. At once, object after object began presenting 
itself to his touch: He felt the leather spines of books, 
woolly sleeves of jumpers, heels of shoes — 

“Quickly\” 

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He grabbed his wand from the ground and pointed it 
into the depths of the magical bag. 

“Accio Dittany\” 

A small brown bottle zoomed out of the bag; he 
caught it and hastened back to Hermione and Ron, 
whose eyes were now half-closed, strips of white 
eyeball all that were visible between his lids. 

“He’s fainted,” said Hermione, who was also rather 
pale; she no longer looked like Mafalda, though her 
hair was still gray in places. “Unstopper it for me, 
Harry, my hands are shaking.” 

Harry wrenched the stopper off the little bottle, 
Hermione took it and poured three drops of the potion 
onto the bleeding wound. Greenish smoke billowed 
upward and when it had cleared, Harry saw that the 
bleeding had stopped. The wound now looked several 
days old; new skin stretched over what had just been 
open flesh. 

“Wow,” said Harry. 

“It’s all I feel safe doing,” said Hermione shakily. 
“There are spells that would put him completely right, 
but I daren’t try in case I do them wrong and cause 
more damage. ... He’s lost so much blood already. ...” 

“How did he get hurt? I mean” — Harry shook his 
head, trying to clear it, to make sense of whatever had 
just taken place — “why are we here? I thought we 
were going back to Grimmauld Place?” 

Hermione took a deep breath. She looked close to 
tears. 



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“Harry, I don’t think we’re going to be able to go back 
there.” 

“What d’you — ?” 

“As we Disapparated, Yaxley caught hold of me and I 
couldn’t get rid of him, he was too strong, and he was 
still holding on when we arrived at Grimmauld Place, 
and then — well, I think he must have seen the door, 
and thought we were stopping there, so he slackened 
his grip and I managed to shake him off and I brought 
us here instead!” 

“But then, where’s he? Hang on. ... You don’t mean 
he’s at Grimmauld Place? He can’t get in there?” 

Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears as she nodded. 

“Harry, I think he can. I — I forced him to let go with 
a Revulsion Jinx, but I’d already taken him inside the 
Fidelius Charm’s protection. Since Dumbledore died, 
we’re Secret-Keepers, so I’ve given him the secret, 
haven’t I?” 

There was no pretending; Harry was sure she was 
right. It was a serious blow. If Yaxley could now get 
inside the house, there was no way that they could 
return. Even now, he could be bringing other Death 
Eaters in there by Apparition. Gloomy and oppressive 
though the house was, it had been their one safe 
refuge: even, now that Kreacher was so much happier 
and friendlier, a kind of home. With a twinge of regret 
that had nothing to do with food, Harry imagined the 
house-elf busying himself over the steak-and-kidney 
pie that Harry, Ron, and Hermione would never eat. 

“Harry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” 



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“Don’t be stupid, it wasn’t your fault! If anything, it 
was mine. ...” 

Harry put his hand in his pocket and drew out Mad- 
Eye’s eye. Hermione recoiled, looking horrified. 

“Umbridge had stuck it to her office door, to spy on 
people. I couldn’t leave it there ... but that’s how they 
knew there were intruders.” 

Before Hermione could answer, Ron groaned and 
opened his eyes. He was still gray and his face 
glistened with sweat. 

“How d’you feel?” Hermione whispered. 

“Lousy,” croaked Ron, wincing as he felt his injured 
arm. “Where are we?” 

“In the woods where they held the Quidditch World 
Cup,” said Hermione. “I wanted somewhere enclosed, 
undercover, and this was — ” 

“ — the first place you thought of,” Harry finished for 
her, glancing around at the apparently deserted 
glade. He could not help remembering what had 
happened the last time they had Apparated to the 
first place Hermione had thought of — how Death 
Eaters had found them within minutes. Had it been 
Legilimency? Did Voldemort or his henchmen know, 
even now, where Hermione had taken them? 

“D’you reckon we should move on?” Ron asked Harry, 
and Harry could tell by the look on Ron’s face that he 
was thinking the same. 

“I dunno.” 



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Ron still looked pale and clammy. He had made no 
attempt to sit up and it looked as though he was too 
weak to do so. The prospect of moving him was 
daunting. 

“Let’s stay here for now,” Harry said. 

Looking relieved, Hermione sprang to her feet. 

“Where are you going?” asked Ron. 

“If we’re staying, we should put some protective 
enchantments around the place,” she replied, and 
raising her wand, she began to walk in a wide circle 
around Harry and Ron, murmuring incantations as 
she went. Harry saw little disturbances in the 
surrounding air: It was as if Hermione had cast a 
heat haze upon their clearing. 

“Salvio Hexia ... Protego Totalum ... Repello Muggletum 
... Muffliato ... You could get out the tent, Harry. ...” 

“Tent?” 

“In the bag!” 

“In the ... of course,” said Harry. 

He did not bother to grope inside it this time, but 
used another Summoning Charm. The tent emerged 
in a lumpy mass of canvas, rope, and poles. Harry 
recognized it, partly because of the smell of cats, as 
the same tent in which they had slept on the night of 
the Quidditch World Cup. 

“I thought this belonged to that bloke Perkins at the 
Ministry?” he asked, starting to disentangle the tent 
pegs. 



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“Apparently he didn’t want it back, his lumbago’s so 
bad,” said Hermione, now performing complicated 
figure-of-eight movements with her wand, “so Ron’s 
dad said I could borrow it. ErectoV’ she added, 
pointing her wand at the misshapen canvas, which in 
one fluid motion rose into the air and settled, fully 
constructed, onto the ground before Harry, out of 
whose startled hands a tent peg soared, to land with 
a final thud at the end of a guy rope. 

“ Cave Inimicum,” Hermione finished with a skyward 
flourish. “That’s as much as I can do. At the very 
least, we should know they’re coming, I can’t 
guarantee it will keep out Vol — ” 

“Don’t say the name!” Ron cut across her, his voice 
harsh. 

Harry and Hermione looked at each other. 

“I’m sorry,” Ron said, moaning a little as he raised 
himself to look at them, “but it feels like a — a jinx or 
something. Can’t we call him You-Know-Who — 
please?” 

“Dumbledore said fear of a name — ” began Harry. 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, mate, calling You-Know- 
Who by his name didn’t do Dumbledore much good in 
the end,” Ron snapped back. “Just — just show You- 
Know-Who some respect, will you?” 

“Respect?” Harry repeated, but Hermione shot him a 
warning look; apparently he was not to argue with 
Ron while the latter was in such a weakened 
condition. 

Harry and Hermione half carried, half dragged Ron 
through the entrance of the tent. The interior was 

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exactly as Harry remembered it: a small flat, complete 
with bathroom and tiny kitchen. He shoved aside an 
old armchair and lowered Ron carefully onto the lower 
berth of a bunk bed. Even this very short journey had 
turned Ron whiter still, and once they had settled him 
on the mattress he closed his eyes again and did not 
speak for a while. 

“I’ll make some tea,” said Hermione breathlessly, 
pulling kettle and mugs from the depths of her bag 
and heading toward the kitchen. 

Harry found the hot drink as welcome as the 
firewhisky had been on the night that Mad-Eye had 
died; it seemed to burn away a little of the fear 
fluttering in his chest. After a minute or two, Ron 
broke the silence. 

“What d’you reckon happened to the Cattermoles?” 

“With any luck, they’ll have got away,” said Hermione, 
clutching her hot mug for comfort. “As long as Mr. 
Cattermole had his wits about him, he’ll have 
transported Mrs. Cattermole by Side-Along- Apparition 
and they’ll be fleeing the country right now with their 
children. That’s what Harry told her to do.” 

“Blimey, I hope they escaped,” said Ron, leaning back 
on his pillows. The tea seemed to be doing him good; 
a little of his color had returned. “I didn’t get the 
feeling Reg Cattermole was all that quick-witted, 
though, the way everyone was talking to me when I 
was him. God, I hope they made it. ... If they both end 
up in Azkaban because of us ...” 

Harry looked over at Hermione and the question he 
had been about to ask — about whether Mrs. 
Cattermole ’s lack of a wand would prevent her 
Apparating alongside her husband — died in his 

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throat. Hermione was watching Ron fret over the fate 
of the Cattermoles, and there was such tenderness in 
her expression that Harry felt almost as if he had 
surprised her in the act of kissing him. 

“So, have you got it?” Harry asked her, partly to 
remind her that he was there. 

“Got — got what?” she said with a little start. 

“What did we just go through all that for? The locket! 
Where’s the locket?” 

“ You got it?” shouted Ron, raising himself a little 
higher on his pillows. “No one tells me anything! 
Blimey, you could have mentioned it!” 

“Well, we were running for our lives from the Death 
Eaters, weren’t we?” said Hermione. “Here.” 

And she pulled the locket out of the pocket of her 
robes and handed it to Ron. 

It was as large as a chicken’s egg. An ornate letter S, 
inlaid with many small green stones, glinted dully in 
the diffused light shining through the tent’s canvas 
roof. 

“There isn’t any chance someone’s destroyed it since 
Kreacher had it?” asked Ron hopefully. “I mean, are 
we sure it’s still a Horcrux?” 

“I think so,” said Hermione, taking it back from him 
and looking at it closely. “There ’d be some sign of 
damage if it had been magically destroyed.” 

She passed it to Harry, who turned it over in his 
fingers. The thing looked perfect, pristine. He 
remembered the mangled remains of the diary, and 

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how the stone in the Horcrux ring had been cracked 
open when Dumbledore destroyed it. 



“I reckon Kreacher’s right,” said Harry. “We’re going to 
have to work out how to open this thing before we can 
destroy it.” 

Sudden awareness of what he was holding, of what 
lived behind the little golden doors, hit Harry as he 
spoke. Even after all their efforts to find it, he felt a 
violent urge to fling the locket from him. Mastering 
himself again, he tried to prise the locket apart with 
his fingers, then attempted the charm Hermione had 
used to open Regulus’s bedroom door. Neither 
worked. He handed the locket back to Ron and 
Hermione, each of whom did their best, but were no 
more successful at opening it than he had been. 

“Can you feel it, though?” Ron asked in a hushed 
voice, as he held it tight in his clenched fist. 

“What d’you mean?” 

Ron passed the Horcrux to Harry. After a moment or 
two, Harry thought he knew what Ron meant. Was it 
his own blood pulsing through his veins that he could 
feel, or was it something beating inside the locket, like 
a tiny metal heart? 

“What are we going to do with it?” Hermione asked. 

“Keep it safe till we work out how to destroy it,” Harry 
replied, and, little though he wanted to, he hung the 
chain around his own neck, dropping the locket out 
of sight beneath his robes, where it rested against his 
chest beside the pouch Hagrid had given him. 

“I think we should take it in turns to keep watch 
outside the tent,” he added to Hermione, standing up 

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and stretching. “And we’ll need to think about some 
food as well. You stay there,” he added sharply, as 
Ron attempted to sit up and turned a nasty shade of 
green. 

With the Sneakoscope Hermione had given Harry for 
his birthday set carefully upon the table in the tent, 
Harry and Hermione spent the rest of the day sharing 
the role of lookout. However, the Sneakoscope 
remained silent and still upon its point all day, and 
whether because of the protective enchantments and 
Muggle-repelling charms Hermione had spread 
around them, or because people rarely ventured this 
way, their patch of wood remained deserted, apart 
from occasional birds and squirrels. Evening brought 
no change; Harry lit his wand as he swapped places 
with Hermione at ten o’clock, and looked out upon a 
deserted scene, noting the bats fluttering high above 
him across the single patch of starry sky visible from 
their protected clearing. 

He felt hungry now, and a little light-headed. 

Hermione had not packed any food in her magical 
bag, as she had assumed that they would be 
returning to Grimmauld Place that night, so they had 
had nothing to eat except some wild mushrooms that 
Hermione had collected from amongst the nearest 
trees and stewed in a billycan. After a couple of 
mouthfuls Ron had pushed his portion away, looking 
queasy; Harry had only persevered so as not to hurt 
Hermione ’s feelings. 

The surrounding silence was broken by odd rustlings 
and what sounded like crackings of twigs: Harry 
thought that they were caused by animals rather than 
people, yet he kept his wand held tight at the ready. 
His insides, already uncomfortable due to their 
inadequate helping of rubbery mushrooms, tingled 
with unease. 

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He had thought that he would feel elated if they 
managed to steal back the Horcrux, but somehow he 
did not; all he felt as he sat looking out at the 
darkness, of which his wand lit only a tiny part, was 
worry about what would happen next. It was as 
though he had been hurtling toward this point for 
weeks, months, maybe even years, but now he had 
come to an abrupt halt, run out of road. 

There were other Horcruxes out there somewhere, but 
he did not have the faintest idea where they could be. 
He did not even know what all of them were. 
Meanwhile he was at a loss to know how to destroy 
the only one that they had found, the Horcrux that 
currently lay against the bare flesh of his chest. 
Curiously, it had not taken heat from his body, but 
lay so cold against his skin it might just have 
emerged from icy water. From time to time Harry 
thought, or perhaps imagined, that he could feel the 
tiny heartbeat ticking irregularly alongside his own. 

Nameless forebodings crept upon him as he sat there 
in the dark: He tried to resist them, push them away, 
yet they came at him relentlessly. Neither can live 
while the other survives. Ron and Hermione, now 
talking softly behind him in the tent, could walk away 
if they wanted to: He could not. And it seemed to 
Harry as he sat there trying to master his own fear 
and exhaustion, that the Horcrux against his chest 
was ticking away the time he had left. ... Stupid idea, 
he told himself, don’t think that. ... 

His scar was starting to prickle again. He was afraid 
that he was making it happen by having these 
thoughts, and tried to direct them into another 
channel. He thought of poor Kreacher, who had 
expected them home and had received Yaxley instead. 
Would the elf keep silent or would he tell the Death 
Eater everything he knew? Harry wanted to believe 
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that Kreacher had changed toward him in the past 
month, that he would be loyal now, but who knew 
what would happen? What if the Death Eaters 
tortured the elf? Sick images swarmed into Harry’s 
head and he tried to push these away too, for there 
was nothing he could do for Kreacher: He and 
Hermione had already decided against trying to 
summon him; what if someone from the Ministry 
came too? They could not count on elfish Apparition 
being free from the same flaw that had taken Yaxley 
to Grimmauld Place on the hem of Hermione ’s sleeve. 

Harry’s scar was burning now. He thought that there 
was so much they did not know: Lupin had been right 
about magic they had never encountered or imagined. 
Why hadn’t Dumbledore explained more? Had he 
thought that there would be time; that he would live 
for years, for centuries perhaps, like his friend Nicolas 
Flamel? If so, he had been wrong. ... Snape had seen 
to that. ... Snape, the sleeping snake, who had struck 
at the top of the tower . . . 

And Dumbledore had fallen ... fallen ... 

“ Give it to me, Gregorovitch.” 

Harry’s voice was high, clear, and cold, his wand held 
in front of him by a long-fingered white hand. The 
man at whom he was pointing was suspended upside 
down in midair, though there were no ropes holding 
him; he swung there, invisibly and eerily bound, his 
limbs wrapped about him, his terrified face, on a level 
with Harry’s, ruddy due to the blood that had rushed 
to his head. He had pure-white hair and a thick, 
bushy beard: a trussed-up Father Christmas. 

“I have it not, I have it no more! It was, many years 
ago, stolen from me!” 



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“Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Gregorovitch. He 
knows. ... He always knows.” 

The hanging man’s pupils were wide, dilated with 
fear, and they seemed to swell, bigger and bigger until 
their blackness swallowed Harry whole — 

And now Harry was hurrying along a dark corridor in 
stout little Gregorovitch ’s wake as he held a lantern 
aloft: Gregorovitch burst into the room at the end of 
the passage and his lantern illuminated what looked 
like a workshop; wood shavings and gold gleamed in 
the swinging pool of light, and there on the window 
ledge sat perched, like a giant bird, a young man with 
golden hair. In the split second that the lantern’s light 
illuminated him, Harry saw the delight upon his 
handsome face, then the intruder shot a Stunning 
Spell from his wand and jumped neatly backward out 
of the window with a crow of laughter. 

And Harry was hurtling back out of those wide, 
tunnellike pupils and Gregorovitch ’s face was stricken 
with terror. 

“Who was the thief, Gregorovitch?” said the high cold 
voice. 

“I do not know, I never knew, a young man — no — 
please — PLEASE !” 

A scream that went on and on and then a burst of 
green light — 

“ Harryl ” 

He opened his eyes, panting, his forehead throbbing. 
He had passed out against the side of the tent, had 
slid sideways down the canvas, and was sprawled on 
the ground. He looked up at Hermione, whose bushy 

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hair obscured the tiny patch of sky visible through 
the dark branches high above them. 

“Dream,” he said, sitting up quickly and attempting to 
meet Hermione ’s glower with a look of innocence. 
“Must’ve dozed off, sorry.” 

“I know it was your scar! I can tell by the look on your 
face! You were looking into Vol — ” 

“Don’t say his name!” came Ron’s angry voice from 
the depths of the tent. 

“Fine,” retorted Hermione. “You-Know-Who’s mind, 
then!” 

“I didn’t mean it to happen!” Harry said. “It was a 
dream! Can you control what you dream about, 
Hermione?” 

“If you just learned to apply Occlumency — ” 

But Harry was not interested in being told off; he 
wanted to discuss what he had just seen. 

“He’s found Gregorovitch, Hermione, and I think he’s 
killed him, but before he killed him he read 
Gregorovitch ’s mind and I saw — ” 

“I think I’d better take over the watch if you’re so tired 
you’re falling asleep,” said Hermione coldly. 

“I can finish the watch!” 

“No, you’re obviously exhausted. Go and lie down.” 

She dropped down in the mouth of the tent, looking 
stubborn. Angry, but wishing to avoid a row, Harry 
ducked back inside. 

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Ron’s still-pale face was poking out from the lower 
bunk; Harry climbed into the one above him, lay 
down, and looked up at the dark canvas ceiling. After 
several moments, Ron spoke in a voice so low that it 
would not carry to Hermione, huddled in the 
entrance. 

“What’s You-Know-Who doing?” 

Harry screwed up his eyes in the effort to remember 
every detail, then whispered into the darkness. 

“He found Gregorovitch. He had him tied up, he was 
torturing him.” 

“How’s Gregorovitch supposed to make him a new 
wand if he’s tied up?” 

“I dunno. ... It’s weird, isn’t it?” 

Harry closed his eyes, thinking of all he had seen and 
heard. The more he recalled, the less sense it made. 

... Voldemort had said nothing about Harry’s wand, 
nothing about the twin cores, nothing about 
Gregorovitch making a new and more powerful wand 
to beat Harry’s. ... 

“He wanted something from Gregorovitch,” Harry 
said, eyes still closed tight. “He asked him to hand it 
over, but Gregorovitch said it had been stolen from 
him ... and then ... then ...” 

He remembered how he, as Voldemort, had seemed to 
hurtle through Gregorovitch ’s eyes, into his 
memories. ... 

“He read Gregorovitch ’s mind, and I saw this young 
bloke perched on a windowsill, and he fired a curse at 
Gregorovitch and jumped out of sight. He stole it, he 

Page | 317 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




stole whatever You-Know-Who’s after. And I ... I think 
I’ve seen him somewhere. ...” 

Harry wished he could have another glimpse of the 
laughing boy’s face. The theft had happened many 
years ago, according to Gregorovitch. Why did the 
young thief look familiar? 

The noises of the surrounding woods were muffled 
inside the tent; all Harry could hear was Ron’s 
breathing. After a while, Ron whispered, “Couldn’t 
you see what the thief was holding?” 

“No ... it must’ve been something small.” 

“Harry?” 

The wooden slats of Ron’s bunk creaked as he 
repositioned himself in bed. 

“Harry, you don’t reckon You-Know-Who’s after 
something else to turn into a Horcrux?” 

“I don’t know,” said Harry slowly. “Maybe. But 
wouldn’t it be dangerous for him to make another 
one? Didn’t Hermione say he had pushed his soul to 
the limit already?” 

“Yeah, but maybe he doesn’t know that.” 

“Yeah ... maybe,” said Harry. 

He had been sure that Voldemort had been looking 
for a way around the problem of the twin cores, sure 
that Voldemort sought a solution from the old 
wandmaker . . . and yet he had killed him, apparently 
without asking him a single question about wandlore. 



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What was Voldemort trying to find? Why, with the 
Ministry of Magic and the Wizarding world at his feet, 
was he far away, intent on the pursuit of an object 
that Gregorovitch had once owned, and which had 
been stolen by the unknown thief? 

Harry could still see the blond-haired youth’s face; it 
was merry, wild; there was a Fred and George-ish air 
of triumphant trickery about him. He had soared from 
the windowsill like a bird, and Harry had seen him 
before, but he could not think where. ... 

With Gregorovitch dead, it was the merry-faced thief 
who was in danger now, and it was on him that 
Harry’s thoughts dwelled, as Ron’s snores began to 
rumble from the lower bunk and as he himself drifted 
slowly into sleep once more. 



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THE GOBLIN’S REVENGE 

Early next morning, before the other two were awake, 
Harry left the tent to search the woods around them 
for the oldest, most gnarled, and resilient-looking tree 
he could find. There in its shadow he buried Mad-Eye 
Moody’s eye and marked the spot by gouging a small 
cross in the bark with his wand. It was not much, but 
Harry felt that Mad-Eye would have much preferred 
this to being stuck on Dolores Umbridge’s door. Then 
he returned to the tent to wait for the others to wake, 
and discuss what they were going to do next. 

Harry and Hermione felt that it was best not to stay 
anywhere too long, and Ron agreed, with the sole 
proviso that their next move took them within reach 
of a bacon sandwich. Hermione therefore removed the 
enchantments she had placed around the clearing, 
while Harry and Ron obliterated all the marks and 
impressions on the ground that might show they had 
camped there. Then they Disapparated to the 
outskirts of a small market town. 



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Once they had pitched the tent in the shelter of a 
small copse of trees and surrounded it with freshly 
cast defensive enchantments, Harry ventured out 
under the Invisibility Cloak to find sustenance. This, 
however, did not go as planned. He had barely 
entered the town when an unnatural chill, a 
descending mist, and a sudden darkening of the skies 
made him freeze where he stood. 

“But you can make a brilliant Patronus!” protested 
Ron, when Harry arrived back at the tent empty- 
handed, out of breath, and mouthing the single word, 
dementors. 

“I couldn’t ... make one,” he panted, clutching the 
stitch in his side. “Wouldn’t ... come.” 

Their expressions of consternation and 
disappointment made Harry feel ashamed. It had 
been a nightmarish experience, seeing the dementors 
gliding out of the mist in the distance and realizing, 
as the paralyzing cold choked his lungs and a distant 
screaming filled his ears, that he was not going to be 
able to protect himself. It had taken all Harry’s 
willpower to uproot himself from the spot and run, 
leaving the eyeless dementors to glide amongst the 
Muggles who might not be able to see them, but 
would assuredly feel the despair they cast wherever 
they went. 

“So we still haven’t got any food.” 

“Shut up, Ron,” snapped Hermione. “Harry, what 
happened? Why do you think you couldn’t make your 
Patronus? You managed perfectly yesterday!” 

“I don’t know.” 



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He sat low in one of Perkins’s old armchairs, feeling 
more humiliated by the moment. He was afraid that 
something had gone wrong inside him. Yesterday 
seemed a long time ago: Today he might have been 
thirteen years old again, the only one who collapsed 
on the Hogwarts Express. 

Ron kicked a chair leg. 

“What?” he snarled at Hermione. “I’m starving! All I’ve 
had since I bled half to death is a couple of 
toadstools!” 

“You go and fight your way through the dementors, 
then,” said Harry, stung. 

“I would, but my arm’s in a sling, in case you hadn’t 
noticed!” 

“That’s convenient.” 

“And what’s that supposed to — ?” 

“Of course!” cried Hermione, clapping a hand to her 
forehead and startling both of them into silence. 
“Harry, give me the locket! Come on,” she said 
impatiently, clicking her fingers at him when he did 
not react, “the Horcrux, Harry, you’re still wearing it!” 

She held out her hands, and Harry lifted the golden 
chain over his head. The moment it parted contact 
with Harry’s skin he felt free and oddly light. He had 
not even realized that he was clammy or that there 
was a heavy weight pressing on his stomach until 
both sensations lifted. 

“Better?” asked Hermione. 

“Yeah, loads better!” 

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“Harry,” she said, crouching down in front of him and 
using the kind of voice he associated with visiting the 
very sick, “you don’t think you’ve been possessed, do 
you?” 

“What? No!” he said defensively. “I remember 
everything we’ve done while I’ve been wearing it. I 
wouldn’t know what I’d done if I’d been possessed, 
would I? Ginny told me there were times when she 
couldn’t remember anything.” 

“Hmm,” said Hermione, looking down at the heavy 
gold locket. “Well, maybe we ought not to wear it. We 
can just keep it in the tent.” 

“We are not leaving that Horcrux lying around,” Harry 
stated firmly. “If we lose it, if it gets stolen — ” 

“Oh, all right, all right,” said Hermione, and she 
placed it around her own neck and tucked it out of 
sight down the front of her shirt. “But we’ll take turns 
wearing it, so nobody keeps it on too long.” 

“Great,” said Ron irritably, “and now we’ve sorted that 
out, can we please get some food?” 

“Fine, but we’ll go somewhere else to find it,” said 
Hermione with half a glance at Harry. “There’s no 
point staying where we know dementors are swooping 
around.” 

In the end they settled down for the night in a far- 
flung field belonging to a lonely farm, from which they 
had managed to obtain eggs and bread. 

“It’s not stealing, is it?” asked Hermione in a troubled 
voice, as they devoured scrambled eggs on toast. “Not 
if I left some money under the chicken coop?” 



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Ron rolled his eyes and said, with his cheeks bulging, 

“ ’Er-my-nee, ’oo worry ’oo much. ’Elax!” 

And, indeed, it was much easier to relax when they 
were comfortably well fed: The argument about the 
dementors was forgotten in laughter that night, and 
Harry felt cheerful, even hopeful, as he took the first 
of the three night watches. 

This was their first encounter with the fact that a full 
stomach meant good spirits; an empty one, bickering 
and gloom. Harry was least surprised by this, 
because he had suffered periods of near starvation at 
the Dursleys’. Hermione bore up reasonably well on 
those nights when they managed to scavenge nothing 
but berries or stale biscuits, her temper perhaps a 
little shorter than usual and her silences rather dour. 
Ron, however, had always been used to three 
delicious meals a day, courtesy of his mother or of the 
Hogwarts house-elves, and hunger made him both 
unreasonable and irascible. Whenever lack of food 
coincided with Ron’s turn to wear the Horcrux, he 
became downright unpleasant. 

“So where next?” was his constant refrain. He did not 
seem to have any ideas himself, but expected Harry 
and Hermione to come up with plans while he sat and 
brooded over the low food supplies. Accordingly Harry 
and Hermione spent fruitless hours trying to decide 
where they might find the other Horcruxes, and how 
to destroy the one they had already got, their 
conversations becoming increasingly repetitive as 
they had no new information. 

As Dumbledore had told Harry that he believed 
Voldemort had hidden the Horcruxes in places 
important to him, they kept reciting, in a sort of 
dreary litany, those locations they knew that 
Voldemort had lived or visited. The orphanage where 
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he had been born and raised; Hogwarts, where he had 
been educated; Borgin and Burkes, where he had 
worked after completing school; then Albania, where 
he had spent his years of exile: These formed the 
basis of their speculations. 

“Yeah, let’s go to Albania. Shouldn’t take more than 
an afternoon to search an entire country,” said Ron 
sarcastically. 

“There can’t be anything there. He’d already made five 
of his Horcruxes before he went into exile, and 
Dumbledore was certain the snake is the sixth,” said 
Hermione. “We know the snake’s not in Albania, it’s 
usually with Vol — ” 

“Didn’t I ask you to stop saying that?” 

“Fine! The snake is usually with You-Knotu-Who — 
happy?” 

“Not particularly.” 

“I can’t see him hiding anything at Borgin and 
Burkes,” said Harry, who had made this point many 
times before, but said it again simply to break the 
nasty silence. “Borgin and Burke were experts at 
Dark objects, they would’ve recognized a Horcrux 
straightaway.” 

Ron yawned pointedly. Repressing a strong urge to 
throw something at him, Harry plowed on, “I still 
reckon he might have hidden something at 
Hogwarts.” 

Hermione sighed. 

“But Dumbledore would have found it, Harry!” 



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Harry repeated the argument he kept bringing out in 
favor of this theory. 

“Dumbledore said in front of me that he never 
assumed he knew all of Hogwarts’s secrets. I’m telling 
you, if there was one place Vol — ” 

“Oi!” 



“YOU-KNOW-WHO, then!” Harry shouted, goaded 
past endurance. “If there was one place that was 
really important to You-Know-Who, it was Hogwarts!” 

“Oh, come on,” scoffed Ron. “His school?” 

“Yeah, his school! It was his first real home, the place 
that meant he was special; it meant everything to 
him, and even after he left — ” 

“This is You-Know-Who we’re talking about, right? 

Not you?” inquired Ron. He was tugging at the chain 
of the Horcrux around his neck: Harry was visited by 
a desire to seize it and throttle him. 

“You told us that You-Know-Who asked Dumbledore 
to give him a job after he left,” said Hermione. 

“That’s right,” said Harry. 

“And Dumbledore thought he only wanted to come 
back to try and find something, probably another 
founder’s object, to make into another Horcrux?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. 

“But he didn’t get the job, did he?” said Hermione. “So 
he never got the chance to find a founder’s object 
there and hide it in the school!” 



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“Okay, then,” said Harry, defeated. “Forget Hogwarts.” 

Without any other leads, they traveled into London 
and, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, searched 
for the orphanage in which Voldemort had been 
raised. Hermione stole into a library and discovered 
from their records that the place had been 
demolished many years before. They visited its site 
and found a tower block of offices. 

“We could try digging in the foundations?” Hermione 
suggested halfheartedly. 

“He wouldn’t have hidden a Horcrux here,” Harry 
said. He had known it all along: The orphanage had 
been the place Voldemort had been determined to 
escape; he would never have hidden a part of his soul 
there. Dumbledore had shown Harry that Voldemort 
sought grandeur or mystique in his hiding places; 
this dismal gray corner of London was as far removed 
as you could imagine from Hogwarts or the Ministry 
or a building like Gringotts, the Wizarding bank, with 
its golden doors and marble floors. 

Even without any new ideas, they continued to move 
through the countryside, pitching the tent in a 
different place each night for security. Every morning 
they made sure that they had removed all clues to 
their presence, then set off to find another lonely and 
secluded spot, traveling by Apparition to more woods, 
to the shadowy crevices of cliffs, to purple moors, 
gorse-covered mountainsides, and once a sheltered 
and pebbly cove. Every twelve hours or so they 
passed the Horcrux between them as though they 
were playing some perverse, slow-motion game of 
pass-the-parcel, where they dreaded the music 
stopping because the reward was twelve hours of 
increased fear and anxiety. 



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Harry’s scar kept prickling. It happened most often, 
he noticed, when he was wearing the Horcrux. 
Sometimes he could not stop himself reacting to the 
pain. 

“What? What did you see?” demanded Ron, whenever 
he noticed Harry wince. 

“A face,” muttered Harry, every time. “The same face. 
The thief who stole from Gregorovitch.” 

And Ron would turn away, making no effort to hide 
his disappointment. Harry knew that Ron was hoping 
to hear news of his family or of the rest of the Order of 
the Phoenix, but after all, he, Harry, was not a 
television aerial; he could only see what Voldemort 
was thinking at the time, not tune in to whatever took 
his fancy. Apparently Voldemort was dwelling 
endlessly on the unknown youth with the gleeful face, 
whose name and whereabouts, Harry felt sure, 
Voldemort knew no better than he did. As Harry’s 
scar continued to burn and the merry, blond-haired 
boy swam tantalizingly in his memory, he learned to 
suppress any sign of pain or discomfort, for the other 
two showed nothing but impatience at the mention of 
the thief. He could not entirely blame them, when 
they were so desperate for a lead on the Horcruxes. 

As the days stretched into weeks, Harry began to 
suspect that Ron and Hermione were having 
conversations without, and about, him. Several times 
they stopped talking abruptly when Harry entered the 
tent, and twice he came accidentally upon them, 
huddled a little distance away, heads together and 
talking fast; both times they fell silent when they 
realized he was approaching them and hastened to 
appear busy collecting wood or water. 



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Harry could not help wondering whether they had 
only agreed to come on what now felt like a pointless 
and rambling journey because they thought he had 
some secret plan that they would learn in due course. 
Ron was making no effort to hide his bad mood, and 
Harry was starting to fear that Hermione too was 
disappointed by his poor leadership. In desperation 
he tried to think of further Horcrux locations, but the 
only one that continued to occur to him was 
Hogwarts, and as neither of the others thought this at 
all likely, he stopped suggesting it. 

Autumn rolled over the countryside as they moved 
through it: They were now pitching the tent on 
mulches of fallen leaves. Natural mists joined those 
cast by the dementors; wind and rain added to their 
troubles. The fact that Hermione was getting better at 
identifying edible fungi could not altogether 
compensate for their continuing isolation, the lack of 
other people’s company, or their total ignorance of 
what was going on in the war against Voldemort. 

“My mother,” said Ron one night, as they sat in the 
tent on a riverbank in Wales, “can make good food 
appear out of thin air.” 

He prodded moodily at the lumps of charred gray fish 
on his plate. Harry glanced automatically at Ron’s 
neck and saw, as he had expected, the golden chain 
of the Horcrux glinting there. He managed to fight 
down the impulse to swear at Ron, whose attitude 
would, he knew, improve slightly when the time came 
to take off the locket. 

“Your mother can’t produce food out of thin air,” said 
Hermione. “No one can. Food is the first of the five 
Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental 
Transfigur — ” 



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“Oh, speak English, can’t you?” Ron said, prising a 
fish bone out from between his teeth. 

“It’s impossible to make good food out of nothing! You 
can Summon it if you know where it is, you can 
transform it, you can increase the quantity if you’ve 
already got some — ” 

“Well, don’t bother increasing this, it’s disgusting,” 
said Ron. 

“Harry caught the fish and I did my best with it! I 
notice I’m always the one who ends up sorting out the 
food, because I’m a girl, I suppose!” 

“No, it’s because you’re supposed to be the best at 
magic!” shot back Ron. 

Hermione jumped up and bits of roast pike slid off 
her tin plate onto the floor. 

“ You can do the cooking tomorrow, Ron, you can find 
the ingredients and try and charm them into 
something worth eating, and I’ll sit here and pull 
faces and moan and you can see how you — ” 

“Shut up!” said Harry, leaping to his feet and holding 
up both hands. “Shut up now\” 

Hermione looked outraged. 

“How can you side with him, he hardly ever does the 
cook — ” 

“Hermione, be quiet, I can hear someone!” 

He was listening hard, his hands still raised, warning 
them not to talk. Then, over the rush and gush of the 



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dark river beside them, he heard voices again. He 
looked around at the Sneakoscope. It was not moving. 

“You cast the Muffliato charm over us, right?” he 
whispered to Hermione. 

“I did everything,” she whispered back, “Muffliato, 
Muggle-Repelling and Disillusionment Charms, all of 
it. They shouldn’t be able to hear or see us, whoever 
they are.” 

Heavy scuffing and scraping noises, plus the sound of 
dislodged stones and twigs, told them that several 
people were clambering down the steep, wooded slope 
that descended to the narrow bank where they had 
pitched the tent. They drew their wands, waiting. The 
enchantments they had cast around themselves 
ought to be sufficient, in the near total darkness, to 
shield them from the notice of Muggles and normal 
witches and wizards. If these were Death Eaters, then 
perhaps their defenses were about to be tested by 
Dark Magic for the first time. 

The voices became louder but no more intelligible as 
the group of men reached the bank. Harry estimated 
that their owners were fewer than twenty feet away, 
but the cascading river made it impossible to tell for 
sure. Hermione snatched up the beaded bag and 
started to rummage; after a moment she drew out 
three Extendable Ears and threw one each to Harry 
and Ron, who hastily inserted the ends of the flesh- 
colored strings into their ears and fed the other ends 
out of the tent entrance. 

Within seconds Harry heard a weary male voice. 

“There ought to be a few salmon in here, or d’you 
reckon it’s too early in the season? Accio Salmon).” 



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There were several distinct splashes and then the 
slapping sounds of fish against flesh. Somebody 
grunted appreciatively. Harry pressed the Extendable 
Ear deeper into his own: Over the murmur of the river 
he could make out more voices, but they were not 
speaking English or any human language he had ever 
heard. It was a rough and unmelodious tongue, a 
string of rattling, guttural noises, and there seemed to 
be two speakers, one with a slightly lower, slower 
voice than the other. 

A fire danced into life on the other side of the canvas; 
large shadows passed between tent and flames. The 
delicious smell of baking salmon wafted tantalizingly 
in their direction. Then came the clinking of cutlery 
on plates, and the first man spoke again. 

“Here, Griphook, Gornuk.” 

Goblins\ Hermione mouthed at Harry, who nodded. 

“Thank you,” said the goblins together in English. 

“So, you three have been on the run how long?” asked 
a new, mellow, and pleasant voice; it was vaguely 
familiar to Harry, who pictured a round-bellied, 
cheerful-faced man. 

“Six weeks ... seven ... I forget,” said the tired man. 
“Met up with Griphook in the first couple of days and 
joined forces with Gornuk not long after. Nice to have 
a bit of company.” There was a pause, while knives 
scraped plates and tin mugs were picked up and 
replaced on the ground. “What made you leave, Ted?” 
continued the man. 

“Knew they were coming for me,” replied mellow- 
voiced Ted, and Harry suddenly knew who he was: 
Tonks’s father. “Heard Death Eaters were in the area 

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last week and decided I’d better run for it. Refused to 
register as a Muggle-born on principle, see, so I knew 
it was a matter of time, knew I’d have to leave in the 
end. My wife should be okay, she’s pure-blood. And 
then I met Dean here, what, a few days ago, son?” 

“Yeah,” said another voice, and Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione stared at each other, silent but beside 
themselves with excitement, sure they recognized the 
voice of Dean Thomas, their fellow Gryffindor. 

“Muggle-born, eh?” asked the first man. 

“Not sure,” said Dean. “My dad left my mum when I 
was a kid. I’ve got no proof he was a wizard, though.” 

There was silence for a while, except for the sounds of 
munching; then Ted spoke again. 

“I’ve got to say, Dirk, I’m surprised to run into you. 
Pleased, but surprised. Word was you’d been caught.” 

“I was,” said Dirk. “I was halfway to Azkaban when I 
made a break for it, Stunned Dawlish, and nicked his 
broom. It was easier than you’d think; I don’t reckon 
he’s quite right at the moment. Might be Confunded. 

If so, I’d like to shake the hand of the witch or wizard 
who did it, probably saved my life.” 

There was another pause in which the fire crackled 
and the river rushed on. Then Ted said, “And where 
do you two fit in? I, er, had the impression the goblins 
were for You-Know-Who, on the whole.” 

“You had a false impression,” said the higher-voiced 
of the goblins. “We take no sides. This is a wizards’ 
war.” 

“How come you’re in hiding, then?” 

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“I deemed it prudent,” said the deeper-voiced goblin. 
“Having refused what I considered an impertinent 
request, I could see that my personal safety was in 
jeopardy.” 

“What did they ask you to do?” asked Ted. 

“Duties ill-befitting the dignity of my race,” replied the 
goblin, his voice rougher and less human as he said 
it. “I am not a house-elf.” 

“What about you, Griphook?” 

“Similar reasons,” said the higher-voiced goblin. 
“Gringotts is no longer under the sole control of my 
race. I recognize no Wizarding master.” 

He added something under his breath in 
Gobbledegook, and Gornuk laughed. 

“What’s the joke?” asked Dean. 

“He said,” replied Dirk, “that there are things wizards 
don’t recognize, either.” 

There was a short pause. 

“I don’t get it,” said Dean. 

“I had my small revenge before I left,” said Griphook 
in English. 

“Good man — goblin, I should say,” amended Ted 
hastily. “Didn’t manage to lock a Death Eater up in 
one of the old high-security vaults, I suppose?” 

“If I had, the sword would not have helped him break 
out,” replied Griphook. Gornuk laughed again and 
even Dirk gave a dry chuckle. 

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“Dean and I are still missing something here,” said 
Ted. 



“So is Severus Snape, though he does not know it,” 
said Griphook, and the two goblins roared with 
malicious laughter. Inside the tent Harry’s breathing 
was shallow with excitement: He and Hermione stared 
at each other, listening as hard as they could. 

“Didn’t you hear about that, Ted?” asked Dirk. “About 
the kids who tried to steal Gryffindor’s sword out of 
Snape ’s office at Hogwarts?” 

An electric current seemed to course through Harry, 
jangling his every nerve as he stood rooted to the 
spot. 

“Never heard a word,” said Ted. “Not in the Prophet, 
was it?” 

“Hardly,” chortled Dirk. “Griphook here told me, he 
heard about it from Bill Weasley who works for the 
bank. One of the kids who tried to take the sword was 
Bill’s younger sister.” 

Harry glanced toward Hermione and Ron, both of 
whom were clutching the Extendable Ears as tightly 
as lifelines. 

“She and a couple of friends got into Snape ’s office 
and smashed open the glass case where he was 
apparently keeping the sword. Snape caught them as 
they were trying to smuggle it down the staircase.” 

“Ah, God bless ’em,” said Ted. “What did they think, 
that they’d be able to use the sword on You-Know- 
Who? Or on Snape himself?” 



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“Well, whatever they thought they were going to do 
with it, Snape decided the sword wasn’t safe where it 
was,” said Dirk. “Couple of days later, once he’d got 
the say-so from You-Know-Who, I imagine, he sent it 
down to London to be kept in Gringotts instead.” 

The goblins started to laugh again. 

“I’m still not seeing the joke,” said Ted. 

“It’s a fake,” rasped Griphook. 

“The sword of Gryffindor!” 

“Oh yes. It is a copy — an excellent copy, it is true — 
but it was Wizard-made. The original was forged 
centuries ago by goblins and had certain properties 
only goblin-made armor possesses. Wherever the 
genuine sword of Gryffindor is, it is not in a vault at 
Gringotts bank.” 

“I see,” said Ted. “And I take it you didn’t bother 
telling the Death Eaters this?” 

“I saw no reason to trouble them with the 
information,” said Griphook smugly, and now Ted and 
Dean joined in Gornuk and Dirk’s laughter. 

Inside the tent, Harry closed his eyes, willing someone 
to ask the question he needed answered, and after a 
minute that seemed ten, Dean obliged; he was (Harry 
remembered with a jolt) an ex-boyfriend of Ginny’s 
too. 

“What happened to Ginny and the others? The ones 
who tried to steal it?” 

“Oh, they were punished, and cruelly,” said Griphook 
indifferently. 

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“They’re okay, though?” asked Ted quickly. “I mean, 
the Weasleys don’t need any more of their kids 
injured, do they?” 

“They suffered no serious injury, as far as I am 
aware,” said Griphook. 

“Lucky for them,” said Ted. “With Snape’s track 
record I suppose we should just be glad they’re still 
alive.” 

“You believe that story, then, do you, Ted?” asked 
Dirk. “You believe Snape killed Dumbledore?” 

“ ’Course I do,” said Ted. “You’re not going to sit there 
and tell me you think Potter had anything to do with 
it?” 



“Hard to know what to believe these days,” muttered 
Dirk. 

“I know Harry Potter,” said Dean. “And I reckon he’s 
the real thing — the Chosen One, or whatever you 
want to call it.” 

“Yeah, there’s a lot would like to believe he’s that, 
son,” said Dirk, “me included. But where is he? Run 
for it, by the looks of things. You’d think, if he knew 
anything we don’t, or had anything special going for 
him, he’d be out there now fighting, rallying 
resistance, instead of hiding. And you know, the 
Prophet made a pretty good case against him — ” 

“The Prophet?” scoffed Ted. “You deserve to be lied to 
if you’re still reading that muck, Dirk. You want the 
facts, try the Quibbler.” 

There was a sudden explosion of choking and 
retching, plus a good deal of thumping; by the sound 

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of it, Dirk had swallowed a fish bone. At last he 
spluttered, “The Quibbler? That lunatic rag of Xeno 
Lovegood’s?” 

“It’s not so lunatic these days,” said Ted. “You want to 
give it a look. Xeno is printing all the stuff the 
Prophet’s ignoring, not a single mention of Crumple- 
Horned Snorkacks in the last issue. How long they’ll 
let him get away with it, mind, I don’t know. But Xeno 
says, front page of every issue, that any wizard who’s 
against You-Know-Who ought to make helping Harry 
Potter their number-one priority.” 

“Hard to help a boy who’s vanished off the face of the 
earth,” said Dirk. 

“Listen, the fact that they haven’t caught him yet’s 
one hell of an achievement,” said Ted. “I’d take tips 
from him gladly; it’s what we’re trying to do, stay free, 
isn’t it?” 

“Yeah, well, you’ve got a point there,” said Dirk 
heavily. “With the whole of the Ministry and all their 
informers looking for him I’d have expected him to be 
caught by now. Mind, who’s to say they haven’t 
already caught and killed him without publicizing it?” 

“Ah, don’t say that, Dirk,” murmured Ted. 

There was a long pause filled with more clattering of 
knives and forks. When they spoke again it was to 
discuss whether they ought to sleep on the bank or 
retreat back up the wooded slope. Deciding the trees 
would give better cover, they extinguished their fire, 
then clambered back up the incline, their voices 
fading away. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione reeled in the Extendable 
Ears. Harry, who had found the need to remain silent 

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increasingly difficult the longer they eavesdropped, 
now found himself unable to say more than, “Ginny 
— the sword — ” 

“I know!” said Hermione. 

She lunged for the tiny beaded bag, this time sinking 
her arm in it right up to the armpit. 

“Here ... we ... are ...” she said between gritted teeth, 
and she pulled at something that was evidently in the 
depths of the bag. Slowly the edge of an ornate 
picture frame came into sight. Harry hurried to help 
her. As they lifted the empty portrait of Phineas 
Nigellus free of Hermione’s bag, she kept her wand 
pointing at it, ready to cast a spell at any moment. 

“If somebody swapped the real sword for the fake 
while it was in Dumbledore’s office,” she panted, as 
they propped the painting against the side of the tent, 
“Phineas Nigellus would have seen it happen, he 
hangs right beside the case!” 

“Unless he was asleep,” said Harry, but he still held 
his breath as Hermione knelt down in front of the 
empty canvas, her wand directed at its center, cleared 
her throat, then said: 

“Er — Phineas? Phineas Nigellus?” 

Nothing happened. 

“Phineas Nigellus?” said Hermione again. “Professor 
Black? Please could we talk to you? Please?” 

“ ‘Please’ always helps,” said a cold, snide voice, and 
Phineas Nigellus slid into his portrait. At once, 
Hermione cried: 



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“Obscuro\” 



A black blindfold appeared over Phineas Nigellus’s 
clever, dark eyes, causing him to bump into the frame 
and shriek with pain. 

“What — how dare — what are you — ?” 

“I’m very sorry, Professor Black,” said Hermione, “but 
it’s a necessary precaution!” 

“Remove this foul addition at once! Remove it, I say! 
You are ruining a great work of art! Where am I? 

What is going on?” 

“Never mind where we are,” said Harry, and Phineas 
Nigellus froze, abandoning his attempts to peel off the 
painted blindfold. 

“Can that possibly be the voice of the elusive Mr. 
Potter?” 

“Maybe,” said Harry, knowing that this would keep 
Phineas Nigellus’s interest. “We’ve got a couple of 
questions to ask you — about the sword of 
Gryffindor.” 

“Ah,” said Phineas Nigellus, now turning his head this 
way and that in an effort to catch sight of Harry, “yes. 
That silly girl acted most unwisely there — ” 

“Shut up about my sister,” said Ron roughly. Phineas 
Nigellus raised supercilious eyebrows. 

“Who else is here?” he asked, turning his head from 
side to side. “Your tone displeases me! The girl and 
her friends were foolhardy in the extreme. Thieving 
from the headmaster!” 



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“They weren’t thieving,” said Harry. “That sword isn’t 
Snape’s.” 

“It belongs to Professor Snape’s school,” said Phineas 
Nigellus. “Exactly what claim did the Weasley girl 
have upon it? She deserved her punishment, as did 
the idiot Longbottom and the Lovegood oddity!” 

“Neville is not an idiot and Luna is not an oddity!” 
said Hermione. 

“Where am I?” repeated Phineas Nigellus, starting to 
wrestle with the blindfold again. “Where have you 
brought me? Why have you removed me from the 
house of my forebears?” 

“Never mind that! How did Snape punish Ginny, 
Neville, and Luna?” asked Harry urgently. 

“Professor Snape sent them into the Forbidden Forest, 
to do some work for the oaf, Hagrid.” 

“Hagrid’s not an oaf!” said Hermione shrilly. 

“And Snape might’ve thought that was a 
punishment,” said Harry, “but Ginny, Neville, and 
Luna probably had a good laugh with Hagrid. The 
Forbidden Forest ... they’ve faced plenty worse than 
the Forbidden Forest, big deal!” 

He felt relieved; he had been imagining horrors, the 
Cruciatus Curse at the very least. 

“What we really wanted to know, Professor Black, is 
whether anyone else has, um, taken out the sword at 
all? Maybe it’s been taken away for cleaning or — or 
something?” 



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Phineas Nigellus paused again in his struggles to free 
his eyes and sniggered. 

“ Muggle-borns,” he said. “Goblin-made armor does not 
require cleaning, simple girl. Goblins’ silver repels 
mundane dirt, imbibing only that which strengthens 
it.” 

“Don’t call Hermione simple,” said Harry. 

“I grow weary of contradiction,” said Phineas Nigellus. 
“Perhaps it is time for me to return to the 
headmaster’s office?” 

Still blindfolded, he began groping the side of his 
frame, trying to feel his way out of his picture and 
back into the one at Hogwarts. Harry had a sudden 
inspiration. 

“Dumbledore! Can’t you bring us Dumbledore?” 

“I beg your pardon?” asked Phineas Nigellus. 

“Professor Dumbledore’s portrait — couldn’t you bring 
him along, here, into yours?” 

Phineas Nigellus turned his face in the direction of 
Harry’s voice. 

“Evidently it is not only Muggle-borns who are 
ignorant, Potter. The portraits of Hogwarts may 
commune with each other, but they cannot travel 
outside the castle except to visit a painting of 
themselves hanging elsewhere. Dumbledore cannot 
come here with me, and after the treatment I have 
received at your hands, I can assure you that I shall 
not be making a return visit!” 



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Slightly crestfallen, Harry watched Phineas redouble 
his attempts to leave his frame. 

“Professor Black,” said Hermione, “couldn’t you just 
tell us, please, when was the last time the sword was 
taken out of its case? Before Ginny took it out, I 
mean?” 

Phineas snorted impatiently. 

“I believe that the last time I saw the sword of 
Gryffindor leave its case was when Professor 
Dumbledore used it to break open a ring.” 

Hermione whipped around to look at Harry. Neither of 
them dared say more in front of Phineas Nigellus, who 
had at last managed to locate the exit. 

“Well, good night to you,” he said a little waspishly, 
and he began to move out of sight again. Only the 
edge of his hat brim remained in view when Harry 
gave a sudden shout. 

“Wait! Have you told Snape you saw this?” 

Phineas Nigellus stuck his blindfolded head back into 
the picture. 

“Professor Snape has more important things on his 
mind than the many eccentricities of Albus 
Dumbledore. Good-bye, Potter!” 

And with that, he vanished completely, leaving behind 
him nothing but his murky backdrop. 

“Harry!” Hermione cried. 

“I know!” Harry shouted. Unable to contain himself, 
he punched the air; it was more than he had dared to 

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hope for. He strode up and down the tent, feeling that 
he could have run a mile; he did not even feel hungry 
anymore. Hermione was squashing Phineas Nigellus’s 
portrait back into the beaded bag; when she had 
fastened the clasp she threw the bag aside and raised 
a shining face to Harry. 

“The sword can destroy Horcruxes! Goblin-made 
blades imbibe only that which strengthen them — 
Harry, that sword’s impregnated with basilisk 
venom!” 

“And Dumbledore didn’t give it to me because he still 
needed it, he wanted to use it on the locket — ” 

“ — and he must have realized they wouldn’t let you 
have it if he put it in his will — ” 

“ — so he made a copy — ” 

“ — and put a fake in the glass case — ” 

“ — and he left the real one — where?” 

They gazed at each other; Harry felt that the answer 
was dangling invisibly in the air above them, 
tantalizingly close. Why hadn’t Dumbledore told him? 
Or had he, in fact, told Harry, but Harry had not 
realized it at the time? 

“Think!” whispered Hermione. “Think! Where would 
he have left it?” 

“Not at Hogwarts,” said Harry, resuming his pacing. 

“Somewhere in Hogsmeade?” suggested Hermione. 

“The Shrieking Shack?” said Harry. “Nobody ever goes 
in there.” 

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“But Snape knows how to get in, wouldn’t that be a 
bit risky?” 

“Dumbledore trusted Snape,” Harry reminded her. 

“Not enough to tell him that he had swapped the 
swords,” said Hermione. 

“Yeah, you’re right!” said Harry, and he felt even more 
cheered at the thought that Dumbledore had had 
some reservations, however faint, about Snape ’s 
trustworthiness. “So, would he have hidden the sword 
well away from Hogsmeade, then? What d’you reckon, 
Ron? Ron?” 

Harry looked around. For one bewildered moment he 
thought that Ron had left the tent, then realized that 
Ron was lying in the shadow of a lower bunk, looking 
stony. 

“Oh, remembered me, have you?” he said. 

“What?” 

Ron snorted as he stared up at the underside of the 
upper bunk. 

“You two carry on. Don’t let me spoil your fun.” 

Perplexed, Harry looked to Hermione for help, but she 
shook her head, apparently as nonplussed as he was. 

“What’s the problem?” asked Harry. 

“Problem? There’s no problem,” said Ron, still 
refusing to look at Harry. “Not according to you, 
anyway.” 



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There were several plunks on the canvas over their 
heads. It had started to rain. 



“Well, you’ve obviously got a problem,” said Harry. 
“Spit it out, will you?” 

Ron swung his long legs off the bed and sat up. He 
looked mean, unlike himself. 

“All right, I’ll spit it out. Don’t expect me to skip up 
and down the tent because there’s some other damn 
thing we’ve got to find. Just add it to the list of stuff 
you don’t know.” 

“I don’t know?” repeated Harry, “I don’t know?” 

Plunk, plunk, plunk. The rain was falling harder and 
heavier; it pattered on the leaf-strewn bank all around 
them and into the river chattering through the dark. 
Dread doused Harry’s jubilation: Ron was saying 
exactly what he had suspected and feared him to be 
thinking. 

“It’s not like I’m not having the time of my life here,” 
said Ron, “you know, with my arm mangled and 
nothing to eat and freezing my backside off every 
night. I just hoped, you know, after we’d been 
running round a few weeks, we’d have achieved 
something.” 

“Ron,” Hermione said, but in such a quiet voice that 
Ron could pretend not to have heard it over the loud 
tattoo the rain was now beating on the tent. 

“I thought you knew what you’d signed up for,” said 
Harry. 

“Yeah, I thought I did too.” 

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“So what part of it isn’t living up to your 
expectations?” asked Harry. Anger was coming to his 
defense now. “Did you think we’d be staying in five- 
star hotels? Finding a Horcrux every other day? Did 
you think you’d be back to Mummy by Christmas?” 

“We thought you knew what you were doing!” shouted 
Ron, standing up, and his words pierced Harry like 
scalding knives. “We thought Dumbledore had told 
you what to do, we thought you had a real plan!” 

“Ron!” said Hermione, this time clearly audible over 
the rain thundering on the tent roof, but again, he 
ignored her. 

“Well, sorry to let you down,” said Harry, his voice 
quite calm even though he felt hollow, inadequate. 

“I’ve been straight with you from the start, I told you 
everything Dumbledore told me. And in case you 
haven’t noticed, we’ve found one Horcrux — ” 

“Yeah, and we’re about as near getting rid of it as we 
are to finding the rest of them — nowhere effing near, 
in other words!” 

“Take off the locket, Ron,” Hermione said, her voice 
unusually high. “Please take it off. You wouldn’t be 
talking like this if you hadn’t been wearing it all day.” 

“Yeah, he would,” said Harry, who did not want 
excuses made for Ron. “D’you think I haven’t noticed 
the two of you whispering behind my back? D’you 
think I didn’t guess you were thinking this stuff?” 

“Harry, we weren’t — ” 

“Don’t lie!” Ron hurled at her. “You said it too, you 
said you were disappointed, you said you’d thought 
he had a bit more to go on than — ” 

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“I didn’t say it like that — Harry, I didn’t!” she cried. 



The rain was pounding the tent, tears were pouring 
down Hermione’s face, and the excitement of a few 
minutes before had vanished as if it had never been, a 
short-lived firework that had flared and died, leaving 
everything dark, wet, and cold. The sword of 
Gryffindor was hidden they knew not where, and they 
were three teenagers in a tent whose only 
achievement was not, yet, to be dead. 

“So why are you still here?” Harry asked Ron. 

“Search me,” said Ron. 

“Go home then,” said Harry. 

“Yeah, maybe I will!” shouted Ron, and he took 
several steps toward Harry, who did not back away. 
“Didn’t you hear what they said about my sister? But 
you don’t give a rat’s fart, do you, it’s only the 
Forbidden Forest, Harry I’ve-Faced-Worse Potter 
doesn’t care what happens to her in here — well, I do, 
all right, giant spiders and mental stuff — ” 

“I was only saying — she was with the others, they 
were with Hagrid — ” 

“Yeah, I get it, you don’t care! And what about the 
rest of my family, ‘the Weasleys don’t need another 
kid injured,’ did you hear that?” 

“Yeah, I — ” 

“Not bothered what it meant, though?” 

“Ron!” said Hermione, forcing her way between them. 
“I don’t think it means anything new has happened, 
anything we don’t know about; think, Ron, Bill’s 

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already scarred, plenty of people must have seen that 
George has lost an ear by now, and you’re supposed 
to be on your deathbed with spattergroit, I’m sure 
that’s all he meant — ” 

“Oh, you’re sure, are you? Right then, well, I won’t 
bother myself about them. It’s all right for you two, 
isn’t it, with your parents safely out of the way — ” 

“My parents are dead).” Harry bellowed. 

“And mine could be going the same way!” yelled Ron. 

“Then GO!” roared Harry. “Go back to them, pretend 
you’ve got over your spattergroit and Mummy’ll be 
able to feed you up and — ” 

Ron made a sudden movement: Harry reacted, but 
before either wand was clear of its owner’s pocket, 
Hermione had raised her own. 

“Protego\” she cried, and an invisible shield expanded 
between her and Harry on the one side and Ron on 
the other; all of them were forced backward a few 
steps by the strength of the spell, and Harry and Ron 
glared from either side of the transparent barrier as 
though they were seeing each other clearly for the 
first time. Harry felt a corrosive hatred toward Ron: 
Something had broken between them. 

“Leave the Horcrux,” Harry said. 

Ron wrenched the chain from over his head and cast 
the locket into a nearby chair. He turned to 
Hermione. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What do you mean?” 

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“Are you staying, or what?” 

“I ...” She looked anguished. “Yes — yes, I’m staying. 
Ron, we said we’d go with Harry, we said we’d help — ” 

“I get it. You choose him.” 

“Ron, no — please — come back, come back!” 

She was impeded by her own Shield Charm; by the 
time she had removed it he had already stormed into 
the night. Harry stood quite still and silent, listening 
to her sobbing and calling Ron’s name amongst the 
trees. 

After a few minutes she returned, her sopping hair 
plastered to her face. 

“He’s g-g-gone! Disapparated!” 

She threw herself into a chair, curled up, and started 
to cry. 

Harry felt dazed. He stooped, picked up the Horcrux, 
and placed it around his own neck. He dragged 
blankets off Ron’s bunk and threw them over 
Hermione. Then he climbed onto his own bed and 
stared up at the dark canvas roof, listening to the 
pounding of the rain. 



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GODRIC’S HOLLOW 

When Harry woke the following day it was several 
seconds before he remembered what had happened. 
Then he hoped, childishly, that it had been a dream, 
that Ron was still there and had never left. Yet by 
turning his head on his pillow he could see Ron’s 
deserted bunk. It was like a dead body in the way it 
seemed to draw his eyes. Harry jumped down from 
his own bed, keeping his eyes averted from Ron’s. 
Hermione, who was already busy in the kitchen, did 
not wish Harry good morning, but turned her face 
away quickly as he went by. 

He’s gone, Harry told himself. He’s gone. He had to 
keep thinking it as he washed and dressed, as though 
repetition would dull the shock of it. He’s gone and 
he’s not coming back. And that was the simple truth 
of it, Harry knew, because their protective 
enchantments meant that it would be impossible, 
once they vacated this spot, for Ron to find them 
again. 



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He and Hermione ate breakfast in silence. Hermione ’s 
eyes were puffy and red; she looked as if she had not 
slept. They packed up their things, Hermione 
dawdling. Harry knew why she wanted to spin out 
their time on the riverbank; several times he saw her 
look up eagerly, and he was sure she had deluded 
herself into thinking that she heard footsteps through 
the heavy rain, but no red-haired figure appeared 
between the trees. Every time Harry imitated her, 
looked around (for he could not help hoping a little, 
himself) and saw nothing but rain-swept woods, 
another little parcel of fury exploded inside him. He 
could hear Ron saying, “ We thought you knew what 
you were doing \” , and he resumed packing with a 
hard knot in the pit of his stomach. 

The muddy river beside them was rising rapidly and 
would soon spill over onto their bank. They had 
lingered a good hour after they would usually have 
departed their campsite. Finally having entirely 
repacked the beaded bag three times, Hermione 
seemed unable to find any more reasons to delay: She 
and Harry grasped hands and Disapparated, 
reappearing on a windswept heather-covered hillside. 

The instant they arrived, Hermione dropped Harry’s 
hand and walked away from him, finally sitting down 
on a large rock, her face on her knees, shaking with 
what he knew were sobs. He watched her, supposing 
that he ought to go and comfort her, but something 
kept him rooted to the spot. Everything inside him felt 
cold and tight: Again he saw the contemptuous 
expression on Ron’s face. Harry strode off through the 
heather, walking in a large circle with the distraught 
Hermione at its center, casting the spells she usually 
performed to ensure their protection. 

They did not discuss Ron at all over the next few 
days. Harry was determined never to mention his 

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name again, and Hermione seemed to know that it 
was no use forcing the issue, although sometimes at 
night when she thought he was sleeping, he would 
hear her crying. Meanwhile Harry had started 
bringing out the Marauder’s Map and examining it by 
wandlight. He was waiting for the moment when 
Ron’s labeled dot would reappear in the corridors of 
Hogwarts, proving that he had returned to the 
comfortable castle, protected by his status of 
pureblood. However, Ron did not appear on the map, 
and after a while Harry found himself taking it out 
simply to stare at Ginny’s name in the girls’ 
dormitory, wondering whether the intensity with 
which he gazed at it might break into her sleep, that 
she would somehow know he was thinking about her, 
hoping that she was all right. 

By day, they devoted themselves to trying to 
determine the possible locations of Gryffindor’s 
sword, but the more they talked about the places in 
which Dumbledore might have hidden it, the more 
desperate and far-fetched their speculation became. 
Cudgel his brains though he might, Harry could not 
remember Dumbledore ever mentioning a place in 
which he might hide something. There were moments 
when he did not know whether he was angrier with 
Ron or with Dumbledore. We thought you knew what 
you were doing. . . . We thought Dumbledore had told 
you what to do. . . . We thought you had a real plan\ 

He could not hide it from himself: Ron had been right. 
Dumbledore had left him with virtually nothing. They 
had discovered one Horcrux, but they had no means 
of destroying it: The others were as unattainable as 
they had ever been. Hopelessness threatened to 
engulf him. He was staggered now to think of his own 
presumption in accepting his friends’ offers to 
accompany him on this meandering, pointless 
journey. He knew nothing, he had no ideas, and he 
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was constantly, painfully on the alert for any 
indication that Hermione too was about to tell him 
that she had had enough, that she was leaving. 

They were spending many evenings in near silence, 
and Hermione took to bringing out Phineas Nigellus’s 
portrait and propping it up in a chair, as though he 
might fill part of the gaping hole left by Ron’s 
departure. Despite his previous assertion that he 
would never visit them again, Phineas Nigellus did not 
seem able to resist the chance to find out more about 
what Harry was up to, and consented to reappear, 
blindfolded, every few days or so. Harry was even glad 
to see him, because he was company, albeit of a snide 
and taunting kind. They relished any news about 
what was happening at Hogwarts, though Phineas 
Nigellus was not an ideal informer. He venerated 
Snape, the first Slytherin headmaster since he 
himself had controlled the school, and they had to be 
careful not to criticize or ask impertinent questions 
about Snape, or Phineas Nigellus would instantly 
leave his painting. 

However, he did let drop certain snippets. Snape 
seemed to be facing a constant, low level of mutiny 
from a hard core of students. Ginny had been banned 
from going into Hogsmeade. Snape had reinstated 
Umbridge’s old decree forbidding gatherings of three 
or more students or any unofficial student societies. 

From all of these things, Harry deduced that Ginny, 
and probably Neville and Luna along with her, had 
been doing their best to continue Dumbledore’s Army. 
This scant news made Harry want to see Ginny so 
badly it felt like a stomachache; but it also made him 
think of Ron again, and of Dumbledore, and of 
Hogwarts itself, which he missed nearly as much as 
his ex-girlfriend. Indeed, as Phineas Nigellus talked 
about Snape ’s crackdown, Harry experienced a split 
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second of madness when he imagined simply going 
back to school to join the destabilization of Snape’s 
regime: Being fed, and having a soft bed, and other 
people being in charge, seemed the most wonderful 
prospect in the world at that moment. But then he 
remembered that he was Undesirable Number One, 
that there was a ten-thousand-Galleon price on his 
head, and that to walk into Hogwarts these days was 
just as dangerous as walking into the Ministry of 
Magic. Indeed, Phineas Nigellus inadvertently 
emphasized this fact by slipping in leading questions 
about Harry and Hermione’s whereabouts. Hermione 
shoved him back inside the beaded bag every time he 
did this, and Phineas Nigellus invariably refused to 
reappear for several days after these unceremonious 
good-byes. 

The weather grew colder and colder. They did not 
dare remain in any one area too long, so rather than 
staying in the south of England, where a hard ground 
frost was the worst of their worries, they continued to 
meander up and down the country, braving a 
mountainside, where sleet pounded the tent; a wide, 
flat marsh, where the tent was flooded with chill 
water; and a tiny island in the middle of a Scottish 
loch, where snow half buried the tent in the night. 

They had already spotted Christmas trees twinkling 
from several sitting room windows before there came 
an evening when Harry resolved to suggest, again, 
what seemed to him the only unexplored avenue left 
to them. They had just eaten an unusually good meal: 
Hermione had been to a supermarket under the 
Invisibility Cloak (scrupulously dropping the money 
into an open till as she left), and Harry thought that 
she might be more persuadable than usual on a 
stomach full of spaghetti Bolognese and tinned pears. 
He had also had the foresight to suggest that they 
take a few hours’ break from wearing the Horcrux, 
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which was hanging over the end of the bunk beside 
him. 



“Hermione?” 

“Hmm?” She was curled up in one of the sagging 
armchairs with The Tales of Beedle the Bard. He could 
not imagine how much more she could get out of the 
book, which was not, after all, very long; but evidently 
she was still deciphering something in it, because 
Spellman’s Syllabary lay open on the arm of the chair. 

Harry cleared his throat. He felt exactly as he had 
done on the occasion, several years previously, when 
he had asked Professor McGonagall whether he could 
go into Hogsmeade, despite the fact that he had not 
persuaded the Dursleys to sign his permission slip. 

“Hermione, I’ve been thinking, and — ” 

“Harry, could you help me with something?” 

Apparently she had not been listening to him. She 
leaned forward and held out The Tales of Beedle the 
Bard. 

“Look at that symbol,” she said, pointing to the top of 
a page. Above what Harry assumed was the title of 
the story (being unable to read runes, he could not be 
sure) , there was a picture of what looked like a 
triangular eye, its pupil crossed with a vertical line. 

“I never took Ancient Runes, Hermione.” 

“I know that, but it isn’t a rune and it’s not in the 
syllabary, either. All along I thought it was a picture 
of an eye, but I don’t think it is! It’s been inked in, 
look, somebody’s drawn it there, it isn’t really part of 
the book. Think, have you ever seen it before?” 

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“No ... No, wait a moment.” Harry looked closer. “Isn’t 
it the same symbol Luna’s dad was wearing round his 
neck?” 



“Well, that’s what I thought too!” 

“Then it’s Grindelwald’s mark.” 

She stared at him, openmouthed. 

“What?” 

“Krum told me ...” 

He recounted the story that Viktor Krum had told him 
at the wedding. Hermione looked astonished. 

“ Grindelwald’s mark?” 

She looked from Harry to the weird symbol and back 
again. “I’ve never heard that Grindelwald had a mark. 
There’s no mention of it in anything I’ve ever read 
about him.” 

“Well, like I say, Krum reckoned that symbol was 
carved on a wall at Durmstrang, and Grindelwald put 
it there.” 

She fell back into the old armchair, frowning. 

“That’s very odd. If it’s a symbol of Dark Magic, what’s 
it doing in a book of children’s stories?” 

“Yeah, it is weird,” said Harry. “And you’d think 
Scrimgeour would have recognized it. He was 
Minister, he ought to have been expert on Dark stuff.” 



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“I know. ... Perhaps he thought it was an eye, just like 
I did. All the other stories have little pictures over the 
titles.” 



She did not speak, but continued to pore over the 
strange mark. Harry tried again. 

“Hermione?” 

“Hmm?” 

“I’ve been thinking. I — I want to go to Godric’s 
Hollow.” 

She looked up at him, but her eyes were unfocused, 
and he was sure she was still thinking about the 
mysterious mark on the book. 

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’ve been wondering that too. I 
really think we’ll have to.” 

“Did you hear me right?” he asked. 

“Of course I did. You want to go to Godric’s Hollow. I 
agree, I think we should. I mean, I can’t think of 
anywhere else it could be either. It’ll be dangerous, 
but the more I think about it, the more likely it seems 
it’s there.” 

“Er — what’s there?” asked Harry. 

At that, she looked just as bewildered as he felt. 

“Well, the sword, Harry! Dumbledore must have 
known you’d want to go back there, and I mean, 
Godric’s Hollow is Godric Gryffindor’s birthplace — ” 

“Really? Gryffindor came from Godric’s Hollow?” 

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“Harry, did you ever even open A History of Magic?” 



“Erm,” he said, smiling for what felt like the first time 
in months: The muscles in his face felt oddly stiff. “I 
might’ve opened it, you know, when I bought it ... just 
the once. ...” 

“Well, as the village is named after him I’d have 
thought you might have made the connection,” said 
Hermione. She sounded much more like her old self 
than she had done of late; Harry half expected her to 
announce that she was off to the library. “There’s a 
bit about the village in A History of Magic, wait ...” 

She opened the beaded bag and rummaged for a 
while, finally extracting her copy of their old school 
textbook, A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot, 
which she thumbed through until finding the page 
she wanted. 

“ ‘Upon the signature of the International Statute of 
Secrecy in 1689, wizards went into hiding for good. It 
was natural, perhaps, that they formed their own 
small communities within a community. Many small 
villages and hamlets attracted several magical 
families, who banded together for mutual support and 
protection. The villages of Tinworth in Cornwall, Upper 
Flagley in Yorkshire, and Ottery St. Catchpole on the 
south coast of England were notable homes to knots of 
Wizarding families who lived alongside tolerant and 
sometimes Confunded Muggles. Most celebrated of 
these half-magical dwelling places is, perhaps, 

Godric’s Hollow, the West Country village where the 
great wizard Godric Gryffindor was born, and where 
Bowman Wright, Wizarding smith, forged the first 
Golden Snitch. The graveyard is full of the names of 
ancient magical families, and this accounts, no doubt, 
for the stories of hauntings that have dogged the little 
church beside it for many centuries.’ 

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“You and your parents aren’t mentioned,” Hermione 
said, closing the book, “because Professor Bagshot 
doesn’t cover anything later than the end of the 
nineteenth century. But you see? Godric’s Hollow, 
Godric Gryffindor, Gryffindor’s sword; don’t you think 
Dumbledore would have expected you to make the 
connection?” 

“Oh yeah ...” 

Harry did not want to admit that he had not been 
thinking about the sword at all when he suggested 
they go to Godric’s Hollow. For him, the lure of the 
village lay in his parents’ graves, the house where he 
had narrowly escaped death, and in the person of 
Bathilda Bagshot. 

“Remember what Muriel said?” he asked eventually. 
“Who?” 

“You know,” he hesitated: He did not want to say 
Ron’s name. “Ginny’s great-aunt. At the wedding. The 
one who said you had skinny ankles.” 

“Oh,” said Hermione. It was a sticky moment: Harry 
knew that she had sensed Ron’s name in the offing. 
He rushed on: 

“She said Bathilda Bagshot still lives in Godric’s 
Hollow.” 

“Bathilda Bagshot,” murmured Hermione, running 
her index finger over Bathilda’s embossed name on 
the front cover of A History of Magic. “Well, I suppose 



She gasped so dramatically that Harry’s insides 
turned over; he drew his wand, looking around at the 

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entrance, half expecting to see a hand forcing its way 
through the entrance flap, but there was nothing 
there. 

“What?” he said, half angry, half relieved. “What did 
you do that for? I thought you’d seen a Death Eater 
unzipping the tent, at least — ” 

“Harry, what if Bathilda’ s got the sword? What if 
Dumbledore entrusted it to her?” 

Harry considered this possibility. Bathilda would be 
an extremely old woman by now, and according to 
Muriel, she was “gaga.” Was it likely that Dumbledore 
would have hidden the sword of Gryffindor with her? 

If so, Harry felt that Dumbledore had left a great deal 
to chance: Dumbledore had never revealed that he 
had replaced the sword with a fake, nor had he so 
much as mentioned a friendship with Bathilda. Now, 
however, was not the moment to cast doubt on 
Hermione’s theory, not when she was so surprisingly 
willing to fall in with Harry’s dearest wish. 

“Yeah, he might have done! So, are we going to go to 
Godric’s Hollow?” 

“Yes, but we’ll have to think it through carefully, 
Harry.” She was sitting up now, and Harry could tell 
that the prospect of having a plan again had lifted her 
mood as much as his. “We’ll need to practice 
Disapparating together under the Invisibility Cloak for 
a start, and perhaps Disillusionment Charms would 
be sensible too, unless you think we should go the 
whole hog and use Polyjuice Potion? In that case we’ll 
need to collect hair from somebody. I actually think 
we’d better do that, Harry, the thicker our disguises 
the better. ...” 



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Harry let her talk, nodding and agreeing whenever 
there was a pause, but his mind had left the 
conversation. For the first time since he had 
discovered that the sword in Gringotts was a fake, he 
felt excited. 

He was about to go home, about to return to the place 
where he had had a family. It was in Godric’s Hollow 
that, but for Voldemort, he would have grown up and 
spent every school holiday. He could have invited 
friends to his house. ... He might even have had 
brothers and sisters. ... It would have been his 
mother who had made his seventeenth birthday cake. 
The life he had lost had hardly ever seemed so real to 
him as at this moment, when he knew he was about 
to see the place where it had been taken from him. 
After Hermione had gone to bed that night, Harry 
quietly extracted his rucksack from Hermione ’s 
beaded bag, and from inside it, the photograph album 
Hagrid had given him so long ago. For the first time in 
months, he perused the old pictures of his parents, 
smiling and waving up at him from the images, which 
were all he had left of them now. 

Harry would gladly have set out for Godric’s Hollow 
the following day, but Hermione had other ideas. 
Convinced as she was that Voldemort would expect 
Harry to return to the scene of his parents’ deaths, 
she was determined that they would set off only after 
they had ensured that they had the best disguises 
possible. It was therefore a full week later — once 
they had surreptitiously obtained hairs from innocent 
Muggles who were Christmas shopping, and had 
practiced Apparating and Disapparating while 
underneath the Invisibility Cloak together — that 
Hermione agreed to make the journey. 

They were to Apparate to the village under cover of 
darkness, so it was late afternoon when they finally 

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swallowed Polyjuice Potion, Harry transforming into a 
balding, middle-aged Muggle man, Hermione into his 
small and rather mousy wife. The beaded bag 
containing all of their possessions (apart from the 
Horcrux, which Harry was wearing around his neck) 
was tucked into an inside pocket of Hermione ’s 
buttoned-up coat. Harry lowered the Invisibility Cloak 
over them, then they turned into the suffocating 
darkness once again. 

Heart beating in his throat, Harry opened his eyes. 
They were standing hand in hand in a snowy lane 
under a dark blue sky, in which the night’s first stars 
were already glimmering feebly. Cottages stood on 
either side of the narrow road, Christmas decorations 
twinkling in their windows. A short way ahead of 
them, a glow of golden streetlights indicated the 
center of the village. 

“All this snow!” Hermione whispered beneath the 
cloak. “Why didn’t we think of snow? After all our 
precautions, we’ll leave prints! We’ll just have to get 
rid of them — you go in front, I’ll do it — ” 

Harry did not want to enter the village like a 
pantomime horse, trying to keep themselves 
concealed while magically covering their traces. 

“Let’s take off the Cloak,” said Harry, and when she 
looked frightened, “Oh, come on, we don’t look like us 
and there’s no one around.” 

He stowed the Cloak under his jacket and they made 
their way forward unhampered, the icy air stinging 
their faces as they passed more cottages: Any one of 
them might have been the one in which James and 
Lily had once lived or where Bathilda lived now. Harry 
gazed at the front doors, their snow-burdened roofs, 
and their front porches, wondering whether he 
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remembered any of them, knowing deep inside that it 
was impossible, that he had been little more than a 
year old when he had left this place forever. He was 
not even sure whether he would be able to see the 
cottage at all; he did not know what happened when 
the subjects of a Fidelius Charm died. Then the little 
lane along which they were walking curved to the left 
and the heart of the village, a small square, was 
revealed to them. 

Strung all around with colored lights, there was what 
looked like a war memorial in the middle, partly 
obscured by a windblown Christmas tree. There were 
several shops, a post office, a pub, and a little church 
whose stained-glass windows were glowing jewel- 
bright across the square. 

The snow here had become impacted: It was hard and 
slippery where people had trodden on it all day. 
Villagers were crisscrossing in front of them, their 
figures briefly illuminated by streetlamps. They heard 
a snatch of laughter and pop music as the pub door 
opened and closed; then they heard a carol start up 
inside the little church. 

“Harry, I think it’s Christmas Eve!” said Hermione. 

“Is it?” 

He had lost track of the date; they had not seen a 
newspaper for weeks. 

“I’m sure it is,” said Hermione, her eyes upon the 
church. “They ... they’ll be in there, won’t they? Your 
mum and dad? I can see the graveyard behind it.” 

Harry felt a thrill of something that was beyond 
excitement, more like fear. Now that he was so near, 
he wondered whether he wanted to see after all. 

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Perhaps Hermione knew how he was feeling, because 
she reached for his hand and took the lead for the 
first time, pulling him forward. Halfway across the 
square, however, she stopped dead. 

“Harry, look!” 

She was pointing at the war memorial. As they had 
passed it, it had transformed. Instead of an obelisk 
covered in names, there was a statue of three people: 
a man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with 
long hair and a kind, pretty face, and a baby boy 
sitting in his mother’s arms. Snow lay upon all their 
heads, like fluffy white caps. 

Harry drew closer, gazing up into his parents’ faces. 
He had never imagined that there would be a statue. 

. . . How strange it was to see himself represented in 
stone, a happy baby without a scar on his forehead. 



“C’mon,” said Harry, when he had looked his fill, and 
they turned again toward the church. As they crossed 
the road, he glanced over his shoulder; the statue had 
turned back into the war memorial. 

The singing grew louder as they approached the 
church. It made Harry’s throat constrict, it reminded 
him so forcefully of Hogwarts, of Peeves bellowing 
rude versions of carols from inside suits of armor, of 
the Great Hall’s twelve Christmas trees, of 
Dumbledore wearing a bonnet he had won in a 
cracker, of Ron in a hand-knitted sweater. . . . 

There was a kissing gate at the entrance to the 
graveyard. Hermione pushed it open as quietly as 
possible and they edged through it. On either side of 
the slippery path to the church doors, the snow lay 
deep and untouched. They moved off through the 
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snow, carving deep trenches behind them as they 
walked around the building, keeping to the shadows 
beneath the brilliant windows. 

Behind the church, row upon row of snowy 
tombstones protruded from a blanket of pale blue 
that was flecked with dazzling red, gold, and green 
wherever the reflections from the stained glass hit the 
snow. Keeping his hand closed tightly on the wand in 
his jacket pocket, Harry moved toward the nearest 
grave. 

“Look at this, it’s an Abbott, could be some long-lost 
relation of Hannah’s!” 

“Keep your voice down,” Hermione begged him. 

They waded deeper and deeper into the graveyard, 
gouging dark tracks into the snow behind them, 
stooping to peer at the words on old headstones, 
every now and then squinting into the surrounding 
darkness to make absolutely sure that they were 
unaccompanied . 

“Harry, here!” 

Hermione was two rows of tombstones away; he had 
to wade back to her, his heart positively banging in 
his chest. 

“Is it — ?” 



“No, but look!” 

She pointed to the dark stone. Harry stooped down 
and saw, upon the frozen, lichen-spotted granite, the 
words KENDRA DUMBLEDORE and, a short way 
below her dates of birth and death, AND HER 
DAUGHTER ARIANA. There was also a quotation: 
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Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. 



So Rita Skeeter and Muriel had got some of their facts 
right. The Dumbledore family had indeed lived here, 
and part of it had died here. 

Seeing the grave was worse than hearing about it. 
Harry could not help thinking that he and 
Dumbledore both had deep roots in this graveyard, 
and that Dumbledore ought to have told him so, yet 
he had never thought to share the connection. They 
could have visited the place together; for a moment 
Harry imagined coming here with Dumbledore, of 
what a bond that would have been, of how much it 
would have meant to him. But it seemed that to 
Dumbledore, the fact that their families lay side by 
side in the same graveyard had been an unimportant 
coincidence, irrelevant, perhaps, to the job he wanted 
Harry to do. 

Hermione was looking at Harry, and he was glad that 
his face was hidden in shadow. He read the words on 
the tombstone again. Where your treasure is, there 
will your heart be also. He did not understand what 
these words meant. Surely Dumbledore had chosen 
them, as the eldest member of the family once his 
mother had died. 

“Are you sure he never mentioned — ?” Hermione 
began. 

“No,” said Harry curtly, then, “let’s keep looking,” and 
he turned away, wishing he had not seen the stone: 

He did not want his excited trepidation tainted with 
resentment. 

“Here!” cried Hermione again a few moments later 
from out of the darkness. “Oh no, sorry! I thought it 
said Potter.” 

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She was rubbing at a crumbling, mossy stone, gazing 
down at it, a little frown on her face. 



“Harry, come back a moment.” 

He did not want to be sidetracked again, and only 
grudgingly made his way back through the snow 
toward her. 

“What?” 

“Look at this!” 

The grave was extremely old, weathered so that Harry 
could hardly make out the name. Hermione showed 
him the symbol beneath it. 

“Harry, that’s the mark in the book!” 

He peered at the place she indicated: The stone was 
so worn that it was hard to make out what was 
engraved there, though there did seem to be a 
triangular mark beneath the nearly illegible name. 

“Yeah ... it could be. ...” 

Hermione lit her wand and pointed it at the name on 
the headstone. 

“It says Ig — Ignotus, I think. ...” 

“I’m going to keep looking for my parents, all right?” 
Harry told her, a slight edge to his voice, and he set 
off again, leaving her crouched beside the old grave. 

Every now and then he recognized a surname that, 
like Abbott, he had met at Hogwarts. Sometimes there 
were several generations of the same Wizarding family 
represented in the graveyard: Harry could tell from 

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the dates that it had either died out, or the current 
members had moved away from Godric’s Hollow. 
Deeper and deeper amongst the graves he went, and 
every time he reached a new headstone he felt a little 
lurch of apprehension and anticipation. 

The darkness and the silence seemed to become, all of 
a sudden, much deeper. Harry looked around, 
worried, thinking of dementors, then realized that the 
carols had finished, that the chatter and flurry of 
churchgoers were fading away as they made their way 
back into the square. Somebody inside the church 
had just turned off the lights. 

Then Hermione’s voice came out of the blackness for 
the third time, sharp and clear from a few yards 
away. 

“Harry, they’re here ... right here.” 

And he knew by her tone that it was his mother and 
father this time: He moved toward her, feeling as if 
something heavy were pressing on his chest, the 
same sensation he had had right after Dumbledore 
had died, a grief that had actually weighed on his 
heart and lungs. 

The headstone was only two rows behind Kendra and 
Ariana’s. It was made of white marble, just like 
Dumbledore’s tomb, and this made it easy to read, as 
it seemed to shine in the dark. Harry did not need to 
kneel or even approach very close to it to make out 
the words engraved upon it. 

JAMES POTTER 
BORN 27 MARCH 1960 

LILY POTTER 

BORN 30 JANUARY 1960 

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DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981 



The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death. 

Harry read the words slowly, as though he would 
have only one chance to take in their meaning, and 
he read the last of them aloud. 

“ The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death’...” 

A horrible thought came to him, and with it a kind of 
panic. “Isn’t that a Death Eater idea? Why is that 
there?” 

“It doesn’t mean defeating death in the way the Death 
Eaters mean it, Harry,” said Hermione, her voice 
gentle. “It means ... you know ... living beyond death. 
Living after death.” 

But they were not living, thought Harry: They were 
gone. The empty words could not disguise the fact 
that his parents’ moldering remains lay beneath snow 
and stone, indifferent, unknowing. And tears came 
before he could stop them, boiling hot then instantly 
freezing on his face, and what was the point in wiping 
them off or pretending? He let them fall, his lips 
pressed hard together, looking down at the thick 
snow hiding from his eyes the place where the last of 
Lily and James lay, bones now, surely, or dust, not 
knowing or caring that their living son stood so near, 
his heart still beating, alive because of their sacrifice 
and close to wishing, at this moment, that he was 
sleeping under the snow with them. 

Hermione had taken his hand again and was gripping 
it tightly. He could not look at her, but returned the 
pressure, now taking deep, sharp gulps of the night 
air, trying to steady himself, trying to regain control. 
He should have brought something to give them, and 
he had not thought of it, and every plant in the 
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graveyard was leafless and frozen. But Hermione 
raised her wand, moved it in a circle through the air, 
and a wreath of Christmas roses blossomed before 
them. Harry caught it and laid it on his parents’ 
grave. 

As soon as he stood up he wanted to leave: He did not 
think he could stand another moment there. He put 
his arm around Hermione’s shoulders, and she put 
hers around his waist, and they turned in silence and 
walked away through the snow, past Dumbledore’s 
mother and sister, back toward the dark church and 
the out-of-sight kissing gate. 



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BATHILDA’S SECRET 

“Harry, stop.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

They had only just reached the grave of the unknown 
Abbott. 

“There’s someone there. Someone watching us. I can 
tell. There, over by the bushes.” 

