But surely if the boy had

But surely if the boy had destroyed any of his Horcruxes, he, Lord Voldemort, would have known, would have felt it? He, the greatest wizard of them all; he, the most powerful; he, the killer of Dumbledore and of how many other worthless, nameless men. How could Lord Voldemort not have known, if he, himself, most important and precious, had been attacked, mutilated?

True, he had not felt it when the diary had been destroyed, but he had thought that was because he had no body to fell, being less than ghost… No, surely, the rest were safe… The other Horcruxes must be intact…

But he must know, he must be sure… He paced the room, kicking aside the goblin’s corpse as he passed, and the pictures blurred and burned in his boiling brain: the lake, the shack, and Hogwarts -

A modicum of calm cooled his rage now. How could the boy know that he had hidden the ring in the Gaunt shack? No one had ever known him to be related to the Gaunts, he had hidden the connection, the killings had never been traced to him. The ring, surely, was safe.

And how could the boy, or anybody else, know about the cave or penetrate its protection? The idea of the locket being stolen was absurd…

As for the school: He alone knew where in Hogwarts he had stowed the Horcrux, because he alone had plumed the deepest secrets of that place…

And there was still Nagini, who must remain close now, no longer sent to do his bidding, under his protection…

But to be sure, to be utterly sure, he must return to each of his hiding places, he must redouble protection around each of his Horcruxes… A job, like the quest for the Elder Wand, that he must undertake alone…

Which should he visit first, which was in most danger? An old unease flickered inside him. Dumbledore had known his middle name… Dumbledore might have made the connection with the Gaunts… Their abandoned home was, perhaps, the least secure of his hiding places, it was there that he would go first…

The lake, surely impossible… though was there a slight possibility that Dumbledore might have known some of his past misdeeds, through the orphanage.

And Hogwarts… but he knew the his Horcrux there was safe; it would be impossible for Potter to enter Hogsmeade without detection, let alone the school. Nevertheless, it would be prudent to alert Snape to the fact that the boy might try to reenter the castle…. To tell Snape why the boy might return would be foolish, of course; it had been a grave mistake to trust Bellatrix and Malfoy. Didn’t their stupidity and carelessness prove how unwise it was ever to trust?

He would visit the Gaunt shack first, then, and take Nagini with him. He would not be parted from the snake anymore… and he strode from the room, through the hall, and out into the dark garden where the fountain played; he called the snake in Parseltongue and it slithered out to join him like a long shadow….




Harry’s eyes flew open as he wrenched himself back to the present. He was lying on the bank of the lake in the setting sun, and Ron and Hermione were looking down at him. Judging by their worried looks, and by the continued pounding of his scar, his sudden excursion into Voldemort’s mind had not passed unnoticed. He struggled up, shivering, vaguely surprised that he was still wet to his skin, and saw the cup lying innocently in the grass before him, and the lake, deep blue shot with gold in the falling sun.

“He knows.” His own voice sounded strange and low after Voldemort’s high screams. “He knows and he’s going to check where the others are, and the last one,” he was already on his feet, “is at Hogwarts. I knew it. I knew it.”

“What?”

Ron was gaping at him; Hermione sat up, looking worried.

“But what did you see? How do you know?”

“Well, on the upside,”

“Well, on the upside,” said Ron finally, who was sitting watching the skin on his hands regrow, “we got the Horcrux. On the downside-”

“– no sword,” said Harry through gritted teeth, as he dripped dittany through the singed hole in his jeans onto the angry burn beneath.

“No sword,” repeated Ron. “That double-crossing little scab…”

Harry pulled the Horcrux from the pocket of the wet jacket he had just taken off and set it down on the grass in front of them. Glinting in the sun, it drew their eyes as they swigged their bottles of juice.

“At least we can’t wear it this time, that’d look a bit weird hanging around our necks,” said Ron, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Hermione looked across the lake to the far bank where the dragon was still drinking.

“What’ll happen to it, do you think?” she asked, “Will it be alright?”

“You sound like Hagrid,” said Ron, “It’s a dragon, Hermione, it can look after itself. It’s us we need to worry about.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well I don’t know how to break this to you,” said Ron, “but I think they might have noticed we broke into Gringotts.”

All three of them started to laugh, and once started, it was difficult to stop. Harry’s ribs ached, he felt lightheaded with hunger, but he lay back on the grass beneath the reddening sky and laughed until his throat was raw.

“What are we going to do, though?” said Hermione finally, hiccuping herself back to seriousness. “He’ll know, won’t he? You-Know-Who will know we know about his Horcruxes!”

“Maybe they’ll be too scared to tell him!” said Ron hopefully, “Maybe they’ll cover up –”

The sky, the smell of the lake water, the sound of Ron’s voice were extinguished. Pain cleaved Harry’s head like a sword stroke.




He was standing in a dimly lit room, and a semicircle of wizards faced him, and on the floor at his feet knelt a small, quaking figure.

“What did you say to me?” His voice was high and cold, but fury and fear burned inside him. The one thing that he had dreaded – but it could not be true, he could not see how…

The goblin was trembling, unable to meet the red eyes high above his.

“Say it again!” murmured Voldemort. “Say it again!”

“M-my Lord,” stammered the goblin, its black eyes wide with terror, “m-my Lord… we t-tried to st-stop them… Im-impostors, my Lord… broke -broke into the – into the Lestranges’ vault…”

“Impostors? What impostors? I thought Gringotts had ways of revealing impostors? Who were they?”

“It was… it was… the P-Potter b-boy and the t-two accomplices…”

“And they took?” he said, his voice rising, a terrible fear gripping him, “Tell me! What did they take?”

“A… a s-small golden c-cup m-my Lord…”

The scream of rage, of denial left him as if it were a stranger’s. He was crazed, frenzied, it could not be true, it was impossible, nobody had known. How was it possible that the boy could have discovered his secret?

The Elder Wand slashed through the air and green light erupted through the room; the kneeling goblin rolled over dead; the watching wizards scattered before him, terrified. Bellatrix and Lucius Malfoy threw others behind them in their race for the door, and again and again his wand fell, and those who were left were slain, all of them, for bringing him this news, for hearing about the golden cup - Alone amongst the dead he stomped up and down, and they passed before him in vision: his treasures, his safeguards, his anchors to immortality – the diary was destroyed and the cup was stolen. What if, what if, the boy knew about the others? Could he know, had he already acted, had he traced more of them? Was Dumbledore at the root of this? Dumbledore, who had always suspected him; Dumbledore, dead on his orders; Dumbledore, whose wand was his now, yet who reached out from the ignominy of death through the boy, the boy -

Chapter 27 The Final Hiding Place

Chapter 27 The Final Hiding Place

There was no means of steering; the dragon could not see where it was going, and Harry knew that if it turned sharply or rolled in midair they would find it impossible to cling onto its broad back. Nevertheless, as they climbed higher and higher, London unfurling below them like a gray-and-green map, Harry’s overwhelming feeling was of gratitude for an escape that had seemed impossible. Crouching low over the beast’s neck, he clung tight to the metallic scales, and the cool breeze was soothing on his burned and blistered skin, the dragon’s wings beating the air like the sails of a windmill. Behind him, whether from delight or fear he could not tell. Ron kept swearing at the top of his voice, and Hermione seemed to be sobbing.

After five minutes or so, Harry lost some of his immediate dread that the dragon was going to throw them off, for it seemed intent on nothing but getting as far away from its underground prison as possible; but the question of how and when they were to dismount remained rather frightening. He had no idea how long dragons could fly without landing, nor how this particular dragon, which could barely see, would locate a good place to put down. He glanced around constantly, imagining that he could feel his seat prickling.

How long would it be before Voldemort knew that they had broken into the Lestranges’ vault? How soon would the goblins of Gringotts notify Bellatrix? How quickly would they realize what had been taken? And then, when they discovered that the golden cup was missing? Voldemort would know, at last, that they were hunting Horcruxes.

The dragon seemed to crave cooler and fresher air. It climbed steadily until they were flying through wisps of chilly cloud, and Harry could no longer make out the little colored dots which were cars pouring in and out of the capital. On and on they flew, over countryside parceled out in patches of green and brown, over roads and rivers winding through the landscape like strips of matte and glossy ribbon.

“What do you reckon it’s looking for?” Ron yelled as they flew farther and farther north.

“No idea,” Harry bellow back. His hands were numb with cold but he did not date attempt to shift his grip. He had been wondering for some time what they would do if they saw the coast sail beneath them, if the dragon headed for open seal he was cold and numb, not to mention desperately hungry and thirsty. When, he wondered, had the beast itself last eaten? Surely it would need sustenance before long? And what if, at that point, it realized it had three highly edible humans sitting on its back?

The sun slipped lower in the sky, which was turning indigo; and still the dragon flew, cities and towns gliding out of sight beneath them, its enormous shadow sliding over the earth like a giant dark cloud. Every part of Harry ached with the effort of holding on to the dragon’s back.

“Is it my imagination,” shouted Ron after a considerable stretch of silence, “or are we losing height?”

Harry looked down and saw deep green mountains and lakes, coppery in the sunset. the landscape seemed to grow larger and more detailed as he squinted over the side of the dragon, and he wondered whether it had divined the presence of fresh water by the flashes of reflected sunlight.

Lower and lower the dragon flew, in great spiraling circles, honing in, it seemed, upon one of the smaller lakes.

“I say we jump when it gets low enough!” Harry called back to the others. “Straight into the water before it realizes we’re here!”

They agreed, Hermione a little faintly, and now Harry could see the dragon’s wide yellow underbelly rippling in the surface of the water.

“NOW!”

He slithered over the side of the dragon and plummeted feetfirst toward the surface of the lake; the drop was greater than he had estimated and he hit the water hard, plunging like a stone into a freezing, green, reed-filled world. He kicked toward the surface and emerged, panting, to see enormous ripples emanating in circles from the places where Ron and Hermione had fallen. The dragon did not seem to have noticed anything; it was already fifty feet away, swooping low over the lake to scoop up water in its scarred snout. As Ron and Hermione emerged, spluttering and gasping, from the depths of the lake, the dragon flew on, its wings beating hard, and landed at last on a distant bank.

