Doraemon

Chapter 9: The Half-Blood Prince Harry and Ron met Hermione in the common room before breakfast next morning. Hoping for some support in his theory, Harry lost no time in telling Hermione what he had overheard Malfoy saying on the Hogwarts Express. "But he was obviously showing off for Parkinson, wasn't he?" interjected Ron quickly, before Hermione could say anything. "Well," she said uncertainly, "I don't know. ... It would be like Malfoy make himself seem more important than he is ... but that's a big lie to tell. . . ." "Exactly," said Harry, but he could nor press the point, because so many people were trying to listen in to his conversation, not to mention staring at him and whispering behind their hands. "It's rude to point," Ron snapped at a particularly minuscule first-year boy as they joined the queue to climb out of the portrait hole. The boy, who had been muttering something about Harry behind his hand to his friend, promptly turned scarlet and toppled out of the hole in alarm. Ron sniggered. "I love being a sixth year. And were going to be getting free time this year. Whole periods when we can just sit up here and relax." "We're going to need that time for studying, Ron!" said Hermione, as they set off down the corridor. "Yeah, but not today," said Ron. "Today's going to be a real doss, I reckon." "Hold it!" said Hermione, throwing out an arm and halting a passing fourth year, who was attempting to push past her with a lime-green disk clutched tightly in his hand. "Fanged Frisbees banned, hand it over," she told him sternly. The scowling boy handed over the snarling Frisbee, ducked under her arm, and took off after his friends. Ron waited for him to vanish, then tugged the Frisbee from Hermione's grip. "Excellent, I've always wanted one of these." Hermione's remonstration was drowned by a loud giggle; Lavender Brown had apparently found Ron's remark highly amusing. She continued to laugh as she passed them, glancing back at Ron over her shoulder. Ron looked rather pleased with himself. The ceiling of the Great Hall was serenely blue and streaked with frail, wispy clouds, just like the squares of sky visible through the high mullioned windows. While they tucked into porridge and eggs and bacon, Harry and Ron told Hermione about their embarassing conversation with Hagrid the previous evening. "But he can't really think we'd continue Care of Magical Creatures !" she said, looking distressed. "I mean, when has any of us expressed . . . you know . . . any enthusiasm?" "That's it, though, innit?" said Ron, swallowing an entire fried egg whole. "We were the ones who made the most effort in classes because we like Hagrid. But he thinks we liked the stupid subject. D'ya reckon anyone's going to go on to N.E.W.T.?" Neither Harry nor Hermione answered; there was no need. They knew perfectly well that nobody in their year would want to continue Care of Magical Creatures. They avoided Hagrid's eye and returned his cheery wave only half-heartedly when he left the staff table ten minutes later. After they had eaten, they remained in their places, awaiting Professor McGonagall's descent from the staff table. The distribution of class schedules was more complicated than usual this year, for Professor McGonagall needed first to confirm that everybody had achieved the necessary O.W.L. grades to continue with their chosen N.E.W.T.s. Hermione was immediately cleared to continue with Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Herbology, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Potions, and shot off to a first period Ancient Runes class without further ado. Neville took a little longer to sort out; his round face was anxious as Professor McGonagall looked down his application and then consulted his O.W.L results. "Herbology, fine," she said. "Professor Sprout will be delighted to see you back with an 'Outstanding' O.W.L. And you qualify for Defense Against the Dark Arts with 'Exceeds Expectations.' But the problem is Transfiguration. I'm sorry, Longbottom, but an 'Acceptable' really isn't good enough to continue to N.E.W.T. level. Just don't think you'd be able to cope with the coursework." Neville hung his head. Professor McGonagall peered at him through her square spectacles. "Why do you want to continue with Transfiguration, anyway? I've never had the impression that you particularly enjoyed it." Neville looked miserable and muttered something about "my grandmother wants." "Hmph," snorted Professot McGonagall. "It's high time your grandmother learned to be proud of the grandson she's got, rather than the one she thinks she ought to have - particularly after what happened at the Ministry." Neville turned very pink and blinked confusedly; Professor McGonagall had never paid him a compliment before. "I'm sorry, Longbottom, but I cannot let you into my N.E.W.T. class. I see that you have an 'Exceeds Expectations' in Charm however - why not try for a N.E.W.T. in Charms?" "My grandmother thinks Charms is a soft option," mumbled Neville. "Take Charms," said Professor McGonagall, "and I shall drop Augusta a line reminding her that just because she failed her Charms O.W.L., the subject is not necessarily worthless." Smiling slightly at the look of delighted incredulity on Neville's face, Professor McGonagall tapped a blank schedule with the tip of her wand and handed it, now carrying details of his new classes, to Neville. Professor McGonagall turned next to Parvati Patil, whose first question was whether Firenze, the handsome centaur, was still teaching Divination. "He and Professor Trelawney are dividing classes between them this year," said Professor McGonagall, a hint of disapproval in her voice; it was common knowledge that she despised the subject of Divination. "The sixth year is being taken by Professor Trelawney." Parvati set off for Divination five minutes later looking slightly crestfallen. "So, Potter, Potter . . ." said Professor McGonagall, consulting her notes as she turned to Harry. "Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Transfiguration ... all fine. I must say, I was pleased with your Transfiguration mark, Potter, very pleased. Now, why haven't you applied to continue with Potions? I thought it was your ambition to become an Auror?" "It was, but you told me I had to get an 'Outstanding' in my O.W.L., Professor." "And so you did when Professor Snape was teaching the subject. Professor Slughorn, however, is perfectly happy to accept N.E.W.T. students with 'Exceeds Expectations' at O.W.L. Do you wish to proceed with Potions?" "Yes," said Harry, "but I didn't buy the books or any ingredients or anything-" "I'm sure Professor Slughorn will be able to lend you some," said Professor McGonagall. "Very well, Potter, here is your schedule. Oh, by the way- twenty hopefuls have already put down their names for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. I shall pass the list to you in due course and you can fix up trials at your leisure." A few minutes later, Ron was cleared to do the same subjects as Harry, and the two of them left the table together. "Look," said Ron delightedly, gazing ar his schedule, "we've got a free period now. . . and a free period after break . . . and after lunch . . . excellent." They returned to the common room, which was empty apart from a half dozen seventh years, including Katie Bell, the only remaining member of the original Gryffindor Quidditch team that Harry had joined in his first year. "I thought you'd get that, well done," she called over, pointing. at the Captains badge on Harry's chest. "Tell me when you call trials!" "Don't be stupid," said Harry, "you don't need to try out, I watched you play for five years. . . ." "You mustn't start off like that," she said warningly. "For all you know, there's someone much better than me out there. Good teams have been ruined before now because Captains just kept playing the old faces, or letting in their friends. ..." Ron looked a little uncomfortable and began playing with the Fanged Frisbee Hermione had taken from the fourth-year student. It zoomed around the common room, snarling and attempting to take bites of the tapestry. Crookshanks's yellow eyes followed it and he hissed when it came too close. An hour later they reluctantly left the sunlit common room for the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom four floors below. Hermione was already queuing outside, carrying an armful of heavy books and looking put-upon. "We got so much homework for Runes," she said anxiously when Harry and Ron joined her. "A fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and I've got to read these by Wednesday!" "Shame," yawned Ron. "You wait," she said resentfully. "I bet Snape gives us loads." The classroom door opened as she spoke, and Snape stepped into the corridor, his sallow face framed as ever by two curtains of greasy black hair. Silence fell over the queue immediately. "Inside," he said. Harry looked around as they entered. Snape had imposed his personality upon the room already; it was gloomier than usual, as curtains had been drawn over the windows, and was lit by candlelight. New pictures adorned the walls, many of them showing people who appeared to be in pain, sporting grisly injuries or strangely contorted body parts. Nobody spoke as they settled down, looking around at the shadowy, gruesome pictures. "I have not asked you to take out your books," said Snape, closing the door and moving to face the class from behind his desk; Hermione hastily dropped her copy of Confronting the Faceless back into her bag and stowed it under her chair. "I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention." His black eyes roved over their upturned faces, lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Harry's than anyone else's. "You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe." You believe . . . like you haven't watched them all come and go, hoping you'd be next, thought Harry scathingly. Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.WL. in this subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be more advanced." Snape set off around the edge of the room, speaking now in a lower voice; the class craned their necks to keep him in view. The Dark Arts," said Snape, "are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible." Harry stared at Snape. It was surely one thing to respect the Dark Arts as a dangerous enemy, another to speak of them, as Snape was doing, with a loving caress in his voice? "Your defenses," said Snape, a little louder, "must therefore be as flexible and inventive as rhe arts you seek to undo. These pictures - he indicated a few of them as he swept past - "give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse" - he waved a hand toward a witch who was clearly shrieking in agony - "feel the Dementor's Kiss" - a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall - "or provoke the aggression of the Inferius" - a bloody mass upon ground. "Has an Inferius been seen, then?" said Parvati Patil in a high pitched voice. "Is it definite, is he using them?" "The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past," said Snape, "which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again. Now. . . " He set off again around the other side of the classroom toward his desk, and again, they watched him as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind him. , ". . . you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of nonverbal spells. What is the advantage of a nonverbal spell?" Hermione's hand shot into the air. Snape took his time looking around at everybody else, making sure he had no choice, before saying curtly, "Very well - Miss Granger?" "Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform," said Hermione, "which gives you a split-second advantage." "An answer copied almost word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six," said Snape dismissively (over in the corner, Malfoy sniggered), "but correct in essentials. Yes, those who progress in using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some" - his gaze lingered maliciously upon Harry once more - "lack." Harry knew Snape was thinking of their disastrous Occlumency lessons of the previous year. He refused to drop his gaze, but glowered at Snape until Snape looked away. "You will now divide," Snape went on, "into pairs. One partner will attempt jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence. Carry on." Although Snape did not know it, Harry had taught at least half the class (everyone who had been a member of the D.A.) how to perform a Shield Charm the previous year. None of them had ever cast the charm without speaking, however. A reasonable amount of cheating ensued; many people were merely whispering the incantation instead of saying it aloud. Typically, ten minutes into the lesson Hermione managed to repel Neville's muttered Jelly-Legs Jinx without uttering a single word, a feat that would surely have earned her twenty points for Gryffindor from any reasonable teacher, thought Harry bitterly, but which Snape ignored. He swept between them as they practiced, looking just as much like an overgrown bat as ever, lingering to watch Harry and Ron struggling with the task. Ron, who was supposed to be jinxing Harry, was purple in the face, his lips tightly compressed to save himself from the temptation of muttering the incantation. Harry had his wand raised, waiting on tenterhooks to repel a jinx that seemed unlikely ever to come. "Pathetic, Weasley," said Snape, after a while. "Here -- let me show you -" He turned his wand on Harry so fast that Harry reacted instinctively; all thought of nonverbal spells forgotten, he yelled, "Protego!" His Shield Charm was so strong Snape was knocked off-balance and hit a desk. The whole class had looked around and now watched as Snape righted himself, scowling. "Do you remember me telling you we are practicing nonverbal spells, Potter?" "Yes," said Harry stiffly. "Yes, sir." "There's no need to call me 'sir,' Professor." The words had escaped him before he knew what he was saying. Several people gasped, including Hermione. Behind Snape, however , Ron, Dean, and Seam us grinned appreciatively. "Detention, Saturday night, my office," said Snape. "I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter . . . not even 'the Chosen One.'" "That was brilliant, Harry!" chortled Ron, once they were safely on their way to break a short while later. "You really shouldn't have said it," said Hermione, frowning at Ron. "What made you?" "He tried to jinx me, in case you didn't notice!" fumed Harry. I had enough of that during those Occlumency lessons! Why doesn't he use another guinea pig for a change? What's Dumbledore playing at, anyway, letting him teach Defense? Did you hear him talking about the Dark Arts? He loves them! All that unfixed, tndestructble stuff -- "Well," said Hermione, "I thought he sounded a bit like you." "Like me?" "Yes, when you were telling us what it's like to face Voldemort. You said it wasn't just memorizing a bunch of spells, you said it was just you and your brains and your guts - well, wasn't that what Snape was saying? That it really comes down to being brave and quick-thinking?" Harry was so disarmed that she had thought his words as well worth memorizing as The Standard Book of Spells that he did not argue. "Harry! Hey, Harry!" Harry looked around; Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters on last year's Gryffindor Quidditch team, was hurrying toward him holding a roll of parchment. "For you," panted Sloper. "Listen, 1 heard you're the new Captain. When're you holding trials?" "I'm not sure yet," said Harry, thinking privately that Sloper would be very lucky to get back on the team. "I'll let you know." "Oh, right. I was hoping it'd be this weekend -" "But Harry was not listening; he had just recognized the thin, slanting writing on the parchment. Leaving Sloper in mid-sentence, he hurried away with Ron and Hermione, unrolling the parchment as he went. Dear Harry, I would like to start our private lessons this Saturday. Kindly come along to my office at 8 P.M. I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school. Yours sincerely, Albus Dumbledore P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops. "He enjoys Acid Pops?" said Ron, who had read the message over Harry's shoulder and was looking perplexed. "It's the password to get past the gargoyle outside his study," said Harry in a low voice. "Ha! Snape's not going to be pleased. . . . I won't be able to do his detention!" He, Ron, and Hermione spent the whole of break speculating on what Dumbledore would teach Harry. Ron thought it most likely to be spectacular jinxes and hexes of the type the Death Eaters would not know. Hermione said such things were illegal, and thought it much more likely that Dumbledore wanted to teach Harry advanced Defensive magic. After break, she went off to Arithmancy while Harry and Ron returned to the common room where they grudgingly started Snape's homework. This turned out to be so complex that they still had not finished when Hermione joined them for their after-lunch free period (though she considerably speeded up the process). They had only just finished when the bell rang for the afternoon's double Potions and they beat the familiar path down to the dungeon classroom that had, for so long, been Snape's. When they arrived in the corridor they saw that there were only a dozen people progressing to N.E.W.T. level. Crabbe and Goyle had evidently failed to achieve the required O.W.L. grade, but four Slytherins had made it through, including Malfoy. Four Ravenclaws were there, and one Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan, whom Harry liked despite his rather pompous manner. "Harry," Ernie said portentously, holding out his hand as Harry approached, "didn't get a chance to speak in Defense Against The Dark Arts this morning. Good lesson, I thought, but Shield Charms are old hat, of course, for us old D.A. lags . . . And how are you, Ron -- Hermione?" Before they could say more than "fine," the dungeon door opened and Slughorn's belly preceded him out of the door. As they filed into the room, his great walrus mustache curved above his beaming mouth, and he greeted Harry and Zabini with particular enthusiasm. The dungeon was, most unusually, already full of vapors and odd smells. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sniffed interestedly as they passed large, bubbling cauldrons. The four Slytherins took a table together, as did the four Ravenclaws. This left Harry, Ron, and Hermione to share a table with Ernie. They chose the one nearest a gold-colored cauldron that was emitting one of the most seductive scents Harry had ever inhaled: Somehow it reminded him simultaneously of treacle tart, the woody smell of a broomstick handle, and something flowery he thought he might have smelled at the Burrow. He found that he was breathing very slowly and deeply and that the potion's fumes seemed to be filling him up like drink. A great contentment stole over him; he grinned across at Ron, who grinned back lazily. "Now then, now then, now then," said Slughorn, whose massive outline was quivering through the many shimmering vapors. "Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and don't forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making. . . ." "Sir?" said Harry, raising his hand. "Harry, m'boy?" "I haven't got a book or scales or anything - nor's Ron - we didn't realize we'd be able to do the N.E.W.T., you see -" "Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall did mention . . . not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I'm sure we can lend you some scales, and we've got a small stock of old books here, they'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts. . . ." Slughorn strode over to a corner cupboard and, after a moment's foraging, emerged with two very battered-looking copies of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage, which he gave to Harry and Ron along with two sets of tarnished scales. "Now then," said Slughorn, returning to the front of the class and inflating his already bulging chest so that the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to burst off, "I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of 'em, even if you haven't made 'em yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?" He indicated the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table. Harry raised himself slighty in his seat and saw what looked like plain water boiling away inside it. Hermione's well-practiced hand hit the air before anybody else's; Slughorn pointed at her. "It's Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion thar forces the, drinker to tell the truth," said Hermione. "Very good, very good!" said Slughorn happily. "Now," he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table, "this one here is pretty well known. . . . Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too . . . Who can - ?" Hermione's hand was fastest once more. "lt's Polyjuice Potion, sir," she said. Harry too had recognized the slow-bubbling, mudlike substance the second cauldron, but did not resent Hermione getting the credit for answering the question; she, after all, was the one who had succeeded in making it, back in their second year. "Excellent, excellent! Now, this one here . . . yes, my dear?" said Slughorn, now looking slightly bemused, as Hermione's hand punched the air again. "It's Amortentia!" "It is indeed. Ir seems almost foolish to ask," said Slughorn, who was looking mightily impressed, "but I assume you know what it does?" It's the most powerful love porion in the world!" said Hermione. 'Quire right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?" "And the steam rising in characteristic spirals," said Hermione enthusiastically, "and it's supposed to smell differently to each of according to what attracts us, and I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and -" But she turned slightly pink and did not complete the sentence. 'May I ask your name, my dear?" said Slughorn, ignoring Hermione's embarrassment. Hermione Granger, sir." "Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?" "No. I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born, you see." Harry saw Malfoy lean close to Nott and whisper something; both of them sniggered, but Slughorn showed no dismay; on the contrary, he beamed and looked from Hermione to Harry, who was sitting next to her. "Oho! 'One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year!' I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?" "Yes, sir," said Harry. "Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger," said Slughorn genially. Malfoy looked rather as he had done the time Hermione had punched him in the face. Hermione turned to Harry with a radiant expression and whispered, "Did you really tell him I'm the best in the year? Oh, Harry!" "Well, what's so impressive about that?" whispered Ron, who for some reason looked annoyed. "You are the best in the year - I'd've told him so if he'd asked me!" Hermione smiled but made a "shhing" gesture, so that they could hear what Slughorn was saying. Ron looked slightly disgruntled. "Amortentia doesn't really create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room - oh yes," he said, nodding gravely at Maifoy and Nott, both of whom were smirking skeptically. "When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love. ... "And now," said Slughorn, "it is time for us to start work." "Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one," said Ernie Macmillan , pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn's desk. The potion within was splashing about merrily; it was the color of molten gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above the surface, though not a particle had spilled. "Oho," said Slughorn again. Harry was sure that Slughorn had not forgotten the potion at all, but had waited to be asked for dramatic effect. "Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it," he turned, smiling, to look at Hermione, who had let out an audible gasp, "that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?" "It's liquid luck," said Hermione excitedly. "It makes you lucky!" The whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter. Now all Harry could see of Malfoy was the back of his sleek blond head, because he was at last giving Slughorn his full and undivided attention. "Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis," said Slughorn. "Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed ... at least until the effects wear off." "Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?" said Terry Boot eagerly. "Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence," said Slughorn. "Too much of a good thing, you know. . . highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally . . ." "Have you ever taken it, sir?" asked Michael Corner with great interest. "Twice in my life," said Slughorn. "Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days." He gazed dreamily into the distance. Whether he was playacting or not, thought Harry, the effect was good. "And that," said Slughorn, apparently coming back to earth, "is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson." There was silence in which every bubble and gurgle of the surrounding potions seemed magnified tenfold. "One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis," said Slughorn, taking a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his pocket and showing it to them all. "Enough for twelve hours' luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt." "Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a banned substance in organized competitions . . . sporting events, for instance, examinations, or elections. So the winner is to use it on an ordinary day only . . . and watch how that ordinary day becomes extraordinary!" "So," said Slughorn, suddenly brisk, "how are you to win fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of Advanced Potion Making. We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!" There was a scraping as everyone drew their cauldrons toward them and some loud clunks as people began adding weights to their scales, but nobody spoke. The concentration within the room was almost tangible. Harry saw Malfoy riffling feverishly through his copy of Advanced Potion-Making., It could not have been clearer that Malfoy really wanted that lucky day. Harry bent swiftly over the tattered book Slughorn had lent him. To his annoyance he saw that the previous owner had scribbled all over the pages, so that the margins were as black as the printed portions. Bending low to decipher the ingredients (even here, the previous owner had made annotations and crossed things out) Harry hurried off toward the store cupboard to find what he needed. As he dashed back to his cauldron, he saw Malfoy cutting up Valerian roots as fast as he could. Everyone kept glancing around at what the rest of the class was doing; this was both an advantage and a disadvantage of Potions, that it was hard to keep your work private. Within ten minutes, the whole place was full of bluish steam. Hermione, of course, seemed to have progressed furthest. Her potion already resembled the "smooth, black currant-colored liquid" mentioned as the ideal halfway stage. Having finished chopping his roots, Harry bent low over his book again. It was really very irritating, having to try and decipher the directions under all the stupid scribbles of the previous owner, who for some reason had taken issue with the order to cut up the sopophorous bean and had written in the alternative instruction: Crush with flat side of silver dagger, releases juice better than cutting. "Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?" Harry looked up; Slughorn was just passing the Slytherin table. "Yes," said Slughorn, without looking at Malfoy, "I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it wasn't unexpected, dragon pox at his age. . . ." And he walked away. Harry bent back over his cauldron, smirking. He could tell that Malfoy had expected to be treated like Harry or Zabini; perhaps even hoped for some preferential treatment of the type he had learned to expect from Snape. It looked as though Malfoy would have to rely on nothing but talent to win the bottle of Felix Felicis. The sopophorous bean was proving very difficult to cut up. Harry turned to Hermione. "Can I borrow your silver knife?" She nodded impatiently, not taking her eyes off her potion, which was still deep purple, though according to the book ought to be turning a light shade of lilac by now. Harry crushed his bean with the flat side of the dagger. To his astonishment, it immediately exuded so much juice he was amazed the shriveled bean could have held it all. Hastily scooping it all into the cauldron he saw, to his surprise, that the potion immediately turned exactly the shade of lilac described by the textbook. His annoyance with the previous owner vanishing on the spot, Harry now squinted at the next line of instructions. According the book, he had to stir counterclockwise until the potion turned clear as water. According to the addition the previous owner made, however, he ought to add a clockwise stir after every seventh counterclockwise stir. Could the old owner be right twice? Harry stirred counterclockwise, held his breath, and stirred once clockwise. The effect was immediate. The potion turned pale pink. "How are you doing that?" demanded Hermione, who was redfaced and whose hair was growing bushier and bushier in the fumes from her cauldron; her potion was still resolutely purple. "Add a clockwise stir -" "No, no, the book says counterclockwise!" she snapped. Harry shrugged and continued what he was doing. Seven stirs counterdockwise, one clockwise, pause . . . seven stirs counterclockwise, one stir clockwise . . . Across the table, Ron was cursing fluently under his breath; his potion looked like liquid licorice. Harry glanced around. As far as he could see, no one else's potion had turned as pale as his. He felt elated, something that had certainly never happened before in this dungeon. "And time's . . . up!" called Slughorn. "Stop stirring, please!" Slughorn moved slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons. He made no comment, but occasionally gave the potions a stir or a sniff. At last he reached the table where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ernie were sitting. He smiled ruefully at the tarlike substance in Ron's cauldron. He passed over Ernie's navy concoction. Hermione's potion he gave an approving nod. Then he saw Harry's, and a look of incredulous delight spread over his face. "The clear winner!" he cried to the dungeon. "Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it's clear you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab hand at Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here you are - one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!" Harry slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his inner pocket, feeling an odd combination of delight at the furious looks on the Slytherins' faces and guilt at the disappointed expression on Hermione's. Ron looked simply dumbfounded. "How did you do that?" he whispered to Harry as they left the dungeon. "Got lucky, I suppose," said Harry, because Malfoy was within earshot. Once they were securely ensconced at the Gryffindor table for dinner, however, he felt safe enough to tell them. Hermione's face became stonier with every word he uttered. "I s'pose you think I cheated?" he finished, aggravated by her expression. "Well, it wasn't exactly your own work, was it?" she said stiffly. "He only followed different instructions to ours," said Ron, "Could've been a catastrophe, couldn't it? But he took a risk and it paid off." He heaved a sigh. "Slughorn could've handed me that book, but no, I get the one no one's ever written on. Puked on, by the look of page fifty-two, but-" "Hang on," said a voice close by Harry's left ear and he caught a sudden waft of that flowery smell he had picked up in Slughorn's dungeon. He looked around and saw that Ginny had joined them. "Did I hear right? You've been taking orders from something someone wrote in a book, Harry?" She looked alarmed and angry. Harry knew what was on her mind at once. "It's nothing," he said reassuringly, lowering his voice. "It's not like, you know, Riddle's diary. It's just an old textbook someone's scribbled on." "But you're doing what it says?" "I just tried a few of the tips written in the margins, honestly, Ginny, there's nothing funny -" "Ginny's got a point," said Hermione, perking up at once. "We ought to check that there's nothing odd about it. I mean, all these funny instructions, who knows?" "Hey!" said Harry indignantly, as she pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and raised her wand. "Specialis Revelio!" she said, rapping it smartly on the front cover. Nothing whatsoever happened. The book simply lay there, looking old and dirty and dog-eared. "Finished?" said Harry irritably. "Or d'you want to wait and see if it does a few backflips?" "It seems all right," said Hermione, still staring at the book suspiciously. "I mean, it really does seem to be ... just a textbook." "Good. Then I'll have it back," said Harry, snatching it off the table, but it slipped from his hand and landed open on the floor. Nobody else was looking. Harry bent low to retrieve the book, and as he did so, he saw something scribbled along the bottom of the back cover in the same small, cramped handwriting as the instructions that had won him his bottle of Felix Felicis, now safely hidden inside a pair of socks in his trunk upstairs. This book is the property of the Half Blood Prince.