They stood quite still, holding on to each other, gazing 
at the dense black boundary of the graveyard. Harry 
could not see anything. 

“Are you sure?” 

“I saw something move, I could have sworn I did. ...” 
She broke from him to free her wand arm. 

“We look like Muggles,” Harry pointed out. 



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“Muggles who ’ve just been laying flowers on your 
parents’ grave! Harry, I’m sure there’s someone over 
there!” 



Harry thought of A History of Magic ; the graveyard 
was supposed to be haunted: what if — ? But then he 
heard a rustle and saw a little eddy of dislodged snow 
in the bush to which Hermione had pointed. Ghosts 
could not move snow. 

“It’s a cat,” said Harry, after a second or two, “or a 
bird. If it was a Death Eater we’d be dead by now. But 
let’s get out of here, and we can put the Cloak back 
on.” 

They glanced back repeatedly as they made their way 
out of the graveyard. Harry, who did not feel as 
sanguine as he had pretended when reassuring 
Hermione, was glad to reach the gate and the slippery 
pavement. They pulled the Invisibility Cloak back over 
themselves. The pub was fuller than before: Many 
voices inside it were now singing the carol that they 
had heard as they approached the church. For a 
moment Harry considered suggesting they take refuge 
inside it, but before he could say anything Hermione 
murmured, “Let’s go this way,” and pulled him down 
the dark street leading out of the village in the 
opposite direction from which they had entered. Harry 
could make out the point where the cottages ended 
and the lane turned into open country again. They 
walked as quickly as they dared, past more windows 
sparkling with multicolored lights, the outlines of 
Christmas trees dark through the curtains. 

“How are we going to find Bathilda’s house?” asked 
Hermione, who was shivering a little and kept 
glancing back over her shoulder. “Harry? What do you 
think? Harry?” 

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She tugged at his arm, but Harry was not paying 
attention. He was looking toward the dark mass that 
stood at the very end of this row of houses. Next 
moment he had sped up, dragging Hermione along 
with him; she slipped a little on the ice. 

“Harry — ” 

“Look. ... Look at it, Hermione. ...” 

“I don’t ... oh!” 

He could see it; the Fidelius Charm must have died 
with James and Lily. The hedge had grown wild in the 
sixteen years since Hagrid had taken Harry from the 
rubble that lay scattered amongst the waist-high 
grass. Most of the cottage was still standing, though 
entirely covered in dark ivy and snow, but the right 
side of the top floor had been blown apart; that, Harry 
was sure, was where the curse had backfired. He and 
Hermione stood at the gate, gazing up at the wreck of 
what must once have been a cottage just like those 
that flanked it. 

“I wonder why nobody’s ever rebuilt it?” whispered 
Hermione. 

“Maybe you can’t rebuild it?” Harry replied. “Maybe 
it’s like the injuries from Dark Magic and you can’t 
repair the damage?” 

He slipped a hand from beneath the Cloak and 
grasped the snowy and thickly rusted gate, not 
wishing to open it, but simply to hold some part of the 
house. 

“You’re not going to go inside? It looks unsafe, it 
might — oh, Harry, look!” 



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His touch on the gate seemed to have done it. A sign 
had risen out of the ground in front of them, up 
through the tangles of nettles and weeds, like some 
bizarre, fast-growing flower, and in golden letters 
upon the wood it said: 



On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1 981, Lily and 
James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains 
the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse. 
This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its 
ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a 
reminder of the violence that tore apart their family. 

And all around these neatly lettered words, scribbles 
had been added by other witches and wizards who 
had come to see the place where the Boy Who Lived 
had escaped. Some had merely signed their names in 
Everlasting Ink; others had carved their initials into 
the wood, still others had left messages. The most 
recent of these, shining brightly over sixteen years’ 
worth of magical graffiti, all said similar things. 

Good luck, Harry, wherever you are. 

If you read this, Harry, we’re all behind you! 

Long live Harry Potter. 

“They shouldn’t have written on the sign!” said 
Hermione, indignant. 

But Harry beamed at her. 

“It’s brilliant. I’m glad they did. I ...” 

He broke off. A heavily muffled figure was hobbling up 
the lane toward them, silhouetted by the bright lights 

Page | 375 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




in the distant square. Harry thought, though it was 
hard to judge, that the figure was a woman. She was 
moving slowly, possibly frightened of slipping on the 
snowy ground. Her stoop, her stoutness, her shuffling 
gait all gave an impression of extreme age. They 
watched in silence as she drew nearer. Harry was 
waiting to see whether she would turn into any of the 
cottages she was passing, but he knew instinctively 
that she would not. At last she came to a halt a few 
yards from them and simply stood there in the middle 
of the frozen road, facing them. 

He did not need Hermione’s pinch to his arm. There 
was next to no chance that this woman was a Muggle: 
She was standing there gazing at a house that ought 
to have been completely invisible to her, if she was 
not a witch. Even assuming that she was a witch, 
however, it was odd behavior to come out on a night 
this cold, simply to look at an old ruin. By all the 
rules of normal magic, meanwhile, she ought not to 
be able to see Hermione and him at all. Nevertheless, 
Harry had the strangest feeling that she knew that 
they were there, and also who they were. Just as he 
had reached this uneasy conclusion, she raised a 
gloved hand and beckoned. 

Hermione moved closer to him under the Cloak, her 
arm pressed against his. 

“How does she know?” 

He shook his head. The woman beckoned again, more 
vigorously. Harry could think of many reasons not to 
obey the summons, and yet his suspicions about her 
identity were growing stronger every moment that 
they stood facing each other in the deserted street. 

Was it possible that she had been waiting for them all 
these long months? That Dumbledore had told her to 

Page | 376 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




wait, and that Harry would come in the end? Was it 
not likely that it was she who had moved in the 
shadows in the graveyard and had followed them to 
this spot? Even her ability to sense them suggested 
some Dumbledore-ish power that he had never 
encountered before. 

Finally Harry spoke, causing Hermione to gasp and 
jump. 

“Are you Bathilda?” 

The muffled figure nodded and beckoned again. 

Beneath the Cloak Harry and Hermione looked at 
each other. Harry raised his eyebrows; Hermione gave 
a tiny, nervous nod. 

They stepped toward the woman and, at once, she 
turned and hobbled off back the way they had come. 
Leading them past several houses, she turned in at a 
gate. They followed her up the front path through a 
garden nearly as overgrown as the one they had just 
left. She fumbled for a moment with a key at the front 
door, then opened it and stepped back to let them 
pass. 

She smelled bad, or perhaps it was her house: Harry 
wrinkled his nose as they sidled past her and pulled 
off the Cloak. Now that he was beside her, he realized 
how tiny she was; bowed down with age, she came 
barely level with his chest. She closed the door behind 
them, her knuckles blue and mottled against the 
peeling paint, then turned and peered into Harry’s 
face. Her eyes were thick with cataracts and sunken 
into folds of transparent skin, and her whole face was 
dotted with broken veins and liver spots. He 
wondered whether she could make him out at all; 



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even if she could, it was the balding Muggle whose 
identity he had stolen that she would see. 

The odor of old age, of dust, of unwashed clothes and 
stale food intensified as she unwound a moth-eaten 
black shawl, revealing a head of scant white hair 
through which the scalp showed clearly. 

“Bathilda?” Harry repeated. 

She nodded again. Harry became aware of the locket 
against his skin; the thing inside it that sometimes 
ticked or beat had woken; he could feel it pulsing 
through the cold gold. Did it know, could it sense, 
that the thing that would destroy it was near? 

Bathilda shuffled past them, pushing Hermione aside 
as though she had not seen her, and vanished into 
what seemed to be a sitting room. 

“Harry, I’m not sure about this,” breathed Hermione. 

“Look at the size of her; I think we could overpower 
her if we had to,” said Harry. “Listen, I should have 
told you, I knew she wasn’t all there. Muriel called her 
‘gaga.’ ” 

“Come!” called Bathilda from the next room. 

Hermione jumped and clutched Harry’s arm. 

“It’s okay,” said Harry reassuringly, and he led the 
way into the sitting room. 

Bathilda was tottering around the place lighting 
candles, but it was still very dark, not to mention 
extremely dirty. Thick dust crunched beneath their 
feet, and Harry’s nose detected, underneath the dank 
and mildewed smell, something worse, like meat gone 
Page | 378 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




bad. He wondered when was the last time anyone had 
been inside Bathilda’s house to check whether she 
was coping. She seemed to have forgotten that she 
could do magic, too, for she lit the candles clumsily 
by hand, her trailing lace cuff in constant danger of 
catching fire. 

“Let me do that,” offered Harry, and he took the 
matches from her. She stood watching him as he 
finished lighting the candle stubs that stood on 
saucers around the room, perched precariously on 
stacks of books and on side tables crammed with 
cracked and moldy cups. 

The last surface on which Harry spotted a candle was 
a bow-fronted chest of drawers on which there stood 
a large number of photographs. When the flame 
danced into life, its reflection wavered on their dusty 
glass and silver. He saw a few tiny movements from 
the pictures. As Bathilda fumbled with logs for the 
fire, he muttered “ Tergeo ”: The dust vanished from 
the photographs, and he saw at once that half a 
dozen were missing from the largest and most ornate 
frames. He wondered whether Bathilda or somebody 
else had removed them. Then the sight of a 
photograph near the back of the collection caught his 
eye, and he snatched it up. 

It was the golden-haired, merry-faced thief, the young 
man who had perched on Gregorovitch’s windowsill, 
smiling lazily up at Harry out of the silver frame. And 
it came to Harry instantly where he had seen the boy 
before: in The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, arm 
in arm with the teenage Dumbledore, and that must 
be where all the missing photographs were: in Rita’s 
book. 

“Mrs. — Miss — Bagshot?” he said, and his voice 
shook slightly. “Who is this?” 

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Bathilda was standing in the middle of the room 
watching Hermione light the fire for her. 

“Miss Bagshot?” Harry repeated, and he advanced 
with the picture in his hands as the flames burst into 
life in the fireplace. Bathilda looked up at his voice, 
and the Horcrux beat faster upon his chest. 

“Who is this person?” Harry asked her, pushing the 
picture forward. 

She peered at it solemnly, then up at Harry. 

“Do you know who this is?” he repeated in a much 
slower and louder voice than usual. “This man? Do 
you know him? What’s he called?” 

Bathilda merely looked vague. Harry felt an awful 
frustration. How had Rita Skeeter unlocked Bathilda’s 
memories? 

“Who is this man?” he repeated loudly. 

“Harry, what are you doing?” asked Hermione. 

“This picture, Hermione, it’s the thief, the thief who 
stole from Gregorovitch! Please!” he said to Bathilda. 
“Who is this?” 

But she only stared at him. 

“Why did you ask us to come with you, Mrs. — Miss 
— Bagshot?” asked Hermione, raising her own voice. 
“Was there something you wanted to tell us?” 

Giving no sign that she had heard Hermione, Bathilda 
now shuffled a few steps closer to Harry. With a little 
jerk of her head she looked back into the hall. 



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“You want us to leave?” he asked. 



She repeated the gesture, this time pointing firstly at 
him, then at herself, then at the ceiling. 

“Oh, right ... Hermione, I think she wants me to go 
upstairs with her.” 

“All right,” said Hermione, “let’s go.” 

But when Hermione moved, Bathilda shook her head 
with surprising vigor, once more pointing first at 
Harry, then to herself. 

“She wants me to go with her, alone.” 

“Why?” asked Hermione, and her voice rang out sharp 
and clear in the candlelit room; the old lady shook her 
head a little at the loud noise. 

“Maybe Dumbledore told her to give the sword to me, 
and only to me?” 

“Do you really think she knows who you are?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, looking down into the milky eyes 
fixed upon his own, “I think she does.” 

“Well, okay then, but be quick, Harry.” 

“Lead the way,” Harry told Bathilda. 

She seemed to understand, because she shuffled 
around him toward the door. Harry glanced back at 
Hermione with a reassuring smile, but he was not 
sure she had seen it; she stood hugging herself in the 
midst of the candlelit squalor, looking toward the 
bookcase. As Harry walked out of the room, unseen 
by both Hermione and Bathilda, he slipped the silver- 

P a g e | 381 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




framed photograph of the unknown thief inside his 
jacket. 

The stairs were steep and narrow: Harry was half 
tempted to place his hands on stout Bathilda’s 
backside to ensure that she did not topple over 
backward on top of him, which seemed only too likely. 
Slowly, wheezing a little, she climbed to the upper 
landing, turned immediately right, and led him into a 
low-ceilinged bedroom. 

It was pitch-black and smelled horrible: Harry had 
just made out a chamber pot protruding from under 
the bed before Bathilda closed the door and even that 
was swallowed by the darkness. 

“Lumos,” said Harry, and his wand ignited. He gave a 
start: Bathilda had moved close to him in those few 
seconds of darkness, and he had not heard her 
approach. 

“You are Potter?” she whispered. 

“Yes, I am.” 

She nodded slowly, solemnly. Harry felt the Horcrux 
beating fast, faster than his own heart: It was an 
unpleasant, agitating sensation. 

“Have you got anything for me?” Harry asked, but she 
seemed distracted by his lit wand-tip. 

“Have you got anything for me?” he repeated. 

Then she closed her eyes and several things 
happened at once: Harry’s scar prickled painfully; the 
Horcrux twitched so that the front of his sweater 
actually moved; the dark, fetid room dissolved 



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momentarily. He felt a leap of joy and spoke in a high, 
cold voice: Hold him). 

Harry swayed where he stood: The dark, foul-smelling 
room seemed to close around him again; he did not 
know what had just happened. 

“Have you got anything for me?” he asked for a third 
time, much louder. 

“Over here,” she whispered, pointing to the corner. 
Harry raised his wand and saw the outline of a 
cluttered dressing table beneath the curtained 
window. 

This time she did not lead him. Harry edged between 
her and the unmade bed, his wand raised. He did not 
want to look away from her. 

“What is it?” he asked as he reached the dressing 
table, which was heaped high with what looked and 
smelled like dirty laundry. 

“There,” she said, pointing at the shapeless mass. 

And in the instant that he looked away, his eyes 
raking the tangled mess for a sword hilt, a ruby, she 
moved weirdly: He saw it out of the corner of his eye; 
panic made him turn and horror paralyzed him as he 
saw the old body collapsing and the great snake 
pouring from the place where her neck had been. 

The snake struck as he raised his wand: The force of 
the bite to his forearm sent the wand spinning up 
toward the ceiling; its light swung dizzyingly around 
the room and was extinguished: Then a powerful blow 
from the tail to his midriff knocked the breath out of 
him: He fell backward onto the dressing table, into 
the mound of filthy clothing — 

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He rolled sideways, narrowly avoiding the snake’s tail, 
which thrashed down upon the table where he had 
been a second earlier: Fragments of the glass surface 
rained upon him as he hit the floor. From below he 
heard Hermione call, “Harry?” 

He could not get enough breath into his lungs to call 
back: Then a heavy smooth mass smashed him to the 
floor and he felt it slide over him, powerful, muscular 



“No!” he gasped, pinned to the floor. 

“Yes,” whispered the voice. “Yesss ... hold you ... hold 
you ...” 

“Accio ... Accio Wand ...” 

But nothing happened and he needed his hands to try 
to force the snake from him as it coiled itself around 
his torso, squeezing the air from him, pressing the 
Horcrux hard into his chest, a circle of ice that 
throbbed with life, inches from his own frantic heart, 
and his brain was flooding with cold, white light, all 
thought obliterated, his own breath drowned, distant 
footsteps, everything going. ... 

A metal heart was banging outside his chest, and now 
he was flying, flying with triumph in his heart, 
without need of broomstick or thestral. ... 

He was abruptly awake in the sour-smelling 
darkness; Nagini had released him. He scrambled up 
and saw the snake outlined against the landing light: 
It struck, and Hermione dived aside with a shriek; her 
deflected curse hit the curtained window, which 
shattered. Frozen air filled the room as Harry ducked 
to avoid another shower of broken glass and his foot 
slipped on a pencil-like something — his wand — 
Page | 384 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




He bent and snatched it up, but now the room was 
full of the snake, its tail thrashing; Hermione was 
nowhere to be seen and for a moment Harry thought 
the worst, but then there was a loud bang and a flash 
of red light, and the snake flew into the air, smacking 
Harry hard in the face as it went, coil after heavy coil 
rising up to the ceiling. Harry raised his wand, but as 
he did so, his scar seared more painfully, more 
powerfully than it had done in years. 

“He’s coming! Hermione, he’s comingl” 

As he yelled the snake fell, hissing wildly. Everything 
was chaos: It smashed shelves from the wall, and 
splintered china flew everywhere as Harry jumped 
over the bed and seized the dark shape he knew to be 
Hermione — 

She shrieked with pain as he pulled her back across 
the bed: The snake reared again, but Harry knew that 
worse than the snake was coming, was perhaps 
already at the gate, his head was going to split open 
with the pain from his scar — 

The snake lunged as he took a running leap, dragging 
Hermione with him; as it struck, Hermione screamed, 

“ ConfringoV’ and her spell flew around the room, 
exploding the wardrobe mirror and ricocheting back 
at them, bouncing from floor to ceiling; Harry felt the 
heat of it sear the back of his hand. Glass cut his 
cheek as, pulling Hermione with him, he leapt from 
bed to broken dressing table and then straight out of 
the smashed window into nothingness, her scream 
reverberating through the night as they twisted in 
midair. ... 

And then his scar burst open and he was Voldemort 
and he was running across the fetid bedroom, his 
long white hands clutching at the windowsill as he 

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glimpsed the bald man and the little woman twist and 
vanish, and he screamed with rage, a scream that 
mingled with the girl’s, that echoed across the dark 
gardens over the church bells ringing in Christmas 
Day. ... 

And his scream was Harry’s scream, his pain was 
Harry’s pain ... that it could happen here, where it 
had happened before ... here, within sight of that 
house where he had come so close to knowing what it 
was to die ... to die. ... The pain was so terrible ... 
ripped from his body. ... But if he had no body, why 
did his head hurt so badly; if he was dead, how could 
he feel so unbearably, didn’t pain cease with death, 
didn’t it go ... 

The night wet and windy, two children dressed as 
pumpkins waddling across the square, and the shop 
windows covered in paper spiders, all the tawdry 
Muggle trappings of a world in which they did not 
believe. ... And he was gliding along, that sense of 
purpose and power and rightness in him that he 
always knew on these occasions. . . . Not anger . . . that 
was for weaker souls than he ... but triumph, yes. ... 
He had waited for this, he had hoped for it. ... 

“Nice costume, mister!” 

He saw the small boy’s smile falter as he ran near 
enough to see beneath the hood of the cloak, saw the 
fear cloud his painted face: Then the child turned and 
ran away. ... Beneath the robe he fingered the handle 
of his wand. ... One simple movement and the child 
would never reach his mother . . . but unnecessary, 
quite unnecessary. . . . 

And along a new and darker street he moved, and 
now his destination was in sight at last, the Fidelius 
Charm broken, though they did not know it yet. ... 

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And he made less noise than the dead leaves 
slithering along the pavement as he drew level with 
the dark hedge, and stared over it. ... 

They had not drawn the curtains; he saw them quite 
clearly in their little sitting room, the tall black-haired 
man in his glasses, making puffs of colored smoke 
erupt from his wand for the amusement of the small 
black-haired boy in his blue pajamas. The child was 
laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab it in 
his small fist. ... 

A door opened and the mother entered, saying words 
he could not hear, her long dark-red hair falling over 
her face. Now the father scooped up the son and 
handed him to the mother. He threw his wand down 
upon the sofa and stretched, yawning. . . . 

The gate creaked a little as he pushed it open, but 
James Potter did not hear. His white hand pulled out 
the wand beneath his cloak and pointed it at the 
door, which burst open. 

He was over the threshold as James came sprinting 
into the hall. It was easy, too easy, he had not even 
picked up his wand. ... 

“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! Ill hold 
him off!” 

Hold him off, without a wand in his hand! . . . He 
laughed before casting the curse. . . . 

“Avada Kedavra!” 

The green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the 
pram pushed against the wall, it made the banisters 
glare like lightning rods, and James Potter fell like a 
marionette whose strings were cut. ... 

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He could hear her screaming from the upper floor, 
trapped, but as long as she was sensible, she, at 
least, had nothing to fear. ... He climbed the steps, 
listening with faint amusement to her attempts to 
barricade herself in. ... She had no wand upon her 
either. ... How stupid they were, and how trusting, 
thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons 
could be discarded even for moments. ... 

He forced the door open, cast aside the chair and 
boxes hastily piled against it with one lazy wave of his 
wand ... and there she stood, the child in her arms. At 
the sight of him, she dropped her son into the crib 
behind her and threw her arms wide, as if this would 
help, as if in shielding him from sight she hoped to be 
chosen instead. . . . 

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!” 

“Stand aside, you silly girl . . . stand aside, now. ” 

“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead — ” 

“This is my last warning — ” 

“Not Harry! Please . . . have mercy . . . have mercy. . . . 

Not Harry! Not Harry! Please — I’ll do anything — ” 

“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!” 

He could have forced her away from the crib, but it 
seemed more prudent to finish them all. ... 

The green light flashed around the room and she 
dropped like her husband. The child had not cried all 
this time: He could stand, clutching the bars of his crib, 
and he looked up into the intruder’s face with a kind of 
bright interest, perhaps thinking that it was his father 



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who hid beneath the cloak, making more pretty lights, 
and his mother would pop up any moment, laughing — 

He pointed the wand very carefully into the boy’s face: 
He wanted to see it happen, the destruction of this one, 
inexplicable danger. The child began to cry: It had seen 
that he was not James. He did not like it crying, he 
had never been able to stomach the small ones 
whining in the orphanage — 

“Avada Kedavra!” 

And then he broke: He was nothing, nothing but pain 
and terror, and he must hide himself, not here in the 
rubble of the ruined house, where the child was 
trapped and screaming, but far away . . . far away. . . . 

“No,” he moaned. 

The snake rustled on the filthy, cluttered floor, and he 
had killed the boy, and yet he was the boy. . . . 

“No ...” 

And now he stood at the broken window of Bathilda’s 
house, immersed in memories of his greatest loss, and 
at his feet the great snake slithered over broken china 
and glass. ... He looked down and saw something ... 
something incredible. . . . 

“No ...” 

“Harry, it’s all right, you’re all right!” 

He stooped down and picked up the smashed 
photograph. There he was, the unknown thief, the 
thief he was seeking. . . . 

“No ... I dropped it. ... I dropped it. ...” 

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“Harry, it’s okay, wake up, wake up!” 



He was Harry. ... Harry, not Voldemort ... and the 
thing that was rustling was not a snake. ... He opened 
his eyes. 

“Harry,” Hermione whispered. “Do you feel all — all 
right?” 

“Yes,” he lied. 

He was in the tent, lying on one of the lower bunks 
beneath a heap of blankets. He could tell that it was 
almost dawn by the stillness and the quality of the 
cold, flat light beyond the canvas ceiling. He was 
drenched in sweat; he could feel it on the sheets and 
blankets. 

“We got away.” 

“Yes,” said Hermione. “I had to use a Hover Charm to 
get you into your bunk, I couldn’t lift you. You’ve 
been ... Well, you haven’t been quite ...” 

There were purple shadows under her brown eyes and 
he noticed a small sponge in her hand: She had been 
wiping his face. 

“You’ve been ill,” she finished. “Quite ill.” 

“How long ago did we leave?” 

“Hours ago. It’s nearly morning.” 

“And I’ve been ... what, unconscious?” 

“Not exactly,” said Hermione uncomfortably. “You’ve 
been shouting and moaning and ... things,” she 
added in a tone that made Harry feel uneasy. What 

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had he done? Screamed curses like Voldemort, cried 
like the baby in the crib? 

“I couldn’t get the Horcrux off you,” Hermione said, 
and he knew she wanted to change the subject. “It 
was stuck, stuck to your chest. You’ve got a mark; I’m 
sorry, I had to use a Severing Charm to get it away. 
The snake bit you too, but I’ve cleaned the wound and 
put some dittany on it. ...” 

He pulled the sweaty T-shirt he was wearing away 
from himself and looked down. There was a scarlet 
oval over his heart where the locket had burned him. 
He could also see the half-healed puncture marks to 
his forearm. 

“Where Ve you put the Horcrux?” 

“In my bag. I think we should keep it off for a while.” 

He lay back on his pillows and looked into her 
pinched gray face. 

“We shouldn’t have gone to Godric’s Hollow. It’s my 
fault, it’s all my fault, Hermione, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault. I wanted to go too; I really thought 
Dumbledore might have left the sword there for you.” 

“Yeah, well ... we got that wrong, didn’t we?” 

“What happened, Harry? What happened when she 
took you upstairs? Was the snake hiding somewhere? 
Did it just come out and kill her and attack you?” 

“No,” he said. “She was the snake ... or the snake was 
her ... all along.” 

“W-what?” 

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He closed his eyes. He could still smell Bathilda’s 
house on him: It made the whole thing horribly vivid. 

“Bathilda must’ve been dead a while. The snake was 
... was inside her. You-Know-Who put it there in 
Godric’s Hollow, to wait. You were right. He knew I’d 
go back.” 

“The snake was inside her?” 

He opened his eyes again: Hermione looked revolted, 
nauseated. 

“Lupin said there would be magic we’d never 
imagined,” Harry said. “She didn’t want to talk in 
front of you, because it was Parseltongue, all 
Parseltongue, and I didn’t realize, but of course I 
could understand her. Once we were up in the room, 
the snake sent a message to You-Know-Who, I heard 
it happen inside my head, I felt him get excited, he 
said to keep me there ... and then ...” 

He remembered the snake coming our of Bathilda’s 
neck: Hermione did not need to know the details. 

"... she changed, changed into the snake, and 
attacked.” 

He looked down at the puncture marks. 

“It wasn’t supposed to kill me, just keep me there till 
You-Know-Who came.” 

If he had only managed to kill the snake, it would 
have been worth it, all of it. ... Sick at heart, he sat up 
and threw back the covers. 

“Harry, no, I’m sure you ought to rest!” 



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“You’re the one who needs sleep. No offense, but you 
look terrible. I’m fine. I’ll keep watch for a while. 
Where’s my wand?” 

She did not answer, she merely looked at him. 
“Where’s my wand, Hermione?” 

She was biting her lip, and tears swam in her eyes. 
“Harry ...” 

“ Where’s my wand?” 

She reached down beside the bed and held it out to 
him. 

The holly and phoenix wand was nearly severed in 
two. One fragile strand of phoenix feather kept both 
pieces hanging together. The wood had splintered 
apart completely. Harry took it into his hands as 
though it was a living thing that had suffered a 
terrible injury. He could not think properly: 
Everything was a blur of panic and fear. Then he held 
out the wand to Hermione. 

“Mend it. Please.” 

“Harry, I don’t think, when it’s broken like this — ” 
“Please, Hermione, try!” 

“R-Reparo.” 

The dangling half of the wand resealed itself. Harry 
held it up. 

“Lumosl” 



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The wand sparked feebly, then went out. Harry 
pointed it at Hermione. 

“ Expelliarmusl” 

Hermione ’s wand gave a little jerk, but did not leave 
her hand. The feeble attempt at magic was too much 
for Harry’s wand, which split into two again. He 
stared at it, aghast, unable to take in what he was 
seeing . . . the wand that had survived so much . . . 

“Harry,” Hermione whispered so quietly he could 
hardly hear her. “I’m so, so sorry. I think it was me. 

As we were leaving, you know, the snake was coming 
for us, and so I cast a Blasting Curse, and it 
rebounded everywhere, and it must have — must 
have hit — ” 

“It was an accident,” said Harry mechanically. He felt 
empty, stunned. “We’ll — we’ll find a way to repair it.” 

“Harry, I don’t think we’re going to be able to,” said 
Hermione, the tears trickling down her face. 
“Remember . . . remember Ron? When he broke his 
wand, crashing the car? It was never the same again, 
he had to get a new one.” 

Harry thought of Ollivander, kidnapped and held 
hostage by Voldemort; of Gregorovitch, who was dead. 
How was he supposed to find himself a new wand? 

“Well,” he said, in a falsely matter-of-fact voice, “well, 
I’ll just borrow yours for now, then. While I keep 
watch.” 

Her face glazed with tears, Hermione handed over her 
wand, and he left her sitting beside his bed, desiring 
nothing more than to get away from her. 



Page | 394 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 






THE LIFE AND LIES OF ALBUS 
DUMBLEDORE 

The sun was coming up: The pure, colorless vastness 
of the sky stretched over him, indifferent to him and 
his suffering. Harry sat down in the tent entrance and 
took a deep breath of clean air. Simply to be alive to 
watch the sun rise over the sparkling snowy hillside 
ought to have been the greatest treasure on earth, yet 
he could not appreciate it: His senses had been 
spiked by the calamity of losing his wand. He looked 
out over a valley blanketed in snow, distant church 
bells chiming through the glittering silence. 

Without realizing it, he was digging his fingers into 
his arms as if he were trying to resist physical pain. 

He had spilled his own blood more times than he 
could count; he had lost all the bones in his right arm 
once; this journey had already given him scars to his 
chest and forearm to join those on his hand and 
forehead, but never, until this moment, had he felt 
himself to be fatally weakened, vulnerable, and 
naked, as though the best part of his magical power 
had been torn from him. He knew exactly what 
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Hermione would say if he expressed any of this: The 
wand is only as good as the wizard. But she was 
wrong, his case was different. She had not felt the 
wand spin like the needle of a compass and shoot 
golden flames at his enemy. He had lost the 
protection of the twin cores, and only now that it was 
gone did he realize how much he had been counting 
upon it. 

He pulled the pieces of the broken wand out of his 
pocket and, without looking at them, tucked them 
away in Hagrid’s pouch around his neck. The pouch 
was now too full of broken and useless objects to take 
any more. Harry’s hand brushed the old Snitch 
through the mokeskin and for a moment he had to 
fight the temptation to pull it out and throw it away. 
Impenetrable, unhelpful, useless, like everything else 
Dumbledore had left behind — 

And his fury at Dumbledore broke over him now like 
lava, scorching him inside, wiping out every other 
feeling. Out of sheer desperation they had talked 
themselves into believing that Godric’s Hollow held 
answers, convinced themselves that they were 
supposed to go back, that it was all part of some 
secret path laid out for them by Dumbledore; but 
there was no map, no plan. Dumbledore had left them 
to grope in the darkness, to wrestle with unknown 
and undreamed-of terrors, alone and unaided: 

Nothing was explained, nothing was given freely, they 
had no sword, and now, Harry had no wand. And he 
had dropped the photograph of the thief, and it would 
surely be easy now for Voldemort to find out who he 
was. ... Voldemort had all the information now. ... 

“Harry?” 

Hermione looked frightened that he might curse her 
with her own wand. Her face streaked with tears, she 

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crouched down beside him, two cups of tea trembling 
in her hands and something bulky under her arm. 

“Thanks,” he said, taking one of the cups. 

“Do you mind if I talk to you?” 

“No,” he said because he did not want to hurt her 
feelings. 

“Harry, you wanted to know who that man in the 
picture was. Well ... I’ve got the book.” 

Timidly she pushed it onto his lap, a pristine copy of 
The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. 

“Where — how — ?” 

“It was in Bathilda’s sitting room, just lying there. ... 
This note was sticking out of the top of it.” 

Hermione read the few lines of spiky, acid-green 
writing aloud. 

“ ‘Dear Batty, Thanks for your help. Here’s a copy of 
the book, hope you like it. You said everything, even if 
you don’t remember it. Rita.’ I think it must have 
arrived while the real Bathilda was alive, but perhaps 
she wasn’t in any fit state to read it?” 

“No, she probably wasn’t.” 

Harry looked down upon Dumbledore ’s face and 
experienced a surge of savage pleasure: Now he would 
know all the things that Dumbledore had never 
thought it worth telling him, whether Dumbledore 
wanted him to or not. 



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“You’re still really angry at me, aren’t you?” said 
Hermione; he looked up to see fresh tears leaking out 
of her eyes, and knew that his anger must have 
shown in his face. 

“No,” he said quietly. “No, Hermione, I know it was an 
accident. You were trying to get us out of there alive, 
and you were incredible. I’d be dead if you hadn’t 
been there to help me.” 

He tried to return her watery smile, then turned his 
attention to the book. Its spine was stiff; it had clearly 
never been opened before. He riffled through the 
pages, looking for photographs. He came across the 
one he sought almost at once, the young Dumbledore 
and his handsome companion, roaring with laughter 
at some long-forgotten joke. Harry dropped his eyes to 
the caption. 

Albus Dumbledore, shortly after his mother’s death, 
with his friend Gellert Grindelwald. 

Harry gaped at the last word for several long 
moments. Grindelwald. His friend Grindelwald. He 
looked sideways at Hermione, who was still 
contemplating the name as though she could not 
believe her eyes. Slowly she looked up at Harry. 

“ Grindelwald?” 

Ignoring the remainder of the photographs, Harry 
searched the pages around them for a recurrence of 
that fatal name. He soon discovered it and read 
greedily, but became lost: It was necessary to go 
further back to make sense of it all, and eventually he 
found himself at the start of a chapter entitled “The 
Greater Good.” Together, he and Hermione started to 
read: 



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Now approaching his eighteenth birthday, 

Dumbledore left Hogwarts in a blaze of glory — Head 
Boy, Prefect, Winner of the Barnabus Finkley Prize for 
Exceptional Spell-Casting, British Youth 
Representative to the Wizengamot, Gold Medal- 
Winner for Ground-Breaking Contribution to the 
International Alchemical Conference in Cairo. 
Dumbledore intended, next, to take a Grand Tour 
with Elphias “Dogbreath” Doge, the dim-witted but 
devoted sidekick he had picked up at school. 

The two young men were staying at the Leaky 
Cauldron in London, preparing to depart for Greece the 
following morning, when an owl arrived bearing news 
of Dumbledore’ s mother’s death. “Dogbreath” Doge, 
who refused to be interviewed for this book, has given 
the public his own sentimental version of what 
happened next. He represents Kendra’s death as a 
tragic blow, and Dumbledore’s decision to give up his 
expedition as an act of noble self-sacrifice. 

Certainly Dumbledore returned to Godric’s Hollow at 
once, supposedly to “care” for his younger brother 
and sister. But how much care did he actually give 
them? 

“He were a head case, that Aberforth,” says Enid 
Smeek, whose family lived on the outskirts of Godric’s 
Hollow at that time. “Ran wild. ’Course, with his mum 
and dad gone you’d have felt sorry for him, only he 
kept chucking goat dung at my head. I don’t think 
Albus was fussed about him, I never saw them 
together, anyway.” 

So what was Albus doing, if not comforting his wild 
young brother? The answer, it seems, is ensuring the 
continued imprisonment of his sister. For, though her 
first jailer had died, there was no change in the pitiful 
condition of Ariana Dumbledore. Her very existence 
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continued to be known only to those few outsiders 
who, like “Dogbreath” Doge, could be counted upon to 
believe in the story of her “ill health.” 

Another such easily satisfied friend of the family was 
Bathilda Bagshot, the celebrated magical historian 
who has lived in Godric’s Hollow for many years. 
Kendra, of course, had rebuffed Bathilda when she 
first attempted to welcome the family to the village. 
Several years later, however, the author sent an owl to 
Albus at Hog warts, having been favorably impressed 
by his paper on trans-species transformation in 
Transfiguration Today. This initial contact led to 
acquaintance with the entire Dumbledore family . At 
the time of Kendra’s death, Bathilda was the only 
person in Godric’s Hollow who was on speaking terms 
with Dumbledore’s mother. 

Unfortunately, the brilliance that Bathilda exhibited 
earlier in her life has now dimmed. “The fire’s lit, but 
the cauldron’s empty,” as Ivor Dillonsby put it to me, 
or, in Enid Smeek’s slightly earthier phrase, “She’s 
nutty as squirrel poo.” Nevertheless, a combination of 
tried-and-tested reporting techniques enabled me to 
extract enough nuggets of hard fact to string together 
the whole scandalous story. 

Like the rest of the Wizarding world, Bathilda puts 
Kendra’s premature death down to a backfiring 
charm, a story repeated by Albus and Aberforth in 
later years. Bathilda also parrots the family line on 
Ariana, calling her “frail” and “delicate.” On one 
subject, however, Bathilda is well worth the effort I 
put into procuring Veritaserum, for she, and she 
alone, knows the full story of the best-kept secret of 
Albus Dumbledore’s life. Now revealed for the first 
time, it calls into question everything that his 
admirers believed of Dumbledore: his supposed 
hatred of the Dark Arts, his opposition to the 
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oppression of Muggles, even his devotion to his own 
family. 

The very same summer that Dumbledore went home 
to Godric’s Hollow, now an orphan and head of the 
family, Bathilda Bagshot agreed to accept into her 
home her great-nephew, Gellert Grindelwald. 

The name of Grindelwald is justly famous: In a list of 
Most Dangerous Dark Wizards of All Time, he would 
miss out on the top spot only because You-Know-Who 
arrived, a generation later, to steal his crown. As 
Grindelwald never extended his campaign of terror to 
Britain, however, the details of his rise to power are 
not widely known here. 

Educated at Durmstrang, a school famous even then 
for its unfortunate tolerance of the Dark Arts, 
Grindelwald showed himself quite as precociously 
brilliant as Dumbledore. Rather than channel his 
abilities into the attainment of awards and prizes, 
however, Gellert Grindelwald devoted himself to other 
pursuits. At sixteen years old, even Durmstrang felt it 
could no longer turn a blind eye to the twisted 
experiments of Gellert Grindelwald, and he was 
expelled. 

Hitherto, all that has been known of Grindelwald ’s 
next movements is that he “traveled abroad for some 
months.” It can now be revealed that Grindelwald 
chose to visit his great-aunt in Godric’s Hollow, and 
that there, intensely shocking though it will be for 
many to hear it, he struck up a close friendship with 
none other than Albus Dumbledore. 

“He seemed a charming boy to me,” babbles Bathilda, 
“whatever he became later. Naturally I introduced him 
to poor Albus, who was missing the company of lads 
his own age. The boys took to each other at once.” 

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They certainly did. Bathilda shows me a letter, kept 
by her, that Albus Dumbledore sent Gellert 
Grindelwald in the dead of night. 

“Yes, even after they’d spent all day in discussion — 
both such brilliant young boys, they got on like a 
cauldron on fire — I’d sometimes hear an owl tapping 
at Gellert’s bedroom window, delivering a letter from 
Albus! An idea would have struck him, and he had to 
let Gellert know immediately!” 

And what ideas they were. Profoundly shocking 
though Albus Dumbledore’ s fans will find it, here are 
the thoughts of their seventeen-year-old hero, as 
relayed to his new best friend. (A copy of the original 
letter may be seen on page 463.) 

Gellert — 

Your point about Wizard dominance being FOR THE 
MUGGLES’ OWN GOOD — this, I think , is the crucial 
point. Yes, we have been given power and yes, that 
power gives us the right to rule, but it also gives us 
responsibilities over the ruled. We must stress this 
point, it will be the foundation stone upon which we 
build. Where we are opposed, as we surely will be, this 
must be the basis of all our counterarguments. We 
seize control FOR THE GREATER GOOD. And from this 
it follows that where we meet resistance, we must use 
only the force that is necessary and no more. (This was 
your mistake at Durmstrang! But I do not complain, 
because if you had not been expelled, we would never 
have met.) 

Albus 

Astonished and appalled though his many admirers 
will be, this letter constitutes proof that Albus 
Dumbledore once dreamed of overthrowing the Statute 

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of Secrecy and establishing Wizard rule over Muggles. 
What a blow for those who have always portrayed 
Dumbledore as the Muggle-boms’ greatest champion! 
How hollow those speeches promoting Muggle rights 
seem in the light of this damning new evidence! How 
despicable does Albus Dumbledore appear, busy 
plotting his rise to power when he should have been 
mourning his mother and caring for his sister! 

No doubt those determined to keep Dumbledore on 
his crumbling pedestal will bleat that he did not, after 
all, put his plans into action, that he must have 
suffered a change of heart, that he came to his 
senses. However, the truth seems altogether more 
shocking. 

Barely two months into their great new friendship, 
Dumbledore and Grindelwald parted, never to see each 
other again until they met for their legendary duel (for 
more, see chapter 22). What caused this abrupt 
rupture? Had Dumbledore come to his senses? Had he 
told Grindelwald he wanted no more part in his plans? 
Alas, no. 

“It was poor little Ariana dying, I think, that did it,” 
says Bathilda. “It came as an awful shock. Gellert was 
there in the house when it happened, and he came 
back to my house all of a dither, told me he wanted to 
go home the next day. Terribly distressed, you know. 
So I arranged a Portkey and that was the last I saw of 
him. 

“Albus was beside himself at Ariana’s death. It was so 
dreadful for those two brothers. They had lost 
everybody except each other. No wonder tempers ran 
a little high. Aberforth blamed Albus, you know, as 
people will under these dreadful circumstances. But 
Aberforth always talked a little madly, poor boy. All 
the same, breaking Albus’s nose at the funeral was 
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not decent. It would have destroyed Kendra to see her 
sons fighting like that, across her daughter’s body. A 
shame Gellert could not have stayed for the funeral. 

... He would have been a comfort to Albus, at least. 



This dreadful coffin- side brawl, known only to those 
few who attended Ariana Dumbledore’s funeral, raises 
several questions. Why exactly did Aberforth 
Dumbledore blame Albus for his sister’s death? Was 
it, as “Batty” pretends, a mere effusion of grief? Or 
could there have been some more concrete reason for 
his fury? Grindelwald, expelled from Durmstrang for 
near-fatal attacks upon fellow students, fled the 
country hours after the girl’s death, and Albus (out of 
shame or fear?) never saw him again, not until forced 
to do so by the pleas of the Wizarding world. 

Neither Dumbledore nor Grindelwald ever seems to 
have referred to this brief boyhood friendship in later 
life. However, there can be no doubt that Dumbledore 
delayed, for some five years of turmoil, fatalities, and 
disappearances, his attack upon Gellert Grindelwald. 
Was it lingering affection for the man or fear of 
exposure as his once best friend that caused 
Dumbledore to hesitate? Was it only reluctantly that 
Dumbledore set out to capture the man he was once 
so delighted he had met? 

And how did the mysterious Ariana die? Was she the 
inadvertent victim of some Dark rite? Did she stumble 
across something she ought not to have done, as the 
two young men sat practicing for their attempt at 
glory and domination? Is it possible that Ariana 
Dumbledore was the first person to die “for the 
greater good”? 



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The chapter ended here and Harry looked up. 
Hermione had reached the bottom of the page before 
him. She tugged the book out of Harry’s hands, 
looking a little alarmed by his expression, and closed 
it without looking at it, as though hiding something 
indecent. 

“Harry — ” 

But he shook his head. Some inner certainty had 
crashed down inside him; it was exactly as he had felt 
after Ron left. He had trusted Dumbledore, believed 
him the embodiment of goodness and wisdom. All was 
ashes: How much more could he lose? Ron, 
Dumbledore, the phoenix wand ... 

“Harry.” She seemed to have heard his thoughts. 
“Listen to me. It — it doesn’t make very nice reading 



“Yeah, you could say that — ” 

“ — but don’t forget, Harry, this is Rita Skeeter 
writing.” 

“You did read that letter to Grindelwald, didn’t you?” 

“Yes, I — I did.” She hesitated, looking upset, cradling 
her tea in her cold hands. “I think that’s the worst bit. 
I know Bathilda thought it was all just talk, but ‘For 
the Greater Good’ became Grindelwald ’s slogan, his 
justification for all the atrocities he committed later. 
And . . . from that ... it looks like Dumbledore gave him 
the idea. They say ‘For the Greater Good’ was even 
carved over the entrance to Nurmengard.” 

“What’s Nurmengard?” 



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“The prison Grindelwald had built to hold his 
opponents. He ended up in there himself, once 
Dumbledore had caught him. Anyway, it’s — it’s an 
awful thought that Dumbledore ’s ideas helped 
Grindelwald rise to power. But on the other hand, 
even Rita can’t pretend that they knew each other for 
more than a few months one summer when they were 
both really young, and — ” 

“I thought you’d say that,” said Harry. He did not 
want to let his anger spill out at her, but it was hard 
to keep his voice steady. “I thought you’d say They 
were young. ’ They were the same age as we are now. 
And here we are, risking our lives to fight the Dark 
Arts, and there he was, in a huddle with his new best 
friend, plotting their rise to power over the Muggles.” 

His temper would not remain in check much longer: 
He stood up and walked around, trying to work some 
of it off. 

“I’m not trying to defend what Dumbledore wrote,” 
said Hermione. “All that ‘right to rule’ rubbish, it’s 
‘Magic Is Might’ all over again. But Harry, his mother 
had just died, he was stuck alone in the house — ” 

“Alone? He wasn’t alone! He had his brother and 
sister for company, his Squib sister he was keeping 
locked up — ” 

“I don’t believe it,” said Hermione. She stood up too. 
“Whatever was wrong with that girl, I don’t think she 
was a Squib. The Dumbledore we knew would never, 
ever have allowed — ” 

“The Dumbledore we thought we knew didn’t want to 
conquer Muggles by force!” Harry shouted, his voice 
echoing across the empty hilltop, and several 



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blackbirds rose into the air, squawking and spiraling 
against the pearly sky. 

“He changed, Harry, he changed! It’s as simple as 
that! Maybe he did believe these things when he was 
seventeen, but the whole of the rest of his life was 
devoted to fighting the Dark Arts! Dumbledore was 
the one who stopped Grindelwald, the one who always 
voted for Muggle protection and Muggle-born rights, 
who fought You-Know-Who from the start, and who 
died trying to bring him down!” 

Rita’s book lay on the ground between them, so that 
the face of Albus Dumbledore smiled dolefully at 
both. 

“Harry, I’m sorry, but I think the real reason you’re so 
angry is that Dumbledore never told you any of this 
himself.” 

“Maybe I am!” Harry bellowed, and he flung his arms 
over his head, hardly knowing whether he was trying 
to hold in his anger or protect himself from the weight 
of his own disillusionment. “Look what he asked from 
me, Hermione! Risk your life, Harry! And again! And 
again! And don’t expect me to explain everything, just 
trust me blindly, trust that I know what I’m doing, 
trust me even though I don’t trust you! Never the 
whole truth! Never!” 

His voice cracked with the strain, and they stood 
looking at each other in the whiteness and the 
emptiness, and Harry felt they were as insignificant 
as insects beneath that wide sky. 

“He loved you,” Hermione whispered. “I know he loved 
you.” 



Harry dropped his arms. 

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“I don’t know who he loved, Hermione, but it was 
never me. This isn’t love, the mess he’s left me in. He 
shared a damn sight more of what he was really 
thinking with Gellert Grindelwald than he ever shared 
with me.” 

Harry picked up Hermione ’s wand, which he had 
dropped in the snow, and sat back down in the 
entrance of the tent. 

“Thanks for the tea. I’ll finish the watch. You get back 
in the warm.” 

She hesitated, but recognized the dismissal. She 
picked up the book and then walked back past him 
into the tent, but as she did so, she brushed the top 
of his head lightly with her hand. He closed his eyes 
at her touch, and hated himself for wishing that what 
she said was true: that Dumbledore had really cared. 



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THE SILVER DOE 

It was snowing by the time Hermione took over the 
watch at midnight. Harry’s dreams were confused and 
disturbing: Nagini wove in and out of them, first 
through a gigantic, cracked ring, then through a 
wreath of Christmas roses. He woke repeatedly, 
panicky, convinced that somebody had called out to 
him in the distance, imagining that the wind 
whipping around the tent was footsteps or voices. 

Finally he got up in the darkness and joined 
Hermione, who was huddled in the entrance to the 
tent reading A History of Magic by the light of her 
wand. The snow was still falling thickly, and she 
greeted with relief his suggestion of packing up early 
and moving on. 

“Well go somewhere more sheltered,” she agreed, 
shivering as she pulled on a sweatshirt over her 
pajamas. “I kept thinking I could hear people moving 
outside. I even thought I saw somebody once or 
twice.” 



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Harry paused in the act of pulling on a jumper and 
glanced at the silent, motionless Sneakoscope on the 
table. 

“I’m sure I imagined it,” said Hermione, looking 
nervous. “The snow in the dark, it plays tricks on 
your eyes. ... But perhaps we ought to Disapparate 
under the Invisibility Cloak, just in case?” 

Half an hour later, with the tent packed, Harry 
wearing the Horcrux, and Hermione clutching the 
beaded bag, they Disapparated. The usual tightness 
engulfed them; Harry’s feet parted company with the 
snowy ground, then slammed hard onto what felt like 
frozen earth covered with leaves. 

“Where are we?” he asked, peering around at a fresh 
mass of trees as Hermione opened the beaded bag 
and began tugging out tent poles. 

“The Forest of Dean,” she said. “I came camping here 
once with my mum and dad.” 

Here too snow lay on the trees all around and it was 
bitterly cold, but they were at least protected from the 
wind. They spent most of the day inside the tent, 
huddled for warmth around the useful bright blue 
flames that Hermione was so adept at producing, and 
which could be scooped up and carried around in a 
jar. Harry felt as though he was recuperating from 
some brief but severe illness, an impression 
reinforced by Hermione ’s solicitousness. That 
afternoon fresh flakes drifted down upon them, so 
that even their sheltered clearing had a fresh dusting 
of powdery snow. 

After two nights of little sleep, Harry’s senses seemed 
more alert than usual. Their escape from Godric’s 
Hollow had been so narrow that Voldemort seemed 

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somehow closer than before, more threatening. As 
darkness drew in again Harry refused Hermione’s 
offer to keep watch and told her to go to bed. 

Harry moved an old cushion into the tent mouth and 
sat down, wearing all the sweaters he owned but even 
so, still shivery. The darkness deepened with the 
passing hours until it was virtually impenetrable. He 
was on the point of taking out the Marauder’s Map, so 
as to watch Ginny’s dot for a while, before he 
remembered that it was the Christmas holidays and 
that she would be back at the Burrow. 

Every tiny movement seemed magnified in the 
vastness of the forest. Harry knew that it must be full 
of living creatures, but he wished they would all 
remain still and silent so that he could separate their 
innocent scurryings and prowlings from noises that 
might proclaim other, sinister movements. He 
remembered the sound of a cloak slithering over dead 
leaves many years ago, and at once thought he heard 
it again before mentally shaking himself. Their 
protective enchantments had worked for weeks; why 
should they break now? And yet he could not throw 
off the feeling that something was different tonight. 

Several times he jerked upright, his neck aching 
because he had fallen asleep, slumped at an awkward 
angle against the side of the tent. The night reached 
such a depth of velvety blackness that he might have 
been suspended in limbo between Disapparition and 
Apparition. He had just held up a hand in front of his 
face to see whether he could make out his fingers 
when it happened. 

A bright silver light appeared right ahead of him, 
moving through the trees. Whatever the source, it was 
moving soundlessly. The light seemed simply to drift 
toward him. 

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He jumped to his feet, his voice frozen in his throat, 
and raised Hermione’s wand. He screwed up his eyes 
as the light became blinding, the trees in front of it 
pitch-black in silhouette, and still the thing came 
closer. ... 

And then the source of the light stepped out from 
behind an oak. It was a silver- white doe, moon-bright 
and dazzling, picking her way over the ground, still 
silent, and leaving no hoofprints in the fine powdering 
of snow. She stepped toward him, her beautiful head 
with its wide, long-lashed eyes held high. 

Harry stared at the creature, filled with wonder, not 
at her strangeness, but at her inexplicable familiarity. 
He felt that he had been waiting for her to come, but 
that he had forgotten, until this moment, that they 
had arranged to meet. His impulse to shout for 
Hermione, which had been so strong a moment ago, 
had gone. He knew, he would have staked his life on 
it, that she had come for him, and him alone. 

They gazed at each other for several long moments 
and then she turned and walked away. 

“No,” he said, and his voice was cracked with lack of 
use. “Come back!” 

She continued to step deliberately through the trees, 
and soon her brightness was striped by their thick 
black trunks. For one trembling second he hesitated. 
Caution murmured it could be a trick, a lure, a trap. 
But instinct, overwhelming instinct, told him that this 
was not Dark Magic. He set off in pursuit. 

Snow crunched beneath his feet, but the doe made no 
noise as she passed through the trees, for she was 
nothing but light. Deeper and deeper into the forest 
she led him, and Harry walked quickly, sure that 

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when she stopped, she would allow him to approach 
her properly. And then she would speak and the voice 
would tell him what he needed to know. 

At last, she came to a halt. She turned her beautiful 
head toward him once more, and he broke into a run, 
a question burning in him, but as he opened his lips 
to ask it, she vanished. 

Though the darkness had swallowed her whole, her 
burnished image was still imprinted on his retinas; it 
obscured his vision, brightening when he lowered his 
eyelids, disorienting him. Now fear came: Her 
presence had meant safety. 

“Lumos\” he whispered, and the wand-tip ignited. 

The imprint of the doe faded away with every blink of 
his eyes as he stood there, listening to the sounds of 
the forest, to distant crackles of twigs, soft swishes of 
snow. Was he about to be attacked? Had she enticed 
him into an ambush? Was he imagining that 
somebody stood beyond the reach of the wandlight, 
watching him? 

He held the wand higher. Nobody ran out at him, no 
flash of green light burst from behind a tree. Why, 
then, had she led him to this spot? 

Something gleamed in the light of the wand, and 
Harry spun about, but all that was there was a small, 
frozen pool, its cracked black surface glittering as he 
raised the wand higher to examine it. 

He moved forward rather cautiously and looked down. 
The ice reflected his distorted shadow and the beam 
of wandlight, but deep below the thick, misty gray 
carapace, something else glinted. A great silver cross 

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His heart skipped into his mouth: He dropped to his 
knees at the pool’s edge and angled the wand so as to 
flood the bottom of the pool with as much light as 
possible. A glint of deep red ... It was a sword with 
glittering rubies in its hilt. ... The sword of Gryffindor 
was lying at the bottom of the forest pool. 

Barely breathing, he stared down at it. How was this 
possible? How could it have come to be lying in a 
forest pool, this close to the place where they were 
camping? Had some unknown magic drawn Hermione 
to this spot, or was the doe, which he had taken to be 
a Patronus, some kind of guardian of the pool? Or 
had the sword been put into the pool after they had 
arrived, precisely because they were here? In which 
case, where was the person who had wanted to pass 
it to Harry? Again he directed the wand at the 
surrounding trees and bushes, searching for a 
human outline, for the glint of an eye, but he could 
not see anyone there. All the same, a little more fear 
leavened his exhilaration as he returned his attention 
to the sword reposing upon the bottom of the frozen 
pool. 

He pointed the wand at the silvery shape and 
murmured, “Accio Sword.” 

It did not stir. He had not expected it to. If it had been 
that easy, the sword would have lain on the ground 
for him to pick up, not in the depths of a frozen pool. 
He set off around the circle of ice, thinking hard 
about the last time the sword had delivered itself to 
him. He had been in terrible danger then, and had 
asked for help. 

“Help,” he murmured, but the sword remained upon 
the pool bottom, indifferent, motionless. 



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What was it, Harry asked himself (walking again), 
that Dumbledore had told him the last time he had 
retrieved the sword? Only a true Gryffindor could have 
pulled that out of the hat. And what were the qualities 
that defined a Gryffindor? A small voice inside Harry’s 
head answered him: Their daring, nerve, and chivalry 
set Gryffindors apart. 

Harry stopped walking and let out a long sigh, his 
smoky breath dispersing rapidly upon the frozen air. 
He knew what he had to do. If he was honest with 
himself, he had thought it might come to this from 
the moment he had spotted the sword through the 
ice. 

He glanced around at the surrounding trees again, 
but was convinced now that nobody was going to 
attack him. They had had their chance as he walked 
alone through the forest, had had plenty of 
opportunity as he examined the pool. The only reason 
to delay at this point was because the immediate 
prospect was so deeply uninviting. 

With fumbling fingers Harry started to remove his 
many layers of clothing. Where “chivalry” entered into 
this, he thought ruefully, he was not entirely sure, 
unless it counted as chivalrous that he was not 
calling for Hermione to do it in his stead. 

An owl hooted somewhere as he stripped off, and he 
thought with a pang of Hedwig. He was shivering 
now, his teeth chattering horribly, and yet he 
continued to strip off until at last he stood there in 
his underwear, barefooted in the snow. He placed the 
pouch containing his wand, his mother’s letter, the 
shard of Sirius’s mirror, and the old Snitch on top of 
his clothes, then he pointed Hermione’s wand at the 
ice. 



Page | 415 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“Diffindo.” 



It cracked with a sound like a bullet in the silence: 

The surface of the pool broke and chunks of dark ice 
rocked on the ruffled water. As far as Harry could 
judge, it was not deep, but to retrieve the sword he 
would have to submerge himself completely. 

Contemplating the task ahead would not make it 
easier or the water warmer. He stepped to the pool’s 
edge and placed Hermione’s wand on the ground, still 
lit. Then, trying not to imagine how much colder he 
was about to become or how violently he would soon 
be shivering, he jumped. 

Every pore of his body screamed in protest: The very 
air in his lungs seemed to freeze solid as he was 
submerged to his shoulders in the frozen water. He 
could hardly breathe; trembling so violently the water 
lapped over the edges of the pool, he felt for the blade 
with his numb feet. He only wanted to dive once. 

Harry put off the moment of total submersion from 
second to second, gasping and shaking, until he told 
himself that it must be done, gathered all his courage, 
and dived. 

The cold was agony: It attacked him like fire. His 
brain itself seemed to have frozen as he pushed 
through the dark water to the bottom and reached 
out, groping for the sword. His fingers closed around 
the hilt; he pulled it upward. 

Then something closed tight around his neck. He 
thought of water weeds, though nothing had brushed 
him as he dived, and raised his empty hand to free 
himself. It was not weed: The chain of the Horcrux 
had tightened and was slowly constricting his 
windpipe. 

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Harry kicked out wildly, trying to push himself back 
to the surface, but merely propelled himself into the 
rocky side of the pool. Thrashing, suffocating, he 
scrabbled at the strangling chain, his frozen fingers 
unable to loosen it, and now little lights were popping 
inside his head, and he was going to drown, there was 
nothing left, nothing he could do, and the arms that 
closed around his chest were surely Death’s. ... 

Choking and retching, soaking and colder than he 
had ever been in his life, he came to facedown in the 
snow. Somewhere close by, another person was 
panting and coughing and staggering around. 
Hermione had come again, as she had come when the 
snake attacked. ... Yet it did not sound like her, not 
with those deep coughs, not judging by the weight of 
the footsteps. ... 

Harry had no strength to lift his head and see his 
savior’s identity. All he could do was raise a shaking 
hand to his throat and feel the place where the locket 
had cut tightly into his flesh. It was gone: Someone 
had cut him free. Then a panting voice spoke from 
over his head. 

“Are — you — mental?” 

Nothing but the shock of hearing that voice could 
have given Harry the strength to get up. Shivering 
violently, he staggered to his feet. There before him 
stood Ron, fully dressed but drenched to the skin, his 
hair plastered to his face, the sword of Gryffindor in 
one hand and the Horcrux dangling from its broken 
chain in the other. 

“Why the hell,” panted Ron, holding up the Horcrux, 
which swung backward and forward on its shortened 
chain in some parody of hypnosis, “didn’t you take 
this thing off before you dived?” 

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Harry could not answer. The silver doe was nothing, 
nothing compared with Ron’s reappearance; he could 
not believe it. Shuddering with cold, he caught up the 
pile of clothes still lying at the water’s edge and began 
to pull them on. As he dragged sweater after sweater 
over his head, Harry stared at Ron, half expecting him 
to have disappeared every time he lost sight of him, 
and yet he had to be real: He had just dived into the 
pool, he had saved Harry’s life. 

“It was y-you?” Harry said at last, his teeth 
chattering, his voice weaker than usual due to his 
near-strangulation. 

“Well, yeah,” said Ron, looking slightly confused. 
“Y-you cast that doe?” 

“What? No, of course not! I thought it was you doing 
it!” 



“My Patronus is a stag.” 

“Oh yeah. I thought it looked different. No antlers.” 

Harry put Hagrid’s pouch back around his neck, 
pulled on a final sweater, stooped to pick up 
Hermione’s wand, and faced Ron again. 

“How come you’re here?” 

Apparently Ron had hoped that this point would come 
up later, if at all. 

“Well, I’ve — you know — I’ve come back. If — ” He 
cleared his throat. “You know. You still want me.” 

There was a pause, in which the subject of Ron’s 
departure seemed to rise like a wall between them. 

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Yet he was here. He had returned. He had just saved 
Harry’s life. 

Ron looked down at his hands. He seemed 
momentarily surprised to see the things he was 
holding. 

“Oh yeah, I got it out,” he said, rather unnecessarily, 
holding up the sword for Harry’s inspection. “That’s 
why you jumped in, right?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “But I don’t understand. How did 
you get here? How did you find us?” 

“Long story,” said Ron. “I’ve been looking for you for 
hours, it’s a big forest, isn’t it? And I was just 
thinking I’d have to kip under a tree and wait for 
morning when I saw that deer coming and you 
following.” 

“You didn’t see anyone else?” 

“No,” said Ron. “I — ” 

But he hesitated, glancing at two trees growing close 
together some yards away. 

“I did think I saw something move over there, but I 
was running to the pool at the time, because you’d 
gone in and you hadn’t come up, so I wasn’t going to 
make a detour to — hey!” 

Harry was already hurrying to the place Ron had 
indicated. The two oaks grew close together; there 
was a gap of only a few inches between the trunks at 
eye level, an ideal place to see but not be seen. The 
ground around the roots, however, was free of snow, 
and Harry could see no sign of footprints. He walked 



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back to where Ron stood waiting, still holding the 
sword and the Horcrux. 



“Anything there?” Ron asked. 

“No,” said Harry. 

“So how did the sword get in that pool?” 

“Whoever cast the Patronus must have put it there.” 

They both looked at the ornate silver sword, its rubied 
hilt glinting a little in the light from Hermione’s wand. 

“You reckon this is the real one?” asked Ron. 

“One way to find out, isn’t there?” said Harry. 

The Horcrux was still swinging from Ron’s hand. The 
locket was twitching slightly. Harry knew that the 
thing inside it was agitated again. It had sensed the 
presence of the sword and had tried to kill Harry 
rather than let him possess it. Now was not the time 
for long discussions; now was the moment to destroy 
the locket once and for all. Harry looked around, 
holding Hermione’s wand high, and saw the place: a 
flattish rock lying in the shadow of a sycamore tree. 

“Come here,” he said, and he led the way, brushed 
snow from the rock’s surface, and held out his hand 
for the Horcrux. When Ron offered the sword, 
however, Harry shook his head. 

“No, you should do it.” 

“Me?” said Ron, looking shocked. “Why?” 

“Because you got the sword out of the pool. I think it’s 
supposed to be you.” 

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He was not being kind or generous. As certainly as he 
had known that the doe was benign, he knew that 
Ron had to be the one to wield the sword. 

Dumbledore had at least taught Harry something 
about certain kinds of magic, of the incalculable 
power of certain acts. 

“I’m going to open it,” said Harry, “and you stab it. 
Straightaway, okay? Because whatever’s in there will 
put up a fight. The bit of Riddle in the diary tried to 
kill me.” 

“How are you going to open it?” asked Ron. He looked 
terrified. 

“I’m going to ask it to open, using Parseltongue,” said 
Harry. The answer came so readily to his lips that he 
thought that he had always known it deep down: 
Perhaps it had taken his recent encounter with Nagini 
to make him realize it. He looked at the serpentine S, 
inlaid with glittering green stones: It was easy to 
visualize it as a minuscule snake, curled upon the 
cold rock. 

“No!” said Ron. “No, don’t open it! I’m serious!” 

“Why not?” asked Harry. “Let’s get rid of the damn 
thing, it’s been months — ” 

“I can’t, Harry, I’m serious — you do it — ” 

“But why?” 

“Because that thing’s bad for me!” said Ron, backing 
away from the locket on the rock. “I can’t handle it! 

I’m not making excuses, Harry, for what I was like, 
but it affects me worse than it affected you and 
Hermione, it made me think stuff — stuff I was 
thinking anyway, but it made everything worse, I 
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can’t explain it, and then I’d take it off and I’d get my 
head on straight again, and then I’d have to put the 
effing thing back on — I can’t do it, Harry!” 

He had backed away, the sword dragging at his side, 
shaking his head. 

“You can do it,” said Harry, “you can! You’ve just got 
the sword, I know it’s supposed to be you who uses it. 
Please, just get rid of it, Ron.” 

The sound of his name seemed to act like a stimulant. 
Ron swallowed, then, still breathing hard through his 
long nose, moved back toward the rock. 

“Tell me when,” he croaked. 

“On three,” said Harry, looking back down at the 
locket and narrowing his eyes, concentrating on the 
letter S, imagining a serpent, while the contents of the 
locket rattled like a trapped cockroach. It would have 
been easy to pity it, except that the cut around 
Harry’s neck still burned. 

“One ... two ... three ... open.” 

The last word came as a hiss and a snarl and the 
golden doors of the locket swung wide with a little 
click. 

Behind both of the glass windows within blinked a 
living eye, dark and handsome as Tom Riddle’s eyes 
had been before he turned them scarlet and slit- 
pupiled. 

“Stab,” said Harry, holding the locket steady on the 
rock. 



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Ron raised the sword in his shaking hands: The point 
dangled over the frantically swiveling eyes, and Harry 
gripped the locket tightly, bracing himself, already 
imagining blood pouring from the empty windows. 

Then a voice hissed from out of the Horcrux. 

“I have seen your heart, and it is mine.” 

“Don’t listen to it!” Harry said harshly. “Stab it!” 

“I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have 
seen your fears. All you desire is possible, but all that 
you dread is also possible. ...” 

“Stab!” shouted Harry; his voice echoed off the 
surrounding trees, the sword point trembled, and Ron 
gazed down into Riddle’s eyes. 

“ Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a 
daughter . . . Least loved, now, by the girl who prefers 
your friend . . . Second best, always, eternally 
overshadowed ...” 

“Ron, stab it now!” Harry bellowed: He could feel the 
locket quivering in his grip and was scared of what 
was coming. Ron raised the sword still higher, and as 
he did so, Riddle’s eyes gleamed scarlet. 

Out of the locket’s two windows, out of the eyes, there 
bloomed, like two grotesque bubbles, the heads of 
Harry and Hermione, weirdly distorted. 

Ron yelled in shock and backed away as the figures 
blossomed out of the locket, first chests, then waists, 
then legs, until they stood in the locket, side by side 
like trees with a common root, swaying over Ron and 
the real Harry, who had snatched his fingers away 
from the locket as it burned, suddenly, white-hot. 
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“Ron!” he shouted, but the Riddle-Harry was now 
speaking with Voldemort’s voice and Ron was gazing, 
mesmerized, into its face. 

“ Why return? We were better without you, happier 
without you, glad of your absence. . . . We laughed at 
your stupidity, your cowardice, your presumption — ” 

“ Presumption?’ echoed the Riddle-Hermione, who was 
more beautiful and yet more terrible than the real 
Hermione: She swayed, cackling, before Ron, who 
looked horrified yet transfixed, the sword hanging 
pointlessly at his side. “ Who could look at you, who 
would ever look at you, beside Harry Potter? What 
have you ever done, compared with the Chosen One? 
What are you, compared with the Boy Who Lived?” 

“Ron, stab it, STAB IT!” Harry yelled, but Ron did not 
move: His eyes were wide, and the Riddle-Harry and 
the Riddle-Hermione were reflected in them, their hair 
swirling like flames, their eyes shining red, their 
voices lifted in an evil duet. 

“ Your mother confessed,” sneered Riddle-Harry, while 
Riddle-Hermione jeered, “that she would have 
preferred me as a son, would be glad to exchange ...” 

“Who wouldn’t prefer him, what woman would take 
you, you are nothing, nothing, nothing to him,” crooned 
Riddle-Hermione, and she stretched like a snake and 
entwined herself around Riddle-Harry, wrapping him 
in a close embrace: Their lips met. 

On the ground in front of them, Ron’s face filled with 
anguish. He raised the sword high, his arms shaking. 

“Do it, Ron!” Harry yelled. 



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Ron looked toward him, and Harry thought he saw a 
trace of scarlet in his eyes. 

“Ron — ?” 

The sword flashed, plunged: Harry threw himself out 
of the way, there was a clang of metal and a long, 
drawn-out scream. Harry whirled around, slipping in 
the snow, wand held ready to defend himself: but 
there was nothing to fight. 

The monstrous versions of himself and Hermione 
were gone: There was only Ron, standing there with 
the sword held slackly in his hand, looking down at 
the shattered remains of the locket on the flat rock. 

Slowly, Harry walked back to him, hardly knowing 
what to say or do. Ron was breathing heavily: His 
eyes were no longer red at all, but their normal blue; 
they were also wet. 

Harry stooped, pretending he had not seen, and 
picked up the broken Horcrux. Ron had pierced the 
glass in both windows: Riddle’s eyes were gone, and 
the stained silk lining of the locket was smoking 
slightly. The thing that had lived in the Horcrux had 
vanished; torturing Ron had been its final act. 

The sword clanged as Ron dropped it. He had sunk to 
his knees, his head in his arms. He was shaking, but 
not, Harry realized, from cold. Harry crammed the 
broken locket into his pocket, knelt down beside Ron, 
and placed a hand cautiously on his shoulder. He 
took it as a good sign that Ron did not throw it off. 

“After you left,” he said in a low voice, grateful for the 
fact that Ron’s face was hidden, “she cried for a week. 
Probably longer, only she didn’t want me to see. There 



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were loads of nights when we never even spoke to 
each other. With you gone ...” 

He could not finish; it was only now that Ron was 
here again that Harry fully realized how much his 
absence had cost them. 

“She’s like my sister,” he went on. “I love her like a 
sister and I reckon she feels the same way about me. 
It’s always been like that. I thought you knew.” 

Ron did not respond, but turned his face away from 
Harry and wiped his nose noisily on his sleeve. Harry 
got to his feet again and walked to where Ron’s 
enormous rucksack lay yards away, discarded as Ron 
had run toward the pool to save Harry from drowning. 
He hoisted it onto his own back and walked back to 
Ron, who clambered to his feet as Harry approached, 
eyes bloodshot but otherwise composed. 

“I’m sorry,” he said in a thick voice. “I’m sorry I left. I 
know I was a — a — ” 

He looked around at the darkness, as if hoping a bad 
enough word would swoop down upon him and claim 
him. 

“You’ve sort of made up for it tonight,” said Harry. 
“Getting the sword. Finishing off the Horcrux. Saving 
my life.” 

“That makes me sound a lot cooler than I was,” Ron 
mumbled. 

“Stuff like that always sounds cooler than it really 
was,” said Harry. “I’ve been trying to tell you that for 
years.” 



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Simultaneously they walked forward and hugged, 
Harry gripping the still-sopping back of Ron’s jacket. 

“And now,” said Harry as they broke apart, “all we’ve 
got to do is find the tent again.” 

But it was not difficult. Though the walk through the 
dark forest with the doe had seemed lengthy, with 
Ron by his side the journey back seemed to take a 
surprisingly short time. Harry could not wait to wake 
Hermione, and it was with quickening excitement that 
he entered the tent, Ron lagging a little behind him. 

It was gloriously warm after the pool and the forest, 
the only illumination the bluebell flames still 
shimmering in a bowl on the floor. Hermione was fast 
asleep, curled up under her blankets, and did not 
move until Harry had said her name several times. 

“Hermionel” 

She stirred, then sat up quickly, pushing her hair out 
of her face. 

“What’s wrong? Harry? Are you all right?” 

“It’s okay, everything’s fine. More than fine. I’m great. 
There’s someone here.” 

“What do you mean? Who — ?” 

She saw Ron, who stood there holding the sword and 
dripping onto the threadbare carpet. Harry backed 
into a shadowy corner, slipped off Ron’s rucksack, 
and attempted to blend in with the canvas. 

Hermione slid out of her bunk and moved like a 
sleepwalker toward Ron, her eyes upon his pale face. 
She stopped right in front of him, her lips slightly 

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parted, her eyes wide. Ron gave a weak, hopeful smile 
and half raised his arms. 

Hermione launched herself forward and started 
punching every inch of him that she could reach. 

“Ouch — ow — gerroff! What the — ? Hermione — 
OW!” 

“You — complete — arse — Ronald — Weasley!” 

She punctuated every word with a blow: Ron backed 
away, shielding his head as Hermione advanced. 

“You — crawl — back — here — after — weeks — and 
— weeks — oh, where’s my wand?” 

She looked as though ready to wrestle it out of 
Harry’s hands and he reacted instinctively. 

“Protegol” 

The invisible shield erupted between Ron and 
Hermione: The force of it knocked her backward onto 
the floor. Spitting hair out of her mouth, she leapt up 
again. 

“Hermione!” said Harry. “Calm — ” 

“I will not calm down!” she screamed. Never before 
had he seen her lose control like this; she looked 
quite demented. “Give me back my wand! Give it back 
to me\” 

“Hermione, will you please — ” 

“Don’t you tell me what to do, Harry Potter!” she 
screeched. “Don’t you dare! Give it back now! And 
YOU!” 

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She was pointing at Ron in dire accusation: It was 
like a malediction, and Harry could not blame Ron for 
retreating several steps. 

“I came running after you! I called you! I begged you 
to come back!” 

“I know,” Ron said, “Hermione, I’m sorry, I’m really — 



“Oh, you’re sorry!” 

She laughed, a high-pitched, out-of-control sound; 
Ron looked at Harry for help, but Harry merely 
grimaced his helplessness. 

“You come back after weeks — weeks — and you 
think it’s all going to be all right if you just say 
sorry?” 

“Well, what else can I say?” Ron shouted, and Harry 
was glad that Ron was fighting back. 

“Oh, I don’t know!” yelled Hermione with awful 
sarcasm. “Rack your brains, Ron, that should only 
take a couple of seconds — ” 

“Hermione,” interjected Harry, who considered this a 
low blow, “he just saved my — ” 

“I don’t care!” she screamed. “I don’t care what he’s 
done! Weeks and weeks, we could have been dead for 
all he knew — ” 

“I knew you weren’t dead!” bellowed Ron, drowning 
her voice for the first time, and approaching as close 
as he could with the Shield Charm between them. 
“Harry’s all over the Prophet, all over the radio, they’re 
looking for you everywhere, all these rumors and 
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mental stories, I knew I’d hear straight off if you were 
dead, you don’t know what it’s been like — ” 



“What it’s been like for you?” 

Her voice was now so shrill only bats would be able to 
hear it soon, but she had reached a level of 
indignation that rendered her temporarily speechless, 
and Ron seized his opportunity. 

“I wanted to come back the minute I’d Disapparated, 
but I walked straight into a gang of Snatchers, 
Hermione, and I couldn’t go anywhere!” 

“A gang of what?” asked Harry, as Hermione threw 
herself down into a chair with her arms and legs 
crossed so tightly it seemed unlikely that she would 
unravel them for several years. 

“Snatchers,” said Ron. “They’re everywhere — gangs 
trying to earn gold by rounding up Muggle-borns and 
blood traitors, there’s a reward from the Ministry for 
everyone captured. I was on my own and I look like I 
might be school age; they got really excited, thought I 
was a Muggle-born in hiding. I had to talk fast to get 
out of being dragged to the Ministry.” 

“What did you say to them?” 

“Told them I was Stan Shunpike. First person I could 
think of.” 

“And they believed that?” 

“They weren’t the brightest. One of them was 
definitely part troll, the smell off him. ...” 

Ron glanced at Hermione, clearly hopeful she might 
soften at this small instance of humor, but her 

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expression remained stony above her tightly knotted 
limbs. 

“Anyway, they had a row about whether I was Stan or 
not. It was a bit pathetic to be honest, but there were 
still five of them and only one of me and they’d taken 
my wand. Then two of them got into a fight and while 
the others were distracted I managed to hit the one 
holding me in the stomach, grabbed his wand, 
Disarmed the bloke holding mine, and Disapparated. 

I didn’t do it so well, Splinched myself again” — Ron 
held up his right hand to show two missing 
fingernails; Hermione raised her eyebrows coldly — 
“and I came out miles from where you were. By the 
time I got back to that bit of riverbank where we’d 
been ... you’d gone.” 

“Gosh, what a gripping story,” Hermione said in the 
lofty voice she adopted when wishing to wound. “You 
must have been simply terrified. Meanwhile we went 
to Godric’s Hollow and, let’s think, what happened 
there, Harry? Oh yes, You-Know- Who’s snake turned 
up, it nearly killed both of us, and then You-Know- 
Who himself arrived and missed us by about a 
second.” 

“What?” Ron said, gaping from her to Harry, but 
Hermione ignored him. 

“Imagine losing fingernails, Harry! That really puts 
our sufferings into perspective, doesn’t it?” 

“Hermione,” said Harry quietly, “Ron just saved my 
life.” 

She appeared not to have heard him. 

“One thing I would like to know, though,” she said, 
fixing her eyes on a spot a foot over Ron’s head. “How 

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exactly did you find us tonight? That’s important. 

Once we know, we’ll be able to make sure we’re not 
visited by anyone else we don’t want to see.” 

Ron glared at her, then pulled a small silver object 
from his jeans pocket. 

“This.” 

She had to look at Ron to see what he was showing 
them. 

“The Deluminator?” she asked, so surprised she 
forgot to look cold and fierce. 

“It doesn’t just turn the lights on and off,” said Ron. “I 
don’t know how it works or why it happened then and 
not any other time, because I’ve been wanting to come 
back ever since I left. But I was listening to the radio 
really early on Christmas morning and I heard ... I 
heard you.” 

He was looking at Hermione. 

“You heard me on the radio?” she asked 
incredulously. 

“No, I heard you coming out of my pocket. Your 
voice,” he held up the Deluminator again, “came out 
of this.” 

“And what exactly did I say?” asked Hermione, her 
tone somewhere between skepticism and curiosity. 

“My name. ‘Ron.’ And you said ... something about a 
wand. ...” 

Hermione turned a fiery shade of scarlet. Harry 
remembered: It had been the first time Ron’s name 

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had been said aloud by either of them since the day 
he had left; Hermione had mentioned it when talking 
about repairing Harry’s wand. 

“So I took it out,” Ron went on, looking at the 
Deluminator, “and it didn’t seem different or 
anything, but I was sure I’d heard you. So I clicked it. 
And the light went out in my room, but another light 
appeared right outside the window.” 

Ron raised his empty hand and pointed in front of 
him, his eyes focused on something neither Harry nor 
Hermione could see. 

“It was a ball of light, kind of pulsing, and bluish, like 
that light you get around a Portkey, you know?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry and Hermione together 
automatically. 

“I knew this was it,” said Ron. “I grabbed my stuff and 
packed it, then I put on my rucksack and went out 
into the garden. 

“The little ball of light was hovering there, waiting for 
me, and when I came out it bobbed along a bit and I 
followed it behind the shed and then it ... well, it went 
inside me.” 

“Sorry?” said Harry, sure he had not heard correctly. 

“It sort of floated toward me,” said Ron, illustrating 
the movement with his free index finger, “right to my 
chest, and then — it just went straight through. It 
was here,” he touched a point close to his heart, “I 
could feel it, it was hot. And once it was inside me I 
knew what I was supposed to do, I knew it would take 
me where I needed to go. So I Disapparated and came 



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out on the side of a hill. There was snow everywhere. 



“We were there,” said Harry. “We spent two nights 
there, and the second night I kept thinking I could 
hear someone moving around in the dark and calling 
out!” 

“Yeah, well, that would’ve been me,” said Ron. “Your 
protective spells work, anyway, because I couldn’t see 
you and I couldn’t hear you. I was sure you were 
around, though, so in the end I got in my sleeping bag 
and waited for one of you to appear. I thought you’d 
have to show yourselves when you packed up the 
tent.” 

“No, actually,” said Hermione. “We’ve been 
Disapparating under the Invisibility Cloak as an extra 
precaution. And we left really early, because, as Harry 
says, we’d heard somebody blundering around.” 

“Well, I stayed on that hill all day,” said Ron. “I kept 
hoping you’d appear. But when it started to get dark I 
knew I must have missed you, so I clicked the 
Deluminator again, the blue light came out and went 
inside me, and I Disapparated and arrived here in 
these woods. I still couldn’t see you, so I just had to 
hope one of you would show yourselves in the end — 
and Harry did. Well, I saw the doe first, obviously.” 

“You saw the what?” said Hermione sharply. 

They explained what had happened, and as the story 
of the silver doe and the sword in the pool unfolded, 
Hermione frowned from one to the other of them, 
concentrating so hard she forgot to keep her limbs 
locked together. 



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“But it must have been a Patronus!” she said. 
“Couldn’t you see who was casting it? Didn’t you see 
anyone? And it led you to the sword! I can’t believe 
this! Then what happened?” 

Ron explained how he had watched Harry jump into 
the pool and had waited for him to resurface; how he 
had realized that something was wrong, dived in, and 
saved Harry, then returned for the sword. He got as 
far as the opening of the locket, then hesitated, and 
Harry cut in. 

“ — and Ron stabbed it with the sword.” 

“And ... and it went? Just like that?” she whispered. 

“Well, it — it screamed,” said Harry with half a glance 
at Ron. “Here.” 

He threw the locket into her lap; gingerly she picked it 
up and examined its punctured windows. 

Deciding that it was at last safe to do so, Harry 
removed the Shield Charm with a wave of Hermione’s 
wand and turned to Ron. 

“Did you just say you got away from the Snatchers 
with a spare wand?” 

“What?” said Ron, who had been watching Hermione 
examining the locket. “Oh — oh yeah.” 

He tugged open a buckle on his rucksack and pulled 
a short, dark wand out of its pocket. “Here. I figured 
it’s always handy to have a backup.” 

“You were right,” said Harry, holding out his hand. 
“Mine’s broken.” 



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“You’re kidding?” Ron said, but at that moment 
Hermione got to her feet, and he looked apprehensive 
again. 

Hermione put the vanquished Horcrux into the 
beaded bag, then climbed back into her bed and 
settled down without another word. 

Ron passed Harry the new wand. 

“About the best you could hope for, I think,” 
murmured Harry. 

“Yeah,” said Ron. “Could’ve been worse. Remember 
those birds she set on me?” 

“I still haven’t ruled it out,” came Hermione’s muffled 
voice from beneath her blankets, but Harry saw Ron 
smiling slightly as he pulled his maroon pajamas out 
of his rucksack. 



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XEN OPHILIUS LOVEGOOD 

Harry had not expected Hermione’s anger to abate 
overnight, and was therefore unsurprised that she 
communicated mainly by dirty looks and pointed 
silences the next morning. Ron responded by 
maintaining an unnaturally somber demeanor in her 
presence as an outward sign of continuing remorse. 

In fact, when all three of them were together Harry 
felt like the only non-mourner at a poorly attended 
funeral. During those few moments he spent alone 
with Harry, however (collecting water and searching 
the undergrowth for mushrooms), Ron became 
shamelessly cheery. 

“Someone helped us,” he kept saying. “Someone sent 
that doe. Someone’s on our side. One Horcrux down, 
mate!” 

Bolstered by the destruction of the locket, they set to 
debating the possible locations of the other 
Horcruxes, and even though they had discussed the 
matter so often before, Harry felt optimistic, certain 
that more breakthroughs would succeed the first. 

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Hermione’s sulkiness could not mar his buoyant 
spirits: The sudden upswing in their fortunes, the 
appearance of the mysterious doe, the recovery of 
Gryffindor’s sword, and above all, Ron’s return, made 
Harry so happy that it was quite difficult to maintain 
a straight face. 

Late in the afternoon he and Ron escaped Hermione’s 
baleful presence again, and under the pretense of 
scouring the bare hedges for nonexistent 
blackberries, they continued their ongoing exchange 
of news. Harry had finally managed to tell Ron the 
whole story of his and Hermione’s various 
wanderings, right up to the full story of what had 
happened at Godric’s Hollow; Ron was now filling 
Harry in on everything he had discovered about the 
wider Wizarding world during his weeks away. 

"... and how did you find out about the Taboo?” he 
asked Harry after explaining the many desperate 
attempts of Muggle-borns to evade the Ministry. 

“The what?” 

“You and Hermione have stopped saying You-Know- 
Who’s name!” 

“Oh, yeah. Well, it’s just a bad habit we’ve slipped 
into,” said Harry. “But I haven’t got a problem calling 
him V — ” 

“NO!” roared Ron, causing Harry to jump into the 
hedge and Hermione (nose buried in a book at the 
tent entrance) to scowl over at them. “Sorry,” said 
Ron, wrenching Harry back out of the brambles, “but 
the name’s been jinxed, Harry, that’s how they track 
people! Using his name breaks protective 
enchantments, it causes some kind of magical 



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disturbance — it’s how they found us in Tottenham 
Court Road!” 



“Because we used his name?” 

“Exactly! You’ve got to give them credit, it makes 
sense. It was only people who were serious about 
standing up to him, like Dumbledore, who ever dared 
use it. Now they’ve put a Taboo on it, anyone who 
says it is trackable — quick-and-easy way to find 
Order members! They nearly got Kingsley — ” 

“You’re kidding?” 

“Yeah, a bunch of Death Eaters cornered him, Bill 
said, but he fought his way out. He’s on the run now, 
just like us.” Ron scratched his chin thoughtfully with 
the end of his wand. “You don’t reckon Kingsley could 
have sent that doe?” 

“His Patronus is a lynx, we saw it at the wedding, 
remember?” 

“Oh yeah ...” 

They moved farther along the hedge, away from the 
tent and Hermione. 

“Harry ... you don’t reckon it could’ve been 
Dumbledore?” 

“Dumbledore what?” 

Ron looked a little embarrassed, but said in a low 
voice, “Dumbledore ... the doe? I mean,” Ron was 
watching Harry out of the corners of his eyes, “he had 
the real sword last, didn’t he?” 



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Harry did not laugh at Ron, because he understood 
too well the longing behind the question. The idea 
that Dumbledore had managed to come back to them, 
that he was watching over them, would have been 
inexpressibly comforting. He shook his head. 

“Dumbledore’s dead,” he said. “I saw it happen, I saw 
the body. He’s definitely gone. Anyway, his Patronus 
was a phoenix, not a doe.” 

“Patronuses can change, though, can’t they?” said 
Ron. “Tonks’s changed, didn’t it?” 

“Yeah, but if Dumbledore was alive, why wouldn’t he 
show himself? Why wouldn’t he just hand us the 
sword?” 

“Search me,” said Ron. “Same reason he didn’t give it 
to you while he was alive? Same reason he left you an 
old Snitch and Hermione a book of kids’ stories?” 

“Which is what?” asked Harry, turning to look Ron 
full in the face, desperate for the answer. 

“I dunno,” said Ron. “Sometimes I’ve thought, when 
I’ve been a bit hacked off, he was having a laugh or — 
or he just wanted to make it more difficult. But I don’t 
think so, not anymore. He knew what he was doing 
when he gave me the Deluminator, didn’t he? He — 
well,” Ron’s ears turned bright red and he became 
engrossed in a tuft of grass at his feet, which he 
prodded with his toe, “he must’ve known I’d run out 
on you.” 

“No,” Harry corrected him. “He must’ve known you’d 
always want to come back.” 

Ron looked grateful, but still awkward. Partly to 
change the subject, Harry said, “Speaking of 

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Dumbledore, have you heard what Skeeter wrote 
about him?” 