Harry, Ron and Hermione struck out for the opposite shore. The lake did not seem to be deep. Soon it was more a question of fighting their way through reeds and mud than swimming, and at last they flopped, sodden, panting, and exhausted, onto slippery grass.

Hermione collapsed, coughing and shuddering. Though Harry could have happily lain down and slept, he staggered to his feet, drew out his wand, and started casting the usual protective spells around them.

When he had finished, he joined the others. It was the first time that he had seen them properly since escaping from the vault. Both had angry red burns all over their faces and arms, and their clothing was singed away in places. They were wincing as they dabbed essence of dittany onto their many injuries. Hermione handed Harry the bottle, then pulled out three bottles of pumpkin juice she had brought from Shell Cottage and clean, dry robes for all of them. They changes and then gulped down the juice.

Chapter 19 The Silver Doe

It was snowing by the time Hermione took over the watch at midnight. Harry’s dreams were confused and disturbing: Nagini wove in and out of them, first through a wreath of Christmas roses. He woke repeatedly, panicky, convinced that somebody had called out to him in the distance, imagining that the wind whipping around the tent was footsteps or voices.

Finally he got up in the darkness and joined Hermione, who was huddled in the entrance to the tent reading A History of Magic by the light of her wand. The snow was falling thickly, and she greeted with relief his suggestion of packing up early and moving on.

“We’ll move somewhere more sheltered,” she agreed, shivering as she pulled on a sweatshirt over her pajamas. “I kept thinking I could hear people moving outside. I even though I saw somebody one or twice.”

Harry paused in the act of pulling on a jumper and glanced at the silent, motionless Sneakoscope on the table.

“I’m sure I imagined it,” said Hermione, looking nervous. “The snow the dark, it plays tricks on your eyes…. But perhaps we ought to Disapparate under the Invisibility Cloak, just in case?”

Half an hour later, with the tent packed, Harry wearing the Horcrux, and Hermione clutching the beaded bag, they Disapparated. The usual tightness engulfed them; Harry’s feet parted company with the snowy ground, then slammed hard onto what felt like frozen earth covered in leaves.

“Where are we?” he asked, peering around at the fresh mass of trees as Hermione opened the beaded bag and began tugging out the tent poles.

“The Forest of Dean,” she said, “I came camping here once with my mum and dad.”

Here too snow lay on the trees all around and it was bitterly cold, but they were at least protected from the wind. They spent most of the day inside the tent, huddled for warmth around the useful bright blue flames that Hermione was adept at producing, and which could be scooped up and carried in a jar. Harry felt as though he was recuperating from some brief but severe, an impression reinforced by Hermione’s solicitousness. That afternoon fresh flakes drifted down upon them, so that even their sheltered clearing had a fresh dusting of powdery snow.

After two nights of little sleep, Harry’s senses seemed more alert than usual. Their escape from Godric’s Hollow had been so narrow that Voldemort seemed somehow closer than before, more threatening. As darkness drove in again Harry refused Hermione’s offer to keep watch and told her to go to bed.

Harry moved an old cushion into the tent mouth and sat down, wearing all the sweaters he owned but even so, still shivery. The darkness deepened with the passing hours until it was virtually impenetrable. He was on the point of taking out the Marauder’s Map, so as to watch Ginny’s dot for a while, before he remembered that it was the Christmas holidays and that she would be back at the Burrow.

Chapter 11 The Bribe

Chapter 11 The Bribe

If Kreacher could escape a lake full of Inferi, Harry was confident that the capture of Mundungus would take a few hours at most, and he prowled the house all morning in a state of high anticipation. However, Kreacher did not return that morning or even that afternoon. By nightfall, Harry felt discouraged and anxious, and a supper composed largely of moldy bread, upon which Hermione had tried a variety of unsuccessful Transfigurations, did nothing to help.

Kreacher did not return the following day, nor the day after that. However, two cloaked men had appeared in the square outside number twelve, and they remained there into the night, gazing in the direction of the house that they could not see.

“Death Eaters, for sure,” said Ron, as he, Harry, and Hermione watched from the drawing room windows. “Reckon they know we’re in here?”

“I don’t think so,” said Hermione, though she looked frightened, “or they’d have sent Snape in after us, wouldn’t they?”

“D’you reckon he’s been in here and has his tongue tied by Moody’s curse?” asked Ron.

“Yes,” said Hermione, “otherwise he’d have been able to tell that lot how to get in, wouldn’t he? But they’re probably watching to see whether we turn up. They know that Harry owns the house, after all.”

“How do they –?” began Harry.

“Wizarding wills are examined by the Ministry, remember? They’ll know Sirius left you the place.”

The presence of the Death Eaters outside increased the ominous mood inside number twelve. They had not heard a word form anyone beyond Grimmauld Place since Mr. Weasley’s Patronus, and the strain was starting to tell. Restless and irritable, Ron had developed an annoying habit of playing with the Deluminator in his pocket; This particularly infuriated Hermione, who was whiling away the wait for Kreacher by studying The Tales of Beedle the Bard and did not appreciate the way the lights kept flashing on and off.

“Will you stop it!” she cried on the third evening of Kreacher’s absence, as all the light was sucked from the drawing room yet again.

“Sorry, sorry!” said Ron, clicking the Deluminator and restoring the lights. “I don’t know I’m doing it!”

“Well, can’t you find something useful to occupy yourself?”

“What, like reading kids’ stories?”

“Dumbledore left me this book, Ron – ”

“ – and he left me the Deluminator, maybe I’m supposed to use it!”

Unable to stand the bickering, Harry slipped out of the room unnoticed by either of them. He headed downstairs toward the kitchen, which he kept visiting because he was sure that was where Kreacher was most likely to reappear. Halfway down the flight of stairs into the hall, however, he heard a tap on the front door, then metallic clicks and the grinding of the chain.

Every nerve in his body seemed to tauten: He pulled out his wand, moved into the shadows beside the decapitated elf heads, and waited. The door opened: He saw a glimpse of the lamplit square outside, and a cloaked figure edged into the hall and closed the door behind it. The intruder took a step forward, and Moody’s voice asked, “Severus Snape?” Then the dust figure rose from the end of the hall and rushed him, raising its dead hand.

“It was not I who killed you, Albus,” said a quiet voice.

The jinx broke: The dust-figure exploded again, and it was impossible to make out the newcomer through the dense gray cloud it left behind.

Harry pointed the wand into the middle of it.

“Don’t move!”

He had forgotten the portrait of Mrs. Black: At the sound of his yell, the curtains hiding her flew open and she began to scream, “Mudbloods and filth dishonoring my house – ”

Ron and Hermione came crashing down the stairs behind Harry, wands pointing, like his, at the unknown man now standing with his arms raised in the hall below.

“Hold your fire, it’s me, Remus!”

“Oh, thank goodness,” said Hermione weakly, pointing her wand at Mrs. Black instead; with a bang, the curtains swished shut again and silence fell. Ron too lowered his wand, but Harry did not.

“Show yourself!” he called back.

Lupin moved forward into the lamplight, hands still held high in a gesture of surrender.

“I am Remus John Lupin, werewolf, sometimes known as Moony, one of the four creators of the Marauder’s Map, married to Nymphadora, usually known as Tonks, and I taught you how to produce a Patronus, Harry, which takes the form of a stag.”

“Oh, all right,” said Harry, lowering his wand, “but I had to check, didn’t I?”

“Speaking as your ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, I quite agree that you had to check. Ron, Hermione, you shouldn’t be so quick to lower your defenses.”

They ran down the stairs towards him. Wrapped in a thick black traveling cloak, he looked exhausted, but pleased to see them.

“No sign of Severus, then?” he asked.

“No,” said Harry. “What’s going on? Is everyone okay?”

“Yes,” said Lupin, “but we’re all being watched. There are a couple of Death Eaters in the square outside – ”

“We know – ”

“I had to Apparate very precisely onto the top step outside the front door to be sure that they would not see me. They can’t know you’re in here or I’m sure they’d have more people out there; they’re staking out everywhere that’s got any connection with you, Harry. Let’s go downstairs, there’s a lot to tell you, and I want to know what happened after you left the Burrow.”
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Chapter 1 The Dark Lord Ascending

Chapter 1 The Dark Lord Ascending

The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane. For a second they stood quite still, wands directed at each other’s chests; then, recognizing each other, they stowed their wands beneath their cloaks and started walking briskly in the same direction.

“News?” asked the taller of the two.

“The best,” replied Severus Snape.

The lane was bordered on the left by wild, low-growing brambles, on the right by a high, neatly manicured hedge. The men’s long cloaks flapped around their ankles as they marched.

“Thought I might be late,” said Yaxley, his blunt features sliding in and out of sight as the branches of overhanging trees broke the moonlight. “It was a little trickier than I expected. But I hope he will be satisfied. You sound confident that your reception will be good?”

Snape nodded, but did not elaborate. They turned right, into a wide driveway that led off the lane. The high hedge curved into them, running off into the distance beyond the pair of imposing wrought-iron gates barring the men’s way. Neither of them broke step: In silence both raised their left arms in a kind of salute and passed straight through, as though the dark metal was smoke.

The yew hedges muffled the sound of the men’s footsteps. There was a rustle somewhere to their right: Yaxley drew his wand again pointing it over his companion’s head, but the source of the noise proved to be nothing more than a pure-white peacock, strutting majestically along the top of the hedge.


“He always did himself well, Lucius. Peacocks …” Yaxley thrust his wand back under his cloak with a snort.

A handsome manor house grew out of the darkness at the end of the straight drive, lights glinting in the diamond paned downstairs windows. Somewhere in the dark garden beyond the hedge a fountain was playing. Gravel crackled beneath their feet as Snape and Yaxley sped toward the front door, which swung inward at their approach, though nobody had visibly opened it.