Doraemon

Chapter 10: The house of count For or the rest of the week's Potions lessons Harry continued to follow the Half-Blood Prince's instructions wherever they de­viated from Libatius Borage's, with the result that by their fourth lesson Slughorn was raving about Harrys abilities, saying that he had rarely taught anyone so talented. Neither Ron nor Hermione was delighted by this. Although Harry had offered to share his book with both of them, Ron had more difficulty deciphering the handwriting than Harry did, and could not keep asking Harry to read aloud or it might look suspicious. Hermione, meanwhile, was resolutely plowing on with what she called the "official" instruc­tions, but becoming increasingly bad-tempered as they yielded poorer results than the Prince's. Harry wondered vaguely who the Half-Blood Prince had been. Although the amount of homework they had been given prevented him from reading the whole of his copy of Advanced Potion-Making, he had skimmed through it sufficiently to see that there was barely a page on which the Prince had not made additional notes, not all of them concerned with potion-making. Here and there were direc­tions for what looked like spells that the Prince had made up himself. "Or herself," said Hermione irritably, overhearing Harry point­ing some of these out to Ron in the common room on Saturday evening. "It might have been a girl. I think the handwriting looks more like a girl's than a boy's." "The Half-Blood Prince, he was called," Harry said. "How many girls have been Princes?" Hermione seemed to have no answer to this. She merely scowled and twitched her essay on The Principles of Rematerialization away from Ron, who was trying to read it upside down. Harry looked at his watch and hurriedly put the old copy of Advanced Potion-Making back into his bag. "It's five to eight, I'd better go, I'll be late for Dumbledore." "Ooooh!" gasped Hermione, looking up at once. "Good luck! We'll wait up, we want to hear what he teaches you!" "Hope it goes okay," said Ron, and the pair of them watched Harry leave through the portrait hole. Harry proceeded through deserted corridors, though he had to step hastily behind a statue when Professor Trelawney appeared around a corner, muttering to herself as she shuffled a pack of dirty-looking playing cards, reading them as she walked. "Two of spades: conflict," she murmured, as she passed the place where Harry crouched, hidden. "Seven of spades: an ill omen. Ten of spades: violence. Knave of spades: a dark young man, possibly troubled, one who dislikes the questioner —" She stopped dead, right on the other side of Harry's statue. "Well, that can't be right," she said, annoyed, and Harry heard her reshuffling vigorously as she set off again, leaving nothing but a whiff of cooking sherry behind her. Harry waited until he was quite sure she had gone, then hurried off again until he reached the spot in the seventh-floor corridor where a single gargoyle stood against the wall. "Acid Pops," said Harry, and the gargoyle leapt aside; the wall behind it slid apart, and a moving spiral stone staircase was re­vealed, onto which Harry stepped, so that he was carried in smooth circles up to the door with the brass knocker that led to Dumbledore's Office. Harry knocked. "Come in," said Dumbledore s voice. "Good evening, sir," said Harry, walking into the headmaster's office. "Ah, good evening, Harry. Sit down," said Dumbledore, smil­ing. "I hope you've had an enjoyable first week back at school?" "Yes, thanks, sir," said Harry. "You must have been busy, a detention under your belt already!" "Er," began Harry awkwardly, but Dumbledore did not look too stern. "I have arranged with Professor Snape that you will do your de­tention next Saturday instead." "Right," said Harry, who had more pressing matters on his mind than Snapes detention, and now looked around surreptitiously for some indication of what Dumbledore was planning to do with him this evening. The circular office looked just as it always did; the delicate silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, puff­ing smoke and whirring; portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses dozed in their frames, and Dumbledore's magnifi­cent phoenix, Fawkes, stood on his perch behind the door, watch­ing Harry with bright interest. It did not even look as though Dumbledore had cleared a space for dueling practice. "So, Harry," said Dumbledore, in a businesslike voice. "You have been wondering, I am sure, what I have planned for you dur­ing these — for want of a better word — lessons?" "Yes, sir." "Well, I have decided that it is time, now that you know what prompted Lord Voldemort to try and kill you fifteen years ago, for you to be given certain information." There was a pause. "You said, at the end of last term, you were going to tell me everything," said Harry. It was hard to keep a note of accusation from his voice. "Sir," he added. "And so I did," said Dumbledore placidly. "I told you everything I know. From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm founda­tion of fact and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in, Harry, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey Belcher, who be­lieved the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron." "But you think you're right?" said Harry. "Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you, I make mis­takes like the next man. In fact, being — forgive me — rather clev­erer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger." "Sir," said Harry tentatively, "does what you're going to tell me have anything to do with the prophecy? Will it help me . . . survive?" "It has a very great deal to do with the prophecy," said Dumble­dore, as casually as if Harry had asked him about the next days weather, "and I certainly hope that it will help you to survive,." Dumbledore got to his feet and walked around the desk, past Harry, who turned eagerly in his seat to watch Dumbledore bend­ing over the cabinet beside the door. When Dumbledore straight­ened up, he was holding a familiar shallow stone basin etched with odd markings around its rim. He placed the Pensieve on the desk in front of Harry. "You look worried." Harry had indeed been eyeing the Pensieve with some appre­hension. His previous experiences with the odd device that stored and revealed thoughts and memories, though highly instructive, had also been uncomfortable. The last time he had disturbed its contents, he had seen much more than he would have wished. But Dumbledore was smiling. "This time, you enter the Pensieve with me . . . and, even more unusually, with permission." "Where are we going, sir?" "For a trip down Bob Ogden's memory lane," said Dumbledore, pulling from his pocket a crystal bottle containing a swirling silvery-white substance. "Who was Bob Ogden?" "He was employed by the Department of Magical Law Enforce­ment," said Dumbledore. "He died some time ago, but not before I had tracked him down and persuaded him to confide these recol­lections to me. We are about to accompany him on a visit he made in the course of his duties. If you will stand, Harry ..." But Dumbledore was having difficulty pulling out the stopper of the crystal bottle: His injured hand seemed stiff and painful. "Shall —shall I, sir?" "No matter, Harry —" Dumbledore pointed his wand at the bottle and the cork flew out. "Sir — how did you injure your hand?" Harry asked again, look­ing at the blackened fingers with a mixture of revulsion and pity. "Now is not the moment for that story, Harry. Not yet. We have an appointment with Bob Ogden." Dumbledore tipped the silvery contents of the bottle into the Pensieve, where they swirled and shimmered, neither liquid nor gas. "After you," said Dumbledore, gesturing toward the bowl. Harry bent forward, took a deep breath, and plunged his face into the silvery substance. He felt his feet leave the office floor; he was falling, falling through whirling darkness and then, quite sud­denly, he was blinking in dazzling sunlight. Before his eyes had adjusted, Dumbledore landed beside him. They were standing in a country lane bordered by high, tangled hedgerows, beneath a summer sky as bright and blue as a forget-me-not. Some ten feet in front of them stood a short, plump man wearing enormously thick glasses that reduced his eyes to molelike specks. He was reading a wooden signpost that was sticking out of the brambles on the left-hand side of the road. Harry knew this must be Ogden; he was the only person in sight, and he was also wearing the strange assortment of clothes so often chosen by inex­perienced wizards trying to look like Muggles: in this case, a frock coat and spats over a striped one-piece bathing costume. Before Harry had time to do more than register his bizarre appearance, however, Ogden had set off at a brisk walk down the lane. Dumbledore and Harry followed. As they passed the wooden sign, Harry looked up at its two arms. The one pointing back the way they had come read: Great Hangleton, 5 miles. The arm pointing after Ogden said Little Hangleton, 1 mile. They walked a short way with nothing to see but the hedgerows, the wide blue sky overhead and the swishing, frock-coated figure ahead. Then the lane curved to the left and fell away, sloping steeply down a hillside, so that they had a sudden, unexpected view of a whole valley laid out in front of them. Harry could see a vil­lage, undoubtedly Little Hangleton, nestled between two steep hills, its church and graveyard clearly visible. Across the valley, set on the opposite hillside, was a handsome manor house surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawn. Ogden had broken into a reluctant trot due to the steep down­ward slope. Dumbledore lengthened his stride, and Harry hurried to keep up. He thought Little Hangleton must be their final desti­nation and wondered, as he had done on the night they had found Slughorn, why they had to approach it from such a distance. He soon discovered that he was mistaken in thinking that they were going to the village, however. The lane curved to the right and when they rounded the corner, it was to see the very edge of Ogden's frock coat vanishing through a gap in the hedge. Dumbledore and Harry followed him onto a narrow dirt track bordered by higher and wilder hedgerows than those they had left behind. The path was crooked, rocky, and potholed, sloping down­hill like the last one, and it seemed to be heading for a patch of dark trees a little below them. Sure enough, the track soon opened up at the copse, and Dumbledore and Harry came to a halt behind Ogden, who had stopped and drawn his wand. Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast deep, dark, cool shadows, and it was a few seconds before Harry's eyes discerned the building half-hidden amongst the tangle of trunks. It seemed to him a very strange location to choose for a house, or else an odd decision to leave the trees growing nearby, blocking all light and the view of the valley below. He wondered whether it was inhabited; its walls were mossy and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime. Just as he had concluded that nobody could possibly live there, however, one of the windows was thrown open with a clatter, and a thin trickle of steam or smoke issued from it, as though somebody was cooking. Ogden moved forward quietly and, it seemed to Harry, rather cautiously. As the dark shadows of the trees slid over him, he stopped again, staring at the front door, to which somebody had nailed a dead snake. Then there was a rustle and a crack, and a man in rags dropped from the nearest tree, landing on his feet right in front of Ogden, who leapt backward so fast he stood on the tails of his frock coat and stumbled. "You're not welcome." The man standing before them had thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any color. Several of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and dark and stared in opposite directions. He might have looked comical, but he did not; the effect was frighten­ing, and Harry could not blame Ogden for backing away several more paces before he spoke. "Er — good morning. I'm from the Ministry of Magic —" "You're not welcome." "Er — I'm sorry — I don't understand you," said Ogden nervously. Harry thought Ogden was being extremely dim; the stranger was making himself very clear in Harry's opinion, particularly as he was brandishing a wand in one hand and a short and rather bloody knife in the other. "You understand him, I'm sure, Harry?" said Dumbledore quietly. "Yes, of course," said Harry, slightly nonplussed. "Why can't Ogden — ?" But as his eyes found the dead snake on the door again, he sud­denly understood. "He's speaking Parseltongue?" "Very good," said Dumbledore, nodding and smiling. The man in rags was now advancing on Ogden, knife in one hand, wand in the other. "Now, look —" Ogden began, but too late: There was a bang, and Ogden was on the ground, clutching his nose, while a nasty yellowish goo squirted from between his fingers. "Morfin!" said a loud voice. An elderly man had come hurrying out of the cottage, banging the door behind him so that the dead snake swung pathetically. This man was shorter than the first, and oddly proportioned; his shoulders were very broad and his arms overlong, which, with his bright brown eyes, short scrubby hair, and wrinkled face, gave him the look of a powerful, aged monkey. He came to a halt beside the man with the knife, who was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden on the ground. "Ministry, is it?" said the older man, looking down at Ogden. "Correct!" said Ogden angrily, dabbing his face. "And you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?" "S'right," said Gaunt. "Got you in the face, did he?" "Yes, he did!" snapped Ogden. "Should've made your presence known, shouldn't you?" said Gaunt aggressively. "This is private property. Can't just walk in here and not expect my son to defend himself." "Defend himself against what, man?" said Ogden, clambering back to his feet. "Busybodies. Intruders. Muggles and filth." Ogden pointed his wand at his own nose, which was still issuing large amounts of what looked like yellow pus, and the flow stopped at once. Mr. Gaunt spoke out of the corner of his mouth to Morfin. "Get in the house. Don't argue." This time, ready for it, Harry recognized Parseltongue; even while he could understand what was being said, he distinguished the weird hissing noise that was all Ogden could hear. Morfin seemed to be on the point of disagreeing, but when his father cast him a threatening look he changed his mind, lumbering away to the cottage with an odd rolling gait and slamming the front door behind him, so that the snake swung sadly again. "It's your son I'm here to see, Mr. Gaunt," said Ogden, as he mopped the last of the pus from the front of his coat. "That was Morfin, wasn't it?" "At, that was Morfin," said the old man indifferently. "Are you pure-blood?" he asked, suddenly aggressive. "That's neither here nor there," said Ogden coldly, and Harry felt his respect for Ogden rise. Apparently Gaunt felt rather differently. He squinted into Ogdens lace and muttered, in what was clearly supposed to be an offensive tone, "Now I come to think about it, I've seen noses like yours down in the village." "I don't doubt it, if your sons been let loose on them," said Og-den. "Perhaps we could continue this discussion inside?" "Inside?" "Yes, Mr. Gaunt. I've already told you. I'm here about Morfin. We sent an owl —" "I've no use for owls," said Gaunt. "I don't open letters." "Then you can hardly complain that you get no warning of vis­itors," said Ogden tartly. "I am here following a serious breach of Wizarding law, which occurred here in the early hours of this morning —" "All right, all right, all right!" bellowed Gaunt. "Come in the bleeding house, then, and much good it'll do you!" The house seemed to contain three tiny rooms. Two doors led off the main room, which served as kitchen and living room com­bined. Morfin was sitting in a filthy armchair beside the smoking fire, twisting a live adder between his thick fingers and crooning softly at it in Parseltongue: Hissy, hissy, little snakey, Slither on the floor You be good to Morfin Or he'll nail you to the door. There was a scuffling noise in the corner beside the open win­dow, and Harry realized that there was somebody else in the room, a girl whose ragged gray dress was the exact color of the dirty stone wall behind her. She was standing beside a steaming pot on a grimy black stove, and was fiddling around with the shelf of squalid-looking pots and pans above it. Her hair was lank and dull and she had a plain, pale, rather heavy face. Her eyes, like her brother's, stared in opposite directions. She looked a little cleaner than the two men, but Harry thought he had never seen a more defeated-looking person. "M'daughter, Merope," said Gaunt grudgingly, as Ogden looked inquiringly toward her. "Good morning," said Ogden. She did not answer, but with a frightened glance at her father turned her back on the room and continued shifting the pots on the shelf behind her. "Well, Mr. Gaunt," said Ogden, "to get straight to the point, we have reason to believe that your son, Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night." There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped one of the pots. "Pick it up!" Gaunt bellowed at her. "That's it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle, what's your wand for, you useless sack of muck?" "Mr. Gaunt, please!" said Ogden in a shocked voice, as Merope, who had already picked up the pot, flushed blotchily scarlet, lost her grip on the pot again1 drew her wand shakily from her pocket, pointed it at the pot, and muttered a hasty, inaudible spell that caused the pot to shoot across the floor away from her, hit the op­posite wall, and crack in two. Morfin let out a mad cackle of laughter. Gaunt screamed, "Mend it, you pointless lump, mend it!" Merope stumbled across the room, but before she had time to raise her wand, Ogden had lifted his own and said firmly, "Reparo. " The pot mended itself instantly. Gaunt looked for a moment as though he was going to shout at Ogden, but seemed to think better of it: Instead, he jeered at his daughter, "Lucky the nice man from the Ministry's here, isn't it? Perhaps he'll take you off my hands, perhaps he doesn't mind dirty Squibs. . . ." Without looking at anybody or thanking Ogden, Merope picked up the pot and returned it, hands trembling, to its shelf. She then stood quite still, her back against the wall between the filthy window and the stove, as though she wished for nothing more than to sink into the stone and vanish. "Mr. Gaunt," Ogden began again, "as I've said: the reason for my visit —" "I heard you the first time!" snapped Gaunt. "And so what? Morfin gave a Muggle a bit of what was coming to him — what about it, then?" "Morfin has broken Wizarding law," said Ogden sternly. "'Morfin has broken Wizarding law.'" Gaunt imitated Ogdens voice, making it pompous and singsong. Morfin cackled again. "He taught a filthy Muggle a lesson, that's illegal now, is it?" "Yes," said Ogden. "I'm afraid it is." He pulled from an inside pocket a small scroll of parchment and unrolled it. "What's that, then, his sentence?" said Gaunt, his voice rising angrily. "It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing —" "Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are, summoning my son anywhere?" "I'm Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad," said Ogden. "And you think we're scum, do you?" screamed Gaunt, advanc­ing on Ogden now, with a dirty yellow-nailed finger pointing at his chest. "Scum who'll come running when the Ministry tells 'em to? Do you know who you're talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?" "I was under the impression that I was speaking to Mr. Gaunt," said Ogden, looking wary, but standing his ground. "That's right!" roared Gaunt. For a moment, Harry thought Gaunt was making an obscene hand gesture, but then realized that he was showing Ogden the ugly, black-stoned ring he was wearing on his middle finger, waving it before Ogden's eyes. "See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it's been in our family, that's how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?" "I've really no idea," said Ogden, blinking as the ring sailed within an inch of his nose, "and it's quite beside the point, Mr. Gaunt. Your son has committed —" With a howl of rage, Gaunt ran toward his daughter. For a split second, Harry thought he was going to throttle her as his hand flew to her throat; next moment, he was dragging her toward Ogden by a gold chain around her neck. "See this?" he bellowed at Ogden, shaking a heavy gold locket at him, while Merope spluttered and gasped for breath. "I see it, I see it!" said Ogden hastily. "Slytherins!" yelled Gaunt. "Salazar Slytherin's! We're his last liv­ing descendants, what do you say to that, eh?" "Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!" said Ogden in alarm, but Gaunt had already released Merope; she staggered away from him, back to her corner, massaging her neck and gulping for air. "So!" said Gaunt triumphantly, as though he had just proved a complicated point beyond all possible dispute. "Don't you go talk­ing to us as if we're dirt on your shoes! Generations of purebloods, wizards all — more than you can say, I don't doubt!" And he spat on the floor at Ogdens feet. Morfin cackled again. Merope, huddled beside the window, her head bowed and her face hidden by her lank hair, said nothing. "Mr. Gaunt," said Ogden doggedly, "I am afraid that neither your ancestors nor mine have anything to do with the matter in hand. I am here because of Morfin, Morfin and the Muggle he ac­costed late last night. Our information" — he glanced down at his scroll of parchment — "is that Morfin performed a jinx or hex on the said Muggle, causing him to erupt in highly painful hives." Morfin giggled. "Be quiet, boy," snarled Gaunt in Parseltongue, and Morfin fell silent again. "And so what if he did, then?" Gaunt said defiantly to Ogden, "I expect you've wiped the Muggle's filthy face clean for him, and his memory to boot —" "That's hardly the point, is it, Mr. Gaunt?" said Ogden. "This was an unprovoked attack on a defenseless —" "Ar, I had you marked out as a Muggle-lover the moment I saw you," sneered Gaunt, and he spat on the floor again. "This discussion is getting us nowhere," said Ogden firmly. "It is clear from your son's attitude that he feels no remorse for his ac­tions." He glanced down at his scroll of parchment again. "Morfin will attend a hearing on the fourteenth of September to answer the charges of using magic in front of a Muggle and causing harm and distress to that same Mugg —" Ogden broke off. The jingling, clopping sounds of horses and loud, laughing voices were drifting in through the open window. Apparently the winding lane to the village passed very close to the copse where the house stood. Gaunt froze, listening, his eyes wide. Morfin hissed and turned his face toward the sounds, his expression hungry. Merope raised her head. Her face, Harry saw, was starkly white. "My God, what an eyesore!" rang out a girl's voice, as clearly au­dible through the open window as if she had stood in the room be­side them. "Couldn't your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?" "It's not ours," said a young man's voice. "Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his children. The son's quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village —" The girl laughed. The jingling, clopping noises were growing louder and louder. Morfin made to get out of his armchair. , "Keep your seat," said his father warningly, in Parseltongue. "Tom," said the girl's voice again, now so close they were clearly right beside the house, "I might be wrong — but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?" "Good lord, you're right!" said the man's voice. "That'll be the son, I told you he's not right in the head. Don't look at it, Cecilia, darling. The jingling and clopping sounds were now growing faint again. "'Darling,'" whispered Morfin in Parseltongue, looking at his sister. "'Darling, he called her. So he wouldn't have you anyway." Merope was so white Harry felt sure she was going to faint. "What's that?" said Gaunt sharply, also in Parseltongue, looking from his son to his daughter. "What did you say, Morfin?" "She likes looking at that Muggle, "said Morfin, a vicious expression on his face as he stared at his sister, who now looked terrified. "Always in the garden when he passes, peering through the hedge at him, isn't she? And last night — " Merope shook her head jerkily, imploringly, but Morfin went on ruthlessly, "Hanging out of the window waiting for him to ride home, wasn't she?" "Hanging out of the window to look at a Muggle?" said Gaunt quietly. All three of the Gaunts seemed to have forgotten Ogden, who was looking both bewildered and irritated at this renewed outbreak of incomprehensible hissing and rasping. "Is it true?" said Gaunt in a deadly voice, advancing a step or two toward the terrified girl. "My daughter—pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin — hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?" Merope shook her head frantically, pressing herself into the wall, apparently unable to speak. "But I got him, Father!" cackled Morfin. "I got him as he went by and he didn't look so pretty with hives all over him, did he, Merope?" "You disgusting little Squib, you filthy little blood traitor!" roared Gaunt, losing control, and his hands closed around his daughter's throat. Both Harry and Ogden yelled "No!" at the same time; Ogden raised his wand and cried, "Relaskio!" Gaunt was thrown backward, away from his daughter; he tripped over a chair and fell flat on his back. With a roar of rage, Morfin leapt out of his chair and ran at Ogden, brandishing his bloody knife and firing hexes indiscriminately from his wand. Ogden ran for his life. Dumbledore indicated that they ought to follow and Harry obeyed, Merope's screams echoing in his ears. Ogden hurtled up the path and erupted onto the main lane, his arms over his head, where he collided with the glossy chestnut horse ridden by a very handsome, dark-haired young man. Both he and the pretty girl riding beside him on a gray horse roared with laughter at the sight of Ogden, who bounced off the horse's flank and set off again, his frock coat flying, covered from head to foot in dust, running pell-mell up the lane. "I think that will do, Harry," said Dumbledore. He took Harry by the elbow and tugged. Next moment, they were both soaring weightlessly through darkness, until they landed squarely on their feet, back in Dumbledore's now twilit office. "What happened to the girl in the cottage?" said Harry at once, as Dumbledore lit extra lamps with a flick of his wand. "Merope, or whatever her name was?" "Oh, she survived," said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk and indicating that Harry should sit down too. "Ogden Apparated back to the Ministry and returned with reinforcements within fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the cottage, and subse­quently convicted by the Wizengamot. Morfin, who already had a record of Muggle attacks, was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Marvolo, who had injured several Ministry employees addition to Ogden, received six months." "Marvolo?" Harry repeated wonderingly. "That's right," said Dumbledore, smiling in approval. "I am glad to see you're keeping up." "That old man was — ?" "Voldemort's grandfather, yes," said Dumbledore. "Marvolo, his son, Morfin, and his daughter, Merope, were the last of the Gaunts, a very ancient Wizarding family noted for a vein of insta­bility and violence that flourished through the generations due to their habit of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense coupled with a great liking for grandeur meant that the family gold was squandered several generations before Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor and poverty, with a very nasty temper, a fantastic amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his daughter." "So Merope," said Harry, leaning forward in his chair and star­ing at Dumbledore, "so Merope was . . . Sir, does that mean she was . . . Voldemort's mother?" "It does," said Dumbledore. "And it so happens that we also had a glimpse of Voldemort's father. I wonder whether you noticed?" "The Muggle Morfin attacked? The man on the horse?" "Very good indeed," said Dumbledore, beaming. "Yes, that was Tom Riddle senior, the handsome Muggle who used to go riding past the Gaunt cottage and for whom Merope Gaunt cherished a secret, burning passion." "And they ended up married?" Harry said in disbelief, unable to imagine two people less likely to fall in love. "I think you are forgetting," said Dumbledore, "that Merope was a witch. I do not believe that her magical powers appeared to their best advantage when she was being terrorized by her father. Once Marvolo and Morfin were safely in Azkaban, once she was alone and free for the first time in her life, then, I am sure, she was able to give full rein to her abilities and to plot her escape from the desperate life she had led for eighteen years." "Can you not think of any measure Merope could have taken to make Tom Riddle forget his Muggle companion, and fall in love with her instead?" "The Imperius Curse?" Harry suggested. "Or a love potion?" "Very good. Personally, I am inclined to think that she used a love potion. I am sure it would have seemed more romantic to her, and I do not think it would have been very difficult, some hot day, when Riddle was riding alone, to persuade him to take a drink of water. In any case, within a few months of the scene we have just witnessed, the village of Little Hangleton enjoyed a tremendous scandal. You can imagine the gossip it caused when the squire's son ran off with the tramp's daughter, Merope." "But the villagers' shock was nothing to Marvolo's. He returned from Azkaban, expecting to find his daughter dutifully awaiting his return with a hot meal ready on his table. Instead, he found a clear inch of dust and her note of farewell, explaining what she had done." "From all that I have been able to discover, he never mentioned her name or existence from that time forth. The shock of her de­sertion may have contributed to his early death — or perhaps he had simply never learned to feed himself. Azkaban had greatly weakened Marvolo, and he did not live to see Morfin return to the cottage." "And Merope? She . .. she died, didn't she? Wasn't Voldemort brought up in an orphanage?" "Yes, indeed," said Dumbledore. "We must do a certain amount of guessing here, although I do not think it is difficult to deduce what happened. You see, within a few months of their runaway marriage, Tom Riddle reappeared at the manor house in Little Hangleton without his wife. The rumor flew around the neighbor­hood that he was talking of being 'hoodwinked' and 'taken in.' What he meant, I am sure, is that he had been under an enchant­ment that had now lifted, though I daresay he did not dare use those precise words for fear of being thought insane. When they heard what he was saying, however, the villagers guessed that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle, pretending that she was going to have his baby, and that he had married her for this reason." "But she did have his baby." "But not until a year after they were married. Tom Riddle left her while she was still pregnant." "What went wrong?" asked Harry. "Why did the love potion stop working?" "Again, this is guesswork," said Dumbledore, "but I believe that Merope, who was deeply in love with her husband, could not bear to continue enslaving him by magical means. I believe that she made the choice to stop giving him the potion. Perhaps, besotted as she was, she had convinced herself that he would by now have fallen in love with her in return. Perhaps she thought he would stay for the baby's sake. If so, she was wrong on both counts. He left her, never saw her again, and never troubled to discover what became of his son." The sky outside was inky black and the lamps in Dumbledore's office seemed to glow more brightly than before. "I think that will do for tonight, Harry," said Dumbledore after a moment or two. "Yes, sir," said Harry. He got to his feet, but did not leave. "Sir ... is it important to know all this about Voldemort's past?" "Very important, I think," said Dumbledore. "And it... it's got something to do with the prophecy?" "It has everything to do with the prophecy." "Right," said Harry, a little confused, but reassured all the same. He turned to go, then another question occurred to him, and he turned back again. "Sir, am I allowed to tell Ron and Hermione everything you've told me?" Dumbledore considered him for a moment, then said, "Yes, I think Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have proved themselves trust­worthy. But Harry, I am going to ask you to ask them not to repeat any of this to anybody else. It would not be a good idea if word got around how much I know, or suspect, about Lord Voldemort's secrets." "No, sir, I'll make sure it's just Ron and Hermione. Good night." He turned away again, and was almost at the door when he saw it. Sitting on one of the little spindle-legged tables that supported so many frail-looking silver instruments, was an ugly gold ring set with a large, cracked, black stone. "Sir," said Harry, staring at it. "That ring—" "Yes?" said Dumbledore. "You were wearing it when we visited Professor Slughorn that night." "So I was," Dumbledore agreed. "But isn't it... sir, isn't it the same ring Marvolo Gaunt showed Ogden?" Dumbledore bowed his head. "The very same." "But how come — ? Have you always had it?" "No, I acquired it very recently," said Dumbledore. "A few days before I came to fetch you from your aunt and uncle's, in fact." "That would be around the time you injured your hand, then, sir?" "Around that time, yes, Harry." Harry hesitated. Dumbledore was smiling. "Sir, how exactly — ?" "Too late, Harry! You shall hear the story another time. Good night." "Good night, sir."

Doraemon

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. Nonverbal 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 nonverbal 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?" "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, "Dijjindo!" 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!" There sat the Prince's copy, disguised as a new book, and there sat the fresh copy from Flourish and Blotts, looking thoroughly secondhand. "I'll give Slughorn back the new one, he can't complain, it cost nine Galleons." Hermione pressed her lips together, looking angry and disap­proving, but was distracted by a third owl landing in front of her carrying that day's copy of the Daily Prophet. She unfolded it hastily and scanned the front page. "Anyone we know dead?" asked Ron in a determinedly casual voice; he posed the same question every time Hermione opened her paper. "No, but there have been more dementor attacks," said Hermi­one. "And an arrest." "Excellent, who?" said Harry, thinking of Bellatrix Lestrange. "Stan Shunpike," said Hermione. "What?" said Harry, startled. "'Stanley Shunpike, conductor on the popular Wizarding con­veyance the Knight Bus, has been arrested on suspicion of Death Eater activity. Mr. Shunpike, 21, was taken into custody late last night after a raid on his Clapham home. . .'" "Stan Shunpike, a Death Eater?" said Harry, remembering the spotty youth he had first met three years before. "No way!" "He might have been put under the Imperius Curse," said Ron reasonably. "You never can tell." "It doesn't look like it," said Hermione, who was still reading. "It says here he was arrested after he was overheard talking about the Death Eaters' secret plans in a pub." She looked up with a troubled expression on her face. "If he was under the Imperius Curse, he'd hardly stand around gossiping about their plans, would he?" "It sounds like he was trying to make out he knew more than he did," said Ron. "Isn't he the one who claimed he was going to be­come Minister of Magic when he was trying to chat up those veela?" "Yeah, that's him," said Harry. "I dunno what they're playing at, taking Stan seriously." "They probably want to look as though they're doing some­thing," said Hermione, frowning. "People are terrified — you know the Patil twins' parents want them to go home? And Eloise Midgen has already been withdrawn. Her father picked her up last night." "What!" said Ron, goggling at Hermione. "But Hogwarts is safer than their homes, bound to be! We've got Aurors, and all those extra protective spells, and we've got Dumbledore!" "I don't think we've got him all the time," said Hermione very quietly, glancing toward the staff table over the top of the Prophet. "Haven't you noticed? His seat's been empty as often as Hagrid's this past week." Harry and Ron looked up at the staff table. The headmaster's chair was indeed empty. Now Harry came to think of it, he had not seen Dumbledore since their private lesson a week ago. "I think he's left the school to do something with the Order," said Hermione in a low voice. "I mean . . . it's all looking serious, isn't it?" Harry and Ron did not answer, but Harry knew that they were all thinking the same thing. There had been a horrible incident the day before, when Hannah Abbott had been taken out of Herbology to be told her mother had been found dead. They had not seen Hannah since. When they left the Gryffindor table five minutes later to head down to the Quidditch pitch, they passed Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. Remembering what Hermione had said about the Patil twins' parents wanting them to leave Hogwarts, Harry was unsurprised to see that the two best friends were whispering to­gether, looking distressed. What did surprise him was that when Ron drew level with them, Parvati suddenly nudged Lavender, who looked around and gave Ron a wide smile. Ron blinked at her, then returned the smile uncertainly. His walk instantly became something more like a strut. Harry resisted the temptation to laugh, re­membering that Ron had refrained from doing so after Malfoy had broken Harry's nose; Hermione, however, looked cold and distant all the way down to the stadium through the cool, misty drizzle, and departed to find a place in the stands without wishing Ron good luck. As Harry had expected, the trials took most of the morning. Half of Gryffindor House seemed to have turned up, from first years who were nervously clutching a selection of the dreadful old school brooms, to seventh years who towered over the rest, looking coolly intimidating. The latter included a large, wiry-haired boy Harry recognized immediately from the Hogwarts Express. "We met on the train, in old Sluggy's compartment," he said confidently, stepping out of the crowd to shake Harry's hand. "Cormac McLaggen, Keeper." "You didn't try out last year, did you?" asked Harry, taking note of the breadth of McLaggen and thinking that he would probably block all three goal hoops without even moving. "I was in the hospital wing when they held the trials," said McLaggen, with something of a swagger. "Ate a pound of doxy eggs for a bet." "Right," said Harry. "Well. . . if you wait over there ..." He pointed over to the edge of the pitch, close to where Hermi­one was sitting. He thought he saw a flicker of annoyance pass over McLaggen's face and wondered whether McLaggen expected pref­erential treatment because they were both "old Sluggy's" favorites. Harry decided to start with a basic test, asking all applicants for the team to divide into groups of ten and fly once around the pitch. This was a good decision: the first ten was made up of first years, and it could not have been plainer that they had hardly ever flown before. Only one boy managed to remain airborne for more than a few seconds, and he was so surprised he promptly crashed into one of the goal posts. The second group was comprised of ten of the silliest girls Harry had ever encountered, who, when he blew his whistle, merely fell about giggling and clutching one another. Romilda Vane was amongst them. When he told them to leave the pitch, they did so quite cheerfully and went to sit in the stands to heckle everyone else. The third group had a pileup halfway around the pitch. Most of the fourth group had come without broomsticks. The fifth group were Hufflepuffs. "If there's anyone else here who's not from Gryffindor," roared Harry, who was starting to get seriously annoyed, "leave now, please! There was a pause, then a couple of little Ravenclaws went sprinting off the pitch, snorting with laughter. After two hours, many complaints, and several tantrums, one in­volving a crashed Comet Two Sixty and several broken teeth, Harry had found himself three Chasers: Katie Bell, returned to the team after an excellent trial; a new find called Demelza Robins, who was particularly good at dodging Bludgers; and Ginny Weasley, who had outflown all the competition and scored seventeen goals to boot. Pleased though he was with his choices, Harry had also shouted himself hoarse at the many complainers and was now enduring a similar battle with the rejected Beaters. "That's my final decision and if you don't get out of the way of the Keepers I'll hex you," he bellowed. Neither of his chosen Beaters had the old brilliance of Fred and George, but he was still reasonably pleased with them: Jimmy Peakes, a short but broad-chested third-year boy who had managed to raise a lump the size of an egg on the back of Harry's head with a ferociously hit Bludger, and Ritchie Coote, who looked weedy but aimed well. They now joined Katie, Demelza, and Ginny in the stands to watch the selection of their last team member. Harry had deliberately left the trial of the Keepers until last, hoping for an emptier stadium and less pressure on all concerned. Unfortunately, however, all the rejected players and a number of people who had come down to watch after a lengthy breakfast had joined the crowd by now, so that it was larger than ever. As each Keeper flew up to the goal hoops, the crowd roared and jeered in equal measure. Harry glanced over at Ron, who had always had a problem with nerves; Harry had hoped that winning their final match last term might have cured it, but apparently not: Ron was a delicate shade of green. None of the first five applicants saved more than two goals apiece. To Harry's great disappointment, Cormac McLaggen saved four penalties out of five. On the last one, however, he shot off in completely the wrong direction; the crowd laughed and booed and McLaggen returned to the ground grinding his teeth. Ron looked ready to pass out as he mounted his Cleansweep Eleven. "Good luck!" cried a voice from the stands. Harry looked around, expecting to see Hermione, but it was Lavender Brown. He would have quite liked to have hidden his face in his hands, as she did a moment later, but thought that as the Captain he ought to show slightly more grit, and so turned to watch Ron do his trial. Yet he need not have worried: Ron saved one, two, three, four, five penalties in a row. Delighted, and resisting joining in the cheers of the crowd with difficulty, Harry turned to McLaggen to tell him that, most unfortunately, Ron had beaten him, only to find McLaggen's red face inches from his own. He stepped back hastily. "His sister didn't really try," said McLaggen menacingly. There was a vein pulsing in his temple like the one Harry had often ad­mired in Uncle Vernon's. "She gave him an easy save." "Rubbish," said Harry coldly. "That was the one he nearly missed." McLaggen took a step nearer Harry, who stood his ground this time. "Give me another go." "No," said Harry. "You've had your go. You saved four. Ron saved five. Ron's Keeper, he won it fair and square. Get out of my way." He thought for a moment that McLaggen might punch him, but he contented himself with an ugly grimace and stormed away, growling what sounded like threats to thin air. Harry turned around to find his new team beaming at him. "Well done," he croaked. "You flew really well —" "You did brilliantly, Ron!" This time it really was Hermione running toward them from the stands; Harry saw Lavender walking off the pitch, arm in arm with Parvati, a rather grumpy expression on her face. Ron looked extremely pleased with himself and even taller than usual as he grinned at the team and at Hermione. After fixing the time of their first full practice for the following Thursday, Harry, Ron, and Hermione bade good-bye to the rest of the team and headed off toward Hagrid's. A watery sun was trying to break through the clouds now and it had stopped drizzling at last. Harry felt extremely hungry; he hoped there would be some­thing to eat at Hagrid's. "I thought I was going to miss that fourth penalty," Ron was say­ing happily. "Tricky shot from Demelza, did you see, had a bit of spin on it —" "Yes, yes, you were magnificent," said Hermione, looking amused. "I was better than that McLaggen anyway," said Ron in a highly satisfied voice. "Did you see him lumbering off in the wrong direc­tion on his fifth? Looked like he'd been Confunded. ..." To Harry's surprise, Hermione turned a very deep shade of pink at these words. Ron noticed nothing; he was too busy describing each of his other penalties in loving detail. The great gray hippogriff, Buckbeak, was tethered in front of Hagrid's cabin. He clicked his razor-sharp beak at their approach and turned his huge head toward them. "Oh dear," said Hermione nervously. "He's still a bit scary, isn't he?" "Come off it, you've ridden him, haven't you?" said Ron. Harry stepped forward and bowed low to the hippogriff without breaking eye contact or blinking. After a few seconds, Buckbeak sank into a bow too. "How are you?" Harry asked him in a low voice, moving for­ward to stroke the feathery head. "Missing him? But you're okay here with Hagrid, aren't you?" "Oi!" said a loud voice. Hagrid had come striding around the corner of his cabin wearing a large flowery apron and carrying a sack of potatoes. His enormous boarhound, Fang, was at his heels; Fang gave a booming bark and bounded forward. "Git away from him! He'll have yer fingers — oh. It's yeh lot." Fang was jumping up at Hermione and Ron, attempting to lick their ears. Hagrid stood and looked at them all for a split second, then turned and strode into his cabin, slamming the door behind him. "Oh dear!" said Hermione, looking stricken. "Don't worry about it," said Harry grimly. He walked over to the door and knocked loudly. "Hagrid! Open up, we want to talk to you!" There was no sound from within. "If you don't open the door, we'll blast it open!" Harry said, pulling out his wand. "Harry!" said Hermione, sounding shocked. "You can't pos­sibly —" "Yeah, I can!" said Harry. "Stand back —" But before he could say anything else, the door flew open again as Harry had known it would, and there stood Hagrid, glowering down at him and looking, despite the flowery apron, positively alarming. "I'm a teacher!" he roared at Harry. "A teacher, Potter! How dare yeh threaten ter break down my door!" "I'm sorry, sir" said Harry, emphasizing the last word as he stowed his wand inside his robes. Hagrid looked stunned. "Since when have yeh called me 'sir'?" "Since when have you called me 'Potter'?" "Oh, very clever," growled Hagrid. "Very amusin'. That's me outsmarted, innit? All righ', come in then, yeh ungrateful little . . ." Mumbling darkly, he stood back to let them pass. Hermione scurried in after Harry, looking rather frightened. "Well?" said Hagrid grumpily, as Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down around his enormous wooden table, Fang laying his head im­mediately upon Harry's knee and drooling all over his robes. "What's this? Feelin' sorry for me? Reckon I'm lonely or summat?" "No," said Harry at once. "We wanted to see you." "We've missed you!" said Hermione tremulously. "Missed me, have yeh?" snorted Hagrid. "Yeah. Righ'." He stomped around, brewing up tea in his enormous copper kettle, muttering all the while. Finally he slammed down three bucket-sized mugs of mahogany-brown tea in front of them and a plate of his rock cakes. Harry was hungry enough even for Hagrid's cooking, and took one at once. "Hagrid," said Hermione timidly, when he joined them at the table and started peeling his potatoes with a brutality that sug­gested that each tuber had done him a great personal wrong, "we really wanted to carry on with Care of Magical Creatures, you know." Hagrid gave another great snort. Harry rather thought some bo­geys landed on the potatoes, and was inwardly thankful that they were not staying for dinner. "We did!" said Hermione. "But none of us could fit it into our schedules!" "Yeah. Righ'," said Hagrid again. There was a funny squelching sound and they all looked around: Hermione let out a tiny shriek, and Ron leapt out of his seat and hurried around the table away from the large barrel standing in the corner that they had only just noticed. It was full of what looked like foot-long maggots, slimy, white, and writhing. "What are they, Hagrid?" asked Harry, trying to sound interested rather than revolted, but putting down his rock cake all the same. "Jus' giant grubs," said Hagrid. "And they grow into ... ?" said Ron, looking apprehensive. "They won' grow inter nuthin'," said Hagrid. "I got 'em ter feed ter Aragog." And without warning, he burst into tears. "Hagrid!" cried Hermione, leaping up, hurrying around the table the long way to avoid the barrel of maggots, and putting an arm around his shaking shoulders. "What is it?" "It's. . . him . .." gulped Hagrid, his beetle-black eyes stream­ing as he mopped his face with his apron. "It's . . . Aragog. ... I think he's dyin'. . , . He got ill over the summer an' he's not gettin' better.... I don' know what I'll do if he ... if he ... We've bin tergether so long. ..." Hermione patted Hagrid's shoulder, looking at a complete loss for anything to say. Harry knew how she felt. He had known Ha­grid to present a vicious baby dragon with a teddy bear, seen him croon over giant scorpions with suckers and stingers, attempt to reason with his brutal giant of a half-brother, but this was perhaps the most incomprehensible of all his monster fancies: the gigantic talking spider, Aragog, who dwelled deep in the Forbidden Forest and which he and Ron had only narrowly escaped four years previously. "Is there — is there anything we can do?" Hermione asked, ig­noring Ron's frantic grimaces and head-shakings. "I don' think there is, Hermione," choked Hagrid, attempting to stem the flood of his tears. "See, the rest o' the tribe ... Aragog's family . . . they're gettin' a bit funny now he's ill... bit restive ..." "Yeah, I think we saw a bit of that side of them," said Ron in an undertone. "... I don' reckon it'd be safe fer anyone but me ter go near the colony at the mo'," Hagrid finished, blowing his nose hard on his apron and looking up. "But thanks fer offerin', Hermione. ... It means a lot. . .." After that, the atmosphere lightened considerably, for although neither Harry nor Ron had shown any inclination to go and feed giant grubs to a murderous, gargantuan spider, Hagrid seemed to take it for granted that they would have liked to have done and be­came his usual self once more. "Ar, I always knew yeh'd find it hard ter squeeze me inter yer timetables," he said gruffly, pouring them more tea. "Even if yeh applied fer Time-Turners —" "We couldn't have done," said Hermione. "We smashed the en­tire stock of Ministry Time-Turners when we were there last sum­mer. It was in the Daily Prophet." "Ar, well then," said Hagrid. "There's no way yeh could've done it. ... I'm sorry I've bin — yeh know — I've jus' bin worried about Aragog ... an I did wonder whether, if Professor Grubbly-Plank had bin teachin' yeh —" At which all three of them stated categorically and untruthfully that Professor Grubbly-Plank, who had substituted for Hagrid a few times, was a dreadful teacher, with the result that by the time Hagrid waved them off the premises at dusk, he looked quite cheerful. "I'm starving," said Harry, once the door had closed behind them and they were hurrying through the dark and deserted grounds; he had abandoned the rock cake after an ominous crack­ing noise from one of his back teeth. "And I've got that detention with Snape tonight, I haven't got much time for dinner. ..." As they came into the castle they spotted Cormac McLaggen en­tering the Great Hall. It took him two attempts to get through the doors; he ricocheted off the frame on the first attempt. Ron merely guffawed gloatingly and strode off into the Hall after him, but Harry caught Hermione's arm and held her back. "What?" said Hermione defensively. "If you ask me," said Harry quietly, "McLaggen looks like he was Confunded this morning. And he was standing right in front of where you were sitting." Hermione blushed. "Oh, all right then, I did it," she whispered. "But you should have heard the way he was talking about Ron and Ginny! Any­way, he's got a nasty temper, you saw how he reacted when he didn't get in — you wouldn't have wanted someone like that on the team." "No," said Harry. "No, I suppose that's true. But wasn't that dis­honest, Hermione? I mean, you're a prefect, aren't you?" "Oh, be quiet," she snapped, as he smirked. "What are you two doing?" demanded Ron, reappearing in the doorway to the Great Hall and looking suspicious. "Nothing," said Harry and Hermione together, and they hurried after Ron. The smell of roast beef made Harry's stomach ache with hunger, but they had barely taken three steps toward the Gryffindor table when Professor Slughorn appeared in front of them, blocking their path. "Harry, Harry, just the man I was hoping to see!" he boomed ge­nially, twiddling the ends of his walrus mustache and puffing out his enormous belly, "I was hoping to catch you before dinner! What do you say to a spot of supper tonight in my rooms instead? We're having a little party, just a few rising stars, I've got McLaggen com­ing and Zabini, the charming Melinda Bobbin — I don't know whether you know her? Her family owns a large chain of apothe­caries — and, of course, I hope very much that Miss Granger will favor me by coming too." Slughorn made Hermione a little bow as he finished speaking. It was as though Ron was not present; Slughorn did not so much as look at him. "I can't come, Professor," said Harry at once. "I've got a deten­tion with Professor Snape." "Oh dear!" said Slughorn, his face falling comically. "Dear, dear, I was counting on you, Harry! Well, now, I'll just have to have a word with Severus and explain the situation. I'm sure I'll be able to per­suade him to postpone your detention. Yes, I'll see you both later!" He bustled away out of the Hall. "He's got no chance of persuading Snape," said Harry, the mo­ment Slughorn was out of earshot. "This detentions already been postponed once; Snape did it for Dumbledore, but he won't do it for anyone else." "Oh, I wish you could come, I don't want to go on my own!" said Hermione anxiously; Harry knew that she was thinking about McLaggen. "I doubt you'll be alone, Ginny'll probably be invited," snapped Ron, who did not seem to have taken kindly to being ignored by Slughorn. After dinner they made their way back to Gryffindor Tower. The common room was very crowded, as most people had finished dinner by now, but they managed to find a free table and sat down; Ron, who had been in a bad mood ever since the encounter with Slughorn, folded his arms and frowned at the ceiling. Hermione reached out for a copy of the Evening Prophet, which somebody had left abandoned on a chair. "Anything new?" said Harry. "Not really. . ." Hermione had opened the newspaper and was scanning the inside pages. "Oh, look, your dad's in here, Ron — he's all right!" she added quickly, for Ron had looked around in alarm. "It just says he's been to visit the Malfoys' house. 'This sec­ond search of the Death Eaters residence does not seem to have yielded any results. Arthur Weasley of the Office for the Detection and Confis­cation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects said that his team had been acting upon a confidential tip-off.'" "Yeah, mine!" said Harry. "I told him at Kings Cross about Malfoy and that thing he was trying to get Borgin to fix! Well, if it's not at their house, he must have brought whatever it is to Hogwarts with him —" "But how can he have done, Harry?" said Hermione, putting down the newspaper with a surprised look. "We were all searched when we arrived, weren't we?" "Were you?" said Harry, taken aback. "I wasn't!" "Oh no, of course you weren't, I forgot you were late. . .. Well, Filch ran over all of us with Secrecy Sensors when we got into the entrance hall. Any Dark object would have been found, I know for a fact Crabbe had a shrunken head confiscated. So you see, Malfoy can't have brought in anything dangerous!" Momentarily stymied, Harry watched Ginny Weasley playing with Arnold the Pygmy Puff for a while before seeing a way around this objection. "Someone's sent it to him by owl, then," he said. "His mother or someone." "All the owls are being checked too," said Hermione. "Filch told us so when he was jabbing those Secrecy Sensors everywhere he could reach." Really stumped this time, Harry found nothing else to say. There did not seem to be any way Malfoy could have brought a dangerous or Dark object into the school. He looked hopefully at Ron, who was sitting with his arms folded, staring over at Lavender Brown. "Can you think of any way Malfoy — ?" "Oh, drop it, Harry," said Ron. "Listen, it's not my fault Slughorn invited Hermione and me to his stupid party, neither of us wanted to go, you know!" said Harry, firing up. "Well, as I'm not invited to any parties," said Ron, getting to his feet again, "I think I'll go to bed." He stomped off toward the door to the boys' dormitories, leav­ing Harry and Hermione staring after him. "Harry?" said the new Chaser, Demelza Robins, appearing suddenly at his shoulder. "I've got a message for you." "From Professor Slughorn?" asked Harry, sitting up hopefully. "No .. . from Professor Snape," said Demelza. Harry's heart sank. "He says you're to come to his office at half past eight tonight to do your detention — er — no matter how many party invita­tions you've received. And he wanted you to know you'll be sorting out rotten flobberworms from good ones, to use in Potions and — and he says there's no need to bring protective gloves." "Right," said Harry grimly. "Thanks a lot, Demelza."