“Oh yeah,” said Ron at once, “people are talking about 
it quite a lot. ’Course, if things were different, it’d be 
huge news, Dumbledore being pals with Grindelwald, 
but now it’s just something to laugh about for people 
who didn’t like Dumbledore, and a bit of a slap in the 
face for everyone who thought he was such a good 
bloke. I don’t know that it’s such a big deal, though. 
He was really young when they — ” 

“Our age,” said Harry, just as he had retorted to 
Hermione, and something in his face seemed to 
decide Ron against pursuing the subject. 

A large spider sat in the middle of a frosted web in the 
brambles. Harry took aim at it with the wand Ron had 
given him the previous night, which Hermione had 
since condescended to examine, and had decided was 
made of blackthorn. 

“Engorgio.” 

The spider gave a little shiver, bouncing slightly in the 
web. Harry tried again. This time the spider grew 
slightly larger. 

“Stop that,” said Ron sharply. “I’m sorry I said 
Dumbledore was young, okay?” 

Harry had forgotten Ron’s hatred of spiders. 

“Sorry — Reducio.” 

The spider did not shrink. Harry looked down at the 
blackthorn wand. Every minor spell he had cast with 
it so far that day had seemed less powerful than those 
he had produced with his phoenix wand. The new one 

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felt intrusively unfamiliar, like having somebody else’s 
hand sewn to the end of his arm. 

“You just need to practice,” said Hermione, who had 
approached them noiselessly from behind and had 
stood watching anxiously as Harry tried to enlarge 
and reduce the spider. “It’s all a matter of confidence, 
Harry.” 

He knew why she wanted it to be all right: She still 
felt guilty about breaking his wand. He bit back the 
retort that sprang to his lips, that she could take the 
blackthorn wand if she thought it made no difference, 
and he would have hers instead. Keen for them all to 
be friends again, however, he agreed; but when Ron 
gave Hermione a tentative smile, she stalked off and 
vanished behind her book once more. 

All three of them returned to the tent when darkness 
fell, and Harry took first watch. Sitting in the 
entrance, he tried to make the blackthorn wand 
levitate small stones at his feet; but his magic still 
seemed clumsier and less powerful than it had done 
before. Hermione was lying on her bunk reading, 
while Ron, after many nervous glances up at her, had 
taken a small wooden wireless out of his rucksack 
and started to try and tune it. 

“There’s this one program,” he told Harry in a low 
voice, “that tells the news like it really is. All the 
others are on You- Know- Who’s side and are following 
the Ministry line, but this one ... you wait till you 
hear it, it’s great. Only they can’t do it every night, 
they have to keep changing locations in case they’re 
raided, and you need a password to tune in. ... 

Trouble is, I missed the last one. ...” 

He drummed lightly on the top of the radio with his 
wand, muttering random words under his breath. He 

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threw Hermione many covert glances, plainly fearing 
an angry outburst, but for all the notice she took of 
him he might not have been there. For ten minutes or 
so Ron tapped and muttered, Hermione turned the 
pages of her book, and Harry continued to practice 
with the blackthorn wand. 

Finally Hermione climbed down from her bunk. Ron 
ceased his tapping at once. 

“If it’s annoying you, 111 stop!” he told Hermione 
nervously. 

Hermione did not deign to respond, but approached 
Harry. 

“We need to talk,” she said. 

He looked at the book still clutched in her hand. It 
was The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. 

“What?” he said apprehensively. It flew through his 
mind that there was a chapter on him in there; he 
was not sure he felt up to hearing Rita’s version of his 
relationship with Dumbledore. Hermione ’s answer, 
however, was completely unexpected. 

“I want to go and see Xenophilius Lovegood.” 

He stared at her. 

“Sorry?” 

“Xenophilius Lovegood. Luna’s father. I want to go 
and talk to him!” 

“Er — why?” 



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She took a deep breath, as though bracing herself, 
and said, “It’s that mark, the mark in Beedle the 
Bard. Look at this!” 

She thrust The Life and Lies ofAlbus Dumbledore 
under Harry’s unwilling eyes and he saw a 
photograph of the original letter that Dumbledore had 
written Grindelwald, with Dumbledore ’s familiar thin, 
slanting handwriting. He hated seeing absolute proof 
that Dumbledore really had written those words, that 
they had not been Rita’s invention. 

“The signature,” said Hermione. “Look at the 
signature, Harry!” 

He obeyed. For a moment he had no idea what she 
was talking about, but, looking more closely with the 
aid of his lit wand, he saw that Dumbledore had 
replaced the A of Albus with a tiny version of the 
same triangular mark inscribed upon The Tales of 
Beedle the Bard. 

“Er — what are you — ?” said Ron tentatively, but 
Hermione quelled him with a look and turned back to 
Harry. 

“It keeps cropping up, doesn’t it?” she said. “I know 
Viktor said it was Grindelwald ’s mark, but it was 
definitely on that old grave in Godric’s Hollow, and 
the dates on the headstone were long before 
Grindelwald came along! And now this! Well, we can’t 
ask Dumbledore or Grindelwald what it means — I 
don’t even know whether Grindelwald’s still alive — 
but we can ask Mr. Lovegood. He was wearing the 
symbol at the wedding. I’m sure this is important, 
Harry!” 

Harry did not answer immediately. He looked into her 
intense, eager face and then out into the surrounding 

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darkness, thinking. After a long pause he said, 
“Hermione, we don’t need another Godric’s Hollow. 

We talked ourselves into going there, and — ” 

“But it keeps appearing, Harry! Dumbledore left me 
The Tales of Beedle the Bard, how do you know we’re 
not supposed to find out about the sign?” 

“Here we go again!” Harry felt slightly exasperated. 

“We keep trying to convince ourselves Dumbledore left 
us secret signs and clues — ” 

“The Deluminator turned out to be pretty useful,” 
piped up Ron. “I think Hermione’s right, I think we 
ought to go and see Lovegood.” 

Harry threw him a dark look. He was quite sure that 
Ron’s support of Hermione had little to do with a 
desire to know the meaning of the triangular rune. 

“It won’t be like Godric’s Hollow,” Ron added, 
“Lovegood’s on your side, Harry, The Quibbler’s been 
for you all along, it keeps telling everyone they’ve got 
to help you!” 

“I’m sure this is important!” said Hermione earnestly. 

“But don’t you think if it was, Dumbledore would 
have told me about it before he died?” 

“Maybe ... maybe it’s something you need to find out 
for yourself,” said Hermione with a faint air of 
clutching at straws. 

“Yeah,” said Ron sycophantically, “that makes sense.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” snapped Hermione, “but I still think 
we ought to talk to Mr. Lovegood. A symbol that links 



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Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Godric’s Hollow? 
Harry, I’m sure we ought to know about this!” 



“I think we should vote on it,” said Ron. “Those in 
favor of going to see Lovegood — ” 

His hand flew into the air before Hermione’s. Her lips 
quivered suspiciously as she raised her own. 

“Outvoted, Harry, sorry,” said Ron, clapping him on 
the back. 

“Fine,” said Harry, half amused, half irritated. “Only, 
once we’ve seen Lovegood, let’s try and look for some 
more Horcruxes, shall we? Where do the Lovegoods 
live, anyway? Do either of you know?” 

“Yeah, they’re not far from my place,” said Ron. “I 
dunno exactly where, but Mum and Dad always point 
toward the hills whenever they mention them. 
Shouldn’t be hard to find.” 

When Hermione had returned to her bunk, Harry 
lowered his voice. 

“You only agreed to try and get back in her good 
books.” 

“All’s fair in love and war,” said Ron brightly, “and 
this is a bit of both. Cheer up, it’s the Christmas 
holidays, Luna ’ll be home!” 

They had an excellent view of the village of Ottery St. 
Catchpole from the breezy hillside to which they 
Disapparated next morning. From their high vantage 
point the village looked like a collection of toy houses 
in the great slanting shafts of sunlight stretching to 
earth in the breaks between clouds. They stood for a 
minute or two looking toward the Burrow, their hands 
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shadowing their eyes, but all they could make out 
were the high hedges and trees of the orchard, which 
afforded the crooked little house protection from 
Muggle eyes. 

“It’s weird, being this near, but not going to visit,” 
said Ron. 

“Well, it’s not like you haven’t just seen them. You 
were there for Christmas,” said Hermione coldly. 

“I wasn’t at the Burrow!” said Ron with an 
incredulous laugh. “Do you think I was going to go 
back there and tell them all I’d walked out on you? 
Yeah, Fred and George would’ve been great about it. 
And Ginny, she’d have been really understanding.” 

“But where have you been, then?” asked Hermione, 
surprised. 

“Bill and Fleur’s new place. Shell Cottage. Bill’s 
always been decent to me. He — he wasn’t impressed 
when he heard what I’d done, but he didn’t go on 
about it. He knew I was really sorry. None of the rest 
of the family know I was there. Bill told Mum he and 
Fleur weren’t going home for Christmas because they 
wanted to spend it alone. You know, first holiday after 
they were married. I don’t think Fleur minded. You 
know how much she hates Celestina Warbeck.” 

Ron turned his back on the Burrow. 

“Let’s try up here,” he said, leading the way over the 
top of the hill. 

They walked for a few hours, Harry, at Hermione ’s 
insistence, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak. The 
cluster of low hills appeared to be uninhabited apart 
from one small cottage, which seemed deserted. 

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“Do you think it’s theirs, and they’ve gone away for 
Christmas?” said Hermione, peering through the 
window at a neat little kitchen with geraniums on the 
windowsill. Ron snorted. 

“Listen, I’ve got a feeling you’d be able to tell who lived 
there if you looked through the Lovegoods’ window. 
Let’s try the next lot of hills.” 

So they Disapparated a few miles farther north. 

“Aha!” shouted Ron, as the wind whipped their hair 
and clothes. Ron was pointing upward, toward the top 
of the hill on which they had appeared, where a most 
strange-looking house rose vertically against the sky, 
a great black cylinder with a ghostly moon hanging 
behind it in the afternoon sky. “That’s got to be 
Luna’s house, who else would live in a place like that? 
It looks like a giant rook!” 

“It’s nothing like a bird,” said Hermione, frowning at 
the tower. 

“I was talking about a chess rook,” said Ron. “A castle 
to you.” 

Ron’s legs were the longest and he reached the top of 
the hill first. When Harry and Hermione caught up 
with him, panting and clutching stitches in their 
sides, they found him grinning broadly. 

“It’s theirs,” said Ron. “Look.” 

Three hand-painted signs had been tacked to a 
broken-down gate. The first read, 

THE QUIBBLER. EDITOR: X. LOVEGOOD 

the second, 

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PICK YOUR OWN MISTLETOE 



the third, 

KEEP OFF THE DIRIGIBLE PLUMS 

The gate creaked as they opened it. The zigzagging 
path leading to the front door was overgrown with a 
variety of odd plants, including a bush covered in the 
orange radishlike fruit Luna sometimes wore as 
earrings. Harry thought he recognized a Snargaluff 
and gave the wizened stump a wide berth. Two aged 
crab apple trees, bent with the wind, stripped of 
leaves but still heavy with berry-sized red fruits and 
bushy crowns of white-beaded mistletoe, stood 
sentinel on either side of the front door. A little owl 
with a slightly flattened, hawklike head peered down 
at them from one of the branches. 

“You’d better take off the Invisibility Cloak, Harry,” 
said Hermione. “It’s you Mr. Lovegood wants to help, 
not us.” 

He did as she suggested, handing her the Cloak to 
stow in the beaded bag. She then rapped three times 
on the thick black door, which was studded with iron 
nails and bore a knocker shaped like an eagle. 

Barely ten seconds passed, then the door was flung 
open and there stood Xenophilius Lovegood, barefoot 
and wearing what appeared to be a stained nightshirt 
His long white candyfloss hair was dirty and 
unkempt. Xenophilius had been positively dapper at 
Bill and Fleur’s wedding by comparison. 

“What? What is it? Who are you? What do you want?” 
he cried in a high-pitched, querulous voice, looking 
first at Hermione, then at Ron, and finally at Harry, 



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upon which his mouth fell open in a perfect, comical 

O. 



“Hello, Mr. Lovegood,” said Harry, holding out his 
hand. “I’m Harry, Harry Potter.” 

Xenophilius did not take Harry’s hand, although the 
eye that was not pointing inward at his nose slid 
straight to the scar on Harry’s forehead. 

“Would it be okay if we came in?” asked Harry. 
“There’s something we’d like to ask you.” 

“I ... I’m not sure that’s advisable,” whispered 
Xenophilius. He swallowed and cast a quick look 
around the garden. “Rather a shock ... My word ... I 
... I’m afraid I don’t really think I ought to — ” 

“It won’t take long,” said Harry, slightly disappointed 
by this less-than-warm welcome. 

“I — oh, all right then. Come in, quickly. QuicklyV’ 

They were barely over the threshold when Xenophilius 
slammed the door shut behind them. They were 
standing in the most peculiar kitchen Harry had ever 
seen. The room was perfectly circular, so that it felt 
like being inside a giant pepper pot. Everything was 
curved to fit the walls — the stove, the sink, and the 
cupboards — and all of it had been painted with 
flowers, insects, and birds in bright primary colors. 
Harry thought he recognized Luna’s style: The effect, 
in such an enclosed space, was slightly 
overwhelming. 

In the middle of the floor, a wrought-iron spiral 
staircase led to the upper levels. There was a great 
deal of clattering and banging coming from overhead: 
Harry wondered what Luna could be doing. 

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“You’d better come up,” said Xenophilius, still looking 
extremely uncomfortable, and he led the way. 

The room above seemed to be a combination of living 
room and workplace, and as such, was even more 
cluttered than the kitchen. Though much smaller and 
entirely round, the room somewhat resembled the 
Room of Requirement on the unforgettable occasion 
that it had transformed itself into a gigantic labyrinth 
comprised of centuries of hidden objects. There were 
piles upon piles of books and papers on every surface. 
Delicately made models of creatures Harry did not 
recognize, all flapping wings or snapping jaws, hung 
from the ceiling. 

Luna was not there: The thing that was making such 
a racket was a wooden object covered in magically 
turning cogs and wheels. It looked like the bizarre 
offspring of a workbench and a set of old shelves, but 
after a moment Harry deduced that it was an old- 
fashioned printing press, due to the fact that it was 
churning out Quibblers. 

“Excuse me,” said Xenophilius, and he strode over to 
the machine, seized a grubby tablecloth from beneath 
an immense number of books and papers, which all 
tumbled onto the floor, and threw it over the press, 
somewhat muffling the loud bangs and clatters. He 
then faced Harry. 

“Why have you come here?” 

Before Harry could speak, however, Hermione let out 
a small cry of shock. 

“Mr. Lovegood — what’s that?” 

She was pointing at an enormous, gray spiral horn, 
not unlike that of a unicorn, which had been 

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mounted on the wall, protruding several feet into the 
room. 

“It is the horn of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack,” said 
Xenophilius. 

“No it isn’t!” said Hermione. 

“Hermione,” muttered Harry, embarrassed, “now’s not 
the moment — ” 

“But Harry, it’s an Erumpent horn! It’s a Class B 
Tradeable Material and it’s an extraordinarily 
dangerous thing to have in a house!” 

“How d’you know it’s an Erumpent horn?” asked Ron, 
edging away from the horn as fast as he could, given 
the extreme clutter of the room. 

“There’s a description in Fantastic Beasts and Where 
to Find Them .! Mr. Lovegood, you need to get rid of it 
straightaway, don’t you know it can explode at the 
slightest touch?” 

“The Crumple-Horned Snorkack,” said Xenophilius 
very clearly, a mulish look upon his face, “is a shy 
and highly magical creature, and its horn — ” 

“Mr. Lovegood, I recognize the grooved markings 
around the base, that’s an Erumpent horn and it’s 
incredibly dangerous — I don’t know where you got it 



“I bought it,” said Xenophilius dogmatically, “two 
weeks ago, from a delightful young wizard who knew 
of my interest in the exquisite Snorkack. A Christmas 
surprise for my Luna. Now,” he said, turning to 
Harry, “why exactly have you come here, Mr. Potter?” 



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“We need some help,” said Harry, before Hermione 
could start again. 



“Ah,” said Xenophilius. “Help. Hmm.” 

His good eye moved again to Harry’s scar. He seemed 
simultaneously terrified and mesmerized. 

“Yes. The thing is ... helping Harry Potter ... rather 
dangerous ...” 

“Aren’t you the one who keeps telling everyone it’s 
their first duty to help Harry?” said Ron. “In that 
magazine of yours?” 

Xenophilius glanced behind him at the concealed 
printing press, still banging and clattering beneath 
the tablecloth. 

“Er — yes, I have expressed that view. However — ” 

“That’s for everyone else to do, not you personally?” 
said Ron. 

Xenophilius did not answer. He kept swallowing, his 
eyes darting between the three of them. Harry had the 
impression that he was undergoing some painful 
internal struggle. 

“Where’s Luna?” asked Hermione. “Let’s see what she 
thinks.” 

Xenophilius gulped. He seemed to be steeling himself. 
Finally he said in a shaky voice difficult to hear over 
the noise of the printing press, “Luna is down at the 
stream, fishing for Freshwater Plimpies. She ... she 
will like to see you. I’ll go and call her and then — 
yes, very well. I shall try to help you.” 

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He disappeared down the spiral staircase and they 
heard the front door open and close. They looked at 
each other. 

“Cowardly old wart,” said Ron. “Luna’s got ten times 
his guts.” 

“He’s probably worried about what’ll happen to them 
if the Death Eaters find out I was here,” said Harry. 

“Well, I agree with Ron,” said Hermione. “Awful old 
hypocrite, telling everyone else to help you and trying 
to worm out of it himself. And for heaven’s sake keep 
away from that horn.” 

Harry crossed to the window on the far side of the 
room. He could see a stream, a thin, glittering ribbon 
lying far below them at the base of the hill. They were 
very high up; a bird fluttered past the window as he 
stared in the direction of the Burrow, now invisible 
beyond another line of hills. Ginny was over there 
somewhere. They were closer to each other today than 
they had been since Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but she 
could have no idea he was gazing toward her now, 
thinking of her. He supposed he ought to be glad of it; 
anyone he came into contact with was in danger, 
Xenophilius’s attitude proved that. 

He turned away from the window and his gaze fell 
upon another peculiar object standing upon the 
cluttered, curved sideboard: a stone bust of a 
beautiful but austere-looking witch wearing a most 
bizarre-looking headdress. Two objects that 
resembled golden ear trumpets curved out from the 
sides. A tiny pair of glittering blue wings was stuck to 
a leather strap that ran over the top of her head, 
while one of the orange radishes had been stuck to a 
second strap around her forehead. 



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“Look at this,” said Harry. 



“Fetching,” said Ron. “Surprised he didn’t wear that 
to the wedding.” 

They heard the front door close, and a moment later 
Xenophilius had climbed back up the spiral staircase 
into the room, his thin legs now encased in 
Wellington boots, bearing a tray of ill-assorted 
teacups and a steaming teapot. 

“Ah, you have spotted my pet invention,” he said, 
shoving the tray into Hermione’s arms and joining 
Harry at the statue’s side. “Modeled, fittingly enough, 
upon the head of the beautiful Rowena Ravenclaw. 

‘Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasureV ” 

He indicated the objects like ear trumpets. 

“These are the Wrackspurt siphons — to remove all 
sources of distraction from the thinker’s immediate 
area. Here,” he pointed out the tiny wings, “a billywig 
propeller, to induce an elevated frame of mind. 
Finally,” he pointed to the orange radish, “the 
Dirigible Plum, so as to enhance the ability to accept 
the extraordinary.” 

Xenophilius strode back to the tea tray, which 
Hermione had managed to balance precariously on 
one of the cluttered side tables. 

“May I offer you all an infusion of Gurdyroots?” said 
Xenophilius. “We make it ourselves.” As he started to 
pour out the drink, which was as deeply purple as 
beetroot juice, he added, “Luna is down beyond 
Bottom Bridge, she is most excited that you are here. 
She ought not to be too long, she has caught nearly 
enough Plimpies to make soup for all of us. Do sit 
down and help yourselves to sugar. 

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“Now,” he removed a tottering pile of papers from an 
armchair and sat down, his Wellingtoned legs 
crossed, “how may I help you, Mr. Potter?” 

“Well,” said Harry, glancing at Hermione, who nodded 
encouragingly, “it’s about that symbol you were 
wearing around your neck at Bill and Fleur’s 
wedding, Mr. Lovegood. We wondered what it meant.” 

Xenophilius raised his eyebrows. 

“Are you referring to the sign of the Deathly Hallows?” 



Page | 456 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 





THE TALE OF THE THREE 
BROTHERS 

Harry turned to look at Ron and Hermione. Neither of 
them seemed to have understood what Xenophilius 
had said either. 

“The Deathly Hallows?” 

“That’s right,” said Xenophilius. “You haven’t heard of 
them? I’m not surprised. Very, very few wizards 
believe. Witness that knuckle-headed young man at 
your brother’s wedding,” he nodded at Ron, “who 
attacked me for sporting the symbol of a well-known 
Dark wizard! Such ignorance. There is nothing Dark 
about the Hallows — at least, not in that crude sense. 
One simply uses the symbol to reveal oneself to other 
believers, in the hope that they might help one with 
the Quest.” 

He stirred several lumps of sugar into his Gurdyroot 
infusion and drank some. 



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“I’m sorry,” said Harry. “I still don’t really 
understand.” 

To be polite, he took a sip from his cup too, and 
almost gagged: The stuff was quite disgusting, as 
though someone had liquidized bogey-flavored Every 
Flavor Beans. 

“Well, you see, believers seek the Deathly Hallows,” 
said Xenophilius, smacking his lips in apparent 
appreciation of the Gurdyroot infusion. 

“But what are the Deathly Hallows?” asked Hermione. 

Xenophilius set aside his empty teacup. 

“I assume that you are all familiar with “The Tale of 
the Three Brothers’?” 

Harry said, “No,” but Ron and Hermione both said, 
“Yes.” Xenophilius nodded gravely. 

“Well, well, Mr. Potter, the whole thing starts with 
The Tale of the Three Brothers’ ... I have a copy 
somewhere. ...” 

He glanced vaguely around the room, at the piles of 
parchment and books, but Hermione said, “I’ve got a 
copy, Mr. Lovegood, I’ve got it right here.” 

And she pulled out The Tales of Beedle the Bard from 
the small, beaded bag. 

“The original?” inquired Xenophilius sharply, and 
when she nodded, he said, “Well then, why don’t you 
read it aloud? Much the best way to make sure we all 
understand.” 



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“Er ... all right,” said Hermione nervously. She opened 
the book, and Harry saw that the symbol they were 
investigating headed the top of the page as she gave a 
little cough, and began to read. 

“ ‘There were once three brothers who were traveling 
along a lonely, winding road at twilight — ’ ” 

“Midnight, our mum always told us,” said Ron, who 
had stretched out, arms behind his head, to listen. 
Hermione shot him a look of annoyance. 

“Sorry, I just think it’s a bit spookier if it’s midnight!” 
said Ron. 

“Yeah, because we really need a bit more fear in our 
lives,” said Harry before he could stop himself. 
Xenophilius did not seem to be paying much 
attention, but was staring out of the window at the 
sky. “Go on, Hermione.” 

“ ‘In time, the brothers reached a river too deep to 
wade through and too dangerous to swim across. 
However, these brothers were learned in the magical 
arts, and so they simply waved their wands and made 
a bridge appear across the treacherous water. They 
were halfway across it when they found their path 
blocked by a hooded figure. 

“ ‘And Death spoke to them — ’ ” 

“Sorry,” interjected Harry, “but Death spoke to them?” 
“It’s a fairy tale, Harry!” 

“Right, sorry. Go on.” 

“ ‘And Death spoke to them. He was angry that he had 
been cheated out of three new victims, for travelers 

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usually drowned in the river. But Death was cunning. 
He pretended to congratulate the three brothers upon 
their magic, and said that each had earned a prize for 
having been clever enough to evade him. 

“ ‘So the oldest brother, who was a combative man, 
asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence: 
a wand that must always win duels for its owner, a 
wand worthy of a wizard who had conquered Death! 

So Death crossed to an elder tree on the banks of the 
river, fashioned a wand from a branch that hung there, 
and gave it to the oldest brother. 

“ ‘Then the second brother, who was an arrogant man, 
decided that he wanted to humiliate Death still further, 
and asked for the power to recall others from Death. So 
Death picked up a stone from the riverbank and gave it 
to the second brother, and told him that the stone 
would have the power to bring back the dead. 

“ ‘And then Death asked the third and youngest 
brother what he would like. The youngest brother was 
the humblest and also the wisest of the brothers, and 
he did not trust Death. So he asked for something that 
would enable him to go forth from that place without 
being followed by Death. And Death, most unwillingly, 
handed over his own Cloak of Invisibility.’ ” 

“Death’s got an Invisibility Cloak?” Harry interrupted 
again. 

“So he can sneak up on people,” said Ron. 

“Sometimes he gets bored of running at them, 
flapping his arms and shrieking ... sorry, Hermione.” 

“ ‘Then Death stood aside and allowed the three 
brothers to continue on their way, and they did so, 
talking with wonder of the adventure they had had, 
and admiring Death’s gifts. 

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“ ‘In due course the brothers separated, each for his 
own destination. 

“ ‘The first brother traveled on for a week or more, and 
reaching a distant village, sought out a fellow wizard 
with whom he had a quarrel. Naturally, with the Elder 
Wand as his weapon, he could not fail to win the duel 
that followed. Leaving his enemy dead upon the floor, 
the oldest brother proceeded to an inn, where he 
boasted loudly of the powerful wand he had snatched 
from Death himself, and of how it made him invincible. 

“ ‘That very night, another wizard crept upon the oldest 
brother as he lay, wine-sodden, upon his bed. The thief 
took the wand and, for good measure, slit the oldest 
brother’s throat. 

“ ‘And so Death took the first brother for his own. 

“ ‘Meanwhile, the second brother journeyed to his own 
home, where he lived alone. Here he took out the stone 
that had the power to recall the dead, and turned it 
thrice in his hand. To his amazement and his delight, 
the figure of the girl he had once hoped to marry, 
before her untimely death, appeared at once before 
him. 

“ ‘Yet she was sad and cold, separated from him as by 
a veil. Though she had returned to the mortal world, 
she did not truly belong there and suffered. Finally the 
second brother, driven mad with hopeless longing, 
killed himself so as truly to join her. 

“ ‘And so Death took the second brother for his own. 

“ ‘But though Death searched for the third brother for 
many years, he was never able to find him. It was only 
when he had attained a great age that the youngest 
brother finally took off the Cloak of Invisibility and 

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gave it to his son. And then he greeted Death as an old 
friend, and went with him gladly, and, equals, they 
departed this life. ’ ” 

Hermione closed the book. It was a moment or two 
before Xenophilius seemed to realize that she had 
stopped reading, then he withdrew his gaze from the 
window and said, “Well, there you are.” 

“Sorry?” said Hermione, sounding confused. 

“Those are the Deathly Hallows,” said Xenophilius. 

He picked up a quill from a packed table at his elbow, 
and pulled a torn piece of parchment from between 
more books. 

“The Elder Wand,” he said, and he drew a straight 
vertical line upon the parchment. “The Resurrection 
Stone,” he said, and he added a circle on top of the 
line. “The Cloak of Invisibility,” he finished, enclosing 
both line and circle in a triangle, to make the symbol 
that so intrigued Hermione. “Together,” he said, “the 
Deathly Hallows.” 

“But there’s no mention of the words ‘Deathly 
Hallows’ in the story,” said Hermione. 

“Well, of course not,” said Xenophilius, maddeningly 
smug. “That is a children’s tale, told to amuse rather 
than to instruct. Those of us who understand these 
matters, however, recognize that the ancient story 
refers to three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, 
will make the possessor master of Death.” 

There was a short silence in which Xenophilius 
glanced out of the window. Already the sun was low 
in the sky. 



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“Luna ought to have enough Plimpies soon,” he said 
quietly. 

“When you say ‘master of Death’ — ” said Ron. 

“Master,” said Xenophilius, waving an airy hand. 
“Conqueror. Vanquisher. Whichever term you prefer.” 

“But then ... do you mean ...” said Hermione slowly, 
and Harry could tell that she was trying to keep any 
trace of skepticism out of her voice, “that you believe 
these objects — these Hallows — actually exist?” 

Xenophilius raised his eyebrows again. 

“Well, of course.” 

“But,” said Hermione, and Harry could hear her 
restraint starting to crack, “Mr. Lovegood, how can 
you possibly believe — ?” 

“Luna has told me all about you, young lady,” said 
Xenophilius. “You are, I gather, not unintelligent, but 
painfully limited. Narrow. Close-minded.” 

“Perhaps you ought to try on the hat, Hermione,” said 
Ron, nodding toward the ludicrous headdress. His 
voice shook with the strain of not laughing. 

“Mr. Lovegood,” Hermione began again. “We all know 
that there are such things as Invisibility Cloaks. They 
are rare, but they exist. But — ” 

“Ah, but the Third Hallow is a true Cloak of 
Invisibility, Miss Granger! I mean to say, it is not a 
traveling cloak imbued with a Disillusionment Charm, 
or carrying a Bedazzling Hex, or else woven from 
Demiguise hair, which will hide one initially but fade 
with the years until it turns opaque. We are talking 
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about a cloak that really and truly renders the wearer 
completely invisible, and endures eternally, giving 
constant and impenetrable concealment, no matter 
what spells are cast at it. How many cloaks have you 
ever seen like that, Miss Granger?” 

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, then closed it 
again, looking more confused than ever. She, Harry, 
and Ron glanced at one another, and Harry knew that 
they were all thinking the same thing. It so happened 
that a cloak exactly like the one Xenophilius had just 
described was in the room with them at that very 
moment. 

“Exactly,” said Xenophilius, as if he had defeated 
them all in reasoned argument. “None of you have 
ever seen such a thing. The possessor would be 
immeasurably rich, would he not?” 

He glanced out of the window again. The sky was now 
tinged with the faintest trace of pink. 

“All right,” said Hermione, disconcerted. “Say the 
Cloak existed ... what about the stone, Mr. Lovegood? 
The thing you call the Resurrection Stone?” 

“What of it?” 

“Well, how can that be real?” 

“Prove that it is not,” said Xenophilius. 

Hermione looked outraged. 

“But that’s — I’m sorry, but that’s completely 
ridiculous! How can I possibly prove it doesn’t exist? 
Do you expect me to get hold of — of all the pebbles 
in the world and test them? I mean, you could claim 



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that anything’s real if the only basis for believing in it 
is that nobody’s proved it doesn’t exist!” 

“Yes, you could,” said Xenophilius. “I am glad to see 
that you are opening your mind a little.” 

“So the Elder Wand,” said Harry quickly, before 
Hermione could retort, “you think that exists too?” 

“Oh, well, in that case there is endless evidence,” said 
Xenophilius. “The Elder Wand is the Hallow that is 
most easily traced, because of the way in which it 
passes from hand to hand.” 

“Which is what?” asked Harry. 

“Which is that the possessor of the wand must 
capture it from its previous owner, if he is to be truly 
master of it,” said Xenophilius. “Surely you have 
heard of the way the wand came to Egbert the 
Egregious, after his slaughter of Emeric the Evil? Of 
how Godelot died in his own cellar after his son, 
Hereward, took the wand from him? Of the dreadful 
Loxias, who took the wand from Barnabas Deverill, 
whom he had killed? The bloody trail of the Elder 
Wand is splattered across the pages of Wizarding 
history.” 

Harry glanced at Hermione. She was frowning at 
Xenophilius, but she did not contradict him. 

“So where do you think the Elder Wand is now?” 
asked Ron. 

“Alas, who knows?” said Xenophilius, as he gazed out 
of the window. “Who knows where the Elder Wand 
lies hidden? The trail goes cold with Arcus and Livius. 
Who can say which of them really defeated Loxias, 



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and which took the wand? And who can say who may 
have defeated them? History, alas, does not tell us.” 

There was a pause. Finally Hermione asked stiffly, 
“Mr. Lovegood, does the Peverell family have anything 
to do with the Deathly Hallows?” 

Xenophilius looked taken aback as something shifted 
in Harry’s memory, but he could not locate it. Peverell 
...he had heard that name before. ... 

“But you have been misleading me, young woman!” 
said Xenophilius, now sitting up much straighter in 
his chair and goggling at Hermione. “I thought you 
were new to the Hallows Quest! Many of us Questers 
believe that the Peverells have everything — 
everything ! — to do with the Hallows!” 

“Who are the Peverells?” asked Ron. 

“That was the name on the grave with the mark on it, 
in Godric’s Hollow,” said Hermione, still watching 
Xenophilius. “Ignotus Peverell.” 

“Exactly!” said Xenophilius, his forefinger raised 
pedantically. “The sign of the Deathly Hallows on 
Ignotus ’s grave is conclusive proof!” 

“Of what?” asked Ron. 

“Why, that the three brothers in the story were 
actually the three Peverell brothers, Antioch, Cadmus, 
and Ignotus! That they were the original owners of the 
Hallows!” 

With another glance at the window he got to his feet, 
picked up the tray, and headed for the spiral 
staircase. 



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“You will stay for dinner?” he called, as he vanished 
downstairs again. “Everybody always requests our 
recipe for Freshwater Plimpy soup.” 

“Probably to show the Poisoning Department at St. 
Mungo’s,” said Ron under his breath. 

Harry waited until they could hear Xenophilius 
moving about in the kitchen downstairs before 
speaking. 

“What do you think?” he asked Hermione. 

“Oh, Harry,” she said wearily, “it’s a pile of utter 
rubbish. This can’t be what the sign really means. 
This must just be his weird take on it. What a waste 
of time.” 

“I s’pose this is the man who brought us Crumple- 
Horned Snorkacks,” said Ron. 

“You don’t believe it either?” Harry asked him. 

“Nah, that story’s just one of those things you tell 
kids to teach them lessons, isn’t it? ‘Don’t go looking 
for trouble, don’t pick fights, don’t go messing around 
with stuff that’s best left alone! Just keep your head 
down, mind your own business, and you’ll be okay’ 
Come to think of it,” Ron added, “maybe that story’s 
why elder wands are supposed to be unlucky.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“One of those superstitions, isn’t it? ‘May-born 
witches will marry Muggles.’ ‘Jinx by twilight, undone 
by midnight.’ ‘Wand of elder, never prosper.’ You 
must’ve heard them. My mum’s full of them.” 



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“Harry and I were raised by Muggles,” Hermione 
reminded him. “We were taught different 
superstitions.” She sighed deeply as a rather pungent 
smell drifted up from the kitchen. The one good thing 
about her exasperation with Xenophilius was that it 
seemed to have made her forget that she was annoyed 
at Ron. “I think you’re right,” she told him. “It’s just a 
morality tale, it’s obvious which gift is best, which one 
you’d choose — ” 

The three of them spoke at the same time; Hermione 
said, “the Cloak,” Ron said, “the wand,” and Harry 
said, “the stone.” 

They looked at each other, half surprised, half 
amused. 

“You’re supposed to say the Cloak,” Ron told 
Hermione, “but you wouldn’t need to be invisible if 
you had the wand. An unbeatable wand, Hermione, 
come on!” 

“We’ve already got an Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry. 

“And it’s helped us rather a lot, in case you hadn’t 
noticed!” said Hermione. “Whereas the wand would be 
bound to attract trouble — ” 

“Only if you shouted about it,” argued Ron. “Only if 
you were prat enough to go dancing around, waving it 
over your head, and singing, ‘I’ve got an unbeatable 
wand, come and have a go if you think you’re hard 
enough.’ As long as you kept your trap shut — ” 

“Yes, but could you keep your trap shut?” said 
Hermione, looking skeptical. “You know, the only true 
thing he said to us was that there have been stories 
about extra- powerful wands for hundreds of years.” 



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“There have?” asked Harry. 



Hermione looked exasperated: The expression was so 
endearingly familiar that Harry and Ron grinned at 
each other. 

“The Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, they crop up 
under different names through the centuries, usually 
in the possession of some Dark wizard who’s boasting 
about them. Professor Binns mentioned some of 
them, but — oh, it’s all nonsense. Wands are only as 
powerful as the wizards who use them. Some wizards 
just like to boast that theirs are bigger and better 
than other people’s.” 

“But how do you know,” said Harry, “that those 
wands — the Deathstick and the Wand of Destiny — 
aren’t the same wand, surfacing over the centuries 
under different names?” 

“What, and they’re all really the Elder Wand, made by 
Death?” said Ron. 

Harry laughed: The strange idea that had occurred to 
him was, after all, ridiculous. His wand, he reminded 
himself, had been of holly, not elder, and it had been 
made by Ollivander, whatever it had done that night 
Voldemort had pursued him across the skies. And if it 
had been unbeatable, how could it have been broken? 

“So why would you take the stone?” Ron asked him. 

“Well, if you could bring people back, we could have 
Sirius ... Mad-Eye ... Dumbledore ... my parents. ...” 

Neither Ron nor Hermione smiled. 

“But according to Beedle the Bard, they wouldn’t 
want to come back, would they?” said Harry, thinking 

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about the tale they had just heard. “I don’t suppose 
there have been loads of other stories about a stone 
that can raise the dead, have there?” he asked 
Hermione. 

“No,” she replied sadly. “I don’t think anyone except 
Mr. Lovegood could kid themselves that’s possible. 
Beedle probably took the idea from the Sorcerer’s 
Stone; you know, instead of a stone to make you 
immortal, a stone to reverse death.” 

The smell from the kitchen was getting stronger: It 
was something like burning underpants. Harry 
wondered whether it would be possible to eat enough 
of whatever Xenophilius was cooking to spare his 
feelings. 

“What about the Cloak, though?” said Ron slowly. 
“Don’t you realize, he’s right? I’ve got so used to 
Harry’s Cloak and how good it is, I never stopped to 
think. I’ve never heard of one like Harry’s. It’s 
infallible. We’ve never been spotted under it — ” 

“Of course not — we’re invisible when we’re under it, 
Ron!” 

“But all the stuff he said about other cloaks, and 
they’re not exactly ten a Knut, you know, is true! It’s 
never occurred to me before, but I’ve heard stuff 
about charms wearing off cloaks when they get old, or 
them being ripped apart by spells so they’ve got holes 
in. Harry’s was owned by his dad, so it’s not exactly 
new, is it, but it’s just ... perfect!” 

“Yes, all right, but Ron, the stone ...” 

As they argued in whispers, Harry moved around the 
room, only half listening. Reaching the spiral stair, he 
raised his eyes absently to the next level and was 

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distracted at once. His own face was looking back at 
him from the ceiling of the room above. 

After a moment’s bewilderment, he realized that it 
was not a mirror, but a painting. Curious, he began 
to climb the stairs. 

“Harry, what are you doing? I don’t think you should 
look around when he’s not here!” 

But Harry had already reached the next level. 

Luna had decorated her bedroom ceiling with five 
beautifully painted faces: Harry, Ron, Hermione, 
Ginny, and Neville. They were not moving as the 
portraits at Hogwarts moved, but there was a certain 
magic about them all the same: Harry thought they 
breathed. What appeared to be fine golden chains 
wove around the pictures, linking them together, but 
after examining them for a minute or so, Harry 
realized that the chains were actually one word, 
repeated a thousand times in golden ink: friends . . . 
friends . . . friends . . . 

Harry felt a great rush of affection for Luna. He looked 
around the room. There was a large photograph 
beside the bed, of a young Luna and a woman who 
looked very like her. They were hugging. Luna looked 
rather better-groomed in this picture than Harry had 
ever seen her in life. The picture was dusty. This 
struck Harry as slightly odd. He stared around. 

Something was wrong. The pale blue carpet was also 
thick with dust. There were no clothes in the 
wardrobe, whose doors stood ajar. The bed had a 
cold, unfriendly look, as though it had not been slept 
in for weeks. A single cobweb stretched over the 
nearest window, across a bloodred sky. 



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“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked as Harry descended 
the staircase, but before he could respond, 
Xenophilius reached the top of the stairs from the 
kitchen, now holding a tray laden with bowls. 

“Mr. Lovegood,” said Harry. “Where’s Luna?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Where’s Luna?” 

Xenophilius halted on the top step. 

“I — I’ve already told you. She is down at Bottom 
Bridge, fishing for Plimpies.” 

“So why have you only laid that tray for four?” 

Xenophilius tried to speak, but no sound came out. 
The only noise was the continued chugging of the 
printing press, and a slight rattle from the tray as 
Xenophilius ’s hands shook. 

“I don’t think Luna’s been here for weeks,” said Harry. 
“Her clothes are gone, her bed hasn’t been slept in. 
Where is she? And why do you keep looking out of the 
window?” 

Xenophilius dropped the tray: The bowls bounced and 
smashed. Harry, Ron, and Hermione drew their 
wands: Xenophilius froze, his hand about to enter his 
pocket. At that moment the printing press gave a 
huge bang and numerous Quibblers came streaming 
across the floor from underneath the tablecloth; the 
press fell silent at last. 

Hermione stooped down and picked up one of the 
magazines, her wand still pointing at Mr. Lovegood. 



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“Harry, look at this.” 



He strode over to her as quickly as he could through 
all the clutter. The front of The Quibbler carried his 
own picture, emblazoned with the words 
UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE and captioned with 
the reward money. 

“The Quibbler’s going for a new angle, then?” Harry 
asked coldly, his mind working very fast. “Is that 
what you were doing when you went into the garden, 
Mr. Lovegood? Sending an owl to the Ministry?” 

Xenophilius licked his lips. 

“They took my Luna,” he whispered. “Because of what 
I’ve been writing. They took my Luna and I don’t know 
where she is, what they’ve done to her. But they 
might give her back to me if I — if I — ” 

“Hand over Harry?” Hermione finished for him. 

“No deal,” said Ron flatly. “Get out of the way, we’re 
leaving.” 

Xenophilius looked ghastly, a century old, his lips 
drawn back into a dreadful leer. 

“They will be here at any moment. I must save Luna. I 
cannot lose Luna. You must not leave.” 

He spread his arms in front of the staircase, and 
Harry had a sudden vision of his mother doing the 
same thing in front of his crib. 

“Don’t make us hurt you,” Harry said. “Get out of the 
way, Mr. Lovegood.” 

“HARRY!” Hermione screamed. 

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Figures on broomsticks were flying past the windows. 
As the three of them looked away from him, 
Xenophilius drew his wand. Harry realized their 
mistake just in time: He launched himself sideways, 
shoving Ron and Hermione out of harm’s way as 
Xenophilius’s Stunning Spell soared across the room 
and hit the Erumpent horn. 

There was a colossal explosion. The sound of it 
seemed to blow the room apart: Fragments of wood 
and paper and rubble flew in all directions, along with 
an impenetrable cloud of thick white dust. Harry flew 
through the air, then crashed to the floor, unable to 
see as debris rained upon him, his arms over his 
head. He heard Hermione’s scream, Ron’s yell, and a 
series of sickening metallic thuds, which told him 
that Xenophilius had been blasted off his feet and 
fallen backward down the spiral stairs. 

Half buried in rubble, Harry tried to raise himself: He 
could barely breathe or see for dust. Half of the 
ceiling had fallen in, and the end of Luna’s bed was 
hanging through the hole. The bust of Rowena 
Ravenclaw lay beside him with half its face missing, 
fragments of torn parchment were floating through 
the air, and most of the printing press lay on its side, 
blocking the top of the staircase to the kitchen. Then 
another white shape moved close by, and Hermione, 
coated in dust like a second statue, pressed her finger 
to her lips. 

The door downstairs crashed open. 

“Didn’t I tell you there was no need to hurry, 

Travers?” said a rough voice. “Didn’t 1 tell you this 
nutter was just raving as usual?” 

There was a bang and a scream of pain from 
Xenophilius. 

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“No ... no ... upstairs ... Potter!” 

“I told you last week, Lovegood, we weren’t coming 
back for anything less than some solid information! 
Remember last week? When you wanted to swap your 
daughter for that stupid bleeding headdress? And the 
week before” — another bang, another squeal — 
“when you thought we’d give her back if you offered 
us proof there are Crumple” — bang — “Headed” — 
bang — “Snorkacks?” 

“No — no — I beg you!” sobbed Xenophilius. “It really 
is Potter! Really!” 

“And now it turns out you only called us here to try 
and blow us up!” roared the Death Eater, and there 
was a volley of bangs interspersed with squeals of 
agony from Xenophilius. 

“The place looks like it’s about to fall in, Selwyn,” said 
a cool second voice, echoing up the mangled 
staircase. “The stairs are completely blocked. Could 
try clearing it? Might bring the place down.” 

“You lying piece of filth,” shouted the wizard named 
Selwyn. “You’ve never seen Potter in your life, have 
you? Thought you’d lure us here to kill us, did you? 
And you think you’ll get your girl back like this?” 

“I swear ... I swear ... Potter’s upstairs!” 

“Homenum revelio,” said the voice at the foot of the 
stairs. 

Harry heard Hermione gasp, and he had the odd 
sensation that something was swooping low over him, 
immersing his body in its shadow. 



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“There’s someone up there all right, Selwyn,” said the 
second man sharply. 



“It’s Potter, I tell you, it’s Potter!” sobbed Xenophilius. 
“Please ... please ... give me Luna, just let me have 
Luna. ...” 

“You can have your little girl, Lovegood,” said Selwyn, 
“if you get up those stairs and bring me down Harry 
Potter. But if this is a plot, if it’s a trick, if you’ve got 
an accomplice waiting up there to ambush us, we’ll 
see if we can spare a bit of your daughter for you to 
bury.” 

Xenophilius gave a wail of fear and despair. There 
were scurryings and scrapings: Xenophilius was 
trying to get through the debris on the stairs. 

“Come on,” Harry whispered, “we’ve got to get out of 
here.” 

He started to dig himself out under cover of all the 
noise Xenophilius was making on the staircase. Ron 
was buried deepest: Harry and Hermione climbed, as 
quietly as they could, over all the wreckage to where 
he lay, trying to prise a heavy chest of drawers off his 
legs. While Xenophilius ’s banging and scraping drew 
nearer and nearer, Hermione managed to free Ron 
with the use of a Hover Charm. 

“All right,” breathed Hermione, as the broken printing 
press blocking the top of the stairs began to tremble; 
Xenophilius was feet away from them. She was still 
white with dust. “Do you trust me, Harry?” 

Harry nodded. 

“Okay then,” Hermione whispered, “give me the 
Invisibility Cloak. Ron, you’re going to put it on.” 

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“Me? But Harry — ” 



“Please, Ron\ Harry, hold on tight to my hand, Ron, 
grab my shoulder.” 

Harry held out his left hand. Ron vanished beneath 
the Cloak. The printing press blocking the stairs was 
vibrating: Xenophilius was trying to shift it using a 
Hover Charm. Harry did not know what Hermione 
was waiting for. 

“Hold tight,” she whispered. “Hold tight ... any second 



Xenophilius’s paper- white face appeared over the top 
of the sideboard. 

“Obliviate\” cried Hermione, pointing her wand first 
into his face, then at the floor beneath them. 
“Deprimo\” 

She had blasted a hole in the sitting room floor. They 
fell like boulders, Harry still holding onto her hand for 
dear life; there was a scream from below, and he 
glimpsed two men trying to get out of the way as vast 
quantities of rubble and broken furniture rained all 
around them from the shattered ceiling. Hermione 
twisted in midair and the thundering of the collapsing 
house rang in Harry’s ears as she dragged him once 
more into darkness. 



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THE DEATHLY HALLOWS 

Harry fell, panting, onto grass and scrambled up at 
once. They seemed to have landed in the corner of a 
field at dusk; Hermione was already running in a 
circle around them, waving her wand. 

“Protego Totalum ... Salvio Hexia ...” 

“That treacherous old bleeder!” Ron panted, emerging 
from beneath the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it to 
Harry. “Hermione, you’re a genius, a total genius, I 
can’t believe we got out of that!” 

“ Cave Inimicum ... Didn’t I say it was an Erumpent 
horn, didn’t I tell him? And now his house has been 
blown apart!” 

“Serves him right,” said Ron, examining his torn jeans 
and the cuts to his legs. “What d’you reckon they’ll do 
to him?” 

“Oh, I hope they don’t kill him!” groaned Hermione. 
“That’s why I wanted the Death Eaters to get a 



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glimpse of Harry before we left, so they knew 
Xenophilius hadn’t been lying!” 



“Why hide me, though?” asked Ron. 

“You’re supposed to be in bed with spattergroit, Ron! 
They’ve kidnapped Luna because her father 
supported Harry! What would happen to your family if 
they knew you’re with him?” 

“But what about your mum and dad?” 

“They’re in Australia,” said Hermione. “They should 
be all right. They don’t know anything.” 

“You’re a genius,” Ron repeated, looking awed. 

“Yeah, you are, Hermione,” agreed Harry fervently. “I 
don’t know what we’d do without you.” 

She beamed, but became solemn at once. 

“What about Luna?” 

“Well, if they’re telling the truth and she’s still alive — 
” began Ron. 

“Don’t say that, don’t say it!” squealed Hermione. 

“She must be alive, she must!” 

“Then she’ll be in Azkaban, I expect,” said Ron. 
“Whether she survives the place, though ... Loads 
don’t. ...” 

“She will,” said Harry. He could not bear to 
contemplate the alternative. “She’s tough, Luna, 
much tougher than you’d think. She’s probably 
teaching all the inmates about Wrackspurts and 
Nargles.” 

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“I hope you’re right,” said Hermione. She passed a 
hand over her eyes. “I’d feel so sorry for Xenophilius if 



“ — if he hadn’t just tried to sell us to the Death 
Eaters, yeah,” said Ron. 

They put up the tent and retreated inside it, where 
Ron made them tea. After their narrow escape, the 
chilly, musty old place felt like home: safe, familiar, 
and friendly. 

“Oh, why did we go there?” groaned Hermione after a 
few minutes’ silence. “Harry, you were right, it was 
Godric’s Hollow all over again, a complete waste of 
time! The Deathly Hallows ... such rubbish ... 
although actually,” a sudden thought seemed to have 
struck her, “he might have made it all up, mightn’t 
he? He probably doesn’t believe in the Deathly 
Hallows at all, he just wanted to keep us talking until 
the Death Eaters arrived!” 

“I don’t think so,” said Ron. “It’s a damn sight harder 
making stuff up when you’re under stress than you’d 
think. I found that out when the Snatchers caught 
me. It was much easier pretending to be Stan, 
because I knew a bit about him, than inventing a 
whole new person. Old Lovegood was under loads of 
pressure, trying to make sure we stayed put. I reckon 
he told us the truth, or what he thinks is the truth, 
just to keep us talking.” 

“Well, I don’t suppose it matters,” sighed Hermione. 
“Even if he was being honest, I never heard such a lot 
of nonsense in all my life.” 

“Hang on, though,” said Ron. “The Chamber of 
Secrets was supposed to be a myth, wasn’t it?” 



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“But the Deathly Hallows can’t exist, Ron!” 



“You keep saying that, but one of them can,” said 
Ron. “Harry’s Invisibility Cloak — ” 

“ The Tale of the Three Brothers’ is a story,” said 
Hermione firmly. “A story about how humans are 
frightened of death. If surviving was as simple as 
hiding under the Invisibility Cloak, we’d have 
everything we need already!” 

“I don’t know. We could do with an unbeatable wand,” 
said Harry, turning the blackthorn wand he so 
disliked over in his fingers. 

“There’s no such thing, Harry!” 

“You said there have been loads of wands — the 
Deathstick and whatever they were called — ” 

“All right, even if you want to kid yourself the Elder 
Wand’s real, what about the Resurrection Stone?” Her 
fingers sketched quotation marks around the name, 
and her tone dripped sarcasm. “No magic can raise 
the dead, and that’s that!” 

“When my wand connected with You-Know-Who’s, it 
made my mum and dad appear ... and Cedric ...” 

“But they weren’t really back from the dead, were 
they?” said Hermione. “Those kinds of — of pale 
imitations aren’t the same as truly bringing someone 
back to life.” 

“But she, the girl in the tale, didn’t really come back, 
did she? The story says that once people are dead, 
they belong with the dead. But the second brother 
still got to see her and talk to her, didn’t he? He even 
lived with her for a while. ...” 

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He saw concern and something less easily definable 
in Hermione’s expression. Then, as she glanced at 
Ron, Harry realized that it was fear: He had scared 
her with his talk of living with dead people. 

“So that Peverell bloke who’s buried in Godric’s 
Hollow,” he said hastily, trying to sound robustly 
sane, “you don’t know anything about him, then?” 

“No,” she replied, looking relieved at the change of 
subject. “I looked him up after I saw the mark on his 
grave; if he’d been anyone famous or done anything 
important, I’m sure he’d be in one of our books. The 
only place I’ve managed to find the name ‘Peverell’ is 
Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. I borrowed 
it from Kreacher,” she explained as Ron raised his 
eyebrows. “It lists the pure-blood families that are 
now extinct in the male line. Apparently the Peverells 
were one of the earliest families to vanish.” 

“ ‘Extinct in the male line’?” repeated Ron. 

“It means the name’s died out,” said Hermione, 
“centuries ago, in the case of the Peverells. They could 
still have descendants, though, they’d just be called 
something different.” 

And then it came to Harry in one shining piece, the 
memory that had stirred at the sound of the name 
“Peverell”: a filthy old man brandishing an ugly ring 
in the face of a Ministry official, and he cried aloud, 
“Marvolo Gaunt!” 

“Sorry?” said Ron and Hermione together. 

“Marvolo Gaunti You -Know- Who’s grandfather! In the 
Pensieve! With Dumbledore! Marvolo Gaunt said he 
was descended from the Peverells!” 



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Ron and Hermione looked bewildered. 



“The ring, the ring that became the Horcrux, Marvolo 
Gaunt said it had the Peverell coat of arms on it! I 
saw him waving it in the bloke from the Ministry’s 
face, he nearly shoved it up his nose!” 

“The Peverell coat of arms?” said Hermione sharply. 
“Could you see what it looked like?” 

“Not really,” said Harry, trying to remember. “There 
was nothing fancy on there, as far as I could see; 
maybe a few scratches. I only ever saw it really close 
up after it had been cracked open.” 

Harry saw Hermione ’s comprehension in the sudden 
widening of her eyes. Ron was looking from one to the 
other, astonished. 

“Blimey ... You reckon it was this sign again? The 
sign of the Hallows?” 

“Why not?” said Harry excitedly. “Marvolo Gaunt was 
an ignorant old git who lived like a pig, all he cared 
about was his ancestry. If that ring had been passed 
down through the centuries, he might not have 
known what it really was. There were no books in that 
house, and trust me, he wasn’t the type to read fairy 
tales to his kids. He’d have loved to think the 
scratches on the stone were a coat of arms, because 
as far as he was concerned, having pure blood made 
you practically royal.” 

“Yes ... and that’s all very interesting,” said Hermione 
cautiously, “but Harry, if you’re thinking what I think 
you’re think — ” 



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“Well, why not? Why not?” said Harry, abandoning 
caution. “It was a stone, wasn’t it?” He looked at Ron 
for support. “What if it was the Resurrection Stone?” 

Ron’s mouth fell open. 

“Blimey — but would it still work if Dumbledore broke 
— ?” 

“Work? Work? Ron, it never worked! There’s no such 
thing as a Resurrection Stone\” 

Hermione had leapt to her feet, looking exasperated 
and angry. “Harry, you’re trying to fit everything into 
the Hallows story — ” 

“Fit everything in?” he repeated. “Hermione, it fits of 
its own accord! I know the sign of the Deathly Hallows 
was on that stone! Gaunt said he was descended from 
the Peverells!” 

“A minute ago you told us you never saw the mark on 
the stone properly!” 

“Where d’you reckon the ring is now?” Ron asked 
Harry. “What did Dumbledore do with it after he 
broke it open?” 

But Harry’s imagination was racing ahead, far beyond 
Ron and Hermione ’s. ... 

Three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, will make 
the possessor master of Death . . . Master . . . Conqueror 
... Vanquisher ... The last enemy that shall be 
destroyed is death. . . . 

And he saw himself, possessor of the Hallows, facing 
Voldemort, whose Horcruxes were no match ... 

Neither can live while the other survives. ... Was this 

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the answer? Hallows versus Horcruxes? Was there a 
way, after all, to ensure that he was the one who 
triumphed? If he were the master of the Deathly 
Hallows, would he be safe? 

“Harry?” 

But he scarcely heard Hermione: He had pulled out 
his Invisibility Cloak and was running it through his 
fingers, the cloth supple as water, light as air. He had 
never seen anything to equal it in his nearly seven 
years in the Wizarding world. The Cloak was exactly 
what Xenophilius had described: A cloak that really 
and truly renders the wearer completely invisible, and 
endures eternally, giving constant and impenetrable 
concealment, no matter what spells are cast at it ... 

And then, with a gasp, he remembered — 

“Dumbledore had my Cloak the night my parents 
died!” 

His voice shook and he could feel the color in his face, 
but he did not care. 

“My mum told Sirius that Dumbledore borrowed the 
Cloak! This is why! He wanted to examine it, because 
he thought it was the third Hallow! Ignotus Peverell is 
buried in Godric’s Hollow. ...” Harry was walking 
blindly around the tent, feeling as though great new 
vistas of truth were opening all around him. “He’s my 
ancestor! I’m descended from the third brother! It all 
makes sense!” 

He felt armed in certainty, in his belief in the Hallows, 
as if the mere idea of possessing them was giving him 
protection, and he felt joyous as he turned back to 
the other two. 



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“Harry,” said Hermione again, but he was busy 
undoing the pouch around his neck, his fingers 
shaking hard. 

“Read it,” he told her, pushing his mother’s letter into 
her hand. “Read it! Dumbledore had the Cloak, 
Hermione! Why else would he want it? He didn’t need 
a Cloak, he could perform a Disillusionment Charm 
so powerful that he made himself completely invisible 
without one!” 

Something fell to the floor and rolled, glittering, under 
a chair: He had dislodged the Snitch when he pulled 
out the letter. He stooped to pick it up, and then the 
newly tapped spring of fabulous discoveries threw 
him another gift, and shock and wonder erupted 
inside him so that he shouted out. 

“IT’S IN HERE! He left me the ring — it’s in the 
Snitch!” 

“You — you reckon?” 

He could not understand why Ron looked taken 
aback. It was so obvious, so clear to Harry: 

Everything fit, everything. . . . His Cloak was the third 
Hallow, and when he discovered how to open the 
Snitch he would have the second, and then all he 
needed to do was find the first Hallow, the Elder 
Wand, and then — 

But it was as though a curtain fell on a lit stage: All 
his excitement, all his hope and happiness were 
extinguished at a stroke, and he stood alone in the 
darkness, and the glorious spell was broken. 

“That’s what he’s after.” 



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The change in his voice made Ron and Hermione look 
even more scared. 

“You-Know-Who’s after the Elder Wand.” 

He turned his back on their strained, incredulous 
faces. He knew it was the truth. It all made sense. 
Voldemort was not seeking a new wand; he was 
seeking an old wand, a very old wand indeed. Harry 
walked to the entrance of the tent, forgetting about 
Ron and Hermione as he looked out into the night, 
thinking. ... 

Voldemort had been raised in a Muggle orphanage. 
Nobody could have told him The Tales of Beedle the 
Bard when he was a child, any more than Harry had 
heard them. Hardly any wizards believed in the 
Deathly Hallows. Was it likely that Voldemort knew 
about them? 

Harry gazed into the darkness. ... If Voldemort had 
known about the Deathly Hallows, surely he would 
have sought them, done anything to possess them: 
three objects that made the possessor master of 
Death? If he had known about the Deathly Hallows, 
he might not have needed Horcruxes in the first 
place. Didn’t the simple fact that he had taken a 
Hallow, and turned it into a Horcrux, demonstrate 
that he did not know this last great Wizarding secret? 

Which meant that Voldemort sought the Elder Wand 
without realizing its full power, without 
understanding that it was one of three . . . for the 
wand was the Hallow that could not be hidden, whose 
existence was best known. ... The bloody trail of the 
Elder Wand is splattered across the pages of 
Wizarding history . . . 



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Harry watched the cloudy sky, curves of smoke-gray 
and silver sliding over the face of the white moon. He 
felt lightheaded with amazement at his discoveries. 

He turned back into the tent. It was a shock to see 
Ron and Hermione standing exactly where he had left 
them, Hermione still holding Lily’s letter, Ron at her 
side looking slightly anxious. Didn’t they realize how 
far they had traveled in the last few minutes? 

“This is it,” Harry said, trying to bring them inside the 
glow of his own astonished certainty. “This explains 
everything. The Deathly Hallows are real, and I’ve got 
one — maybe two — ” 

He held up the Snitch. 

“ — and You-Know-Who’s chasing the third, but he 
doesn’t realize ... he just thinks it’s a powerful wand 



“Harry,” said Hermione, moving across to him and 
handing him back Lily’s letter, “I’m sorry, but I think 
you’ve got this wrong, all wrong.” 

“But don’t you see? It all fits — ” 

“No, it doesn’t,” she said. “It doesn’t , Harry, you’re 
just getting carried away. Please,” she said as he 
started to speak, “please just answer me this: If the 
Deathly Hallows really existed, and Dumbledore knew 
about them, knew that the person who possessed all 
three of them would be master of Death — Harry, why 
wouldn’t he have told you? Why?” 

He had his answer ready. 

“But you said it, Hermione! You’ve got to find out 
about them for yourself! It’s a Quest!” 

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“But I only said that to try and persuade you to come 
to the Lovegoods’!” cried Hermione in exasperation. “I 
didn’t really believe it!” 

Harry took no notice. 

“Dumbledore usually let me find out stuff for myself. 
He let me try my strength, take risks. This feels like 
the kind of thing he’d do.” 

“Harry, this isn’t a game, this isn’t practice! This is 
the real thing, and Dumbledore left you very clear 
instructions: Find and destroy the Horcruxes! That 
symbol doesn’t mean anything, forget the Deathly 
Hallows, we can’t afford to get sidetracked — ” 

Harry was barely listening to her. He was turning the 
Snitch over and over in his hands, half expecting it to 
break open, to reveal the Resurrection Stone, to prove 
to Hermione that he was right, that the Deathly 
Hallows were real. 

She appealed to Ron. 

“You don’t believe in this, do you?” 

Harry looked up. Ron hesitated. 

“I dunno ... I mean ... bits of it sort of fit together,” 
said Ron awkwardly. “But when you look at the whole 
thing ...” He took a deep breath. “I think we’re 
supposed to get rid of Horcruxes, Harry. That’s what 
Dumbledore told us to do. Maybe ... maybe we should 
forget about this Hallows business.” 

“Thank you, Ron,” said Hermione. “I’ll take first 
watch.” 



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And she strode past Harry and sat down in the tent 
entrance, bringing the action to a fierce full stop. 

But Harry hardly slept that night. The idea of the 
Deathly Hallows had taken possession of him, and he 
could not rest while agitating thoughts whirled 
through his mind: the wand, the stone, and the 
Cloak, if he could just possess them all. ... 

I open at the close. ... But what was ‘the close’? Why 
couldn’t he have the stone now? If only he had the 
stone, he could ask Dumbledore these questions in 
person . . . and Harry murmured words to the Snitch 
in the darkness, trying everything, even Parseltongue, 
but the golden ball would not open. ... 

And the wand, the Elder Wand, where was that 
hidden? Where was Voldemort searching now? Harry 
wished his scar would burn and show him 
Voldemort’s thoughts, because for the first time ever, 
he and Voldemort were united in wanting the very 
same thing. . . . Hermione would not like that idea, of 
course. ... But then, she did not believe ... 

Xenophilius had been right, in a way . . . Limited. 
Narrow. Close-minded. The truth was that she was 
scared of the idea of the Deathly Hallows, especially of 
the Resurrection Stone ... and Harry pressed his 
mouth again to the Snitch, kissing it, nearly 
swallowing it, but the cold metal did not yield. ... 

It was nearly dawn when he remembered Luna, alone 
in a cell in Azkaban, surrounded by dementors, and 
he suddenly felt ashamed of himself. He had forgotten 
all about her in his feverish contemplation of the 
Hallows. If only they could rescue her; but dementors 
in those numbers would be virtually unassailable. 

Now he came to think about it, he had not yet tried 
casting a Patronus with the blackthorn wand. ... He 
must try that in the morning. . . . 

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If only there was a way of getting a better wand . . . 

And desire for the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, 
unbeatable, invincible, swallowed him once more. ... 

They packed up the tent next morning and moved on 
through a dreary shower of rain. The downpour 
pursued them to the coast, where they pitched the 
tent that night, and persisted through the whole 
week, through sodden landscapes that Harry found 
bleak and depressing. He could think only of the 
Deathly Hallows. It was as though a flame had been 
lit inside him that nothing, not Hermione ’s flat 
disbelief nor Ron’s persistent doubts, could 
extinguish. And yet the fiercer the longing for the 
Hallows burned inside him, the less joyful it made 
him. He blamed Ron and Hermione: Their determined 
indifference was as bad as the relentless rain for 
dampening his spirits, but neither could erode his 
certainty, which remained absolute. Harry’s belief in 
and longing for the Hallows consumed him so much 
that he felt quite isolated from the other two and their 
obsession with the Horcruxes. 

“Obsession?” said Hermione in a low fierce voice, 
when Harry was careless enough to use the word one 
evening, after Hermione had told him off for his lack 
of interest in locating more Horcruxes. “We’re not the 
ones with an obsession, Harry! We’re the ones trying 
to do what Dumbledore wanted us to do!” 

But he was impervious to the veiled criticism. 
Dumbledore had left the sign of the Hallows for 
Hermione to decipher, and he had also, Harry 
remained convinced of it, left the Resurrection Stone 
hidden in the golden Snitch. Neither can live while the 
other survives. ... master of Death ... Why didn’t Ron 
and Hermione understand? 



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“ ‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death,’ ” 
Harry quoted calmly. 

“I thought it was You-Know-Who we were supposed to 
be fighting?” Hermione retorted, and Harry gave up 
on her. 

Even the mystery of the silver doe, which the other 
two insisted on discussing, seemed less important to 
Harry now, a vaguely interesting sideshow. The only 
other thing that mattered to him was that his scar 
had begun to prickle again, although he did all he 
could to hide this fact from the other two. He sought 
solitude whenever it happened, but was disappointed 
by what he saw. The visions he and Voldemort were 
sharing had changed in quality; they had become 
blurred, shifting as though they were moving in and 
out of focus. Harry was just able to make out the 
indistinct features of an object that looked like a 
skull, and something like a mountain that was more 
shadow than substance. Used to images sharp as 
reality, Harry was disconcerted by the change. He was 
worried that the connection between himself and 
Voldemort had been damaged, a connection that he 
both feared and, whatever he had told Hermione, 
prized. Somehow Harry connected these unsatisfying, 
vague images with the destruction of his wand, as if it 
was the blackthorn wand’s fault that he could no 
longer see into Voldemort’s mind as well as before. 

As the weeks crept on, Harry could not help but 
notice, even through his new self-absorption, that 
Ron seemed to be taking charge. Perhaps because he 
was determined to make up for having walked out on 
them, perhaps because Harry’s descent into 
listlessness galvanized his dormant leadership 
qualities, Ron was the one now encouraging and 
exhorting the other two into action. 



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“Three Horcruxes left,” he kept saying. “We need a 
plan of action, come on! Where haven’t we looked? 
Let’s go through it again. The orphanage ...” 

Diagon Alley, Hogwarts, the Riddle House, Borgin and 
Burkes, Albania, every place that they knew Tom 
Riddle had ever lived or worked, visited or murdered, 
Ron and Hermione raked over them again, Harry 
joining in only to stop Hermione pestering him. He 
would have been happy to sit alone in silence, trying 
to read Voldemort’s thoughts, to find out more about 
the Elder Wand, but Ron insisted on journeying to 
ever more unlikely places simply, Harry was aware, to 
keep them moving. 

“You never know,” was Ron’s constant refrain. “Upper 
Flagley is a Wizarding village, he might’ve wanted to 
live there. Let’s go and have a poke around.” 

These frequent forays into Wizarding territory brought 
them within occasional sight of Snatchers. 

“Some of them are supposed to be as bad as Death 
Eaters,” said Ron. “The lot that got me were a bit 
pathetic, but Bill reckons some of them are really 
dangerous. They said on Potterwatch — ” 

“On what?” said Harry. 

“ Potterwatch , didn’t I tell you that’s what it was 
called? The program I keep trying to get on the radio, 
the only one that tells the truth about what’s going 
on! Nearly all the programs are following You-Know- 
Who’s line, all except Potterwatch. I really want you to 
hear it, but it’s tricky tuning in. ...” 

Ron spent evening after evening using his wand to 
beat out various rhythms on top of the wireless while 
the dials whirled. Occasionally they would catch 

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snatches of advice on how to treat dragon pox, and 
once a few bars of “A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong 
Love.” While he tapped, Ron continued to try to hit on 
the correct password, muttering strings of random 
words under his breath. 

“They’re normally something to do with the Order,” he 
told them. “Bill had a real knack for guessing them. 
I’m bound to get one in the end. ...” 

But not until March did luck favor Ron at last. Harry 
was sitting in the tent entrance, on guard duty, 
staring idly at a clump of grape hyacinths that had 
forced their way through the chilly ground, when Ron 
shouted excitedly from inside the tent. 

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it! Password was Altars’! Get in 
here, Harry!” 

Roused for the first time in days from his 
contemplation of the Deathly Hallows, Harry hurried 
back inside the tent to find Ron and Hermione 
kneeling on the floor beside the little radio. Hermione, 
who had been polishing the sword of Gryffindor just 
for something to do, was sitting open-mouthed, 
staring at the tiny speaker, from which a most 
familiar voice was issuing. 

"... apologize for our temporary absence from the 
airwaves, which was due to a number of house calls 
in our area by those charming Death Eaters.” 

“But that’s Lee Jordan!” said Hermione. 

“I know!” beamed Ron. “Cool, eh?” 

"... now found ourselves another secure location,” Lee 
was saying, “and I’m pleased to tell you that two of 



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our regular contributors have joined me here this 
evening. Evening, boys!” 

“Hi.” 

“Evening, River.” 

“ ‘River,’ that’s Lee,” Ron explained. “They’ve all got 
code names, but you can usually tell — ” 

“Shh!” said Hermione. 

“But before we hear from Royal and Romulus,” Lee 
went on, “let’s take a moment to report those deaths 
that the Wizarding Wireless Network News and Daily 
Prophet don’t think important enough to mention. It is 
with great regret that we inform our listeners of the 
murders of Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell.” 

Harry felt a sick, swooping in his belly. He, Ron, and 
Hermione gazed at one another in horror. 

“A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed. It is 
believed that Muggle-born Dean Thomas and a 
second goblin, both believed to have been traveling 
with Tonks, Cresswell, and Gornuk, may have 
escaped. If Dean is listening, or if anyone has any 
knowledge of his whereabouts, his parents and sisters 
are desperate for news. 

“Meanwhile, in Gaddley, a Muggle family of five has 
been found dead in their home. Muggle authorities 
are attributing the deaths to a gas leak, but members 
of the Order of the Phoenix inform me that it was the 
Killing Curse — more evidence, as if it were needed, of 
the fact that Muggle slaughter is becoming little more 
than a recreational sport under the new regime. 



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“Finally, we regret to inform our listeners that the 
remains of Bathilda Bagshot have been discovered in 
Godric’s Hollow. The evidence is that she died several 
months ago. The Order of the Phoenix informs us that 
her body showed unmistakable signs of injuries 
inflicted by Dark Magic. 

“Listeners, I’d like to invite you now to join us in a 
minute’s silence in memory of Ted Tonks, Dirk 
Cresswell, Bathilda Bagshot, Gornuk, and the 
unnamed, but no less regretted, Muggles murdered 
by the Death Eaters.” 

Silence fell, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione did not 
speak. Half of Harry yearned to hear more, half of him 
was afraid of what might come next. It was the first 
time he had felt fully connected to the outside world 
for a long time. 

“Thank you,” said Lee’s voice. “And now we turn to 
regular contributor Royal, for an update on how the 
new Wizarding order is affecting the Muggle world.” 

“Thanks, River,” said an unmistakable voice, deep, 
measured, reassuring. 

“Kingsley!” burst out Ron. 

“We know!” said Hermione, hushing him. 

“Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their 
suffering as they continue to sustain heavy 
casualties,” said Kingsley. “However, we continue to 
hear truly inspirational stories of wizards and witches 
risking their own safety to protect Muggle friends and 
neighbors, often without the Muggles’ knowledge. I’d 
like to appeal to all our listeners to emulate their 
example, perhaps by casting a protective charm over 



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any Muggle dwellings in your street. Many lives could 
be saved if such simple measures are taken.” 

“And what would you say, Royal, to those listeners 
who reply that in these dangerous times, it should be 
Wizards first’?” asked Lee. 

“I’d say that it’s one short step from Wizards first’ to 
‘Purebloods first,’ and then to ‘Death Eaters,’ ” replied 
Kingsley. “We’re all human, aren’t we? Every human 
life is worth the same, and worth saving.” 

“Excellently put, Royal, and you’ve got my vote for 
Minister of Magic if ever we get out of this mess,” said 
Lee. “And now, over to Romulus for our popular 
feature ‘Pals of Potter. ’ ” 

“Thanks, River,” said another very familiar voice; Ron 
started to speak, but Hermione forestalled him in a 
whisper. 

“We know it’s Lupin\” 

“Romulus, do you maintain, as you have every time 
you’ve appeared on our program, that Harry Potter is 
still alive?” 

“I do,” said Lupin firmly. “There is no doubt at all in 
my mind that his death would be proclaimed as 
widely as possible by the Death Eaters if it had 
happened, because it would strike a deadly blow at 
the morale of those resisting the new regime. The Boy 
Who Lived’ remains a symbol of everything for which 
we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of 
innocence, the need to keep resisting.” 

A mixture of gratitude and shame welled up in Harry. 
Had Lupin forgiven him, then, for the terrible things 
he had said when they had last met? 

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“And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was 
listening, Romulus?” 



“I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” said Lupin, 
then hesitated slightly. “And I’d tell him to follow his 
instincts, which are good and nearly always right.” 

Harry looked at Hermione, whose eyes were full of 
tears. 

“Nearly always right,” she repeated. 

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” said Ron in surprise. “Bill told 
me Lupin’s living with Tonks again! And apparently 
she’s getting pretty big too. ...” 

“... and our usual update on those friends of Harry 
Potter’s who are suffering for their allegiance?” Lee 
was saying. 

“Well, as regular listeners will know, several of the 
more outspoken supporters of Harry Potter have now 
been imprisoned, including Xenophilius Lovegood, 
erstwhile editor of The Quibbler,” said Lupin. 

“At least he’s still alive!” muttered Ron. 

“We have also heard within the last few hours that 
Rubeus Hagrid” — all three of them gasped, and so 
nearly missed the rest of the sentence — “well-known 
gamekeeper at Hogwarts School, has narrowly 
escaped arrest within the grounds of Hogwarts, where 
he is rumored to have hosted a ‘Support Harry Potter’ 
party in his house. However, Hagrid was not taken 
into custody, and is, we believe, on the run.” 

“I suppose it helps, when escaping from Death Eaters, 
if you’ve got a sixteen-foot-high half brother?” asked 
Lee. 

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“It would tend to give you an edge,” agreed Lupin 
gravely. “May I just add that while we here at 
Potterwatch applaud Hagrid’s spirit, we would urge 
even the most devoted of Harry’s supporters against 
following Hagrid’s lead. ‘Support Harry Potter’ parties 
are unwise in the present climate.” 

“Indeed they are, Romulus,” said Lee, “so we suggest 
that you continue to show your devotion to the man 
with the lightning scar by listening to PotterwatcM 
And now let’s move to news concerning the wizard 
who is proving just as elusive as Harry Potter. We like 
to refer to him as the Chief Death Eater, and here to 
give his views on some of the more insane rumors 
circulating about him, I’d like to introduce a new 
correspondent: Rodent.” 

“ ‘Rodent’?” said yet another familiar voice, and Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione cried out together: 

“Fred!” 

“No — is it George?” 

“It’s Fred, I think,” said Ron, leaning in closer, as 
whichever twin it was said, 

“I’m not being ‘Rodent,’ no way, I told you I wanted to 
be ‘Rapier’!” 

“Oh, all right then. ‘Rapier,’ could you please give us 
your take on the various stories we’ve been hearing 
about the Chief Death Eater?” 

“Yes, River, I can,” said Fred. “As our listeners will 
know, unless they’ve taken refuge at the bottom of a 
garden pond or somewhere similar, You-Know-Who’s 
strategy of remaining in the shadows is creating a 
nice little climate of panic. Mind you, if all the alleged 
Page | 499 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




sightings of him are genuine, we must have a good 
nineteen You-Know-Whos running around the place.” 



“Which suits him, of course,” said Kingsley. “The air 
of mystery is creating more terror than actually 
showing himself.” 

“Agreed,” said Fred. “So, people, let’s try and calm 
down a bit. Things are bad enough without inventing 
stuff as well. For instance, this new idea that You- 
Know-Who can kill with a single glance from his eyes. 
That’s a basilisk, listeners. One simple test: Check 
whether the thing that’s glaring at you has got legs. If 
it has, it’s safe to look into its eyes, although if it 
really is You-Know-Who, that’s still likely to be the 
last thing you ever do.” 

For the first time in weeks and weeks, Harry was 
laughing: He could feel the weight of tension leaving 
him. 

“And the rumors that he keeps being sighted abroad?” 
asked Lee. 

“Well, who wouldn’t want a nice little holiday after all 
the hard work he’s been putting in?” asked Fred. 
“Point is, people, don’t get lulled into a false sense of 
security, thinking he’s out of the country. Maybe he 
is, maybe he isn’t, but the fact remains he can move 
faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo 
when he wants to, so don’t count on him being a long 
way away if you’re planning on taking any risks. I 
never thought I’d hear myself say it, but safety first!” 

“Thank you very much for those wise words, Rapier,” 
said Lee. “Listeners, that brings us to the end of 
another Potterwatch. We don’t know when it will be 
possible to broadcast again, but you can be sure we 
shall be back. Keep twiddling those dials: The next 
Page | 500 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




password will be ‘Mad-Eye.’ Keep each other safe: 
Keep faith. Good night.” 



The radio’s dial twirled and the lights behind the 
tuning panel went out. Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
were still beaming. Hearing familiar, friendly voices 
was an extraordinary tonic; Harry had become so 
used to their isolation he had nearly forgotten that 
other people were resisting Voldemort. It was like 
waking from a long sleep. 

“Good, eh?” said Ron happily. 

“Brilliant,” said Harry. 

“It’s so brave of them,” sighed Hermione admiringly. 
“If they were found ...” 

“Well, they keep on the move, don’t they?” said Ron. 
“Like us.” 

“But did you hear what Fred said?” asked Harry 
excitedly; now the broadcast was over, his thoughts 
turned again toward his all-consuming obsession. 
“He’s abroad! He’s still looking for the Wand, I knew 
it!” 



“Harry — ” 

“Come on, Hermione, why are you so determined not 
to admit it? Vol — ” 

“HARRY, NO!” 

“ — demort’s after the Elder Wand!” 

“The name’s Taboo!” Ron bellowed, leaping to his feet 
as a loud crack sounded outside the tent. “I told you, 
Harry, I told you, we can’t say it anymore — we’ve got 

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to put the protection back around us — quickly — it’s 
how they find — ” 

But Ron stopped talking, and Harry knew why. The 
Sneakoscope on the table had lit up and begun to 
spin; they could hear voices coming nearer and 
nearer: rough, excited voices. Ron pulled the 
Deluminator out of his pocket and clicked it: Their 
lamps went out. 

“Come out of there with your hands up!” came a 
rasping voice through the darkness. “We know you’re 
in there! You’ve got half a dozen wands pointing at 
you and we don’t care who we curse!” 



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MALFOY MANOR 

Harry looked around at the other two, now mere 
outlines in the darkness. He saw Hermione point her 
wand, not toward the outside, but into his face; there 
was a bang, a burst of white light, and he buckled in 
agony, unable to see. He could feel his face swelling 
rapidly under his hands as heavy footfalls 
surrounded him. 

“Get up, vermin.” 

Unknown hands dragged Harry roughly off the 
ground. Before he could stop them, someone had 
rummaged through his pockets and removed the 
blackthorn wand. Harry clutched at his excruciatingly 
painful face, which felt unrecognizable beneath his 
fingers, tight, swollen, and puffy as though he had 
suffered some violent allergic reaction. His eyes had 
been reduced to slits through which he could barely 
see; his glasses fell off as he was bundled out of the 
tent; all he could make out were the blurred shapes of 
four or five people wrestling Ron and Hermione 
outside too. 

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“Get — off — her!” Ron shouted. There was the 
unmistakable sound of knuckles hitting flesh: Ron 
grunted in pain and Hermione screamed, “No! Leave 
him alone, leave him alone!” 

“Your boyfriend’s going to have worse than that done 
to him if he’s on my list,” said the horribly familiar, 
rasping voice. “Delicious girl ... What a treat ... I do 
enjoy the softness of the skin. ...” 

Harry’s stomach turned over. He knew who this was: 
Fenrir Grey back, the werewolf who was permitted to 
wear Death Eater robes in return for his hired 
savagery. 

“Search the tent!” said another voice. 

Harry was thrown facedown onto the ground. A thud 
told him that Ron had been cast down beside him. 
They could hear footsteps and crashes; the men were 
pushing over chairs inside the tent as they searched. 

“Now, let’s see who we’ve got,” said Greyback’s 
gloating voice from overhead, and Harry was rolled 
over onto his back. A beam of wandlight fell into his 
face and Grey back laughed. 

“I’ll be needing butterbeer to wash this one down. 
What happened to you, ugly?” 

Harry did not answer immediately. 

“I said,” repeated Greyback, and Harry received a 
blow to the diaphragm that made him double over in 
pain, “what happened to you?” 

“Stung,” Harry muttered. “Been stung.” 

“Yeah, looks like it,” said a second voice. 

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“What’s your name?” snarled Greyback. 

“Dudley,” said Harry. 

“And your first name?” 

“I — Vernon. Vernon Dudley.” 

“Check the list, Scabior,” said Greyback, and Harry 
heard him move sideways to look down at Ron, 
instead. “And what about you, ginger?” 

“Stan Shunpike,” said Ron. 

“Like ’ell you are,” said the man called Scabior. “We 
know Stan Shunpike, ’e’s put a bit of work our way.” 

There was another thud. 

“I’b Bardy,” said Ron, and Harry could tell that his 
mouth was full of blood. “Bardy Weadley.” 

“A Weasley?” rasped Greyback. “So you’re related to 
blood traitors even if you’re not a Mudblood. And 
lastly, your pretty little friend ...” The relish in his 
voice made Harry’s flesh crawl. 

“Easy, Greyback,” said Scabior over the jeering of the 
others. 

“Oh, I’m not going to bite just yet. We’ll see if she’s a 
bit quicker at remembering her name than Barny. 
Who are you, girly?” 

“Penelope Clearwater,” said Hermione. She sounded 
terrified, but convincing. 

“What’s your blood status?” 



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“Half-blood,” said Hermione. 



“Easy enough to check,” said Scabior. “But the ’ole lot 
of ’em look like they could still be ’ogwarts age — ” 

“Weh lebt,” said Ron. 

“Left, ’ave you, ginger?” said Scabior. “And you 
decided to go camping? And you thought, just for a 
laugh, you’d use the Dark Lord’s name?” 

“Nod a laugh,” said Ron. “Aggiden.” 

“Accident?” There was more jeering laughter. 

“You know who used to like using the Dark Lord’s 
name, Weasley?” growled Greyback. “The Order of the 
Phoenix. Mean anything to you?” 

“Doh.” 

“Well, they don’t show the Dark Lord proper respect, 
so the name’s been Tabooed. A few Order members 
have been tracked that way. We’ll see. Bind them up 
with the other two prisoners!” 

Someone yanked Harry up by the hair, dragged him a 
short way, pushed him down into a sitting position, 
then started binding him back-to-back with other 
people. Harry was still half blind, barely able to see 
anything through his puffed-up eyes. When at last 
the man tying them had walked away, Harry 
whispered to the other prisoners. 

“Anyone still got a wand?” 

“No,” said Ron and Hermione from either side of him. 

“This is all my fault. I said the name, I’m sorry — ” 

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“Harry?” 



It was a new, but familiar, voice, and it came from 
directly behind Harry, from the person tied to 
Hermione’s left. 

“Dean?” 

“It is you! If they find out who they’ve got — ! They’re 
Snatchers, they’re only looking for truants to sell for 
gold — ” 

“Not a bad little haul for one night,” Greyback was 
saying, as a pair of hobnailed boots marched close by 
Harry and they heard more crashes from inside the 
tent. “A Mudblood, a runaway goblin, and three 
truants. You checked their names on the list yet, 
Scabior?” he roared. 

“Yeah. There’s no Vernon Dudley on ’ere, Greyback.” 

“Interesting,” said Greyback. “That’s interesting.” 

He crouched down beside Harry, who saw, through 
the infinitesimal gap left between his swollen eyelids, 
a face covered in matted gray hair and whiskers, with 
pointed brown teeth and sores at the corners of his 
mouth. Greyback smelled as he had done at the top of 
the tower where Dumbledore had died: of dirt, sweat, 
and blood. 

“So you aren’t wanted, then, Vernon? Or are you on 
that list under a different name? What House were 
you in at Hogwarts?” 

“Slytherin,” said Harry automatically. 



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“Funny ’ow they all thinks we wants to ’ear that,” 
jeered Scabior out of the shadows. “But none of ’em 
can tell us where the common room is.” 

“It’s in the dungeons,” said Harry clearly. “You enter 
through the wall. It’s full of skulls and stuff and it’s 
under the lake, so the light’s all green.” 

There was a short pause. 

“Well, well, looks like we really ’ave caught a little 
Slytherin,” said Scabior. “Good for you, Vernon, 

’cause there ain’t a lot of Mudblood Slytherins. Who’s 
your father?” 

“He works at the Ministry,” Harry lied. He knew that 
his whole story would collapse with the smallest 
investigation, but on the other hand, he only had 
until his face regained its usual appearance before 
the game was up in any case. “Department of Magical 
Accidents and Catastrophes.” 

“You know what, Greyback,” said Scabior. “I think 
there is a Dudley in there.” 

Harry could barely breathe: Could luck, sheer luck, 
get them safely out of this? 

“Well, well,” said Greyback, and Harry could hear the 
tiniest note of trepidation in that callous voice, and 
knew that Greyback was wondering whether he had 
indeed just attacked and bound the son of a Ministry 
official. Harry’s heart was pounding against the ropes 
around his ribs; he would not have been surprised to 
know that Greyback could see it. “If you’re telling the 
truth, ugly, you’ve got nothing to fear from a trip to 
the Ministry. I expect your father’ll reward us just for 
picking you up.” 



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“But,” said Harry, his mouth bone dry, “if you just let 
us — ” 



“Hey!” came a shout from inside the tent. “Look at 
this, Greyback!” 

A dark figure came bustling toward them, and Harry 
saw a glint of silver in the light of their wands. They 
had found Gryffindor’s sword. 

“Ve-e-ry nice,” said Greyback appreciatively, taking it 
from his companion. “Oh, very nice indeed. Looks 
goblin-made, that. Where did you get something like 
this?” 

“It’s my father’s,” Harry lied, hoping against hope that 
it was too dark for Greyback to see the name etched 
just below the hilt. “We borrowed it to cut firewood — ” 

“ ’ang on a minute, Greyback! Look at this, in the 
Propheti” 

As Scabior said it, Harry’s scar, which was stretched 
tight across his distended forehead, burned savagely. 
More clearly than he could make out anything around 
him, he saw a towering building, a grim fortress, jet- 
black and forbidding; Voldemort’s thoughts had 
suddenly become razor-sharp again; he was gliding 
toward the gigantic building with a sense of calmly 
euphoric purpose. ... 