The hallway was large, dimly lit, and sumptuously decorated, with a magnificent carpet covering most of the stone floor. The eyes of the pale-faced portraits on the wall followed Snape and Yaxley as they strode past. The two men halted at a heavy wooden door leading into the next room, hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, then Snape turned the bronze handle.

The drawing room was full of silent people, sitting at a long and ornate table. The room’s usual furniture had been pushed carelessly up against the walls.

Illumination came from a roaring fire beneath a handsome marble mantelpiece surmounted by a gilded mirror. Snape and Yaxley lingered for a moment on the threshold. As their eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light, they were drawn upward to the strangest feature of the scene: an apparently unconscious human figure hanging upside down over the table, revolving slowly as if suspended by an invisible rope, and reflected in the mirror and in the bare, polished surface of the table below. None of the people seated underneath this singular sight were looking at it except for a pale young man sitting almost directly below it. He seemed unable to prevent himself from glancing upward every minute or so.

“Yaxley. Snape,” said a high, clear voice from the head of the table. “You are very nearly late.”

The speaker was seated directly in front of the fireplace, so that it was difficult, at first, for the new arrivals to make out more than his silhouette. As they drew nearer, however, his face shone through the gloom, hairless, snakelike, with slits for nostrils and gleaming red eyes whose pupils were vertical. He was so pale that he seemed to emit a pearly glow.
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There was a little silence.

There was a little silence.

“I see,” said Dumbledore eventually, peering at Harry over the top of his half-moon spectacles and giving Harry the usual sensation that he was being X-rayed. “And

you feel that you have exerted your very best efforts in this matter, do you? That you have exercised all of your considerable ingenuity? That you have left no depth of

cunning unplumbed in your quest to retrieve the memory?”

“Well,” Harry stalled, at a loss for what to say next. His single attempt to get hold of the memory suddenly seemed embarrassingly feeble. “Well... the day Ron

swallowed love potion by mistake I took him to Professor Slughorn. I thought maybe if I got Professor Slughorn in a good enough mood —”

“And did that work?” asked Dumbledore.

“Well, no, sir, because Ron got poisoned —”

“— which, naturally, made you forget all about trying to retrieve the memory; I would have expected nothing else, while your best friend was in danger. Once it became

clear that Mr. Weasley was going to make a full recovery, however, I would have hoped that you returned to the task I set you. I thought I made it clear to you how very

important that memory is. Indeed, I did my best to impress upon you that it is the most crucial memory of all and that we will be wasting our time without it.”

A hot, prickly feeling of shame spread from the top of Harry's head all the way down his body. Dumbledore had not raised his voice, he did not even sound angry, but

Harry would have preferred him to yell; this cold disappointment was worse than anything.

“Sir,” he said, a little desperately, “it isn't that I wasn't bothered or anything, I've just had other—other thing...”

“Other things on your mind,” Dumbledore finished the sentence for him. “I see.”

Silence fell between them again, the most uncomfortable silence Harry had ever experienced with Dumbledore; it seemed to go on and on, punctuated only by the little

grunting snores of the portrait of Armando Dippet over Dumbledore's head. Harry felt strangely diminished, as though he had shrunk a little since he had entered the

room.

When he could stand it no longer he said, “Professor Dumbledore, I'm really sorry. I should have done more... I should have realized you wouldn't have asked me to do

it if it wasn't really important.”

“Thank you for saying that, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “May I hope, then, that you will give this matter higher priority from now on? There will be little

point in our meeting after tonight unless we have that memory.”

“I'll do it, sir, I'll get it from him,” he said earnestly.

“Then we shall say no more about it just now,” said Dumbledore more kindly, “but continue with our story where we left off. You remember where that was?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry quickly. “Voldemort killed his father and his grandparents and made it look as though his Uncle Morfin did it. Then he went back to Hogwarts

and he asked ... he asked Professor Slughorn about Horcruxes,” he mumbled shamefacedly.

“Very good,” said Dumbledore. “Now, you will remember, I hope, that I told you at the very outset of these meetings of ours that we would be entering the realms of

guesswork and speculation?”

“Yes, sir".

Ron looked both sulky and annoyed when he appeared

Ron looked both sulky and annoyed when he appeared at breakfast half an hour later, and though he sat with Lavender, Harry did not see them exchange a word all the time

they were together. Hermione was acting as though she was quite oblivious to all of this, but once or twice Harry saw an inexplicable smirk cross her face. All that day

she seemed to be in a particularly good mood, and that evening in the common room she even consented to look over (in other words, finish writing) Harry's Herbology

essay, something she had been resolutely refusing to do up to this point, because she had known that Harry would then let Ron copy his work.

“Thanks a lot, Hermione,” said Harry, giving her a hasty pat on the back as he checked his watch and saw that it was nearly eight o'clock. “Listen, I've got to hurry

or I'll be late for Dumbledore...”

She did not answer, but merely crossed out a few of his feebler sentences in a weary sort of way. Grinning, Harry hurried out through the portrait hole and off to the

Headmaster's office. The gargoyle leapt aside at the mention of toffee eclairs, and Harry took the spiral staircase two steps at a time, knocking on the door just as a

clock within chimed eight.

“Enter,” called Dumbledore, but as Harry put out a hand to push the door, it was wrenched open from inside. There stood Professor Trelawney.

“Aha!” she cried, pointing dramatically at Harry as she blinked at him through her magnifying spectacles.

“So this is the reason I am to be thrown unceremoniously from your office, Dumbledore!”

“My dear Sybill,” said Dumbledore in a slightly exasperated voice, “there is no question of throwing you unceremoniously from anywhere, but Harry does have an

appointment, and I really don't think there is any more to be said —”

“Very well,” said Professor Trelawney, in a deeply wounded voice. “If you will not banish the usurping nag, so be it... perhaps I shall find a school where my

talents are better appreciated...”

She pushed past Harry and disappeared down the spiral staircase; they heard her stumble halfway down, and Harry guessed that she had tripped over one of her trailing

shawls.

“Please close the door and sit down, Harry,” said Dumbledore, sounding rather tired.

Harry obeyed, noticing as he took his usual seat in front of Dumbledore's desk that the Pensieve lay between them once more, as did two more tiny crystal bottles full

of swirling memory.

“Professor Trelawney still isn't happy Firenze is teaching, then?” Harry asked.

“No,” said Dumbledore, “Divination is turning out to be much more trouble than I could have foreseen, never having studied the subject myself. I cannot ask Firenze

to return to the forest, where he is now an outcast, nor can I ask Sybill Trelawney to leave. Between ourselves, she has no idea of the danger she would be in outside

the castle. She does not know—and I think it would be unwise to enlighten her—that she made the prophecy about you and Voldemort, you see.”

Dumbledore heaved a deep sigh, then said, “But never mind my staffing problems. We have much more important matters to discuss. Firstly—have you managed the task I

set you at the end of our previous lesson?”

“Ah,” said Harry, brought up short. What with Apparition lessons and Quidditch and Ron being poisoned and getting his skull cracked and his determination to find out

what Draco Malfoy was up to, Harry had almost forgotten about the memory Dumbledore had asked him to extract from Professor Slughorn. “Well, I asked Professor Slughorn

about it at the end of Potions, sir, but, er, he wouldn't give it to me.”

Chapter 20 Lord Voldemort's Request

Chapter 20 Lord Voldemort's Request

Harry and Ron left the hospital wing first thing on Monday morning, restored to full health by the ministrations of Madam Pomfrey and now able to enjoy the benefits of

having been knocked out and poisoned, the best of which was that Hermione was friends with Ron again. Hermione even escorted them down to breakfast, bringing with her

the news that Ginny had argued with Dean. The drowsing creature in Harry's chest suddenly raised its head, sniffing the air hopefully.

“What did they row about?” he asked, trying to sound casual as they turned onto a seventh-floor corridor that was deserted but for a very small girl who had been

examining a tapestry of trolls in tutus. She looked terrified at the sight of the approaching sixth years and dropped the heavy brass scales she was carrying.

“It's all right!” said Hermione kindly, hurrying forward to help her. “Here ...”

She tapped the broken scales with her wand and said, “Reparo.” The girl did not say thank you, but remained rooted to the spot as they passed and watched them out of

sight; Ron glanced back at her.

“I swear they're getting smaller,” he said.

“Never mind her,” said Harry, a little impatiently. “What did Ginny and Dean row about, Hermione?”

“Oh, Dean was laughing about McLaggen hitting that Bludger at you,” said Hermione.

“It must've looked funny,” said Ron reasonably.

“It didn't look funny at all!” said Hermione hotly. “It looked terrible and if Coote and Peakes hadn't caught Harry he could have been very badly hurt!”

“Yeah, well, there was no need for Ginny and Dean to split up over it,” said Harry, still trying to sound casual. “Or are they still together?”

“Yes, they are—but why are you so interested?” asked Hermione, giving Harry a sharp look.

“I just don't want my Quidditch team messed up again!” he said hastily, but Hermione continued to look suspicious, and he was most relieved when a voice behind them

called, “Harry!” giving him an excuse to turn his back on her.

“Oh, hi, Luna.”

“I went to the hospital wing to find you,” said Luna, rummaging in her bag. “But they said you'd left...”

She thrust what appeared to be a green onion, a large spotted toadstool, and a considerable amount of what looked like cat litter into Ron's hands, finally pulling out

a rather grubby scroll of parchment that she handed to Harry.

“... I've been told to give you this.”

It was a small roll of parchment, which Harry recognized at once as another invitation to a lesson with Dumbledore.

“Tonight,” he told Ron and Hermione, once he had unrolled it.

“Nice commentary last match!” said Ron to Luna as she took back the green onion, the toadstool, and the cat litter. Luna smiled vaguely.

“You're making fun of me, aren't you?” she said. “Everyone says I was dreadful.”

“No, I'm serious!” said Ron earnestly. “I can't remember enjoying commentary more! What is this, by the way?” he added, holding the onionlike object up to eye

level.

“Oh, it's a Gurdyroot,” she said, stuffing the cat litter and the toadstool back into her bag. “You can keep it if you like, I've got a few of them. They're really

excellent for warding off Gulping Plimpies.”