Doraemon

Chapter 12: Silver and opals Where was Dumbledore, and what was he doing? Harry caught sight of the headmaster only twice over the next lew weeks. He rarely appeared at meals anymore, and Harry was sure Hermione was right in thinking that he was leaving the school for days at a time. Had Dumbledore forgotten the lessons he was supposed to be giving Harry? Dumbledore had said that the lessons were leading to something to do with the prophecy; Harry had felt bolstered, comforted, and now he felt slightly abandoned. Halfway through October came their first trip of the term to Hogsmeade. Harry had wondered whether these trips would still be allowed, given the increasingly tight security measures around the school, but was pleased to know that they were going ahead; it was always good to get out of the castle grounds for a few hours. Harry woke early on the morning of the trip, which was proving stormy, and whiled away the time until breakfast by reading his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. He did not usually lie in bed reading his textbooks; that sort of behavior, as Ron rightly said, was indecent in anybody except Hermione, who was simply weird that way. Harry felt, however, that the Half-Blood Princes copy of Advanced Potion-Making hardly qualified as a textbook. The more Harry pored over the book, the more he realized how much was in there, not only the handy hints and shortcuts on potions that was earning him such a glowing reputation with Slughorn, but also the imaginative little jinxes and hexes scribbled in the margins, which Harry was sure, judging by the crossings-out and revisions, that the Prince had invented himself. Harry had already attempted a few of the Prince's self-invented spells. There had been a hex that caused toenails to grow alarmingly fast (he had tried this on Crabbe in the corridor, with very entertaining results); a jinx that glued the tongue to the roof of the mouth (which he had twice used, to general applause, on an unsuspecting Argus Filch); and, perhaps most useful of all, Muffliato, a spell that filled the ears of anyone nearby with an unidentifiable buzzing, so that lengthy conversations could be held in class with out being overheard. The only person who did not find these charms amusing was Hermione, who maintained a rigidly disapproving expression throughout and refused to talk at all if Harry had used the Muffliato spell on anyone in the vicinity. Sitting up in bed, Harry turned the book sideways so as to examine more closely the scribbled instructions for a spell that seemed to have caused the Prince some trouble. There were many crossings-out and alterations, but finally, crammed into a corner of the page, the scribble: Levicorpus (nvbl) While the wind and sleet pounded relentlessly on the windows, and Neville snored loudly, Harry stared at the letters in brackets. Nvbl . . that had to mean "nonverbal." Harry rather doubted he would be able to bring off this particular spell; he was still having difficulty with nonverbal spells, something Snape had been quick to comment on in every D.A.D.A. class. On the other hand, the Prince had proved a much more effective teacher than Snape so far. Pointing his wand at nothing in particular, he gave it an upward flick and said Levicorpus! inside his head. "Aaaaaaaargh!" There was a flash of light and the room was full of voices: Everyone had woken up as Ron had let out a yell. Harry sent Advanced Potion-Making flying in panic; Ron was dangling upside down in midair as though an invisible hook had hoisted him up by the ankle. "Sorry!" yelled Harry, as Dean and Seamus roared with laughter, and Neville picked himself up from the floor, having fallen out of Bed. "Hang on — I'll let you down —" He groped for the potion book and riffled through it in a panic, trying to find the right page; at last he located it and deciphered the cramped word underneath the spell: Praying that this was the counter-jinx, Harry thought Liberacorpus! with all his might. There was another flash of light, and Ron fell in a heap onto his mattress. "Sorry," repeated Harry weakly, while Dean and Seamus continued to roar with laughter. "Tomorrow," said Ron in a muffled voice, "I'd rather you set the alarm clock." By the time they had got dressed, padding themselves out with several of Mrs. Weasleys hand-knitted sweaters and carrying, cloaks, scarves, and gloves, Ron's shock had subsided and he had decided that Harry's new spell was highly amusing; so amusing, in fact, that he lost no time in regaling Hermione with the story as they sat down for breakfast. "... and then there was another flash, of light and I landed on the bed again!" Ron grinned, helping himself to sausages. Hermione had not cracked a smile during this anecdote, and now turned an expression of wintry disapproval upon Harry. "Was this spell, by any chance, another one from that potion book of yours?" she asked. Harry frowned at her. "Always jump to the worst conclusion, don't you?" "Was it?" "Well. . . yeah, it was, but so what?" "So you just decided to try out an unknown, handwritten in­cantation and see what would happen?" "Why does it matter if it's handwritten?" said Harry, preferring not to answer the rest of the question. "Because its probably not Ministry of Magic approved," said Hermione. "And also," she added, as Harry and Ron rolled their eyes, "because I'm starting to think this Prince character was a bit dodgy." Both Harry and Ron shouted her down at once. "It was a laugh!" said Ron, upending a ketchup bottle over his sausages. "Just a laugh, Hermione, that's all!" "Dangling people upside down by the ankle?" said Hermi­one. "Who puts their time and energy into making up spells like that?" "Fred and George," said Ron, shrugging, "it's their kind of thing. And, er—" "My dad," said Harry. He had only just remembered. "What?" said Ron and Hermione together. "My dad used this spell," said Harry. "I — Lupin told me." 'This last part was not true; in fact, Harry had seen his father use the spell on Snape, but he had never told Ron and Hermione about that particular excursion into the Pensieve. Now, however, a won­derful possibility occurred to him. Could the Half-Blood Prince possibly be — ? "Maybe your dad did use it, Harry," said Hermione, "but he's not the only one. We've seen a whole bunch of people use it, in case you've forgotten. Dangling people in the air. Making them float along, asleep, helpless." Harry stared at her. With a sinking feeling, he too remembered the behavior of the Death Eaters at the Quidditch World Cup. Ron came to his aid. "That was different," he said robustly. "They were abusing it. Harry and his dad were just having a laugh. You don't like the Prince, Hermione," he added, pointing a sausage at her sternly, "because he's better than you at Potions —" "It's got nothing to do with that!" said Hermione, her cheeks reddening. "I just think it's very irresponsible to start performing spells when you don't even know what they're for, and stop talking about 'the Prince' as if it's his title, I bet it's just a stupid nickname, and it doesn't seem as though he was a very nice person to me!" "I don't see where you get that from," said Harry heatedly. "If he'd been a budding Death Eater he wouldn't have been boasting about being 'half-blood,' would he?" Even as he said it, Harry remembered that his father had been pure-blood, but he pushed the thought out of his mind; he would worry about that later. . . . "The Death Eaters can't all be pure-blood, there aren't enough pure-blood wizards left," said Hermione stubbornly. "I expect most of them are half-bloods pretending to be pure. It's only Muggle-borns they hate, they'd be quite happy to let you and Ron join up." "There is no way they'd let me be a Death Eater!" said Ron in­dignantly, a bit of sausage flying off the fork he was now brandish­ing at Hermione and hitting Ernie Macmillan on the head. "My whole family are blood traitors! That's as bad as Muggle-borns to Death Eaters!" "And they'd love to have me," said Harry sarcastically. "We'd be best pals if they didn't keep trying to do me in." This made Ron laugh; even Hermione gave a grudging smile, and a distraction arrived in the shape of Ginny. "Hey, Harry, I'm supposed to give you this." It was a scroll of parchment with Harry's name written upon it in familiar thin, slanting writing. "Thanks, Ginny. . . It's Dumbledore's next lesson!" Harry told Ron and Hermione, pulling open the parchment and quickly read­ing its contents. "Monday evening!" He felt suddenly light and happy. "Want to join us in Hogsmeade, Ginny?" he asked. "I'm going with Dean — might see you there," she replied, wav­ing at them as she left. Filch was standing at the oak front doors as usual, checking off the names of people who had permission to go into Hogsmeade. The process took even longer than normal as Filch was triple-checking everybody with his Secrecy Sensor. "What does it matter if we're smuggling Dark stuff OUT?" de­manded Ron, eyeing the long thin Secrecy Sensor with apprehen­sion. "Surely you ought to be checking what we bring back IN?" His cheek earned him a few extra jabs with the Sensor, and he was still wincing as they stepped out into the wind and sleet. The walk into Hogsmeade was not enjoyable. Harry wrapped his scarf over his lower face; the exposed part soon felt both raw and numb. The road to the village was full of students bent double against the bitter wind. More than once Harry wondered whether they might not have had a better time in the warm common room, and when they finally reached Hogsmeade and saw that Zonko's Joke Shop had been boarded up, Harry took it as confirmation that this trip was not destined to be fun. Ron pointed, with a thickly gloved hand, toward Honeydukes, which was mercifully open, and Harry and Hermione staggered in his wake into the crowded shop. "Thank God," shivered Ron as they were enveloped by warm, toffee-scented air. "Let's stay here all afternoon." "Harry, m'boy!" said a booming voice from behind them. "Oh no," muttered Harry. The three of them turned to see Pro­fessor Slughorn, who was wearing an enormous furry hat and an overcoat with matching fur collar, clutching a large bag of crystalized pineapple, and occupying at least a quarter of the shop. "Harry, that's three of my little suppers you've missed now!" said Slughorn, poking him genially in the chest. "It won't do, m'boy, I'm determined to have you! Miss Granger loves them, don't you?" "Yes," said Hermione helplessly, "they're really —" "So why don't you come along, Harry?" demanded Slughorn. "Well, I've had Quidditch practice, Professor," said Harry, who had indeed been scheduling practices every time Slughorn had sent him a little, violet ribbon-adorned invitation. This strategy meant that Ron was not left out, and they usually had a laugh with Ginny, imagining Hermione shut up with McLaggen and Zabini. "Well, I certainly expect you to win your first match after all the, hard work!" said Slughorn. "But a little recreation never hurt any body. Now, how about Monday night, you can't possibly want to practice in this weather...." "I can't, Professor, I've got — er — an appointment with Profes­sor Dumbledore that evening." "Unlucky again!" cried Slughorn dramatically. "Ah, well . . . you can't evade me forever, Harry!" And with a regal wave, he waddled out of the shop, taking as lit­tle notice of Ron as though he had been a display of Cockroach Clusters. "I can't believe you've wriggled out of another one," said Hermione, shaking her head. "They're not that bad, you know. . . They're even quite fun sometimes. . . ." But then she caught sight of Ron's expression. "Oh, look — they've got deluxe sugar quills — those would last hours!" Glad that Hermione had changed the subject, Harry showed much more interest in the new extra-large sugar quills than he would normally have done, but Ron continued to look moody and merely shrugged when Hermione asked him where he wanted to go next. "Let's go to the Three Broomsticks," said Harry. "It'll be warm." They bundled their scarves back over their faces and left the sweetshop. The bitter wind was like knives on their faces after the sugary warmth of Honeydukes. The street was not very busy; no- body was lingering to chat, just hurrying toward their destinations. The exceptions were two men a little ahead of them, standing just outside the Three Broomsticks. One was very tall and thin; squinting through his rain-washed glasses Harry recognized the barman who worked in the other Hogsmeade pub, the Hog's Head. As Harry, Ron, and Hermione drew closer, the barman drew his cloak more tightly around his neck and walked away, leaving the shorter man to fumble with something in his arms. They were barely feet from him when Harry realized who the man was. "Mundungus!" The squat, bandy-legged man with long, straggly, ginger hair jumped and dropped an ancient suitcase, which burst open, releas­ing what looked like the entire contents of a junk shop window. "Oh, 'ello, 'Arry," said Mundungus Fletcher, with a most un­convincing stab at airiness. "Well, don't let me keep ya." And he began scrabbling on the ground to retrieve the contents of his suitcase with every appearance of a man eager to be gone. "Are you selling this stuff?" asked Harry, watching Mundungus grab an assortment of grubby-looking objects from the ground. "Oh, well, gotta scrape a living," said Mundungus. "Gimme that!" Ron had stooped down and picked up something silver. "Hang on," Ron said slowly. "This looks familiar —" "Thank you!" said Mundungus, snatching the goblet out of Ron's hand and stuffing it back into the case. "Well, I'll see you all _ OUCH!" Harry had pinned Mundungus against the wall of the pub by the throat. Holding him fast with one hand, he pulled out his wand. "Harry!" squealed Hermione. "You rook that from Sinus's house," said Harry, who was almost nose to nose with Mundungus and was breathing in an unpleasant smell of old tobacco and spirits. "That had the Black family crest on it." "I — no — what — ?" spluttered Mundungus, who was slowly turning purple. "What did you do, go back the night he died and strip the place?" snarled Harry. "I — no — " "Give it to me!" "Harry, you mustn't!" shrieked Hermione, as Mundungus started to turn blue. There was a bang, and Harry felt his hands fly off Mundungus's throat. Gasping and spluttering, Mundungus seized his fallen case, then — CRACK— he Disapparated. Harry swore at the top of his voice, spinning on the spot to see where Mundungus had gone. "COME BACK, YOU THIEVING — !" "There's no point, Harry." Tonks had appeared out of nowhere, her mousy hair wet with sleet. "Mundungus will probably be in London by now. There's no point yelling." "He's nicked Sirius's stuff! Nicked it!" "Yes, but still," said Tonks, who seemed perfectly untroubled by this piece of information. "You should get out of the cold." She watched them go through the door of the Three Broom­sticks. The moment he was inside, Harry burst out, "He was nicking Sirius's stuff!" "I know, Harry, but please don't shout, people are staring," whis­pered Hermione. "Go and sit down, I'll get you a drink." Harry was still fuming when Hermione returned to their table a few minutes later holding three bottles of butterbeer. "Can't the Order control Mundungus?" Harry demanded of the other two in a furious whisper. "Can't they at least stop him steal­ing everything that's not fixed down when he's at headquarters?" "Shh!" said Hermione desperately, looking around to make sure nobody was listening; there were a couple of warlocks sitting close by who were staring at Harry with great interest, and Zabini was lolling against a pillar not far away. "Harry, I'd be annoyed too, I know it's your things he's stealing —" Harry gagged on his butterbeer; he had momentarily forgotten that he owned number twelve, Grimmauld Place. "Yeah, it's my stuff!" he said. "No wonder he wasn't pleased to see me! Well, I'm going to tell Dumbledore what's going on, he's the only one who scares Mundungus." "Good idea," whispered Hermione, clearly pleased that Harry was calming down. "Ron, what are you staring at?" "Nothing," said Ron, hastily looking away from the bar, but Harry knew he was trying to catch the eye of the curvy and attractive bar­maid, Madam Rosmerta, for whom he had long nursed a soft spot. "I expect 'nothing's' in the back getting more firewhisky," said Hermione waspishly. Ron ignored this jibe, sipping his drink in what he evidently considered to be a dignified silence. Harry was thinking about Sirius, and how he had hated those silver goblets anyway. Hermione drummed her fingers on the table, her eyes flickering between Ron and the bar. The moment Harry drained the last drops in his bot­tle she said, "Shall we call it a day and go back to school, then?" The other two nodded; it had not been a fun trip and the weather was getting worse the longer they stayed. Once again they drew their cloaks tightly around them, rearranged their scarves, pulled on their gloves, then followed Katie Bell and a friend out of the pub and back up the High Street. Harry's thoughts strayed to Ginny as they trudged up the road to Hogwarts through the frozen slush. They had not met up with her, undoubtedly, thought Harry, because she and Dean were cozily closeted in Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, that haunt of happy couples. Scowling, he bowed his head against the swirling sleet and trudged on. It was a little while before Harry became aware that the voices of Katie Bell and her friend, which were being carried back to him on the wind, had become shriller and louder. Harry squinted at their indistinct figures. The two girls were having an argument about something Katie was holding in her hand. "It's nothing to do with you, Leanne!" Harry heard Katie say. They rounded a corner in the lane, sleet coming thick and fast, blurring Harry's glasses. Just as he raised a gloved hand to wipe them, Leanne made to grab hold of the package Katie was holding; Katie tugged it back and the package fell to the ground. At once, Katie rose into the air, not as Ron had done, suspended comically by the ankle, but gracefully, her arms outstretched, as though she was about to fly. Yet there was something wrong, some­thing eerie. . . . Her hair was whipped around her by the fierce wind, but her eyes were closed and her face was quite empty of expression. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Leanne had all halted in their tracks, watching. Then, six feet above the ground, Katie let out a terrible scream. Her eyes flew open but whatever she could see, or whatever she was feeling, was clearly causing her terrible anguish. She screamed and screamed; Leanne started to scream too and seized Katie's ankles, trying to tug her back to the ground. Harry, Ron, and Hermione rushed forward to help, but even as they grabbed Katie's legs, she fell on top of them; Harry and Ron managed to catch her but she was writhing so much they could hardly hold her. Instead they low­ered her to the ground where she thrashed and screamed, appar­ently unable to recognize any of them. Harry looked around; the landscape seemed deserted. "Stay there!" he shouted at the others over the howling wind. "I'm going for help!" He began to sprint toward the school; he had never seen anyone behave as Katie had just behaved and could not think what had caused it; he hurtled around a bend in the lane and collided with what seemed to be an enormous bear on its hind legs. "Hagrid!" he panted, disentangling himself from the hedgerow into which he had fallen. "Harry!" said Hagrid, who had sleet trapped in his eyebrows and beard, and was wearing his great, shaggy beaverskin coat. "Jus' bin visitin' Grawp, he's comin' on so well yeh wouldn' —" "Hagrid, someone's hurt back there, or cursed, or something —" "Wha ?" said Hagrid, bending lower to hear what Harry was say­ing over the raging wind. "Someone's been cursed!" bellowed Harry. :, .' "Cursed? Who's bin cursed — not Ron? Hermione?" : "No, it's not them, it's Katie Bell — this way . . ." Together they ran back along the lane. It took them no time to find the little group of people around Katie, who was still writhing and screaming on the ground; Ron, Hermione, and Leanne were all trying to quiet her. "Get back!" shouted Hagrid. "Lemme see her!" "Something's happened to her!" sobbed Leanne. "I don't know what —" Hagrid stared at Katie for a second, then without a word, bent down, scooped her into his arms, and ran off toward the castle with her. Within seconds, Katie's piercing screams had died away and the only sound was the roar of the wind. Hermione hurried over to Katie's wailing friend and put an arm around her. "It's Leanne, isn't it?" The girl nodded. "Did it just happen all of a sudden, or — ?" "It was when that package tore," sobbed Leanne, pointing at the now sodden brown-paper package on the ground, which had split open to reveal a greenish glitter. Ron bent down, his hand out­stretched, but Harry seized his arm and pulled him back. "Don't touch it!" He crouched down. An ornate opal necklace was visible, poking out of the paper. "I've seen that before," said Harry, staring at the thing. "It was on display in Borgin and Burkes ages ago. The label said it was cursed. Katie must have touched it." He looked up at Leanne, who had started to shake uncontrollably. "How did Katie get hold of this?" "Well, that's why we were arguing. She came back from the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks holding it, said it was a sur­prise for somebody at Hogwarts and she had to deliver it. She looked all funny when she said it. ... Oh no, oh no, I bet she'd been Imperiused and I didn't realize!" Leanne shook with renewed sobs. Hermione patted her shoulder gently. "She didn't say who'd given it to her, Leanne?" "No . . . she wouldn't tell me . . . and I said she was being stupid and not to take it up to school, but she just wouldn't listen and . . . and then I tried to grab it from her . . . and — and —" Leanne let out a wail of despair. "We'd better get up to school," said Hermione, her arm still around Leanne. "We'll be able to find out how she is. Come on. . . ." Harry hesitated for a moment, then pulled his scarf from around his face and, ignoring Ron's gasp, carefully covered the necklace in it and picked it up. "We'll need to show this to Madam Pomfrey," he said. As they followed Hermione and Leanne up the road, Harry was thinking furiously. They had just entered the grounds when he spoke, unable to keep his thoughts to himself any longer. "Malfoy knows about this necklace. It was in a case at Borgin and Burkes four years ago, I saw him having a good look at it while I was hiding from him and his dad. This is what he was buying that day when we followed him! He remembered it and he went back for it!" , "I — I dunno, Harry," said Ron hesitantly. "Loads of people go to Borgin and Burkes . . . and didn't that girl say Katie got it in the girls' bathroom?" "She said she came back from the bathroom with it, she didn't necessarily get it in the bathroom itself—" "McGonagall!" said Ron warningly. Harry looked up. Sure enough, Professor McGonagall was hur­rying down the stone steps through swirling sleet to meet them. "Hagrid says you four saw what happened to Katie Bell — upstairs to my office at once, please! What's that you're holding, Potter?" "It's the thing she touched," said Harry. "Good lord," said Professor McGonagall, looking alarmed as she took the necklace from Harry. "No, no, Filch, they're with me!" she added hastily, as Filch came shuffling eagerly across the entrance hall holding his Secrecy Sensor aloft. "Take this necklace to Profes­sor Snape at once, but be sure not to touch it, keep it wrapped in the scarf!" Harry and the others followed Professor McGonagall upstairs and into her office. The sleet-spattered windows were rattling in their frames, and the room was chilly despite the fire crackling in the grate. Professor McGonagall closed the door and swept around her desk to face Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the still sobbing Leanne. "Well?" she said sharply. "What happened?" Haltingly, and with many pauses while she attempted to control her crying, Leanne told Professor McGonagall how Katie had gone to the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks and returned holding the unmarked package, how Katie had seemed a little odd, and how they had argued about the advisability of agreeing to deliver unknown objects, the argument culminating in the tussle over the parcel, which tore open. At this point, Leanne was so overcome, there was no getting another word out of her. "All right," said Professor McGonagall, not unkindly, "go up to the hospital wing, please, Leanne, and get Madam Pomfrey to give you something for shock." When she had left the room, Professor McGonagall turned back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "What happened when Katie touched the necklace?" "She rose up in the air," said Harry, before either Ron or Hermi­one could speak, "and then began to scream, and collapsed. Profes­sor, can I see Professor Dumbledore, please?" "The headmaster is away until Monday, Potter," said Professor McGonagall, looking surprised. "Away?" Harry repeated angrily. "Yes, Potter, away!" said Professor McGonagall tartly. "But any­thing you have to say about this horrible business can be said to me, I'm sure!" For a split second, Harry hesitated. Professor McGonagall did not invite confidences; Dumbledore, though in many ways more intimidating, still seemed less likely to scorn a theory, however wild. This was a life-and-death matter, though, and no moment to worry about being laughed at. "I think Draco Malfoy gave Katie that necklace, Professor." ; On one side of him, Ron rubbed his nose in apparent embar­rassment; on the other, Hermione shuffled her feet as though quite keen to put a bit of distance between herself and Harry. "That is a very serious accusation, Potter," said Professor McGonagall, after a shocked pause. "Do you have any proof?" "No," said Harry, "but.. ." and he told her about following Malfoy to Borgin and Burkes and the conversation they had over­heard between him and Mr. Borgin. When he had finished speaking, Professor McGonagall looked slightly confused. "Malfoy took something to Borgin and Burkes for repair?" "No, Professor, he just wanted Borgin to tell him how to mend something, he didn't have it with him. But that's not the point, the thing is that he bought something at the same time, and I think it was that necklace —" "You saw Malfoy leaving the shop with a similar package?" "No, Professor, he told Borgin to keep it in the shop for him —" "But Harry," Hermione interrupted, "Borgin asked him if he wanted to take it with him, and Malfoy said no —" "Because he didn't want to touch it, obviously!" said Harry angrily. "What he actually said was, 'How would I look carrying that down the street?'" said Hermione. "Well, he would look a bit of a prat carrying a necklace," inter­jected Ron. "Oh, Ron," said Hermione despairingly, "it would be all wrapped up, so he wouldn't have to touch it, and quite easy to hide inside a cloak, so nobody would see it! I think whatever he reserved at Borgin and Burkes was noisy or bulky, something he knew would draw attention to him if he carried it down the street — and in any case," she pressed on loudly, before Harry could interrupt, "I asked Borgin about the necklace, don't you remember? When I went in to try and find out what Malfoy had asked him to keep, I saw it there. And Borgin just told me the price, he didn't say it was already sold or anything —" "Well, you were being really obvious, he realized what you were up to within about five seconds, of course he wasn't going to tell you — anyway, Malfoy could've sent off for it since —" "That's enough!" said Professor McGonagall, as Hermione opened her mouth to retort, looking furious. "Potter, I appreciate you telling me this, but we cannot point the finger of blame at Mr. Malfoy purely because he visited the shop where this necklace might have been purchased. The same is probably true of hundreds of people —" "— that's what I said —" muttered Ron. "— and in any case, we have put stringent security measures in place this year. I do not believe that necklace can possibly have en­tered this school without our knowledge —" "But —" "— and what is more," said Professor McGonagall, with an air of awful finality, "Mr. Malfoy was not in Hogsmeade today." Harry gaped at her, deflating. "How do you know, Professor?" "Because he was doing detention with me. He has now failed to complete his Transfiguration homework twice in a row. So, thank you for telling me your suspicions, Potter," she said as she marched past them, "but I need to go up to the hospital wing now to check on Katie Bell. Good day to you all." She held open her office door. They had no choice but to file past her without another word. Harry was angry with the other two for siding with McGonagall; nevertheless, he felt compelled to join in once they started dis­cussing what had happened. "So who do you reckon Katie was supposed to give the necklace to?" asked Ron, as they climbed the stairs to the common room. "Goodness only knows," said Hermione. "But whoever it was has had a narrow escape. No one could have opened that package without touching the necklace." "It could've been meant for loads of people," said Harry. "Dumbledore — the Death Eaters would love to get rid of him, he must be one of their top targets. Or Slughorn — Dumbledore reckons Voldemort really wanted him and they can't be pleased that he's sided with Dumbledore. Or —" "Or you," said Hermione, looking troubled. "Couldn't have been," said Harry, "or Katie would've just turned around in the lane and given it to me, wouldn't she? I was behind her all the way out of the Three Broomsticks. It would have made much more sense to deliver the parcel outside Hogwarts, what with Filch searching everyone who goes in and out. I wonder why Malfoy told her to take it into the castle?" "Harry, Malfoy wasn't in Hogsmeade!" said Hermione, actually stamping her foot in frustration. "He must have used an accomplice, then," said Harry. "Crabbe or Goyle — or, come to think of it, another Death Eater, he'll have loads better cronies than Crabbe and Goyle now he's joined up —" Ron and Hermione exchanged looks that plainly said There's no point arguing with him. "Dilligrout," said Hermione firmly as they reached the Fat Lady. The portrait swung open to admit them to the common room. It was quite full and smelled of damp clothing; many people seemed to have returned from Hogsmeade early because of the bad weather. There was no buzz of fear or speculation, however: Clearly, the news of Katie's fate had not yet spread. "It wasn't a very slick attack, really, when you stop and think about it," said Ron, casually turfing a first year out of one of the good armchairs by the fire so that he could sit down. "The curse didn't even make it into the castle. Not what you'd call foolproof." "You're right," said Hermione, prodding Ron out of the chair with her foot and offering it to the first year again. "It wasn't very well thought-out at all." "But since when has Malfoy been one of the world's great thinkers?" asked Harry. Neither Ron nor Hermione answered him.