So close ...So close . . . 

With a huge effort of will Harry closed his mind to 
Voldemort’s thoughts, pulling himself back to where 
he sat, tied to Ron, Hermione, Dean, and Griphook in 
the darkness, listening to Greyback and Scabior. 



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“ ‘’ermione Granger,’ ” Scabior was saying, “ ‘the 
Mudblood who is known to be traveling with ’arry 
Potter.’ ” 

Harry’s scar burned in the silence, but he made a 
supreme effort to keep himself present, not to slip 
into Voldemort’s mind. He heard the creak of 
Greyback’s boots as he crouched down in front of 
Hermione. 

“You know what, little girly? This picture looks a hell 
of a lot like you.” 

“It isn’t! It isn’t me!” 

Hermione ’s terrified squeak was as good as a 
confession. 

“ ‘... known to be traveling with Harry Potter,’ ” 
repeated Grey back quietly. 

A stillness had settled over the scene. Harry’s scar 
was exquisitely painful, but he struggled with all his 
strength against the pull of Voldemort’s thoughts: It 
had never been so important to remain in his own 
right mind. 

“Well, this changes things, doesn’t it?” whispered 
Greyback. Nobody spoke: Harry sensed the gang of 
Snatchers watching, frozen, and felt Hermione ’s arm 
trembling against his. Greyback got up and took a 
couple of steps to where Harry sat, crouching down 
again to stare closely at his misshapen features. 

“What’s that on your forehead, Vernon?” he asked 
softly, his breath foul in Harry’s nostrils as he 
pressed a filthy finger to the taut scar. 



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“Don’t touch it!” Harry yelled; he could not stop 
himself; he thought he might be sick from the pain of 
it. 



“I thought you wore glasses, Potter?” breathed 
Greyback. 

“I found glasses!” yelped one of the Snatchers 
skulking in the background. “There was glasses in the 
tent, Greyback, wait — ” 

And seconds later Harry’s glasses had been rammed 
back onto his face. The Snatchers were closing in 
now, peering at him. 

“It is!” rasped Greyback. “We’ve caught Potter!” 

They all took several steps backward, stunned by 
what they had done. Harry, still fighting to remain 
present inside his own splitting head, could think of 
nothing to say: Fragmented visions were breaking 
across the surface of his mind — 

— He was gliding around the high walls of the black 
fortress — 

No, he was Harry, tied up and wandless, in grave 
danger — 

— looking up, up to the topmost window, the highest 
tower — 

He was Harry, and they were discussing his fate in 
low voices — 

— Time to fly ... 

“...to the Ministry?” 

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“To hell with the Ministry,” growled Greyback. “They’ll 
take the credit, and we won’t get a look in. I say we 
take him straight to You-Know-Who.” 

“Will you summon ’im? ’ere?” said Scabior, sounding 
awed, terrified. 

“No,” snarled Greyback, “I haven’t got — they say he’s 
using the Malfoys’ place as a base. We’ll take the boy 
there.” 

Harry thought he knew why Greyback was not calling 
Voldemort. The werewolf might be allowed to wear 
Death Eater robes when they wanted to use him, but 
only Voldemort’s inner circle were branded with the 
Dark Mark: Greyback had not been granted this 
highest honor. 

Harry’s scar seared again — 

— and he rose into the night, flying straight up to the 
window at the very top of the tower — 

"... completely sure it’s him? ’Cause if it ain’t, 
Greyback, we’re dead.” 

“Who’s in charge here?” roared Greyback, covering his 
moment of inadequacy. “I say that’s Potter, and him 
plus his wand, that’s two hundred thousand Galleons 
right there! But if you’re too gutless to come along, 
any of you, it’s all for me, and with any luck, I’ll get 
the girl thrown in!” 

— The window was the merest slit in the black rock, 
not big enough for a man to enter. ...A skeletal figure 
was just visible through it, curled beneath a blanket. . . . 
Dead, or sleeping ... ? 



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“All right!” said Scabior. “All right, we’re in! And what 
about the rest of ’em, Greyback, what’ll we do with 



’em? 






“Might as well take the lot. We’ve got two Mudbloods, 
that’s another ten Galleons. Give me the sword as 
well. If they’re rubies, that’s another small fortune 
right there.” 

The prisoners were dragged to their feet. Harry could 
hear Hermione’s breathing, fast and terrified. 

“Grab hold and make it tight. I’ll do Potter!” said 
Greyback, seizing a fistful of Harry’s hair; Harry could 
feel his long yellow nails scratching his scalp. “On 
three! One — two — three — ” 

They Disapparated, pulling the prisoners with them. 
Harry struggled, trying to throw off Greyback’s hand, 
but it was hopeless: Ron and Hermione were 
squeezed tightly against him on either side, he could 
not separate from the group, and as the breath was 
squeezed out of him his scar seared more painfully 
still — 

— as he forced himself through the slit of a window 
like a snake and landed, lightly as vapor, inside the 
cell-like room — 

The prisoners lurched into one another as they 
landed in a country lane. Harry’s eyes, still puffy, took 
a moment to acclimatize, then he saw a pair of 
wrought-iron gates at the foot of what looked like a 
long drive. He experienced the tiniest trickle of relief. 
The worst had not happened yet: Voldemort was not 
here. He was, Harry knew, for he was fighting to 
resist the vision, in some strange, fortresslike place, 
at the top of a tower. How long it would take 



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Voldemort to get to this place, once he knew that 
Harry was here, was another matter. ... 

One of the Snatchers strode to the gates and shook 
them. 

“How do we get in? They’re locked, Greyback, I can’t 
— blimey!” 

He whipped his hands away in fright. The iron was 
contorting, twisting itself out of the abstract furls and 
coils into a frightening face, which spoke in a 
clanging, echoing voice: “State your purpose!” 

“We’ve got Potter!” Greyback roared triumphantly. 
“We’ve captured Harry Potter!” 

The gates swung open. 

“Come on!” said Greyback to his men, and the 
prisoners were shunted through the gates and up the 
drive, between high hedges that muffled their 
footsteps. Harry saw a ghostly white shape above 
him, and realized it was an albino peacock. He 
stumbled and was dragged onto his feet by Greyback; 
now he was staggering along sideways, tied back-to- 
back to the four other prisoners. Closing his puffy 
eyes, he allowed the pain in his scar to overcome him 
for a moment, wanting to know what Voldemort was 
doing, whether he knew yet that Harry was caught. ... 

The emaciated figure stirred beneath its thin blanket 
and rolled over toward him, eyes opening in a skull of 
a face. ... The frail man sat up, great sunken eyes 
fixed upon him, upon Voldemort, and then he smiled. 
Most of his teeth were gone. ... 

“So, you have come. I thought you would ... one day. 
But your journey was pointless. I never had it.” 

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“ You lie]” 



As Voldemort’s anger throbbed inside him, Harry’s 
scar threatened to burst with pain, and he wrenched 
his mind back to his own body, fighting to remain 
present as the prisoners were pushed over gravel. 

Light spilled out over all of them. 

“What is this?” said a woman’s cold voice. 

“We’re here to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” 
rasped Greyback. 

“Who are you?” 

“You know me!” There was resentment in the 
werewolf’s voice. “Fenrir Greyback! We’ve caught 
Harry Potter!” 

Greyback seized Harry and dragged him around to 
face the light, forcing the other prisoners to shuffle 
around too. 

“I know ’e’s swollen, ma’am, but it’s ’im!” piped up 
Scabior. “If you look a bit closer, you’ll see ’is scar. 
And this ’ere, see the girl? The Mudblood who’s been 
traveling around with ’im, ma’am. There’s no doubt 
it’s ’im, and we’ve got ’is wand as well! ’Ere, ma’am — ” 

Through his puffy eyelids Harry saw Narcissa Malfoy 
scrutinizing his swollen face. Scabior thrust the 
blackthorn wand at her. She raised her eyebrows. 

“Bring them in,” she said. 

Harry and the others were shoved and kicked up 
broad stone steps into a hallway lined with portraits. 



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“Follow me,” said Narcissa, leading the way across the 
hall. “My son, Draco, is home for his Easter holidays. 
If that is Harry Potter, he will know.” 

The drawing room dazzled after the darkness outside; 
even with his eyes almost closed Harry could make 
out the wide proportions of the room. A crystal 
chandelier hung from the ceiling, more portraits 
against the dark purple walls. Two figures rose from 
chairs in front of an ornate marble fireplace as the 
prisoners were forced into the room by the Snatchers. 

“What is this?” 

The dreadfully familiar, drawling voice of Lucius 
Malfoy fell on Harry’s ears. He was panicking now: He 
could see no way out, and it was easier, as his fear 
mounted, to block out Voldemort’s thoughts, though 
his scar was still burning. 

“They say they’ve got Potter,” said Narcissa’s cold 
voice. “Draco, come here.” 

Harry did not dare look directly at Draco, but saw 
him obliquely: a figure slightly taller than he was, 
rising from an armchair, his face a pale and pointed 
blur beneath white-blond hair. 

Greyback forced the prisoners to turn again so as to 
place Harry directly beneath the chandelier. 

“Well, boy?” rasped the werewolf. 

Harry was facing a mirror over the fireplace, a great 
gilded thing in an intricately scrolled frame. Through 
the slits of his eyes he saw his own reflection for the 
first time since leaving Grimmauld Place. 



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His face was huge, shiny, and pink, every feature 
distorted by Hermione’s jinx. His black hair reached 
his shoulders and there was a dark shadow around 
his jaw. Had he not known that it was he who stood 
there, he would have wondered who was wearing his 
glasses. He resolved not to speak, for his voice was 
sure to give him away; yet he still avoided eye contact 
with Draco as the latter approached. 

“Well, Draco?” said Lucius Malfoy. He sounded avid. 
“Is it? Is it Harry Potter?” 

“I can’t — I can’t be sure,” said Draco. He was keeping 
his distance from Greyback, and seemed as scared of 
looking at Harry as Harry was of looking at him. 

“But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!” 

Harry had never heard Lucius Malfoy so excited. 

“Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the 
Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv — ” 

“Now, we won’t be forgetting who actually caught him, 
I hope, Mr. Malfoy?” said Greyback menacingly. 

“Of course not, of course not!” said Lucius 
impatiently. He approached Harry himself, came so 
close that Harry could see the usually languid, pale 
face in sharp detail even through his swollen eyes. 
With his face a puffy mask, Harry felt as though he 
was peering out from between the bars of a cage. 

“What did you do to him?” Lucius asked Greyback. 
“How did he get into this state?” 

“That wasn’t us.” 

“Looks more like a Stinging Jinx to me,” said Lucius. 

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His gray eyes raked Harry’s forehead. 



“There’s something there,” he whispered, “it could be 
the scar, stretched tight. ... Draco, come here, look 
properly! What do you think?” 

Harry saw Draco’s face up close now, right beside his 
father’s. They were extraordinarily alike, except that 
while his father looked beside himself with 
excitement, Draco’s expression was full of reluctance, 
even fear. 

“I don’t know,” he said, and he walked away toward 
the fireplace where his mother stood watching. 

“We had better be certain, Lucius,” Narcissa called to 
her husband in her cold, clear voice. “Completely sure 
that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord . . . 
They say this is his” — she was looking closely at the 
blackthorn wand — “but it does not resemble 
Ollivander’s description. ... If we are mistaken, if we 
call the Dark Lord here for nothing . . . Remember 
what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?” 

“What about the Mudblood, then?” growled Greyback. 
Harry was nearly thrown off his feet as the Snatchers 
forced the prisoners to swivel around again, so that 
the light fell on Hermione instead. 

“Wait,” said Narcissa sharply. “Yes — yes, she was in 
Madam Malkin’s with Potter! I saw her picture in the 
Prophett Look, Draco, isn’t it the Granger girl?” 

“I ... maybe ... yeah.” 

“But then, that’s the Weasley boy!” shouted Lucius, 
striding around the bound prisoners to face Ron. “It’s 
them, Potter’s friends — Draco, look at him, isn’t it 
Arthur Weasley’s son, what’s his name — ?” 

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“Yeah,” said Draco again, his back to the prisoners. 

“It could be.” 

The drawing room door opened behind Harry. A 
woman spoke, and the sound of the voice wound 
Harry’s fear to an even higher pitch. 

“What is this? What’s happened, Cissy?” 

Bellatrix Lestrange walked slowly around the 
prisoners, and stopped on Harry’s right, staring at 
Hermione through her heavily lidded eyes. 

“But surely,” she said quietly, “this is the Mudblood 
girl? This is Granger?” 

“Yes, yes, it’s Granger!” cried Lucius. “And beside her, 
we think, Potter! Potter and his friends, caught at 
last!” 

“Potter?” shrieked Bellatrix, and she backed away, the 
better to take in Harry. “Are you sure? Well then, the 
Dark Lord must be informed at once!” 

She dragged back her left sleeve: Harry saw the Dark 
Mark burned into the flesh of her arm, and knew that 
she was about to touch it, to summon her beloved 
master — 

“I was about to call him!” said Lucius, and his hand 
actually closed upon Bellatrix’s wrist, preventing her 
from touching the Mark. “I shall summon him, Bella, 
Potter has been brought to my house, and it is 
therefore upon my authority — ” 

“Your authority!” she sneered, attempting to wrench 
her hand from his grasp. “You lost your authority 
when you lost your wand, Lucius! How dare you! Take 
your hands off me!” 

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“This is nothing to do with you, you did not capture 
the boy — ” 

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Malfoy,” interjected 
Greyback, “but it’s us that caught Potter, and it’s us 
that 11 be claiming the gold — ” 

“Gold!” laughed Bellatrix, still attempting to throw off 
her brother-in-law, her free hand groping in her 
pocket for her wand. “Take your gold, filthy 
scavenger, what do I want with gold? I seek only the 
honor of his — of — ” 

She stopped struggling, her dark eyes fixed upon 
something Harry could not see. Jubilant at her 
capitulation, Lucius threw her hand from him and 
ripped up his own sleeve — 

“STOP!” shrieked Bellatrix. “Do not touch it, we shall 
all perish if the Dark Lord comes now!” 

Lucius froze, his index finger hovering over his own 
Mark. Bellatrix strode out of Harry’s limited line of 
vision. 

“What is that?” he heard her say. 

“Sword,” grunted an out-of-sight Snatcher. 

“Give it to me.” 

“It’s not yorn, missus, it’s mine, I reckon I found it.” 

There was a bang and a flash of red light: Harry knew 
that the Snatcher had been Stunned. There was a 
roar of anger from his fellows: Scabior drew his wand. 

“What d’you think you’re playing at, woman?” 



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“Stupefyl” she screamed. “Stupefyl” 



They were no match for her, even though there were 
four of them against one of her: She was a witch, as 
Harry knew, with prodigious skill and no conscience. 
They fell where they stood, all except Greyback, who 
had been forced into a kneeling position, his arms 
outstretched. Out of the corners of his eyes Harry saw 
Bellatrix bearing down upon the werewolf, the sword 
of Gryffindor gripped tightly in her hand, her face 
waxen. 

“Where did you get this sword?” she whispered to 
Greyback as she pulled his wand out of his 
unresisting grip. 

“How dare you?” he snarled, his mouth the only thing 
that could move as he was forced to gaze up at her. 

He bared his pointed teeth. “Release me, woman!” 

“Where did you find this sword?” she repeated, 
brandishing it in his face. “Snape sent it to my vault 
in Gringotts!” 

“It was in their tent,” rasped Greyback. “Release me, I 
say!” 

She waved her wand, and the werewolf sprang to his 
feet, but appeared too wary to approach her. He 
prowled behind an armchair, his filthy curved nails 
clutching its back. 

“Draco, move this scum outside,” said Bellatrix, 
indicating the unconscious men. “If you haven’t got 
the guts to finish them, then leave them in the 
courtyard for me.” 

“Don’t you dare speak to Draco like — ” said Narcissa 
furiously, but Bellatrix screamed, 

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“Be quiet! The situation is graver than you can 
possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a very serious 
problem!” 

She stood, panting slightly, looking down at the 
sword, examining its hilt. Then she turned to look at 
the silent prisoners. 

“If it is indeed Potter, he must not be harmed,” she 
muttered, more to herself than to the others. “The 
Dark Lord wishes to dispose of Potter himself. . . . But 
if he finds out ... I must ... I must know. ...” 

She turned back to her sister again. 

“The prisoners must be placed in the cellar, while I 
think what to do!” 

“This is my house, Bella, you don’t give orders in my 



“Do it! You have no idea of the danger we are in!” 
shrieked Bellatrix. She looked frightening, mad; a 
thin stream of fire issued from her wand and burned 
a hole in the carpet. 

Narcissa hesitated for a moment, then addressed the 
werewolf. 

“Take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback.” 

“Wait,” said Bellatrix sharply. “All except ... except for 
the Mudblood.” 

Greyback gave a grunt of pleasure. 

“No!” shouted Ron. “You can have me, keep me!” 



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Bellatrix hit him across the face; the blow echoed 
around the room. 



“If she dies under questioning, I’ll take you next,” she 
said. “Blood traitor is next to Mudblood in my book. 
Take them downstairs, Greyback, and make sure they 
are secure, but do nothing more to them — yet.” 

She threw Greyback’s wand back to him, then took a 
short silver knife from under her robes. She cut 
Hermione free from the other prisoners, then dragged 
her by the hair into the middle of the room, while 
Greyback forced the rest of them to shuffle across to 
another door, into a dark passageway, his wand held 
out in front of him, projecting an invisible and 
irresistible force. 

“Reckon she’ll let me have a bit of the girl when she’s 
finished with her?” Greyback crooned as he forced 
them along the corridor. “I’d say I’ll get a bite or two, 
wouldn’t you, ginger?” 

Harry could feel Ron shaking. They were forced down 
a steep flight of stairs, still tied back-to-back and in 
danger of slipping and breaking their necks at any 
moment. At the bottom was a heavy door. Greyback 
unlocked it with a tap of his wand, then forced them 
into a dank and musty room and left them in total 
darkness. The echoing bang of the slammed cellar 
door had not died away before there was a terrible, 
drawn-out scream from directly above them. 

“HERMIONE!” Ron bellowed, and he started to writhe 
and struggle against the ropes tying them together, so 
that Harry staggered. “HERMIONE!” 

“Be quiet!” Harry said. “Shut up, Ron, we need to 
work out a way — ” 



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“HERMIONE! HERMIONE!” 



“We need a plan, stop yelling — we need to get these 
ropes off — ” 

“Harry?” came a whisper through the darkness. “Ron? 
Is that you?” 

Ron stopped shouting. There was a sound of 
movement close by them, then Harry saw a shadow 
moving closer. 

“Harry? Ron?” 

“Luna?” 

“Yes, it’s me! Oh no, I didn’t want you to be caught!” 

“Luna, can you help us get these ropes off?” said 
Harry. 

“Oh yes, I expect so. ... There’s an old nail we use if 
we need to break anything. ... Just a moment ...” 

Hermione screamed again from overhead, and they 
could hear Bellatrix screaming too, but her words 
were inaudible, for Ron shouted again, “HERMIONE! 
HERMIONE!” 

“Mr. Ollivander?” Harry could hear Luna saying. “Mr. 
Ollivander, have you got the nail? If you just move 
over a little bit... I think it was beside the water jug. 



She was back within seconds. 
“You’ll need to stay still,” she said. 



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Harry could feel her digging at the rope’s tough fibers 
to work the knots free. From upstairs they heard 
Bellatrix’s voice. 

“I’m going to ask you again! Where did you get this 
sword? Where?” 

“We found it — we found it — PLEASE!” Hermione 
screamed again; Ron struggled harder than ever, and 
the rusty nail slipped onto Harry’s wrist. 

“Ron, please stay still!” Luna whispered. “I can’t see 
what I’m doing — ” 

“My pocket!” said Ron. “In my pocket, there’s a 
Deluminator, and it’s full of light!” 

A few seconds later, there was a click, and the 
luminescent spheres the Deluminator had sucked 
from the lamps in the tent flew into the cellar: Unable 
to rejoin their sources, they simply hung there, like 
tiny suns, flooding the underground room with light. 
Harry saw Luna, all eyes in her white face, and the 
motionless figure of Ollivander the wandmaker, 
curled up on the floor in the corner. Craning around, 
he caught sight of their fellow prisoners: Dean and 
Griphook the goblin, who seemed barely conscious, 
kept standing by the ropes that bound him to the 
humans. 

“Oh, that’s much easier, thanks, Ron,” said Luna, 
and she began hacking at their bindings again. 

“Hello, Dean!” 

From above came Bellatrix’s voice. 

“You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You 
have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, 
tell the truth\” 

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Another terrible scream 



“HERMIONE!” 

“What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell 
me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with 
this knife!” 

“There!” 

Harry felt the ropes fall away and turned, rubbing his 
wrists, to see Ron running around the cellar, looking 
up at the low ceiling, searching for a trapdoor. Dean, 
his face bruised and bloody, said “Thanks” to Luna 
and stood there, shivering, but Griphook sank onto 
the cellar floor, looking groggy and disoriented, many 
welts across his swarthy face. 

Ron was now trying to Disapparate without a wand. 

“There’s no way out, Ron,” said Luna, watching his 
fruitless efforts. “The cellar is completely escape- 
proof. I tried, at first. Mr. Ollivander has been here for 
a long time, he’s tried everything.” 

Hermione was screaming again: The sound went 
through Harry like physical pain. Barely conscious of 
the fierce prickling of his scar, he too started to run 
around the cellar, feeling the walls for he hardly knew 
what, knowing in his heart that it was useless. 

“What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! 
CRUCIO\” 

Hermione ’s screams echoed off the walls upstairs, 

Ron was half sobbing as he pounded the walls with 
his fists, and Harry in utter desperation seized 
Hagrid’s pouch from around his neck and groped 
inside it: He pulled out Dumbledore’s Snitch and 
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shook it, hoping for he did not know what — nothing 
happened — he waved the broken halves of the 
phoenix wand, but they were lifeless — the mirror 
fragment fell sparkling to the floor, and he saw a 
gleam of brightest blue — 

Dumbledore’s eye was gazing at him out of the mirror. 

“Help us!” he yelled at it in mad desperation. “We’re in 
the cellar of Malfoy Manor, help us!” 

The eye blinked and was gone. 

Harry was not even sure that it had really been there. 
He tilted the shard of mirror this way and that, and 
saw nothing reflected there but the walls and ceiling 
of their prison, and upstairs Hermione was screaming 
worse than ever, and next to him Ron was bellowing, 
“HERMIONE! HERMIONE!” 

“How did you get into my vault?” they heard Bellatrix 
scream. “Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help 
you?” 

“We only met him tonight!” Hermione sobbed. “We’ve 
never been inside your vault. ... It isn’t the real sword! 
It’s a copy, just a copy! 

“A copy?” screeched Bellatrix. “Oh, a likely story!” 

“But we can find out easily!” came Lucius’s voice. 
“Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the 
sword is real or not!” 

Harry dashed across the cellar to where Griphook was 
huddled on the floor. 



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“Griphook,” he whispered into the goblin’s pointed 
ear, “you must tell them that sword’s a fake, they 
mustn’t know it’s the real one, Griphook, please — ” 

He could hear someone scuttling down the cellar 
steps; next moment, Draco’s shaking voice spoke 
from behind the door. 

“Stand back. Line up against the back wall. Don’t try 
anything, or I’ll kill you!” 

They did as they were bidden; as the lock turned, Ron 
clicked the Deluminator and the lights whisked back 
into his pocket, restoring the cellar’s darkness. The 
door flew open; Malfoy marched inside, wand held out 
in front of him, pale and determined. He seized the 
little goblin by the arm and backed out again, 
dragging Griphook with him. The door slammed shut 
and at the same moment a loud crack echoed inside 
the cellar. 

Ron clicked the Deluminator. Three balls of light flew 
back into the air from his pocket, revealing Dobby the 
house-elf, who had just Apparated into their midst. 

“DOB — !” 



Harry hit Ron on the arm to stop him shouting, and 
Ron looked terrified at his mistake. Footsteps crossed 
the ceiling overhead: Draco marching Griphook to 
Bellatrix. 

Dobby’s enormous, tennis-ball-shaped eyes were 
wide; he was trembling from his feet to the tips of his 
ears. He was back in the home of his old masters, and 
it was clear that he was petrified. 

“Harry Potter,” he squeaked in the tiniest quiver of a 
voice, “Dobby has come to rescue you.” 

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“But how did you — ?” 



An awful scream drowned Harry’s words: Hermione 
was being tortured again. He cut to the essentials. 

“You can Disapparate out of this cellar?” he asked 
Dobby, who nodded, his ears flapping. 

“And you can take humans with you?” 

Dobby nodded again. 

“Right. Dobby, I want you to grab Luna, Dean, and 
Mr. Ollivander, and take them — take them to — ” 

“Bill and Fleur’s,” said Ron. “Shell Cottage on the 
outskirts of Tinworth!” 

The elf nodded for a third time. 

“And then come back,” said Harry. “Can you do that, 
Dobby?” 

“Of course, Harry Potter,” whispered the little elf. He 
hurried over to Mr. Ollivander, who appeared to be 
barely conscious. He took one of the wandmaker’s 
hands in his own, then held out the other to Luna 
and Dean, neither of whom moved. 

“Harry, we want to help you!” Luna whispered. 

“We can’t leave you here,” said Dean. 

“Go, both of you! We’ll see you at Bill and Fleur’s.” 

As Harry spoke, his scar burned worse than ever, and 
for a few seconds he looked down, not upon the 
wandmaker, but on another man who was just as old, 
just as thin, but laughing scornfully. 

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“ Kill me, then, Voldemort, I welcome death! But my 
death will not bring you what you seek. . . . There is so 
much you do not understand. ...” 

He felt Voldemort’s fury, but as Hermione screamed 
again he shut it out, returning to the cellar and the 
horror of his own present. 

“Go!” Harry beseeched Luna and Dean. “Go! Well 
follow, just go!” 

They caught hold of the elf’s outstretched fingers. 
There was another loud crack, and Dobby, Luna, 
Dean, and Ollivander vanished. 

“What was that?” shouted Lucius Malfoy from over 
their heads. “Did you hear that? What was that noise 
in the cellar?” 

Harry and Ron stared at each other. 

“Draco — no, call Wormtail! Make him go and check!” 

Footsteps crossed the room overhead, then there was 
silence. Harry knew that the people in the drawing 
room were listening for more noises from the cellar. 

“We’re going to have to try and tackle him,” he 
whispered to Ron. They had no choice: The moment 
anyone entered the room and saw the absence of 
three prisoners, they were lost. “Leave the lights on,” 
Harry added, and as they heard someone descending 
the steps outside the door, they backed against the 
wall on either side of it. 

“Stand back,” came Wormtail’s voice. “Stand away 
from the door. I am coming in.” 



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The door flew open. For a split second Wormtail gazed 
into the apparently empty cellar, ablaze with light 
from the three miniature suns floating in midair. 

Then Harry and Ron launched themselves upon him. 
Ron seized Wormtail’s wand arm and forced it 
upward; Harry slapped a hand to his mouth, muffling 
his voice. Silently they struggled: Wormtail’s wand 
emitted sparks; his silver hand closed around Harry’s 
throat. 

“What is it, Wormtail?” called Lucius Malfoy from 
above. 

“Nothing!” Ron called back, in a passable imitation of 
Wormtail’s wheezy voice. “All fine!” 

Harry could barely breathe. 

“You’re going to kill me?” Harry choked, attempting to 
prise off the metal fingers. “After I saved your life? 

You owe me, Wormtail!” 

The silver fingers slackened. Harry had not expected 
it: He wrenched himself free, astonished, keeping his 
hand over Wormtail’s mouth. He saw the ratlike 
man’s small watery eyes widen with fear and surprise: 
He seemed just as shocked as Harry at what his hand 
had done, at the tiny, merciful impulse it had 
betrayed, and he continued to struggle more 
powerfully, as though to undo that moment of 
weakness. 

“And well have that,” whispered Ron, tugging 
Wormtail’s wand from his other hand. 

Wandless, helpless, Pettigrew’s pupils dilated in 
terror. His eyes had slid from Harry’s face to 
something else. His own silver fingers were moving 
inexorably toward his own throat. 

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“No — ” 



Without pausing to think, Harry tried to drag back 
the hand, but there was no stopping it. The silver tool 
that Voldemort had given his most cowardly servant 
had turned upon its disarmed and useless owner; 
Pettigrew was reaping his reward for his hesitation, 
his moment of pity; he was being strangled before 
their eyes. 

“No!” 

Ron had released Wormtail too, and together he and 
Harry tried to pull the crushing metal fingers from 
around Wormtail’s throat, but it was no use. 

Pettigrew was turning blue. 

“Relashiol” said Ron, pointing the wand at the silver 
hand, but nothing happened; Pettigrew dropped to his 
knees, and at the same moment, Hermione gave a 
dreadful scream from overhead. Wormtail’s eyes rolled 
upward in his purple face; he gave a last twitch, and 
was still. 

Harry and Ron looked at each other, then leaving 
Wormtail’s body on the floor behind them, ran up the 
stairs and back into the shadowy passageway leading 
to the drawing room. Cautiously they crept along it 
until they reached the drawing room door, which was 
ajar. Now they had a clear view of Bellatrix looking 
down at Griphook, who was holding Gryffindor’s 
sword in his long-fingered hands. Hermione was lying 
at Bellatrix’s feet. She was barely stirring. 

“Well?” Bellatrix said to Griphook. “Is it the true 
sword?” 

Harry waited, holding his breath, fighting against the 
prickling of his scar. 

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“No,” said Griphook. “It is a fake.” 

“Are you sure?” panted Bellatrix. “Quite sure?” 

“Yes,” said the goblin. 

Relief broke across her face, all tension drained from 
it. 

“Good,” she said, and with a casual flick of her wand 
she slashed another deep cut into the goblin’s face, 
and he dropped with a yell at her feet. She kicked him 
aside. “And now,” she said in a voice that burst with 
triumph, “we call the Dark Lord!” 

And she pushed back her sleeve and touched her 
forefinger to the Dark Mark. 

At once, Harry’s scar felt as though it had split open 
again. His true surroundings vanished: He was 
Voldemort, and the skeletal wizard before him was 
laughing toothlessly at him; he was enraged at the 
summons he felt — he had warned them, he had told 
them to summon him for nothing less than Potter. If 
they were mistaken . . . 

“Kill me, then!” demanded the old man. “You will not 
win, you cannot win! That wand will never, ever be 
yours — ” 

And Voldemort’s fury broke: A burst of green light 
filled the prison room and the frail old body was lifted 
from its hard bed and then fell back, lifeless, and 
Voldemort returned to the window, his wrath barely 
controllable. ... They would suffer his retribution if 
they had no good reason for calling him back. . . . 

“And I think,” said Bellatrix’s voice, “we can dispose of 
the Mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her.” 

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“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” 



Ron had burst into the drawing room; Bellatrix looked 
around, shocked; she turned her wand to face Ron 
instead — 

“ ExpelliarmusV’ he roared, pointing Wormtail’s wand 
at Bellatrix, and hers flew into the air and was caught 
by Harry, who had sprinted after Ron. Lucius, 
Narcissa, Draco, and Greyback wheeled about; Harry 
yelled, “Stupefy\” and Lucius Malfoy collapsed onto 
the hearth. Jets of light flew from Draco’s, Narcissa’s, 
and Greyback’s wands; Harry threw himself to the 
floor, rolling behind a sofa to avoid them. 

“STOP OR SHE DIES!” 

Panting, Harry peered around the edge of the sofa. 
Bellatrix was supporting Hermione, who seemed to be 
unconscious, and was holding her short silver knife 
to Hermione ’s throat. 

“Drop your wands,” she whispered. “Drop them, or 
we’ll see exactly how filthy her blood is!” 

Ron stood rigid, clutching Wormtail’s wand. Harry 
straightened up, still holding Bellatrix’s. 

“I said, drop them!” she screeched, pressing the blade 
into Hermione’s throat: Harry saw beads of blood 
appear there. 

“All right!” he shouted, and he dropped Bellatrix’s 
wand onto the floor at his feet. Ron did the same with 
Wormtail’s. Both raised their hands to shoulder 
height. 

“Good!” she leered. “Draco, pick them up! The Dark 
Lord is coming, Harry Potter! Your death approaches!” 

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Harry knew it; his scar was bursting with the pain of 
it, and he could feel Voldemort flying through the sky 
from far away, over a dark and stormy sea, and soon 
he would be close enough to Apparate to them, and 
Harry could see no way out. 

“Now,” said Bellatrix softly, as Draco hurried back to 
her with the wands, “Cissy, I think we ought to tie 
these little heroes up again, while Greyback takes 
care of Miss Mudblood. I am sure the Dark Lord will 
not begrudge you the girl, Greyback, after what you 
have done tonight.” 

At the last word there was a peculiar grinding noise 
from above. All of them looked upward in time to see 
the crystal chandelier tremble; then, with a creak and 
an ominous jingling, it began to fall. Bellatrix was 
directly beneath it; dropping Hermione, she threw 
herself aside with a scream. The chandelier crashed 
to the floor in an explosion of crystal and chains, 
falling on top of Hermione and the goblin, who still 
clutched the sword of Gryffindor. Glittering shards of 
crystal flew in all directions: Draco doubled over, his 
hands covering his bloody face. 

As Ron ran to pull Hermione out of the wreckage, 
Harry took his chance: He leapt over an armchair and 
wrested the three wands from Draco’s grip, pointed all 
of them at Greyback, and yelled, “Stupefyl” The 
werewolf was lifted off his feet by the triple spell, flew 
up to the ceiling, and then smashed to the ground. 

As Narcissa dragged Draco out of the way of further 
harm, Bellatrix sprang to her feet, her hair flying as 
she brandished the silver knife; but Narcissa had 
directed her wand at the doorway. 

“Dobby!” she screamed, and even Bellatrix froze. 

“You! You dropped the chandelier — ?” 

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The tiny elf trotted into the room, his shaking finger 
pointing at his old mistress. 

“You must not hurt Harry Potter,” he squeaked. 

“Kill him, Cissy!” shrieked Bellatrix, but there was 
another loud crack, and Narcissa’s wand too flew into 
the air and landed on the other side of the room. 

“You dirty little monkey!” bawled Bellatrix. “How dare 
you take a witch’s wand, how dare you defy your 
masters?” 

“Dobby has no master!” squealed the elf. “Dobby is a 
free elf, and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and 
his friends!” 

Harry’s scar was blinding him with pain. Dimly he 
knew that they had moments, seconds before 
Voldemort was with them. 

“Ron, catch — and GO!” he yelled, throwing one of the 
wands to him; then he bent down to tug Griphook out 
from under the chandelier. Hoisting the groaning 
goblin, who still clung to the sword, over one 
shoulder, Harry seized Dobby’s hand and spun on the 
spot to Disapparate. 

As he turned into darkness he caught one last view of 
the drawing room: of the pale, frozen figures of 
Narcissa and Draco, of the streak of red that was 
Ron’s hair, and a blur of flying silver, as Bellatrix’s 
knife flew across the room at the place where he was 
vanishing — 

Bill and Fleur’s . . . Shell Cottage . . . Bill and Fleur’s . . . 

He had disappeared into the unknown; all he could 
do was repeat the name of the destination and hope 

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that it would suffice to take him there. The pain in his 
forehead pierced him, and the weight of the goblin 
bore down upon him; he could feel the blade of 
Gryffindor’s sword bumping against his back; Dobby’s 
hand jerked in his; he wondered whether the elf was 
trying to take charge, to pull them in the right 
direction, and tried, by squeezing the fingers, to 
indicate that that was fine with him. ... 

And then they hit solid earth and smelled salty air. 
Harry fell to his knees, relinquished Dobby’s hand, 
and attempted to lower Griphook gently to the 
ground. 

“Are you all right?” he said as the goblin stirred, but 
Griphook merely whimpered. 

Harry squinted around through the darkness. There 
seemed to be a cottage a short way away under the 
wide starry sky, and he thought he saw movement 
outside it. 

“Dobby, is this Shell Cottage?” he whispered, 
clutching the two wands he had brought from the 
Malfoys’, ready to fight if he needed to. “Have we come 
to the right place? Dobby?” 

He looked around. The little elf stood feet from him. 
“DOBBY!” 

The elf swayed slightly, stars reflected in his wide, 
shining eyes. Together, he and Harry looked down at 
the silver hilt of the knife protruding from the elf’s 
heaving chest. 

“Dobby — no — HELP!” Harry bellowed toward the 
cottage, toward the people moving there. “HELP!” 



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He did not know or care whether they were wizards or 
Muggles, friends or foes; all he cared about was that a 
dark stain was spreading across Dobby’s front, and 
that he had stretched out his thin arms to Harry with 
a look of supplication. Harry caught him and laid him 
sideways on the cool grass. 

“Dobby, no, don’t die, don’t die — ” 

The elf’s eyes found him, and his lips trembled with 
the effort to form words. 

“Harry ... Potter ...” 

And then with a little shudder the elf became quite 
still, and his eyes were nothing more than great 
glassy orbs, sprinkled with light from the stars they 
could not see. 



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THE WANDMAKER 

It was like sinking into an old nightmare; for an 
instant Harry knelt again beside Dumbledore’s body 
at the foot of the tallest tower at Hogwarts, but in 
reality he was staring at a tiny body curled upon the 
grass, pierced by Bellatrix’s silver knife. Harry’s voice 
was still saying, “Dobby ... Dobby ...” even though he 
knew that the elf had gone where he could not call 
him back. 

After a minute or so he realized that they had, after 
all, come to the right place, for here were Bill and 
Fleur, Dean and Luna, gathering around him as he 
knelt over the elf. 

“Hermione?” he said suddenly. “Where is she?” 

“Ron’s taken her inside,” said Bill. “She’ll be all right.” 

Harry looked back down at Dobby. He stretched out a 
hand and pulled the sharp blade from the elf’s body, 
then dragged off his own jacket and covered Dobby in 
it like a blanket. 

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The sea was rushing against rock somewhere nearby; 
Harry listened to it while the others talked, discussing 
matters in which he could take no interest, making 
decisions. Dean carried the injured Griphook into the 
house, Fleur hurrying with them; now Bill was 
making suggestions about burying the elf. Harry 
agreed without really knowing what he was saying. As 
he did so, he gazed down at the tiny body, and his 
scar prickled and burned, and in one part of his 
mind, viewed as if from the wrong end of a long 
telescope, he saw Voldemort punishing those they 
had left behind at Malfoy Manor. His rage was 
dreadful and yet Harry’s grief for Dobby seemed to 
diminish it, so that it became a distant storm that 
reached Harry from across a vast, silent ocean. 

“I want to do it properly,” were the first words of 
which Harry was fully conscious of speaking. “Not by 
magic. Have you got a spade?” 

And shortly afterward he had set to work, alone, 
digging the grave in the place that Bill had shown him 
at the end of the garden, between bushes. He dug 
with a kind of fury, relishing the manual work, 
glorying in the non-magic of it, for every drop of his 
sweat and every blister felt like a gift to the elf who 
had saved their lives. 

His scar burned, but he was master of the pain; he 
felt it, yet was apart from it. He had learned control at 
last, learned to shut his mind to Voldemort, the very 
thing Dumbledore had wanted him to learn from 
Snape. Just as Voldemort had not been able to 
possess Harry while Harry was consumed with grief 
for Sirius, so his thoughts could not penetrate Harry 
now, while he mourned Dobby. Grief, it seemed, drove 
Voldemort out ... though Dumbledore, of course, 
would have said that it was love. ... 



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On Harry dug, deeper and deeper into the hard, cold 
earth, subsuming his grief in sweat, denying the pain 
in his scar. In the darkness, with nothing but the 
sound of his own breath and the rushing sea to keep 
him company, the things that had happened at the 
Malfoys’ returned to him, the things he had heard 
came back to him, and understanding blossomed in 
the darkness. ... 

The steady rhythm of his arms beat time with his 
thoughts. Hallows ... Horcruxes ... Hallows ... 
Horcruxes ... Yet he no longer burned with that weird, 
obsessive longing. Loss and fear had snuffed it out: 

He felt as though he had been slapped awake again. 

Deeper and deeper Harry sank into the grave, and he 
knew where Voldemort had been tonight, and whom 
he had killed in the topmost cell of Nurmengard, and 
why. ... 

And he thought of Wormtail, dead because of one 
small unconscious impulse of mercy. . . . Dumbledore 
had foreseen that. ... How much more had he known? 

Harry lost track of time. He knew only that the 
darkness had lightened a few degrees when he was 
rejoined by Ron and Dean. 

“How’s Hermione?” 

“Better,” said Ron. “Fleur’s looking after her.” 

Harry had his retort ready for when they asked him 
why he had not simply created a perfect grave with 
his wand, but he did not need it. They jumped down 
into the hole he had made with spades of their own, 
and together they worked in silence until the hole 
seemed deep enough. 



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Harry wrapped the elf more snugly in his jacket. Ron 
sat on the edge of the grave and stripped off his shoes 
and socks, which he placed upon the elf’s bare feet. 
Dean produced a woolen hat, which Harry placed 
carefully upon Dobby’s head, muffling his batlike 
ears. 

“We should close his eyes.” 

Harry had not heard the others coming through the 
darkness. Bill was wearing a traveling cloak, Fleur a 
large white apron, from the pocket of which protruded 
a bottle of what Harry recognized to be Skele-Gro. 
Hermione was wrapped in a borrowed dressing gown, 
pale and unsteady on her feet; Ron put an arm 
around her when she reached him. Luna, who was 
huddled in one of Fleur’s coats, crouched down and 
placed her fingers tenderly upon each of the elf’s 
eyelids, sliding them over his glassy stare. 

“There,” she said softly. “Now he could be sleeping.” 

Harry placed the elf into the grave, arranged his tiny 
limbs so that he might have been resting, then 
climbed out and gazed for the last time upon the little 
body. He forced himself not to break down as he 
remembered Dumbledore’s funeral, and the rows and 
rows of golden chairs, and the Minister of Magic in 
the front row, the recitation of Dumbledore’s 
achievements, the stateliness of the white marble 
tomb. He felt that Dobby deserved just as grand a 
funeral, and yet here the elf lay between bushes in a 
roughly dug hole. 

“I think we ought to say something,” piped up Luna. 
“I’ll go first, shall I?” 

And as everybody looked at her, she addressed the 
dead elf at the bottom of the grave. 

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“Thank you so much, Dobby, for rescuing me from 
that cellar. It’s so unfair that you had to die, when 
you were so good and brave. I’ll always remember 
what you did for us. I hope you’re happy now.” 

She turned and looked expectantly at Ron, who 
cleared his throat and said in a thick voice, “Yeah ... 
thanks, Dobby.” 

“Thanks,” muttered Dean. 

Harry swallowed. 

“Good-bye, Dobby,” he said. It was all he could 
manage, but Luna had said it all for him. Bill raised 
his wand, and the pile of earth beside the grave rose 
up into the air and fell neatly upon it, a small, 
reddish mound. 

“D’you mind if I stay here a moment?” he asked the 
others. 

They murmured words he did not catch; he felt gentle 
pats upon his back, and then they all traipsed back 
toward the cottage, leaving Harry alone beside the elf. 

He looked around: There were a number of large 
white stones, smoothed by the sea, marking the edge 
of the flower beds. He picked up one of the largest 
and laid it, pillowlike, over the place where Dobby ’s 
head now rested. He then felt in his pocket for a 
wand. 

There were two in there. He had forgotten, lost track; 
he could not now remember whose wands these were; 
he seemed to remember wrenching them out of 
someone’s hand. He selected the shorter of the two, 
which felt friendlier in his hand, and pointed it at the 
rock. 

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Slowly, under his murmured instruction, deep cuts 
appeared upon the rock’s surface. He knew that 
Hermione could have done it more neatly, and 
probably more quickly, but he wanted to mark the 
spot as he had wanted to dig the grave. When Harry 
stood up again, the stone read: 

HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF. 

He looked down at his handiwork for a few more 
seconds, then walked away, his scar still prickling a 
little, and his mind full of those things that had come 
to him in the grave, ideas that had taken shape in the 
darkness, ideas both fascinating and terrible. 

They were all sitting in the living room when he 
entered the little hall, their attention focused upon 
Bill, who was talking. The room was light-colored, 
pretty, with a small fire of driftwood burning brightly 
in the fireplace. Harry did not want to drop mud upon 
the carpet, so he stood in the doorway, listening. 

"... lucky that Ginny’s on holiday. If she’d been at 
Hogwarts, they could have taken her before we 
reached her. Now we know she’s safe too.” 

He looked around and saw Harry standing there. 

“I’ve been getting them all out of the Burrow,” he 
explained. “Moved them to Muriel’s. The Death Eaters 
know Ron’s with you now, they’re bound to target the 
family — don’t apologize,” he added at the sight of 
Harry’s expression. “It was always a matter of time, 
Dad’s been saying so for months. We’re the biggest 
blood-traitor family there is.” 

“How are they protected?” asked Harry. 



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“Fidelius Charm. Dad’s Secret-Keeper. And we’ve 
done it on this cottage too; I’m Secret-Keeper here. 
None of us can go to work, but that’s hardly the most 
important thing now. Once Ollivander and Griphook 
are well enough, we’ll move them to Muriel’s too. 
There isn’t much room here, but she’s got plenty. 
Griphook’s legs are on the mend, Fleur’s given him 
Skele-Gro; we could probably move them in an hour 



or — 






“No,” Harry said, and Bill looked startled. “I need both 
of them here. I need to talk to them. It’s important.” 

He heard the authority in his own voice, the 
conviction, the sense of purpose that had come to him 
as he dug Dobby’s grave. All of their faces were 
turned toward him, looking puzzled. 

“I’m going to wash,” Harry told Bill, looking down at 
his hands, still covered in mud and Dobby’s blood. 
“Then 111 need to see them, straightaway.” 

He walked into the little kitchen, to the basin beneath 
a window overlooking the sea. Dawn was breaking 
over the horizon, shell pink and faintly gold, as he 
washed, again following the train of thought that had 
come to him in the dark garden. ... 

Dobby would never be able to tell them who had sent 
him to the cellar, but Harry knew what he had seen. 

A piercing blue eye had looked out of the mirror 
fragment, and then help had come. Help will always 
be given at Hog warts to those who ask for it 

Harry dried his hands, impervious to the beauty of 
the scene outside the window and to the murmuring 
of the others in the sitting room. He looked out over 
the ocean and felt closer, this dawn, than ever before, 
closer to the heart of it all. 

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And still his scar prickled, and he knew that 
Voldemort was getting there too. Harry understood 
and yet did not understand. His instinct was telling 
him one thing, his brain quite another. The 
Dumbledore in Harry’s head smiled, surveying Harry 
over the tips of his fingers, pressed together as if in 
prayer. 

You gave Ron the Deluminator. You understood him. . . . 
You gave him a way back. . . . 

And you understood Wormtail too. ... You knew there 
was a bit of regret there, somewhere. ... 

And if you knew them ... What did you know about 
me, Dumbledore? 

Am I meant to know, but not to seek? Did you know 
how hard I’d find that? Is that why you made it this 
difficult? So I’d have time to work that out? 

Harry stood quite still, eyes glazed, watching the place 
where a bright gold rim of dazzling sun was rising 
over the horizon. Then he looked down at his clean 
hands and was momentarily surprised to see the 
cloth he was holding in them. He set it down and 
returned to the hall, and as he did so, he felt his scar 
pulse angrily, and there flashed across his mind, swift 
as the reflection of a dragonfly over water, the outline 
of a building he knew extremely well. 

Bill and Fleur were standing at the foot of the stairs. 

“I need to speak to Griphook and Ollivander,” Harry 
said. 

“No,” said Fleur. “You will ’ave to wait, ’Arry. Zey are 
both ill, tired — ” 



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“I’m sorry,” he said without heat, “but it can’t wait. I 
need to talk to them now. Privately — and separately. 
It’s urgent.” 

“Harry, what the hell’s going on?” asked Bill. “You 
turn up here with a dead house-elf and a half- 
conscious goblin, Hermione looks as though she’s 
been tortured, and Ron’s just refused to tell me 
anything — ” 

“We can’t tell you what we’re doing,” said Harry flatly. 
“You’re in the Order, Bill, you know Dumbledore left 
us a mission. We’re not supposed to talk about it to 
anyone else.” 

Fleur made an impatient noise, but Bill did not look 
at her; he was staring at Harry. His deeply scarred 
face was hard to read. Finally Bill said, “All right. Who 
do you want to talk to first?” 

Harry hesitated. He knew what hung on his decision. 
There was hardly any time left; now was the moment 
to decide: Horcruxes or Hallows? 

“Griphook,” Harry said. “I’ll speak to Griphook first.” 

His heart was racing as if he had been sprinting and 
had just cleared an enormous obstacle. 

“Up here, then,” said Bill, leading the way. 

Harry had walked up several steps before stopping 
and looking back. 

“I need you two as well!” he called to Ron and 
Hermione, who had been skulking, half concealed, in 
the doorway of the sitting room. 

They both moved into the light, looking oddly relieved. 

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“How are you?” Harry asked Hermione. “You were 
amazing — coming up with that story when she was 
hurting you like that — ” 

Hermione gave a weak smile as Ron gave her a one- 
armed squeeze. 

“What are we doing now, Harry?” he asked. 

“You’ll see. Come on.” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed Bill up the steep 
stairs onto a small landing. Three doors led off it. 

“In here,” said Bill, opening the door into his and 
Fleur’s room. It too had a view of the sea, now flecked 
with gold in the sunrise. Harry moved to the window, 
turned his back on the spectacular view, and waited, 
his arms folded, his scar prickling. Hermione took the 
chair beside the dressing table; Ron sat on the arm. 

Bill reappeared, carrying the little goblin, whom he 
set down carefully upon the bed. Griphook grunted 
thanks, and Bill left, closing the door upon them all. 

“I’m sorry to take you out of bed,” said Harry. “How 
are your legs?” 

“Painful,” replied the goblin. “But mending.” 

He was still clutching the sword of Gryffindor, and 
wore a strange look: half truculent, half intrigued. 
Harry noted the goblin’s sallow skin, his long thin 
fingers, his black eyes. Fleur had removed his shoes: 
His long feet were dirty. He was larger than a house- 
elf, but not by much. His domed head was much 
bigger than a human’s. 

“You probably don’t remember — ” Harry began. 

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“ — that I was the goblin who showed you to your 
vault, the first time you ever visited Gringotts?” said 
Griphook. “I remember, Harry Potter. Even amongst 
goblins, you are very famous.” 

Harry and the goblin looked at each other, sizing each 
other up. Harry’s scar was still prickling. He wanted 
to get through this interview with Griphook quickly, 
and at the same time was afraid of making a false 
move. While he tried to decide on the best way to 
approach his request, the goblin broke the silence. 

“You buried the elf,” he said, sounding unexpectedly 
rancorous. “I watched you from the window of the 
bedroom next door.” 

“Yes,” said Harry. 

Griphook looked at him out of the corners of his 
slanting black eyes. 

“You are an unusual wizard, Harry Potter.” 

“In what way?” asked Harry, rubbing his scar 
absently. 

“You dug the grave.” 

“So?” 

Griphook did not answer. Harry rather thought he 
was being sneered at for acting like a Muggle, but it 
did not much matter to him whether Griphook 
approved of Dobby’s grave or not. He gathered himself 
for the attack. 

“Griphook, I need to ask — ” 

“You also rescued a goblin.” 

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“What?” 



“You brought me here. Saved me.” 

“Well, I take it you’re not sorry?” said Harry a little 
impatiently. 

“No, Harry Potter,” said Griphook, and with one finger 
he twisted the thin black beard upon his chin, “but 
you are a very odd wizard.” 

“Right,” said Harry. “Well, I need some help, 

Griphook, and you can give it to me.” 

The goblin made no sign of encouragement, but 
continued to frown at Harry as though he had never 
seen anything like him. 

“I need to break into a Gringotts vault.” 

Harry had not meant to say it so baldly; the words 
were forced from him as pain shot through his 
lightning scar and he saw, again, the outline of 
Hogwarts. He closed his mind firmly. He needed to 
deal with Griphook first. Ron and Hermione were 
staring at Harry as though he had gone mad. 

“Harry — ” said Hermione, but she was cut off by 
Griphook. 

“Break into a Gringotts vault?” repeated the goblin, 
wincing a little as he shifted his position upon the 
bed. “It is impossible.” 

“No, it isn’t,” Ron contradicted him. “It’s been done.” 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “The same day I first met you, 
Griphook. My birthday, seven years ago.” 



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“The vault in question was empty at the time,” 
snapped the goblin, and Harry understood that even 
though Griphook had left Gringotts, he was offended 
at the idea of its defenses being breached. “Its 
protection was minimal.” 

“Well, the vault we need to get into isn’t empty, and 
I’m guessing its protection will be pretty powerful,” 
said Harry. “It belongs to the Lestranges.” 

He saw Hermione and Ron look at each other, 
astonished, but there would be time enough to 
explain after Griphook had given his answer. 

“You have no chance,” said Griphook flatly. “No 
chance at all. If you seek beneath our floors, a 
treasure that was never yours — ” 

“Thief you have been warned, beware — yeah, I 
know, I remember,” said Harry. “But I’m not trying to 
get myself any treasure, I’m not trying to take 
anything for personal gain. Can you believe that?” 

The goblin looked slantwise at Harry, and the 
lightning scar on Harry’s forehead prickled, but he 
ignored it, refusing to acknowledge its pain or its 
invitation. 

“If there was a wizard of whom I would believe that 
they did not seek personal gain,” said Griphook 
finally, “it would be you, Harry Potter. Goblins and 
elves are not used to the protection or the respect 
that you have shown this night. Not from wand- 
carriers.” 

“Wand-carriers,” repeated Harry: The phrase fell oddly 
upon his ears as his scar prickled, as Voldemort 
turned his thoughts northward, and as Harry burned 
to question Ollivander next door. 

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“The right to carry a wand,” said the goblin quietly, 
“has long been contested between wizards and 
goblins.” 

“Well, goblins can do magic without wands,” said 
Ron. 

“That is immaterial! Wizards refuse to share the 
secrets of wand-lore with other magical beings, they 
deny us the possibility of extending our powers!” 

“Well, goblins won’t share any of their magic either,” 
said Ron. “You won’t tell us how to make swords and 
armor the way you do. Goblins know how to work 
metal in a way wizards have never — ” 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Harry, noting Griphook’s 
rising color. “This isn’t about wizards versus goblins 
or any other sort of magical creature — ” 

Griphook gave a nasty laugh. 

“But it is, it is about precisely that! As the Dark Lord 
becomes ever more powerful, your race is set still 
more firmly above mine! Gringotts falls under 
Wizarding rule, house-elves are slaughtered, and who 
amongst the wand-carriers protests?” 

“We do!” said Hermione. She had sat up straight, her 
eyes bright. “We protest! And I’m hunted quite as 
much as any goblin or elf, Griphook! I’m a Mudblood!” 

“Don’t call yourself — ” Ron muttered. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” said Hermione. “Mudblood, and 
proud of it! I’ve got no higher position under this new 
order than you have, Griphook! It was me they chose 
to torture, back at the Malfoys’!” 



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As she spoke, she pulled aside the neck of the 
dressing gown to reveal the thin cut Bellatrix had 
made, scarlet against her throat. 

“Did you know that it was Harry who set Dobby free?” 
she asked. “Did you know that we’ve wanted elves to 
be freed for years?” (Ron fidgeted uncomfortably on 
the arm of Hermione’s chair.) “You can’t want You- 
Know-Who defeated more than we do, Griphook!” 

The goblin gazed at Hermione with the same curiosity 
he had shown Harry. 

“What do you seek within the Lestranges’ vault?” he 
asked abruptly. “The sword that lies inside it is a 
fake. This is the real one.” He looked from one to the 
other of them. “I think that you already know this. 

You asked me to lie for you back there.” 

“But the fake sword isn’t the only thing in that vault, 
is it?” asked Harry. “Perhaps you’ve seen the other 
things in there?” 

His heart was pounding harder than ever. He 
redoubled his efforts to ignore the pulsing of his scar. 

The goblin twisted his beard around his finger again. 

“It is against our code to speak of the secrets of 
Gringotts. We are the guardians of fabulous 
treasures. We have a duty to the objects placed in our 
care, which were, so often, wrought by our fingers.” 

The goblin stroked the sword, and his black eyes 
roved from Harry to Hermione to Ron and then back 
again. 

“So young,” he said finally, “to be fighting so many.” 



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“Will you help us?” said Harry. “We haven’t got a hope 
of breaking in without a goblin’s help. You’re our one 
chance.” 

“I shall ... think about it,” said Griphook 
maddeningly. 

“But — ” Ron started angrily; Hermione nudged him in 
the ribs. 

“Thank you,” said Harry. 

The goblin bowed his great domed head in 
acknowledgement, then flexed his short legs. 

“I think,” he said, settling himself ostentatiously upon 
Bill and Fleur’s bed, “that the Skele-Gro has finished 
its work. I may be able to sleep at last. Forgive me. ...” 

“Yeah, of course,” said Harry, but before leaving the 
room he leaned forward and took the sword of 
Gryffindor from beside the goblin. Griphook did not 
protest, but Harry thought he saw resentment in the 
goblin’s eyes as he closed the door upon him. 

“Little git,” whispered Ron. “He’s enjoying keeping us 
hanging.” 

“Harry,” whispered Hermione, pulling them both away 
from the door, into the middle of the still-dark 
landing, “are you saying what I think you’re saying? 
Are you saying there’s a Horcrux in the Lestranges’ 
vault?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “Bellatrix was terrified when she 
thought we’d been in there, she was beside herself. 
Why? What did she think we’d seen, what else did she 
think we might have taken? Something she was 
petrified You-Know-Who would find out about.” 

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“But I thought we were looking for places You-Know- 
Who’s been, places he’s done something important?” 
said Ron, looking baffled. “Was he ever inside the 
Lestranges’ vault?” 

“I don’t know whether he was ever inside Gringotts,” 
said Harry. “He never had gold there when he was 
younger, because nobody left him anything. He would 
have seen the bank from the outside, though, the first 
time he ever went to Diagon Alley.” 

Harry’s scar throbbed, but he ignored it; he wanted 
Ron and Hermione to understand about Gringotts 
before they spoke to Ollivander. 

“I think he would have envied anyone who had a key 
to a Gringotts vault. I think he’d have seen it as a real 
symbol of belonging to the Wizarding world. And don’t 
forget, he trusted Bellatrix and her husband. They 
were his most devoted servants before he fell, and 
they went looking for him after he vanished. He said it 
the night he came back, I heard him.” 

Harry rubbed his scar. 

“I don’t think he’d have told Bellatrix it was a 
Horcrux, though. He never told Lucius Malfoy the 
truth about the diary. He probably told her it was a 
treasured possession and asked her to place it in her 
vault. The safest place in the world for anything you 
want to hide, Hagrid told me ... except for Hogwarts.” 

When Harry had finished speaking, Ron shook his 
head. 

“You really understand him.” 



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“Bits of him,” said Harry. “Bits ... I just wish I’d 
understood Dumbledore as much. But well see. 

Come on — Ollivander now.” 

Ron and Hermione looked bewildered but impressed 
as they followed him across the little landing and 
knocked upon the door opposite Bill and Fleur’s. A 
weak “Come in!” answered them. 

The wandmaker was lying on the twin bed farthest 
from the window. He had been held in the cellar for 
more than a year, and tortured, Harry knew, on at 
least one occasion. He was emaciated, the bones of 
his face sticking out sharply against the yellowish 
skin. His great silver eyes seemed vast in their 
sunken sockets. The hands that lay upon the blanket 
could have belonged to a skeleton. Harry sat down on 
the empty bed, beside Ron and Hermione. The rising 
sun was not visible here. The room faced the cliff- top 
garden and the freshly dug grave. 

“Mr. Ollivander, I’m sorry to disturb you,” Harry said. 

“My dear boy.” Ollivander’s voice was feeble. “You 
rescued us. I thought we would die in that place. I 
can never thank you ... never thank you ... enough.” 

“We were glad to do it.” 

Harry’s scar throbbed. He knew, he was certain, that 
there was hardly any time left in which to beat 
Voldemort to his goal, or else to attempt to thwart 
him. He felt a flutter of panic ... yet he had made his 
decision when he chose to speak to Griphook first. 
Feigning a calm he did not feel, he groped in the 
pouch around his neck and took out the two halves of 
his broken wand. 

“Mr. Ollivander, I need some help.” 

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“Anything. Anything,” said the wandmaker weakly. 

“Can you mend this? Is it possible?” 

Ollivander held out a trembling hand, and Harry 
placed the two barely connected halves into his palm. 

“Holly and phoenix feather,” said Ollivander in a 
tremulous voice. “Eleven inches. Nice and supple.” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “Can you — ?” 

“No,” whispered Ollivander. “I am sorry, very sorry, 
but a wand that has suffered this degree of damage 
cannot be repaired by any means that I know of.” 

Harry had been braced to hear it, but it was a blow 
nevertheless. He took the wand halves back and 
replaced them in the pouch around his neck. 
Ollivander stared at the place where the shattered 
wand had vanished, and did not look away until 
Harry had taken from his pocket the two wands he 
had brought from the Malfoys’. 

“Can you identify these?” Harry asked. 

The wandmaker took the first of the wands and held 
it close to his faded eyes, rolling it between his 
knobble-knuckled fingers, flexing it slightly. 

“Walnut and dragon heartstring,” he said. “Twelve- 
and-three-quarter inches. Unyielding. This wand 
belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange.” 

“And this one?” 

Ollivander performed the same examination. 



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“Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. 
Reasonably springy. This was the wand of Draco 
Malfoy.” 



“Was?” repeated Harry. “Isn’t it still his?” 
“Perhaps not. If you took it — ” 

“— I did — ” 



“ — then it may be yours. Of course, the manner of 
taking matters. Much also depends upon the wand 
itself. In general, however, where a wand has been 
won, its allegiance will change.” 

There was silence in the room, except for the distant 
rushing of the sea. 

“You talk about wands like they’ve got feelings,” said 
Harry, “like they can think for themselves.” 

“The wand chooses the wizard,” said Ollivander. “That 
much has always been clear to those of us who have 
studied wandlore.” 

“A person can still use a wand that hasn’t chosen 
them, though?” asked Harry. 

“Oh yes, if you are any wizard at all you will be able to 
channel your magic through almost any instrument. 
The best results, however, must always come where 
there is the strongest affinity between wizard and 
wand. These connections are complex. An initial 
attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, 
the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from 
the wand.” 

The sea gushed forward and backward; it was a 
mournful sound. 

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“I took this wand from Draco Malfoy by force,” said 
Harry. “Can I use it safely?” 

“I think so. Subtle laws govern wand ownership, but 
the conquered wand will usually bend its will to its 
new master.” 

“So I should use this one?” said Ron, pulling 
Wormtail’s wand out of his pocket and handing it to 
Ollivander. 

“Chestnut and dragon heartstring. Nine-and-a- 
quarter inches. Brittle. I was forced to make this 
shortly after my kidnapping, for Peter Pettigrew. Yes, 
if you won it, it is more likely to do your bidding, and 
do it well, than another wand.” 

“And this holds true for all wands, does it?” asked 
Harry. 

“I think so,” replied Ollivander, his protuberant eyes 
upon Harry’s face. “You ask deep questions, Mr. 

Potter. Wandlore is a complex and mysterious branch 
of magic.” 

“So, it isn’t necessary to kill the previous owner to 
take true possession of a wand?” asked Harry. 

Ollivander swallowed. 

“Necessary? No, I should not say that it is necessary 
to kill.” 

“There are legends, though,” said Harry, and as his 
heart rate quickened, the pain in his scar became 
more intense; he was sure that Voldemort had 
decided to put his idea into action. “Legends about a 
wand — or wands — that have passed from hand to 
hand by murder.” 

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Ollivander turned pale. Against the snowy pillow he 
was light gray, and his eyes were enormous, 
bloodshot, and bulging with what looked like fear. 

“Only one wand, I think,” he whispered. 

“And You-Know-Who is interested in it, isn’t he?” 
asked Harry. 

“I — how?” croaked Ollivander, and he looked 
appealingly at Ron and Hermione for help. “How do 
you know this?” 

“He wanted you to tell him how to overcome the 
connection between our wands,” said Harry. 

Ollivander looked terrified. 

“He tortured me, you must understand that! The 
Cruciatus Curse, I — I had no choice but to tell him 
what I knew, what I guessed!” 

“I understand,” said Harry. “You told him about the 
twin cores? You said he just had to borrow another 
wizard’s wand?” 

Ollivander looked horrified, transfixed, by the amount 
that Harry knew. He nodded slowly. 

“But it didn’t work,” Harry went on. “Mine still beat 
the borrowed wand. Do you know why that is?” 

Ollivander shook his head as slowly as he had just 
nodded. 

“I had ... never heard of such a thing. Your wand 
performed something unique that night. The 
connection of the twin cores is incredibly rare, yet 



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why your wand should have snapped the borrowed 
wand, I do not know. ...” 

“We were talking about the other wand, the wand that 
changes hands by murder. When You-Know-Who 
realized my wand had done something strange, he 
came back and asked about that other wand, didn’t 
he?” 

“How do you know this?” 

Harry did not answer. 

“Yes, he asked,” whispered Ollivander. “He wanted to 
know everything I could tell him about the wand 
variously known as the Deathstick, the Wand of 
Destiny, or the Elder Wand.” 

Harry glanced sideways at Hermione. She looked 
flabbergasted. 

“The Dark Lord,” said Ollivander in hushed and 
frightened tones, “had always been happy with the 
wand I made him — yew and phoenix feather, 
thirteen-and-a-half inches — until he discovered the 
connection of the twin cores. Now he seeks another, 
more powerful wand, as the only way to conquer 
yours.” 

“But he’ll know soon, if he doesn’t already, that 
mine’s broken beyond repair,” said Harry quietly. 

“No!” said Hermione, sounding frightened. “He can’t 
know that, Harry, how could he — ?” 

“Priori Incantatem,” said Harry. “We left your wand 
and the blackthorn wand at the Malfoys’, Hermione. If 
they examine them properly, make them re-create the 
spells they’ve cast lately, they’ll see that yours broke 

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mine, they’ll see that you tried and failed to mend it, 
and they’ll realize that I’ve been using the blackthorn 
one ever since.” 

The little color she had regained since their arrival 
had drained from her face. Ron gave Harry a 
reproachful look, and said, “Let’s not worry about 
that now — ” 

But Mr. Ollivander intervened. 

“The Dark Lord no longer seeks the Elder Wand only 
for your destruction, Mr. Potter. He is determined to 
possess it because he believes it will make him truly 
invulnerable.” 

“And will it?” 

“The owner of the Elder Wand must always fear 
attack,” said Ollivander, “but the idea of the Dark 
Lord in possession of the Deathstick is, I must admit 
... formidable.” 

Harry was suddenly reminded of how he had been 
unsure, when they first met, of how much he liked 
Ollivander. Even now, having been tortured and 
imprisoned by Voldemort, the idea of the Dark wizard 
in possession of this wand seemed to enthrall him as 
much as it repulsed him. 

“You — you really think this wand exists, then, Mr. 
Ollivander?” asked Hermione. 

“Oh yes,” said Ollivander. “Yes, it is perfectly possible 
to trace the wand’s course through history. There are 
gaps, of course, and long ones, where it vanishes from 
view, temporarily lost or hidden; but always it 
resurfaces. It has certain identifying characteristics 
that those who are learned in wandlore recognize. 
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There are written accounts, some of them obscure, 
that I and other wandmakers have made it our 
business to study. They have the ring of authenticity.” 

“So you — you don’t think it can be a fairy tale or a 
myth?” Hermione asked hopefully. 

“No,” said Ollivander. “Whether it needs to pass by 
murder, I do not know. Its history is bloody, but that 
may be simply due to the fact that it is such a 
desirable object, and arouses such passions in 
wizards. Immensely powerful, dangerous in the wrong 
hands, and an object of incredible fascination to all of 
us who study the power of wands.” 

“Mr. Ollivander,” said Harry, “you told You-Know-Who 
that Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand, didn’t you?” 

Ollivander turned, if possible, even paler. He looked 
ghostly as he gulped. 

“But how — how do you — ?” 

“Never mind how I know it,” said Harry, closing his 
eyes momentarily as his scar burned and he saw, for 
mere seconds, a vision of the main street in 
Hogsmeade, still dark, because it was so much 
farther north. “You told You-Know-Who that 
Gregorovitch had the wand?” 

“It was a rumor,” whispered Ollivander. “A rumor, 
years and years ago, long before you were born! I 
believe Gregorovitch himself started it. You can see 
how good it would be for business: that he was 
studying and duplicating the qualities of the Elder 
Wand!” 

“Yes, I can see that,” said Harry. He stood up. “Mr. 
Ollivander, one last thing, and then we’ll let you get 

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some rest. What do you know about the Deathly 
Hallows?” 



“The — the what?” asked the wandmaker, looking 
utterly bewildered. 

“The Deathly Hallows.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is 
this still something to do with wands?” 

Harry looked into the sunken face and believed that 
Ollivander was not acting. He did not know about the 
Hallows. 

“Thank you,” said Harry. “Thank you very much. We’ll 
leave you to get some rest now.” 

Ollivander looked stricken. 

“He was torturing me!” he gasped. “The Cruciatus 
Curse ... you have no idea. ...” 

“I do,” said Harry. “I really do. Please get some rest. 
Thank you for telling me all of this.” 

He led Ron and Hermione down the staircase. Harry 
caught a glimpse of Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean 
sitting at the table in the kitchen, cups of tea in front 
of them. They all looked up at Harry as he appeared 
in the doorway, but he merely nodded to them and 
continued into the garden, Ron and Hermione behind 
him. The reddish mound of earth that covered Dobby 
lay ahead, and Harry walked back to it, as the pain in 
his head built more and more powerfully. It was a 
huge effort now to close down the visions that were 
forcing themselves upon him, but he knew that he 
would have to resist only a little longer. He would 
yield very soon, because he needed to know that his 
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theory was right. He must make only one more short 
effort, so that he could explain to Ron and Hermione. 

“Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand a long time ago,” 
he said. “I saw You-Know-Who trying to find him. 
When he tracked him down, he found that 
Gregorovitch didn’t have it anymore: It was stolen 
from him by Grindelwald. How Grindelwald found out 
that Gregorovitch had it, I don’t know — but if 
Gregorovitch was stupid enough to spread the rumor, 
it can’t have been that difficult.” 

Voldemort was at the gates of Hogwarts; Harry could 
see him standing there, and see too the lamp bobbing 
in the pre-dawn, coming closer and closer. 

“And Grindelwald used the Elder Wand to become 
powerful. And at the height of his power, when 
Dumbledore knew he was the only one who could 
stop him, he dueled Grindelwald and beat him, and 
he took the Elder Wand.” 

“Dumbledore had the Elder Wand?” said Ron. “But 
then — where is it now?” 

“At Hogwarts,” said Harry, fighting to remain with 
them in the cliff-top garden. 

“But then, let’s go!” said Ron urgently. “Harry, let’s go 
and get it before he does!” 

“It’s too late for that,” said Harry. He could not help 
himself, but clutched his head, trying to help it resist. 
“He knows where it is. He’s there now.” 

“Harry!” Ron said furiously. “How long have you 
known this — why have we been wasting time? Why 
did you talk to Griphook first? We could have gone — 
we could still go — ” 

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“No,” said Harry, and he sank to his knees in the 
grass. “Hermione’s right. Dumbledore didn’t want me 
to have it. He didn’t want me to take it. He wanted me 
to get the Horcruxes.” 

“The unbeatable wand, Harry!” moaned Ron. 

“I’m not supposed to ... I’m supposed to get the 
Horcruxes. ...” 

And now everything was cool and dark: The sun was 
barely visible over the horizon as he glided alongside 
Snape, up through the grounds toward the lake. 

“I shall join you in the castle shortly,” he said in his 
high, cold voice. “Leave me now.” 

Snape bowed and set off back up the path, his black 
cloak billowing behind him. Harry walked slowly, 
waiting for Snape ’s figure to disappear. It would not 
do for Snape, or indeed anyone else, to see where he 
was going. But there were no lights in the castle 
windows, and he could conceal himself ... and in a 
second he had cast upon himself a Disillusionment 
Charm that hid him even from his own eyes. 

And he walked on, around the edge of the lake, taking 
in the outlines of the beloved castle, his first kingdom, 
his birthright. ... 

And here it was, beside the lake, reflected in the dark 
waters. The white marble tomb, an unnecessary blot 
on the familiar landscape. He felt again that rush of 
controlled euphoria, that heady sense of purpose in 
destruction. He raised the old yew wand: How fitting 
that this would be its last great act. 



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The tomb split open from head to foot. The shrouded 
figure was as long and thin as it had been in life. He 
raised the wand again. 

The wrappings fell open. The face was translucent, 
pale, sunken, yet almost perfectly preserved. They 
had left his spectacles on the crooked nose: He felt 
amused derision. Dumbledore’s hands were folded 
upon his chest, and there it lay, clutched beneath 
them, buried with him. 

Had the old fool imagined that marble or death would 
protect the wand? Had he thought that the Dark Lord 
would be scared to violate his tomb? The spiderlike 
hand swooped and pulled the wand from 
Dumbledore’s grasp, and as he took it, a shower of 
sparks flew from its tip, sparkling over the corpse of 
its last owner, ready to serve a new master at last. 



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SHELL COTTAGE 

Bill and Fleur’s cottage stood alone on a cliff 
overlooking the sea, its walls embedded with shells 
and whitewashed. It was a lonely and beautiful place. 
Wherever Harry went inside the tiny cottage or its 
garden, he could hear the constant ebb and flow of 
the sea, like the breathing of some great, slumbering 
creature. He spent much of the next few days making 
excuses to escape the crowded cottage, craving the 
cliff-top view of open sky and wide, empty sea, and 
the feel of cold, salty wind on his face. 

The enormity of his decision not to race Voldemort to 
the wand still scared Harry. He could not remember, 
ever before, choosing not to act. He was full of doubts, 
doubts that Ron could not help voicing whenever they 
were together. 

“What if Dumbledore wanted us to work out the 
symbol in time to get the wand?” “What if working out 
what the symbol meant made you ‘worthy’ to get the 
Hallows?” “Harry, if that really is the Elder Wand, 
how the hell are we supposed to finish off You-Know- 

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Who?” Harry had no answers: There were moments 
when he wondered whether it had been outright 
madness not to try to prevent Voldemort breaking 
open the tomb. He could not even explain 
satisfactorily why he had decided against it: Every 
time he tried to reconstruct the internal arguments 
that had led to his decision, they sounded feebler to 
him. 

The odd thing was that Hermione’s support made him 
feel just as confused as Ron’s doubts. Now forced to 
accept that the Elder Wand was real, she maintained 
that it was an evil object, and that the way Voldemort 
had taken possession of it was repellent, not to be 
considered. 

“You could never have done that, Harry,” she said 
again and again. “You couldn’t have broken into 
Dumbledore’s grave.” 

But the idea of Dumbledore’s corpse frightened Harry 
much less than the possibility that he might have 
misunderstood the living Dumbledore’s intentions. He 
felt that he was still groping in the dark; he had 
chosen his path but kept looking back, wondering 
whether he had misread the signs, whether he should 
not have taken the other way. From time to time, 
anger at Dumbledore crashed over him again, 
powerful as the waves slamming themselves against 
the cliff beneath the cottage, anger that Dumbledore 
had not explained before he died. 

“But is he dead?” said Ron, three days after they had 
arrived at the cottage. Harry had been staring out 
over the wall that separated the cottage garden from 
the cliff when Ron and Hermione had found him; he 
wished they had not, having no wish to join in with 
their argument. 



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“Yes, he is, Ron, please don’t start that again!” 

“Look at the facts, Hermione,” said Ron, speaking 
across Harry, who continued to gaze at the horizon. 
“The silver doe. The sword. The eye Harry saw in the 
mirror — ” 

“Harry admits he could have imagined the eye! Don’t 
you, Harry?” 

“I could have,” said Harry without looking at her. 

“But you don’t think you did, do you?” asked Ron. 

“No, I don’t,” said Harry. 

“There you go!” said Ron quickly, before Hermione 
could carry on. “If it wasn’t Dumbledore, explain how 
Dobby knew we were in the cellar, Hermione?” 

“I can’t — but can you explain how Dumbledore sent 
him to us if he’s lying in a tomb at Hogwarts?” 

“I dunno, it could’ve been his ghost!” 

“Dumbledore wouldn’t come back as a ghost,” said 
Harry. There was little about Dumbledore he was sure 
of now, but he knew that much. “He would have gone 
on.” 

“What d’you mean, ‘gone on’?” asked Ron, but before 
Harry could say any more, a voice behind them said, “ 
’Arry?” 

Fleur had come out of the cottage, her long silver hair 
flying in the breeze. 



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“ ’Arry, Grip’ook would like to speak to you. ’E eez in 
ze smallest bedroom, ’e says ’e does not want to be 
over’eard.” 

Her dislike of the goblin sending her to deliver 
messages was clear; she looked irritable as she 
walked back around the house. 

Griphook was waiting for them, as Fleur had said, in 
the tiniest of the cottage’s three bedrooms, in which 
Hermione and Luna slept by night. He had drawn the 
red cotton curtains against the bright, cloudy sky, 
which gave the room a fiery glow at odds with the rest 
of the airy, light cottage. 

“I have reached my decision, Harry Potter,” said the 
goblin, who was sitting cross-legged in a low chair, 
drumming its arms with his spindly fingers. “Though 
the goblins of Gringotts will consider it base 
treachery, I have decided to help you — ” 

“That’s great!” said Harry, relief surging through him. 
“Griphook, thank you, we’re really — ” 

“ — in return,” said the goblin firmly, “for payment.” 

Slightly taken aback, Harry hesitated. 

“How much do you want? I’ve got gold.” 

“Not gold,” said Griphook. “I have gold.” 

His black eyes glittered; there were no whites to his 
eyes. 

“I want the sword. The sword of Godric Gryffindor.” 
Harry’s spirits plummeted. 



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“You can’t have that,” he said. “I’m sorry.” 

“Then,” said the goblin softly, “we have a problem.” 

“We can give you something else,” said Ron eagerly. 
“I’ll bet the Lestranges have got loads of stuff, you can 
take your pick once we get into the vault.” 

He had said the wrong thing. Griphook flushed 
angrily. 

“I am not a thief, boy! I am not trying to procure 
treasures to which I have no right!” 

“The sword’s ours — ” 

“It is not,” said the goblin. 

“We’re Gryffindors, and it was Godric Gryffindor’s — ” 

“And before it was Gryffindor’s, whose was it?” 
demanded the goblin, sitting up straight. 

“No one’s,” said Ron. “It was made for him, wasn’t it?” 

“No!” cried the goblin, bristling with anger as he 
pointed a long finger at Ron. “Wizarding arrogance 
again! That sword was Ragnuk the First’s, taken from 
him by Godric Gryffindor! It is a lost treasure, a 
masterpiece of goblinwork! It belongs with the 
goblins! The sword is the price of my hire, take it or 
leave it!” 

Griphook glared at them. Harry glanced at the other 
two, then said, “We need to discuss this, Griphook, if 
that’s all right. Could you give us a few minutes?” 

The goblin nodded, looking sour. 



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Downstairs in the empty sitting room, Harry walked 
to the fireplace, brow furrowed, trying to think what 
to do. Behind him, Ron said, “He’s having a laugh. We 
can’t let him have that sword.” 

“It is true?” Harry asked Hermione. “Was the sword 
stolen by Gryffindor?” 

“I don’t know,” she said hopelessly. “Wizarding history 
often skates over what the wizards have done to other 
magical races, but there’s no account that I know of 
that says Gryffindor stole the sword.” 

“It’ll be one of those goblin stories,” said Ron, “about 
how the wizards are always trying to get one over on 
them. I suppose we should think ourselves lucky he 
hasn’t asked for one of our wands.” 

“Goblins have got good reason to dislike wizards, 

Ron,” said Hermione. “They’ve been treated brutally in 
the past.” 

“Goblins aren’t exactly fluffy little bunnies, though, 
are they?” said Ron. “They’ve killed plenty of us. 
They’ve fought dirty too.” 

“But arguing with Griphook about whose race is most 
underhanded and violent isn’t going to make him 
more likely to help us, is it?” 

There was a pause while they tried to think of a way 
around the problem. Harry looked out of the window 
at Dobby’s grave. Luna was arranging sea lavender in 
a jam jar beside the headstone. 

“Okay,” said Ron, and Harry turned back to face him, 
“how’s this? We tell Griphook we need the sword until 
we get inside the vault, and then he can have it. 



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There’s a fake in there, isn’t there? We switch them, 
and give him the fake.” 

“Ron, he’d know the difference better than we would!” 
said Hermione. “He’s the only one who realized there 
had been a swap!” 

“Yeah, but we could scarper before he realizes — ” 

He quailed beneath the look Hermione was giving 
him. 

“That,” she said quietly, “is despicable. Ask for his 
help, then double-cross him? And you wonder why 
goblins don’t like wizards, Ron?” 

Ron’s ears had turned red. 

“All right, all right! It was the only thing I could think 
of! What’s your solution, then?” 

“We need to offer him something else, something just 
as valuable.” 

“Brilliant. I’ll go and get one of our other ancient 
goblin-made swords and you can gift wrap it.” 

Silence fell between them again. Harry was sure that 
the goblin would accept nothing but the sword, even 
if they had something as valuable to offer him. Yet the 
sword was their one, indispensable weapon against 
the Horcruxes. 

He closed his eyes for a moment or two and listened 
to the rush of the sea. The idea that Gryffindor might 
have stolen the sword was unpleasant to him: He had 
always been proud to be a Gryffindor; Gryffindor had 
been the champion of Muggle-borns, the wizard who 
had clashed with the pureblood-loving Slytherin. ... 
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“Maybe he’s lying,” Harry said, opening his eyes 
again. “Griphook. Maybe Gryffindor didn’t take the 
sword. How do we know the goblin version of history’s 
right?” 

“Does it make a difference?” asked Hermione. 
“Changes how I feel about it,” said Harry. 

He took a deep breath. 

“Well tell him he can have the sword after he’s helped 
us get into that vault — but we’ll be careful to avoid 
telling him exactly when he can have it.” 

A grin spread slowly across Ron’s face. Hermione, 
however, looked alarmed. 

“Harry, we can’t — ” 

“He can have it,” Harry went on, “after we’ve used it 
on all of the Horcruxes. I’ll make sure he gets it then. 
I’ll keep my word.” 

“But that could be years!” said Hermione. 

“I know that, but he needn’t. I won’t be lying ... 
really.” 

Harry met her eyes with a mixture of defiance and 
shame. He remembered the words that had been 
engraved over the gateway to Nurmengard: FOR THE 
GREATER GOOD. He pushed the idea away. What 
choice did they have? 

“I don’t like it,” said Hermione. 

“Nor do I, much,” Harry admitted. 



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“Well, I think it’s genius,” said Ron, standing up 
again. “Let’s go and tell him.” 



Back in the smallest bedroom, Harry made the offer, 
careful to phrase it so as not to give any definite time 
for the handover of the sword. Hermione frowned at 
the floor while he was speaking; he felt irritated at 
her, afraid that she might give the game away. 
However, Griphook had eyes for nobody but Harry. 

“I have your word, Harry Potter, that you will give me 
the sword of Gryffindor if I help you?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. 

“Then shake,” said the goblin, holding out his hand. 

Harry took it and shook. He wondered whether those 
black eyes saw any misgivings in his own. Then 
Griphook relinquished him, clapped his hands 
together, and said, “So. We begin!” 

It was like planning to break into the Ministry all over 
again. They settled to work in the smallest bedroom, 
which was kept, according to Griphook’s preference, 
in semidarkness. 

“I have visited the Lestranges’ vault only once,” 
Griphook told them, “on the occasion I was told to 
place inside it the false sword. It is one of the most 
ancient chambers. The oldest Wizarding families store 
their treasures at the deepest level, where the vaults 
are largest and best protected. ...” 

They remained shut in the cupboardlike room for 
hours at a time. Slowly the days stretched into weeks. 
There was problem after problem to overcome, not 
least of which was that their store of Polyjuice Potion 
was greatly depleted. 

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“There’s really only enough left for one of us,” said 
Hermione, tilting the thick mudlike potion against the 
lamplight. 

“That’ll be enough,” said Harry, who was examining 
Griphook’s hand-drawn map of the deepest 
passageways. 

The other inhabitants of Shell Cottage could hardly 
fail to notice that something was going on now that 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione only emerged for 
mealtimes. Nobody asked questions, although Harry 
often felt Bill’s eyes on the three of them at the table, 
thoughtful, concerned. 

The longer they spent together, the more Harry 
realized that he did not much like the goblin. 
Griphook was unexpectedly bloodthirsty, laughed at 
the idea of pain in lesser creatures, and seemed to 
relish the possibility that they might have to hurt 
other wizards to reach the Lestranges’ vault. Harry 
could tell that his distaste was shared by the other 
two, but they did not discuss it: They needed 
Griphook. 

The goblin ate only grudgingly with the rest of them. 
Even after his legs had mended, he continued to 
request trays of food in his room, like the still-frail 
Ollivander, until Bill (following an angry outburst 
from Fleur) went upstairs to tell him that the 
arrangement could not continue. Thereafter Griphook 
joined them at the overcrowded table, although he 
refused to eat the same food, insisting, instead, on 
lumps of raw meat, roots, and various fungi. 

Harry felt responsible: It was, after all, he who had 
insisted that the goblin remain at Shell Cottage so 
that he could question him; his fault that the whole 



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Weasley family had been driven into hiding, that Bill, 
Fred, George, and Mr. Weasley could no longer work. 

“I’m sorry,” he told Fleur, one blustery April evening 
as he helped her prepare dinner. “I never meant you 
to have to deal with all of this.” 

She had just set some knives to work, chopping up 
steaks for Griphook and Bill, who had preferred his 
meat bloody ever since he had been attacked by 
Greyback. While the knives sliced away behind her, 
her somewhat irritable expression softened. 

“ ’Arry, you saved my sister’s life, I do not forget.” 

This was not, strictly speaking, true, but Harry 
decided against reminding her that Gabrielle had 
never been in real danger. 

“Anyway,” Fleur went on, pointing her wand at a pot 
of sauce on the stove, which began to bubble at once, 
“Mr. Ollivander leaves for Muriel’s zis evening. Zat will 
make zings easier. Ze goblin,” she scowled a little at 
the mention of him, “can move downstairs, and you, 
Ron, and Dean can take zat room.” 

“We don’t mind sleeping in the living room,” said 
Harry, who knew that Griphook would think poorly of 
having to sleep on the sofa; keeping Griphook happy 
was essential to their plans. “Don’t worry about us.” 
And when she tried to protest he went on, “We’ll be off 
your hands soon too, Ron, Hermione, and I. We won’t 
need to be here much longer.” 

“But what do you mean?” she said, frowning at him, 
her wand pointing at the casserole dish now 
suspended in midair. “Of course you must not leave, 
you are safe ’ere!” 



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She looked rather like Mrs. Weasley as she said it, 
and he was glad that the back door opened at that 
moment. Luna and Dean entered, their hair damp 
from the rain outside and their arms full of driftwood. 