And she walked away, leaving Ron chortling, still clutching the Gurdyroot.

“You know, she's grown on me, Luna,” he said, as they set off again for the Great Hall. “I know she's insane, but it's in a good —”

He stopped talking very suddenly. Lavender Brown was standing at the foot of the marble staircase looking thunderous.

“Hi,” said Ron nervously.

“C'mon,” Harry muttered to Hermione, and they sped past, though not before they had heard Lavender say, “Why didn't you tell me you were getting out today? And why

was she with you?”

“We didn't hate it!” said Hermione.

“We didn't hate it!” said Hermione.

“Speak for yourself, I haven't forgotten the Skrewts,” said Ron darkly. “And I'm telling you now, we've had a narrow escape. You didn't hear him going on about his

gormless brother — we'd have been teaching Grawp how to tie his shoelaces if we'd stayed.”

“I hate not talking to Hagrid,” said Hermione, looking upset.

“We'll go down after Quidditch,” Harry assured her. He too was missing Hagrid, although like Ron he thought that they were better off without Grawp in their lives. “

But trials might take all morning, the number of people who have applied.” He felt slightly nervous at confronting the first hurdle of his Captaincy. “I dunno why the

team's this popular all of a sudden.”

“Oh, come on, Harry,” said Hermione, suddenly impatient. “It's not Quidditch that's popular, it's you! You've never been more interesting, and frankly, you've never

been more fanciable.”

Ron gagged on a large piece of kipper. Hermione spared him one look of disdain before turning back to Harry.

“Everyone knows you've been telling the truth now, don't they? The whole Wizarding world has had to admit that you were right about Voldemort being back and that you

really have fought him twice in the last two years and escaped both times. And now they're calling you ‘the Chosen One'—well, come on, can't you see why people are

fascinated by you?”

Harry was finding the Great Hall very hot all of a sudden, even though the ceiling still looked cold and rainy.

“And you've been through all that persecution from the Ministry when they were trying to make out you were unstable and a liar. You can still see the marks on the back

of your hand where that evil woman made you write with your own blood, but you stuck to your story anyway...”

“You can still see where those brains got hold of me in the Ministry, look,” said Ron, shaking back his sleeves.

“And it doesn't hurt that you've grown about a foot over the summer either,” Hermione finished, ignoring Ron.

“I'm tall,” said Ron inconsequentially.

The post owls arrived, swooping down through rain-flecked windows, scattering everyone with droplets of water. Most people were receiving more post than usual; anxious

parents were keen to hear from their children and to reassure them, in turn, that all was well at home. Harry had received no mail since the start of term; his only

regular correspondent was now dead and although he had hoped that Lupin might write occasionally, he had so far been disappointed. He was very surprised, therefore, to

see the snowy white Hedwig circling amongst all the brown and gray owls. She landed in front of him carrying a large, square package. A moment later, an identical

package landed in front of Ron, crushing beneath it his minuscule and exhausted owl, Pigwidgeon.

“Ha!” said Harry, unwrapping the parcel to reveal a new copy of Advanced Potion-Making, fresh from Flourish and Blotts.

“Oh good,” said Hermione, delighted. “Now you can give that graffitied copy back.”

“Are you mad?” said Harry. “I'm keeping it! Look, I've thought it out —”

He pulled the old copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and tapped the cover with his wand, muttering, “Diffindo!” The cover fell off. He did the same thing

with the brand-new book (Hermione looked scandalized). He then swapped the covers, tapped each, and said, “Reparo!”

Chapter 11 Hermione's Helping Hand

Chapter 11 Hermione's Helping Hand

As Hermione had predicted, the sixth-years’ free periods were not the hours of blissful relaxation Ron had anticipated, but times in which to attempt to keep up with

the vast amount of homework they were being set. Not only were they studying as though they had exams every day, but the lessons themselves had become more demanding

than ever before. Harry barely understood half of what Professor McGonagall said to them these days; even Hermione had had to ask her to repeat instructions once or

twice. Incredibly, and to Hermione's increasing resentment, Harry's best subject had suddenly become Potions, thanks to the Half-Blood Prince.

Non-verbal spells were now expected, not only in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but in Charms and Transfiguration too. Harry frequently looked over at his classmates in

the common room or at mealtimes to see them purple in the face and straining as though they had overdosed on U-No-Poo; but he knew that they were really struggling to

make spells work without saying incantations aloud. It was a relief to get outside into the greenhouses; they were dealing with more dangerous plants than ever in

Herbology, but at least they were still allowed to swear loudly if the Venomous Tentacula seized them unexpectedly from behind.

One result of their enormous workload and the frantic hours of practicing non-verbal spells was that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had so far been unable to find time to go

and visit Hagrid. He had stopped coming to meals at the staff table, an ominous sign, and on the few occasions when they had passed him in the corridors or out in the

grounds, he had mysteriously failed to notice them or hear their greetings.

“We've got to go and explain,” said Hermione, looking up at Hagrid's huge empty chair at the staff table the following Saturday at breakfast.

“We've got Quidditch tryouts this morning!” said Ron. “And we're supposed to be practicing that Aguamenti Charm from Flitwick! Anyway, explain what? How are we going

to tell him we hated his stupid subject?”

Chapter 67

Chapter 67

Kitty made the acquaintance of Madame Stahl too, and this acquaintance, together with her friendship with Varenka, did not merely exercise a great influence on her, it also comforted her in her mental distress. She found this comfort through a completely new world being opened to her by means of this acquaintance, a world having nothing in common with her past, an exalted, noble world, from the height of which she could contemplate her past calmly. It was revealed to her that besides the instinctive life to which Kitty had given herself up hitherto there was a spiritual life. This life was disclosed in religion, but a religion having nothing in common with that one which Kitty had known from childhood, and which found expression in litanies and all-night services at the Widow's Home, where one might meet one's friends, and in learning by heart Slavonic texts with the priest. This was a lofty, mysterious religion connected with a whole series of noble thoughts and feelings, which one could do more than merely believe because one was told to, which one could love.

Kitty found all this out not from words. Madame Stahl talked to Kitty as to a charming child that one looks on with pleasure as on the memory of one's youth, and only once she said in passing that in all human sorrows nothing gives comfort but love and faith, and that in the sight of Christ's compassion for us no sorrow is trifling--and immediately talked of other things. But in every gesture of Madame Stahl, in every word, in every heavenly--as Kitty called it--look, and above all in the whole story of her life, which she heard from Varenka, Kitty recognized that something "that was important," of which, till then, she had known nothing.

Yet, elevated as Madame Stahl's character was, touching as was her story, and exalted and moving as was her speech, Kitty could not help detecting in her some traits which perplexed her. She noticed that when questioning her about her family, Madame Stahl had smiled contemptuously, which was not in accord with Christian meekness. She noticed, too, that when she had found a Catholic priest with her, Madame Stahl had studiously kept her face in the shadow of the lamp-shade and had smiled in a peculiar way. Trivial as these two observations were, they perplexed her, and she had her doubts as to Madame Stahl. But on the other hand Varenka, alone in the world, without friends or relations, with a melancholy disappointment in the past, desiring nothing, regretting nothing, was just that perfection of which Kitty dared hardly dream. In Varenka she realized that one has but to forget oneself and love others, and one will be calm, happy, and noble. And that was what Kitty longed to be. Seeing now clearly what was the most important, Kitty was not satisfied with being enthusiastic over it; she at once gave herself up with her whole soul to the new life that was opening to her. From Varenka's accounts of the doings of Madame Stahl and other people whom she mentioned, Kitty had already constructed the plan of her own future life. She would, like Madame Stahl's niece, Aline, of whom Varenka had talked to her a great deal, seek out those who were in trouble, wherever she might be living, help them as far as she could, give them the Gospel, read the Gospel to the sick, the criminals, to the dying. The idea of reading the Gospel to criminals, as Aline did, particularly fascinated Kitty. But all these were secret dreams, of which Kitty did not talk either to her mother or to Varenka.

While awaiting the time for carrying out her plans on a large scale, however, Kitty, even then at the springs, where there were so many people ill and unhappy, readily found a chance for practicing her new principles in imitation of Varenka.

At first the princess noticed nothing but that Kitty was much under the influence of her engouement, as she called it, for Madame Stahl, and still more for Varenka. She saw that Kitty did not merely imitate Varenka in her conduct, but unconsciously imitated her in her manner of walking, of talking, of blinking her eyes. But later on the princess noticed that, apart from this adoration, some kind of serious spiritual change was taking place in her daughter.
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The hero of the novel was

The hero of the novel was already almost reaching his English happiness, a baronetcy and an estate, and Anna was feeling a desire to go with him to the estate, when she suddenly felt that HE ought to feel ashamed, and that she was ashamed of the same thing. But what had he to be ashamed of? "What have I to be ashamed of?" she asked herself in injured surprise. She laid down the book and sank against the back of the chair, tightly gripping the paper cutter in both hands. There was nothing. She went over all her Moscow recollections. All were good, pleasant. She remembered the ball, remembered Vronsky and his face of slavish adoration, remembered all her conduct with him: there was nothing shameful. And for all that, at the same point in her memories, the feeling of shame was intensified, as though some inner voice, just at the point when she thought of Vronsky, were saying to her, "Warm, very warm, hot." "Well, what is it?" she said to herself resolutely, shifting her seat in the lounge. "What does it mean? Am I afraid to look it straight in the face? Why, what is it? Can it be that between me and this officer boy there exist, or can exist, any other relations than such as are common with every acquaintance?" She laughed contemptuously and took up her book again; but now she was definitely unable to follow what she read. She passed the paper knife over the window pane, then laid its smooth, cool surface to her cheek, and almost laughed aloud at the feeling of delight that all at once without cause came over her. She felt as though her nerves were strings being strained tighter and tighter on some sort of screwing peg. She felt her eyes opening wider and wider, her fingers and toes twitching nervously, something within oppressing her breathing, while all shapes and sounds seemed in the uncertain half-light to strike her with unaccustomed vividness. Moments of doubt were continually coming upon her, when she was uncertain whether the train were going forwards or backwards, or were standing still altogether; whether it were Annushka at her side or a stranger. "What's that on the arm of the chair, a fur cloak or some beast? And what am I myself? Myself or some other woman?" she was afraid of giving way to this delirium. But something drew her towards it, and she could yield to it or resist it at will. She got up to rouse herself, and slipped off her plaid and the cape of her warm dress. For a moment she regained her self-possession, and realized that the thin peasant who had come in wearing a long overcoat, with buttons missing from it, was the stoveheater, that he was looking at the thermometer, that it was the wind and snow bursting in after him at the door; but then everything grew blurred again.... That peasant with the long waist seemed to be gnawing something on the wall, the old lady began stretching her legs the whole length of the carriage, and filling it with a black cloud; then there was a fearful shrieking and banging, as though someone were being torn to pieces; then there was a blinding dazzle of red fire before her eyes and a wall seemed to rise up and hide everything. Anna felt as though she were sinking down. But it was not terrible, but delightful. The voice of a man muffled up and covered with snow shouted something in her ear. She got up and pulled herself together; she realized that they had reached a station and that this was the guard. She asked Annushka to hand her the cape she had taken off and her shawl, put them on and moved towards the door.
"Do you wish to get out?" asked Annushka.