Doraemon

Chapter 13: The secret riddle CHAPTER 13 Katie was removed to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries the following day, by which time the news that she had been cursed had spread all over the school, though the details were confused and nobody other than Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Leanne seemed to know that Katie herself had not been the intended target. "Oh, and Malfoy knows, of course," said Harry to Ron and Hermione, who continued their new policy of feigning deafness whenever Harry mentioned his Malfoy-Is-a-Death-Eater theory. Harry had wondered whether Dumbledore would return from wherever he had been in time for Monday night's lesson, but having had no word to the contrary, he presented himself outside Dumbledore's office at eight o'clock, knocked, and was told to enter. There sat Dumbledore looking unusually tired; his hand was as black and burned as ever, but he smiled when he gestured to Harry to sit down. The Pensieve was sitting on the desk again, casting silvery specks of light over the ceiling. "You have had a busy time while I have been away," Dumbledore said. "I believe you witnessed Katie's accident." "Yes, sir. How is she?" "Still very unwell, although she was relatively lucky. She appears to have brushed the necklace with the smallest possible amount of skin; there was a tiny hole in her glove. Had she put it on, had she even held it in her ungloved hand, she would have died, perhaps instantly. Luckily Professor Snape was able to do enough to prevent a rapid spread of the curse —" "Why him?" asked Harry quickly. "Why not Madam Pomfrey?" "Impertinent," said a soft voice from one of the portraits on the wall, and Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius's great-great-grandfather, raised his head from his arms where he had appeared to be sleeping. "I would not have permitted a student to question the way Hogwarts operated in my day." "Yes, thank you, Phineas," said Dumbledore quellingly. "Professor Snape knows much more about the Dark Arts than Madam Pomfrey, Harry. Anyway, the St. Mungo's staff are sending me hourly reports, and I am hopeful that Katie will make a full recovery in time." "Where were you this weekend, sir?" Harry asked, disregarding a strong feeling that he might be pushing his luck, a feeling apparently shared by Phineas Nigellus, who hissed softly. "I would rather not say just now," said Dumbledore. "However, I shall tell you in due course." "You will?" said Harry, startled. "Yes, I expect so," said Dumbledore, withdrawing a fresh bottle of silver memories from inside his robes and uncorking it with a prod of his wand. "Sir," said Harry tentatively, "I met Mundungus in Hogsmeade." "Ah yes, I am already aware that Mundungus has been treating your inheritance with light-fingered contempt," said Dumbledore, frowning a little. "He has gone to ground since you accosted him outside the Three Broomsticks; I rather think he dreads facing me. However, rest assured that he will not be making away with any more of Sirius's old possessions." "That mangy old half-blood has been stealing Black heirlooms?" said Phineas Nigellus, incensed; and he stalked out of his frame, undoubtedly to visit his portrait in number twelve, Grimmauld Place. "Professor," said Harry, after a short pause, "did Professor McGonagall tell you what I told her after Katie got hurt? About Draco Malfoy?" "She told me of your suspicions, yes," said Dumbledore. "And do you — ?" "I shall take all appropriate measures to investigate anyone who might have had a hand in Katie's accident," said Dumbledore. "But what concerns me now, Harry, is our lesson." Harry felt slightly resentful at this: If their lessons were so very important, why had there been such a long gap between the first and second? However, he said no more about Draco Malfoy, but watched as Dumbledore poured the fresh memories into the Pensieve and began swirling the stone basin once more between his long-fingered hands. "You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Lord Voldemort's beginnings at the point where the handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his witch wife, Merope, and returned to his family home in Little Hangleton. Merope was left alone in London, expecting the baby who would one day become Lord Voldemort." "How do you know she was in London, sir?" "Because of the evidence of one Caractacus Burke," said Dumbledore, "who, by an odd coincidence, helped found the very shop whence came the necklace we have just been discussing." He swilled the contents of the Pensieve as Harry had seen him swill them before, much as a gold prospector sifts for gold. Up out of the swirling, silvery mass rose a little old man revolving slowly in the Pensieve, silver as a ghost but much more solid, with a thatch of hair that completely covered his eyes. "Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along . . . Going to have a baby, see. She said the locket had been Slytherin's. Well, we hear that sort of story all the time, 'Oh, this was Merlin's, this was, his favorite teapot,' but when I looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn't seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!" Dumbledore gave the Pensieve an extra-vigorous shake and Caractacus Burke descended back into the swirling mass of memory from whence he had come. "He only gave her ten Galleons?" said Harry indignantly. "Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity," said Dumbledore. "So we know that, near the end of her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London and in desperate need of gold, desperate enough to sell her one and only valuable possession, the locket that was one of Marvolo's treasured family heirlooms." "But she could do magic!" said Harry impatiently. "She could have got food and everything for herself by magic, couldn't she?" "Ah," said Dumbledore, "perhaps she could. But it is my belief—I am guessing again, but I am sure I am right — that when her husband abandoned her, Merope stopped using magic. I do not think that she wanted to be a witch any longer. Of course, it is also possible that her unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped her of her powers; that can happen. In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life." "She wouldn't even stay alive for her son?" Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?" "No," said Harry quickly, "but she had a choice, didn't she, not like my mother —" "Your mother had a choice too," said Dumbledore gently. "Yes, Merope Riddle chose death in spite of a son who needed her, but do not judge her too harshly, Harry. She was greatly weakened by long suffering and she never had your mother's courage. And now, if you will stand ..." "Where are we going?" Harry asked, as Dumbledore joined him at the front of the desk. "This time," said Dumbledore, "we are going to enter my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Harry ..." Harry bent over the Pensieve; his face broke the cool surface of the memory and then he was falling through darkness again. . . . Seconds later, his feet hit firm ground; he opened his eyes and found that he and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old-fashioned London street. "There I am," said Dumbledore brightly, pointing ahead of them to a tall figure crossing the road in front of a horse-drawn milk cart. This younger Albus Dumbledore's long hair and beard were auburn. Having reached their side of the street, he strode off along the pavement, drawing many curious glances due to the flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet that he was wearing. "Nice suit, sir," said Harry, before he could stop himself, but Dumbledore merely chuckled as they followed his younger self a short distance, finally passing through a set of iron gates into a bare courtyard that fronted a rather grim, square building surrounded by high railings. He mounted the few steps leading to the front door and knocked once. After a moment or two, the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron. "Good afternoon. I have an appointment with a Mrs. Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?" "Oh," said the bewildered-looking girl, taking in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. "Um. . . just a mo' . . . MRS. COLE!" she bellowed over her shoulder. Harry heard a distant voice shouting something in response. The girl turned back to Dumbledore. "Come in, she's on 'er way." Dumbledore stepped into a hallway tiled in black and white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly clean. Harry and the older Dumbledore followed. Before the front door had closed behind them, a skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying toward them. She had a sharp-featured face that appeared more anxious than unkind, and she was talking over her shoulder to another aproned helper as she walked toward Dumbledore. ". . . and take the iodine upstairs to Martha, Billy Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley's oozing all over his sheets — chicken pox on top of everything else," she said to nobody in particular, and then her eyes fell upon Dumbledore and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking as astonished as if a giraffe had just crossed her threshold. "Good afternoon," said Dumbledore, holding out his hand. Mrs. Cole simply gaped. "My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment and you very kindly invited me here today." Mrs. Cole blinked. Apparently deciding that Dumbledore was not a hallucination, she said feebly, "Oh yes. Well — well then — you'd better come into my room. Yes." She led Dumbledore into a small room that seemed part sitting room, part office. It was as shabby as the hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched. She invited Dumbledore to sit on a rickety chair and seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing him nervously. "I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Tom Riddle and arrangements for his future," said Dumbledore. "Are you family?" asked Mrs. Cole. "No, I am a teacher," said Dumbledore. "I have come to offer Tom a place at my school." "What school's this, then?" "It is called Hogwarts," said Dumbledore. "And how come you're interested in Tom?" "We believe he has qualities we are looking for." "You mean he's won a scholarship? How can he have done? He's never been entered for one." "Well, his name has been down for our school since birth —" "Who registered him? His parents?" There was no doubt that Mrs. Cole was an inconveniently sharp woman. Apparently Dumbledore thought so too, for Harry now saw him slip his wand out of the pocket of his velvet suit, at the same time picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs. Cole's desktop. "Here," said Dumbledore, waving his wand once as he passed her the piece of paper, "I think this will make everything clear." Mrs. Cole's eyes slid out of focus and back again as she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment. "That seems perfectly in order," she said placidly, handing it back. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of gin and two glasses that had certainly not been present a few seconds before. "Er — may I offer you a glass of gin?" she said in an extra-refined voice. "Thank you very much," said Dumbledore, beaming. It soon became clear that Mrs. Cole was no novice when it came to gin drinking. Pouring both of them a generous measure, she drained her own glass in one gulp. Smacking her lips frankly, she smiled at Dumbledore for the first time, and he didn't hesitate to press his advantage. "I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle's history? I think he was born here in the orphanage?" "That's right," said Mrs. Cole, helping herself to more gin. "I remember it clear as anything, because I'd just started here myself. New Year's Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn't the first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour." Mrs. Cole nodded impressively and took another generous gulp of gin. "Did she say anything before she died?" asked Dumbledore. "Anything about the boy's father, for instance?" "Now, as it happens, she did," said Mrs. Cole, who seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin in her hand and an eager audience for her story. "I remember she said to me, 'I hope he looks like his papa,' and I won't lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty — and then she told me he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father — yes, I know, funny name, isn't it? We wondered whether she came from a circus — and she said the boy's surname was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word. "Well, we named him just as she'd said, it seemed so important to the poor girl, but no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and he's been here ever since." Mrs. Cole helped herself, almost absentmindedly, to another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she said, "He's a funny boy." "Yes," said Dumbledore. "I thought he might be." "He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was. . . odd." "Odd in what way?" asked Dumbledore gently. "Well, he —" But Mrs. Cole pulled up short, and there was nothing blurry or vague about the inquisitorial glance she shot Dumbledore over her gin glass. "He's definitely got a place at your school, you say?" "Definitely," said Dumbledore. "And nothing I say can change that?" "Nothing," said Dumbledore. "You'll be taking him away, whatever?" "Whatever," repeated Dumbledore gravely. She squinted at him as though deciding whether or not to trust him. Apparently she decided she could, because she said in a sudden rush, "He scares the other children." "You mean he is a bully?" asked Dumbledore. "I think he must be," said Mrs. Cole, frowning slightly, "but it's very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents. . . . Nasty things ..." Dumbledore did not press her, though Harry could tell that he was interested. She took yet another gulp of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still. "Billy Stubbs's rabbit. . . well, Tom said he didn't do it and I don't see how he could have done, but even so, it didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?" "I shouldn't think so, no," said Dumbledore quietly. "But I'm jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before. And then" — Mrs. Cole took another swig of gin, slopping a little over her chin this time — "on the summer outing — we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside — well, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they'd gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they'd just gone exploring, but something happened in there, I'm sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things. . . ." She looked around at Dumbledore again, and though her cheeks were flushed, her gaze was steady. "I don't think many people will be sorry to see the back of him." "You understand, I'm sure, that we will not be keeping him permanently?" said Dumbledore. "He will have to return here, at the very least, every summer." "Oh, well, that's better than a whack on the nose with a rusty poker," said Mrs. Cole with a slight hiccup. She got to her feet, and Harry was impressed to see that she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of the gin was now gone. "I suppose you'd like to see him?" "Very much," said Dumbledore, rising too. She led him out of her office and up the stone stairs, calling out instructions and admonitions to helpers and children as she passed. The orphans, Harry saw, were all wearing the same kind of grayish tunic. They looked reasonably well-cared for, but there was no denying that this was a grim place in which to grow up. "Here we are," said Mrs. Cole, as they turned off the second landing and stopped outside the first door in a long corridor. She knocked twice and entered. "Tom? You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton — sorry, Dunderbore. He's come to tell you — well, I'll let him do it." Harry and the two Dumbledores entered the room, and Mrs. Cole closed the door on them. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe and an iron bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the gray blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book. There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle's face. Merope had got her dying wish: He was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired, and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. There was a moment's silence. "How do you do, Tom?" said Dumbledore, walking forward and holding out his hand. The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital patient and visitor. "I am Professor Dumbledore." "'Professor'?" repeated Riddle. He looked wary. "Is that like 'doctor'? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?" He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left. "No, no," said Dumbledore, smiling. "I don't believe you," said Riddle. "She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!" He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though he had given it many times before. His eyes had widened and he was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if anything, warier still. "Who are you?" "I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school — your new school, if you would like to come." Riddle's reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious. "You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? 'Professor,' yes, of course — well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you! "I am not from the asylum," said Dumbledore patiently. "I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you —" "I'd like to see them try," sneered Riddle. "Hogwarts," Dumbledore went on, as though he had not heard Riddle's last words, "is a school for people with special abilities —" "I'm not mad!" "I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic." There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and forth between each of Dumbledore's, as though trying to catch one of them lying. "Magic?" he repeated in a whisper. "That's right," said Dumbledore. "It's. . . it's magic, what I can do?" "What is it that you can do?" "All sorts," breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered. "I can make filings move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to." His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer. "I knew I was different," he whispered to his own quivering fingers. "I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something." "Well, you were quite right," said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently. "You are a wizard." Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured: There was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial. "Are you a wizard too?" "Yes, I am." "Prove it," said Riddle at once, in the same commanding tone he had used when he had said, "Tell the truth." Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—" "Of course I am!" "Then you will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir.'" Riddle's expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before he said, in an unrecognizably polite voice, "I'm sorry, sir. I meant — please, Professor, could you show me — ?" Harry was sure that Dumbledore was going to refuse, that he would tell Riddle there would be plenty of time for practical demonstrations at Hogwarts, that they were currently in a building full of Muggles and must therefore be cautious. To his great surprise, however, Dumbledore drew his wand from an inside pocket of his suit jacket, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in the corner, and gave the wand a casual flick. The wardrobe burst into flames. Riddle jumped to his feet; Harry could hardly blame him for howling in shock and rage; all his worldly possessions must be in there. But even as Riddle rounded on Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged. Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore; then, his expression greedy, he pointed at the wand. "Where can I get one of them?" "All in good time," said Dumbledore. "I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe." And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it. For the first time, Riddle looked frightened. "Open the door," said Dumbledore. Riddle hesitated, then crossed the room and threw open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above a rail of threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box was shaking and rattling as though there were several frantic mice trapped inside it. "Take it out," said Dumbledore. Riddle took down the quaking box. He looked unnerved. "Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?" asked Dumbledore. Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, clear, calculating look. "Yes, I suppose so, sir," he said finally, in an expressionless voice. "Open it," said Dumbledore. Riddle took off the lid and tipped the contents onto his bed without looking at them. Harry, who had expected something much more exciting, saw a mess of small, everyday objects: a yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ among them. Once free of the box, they stopped quivering and lay quite still upon the thin blankets. "You will return them to their owners with your apologies," said Dumbledore calmly, putting his wand back into his jacket. "I shall know whether it has been done. And be warned: Thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts." Riddle did not look remotely abashed; he was still staring coldly and appraisingly at Dumbledore. At last he said in a colorless voice, "Yes, sir." "At Hogwarts," Dumbledore went on, "we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have — inadvertently, I am sure — been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic — yes, there is a Ministry — will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they abide by our laws." "Yes, sir," said Riddle again. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking; his face remained quite blank as he put the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When he had finished, he turned to Dumbledore and said baldly, "I haven't got any money." "That is easily remedied," said Dumbledore, drawing a leather money-pouch from his pocket. "There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but —" "Where do you buy spellbooks?" interrupted Riddle, who had taken the heavy money bag without thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat gold Galleon, "In Diagon Alley," said Dumbledore. "I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything —" "You're coming with me?" asked Riddle, looking up. "Certainly, if you —" "I don't need you," said Riddle. "I'm used to doing things for myself, I go round London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley — sir?" he added, catching Dumbledore's eye. Harry thought that Dumbledore would insist upon accompanying Riddle, but once again he was surprised. Dumbledore handed Riddle the envelope containing his list of equipment, and after telling Riddle exactly how to get to the Leaky Cauldron from the orphanage, he said, "You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you — non-magical people, that is — will not. Ask for Tom the barman — easy enough to remember, as he shares your name —" Riddle gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to displace an irksome fly. "You dislike the name 'Tom'?" "There are a lot of Toms," muttered Riddle. Then, as though he could not suppress the question, as though it burst from him in spite of himself, he asked, "Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they've told me." "I'm afraid I don't know," said Dumbledore, his voice gentle. "My mother can't have been magic, or she wouldn't have died," said Riddle, more to himself than Dumbledore. "It must've been him. So — when I've got all my stuff— when do I come to this Hogwarts?" "All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope," said Dumbledore. "You will leave from King's Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too." Riddle nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held out his hand again. Taking it, Riddle said, "I can speak to snakes. I found out when we've been to the country on trips — they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?" Harry could tell that he had withheld mention of this strangest power until that moment, determined to impress. "It is unusual," said Dumbledore, after a moment's hesitation, "but not unheard of." His tone was casual but his eyes moved curiously over Riddle's face. They stood for a moment, man and boy, staring at each other. Then the handshake was broken; Dumbledore was at the door. "Good-bye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts." "I think that will do," said the white-haired Dumbledore at Harry's side, and seconds later, they were soaring weightlessly through darkness once more, before landing squarely in the present-day office. "Sit down," said Dumbledore, landing beside Harry. Harry obeyed, his mind still full of what he had just seen. "He believed it much quicker than I did — I mean, when you told him he was a wizard," said Harry. "I didn't believe Hagrid at first, when he told me." "Yes, Riddle was perfectly ready to believe that he was — to use his word — 'special,'" said Dumbledore. "Did you know — then?" asked Harry. "Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time?" said Dumbledore. "No, I had no idea that he was to grow up to be what he is. However, I was certainly intrigued by him. I returned to Hogwarts intending to keep an eye upon him, something I should have done in any case, given that he was alone and friendless, but which, already, I felt I ought to do for others' sake as much as his. "His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-developed for such a young wizard and — most interestingly and ominously of all — he had already discovered that he had some measure of control over them, and begun to use them consciously. And as you saw, they were not the random experiments typical of young wizards: He was already using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control. The little stories of the strangled rabbit and the young boy and girl he lured into a cave were most suggestive. . . . 'I can make them hurt if I want to. . . .'" "And he was a Parselmouth," interjected Harry. "Yes, indeed; a rare ability, and one supposedly connected with the Dark Arts, although as we know, there are Parselmouths among the great and the good too. In fact, his ability to speak to serpents did not make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for cruelty, secrecy, and domination. "Time is making fools of us again," said Dumbledore, indicating the dark sky beyond the windows. "But before we part, I want to draw your attention to certain features of the scene we have just witnessed, for they have a great bearing on the matters we shall be discussing in future meetings. "Firstly, I hope you noticed Riddle's reaction when I mentioned that another shared his first name, 'Tom'?" Harry nodded. "There he showed his contempt for anything that tied him to other people, anything that made him ordinary. Even then, he wished to be different, separate, notorious. He shed his name, as you know, within a few short years of that conversation and created the mask of Lord Voldemort' behind which he has been hidden for so long. "I trust that you also noticed that Tom Riddle was already highly self-sufficient, secretive, and, apparently, friendless? He did not want help or companionship on his trip to Diagon Alley. He preferred to operate alone. The adult Voldemort is the same. You will hear many of his Death Eaters claiming that they are in his confidence, that they alone are close to him, even understand him. They are deluded. Lord Voldemort has never had a friend, nor do I believe that he has ever wanted one. "And lastly — I hope you are not too sleepy to pay attention to this, Harry — the young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. You saw the box of stolen articles he had hidden in his room. These were taken from victims of his bullying behavior, souvenirs, if you will, of particularly unpleasant bits of magic. Bear in mind this magpie-like tendency, for this, particularly, will be important later. "And now, it really is time for bed." Harry got to his feet. As he walked across the room, his eyes fell I upon the little table on which Marvolo Gaunt's ring had rested last I time, but the ring was no longer there. "Yes, Harry?" said Dumbledore, for Harry had come to a halt.

Doraemon

Chapter 14: Felix felicis Harry had Herbology first thing the following morning. He had been unable to tell Ron and Hermione about his lesson with Dumbledore over breakfast for fear of being over­heard, but he filled them in as they walked across the vegetable patch toward the greenhouses. The weekend’s brutal wind had died out at last; the weird mist had returned and it took them a little longer than usual to find the correct greenhouse. "Wow, scary thought, the boy You-Know-Who," said Ron qui­etly, as they took their places around one of the gnarled Snargaluff stumps that formed this terms project, and began pulling on their protective gloves. "But I still don't get why Dumbledore's showing you all this. I mean, it's really interesting and everything, but what's the point?" "Dunno," said Harry, inserting a gum shield. "But he says its all important and it'll help me survive." "I think it's fascinating," said Hermione earnestly. "It makes absolute sense to know as much about Voldemort as possible. How else will you find out his weaknesses?" "So how was Slughorn's latest party?" Harry asked her thickly through the gum shield. "Oh, it was quite fun, really," said Hermione, now putting on protective goggles. "I mean, he drones on about famous exploits a bit, and he absolutely fawns on McLaggen because he's so well connected, but he gave us some really nice food and he introduced us to Gwenog Jones." "Gwenog Jones?" said Ron, his eyes widening under his own goggles. "The Gwenog Jones? Captain of the Holyhead Harpies?" "That's right," said Hermione. "Personally, I thought she was a bit full of herself, but —" "Quite enough chat over here!" said Professor Sprout briskly, bustling over and looking stern. "You're lagging behind, everybody else has started, and Neville's already got his first pod!" They looked around; sure enough, there sat Neville with a bloody lip and several nasty scratches along the side of his face, but clutching an unpleasantly pulsating green object about the size of a grapefruit. "Okay, Professor, we're starting now!" said Ron, adding quietly, when she had turned away again, "should ve used Muffliato, Harry." "No, we shouldn't!" said Hermione at once, looking, as she always did, intensely cross at the thought of the Half-Blood Prince and his spells. "Well, come on ... we'd better get going. ..." She gave the other two an apprehensive look; they all took deep breaths and then dived at the gnarled stump between them. It sprang to life at once; long, prickly, bramblelike vines flew out of the top and whipped through the air. One tangled itself in Hermione's hair, and Ron beat it back with a pair of secateurs; Harry succeeded in trapping a couple of vines and knotting them together; a hole opened in the middle of all the tentaclelike branches; Hermione plunged her arm bravely into this hole, which closed like a trap around her elbow; Harry and Ron tugged and wrenched at the vines, forcing the hole to open again, and Hermi­one snatched her arm free, clutching in her fingers a pod just like Neville's. At once, the prickly vines shot back inside, and the gnarled stump sat there looking like an innocently dead lump of wood. "You know, I don't think I'll be having any of these in my garden when I've got my own place," said Ron, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead and wiping sweat from his face. "Pass me a bowl," said Hermione, holding the pulsating pod at arm's length; Harry handed one over and she dropped the pod into it with a look of disgust on her face. "Don't be squeamish, squeeze it out, they're best when they're fresh!" called Professor Sprout. "Anyway," said Hermione, continuing their interrupted conver­sation as though a lump of wood had not just attacked them, "Slughorn's going to have a Christmas party, Harry, and there's no way you'll be able to wriggle out of this one because he actually asked me to check your free evenings, so he could be sure to have it on a night you can come." Harry groaned. Meanwhile, Ron, who was attempting to burst the pod in the bowl by putting both hands on it, standing up, and squashing it as hard as he could, said angrily, "And this is another party just for Slughorn's favorites, is it?" "Just for the Slug Club, yes," said Hermione. The pod flew out from under Ron's fingers and hit the green house glass, rebounding onto the back of Professor Sprout's head and knocking off her old, patched hat. Harry went to retrieve the pod; when he got back, Hermione was saying, "Look, I didn't make up the name 'Slug Club' —" "'Slug Club,'"repeated Ron with a sneer worthy of Malfoy. "It's pathetic. Well, I hope you enjoy your party. Why don't you try hooking up with McLaggen, then Slughorn can make you King and Queen Slug —" "We're allowed to bring guests," said Hermione, who for some reason had turned a bright, boiling scarlet, "and I was going to ask you to come, but if you think it's that stupid then I won't bother!" Harry suddenly wished the pod had flown a little farther, so that he need not have been sitting here with the pair of them. Unno­ticed by either, he seized the bowl that contained the pod and be­gan to try and open it by the noisiest and most energetic means he could think of; unfortunately, he could still hear every word of their conversation. "You were going to ask me?" asked Ron, in a completely differ­ent voice. "Yes," said Hermione angrily. "But obviously if you'd rather 1 hooked up with McLaggen ..." There was a pause while Harry continued to pound the resilient pod with a trowel. "No, I wouldn't," said Ron, in a very quiet voice. Harry missed the pod, hit the bowl, and shattered it. ‘"Reparo,"' he said hastily, poking the pieces with his wand, and the bowl sprang back together again. The crash, however, appeared to have awoken Ron and Hermione to Harry's presence. Hermione looked flustered and immediately started fussing about for her copy of “Flesh-Eating Trees of the World” to find out the correct way to juice Snargaluff pods; Ron, on the other hand, looked sheepish but also rather pleased with himself. "Hand that over, Harry," said Hermione hurriedly. "It says we're supposed to puncture them with something sharp. . . ." Harry passed her the pod in the bowl; he and Ron both snapped their goggles back over their eyes and dived, once more, for the stump. It was not as though he was really surprised, thought Harry, as he wrestled with a thorny vine intent upon throttling him; he had had an inkling that this might happen sooner or later. But he was not sure how he felt about it. ... He and Cho were now too em­barrassed to look at each other, let alone talk to each other; what if Ron and Hermione started going out together, then split up? Could their friendship survive it? Harry remembered the few weeks when they had not been talking to each other in the third year; he had not enjoyed trying to bridge the distance between them. And then, what if they didn't split up? What if they became like Bill and Fleur, and it became excruciatingly embarrassing to be in their presence, so that he was shut out for good? "Gotcha!" yelled Ron, pulling a second pod from the stump just as Hermione managed to burst the first one open, so that the bowl was full of tubers wriggling like pale green worms. The rest of the lesson passed without further mention of Slughorn's party. Although Harry watched his two friends more closely over the next few days, Ron and Hermione did not seem any different except that they were a little politer to each other than usual. Harry supposed he would just have to wait to see what happened under the influence of butterbeer in Slughorn's dimly lit room on the night of the party. In the meantime, however, he had more pressing worries. Katie Bell was still in St. Mungo's Hospital with no prospect of leaving, which meant that the promising Gryffindor team Harry had been training so carefully since September was one Chaser short. He kept putting off replacing Katie in the hope that she would return, but their opening match against Slytherin was loom­ing, and he finally had to accept that she would not be back in time to play. Harry did not think he could stand another full-House tryout. With a sinking feeling that had little to do with Quidditch, he cor­nered Dean Thomas after Transfiguration one day. Most of the class had already left, although several twittering yellow birds were still zooming around the room, all of Hermione's creation; nobody else had succeeded in conjuring so much as a feather from thin air. "Are you still interested in playing Chaser?" "Wha — ? Yeah, of course!" said Dean excitedly. Over Dean’s shoulder, Harry saw Seamus Finnegan slamming his books into his bag, looking sour. One of the reasons why Harry would have pre­ferred not to have to ask Dean to play was that he knew Seamus would not like it. On the other hand, he had to do what was best for the team, and Dean had outflown Seamus at the tryouts. "Well then, you're in," said Harry. "There's a practice tonight, seven o'clock." "Right," said Dean. "Cheers, Harry! Blimey, I can't wait to tell Ginny!" He sprinted out of the room, leaving Harry and Seamus alone together, an uncomfortable moment made no easier when a bird dropping landed on Seamus's head as one of Hermione's canaries whizzed over them. Seamus was not the only person disgruntled by the choice of Katie’s substitute. There was much muttering in the common room about the fact that Harry had now chosen two of his class­mates for the team. As Harry had endured much worse mutterings than this in his school career, he was not particularly bothered, but all the same, the pressure was increasing to provide a win in the upcoming match against Slytherin. If Gryffindor won, Harry knew that the whole House would forget that they had criticized him and swear that they had always known it was a great team. If they lost. . . well, Harry thought wryly, he had still endured worse mutterings. . . . Harry had no reason to regret his choice once he saw Dean fly that evening; he worked well with Ginny and Demelza. The Beaters, Peakes and Coote, were getting better all the time. The only problem was Ron. Harry had known all along that Ron was an inconsistent player who suffered from nerves and a lack of confidence, and unfortu­nately, the looming prospect of the opening game of the season seemed to have brought out all his old insecurities. After letting in half a dozen goals, most of them scored by Ginny, his technique became wilder and wilder, until he finally punched an oncoming Demelza Robins in the mouth. "It was an accident, I'm sorry, Demelza, really sorry!" Ron shouted after her as she zigzagged back to the ground, dripping blood everywhere. "I just —" "Panicked," Ginny said angrily, landing next to Demelza and examining her fat lip. "You prat, Ron, look at the state of her!" "I can fix that," said Harry, landing beside the two girls, pointing his wand at Demelzas mouth, and saying "Episkey." "And Ginny, don't call Ron a prat, you're not the Captain of this team —" "Well, you seemed too busy to call him a prat and I thought someone should —" Harry forced himself not to laugh. "In the air, everyone, let's go. . . ." Overall it was one of the worst practices they had had all term, though Harry did not feel that honesty was the best policy when they were this close to the match. "Good work, everyone, I think we'll flatten Slytherin," he said bracingly, and the Chasers and Beaters left the changing room looking reasonably happy with themselves. "I played like a sack of dragon dung," said Ron in a hollow voice when the door had swung shut behind Ginny. "No, you didn't," said Harry firmly. "You're the best Keeper I tried out, Ron. Your only problem is nerves." He kept up a relentless flow of encouragement all the way back to the castle, and by the time they reached the second floor, Ron was looking marginally more cheerful. When Harry pushed open the tapestry to take their usual shortcut up to Gryffindor Tower, however, they found themselves looking at Dean and Ginny, who were locked in a close embrace and kissing fiercely as though glued together. It was as though something large and scaly erupted into life in Harry's stomach, clawing at his insides: Hot blood seemed to flood his brain, so that all thought was extinguished, replaced by a savage urge to jinx Dean into a jelly. Wrestling with this sudden madness, he heard Ron's voice as though from a great distance away. “Oi!” Dean and Ginny broke apart and looked around. "What?" said Ginny. "I don't want to find my own sister snogging people in public!" "This was a deserted corridor till you came butting in!" said Ginny. Dean was looking embarrassed. He gave Harry a shifty grin that Harry did not return, as the newborn monster inside him was roar­ing for Dean's instant dismissal from the team. "Er . . . c'mon, Ginny," said Dean, "let's go back to the common room. ..." "You go!" said Ginny. "I want a word with my dear brother!" Dean left, looking as though he was not sorry to depart the scene. "Right," said Ginny, tossing her long red hair out of her face and glaring at Ron, "let's get this straight once and for all. It is none of your business who I go out with or what I do with them, Ron —" "Yeah, it is!" said Ron, just as angrily. "D' you think I want peo­ple saying my sister's a —" "A what?" shouted Ginny, drawing her wand. "A what, exactly?" "He doesn't mean anything, Ginny —" said Harry automati­cally, though the monster was roaring its approval of Ron's words. "Oh yes he does!" she said, flaring up at Harry. "Just because he's never snogged anyone in his life, just because the best kiss he's ever had is from our Auntie Muriel —" "Shut your mouth!" bellowed Ron, bypassing red and turning maroon. "No, I will not!" yelled Ginny, beside herself. "I've seen you with Phlegm, hoping she'll kiss you on the cheek every time you see her, it's pathetic! If you went out and got a bit of snogging done your self, you wouldn't mind so much that everyone else does it!" Ron had pulled out his wand too; Harry stepped swiftly between them. "You don't know what you're talking about!" Ron roared, trying to get a clear shot at Ginny around Harry, who was now standing in front of her with his arms outstretched. "Just because I don't do it in public — !" Ginny screamed with derisive laughter, trying to push Harry out of the way. "Been kissing Pigwidgeon, have you? Or have you got a picture of Auntie Muriel stashed under your pillow?" You — A streak of orange light flew under Harrys left arm and missed Ginny by inches; Harry pushed Ron up against the wall. "Don't be stupid —" "Harry's snogged Cho Chang!" shouted Ginny, who sounded close to tears now. "And Hermione snogged Viktor Krum, it's only you who acts like it's something disgusting, Ron, and that's because you've got about as much experience as a twelve-year-old!" And with that, she stormed away. Harry quickly let go of Ron; the look on his face was murderous. They both stood there, breath­ing heavily, until Mrs. Norris, Rich's cat, appeared around the cor­ner, which broke the tension. "C'mon," said Harry, as the sound of Filch's shuffling feet reached their ears. They hurried up the stairs and along a seventh-floor corridor. "Oi, out of the way!" Ron barked at a small girl who jumped in fright and dropped a bottle of toadspawn. Harry hardly noticed the sound of shattering glass; he felt dis­oriented, dizzy; being struck by a lightning bolt must be something like this. It's just because she's Ron’s sister, he told himself. You just didn't like seeing her kissing Dean because she's Ron's sister. . . . But unbidden into his mind came an image of that same de­serted corridor with himself kissing Ginny instead. . . . The mon­ster in his chest purred . . . but then he saw Ron ripping open the tapestry curtain and drawing his wand on Harry, shouting things like "betrayal of trust" . . . "supposed to be my friend" . . . "D'you think Hermione did snog Krum?" Ron asked abruptly, as they approached the Fat Lady. Harry gave a guilty start and wrenched his imagination away from a corridor in which no Ron intruded, in which he and Ginny were quite alone — "What?" he said confusedly. "Oh ... er ..." The honest answer was "yes," but he did not want to give it. However, Ron seemed to gather the worst from the look on Harry's face. "Dilligrout," he said darkly to the Fat Lady, and they climbed through the portrait hole into the common room. Neither of them mentioned Ginny or Hermione again; indeed, they barely spoke to each other that evening and got into bed in si­lence, each absorbed in his own thoughts, Harry lay awake for a long time, looking up at the canopy of his four-poster and trying to convince himself that his feelings for Ginny were entirely elder-brotherly. They had lived, had they not, like brother and sister all summer, playing Quidditch, teasing Ron, and having a laugh about Bill and Phlegm? He had known Ginny for years now. ... It was natural that he should feel protective . . . natural that he should want to look out for her . . . want to rip Dean limb from limb for kissing her... No ... he would have to control that particular brotherly feeling. . . . Ron gave a great grunting snore. She's Ron's sister, Harry told himself firmly. Ron's sister. She's out-of-bounds. He would not risk his friendship with Ron for anything. He punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape and waited for sleep to come, trying his utmost not to allow his thoughts to stray anywhere near Ginny. Harry awoke next morning feeling slightly dazed and confused by a series of dreams in which Ron had chased him with a Beater’s bat, but by midday he would have happily exchanged the dream Ron for the real one, who was not only cold-shouldering Ginny and Dean, but also treating a hurt and bewildered Hermione with an icy, sneering indifference. What was more, Ron seemed to have become, overnight, as touchy and ready to lash out as the average Blast-Ended Skrewt. Harry spent the day attempting to keep the peace between Ron and Hermione with no success; finally, Hermione departed for bed in high dudgeon, and Ron stalked off to the boys' dormitory after swearing angrily at several frightened first years for looking at him. To Harry’s dismay, Ron's new aggression did not wear off over the next few days. Worse still, it coincided with an even deeper dip in his Keeping skills, which made him still more aggressive, so that during the final Quidditch practice before Saturdays match, he failed to save every single goal the Chasers aimed at him, but bellowed at everybody so much that he reduced Demelza Robins to tears. "You shut up and leave her alone!" shouted Peakes, who was about two-thirds Ron's height, though admittedly carrying a heavy bat. "ENOUGH!" bellowed Harry, who had seen Ginny glowering in Ron’s direction and, remembering her reputation as an accom­plished caster of the Bat-Bogey Hex, soared over to intervene be­fore things got out of hand. "Peakes, go and pack up the Bludgers. Demelza, pull yourself together, you played really well today, Ron . . ." he waited until the rest of the team were out of earshot before saying it, "you're my best mate, but carry on treating the rest of them like this and I'm going to kick you off the team." He really thought for a moment that Ron might hit him, but then something much worse happened: Ron seemed to sag on his broom. all the fight went out of him and he said, "I resign. I'm pathetic." "You're not pathetic and you're not resigning!" said Harry fiercely, seizing Ron by the front of his robes. "You can save any­thing when you're on form, it's a mental problem you've got!" "You calling me mental?" "Yeah, maybe I am!" They glared at each other for a moment, then Ron shook his head wearily. "I know you haven't got any time to find another Keeper, so I'll play tomorrow, but if we lose, and we will, I'm tak­ing myself off the team." Nothing Harry said made any difference. He tried boosting Ron's confidence all through dinner, but Ron was too busy being grumpy and surly with Hermione to notice. Harry persisted in the common room that evening, but his assertion that the whole team would be devastated if Ron left was somewhat undermined by the fact that the rest of the team was sitting in a huddle in a distant corner, clearly muttering about Ron and casting him nasty looks. Finally Harry tried getting angry again in the hope of provoking Ron into a defiant, and hopefully goal-saving, attitude, but this strategy did not appear to work any better than encouragement; Ron went to bed as dejected and hopeless as ever. Harry lay awake for a very long time in the darkness. He did not want to lose the upcoming match; not only was it his first as Cap­tain, but he was determined to beat Draco Malfoy at Quidditch even if he could not yet prove his suspicions about him. Yet if Ron played as he had done in the last few practices, their chances of winning were very slim. . . . If only there was something he could do to make Ron pull him­self together . . . make him play at the top of his form . . . some­thing that would ensure that Ron had a really good day. . . . And the answer came to Harry in one, sudden, glorious stroke of inspiration. Breakfast was the usual excitable affair next morning; the Slytherins hissed and booed loudly as every member of the Gryffindor team entered the Great Hall. Harry glanced at the ceiling and saw a clear, pale blue sky: a good omen. The Gryffindor table, a solid mass of red and gold, cheered as Harry and Ron approached. Harry grinned and waved; Ron gri­maced weakly and shook his head. "Cheer up, Ron!" called Lavender. "I know you'll be brilliant!" : Ron ignored her. "Tea?" Harry asked him. "Coffee? Pumpkin juice?" "Anything," said Ron glumly, taking a moody bite of toast. A few minutes later Hermione, who had become so tired of Ron's recent unpleasant behavior that she had not come down to breakfast with them, paused on her way up the table. "How are you both feeling?" she asked tentatively, her eyes on the back of Ron's head. "Fine," said Harry, who was concentrating on handing Ron a glass of pumpkin juice. "There you go, Ron. Drink up." Ron had just raised the glass to his lips when Hermione spoke sharply. "Don't drink that, Ron!" Both Harry and Ron looked up at her. "Why not?" said Ron. Hermione was now staring at Harry as though she could not be­lieve her eyes. "You just put something in that drink." "Excuse me?" said Harry. "You heard me. I saw you. You just tipped something into Ron's drink. You've got the bottle in your hand right now!" "I dont know what you're talking about," said Harry, stowing the little bottle hastily in his pocket. "Ron, I warn you, don't drink it!" Hermione said again, alarmed, but Ron picked up the glass, drained it in one gulp, and said, "Stop bossing me around, Hermione." She looked scandalized. Bending low so that only Harry could hear her, she hissed, "You should be expelled for that. I'd never have believed it of you, Harry!" "Look who's talking," he whispered back. "Confunded anyone lately?" She stormed up the table away from them. Harry watched her go without regret. Hermione had never really understood what a serious business Quidditch was. He then looked around at Ron, who was smacking his lips. "Nearly time/' said Harry blithely. The frosty grass crunched underfoot as they strode down to the stadium. "Pretty lucky the weathers this good, eh?" Harry asked Ron. "Yeah," said Ron, who was pale and sick-looking. Ginny and Demelza were already wearing their Quidditch robes and waiting in the changing room. "Conditions look ideal," said Ginny, ignoring Ron. "And guess what? That Slytherin Chaser Vaisey — he took a Bludger in the head yesterday during their practice, and he's too sore to play! And even better than that — Malfoy's gone off sick too!" "What?" said Harry, wheeling around to stare at her. "He's ill? What's wrong with him?" "No idea, but it's great for us," said Ginny brightly. "They're playing Harper instead; he's in my year and he's an idiot." Harry smiled back vaguely, but as he pulled on his scarlet robes his mind was far from Quidditch. Malfoy had once before claimed he could not play due to injury, but on that occasion he had made sure the whole match was rescheduled for a time that suited the Slytherins better. Why was he now happy to let a substitute go on? Was he really ill, or was he faking? "Fishy, isn't it?" he said in an undertone to Ron. "Malfoy not playing?" "Lucky, I call it," said Ron, looking slightly more animated. "And Vaisey off too, he's their best goal scorer, I didn't fancy — hey!" he said suddenly, freezing halfway through pulling on his Keepers gloves and staring at Harry. "What?" "I... you . . ." Ron had dropped his voice, he looked both scared and excited. "My drink ... my pumpkin juice ... you didn't...?" Harry raised his eyebrows, but said nothing except, "We'll be starting in about five minutes, you'd better get your boots on." They walked out onto the pitch to tumultuous roars and boos. One end of the stadium was solid red and gold; the other, a sea of green and silver. Many Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had taken sides to Amidst all the yelling and clapping Harry could distinctly hear the roar of Luna Lovegood's famous lion-topped hat. Harry stepped up to Madam Hooch, the referee, who was stand-ing ready to release the balls from the crate. "Captains shake hands," she said, and Harry had his hand crushed by the new Slytherin Captain, Urquhart. "Mount your brooms. On the whistle . . . three . . . two . . . one . . ." The whistle sounded, Harry and the others kicked off hard from the frozen ground, and they were away. Harry soared around the perimeter of the grounds, looking around for the Snitch and keeping one eye on Harper, who was zigzagging far below him. Then a voice that was jarringly different to the usual commentator's started up. "Well, there they go, and I think we're all surprised to see the team that Potter's put together this year. Many thought, given Ronald Weasley's patchy performance as Keeper last year, that he might be off the team, but of course, a close personal friendship with the Captain does help. . . ." These words were greeted with jeers and applause from the Slytherin end of the pitch. Harry craned around on his broom to look toward the commentator's podium. A call, skinny blond buy with an upturned nose was standing there, talking into the magical megaphone that had once been Lee Jordan's; Harry recognized Zacharias Smith, a Hufflepuff player whom he heartily disliked. "Oh, and here comes Slytherin's first attempt on goal, it's Urquhart streaking down the pitch and —" Harrys stomach turned over. "— Weasley saves it, well, he's bound to get lucky sometimes, I suppose. . . ." "That's right, Smith, he is," muttered Harry, grinning to him­self, as he dived amongst the Chasers with his eyes searching all around for some hint of the elusive Snitch. With half an hour of the game gone, Gryffindor were leading sixty points to zero, Ron having made some truly spectacular saves, some by the very tips of his gloves, and Ginny having scored four of Gryffindor's six goals. This effectively stopped Zacharias won­dering loudly whether the two Weasleys were only there because Harry liked them, and he started on Peakes and Coote instead. "Of course, Coote isn't really the usual build for a Beater," said Zacharias loftily, "they've generally got a bit more muscle —" "Hit a Bludger at him!" Harry called to Coote as he zoomed past, but Coote, grinning broadly, chose to aim the next Bludger at Harper instead, who was just passing Harry in the opposite direc­tion. Harry was pleased to hear the dull thunk that meant the Bludger had found its mark. It seemed as though Gryffindor could do no wrong. Again and again they scored, and again and again, at the other end of the pitch, Ron saved goals with apparent ease. He was actually smiling now, and when the crowd greeted a particularly good save with a rousing chorus of the old favorite "Weasley Is Our King," he pre­tended to conduct them from on high. "Thinks he's something special today, doesn't he?" said a snide voice, and Harry was nearly knocked off his broom as Harper collided with him hard and deliberately. "Your blood-traitor pal..." Madam Hooch's back was turned, and though Gryffindors be­low shouted in anger, by the time she looked around, Harper had already sped off. His shoulder aching, Harry raced after him, de­termined to ram him back. ... "And I think Harper of Slytherin's seen the Snitch!" said Zacharias Smith through his megaphone. "Yes, he's certainly seen something Potter hasn't!" Smith really was an idiot, thought Harry, hadn't he noticed them collide? But next moment, his stomach seemed to drop out of the , sky — Smith was right and Harry was wrong: Harper had not sped upward at random; he had spotted what Harry had not: The Snitch was speeding along high above them, glinting brightly against the clear blue sky. Harry accelerated; the wind was whistling in his ears so that it drowned all sound of Smith's commentary or the crowd, but Harper was still ahead of him, and Gryffindor was only a hundred points up; if Harper got there first Gryffindor had lost. . . and now Harper was feet from it, his hand outstretched. ... "Oi, Harper!" yelled Harry in desperation. "How much did Malfoy pay you to come on instead of him?" He did not know what made him say it, but Harper did a dou­ble-take; he fumbled the Snitch, let it slip through his fingers, and shot right past it. Harry made a great swipe for the tiny, fluttering ball and caught it. "YES!" Hairy yelled. Wheeling around, he hurtled back toward the ground, the Snitch held high in his hand. As the crowd realized what had happened, a great shout went up that almost drowned the sound of the whistle that signaled the end of the game. "Ginny, where're you going?" yelled Harry, who had found hint self trapped in the midst of a mass midair hug with the rest of tin1 team, but Ginny sped right on past them until, with an almighty crash, she collided with the commentators podium. As the crowd shrieked and laughed, the Gryffindor team landed beside the wreckage of wood under which Zacharias was feebly stirring,: Harry heard Ginny saying blithely to an irate Professor McGonagall, "Forgot to brake, Professor, sorry." Laughing, Harry broke free of the rest of the team and hugged Ginny, but let go very quickly. Avoiding her gaze, he clapped cheering Ron on the back instead as, all enmity forgotten, the Gryffindor team left the pitch arm in arm, punching the air ami waving to their supporters. The atmosphere in the changing room was jubilant. "Party up in the common room, Seamus said!" yelled Dean exuberantly. "C'mon, Ginny, Demelza!" Ron and Harry were the last two in the changing room. They were just about to leave when Hermione entered. She was twisting her Gryffindor scarf in her hands and looked upset but determined. "I want a word with you, Harry." She took a deep breath. "Yon shouldn't have done it. You heard Slughorn, its illegal." "What are you going to do, turn us in?" demanded Ron. "What are you two talking about?" asked Harry, turning away to hang up his robes so that neither of them would see him grinning, "You know perfectly well what we're talking about!" said Hermione shrilly. "You spiked Rons juice with lucky potion at breakfast! I'elix Felicis!" "No, I didn't," said Harry, turning back to face them both. "Yes you did, Harry, and that's why everything went right, there were Slytherin players missing and Ron saved everything!" "I didn't put it in!" said Harry, grinning broadly. He slipped his hand inside his jacket pocket and drew out the tiny bottle that Hermione had seen in his hand that morning. It was full of golden potion and the cork was still tightly sealed with wax. "I wanted Ron to think I'd done it, so I faked it when I knew you were look­ing." He looked at Ron. "You saved everything because you felt lucky. You did it all yourself." He pocketed the potion again. "There really wasn't anything in my pumpkin juice?" Ron said, astounded. "But the weather's good. . . and Vaisey couldn't play. ... I honestly haven't been given lucky potion?" ] Harry shook his head. Ron gaped at him for a moment, then rounded on Hermione, imitating her voice. "You added Felix Felicis to Ron’s juice this morning, that's why he saved everything! See! I can save goals without help, Hermione!" "I never said you couldn't — Ron, you thought you'd been given it too!" But Ron had already strode past her out of the door with his broomstick over his shoulder. "Er," said Harry into the sudden silence; he had not expected his plan to backfire like this, "shall. . . shall we go up to the party, then?" "You go!" said Hermione, blinking back tears. "I'm sick of Ron at the moment, I don't know what I'm supposed to have done. . . ." And she stormed out of the changing room too. Harry walked slowly back up the grounds toward the castle through the crowd, many of whom shouted congratulations at him, but he felt a great sense of letdown; he had been sure that if Ron won the match, he and Hermione would be friends again immediately. He did not see how he could possibly explain to Hermi­one that what she had done to offend Ron was kiss Viktor Krum, not when the offense had occurred so long ago. Harry could not see Hermione at the Gryffindor celebration party, which was in full swing when he arrived. Renewed cheers and clapping greeted his appearance, and he was soon surrounded by a mob of people congratulating him. What with trying to shake off the Creevey brothers, who wanted a blow-by-blow match analysis, and the large group of girls that encircled him, laughing at his least amusing comments and batting their eyelids, it was some time before he could try and find Ron. At last, he extricated him­self from Romilda Vane, who was hinting heavily that she would like to go to Slughorn's Christmas party with him. As he was duck­ing toward the drinks table, he walked straight into Ginny, Arnold the Pygmy Puff riding on her shoulder and Crookshanks mewing hopefully at her heels. "Looking for Ron?" she asked, smirking. "He's over there, the filthy hypocrite." Harry looked into the corner she was indicating. There, in full view of the whole room, stood Ron wrapped so closely around Lavender Brown it was hard to tell whose hands were whose. "It looks like he's eating her face, doesn't it?" said Ginny dispas­sionately. "But I suppose he's got to refine his technique somehow. Good game, Harry." She patted him on the arm; Harry felt a swooping sensation in his stomach, but then she walked off to help herself to more butterbeer. Crookshanks trotted after her, his yellow eyes fixed upon Arnold. Harry turned away from Ron, who did not look like he would be surfacing soon, just as the portrait hole was closing. With a sinking feeling, he thought he saw a mane of bushy brown hair whip­ping out of sight. He darted forward, sidestepped Romilda Vane again, and pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady. The corridor outside , seemed to be deserted. "Hermione?" He found her in the first unlocked classroom he tried. She was sitting on the teacher's desk, alone except for a small ring of twit­tering yellow birds circling her head, which she had clearly just conjured out of midair. Harry could not help admiring her spell-work at a time like this. "Oh, hello, Harry," she said in a brittle voice. "I was just practicing." "Yeah . . . they're — er — really good. ..." said Harry. He had no idea what to say to her. He was just wondering whether there was any chance that she had not noticed Ron, that she had merely left the room because the party was a little too rowdy, when she said, in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, "Ron seems to be enjoying the celebrations." "Er . . . does he?" said Harry. "Don't pretend you didn't see him," said Hermione. "He wasn't exactly hiding it, was — ?" The door behind them burst open. To Harry's horror, Ron came in, laughing, pulling Lavender by the hand. ; ' "Oh," he said, drawing up short at the sight of Harry and Hermione. "Oops!" said Lavender, and she backed out of the room, gig­gling. The door swung shut behind her. There was a horrible, swelling, billowing silence. Hermione was staring at Ron, who refused to look at her, but said with an odd mixture of bravado and awkwardness, "Hi, Harry! Wondered where you'd got to!" Hermione slid off the desk. The little flock of golden birds con­tinued to twitter in circles around her head so that she looked like a strange, feathery model of the solar system. "You shouldn't leave Lavender waiting outside," she said quietly. "She'll wonder where you've gone." She walked very slowly and erectly toward the door. Harry glanced at Ron, who was looking relieved that nothing worse had happened. "Oppugno!" came a shriek from the doorway. Harry spun around to see Hermione pointing her wand at Ron, her expression wild: The little flock of birds was speeding like a hail of fat golden bullets toward Ron, who yelped and covered his face with his hands, but the birds attacked, pecking and clawing at every bit of flesh they could reach. "Gerremoffme!" he yelled, but with one last look of vindictive fury, Hermione wrenched open the door and disappeared through it. Harry thought he heard a sob before it slammed.