"... and tiny little ears,” Luna was saying, “a bit like a 
hippo’s, Daddy says, only purple and hairy. And if 
you want to call them, you have to hum; they prefer a 
waltz, nothing too fast. ...” 

Looking uncomfortable, Dean shrugged at Harry as 
he passed, following Luna into the combined dining 
and sitting room where Ron and Hermione were 
laying the dinner table. Seizing the chance to escape 
Fleur’s questions, Harry grabbed two jugs of pumpkin 
juice and followed them. 

"... and if you ever come to our house I’ll be able to 
show you the horn, Daddy wrote to me about it but I 
haven’t seen it yet, because the Death Eaters took me 
from the Hogwarts Express and I never got home for 
Christmas,” Luna was saying, as she and Dean relaid 
the fire. 

“Luna, we told you,” Hermione called over to her. 
“That horn exploded. It came from an Erumpent, not 
a Crumple-Horned Snorkack — ” 

“No, it was definitely a Snorkack horn,” said Luna 
serenely. “Daddy told me. It will probably have re- 
formed by now, they mend themselves, you know.” 

Hermione shook her head and continued laying down 
forks as Bill appeared, leading Mr. Ollivander down 
the stairs. The wandmaker still looked exceptionally 
frail, and he clung to Bill’s arm as the latter 
supported him, carrying a large suitcase. 



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‘Tm going to miss you, Mr. Ollivander,” said Luna, 
approaching the old man. 

“And I you, my dear,” said Ollivander, patting her on 
the shoulder. “You were an inexpressible comfort to 
me in that terrible place.” 

“So, au revoir, Mr. Ollivander,” said Fleur, kissing him 
on both cheeks. “And I wonder whezzer you could 
oblige me by delivering a package to Bill’s Auntie 
Muriel? I never returned ’er tiara.” 

“It will be an honor,” said Ollivander with a little bow, 
“the very least I can do in return for your generous 
hospitality.” 

Fleur drew out a worn velvet case, which she opened 
to show the wandmaker. The tiara sat glittering and 
twinkling in the light from the low-hanging lamp. 

“Moonstones and diamonds,” said Griphook, who had 
sidled into the room without Harry noticing. “Made by 
goblins, I think?” 

“And paid for by wizards,” said Bill quietly, and the 
goblin shot him a look that was both furtive and 
challenging. 

A strong wind gusted against the cottage windows as 
Bill and Ollivander set off into the night. The rest of 
them squeezed in around the table; elbow to elbow 
and with barely enough room to move, they started to 
eat. The fire crackled and popped in the grate beside 
them. Fleur, Harry noticed, was merely playing with 
her food; she glanced at the window every few 
minutes; however, Bill returned before they had 
finished their first course, his long hair tangled by the 
wind. 



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“Everything’s fine,” he told Fleur. “Ollivander settled 
in, Mum and Dad say hello. Ginny sends you all her 
love. Fred and George are driving Muriel up the wall, 
they’re still operating an Owl-Order business out of 
her back room. It cheered her up to have her tiara 
back, though. She said she thought we’d stolen it.” 

“Ah, she eez charmante, your aunt,” said Fleur 
crossly, waving her wand and causing the dirty plates 
to rise and form a stack in midair. She caught them 
and marched out of the room. 

“Daddy’s made a tiara,” piped up Luna. “Well, more of 
a crown, really.” 

Ron caught Harry’s eye and grinned; Harry knew that 
he was remembering the ludicrous headdress they 
had seen on their visit to Xenophilius. 

“Yes, he’s trying to re-create the lost diadem of 
Ravenclaw. He thinks he’s identified most of the main 
elements now. Adding the billywig wings really made 
a difference — ” 

There was a bang on the front door. Everyone’s head 
turned toward it. Fleur came running out of the 
kitchen, looking frightened; Bill jumped to his feet, 
his wand pointing at the door; Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione did the same. Silently Griphook slipped 
beneath the table, out of sight. 

“Who is it?” Bill called. 

“It is I, Remus John Lupin!” called a voice over the 
howling wind. Harry experienced a thrill of fear; what 
had happened? “I am a werewolf, married to 
Nymphadora Tonks, and you, the Secret-Keeper of 
Shell Cottage, told me the address and bade me come 
in an emergency!” 

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“Lupin,” muttered Bill, and he ran to the door and 
wrenched it open. 

Lupin fell over the threshold. He was white-faced, 
wrapped in a traveling cloak, his graying hair 
windswept. He straightened up, looked around the 
room, making sure of who was there, then cried 
aloud, “It’s a boy! We’ve named him Ted, after Dora’s 
father!” 

Hermione shrieked. 

“Wha — ? Tonks — Tonks has had the baby?” 

“Yes, yes, she’s had the baby!” shouted Lupin. All 
around the table came cries of delight, sighs of relief: 
Hermione and Fleur both squealed, 

“Congratulations!” and Ron said, “Blimey, a baby!” as 
if he had never heard of such a thing before. 

“Yes — yes — a boy,” said Lupin again, who seemed 
dazed by his own happiness. He strode around the 
table and hugged Harry; the scene in the basement of 
Grimmauld Place might never have happened. 

“You’ll be godfather?” he said as he released Harry. 

“M-me?” stammered Harry 

“You, yes, of course — Dora quite agrees, no one 
better — ” 

“I — yeah — blimey — ” 

Harry felt overwhelmed, astonished, delighted; now 
Bill was hurrying to fetch wine, and Fleur was 
persuading Lupin to join them for a drink. 



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“I can’t stay long, I must get back,” said Lupin, 
beaming around at them all: He looked years younger 
than Harry had ever seen him. “Thank you, thank 
you, Bill.” 

Bill had soon filled all of their goblets, they stood and 
raised them high in a toast. 

“To Teddy Remus Lupin,” said Lupin, “a great wizard 
in the making!” 

“ ’Oo does ’e look like?” Fleur inquired. 

“I think he looks like Dora, but she thinks he is like 
me. Not much hair. It looked black when he was 
born, but I swear it’s turned ginger in the hour since. 
Probably be blond by the time I get back. Andromeda 
says Tonks’s hair started changing color the day that 
she was born.” He drained his goblet. “Oh, go on 
then, just one more,” he added, beaming, as Bill made 
to fill it again. 

The wind buffeted the little cottage and the fire leapt 
and crackled, and Bill was soon opening another 
bottle of wine. Lupin’s news seemed to have taken 
them out of themselves, removed them for a while 
from their state of siege: Tidings of new life were 
exhilarating. Only the goblin seemed untouched by 
the suddenly festive atmosphere, and after a while he 
slunk back to the bedroom he now occupied alone. 
Harry thought he was the only one who had noticed 
this, until he saw Bill’s eyes following the goblin up 
the stairs. 

“No ... no ... I really must get back,” said Lupin at 
last, declining yet another goblet of wine. He got to his 
feet and pulled his traveling cloak back around 
himself. 



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“Good-bye, good-bye — I’ll try and bring some 
pictures in a few days’ time — they’ll all be so glad to 
know that I’ve seen you — ” 



He fastened his cloak and made his farewells, 
hugging the women and grasping hands with the 
men, then, still beaming, returned into the wild night. 

“Godfather, Harry!” said Bill as they walked into the 
kitchen together, helping clear the table. “A real 
honor! Congratulations!” 

As Harry set down the empty goblets he was carrying, 
Bill pulled the door behind him closed, shutting out 
the still-voluble voices of the others, who were 
continuing to celebrate even in Lupin’s absence. 

“I wanted a private word, actually, Harry. It hasn’t 
been easy to get an opportunity with the cottage this 
full of people.” 

Bill hesitated. 

“Harry, you’re planning something with Griphook.” 

It was a statement, not a question, and Harry did not 
bother to deny it. He merely looked at Bill, waiting. 

“I know goblins,” said Bill. “I’ve worked for Gringotts 
ever since I left Hogwarts. As far as there can be 
friendship between wizards and goblins, I have goblin 
friends — or, at least, goblins I know well, and like.” 
Again, Bill hesitated. 

“Harry, what do you want from Griphook, and what 
have you promised him in return?” 

“I can’t tell you that,” said Harry. “Sorry, Bill.” 

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The kitchen door opened behind them; Fleur was 
trying to bring through more empty goblets. 



“Wait,” Bill told her. “Just a moment.” 

She backed out and he closed the door again. 

“Then I have to say this,” Bill went on. “If you have 
struck any kind of bargain with Griphook, and most 
particularly if that bargain involves treasure, you 
must be exceptionally careful. Goblin notions of 
ownership, payment, and repayment are not the same 
as human ones.” 

Harry felt a slight squirm of discomfort, as though a 
small snake had stirred inside him. 

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“We are talking about a different breed of being,” said 
Bill. “Dealings between wizards and goblins have been 
fraught for centuries — but you’ll know all that from 
History of Magic. There has been fault on both sides, I 
would never claim that wizards have been innocent. 
However, there is a belief among some goblins, and 
those at Gringotts are perhaps most prone to it, that 
wizards cannot be trusted in matters of gold and 
treasure, that they have no respect for goblin 
ownership.” 

“I respect — ” Harry began, but Bill shook his head. 

“You don’t understand, Harry, nobody could 
understand unless they have lived with goblins. To a 
goblin, the rightful and true master of any object is 
the maker, not the purchaser. All goblin-made objects 
are, in goblin eyes, rightfully theirs.” 

“But if it was bought — ” 

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“ — then they would consider it rented by the one who 
had paid the money. They have, however, great 
difficulty with the idea of goblin-made objects passing 
from wizard to wizard. You saw Griphook’s face when 
the tiara passed under his eyes. He disapproves. I 
believe he thinks, as do the fiercest of his kind, that it 
ought to have been returned to the goblins once the 
original purchaser died. They consider our habit of 
keeping goblin-made objects, passing them from 
wizard to wizard without further payment, little more 
than theft.” 

Harry had an ominous feeling now; he wondered 
whether Bill guessed more than he was letting on. 

“All I am saying,” said Bill, setting his hand on the 
door back into the sitting room, “is to be very careful 
what you promise goblins, Harry. It would be less 
dangerous to break into Gringotts than to renege on a 
promise to a goblin.” 

“Right,” said Harry as Bill opened the door, “yeah. 
Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.” 

As he followed Bill back to the others a wry thought 
came to him, born no doubt of the wine he had 
drunk. He seemed set on course to become just as 
reckless a godfather to Teddy Lupin as Sirius Black 
had been to him. 



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GRINGOTTS 

Their plans were made, their preparations complete; 
in the smallest bedroom a single long, coarse black 
hair (plucked from the sweater Hermione had been 
wearing at Malfoy Manor) lay curled in a small glass 
phial on the mantelpiece. 

“And you’ll be using her actual wand,” said Harry, 
nodding toward the walnut wand, “so I reckon you’ll 
be pretty convincing.” 

Hermione looked frightened that the wand might sting 
or bite her as she picked it up. 

“I hate this thing,” she said in a low voice. “I really 
hate it. It feels all wrong, it doesn’t work properly for 
me. ... It’s like a bit of her.” 

Harry could not help but remember how Hermione 
had dismissed his loathing of the blackthorn wand, 
insisting that he was imagining things when it did not 
work as well as his own, telling him to simply 
practice. He chose not to repeat her own advice back 

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to her, however; the eve of their attempted assault on 
Gringotts felt like the wrong moment to antagonize 
her. 

“It’ll probably help you get in character, though,” said 
Ron. “Think what that wand’s done!” 

“But that’s my point!” said Hermione. “This is the 
wand that tortured Neville’s mum and dad, and who 
knows how many other people? This is the wand that 
killed Sirius!” 

Harry had not thought of that: He looked down at the 
wand and was visited by a brutal urge to snap it, to 
slice it in half with Gryffindor’s sword, which was 
propped against the wall beside him. 

“I miss my wand,” Hermione said miserably. “I wish 
Mr. Ollivander could have made me another one too.” 

Mr. Ollivander had sent Luna a new wand that 
morning. She was out on the back lawn at that 
moment, testing its capabilities in the late afternoon 
sun. Dean, who had lost his wand to the Snatchers, 
was watching rather gloomily. 

Harry looked down at the hawthorn wand that had 
once belonged to Draco Malfoy. He had been 
surprised, but pleased, to discover that it worked for 
him at least as well as Hermione ’s had done. 
Remembering what Ollivander had told them of the 
secret workings of wands, Harry thought he knew 
what Hermione ’s problem was: She had not won the 
walnut wand’s allegiance by taking it personally from 
Bellatrix. 

The door of the bedroom opened and Griphook 
entered. Harry reached instinctively for the hilt of the 
sword and drew it close to him, but regretted his 

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action at once: He could tell that the goblin had 
noticed. Seeking to gloss over the sticky moment, he 
said, “We’ve just been checking the last-minute stuff, 
Griphook. We’ve told Bill and Fleur we’re leaving 
tomorrow, and we’ve told them not to get up to see us 
off.” 

They had been firm on this point, because Hermione 
would need to transform into Bellatrix before they left, 
and the less that Bill and Fleur knew or suspected 
about what they were about to do, the better. They 
had also explained that they would not be returning. 
As they had lost Perkins’s old tent on the night that 
the Snatchers caught them, Bill had lent them 
another one. It was now packed inside the beaded 
bag, which, Harry was impressed to learn, Hermione 
had protected from the Snatchers by the simple 
expedient of stuffing it down her sock. 

Though he would miss Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean, 
not to mention the home comforts they had enjoyed 
over the last few weeks, Harry was looking forward to 
escaping the confinement of Shell Cottage. He was 
tired of trying to make sure that they were not 
overheard, tired of being shut in the tiny, dark 
bedroom. Most of all, he longed to be rid of Griphook. 
However, precisely how and when they were to part 
from the goblin without handing over Gryffindor’s 
sword remained a question to which Harry had no 
answer. It had been impossible to decide how they 
were going to do it, because the goblin rarely left 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione alone together for more 
than five minutes at a time: “He could give my mother 
lessons,” growled Ron, as the goblin’s long fingers 
kept appearing around the edges of doors. With Bill’s 
warning in mind, Harry could not help suspecting 
that Griphook was on the watch for possible 
skulduggery. Hermione disapproved so heartily of the 
planned double-cross that Harry had given up 
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attempting to pick her brains on how best to do it; 
Ron, on the rare occasions that they had been able to 
snatch a few Griphook-free moments, had come up 
with nothing better than “Well just have to wing it, 
mate.” 

Harry slept badly that night. Lying awake in the early 
hours, he thought back to the way he had felt the 
night before they had infiltrated the Ministry of Magic 
and remembered a determination, almost an 
excitement. Now he was experiencing jolts of anxiety, 
nagging doubts: He could not shake off the fear that it 
was all going to go wrong. He kept telling himself that 
their plan was good, that Griphook knew what they 
were facing, that they were well-prepared for all the 
difficulties they were likely to encounter, yet still he 
felt uneasy. Once or twice he heard Ron stir and was 
sure that he too was awake, but they were sharing 
the sitting room with Dean, so Harry did not speak. 

It was a relief when six o’clock arrived and they could 
slip out of their sleeping bags, dress in the 
semidarkness, then creep out into the garden, where 
they were to meet Hermione and Griphook. The dawn 
was chilly, but there was little wind now that it was 
May. Harry looked up at the stars still glimmering 
palely in the dark sky and listened to the sea washing 
backward and forward against the cliff: He was going 
to miss the sound. 

Small green shoots were forcing their way up through 
the red earth of Dobby’s grave now; in a year’s time 
the mound would be covered in flowers. The white 
stone that bore the elf’s name had already acquired a 
weathered look. He realized now that they could 
hardly have laid Dobby to rest in a more beautiful 
place, but Harry ached with sadness to think of 
leaving him behind. Looking down on the grave, he 
wondered yet again how the elf had known where to 
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come to rescue them. His fingers moved 
absentmindedly to the little pouch still strung around 
his neck, through which he could feel the jagged 
mirror fragment in which he had been sure he had 
seen Dumbledore’s eye. Then the sound of a door 
opening made him look around. 

Bellatrix Lestrange was striding across the lawn 
toward them, accompanied by Griphook. As she 
walked, she was tucking the small, beaded bag into 
the inside pocket of another set of the old robes they 
had taken from Grimmauld Place. Though Harry 
knew perfectly well that it was really Hermione, he 
could not suppress a shiver of loathing. She was taller 
than he was, her long black hair rippling down her 
back, her heavily lidded eyes disdainful as they rested 
upon him; but then she spoke, and he heard 
Hermione through Bellatrix’s low voice. 

“She tasted disgusting, worse than Gurdyroots! Okay, 
Ron, come here so I can do you. ...” 

“Right, but remember, I don’t like the beard too long 



“Oh, for heaven’s sake, this isn’t about looking 
handsome — ” “It’s not that, it gets in the way! But I 
liked my nose a bit shorter, try and do it the way you 
did last time.” 

Hermione sighed and set to work, muttering under 
her breath as she transformed various aspects of 
Ron’s appearance. He was to be given a completely 
fake identity, and they were trusting to the malevolent 
aura cast by Bellatrix to protect him. Meanwhile 
Harry and Griphook were to be concealed under the 
Invisibility Cloak. 

“There,” said Hermione, “how does he look, Harry?” 

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It was just possible to discern Ron under his disguise, 
but only, Harry thought, because he knew him so 
well. Ron’s hair was now long and wavy; he had a 
thick brown beard and mustache, no freckles, a 
short, broad nose, and heavy eyebrows. 

“Well, he’s not my type, but he’ll do,” said Harry. 

“Shall we go, then?” 

All three of them glanced back at Shell Cottage, lying 
dark and silent under the fading stars, then turned 
and began to walk toward the point, just beyond the 
boundary wall, where the Fidelius Charm stopped 
working and they would be able to Disapparate. Once 
past the gate, Griphook spoke. 

“I should climb up now, Harry Potter, I think?” 

Harry bent down and the goblin clambered onto his 
back, his hands linked in front of Harry’s throat. He 
was not heavy, but Harry disliked the feeling of the 
goblin and the surprising strength with which he 
clung on. Hermione pulled the Invisibility Cloak out of 
the beaded bag and threw it over them both. 

“Perfect,” she said, bending down to check Harry’s 
feet. “I can’t see a thing. Let’s go.” 

Harry turned on the spot, with Griphook on his 
shoulders, concentrating with all his might on the 
Leaky Cauldron, the inn that was the entrance to 
Diagon Alley. The goblin clung even tighter as they 
moved into the compressing darkness, and seconds 
later Harry’s feet found pavement and he opened his 
eyes on Charing Cross Road. Muggles bustled past 
wearing the hangdog expressions of early morning, 
quite unconscious of the little inn’s existence. 



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The bar of the Leaky Cauldron was nearly deserted. 
Tom, the stooped and toothless landlord, was 
polishing glasses behind the bar counter; a couple of 
warlocks having a muttered conversation in the far 
corner glanced at Hermione and drew back into the 
shadows. 

“Madam Lestrange,” murmured Tom, and as 
Hermione passed he inclined his head subserviently. 

“Good morning,” said Hermione, and as Harry crept 
past, still carrying Griphook piggyback under the 
Cloak, he saw Tom look surprised. 

“Too polite,” Harry whispered in Hermione’s ear as 
they passed out of the inn into the tiny backyard. 
“You need to treat people like they’re scum!” 

“Okay, okay!” 

Hermione drew out Bellatrix’s wand and tapped a 
brick in the nondescript wall in front of them. At once 
the bricks began to whirl and spin: A hole appeared 
in the middle of them, which grew wider and wider, 
finally forming an archway onto the narrow cobbled 
street that was Diagon Alley. 

It was quiet, barely time for the shops to open, and 
there were hardly any shoppers abroad. The crooked, 
cobbled street was much altered now from the 
bustling place Harry had visited before his first term 
at Hogwarts so many years before. More shops than 
ever were boarded up, though several new 
establishments dedicated to the Dark Arts had been 
created since his last visit. Harry’s own face glared 
down at him from posters plastered over many 
windows, always captioned with the words 
UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE. 



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A number of ragged people sat huddled in doorways. 
He heard them moaning to the few passersby, 
pleading for gold, insisting that they were really 
wizards. One man had a bloody bandage over his eye. 

As they set off along the street, the beggars glimpsed 
Hermione. They seemed to melt away before her, 
drawing hoods over their faces and fleeing as fast as 
they could. Hermione looked after them curiously, 
until the man with the bloodied bandage came 
staggering right across her path. 

“My children!” he bellowed, pointing at her. His voice 
was cracked, high-pitched; he sounded distraught. 
“Where are my children? What has he done with 
them? You know, you know\” 

“I — I really — ” stammered Hermione. 

The man lunged at her, reaching for her throat: Then, 
with a bang and a burst of red light he was thrown 
backward onto the ground, unconscious. Ron stood 
there, his wand still outstretched and a look of shock 
visible behind his beard. Faces appeared at the 
windows on either side of the street, while a little knot 
of prosperous-looking passersby gathered their robes 
about them and broke into gentle trots, keen to 
vacate the scene. 

Their entrance into Diagon Alley could hardly have 
been more conspicuous; for a moment Harry 
wondered whether it might not be better to leave now 
and try to think of a different plan. Before they could 
move or consult one another, however, they heard a 
cry from behind them. 

“Why, Madam Lestrange!” 



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Harry whirled around and Griphook tightened his 
hold around Harry’s neck: A tall, thin wizard with a 
crown of bushy gray hair and a long, sharp nose was 
striding toward them. 

“It’s Travers,” hissed the goblin into Harry’s ear, but 
at that moment Harry could not think who Travers 
was. Hermione had drawn herself up to her fullest 
height and said with as much contempt as she could 
muster: 

“And what do you want?” 

Travers stopped in his tracks, clearly affronted. 

“ He’s another Death Eater\” breathed Griphook, and 
Harry sidled sideways to repeat the information into 
Hermione ’s ear. 

“I merely sought to greet you,” said Travers coolly, 
“but if my presence is not welcome ...” 

Harry recognized his voice now; Travers was one of 
the Death Eaters who had been summoned to 
Xenophilius’s house. 

“No, no, not at all, Travers,” said Hermione quickly, 
trying to cover up her mistake. “How are you?” 

“Well, I confess I am surprised to see you out and 
about, Bellatrix.” 

“Really? Why?” asked Hermione. 

“Well,” Travers coughed, “I heard that the inhabitants 
of Malfoy Manor were confined to the house, after the 
... ah ... escape.” 



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Harry willed Hermione to keep her head. If this was 
true, and Bellatrix was not supposed to be out in 
public — 

“The Dark Lord forgives those who have served him 
most faithfully in the past,” said Hermione in a 
magnificent imitation of Bellatrix’s most 
contemptuous manner. “Perhaps your credit is not as 
good with him as mine is, Travers.” 

Though the Death Eater looked offended, he also 
seemed less suspicious. He glanced down at the man 
Ron had just Stunned. 

“How did it offend you?” 

“It does not matter, it will not do so again,” said 
Hermione coolly. 

“Some of these wandless can be troublesome,” said 
Travers. “While they do nothing but beg I have no 
objection, but one of them actually asked me to plead 
her case at the Ministry last week. ‘I’m a witch, sir, I’m 
a witch, let me prove it to youV ” he said in a squeaky 
impersonation. “As if I was going to give her my wand 
— but whose wand,” said Travers curiously, “are you 
using at the moment, Bellatrix? I heard that your own 
was — ” 

“I have my wand here,” said Hermione coldly, holding 
up Bellatrix’s wand. “I don’t know what rumors you 
have been listening to, Travers, but you seem sadly 
misinformed.” 

Travers seemed a little taken aback at that, and he 
turned instead to Ron. 

“Who is your friend? I do not recognize him.” 



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“This is Dragomir Despard,” said Hermione; they had 
decided that a fictional foreigner was the safest cover 
for Ron to assume. “He speaks very little English, but 
he is in sympathy with the Dark Lord’s aims. He has 
traveled here from Transylvania to see our new 
regime.” 

“Indeed? How do you do, Dragomir?” 

“ ’Ow you?” said Ron, holding out his hand. 

Travers extended two fingers and shook Ron’s hand 
as though frightened of dirtying himself. 

“So what brings you and your — ah — sympathetic 
friend to Diagon Alley this early?” asked Travers. 

“I need to visit Gringotts,” said Hermione. 

“Alas, I also,” said Travers. “Gold, filthy gold! We 
cannot live without it, yet I confess I deplore the 
necessity of consorting with our long-fingered 
friends.” 

Harry felt Griphook’s clasped hands tighten 
momentarily around his neck. 

“Shall we?” said Travers, gesturing Hermione forward. 

Hermione had no choice but to fall into step beside 
him and head along the crooked, cobbled street 
toward the place where the snowy-white Gringotts 
stood towering over the other little shops. Ron sloped 
along beside them, and Harry and Griphook followed. 

A watchful Death Eater was the very last thing they 
needed, and the worst of it was, with Travers 
marching at what he believed to be Bellatrix’s side, 
there was no means for Harry to communicate with 

Page | 597 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




Hermione or Ron. All too soon they arrived at the foot 
of the marble steps leading up to the great bronze 
doors. As Griphook had already warned them, the 
liveried goblins who usually flanked the entrance had 
been replaced by two wizards, both of whom were 
clutching long thin golden rods. 

“Ah, Probity Probes,” sighed Travers theatrically, “so 
crude — but effective!” 

And he set off up the steps, nodding left and right to 
the wizards, who raised the golden rods and passed 
them up and down his body. The Probes, Harry knew, 
detected spells of concealment and hidden magical 
objects. Knowing that he had only seconds; Harry 
pointed Draco’s wand at each of the guards in turn 
and murmured, “Confundo” twice. Unnoticed by 
Travers, who was looking through the bronze doors at 
the inner hall, each of the guards gave a little start as 
the spells hit them. 

Hermione ’s long black hair rippled behind her as she 
climbed the steps. 

“One moment, madam,” said the guard, raising his 
Probe. 

“But you’ve just done that!” said Hermione in 
Bellatrix’s commanding, arrogant voice. Travers 
looked around, eyebrows raised. The guard was 
confused. He stared down at the thin golden Probe 
and then at his companion, who said in a slightly 
dazed voice, 

“Yeah, you’ve just checked them, Marius.” 

Hermione swept forward, Ron by her side, Harry and 
Griphook trotting invisibly behind them. Harry 



Page | 598 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




glanced back as they crossed the threshold: The 
wizards were both scratching their heads. 

Two goblins stood before the inner doors, which were 
made of silver and which carried the poem warning of 
dire retribution to potential thieves. Harry looked up 
at it, and all of a sudden a knife-sharp memory came 
to him: standing on this very spot on the day that he 
had turned eleven, the most wonderful birthday of his 
life, and Hagrid standing beside him saying, “ Like I 
said, yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it.” Gringotts had 
seemed a place of wonder that day, the enchanted 
repository of a trove of gold he had never known he 
possessed, and never for an instant could he have 
dreamed that he would return to steal. ... But within 
seconds they were standing in the vast marble hall of 
the bank. 

The long counter was manned by goblins sitting on 
high stools, serving the first customers of the day. 
Hermione, Ron, and Travers headed toward an old 
goblin who was examining a thick gold coin through 
an eyeglass. Hermione allowed Travers to step ahead 
of her on the pretext of explaining features of the hall 
to Ron. 

The goblin tossed the coin he was holding aside, said 
to nobody in particular, “Leprechaun,” and then 
greeted Travers, who passed over a tiny golden key, 
which was examined and given back to him. 

Hermione stepped forward. 

“Madam Lestrange!” said the goblin, evidently 
startled. “Dear me! How — how may I help you 
today?” 

“I wish to enter my vault,” said Hermione. 



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The old goblin seemed to recoil a little. Harry glanced 
around. Not only was Travers hanging back, 
watching, but several other goblins had looked up 
from their work to stare at Hermione. 

“You have ... identification?” asked the goblin. 

“Identification? I — I have never been asked for 
identification before!” said Hermione. 

“ They know\” whispered Griphook in Harry’s ear. 
“They must have been warned there might be an 
impostor !” 

“Your wand will do, madam,” said the goblin. He held 
out a slightly trembling hand, and in a dreadful blast 
of realization Harry knew that the goblins of Gringotts 
were aware that Bellatrix’s wand had been stolen. 

“Act now, act now,” whispered Griphook in Harry’s 
ear, “the Imperius Cursel” 

Harry raised the hawthorn wand beneath the cloak, 
pointed it at the old goblin, and whispered, for the 
first time in his life, “Imperiol” 

A curious sensation shot down Harry’s arm, a feeling 
of tingling warmth that seemed to flow from his mind, 
down the sinews and veins connecting him to the 
wand and the curse it had just cast. The goblin took 
Bellatrix’s wand, examined it closely, and then said, 
“Ah, you have had a new wand made, Madam 
Lestrange!” 

“What?” said Hermione. “No, no, that’s mine — ” 

“A new wand?” said Travers, approaching the counter 
again; still the goblins all around were watching. “But 



Page | 600 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




how could you have done, which wandmaker did you 
use?” 

Harry acted without thinking: Pointing his wand at 
Travers, he muttered, “Imperiol” once more. 

“Oh yes, I see,” said Travers, looking down at 
Bellatrix’s wand, “yes, very handsome. And is it 
working well? I always think wands require a little 
breaking in, don’t you?” 

Hermione looked utterly bewildered, but to Harry’s 
enormous relief she accepted the bizarre turn of 
events without comment. 

The old goblin behind the counter clapped his hands 
and a younger goblin approached. 

“I shall need the Clankers,” he told the goblin, who 
dashed away and returned a moment later with a 
leather bag that seemed to be full of jangling metal, 
which he handed to his senior. “Good, good! So, if you 
will follow me, Madam Lestrange,” said the old goblin, 
hopping down off his stool and vanishing from sight, 

“I shall take you to your vault.” 

He appeared around the end of the counter, jogging 
happily toward them, the contents of the leather bag 
still jingling. Travers was now standing quite still with 
his mouth hanging wide open. Ron was drawing 
attention to this odd phenomenon by regarding 
Travers with confusion. 

“Wait — Bogrod!” 

Another goblin came scurrying around the counter. 



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“We have instructions,” he said with a bow to 
Hermione. “Forgive me, Madam, but there have been 
special orders regarding the vault of Lestrange.” 

He whispered urgently in Bogrod’s ear, but the 
Imperiused goblin shook him off. 

“I am aware of the instructions. Madam Lestrange 
wishes to visit her vault. ... Very old family ... old 
clients ... This way, please ...” 

And, still clanking, he hurried toward one of the many 
doors leading off the hall. Harry looked back at 
Travers, who was still rooted to the spot looking 
abnormally vacant, and made his decision: With a 
flick of his wand he made Travers come with them, 
walking meekly in their wake as they reached the 
door and passed into the rough stone passageway 
beyond, which was lit with flaming torches. 

“We’re in trouble; they suspect,” said Harry as the 
door slammed behind them and he pulled off the 
Invisibility Cloak. Griphook jumped down from his 
shoulders; neither Travers nor Bogrod showed the 
slightest surprise at the sudden appearance of Harry 
Potter in their midst. “They’re Imperiused,” he added, 
in response to Hermione and Ron’s confused queries 
about Travers and Bogrod, who were both now 
standing there looking blank. “I don’t think I did it 
strongly enough, I don’t know. ...” 

And another memory darted through his mind, of the 
real Bellatrix Lestrange shrieking at him when he had 
first tried to use an Unforgivable Curse: “You need to 
mean them, Potter!” 

“What do we do?” asked Ron. “Shall we get out now, 
while we can?” 



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“If we can,” said Hermione, looking back toward the 
door into the main hall, beyond which who knew 
what was happening. 

“We’ve got this far, I say we go on,” said Harry. 

“Good!” said Griphook. “So, we need Bogrod to control 
the cart; I no longer have the authority. But there will 
not be room for the wizard.” 

Harry pointed his wand at Travers. 

“Imperio\” 

The wizard turned and set off along the dark track at 
a smart pace. 

“What are you making him do?” 

“Hide,” said Harry as he pointed his wand at Bogrod, 
who whistled to summon a little cart that came 
trundling along the tracks toward them out of the 
darkness. Harry was sure he could hear shouting 
behind them in the main hall as they all clambered 
into it, Bogrod in front with Griphook, Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione crammed together in the back. 

With a jerk the cart moved off, gathering speed: They 
hurtled past Travers, who was wriggling into a crack 
in the wall, then the cart began twisting and turning 
through the labyrinthine passages, sloping downward 
all the time. Harry could not hear anything over the 
rattling of the cart on the tracks: His hair flew behind 
him as they swerved between stalactites, flying ever 
deeper into the earth, but he kept glancing back. 

They might as well have left enormous footprints 
behind them; the more he thought about it, the more 
foolish it seemed to have disguised Hermione as 



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Bellatrix, to have brought along Bellatrix’s wand, 
when the Death Eaters knew who had stolen it — 

They were deeper than Harry had ever penetrated 
within Gringotts; they took a hairpin bend at speed 
and saw ahead of them, with seconds to spare, a 
waterfall pounding over the track. Harry heard 
Griphook shout, “No!” but there was no braking: They 
zoomed through it. Water filled Harry’s eyes and 
mouth: He could not see or breathe: Then, with an 
awful lurch, the cart flipped over and they were all 
thrown out of it. Harry heard the cart smash into 
pieces against the passage wall, heard Hermione 
shriek something, and felt himself glide back toward 
the ground as though weightless, landing painlessly 
on the rocky passage floor. 

“C-Cushioning Charm,” Hermione spluttered, as Ron 
pulled her to her feet, but to Harry’s horror he saw 
that she was no longer Bellatrix; instead she stood 
there in overlarge robes, sopping wet and completely 
herself; Ron was red-haired and beardless again. 

They were realizing it as they looked at each other, 
feeling their own faces. 

“The Thief’s Downfall!” said Griphook, clambering to 
his feet and looking back at the deluge onto the 
tracks, which, Harry knew now, had been more than 
water. “It washes away all enchantment, all magical 
concealment! They know there are impostors in 
Gringotts, they have set off defenses against us!” 

Harry saw Hermione checking that she still had the 
beaded bag, and hurriedly thrust his own hand under 
his jacket to make sure he had not lost the Invisibility 
Cloak. Then he turned to see Bogrod shaking his 
head in bewilderment: The Thief’s Downfall seemed to 
have lifted the Imperius Curse. 



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“We need him,” said Griphook, “we cannot enter the 
vault without a Gringotts goblin. And we need the 
Clankers!” 

“Imperiol” Harry said again; his voice echoed through 
the stone passage as he felt again the sense of heady 
control that flowed from brain to wand. Bogrod 
submitted once more to his will, his befuddled 
expression changing to one of polite indifference, as 
Ron hurried to pick up the leather bag of metal tools. 

“Harry, I think I can hear people coming!” said 
Hermione, and she pointed Bellatrix’s wand at the 
waterfall and cried, “Protego\” They saw the Shield 
Charm break the flow of enchanted water as it flew up 
the passageway. 

“Good thinking,” said Harry. “Lead the way, 

Griphook!” 

“How are we going to get out again?” Ron asked as 
they hurried on foot into the darkness after the 
goblin, Bogrod panting in their wake like an old dog. 

“Let’s worry about that when we have to,” said Harry. 
He was trying to listen: He thought he could hear 
something clanking and moving around nearby. 
“Griphook, how much farther?” 

“Not far, Harry Potter, not far ...” 

And they turned a corner and saw the thing for which 
Harry had been prepared, but which still brought all 
of them to a halt. 

A gigantic dragon was tethered to the ground in front 
of them, barring access to four or five of the deepest 
vaults in the place. The beast’s scales had turned pale 
and flaky during its long incarceration under the 

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ground; its eyes were milkily pink; both rear legs bore 
heavy cuffs from which chains led to enormous pegs 
driven deep into the rocky floor. Its great spiked 
wings, folded close to its body, would have filled the 
chamber if it spread them, and when it turned its 
ugly head toward them, it roared with a noise that 
made the rock tremble, opened its mouth, and spat a 
jet of fire that sent them running back up the 
passageway. 

“It is partially blind,” panted Griphook, “but even 
more savage for that. However, we have the means to 
control it. It has learned what to expect when the 
Clankers come. Give them to me.” 

Ron passed the bag to Griphook, and the goblin 
pulled out a number of small metal instruments that 
when shaken made a loud, ringing noise like 
miniature hammers on anvils. Griphook handed them 
out: Bogrod accepted his meekly. 

“You know what to do,” Griphook told Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione. “It will expect pain when it hears the 
noise: It will retreat, and Bogrod must place his palm 
upon the door of the vault.” 

They advanced around the corner again, shaking the 
Clankers, and the noise echoed off the rocky walls, 
grossly magnified, so that the inside of Harry’s skull 
seemed to vibrate with the din. The dragon let out 
another hoarse roar, then retreated. Harry could see 
it trembling, and as they drew nearer he saw the 
scars made by vicious slashes across its face, and 
guessed that it had been taught to fear hot swords 
when it heard the sound of the Clankers. 

“Make him press his hand to the door!” Griphook 
urged Harry, who turned his wand again upon 
Bogrod. The old goblin obeyed, pressing his palm to 

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the wood, and the door of the vault melted away to 
reveal a cavelike opening crammed from floor to 
ceiling with golden coins and goblets, silver armor, 
the skins of strange creatures — some with long 
spines, others with drooping wings — potions in 
jeweled flasks, and a skull still wearing a crown. 

“Search, fast!” said Harry as they all hurried inside 
the vault. 

He had described Hufflepuff’s cup to Ron and 
Hermione, but if it was the other, unknown Horcrux 
that resided in this vault, he did not know what it 
looked like. He barely had time to glance around, 
however, before there was a muffled clunk from 
behind them: The door had reappeared, sealing them 
inside the vault, and they were plunged into total 
darkness. 

“No matter, Bogrod will be able to release us!” said 
Griphook as Ron gave a shout of surprise. “Light your 
wands, can’t you? And hurry, we have very little 
time!” 

“Lumosl” 

Harry shone his lit wand around the vault: Its beam 
fell upon glittering jewels; he saw the fake sword of 
Gryffindor lying on a high shelf amongst a jumble of 
chains. Ron and Hermione had lit their wands too, 
and were now examining the piles of objects 
surrounding them. 

“Harry, could this be — ? Aargh!” 

Hermione screamed in pain, and Harry turned his 
wand on her in time to see a jeweled goblet tumbling 
from her grip. But as it fell, it split, became a shower 
of goblets, so that a second later, with a great clatter, 

Page | 607 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




the floor was covered in identical cups rolling in every 
direction, the original impossible to discern amongst 
them. 

“It burned me!” moaned Hermione, sucking her 
blistered fingers. 

“They have added Gemino and Flagrante Curses!” 
said Griphook. “Everything you touch will burn and 
multiply, but the copies are worthless — and if you 
continue to handle the treasure, you will eventually 
be crushed to death by the weight of expanding gold!” 

“Okay, don’t touch anything!” said Harry desperately, 
but even as he said it, Ron accidentally nudged one of 
the fallen goblets with his foot, and twenty more 
exploded into being while Ron hopped on the spot, 
part of his shoe burned away by contact with the hot 
metal. 

“Stand still, don’t move!” said Hermione, clutching at 
Ron. 

“Just look around!” said Harry. “Remember, the cup’s 
small and gold, it’s got a badger engraved on it, two 
handles — otherwise see if you can spot Ravenclaw’s 
symbol anywhere, the eagle — ” 

They directed their wands into every nook and 
crevice, turning cautiously on the spot. It was 
impossible not to brush up against anything; Harry 
sent a great cascade of fake Galleons onto the ground 
where they joined the goblets, and now there was 
scarcely room to place their feet, and the glowing gold 
blazed with heat, so that the vault felt like a furnace. 
Harry’s wandlight passed over shields and goblin- 
made helmets set on shelves rising to the ceiling; 
higher and higher he raised the beam, until suddenly 



Page | 608 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




it found an object that made his heart skip and his 
hand tremble. 



“It’s there, it’s up there\” 

Ron and Hermione pointed their wands at it too, so 
that the little golden cup sparkled in a three-way 
spotlight: the cup that had belonged to Helga 
Hufflepuff, which had passed into the possession of 
Hepzibah Smith, from whom it had been stolen by 
Tom Riddle. 

“And how the hell are we going to get up there 
without touching anything?” asked Ron. 

“Accio Cup\” cried Hermione, who had evidently 
forgotten in her desperation what Griphook had told 
them during their planning sessions. 

“No use, no use!” snarled the goblin. 

“Then what do we do?” said Harry, glaring at the 
goblin. “If you want the sword, Griphook, then you’ll 
have to help us more than — wait! Can I touch stuff 
with the sword? Hermione, give it here!” 

Hermione fumbled inside her robes, drew out the 
beaded bag, rummaged for a few seconds, then 
removed the shining sword. Harry seized it by its 
rubied hilt and touched the tip of the blade to a silver 
flagon nearby, which did not multiply. 

“If I can just poke the sword through a handle — but 
how am I going to get up there?” 

The shelf on which the cup reposed was out of reach 
for any of them, even Ron, who was tallest. The heat 
from the enchanted treasure rose in waves, and sweat 
ran down Harry’s face and back as he struggled to 

Page | 609 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




think of a way up to the cup; and then he heard the 
dragon roar on the other side of the vault door, and 
the sound of clanking growing louder and louder. 

They were truly trapped now: There was no way out 
except through the door, and a horde of goblins 
seemed to be approaching on the other side. Harry 
looked at Ron and Hermione and saw terror in their 
faces. 

“Hermione,” said Harry as the clanking grew louder, 
“I’ve got to get up there, we’ve got to get rid of it — ” 

She raised her wand, pointed it at Harry, and 
whispered, “Levicorpus.” 

Hoisted into the air by his ankle, Harry hit a suit of 
armor and replicas burst out of it like white-hot 
bodies, filling the cramped space. With screams of 
pain Ron, Hermione, and the two goblins were 
knocked aside into other objects, which also began to 
replicate. Half buried in a rising tide of red-hot 
treasure, they struggled and yelled as Harry thrust 
the sword through the handle of Hufflepuff’s cup, 
hooking it onto the blade. 

“Impervius\” screeched Hermione in an attempt to 
protect herself, Ron, and the goblins from the burning 
metal. 

Then the worst scream yet made Harry look down: 

Ron and Hermione were waist-deep in treasure, 
struggling to keep Bogrod from slipping beneath the 
rising tide, but Griphook had sunk out of sight and 
nothing but the tips of a few long fingers were left in 
view. 

Harry seized Griphook’s fingers and pulled. The 
blistered goblin emerged by degrees, howling. 

Page | 610 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“Liberacorpus\” yelled Harry, and with a crash he and 
Griphook landed on the surface of the swelling 
treasure, and the sword flew out of Harry’s hand. 

“Get it!” Harry yelled, fighting the pain of the hot 
metal on his skin, as Griphook clambered onto his 
shoulders again, determined to avoid the swelling 
mass of red-hot objects. “Where’s the sword? It had 
the cup on it!” 

The clanking on the other side of the door was 
growing deafening — it was too late — 

“There!” 

It was Griphook who had seen it and Griphook who 
lunged, and in that instant Harry knew that the 
goblin had never expected them to keep their word. 
One hand holding tightly to a fistful of Harry’s hair, to 
make sure he did not fall into the heaving sea of 
burning gold, Griphook seized the hilt of the sword 
and swung it high out of Harry’s reach. 

The tiny golden cup, skewered by the handle on the 
sword’s blade, was flung into the air. The goblin still 
astride him, Harry dived and caught it, and although 
he could feel it scalding his flesh he did not relinquish 
it, even while countless Hufflepuff cups burst from 
his fist, raining down upon him as the entrance of the 
vault opened up again and he found himself sliding 
uncontrollably on an expanding avalanche of fiery 
gold and silver that bore him, Ron, and Hermione into 
the outer chamber. 

Hardly aware of the pain from the burns covering his 
body, and still borne along on the swell of replicating 
treasure, Harry shoved the cup into his pocket and 
reached up to retrieve the sword, but Griphook was 
gone. Sliding from Harry’s shoulders the moment he 
Page | 611 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




could, he had sprinted for cover amongst the 
surrounding goblins, brandishing the sword and 
crying, “Thieves! Thieves! Help! Thieves!” He vanished 
into the midst of the advancing crowd, all of whom 
were holding daggers and who accepted him without 
question. 

Slipping on the hot metal, Harry struggled to his feet 
and knew that the only way out was through. 

“Stupefyl” he bellowed, and Ron and Hermione joined 
in: Jets of red light flew into the crowd of goblins, and 
some toppled over, but others advanced, and Harry 
saw several wizard guards running around the 
corner. 

The tethered dragon let out a roar, and a gush of 
flame flew over the goblins: The wizards fled, doubled- 
up, back the way they had come, and inspiration, or 
madness, came to Harry. Pointing his wand at the 
thick cuffs chaining the beast to the floor, he yelled, 
“Relashiol” 

The cuffs broke open with loud bangs. 

“This way!” Harry yelled, and still shooting Stunning 
Spells at the advancing goblins, he sprinted toward 
the blind dragon. 

“Harry — Harry — what are you doing?” cried 
Hermione. 

“Get up, climb up, come on — ” 

The dragon had not realized that it was free: Harry’s 
foot found the crook of its hind leg and he pulled 
himself up onto its back. The scales were hard as 
steel; it did not even seem to feel him. He stretched 
out an arm; Hermione hoisted herself up; Ron 
Page | 612 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




climbed on behind them, and a second later the 
dragon became aware that it was untethered. 

With a roar it reared: Harry dug in his knees, 
clutching as tightly as he could to the jagged scales 
as the wings opened, knocking the shrieking goblins 
aside like skittles, and it soared into the air. Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione, flat on its back, scraped against 
the ceiling as it dived toward the passage opening, 
while the pursuing goblins hurled daggers that 
glanced off its flanks. 

“Well never get out, it’s too big!” Hermione screamed, 
but the dragon opened its mouth and belched flame 
again, blasting the tunnel, whose floors and ceiling 
cracked and crumbled. By sheer force the dragon 
clawed and fought its way through. Harry’s eyes were 
shut tight against the heat and dust: Deafened by the 
crashing of rock and the dragon’s roars, he could only 
cling to its back, expecting to be shaken off at any 
moment; then he heard Hermione yelling, “Defodiol” 

She was helping the dragon enlarge the passageway, 
carving out the ceiling as it struggled upward toward 
the fresher air, away from the shrieking and clanking 
goblins: Harry and Ron copied her, blasting the 
ceiling apart with more gouging spells. They passed 
the underground lake, and the great crawling, 
snarling beast seemed to sense freedom and space 
ahead of it, and behind them the passage was full of 
the dragon’s thrashing, spiked tail, of great lumps of 
rock, gigantic fractured stalactites, and the clanking 
of the goblins seemed to be growing more muffled, 
while ahead, the dragon’s fire kept their progress 
clear — 

And then at last, by the combined force of their spells 
and the dragon’s brute strength, they had blasted 
their way out of the passage into the marble hallway. 

Page | 613 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




Goblins and wizards shrieked and ran for cover, and 
finally the dragon had room to stretch its wings: 
Turning its horned head toward the cool outside air it 
could smell beyond the entrance, it took off, and with 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione still clinging to its back, it 
forced its way through the metal doors, leaving them 
buckled and hanging from their hinges, as it 
staggered into Diagon Alley and launched itself into 
the sky. 



Page | 614 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 





THE FINAL HIDING PLACE 

There was no means of steering; the dragon could not 
see where it was going, and Harry knew that if it 
turned sharply or rolled in midair they would find it 
impossible to cling onto its broad back. Nevertheless, 
as they climbed higher and higher, London unfurling 
below them like a gray-and-green map, Harry’s 
overwhelming feeling was of gratitude for an escape 
that had seemed impossible. Crouching low over the 
beast’s neck, he clung tight to the metallic scales, and 
the cool breeze was soothing on his burned and 
blistered skin, the dragon’s wings beating the air like 
the sails of a windmill. Behind him, whether from 
delight or fear he could not tell, Ron kept swearing at 
the top of his voice, and Hermione seemed to be 
sobbing. 

After five minutes or so, Harry lost some of his 
immediate dread that the dragon was going to throw 
them off, for it seemed intent on nothing but getting 
as far away from its underground prison as possible; 
but the question of how and when they were to 
dismount remained rather frightening. He had no idea 

Page | 615 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 



how long dragons could fly without landing, nor how 
this particular dragon, which could barely see, would 
locate a good place to put down. He glanced around 
constantly, imagining that he could feel his scar 
prickling. ... 

How long would it be before Voldemort knew that they 
had broken into the Lestranges’ vault? How soon 
would the goblins of Gringotts notify Bellatrix? How 
quickly would they realize what had been taken? And 
then, when they discovered that the golden cup was 
missing? Voldemort would know, at last, that they 
were hunting Horcruxes. ... 

The dragon seemed to crave cooler and fresher air: It 
climbed steadily until they were flying through wisps 
of chilly cloud, and Harry could no longer make out 
the little colored dots which were cars pouring in and 
out of the capital. On and on they flew, over 
countryside parceled out in patches of green and 
brown, over roads and rivers winding through the 
landscape like strips of matte and glossy ribbon. 

“What do you reckon it’s looking for?” Ron yelled as 
they flew farther and farther north. 

“No idea,” Harry bellowed back. His hands were numb 
with cold but he did not dare attempt to shift his grip. 
He had been wondering for some time what they 
would do if they saw the coast sail beneath them, if 
the dragon headed for open sea; he was cold and 
numb, not to mention desperately hungry and thirsty. 
When, he wondered, had the beast itself last eaten? 
Surely it would need sustenance before long? And 
what if, at that point, it realized it had three highly 
edible humans sitting on its back? 

The sun slipped lower in the sky, which was turning 
indigo; and still the dragon flew, cities and towns 

Page | 616 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




gliding out of sight beneath them, its enormous 
shadow sliding over the earth like a great dark cloud. 
Every part of Harry ached with the effort of holding on 
to the dragon’s back. 

“Is it my imagination,” shouted Ron after a 
considerable stretch of silence, “or are we losing 
height?” 

Harry looked down and saw deep green mountains 
and lakes, coppery in the sunset. The landscape 
seemed to grow larger and more detailed as he 
squinted over the side of the dragon, and he 
wondered whether it had divined the presence of fresh 
water by the flashes of reflected sunlight. 

Lower and lower the dragon flew, in great spiraling 
circles, honing in, it seemed, upon one of the smaller 
lakes. 

“I say we jump when it gets low enough!” Harry called 
back to the others. “Straight into the water before it 
realizes we’re here!” 

They agreed, Hermione a little faintly, and now Harry 
could see the dragon’s wide yellow underbelly rippling 
in the surface of the water. 

“NOW!” 

He slithered over the side of the dragon and 
plummeted feetfirst toward the surface of the lake; 
the drop was greater than he had estimated and he 
hit the water hard, plunging like a stone into a 
freezing, green, reed-filled world. He kicked toward 
the surface and emerged, panting, to see enormous 
ripples emanating in circles from the places where 
Ron and Hermione had fallen. The dragon did not 
seem to have noticed anything: It was already fifty 
Page | 617 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




feet away, swooping low over the lake to scoop up 
water in its scarred snout. As Ron and Hermione 
emerged, spluttering and gasping, from the depths of 
the lake, the dragon flew on, its wings beating hard, 
and landed at last on a distant bank. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione struck out for the opposite 
shore. The lake did not seem to be deep: Soon it was 
more a question of fighting their way through reeds 
and mud than swimming, and at last they flopped, 
sodden, panting, and exhausted, onto slippery grass. 

Hermione collapsed, coughing and shuddering. 
Though Harry could have happily lain down and 
slept, he staggered to his feet, drew out his wand, and 
started casting the usual protective spells around 
them. 

When he had finished, he joined the others. It was the 
first time that he had seen them properly since 
escaping from the vault. Both had angry red burns all 
over their faces and arms, and their clothing was 
singed away in places. They were wincing as they 
dabbed essence of dittany onto their many injuries. 
Hermione handed Harry the bottle, then pulled out 
three bottles of pumpkin juice she had brought from 
Shell Cottage and clean, dry robes for all of them. 

They changed and then gulped down the juice. 

“Well, on the upside,” said Ron finally, who was 
sitting watching the skin on his hands regrow, “we got 
the Horcrux. On the downside — ” 

“ — no sword,” said Harry through gritted teeth, as he 
dripped dittany through the singed hole in his jeans 
onto the angry burn beneath. 

“No sword,” repeated Ron. “That double-crossing little 
scab ...” 

Page | 618 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




Harry pulled the Horcrux from the pocket of the wet 
jacket he had just taken off and set it down on the 
grass in front of them. Glinting in the sun, it drew 
their eyes as they swigged their bottles of juice. 

“At least we can’t wear it this time, that’d look a bit 
weird hanging round our necks,” said Ron, wiping his 
mouth on the back of his hand. 

Hermione looked across the lake to the far bank, 
where the dragon was still drinking. 

“What’ll happen to it, do you think?” she asked. “Will 
it be all right?” 

“You sound like Hagrid,” said Ron. “It’s a dragon, 
Hermione, it can look after itself. It’s us we need to 
worry about.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, I don’t know how to break this to you,” said 
Ron, “but I think they might have noticed we broke 
into Gringotts.” 

All three of them started to laugh, and once started, it 
was difficult to stop. Harry’s ribs ached, he felt 
lightheaded with hunger, but he lay back on the grass 
beneath the reddening sky and laughed until his 
throat was raw. 

“What are we going to do, though?” said Hermione 
finally, hiccuping herself back to seriousness. “He’ll 
know, won’t he? You- Know- Who will know we know 
about his Horcruxes!” 

“Maybe they’ll be too scared to tell him?” said Ron 
hopefully. “Maybe they’ll cover up — ” 



Page | 619 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




The sky, the smell of lake water, the sound of Ron’s 
voice were extinguished: Pain cleaved Harry’s head 
like a sword stroke. He was standing in a dimly lit 
room, and a semicircle of wizards faced him, and on 
the floor at his feet knelt a small, quaking figure. 

“What did you say to me?” His voice was high and 
cold, but fury and fear burned inside him. The one 
thing he had dreaded — but it could not be true, he 
could not see how ... 

The goblin was trembling, unable to meet the red eyes 
high above his. 

“Say it again!” murmured Voldemort. “ Say it again).” 

“M-my Lord,” stammered the goblin, its black eyes 
wide with terror, “m-my Lord ... we t-tried t-to st-stop 
them. ... Im-impostors, my Lord ... broke — broke 
into the — into the Lestranges’ v-vault. ...” 

“Impostors? What impostors? I thought Gringotts had 
ways of revealing impostors? Who were they?” 

“It was ... it was . . . the P-Potter b-boy and t-two 
accomplices. ...” 

“And they took?” he said, his voice rising, a terrible 
fear gripping him. “Tell me! What did they take?” 

“A ... a s-small golden c-cup, m-my Lord ...” 

The scream of rage, of denial left him as if it were a 
stranger’s: He was crazed, frenzied, it could not be 
true, it was impossible, nobody had ever known: How 
was it possible that the boy could have discovered his 
secret? 



Page | 620 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




The Elder Wand slashed through the air and green 
light erupted through the room; the kneeling goblin 
rolled over, dead; the watching wizards scattered 
before him, terrified: Bellatrix and Lucius Malfoy 
threw others behind them in their race for the door, 
and again and again his wand fell, and those who 
were left were slain, all of them, for bringing him this 
news, for hearing about the golden cup — 

Alone amongst the dead he stormed up and down, 
and they passed before him in vision: his treasures, 
his safeguards, his anchors to immortality — the 
diary was destroyed and the cup was stolen: What if, 
what if, the boy knew about the others? Could he 
know, had he already acted, had he traced more of 
them? Was Dumbledore at the root of this? 
Dumbledore, who had always suspected him; 
Dumbledore, dead on his orders; Dumbledore, whose 
wand was his now, yet who reached out from the 
ignominy of death through the boy, the boy — 

But surely if the boy had destroyed any of his 
Horcruxes, he, Lord Voldemort, would have known, 
would have felt it? He, the greatest wizard of them all; 
he, the most powerful; he, the killer of Dumbledore 
and of how many other worthless, nameless men: 
How could Lord Voldemort not have known, if he, 
himself, most important and precious, had been 
attacked, mutilated? 

True, he had not felt it when the diary had been 
destroyed, but he had thought that was because he 
had no body to feel, being less than ghost. ... No, 
surely, the rest were safe. ... The other Horcruxes 
must be intact. ... 

But he must know, he must be sure. ... He paced the 
room, kicking aside the goblin’s corpse as he passed, 



Page | 621 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




and the pictures blurred and burned in his boiling 
brain: the lake, the shack, and Hogwarts — 

A modicum of calm cooled his rage now: How could 
the boy know that he had hidden the ring in the 
Gaunt shack? No one had ever known him to be 
related to the Gaunts, he had hidden the connection, 
the killings had never been traced to him: The ring, 
surely, was safe. 

And how could the boy, or anybody else, know about 
the cave or penetrate its protection? The idea of the 
locket being stolen was absurd. ... 

As for the school: He alone knew where in Hogwarts 
he had stowed the Horcrux, because he alone had 
plumbed the deepest secrets of that place. ... 

And there was still Nagini, who must remain close 
now, no longer sent to do his bidding, under his 
protection. ... 

But to be sure, to be utterly sure, he must return to 
each of his hiding places, he must redouble protection 
around each of his Horcruxes. ... A job, like the quest 
for the Elder Wand, that he must undertake alone ... 

Which should he visit first, which was in most 
danger? An old unease flickered inside him. 
Dumbledore had known his middle name. ... 
Dumbledore might have made the connection with 
the Gaunts. ... Their abandoned home was, perhaps, 
the least secure of his hiding places, it was there that 
he would go first. ... 

The lake, surely impossible ... though was there a 
slight possibility that Dumbledore might have known 
some of his past misdeeds, through the orphanage. 



Page | 622 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




And Hogwarts . . . but he knew that his Horcrux there 
was safe; it would be impossible for Potter to enter 
Hogsmeade without detection, let alone the school. 
Nevertheless, it would be prudent to alert Snape to 
the fact that the boy might try to reenter the castle. ... 
To tell Snape why the boy might return would be 
foolish, of course; it had been a grave mistake to trust 
Bellatrix and Malfoy: Didn’t their stupidity and 
carelessness prove how unwise it was ever to trust? 

He would visit the Gaunt shack first, then, and take 
Nagini with him: He would not be parted from the 
snake anymore . . . and he strode from the room, 
through the hall, and out into the dark garden where 
the fountain played; he called the snake in 
Parseltongue and it slithered out to join him like a 
long shadow. ... 

Harry’s eyes flew open as he wrenched himself back 
to the present: He was lying on the bank of the lake in 
the setting sun, and Ron and Hermione were looking 
down at him. Judging by their worried looks, and by 
the continued pounding of his scar, his sudden 
excursion into Voldemort’s mind had not passed 
unnoticed. He struggled up, shivering, vaguely 
surprised that he was still wet to his skin, and saw 
the cup lying innocently in the grass before him, and 
the lake, deep blue shot with gold in the failing sun. 

“He knows.” His own voice sounded strange and low 
after Voldemort’s high screams. “He knows, and he’s 
going to check where the others are, and the last 
one,” he was already on his feet, “is at Hogwarts. I 
knew it. I knew it.” 

“What?” 

Ron was gaping at him; Hermione sat up, looking 
worried. 

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“But what did you see? How do you know?” 



“I saw him find out about the cup, I — I was in his 
head, he’s” — Harry remembered the killings — “he’s 
seriously angry, and scared too, he can’t understand 
how we knew, and now he’s going to check the others 
are safe, the ring first. He thinks the Hogwarts one is 
safest, because Snape’s there, because it’ll be so hard 
not to be seen getting in, I think he’ll check that one 
last, but he could still be there within hours — ” 

“Did you see where in Hogwarts it is?” asked Ron, 
now scrambling to his feet too. 

“No, he was concentrating on warning Snape, he 
didn’t think about exactly where it is — ” 

“Wait, wait\” cried Hermione as Ron caught up the 
Horcrux and Harry pulled out the Invisibility Cloak 
again. “We can’t just go, we haven’t got a plan, we 
need to — ” 

“We need to get going,” said Harry firmly. He had 
been hoping to sleep, looking forward to getting into 
the new tent, but that was impossible now. “Can you 
imagine what he’s going to do once he realizes the 
ring and the locket are gone? What if he moves the 
Hogwarts Horcrux, decides it isn’t safe enough?” 

“But how are we going to get in?” 

“Well go to Hogsmeade,” said Harry, “and try to work 
something out once we see what the protection 
around the school’s like. Get under the Cloak, 
Hermione, I want to stick together this time.” 

“But we don’t really fit — ” 

“It’ll be dark, no one’s going to notice our feet.” 

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The flapping of enormous wings echoed across the 
black water: The dragon had drunk its fill and risen 
into the air. They paused in their preparations to 
watch it climb higher and higher, now black against 
the rapidly darkening sky, until it vanished over a 
nearby mountain. Then Hermione walked forward 
and took her place between the other two. Harry 
pulled the Cloak down as far as it would go, and 
together they turned on the spot into the crushing 
darkness. 



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THE MISSING MIRROR 

Harry’s feet touched road. He saw the achingly 
familiar Hogsmeade High Street: dark shop fronts, 
and the outline of black mountains beyond the 
village, and the curve in the road ahead that led off 
toward Hogwarts, and light spilling from the windows 
of the Three Broomsticks, and with a lurch of the 
heart he remembered, with piercing accuracy, how he 
had landed here nearly a year before, supporting a 
desperately weak Dumbledore; all this in a second, 
upon landing — and then, even as he relaxed his grip 
upon Ron’s and Hermione’s arms, it happened. 

The air was rent by a scream that sounded like 
Voldemort’s when he had realized the cup had been 
stolen: It tore at every nerve in Harry’s body, and he 
knew immediately that their appearance had caused 
it. Even as he looked at the other two beneath the 
Cloak, the door of the Three Broomsticks burst open 
and a dozen cloaked and hooded Death Eaters 
dashed into the street, their wands aloft. 



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Harry seized Ron’s wrist as he raised his wand; there 
were too many of them to Stun: Even attempting it 
would give away their position. One of the Death 
Eaters waved his wand and the scream stopped, still 
echoing around the distant mountains. 

“Accio Cloak).” roared one of the Death Eaters. 

Harry seized its folds, but it made no attempt to 
escape: The Summoning Charm had not worked on it. 

“Not under your wrapper, then, Potter?” yelled the 
Death Eater who had tried the charm, and then to his 
fellows, “Spread out. He’s here.” 

Six of the Death Eaters ran toward them: Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione backed as quickly as possible down the 
nearest side street, and the Death Eaters missed 
them by inches. They waited in the darkness, 
listening to the footsteps running up and down, 
beams of light flying along the street from the Death 
Eaters’ searching wands. 

“Let’s just leave!” Hermione whispered. “Disapparate 
now!” 

“Great idea,” said Ron, but before Harry could reply a 
Death Eater shouted, 

“We know you’re here, Potter, and there’s no getting 
away! We’ll find you!” 

“They were ready for us,” whispered Harry. “They set 
up that spell to tell them we’d come. I reckon they’ve 
done something to keep us here, trap us — ” 

“What about dementors?” called another Death Eater. 
“Let ’em have free rein, they’d find him quick enough!” 



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“The Dark Lord wants Potter dead by no hand but his 



“ — an’ dementors won’t kill him! The Dark Lord 
wants Potter’s life, not his soul. He’ll be easier to kill if 
he’s been Kissed first!” 

There were noises of agreement. Dread filled Harry: 

To repel dementors they would have to produce 
Patronuses, which would give them away 
immediately. 

“We’re going to have to try to Disapparate, Harry!” 
Hermione whispered. 

Even as she said it, he felt the unnatural cold begin to 
steal over the street. Light was sucked from the 
environment right up to the stars, which vanished. In 
the pitch-blackness, he felt Hermione take hold of his 
arm and together, they turned on the spot. 

The air through which they needed to move seemed to 
have become solid: They could not Disapparate; the 
Death Eaters had cast their charms well. The cold 
was biting deeper and deeper into Harry’s flesh. He, 
Ron, and Hermione retreated down the side street, 
groping their way along the wall, trying not to make a 
sound. Then, around the corner, gliding noiselessly, 
came dementors, ten or more of them, visible because 
they were of a denser darkness than their 
surroundings, with their black cloaks and their 
scabbed and rotting hands. Could they sense fear in 
the vicinity? Harry was sure of it: They seemed to be 
coming more quickly now, taking those dragging, 
rattling breaths he detested, tasting despair on the 
air, closing in — 

He raised his wand: He could not, would not, suffer 
the Dementor’s Kiss, whatever happened afterward. It 

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was of Ron and Hermione that he thought as he 
whispered, “Expecto Patronum).” 

The silver stag burst from his wand and charged: The 
dementors scattered and there was a triumphant yell 
from somewhere out of sight. 

“It’s him, down there, down there, I saw his Patronus, 
it was a stag! 

The dementors had retreated, the stars were popping 
out again, and the footsteps of the Death Eaters were 
becoming louder; but before Harry in his panic could 
decide what to do, there was a grinding of bolts 
nearby, a door opened on the left-hand side of the 
narrow street, and a rough voice said, “Potter, in here, 
quick!” 

He obeyed without hesitation: The three of them 
hurtled through the open doorway. 

“Upstairs, keep the Cloak on, keep quiet!” muttered a 
tall figure, passing them on his way into the street 
and slamming the door behind him. 

Harry had had no idea where they were, but now he 
saw, by the stuttering light of a single candle, the 
grubby, sawdust- strewn bar of the Hog’s Head Inn. 
They ran behind the counter and through a second 
doorway, which led to a rickety wooden staircase that 
they climbed as fast as they could. The stairs opened 
onto a sitting room with a threadbare carpet and a 
small fireplace, above which hung a single large oil 
painting of a blonde girl who gazed out at the room 
with a kind of vacant sweetness. 

Shouts reached them from the street below. Still 
wearing the Invisibility Cloak, they crept toward the 
grimy window and looked down. Their savior, whom 

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Harry now recognized as the Hog’s Head’s barman, 
was the only person not wearing a hood. 

“So what?” he was bellowing into one of the hooded 
faces. “So what? You send dementors down my street, 
I’ll send a Patronus back at ’em! I’m not having ’em 
near me, I’ve told you that, I’m not having it!” 

“That wasn’t your Patronus!” said a Death Eater. 

“That was a stag, it was Potter’s!” 

“Stag!” roared the barman, and he pulled out a wand. 
“Stag! You idiot — Expecto Patronum .!” 

Something huge and horned erupted from the wand: 
Head down, it charged toward the High Street and out 
of sight. 

“That’s not what I saw — ” said the Death Eater, 
though with less certainty. 

“Curfew’s been broken, you heard the noise,” one of 
his companions told the barman. “Someone was out 
in the street against regulations — ” 

“If I want to put my cat out, I will, and be damned to 
your curfew!” 

“ You set off the Caterwauling Charm?” 

“What if I did? Going to cart me off to Azkaban? Kill 
me for sticking my nose out my own front door? Do it, 
then, if you want to! But I hope for your sakes you 
haven’t pressed your little Dark Marks and 
summoned him. He’s not going to like being called 
here for me and my old cat, is he, now?” 

“Don’t you worry about us,” said one of the Death 
Eaters, “worry about yourself, breaking curfew!” 

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“And where will you lot traffick potions and poisons 
when my pub’s closed down? What’ll happen to your 
little sidelines then?” 



“Are you threatening — ?” 



“I keep my mouth shut, it’s why you come here, isn’t 
it?” 



“I still say I saw a stag Patronus!” shouted the first 
Death Eater. 

“Stag?” roared the barman. “It’s a goat, idiot!” 

“All right, we made a mistake,” said the second Death 
Eater. “Break curfew again and we won’t be so 
lenient!” 

The Death Eaters strode back toward the High Street. 
Hermione moaned with relief, wove out from under 
the Cloak, and sat down on a wobble-legged chair. 
Harry drew the curtains tight shut, then pulled the 
Cloak off himself and Ron. They could hear the 
barman down below, rebolting the door of the bar, 
then climbing the stairs. 

Harry’s attention was caught by something on the 
mantelpiece: a small, rectangular mirror propped on 
top of it, right beneath the portrait of the girl. 

The barman entered the room. 

“You bloody fools,” he said gruffly, looking from one to 
the other of them. “What were you thinking, coming 
here?” 

“Thank you,” said Harry. “We can’t thank you 
enough. You saved our lives.” 

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The barman grunted. Harry approached him, looking 
up into the face, trying to see past the long, stringy, 
wire-gray hair and beard. He wore spectacles. Behind 
the dirty lenses, the eyes were a piercing, brilliant 
blue. 

“It’s your eye I’ve been seeing in the mirror.” 

There was silence in the room. Harry and the barman 
looked at each other. 

“You sent Dobby.” 

The barman nodded and looked around for the elf. 

“Thought he’d be with you. Where Ve you left him?” 

“He’s dead,” said Harry. “Bellatrix Lestrange killed 
him.” 

The barman’s face was impassive. After a few 
moments he said, “I’m sorry to hear it. I liked that 
elf.” 

He turned away, lighting lamps with prods of his 
wand, not looking at any of them. 

“You’re Aberforth,” said Harry to the man’s back. 

He neither confirmed nor denied it, but bent to light 
the fire. 

“How did you get this?” Harry asked, walking across 
to Sirius’s mirror, the twin of the one he had broken 
nearly two years before. “Bought it from Dung ’bout a 
year ago,” said Aberforth. “Albus told me what it was. 
Been trying to keep an eye out for you.” 

Ron gasped. 

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“The silver doe!” he said excitedly. “Was that you too?” 

“What are you talking about?” said Aberforth. 

“Someone sent a doe Patronus to us!” 

“Brains like that, you could be a Death Eater, son. 
Haven’t I just proved my Patronus is a goat?” 

“Oh,” said Ron. “Yeah ... well, I’m hungry!” he added 
defensively as his stomach gave an enormous rumble. 

“I got food,” said Aberforth, and he sloped out of the 
room, reappearing moments later with a large loaf of 
bread, some cheese, and a pewter jug of mead, which 
he set upon a small table in front of the fire. 

Ravenous, they ate and drank, and for a while there 
was silence but for the crackle of the fire, the clink of 
goblets, and the sound of chewing. 

“Right then,” said Aberforth when they had eaten 
their fill, and Harry and Ron sat slumped dozily in 
their chairs. “We need to think of the best way to get 
you out of here. Can’t be done by night, you heard 
what happens if anyone moves outdoors during 
darkness: Caterwauling Charm’s set off, they’ll be 
onto you like bow-truckles on doxy eggs. I don’t 
reckon I’ll be able to pass off a stag as a goat a second 
time. Wait for daybreak when curfew lifts, then you 
can put your Cloak back on and set out on foot. Get 
right out of Hogsmeade, up into the mountains, and 
you’ll be able to Disapparate there. Might see Hagrid. 
He’s been hiding in a cave up there with Grawp ever 
since they tried to arrest him.” 

“We’re not leaving,” said Harry. “We need to get into 
Hogwarts.” 

“Don’t be stupid, boy,” said Aberforth. 

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“We’ve got to,” said Harry. 



“What you’ve got to do,” said Aberforth, leaning 
forward, “is to get as far from here as you can.” 

“You don’t understand. There isn’t much time. We’ve 
got to get into the castle. Dumbledore — I mean, your 
brother — wanted us — ” 

The firelight made the grimy lenses of Aberforth ’s 
glasses momentarily opaque, a bright flat white, and 
Harry remembered the blind eyes of the giant spider, 
Aragog. 

“My brother Albus wanted a lot of things,” said 
Aberforth, “and people had a habit of getting hurt 
while he was carrying out his grand plans. You get 
away from this school, Potter, and out of the country 
if you can. Forget my brother and his clever schemes. 
He’s gone where none of this can hurt him, and you 
don’t owe him anything.” 

“You don’t understand,” said Harry again. 

“Oh, don’t I?” said Aberforth quietly. “You don’t think 
I understood my own brother? Think you knew Albus 
better than I did?” 

“I didn’t mean that,” said Harry, whose brain felt 
sluggish with exhaustion and from the surfeit of food 
and wine. “It’s ... he left me a job.” 

“Did he now?” said Aberforth. “Nice job, I hope? 
Pleasant? Easy? Sort of thing you’d expect an 
unqualified wizard kid to be able to do without 
overstretching themselves?” 

Ron gave a rather grim laugh. Hermione was looking 
strained. 

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“I-it’s not easy, no,” said Harry. “But I’ve got to — ” 

“ ‘Got to’? Why ‘got to*? He’s dead, isn’t he?” said 
Aberforth roughly. “Let it go, boy, before you follow 
him! Save yourself!” 

“I can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“I — ” Harry felt overwhelmed; he could not explain, so 
he took the offensive instead. “But you’re fighting too, 
you’re in the Order of the Phoenix — ” 

“I was,” said Aberforth. “The Order of the Phoenix is 
finished. You-Know-Who’s won, it’s over, and anyone 
who’s pretending different’s kidding themselves. It’ll 
never be safe for you here, Potter, he wants you too 
badly. So go abroad, go into hiding, save yourself. 

Best take these two with you.” He jerked a thumb at 
Ron and Hermione. “They’ll be in danger long as they 
live now everyone knows they’ve been working with 
you.” 

“I can’t leave,” said Harry. “I’ve got a job — ” 

“Give it to someone else!” 

“I can’t. It’s got to be me, Dumbledore explained it all 



“Oh, did he now? And did he tell you everything, was 
he honest with you?” 

Harry wanted with all his heart to say “Yes,” but 
somehow the simple word would not rise to his lips. 
Aberforth seemed to know what he was thinking. 



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“I knew my brother, Potter. He learned secrecy at our 
mother’s knee. Secrets and lies, that’s how we grew 
up, and Albus ... he was a natural.” 

The old man’s eyes traveled to the painting of the girl 
over the mantelpiece. It was, now Harry looked 
around properly, the only picture in the room. There 
was no photograph of Albus Dumbledore, nor of 
anyone else. 

“Mr. Dumbledore?” said Hermione rather timidly. “Is 
that your sister? Ariana?” 

“Yes,” said Aberforth tersely. “Been reading Rita 
Skeeter, have you, missy?” 

Even by the rosy light of the fire it was clear that 
Hermione had turned red. 

“Elphias Doge mentioned her to us,” said Harry, 
trying to spare Hermione. 

“That old berk,” muttered Aberforth, taking another 
swig of mead. “Thought the sun shone out of my 
brother’s every orifice, he did. Well, so did plenty of 
people, you three included, by the looks of it.” 

Harry kept quiet. He did not want to express the 
doubts and uncertainties about Dumbledore that had 
riddled him for months now. He had made his choice 
while he dug Dobby’s grave, he had decided to 
continue along the winding, dangerous path indicated 
for him by Albus Dumbledore, to accept that he had 
not been told everything that he wanted to know, but 
simply to trust. He had no desire to doubt again; he 
did not want to hear anything that would deflect him 
from his purpose. He met Aberforth ’s gaze, which was 
so strikingly like his brother’s: The bright blue eyes 
gave the same impression that they were X-raying the 
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object of their scrutiny, and Harry thought that 
Aberforth knew what he was thinking and despised 
him for it. 

“Professor Dumbledore cared about Harry, very 
much,” said Hermione in a low voice. 

“Did he now?” said Aberforth. “Funny thing, how 
many of the people my brother cared about very 
much ended up in a worse state than if he’d left ’em 
well alone.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Hermione breathlessly. 

“Never you mind,” said Aberforth. 

“But that’s a really serious thing to say!” said 
Hermione. “Are you — are you talking about your 
sister?” 

Aberforth glared at her: His lips moved as if he were 
chewing the words he was holding back. Then he 
burst into speech. 

“When my sister was six years old, she was attacked, 
set upon, by three Muggle boys. They’d seen her 
doing magic, spying through the back garden hedge: 
She was a kid, she couldn’t control it, no witch or 
wizard can at that age. What they saw scared them, I 
expect. They forced their way through the hedge, and 
when she couldn’t show them the trick, they got a bit 
carried away trying to stop the little freak doing it.” 

Hermione ’s eyes were huge in the firelight; Ron looked 
slightly sick. Aberforth stood up, tall as Albus, and 
suddenly terrible in his anger and the intensity of his 
pain. 



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“It destroyed her, what they did: She was never right 
again. She wouldn’t use magic, but she couldn’t get 
rid of it; it turned inward and drove her mad, it 
exploded out of her when she couldn’t control it, and 
at times she was strange and dangerous. But mostly 
she was sweet and scared and harmless. 

“And my father went after the bastards that did it,” 
said Aberforth, “and attacked them. And they locked 
him up in Azkaban for it. He never said why he’d 
done it, because if the Ministry had known what 
Ariana had become, she’d have been locked up in St. 
Mungo’s for good. They’d have seen her as a serious 
threat to the International Statute of Secrecy, 
unbalanced like she was, with magic exploding out of 
her at moments when she couldn’t keep it in any 
longer. 

“We had to keep her safe and quiet. We moved house, 
put it about she was ill, and my mother looked after 
her, and tried to keep her calm and happy. 

“I was her favorite,” he said, and as he said it, a 
grubby schoolboy seemed to look out through 
Aberforth’s wrinkles and tangled beard. “Not Albus, 
he was always up in his bedroom when he was home, 
reading his books and counting his prizes, keeping up 
with his correspondence with ‘the most notable 
magical names of the day,’ ” Aberforth sneered. “He 
didn’t want to be bothered with her. She liked me 
best. I could get her to eat when she wouldn’t do it for 
my mother, I could get her to calm down when she 
was in one of her rages, and when she was quiet, she 
used to help me feed the goats. 

“Then, when she was fourteen ... See, I wasn’t there,” 
said Aberforth. “If I’d been there, I could have calmed 
her down. She had one of her rages, and my mother 
wasn’t as young as she was, and ... it was an 

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accident. Ariana couldn’t control it. But my mother 
was killed.” 

Harry felt a horrible mixture of pity and repulsion; he 
did not want to hear any more, but Aberforth kept 
talking, and Harry wondered how long it had been 
since he had spoken about this; whether, in fact, he 
had ever spoken about it. 

“So that put paid to Albus’s trip round the world with 
little Doge. The pair of ’em came home for my 
mother’s funeral and then Doge went off on his own, 
and Albus settled down as head of the family. Ha!” 

Aberforth spat into the fire. 

“I’d have looked after her, I told him so, I didn’t care 
about school, I’d have stayed home and done it. He 
told me I had to finish my education and he’d take 
over from my mother. Bit of a comedown for Mr. 
Brilliant, there’s no prizes for looking after your half- 
mad sister, stopping her blowing up the house every 
other day. But he did all right for a few weeks . . . till 
he came.” 

And now a positively dangerous look crept over 
Aberforth’s face. 

“Grindelwald. And at last, my brother had an equal to 
talk to, someone just as bright and talented as he 
was. And looking after Ariana took a backseat then, 
while they were hatching all their plans for a new 
Wizarding order, and looking for Hallows, and 
whatever else it was they were so interested in. Grand 
plans for the benefit of all Wizardkind, and if one 
young girl got neglected, what did that matter, when 
Albus was working for the greater good? 



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“But after a few weeks of it, I’d had enough, I had. It 
was nearly time for me to go back to Hogwarts, so I 
told ’em, both of ’em, face-to-face, like I am to you, 
now,” and Aberforth looked down at Harry, and it 
took little imagination to see him as a teenager, wiry 
and angry, confronting his elder brother. “I told him, 
you’d better give it up now. You can’t move her, she’s 
in no fit state, you can’t take her with you, wherever it 
is you’re planning to go, when you’re making your 
clever speeches, trying to whip yourselves up a 
following. He didn’t like that,” said Aberforth, and his 
eyes were briefly occluded by the firelight on the 
lenses of his glasses: They shone white and blind 
again. “Grindelwald didn’t like that at all. He got 
angry. He told me what a stupid little boy I was, 
trying to stand in the way of him and my brilliant 
brother. ... Didn’t I understand, my poor sister 
wouldn’t have to be hidden once they’d changed the 
world, and led the wizards out of hiding, and taught 
the Muggles their place? 

“And there was an argument . . . and I pulled out my 
wand, and he pulled out his, and I had the Cruciatus 
Curse used on me by my brother’s best friend — and 
Albus was trying to stop him, and then all three of us 
were dueling, and the flashing lights and the bangs 
set her off, she couldn’t stand it — ” 

The color was draining from Aberforth ’s face as 
though he had suffered a mortal wound. 

“ — and I think she wanted to help, but she didn’t 
really know what she was doing, and I don’t know 
which of us did it, it could have been any of us — and 
she was dead.” 

His voice broke on the last word and he dropped 
down into the nearest chair. Hermione’s face was wet 
with tears, and Ron was almost as pale as Aberforth. 

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Harry felt nothing but revulsion: He wished he had 
not heard it, wished he could wash his mind clean of 
it. 

“I’m so ... I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispered. 

“Gone,” croaked Aberforth. “Gone forever.” 

He wiped his nose on his cuff and cleared his throat. 

“ ’Course, Grindelwald scarpered. He had a bit of a 
track record already, back in his own country, and he 
didn’t want Ariana set to his account too. And Albus 
was free, wasn’t he? Free of the burden of his sister, 
free to become the greatest wizard of the — ” 

“He was never free,” said Harry. 

“I beg your pardon?” said Aberforth. 

“Never,” said Harry. “The night that your brother died, 
he drank a potion that drove him out of his mind. He 
started screaming, pleading with someone who wasn’t 
there. ‘Don’t hurt them, please ... hurt me instead.’ ” 

Ron and Hermione were staring at Harry. He had 
never gone into details about what had happened on 
the island on the lake: The events that had taken 
place after he and Dumbledore had returned to 
Hogwarts had eclipsed it so thoroughly. 

“He thought he was back there with you and 
Grindelwald, I know he did,” said Harry, remembering 
Dumbledore whimpering, pleading. “He thought he 
was watching Grindelwald hurting you and Ariana. . . . 
It was torture to him, if you’d seen him then, you 
wouldn’t say he was free.” 



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Aberforth seemed lost in contemplation of his own 
knotted and veined hands. After a long pause he said, 
“How can you be sure, Potter, that my brother wasn’t 
more interested in the greater good than in you? How 
can you be sure you aren’t dispensable, just like my 
little sister?” 

A shard of ice seemed to pierce Harry’s heart. 

“I don’t believe it. Dumbledore loved Harry,” said 
Hermione. 

“Why didn’t he tell him to hide, then?” shot back 
Aberforth. “Why didn’t he say to him, Take care of 
yourself, here’s how to survive’?” 

“Because,” said Harry before Hermione could answer, 
“sometimes you’ve got to think about more than your 
own safety! Sometimes you’ve got to think about the 
greater good! This is war!” 

“You’re seventeen, boy!” 

“I’m of age, and I’m going to keep fighting even if 
you’ve given up!” 

“Who says I’ve given up?” 

“ The Order of the Phoenix is finished,’ ” Harry 
repeated. “ Tou- Know- Who’s won, it’s over, and 
anyone who’s pretending different’s kidding 
themselves.’ ” 

“I don’t say I like it, but it’s the truth!” 

“No, it isn’t,” said Harry. “Your brother knew how to 
finish You-Know-Who and he passed the knowledge 
on to me. I’m going to keep going until I succeed — or 



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I die. Don’t think I don’t know how this might end. 
I’ve known it for years.” 



He waited for Aberforth to jeer or to argue, but he did 
not. He merely scowled. 

“We need to get into Hogwarts,” said Harry again. “If 
you can’t help us, we’ll wait till daybreak, leave you in 
peace, and try to find a way in ourselves. If you can 
help us — well, now would be a great time to mention 
it.” 

Aberforth remained fixed in his chair, gazing at Harry 
with the eyes that were so extraordinarily like his 
brother’s. At last he cleared his throat, got to his feet, 
walked around the little table, and approached the 
portrait of Ariana. 

“You know what to do,” he said. 

She smiled, turned, and walked away, not as people 
in portraits usually did, out of the sides of their 
frames, but along what seemed to be a long tunnel 
painted behind her. They watched her slight figure 
retreating until finally she was swallowed by the 
darkness. 

“Er — what — ?” began Ron. 

“There’s only one way in now,” said Aberforth. “You 
must know they’ve got all the old secret passageways 
covered at both ends, dementors all around the 
boundary walls, regular patrols inside the school from 
what my sources tell me. The place has never been so 
heavily guarded. How you expect to do anything once 
you get inside it, with Snape in charge and the 
Carrows as his deputies ... well, that’s your lookout, 
isn’t it? You say you’re prepared to die.” 

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“But what ... ?” said Hermione, frowning at Ariana’s 
picture. 

A tiny white dot had reappeared at the end of the 
painted tunnel, and now Ariana was walking back 
toward them, growing bigger and bigger as she came. 
But there was somebody else with her now, someone 
taller than she was, who was limping along, looking 
excited. His hair was longer than Harry had ever seen 
it: He appeared to have suffered several gashes to his 
face and his clothes were ripped and torn. Larger and 
larger the two figures grew, until only their heads and 
shoulders filled the portrait. Then the whole thing 
swung forward on the wall like a little door, and the 
entrance to a real tunnel was revealed. And out of it, 
his hair overgrown, his face cut, his robes ripped, 
clambered the real Neville Longbottom, who gave a 
roar of delight, leapt down from the mantelpiece, and 
yelled, “I knew you’d come! I knew it, HarryY’ 



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THE LOST DIADEM 

“Neville — what the — how — ?” 

But Neville had spotted Ron and Hermione, and with 
yells of delight was hugging them too. The longer 
Harry looked at Neville, the worse he appeared: One 
of his eyes was swollen yellow and purple, there were 
gouge marks on his face, and his general air of 
unkemptness suggested that he had been living 
rough. Nevertheless, his battered visage shone with 
happiness as he let go of Hermione and said again, “I 
knew you’d come! Kept telling Seamus it was a matter 
of time!” 

“Neville, what’s happened to you?” 

“What? This?” Neville dismissed his injuries with a 
shake of the head. “This is nothing. Seamus is worse. 
You’ll see. Shall we get going then? Oh,” he turned to 
Aberforth, “Ab, there might be a couple more people 
on the way.” 



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“Couple more?” repeated Aberforth ominously. “What 
d’you mean, a couple more, Longbottom? There’s a 
curfew and a Caterwauling Charm on the whole 
village!” 

“I know, that’s why they’ll be Apparating directly into 
the bar,” said Neville. “Just send them down the 
passage when they get here, will you? Thanks a lot.” 

Neville held out his hand to Hermione and helped her 
to climb up onto the mantelpiece and into the tunnel; 
Ron followed, then Neville. Harry addressed 
Aberforth. 

“I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve saved our 
lives twice.” 

“Look after ’em, then,” said Aberforth gruffly. “I might 
not be able to save ’em a third time.” 

Harry clambered up onto the mantelpiece and 
through the hole behind Ariana’s portrait. There were 
smooth stone steps on the other side: It looked as 
though the passageway had been there for years. 
Brass lamps hung from the walls and the earthy floor 
was worn and smooth; as they walked, their shadows 
rippled, fanlike, across the wall. 

“How long’s this been here?” Ron asked as they set 
off. “It isn’t on the Marauder’s Map, is it, Harry? I 
thought there were only seven passages in and out of 
school?” 

“They sealed off all of those before the start of the 
year,” said Neville. “There’s no chance of getting 
through any of them now, not with curses over the 
entrances and Death Eaters and dementors waiting at 
the exits.” He started walking backward, beaming, 
drinking them in. “Never mind that stuff. ... Is it true? 
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Did you break into Gringotts? Did you escape on a 
dragon? It’s everywhere, everyone’s talking about it, 
Terry Boot got beaten up by Carrow for yelling about 
it in the Great Hall at dinner!” 