Chapter 29

"Come, it's all over, and thank God!" was the first thought that came to Anna Arkadyevna, when she had said good-bye for the last time to her brother, who had stood blocking up the entrance to the carriage till the third bell rang. She sat down on her lounge beside Annushka, and looked about her in the twilight of the sleeping-carriage. "Thank God! tomorrow I shall see Seryozha and Alexey Alexandrovitch, and my life will go on in the old way, all nice and as usual."

Still in the same anxious frame of mind, as she had been all that day, Anna took pleasure in arranging herself for the journey with great care. With her little deft hands she opened and shut her little red bag, took out a cushion, laid it on her knees, and carefully wrapping up her feet, settled herself comfortably. An invalid lady had already lain down to sleep. Two other ladies began talking to Anna, and a stout elderly lady tucked up her feet, and made observations about the heating of the train. Anna answered a few words, but not foreseeing any entertainment from the conversation, she asked Annushka to get a lamp, hooked it onto the arm of her seat, and took from her bag a paper knife and an English novel. At first her reading made no progress. The fuss and bustle were disturbing; then when the train had started, she could not help listening to the noises; then the snow beating on the left window and sticking to the pane, and the sight of the muffled guard passing by, covered with snow on one side, and the conversations about the terrible snowstorm raging outside, distracted her attention. Farther on, it was continually the same again and again: the same shaking and rattling, the same snow on the window, the same rapid transitions from steaming heat to cold, and back again to heat, the same passing glimpses of the same figures in the twilight, and the same voices, and Anna began to read and to understand what she read. Annushka was already dozing, the red bag on her lap, clutched by her broad hands, in gloves, of which one was torn. Anna Arkadyevna read and understood, but it was distasteful to her to read, that is, to follow the reflection of other people's lives. She had too great a desire to live herself. If she read that the heroine of the novel was nursing a sick man, she longed to move with noiseless steps about the room of a sick man; if she read of a member of Parliament making a speech, she longed to be delivering the speech; if she read of how Lady Mary had ridden after the hounds, and had provoked her sister-in-law, and had surprised everyone by her boldness, she too wished to be doing the same. But there was no chance of doing anything; and twisting the smooth paper knife in her little hands, she forced herself to read.

He could hear her moving to the right

, trying to get a clear shot of him. He backed around the statue away from her, crouching behind the centaur's legs, his head level with the house-elf's.

‘I was and am the Dark Lord's most loyal servant. I learned the Dark Arts from him, and I know spells of such power that you, pathetic little boy, can never hope to compete— ’

‘Stupefy!’ yelled Harry. He had edged right around to where the goblin stood beaming up at the now headless wizard and taken aim at her back as she peered around the fountain. She reacted so fast he barely had time to duck.

‘Protego!’

The jet of red light, his own Stunning Spell, bounced back at him. Harry scrambled back behind the fountain and one of the goblin's ears went flying across the room.

‘Potter, I'm going to give you one chance!’ shouted Bellatrix. ‘Give me the prophecy—roll it out towards me now—and I may spare your life!’

‘Well, you're going to have to kill me, because it's gone!’ Harry roared and, as he shouted it, pain seared across his forehead; his scar was on fire again, and he felt a surge of fury that was quite unconnected with his own rage. ‘And he knows!’ said Harry, with a mad laugh to match Bellatrix's own. ‘Your dear old mate Voldemort knows it's gone! He's not going to be happy with you, is he?’

‘What? What do you mean?’ she cried, and for the first time there was fear in her voice.

‘The prophecy smashed when I was trying to get Neville up the steps! What do you think Voldemort'll say about that, then?’

His scar seared and burned ... the pain of it was making his eyes stream ...

‘LIAR!’ she shrieked, but he could hear the terror behind the anger now. ‘YOU'VE GOT IT, POTTER, AND YOU WILL GIVE IT TO ME! Accio prophecy! ACCIO PROPHECY!’

Harry laughed again because he knew it would incense her, the pain building in his head so badly he thought his skull might burst. He waved his empty hand from behind the one-eared goblin and withdrew it quickly as she sent another jet of green light flying at him.

‘Nothing there!’ he shouted. ‘Nothing to summon! It smashed and nobody heard what it said, tell your boss that!’

‘No!’ she screamed. ‘It isn't true, you're lying! MASTER, I TRIED, I TRIED—DO NOT PUNISH ME—’

‘Don't waste your breath!’ yelled Harry, his eyes screwed up against the pain in his scar, now more terrible than ever. ‘He can't hear you from here!’

‘Can't I, Potter?’ said a high, cold voice.

Harry opened his eyes.

Tall, thin and black-hooded, his terrible snakelike face white and gaunt, his scarlet, slit-pupilled eyes staring ... Lord Voldemort had appeared in the middle of the hall, his wand pointing at Harry who stood frozen, quite unable to move.

‘So, you smashed my prophecy?’ said Voldemort softly, staring at Harry with those pitiless red eyes. ‘No, Bella, he is not lying ... I see the truth looking at me from within his worthless mind ... months of preparation, months of effort ... and my Death Eaters have let Harry Potter thwart me again ...’

‘Master, I am sorry, I knew not, I was fighting the Animagus Black!’ sobbed Bellatrix, flinging herself down at Voldemort's feet as he paced slowly nearer. ‘Master, you should know—’

‘Be quiet, Bella,’ said Voldemort dangerously. ‘I shall deal with you in a moment. Do you think I have entered the Ministry of Magic to hear your snivelling apologies?’

There was a loud bang and a yell from behind the dais

. Harry saw Kingsley hit the ground yelling in pain: Bellatrix Lestrange turned tail and ran as Dumbledore whipped around. He aimed a spell at her but she deflected it; she was halfway up the steps now —

‘Harry—no!’ cried Lupin, but Harry had already ripped his arm from Lupin's slackened grip.

‘SHE KILLED SIRIUS!’ bellowed Harry. ‘SHE KILLED HIM—I'LL KILL HER!’

And he was off, scrambling up the stone benches; people were shouting behind him but he did not care. The hem of Bellatrix's robes whipped out of sight ahead and they were back in the room where the brains were swimming ...

She aimed a curse over her shoulder. The tank rose into the air and tipped. Harry was deluged in the foul-smelling potion within: the brains slipped and slid over him and began spinning their long coloured tentacles, but he shouted, ‘Wingardium Leviosa!’ and they flew off him up into the air. Slipping and sliding, he ran on towards the door; he leapt over Luna, who was groaning on the floor, past Ginny, who said, ‘Harry—what—?', past Ron, who giggled feebly, and Hermione, who was still unconscious. He wrenched open the door into the circular black hall and saw Bellatrix disappearing through a door on the other side of the room; beyond her was the corridor leading back to the lifts.

He ran, but she had slammed the door behind her and the walls were already rotating. Once more, he was surrounded by streaks of blue light from the whirling candelabra.

‘Where's the exit?’ he shouted desperately, as the wall rumbled to a halt again. ‘Where's the way out?’

The room seemed to have been waiting for him to ask. The door right behind him flew open and the corridor towards the lifts stretched ahead of him, torch-lit and empty. He ran ...

He could hear a lift clattering ahead; he sprinted up the passageway, swung around the corner and slammed his fist on to the button to call a second lift. It jangled and banged lower and lower; the grilles slid open and Harry dashed inside, now hammering the button marked ‘Atrium'. The doors slid shut and he was rising ...

He forced his way out of the lift before the grilles were fully open and looked around. Bellatrix was almost at the telephone lift at the other end of the hall, but she looked back as he sprinted towards her and aimed another spell at him. He dodged behind the Fountain of Magical Brethren: the spell zoomed past him and hit the wrought-gold gates at the other end of the Atrium so that they rang like bells. There were no more footsteps. She had stopped running. He crouched behind the statues, listening.

‘Come out, come out, little Harry!’ she called in her mock baby voice, which echoed off the polished wooden floors. ‘What did you come after me for, then? I thought you were here to avenge my dear cousin!’

‘I am!’ shouted Harry, and a score of ghostly Harry's seemed to chorus I am! I am! I am! all around the room.

‘Aaaaaah ... did you love him, little baby Potter?’

Hatred rose in Harry such as he had never known before; he flung himself out from behind the fountain and bellowed, ‘Crucio!’

Bellatrix screamed: the spell had knocked her off her feet, but she did not writhe and shriek with pain as Neville had—she was already back on her feet, breathless, no longer laughing. Harry dodged behind the golden fountain again. Her counter-spell hit the head of the handsome wizard, which was blown off and landed twenty feet away, gouging long scratches into the wooden floor.

‘Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, boy?’ she yelled. She had abandoned her baby voice now. ‘You need to mean them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain—to enjoy it—righteous anger won't hurt me for long—I'll show you how it is done, shall I? I'll give you a lesson—’

Harry was edging around the fountain on the other side when she screamed, ‘Crucio!’ and he was forced to duck down again as the centaur's arm, holding its bow, span off and landed with a crash on the floor a short distance from the golden wizard's head.