Doraemon

Chapter 15: The Unbreakable Vow The Unbreakable Vow Snow was swirling against the icy windows once more; Christmas was approaching fast. Hagrid had already singlehandedly delivered the usual twelve C hristmas trees to the Great Hall; garlands of holly and tinsel had been twisted around the banisters of the stairs; everlasting candles glowed from inside the helmets of suits of armor and great bunches of mistletoe had been hung at intervals along the corridors. Large groups of girls tended to converge underneath the mistletoe bunches every time Harry went past, which caused blockages in the corridors; fortunat e ly, however, Harry's frequent nighttime wanderings had given him an unusually good knowledge of the castle's secret passageways, so that he was often, without too much difficulty, to naviga t e mistletoe-free routes between classes. Ron, who might once have found the necessity of these detours excuse for jealousy rather than hilarity, simply roared with laughter about it all. Although Harry much preferred this new laughing, joking Ron to the moody, aggressive model he had been enduring for the last few weeks, the improved Ron came at a heavy price. Firstly, Harry had to put up with the frequent presence of Lavender Brown, who seemed to regard any moment that she was not kissing Ron as a moment wasted; and secondly, Harry found himself once more the best friend of two people who seemed unlikely ever to speak to each other again. Ron, whose hands and forearms still bore scratches and cuts from Hermione's bird attack, was taking a defensive and resentful tone. "She can't complain," he told Harry. "She snogged Krum. So she's found out someone wants to snog me too. Well, it's a free country. I haven't done anything wrong." Harry did not answer, but pretended to be absorbed in the book they were supposed to have read before Charms next morning (Quintessence: A Q uest). Determined as he was to remain friends with both Ron and Hermione, he was spending a lot of time with his mouth shut tight. "I never promised Hermione anything , " Ron mumbled. "I mean, all right, I was going to go to Slughorn's Christmas party with her, but she never said... just as friends... I'm a free agent..." Harry turned a page of Quintessence, aware that Ron was watching him. Ron's voice trailed away in mutters, barely audible over the loud crackling of the fire, though Harry thought he caught the words "Krum" and "Can't complain" again. Hermione's schedule was so full that Harry could only talk to her properly in the evenings, when Ron was, in any case, so tightly wrapped around Lavender that he did not notice what Harry was doing. Hermione refused to sit in the common room while Ron was there, So Harry generally joined her in the library, which meant that their conversations were held in whispers. "He's at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes," said Hermione, while the librarian , Madam Pince, prowled the shelves behind them. "I really couldn't care less." She raised her quill and dotted an 'i' so ferociously that she punctured a hole in her parchment. Harry said nothing. He thought his voice might soon vanish from the lack of use. He bent a little lower over Advanced Potion-Making and continued to make notes on Everlasting Elixirs, occasionally pausing to decipher the p rince's useful additions to Libatius B orage's text. "And incidentally," said Hermione, after a few moments, "you need to be careful." "For the last time," said Harry, speaking in a slightly hoarse tone after three-quarters of an ho u r of silence, "I am not giving back this book . I've learned more from the Half-blood p rince than Snape or Slughorn have taught me in--" "I'm not talking about your stupid so-called prince," said Hermione , giving his book a nasty look as though it had been rude to her. "I'm talki ng about earlier. I went into the girl's bathroom just before I came in here and there were about a dozen girls in there, including that Romilda Vane , trying to decide how to slip you a love potion. They're all hoping they're going to get you to take them to Slughorn's party, and thay all seem to have bought Fred and George's love potions, which I'm afraid to say probably work --" "Why didn't you confiscate them then?" demanded Harry, it seemed extraordinary that Hermione's m ania for upholding the rules could have abandoned her at this crucial juncture. "They didn't have the potions with them in the bathroom," said Hermione scornfully, "They were just discussing tactics. As I doubt the Half-blood prince" she gave the book another scornful look "could dream up an antidote for a dozen different love potions at once, I'd just invite someone to go with you, that'll stop all the others thinking they've still got a chance. It's tomor r ow night, they're getting desperate." "There isn't anyone I want to invite," mumbled Harry, who was still not trying to think about Ginny any more than he could help, despite the fact the fact that she kept cropping up in his dreams in ways that made him devoutly thankful that Ron could not perform Legilimency. "Well, just be careful what you drink, because Romilda Va ne looked like she meant business." said Hermione grimly. She hitched up the long roll of parchment on which she was writing her Arithma n cy essay and continued to scratch away with her quill. Harry wa t che d her with his mind a long way away. "Hang on a moment," he said slowly. "I thought Filch had banned anything bought at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?" "And when has anyone ever paid attention to what Filch has banned?" asked Hermione, still concentrating on her essay. "But I thought all the owls were being searched. So how come these grils are able to bring love potions into the school?" "Fred and George send them disguised as perfumes and cough potions," said Hermione. "It's part of their Owl order service." "You know a lot about it." Hermione gave him the kind of nasty look she had just given his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. "It was all on the back of the bottles they showed Ginny and me in the summer," she said coldly, "I don't go around putting potions in people's drinks... or pretending too eit h er, which is just as bad..." "Yeah, well, never mind that," said Harry quickly. "The point is, Filch is being fooled isn't he? These girls are getting stuff into the school disguised as something else! So why couldn't Malfoy have brought the necklace into the school --?" "Oh, Harry... not that again..." "Come on, why not?" demanded Harry. "Look , " sighed Hermione, "Secrecy Sensors detect jinxes, curses, and concealment charms, don't they? They're used to find d ark magic and d ark obje c ts. They'd have picked up a powerful curse , like the one in the necklace, withi n seconds. But something that's just been put in the wrong bottle wouldn ' t register -- anyway Love potions aren't d ark or dangerous ---" "Easy for you to say," muttered Harry, thinking of Romilda Vane. "-- so it would be down to Filch to realise it wasn't a cough potion, and he's not a very good wizard, I doubt he can tell one potion from --" Hermione stopped dead; Harry had heard it too. Somebody had moved close behind them among the dark bookshelves. They waited, and a moment later the vulturelike countenance of Madam Pince appeared around the corner, her sunken cheeks, her skin like parchment, and her long hooked nose illuminated unflatteringly by the lamp she was carrying. "The library is now closed," she said, "Mind you return anything you have borrowed to the correct -- what have you been doing to that book, you depraved boy?" "It isn't the library's, it's mine!" said Harry hastily, snatching his copy of Advanced Potion-Making off the table as she lunged at it with a clawlike hand. " Spoiled!" she hissed . "Desecrated, befouled !" "It's just a book that's been written on!" said Harry, tugging it out of her grip. She looked as though she might have a seizure; Hermione, who had hastily packed her things, grabbed Harry by the arm and frogmarched him away. "She'll ban you from the library if you're not careful. Why did you have to bring that stupid book?" "It's not my fault she's barking mad, Hermione. Or d'you think she overheard you being rude about Filch? I've always thought there might be something between them..." "Oh, ha ha.." Enjoying the fact that they could speak normally again, they made their way along the deserted lamp-lit corridors back to the common room, arguing w hether or not Filch and Madam Pince were secretly in love with each other. "Baubles" said Harry to the Fat Lady, this being the new, festive password. "Same to you," said the fat lady with a roguish grin, and she swung forward to admit them. "Hi, Harry!" said Romilda Vane, the moment he had climbed through the portrait hole. "Fancy a gillywater?" Hermione gave him a "what-did-I-tell-you?" look over her shoulder. "No thanks," said Harry quickly. "I don't like it much." "Well, take these anyway," said Romilda, thrusting a box into his hands. "Chocolate Cauldrons, they've got firewhiskey in them. My gran sent them to me, but I don't like them." "Oh-- right -- thanks a lot." said Harry, who could not think what else to say. " Er-- I ' m just going over here with ..." He hurried off behind Hermione, his voice tailing away feebly. "Told you," said Hermione succinctly, " Sooner you ask someone, sooner they'll all leave you alone and you can --" But her face suddnly turned blank; she had just spotted Ron and Lavender, who were i ntertwined in the same armchair. "Well, good night, Harry" said Hermione, though it was only seven o'clock in the evening, and she left for the girl s' dormitory without another word. Harry went to bed comforting himself that there was only one more day of lessons to struggle through, plus Slughorn's party, after which he and Ron would depart together for the B urrow. It now seemed impossible that Ron and Hermione would make up with each other before the holidays began, but perhaps, somehow, the break would give them time to calm down, think better of their behavior... But his hopes were not high, and they sank still lower after enduring a Transfiguration lesson with them both next day. They had just embarked upon the immensely difficult topic of human transfiguration; working in front of mirrors , they were suposed to be changing the color of their own eyebrows. Hermione laughed unkindly at Ron's disastrous first attempt, during which he somehow managed to give himself a spectacular handlebar mustache; Ron retaliated by doing a cruel but accurate impression of Hermione jumping up and down in her seat every time Profe s sor McGonagall asked a question, which Lavender and Parvati found deeply amusing and which reduced Hermione to the verge of tears again. She raced out of the classroom on the bell, leaving half her things behind; Harry, deciding that her need was greater than Ron's just now, scooped up her remaining po ssessions and followed her. He finally tracked her down as she emerged from a girl's bathroom on the floor below. She was accompanied by Luna Lovegood, who was patting her vaguely on the back. "Oh, hello, Harry , " said Luna . " D id you know one of your eyebrows is bright yellow?" "Hi, Luna. Hermione , you left your stuff..." He held out her books. "Oh, yes," said Hermione in a choked voice, taking her things and turning away quickly to hide the fact she was wiping her eyes with her pencil case. "Thank you , Harry. Well, I'd better get going..." And she hurried off, without ever giving Harry any time to offer words of comfort, though admittedly he could not think of any. "She's a bit upset , " said Luna. "I thought at first it was Moaning Myrtle in there, but it turned out to be Hermione. She said something about Ron Weasley..." "Yeah, they've had a row," said Harry. "He says funny things sometimes, doesn't he?" said Luna as they set off down the corridor together. "But he can be a bit unkind. I noticed that last year." " I s'pose , " said Harry. Luna was demonstrating her usual knack of speaking uncomfortable truths; he had never met anyone quite like her. "So have you had a good term?" "Oh, it's been al l right," said Luna. " A bit lonely without the D.A. Ginny's been nice, though. She stopped two boys in our Transfiguration class calling me 'Loony' the other day --" "How would you like to come to S lughorn's party with me tonight?" The words were out of Harry's mouth before he could stop them; he heard himself say them as though it were a stranger speaking. Luna turned her protuberant eyes to him in surprise. "Slughorn's party? With you?" "Yeah," said Harry, "We're supposed to bring guests, so I thought you might like.. I mean..." He was keen to make his intentions perfectly clear. " I mean, just as friends, you know. But if you don't want to..." He was already half hoping that she didn't want to. "O h no, I'd love to go with you as friends!" said Luna, beaming as he had never seen her beam before. "Nobody's ever asked me to a party before, as a friend! Is that why you dyed your eyebrow, for the party? Should I dye mine too?" "No" said Harry firmly, "That was a mistake. I'll get Hermione to put it right for me. So I'll meet you in the entrance hall at eight o'clock then . " "AHA!" screamed a voice from overhead and both of them jumped; unnoticed by either of them, they had just passed underneath Peeves, who was hanging upside down from a chandelier and grinning maliciously at them. "Potty asked Loony to go to the part y ! Potty lurves Loony! Potty luuuuuurves Looooony!" And he zoomed away cackling and shrieking, "Potty loves Loony!" "Nice to keep these things private," said Harry. And sure enough, in no time at all the whole school seemed to know that Harry Potter was taking Luna Lovegood to Slughorn's party. "You could've taken anyone!" said Ron in disbelief over dinner. "Anyone! And you chose Loony Lovegood?" "Don't call her that, Ron!" snapped Ginny, pausing behind Harry on her way to join friends. "I'm really glad you're taking her Harry, she's so excited." And she moved on down the table to sit with Dean. Harry tried to feel pleased that Ginny was glad he was taking Luna to the party but could not quite manage it. A long way along the table Hermione was sitting alone, playing with her stew. Harry noticed Ron looking at her furtively. "You could say sorry , " suggested Harry bluntly. "What , and get attacked by another flock of canaries?" muttered Ron. "What did you have to imitate her for?" "She laughed at my mustache!" "So did I, it was the stupidest thing I've ever seen." But Ron did not seem to have he a rd; Lavender had just arrived with Parvati. Squeezing herself in between Harry and Ron, Lavender flung her arms around Ron's neck. "Hi, Harry," said Parvati who, like Harry, looked faintly embarrassed and bored by the behavior of their two friends. "Hi," said Harry, "How're you? You're staying at Hogwarts, then? I heard your parents wanted you to leave." "I managed to talk them out o f it for the time being," said Parvati. "That Katie thing really freaked them out, but as there hasn't been anything since... Oh, hi, Hermione!" Parvati positively beamed. Harry could tell that she was feeling guilty for having laughed at Hermione in Transfiguration. He looked around and saw that Hermione was beaming back, if possible even more brightly. Girls were very strange sometimes. "Hi, Parvati!" said Hermione, ignoring Ron and Lavender completely. "Are you going to Slughorn's party tonight?" "No invite," said Parvati gloomily. "I'd love to go, though, it sounds like it's going to be really good... You're going, aren't you?" "Yes, I'm meeting Cormac at eight, and we're -" There was a noise like a plunger being withdrawn from a blocked sink , and Ron surfaced. Hermione acted as though she had not seen or heard anything. "- we're going up to the party together." "Cormac?" said Parvati. "Cormac McLaggen, you mean?" "That's right," said Hermione sweetly. "The one who *almost*" - she put a great deal of emphasis on the word - "bec a me Gryffindor Keeper." "Are you going out with him, then?" asked Parvati, wide-eyed. "Oh - yes - didn't you know?" said Harmione, with a most un-Hermione-ish giggle. "No!" said Parvati, looking positively agog at thi s piece of gossip. "Wow , you like your Quidditch players, don't you? First Krum, then McLaggen. . ." "I like *really good* Quidditch players," Hermione corrected her, still smiling. "Well, see you... Got to go and get ready for the party..." She left. At once Lavender and Parvati put their heads together to discuss this new development, with everything they had ever heard about McLaggen, and all they had ever guessed about Hermione. Ron looked strangely blank and said nothing. Harry was left to ponder in silence the depths to which girls would sink to get revenge. When he arrived in the entrance hall at eight o'clock that night, he found an unusually large number of girls lurking there, all of whom seemed to be staring at him resentfully as he approached Luna. She was wearing a set of spangled silver robes that were attracting a certain amount of giggles from the onlookers, but otherwise she looked quite nice. Harry was glad, in any case, that she had left off her radish earrings, her butterbeer cork necklace, and her Spectrespecs. "Hi," he said. "Shall we get going then?" "Oh yes," she said happily. "Where is the party?" "Slughorn's office," said Harry, leading her up the marble staircase away from all the staring and muttering. "Did you hear, there's supposed to be a vampire coming?" "Rufus Scrimgeour?" asked Luna. "I - what?" said Harry, disconcerted. "You mean the Minister of Magic?" "Yes, he's a vampire," said Luna matter-of-factly. "Father wrote a very long article about it when Scrimgeour first took over from Cornelius Fudge, but he was forced not to publish by somebody from the Ministry. Obviously, they didn't want the truth to get out!" Harry, who thought it most unlikely that Rufus Scrimgeour was a vampire, but who was used to Luna repeating her father's bizarre views as though they were fact, did not reply; they were already approaching Slughorn's office and the sounds of laughter, music, and loud conversation were growing louder with every step they took. Whether it had been built that way, or because he had used magical trickery to make it so, Slughorn's office was much larger than the usual teacher's study. The ceiling and walls had been draped with emerald, crimson , and gold hangings, so that it looked as though they were all inside a vast tent. The room was crowded and stuffy and bathed in the red light cast by an ornate golden lamp dangling from the center of the ceiling in which real fairies were fluttering, each a brilliant speck of light. Loud singing accompanied by what sounded like mandolins issued from a distant corner; a haze of pipe smoke hung over several elderly warlocks deep in conversation, and a number of house-elves were negotiating their way squeakily through the forest of knees, obscured by the heavy silver platters of food they were bearing, so that they looked like little roving tables. "Harry, m'boy!" boomed Slughorn, almost as soon as Harry and Luna had squeezed in through the door. "Come in, come in, so many people I'd like you to meet!" Slughorn was wearing a tasseled velvet hat to match his smoking jacket. Gripping Harry's arm so tightly he might have been hoping to Disapparate with him, Slughorn led him purposefully into the party; Harry seized Luna's hand and dragged her along with him. "Harry, I'd like you to meet Eldred Worple, an old student of mine, author of ' Blood Brothers: My L ife Amongst the Vampires' - and, of course, his friend Sanguini." Worple, who was a small, stout, bespectacled man, grabbed Harry's hand and shook it enthusiastically; the vampire Sanguini, who was tall and emaciated with dark shadows under his eyes, merely nodded. He looked rather bored. A gaggle of girls was standing close to him, looking curious and excited. "Harry Potter, I am simply delighted!" said Worple, peering shortsightedly up into Harry's face. "I was saying to Professor Slughorn only the other day, 'Where is the biography of Harry Potter for which we have all been waiting?'" "Er," said Harry, "were you?" "Just as modest as Horace described!" said Worple. "But seri­ously" — his manner changed; it became suddenly businesslike — "I would be delighted to write it myself— people are craving to know more about you, dear boy, craving! If you were prepared to grant me a few interviews, say in four- or five-hour sessions, why, we could have the book finished within months. And all with very little effort on your part, I assure you — ask Sanguini here if it isn't quite — Sanguini, stay here!" added Worple, suddenly stern, for the vampire had been edging toward the nearby group of girls, a rather hungry look in his eye. "Here, have a pasty," said Worple, seizing one from a passing elf and stuffing it into Sanguini's hand before turning his attention back to Harry. "My dear boy, the gold you could make, you have no idea —" "I'm definitely not interested," said Harry firmly, "and I've just seen a friend of mine, sorry." He pulled Luna after him into the crowd; he had indeed just seen a long mane of brown hair disappear between what looked like two members of the Weird Sisters. "Hermione! Hermione !" "Harry! There you are, thank goodness! Hi, Luna !" "What's happened to you?" asked Harry, for Hermione looked distinctly disheveled, rather as though she had just fought her way out of a thicket of Devil's Snare. "Oh, I've just escaped — I mean, I've just left Cormac," she said. "Under the mistletoe," she added in explanation, as Harry continued to look questioningly at her. "Serves you right for coming with him," he told her severely. "I thought he'd annoy Ron most," said Hermione dispassion­ately. "I debated for a while about Zacharias Smith, but I thought, on the whole —" "You considered Smith?" said Harry, revoked. "Yes, I did, and I'm starting to wish I'd chosen him, McLaggen makes Grawp look a gentleman. Let's go this way, we'll be able to see him coming, he's so tall. . . ." The three of them made their way over to the other side of the room, scooping up goblets of mead on the way, realizing too late that Professor Trelawney was standing there alone. "Hello," said Luna politely to Professor Trelawney. "Good evening, my dear," said Professor Trelawney, focusing upon Luna with some difficulty. Harry could smell cooking sherry again. "I haven't seen you in my classes lately. .." "No, I've got Firenze this year," said Luna. "Oh, of course," said Professor Trelawney with an angry, drunken titter. "Or Dobbin, as I prefer to think of him. You would have thought, would you not, that now I am returned to the school Professor Dumbledore might have got rid of the horse? But no ... we share classes. . . . It's an insult, frankly, an insult. Do you know. . ." Professor Trelawney seemed too tipsy to have recognized Harry. Under cover of her furious criticisms of Firenze, Harry drew closer to Hermione and said, "Let ' s get something straight. Are you planning to tell Ron that you interfered at Keeper tryouts?" Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Do you really think I'd stoop that low?" -=-Harry looked at her shrewdly. "Hermione, if you can ask 0111 McLaggen —" "There's a difference," said Hermione with dignity. "I've got no plans to tell Ron anything about what might, or might not, have happened at Keeper tryouts." "Good," said Harry fervently. "Because he'll just fall apart again, and we'll lose the next match —" "Quidditch!" said Hermione angrily. "Is that all boys care about? Cormac hasn't asked me one single question about myself, no, I've just been treated to 'A Hundred Great Saves Made by Cormac McLaggen' nonstop ever since — oh no, here he comes!" She moved so fast it was as though she had Disapparated; one moment she was there, the next, she had squeezed between two guffawing witches and vanished. "Seen Hermione?" asked McLaggen, forcing his way through the throng a minute later. "No, sorry," said Harry, and he turned quickly to join in Luna's conversation, forgetting for a split second to whom she was talking. "Harry Potter!" said Professor Trelawney in deep, vibrant tones, noticing him for the first time. "Oh, hello," said Harry unenthusiastically. "My dear boy!" she said in a very carrying whisper. "The rumors! The stories! 'The Chosen One'! Of course, I have known for a very long time. . . . The omens were never good, Harry. . . But why have you not returned to Divination? For you, of all people, the subject is of the utmost importance!" "Ah, Sybi l l, we all think our subject's most important!" said a loud voice, and Slughorn appeared at Professor Trelawney s other side, his face very red, his velvet hat a little askew, a glass of mead in one hand and an enormous mince pie in the other. "But I don't t hink I've ever known such a natural at Potions!" said Slughorn, re­garding Harry with a fond, if bloodshot, eye. "Instinctive, you know — like his mother! I've only ever taught a few with this kind of ability, I can tell you that, Sybi l l — why even Severus —" And to Harry's horror, Slughorn threw out an arm and seemed to scoop Snape out of thin air toward them. "Stop skulking and come and join us, Severus!" hiccuped Slughorn happily. "I was just talking about Harry's exceptional po­tion-making! Some credit must go to you, of course, you taught him for five years!" Trapped, with Slughorns arm around his shoulders, Snape looked down his hooked nose at Harry, his black eyes narrowed. "Funny, I never had the impression that I managed to teach Potter anything at all." "Well, then, it's natural ability!" shouted Slughorn. "You should have seen what he gave me, first lesson, Draught of Living Death — never had a student produce finer on a first attempt, I don't think even you, Severus —" "Really?" said Snape quietly, his eyes still boring into Harry, who felt a certain disquiet. The last thing he wanted was for Snape to start investigating the source of his newfound brilliance at Potions. "Remind me what other subjects you're taking, Harry?" asked Slughorn . "Defense Against the D ark Arts, Charms, Transfiguration , Herbology..." "All the subjects required, in short, for an Auror ," said Snap e with the faintest sneer. "Yeah, well, that's what I'd like to do," said Harry defiantly. "And a great one you'll make too!" boomed Slughorn. "I don't think you should be an Auror, Harry," said Luna unex pectedly. Everybody looked at her. "The Aurors are part of the Rotfang Conspiracy, I thought everyone knew that. They're planning to bring down the Ministry of Magic from within using a c om bination of Dark Magic and gum disease." Harry inhaled half his mead up his nose as he started to lau gh. Really, it had been worth bringing Luna just for this. Emerging, from his goblet, coughing, sopping wet but still grinning, he saw something calculated to raise his spirits even higher: Draco Malf o y being dragged by the ear toward them by Argus Filch. "Professor Slughorn," wheezed Filch, his jowls aquiver and the maniacal light of mischief-detection in his bulging eyes, "I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him with an invitation?" Malfoy pulled himself free of Filchs grip, looking furious. "All right, I wasn't invited!" he said angrily. "I was trying to gate crash, happy?" "No, I'm not!" said Filch, a statement at complete odds with the glee on his face. "You're in trouble, you are! Didn't the headma ster say that nighttime prowling ' s out, unless you've got permission, didn't he, eh?" -=-"That's all right, Argus, that's all right," said Slughorn, waving it 1.1 nd. "It's Christmas, and it's not a crime to want to come to a party . Just this once, we'll forget any punishment; you may stay , Draco. Fil ich's expression of outraged disappointment was perfectly pre di c t able; but why, Harry wondered, watching him, did Malfoy look almost equally unhappy? And why was Snape looking at Mal­foy as though both angry and . . . was it p ossible? ... a lit tl afraid? But almost before Harry had registered what he had seen, Filch had turned and shuffled away, muttering under his breath; Malfoy h ad composed his face into a smile and was thanking Slughorn for his generosity, and Snape's face was smoothly inscrutable again. "It's nothing, nothing," said Slughorn, waving away Malfoy's t hanks. "I did know your grandfather, after all...." "He always spoke very highly of you, sir," said Malfoy quickly. "Said you were the best potion-maker he'd ever known. ..." Harry stared at Malfoy. It was not the sucking-up that intrigued him; he had watched Malfoy do that to Snape for a long time. It was the fact that Malfoy did, after all, look a little ill. This was the first time he had seen Malfoy close up for ages; he now saw that Malfoy had dark shadows under his eyes and a distinctly grayish tinge to his skin. "I'd like a word with you, Draco," said Snape suddenly. "Now , Severus," said Slughorn, hiccuping again, "it's Christ mas, do n't be too hard —" "I am his Head of House, and I shall decide how hard, or other­wise, to be," said Snape curtly. "Follow me, Draco." They left, Snape leading the way, Malfoy looking resentful. Harry stood there for a moment, irresolute, then said, "I'll be back in a bit, Luna — er — bathroom." "All right," she said cheerfully, and he thought he heard her, as he hurried off into the crowd, resume the subject of the Rotfang Conspiracy with Professor Trelawney, who seemed sincerely in terested. It was easy, once out of the party, to pull his Invisibility Cloak out of his pocket and throw it over himself, for the corridor was quite deserted. What was more difficult was finding Snape and Malfoy. Harry ran down the corridor, the noise of his feet masked by the music and loud talk still issuing from Slughorn's office behind him. Perhaps Snape had taken Malfoy to his office in the dungeons ... or perhaps he was escorting him back to the Slyt herin common room. . . . Harry pressed his ear against door after door as he dashed down the corridor until, with a great jolt of excitement, he crouched down to the keyhole of the last classroom in the corridor and heard voices. " . . . cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled —" "I didn't have anything to do with it, all right?" "I hope you are telling the truth, because it was both clumsy a nd foolish. Already you are suspected of having a hand in it." "Who suspects me?" said Malfoy angrily. "For the last time, I didn't do it, okay? That Bell girl must ' ve had an enemy no on e knows about — don't look at me like that! I know what you're do­ing, I'm not stupid, but it won't work — I can stop you!" There was a pause and then Snape said quietly, "Ah . . . Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency, I see. What thoughts are you trying to conceal from your master, Draco?" "I'm not trying to conceal anything from him, I just don't want you butting in !" Harry pressed his ear still more closely against the keyhole. . . . What had happened to make Malfoy speak to Snape like this — Snape, toward whom he had always shown respect, even liking? "So that is why you have been avoiding me this term? You have feared my interference? You realize that, had anybody else failed to come to my office when I had told them repeatedly to be there, Draco —" "So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!" jeered Malfoy. There was another pause. Then Snape said, "You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things ." "You'd better stop telling me to come to your office then!" "Listen to me," said Snape, his voice so low now that Harry had to push his ear very hard against the keyhole to hear. "I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco —" "Looks like you'll have to break it, then, because I don't need your protection! It's my job, he gave it to me and I'm doing it, I've got a plan and it's going to work, it's just taking a bit longer than I thought it would!" "What is your plan ?" "It's none of your business !" " If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you ..." "I have all the assistance I need, thanks, I'm not alone!" "You were certainly alone tonight, which was foolish in the ex­treme, wandering the corridors without lookouts or backup, these are elementary mistakes —" "I would've had Crabbe and Goyle with me if you hadn't put them in detention!" "Keep your voice down!" spat Snape, for Malfoy ' s voice had risen excitedly. "If your friends Crabbe and Goyle intend to pass their Defense Against the Dark Arts OWL this time around, they will need to work a little harder than they are doing at pres —" "What does it matter?" said Malfoy. "Defense Against the Dark Arts — its all just a joke, isn't it, an act? Like any of us need pro­tecting against the Dark Arts —" "It is an act that is crucial to success, Draco!" said Snape. "Where do you think I would have been all these years, if I had not known how to act? Now listen to me! You are being incautious, wandering around at night, getting yourself caught, and if you are placing your reliance in assistants like Crabbe and Goyle —" "They're not the only ones, I've got other people on my side, better people!" "Then why not confide in me, and I can —" "I know what you're up to! You want to steal my glory!" There was another pause, then Snape said coldly, "You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your fathers capture and imprisonment has upset you, but —" Harry had barely a second ' s warning; he heard Malfoy's footsteps on the other side of the door and flung himself out of the way just as it burst open . Malfoy was striding away down the corridor, past the open door of Slughorns office, around the distant corner, and out of sight. Hardly daring to breathe, Harry remained crouched down as Snape emerged slowly from the classroom. His expression unfath­omable, he returned to the party. Harry remained on the floor, hid­den beneath the cloak, his mind racing.