“Yeah, it’s true,” said Harry. 

Neville laughed gleefully. 

“What did you do with the dragon?” 

“Released it into the wild,” said Ron. “Hermione was 
all for keeping it as a pet — ” 

“Don’t exaggerate, Ron — ” 

“But what have you been doing? People have been 
saying you’ve just been on the run, Harry, but I don’t 
think so. I think you’ve been up to something.” 

“You’re right,” said Harry, “but tell us about 
Hogwarts, Neville, we haven’t heard anything.” 

“It’s been ... well, it’s not really like Hogwarts 
anymore,” said Neville, the smile fading from his face 
as he spoke. “Do you know about the Carrows?” 

“Those two Death Eaters who teach here?” 

“They do more than teach,” said Neville. “They’re in 
charge of all discipline. They like punishment, the 
Carrows.” 

“Like Umbridge?” 

“Nah, they make her look tame. The other teachers 
are all supposed to refer us to the Carrows if we do 
anything wrong. They don’t, though, if they can avoid 
it. You can tell they all hate them as much as we do. 

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“Amycus, the bloke, he teaches what used to be 
Defense Against the Dark Arts, except now it’s just 
the Dark Arts. We’re supposed to practice the 
Cruciatus Curse on people who’ve earned detentions 



“What?” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s united voices echoed up 
and down the passage. 

“Yeah,” said Neville. “That’s how I got this one,” he 
pointed at a particularly deep gash in his cheek, “I 
refused to do it. Some people are into it, though; 
Crabbe and Goyle love it. First time they’ve ever been 
top in anything, I expect. 

“Alecto, Amycus’s sister, teaches Muggle Studies, 
which is compulsory for everyone. We’ve all got to 
listen to her explain how Muggles are like animals, 
stupid and dirty, and how they drove wizards into 
hiding by being vicious toward them, and how the 
natural order is being reestablished. I got this one,” 
he indicated another slash to his face, “for asking her 
how much Muggle blood she and her brother have 
got.” 

“Blimey, Neville,” said Ron, “there’s a time and a place 
for getting a smart mouth.” 

“You didn’t hear her,” said Neville. “You wouldn’t have 
stood it either. The thing is, it helps when people 
stand up to them, it gives everyone hope. I used to 
notice that when you did it, Harry.” 

“But they’ve used you as a knife sharpener,” said 
Ron, wincing slightly as they passed a lamp and 
Neville’s injuries were thrown into even greater relief. 



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Neville shrugged. 



“Doesn’t matter. They don’t want to spill too much 
pure blood, so they’ll torture us a bit if we’re mouthy 
but they won’t actually kill us.” 

Harry did not know what was worse, the things that 
Neville was saying or the matter-of-fact tone in which 
he said them. 

“The only people in real danger are the ones whose 
friends and relatives on the outside are giving trouble. 
They get taken hostage. Old Xeno Lovegood was 
getting a bit too outspoken in The Quihhler, so they 
dragged Luna off the train on the way back for 
Christmas.” 

“Neville, she’s all right, we’ve seen her — ” 

“Yeah, I know, she managed to get a message to me.” 

From his pocket he pulled a golden coin, and Harry 
recognized it as one of the fake Galleons that 
Dumbledore’s Army had used to send one another 
messages. 

“These have been great,” said Neville, beaming at 
Hermione. “The Carrows never rumbled how we were 
communicating, it drove them mad. We used to sneak 
out at night and put graffiti on the walls: 

Dumbledore’s Army, Still Recruiting, stuff like that. 
Snape hated it.” 

“You used to?” said Harry, who had noticed the past 
tense. 

“Well, it got more difficult as time went on,” said 
Neville. “We lost Luna at Christmas, and Ginny never 
came back after Easter, and the three of us were sort 

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of the leaders. The Carrows seemed to know I was 
behind a lot of it, so they started coming down on me 
hard, and then Michael Corner went and got caught 
releasing a first-year they’d chained up, and they 
tortured him pretty badly. That scared people off.” 

“No kidding,” muttered Ron, as the passage began to 
slope upward. 

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t ask people to go through what 
Michael did, so we dropped those kinds of stunts. But 
we were still fighting, doing underground stuff, right 
up until a couple of weeks ago. That’s when they 
decided there was only one way to stop me, I suppose, 
and they went for Gran.” 

“They what?” said Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
together. 

“Yeah,” said Neville, panting a little now, because the 
passage was climbing so steeply, “well, you can see 
their thinking. It had worked really well, kidnapping 
kids to force their relatives to behave, I s’pose it was 
only a matter of time before they did it the other way 
around. Thing was,” he faced them, and Harry was 
astonished to see that he was grinning, “they bit off a 
bit more than they could chew with Gran. Little old 
witch living alone, they probably thought they didn’t 
need to send anyone particularly powerful. Anyway,” 
Neville laughed, “Dawlish is still in St. Mungo’s and 
Gran’s on the run. She sent me a letter,” he clapped a 
hand to the breast pocket of his robes, “telling me she 
was proud of me, that I’m my parents’ son, and to 
keep it up.” 

“Cool,” said Ron. 

“Yeah,” said Neville happily. “Only thing was, once 
they realized they had no hold over me, they decided 

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Hogwarts could do without me after all. I don’t know 
whether they were planning to kill me or send me to 
Azkaban; either way, I knew it was time to disappear.” 

“But,” said Ron, looking thoroughly confused, “aren’t 
— aren’t we heading straight back into Hogwarts?” 

“ ’Course,” said Neville. “You’ll see. We’re here.” 

They turned a corner and there ahead of them was 
the end of the passage. Another short flight of steps 
led to a door just like the one hidden behind Ariana’s 
portrait. Neville pushed it open and climbed through. 
As Harry followed, he heard Neville call out to unseen 
people: 

“Look who it is! Didn’t I tell you?” 

As Harry emerged into the room beyond the passage, 
there were several screams and yells: “HARRY!” “It’s 
Potter, it’s POTTER!” “Ron!” “Hermionel” 

He had a confused impression of colored hangings, of 
lamps and many faces. The next moment, he, Ron, 
and Hermione were engulfed, hugged, pounded on the 
back, their hair ruffled, their hands shaken, by what 
seemed to be more than twenty people: They might 
just have won a Quidditch final. 

“Okay, okay, calm down!” Neville called, and as the 
crowd backed away, Harry was able to take in their 
surroundings. 

He did not recognize the room at all. It was enormous, 
and looked rather like the interior of a particularly 
sumptuous tree house, or perhaps a gigantic ship’s 
cabin. Multicolored hammocks were strung from the 
ceiling and from a balcony that ran around the dark 
wood-paneled and windowless walls, which were 
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covered in bright tapestry hangings: Harry saw the 
gold Gryffindor lion, emblazoned on scarlet; the black 
badger of Hufflepuff, set against yellow; and the 
bronze eagle of Ravenclaw, on blue. The silver and 
green of Slytherin alone were absent. There were 
bulging bookcases, a few broomsticks propped 
against the walls, and in the corner, a large wooden- 
cased wireless. 

“Where are we?” 

“Room of Requirement, of course!” said Neville. 
“Surpassed itself, hasn’t it? The Carrows were 
chasing me, and I knew I had just one chance for a 
hideout: I managed to get through the door and this 
is what I found! Well, it wasn’t exactly like this when I 
arrived, it was a load smaller, there was only one 
hammock and just Gryffindor hangings. But it’s 
expanded as more and more of the D.A. have arrived.” 

“And the Carrows can’t get in?” asked Harry, looking 
around for the door. 

“No,” said Seamus Finnigan, whom Harry had not 
recognized until he spoke: Seamus’s face was bruised 
and puffy. “It’s a proper hideout, as long as one of us 
stays in here, they can’t get at us, the door won’t 
open. It’s all down to Neville. He really gets this room. 
You’ve got to ask it for exactly what you need — like, 

‘I don’t want any Carrow supporters to be able to get 
in’ — and it’ll do it for you! You’ve just got to make 
sure you close the loopholes! Neville’s the man!” 

“It’s quite straightforward, really,” said Neville 
modestly. “I’d been in here about a day and a half, 
and getting really hungry, and wishing I could get 
something to eat, and that’s when the passage to the 
Hog’s Head opened up. I went through it and met 
Aberforth. He’s been providing us with food, because 
Page | 652 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




for some reason, that’s the one thing the room doesn’t 
really do.” 



“Yeah, well, food’s one of the five exceptions to 
Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration,” said Ron 
to general astonishment. 

“So we’ve been hiding out here for nearly two weeks,” 
said Seamus, “and it just makes more hammocks 
every time we need them, and it even sprouted a 
pretty good bathroom once girls started turning up — 



“ — and thought they’d quite like to wash, yes,” 
supplied Lavender Brown, whom Harry had not 
noticed until that point. Now that he looked around 
properly, he recognized many familiar faces. Both 
Patil twins were there, as were Terry Boot, Ernie 
Macmillan, Anthony Goldstein, and Michael Corner. 

“Tell us what you’ve been up to, though,” said Ernie. 
“There’ve been so many rumors, we’ve been trying to 
keep up with you on Potterwatch.” He pointed at the 
wireless. “You didn’t break into Gringotts?” 

“They did!” said Neville. “And the dragon’s true too!” 

There was a smattering of applause and a few 
whoops; Ron took a bow. 

“What were you after?” asked Seamus eagerly. 

Before any of them could parry the question with one 
of their own, Harry felt a terrible, scorching pain in 
the lightning scar. As he turned his back hastily on 
the curious and delighted faces, the Room of 
Requirement vanished, and he was standing inside a 
ruined stone shack, and the rotting floorboards were 
ripped apart at his feet, a disinterred golden box lay 
Page | 653 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




open and empty beside the hole, and Voldemort’s 
scream of fury vibrated inside his head. 

With an enormous effort he pulled out of Voldemort’s 
mind again, back to where he stood, swaying, in the 
Room of Requirement, sweat pouring from his face 
and Ron holding him up. 

“Are you all right, Harry?” Neville was saying. “Want 
to sit down? I expect you’re tired, aren’t — ?” 

“No,” said Harry. He looked at Ron and Hermione, 
trying to tell them without words that Voldemort had 
just discovered the loss of one of the other Horcruxes. 
Time was running out fast: If Voldemort chose to visit 
Hogwarts next, they would miss their chance. 

“We need to get going,” he said, and their expressions 
told him that they understood. 

“What are we going to do, then, Harry?” asked 
Seamus. “What’s the plan?” 

“Plan?” repeated Harry. He was exercising all his 
willpower to prevent himself succumbing again to 
Voldemort’s rage: His scar was still burning. “Well, 
there’s something we — Ron, Hermione, and I — need 
to do, and then we’ll get out of here.” 

Nobody was laughing or whooping anymore. Neville 
looked confused. 

“What d’you mean, ‘get out of here’?” 

“We haven’t come back to stay,” said Harry, rubbing 
his scar, trying to soothe the pain. “There’s something 
important we need to do — ” 

“What is it?” 

Page | 654 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“I — I can’t tell you.” 



There was a ripple of muttering at this: Neville’s 
brows contracted. 

“Why can’t you tell us? It’s something to do with 
fighting You-Know-Who, right?” 

“Well, yeah — ” 

“Then we’ll help you.” 

The other members of Dumbledore’s Army were 
nodding, some enthusiastically, others solemnly. A 
couple of them rose from their chairs to demonstrate 
their willingness for immediate action. 

“You don’t understand.” Harry seemed to have said 
that a lot in the last few hours. “We — we can’t tell 
you. We’ve got to do it — alone.” 

“Why?” asked Neville. 

“Because ...” In his desperation to start looking for 
the missing Horcrux, or at least to have a private 
discussion with Ron and Hermione about where they 
might commence their search, Harry found it difficult 
to gather his thoughts. His scar was still searing. 
“Dumbledore left the three of us a job,” he said 
carefully, “and we weren’t supposed to tell — I mean, 
he wanted us to do it, just the three of us.” 

“We’re his army,” said Neville. “Dumbledore’s Army. 
We were all in it together, we’ve been keeping it going 
while you three have been off on your own — ” 

“It hasn’t exactly been a picnic, mate,” said Ron. 



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“I never said it had, but I don’t see why you can’t 
trust us. Everyone in this room’s been fighting and 
they’ve been driven in here because the Carrows were 
hunting them down. Everyone in here’s proven they’re 
loyal to Dumbledore — loyal to you.” 

“Look,” Harry began, without knowing what he was 
going to say, but it did not matter: The tunnel door 
had just opened behind him. 

“We got your message, Neville! Hello you three, I 
thought you must be here!” 

It was Luna and Dean. Seamus gave a great roar of 
delight and ran to hug his best friend. 

“Hi, everyone!” said Luna happily. “Oh, it’s great to be 
back!” 

“Luna,” said Harry distractedly, “what are you doing 
here? How did you — ?” 

“I sent for her,” said Neville, holding up the fake 
Galleon. “I promised her and Ginny that if you turned 
up I’d let them know. We all thought that if you came 
back, it would mean revolution. That we were going to 
overthrow Snape and the Carrows.” 

“Of course that’s what it means,” said Luna brightly. 
“Isn’t it, Harry? We’re going to fight them out of 
Hogwarts?” 

“Listen,” said Harry with a rising sense of panic, “I’m 
sorry, but that’s not what we came back for. There’s 
something we’ve got to do, and then — ” 

“You’re going to leave us in this mess?” demanded 
Michael Corner. 



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“No!” said Ron. “What we’re doing will benefit 
everyone in the end, it’s all about trying to get rid of 
You-Know-Who — ” 



“Then let us help!” said Neville angrily. “We want to be 
a part of it!” 

There was another noise behind them, and Harry 
turned. His heart seemed to fail: Ginny was now 
climbing through the hole in the wall, closely followed 
by Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. Ginny gave Harry a 
radiant smile: He had forgotten, or had never fully 
appreciated, how beautiful she was, but he had never 
been less pleased to see her. 

“Aberforth’s getting a bit annoyed,” said Fred, raising 
his hand in answer to several cries of greeting. “He 
wants a kip, and his bar’s turned into a railway 
station.” 

Harry’s mouth fell open. Right behind Lee Jordan 
came Harry’s old girlfriend, Cho Chang. She smiled at 
him. 

“I got the message,” she said, holding up her own fake 
Galleon, and she walked over to sit beside Michael 
Corner. 

“So what’s the plan, Harry?” said George. 

“There isn’t one,” said Harry, still disoriented by the 
sudden appearance of all these people, unable to take 
everything in while his scar was still burning so 
fiercely. 

“Just going to make it up as we go along, are we? My 
favorite kind,” said Fred. 



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“You’ve got to stop this!” Harry told Neville. “What did 
you call them all back for? This is insane — ” 

“We’re fighting, aren’t we?” said Dean, taking out his 
fake Galleon. “The message said Harry was back, and 
we were going to fight! I’ll have to get a wand, though 



“You haven’t got a wand — ?” began Seamus. 

Ron turned suddenly to Harry. 

“Why can’t they help?” 

“What?” 

“They can help.” He dropped his voice and said, so 
that none of them could hear but Hermione, who 
stood between them, “We don’t know where it is. 
We’ve got to find it fast. We don’t have to tell them it’s 
a Horcrux.” 

Harry looked from Ron to Hermione, who murmured, 
“I think Ron’s right. We don’t even know what we’re 
looking for, we need them.” And when Harry looked 
unconvinced, “You don’t have to do everything alone, 
Harry.” 

Harry thought fast, his scar still prickling, his head 
threatening to split again. Dumbledore had warned 
him against telling anyone but Ron and Hermione 
about the Horcruxes. Secrets and lies, that’s how we 
grew up, and Albus ...he was a natural. ... Was he 
turning into Dumbledore, keeping his secrets 
clutched to his chest, afraid to trust? But 
Dumbledore had trusted Snape, and where had that 
led? To murder at the top of the highest tower ... 



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“All right,” he said quietly to the other two. “Okay,” he 
called to the room at large, and all noise ceased: Fred 
and George, who had been cracking jokes for the 
benefit of those nearest, fell silent, and all of them 
looked alert, excited. 

“There’s something we need to find,” Harry said. 
“Something — something that’ll help us overthrow 
You-Know-Who. It’s here at Hogwarts, but we don’t 
know where. It might have belonged to Ravenclaw. 

Has anyone heard of an object like that? Has anyone 
ever come across something with her eagle on it, for 
instance?” 

He looked hopefully toward the little group of 
Ravenclaws, to Padma, Michael, Terry, and Cho, but 
it was Luna who answered, perched on the arm of 
Ginny’s chair. 

“Well, there’s her lost diadem. I told you about it, 
remember, Harry? The lost diadem of Ravenclaw? 
Daddy’s trying to duplicate it.” 

“Yeah, but the lost diadem,” said Michael Corner, 
rolling his eyes, “is lost, Luna. That’s sort of the 
point.” 

“When was it lost?” asked Harry. 

“Centuries ago, they say,” said Cho, and Harry’s heart 
sank. “Professor Flitwick says the diadem vanished 
with Ravenclaw herself. People have looked, but,” she 
appealed to her fellow Ravenclaws, “nobody’s ever 
found a trace of it, have they?” 

They all shook their heads. 

“Sorry, but what is a diadem?” asked Ron. 



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“It’s a kind of crown,” said Terry Boot. “Ravenclaw’s 
was supposed to have magical properties, enhance 
the wisdom of the wearer.” 

“Yes, Daddy’s Wrackspurt siphons — ” 

But Harry cut across Luna. 

“And none of you have ever seen anything that looks 
like it?” 

They all shook their heads again. Harry looked at Ron 
and Hermione and his own disappointment was 
mirrored back at him. An object that had been lost 
this long, and apparently without trace, did not seem 
like a good candidate for the Horcrux hidden in the 
castle. ... Before he could formulate a new question, 
however, Cho spoke again. 

“If you’d like to see what the diadem’s supposed to 
look like, I could take you up to our common room 
and show you, Harry? Ravenclaw’s wearing it in her 
statue.” 

Harry’s scar scorched again: For a moment the Room 
of Requirement swam before him, and he saw instead 
the dark earth soaring beneath him and felt the great 
snake wrapped around his shoulders. Voldemort was 
flying again, whether to the underground lake or here, 
to the castle, he did not know: Either way, there was 
hardly any time left. 

“He’s on the move,” he said quietly to Ron and 
Hermione. He glanced at Cho and then back at them. 
“Listen, I know it’s not much of a lead, but I’m going 
to go and look at this statue, at least find out what 
the diadem looks like. Wait for me here and keep, you 
know — the other one — safe.” 



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Cho had got to her feet, but Ginny said rather 
fiercely, “No, Luna will take Harry, won’t you, Luna?” 

“Oooh, yes, I’d like to,” said Luna happily, and Cho 
sat down again, looking disappointed. 

“How do we get out?” Harry asked Neville. 

“Over here.” 

He led Harry and Luna to a corner, where a small 
cupboard opened onto a steep staircase. 

“It comes out somewhere different every day, so 
they’ve never been able to find it,” he said. “Only 
trouble is, we never know exactly where we’re going to 
end up when we go out. Be careful, Harry, they’re 
always patrolling the corridors at night.” 

“No problem,” said Harry. “See you in a bit.” 

He and Luna hurried up the staircase, which was 
long, lit by torches, and turned corners in unexpected 
places. At last they reached what appeared to be solid 
wall. 

“Get under here,” Harry told Luna, pulling out the 
Invisibility Cloak and throwing it over both of them. 

He gave the wall a little push. 

It melted away at his touch and they slipped outside: 
Harry glanced back and saw that it had resealed itself 
at once. They were standing in a dark corridor: Harry 
pulled Luna back into the shadows, fumbled in the 
pouch around his neck, and took out the Marauder’s 
Map. Holding it close to his nose he searched, and 
located his and Luna’s dots at last. 



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“We’re up on the fifth floor,” he whispered, watching 
Filch moving away from them, a corridor ahead. 
“Come on, this way.” 

They crept off. 

Harry had prowled the castle at night many times 
before, but never had his heart hammered this fast, 
never had so much depended on his safe passage 
through the place. Through squares of moonlight 
upon the floor, past suits of armor whose helmets 
creaked at the sound of their soft footsteps, around 
corners beyond which who knew what lurked, Harry 
and Luna walked, checking the Marauder’s Map 
whenever light permitted, twice pausing to allow a 
ghost to pass without drawing attention to 
themselves. He expected to encounter an obstacle at 
any moment; his worst fear was Peeves, and he 
strained his ears with every step to hear the first, 
telltale signs of the poltergeist’s approach. 

“This way, Harry,” breathed Luna, plucking his sleeve 
and pulling him toward a spiral staircase. 

They climbed in tight, dizzying circles; Harry had 
never been up here before. At last they reached a 
door. There was no handle and no keyhole: nothing 
but a plain expanse of aged wood, and a bronze 
knocker in the shape of an eagle. 

Luna reached out a pale hand, which looked eerie 
floating in midair, unconnected to arm or body. She 
knocked once, and in the silence it sounded to Harry 
like a cannon blast. At once the beak of the eagle 
opened, but instead of a bird’s call, a soft, musical 
voice said, “Which came first, the phoenix or the 
flame?” 



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“Hmm . . . What do you think, Harry?” said Luna, 
looking thoughtful. 

“What? Isn’t there just a password?” 

“Oh no, you’ve got to answer a question,” said Luna. 

“What if you get it wrong?” 

“Well, you have to wait for somebody who gets it 
right,” said Luna. “That way you learn, you see?” 

“Yeah ... Trouble is, we can’t really afford to wait for 
anyone else, Luna.” 

“No, I see what you mean,” said Luna seriously. “Well 
then, I think the answer is that a circle has no 
beginning.” 

“Well reasoned,” said the voice, and the door swung 
open. 

The deserted Ravenclaw common room was a wide, 
circular room, airier than any Harry had ever seen at 
Hogwarts. Graceful arched windows punctuated the 
walls, which were hung with blue-and-bronze silks: 

By day, the Ravenclaws would have a spectacular 
view of the surrounding mountains. The ceiling was 
domed and painted with stars, which were echoed in 
the midnight-blue carpet. There were tables, chairs, 
and bookcases, and in a niche opposite the door 
stood a tall statue of white marble. 

Harry recognized Rowena Ravenclaw from the bust he 
had seen at Luna’s house. The statue stood beside a 
door that led, he guessed, to dormitories above. He 
strode right up to the marble woman, and she seemed 
to look back at him with a quizzical half smile on her 
face, beautiful yet slightly intimidating. A delicate- 
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looking circlet had been reproduced in marble on top 
of her head. It was not unlike the tiara Fleur had 
worn at her wedding. There were tiny words etched 
into it. Harry stepped out from under the Cloak and 
climbed up onto Ravenclaw’s plinth to read them. 

“ ‘Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.’ ” 

“Which makes you pretty skint, witless,” said a 
cackling voice. 

Harry whirled around, slipped off the plinth, and 
landed on the floor. The sloping-shouldered figure of 
Alecto Carrow was standing before him, and even as 
Harry raised his wand, she pressed a stubby 
forefinger to the skull and snake branded on her 
forearm. 



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THE SACKING OF SEVERUS SNAPE 

The moment her finger touched the Mark, Harry’s 
scar burned savagely, the starry room vanished from 
sight, and he was standing upon an outcrop of rock 
beneath a cliff, and the sea was washing around him 
and there was triumph in his heart — They have the 
boy. 

A loud bang brought Harry back to where he stood: 
Disoriented, he raised his wand, but the witch before 
him was already falling forward; she hit the ground so 
hard that the glass in the bookcases tinkled. 

“I’ve never Stunned anyone except in our D.A. 
lessons,” said Luna, sounding mildly interested. “That 
was noisier than I thought it would be.” 

And sure enough, the ceiling had begun to tremble. 
Scurrying, echoing footsteps were growing louder 
from behind the door leading to the dormitories: 
Luna’s spell had woken Ravenclaws sleeping above. 

“Luna, where are you? I need to get under the Cloak!” 

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Luna’s feet appeared out of nowhere; he hurried to 
her side and she let the Cloak fall back over them as 
the door opened and a stream of Ravenclaws, all in 
their nightclothes, flooded into the common room. 
There were gasps and cries of surprise as they saw 
Alecto lying there unconscious. Slowly they shuffled 
in around her, a savage beast that might wake at any 
moment and attack them. Then one brave little first- 
year darted up to her and prodded her backside with 
his big toe. 

“I think she might be dead!” he shouted with delight. 

“Oh, look,” whispered Luna happily, as the 
Ravenclaws crowded in around Alecto. “They’re 
pleased!” 

“Yeah ... great ...” 

Harry closed his eyes, and as his scar throbbed he 
chose to sink again into Voldemort’s mind. ... He was 
moving along the tunnel into the first cave. ... He had 
chosen to make sure of the locket before coming . . . 
but that would not take him long. . . . 

There was a rap on the common room door and every 
Ravenclaw froze. From the other side, Harry heard the 
soft, musical voice that issued from the eagle door 
knocker: “Where do Vanished objects go?” 

“I dunno, do I? Shut it!” snarled an uncouth voice 
that Harry knew was that of the Carrow brother, 
Amycus. “Alecto? Alecto? Are you there? Have you got 
him? Open the door!” 

The Ravenclaws were whispering amongst 
themselves, terrified. Then, without warning, there 
came a series of loud bangs, as though somebody was 
firing a gun into the door. 

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“ALECTO\ If he comes, and we haven’t got Potter — 
d’you want to go the same way as the Malfoys? 
ANSWER ME!” Amyous bellowed, shaking the door for 
all he was worth, but still it did not open. The 
Ravenclaws were all backing away, and some of the 
most frightened began scampering back up the 
staircase to their beds. Then, just as Harry was 
wondering whether he ought not to blast open the 
door and Stun Amycus before the Death Eater could 
do anything else, a second, most familiar voice rang 
out beyond the door. 

“May I ask what you are doing, Professor Carrow?” 

“Trying — to get — through this damned — door!” 
shouted Amycus. “Go and get Flitwick! Get him to 
open it, now!” 

“But isn’t your sister in there?” asked Professor 
McGonagall. “Didn’t Professor Flitwick let her in 
earlier this evening, at your urgent request? Perhaps 
she could open the door for you? Then you needn’t 
wake up half the castle.” 

“She ain’t answering, you old besom! You open it! 
Garn! Do it, now! 

“Certainly, if you wish it,” said Professor McGonagall, 
with awful coldness. There was a genteel tap of the 
knocker and the musical voice asked again, 

“Where do Vanished objects go?” 

“Into nonbeing, which is to say, everything,” replied 
Professor McGonagall. 

“Nicely phrased,” replied the eagle door knocker, and 
the door swung open. 



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The few Ravenclaws who had remained behind 
sprinted for the stairs as Amycus burst over the 
threshold, brandishing his wand. Hunched like his 
sister, he had a pallid, doughy face and tiny eyes, 
which fell at once on Alecto, sprawled motionless on 
the floor. He let out a yell of fury and fear. 

“What’ve they done, the little whelps?” he screamed. 
“I’ll Cruciate the lot of ’em till they tell me who did it 
— and what’s the Dark Lord going to say?” he 
shrieked, standing over his sister and smacking 
himself on the forehead with his fist. “We haven’t got 
him, and they’ve gorn and killed her!” 

“She’s only Stunned,” said Professor McGonagall 
impatiently, who had stooped down to examine 
Alecto. “She’ll be perfectly all right.” 

“No she bludgering well won’t!” bellowed Amycus. “Not 
after the Dark Lord gets hold of her! She’s gorn and 
sent for him, I felt me Mark burn, and he thinks we’ve 
got Potter!” 

“ ‘Got Potter’?” said Professor McGonagall sharply. 
“What do you mean, ‘got Potter’?” 

“He told us Potter might try and get inside Ravenclaw 
Tower, and to send for him if we caught him!” 

“Why would Harry Potter try to get inside Ravenclaw 
Tower? Potter belongs in my House!” 

Beneath the disbelief and anger, Harry heard a little 
strain of pride in her voice, and affection for Minerva 
McGonagall gushed up inside him. 

“We was told he might come in here!” said Carrow. “I 
dunno why, do I?” 



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Professor McGonagall stood up and her beady eyes 
swept the room. Twice they passed right over the 
place where Harry and Luna stood. 

“We can push it off on the kids,” said Amycus, his 
piglike face suddenly crafty. “Yeah, that’s what we’ll 
do. Well say Alecto was ambushed by the kids, them 
kids up there” — he looked up at the starry ceiling 
toward the dormitories — “and we’ll say they forced 
her to press her Mark, and that’s why he got a false 
alarm. ... He can punish them. Couple of kids more or 
less, what’s the difference?” 

“Only the difference between truth and lies, courage 
and cowardice,” said Professor McGonagall, who had 
turned pale, “a difference, in short, which you and 
your sister seem unable to appreciate. But let me 
make one thing very clear. You are not going to pass 
off your many ineptitudes on the students of 
Hogwarts. I shall not permit it.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Amycus moved forward until he was offensively close 
to Professor McGonagall, his face within inches of 
hers. She refused to back away, but looked down at 
him as if he were something disgusting she had found 
stuck to a lavatory seat. 

“It’s not a case of what you’ll permit, Minerva 
McGonagall. Your time’s over. It’s us what’s in charge 
here now, and you’ll back me up or you’ll pay the 
price.” 

And he spat in her face. 

Harry pulled the Cloak off himself, raised his wand, 
and said, “You shouldn’t have done that.” 



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As Amycus spun around, Harry shouted, “Crucio\” 



The Death Eater was lifted off his feet. He writhed 
through the air like a drowning man, thrashing and 
howling in pain, and then, with a crunch and a 
shattering of glass, he smashed into the front of a 
bookcase and crumpled, insensible, to the floor. 

“I see what Bellatrix meant,” said Harry, the blood 
thundering through his brain, “you need to really 
mean it.” 

“Potter!” whispered Professor McGonagall, clutching 
her heart. “Potter — you’re here! What — ? How — ?” 
She struggled to pull herself together. “Potter, that 
was foolish!” 

“He spat at you,” said Harry. 

“Potter, I — that was very — very gallant of you — but 
don’t you realize — ?” 

“Yeah, I do,” Harry assured her. Somehow her panic 
steadied him. “Professor McGonagall, Voldemort’s on 
the way.” 

“Oh, are we allowed to say the name now?” asked 
Luna with an air of interest, pulling off the Invisibility 
Cloak. This appearance of a second outlaw seemed to 
overwhelm Professor McGonagall, who staggered 
backward and fell into a nearby chair, clutching at 
the neck of her old tartan dressing gown. 

“I don’t think it makes any difference what we call 
him,” Harry told Luna. “He already knows where I 
am.” 



In a distant part of Harry’s brain, that part connected 
to the angry, burning scar, he could see Voldemort 

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sailing fast over the dark lake in the ghostly green 
boat. ... He had nearly reached the island where the 
stone basin stood. ... 

“You must flee,” whispered Professor McGonagall. 
“Now, Potter, as quickly as you can!” 

“I can’t,” said Harry. “There’s something I need to do. 
Professor, do you know where the diadem of 
Ravenclaw is?” 

“The d-diadem of Ravenclaw? Of course not — hasn’t 
it been lost for centuries?” She sat up a little 
straighter. “Potter, it was madness, utter madness, 
for you to enter this castle — ” 

“I had to,” said Harry. “Professor, there’s something 
hidden here that I’m supposed to find, and it could be 
the diadem — if I could just speak to Professor 
Flitwick — ” 

There was a sound of movement, of clinking glass: 
Amycus was coming round. Before Harry or Luna 
could act, Professor McGonagall rose to her feet, 
pointed her wand at the groggy Death Eater, and 
said, “Imperio.” 

Amycus got up, walked over to his sister, picked up 
her wand, then shuffled obediently to Professor 
McGonagall and handed it over along with his own. 
Then he lay down on the floor beside Alecto. Professor 
McGonagall waved her wand again, and a length of 
shimmering silver rope appeared out of thin air and 
snaked around the Carrows, binding them tightly 
together. 

“Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, turning to face 
him again with superb indifference to the Carrows’ 



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predicament, “if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named does 
indeed know that you are here — ” 

As she said it, a wrath that was like physical pain 
blazed through Harry, setting his scar on fire, and for 
a second he looked down upon a basin whose potion 
had turned clear, and saw that no golden locket lay 
safe beneath the surface — 

“Potter, are you all right?” said a voice, and Harry 
came back: He was clutching Luna’s shoulder to 
steady himself. 

“Time’s running out, Voldemort’s getting nearer. 
Professor, I’m acting on Dumbledore’s orders, I must 
find what he wanted me to find! But we’ve got to get 
the students out while I’m searching the castle — it’s 
me Voldemort wants, but he won’t care about killing a 
few more or less, not now — ” not now he knows I’m 
attacking Horcruxes, Harry finished the sentence in 
his head. 

“You’re acting on Dumbledore’s orders?” she repeated 
with a look of dawning wonder. Then she drew herself 
up to her fullest height. 

“We shall secure the school against He-Who-Must- 
Not-Be-Named while you search for this — this 
object.” 

“Is that possible?” 

“I think so,” said Professor McGonagall dryly, “we 
teachers are rather good at magic, you know. I am 
sure we will be able to hold him off for a while if we all 
put our best efforts into it. Of course, something will 
have to be done about Professor Snape — ” 

“Let me — ” 

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“ — and if Hogwarts is about to enter a state of siege, 
with the Dark Lord at the gates, it would indeed be 
advisable to take as many innocent people out of the 
way as possible. With the Floo Network under 
observation, and Apparition impossible within the 
grounds — ” 

“There’s a way,” said Harry quickly, and he explained 
about the passageway leading into the Hog’s Head. 

“Potter, we’re talking about hundreds of students — ” 

“I know, Professor, but if Voldemort and the Death 
Eaters are concentrating on the school boundaries 
they won’t be interested in anyone who’s 
Disapparating out of the Hog’s Head.” 

“There’s something in that,” she agreed. She pointed 
her wand at the Carrows, and a silver net fell upon 
their bound bodies, tied itself around them, and 
hoisted them into the air, where they dangled beneath 
the blue-and-gold ceiling like two large, ugly sea 
creatures. “Come. We must alert the other Heads of 
House. You’d better put that Cloak back on.” 

She marched toward the door, and as she did so she 
raised her wand. From the tip burst three silver cats 
with spectacle markings around their eyes. The 
Patronuses ran sleekly ahead, filling the spiral 
staircase with silvery light, as Professor McGonagall, 
Harry, and Luna hurried back down. 

Along the corridors they raced, and one by one the 
Patronuses left them; Professor McGonagall’s tartan 
dressing gown rustled over the floor, and Harry and 
Luna jogged behind her under the Cloak. 

They had descended two more floors when another 
set of quiet footsteps joined theirs. Harry, whose scar 

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was still prickling, heard them first: He felt in the 
pouch around his neck for the Marauder’s Map, but 
before he could take it out, McGonagall too seemed to 
become aware of their company. She halted, raised 
her wand ready to duel, and said, “Who’s there?” 

“It is I,” said a low voice. 

From behind a suit of armor stepped Severus Snape. 

Hatred boiled up in Harry at the sight of him: He had 
forgotten the details of Snape ’s appearance in the 
magnitude of his crimes, forgotten how his greasy 
black hair hung in curtains around his thin face, how 
his black eyes had a dead, cold look. He was not 
wearing nightclothes, but was dressed in his usual 
black cloak, and he too was holding his wand ready 
for a fight. 

“Where are the Carrows?” he asked quietly. 

“Wherever you told them to be, I expect, Severus,” 
said Professor McGonagall. 

Snape stepped nearer, and his eyes flitted over 
Professor McGonagall into the air around her, as if he 
knew that Harry was there. Harry held his wand up 
too, ready to attack. 

“I was under the impression,” said Snape, “that Alecto 
had apprehended an intruder.” 

“Really?” said Professor McGonagall. “And what gave 
you that impression?” 

Snape made a slight flexing movement of his left arm, 
where the Dark Mark was branded into his skin. 



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“Oh, but naturally,” said Professor McGonagall. “You 
Death Eaters have your own private means of 
communication, I forgot.” 

Snape pretended not to have heard her. His eyes were 
still probing the air all about her, and he was moving 
gradually closer, with an air of hardly noticing what 
he was doing. 

“I did not know that it was your night to patrol the 
corridors, Minerva.” 

“You have some objection?” 

“I wonder what could have brought you out of your 
bed at this late hour?” 

“I thought I heard a disturbance,” said Professor 
McGonagall. 

“Really? But all seems calm.” 

Snape looked into her eyes. 

“Have you seen Harry Potter, Minerva? Because if you 
have, I must insist — ” 

Professor McGonagall moved faster than Harry could 
have believed: Her wand slashed through the air and 
for a split second Harry thought that Snape must 
crumple, unconscious, but the swiftness of his Shield 
Charm was such that McGonagall was thrown off 
balance. She brandished her wand at a torch on the 
wall and it flew out of its bracket: Harry, about to 
curse Snape, was forced to pull Luna out of the way 
of the descending flames, which became a ring of fire 
that filled the corridor and flew like a lasso at Snape 



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Then it was no longer fire, but a great black serpent 
that McGonagall blasted to smoke, which re-formed 
and solidified in seconds to become a swarm of 
pursuing daggers: Snape avoided them only by 
forcing the suit of armor in front of him, and with 
echoing clangs the daggers sank, one after another, 
into its breast — 

“Minerva!” said a squeaky voice, and looking behind 
him, still shielding Luna from flying spells, Harry saw 
Professors Flitwick and Sprout sprinting up the 
corridor toward them in their nightclothes, with the 
enormous Professor Slughorn panting along at the 
rear. 

“No!” squealed Flitwick, raising his wand. “You’ll do 
no more murder at Hogwarts!” 

Flitwick’s spell hit the suit of armor behind which 
Snape had taken shelter: With a clatter it came to life. 
Snape struggled free of the crushing arms and sent it 
flying back toward his attackers: Harry and Luna had 
to dive sideways to avoid it as it smashed into the wall 
and shattered. When Harry looked up again, Snape 
was in full flight, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout all 
thundering after him: He hurtled through a classroom 
door and, moments later, he heard McGonagall cry, 
“Coward! COWARD !” 

“What’s happened, what’s happened?” asked Luna. 

Harry dragged her to her feet and they raced along 
the corridor, trailing the Invisibility Cloak behind 
them, into the deserted classroom where Professors 
McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout were standing at a 
smashed window. 

“He jumped,” said Professor McGonagall as Harry and 
Luna ran into the room. 

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“You mean he’s dead?” Harry sprinted to the window, 
ignoring Flitwick’s and Sprout’s yells of shock at his 
sudden appearance. 

“No, he’s not dead,” said McGonagall bitterly. “Unlike 
Dumbledore, he was still carrying a wand ... and he 
seems to have learned a few tricks from his master.” 

With a tingle of horror, Harry saw in the distance a 
huge, batlike shape flying through the darkness 
toward the perimeter wall. 

There were heavy footfalls behind them, and a great 
deal of puffing: Slughorn had just caught up. 

“Harry!” he panted, massaging his immense chest 
beneath his emerald-green silk pajamas. “My dear 
boy ... what a surprise ... Minerva, do please explain. 
... Severus ... what ... ?” 

“Our headmaster is taking a short break,” said 
Professor McGonagall, pointing at the Snape-shaped 
hole in the window. 

“Professor!” Harry shouted, his hands at his forehead. 
He could see the Inferi-filled lake sliding beneath him, 
and he felt the ghostly green boat bump into the 
underground shore, and Voldemort leapt from it with 
murder in his heart — 

“Professor, we’ve got to barricade the school, he’s 
coming now!” 

“Very well. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is coming,” 
she told the other teachers. Sprout and Flitwick 
gasped; Slughorn let out a low groan. “Potter has 
work to do in the castle on Dumbledore’s orders. We 
need to put in place every protection of which we are 
capable while Potter does what he needs to do.” 

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“You realize, of course, that nothing we do will be able 
to keep out You-Know-Who indefinitely?” squeaked 
Flitwick. 

“But we can hold him up,” said Professor Sprout. 

“Thank you, Pomona,” said Professor McGonagall, 
and between the two witches there passed a look of 
grim understanding. “I suggest we establish basic 
protection around the place, then gather our students 
and meet in the Great Hall. Most must be evacuated, 
though if any of those who are over age wish to stay 
and fight, I think they ought to be given the chance.” 

“Agreed,” said Professor Sprout, already hurrying 
toward the door. “I shall meet you in the Great Hall in 
twenty minutes with my House.” 

And as she jogged out of sight, they could hear her 
muttering, “Tentacula. Devil’s Snare. And Snargaluff 
pods ... yes, I’d like to see the Death Eaters fighting 
those.” 

“I can act from here,” said Flitwick, and although he 
could barely see out of it, he pointed his wand 
through the smashed window and started muttering 
incantations of great complexity. Harry heard a weird 
rushing noise, as though Flitwick had unleashed the 
power of the wind into the grounds. 

“Professor,” Harry said, approaching the little Charms 
master, “Professor, I’m sorry to interrupt, but this is 
important. Have you got any idea where the diadem of 
Ravenclaw is?” 

“ — Protego Horribilis — the diadem of Ravenclaw?” 
squeaked Flitwick. “A little extra wisdom never goes 
amiss, Potter, but I hardly think it would be much 
use in this situation!” 

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“I only meant — do you know where it is? Have you 
ever seen it?” 

“Seen it? Nobody has seen it in living memory! Long 
since lost, boy!” 

Harry felt a mixture of desperate disappointment and 
panic. What, then, was the Horcrux? 

“We shall meet you and your Ravenclaws in the Great 
Hall, Filius!” said Professor McGonagall, beckoning to 
Harry and Luna to follow her. 

They had just reached the door when Slughorn 
rumbled into speech. 

“My word,” he puffed, pale and sweaty, his walrus 
mustache aquiver. “What a to-do! I’m not at all sure 
whether this is wise, Minerva. He is bound to find a 
way in, you know, and anyone who has tried to delay 
him will be in most grievous peril — ” 

“I shall expect you and the Slytherins in the Great 
Hall in twenty minutes, also,” said Professor 
McGonagall. “If you wish to leave with your students, 
we shall not stop you. But if any of you attempt to 
sabotage our resistance or take up arms against us 
within this castle, then, Horace, we duel to kill.” 

“Minerva!” he said, aghast. 

“The time has come for Slytherin House to decide 
upon its loyalties,” interrupted Professor McGonagall. 
“Go and wake your students, Horace.” 

Harry did not stay to watch Slughorn splutter: He and 
Luna ran after Professor McGonagall, who had taken 
up a position in the middle of the corridor and raised 
her wand. 

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“Piertotum — oh, for heaven’s sake, Filch, not now — ” 



The aged caretaker had just come hobbling into view, 
shouting, “Students out of bed! Students in the 
corridors!” 

“They’re supposed to be, you blithering idiot!” shouted 
McGonagall. “Now go and do something constructive! 
Find Peeves!” 

“P-Peeves?” stammered Filch as though he had never 
heard the name before. 

“Yes, Peeves, you fool, Peevesl Haven’t you been 
complaining about him for a quarter of a century? Go 
and fetch him, at once!” 

Filch evidently thought Professor McGonagall had 
taken leave of her senses, but hobbled away, hunch- 
shouldered, muttering under his breath. 

“And now — Piertotum Locomotori” cried Professor 
McGonagall. 

And all along the corridor the statues and suits of 
armor jumped down from their plinths, and from the 
echoing crashes from the floors above and below, 
Harry knew that their fellows throughout the castle 
had done the same. 

“Hogwarts is threatened!” shouted Professor 
McGonagall. “Man the boundaries, protect us, do 
your duty to our school!” 

Clattering and yelling, the horde of moving statues 
stampeded past Harry: some of them smaller, others 
larger, than life. There were animals too, and the 
clanking suits of armor brandished swords and 
spiked balls on chains. 

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“Now, Potter,” said McGonagall, “you and Miss 
Lovegood had better return to your friends and bring 
them to the Great Hall — I shall rouse the other 
Gryffindors.” 

They parted at the top of the next staircase, Harry 
and Luna running back toward the concealed 
entrance to the Room of Requirement. As they ran, 
they met crowds of students, most wearing traveling 
cloaks over their pajamas, being shepherded down to 
the Great Hall by teachers and prefects. 

“That was Potter!” 

“ Harry Potted” 

“It was him, I swear, I just saw him!” 

But Harry did not look back, and at last they reached 
the entrance to the Room of Requirement. Harry 
leaned against the enchanted wall, which opened to 
admit them, and he and Luna sped back down the 
steep staircase. 

“Wh — ?” 

As the room came into view, Harry slipped down a few 
stairs in shock. It was packed, far more crowded than 
when he had last been in there. Kingsley and Lupin 
were looking up at him, as were Oliver Wood, Katie 
Bell, Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet, Bill and 
Fleur, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. 

“Harry, what’s happening?” said Lupin, meeting him 
at the foot of the stairs. 

“Voldemort’s on his way, they’re barricading the 
school — Snape’s run for it — What are you doing 
here? How did you know?” 

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“We sent messages to the rest of Dumbledore’s Army,” 
Fred explained. “You couldn’t expect everyone to miss 
the fun, Harry, and the D.A. let the Order of the 
Phoenix know, and it all kind of snowballed.” 

“What first, Harry?” called George. “What’s going on?” 

“They’re evacuating the younger kids and everyone’s 
meeting in the Great Hall to get organized,” Harry 
said. “We’re fighting.” 

There was a great roar and a surge toward the foot of 
the stairs; he was pressed back against the wall as 
they ran past him, the mingled members of the Order 
of the Phoenix, Dumbledore’s Army, and Harry’s old 
Quidditch team, all with their wands drawn, heading 
up into the main castle. 

“Come on, Luna,” Dean called as he passed, holding 
out his free hand; she took it and followed him back 
up the stairs. 

The crowd was thinning: Only a little knot of people 
remained below in the Room of Requirement, and 
Harry joined them. Mrs. Weasley was struggling with 
Ginny. Around them stood Lupin, Fred, George, Bill, 
and Fleur. 

“You’re underage!” Mrs. Weasley shouted at her 
daughter as Harry approached. “I won’t permit it! The 
boys, yes, but you, you’ve got to go home!” 

“I won’t!” 

Ginny’s hair flew as she pulled her arm out of her 
mother’s grip. 

“I’m in Dumbledore’s Army — ” 



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“A teenagers’ gang!” 



“A teenagers’ gang that’s about to take him on, which 
no one else has dared to do!” said Fred. 

“She’s sixteen!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “She’s not old 
enough! What you two were thinking, bringing her 
with you — ” 

Fred and George looked slightly ashamed of 
themselves. 

“Mum’s right, Ginny,” said Bill gently. “You can’t do 
this. Everyone underage will have to leave, it’s only 
right.” 

“I can’t go home!” Ginny shouted, angry tears 
sparkling in her eyes. “My whole family’s here, I can’t 
stand waiting there alone and not knowing and — ” 

Her eyes met Harry’s for the first time. She looked at 
him beseechingly, but he shook his head and she 
turned away bitterly. 

“Fine,” she said, staring at the entrance to the tunnel 
back to the Hog’s Head. “I’ll say good-bye now, then, 
and—” 

There was a scuffling and a great thump: Someone 
else had clambered out of the tunnel, overbalanced 
slightly, and fallen. He pulled himself up on the 
nearest chair, looked around through lopsided horn- 
rimmed glasses, and said, “Am I too late? Has it 
started? I only just found out, so I — I — ” 

Percy spluttered into silence. Evidently he had not 
expected to run into most of his family. There was a 
long moment of astonishment, broken by Fleur 
turning to Lupin and saying, in a wildly transparent 

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attempt to break the tension, “So — ’ow eez leetle 
Teddy?” 

Lupin blinked at her, startled. The silence between 
the Weasleys seemed to be solidifying, like ice. 

“I — oh yes — he’s fine!” Lupin said loudly. “Yes, 
Tonks is with him — at her mother’s — ” 

Percy and the other Weasleys were still staring at one 
another, frozen. 

“Here, I’ve got a picture!” Lupin shouted, pulling a 
photograph from inside his jacket and showing it to 
Fleur and Harry, who saw a tiny baby with a tuft of 
bright turquoise hair, waving fat fists at the camera. 

“I was a fool!” Percy roared, so loudly that Lupin 
nearly dropped his photograph. “I was an idiot, I was 
a pompous prat, I was a — a — ” 

“Ministry-loving, family-disowning, power-hungry 
moron,” said Fred. 

Percy swallowed. 

“Yes, I was!” 

“Well, you can’t say fairer than that,” said Fred, 
holding out his hand to Percy. 

Mrs. Weasley burst into tears. She ran forward, 
pushed Fred aside, and pulled Percy into a strangling 
hug, while he patted her on the back, his eyes on his 
father. 

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Percy said. 



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Mr. Weasley blinked rather rapidly, then he too 
hurried to hug his son. 

“What made you see sense, Perce?” inquired George. 

“It’s been coming on for a while,” said Percy, mopping 
his eyes under his glasses with a corner of his 
traveling cloak. “But I had to find a way out and it’s 
not so easy at the Ministry, they’re imprisoning 
traitors all the time. I managed to make contact with 
Aberforth and he tipped me off ten minutes ago that 
Hogwarts was going to make a fight of it, so here I 
am.” 



“Well, we do look to our prefects to take a lead at 
times such as these,” said George in a good imitation 
of Percy’s most pompous manner. “Now let’s get 
upstairs and fight, or all the good Death Eaters’ll be 
taken.” 

“So, you’re my sister-in-law now?” said Percy, shaking 
hands with Fleur as they hurried off toward the 
staircase with Bill, Fred, and George. 

“Ginny!” barked Mrs. Weasley. 

Ginny had been attempting, under cover of the 
reconciliation, to sneak upstairs too. 

“Molly, how about this,” said Lupin. “Why doesn’t 
Ginny stay here, then at least she’ll be on the scene 
and know what’s going on, but she won’t be in the 
middle of the fighting?” 



“That’s a good idea,” said Mr. Weasley firmly. “Ginny, 
you stay in this room, you hear me?” 



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Ginny did not seem to like the idea much, but under 
her father’s unusually stern gaze, she nodded. Mr. 
and Mrs. Weasley and Lupin headed off for the stairs 
as well. 

“Where’s Ron?” asked Harry. “Where’s Hermione?” 

“They must have gone up to the Great Hall already,” 
Mr. Weasley called over his shoulder. 

“I didn’t see them pass me,” said Harry. 

“They said something about a bathroom,” said Ginny, 
“not long after you left.” 

“A bathroom?” 

Harry strode across the room to an open door leading 
off the Room of Requirement and checked the 
bathroom beyond. It was empty. 

“You’re sure they said bath — ?” 

But then his scar seared and the Room of 
Requirement vanished: He was looking through the 
high wrought-iron gates with winged boars on pillars 
at either side, looking through the dark grounds 
toward the castle, which was ablaze with lights. 
Nagini lay draped over his shoulders. He was 
possessed of that cold, cruel sense of purpose that 
preceded murder. 



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THE BATTLE OF HOGWARTS 

The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall was dark and 
scattered with stars, and below it the four long House 
tables were lined with disheveled students, some in 
traveling cloaks, others in dressing gowns. Here and 
there shone the pearly white figures of the school 
ghosts. Every eye, living and dead, was fixed upon 
Professor McGonagall, who was speaking from the 
raised platform at the top of the Hall. Behind her 
stood the remaining teachers, including the palomino 
centaur, Firenze, and the members of the Order of the 
Phoenix who had arrived to fight. 

"... evacuation will be overseen by Mr. Filch and 
Madam Pomfrey. Prefects, when I give the word, you 
will organize your House and take your charges, in an 
orderly fashion, to the evacuation point.” 

Many of the students looked petrified. However, as 
Harry skirted the walls, scanning the Gryffindor table 
for Ron and Hermione, Ernie Macmillan stood up at 
the Hufflepuff table and shouted, “And what if we 
want to stay and fight?” 

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There was a smattering of applause. 

“If you are of age, you may stay,” said Professor 
McGonagall. 

“What about our things?” called a girl at the 
Ravenclaw table. “Our trunks, our owls?” 

“We have no time to collect possessions,” said 
Professor McGonagall. “The important thing is to get 
you out of here safely.” 

“Where’s Professor Snape?” shouted a girl from the 
Slytherin table. 

“He has, to use the common phrase, done a bunk,” 
replied Professor McGonagall, and a great cheer 
erupted from the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and 
Ravenclaws. 

Harry moved up the Hall alongside the Gryffindor 
table, still looking for Ron and Hermione. As he 
passed, faces turned in his direction, and a great deal 
of whispering broke out in his wake. 

“We have already placed protection around the 
castle,” Professor McGonagall was saying, “but it is 
unlikely to hold for very long unless we reinforce it. I 
must ask you, therefore, to move quickly and calmly, 
and do as your prefects — ” 

But her final words were drowned as a different voice 
echoed throughout the Hall. It was high, cold, and 
clear: There was no telling from where it came; it 
seemed to issue from the walls themselves. Like the 
monster it had once commanded, it might have lain 
dormant there for centuries. 



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“I know that you are preparing to fight.” There were 
screams amongst the students, some of whom 
clutched each other, looking around in terror for the 
source of the sound. “Your efforts are futile. You 
cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great 
respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to 
spill magical blood.” 

There was silence in the Hall now, the kind of silence 
that presses against the eardrums, that seems too 
huge to be contained by walls. 

“Give me Harry Potter,” said Voldemort’s voice, “and 
none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I 
shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry 
Potter, and you will be rewarded. 

“You have until midnight.” 

The silence swallowed them all again. Every head 
turned, every eye in the place seemed to have found 
Harry, to hold him frozen in the glare of thousands of 
invisible beams. Then a figure rose from the Slytherin 
table and he recognized Pansy Parkinson as she 
raised a shaking arm and screamed, “But he’s there! 
Potter’s there\ Someone grab him!” 

Before Harry could speak, there was a massive 
movement. The Gryffindors in front of him had risen 
and stood facing, not Harry, but the Slytherins. Then 
the Hufflepuffs stood, and almost at the same 
moment, the Ravenclaws, all of them with their backs 
to Harry, all of them looking toward Pansy instead, 
and Harry, awestruck and overwhelmed, saw wands 
emerging everywhere, pulled from beneath cloaks and 
from under sleeves. 

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson,” said Professor 
McGonagall in a clipped voice. “You will leave the Hall 

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first with Mr. Filch. If the rest of your House could 
follow.” 

Harry heard the grinding of benches and then the 
sound of the Slytherins trooping out on the other side 
of the Hall. 

“Ravenclaws, follow on!” cried Professor McGonagall. 

Slowly the four tables emptied. The Slytherin table 
was completely deserted, but a number of older 
Ravenclaws remained seated while their fellows filed 
out; even more Hufflepuffs stayed behind, and half of 
Gryffindor remained in their seats, necessitating 
Professor McGonagall’s descent from the teachers’ 
platform to chivvy the underage on their way. 

“Absolutely not, Creevey, go! And you, Peakes!” 

Harry hurried over to the Weasleys, all sitting 
together at the Gryffindor table. 

“Where are Ron and Hermione?” 

“Haven’t you found — ?” began Mr. Weasley, looking 
worried. 

But he broke off as Kingsley had stepped forward on 
the raised platform to address those who had 
remained behind. 

“We’ve only got half an hour until midnight, so we 
need to act fast! A battle plan has been agreed 
between the teachers of Hogwarts and the Order of 
the Phoenix. Professors Flitwick, Sprout, and 
McGonagall are going to take groups of fighters up to 
the three highest towers — Ravenclaw, Astronomy, 
and Gryffindor — where they’ll have a good overview, 
excellent positions from which to work spells. 

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Meanwhile Remus” — he indicated Lupin — “Arthur” 
— he pointed toward Mr. Weasley, sitting at the 
Gryffindor table — “and I will take groups into the 
grounds. We’ll need somebody to organize defense of 
the entrances of the passageways into the school — ” 

“Sounds like a job for us,” called Fred, indicating 
himself and George, and Kingsley nodded his 
approval. 

“All right, leaders up here and we’ll divide up the 
troops!” 

“Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, hurrying up to 
him, as students flooded the platform, jostling for 
position, receiving instructions, “ Aren’t you supposed 
to be looking for something?” 

“What? Oh,” said Harry, “oh yeah!” 

He had almost forgotten about the Horcrux, almost 
forgotten that the battle was being fought so that he 
could search for it: The inexplicable absence of Ron 
and Hermione had momentarily driven every other 
thought from his mind. 

“Then go, Potter, go!” 

“Right — yeah — ” 

He sensed eyes following him as he ran out of the 
Great Hall again, into the entrance hall still crowded 
with evacuating students. He allowed himself to be 
swept up the marble staircase with them, but at the 
top he hurried off along a deserted corridor. Fear and 
panic were clouding his thought processes. He tried 
to calm himself, to concentrate on finding the 
Horcrux, but his thoughts buzzed as frantically and 
fruitlessly as wasps trapped beneath a glass. Without 
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Ron and Hermione to help him he could not seem to 
marshal his ideas. He slowed down, coming to a halt 
halfway along an empty passage, where he sat down 
upon the plinth of a departed statue and pulled the 
Marauder’s Map out of the pouch around his neck. 

He could not see Ron’s or Hermione’s names 
anywhere on it, though the density of the crowd of 
dots now making its way to the Room of Requirement 
might, he thought, be concealing them. He put the 
map away, pressed his hands over his face, and 
closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. ... 

Voldemort thought I’d go to Ravenclaw Tower. 

There it was: a solid fact, the place to start. Voldemort 
had stationed Alecto Carrow in the Ravenclaw 
common room, and there could only be one 
explanation: Voldemort feared that Harry already 
knew his Horcrux was connected to that House. 

But the only object anyone seemed to associate with 
Ravenclaw was the lost diadem . . . and how could the 
Horcrux be the diadem? How was it possible that 
Voldemort, the Slytherin, had found the diadem that 
had eluded generations of Ravenclaws? Who could 
have told him where to look, when nobody had seen 
the diadem in living memory? 

In living memory ... 

Beneath his fingers, Harry’s eyes flew open again. He 
leapt up from the plinth and tore back the way he had 
come, now in pursuit of his one last hope. The sound 
of hundreds of people marching toward the Room of 
Requirement grew louder and louder as he returned 
to the marble stairs. Prefects were shouting 
instructions, trying to keep track of the students in 
their own Houses; there was much pushing and 
shoving; Harry saw Zacharias Smith bowling over 
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first-years to get to the front of the queue; here and 
there younger students were in tears, while older ones 
called desperately for friends or siblings. ... 

Harry caught sight of a pearly white figure drifting 
across the entrance hall below and yelled as loudly as 
he could over the clamor. 

“Nick! NICK! I need to talk to you!” 

He forced his way back through the tide of students, 
finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, where Nearly 
Headless Nick, ghost of Gryffindor Tower, stood 
waiting for him. 

“Harry! My dear boy!” 

Nick made to grasp Harry’s hands with both of his 
own: Harry’s felt as though they had been thrust into 
icy water. 

“Nick, you’ve got to help me. Who’s the ghost of 
Ravenclaw Tower?” 

Nearly Headless Nick looked surprised and a little 
offended. 

“The Gray Lady, of course; but if it is ghostly services 
you require — ?” 

“It’s got to be her — d’you know where she is?” 

“Let’s see. ...” 

Nick’s head wobbled a little on his ruff as he turned 
hither and thither, peering over the heads of the 
swarming students. 



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“That’s her over there, Harry, the young woman with 
the long hair.” 

Harry looked in the direction of Nick’s transparent, 
pointing finger and saw a tall ghost who caught sight 
of Harry looking at her, raised her eyebrows, and 
drifted away through a solid wall. 

Harry ran after her. Once through the door of the 
corridor into which she had disappeared, he saw her 
at the very end of the passage, still gliding smoothly 
away from him. 

“Hey — wait — come back!” 

She consented to pause, floating a few inches from 
the ground. Harry supposed that she was beautiful, 
with her waist-length hair and floor-length cloak, but 
she also looked haughty and proud. Close to, he 
recognized her as a ghost he had passed several times 
in the corridor, but to whom he had never spoken. 

“You’re the Gray Lady?” 

She nodded but did not speak. 

“The ghost of Ravenclaw Tower?” 

“That is correct.” 

Her tone was not encouraging. 

“Please: I need some help. I need to know anything 
you can tell me about the lost diadem.” 

A cold smile curved her lips. 

“I am afraid,” she said, turning to leave, “that I cannot 
help you.” 

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“WAIT!” 



He had not meant to shout, but anger and panic were 
threatening to overwhelm him. He glanced at his 
watch as she hovered in front of him: It was a quarter 
to midnight. 

“This is urgent,” he said fiercely. “If that diadem’s at 
Hogwarts, I’ve got to find it, fast.” 

“You are hardly the first student to covet the diadem,” 
she said disdainfully. “Generations of students have 
badgered me — ” 

“This isn’t about trying to get better marks!” Harry 
shouted at her. “It’s about Voldemort — defeating 
Voldemort — or aren’t you interested in that?” 

She could not blush, but her transparent cheeks 
became more opaque, and her voice was heated as 
she replied, “Of course I — how dare you suggest — ?” 

“Well, help me, then!” 

Her composure was slipping. 

“It — it is not a question of — ” she stammered. “My 
mother’s diadem — ” 

“Your mother’s?” 

She looked angry with herself. 

“When I lived,” she said stiffly, “I was Helena 
Ravenclaw.” 

“You’re her daughter? But then, you must know what 
happened to it!” 



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“While the diadem bestows wisdom,” she said with an 
obvious effort to pull herself together, “I doubt that it 
would greatly increase your chances of defeating the 
wizard who calls himself Lord — ” 

“Haven’t I just told you, I’m not interested in wearing 
it!” Harry said fiercely. “There’s no time to explain — 
but if you care about Hogwarts, if you want to see 
Voldemort finished, you’ve got to tell me anything you 
know about the diadem!” 

She remained quite still, floating in midair, staring 
down at him, and a sense of hopelessness engulfed 
Harry. Of course, if she had known anything, she 
would have told Flitwick or Dumbledore, who had 
surely asked her the same question. He had shaken 
his head and made to turn away when she spoke in a 
low voice. 

“I stole the diadem from my mother.” 

“You — you did what?” 

“ I stole the diadem,” repeated Helena Ravenclaw in a 
whisper. “I sought to make myself cleverer, more 
important than my mother. I ran away with it.” 

He did not know how he had managed to gain her 
confidence, and did not ask; he simply listened, hard, 
as she went on: 

“My mother, they say, never admitted that the diadem 
was gone, but pretended that she had it still. She 
concealed her loss, my dreadful betrayal, even from 
the other founders of Hogwarts. 

“Then my mother fell ill — fatally ill. In spite of my 
perfidy, she was desperate to see me one more time. 
She sent a man who had long loved me, though I 

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spurned his advances, to find me. She knew that he 
would not rest until he had done so.” 



Harry waited. She drew a deep breath and threw back 
her head. 

“He tracked me to the forest where I was hiding. 

When I refused to return with him, he became violent. 
The Baron was always a hot-tempered man. Furious 
at my refusal, jealous of my freedom, he stabbed me.” 

“The Baron? You mean — ?” 

“The Bloody Baron, yes,” said the Gray Lady, and she 
lifted aside the cloak she wore to reveal a single dark 
wound in her white chest. “When he saw what he had 
done, he was overcome with remorse. He took the 
weapon that had claimed my life, and used it to kill 
himself. All these centuries later, he wears his chains 
as an act of penitence ... as he should,” she added 
bitterly. 

“And . . . and the diadem?” 

“It remained where I had hidden it when I heard the 
Baron blundering through the forest toward me. 
Concealed inside a hollow tree. 

“A hollow tree?” repeated Harry. “What tree? Where 
was this?” 

“A forest in Albania. A lonely place I thought was far 
beyond my mother’s reach.” 

“Albania,” repeated Harry. Sense was emerging 
miraculously from confusion, and now he understood 
why she was telling him what she had denied 
Dumbledore and Flitwick. “You’ve already told 
someone this story, haven’t you? Another student?” 
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She closed her eyes and nodded. 



“I had ... no idea. . . . He was . . . flattering. He seemed 
to ... to understand ... to sympathize. ...” 

Yes, Harry thought, Tom Riddle would certainly have 
understood Helena Ravenclaw’s desire to possess 
fabulous objects to which she had little right. 

“Well, you weren’t the first person Riddle wormed 
things out of,” Harry muttered. “He could be 
charming when he wanted. ...” 

So Voldemort had managed to wheedle the location of 
the lost diadem out of the Gray Lady. He had traveled 
to that far-flung forest and retrieved the diadem from 
its hiding place, perhaps as soon as he left Hogwarts, 
before he even started work at Borgin and Burkes. 

And wouldn’t those secluded Albanian woods have 
seemed an excellent refuge when, so much later, 
Voldemort had needed a place to lie low, undisturbed, 
for ten long years? 

But the diadem, once it became his precious Horcrux, 
had not been left in that lowly tree. ... No, the diadem 
had been returned secretly to its true home, and 
Voldemort must have put it there — 

“ — the night he asked for a job!” said Harry, finishing 
his thought. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“He hid the diadem in the castle, the night he asked 
Dumbledore to let him teach!” said Harry. Saying it 
out loud enabled him to make sense of it all. “He 
must’ve hidden the diadem on his way up to, or down 
from, Dumbledore ’s office! But it was still worth trying 
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to get the job — then he might’ve got the chance to 
nick Gryffindor’s sword as well — thank you, thanks!” 



Harry left her floating there, looking utterly 
bewildered. As he rounded the corner back into the 
entrance hall, he checked his watch. It was five 
minutes until midnight, and though he now knew 
what the last Horcrux was, he was no closer to 
discovering where it was. ... 

Generations of students had failed to find the diadem; 
that suggested that it was not in Ravenclaw Tower — 
but if not there, where? What hiding place had Tom 
Riddle discovered inside Hogwarts Castle, that he 
believed would remain secret forever? 

Lost in desperate speculation, Harry turned a corner, 
but he had taken only a few steps down the new 
corridor when the window to his left broke open with 
a deafening, shattering crash. As he leapt aside, a 
gigantic body flew in through the window and hit the 
opposite wall. Something large and furry detached 
itself, whimpering, from the new arrival and flung 
itself at Harry. 

“Hagrid!” Harry bellowed, fighting off Fang the 
boarhound’s attentions as the enormous bearded 
figure clambered to his feet. “What the — ?” 

“Harry, yer here! Yer here\” 

Hagrid stooped down, bestowed upon Harry a cursory 
and rib-cracking hug, then ran back to the shattered 
window. 

“Good boy, Grawpy!” he bellowed through the hole in 
the window. “I’ll see yer in a moment, there’s a good 
lad!” 

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Beyond Hagrid, out in the dark night, Harry saw 
bursts of light in the distance and heard a weird, 
keening scream. He looked down at his watch: It was 
midnight. The battle had begun. 

“Blimey, Harry,” panted Hagrid, “this is it, eh? Time 
ter fight?” 

“Hagrid, where have you come from?” 

“Heard You-Know-Who from up in our cave,” said 
Hagrid grimly. “Voice carried, didn’ it? Yeh got till 
midnight ter gimme Potter.’ Knew yeh mus’ be here, 
knew what mus’ be happenin’. Get down, Fang. So we 
come ter join in, me an’ Grawpy an’ Fang. Smashed 
our way through the boundary by the forest, Grawpy 
was carryin’ us, Fang an’ me. Told him ter let me 
down at the castle, so he shoved me through the 
window, bless him. Not exac’ly what I meant, bu’ — 
where’s Ron an’ Hermione?” 

“That,” said Harry, “is a really good question. Come 
on.” 

They hurried together along the corridor, Fang 
lolloping beside them. Harry could hear movement 
through the corridors all around: running footsteps, 
shouts; through the windows, he could see more 
flashes of light in the dark grounds. 

“Where’re we goin’?” puffed Hagrid, pounding along at 
Harry’s heels, making the floorboards quake. 

“I dunno exactly,” said Harry, making another 
random turn, “but Ron and Hermione must be 
around here somewhere. ...” 

The first casualties of the battle were already strewn 
across the passage ahead: The two stone gargoyles 

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that usually guarded the entrance to the staffroom 
had been smashed apart by a jinx that had sailed 
through another broken window. Their remains 
stirred feebly on the floor, and as Harry leapt over one 
of their disembodied heads, it moaned faintly, “Oh, 
don’t mind me ... I’ll just lie here and crumble. ...” 

Its ugly stone face made Harry think suddenly of the 
marble bust of Rowena Ravenclaw at Xenophilius’s 
house, wearing that mad headdress — and then of 
the statue in Ravenclaw Tower, with the stone diadem 
upon her white curls. ... 

And as he reached the end of the passage, the 
memory of a third stone effigy came back to him: that 
of an ugly old warlock, onto whose head Harry 
himself had placed a wig and a battered old tiara. The 
shock shot through Harry with the heat of firewhisky, 
and he nearly stumbled. 

He knew, at last, where the Horcrux sat waiting for 
him. ... 

Tom Riddle, who confided in no one and operated 
alone, might have been arrogant enough to assume 
that he, and only he, had penetrated the deepest 
mysteries of Hogwarts Castle. Of course, Dumbledore 
and Flitwick, those model pupils, had never set foot in 
that particular place, but he, Harry, had strayed off 
the beaten track in his time at school — here at last 
was a secret he and Voldemort knew, that 
Dumbledore had never discovered — 

He was roused by Professor Sprout, who was 
thundering past followed by Neville and half a dozen 
others, all of them wearing earmuffs and carrying 
what appeared to be large potted plants. 



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“Mandrakes!” Neville bellowed at Harry over his 
shoulder as he ran. “Going to lob them over the walls 
— they won’t like this!” 

Harry knew now where to go: He sped off, with Hagrid 
and Fang galloping behind him. They passed portrait 
after portrait, and the painted figures raced alongside 
them, wizards and witches in ruffs and breeches, in 
armor and cloaks, cramming themselves into each 
others’ canvases, screaming news from other parts of 
the castle. As they reached the end of this corridor, 
the whole castle shook, and Harry knew, as a gigantic 
vase blew off its plinth with explosive force, that it 
was in the grip of enchantments more sinister than 
those of the teachers and the Order. 

“It’s all righ’, Fang — it’s all righ’!” yelled Hagrid, but 
the great boarhound had taken flight as slivers of 
china flew like shrapnel through the air, and Hagrid 
pounded off after the terrified dog, leaving Harry 
alone. 

He forged on through the trembling passages, his 
wand at the ready, and for the length of one corridor 
the little painted knight, Sir Cadogan, rushed from 
painting to painting beside him, clanking along in his 
armor, screaming encouragement, his fat little pony 
cantering behind him. 

“Braggarts and rogues, dogs and scoundrels, drive 
them out, Harry Potter, see them off!” 

Harry hurtled around a corner and found Fred and a 
small knot of students, including Lee Jordan and 
Hannah Abbott, standing beside another empty 
plinth, whose statue had concealed a secret 
passageway. Their wands were drawn and they were 
listening at the concealed hole. 



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“Nice night for it!” Fred shouted as the castle quaked 
again, and Harry sprinted by, elated and terrified in 
equal measure. Along yet another corridor he dashed, 
and then there were owls everywhere, and Mrs. Norris 
was hissing and trying to bat them with her paws, no 
doubt to return them to their proper place. ... 

“Potter!” 

Aberforth Dumbledore stood blocking the corridor 
ahead, his wand held ready. 

“I’ve had hundreds of kids thundering through my 
pub, Potter!” 

“I know, we’re evacuating,” Harry said, “Voldemort’s 



“ — attacking because they haven’t handed you over, 
yeah,” said Aberforth, “I’m not deaf, the whole of 
Hogsmeade heard him. And it never occurred to any 
of you to keep a few Slytherins hostage? There are 
kids of Death Eaters you’ve just sent to safety. 
Wouldn’t it have been a bit smarter to keep ’em here?” 

“It wouldn’t stop Voldemort,” said Harry, “and your 
brother would never have done it.” 

Aberforth grunted and tore away in the opposite 
direction. 

Your brother would never have done it. ... Well, it was 
the truth, Harry thought as he ran on again; 
Dumbledore, who had defended Snape for so long, 
would never have held students ransom. ... 

And then he skidded around a final corner and with a 
yell of mingled relief and fury he saw them: Ron and 
Hermione, both with their arms full of large, curved, 

Page | 703 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




dirty yellow objects, Ron with a broomstick under his 
arm. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Harry shouted. 

“Chamber of Secrets,” said Ron. 

“Chamber — what?” said Harry, coming to an 
unsteady halt before them. 

“It was Ron, all Ron’s idea!” said Hermione 
breathlessly. “Wasn’t it absolutely brilliant? There we 
were, after you left, and I said to Ron, even if we find 
the other one, how are we going to get rid of it? We 
still hadn’t got rid of the cup! And then he thought of 
it! The basilisk!” 

“What the — ?” 

“Something to get rid of Horcruxes,” said Ron simply. 

Harry’s eyes dropped to the objects clutched in Ron 
and Hermione’s arms: great curved fangs, torn, he 
now realized, from the skull of a dead basilisk. 

“But how did you get in there?” he asked, staring 
from the fangs to Ron. “You need to speak 
Parseltongue!” 

“He did!” whispered Hermione. “Show him, Ron!” 

Ron made a horrible strangled hissing noise. 

“It’s what you did to open the locket,” he told Harry 
apologetically. “I had to have a few goes to get it right, 
but,” he shrugged modestly, “we got there in the end.” 

“He was amazing.” said Hermione. “Amazing!” 



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“So ...” Harry was struggling to keep up. “So ...” 



“So we’re another Horcrux down,” said Ron, and from 
under his jacket he pulled the mangled remains of 
Hufflepuff’s cup. “Hermione stabbed it. Thought she 
should. She hasn’t had the pleasure yet.” 

“Genius!” yelled Harry. 

“It was nothing,” said Ron, though he looked 
delighted with himself. “So what’s new with you?” 

As he said it, there was an explosion from overhead: 
All three of them looked up as dust fell from the 
ceiling and they heard a distant scream. 

“I know what the diadem looks like, and I know where 
it is,” said Harry, talking fast. “He hid it exactly where 
I hid my old Potions book, where everyone’s been 
hiding stuff for centuries. He thought he was the only 
one to find it. Come on.” 

As the walls trembled again, he led the other two back 
through the concealed entrance and down the 
staircase into the Room of Requirement. It was empty 
except for three women: Ginny, Tonks, and an elderly 
witch wearing a moth-eaten hat, whom Harry 
recognized immediately as Neville’s grandmother. 

“Ah, Potter,” she said crisply as if she had been 
waiting for him. “You can tell us what’s going on.” 

“Is everyone okay?” said Ginny and Tonks together. 

“ ’S far as we know,” said Harry. “Are there still people 
in the passage to the Hog’s Head?” 

He knew that the room would not be able to 
transform while there were still users inside it. 

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“I was the last to come through,” said Mrs. 
Longbottom. “I sealed it, I think it unwise to leave it 
open now Aberforth has left his pub. Have you seen 
my grandson?” 

“He’s fighting,” said Harry. 

“Naturally,” said the old lady proudly. “Excuse me, I 
must go and assist him.” 

With surprising speed she trotted off toward the stone 
steps. 

Harry looked at Tonks. 

“I thought you were supposed to be with Teddy at 
your mother’s?” 

“I couldn’t stand not knowing — ” Tonks looked 
anguished. “She’ll look after him — have you seen 
Remus?” 

“He was planning to lead a group of fighters into the 
grounds — ” 

Without another word, Tonks sped off. 

“Ginny,” said Harry, “I’m sorry, but we need you to 
leave too. Just for a bit. Then you can come back in.” 

Ginny looked simply delighted to leave her sanctuary. 

“And then you can come back in!” he shouted after 
her as she ran up the steps after Tonks. “ You’ve got to 
come back ini” 

“Hang on a moment!” said Ron sharply. “We’ve 
forgotten someone!” 



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“Who?” asked Hermione. 



“The house-elves, they’ll all be down in the kitchen, 
won’t they?” 

“You mean we ought to get them fighting?” asked 
Harry. 

“No,” said Ron seriously, “I mean we should tell them 
to get out. We don’t want any more Dobbies, do we? 
We can’t order them to die for us — ” 

There was a clatter as the basilisk fangs cascaded out 
of Hermione ’s arms. Running at Ron, she flung them 
around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. 
Ron threw away the fangs and broomstick he was 
holding and responded with such enthusiasm that he 
lifted Hermione off her feet. 

“Is this the moment?” Harry asked weakly, and when 
nothing happened except that Ron and Hermione 
gripped each other still more firmly and swayed on 
the spot, he raised his voice. “01! There’s a war going 
on here!” 

Ron and Hermione broke apart, their arms still 
around each other. 

“I know, mate,” said Ron, who looked as though he 
had recently been hit on the back of the head with a 
Bludger, “so it’s now or never, isn’t it?” 

“Never mind that, what about the Horcrux?” Harry 
shouted. “D’you think you could just — just hold it in 
until we’ve got the diadem?” 

“Yeah — right — sorry — ” said Ron, and he and 
Hermione set about gathering up fangs, both pink in 
the face. 

Page | 707 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




It was clear, as the three of them stepped back into 
the corridor upstairs, that in the minutes that they 
had spent in the Room of Requirement the situation 
within the castle had deteriorated severely: The walls 
and ceiling were shaking worse than ever; dust filled 
the air, and through the nearest window, Harry saw 
bursts of green and red light so close to the foot of the 
castle that he knew the Death Eaters must be very 
near to entering the place. Looking down, Harry saw 
Grawp the giant meandering past, swinging what 
looked like a stone gargoyle torn from the roof and 
roaring his displeasure. 

“Let’s hope he steps on some of them!” said Ron as 
more screams echoed from close by. 

“As long as it’s not any of our lot!” said a voice: Harry 
turned and saw Ginny and Tonks, both with their 
wands drawn at the next window, which was missing 
several panes. Even as he watched, Ginny sent a well- 
aimed jinx into a crowd of fighters below. 

“Good girl!” roared a figure running through the dust 
toward them, and Harry saw Aberforth again, his gray 
hair flying as he led a small group of students past. 
“They look like they might be breaching the north 
battlements, they’ve brought giants of their own!” 

“Have you seen Remus?” Tonks called after him. 

“He was dueling Dolohov,” shouted Aberforth, 

“haven’t seen him since! 

“Tonks,” said Ginny, “Tonks, I’m sure he’s okay — ” 
But Tonks had run off into the dust after Aberforth. 
Ginny turned, helpless, to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. 



Page | 708 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“They’ll be all right,” said Harry, though he knew they 
were empty words. “Ginny, we’ll be back in a moment, 
just keep out of the way, keep safe — come on!” he 
said to Ron and Hermione, and they ran back to the 
stretch of wall beyond which the Room of 
Requirement was waiting to do the bidding of the next 
entrant. 

I need the place where everything is hidden, Harry 
begged of it inside his head, and the door materialized 
on their third run past. 

The furor of the battle died the moment they crossed 
the threshold and closed the door behind them: All 
was silent. They were in a place the size of a cathedral 
with the appearance of a city, its towering walls built 
of objects hidden by thousands of long-gone students. 

“And he never realized anyone could get in?” said 
Ron, his voice echoing in the silence. 

“He thought he was the only one,” said Harry. “Too 
bad for him I’ve had to hide stuff in my time ... this 
way,” he added, “I think it’s down here. ...” 

He passed the stuffed troll and the Vanishing Cabinet 
Draco Malfoy had mended last year with such 
disastrous consequences, then hesitated, looking up 
and down aisles of junk; he could not remember 
where to go next. ... 

“ Accio Diadem).” cried Hermione in desperation, but 
nothing flew through the air toward them. It seemed 
that, like the vault at Gringotts, the room would not 
yield its hidden objects that easily. 

“Let’s split up,” Harry told the other two. “Look for a 
stone bust of an old man wearing a wig and a tiara! 



Page | 709 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




It’s standing on a cupboard and it’s definitely 
somewhere near here. ...” 



They sped off up adjacent aisles; Harry could hear the 
others’ footsteps echoing through the towering piles of 
junk, of bottles, hats, crates, chairs, books, weapons, 
broomsticks, bats. ... 

“Somewhere near here,” Harry muttered to himself. 
“Somewhere ... somewhere ...” 

Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth he went, looking 
for objects he recognized from his one previous trip 
into the room. His breath was loud in his ears, and 
then his very soul seemed to shiver: There it was, 
right ahead, the blistered old cupboard in which he 
had hidden his old Potions book, and on top of it, the 
pockmarked stone warlock wearing a dusty old wig 
and what looked like an ancient, discolored tiara. 

He had already stretched out his hand, though he 
remained ten feet away, when a voice behind him 
said, “Hold it, Potter.” 

He skidded to a halt and turned around. Crabbe and 
Goyle were standing behind him, shoulder to 
shoulder, wands pointing right at Harry. Through the 
small space between their leering faces he saw Draco 
Malfoy. 

“That’s my wand you’re holding, Potter,” said Malfoy, 
pointing his own through the gap between Crabbe 
and Goyle. 

“Not anymore,” panted Harry, tightening his grip on 
the hawthorn wand. “Winners, keepers, Malfoy. Who’s 
lent you theirs?” 

“My mother,” said Draco. 

Page | 710 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




Harry laughed, though there was nothing very 
humorous about the situation. He could not hear Ron 
or Hermione anymore. They seemed to have run out 
of earshot, searching for the diadem. 

“So how come you three aren’t with Voldemort?” 
asked Harry. 

“We’re gonna be rewarded,” said Crabbe: His voice 
was surprisingly soft for such an enormous person; 
Harry had hardly ever heard him speak before. 

Crabbe was smiling like a small child promised a 
large bag of sweets. “We ’ung back, Potter. We decided 
not to go. Decided to bring you to ’im.” 

“Good plan,” said Harry in mock admiration. He could 
not believe that he was this close, and was going to be 
thwarted by Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. He began 
edging slowly backward toward the place where the 
Horcrux sat lopsided upon the bust. If he could just 
get his hands on it before the fight broke out . . . 

“So how did you get in here?” he asked, trying to 
distract them. 

“I virtually lived in the Room of Hidden Things all last 
year,” said Malfoy, his voice brittle. “I know how to get 
in.” 



“We was hiding in the corridor outside,” grunted 
Goyle. “We can do Diss-lusion Charms now! And 
then,” his face split into a gormless grin, “you turned 
up right in front of us and said you was looking for a 
die-dum! What’s a die-dum?” 

“Harry?” Ron’s voice echoed suddenly from the other 
side of the wall to Harry’s right. “Are you talking to 
someone?” 



Page | 711 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




With a whiplike movement, Crabbe pointed his wand 
at the fifty-foot mountain of old furniture, of broken 
trunks, of old books and robes and unidentifiable 
junk, and shouted, “DescendoV’ 

The wall began to totter, then the top third crumbled 
into the aisle next door where Ron stood. 

“Ron!” Harry bellowed, as somewhere out of sight 
Hermione screamed, and Harry heard innumerable 
objects crashing to the floor on the other side of the 
destabilized wall: He pointed his wand at the rampart, 
cried, “Finite!” and it steadied. 

“No!” shouted Malfoy, staying Crabbe’s arm as the 
latter made to repeat his spell. “If you wreck the room 
you might bury this diadem thing!” 

“What’s that matter?” said Crabbe, tugging himself 
free. “It’s Potter the Dark Lord wants, who cares 
about a die-dum?” 

“Potter came in here to get it,” said Malfoy with ill- 
disguised impatience at the slow-wittedness of his 
colleagues, “so that must mean — ” 

“ ‘Must mean?” Crabbe turned on Malfoy with 
undisguised ferocity. “Who cares what you think? I 
don’t take your orders no more, Draco. You an’ your 
dad are finished.” 

“Harry?” shouted Ron again, from the other side of 
the junk wall. “What’s going on?” 

“Harry?” mimicked Crabbe. “What’s going — no, 

Potter! Cruciol” 

Harry had lunged for the tiara; Crabbe’s curse missed 
him but hit the stone bust, which flew into the air; 

Page | 712 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




the diadem soared upward and then dropped out of 
sight in the mass of objects on which the bust had 
rested. 

“STOP!” Malfoy shouted at Crabbe, his voice echoing 
through the enormous room. “The Dark Lord wants 
him alive — ” 

“So? I’m not killing him, am I?” yelled Crabbe, 
throwing off Malfoy’s restraining arm. “But if I can, I 
will, the Dark Lord wants him dead anyway, what’s 
thediff— ?” 

A jet of scarlet light shot past Harry by inches: 
Hermione had run around the corner behind him and 
sent a Stunning Spell straight at Crabbe ’s head. It 
only missed because Malfoy pulled him out of the 
way. 

“It’s that Mudblood! Avada Kedavral” 

Harry saw Hermione dive aside, and his fury that 
Crabbe had aimed to kill wiped all else from his mind. 
He shot a Stunning Spell at Crabbe, who lurched out 
of the way, knocking Malfoy’s wand out of his hand; it 
rolled out of sight beneath a mountain of broken 
furniture and boxes. 

“Don’t kill him! DONT KILL HIM!” Malfoy yelled at 
Crabbe and Goyle, who were both aiming at Harry: 
Their split second’s hesitation was all Harry needed. 

“ Expelliarmusl” 

Goyle ’s wand flew out of his hand and disappeared 
into the bulwark of objects beside him; Goyle leapt 
foolishly on the spot, trying to retrieve it; Malfoy 
jumped out of range of Hermione ’s second Stunning 
Spell, and Ron, appearing suddenly at the end of the 
Page | 713 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




aisle, shot a full Body-Bind Curse at Crabbe, which 
narrowly missed. 

Crabbe wheeled around and screamed, “Avada 
KedavraY’ again. Ron leapt out of sight to avoid the jet 
of green light. The wandless Malfoy cowered behind a 
three-legged wardrobe as Hermione charged toward 
them, hitting Goyle with a Stunning Spell as she 
came. 

“It’s somewhere here!” Harry yelled at her, pointing at 
the pile of junk into which the old tiara had fallen. 
“Look for it while I go and help R — ” 

“HARRY!” she screamed. 

A roaring, billowing noise behind him gave him a 
moment’s warning. He turned and saw both Ron and 
Crabbe running as hard as they could up the aisle 
toward them. 

“Like it hot, scum?” roared Crabbe as he ran. 

But he seemed to have no control over what he had 
done. Flames of abnormal size were pursuing them, 
licking up the sides of the junk bulwarks, which were 
crumbling to soot at their touch. 

“Aguamenti\” Harry bawled, but the jet of water that 
soared from the tip of his wand evaporated in the air. 

“RUN!” 

Malfoy grabbed the Stunned Goyle and dragged him 
along; Crabbe outstripped all of them, now looking 
terrified; Harry, Ron, and Hermione pelted along in 
his wake, and the fire pursued them. It was not 
normal fire; Crabbe had used a curse of which Harry 
had no knowledge: As they turned a corner the flames 
Page | 714 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




chased them as though they were alive, sentient, 
intent upon killing them. Now the fire was mutating, 
forming a gigantic pack of fiery beasts: Flaming 
serpents, chimaeras, and dragons rose and fell and 
rose again, and the detritus of centuries on which 
they were feeding was thrown up in the air into their 
fanged mouths, tossed high on clawed feet, before 
being consumed by the inferno. 

