“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 -