Doraemon

Chapter 16: A very frosty Christmas “So Snape was offering to help him? He was definitely offering to help him?" "If you ask. that once more," said Harry, "I'm going to stick this sprout —" "I'm only checking!" said Ron. They were standing alone at the Burrow's kitchen sink, peeling a mountain of sprouts for Mrs. Weasley. Snow was drifting past the window in front of them. "Yes, Snape was offering to help him!" said Harry. "He said he'd promised Malfoy's mother to protect him, that he'd made an Un­breakable Oath or something —" "An Unbreakable Vow?" said Ron, looking stunned. "Nah, he can't have. . . . Are you sure?" "Yes, I'm sure," said Harry. "Why, what does it mean?" “Well, you can't break an Unbreakable Vow. . . ." "I'd worked that much out for myself, funnily enough. What happens if you break it, then?" "You die," said Ron simply. "Fred and George tried to get me to make one when I was about five. I nearly did too, I was holding hands with Fred and everything when Dad found us. He went mental," said Ron, with a reminiscent gleam in his eyes. "Only time I've ever seen Dad as angry as Mum, Fred reckons his left but­tock has never been the same since." "Yeah, well, passing over Fred's left buttock —" "I beg your pardon?" said Fred's voice as the twins entered the kitchen. "Aaah, George, look at this. They're using knives and everything. Bless them." "I'll be seventeen in two and a bit months' time," said Ron grumpily, "and then I'll be able to do it by magic!" "But meanwhile," said George, sitting down at the kitchen table and putting his feet up on it, "we can enjoy watching you demon­strate the correct use of a — whoops-a-daisy!" "You made me do that!" said Ron angrily, sucking his cut thumb. "You wait, when I'm seventeen —" "I'm sure you'll dazzle us all with hitherto unsuspected magical skills," yawned Fred. "And speaking of hitherto unsuspected skills, Ronald," said George, "what is this we hear from Ginny about you and a young lady called — unless our information is faulty — Lavender Brown?" Ron turned a little pink, but did not look displeased as he turned back to the sprouts. "Mind your own business." "What a snappy retort," said Fred. "I really don't know how you think of them. No, what we wanted to know was... how did it happen?" "What d'you mean?" "Did she have an accident or something?" "What?" ..¦; "Well, how did she sustain such extensive brain damage? Care­ful, now!" Mrs. Weasley entered the room just in time to see Ron throw the sprout knife at Fred, who had turned it into a paper airplane with one lazy flick of his wand, "Ron!" she said furiously. "Don't you ever let me see you throw­ing knives again!" "I wont," said Ron, "let you see," he added under his breath, as he turned back to the sprout mountain. "Fred, George, I'm sorry, dears, but Remus is arriving tonight, so Bill will have to squeeze in with you two." ; "No problem," said George. - "Then, as Charlie isn't coming home, that just leaves Harry and ;¦/ Ron in the attic, and if Fleur shares with Ginny —" "— that'll make Ginny's Christmas —" muttered Fred. "— everyone should be comfortable. Well, they'll have a bed, anyway," said Mrs. Weasley, sounding slightly harassed. "Percy definitely not showing his ugly face, then?" asked Fred. Mrs. Weasley turned away before she answered. "No, he's busy, I expect, at the Ministry." "Or he's the world's biggest prat," said Fred, as Mrs. Weasley left the kitchen. "One of the two. "Well, let's get going, then, George." "What are you two up to?" asked Ron. "Cant you help us with these sprouts? You could just use your wand and then we'll be free too!" "No, I don't think we can do that," said Fred seriously. "It's very character-building stuff, learning to peel sprouts without magic, makes you appreciate how difficult it is for Muggles and Squibs —" "— and if you want people to help you, Ron," added George, throwing the paper airplane at him, "I wouldn't chuck knives at them. Just a little hint. We're off to the village, there's a very pretty girl working in the paper shop who thinks my card tricks are some­thing marvelous . . , almost like real magic. ..." "Gits," said Ron darkly, watching Fred and George setting off across the snowy yard. "Would've only taken them ten seconds and then we could've gone too." "I couldn't," said Harry. "I promised Dumbledore I wouldn't wander off while I'm staying here." "Oh yeah," said Ron. He peeled a few more sprouts and then said, "Are you going to tell Dumbledore what you heard Snape and Malfoy saying to each other?" "Yep," said Harry. "I'm going to tell anyone who can put a stop to it, and Dumbledore’s top of the list. I might have another word with your dad too." "Pity you didn't hear what Malfoy’s actually doing, though." "I couldn't have done, could I? That was the whole point, he was refusing to tell Snape." There was silence for a moment or two, then Ron said, " 'Course, you know what they'll all say? Dad and Dumbledore and all of them? They'll say Snape isn't really trying to help Malfoy, he was just trying to find out what Malfoy's up to." "They didn't hear him," said Harry flatly. "No one's that good an actor, not even Snape." "Yeah . . . I'm just saying, though/' said Ron. Harry turned to face him, frowning. "You think I'm right, though?" , "Yeah, I do!" said Ron hastily. "Seriously, I do! But they're all convinced Snape's in the Order, aren't they?" Harry said nothing. It had already occurred to him that this would be the most likely objection to his new evidence; he could hear Hermione now: Obviously, Harry, he was pretending to offer help so he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he's doing. . . . This was pure imagination, however, as he had had no opportu­nity to tell Hermione what he had overheard. She had disappeared from Slughorn's party before he returned to it, or so he had been informed by an irate McLaggen, and she had already gone to bed by the time he returned to the common room. As he and Ron had left for the Burrow early the next day, he had barely had time to wish her a happy Christmas and to tell her that he had some very important news when they got back from the holidays. He was not entirely sure that she had heard him, though; Ron and Lavender had been saying a thoroughly nonverbal good-bye just behind him at the time. Still, even Hermione would not be able to deny one thing: Mal­foy was definitely up to something, and Snape knew it, so Harry felt fully justified in saying "I told you so," which he had done sev­eral times to Ron already. Harry did not get the chance to speak to Mr. Weasley, who was working very long hours at the Ministry, until Christmas Eve night. The Weasleys and their guests were sitting in the living room, which Ginny had decorated so lavishly that it was rather like sitting in a paper-chain explosion. Fred, George, Harry, and Ron were the only ones who knew that the angel on top of the tree was actually a garden gnome that had bitten Fred on the ankle as hr pulled up carrots for Christmas dinner. Stupefied, painted gold, stuffed into a miniature tutu and with small wings glued to il.s back, it glowered down at them all, the ugliest angel Harry had ever seen, with a large bald head like a potato and rather hairy feet. They were all supposed to be listening to a Christmas broadcast by Mrs. Weasleys favorite singer, Celestina Warbeck, whose voice was warbling out of the large wooden wireless set. Fleur, who seemed to find Celestina very dull, was talking so loudly in the corner that a scowling Mrs. Weasley kept pointing her wand at the volume con­trol, so that Celestina grew louder and louder. Under cover of a par­ticularly jazzy number called "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love," Fred and George started a game of Exploding Snap with Ginny. Ron kept shooting Bill and Fleur covert looks, as though hoping to pick up tips. Meanwhile, Remus Lupin, who was thinner and more ragged-looking than ever, was sitting beside the fire, staring into its depths as though he could not hear Celestinas voice. Oh, come and stir my cauldron, And if you do it right, I'll boil you up some hot strong love To keep you warm tonight. "We danced to this when we were eighteen!" said Mrs. Weasley, wiping her eyes on her knitting. "Do you remember, Arthur?" "Mphf?" said Mr. Weasley, whose head had been nodding over the satsuma he was peeling. "Oh yes ... marvelous tune . . ." With an effort, he sat up a little straighter and looked around at Harry, who was sitting next to him. "Sorry about this," he said, jerking his head toward the wireless as Celestina broke into the chorus. "Be over soon." "No problem," said Harry, grinning. "Has it been busy at the Ministry?" "Very," said Mr. Weasley. "I wouldn't mind if we were getting anywhere, but of the three arrests we've made in the last couple of months, I doubt that one of them is a genuine Death Eater — only don't repeat that, Harry," he added quickly, looking much more awake all of a sudden. "They're not still holding Stan Shunpike, are they?" asked Harry. "I'm afraid so," said Mr. Weasley. "I know Dumbledore's tried appealing directly to Scrimgeour about Stan. ... I mean, anybody who has actually interviewed him agrees that he's about as much a Death Eater as this satsuma . . . but the top levels want to look as though they're making some progress, and 'three arrests' sounds better than 'three mistaken arrests and releases'. . . but again, this is all top secret. . . ." "I won't say anything," said Harry. He hesitated for a moment, wondering how best to embark on what he wanted to say; as he marshaled his thoughts, Celestina Warbeck began a ballad called "You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me." "Mr. Weasley, you know what I told you at the station when we were setting off for school?" "I checked, Harry," said Mr. Weasley at once. "I went and searched the Malfoys' house. There was nothing, either broken or whole, that shouldn't have been there." "Yeah, I know, I saw in the Prophet that you'd looked . . . but this is something different. . . . Well, something more ..." And he told Mr. Weasley everything he had overheard between Malfoy and Snape, As Harry spoke, he saw Lupin's head turn a lit­tle toward him, taking in every word. When he had finished, there was silence, except for Celestina's crooning. Oh, my poor heart, where has it gone? It's left me for a spell... "Has it occurred to you, Harry," said Mr. Weasley, "that Snape was simply pretending — ?" "Pretending to offer help, so that he could find out what Malfoy's up to?" said Harry quickly. "Yeah, I thought you'd say that. But how do we know?" "It isn't our business to know," said Lupin unexpectedly. He had turned his back on the fire now and faced Harry across Mr. Weasley. "It's Dumbledore’s business. Dumbledore trusts Severus, and that ought to be good enough for all of us." "But," said Harry, "just say — just say Dumbledores wrong about Snape —" "People have said it, many times. It comes down to whether or not you trust Dumbledore’s judgment. I do; therefore, I trust Severus." "But Dumbledore can make mistakes," argued Harry. "He says it himself. And you" — he looked Lupin straight in the eye — "do you honestly like Snape?" "I neither like nor dislike Severus," said Lupin. "No, Harry, I am speaking the truth," he added, as Harry pulled a skeptical expres­sion. "We shall never be bosom friends, perhaps; after all that hap­pened between James and Sirius and Severus, there is too much bitterness there. But I do not forget that during the year I taught at Hogwarts, Severus made the Wolfsbane Potion for me every month, made it perfectly, so that I did not have to suffer as I usu­ally do at the full moon." "But he 'accidentally' let it slip that you're a werewolf, so you had to leave!" said Harry angrily. Lupin shrugged. "The news would have leaked out anyway. We both know he wanted my job, but he could have wreaked much worse damage on me by tampering with the potion. He kept me healthy. I must be grateful." "Maybe he didn't dare mess with the potion with Dumbledore watching him!" said Harry. "You are determined to hate him, Harry," said Lupin with a faint smile. "And I understand; with James as your father, with Sir­ius as your godfather, you have inherited an old prejudice. By all means tell Dumbledore what you have told Arthur and me, but do not expect him to share your view of the matter; do not even expect him to be surprised by what you tell him. It might have been on Dumbledore's orders that Severus questioned Draco." ; . . . and now you've torn it quite apart I'll thank you to give back my heart! Celestina ended her song on a very long, high-pitched note and loud applause issued out of the wireless, which Mrs. Weasley joined in with enthusiastically. "Eez eet over?" said Fleur loudly. "Thank goodness, what an 'orrible —" "Shall we have a nightcap, then?" asked Mr. Weasley loudly, leaping to his feet. "Who wants eggnog?" "What have you been up to lately?" Harry asked Lupin, as Mr, Weasley bustled off to fetch the eggnog, and everybody else stretched and broke into conversation. "Oh, I've been underground," said Lupin. "Almost literally. That's why I haven't been able to write, Harry; sending letters to you would have been something of a giveaway." -: "What do you mean?" ' "I've been living among my fellows, my equals," said Lupin. "Werewolves," he added, at Harrys look of incomprehension. "Nearly all of them are on Voldemort's side. Dumbledore wanted a spy and here I was . . . ready-made." He sounded a little bitter, and perhaps realized it, for he smiled more warmly as he went on, "I am not complaining; it is necessary work and who can do it better than I? However, it has been difficult gaining their trust. I bear the unmistakable signs of having tried to live among wizards, you see, whereas they have shunned normal society and live on the margins, stealing — and sometimes killing — to eat." "How come they like Voldemort?" "They think that, under his rule, they will have a better life," said Lupin. "And it is hard to argue with Greyback out there. . . ." "Who's Greyback?" "You haven't heard of him?" Lupin's hands closed convulsively in his lap. "Fenrir Greyback is, perhaps, the most savage werewolf alive today. He regards it as his mission in life to bite and to conta­minate as many people as possible; he wants to create enough were­wolves to overcome the wizards. Voldemort has promised him prey in return for his services. Greyback specializes in children. . . . Bite them young, he says, and raise them away from their parents, raise them to hate normal wizards. Voldemort has threatened to unleash him upon people's sons and daughters; it is a threat that usually produces good results." Lupin paused and then said, "It was Greyback who bit me." "What?" said Harry, astonished. "When — when you were a kid, you mean?" "Yes. My father had offended him. I did not know, for a very long time, the identity of the werewolf who had attacked me; I even felt pity for him, thinking that he had had no control, know­ing by then how it felt to transform. But Greyback is not like that. At the full moon, he positions himself close to victims, ensuring that he is near enough to strike. He plans it all. And this is the man Voldemort is using to marshal the werewolves. I cannot pretend that my particular brand of reasoned argument is making much headway against Greyback's insistence that we werewolves deserve blood, that we ought to revenge ourselves on normal people." "But you are normal!" said Harry fiercely. "You've just got a — a problem —" Lupin burst out laughing. "Sometimes you remind me a lot of James. He called it my 'furry little problem in company. Many people were under the impression that I owned a badly behaved rabbit." He accepted a glass of eggnog from Mr. Weasley with a word of thanks, looking slightly more cheerful, Harry, meanwhile, felt a rush of excitement: This last mention of his father had reminded him that there was something he had been looking forward to ask­ing Lupin. "Have you ever heard of someone called the Half-Blood Prince?" "The Half-Blood what?" "Prince," said Harry, watching him closely for signs of recogni­tion. "There are no Wizarding princes," said Lupin, now smiling. "Is this a title you re thinking of adopting? I should have thought be­ing 'the Chosen One' would be enough." "It's nothing to do with me!" said Harry indignantly. "The Half-Blood Prince is someone who used to go to Hogwarts, I've got his old Potions book. He wrote spells all over it, spells he invented. One of them was Levicorpus —" "Oh, that one had a great vogue during my time at Hogwarts," said Lupin reminiscently. "There were a few months in my fifth year when you couldn't move for being hoisted into the air by your ankle." "My dad used it," said Harry. "I saw him in the Pensieve, he used it on Snape." He tried to sound casual, as though this was a throwaway com­ment of no real importance, but he was not sure he had achieved the right effect; Lupins smile was a little too understanding. "Yes," he said, "but he wasn't the only one. As I say, it was very popular. . . . You know how these spells come and go. , . ." "But it sounds like it was invented while you were at school," Harry persisted. "Not necessarily," said Lupin. "Jinxes go in and out of fashion like everything else." He looked into Harry's face and then said quietly, "James was a pureblood, Harry, and I promise you, he never asked us to call him 'Prince.'" Abandoning pretense, Harry said, "And it wasn't Sirius? Or you?" "Definitely not." "Oh." Harry stared into the fire. "I just thought — well, he's helped me out a lot in Potions classes, the Prince has." "How old is this book, Harry?" "I dunno, I've never checked." "Well, perhaps that will give you some clue as to when the Prince was at Hogwarts," said Lupin. Shortly after this, Fleur decided to imitate Celestina singing "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love," which was taken by everyone, once they had glimpsed Mrs. Weasley's expression, to be the cue to go to bed. Harry and Ron climbed all the way up to Ron's attic bedroom, where a camp bed had been added for Harry. Ron fell asleep almost immediately, but Harry delved into his trunk and pulled out his copy of Advanced Potion-Making before getting into bed. There he turned its pages, searching, until he finally found, at the front of the book, the date that it had been pub­lished. It was nearly fifty years old. Neither his father, nor his father's friends, had been at Hogwarts fifty years ago. Feeling disappointed, Harry threw the book back into his trunk, turned off the lamp, and rolled over, thinking of werewolves and Snape, Stan Shunpike and the Half-Blood Prince, and finally falling into an uneasy sleep full of creeping shadows and the cries of bitten children. . . . "She's got to be joking. . . ." Harry woke with a start to find a bulging stocking lying over the end of his bed. He put on his glasses and looked around; the tiny window was almost completely obscured with snow and, in front of it, Ron was sitting bolt upright in bed and examining what ap­peared to be a thick gold chain. "What's chat?" asked Harry. ' "Its from Lavender," said Ron, sounding revolted^ "She earn honestly think I'd wear ..." Harry looked more closely and let out a shout of laughter, Dan gling from the chain in large gold letters were the words: “My sweetheart” "Nice," he said. "Classy. You should definitely wear it in front ol Fred and George." "If you tell them," said Ron, shoving the necklace out of sight under his pillow, "I — I — I’ll —" "Stutter at me?" said Harry, grinning. "Come on, would I?" "How could she think I'd like something like that, though?" Ron demanded of thin air, looking rather shocked. "Well, think back," said Harry. "Have you ever let it slip that you'd like to go out in public with the words 'My Sweetheart' round your neck?" "Well... we don't really talk much," said Ron. "It's mainly . . ." "Snogging," said Harry. "Well, yeah," said Ron. He hesitated a moment, then said, "Is Hermione really going out with McLaggen?" "I dunno," said Harry. "They were at Slughorn's party together, but I don't think it went that well." Ron looked slightly more cheerful as he delved deeper into his stocking. Harrys presents included a sweater with a large Golden Snitch worked onto the front, hand-knitted by Mrs. Weasley, a large box of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes products from the twins, and a slightly damp, moldy-smelling package that came with a label read­ing To Master, From Kreacher, Harry stared at it. "D'you reckon this is safe to open?" he asked. "Can't be anything dangerous, all our mail's still being searched at the Ministry," replied Ron, though he was eyeing the parcel suspiciously. "I didn't think of giving Kreacher anything. Do people usually give their house-elves Christmas presents?" asked Harry, prodding the parcel cautiously. "Hermione would," said Ron. "But let's wait and see what it is before you start feeling guilty." A moment later, Harry had given a loud yell and leapt out of his camp bed; the package contained a large number of maggots. "Nice," said Ron, roaring with laughter. "Very thoughtful." "I'd rather have them than that necklace," said Harry, which sobered Ron up at once. Everybody was wearing new sweaters when they all sat down for Christmas lunch, everyone except Fleur (on whom, it appeared, Mrs. Weasley had not wanted to waste one) and Mrs. Weasley herself, who was sporting a brand-new midnight blue witch's hat glittering with what looked like tiny starlike diamonds, and a spec­tacular golden necklace. "Fred and George gave them to me! Aren't they beautiful?" .: "Well, we find we appreciate you more and more, Mum, now we're washing our own socks," said George, waving an airy hand. "Parsnips, Remus?" "Harry, you've got a maggot in your hair," said Ginny cheerfully, leaning across the table to pick it out; Harry felt goose bumps erupt up his neck that had nothing to do with the maggot. "'Ow 'orrible," said Fleur, with an affected little shudder. "Yes, isn't it?" said Ron. "Gravy, Fleur?" . In his eagerness to help her, he knocked the gravy boat flying; Bill waved his wand and the gravy soared up in the air and returned meekly to the boat. "You are as bad as zat Tonks," said Fleur to Ron, when she had finished kissing Bill in thanks. "She is always knocking —" "I invited dear Tonks to come along today," said Mrs. Weasley, setting down the carrots with unnecessary force and glaring at Fleur. "But she wouldn't come. Have you spoken to her lately, Remus?" "No, I haven't been in contact with anybody very much," said Lupin. "But Tonks has got her own family to go to, hasn't she?" "Hmmm," said Mrs. Weasley. "Maybe. I got the impression she was planning to spend Christmas alone, actually." She gave Lupin an annoyed look, as though it was all his fault she was getting Fleur for a daughter-in-law instead of Tonks, but Harry, glancing across at Fleur, who was now feeding Bill bits of turkey off her own fork, thought that Mrs. Weasley was fighting a long-lost battle. He was, however, reminded of a question he had with regard to Tonks, and who better to ask than Lupin, the man who knew all about Patronuses? "Tonks's Patronus has changed its form," he told him. "Snape said so anyway. I didn't know that could happen. Why would your Patronus change?" Lupin took his time chewing his turkey and swallowing before saying slowly, "Sometimes ... a great shock ... an emotional up­heaval ..." "It looked big, and it had four legs," said Harry, struck by a sud­den thought and lowering his voice. "Hey ... it couldn't be — ?" "Arthur!" said Mrs. Weasley suddenly. She had risen from her chair; her hand was pressed over her heart and she was staring out of the kitchen window. "Arthur — it's Percy!" "What?" Mr. Weasley looked around. Everybody looked quickly at the window; Ginny stood up for a better look. There, sure enough, was Percy Weasley, striding across the snowy yard, his horn-rimmed glasses glinting in the sunlight. He was not, however, alone. "Arthur, he's — he's with the Minister!" And sure enough, the man Harry had seen in the Daily Prophet was following along in Percy's wake, limping slightly, his mane of graying hair and his black cloak flecked with snow. Before any of , them could say anything, before Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could do : more than exchange stunned looks, the back door opened and there stood Percy. There was a moment's painful silence. Then Percy said rather stiffly, "Merry Christmas, Mother." "Oh, Percy!" said Mrs. Weasley, and she threw herself into his arms. Rufus Scrimgeour paused in the doorway, leaning on his walk­ing stick and smiling as he observed this affecting scene. "You must forgive this intrusion," he said, when Mrs. Weasley looked around at him, beaming and wiping her eyes. "Percy and I were in the vicinity — working, you know — and he couldn't re­sist dropping in and seeing you all." But Percy showed no sign of wanting to greet any of the rest of the family. He stood, poker-straight and awkward-looking, and stared over everybody else's heads. Mr. Weasley, Fred, and George were all observing him, stony-faced. "Please, come in, sit down, Minister!" fluttered Mrs. Weasley, straightening her hat. Have a little purkey, or some tooding. ... 1 '. mean —" "No, no, my dear Molly," said Scrimgeour. Harry guessed that he had checked her name with Percy before they entered the house. "I don't want to intrude, wouldn't be here at all if Percy hadn't wanted to see you all so badly. . . ." "Oh, Perce!" said Mrs. Weasley tearfully, reaching up to kiss him. ". , . We've only looked in for five minutes, so I'll have a stroll around the yard while you catch up with Percy. No, no, I assure you I don't want to butt in! Well, if anybody cared to show me your charming garden . . . Ah, that young man's finished, why doesn't he take a stroll with me?" The atmosphere around the table changed perceptibly. Every­body looked from Scrimgeour to Harry. Nobody seemed to find Scrimgeour's pretense that he did not know Harry's name convincing, or find it natural that he should be chosen to accompany the Minister around the garden when Ginny, Fleur, and George also had clean plates. "Yeah, all right," said Harry into the silence. He was not fooled; for all Scrimgeour's talk that they had just been in the area, that Percy wanted to look up his family, this must be the real reason that they had come, so that Scrimgeour could speak to Harry alone. "It's fine," he said quietly, as he passed Lupin, who had half risen from his chair. "Fine," he added, as Mr. Weasley opened his mouth to speak. "Wonderful!" said Scrimgeour, standing back to let Harry pass through the door ahead of him. "We'll just take a turn around the garden, and Percy and I'll be off. Carry on, everyone!" Harry walked across the yard toward the Weasleys' overgrown, snow-covered garden, Scrimgeour limping slightly at his side. He had, Harry knew, been Head of the Auror office; he looked tough and battle-scarred, very different from portly Fudge in his bowler hat. "Charming," said Scrimgeour, stopping at the garden fence and looking out over the snowy lawn and the indistinguishable plants. "Charming." Harry said nothing. He could tell that Scrimgeour was watching him. "I've wanted to meet you for a very long time," said Scrimgeour, after a few moments. "Did you know that?" "No," said Harry truthfully. ¦!. "Oh yes, for a very long time. But Dumbledore has been very protective of you," said Scrimgeour. "Natural, of course, natural, after what you've been through. . . . Especially what happened at : the Ministry ...": He waited for Harry to say something, but Harry did not oblige, : so he went on, "I have been hoping for an occasion to talk to you ever since I gained office, but Dumbledore has — most under­standably, as I say — prevented this." Still, Harry said nothing, waiting. "The rumors that have flown around!" said Scrimgeour. "Well, of course, we both know how these stories get distorted ... all these whispers of a prophecy . . . of you being 'the Chosen One'. . ." They were getting near it now, Harry thought, the reason Scrim­geour was here. “I assume that Dumbledore has discussed these matters with you?", Harry deliberated, wondering whether he ought to lie or not. He looked at the little gnome prints all around the flowerbeds, ami the scuffed-up patch that marked the spot where Fred had caught the gnome now wearing the tutu at the top of the Christmas tree. Finally, he decided on the truth ... or a bit of it. "Yeah, we've discussed it." "Have you, have you . . ." said Scrimgeour. Harry could see, out of the corner of his eye, Scrimgeour squinting at him, so he pre­tended to be very interested in a gnome that had just poked its head out from underneath a frozen rhododendron. "And what has Dumbledore told you, Harry?" "Sorry, but that's between us," said Harry. He kept his voice as pleasant as he could, and Scrimgeour's tone, too, was light and friendly as he said, "Oh, of course, if it's a question of confidences, I wouldn't want you to divulge . . . no, no ... and in any case, does it really matter whether you are 'the Chosen One' or not?" Harry had to mull that one over for a few seconds before re­sponding. "I don't really know what you mean, Minister." "Well, of course, to you it will matter enormously," said Scrim­geour with a laugh. "But to the Wizarding community at large . . . it's all perception, isn't it? It's what people believe that's important." Harry said nothing. He thought he saw, dimly, where they were heading, but he was not going to help Scrimgeour get there. The gnome under the rhododendron was now digging for worms at its roots, and Harry kept his eyes fixed upon it. "People believe you are 'the Chosen One,' you see," said Scrim­geour. "They think you quite the hero — which, of course, you arc, Harry, chosen or not! How many times have you faced He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named now? Well, anyway," he pressed on, without waiting for a reply, "the point is, you are a symbol of hope lor many, Harry. The idea that there is somebody out there who might be able, who might even be destined, to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named — well, naturally, it gives people a lift. And I can't help but feel that, once you realize this, you might consider it, well, almost a duty, to stand alongside the Ministry, and give everyone a boost." The gnome had just managed to get hold of a worm. It was now tugging very hard on it, trying to get it out of the frozen ground. Harry was silent so long that Scrimgeour said, looking from Harry to the gnome, "Funny little chaps, aren't they? But what say you, Harry?" "I don't exactly understand what you want," said Harry slowly. '"Stand alongside the Ministry' . . . What does that mean?" "Oh, well, nothing at all onerous, I assure you," said Scrim­geour. "If you were to be seen popping in and out of the Ministry from time to time, for instance, that would give the right impres­sion. And of course, while you were there, you would have ample : opportunity to speak to Gawain Robards, my successor as Head of the Auror office. Dolores Umbridge has told me that you cherish an ambition to become an Auror. Well, that could be arranged very easily. ..." Harry felt anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach: So Dolores Umbridge was still at the Ministry, was she? "So basically," he said, as though he just wanted to clarify a few points, "you'd like to give the impression that I'm working for the Ministry?" "It would give everyone a lift to think you were more involved, Harry," said Scrimgeour, sounding relieved that Harry had cot­toned on so quickly. "'The Chosen One,' you know. . . It's all about giving people hope, the feeling that exciting things are hap­pening. ..." "But if I keep running in and out of the Ministry," said Harry, still endeavoring to keep his voice friendly, "won't that seem as though I approve of what the Ministry's up to?" "Well," said Scrimgeour, frowning slightly, "well, yes, that's partly why we'd like —" "No, I don't think that'll work," said Harry pleasantly. "You see, I don't like some of the things the Ministry's doing. Locking up Stan Shunpike, for instance." Scrimgeour did not speak for a moment but his expression hard­ened instantly. "I would not expect you to understand," he said, and he was not as successful at keeping anger out of his voice as Harry had been. "These are dangerous times, and certain measures need to be taken. You are sixteen years old —" "Dumbledore's a lot older than sixteen, and he doesn't think Stan should be in Azkaban either," said Harry. "You're making Stan a scapegoat, just like you want to make me a mascot." They looked at each other, long and hard. Finally Scrimgeour said, with no pretense at warmth, "I see. You prefer — like your hero, Dumbledore — to disassociate yourself from the Ministry?" "I don't want to be used," said Harry. "Some would say it's your duty to be used by the Ministry!" "Yeah, and others might say its your duty to check that people really are Death Eaters before you chuck them in prison," said Harry, his temper rising now. "You're doing what Barty Crouch did. You never get it right, you people, do you? Either we've got Fudge, pretending everything's lovely while people get murdered right under his nose, or we've got you, chucking the wrong people into jail and trying to pretend you've got 'the Chosen One' work­ing for you!" ' i "So you're not 'the Chosen One'?" said Scrimgeour. ' "I thought you said it didn't matter either way?" said Harry, with a bitter laugh. "Not to you anyway." "I shouldn't have said that," said Scrimgeour quickly. "It was tactless —" "No, it was honest," said Harry. "One of the only honest things you've said to me. You don't care whether I live or die, but you do care that I help you convince everyone you're winning the war against Voldemort. I haven't forgotten, Minister...." He raised his right fist. There, shining white on the back of his cold hand, were the scars which Dolores Umbridge had forced him to carve into his own flesh: I must not tell lies. "I don't remember you rushing to my defense when I was trying to tell everyone Voldemort was back. The Ministry wasn't so keen to be pals last year." They stood in silence as icy as the ground beneath their feet. The gnome had finally managed to extricate his worm and was now sucking on it happily, leaning against the bottommost branches of the rhododendron bush. "What is Dumbledore up to?" said Scrimgeour brusquely. "Where does he go when he is absent from Hogwarts?" "No idea," said Harry. "And you wouldn't tell me if you knew," said Scrimgeour, "would you?" "No, 1 wouldn't," said Harry. "Well, then, I shall have to see whether I can't find out by other means." "You can try," said Harry indifferently. "But you seem cleverer than Fudge, so I'd have thought you'd have learned from his mis­takes. He tried interfering at Hogwarts. You might have noticed he's not Minister anymore, but Dumbledore’s still headmaster. I'd leave Dumbledore alone, if I were you." There was a long pause. "Well, it is clear to me that he has done a very good job on you," said Scrimgeour, his eyes cold and hard behind his wire-rimmed glasses, "Dumbledore’s man through and through, aren't you, Potter?" "Yeah, I am," said Harry. "Glad we straightened that out." And turning his back on the Minister of Magic, he strode back toward the house.