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had vanished from view: 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione stopped dead; the fiery 
monsters were circling them, drawing closer and 
closer, claws and horns and tails lashed, and the heat 
was solid as a wall around them. 

“What can we do?” Hermione screamed over the 
deafening roars of the fire. “What can we do?” 

“Here!” 

Harry seized a pair of heavy-looking broomsticks from 
the nearest pile of junk and threw one to Ron, who 
pulled Hermione onto it behind him. Harry swung his 
leg over the second broom and, with hard kicks to the 
ground, they soared up into the air, missing by feet 
the horned beak of a flaming raptor that snapped its 
jaws at them. The smoke and heat were becoming 
overwhelming: Below them the cursed fire was 
consuming the contraband of generations of hunted 
students, the guilty outcomes of a thousand banned 
experiments, the secrets of the countless souls who 
had sought refuge in the room. Harry could not see a 
trace of Malfoy, Crabbe, or Goyle anywhere: He 
swooped as low as he dared over the marauding 
monsters of flame to try to find them, but there was 
nothing but fire: What a terrible way to die. ... He had 
never wanted this. ... 



Page | 715 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“Harry, let’s get out, let’s get out!” bellowed Ron, 
though it was impossible to see where the door was 
through the black smoke. 

And then Harry heard a thin, piteous human scream 
from amidst the terrible commotion, the thunder of 
devouring flame. 

“It’s — too — dangerous — !” Ron yelled, but Harry 
wheeled in the air. His glasses giving his eyes some 
small protection from the smoke, he raked the 
firestorm below, seeking a sign of life, a limb or a face 
that was not yet charred like wood. ... 

And he saw them: Malfoy with his arms around the 
unconscious Goyle, the pair of them perched on a 
fragile tower of charred desks, and Harry dived. 

Malfoy saw him coming and raised one arm, but even 
as Harry grasped it he knew at once that it was no 
good: Goyle was too heavy and Malfoy ’s hand, covered 
in sweat, slid instantly out of Harry’s — 

“IF WE DIE FOR THEM, I’LL KILL YOU, HARRY!” 
roared Ron’s voice, and, as a great flaming chimaera 
bore down upon them, he and Hermione dragged 
Goyle onto their broom and rose, rolling and pitching, 
into the air once more as Malfoy clambered up behind 
Harry. 

“The door, get to the door, the door!” screamed Malfoy 
in Harry’s ear, and Harry sped up, following Ron, 
Hermione, and Goyle through the billowing black 
smoke, hardly able to breathe: and all around them 
the last few objects unburned by the devouring flames 
were flung into the air, as the creatures of the cursed 
fire cast them high in celebration: cups and shields, a 
sparkling necklace, and an old, discolored tiara — 



Page | 716 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“ What are you doing, what are you doing, the door’s 
that way\” screamed Malfoy, but Harry made a 
hairpin swerve and dived. The diadem seemed to fall 
in slow motion, turning and glittering as it dropped 
toward the maw of a yawning serpent, and then he 
had it, caught it around his wrist — 

Harry swerved again as the serpent lunged at him; he 
soared upward and straight toward the place where, 
he prayed, the door stood open: Ron, Hermione, and 
Goyle had vanished; Malfoy was screaming and 
holding Harry so tightly it hurt. Then, through the 
smoke, Harry saw a rectangular patch on the wall 
and steered the broom at it, and moments later clean 
air filled his lungs and they collided with the wall in 
the corridor beyond. 

Malfoy fell off the broom and lay facedown, gasping, 
coughing, and retching. Harry rolled over and sat up: 
The door to the Room of Requirement had vanished, 
and Ron and Hermione sat panting on the floor beside 
Goyle, who was still unconscious. 

“C-Crabbe,” choked Malfoy as soon as he could 
speak. “C-Crabbe ...” 

“He’s dead,” said Ron harshly. 

There was silence, apart from panting and coughing. 
Then a number of huge bangs shook the castle, and a 
great cavalcade of transparent figures galloped past 
on horses, their heads screaming with bloodlust 
under their arms. Harry staggered to his feet when 
the Headless Hunt had passed and looked around: 

The battle was still going on all around him. He could 
hear more screams than those of the retreating 
ghosts. Panic flared within him. 



Page | 717 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“Where’s Ginny?” he said sharply. “She was here. She 
was supposed to be going back into the Room of 
Requirement.” 

“Blimey, d’you reckon it’ll still work after that fire?” 
asked Ron, but he too got to his feet, rubbing his 
chest and looking left and right. “Shall we split up 
and look — ?” 

“No,” said Hermione, getting to her feet too. Malfoy 
and Goyle remained slumped hopelessly on the 
corridor floor; neither of them had wands. “Let’s stick 
together. I say we go — Harry, what’s that on your 
arm?” 

“What? Oh yeah — ” 

He pulled the diadem from his wrist and held it up. It 
was still hot, blackened with soot, but as he looked at 
it closely he was just able to make out the tiny words 
etched upon it: WIT BEYOND MEASURE IS MAN’S 
GREATEST TREASURE. 

A bloodlike substance, dark and tarry, seemed to be 
leaking from the diadem. Suddenly Harry felt the 
thing vibrate violently, then break apart in his hands, 
and as it did so, he thought he heard the faintest, 
most distant scream of pain, echoing not from the 
grounds or the castle, but from the thing that had 
just fragmented in his fingers. 

“It must have been Fiendfyre!” whimpered Hermione, 
her eyes on the broken pieces. 

“Sorry?” 

“Fiendfyre — cursed fire — it’s one of the substances 
that destroy Horcruxes, but I would never, ever have 



Page | 718 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




dared use it, it’s so dangerous — how did Crabbe 
know how to — ?” 

“Must’ve learned from the Carrows,” said Harry 
grimly. 

“Shame he wasn’t concentrating when they 
mentioned how to stop it, really,” said Ron, whose 
hair, like Hermione’s, was singed, and whose face was 
blackened. “If he hadn’t tried to kill us all, I’d be quite 
sorry he was dead.” 

“But don’t you realize?” whispered Hermione. “This 
means, if we can just get the snake — ” 

But she broke off as yells and shouts and the 
unmistakable noises of dueling filled the corridor. 
Harry looked around and his heart seemed to fail: 
Death Eaters had penetrated Hogwarts. Fred and 
Percy had just backed into view, both of them dueling 
masked and hooded men. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione ran forward to help: Jets of 
light flew in every direction and the man dueling 
Percy backed off, fast: Then his hood slipped and they 
saw a high forehead and streaked hair — 

“Hello, Minister!” bellowed Percy, sending a neat jinx 
straight at Thicknesse, who dropped his wand and 
clawed at the front of his robes, apparently in awful 
discomfort. “Did I mention I’m resigning?” 

“You’re joking, Perce!” shouted Fred as the Death 
Eater he was battling collapsed under the weight of 
three separate Stunning Spells. Thicknesse had fallen 
to the ground with tiny spikes erupting all over him; 
he seemed to be turning into some form of sea urchin. 
Fred looked at Percy with glee. 



Page | 719 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“You actually are joking, Perce. ... I don’t think I’ve 
heard you joke since you were — ” 

The air exploded. They had been grouped together, 
Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and Percy, the two 
Death Eaters at their feet, one Stunned, the other 
Transfigured; and in that fragment of a moment, 
when danger seemed temporarily at bay, the world 
was rent apart. Harry felt himself flying through the 
air, and all he could do was hold as tightly as possible 
to that thin stick of wood that was his one and only 
weapon, and shield his head in his arms: He heard 
the screams and yells of his companions without a 
hope of knowing what had happened to them — 

And then the world resolved itself into pain and 
semidarkness: He was half buried in the wreckage of 
a corridor that had been subjected to a terrible 
attack. Cold air told him that the side of the castle 
had been blown away, and hot stickiness on his 
cheek told him that he was bleeding copiously. Then 
he heard a terrible cry that pulled at his insides, that 
expressed agony of a kind neither flame nor curse 
could cause, and he stood up, swaying, more 
frightened than he had been that day, more 
frightened, perhaps, than he had been in his life. ... 

And Hermione was struggling to her feet in the 
wreckage, and three redheaded men were grouped on 
the ground where the wall had blasted apart. Harry 
grabbed Hermione ’s hand as they staggered and 
stumbled over stone and wood. 

“No — no — no!” someone was shouting. “No! Fred! 
No!” 

And Percy was shaking his brother, and Ron was 
kneeling beside them, and Fred’s eyes stared without 



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seeing, the ghost of his last laugh still etched upon 
his face. 



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THE ELDER WAND 

The world had ended, so why had the battle not 
ceased, the castle fallen silent in horror, and every 
combatant laid down their arms? Harry’s mind was in 
free fall, spinning out of control, unable to grasp the 
impossibility, because Fred Weasley could not be 
dead, the evidence of all his senses must be lying — 

And then a body fell past the hole blown into the side 
of the school, and curses flew in at them from the 
darkness, hitting the wall behind their heads. 

“Get down!” Harry shouted, as more curses flew 
through the night: He and Ron had both grabbed 
Hermione and pulled her to the floor, but Percy lay 
across Fred’s body, shielding it from further harm, 
and when Harry shouted, “Percy, come on, we’ve got 
to move!” he shook his head. 

“Percy!” Harry saw tear tracks streaking the grime 
coating Ron’s face as he seized his elder brother’s 
shoulders and pulled, but Percy would not budge. 



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“Percy, you can’t do anything for him! We’re going to 



Hermione screamed, and Harry, turning, did not need 
to ask why. A monstrous spider the size of a small car 
was trying to climb through the huge hole in the wall: 
One of Aragog’s descendants had joined the fight. 

Ron and Harry shouted together; their spells collided 
and the monster was blown backward, its legs jerking 
horribly, and vanished into the darkness. 

“It brought friends!” Harry called to the others, 
glancing over the edge of the castle through the hole 
in the wall the curses had blasted: More giant spiders 
were climbing the side of the building, liberated from 
the Forbidden Forest, into which the Death Eaters 
must have penetrated. Harry fired Stunning Spells 
down upon them, knocking the lead monster into its 
fellows, so that they rolled back down the building 
and out of sight. Then more curses came soaring over 
Harry’s head, so close he felt the force of them blow 
his hair. 

“Let’s move, NOW!” 

Pushing Hermione ahead of him with Ron, Harry 
stooped to seize Fred’s body under the armpits. Percy, 
realizing what Harry was trying to do, stopped 
clinging to the body and helped; together, crouching 
low to avoid the curses flying at them from the 
grounds, they hauled Fred out of the way. 

“Here,” said Harry, and they placed him in a niche 
where a suit of armor had stood earlier. He could not 
bear to look at Fred a second longer than he had to, 
and after making sure that the body was well hidden, 
he took off after Ron and Hermione. Malfoy and Goyle 
had vanished, but at the end of the corridor, which 
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was now full of dust and falling masonry, glass long 
gone from the windows, he saw many people running 
backward and forward, whether friends or foes he 
could not tell. Rounding the corner, Percy let out a 
bull-like roar: “ROOKWOOD!” and sprinted off in the 
direction of a tall man, who was pursuing a couple of 
students. 

“Harry, in here!” Hermione screamed. 

She had pulled Ron behind a tapestry: They seemed 
to be wrestling together, and for one mad second 
Harry thought that they were embracing again; then 
he saw that Hermione was trying to restrain Ron, to 
stop him running after Percy. 

“Listen to me — LISTEN, ROM” 

“I wanna help — I wanna kill Death Eaters — ” 

His face was contorted, smeared with dust and 
smoke, and he was shaking with rage and grief. 

“Ron, we’re the only ones who can end it! Please — 
Ron — we need the snake, we’ve got to kill the snake!” 
said Hermione. 

But Harry knew how Ron felt: Pursuing another 
Horcrux could not bring the satisfaction of revenge; 
he too wanted to fight, to punish them, the people 
who had killed Fred, and he wanted to find the other 
Weasleys, and above all make sure, make quite sure, 
that Ginny was not — but he could not permit that 
idea to form in his mind — 

“We will fight!” Hermione said. “We’ll have to, to reach 
the snake! But let’s not lose sight now of what we’re 
supposed to be d-doing! We’re the only ones who can 
end it!” 

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She was crying too, and she wiped her face on her 
torn and singed sleeve as she spoke, but she took 
great heaving breaths to calm herself as, still keeping 
a tight hold on Ron, she turned to Harry. 

“You need to find out where Voldemort is, because 
hell have the snake with him, won’t he? Do it, Harry 
— look inside him!” 

Why was it so easy? Because his scar had been 
burning for hours, yearning to show him Voldemort’s 
thoughts? He closed his eyes on her command, and at 
once, the screams and the bangs and all the 
discordant sounds of the battle were drowned until 
they became distant, as though he stood far, far away 
from them. ... 

He was standing in the middle of a desolate but 
strangely familiar room, with peeling paper on the 
walls and all the windows boarded except for one. The 
sounds of the assault on the castle were muffled and 
distant. The single unblocked window revealed 
distant bursts of light where the castle stood, but 
inside the room it was dark except for a solitary oil 
lamp. 

He was rolling his wand between his fingers, watching 
it, his thoughts on the room in the castle, the secret 
room only he had ever found, the room, like the 
Chamber, that you had to be clever and cunning and 
inquisitive to discover. . . . He was confident that the 
boy would not find the diadem . . . although 
Dumbledore’s puppet had come much farther than he 
had ever expected . . . too far. . . . 

“My Lord,” said a voice, desperate and cracked. He 
turned: There was Lucius Malfoy sitting in the 
darkest corner, ragged and still bearing the marks of 
the punishment he had received after the boy’s last 

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escape. One of his eyes remained closed and puffy. 
“My Lord ... please ... my son ...” 

“If your son is dead, Lucius, it is not my fault. He did 
not come and join me, like the rest of the Slytherins. 
Perhaps he has decided to befriend Harry Potter?” 

“No — never,” whispered Malfoy. 

“You must hope not.” 

“Aren’t — aren’t you afraid, my Lord, that Potter 
might die at another hand but yours?” asked Malfoy, 
his voice shaking. “Wouldn’t it be ... forgive me ... 
more prudent to call off this battle, enter the castle, 
and seek him y-yourself?” 

“Do not pretend, Lucius. You wish the battle to cease 
so that you can discover what has happened to your 
son. And I do not need to seek Potter. Before the night 
is out, Potter will have come to find me.” 

Voldemort dropped his gaze once more to the wand in 
his fingers. It troubled him ... and those things that 
troubled Lord Voldemort needed to be rearranged. ... 

“Go and fetch Snape.” 

“Snape, m-my Lord?” 

“Snape. Now. I need him. There is a — service — I 
require from him. Go.” 

Frightened, stumbling a little through the gloom, 
Lucius left the room. Voldemort continued to stand 
there, twirling the wand between his fingers, staring 
at it. 



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“It is the only way, Nagini,” he whispered, and he 
looked around, and there was the great thick snake, 
now suspended in midair, twisting gracefully within 
the enchanted, protected space he had made for her, 
a starry, transparent sphere somewhere between 
glittering cage and tank. 

With a gasp, Harry pulled back and opened his eyes; 
at the same moment his ears were assaulted with the 
screeches and cries, the smashes and bangs of battle. 

“He’s in the Shrieking Shack. The snake’s with him, 
it’s got some sort of magical protection around it. He’s 
just sent Lucius Malfoy to find Snape.” 

“Voldemort’s sitting in the Shrieking Shack?” said 
Hermione, outraged. “He’s not — he’s not even 
fighting?” 

“He doesn’t think he needs to fight,” said Harry. “He 
thinks I’m going to go to him.” 

“But why?” 

“He knows I’m after Horcruxes — he’s keeping Nagini 
close beside him — obviously I’m going to have to go 
to him to get near the thing — ” 

“Right,” said Ron, squaring his shoulders. “So you 
can’t go, that’s what he wants, what he’s expecting. 
You stay here and look after Hermione, and I’ll go and 
get it — ” 

Harry cut across Ron. 

“You two stay here, I’ll go under the Cloak and I’ll be 
back as soon as I — ” 



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“No,” said Hermione, “it makes much more sense if I 
take the Cloak and — ” 

“Don’t even think about it,” Ron snarled at her. 

Before Hermione could get farther than “Ron, I’m just 
as capable — ” the tapestry at the top of the staircase 
on which they stood was ripped open. 

“POTTER!” 

Two masked Death Eaters stood there, but even 
before their wands were fully raised, Hermione 
shouted, “Glisseo\” 

The stairs beneath their feet flattened into a chute 
and she, Harry, and Ron hurtled down it, unable to 
control their speed but so fast that the Death Eaters’ 
Stunning Spells flew far over their heads. They shot 
through the concealing tapestry at the bottom and 
spun onto the floor, hitting the opposite wall. 

“Duro\” cried Hermione, pointing her wand at the 
tapestry, and there were two loud, sickening crunches 
as the tapestry turned to stone and the Death Eaters 
pursuing them crumpled against it. 

“Get back!” shouted Ron, and he, Harry, and 
Hermione flattened themselves against a door as a 
herd of galloping desks thundered past, shepherded 
by a sprinting Professor McGonagall. She appeared 
not to notice them: Her hair had come down and 
there was a gash on her cheek. As she turned the 
corner, they heard her scream, “CHARGE!” 

“Harry, you get the Cloak on,” said Hermione. “Never 
mind us — ” 



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But he threw it over all three of them; large though 
they were, he doubted anyone would see their 
disembodied feet through the dust that clogged the 
air, the falling stone, the shimmer of spells. 

They ran down the next staircase and found 
themselves in a corridor full of duelers. The portraits 
on either side of the fighters were crammed with 
figures screaming advice and encouragement, while 
Death Eaters, both masked and unmasked, dueled 
students and teachers. Dean had won himself a 
wand, for he was face-to-face with Dolohov, Parvati 
with Travers. Harry, Ron, and Hermione raised their 
wands at once, ready to strike, but the duelers were 
weaving and darting around so much that there was a 
strong likelihood of hurting one of their own side if 
they cast curses. Even as they stood braced, looking 
for the opportunity to act, there came a great 
“Wheeeeeeeeeeee\” and, looking up, Harry saw Peeves 
zooming over them, dropping Snargaluff pods down 
onto the Death Eaters, whose heads were suddenly 
engulfed in wriggling green tubers like fat worms. 

“Argh!” 

A fistful of tubers had hit the Cloak over Ron’s head; 
the slimy green roots were suspended improbably in 
midair as Ron tried to shake them loose. 

“Someone’s invisible there!” shouted a masked Death 
Eater, pointing. 

Dean made the most of the Death Eater’s momentary 
distraction, knocking him out with a Stunning Spell; 
Dolohov attempted to retaliate and Parvati shot a 
Body-Bind Curse at him. 

“LET’S GO!” Harry yelled, and he, Ron, and Hermione 
gathered the Cloak tightly around themselves and 

Page | 729 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




pelted, heads down, through the midst of the fighters, 
slipping a little in pools of Snargaluff juice, toward the 
top of the marble staircase into the entrance hall. 

“I’m Draco Malfoy, I’m Draco, I’m on your side!” 

Draco was on the upper landing, pleading with 
another masked Death Eater. Harry Stunned the 
Death Eater as they passed: Malfoy looked around, 
beaming, for his savior, and Ron punched him from 
under the Cloak. Malfoy fell backward on top of the 
Death Eater, his mouth bleeding, utterly bemused. 

“And that’s the second time we’ve saved your life 
tonight, you two-faced bastard!” Ron yelled. 

There were more duelers all over the stairs and in the 
hall, Death Eaters everywhere Harry looked: Yaxley, 
close to the front doors, in combat with Flitwick, a 
masked Death Eater dueling Kingsley right beside 
them. Students ran in every direction, some carrying 
or dragging injured friends. Harry directed a Stunning 
Spell toward the masked Death Eater; it missed but 
nearly hit Neville, who had emerged from nowhere 
brandishing armfuls of Venomous Tentacula, which 
looped itself happily around the nearest Death Eater 
and began reeling him in. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sped down the marble 
staircase: Glass shattered to their left, and the 
Slytherin hourglass that had recorded House points 
spilled its emeralds everywhere, so that people slipped 
and staggered as they ran. Two bodies fell from the 
balcony overhead as they reached the ground, and a 
gray blur that Harry took for an animal sped four- 
legged across the hall to sink its teeth into one of the 
fallen. 



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“NO!” shrieked Hermione, and with a deafening blast 
from her wand, Fenrir Greyback was thrown 
backward from the feebly stirring body of Lavender 
Brown. He hit the marble banisters and struggled to 
return to his feet. Then, with a bright white flash and 
a crack, a crystal ball fell on top of his head, and he 
crumpled to the ground and did not move. 

“I have more!” shrieked Professor Trelawney from over 
the banisters. “More for any who want them! Here — ” 

And with a movement like a tennis serve, she heaved 
another enormous crystal sphere from her bag, waved 
her wand through the air, and caused the ball to 
speed across the hall and smash through a window. 
At the same moment, the heavy wooden front doors 
burst open, and more of the gigantic spiders forced 
their way into the entrance hall. 

Screams of terror rent the air: The fighters scattered, 
Death Eaters and Hogwartians alike, and red and 
green jets of light flew into the midst of the oncoming 
monsters, which shuddered and reared, more 
terrifying than ever. 

“How do we get out?” yelled Ron over all the 
screaming, but before either Harry or Hermione could 
answer they were bowled aside: Hagrid had come 
thundering down the stairs, brandishing his flowery 
pink umbrella. 

“Don’t hurt ’em, don’t hurt ’em!” he yelled. 

“HAGRID, NO!” 

Harry forgot everything else: He sprinted out from 
under the Cloak, running bent double to avoid the 
curses illuminating the whole hall. 



Page | 731 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“HAGRID, COME BACK!” 



But he was not even halfway to Hagrid when he saw it 
happen: Hagrid vanished amongst the spiders, and 
with a great scurrying, a foul swarming movement, 
they retreated under the onslaught of spells, Hagrid 
buried in their midst. 

“HAGRID!” 

Harry heard someone calling his own name, whether 
friend or foe he did not care: He was sprinting down 
the front steps into the dark grounds, and the spiders 
were swarming away with their prey, and he could see 
nothing of Hagrid at all. 

“HAGRID!” 

He thought he could make out an enormous arm 
waving from the midst of the spider swarm, but as he 
made to chase after them, his way was impeded by a 
monumental foot, which swung down out of the 
darkness and made the ground on which he stood 
shudder. He looked up: A giant stood before him, 
twenty feet high, its head hidden in shadow, nothing 
but its treelike, hairy shins illuminated by light from 
the castle doors. With one brutal, fluid movement, it 
smashed a massive fist through an upper window, 
and glass rained down upon Harry, forcing him back 
under the shelter of the doorway. 

“Oh my — !” shrieked Hermione, as she and Ron 
caught up with Harry and gazed upward at the giant 
now trying to seize people through the window above. 

“DONT!” Ron yelled, grabbing Hermione’s hand as 
she raised her wand. “Stun him and hell crush half 
the castle — ” 

Page | 732 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“HAGGER?” 



Grawp came lurching around the corner of the castle; 
only now did Harry realize that Grawp was, indeed, 
an undersized giant. The gargantuan monster trying 
to crush people on the upper floors looked around 
and let out a roar. The stone steps trembled as he 
stomped toward his smaller kin, and Grawp ’s 
lopsided mouth fell open, showing yellow, half-brick- 
sized teeth; and then they launched themselves at 
each other with the savagery of lions. 

“RUN!” Harry roared; the night was full of hideous 
yells and blows as the giants wrestled, and he seized 
Hermione’s hand and tore down the steps into the 
grounds, Ron bringing up the rear. Harry had not lost 
hope of finding and saving Hagrid; he ran so fast that 
they were halfway toward the forest before they were 
brought up short again. 

The air around them had frozen: Harry’s breath 
caught and solidified in his chest. Shapes moved out 
in the darkness, swirling figures of concentrated 
blackness, moving in a great wave toward the castle, 
their faces hooded and their breath rattling. . . . 

Ron and Hermione closed in beside him as the 
sounds of fighting behind them grew suddenly muted, 
deadened, because a silence only dementors could 
bring was falling thickly through the night, and Fred 
was gone, and Hagrid was surely dying or already 
dead. ... 

“Come on, Harry!” said Hermione’s voice from a very 
long way away. “Patronuses, Harry, come on!” 

He raised his wand, but a dull hopelessness was 
spreading through him: How many more lay dead 



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that he did not yet know about; he felt as though his 
soul had already half left his body. . . . 



“HARRY, COME ON!” screamed Hermione. 

A hundred dementors were advancing, gliding toward 

them, sucking their way closer to Harry’s despair, 
which was like a promise of a feast. ... 

He saw Ron’s silver terrier burst into the air, flicker 
feebly, and expire; he saw Hermione’s otter twist in 
midair and fade; and his own wand trembled in his 
hand, and he almost welcomed the oncoming 
oblivion, the promise of nothing, of no feeling. . . . 

And then a silver hare, a boar, and a fox soared past 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s heads: The dementors 
fell back before the creatures’ approach. Three more 
people had arrived out of the darkness to stand 
beside them, their wands outstretched, continuing to 
cast their Patronuses: Luna, Ernie, and Seamus. 

“That’s right,” said Luna encouragingly, as if they 
were back in the Room of Requirement and this was 
simply spell practice for the D.A. “That’s right, Harry 
... come on, think of something happy. ...” 

“Something happy?” he said, his voice cracked. 

“We’re all still here,” she whispered, “we’re still 
fighting. Come on, now. ...” 

There was a silver spark, then a wavering light, and 

then, with the greatest effort it had ever cost him, the 
stag burst from the end of Harry’s wand. It cantered 
forward, and now the dementors scattered in earnest, 
and immediately the night was mild again, but the 
sounds of the surrounding battle were loud in his 
ears. 

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“Can’t thank you enough,” said Ron shakily, turning 
to Luna, Ernie, and Seamus, “you just saved — ” 

With a roar and an earth-quaking tremor, another 
giant came lurching out of the darkness from the 
direction of the forest, brandishing a club taller than 
any of them. 

“RUN!” Harry shouted again, but the others needed 
no telling: They all scattered, and not a second too 
soon, for next moment the creature’s vast foot had 
fallen exactly where they had been standing. Harry 
looked round: Ron and Hermione were following him, 
but the other three had vanished back into the battle. 

“Let’s get out of range!” yelled Ron as the giant swung 
its club again and its bellows echoed through the 
night, across the grounds where bursts of red and 
green light continued to illuminate the darkness. 

“The Whomping Willow,” said Harry, “go!” 

Somehow he walled it all up in his mind, crammed it 
into a small space into which he could not look now: 
Thoughts of Fred and Hagrid, and his terror for all the 
people he loved, scattered in and outside the castle, 
must all wait, because they had to run, had to reach 
the snake and Voldemort, because that was, as 
Hermione said, the only way to end it — 

He sprinted, half believing he could outdistance death 
itself, ignoring the jets of light flying in the darkness 
all around him, and the sound of the lake crashing 
like the sea, and the creaking of the Forbidden Forest 
though the night was windless; through grounds that 
seemed themselves to have risen in rebellion, he ran 
faster than he had ever moved in his life, and it was 
he who saw the great tree first, the Willow that 



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protected the secret at its roots with whiplike, 
slashing branches. 



Panting and gasping, Harry slowed down, skirting the 
Willow’s swiping branches, peering through the 
darkness toward its thick trunk, trying to see the 
single knot in the bark of the old tree that would 
paralyze it. Ron and Hermione caught up, Hermione 
so out of breath she could not speak. 

“How — how’re we going to get in?” panted Ron. “I can 
— see the place — if we just had — Crookshanks 
again — ” 

“Crookshanks?” wheezed Hermione, bent double, 
clutching her chest. “Are you a wizard, or what?” 

“Oh — right — yeah — ” 

Ron looked around, then directed his wand at a twig 
on the ground and said, “Wingardium Leviosal” The 
twig flew up from the ground, spun through the air as 
if caught by a gust of wind, then zoomed directly at 
the trunk through the Willow’s ominously swaying 
branches. It jabbed at a place near the roots, and at 
once, the writhing tree became still. 

“Perfect!” panted Hermione. 

“Wait.” 

For one teetering second, while the crashes and 
booms of the battle filled the air, Harry hesitated. 
Voldemort wanted him to do this, wanted him to 
come. ... Was he leading Ron and Hermione into a 
trap? 

But then the reality seemed to close upon him, cruel 
and plain: The only way forward was to kill the snake, 

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and the snake was where Voldemort was, and 
Voldemort was at the end of this tunnel. ... 



“Harry, we’re coming, just get in there!” said Ron, 
pushing him forward. 

Harry wriggled into the earthy passage hidden in the 
tree’s roots. It was a much tighter squeeze than it had 
been the last time they had entered it. The tunnel was 
low-ceilinged: They had had to double up to move 
through it nearly four years previously; now there was 
nothing for it but to crawl. Harry went first, his wand 
illuminated, expecting at any moment to meet 
barriers, but none came. They moved in silence, 
Harry’s gaze fixed upon the swinging beam of the 
wand held in his fist. 

At last the tunnel began to slope upward and Harry 
saw a sliver of light ahead. Hermione tugged at his 
ankle. 

“The Cloak!” she whispered. “Put the Cloak on!” 

He groped behind him and she forced the bundle of 
slippery cloth into his free hand. With difficulty he 
dragged it over himself, murmured, “Nox,” 
extinguishing his wandlight, and continued on his 
hands and knees, as silently as possible, all his 
senses straining, expecting every second to be 
discovered, to hear a cold clear voice, see a flash of 
green light. 

And then he heard voices coming from the room 
directly ahead of them, only slightly muffled by the 
fact that the opening at the end of the tunnel had 
been blocked up by what looked like an old crate. 
Hardly daring to breathe, Harry edged right up to the 
opening and peered through a tiny gap left between 
crate and wall. 

Page | 737 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




The room beyond was dimly lit, but he could see 
Nagini, swirling and coiling like a serpent underwater, 
safe in her enchanted, starry sphere, which floated 
unsupported in midair. He could see the edge of a 
table, and a long-fingered white hand toying with a 
wand. Then Snape spoke, and Harry’s heart lurched: 
Snape was inches away from where he crouched, 
hidden. 

"... my Lord, their resistance is crumbling — ” 

“ — and it is doing so without your help,” said 
Voldemort in his high, clear voice. “Skilled wizard 
though you are, Severus, I do not think you will make 
much difference now. We are almost there ... almost.” 

“Let me find the boy. Let me bring you Potter. I know I 
can find him, my Lord. Please.” 

Snape strode past the gap, and Harry drew back a 
little, keeping his eyes fixed upon Nagini, wondering 
whether there was any spell that might penetrate the 
protection surrounding her, but he could not think of 
anything. One failed attempt, and he would give away 
his position. ... 

Voldemort stood up. Harry could see him now, see the 
red eyes, the flattened, serpentine face, the pallor of 
him gleaming slightly in the semidarkness. 

“I have a problem, Severus,” said Voldemort softly. 

“My Lord?” said Snape. 

Voldemort raised the Elder Wand, holding it as 
delicately and precisely as a conductor’s baton. 

“Why doesn’t it work for me, Severus?” 



Page | 738 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




In the silence Harry imagined he could hear the snake 
hissing slightly as it coiled and uncoiled — or was it 
Voldemort’s sibilant sigh lingering on the air? 

“My — my Lord?” said Snape blankly. “I do not 
understand. You — you have performed extraordinary 
magic with that wand.” 

“No,” said Voldemort. “I have performed my usual 
magic. I am extraordinary, but this wand ... no. It has 
not revealed the wonders it has promised. I feel no 
difference between this wand and the one I procured 
from Ollivander all those years ago.” 

Voldemort’s tone was musing, calm, but Harry’s scar 
had begun to throb and pulse: Pain was building in 
his forehead, and he could feel that controlled sense 
of fury building inside Voldemort. 

“No difference,” said Voldemort again. 

Snape did not speak. Harry could not see his face: He 
wondered whether Snape sensed danger, was trying 
to find the right words to reassure his master. 

Voldemort started to move around the room: Harry 
lost sight of him for seconds as he prowled, speaking 
in that same measured voice, while the pain and fury 
mounted in Harry. 

“I have thought long and hard, Severus. ... Do you 
know why I have called you back from the battle?” 

And for a moment Harry saw Snape ’s profile: His eyes 
were fixed upon the coiling snake in its enchanted 
cage. 

“No, my Lord, but I beg you will let me return. Let me 
find Potter.” 

Page | 739 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“You sound like Lucius. Neither of you understands 
Potter as I do. He does not need finding. Potter will 
come to me. I know his weakness, you see, his one 
great flaw. He will hate watching the others struck 
down around him, knowing that it is for him that it 
happens. He will want to stop it at any cost. He will 
come.” 

“But my Lord, he might be killed accidentally by one 
other than yourself — ” 

“My instructions to my Death Eaters have been 
perfectly clear. Capture Potter. Kill his friends — the 
more, the better — but do not kill him. 

“But it is of you that I wished to speak, Severus, not 
Harry Potter. You have been very valuable to me. Very 
valuable.” 

“My Lord knows I seek only to serve him. But — let 
me go and find the boy, my Lord. Let me bring him to 
you. I know I can — ” 

“I have told you, no!” said Voldemort, and Harry 
caught the glint of red in his eyes as he turned again, 
and the swishing of his cloak was like the slithering of 
a snake, and he felt Voldemort’s impatience in his 
burning scar. “My concern at the moment, Severus, is 
what will happen when I finally meet the boy!” 

“My Lord, there can be no question, surely — ?” 

“ — but there is a question, Severus. There is.” 

Voldemort halted, and Harry could see him plainly 
again as he slid the Elder Wand through his white 
fingers, staring at Snape. 



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“Why did both the wands I have used fail when 
directed at Harry Potter?” 

“I — I cannot answer that, my Lord.” 

“Can’t you?” 

The stab of rage felt like a spike driven through 
Harry’s head: He forced his own fist into his mouth to 
stop himself from crying out in pain. He closed his 
eyes, and suddenly he was Voldemort, looking into 
Snape’s pale face. 

“My wand of yew did everything of which I asked it, 
Severus, except to kill Harry Potter. Twice it failed. 
Ollivander told me under torture of the twin cores, 
told me to take another’s wand. I did so, but Lucius’s 
wand shattered upon meeting Potter’s.” 

“I — I have no explanation, my Lord.” 

Snape was not looking at Voldemort now. His dark 
eyes were still fixed upon the coiling serpent in its 
protective sphere. 

“I sought a third wand, Severus. The Elder Wand, the 
Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick. I took it from its 
previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus 
Dumbledore.” 

And now Snape looked at Voldemort, and Snape’s 
face was like a death mask. It was marble white and 
so still that when he spoke, it was a shock to see that 
anyone lived behind the blank eyes. 

“My Lord — let me go to the boy — ” 

“All this long night, when I am on the brink of victory, 

I have sat here,” said Voldemort, his voice barely 

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louder than a whisper, “wondering, wondering, why 
the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, 
refuses to perform as legend says it must perform for 
its rightful owner ... and I think I have the answer.” 

Snape did not speak. 

“Perhaps you already know it? You are a clever man, 
after all, Severus. You have been a good and faithful 
servant, and I regret what must happen.” 

“My Lord — ” 

“The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, 
because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand 
belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You 
killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the 
Elder Wand cannot be truly mine.” 

“My Lord!” Snape protested, raising his wand. 

“It cannot be any other way,” said Voldemort. “I must 
master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I 
master Potter at last.” 

And Voldemort swiped the air with the Elder Wand. It 
did nothing to Snape, who for a split second seemed 
to think he had been reprieved: But then Voldemort’s 
intention became clear. The snake’s cage was rolling 
through the air, and before Snape could do anything 
more than yell, it had encased him, head and 
shoulders, and Voldemort spoke in Parseltongue. 

“Kill.” 

There was a terrible scream. Harry saw Snape ’s face 
losing the little color it had left; it whitened as his 
black eyes widened, as the snake’s fangs pierced his 



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neck, as he failed to push the enchanted cage off 
himself, as his knees gave way and he fell to the floor. 

“I regret it,” said Voldemort coldly. 

He turned away; there was no sadness in him, no 
remorse. It was time to leave this shack and take 
charge, with a wand that would now do his full 
bidding. He pointed it at the starry cage holding the 
snake, which drifted upward, off Snape, who fell 
sideways onto the floor, blood gushing from the 
wounds in his neck. Voldemort swept from the room 
without a backward glance, and the great serpent 
floated after him in its huge protective sphere. 

Back in the tunnel and his own mind, Harry opened 
his eyes: He had drawn blood biting down on his 
knuckles in the effort not to shout out. Now he was 
looking through the tiny crack between crate and 
wall, watching a foot in a black boot trembling on the 
floor. 

“Harry!” breathed Hermione behind him, but he had 
already pointed his wand at the crate blocking his 
view. It lifted an inch into the air and drifted sideways 
silently. As quietly as he could, he pulled himself up 
into the room. 

He did not know why he was doing it, why he was 
approaching the dying man: He did not know what he 
felt as he saw Snape’s white face, and the fingers 
trying to staunch the bloody wound at his neck. 

Harry took off the Invisibility Cloak and looked down 
upon the man he hated, whose widening black eyes 
found Harry as he tried to speak. Harry bent over 
him, and Snape seized the front of his robes and 
pulled him close. 



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A terrible rasping, gurgling noise issued from Snape’s 
throat. 

“Take ... it. ... Take ... it. ...” 

Something more than blood was leaking from Snape. 
Silvery blue, neither gas nor liquid, it gushed from his 
mouth and his ears and his eyes, and Harry knew 
what it was, but did not know what to do — 

A flask, conjured from thin air, was thrust into his 
shaking hands by Hermione. Harry lifted the silvery 
substance into it with his wand. When the flask was 
full to the brim, and Snape looked as though there 
was no blood left in him, his grip on Harry’s robes 
slackened. 

“Look ... at ... me. ...” he whispered. 

The green eyes found the black, but after a second, 
something in the depths of the dark pair seemed to 
vanish, leaving them fixed, blank, and empty. The 
hand holding Harry thudded to the floor, and Snape 
moved no more. 



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THE PRINCE’S TALE 

Harry remained kneeling at Snape’s side, simply 
staring down at him, until quite suddenly a high, cold 
voice spoke so close to them that Harry jumped to his 
feet, the flask gripped tightly in his hands, thinking 
that Voldemort had reentered the room. 

Voldemort ’s voice reverberated from the walls and 
floor, and Harry realized that he was talking to 
Hogwarts and to all the surrounding area, that the 
residents of Hogsmeade and all those still fighting in 
the castle would hear him as clearly as if he stood 
beside them, his breath on the back of their necks, a 
deathblow away. 

“You have fought,” said the high, cold voice, 

“valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value 
bravery. 

“Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue 
to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish 
this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is 
a loss and a waste. 

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“Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to 
retreat immediately. 



“You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with 
dignity. Treat your injured. 

“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have 
permitted your friends to die for you rather than face 
me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden 
Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come 
to me, have not given yourself up, then battle 
recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, 
Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish 
every last man, woman, and child who has tried to 
conceal you from me. One hour.” 

Both Ron and Hermione shook their heads frantically, 
looking at Harry. 

“Don’t listen to him,” said Ron. 

“It’ll be all right,” said Hermione wildly. “Let’s — let’s 
get back to the castle, if he’s gone to the forest we’ll 
need to think of a new plan — ” 

She glanced at Snape’s body, then hurried back to 
the tunnel entrance. Ron followed her. Harry gathered 
up the Invisibility Cloak, then looked down at Snape. 
He did not know what to feel, except shock at the way 
Snape had been killed, and the reason for which it 
had been done. ... 

They crawled back through the tunnel, none of them 
talking, and Harry wondered whether Ron and 
Hermione could still hear Voldemort ringing in their 
heads, as he could. 



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You have permitted your friends to die for you rather 
than face me yourself I shall wait for one hour in the 
Forbidden Forest. . . . One hour. . . . 

Small bundles seemed to litter the lawn at the front of 
the castle. It could only be an hour or so from dawn, 
yet it was pitch-black. The three of them hurried 
toward the stone steps. A lone clog, the size of a small 
boat, lay abandoned in front of them. There was no 
other sign of Grawp or of his attacker. 

The castle was unnaturally silent. There were no 
flashes of light now, no bangs or screams or shouts. 
The flagstones of the deserted entrance hall were 
stained with blood. Emeralds were still scattered all 
over the floor, along with pieces of marble and 
splintered wood. Part of the banisters had been blown 
away. 

“Where is everyone?” whispered Hermione. 

Ron led the way to the Great Hall. Harry stopped in 
the doorway. 

The House tables were gone and the room was 
crowded. The survivors stood in groups, their arms 
around each other’s necks. The injured were being 
treated upon the raised platform by Madam Pomfrey 
and a group of helpers. Firenze was amongst the 
injured; his flank poured blood and he shook where 
he lay, unable to stand. 

The dead lay in a row in the middle of the Hall. Harry 
could not see Fred’s body, because his family 
surrounded him. George was kneeling at his head; 
Mrs. Weasley was lying across Fred’s chest, her body 
shaking, Mr. Weasley stroking her hair while tears 
cascaded down his cheeks. 



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Without a word to Harry, Ron and Hermione walked 
away. Harry saw Hermione approach Ginny, whose 
face was swollen and blotchy, and hug her. Ron 
joined Bill, Fleur, and Percy, who flung an arm 
around Ron’s shoulders. As Ginny and Hermione 
moved closer to the rest of the family, Harry had a 
clear view of the bodies lying next to Fred: Remus and 
Tonks, pale and still and peaceful-looking, apparently 
asleep beneath the dark, enchanted ceiling. 

The Great Hall seemed to fly away, become smaller, 
shrink, as Harry reeled backward from the doorway. 
He could not draw breath. He could not bear to look 
at any of the other bodies, to see who else had died 
for him. He could not bear to join the Weasleys, could 
not look into their eyes, when if he had given himself 
up in the first place, Fred might never have died. ... 

He turned away and ran up the marble staircase. 
Lupin, Tonks ... He yearned not to feel. ... He wished 
he could rip out his heart, his innards, everything 
that was screaming inside him. ... 

The castle was completely empty; even the ghosts 
seemed to have joined the mass mourning in the 
Great Hall. Harry ran without stopping, clutching the 
crystal flask of Snape’s last thoughts, and he did not 
slow down until he reached the stone gargoyle 
guarding the headmaster’s office. 

“Password?” 

“Dumbledore!” said Harry without thinking, because 
it was he whom he yearned to see, and to his surprise 
the gargoyle slid aside, revealing the spiral staircase 
behind. 

But when Harry burst into the circular office he found 
a change. The portraits that hung all around the 

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walls were empty. Not a single headmaster or 
headmistress remained to see him; all, it seemed, had 
flitted away, charging through the paintings that lined 
the castle, so that they could have a clear view of 
what was going on. 

Harry glanced hopelessly at Dumbledore’s deserted 
frame, which hung directly behind the headmaster’s 
chair, then turned his back on it. The stone Pensieve 
lay in the cabinet where it had always been: Harry 
heaved it onto the desk and poured Snape’s memories 
into the wide basin with its runic markings around 
the edge. To escape into someone else’s head would 
be a blessed relief. ... Nothing that even Snape had 
left him could be worse than his own thoughts. The 
memories swirled, silver white and strange, and 
without hesitating, with a feeling of reckless 
abandonment, as though this would assuage his 
torturing grief, Harry dived. 

He fell headlong into sunlight, and his feet found 
warm ground. When he straightened up, he saw that 
he was in a nearly deserted playground. A single huge 
chimney dominated the distant skyline. Two girls 
were swinging backward and forward, and a skinny 
boy was watching them from behind a clump of 
bushes. His black hair was overlong and his clothes 
were so mismatched that it looked deliberate: too 
short jeans, a shabby, overlarge coat that might have 
belonged to a grown man, an odd smocklike shirt. 

Harry moved closer to the boy. Snape looked no more 
than nine or ten years old, sallow, small, stringy. 
There was undisguised greed in his thin face as he 
watched the younger of the two girls swinging higher 
and higher than her sister. 

“Lily, don’t do it!” shrieked the elder of the two. 



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But the girl had let go of the swing at the very height 
of its arc and flown into the air, quite literally flown, 
launched herself skyward with a great shout of 
laughter, and instead of crumpling on the playground 
asphalt, she soared like a trapeze artist through the 
air, staying up far too long, landing far too lightly. 

“Mummy told you not to!” 

Petunia stopped her swing by dragging the heels of 
her sandals on the ground, making a crunching, 
grinding sound, then leapt up, hands on hips. 

“Mummy said you weren’t allowed, Lily!” 

“But I’m fine,” said Lily, still giggling. “Tuney, look at 
this. Watch what I can do.” 

Petunia glanced around. The playground was 
deserted apart from themselves and, though the girls 
did not know it, Snape. Lily had picked up a fallen 
flower from the bush behind which Snape lurked. 
Petunia advanced, evidently torn between curiosity 
and disapproval. Lily waited until Petunia was near 
enough to have a clear view, then held out her palm. 
The flower sat there, opening and closing its petals, 
like some bizarre, many-lipped oyster. 

“Stop it!” shrieked Petunia. 

“It’s not hurting you,” said Lily, but she closed her 
hand on the blossom and threw it back to the ground. 

“It’s not right,” said Petunia, but her eyes had 
followed the flower’s flight to the ground and lingered 
upon it. “How do you do it?” she added, and there 
was definite longing in her voice. 



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“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Snape could no longer contain 
himself, but had jumped out from behind the bushes. 
Petunia shrieked and ran backward toward the 
swings, but Lily, though clearly startled, remained 
where she was. Snape seemed to regret his 
appearance. A dull flush of color mounted the sallow 
cheeks as he looked at Lily. 

“What’s obvious?” asked Lily. 

Snape had an air of nervous excitement. With a 
glance at the distant Petunia, now hovering beside the 
swings, he lowered his voice and said, “I know what 
you are.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You’re ... you’re a witch,” whispered Snape. 

She looked affronted. 

“ That’s not a very nice thing to say to somebody!” 

She turned, nose in the air, and marched off toward 
her sister. 

“No!” said Snape. He was highly colored now, and 
Harry wondered why he did not take off the 
ridiculously large coat, unless it was because he did 
not want to reveal the smock beneath it. He flapped 
after the girls, looking ludicrously batlike, like his 
older self. 

The sisters considered him, united in disapproval, 
both holding on to one of the swing poles as though it 
was the safe place in tag. 



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“You are,” said Snape to Lily. “You are a witch. I’ve 
been watching you for a while. But there’s nothing 
wrong with that. My mum’s one, and I’m a wizard.” 

Petunia’s laugh was like cold water. 

“Wizard!” she shrieked, her courage returned now 
that she had recovered from the shock of his 
unexpected appearance. “I know who you are. You’re 
that Snape boy! They live down Spinner’s End by the 
river,” she told Lily, and it was evident from her tone 
that she considered the address a poor 
recommendation. “Why have you been spying on us?” 

“Haven’t been spying,” said Snape, hot and 
uncomfortable and dirty-haired in the bright sunlight. 
“Wouldn’t spy on you, anyway,” he added spitefully, 

“ you’re a Muggle.” 

Though Petunia evidently did not understand the 
word, she could hardly mistake the tone. 

“Lily, come on, we’re leaving!” she said shrilly. Lily 
obeyed her sister at once, glaring at Snape as she left. 
He stood watching them as they marched through the 
playground gate, and Harry, the only one left to 
observe him, recognized Snape ’s bitter 
disappointment, and understood that Snape had been 
planning this moment for a while, and that it had all 
gone wrong. . . . 

The scene dissolved, and before Harry knew it, re- 
formed around him. He was now in a small thicket of 
trees. He could see a sunlit river glittering through 
their trunks. The shadows cast by the trees made a 
basin of cool green shade. Two children sat facing 
each other, cross-legged on the ground. Snape had 
removed his coat now; his odd smock looked less 
peculiar in the half light. 

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"... and the Ministry can punish you if you do magic 
outside school, you get letters.” 

“But I have done magic outside school!” 

“We’re all right. We haven’t got wands yet. They let 
you off when you’re a kid and you can’t help it. But 
once you’re eleven,” he nodded importantly, “and they 
start training you, then you’ve got to go careful.” 

There was a little silence. Lily had picked up a fallen 
twig and twirled it in the air, and Harry knew that she 
was imagining sparks trailing from it. Then she 
dropped the twig, leaned in toward the boy, and said, 
“It is real, isn’t it? It’s not a joke? Petunia says you’re 
lying to me. Petunia says there isn’t a Hogwarts. It is 
real, isn’t it?” 

“It’s real for us,” said Snape. “Not for her. But we’ll get 
the letter, you and me.” 

“Really?” whispered Lily. 

“Definitely,” said Snape, and even with his poorly cut 
hair and his odd clothes, he struck an oddly 
impressive figure sprawled in front of her, brimful of 
confidence in his destiny. 

“And will it really come by owl?” Lily whispered. 

“Normally,” said Snape. “But you’re Muggle-born, so 
someone from the school will have to come and 
explain to your parents.” 

“Does it make a difference, being Muggle-born?” 

Snape hesitated. His black eyes, eager in the greenish 
gloom, moved over the pale face, the dark red hair. 



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“No,” he said. “It doesn’t make any difference.” 

“Good,” said Lily, relaxing: It was clear that she had 
been worrying. 

“You’ve got loads of magic,” said Snape. “I saw that. 
All the time I was watching you ...” 

His voice trailed away; she was not listening, but had 
stretched out on the leafy ground and was looking up 
at the canopy of leaves overhead. He watched her as 
greedily as he had watched her in the playground. 

“How are things at your house?” Lily asked. 

A little crease appeared between his eyes. 

“Fine,” he said. 

“They’re not arguing anymore?” 

“Oh yes, they’re arguing,” said Snape. He picked up a 
fistful of leaves and began tearing them apart, 
apparently unaware of what he was doing. “But it 
won’t be that long and I’ll be gone.” 

“Doesn’t your dad like magic?” 

“He doesn’t like anything, much,” said Snape. 

“Severus?” 

A little smile twisted Snape ’s mouth when she said 
his name. 

“Yeah?” 

“Tell me about the dementors again.” 



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“What d’you want to know about them for?” 

“If I use magic outside school — ” 

“They wouldn’t give you to the dementors for that! 
Dementors are for people who do really bad stuff. 
They guard the wizard prison, Azkaban. You’re not 
going to end up in Azkaban, you’re too — ” 

He turned red again and shredded more leaves. Then 
a small rustling noise behind Harry made him turn: 
Petunia, hiding behind a tree, had lost her footing. 

“Tuney!” said Lily, surprise and welcome in her voice, 
but Snape had jumped to his feet. 

“Who’s spying now?” he shouted. “What d’you want?” 

Petunia was breathless, alarmed at being caught. 
Harry could see her struggling for something hurtful 
to say. 

“What is that you’re wearing, anyway?” she said, 
pointing at Snape’s chest. “Your mum’s blouse?” 

There was a crack: A branch over Petunia’s head had 
fallen. Lily screamed: The branch caught Petunia on 
the shoulder, and she staggered backward and burst 
into tears. 

“Tuney!” 

But Petunia was running away. Lily rounded on 
Snape. 

“Did you make that happen?” 

“No.” He looked both defiant and scared. 



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“You did!” She was backing away from him. “You did). 
You hurt her!” 



“No — no I didn’t!” 

But the lie did not convince Lily: After one last 
burning look, she ran from the little thicket, off after 
her sister, and Snape looked miserable and confused. 



And the scene re-formed. Harry looked around: He 
was on platform nine and three-quarters, and Snape 
stood beside him, slightly hunched, next to a thin, 
sallow-faced, sour-looking woman who greatly 
resembled him. Snape was staring at a family of four 
a short distance away. The two girls stood a little 
apart from their parents. Lily seemed to be pleading 
with her sister; Harry moved closer to listen. 

"... I’m sorry, Tuney, I’m sorry! Listen — ” She caught 
her sister’s hand and held tight to it, even though 
Petunia tried to pull it away. “Maybe once I’m there — 
no, listen, Tuney! Maybe once I’m there, I’ll be able to 
go to Professor Dumbledore and persuade him to 
change his mind!” 

“I don’t — want — to — go!” said Petunia, and she 
dragged her hand back out of her sister’s grasp. “You 
think I want to go to some stupid castle and learn to 
be a — a — ” 

Her pale eyes roved over the platform, over the cats 
mewling in their owners’ arms, over the owls 
fluttering and hooting at each other in cages, over the 
students, some already in their long black robes, 
loading trunks onto the scarlet steam engine or else 
greeting one another with glad cries after a summer 
apart. 

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“ — you think I want to be a — a freak?” 

Lily’s eyes filled with tears as Petunia succeeded in 
tugging her hand away. 

“I’m not a freak,” said Lily. “That’s a horrible thing to 
say.” 

“That’s where you’re going,” said Petunia with relish. 
“A special school for freaks. You and that Snape boy 
... weirdos, that’s what you two are. It’s good you’re 
being separated from normal people. It’s for our 
safety.” 

Lily glanced toward her parents, who were looking 
around the platform with an air of wholehearted 
enjoyment, drinking in the scene. Then she looked 
back at her sister, and her voice was low and fierce. 

“You didn’t think it was such a freak’s school when 
you wrote to the headmaster and begged him to take 
you.” 

Petunia turned scarlet. 

“Beg? I didn’t beg!” 

“I saw his reply. It was very kind.” 

“You shouldn’t have read — ” whispered Petunia, “that 
was my private — how could you — ?” 

Lily gave herself away by half-glancing toward where 
Snape stood nearby. Petunia gasped. 

“That boy found it! You and that boy have been 
sneaking in my room!” 



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“No — not sneaking — ” Now Lily was on the 
defensive. “Severus saw the envelope, and he couldn’t 
believe a Muggle could have contacted Hogwarts, 
that’s all! He says there must be wizards working 
undercover in the postal service who take care of — ” 

“Apparently wizards poke their noses in everywhere!” 
said Petunia, now as pale as she had been flushed. 

“ Freak).” she spat at her sister, and she flounced off to 
where her parents stood. ... 

The scene dissolved again. Snape was hurrying along 
the corridor of the Hogwarts Express as it clattered 
through the countryside. He had already changed into 
his school robes, had perhaps taken the first 
opportunity to take off his dreadful Muggle clothes. At 
last he stopped, outside a compartment in which a 
group of rowdy boys were talking. Hunched in a 
corner seat beside the window was Lily, her face 
pressed against the windowpane. 

Snape slid open the compartment door and sat down 
opposite Lily. She glanced at him and then looked 
back out of the window. She had been crying. 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said in a constricted 
voice. 

“Why not?” 

“Tuney h-hates me. Because we saw that letter from 
Dumbledore.” 

“So what?” 

She threw him a look of deep dislike. 

“So she’s my sister!” 



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“She’s only a — ” He caught himself quickly; Lily, too 
busy trying to wipe her eyes without being noticed, 
did not hear him. 

“But we’re going!” he said, unable to suppress the 
exhilaration in his voice. “This is it! We’re off to 
Hogwarts!” 

She nodded, mopping her eyes, but in spite of herself, 
she half smiled. 

“You’d better be in Slytherin,” said Snape, encouraged 
that she had brightened a little. 

“Slytherin?” 

One of the boys sharing the compartment, who had 
shown no interest at all in Lily or Snape until that 
point, looked around at the word, and Harry, whose 
attention had been focused entirely on the two beside 
the window, saw his father: slight, black-haired like 
Snape, but with that indefinable air of having been 
well-cared-for, even adored, that Snape so 
conspicuously lacked. 

“Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I’d leave, 
wouldn’t you?” James asked the boy lounging on the 
seats opposite him, and with a jolt, Harry realized 
that it was Sirius. Sirius did not smile. 

“My whole family have been in Slytherin,” he said. 

“Blimey,” said James, “and I thought you seemed all 
right!” 

Sirius grinned. 

“Maybe I’ll break the tradition. Where are you 
heading, if you’ve got the choice?” 

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James lifted an invisible sword. 



“ ‘Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart!’ Like my 
dad.” 

Snape made a small, disparaging noise. James turned 
on him. 

“Got a problem with that?” 

“No,” said Snape, though his slight sneer said 
otherwise. “If you’d rather be brawny than brainy — ” 

“Where ’re you hoping to go, seeing as you’re neither?” 
interjected Sirius. 

James roared with laughter. Lily sat up, rather 
flushed, and looked from James to Sirius in dislike. 

“Come on, Severus, let’s find another compartment.” 

“Oooooo ...” 

James and Sirius imitated her lofty voice; James tried 
to trip Snape as he passed. 

“See ya, Snivellus!” a voice called, as the 
compartment door slammed. ... 

And the scene dissolved once more. ... 

Harry was standing right behind Snape as they faced 
the candlelit House tables, lined with rapt faces. Then 
Professor McGonagall said, “Evans, Lily!” 

He watched his mother walk forward on trembling 
legs and sit down upon the rickety stool. Professor 
McGonagall dropped the Sorting Hat onto her head, 



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and barely a second after it had touched the dark red 
hair, the hat cried, “ Gryffindoii” 



Harry heard Snape let out a tiny groan. Lily took off 
the hat, handed it back to Professor McGonagall, then 
hurried toward the cheering Gryffindors, but as she 
went she glanced back at Snape, and there was a sad 
little smile on her face. Harry saw Sirius move up the 
bench to make room for her. She took one look at 
him, seemed to recognize him from the train, folded 
her arms, and firmly turned her back on him. 

The roll call continued. Harry watched Lupin, 
Pettigrew, and his father join Lily and Sirius at the 
Gryffindor table. At last, when only a dozen students 
remained to be sorted, Professor McGonagall called 
Snape. 

Harry walked with him to the stool, watched him 
place the hat upon his head. “Slytherinl” cried the 
Sorting Hat. 

And Severus Snape moved off to the other side of the 
Hall, away from Lily, to where the Slytherins were 
cheering him, to where Lucius Malfoy, a prefect badge 
gleaming upon his chest, patted Snape on the back as 
he sat down beside him. ... 

And the scene changed. ... 

Lily and Snape were walking across the castle 
courtyard, evidently arguing. Harry hurried to catch 
up with them, to listen in. As he reached them, he 
realized how much taller they both were: A few years 
seemed to have passed since their Sorting. 

"... thought we were supposed to be friends?” Snape 
was saying. “Best friends?” 

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“We are, Sev, but I don’t like some of the people you’re 
hanging round with! I’m sorry, but I detest Avery and 
Mulciber! Mulciber\ What do you see in him, Sev, he’s 
creepy! D’you know what he tried to do to Mary 
Macdonald the other day?” 

Lily had reached a pillar and leaned against it, 
looking up into the thin, sallow face. 

“That was nothing,” said Snape. “It was a laugh, 
that’s all — ” 

“It was Dark Magic, and if you think that’s funny — ” 

“What about the stuff Potter and his mates get up 
to?” demanded Snape. His color rose again as he said 
it, unable, it seemed, to hold in his resentment. 

“What’s Potter got to do with anything?” said Lily. 

“They sneak out at night. There’s something weird 
about that Lupin. Where does he keep going?” 

“He’s ill,” said Lily. “They say he’s ill — ” 

“Every month at the full moon?” said Snape. 

“I know your theory,” said Lily, and she sounded cold. 
“Why are you so obsessed with them anyway? Why do 
you care what they’re doing at night?” 

“I’m just trying to show you they’re not as wonderful 
as everyone seems to think they are.” 

The intensity of his gaze made her blush. 

“They don’t use Dark Magic, though.” She dropped 
her voice. “And you’re being really ungrateful. I heard 
what happened the other night. You went sneaking 

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down that tunnel by the Whomping Willow, and 
James Potter saved you from whatever’s down there 



Snape’s whole face contorted and he spluttered, 
“Saved? Saved? You think he was playing the hero? 

He was saving his neck and his friends’ too! You’re 
not going to — I won’t let you — ” 

“Let me? Let me?” 

Lily’s bright green eyes were slits. Snape backtracked 
at once. 

“I didn’t mean — I just don’t want to see you made a 
fool of — He fancies you, James Potter fancies you!” 
The words seemed wrenched from him against his 
will. “And he’s not ... everyone thinks ... big Quidditch 
hero — ” Snape’s bitterness and dislike were rendering 
him incoherent, and Lily’s eyebrows were traveling 
farther and farther up her forehead. 

“I know James Potter’s an arrogant toerag,” she said, 
cutting across Snape. “I don’t need you to tell me 
that. But Mulciber’s and Avery’s idea of humor is just 
evil. Evil, Sev. I don’t understand how you can be 
friends with them.” 

Harry doubted that Snape had even heard her 
strictures on Mulciber and Avery. The moment she 
had insulted James Potter, his whole body had 
relaxed, and as they walked away there was a new 
spring in Snape’s step. ... 

And the scene dissolved. ... 

Harry watched again as Snape left the Great Hall after 
sitting his O.W.L. in Defense Against the Dark Arts, 
watched as he wandered away from the castle and 

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strayed inadvertently close to the place beneath the 
beech tree where James, Sirius, Lupin, and Pettigrew 
sat together. But Harry kept his distance this time, 
because he knew what happened after James had 
hoisted Severus into the air and taunted him; he 
knew what had been done and said, and it gave him 
no pleasure to hear it again. ... He watched as Lily 
joined the group and went to Snape’s defense. 
Distantly he heard Snape shout at her in his 
humiliation and his fury, the unforgivable word: 
“MudbloocL.” 

The scene changed. ... 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I’m not interested.” 

“I’m sorry!” 

“Save your breath.” 

It was nighttime. Lily, who was wearing a dressing 
gown, stood with her arms folded in front of the 
portrait of the Fat Lady, at the entrance to Gryffindor 
Tower. 

“I only came out because Mary told me you were 
threatening to sleep here.” 

“I was. I would have done. I never meant to call you 
Mudblood, it just — ” 

“Slipped out?” There was no pity in Lily’s voice. “It’s 
too late. I’ve made excuses for you for years. None of 
my friends can understand why I even talk to you. 
You and your precious little Death Eater friends — 
you see, you don’t even deny it! You don’t even deny 



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that’s what you’re all aiming to be! You can’t wait to 
join You- Know- Who, can you?” 

He opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking. 

“I can’t pretend anymore. You’ve chosen your way, 

I’ve chosen mine.” 

“No — listen, I didn’t mean — ” 

“ — to call me Mudblood? But you call everyone of my 
birth Mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any 
different?” 

He struggled on the verge of speech, but with a 
contemptuous look she turned and climbed back 
through the portrait hole. ... 

The corridor dissolved, and the scene took a little 
longer to reform: Harry seemed to fly through shifting 
shapes and colors until his surroundings solidified 
again and he stood on a hilltop, forlorn and cold in 
the darkness, the wind whistling through the 
branches of a few leafless trees. The adult Snape was 
panting, turning on the spot, his wand gripped tightly 
in his hand, waiting for something or for someone. ... 
His fear infected Harry too, even though he knew that 
he could not be harmed, and he looked over his 
shoulder, wondering what it was that Snape was 
waiting for — 

Then a blinding, jagged jet of white light flew through 
the air: Harry thought of lightning, but Snape had 
dropped to his knees and his wand had flown out of 
his hand. 

“Don’t kill me!” 

“That was not my intention.” 

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Any sound of Dumbledore Apparating had been 
drowned by the sound of the wind in the branches. 

He stood before Snape with his robes whipping 
around him, and his face was illuminated from below 
in the light cast by his wand. 

“Well, Severus? What message does Lord Voldemort 
have for me?” 

“No — no message — I’m here on my own account!” 

Snape was wringing his hands: He looked a little 
mad, with his straggling black hair flying around him. 

“I — I come with a warning — no, a request — please 



Dumbledore flicked his wand. Though leaves and 
branches still flew through the night air around them, 
silence fell on the spot where he and Snape faced 
each other. 

“What request could a Death Eater make of me?” 

“The — the prophecy . . . the prediction . . . Trelawney 



“Ah, yes,” said Dumbledore. “How much did you relay 
to Lord Voldemort?” 

“Everything — everything I heard!” said Snape. “That 
is why — it is for that reason — he thinks it means 
Lily Evans!” 

“The prophecy did not refer to a woman,” said 
Dumbledore. “It spoke of a boy born at the end of 
July — ” 



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“You know what I mean! He thinks it means her son, 
he is going to hunt her down — kill them all — ” 

“If she means so much to you,” said Dumbledore, 
“surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not 
ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the 
son?” 

“I have — I have asked him — ” 

“You disgust me,” said Dumbledore, and Harry had 
never heard so much contempt in his voice. Snape 
seemed to shrink a little. “You do not care, then, 
about the deaths of her husband and child? They can 
die, as long as you have what you want?” 

Snape said nothing, but merely looked up at 
Dumbledore. 

“Hide them all, then,” he croaked. “Keep her — them 
— safe. Please.” 

“And what will you give me in return, Severus?” 

“In — in return?” Snape gaped at Dumbledore, and 
Harry expected him to protest, but after a long 
moment he said, “Anything.” 

The hilltop faded, and Harry stood in Dumbledore’s 
office, and something was making a terrible sound, 
like a wounded animal. Snape was slumped forward 
in a chair and Dumbledore was standing over him, 
looking grim. After a moment or two, Snape raised his 
face, and he looked like a man who had lived a 
hundred years of misery since leaving the wild hilltop. 

“I thought ... you were going ... to keep her ... safe. 



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“She and James put their faith in the wrong person,” 
said Dumbledore. “Rather like you, Severus. Weren’t 
you hoping that Lord Voldemort would spare her?” 

Snape’s breathing was shallow. 

“Her boy survives,” said Dumbledore. 

With a tiny jerk of the head, Snape seemed to flick off 
an irksome fly. 

“Her son lives. He has her eyes, precisely her eyes. 

You remember the shape and color of Lily Evans’s 
eyes, I am sure?” 

“DON’T!” bellowed Snape. “Gone ... dead ...” 

“Is this remorse, Severus?” 

“I wish ... I wish / were dead. ...” 

“And what use would that be to anyone?” said 
Dumbledore coldly. “If you loved Lily Evans, if you 
truly loved her, then your way forward is clear.” 

Snape seemed to peer through a haze of pain, and 
Dumbledore ’s words appeared to take a long time to 
reach him. 

“What — what do you mean?” 

“You know how and why she died. Make sure it was 
not in vain. Help me protect Lily’s son.” 

“He does not need protection. The Dark Lord has gone 



“The Dark Lord will return, and Harry Potter will be in 
terrible danger when he does.” 

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There was a long pause, and slowly Snape regained 
control of himself, mastered his own breathing. At 
last he said, “Very well. Very well. But never — never 
tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! Swear it! I 
cannot bear . . . especially Potter’s son ... I want your 
word!” 

“My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best 
of you?” Dumbledore sighed, looking down into 
Snape’s ferocious, anguished face. “If you insist ...” 

The office dissolved but re-formed instantly. Snape 
was pacing up and down in front of Dumbledore. 

“ — mediocre, arrogant as his father, a determined 
rule-breaker, delighted to find himself famous, 
attention-seeking and impertinent — ” 

“You see what you expect to see, Severus,” said 
Dumbledore, without raising his eyes from a copy of 
Transfiguration Today. “Other teachers report that the 
boy is modest, likable, and reasonably talented. 
Personally, I find him an engaging child.” 

Dumbledore turned a page, and said, without looking 
up, “Keep an eye on Quirrell, won’t you?” 

A whirl of color, and now everything darkened, and 
Snape and Dumbledore stood a little apart in the 
entrance hall, while the last stragglers from the Yule 
Ball passed them on their way to bed. 

“Well?” murmured Dumbledore. 

“Karkaroff’s Mark is becoming darker too. He is 
panicking, he fears retribution; you know how much 
help he gave the Ministry after the Dark Lord fell.” 
Snape looked sideways at Dumbledore ’s crooked- 



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nosed profile. “Karkaroff intends to flee if the Mark 
burns.” 

“Does he?” said Dumbledore softly, as Fleur Delacour 
and Roger Davies came giggling in from the grounds. 
“And are you tempted to join him?” 

“No,” said Snape, his black eyes on Fleur’s and 
Roger’s retreating figures. “I am not such a coward.” 

“No,” agreed Dumbledore. “You are a braver man by 
far than Igor Karkaroff. You know, I sometimes think 
we Sort too soon. ...” 

He walked away, leaving Snape looking stricken. ... 

And now Harry stood in the headmaster’s office yet 
again. It was nighttime, and Dumbledore sagged 
sideways in the thronelike chair behind the desk, 
apparently semiconscious. His right hand dangled 
over the side, blackened and burned. Snape was 
muttering incantations, pointing his wand at the 
wrist of the hand, while with his left hand he tipped a 
goblet full of thick golden potion down Dumbledore ’s 
throat. After a moment or two, Dumbledore ’s eyelids 
fluttered and opened. 

“Why,” said Snape, without preamble, “ why did you 
put on that ring? It carries a curse, surely you 
realized that. Why even touch it?” 

Marvolo Gaunt’s ring lay on the desk before 
Dumbledore. It was cracked; the sword of Gryffindor 
lay beside it. 

Dumbledore grimaced. 

“I ... was a fool. Sorely tempted ...” 



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“Tempted by what?” 
Dumbledore did not answer. 



“It is a miracle you managed to return here!” Snape 
sounded furious. “That ring carried a curse of 
extraordinary power, to contain it is all we can hope 
for; I have trapped the curse in one hand for the time 
being — ” 

Dumbledore raised his blackened, useless hand, and 
examined it with the expression of one being shown 
an interesting curio. 

“You have done very well, Severus. How long do you 
think I have?” 

Dumbledore ’s tone was conversational; he might have 
been asking for a weather forecast. Snape hesitated, 
and then said, “I cannot tell. Maybe a year. There is 
no halting such a spell forever. It will spread 
eventually, it is the sort of curse that strengthens over 
time.” 

Dumbledore smiled. The news that he had less than a 
year to live seemed a matter of little or no concern to 
him. 

“I am fortunate, extremely fortunate, that I have you, 
Severus.” 

“If you had only summoned me a little earlier, I might 
have been able to do more, buy you more time!” said 
Snape furiously. He looked down at the broken ring 
and the sword. “Did you think that breaking the ring 
would break the curse?” 

“Something like that ... I was delirious, no doubt. ...” 
said Dumbledore. With an effort he straightened 

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himself in his chair. “Well, really, this makes matters 
much more straightforward.” 

Snape looked utterly perplexed. Dumbledore smiled. 

“I refer to the plan Lord Voldemort is revolving around 
me. His plan to have the poor Malfoy boy murder me.” 

Snape sat down in the chair Harry had so often 
occupied, across the desk from Dumbledore. Harry 
could tell that he wanted to say more on the subject 
of Dumbledore ’s cursed hand, but the other held it up 
in polite refusal to discuss the matter further. 
Scowling, Snape said, “The Dark Lord does not expect 
Draco to succeed. This is merely punishment for 
Lucius’s recent failures. Slow torture for Draco’s 
parents, while they watch him fail and pay the price.” 

“In short, the boy has had a death sentence 
pronounced upon him as surely as I have,” said 
Dumbledore. “Now, I should have thought the natural 
successor to the job, once Draco fails, is yourself?” 

There was a short pause. 

“That, I think, is the Dark Lord’s plan.” 

“Lord Voldemort foresees a moment in the near future 
when he will not need a spy at Hogwarts?” 

“He believes the school will soon be in his grasp, yes.” 

“And if it does fall into his grasp,” said Dumbledore, 
almost, it seemed, as an aside, “I have your word that 
you will do all in your power to protect the students of 
Hogwarts?” 

Snape gave a stiff nod. 



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“Good. Now then. Your first priority will be to discover 
what Draco is up to. A frightened teenage boy is a 
danger to others as well as to himself. Offer him help 
and guidance, he ought to accept, he likes you — ” 

“ — much less since his father has lost favor. Draco 
blames me, he thinks I have usurped Lucius’s 
position.” 

“All the same, try. I am concerned less for myself than 
for accidental victims of whatever schemes might 
occur to the boy. Ultimately, of course, there is only 
one thing to be done if we are to save him from Lord 
Voldemort’s wrath.” 

Snape raised his eyebrows and his tone was sardonic 
as he asked, “Are you intending to let him kill you?” 

“Certainly not. You must kill me.” 

There was a long silence, broken only by an odd 
clicking noise. Fawkes the phoenix was gnawing a bit 
of cuttlebone. 

“Would you like me to do it now?” asked Snape, his 
voice heavy with irony. “Or would you like a few 
moments to compose an epitaph?” 

“Oh, not quite yet,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “I 
daresay the moment will present itself in due course. 
Given what has happened tonight,” he indicated his 
withered hand, “we can be sure that it will happen 
within a year.” 

“If you don’t mind dying,” said Snape roughly, “why 
not let Draco do it?” 



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“That boy’s soul is not yet so damaged,” said 
Dumbledore. “I would not have it ripped apart on my 
account.” 

“And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?” 

“You alone know whether it will harm your soul to 
help an old man avoid pain and humiliation,” said 
Dumbledore. “I ask this one great favor of you, 
Severus, because death is coming for me as surely as 
the Chudley Cannons will finish bottom of this year’s 
league. I confess I should prefer a quick, painless exit 
to the protracted and messy affair it will be if, for 
instance, Greyback is involved — I hear Voldemort 
has recruited him? Or dear Bellatrix, who likes to 
play with her food before she eats it.” 

His tone was light, but his blue eyes pierced Snape as 
they had frequently pierced Harry, as though the soul 
they discussed was visible to him. At last Snape gave 
another curt nod. 

Dumbledore seemed satisfied. 

“Thank you, Severus ...” 

The office disappeared, and now Snape and 
Dumbledore were strolling together in the deserted 
castle grounds by twilight. 

“What are you doing with Potter, all these evenings 
you are closeted together?” Snape asked abruptly. 

Dumbledore looked weary. 

“Why? You aren’t trying to give him more detentions, 
Severus? The boy will soon have spent more time in 
detention than out.” 



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“He is his father over again — ” 

“In looks, perhaps, but his deepest nature is much 
more like his mother’s. I spend time with Harry 
because I have things to discuss with him, 
information I must give him before it is too late.” 

“Information,” repeated Snape. “You trust him ... you 
do not trust me.” 

“It is not a question of trust. I have, as we both know, 
limited time. It is essential that I give the boy enough 
information for him to do what he needs to do.” 

“And why may I not have the same information?” 

“I prefer not to put all of my secrets in one basket, 
particularly not a basket that spends so much time 
dangling on the arm of Lord Voldemort.” 

“Which I do on your orders!” 

“And you do it extremely well. Do not think that I 
underestimate the constant danger in which you 
place yourself, Severus. To give Voldemort what 
appears to be valuable information while withholding 
the essentials is a job I would entrust to nobody but 
you.” 

“Yet you confide much more in a boy who is incapable 
of Occlumency, whose magic is mediocre, and who 
has a direct connection into the Dark Lord’s mind!” 

“Voldemort fears that connection,” said Dumbledore. 
“Not so long ago he had one small taste of what truly 
sharing Harry’s mind means to him. It was pain such 
as he has never experienced. He will not try to 
possess Harry again, I am sure of it. Not in that way.” 



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“I don’t understand.” 



“Lord Voldemort’s soul, maimed as it is, cannot bear 
close contact with a soul like Harry’s. Like a tongue 
on frozen steel, like flesh in flame — ” 

“Souls? We were talking of minds!” 

“In the case of Harry and Lord Voldemort, to speak of 
one is to speak of the other.” 

Dumbledore glanced around to make sure that they 
were alone. They were close by the Forbidden Forest 
now, but there was no sign of anyone near them. 

“After you have killed me, Severus — ” 

“You refuse to tell me everything, yet you expect that 
small service of me!” snarled Snape, and real anger 
flared in the thin face now. “You take a great deal for 
granted, Dumbledore! Perhaps I have changed my 
mind!” 

“You gave me your word, Severus. And while we are 
talking about services you owe me, I thought you 
agreed to keep a close eye on our young Slytherin 
friend?” 

Snape looked angry, mutinous. Dumbledore sighed. 

“Come to my office tonight, Severus, at eleven, and 
you shall not complain that I have no confidence in 
you. ...” 

They were back in Dumbledore ’s office, the windows 
dark, and Fawkes sat silent as Snape sat quite still, 
as Dumbledore walked around him, talking. 



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“Harry must not know, not until the last moment, not 
until it is necessary, otherwise how could he have the 
strength to do what must be done?” 

“But what must he do?” 

“That is between Harry and me. Now listen closely, 
Severus. There will come a time — after my death — 
do not argue, do not interrupt! There will come a time 
when Lord Voldemort will seem to fear for the life of 
his snake.” 

“For Nagini?” Snape looked astonished. 

“Precisely. If there comes a time when Lord Voldemort 
stops sending that snake forth to do his bidding, but 
keeps it safe beside him under magical protection, 
then, I think, it will be safe to tell Harry.” 

“Tell him what?” 

Dumbledore took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 

“Tell him that on the night Lord Voldemort tried to kill 
him, when Lily cast her own life between them as a 
shield, the Killing Curse rebounded upon Lord 
Voldemort, and a fragment of Voldemort’s soul was 
blasted apart from the whole, and latched itself onto 
the only living soul left in that collapsing building. 

Part of Lord Voldemort lives inside Harry, and it is 
that which gives him the power of speech with 
snakes, and a connection with Lord Voldemort’s mind 
that he has never understood. And while that 
fragment of soul, unmissed by Voldemort, remains 
attached to and protected by Harry, Lord Voldemort 
cannot die.” 



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Harry seemed to be watching the two men from one 
end of a long tunnel, they were so far away from him, 
their voices echoing strangely in his ears. 

“So the boy . . . the boy must die?” asked Snape quite 
calmly. 

“And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus. That is 
essential.” 

Another long silence. Then Snape said, “I thought ... 
all these years . . . that we were protecting him for her. 
For Lily.” 

“We have protected him because it has been essential 
to teach him, to raise him, to let him try his strength,” 
said Dumbledore, his eyes still tight shut. 

“Meanwhile, the connection between them grows ever 
stronger, a parasitic growth: Sometimes I have 
thought he suspects it himself. If I know him, he will 
have arranged matters so that when he does set out 
to meet his death, it will truly mean the end of 
Voldemort.” 

Dumbledore opened his eyes. Snape looked horrified. 

“You have kept him alive so that he can die at the 
right moment?” 

“Don’t be shocked, Severus. How many men and 
women have you watched die?” 

“Lately, only those whom I could not save,” said 
Snape. He stood up. “You have used me.” 

“Meaning?” 

“I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in 
mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to be 

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to keep Lily Potter’s son safe. Now you tell me you 
have been raising him like a pig for slaughter — ” 

“But this is touching, Severus,” said Dumbledore 
seriously. “Have you grown to care for the boy, after 
all?” 

“For him?” shouted Snape. “Expecto Patronuml” 

From the tip of his wand burst the silver doe: She 
landed on the office floor, bounded once across the 
office, and soared out of the window. Dumbledore 
watched her fly away, and as her silvery glow faded 
he turned back to Snape, and his eyes were full of 
tears. 

“After all this time?” 

“Always,” said Snape. 

And the scene shifted. Now, Harry saw Snape talking 
to the portrait of Dumbledore behind his desk. 

“You will have to give Voldemort the correct date of 
Harry’s departure from his aunt and uncle’s,” said 
Dumbledore. “Not to do so will raise suspicion, when 
Voldemort believes you so well informed. However, 
you must plant the idea of decoys; that, I think, ought 
to ensure Harry’s safety. Try Confunding Mundungus 
Fletcher. And Severus, if you are forced to take part 
in the chase, be sure to act your part convincingly. ... 

I am counting upon you to remain in Lord 
Voldemort’s good books as long as possible, or 
Hogwarts will be left to the mercy of the Carrows. ...” 

Now Snape was head to head with Mundungus in an 
unfamiliar tavern, Mundungus ’s face looking 
curiously blank, Snape frowning in concentration. 



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“You will suggest to the Order of the Phoenix,” Snape 
murmured, “that they use decoys. Polyjuice Potion. 
Identical Potters. It is the only thing that might work. 
You will forget that I have suggested this. You will 
present it as your own idea. You understand?” 

“I understand,” murmured Mundungus, his eyes 
unfocused. ... 

Now Harry was flying alongside Snape on a 
broomstick through a clear dark night: He was 
accompanied by other hooded Death Eaters, and 
ahead were Lupin and a Harry who was really George. 
... A Death Eater moved ahead of Snape and raised 
his wand, pointing it directly at Lupin’s back — 

“ Sectumsemprcd” shouted Snape. 

But the spell, intended for the Death Eater’s wand 
hand, missed and hit George instead — 

And next, Snape was kneeling in Sirius’s old 
bedroom. Tears were dripping from the end of his 
hooked nose as he read the old letter from Lily. The 
second page carried only a few words: 

could ever have been friends with Gellert Grindelwald. 

I think her mind’s going, personally! 

Lots of love, 

Lily 

Snape took the page bearing Lily’s signature, and her 
love, and tucked it inside his robes. Then he ripped in 
two the photograph he was also holding, so that he 
kept the part from which Lily laughed, throwing the 
portion showing James and Harry back onto the floor, 
under the chest of drawers. ... 

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And now Snape stood again in the headmaster’s 
study as Phineas Nigellus came hurrying into his 
portrait. 

“Headmaster! They are camping in the Forest of Dean! 
The Mudblood — ” 

“Do not use that word!” 

“ — the Granger girl, then, mentioned the place as she 
opened her bag and I heard her!” 

“Good. Very good!” cried the portrait of Dumbledore 
behind the headmaster’s chair. “Now, Severus, the 
sword! Do not forget that it must be taken under 
conditions of need and valor — and he must not know 
that you give it! If Voldemort should read Harry’s 
mind and see you acting for him — ” 

“I know,” said Snape curtly. He approached the 
portrait of Dumbledore and pulled at its side. It 
swung forward, revealing a hidden cavity behind it 
from which he took the sword of Gryffindor. 

“And you still aren’t going to tell me why it’s so 
important to give Potter the sword?” said Snape as he 
swung a traveling cloak over his robes. 

“No, I don’t think so,” said Dumbledore’s portrait. “He 
will know what to do with it. And Severus, be very 
careful, they may not take kindly to your appearance 
after George Weasley’s mishap — ” 

Snape turned at the door. 

“Don’t worry, Dumbledore,” he said coolly. “I have a 
plan. ...” 



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And Snape left the room. Harry rose up out of the 
Pensieve, and moments later he lay on the carpeted 
floor in exactly the same room: Snape might just have 
closed the door. 



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THE FOREST AGAIN 

Finally, the truth. Lying with his face pressed into the 
dusty carpet of the office where he had once thought 
he was learning the secrets of victory, Harry 
understood at last that he was not supposed to 
survive. His job was to walk calmly into Death’s 
welcoming arms. Along the way, he was to dispose of 
Voldemort’s remaining links to life, so that when at 
last he flung himself across Voldemort’s path, and did 
not raise a wand to defend himself, the end would be 
clean, and the job that ought to have been done in 
Godric’s Hollow would be finished: Neither would live, 
neither could survive. 

He felt his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. How 
strange that in his dread of death, it pumped all the 
harder, valiantly keeping him alive. But it would have 
to stop, and soon. Its beats were numbered. How 
many would there be time for, as he rose and walked 
through the castle for the last time, out into the 
grounds and into the forest? 



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Terror washed over him as he lay on the floor, with 
that funeral drum pounding inside him. Would it hurt 
to die? All those times he had thought that it was 
about to happen and escaped, he had never really 
thought of the thing itself: His will to live had always 
been so much stronger than his fear of death. Yet it 
did not occur to him now to try to escape, to outrun 
Voldemort. It was over, he knew it, and all that was 
left was the thing itself: dying. 

If he could only have died on that summer’s night 
when he had left number four, Privet Drive, for the 
last time, when the noble phoenix-feather wand had 
saved him! If he could only have died like Hedwig, so 
quickly he would not have known it had happened! 

Or if he could have launched himself in front of a 
wand to save someone he loved. ... He envied even his 
parents’ deaths now. This cold-blooded walk to his 
own destruction would require a different kind of 
bravery. He felt his fingers trembling slightly and 
made an effort to control them, although no one could 
see him; the portraits on the walls were all empty. 

Slowly, very slowly, he sat up, and as he did so he felt 
more alive and more aware of his own living body 
than ever before. Why had he never appreciated what 
a miracle he was, brain and nerve and bounding 
heart? It would all be gone ... or at least, he would be 
gone from it. His breath came slow and deep, and his 
mouth and throat were completely dry, but so were 
his eyes. 

Dumbledore’s betrayal was almost nothing. Of course 
there had been a bigger plan; Harry had simply been 
too foolish to see it, he realized that now. He had 
never questioned his own assumption that 
Dumbledore wanted him alive. Now he saw that his 
life span had always been determined by how long it 
took to eliminate all the Horcruxes. Dumbledore had 
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passed the job of destroying them to him, and 
obediently he had continued to chip away at the 
bonds tying not only Voldemort, but himself, to life! 
How neat, how elegant, not to waste any more lives, 
but to give the dangerous task to the boy who had 
already been marked for slaughter, and whose death 
would not be a calamity, but another blow against 
Voldemort. 

And Dumbledore had known that Harry would not 
duck out, that he would keep going to the end, even 
though it was his end, because he had taken trouble 
to get to know him, hadn’t he? Dumbledore knew, as 
Voldemort knew, that Harry would not let anyone else 
die for him now that he had discovered it was in his 
power to stop it. The images of Fred, Lupin, and 
Tonks lying dead in the Great Hall forced their way 
back into his mind’s eye, and for a moment he could 
hardly breathe: Death was impatient. ... 

But Dumbledore had overestimated him. He had 
failed: The snake survived. One Horcrux remained to 
bind Voldemort to the earth, even after Harry had 
been killed. True, that would mean an easier job for 
somebody. He wondered who would do it. ... Ron and 
Hermione would know what needed to be done, of 
course. ... That would have been why Dumbledore 
wanted him to confide in two others ... so that if he 
fulfilled his true destiny a little early, they could carry 
on. ... 

Like rain on a cold window, these thoughts pattered 
against the hard surface of the incontrovertible truth, 
which was that he must die. I must die. It must end. 

Ron and Hermione seemed a long way away, in a far- 
off country; he felt as though he had parted from 
them long ago. There would be no good-byes and no 
explanations, he was determined of that. This was a 

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journey they could not take together, and the 
attempts they would make to stop him would waste 
valuable time. He looked down at the battered gold 
watch he had received on his seventeenth birthday. 
Nearly half of the hour allotted by Voldemort for his 
surrender had elapsed. 

He stood up. His heart was leaping against his ribs 
like a frantic bird. Perhaps it knew it had little time 
left, perhaps it was determined to fulfill a lifetime’s 
beats before the end. He did not look back as he 
closed the office door. 

The castle was empty. He felt ghostly striding through 
it alone, as if he had already died. The portrait people 
were still missing from their frames; the whole place 
was eerily still, as if all its remaining lifeblood were 
concentrated in the Great Hall where the dead and 
the mourners were crammed. 

Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak over himself and 
descended through the floors, at last walking down 
the marble staircase into the entrance hall. Perhaps 
some tiny part of him hoped to be sensed, to be seen, 
to be stopped, but the Cloak was, as ever, 
impenetrable, perfect, and he reached the front doors 
easily. 

Then Neville nearly walked into him. He was one half 
of a pair that was carrying a body in from the 
grounds. Harry glanced down and felt another dull 
blow to his stomach: Colin Creevey, though underage, 
must have sneaked back just as Malfoy, Crabbe, and 
Goyle had done. He was tiny in death. 