‘Potter, you cannot win against me!’ she cried.

Chapter 36 The Only One He Ever Feared

‘He hasn't gone!’ Harry yelled.

He did not believe it; he would not believe it; still he fought Lupin with every bit of strength he had. Lupin did not understand; people hid behind that curtain; Harry had heard them whispering the first time he had entered the room. Sirius was hiding, simply lurking out of sight—

‘SIRIUS!’ he bellowed. ‘SIRIUS!’

‘He can't come back, Harry,’ said Lupin, his voice breaking as he struggled to contain Harry. ‘He can't come back, because he's d—

‘HE—IS—NOT— DEAD!’ roared Harry. ‘SIRIUS!’

There was movement going on around them, pointless bustling, the flashes of more spells. To Harry it was meaningless noise, the deflected curses flying past them did not matter, nothing mattered except that Lupin should stop pretending that Sirius—who was standing feet from them behind that old curtain—was not going to emerge at any moment, shaking back his dark hair and eager to re-enter the battle.

Lupin dragged Harry away from the dais. Harry still staring at the archway, was angry at Sirius now for keeping him waiting—

But some part of him realised, even as he fought to break free from Lupin, that Sirius had never kept him waiting before ... Sirius had risked everything, always, to see Harry to help him ... if Sirius was not reappearing out of that archway when Harry was yelling for him as though his life depended on it, the only possible explanation was that he could not come back ... that he really was—

Dumbledore had most of the remaining Death Eaters grouped in the middle of the room, seemingly immobilised by invisible ropes; Mad-Eye Moody had crawled across the room to where Tonks lay, and was attempting to revive her; behind the dais there were still flashes of light, grunts and cries—Kingsley had run forward to continue Sirius's duel with Bellatrix.

‘Harry?’

Neville had slid down the stone benches one by one to the place where Harry stood. Harry was no longer struggling against Lupin, who maintained a precautionary grip on his arm nevertheless.

‘Harry ... I'b really sorry ...’ said Neville. His legs were still dancing uncontrollably. ‘Was dad man—was Sirius Black a—a friend of yours?’

Harry nodded.

‘Here,’ said Lupin quietly, and pointing his wand at Neville's legs he said, ‘Finite.’ The spell was lifted: Neville's legs fell back to the floor and remained still. Lupin's face was pale. ‘Let's—let's find the others. Where are they all, Neville?’

Lupin turned away from the archway as he spoke. It sounded as though every word was causing him pain.

‘Dey're all back dere,’ said Neville. ‘A brain addacked Ron bud I dink he's all righd—and Herbione's unconscious, bud we could feel a bulse—’

He felt as though the memory of it was eating him from inside.

He felt as though the memory of it was eating him from inside. He had been so sure his parents were wonderful people that he had never had the slightest difficulty in disbelieving the aspersions Snape cast on his father's character. Hadn't people like Hagrid and Sirius told Harry how wonderful his father had been? (Yeah, well, look what Sirius was like himself, said a nagging voice inside Harry's head ... he was as bad, wasn't he?) Yes, he had once overheard Professor McGonagall saying that his father and Sirius had been troublemakers at school, but she had described them as forerunners of the Weasley twins, and Harry could not imagine Fred and George dangling someone upside-down for the fun of it ... not unless they really loathed them ... perhaps Malfoy or somebody who really deserved it .

Harry tried to make a case for Snape having deserved what he had suffered at James's hands: but hadn't Lily asked, ‘What's he done to you?’ And hadn't James replied, ‘It's more the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean.’ Hadn't James started it all simply because Sirius had said he was bored? Harry remembered Lupin saying back in Grimmauld Place that Dumbledore had made him prefect in the hope that he would be able to exercise some control over James and Sirius ... but in the Pensieve, he had sat there and let it all happen ...

Harry kept reminding himself that Lily had intervened; his mother had been decent. Yet, the memory of the look on her face as she had shouted at James disturbed him quite as much as anything else; she had clearly loathed James, and Harry simply could not understand how they could have ended up married. Once or twice he even wondered whether James had forced her into it ...

For nearly five years the thought of his father had been a source of comfort, of inspiration. Whenever someone had told him he was like James, he had glowed with pride inside. And now ... now he felt cold and miserable at the thought of him.

The weather grew breezier, brighter and warmer as the Easter holidays passed, but Harry, along with the rest of the fifth- and seventh-years, was trapped inside, revising, traipsing back and forth to the library. Harry pretended his bad mood had no other cause but the approaching exams, and as his fellow Gryffindors were sick of studying themselves, his excuse went unchallenged.

‘Harry, I'm talking to you, can you hear me?’

‘Huh?’

He looked round. Ginny Weasley, looking very windswept, had joined him at the library table where he had been sitting alone. It was late on Sunday evening: Hermione had gone back to Gryffindor Tower to revise Ancient Runes, and Ron had Quidditch practice.

‘Oh, hi,’ said Harry, pulling his books towards him. ‘How come you're not at practice?’

‘It's over,’ said Ginny. ‘Ron had to take Jack Sloper up to the hospital wing.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, we're not sure, but we think he knocked himself out with his own bat.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Anyway ... a package just arrived, it's only just got through Umbridge's new screening process.’

She hoisted a box wrapped in brown paper on to the table; it had clearly been unwrapped and carelessly re-wrapped. There was a scribbled note across it in red ink, reading: Inspected and Passed by the Hogwarts High Inquisitor.

‘It's Easter eggs from Mum,’ said Ginny. ‘There's one for you ... there you go.’

She handed him a handsome chocolate egg decorated with small, iced Snitches and, according to the packaging, containing a bag of Fizzing Whizzbees. Harry looked at it for a moment, then, to his horror, felt a lump rise in his throat.

‘Are you OK, Harry?’ Ginny asked quietly.

‘Yeah, I'm fine,’ said Harry gruffly. The lump in his throat was painful. He did not understand why an Easter egg should have made him feel like this.

‘You seem really down lately,’ Ginny persisted. ‘You know, I'm sure if you just talked to Cho ...’

‘It's not Cho I want to talk to,’ said Harry brusquely.

‘Who is it, then?’ asked Ginny, watching him closely.

‘I ...’

He glanced around to make quite sure nobody was listening. Madam Pince was several shelves away, stamping out a pile cf books for a frantic-looking Hannah Abbott.

‘I wish I could talk to Sirius,’ he muttered. ‘But I know I can't.’

Chapter 29 Careers Advice

Chapter 29 Careers Advice

‘But why haven't you got Occlumency lessons any more?’ said Hermione, frowning.

‘I've told you,’ Harry muttered. ‘Snape reckons I can carry on by myself now I've got the basics.’

‘So you've stopped having funny dreams?’ said Hermione sceptically.

‘Pretty much,’ said Harry, not looking at her.

‘Well, I don't think Snape should stop until you're absolutely sure you can control them!’ said Hermione indignantly. ‘Harry, I think you should go back to him and ask— ’

‘No,’ said Harry forcefully. ‘Just drop it, Hermione, OK?’

It was the first day of the Easter holidays and Hermione, as was her custom, had spent a large part of the day drawing up revision timetables for the three of them. Harry and Ron had let her do it; it was easier than arguing with her and, in any case, they might come in useful.

Ron had been startled to discover there were only six weeks left until their exams.

‘How can that come as a shock?’ Hermione demanded, as she tapped each little square on Ron's timetable with her wand so that it flashed a different colour according to its subject.

‘I dunno,’ said Ron, ‘there's been a lot going on.’

‘Well, there you are,’ she said, handing him his timetable, ‘if you follow that you should do fine.’

Ron looked down it gloomily, but then brightened.

‘You've given me an evening off every week!’

‘That's for Quidditch practice,’ said Hermione.

The smile faded from Ron's face.

‘What's the point?’ he said dully. ‘We've got about as much chance of winning the Quidditch Cup this year as Dad's got of becoming Minister for Magic.’

Hermione said nothing; she was looking at Harry, who was staring blankly at the opposite wall of the common room while Crookshanks pawed at his hand, trying to get his ears scratched.

‘What's wrong, Harry?’

‘What?’ he said quickly. ‘Nothing.’

He seized his copy of Defensive Magical Theory and pretended to be looking something up in the index. Crookshanks gave him up as a bad job and slunk away under Hermione's chair.

‘I saw Cho earlier,’ said Hermione tentatively. ‘She looked really miserable, too ... have you two had a row again?’

‘Wha—oh, yeah, we have,’ said Harry, seizing gratefully on the excuse.

‘What about?’

‘That sneak friend of hers, Marietta,’ said Harry.

‘Yeah, well, I don't blame you!’ said Ron angrily, setting down his revision timetable. ‘If it hadn't been for her ...’

Ron went into a rant about Marietta Edgecombe, which Harry found helpful; all he had to do was look angry, nod and say ‘Yeah’ and That's right’ whenever Ron drew breath, leaving his mind free to dwell, ever more miserably, on what he had seen in the Pensieve.

Chapter 21 The Eye Of The Snake

Chapter 21 The Eye Of The Snake

Hermione ploughed her way back to Hagrid's cabin through two feet of snow on Sunday morning. Harry and Ron wanted to go with her, but their mountain of homework had reached an alarming height again, so they remained

grudgingly in the common room, Tying to ignore the gleeful shouts drifting up from the grounds outside, where students were enjoying themselves skating on the frozen lake, tobogganing and, worst of all, bewitching

snowballs to zoom up to Gryffindor Tower and rap hard on the windows.

‘Oi!’ bellowed Ron, finally losing patience and sticking his head out of the window, ‘I am a prefect and if one more snowball hits this window—OUCH!’

He withdrew his head sharply, his face covered in snow.

‘It's Fred and George,’ he said bitterly, slamming the window behind him. ‘Gits ...’

Hermione returned from Hagrid's just before lunch, shivering slightly, her robes damp to the knees.