Doraemon

Chapter 17: A sluggish memory Late in the afternoon, a few days after New Year, Harry, Ron, and Ginny lined up beside the kitchen fire to return to Hogwarts. The Ministry had arranged this one-off connection to the Floo Network to return students quickly and safely to the school. Only Mrs. Weasley was there to say good-bye, as Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, Bill, and Fleur were all at work. Mrs. Weasley dissolved into tears at the moment of parting. Admittedly, it took very little to set her off lately; she had been crying on and off ever since Percy had stormed from the house on Christmas Day with his glasses splattered with mashed parsnip (for which Fred, George, and Ginny all claimed credit). "Don't cry, Mum," said Ginny, patting her on the back as Mrs. Weasley sobbed into her shoulder. "It's okay. ..." "Yeah, don't worry about us," said Ron, permitting his mother to plant a very wet kiss on his cheek, "or about Percy. He's such a prat, it's not really a loss, is it?" Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever as she enfolded Harry in her arms. "Promise me you'll look after yourself.. .. Stay out of trouble. ..." "I always do, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry. "I like a quiet life, you know me." She gave a watery chuckle and stood back. "Be good, then, all of you. ..." Harry stepped into the emerald fire and shouted "Hogwarts!" He had one last fleeting view of the Weasleys' kitchen and Mrs. Weasley's tearful face before the flames engulfed him; spinning very fast, he caught blurred glimpses of other Wizarding rooms, which were whipped out of sight before he could get a proper look; then he was slowing down, finally stopping squarely in the fireplace in Professor McGonagall's office. She barely glanced up from her work as he clambered out over the grate. "Evening, Potter. Try not to get too much ash on the carpet." "No, Professor." Harry straightened his glasses and flattened his hair as Ron came spinning into view. When Ginny had arrived, all three of them trooped out of McGonagall's office and off toward Gryffindor Tower. Harry glanced out of the corridor windows as they passed; the sun was already sinking over grounds carpeted in deeper snow than had lain over the Burrow garden. In the distance, he could see Hagrid feeding Buckbeak in front of his cabin. "Baubles," said Ron confidently, when they reached the Fat Lady, who was looking rather paler than usual and winced at his loud voice. "No," she said. “What d’you mean, ‘no’ ? "There is a new password," she said. "And please don't shout." "But we've been away, how're we supposed to — ?" "Harry! Ginny!" Hermione was hurrying toward them, very pink-faced and wearing a cloak, hat, and gloves. "I got back a couple of hours ago, I've just been down to visit Hagrid and Buck — I mean Witherwings," she said breathlessly. "Did you have a good Christmas?" "Yeah," said Ron at once, "pretty eventful, Rufus Scrim —" ] "I've got something for you, Harry," said Hermione, neither looking at Ron nor giving any sign that she had heard him. "Oh, hang on — password. Abstinence." "Precisely," said the Fat Lady in a feeble voice, and swung forward to reveal the portrait hole. "What's up with her?" asked Harry. "Overindulged over Christmas, apparently," said Hermione, rolling her eyes as she led the way into the packed common room. "She and her friend Violet drank their way through all the wine in that picture of drunk monks down by the Charms corridor. Anyway..." She rummaged in her pocket for a moment, then pulled out a scroll of parchment with Dumbledore's writing on it. "Great," said Harry, unrolling it at once to discover that his next lesson with Dumbledore was scheduled for the following night. "I’ve got loads to tell him — and you. Let's sit down —" But at that moment there was a loud squeal of "Won-Won!" and Lavender Brown came hurtling out of nowhere and flung herself into Ron's arms. Several onlookers sniggered; Hermione gave a tinkling laugh and said, "There's a cable over here... Coming. Ginny?" "No, thanks, I said I'd meet Dean," said Ginny, though Harry could not help noticing that she did not sound very enthusiastic. Leaving Ron and Lavender locked in a kind of vertical wrestling, match, Harry led Hermione over to the spare table. "So how was your Christmas?" "Oh, fine," she shrugged. "Nothing special. How was it at Won-Won's?" "I'll tell you in a minute," said Harry. "Look, Hermione, can't you —" "No, I can't," she said flatly. "So don't even ask." "I thought maybe, you know, over Christmas —" "It was the Fat Lady who drank a vat of five-hundred-year-old wine, Harry, not me. So what was this important news you wanted to tell me?" She looked too fierce to argue with at that moment, so Harry dropped the subject of Ron and recounted all that he had overheard between Malfoy and Snape. When he had finished, Hermione sat in thought for a moment and then said, "Don't you think — ?" "— he was pretending to offer help so that he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he's doing?" "Well, yes," said Hermione. "Ron’s dad and Lupin think so," Harry said grudgingly. "But this definitely proves Malfoy’s planning something, you can't deny that." "No, I can't," she answered slowly. "And he's acting on Voldemort's orders, just like I said!" "Hmm .. . did either of them actually mention Voldemort's name?" Harry frowned, trying to remember. "I'm not sure ... Snape definitely said 'your master,' and who else would that be?" "I don't know," said Hermione, biting her lip. "Maybe his father?" She stared across the room, apparently lost in thought, not even noticing Lavender tickling Ron. "How's Lupin?" "Not great," said Harry, and he told her all about Lupin’s mission among the werewolves and the difficulties he was facing. "Have you heard of this Fenrir Greyback?" "Yes, I have!" said Hermione, sounding startled. "And so have you, Harry!" "When, History of Magic? You know full well I never listened ..." "No, no, not History of Magic — Malfoy threatened Borgin with Kim!" said Hermione. "Back in Knockturn Alley, don't you remember? He told Borgin that Greyback was an old family friend and that he'd be checking up on Borgin's progress!" Harry gaped at her. "I forgot! But this proves Malfoy s a Death Eater, how else could he be in contact with Greyback and telling him what to do?" "It is pretty suspicious," breathed Hermione. "Unless . . ." "Oh, come on," said Harry in exasperation, "you can't get round this one!" "Well . . . there is the possibility it was an empty threat." "You're unbelievable, you are," said Harry, shaking his head. "We'll see who's right. . . . You'll be eating your words, Hermione, just like the Ministry. Oh yeah, 1 had a row with Rufus Scrimgeour as well. . . ." And the rest of the evening passed amicably with both of them abusing the Minister of Magic, for Hermione, like Ron, thought that after all the Ministry had put Harry through the previous year, they had a great deal of nerve asking him for help now. The new term started next morning with a pleasant surprise for the sixth years: a large sign had been pinned to the common room notice boards overnight. APPARITION LESSONS If you are seventeen years of age, or will turn seventeen on or before the 31st August next, you are eligible for a twelve-week course of Apparition Lessons from a Ministry of Magic Apparition instructor. Please sign below if you would like to participate. Cost: 12 Galleons. Harry and Ron joined the crowd that was jostling around the notice and taking it in turns to write their names at the bottom. Ron was just taking out his quill to sign after Hermione when Lavender crept up behind him, slipped her hands over his eyes, and trilled, "Guess who, Won-Won?" Harry turned to see Hermione stalking off; he caught up with her, having no wish to stay behind with Ron and Lavender, but to his surprise, Ron caught up with them only a little way beyond the portrait hole, his ears bright red and his expression disgruntled. Without a word, Hermione sped up to walk with Neville. "So — Apparition," said Ron, his tone making it perfectly plain that Harry was not to mention what had just happened. "Should be a laugh, eh?" "I dunno," said Harry. "Maybe it's better when you do it yourself, I didn’t enjoy it much when Dumbledore took me along for the ride." "I forgot you'd already done it. ... I'd better pass my test first time," said Ron, looking anxious. "Fred and George did," "Charlie failed, though, didn't he?" "Yeah, but Charlie's bigger than me" — Ron held his arms out from his body as though he was a gorilla — "so Fred and George didn't go on about it much . . . not to his face anyway . . ." "When can we take the actual test?" "Soon as we're seventeen. That's only March for me!" "Yeah, but you wouldn't be able to Apparate in here, not in the castle . . ." "Not the point, is it? Everyone would know I could Apparate if I wanted." Ron was not the only one to be excited at the prospect of Apparition. All that day there was much talk about the forthcoming , lessons; a great deal of store was set by being able to vanish and reappear at will. "How cool will it be when we can just —" Seamus clicked his ringers to indicate disappearance. "Me cousin Fergus does it just to annoy me, you wait till I can do it back. . . He'll never have another peaceful moment. . . ." Lost in visions of this happy prospect, he flicked his wand a little too enthusiastically, so that instead of producing the fountain of pure water that was the object of today's Charms lesson, he let out a hoselike jet that ricocheted off the ceiling and knocked Professor Flitwick flat on his face. "Harry’s already Apparated," Ron told a slightly abashed Seamus, after Professor Flitwick had dried himself off with a wave of his wand and set Seamus lines: "I am a wizard, not a baboon brandishing a stick." "Dum — er — someone took him. Side-Along-Apparition, you know." "Whoa!" whispered Seamus, and he, Dean, and Neville put their heads a little closer to hear what Apparition felt like. For the rest of the day, Harry was besieged with requests from the other sixth years to describe the sensation of Apparition. All of them seemed awed, rather than put off, when he told them how uncomfortable it was, and he was still answering detailed questions at ten to eight that evening, when he was forced to lie and say that he needed to return a book to the library, so as to escape in time for his lesson with Dumbledore. The lamps in Dumbledore’s office were lit, the portraits of previous headmasters were snoring gently in their frames, and the Pen-sieve was ready upon the desk once more. Dumbledore’s hands lay on either side of it, the right one as blackened and burnt-looking as ever. It did not seem to have healed at all and Harry wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time, what had caused such a distinctive injury, but did not ask; Dumbledore had said that he would know eventually and there was, in any case, another subject he wanted to discuss. But before Harry could say anything about Snape and Malfoy, Dumbledore spoke. "I hear that you met the Minister of Magic over Christmas?" "Yes," said Harry. "He's not very happy with me." "No," sighed Dumbledore. "He is not very happy with me either. We must try not to sink beneath our anguish, Harry, but battle on." Harry grinned. "He wanted me to tell the Wizarding community that the Ministry's doing a wonderful job.' Dumbledore smiled. "It was Fudge's idea originally, you know. During his last days in office, when he was trying desperately to cling to his post, he sought a meeting with you, hoping that you would give him your support —" "After everything Fudge did last year?" said Harry angrily. "After Umbridge ?” "I told Cornelius there was no chance of it, but the idea did not die when he left: office. Within hours of Scrimgeour's appointment we met and he demanded that I arrange a meeting with you —" "So that's why you argued!" Harry blurted out. "It was in the Daily Prophet"' "The Prophet is bound to report the truth occasionally," said Dumbledore, "if only accidentally. Yes, that was why we argued. Well, it appears that Rufus found a way to corner you at last." "He accused me of being 'Dumbledore's man through and through.'" "How very rude of him." "I told him I was." Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Behind Harry, Fawkes the phoenix let out a low, soft, musical cry. To Harry’s intense embarrassment, he suddenly realized that Dumbledore's bright blue eyes looked rather watery, ami stared hastily at his own knees. When Dumbledore spoke, however, his voice was quite steady. "I am very touched, Harry." "Scrimgeour wanted to know where you go when you're not at Hogwarts," said Harry, still looking fixedly at his knees. "Yes, he is very nosy about that," said Dumbledore, now sounding cheerful, and Harry thought it safe to look up again. "He has even attempted to have me followed. Amusing, really. He set Dawlish to tail me. It wasn't kind. I have already been forced to jinx Dawlish once; I did it again with the greatest regret." "So they still don't know where you go?" asked Harry, hoping for more information on this intriguing subject, but Dumbledore merely smiled over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "No, they don't, and the time is not quite right for you to know either. Now, I suggest we press on, unless there's anything else — ?" "There is, actually, sir," said Harry. "It's about Malfoy and Snape." "Professor Snape, Harry." "Yes, sir. I overheard them during Professor Slughorns party . . . well, I followed them, actually. ..." Dumbledore listened to Harry's story with an impassive face. When Harry had finished he did not speak for a few moments, then said, "Thank you for telling me this, Harry, but I suggest that you put it out of your mind. I do not think that it is of great importance." "Not of great importance?" repeated Harry incredulously. "Professor, did you understand — ?" "Yes, Harry, blessed as I am with extraordinary brainpower, I understood everything you told me," said Dumbledore, a little sharply. "I think you might even consider the possibility that I understood more than you did. Again, I am glad that you have con-lided in me, but let me reassure you that you have not told me anything that causes me disquiet." Harry sat in seething silence, glaring at Dumbledore. What was going on? Did this mean that Dumbledore had indeed ordered Snape to find out what Malfoy was doing, in which case he had already heard everything Harry had just told him from Snape? Or was he really worried by what he had heard, but pretending not to be? "So, sir," said Harry, in what he hoped was a polite, calm voice, "you definitely still trust — ?" "I have been tolerant enough to answer that question already," said Dumbledore, but he did not sound very tolerant anymore. "My answer has not changed." "I should think not," said a snide voice; Phineas Nigellus was evidently only pretending to be asleep. Dumbledore ignored him. "And now, Harry, I must insist that we press on. I have more important things to discuss with you this evening." Harry sat there feeling mutinous. How would it be if he refused to permit the change of subject, if he insisted upon arguing the case against Malfoy? As though he had read Harry's mind, Dumbledore shook his head. "Ah, Harry, how often this happens, even between the best of friends! Each of us believes that what he has to say is much more important than anything the other might have to contribute!" "I don't think what you've got to say is unimportant, sir," said Harry stiffly. "Well, you are quite right, because it is not," said Dumbledore briskly. "I have two more memories to show you this evening, both obtained with enormous difficulty, and the second of them is, 1 think, the most important I have collected." Harry did not say anything to this; he still felt angry at the reception his confidences had received, but could not see what was to be gained by arguing further. "So," said Dumbledore, in a ringing voice, "we meet this evening to continue the tale of Tom Riddle, whom we left last lesson poised on the threshold of his years at Hogwarts. You will remember how excited he was to hear that he was a wizard, that he refused my company on a trip to Diagon Alley, and that I, in turn, warned him against continued thievery when he arrived at school. "Well, the start of the school year arrived and with it came Tom Riddle, a quiet boy in his secondhand robes, who lined up with the other first years to be sorted. He was placed in Slytherin House almost the moment that the Sorting Hat touched his head," continued Dumbledore, waving his blackened hand toward the shelf over his head where the Sorting Hat sat, ancient and unmoving. "How soon Riddle learned that the famous founder of the House could talk to snakes, I do not know — perhaps that very evening. The knowledge can only have excited him and increased his sense of self-importance. "However, if he was frightening or impressing fellow Slytherins with displays of Parseltongue in their common room, no hint of it reached the staff. He showed no sign of outward arrogance or aggression at all. As an unusually talented and very good-looking orphan, he naturally drew attention and sympathy from the staff almost from the moment of his arrival. He seemed police, quiet, and thirsty for knowledge. Nearly all were most favorably impressed by him." "Didn't you tell them, sir, what he'd been like when you met him at the orphanage?" asked Harry. "No, I did not. Though he had shown no hint of remorse, it was possible that he felt sorry for how he had behaved before and was resolved to turn over a fresh leaf. I chose to give him that chance." Dumbledore paused and looked inquiringly at Harry, who had opened his mouth to speak. Here, again, was Dumbledore's tendency to trust people in spite of overwhelming evidence that they did not deserve it! But then Harry remembered something. . . . "But you didn't really trust him, sir, did you? He told me . . . the Riddle who came out of that diary said, 'Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did.'" "Let us say that I did not take it for granted that he was trustworthy," said Dumbledore. "I had, as I have already indicated, resolved to keep a close eye upon him, and so I did. I cannot pretend that I gleaned a great deal from my observations at first. He was very guarded with me; he felt, I am sure, that in the thrill of discovering his true identity he had told me a little too much. He was careful never to reveal as much again, but he could not take back what he had let slip in his excitement, nor what Mrs. Cole had confided in me. However, he had the sense never to try and charm me as he charmed so many of my colleagues. "As he moved up the school, he gathered about him a group of dedicated friends; I call them that, for want of a better term, although as I have already indicated, Riddle undoubtedly felt no affection for any of them. This group had a kind of dark glamour within the castle. They were a motley collection; a mixture of the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty. In other words, they were the forerunners of the Death Eaters, and indeed some of them became the first Death Eaters after leaving Hogwarts. "Rigidly controlled by Riddle, they were never detected in open wrongdoing, although their seven years at Hogwarts were marked by a number of nasty incidents to which they were never satisfactorily linked, the most serious of which was, of course, the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, which resulted in the death of a girl. As you know, Hagrid was wrongly accused of that crime. "I have not been able to find many memories of Riddle at Hogwarts," said Dumbledore, placing his withered hand on the Pensieve. "Few who knew him then are prepared to talk about him; they are too terrified. What I know, I found out after he had left Hogwarts, after much painstaking effort, after tracing those few who could be tricked into speaking, after searching old records and questioning Muggle and wizard witnesses alike. "Those whom I could persuade to talk told me that Riddle was obsessed with his parentage. This is understandable, of course; he had grown up in an orphanage and naturally wished to know how he came to be there. It seems that he searched in vain for some trace of Tom Riddle senior on the shields in the trophy room, on the lists of prefects in the old school records, even in the books of Wizarding history. Finally he was forced to accept that his father had never set foot in Hogwarts. I believe that it was then that he dropped the name forever, assumed the identity of Lord Volde-mort, and began his investigations into his previously despised mother's family — the woman whom, you will remember, he had thought could not be a witch if she had succumbed to the shameful human weakness of death. "All he had to go upon was the single name 'Marvolo,' which he knew from those who ran the orphanage had been his mother's father's name. Finally, after painstaking research, through old books of Wizarding families, he discovered the existence of Slytherin's surviving line. In the summer of his sixteenth year, he left the orphanage to which he returned annually and set off to find his Gaunt relatives. And now, Harry, if you will stand ..." : Dumbledore rose, and Harry saw that he was again holding a. small crystal bottle filled with swirling, pearly memory. "I was very lucky to collect this," he said, as he poured the gleaming mass into the Pensieve. "As you will understand when we have experienced it. Shall we?" Harry stepped up to the stone basin and bowed obediently until his face sank through the surface of the memory; he felt the familiar sensation of falling through nothingness and then landed upon a dirty stone floor in almost total darkness. It took him several seconds to recognize the place, by which time Dumbledore had landed beside him. The Gaunts' house was now more indescribably filthy than anywhere Harry had ever seen. The ceiling was thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime; moldy and rotting food lay upon the table amidst a mass of crusted pots. The only light came from a single guttering candle placed at the feet of a man with hair and beard so overgrown Harry could see neither eyes nor mouth. He was slumped in an armchair by the fire, and Harry wondered for a moment whether he was dead. But then there came a loud knock on the door and the man jerked awake, raising a wand in his right hand and a short knife in his left. The door creaked open. There on the threshold, holding an old-fashioned lamp, stood a boy Harry recognized at once: tall, pale, dark-haired, and handsome — the teenage Voldemort. Voldemort's eyes moved slowly around the hovel and then found the man in the armchair. For a few seconds they looked at each other, then the man staggered upright, the many empty bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling across the floor. "YOU!" he bellowed. "YOU!" And he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife held aloft. "Stop." Riddle spoke in Parseltongue. The man skidded into the table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor. He stared at Riddle. There was a long silence while they contemplated each other. The man broke it. "You speak it?" "Yes, I speak it," said Riddle. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Harry could not help but feel a resentful admiration for Voldemort's complete lack of fear. His race merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, disappointment. "Where is Marvolo?" he asked. "Dead," said the other. "Died years ago, didn't he?" Riddle frowned. "Who are you, then?" "I’m Morfin, ain't I?" "Marvolo's son?" "'Course I am, then..." • ,, . Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see Riddle, and Harry saw that he wore Marvolo's black-stoned ring on his right hand. "I thought you was that Muggle," whispered Morfin. "You look mighty like that Muggle." "What Muggle?" said Riddle sharply. "That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way," said Morfin, and he spat unexpectedly upon the floor between them. "You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, in 'e? He's older'n you, now I think on it. ..." Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still clutching the edge of the table for support. "He come back, see," he added stupidly. Voldemort was gazing at Morfin as though appraising his possibilities. Now he moved a little closer and said, "Riddle came back?" "Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!" said Morfin, spitting on the floor again. "Robbed us, mind, before she ran off. , Where's the locket, eh, where's Slytherin's locket?" Voldemort did not answer. Morfin was working himself into a rage again; he brandished his knife and shouted, "Dishonored us, , she did, that little slut! And whore you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit. . . . It's over. ..." He looked away, staggering slightly, and Voldemort moved forward. As he did so, an unnatural darkness fell, extinguishing Voldemort's lamp and Morfin's candle, extinguishing everything. . . . Dumbledore's fingers closed tightly around Harry's arm and they were soaring back into the present again. The soft golden light in Dumbledore's office seemed to dazzle Harry's eyes after that impenetrable darkness. | "Is that all?" said Harry at once. "Why did it go dark, what happened?" "Because Morfin could not remember anything from that point onward," said Dumbledore, gesturing Harry back into his seat. "When he awoke next morning, he was lying on the floor, quite alone. Marvolo's ring had gone. "Meanwhile, in the village of Little Hangleton, a maid was running along the High Street, screaming that there were three bodies lying in the drawing room of the big house: Tom Riddle Senior and his mother and father. "The Muggle authorities were perplexed. As far as I am aware, they do not know to this day how the Riddles died, for the Avadu Kedavra curse does not usually leave any sign of damage. . . . The exception sits before me," Dumbledore added, with a nod to Harry's scar. "The Ministry, on the other hand, knew at once that this was a wizard's murder. They also knew that a convicted Muggle-hater lived across the valley from the Riddle house, a Muggle-hater who had already been imprisoned once for attacking one of the murdered people. "So the Ministry called upon Morfin. They did not need to question him, to use Veritaserum or Legilimency. He admitted to the murder on the spot, giving details only the murderer could know. He was proud, he said, to have killed the Muggles, had been awaiting his chance all these years. He handed over his wand, which was proved at once to have been used to kill the Riddles. And he permitted himself to be led off to Azkaban without a fight. All that disturbed him was the fact that his fathers ring had disappeared. 'He'll kill me for losing it,' he told his captors over and over again. 'He'll kill me for losing his ring.' And that, apparently, was all he ever said again. He lived out the remainder of his life in Azkaban, lamenting the loss of Marvolo's last heirloom, and is buried beside the prison, alongside the other poor souls who have expired within its walls." "So Voldemort stole Morfin's wand and used it?" said Harry, sitting up straight. "That's right," said Dumbledore. "We have no memories to show us this, but I think we can be fairly sure what happened. Voldemort Stupefied his uncle, took his wand, and proceeded across the valley to 'the big house over the way.' There he murdered the Muggle man who had abandoned his witch mother, and, for good measure, his Muggle grandparents, thus obliterating the last of the unworthy Riddle line and revenging himself upon the father who never wanted him. Then he returned to the Gaunt hovel, performed the complex bit of magic that would implant a false memory in his uncle's mind, laid Morfin's wand beside its unconscious owner, pocketed the ancient ring he wore, and departed." "And Morfin never realized he hadn't done it?" "Never," said Dumbledore. "He gave, as I say, a full and boastful confession." "But he had this real memory in him all the time!" "Yes, but it took a great deal of skilled Legilimency to coax it out of him," said Dumbledore, "and why should anybody delve further into Morfin's mind when he had already confessed to the crime? However, I was able to secure a visit to Morfin in the last weeks of his life, by which time I was attempting to discover as much as I could about Voldemort's past. I extracted this memory with difficulty. When I saw what it contained, I attempted to use it to secure Morfin's release from Azkaban. Before the Ministry reached their decision, however, Morfin had died." "But how come the Ministry didn't realize that Voldemort had done all that to Morfin?" Harry asked angrily "He was underage at the time, wasn't he? I thought they could detect underage magic!" "You are quite right — they can detect magic, but not the perpetrator: You will remember that you were blamed by the Ministry for the Hover Charm that was, in fact, cast by —" "Dobby," growled Harry; this injustice still rankled. "So if you're underage and you do magic inside an adult witch or wizard's house, the Ministry won't know?" "They will certainly be unable to tell who performed the magic," said Dumbledore, smiling slightly at the look of great indignation on Harrys face. "They rely on witch and wizard parents to enforce their offspring's obedience while within their walls." "Well, that's rubbish," snapped Harry. "Look what happened here, look what happened to Morfin!" "I agree," said Dumbledore. "Whatever Morfin was, he did not deserve to die as he did, blamed for murders he had not committed. But it is getting late, and I want you to see this other memory before we part. ..." Dumbledore took from an inside pocket another crystal phial and Harry fell silent at once, remembering that Dumbledore had said it was the most important one he had collected. Harry noticed that the contents proved difficult to empty into the Pensieve, as though they had congealed slightly; did memories go bad? "This will not take long," said Dumbledore, when he had finally emptied the phial. "We shall be back before you know it. Once more into the Pensieve, then . . ." And Harry fell again through the silver surface, landing this time right in front of a man he recognized at once. It was a much younger Horace Slughorn. Harry was so used to him bald that he found the sight of Slughorn with thick, shiny, straw-colored hair quite disconcerting; it looked as though he had had his head thatched, though there was already a shiny Galleon-sized bald patch on his crown. His mustache, less massive than it was these days, was gingery-blond. He was not quite as rotund as the Slughorn Harry knew, though the golden buttons on his richly embroidered waistcoat were taking a fair amount of strain. His little feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, he was sitting well back in a comfortable winged armchair, one hand grasping a small glass of wine, the other searching through a box of crystalized pineapple. Harry looked around as Dumbledore appeared beside him and saw that they were standing in Slughorn's office. Haifa dozen boys were sitting around Slughorn, all on harder or lower seats than his, and all in their mid-teens. Harry recognized Voldemort at once. His was the most handsome face and he looked the most relaxed of all the boys. His right hand lay negligently upon the arm of his chair; with a jolt, Harry saw that he was wearing Marvolo's gold-and-black ring; he had already killed his father. "Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?" he asked. "Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you," said Slughorn, wagging a reproving, sugar-covered finger at Riddle, though ruining the effect slightly by winking. "I must say, I'd like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.” Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks. "What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn’t, and your careful flattery of the people who matter — thank you fm the pineapple, by the way, you're quite right, it is my favorite — " As several of the boys tittered, something very odd happened. The whole room was suddenly filled with a thick white fog, so that Harry could see nothing but the face of Dumbledore, who was standing beside him. Then Slughorn's voice rang out through the mist, unnaturally loudly, "You'll go wrong, boy, mark my words. " The fog cleared as suddenly as it had appeared and yet nobody made any allusion to it, nor did anybody look as though anything unusual had just happened. Bewildered, Harry looked around as a small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock. "Good gracious, is it that time already?" said Slughorn. "You'd better get going, boys, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it's detention. Same goes for you, Avery." Slughorn pulled himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk as the boys filed out. Voldemort, however, stayed behind. Harry could tell he had dawdled deliberately, wanting to be last in the room with Slughorn. "Look sharp, Tom," said Slughorn, turning around and finding him still present. "You don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect..." "Sir, I wanted to ask you something." "Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away...." "Sir, I wondered what you know about. . . about Horcruxes?" And it happened all over again: The dense fog filled the room so that Harry could not see Slughorn or Voldemort at all; only Dumbledore, smiling serenely beside him. Then Slughorn's voice boomed out again, just as it had done before. "I don't know anything about Horcruxes and I wouldn't tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once and don’t let me catch you mentioning them again!" "Well, that's that," said Dumbledore placidly beside Harry. "Time to go." And Harry's feet left the floor to fall, seconds later, back onto the rug in front of Dumbledore's desk. "That's all there is?" said Harry blankly. Dumbledore had said that this was the most important memory of all, but he could not see what was so significant about it. Admittedly the fog, and the fact that nobody seemed to have noticed it, was odd, but other than that nothing seemed to have happened except that Voldemort had asked a question and failed to get an answer. "As you might have noticed," said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk, "that memory has been tampered with." "Tampered with?" repeated Harry, sitting back down too. "Certainly," said Dumbledore. "Professor Slughorn has meddled with his own recollections." "But why would he do that?" "Because, I think, he is ashamed of what he remembers," said Dumbledore. "He has tried to rework the memory to show himself in a better light, obliterating those parts which he does not wish me to see. It is, as you will have noticed, very crudely done, and that is all to the good, for it shows that the true memory is still there beneath the alterations. "And so, for the first time, I am giving you homework, Harry. It will be your job to persuade Professor Slughorn to divulge the real memory, which will undoubtedly be our most crucial piece of information of all." Harry stared at him. "But surely, sir," he said, keeping his voice as respectful as possible, "you don't need me — you could use Legilimency ... or Veritaserum. ..." "Professor Slughorn is an extremely able wizard who will be expecting both," said Dumbledore. "He is much more accomplished at Occlumency than poor Morfin Gaunt, and I would be astonished if he has not carried an antidote to Veritaserum with him ever since I coerced him into giving me this travesty of a recollection. "No, I think it would be foolish to attempt to wrest the truth from Professor Slughorn by force, and might do much more harm than good; I do not wish him to leave Hogwarts. However, he has his weaknesses like the rest of us, and I believe that you are the one person who might be able to penetrate his defenses. It is most important that we secure the true memory, Harry. . . . How important, we will only know when we have seen the real thing. So, good luck . . . and good night." A little taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, Harry got to his feet quickly. "Good night, sir." As he closed the study door behind him, he distinctly heard Phineas Nigellus say, "I can't see why the boy should be able to do it better than you, Dumbledore." "I wouldn't expect you to, Phineas," replied Dumbledore, and Fawkes gave another low, musical cry.