“You know what? I can manage him alone, Neville,” 
said Oliver Wood, and he heaved Colin over his 
shoulder in a fireman’s lift and carried him into the 
Great Hall. 

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Neville leaned against the door frame for a moment 
and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He 
looked like an old man. Then he set off down the 
steps again into the darkness to recover more bodies. 

Harry took one glance back at the entrance of the 
Great Hall. People were moving around, trying to 
comfort each other, drinking, kneeling beside the 
dead, but he could not see any of the people he loved, 
no hint of Hermione, Ron, Ginny, or any of the other 
Weasleys, no Luna. He felt he would have given all the 
time remaining to him for just one last look at them; 
but then, would he ever have the strength to stop 
looking? It was better like this. 

He moved down the steps and out into the darkness. 

It was nearly four in the morning, and the deathly 
stillness of the grounds felt as though they were 
holding their breath, waiting to see whether he could 
do what he must. 

Harry moved toward Neville, who was bending over 
another body. 

“Neville.” 

“Blimey, Harry, you nearly gave me heart failure!” 

Harry had pulled off the Cloak: The idea had come to 
him out of nowhere, born out of a desire to make 
absolutely sure. 

“Where are you going, alone?” Neville asked 
suspiciously. 

“It’s all part of the plan,” said Harry. “There’s 
something I’ve got to do. Listen — Neville — ” 



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“Harry!” Neville looked suddenly scared. “Harry, 
you’re not thinking of handing yourself over?” 



“No,” Harry lied easily. “ ’Course not ... this is 
something else. But I might be out of sight for a while. 
You know Voldemort’s snake, Neville? He’s got a huge 
snake. ... Calls it Nagini ...” 

“I’ve heard, yeah. ... What about it?” 

“It’s got to be killed. Ron and Hermione know that, 
but just in case they — ” 

The awfulness of that possibility smothered him for a 
moment, made it impossible to keep talking. But he 
pulled himself together again: This was crucial, he 
must be like Dumbledore, keep a cool head, make 
sure there were backups, others to carry on. 
Dumbledore had died knowing that three people still 
knew about the Horcruxes; now Neville would take 
Harry’s place: There would still be three in the secret. 

“Just in case they’re — busy — and you get the 
chance — ” 

“Kill the snake?” 

“Kill the snake,” Harry repeated. 

“All right, Harry. You’re okay, are you?” 

“I’m fine. Thanks, Neville.” 

But Neville seized his wrist as Harry made to move 
on. 

“We’re all going to keep fighting, Harry. You know 
that?” 

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“Yeah, I — ” 



The suffocating feeling extinguished the end of the 
sentence; he could not go on. Neville did not seem to 
find it strange. He patted Harry on the shoulder, 
released him, and walked away to look for more 
bodies. 

Harry swung the Cloak back over himself and walked 
on. Someone else was moving not far away, stooping 
over another prone figure on the ground. He was feet 
away from her when he realized it was Ginny. 

He stopped in his tracks. She was crouching over a 
girl who was whispering for her mother. 

“It’s all right,” Ginny was saying. “It’s okay. We’re 
going to get you inside.” 

“But I want to go home,” whispered the girl. “I don’t 
want to fight anymore!” 

“I know,” said Ginny, and her voice broke. “It’s going 
to be all right.” 

Ripples of cold undulated over Harry’s skin. He 
wanted to shout out to the night, he wanted Ginny to 
know that he was there, he wanted her to know where 
he was going. He wanted to be stopped, to be dragged 
back, to be sent back home. ... 

But he was home. Hogwarts was the first and best 
home he had known. He and Voldemort and Snape, 
the abandoned boys, had all found home here. ... 

Ginny was kneeling beside the injured girl now, 
holding her hand. With a huge effort Harry forced 
himself on. He thought he saw Ginny look around as 
he passed, and wondered whether she had sensed 

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someone walking nearby, but he did not speak, and 
he did not look back. 

Hagrid’s hut loomed out of the darkness. There were 
no lights, no sound of Fang scrabbling at the door, 
his bark booming in welcome. All those visits to 
Hagrid, and the gleam of the copper kettle on the fire, 
and rock cakes and giant grubs, and his great 
bearded face, and Ron vomiting slugs, and Hermione 
helping him save Norbert ... 

He moved on, and now he reached the edge of the 
forest, and he stopped. 

A swarm of dementors was gliding amongst the trees; 
he could feel their chill, and he was not sure he would 
be able to pass safely through it. He had no strength 
left for a Patronus. He could no longer control his own 
trembling. It was not, after all, so easy to die. Every 
second he breathed, the smell of the grass, the cool 
air on his face, was so precious: To think that people 
had years and years, time to waste, so much time it 
dragged, and he was clinging to each second. At the 
same time he thought that he would not be able to go 
on, and knew that he must. The long game was 
ended, the Snitch had been caught, it was time to 
leave the air. ... 

The Snitch. His nerveless fingers fumbled for a 
moment with the pouch at his neck and he pulled it 
out. 

I open at the close. 

Breathing fast and hard, he stared down at it. Now 
that he wanted time to move as slowly as possible, it 
seemed to have sped up, and understanding was 
coming so fast it seemed to have bypassed thought. 
This was the close. This was the moment. 

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He pressed the golden metal to his lips and 
whispered, “I am about to die.” 

The metal shell broke open. He lowered his shaking 
hand, raised Draco’s wand beneath the Cloak, and 
murmured, “Lumos.” 

The black stone with its jagged crack running down 
the center sat in the two halves of the Snitch. The 
Resurrection Stone had cracked down the vertical line 
representing the Elder Wand. The triangle and circle 
representing the Cloak and the stone were still 
discernible. 

And again Harry understood without having to think. 
It did not matter about bringing them back, for he 
was about to join them. He was not really fetching 
them: They were fetching him. 

He closed his eyes and turned the stone over in his 
hand three times. 

He knew it had happened, because he heard slight 
movements around him that suggested frail bodies 
shifting their footing on the earthy, twig- strewn 
ground that marked the outer edge of the forest. He 
opened his eyes and looked around. 

They were neither ghost nor truly flesh, he could see 
that. They resembled most closely the Riddle that had 
escaped from the diary so long ago, and he had been 
memory made nearly solid. Less substantial than 
living bodies, but much more than ghosts, they 
moved toward him, and on each face, there was the 
same loving smile. 

James was exactly the same height as Harry. He was 
wearing the clothes in which he had died, and his 



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hair was untidy and ruffled, and his glasses were a 
little lopsided, like Mr. Weasley’s. 

Sirius was tall and handsome, and younger by far 
than Harry had seen him in life. He loped with an 
easy grace, his hands in his pockets and a grin on his 
face. 

Lupin was younger too, and much less shabby, and 
his hair was thicker and darker. He looked happy to 
be back in this familiar place, scene of so many 
adolescent wanderings. 

Lily’s smile was widest of all. She pushed her long 
hair back as she drew close to him, and her green 
eyes, so like his, searched his face hungrily, as 
though she would never be able to look at him 
enough. 

“You’ve been so brave.” 

He could not speak. His eyes feasted on her, and he 
thought that he would like to stand and look at her 
forever, and that would be enough. 

“You are nearly there,” said James. “Very close. We 
are ... so proud of you.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

The childish question had fallen from Harry’s lips 
before he could stop it. 

“Dying? Not at all,” said Sirius. “Quicker and easier 
than falling asleep.” 

“And he will want it to be quick. He wants it over,” 
said Lupin. 



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“I didn’t want you to die,” Harry said. These words 
came without his volition. “Any of you. I’m sorry — ” 



He addressed Lupin more than any of them, 
beseeching him. 

“ — right after you’d had your son ... Remus, I’m sorry 



“I am sorry too,” said Lupin. “Sorry I will never know 
him . . . but he will know why I died and I hope he will 
understand. I was trying to make a world in which he 
could live a happier life.” 

A chilly breeze that seemed to emanate from the heart 
of the forest lifted the hair at Harry’s brow. He knew 
that they would not tell him to go, that it would have 
to be his decision. 

“You’ll stay with me?” 

“Until the very end,” said James. 

“They won’t be able to see you?” asked Harry. 

“We are part of you,” said Sirius. “Invisible to anyone 
else.” 

Harry looked at his mother. 

“Stay close to me,” he said quietly. 

And he set off. The dementors’ chill did not overcome 
him; he passed through it with his companions, and 
they acted like Patronuses to him, and together they 
marched through the old trees that grew closely 
together, their branches tangled, their roots gnarled 
and twisted underfoot. Harry clutched the Cloak 
tightly around him in the darkness, traveling deeper 
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and deeper into the forest, with no idea where exactly 
Voldemort was, but sure that he would find him. 
Beside him, making scarcely a sound, walked James, 
Sirius, Lupin, and Lily, and their presence was his 
courage, and the reason he was able to keep putting 
one foot in front of the other. 

His body and mind felt oddly disconnected now, his 
limbs working without conscious instruction, as if he 
were passenger, not driver, in the body he was about 
to leave. The dead who walked beside him through 
the forest were much more real to him now than the 
living back at the castle: Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and 
all the others were the ones who felt like ghosts as he 
stumbled and slipped toward the end of his life, 
toward Voldemort. ... 

A thud and a whisper: Some other living creature had 
stirred close by. Harry stopped under the Cloak, 
peering around, listening, and his mother and father, 
Lupin and Sirius stopped too. 

“Someone there,” came a rough whisper close at 
hand. “He’s got an Invisibility Cloak. Could it be — ?” 

Two figures emerged from behind a nearby tree: Their 
wands flared, and Harry saw Yaxley and Dolohov 
peering into the darkness, directly at the place Harry, 
his mother and father and Sirius and Lupin stood. 
Apparently they could not see anything. 

“Definitely heard something,” said Yaxley. “Animal, 
d’you reckon?” 

“That head case Hagrid kept a whole bunch of stuff in 
here,” said Dolohov, glancing over his shoulder. 

Yaxley looked down at his watch. 



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“Time’s nearly up. Potter’s had his hour. He’s not 
coming.” 

“And he was sure he’d come! He won’t be happy.” 

“Better go back,” said Yaxley. “Find out what the plan 
is now.” 

He and Dolohov turned and walked deeper into the 
forest. Harry followed them, knowing that they would 
lead him exactly where he wanted to go. He glanced 
sideways, and his mother smiled at him, and his 
father nodded encouragement. 

They had traveled on mere minutes when Harry saw 
light ahead, and Yaxley and Dolohov stepped out into 
a clearing that Harry knew had been the place where 
the monstrous Aragog had once lived. The remnants 
of his vast web were there still, but the swarm of 
descendants he had spawned had been driven out by 
the Death Eaters, to fight for their cause. 

A fire burned in the middle of the clearing, and its 
flickering light fell over a crowd of completely silent, 
watchful Death Eaters. Some of them were still 
masked and hooded; others showed their faces. Two 
giants sat on the outskirts of the group, casting 
massive shadows over the scene, their faces cruel, 
rough-hewn like rock. Harry saw Fenrir, skulking, 
chewing his long nails; the great blond Rowle was 
dabbing at his bleeding lip. He saw Lucius Malfoy, 
who looked defeated and terrified, and Narcissa, 
whose eyes were sunken and full of apprehension. 

Every eye was fixed upon Voldemort, who stood with 
his head bowed, and his white hands folded over the 
Elder Wand in front of him. He might have been 
praying, or else counting silently in his mind, and 
Harry, standing still on the edge of the scene, thought 
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absurdly of a child counting in a game of hide-and- 
seek. Behind his head, still swirling and coiling, the 
great snake Nagini floated in her glittering, charmed 
cage, like a monstrous halo. 

When Dolohov and Yaxley rejoined the circle, 
Voldemort looked up. 

“No sign of him, my Lord,” said Dolohov. 

Voldemort ’s expression did not change. The red eyes 
seemed to burn in the firelight. Slowly he drew the 
Elder Wand between his long fingers. 

“My Lord — ” 

Bellatrix had spoken: She sat closest to Voldemort, 
disheveled, her face a little bloody but otherwise 
unharmed. 

Voldemort raised his hand to silence her, and she did 
not speak another word, but eyed him in worshipful 
fascination. 

“I thought he would come,” said Voldemort in his 
high, clear voice, his eyes on the leaping flames. “I 
expected him to come.” 

Nobody spoke. They seemed as scared as Harry, 
whose heart was now throwing itself against his ribs 
as though determined to escape the body he was 
about to cast aside. His hands were sweating as he 
pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and stuffed it beneath 
his robes, with his wand. He did not want to be 
tempted to fight. 

“I was, it seems ... mistaken,” said Voldemort. 

“You weren’t.” 

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Harry said it as loudly as he could, with all the force 
he could muster: He did not want to sound afraid. 

The Resurrection Stone slipped from between his 
numb fingers, and out of the corner of his eyes he 
saw his parents, Sirius, and Lupin vanish as he 
stepped forward into the firelight. At that moment he 
felt that nobody mattered but Voldemort. It was just 
the two of them. 

The illusion was gone as soon as it had come. The 
giants roared as the Death Eaters rose together, and 
there were many cries, gasps, even laughter. 
Voldemort had frozen where he stood, but his red 
eyes had found Harry, and he stared as Harry moved 
toward him, with nothing but the fire between them. 

Then a voice yelled: “HARRY! NO!” 

He turned: Hagrid was bound and trussed, tied to a 
tree nearby. His massive body shook the branches 
overhead as he struggled, desperate. 

“NO! NO! HARRY, WHAT’RE YEH — ?” 

“QUIET!” shouted Rowle, and with a flick of his wand 
Hagrid was silenced. 

Bellatrix, who had leapt to her feet, was looking 
eagerly from Voldemort to Harry, her breast heaving. 
The only things that moved were the flames and the 
snake, coiling and uncoiling in the glittering cage 
behind Voldemort’s head. 

Harry could feel his wand against his chest, but he 
made no attempt to draw it. He knew that the snake 
was too well protected, knew that if he managed to 
point the wand at Nagini, fifty curses would hit him 
first. And still, Voldemort and Harry looked at each 
other, and now Voldemort tilted his head a little to 
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the side, considering the boy standing before him, 
and a singularly mirthless smile curled the lipless 
mouth. 

“Harry Potter,” he said very softly. His voice might 
have been part of the spitting fire. “The Boy Who 
Lived.” 

None of the Death Eaters moved. They were waiting: 
Everything was waiting. Hagrid was struggling, and 
Bellatrix was panting, and Harry thought inexplicably 
of Ginny, and her blazing look, and the feel of her lips 
on his — 

Voldemort had raised his wand. His head was still 
tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what 
would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into 
the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, 
while he could still stand, before he lost control, 
before he betrayed fear — 

He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, 
and everything was gone. 



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KING’S CROSS 

He lay facedown, listening to the silence. He was 
perfectly alone. Nobody was watching. Nobody else 
was there. He was not perfectly sure that he was 
there himself. 

A long time later, or maybe no time at all, it came to 
him that he must exist, must be more than 
disembodied thought, because he was lying, definitely 
lying, on some surface. Therefore he had a sense of 
touch, and the thing against which he lay existed too. 

Almost as soon as he had reached this conclusion, 
Harry became conscious that he was naked. 
Convinced as he was of his total solitude, this did not 
concern him, but it did intrigue him slightly. He 
wondered whether, as he could feel, he would be able 
to see. In opening them, he discovered that he had 
eyes. 

He lay in a bright mist, though it was not like mist he 
had ever experienced before. His surroundings were 
not hidden by cloudy vapor; rather the cloudy vapor 

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had not yet formed into surroundings. The floor on 
which he lay seemed to be white, neither warm nor 
cold, but simply there, a flat, blank something on 
which to be. 

He sat up. His body appeared unscathed. He touched 
his face. He was not wearing glasses anymore. 

Then a noise reached him through the unformed 
nothingness that surrounded him: the small soft 
thumpings of something that flapped, flailed, and 
struggled. It was a pitiful noise, yet also slightly 
indecent. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he 
was eavesdropping on something furtive, shameful. 

For the first time, he wished he were clothed. 

Barely had the wish formed in his head than robes 
appeared a short distance away. He took them and 
pulled them on: They were soft, clean, and warm. It 
was extraordinary how they had appeared, just like 
that, the moment he had wanted them. ... 

He stood up, looking around. Was he in some great 
Room of Requirement? The longer he looked, the more 
there was to see. A great domed glass roof glittered 
high above him in sunlight. Perhaps it was a palace. 
All was hushed and still, except for those odd 
thumping and whimpering noises coming from 
somewhere close by in the mist. ... 

Harry turned slowly on the spot, and his 
surroundings seemed to invent themselves before his 
eyes. A wide-open space, bright and clean, a hall 
larger by far than the Great Hall, with that clear, 
domed glass ceiling. It was quite empty. He was the 
only person there, except for — 



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He recoiled. He had spotted the thing that was 
making the noises. It had the form of a small, naked 
child, curled on the ground, its skin raw and rough, 
flayed-looking, and it lay shuddering under a seat 
where it had been left, unwanted, stuffed out of sight, 
struggling for breath. 

He was afraid of it. Small and fragile and wounded 
though it was, he did not want to approach it. 
Nevertheless he drew slowly nearer, ready to jump 
back at any moment. Soon he stood near enough to 
touch it, yet he could not bring himself to do it. He 
felt like a coward. He ought to comfort it, but it 
repulsed him. 

“You cannot help.” 

He spun around. Albus Dumbledore was walking 
toward him, sprightly and upright, wearing sweeping 
robes of midnight blue. 

“Harry.” He spread his arms wide, and his hands were 
both whole and white and undamaged. “You 
wonderful boy. You brave, brave man. Let us walk.” 

Stunned, Harry followed as Dumbledore strode away 
from where the flayed child lay whimpering, leading 
him to two seats that Harry had not previously 
noticed, set some distance away under that high, 
sparkling ceiling. Dumbledore sat down in one of 
them, and Harry fell into the other, staring at his old 
headmaster’s face. Dumbledore ’s long silver hair and 
beard, the piercingly blue eyes behind half-moon 
spectacles, the crooked nose: Everything was as he 
had remembered it. And yet... 

“But you’re dead,” said Harry. 

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore matter-of-factly. 

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“Then ... I’m dead too?” 



“Ah,” said Dumbledore, smiling still more broadly. 
“That is the question, isn’t it? On the whole, dear boy, 
I think not.” 

They looked at each other, the old man still beaming. 
“Not?” repeated Harry. 

“Not,” said Dumbledore. 

“But ...” Harry raised his hand instinctively toward 
the lightning scar. It did not seem to be there. “But I 
should have died — I didn’t defend myself! I meant to 
let him kill me!” 

“And that,” said Dumbledore, “will, I think, have 
made all the difference.” 

Happiness seemed to radiate from Dumbledore like 
light, like fire: Harry had never seen the man so 
utterly, so palpably content. 

“Explain,” said Harry. 

“But you already know,” said Dumbledore. He 
twiddled his thumbs together. 

“I let him kill me,” said Harry. “Didn’t I?” 

“You did,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “Go on!” 

“So the part of his soul that was in me ...” 

Dumbledore nodded still more enthusiastically, 
urging Harry onward, a broad smile of encouragement 
on his face. 



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"... has it gone?” 



“Oh yes!” said Dumbledore. “Yes, he destroyed it. 

Your soul is whole, and completely your own, Harry.” 

“But then ...” 

Harry glanced over his shoulder to where the small, 
maimed creature trembled under the chair. 

“What is that, Professor?” 

“Something that is beyond either of our help,” said 
Dumbledore. 

“But if Voldemort used the Killing Curse,” Harry 
started again, “and nobody died for me this time — 
how can I be alive?” 

“I think you know,” said Dumbledore. “Think back. 
Remember what he did, in his ignorance, in his greed 
and his cruelty.” 

Harry thought. He let his gaze drift over his 
surroundings. If it was indeed a palace in which they 
sat, it was an odd one, with chairs set in little rows 
and bits of railing here and there, and still, he and 
Dumbledore and the stunted creature under the chair 
were the only beings there. Then the answer rose to 
his lips easily, without effort. 

“He took my blood,” said Harry. 

“Precisely!” said Dumbledore. “He took your blood and 
rebuilt his living body with it! Your blood in his veins, 
Harry, Lily’s protection inside both of you! He tethered 
you to life while he lives!” 



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“I live . . . while he lives? But I thought ... I thought it 
was the other way round! I thought we both had to 
die? Or is it the same thing?” 

He was distracted by the whimpering and thumping 
of the agonized creature behind them and glanced 
back at it yet again. 

“Are you sure we can’t do anything?” 

“There is no help possible.” 

“Then explain ... more,” said Harry, and Dumbledore 
smiled. 

“You were the seventh Horcrux, Harry, the Horcrux 
he never meant to make. He had rendered his soul so 
unstable that it broke apart when he committed those 
acts of unspeakable evil, the murder of your parents, 
the attempted killing of a child. But what escaped 
from that room was even less than he knew. He left 
more than his body behind. He left part of himself 
latched to you, the would-be victim who had survived. 

“And his knowledge remained woefully incomplete, 
Harry! That which Voldemort does not value, he takes 
no trouble to comprehend. Of house-elves and 
children’s tales, of love, loyalty, and innocence, 
Voldemort knows and understands nothing. Nothing. 
That they all have a power beyond his own, a power 
beyond the reach of any magic, is a truth he has 
never grasped. 

“He took your blood believing it would strengthen 
him. He took into his body a tiny part of the 
enchantment your mother laid upon you when she 
died for you. His body keeps her sacrifice alive, and 
while that enchantment survives, so do you and so 
does Voldemort’s one last hope for himself.” 

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Dumbledore smiled at Harry, and Harry stared at 
him. 



“And you knew this? You knew — all along?” 

“I guessed. But my guesses have usually been good,” 
said Dumbledore happily, and they sat in silence for 
what seemed like a long time, while the creature 
behind them continued to whimper and tremble. 

“There’s more,” said Harry. “There’s more to it. Why 
did my wand break the wand he borrowed?” 

“As to that, I cannot be sure.” 

“Have a guess, then,” said Harry, and Dumbledore 
laughed. 

“What you must understand, Harry, is that you and 
Lord Voldemort have journeyed together into realms 
of magic hitherto unknown and untested. But here is 
what I think happened, and it is unprecedented, and 
no wandmaker could, I think, ever have predicted it 
or explained it to Voldemort. 

“Without meaning to, as you now know, Lord 
Voldemort doubled the bond between you when he 
returned to a human form. A part of his soul was still 
attached to yours, and, thinking to strengthen 
himself, he took a part of your mother’s sacrifice into 
himself. If he could only have understood the precise 
and terrible power of that sacrifice, he would not, 
perhaps, have dared to touch your blood. ... But then, 
if he had been able to understand, he could not be 
Lord Voldemort, and might never have murdered at 
all. 

“Having ensured this two-fold connection, having 
wrapped your destinies together more securely than 

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ever two wizards were joined in history, Voldemort 
proceeded to attack you with a wand that shared a 
core with yours. And now something very strange 
happened, as we know. The cores reacted in a way 
that Lord Voldemort, who never knew that your wand 
was twin of his, had never expected. 

“He was more afraid than you were that night, Harry. 
You had accepted, even embraced, the possibility of 
death, something Lord Voldemort has never been able 
to do. Your courage won, your wand overpowered his. 
And in doing so, something happened between those 
wands, something that echoed the relationship 
between their masters. 

“I believe that your wand imbibed some of the power 
and qualities of Voldemort’s wand that night, which is 
to say that it contained a little of Voldemort himself. 
So your wand recognized him when he pursued you, 
recognized a man who was both kin and mortal 
enemy, and it regurgitated some of his own magic 
against him, magic much more powerful than 
anything Lucius’s wand had ever performed. Your 
wand now contained the power of your enormous 
courage and of Voldemort’s own deadly skill: What 
chance did that poor stick of Lucius Malfoy’s stand?” 

“But if my wand was so powerful, how come 
Hermione was able to break it?” asked Harry. 

“My dear boy, its remarkable effects were directed 
only at Voldemort, who had tampered so ill-advisedly 
with the deepest laws of magic. Only toward him was 
that wand abnormally powerful. Otherwise it was a 
wand like any other ... though a good one, I am sure,” 
Dumbledore finished kindly. 



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Harry sat in thought for a long time, or perhaps 
seconds. It was very hard to be sure of things like 
time, here. 

“He killed me with your wand.” 

“He failed to kill you with my wand,” Dumbledore 
corrected Harry. “I think we can agree that you are 
not dead — though, of course,” he added, as if fearing 
he had been discourteous, “I do not minimize your 
sufferings, which I am sure were severe.” 

“I feel great at the moment, though,” said Harry, 
looking down at his clean, unblemished hands. 
“Where are we, exactly?” 

“Well, I was going to ask you that,” said Dumbledore, 
looking around. “Where would you say that we are?” 

Until Dumbledore had asked, Harry had not known. 
Now, however, he found that he had an answer ready 
to give. 

“It looks,” he said slowly, “like King’s Cross station. 
Except a lot cleaner and empty, and there are no 
trains as far as I can see.” 

“King’s Cross station!” Dumbledore was chuckling 
immoderately. “Good gracious, really?” 

“Well, where do you think we are?” asked Harry, a 
little defensively. 

“My dear boy, I have no idea. This is, as they say, 
your party.” 

Harry had no idea what this meant; Dumbledore was 
being infuriating. He glared at him, then remembered 



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a much more pressing question than that of their 
current location. 

“The Deathly Hallows,” he said, and he was glad to 
see that the words wiped the smile from 
Dumbledore’s face. 

“Ah, yes,” he said. He even looked a little worried. 
“Well?” 

For the first time since Harry had met Dumbledore, 
he looked less than an old man, much less. He looked 
fleetingly like a small boy caught in wrongdoing. 

“Can you forgive me?” he said. “Can you forgive me 
for not trusting you? For not telling you? Harry, I only 
feared that you would fail as I had failed. I only 
dreaded that you would make my mistakes. I crave 
your pardon, Harry. I have known, for some time now, 
that you are the better man.” 

“What are you talking about?” asked Harry, startled 
by Dumbledore’s tone, by the sudden tears in his 
eyes. 

“The Hallows, the Hallows,” murmured Dumbledore. 
“A desperate man’s dream!” 

“But they’re real!” 

“Real, and dangerous, and a lure for fools,” said 
Dumbledore. “And I was such a fool. But you know, 
don’t you? I have no secrets from you anymore. You 
know.” 

“What do I know?” 



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Dumbledore turned his whole body to face Harry, and 
tears still sparkled in the brilliantly blue eyes. 



“Master of death, Harry, master of Death! Was I 
better, ultimately, than Voldemort?” 

“Of course you were,” said Harry. “Of course — how 
can you ask that? You never killed if you could avoid 
it!” 



“True, true,” said Dumbledore, and he was like a 
child seeking reassurance. “Yet I too sought a way to 
conquer death, Harry.” 

“Not the way he did,” said Harry. After all his anger at 
Dumbledore, how odd it was to sit here, beneath the 
high, vaulted ceiling, and defend Dumbledore from 
himself. “Hallows, not Horcruxes.” 

“Hallows,” murmured Dumbledore, “not Horcruxes. 
Precisely.” 

There was a pause. The creature behind them 
whimpered, but Harry no longer looked around. 

“Grindelwald was looking for them too?” he asked. 

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment and 
nodded. 

“It was the thing, above all, that drew us together,” he 
said quietly. “Two clever, arrogant boys with a shared 
obsession. He wanted to come to Godric’s Hollow, as I 
am sure you have guessed, because of the grave of 
Ignotus Peverell. He wanted to explore the place the 
third brother had died.” 

“So it’s true?” asked Harry. “All of it? The Peverell 
brothers — ” 

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“ — were the three brothers of the tale,” said 
Dumbledore, nodding. “Oh yes, I think so. Whether 
they met Death on a lonely road ... I think it more 
likely that the Peverell brothers were simply gifted, 
dangerous wizards who succeeded in creating those 
powerful objects. The story of them being Death’s own 
Hallows seems to me the sort of legend that might 
have sprung up around such creations. 

“The Cloak, as you know now, traveled down through 
the ages, father to son, mother to daughter, right 
down to Ignotus’s last living descendant, who was 
born, as Ignotus was, in the village of Godric’s 
Hollow.” 

Dumbledore smiled at Harry. 

“Me?” 

“You. You have guessed, I know, why the Cloak was 
in my possession on the night your parents died. 
James had showed it to me just a few days 
previously. It explained much of his undetected 
wrong-doing at school! I could hardly believe what I 
was seeing. I asked to borrow it, to examine it. I had 
long since given up my dream of uniting the Hallows, 
but I could not resist, could not help taking a closer 
look. ... It was a Cloak the likes of which I had never 
seen, immensely old, perfect in every respect . . . and 
then your father died, and I had two Hallows at last, 
all to myself!” 

His tone was unbearably bitter. 

“The Cloak wouldn’t have helped them survive, 
though,” Harry said quickly. “Voldemort knew where 
my mum and dad were. The Cloak couldn’t have 
made them curse-proof.” 



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“True,” sighed Dumbledore. “True.” 



Harry waited, but Dumbledore did not speak, so he 
prompted him. 

“So you’d given up looking for the Hallows when you 
saw the Cloak?” 

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore faintly. It seemed that he 
forced himself to meet Harry’s eyes. “You know what 
happened. You know. You cannot despise me more 
than I despise myself.” 

“But I don’t despise you — ” 

“Then you should,” said Dumbledore. He drew a deep 
breath. “You know the secret of my sister’s ill health, 
what those Muggles did, what she became. You know 
how my poor father sought revenge, and paid the 
price, died in Azkaban. You know how my mother 
gave up her own life to care for Ariana. 

“I resented it, Harry.” 

Dumbledore stated it baldly, coldly. He was looking 
now over the top of Harry’s head, into the distance. 

“I was gifted, I was brilliant. I wanted to escape. I 
wanted to shine. I wanted glory. 

“Do not misunderstand me,” he said, and pain 
crossed the face so that he looked ancient again. “I 
loved them. I loved my parents, I loved my brother 
and my sister, but I was selfish, Harry, more selfish 
than you, who are a remarkably selfless person, could 
possibly imagine. 

“So that, when my mother died, and I was left the 
responsibility of a damaged sister and a wayward 

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brother, I returned to my village in anger and 
bitterness. Trapped and wasted, I thought! And then, 
of course, he came. ...” 

Dumbledore looked directly into Harry’s eyes again. 

“Grindelwald. You cannot imagine how his ideas 
caught me, Harry, inflamed me. Muggles forced into 
subservience. We wizards triumphant. Grindelwald 
and I, the glorious young leaders of the revolution. 

“Oh, I had a few scruples. I assuaged my conscience 
with empty words. It would all be for the greater good, 
and any harm done would be repaid a hundredfold in 
benefits for wizards. Did I know, in my heart of 
hearts, what Gellert Grindelwald was? I think I did, 
but I closed my eyes. If the plans we were making 
came to fruition, all my dreams would come true. 

“And at the heart of our schemes, the Deathly 
Hallows! How they fascinated him, how they 
fascinated both of us! The unbeatable wand, the 
weapon that would lead us to power! The 
Resurrection Stone — to him, though I pretended not 
to know it, it meant an army of Inferi! To me, I 
confess, it meant the return of my parents, and the 
lifting of all responsibility from my shoulders. 

“And the Cloak ... somehow, we never discussed the 
Cloak much, Harry. Both of us could conceal 
ourselves well enough without the Cloak, the true 
magic of which, of course, is that it can be used to 
protect and shield others as well as its owner. I 
thought that, if we ever found it, it might be useful in 
hiding Ariana, but our interest in the Cloak was 
mainly that it completed the trio, for the legend said 
that the man who united all three objects would then 
be truly master of death, which we took to mean 
‘invincible.’ 

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“Invincible masters of death, Grindelwald and 
Dumbledore! Two months of insanity, of cruel 
dreams, and neglect of the only two members of my 
family left to me. 

“And then ... you know what happened. Reality 
returned in the form of my rough, unlettered, and 
infinitely more admirable brother. I did not want to 
hear the truths he shouted at me. I did not want to 
hear that I could not set forth to seek Hallows with a 
fragile and unstable sister in tow. 

“The argument became a fight. Grindelwald lost 
control. That which I had always sensed in him, 
though I pretended not to, now sprang into terrible 
being. And Ariana . . . after all my mother’s care and 
caution ... lay dead upon the floor.” 

Dumbledore gave a little gasp and began to cry in 
earnest. Harry reached out and was glad to find that 
he could touch him: He gripped his arm tightly and 
Dumbledore gradually regained control. 

“Well, Grindelwald fled, as anyone but I could have 
predicted. He vanished, with his plans for seizing 
power, and his schemes for Muggle torture, and his 
dreams of the Deathly Hallows, dreams in which I 
had encouraged him and helped him. He ran, while I 
was left to bury my sister, and learn to live with my 
guilt and my terrible grief, the price of my shame. 

“Years passed. There were rumors about him. They 
said he had procured a wand of immense power. I, 
meanwhile, was offered the post of Minister of Magic, 
not once, but several times. Naturally, I refused. I had 
learned that I was not to be trusted with power.” 

“But you’d have been better, much better, than Fudge 
or Scrimgeour!” burst out Harry. 

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“Would I?” asked Dumbledore heavily. “I am not so 
sure. I had proven, as a very young man, that power 
was my weakness and my temptation. It is a curious 
thing, Harry, but perhaps those who are best suited 
to power are those who have never sought it. Those 
who, like you, have leadership thrust upon them, and 
take up the mantle because they must, and find to 
their own surprise that they wear it well. 

“I was safer at Hogwarts. I think I was a good teacher 



“You were the best — ” 

“ — you are very kind, Harry. But while I busied 
myself with the training of young wizards, 

Grindelwald was raising an army. They say he feared 
me, and perhaps he did, but less, I think, than I 
feared him. 

“Oh, not death,” said Dumbledore, in answer to 
Harry’s questioning look. “Not what he could do to me 
magically. I knew that we were evenly matched, 
perhaps that I was a shade more skillful. It was the 
truth I feared. You see, I never knew which of us, in 
that last, horrific fight, had actually cast the curse 
that killed my sister. You may call me cowardly: You 
would be right. Harry, I dreaded beyond all things the 
knowledge that it had been I who brought about her 
death, not merely through my arrogance and 
stupidity, but that I actually struck the blow that 
snuffed out her life. 

“I think he knew it, I think he knew what frightened 
me. I delayed meeting him until finally, it would have 
been too shameful to resist any longer. People were 
dying and he seemed unstoppable, and I had to do 
what I could. 



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“Well, you know what happened next. I won the duel. 

I won the wand.” 

Another silence. Harry did not ask whether 
Dumbledore had ever found out who struck Ariana 
dead. He did not want to know, and even less did he 
want Dumbledore to have to tell him. At last he knew 
what Dumbledore would have seen when he looked in 
the Mirror of Erised, and why Dumbledore had been 
so understanding of the fascination it had exercised 
over Harry. 

They sat in silence for a long time, and the 
whimperings of the creature behind them barely 
disturbed Harry anymore. 

At last he said, “Grindelwald tried to stop Voldemort 
going after the wand. He lied, you know, pretended he 
had never had it.” 

Dumbledore nodded, looking down at his lap, tears 
still glittering on the crooked nose. 

“They say he showed remorse in later years, alone in 
his cell at Nurmengard. I hope that it is true. I would 
like to think he did feel the horror and shame of what 
he had done. Perhaps that lie to Voldemort was his 
attempt to make amends ... to prevent Voldemort 
from taking the Hallow ...” 

"... or maybe from breaking into your tomb?” 
suggested Harry, and Dumbledore dabbed his eyes. 

After another short pause Harry said, “You tried to 
use the Resurrection Stone.” 

Dumbledore nodded. 



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“When I discovered it, after all those years, buried in 
the abandoned home of the Gaunts — the Hallow I 
had craved most of all, though in my youth I had 
wanted it for very different reasons — I lost my head, 
Harry. I quite forgot that it was now a Horcrux, that 
the ring was sure to carry a curse. I picked it up, and 
I put it on, and for a second I imagined that I was 
about to see Ariana, and my mother, and my father, 
and to tell them how very, very sorry I was. ... 

“I was such a fool, Harry. After all those years I had 
learned nothing. I was unworthy to unite the Deathly 
Hallows, I had proved it time and again, and here was 
final proof.” 

“Why?” said Harry. “It was natural! You wanted to see 
them again. What’s wrong with that?” 

“Maybe a man in a million could unite the Hallows, 
Harry. I was fit only to possess the meanest of them, 
the least extraordinary. I was fit to own the Elder 
Wand, and not to boast of it, and not to kill with it. I 
was permitted to tame and to use it, because I took it, 
not for gain, but to save others from it. 

“But the Cloak, I took out of vain curiosity, and so it 
could never have worked for me as it works for you, 
its true owner. The stone I would have used in an 
attempt to drag back those who are at peace, rather 
than to enable my self-sacrifice, as you did. You are 
the worthy possessor of the Hallows.” 

Dumbledore patted Harry’s hand, and Harry looked 
up at the old man and smiled; he could not help 
himself. How could he remain angry with Dumbledore 
now? 

“Why did you have to make it so difficult?” 



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Dumbledore’s smile was tremulous. 



“I am afraid I counted on Miss Granger to slow you 
up, Harry. I was afraid that your hot head might 
dominate your good heart. I was scared that, if 
presented outright with the facts about those 
tempting objects, you might seize the Hallows as I 
did, at the wrong time, for the wrong reasons. If you 
laid hands on them, I wanted you to possess them 
safely. You are the true master of death, because the 
true master does not seek to run away from Death. 

He accepts that he must die, and understands that 
there are far, far worse things in the living world than 
dying.” 

“And Voldemort never knew about the Hallows?” 

“I do not think so, because he did not recognize the 
Resurrection Stone he turned into a Horcrux. But 
even if he had known about them, Harry, I doubt that 
he would have been interested in any except the first. 
He would not think that he needed the Cloak, and as 
for the stone, whom would he want to bring back 
from the dead? He fears the dead. He does not love.” 

“But you expected him to go after the wand?” 

“I have been sure that he would try, ever since your 
wand beat Voldemort’s in the graveyard of Little 
Hangleton. At first, he was afraid that you had 
conquered him by superior skill. Once he had 
kidnapped Ollivander, however, he discovered the 
existence of the twin cores. He thought that explained 
everything. Yet the borrowed wand did no better 
against yours! So Voldemort, instead of asking 
himself what quality it was in you that had made your 
wand so strong, what gift you possessed that he did 
not, naturally set out to find the one wand that, they 
said, would beat any other. For him, the Elder Wand 
Page | 817 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




has become an obsession to rival his obsession with 
you. He believes that the Elder Wand removes his last 
weakness and makes him truly invincible. Poor 
Severus ...” 

“If you planned your death with Snape, you meant 
him to end up with the Elder Wand, didn’t you?” 

“I admit that was my intention,” said Dumbledore, 
“but it did not work as I intended, did it?” 

“No,” said Harry. “That bit didn’t work out.” 

The creature behind them jerked and moaned, and 
Harry and Dumbledore sat without talking for the 
longest time yet. The realization of what would 
happen next settled gradually over Harry in the long 
minutes, like softly falling snow. 

“I’ve got to go back, haven’t I?” 

“That is up to you.” 

“I’ve got a choice?” 

“Oh yes.” Dumbledore smiled at him. “We are in 
King’s Cross, you say? I think that if you decided not 
to go back, you would be able to ... let’s say ... board 
a train.” 

“And where would it take me?” 

“On,” said Dumbledore simply. 

Silence again. 

“Voldemort’s got the Elder Wand.” 

“True. Voldemort has the Elder Wand.” 

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“But you want me to go back?” 

“I think,” said Dumbledore, “that if you choose to 
return, there is a chance that he may be finished for 
good. I cannot promise it. But I know this, Harry, that 
you have less to fear from returning here than he 
does.” 

Harry glanced again at the raw-looking thing that 
trembled and choked in the shadow beneath the 
distant chair. 

“Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, 
above all, those who live without love. By returning, 
you may ensure that fewer souls are maimed, fewer 
families are torn apart. If that seems to you a worthy 
goal, then we say good-bye for the present.” 

Harry nodded and sighed. Leaving this place would 
not be nearly as hard as walking into the forest had 
been, but it was warm and light and peaceful here, 
and he knew that he was heading back to pain and 
the fear of more loss. He stood up, and Dumbledore 
did the same, and they looked for a long moment into 
each other’s faces. 

“Tell me one last thing,” said Harry. “Is this real? Or 
has this been happening inside my head?” 

Dumbledore beamed at him, and his voice sounded 
loud and strong in Harry’s ears even though the 
bright mist was descending again, obscuring his 
figure. 

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, 
but why on earth should that mean that it is not 
real?” * 



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THE FLAW IN THE PLAN 

He was lying facedown on the ground again. The 
smell of the forest filled his nostrils. He could feel the 
cold hard ground beneath his cheek, and the hinge of 
his glasses, which had been knocked sideways by the 
fall, cutting into his temple. Every inch of him ached, 
and the place where the Killing Curse had hit him felt 
like the bruise of an iron-clad punch. He did not stir, 
but remained exactly where he had fallen, with his 
left arm bent out at an awkward angle and his mouth 
gaping. 

He had expected to hear cheers of triumph and 
jubilation at his death, but instead hurried footsteps, 
whispers, and solicitous murmurs filled the air. 

“My Lord ...my Lord ...” 

It was Bellatrix’s voice, and she spoke as if to a lover. 
Harry did not dare open his eyes, but allowed his 
other senses to explore his predicament. He knew 
that his wand was still stowed beneath his robes 
because he could feel it pressed between his chest 

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and the ground. A slight cushioning effect in the area 
of his stomach told him that the Invisibility Cloak was 
also there, stuffed out of sight. 

“My Lord ...” 

“That will do,” said Voldemort’s voice. 

More footsteps: Several people were backing away 
from the same spot. Desperate to see what was 
happening and why, Harry opened his eyes by a 
millimeter. 

Voldemort seemed to be getting to his feet. Various 
Death Eaters were hurrying away from him, returning 
to the crowd lining the clearing. Bellatrix alone 
remained behind, kneeling beside Voldemort. 

Harry closed his eyes again and considered what he 
had seen. The Death Eaters had been huddled 
around Voldemort, who seemed to have fallen to the 
ground. Something had happened when he had hit 
Harry with the Killing Curse. Had Voldemort too 
collapsed? It seemed like it. And both of them had 
fallen briefly unconscious and both of them had now 
returned. ... 

“My Lord, let me — ” 

“I do not require assistance,” said Voldemort coldly, 
and though he could not see it, Harry pictured 
Bellatrix withdrawing a helpful hand. “The boy ... Is 
he dead?” 

There was complete silence in the clearing. Nobody 
approached Harry, but he felt their concentrated gaze; 
it seemed to press him harder into the ground, and he 
was terrified a finger or an eyelid might twitch. 



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“You,” said Voldemort, and there was a bang and a 
small shriek of pain. “Examine him. Tell me whether 
he is dead.” 

Harry did not know who had been sent to verify. He 
could only lie there, with his heart thumping 
traitorously, and wait to be examined, but at the 
same time noting, small comfort though it was, that 
Voldemort was wary of approaching him, that 
Voldemort suspected that all had not gone to plan. ... 

Hands, softer than he had been expecting, touched 
Harry’s face, pulled back an eyelid, crept beneath his 
shirt, down to his chest, and felt his heart. He could 
hear the woman’s fast breathing, her long hair tickled 
his face. He knew that she could feel the steady 
pounding of life against his ribs. 

“Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?” 

The whisper was barely audible; her lips were an inch 
from his ear, her head bent so low that her long hair 
shielded his face from the onlookers. 

“Yes,” he breathed back. 

He felt the hand on his chest contract; her nails 
pierced him. Then it was withdrawn. She had sat up. 

“He is dead!” Narcissa Malfoy called to the watchers. 

And now they shouted, now they yelled in triumph 
and stamped their feet, and through his eyelids, 

Harry saw bursts of red and silver light shoot into the 
air in celebration. 

Still feigning death on the ground, he understood. 
Narcissa knew that the only way she would be 
permitted to enter Hogwarts, and find her son, was as 

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part of the conquering army. She no longer cared 
whether Voldemort won. 

“You see?” screeched Voldemort over the tumult. 
“Harry Potter is dead by my hand, and no man alive 
can threaten me now! Watch! CrucioV’ 

Harry had been expecting it, knew his body would not 
be allowed to remain unsullied upon the forest floor; 
it must be subjected to humiliation to prove 
Voldemort’s victory. He was lifted into the air, and it 
took all his determination to remain limp, yet the pain 
he expected did not come. He was thrown once, twice, 
three times into the air: His glasses flew off and he 
felt his wand slide a little beneath his robes, but he 
kept himself floppy and lifeless, and when he fell to 
the ground for the last time, the clearing echoed with 
jeers and shrieks of laughter. 

“Now,” said Voldemort, “we go to the castle, and show 
them what has become of their hero. Who shall drag 
the body? No — Wait — ” 

There was a fresh outbreak of laughter, and after a 
few moments Harry felt the ground trembling beneath 
him. 

“You carry him,” Voldemort said. “He will be nice and 
visible in your arms, will he not? Pick up your little 
friend, Hagrid. And the glasses — put on the glasses 
— he must be recognizable — ” 

Someone slammed Harry’s glasses back onto his face 
with deliberate force, but the enormous hands that 
lifted him into the air were exceedingly gentle. Harry 
could feel Hagrid ’s arms trembling with the force of 
his heaving sobs; great tears splashed down upon 
him as Hagrid cradled Harry in his arms, and Harry 



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did not dare, by movement or word, to intimate to 
Hagrid that all was not, yet, lost. 

“Move,” said Voldemort, and Hagrid stumbled 
forward, forcing his way through the close-growing 
trees, back through the forest. Branches caught at 
Harry’s hair and robes, but he lay quiescent, his 
mouth lolling open, his eyes shut, and in the 
darkness, while the Death Eaters crowed all around 
them, and while Hagrid sobbed blindly, nobody 
looked to see whether a pulse beat in the exposed 
neck of Harry Potter. . . . 

The two giants crashed along behind the Death 
Eaters; Harry could hear trees creaking and falling as 
they passed; they made so much din that birds rose 
shrieking into the sky, and even the jeers of the Death 
Eaters were drowned. The victorious procession 
marched on toward the open ground, and after a 
while Harry could tell, by the lightening of the 
darkness through his closed eyelids, that the trees 
were beginning to thin. 

“BANE!” 

Hagrid’s unexpected bellow nearly forced Harry’s eyes 
open. “Happy now, are yeh, that yeh didn’ fight, yeh 
cowardly bunch o’ nags? Are yeh happy Harry Potter’s 
— d-dead...?” 

Hagrid could not continue, but broke down in fresh 
tears. Harry wondered how many centaurs were 
watching their procession pass; he dared not open his 
eyes to look. Some of the Death Eaters called insults 
at the centaurs as they left them behind. A little later, 
Harry sensed, by a freshening of the air, that they 
had reached the edge of the forest. 

“Stop.” 

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Harry thought that Hagrid must have been forced to 
obey Voldemort’s command, because he lurched a 
little. And now a chill settled over them where they 
stood, and Harry heard the rasping breath of the 
dementors that patrolled the outer trees. They would 
not affect him now. The fact of his own survival 
burned inside him, a talisman against them, as 
though his father’s stag kept guardian in his heart. 

Someone passed close by Harry, and he knew that it 
was Voldemort himself because he spoke a moment 
later, his voice magically magnified so that it swelled 
through the grounds, crashing upon Harry’s 
eardrums. 

“Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, 
trying to save himself while you lay down your lives 
for him. We bring you his body as proof that your 
hero is gone. 

“The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. 
My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who 
Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone 
who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be 
slaughtered, as will every member of their family. 
Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you 
shall be spared. Your parents and children, your 
brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you 
will join me in the new world we shall build together.” 

There was silence in the grounds and from the castle. 
Voldemort was so close to him that Harry did not dare 
open his eyes again. 

“Come,” said Voldemort, and Harry heard him move 
ahead, and Hagrid was forced to follow. Now Harry 
opened his eyes a fraction, and saw Voldemort 
striding in front of them, wearing the great snake 
Nagini around his shoulders, now free of her 
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enchanted cage. But Harry had no possibility of 
extracting the wand concealed under his robes 
without being noticed by the Death Eaters, who 
marched on either side of them through the slowly 
lightening darkness. ... 

“Harry,” sobbed Hagrid. “Oh, Harry ... Harry ...” 

Harry shut his eyes tight again. He knew that they 
were approaching the castle and strained his ears to 
distinguish, above the gleeful voices of the Death 
Eaters and their tramping footsteps, signs of life from 
those within. 

“Stop.” 

The Death Eaters came to a halt: Harry heard them 
spreading out in a line facing the open front doors of 
the school. He could see, even through his closed lids, 
the reddish glow that meant light streamed upon him 
from the entrance hall. He waited. Any moment, the 
people for whom he had tried to die would see him, 
lying apparently dead, in Hagrid ’s arms. 

“NO!” 

The scream was the more terrible because he had 
never expected or dreamed that Professor McGonagall 
could make such a sound. He heard another woman 
laughing nearby, and knew that Bellatrix gloried in 
McGonagall’s despair. He squinted again for a single 
second and saw the open doorway filling with people, 
as the survivors of the battle came out onto the front 
steps to face their vanquishers and see the truth of 
Harry’s death for themselves. He saw Voldemort 
standing a little in front of him, stroking Nagini’s 
head with a single white finger. He closed his eyes 
again. 



Page | 826 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“No!” 



“iVo!” 

“Harry! HARRY!” 

Ron’s, Hermione’s, and Ginny’s voices were worse 
than McGonagall’s; Harry wanted nothing more than 
to call back, yet he made himself lie silent, and their 
cries acted like a trigger; the crowd of survivors took 
up the cause, screaming and yelling abuse at the 
Death Eaters, until — 

“SILENCE!” cried Voldemort, and there was a bang 
and a flash of bright light, and silence was forced 
upon them all. “It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at 
my feet, where he belongs!” 

Harry felt himself lowered onto the grass. 

“You see?” said Voldemort, and Harry felt him striding 
backward and forward right beside the place where he 
lay. “Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, 
deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who 
relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!” 

“He beat you!” yelled Ron, and the charm broke, and 
the defenders of Hogwarts were shouting and 
screaming again until a second, more powerful bang 
extinguished their voices once more. 

“He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle 
grounds,” said Voldemort, and there was relish in his 
voice for the lie, “killed while trying to save himself — ” 

But Voldemort broke off: Harry heard a scuffle and a 
shout, then another bang, a flash of light, and a grunt 
of pain; he opened his eyes an infinitesimal amount. 
Someone had broken free of the crowd and charged at 

Page | 827 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




Voldemort: Harry saw the figure hit the ground, 
Disarmed, Voldemort throwing the challenger’s wand 
aside and laughing. 

“And who is this?” he said in his soft snake’s hiss. 
“Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens 
to those who continue to fight when the battle is 
lost?” 

Bellatrix gave a delighted laugh. 

“It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has 
been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of 
the Aurors, remember?” 

“Ah, yes, I remember,” said Voldemort, looking down 
at Neville, who was struggling back to his feet, 
unarmed and unprotected, standing in the no-man ’s- 
land between the survivors and the Death Eaters. 

“But you are a pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?” 
Voldemort asked Neville, who stood facing him, his 
empty hands curled in fists. 

“So what if I am?” said Neville loudly. 

“You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble 
stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We 
need your kind, Neville Longbottom.” 

“I’ll join you when hell freezes over,” said Neville. 
“Dumbledore’s Army!” he shouted, and there was an 
answering cheer from the crowd, whom Voldemort’s 
Silencing Charms seemed unable to hold. 

“Very well,” said Voldemort, and Harry heard more 
danger in the silkiness of his voice than in the most 
powerful curse. “If that is your choice, Longbottom, 
we revert to the original plan. On your head,” he said 
quietly, “be it.” 

Page | 828 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




Still watching through his lashes, Harry saw 
Voldemort wave his wand. Seconds later, out of one of 
the castle’s shattered windows, something that looked 
like a misshapen bird flew through the half light and 
landed in Voldemort’s hand. He shook the mildewed 
object by its pointed end and it dangled, empty and 
ragged: the Sorting Hat. 

“There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,” 
said Voldemort. “There will be no more Houses. The 
emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, 
Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won’t 
they, Neville Longbottom?” 

He pointed his wand at Neville, who grew rigid and 
still, then forced the hat onto Neville’s head, so that it 
slipped down below his eyes. There were movements 
from the watching crowd in front of the castle, and as 
one, the Death Eaters raised their wands, holding the 
fighters of Hogwarts at bay. 

“Neville here is now going to demonstrate what 
happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to 
oppose me,” said Voldemort, and with a flick of his 
wand, he caused the Sorting Hat to burst into flames. 

Screams split the dawn, and Neville was aflame, 
rooted to the spot, unable to move, and Harry could 
not bear it: He must act — 

And then many things happened at the same 
moment. 

They heard uproar from the distant boundary of the 
school as what sounded like hundreds of people came 
swarming over the out-of-sight walls and pelted 
toward the castle, uttering loud war cries. At the 
same time, Grawp came lumbering around the side of 
the castle and yelled, “HAGGER!” His cry was 
Page | 829 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




answered by roars from Voldemort’s giants: They ran 
at Grawp like bull elephants, making the earth quake. 
Then came hooves and the twangs of bows, and 
arrows were suddenly falling amongst the Death 
Eaters, who broke ranks, shouting their surprise. 
Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak from inside his 
robes, swung it over himself, and sprang to his feet, 
as Neville moved too. 

In one swift, fluid motion, Neville broke free of the 
Body-Bind Curse upon him; the flaming hat fell off 
him and he drew from its depths something silver, 
with a glittering, rubied handle — 

The slash of the silver blade could not be heard over 
the roar of the oncoming crowd or the sounds of the 
clashing giants or of the stampeding centaurs, and 
yet it seemed to draw every eye. With a single stroke 
Neville sliced off the great snake’s head, which spun 
high into the air, gleaming in the light flooding from 
the entrance hall, and Voldemort’s mouth was open 
in a scream of fury that nobody could hear, and the 
snake’s body thudded to the ground at his feet — 

Hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, Harry cast a 
Shield Charm between Neville and Voldemort before 
the latter could raise his wand. Then, over the 
screams and the roars and the thunderous stamps of 
the battling giants, Hagrid’s yell came loudest of all. 

“HARRY!” Hagrid shouted. “HARRY — WHERE’S 
HARRY?” 

Chaos reigned. The charging centaurs were scattering 
the Death Eaters, everyone was fleeing the giants’ 
stamping feet, and nearer and nearer thundered the 
reinforcements that had come from who knew where; 
Harry saw great winged creatures soaring around the 
heads of Voldemort’s giants, thestrals and Buckbeak 
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the hippogriff scratching at their eyes while Grawp 
punched and pummeled them; and now the wizards, 
defenders of Hogwarts and Death Eaters alike, were 
being forced back into the castle. Harry was shooting 
jinxes and curses at any Death Eater he could see, 
and they crumpled, not knowing what or who had hit 
them, and their bodies were trampled by the 
retreating crowd. 

Still hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, Harry was 
buffeted into the entrance hall: He was searching for 
Voldemort and saw him across the room, firing spells 
from his wand as he backed into the Great Hall, still 
screaming instructions to his followers as he sent 
curses flying left and right; Harry cast more Shield 
Charms, and Voldemort’s would-be victims, Seamus 
Finnigan and Hannah Abbott, darted past him into 
the Great Hall, where they joined the fight already 
flourishing inside it. 

And now there were more, even more people storming 
up the front steps, and Harry saw Charlie Weasley 
overtaking Horace Slughorn, who was still wearing 
his emerald pajamas. They seemed to have returned 
at the head of what looked like the families and 
friends of every Hogwarts student who had remained 
to fight, along with the shopkeepers and homeowners 
of Hogsmeade. The centaurs Bane, Ronan, and 
Magorian burst into the hall with a great clatter of 
hooves, as behind Harry the door that led to the 
kitchens was blasted off its hinges. 

The house-elves of Hogwarts swarmed into the 
entrance hall, screaming and waving carving knives 
and cleavers, and at their head, the locket of Regulus 
Black bouncing on his chest, was Kreacher, his 
bullfrog’s voice audible even above this din: “Fight! 
Fight! Fight for my Master, defender of house-elves! 



Page | 831 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




Fight the Dark Lord, in the name of brave Regulus! 
Fight!” 

They were hacking and stabbing at the ankles and 
shins of Death Eaters, their tiny faces alive with 
malice, and everywhere Harry looked Death Eaters 
were folding under sheer weight of numbers, 
overcome by spells, dragging arrows from wounds, 
stabbed in the leg by elves, or else simply attempting 
to escape, but swallowed by the oncoming horde. 

But it was not over yet: Harry sped between duelers, 
past struggling prisoners, and into the Great Hall. 

Voldemort was in the center of the battle, and he was 
striking and smiting all within reach. Harry could not 
get a clear shot, but fought his way nearer, still 
invisible, and the Great Hall became more and more 
crowded as everyone who could walk forced their way 
inside. 

Harry saw Yaxley slammed to the floor by George and 
Lee Jordan, saw Dolohov fall with a scream at 
Flitwick’s hands, saw Walden Macnair thrown across 
the room by Hagrid, hit the stone wall opposite, and 
slide unconscious to the ground. He saw Ron and 
Neville bringing down Fenrir Greyback, Aberforth 
Stunning Rookwood, Arthur and Percy flooring 
Thicknesse, and Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy running 
through the crowd, not even attempting to fight, 
screaming for their son. 

Voldemort was now dueling McGonagall, Slughorn, 
and Kingsley all at once, and there was cold hatred in 
his face as they wove and ducked around him, unable 
to finish him — 

Bellatrix was still fighting too, fifty yards away from 
Voldemort, and like her master she dueled three at 

Page | 832 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




once: Hermione, Ginny, and Luna, all battling their 
hardest, but Bellatrix was equal to them, and Harry’s 
attention was diverted as a Killing Curse shot so close 
to Ginny that she missed death by an inch — 

He changed course, running at Bellatrix rather than 
Voldemort, but before he had gone a few steps he was 
knocked sideways. 

“NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!” 

Mrs. Weasley threw off her cloak as she ran, freeing 
her arms. Bellatrix spun on the spot, roaring with 
laughter at the sight of her new challenger. 

“OUT OF MY WAY!” shouted Mrs. Weasley to the three 
girls, and with a swipe of her wand she began to duel. 
Harry watched with terror and elation as Molly 
Weasley’s wand slashed and twirled, and Bellatrix 
Lestrange’s smile faltered and became a snarl. Jets of 
light flew from both wands, the floor around the 
witches’ feet became hot and cracked; both women 
were fighting to kill. 

“No!” Mrs. Weasley cried as a few students ran 
forward, trying to come to her aid. “Get back! Get 
back ! She is mine!” 

Hundreds of people now lined the walls, watching the 
two fights, Voldemort and his three opponents, 
Bellatrix and Molly, and Harry stood, invisible, torn 
between both, wanting to attack and yet to protect, 
unable to be sure that he would not hit the innocent. 

“What will happen to your children when I’ve killed 
you?” taunted Bellatrix, as mad as her master, 
capering as Molly’s curses danced around her. “When 
Mummy’s gone the same way as Freddie?” 



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“You — will — never — touch — our — children — 
again!” screamed Mrs. Weasley. 

Bellatrix laughed, the same exhilarated laugh her 
cousin Sirius had given as he toppled backward 
through the veil, and suddenly Harry knew what was 
going to happen before it did. 

Molly’s curse soared beneath Bellatrix’s outstretched 
arm and hit her squarely in the chest, directly over 
her heart. 

Bellatrix’s gloating smile froze, her eyes seemed to 
bulge: For the tiniest space of time she knew what 
had happened, and then she toppled, and the 
watching crowd roared, and Voldemort screamed. 

Harry felt as though he turned in slow motion; he saw 
McGonagall, Kingsley, and Slughorn blasted 
backward, flailing and writhing through the air, as 
Voldemort ’s fury at the fall of his last, best lieutenant 
exploded with the force of a bomb. Voldemort raised 
his wand and directed it at Molly Weasley. 

“Protego\” roared Harry, and the Shield Charm 
expanded in the middle of the Hall, and Voldemort 
stared around for the source as Harry pulled off the 
Invisibility Cloak at last. 

The yell of shock, the cheers, the screams on every 
side of “Harry!” “HE’S ALIVE!” were stifled at once. 

The crowd was afraid, and silence fell abruptly and 
completely as Voldemort and Harry looked at each 
other, and began, at the same moment, to circle each 
other. 

“I don’t want anyone else to try to help,” Harry said 
loudly, and in the total silence his voice carried like a 
trumpet call. “It’s got to be like this. It’s got to be me.” 

Page | 834 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




Voldemort hissed. 



“Potter doesn’t mean that,” he said, his red eyes wide. 
“That isn’t how he works, is it? Who are you going to 
use as a shield today, Potter?” 

“Nobody,” said Harry simply. “There are no more 
Horcruxes. It’s just you and me. Neither can live while 
the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for 
good. ...” 

“One of us?” jeered Voldemort, and his whole body 
was taut and his red eyes stared, a snake that was 
about to strike. “You think it will be you, do you, the 
boy who has survived by accident, and because 
Dumbledore was pulling the strings?” 

“Accident, was it, when my mother died to save me?” 
asked Harry. They were still moving sideways, both of 
them, in that perfect circle, maintaining the same 
distance from each other, and for Harry no face 
existed but Voldemort’s. “Accident, when I decided to 
fight in that graveyard? Accident, that I didn’t defend 
myself tonight, and still survived, and returned to 
fight again?” 

“Accidents'.” screamed Voldemort, but still he did not 
strike, and the watching crowd was frozen as if 
Petrified, and of the hundreds in the Hall, nobody 
seemed to breathe but they two. “Accident and 
chance and the fact that you crouched and sniveled 
behind the skirts of greater men and women, and 
permitted me to kill them for you!” 

“You won’t be killing anyone else tonight,” said Harry 
as they circled, and stared into each other’s eyes, 
green into red. “You won’t be able to kill any of them 
ever again. Don’t you get it? I was ready to die to stop 
you from hurting these people — ” 

Page | 835 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




“But you did not!” 



“ — I meant to, and that’s what did it. I’ve done what 
my mother did. They’re protected from you. Haven’t 
you noticed how none of the spells you put on them 
are binding? You can’t torture them. You can’t touch 
them. You don’t learn from your mistakes, Riddle, do 
you?” 

“ You dare — ” 

“Yes, I dare,” said Harry. “I know things you don’t 
know, Tom Riddle. I know lots of important things 
that you don’t. Want to hear some, before you make 
another big mistake?” 

Voldemort did not speak, but prowled in a circle, and 
Harry knew that he kept him temporarily mesmerized 
and at bay, held back by the faintest possibility that 
Harry might indeed know a final secret. ... 

“Is it love again?” said Voldemort, his snake’s face 
jeering. “Dumbledore’s favorite solution, love, which 
he claimed conquered death, though love did not stop 
him falling from the tower and breaking like an old 
waxwork? Love, which did not prevent me stamping 
out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter — 
and nobody seems to love you enough to run forward 
this time and take my curse. So what will stop you 
dying now when I strike?” 

“Just one thing,” said Harry, and still they circled 
each other, wrapped in each other, held apart by 
nothing but the last secret. 

“If it is not love that will save you this time,” said 
Voldemort, “you must believe that you have magic 
that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than 
mine?” 

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“I believe both,” said Harry, and he saw shock flit 
across the snakelike face, though it was instantly 
dispelled; Voldemort began to laugh, and the sound 
was more frightening than his screams; humorless 
and insane, it echoed around the silent Hall. 

“You think you know more magic than I do?” he said. 
“Than I, than Lord Voldemort, who has performed 
magic that Dumbledore himself never dreamed of?” 

“Oh, he dreamed of it,” said Harry, “but he knew more 
than you, knew enough not to do what you’ve done.” 

“You mean he was weak!” screamed Voldemort. “Too 
weak to dare, too weak to take what might have been 
his, what will be mine!” 

“No, he was cleverer than you,” said Harry, “a better 
wizard, a better man.” 

“I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!” 

“You thought you did,” said Harry, “but you were 
wrong.” 

For the first time, the watching crowd stirred as the 
hundreds of people around the walls drew breath as 
one. 

“Dumbledore is dead\” Voldemort hurled the words at 
Harry as though they would cause him unendurable 
pain. “His body decays in the marble tomb in the 
grounds of this castle, I have seen it, Potter, and he 
will not return!” 

“Yes, Dumbledore’s dead,” said Harry calmly, “but 
you didn’t have him killed. He chose his own manner 
of dying, chose it months before he died, arranged the 



Page | 837 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




whole thing with the man you thought was your 
servant.” 

“What childish dream is this?” said Voldemort, but 
still he did not strike, and his red eyes did not waver 
from Harry’s. 

“Severus Snape wasn’t yours,” said Harry. “Snape 
was Dumbledore’s, Dumbledore’s from the moment 
you started hunting down my mother. And you never 
realized it, because of the thing you can’t understand. 
You never saw Snape cast a Patronus, did you, 
Riddle?” 

Voldemort did not answer. They continued to circle 
each other like wolves about to tear each other apart. 

“Snape’s Patronus was a doe,” said Harry, “the same 
as my mother’s, because he loved her for nearly all of 
his life, from the time when they were children. You 
should have realized,” he said as he saw Voldemort’s 
nostrils flare, “he asked you to spare her life, didn’t 
he?” 

“He desired her, that was all,” sneered Voldemort, 

“but when she had gone, he agreed that there were 
other women, and of purer blood, worthier of him — ” 

“Of course he told you that,” said Harry, “but he was 
Dumbledore’s spy from the moment you threatened 
her, and he’s been working against you ever since! 
Dumbledore was already dying when Snape finished 
him!” 

“It matters not!” shrieked Voldemort, who had 
followed every word with rapt attention, but now let 
out a cackle of mad laughter. “It matters not whether 
Snape was mine or Dumbledore’s, or what petty 
obstacles they tried to put in my path! I crushed them 
Page | 838 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling 




as I crushed your mother, Snape ’s supposed great 
love\ Oh, but it all makes sense, Potter, and in ways 
that you do not understand! 

“Dumbledore was trying to keep the Elder Wand from 
me! He intended that Snape should be the true 
master of the wand! But I got there ahead of you, little 
boy — I reached the wand before you could get your 
hands on it, I understood the truth before you caught 
up. I killed Severus Snape three hours ago, and the 
Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny is 
truly mine! Dumbledore ’s last plan went wrong, Harry 
Potter!” 

“Yeah, it did,” said Harry. “You’re right. But before 
you try to kill me, I’d advise you to think about what 
you’ve done. ... Think, and try for some remorse, 
Riddle. ...” 

“What is this?” 

Of all the things that Harry had said to him, beyond 
any revelation or taunt, nothing had shocked 
Voldemort like this. Harry saw his pupils contract to 
thin slits, saw the skin around his eyes whiten. 

“It’s your one last chance,” said Harry, “it’s all you’ve 
got left. ... I’ve seen what you’ll be otherwise. ... Be a 
man ... try ... Try for some remorse. ...” 

“You dare — ?” said Voldemort again. 

“Yes, I dare,” said Harry, “because Dumbledore’s last 
plan hasn’t backfired on me at all. It’s backfired on 
you, Riddle.” 

Voldemort’s hand was trembling on the Elder Wand, 
and Harry gripped Draco’s very tightly. The moment, 
he knew, was seconds away. 

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“That wand still isn’t working properly for you 
because you murdered the wrong person. Severus 
Snape was never the true master of the Elder Wand. 
He never defeated Dumbledore.” 

“He killed — ” 

“Aren’t you listening? Snape never beat Dumbledorel 
Dumbledore’s death was planned between them! 
Dumbledore intended to die undefeated, the wand’s 
last true master! If all had gone as planned, the 
wand’s power would have died with him, because it 
had never been won from him!” 

“But then, Potter, Dumbledore as good as gave me the 
wand!” Voldemort’s voice shook with malicious 
pleasure. “I stole the wand from its last master’s 
tomb! I removed it against its last master’s wishes! Its 
power is mine!” 

“You still don’t get it, Riddle, do you? Possessing the 
wand isn’t enough! Holding it, using it, doesn’t make 
it really yours. Didn’t you listen to Ollivander? The 
wand chooses the wizard. ... The Elder Wand 
recognized a new master before Dumbledore died, 
someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new 
master removed the wand from Dumbledore against 
his will, never realizing exactly what he had done, or 
that the world’s most dangerous wand had given him 
its allegiance. ...” 

Voldemort’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and Harry 
could feel the curse coming, feel it building inside the 
wand pointed at his face. 

“The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco 
Malfoy.” 



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Blank shock showed in Voldemort’s face for a 
moment, but then it was gone. 

“But what does it matter?” he said softly. “Even if you 
are right, Potter, it makes no difference to you and 
me. You no longer have the phoenix wand: We duel 
on skill alone ... and after I have killed you, I can 
attend to Draco Malfoy. ...” 

“But you’re too late,” said Harry. “You’ve missed your 
chance. I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks 
ago. I took this wand from him.” 

Harry twitched the hawthorn wand, and he felt the 
eyes of everyone in the Hall upon it. 

“So it all comes down to this, doesn’t it?” whispered 
Harry. “Does the wand in your hand know its last 
master was Disarmed? Because if it does ... I am the 
true master of the Elder Wand.” 

A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted 
sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun appeared 
over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both 
of their faces at the same time, so that Voldemort’s 
was suddenly a flaming blur. Harry heard the high 
voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the 
heavens, pointing Draco’s wand: 

“Avada KedavraV’ 

“ Expelliarmus\ ” 

The bang was like a cannon blast, and the golden 
flames that erupted between them, at the dead center 
of the circle they had been treading, marked the point 
where the spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort’s 
green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly 
high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the 
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enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning 
through the air toward the master it would not kill, 
who had come to take full possession of it at last. And 
Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, caught 
the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backward, 
arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling 
upward. Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane 
finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white 
hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and 
unknowing. Voldemort was dead, killed by his own 
rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in 
his hand, staring down at his enemy’s shell. 

One shivering second of silence, the shock of the 
moment suspended: and then the tumult broke 
around Harry as the screams and the cheers and the 
roars of the watchers rent the air. The fierce new sun 
dazzled the windows as they thundered toward him, 
and the first to reach him were Ron and Hermione, 
and it was their arms that were wrapped around him, 
their incomprehensible shouts that deafened him. 
Then Ginny, Neville, and Luna were there, and then 
all the Weasleys and Hagrid, and Kingsley and 
McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout, and Harry could 
not hear a word that anyone was shouting, nor tell 
whose hands were seizing him, pulling him, trying to 
hug some part of him, hundreds of them pressing in, 
all of them determined to touch the Boy Who Lived, 
the reason it was over at last — 

The sun rose steadily over Hogwarts, and the Great 
Hall blazed with life and light. Harry was an 
indispensable part of the mingled outpourings of 
jubilation and mourning, of grief and celebration. 

They wanted him there with them, their leader and 
symbol, their savior and their guide, and that he had 
not slept, that he craved the company of only a few of 
them, seemed to occur to no one. He must speak to 
the bereaved, clasp their hands, witness their tears, 
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receive their thanks, hear the news now creeping in 
from every quarter as the morning drew on; that the 
Imperiused up and down the country had come back 
to themselves, that Death Eaters were fleeing or else 
being captured, that the innocent of Azkaban were 
being released at that very moment, and that Kingsley 
Shacklebolt had been named temporary Minister of 
Magic. ... 

They moved Voldemort’s body and laid it in a 
chamber off the Hall, away from the bodies of Fred, 
Tonks, Lupin, Colin Creevey, and fifty others who had 
died fighting him. McGonagall had replaced the 
House tables, but nobody was sitting according to 
House anymore: All were jumbled together, teachers 
and pupils, ghosts and parents, centaurs and house- 
elves, and Firenze lay recovering in a corner, and 
Grawp peered in through a smashed window, and 
people were throwing food into his laughing mouth. 
After a while, exhausted and drained, Harry found 
himself sitting on a bench beside Luna. 

“I’d want some peace and quiet, if it were me,” she 
said. 

“I’d love some,” he replied. 

“I’ll distract them all,” she said. “Use your Cloak.” 

And before he could say a word she had cried, “Oooh, 
look, a Blibbering Humdinger!” and pointed out of the 
window. Everyone who heard looked around, and 
Harry slid the Cloak up over himself, and got to his 
feet. 

Now he could move through the Hall without 
interference. He spotted Ginny two tables away; she 
was sitting with her head on her mother’s shoulder: 
There would be time to talk later, hours and days and 

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maybe years in which to talk. He saw Neville, the 
sword of Gryffindor lying beside his plate as he ate, 
surrounded by a knot of fervent admirers. Along the 
aisle between the tables he walked, and he spotted 
the three Malfoys, huddled together as though unsure 
whether or not they were supposed to be there, but 
nobody was paying them any attention. Everywhere 
he looked he saw families reunited, and finally, he 
saw the two whose company he craved most. 

“It’s me,” he muttered, crouching down between 
them. “Will you come with me?” 

They stood up at once, and together he, Ron, and 
Hermione left the Great Hall. Great chunks were 
missing from the marble staircase, part of the 
balustrade gone, and rubble and bloodstains 
occurred every few steps as they climbed. 

Somewhere in the distance they could hear Peeves 
zooming through the corridors singing a victory song 
of his own composition: 

We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter’s the one, 

And Voldy’s gone moldy, so now let’s have fun! 

“Really gives a feeling for the scope and tragedy of the 
thing, doesn’t it?” said Ron, pushing open a door to 
let Harry and Hermione through. 

Happiness would come, Harry thought, but at the 
moment it was muffled by exhaustion, and the pain of 
losing Fred and Lupin and Tonks pierced him like a 
physical wound every few steps. Most of all he felt the 
most stupendous relief, and a longing to sleep. But 
first he owed an explanation to Ron and Hermione, 
who had stuck with him for so long, and who 
deserved the truth. Painstakingly he recounted what 
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he had seen in the Pensieve and what had happened 
in the forest, and they had not even begun to express 
all their shock and amazement when at last they 
arrived at the place to which they had been walking, 
though none of them had mentioned their 
destination. 

Since he had last seen it, the gargoyle guarding the 
entrance to the headmaster’s study had been knocked 
aside; it stood lopsided, looking a little punch-drunk, 
and Harry wondered whether it would be able to 
distinguish passwords anymore. 

“Can we go up?” he asked the gargoyle. 

“Feel free,” groaned the statue. 

They clambered over him and onto the spiral stone 
staircase that moved slowly upward like an escalator. 
Harry pushed open the door at the top. 

He had one, brief glimpse of the stone Pensieve on the 
desk where he had left it, and then an earsplitting 
noise made him cry out, thinking of curses and 
returning Death Eaters and the rebirth of Voldemort 



But it was applause. All around the walls, the 
headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts were 
giving him a standing ovation; they waved their hats 
and in some cases their wigs, they reached through 
their frames to grip each other’s hands; they danced 
up and down on the chairs in which they had been 
painted; Dilys Derwent sobbed unashamedly; Dexter 
Fortescue was waving his ear-trumpet; and Phineas 
Nigellus called, in his high, reedy voice, “And let it be 
noted that Slytherin House played its part! Let our 
contribution not be forgotten!” 



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But Harry had eyes only for the man who stood in the 
largest portrait directly behind the headmaster’s 
chair. Tears were sliding down from behind the half- 
moon spectacles into the long silver beard, and the 
pride and the gratitude emanating from him filled 
Harry with the same balm as phoenix song. 

At last, Harry held up his hands, and the portraits fell 
respectfully silent, beaming and mopping their eyes 
and waiting eagerly for him to speak. He directed his 
words at Dumbledore, however, and chose them with 
enormous care. Exhausted and bleary-eyed though he 
was, he must make one last effort, seeking one last 
piece of advice. 

“The thing that was hidden in the Snitch,” he began, 

“I dropped it in the forest. I don’t know exactly where, 
but I’m not going to go looking for it again. Do you 
agree?” 

“My dear boy, I do,” said Dumbledore, while his fellow 
pictures looked confused and curious. “A wise and 
courageous decision, but no less than I would have 
expected of you. Does anyone else know where it fell?” 

“No one,” said Harry, and Dumbledore nodded his 
satisfaction. 

“I’m going to keep Ignotus’s present, though,” said 
Harry, and Dumbledore beamed. 

“But of course, Harry, it is yours forever, until you 
pass it on!” 

“And then there’s this.” 

Harry held up the Elder Wand, and Ron and 
Hermione looked at it with a reverence that, even in 



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his befuddled and sleep-deprived state, Harry did not 
like to see. 

“I don’t want it,” said Harry. 

“What?” said Ron loudly. “Are you mental?” 

“I know it’s powerful,” said Harry wearily. “But I was 
happier with mine. So ...” 

He rummaged in the pouch hung around his neck, 
and pulled out the two halves of holly still just 
connected by the finest thread of phoenix feather. 
Hermione had said that they could not be repaired, 
that the damage was too severe. All he knew was that 
if this did not work, nothing would. 

He laid the broken wand upon the headmaster’s desk, 
touched it with the very tip of the Elder Wand, and 
said, “Reparo.” 

As his wand resealed, red sparks flew out of its end. 
Harry knew that he had succeeded. He picked up the 
holly and phoenix wand and felt a sudden warmth in 
his fingers, as though wand and hand were rejoicing 
at their reunion. 

“I’m putting the Elder Wand,” he told Dumbledore, 
who was watching him with enormous affection and 
admiration, “back where it came from. It can stay 
there. If I die a natural death like Ignotus, its power 
will be broken, won’t it? The previous master will 
never have been defeated. That’ll be the end of it.” 

Dumbledore nodded. They smiled at each other. 

“Are you sure?” said Ron. There was the faintest trace 
of longing in his voice as he looked at the Elder Wand. 



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“I think Harry’s right,” said Hermione quietly. 

“That wand’s more trouble than it’s worth,” said 
Harry. “And quite honestly,” he turned away from the 
painted portraits, thinking now only of the four-poster 
bed lying waiting for him in Gryffindor Tower, and 
wondering whether Kreacher might bring him a 
sandwich there, “I’ve had enough trouble for a 
lifetime.” 



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ayue 




NINETEEN YEARS LATER 

Autumn seemed to arrive suddenly that year. The 
morning of the first of September was crisp and 
golden as an apple, and as the little family bobbed 
across the rumbling road toward the great sooty 
station, the fumes of car exhausts and the breath of 
pedestrians sparkled like cobwebs in the cold air. Two 
large cages rattled on top of the laden trolleys the 
parents were pushing; the owls inside them hooted 
indignantly, and the redheaded girl trailed tearfully 
behind her brothers, clutching her father’s arm. 

“It won’t be long, and you’ll be going too,” Harry told 
her. 

“Two years,” sniffed Lily. “I want to go now\” 

The commuters stared curiously at the owls as the 
family wove its way toward the barrier between 
platforms nine and ten. Albus’s voice drifted back to 
Harry over the surrounding clamor; his sons had 
resumed the argument they had started in the car. 



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“I won’ti I won’t be in Slytherin!” 

“James, give it a rest!” said Ginny. 

“I only said he might be,” said James, grinning at his 
younger brother. “There’s nothing wrong with that. He 
might be in Slyth — ” 

But James caught his mother’s eye and fell silent. 

The five Potters approached the barrier. With a 
slightly cocky look over his shoulder at his younger 
brother, James took the trolley from his mother and 
broke into a run. A moment later, he had vanished. 

“You’ll write to me, won’t you?” Albus asked his 
parents immediately, capitalizing on the momentary 
absence of his brother. 

“Every day, if you want us to,” said Ginny. 

“Not every day,” said Albus quickly. “James says most 
people only get letters from home about once a 
month.” 

“We wrote to James three times a week last year,” 
said Ginny. 

“And you don’t want to believe everything he tells you 
about Hogwarts,” Harry put in. “He likes a laugh, 
your brother.” 

Side by side, they pushed the second trolley forward, 
gathering speed. As they reached the barrier, Albus 
winced, but no collision came. Instead, the family 
emerged onto platform nine and three-quarters, 
which was obscured by thick white steam that was 
pouring from the scarlet Hogwarts Express. Indistinct 
figures were swarming through the mist, into which 
James had already disappeared. 

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“Where are they?” asked Albus anxiously, peering at 
the hazy forms they passed as they made their way 
down the platform. 

“Well find them,” said Ginny reassuringly. 

But the vapor was dense, and it was difficult to make 
out anybody’s faces. Detached from their owners, 
voices sounded unnaturally loud. Harry thought he 
heard Percy discoursing loudly on broomstick 
regulations, and was quite glad of the excuse not to 
stop and say hello. ... 

“I think that’s them, Al,” said Ginny suddenly. 

A group of four people emerged from the mist, 
standing alongside the very last carriage. Their faces 
only came into focus when Harry, Ginny, Lily, and 
Albus had drawn right up to them. 

“Hi,” said Albus, sounding immensely relieved. 

Rose, who was already wearing her brand-new 
Hogwarts robes, beamed at him. 

“Parked all right, then?” Ron asked Harry. “I did. 
Hermione didn’t believe I could pass a Muggle driving 
test, did you? She thought I’d have to Confund the 
examiner.” 

“No, I didn’t,” said Hermione, “I had complete faith in 
you.” 

“As a matter of fact, I did Confund him,” Ron 
whispered to Harry, as together they lifted Albus ’s 
trunk and owl onto the train. “I only forgot to look in 
the wing mirror, and let’s face it, I can use a 
Supersensory Charm for that.” 



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Back on the platform, they found Lily and Hugo, 
Rose’s younger brother, having an animated 
discussion about which House they would be sorted 
into when they finally went to Hogwarts. 

“If you’re not in Gryffindor, we’ll disinherit you,” said 
Ron, “but no pressure.” 

“Ron\” 

Lily and Hugo laughed, but Albus and Rose looked 
solemn. 

“He doesn’t mean it,” said Hermione and Ginny, but 
Ron was no longer paying attention. Catching Harry’s 
eye, he nodded covertly to a point some fifty yards 
away. The steam had thinned for a moment, and 
three people stood in sharp relief against the shifting 
mist. 

“Look who it is.” 

Draco Malfoy was standing there with his wife and 
son, a dark coat buttoned up to his throat. His hair 
was receding somewhat, which emphasized the 
pointed chin. The new boy resembled Draco as much 
as Albus resembled Harry. Draco caught sight of 
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny staring at him, 
nodded curtly, and turned away again. 

“So that’s little Scorpius,” said Ron under his breath. 
“Make sure you beat him in every test, Rosie. Thank 
God you inherited your mother’s brains.” 

“Ron, for heaven’s sake,” said Hermione, half stern, 
half amused. “Don’t try to turn them against each 
other before they’ve even started school!” 



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“You’re right, sorry,” said Ron, but unable to help 
himself, he added, “Don’t get too friendly with him, 
though, Rosie. Granddad Weasley would never forgive 
you if you married a pureblood.” 

“Hey!” 

James had reappeared; he had divested himself of his 
trunk, owl, and trolley, and was evidently bursting 
with news. 

“Teddy’s back there,” he said breathlessly, pointing 
back over his shoulder into the billowing clouds of 
steam. “Just seen him! And guess what he’s doing? 
Snogging Victoire\” 

He gazed up at the adults, evidently disappointed by 
the lack of reaction. 

“Our Teddy! Teddy Lupin\ Snogging our Victoire! Our 
cousin! And I asked Teddy what he was doing — ” 

“You interrupted them?” said Ginny. “You are so like 
Ron — ” 

“ — and he said he’d come to see her off! And then he 
told me to go away. He’s snogging her!” James added 
as though worried he had not made himself clear. 

“Oh, it would be lovely if they got married!” whispered 
Lily ecstatically. “Teddy would really be part of the 
family then!” 

“He already comes round for dinner about four times 
a week,” said Harry. “Why don’t we just invite him to 
live with us and have done with it?” 

“Yeah!” said James enthusiastically. “I don’t mind 
sharing with A1 — Teddy could have my room!” 

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“No,” said Harry firmly, “you and A1 will share a room 
only when I want the house demolished.” 

He checked the battered old watch that had once 
been Fabian Prewett’s. 

“It’s nearly eleven, you’d better get on board.” 

“Don’t forget to give Neville our love!” Ginny told 
James as she hugged him. 

“Mum! I can’t give a professor love\” 

“But you know Neville — ” 

James rolled his eyes. 

“Outside, yeah, but at school he’s Professor 
Longbottom, isn’t he? I can’t walk into Herbology and 
give him love. ...” 

Shaking his head at his mother’s foolishness, he 
vented his feelings by aiming a kick at Albus. 

“See you later, Al. Watch out for the thestrals.” 

“I thought they were invisible? You said they were 
invisible !” 

But James merely laughed, permitted his mother to 
kiss him, gave his father a fleeting hug, then leapt 
onto the rapidly filling train. They saw him wave, then 
sprint away up the corridor to find his friends. 

“Thestrals are nothing to worry about,” Harry told 
Albus. “They’re gentle things, there’s nothing scary 
about them. Anyway, you won’t be going up to school 
in the carriages, you’ll be going in the boats.” 



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Ginny kissed Albus good-bye. 

“See you at Christmas.” 

“Bye, Al,” said Harry as his son hugged him. “Don’t 
forget Hagrid’s invited you to tea next Friday. Don’t 
mess with Peeves. Don’t duel anyone till you’ve 
learned how. And don’t let James wind you up.” 

“What if I’m in Slytherin?” 

The whisper was for his father alone, and Harry knew 
that only the moment of departure could have forced 
Albus to reveal how great and sincere that fear was. 

Harry crouched down so that Albus ’s face was slightly 
above his own. Alone of Harry’s three children, Albus 
had inherited Lily’s eyes. 

“Albus Severus,” Harry said quietly, so that nobody 
but Ginny could hear, and she was tactful enough to 
pretend to be waving to Rose, who was now on the 
train, “you were named for two headmasters of 
Hogwarts. One of them was a Slytherin and he was 
probably the bravest man I ever knew.” 

“But just say — ” 

“ — then Slytherin House will have gained an excellent 
student, won’t it? It doesn’t matter to us, Al. But if it 
matters to you, you’ll be able to choose Gryffindor 
over Slytherin. The Sorting Hat takes your choice into 
account.” 

“Really?” 

“It did for me,” said Harry. 



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He had never told any of his children that before, and 
he saw the wonder in Albus’s face when he said it. 

But now the doors were slamming all along the 
scarlet train, and the blurred outlines of parents were 
swarming forward for final kisses, last-minute 
reminders. Albus jumped into the carriage and Ginny 
closed the door behind him. Students were hanging 
from the windows nearest them. A great number of 
faces, both on the train and off, seemed to be turned 
toward Harry. 

“Why are they all staring?” demanded Albus as he 
and Rose craned around to look at the other 
students. 

“Don’t let it worry you,” said Ron. “It’s me. I’m 
extremely famous.” 

Albus, Rose, Hugo, and Lily laughed. The train began 
to move, and Harry walked alongside it, watching his 
son’s thin face, already ablaze with excitement. Harry 
kept smiling and waving, even though it was like a 
little bereavement, watching his son glide away from 
him. ... 

The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. 
The train rounded a corner. Harry’s hand was still 
raised in farewell. 

“He’ll be all right,” murmured Ginny. 

As Harry looked at her, he lowered his hand 
absentmindedly and touched the lightning scar on his 
forehead. 

“I know he will.” 

The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All 
was well. 

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