‘So?’ said Ron, looking up when she entered. ‘Got all his lessons planned for him?’

‘Well, I tried,’ she said dully, sinking into a chair beside Harry. She pulled out her wand and gave it a complicated little wave so that hot air streamed out of the tip; she then pointed this at her robes, which began to steam as

they dried out. ‘He wasn't even there when I arrived, I was knocking for at least half an hour. And then he came stumping out of the Forest—’

Harry groaned. The Forbidden Forest was teeming with the kind of creatures most likely to get Hagrid the sack. ‘What's he keeping in there? Did he say?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Hermione miserably. ‘He says he wants them to be a surprise. I tried to explain about Umbridge, but he just doesn't get it. He kept saying nobody in their right mind would rather study Knarls than Chimaeras—oh, I

don't think he's got a Chimaera,’ she added at the appalled look on Harry and Ron's faces, ‘but that's not for lack of trying, from what he said about how hard it is to get eggs. I don't know how many times I told him he'd be

better off following Grubbly-Plank's plan, I honestly don't think he listened to half of what I said. He's in a bit of a funny mood, you know. He still won't say how he got all those injuries.’

Hagrid's reappearance at the staff table at breakfast next day was not greeted by enthusiasm from all students. Some, like Fred, George and Lee, roared with delight and sprinted up the aisle between the Gryffindor and

Hufflepuff tables to wring Hagrid's enormous hand; others, like Parvati and Lavender, exchanged gloomy looks and shook their heads. Harry knew that many of them preferred Professor Grubbly-Planks lessons, and the worst

of it was that a very small, unbiased part of him knew that they had good reason: Grubbly-Plank's idea of an interesting class was not one where there was a risk that somebody might have their head ripped off.

It was with a certain amount of apprehension that Harry, Ron and Hermione headed down to Hagrid's on Tuesday, heavily muffled against the cold. Harry was worried, not only about what Hagrid might have decided to teach

them, but also about how the rest of the class, particularly Malfoy and his cronies, would behave if Umbridge was watching them.

However, the High Inquisitor was nowhere to be seen as they struggled through the snow towards Hagrid, who stood waiting for them on the edge of the Forest. He did not present a reassuring sight; the bruises that had been

purple on Saturday night were now tinged with green and yellow and some of his cuts still seemed to be bleeding. Harry could not understand this: had Hagrid perhaps been attacked by some creature whose venom

prevented the wounds it inflicted from healing? As though to complete the ominous picture, Hagrid was carrying what looked like half a dead cow over his shoulder.

‘We're workin’ in here today!’ Hagrid called happily to the approaching students, jerking his head back at the dark trees behind him. ‘Bit more sheltered! Anyway, they prefer the dark.’

‘What prefers the dark?’ Harry heard Malfoy say sharply to Crabbe and Goyle, a trace of panic in his voice. ‘What did he say prefers the dark—did you hear?’

Harry remembered the only other occasion on which Malfoy had entered the Forest before now; he had not been very brave then, either. He smiled to himself; after the Quidditch match anything that caused Malfoy discomfort

was all right with him.

‘Ready?’ said Hagrid cheerfully, looking around at the class. ‘Right, well, I've bin savin’ a trip inter the Forest fer yer fifth year. Thought we'd go an’ see these creatures in their natural habitat. Now, what we're studyin’ today is

pretty rare, I reckon I'm probably the on'y person in Britain who's managed ter train ‘em.’

‘And you're sure they're trained, are you?’ said Malfoy, the panic in his voice even more pronounced. ‘Only it wouldn't be the first time you'd brought wild stuff to class, would it?’

The Slytherins murmured agreement and a few Gryffindors looked as though they thought Malfoy had a fair point, too.

‘Course they're trained,’ said Hagrid, scowling and hoisting the dead cow a little higher on his shoulder.

‘So what happened to your face, then?’ demanded Malfoy.
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Chapter 14 Percy And Padfoot

Harry was first to wake up in his dormitory next morning. He lay for a moment watching dust swirl in the ray of sunlight coming through the gap in his four-poster's hangings, and savoured the thought that it was Saturday. The first week of term seemed to have dragged on for ever, like one gigantic History of Magic lesson.

Judging by the sleepy silence and the freshly minted look of that beam of sunlight, it was just after daybreak. He pulled open the curtains around his bed, got up and started to dress. The only sound apart from the distant twittering of birds was the slow, deep breathing of his fellow Gryffindors. He opened his schoolbag carefully, pulled out parchment and quill and headed out of the dormitory for the common room.

Making straight for his favourite squashy old armchair beside the now extinct fire, Harry settled himself down comfortably and unrolled his parchment while looking around the room. The detritus of crumpled-up bits of parchment, old Gobstones, empty ingredient jars and sweet wrappers that usually covered the common room at the end of each day was gone, as were all Hermione's elf hats. Wondering vaguely how many elves had now been set free whether they wanted to be or not, Harry uncorked his ink bottle, dipped his quill into it, then held it suspended an inch above the smooth yellowish surface of his parchment, thinking hard ... but after a minute or so he found himself staring into the empty grate, at a complete loss for what to say.

He could now appreciate how hard it had been for Ron and Hermione to write him letters over the summer. How was he supposed to tell Sirius everything that had happened over the past week and pose all the questions he was burning to ask without giving potential letter-thieves a lot of information he did not want them to have?

He sat quite motionless for a while, gazing into the fireplace, then, finally coming to a decision, he dipped his quill into the ink bottle once more and set it resolutely on the parchment.

Dear Snuffles,

Hope you're OK, the first week back here's been terrible, I'm really glad it's the weekend.

We've got a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Umbridge. She's nearly as nice as your mum. I'm writing because that thing I wrote to you about last summer happened again last night when I was doing a detention with Umbridge.

We're all missing our biggest friend, we hope he'll be back soon.

Please write back quickly.

Best,

Harry

Harry reread the letter several times, trying to see it from the point of view of an outsider. He could not see how they would know what he was talking about—or who he was talking to—just from reading this letter. He did hope Sirius would pick up the hint about Hagrid and tell them when he might be back. Harry did not want to ask directly in case it drew too much attention to what Hagrid might be up to while he was not at Hogwarts.

Considering it was a very short letter, it had taken a long time to write; sunlight had crept halfway across the room while he had been working on it and he could now hear distant sounds of movement from the dormitories above. Sealing the parchment carefully, he climbed through the portrait hole and headed off for the Owlery.

‘I would not go that way if I were you,’ said Nearly Headless Nick, drifting disconcertingly through a wall just ahead of Harry as he walked down the passage. ‘Peeves is planning an amusing joke on the next person to pass the bust of Paracelsus halfway down the corridor.’

Lovely evening!’

shouted Uncle Vernon, waving at Mrs. Number Seven opposite, who was glaring from behind her net curtains. ‘Did you hear that car backfire just now? Gave Petunia and me quite a turn!’

He continued to grin in a horrible, manic way until all the curious neighbours had disappeared from their various windows, then the grin became a grimace of rage as he beckoned Harry back towards him.

Harry moved a few steps closer, taking care to stop just short of the point at which Uncle Vernon's outstretched hands could resume their strangling.

‘What the devil do you mean by it, boy?’ asked Uncle Vernon in a croaky voice that trembled with fury.

‘What do I mean by what?’ said Harry coldly. He kept looking left and right up the street, still hoping to see the person who had made the cracking noise.

‘Making a racket like a starting pistol right outside our—’

‘I didn't make that noise,’ said Harry firmly.

Aunt Petunia's thin, horsy face now appeared beside Uncle Vernon's wide, purple one. She looked livid.

‘Why were you lurking under our window?’

‘Yes—yes, good point, Petunia! What were you doing under our window, boy?’

‘Listening to the news,’ said Harry in a resigned voice.

His aunt and uncle exchanged looks of outrage.

‘Listening to the news! Again?’

‘Well, it changes every day, you see,’ said Harry.

‘Don't you be clever with me, boy! I want to know what you're really up to—and don't give me any more of this listening to the news tosh! You know perfectly well that your lot—’

‘Careful, Vernon!’ breathed Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon lowered his voice so that Harry could barely hear him,'—that your lot don't get on our news!’

‘That's all you know,’ said Harry.

The Dursleys goggled at him for a few seconds, then Aunt Petunia said, ‘You're a nasty little liar. What are all those—’ she, too, lowered her voice so that Harry had to lip-read the next word, ‘—owls doing if they're not bringing you news?’

‘Aha!’ said Uncle Vernon in a triumphant whisper. ‘Get out of that one, boy! As if we didn't know you get all your news from those pestilential birds!’

Harry hesitated for a moment. It cost him something to tell the truth this time, even though his aunt and uncle could not possibly know how bad he felt at admitting it.

‘The owls ... aren't bringing me news,’ he said tonelessly.

‘I don't believe it,’ said Aunt Petunia at once.

‘No more do I,’ said Uncle Vernon forcefully.

‘We know you're up to something funny,’ said Aunt Petunia.

‘We're not stupid, you know,’ said Uncle Vernon.

‘Well, that's news to me,’ said Harry, his temper rising, and before the Dursleys could call him back, he had wheeled about, crossed the front lawn, stepped over the low garden wall and was striding off up the street.

He was in trouble now and he knew it. He would have to face his aunt and uncle later and pay the price for his rudeness, but he did not care very much just at the moment; he had much more pressing matters on his mind.

Harry was sure the cracking noise had been made by someone Apparating or Disapparating. It was exactly the sound Dobby the house-elf made when he vanished into thin air. Was it possible that Dobby was here in Privet Drive? Could Dobby be following him right at this very moment? As this thought occurred he wheeled around and stared back down Privet Drive, but it appeared to be completely deserted and Harry was sure that Dobby did not know how to become invisible.

‘Watching the news...’

he said scathingly. ‘I'd like to know what he's really up to. As if a normal boy cares what's on the news— Dudley hasn't got a clue what's going on; doubt he knows who the Prime Minister is! Anyway, it's not as if there'd be anything about his lot on our news—’

‘Vernon, shh!’ said Aunt Petunia. ‘The window's open!’