Doraemon

Chapter 18: Birthday Surprises The next day Harry confided in both Ron and Hermione the task that Dumbledore had set him, though separately, for Hermione still refused to remain in Ron's presence longer than it took to give him a contemptuous look. Ron thought that Harry was unlikely to have any trouble with Slughorn at all. 'He loves you,' he said over breakfast, waving an airy forkful of fried egg. 'Won't refuse you anything, will he? Not his little Potions Prince. Just hang back after class this afternoon and ask him.' Hermione, however, took a gloomier view. 'He must be determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore couldn't get it out of him,' she said in a low voice, as they stood in the deserted, snowy courtyard at break. 'Horcruxes ... Horcruxes ... I've never even heard of them ...' 'You haven't?' Harry was disappointed; he had hoped that Hermione might have been able to give him a clue as to what Horcruxes were. 'They must be really advanced Dark magic, or why would Voldemort have wanted to know about them? I think it's going to be difficult to get the information, Harry, you'll have to be very careful about how you approach Slughorn, think out a strategy ..." 'Ron reckons 1 should just hang back after Potions this afternoon ...' 'Oh, well, if Won-Won thinks that, you'd better do it,' she said, flaring up at once. 'After all, when has Won-Won's judgement ever been faulty?' 'Hermione, can't you —' 'No!' she said angrily, and stormed away, leaving Harry alone and ankle-deep in snow. Potions lessons were uncomfortable enough these days, seeing as Harry, Ron and Hermione had to share a desk. Today, Hermione moved her cauldron around the table so that she was close to Ernie, and ignored both Harry and Ron. 'What've you done?' Ron muttered to Harry, looking at Hermione's haughty profile. But before Harry could answer, Slughorn was calling for silence from the front of the room. 'Settle down, settle down, please! Quickly, now, lots of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott's Third Law ... who can tell me -? But Miss Granger can, of course!' Hermione recited at top speed: 'Golpalott's-Third-Law- states-that-the-antidote-for-a-blended-poison-will-be-equal-to- more-than-the-sum-of-the-antidotes-for-each-of-the-separale- components.' 'Precisely!' beamed Slughorn. Ten points for Gryffindor! Now, if we accept Golpalott's Third Law as true ..." Harry was going to have to take Slughorn's word for it that Golpalott's Third Law was true, because he had not under­stood any of it. Nobody apart from Hermione seemed to be following what Slughorn said next, either. '... which means, of course, that assuming we have achieved correct identification of the potion's ingredients by Scarpin's Revelaspell, our primary aim is not the relatively simple one of selecting antidotes to those ingredients in a of themselves, but to find that added component which will, by an almost alchemical process, transform these disparate elements -' Ron was sitting beside Harry with his mouth half-open, doodling absently on his new copy of Advanced Potion-Making. Ron kept forgetting that he could no longer rely on Hermione to help him out of trouble when he failed to grasp what was going on. '... and so,' finished Slughorn, 'I want each of you to come and take one of these phials from my desk. You are to create an antidote for the poison within it before the end of the lesson. Good luck, and don't forget your protective gloves!' Hermione had left her stool and was halfway towards Siughorn's desk before the rest of the class had realised it was time to move, and by the time Harry, Ron and Ernie returned to the table, she had already tipped the contents of her phial into her cauldron and was kindling a fire underneath it. 'it's a shame that the Prince won't be able to help you much with this, Harry,' she said brightly as she straightened up. 'You have to understand the principles involved this time. No short cuts or cheats!' Annoyed, Harry uncorked the poison he had taken from Siughorn's desk, which was a garish shade of pink, tipped it into his cauldron and lit a fire underneath it. He did not have the faintest idea what he was supposed to do next. He glanced at Ron, who was now standing there looking rather gormless, having copied everything Harry had done. 'You sure the Prince hasn't got any tips?' Ron muttered to Harry. Harry pulled out his trusty copy of Advanced Potion-Making and turned to the chapter on Antidotes. There was Golpalott's Third Law, stated word for word as Hermione had recited it, but not a single illuminating note in the Prince's hand to explain what it meant. Apparently the Prince, like Hermione, had had no difficulty understanding it. 'Nothing,' said Harry gloomily. Hermione was now waving her wand enthusiastically over her cauldron. Unfortunately, they could not copy the spell she was doing because she was now so good at non-verbal incan­tations that she did not need to say the words aloud. Ernie Macmillan, however, was muttering, 'Specialis revelio!' over his cauldron, which sounded impressive, so Harry and Ron hastened to imitate him. It took Harry only five minutes to realise that his reputa­tion as the best potion-maker in the class was crashing around his ears. Slughorn had peered hopefully into his cauldron on his first circuit of the dungeon, preparing to exclaim in delight as he usually did, and instead had with­drawn his head hastily, coughing, as the smell of bad eggs overwhelmed him. Hermione's expression could not have been any smugger; she had loathed being out-performed in every Potions class. She was now decanting the mysteriously separated ingredients of her poison into ten different crystal phials. More to avoid watching this irritating sight than any­thing else, Harry bent over the Half-Blood Prince's book and turned a few pages with unnecessary force. And there it was, scrawled right across a long list of antidotes. Just shove a bezoar down their throats. Harry stared at these words for a moment. Hadn't he once, long ago, heard of bezoars? Hadn't Snape mentioned them in their first ever Potions lesson? 'A stone taken from the stomach of a goat, which will protect from most poisons.' It was not an answer to the Golpalott problem, and had Snape still been their teacher, Harry would not have dared do it, but this was a moment for desperate measures. He hastened towards the store cupboard and rummaged within it, pushing aside unicorn horns and tangles of dried herbs until he found, at the very back, a small card box on which had been scribbled the word 'Bezoars'. He opened the box just as Slughorn called, Two minutes left, everyone!' Inside were half a dozen shrivelled brown objects, looking more like dried-up kidneys than real stones. Harry seized one, put the box back in the cupboard and hurried back to his cauldron. 'Time's ... UP!' called Slughorn genially. 'Well, let's see how you've done! Blaise ... what have you got for me?' Slowly, Slughorn moved around the room, examining the various antidotes. Nobody had finished the task, although Hermione was trying to cram a few more ingredients into her bottle before Slughorn reached her. Ron had given up com­pletely, and was merely trying to avoid breathing in the putrid fumes issuing from his cauldron. Harry stood there waiting, the bezoar clutched in a slightly sweaty hand. Slughorn reached their table last. He sniffed Ernie's potion and passed on to Ron's with a grimace. He did not linger over Ron's cauldron, but backed away swiftly, retching slightly. 'And you, Harry,' he said. 'What have you got to show me?' Harry held out his hand, the bezoar sitting on his palm. Slughorn looked down at it for a full ten seconds. Harry wondered, for a moment, whether he was going to shout at him. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. 'You've got a nerve, boy!' he boomed, taking the bezoar and holding it up so that the class could see it. 'Oh, you're like your mother ... well, 1 can't fault you ... a bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions!' Hermione, who was sweaty-faced and had soot on her nose, looked livid. Her half-finished antidote, comprising fifty-two ingredients including a chunk of her own hair, bubbled sluggishly behind Slughorn, who had eyes for nobody but Harry. 'And you thought of a bezoar all by yourself, did you, Harry?' she asked through gritted teeth. That's the individual spirit a real potion-maker needs!' said Slughorn happily, before Harry could reply. 'Just like his mother, she had the same intuitive grasp of potion-making, it's undoubtedly from Lily he gets it ... yes, Harry, yes, if you've got a bezoar to hand, of course that would do the trick ... although as they don't work on everything, and are pretty rare, it's still worth knowing how to mix antidotes ...' The only person in the room looking angrier than Hermione was Malfoy, who, Harry was pleased to see, had spilled some­thing that looked like cat sick over himself. Before either of them could express their fury that Harry had come top of the class by not doing any work, however, the bell rang. Time to pack up!' said Slughorn. 'And an extra ten points to Gryffindor for sheer cheek!' Still chuckling, he waddled back to his desk at the front of the dungeon. Harry dawdled behind, taking an inordinate amount of time to do up his bag. Neither Ron nor Hermione wished him luck as they left; both looked rather annoyed. At last Harry and Slughorn were the only two left in the room. 'Come on, now, Harry, you'll be late for your next lesson,' said Slughorn affably, snapping the gold clasps shut on his dragonskin briefcase. 'Sir,' said Harry, reminding himself irresistibly of Voldemort, '1 wanted to ask you something.' 'Ask away, then, my dear boy, ask away ..." 'Sir, 1 wondered what you know about ... about Horcruxes?' Slughorn froze. His round face seemed to sink in upon itself. He licked his lips and said hoarsely, 'What did you say?' 'I asked whether you know anything about Horcruxes, sir. You see -' 'Dumbledore put you up to this,' whispered Slughorn. His voice had changed completely. It was not genial any more, but shocked, terrified. He fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping his sweating brow. 'Dumbledore's shown you that - that memory,' said Slughorn. 'Well? Hasn't he?' 'Yes,' said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was best not to lie. 'Yes, of course,' said Slughorn quietly, still dabbing at his white face. 'Of course ... well, if you've seen that memory, Harry, you'll know that I don't know anything - anything -he repeated the word forcefully '- about Horcruxes.' He seized his dragonskin briefcase, stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket and marched to the dungeon door. 'Sir,' said Harry desperately, 'I just thought there might be a bit more to the memory -' 'Did you?' said Slughorn. Then you were wrong, weren't you? WRONG!' He bellowed the last word and, before Harry could say another word, slammed the dungeon door behind him. Neither Ron nor Hermione was at all sympathetic when Harry told them of this disastrous interview Hermione was still seething at the way Harry had triumphed without doing the work properly. Ron was resentful that Harry hadn't slipped him a bezoar, too. 'It would've just looked stupid if we'd both done it!' said Harry irritably. 'Look, I had to try and soften him up so I could ask him about Voldemort, didn't I? Oh, will you gel a grip!' he added in exasperation, as Ron winced at the sound of the name. Infuriated by his failure and by Ron and Hermione's atti- tudes, Harry brooded for the next few days over what to do next about Slughorn. He decided that, for the time being, he would let Slughorn think that he had forgotten all about Horcruxes; it was surely best to lull him into a false sense of security before returning to the attack. When Harry did noi question Slughorn again, the Potions master reverted to his usual affectionate treatment of him, and appeared to have put the matter from his mind. Harry awaited an invitation to one of his little evening parties, determined to accept this time, even if he had to reschedule Quidditch prac­ tice. Unfortunately, however, no such invitation arrived. Harry checked with Hermione and Ginny: neither of them had received an invitation and nor, as far as they knew, had anybody else. Harry could not help wondering whether this meant that Slughorn was not quite as forgetful as he appeared, simply determined to give Harry no additional opportunities to question him. Meanwhile, the Hogwarts library had failed Hermione for the first lime in living memory. She was so shocked, she even forgot that she was annoyed at Harry for his trick with the bezoar, 'I haven't found one single explanation of what Horcruxes do!" she told him. 'Not a single one! I've been right through the restricted section and even in the most horrible books, where they tell you how to brew the most gruesome potions -nothing! All I could find was this, in the introduciion to Magick Mostc Evilc — listen — "of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction" ... 1 mean, why mention it, then?' she said impatiently, slamming the old book shut; it let out a ghostly wail. 'Oh, shut up,' she snapped, stuffing it back into her bag. 'I asked whether you know anything about Horcruxes, sir. You see - 'Dumbledore put you up to this,' whispered Slughorn, His voice had changed completely. It was not genial any more, but shocked, terrified. He fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping his sweating brow. 'Dumbledore's shown you that — that memory,' said Slughorn. 'Well? Hasn't he?' 'Yes,' said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was best not to lie. 'Yes, of course,' said Slughorn quietly, still dabbing at his white face. 'Of course ... well, if you've seen that memory, Harry, you'll know that I don't know anything - anything -he repeated the word forcefully '- about Horcruxes.' He seized his dragonskin briefcase, stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket and marched to the dungeon door. 'Sir,' said Harry desperately, '1 just thought there might be a 'Did you?' said Slughorn. Then you were wrong, weren't you? WRONG!' He bellowed the last word and, before Harry could say another word, slammed the dungeon door behind him. Neither Ron nor Hermione was at all sympathetic when Harry told them of this disastrous interview. Hermione was still seething at the way Harry had triumphed without doing the work properly. Ron was resentful that Harry hadn't slipped him a bezoar, too. 'It would've just looked stupid if we'd both done it!' said Harry irritably. 'Look, 1 had to try and soften him up so 1 could ask him about Voldemort, didn't I? Oh, will you get a grip!' he added in exasperation, as Ron winced at the sound of Infuriated by his failure and by Ron and Hermione's atti- tudes, Harry brooded for the next few days over what to do next about Slughorn. He decided that, for the time being, he would let Slughorn think that he had forgotten all about Horcruxes; it was surely best to lull him into a false sense of security before returning to the attack. When Harry did not question Slughorn again, the Potions master reverted to his usual affectionate treatment of him, and appeared to have put the matter from his mind. Harry awaited an invitation to one of his little evening parties, determined to accept this time, even if he had to reschedule Quidditch prac­tice. Unfortunately, however, no such invitation arrived. Harry checked with Hermione and Ginny: neither of them had received an invitation and nor, as far as they knew, had anybody else. Harry could not help wondering whether this meant that Slughorn was not quite as forgetful as he appeared, simply determined to give Harry no additional opportunities to question him. Meanwhile, the Hogwarts library had failed Hermione for the first time in living memory. She was so shocked, she even forgot that she was annoyed at Harry for his trick with the bezoar. 'I haven't found one single explanation of what Horcruxes do!' she told him. 'Not a single one! I've been right through the restricted section and even in the most horrible books, where they tell you how to brew the most gruesome potions -nothing! All I could find was this, in the introduction to Magick Moste Evile - listen - "of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction" ... I mean, why mention it, then?' she said impatiently, slamming the old book shut; it let out a ghostly wail. 'Oh, shut up,' she snapped, stuffing it back into her bag. The snow melted around the school as February arrived, to be replaced by cold, dreary wetness. Purplish-grey clouds hung low over the castle and a constant fall of chilly rain made the lawns slippery and muddy. The upshot of this was that the sixth-years' first Apparition lesson, which was sched­uled for a Saturday morning so that no normal lessons would be missed, took place in the Great Hall instead of in the grounds. When Harry and Hermione arrived in the Hall (Ron had come down with Lavender) they found that the tables had disappeared. Rain lashed against the high windows and the enchanted ceiling swirled darkly above them as they assembled in front of Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick and Sprout - the Heads of House - and a small wizard whom Harry took to be the Apparition Instructor from the Ministry. He was oddly colourless, with transparent eyelashes, wispy hair and an insubstantial air, as though a single gust of wind might blow him away. Harry wondered whether constant dis­appearances and reappearances had somehow diminished his substance, or whether this frail build was ideal for anyone wishing to vanish. 'Good morning,' said the Ministry wizard, when all the stu­dents had arrived and the Heads of House had called for quiet. 'My name is Wilkie Twycross and I shall be your Ministry-Apparition Instructor for the next twelve weeks. 1 hope to be able to prepare you for your Apparition test in this time -' 'Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!' barked Professor McGonagall. Everybody looked round. Malfoy had flushed a dull pink; he looked furious as he stepped away from Crabbe, with whom he appeared to have been having a whispered argu­ment. Harry glanced quickly at Snape, who also looked annoyed, though Harry strongly suspected that this was less because of Malfoy's rudeness than the fact that McGonagall had reprimanded one of his house. '- by which time, many of you may be ready to take your test,' Twycross continued, as though there had been no interruption. 'As you may know, it is usually impossible to Apparate or Disapparate within Hogwarts. The Headmaster has lifted this enchantment, purely within the Great Hall, for one hour, so as to enable you to practise. May I emphasise that you will not be able to Apparate outside the walls of this Hall, and that you would be unwise to try. 'I would like each of you to place yourselves now so that you have a clear five feet of space in front of you.' There was a great scrambiing and jostling as people separ­ated, banged into each other, and ordered others out of their space. The Heads of House moved among the students, marshalling them into position and breaking up arguments. 'Harry, where are you going? 1 demanded Hermione. But Harry did not answer; he was moving quickly through the crowd, past the place where Professor Flitwick was making squeaky attempts to position a few Ravenclaws, all of whom wanted to be near the front, past Professor Sprout, who was chivvying the Hufflepuffs into line, until, by dodging around Ernie Macmillan, he managed to position himself right at the back of the crowd, directly behind Malfoy, who was taking advantage of the general upheaval to continue his argument with Crabbe, standing five feet away and looking mutinous. 'I don't know how much longer, all right?' Malfoy shot at him, oblivious to Harry standing right behind him. 'It's taking longer than I thought it would.' Crabbe opened his mouth, but Malfoy appeared to second-guess what he was going to say. 'Look, it's none of your business what I'm doing, Crabbe, you and Goyle just do as you're told and keep a lookout!' '! tell my friends what I'm up to, if I want them to keep a lookout for me," Harry said, just loud enough for Malfoy to hear him. Malfoy spun round on the spot, his hand flying to his wand, but at thai precise moment the four Heads of House shouted, 'Quiet!' and silence fell again. Malfoy turned slowly to face the front. Thank you,' said Twycross. :Now then ...' He waved his wand. Old-fashioned wooden hoops instantly appeared on the floor in from of every student. The important things to remember when Apparating are the three Ds!' said Twycross. 'Destination, Determination, Deliberation! 'Step one: fix your mind firmly upon the desired destin­ation,' said Twycross. 'In this case, the interior of your hoop. Kindly concentrate upon that destination now.' Everybody looked around furtively, to check that everyone else was staring into their hoop, then hastily did as they were told. Harry gazed at the circular patch of dusty floor enclosed by his hoop and tried hard to think of nothing else. This proved impossible, as he couldn't stop puzzling over what Malfoy was doing that needed lookouts. "Step two,' said Twycross, 'focus your determination to occupy the visualised space! Let your yearning to enter it flood from your mind to every particle of your body!' Harry glanced around surreptitiously. A little way to his left, Ernie Macmillan was contemplating his hoop so hard that his face had turned pink; it looked as though he was straining to lay a Quaffle-sized egg. Harry bit back a laugh and hastily returned his gaze to his own hoop. 'Step three,' called Twycross, 'and only when 1 give the com­mand ... lum on the spot, feeiing your way into nothingness, moving with deliberation 1. On my command, now ... one- 1 Harry glanced around again; lots of people were looking positively alarmed at being asked to Apparate so quickly. Harry tried to fix his thoughts on his hoop again; he had already forgotten what the three Ds stood for. : - THREE!' Harry spun on the spot, lost his balance and nearly fell over. He was not the only one. The whole Hall was suddenly full of staggering people; Neville was flat on his back; Ernie Macmillan, on the other hand, had done a kind of pirouet­ting leap into his hoop and looked momentarily thrilled, until he caught sight of Dean Thomas roaring with laughter at him. 'Never mind, never mind,' said Twycross dryly, who did not seem to have expected anything better. 'Adjust your hoops, please, and back to your original positions ...' The second atlem.pt was no better than the first. The third was just as bad. Not until the fourth did anything exciting happen. There was a horrible screech of pain and everybody looked around, terrified, to see Susan Bones of Hufflepuff wobbling in her hoop with her left leg still standing five feet away where she had started. The Heads of House converged on her; there was a great bang and a puff of purple smoke, which cleared to reveal Susan sobbing, reunited with her leg but looking horrified. 'Sph'nching, or the separation of random body parts,' said Wilkie Twycross dispassionately, 'occurs when the mind is insufficiently determined. You must concentrate continually upon your destination, and move, without hasie, but with deliberation ... thus.' Twycross stepped forwards, turned gracefully on the spot with his arms outstretched and vanished in a swirl of robes, reappearing at the back of the Hall. 'Remember the three Ds,' he said, 'and try again ... one -two - three -' But an hour later, Susan's Splinching was still ihe most interesting thing that had happened. Twycross did not seem discouraged. Fastening his cloak at his neck, he merely said, 'Until next Saturday, everybody, and do not forget: Destin­ation. Determination. Deliberation.' With that, he waved his wand, Vanishing the hoops, and walked out of the Hall accompanied by Professor McGonagall. Talk broke out at once as people began moving towards the Entrance Hall. 'How did you do?' asked Ron, hurrying towards Harry. '1 think 1 felt something the last time I tried - a kind of tingling in my feet.' '1 expect your trainers are too small, Won-Won,' said a voice behind them, and Hermione stalked past, smirking. '1 didn't feel anything,' said Harry, ignoring this inter­ruption. "But 1 don't care about that now-' 'What d'you mean, you don't care ... don't you want to leam to Apparate?' said Ron incredulously. 'I'm not fussed, really. I prefer flying,' said Harry, glancing over his shoulder to see where Malfoy was, and speeding up as they came into the Entrance Hall. 'Look, hurry up, will you, there's something I want to do ...' Perplexed, Ron followed Harry back to Gryffindor Tower at a run. They were temporarily detained by Peeves, who had jammed a door on the fourth floor shut and was refusing to let anyone pass until they set fire to their own pants, but Harry and Ron simply turned back and took one of their trusted short cuts. Within five minutes, they were climbing through the portrait hole. 'Are you going to tell me what we're doing, then?' asked Ron, panting slightly. 'Up here,' said Harry, and he crossed the common room and led the way through the door to the boys' staircase. Their dormitory was, as Ham' had hoped, empty. He flung open his trunk and began to rummage in it, while Ron watched impatiently. 'Harry ...' 'Malfoy's using Crabbe and Goyle as lookouts. He was argu­ing with Crabbe just now. 1 want to know ... aha.' He had found it, a folded square of apparently blank parchment, which he now smoothed out and tapped with [he tip of his wand. 'I solemn!)' swear that I am up to no good ... or Malfoy is, At once, the Marauder's Map appeared on the parchment's surface. Here was a detailed plan of every one of the castle's floors and, moving around it, the tiny, labelled black dots that signified each of the castle's occupants. 'Help me find Malfoy,' said Harry urgently. He laid the map upon his bed and he and Ron leaned over it, searching. 'There!' said Ron, after a minute or so. 'He's in the Slytherin common room, look ... with Parkinson and Zabini and Crabbe and Goyle ..." Harry looked down at the map, disappointed, but rallied almost at once. 'Well, I'm keeping an eye on him from now on,' he said firmly. 'And the moment 1 see him lurking somewhere with Crabbe and Goyle keeping watch outside, it'll be on with the old Invisibility Cloak and off to find out what he's-' He broke off as Neville entered the dormitory, bringing with him a strong smell of singed material, and began rum­maging in his trunk for a fresh pair of pants. Despite his determination 10 catch Malfoy out, Harry had no luck at all over the next couple of weeks. Although he consulted the map as often as he could, sometimes making unnecessary visits to the bathroom between lessons to search it, he did not once see Malfoy anywhere suspicious. Admit­tedly, he spotted Crabbe and Goyle moving around the castle on their own more often than usual, sometimes remaining stationary in deserted corridors, but at these times Malfoy was not only nowhere near them, but impossible to locate on the map at all. This was most mysterious. Harry toyed with the possibility that Malfoy was actually leaving the school grounds, but could not see how he could be doing it, given the very high leve! of security now operating within the castle. He could only suppose ihat he was missing Malfoy amongst the hundreds of tiny black dots upon the map. As for the fact that Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle appeared to be going their dif­ferent ways when they were usually inseparable, these things happened as people got older - Ron and Hermione, Harry reflected sadly, were living proof. February moved towards March with no change in the weather except that it became windy as well as wet. To general indignation, a sign went up on all common-room noticeboards that the next trip into Hogsmeade had been cancelled. Ron was furious. 'It was on my birthday!' he said, 'i was looking forward to that!' 'Not a big surprise, though, is it?' said Harry. 'Not after what happened to Katie.' She had still not returned from Si Mungo's. What was more, further disappearances had been reported in the Daily Prophet, including several relatives of students at Hogwarts. 'But now all I've got to look forward to is stupid Appar­ition!' said Ron grumpily. 'Big birthday treat ...' Three lessons on, Apparition was proving as difficult as ever, though a few more people had managed to Splinch themselves. Frustration was running high and there was a certain amount of ill-feeling towards Wilkie Twycross and his three Ds, which had inspired a number of nicknames for him, the politest of which were Dog-breath and Dung-head. 'Happy birthday, Ron,' said Harry, when they were woken on the first of March by Seamus and Dean leaving noisily for breakfast. 'Have a present.' He threw the package across on to Ron's bed, where it joined a small pile of them that must, Harry assumed, have been delivered by house-elves in the night. 'Cheers,' said Ron drowsily, and as he ripped off the paper Harry got out of bed, opened his own crunk and began rum­maging in it for the Marauder's Map, which he hid after every use. He turfed out half the contents of his trunk before he found it hiding beneath the rolled-up socks in which he was still keeping his bottle of lucky potion, Felix Felicis. 'Right,' he murmured, taking it back to bed with him, tap­ping it quietly and murmuring, 'I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,' so that Neville, who was passing the foot of his bed at the time, would not hear. 'Nice one, Harry!' said Ron enthusiastically, waving the new pair of Quidditch Keeper's gloves Harry had given him. 'No problem,' said Harry absent-mindedly, as he searched the Slytherin dormitory closely for Malfoy. 'Hey ... I don't think he's in his bed ...' Ron did not answer; he was too busy unwrapping presents, every now and then letting out an exclamation of pleasure. 'Seriously good haul this year!' he announced, holding up a heavy gold watch with odd symbols around the edge and tiny moving stars instead of hands. 'See what Mum and Dad got me? Blimey, I think I'll come of age next year too ... 'Cool,' muttered Harry, sparing the watch a glance before peering more closely at the map. Where was Malfoy? He did not seem to be at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, eating breakfast ... he was nowhere near Snape, who was sitting in his study ... he wasn't in any of the bathrooms or in the hospital wing ... 'Want one? 1 said Ron thickly, holding out a box of Chocolate Cauldrons. 'No thanks,' said Harry, looking up. 'Malfoy's gone again!' 'Can't have done,' said Ron, stuffing a second Cauldron into his mouth as he slid out of bed to get dressed. 'Come on. if you don't hurry up you'll have to Apparate on an empty-stomach ... might make it easier, 1 suppose ..." Ron looked thoughtfully ai the box of Chocolate Cauldrons, then shrugged and helped himself to a third. Harry tapped the map with his wand, muttered, 'Mischief managed,' though it hadn't been, and got dressed, thinking hard. There had to be an explanation for Malfoy's periodic disappearances, but he simply could not think what it could be. The best way of finding out would be to tail him, bur even with the Invisibility Cloak this was an impractical idea; he had lessons, Quidditch practice, homework and Apparition; he could not follow Malfoy around school all day wilhout his absence being remarked upon, 'Ready?' he said to Ron. He was halfway to the dormitory door when he realised that Ron had not moved, but was leaning on his bedpost, staring out of the rain-washed window with a strangely un­focused look on his face. 'Ron? Breakfast.' 'I'm not hungry,' Harry stared ai him. 'I thought you just said -?' -Well, all right, I'll come down with you,' sighed Ron, 'but I don't want to eat.' Harry scrutinised him suspiciously. 'You've just eaten half a box of Chocolate Cauldrons, haven't you?' 'It's not that,' Ron sighed again. 'You ... you wouldn't understand.' 'Fair enough,' said Harry, albeit puzzled, as he turned to open the door. 'Harry!' said Ron suddenly. 'What?' 'Harry, I can't stand it!' 'You can't stand what?' asked Harry, now starling to feel definitely alarmed. Ron was rather pale and looked as though he was about to be sick. 'I can't stop thinking about her!' said Ron hoarsely. Harry gaped at him. He had not expected this and was not sure he wanted to hear it. Friends they might be, but if Ron started calling Lavender 'Lav-Lav', he would have to pui his foot down. 'Why does that stop you having breakfast?' Harry asked, trying to inject a note of common sense into the proceedings. 'I don't think she knows I exist,' said Ron with a desperate gesture. 'She definitely knows you exist,' said Harry, bewildered. 'She keeps snogging you, doesn't she?' Ron blinked. 'Who are you talking about?' Who are you talking about?' said Harry, with an increasing sense that all reason had dropped out of the conversation. 'Romilda Vane,' said Ron softly, and his whole face seemed to illuminate as he said it, as though hit by a ray of purest sunlight. They stared at each other for almost a whole minute, before Harry said, 'This is a joke, right? You're joking.' T think ... Harry, 1 ihink I love her,' said Ron in a strangled voice. 'OK,' said Harry, walking up to Ron 10 get a better look at the glazed eyes and the pallid complexion, 'OK ... say that again with a straight face.' 'I love her,' repeated Ron breathlessly. 'Have you seen her hair, it's all black and shiny and silky ... and her eyes? Her big dark eyes? And her -' 'This is really funny and everything,' said Harry impatiently, 'but joke's over, all right? Drop it.' He turned to leave; he had got two steps towards the door when a crashing blow hit him on the right ear. Staggering, he looked round. Ron's fist was drawn right back, his face was contorted with rage; he was about to strike again. Harry reacted instinctively; his wand was out of his pocket and the incantation sprang to mind without conscious thought: Le\icorpus! Ron yelled as his heel was wrenched upwards once more; he dangled helplessly, upside-down, his robes hanging off him. 'What was that for?' Harry bellowed. 'You insulted her, Harry! You said it was a joke!' shouted Ron, who was slowly turning purple in the face as all the blood rushed to his head. 'This is insane!' said Harry. 'What's got into -?' And then he saw the box lying open on Ron's bed and the truth hit him with the force of a stampeding troll. 'Where did you get those Chocolate Cauldrons?' 'They were a birthday present!' shouted Ron, revolving slowly in midair as he struggled to get free. '1 offered you one, didn't 1?' 'You just picked them up off the floor, didn't you?' 'They'd fallen off my bed, all right? Let me go!' 'They didn't fall off your bed, you prat, don't you under­stand? They were mine, 1 chucked them out of my trunk when 1 was looking for the map. They're the Chocolate Cauldrons Romilda gave me before Christmas and they're all spiked with love potion!' But only one word of this seemed to have registered with Ron. 'Romilda?' he repeated. 'Did you say Romilda? Harry - do you know her? Can you introduce me?' Harry stared at the dangling Ron, whose face now looked tremendously hopeful, and fought a strong desire to laugh. A part of him - the part closest to his throbbing right ear - was quite keen on the idea of letting Ron down and watching him run amok until the effects of the potion wore off ... but on the other hand, they were supposed to be friends, Ron had not been himself when he had attacked, and Harry- thought that he would deserve another punching if he permitted Ron to declare undying love for Romilda Vane. 'Yeah, I'll introduce you,' said Harry, thinking fast. 'I'm going to let you down now, OK?' He sent Ron crashing back to the floor (his ear did hurt quite a lot), but Ron simply bounded to his feet again, grinning. 'She'll be in Slughorn's office, 1 said Harry confidently, leading the way to the door. 'Why will she be in there?' asked Ron anxiously, hurrying to keep up. 'Oh, she has extra Potions lessons with him,' said Harry, inventing wildly. 'Maybe 1 could ask if 1 can have them with her?' said Ron eagerly. 'Great idea,' said Harry. Lavender was waiting beside the portrait hole, a complication Harry had not foreseen. 'You're lace, Won-Won!' she pouted. 'I've got you a birth­day-' 'Leave me alone,' said Ron impatiently, 'Harry's going to introduce me to Romilda Vane.' And without another word to her, he pushed his way oui of the portrait hole. Harry tried to make an apologetic face to Lavender, but it might have turned out simply amused, because she looked more offended than ever as the Fat Lady swung shut behind them. Harry had been slightly worried that Slughorn might be at breakfast, but he answered his office door at the first knock, wearing a green velvet dressing-gown and matching nightcap and looking rather bleary-eyed. 'Harry,' he mumbled. 'This is very early for a call ... I generally sleep late on a Saturday ..." 'Professor, I'm really sorry to disturb you,' said Harry as quietly as possible, while Ron stood on tiptoe, attempting to see past Slughorn into his room, 'but my friend Ron's swallowed a love potion by mistake. You couldn't make him an antidote, could you? I'd take him to Madam Pomfrey, but we're not supposed to have anything from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and, you know ... awkward questions ...' Td have thought you could have whipped him up a remedy, Harry, an expert potioneer like you?' asked Slughorn. 'Er,' said Harry, somewhat distracted by the fact that Ron was now elbowing him in the ribs in an attempt to force his way into the room, 'well, I've never mixed an antidote for a love potion, sir, and by the time I get it right Ron might've done something serious -' Helpfully, Ron chose this moment to moan, 'I can't see her. Harry - is he hiding her?' 'Was this potion within date?' asked Slughorn, now eyeing Ron with professional interest. 'They can strengthen, you know, the longer they're kept.' That would explain a lot,' panted Harry, now positively wrestling with Ron to keep him from knocking Slughorn over. 'It's his birthday, Professor,' he added imploringly. 'Oh, all right, come in, then, come in,' said Slughorn, relenting. 'I've got the necessary here in my bag, it's not a difficult antidote ...' Ron burst through the door into Slughorn's overheated, crowded study, tripped over a tasselled footstool, regained his balance by seizing Harry around the neck and muttered, 'She didn't see that, did she?' 'She's not here yet,' said Harry, watching Slughorn opening his potion kit and adding a few pinches of this and that to a small crystal bottle. That's good,' said Ron fervently. 'How do I look?' 'Very handsome,' said Slughorn smoothly, handing Ron a glass of clear liquid. 'Now drink that up, it's a tonic for the nerves, keep you calm when she arrives, you know,' 'Brilliant,' said Ron eagerly, and he gulped the antidote down noisily. Harry and Slughorn watched him. For a moment, Ron beamed at them. Then, very slowly, his grin sagged and van­ished, to be replaced by an expression of utmost horror. 'Back to normal, then?' said Harry, grinning. Slughorn chuckled. Thanks a lot, Professor.' 'Don't mention it, m'boy, don't mention it,' said Slughorn, as Ron collapsed into a nearby armchair, looking devastated. 'Pick-me-up, that's what he needs,' Slughorn continued, now-bustling over to a table loaded with drinks. 'I've got Butter-beer, I've got wine, I've got one last bottle of this oak-matured mead ... hmm ... meant to give that to Dumbledore for Christmas ... ah well ...' he shrugged '... he can't miss what he's never had! Why don't we open it now and celebrate Mr Weasley's birthday? Nothing like a fine spirit to chase away the pangs of disappointed love ...' He chortled again and Harry joined in. This was the firsi time he had found himself almost alone with Slughorn since his disastrous first attempt to extract the true memory from him. Perhaps, if he could just keep Slughorn in a good mood ... perhaps if they got through enough of the oak-matured mead ... There you are, then,' said Slughorn, handing Harry and Ron a glass of mead each, before raising his own. 'Well, a very happy birthday, Ralph -' '- Ron -' whispered Harry. But Ron, who did not appear to be listening to the toast, had already thrown the mead into his mouth and swallowed it. There was one second, hardly more than a heartbeat, in which Harry knew there was something terribly wrong and Slughorn, it seemed, did not. '- and may you have many more - 'Ron!' Ron had dropped his glass; he half-rose from his chair and then crumpled, his extremities jerking uncontrollably. Foam was dribbling from his mouth and his eyes were bulging from their sockets. 'Professor!' Harry bellowed. 'Do something]' But Slughorn seemed paralysed by shock. Ron twitched and choked: his skin was turning blue. 'What - but -' spluttered Slughorn. Harry leapt over a low table and sprinted towards Slughorn's open potion kit, pulling out jars and pouches, while the terrible sound of Ron's gargling breath filled the room. Then he found it - the shrivelled kidney-like stone Slughorn had taken from him in Potions. He hurtled back to Ron's side, wrenched open his jaw and thrust the bezoar into his mouth. Ron gave a great shudder, a rattling gasp and his body became limp and still.