‘Oh—yes— sorry, dear.’

The Dursleys fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle about Fruit ‘n’ Bran breakfast cereal while he watched Mrs. Figg, a batty cat-loving old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past. She was frowning and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased he was concealed behind the bush, as Mrs. Figg had recently taken to asking him round for tea whenever she met him in the street. She had rounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon's voice floated out of the window again.

‘Dudders out for tea?’

‘At the Polkisses',’ said Aunt Petunia fondly. ‘He's got so many little friends, he's so popular...’

Harry suppressed a snort with difficulty. The Dursleys really were astonishingly stupid about their son, Dudley. They had swallowed all his dim-witted lies about having tea with a different member of his gang every night of the summer holidays. Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley had not been to tea anywhere; he and his gang spent every evening vandalising the play park, smoking on street corners and throwing stones at passing cars and children. Harry had seen them at it during his evening walks around Little Whinging; he had spent most of the holidays wandering the streets, scavenging newspapers from bins along the way.

The opening notes of the music that heralded the seven o'clock news reached Harry's ears and his stomach turned over. Perhaps tonight—after a month of waiting—would be the night.

‘Record numbers of stranded holidaymakers fill airports as the Spanish baggage-handlers’ strike reaches its second week—’

‘Give ‘em a lifelong siesta, I would,’ snarled Uncle Vernon over the end of the newsreader's sentence, but no matter: outside in the flowerbed, Harry's stomach seemed to unclench. If anything had happened, it would surely have been the first item on the news; death and destruction were more important than stranded holidaymakers.

He let out a long, slow breath and stared up at the brilliant blue sky. Every day this summer had been the same: the tension, the expectation, the temporary relief, and then mounting tension again ... and always, growing more insistent all the time, the question of why nothing had happened yet....

He kept listening, just in case there was some small clue, not recognised for what it really was by the Muggles—an unexplained disappearance, perhaps, or some strange accident ... but the baggage-handlers’ strike was followed by news about the drought in the Southeast ('I hope he's listening next door!’ bellowed Uncle Vernon. ‘Him with his sprinklers on at three in the morning!'), then a helicopter that had almost crashed in a field in Surrey, then a famous actress's divorce from her famous husband ('As if we're interested in their sordid affairs,’ sniffed Aunt Petunia, who had followed the case obsessively in every magazine she could lay her bony hands on).

Harry closed his eyes against the now blazing evening sky as the newsreader said, ‘—and finally, Bungy the budgie has found a novel way of keeping cool this summer. Bungy, who lives at the Five Feathers in Barnsley, has learned to water ski! Mary Dorkins went to find out more.’

Harry opened his eyes. If they had reached water-skiing budgerigars, there would be nothing else worth hearing. He rolled cautiously on to his front and raised himself on to his knees and elbows, preparing to crawl out from under the window.

He had moved about two inches when several things happened in very quick succession.

A loud, echoing crack broke the sleepy silence like a gunshot; a cat streaked out from under a parked car and flew out of sight; a shriek, a bellowed oath and the sound of breaking china came from the Dursleys’ living room, and as though this was the signal Harry had been waiting for he jumped to his feet, at the same time pulling from the waistband of his jeans a thin wooden wand as if he were unsheathing a sword—but before he could draw himself up to full height, the top of his head collided with the Dursleys’ open window. The resultant crash made Aunt Petunia scream even louder.

Harry felt as though his head had been split in two. Eyes streaming, he swayed, trying to focus on the street to spot the source of the noise, but he had barely staggered upright when two large purple hands reached through the open window and closed tightly around his throat.

‘Put—it—away!’ Uncle Vernon snarled into Harry's ear. ‘Now! Before—anyone—sees!’

‘Get—off—me!’ Harry gasped. For a few seconds they struggled, Harry pulling at his uncle's sausage-like fingers with his left hand, his right maintaining a firm grip on his raised wand; then, as the pain in the top of Harry's head gave a particularly nasty throb, Uncle Vernon yelped and released Harry as though he had received an electric shock. Some invisible force seemed to have surged through his nephew, making him impossible to hold.

Panting, Harry fell forwards over the hydrangea bush, straightened up and stared around. There was no sign of what had caused the loud cracking noise, but there were several faces peering through various nearby windows. Harry stuffed his wand hastily back into his jeans and tried to look innocent.

Chapter 1 Dudley Demented

The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Privet Drive. Cars that were usually gleaming stood dusty in their drives and lawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing—for the use of hosepipes had been banned due to drought. Deprived of their usual car-washing and lawn-mowing pursuits, the inhabitants of Privet Drive had retreated into the shade of their cool houses, windows thrown wide in the hope of tempting in a nonexistent breeze. The only person left outdoors was a teenage boy who was lying flat on his back in a flowerbed outside number four.

He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. His jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt baggy and faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away from the uppers. Harry Potter's appearance did not endear him to the neighbours, who were the sort of people who thought scruffiness ought to be punishable by law, but as he had hidden himself behind a large hydrangea bush this evening he was quite invisible to passers-by. In fact, the only way he would be spotted was if his Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia stuck their heads out of the living-room window and looked straight down into the flowerbed below.

On the whole, Harry thought he was to be congratulated on his idea of hiding here. He was not, perhaps, very comfortable lying on the hot, hard earth but, on the other hand, nobody was glaring at him, grinding their teeth so loudly that he could not hear the news, or shooting nasty questions at him, as had happened every time he had tried sitting down in the living room to watch television with his aunt and uncle.

Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open window, Vernon Dursley, Harry's uncle, suddenly spoke.

‘Glad to see the boy's stopped trying to butt in. Where is he, anyway?’

‘I don't know,’ said Aunt Petunia, unconcerned. ‘Not in the house.’

Uncle Vernon grunted.

After Twenty Years

The policeman on the beat moved up the avenue impressively. The impressiveness was habitual and not for show, for spectators were few. The time was barely 10 o'clock at night, but chilly gusts of wind with a taste of rain in

them had well nigh depeopled the streets.

Trying doors as he went, twirling his club with many intricate and artful movements, turning now and then to cast his watchful eye adown the pacific thoroughfare, the officer, with his stalwart form and slight swagger, made a

fine picture of a guardian of the peace. The vicinity was one that kept early hours. Now and then you might see the lights of a cigar store or of an all-night lunch counter; but the majority of the doors belonged to business

places that had long since been closed.

When about midway of a certain block the policeman suddenly slowed his walk. In the doorway of a darkened hardware store a man leaned, with an unlighted cigar in his mouth. As the policeman walked up to him the man

spoke up quickly.

"It's all right, officer," he said, reassuringly. "I'm just waiting for a friend. It's an appointment made twenty years ago. Sounds a little funny to you, doesn't it? Well, I'll explain if you'd like to make certain it's all straight. About that

long ago there used to be a restaurant where this store stands--'Big Joe' Brady's restaurant."

"Until five years ago," said the policeman. "It was torn down then."

The man in the doorway struck a match and lit his cigar. The light showed a pale, square-jawed face with keen eyes, and a little white scar near his right eyebrow. His scarfpin was a large diamond, oddly set.

"Twenty years ago to-night," said the man, "I dined here at 'Big Joe' Brady's with Jimmy Wells, my best chum, and the finest chap in the world. He and I were raised here in New York, just like two brothers, together. I was

eighteen and Jimmy was twenty. The next morning I was to start for the West to make my fortune. You couldn't have dragged Jimmy out of New York; he thought it was the only place on earth. Well, we agreed that night that

we would meet here again exactly twenty years from that date and time, no matter what our conditions might be or from what distance we might have to come. We figured that in twenty years each of us ought to have our

destiny worked out and our fortunes made, whatever they were going to be."
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How Hurricane Ike Underscores the Importance of an Effective Water Purification Process

Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：134 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:30:38


I'm shocked. I was listening to a radio news story about the aftermath of Hurricane Ike in the south Texas area. In an effort to provide local citizens with clean drinking water, a spokesman was saying that they were adding more chlorine to their water purification process. While you can expect chlorine to kill bacterial contaminants that have fouled the water system due to the hurricane, chlorine cannot be counted on to remove synthetic chemical contaminants that were probably also deposited in the water. Chlorine is a disinfectant. It is not a filter. When you explain water purification, that distinction must be made!

Disinfection

With the landscape of southern Texas dotted with numerous oil refineries it only makes sense that people would be alarmed about the possibility of their water being contaminated by refinery chemicals. Add to that the possible contamination by all types of waste (industrial, medical, etc.) and it becomes apparent that the need to explain water purification can be crucial.

Adding more chlorine to a chlorine-based water purification process has the potential for making a dangerous situation even worse. While it may be able to prevent water-borne diseases like typhoid and cholera from erupting, chlorine has serious drawbacks that are going to be magnified with increased doses in the water.

Chlorine leaches heavy metals, like lead, as it flows through the aging plumbing systems of many homes. Lead is poisonus to humans.

Chlorine also creates chloroform gas in the vapor of a bathroom shower. And who knows what kind of dangerous chemical reactions increased levels of chlorine will have with any of the contaminants that have been introduced into the water as a result of Hurrican Ike.

If you explain water purification based on disinfection, then chlorine is probably going to make up a large part of that explanation.

Filtration

It is apparent that a water purification process that is based on filtration, rather than disinfection, is going to have to be utilized if people want to ensure that the the water they drink, cook and bathe in is completely safe.

When you explain water purification based on filtration, several commonly-used systems immediately come to mind.

Reverse osmosis is a popular system that uses filtration, but usually requires the addition of a carbon filter to make sure that contaminants that are small enough to make it through the reverse osmosis membrane are caught. This water purficiation process is expensive and requires a lot of upkeep. People dealing with the costly destruction of a hurricane may find that a reverse osmosis system is not feasible.

Distillation is another potentially expensive water purification process. It, too, requires the addition of a carbon filter in order to catch all the contaminants that distillation is unable to remove. Ongoing maintenance is another requirement of distillation. The carbon filters must be changed frequently due to continuous build up of potentially harmful bacteria.